December 30: Vogon Poetry, Three Wise Guys, Irving Berlin Kind of Night

Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe.  The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria . . . The very worst poetry of all perished with its creator, Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England, in the destruction of the planet Earth.

This is Douglas Adams' take on intergalactic poetry culture.  It ain't a pretty picture.

Greetings, loyal disciples!

I am home, in the midst of a New Year's Eve eve snowstorm.  It blew in this morning and is supposed to last until the wee hours of tomorrow morning.  Predicted accumulations range anywhere from eight inches to 15 inches.  I'll be honest--I was hoping for 2019 going out quietly, like melting snow.  Instead, it's putting up quite a fight.  I should have expected that.  This year has been anything but friendly and cooperative.  It's like that person who shows up early for a party you're throwing and then just stays and stays and stays, making racist jokes and inappropriate comments about your daughter until every other guest leaves is disgust or embarrassment.

This evening, I'm supposed to be doing a poetry reading at my home church.  A little something I cooked up at the beginning of Advent because I love Christmas and have never read at an event for my parish family.  Despite the snowstorm, the show will go on.  There will be food and different wines to sample.  Plus, some good friends of mine who just happen to be fabulous musicians and singers are going to perform, as well.  Out of all the things I've done this Christmas season, I think I've been looking forward to this night the most.  (I like to think my poetry wouldn't make Douglas Adams' list of the worst poetry in the Universe.  After a few glasses of wine, I may even sound pretty good.)

Now, some of you out there may think that Christmas is over at the stroke of midnight on December 25.  Not so.  In Christian denominations, Christmas ain't over until the three wise guys show up.  So, if Larry, Moe, and Curly aren't at the manger, then crank up a little Bing Crosby "White Christmas" on the tunebox and suck down some more eggnog.  'Cuz the Nativity narrative isn't quite done yet.

I am about to whip up some queso dip for tonight's poetry shindig at the rectory.  I have a bottle of wine chilling in the fridge.  It's going to be a good night, whether four people or forty people show up.  Poetry, good music, and lots of Christmas cheer.  The snow just adds to the ambiance.  Now if I could only get Santa Claus to make an appearance.

Saint Marty is having an Irving Berlin kind of night.