Erin Go Bragh

Ireland forever, or something, to which I mean happy St. Patrick’s Day to all who celebrate it (and I will just mention the looming Brexit no-deal, which, if played right, may actually lead to a United Ireland, even if this isn’t quite what the Brexiteers planned!) . Before seeing extended Familia TD (not really; TD Mom and TD Siblings, along with three of the TD nieces, as part of an ongoing celebration of TD Mom reaching four score), I ran (if you can call it that) this year’s edition of the NYC Half [marathon], a new iteration of the two borough course, commencing in Vaux and Olmstead’s Prospect Park, rolling over Flatbush Ave. to the Manhattan Bridge, over the FDR Drive, across 42nd Street to… Vaux and Olmstead’s Central Park. At my two score sixteen in age and 13 stone 8 or so in weight, I am in no position to be upset with anything under three hours, even just under three hours, and so… there you are.
My lofty athletic new year’s resolution (a world record in rowing on an ergometer machine) is not on track, as, for one thing, I haven’t lost any weight and certainly want to compete as a lightweight (165 lbs.) Perhaps the near end of winter will help? Of course, the UN tells us that we may lose all winter pretty soon, or, at least, the Arctic is fucked. So, you know, we picked a perfect time to allow capitalism to ply us with pharmaceuticals so we would peculiarly stupid and irrational and prone not to be cooperative (that, and thanks to that Australian psychopath who gave us a certain cable network… you know who you are), at the precise moment that bold, decisive thinking is required. The powers that be have instead decided to medicate and distract us with bouncing electrons and easily sharable cat pictures.
On my gardening project, I may be a week or two from sowing some seeds, and perhaps three or four from supplementing with farmer’s market seedlings. Not sure how good I’ll be about documenting this; a regular issue. But given the gestalt of our era (i.e. a government committed quite literally to poisoning us), you might want to consider what limited measures you can, even if it’s a postage size organic roof kitchen garden and doing your own cooking with organic or at least friendly farm ingredients.
I can say, at least, that my friend Donald J. Putin has hit about 25,000 words of his masterwork essay, “Donald J. Putin on American Exceptionalism.” Ordering information will be available… when it’s available. The GTMO thing will be back-burnered a bit. Of course, there was some fear that newspaper consolidation would cost us the premier main stream newspaper journalist on the GTMO beat, but it seems that Carol Rosenberg has joined the Grey Lady; good on both of ya. Candace documents the latest shit-show: blocking staff from the International Criminal Court from entering this country. Sigh.
As usual, we have an atrocity to talk about, in this case, the murder of 50 people in mosques in Christchurch, New Zealand by a self-styled White supremacist who tells us he is a supporter of Donald Trump. As my friend Donald Putin would say, “entirely unsuspicious.”
And so here we are. Twenty-two months left of the Orange Shit Show (I assume that even the drug addled and sadly, not very bright American people will leave it at that; perhaps a mistake on my part.) Enjoy the remainder of your St. Patrick’s Day responsibly. This has been… Erin Go Bragh.