Anything of import that happens is liable to get our full attention here on earth. It’ll be front and center in newspapers and on the cable channels, bandied about and discussed ad nauseum on social media. The talking heads will be uttering their mix of swill and wisdom, and many of us will either have our boxers in a bunch or be happy as pigs in shit.

But zooming out into the solar system and universe, all will be quiet, relatively speaking. None of what happens here, as far as we know, makes a hill of beans of difference in the larger scheme of things. For all we know, we’re isolated in the universe, screaming into the void, immersed in trivial pursuits, engaged in fruitless arguments, killing each other out of aggression or self-defense, or because our religious beliefs egg us on with threats of eternal damnation or promise of great reward; fighting stupidity and ignorance instead of pursuing cures and vaccines and inroads on suffering, all the while occasionally still doing something amazing for the benefit of humankind.

All of this in a massive solar system in a corner of an even more massive galaxy in a mind-blowingly enormous universe, where everything is expanding, and what happens here on Earth stays here on Earth. As far as we know.

Well, except for space probes and rockets, a relative handful of humans, and thousands of animals.

Rory McIlroy finally got his green jacket.

I watched the entire final round of The Masters golf tournament yesterday, all the way through to the clinching putt on the first playoff hole, and I must say it was riveting television. Rory was up by as many as four, then lost the lead, got it back, had a chance to win it on the 18^th hole in regulation but missed a par putt, then went back to the 18^th for the first playoff hole against Justin Rose and repeated the great drive, but had a much better approach shot that left him with maybe a 3 1/2-footer for birdie.

Rose missed his birdie attempt, Rory made his, and the pent-up emotion just poured out of him, right there on the green and all the way to Butler Cabin, in front of the masses gathered there and a world-wide television audience. It was a great moment—an athlete at the pinnacle of his sport, finally achieving what had been an elusive goal since early in his career. Pure catharsis, pure joy.

For a few shining moments, it made me forget about the spray-tanned dumpster fire that normally dominates the headlines.

I checked out the website of a local Lutheran church, in anticipation of maybe attending on Easter morning. This congregation is in transition. Again.

They recently had to say goodbye to a young, energetic pastor who had the almost inevitable opportunity to move on to greener pastures, but who they would have preferred to hang onto forever. Based on a couple of recently recorded services that I viewed, they are in retreat. Again.

It’s a sad thing to see, but often the way these things go. It might make one think that a vibrant, vital, viable congregation showing signs of life has little to do with the movement of the Spirit. It’s much more about the gifts and energy a person as Pastor brings to the table. When he or she is there, there is life. When he or she leaves, families either leave with him or her, or they look for a different congregation that can “provide what they’re looking for,” whatever that is. And the congregation with a vacancy withers for a while, until another leader comes along. Anymore, they could be waiting a long time for that to happen.

Congregations aren’t self-sustaining. Residual energy and dedicated lay leadership may help them for a while, but, by and large, as the Pastor goes, so goes a congregation.

Now I’m confused.

Bill Maher gets to have dinner with Trump, at the White House, under the auspices of détente, of bringing MAGA and us libtards together, and he tells us that the guy seems like a normal Joe. Not sure I’m gonna be able to properly process this, or move beyond the suspicion that Maher is simply being proactive.

He said he had several opportunities to give The Donald the what for during the course of his visit, and that Trump seemed to take it all in stride. But it’s really hard not to think that ol’ Bill was deceived, fed a line and feeding us one. It seems more likely that he was greasing the skids, putting in a good word for himself so Trump wouldn’t come after him after all the years of talking shit about him.

It has the ring of capitulation to it, of trying to save his own ass. If that’s the case, then things are worse than we thought.

Well, someone must be thinking that everything is going swimmingly—maybe Kevin Roberts, Stephen Miller, Russell Vought, J.D. Vance, John Kennedy and the rest of the yes-people in Congress?

Is there anything quite as skin-crawlingly awkward and repulsive as the obeisance and ass kissing that goes on at a Cabinet meeting or in a Fox News studio, where everyone gets their turn to praise Trump and stroke his ego before launching into their rosy reports of how great everything is going? What world are these people living in?

Trump and the rest of the Heritage Foundation foot soldiers are dismantling everything, and the sycophants have to dole out compliments, then, straight-faced and with gusto, tell the public that all is well, that the Stable Genius is two moves ahead and the world is beating a path to the negotiating table, in search of that good deal.

We have 1,379 days left of this disastrously amateur attempt at governance. If we’re lucky. What’s gonna be left?

China is roughly 16 times older than we are. Its culture goes back 4,000 years. We’re coming up on 250, maybe a bit older if we go back to the Mayflower or the first settlers in Florida or on the west coast. I suppose if we look at the indigenous cultures on this North American continent, then we might be in the same league or even older than China. Technically, the Peoples Republic of China wasn’t founded until 1949, so… And now we’re in the weeds.

Anyway, if Trump wants to go toe to toe with China, we don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of holding up, because Trump has no appreciation for history or civic pride or cultural heritage or sheer brain power. He doesn’t have the patience for diplomacy, for sitting at the table and hashing things out. He merely figures it’s all about the art of some deal, about talking tough and expecting everyone to bend the knee.

China’s not going to bend any knee. In fact, Xi and the rest probably look at Trump and the U.S. as unruly adolescents in need of a good talking to, in need of a good whoopin’. It seems unlikely that Trump is the one playing chess.

Ah, the downside of looking for cheap labor, coming home to roost. And the downside of having a clown sitting at the Resolute Desk.