The Gullible, The Credulous, And The Naive - The Happy Jamboree Of Protest

Images of the No Kings protests have been better than cartoons.  No Daffy Duck, Porky Pig, Or The Big Bad Wolf Saturday matinees could possibly match the hilarious show of walkers, placards, and festoons.  

There was no point to the protests.  They weren't anything like the anti-war protests or demands for civil rights legislation of the Sixties.  They were not suffragettes marching for the vote or for repeal of Prohibition.  They were not out to challenge redistricting, government waste and fraud, the building of data centers, AI invasion, or job-ending robotics. 

They were happy jamborees.  As Thomas Sowell put it:

Activism is a way for useless people to feel important, even if the consequences of their activism are counterproductive for those they claim to be helping and damaging to the society as a whole

 

Brenda Potter had a sinecure at a small Southern college - a white woman committed to the black cause, tireless promoter of women and the underserved, more hesitant but still supportive of gay rights, and a campus icon. She was on the right side of every issue - the environment, civil rights, immigration, wealth distribution, and peace.  

Donald Trump stuck in her craw, and she was never reluctant to speak her mind about his devilish influence.  'There's Dr. Potter', young coeds would say to each other as they saw her walking across campus. 

Every Friday she arranged protests on Jefferson Street - or rather a white Southern version of sit-ins, old people sitting on folding chairs holding hand-written signs to passersby.  Brenda arranged sweet tea and and cucumber sandwiches for them, and on hot days pitchers of lemonade. 

The attendance was sparse, far from what it had been at the first No Kings rally that Brenda had arranged.  That was quite an affair and she and her associates thought it was the start of something really big, a nationwide groundswell of protest that would end with the resignation of the President.  It was a marvelous event - balloons, festoons, and hundreds of ordinary citizens of the town locked arm in arm in protest. 

Sadly there were no black people in attendance.  They had other fish to fry, scullery jobs, hunting down absent husbands, visits to Ardmore, the state penitentiary where their men were incarcerated, grandchildren to watch.  Brenda understood but was still disappointed.  Solidarity in this small Mississippi town meant black and white.  The chances of regime change would be far better with a few black faces in the crowd. 

Nevertheless the rally was a great success.  People came away flushed with pride, well-being, and enthusiasm.  They had done something!

'Let's do this again!' said Harper Mills who owned the flower shop on Main and who placed a big NO TRUMP sign in her store window on protest days, left her granddaughter in charge of the flowers while she was protesting, and business was good on those activist days. 

Brenda was not the only No Kings protest enthusiast.  Thousands of older Americans took to the streets from Poughkeepsie to Santa Barbara, feeling the old Freedom Ride juices flowing, and the sense of Sixties destiny. There was jubilation in the air. 

When a reporter from the Biloxi Dispatch asked Brenda what the purpose of the No Kings rally was, she was for a moment flustered.  No one had ever asked her that question because it did not need to be asked.  'We are united in protest against Donald Trump', she said assuming that was enough; but the young reporter wasn't satisfied and asked for more details.  What, exactly, did Brenda hope to accomplish?

Again, she hesitated, composing her thoughts and tamping down her frustration.  What a vaporous question she thought, but managed the usual litany - black people, ICE, asylees, Wall Street, cronyism, women, saying it all in a cadence she had picked up from Pastor Henry of her church, The Seventh Baptist Church of Aberdeen, a true orator, and master of rhythm, beat, and tempo. 

The reporter took a few notes, thanked Brenda for her time, and went over to an old woman knitting next to a 'Democracy Matters' sign propped up by her privet hedge.  The woman had nothing to say except that she had been wheeled there by her granddaughter and told to cheer when the balloons were let off into the sky. 

The protest rallies on the National Mall in Washington were no different, only bigger.  They were happy jamborees, thousands of likeminded people all gathered together for camaraderie and mutual support.  There was nothing like an abortion rally to quell any doubts about conception, fetus viability, or morality.  Women were as happy as can be chanting for Abortion Now, Abortion Forever - ironically reminiscent of segregationist George Wallace who stood on the steps of the University of Alabama in the Sixties and shouted to a crowd, 'Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever!'

The same was true for climate change, peace, or capitalism.  'Occupy Wall Street' was a popular movement a few years back and like No Kings had rallies and protests from coast to coast; and like No Kings had no particular agenda except that the concentration of wealth in the hands of a few New York bankers was tantamount to treason and that the whole shebang should come tumbling down. 

Brenda had kept her Occupy Wall Street placards and the friendship bracelet a young woman had given her at the Washington abortion rally - these issues were not dead, just dormant, and would soon emerge once again in a halcyon year of liberation. 

Marfa Phillips put a big red cross on every Friday of the month on her kitchen calendar so that she wouldn't forget to protest.  She was getting forgetful these days - yesterday she almost burned the pot roast and the day before kept her granddaughter waiting at her pre-school until the principal called her. 

It wasn't long before she forgot exactly what she was headed out to Jefferson Street for, but looked forward to seeing Millie Higgins and Blanche Overton and nibbling Brenda's lovely cucumber sandwiches (she trimmed the crusts so perfectly) and didn't overdo it on the chutney. 

So the trio - Marfa, Millie, and Blanche - were a metaphor for the protests.  They had no clue what they were for or about, and were just happy to have something different to do on Friday afternoons. 

A small piece on the protests appeared in the Style section of the Biloxi Dispatch 

Friday was Lake Forest's big day.  Washington DC-style No Kings protests came to this small Mississippi town, and the atmosphere was jubilant.  'We are proud of our heritage', said organizer and prime mover of the event, Brenda Potter who went on to list her grievances. 'We are here to show Donald Trump that 'the people care'.  The cucumber-and-chutney sandwiches were apparently a big hit. 

Brenda cut it out, reprinted it and distributed it to all those who protested.  'See', she said. 'We did make a difference.' 

Water Sports - San Francisco Gay Men Try To Teach Safe Sex To Africans, The Straightest Men On The Planet

Louis Bennett of Noe Valley, San Francisco had been devastated by the deaths of so many of his friends from AIDS.  'Our comeuppance', he said.  'Too many holes in bathhouse walls, too many street corner to-dos, too many...' Enough, already! The damage had been done, remedial action taken, and it was time to give back to the community. 

Bennett had become known as Mr. Clean, advocate that he was for safe sex - things like fisting, water sports, and his favorite, 'planing' an acrobatic, muscular exercise which involved trussing, hooping, and greasing. The walls of his small office in the Mission were covered with Venice Beach men, all glistening muscles and skimpy Speedos.  He and his friends cruised the streets of the Castro not for pickups but for evangelism.  

'Save Your Life' was the headline, and Bennett worked the back corners of the neighborhood at all hours, breaking up grossly inappropriate, dangerous sex, risking his life especially on Castro Street in the dead of night when the Tough Boys roamed the streets. 

He rounded up volunteers to keep Bay-to-Breakers and the Folsom Street Fair clean, but had little success.  Both, especially the parade from bay to ocean, 100 percent flouncy gay, more colorful and  exuberant than Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but also the S&M extravaganza below Van Ness, were such fun romps that no one was listening to some gay boy preachers.

 

In any case, when the US State Department and its international development agency began to invest millions in AIDS prevention in Africa, its major contractor, the Academy for Social Education, contacted Bennett and asked if he and his group of activists might be interested in working in Africa, teaching black men the ins and outs of safe sex.  The San Francisco crew were pioneers in the field and their efforts would be welcomed in Africa. 

The Academy bid and won a major contract to work in West Africa, a hotbed for HIV infection, and Vice President William Shaver, a formerly closeted gay man who once out felt it only right and proper that he should do something for his community.  

Shaver had known Bennett in the good old days before the specter of viral infection, and in fact was a frequent visitor to Bennett's cat house on Valencia.  They would take in a Giants game, eat sushi, then head out for the clubs.  It was a wild, ecstatic time.  Bill's double life ended when he got careless and his wife found him in the attic - she thought it was raccoons - with his lover, and his new life as activist began. 

Now Africa is not only one of the straightest places on earth but one where serial, multiple, frequent sexual encounters are not only common but part of every man's day.  It takes two to tango, of course, and African women are as eager for a frequent roll in the hay as men.  Sex is going on in bedrooms, in the fields, on riverbanks, in brothels, in train compartments, in bus station restrooms, everywhere.  The idea of protection is anathema, condoms rejected out of hand, and abstinence is only for nuns. 

So, when the first group of gay men from San Francisco, ready to teach their African brothers the techniques of safe sex, made their way to the Hotel Independence and prepared for the first night out on the town, they had no way of knowing what to expect.  It was a little intimidating to be around all these big, black African men and to be honest, rather exciting; but as far as broaching the subject, they could only rely on their home experience.  

The USAID office's Health Division was responsible for the visit, and pulled out all the stops to arrange for a town meeting to be held in a neighborhood community center where they had distributed food. It was a kind of soup kitchen affair - to get fed you had to hear about Jesus - and in this case a buffet and beer was offered after Bennett and his associates finished their exposition.  

From the moment these gay boys sashayed up on stage - as flamingly, outrageously flamboyant as anyone from the Castro could be - they were hooted, jeered, and laughed at.  The whole assembly got up and danced the Can-Can in the aisles, stripping off their shirts, wagging their booty, and whooping and hollering with delight.  

The USAID handlers had all they could do to quiet the assembly down, but by this time they all had crowded to the buffet table and were already chowing down. 

The next evening was out of the movie The Birdcage where the drag queen, who has promised his lover to tone things down a bit when the lover's son and fiancée come to Miami to visit.  The drag queen, Albert, carefully dressed in conservative business suit and tie, sits properly before Armand and the young man, his shocking pink socks daringly showing.  When Armand points them out, Albert looks down and say, 'One does want a bit of color'; and so it was with Bennett and his crew, all conservatively dressed, proper, and professional with only bits of the Castro showing. 

When the subdued crowd saw the first images on the flip chart - water sports, men pissing on each other and getting off on it all - the bellowing, howling, and jumping in the aisles began as before, this time even more animated and wild.  Even the whiff of boiled meat and greens did nothing to quell the enthusiasm. 

'Where are the gay men?' asked Bennett of his USAID handler. 'Perhaps if they were on stage with us'. 

'They're pretty hard to find', he was told, and in fact social scientists had done recent surveys in Lagos and Accra to investigate this surprising demographic anomaly.  It was a commonly held scientific opinion that all societies had a predictably constant three percent gay population

'We can't find any', said team leader Axel Fanning, 'and we really tried.' 

Axel had sent out a team of American, African-looking gay men to cruise the neighborhoods, but without luck.  In fact they were met with more homophobia, crass and crude remarks, and outright hostility than they had ever encountered at home. 'My homeboys weren't up for it', said one researcher.  Researchers at Harvard laughed at the methodology, and dismissed the null findings; but that's all the USAID manager had to offer. 

So the Castro gay boys had to go out there once more with their pamphlets, flip charts, and good will, but it seemed that any sex other than banging women from all angles was unheard of, laughable and ridiculous. 

Getting African men to stop their Lotharian behavior was like keeping fat women away from the cheesecake.  It was not possible. 

AIDS prevention in Africa never worked, and only the introduction of anti-retroviral drugs slowed the infection and reduced to acceptable levels. Curing it, or keeping the virus in abeyance was Africa's only hope. 

'Meet any cute guys over there?', Bill asked Bennett upon his return; but of course that little perk never happened.  The best they could do was enjoy each other's company, but that was so old hat, particularly since they were all looking for some foreign adventure. 

The project was cancelled, the money returned, and the gay boys went back to San Francisco.  It was USAID all over again, and another prime example why the shuttering of its doors was a good thing. The whole episode was in the news, and photos accompanying the story - water sport flip charts and Africans dancing in the aisles - made USAID even more ridiculous than ever.  

USAID planners and programmers never had much sense in the first place, but 'Water Sports Go African' was the jewel in the crown. 

The End Of Foreign Assistance - Adios To 'Development' Scams, The Fiction Of Doing Good, And Lining The Pockets Of Africa's Big Men

The New York Times recently ran an article chronicling the lives of former USAID foreign assistance workers whose jobs were eliminated by Musk, DOGE, and the Trump Administration's program to eliminate unnecessary, financially draining, and inefficient bureaucracies. 

'Former USAID workers,' the Times began, 'estimate that less than half have found full-time work.' Being fired once has apparently left them permanently scarred. A full year later, the Times explained, 'many said they were still dealing with mental trauma and a loss of confidence in their professional abilities.' 

They felt privileged.  The Times explained that 'they thought of themselves as ambassadors for American 'soft power' - meaning leftist regime change - and 'are still burning from President Trump's characterization of them as 'radical-left loonies'. 

This sympathetic portrayal of coddled, insular idealists is only half the story.  Not only were they executors of projects which were hopelessly fanciful, unaccountable, and little more than Christmas gifts to dictators, they led the good life while so doing.  Once 'the people' were served - half-completed rural wells, bare school kitchens, and empty training centers visited - they went back to their European-style hotels, dined on Brittany oysters, foie gras from the Périgord, and trout from the Pyrenees.  

Meanwhile their 'government counterparts' used the wealth of rare earths, oil and gas reserves, and geopolitical position to get and maintain 'favorable nation status' - a carte blanche to take development money, invest it in private offshore accounts, and to rule restive populations with an iron hand. 

The former President of Mali was a master at playing the West for fools.  It cost him nothing to wave the American flag while he bought, with their money, Chinese and Russian arms.  His secret police was as brutal as Sevak, Stasi, or the Tonton Macoute, and American dupes, like former American Secretary of State Hillary Clinton bought the charade hook, line, and sinker. 

The President promised Clinton to hold 'free and fair elections', reform the judiciary, and extend generous welfare programs.  The price for such reforms was small - only a few millions of dollars which the United States could easily afford. 

Of course the wool had been pulled over Clinton's eyes, so intent was she to tout a black African success story. The President had no intention of doing any of these things, and once the American money had been deposited in the national treasury and earmarked for 'developmental justice', the rigged election took place returning him to office with ninety-five percent of the vote, the people saw not a cent of the 'investment', the monies were distributed liberally to loyal generals, and life went on as it always had.

Aid workers cared little for these high-level political affairs.  They went to Africa to do good and to live well.  It was the one-to-one exercise of American fraternity that mattered.  In project after project, the ends - reduced malaria, tetanus, AIDS, tuberculosis - were less important than the means, and community participation was the byword. Local communities were consulted at every turn, but the projects were still executed as Washington handlers had designed them.  

Not only were scams happening in the Presidential palace, but 'on the ground'.  The people got nothing they wanted, nothing they deserved. Only the aid workers were happy that they were partners with their 'beneficiaries'. 

Project after project failed miserably.  No matter how contractors cooked the books and USAID managers looked the other way, the fact remained that the people got nothing.  It was enough, said these aid workers to have shown the people the value of diversity, equity, and inclusivity on a national scale.  They were not in Africa to tell the people anything - they were there to listen - but of course they did nothing of the kind and executed the meaningless, porous, and devious projects handed to them by Washington to deliver. 

So it is not surprising that cashiered USAID workers are whining. Not only was the rug of 'helping the poor' pulled out from under them, but the good expatriate life denied.  What was left? Trained in nothing more than idealism, armed only with an unwarranted and seemingly endless enthusiasm for 'the people', and used to the good life of airconditioned suites and clean sheets, of course they whined. Who in the private sector would have such a lot of airy idealists with no clue how the world worked?

Robert McNamara, former Secretary of Defense in the Vietnam War era, got religion after the conflict had ended and Ho Chi Minh and the North reunited the country.  'What have I done?', McNamara asked in his memoir, a windy volume of mea culpas and hopes for forgiveness.  He had blood his hands from Rolling Thunder, wave after wave of B-52 bombers dropping mega-tons of bombs on the country, firestorms of napalm, and punishing cannon fire - all to no avail as the little gooks in black pajamas huddled underground, emerged after the attack and went on to beat the American army at every turn. 

Having been chastened and hoping to make amends, McNamara became the President of the World Bank and immediately changed it from lender of last resort - i.e. directing countries to first appeal to private lenders on capital markets and then only to finance loans at commercial rates for worthy projects - to a hopelessly do-good institution were 'poverty reduction' was the meme.  This policy shift ushered in the new 'development of the day' - feel-good projects of health, education, and welfare and a rejection of projects for infrastructure.  

The die had been cast, and billions of dollars were authorized for unaccountable soft loans. African countries knew exactly what was what and took the Bank for a ride, a con of monumental proportions. 

Once the august World Bank had taken this turn, bi-lateral organizations such as USAID followed suit, and the whole Third World struck it rich, a bonanza of wealth safely secured in the Bahamas, Aruba, and St. Kitts. 

'What am I to do now?', said a tearful Belinda Marks, former USAID consultant, old Africa hand, manager of millions in health money, guest at the best international hotels on the continent, poolside lizard, and friend of Africans.  She was at a loss, at sixes and sevens, for all she knew how to do was to oversee projects which had no bottom line.  No matter how poor the success rate, USAID kept pouring money into welcoming African coffers.  '

We've learned from our mistakes and will do better next time', hapless USAID managers promised their superiors who authorized Phase II, Phase III, ad infinitum, so Belinda simply had to keep traveling to Africa, do her field visits, write reports about community engagement, and fly home. 

No one should have any sympathy for these disingenuous development idealists. It was a good life - no accountability, fictional reports, airy promises, drinks at the pool bar, buffet breakfasts and weekends at the falls, the mountains, the beaches, or villas. 

If they had worked in the private sector and got let go, they would not whine but regroup, retool, reconfigure, and move on. Government service is a shell game. The private sector means business. 

It is also not surprising that the New York Times, once the paper of record, the Grey Lady, the objective source for information, and an All The News That's Fit To Print reputation, has turned to such treacly, sob-sister reporting.  The paper has become a rag, a progressive shill which has lost all credibility; but this story takes the cake.  Millions of readers took a look and said, 'Good riddance', while the editorial room met to discuss a sequel.