Of course, when Tiffany rocked the suburban shopping malls back in the day, she wasn’t talking about being alone.

I am.

Yeah, the boy-0 is thousands of miles above terra firma on route to a speaking gig. One of the ironies of our relationship back in Beantown was the number of folks who met him and thought he was all strong and silent-type-ish. The quiet men don’t typically whore themselves for the limelight.

But, yeah, stand-up comics whore themselves harder.

Tomorrow or Tuesday, there will be this where harmonic convergence moment when the boss lady and the man will both be way the fuck out of town at conferences, and I will not be asked any questions or help with nothing or nothing. Sweet.

Shortly thereafter, I will feel empty and not needed and will need to mark my flesh with small cuts in order to feel again. Or, I’ll have a nice cup of tea and relax.

Here are the news stories I unfortunately read over the last couple of days:

Snowjob the new press guy says Bush heard about Haditha through a Time reporter. OK, that’s kind of a crappy link, but I can’t find yesterday’s news story where I read that little gem.

And, Bush learns about 9/11 from a wicked cool new movie he had screened at the big house. (By the way to get that second link to the news story I read earlier, I searched on Bush, duh. I came across Blogs for Bush. I think I’m going to start cutting myself to blur the pain. On the bright side, apparently Jimmy Carter rolled with terrorists.)

My point is, fucking monkey boy president man know fucking fuck all about what the fuck is going on in the universe. He found out about the possible slaughter of civilians, including kids, by US Marines from a reporter months and months and months after the incident? Shouldn’t there be people who keep him up to date on this shit? Maybe a memo? Stop him in the hallway of the Whitehouse with a little, “Woah, dude, some bad mojo going down in Haditha, you should read the report?” Any-fucking-thing vaguely presidential?

Meanwhile, his press secretary is talking about how he always considered the poor folks who died on Flight 93, potentially fighting the terrorists back, as heros. Well fucking awesome, but, um, it’s a movie. I mean it’s cool and all that the director tried to be a good guy about the whole thing and get it right, but one of his last outings was Bourne Identity. Do you think GW gets it that conflating the real live hijacked and killed people with a movie version is kind of weird and not what you’d call presidential?

At lunch at work today, we got to talking about whether GWB will go down as winning the worst president in history crown. I think fuck yes, a thousand times yes.

One of your frontrunners is Warren G. Harding on worst president lists. Sure, the Teapot Dome thang blew. However, I’m thinking for corruption Abramoff is keeping it real in the shitty ways to manipulate power race. And, Bush is kicking it old school with his and Dick’s messing with oil fields and rights all over some of the same countryside where Harding’s friends hung.

Another suck-worthy president is Andrew Johnson for his role in helping muck up the Reconstruction South. Sure, not a great legacy and the first guy to succeed in getting impeached. But, he spent some of his time boozing it up, including possibly giving a speech when he became Lincoln’s vice president whilst intoxicated. How cool is drunk and hanging with Lincoln? Much more rock star than Bush’s alleged sobriety and hanghing with Jesus (who I’m guessing might may an exception on the “Jesus L

Yeah, Bush just might be the worst.

Stanford University has a whole lot of land (where incidentally my place of work sits). Among it’s holdings is “The Dish,” where a radio telescope dominates space undeveloped except for cattle graing and a paved, recreational trail.

Standford/Palo Alto is a college town and all, but it’s really not bucolic and quaint and untouched by the outside world. It’s very developed in a mall, California way. But, the view of wide open fields and ample cows makes you feel like you’ve headed to the country.

Here’re a few animals I snapped whilst M. ran twice around the four-mile ring, and I strolled at a leisurely pace.

Last night was dinner and a movie here in the golden state. X-Men 3 was OK, mostly because I would most definitely fornicate with Wolverine. The real treat of the night was seeing these folks from America Needs Fatima.
It’s a shitty picture, I know. (My one big complaint about the Danger Sidekick from T-Mobile is the completely crappy ass camera.) But, you can see the rather large American flag and the protest placards.

Ah, the Da Vinci Code. Yet another movie on a Friday night I dozed through a bit. If I could reason with the–to my mind crazy ass–protesters, I would explain one thing. The only blasphemy in the Da Vinci Code is the over-hyped claim that somehow this work of fiction is credible and frankly good.

It ain’t literature, for sure, and as action and intrigue it’s light years behind something like The Bourne Identity. I’ve checked out a bit of Dan Brown, and he’s not up there with Ludlum or Le Carre or Clancy.

You gotta love the protesters, though. I guess if you believe in miraculous visions of our blessed mother appearing in Portugal, believing a crappy book and movie could shake people’s faith might not be so hard.

For my money the single best Da Vinci Code engendered talking head moment was a couple of humorless folks from Opus Dei on one of the cable news channels. They carefully explained that (a) there ain’t no monks among their group of lay people and priests and (b) they’re not murderous, conspiracy-driven assassins prone to self-flagellation. Come on, people, if you need to explain that there aren’t any sack-cloth-wearing albino hitman in your acquaintance, you might be taking a fictional book too fucking seriously.

I wonder if the flip side of the literalism is a bunch of Christians thinking there really is a lion king on the other side of the closet.

Um, yeah, nice evocation of the god thang in today’s news. All I can say is what the fuck, Ken Lay?

In televised remarks he said, “We believe that God in fact is in control and indeed he does work all things for good for those who love the Lord.”

Imagine you’ve just raped an industry, caused blackouts in California, left scores of retirees and investors dressed in those old-fashioned cartoon, barrel suits with enough money in their turned out pockets for a fine choice of cat or dogfood. Imagine tha, and you, you and your buddy cooked this shit up and left folks real-life, real-dollars poorer for it. And, you fucking got caught, buddy. And, you got the damned nerve to tout god on your side.

I ain’t a true believer, so I don’t fucking get it. Is the invocation of the lord with a capital ‘L’ meant to mark a confession of some kind? Like, “Fuck yah, check it out the system worked and I was just convicted of my whitey-white collar crimes.”

Or, is he so supremely arrogant and going down swinging all the way into the next life. “Man, I’m going to appeal even when I die, because no one can keep me down, not even God. God probably saw that whole thing about being the smartest guy in the room, HE knows who I am.”

Maybe Lay just digs the mentioning Jesus thing that gangsta rappers favor. What can’t be brought around to the g-force these days?

I’ve mentioned it before, but yeah, the immigrant debate thang, I’m not buying. Anyone who’s seen, heard, read, touched, smelled a teeny bit of history should be able to detect the patterns.

Of course, complaining at work that I’m tired of being surrounded by immigrants may not get me a promotion.

I’ve heard some parts of Crossing East, a PRI radio show about the Asian experience coming to the U.S. of A. Apart from the extra joy of coming up with ways to tease the best Asian beau a gal ever had, I’m learning other shit. Considering that in Massachusetts the immigrant story kind of skewed hard to the son of the sod, potato head legends, it’s kind of eye-opening. Or maybe it’s just ‘cuz the current life features an eastern twist pretty much 24/7.

Work has been kicking my ass ever since I got back from Boston. I did the calculations — You combine my working on my boss’ safe passage to foreign lands with my going home and going to a conference, and you shake that up with a dash of co-worker, board meeting, what-have-you frenzied activity and what you get is me fucking up. Nothing big. Just those kind of pesky details that erode your iron rep for attention to detail. The kryptonite of living in administration land.

Of course, it took me a year almost to the day to get to a place where it’s tough to keep up with the expectations that have now been set for me. Should have rocked the year harder in the joy of the learning curve. Maybe that would have kept the burning of the burning out feeling cool the fuck down. But, hell, yesterday I did have fresh apricots.

Now, if I could just get the folks around me in the work place to embrace spell-checking as a damn swell idea, life would just bleed joy.

Last year around now when I started the job, I kept dropping off to sleep in a constant catatonic state. I figured it was moving and working and all of the exhausting changes life had brung me.

This year, I think it’s just fucking pollen. Headaches, OD’ing on Claritin and Sudafed and wanting to never leave my bed are part of the hallmarks of another fine allergy season. At least California’s deadly fog of shit that makes me sneeze is far-fucking more scenic than in Cambridge. Still and all, I’m thinking Antartica with its non-pollinating lichens might be sweet to breathe near.

By the way, I fucking hate meth-heads. Not because I give a flying fuck at all about drug use, abuse and all that. Whatever gets you through the night and all. Nah, I hate them for their laboratories.

Ever since I started realizing that sweet, summer breezes made my eyes tear not just for their fleeting, bittersweet existence, I have lived a joyous drug-dependent life. To whit, anti-histamines to be against all them bad histamines with plenty of the heart-racing excitement of pseudo-ephedrine, Sudafed’s sweet, cute red pills to dry my nose and boost me into waking. I love me some Sudafed.

The ephed part behind the psuedo, though, has been fueling the meth-amphetamine manufacturers in basements, rumpus rooms and trailer parks all around the country. Now, law-abiding folks like me can’t buy the massive doses we need, and “they,” the corporate they that makes the red-pilled joy both branded and generic changed the damn formula.

I’m not sleepy, really, I’m just thinking about meth and whether a little bit of tweaking would get me through the season.

Some who know me well know the history of my upbringing. It was an upbringing that was more or less, touching light. On the plus side, I never had to ward off the “bad touch.” On the downside, without maternal hugs and kisses, because frankly Pat was too frazzled at day’s end and was chockful of all kinds of repressed reserve, I never learned how to not look awkward as fucking hell in the midst of an embrace.

For real, my idea of hugging involves some kind of thrusting grasping clutching maneuver that just ain’t grace in motion.

I tend to overscompensate. Recognizing my lack, and my tendency to stiffen subconciously, I try hard to not bauble the execution. I don’t duck hugging moments, forcing myself to participate whilst muttering to myself a mental how-to script. Comedy, and it’s show bidness style, forced the forcing of my self to just do it. Nothing beats a room full of drama lovers and the whole kiss-kiss-hug-hug thang.

None of this prepared me for working in California. Don’t know if it’s the West, or the particular field I work in or what the fuck. But, I have hugged my co-workers more in one year than at all in the previous 25 or so since I got my working papers.

We had a staff meeting this week, and hugged goodbye the folks leaving town after. Tonight I stepped out and saw some co-workers having an out of office experience. There were hugs, even with the chick who works in an entirely different department who I only ever see in the ladies’ room.