Last night I did Andy’s Naked Comedy Show in a Newton basement full of nouveau bohemians and hippies in a private show/hot tub party, and tonight I will be here, the Walk For Hunger Benefit Show. Both benefits, but other than that miles apart.

I guess comedy has added a little adventure to my otherwise humble, yet tawdry, existence. Whether there is value in such things, I guess I’ll have to wait and see, proofed in the forge of time and all that.

Apropos nothing, although tangential to the fact I was in a hot tub last night, every morning I get up and take a hot shower with soap given to me by the ‘blog character known as M. It’s a bittersweet indulgence with the richness of expensive French milling and heady aroma conflicting with my missing M. Yin and yang, I guess, and missing him is sweeter than not knowing him to miss.

The thing about hot tubs, though, is the veritable soup pot atmosphere (round, bubbling and steamy) kicks my germphopic leanings entirely upright and to the fore. Apart from Freudian ickiness (and I believe icky is the clinical term), it’s a major reason I’m not dying to get into my sister-in-law/brother’s hot tub. I haven’t decided which is worse for that feeling, actually, naked hot tubbing, as favored by the Newton hippies, or bathing suited hot tubbing, not just favored but mandated by family gatherings. I think a case could be made for the filthiness of each. So, it’s very relaxing and fun and interesting and communal and all sorts of other positive up-beat adjectives, but I cannot fucking wait to be alone in a hot shower afterward. (Ideally, with bittersweet gift soap from my sweetie.)