Back, you green devils!

Well, it's that F'ing day. One of the counselors here passed out green carnations, about 30 people are talking about drinking over the morning break, and Goathead is either

a) drunk

or

b) still asleep

But really it's not St. Pat's day; it's St. Tim's day! Because at noon I'm walking out of here forever. Gone are my prestigious lunch dates with the governor, my gilt invitations to state fundraisers, my unchecked use of the state's concubine pool.

Monday I'm going to see how late I can sleep in, and then Tuesday I'm going to try to beat that record.

Dave, it's true, a proper hobo party can't be had without the Hobo King. But we'll have to appoint new hobofficials; Duke of the Hobos, or Madame Trashheap.

If you want to find me this afternoon: My lovely and old, old assistant would like to watch the parade or go get stereotypical with some green beer at noon, and then I'm meeting Sarah for lunch at one, and then finding Goathead, I imagine . . . I'll be downtown till around six, and I'll have my phone starting at one. Anyone's welcome to join me and Sarah—we'll be meeting at the hub in the skywalk.

Mostly I'm thinking of Kevin, as he mentioned being around…but I don't know when.

Adieu!