“Every day since Christmas, we've sold a gold pan. I've never sen anything like it,” says Kathryn Walters of Bedrock Supply in Edmonton. “I definitely see gold fever this year.”There was a bit of a gold rush in Alberta more than a century ago, centered on the North Saskatchewan river, and that's where Albertan interest is centered now. As is always the case, only a lucky few will stike it rich - and only those who treat it as a serious career will make a living off it. For most, prospecting and panning will be little more than a hobby - at times, a frustrating one.
And it isn't just pans that people are buying. Books on how to find gold are becoming almost as tricky to find as gold itself. New print runs have been ordered, and photocopied versions are filling the void until they're ready.
Neil Dougherty of Touchwood Enterprises in Edson, Alta. says sales of the top-of-the-line metal detectors he stocks have doubled in the last two years. They cost $5,595 and he sold 23 of them last year....
Monday, April 25, 2011
Gold Records Bringing Out New Prospectors
Thanks to the gold bull market, and the newfound publicity for the metal, there's a lot of people catching the gold fever. As a result, prospecting supply companies are doing a land-office business in a place more known for oil and gas: the province of Alberta in Canada.
Indian Physical Gold Demand Picks Up Despite Record Prices
According to a Reuters report webbed by the Economic Times, Indian traders aren't letting record prices deter them from buying a fair anount of gold in anticipation of the Akshaya Tritya gold-buying festival.
I have a hunch that the dearth of demand while gold rose was the result of traders, jewelers and stockists drawing down the inventories that they acquired at bargain prices. Now that those inventories are low, they have to go into the gold market to keep up with demand. It looks like this year's Akshaya Tritya is going to see a lot of gold buying at the retial leovel.
"I booked for 100 kg from morning at $1,538.5 (an ounce). Both my Delhi and Mumbai centres are active," said a dealer with a state-run bank in Mumbai dealing in bullion. "I have advance orders at $1,517."After Akshaya Tritya comes the wedding season, which is expected to add to demand.
I have a hunch that the dearth of demand while gold rose was the result of traders, jewelers and stockists drawing down the inventories that they acquired at bargain prices. Now that those inventories are low, they have to go into the gold market to keep up with demand. It looks like this year's Akshaya Tritya is going to see a lot of gold buying at the retial leovel.
Gold Jumps Out Of Gate, Hits New Record Again
After closing with a gain in Hong Kong last Friday, gold managed another record high after jumping out of the gate in overnight trading. Jumping above $1,510 at the outset, it was pushed up by comments from high mainland Chinese officials to the effect that the People's Republic needs to cut its holdings of U.S. dollars from more than $3 trillion to about $1 trillion. The metal continued rising until it touched $1,514 just before 8 PM ET. Then pulling back, it still stayed above $1,510. As night turned into morning, it rose again before settling in to the high 1510s. The new record high of $1,519.30 was made at 4:00. Continuing in a range between $1,516 and $1,519, it abruptly fell down to $1,512 around 7:45 after double-topping just below the record. A recovery in the greenback provided the catalyst for the tumble. As of 8:13, the spot price had recovered a little to reach $1,514.00 for a gain of $9.30 since Friday's early close. The Kitco Gold Index split the gain into +$6.30 for predominant buying and +$3.00 for a weakening greenback.
The U.S. Dollar Index, despite that news from mainland China, started off the week by climbing a little. Reaching 74.1 from its start-off point of 74.05, it fell out of bed just after 6 PM and thus gave a boost to gold. Bottoming at 73.95, it shot up to 74.25 between 9:00 and 10:15. It was at that point when it began to lost ground and slide for most of the morning. Troughing at 73.8, it managed a quick recovery that induced gold's stumble. As of 8:20, it recovery fizzled: after peaking at 73.95, it had slipped to 73.92.
Silver rose more than gold, and came close to besting its 1980 record, so it garnered the attention normally accorded to gold. A Reuters report, devoted mainly to silver, quoted a gold trader as saying that gold is rising on the "'dollar play.'" Holdings of the SPDR Gold Shares Trust dropped 0.61 tonnes last Thursday to 1,229.64 tonnes.
An earlier Bloomberg report, covering last night's jump, said gold rose because investors were seeking protection from a weaker greenback and higher inflation; Middle East tensions also played a role.
A Wall Street Journal article, focusing on silver, mentions the mainland Chinese foreign-exchange-reserve connection:
With no news on the U.S. economy to influence it, gold gave up more of its gains after recovering to $1,515. The start of the pit session saw it tumble further, to below $1,511, before it managed a small relief climb. As of 8:42, the spot price was $1,512.40 for a gain of $7.70 since Friday's close. The Kitco Gold Index divided the gain into +$5.30 for predominant buying and +$2.40 for greenback weakening. After itself weakening, the U.S. Dollar Index regained its footing and strode above 73.95. As of 8:45, it was still climbing at 73.99.
Despite gold's bobble just before and right after regular trading started, it still made a strong showing as the last week of April begins. $1,500 has been cleared to the extent that $1,510 is providing support. Although silver is stealing the thunder, it approching its first new record high since 1980's short-lived spike, gold is climbing too. For perspective's sake: gold has to put on only two hundred more dollars per ounce before it doubles its own 1980 top. The excitement may fade during the rest of regular trading, but the proposal for a new mainland Chinese sovereign wealth fund had given gold enough of a cushion to make an overall gain likely.
The U.S. Dollar Index, despite that news from mainland China, started off the week by climbing a little. Reaching 74.1 from its start-off point of 74.05, it fell out of bed just after 6 PM and thus gave a boost to gold. Bottoming at 73.95, it shot up to 74.25 between 9:00 and 10:15. It was at that point when it began to lost ground and slide for most of the morning. Troughing at 73.8, it managed a quick recovery that induced gold's stumble. As of 8:20, it recovery fizzled: after peaking at 73.95, it had slipped to 73.92.
Silver rose more than gold, and came close to besting its 1980 record, so it garnered the attention normally accorded to gold. A Reuters report, devoted mainly to silver, quoted a gold trader as saying that gold is rising on the "'dollar play.'" Holdings of the SPDR Gold Shares Trust dropped 0.61 tonnes last Thursday to 1,229.64 tonnes.
An earlier Bloomberg report, covering last night's jump, said gold rose because investors were seeking protection from a weaker greenback and higher inflation; Middle East tensions also played a role.
“We do look at quite quick appreciation of gold in the coming months and it’s really driven by dollar weakness,” Dominic Schnider, director for wealth management research at UBS AG, said in a Bloomberg Television interview today.WTI crude oil topped $113 for a time on the risk that violence in the Middle East - North Africa region will disrupt supplies.
A Wall Street Journal article, focusing on silver, mentions the mainland Chinese foreign-exchange-reserve connection:
Metals prices climbed as a Chinese news website reported that "relevant authorities" are studying a proposal by the People's Bank of China to create funds using some of the foreign-currency assets from the PBOC's balance sheet that could invest in sectors such as energy and precious metals, as well as a fund that will allow the central bank to influence exchange rates.Tbe plan is to set up a sovereign-wealth fund like the Norwegian "Petroleum Fund."
With no news on the U.S. economy to influence it, gold gave up more of its gains after recovering to $1,515. The start of the pit session saw it tumble further, to below $1,511, before it managed a small relief climb. As of 8:42, the spot price was $1,512.40 for a gain of $7.70 since Friday's close. The Kitco Gold Index divided the gain into +$5.30 for predominant buying and +$2.40 for greenback weakening. After itself weakening, the U.S. Dollar Index regained its footing and strode above 73.95. As of 8:45, it was still climbing at 73.99.
Despite gold's bobble just before and right after regular trading started, it still made a strong showing as the last week of April begins. $1,500 has been cleared to the extent that $1,510 is providing support. Although silver is stealing the thunder, it approching its first new record high since 1980's short-lived spike, gold is climbing too. For perspective's sake: gold has to put on only two hundred more dollars per ounce before it doubles its own 1980 top. The excitement may fade during the rest of regular trading, but the proposal for a new mainland Chinese sovereign wealth fund had given gold enough of a cushion to make an overall gain likely.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Aid For The Downtrodden
It was truly unusual to find a social-democrat English professor with a real love for the writings of Ayn Rand, but Professor Devon McKinley fit the bill. Not being consumed by politics, his love of literature trumped his aversion to libertarianism. His fascination with non-literature naratives, plus a chance encounter with an old sitcom, led him to discover the goldbug world and become a monthly buyer of gold. Due to his accumulation, he was now sitting on almost 120 ounces at a nice profit - although he was more in it for the subculture-watching than the money. Despite his own political views clashing profoundly with the goldbug norm, he had acquired some virtual friends from that world.
One of them now desperately needed his help...
One of them now desperately needed his help...
The Professor
Devon McKinley was an oddity, in two ways. A long-tenured English professor, he was a long-standing social democrat like most of his colleagues. And yet, he had a fascination with the writings of Ayn Rand. Despite finding her political philosophy repugnant, when stated in unstylized language, he found himself carried away by her writing to the point where her defence of laissez-faire didn’t register.
At first, he was puzzled. Then, he hit upon the reason why: Rand was America’s Tolstoy. And he, he was like a pugilist swept away by Tolstoy. There was little chance that a boxer would embrace Tolstoyan pacifism, and there was no chance that Professor McKinley would embrace hard-core libertarianism. But such was the magic of literature to captivate without capturing. Great literature transcended categories left largely unchanged, except for people who were induced by writer’s tricks to see that writer as a great authority on everything.
Hence, he smiled at what his Marxist colleagues would have labelled a contradiction in praxis. On the one hand, a poll revealed that Atlas Shrugged was the second-most influential book in the United States. It was second only to the Bible. On the other hand, political praxis in the United States kept moving steadily away from Rand’s libertarian ideal. As a result, Rand’s political acolytes continually fell into the habit – encouraged by her own stance – of treating the perennially best-selling author as a lone voice in the wilderness. It was a fascinating clash, and it spoke to his point about great literature transcending categories. How many bourgeois read Victor Hugo and returned to their buying and selling, with only occasional qualms and midnight fears about their heads being put into a guillotine?
Professor McKinley was a true professional. Although profoundly disagreeing with Rand’s politics, he did not let that disagreement turn his mind into a bludgeon lashing out at her works. He sometimes pitied his American colleagues, as many of them had a habit of doing so.
His graduate-level course on Rand’s works was explicitly billed as a critical study. Not because he was an aficionado of critical theory, he shying away from it in its heyday because it stirred up too much controversy for his taste, but because he wanted to bat away the people who expected a Rand interpreter to be a Rand acolyte. He started off each year with the pugilist simile, and usually got smiles. Anyone who seemed perplexed was taken aside and given the suggestion that he or she would find the course a hard slog.
With the year almost at an end, he sat back in his office chair and relaxed. He rated a full professor’s office, which meant that he had a fair bit of room. Universities being what they are, roominess did not translate into luxury. His desk, not very neat, was a standard office model. His chair was padded and comfortable, but also standard issue: the so-called manager’s chair sold by discount office supply companies. The floor was cheap tiling. The shelves were built in, and made of serviceable wood that had to be painted. It was a standard office for a full professor.
When it was time for the finals to be marked, he would not have much time for relaxing anymore. In addition to his Rand course, he had the Hugo course and four others. The undergraduate courses, a tutorial assistant would mark the finals. The graduates, he himself would grade. They were the ones who were going into his own field, or were at least preparing to do so. Tragically, funding dry-ups made the latter category large. Still, one never knew which student would join the field and which not. Professor McKinley wanted to see each graduate student’s work personally. It made his recommendations more authentic.
His fingers stroked his neatly-trimmed grey beard as his mind wandered to the price of gold. Although well below $1,500 in Canadian funds, it was well above $1,400. McKinley had been buying gold regularly, ever since he had stumbled upon some American high-school situation comedy that had a scene lampooning the principal as a gold hoarder. Although he had forgotten the context, the idea that a gold buyer would be portrayed as a clown interested him enough to check out the goldbug world. There was also a tie to Rand.
After a fair bit of poking around, he knew what his American colleagues meant when they talked about nonfiction documents being texts too. There was a definite narrative in the goldbug literature, and an ideology lens that was fairly straightforward. At root, they were neo-Oppenheimerites. Although their dependence upon the work of Franz Oppenheimer was admixed with a more obvious tie to the Austrian School of Economics, albeit an anarchist wing of that sequestered school, they all believed that government – the State – was the poisoned flowering of a band of conquerors that had settled down to enjoy a steady stream of exploitation. Unlike Oppenheimer himself, they did not reach the conclusion that social democracy was just recompense for that past and present exploitation.
Their doomsaying lens, he found fascinating even though he did not share it. He did agree with their contention that gold was seriously undervalued. Beginning in the first month of 2001, he had bought his first monthly ration of gold: two ounces. It had cost him less than a thousand dollars.
As the metal’s price continued to ramp up, he had reluctantly turned his monthly two ounces into one when the 2005-6 school year started. By that time, he had accumulated 54 ounces. He had no children, and his wife regarded his new hobby with good humour. By the time 2009 rolled around, he had 106 ounces having sold none. Having stretched his $1000 budget, he even more reluctantly shifted to buying half-ounces. He now had 119.5 ounces, which would be an even 120 ounces by the end of this month. At current prices, his hoard was worth over 170,000 loonies. When no-one cared about gold, he used to stick his Maple Leafs in his desk drawer and show them to visitors for a laugh. It wasn’t until 2006 that he made a concession to security and rented a safety deposit box for them.
In retrospect, the money he made on the gold didn’t seem all that real to him. It had been an engaging and profitable hobby, but he was more interested in observing that section of the world than growing rich on it.
Yes, he was far more observer than participant. Until Morris Gurr came knocking on his door.
At first, he was puzzled. Then, he hit upon the reason why: Rand was America’s Tolstoy. And he, he was like a pugilist swept away by Tolstoy. There was little chance that a boxer would embrace Tolstoyan pacifism, and there was no chance that Professor McKinley would embrace hard-core libertarianism. But such was the magic of literature to captivate without capturing. Great literature transcended categories left largely unchanged, except for people who were induced by writer’s tricks to see that writer as a great authority on everything.
Hence, he smiled at what his Marxist colleagues would have labelled a contradiction in praxis. On the one hand, a poll revealed that Atlas Shrugged was the second-most influential book in the United States. It was second only to the Bible. On the other hand, political praxis in the United States kept moving steadily away from Rand’s libertarian ideal. As a result, Rand’s political acolytes continually fell into the habit – encouraged by her own stance – of treating the perennially best-selling author as a lone voice in the wilderness. It was a fascinating clash, and it spoke to his point about great literature transcending categories. How many bourgeois read Victor Hugo and returned to their buying and selling, with only occasional qualms and midnight fears about their heads being put into a guillotine?
Professor McKinley was a true professional. Although profoundly disagreeing with Rand’s politics, he did not let that disagreement turn his mind into a bludgeon lashing out at her works. He sometimes pitied his American colleagues, as many of them had a habit of doing so.
His graduate-level course on Rand’s works was explicitly billed as a critical study. Not because he was an aficionado of critical theory, he shying away from it in its heyday because it stirred up too much controversy for his taste, but because he wanted to bat away the people who expected a Rand interpreter to be a Rand acolyte. He started off each year with the pugilist simile, and usually got smiles. Anyone who seemed perplexed was taken aside and given the suggestion that he or she would find the course a hard slog.
With the year almost at an end, he sat back in his office chair and relaxed. He rated a full professor’s office, which meant that he had a fair bit of room. Universities being what they are, roominess did not translate into luxury. His desk, not very neat, was a standard office model. His chair was padded and comfortable, but also standard issue: the so-called manager’s chair sold by discount office supply companies. The floor was cheap tiling. The shelves were built in, and made of serviceable wood that had to be painted. It was a standard office for a full professor.
When it was time for the finals to be marked, he would not have much time for relaxing anymore. In addition to his Rand course, he had the Hugo course and four others. The undergraduate courses, a tutorial assistant would mark the finals. The graduates, he himself would grade. They were the ones who were going into his own field, or were at least preparing to do so. Tragically, funding dry-ups made the latter category large. Still, one never knew which student would join the field and which not. Professor McKinley wanted to see each graduate student’s work personally. It made his recommendations more authentic.
His fingers stroked his neatly-trimmed grey beard as his mind wandered to the price of gold. Although well below $1,500 in Canadian funds, it was well above $1,400. McKinley had been buying gold regularly, ever since he had stumbled upon some American high-school situation comedy that had a scene lampooning the principal as a gold hoarder. Although he had forgotten the context, the idea that a gold buyer would be portrayed as a clown interested him enough to check out the goldbug world. There was also a tie to Rand.
After a fair bit of poking around, he knew what his American colleagues meant when they talked about nonfiction documents being texts too. There was a definite narrative in the goldbug literature, and an ideology lens that was fairly straightforward. At root, they were neo-Oppenheimerites. Although their dependence upon the work of Franz Oppenheimer was admixed with a more obvious tie to the Austrian School of Economics, albeit an anarchist wing of that sequestered school, they all believed that government – the State – was the poisoned flowering of a band of conquerors that had settled down to enjoy a steady stream of exploitation. Unlike Oppenheimer himself, they did not reach the conclusion that social democracy was just recompense for that past and present exploitation.
Their doomsaying lens, he found fascinating even though he did not share it. He did agree with their contention that gold was seriously undervalued. Beginning in the first month of 2001, he had bought his first monthly ration of gold: two ounces. It had cost him less than a thousand dollars.
As the metal’s price continued to ramp up, he had reluctantly turned his monthly two ounces into one when the 2005-6 school year started. By that time, he had accumulated 54 ounces. He had no children, and his wife regarded his new hobby with good humour. By the time 2009 rolled around, he had 106 ounces having sold none. Having stretched his $1000 budget, he even more reluctantly shifted to buying half-ounces. He now had 119.5 ounces, which would be an even 120 ounces by the end of this month. At current prices, his hoard was worth over 170,000 loonies. When no-one cared about gold, he used to stick his Maple Leafs in his desk drawer and show them to visitors for a laugh. It wasn’t until 2006 that he made a concession to security and rented a safety deposit box for them.
In retrospect, the money he made on the gold didn’t seem all that real to him. It had been an engaging and profitable hobby, but he was more interested in observing that section of the world than growing rich on it.
Yes, he was far more observer than participant. Until Morris Gurr came knocking on his door.
And The Runaway
What Gurr saw when he heard the assent to come in was an abstracted, balding, grey-haired and grey-beaded man in upscale casual clothes. Having double-checked the address, confirmed by the name of the door, he knew that this was McKinley. Sometimes he was nicknamed “President McKinley” even though he disclaimed both it and any relation to the man who had preceded Theodore Roosevelt to the Presidency.
Gurr knew that the man in front of him was a left-wing socialist. He hardly needed that New Democratic Party election poster behind the man’s desk to confirm it. Professor McKinley had been a long-standing participant in several goldbug forums, and was well-tolerated despite that political clash. Except, sometimes, by his fellow Canadians; other than with them, he got along fine.
Still, Gurr knew he was taking a big risk. Had George W. Bush still been President, had John McCain won, there wouldn’t have been. Professor McKinley had been well liked when Bush was still in the saddle. His particular spin on Franz Oppenheimer was more than tolerable when he liked gold and showed worthy disdain for “Shrub.”
With Obama in the saddle, things were different. The prof liked Obama and looked up to him. That affiliality meant that Gurr was taking a big chance in asking the favour he had come to ask. Tom-Ridge- and Michael-Chertoff-headed Homeland Security, the professor would have fended off with a conspiratorial wink. A Napolitano-headed one? That made for a question mark.
Still, Morris Gurr had no other place to go. He realized he was about to trust another man, who he had never met personally, with his very freedom.
He had made his escape on a bus, rightly assuming that there were no metal detectors at entrance or egress. Nor were there any at the border crossing – as yet, anyways.
His escape had been damned lucky. Gurr had wired up a home-security vidcam doodad that bleeped his smart phone and transmitted the grainy image of whatever crook busted in. Only, the crooks in this case were cops. They burst in with a no-knock warrant, for whatever reason they had in their heads. Most likely, they thought he was a drug dealer. What their rationale had been didn’t matter now.
His apartment was small and economical; he made his living off the Internet hawking survival goods and blogging about the coming collapse. Since he looked small-change, the neighbours saw him as small-change. He acted like a Social Security disability case, and was laughed at because he acted ashamed of himself. Although some were good enough to consider it to be part of his “disability.”
In retrospect, he should have drowned his morals and taken the food stamps even though doing so would have involved welfare fraud. It would have meant him sticking out less. There were no shady characters living next door to him, so he was sure that the neighbourhood snitch was responsible for his home being broken into. Luckily, he was off checking the sales at the discount grocers to see if he could stock up on anything. That’s when his cell phone showed the police bursting into his home. Although he only had motion-activated cameras by the door and in the main living area, he was sure the cops had spent some time ploughing through his goods. Rice and flour by the twenty-pound sack; spaghetti, macaroni and two other kinds of noodles by the twelve-pouch case. His clothes closet was packed with that food, necessitating him putting in one of those porta-closets in his living room. The bed in his modest bedroom was moved away from the wall, making his sleeping space even more modest. On the far side of the bed, stacked by the far wall, were tins of spaghetti sauce bought in bulk and on sale. Twenty-four packs of ramen noodles were beside them. Both stacks went far above bed level. Some four-pound jars of peanut butter were stacked by the foot of the bed.
Yep, his entire lifestyle said “survivalist.” No need to look at the few magazines left on his desk and books stuck in his above-desk shelf, supplemented by the much richer collection of e-books on his hard drive. Morris Gurr was a survivalist, and thus a presumptive criminal to the minions of the State. He had heard of stories about prepper parents, merely motivated by “The End Of The Sale As We Know It,” who had their kids grabbed by Child Services. He had put up several hollers to that effect on his blog, which he was sure was popular enough to be monitored by the powers that arrest.
Thankfully, he had been smart enough to sequester the fruits of his labour in a long-term-storage locker. Although less secure than a safety-deposit box, it was less obvious. For camouflage, he had surrounded it with survivalist books and magazines. For even more camouflage, he had put a 1000-watt generator in the locker too. It appeared to be the valuable of the locker, which a thief would assume was the only thing worth stealing.
After seeing the cops bust in, he went on the lam and rescued his treasure. As for their takings, all they would get were several hundred plain meals’ worth of grub. He was sure he was marked as some kind of a “domestic terrorist,” with charges trumped up accordingly, so he had hoofed it off from the States entirely. It would have been more rational to try for Mexico, not high-tax, gun-grabbing, speech-squelching Canada, but for one datum: he didn’t know anyone down in Mexico. Although they were only E-mail buds, though of long standing, he did know Professor McKinley up in Canada.
Luckily, he had no sweetheart and no kids. His parents, he hardly visited. He was getting along in life, but he didn’t settle down because his stand-up-to-the-State lifestyle was too high-risk. He had no prior settled lifestyle to fall back on. To be honest, he hadn’t put a lot of effort into looking for a significant other.
Now standing in front of the professor, he unveiled his big gamble. Unwrapping the gold bar stuck in a sweat sock, he placed it on the professor’s desk. Four inches long by two and a half wide, it weighed 100 troy ounces - almost seven pounds. It was surprisingly heavy for its size.
“This bar is all that I have now, Professor. I got rousted, and I really need your help”.
Gurr knew that the man in front of him was a left-wing socialist. He hardly needed that New Democratic Party election poster behind the man’s desk to confirm it. Professor McKinley had been a long-standing participant in several goldbug forums, and was well-tolerated despite that political clash. Except, sometimes, by his fellow Canadians; other than with them, he got along fine.
Still, Gurr knew he was taking a big risk. Had George W. Bush still been President, had John McCain won, there wouldn’t have been. Professor McKinley had been well liked when Bush was still in the saddle. His particular spin on Franz Oppenheimer was more than tolerable when he liked gold and showed worthy disdain for “Shrub.”
With Obama in the saddle, things were different. The prof liked Obama and looked up to him. That affiliality meant that Gurr was taking a big chance in asking the favour he had come to ask. Tom-Ridge- and Michael-Chertoff-headed Homeland Security, the professor would have fended off with a conspiratorial wink. A Napolitano-headed one? That made for a question mark.
Still, Morris Gurr had no other place to go. He realized he was about to trust another man, who he had never met personally, with his very freedom.
He had made his escape on a bus, rightly assuming that there were no metal detectors at entrance or egress. Nor were there any at the border crossing – as yet, anyways.
His escape had been damned lucky. Gurr had wired up a home-security vidcam doodad that bleeped his smart phone and transmitted the grainy image of whatever crook busted in. Only, the crooks in this case were cops. They burst in with a no-knock warrant, for whatever reason they had in their heads. Most likely, they thought he was a drug dealer. What their rationale had been didn’t matter now.
His apartment was small and economical; he made his living off the Internet hawking survival goods and blogging about the coming collapse. Since he looked small-change, the neighbours saw him as small-change. He acted like a Social Security disability case, and was laughed at because he acted ashamed of himself. Although some were good enough to consider it to be part of his “disability.”
In retrospect, he should have drowned his morals and taken the food stamps even though doing so would have involved welfare fraud. It would have meant him sticking out less. There were no shady characters living next door to him, so he was sure that the neighbourhood snitch was responsible for his home being broken into. Luckily, he was off checking the sales at the discount grocers to see if he could stock up on anything. That’s when his cell phone showed the police bursting into his home. Although he only had motion-activated cameras by the door and in the main living area, he was sure the cops had spent some time ploughing through his goods. Rice and flour by the twenty-pound sack; spaghetti, macaroni and two other kinds of noodles by the twelve-pouch case. His clothes closet was packed with that food, necessitating him putting in one of those porta-closets in his living room. The bed in his modest bedroom was moved away from the wall, making his sleeping space even more modest. On the far side of the bed, stacked by the far wall, were tins of spaghetti sauce bought in bulk and on sale. Twenty-four packs of ramen noodles were beside them. Both stacks went far above bed level. Some four-pound jars of peanut butter were stacked by the foot of the bed.
Yep, his entire lifestyle said “survivalist.” No need to look at the few magazines left on his desk and books stuck in his above-desk shelf, supplemented by the much richer collection of e-books on his hard drive. Morris Gurr was a survivalist, and thus a presumptive criminal to the minions of the State. He had heard of stories about prepper parents, merely motivated by “The End Of The Sale As We Know It,” who had their kids grabbed by Child Services. He had put up several hollers to that effect on his blog, which he was sure was popular enough to be monitored by the powers that arrest.
Thankfully, he had been smart enough to sequester the fruits of his labour in a long-term-storage locker. Although less secure than a safety-deposit box, it was less obvious. For camouflage, he had surrounded it with survivalist books and magazines. For even more camouflage, he had put a 1000-watt generator in the locker too. It appeared to be the valuable of the locker, which a thief would assume was the only thing worth stealing.
After seeing the cops bust in, he went on the lam and rescued his treasure. As for their takings, all they would get were several hundred plain meals’ worth of grub. He was sure he was marked as some kind of a “domestic terrorist,” with charges trumped up accordingly, so he had hoofed it off from the States entirely. It would have been more rational to try for Mexico, not high-tax, gun-grabbing, speech-squelching Canada, but for one datum: he didn’t know anyone down in Mexico. Although they were only E-mail buds, though of long standing, he did know Professor McKinley up in Canada.
Luckily, he had no sweetheart and no kids. His parents, he hardly visited. He was getting along in life, but he didn’t settle down because his stand-up-to-the-State lifestyle was too high-risk. He had no prior settled lifestyle to fall back on. To be honest, he hadn’t put a lot of effort into looking for a significant other.
Now standing in front of the professor, he unveiled his big gamble. Unwrapping the gold bar stuck in a sweat sock, he placed it on the professor’s desk. Four inches long by two and a half wide, it weighed 100 troy ounces - almost seven pounds. It was surprisingly heavy for its size.
“This bar is all that I have now, Professor. I got rousted, and I really need your help”.
Safe
Like most Canadians, Professor McKinley found it easy to put aside ideological differences when someone needed help. The fellow in front of him certainly looked like he did.
But, it was strange to see a medium-height man with sandy hair and wide light-brown eyes plop a piece of metal worth more than 140,000 loonies on his desk without any ceremony. So, McKinley spent some time asking this man who he was and how he had gotten here.
It was easy to confirm that this fellow was in fact Morris Gurr, a survivalist who had taken it upon himself to try to “educate” the professor on the “real” meaning of Franz Oppenheimer. Since he hadn’t been presumptuous about it, McKinley had been tickled by his attempts.
Thanks to the professor’s training in literature and post-structuralist theory, long after it had been shot down as “political correctness” and thus lost its controversial edge, he was used to seeing the anarchist narrative being justified by invoking the work of the social democrat Oppenheimer. Instead of arguing with Gurr, the professor had strung him along out of interest in the neo-Oppenheimerite narrative. As he expected, it was based in the work of that Frank Chodorov and Albert Nock. Needless to say, anarchist Austrianism was laced in too. Mr. Gurr had fit the profile.
McKinley cut off the present discussion as soon as it became clear that this fellow was the same Morris he had corresponded with. Funny: he had pictured the man as taller and thin, not pudgy. But, the haunted look and overage tough-kid demeanour fit. A lot of then acted like they’d be shocked if someone did them a good turn. Sadly, too many of them turned suspicious. Oddly, they fit the profile of the disenfranchised even if they were typically well above proletarian income-wise.
Now, to business. “It sounds like you’re making a refugee claim.” I might as well let him know up front. “Sad to say, the Government of Canada doesn’t recognize refugee claims from the United States.” He was tempted to add “Tory-ridden” to “Canada” as a lightener, but Gurr’s expression suggested he wouldn’t get it. “Had you been a draft-dodger, I could put you in a safe house quickly – but you’re not.
“I’m afraid that there isn’t enough of a constituency in these parts to make a test case for you.”
Saying those all-Canadian words unlocked part of his brain. Now in his working memory were several names of fellow Canadian goldbugs who shared this runaway’s ideology. They became Professor McKinley’s friends once he had steered them clear from politics and towards their doomsayer lens. They loved talking about the “End Of The World As We Know It,” and the good professor let them because he was fascinated by their narrative. As a result, they counted him as a real friend despite political differences.
To the point, he was sure, where he could draw on it. “If you don’t mind living on the run, I could send a few messages” – with secure Blackberry, of course – “and see if anyone can bunk you up.”
Shifting a bit on his feet, Morris thanked him but added that he wasn’t here for charity. While doing so he looked more the castaway.
“The reason why I stopped by is to make a trade with you. That bar’s my life savings. I bought it on the CRIMEX.” That moniker was the nick for the NYMEX/COMEX commodity exchange, on which 100 oz. gold bars were traded. “Got it at spot for only a delivery fee and gas for pickup.” Having heard stories about drivers being rousted by the border guards, he had abandoned his car at the bus depot in his home town. He had used his credit card, but he had a plan to abandon it too.
Gurr now looked hesitant; it seemed to Prof. McKinley that the man was waiting be reached out to and patted on the back. “Would it be worth your while to trade this bar for ninety-nine Maple Leafs?”
Now, McKinley’s Canadian was up. “No, I’m not going to do that. I’ll give you one hundred ounces for it. We’ll make a fair trade.”
That got Gurr squirming almost as if he had been called on the carpet. “Sir, I don’t want to put you out any –“
“Good God, man! Why do you make it so hard for someone to do you a good turn?”
As a professor, it confirmed one of McKinley’s intuitions about Ayn Rand fans: many of them were unconsciously self-sacrificial, with their fanaticism covering it up. Not knowing how to be selfish in Rand’s way, they took refuge in parroting her political conclusions. The sad part was, many of them were raised to see their self-interest as aligned with the welfare state. As a result, they had next to no idea how they would thrive in their laissez-faire Utopia. Through their parroting, they hoped to absorb the magic secret that was beyond their reach. Many of them, he was sure, had fantasies about starting off in a stretch of raw land and building up a farm or something by their own two hands.
As a man, he was saddened and frustrated. Here was a fellow that was really deserving of charity, one who might well rate formal asylum some day. Should the Bush national security state keep growing as it had, should the aggressive post-Bush cop-bullies keep tasering and truncheoning the innocent, these poor fellows would be the new wave of draft dodgers.
“What I’m offering you is no more than what one human being offers another in trouble. From what you’ve told me, you’re already got enough trouble as it is. Why add to it when you need all the help you can get?”
The sadness and frustration mixed as he saw Morris flinch as if he had been rebuked. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to – I don’t know what I meant. Thank you.” Now acting almost obsequious, Morris thanked him again. It was clear that this independent self-starting man was unused to being helped to the point that real helped startled him.
Now standing up, McKinley decided that the only way to clam up his charge was to take charge. “I have my coins in a safe-deposit box. You can take your bar and we can make the exchange in the safe-deposit room. I’ll vouch for you, so the bank will let us both in.”
As he expected, Morris shook off his funk. “Thank you.” This time, the obsequiousness was gone. In its place was the confidence to ask for something else.
“If you don’t mind, could you put me in touch with someone in Vancouver?”
“Sure. I do know someone there who’s up your alley.”
“Thanks, Professor. It’s much appreciated.” Now, the man no longer looked hunted.
Gurr didn’t get antsy at the bank, where he got 90 one-ounce Maple Leafs and 20 one-half ouncers for his 100-oz. bar. McKinley’s attempt to lighten the mood, by saying he would save on transaction costs, was unnecessary and uncomprehended. Gurr merely informed him that he would have to get it assayed if he wanted to sell it on the futures exchange. “Still, it’s a good-delivery bar and an assay should be straightforward. Just don’t bang it up and you’ll be fine.”
The professor’s “gold friend” in Vancouver did answer, and did assent to having Gurr in for a “visit.” A solid employee at a libertarian-oriented think tank, she had a spacious one-bedroom apartment with a comfortable couch. She had heard of Morris Gurr and immediately recognized the significance of him being rousted.
Before they left the safety deposit box back, Gurr put a half-ounce coin back in and turned to ask the professor something. Perplexed, McKinley said “I though we already settled the matter.”
“No, I’m not trying to go back on the deal. I wanted to sell you a half-ounce piece for cash money.”
McKinley’s eyes and cheeks lit up. “Oh, now I see.
“Well, this one I’m going to charge you for,” he said agreeably. His refugee now looked like a man with a plan. “Once we finish here, I’ll pull out seven hundred dollars from the ATM. Bank fees; they kill you up here.”
Morris just smiled back. “Sounds like a deal.”
The ATM dispensed twenties, and McKinley’s charge now had a whole mittful of bright green bills with Queen Elizabeth’s picture on them. He extended his hand, and Professor McKinley shook it.
“Thanks, Professor. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
As he left, Morris Gurr planned out his next steps. First, he had to find a public library and locate the towns with bus stations in this province. Then, he would have to take the public bus to an Internet café and rent a car from it. From there, he would drive up to the town he chose and abandon the car in the woods about ten miles out. He could hike the ten miles in one stretch if need be. Since he was normally sedentary, he guessed the cops would assume he took off in the woods. He melting his credit card with a lighter, so as to blot out any information that a thief could use, would add to the illusion. He didn’t have time to grab some camping gear and make it look as if he were going out on a camping jaunt. Besides, he doing so didn’t quite square with a desperate man on the run.
A printed-out online map would get him the address of the bus station. From there, he’d buy a ticket to Vancouver for cash. The Maple Leafs, he could use to dicker with his new host Hester. Hester of Vancouver.
The professor found out the rest of the story through a vid-call from an American police officer. Calling because he had a lead from Gurr’s credit-card records, he asked if the professor had seen the fugitive.
“What has he done?” Long habituated to Canadian norms, Professor McKinley hid his distaste for American cops and responded as if they were Canadian.
“He’s a drug dealer.” Then followed a description of what Morris Gurr looked like, which matched what McKinley had seen. Also supplied was the rented car, abandoned near a town ninety kilometres away from the professor’s own location. The cop made it clear that Gurr had definitely been in the city.
Again, McKinley’s habituation hid his real thoughts. He knew very well that Morris Gurr was as far away from illegal drugs as he himself was from Friedmanite economics. Now, he unambiguously considered his rescue work to be a good deed – and the cop on the screen to be something other than a good man. So, he threw out the baited hook: “Did he assault a police officer?”
The cop didn’t bite. “Not yet, sir, but he is considered armed and dangerous. He’s a domestic terrorist type.”
That left McKinley off a different kind of hook.
“Armed and dangerous, you say?” Receiving confirmation, he stated:
“I can say unambiguously that I’ve encountered no-one matching that description.”
But, it was strange to see a medium-height man with sandy hair and wide light-brown eyes plop a piece of metal worth more than 140,000 loonies on his desk without any ceremony. So, McKinley spent some time asking this man who he was and how he had gotten here.
It was easy to confirm that this fellow was in fact Morris Gurr, a survivalist who had taken it upon himself to try to “educate” the professor on the “real” meaning of Franz Oppenheimer. Since he hadn’t been presumptuous about it, McKinley had been tickled by his attempts.
Thanks to the professor’s training in literature and post-structuralist theory, long after it had been shot down as “political correctness” and thus lost its controversial edge, he was used to seeing the anarchist narrative being justified by invoking the work of the social democrat Oppenheimer. Instead of arguing with Gurr, the professor had strung him along out of interest in the neo-Oppenheimerite narrative. As he expected, it was based in the work of that Frank Chodorov and Albert Nock. Needless to say, anarchist Austrianism was laced in too. Mr. Gurr had fit the profile.
McKinley cut off the present discussion as soon as it became clear that this fellow was the same Morris he had corresponded with. Funny: he had pictured the man as taller and thin, not pudgy. But, the haunted look and overage tough-kid demeanour fit. A lot of then acted like they’d be shocked if someone did them a good turn. Sadly, too many of them turned suspicious. Oddly, they fit the profile of the disenfranchised even if they were typically well above proletarian income-wise.
Now, to business. “It sounds like you’re making a refugee claim.” I might as well let him know up front. “Sad to say, the Government of Canada doesn’t recognize refugee claims from the United States.” He was tempted to add “Tory-ridden” to “Canada” as a lightener, but Gurr’s expression suggested he wouldn’t get it. “Had you been a draft-dodger, I could put you in a safe house quickly – but you’re not.
“I’m afraid that there isn’t enough of a constituency in these parts to make a test case for you.”
Saying those all-Canadian words unlocked part of his brain. Now in his working memory were several names of fellow Canadian goldbugs who shared this runaway’s ideology. They became Professor McKinley’s friends once he had steered them clear from politics and towards their doomsayer lens. They loved talking about the “End Of The World As We Know It,” and the good professor let them because he was fascinated by their narrative. As a result, they counted him as a real friend despite political differences.
To the point, he was sure, where he could draw on it. “If you don’t mind living on the run, I could send a few messages” – with secure Blackberry, of course – “and see if anyone can bunk you up.”
Shifting a bit on his feet, Morris thanked him but added that he wasn’t here for charity. While doing so he looked more the castaway.
“The reason why I stopped by is to make a trade with you. That bar’s my life savings. I bought it on the CRIMEX.” That moniker was the nick for the NYMEX/COMEX commodity exchange, on which 100 oz. gold bars were traded. “Got it at spot for only a delivery fee and gas for pickup.” Having heard stories about drivers being rousted by the border guards, he had abandoned his car at the bus depot in his home town. He had used his credit card, but he had a plan to abandon it too.
Gurr now looked hesitant; it seemed to Prof. McKinley that the man was waiting be reached out to and patted on the back. “Would it be worth your while to trade this bar for ninety-nine Maple Leafs?”
Now, McKinley’s Canadian was up. “No, I’m not going to do that. I’ll give you one hundred ounces for it. We’ll make a fair trade.”
That got Gurr squirming almost as if he had been called on the carpet. “Sir, I don’t want to put you out any –“
“Good God, man! Why do you make it so hard for someone to do you a good turn?”
As a professor, it confirmed one of McKinley’s intuitions about Ayn Rand fans: many of them were unconsciously self-sacrificial, with their fanaticism covering it up. Not knowing how to be selfish in Rand’s way, they took refuge in parroting her political conclusions. The sad part was, many of them were raised to see their self-interest as aligned with the welfare state. As a result, they had next to no idea how they would thrive in their laissez-faire Utopia. Through their parroting, they hoped to absorb the magic secret that was beyond their reach. Many of them, he was sure, had fantasies about starting off in a stretch of raw land and building up a farm or something by their own two hands.
As a man, he was saddened and frustrated. Here was a fellow that was really deserving of charity, one who might well rate formal asylum some day. Should the Bush national security state keep growing as it had, should the aggressive post-Bush cop-bullies keep tasering and truncheoning the innocent, these poor fellows would be the new wave of draft dodgers.
“What I’m offering you is no more than what one human being offers another in trouble. From what you’ve told me, you’re already got enough trouble as it is. Why add to it when you need all the help you can get?”
The sadness and frustration mixed as he saw Morris flinch as if he had been rebuked. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to – I don’t know what I meant. Thank you.” Now acting almost obsequious, Morris thanked him again. It was clear that this independent self-starting man was unused to being helped to the point that real helped startled him.
Now standing up, McKinley decided that the only way to clam up his charge was to take charge. “I have my coins in a safe-deposit box. You can take your bar and we can make the exchange in the safe-deposit room. I’ll vouch for you, so the bank will let us both in.”
As he expected, Morris shook off his funk. “Thank you.” This time, the obsequiousness was gone. In its place was the confidence to ask for something else.
“If you don’t mind, could you put me in touch with someone in Vancouver?”
“Sure. I do know someone there who’s up your alley.”
“Thanks, Professor. It’s much appreciated.” Now, the man no longer looked hunted.
Gurr didn’t get antsy at the bank, where he got 90 one-ounce Maple Leafs and 20 one-half ouncers for his 100-oz. bar. McKinley’s attempt to lighten the mood, by saying he would save on transaction costs, was unnecessary and uncomprehended. Gurr merely informed him that he would have to get it assayed if he wanted to sell it on the futures exchange. “Still, it’s a good-delivery bar and an assay should be straightforward. Just don’t bang it up and you’ll be fine.”
The professor’s “gold friend” in Vancouver did answer, and did assent to having Gurr in for a “visit.” A solid employee at a libertarian-oriented think tank, she had a spacious one-bedroom apartment with a comfortable couch. She had heard of Morris Gurr and immediately recognized the significance of him being rousted.
Before they left the safety deposit box back, Gurr put a half-ounce coin back in and turned to ask the professor something. Perplexed, McKinley said “I though we already settled the matter.”
“No, I’m not trying to go back on the deal. I wanted to sell you a half-ounce piece for cash money.”
McKinley’s eyes and cheeks lit up. “Oh, now I see.
“Well, this one I’m going to charge you for,” he said agreeably. His refugee now looked like a man with a plan. “Once we finish here, I’ll pull out seven hundred dollars from the ATM. Bank fees; they kill you up here.”
Morris just smiled back. “Sounds like a deal.”
The ATM dispensed twenties, and McKinley’s charge now had a whole mittful of bright green bills with Queen Elizabeth’s picture on them. He extended his hand, and Professor McKinley shook it.
“Thanks, Professor. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
As he left, Morris Gurr planned out his next steps. First, he had to find a public library and locate the towns with bus stations in this province. Then, he would have to take the public bus to an Internet café and rent a car from it. From there, he would drive up to the town he chose and abandon the car in the woods about ten miles out. He could hike the ten miles in one stretch if need be. Since he was normally sedentary, he guessed the cops would assume he took off in the woods. He melting his credit card with a lighter, so as to blot out any information that a thief could use, would add to the illusion. He didn’t have time to grab some camping gear and make it look as if he were going out on a camping jaunt. Besides, he doing so didn’t quite square with a desperate man on the run.
A printed-out online map would get him the address of the bus station. From there, he’d buy a ticket to Vancouver for cash. The Maple Leafs, he could use to dicker with his new host Hester. Hester of Vancouver.
The professor found out the rest of the story through a vid-call from an American police officer. Calling because he had a lead from Gurr’s credit-card records, he asked if the professor had seen the fugitive.
“What has he done?” Long habituated to Canadian norms, Professor McKinley hid his distaste for American cops and responded as if they were Canadian.
“He’s a drug dealer.” Then followed a description of what Morris Gurr looked like, which matched what McKinley had seen. Also supplied was the rented car, abandoned near a town ninety kilometres away from the professor’s own location. The cop made it clear that Gurr had definitely been in the city.
Again, McKinley’s habituation hid his real thoughts. He knew very well that Morris Gurr was as far away from illegal drugs as he himself was from Friedmanite economics. Now, he unambiguously considered his rescue work to be a good deed – and the cop on the screen to be something other than a good man. So, he threw out the baited hook: “Did he assault a police officer?”
The cop didn’t bite. “Not yet, sir, but he is considered armed and dangerous. He’s a domestic terrorist type.”
That left McKinley off a different kind of hook.
“Armed and dangerous, you say?” Receiving confirmation, he stated:
“I can say unambiguously that I’ve encountered no-one matching that description.”
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