Before I return to our regular food-based nonsense, some serious business must take place. I had refrained from writing about this since Monday, simply because I didn't want to glom onto a piece of news that is not really mine, but I'd be fooling no one if I didn't admit that this has been on my mind all week, running below the surface of LuthorCorp business, egg research, writing in general, life in general. Last Monday a former employee of a nail enamel factory in Newburgh, New York, fired in 2004 after child pornography was found on his office computer, walked into the factory, shot three people (the two owners and the office manager) in the head and turned the gun on himself. The owners are in hospital, recovering. The office manager died on Friday. This nail enamel factory is one of my Boss Lady's accounts, or rather, a consignee of her major account; we are on the phone with one of their purchasing agents at least twice a week. I had not realized until the day after the shooting that the office manager also ran the reception desk, and that the Joanne mentioned in the article was the same Joanne who answered our phone calls with grace and cheer before putting us through to the purchasing agents. I didn't know much about her beyond her cheerful phone voice; I just know that on Monday, September 26, she went to work as she did every Monday morning, not having any idea that she wouldn't be coming home at the end of the day. I'm not going to repeat the old chestnut of the shocked, "this sort of thing doesn't happen here," because if there is one thing we've learned, particularly over the past 15 years, it's that this sort of thing happens everywhere, even in nail enamel factories in sleepy little upstate New York towns. In light of a sadness of which I can't make sense, it seems a bit cavalier, even cruel, to switch abruptly from terrible news to glad, but it's the only way I can think of to fight back against the void, to celebrate good fortune in the face of a meanspirited universe, the kind that would allow the good and kind to die in insensible ways. The universe can be meanspirited, but it can be generous too: Witness my father, who has just emerged from his second hip surgery with a second bionic hip and his trademark chomping at the bit to get out of bed and go back to work. Witness my friends C and K, the parents of a brand-new son with a sweet disposition and the coolest name in the world. (In the interest of maintaining C and K's anonymity, I will not reveal said coolest name in the world, but trust me, it's very cool indeed.) Witness also the beautiful and talented mercuryfern, who will soon begin working at a job that, while admittedly not her bliss, will help propel her into the brilliant future that awaits her. And witness also orionoir, one of my dearest friends and a believer in the egg book from day one, who received the news that we had been hoping he would receive on Friday. Being of no fixed religious abode, I am not one for prayer (although I respect those who are, and recognize the significance prayer has in their lives). I am, however, one for song, and I find myself singing "What Goes On" by the Velvet Underground a lot. It may not change the universe, or destiny; it may only be a crutch, or a psychological sop. It does, however, make me stand a little straighter, walk a little faster, to hope for a better world for the people I love while thinking let it be good, do what you should, you know it'll work all right.
Fern, what I said before, I say again, times a zillion. When are you coming back to New York?
‘mouse, love, I think that’s the first time in my life anyone has ever used the word “manic” in relation to me. In general I tend to move kinda slow at the junction. But I do tend to switch gears rapidly, which can confuse—and irk—those unfortunate enough to be in conversation with me. 
You’re right; shit does just happen, and there’s not much we can do about it. I spent the better part of last week in a stubborn “but *why* must shit happen?” torpor, and in the end, I decided that the only way to beat it was to write about it. I am the first to admit that it was not PTMYB’s finest hour, but if I hadn’t written it, I’d probably still be sitting in the lumpy uncomfortable chair, not answering my e-mail or talking to Lloyd or doing much of anything. I know that I promised once upon a time that I would not use this space for therapy or navel-gazing. Umm, oops. Can I get a do-over? 
I read this earlier today and couldn’t get over its manic duality long enough to comment.
I still don’t have anything too coherant to add. It seems shit just happens. Good shit. Bad shit. All we can do is show up and do what we can to minimize the bad and increase the good.