Any number of cliches could have been used to title this entry; All would be evocative of bootstraps and buckling and changing stuff with both vigor and resolve. This week is the week I strive to get out of my current productiveless funk and fucking move (figuratively and literally), aided and abetted by outside forces, which always helps.

Judging by the paperwork I just signed, it appears strange men (I assume men, because I’m sexist) will be appearing on Wednesday to demolish and rebuild the privy. The toilet, or lack thereof, will force me onto a new course, one in which I rise early (because emptying the bladder prior to the crew’s arrival each day is well-advised) and I exercise regularly (the price of showering, since habituating a gym shower only would appear pretty creepy, I fear).

I went with the high-priced, likely cavier-munching, contractors, because in the end they returned every phone call and showed up exactly when they said. I’m praying that the trade off of big checks, chockful of zeroes, will be service and making good on the promise of completion by Christmas. So far, my hopes are high, since they were heading out this morning to get the permit, as promised.

What the hell, it’s only money. And, it’s ultimately a wash. Between renting and selling, especially when the capital gains are calculated, the Monopoly money should reappear.

Meanwhile, today I must buy some kind of sporting footware, sneakers I called them as a youth. I don’t think the old DMs would be welcome on the yuppified, sweat-inducing gear.

Completely unrelated, here’s a scary search that hit my website and hints of frightening world domination by bad computing:

[Proprietary enterprise software system, which I suspect may be related to my present employment situation and is based in Minnesota] is a piece of shit.

The IP address resolves to : South Africa – University Of The Orange-free State. Good to know truly shitty, US products are being sent overseas to fuck up foreign administration too.

Thanks in part to nothing on the web ever really dying, I still get search hits for that company, even though I changed all references to “Demonware.” For all of your human resources and accounting needs it is the devil’s spawn.

Apart from tanning and seeing like every old friend I’ve ever had, I’ve been thinking about my next career.

I figure administration is right the fuck out, since, well, it has kind of a, how would you describe it? Oh yeah, a rather bitter taste.

M., the newly minted American entrepreneur, has a few great leads on some technological kind of jobs, which, who knows, when I’m done tanning I might network and BS my way into. And, there’s all the shit I think I could freelance.

However, above all things, I have a brand new role model and calling in life. I now worship at the career doorstep of Dog, the Bounty Hunter.

Looks like all you need to be a bounty hunter are cell phones, ’80s pro-wrestling, camo fatigue, cut-off fashion style, some paperwork, questionable hair-dye and hair-growth useage and some badass attitude. I got the attitude, baby, I am tough as nails and intimidating as all hell. I mean, if it weren’t for my fearsomeness I’d be employed right now, right?

So, I am so there. Yeah, scumbags of the world watchout, I’m collecting on your bail bond and getting you thrown in the hoosgow, or however it fucking works. I’ll have to do a little reading.

I’m off to a strong start acing this quiz as a “Top Dog.” Rock on, I’m Dog’s newest disciple. Woof.

* Right off the bat, my apologies to Harry McLintock, Woody Guthrie, Joe Hill and any other hobo or vagabond that made this country great.

Looks like unemployment will be kicking in shortly, so, folks, the Thunderbird wine is on me. They’ll be pie in the sky when we die. (By the way, check out the drink recipe for “Donnington Brainstorm” from that second link. That shit’ll kill you.)

Next you’ll find me jumping the freight train that goes right by neighborhood and heading to greener pastures.

Speaking of which, reading this article linked from this neighborhood site got me thinking about another plus to blowing this burg. When you head out to other towns, from power poles and kiosks and blank walls you see all sorts of alternative shit happening everywhere. Boston/Cambridge has bands, but the completely out there performance scene is comparably miniscule. Fucking puritanical, Boston bullshit has a hand, no doubt.

One of the forces that keeps the talented comics depressed at their prospects and the sucky ones thrilled at the status quo, mainstream scene.

Boston standup needs more dada and less self-congratulatory ’80s nostalgia. That was then, boys and girls, this is now, and now needs some radical juicing.

Hey it’s almost the weekend. But, in the ranks of the unemployed, so the fuck what?

Before going to bed last night, I was going to write an in depth and stunningly astute essay in regard to the arts versus crafts. It would have been brilliant and forced you to weep with its insight and intellectual bravado.

Instead, I got distracted and oddly fascinated by some porn spam in the comment section of the previous version of this ‘blog. It was distracting, because it looked very much like a real comment. The URL it gave was an actual address from blogspot.com, a real person blogging site. But, when you hit that address, by magical elves you’re redirected to some filthy, filthy site.

That was the distraction, the fascination was the redirect to a glorious glory hole site for straight men. I’ve heard about holes in men’s rooms and whatnot for gay men to anonymously insert their organs and get pleasured from the anonymous, spontaneous other side of the wall. But these were holes in women’s rooms that were at least made to look like gas station bathrooms. So, these chicks were sitting on the toilet in not overly stripper slutty outfits, and, boom, wiggling through from the other side ventured some anonymous willy. Next thing these girls are rolling on the floor, sucking like it was an oxygen tube on the bottom of the sea and generally cavorting and stripping with the flesh dangled through a hole in the wall.

I was fascinated because my credulity was stretched beyond tolerance and snapped right in two.

I’ll give you that somewhere in the universe there is a woman who may not jump, at least startled, if not completely horrified, at a dick coming at her through a hole whilst copping a squat. What do I know? I startle easily. I might even give you that somewhere in the universe there is a chick whose instincts might say, “Hmmm, there’s a cock in that wall, I’m going to suck it.” Again, what do I know, right? I can’t speak for all women.

BUT, I feel comfortable saying there is no woman alive who would jump up off a toilet, where she was presumably located to urinate, and not check herself, wipe herself or do anything involving hygiene or whatever before commencing the dick sucking.

More importantly, it was depicted as a gas station bathroom. Few chicks are going to sit on the toilet. NO CHICK is going to rip off her clothes and roll around on the floor, just because there’s a dick in the wall. The floor of a public bathroom? Nahunh. Never.

Besides, why strip all of your clothes off, the anonymous flesh angler can’t see you.

Been hanging with comics, and as weird as they collectively are, I’m happy with my tribe, so to speak. As individuals, there are some pretty outstanding folks. Almost makes me forget all the other shit going on…

I should write about yesterday’s first — clothing optional swimming and sunbathing. The summary: naked is weird. On the other hand, there is something childish and fun about heat and water and sun in the all together. Scrabble naked is just odd.

I fixed the style sheet here, so the default is my own essentially. I’m trying to leave the previous “blues” what with the sentiment and all they represent metaphorically. So I’m living robust and in the pink. Jesus God, I am a tawdry and banal little wordsmithy. It’s no wonder I am occasionally awash in lapping waves of self-loathing.

About the rainbow pic in the upper right corner — On the drive home from the naked hippie lake in southern Vermont, clouds were skidding across the sky and then mounting into grayness. Ultimately, scattered and pouring thunderstorms alternated with pure blue sky calm. I remarked that I couldn’t remember if I had ever seen an actual rainbow out in the wild-like. I’d made them with hoses, but I don’t know if I seen one stretching the sky. A few minutes later, driver and head nudist Andy, points out the rainbow over the mountains, and I grabbed my camera as he kept driving.

(Andy and Randy in the car, I think, believed my taking the pictures of the rainbow little-girl queer beyond belief. Next they will be expecting me to show them the friendship bracelets I made over at my playmate’s house after we finished drawing magical unicorns and talking and squealing about boys.)

Still and all, these days a little bit of color breaking through dark clouds was something I could use.

You know what is splendid, truly splendid about this here mortal coil? You just never fucking know what might happen next.

The coolest part about my sudden employment situation is getting to remember that. Because, the best fucking punchline no matter what anyone tells you, is the one that takes you by surprise. I just heard one such punchline.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Among the references to my life the work-required psychologist pointed out was that I seem to have a solid support network. All I can say to that is what the kids say, “True dat!”

Towhit, the gentleman friend in my life has pretty much surpassed my hopes of support and understanding. Rather than wondering about how I could have found myself in a such a negative situation at work and speculating what I could have done to avoid the trouble, he’s been pointing out all of the ways in which it was practically inevitable. As he points out, my writing, my ability to bring this website to light and my sense of humor are actually all evidence as to why the 9-5, workaday life is narrower than my mind. And, for those who embrace that narrow world, it is not rocket science to realize those of us who don’t can be a tad irksome. Usually, I know that, and I kick myself for believing people at work who told me they wanted a little bit more than Babbitt.

(OK, maybe that’s not fair. Maybe, now that my lawyer has my blemish-free personnel file and the psychologist is ready to report that I ain’t psycho, maybe now my employer will act with some fairness. Who knows? For today I’ll try to keep an open mind.)

The point of this post, however, is this link sent to me by M. In the article, as M. points out in his email, they assert, “Today people get their news and, just as important, their attitudes from more rambunctious sources: the polarized polemicists on talk radio and cable news channels, comedians and webmasters.”

As the mistress of this website and a stand-up comic, you might say that I’m actually in a whole other mainstream about which apparently no one at work got the memo.

(I think the ultimate revenge for the tears I’ve shed and worry and all the bad energy tossed around by someone trying to label me as violent and dangerous will be succeeding in the creative world. Some day, maybe the person who started the mishegaas by going to HR will be bragging that she knew me when. Can’t wait to snub her at the book signing.)

TONIGHT! I’ll be at the Boston Comedy Connection in historic Fanueil Hall. It’s the Monday Night Amateur Showcase, and I’ve been upgraded in my amateur seed to getting a couple more minutes to perform. Don’t be dissuaded by the “amateur” in the title, it’s hosted by Boston’s own “Wild Man of Comedy” Kevin Knox. No one should have as much energy and stage presence as this guy.

The best thing about unplanned time off is just the feeling like you might be able to get some stuff done for a change. I’m sure there’s a Robert Frost or someone like that kind of poem about stopping and thinking and acting deliberately.

To that end, I have finally updated the software for my Stand-up Comedy Schedule to be a tad more viewer friendly. Thanks to PHP iCalendar. Now there are links to clubs imbedded in dates, different day, week, month or year views and some built in themes. Best of all, I can hotsync my Palm and voila, it will self-publish. (Necessary because I am spastically lazy about some aspects of my calendar and not about others. Sort of selective anal retension.)

It is a tad sparser than I would like. But what with that balancing work and comedy, I always tried to keep the volume down, lest I get in trouble with my day job. BWAHAHAHA. I guess as soon as work makes the decision on my fitness, there will be a shift.

In honor of the French financing the American Revolution, I just had cafe au lait and a crusty fresh bread with perserves for ma petit dejeuner. (OK, it wasn’t preserves, it’s marmalade, so I got the Brits all representing up in the house, too.)

Man, for this kind of tranquility and rest, I should have mooned people at work long ago or done something (something non-violent, that is). (Woke up thinking “Sweet, Sunday of a long-weekend.” Then I remembered “Doh, long weekend? They don’t want you back.”)

By the way, been playing around with my phonecam gallery more, now that the permissions, etc. have been straightened out with my hosting company.