Last night, I was watching documentaries on Netflix with my boyfriend Corey. One of them was called "Park Avenue: Money, Power, and the American Dream," which features clips of Ayn Rand speaking about her vision of Laissez Faire Capitalism. This brought me into research mode, wanting to find out a little more about the Ayn Rand Institute. I have loved Ayn Rand and "Atlas Shrugged" for years, but I never knew that ARI was a political powerhouse. On my quest, I came across an article George Saunders had written for the New Yorker called "I Was Ayn Rand's Lover."
I had known about Ayn Rand's affair with Nathaniel Branden from reading her many biographies, in particular "The Passion of Ayn Rand." It creeped me out quite a bit back then, but now to see that she prowled on more than one innocent young man left me with a sour taste. If you know Ayn Rand and her philosophy of Objectivism, you wouldn't be too surprised that Nathaniel Branden was a target on her radar. To hear Saunders recount his having essentially been "raped" by her was a little off-putting to say the least, but his developing jealousy over Ayn having set her eyes on a young Paul Ryan disturbed me. It wasn't his feelings of jealousy that disturbed me, rather her voracious appetite for bedding young men in late puberty is what was particularly disturbing.
So, we now know of three men in their late teens who were successfully pursued by Ayn Rand. There are probably plenty more, but my interest stops there. Seeing Paul Ryan run wild with Ayn's version of Laissez Faire Capitalism as it pertains to our present day economy was like being punched in the gut by Ayn Rand herself. All of her theories sound good as just that -- a theory, but when put into practice as Paul Ryan has done as a congressman, they are truly frightening. I don't know what plagues me more: the affairs with young boys, or being disillusioned by Paul Ryan's crazy plans for American prosperity.
To understand what I'm talking about, you'll have to do a little research. Most of it can be done by watching the "Park Avenue" documentary, reading "Atlas Shrugged," "The Passion of Ayn Rand" (also a film), and then reading George Saunder's New Yorker piece (which is very well-written, I might add). It amounts to a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, I'll bet, because that's what I'm feeling right now. It can all be summed up in one word: UGH!
Watch the entire "Park Avenue" documentary:
Barbara Branden (Nathaniel Branden's wife) on The Passion of Ayn Rand:
Alonzo Clemons was born with many gifts, but society only saw his shortcomings. Mr. Clemons was institutionalized and deemed "bad" or "evil" by people who didn't even know him. This video shows a gifted artist who admits he has to work much harder than most to live a simple life.
This video shows us that we must not herd all challenged individuals into an institution, thinking it's what's best for them. Alonzo is proof that anyone can live the American Dream if they are willing to work for it, and not everyone who needs help is "bad," "damaged," or "evil."
> See the artistic talent of Alonzo Clemons on his website. <
This is the best article I've read in a long time. It's written on a touchy subject: cheating. I don't do it, and I wouldn't be with anyone who did it to me; and I think there is a different dynamic in the gay world. Gay guys are especially promiscuous, so to find one who isn't is like finding the Holy Grail of gay guys, and you hang on to him with a vulture's grasp.
This article is thought-provoking. Is that how you really are, or know your boyfriend to be? You will hope not, certainly, but after a minute, it sets in. The truth. You'll know, mainly by your Spidey senses, that you or your boyfriend fits into one or both of these roles. What's more interesting is if you're the person who identifies with the role of the writer.
Here is the full article, written by Anonymous, from the Thought Catalog website:
I Will Sleep With Your Boyfriend And This Is How It Will Happen
I will meet him somewhere neutral: a coffee shop, a bar, a bookstore.
I will be cute, but in the way that you never are. With a light sundress that grazes the mid-thigh and a smile that says, “It’s okay, you can talk to me, I don’t bite.” Lately, you have been stressed with work and errands and family problems — you have forgotten that layer of sex appeal that you used to lacquer on before your dates together, the way it used to glimmer in the light and catch his attention from across the room.
He is not a bad person, and neither are you. Times are just difficult and everything loses its shine after a while. The first time he will touch me, his hands will burn because they are still used to the temperature of your body.
When he talks to me in the coffee shop, or the bar, or the bookstore, he will have forgotten how to talk to girls. What once used to come naturally to him, a language he felt he had created himself, will now be stilted and uncomfortable. Everything, he thinks, is going to be a giveaway that he already has a girlfriend and that he shouldn’t be doing this. I already know, of course, but that’s part of why I want him. That’s most of why I want him. He will edge around what he really wants to say, and I will brush my hand against his forearm and he will remember that it wasn’t words at all.
When we go back to my apartment, everything will look different to him, and different has replaced actual sex appeal as the most attractive thing in his world. In my apartment, there are no problems. There are no fights. There is no going to bed in some ugly tee shirt and forgetting to touch one another because you have better things to do, such as play around on your phone. Everything in my apartment will be for pleasure and for now. There won’t be any more complicated subtext.
My friends ask me why I always go for men who are in relationships. I tell them that I don’t know, but that there is something about all the sneaking around they have to do which makes me feel special and rare. I know that it means I am a secret that they need to keep hidden, but the more childish part of me still thinks that secrets are special. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I know that it can never work, and I don’t really want it to.
As soon as our fucking becomes like the sporadic encounters he has with you, as soon as it carries with it even the slightest note of drudgery or repetition or obligation, he will leave. He will make up a reason and go back to you, a cleansed man who will probably find someone new to replace the monotony with. He thinks that I thought he would leave you, but I knew he wouldn’t. They never do. You are his mother, in many ways, and will one day be the mother of his children. I am a placeholder in the shape of a vagina. Madonna and whore.
You think that he cheated on you because you weren’t hot enough. That’s not true. He cheated because he was the kind of man who cheats, and I sought him out because I like men like that. They thrill me even in the predictability of their deception. You let your love run cold, yes, but only in the way that humans do. A more decent man would have stayed with you through the tougher times, stayed honest, and worked with you on building something that can create sexiness in its stability. He would have found you both comfortable and exciting, because he would be capable of seeing more than one facet of your humanity.
You would be better off without him.
I will sleep with him by reminding him of everything he can no longer have with you, and I will lose him by showing him that, after the warmth of the first couple of fucks dies down, I am just like you are. I am just another partner who gets colds and looks messy in the morning and snores after drinking and argues with her mother over the phone. I will sleep with him as a pixie, and I will lose him as a human.
Something To Take Your Mind Off Of The Government: This Crazy Website Shows You How to Find, Buy, and Sell Drugs
I don't know how it exists, but I think a stop should be put to "Silk Road Drugs," a website that tells you in detail--with the use of blogs, programs, and comments from users--how to find, buy, and sell drugs. It has features on the grades of drugs for connoisseurs, search functions, and a detailed method of installation to avoid evidence ever being tied to the pc of origin. I think it's totally cray that this exists. I'm scared to download it to tell you any more about it, so if anyone does, let me know what it's all about. I'm curious, but not enough to get arrested. This is a great article from the New York Times about the creator getting busted, so maybe it's not functioning. Let me know in the comments if you know.
Graciela Martinez, a normal, healthy girl, was found dead from heat stroke in her brother's BMW on Wednesday after a lock malfunctioned. Everybody's just taking this at face value, but seriously? How does a girl get left for dead in her brother's car? Doesn't anyone miss her at the dinner table? And then think to look in the cars, or get in one to go looking for her? This is craziness. Something seems fishy. Here's the article with a video:
A 14-year-old girl was found dead inside a car that investigators said she couldn't exit.
This is definitely weird. Tell me what you think in the comments.
My friend Andy posted a link to this obituary (to follow) which appeared earlier this evening on Gawker. Having grown up with a wonderful mother and grandmother, I can't say I relate to it much, but I can appreciate the lack of sentiment for a woman who must have been pure hell to live with. This obituary says so much in three short paragraphs. Take a look:
Marianne Theresa Johnson-Reddick born Jan 4, 1935 and died alone on Aug. 30, 2013. She is survived by her 6 of 8 children whom she spent her lifetime torturing in every way possible. While she neglected and abused her small children, she refused to allow anyone else to care or show compassion towards them. When they became adults she stalked and tortured anyone they dared to love. Everyone she met, adult or child was tortured by her cruelty and exposure to violence, criminal activity, vulgarity, and hatred of the gentle or kind human spirit.
Thank God I don't live a life that would warrant an obituary like this. As awful as she was to her kids, imagine what she must've felt like inside to be able to treat human beings as objects of torture. I believe she deserves to pay for her crimes, but I also hope she gets to feel love as well. It doesn't seem as though she ever felt it on earth.
UPDATE 09/12/13: The back story behind this scathing obituary came to light on the Huffington Post website yesterday afternoon. Apparently Marianne Reddick was either the foster or adoptive mother of these 8 children, 6 of whom are still alive. According to the story, the children's case was taken to court and resulted in legislation allowing children of abusive parents to terminate their parental rights. These kids aren't martyrs, they actually took action, and I admire them.
To the left is the avatar of the moderator and main advice-giver on That Bad Advice, a website that specializes in giving terribly funny advice in a Dear Abby style. The tagline, "Here's That Bad Advice You Were Hoping For" says everything, the advice is tailored to the question asker's anticipated response to their advice-seeking question. People don't want the truth, they want to hear what they want to hear, so That Bad Advice gives them just that: the bad advice they were hoping for and nothing nothing more. Note the devilish eyes in the avatar, and proceed with caution. Here are a couple of my favorites:
Help, My Professors Sit On Their Desks!
Subscribe for Updates
My name is Nicholas Emeigh, but everyone calls me Nick, and I prefer it. I'm usually called Nicholas when I'm in trouble. I'm from the Philadelphia area, work in business, and fancy myself as a freelance graphic designer, writer, and artist. I have a passion for art in all its forms including music, but I restrict my singing to the shower and the car for the good of society. If you'd like to know more, just send me an e-mail. I really appreciate you stopping by.