By Daniel Herndon
This essay has been lightly edited from Daniel’s blog, where it originally ran on February 26.
Some of the most famous people in government these days are named Mike Johnson. It's a name that used to be the de facto eponym of a failed employee on the other end of the phone in a sketch comedy bit. Now, it's the name of the Speaker of the House and probably 12 other people in the halls of Congress you've never heard of until recently.
In a climate where people are this generic, the best way to stand out is by making the most annoying noises possible. It's always an option to screech at the top of your lungs if it wins notoriety; but if you ask Howard Dean, that's a tough thing to be remembered for, so most would recommend other antics.
If you’re interested in leading a noteworthy life remembered for more than blowing up your own chances at becoming president, Dean may not be able to help. But I have a strategy for you.
The more bland you are, the harder it is to find your big break — that's why the forgettably decent among us work in cubicles or the unseen corners of zoom screens. The flip-side to bland decency is toxic memorability. If you don't destroy someone's life, no one will ever remember yours when it's gone — that's why some have taken a kill-or-be-killed approach. When the earth sucks your blood, the only reasonable thing to do is suck back; and step one of sucking back is boycotting something.
It's simple. You do your best to ruin somebody's ability to make a living based on the thinnest shred of evidence and lodge preferably false or exaggerated claims against them (extra points if their father is the president).
Regardless of who your enemy is, it's crucial that your boycott doesn't solve the problems you are critical of but simply gives you a place above them on the morality pile. Otherwise, your name is entirely generic, and no one will ever remember you.
Take the story of Substackers Against Nazis, for example.
