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My great grandmother, Edna, was born in 1889. My Dad and I were recently reminiscing about her, and he said, “Gramma Bickle, tough old bird, tough old bird. Went blind at ninety-two, quit driving at ninety-four, died at ninety-six. Almost lived in three different centuries.” I have some immediate questions about that chronology, and the realization that Gramma Bickle apparently drove her car blind for two full years before handing her keys in, but I digress.
In 1954 my great gramma Bickle was sixty-five years old. Think about how the country changed from her childhood to her golden years. From when she was born, to a little younger than my parents are today, she saw an entire country go from horse and buggies and pretty much nobody owning a car, to almost everybody has a car. Only six percent of the homes in America had electricity when she was a teenager. By the mid nineteen fifties, the whole country is throbbing with electricity.
In her lifetime, the country went from basically no light bulbs, radios, telephones, refrigerators, or washing machines, to a country where all of that stuff is ubiquitous.
In the year 1900, only ten percent of American households had a stove in them. By 1960,--when my great grandmother is the same age as my parents are now—95% of households do. When she was born, anti-biotics didn’t exist, and polio could cripple your baby. By the time she’s my age, penicillen—a miracle drug!—has been invented. By the time she’s my parents’ age, penicillen is widely available and some genius has recently invented a polio vaccine.
So, if we’re looking at Fiftiesland as a country around today, here’s what’s going on. All of the old people in this country, in their lifetime, went from a horse-and-buggy 19th century third world economy with polio and no electricity—something that, if it existed today, we would be sending anthropoligsts to—to a more modern second world economy perhaps akin to contemporary Guatemala. Which is no small jump.
And the people my age who live in Fiftiesland are still celebrating kicking the crap out of the Nazis, inventing the atom bomb, and enjoying an economy which is comparatively booming—because all of the neighboring economies are rubble.
If Gramma Bickle, at forty years old, my age now, could somehow visit me in contemporary America—she would think I made a pact with Lucifer, the Prince of Darkness. Or maybe, maybe her progeny somehow goes on to conquer Oklahoma as warlords, and all her great grandchildren become opulant Oriental sultans.
I have an icebox in my kitchen that’s powered by lightning that lives in my wall. I have another smaller box that makes my food hot by shooting it with invisible particles like the ray gun from War of the Worlds.
Not only do I let my dog sleep in a tiny bed inside my house, like a toddler, we just finished up a round of antiobitics from when he cut his foot. My great-grandfather—this is true—lived with tuburculosis for years before it finally killed him. Anyway, see that dog I make wear a necktie for my amuesment? Yeah, my dog takes miracle drugs unavailable to John D. Rockefeller. Last year Wallace got elbow cancer but the doctor fixed that, no problem, took a couple of months. Wallace literally has better medical treatment available to him a mile from my house than any human being alive in 1950.
Gramma, you wanna watch Netflix, Paramount Plus, HBO, Peacock, or Amazon Prime? It’s television. Well, television is sort of like radio, only much better, and with images, and I can watch it whenever I want, and there are thousands of options. Like, imagine Broadway, only, like, a few thousand of them, and they’re all inside of that rectangle.
Huh, yeah, I’m not explaining that very well. Right. Okay, so you know how in your time you know multiple people who were literally slaves at some point in their life? Like, you personally know some older people who were, at one point, legally a form of property?
So basically, I have this glass rectangle on my wall that a million of the world’s greatest comedians and dramatists live inside of as my slaves, and they put on plays for me when I’m tired after work. Except I don’t have to feed them or pay them because I use my friend Nick’s HBO account. They just eat the lightning that lives in my wall.
What? Oh yes, I get very tired from work, Gramma. Really get [sigh] worn out, you know? Well, you know how your dad was a wheatfarmer, who spent hours and hours plowing through dust and boneshards in Indian Territory, where he might literally be shot by a Commanche, and the threat of looming starvation for the entire family was never more than one drout away?
Right, so I… I talk for a living. Yeah, that’s right. No, a bunch of strangers just sort of send me money every month cause they enjoy hearing me talk. It’s actually very challenging. Because! Gramma, I do a lot research, you see. Like for this episode, I had to read a lot, and I had to do a lot of math. No, I did not personally do the math.
I have another magical rectangle that has several thosuand math slaves trapped inside that do the actual math for me. When I was a kid I had to perssonally punch the equations in myself, and the rectantle would crunch the numbers. Those were hard times. Now I have a smarter glass rectangle that I can just talk to. I just type in, “Hey, average these ten numbers, okay” and there’s, I dunno, like translater slaves that talk to the math slaves, and they all figure out whatever I’m trying to say, increasingly in lower case and with minimal punctuation, and then give me the answer.
But I have to do the research. Like, I have to read a lot. No, I don’t go to a library. I have another rectangle that has all of the world’s libraries inside of it, and also a lot of pornography, so I just stay at home and look at that particular rectangle, alteranting between research and pornography depending on my mood.
It sure is tough, Gramma. I don’t have any coworkers to keep me company. I’m all by myself here in my well-lit, smokeless, air conditionined home. That’s right, air conditioning! Not just in my house, either—in my camper—which is a tiny extra house I tow behind my armored, self-propelling buggy, which I feed fermented dinosaur juice they pump out of the ground. Oh yeah. It has a rectangle in it that plays music. I’d say I have roughly… three to eight million musician slaves who live in the rectangle in my car, so I don’t get bored when driving to the movies, which is a very large rectangle I go to when I’m tired of watching rectangles on my couch.
What? Good question. It’s called a “camper” because I go camping in it. It’s sort of my hobby. You see, Gramma, my life is so stupidly cushy and comfortable that I amuse myself by going out into the woods to forego wall lightning, air conditioning, and even pornography sometimes, when I can’t get a signal, and instead I sit in a hammock and shit in holes I dig for fun. We call that “roughing it.” For sport, I spend hundreds if not thousands of dollars doing what your entire family did their entire lives until they finally got indoor plumbing, except of course my camper has a propane stove built in, whereas your pioneer family had to dig a hole in the side of a hill and cower in it from the weather like cavemen while burning cow dung for warmth. I dunno where propane comes from. Probably dinosaur farts or something.
Anyway, I prefer to travel around in my camper rather than fly—that’s right, fly—yeah, like a spitfire pilot—which I do multiple times a year using frequent flier points. Which are sort of free, imaginary coupons that banks give me to thank me for using their credit cards, which are also rectangles, but these particular rectangles are small and flat and full of slave bankers that live in my pocket, next to my nine-billion dollar super computer I mostly use as a map, so I don’t have to go through the hassle of folding and unfolding maps, and also to send funny pictures to people in Scotland, in between watching porn in the woods.
I digress. Let’s all take a deep breath. Somebody from my great grandmother’s generation, who lived long enough to be an adult in Fiftiesland, would rightly think: We live in a golden age! We live in the future!
Back in contemporary America, my parents are in their early seventies. My parents today are about how old Gramma Bickle was at the end of the 1950s. And the jump isn’t bad, but it’s not nearly as mind-blowing. The developments they’ve seen since childhood are very impressive in terms of computers and telecommunications and medicine, but otherwise, the world they live in is a more efficient, clever version of the world they grew up in. Cars are safer and more comfortable and fuel efficient, but they’re still basically cars. LED lights are cheaper than incandescent bulbs, but they’re still essentially electric lights. Penicillan is better, but it’s still just clinical mold that strategically murders errant bacteria.
If Fiftiesland were a country, rather than our own history, we would pretty much look at it sort of how we see the poorer parts of Latin America or Eastern Europe: a very nice place with lovely people, wonderful to visit, try the food. Get some funky vintage clothes while you’re there.
But a comparatively poor economy to America or Western Europe. You wouldn’t want to immigrate there for the money. And also, not surprisingly, some views about gender, sex before marriage, having kids really young, having lots of kids, and skepticism about homosexuality that a globetrotter and even quite a few conservatives today might be tempted to call “quaint” or “traditional.”
Basically, if Fiftiesland were a country today, we would view it like Honduras or Moldova, or maybe Czechoslavkia after the wall came down.

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