Showing posts with label Stuff Not Launched With Voyager 1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stuff Not Launched With Voyager 1. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 23, 2026

At The Limits Of Diversion Is The Beginning Of The Real

Revere Them As Royalty, As Gods
(A version of this was originally posted on June 10, 2025.)

National Guard Troops, Los Angeles Civic Center, Federal Building
June 9, 2025 (Daniel Terna / NYT)
                                            "How did you go bankrupt?"
                                            "Two ways. Gradually, then suddenly."
                                          -- Ernest Hemingway; The Sun Also Rises (1929)
When things happen, they come in a waterfall, a cascade, a torrent. If you haven't been paying attention, they will seem to appear as if by magic, out of nowhere.  But they never do. 

What's unfolding is not a surprise. It's not hyperbole, or an exaggeration. The Leader wants a blood sacrifice on the altar of his madness. His Orcs are working, Sir Sir Sir, yes Sir, to manufacture it. 

Every passing day, a new outrage, murder, scandal. Every day an increased possibility of a red line being crossed which can't be walked back. Ultimately, it's what they want.

SFPD Faces Off Against Anti-ICE / Deportation Protesters, 
San Francisco Mission District, June 9, 2025 (Lauren Elliot / NYT)

The Past Is Present, Tense

Even with everything that's happened since January 20, 2025; even with No Kings rallies, all major polling organizations showing Trump and Republican numbers flashing red -- even with shooting after corrupt grifting in the open, even after The War The War The War The War -- people are going along as if everything will magically reset after November 3rd. 

Convincing people to believe that we're deep into a fascist coup, and that the election results might just be ignored because the fascists say so is hard. And we've had nearly a decade to understand -- where we are, right now, is no surprise. It's the realization of a right-wing dream.

In the long-ago 2021 (via The Soul Of America),  Adolph Reed posted an observation ("The Whole Country Is The Reichstag"):

"The right-wing ... [has] a single concrete objective—taking absolute power in the U.S. as soon and as definitively as possible. And [they] even seemingly want, to destroy the social fabric of the country [in taking power] ...

"Discrediting government ... has been a component of the GOP game plan ..  and Democrats have reinforced [that] in their own way. ...Four decades of retrenchment and privatization ... steadily increasing economic inequality and government’s failure to address it in any meaningful way [fuels a] lack of confidence, distrust, and hostility toward government ... and eventually even the idea of the public itself.  And [Right-wing billionaires who] bankroll the ultraright have taken advantage of that, [stoking] frustration and rage into a dangerously authoritarian political force."

Campaign Commercial For Every Maga Rethug Candidate In 2026
(Los Angeles Civic Center, June 8, 2025)
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I grew up in the Fifties and Sixties. I believed, naive and bred-to-be-hopeful as I was, in our long national Narrative of America. We're an imperfect country, always trying to Do Better, on a constant upward (and so, of course, liberal) arc into an inevitable future. Even after experiencing the disneyland E-Ticket ride of Southeast Asia, I still believed it. 

That this dream of a future looked identical to the post-WW2 economic boom enjoyed by white male straight 'christian'  Americans, and may not have been good for other humans, in other places, took time for me to learn.

National Guardsmen On The Streets Of Newark, NJ; April, 1967

In that national Narrative, Watergate, Vietnam; riots every Summer in major American cities, and the National Guard in the streets; Nixon, Reagan, Bush; Clinton and Obama's neoliberalism; Forever War -- all could be seen as tragedies, regrettable episodes.

And, so was the political Right. They were Birchers, Bow-Tie Daddies. They were all a Fringe, on the wrong side of history. The future would belong to a moderate, Liberal culture: always upwards.

Of course it would.
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I'll Take 'White Nationalist Political Narratives' For A Thousand, Alex

In 2021, author George Packer noted in The Atlantic that America's national narrative, Our Story, is a string of crises -- all leading to 'how we got out of it'. How we overcame and went on to even greater triumph: Upwards, always upwards.

But, Packer said, we don't have one unified Story of America -- we have four. The one chosen by the religious and political Right is that of a beautiful America, stolen from its people by immigrants, noisy and uppity People of Color, Women, Liberals, Socialists; LGBTQ+, and (the Base is saying openly, now) Jews. 

The issues Trump had campaigned on waxed and waned ...What remained was the dark energy he unleashed... Trump’s people still talked about freedom, but they meant blood and soil. Their nationalism was like the ethno-nationalisms on the rise in Europe ... Trump abused every American institution ... and his people cheered. Nothing excited them like owning the libs.

The beautiful America can only return when these demon-possessed culture-despoilers are destroyed. When our Blood and Land is cleansed and purified. Then all will be good again. 

America's Right has been told to prepare, and plan, for a confrontation -- final, bloody, retributive; like battle on the plains of Armageddon.. Trump's core sycophants are using this narrative like a blueprint. It's the logical culmination of forty years of victimhood propaganda and hatred. 

They've tied their futures, their fate as human beings, to achieving the goal of domination and vengeance. It's why there have been armed troops in major American cities. Something has to happen. It's the story arc of a cheap thriller -- Rising Action, leading to a Cliffhanger Climax; then Resolution -- and the ending is inevitable: It's Victory. It's "Owning The Libs" once and for all.
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The Leader, During The 2024 Campaign

The lies and hatred broadcast for forty years by Limbaugh, by the Murdochs and their hand-picked talking heads, are in the "historical record". But the Right thinks: we're Owning The Libs. They are all about the naked use of power, and using that power to enrich themselves. Every day, Trump and his weasels create a new provocation, crossing another red line.

The situation is like a madman with a gun, who keeps walking towards you, while screaming, Don't get any closer!! I'm warnin' ya!! I told ya -- stop comin' at me!!  Finally, he shoots you, shouting, See what you did?? You Libs made me do it!! Told ya!! Told ya!! 

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This Will Be On The Exam

54 years after crowds chanted Nixon's The One !  Four More years !!, the children and grandchildren of the Silent Majority, the Birchers and the Klan, are back. 

They're bully-mean in their MAGA caps and January 6, 2021 - Civil War T-Shirts. They see the world through small, piggish eyes, and they hate you.

The Leader, Riding Out To Play Golf  On January 7th, 2021:
The Rioters Had Attempted A Coup -- For That

They hate Colored People and Foreigners, and Eggy-heads, and Libs and Gays and Trans People; and them Eee-leets, weak and soft. They think vaccines and science are evil. They love god; yes they do (somebody's god, anyway), and America. But they hate you, and want you to die. 

America's Owners are delusional, and rich. Very, very rich. They don't like Trump, or the Base, or anyone who isn't part of their class. But they believe in keeping control. Trump -- the Leader they paid for -- and his weasels control both houses of Congress, and the Supreme Court. Trump is an imperial President; he has more power than any U.S. chief executive in modern history. 

The Billionaire businessmen (Koch; Uihline; Coors; Addelson; Diamon, the Murdochs, etc.), the new fascist ideologues (Leo, Vought; Dans, et al.); the Tech Bro Billionaires dreaming of a new feudalism; evangelical "christian" white supremacists and their militias, dreaming of a Gilead-like theocracy -- all of them are closer to regaining control of American society than they have since 1934.

These persons believe they are destined to seize that control. They expect not only that People fear them, but revere them, like royalty; like gods.  As close as they are to realizing their dream... do you really think they'll allow that chance to be stolen by ... an election ?

 I'm not saying the elections are an empty gesture.  But I'm not alone in considering they may be nulified. 

Obligatory Cute Small Animal Photo
In Middle Of Cassandraizing Blog Rant 
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Even in the face of open corruption and misuse of presidential authority -- even with Trump and the Republicans' pushing an illegal war -- the Democratic Left has been splintered. Democratic leadership is divided, and with few exceptions, Jeffries and Schumer seem to focus on how the Right will be judged in the historical record. They send sternly worded letters, and make focus-tested remarks on PBS.

That worked during Trump's first term, but this is Crazy Donny 2.0.  American democracy is a store that's being looted right in front of us. The DNC Gerontocracy is not capable of fighting back against a fascist takeover because they don't understand that is what's happening.

They can't believe Trump is, like Noah Cross in Chinatown, capable of anything.  For someone who is literally accused of raping children, how far do you think Trump might go?

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Part of Trump's power lies in attracting people who are fundamentally unhappy with America's political system. They know in their bones that System is rigged in favor of wealth and lineage.  They're pissed off at being lied to and fucked, over and over, by the same people, for generations. 

Some on the Left understand that these specific voters want change -- fascist, Democrat; Socialist; it almost doesn't matter.  If the Left can communicate a coherent, realistic promise -- a new New Deal -- come together around a popular candidate, who can articulate the promise, give voice to people's experience and hopes -- then the death grip Trump and Trumpism has on our future can be broken. 

Democratic Socialists are not just calling out Crazy Donny and his Lieutenants, defining why we're standing up for democracy -- they're describing a future vision that doesn't include the Neoliberal shuck-and-jive of the Clinton and Obama years, which the current Democratic leadership embodies: No More Business As Usual.

No more business as usual.

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Tuesday, May 27, 2025

A Very Long Thing About America Really. With Photos. No, Really.

"Oh There's Nothing Like A Road Trip
... when your life is going nowhere"
                              -- Jean Shepard

Charles Cushman; Kodachrome Slide Of Golden Gate Bridge, February 1953

This post has been taking shape for months. But first -- a little digression. Sort of a Fuck You Very Much, You Orc Fucks. You know -- Because Freedom. I warn you, it's a little intense, but these are intense times. 
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The Following Is A (Not That Brief) Unpaid Political Rant
"It's A Little Angry -- And That's After The Edits."

In November, half of the United States screeched, We want Oligarchs and Fascism! And this is what we're getting. You wanted this!

There's been (so far) little cohesion on the Left. Democratic Party leadership is the party of closing their eyes and plugging their ears, and "buh buh buh some day it will all go away some day, and don't look at us, it's what all the polls say".

Meanwhile, Elmo Husk is playing with all the data stolen from government departments he's broken and bludgeoned. He bribed Crazy Donny with campaign money, so Donny let him copy databases of personal information, which Old America had spent years and billions to protect from hostile foreign states and cybercriminals. But in New Golden Age America, The call is coming from inside the house. 

So, who will Elmo sell the data to? Yakuza, Triads? Sad Vlad, the Putin? DJ Jim Ping and his CCP All Night Long Band?  Jeffy The Magic Bezos?  Peety Thiel, or Larry, or Zuck, or Sam What AI Am; Lil' Beckah Mercer and Her Daddy?  Even Rupert and Lack Lan too?  So many choices ! 

Crazy Donny can't wait to issue that Declaration Of A State Of Emergency, and Lil' Stevie Reinhard Heydrich Miller can direct protestors and critics and judges and journalists, and you and me! to be deported to Russian prisons. Or worse.  Because Freedom ! Praise Jeesuz!


Good News About Hell

And, applause! for everyone who voted I Am Lovin' me Some Crazy Donny !  I hope you enjoyed the past five months.  When all this shit really hits the fan -- and it will -- just remember: Every time you switch on Fox and Newsmax and OAN, you are sucking Joseph Goebbels' underwear. You wanted this; now you have it. How does it taste, Bobo? 

And, to Democratic party leadership: This is what you wanted, too. You are too frightened of appearing "divisive" "extreme" "radical" to fight back -- because it means you will be criticized by a dozen special MSM Beltway journalists who are busy writing their book of the moment, before the publishing houses are shut down. Why, you might lose influence, appear less relevant. Then what are you good for?

Every time you shut down Progressive voices -- you're licking Donny's adult boo-boo undies. You say only you can make special back-room 'deals' with your 'counterparts' in the Thug party -- people you know will fuck you every chance they get? And you never learn -- so what are you good for? I'd like to know.

And Oh yes Gaza: You won't say 'stop'? Won't turn off the military hardware gravy train? All because criticizing Israel is Bad? Antisemitic?? Please to be giving my dog a blow job, Chuck. Send another strongly worded note to Lil' Pastor Mikey, or Loco Marco, the nazi Ambassador. Maybe Susan Collins will even help you compose it.
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Ah; but there is good news about Hell:  You repugnant, Orc, nazi degenerates -- You neoliberal goat-fucking scumbags -- you'll all be in it with us.

Damn; if that twerp back on Bluesky wasn't right when they accused me of being an angry, ranting, Downer Dog. Well; losing your World by yards each day will do that to you, kiddo. 
[The] great age of European civilization was an edifice of grandeur and passion, of riches and beauty and dark reliance... The Old World had much that has since been lost, whatever may have been gained. Looking back on it from 1915, Emile Verhaeren, the Belgian Socialist poet, dedicated his pages, “With emotion, to the man I used to be.” 
                      -- Barbara Tuchman, The Proud Tower (1966) 
Obligatory Cute Small Animal Photo At Close Of Blog Rant

Thank You for your attention. And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming. 
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Transition Paragraphs After Blog Rant

I think about the past, more than is good for me. I think about America, that we're at yet another inflection point in our history.

It's important to remember details about where we all came from, not so long ago, and how far we've come as a society -- particularly when it's so clear there are people who want to take away everything we've been able to force our Billionaire owners to give up since the early 1930s.
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"Cushmans; Meet The Cushmans
They're a Post-Depression Family"

Historical story-telling is a really like a Spaulding Grey monologue, a step up from the campfire story, the hero's tale. If an Historian is gifted, we might understand better the world and the people who came before us. Because the value for people like us, the Little People down in the streets, really is in the details.

In a broader social and political context, the story-telling can show us who We, The People, once were -- and by comparison, where we are now. What we've gained, and stand to lose.
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Ford 1938 De Luxe Tudor Sedan

In the early 2000's, I was surfing the then-Web, and stumbled across a blog post with photos recording a trip taken by a Charles Weever Cushman (1896 - 1972) and his wife, Jean Hamilton Cushman, across the United States in 1940. 

Since I was trained as a historian, and spent a lot of time one way or another as an investigator, I wanted to know more about the Cushmans, and started digging. Much of what I know is relatively recent information; it's taken years to digitize various public sources and make them available online for all of us.

Charles Cushman was born in Indiana. He graduated from the state university; found a job as a Business Analyst at a public relations firm in Chicago in the early 1920's, where he met his wife, Jean -- the boss' daughter. 

Charles and Jean were married in 1924 -- his father-in-law, Joe Hamilton, was a nationally prominent advertising copywriter and innovator in visual media. He was wealthy, connected -- and the uncle of an aspiring writer, John Steinbeck.
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(It is, sometimes, the strangest of worlds. In 1930, Hamilton called in a favor to wrangle his nephew a newspaper reporting job in New York City. Steinbeck had published one novel, Cup Of Gold, in 1929, but after the Crash had to take work on a road maintenance crew. The newspaper job allowed Steinbeck to continue writing, and live closer to the New York publishing world.

Twenty-Eight Year-Old John Steinbeck, NYC; 1930

(In the mid-30's, Hamilton was tapped by FDR to become Director of Information for an increasingly embattled Works Progress Administration, defending the Federal Theatre Project and photographers from charges of Leftist bias by right-wing politicians.

(In 1952, Steinbeck put Joe into East of Eden, the youngest of the Hamilton family children, living in Salinas, who goes on to find his calling in advertising, "where his very faults were virtues".)
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Cushman's father-in-law Hamilton made sure he had a job (and his daughter, security) in Chicago after the Crash. In 1933, Hamilton became a principal in a new business -- a subsidiary of a Canadian distillery -- which, if Prohibition were repealed, would be positioned to make a ton of money. Hamilton made his son-in-law the business' secretary-treasurer. 

Prohibition was repealed on December 5, 1933. The distilling company, after making several tons of money, and was sold in 1938 at a substantial profit.  Aber Natürlich, the company's directors and officers -- Joe Hamilton and Charlie Cushman (and Jean) -- made bank.

To celebrate their good fortune, they decided on a road trip from Chicago to the West Coast; then, they would drive east to Florida. It was the first in what became the Cushman's annual routine -- vacations that lasted several months, driving around and across America. 

Cushman had purchased a new 35mm camera, along with rolls of  Kodak's new 'Kodachrome' color film, and was anxious to use them.
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"Happy Days Are Here (Again)
The nazis, we'll all fear again"

( Note: One U.S. Dollar in 1940, adjusted for inflation, had the purchasing power of $22 in 2025. You'll see both sets of costs as I work through the economics of this post. It's meant to give a real sense of both how well-off the Cushmans were, and living costs in America, 85 years ago.)

In 1940, the Cushmans purchased a brand-new Ford hardtop Tudor De Luxe Coupe for $665 -- that's   $14,630 today. Standard financing for a new automobile was a one-third down payment of $225 ($4,900), with the balance carried on a loan, direct with the auto dealership -- not with a bank. Including interest, the loan would be paid in $30 - $40 monthly installments ($660 - $880 now) over three years.

Charles and Jean drove their new red Ford from Chicago to the Northwest Pacific coast, then, down the length of California. After, they travelled east across the American Southwest, and finally back to Illinois. 

Charles and Jean Cushman: Portland, Oregon; September, 1938

In 1940, America's Interstates didn't yet exist. The Cushman's trip was taken on 3,000-plus miles of blacktop, gravel, or dirt roads. Many roads would be new, built through New Deal WPA / CCC / NRA projects by the kind of road crews John Steinbeck had worked on. With layovers at major stops, the Cushman's trip could easily take thirty days or more.

Their Ford Coupe ran at an average 20 MPG. Gasoline sold in 1940 for ~$0.20 per gallon. A 3,000 mile trip in the Ford would take ~200 gallons and cost forty dollars -- $880 in 2025  (At the current national average of $3.18 / Gal., two hundred gallons will cost you $635 today).

Another fact of interstate driving in the United States in 1938 were Toll Roads. They're nearly extinct, now. But once, roads -- not all, but major 'Turnpikes' -- were privately owned. Wagon, then auto drivers paid to use them. We don't know which, if any, Tolls the Cushmans may have had to pay as they drove around America, or how much.

The Cushman's Tudor Coupe,
On The Marin Side Of The Golden Gate Bridge, 1940

A moderately-priced Tourist Court or hotel room would run an average of $4.50 a night for two people, -- about $120 for 30 days. A decent breakfast, lunch, and dinner in 1940 would run $7.50 per person, per day (including beer and wine) -- altogether, lodging and food for Charles and Jean would cost ~$450 -- almost $10,000 in 2025.

40th Street At 6th Avenue, NYC; June, 1940
(Identified by the newspaper headliner,
"Nazi Army Now 75 Miles From Paris"). Note food item prices.

When you include 10-15% for inevitable add-ons and extras (not including the cost of any clothing, tchotchkes, art, tickets to museums, etc.), their vacation cost ~ $660 ($15,600 today).

Multiply that by 15 other trips between 1939 and 1954, and in 2025 dollars, the Cushmans may have spent $230K -- a quarter of a million dollars -- in their decade-and-a-half of almost continual travel. 

Given that most Americans still struggled with the Depression until 1942, then were swept up in a World War, I'm not completely sure how I feel about all this. The Cushmans were lucky about the money. They were white, upper-middle-class Americans with the relative freedom their 1938 windfall could provide. They were lucky about a lot. 

Fortunately, that has little to do with the photographs.
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OCD Can Be Good For You And Good For Me

Charles Cushman was an avid amateur photographer -- no; he was obsessive about it, starting in 1919 at Indiana University when he acted as photographer for the student newspaper. He took photos -- mostly Box-Brownie-style 120mm-film snapshots -- whenever he had the chance.

Kodak released its groundbreaking Kodachrome color film for 35mm still cameras in 1935. A single, 18-exposure roll in 1940 cost $3.50 ($77 today) -- which included developing and printing by Kodak, something they did for decades (I'm so old I can remember our family mailing rolls of Kodak film in prepaid envelopes to Rochester, New York, and within a week, prints or slides of your photos would be delivered).

In the early 1930's, Charles bought a Contax II 35mm rangefinder camera, with a basic 50mm lens, for $250 ($5,500 today). The Contax was produced by the German firm, Zeiss-Ikon, and among the most expensive 35mm rangefinders available at the time (e.g., made by Leica, Argus, and Kodak).

     

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America, America
"O Blinding Light / O Light That Blinds / I Cannot See / Look Out For Me"

Cushman shot multiple rolls on each trip, and kept detailed notebooks with entries about every exposure. They weren't just tourist snaps. Whether he realized it or not, he was recording what the United States looked like -- even more, what it felt like -- at an inflection point in history. 

The United States settled into isolation after our one, great spasm of colonial Jingoism, the Spanish-American War and the "conquest of the Philippines" in 1898. After our involvement in WW1, the country had rejected Wilson's vision of a global role for the USA and retreated into itself again.

Technology continued changing society. So did the Great Depression -- right down to our foundations. America was divided in 1938 -- Left / Right, Rich vs. Poor. Spain was the Ukraine of the 1930's, torn apart by a war between Fascism, Hitler and Mussolini, and Stalinist Communism. 

FDR had been President for six years, trying to save American democracy and economic markets. He could see the broader world was likely going to pull the U.S. into a major war -- Lindbergh and the America Firsters (some of the same people who had plotted an armed coup to remove Roosevelt in 1934) be damned.
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Cushman's photographs made a record of how people lived -- in rural communities, small towns and large urban areas; how they dressed; their posture and physical condition; where they lived. He could have enjoyed landscape photography, or older architecture studies -- but whether he consciously chose to do so or not, Cushman's real subjects were America, and Americans.

Unemployed Men Near Lower East Side Flophouse, NYC; 1940

He and Jean were in the right places at the right time. He had the right level of obsessive behavior when it came to photography. On their annual excursions, Charles Cushman shot nearly 790 rolls of Kodachrome film over 35 years. In 2025, that's $32,000 -- almost a thousand dollars a year.

And, they travelled during the war (1942-45) despite gasoline, oil, and tires being strictly rationed. Most Americans with autos severely restricted their travel ("Is This Trip Necessary?" was the catchphrase on posters and in advertising), or put their cars up on blocks "for the duration". But not the Cushmans.
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Laguna Beach, California; Sunday Afternoon, June 1940

Jean and Charles Cushman, Miami Beach, FL; March, 1939

In 1954, Charles and Jean moved from Chicago to San Francisco. Polk's City Directory shows they lived in two leased apartments over the next fifteen years. They had been mobile most of their adult lives -- that they rented flats, as opposed to putting down more permanent roots, makes sense. 

They continued making long trips -- to Europe, this time -- and Charles took more photos. The last trip he and Jean took appears to have been to Greece, Austria, and Germany in 1965. A bit later, out for a walk in San Francisco, he took pictures with his ever-present camera in the Haight-Ashbury; just a silhouette on the sidewalk.

       
                              Intersection Of Haight and Masonic, San Francisco; 1967

In 1969, the Cushmans disappear from public records. Charles died in 1972, age 76; no record of Jean.

Charles In Retirement, Snapped By Jean;
San Francisco, Date Unknown

Cushman bequeathed to his alma mater, Indiana University, over 2,200 black-and-white photos, 14,000 color slides, and notebooks. The university had a photography department, and added the bequest to their archives.  

Twenty years later, needing space for their collection, Cushman's photos were deemed nothing more than tourist-level snapshots, and tossed Cushman's photos into a dumpster. An associate professor in the department, by chance, walked past the garbage bin, spotted and literally rescued them. 
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The Photos

Reviewing the color slides, the instructor saw their value as a unique color archive about ordinary America. They showed more than Cushman's good eye for detail and composition. They were a cultural record. You can see them all, online, here.

What stands out in these photos is how much people did not have. There was no broad Middle Class in America.  People didn't have disposable income to spend on consumer goods; it shows in the clothing, shoes, even the facial expressions and physical postures of people we know instinctively are lower on the economic ladder -- and per the 1930 and 1940 Censuses, most people in America were 'working class' or below.

The Second World War, and economic expansion, would change all that. But before 1942 the reality was, a significant number of people worked at jobs which didn't pay much money. Unemployment in 1940 was high - sixteen per cent; there were not that many jobs to be had. We were a nation of people traumatized -- by years of drought, failure, loss; good and bad politics; uncertainty and fear. All of it marked their lives, and our collective national psyche.

(It's not hyperbole. My mother came of age during the Depression and appeared to make a basic underlying assumption about the world: "You never know". Something terrible was about to happen at any moment. Superstitious ("Go outside; turn around three times, and spit. Go."), obsessively careful about money, and everything else. Little new was ever bought. Everything was repaired, resewn, to "make-do". It wasn't until forty years later, sometime in the 1960's -- that she tentatively began to believe she was relatively safe.)

Most people couldn't afford a home. Many who did had to take in lodgers to afford their rent or mortgage payments. Large pieces of furniture were inherited; there was no Ikea in the 1930s. Many rural families didn't have indoor plumbing, electricity, or hot water. 

Vieux Carre, New Orleans LA, 1940

If you rented an apartment in a city, there might be a single communal toilet on each floor; no bathtub. Many people only 'bathed' once a week, with a designated "bath night" -- tin basin to squat in; water heated on a stove, and even then it was only a modified sponge bath. Having a shampoo was a luxury.

Even in 1940, many Americans lived and died within fifty miles or less of the place they were born. Going to visit relatives in another town or state, by train or bus, was done, but flying somewhere in an airplane was unheard of. Or travelling by ship to Europe. 

It wasn't just expense. It was also having the free time from work to make a journey. 'Vacation days' granted by an employer didn't exist. Neither were mandatory rest breaks, paid lunch breaks, sick time, maternity leave, healthcare, or employee savings plans. No regulations about discrimination in hiring involving women, minorities, the disabled; the Deaf Community. Work in America of 1940 was not Woke.

Eutaw, Alabama; 1941

Americans in 2025 have high expectations of the society we live in. We have blogs and substack and Lil' Tukker Sucking Goebbels' Underwear; email and fax and .pdfs. We stream films, episodes of White Lotus, or The Last Of Us, 'South Park', or a Bill Burr special. 

Our general consciousness takes for granted all the technology at our fingertips; our ability to see almost anything, buy almost anything, travel in hours to the other side of the world. Last Thursday, I bought an item on EBay from a seller in Japan. Less than a week later, it's just been delivered as I'm typing this. And I've been listening to a long string of music and podcasts via Bluetooth earbuds, all day.
   
                     
Lower East Side, NYC; 1941

Consider: the people in Cushman's photos have completely different expectations about how their world functions. You didn't hear music unless someone had a record player, which cost $20 - $150 ($440 -  $3,300 today). The records were ~$1.25 ($27.50) each. People listened to radios (cost, new = $20 - $40; $440 to $880).  The world of these people wasn't silent, but no streaming music-on-demand.

USPS would deliver a letter in the 48 States, within days -- a little longer for the Alaskan or Hawaiian Territories. A long-distance telephone call required assistance from Operators, and could cost $0.50 to $2.50 (that's ten to fifty dollars today) -- for three minutes. 

Chicago, IL; 1941

Western Union Telegraph -- delivered by messenger -- could run you up to $20 ($440 today). You can buy clothing and other items from a physical catalog (Marshall Fields; Montgomery Ward; Sears & Roebuck) but USPS shipping could be expensive, and would take a week or more to arrive.

             
Salvage Crew, Teenaged Boys Picking Up Junk; NYC; 1941

My point: A major difference between life in 1940, and our world in 2025, is the instantaneousness of our lives. We swim in an ocean of communication; of consumerism. For the people we see in Cushman's photos, everything which makes up our collective reality, our Now -- hasn't happened yet. 

Black Women And Children On The Street; Annapolis, MD, 1941

The most obvious thing here is how much the women do not want their photograph taken. They acquiesce, because it's a white man's world. But how they feel about it is plain as day.  The children above might be alive today in their late Eighties or Nineties, but statistically it isn't likely.

Saturday-Night County Dance; MacKintosh, OK; 1939

This grabs the sense of every awkward school- or organization-sponsored dance, ever. These mostly young people are sharecropper, farm family kids. They're wearing their 'for-best', their Saturday Night clothes -- dancing in a room with walls of wooden studs, no drywall; literally papered over. 

No idea how Cushman was invited to observe this event and take a flash-photo -- but it happened in Oklahoma, one of the states literally blown away in the Dust Bowl of the Thirties. It feels like something Steinbeck could have described in Grapes Of Wrath -- just history, for us.

Most of the people in the photo were born between the mid-1910s and 1920s. Most of the men would be in the U.S. military, serving in the European or Pacific Theaters, within another two years.

Company Housing Across From A Steel Mill, Johnstown PA; 1940

(Close-Up Of Steelworker's Children, In The Photo Above; 1940)

Indiana Farm, 1941

Latino Boys; Texas, 1941

Lower Clinton Street, NYC; 1940
Not impossible for this man to have been born in the 1860's

Brand New Boeing 307 Stratoliners Being Fueled At O'Hare Airport, Chicago, 1938 
(In WW2, They Would Become The B-29 Bomber)
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MEHR, MIT ANALYSE

In 1940, per the Brookings Institution, seventy-five per cent of adults 25 and over were high school dropouts, or had no education beyond the 8th Grade. 

Only 5 per cent of adults attended college, had a Bachelor's or a graduate degree -- and the majority of them were male.

Unemployment was still high: 16%.  The census showed 53 million persons, 14 and older, as employed. Of them, ~17 million had white-collar jobs -- which typically represented a higher income, compared to 36 million 'blue-collar' workers.

The 1940 Census showed  35,087,440 families in America. 
      Average family income was  $950  ($21,000, in 2025 -- This is net income, not net assets.)
     Lower / Working-Class:  51% of families had income of $1 - $900 ($20,000) / year
     Middle Class:  23% of families made $1-3,000 ($22,000 - 66K) / year
     Upper-Middle Class: 24% of families made $3-4,000 ($66K - $88,000) / year
     Upper Class: 1.59% reported income of $5,000 or more ($100K+) / year
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Sunday, July 28, 2024

Your Pre-Flight Orientation

A Brief History Of The Now

Ned Merrill (Burt Lancaster), "The Swimmer" (1968)

It's A Strange, Undeniable Fact; Out Of The Blue And Into The Black

The news of the day rolls up to that place where the bricks meet the end of the stairs. It's really a sidewalk, something urban and poured, not pieces set by hand, and the stairs are front steps of the place where I've lived -- for twenty years this month, and for now.

While the majority of America has basted and boiled through these summer months so far, San Francisco slipped its hands in its pockets, tucked its chin down a little, keeping its cool. We have beautiful sunsets beyond the Golden Gate, light gold and red across the La Nina waters, the delight of sailors. We also have fog, of course.

I'm grateful, but immediately think: Don't say that; you're tempting the Wrath of the Whoosis From High Atop The Thing, go outside, turn around three times and spit, because I've always been like that. I am the embodiment of George Carlin's Hippy-Dippy Weatherman ("Behind every silver lining -- there's a dark cloud"). Look both ways before you cross the street -- and even if you do, stuff happens.

And so while places in America are baked beneath a Dome, here in yesterday, it rained -- or, almost -- and I made my way across the City to the house of the Best Friend to join others in a low-key dinner, a rite of passage: my retirement after 25 years from, almost assuredly, the last regular job I will ever have.

One of the Last Of The Old Unit arrived. So did The Girl who Refused To Be Mrs. Mongo (now happily married, but not to Mongo); the Godson, an A.I. Robotics Wizard-In-Training who took the biography of Oppenheimer I gave him and read it seriously; the Goddaughter, just back from a Masters' program abroad with a gift from The Old Country. Mostly, we were Olds, which meant by ten-thirty it was time to say goodnight. 
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W. 40th Street At 6th Avenue, New York, New York, 1940;
"Nazi Army Now 75 Miles From Paris"; Breakfast Special, 10 Cents

I can see up ahead the grey, granite plinth by the side of the Road, the 75 Mile stone; three-quarters of a century. Physically, things are good. A short, sharp physical ailment this past January was resolved quickly but reminded me this is how it happens. As abruptly as a switch being thrown. Someone was standing in front of you, and in an instant, ein Augenblick, they're not. You were this; now, you're that.

A work friend (actually, an old boss) counseled against giving management more than two weeks' notice. She reminded me a mutual acquaintance, an Executive Director with over thirty years' tenure, had retired after giving senior leadership months of advance notice, and was shelved for most of that time, little to do. "They cut him out," she said. "It drove him crazy. They'll do it to you, too."

"And, why retire? What will you do?" This, from someone in a senior director role, 37 years with the company, who gardens but lives to work. I explained, my health issue in January reminded that life has always been a crapshoot, but after 75 years, the odds had shifted. I have no way of knowing how much longer I'll live. It's really that simple. "Well, retirement scares me," she snorted, though I sensed she was afraid of the same thing I was; work is her distraction. We each have our methods.
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"We'd like to welcome you to Styx Airways. If the flight attendants in the cabin walkway could have your attention, we would like to take a moment and review the Safety Card -- which should be in the seat-back pocket directly in front of you. The Safety Card will show you positions and items and popular songs which may assist you should an unanticipated event occur with this Boeing aircraft. Also with the Safety Card is our in-flight drinks menu."
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Every January, corporate organizations begin firming up strategic goals, setting work assignments. If I waited until the last two weeks to drop my bailout notice, the team I was part of (already understaffed, no backfilling in sight) would have to scramble.

A week after the minor health issue, I met with the Person I Report To and advised within six months, I would be retiring. Already tasked to move 1,000 tons of sand with two spoons and too few hands, she wasn't happy, but said she recognized that was not my fault.

I appreciated her saying that. However, I didn't give a shit. I was committed to leaving; and while over the next 22 weeks I would wake up thinking what the fuck am I doing, last Friday was functionally my last day; tomorrow I begin burning through a banked 500 hours of Paid Time Off. In November that stops.
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I arrived home after the dinner, stood in my living room considering the evening, listening to the silence at the top of Nob Hill. I thought of Neddy Merrill, Cheever's The Swimmer -- he did most things right, tried his best, but still discovered Stuff Happens -- and I wondered: Now What.
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Obligatory Cute Small Animal Photo In Middle Of Blog Ogg Ogg


Bark Bark Bark Bark 

The news of the day: I didn't expect Saturday, July 13th. I'd gotten up that morning, considering how utterly, deeply fucked America seemed. Biden was staying in. He had enough delegates to secure the nomination. However, our politics requires candidates for President be an avatar, able to articulate a compelling vision of the future. 

It's shitty, popularity- and gut-driven; yes -- a large number of voters don't pay attention to more than their instinct about a candidate: Uh yeah I guess I'll vote for Trump, 'cause he's strong, ya know? Seems like that, anyway. 

Biden couldn't bring it. Everything was going to end as badly as you can imagine. I looked as far into the future as I could, and it was violent, hungry -- The Shire, plundered and oppressed by Orcs. My old, self-critical persona cackled, You picked one hell of a time to retire, buddy.
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"The Captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belts sign, and we request you remain in your seats and not move about the cabin. Please bring your tray tables to their full upright and locked position, and consult the Safety Card in anticipation of a brief period of turbulence."
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Trump Rally Site, Butler, PA: After

Trump had been absent for a while, letting the Democrats self-destruct, but had just returned to the campaign -- roaring, screeching; mumbling about battery-powered Hannibal Lecters, sharks with tasers -- America mesmerized by his swagger and brutality. Polls showed Biden's numbers falling and beginning to affect down-ballot Democratic races; Trump was having him for lunch, unstoppable; Der Fuhrer.  In fact, he was having a rally in Butler, PA, that afternoon.

I was one of those trying not to think about it but failing, as ever -- and there was Trump, reigning as the dark center of it all. It could be different, If only ... and while I'm not the only person in America to make this observation, it's not one I would share. 

But thinking in that vein reminded me of a passage in Furst's Dark Star -- August, 1939; Hitler and the nazis rattling sabers at Poland. Everyone knows what will happen on September the first. Andre Szara is a Soviet journalist and intelligence operative in Paris, involved with de Montfried, a member of the French aristocracy, to move Jewish refugees to Palestine. The men meet at de Montfried's club:
When Szara entered the library de Montfried was reading a newspaper. He looked up, his face flushed with anger. "He's going into Poland. Do you know what that means?" ... "I was born in Poland," Szara said. "I know what it's like."  "But, why this man, this Adolf Hitler? Why is he permitted to live?" [de Montfried] folded the newspaper... "I don't know," [Szara said].  "Can nothing be done? ... An organization like yours, its capacities, its resources for such things... Forgive me," [de Montfried] said. "What I feel is like an illness. It will not leave me."  "I know," Szara said.
The events in Butler occurred four hours later. I wasn't expecting that on my bingo card -- but having idly considered, If only ... just that morning, was I picking something out of the ether? Is that how it all works? It did seem oddly coincidental.
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I watched the videos. Once Trump could hear his protective detail saying, "Shooter's down", the Slug instinctively understood what a gift he'd been handed. He delayed the agents, twice, as they were trying to push him off the stage, so he could pump his fist and mouth fight fight fight ! And the agents let him.

Later, at the Rethug convention, Trump basked in great waves of adulation, praise and -- dare we say it? -- love from the Mob. He sported a bandage over one ear. His mob roared, an ecstatic frenzy,  fight fight fight fight !  Ah, what Leni could have done with that.

Trump, at his Zenith. He was the Chosen One, head of House Harkonnen, eager to hurt that Mumbling Old Man Biden and seize control of his prize, his America -- there for the taking. Feared and bigger than his daddy at last.
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Somewhere in there, Federal Judgy Aileen Cannon dismissed in full the classified documents case against Trump in Florida. It seems that Special Prosecutor Jack Smith was improperly appointed and funded. It's already been appealed to the Florida 11th Circuit, and who knows what happens next. 

Of course she did. Of course That Court, a judiciary packed with judges hand-picked by Leonard Leo, would back Trump, the flawed but necessary Leader who can help them realize Project 2025. My response is fuck all of you fucking motherfucking fucks. Not to put too fine a point on it or anything.

"PULL UP   --   PULL UP   --   PULL UP   --   PULL UP"
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Then, two announcements on Sunday, July 21st. 

I didn't expect Biden to leave. If he did, I assumed a bloody, dramatic bar fight, in public, would follow among the various factions and personalities of the Democratic party. The national convention would showcase just how churned and divided and you-can't-trust-us the Dems are. 

(And oh, the MSM, whose two main themes are Dems In Disarray and Biden Old, were expecting a long, ugly contest, too. They were hoping for it, because (to quote the Mango Mussolini) "you can be the worst person in the world -- but if you have the ratings, it doesn't matter." It's all about clicks and likes and audience and revenue. It's Capitalism and the Free Market, baby. News? Facts? Ha ha; no.)

But It didn't happen. Biden stepped away. He passed the torch to Harris, and (even putting aside knee-jerk hyperbole) -- the explosive response from Democrats measured in contributions to Harris' shiny new campaign in just the first 24 hours was record-breaking, staggering. It was like putting a tiny sponge in the shape of a dinosaur into a dish of water and watching as it became hideously large. And nationally, 48,000 new, first-time campaign volunteers were signed up -- in those first 24 hours.

I'm one of the most cynical people I know -- but all this tells me Left / liberal voters seemed desperate for almost any Democrat who could articulate a consistent message, stand up to the bully in public and kick his ass. The Democrats have pressed the message that Democracy Is On The Line in this election; and guess what? People believe it.

Something else stood out which hasn't been mentioned enough: The Dems weren't in disarray. If anything, the transition from Biden's campaign to Harris' was rapid and (from the outside, at least) seamless. Endorsements from major Democratic players and even potential rivals, from the Clintons, the Obamas, were quick to line up. 

Harris has all the delegates needed to clinch the Democratic nomination -- it will be either by acclimation, or a first-ballot win. But it's all been disciplined, with few if any rough spots. For a party traditionally seen as too factionalized for its own good, the transformation, discipline and organization was impressive.
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I'm cynical, but I want to hope. I don't want everything to go back the way it was in the late 50's of my childhood. I don't even want a return to pre-Trump, pre-Covid America (Harris' campaign has already settled on a slogan that resonates: We're Not Going Back). What I'd hope for is a country with an actual future. There is no future in an authoritarian America -- and that will determine my vote. 

I live in the Bluest of cities in a Blue State, so my vote is not critical -- except to me. How and what I choose matters, to me. I suspect that's true for many people, even living in a 'battleground' state. I won't support our nation-state becoming a dictatorship of native nazis and so-called 'christians'. I'm too old to do what I did, age 19, in one war; but as an Old, there are other ways to resist. I hope that's not another choice I'll be faced with.

The Democrats have to deliver on a demand from The People -- that they prove their ideals, their policies are better than Trump's within the context of a culturally-saturated political contest.  Harris has a slightly easier road -- she's younger; can articulate the Democratic message. And, Trump is a bloated, raving monster.  But whether she can maintain momentum, really bring it to the bully and kick his ass -- whether she can win this absurd personality-contest of an election -- I hope, but no one knows. Not yet.
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"We have arrived at Big Airport in Your Town. Before you deplane, please take a moment to look around and make sure you have all of your personal belongings. Local time is 0800 Hours, or Eight A.M., and the temperature is 65 degrees Fahrenheit. On behalf of Captain Mongo and our flight crew, we'd like to thank you for flying Styx Airways, and wish you a pleasant trip."
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