The other day I drove past a church sign that said: What’s missing from CH__CH? UR. I keep thinking about all the interesting dots that connect this pun to a crucified man. I’ve also been contemplating my hardwired need for stimulation. Maybe it’s a law of the universe. After all, how else does an organism know it’s alive? But my craving for headlines, entertainment, and controversy needs to be unwound.
I made a vow to be better. Then I flipped on the last night of the Republican Convention while I cooked a frozen pizza. Somebody from the Ultimate Fighting Championship was singing the president’s praises because this is American now. He said, “The president recognizes the best way to restore normalcy to people’s lives is to bring back entertainment options.”
And this president slouched over a podium on the South Lawn of the White House. He slurred, perspired, and trashed his enemies as he degraded the White House, transforming it into a chintzy prop for a television demagogue. And he made it clear he intends to stay. “It’s not just a house,” he said. “It’s a home.” Fireworks spelled his name in the sky. Outside the perimeter, protestors held an illuminated sign: Trump lied. 180,000 died.
