The first debate is upon us, an event that will, as every major turning point, every major gaffe, every major unspeakable spoken has before it, inalienably alter the presidential race; the game-changer, the pivot, the divot.
The hills are alive with the clunking sound of “What Clinton Needs to Do,” and “What Trump Needs to Do” think pieces and prognostications; with moderators hemming and hawing on their role; with the perpetual lowering of expectations; with scorecards and drinking games and gatherings; with television-rating orgasms, possible viewership in the Super Bowl range, ohmygod.
Glossing over the inalienable truth: the collective forgetfulness of the American people in favor of the shiny new. By Friday, we will have moved on, the zingers and the “Who Won” articles will have become stale, and then it will begin anew, another cycle will dawn, and we will remember with only passing familiarity the run-up to the big event, that little voice that says, I’ve been here before.
Current read: Plato, THE REPUBLIC (3/4 done).
Stuck in my head: The Beach Boys, GOD ONLY KNOWS.