Politics always steps up the smears; I guess it's because of the sort of people attracted to politics (not counting the Paulians and a few others). And because the two parties are arms of the State.
Usually I am besmirched because I do not adopt the state moral code--i.e., political correctness--as my own. The vaunted champions of tolerance are actually the most intolerant bunch in American society, especially those on the Koch Bros. payroll. They hate live-and-let-live guys. If, say, Polish Catholics--to take an unapproved minority--want to have their own community, I see it as an exercise of freedom. Kochites would denounce it as racist, sexist, antisemitic, antiatheist, antireason, reactionary, antidiversity, and all the rest. By the way, I would also be tolerant of anti-religious social liberals who wanted their own community. That's just as much an exercise of freedom. Let a hundred flowers bloom.
But now there is a new smear, perhaps inspired by the old ones: that I am the son of George Lincoln Rockwell, the late head of the National Socialist American Workers Party--Nazis, for short. Now, since I am an opponent of both nationalism and socialism, as a Rothbardian, having such a unfortunate father would hardly prove that I shared his views (unless one were a Marxist, as my accuser is). In fact, I had a great father, Llewellyn H. Rockwell, MD, a Taft Republican. But there is an interesting connection. In the 1950s, when my dad was staying at The Breakers in Florida, recuperating from an illness; his mail got mixed up with "Doc" Rockwell's, a vaudeville performer and the father of George Lincoln, who was staying at the same hotel. His son, as you can imagine, broke his heart. But in discussing the name Rockwell, Doc told my dad that he had changed his name from a longer one for show business purposes.
I should note one other connection: as a young man, I had a second job as the night manager of small department store. A woman attempted to return an expensive raincoat because she had burned a cigarette hole in the sleeve, and "could not wear it anymore." I explained that we could not take it back, since store policy required that returns be in resalable condition. But she got furious, finally peering at my name tag and saying, "Rockwell. Rockwell. Any relation to George Lincoln?" "Neither politically nor genetically, Madam," I told her. "And we are not taking your raincoat back."
Doc Rockwell's letterhead, btw, had a row of ducks flying across the top, each one saying "quack, quack, quack." Reminds me of the smear bund!