There’s a corner of my brain that likes to hang out at parties, because I don’t sleep. And, as Janis said “I don’t sleep. I might miss a party.”

Thing is, though, she was in her early 20s, and I’m 40. Definitely hitting that stride where hanging out may become either cool or completely pathetic. I guess I hope it ends that I’m more Timothy Leary eating marijuana crackers and living the high life on the Internet than June Allyson hawking/wearing Depends. But, frankly, it could go either way.

It’s not a great portent that I feel like shit from allergies to whatever is free floating in the air. So, I’m at a party with that cramped pre-sneeze face and hoping my nose doesn’t start pouring liquid.

I doubt had Janis lived, she’d be gulping down Benadryl and debating whether to have a cup of decaf tea.

First off, lots of thoughts and energy headed out to SoCal, where a certain fella I know is meeting and greeting and presenting and selling and paneling and doing what he does for Open Source. I hope the driving and traffic across Cali is worth it.

Secondly, I’ve been feeling very Anne of Green Gables inside my head. It seems like I get a lot of feedback when I talk about the stuff I know and feel something about, like the invincible Pat, so i wonder if I should learn a bit from Anne, and try to get published with my hometown view. Of course, Anne of Green Gables in my head, is not just L. Maud Montgomery, it’s also Megan Follows, who I watched with none other than Pat.

I’m not gay, but I have a schoolgirl crush on Megan/Anne. Kindred spirits, I guess would be the corny corollary {read A. of G.G to comprehend just how corny}. I want to hang out with that person, especially now that she’s been an absolutely fucked up shitty mom on not just Law and Order, but also CSI. It would be cool to, I don’t know, hang out with her and then maybe witness a crime together.

Last thought (not like ever, just before sleep) and it’s completely colored by tonight, is someone talking about taking a dump for, I don’t know, five to ten minutes is NEVER funny. Maybe 30 seconds, provided you had something really insightful and original to say, could be considered funny. Other than that, I can’t even imagine why those people get on a stage and decide to talk about shitting. I’m not prudish or squeamish, but, yeah, we all poop, there’s even a book about it. Next time why don’t you read actuarial tables for the thrill and originality you bring to the stage. Which reminds me, for the third year I have witnessed a different and unique performer break fresh, clever ground by bringing the mike into the men’s room, woohoo, and then urinating. CLEVER! Awesome, fully original and exceptional comedy. Oh yeah, did I mention three years of open miking and I’ve seen it each year. In other words, you suck.

Just so we are all clear here, on the same page, touching base, any shit I write, especially about anything that provides my livelihood, is in fact excrement. Literally, dead waste product.

There is no resemblance to individuals living or dead. None, zippo, nada. Unless some individual were to look like excrement, which of course no one does.

So, nothing to see here. Move along.

Patriots’ Day in Boston is Boston Marathon Day. I work literally within walking distance to the marathon route, so I enjoy coming into work today and every year. Besides the fact, where I work is a major charitable player in the race, so there are always tons of people with our logo running for the hospital for which they work or they know people who were treated here.

I just walked down there, and I saw my boss’ husband, a woman whom I regularly see at meetings and a friend of mine from comedy. With her was another comedy friend, but I’m not sure if he did the full 26 miles.

If you had a gun to my head and absolutely made me choose death or marathon, I cannot say for certain which I would pick. Looking at all those folks, drenched in sweat and run/walking in awkward painful looking jolts, like every step equals an ouch somewhere on their body, I think I would take the gun to the head.

Interesting note about marathon day and my recognition of it, it’s pretty inextricably linked with good old Pat in my head. She AVIDLY watched it on TV every year. And, she would call me to talk about who won and how people looked and the weather and the annual characters, like the Hoyts and Johnny Kelly.

So, you might think that Pat was a runner at some point in her life, given her fanatic view of the big race. But, you would be so wrong. I think the only time I ever saw my mother run was once when she thought one of us was drowning off the coast of the “Irish Riviera” (well Boston’s anyway. It looks like there’s a few from an Internet search. I guess wherever the ancestors of the old sod vacation is a mocking Riviera.) Anyway, that was a pretty big day, not only did she run, but she swam. (She was fabled to be Red Cross certified, but apart from splashing some water on her arms, when “the cure was in the water,” the legendary Esther Williams within never emerged (or submerged, I suppose).

One might even speculate in regard to Pat that she was so unlikely to exercise (at least in the years when I’m fully cognizant) that any means necessary to avoid a sweat were best employed.(Actually, horses sweat, men perspire and women glow, and don’t ever, ever tell Pat, when you’re a little girl, that you are “sweating like a pig.” The consequences were dire.) I digress, but my point being that one could speculate that five kids were born (in those innocent days before remote control), so that there’d be someone around to change the channel on the TV.

Nonetheless, for one day a year, she was a veritable jogging enthusiast.

Oh, in regard to the Hoyts, I think she made it pretty fucking clear to me once upon a time — if ever I was wheelchair bound, there was no way in God’s green earth that she’d be pushing me 26.2 miles. I’m pretty sure I would have replied, “Right back at you, Pat.” (Some families have a different sense of togetherness. For mother/daughter bounding we favored sarcasm over breaking a sweat.)

As long as there is serious shit going down in the gay village (because, you know, it takes a village to raise one), it’s keeping me from important stuff. Like lovingly laughing at the first gay wedding to which I’ve been invited, and how the groom I know is even more of a bride than any mainstream chick I know. (Which says something about the chicks I know, as well as the groom to be.)

Very recently someone near and very dear to me was asking why I was getting a tad obsessed with the Catholic thing. Basically, my answer is that the times we are living in are getting heavily weird without a lot of people (or maybe it’s just a few who are fucking loud) screaming about God.

This god-thang seems to be more of a weapon than a cure.

Like a sign from above (ha ha), while thinking about all this shit, I got the following message on my answering machine:

PLAY MESSAGE (Sorry about the sound quality, I might work on cleaning it up, if only to get rid of the squealing.)

Besides being just a shitty and fucked up mishmash of God and Family and the threat of the HOMO HORDES ruining everything, caller ID was blocked. So who knows what faction of the holier than fucking thou brigade are dialing away.

As a side note, no matter what emails and comments might suggest, there are some major league assholes among the proper and probably quite nice on the website with which I got entangled. Right now there’s a whirlwind of gossipy chitchat meant to protect their church that may or may not be about Cardinal McCarrick of DC, who may or may not be flamingly gay and/or pro-pedophile. In fact, there’s a lot of mixing of gay and pedophilia all over the site, wherein apparently one is somehow an easy jump once you’ve let the other one slide. I have known and currently know quite a few homos, ain’t one among them who diddles kids. I would even suggest that they would be as likely as any of us to punch the fuck out of a pedophile.

I can appreciate where if a major tenant of your faith is to be careful about all kinds of sexual conduct, nobody should be doing anything with anyone. So, yeah, priests shouldn’t be doing nothing. Fine. But, if you can’t concede that there is a HUGE, and I mean friggin’ vastly gigantic, difference between a crime with a victim and consensual sex among grown ups, you ain’t helping anyone to clean up any mess. You’re just creating your own, and pretending you have some insight and faith.

I guess my moral for today’s posting — Support folks who want to love and be loved in return and celebrate it. And, for Christ’s sake, stop bringing GOD into your nonsense. If he turns out to exist, he’ll be smoting small-minded vicious piety right next to buggery.

Every weekend seems to be an attempt to top the previous one in sheer laziness. I am almost as motionless as, hmmm, something really still. See, I’m so lazy I won’t even finish that simile.

I’m so lazy that I spent some time with this website. I think it’s a bizarre bit of Burger King advertising, so they should be giving me a Whopper for this link.

It’s been a great sunny weekend, which is a great weekend for a convertible owner. Although, there’s a difference between last year when I first bought my convertible and this year. Then, in its eager newness, I had the roof down when it was even vaguely warm. Now, if it’s chilly forget about it, the roof is up. I thought of that while I was driving back from Maine and outlet shopping, where I went in order to drive with the top down. On the way back, I wanted to be toasty warm.

Man, one thing sad about the convertible, though. I bought it a couple of months after meeting M. So, driving around, blasting music and basically living the open-road American cliche is kind of inextricably linked with our relationship. Not to mention that with our respective heads of long hair and it being a VW Beetle and all, we were the image of beautiful, happy hippie-ish stereotypes. Now that convertible season has returned, it’s not the same with him 3,000 miles away.

Guess I’ll have to buy an SUV and look miserable like everyone else.

Actually tried doing some work today for a change on a Friday. Looks like next Tuesday is when I get to play the research bagman and help pick up 400 $2 bills. Unmarked, I’m sure. I’m trying to imagine how thick the stack of bills would be, given that a pack of regular paper is 500 sheets, should be mildly impressive.

I’m feeling a bit better about the Catholic bruhaha. At the end of the day, I learned that some people are arrogant pricks, and it doesn’t really matter what you have to say, they won’t listen or truly care. And, god forbid, bad pun I know, that they are actually blind and wrong on their moral high horse, in likelihood they will only yell louder.

I’ve also learned that some among the pious have no fucking sense of humor whatsoever. To see an orgasmic reference to the best damned Cheerios in the world dissected drily as evidence of my moral shortcomings is high comedy itself.

I have to quote this, since in the end it is just too wonderful not too share.

Originally, in the tainted and ill-reputed entry of April 10, 2004, entitled “Easter in the land of the wicked,” I wrote:

Finally, from spiritual to material to corporeal, here is my tip for better living through diet. You gotta try the new line of Cheerios. Words cannot describe the excitement I feel in anticipation of a bowl of this magical treat. Orgasms pail in their wonderment of next to contemplating how did Cheerios do it. It’s fruit in the bowl dessicated through science and reinvigorated with milk.

A man, who I shall refer to as Boobaras, then wrote the following about poor, little, old me:

For my own part, describing this uncouth and vulgar young lady as “barbarian” is, I would submit a fairly objective statement, borne out by even a cursory look at her blog in which she compares the pleasures of certain cereals to more intimate pleasures appropriate only to the marriage bed and unfit for public conversation–save at perhaps a medical convention.

I can’t not love that point of view. I’d really want to be that guy’s wife, because clearly in their marriage bed, he’s a tiger.

So, in the end, I will be damned and unredemptive, because I live in a sensual world where food and sex can bring pleasure and where speaking openly is, well, fucking fun.

By the way, in the emails from a few kind folks, and the comments on the website I will no longer link, I gather referring to O’Malley in his zeal for tradition over shepherding his flock as being not unlike the Pharisees is a sin (or at least fighting words). I found this link, which touches on my intent. (By the way, I wasn’t criticizing church followers in my original thing, I was criticizing the leaders. It appears that quite a few people took it personally, but really O’Malley should be the one bitching me out, if anyone is.)

By the sound of it, the folks who wrote that aren’t followers of Rome and all, but I think it is nonetheless relevant. You see, the Catholic church has a history of scholarship and of adapting and making decisions within the context of the secular world. The current leadership and their antagonism of homosexuals, feminists and other non-traditional folks are putting their own rituals and traditions before what Jesus taught and what Peter wrote as the grandaddy of the popes. And, that is what I meant by comparing that group of hypocritical old men to the Pharisees. (As a sidenote, I compared behaviors, I didn’t directly call names. I was called names directly and personally. You see to me in civil discourse, you are allowed to negatively assess behavior, but name-calling is childish.)

And, so, if there are any of the lingering Catholic mob lurking here, I sign this with who I am a barbaric, unredemptive, woman of ill-repute and damn, fucking proud of it.

And, by the way, I thank the non-divine powers in the universe that I am not gay or dealing with any number of personal issues, and yet a believer all the same, trying to find comfort in the holy and apostolic church. It sounds as though right now, some of the leaders would begrudge a crust of bread, let alone succor and support.