Woke up to this

So I guess it was a good party. I had fun.

For me it was a little bit of “This is your life…” with shifts of people coming in from different periods in my life.

Two of my oldest friends showed up first and very early. They helped me clean and set up for the party. I owe them a HUGE debt of gratitude for all of their help. If Jess and/or Liz stumble across this — You guys are great friends. I’ll miss you.

Actually, I’ll miss most of the people who showed up.

Although, I won’t really miss them, because there are friends with whom I will always be in touch. Since communication is completely possible across the country, they won’t be lost enough to miss.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR M.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!

I’m a little developmentally slow today, but I do have my priorities straight. It’s M.’s birthday and he deserves a good one.

Fucking A, man, shit is falling into place despite the chaos residing in my head.

M. called with a confirmation on a 1600+ square foot house in San Jose. So’s it looks like mama’s got a new address.

I’m selling shit left and right thanks to Craig’s List.

And, the city has already mounted the “Hey, you can’t park here on Friday, ‘cuz Dee-Rob is getting the hell out of Dodge” signage. I didn’t even notice until the old man nextdoor (and star of a few blog entries and some stand-up bits) asked me where my upstairs neighbor was moving.

Told him it was me, and I got a great, big “I’ll miss you,” followed by a less intelligible interrogation about how I could be leaving. Ahh, neighbors. (When I told him it was because of the nice guy with the long hair he likes who visits, he seemed pretty happy.)

Now, if I can make it through tomorrow night’s show without bursting into tears (which I am absolutely positive is an agenda item for a few folks), I’ll be cool. (OK, and if I can make it through the movers coming and my own driving and a fucking hundred other obstacles, I’ll be cool.)

Triple-A came through with a big ass package on my birthday doorstep–My “Trip Tik” and guide books to these fine United States.

Woo-fucking-hoo!

I’m a little puzzled why the first direction is go to Rte 2 to Rte 95 to Rte 90, when the start of 90 is so close I could walk there. My doubting AAA and relying on my native intelligience is why a couple of folks are laying bets on my ending up in Mexico or Canada.

But, I’m programming this shit into my GPS.

Here’re the states I’ll be passing through:
Massachusetts
Connecticut
New York
Pennsylvania
Ohio
Indiana
Illinois
Missouri
Oklahoma
Texas
New Mexico
Arizona
California

I guess it’s March 2, the anniversary of my birth by now.

This year is pretty weird, though. Usually, I’m pretty keyed up and getting my neurotic flow going days before the birthday. But this year, I’m so busy thinking about a thousand fucking other things, I’m largely oblivious.

One of my friends even offered to take me out tomorrow and for a split second, I thought, why Wednesday? Then I remembered. Same thing with the package I got from my big sis (which was actually sweet and kind of emotional (i.e. not in keeping with our usual relationship)). I got it and thought for a second, “Why is Sis sending me a package?” Luckily, the birthday card inside tipped me off.

I hadn’t remembered at all earlier in the week, when I scheduled some needed rehearsal time for Thursday’s show at the Walsh Brothers. This may be the first time in my cognitive existence that I forgot what day my birthday was coming up on.

Ah well, I guess at 41 what fucking difference does it make, right?

Here’s a fucked up thing you might be able to file under irony. Those who know me well (or worse yet knew the invincible Pat) probably have an awareness of packrattedness on my part. As though I grew up in the Great Depression, I have a tendency to hold onto shit, because, like, you never know.

(It’s bad, but not say as bad as my Aunt Mary. You’d go to her house for a snack, and you might get some recycled candy from two Christmas’ ago or maybe a paper napkin with some wrinkles and a couple of past-use spots. But up to 80 percent of the napkin area might be unmarred.)

For the impending move (I can’t fucking believe it’s so close) the mantra has been “Buddhist simplicity.” I wish I could remember the Latin quote of the wonderfully astute Hickey (aka Ghostnut). Something about not really needing anything.

The drill is to just get rid of piles of crap and not look back. I am trying my best to just do that, and it’s more affordable the less I move.

So, M., enterprising entrepeneur extraordinaire, finds a nice man with a three bedroom, two bath HOUSE he’s renting on the cheap. I just talked with the future landlord on the phone, he emphasized the place was “huge” and said that he had no doubt all of the furniture I could bring from Boston would fit with room to spare.

Only, I’m not bringing much (see Buddhist simplicity).

So, I’m uncluttering a 726 square foot, small roomed, two-bedroom life into something that could fit into a closet studio. But, me, I’m transporting it to an echo chamber.

Yeah, baby, new fucking leaves all over the tree.

By the way, as a hacky comedy aside — One of the classic man/woman confrontations, toilet seat up or down or sprinkles on the seat. My solution, don’t fucking argue, but find a place with two toilets. Moving on up, baby, moving on up.

I’m not sure if I’m living wisely.

I revealed to M. my ultimate plan for West Coast domestication — I hit 300 pounds, sit around the house and adopt that shrewish tone I always seem to hear out and about. You know, “Hoooney, you’re not leaving the house looking that way are you?”

I swear to God, last time I was at the airport with him, we were next to a couple where the frowny faced (i.e. sourpussed, probably everywhere she had a puss) chick kept at the poor guy, ending with something like, “Well, fine! If this is the wrong line, then I guess you’re just going to have to stand there and be wrong. And, then you’ll get to stand in another line. But just stay where you are.”

Maybe I’m just no good at being a chick, but whenever I adopt a tone best left for very small children and dumb animals, I fully expect to see some jaw clenching, if not fist clenching. Experentially, I’d say most guys aren’t real cool with commands like “Sit!” and “Stay.”

(I should say that at the current time, every time I hear a woman in public shrewing it up and just sounding like a stone-cold, drag of a cunt, I want to trade my ovaries in right then and there and throw my NOW card on top of them. Of course, all that’ll be changing when I join their ranks.)

Everything will change when I make it to the Golden West. Shrew all the way, baby. B I T C H. Like every man’s nightmare. This pussy has teeth, all that man-eating shit.

Or at least that’s what I’m telling M.

I figure that way when we’re living together, and I’m my usual self I will seem twice as good and cool. Like I said, may be not what you would call “wise.” But, a chick’s got to have a plan.

Yeah, my clock is winding the fuck down and I’m not ready.

Three days and counting until I carve another age notch on my belt. Four days and counting until M. does too, and I do my last show in the area as a Cambridge resident. Five days and counting until the moving van gets here on Friday and I attempt to have a party. Six days and counting (maybe seven) until I see my family for the last time in a while.

Fucking hell. Beads of sweat just appear when I think of it all.

For the most part, these last weeks of trying to get my shit together have been great. There’re so many people that have come forward to make me realize that there are a lot of things I’ll miss around here. Last night I did a show at Jimmy Tingle’s Off Broadway with Deb Farrar-Parkman that was all women, including the small, but very friendly, audience. I’m proud to have made some friends among Boston’s funny women and to have been included with a pretty eclectic group.

The last minute invites for some shows before I go and some of the conversations I’ve had of late have done a lot to bolster my faith in friendships and shore up my almost always shakey and completely fucked up sense of self-esteem.

Of course, a couple of ass clowns have managed to do what they can via email and whatnot to also remind me that the comedy world is full of assholes and selfish pricks. Rumor has it they’re planning some last minute “roasting” to see me out the door. But, since they are complete and total pussies, it’s all being done on the sly, therefore I can’t plan any counter maneuvers.

The irony of that is the two principle players are the biggest couple of old lady, gossipy whiners I have yet to meet in comedy (and that is saying a fucking lot). Any prank they’re not in on is unfair and unfunny and otherwise low, and to hear them speak, they have a corner on the humor, funny, ha ha market and all other comics suck. Only thing is mostly they’re wrong, especially about their own talents.

My revenge, I guess, is only this — thank fucking god I’m not them, and since I actually have a grown-up life to lead, I don’t think I’ll be missing them much.

Here are a few links, if anyone gives a shit about my Spamcop woes and the little gal getting pushed around.

A white paper from Fastmail.FM (a competitor) (Unlike anything on Spamcop’s site it’s readable and clear, uncluttered by jargon and attitude.)
Someone with a situation similar to my own
Someone who has worked with Spamcop.

I guess the good part is misery loves company.

As of last night, I was feeling like maybe Spamcop isn’t entirely evil, because one moderator took the time not to be a flaming asshole.

Today, though, I’m back on the blacklist, and I’m rethinking the “not evil” appellation. No matter how they couch the language, they are imperial stormtroopers making decisions for me (and a whole lot of less educated, less fortunate souls). Decisions I never asked them to make.

I fucking hate anyone acting like they are my savior or the rest of the world’s savior, when no one asked. It’s the same mentality that tries to shut down pornographers, picket (and worse) abortion clinics, install V-chips, label music and movies and otherwise save me from myself. You know, fucking no thanks.

Here’s a few of the tactics I figure smack more of power tripping, delusion than the “help” they are supposedly offering:

I dunno. If they are legitimate and good-hearted in their desire to help other people, the message is completely lost by their bully boy bullshit.