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Monday
Aug312009

Day 75-6: Rough Sex—Who Objects to Ayn Rand’s Struggle?

If emails could maim, I wouldn’t be able to type. I received a very strange message from Nina, who thinks I’ve been calling her and demands that I stop. I replied, asking if she needs help. I don’t know what to do. The voice mail at her office sounds fine. Is she playing games with me?

On top of that, my friendly reader has seized on my reference to the sexuality in Rand’s novels to ask if I believe women need always surrender to the men who won’t admit defeat. She’s referring to the bottom billing embraced by Rand’s leading ladies when they encounter the Heroes Who Resist Mediocrity & Collectivization.

DONATIEN ALPHONSE DE SADE, MARQUISI confess, Madame! The first time I ever thought much about S&M, I was a 13-year-old holding a big fat book, Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. Dagny Taggart was leaving Hank Reardon’s rail car the morning after with a bloody lip, some bruises, and a smile I couldn’t comprehend. Miss Railroad Princess sure didn’t seem to mind that Mr. Steel Baron was a clumsy kisser. Weeks later, reading Howard Roark’s epic rape of Dominique Francon in The Fountainhead confirmed my confusion.

Yet I survived. The books helped make me a libertarian while leaving me a gentleman, confirming the virtues of unadulterated free speech.

Our crusty commentator also ripped my um, subtle joke about the LES DIY as a ‘voluntarist’ association. They’re altruists, as she goes on to emphasize: “We help people because we believe it’s in our interest to do so. WE ARE *&@%$^ [my special code] HUMAN BEINGS.”

LEOPOLD VON SACHER-MASOCH (Jacek Proszyk)Then came another swing at your wretched blogger. “If you want your girlfriend back, maybe you shouldn’t publish reports about your public makeout sessions.”

Finally she tried to turn Gene Clark against me. She attached Death in Vegas‘ cover version of one of his greats, So You Say You Lost Your Baby. It features a booming vocal from Paul Weller of the old Jam as he taunts a guy who’s moaning about a lost love when in fact, he’s the real baby. Uh, I get it.

Clark’s versions of the song are far richer (here's one). (For Death In Vegas, Madame, I prefer Dirge, or Aisha, the serial killer song Iggy Pop recorded with them for their cd, The Contino Sessions—on sale here, of course.)

Oh heck, I get her point. I’ve been whining. I hate that, too.

She followed that with the first Web icon I’ve seen her use—a blue frowny face. Which effectively spells B-A-B-Y.

« Day 74: A Libertarian Flu Blogger’s Political Devolution | Main | Day 77-9: Don’t Just Drift Into the Flu’s Second Wave »