It’s Day 341 of 15 Days to Flatten the Curve. Deb and I are well.
Yesterday marked 30 days since Facebook disabled my account. The social-media site appears to have disappeared my (previously unblemished) pages permanently for “violating community standards.” As Groucho Marx quipped when he resigned from the Friars Club,
“I don’t want to belong to any club that would accept me as one of its members.”
The point, applied here, is that there’s no integrity in being accepted under unacceptable terms. Those “community standards” aren’t so much standards as they are an ideological cudgel wielded by our Betters, when it suits them, to expel anyone who doesn’t subscribe to groupthink.
I made one attempt to investigate the specific reason for my eviction from Zuck’s Sandbox. I was informed — immediately and by way of an automated message — that I wasn’t entitled to that information, nor did I have the option of appealing the decision.
Fine with me. Considering Facebook‘s typical justifications for tossing accounts, I consider my dismissal to be a badge of honor.
Perhaps related to learning that my banishment is forever (and not a 30-day jail sentence), yesterday I introduced a new feature to Ubi Libertas Blog — in the main menu, below the header image at the top of every page, you’ll see a “Contact“ link.
Readers who have an intelligent observation, or who simply want to reach out to Deb and me, now have a way to do so. I still don’t intend to make this an interactive forum, but I figured that adding a basic contact form to the blog would be humane and reasonably low-maintenance.
I can’t say how promptly I’ll reply, or even that I’ll respond at all. I suppose it’ll depend on the content of a particular message. Please don’t use the contact form to dump links on me, push a favorite conspiracy theory or share YouTube drivel. And I promise you, trolls will be ignored.
Our new-to-us motorhome, as I’ve mentioned before, is a Beaver. It was manufactured by Monaco Coach Corporation, which had acquired Safari Motorcoach Corporation, which previously had bought-out Beaver Coaches.
All of those companies are now defunct, gone from the RV industry. As often happens with brands that vanish, a combination of pride and nostalgia lead to fellowship among owners. That’s definitely the case with Beavers, which have an almost cult-like following.
Deb and I decided to join the Beaver Ambassadors Club, a national organization founded as a chapter of the Family Motor Coach Association (in which we already held membership). The group offers a range of benefits, with its “hive mind” of experience and technical advice the most valuable to us.
There are rallies and caravans. The majority of members appear to be my age and older. They play bingo and eat ice cream. It’s all very folksy and quintessentially American.
I submitted our membership application — yes, each and every member must be approved — on Wednesday. The next evening, while we were enjoying dinner at Squeek’s Bar & Grill, my cell phone buzzed with an incoming call from a Wisconsin area code. As is my custom with numbers unfamiliar, I let it roll to voicemail.
Listening to the message later, I was glad to hear that it wasn’t some Mumbai guy concerned about my truck’s extended warranty — no, this was a cordial and unscripted call from one of the Beaver Ambassadors Club’s national officers, formally welcoming Deb and me, offering to help to us in any way we might need.
I was positively stunned. I thought, who does that?
These days it’s rare for someone to take time to make that kind of personal contact, especially in an organization that size. It seems to me that we’ve all become content with the perfunctory act of joining. A simple phone call, like the one we got Thursday, sows the seeds of belonging.
That’s the way it used to be. Maybe we’ve stumbled onto something here.
I mean, I do love ice cream. I probably could learn to like bingo.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.