First off, I ain’t no Jean Val Jean. I walked out of the grocery store with a bag of rolls clutched in my left hand, along with my wallet, and the stuff I bought and paid for in my right. I got to my car, put everything down and thought, “Fuck, why are these rolls in my left hand?”

Walked back in the store and paid for them. The check out chick was all chipper with a “Forget something?” My retort was something to the effect of nope, I stole these and she said I could make a run for it. All kind of dumbly amusing.

The sad part was when I was in my car trying to decide whether to walk back in or not. I had to remind myself that since I wasn’t literally starving for a loaf of bread the non-douche, positive karma thang would be paying. Wonder what Jesus would have done over some $1.79 Kaisers?

Secondly, sometimes when I’m driving I’m most overcome by having left the familiar behind by 3,000 miles or so. Yesterday, I was driving before sunset and there were pink-toned mountains filling the background through my windshield with the whole soundtrack laden “Sunk sinking in the west” reflections and light and cinematic cliche all over the fucking place. Then, I have to remind myself it’s real.

I grew up at sea level with no mountain vistas, and the opposite scenery always kinds of jams my senses and causes me to take a breath.

Lastly, in the same vein, sort of, I keep meaning to talk about the animals. Since driving cross country, I’ve seen black and red squirrels in addition to the gray ones I know from New England. The squirrels here seem to come out of holes in the ground, which I never saw back home. Somewhere there’s a truly fucking lame, uninspired, timeworn observational comedy reference about diversity that I could haul on stage and try out. “You know, dude, the black squirrels are all like badass and the red ones just go ‘How.'”

I also want to write about the single coolest wildlife moment of my life, when M. and I were driving at dusk up in the country outside of Yosemite. We had just switched to my driving, because his eyes were tired and having a hard time with the dusky shadows. As we turned off the main road, there was a huge blur of tawny brown rising from the high grass in the ditch, swooping across the car, close enough that I really thought we would collide. As it rose up in front of the glass of the windshield, catching some of the light from the headlights, both M. and I gasped as we saw clearly a big owl weighted down with some fresh killed rodent in its talons.

On that same day, we had much earlier stopped for a wild turkey or two standing in the road.

The nature girl in me is also in overdrive when I see lizards scampering from sun to cool shadow. I’m living in a place that has lizards.

(Actually, on the day I went on my job interview, I was early and wasted time watching two lizards playing on a log. I thought at the time that it would be cool to work at a place where you could watch rustic lizard play right in the scenic parking lot. Today, I went walking around the grounds and figured out where the community garden area is and where some of the walking paths go and saw a lizard.)

Finally, this job just feels different, but that just makes me crazy after all of the negative reinforcement, horrible conditioning of the last one. Like the president and vice president came by my desk today, together, and were clowning around. Since my boss was out of town, the president declared he was taking over our group and giving us all new names.

At my former place of employ, the whole exchange would have been designed to strike fear into me, the unwitting pawn, and as they goofed around, thousands of sycophantic fingers would have been typing emails to try to uncover what game was afoot and where their advantage would lie.

I, a babe in this new western land, am at a complete loss as to how to behave with these folk.

Even today, someone basically took me aside to let me know that it was OK to be annoyed with the annoying person.

Whatever rules govern these office politics, my old book doesn’t seem to apply. (Which, I guess, is good for me, because I quite sucked at the old game.)

I gotta get to the bottom of a little technical glitch. Forgot my real camera this weekend, when we checked out San Jose’s first ever Grand Prix. Took some cell phone camera crappy shots, but they seem to have not posted and disappeared instead.

(I’m a sucker for checking out hype going on in my own backyard (as one can see from these old pics of Kerry pre-loser, the DNC post-Patriot Act, and the winners.)

Here’s all I gathered from the race — some chick won something, a French dude, who Paul Newman owns or something, won the Grand Prix (I heard the Marseilles and everything) and I can’t for the life of me figure out why racing is big among poor, white trash. Here’s the scene, people willing to pay a buck fifty times 10, as in $150 cash American or more, get to sit in big seats overlooking the track. These seats, as well as safety shit, like jersey barriers, fences, giant piles of tires, effectively block any view of the track at street level, where us simple folk dwell.

So, we, the poor and unwashed, amble around under fucking hot sun, herding around narrow fenced in areas, wearing earplugs against the roar of the engines we can’t see, peeking through gaps in the fence or raising our eyes toward jumbo TVs to see one car at a time go by too fast to see anything. And, we, again the meager, humble, waste of society, who are not worthy of grandstands, sweat and strain near the racetrack essence and pay $45 to at least be on the “right” side of the fence.

Fucking stupid without even stepping near the bleeding heart liberal dirtiness of a war for oil fueling the spectacle.

Had a bit of a chat with the new boss today about the job-o. Turns out that when they hired someone with my length and breadth of experience, they fully intended to exploit it.

And, here I’ve been reveling in the glorified secretary of it all. Sure, I’ve been trained at the new gig (trained being an overstatement of shown stuff) by a sort of traditional support person, although that is possibly over-reaching or poorly stated, because her youth gives her a certain je ne sais quoi. You know, like, today she’s into just doing the job and punching the clock and not being overtaxed and shitting on the boss in predictable eye rolling ways. But, you know, being 20-something and still in school doesn’t last forever, it’s not terminal.

But, I digress away from my favorite topic–me, of course.

Anyway, I’ve been grooving on the simplicity of typing business cards into Outlook and printing and photocopying and filing shit. Mega-good-fun. Seriously, I love the flow of the mundane. You’re stepping forward, but it ain’t exactly a stretch. (I imagine it’s like the satisfying weight of a spade full of earth and the invigorating heavy sweat, muscle churning of a well-dug ditch, without all that messy ache and grime.)

Not a status quo they are looking to maintain. Interesting that, since I have to say I have any unhealthy (for my slacker soul) fascination with the name-dropping clout and agenda-setting cache of some of the world’s big agenda setters. The realm of the folks with and for whom I work is littered with multi-billionaires, celebs, politicos, celebrity multi-billionaire politicos and all sorts of Tom Wolfe in his later years worthy subjects.

It’s one thing to read and talk or hear about the people writing Op Ed pieces on foreign policy and advising or criticizing the current, war-mongering dink in the Whitehouse. It’s another to have them on the other end of the phone. (Although, clearly, I ain’t sharing my insightful analyses (although who’s to say one day it wouldn’t be solicited). Or to be chatting about their personalities casually.

And, the place that’s handing me a paycheck is well-linked to all of the media. You know like the media shit I all but bathed in at a major journalism school. Or the media of which stand-up comedy is a step cousin or poor bastard child or vital part, depending on who’s talking.

Fucking hell, shit and damnation. How is it I find myself continually with multiple doors and some kind of sense of expectation (as in the “fails to meet” category that occasionally got checked in report cards of my distant, grade school self)?

I heard a couple of reports from last night’s Naked Comedy Show back
in Cambridge. It’s a little bittersweet for me.

The man with whom I reside seemed quite pleased that I was 3K+ miles
away and except for a shower, draped with fabric. Turns out he has a
little old world in him, despite his jingoistic American posing.

Not only does he not want me hanging out in the altogether publicly
(for art, don’t you know), but there’s more. (Begrudgingly, I’d have
to say he might have a point when he mentions a difference between my
past naked forays and the show that went down last night. Something
about someone going to a theater to pay cash money to see my
breastages on stage catches a little stripper cache.)

The more part on the apparent, previously undetected prudishness
manifested itself last night. After work, I worked out in those
stupid spandex-stretchy shorts. My booty doth offend M. when we
regrouped for dropping off my VW at the dealer for some much needed
inspecting and tuning. Apparently, you could see my contours a tad
too vividly for his tastes.

Like many a third-world woman kept down by the harsh condemnation of
the local menfolk, I wrapped the sarong I had handy around my feminity
and avoided further scorn.

Mens. They be puzzling some time.

I think the best thing I will post this week is the picture of my
sailor boy-o. The best part of the picture is he looks good and
action-packed and like a real sailor.

Apparently, cameras can lie.

Also in the line of vision, my new glasses. A while back, I had
bifocals (well progressive lens), but they were scratched and the
frames were stretched and I lost my love for them.

I replaced them with much cheaper single vision glasses. =20

Thanks to fabulous new benefits, which include vision care and
computer vision care for anyone using a computer (which is all but the
chick who restocks the plentiful snacks), I’m back with the old lady
bifocal dealios. But, I can see. I can SEE!

This may very well be the most boring post on this website to date.

The only thing of interest, really, is not my news but a friend’s.=20
Has me thinking about feminism, a little old thing called choice
(which isn’t just about abortion but about choosing a baby), my own
mortality and biological clock (I don’t feel any biological imperative
to breed), my mother’s life as a single parent, the probably not
entirely coincidental fact that both me and the fabulous M. grew up in
single mother households and just a whole lot of things.

Most of all, in my less selfish and introspective modes, it makes me
think how much I wish happiness, peace and all sorts of candy cane,
puppy dog, lollipop, rainbow good shit on those closest to me.

(The only downside being my wish for M.’s happiness would have to
include his dream of mega-Americana. You know the house in the
suburbs I grew up resenting. Ah well.)

Also, if anyone in Boston is looking for a bound to be interesting,
wild time tonight, head on down to the Improv Boston Theater in Inman
Square. The irrepressible, cute as a button, funny Andy Ofiesh is
taking his "Naked Comedy Show" public. Headlining the full frontal
will be Reverend Tim McIntire (can’t link, but check out
www.reverendtim.com). Also featuring Randy Winn (funny and a cancer
survivor) and Happy the Sad Clown (amazing and surreal in costume,
naked is just something else and beyond). Possibly also featuring
Chris Walsh of the fabulous Walsh Brothers, who I love comedy-wise and
otherwise (www.walshbrothers.org).

I had to leae Boston, because I saw too many comic naughty bits.

I have a few pics of the Golden Gate enshrouded in fog. M. and I walked across it last weekend. It’s pretty disorienting and unsettling to walk through a cloud unable to see much above, below or beside you.

(Click the pic above for an unorganized album of this July’s adventures)

Looks like we are heading off to Berkeley Marina today, where a friend might take us sailing, depending on the state of her vessel or the possibility of getting another boat for the day.

I generally haven’t been on many boats that weren’t owned by a brother, so it will be fun to not be the kid sister. Mocked for my lack of sailing skills and, well, just being me.

The only downside is my fear. M. was a huge fan of the Scott Peterson trial. He brought me by the Marina on one of my first visits to him when he moved here. Not sure, but I think there was an implicit “you’re next.”