A non-day...

...which is a hell of a thing to say on St Paddy's Day, isn't it?

I could have been out drinking green beer and tipsily singing "Danny Boy." Well, if I had staggered into a particular Irish bar in New York City, I wouldn't have done the latter: the bartender there decreed a ban on singing "Danny Boy" and got himself into the headlines for it.

I had two connections to the good saint's day. When I went out for my walk this morning -- four miles -- I noticed that the clerk at the Happy Hindu market was handing out stick-on sparkly shamrocks. She gave me one.

She looks Irish, anyway, something her boss, Singh, and his brothers, cousins and sons who work there definitely do not.

Not much later, the day plunged into the toilet.

I spent a fair amount of time scouring some websites that were recommended to me as having lots of job leads -- still doing what I do, but with luck covering different subjects for different clients -- and came away with eyestrain, but no leads. I appreciated the suggestion, and will return to the sites again, but the first foray was disappointing as hell.

After that, it was time to attempt some contacts via telephone. Again, no success. None of the people I was hunting are Irish, so should have been in their offices. No matter; they are unreachable on most days, anyway,

And of course the mailbox was empty.

There were a few moments of human contact. The first was photographer D., reporting that he had no luck getting hold of anyone we do, could or should work for. The other was my friend R., reporting on the weekend in Detroit. Talking to R. was, as always, a pleasure; D. just depressed me more.

The day flew by. Unproductively. I dislike that. When conditions are right, I love to work.

At the end of the day, when I was craving a good, stiff shot of (Irish) whiskey and a cigarette -- both of which I resisted, as I have since getting back here -- a neighbor knocked on the door. He had cooked an Irish dinner for his family, and brought me some: corned beef, boiled cabbage, potatoes and a cupcake with green icing. All served up on a green plastic plate.

Funny, he looks about as Irish as Barack O'bama. But he can cook anything. Deliciously.

I hope all you Emerald Isle types had a lovely day.

For me, it was another day I could easily have done without.

Oh, well. There's always tomorrow. And Wednesday.

Where's my leprechaun? I'm not greedy; not asking for the pot o' gold. Silver would do.