My Corona Diary (Take XIII): No Black Vans Today, Lots Of Fireworks Anyway

<"Get Off My Lawn,

You ##@!!!'Ing Libs..."

Take I/The Reckoner>

<i.>

The minute I heard the yelling, I knew trouble was coming, full steam ahead, just around the corner. The Squawker and I, after an absence of several months, were returning to the Tuesday protests in front of our Congressman's office. We'd missed them for various reasons, most related to life happening -- like a major water leak that wiped out one weekend in December.

We had no idea what to expect. Had COVID-19 forced people to skimp on protesting? Or were protests, like so many other group activities, simply out of the question? Or were people doing them, anyway, if they were wearing masks, and taking all the usual precautions?

We decided to check it out. If nobody was around, we could head straight to lunch. Otherwise, we could join our resistance-minded colleagues in picketing those mysterious camo-clad hordes who'd been out grabbing protesters, scooping them up into unmarked minivans, and then shuttling them off, God knows where, only to begrudgingly release them hours later.

Scary stuff, right? The kinds of images you associate with banana republics and tinpot dictatorships the world over, but presumably, part and parcel of the swamp that Herr Trump isn't ready to drain just yet.

I vaguely heard some yelling, once we'd parked and started heading down the street, to take our places on the corner. The source -- and the reason -- became apparent soon enough. 

The shrieks and screams were coming from a fiftysomething guy wielding a TRUMP 2020 sign, wearing one of those damned MAGA (Make America Great Again) hats. Only this one bore this year's Trump campaign slogan, "Keep America Great Again." (But I haven't seen anyone using KAGA as an acronym yet, though.)

Needless to say, while he wore our masks, he wasn't wearing doing likewise. But he was keeping his lungs busy, to dish out a steady stream of invective:

"Trump 2020! Law and order, law and order! Why do you Democrats hate America so much? We're taking our country back!" 

I'd forfeited enough sleep at images of federal goons popping up to start kidnapping the whole lot of us. Jeez, I thought, do we have to deal with this nonsense, too?  I

 mean, I'd seen Trumpkins -- as I call his followers -- at previous protests, but they hadn't been as persistently loud as this character.  For the most part, they'd been content to carry their signs and mind their own business, but rarely interacted with any of us.

And that's when things really heated up.

<ii.>

One woman standing less than a couple feet from her Trumpian antagonist had reached her tipping point, apparently. Every time the Trumpkin shouted something, she shouted right back at him: "Take back your country? You lost the popular vote, bitch!" 

To which the Trumpkin retorted, ever so wittily...

“F#ck you, bitch!”

“F#ck you, whore!”

"You're calling me a whore? Look at yourself!" the woman screamed.

That retort kicked a new freeform rant from the Trumpkin, plus another volley of F-Bombs: "Listen to that! She hates America! She hates white people!

"Racist! Racist!”

<iii.>

"Classy, isn't he?" I said. "Unlike his sidekick." I pointed out an older gentleman, wearing a big straw hat, jeans and a red plaid shirt. (No mask for him either, of course.) He looked in his mid-seventies, maybe early eighties. But he held up his sign and said little or nothing, unlike his cohort. Fine by me.

"Maybe we should confront him," The Squawker suggested, gesturing to the only sign that we'd chosen to carry. It featured a drawing of Trump, reborn as the spitting image of Adolf Hitler. It seemed, well, a tad prophetic, to put it mildly.

"Uh, no. Look at his eyes," I said. "And the spit flying out of his mouth as he screams. Turn off the lights. There's no one home."

"You have a point."

But the woman picketer seemed unwilling to concede just yet. She screamed at the Trumpkin to go somewhere else (Good luck getting that to stick on a public sidewalk, I told myself). Then she began physically dogging him, literally walking only mere steps behind him.

Such actions did not go over well with the Trumpkin, who swiveled his head around, and screamed: "Don't you follow me around! I have a right to defend myself, and I will defend myself!" (Apparently, Trumpkins and Trumpsters don't want invading you their "personal space," as they called it in the '70s. Just like the hippies, I guess. The mind boggles.)

My stomach started knotting. Oh, Christ, I thought. The guy's gonna punch the woman. Then all of us guys out here picketing are gonna have to jump the Trumpkin, and beat the shit out of him royally Or at least, pull him off her, so he quits.

Which means, he'll call the cops to defend "his" rights. Which means, a trip to the courthouse. Which means endless hearings, and all other that legal BS to deal with. Which means...

Just then, however, our group began to break up. Our permit with the city is only good from noon to 12:30 p.m., apparently, so the woman threw up her hands, and walked away. 

The Trumpkin continued to shout: "Honk if you love America! Honk if you love Trump! We're not gonna let our country go to hell!"

Under my breath, I muttered: "Dude, that ship has sailed already."

"It's just as well," The Squawker said. "I didn't want to catch COVID from all his spit." 

We slowly walked back to our van, and started loading up the signs -- the Trump/Hitler one that Squawker had drawn, plus a yard sign for one of our local Democratic candidates, that we'd accepted -- into the hatchback.

We circled around the street once more. The Trumpkin still standing, minus his older sidekick, still waving his signs. We both gave him a thumbs down as we drove away.

The camo-clad federal goons never showed up. Nor did any black vans, nor black helicopters, for that matter.

<"Get Off My Lawn,

You ##@!!!'Ing Libs..."

Take II/The Reckoner>

<Coda>

But I won't shake the images out of my head any time soon. Judging by what we saw, the popular caricature of Trumpists as unfiltered and unhinged, bug-eyed, full-frothed, red-faced, ranting, raving and drooling fanatics isn't terribly wide of the mark.

It's hardly news that the GOP has a credibility gap with women. When you have 88 Democratic female Congresswomen, versus only 13 for the GOP, you have to ask yourself, "Who's doing a better outreach job?"

For further proof, look what happened when New York's progressive voice, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, found herself accosted by Ted Yoho, the GOP Yahoo from Florida who called her a "f#cking bitch." Evidently, he didn't have the same upbringing that I did, as in, you...don't....f#cking...talk...to women...that way. Period. No ifs, ands, nor buts.

So how did "Congressman" Yoho respond? Like all his GOP chorts, with a self-serving mea culpa that bore an uncanny resemblance to South Park's BP Oil parody: "We're sorry. We're really, really sorry." Read the link below and judge for yourself, but I'll say it this way: Andy Griffith, he ain't.

Thankfully, "Congressman" Yoho isn't running for re-election this year, which should allow his constituents the opportunity to choose someone besides a ham-fisted F-Bomb dropper to represent them. Of course, he simply expressed what his kind say every day behind closed doors, and open ones, too. 

I imagine there's a lot of F-Bombs dropping, given the rapid unchecked rise of COVID, and the failure of Trump's regime to address it, not to mention the cratering economy. It's also a howl of helpless rage at a nation that continues to grow, steadily and relentlessly, ever more diverse, no matter how loudly and shrilly they may scream.

This is how all Good Old Boys go out, I suppose, once their aura fades away for good -- rearing up and raging against the dying of the light that will eventually click shut over their flailing, white-clenched fists. To which I say, "Boo f#cking hoo. It couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of guys. And not nearly fast enough." --The Reckoner

Links To Go Go (Hurry, Hurry,
Out Of My Way, You Effing...)

CNN: This Florida Republican
Just Delivered A Master Class...
https://www.cnn.com/2020/07/22/politics/ted-yoho-alexandria-ocasio-cortez-house-floor/index.html

Yahoo News: Republican Rep. Ted Yoho
Reportedly Called Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez...
https://www.yahoo.com/news/republican-congressman-ted-yoho-reportedly-144827393.html

My Corona Diary (Take XII): Live & Unmasked, At The Corona Corral (UPDATED, 9/13)

 <"Introducing...The Lone Unmasker"

The Reckoner>

We'd prepared our escape well. A week of brutally hot weather, with temperatures soaring into the upper 80s and even mid-90s had left The Squawker and I feeling cooped up and stir crazy, so we were more than ready to slip out this past weekend, and see if we could find a private space to do some walking, and move around.

Squawker and I had taken turns monitoring the forecast, waiting for the first day that barometric fever would finally break. We ended up waiting longer than we'd planned, but when we saw last Sunday's forecast (high of 80, real feel, 70s or below), we figured, time to take the plunge. 

We live right across the street from a small bar, one of many whose business has cratered due to COVID-19. However, its owner assured me that they were doing okay, when I got a takeout there a month or so ago. "The support has been there, and it's really great to see," he'd said.

I pulled out of our parking lot to turn left, past the bar, and head downtown. "Hey, what's that noise? Where's it coming from?" Squawker asked.

"Hmm, I'm not sure, because we just passed it." I said. "Let's go back and see what's going on there. Then we can get on with our business."

"Sounds good."

So I cut down a side street, looped back around, and cruised behind the bar -- the side facing away from our complex -- but nothing prepared us for the sight.

The sounds were coming from some rock 'n' roll cover band or other. About 30 to 40 people were watching, we figured, though only a few dared to dance. The crowd, such as it was, sat inside an area enclosed by metal poles, with plastic netting hung onto them. I'd seen it slowly taking shape all last week.

Nobody seemed to be wearing a mask, though. And nobody was following any social distancing rules. Well, wait, I take that back. The tables were spread apart, though not anywhere near six feet, from the looks of it. But the attendees sat, elbow to elbow, sipping their beers, or starting vacantly at the band.

"Are they crazy?" Squawker wondered out loud. "They must be kidding."

"Crazy, yeah, but desperate, too," I said, as we pulled away back. "They wouldn't be doing this if they could live without it."

Anyway, we drove around downtown, where the tourists have started trickling in, against all odds, and hung out for a little bit at the beach.

However, we stayed in our van. We saw so many people running around without masks, we figured...what's that hackneyed phrase? Discretion is the better part of valor, right? Something like that.

Tired of playing dodgeball with our fellow man, we wound our way back home. But I couldn't stop thinking of all those unmasked people on the way back. 

There's still plenty of foolishness making the rounds, though, judging by the media backlash that Great White weathered recently for playing a mask-free show in North Dakota, with no social distancing of any kind.

Ironies abounded, as always. Some initial reports didn't clarify which Great White showed up. North Dakota got the lineup led by original guitarist Mark Kendall, while former lead singer Jack Russell soldiers on as Jack Russell's Great White. Both men were onstage for the infamous Station nightclub fire of 2003, in Rhode Island, where a series of pyrotechnics set off by their crew caused soundproofing foam material to burn.

The resulting fire and stampede to escape caused the deaths of 100 people, and injured 230 more (115 seriously, as in, badly burned, disfigured and maimed for life). Yet it's Russell who told an Austrian magazine, "It’s, like, ‘I took my mask off and I got COVID.’ Well, what a big surprise that is. If you don’t wanna help yourself, help everybody else."

In contrast, the Kendall-led Great White simply opted for an official apology, brimming with the usual defensive bluster from people who've gotten caught out ("North Dakota’s government recommends masks be worn, however, we are not in a position to enforce the laws"). It reminded me of the BP Oil parody from South Park ("We're sorry...We're really, really sorry"). You can read it for yourself below, but the best sentence is the last one: "We are far from perfect."

If there's any ghosts haunting the Station site, yeah, I suspect they might heartily agree with that one, not to mention all those horribly mentally and physically scarred survivors. (Just stay away from the cemetery, though...in case one of those specters feels like kicking ass, and taking names.)

Meanwhile, as the COVID-19 death toll rockets onward and upward, with no vaccine in the pipeline, and no end in sight, I wonder what anybody's learned. 

This weekend, Squawker and I heard the music kicking up across the street once more, so I decided to check it out.

Once more, I drove past the fenced-in rear area, on my way to the gas station. Guess what? The crowd seemed smaller than last time, about 20-25 people, I think. But there they sat, right next to each other again, with no masks in sight. And if anything, the tables seemed they were packed tighter together than last time.

While our government continues to plod on, ranting about the need to push kids back into the classroom, even as great numbers of their friends and loved ones leave the planet (142,000 dead, and counting), as countless others ignore the precautions, driven by some vague notion of "sticking it to the Man," though we're the ones ending up in their crosshairs -- leaving Jack Russell to serve as the voice of reason.

Surreal? You bet. But this is where we are right now.

All this madness reminds me of the critical scene in Werner Herzog's Aguirre, The Wrath Of God (1972), as its titular conquistador -- racked by starvation and fever, yet still driven relentlessly by his own God-fueled delusions of grandeur -- rants, screams and shrieks from his raft, somewhere in the South American jungle, with only the monkeys left to keep him company: 

"I, the Wrath of God, will marry my own daughter, and with her I will found the purest dynasty the world has ever seen. Together, we shall rule this entire continent. We shall endure. I am the Wrath of God... who else is with me?"

As far as the last question goes, well... We'll find out soon enough. 

<Update: 9/13/20>

Well, guess what? The bar has continued its outdoor music and gatherings, virus or no virus, and the audiences have grown. Last Friday looked like the biggest crowd yet, approaching roughly 60-80 people, with cars filling up the nearby blood bank lot, even spilling out across the street, in the massive parking lot where the bowling alley now sits dead silent. 

So I guess the gambit is working, even if I wound up with a killer headache, because, of course, I live right across the street -- which means I get to hear echoes of the music, like it or not. I suspect it's the low frequency rumblings of the bass that are most responsible. Saturday proved different, as a steady drumming of rain essentially washed the music out, leaving the Squawker and I to gird up for the next weekend.

At least, we don't have to worry about the music lasting as long. The bar actually had a license that allowed the music until midnight, but the city commission yanked it a couple weeks ago, leaving 10:00 p.m. as the cutoff point. Judging by my drive-throughs past the site, I'm not seeing anymore signs of masking or social distancing than I did before, so I guess whatever concerns people may have, they're keeping them close to their chest.

Other places are grappling with bigger problems, like Spain, whose police have kept busy with breaking up illegal gatherings, as you'll see from the new link below. Relevant examples include 73 people getting caught and fined for partying in an illegal basement sauna in Madrid, and 160 caught enjoying rave music in a warehouse, in Barcelona.

The country's highly interactive culture has something to do with these issues, of course ("Almost nothing can be celebrated in Spain unless it is in a large group," as a public health professor states in the story). Unfortunately, the populace's restive spirit seems to be spiking new cases (25 percent among people aged 15-29). 

If nothing else, the pandemic proves how much of a social animal we are, as the cliche goes, and how important that need becomes, no matter how annoying or aggravating we make each other. However, as Spain's example -- or, for that matter, the fallout from Great White's maskless gig -- demonstrates, it only takes one domino to send the whole stack tumbling down. So it goes, at any rate, until the long-promised vaccine arrives. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Browse All You Wish...

Just Keep Your Social Distance, Eh?)

BBC: Coronavirus: 
Why Is There A US Backlash To Masks?:
https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-52540015

The Huffington Post

The Psychology Behind
Why Some People Refuse To Wear Face Masks:
https://www.huffpost.com/entry/psychology-why-people-refuse-wear-face-masks_l_5efb723cc5b6ca970915bc53

Variety: Packed, Maskless Great White Show
Reminds Social Media Of Band's Tragic Concert Past:
https://variety.com/2020/music/news/great-white-plays-packed-concert-no-social-distancing-1234704249/

Yahoo News: Spain Can't Stop Partying...
https://www.yahoo.com/news/spain-t-stop-partying-night-131157338.html

<"It's Raining Excuses

(COVID's Comet)"
The Reckoner>

Jobs To Nowhere (Intermission): Ding Dong, Your Toxic Boss Is...

<"I Find...
Your Lack Of Faith...">
<The Highwayman, 12-27-19>

Suggested Soundtrack: "Murder Most Foul" (Bob Dylan)

<Storyteller's Note: The following account, though strictly personal and anecdotal, is true. The names have been changed, masked or omitted to avoid retribution from the guilty.>

<i.>

The news catches you off guard. Something's up, you sense, when The Squawker calls you over to the computer, where an obituary and an accompanying news story are already minimized, waiting for your brows to furrow together, puzzled. "Hard to believe, isn't it? But I found it just now, and figured you'd want to see it," Squawker tells you.

You quickly skim both items, yet even now, your eyes have trouble taking in the news. But there it is, in black and white: Chief Tightly Wound, who booted you off The Daily Bugle's perennially troubled, perpetually unstable, penny-pinching island, has died. For those who need the back story, please consult the link below ("Jobs To Nowhere [Take III]: When The Hammer Drops").

From what you glean, the end came suddenly. The Chief's tribute doesn't say how he died, but the basic facts involved being rushed to the local hospital, in extreme distress, where he died shortly after his arrival. The Bugle's story doesn't say so, but your own hunches point to a heart attack as the likely scenario. 

You hadn't seen Chief Tightly Wound since that final Star Chamber Conference, where he berated you one last time, for sins real or imagined, before he dropped the axe over your head (figuratively speaking, thank God). "Have fun doing it all yourself," you told him, as you pushed your camera and front door key across the desk in his general direction.

Since then, you'd only seen the Chief a couple more times, including one surreal moment in the local emergency room, where you went after cutting your foot in a stupid household accident. You never noticed him sitting halfway across the room, until somebody else pointed out that fact later. "Why the hell didn't you tell me?" you'd asked. "I could have had one more crack at him."

"That's exactly why I didn't tell you."

"Fair enough," you sigh.

<ii.>

Honestly, though, you hadn't given the Chief much thought lately. You'd left the Daily Bugle's rural confines long ago, for another job in your former hometown. That one fizzled, too, but you'd transitioned to self-employment. The first few years were filled with various psychic stresses, financial and non-financial, but the last three years or so stabilized, as you seemed to learn the game.

Still, you can't help but wonder: How's this one playing out? A quick online search yields one other tribute. It's not from the Daily Bugle (where the Chief lost his job, after it merged with its county rival next door, leaving one editor to preside over both papers -- not two).This other tribute comes from a suburban weekly, where the Chief had been working as a stringer after his freefall from grace.

You already knew that Chief Tightly Wound was a full-time freelancer, though his wife taught in the local school system. Though he undoubtedly found his comedown from full-time work shocking and stressful, she still pulled in a good salary, and he could stay on her insurance. He hadn't fallen on the breadline, even if he was no longer the breadwinner.

Both tributes are telling, as you feel their authors straining to say something positive about the man. Tellingly, past and previous staffers focus on the technical stuff, leaving out the personal tidbits, for the most part. They're all straight out of the Last Train To Clicheville:

A good writer who had many more stories to tell. A fine editor who made me get my game up, though I didn't always like how he did it. A fierce competitor when it came to getting the job done.

How fierce, exactly? Well, one rival correspondent recalls the Chief literally shoving him out of the way at a game, in hopes of taking a better photo. Yup, you tell yourself, sounds like the Chief I knew and hated. No surprises there. For a moment, you're nearly tempted to write the editors of both papers, and tell them: "Okay, now that I've stopped laughing so hard, tell me what the man was really like."

You decide not to waste the time and keystrokes it would take.

Work Work Work Work...

...Die

<iii.>

For a day or two, you push the subject out of your mind. You've run those loops over and over in your brain often enough over the years: 

...The Wednesday staff meetings that ballooned into 45-, 60- and eventually, 90-minute gab fests, as the Chief droned about "managing your time," while you rolled your eyes, and looked at the clock: For God's sake, man, let us get back to work, so we can keep on churning out this stuff you don't pay us enough to produce.

...The constant jibes of, "I'm your boss, not your enemy," whenever the Chief hauled you into the Star Chamber, to which you thought, What's the difference? Either way, I get a shit sandwich. 

...The compliment sandwich style of his first evaluation, one that celebrated your writing abilities, even as it tore down more nebulous qualities, like an alleged unwillingness to attend company functions. You don't recall any being offered, but never mind. Such inconsistencies didn't slow down the Chief a whit.

...The time that you got wildly berated for "not being a newsroom leader," prompting you to remind Chief Tightly Wound: "I think there's room for only one, and right now, that seems to be you. I don't see room for another."

...The resigned hiss you heard from the Chief's mouth, as he explained his real issue with gay marriage, an idea that his fundamentalist brain didn't accept: "Oh, it's coming eventually, all right. Think of all the extra work we'll have to do." That's just like him, isn't it? you thought then. Even as you stack our plates higher and higher, you're really upset about potentially taking on one more task yourself.

...The colleagues that began disappearing as Chief Tightly Wound fired them after a few months here, a year there. Others quit as soon as the sulfur hit their nostrils, like the news director whose face turned chalk white, after she heard him go ballistic over the phone. At whom, you never knew, but you never saw her again. She was gone the next day, and one day, you knew it would be your turn.

...The strange, almost selfish relief you felt after leaving the Bugle's front entrance for the last time: No longer do I have to answer all those stupid questions. Why "we" aren't doing this, or doing that? Why aren't "we" running this story, or not running that one? No need to care, because that royal "we" doesn't include you anymore.

Oh, and I don't have to get there by 7:00 a.m., and stare at that jug-eared prick anymore. These days, you can stay up till 7:00 a.m., which feels a hell of a lot better.

<iv.>

The best part comes last. The moment your Bugle job disappeared, so did your interest in continuing to wear the blue, gray and black T-shirts that they gave out for casual Fridays. 

Not that you bought the whole casual Friday bit, anyway. By the time your last year at the Bugle rolled around, you always arrived with the same prayer on your lips: Dear God, if you're really out there, get me through today without any screaming or yelling, without some drama or incident. Such places lend themselves to many descriptions, but "casual" isn't one of them. 

Yet the Bugle hasn't stood immune from the chill winds of change blowing through the news business. At the time of your axing, the Bugle had shut down its on-site press, outsourcing it to an out of county printer. Later, you heard that the Bugle abandoned its headquarters -- which it owned -- and moved into a far smaller one, in the industrial park, on the edge of town. 

All the dog-eat-dog-ism, it seems, that that the Chief preached -- "Every reporter in America is working harder," "Manage your time," "Overtime is not an option," and your own favorite, "This isn't a charity" -- couldn't save the Bugle from drowning on dry land, its so-called mission swamped by a toxic work atmosphere, and a tsunami of red ink. Well, the Chief's gone, you think. He can't hurt anybody else anymore.

Still, you can't say that you got nothing out of the deal. Those goddamn T-shirts, right, that you wasted no time hacking and ripping into oblivion, because you never wanted the Bugle's name and logo to grace your chest ever again. 

Let the county landfill handle the overflow, you tell yourself. Chucking those blue, gray and black discards into the bin feels oddly satisfying, doesn't it? Just as well, you figure. -- The Reckoner

Links To Go:
Jobs To Nowhere (Take III):
When The Hammer Drops
https://ramennoodlenation.blogspot.com/2018/08/jobs-to-nowhere-take-iii-when-hammer.html

The Truth About Ayn Rand: UPDATED (Justice? No, They Meant, "Just Us")

<Blow up, to read more closely: 

that's the size, which I can't do anything about>

<i.>

This cartoon sums it up nicely, for me, anyway. For all the far right's rhapsodies about Ayn Rand, you rarely hear about what actually happened to her in later life, when her health began to fail, and she'd been abandoned by many of her so-called allies. She'd reached her peak with Atlas Shrugged (1957), which became an international best-seller, despite many negative reviews -- making neither the first, nor last, author to claim that feat.

My personal favorite is one by Whittaker Chambers, the former Communist defector who fingered Alger Hiss as a Soviet spy: "From almost any page of Atlas Shrugged, a voice can be heard, from painful necessity, commanding: 'To a gas chamber—go!'" You can practically see his contempt thundering off the page.

For all the debate about the impracticality and immortality of her Objectivist beliefs (see links, Rand did achieve -- unlike many of her critics -- a measure of pop culture success in her lifetime. It's one of the more fascinating (if overlooked) aspects of her career. Those distinctions included a courtroom drama, Night Of January 16th, that became a Broadway hit in 1935-36, undoubtedly aided by its gimmick (every night, a "jury" of the audience voted on one of two endings to perform).

The results prompted a movie adaptation, Ideal (1941), in which Rand didn't participate, and didn't like. Still, that's hardly a shabby outcome for someone who wasn't a household name, and worked for a time at RKO Pictures' costume department. Other achievements included the reprinting of a novella, Anthem, in Famous Fantastic Mysteries' June 1953 issue.

Fittingly, at the time of her death, in 1982, she was working on a TV adaptation of Atlas Shrugged. Barton Fink, she wasn't.

Ayn Rand's first published work, a 2,500-word 

monograph on actress Pola Negri (1925).Pola who?

We'll have to explore that issue another time.

<Public Domain>

<ii.>

Alas, real life rudely interrupted Rand's unfettered laissez-faire visions. After Atlas Shrugged, Rand turned to nonfiction, publishing several collections of essays that received the same degree of hostility -- such as Gore Vidal, who slammed her efforts in this arena as "nearly perfect in its immorality" -- and far less attention. In 1974, she underwent surgery for lung cancer, following decades of heavy smoking. Two years later, she retired from editing her newsletter, and went on the social programs that she so abhorred: Social Security, and Medicare.

Ironically, the person who convinced Rand to make such a giant leap of faith was someone she already knew: Evva Pryor, an employee of her attorney. As Pryor recalled (see below), whether Rand agreed or not wasn't the issue: "She saw the necessity for both her and (her husband) Frank." Her husband, now struggling with dementia, needed specialized care that would exceed whatever resources she could contribute. She had own health issues to consider, too.

"She had to see that there was such a thing as greed in this world," Pryor stated, in Gary Weiss's book, Ayn Rand Nation: The Hidden Struggle For America's Soul. "Doctors could cost a lot more money than books earn, and she could be totally wiped out by medical bills if she didn't watch it."

The irony of Objectivism's founder allowing herself a philosophical carve-out needs no more elaboration. For Weiss, Rand's decision is less driven by total hypocrisy, than the response of someone with their back against the wall: "Contradictions, and ideology, fade away when one's own personal interests are at stake. Only the very wealthy, a category that did not include Rand in her golden years, can afford Objectivist ideological purity."

The far right, of course, will claim that Rand got the last laugh. They'll cite her influence on  Reaganomics, for instance, and the growing posthumous interest in her writings, which have sold an estimated 29 million copies worldwide, as of 2013, and impact on pop culture figures like Rush's drummer, Neil Peart. It's not hard to imagine the Trumpist acolytes who are out gleefully celebrating the shoehorning of Brett Kavanaugh -- who, beyond the accusations of sexual predation, has justly earned his stripes as a hard right ideological warrior -- onto the Supreme Court.

True enough, on the surface, and yet...and yet, I doubt any of those notions mattered when Rand swallowed hard, signed those forms, and became a recipient of the government help she so despised. Her colleagues could only look on from afar, it seems, and shrug, having watched their dog-eat-dog beliefs spin out to their final, logical, if unsatisfactory conclusion, as Weiss writes: "Reality had intruded upon her ideological pipedreams." As an epitaph, that works well enough for me. --The Reckoner

<Coda: Objectivists Take PPP Money>

UPDATE (7/08/20): What a difference a pandemic makes, right? Here at Ramen Noodle Nation, we couldn't let the news slip by without a tart observation or two. I'm talking about new revelations of the motley array of Trump donors, family members, friends, and supporters who hoovered up some $273 million of the so-called Paycheck Protection Program (PPP) funds.

Who are they, exactly? The Ayn Rand Institute: The Center for the Advancement of Objectivism, in Santa Ana, CA, received $1 million, which it will use to keep its 35-strong workforce employed. I'm not sure what's scarier, that such places are hiring, or you can put food on the table by promoting the Rand brand's mantra of arch selfishness.

A quick glance of the Institute's website shows no reference to their windfall, which seems (to paraphrase my late good friend, Lester Bangs) "slightly inconsistent." This, on top of a disapproving tut-tut from Rand herself, coming from a 1962 essay on seventeenth century businessmen, cited in media reports: "“They knew that government ‘help’ to business is just as disastrous as government persecution, and that the only way a government can be of service to national prosperity is by keeping its hands off.”

Hands off? Seems more like the sort of handout that Rand's Objectivist cult rails against so loudly, right? But the Institute feels no shame, having already told the media, "We will take it unapologetically, because the principle here is: justice."

That statement would sound equally hypocritical, but no less smooth, had it rolled off the marbled lips of other Trump-connected recipients, including son-in-law Jared Kushner's businesses ($8 million), NewsMax, run by Trump donor Christopher Ruddy ($5 million), and Mitch McConnell The Mummy's wife, Transportation Secretary Elaine Chao, whose own business received $350,000 to $1 million, among many, many others (see links below).

Not to worry, though, because Trump's Christian right allies got plenty of money, too -- like Joyce Meyer Ministries, which received $5 million to $10 million alone, the largest sum that any organization could seek. 

This is the same entity whose finances survived a U.S. Senate investigation into its finances  unscratched. How long that did take in the current Trump enabling climate? Five minutes? Apparently, because Meyer has agreed to join something called the Evangelical Council for Financial Accountability. 

You couldn't make up this stuff if you tried.

Presumably, those Council meetings should have plenty of table room for other strange bedfellows, like the Roman Catholic Diocese of San Bernadino, CA, which is implicated in a decades-old sexual abuse scandal, but also received $5 million to $10 million, or First Baptist Church (Dallas, TX), which hosted a rally with Vice President Mike Pence. They got a forgivable loan of $2 million to $5 million. Its pastor, Robert Jeffries, sits on Trump's evangelical advisory board, so draw your own conclusions, right?

Meanwhile, our town's only independent bookstore stood on the verge of closing a couple months ago, because its slowest season is spring -- which, unhappily, coincided with COVID-19's mid-March arrival. Fortunately, the store raised $30,000 through a GoFundMe campaign, fueled by ample word of mouth. The plan to leverage that success for additional funding to secure its future.

Such inconsistencies, of course, don't bother the bad actors I've enumerated above, because they're incapable of empathy for others, and shame is not something they ever allow themselves to feel. Nor does it stop them from wagging their fingers, as they prattle on about the evils of socialism, and intone, "If you don't work, you don't eat."

Judging by the size of their handouts, and the lack of strings attached, I suspect that the "don't work, don't eat" crowd -- like Rand's Objectivist cult -- should be dining out well on the low-hanging fruits of their own hypocrisies for some time to come.

It's the same hypocrisy that allows them to blather endlessly about self-reliance, even as they never stop funneling federal cash for themselves; the same hypocrisy that inspires endless social crusades against "special rights" (read: nonwhites, and/or gays), even as they demand carveout after carveout for their own class, or their business; the same hypocrisy that enables them to feel righteous about "justice," when they really mean..

"Just Us."

It all makes me feel well truly and sick, which is how anyone with an IQ above room temperature should react. If it doesn't, well, maybe you signed up with the wrong resistance. But it also recalls a saying that my dad evoked, in his own denunciations against our local Good Old Boys Club, and I think he had it just about right...

"One crow doesn't peck another."

See you in the funny papers, I guess. But it sure beats the emergency room right now, doesn't it?--The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,

Before They Tip You Out Of The Lifeboat)

(Cut and paste into your browser, if needed, or just type in the title)

Google Books
Ayn Rand Nation: 
The Hidden Struggle For America's Soul:
https://books.google.com/books?id=oJVLHvEPdrQC&lpg=PP1&dq=Ayn%20Rand%20Nation%3A%20The%20Hidden%20struggle%20for%20America%27s%20Soul.&pg=PT60#v=onepage&q=social%20security&f=false

Open Culture: When Ayn Rand 
Collected Social Security & Medicare,
After Years Of Opposing Government Programs:
http://www.openculture.com/2016/12/when-ayn-rand-collected-social-security-medicare.html

Yahoo News:
Televangelists, Dallas Megachurch
That Hosted Pence
Approved For Millions In Pandemic Aid:
https://www.yahoo.com/news/televangelists-dallas-megachurch-hosted-pence-031832590.html

Trump Donors
Among Early Recipients of Coronavirus Loans:
https://www.yahoo.com/news/trump-donors-among-early-recipients-041118435.html