Cut him a slice

In 2022, deputies from the Adams County, Ohio, sheriff’s department raided the home of Joseph Foreman, apparently looking for evidence related to kidnapping and drug trafficking. They found no such evidence and filed no charges against Foreman, a rapper with the stage name Afroman. But they did break in his door and cause other damage.

Adams County—population 28,000—is 97% white; Afroman is Black. I sort of feel these are relevant facts.

Afroman’s then-wife recorded the raid on video, which he has used in videos of his own. Let me just say that Adams County’s finest do not come off looking quite so fine, so of course seven of them sued him, claiming his videos, “Help Me Repair My Door” and “Lemon Pound Cake”, subjected them to ridicule, emotional distress and threats. They put the price of assuaging their feelings at $4M.

Afroman claimed his First Amendment right, along with artistic expression. He also pointed out in court earlier this week that the videos raised funds needed to repair the property damage the deputies caused. If they hadn’t barged into his house, he wouldn’t have needed to tell the story to make money.

Here’s a photo of him (by Paul Weeden/WCPO) testifying:

It took the jury a few hours (including electing a foreperson, ordering lunch and filling out the forms for all 13 counts) about half a day to rule in the rapper’s favor. His response: “We did it, America. Freedom of speech. It’s still for the people, by the people.”

So our earworm today is “Lemon Pound Cake”. ‘Nuff said.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Joe on the job

Unless you’re Italian or trying to sell a house, you may not be aware that today is Saint Joseph’s Day.

You remember Joseph? Husband of Mary? Taught Jesus everything he knew about carpentry and joinery?

Yeah, that’s the sad tale. Poor guy is always losing out: in the Nativity, it’s all the Madonna and the kid; in cursing it’s always Jesus-Mary-and-Joseph; in March it’s always Saint Patrick.

Joseph is the patron of, among others, the Church Universal, workers, families, engineers, the dying, Canada, confectioners, travelers, those in doubt, cabinetmakers, Korea and Vatican II. Also of house sellers and hunters, which should make him a pretty busy fellow these days.

Today is his official feast day—celebrated widely in Italian communities around the world with altars decorated with flowers, limes, candles, wine, breads, cookies, pastries and other symbols of the good life. This is of particular importance when you consider that Saint Joseph’s Day usually falls in Lent, when consumption is constricted.

(There’s another day, 1 May, dedicated to Saint Joseph the Worker; but that was invented in 1955 by Pope Pius XII to counter the godless communist/union/laborer May Day holiday, so you can fuggedaboutit.)

What I remember about Saint Joseph’s Day is that it’s when the swallows come back to Capistrano—that’s the Mission of San Juan Capistrano, in the eponymous town in Orange County, California. Turns out that the swallows usually show up a couple of days on one side or another of 19 March, but everyone turns a blind eye to those little discrepancies and enjoys the hell out of the miracle of the swallows.

There are decades of stories about how Saint Joe helps the desperate sell their homes: you bury a (plastic/stone/wooden) statue of the saint (head up/head/down/horizontal) in your (front/back/side) yard and Bob’s your uncle—the house is sold.

You can buy purpose-made statues for precisely this use from a variety of sources both on and off line, including from some realtors. Viz:

No clue as to how the saint may help home buyers, unless there’s some karmic connection that his statue in your yard attracts exactly the right buyers for this house.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Marching along

They say March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. I have to say that this time around I’m looking forward to the lamb. Or at least sticking to something—it’s been quite the yo-yo.

Viz: last week.

Monday and Tuesday was in the 70s; Wednesday we hit above 80°F in The People’s Republic. A couple of my neighbors had their AC on; I opened my patio door and was grateful for ceiling fans in all the rooms I used.

Thursday started out with rain, which then morphed into this:

Fortunately, it did not stick.

Monday of this week we were forecast a squall line that was said to include the prospect of tornadoes. Mercifully, we dodged them, but had a few bouts of exceptionally heavy rain.

Temperature was 63°F when I went on my morning walk, so I was not at all surprised when yesterday it was 30°F. But not without it's charms.

There may be a hurricane today, followed by a blizzard and a downpour of frogs and locusts. I mean—March, man.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Jingle jangle

As you know, I am of the opinion that Saint Patrick’s Day is largely an Irish-American construct—the kind of thing an under-appreciated minority puts on to cock a snook at the majority. After all, you don’t really need to celebrate being Irish in Ireland because you’re in, well, you know, Ireland. (Although about 30 years ago they wised up to the potential tourist bonanza it could be and have been raking in the readies ever since.)

You do need to celebrate it in a culture that looks down on you as a jumped-up ignorant bunch of dirt-encrusted, drink-swilling lowlifes who take orders directly from the Pope and lower property values wherever you go.

So not surprising that someone decided to declare Saint Patrick’s Day an occasion for pretending to be Irish by going pub crawling, drinking green beer and singing rebel songs.

Whatever.

I myself don’t venture into bars or taverns on Saint Patrick’s Day because I don’t like mixing with all those amateur drinkers. But I can still express the sentiment with a song or two. 

Here’s one of my all-time favorites, which goes well with a slurp of Cooper’s Croze—“The Auld Triangle”. Written by Dick Shannon in 1952, it became famous when it was featured in Brendan Behan’s 1956 play, The Quare Fella. The play is set in Dublin’s Montjoy Prison, where he was the guest of the Irish government in his youth and where a triangle signaled shifts in the prison’s daily routine.

I once walked along the Royal Canal, singing it to myself. As one does.

Here are The Dubliners singing it. Lift a glass for all enclosed by walls not of their choosing.

 

©2026 Bas Bleu

 

Gratitude Monday: One side of clouds

I try to be aware of my environment when I walk. I listen to the sounds around me and look side to side. Sometimes I remember to look up, too.

Yesterday morning, that’s when I saw this cloud activity, driven by wind high up that we earthbounders did not experience:

I’m grateful for that ephemeral beauty and that I caught it in transit.

 

 

©2026 Bas Bleu