Pardon me. Please excuse my inability to assess situations, process conversations, interpret non-verbal signals, or make statements or decisions of any kind. I’m currently in the middle of a psychological apocalypse. This is the end of my current mental state as I know it. This is where all thoughts and previous actions are subject to Final Judgment and either granted a place in the haven of continued existence (at least until the next time) or banished for eternity. I think in computer-dork-speak this is called “purging”. This is where your computer runs through all of the data on your hard drive and systematically deletes anything redundant, irrelevant, or dated. Hehehe… oh, shit. I’m in trouble. If I purge ALL irrelevant or dated ideas from my noggin, I’ll be lucky to retain enough cognitive ability to wipe my own ass.

Hmm. I’ve got egg on my jacket. Surprisingly this is probably one of the thoughts that won’t be purged. Why? It’s relevant, it’s now. It lacks abstract subjectivity. It’s not speculative, theoretical, or requiring of too much explanation.
“I have egg on my jacket.”
“How did it get there?”
“We stopped at Pete’s Kitchen for a gut-bomb after a long night’s drinking….”
And thus begins one of those stories that only I find funny, but it’s worth telling because it happened.

Hey!! Happy Barbarian Meat-Fest Day everybody! That’s right campers, it’s our favorite pagan holiday! On this, and every Good Friday, it has become our tradition to gather with other recovering Catholics and pagans of all varieties to playfully thumb our noses at Catholicism, and organized religion in general. On the most “no-no” of days for Catholics to eat meat, we grill, broil, pan-sear, and deep fry carnage of every kind, and eat in the most barbarian fashion possible. We fill our glasses, chalices, and steins to the brim with wines, meades, lagers and ales galore! We toast our independence from the convention of religion and celebrate our ability to be full of faith without being full of shit.

A PSALM

Ours be the church not built with hands,
Whose corners are the seas and lands;
Whose windows are the night and day,
The rose of dawn, the evening gray;
Whose pillars soar through azure space
To shadowy heights, and interlace
In roofs that, past the silver bars
Of moonlight, mingle with the stars.
The mountains shall our altars raise;
Our cloisters hide in woodland ways;
And, in the rocks, each crystal rill
Our fonts of Holy water fill.
Processions of the years and hours
Shall ever move beneath its towers;
And, down its echoing aisles, shall sweep
Eternal anthems of the deep.
But gleams shall evermore be shown
Through distant doors, of paths unknown;
And round its walls shall evermore
Come whispers of an unknown shore.
Be it our ritual to read
In Life our Faith, in Truth our Creed.
Let Fear its graven tables break,
And Love our ten commandments make.
Let us, when Heaven no light imparts,
Our gospel seek in human hearts;
Our hymns of praise on children’s lips;
In Beauty, our Apocalypse.
And let the burdens all must bear
In silence, be our common prayer;
Let every flower that cleaves the sod
Become to us a word of God;
And, lifting Heavenward Life’s intent,
Love be, itself, our Sacrament!

~ Sidney Royse Lysaght, 1901.

Ok I have to write something before my head fills up with a bunch of work crap and I am transformed against my will into my alter ego. The Mr. Hyde of my psyche. The ultra efficient, multi-task-master; numbingly unaware of anything occurring outside of my cubicle, “Uber-Secretary”. Yes, I am her. You wouldn’t know by looking at the unassuming Dr. Jekyl side: the hopelessly unorganized, telephone-a-phobic, flibbertigibbet. It happens every morning around this time. Just after my second cup [why do I drink two of them?] of nameless, label-less, military grade, coffee; brewed to the color of my average cup of tea, with two French vanilla flavored creamers added. (Side: There is something alarmingly wrong with a “cream” product that requires no refrigeration and asks that you “shake well before opening”.) I think this concoction might be the drug of my transformation. I’m drinking water this morning.

“Why you got that shit-eatin’ grin on your face?”
“I’m… just reading something funny.” And I am; courtesy of mrtrinity.
“Boy, I called this one.” Jim (and mrtrinity) are helping to keep me in a disconnected mood. “When I left the house this mornin’ it was all clear outside, aaand I went down to the barn to let the horses out, and then I thought, ‘ya know, I bet its gonna fuckin’ snow today’ so I left ‘em in the barn…. If I let ‘em out in this shit they’d just get all muddy, and then they’d track that shit all back in the barn and mess up the stalls….” He looks like a horse-guy. He’s tall and thick. Not fat, but thick, like he’s no stranger to mending fences and hefting hay-bails. He’s got a leathery face with deep grooves and a permanent frown; no lips. He wears denim shirts almost exclusively, and jeans, and cowboy boots. He is what movie characters are based on. Actors want to be him.

There was this big local scandal on the news last night. It was reported that the University of Colorado had put a weight limit on their cheerleaders. The female cheerleaders were not to weigh more than 120 lbs. Hoopla, scandal, oh my, oh dear... now the cheerleaders are all going to have eating disorders... and this is discrimination! [deep breath] ... I shudder to think of how much of my valuable youth has been wasted listening to this crap. Who cares? Really. Who? They can't be much heavier than 120 or else an 18-year-old boy is not going to be able to throw the little heifer 25 ft. in the air!

"... for more on this breaking news, lets go to our affiliate in Boulder. Carl, what's the mood like in Boulder right now?"
"It is utter chaos here, Shelby. There is panic in the streets of Boulder. I'm standing outside the local Fatty Burger on College Street where, in a bold protest, three cheerleaders, dressed in their uniforms, have purchased double-bacon-cheeseburgers AND are eating them, WITH french fries. Local patrons are stunned. Shelby?"
"Thanks, Carl. Stay tuned. We'll bring you the latest news from Boulder as this scandal unfolds."

I challange anyone to satisfactorily justify to me why this story is worthy of the evening news. How small are our worlds that our information sources are clogged with the weight of cheerleaders in Boulder, Colorado? I'll bet that somewhere in the world there is a brilliant scientific acheivement going unnoticed.... I'll bet there's a political or religious upheaval changing the face of the world, as we know it.... I'll bet there is legislation galore running its course through the American political machine without the knowledge of many an American citizen.... Did I hear something about a war somewhere? I'm not sure... what's going on with that? No, we get cheerleaders. [sigh]

How narrow is our focus? How tiny are our personal spheres of knowledge and interest? Is it any wonder that we are shaken to the core by relatively inconsequential events? It isn't difficult for the little things to add up to more than we can bear when our worlds drop off abruptly at our noses. If you push me in the slightest, than you've pushed me to the edge! But if our worlds were bigger, our scope taking in the breadth and expanse of a bigger picture, then you could push me all you want! My world is far too big for you to push me to the edge of it!

Note to self: Learn to be humbled by your insignificance and humiliated by your self-centeredness.

So, I’m actually getting paid right now. Have you ever checked out the Altoids web site? Fascinating. Did you know that they were originally invented to “…act as an antidote to poisons in the stomach”? “One or two taken after meals will stop any poisonous fermentation.” Fascinating.

Driving to work this morning I saw a bumper sticker on the back of a school bus. "Do something REAL!" it said. But I'm not.

It’s snowing again. My office is full of imports, mostly Californians, who Hate (note the capitol H) the snow. Mingled with the background conversation in the office are snippets of dissent and disgust and longing for sunshine and beaches. It used to make me mad that so many people were moving to this state. But I don’t care anymore. Frankly, there are bigger problems in the world than the growing population of Denver. So, fine. Move here with your gas-guzzling, land-mass of an SUV and buy that million dollar home they just built last year on a huge bed of bentonite [sucker], but leave your negative attitude at the door, okay? … and don’t look at me like that when I say that it’s gorgeous outside. It’s hard to find something gorgeous outside this window. I’m right in the ass-crack of a dingy-old industrial complex. There’s a reason that I’m the new kid and I’m the one who got the window office. Usually no one wants to look out the window. Apparently the din of neon institution lighting is more uplifting than my view. But not today. The gray glow of the sky complements the buildings of similar hew and gives them a luster of strength and confidence… and the billions of white flecks blowing this way and that, like so many birds, all changing directions at once… “They said it was supposed to be sunny and clear and in the 50’s all week. They lied. Those guys are useless! I could be a weather-man in this state!" … dude, you’re killin’ my buzz. Shut.Up.

There’s sawdust on my bathmat.

I think that was the first conscious thought I had this morning. Sleep evaporating from my senses with each breath of warm steam, slowly stepping out of the shower, body stiff and sore from the previous two days labor, reaching for oversized fluffy towel … there’s sawdust on my bathmat. There’s dishes sitting in a drying rack on the floor next to the bathroom sink. I pull my bath robe on, brush my teeth, step over the dishes and shuffle my morning “not awake yet” shuffle into the dining room where the coffee pot is brewing on the dining room table, right on the corner where you can still get to it amongst the thousand and five other things piled and stacked on the table. That stuff belongs in the cabinets that don’t exist anymore. Hm. Dig for coffee cup. Hm. (There’s a lot of Hm-ing and frowning that goes on in the morning until I’ve had my first cup of coffee.) Take coffee cup into the kitchen, dodge make-shift work bench, stub toe on circular saw (not the blade, though), step over sawdust pile left over from last night’s clean up (I couldn’t find the dustpan) and open fridge. Hm, half-&-half. Back to the dining room (kick saw out of the way this time) and pour my cup of coffee.

Work seems bearable today. My life, at the moment, is not filled with bla after boring. I have something to look forward to after boring. I can go home and measure, and measure again (“measure twice, cut once” Pop says) and cut wood precisely and exactly so it fits just right, and slowly something begins to take shape.

I remember art classes in high school. I used to hate it when people would watch me draw from over my shoulder. Inevitably they would ask, “What’s that?” To which the standard response was, “Its not done yet. You’ll see. Go away.” Now I like it. I’m taking lots of “in-process” photos. I almost want people to think, “What the hell is she doing?” I want them to think I’m as crazy as I feel, so that when I’m done… and if it looks good, others might share my same sense of “holy shit, I did it.”

Do I want a pat on the back? Am I gonna be a glory-hound about my carpentry accomplishments? Damn straight!!!
(How's that for being honest about how I feel?)

Have I mentioned that I love my car! Not my new car (although she is very beautiful and oh-so deserving of much love), but my old car. My old boy who is getting on in years and in miles and who inspires me sporadically with his refusal to quit and die and be useless and burdensome. He thrills me with his thousand-and-one uses that can only be discovered when one is not afraid of damage and abuse, but willing to push the maximum capacity of ability.

Tonight we went to the “Homo-Depot” to get the necessary materials (am I insane?) for building cabinets from scratch (probably, but what a fucking rush if I can actually pull it off! Hahahaaaa!!). One standard sheet of oak ply (4’x 8’), ripped to 23” widths; one 8’x 6” (which actually measures 5 ½”) x ¾” piece of solid oak; one bit for plunge-router to make mortise/tenon joints; and various odds and ends for other (but no less significant) contributions to the project. The navigation of aisles, with eight feet of lumber protruding from the wobbly-wheeled carting device, badly in need of alignment, is accomplished with a fortunate combination of luck, skill, and lack of innocent third party interference. Once out into the open (well below freezing, but open) air, the only question left is, “how the hell is all this crap gonna fit in my car?” Front passenger seat slides back and reclines allowing the two 23” pieces of ply to be propped diagonally across the entire expanse of the car from windshield to tailgate. Other odds and ends are tossed at random here and there, including oldest sister who finds cozy, yet apparently adequate space, in the fetal position against tailgate. Ride home is quickly transformed into laughing fit if nostalgia… “You never see kids in the back of station wagons any more! Has this country forgotten what station wagons are for?!?! All I need now is some oven-fried chicken and semi-truck behind me!!” [making the universal motion to truckers for “honk your horn”]

Aaahaahaaahaaaaaaa!! Moments like that could never happen in my new Mary-Sue. She’s too cute and too pretty for me to jam 32 sq. ft. of plywood well into the front seat, significantly impairing my shifting ability, and then arrive home, unload, and crack a cold Pabst before getting to work. (Mary-Sue is a red wine and filet mignon kinda girl… hence my need to retain ownership of both… because I am both.)

I used to work in the car biz, where they used to say, “You are what you drive.” I drive two cars, and I love them both. Define that!

Here’s a story for you.

When I was in college (in 1995) I was on a road-trip and staying in some podunk little Arkansas town. I decided to go for a little walk and stumbled on a old mom & pop used book store. In it, I found a ratty little book called The Great Companion, Vol 2, published in the 1930’s sometime. I read a poem from that book along my travels… and was dramatically affected by it (… and while the content of the poem is incredibly significant to my life, it is not relevant to this story). I decided I wanted to read more from the author of the poem and began to search in book stores and libraries. Nada. For years I would ask at every bookstore I entered, and search the catalog of every library, but to no avail.

Five years later I was sitting in my office waiting for pink-slip day, and surfing idly on the web, when a search of Amazon’s database resulted in a match. I was informed that Amazon had access to one book written by Sidney Royse Lysaght. They would contact their used book network and get back to me with a price. The price was $65. I bought it. The book was titled A Reading of Life. I read the first page and was immediately satisfied that my purchase was worth every penny of $65. “I am so in love with this man.” I read the book through, taking my time and re-reading certain parts, etc. When I was finished with the book I began searching again. Libraries, book stores, on-line… I’ve been searching and searching.

On an ordinary fall day, after walking out of the 7th bar that I wouldn’t land a job in, I happened to notice a rare book store across the street. I thought, “What the hell.” I went in and asked the man if he had any books by Sidney Royse Lysaght. He said that he didn’t have any on hand but he would email his other store in NYC and see if they had any. He called 2 days later. They have two!! I ordered them, undaunted by their combined $140 price tag. I was promised the books would be delivered to my house in 8-10 business days. On the 12th business day I called the book store.
“They’re here. I just received them today… and… I hope you won’t be too angry with me, but considering your strong interest, I took the liberty of spending an extra $10. Our NY store located a signed copy of The Immortal Jew.”
[gasp] “How late are you open? Can come get them?” (5:55 pm)
“We’re open ‘til 6:00. How soon can you be here?”
“10 minutes!”
“… Okay. Come on down.”

I was shaking as I took the books to look at them. The invoice described them. The book of poems was described as “A near mint copy of the 1928 publication from the poetess.”
“Poet-ESS?!? … Poet-ess. My Sidney is a woman? I don’t care. I’m still in love.” (huh, my first love affair with a woman and she’s dead. Figures.)

So then I was determined to find more. There must be something I could find out ABOUT the author, not just BY the author. One more trip to the Library. The computer revealed nothing. Nada. So I tried the “needle in a haystack method” and started flipping through reference books. Indexes of authors of various media and genre. After about 2 hours I began to give up hope. In a last ditch effort I grabbed a Who Was Who in 1942. Pay-dirt. “Lysaght, Sidney Royse: died 20 Aug 1941, s. of T. Lysaght…” Wait. Doesn’t that little “s.” mean “son of”? What happened to “poetess”? Set-back. Now I know less than when I came. Photocopy Who Was Who page, check watch. Time’s up on the meter outside. Better go.

Back at the desk of my new job (which is obviously not the bartending job I was hoping for) I begin searching online libraries. I have clues. The Who Was Who also stated that Lysaght’s address was in County Cork. I begin matching references to the name with Ireland… subject search… BINGO. S. R. Lysaght: The Author and The Man, by Edward MacLysaght. Holy crap. There’s an entire book written about him. (Yes, him… whatever.) The book happens to reside in the Library of Congress. Don’t bother me with trifles, I’m getting closer! The hunt is on!!!

Carhart’s - check, work boots - check, Yankees cap - check, screw-drivers – check, pry-bar - check, hammer - check. It’s time to take on the kitchen. See ya cabinets! See ya old, crappy, crack-smoker’s dishwasher! Those losers that lived here before us made an entire kitchen’s worth of cabinets out of oak ply and fence nails. Ok, Bu-bye. Yeah, we’re gonna do this right this time. Solid façade and shelves, ply walls. Dado and/or Mortise-Tenon joints. 3”x3” Reveal. 100 lb. Capacity, full-extension drawer-pulls…. Oh, yes, and move the dishwasher to the other side of the sink where it won’t scrape the island cabinets when you open the door. Yes, yes, that should do it. Add another cabinet here, and here and a set over there. Box in the new fridge and build-in a wine rack on the top. Dry-bar with stools… stem-rack… perfect. Now all I have to do is draw it, buy the gear, and build it. No sweat.

“INSIDE 9-11. Get the first exclusive footage from inside Ground Zero with your host Robert DeNero.”

Are you fucking kidding me? Why don’t they just make a mini-series. You know, like a made for TV movie with one of those ex-1980’s-sitcom stars who no one can remember the name of [wasn’t she in Facts of Life or something… Eight is Enough, maybe?] Or, if the TV exec.’s are willing to spend a little more, they could make one of those HBO Original movies. Maybe they could get Don Johnson and Chi Chi Moralles to play the “very courageous fire-fighter team”. That’d be great. What a fucking atrocity.

What exactly is the statute of limitations for exploiting a tragedy for money?

Must.get.free. can’t move. [gasp] can’t breathe.

“You can’t do it that way… [click]… oh. You always do things the hard way.”
“I really need a copy of those plans right away. You’re not doing anything are you?” [Actually, I am doing something. I’m juggling seven monotonous tasks with one hand while having violent, super-hero-esque fantasies about kicking you. But that’s okay, I’ll just drop everything and make those copies… of that thing that I told you was located on the share drive and all you have to do is click on the little icon and PRESS THE PRINT BUTTON!?!?!?! Let me know if you need anything else… like, when you go to take a crap, maybe I can wipe your ass for you!]

Strange how the change of weather from bitter cold to sunny and warm can prompt me to go from 0-bitch in approximately [calculate flight time for rubber band to shoot across the room and hit Frank in the ass] 0.16 seconds. Spring fever. I just want to go hike something; ergo… I’m having trouble grasping the urgency and life-blood necessity of going through the motions of day to day business. Filtering through neon lights into a windowless gerbil cage, infectiously permeating the unwitting psyche, is the voice of America. The “Go, Fight, Win!” and “We’re #1!” of 16-year-old high school cheerleaders whispers to the contrary of the infantile intellect longing to grow up, and drives the would-be adventurer; the general knower and doer of things, into the shackles of neck-tie and dress-shoes. “This doesn’t mean that much to me. Can’t you understand that? Must professional indifference equal character flaw?”

The glasses are beautiful. I’m going to build for them a glass-front cabinet with a stem-rack underneath. I’m going to make my own cordials and liqueurs to sip from them. I’m going to pour my favorite Irish Whiskey, toast your life, and shoot from them. They won’t just be for show. I’ll use them, but carefully, ‘cuz I know you would have wanted me to. Thanks Poppo.

In the spirit of saving money by way of grounding myself from my new car, and reducing myself to mixing only such beverages who’s ingredients I might have on hand, I've decided that I don’t have enough money to go and visit my favorite hair salon for my 5-week hair-cut and dye-job etc. etc. which usually tallies up in the 100’s of $’s [ouch]!! I decided, yesterday to stop by the local Walgreens on my way home from work and (rather than drop 104 bones + tip on shampoo, cut, style, wax, dye…la-tee-dah, and etc.) buy a 7 dollar pair of hair-cutting scissors. Frugal? Yes. Prudent? Hmmmm….

In other news…. No, wait! There was more to that story!… ok, no, not really. Only an expression of my own self-conscious anxiety. (Ooh, I have that?) Um…. So, no one in my office commented on my new –do. No positive comments, no negative comments (not even the polite kind, like: “WOW! New hair-cut. Looookssss… nice.”) No comments what-so-ever. So, do I chalk this up to blue-collar-haven’t-gotta-clue-guys, or “Oh-my-God!!” !?!?! Rut-ro, Oh well,

wait’ll you see my car, who’s picture I can’t figure out how to put on here, but I’m working on it! I love my boy!! Yes, my boy. He has a sex… and a name! His name is Stew. Stew the Blue Subaru. He’s my little baby-blue-boy. Fine! Call me crazy! You don’t know! You don’t know my little man, and the way he loves to be loved. A personal hand-washing and a wax-job and he runs great for weeks. Still think I’m crazy? What man doesn’t love a good wax-job? Aahhhh!! Rhaa! … hhuhu.

Slickery-slippery, heavy snowfall falling all over, turns my morning commute into Saturday morning at the sled-hill. Red-plastic sled, long enough to lay down, no wind resistance … no brakes YHaaaHAAHAAaaahhhhhhHhhhh!!! Not fast enough! Go down a few more times to smooth out a good path! Yeah! Use my sled as a shovel and build a big jump at the bottom HAHAHAAAAAAA!! I felt that same rush this morning when that guy in the Oldsmobile fish-tailed, panicked, and spun around 3 or 4 times right in front of me on the overpass. Gear down, brake lightly, control my own fish-tail, turn on hazards, and join the other two cars on either side of me in creating a road block until said guy can get his car turned back around and be on his way. WooHAAAAAaaaaahh!! It’s snowing!! It’s snowing so hard that when I shoveled the walk this morning, it needed to be done again before I was finished. Too bad. Wear boots. It’s snowing so hard that, even though Robin Hart (who has “what I need to know on the BCO morning show”) told me that there are 90 snow plows driving in the city right now, there was still snow scraping the bottom of my car as my wheels spun, cradled in the tracks (“smooth out a good path!”), of the cars that came before me.