I’m back in town, and I’m fucking tired. Almost too tired to rejoice at Rove’s retirement from his role as evil demon of the Whitehouse. Or wait, I guess they call it political adviser.

Karl Fucking Rove is no more. (Until, of course, someone like Giuliani hires him to hypnotize the country into not minding the ex-wives, abortion rhetoric and dressing in drag and keeping his campaign alive.)

I just kind of wish there was a grave on which I could dance.

Work is at a peak level of wearying the fuck out of me. Long days, intense retreating, editing, more editing, reformatting, group dynamics, all of the swirl of shit that makes workplaces not fun places. Sadly, I would blog the fuck out of everything if I wasn’t all like edumicated on why blogging the fuck out of work stuff is a bad, bad idea.

Just imagine serious global issues, educated people and long days into the night. Also imagine me being the one keeping the logistical ball rolling. I hate keeping that shit together. Good at it, but it stresses me out. Nothing cramps a meal than knowing you’re the one who’ll have to shag after the caterers if the rolls run out.

And, if the coming election, the resignation of Rove and hard, hard work weren’t enough to keep me busy, I got my fear and neuroses on the path to Edinburgh to face.

No lie, I’m intimidated as hell that I’m flying out to Edinburgh for the Fringe Fest. I think it will be cool. It will be interesting. And, hell, some of my favorite comedy friends are waiting or will be waiing on the other side of the pond. Hell yeah, some funny people who I ain’t never run out of things (or a desire) to talk about and hang out and all.

BUT, I’m leaving M. behind, and that kind of sucks. (At the same time as I realize it would definitely be one of his circles of hell to have wall to wall entertainers, artists and comics. He’d probably have to get all Muy Thai on someone’s ass just for being too, too, too artsy.)

My biggest fear, irrational and not really a fear as much as an anxiety, is the whole lodging arrangements. The thing is normal folk rent out their spare rooms all over the city for festival time. Looks like Dot and I will be bunking with Christine and Debbie. (M. is mildly convinced “Christine and Debbie” are fronts for “Bob” and “Ted,” who enjoy luring strangers into their lair.

We shall see. We’ll only be crashing between and among shows and likely handed out flyers and talking and meeting and performing and all that kind of circus swirl. So, it’s just a bed, not a getaway we be needing. Should be fine.

It occurs to me that when I lived in London, I was the lodger in the bedsit who agreed to au pair three little girls for a reduction in the room. I was the stranger in the family’s upper bedroom.

It seems so foreign now. It’s antithetical to my current suburban Silicon Valley, picking the right wine with dinner, living with my sweet boy-o, and maybe heading out for the weekend at a fireplaced, Jacuzzi ridden room running in the triple digits. Sleeping on a stranger’s pullout.

I’m sure I’ll be fine. But, I’d be lying if the prospect of travel, foreign lands and, I hope, performing during the world’s biggest arts fest wasn’t giving me Agita. Or maybe a stroke.