There Will Be No High Fives Today

Briefly interrupting my usual pop culture nonsense to be real with you

The last time I took off a Friday High Five was after my aunt passed away in the Spring. I was grieving then. And I guess I am again.

Typically in this space, I share five things from the past week that brought me joy or that I simply found interesting or cool. I’m not doing to that today. You can probably guess why.

This week’s podcast—which was released in the aftermath of the election, and thus, you might’ve missed—was about creativity and writing and the sorts of existential things that both challenge and inspire writers. During my chat with

Sheila Moeschen

, I posed a question that has troubled me more and more lately.

Should I be using my time to write about things that are more important than old movies and new TV shows?

That question seems especially apropos today, and the answer itself is even more self-evident. Because I can’t even be bothered to think about the things that seemed weirdly important only days ago.

I have zero interest in writing about politics. I have little acumen for it and even less taste. But it seems artificial and frankly wrong to go on talking about movies or whatever as though nothing has changed. Everything has changed.

I’ve avoided reading about the election and steered clear of social media. None of it matters. Here’s what matters: We re-elected a criminal con-man rapist with a massive boner—or maybe not so big—for dictators, who would also very much like to be one himself. I think we instinctively want to downplay how bad it’s going to be, and comfort ourselves with empty platitudes about the “next election,” as though the past is somehow a guarantee of the future. Even though history repeatedly proves otherwise.

It’s going to be so much worse this time. How can it not? He has 4 years of scores to settle and unlimited ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ cards, compliments of the Supreme Court. He can literally do anything he wants, including realizing all the threats he’s made. What’s to stop him? Decency? Precedent? Laws?

There was a chance for justice, but the powers that be fucked around far too long, and now we’re in the find out phase. This should’ve been over Jan 6th. Now, matters are worse. You can say that again, Yoda.

My wife and I went to dinner and the library last night—date nights hit different in your 40s—and my haul included these bangers:

• Misbelief: What Makes Rational People Believe Irrational Things

• Stuff They Don’t Want You To Know

• Cults: Inside the World's Most Notorious Groups and Understanding the People Who Joined Them

• Strange Rites: New Religions for a Godless World

• The End of Ancient Rome

Can you spot a theme?

I started reading Misbelief last night. It’s troubling. The gist is the author discovered a bunch of false statements attributed to him, and a whole cottage industry of conspiracies with him at the center. These people were talking about dragging him into the street for a trial and some final justice. You can laugh them off as fringe wackos, but the book doesn’t. It explores how normal people end up losing themselves in these alternate realities. Because it’s happening all the time. The rise of AI and deepfake means this is only going to get worse. In fact, I don’t see a way out of this mess. We are in the beginning stages of a dystopia.

I’ve had this quote rattling around in my brain since Wednesday:

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. ~ Edmund Burke

I don’t know if I’m exactly a good man. I think I’m pretty okay. And to do nothing, to say nothing, in the face of this election felt untenable.

I don’t plan on writing about the election or politics again. It’s just not my thing. I’d rather make jokes about Yoda comparing his penis to Luke’s (size matters not, but how you use it). For today, at least, I couldn’t talk about my normal nonsense. It all felt so insubstantial. So silly.

Rather than talk about current events, I’m channeling all this emotion into fiction, which I’ve slowly been reacclimating myself to. That’s actually what spurred my library spree.

Long-time readers may recall I’m sorta obsessed with the period of Obi-Wan’s life between the two trilogies, where he’s a middle-aged dude forced into hiding and left to watch his mad Jedi skills deteriorate. For a long time, I’ve thought that would make for a good story of my own, with all the Star Wars serial numbers scrubbed off. A knight, a hero, hiding from the fascist empire that consumed his past. It’s a good idea, one I’m enthused to explore, but I held off writing because something was missing. I knew the pieces but didn’t have the emotional tenor. What it would feel like for good to be so thoroughly vanquished. How devastating. How sad.

Now I have it.