FINALLY, it is not as fucking Siberian in Boston. It’s a balmy 32• Farenheit today, thank Christ or whatever divinity cranks your chain.

The weather’s not cold, but I have one. So, I’ve been lying in bed sniffling and doing little more than reading stuff on the Internet and whatnot. The “whatnot” probably signifies some activity. But let’s not go there, shall we?

No politics of BJ talks today, so I’m working less blue, as it were.

And, I have been fucking unbelievably lazy about performing or even checking shows out. So I’m less blue in that I have convinced myself to push harder. {I should clarify that I mean lazy for me, which is performing (or attending with the hope of performing) only about two shows a week. Of course, during the holidays, there were not as many shows, and I had other commitments.}

Besides not wanting to go out in sub-zero temperatures, part of my laziness has been from many situations that just make me feel out of step with the Boston scene, such as it is. Of course, the folly of actually retreating at moments of feeling disconnected is that you distance yourself further. Part of the whole game needs to be putting your face out, asking for time, making connections, etc. in order to remind people of your existence. Unfortunately, it is simply not human nature for people running shows to find you, when right in front of them are several other people who are assertive and brimming over with self-promotion. Is kind of a bird in hand thing.

So, today, I have essentially told myself that I will go to the Studio and hang out. I will engage. I will listen to others’ performances and appreciate what they have (OK, unless it’s so godawful that I want to puncture my eardrums). If I get to perform, great. If not, there will be other times. I will be a veritable fountain of goodness, hope and charity, spilling into wholesomeness. Or at least I will fake it and have a few beers and pretend it’s ambrosia from Mount Olympus.

Onward and fucking upward.

Hey, on an even smarmier note, my baby is coming home for a couple of weeks. Special orders from the government, cheap flights and East Coast business mean I get my playmate back for a couple of unanticipated weeks in February. (And, maybe the best part of all, it means there will be a man in my life to torture self-consciously and insecurely as I over-analyze and over-hype Valentine’s Day, like women described in magazines everywhere are wont to do on February 14.)