I don’t know why I’m mentioning this now, but it’s on my mind and I feel a strange need to talk about it.

“Hey, get yourself a therapist, buddy!”

“Thanks, pal. You’re here on a two-for-one, aren’t you? Would the hostess make sure Mr. Plaid Suit and his date hit the two-drink minimum?”

Sorry, stand-up, especially that of the uncompensated variety, is an ugly business. The memories linger.

Anyway, not long ago I blogged a few times about having been mugged in Center City, Philadelphia in which I mentioned by minor injuries, including a nasty gash on my left palm, on which for some reason I still carry a noticeable dark red impression of sorts, and my minor material losses.

I didn’t mention, either here or in private conversations or correspondence, two things I lost during the crime, two things brutally ripped off my neck, two things that meant a great deal to me, more than almost everythin I own: two religious medallions, each on its own chain, namely, a sterling sliver Miraculous Medal and a sterling silver Celtic cross.

I guess I could have, should have, mentioned this earlier, but losing the Celtic cross hurt too badly. My mother, who is Irish-American, bought it for me, in Ireland, on her very first trip there, finally, in July 2002, at age 69. I suppose I felt stupid and ashamed and irresponsible.

Why this bothers me more now than before, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the approach of Holy Week. Maybe I’m still coping with the entire experience. Why do people steal things like that? I mean, what did he get for them? A dollar? Regardless, I’m really sorry, Mom.