Deep State Dap and the Free Flynn Jamboree

I know, the headline sounds like a fantastic fake band name. And while you think DSDFFJ might be a jam band, it’s actually the euphoric light and drug show that is EDM. Yes, only electronic dance music, whether in a European warehouse club space or rural American pop-up rave, can be this wonderfully disorienting.

I remember as a child having fantastic conversations with my father at night about the state of the world and why people behaved the way they did. While other kids wanted a bedtime story, I wanted a dose of pseudo-psychology from my father, admittedly a very intelligent and patient man, though lacking in any behavioral science or sociology degrees. Still, I remember all the talks we had about mankind’s inherent, species wide lunacy. That’s right. I said species wide. Before you pucker up your defensive posture, please remember, almost every single one of us has purchased their ticket for the roller coaster, in some form or fashion. You may be rational in many, many ways, but most likely proudly flaunt your own special brand of crazy. Perfectly packaged, wrapped in a neat little bow and ever present in your daily life. It’s your Special.

Your Special is what tells you three sheets of toilet paper is just right, four is okay, but five is a misuse of commodities. Your Special is what tells you it’s okay to rail against all of the injustice in this world on a site like Facebook, which you refuse to log off of, despite your favorite platform being an active party to the world’s massive injustices. It’s your Special that thumbs it’s nose at all those Deep State Qanon weirdos but makes you think your personal belief in an invisible deity or abject certainty there’s no such thing as said deity is totally rational.

But Truant, what does my Special have to do with the Attorney General dropping the criminal case against a traitor who has admitted to the charges brought against him? To be frank, I’m not certain, and I’ve never been good at impersonating a guy named Frank for the sake of horrible punmenship. But, if I were to venture a guess as to what I’m getting at here, I believe it is the imminent dissolution of our collective reality, which is barely hanging on by a thread as a type, while said dissolution is somehow unfortunately perpetuated by each and every one of our Specials. Our inherent ability to believe there is something Special about me opens a giant can of psychological worms that encourages us to believe what we want to believe, science and reality be damned. One can only wonder what will happen to our species, to our planet, and to the very fabric of time once the tapestry of all that we agree upon as real is unraveled.

Personally, I like to think we’re living in a continuum where the human race has already destroyed itself on a dozen or so occasions, we’re bound to do it again, and every time we do we get to start all over until one day we finally get it right. Maybe each time we have an opportunity to level up our species' capacities for wisdom and love. Maybe last time was way worse than this time, and next time will be a little bit better. Why not? Is that harder to believe than our souls being immortal and living in a state of sublime peace and happiness or horrific pain filled misery for all eternity?

Anyway, whatever you believe in, an afterlife, soul recycling, becoming worm food, I think these times we’re living in should certainly prepare you for finding out that nothing you’ve ever believed in was ever true to begin with, despite the fact that some of it was still true, even though none of it was, because the truth is still out there but you’ll never find it when whomever is behind all of this has so cleverly hidden the truth, the doubt, and the proof in the same place. There all in a secret cave located on the underbelly of our flat Earth that no one knows about except those who know.

Until then, we must simply enjoy the show. Pull out your hair if you will, but you’re better off taking a pill and dancing to the good time grooves. It’s the Human Race’s Big Time Hullabaganza, starring you my friend, and me, and all the rest of us 8 billion crazy mofos, shaking our thighs and twerking our minds to the infectious sociological rhythms of the age of insanity. Collective reality was so 1988.