Blessed be

This came across my Facebook feed yesterday, so I’m sharing it with you. “Ein Keloheinu” is a Hebrew prayer. The title translates to “There is none like our God” (I’m told) and is typically chanted at the end of Shabbat morning services.

I do not know what the usual melody is for this, but last week Cantor Azi Schwartz at Park Avenue Synagogue recast it to Harry Belafonte’s “Banana Boat Song”, in tribute to the iconic singer/actor/human rights activist who died last month at age 96. This is absolute gold.

May his memory be a blessing.

 

 

And it was only Tuesday

Well, well, well—Captain Capslock liable (to the tune of $5M) for sexual abuse and defamation and George Santos charged with 13 felony counts of wire fraud, unlawful monetary transactions, money laundering, theft of public money and making false (financial) statements to Congress.

Here—have some photos of rhododendron flowers.

 

Filtered light

Sometimes in the morning at the office, the blinds at one window vibrate. I don’t know why—there doesn’t seem to be anything different about them from the windows/blinds on either side, but it makes a flickering pattern on the floor.

There are HVAC vents next to all the windows; maybe the one in front of this window works overtime.

 

Growing things

I decided to make cole slaw the other day, so I pulled out some red cabbage from the fridge.

 

I think it may have been there a while.

 

 

Gratitude Monday: king at last

Well, the multi-million pound coronation is at last in our rearview mirror. Charles—who’s actually been king since last September, although he’s chafed for the job for at least 30 years—has had what is essentially every bridezilla’s dream day. Nothing like parking your butt over the Stone of Destiny wrapped in dead stoat skins and dripping in bling being broadcast to an audience of billions to one-up the Kardashians. There were no leaky pens and, therefore, no visible tantrums. Master level success! Quiche and fizz all around.

Britons will be spending today’s holiday cleaning up all the detritus—I rather imagine the streets of central London are like Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena the afternoon of 1 January in terms of trash pickup. Though maybe no ladders and sofas to be hauled away. The rest of the country—well, maybe just England and parts of Ulster; I’m not really picturing Scotland or Wales being much fussed with the thing—has to pull down the bunting and put out the little Union Jacks for rubbish collection. Maybe dump the remains of the coronation quiche down the garbage disposal, cuz that recipe was whack.

Anti-monarchy protesters—who were arrested by the Metropolitan Police before they even really hit the streets, because Tories don’t hold with no dissent in any form; not the done thing, don’t you know—may be making bail and returning to the multiple jobs they probably need to hold down just to keep up with raging inflation. Along with tens of thousands of their fellow subjects, including staff of the National Health Service, public transport workers, teachers and others who’ve been told that they need to accept the fact that they’re just going to be poorer for the foreseeable future. Hey-ho.

The rest of the world just carries on. For example, in Texas, they marked the occasion in the traditional Texas way with another mass shooting, nine dead (including the gunman) at a suburban Dallas outlet mall. We all have our customs.

Well, Bas Bleu, you ask—why write about the coronation on Gratitude Monday when you don’t seem to care that much for it?

Well, dear reader, I’ll tell you: because I reckon we’ve got one more week of analyzing this event every which way possible and then it will well and truly disappear from the news cycle. That is something to be grateful for.

Texas, though—damn.