I woke up in Siberia this morning. Okay, it’s really Toronto, but, try and convince me otherwise. A bleak din hovers over lifeless trees. Sub-zero air blasts your senses. Streets so thick with ice causes cars to crash. How the hell am I going to get to the Disco Bowlerama tonight? I need to be mindless. To do something fun-bordering-on-silly. Swirling lights, 70’s music, and a heavy ball I can smash things with. 

Let us pray.

Dear Lord, let Richard, Claire, Trish and me get there safely so we can escape this humorless, joyless winter. Let us share the what-am-I-crazy ritual of putting on ugly, smelly shoes that reek of enough disinfectant to kill a moose. Let us choose bowling balls that don’t fit our fingers. Take turns throwing our backs out, challenging our tendonitis, pretending that the pins at the end of the alley are our bills that need to be paid, politicians that need to be replaced, a collective consciousness that needs to be woken up. Let pins fly. Lies shatter. Skies turn blue. Water turn clean. The earth turn green. Give us the strength to win the trophy of an intelligent, loving, caring world. Let all the children … What? What’d you say? You’re busy tonight?!

Wait a minute. I’m sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. Change your plans. Guide our bowling balls for a better world. Let the disco lights be Your Light. Come on, Lord, hang with us. The place is licensed, we’ll have a ball. Balls.

P.S. And while you’re at it, help Claire get back on stage where she belongs. You know how talented she is. She was in the original production of Cats. Okay, it was Katz, the Jewish version. Kosher kittens who sang verses from the Zohar.

Help Richard find a man who will adore him.

Give Trish the Supreme recipe for happiness.

And, let me have at least one decent night’s sleep.

Thank you, Lord.

We’re meeting at 7:00. Be there!

Amen.