Dick and Jane Doe

Dick and Jane have their piece of the world at the corner of Elm street and Smith avenue. Their eight-tenths of an acre homestead features a garage door on the left, at the terminus of their driveway. The Does' front door is in the middle of their home's front;, on the right side is a bedroom window. Inside they have a kitchen, a dining room, a living room and a bedroom, a stairway and two bedrooms upstairs. Their yard is well-kept; the two cars are clean and well-maintained.

Dick's 40-hour gig is at the widget factory, seven miles away, near betlway exit 17 which says "Pleasant Valley." Jane serves as substitute teacher at nearby McWillie elementary school, where Johnny, Sally and Edith are enrolled. They watch network TV at night. On weekends Dick likes pro football on weekends, a smattering of baseball in summertime. At night they watch sitcoms and dramas on flixnet an amazon. Dick and Jane their nose to the grindstone and their hands on the wheel of American fortune that supplies their needs. They don't much about the supply chain that brings such bounty to their domain. They're not hip to the latest and greatest tunes turning up and down and over and out on the net or the web or the x or the faceblot. They've not thought much about natural resources that grown in Amazon jungles. What they do know is that Amazon delivers stuff to them once a week or so on the doorstep, and on most evenings via the web and the net. So they don't keep track of carbon emissions, or rainforests in the actual Amazon river basin, or the tribes of people who live there. They are not privy to the tokenisation of the natural world or the global carbon market or satellite surveillance or predatory institutions or the wall street casino or the buying and selling of carbon blahblahs for the sake of putting a tether on global warming or climate change or whatever we're calling it these days. They're not linked into the technocracy or blackrock or the AI underclass or the silicon overlords. They're perfectly content with our new-feudalism, or what ever the wizards of academia are calling it nowadays. They use social media platforms on their phones to stay in touch with Aunt Matilda and Uncle Joe and cousins Luke and Lucy. Deep fakes mean nothing to them; they live in the real world. No deep fakes for them. They are grounded in common sense, a mortgage, car payments and media networks for unwinding at night. The analogue future is not on their radar. They have no use for a sentient chatbot or cryptocurrency or stable coins or programmable CVDCs. They can remember, back in the day, hearing about, learning about the robber barons of old and the gold rush in California and then World War I, the roaring '20's, crash of '29, The Depression and then the World War II and the D-day invasion and the Battle of the Bulge and the horror of Auschwitz and then Hiroshima/Nagasaki and then, and then. . . The golden age of the '50's when Dick and Jane were growing up with Howdy Doody and Lassie and Buffalo Bill and Romper Room, Ozzie and Harriet and Walt Disney and then Johnny Carson and what happened in Dallas on November 22, 1963, and then. . . and then. . . I forget what happened after that. Give me a minute. To hear a song about all this stuff, listen: Boomer's Choice