The Stranger's Morning News Roundup by Marcus Harrison Green Happy first day of Kwanzaa! (If you don’t already know, let Michael B. Jordan and Elmo tell you all about it.) Here’s hoping everyone’s X-mas holiday was safe, full of holly, and at least one moment that reminded you why not all of us need to be around our families all the time. Let’s rip the band-aid off the gaping nightmare national news cycle first. Exporting the War on Christmas: On Christmas Eve, Trump ordered U.S. missile strikes on alleged Islamic State-linked militants in northwestern Nigeria's Sokoto State, framed as payback for killing "innocent Christians"—a religious-persecution storyline that plays better in US politics than it does in Nigeria. Sokoto sits in the country's Muslim-majority northwest, and as Al Jazeera's Ahmed Idris noted, it's "probably the last place many Nigerians would think" an alleged Christian genocide is happening. US Africa Command initially suggested Nigeria requested the strike, then walked it back. Nigeria called it "ongoing security coordination"—bureaucratic fog that can mean whatever you need it to. So maybe counterterrorism. Maybe a culture-war headline delivered by missile, timed for the holiday. Maybe both. Either way, Nigeria gets flattened into a backdrop for an American story: The War on Christmas goes global. Another atmospheric river slammed Southern California over Christmas, killing at least three people. Roads became rivers. Trees came down. Floodwater submerged cars and tore through neighborhoods. Los Angeles County officials urged residents near recent burn scars to brace for debris flows and mudslides—the kind of rain that doesn't just fill reservoirs, it strips hillsides bare. California isn't "the rainy state" the way Washington is. It's becoming the state of sudden, violent deluges: storms that blow through like a firehose, destroy what's in front of them, then disappear—leaving floods, wreckage, and a climate that only works in extremes. A Ballroom Fit for a Lawsuit: On January 8, the White House will present plans to the National Capital Planning Commission for Trump's proposed 90,000-square-foot East Wing ballroom—a project Reuters pegs at around $400 million that’s already facing lawsuits and preservationist fury after the East Wing was quietly demolished in October. Oversight is flexible: the commission has sidestepped reviewing key parts of the project, including historic-impact questions, even as it barrels ahead. A fuller public process has been pushed to later—which is to say, after the decisions are made. What $400 million buys remains to be seen, but if Trump's taste is any guide: expect gold fixtures, gold signage, and enough self-portraits to fill a small museum. Someone in Arkansas is flush with Christmas cash after winning the $1.817 billion Powerball on Christmas Eve, ending a three-month lottery dry spell and instantly becoming capitalism’s chosen one. A surge of last-minute, “sure, why not” ticket buying pushed it into the second-largest jackpot in U.S. history, with an $834.9 million cash option for anyone who prefers instant wealth, zero patience, and maximum chaos. The win snapped 46 straight drawings with no jackpot, proving once again that hope is a renewable resource and odds are merely a suggestion. Congratulations to our winner, who beat 292 million to one odds, while the rest of us chipped in $2 a ticket to fund public services we refuse to tax the rich for. Now buckle up for the emotional whiplash of some mostly hopeful local news. Emphasis on mostly. West Seattle’s only overnight homeless shelter might shut its doors at the end of the year because, brace yourself, we live in a society that can’t reliably scrape together enough money to keep 36 people from sleeping outside. The volunteer-run Westside Neighbors Shelter has been feeding about 80 people a day for six years and, during winter, offers the only overnight option in the area, but a 40 percent drop in donations has pushed it to the brink. It costs roughly $6,000 a week to keep the overnight shelter open, most of that for city-mandated security. If it closes, people don’t magically disappear; they just reappear in parks and on sidewalks, which somehow everyone agrees is worse but keeps choosing to do nothing about. Love, Served Hot: While the rest of us were negotiating family trauma over the dinner table, Nana’s Southern Kitchen in Kent epitomized the season of giving. For the sixth straight year, the Minor family (four generations deep, plus volunteers) served up nearly 1,000 free plates of soul food on Christmas Day: no questions, no judgment, just “you hungry?” Fried chicken, catfish, pork chops, mac and cheese, the works, flowed to long lines of cars because feeding people turns out to be more urgent than pretending scarcity is natural. The tradition honors the legacy of the restaurant’s namesake, Nana, who believed in showing love and hospitality through food, especially for those in need. Who doesn’t love a little holiday joyriding? Though preferably not involving assault and a stolen police cruiser. A suspect is in custody after shoving a Washington State Patrol lieutenant to the ground and stealing her patrol car near Northgate. The lieutenant had responded to reports of someone running across I-5, at which point the suspect apparently decided chaos, violence, and grand theft auto were the vibe. Troopers, with help from Seattle police, chased the stolen cruiser south until it was stopped in Lynnwood, and somehow, miraculously, no one was injured, suggesting the universe briefly clocked in and did its job. Last Call, for the Last Roadhouse: After 64 years of pouring beers, booking bands, and holding court at the edge of Lake City Way, Seattle’s Shanty Tavern, the so-called last roadhouse, served its final round. On its closing night, the 94-year-old owner John Spaccarotelli, aka the patron saint of cold beer and dirty jokes, presided over a packed dance floor, a brass band going full throttle, and a roomful of people saying goodbye to a version of Seattle that keeps getting priced out. Regulars, family, and musicians mourned not just a bar, but a disappearing kind of place, one where community wasn’t a branding exercise, and everyone had a stool. Make no mistake: an era clocked out at last call. Life Finds A Way: Elsa, a prematurely born miniature donkey, began life literally freezing in a Monroe barn, and somehow survived thanks to frantic humans, a hair dryer, and sheer spite for the odds. After losing her mother and then nearly losing her life to a horrific leg infection, her humans were handed the most American choice imaginable: euthanasia or radical, borderline-miraculous medical intervention. Cue Washington State University veterinarians saying “absolutely not today,” amputating her leg, and fitting her with a custom prosthetic. It proved yet again that when people actually try, miracles look suspiciously like competence. ...read more read less