The Big Lie

Claude and Nelson were nervous – they had never been on television before. But, then again, no lemming had ever been interviewed on television, so they bore the weight of knowing they were species pioneers, speaking for the first time to the viewing public. Usually, lemmings only showed up in nature films, with the predictable footage of thousands of their brothers and sisters hurdling suicidally off cliffs to their deaths in a varmint Jonestown, so they put aside their nervousness for the chance to set the record straight.

“Claude, Nelson, it’s a pleasure to have you both here today,” the interviewer began. “But before we begin, Claude – you are Claude, right?” he said to the one on the right, “there is no smoking in the studio.”

Claude put out his cigarette. For a creature only six inches long, he handled his smoke adroitly. Both he and Nelson had attractive, short black snouts that gave way to white jaws and bellies and lustrous brown coats.

“Thanks,” the interviewer said. “Now, let’s get right to it. Mass suicide. Thousands of you racing for a cliff, leaping over the edge to a certain death. What’s that all about?”

Nelson spoke first. “It’s nonsense.” he said. “It’s a calumny that affects every lemming every day of his or her life. This ‘lemmings commit mass suicide’ stuff is not true and never has been true. It’s the Big Lie.”

“#Don’t Jump!” Claude injected. He was smaller and more agitated than his colleague – no wonder he still hadn’t quit smoking.

“But,” the interviewer probed gently, “we’ve all seen the movies –”

We’ve all seen a movie,” Nelson said, determined to maintain his composure. “In fact, it all goes back to one movie, a pseudo-documentary called White Wilderness made by Walt Disney in 1958, which intentionally and maliciously created the myth that lemmings engage in mass suicides by jumping off cliffs and into the Arctic Sea as a matter of course, like Inuit Granny without the ice floe.”

“That’s a weighty accusation,” the interviewer said cautiously. “You’re saying that’s not true? That lemmings don’t race suicidally off cliffs by the thousands?”

“An out-and-out lie,” Claude replied, his very small cup of coffee kicking in. “I would say ‘fake news,’ but unlike most other ‘fake news,’ it’s actually fake. And not only is it completely fraudulent, but it’s a slander against our species, against all rodents, in fact, as if rodents haven’t been smeared enough already.”

The interviewer’s brow gathered inquisitively. “You think rodents haven’t been given a fair shake?”

“Well, think about it,” Nelson picked up on the point. “A European sailing ship laden with cargo -- or perhaps enslaved humanity plundered from their ancestral homes -- anchors at some port somewhere to fulfill its imperialist design and it’s the rat who was trapped in its hold for however many weeks and months looking for something to eat that gets blamed for spreading disease when it runs down a hawser, as if the rat was in charge.”

The interviewer paused. “I suppose I never thought of it that way.”

Nelson sighed to compose himself. “Very few do.”

“But how did this falsehood take root?”

“I’ll tell you how,” Claude interrupted angrily. “Disney’s producers went to an Inuit village in Manitoba and paid the local kids a quarter a piece for a few dozen of our brothers and sisters.”

“Well, wait,” Nelson said sensitively. “Inuit children very often keep lemmings as pets, the way your American children might keep a pet hamster, or their iPhone. They’re very nice children, we have no quarrel with them.”

“Another oppressed rodent!” Claude spat, unable to share Nelson’s tact. “It’s all around us and we accept it as if it were normal! One creature running in a wheel all day for the amusement of another! What barbary! And then one day Aunt Florence shows up as the trim on someone’s anorak. Fur is murder!”

“That’s a separate matter,” Nelson said, cutting off Claude’s tirade in the interest of getting his message across. “So, the producers abducted the kidnapped Inuit lemmings to Calgary – that’s a thousand kilometers away, look it up -- and rigged them up on a turntable up so they’d go flying off a cliff on cue. Just flung them off the cliff, as if Romans were throwing larcenous slaves off the Tarpeian Rock. Murdered to fake a documentary for the producer’s personal profit! And then they dumped another bunch of the poor creatures -- the ones they claimed had survived the plunge from the cliff, as if they hadn’t been subjected to enough! -- in what they said was the Arctic Ocean, but was really the Bow River, which runs right through downtown Calgary, nowhere near the Arctic Ocean, unless you live in the Lower 48. A complete fabrication, a con job. They just herded them into the icy river to drown.”

The interviewer was genuinely surprised. “That’s shocking! Especially coming from a company such as Disney –”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be that shocked,” Nelson said sardonically. “Look at what they did to that poor mouse, dressing him up in those silly jumpers with the big buttons and the white gloves –”

“Mickey Mouse?”

“Yes! That’s his name!” Nelson said. “The poor bugger.”

“But he’s just a cartoon,” the interviewer said. “He’s not real.”

The two lemmings looked at each other bewilderedly. “A…what?”

“A cartoon,” the interviewer repeated. “That’s not a real mouse, it was just a drawing, you know, animation?”

The lemmings were confused, so they hastily got back on message. “Well, genocide was what it was,” Nelson said. “A vicious smear of lemmings everywhere, a rodent snuff movie. And lemmings everywhere have suffered as a consequence.”

The interviewer adopted an inquisitive air. “In what way?”

“For one, people think we’re idiots,” Claude blurted with a sneer. “And imagine how you’d feel if a species that invented disco music, angel dust, New Coke, and the Holocaust considered you an idiot!” He wanted another cigarette.

“But it goes deeper than that,” Nelson said diplomatically, framing with his tiny paws. “It has to do with the way lemmings see themselves. Sure, there are some lemmings whose consciousness has been raised, who see through what’s been done to us. And every now and then you’ll find an old hand who had an ancestor in the Bow River Massacre –”]

“Never again!” Claude shouted, his tiny, clawed paw making a fist in the air.

“But for the vast majority of lemmings, it hangs over them like a cloud. ‘Oh,’ they think, ‘I’m prone to mass suicides, I’d best be careful.’ And as a result, they don’t do what they’re supposed to do, what every lemming is born to do!”

“And what is that?!” the interviewer asked.

“It’s to migrate!” Nelson cried triumphantly. “The very essence of being a lemming is to migrate, because our place in the ecosystem is so fluid. If the winter’s a hard one, or if the raptor bird population had a good spring, then it will take us quite a while to restore our herd and we usually stay put. But a mild winter, easier access to grasses, roots, willow buds , maybe even an insect or two for protein -- and we’ll respond with prodigious breeding – it’s as if we were multiplication tables with nasty bits attached. And when there get to be too many of us for the environment to support, well, it’s time to move on.”

“Ah! Move on, meaning…suicide?”

“No,” Nelson admonished calmly, “migration.”

The interviewer felt foolish. “And what’s that like?”

“It’s gas!” Claude exclaimed. “You got to imagine – thousands of us, tens of thousands, racing alongside each other towards some unknown destination. Each one part of the whole, part of the mass, everybody on the Jones, you know? Imagine everyone around you racing in the same direction –”

“Not to a cliff,” Nelson added.

“Yeah, yeah, not to a cliff,” Claude continued. “But, you start to hear the music, it’s like drums playing, man!” His cute little black nose twitched excitedly. “Are you sure I can’t smoke in here?” he asked in a quiet voice.

“Yes,” the interviewer replied.

Nelson sighed. “Well, let’s just say that unless you’ve been one of ten thousand lemmings rampaging across the tundra like a herd of tiny buffalo at ground level, you haven’t lived. The feeling, the exhilaration – it’s hard to put into words. But that’s the point – migration is central to the lemming experience, but now there are lemmings out there who think, ‘I’d better not migrate, because we might all race over a cliff and plunge to our deaths, or swim out into the icy depths of the Arctic Ocean until we’re too exhausted to continue and drown.’ And it’s all because of the Myth of the Drowning Lemming.”

“And that’s our message, particularly to the young ‘uns,” Claude said. “Keep migrating, keep moving, don’t be afraid. A lemmings gotta do what a lemming’s got to do.”

And with that, the producer announced “Cut” and interview was over. The studio lights went down and the production crew came over and took the mics off the two. “You guys were good,” one of them said. “I didn’t know any of that stuff.”

Claude and Nelson smiled appreciatively as Claude took out a smoke. “Got a light?” he asked a crew member.

He took a deep drag and blew out a jet of smoke. “And they call us suicidal,” he muttered, shaking his head.

• 

• 

• 

Human Resources

Soupworth, a functionary in Human Resources, was sitting in his cubicle when a notification came across his computer screen. Your two o’clock appointment is here.

He stepped out to find an attractive woman in her thirties sitting there, dark hair and eyes and a lavish smile of perfect teeth. Soupworth nodded neutrally, as human resources officials do, and quietly wondered which of The Firm’s employees had harassed her – The Firm had a bad history on that score. He directed her to the seat next to his desk.

“Well, very pleased, Ms.….” he said, looking at his screen as his fingers on the keyboard awaited her response.

“Markle,” she said. “Meghan Markle. Although you might have me in the system as Meghan Markle Windsor.”

“Your Highness!” Soupworth turned and phumphered apologetically, having not recognized her. “My apologies, but I am required to fill out this form,” he said awkwardly. “Could you state your position here?”

“Duchess of Sussex,” she replied.

“Thank you,” Soupworth said with a rigid smile. “Now, what brings you to Human Resources today?”

“I have several questions about benefits.”

“Well, rest assured we offer the very best in benefits for executives at your level in The Firm. We offer health, dental, pension, castle, servants and footmen, stable privileges, ownership of all the swans in the Thames, driving without a license, personal poet, hunting dogs –”

“My questions really concern titles.”

“Titles, you say? Well, that is something of a gray area,” Soupworth confessed. “We might consult the Human Resources manual, but unfortunately,” and here he began rummaging across his desk, “I don’t seem to be able to find it –”

“I brought the relevant page with me,” Meghan replied, and took a piece of paper from her purse. “The grandchildren of the sons of any such sovereign in the direct male line (save only the eldest living son of the eldest son of the Prince of Wales) shall have and enjoy in all occasions the style and title enjoyed by the children of dukes of these our realms. George V put it in the manual when he was CEO in 1917. Although I understand a revision in 2011 made it apply to male and female children.”

“Yes,” Soupworth grunted, “ So, what is your issue?”

“My issue, so to speak, is my baby son, Archie.”

“Oh yes! I have heard -- congratulations! Let me remind you about our very liberal maternity leave policy – you can leave your baby with any servant you like!” Soupworth enthused. “Oh, I do love babies. Have you a picture?”

“Not with me, but it’s in the Sun,” Meghan said. “But my problem is this. Archie has been denied the title ‘Prince.’”

Soupworth cleared his throat. “Well, not everybody can be a Prince or a Princess. If every descendant of a Prince or Princess became a Prince or a Princess, there’d be Princes and Princesses all over the place, which defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? Besides, you’re already a

Duchess, which is a very good situation for a young person such as yourself.”

“The manual says the grandchildren of the son of the sovereign shall have the title enjoyed by the children of dukes, and my husband, the Duke of Sussex, is Prince Harry. And he is a grandchild of Charles, the Prince of Wales.”

“So it would appear,” Soupworth deflected, “but the manual gives the CEO considerable discretion in these matters --”

“And all I want is that discretion be exercised fairly. For example, Eugenie and Beatrice are the children of Harry’s uncle, Prince Andrew, and they enjoy the title Princess, but my little Archie hasn’t been made a Prince.”

“Yes, in that circumstance the title was bestowed –”

“And Archie is now seventh in line of succession, while Eugenie and Beatrice are ninth and tenth.”

“I'm sure we can sort this all out,” Soupworth replied, pursing his lips.

“And, while it might not be immediately relevant, Prince Andrew, is a serial rapist of underage girls enabled by Jeffrey Epstein.”

“Well, that does sound somewhat damning when you say it like that. But The Firm tries to take a forgiving approach to our employees when they act in a moment of weakness. You know, Richard III and those poor little boys, Henry the Second and the Thomas Beckett business – just a misunderstanding there, really – or Queen Victoria’s grandson, Prince Albert Victor, who seems to have been Jack the Ripper. We value stability here at the Firm and, well, these things happen. You can’t hold a Royal to the standards one would apply to, say, the Governor of New York.” Soupworth could see the waters around him were getting deeper.

“But why would Archie be denied a title that would ordinarily be his in due course? Why would he, or for that matter, I, be treated differently?”

Soupworth bit his lip momentarily. “Perhaps it’s because you are – my my, this is rather delicate, isn’t it? How should I say this –"

“What is it that troubles you so, Mr. Soupworth?”

“Very well. Perhaps it’s that you are…,” he said, taking a large breath, “American!”

Meghan was unruffled. “American? But I have become a British citizen! I know what a kip, a boot, a bog, a quid, a wanker, and a brolly are, and I’ve learned when people here say “brilliant,” they don’t mean it. I even learned to drive on the left and have injured fewer people while doing so than Prince Phillip has! I’m a better Englishwoman than many members of The Firm. For example, Prince Carl Eduard, the Duke of Coburg, grandson of Victoria and Albert, who fought for Germany in two world wars and ran the German Red Cross during the second.”

“Well, we do try to encourage charitable endeavors, and as they say, blood is thicker than basic decency.”

“Or for that matter, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, who spent a decade either supporting Hitler or having rough sex.”

Soupworth nodded. “Yes, I see your point.”

“Then what is it about me that had led to Archie being denied what is rightfully his? I still don’t understand the discrepancy.”

Soupworth exhaled deeply. “Well, it’s hard to say. But perhaps it’s because you are -- well, once again, I hesitate to say it out loud, as provocative as it is –”

“Just speak up, Soupworth. We can’t make progress if we don’t say what’s on our minds.”

“Very well,” Soupworth said wearily. “It’s only conjecture on my part, but it may be you are -- a divorcee.”

“A divorcee,” Meghan said, considering it. “Well, yes I am. But Camilla was a divorcee and was offered the title ‘Princess’ when she married Charles. She only refused it because she knew the British people thought of their beloved Diana as ‘The Princess of Wales,’ but never her. Besides, were Camilla to die, there’d be no ‘Candle In the Wind’ at the funeral, just ‘Jolene,’ or maybe ‘Second Hand Rose.’ And Camilla had been married to her practice husband for twenty-two years.”

“Yes, I recall,” said Soupworth noncommittally.

“And had two children. And then there’s Margaret, who divorced her randy little photographer yet somehow continued as Princess Margaret, Countess of Snowden, and that was after she carried on in public with Lieutenant Townsend, who was divorced himself.”

“We’ve all seen The Crown, Your Highness.”

“Then if it isn’t my being an American, or being a divorcee, then what is the problem?” Meghan asked insistently.

Soupworth’s brow furrowed. “Well, if your problem can’t be explained by your being an American, nor being a divorcee, then perhaps it’s…” and here he hesitated, fidgeting nervously, “..well, once again, I find myself dealing with an awkward subject…”

“Please be direct, Soupworth. We must get to the heart of the matter.”

“Very well then. Perhaps the problem is you are…a commoner!”

“A commoner? What about Sarah Ferguson? Her children are Princesses!”

“The Duchess of York is descended from Charles II himself,” Soupworth reminded her.

“Yes, by way of one of his numerous bastards, which is as common as you can get. Besides – I’m not a commoner, I’m a Hollywood star!”

“You were on basic cable, Your Highness.”

“So was Walter White, Soupworth. But if it’s not a matter of my being an American, or a divorcee, or a commoner, then what on Earth is the matter?”

Soupworth shrugged. “It could just be a simple misunderstanding, because I really can’t think of any other explanation,” Soupworth said.

Meghan’s eyes widened. “There is another explanation –”

“Well, it will do us no good to conjecture,” Soupworth interrupted. “Let me make a note to look into the situation and get back to you. Is there anything else?”

“It regards my mental health.”

“Mental health,” Soupworth repeated as he entered the information, then smiled pleasantly. “Well, on that score, there is good news. While I seem to have momentarily misplaced my manual, The Firm’s executive benefits program has a number of alternatives for Firm members who are a bit, how shall we say, down in the dumps. For example, there’s grouse hunting at Balmoral, which is also a good place to take a nice drive across the moor. And there’s Sandringham, which is a lovely castle, and offers horseback riding and pigeon racing, which are superb for taking one’s mind off one’s problems. And it’s a short walk to St. Mary Magdalene Church, and confession is always good for the soul, isn’t? Unfortunately, the Britannia, Her Majesty’s yacht, has been decommissioned, or you could enjoy a boat trip.”

“I need more help than a boat ride,” Meghan said.

“Well, that is unfortunate. Let me ask – has your mental state interfered with your ability to perform your duties?”

“I don’t think so,” Meghan said. “I’ve been posing for pictures, waving my hand with a very slight rotation in the wrist, wearing stylish hats at a rakish angle, standing next to Harry when he visits one of his Trusts – I think I’ve got it all covered. But I’ve been unhappy as I’ve been doing it!”

“Unhappy you say?” Soupworth sighed. “Well, I am afraid The Firm does not recognize unhappiness as a condition. Granted, you might be discomfited, or perhaps be suffering from a certain unease, or perhaps experiencing an unsettled feeling. But we are The Firm and this is what we do. We are not happy or unhappy, we simply are. So my advice to you is to stop being unhappy, and if you follow this advice, you will feel much better. As I said earlier, this is all something of a gray area.”

Meghan rose. “Frankly, Soupworth, it does not seem like a gray area. It feels more like a black and white one to me.” She picked up her purse and prepared to leave. “I’m sorry you can’t find a way to address my concerns, Mr. Soupworth. I can see this issue requires elevation -- I’ll simply have to take my case to the very top and see if I can address my grievances with her!”

Soupworth sputtered nervously as he contemplated Meghan’s proposed course of action. “Your Highness! I must urge caution! It is just not done. One does not approach the Queen with complaints about your titles or dissatisfactions! Let me assure you, she is not as congenial as Claire Foy, or even Olivia Coleman or Helen Mirren! Even someone such as yourself does not simply barge into her chambers and say, Your Majesty, Queen Elizabeth –”

“Queen Elizabeth? Oh, no! “ Meghan said. “I’m talking about the real queen, Soupworth! Oprah!”

What Time Is It?

“The family asks that in honor of (name withheld) that you write your Congressman and ask for the repeal of Income Tax and Day Light Savings Time.”

-- From a recent Washington Post obituary

One of 2021’s most surprising political stories was the revolt over Daylight Savings Time. While ordinarily a simple, administrative gesture moving sunlight hours to later in the day when workers and families might enjoy them, Daylight Savings Time in 2021 triggered an insurgency from the far right, led by Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene, a newly-elected, QAnon-supporter from pre-Holocene Georgia, and Representative Lauren Boebert of Colorado, a champion of the Constitutional vision of three branches of government -- Congress, Smith, and Wesson.

The first signs of the battle to come were seen at the Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC) in Orlando, Florida late last February. “This is how our freedoms disappear,” said Representative Boebert during a deeply personal speech laying out her core beliefs of unceasing, undiluted anger. “Biden and his antifa socialist friends start out with little infringements, like moving the clock back and forth, or giving your package a tracking number at the Post Office, or using your posts on Parler to follow you through the Capitol while you’re shooting bear spray at cops. Before you know it, they’re silencing you when you shout there’s fire in a crowded theater – even though other people in that very theater have heard that there might be such a fire because you told them it seemed likely. This is not about an extra hour of sun, or whatever the Fake News says. It’s about freedom,” Representative Boebert says, her eyes bright with frenzied enthusiasm as she embraced a gilded statue of Donald Trump wearing a variant of a Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders outfit.

• 

• 

Representative Greene was just as emphatic. “The deep state has decided to set everybody’s clock back every Spring, regardless of whether or not they have the right to do so. The nanny-state doesn’t care if it still light outside when your numerous, identical-looking kids have to go to bed, or if it’s dark as night when it’s time to let the dog out in the morning before not going to the job you don’t have anymore because China sent us a virus they made in a lab. It’s even more oppressive than wearing a mask to save your life. How long do we have to endure these attempts to deny real Americans our basic freedoms? If we can’t even put an end to this, how will we ever we get to the truth about Satanic child-molesters in the basements of pizza joints?”

The two legislators returned to Washington and formed a Free Time Now! Caucus and went to the House floor with their complaint. “Daylight Savings Time does not appear in our Constitution,” Greene argued. “The truth the socialists are trying to hide is there was no national time standard until 1882. Up until then, each municipality had the right and the duty to establish its own time standard, based on when the sun was directly overhead, the way God intended it and our theocratically-obsessed Founding Fathers affirmed through omission. In fact, historians say a person traveling from one coast to the other in the middle of the nineteenth century would encounter as many as twenty different time standards on their journey, but that did not prevent America from having a Golden Era, including a civil war in which 600,000 people died, an epidemic of racist vigilante violence, the growth of economy-choking monopolistic Trusts, and the impoverishment of the nation’s small farmers at the hands of Eastern banks and railroad interests. It’s a vivid reminder America was once great, and is now confronted with a pandemic of government overreach. You can argue facts all you like, but here’s a fact – I’m mad as hell!”

After making their case on such familiar outlets as Parler, Rumble, Newsmaxx, and Russian state television, the two advocates quickly amassed a loyal following of “Time Choosers,” a ragtag bunch drawn from such groups as Three Percenters (who oppose fat-free milk), Elks Club competitor The Oath Keepers, sidewalk dance team the Boogaloo Boys, LGBTQ pride allies The Proud Boys (and their more woke variant, the Proud Cis-Boys), and several people who claimed to be Q him- or herself (“And, just like the letter Q, I have the tail to prove it,” claimed one).

The Time Choosers then shocked the nation when an angry mob of them appeared at the Gaithersburg, Maryland headquarters of the National Institute of Standards and Technology at 2 AM on Sunday morning, March 14 to stop the switch to Daylight Savings Time from happening.

Given the late hour and the belief that a crowd would never desecrate a place as sacred, or bother with a facility as boring, as NIST, security was unprepared for what ensued. Storming the front door and overwhelming the security guard as he watched television and ate an egg salad sandwich, the mob tore through the building, searching for the atomic clock that maintains the world’s “official” time so they could prevent it from being reset. But once they had broken into the room where the clock was kept, there was confusion. Some exclaimed irately the clock did not look like a clock at all. “It looks like some kind of a gizmo in an OK, Go video,” complained one rioter. Another protested he could not find “the little windy thing” on the side of the clock that moved its hands, while others searched in vain for “the button you press for five seconds before the dial stars blinking.” A member of the West Virginia State Legislature, who was only there as a peaceful citizen-journalist to memorialize the event, argued in favor of “smashing the fucking thing to bits.” But others in the mob reported it contained radioactive cesium, which was, according to one participant, “one of the two most dangerous elements, along with desistium.” Another noted cesium had been replaced with the element ytterbium for greater clock accuracy. “This proves it’s all completely bogus!” one of the patriots said, “since there’s obviously no such word as ytterbium! It might as well be upsidaisium!” The rioters then disbursed, but not before chopping down the famous apple tree in NIST’s courtyard, one grown from a cutting of Newton’s original apple tree. “Gravity is a theory, man,” one freedom fighter noted, “just another form of tyranny.” “I’m mad as hell,” said another.

The Free Time Now Caucus then brought a stunning maneuver to the House floor. Speaker Pelosi had announced that the House would resume session at 10:00 AM the next day, and Boebert and Greene were on the floor and ready when the House was gaveled into order. They immediately rose to announce the rules of the House had been broken. Insofar as they had “made the deeply personal choice not to avail themselves” of daylight savings time, they held it was really 9:00 AM, not 10:00 AM, for them and their fellow Free Timers, and asked that calling the House to order be deferred for an hour. When they were ruled out of order, they walked dramatically off the House floor and filed a lawsuit in Federal District Court claiming their rights had been abridged by the Chair’s failure to ask them what time they wanted it to be.

A three-judge panel ruled against them, but the Caucus petitioned the Supreme Court for review. The Supreme Court surprised many with a 7-2 decision against the petitioners. Their petition was accepted by Justices Samuel Alito (“I’m mad as hell,” the sourpuss jurist remarked) and Clarence Thomas (“Virginia liked it, so I’m good with it”). The reasoning among the majority varied. “Don’t bother me with this stuff. I’m busy, trying to guarantee every woman who copulates be forced to carry any and all unintended reproductive products to completion, even if against their will,” said Justice Comey Barrett in her concurring statement. “Wish you well, but I’m trying to preserve the little dignity have left,” argued Justice Kavanaugh. “I didn’t think I was a liberal until this morning,” wrote Chief Justice Roberts.

And so, Daylight Savings Time was preserved, at least for now. Yet the signs of revolt are everywhere. “Ask Me What Time It Is” T-shirts, ballcaps, and Kevlar vests can be seen across rural America. Local city councils and other governing bodies have ordered the clocks in their colorful town squares be preserved on Standard Time. Senator Rand Paul has taken to wearing two watches “to demonstrate his commitment to the ‘time diversity’ inherent in our Constitution.” The movement adopted rock band Chicago’s “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” as an anthem, although a radical minority favored the same group’s “25 or 6 to 4,” and one rogue member’s suggestion of The Jive Five’s classic “What Time Is It?” was hooted down.

And rallies have sprung up around the country, although there is always an element of confusion as to when they start. But they are surely all as mad as hell.