I’ve been mentally boycotting a comedy club that I think should book me more but doesn’t. Subjectively, yeah, I hate rejection. Objectively, I am far more funny and original than a bunch of shit that crosses that stage. Ah well, reality, at least as it pertains to a stage I don’t own, is wildly subjective.

My talents, such as they are, shall find some place fitting or at least adequate.

I broke the boycott today, though, and went to a show, mostly to see this chick. Figured it might be “edgy” and/or interesting. Fucking A, life just disappoints every way around.

I hate shitting on a fellow chick, a fellow comedian and someone who seems to ply the sex trade, because fucking god or whatever knows life is hard. But, man, I should be working marketing a bit harder, because, I mean, one hand tied behind my back, I got more to say than “Oh, yeah, L.A. is different.”

Not only that, as someday to have a linkable website buddy o’ mine pointed out on stage immediately after, what the fuck is going on with a sweetly American, apple pie bullshit dominatrix. Shit, if I’m going to be enslaved, I don’t want a goofy hat and giggly Valley Girl pink. Can’t imagine June Cleaver’s daughter in the B&D scene.

Other than that, it’s raining cats and dogs, build the ark, write another cliche, localized flooding to beat the band. Walking back to my car from the usually ghetto DJ dance scene bar (Again with the disappointments, that bar generally rocks my rock star diva world, when every Black dude in city limits tries to get beside me. However, tonight, no DJ because of the Red Sox and no Sox because of the rain, so no crowd at all and no ego strokage for me.), I was so wet you could have wrung out a liter of water from my pants alone.

The good news on the foul weather is the weather is so shitty, I felt bulletproof walking through the mean Cambridge streets at 1 a.m. Who the fuck is going to rape or rob you, when their feet are in two inches of soak?