History has a way of repeating itself—not in the details, but in the echoes. As I watch the current administration deploy Marines and National Guard troops into American cities to confront protests over ICE raids and immigration policy, I can’t help but feel a chill. It’s not just the uniforms or the optics. It’s the precedent. And for me, that precedent begins not with Donald Trump—but with Abraham Lincoln.
Yes, Lincoln. The man most Americans revere as our greatest president. But I’ve long questioned that legacy. Lincoln, in my view, was a stubborn, hardheaded leader who plunged the nation into a war that cost over 650,000 lives. A war he believed would be over in months. A war he arguably provoked.
Let’s rewind to Fort Sumter. No one died in the initial bombardment. The only casualties came when a cannon exploded during the surrender ceremony—one Union soldier died. Yet Lincoln used that moment to summon 75,000 troops, escalating a regional standoff into a full-blown civil war. He suspended habeas corpus, jailed political opponents, and silenced dissent in border states like Maryland. All in the name of preserving the Union.
Fast forward to today. Trump, facing protests over immigration enforcement, has summoned federal troops into cities like Los Angeles—against the wishes of governors and mayors. He’s accepted a $400 million jet from Qatar, raising serious constitutional questions about foreign influence and the Emoluments Clause. He’s used executive power to reshape the judiciary, roll back civil rights protections, and stoke division at every turn.
And yet, like Lincoln, he claims to be saving the nation.
The parallels are uncomfortable. Both men faced divided nations. Both used federal power to suppress opposition. Both were hailed as heroes by some and tyrants by others. When John Wilkes Booth shot Lincoln, he shouted “Sic semper tyrannis”—thus always to tyrants. That wasn’t just a madman’s cry. It was a sentiment shared by many in the South who saw Lincoln not as a liberator, but as a despot.
Today, many Americans—especially those on the political left—see Trump in the same light. A man willing to tear the country apart to preserve his own power. A man who, like Lincoln, may be remembered not just for what he did, but for what he destroyed in the process.
This isn’t a defense of Booth, or of violence. It’s a plea for perspective. We must stop mythologizing our leaders and start scrutinizing them. Lincoln’s war may have ended slavery, but it also ended hundreds of thousands of lives. Trump’s war—if it comes—may not be fought with muskets and bayonets, but with executive orders, surveillance, and militarized streets.
History doesn’t repeat, but it rhymes. And right now, the tune sounds all too familiar.
On July 20th, 1969, the world watched as the United States did something that seemed impossible—we landed a man on the moon. It was the birthday of my little brother, Kevin, who’s no longer with us. I was serving in the U.S. Navy, stationed at a small communications base in Todendorf, Germany, not far from the Danish border. That moon landing was more than just a scientific milestone. For me—and for millions of people—it marked the end of one war and the beginning of something radically hopeful.
After World War I, Germany was occupied by the French. After World War II, they were occupied by the Americans. Germans resented being second-class citizens in their own land. I know; I lived it. German parents warned their children not to associate with us. German girls who dated American servicemen faced sharp social backlash. There were three bars near our base and the neighboring German army camp—each one was a nightly battleground of bruises and booze, Americans and Germans clashing like ghosts of wars we never fought.
Then the moon changed everything.
The man behind the Saturn V rocket that carried the Apollo 11 crew to the moon was a German scientist named Wernher von Braun—formerly of the Nazi regime, yes, but now repurposed for peace. America and Germany, once locked in mortal combat, had collaborated to do the impossible. On July 20, 1969, two old enemies became pioneers—the hostilities of World War II ended, and something shifted. Almost overnight, we went from occupiers to honored guests. German fathers who once wouldn’t let their daughters near us were now shaking our hands and offering schnapps as we drank toasts to the American/German achievement. Things just got really good, really fast.
It helped that the Summer of Love was going strong —and not just in San Francisco. Europe was catching the fever. The British Invasion had brought music across the Atlantic to America earlier in the decade, but now American artists were reclaiming center stage. Multi-day concerts like Woodstock were turning music into a communal ritual. Europe wanted its own Woodstock.
England hosted the now-legendary Isle of Wight Festival in late August 1970. Hendrix. The Doors. The Who. Sly & the Family Stone. Joni Mitchell. Over half a million people filled the cliffs of Afton Down and tore down the fences in protest. It was glorious madness.
Germany followed suit.
That September, the Love and Peace Festival was held on the island of Fehmarn, near the town of Putgarten. It was a short drive from our base—maybe 20 or 30 kilometers. A few of us rock n rollers who were known for public drinking and private hash smoking got our tickets early. It was going to be our Woodstock. We had no tent, no gear—just youthful optimism and a plan to get as high as possible and see Jimi Hendrix.
Friday, September 4th, 1970: we arrived cold and wet. The rain came in sheets. We pushed in close to the stage and parked ourselves in the open, surrounded by tents and strangers. The picture of Jimi performing shows the crowd and the tents. We had no cover, no shelter, just mud and music. The crowd thickened. The lights faded. We sat shivering and soaked, waiting for Jimi Hendrix, who we were told would perform that night.
A stage announcement told us otherwise—he wouldn’t go on due to the weather. He was “rescheduled” for Saturday afternoon. (Years later I found out that this was all a lie. He wasn’t actually scheduled to perform until Sunday. He was performing two shows in Munich that Friday and Saturday.)
Disappointed but too cold and stoned to argue, we sat dejected in the mud. Finally at three A.M. we were roused out of our sluggishness by Mungo Jerry singing his happy little ditty, In the Summertime. Listening to bubble gum music while we sat shivering in the mud was the last straw. We trudged through the mud, “found” a hole in the fence, located our car, and went back to base where we took long hot showers and then slept.
By late morning, we were back in the muddy field, but with raincoats and a few supplies this time. The lineup that day included The Faces with Rod Stewart and Canned Heat, among other acts, but the crowd was tired. The mud was deeper, and the promises fewer.
Another announcement: Hendrix had been moved to Saturday night. We stayed. More bands played. More rain came.
Later: Another rain delay was announced. Jimi Hendrix would play Sunday morning instead.
We were miserable. Wet. Angry. Doubting.
And then came Sly and the Family Stone came onto the stage.
Sly emerged in the cold and the drizzle, standing there like a priest before a congregation in despair.
“Is anybody out there gettin’ wet?” We all groaned back at him. “Could you be any wetter?” he inquired. “No!” we yelled back at him.
“Well, if you’re already soaking wet and you can’t get any wetter” he shouted, “you’ve got nothing to lose. Get up, and dance to the funky music.”
The band exploded into “Dance to the Music,” and the crowd surged into life. We stomped, shimmied, and slipped in the muck, grinning like lunatics. For a moment, we weren’t miserable. We were in it—just as much as anyone in Max Yasgur’s field a year earlier. That was our Woodstock.
Unfortunately, their set eventually ended, and we catapulted back to grim reality. We didn’t go back to base, though. We slept in the mud. We weren’t taking any chances on missing Hendrix.
Sunday morning: more announcements. Hendrix wasn’t coming out until the sun did. In for a penny, in for a pound. We waited.
And then, the sun appeared. And the moment we’d waited for arrived:
“Ladies and gentlemen, The Jimi Hendrix Experience.”
The crowd booed. They had waited in the mud for two days, and they took out their frustration on the band.
Six hundred thousand cold, wet, burned-out souls let out the anger that had grown larger with each stage announcement that Jimi wasn’t going to play in the rain. But, now, Jimi just stood there in the sunshine, took it all in, and casually said:
“We don’t give a fuck if you boo. Just boo in key. Give us a second to tune up.”
He struck a single, sharp chord. It echoed like a thunderclap across the island.
And then the spell began.
What followed was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Jimi’s hands weren’t playing guitar—they were conjuring it. Notes bent like light in a prism. Sounds came from corners of the sky I didn’t even know existed. The audience fell into a trance. When Jimi Hendrix ended his set and walked offstage with a simple “Thank you,” there was silence.
Actual silence. No one clapped. We were all dazed, slack-jawed, staring at the stage. Did we just see what we just saw, or are we tripping? When we realize that what we saw was real, the dam broke, and we roared and cheered for 10 minutes. Then 600,000 people got up to leave.
A voice from the stage: “Wait, wait! We still have six more bands! Procol Harum is next!”
No one cared. No one could follow what we had just seen. We walked away in silence, with mud on our boots and stars in our eyes.
Four days later, we got the news that Jimi Hendrix was gone, found dead in London. And now, this week, Sly Stone has joined him.
They’re headlining tonight in Rock ‘n’ Roll Heaven. And you better believe that when I hear them play, I’ll be getting up and dancing to the funky music.
Back in January, I decided that the hip pain I was feeling made the pain of a hip replacement worth my while. So, I told the VA doctor and started on the road to the surgery. What a long, strange trip it’s been.
First I had to meet with the Orthopedics department to get their assessment of my hip. They set up an appointment for x rays. The x-rays confirmed that a hip replacement was in order. But now I had to get confirmation from my cardiologist and dentist that I was cleared for surgery. I expected my cardiologist to tell me that I needed more stents or some other work done, since I’ve be sluggish for months. Nope. He sent me for two different tests and the results came back, okay. Not perfect, but okay for surgery.
Then I hit my first roadblock. I called my dentist who I haven’t seen in years and left a message. He didn’t call back. So, the following week, I left another message and again he didn’t call back. The following week I left another message and the next day I got a call from the office. They would only see me if I got a referral from another dentist. WTF. I decided to find another dentist. When I go to the VA Clinic I pass by a dental office. The bus there doesn’t run often, but the office is near the bus stop. I called, and I asked if they were accepting new patients.
There was a pause, where the person on the other end of the line wanted to say, “Duh!” but she controlled herself and just said, “Of course.” We set up an appointment.
I thought this would be easy as I didn’t have any pain, though I did have one broken tooth. The X-rays revealed that I needed more work than I thought. So, I made another appointment to get started. Now, it was time to catch the bus home. That bus stop wasn’t far, but it was on the other side of what is basically a busy highway. It was at least 10 minutes before I saw a big gap and made my move. Here, you should remember that I have a bad hip. I made it half-way across, and realized that I would have to wait for another break in traffic to complete the crossing. So, I stood in the middle of the highway with cars whizzing by on both sides waiting for a break in traffic. After about 5 minutes, a lady came out from the car repair business on the same side of the street as the dentist. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t stand in the middle of the highway.”
I yelled back that I was just trying to get to the bus stop. She shook her head, and mumbled something I didn’t understand. Finally, I saw my break and I made it to the bus stop unscathed.
After my dental appointment the following week, I decided to just catch the bus at the same stop where I got off, ride to the end of the line, stay on the bus, and ride home, instead of trying to cross the highway again. That worked. It took much longer, but it worked.
After my appointment yesterday, I realized that I had about an hour and 20 minutes before the bus would arrive. This time I brought my walker, not just a cane, so, figuring that I was now a tiny bit faster, I decided to cross the highway again. I had plenty of time before the bus would arrive, so I waited until I was sure that I had enough time to make it all the way across. It was about 15 minutes before I saw my opportunity, and I took it. I made it.
Here’s where I should mention that the bus stop doesn’t look like a bus stop. The weeds on the side of the road have overgrown the bus stop sign, and there is no shelter, marking, or anything else that would let you know that it is a bus stop, except that it is across the street from the bus stop heading in the other direction. I had my walker, so I sat down on the shoulder of the road to wait.
About 20 minutes later a cop car went by going the other direction. He waited until it was safe, made a u-turn, and pulled up a few feet behind me, lights flashing. He got out and asked me if I was okay and what the heck was I doing. I told him I was waiting for the bus. He didn’t see any bus stop sign, so I told him that the weeds were blocking it. He checked. I mentioned that I wouldn’t object if he put me in the back of his patrol car and drove me into town. He said that was against the rules, wished me luck, and drove off.
So, I went back to patiently waiting for the bus that I knew was still more than 45 minutes away. It hadn’t even passed by in the other direction, yet. Then, a woman came out of the dental office and yelled something at me. I couldn’t hear what she was saying over the traffic noise. She waited for a break in traffic and ran over to me. Was I okay? What was I doing? Once again, I explained that I was just waiting for the bus. She told me that she was waiting in the dental office with her teenage son, when she saw me through the window, she was worried that I was a dementia patient or something. I was slurring my words. I assured her that I was fine. I was just going home after a trip to the same dentist, and the reason I was talking funny was because the Novocain hadn’t worn off yet.
She asked where I lived and offered to give me a ride home. That was better than a visit from the Tooth Fairy. We crossed the highway together, with her holding out her hand to slow down the traffic. We got to her car. She called her son to tell him that she would be right back. Melisa and I headed for my house.
Along the way, we chatted and realized that we both had moved from other places to Lancaster. She was from Baltimore. It was an interesting conversation, and she told me to take her phone number in case I ever needed a ride. We realized that we both like to play Scrabble, so we made plans to get together for a Scrabble game. So, I wound up making a new friendship, and now have another Scrabble player to hang out with occasionally.
I have another Dental appointment on Thursday. I wonder if I should bring my Scrabble board.
Today, it was raining as I went to the V.A. hospital in Lebanon, PA, and it reminded me of something that happened years ago in a city far, far away. I was reminded that while the destination is important, the journey can be just as important.
I was working for Publishers’ Phototype, Inc. in East Rutherford, New Jersey. My friend, Robert P. McAuley got me the job. (So, check out his books on Amazon. Though he is probably more well known for his contributions to Aviation Magazine, he’s written tons of terrific books about time travel in his 1800 Club series.)
Anyhow, the job was like a dream come true. P.P.I. was the middleman between almost every magazine and the printer. Middleman is grave misnomer, though, as most of the staff were female. So, after years in the military and working as a Frameman for the N.Y. Telephone Company, it was a pleasant change of routine to be surrounded by intelligent, interesting, sexy females. I did, however, manage to keep in on a professional level (no matter how much I tried not to).
I worked in a division known as CBS magazines. Working directly with the editors, we prepared every page of Boating, Popular Photography, Car & Driver, and a few other magazines to go to the printer. I loved it, but then something happened. I got transferred to the 4-12 shift. I don’t mind working odd shifts, but the bus home to Jersey City stopped running at 11 p.m.
So, my first night on the new shift, I had to walk home 7 miles. Two of those miles were on a stretch of Route 3 that goes over the Hackensack River. There was no pedestrian lane. I walked on a narrow shoulder of the road just about a foot wide. I was scared, and all the honking didn’t help. Then I got to four miles of Paterson Plank Road that was mainly occupied by junk yards and the junkyard dogs who guarded them. The barking was constant and scary.
The last mile was residential as I walked home fearlessly through my neighborhood, and I was pretty calm by the time I got home. I knew that I had to do something to improve the first six miles, though. I invested in a reflective vest, a flashlight that was the size of a war club, and a Sony Walkman cassette player.
So, the next afternoon, I went to work with a knapsack full of snacks, cold-packed beverages, vest, flashlight, Walkman, and my favorite cassette tapes. Since I was now more visible from a distance, the honking was greatly reduced as I walked over the bridge. The first two miles of the journey was a great improvement over the previous night.
On the four deserted miles of Paterson Plank Road, I cranked up the volume to 10, and roadside Karaoke was born. I couldn’t even hear the barking dogs, and they truly were, “Out of sight, out of mind” as I sang along to the tape.
I sang quietly on the last mile through residential streets, but I did have one more song to belt out. As I got within a block of my home, I sang You’ll Never Walk Alone, the song that Jerry Lewis always sang at the end of one of his telethons for “Jerry’s Kids.”
It was a 90-minute journey and I made special cassette tapes that made that journey the best part of my night. After I left that company, the thing I missed the most was that 90-minute walk home.
Today, I went to an appointment at the V.A. Hospital in Lebanon, PA. I don’t drive, but the V.A. provided me with a free Uber ride to and from the appointment. On the way back I saw that there was a paperback book in the seat pocket in front of me, “From Darkness Into Light.” I pulled it out and noticed that the author’s picture looked very similar to the one I saw in the rear-view mirror. I questioned him about it, and he told me all about his journey from troubled youth to respectable author. Then he performed an epic poem that he wrote one time while driving 300-plus miles from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia. It was incredible. I’m slightly deaf and the road noise was making it hard to hear, so I just kept saying “Louder” and he really got into the performance, keeping one eye on the road and the other on his spellbound audience in the rear-view mirror. Before I knew it, the sun was out, and I was home. Sometimes the journey is just as much fun as the destination.
Back then students were protesting the War in Vietnam. They showed great courage in the face of National Guard soldiers who had their weapons pointing at them. Even the all-American surfing dudes, The Beach Boys, got into the protest.
In addition to the deaths of Phillip Lafayett Gibbs, and James Earl Green, two students who died in Mississippi, four student were slain at Kent State University in Ohio. They were Allison Krause, Jeffrey Miller, Sandra Scheuer, and William Schroeder. They inspired Neil Young to write, Ohio.
These songs help drive the protestors to victory ending the war. Now, we are once again facing a government hell-bent on not hearing the pleas of the people. Fascists are trying to take over our country. People by the millions are turning to the streets to protest. May good, once again, triumph over evil. Mel Brooks knows a few things about fighting Fascists.
Back in my day, on a TV program named 77 Sunset Strip, the parking lot attendant, Kookie Burns, used to say, “Baby, you’re the Ginchiest.” If you’re under 70, you might need to see this clip from Dick Clark’s American Bandstand to get an idea of his character.
Back then, ginchiest was Kookie’s beatnik word for somebody who was the absolute coolest person. Nowadays, we have somebody who is the exact opposite. Donald Trump is the GRINCHiest person.
When a reporter informed him that there would likely be a toy shortage this Christmas, if he kept the high tariff on China, Trump said that children would just get two dolls instead of 30, and they might cost a little more, but it wasn’t a big deal.
No toys for our little tots? No big deal? If a Democrat said that, the Fox “News” Nutwork would already be screaming about the heartless “War on Christmas” by pinko leftists. Now, since Trump said it, they don’t even bother to comment on his comment. If they ever have to say something, they will find a way to blame it on Biden. “If Biden didn’t force all the toy manufacturers to move to China….”
Donny Two Dolls doesn’t think anything about taking away somebody else’s toys, but he raced back from Italy immediately after the funeral of Pope Francis, so that he could get in a round of golf at his club in New Jersey before the sun went down. He sure won’t give up any of his toys, but he expects your kids to “take it like a man.” Beside, why are you wasting your money on toys when you can get your kids digital action pictures of Donald Trump for only $99.99.
It’s gonna happen. We have two paths we can take. One leads to a Utopian society, where machines do most of the work and we spend five days a week doing the things we actually want to do, reading, writing, hobbies, vacations with loved ones, spending time with our families, taking classes, or just about anything else we want to do that’s not too expensive. The other path leads to a few trillionaires doing whatever they want to do, no matter how expensive it is, while the rest of the world lives in poverty because there aren’t enough jobs and the government doesn’t provide a safety net.
To achieve the Utopia, everyone will have to get along. If we continue to fight each other we will be doomed. Our only hope is to work together to create a wonderful world.
To achieve the Dystopia, we don’t have to change a thing.
I wondered why the Jews didn’t fight the Nazis, so I looked it up. The idea that Jews didn’t resist the Nazis is a misconception. Jewish resistance took many forms, from armed uprisings like the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising to acts of defiance within concentration camps. However, the Nazis used extreme violence, deception, and psychological tactics to suppress resistance. Many Jews were misled about their fate, believing they were being relocated rather than sent to death camps. Others faced impossible choices, with families threatened and communities devastated.
They fought, but it wasn’t enough.
Fifty years from now, will our ancestors be living in autocracies ruled by cruel dictators and wonder why we didn’t fight harder? Will they wonder why we didn’t recognize the obvious evils and fight harder against them? People are already being dragged off to concentration camps in foreign countries without even a hint of due process. Nine to Zero Supreme Court decisions are now being laughed at and ignored by the current regime.
“All that is required for evil to win is for good people to say nothing.”
Stand up. Say something. Like our fine neighbors in Canada say, “Elbows up.” “Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night.” Fight the tyranny now, while it can still be stopped. Don’t make your children and grandchildren wonder why you let it happen.
I want to reply to all the people who commented on my most recent post, but I don’t have a “Reply” button. So, until I figure it out how to do that, I’ll just post this as a new post.
Most people commented along these lines…”when you look at the current scenario in the US where the rich are not only determined to get richer by the usual methods, but by re-directing financial support from those needing it into their coffers, it would be enormously hard for the rank and file worker bees to trust.”
I agree 100%. This will not be easy. The rich will make it very difficult, extremely difficult. It won’t happen until we reach a tipping point where the rich have almost everything, and the people have almost nothing. The thing is, I believe that day is rapidly approaching. With AI, Robots, and Drones, most workers can easily be replaced in the next decade or two. Unfortunately, the benefits of the technology will only go to the companies who own the AI, Robots, and Drones. They will not willingly share the wealth. We won’t get more leisure time, but they will get more money. They will have the money, BUT we have the many. We can change society by sheer force of numbers. We can make the future brighter. They know that, so they simply keep us divided. That is their strategy, and unfortunately, it is working. Someday, though, when we’re really downtrodden, out of necessity, we will put aside our petty differences. We will stop with the nonsense of white people versus people of color, middle class versus the poor, educated versus the uneducated, Democrat versus Republican versus Independent, and young versus old. We will unite and win, but it may come too late, especially when the rich will control all media, and they will not tell us the truth. We have to start now.
A fellow blogger wrote that she passed through a hotel and there weren’t any desk clerks. There were six computer terminals where guests checked in and out, and there was only one employee there to provide assistance to anyone who needed it.
She worried what this might mean for jobs in the future. I chose to embrace the idea, feeling that AI and Robotics can actually lead us to a more utopian society, not a more dystopian society. To help me formulate my plan for the future, I naturally turned to AI, and here is the result.
The 16-Hour Workweek: A Bold Vision for a Better Future
Imagine waking up to a world where work is no longer the center of life. A world where AI and robotics handle most of the labor, and instead of scrambling to protect jobs, we redefine work itself. In 10 years, automation will replace many routine tasks—so what if, instead of fighting it, we embraced it and gradually transitioned to a 16-hour workweek?
This shift wouldn’t just prevent mass unemployment; it would reshape society for the better. More people would stay employed, but with shorter hours, higher efficiency, and more free time to spend on leisure, creativity, family, and community.
Why a Shorter Workweek Just Makes Sense
Automation Will Handle the Heavy Lifting: AI and robotics are replacing repetitive and technical tasks—we don’t need to work 40+ hours just to keep the system going.
Less Burnout, More Productivity: Studies show that shorter workweeks lead to higher efficiency. When people work fewer hours, they work smarter.
A Creative Renaissance: With more free time, people will write more, read more, and engage in art, crafts, and learning—ushering in a new wave of cultural growth.
Strengthening Human Connections: Imagine having more time to actually enjoy life, engage in the community, and focus on personal fulfillment.
Making It Happen
This won’t happen overnight, but a gradual reduction over 10 years—starting with a 32-hour week, then 24 hours, before finally arriving at 16 hours—would allow economies to adapt. Governments and corporations could incentivize this shift, ensuring wages remain fair and working conditions stable.
So the big question is: Would you support a future where work is a fraction of what it is today, leaving more room for life itself?
Drop your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear what you think!
earlthepearl137 