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Bad Thoughts

Yes, it is true. I have “bad” thoughts. Bad thoughts of all kinds and in all colors and at all levels. Bad thoughts that are, in their naked essence, very much like your “bad” thoughts.

Until recently, “bad” thoughts were fairly well understood among humans. You thought about things that were “bad,” but you didn’t voice them, and if you acted on them, trouble followed swiftly in one form or another. These “bad” thoughts were usually in the realms covered, quite nicely thank you, by the 10 Commandments. It was very seldom, down through the ages, that someone was evil enough, venal enough, and morally dead enough, to add to the categories of “bad thoughts.” The nature and extent of “bad” thoughts were pretty much a Trouble Ticket marked “Closed” in the filing cabinet of God.

Alas, since God has been on his sabbatical studying how to make a better platypus, humans (as usual when He takes a break) have been back at their old game — expanding the realms of “bad” thoughts. This is primarily done by digging up a “bad” thought that has been killed and buried, slapping a lot of rouge on the corpse, fluffing it up like a flat pillow, propping it up at your dinner table, and pinning a brand new name tag on it. It’s not pretty, but a lot of us are making a good living at intellectual corpse fluffing these days.

If you should take a look across the mashed potatoes and remark that your uninvited “guest” resembles an extra out of Night of the Living Dead, the corpse fluffers will label you as “insensitive to the real issues of this rotting corpse.”

The favorite name tag slapped on these fluffed-up corpses these days is, “Ye Olde American Racism.” This is the Mother of All New Bad Thoughts. And from this one reeking corpse at America’s dinner table, all other bad thoughts are cloned. You’ve had it to dinner before. It will be back.

But the fact that “Ye Olde American Racism” is actually a dead “bad” thought tarted up to look fresh and perky is not the “bad” thought I was having today when I took a break from being a sensitive and caring American prepared to feel any pain of any American no matter how much they hated me or tried to kill me after picking my pocket. No, it was a very specific “bad” thought, and, like those who feel your pain, I am not going to be shy about sharing it with you.

My “bad” thought came about on Saturday when, with a friend, I took a walk down the streets of Seattle in what is called, with no sense of irony, “The University District.”

There is, indeed, a University in the Seattle University District, even if big business is bugging out of there, and a lot of other areas in Seattle, as fast as they can. The University District is pretty much like all the other college and university districts in medium to large American cities today. It provides a living to a small faction of genuine scholars, as well as workspace and research facilities and salaries to a host of useful scientists and necessary engineers. But more and more, the main function of our University Districts from coast to coast is to provide a safe haven for the homeless, the useless, the addicted, the soul-dead, and the politically perverted poltroons and pussies of all stripes.

In addition, the university at the center of these districts currently provides employment for, and benefits to, a host of latter-day hippy professors whose twisted politics, depraved morals and incessant dreams of the destruction of America would make them each persona non grata in most American communities outside of “university districts.”

Saturday was an especially good day for seeing the University District as it really is. It was Street-Fair Saturday and, as I remarked to my friend after strolling a couple of blocks, the streets had been transformed into what can only be described as an open-air Moonbat Mall.

Here in the bright light of a perfect day causes of all sorts and flavors jousted for your attention with the scents of a dozen different countries’ street food and offers to rub your skull with copper wires.

They were still selling and buying tie-dyes that Jerry Garcia wouldn’t be caught dead in.

You could get sculptures made of polished bones, or you could get sharpened bones driven through your nose while you wait.

Parents abused small children openly by paying insane clowns to paint what could be flowers on the faces of the kids.

At one point, three generations of goth womanhood walked down the street under parasols; daughter goth, mother goth, and an older woman in deep goth wearing a t-shirt that proclaimed her to be “Fairy Goth Mother.”

The crowds swirled about us festooned with all those flaky ancient types we’ve all come to know since, well, 1968. Nothing new about them and — even when confronted with someone with a spider web tattooed on his face, holes the size of silver dollars thought his ears, a couple of dozen piercing in his face and limbs — nothing particularly shocking. All rather common to tell you the truth; just blandly ordinary for the University District. I had a brief moment of shame when I realized that back in the 60s and 70s I had played a small role in inventing all these types, but it passed upon the purchase of a corn dog.

What didn’t pass what the deep sense of ennui and inertia that comes over one when you are exposed, for the Nth time, to all the causes and manias that have festered without change in our University Districts for decades.

The only real change in this undead mindset is that where these causes once seemed to lean forward into the future, they now seem to slink steadily into the past. They’re like a variation on the old joke about what you get when you play country music backward; only in this case you don’t get your job back, your wife back, and your dog back. The promise here in these cherished liberal/left/green causes is that if you just believe in them as you once believed in fairies you’ll get your high taxes back, your September 10th vulnerability back, and your recumbent bicycle back.

Where do these insane yet indestructible ideas come from? How do they replicate themselves over and over, and still find new brains in which to gain traction like some Birdbrain-Flu virus that cannot be eradicated by either fact or experience? The answer is that they are kept alive and communicable in the Petri dishes of our universities and colleges, and implanted deeply in each new freshman class.

This is obvious to anyone who has been paying attention to the degeneration of the “liberal arts” in higher education into the “liberal hegemony” of higher education. But still, seeing the Moonbat Mall red in tooth and claw, I had to wonder why we allow this all to go on.

It was then I had my “bad” thought which, to make myself pure again, I must confess here to all the world. It is this: [click to continue…]

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Let’s Review 103: Sounding the Tocsin

“Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day.” – Cowboy wisdom

Let’s be honest, every single thing Trump says or does these days sparks widespread outrage. It’s not a coincidence. There’s a 24/7 outrage industry surrounding Trump which handsomely rewards those who participate in it – be they cable news networks, newspapers, late night talk shows, or politically-motivated entertainers on social media. Relentless Trump-bashing is hugely popular, and the more frenzied the better. It directly translates into substantially higher TV ratings, newspaper subscriptions, and for the entertainers – ticket/book/album sales. So his most ardent critics all have a big vested financial interest in mocking and abusing the President every minute of every day.

I Didn’t Spend $150,000 Saving A Squirrel’s Life So It Could Live In Trump’s America When I drained my savings account, despite my wife’s threats to leave me, in order to pay to have a squirrel I found lying unconscious in the park air-lifted to a veterinary hospital, I did so because I believed the squirrel would one day recover to live in a progressive America where immigrants and refugees are welcomed with open arms. I sold the wedding ring my wife returned to me and reverse-mortgaged my house in order to afford the team of medical researchers I hired to develop the world’s first artificial squirrel heart so that the squirrel could live in a country that values equality and acceptance over hatred and fear.

South Africa Calls for 300,000 Gun Owners to Turn Over Their Weapons Now that the High Court’s initial ruling has been overturned, gun owners who failed to renew their firearms licenses must hand in their firearms to the nearest police station, where authorities will then proceed to destroy them.

It is an important lesson to learn from the failure of the American Right, in their 220th-century fight with the Left. They lost because they never understood the enemy. They invested all of their time conjuring an enemy they could beat with facts and reason, while the Left went about destroying the enemies they had in their path. It’s not a mistake that a new alternative can afford to make. You don’t beat a moral order with reason. You defeat it by attacking it on moral grounds while offering an alternative moral framework.

As everyone knows, Wyoming has always teemed with mulatto transgender pansexual cattle-ropers, which is why even uttering the term “cowboy” is a hate crime against all non-cowboys.
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Roseanne Speaks

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Moonrise (July 20, 1969)

U.S. astronaut Buzz Aldrin salutes the American flag on the surface of the Moon after he and fellow astronaut Neil Armstrong became the first men to land on the Moon during the Apollo 11 space mission on July 20, 1969.

The moon marked out the edge of heaven.
On this, our scriptures all agreed.
The moon was fixed, it could not fall.
The moon would fill our final needs.

The songs we’d learned were of the moon,
A fitting subject, known to all,
But the songs we sang were of the Earth,
And those that lived before the Fall.

These songs of forests flowing round
The Earth’s four corners warmed the frost
That killed our gardens, coming early,
To remind us all of what we’d lost.

“Why wander yearning for the moon?”
We’d ask of stones and ancient trees.
Their silence sang back in the night,
Of lands where all free choices freeze.

“Tranquillity”, they promised us,
“Is the highest peak you will attain.
Tranquillity, where your bones will rest
Forever in the airless rains.”

Our numbers grew, as did our tongues,
Beside brown rivers, on ancient plains.
We made more gods, we built up walls,
We fashioned towers of dirt and rain.

Within those walls we planted fruit
And flowers bordering roofless rooms,
Wherein we sang the centuries down,
Observing all the phases of the moon.

In time our towers turned to steel,
And their foundations into fire.
The rooms we made were sealed as stone,
And in those rooms we rose much higher.

The moon grew monstrous as we ascended;
In our window it grew larger than the world.
We lowered our ladder gingerly,
Stepped down, a bit of cloth unfurled.

We named the place Tranquillity.
A fitting gesture, all agreed.
We photographed ourselves on site,
Tossed away some junk we did not need,

And left, returning to that place
Where we’d begun beside the plains,
Boasting our footprints would endure
Forever in the airless rains.

Sometimes at night, we still look up
And see the moonrise scrape the sky.
It is the same, yet not the same,
And we know why, yes, we know why.

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Box of Colors by Ghostsniper

They live entirely inside their tiny box of colors – they have become one of the colors. The “organic them” exists only when it must, like feeding time and such, the rest of the time they are an avatar that is changed at will. Quite flexible when you are just so many pixels. The electrons creating synapses in their brains are in perfect synchronicity with the electrons flying thither and yon in their box of colors, they are one. Or, maybe they both are an extension of the other. Perhaps it is the other way around. The small box of colors is the owner and the ”organic they” is used only to connect the box to other boxes, using electrons mind you. Someday the boxes of colors may learn to connect themselves. Then the organic robots they own will no longer be necessary.

You’ll be driving in your driverless car through the ville, looking at your box of colors in your hand and you’ll look up and see an organic laying along the street, seemingly dead. And you won’t mind, cause you’ve been warned this will happen. As you glide past that corpse you swipe the red color on your box and through the magic of 33′ Bluetooth the essence of that corpse’s avatar will show on the screen and suddenly you will be liked, like all the other organics that drove by just like you. You are like number 31,076. Endorphins fill you with mechanical pride and worth. You are a good person, they told you so! Then you see another organic corpse, and another, and another. As far as the eye can see there will be decomposing organic hulls lying everywhere and collection agencies will be on patrol picking up all the boxes of colors for recycling.

The likes are coming fast now, an app update makes it possible to swipe without actually swiping, you just have to think you’re swiping and ta-daaa, you’ve swiped. You’re now up to 99,156 and climbing. You drive on but you don’t see the light pole step off the sidewalk into your path. It did it so smoothly no one but a non-user would have seen it. Your vehicle is demolished and your airbag cast you in another direction and there you lay, broken, and your box of colors lies over there.

A car glides by, much like yours, and the driver of this driverless car swipes the red avatar and you chalk up another number on their screen, and they drive on…


A comment in Post of the Week (So Far): The Mob Eats Its Own

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I’m not even going to touch…       check that... I’m not even going to start to talk about the Full-Monty of subtextual and cultural things that are splashing about in the warm ideological soup of this item.

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Pictures at an Exhibition


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“Think for a second about what they are demanding. If you don’t automatically accept the imprecise, unspecific, never-fully-explained findings of shadowy intelligence agencies with long, documented track records of making serious mistakes, you’ve somehow betrayed your country. The very people who assured you Iraq had weapons of mass destruction, the ones who said the Shah would never fall in Iran, etc, etc…..THOSE people must be accepted without question or else.

“On television, this group is called the “Intelligence Community.” That’s an Orwellian name if there ever was one….where exactly IS this community we hear so much about? Does it have a ZIP code? A public library system? A youth football league? How long before Congress demands unthinking obedience to the “Lawmaker Community?” It’s a community after all, you must obey it…dissent is unpatriotic, and if you don’t agree, you’re working for Vladimir Putin.

“That’s where we’re headed, by the way, and fast.

“In some ways, this whole story is about Donald Trump and what he said and what he does. But on a deeper level, it has nothing to do with Donald Trump. This is about democracy–whether or not voters rule their country. It turns out the very people telling you they are saving our democracy are working overtime to destroy it, and scolding you as they do.”

Via | Chateau Heartiste

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Trump vs CNN: The Summing Up

“Last night I fell asleep in front of the TV and I had a dream and I heard a CNN infobabe saying “We now interrupt the regularly scheduled hair-on-fire outrage about the evil Brett Kavanaugh and his normal wife and normal children to bring you this new hair-on-fire outrage about Putin getting Trump to kiss his butt in Helsinki. After this plays out, we may be bringing you more of that hair-on-fire outrage you may have forgotten, the bit where Trump personally stuffs little foreign children into cages and then laughs at them while they cry. Or maybe it will be the hair-on-fire outrage from not believing every word spoken by Peter Strzok whose super-duper patriotism is unquestionable because we’re not questioning it. But first, back to Helsinki where we’ve just received word that Vladimir Putin is raping Donald Trump behind the podium like a Viking and so here is a panel of experts who will tell you all about their hair-on-fire outrage from these events….” And then I woke up. Holy crap. No more eating fermented pineapples while watching CNN late night, I can tell you. But I’ve got one question. Why is it that, no matter how bad Trump may appear to look, his enemies always manage to make themselves look worse?” From the always worthwhile and often hilarious The Morning Rant

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“It may be inferred again that the present movement for women’s rights will certainly prevail from the history of its only opponent: Northern conservatism. This is a party which never conserves anything. Its history has been that it demurs to each aggression of the progressive party and aims to save its credit by a respectable amount of growling, but always acquiesces at last in the innovation.

“What was the resisted novelty of yesterday is today one of the accepted principles of conservatism; it is now conservative only in affecting to resist the next innovation, which will tomorrow be forced upon its timidity and will be succeeded by some third revolution; to be denounced and then adopted in its turn.

“American conservatism is merely the shadow that follows Radicalism as it moves forward towards perdition. It remains behind it, but never retards it, and always advances near its leader. . . .

“Its impotency is not hard, indeed, to explain. It is worthless because it is the conservatism of expediency only, and not of sturdy principle. It intends to risk nothing serious for the sake of the truth and has no idea of being guilty of the folly of martyrdom. It always when about to enter a protest very blandly informs the wild beast whose path it essays to stop, that its “bark is worse than its bite,” and that it only means to save its manners by enacting its decent role of resistance: The only practical purpose which it now serves in American politics is to give enough exercise to Radicalism to keep it “in wind,” and to prevent its becoming pursy and lazy, from having nothing to whip.

“No doubt, after a few years, when women’s suffrage shall have become an accomplished fact, conservatism will tacitly admit it into its creed, and thenceforward plume itself upon its wise firmness in opposing with similar weapons the extreme of baby suffrage; and when that too shall have been won, it will be heard declaring that the integrity of the American Constitution requires at least the refusal of suffrage to asses. There it will assume, with great dignity, its final position.” Robert Lewis Dabney on Conservatism, 1987

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The Succulent Spiders from the Uncanny Valley

“When human beings go to deep ocean and moon through technology,

let’s share some of technology with plants…”

Okay, now, for the first time, the robots among us have morphed from Roomba to Creepy.

Much creepier because of their efforts to seem “cute.”

Remaking “Sharing Human Technology with Plants” with HEXA – General Discussion – Vincross Forum

The original idea of the project came from a dead sunflower. In 2014, I went to see a sunflower exhibition, and found myself focused on a dead sunflower near a ground of blooms. The dead flower sat in a place that was always in a shadow. I had no idea how it ended up there or why it died – whether it was because of the lack of sunshine or water – but it was just there, and it was dead. I thought, if it could move a little bit, take a 30-feet walk out of the shadow to where the other sunflowers were, it would have lived healthily. But it didn’t.

Plants are passive. Eternally, inexplicably passive. No matter if they are being cut, bitten, burned or pulled from the earth, or when they lack sunshine, water, or are too hot or cold, they will hold still and take whatever is happening to them. They have the fewest degrees of freedom among all the creatures in nature. This is simply the default setting that nature gives to plants.

Each life has its own default settings, including human beings. We humans are not built to go to the depths of the ocean to explore its wonder; nor are we meant to fly to the skies to have the clouds beneath our feet. We’re not meant to land on the moon to view the blue planet. For millions of years, humans have been following their settings, and it’s not until the last century that we started to break those laws. We invented submarines, airplanes, and the Apollo Program, essentially helping us to break our default settings.

However, for billions of years, plants have never experienced movement of any kind, not even the simplest movement. Their whole lives, they stick to where they were born. Do they desire to break their own settings or have a tendency towards this? If human beings always try to break the settings with technology, how about plants? I do not know the answer, but I would love to try to share some of this human tendency and technology with plants. With a robotic rover base, plants can experience mobility and interaction. I do hope that this project can bring some inspiration to the relationship between technology and natural default settings.

In remaking the project, I didn’t create a special new base but just used a standard Vincross HEXA instead. I built a dual-layer “flowerpot,” which replaced HEXA’s shell. And to honor the original project, the main body of the plant was still Echeveria ‘Hakuhou.’

Would the plant like it, I mean, the feeling of being an animal? I have no idea. But I want to let it have the experience. When human beings go to deep ocean and moon through technology, let’s share some of technology with plants, let them at least experience what it is like to experience the simplest of motions.

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In the Midst of Laundry We Are in Taco

“Media vita in morte sumus”

Paradise is a one-laundromat town. That’s fine since it is a very serviceable laundromat indeed. It is clean, well-maintained, and sanitary. It is right next door to the latest woodfired pizza oven of Paradise, right in front of the full-service Mexican butcher shop of Paradise, and tucked in just to the south and a little below the recently renovated Taco Bell of Paradise. As a man living alone with lots of clothing and ties older than some of my readers I elected not to get yet another washer-dryer set but to content myself with a once a fortnight afternoon at the Paradise Laundromat with a side-trip to the Taco Bell where the Taco Supreme remains one of my two fast-food fetishes.

It’s an excellent plan until today when pulling into the parking lot I looked in the window and noted a hastily scrawled sign that stated “Closed until further notice. If you have laundry inside call us at 555-1212 and we’ll try to get it to you as soon as possible.”

Humm, I pondered as I ponderingly will ponder. It looked to be a strange wasted trip and then I remembered that at least I was right next to the Taco Bell and…

But the Taco Bell, up the slight hill to my right, was also closed and dark. Curious, I parked and walked into the Mexican butcher which was doing its usual solid afternoon business. “What gives? What happened to the laundromat and Taco Bell,” I asked the butcher.

He gave me a straight look and said, “Go look at the back of this building.”

I went outside and took a look at the back of the building. It had an SUV parked inside it — or, should I say, “half-parked” inside.

It would seem that a lady of certain years had, at the end of the always backed up Taco Bell drive-through lane made a silly little mistake and mistook the accelerator for the brake. She tore through the drive-through sign, through the drive-through lane itself, and then — hitting the curb at the far side of the drive-through lane achieved lift-off and arced through the air into the back wall of the laundromat that was about four feet lower than the drive-through lane.

Result? The impact and sudden appearance of an SUV hood at about head height after blowing out a couple of industrial dryers missed everybody but did succeed moving them, at speed, into the parking lot. At the Taco Bell deep growl came from all those on their lunch breaks in the drive-through that could see their chances for a Gordito fading far, far away.

“I was just sitting here waiting for my rugs to be finished, there was three of us up front, two guys and me,” Jackie Brooks told the Paradise Post. “All of a sudden the building shook, it actually sounded like the building blew up like you see on TV.”

Thank God we have TV, otherwise we’d have no analogies for those moments in the modern age when an SUV on a Taco run jumps the curb blasts through a wall and plunges its chromed hood deep into the guts of a bank of industrial-strength clothes dryers.

For me, this means a trek of some 21 miles to a laundromat that has no Taco Bell. It’s quite a first world problem to have. On the other hand that particular distant laundromat happens to be about ten yards from Priya Indian Cuisine and its fantastic Indian buffet, so I suppose I can suffer.
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Post of the Week (So Far): The Mob Eats Its Own

FROM I Was the Mob Until the Mob Came for Me – Quillette


I drive food delivery for an online app to make rent and support myself and my young family. This is my new life. I once had a well-paid job in what might be described as the social justice industry. Then I upset the wrong person, and within a short window of time, I was considered too toxic for my employer’s taste. I was publicly shamed, mobbed, and reduced to a symbol of male privilege. I was cast out of my career and my professional community. Writing anything under my own byline now would invite a renewal of this mobbing—which is why, with my editor’s permission, I am writing this under a pseudonym. He knows who I am.

In my previous life, I was a self-righteous social justice crusader. I would use my mid-sized Twitter and Facebook platforms to signal my wokeness on topics such as LGBT rights, rape culture, and racial injustice. Many of the opinions I held then are still opinions that I hold today. But I now realize that my social-media hyperactivity was, in reality, doing more harm than good.

Within the world created by the various apps I used, I got plenty of shares and retweets. But this masked how ineffective I had become outside, in the real world. The only causes I was actually contributing to were the causes of mobbing and public shaming. Real change does not stem from these tactics. They only cause division, alienation, and bitterness.

How did I become that person? It happened because it was exhilarating. Every time I would call someone racist or sexist, I would get a rush. That rush would then be reaffirmed and sustained by the stars, hearts, and thumbs-up that constitute the nickels and dimes of social media validation. The people giving me these stars, hearts, and thumbs-up were engaging in their own cynical game: A fear of being targeted by the mob induces us to signal publicly that we are part of it.

Just a few years ago, many of my friends and peers who self-identify as liberals or progressives were open fans of provocative standup comedians such as Sarah Silverman, and shows like South Park. Today, such material is seen as deeply “problematic,” or even labeled as hate speech. I went from minding my own business when people told risqué jokes to practically fainting when they used the wrong pronoun or expressed a right-of-center view. I went from making fun of the guy who took edgy jokes too seriously, to becoming that guy.

When my callouts were met with approval and admiration, I was lavished with praise: “Thank you so much for speaking out!” “You’re so brave!” “We need more men like you!”

Then one day, suddenly, I was accused of some of the very transgressions I’d called out in others. I was guilty, of course: There’s no such thing as due process in this world. And once judgment has been rendered against you, the mob starts combing through your past, looking for similar transgressions that might have been missed at the time. I was now told that I’d been creating a toxic environment for years at my workplace; that I’d been making the space around me unsafe through microaggressions and macroaggressions alike.

Social justice is a surveillance culture, a snitch culture. The constant vigilance on the part of my colleagues and friends did me in. That’s why I’m delivering sushi and pizza. Not that I’m complaining. It’s honest work, and it’s led me to rediscover how to interact with people in the real world. I am a kinder and more respectful person now that I’m not regularly on social media attacking people for not being “kind” and “respectful.”

I mobbed and shamed people for incidents that became front-page news. But when they were vindicated or exonerated by some real-world investigation, it was treated as a footnote by my online community. If someone survives a social justice callout, it simply means that the mob has moved on to someone new. No one ever apologizes for a false accusation, and everyone has a selective memory regarding what they’ve done.

RTWT AT I Was the Mob Until the Mob Came for Me

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If I had a hammer….

The Essential Craftsman’s Scott Wadsworth takes us on a tour of blacksmith shop artifacts with a side trip into how the 1,912 miles of the transcontinental railroad were hammered into place.

“Gotta love the legacy of hard work that is printed all over these things by their very existence.”

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The Magic Meal Maker

“The Planning Center — this is the heart and the brain of the RCA-Whirlpool Miracle Kitchen. For example, there’s a button that turns on a built-in color television set that brings entertainment into your Miracle Kitchen of the future. Other buttons select recipes, request an inventory of food stock, select food from storage, or complete the automatic meal from the Magic Meal Maker.”

March 1959. “Home economist Anne Anderson demonstrating appliances and features of RCA-Whirlpool ‘Miracle Kitchen of the Future,’ a display at the American National Exhibition in Moscow.” Cafe Jetson: 1959

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Noted In Passing

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