I did not much of anything today. In solidarity with many fully employed people in the country, I took today as a day of relaxation. I have to get into the groove of time off for that fateful day when I find myself once again “gainfully” employed.

Also securing my standing in the slovenly hall of lazy, I spent a portion of the day reading up on gyms and fitness centers on the world-wide web. I believe that reading of others’ sweating pasttimes is exercise enough.

If you happened to give a shit, which I suspect you don’t, you may ask “Why?” Why would someone such as I am, enthusiastically embracing of my non-gym ways and not at all eager to relive the childhood trauma of Presidential Fitness challenges, (like the Vietnam War a sad legacy of the late 1960s) researching such establishments?

Why, indeed. I certainly do not want to find myself in tears again, taunted and unhappy, ready to snap into psychosis, much like the then baby-fat chubby Vincent D’Onofrioin Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket. It was a blessing that rifles were not standard issue in Lakeside Elementary, when I could not at all pull up my, as it turned out, almost fully grown body. Else, I may have been inclined to lock and load. No, to this day gyms do not appeal to me as good, fun and wholesome, no matter how a certain gentleman friend may delight in them.

However, most, if not all, fitness centers seem to have very good plumbing, hot showers and more. If I have my bathroom destroyed and rebuilt studs to tile, which is quite necessary, showering will not be an option. I think sink baths in the kitchen will not be sufficient to keep me from festering and ripening over a two, three-week period.

The bright side, I guess, if there is one, which I suspect there isn’t, will be some effort toward the one indicator of aging that particularly bugs me, my abdominal area. All of my life, no matter what size I was, how much I weighed, the grand countours of an expanding ass or pair of thighs, I could be comforted by one small thing. My stomach was usually on the flat side. Lately, the abs disappoint in a sqishy gut. I fear a paunchy me is not really my vision of an empowered, comfortable, middle age.

One thing annoys me about considering a gym. What the fuck is an “elliptical” and why would anything have such an uninformative tag?

Since Thanksgiving isn’t one of your hardcore holidays, there’s still some comedy to be heard.

Tonight, Wednesday, come on down to the Emerald Isle, 1501 Dorchester Ave., Fields Corner, Dorchester around 8:30 p.m. and check out yours truly along with Rich Gustus and Justin Fielding and a couple of other victims doing “Pass the Mike.” It’s improv/stand-up with suggestions from the audience and impromptu stand-up. It’s kind of funny and sad and fun all together.

Tomorrow night, Thursday, Thanksgiving night, long after the turkey is a memory at 10 p.m., the Walsh Brothers will be doing their show at the Improv Boston Theater on Cambridge Street in the heart of Inman Square, Cambridge. I should be there, unless I’m overwhelmed by the joy of family togetherness, and I’m sure there will be some seasonally worthy sketches and funness.

I think I’m too busy writing mammoth checks to men who promise to build and fix and use tools for me and my house to feel like writing. All those zeros kind of feel like writing enough.

Now, I’m baking. For the last couple of years, since Pat died, I have been a slacker on the holiday baking scene. I didn’t care, and I’m not sure anyone in the old family cares if I bake or not. Although, it had been my ritual, and I don’t suck at it, so the output is usually quality.

This year, though, what with no job to otherwise occupy my time, and by the way working sucks and free time is better, I figured I should dig out some mixing bowls and spoons and whatnot. Last year, one of my bro’s gave me a Kitchenaid mixer. I tell you what, if you are all up into the baking, the Kitchenaid fucking rock’s the motherfucking house. You slap that kneading hook on, throw in some flour and yeast and a mess of other stuff and step back. Boom, you got the bread dough all itching to rise in minutes.

Really, it is much easier to make bread than I think people realize. Or maybe it’s just slightly more brain-cell needing than slipping by your grocer’s bakery aisle. It’s a dying art, but right now my house smells civilized with yeasty wholesome goodness. If you closed your eyes to the clutter and destruction, you could almost believe a sane being wanders about the rooms.

I guess I’m a little wistfully bummed that M. ain’t here to reenact the lie of Pilgrim history. But, it looks like we’ll be spending Christmas together, so I think it’s a better trade off than last year’s Thanksgiving together but no Christmas. Maybe I’ll bake for him when he’s here. Nice to create the illusion for a guy every now and again that you are not completely feral.

Another thought about the holidays without Pat — I think she would be proud that we all more or less still hang together for the major calendar days. It would in many ways be just as easy to say screw it and toss the whole family togetherness thing. But, hey, these are the people who knew/know you alpha to omega, and you never know when you might need a big loan or some bail posted.

Compared to a lot of other people I know, the fact that my evening tomorrow will probably involve drinking and playing pool and maybe even a hot tub isn’t really a big jump point for complaining.

Tonight, Monday, come on down to the Laughing Gas at the Milky Way Lounge and Lanes, Jamaica Plain. I do believe the Reverend Tim McIntire will be back hosting and celebrating post birth of the latest, littlest Mac.

I likely will be talking about the sadness that is my flirtation with public nudity.

I have a few thoughts in my head (like “why are my feet so cold?” and “it’s both thrilling an daunting to write massively large checks to contractors, knowing that I have the cake to cover but not wanting to lose said cake.”) but nothing much to write about, I fear.

My website focus is off me, momentarily, as I work on a website for a couple of friends I know. I know/knew almost zilch about Java, and I haven’t even tried to think like a programmer since I took a course in BASIC circa 1981 high school. However, I’m trying to do some crash home schooling enough to paste some shit together and make, I hope, a neat effect.

Anyone out there reading this shit, knows about mouseover stuff in Java scripts, , and who wants to give a chick a hand, give me a holla. (I don’t think any plea for help in my sad little posts has ever been requited. But, I am an eternal optimist, so I press on and beg again.)

Other than that, I have been informed by a certain individual that these virtual pages lack a sparkle of positive goodness and happy thoughts with a slant more to pessimism and darkness.

To rectify, I write only this: I like my boyfriend (most of the time), and I’m happy he makes me laugh.

Petty shit annoys me, as I’m sure it does everyone else. For today, the annoyance takes the form of a fundraising solicitation in the mail. I think if you (a) forced me to be psychologically evaluated because of what I write and (b) showed me the door, you should take me the fuck off of your donor list. Seriously.

Yeah, a certain organization by which I may or may not have been employed has been sending me requests for cashola and sending out their feel good, shiny publications meant to warm the cockles of my check-writing self this holiday season. Ah, no. While I deeply appreciate their keen sense of irony in requesting my money (hard come by, such as it is), I be will adding them to my charitable contribution list somewhere far below any place of worship and/or the GOP.

In other words I will be giving them my money exactly never. If I could get away with it, without lawyers coming up my more uncomfortable orifices, I would encourage others to decline their appeals as well. Not just for the petty and obvious reasons of why I wouldn’t want to write them a check, but because the waste in ratio to their third world economy-sized endowment just doesn’t appeal. (Ha, fucking, ha, appeal, like for charity.)

Anyway, inappropriate fundraising aside, one of modern technologies creepy contributions is being able to monitor stalking behavior. Nothing stands the hair up on my neck quite like noticing my web statistics show a Google search with my first AND last name originating from a place I once worked. Arguably, I made a couple of friends there so it could be benign, but seeing that search (or ones like it) every month is more willy-inducing than a mouse in the house at 3 a.m.

Still trying to work out how RSS enclosures work. Here’s an image for old time’s sake:

Tonight’s Naked Comedy Show was fun. I think for the third time the keyword would be subversive. I went with the feeling that the night was unique and the activity unusual.

What other word could be used to describe the concept of standing alone in front of a crowded room, bare except for your smile and acrylic nails and asking the “blue state” denizens to bow their heads and pray for Chief Justice Renquist’s good health, because he’s the devil we know? That moment is good, old-fashioned, prankster subversion.

Power to the people, right on.