I’m here, and I’m new, and I’m tired and can’t remember which room
holds the precious store of coffee.

It’s a strange new place indeed, so different from last gig that
remarking upon it would probably end up encyclopedic. It’s so hushed
and clean and efficient, I find it surreal.

When I began at my last job, there was a long, yellow sheet of legal
pad paper apologizing that not everything had been set up for my
arrival and no one was there to greet me. For the first couple of
days, I struggled to get a telephone and network access for the clunky
beige desktop and a key to my office. I scrounged for supplies within
the drawers of the uncleaned office I inherited.

Today, there was an empty cubicle space (I know not an office, as
before, but it’s glass and wood and oriented very privately) waiting
for me. There was no computer or telephone yet, but there were
apologies and within an hour, IT had set up both. They both look to
be straight out of the box. (The keyboard even still has those
plastic sheets that say "remove before use.")

Best of all, sitting on top of the desk was a box full of brand new
office supplies, all for me. New pens, new scissors, new tape and
dispenser.

Nothing at my last job was new. I bought new stuff for other people,
but the administrative code was essentially "make do."

Everything is also state of the art, amazingly so. Sad to say, given
my gadget-whore core, the telephone is intimidating as all hell. It’s
VOIP and somehow magically works with MS Outlook. For the first time
ever, I am a-scared and a-quiver in the face of technology.

Of course, I am literally in the middle of Silicon Valley, using the
resources of one of the areas founding farthers, so I shouldn’t be
amazed. But, fucking hell, the philanthropy side of non-profit rocks
the house compared to the grant-begging side.

They tell me that there are "cafes" in each wing and floor with water,
a selection of teas and oatmeal and coffee brewed and stocked by
magical fairies. In the main kitchen (which is fucking huge and
gourmet caliber, seriously, you could bake a pie there), there’s
scheduled breakfast foods — bagels alternating with muffins per the
day of the week.

Three days of the week, they serve lunch for everyone, gratis. In the
summers, one of those lunches is an outdoor barbecue.

So far, the wildest perquisite of all — Each and every bathroom has
an assortment of feminine hygiene products, stylishly available in a
wicker basket.

This shit is fucked up.

Fucking, man, up at 6 a.m. (Although, I guess in Boston right now it’s still a leisurely 9 a.m.) Barely slept last night in nervous anticipation of the first day at work.

Just about 11 months to the day of sitting in a psychologist’s office lightly chatting about Lenny Bruce and bad office politics. Almost a full year of my own timetable.

The worst part of the first day at a new place is all of the necessary new person questions, not least of which is “Where’s the bathroom?”

I hope the other kids like me and someone let’s me eat at their table in the cafeteria.

Looks like from reading Boston comedy buddy Paul’s weblog, I ain’t the only liberal exercising some constitutional rights. Well, at least that’s what they say, “it’s about the constitution.”

I would be curious to hear what kind of jokes Paul is gonna end up writing after blasting up some targets. I tried one that got a laugh from M., but I think no one else in the room last night. Basically, it went something like this, and needs more punch and less self-indulgent, unexplained point of view:

“I celebrated Memorial Day and soldiers giving up their lives for the country by shooting up some targets of people. The thing about Libertarian, pro-gun people is they talk about security and protection. OK, one gun provides security, but if you have have enough semi-automatic weapons to outfit five shooters and that’s only half your collection, hmmm, I’m not sure I feel any safer.”

Needs work.

Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking down to my starting work. It has been damn fucking hard to get any sympathy what with a recession, war, living in an area that went completely bust after booming, for my wanting slovenly and idle.

Instead, M.’s been telling all his friends that I got a great job and that I’ve started making inroads to perform, and everyone is all impressed and shit. It’s always a weird dynamic when you’re whining and moaning and someone’s asking you if you feel proud and happy. Sort of dampens your pity party.

And, I got to say that after performing with another Cambridge transplant last night, who also came out here to be with a significant other and who doesn’t seem to be having a ton of fun, I got nothing to complain about, really. I still want to complain, however, such is my nature.

Objectively, though, I have met a couple of comics here who I can call by name and with whom I can chat. Done a few shows, gotten told about a few more and swapped a couple of email addys. I even did a pretty decent Saturday night show last night, and a couple of people from M.’s old apartment showed up.

(Last night I even had my first awkward comedy hug moment, of which I had gathered quite a few back in my East Coast ‘hood. The dance is that I grew up in the apotheosis of a non-hugging atmosphere. Pat had a warm and firm handshake. But in comedy there’s the Hollywood meet and greet “hug hug kiss kiss” dynamic. It took me a while to smoothly hug someone hello, and I never got to the point where I wouldn’t have a taped voice running in the skull pan “OK, relax, now hug them back…” If you can imagine, here in the peace, love and granola Bay Area, it’s all heightened, so people I have known even less are all up in the hug arena. I’m working on not flinching and acting like a ‘tard.)

And, I found a job with good benefits and some name brand recognition.

And, every now and then I realize that I’m living with a man with whom I’m involved in a relation. Me, man, relatively pain-free. How bizarre is that?

Today is the last Friday of the rest of my life. Well, I hope not the rest of my life, but it is of my pleasurably not employed life.

Monday morning, I again will toil behind the grind wheel of working for the man. Well, not exactly the man, since I’ll be working for a woman. And, since it’s going to be at a rather large philanthropic organization, “the man” could be defined as the “down-trodden.”

But, goddamnit, I’m going back to work. Kill me, but not with a hand gun, because I now am officially hand-gun adverse.

M., sweet patootie that he is, has planned a celebratory cookout for Sunday evening to fete my employment. Won’t he be surprised when I curl into a fetal ball and weep inconsolably in the corner?

I have thoroughly enjoyed my time off, and my heart is heavy with the thought of returning to the workforce. Sure, the people with whom I’ll work seem nice, the benefits are kickass, the salary adequate and the work possibly interesting, but nothing compares to sitting on your ass free to be yourself 24/7.

For those of you counting, it’s been 11 months, almost to the day, since I had my psych appointment to discuss the violence issues I never possessed. My how time flies when you spend it hiring lawyers, writing and traveling, whilst feeling not in the least psychotic.

I think spending the weekend with guns really underscored for me the absolutely, appalling, but goddamnitedly ironically funny, accusation of my violence. Yeah, right after I get beaten down, I’ll raise that old fist of rage.

Here’s a list of uncharacteristic, kind of uncomfortable things I have done because of a boy I was dating:

– Kissed with tongue (while developmentally at a stage of thinking “Ewww.”)
– Danced at a disco (repeatedly and often to Michael Jackson, who I never really enjoyed);
– Talked about sports as though I gave a shit;
– Did bong hits many years after I had realized that pot made me horribly paranoid;
– Feigned enthusiasm for even the most obscure ’80s indie rocker to have come out of Athens, GA;
– Co-taught a professional development course with him the day after he showed up with another woman and told me to grow up;
– Played with and acted like I was cool with his kitty (despite pet allergies and cat aversion);
– Kept an eye on his kids and then dropped them off at the ex-wife’s house;
– Listened to way more African music than I would normally enjoy (and I like some);
– Acted polite to a woman who clearly was dissing me, because I’m a “white girl”;
– Spent a week in Houston selling African crafts
– Pretended that I didn’t mind not hearing from him when he said he would call;
– Spent New Year’s Eve by the telephone, literally all dressed up and no where to go;
– Always bought the condoms, “because, you know, like, they’re expensive and it’s more important to you”;
– Tried to write bad poetry after reading bad, but classical, erotica;
– Ate questionable cuisine;
– Wore a floral wreath around my head, while enjoying the sights and sounds of a Renaissance Festival (the memory of how I looked shall forever keep me humble);

And, maybe, just maybe, the grandaddy of them all, the ultimate proof of my weakened will and total subjugation:

– Spent a weekend at a ranch popping paper human outlines with an assortment of semi-automatic weapons.

Here I was yesterday:

Holstered to my hip was a .22 caliber Ruger autoloading pistol.

It was all quite legal and safe. We were on private property with properly permitted under state law handguns. The owner of the property, both the land and the weaponry, is fanatic about proper use and safety, for which I was happy. He’s also a trainer and member of Front Sight, an organization that, I guess, if you are going to have such places approaches it OK, with emphasis on proper and safe use and an acknowledgment of deadly force ethics. (Although a gated community with schools, homes and a gun range is well outside of my comprehension for lifestyle choices.)

Still and all with a day of reflection, while glad for the experience, I have not been converted. Interpretations of the 2nd Amendment aside (and I do believe that all 2nd Amendment arguments are a deep shade of gray), I’m still for gun control. Handguns and automatic weapons are designed with one purpose in mind, regardless of individual desire to talk about “sport.” They are for people killing.

Accidents and whackjobs and passionately angry in the moment folks with gun access account for deaths. Deaths by guns. You can’t really get around that reality, regardless of how much you talk about responsible gun ownership. For every upright citizen there’s an asshole or a teenager or a psychotic or someone else who thinks they know better, and my reality wishes that risk eliminated.

I don’t want to treat killing machines as toys or sports equipment. Golf clubs can kill, but that is not their design. Any comparison is so wrought with fallacy, my head explodes to listen.

Maybe for me, it becomes the same dilemma as with hardcore drugs. In an impossible, hypothetical, theoretical construct I believe no drugs should be outlawed. If people want to do heroin or crack, it is their lives and who am I to deem my heroin- and crack-free life as better? If drugs is your thing, rock on baby.

But, come on, it don’t work that way. Other shit comes along with the addict package, and the simplicity of legalizing drugs becomes muddied by a parallel group of assholes, teenagers, crazies and whatnot failing to make responsible choices. As a society, then, we all get hit by their stupidity, and we legislate against it.

Having said all that, I do know I’m talking from my ass, in that I directly benefitted from someone opposed to gun control. I had the opportunity for gun use to be demystified and removed from theory, precisely because complete bans to not exist.

And, I’ll tell you this much after firing a Glock, those motherfuckers really work. I only shot the Glock about five times, but with each shot I was pretty damn close to hitting exactly where I planned on the target. It was eerie.

Country, libertarianism, stars and trees, I am far, far from my beloved Cambridge.

Right now, I am sitting in a house on a ranch in a town not marked by the maps on my GPS connecting through the miracle of satellite dishes on the roof.

These are not terrorists:
Wildwildwest/100_0872.jpg

This is what they purchased:
Wildwildwest/100_0876.jpg
Full Metal Jacket, baby.

This is country:
Wildwildwest/windmill.jpgWildwildwest/cow.jpgWildwildwest/store.jpg

Even an open mike can’t dim the sunshine, puppy dogs, flowers and good living, smiley mood. What the fuck? I’m seriously not suicidal at all. I can’t handle this…

In reality, nothing is quite like cruising down a highway (but not like a Boston highway, a California one, which is like a regular road but a lot more lanes, and lights, if any, that favor a peppy speed) at 10 p.m. roof down, stereo blasting and the air redolent with honeysuckle or lilac or whatever the fuck smelly stuff they got growing here. Sweet.

The mood has been so upbeat that I actually went long on stage, because I was having fun. Anyone who knows me from Boston knows how fucked up that is. (Not only that, but it was kind of a diva move of which I am not proud and of the sort I would “tsk” back home. To whit, the woman booking the show was nice enough to offer me a couple of extra minutes once I introduced myself and let her know I wasn’t new. So I take those two and a couple more. D’oh. I truly couldn’t figure out the light, though.)

I might post the set, depending on whether reviewing it proves the “fun” as “delusion.”

Big for me, I also socialized a bit with the other kids on the show.

At this rate, I’ll be all up in the charity soup kitchen pouring out good will and good food and saving humanity and tell people to turn their fucking frowns upside down.

Not content to inflict my masturbatory musings on the two people who peruse this drek, check out Live Digitally.