Sing It, Clowns

La commedia e finita. -- the last line of Pagliacci, when everyone is dead, or as good as.

For the moment, that is all that should be said about the historically historic election in history that is almost upon us.

And what is "finished" is not merely the illusion of participatory democracy (you actually believed that shit, dinnit ya? I did too, when I was much stupider), but the United States in anything remotely approaching the form in which you had ever believed it to exist. It's over, done, kaput -- finita, baby.

And not so by the way: this is especially addressed to all those -- on the right, the left, and anywhere else -- who continue to desperately cling to the fantasy that the U.S. might yet be "reformed" or "saved." Part of the genius of "the system" (and this form of genius is hardly restricted to the U.S.; study some history when you're killing time someday) is that it's set up precisely to make "reformation" and "salvation" impossible. The system was set on a course for this end from the very beginning, and that course was made irreversible beginning a hundred years ago. The system finally eats itself entirely, and then it's done.

I'm telling ya, sweetheart: history. So I repeat:

Sing it, clowns.

Also not by the way: this is not at all to say you should give up hope for your personal future, or surrender the desire for happiness and fulfillment. The problem for most people is that they place hope in all the wrong things, and look for happiness and fulfillment in all the wrong places.

There are some observations to be made about this latest charade in the ongoing disintegration of the horror show known as the United States. Without any exception that I have yet identified, none of those observations are related to what has exclusively consumed the attention of virtually everyone who has commented on the fun 'n frolic scheduled for Tuesday next. So I'll have a few things to say once the festivities have concluded.

I admit that I'm somewhat curious to see exactly what happens next week -- in much the same manner that I was somewhat curious to see exactly how the Titanic sank in that execrable James Cameron film (he sure loves him some execrable films, Jimmy does; that discussion of Avatar also contains lots of Obama-bashing, so you needn't fear political withdrawal). The details of how the wreck goes down can hold a certain clinical interest.

I'm still feeling exceptionally lousy, and this has been a very bad, occasionally scary week health-wise. Well, true of every week now. I continue to gather whatever strength I can muster, which isn't much these days. And I have been planning some essays, including one particular group of essays that I dearly hope to get through in the next month or two. (I've been thinking about these essays for over a year now.)

So I hope to start some of that in earnest next week. Meanwhile, one more time:

Sing out, baby!

(And for any smartypants out there: don't get all idiotically pedantic and literal on my ass and point out that Canio doesn't actually sing the last line, but speaks it. It's from an opera, fer crissakes, so literary license, etc. You're entirely welcome to do lots of other things on my ass, but not that. :>))