Marriage license kiosk opens up at Vegas airport in time for Valentine’s Day

You need energy to busk. You need to get up and get out there.

The sidewalk is the busker’s home, his neighborhood, his city, his world.

Or hers, until English gets a non-gender pronoun other than “it.”

Some think that buskers are only about sidewalk entertainment. Not so. Buskers are about life. Busking is meant to be a full-service endeavour.

I do not seek to entertain. I am of the clergy. My purpose is to conduct religious worship and perform other spiritual functions associated with beliefs and practices of religious faith. To provide spiritual and moral guidance and assistance to members of the community.

And yes, to marry couples. Singing and dancing (by me) included.

That’s my biretta on the curb there.

Be advised that I only marry couples, one born male, one born female. If you were born on the spectrum, I have a cassock you can shroud yourself in while I take a peek and check to see what’s what.

You’ll need a license. No license buskers out today. There are kiosks at the airport, in all the major casinos, and at all Chevron stations. The slots at most churches can also be set to pay out in marriage licenses.

Part of your vows must include a pledge not to use the divorce-lawyer buskers you see over there. God loves all his children but those guys piss Him off. Once you’re hitched, stay hitched. For the children’s sake. And while I’m thinking about it, don’t patronize the condom buskers either.

During the wedding liturgy, I’ll be performing “In Christ Alone,” “Make Me a Channel of Your Peace,” and “On Eagle’s Wings.”

Please take a number and step to the end of the line.

Pax vobiscum.

The Spice That Hooked Medieval Nuns

(The Atlantic)

Hang on, Atlantic. There is a big difference between having a habit and being hooked.

The medieval nuns had habits and the habits were boring affairs. Monochromatic. Itchy.

Don’t get me wrong. Living in a secure nunnery was vastly preferable to being stuck outside its walls, where life was nasty, brutish, and short, to coin a phrase. In the nunnery, the sisters made due with less: less mud, fewer fleas, and zero monks. Still, they could have done with something more, or so they told themselves. More less but also a little bit more more.

That’s when the wimple was invented, to spice up their habits. Each nun made herself two wimpli, one for the six quiet days and one for Sunday. In countries where the everpresent mud could be made to extract a dye, wimpli would be found of varying hues (they started out white but had to be washed in muddy water).

The monks answered with the invention of the cowl, but cowli just made the monks creepier than before. Why spend so much time on your tonsure if it were only to be covered with a hood? Nobody trusted a monk in a hoodie. In some neighborhoods, it was worth your life to beg for alms (or peanuts), especially if your robes were black.

Today, some nuns take their wimpli for granted. They want yet more. Some are wearing hats.