The paranoia industry: Ready or not?

EDITORS NOTE: This WND column, an abridged version of a much longer piece originally appearing in 1999, is a tribute to the late Jennifer Yael Bates (1961-2007), described by her life partner David E. Williams as a multi-talented "painter, musician, designer, scholar, technophile, esoteric retailer, patriot to nation and civilization, and impassioned advocate of the right to keep and bear arms," who died of leukemia May 17 in Philadelphia.

There we were, three chicks with dyed black hair, getting ready for the end of the world.

"I'm getting two knives," "Polly" says.

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"I'm getting a water purifier," her friend "Louisa" says.

"I'm getting carsick," I say.

"Polly," "Louisa," and I were en route to the appropriately named Fort Washington, Pa., along with "Jason," "Polly's" boyfriend, the sweet gentle long-haired Goth-rocker driving his classy relic of a clunky gunmetal gray car with the gray parachute grazing our heads. Our destination is the Preparedness Expo, a kind of traveling apocalyptic vendeteria, a whole different branch of the Paranoia Industry, capitalizing on folks' ultimate fears and fantasies of being vulnerable to terminal dismemberment, disaster, or death.

How I came to be there is one of those odd tricks of journalistic Fate. That winter I literally bumped into "Polly" on a Philly street-corner. She and her new boyfriend were attending gun shows lately and she said I could come along. They're an interesting couple. She's a physics consultant, film freak, and computer buff. I'd taken her class in numerology of the Kabbalah at a Jewish community center. He's a darkly talented local musician I once profiled for a magazine.

"Ready?" asks "Polly," our trip-meister, zealously planning this outing for six months. Everyone in the car wears black, except for me. "Jason" has one of those WE ARE THE NRA baseball caps. On the way, they play some "preparedness mood music."

"You gonna get bars for your windows?" "Polly" asks. "Ours are pretty secure."

"I'll be up on our roof-deck with a loaded shotgun," says "Louisa." "Buying any ammo?"

"I might," says "Polly."

"Style note to these groups wearing camouflage in the middle of a city – you're a moving target," "Polly" says archly.

After you pay your $8 at the Preparedness Expo, your hand is stamped at the door and they film you as you enter. No permission, no releases. You're not sure if you are being "shot" by the FBI, the CIA, the BATF, the DEA, your last lover, or merely an over-zealous expo management wanting a record of all potential shoplifters, pickpockets, shills, and shysters. If you weren't paranoid before this, you'll instantly become so.

You pick up a catalog, and the beckoning rustic golden wheat-field/blue sky/green mountains/cover says "Preparedness Expo – Peace of Mind in Our Changing World. Emergency & Disaster Supplies. Self-Reliant Living. Home Security & Self-Protection. Survival Gear, Wilderness & Camping Supplies. Alternative Health Products. Freedom."

What they're really selling is self-sufficiency. How to have safer, healthier, more independent lives in the face of an uncertain future which may include political unrest, economic instability, natural disasters, and other threats to personal freedom, health, and well-being. This is a definitely pro-active subculture bringing together the militia-minded, hard-bitten survivalists, those of a New Age persuasion, outdoor camping aficionados, canny capitalists, and calculating opportunists – was there a difference?

It would showcase everything: CDs of sincerely patriotic Steve Vaus songs; ways to bypass banks by getting investment portfolios of precious metals; five pound bags of minced freeze-dried chicken bits and other bulk food; the Anarchist's Cook Book; water filtration systems, first-aid kits, power generators, portable stoves and heaters, kerosene lanterns, emergency candles and blankets, solar and hand-crank radios, camping supplies, gas masks, bullet-proof vests, light-sticks, sun ovens, grain mills, how to get rid of your glasses, snakebite kits, clustered water (TM), homeopathic remedies you shouldn't leave home without; ancient Chinese techniques of tongue and pulse diagnosis; herbal remedies for surviving the Millennium; plus the usual array of macho weaponry. I didn't see any guns.

"Jason," "Polly," and "Louisa" are combing the aisles for must-have products.

"Got my beef jerky," someone says in the aisle. "Never trusted what that stuff might really be made of," observes "Polly," the philosopher among us....

If you're into weirdly unpredictable merchandise, these places are a consumer's paradise. "Jason" gets a book on raising and butchering ducks. "Fatty meat," "Polly" warns. "Polly" gets a cultish mega-conspiracy book, then considers the knives, but thinks the selection seems small and too expensive. I look at a hand-held laser device the nice lady claims you just wave over your food in circles so the tiny red light cancels out all your food allergies, sensitivities, and reactions, only $125, a bargain at twice the price.

Riding home, I realize maybe I should have bought that super-sexy $15 POSSE COMITATUS T-shirt. Too bad. Too late. Next time – if there IS a next time...