If you cross the borders and enter into this swamp-nation, you will instantly be transformed into a pitiless ideological zombie. You will be shouting at everything. You will be angry, sunrise to sunset, and then into the night. Even under your blankets and the ominous, blue glow of your phone, you will still be furious, your brain in terrible flames. Twitter knows this and is now trying to encourage civil behaviour, both by cancelling offensive accounts, and nominating “well-behaved” people for “Sainthood.” Sainthood is nothing more than a halo emoji that appears beside your name, but Twitter is hopeful it might catch on and help put out the still burning swamp fire. Here are a few of the people who recently received a halo emoji:

Colin Kaepernick, the NFL quarterback who sparked a player protest movement by taking a knee for social justice during the national anthem, has just signed on as the centrepiece of an advertising campaign with Nike that will last until 2028.

I have mixed feelings about this.

It might be inevitable, but I always find it distressing when activism is transformed into product. A recent and particularly ham-handed attempt at this occurred when Pepsi used Kendall Jenner as an instrument to co-opt the symbolism of the Black Lives Matter movement in an effort to sell soft drinks.

The ad was a failure in just about every way, but it was particularly stupefying to watch one of the most privileged people on the planet try to show us that drinking Pepsi was actually an act of resistance, and that protest itself was more like going to a really sexy block party than say, having a fire hose turned on you.

No matter, Colin Kaepernick stands on different ground, and everything I have read about him suggests he’s a good and sincere man, one who has quite clearly been denied an opportunity to work because of the way he has been expressing his political beliefs. There are rational, if unappealing, arguments on both side of this issue, but his activism, and the price he’s paid to for it, and the money he has donated to it, seem real enough. So real, in fact, that although he hasn’t actually played football for over 2 years, his jersey is still amongst the top sellers.

Nike, who not long before they signed Kaepernick, extended their deal with the NFL to supply them with uniforms and equipment for the next eight years– at a price in excess of a billion dollars– saw an opportunity to have their cake and eat it, too. The NFL is a monolith, a powerful institution that is comprised of almost 70% black players, players who are almost certain to suffer lasting and severe brain injury as a result of their jobs.

It’s a gladiatorial spectacle that has always exploited it’s workers for the benefit of gamblers and billionaires, and as wonderful as the game might be, the league that governs it is really kind of evil, and in spite of Nike’s deep and longstanding partnership with the NFL, they want to be seen as a white hat corporation. When we see that swoosh, we’re  supposed to think of commitment and excellence and fighting against the odds. We’re supposed to think of character.

Nike doesn’t want us to think about how they enable and profit off a violent and dangerous sport that cares little for the combatants,  so they hire the iconoclastic Kaepernick to sell shoes to us, thus “seizing control of the narrative.” Nike now pays Kaeprnick for his activism. In the old days, people would say they bought him. And so, with Kaepernick as the face of Nike’s campaign, we are to believe that they are the Rebel Alliance and not the Death Star.

We are to believe that Nike is about civil rights, not sweat shops.

Anyway, I don’t begrudge Kaepernick a single thing. I like his protest and I like him, and I hope that the fortune he has now earned makes him happy, and gives him an opportunity to further his activism and do whatever the hell he wants. He has earned that. Just don’t believe that Nike “has seen the light.” No, they’re just presenting the face they think we want to see, while keeping their own concealed.

Public shaming of members of President Trump’s administration has become the latest act of resistance against the government. White House Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders was asked to leave a restaurant, Environmental Protection Agency Chief Scott Pruitt was lectured and videotaped while dining out, Kellyanne Conway, a consultant to Trump, was mocked in a grocery store, and most recently Stephen Miller, a particularly loathsome advisor to Trump, threw out $80 worth of sushi after the bartender followed him outside of the restaurant and told him to go fuck himself.

Here, in their own words, are other Trump officials relating their stories of being heckled in public:

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Mira Ricardel, Deputy National Security Advisor:

“ I was called a ‘Shit Donkey’ by some tall woman when I went to see Ocean’s 8 at the Cineplex. It completely ruined the movie for me. This is not the America I know.”

Kevin McAleenan, Commissioner of U.S. Customs and Border Protection:

“ I had just finished collecting the quarters from the washer and dryers at one of my rental properties and was walking back to my car when I felt a little sting on the back of my neck. When I turned around I saw that some old man sitting on a stoop had just spit a sunflower shell on my neck.  He then fired another, and that one hit me in the leg, and as I reached for my taser he called me “a traitor to my nation and to humanity,” before twitching out.

Wilbur Ross, Secretary of Commerce:

“ The woman working on my feet during my morning sports pedicure was extremely rough, almost violent while exfoliating my heels. And make no mistake, it was intentional. I can tell. And when I admonished her  and told her how lucky she was to be living in America, she said something under her breath in a foreign language. I called the manager and had her fired, but it’s getting intolerable, this lack of civility.”

Betsy DeVos, Secretary of Education:

“ I was at the Illuminati sex party in Novgorod and right after the sacrifice, a man wearing a goat’s head refused to have sex with me saying, “Children in cages aren’t my thing, you Trump skank.” I had my mask on so I don’t even know how he knew who I was. Jesus, I don’t even want to think about what they’re saying about me at Martha’s Vineyard!”

Peter O’Rourke, Secretary of Veteran’s Affairs:

“ I was at a Bryan Adams concert with a few of my paintball buddies and while I was out on the floor enjoying the show I saw that they put my picture on the giant screen with the words, EVIL TRUMP FLUNKY across it. Not cool, Bryan, not cool.”

The heat sat upon everything.

Oppressive and exhausting, it slowly disabled the day’s options. You couldn’t go outside. You couldn’t get comfortable. You couldn’t even think straight, and every time you moved it was as if this thing, this heavy, unseen entity, was wrapping itself just a little more tightly around you.

It was a long weekend and most of the people in Toronto seemed to have vacated the city for cottages. As Rachelle, Jones and I drove through the city to the Ontario Science Centre, we passed empty streetcars on empty roads, and on very rare occasion a person—always appearing slightly dazed, as if they’d just forgotten where they were going. There was a distinctly post-apocalyptic vibe in the still, dirty air, and it all felt as much a dream as not.

The Science Centre was very crowded, though, and it was filled with people just like us, people looking for a place that was open to the public, air-conditioned and entertaining for young children. We were all lucky, all of us there, lucky to have such a place available to us, lucky to be able to use it, and lucky beyond the known margins, too, lucky in ways none of us could even imagine.

But still, it wasn’t easy. It was crowded and loud, even chaotic, and Jones was so excited that he ran in crazed and unpredictable zigzags, and after a few hours we felt like cats chasing the red dot of a laser pointer. And as it approached noon, the children, all exhausted and hungry now, began to throw tantrums. It was like artillery going off, like fireworks.

One child would explode into tears, another one would kick a juice box out of a parent’s hand, and another would just flop face first on the floor and begin kicking his feet, screaming. And so it went, a spreading contagion that was simultaneously hilarious and crushing.

We managed to slither and bounce through it all to find a passage that led to descending escalators. There must have been two or three of them, each one travelling deeper and deeper down and through the wooded ravine the Science Centre was built into.

It was like being submerged in a forest, and the air became cooler and lighter as we descended, and when we stepped off into the refreshing, muted light of a wide open museum space, we were transformed.

About fifty feet in front of us rotating light projections were being cast onto the floor from the ceiling. Ladybugs. Stars. Race Cars. Mysterious fish. Geometric patters. All the children dancing beneath and within this light, and everything was beautiful and quiet and astonishing, like we had just been led to an illuminated cave full of dolphins at play in the purest waters.

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The event first came to my attention back in 2006 when Stephen Colbert delivered a lacerating, satiric monologue to George W. Bush and his dubious assembly. I was astonished and exhilarated by the performance. It struck me as incredibly brave, a truly patriotic display of dissent that deserved all the awards. It was the sort of thing I could imagine being taught in university classes.

Of course, this was during the era of Jon Stewart and The Daily Show, and I was already a huge fan of all things Colbert. The emergence of their shows changed the way that I, and a lot of people, digested their news. Network News Hours were no longer the sole, or even primary means of disseminating “the news.” The dull, superficial theatre of traditional networks was giving way to the faster, more entertaining curation of the Comedy Network. News was changing, becoming something like sketch comedy, and each night we got to choose what sort of news we wanted. Colbert and Stewart were the new Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw.

Stewart and Colbert’s were always very persuasive and funny, and it was easy enough to forget that they were in no way balanced or objective, but as Stewart was always at pains to point out, he was performing comedy, not providing a comprehensive analysis of American politics. Nevertheless, it was around this point that we all started to migrate into separate news camps, existing happily amidst our tribe without ever having to intersect with an idea outside of our chosen position.

And now, about a dozen years later, Donald Trump is President.

It’s my theory that the age of Trump has put a kind of freeze on comedy. You simply cannot satirize the man, as everything he does is so far beyond the range of expectation that he completely obliterates the idea of expectation, and without that there can be no satire. I mean, not a single person on the planet would be surprised if one day he removed his human face on TV.

To make matters worse, we’re so polarized in our beliefs that we no longer have a shared understanding of what is true or what should be funny. People aren’t even certain where power lies right now– just that they have enemies, so, so many enemies! And one of the shadows cast by living this way is that comedy has become little more than simply mocking your enemies.

At any rate, this brings me to the White House Correspondents Dinner that just took place, the one that featured Michelle Wolf from the Daily Show taking the piss out of Sarah Huckabee.

I didn’t watch all of it, and only saw snatches of her performance as it repeated throughout my social media feeds. I guess what I really saw was a meme, and my response was instinctive rather than analytic, and in this peripheral reading what I saw was not justice triumphing, but a person in a moment of power hurting someone else. Huckabee didn’t look like she was acting hurt, she looked like she was hurt, and it made me feel badly to see that.

I’m not sure why this is. Huckabee doesn’t align with my politics, so shouldn’t I take pleasure in seeing her receive her just comeuppance in front of the entire world, all dressed up as she was in her finest dress? Well, I don’t know. I have been furious in my life, wounded so deeply that all I wanted to do was verbally destroy a person, and I’ve followed through on that and let me assure you, there is no pleasure to be had in making somebody cry. It felt horrible to see the consequence of my words made manifest in the face of another human being. I don’t know, maybe now that I’m old and mortal, and a father to a young son, I’ve started to value mercy over justice. Maybe I just can’t find anything funny in this absurd mess we’re all in.

I honestly have no idea.

What is clear is that The White House Correspondent’s Dinner is a ridiculous anachronism, a kind of entertainment award’s show, that should just be cancelled. It was obviously designed as an insider event, an acknowledgment that although the media and the political class they covered had to sometime assume adversarial positions, they were still both privileged, with much more in common than not. And for one night they would all admit they were actually in the business of entertainment and just relax, but now they’re not so much on the same team. Now there are many teams, each one feeding on whatever it is that’s bubbled up from our collective unconscious and now lives in the swampland of social media. Its’ a war now, one with too many fronts to count, and humour is hard to find.

Do you remember them?

Jerry Lewis and whatever semblance of celebrity he could cobble together, would entertain the hell out of you for 24 hours straight, and in return you would pledge money to help fight MD.

The shows always took place on Labour Day weekend– when absolutely nothing else happened– and since it was the only thing on TV we watched it like it was a seasonal tradition. Staying up with Jerry was a both a dare and a way to extend the summer. Still, the telethons felt like artifacts from another era, something that was owned by a generation previous to mine.

The Academy Awards have this feel, too, and I watch them mostly for the comforting, predictable sense of nostalgia they always conjure, but I found this year’s edition to be, well, confused. Was it a self-congratulatory ad for a dying industry, or was it stationed at the forefront of a social revolution? Was it about fashion and beauty or was it about it not being about fashion and beauty?

It proved complicated to decipher.

Host Jimmy Kimmel made an opening #MeToo friendly joke about the absurd irony of Mel Gibson starring in a movie called What Women Want.

It was a safe joke, one that picked a target everybody could agree upon, and it got what was almost relieved laughter. It might be hard to imagine now, but Mel Gibson was once a beautiful dream of potential.

Now he is an unredeemable laughing stock.

What was ironic was that in 2000, the year What Women Want came out and made tons of money, Jimmy Kimmel was co-hosting The Man Show. At the time, the slim and woke Oscar host was less slim and less woke, and The Man Show was all about tits. It was about grabbing them by the pussy. It was a white boy frat party.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cl3wioLmNNY

And yet there was Jimmy Kimmel on Oscar night making jokes about Mel Gibson’s pernicious attitude toward woman while a bejeweled and admiring audience laughed their approval before him.

These moments of dissonance happened throughout the broadcast, the most vivid occurring when Wes Studi, a Cherokee actor you probably recognize but could never name, introduced a montage of military movies.

Clearly the depiction of violent masculinity in this particular climate was considered iffy, and as if to soften that potential for controversy and loss of market share, the production team got a member of an under represented community to introduce this unpopular, but tactically necessary segment. It was calculated, and when Studi opened by saying he was a proud veteran of the Vietnam War, the crowd’s confusion at how to respond was palpable. They no longer knew whether Studi stood for something good or bad, they could not interpret the symbol they were being shown. After the montage ended, and Studi uttered a dose of Cherokee– which at the time could have been either a blessing or curse– the audience opted for a shallow, incoherent applause.

You could also see the once unassailable Meryl Streep– who many believe did not do enough to stop Harvey Weinstein—giving way to the meme-friendly Francis McDormand as moral force and American exemplar. When once beloved comic Dave Chappelle came on stage to a spattering of applause, he found that the comedic power he held as an oppressed minority had been overshadowed by his criticism of #MeToo. The omnipresent and eager Ryan Seacrest, who somehow manages to emit a vibe that simultaneously suggests a Bro and a gay man, found himself snubbed on the red carpet by all the stars in response to an accusation of sexual misconduct levied against him. They were only too eager to nourish themselves on his fawning, promotional interviews before, but now?

And when Annabella Sciorra, Ashley Judd and Salma Hayek took the stage, glittering and beautiful and gazed upon from so many different points of view, it was hard to interpret all the mixed messages that were being sent out into the world.

Were these women brave activists or part of an exploitive one percent? Were they complicit in creating unrealistic expectations for women by  opting for cosmetic surgery, or were they victims of an industry that demanded it from them as if it was a tax for being a woman? Could everything be true at once?

The Jerry Lewis Telethon ended just a few years ago. Over the course of it’s lifetime it raised over 2.5 billion for those fighting MD, but it also did so in an often self-serving and patronizing, if not wholly lurid manner.

In the end, were all those telethons a good released into this world or an evil?

It’s impossible to know, I guess, but it strikes me that nobody is all good or all bad. Each one of us is a riot of contradictions, often engaged in actions that elude our articulation or even understanding. Our lives and character are much more circumstantial and precarious than most of us would care to admit, and we would all be well served to save a little empathetic space in our hearts for those we don’t necessarily understand or agree with.

Everything, really, depends on that.

I recently started a business in which I provide sexual misconduct apology letters for a wide variety of clients. If you need a sexual misconduct apology letter, please consider my affordable and highly effective services. Here are some excerpts of work I have done for various clients:

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1. It is with great anguish that I heard of that lady’s recollection about our night together in 1991. While her memory of that evening is very different from mine, it is now clear to me that her feelings of fear and intimidation are real. After all, I am a powerful Alpha male with many yachts and yes-men. However, in spite of this I have never been unusually violent, although I have been thoughtless and insensitive in some of my relationships over my many decades of sexual activity, and I sincerely and humbly apologize for accepting any blowjobs that were given out of ambition rather than love.

I am an ally to women everywhere.

2. Recently, there has been a little bit of coverage about some of my past behaviour in the “news.” I have made many mistakes and I am so very sorry that I have disappointed my friends, family, fans and beautiful team. My behaviour was wrong and there are no excuses. Although it is very difficult at the top, I take full responsibility for whatever my actions were, because that’s what a leader and Master Chef does.

Sharing the joys of Italian food with all of you each week is an honour and privilege. Without the support of all of you—my fans—I would never have a forum in which to combat the scourge that is sexual misconduct, so I want to thank you for giving me an opportunity to advance the cause for women all over the world. And in case you’re searching for a holiday-inspired breakfast, especially the mother’s out there, this link to Pizza Dough Cinnamon Rolls are a fan favourite!

3. As a college student on staff at a church in Texas more than 20 years ago, I regretfully had a sexual incident with a female high school senior in the church. At the time I thought ******’s form fitting sweater was a sign that my sexual gratification was God’s will. I see now that this wasn’t true, and that her sweater and strawberry lip gloss were in fact the devil’s beguiling handiwork. I sinned, Holy Spirit, I sinned, and I humbly ask if you would take this prayer and touch ******’s heart in the way that only you can and heal her of the pain that was caused from this sin 20 years ago. #Metoo #Timesup #IBelieveEve

4. Some of what is being said about me is untrue or mischaracterized, but there is enough truth in these stories to make me feel embarrassed and ashamed. Repairing the damage will take a lot of time and soul searching and I’m committed to beginning that effort. I have hired three lovely assistants to coach me in this endeavour, and have quit kite surfing in Barbados in order to better focus my energies on the important task at hand. The last two days have forced me to take a very hard look at all of my surviving sex tapes, and I see now that I was not acting the way a leading ally to women should have acted. I am very sorry, and ask all of those feeling pain to please apply this coupon code for a 15% discount on your next Cineplex experience!

Understand that it’s fucking Mordor.

It’s totally evil.

It really is.

Entertain for a moment the idea that the NFL might actually be nothing more than a flashy delivery system for gambling. The games are just accessories created to facilitate the exchange of a mind-bending amount of money. It’s impossible to calculate how much cash– both legally and illegally– is bet on the NFL each year, but it’s hundreds of billions of dollars. It might be a trillion. The NFL, and the owners of each of the the 32 teams that comprise the league, make pornographic amounts of money– so much so that even the pathologically greedy Donald Trump wanted in on the action back in the 80’s.

Working beneath these overlords are the players. About 70% of them are black, and the average length of a career is about 3 1/2 years. It is a brutal, collision-based sport, but beyond the mechanical failure of knees, hips and such, there is CTE, a brain disease that virtually every football player seems to acquire due to the concussive nature of the sport. And because the NFL is evil, they withheld this information from the players even as symptoms set in and raged amongst them.

Essentially, what the NFL does is hire people to engage in combat while America bets on who the winner will be.

It’s the bread and circuses we’re fed.

The game itself is about martial precision rather than athletic improvisation. The players are armoured and anonymous, strategically deployed by the technocrats on the sidelines, and whatever exuberance or individuality they bring to the game is swiftly crushed. When celebrating and dancing after a touchdown became a thing, the league outlawed it. It was considered “disrespectful,” ( but not in the same way that calling a team The Redskins might be “disrespectful”) which put another way means it was considered too black. In effect, they took an African-American product, subordinated it to the tastes of a conservative white audience, and profited obscenely from it.

Colin Kaepernick, a talented black quarterback, ( It was not that long ago that a black quarterback in the NFL was unheard of, the belief being that they didn’t have the “faculties” to perform the job) began the practice of taking a knee during the national anthem as a protest against against racial injustice.

He was subsequently black-balled from the league, even though his talents should have been in high demand. In his absence, others players stepped up to continue the practice, all of which came to a head when Trump started calling for the sons of bitches to be fired. This cynical and amoral manipulation of existing divisions in the nation forced the players and owners to respond.

Siding with those who are against racial injustice and for freedom of expression seems like a pretty obvious choice. I mean, this is a no-brainer, right? History is unfolding in such a way that it’s forcing people to make a choice, whether they want to or not, and many players took the knee. And the photographs–all so familiar, inevitable and urgent– were deeply moving. They gave me chills, and for a moment it was easy to believe that things might finally be changing for the good.

But then again, this movement was taking place largely within the pitiless machine that is the NFL, and so many sought a middle road that they hoped wouldn’t interrupt any revenue streams. The Dallas Cowboys, led by their owner, took a knee before the anthem, and then standing, locked arms as a team during the anthem.

It was a muddle of a message, one that managed to suggest the players had some sort of solidarity with ownership instead of a grievance with institutional racism, but that was the point. It was supposed to mean all things to all people. Ultimately, they co-opted the symbolism of Kaepernick’s protest to support the idea of “protest” without actually joining the protest. It was nothing more than damage control, a gesture as empty of meaning as a Pepsi commercial, and one more thing the NFL can add to it’s wall of shame.

Whenever I’m in one I think of some punitive elementary school. There’s an entire galaxy of largely symbolic rules, and everything associated with us is measured, weighed and timed. And as you stand in line you find yourself worrying about whether you remembered to bring your phone charger. Or your cool sneakers. Or your medicine. And so it goes, and never for a second do you forget that what you are about to do may be the last thing you ever do in your life.

Flying is something of a miracle, and we’re all, at least partially, expecting it to fail. And who can blame us for this suppressed expectation? Any time a plane crashes it’s international news. When the story breaks, people all over the world, those doing dishes or clicking “like,” are wondering just how they would have behaved in their last terrified moments as fire, cloud and sky sped by.

And please don’t forget the terrorists.

They might materialize at any moment. If you forget this, there is a terror alert, like a goal-thermometer on a fundraising marathon, warning you that today, the day you’re to give your first professional speech, the terror alert is ORANGE.

So air transit, even in a best case scenario, is a tense thing.

I imagine that Dr. Dao, the man who was dragged bleeding off a United flight earlier this week, was feeling some of this tension and uncertainty as he waited for his plane to fly him home to Kentucky.

Now we’ve all seen the video, and everybody knows that what took place was wrong.

However, the corporate face of United used the word “re-accommodation” to describe what happened. This is the kind of soft evil that creeps into our lives each day, and then stays there, existing beneath our skin like some sort of bacteria. We know all about over-booking now, and it all reduces to the airline valuing profit over people. This is the corporate way upon which our society functions. What seems to have shocked the microsystem in this case was that nobody would take a material inducement to give up their seat.

And what’s the corporate ethos in such a situation?

And so they dragged him screaming and bleeding from his seat. The law, of course, is behind United. Trapped in this culture where being busy is seen as a sign of status, we’re all so desperate to escape the heaviness of our lives and get to the beach in Veradaro,

that we accept that we might be “re-accommodated” when we buy our tickets. We sign-off on the fact that although we’ve bought a ticket and made all sorts of arrangements contingent on the timing of that flight, we might still lose our seat.

It’s kind of insane. The law allows a corporation to hedge on their services in order for them to maximize profits, even if it’s a ruinous policy for individual consumers. That the law favours corporate growth over human security is nothing new, but this is a particularly vivid example of the amoral structure that pins over our lives.

In the aftermath, Dr. Dao’s was vilified– a tactic minority communities know all too intimately—and the saga, now diffused through late night talk shows, social media and PR flak, is about to replaced by the next meme-worthy event. And still, the corporations will preside over us like gods, and because we believe we need what they offer, we will ignore our own intuition and continue to be subordinate to them, regardless the cost to human dignity and instinct.