I live with a madman. He doesn’t know it, or he gets frustrated when i mention it, but he has started something akin to the arms race in our household.

We had our birthdays. We gave each other gifts. I got a sweet, white Nano. I was happy.

The other day he says, he actually got me the set. Set? Set of what?

The set is its big brother, a 60 gig video iPod.

My mate is extravagant. On the one hand, my frugal New England heart says “Jesus, what are you doing? I’m not worth such excess and gift-giving.” On the other hand, SHIT YEAH, I gots me a new couple of toys. Rock on, Mr. Sweet Generous M.

The arms race, the nuclear proliferation is how to I equal his spirit with my paltry little trifling gifts.

Mostly just see me.

Come on out to La Honda House Cafe to come celebrate International Women’s Day. Yeah, another estrogen-soaked fun fest of comedy. This time, we are talking brunch, the best goddamn meal of any week or day. BRUNCH!

For drug-laced trivia buffs, it’s in the woods where Ken Kesey pranked with his Merry Pranksters. And, me all clean and sober and not looking to experiment in merry high style. Of course, there’s still the off chance I’ll go running naked through the woods and all. It’s historic.

What’s say we all head out to South Dakota, settle down and vote regressive morons out of office.

Roe v. Wade was about due process, a state’s right to fuck with your life, liberty, yada yada and about privacy. Clearly, it’s flawed, else everyone wouldn’t be so fucking confusioned this many years later.

But, for fuck’s sake, South Dakota should be ashamed for its regression. (Mind you regression that only regresses to some kind of post-WWII fantasy not back to the beloved and oft-misquoted forefathers. Due to reputed swordsmanship out and about the new and old worlds, folks like Jefferson and Franklin (OK, not a great constitutional reference, old Ben), the founding fathers probably carried around a bit of pennyroyal in their traveling kits.)

Argh. My brain hurts from living through the current age.

This one will be quick and boring.

I hate award shows, but sometimes I watch the Oscars. Tonight, the incentive was, of course, John Stewart. I love John Stewart and wanted to see whether he was able to throw in some politics. The audience seemed restless, but I laughed out loud a few times.

The strangest thing for me isn’t watching the show. It’s that the show started at 5 p.m. It’s only 8:30 p.m. or so now. While it would have sucked to have gone to a glamorous party (if I ever were to be invited to one) so early, it rocks for my lazy Sunday.

Other than that, today is the anniversary of my last day in Cambridge. I drove through once since leaving, but I didn’t stop, I don’t think. I didn’t see anyone, I know that.

A fucking year since I ran away from home. OK, not ran as much as strolled.

I did my last comedy show at the Brothers Walsh. I think it was that roast that rocketed them (maybe not rocketed, but, like, led slowly a year later) to their show at the HBO Comedy Festival in Aspen. In honor of my anniversary of leaving Boston and the honor of their getting some “industry” attention, I plan to throw up a couple of clips of the last show.

It won’t highlight their comic genius, as much as their drunken rambling.

It’s often bitched and lamented that the country, nay the world is becoming homogenous. Fuck that.

If it were true, in the past year (it’s just shy of a year since the big relocation) I would’ve gotten a decent slice or a good cone.. Pizza and ice cream blow in the Sunshine State. (Wait, is that fucking Florida?)

Tonight, for M.’s birthday I suggested dessert at Mitchell’s ice cream. I have it on
good authority it’s tasty. On top of that the new boss lady who got an advanced degree in my old ‘hood swore that Mitchell’s meets the gold standard, aka Toscanini’s.

Fuck me, that slop was unworthy of my tastebuds.

I will return to Boston. Forget about family and friends, I need dairy.

It started to rain around midnight. Why? Because the deities weep for me. I am 42 years young as of midnight.

If I stayed East I would be even older by 180 minutes.

For a bunch of frustrating stops and starts and pervasive angst, I am ded-dog tired. Fucking exhausted, and should be sleeping. Sleeping away the milk and honey job that toils in the same mire of any other work to restore myself to tomorrow’s onslaught.

It ain’t totally the “fresh hell” that Dorothy Parker inquired after, and my last job most certainly was. Nope. But it can blow like any other thing with work or job in its name.

On the side of weird, though, as my current employment lives ina bizarro plane, I did lunch a bit with the president and the CFO. The rule is on free lunch days, cuz there are no stringless free lunches, you must make some effort to converse with your fellow man. The lunchroom makes me nervous for that reason. But I was beckoned to join with ranks above my rankness. And, so it goes at 42.

I keep reading, seeing, hearing a headline variation of “A Passage to India” about GW heading east.

I can roll with anything that overlays Bush and rape, but I’m thinking no one ever read the book. Caves and rape and George Bush goes a-travelin’ that’s what that headline means to me.

Of course, he is raping the world metaphorically and rhetorically, so could be everyone writing the headlines has an awesome reserve of literary allusion padding their senses of humor.

I’m tired, because I stayed up pointlessly late last night. The plus side is I uploaded some stuff on a work drive for the boss quite late, and she told me I looked tired, and thanks for staying up late and all that. I copped to the truth. Whilst uploading her shit, I started watching Blade and listening to my brain cells popping in atrophied death throes.

It’s raining, it’s chilly and I want to take a shower and go to bed. But, now is the time I grab the television remote with wild abandon, clicking away searching for narrative, story-telling fun. Soon, M. will return from his shower, all sparkly clean in his PJs, relaxing into the evening. He will dominate the remote, making mockery of my own programming yearnings.

Watching a bit while he showers, knowing that soon will be a deluge of screaming heads from FOX, MSNBC and CNN when he’s done with his ablutions, is my survival. Honestly, I would hate to stab the guy over Bill O’Reilly.

As though my ego believes there could ever be enough about me. Nonetheless, gotta spread a little love, as the kids say.

They likely won’t ever see it, but big thanks to the chicks who performed in our little show tonight. Rock on, you talented, unique-voiced motherfuckers. Seriously, though, the kind of differences shown by each woman makes me hate even more the generic, generalizing bullshit of people talking about “female comedy” and “women comics suck” and “women are like this…” blah fucking blah. Just blow me already.

Thanks to Alana Devich, Betsy Salkind, Christine Gelat and Aundre the Wonderwoman out there in the cyber-ether.

By the way, I’m pretty sure if I were still in Boston, it would be a cold day in hell before that particular swirl of race, creed, color, gender, sexual orientation and physical abilities ever would have fucking seen the light of day in a place that has “comedy” in the club’s name. No fucking way.

On the drive back from the show, here’s what occurred to me. In about a lunar cycle or so, M. got a new job, I got a performance review and sweet raise, we went to Malaysia, Chinese New Year heralded the dog year, Dick Cheney shot someone in the face, M. found out he’ll be speaking at an open-source conference in June, I hosted a show (and came out of the closet–my boss was there), M. got to promo his side business, and now, just as the moon is rolling into the next cycle, we’ll both celebrate birthdays. I’m fucking exhausted.

I figure if my aunt(s) back home see that my boss checked out my comedy, they’ll think I lost my mind. But, I think it was cool. If I’m wrong at least I got the pay raise before the flame-out.

On the plus side, since my favorite uncle (a phrase that is essentially copywritten in my head) got his leg cut off, he’s jested about amputee humor. The headliner for my special show that I put together and shot had but one leg. Rock on my mono-legged brethren and sistren.