Firstly, in re the post below on the All Asia show, if you are reading this malarkey, and for some not fully explicable reason decide to come on down to the All Asia and check me out, here’s an idea. If you come up to me and say, “Hey, I’m here because I saw it on Dee-Rob.com,” I’ll buy you a beverage.

If you’re a friend or loved one, it will be the beverage of your choice. If you’re a fun-loving stranger, it will likely be a PBR. If you’re a comic, who has read this post, and reads other things from the Boston comedy scene it will be Diet Coke, rich with the goodness of Nutrasweet, unless you’re scared.

Now, to explain the title of this post. Lately, I’ve been sporting a red leather, biker style jacket (zippers, snaps), and it just makes me laugh. For a bit in the 80s I thought for sure red really would become the new black. Twenty years later, I realize that red leather never really caught fashion fire apart from the flicker when Wacko Jacko was first reengineering his face and was too young to really be a pedophile.

Meanwhile, I think I may be inadvertently turning into the kind of person I hate, practically bristling with positivity. The red probably veritably frames my upbeat, fucking perkiness, a bubbling cheerleader color of precious “spirit.” Fucking hell, smiling folks suck. I realized this horrible reality, my developing douchiness, when talking to another female comic chick, who is much younger than I (most are). She had just broken up with a guy, and a reference she made on stage reminded me about my ex. After breaking up with that astronomically flaming asshole, I drew a line in the sand for myself — No more fucking assholes. Better to be alone than to be apologizing for breathing or waiting for the eternal, perennial other shoe to drop. Fuck the world, I thought back then, now my decisions are for me and my happiness.

I assume it is not purely coincidental that I happened to come across M. post facto of that declaration. Take care of yourself, and hang with people willing to do the same.

So, I’m giving the young comedy chick a ride home, and fucking hear myself, all chipper big-sister like, talking about how she should stay away from the fuckheads, who it seems have been older and baggage ridden, and find herself a nice boy with whom to do nice things. You know how the cliche runs that people who are all happy, couple-y want to find everyone else a happy, couple-y hook up, and the world would then be full of happy, couple-y, bubbly, joyous couples? You know that one? I give all who read this free reign to punch me in the forehead if I start fixing them up or any other such bullshit.

Big fucking deal, M. has turned out to be the walking incarnation of my pre-teen jones, Kwai Chang Cain. Doesn’t mean I got any more sense than I did before. (Yes, M., I know it should have been Bruce. But, I’m a white, suburban chick, product of my environment. I was too young to crush on )

I got no right to be inflicting my mood on other people, good or bad.