The Death of a Comedian

(The following serves as a record of the beliefs of a mask-wearing, vaccine-receiving, liberal globalist who frequently catches a glimpse of human excellence. Why should the future of such a noble species be anything other than the creation of a perpetual and just civilization? If the unspeakable occurs, I hope to find myself standing among the rubble, attempting to once again assemble a Tower of Babel, restarting the only conversation worth having. “How do we get Further?”)

My fear is the ever-lurking reality of a dramatic social retrograde. A return to forms of prejudices allegedly conquered. Those of race, of antisemitism, of a particular worldview where nothing is as it seems, where everything can be explained by the keys to history that only a brave few are willing to embrace. We were unwise to welcome the peace of a temporary cordiality with pure madness. In vain, an unearned victory was declared while the madness festered under the skin of a supposedly health body-politic.

My fear is the world drowning in punchlines – pitch perfect and packed to the brim with mixed metaphors and clever call-backs. Where everything that is funny must be true.

My fear is a sea of misdirection typically reserved for moonless nights with sideways rain.

My fear is the singular mood of hysteria. On display by laughing at the other’s supposed stupidity or trembling with fear that they might come to gain or retain power. The common political denominator of the country is that the end is near. Not too long ago, I became convinced that this common denominator was correct. But near is not here. We still have time to course-correct, and I believe we can. I believe in people. I believe in technology. But I also believe that right now is no laughing matter.

By what right do I call myself a comedian? Only by declaring a frequent and deliberate attempt at the humorous. And by what right do I abandon this attempt? By realizing that the answer to any of the serious challenges faced by our species will likely not be resolved by a quick wit. Instead, I believe it will be by a messy and laborious effort, difficult to articulate until well after the fact. In short, I believe the mode of progress in the future will resemble the mode of progress in the past.

We find ourselves – always – choosing between joy and sorrow. Happiness and suffering. Life and death. I stand firm with those whose pursuit is the boundless future of organized human civilization. And I stand equally firm against those who stand for the contrary.

To the audience, I leave the gift of being spared the self-important and self-aware musings of a weekend writer, under the spell of a rapacious search for even a semi-captive viewership. To the fans, all I request is a radical retreat from tactics.

How does something become nothing? Rather, why?

God save the queen, if ever one existed.