LIKE A GAME OF PSYCHOSOMATIC BINGO:
How to Destroy a Lesbian Bar: The scourge of COVID led to drive-by whinings disguised as activism. (Helen Lewis, September 25, 2026, The Atlantic)
My experience pales beside that of Jackie Matellian, the 26-year-old proprietor of the Last Ditch, who, according to the Globe, had run up $50,000 in debt and had been sleeping in her truck as a result of the business’s troubles. She tried to do everything right: The bar was declared to be a safe space for the unhoused, and a no-go zone for police. She and her former co-owners (one of whom uses it/its pronouns) waived the cover charge for anyone who couldn’t pay; more and more patrons took advantage. After the backlash to the change in the mask policy, the bar apologized, explaining that the mask-optional night would help members of the queer community who needed to lip-read. None of this appeased the critics, one of whom felt the bar was insufficiently devoted to “revolutionary praxis,” which is like normal praxis but the discussions you have about it go around and around forever. “How are we supposed to be ‘connected in the revolution’ if we are spreading disease to one another? Nah,” Soe Noire posted.
At this point, Matellian should have realized that you can’t negotiate with terrorists, even ones with long COVID. Instead, though, she optimistically subjected herself to a struggle session—sorry, a mediation-and-accountability process—so that everyone could air their grievances.
The podcast Blocked and Reported, which broke the story of the Last Ditch earlier this month, obtained audio recordings of this meeting, in which pronoun declarations were required. As Katie Herzog, a co-host of the podcast, observed, the participants included “two people named after plants” (Sage and Moss; a third was named Yams). Those attending on Zoom were relentlessly hostile, demanding to know the mediator’s race and whether they would be institutionalized for disclosing any mental-health conditions to her. One of the Last Ditch volunteers told the meeting that the bar was $3,900 in debt and needed to pay within days, but Soe Noire—a self-declared lesbian using he/him pronouns—changed the subject to how the policy change made him feel unsafe. The Last Ditch had failed to uphold “COVID-cautious principles, anti-racism, or revolution,” Noire said. (Reminder: This is a bar. You know, the place where you go to drink beer.)
Most people might be surprised that arguments over masking are still so febrile years after even cautious blue-state schools resumed in-person teaching. But across the United States, some small subcultures live as though it’s still April 2020. That’s because pandemic protections and mitigations quickly became left-coded, to the extent that Donald Trump now has to pretend he didn’t oversee the successful vaccine program. In this context, perma-masking is every bit as much a political symbol as wearing a MAGA hat or a keffiyeh.
Anxiety and depression rates spiked during the pandemic, and some vulnerable people have never really recovered from the effects of physical isolation and the sense of oppressive dread they felt during months when thousands of Americans died. On the right, these emotions drive people toward conspiracism about Chinese bioweapons and false flags and “mass formation psychosis,” the idea that gullible populations were hypnotized into accepting shutdown measures. On the left, these anxieties coincide with a political critique—that Americans and their predatory private-health-care system do not care about disabled people. Masking is a visible symbol of resistance to this injustice, as well as a practical measure against the spread of disease. Notably, too, self-reported long COVID is disproportionately high among trans and bi Americans. Unless science uncovers measurable respiratory differences between bisexuals and the rest of the population, one explanation is that more LGBTQ Americans live in social contexts in which vague, unpleasant symptoms such as brain fog are interpreted as long COVID.
