I think it's safe to say: nobody is going to be happy with the results of this coming November 8. Not one single person in the entire world.
If I'm wrong -- if you're a person who, as the clock ticks past Midnight, Central, November 8 and closer to the Midnight of the Soul, November 9 -- and you can search your heart and say, "That glowing feeling, right there, that's close enough to genuine joy that I am made bold to say, 'I feel happy'" then I urge you to get dressed, leave your abode and seek immediate fellowship. You have spent too long removing yourself from the crush of humanity to (I'm just guessing here) nurse wounds that cannot be properly addressed without the balm of companionship. Go to church. Go to temple. Go to AA Agnostica. Go.
Now to the rest of us: have you wondered what the Universe has been trying to tell humanity in the Year of Our Lord 2016? If you don't already know, I'll tell you, and you'll slap your forehead:
Love your artists.
Man, somebody has got to help us get through this -- who else, but they? And they're dropping like flies.
When my girls were reading on their own and discovering authors they loved and followed I urged them to write fan letters. "Authors need to hear you love their books!" I said. Needless to say, their favourite authors are still waiting on those letters, because what does Dad know?
I might as well admit, I've been poor follower of my own advice. I've sent some letters, sure, but I could send more -- a lot more. So this is my public declaration of purpose: I will be putting actual pen to actual paper, and sending letters of appreciation and encouragement to authors, playwrights, performers of every conceivable stripe -- you name it.
We've got to keep these people upright. Because they're the only people left who are keeping us upright.