Well, Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you. It’s a lovely, green day here in wee Carp. Where the debris meets the sea and leprechauns run free. Just damp and dark enough for a good cable-knit sweater. I’m wearing the green, as we all may if we choose. The Irish people have been so integral to the founding and building of America, that maybe we’re all a little Irish. And I happen to be part Irish. I’m a mutt. And I’m a Christian and Patrick is one of the Saints.

So here I am, as from inside the monitor looking out, wearing the green today.

A fine specimen of a lad.

I don’t drink green beer, though. Point of fact, I haven’t had beer of any color in almost two years. It’s just so very fattening. And it does tend to fog the mind a bit. My mind needs all the clarity it can get.

St. Patty’s Day holds some grim memory for me. My very good friend and ex-roommate Mark died, at the age of 30, on March 17, 1995. Eleven years, hard to believe. I have some photos of him somewhere, though on apparently on this computer. I should find and scan them.

Mark was a good guy, an excellent friend. A calm and sincerely young man. I saw him get angry, but never mad. I knew him for over 10 years, and don’t think I ever knew him to raise his voice. When I was down, he was there. So if you’re out tonight, drinkin’ a bit of green Guinness, raise a glass to my friend.