Some recent emails and phone calls have me feeling the first pangs of homesickness. Not really, though, since I’m completely comfortable here. I miss people not places.

Part of the pang is the sense of being something other than what I was. It’s more of an identity crisis, but it’s likely more rooted in my drama queen essence than substantial existenstial angst.

After several, many, hundreds, billions, thousands of years. OK, quite a few anyway. A few years of truly working at establishing myself as an independent entity, someone out there at comedy clubs, writing alone at night into the dimmest of the wee hours, self-destructing the “career job,” because it had to be done, I’m a million fucking miles away from all that.

Now, I’m half of a couple. A mostly happy couple, mind you, but WAY THE FUCK different from the slighter loner self wandering into the back of clubs and insinuating myself into a scene. Of course, that characterization is somewhat fucking ridiculous, since all of my friends who matter (I guess meaning that I like) from comedy have met M. He didn’t exactly materialize over night.

And, I’m back in another potential career gig. Mind you, it fits better, although there is at least one person pretensious enough to bring back some of my old bile and leave me choking back some office-flavored bitterness.

Speaking about the work place the synergy with what’s going on in the news and the poorly named blogosphere continues to confound, amaze and intrigue me. Today’s episode had me trying to figure out if the ex-prez scene, officially known as the Clinton Global Initiative or CGI to the hip and trendy, is gonna have a dress code.

You search that initiative and dress code on the web, though, and you hit a certain critical mass of FReeper bullshit. Interesting, much of the broad brush, snarky commentary against the CGI events dismisses it as maximum dog and pony pageantry. Smoke, mirrors and nothing much.

Sadly, the FReepers seem to be saying that that emptiness is indicative of any and all participants, most especially the left leaning, and that the event cannot be the bipartisan love fest it claims. I say sadly, because I now know some passionate participants, who some may be personally left leaning, a couple others perhaps not, but all professionally and deliberately willing to work with whoever makes sense. In short, pretty OK people looking to make the ball of shit we live on a little less dung-like.

They are also afraid of pageantry, smoke, mirrors, razzle dazzle. But, at least they are willing to have a teeny weeny bit of hope that at least it’s something. It’s pretty easy to piss on a parade. It’s a bit tougher to get in line and try to move the parade along.

The other sad thing about the FReeper commentary involves a certain infamous, cum-stained dress. Jesus fucking Christ, people, even the shittiest open miker at the saddest comedy night in the world isn’t still envisioning Clinton splooge dampening the cheek of a chubby intern. Let it fucking go already.

OK, now that I have reflected on the shooting of powerful and charismatic bodily fluids, I’m feeling slightly less homesick.

And, Mike Brown resigning from FEMA marks me as teetering on giddy. A Bush appointee on unemployment, hard to imagine.

Now, my biggest dilemma in life, apart from hectoring the boy-o a la Janet in Rocky Horror — Touch me Touch me Touch me, I want to get dir-ir-irty– is how to get away with writing about the shit I now encounter.

A while back, I worked for a place in which the brain trust in charge envisioned themselves masters and mistresses of the universe. In their mighty presence, I wrote about the mundanity of their sphere and tried to elevate it into something worthy of a joke, at least.

Now, I am working with people who go out of their fucking way to minimize any play or sway in the bigger world. All the same, I am one single degree of separation from world leaders, ex world leaders, money brokers, power brokers, statesmen, scholars, journalists and all manner of colorful names you’ve read about or just read. No lie, I have the hotmail (fucking hotmail, not even gmail) addy of a dude from the original, Afghani provisional government.

One degree of separation.

All in all, I stick with this life, because so far I haven’t been able to predict the ending.