Thank fucking god, all of the goddesses and a fair amount of lesser dieties. I got a straight night of sleep.

There have been a couple of dawn awakenings to listen to a young man’s existential journey. Last night the young man in question, a friend, a comic, a truly sensitive soul, was advised to let me the fuck sleep. Thanks, Chris.

One good thing about leaving home is it reminds you of what home is. I miss M. I miss the regular pace of my day. I don’t miss working. Because, duh, that would be fucking stupid.

I’ve been here a week and only performed four times, and I feel burnt out from the foreigness, the walking, the sheer enormity of choices on what to do, where to go, what to see. There are literally hundreds of venues and thousands of shows. In the crowds and confusion, I was never able to find the woman I know from San Francisco who was doing three shows.

If I feel tired, I can’t even imagine how my comrades who spent a month and performed nightly feel. To say nerves seem frayed would be an understatement.

The highlights of yesterday were twofold for me. First, the Walsh Brothers invited Andy, Dot and me to do sets on stage, and there were actually people in the audience (a rarity in a town hosting such a gigantic amount of competing shows). It was like the olden days.

Second, was the literary pub crawl of a few Edinburgh spots off the tourist main stream. The guide, Allan Foster, was incredible, a natural story teller with the kind of trivial notes and little comments on which I thrive.

We started out at the Royal Oak and heard a rendition of Loch Lomond by Alan Hunter that would have put a wee tear in the eyes of the hardest of men.

I know I’m hear for comedy, but I was it was so great to have a pint and some music.

(Dot scooted out to get a pie from the Piemaker during the song that had me riveted. Sometimes I think I’ll never be quite the comedian others are, because there are too many other things I want to hear.)