TRUMP'S INFINITE PLAYLIST AND THE SECRETARY OF THE WHACKNESS

I dreamed I somehow created a Wombat with human level intelligence. I was part of this group of madcap adventurers, very Doctor Who, and we were in NYC to save the world, which was apparently something we did often, saving the world. We were in Union Station, and I declared that the solution was for us all to go into the world of the Lottery. Not the novel by Shirley Jackson, but the cheesy games that each state has. There were four of us adventurers. One of them was Prue Leith from the Great British Baking Show. We lined up on this catwalk above the throbbing masses, and leapt into these portals. I was transported to a world I could not comprehend. It was all lights and shapes that made no sense. How long I was there I have no idea. Somehow, I came back to Union Station, and had saved the world. But I had also, through some feat when I was in Lottery World, brought about the creation, and transport to our dimension, of a huge talking Wombat. His name was George. And he informed me that he very much liked being alive and had no desire to not exist or to be forced back to Lottery World. He made a good argument, and we all decided he could stay.

Then I woke up. I think it was the milk man that woke me. Or maybe the thought of being able to create talking wombats. I thought "must put this in the blog", and went back to sleep. I was tired. Stayed up far too late, watching Good Omens, a documentary about myths and heroes called Myths and Heroes, and then The Midnight Gospel, an Adult Swim type of cartoon about this boy in the distant future who takes trips through time and space to interview people for his podcast, which has one follower. It's trippy and hilarious, full of dialogue that made me think of Richard Linklater's Slacker, a sort of stoner existentialism.

That's a lot of fantasy. I guess I needed it. High minded fantasy with large ideas, exciting characters, non-sensical plots, and compassionate humor. Maybe I should figure out a way to hang out with our POTUS during this crisis, and talk some sense into him just by hanging out with him and discussing the unbearable lightness of being, the strangeness of life itself, how improbable it all is and how we still strive to find meaning. Maybe, instead of watching Fox or whatever it is he watches, Trump should become a Doctor Who fan. It couldn't make it worse, could it? The guy has no humor other than sarcasm, no sense of irony, and doesn't seem to have much sense of wonder at this glorious and bizarre universe. He's limited. And that is sad. Maybe we should all make him a playlist of songs that lead you on paths of discovery and joy. Maybe, if we sent enough, he would break down and listen to one. Maybe he would then show up at one of his strange briefings, still in his PJs, with a large cup of coffee, and announce that he needs to let the love in, that he was going through some things, and that  he was appointing Sufjan Stevens Secretary of the Whackness, and that he was going to let the scientists in the room run things in regards to the virus while he took some "me time". Usually, I would not want the leader of the free world to take some me time, but I would be cool with this.

Here is a song. It's the English Beat's cover of Tears of a Clown.