Electronics be my biggest thrill and my bestest friend.

I’m sitting in a hotel ballroom. There are Powerpoint slides. There are numbers. Statistics actually.
My brain is melting. Ideas are oozing out on an empty river of non-focus. My ass is numb.

But I got me the interweb, a system of tubes with bytes and digital fun stuff to distract me. I’ve been able to keep tabs with the hotel staff, make dinner reservations for 15 people and read up on sophomoric comedy doings.

Thank fucking god for my Danger Sidekick.

Meanwhile, I will never love and embrace meetings. I’d link to some exciting weblog postings in the past, but we are doing group things now requiring me to feign interest.

Today, I give thanks for….
Not being Michael Richards, aka Kramer.
Not being the Iraqi comedian shot for being an Iraqi comedian.
Waking up everday next to a guy who a few years in still makes me laugh and doesn’t irritate the fuck out of me (which is huge given my past history).
I guess they call that love.
A job that right about the time it gets my former stabby juices flowing gives me a bonus or an extra week off gratis. Those fuckers.
Friends and family that don’t actually piss me off a fraction as much as the dysfunctional movie script I write and re-write in my head.
No snow.
No earthquakes (yet).
Health without Geritol.
No turkey in my oven, or bun for that matter.
Riding top down in a convertible in November.
Reservations, an ocean view and an all you can eat buffet.
Happy Thursday to all non-livers in the U.S. Of A. And, have a rocking turkey to the rest.

Come on up to the Tenderloin and kill me before I go on stage again.

I’ve been taking a night school class at the neighborhood university. Neighborhood if you live in the heart of the military-industrial complex in the heart of Silicon Valley.

While attempting to think deep thoughts about countries fucked into violence by an abundance of petroleum gurgling under them, I had an epiphany. It’s pretty fucking easy to just get by. No one notices or cares really.

For a few meetings this week, I failed in my usual anal cycle of preparedness. You know, actually reading and reviewing the shit to be covered. Just didn’t make it in time.
Entered the meetings, sat my ass down and listened and nodded in a thoughtful-looking manner. Inside the skull plate, I just waited until I figured some shit out whilst listening and chimed in when the cloud of unpreparedness ebbed a bit.

Guess who noticed I was blowing smokerings from the assward orifice? Fucking no one.
The longer I live, the more I realize how much it just doesn’t matter. And, I suspect, no, I’m pretty fucking damn sure, everyone is doing the same fucking thing.

I’m pretty sure the professor is living my new realization. Clearly, he’s winging it.
And the chick in class who hasn’t heard of Darfur. What the fuck?

I can’t have children. I’d spend time ‘splainin’ it just doesn’t matter. Do shit you like, read what you like, learn what intersting to you, but for fuck’s sake don’t worry.

If the hypothetical child should miss a homework assignment, now I would know a shrug would suffice and it wouldn’t show up on the permenent record.

For the first time since I moved to this godforsaken backwater of a state, I’ve had real clams. Steamed clams. Simple. Clams, steamed, broth, drawn butter.

It’s owned and run by Mainards. Although the owner told M. he last lived between Inman and Kendall, on Windsor, a mere stone’s throw or sinle city block from the former condo. Small fucking planet.

Hersh, paraphrasing Richard Pryor, “You going to trust me or your lying eyes?”
Bush’s policy on Iraq. http://dee-rob.com

Two words: Mariachi Volare.

The dignity smashed. http://dee-rob.com

Nothing fills me with a greater sense of doom than walking into a venue to perform, and realizing the rowdy crowd gathering below the room is a junior high ministry youth group.
I will commence to cutting at t-minus 10 and counting.