Greg came home last night, and had apparently heard a podcast of interviews with Ayn Rand. I was cooking a few hamburgers. I had a spatula in my hand, standing in the kitchen, slightly sweaty from the oven.
Greg said, "You aren't an
Objectivist, are you?"
He said this out of the blue. He came home, plucked his ear buds out of his head, and stood in the hall outside the kitchen. A hamburger was sizzling on the stove. A few drops of grease fell from the spatula that I had in my hand, the spatula that had paused on its way to a burger-flipping when he asked the question.
"Objectivist? You mean, Ayn Rand shit?"
"Yeah. Do you believe in Objectivism?"

Here's what happened in me: surprise that Greg had just now been confronted with the philosophy, confusion over why he'd ask me if I were an Objectivist, kind of turned on that he was asking me about it, and concern that the burger patty would burn in the stunned pause.
I mean, who even thinks of Objectivism anymore? Isn't that an archaic form of Scientology or something? Does anyone take Ayn Rand seriously? Seriously?
"No," I said. "To be honest, the whole thing disgusts me. I totally get that one should be sort of selfish, but Rand failed to make the leap to admitting that the lives of others influence her own life." Except I wasn't that articulate about it. I was almost that articulate, though.
For the record, the podcast he'd been listening to had put objectivism in the basest of terms, spilled out like Legos. But even in its basic version, objectivism is dull and cerebral and ignorant of human nature--like communism without the vodka.
"You don't like Ayn Rand?" Greg asked.
I flipped the burger because it needed to be flipped. Then answered, "No, not at all."
And here's the fun part: Greg sighed dramatically, moved towards me, and gave me a long hug. It was as if he spends a lot of time trying to figure out what I think, what philosophy I roll with, and was relieved that this particular one could be tossed aside.
I actually was relieved too, because I felt the same thing about him.
A bit later, I dropped some Wensleydale cheese onto the burger (I'd bought Wensleydale in honor of
Wallace and Gromit), tossed down some steamed green beans, and slid the plate next to him as he played GTA 4. We both have different ways of approaching life, but I don't think either of us are likely to turn
Atlas Shrugged into a guidebook anytime soon.
Tags: greg