Let’s just all declare ourselves popes and have done with it.

Children, NaBloPoMo! Children! On stage! Under tables! In antique wicker wheelchairs! CHILDREN EVERYWHERE!

(The TW education program is visiting. So yeah, a bunch of itty-bitties sitting in a line, watching raptly while everyone dances and does Indian chants. I maybe cannot stop smiling. Everything is adorable and great.)

(You guys. I love this show. I love this show I love this show so much. The ending is guaranteed to make me cry, 100% of the time. Also, we did the finale of Into the Woods last night, and it turns out it is impossible for me to not get a little teary when I’m singing to the Baker, so it looks like I am going to be weeping nonstop for the rest of the year. YOU’RE GOING OUT THE SAME WAY YOU CAME IN, 2011.)

I wandered around outside Ralston Mansion for a bit after my vocal coaching yesterday. It was just rainy enough to be atmospheric rather than inconvenient, and I ended up finding a little grotto sort of hidden back near what I assume was the property’s carriage house. The stone sign below the statue of Mary promised me “one hundred days indulgence for every visit to this grotto,” as decreed by someone whose name I couldn’t make out beyond “his holiness” and what I think was the Roman numeral for 13. A quick Google of those terms together brings me to Lucian Pulvermacher, who was declared Pope Pius XIII by a small group calling themselves the “True Catholic Church” who operated without the authorization of the Holy See. So. I guess a benediction from him is about as useful and/or valid as a royal pardon from Emperor Norton. Thanks for nothing, fake Pope. THANKS FOR NOTHING.


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