Technocracy’s Big (Secret) Comeback

I have said more than once that we need to fundamentally change the way wealth is distributed in our society. I am not the first to say it, and I won’t be the last. Workers produce more and more, and the workforce as a whole is harmed by that trend. All the wealth they are creating goes into the pockets of a few at the top.

In the 1930’s, as banks failed and people lost access to food and shelter, many movements came up with ways to solve the problems that unfettered capitalism had fomented. Socialism and Communism gained in popularity, along with Fascism, which had a bit of a heyday not long after. In the mix were also some more wackadoodle ideas like Technocracy.

Technocracy is named more like a government system, but is mostly about economics. Based on the assumption of continued increases in worker productivity, the response is a very healthy “if people are more productive, they don’t need to spend so many hours producing.” So far, so good!

There is no money in the Technocratic State. Periodically each person is given a certain number of credits. They are not transferrable, and expire. When you go to the store and buy something, the credits you spend are not transferred to the vendor, they simply cease to exist. Shortages and surpluses are not the vendor’s problem.

Prices are controlled by the state, based on the energy required to create the thing. However that would work.

Before I get to some of the more wackadoodle parts, let me mention a couple of less-bad things about Technocracy. The credit distribution is essentially Basic Universal Income; everyone gets what they need. There are no billionaires; no one-percent. Wealth cannot be accumulated; all credits expire. Increased productivity means more for everyone, and more leisure time. Basing the pricing on energy consumed means that the environmental cost of the full lifecycle of an item can be built into the price.

I wrote once (I would include a link but I can’t find it… this blog is big!) that if you could make the cost of purchase of a widget include the cost of mitigating the environmental impact of producing, shipping, using, and disposing of it, there would be no need for any other environmental regulation. Products that pollute less will cost less.

In that same episode I pointed out that such a system was impossible to implement. The government would have to determine the environmental harm tax on every damn thing. The government would have to be swift, efficient, and not subject to second-guessing.

Technocracy solves that problem by getting rid of Democracy along with money. Instead, dispassionate, unbiased engineers would run the show. In this particular autocracy, decisions about the economy would be made by people who recognize that without money the economy is just a machine. They would make the best choices because they are smart and not swayed by greed or politics. They are engineers, dammit, immune to the frailties of humans.

Edison and his ilk were heroes back then; these were the people who should be running things!

Get your chuckles in now; things might turn scary later.

Let’s not even get into how innovation happens in this environment — presumably the engineers in charge will be able to judge every idea and allocate the appropriate resources, with the sole goal to increase worker productivity balanced against energy cost (and state security) further.

One of the core tenets of currency is fungibility. Any dollar is worth the same as any other dollar. All dollars are interchangeable, so they can just as well be numbers in a bank’s computer. The technocrat’s credits are non-fungible: they each are unique and limited in utility and duration. The techno-cretids are, quire literally, non-fungible tokens, or, as the kids say, NFT’s. Put that in your pocket for a minute.

Anyway, no money. Which makes it hard to deal with any economy that still uses money. The answer from the Technocracy proponents was (is?) simply this: don’t. Even back in the 1930’s this was already a stupid and unworkable idea, but the Technocracy proponents wanted to create an absolutely isolated nation that had all it needed, and was surrounded by physical and military walls. No trade, no tourism, no diplomacy.

This proposed nation involved the United States annexing Canada, Greenland, and Central America at least as far as the Panama Canal; preferably further.

Huh. That’s an interesting list, these days. Greenland?

Something else that is interesting: Elon Musk’s grandfather was an active proponent of this nonsense back in the day.

Perhaps it is coincidence that Orange Julius Caesar wants to annex Greenland and take back the Panama Canal. But seriously, Greenland? Perhaps the shift toward isolationism in our diplomacy is not simple stupidity, but stupidity informed by a larger, even stupider goal.

We can be damn certain that OJC loves being rich, but maybe that just means Elon hasn’t told him the whole plan yet. More likely Elon and OJC have built into their plans a way to be far more equal than everyone else in the new regime – they will preserve the billionaire class.

Maybe you’ve already thought of this, but that hypothetical council of wise, unbiased engineers that is supposed to run things? Elon has already fired them. In his drug-addled brain, our new overlord will be AI. Programmed by Elon and his bros, carefully trained to advantage Elon and his bros.

You would have to be seriously high all the time to think something like that could work, but… Elon. He’s already trying his fizzy-brained best to replace at least some of our government with generative AI. If you credit him with having enough brain to form an endgame, replacing money with NFT’s and government with an AI he controls seems like a good candidate.

Am I saying that Elon Musk is a drug-addled idiot eager to adapt the overt racism of one side of his family and the elitist ideals of both to use his wealth to compel a simpering sycophant president to create a world to his liking? Am I saying that the current President of the United States is the simpering sycophant mentioned above, and who like a starving dog will follow any plan as long as it leads to personal profit?

No. Clearly I am not saying that.

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The War Against Universities is a War on What makes America Great

When mechanized industry began to replace agriculture, the United States adopted a policy no other country on the planet had considered: mandatory high school.

The results were profound. Industry in the United States had a pool of skilled labor that made our nation THE place to get shit done. My home nation handled this transition so spectacularly well that we became a world power. Other nations insulated the working class from access to education, and paid the economic price.

Up to now, there has been in this nation a general belief that school is good. Sure, there are the special schools accessible only to the wealthy, that don’t actually teach anything special but allow the wealthy to form their own elitist clubs and stack the Supreme Court, but in this country, and ONLY in this country, there are high-quality schools for everyone else.

Name any discipline, and eight of the top ten universities in the world will be in the United States. Seven of those will be state-sponsored universities.

Kids around the world dream of studying in an American university. It is so easy for us to take for granted that we have a sprawling complex of high-quality state schools, that when our current government moves to undermine them that it slips aside. We don’t protest because what is proposed is so absurd we must not have heard it right. Only an idiot would undermine this massive advantage.

That executive order hamstringing the NIH is about a government agency, and not about our schools, right? You know the answer. Defunding science is defunding our future.

MAGA hates education. We haven’t reached “shoot anyone with glasses” yet, and won’t for a while, but we must recognize that the current regime is actively anti-education, actively anti-knowledge, and actively anti-thought. Actively anti-American.

Education was a big part of what made America great. It is hard for people like you and me to understand why so many of our electorate now resent people who have been to school. But that resentment is real, and we have to deal with it. The obvious answer is to increase access to school for everyone. Not necessarily college, but technical or trade or just the skills to run a small business. Anyone who can’t find a job should be able to learn a new job.

School should be available to everyone in this country, without regard to age or history. Schools should be a center for meaningful research. Schools should now be exercising their voices to protest their own emasculation.

So here’s me shouting. I’m shouting for the people who don’t have skills to get a good job, who are tipping the political scales because they don’t. They are not stupid, or lazy. But they have been taught to resent the intellectuals, and therefore to shun any action they might make that might make them an intellectual in the eyes of their neighbors.

More school for everyone. More free school for everyone. Let’s remember what really made America great.

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Two Subversive Things I Saw Today

A story about a young snow reporter headed for greatness: Special Vermont Resistance Edition

A country music video with Willie and some glam guy singin’ about how it’s OK to be queer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BirJMnMcfBs

Carry on, comrades.

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A Bug Report I Filed Today

Filed to: Apple Maps

Summary:
Gulf of Mexico shows as some weird “Gulf of America”

Steps To Reproduce:

  1. Open Maps
  2. Look at the Gulf of Mexico

Results:
It has a bizarre name applied by fiat by a bunch of cretins.

Regression:
No regression; the name has been the same for 400 years.

Notes:
This is an act of cowardice, and is utterly shameful.

After I submitted the bug report, I had to give a reason to be given access to follow its progress. I wrote: “I would like to see the progress of this bug, as it is the result of shameful weakness in the face of arbitrary fiat. Not even legislative fiat, just one idiot making a proclamation.”

Edit to add: here’s a really good analysis of why it is right for Apple and Google to comply with the rename, but why the way they did so is also wrong: Golfo del Gringo Loco. The article also touches on why the AP must rise to a different standard, which they have, to the peevishment of our leader-in-chuff.

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Mom (1936-2025)

Mom died a couple of weeks ago. I thought I had more time, to be honest. When I left Los Alamos after the new year, all signs were positive. I am fortunate, I suppose, that my last moments with mom were when she was peaking for the last time. She sat next to me as I surveyed the Risk board on the folding table in front of me. The table is probably older than I am, and my no-good nephews allied to eliminate me. It was like we were playing Diplomacy.

But Mom was there, at my left elbow, and happy. Dad was to her left.

For mom, hospitality was unconscious and automatic. There was always room at the dinner table for one more. One of my friends, one of fuego’s friends, or some random Russian scientist with nowhere to go on thanksgiving.

Ask Alexi (the Russian previously mentioned) what Makes America Great, and he will tell you. He will speak of turkey and stuffing, but he will also speak of the welcome of strangers. He will tell you that people like Mom make America great. And he’s right.

I took it for granted when I was a kid that I could drop a friend in around the table. This welcoming attitude cannot be undersold today.

There are many, many other things that made Mom awesome, and I didn’t even know some of them until helping to compose her obituary. She was valedictorian at her high school, and went to Rice University on scholarship. While there, she met my dad on a blind date. They were married for 65 years.

There is a photo of Mom, taken by Dad on the rocks above El Paso, TX. It’s a slide in a box somewhere, I hope. I only saw it once, Mom in blue jeans turned up at the cuff, the wind blowing her hair, the sun in her eyes. Seeing that picture showed me a version of Mom before me; a photo that could have been in a fashion magazine.

I didn’t really understand it then, but a photo like that is a partnership between subject and photographer. Between Mom and Dad.

I’m drifting here. Not sure which stories to tell. But if you knew her, you have your own. She was fierce, and gentle. She was kind. So kind, she was baffled by the unkindness let loose in our country recently. She was tireless helping others, particularly others with special challenges.

Perhaps that started when her family took in a “problem child”. He was seven and didn’t even have the alphabet. Mom took Uncle Dupes under her wing and with infinite patience taught him his letters, and then his words, and Dupes’ life was rescued.

She never stopped doing that.

I think I’ll end with that. Not enough people make the world better; few have the impact she did. But for all I’m proud of that, that was Barbara Seeger, awesome person. But for me she was Mom.

Mom, whom I puked on God knows how many times, who watched God knows how many terrible student plays (You’re a good man, Charlie Brown adapted for the bicentennial an obvious exception), who somehow sensed a critical moment to send me an articulate pep talk from a thousand miles away, is gone now, and I will miss her.

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The Best Airport

Name another airport where you can sit in a rocking chair outdoors and watch the planes come and go.

Santa Fe, baby!

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A Good Day for Hot Chocolate

Many Christmas gifts combined for a festive and warm beverage.

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Good Night, Jimmy

Flags are at half-mast today, recognizing the passing of the greatest former president this country has known.

He was a politician from the South, and he was not perfect. His wife Rosalyn snapped him back to the path of righteousness, and he never forgot that.

His presidency was marred by his desire to do what was best for the little guy. He wanted working people to have good lives. A doomed enterprise from the start. But when his presidency was torpedoed by Ronald Reagan illegally negotiating with the Iranians (seriously, it was a flagrant disregard of our laws), he was forced from the presidency and in that moment he found true greatness.

It is probably not possible to count the number of homes people live in now that he personally helped build. It is not possible to measure the effect Jimmy Carter had on democracy in other nations as an election observer.

Jimmy Carter deserves his rest now. There will not be another like him in US Politics, and more’s the shame, even if he proved why someone like him should not be president.

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The Good Life

Nothing like brushing the snow off a table and sitting down for a local brew.

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Trump is Stupid, and Putin Loves him for it.

Like you, I am watching the destruction of our nation happen in real time. Trump could simply put stupid people in charge of our government, but he has to go one further and put stupid people uniquely antagonistic toward their mission in charge of our government.

RFK Jr is a spineless idiot whose only contribution to humanity is the death of 83 people. Actually, that’s just one campaign, it’s pretty clear he has killed many more.

And that’s only the start. We have a QAnon queen in charge of Intelligence. Even the name of the department should disqualify her! She is a puppet of Russia and if I were an intelligence asset in that country I’d be grabbing my go-bag about now. Boebert is so goddam stupid it makes my head hurt.

Oh, and hey, let’s put a sexual predator (and Trump sexual predation enabler) in charge of the department of justice! Why the fuck not? You know this guy will put the law first.

Donald Trump is a stupid man. Really fucking stupid. He honestly doesn’t understand how important his job is. Sure he knows that it makes him a really big deal, but he has no idea at all that there is responsibility that goes with that.

Meanwhile, over in Mother Russia, Vladimir Putin is laughing his ass off. Ukraine is now his. His right to poison dissidents will not be questioned. And all he had to give up were a few flattering words to a little toadstool.

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It’s Been Quite a Year

A little over a year ago I started chemotherapy. I haven’t talked about it much around here, but not because nothing happened. I just wasn’t ready yet.

Before the chemo even began, I resigned myself to losing my hair and decided to shave my head rather than leave it lying around all over the place as I shed. I left the beard for the moment. It wasn’t a bad look!

The only problem was that some of the worst people in these Unites States have coopted this look. Here I am the morning of the first chemo treatment, in the bathroom at the cancer center, rocking a special shirt with tearaway sleeves:

Not long after I took that selfie I sat in a comfortable chair, while the Official Sweetie of Muddled Ramblings and Half-Baked Ideas wrapped my extremities in ice packs. This is me, while we waited for the pharmacist to dole out the drugs:

When the medicine arrived, the tech had to put on special single-use hazardous materials gear before touching it. That stuff is dangerous! God forbid it should get on anything before being injected directly into my blood.

I had already been admonished not to share a bathroom with anyone for a few days, for the same reason. I’m sure the city water treatment plants are well-prepared for stuff like this coming down the pipes. (That was sarcasm.)

The precursor drugs all tucked neatly into my bloodstream, the main event began. The tech hung the bag with the cancer-killer goo, pushed some buttons on the transfusion machine, and made sure we knew where the call button was. We were left alone, to watch the drip.

Only it wasn’t very long I started to feel a little tightness in my chest. “I feel tight in the chest,” I said, “Can you…?” was as far as I got before Official Sweetie was pushing the call button. I felt my head taken by a wave of heat. We were right by the nurse station, and they glanced up and suddenly there was a lot of activity around me.

I was red. Alas fair reader, there is no photographic record of my redness; it was not the time for snapping pics. I have since been compared to the classic Kitchenaid red. If you don’t spend time around quality appliances, that is a very deep red.

I was very quickly surrounded by people. The drip was stopped, and the administration of antihistamines began. I’m a little vague on the details of this period. I did not see the tool box set up behind me with a variety of tools for resuscitating critically ill people, but Official Sweetie did.

While a nurse engaged in conversation with me, which was both pleasant and obviously to measure my mental state, more vitals were taken, my heart was listened to and my lungs were evaluated, and eventually the medical professionals around me decided it was ok to start the drip again, but really slowly. My chair would not be ready for the next patient for a while.

The drip had not been going very long when I reacted again, though not as strongly. MY vote was to try again another day with a different medicine, but my vote was worth exactly zero. One way or another, they were going to get that goo inside me.

Each attempt to put the drug in a person is called a “challenge.” Out of curiosity I asked how many times they would try to give me the meds before they gave up. The answer was technically four, but it sounded like the last challenge would go on a week if it had to.

More intravenous Benadryl, a slower drip yet, and on the third try I didn’t react. Eventually they increased the flow to merely slow, and three hours later than planned we were done.

The chemo medicine takes a while to make you truly miserable, so I drove us home. The megadose of Benadryl did not make me even slightly drowsy. I seem to have a special relationship with that drug. In fact, I’m convinced that I’m a little bit allergic to it, but I won’t bother you with my analysis here.

Home. We got there, and I felt all right, but Official Sweetie and I both knew rough times were coming. But those rough times are different for everyone, which makes preparation more difficult.

Maybe sometime soon I will talk about that. It’s been a year, after all.

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Talking to myself, please disregard

While pounding away at NaNoWriMo, I meant to type “double or nothing” but instead wrote “double of nothing”.

Note to self: that phrase can do some heavy lifting.

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November 1, 2024

Each year I participate in a challenge called NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. The challenge is simple; write a “novel” of 50,000 words in the thirty days of November. I perhaps have the longes “win” streak in the world, but no one else seems to be counting.

Many years I have posted my first burst of output here. So here we go. It is very different than anything I’ve written before for any purpose, so it will be an interesting experiment. I am shooting a bit toward the narrative voice of John Nichols in The Milagro Beanfield War, but that is in direct tension with the assertion I have made in the intro to keep this as close to non-fiction as possible. Also, that narrative voice is amazing but very difficult, and I may be simply unable to accomplish it.

Not really off to a great start on that account; this lacks any real flow. But there’s time!

Days of Pizza

There were three places one could get pizza in that town.

Los Alamos, New Mexico is a small town, high in the Jemez mountains, isolated from the rest of the world by twisting roads often in need of repair.

The roads have been upgraded since the time of this story; at one time the Lab needed a massive transformer and it was cheaper to rebuild the road, widening it, straightening some of its curves, even rebuilding a bridge across the Rio Grande in Española, than it was to construct a new transformer up on “the hill”.

Later, the road would get upgraded further, and an entire new highway built around Santa Fe, to accommodate the containers of nuclear waste being transported for safe storage far away.

The horseshoe curve is gone, and the pavement is better-maintained now. The guard rail has been beefed up after someone went over the edge mentally and then physically, surrendering to gravity and flying, for a moment, before landing in twisted metal at the base of the cliff.

Or was that one crazy or just a bad driver? Memory is fickle after forty years; time has a way of blurring one driving-off-a-cliff incident with another. The time a kid named (let’s say) Axel duct-taped his girlfriend up real good and drove them both off a different cliff nearby was definitely around that same year. In that case, happily, the cable stretched between posts along the top of the cliff was sufficient to slow the car enough that it did not go all the way to the bottom.

There was also a plane crash, roughly where the first over-the-cliff car incident had happened. A Cessna taking off in the thin air and something went wrong.

But in those times, it was down that road, across the Rio Grande, and on for several more miles before there was another place to buy a pizza. The 16,000 citizens of that scientific outpost in the wilderness really had just the three choices when it came to pizza.

First there was Pizza Hut. Tucked in a strip mall, dark inside, the pizza conveyor belt produced the same product as every other Pizza Hut, except since this was New Mexico they also offered green chile. To their credit they used Bueno brand chile, an improvement over the no. 10 cans of diced chiles used at the other two places. In every other way, the Pizza Hut lacked only the distinctive roof line to be exactly like the original in Topeka, Kansas.

Big Cheese Pizza was where the kids hung out. The quality of the pizza was questionable but good enough, and the joint was consistently filled with bored and twitchy high schoolers goosed on free soda refills and spiraling hormones, performing elaborate mating rituals around the formica-topped tables.

The Sysco truck that brought supplies to Big Cheese only had to move a hundred yards before stopping again to deliver the supplies to Tony’s Pizza. The Sysco salesman once said sotto voce that Tony’s consistently bought higher-grade ingredients than Big Cheese, particularly the cheese.

It was a small restaurant, with fourteen tables. In the middle of the room were four large picnic tables, made of hardwood and deeply lacquered. Around the perimeter were smaller tables, some for two, others for four. It had an open kitchen; patrons could watch as the cooks threw the pizza dough into the air, spinning it to stretch it before laying the dough on a well-floured paddle (the word “peele” had not reached that part of our nation yet). There were two ovens, one over the other, with stone surfaces, set to 500 degrees. A large spatula was wedged in the gap between the ovens for easy access to manipulate pizzas — or to burn your initials into your arm, if that’s the kind of thing you were into.

But we’ll get to Ake later.

The place was owned by a woman everyone just called Boss, and her husband Billy. Billy’s philosophy of life was that if you were going to be an alcoholic, it was much better to be a beer alcoholic; that way at least you would get more calories and some semblance of nutrition. Liquid bread, basically. He was slow and walked like his knees were bad and he sucked the smoke from cigarette after cigarette through the gap left by two missing front teeth. His laugh was rough but always ready, his gap-toothed smile a permanent fixture.

He wasn’t trusted in the kitchen, not around all those sharp objects, but he was excellent in the front of the house, greeting people, bringing drinks from the little station in the corner, telling terrible jokes, and generally just being Billy.

Boss was a slender woman, gray-haired with reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, her expression severe until you knew her well enough to read the kindness there. She was married to Billy, after all.

She was a hard worker, a heavy smoker, sensible about business. She would sit with the Sysco rep and reel off everything needed for the next week, straight from her head, and the restaurant never ran out of supplies.

This story doesn’t really involve Boss; simple competence is not terribly interesting. But if she had a weakness, it was in her hiring. This story is about her super-bike riding son in law, a big, crude heavy-smoking guy named Rock, his buddy Drew who also smoked heavily but preferred his motorcycles classic — his baby was a Triumph.

There was Ake, maybe 18 years old, who smoked a lot and wore black leather, heavy boots, and lots of metal, and drove a VW bus with a pop-up camper. DEATHBUS, Ake had meticulously scribed in bold black across the front part of the roof.

There are others who came and went — Crazy Bob, John Boy, Frank (who is surely dead by now), and others. You will meet them in good time. But right now the two other names you need to know are Jake and Joe, both college graduates with degrees that only qualified them for more college. Neither had any intention of doing anything like that. Neither of them smoked, either.

I should say, to close out this intro, that while your humble author was not present for all the events recounted here, they are reported with as much fidelity to the descriptions of those who were present as possible. While specific conversations are sometimes inventions, the events surrounding them are not. The Löwenbräu bottle really did fly through the air to land fifteen feet from where Frank stood, wobbly-kneed, staring blankly ahead. Twice.

Perhaps there will be enough in these pages to explain New Year’s Eve, 1986. But probably not.

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A Beautiful Sentence About Ugly People

At Defector.com, today David Roth wrote this, about the people who share the stage with Orange Julius Cesar at rallies:

These were shitty roast comics and disgraced ex-Mayors and disgraced ex-wrestlers and disgraced TV psychiatrists and radio hosts, disgraced scions of similarly disgraced American political families and Trump’s weedy sniffling adult sons and Tucker Carlson and the various free-riding kooks and replacement-level elected masochists and aspiring genocidaires aiming to sneak into power by hiding their hideous chittering forms behind Trump’s luxurious width.

His prose is beautiful, his message crucial.

A Memory of a Funny Man

Back when I was studying Physics at New Mexico Institute of Mining and Technology (they have since simplified the name), I took more than one class led by Albert Petschek. The school’s physics program was well-respected back then, in part because more than one McCarthy refugee found their way to the faculty.

Albert, it seemed to me, spent most of his time in his barren little office with the lights turned off, just thinking. Then he would publish a paper. That is obviously an oversimplification, but there is no denying that Albert was a really smart guy.

Early on I noticed that during his lectures, he would pause sometimes, maybe after describing the math of heat flux, and scan the class while holding an inscrutable face.

Then one time, perhaps in my junior year, he paused and I laughed. I was the only one, and Albert beamed at me. I had got his joke. This whole time the dude had been doing stand-up, but you needed to understand thermodynamics or quantum electrodynamics to get the joke.

Later I heard him say, “My brother is the smart one, but I am the witty one.” He said it with a smile, like that itself was a joke.

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