When I was involved in literature and drama eons ago, [View all]

the one group of authors and playwrights I was not particularly fond of was the absurdists such as Beckett, Camus, Ionesco, and Cocteau. I was involved in several dramatic productions and readings of these authors, and I was never thrilled but I certainly understood their significance in the literary pantheon.

The one thing I never considered would be that I would be living in an absurdist existence in which up is down, in is out, small crowds are large crowds, adultery, thievery, bribery , and extortion are admired, and the protagonist, the star, paints himself orange for the cameras.

And nobody whose words might set this situation right says a fucking thing. The response of the media, of law enforcement, of intelligence agencies has been as surreal as the play itself. It is as though a reviewer for the New York Times attended a Broadway production of a surreal drama and reviewed it utilizing word salad.

The entire society has lost its collective mind. Yes…we are all now insanely driven in one direction or another. Half the nation wakes up asking “Is he dead yet?” And the other half or one-third or whatever pledges their fealty to what might possibly be the most bizarre individual who is not presently incarcerated in the US of A.

Years of collective therapy awaits us all after this utter disaster.