Trumpkin.
When did The New York Times add a Dire Portents section?
This morning, Mother Times hit me with this:
“During the early hours on Tuesday, darkness will slip across the face of the moon before it turns a deep blood red. No, it isn’t an Election Day omen — it’s one of the most eye-catching sights in the night sky.”
Not an omen. Ho ho ho, etc. As if. Fake news!
Then why was the moon a decadent orange during the early hours of this morning as it slipped behind a neighbor’s house?
And why were there Trumpkins scattered along my hiking route this afternoon? I saw at least three, among them the one leering at you from the top of this post.
And finally, why is KUNM bitch-slapping me with “Here Comes the Night?” right this minute? And not the good one, by Them, but some two-bit tosser’s take on the 1964 classic (featuring Van Morrison).
“Well, here it comes … here comes the night.”
So soon? I’m not ready for the night. What else you got, Ma?
“How to Follow the News Without Spiraling into Despair?”
How quintessentially capitalistic of you, Ma. Sell me the disease with one hand and the treatment with the other. A mindfulness methadone clinic for the hopeless news addict. This morning’s shaman is this afternoon’s snake-oil salesman.
Here comes the night? Got a news flash for ya, Ma. It’s already here.
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