St. Paddy's Day

Well well well. Here's to the Irish in ya! Hoist yer glass and kiss yer ass but never kiss an Englishman!
It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting at my desk wearing a 3' green and silver hat that Madeleina put on me. She wanted some Irish green stuff today and that included this hat, some bling with a "pot of gold" hanging from it, chocolate covered cupcakes with green frosting and a few other things. We also bought Yellow Roses Friday to celebrate Chepa's 40th and tulips because the goats ate the tulips we have growing annually.
I'm hating the big goat. No secret. I try to be a nice guy but in my world there can be as many capo de tuti capos as you want (heck, I'm from Whitestone, Queens, New York where all five mob families had not only capos but consiglieres and tons of soldiers). BUTTTTTTTT, I can't have a goat that weighs 120 pounds with balls bigger than my head who thinks he's the only capo de tuti capo. Head of the heads. Big shot. I hate that freaking goat. He makes it impossible to go to the garage and play pool. Or ping pong, or foosball, or work out on the speed bag or heavy bag...or just lay back, turn on the 500 watts of receiver and blast your ask off to Bruce Springstein or the new Bob Dylan, which actually rocks pretty good.
Anyway, I've got a new cover story out, and a new food review. I've done a new news feature and new columns for two different mags. I've got my tickets for Peru for three weeks at the end of April. And I've got this crazy hat on.
Just today me and Madeleina bought a new carpet--machine, not hand stitched, as I've spent weeks in the stitching mills in India and Morocco and can't really condone that crippling work. And we've got three new pieces of artwork that would blow your minds--thank you former guests in the Amazon--and one or two repaired pieces.
And Chepa left yesterday with her boyfriend for Indiana for a month with his and her new babies and she's called 5 times since then asking forgiveness of Madeleina, Marco and Italo. And her friend Monica just remarried her first husband after she ran out of the million dollars he gave her--married like this week in Peru--and my son Marco just got promoted to Manager of produce or groceries at the local Brookshires and now earns $13 an hour, a respectable wage for a 19-year-old (and much more than I, a famous journalist ever makes these days) and I only wish he can learn to stock the laundry here the way he can evidently stock groceries.
And the dogs are going crazy and the goats ate the rooster's tail feathers till he jumped the fence and became the property of the neighbors. But the gods are okay and the birds are okay and the kids are okay so I'm just reportin' not bitching.
And I've got a good trip coming up into the jungle in about 6 weeks and a cover story at fwweekly.com this week and a news feature at the same place next week, and a food review the week after that and then another cover story on the Last Cowboys in Cowtown, now that Fort Worth is losing all its real ranches and then a couple of columns to my mags and I'm out of here.
And in case any of you wonder how other people view me, you might look at the May issue of Men's Journal, which has a feature on a recent trip of mine. I have no idea what the wrtiter will say but take a look at least.
And remember that I'm thinking of you. Your lives were full before I entered them and you've made some time for me. So Thanks. That's important to me.
So we're all okay here, even if not on solid ground. And I hope you're all okay too. Let me know.
I'm serious,
Peter G
PS: I'll be putting on a corned beef around 10 AM tomorrow. I'll put in the cabbage at noon and the potatoes at 2 PM. I'll be serving at 6 PM, with good mustard if any of you are hungry. It's the best stinking meal of the year. Thank you, god, white light, angels, dead cows and cabbages.....
Peter G