It is the ending we wait for, in the telling of the cautionary tale, the puncture note of the swollen ego.
The emperor has returned from rehab. I commend him on seeking help, even as I wonder at the brevity of the cure. Addiction is a terrible frontier to conquer. Can a short stint away from the teeming throngs be all it takes?
He has returned with a crutch to replace the boozy swagger.
I failed. Who among us has not?
It is the invisible cloak, this new crutch, that he wears with false humility, as he saunters the route, advisors stroking, admiring the tapestry. The creator of the crutch, master cloth spinner, lurks and preens-he knows the crutch is hollow but the crowd doesn’t speak.
Until this guy shows up.
His is the clarion call to townsfolk cowed, the child ringing out,
“But he’s not wearing any clothes!”
His is the voice of a teacher of politics, law and history, who believes we have lost the art of debate.
“Students are getting the idea that politics is just another reality show. I like, when my students learn about politics, I like to watch them develop various views. Some them might be right-wingers or left-wingers, all sorts of views. I have got libertarian students and Marxist students and I like for all of us to debate ideas and have substantive discussions,” he said.
“He has degraded that. It’s just anti-intellectual sloganeering, clichés, lies, it’s just like another reality show. That’s the greatest harm he’s done.”
Joe Killoran
I like my work, toiling in my little corner of this grand city. I write about the light in my world-the buzz that keeps us moving. I am a sucker for all things celebratory and parades of every colour.
But I haven’t lost my outrage.
I just need a guy out jogging to remind me.
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