Ah, June 16, 1904, when Leopold Bloom goes for his famous walkabout in Dublin.
Happy Bloomsday to you, Constant Reader.
To get us in the mood, here's a short reading from Chapter 12 of Ulysses by our friend James Joyce. I've posted a photo of the good man, and also one of the novel, in its earliest published version.
At 5 p.m., like Bloom himself, I will refuse another drink and light up a cigar, in honor of the Day.
But I digress:
And off with him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at five o'clock. Night he was near being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the bobby, 14 A. Blind to the world up in a shebeen in Bride street after closing time, fornicating with two shawls and a bully on guard, drinking porter out of teacups. And calling him a Frenchy for the shawls, Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic religion, and he was serving mass in Adam and Eve's when he was young with his eyes shut, who wrote the new testament, and the old testament, and hugging and smugging. And the two shawls killed with the laughing, picked his pockets, the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawls screeching laughing at one another. How is your testament? Have you got an old testament? Only Paddy was passing there, I tell you what. Then see him on Sunday with his little concubine of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the aisle of the chapel with her patent boots on, no less, and her violets, nice as pie, doing the little lady. Jack Mahoney's sister. And the old prostitute of a mother procuring rooms to street couples. Gob, Jack made him toe the line. Told him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the shite out of him.