Chattanooga Pulse

Allow me to say first that, despite anonymous urging, I am not ready to write about That Thing just yet. Despite all the public and private correspondence, I was too close to It, too enraged by It to write about It when It occurred, but it has since been nearly adjudicated, and I am in fact nearly ready.  And still quite upset.  As you well know by now, however, I never write when I am upset.  And thus It waits for at least another week.

So given the calendar date, you probably expect me to talk about Saint Patrick’s Day:   The second-most celebrated holiday in all of Drunkendom for debauchery and hedonism, after New Years Eve; a night in which every man feels he is just Irish enough to pop his wife in the eye after a long night of drunk driving, and every wife feels she is just Irish enough to do…whatever it is Irish women do outside of working as prostitutes and washing laundry in troughs as depicted in cinema set in the 16th to 18th centuries.  (I live in the Southeastern United States and have seen no other more »