Sinterklaas Eve. Dutch tradition. December 5th. Putting carrots out for Sint Niklaas so he will fill the wooden shoes with candy for the children. No chimneys involved. Nor toys. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could leave it at that? Done! Kids can get toys & games all year long now anyway. On Amazon. Not only is bricks & mortar retail on its last gasp. So soon is consumer Christmas! Back to families, carols & food. Yay.
Larry David & Lin Manuel Miranda’s Fatwa! the Musical. Please. Broadway!
btw Deutsche Bank isn’t Dutch.
Earthquakes. Mexico. Check. Superstorms. Puerto Rico. Caribe. Florida. Check. World War 3. Iran. North Korea. Check. According to a Christian numerologist, this coming Saturday, September 23 the world will end. Biblical signs sure are lined up. Exoplanets newly discovered may go rogue. Nostradamus nothwithstanding. Won’t plan on going to book club next week.
Again. Brothers at the center of terrorist attack. This time Belgium. It started with the Tsarnaev sibs of the Boston Marathon massacre. The Chechen Brothers KaramazOff. Disaffected young men ostracized and marginalized in their adopted or native land. Attracted by a global gang of thugs to mount revenge in the name of religion but with no real devotion to it.
So. It we take Cruz and Trump to their logical conclusions. Arrest all swarthy young brothers. Just to be safe.
What happened to Sunday? It used to be devoted to going to Church. Gathering to pray in the local house of worship. Today, Americans of all denominations can be seen genuflecting in front of the big screen and the NFL. Football has kidnapped a whole day of the week. Klieg lights illuminate gigantic stadiums as altar candles flicker out.
Families gather around a communion bowl of Doritos in fervent prayer for their team to prevail. Players themselves raise their eyes toward the Lord in praise and thanks. Devoted dance. God must love them more than the Broncos, Seahawks or Colts. On any given Sunday. Faith is powerful. So is our quarterback.
Okay. I’ve been resurrected from my Pope Francis stupor. Reality has set in. Yes. There were lots of men in dresses with purple sashes. And nuns serving as sister wives. I get it. It’s an anachronistic patriarchal cult. Anchor-pundits tried to narrate about what they had no clue, then were more swept away day by day. Even as a long lapsed Catholic, I still love the guy.
Then. Central Park Festival dovetails with Papal message. Bey. Ond. Say. First Lady Michelle. Bono. Malala. Back to Seattle’s Pearl Jam. Whoa. Tomorrow season finale of Ray Donovan. Best show.
Francisco is the coolest most authentic person. A joyful warrior for mercy. Siempre adelante! Kinda like Kasich. Evangelicals deride the Pope’s stands on climate change and income inequality. Their hate for Muslims and illegal immigrants Trumps their love for Jesus. Interesting times.
What happens when you fly West to escape oncoming Pope cluster in Manhattan? You run into Chinese President Xi at your Seattle hotel.