“Some confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about”*…
Critics mourn a bygone cultural era. But, as Audrey Wollen reminds us, nostalgia for the new isn’t new…
You could be forgiven for thinking things—art, books, music, clothes—were irretrievably dire. Almost a decade ago, Alex Ross wrote in The New Yorker that “culture appears more monolithic than ever. . . . Technology conspires with populism to create an ideologically vacant dictatorship of likes.” In a 2023 piece in The New York Times Magazine, Jason Farago claimed: “We are now almost a quarter of the way through what looks likely to go down in history as the least innovative, least transformative, least pioneering century for culture since the invention of the printing press.” A headline last year at The Atlantic read: “Is This the Worst-Ever Era of American Pop Culture?” New York recently released “The Stupid Issue,” asking, “Is 2025 the stupidest year on record?” and answering with “12 signs of a culture in decline,” in the same listicle format often blamed for dwindling journalistic standards.
Apparently, I’ve been living in this arid desert of innovation for my entire adolescence and adult life. In 2011, the year I turned nineteen, the music critic Simon Reynolds made the following diagnosis in his book Retromania: “Instead of being about itself, the 2000s has been about every other previous decade happening again all at once: a simultaneity of pop time that abolishes history while nibbling away at the present’s own sense of itself as an era with a distinct identity and feel.” In 2014, in the introduction to his influential essay collection Ghosts of My Life, the cultural theorist Mark Fisher wrote, “It’s clear to me that now the period from roughly 2003 to the present will be recognised—not in the far distant future, but very soon—as the worst period for (popular) culture since the 1950s.” (An odd claim, as the 1950s saw the birth of rock and roll in the United States, major breakthroughs in jazz, and Singin’ in the Rain.)
“Very soon” has arrived, the simultaneity of time notwithstanding, inaugurated by W. David Marx’s recent book, Blank Space: A Cultural History of the Twenty-First Century, which aims to historicize the years from 2000 to 2025 as a period of creative emptiness and stagnation so intractable that it will be remembered (or, rather, is being remembered, through the anticipation of remembrance) as voided time, a dark age. Blank Space offers 281 fast-paced, rollicking pages that provide an overview of an extraordinary number of cultural events—including the flourishing of reality television, Web 2.0 and social media, monumental social and political movements from Occupy Wall Street to MAGA—only to culminate with the bewildering conclusion that nothing artistically transformative has occurred.
In his closing chapter, Marx writes, “Culture has been central to the narrative of the last twenty-five years—but merely as entertainment, commerce, and politics. In reliving the first quarter of the century in these pages, we can feel what’s missing—there is a conspicuous blank space where art and creativity used to be.” It is, by its own admission, history presented as negative-space drawing: if you write down all the “entertainment, commerce, and politics,” the absent shape of “art” might become visible. Art evades definition—you’ll know it when you (don’t) see it.
No one could argue that people are making less of it, as this is also an era defined by unprecedented access to the tools of production and distribution. The means to edit a short film, design a poster, or record an album in your bedroom, and then publish that work directly to an audience, are newly affordable and widespread. For Marx, however, most of that creation (or should we call it content?) is not creativity; it is a surplus of material, propelled and inhibited by a wish to make money and gain attention. Poptimism—the idea that commercial pop should be accorded the same critical attention as traditionally “serious” genres such as rock or jazz—has wrenched away our critical ability to assess something’s worth outside of metrics defined by mass-market success: if it makes money, it must be good. (I would argue that the floundering of critical thinking in public life, and of criticism as a professional practice, is not due to the scholarly appreciation of Mariah Carey songs, but that is a minor point.)
According to Marx, nothing “feels new” or “radical enough to outmode the past,” resulting in a terrible state of affairs in which “Audrey Hepburn, Miles Davis, and Joan Didion remain iconic because no one has emerged who can compete with their cool.” Yet it is the narration and re-narration of Hepburn’s, Davis’s, and Didion’s “cool” that cements them so firmly in our firmament. Not only have all three appeared in mainstream fashion campaigns in the past twenty years (the Gap, Supreme, and Celine, respectively), but each has been the subject of a full-length documentary in the past ten (Audrey, 2020; Miles Davis: Birth of the Cool, 2019; Joan Didion: The Center Will Not Hold, 2017), and at least one major book about each has been released in the past five (Intimate Audrey, 2026, by Sean Hepburn Ferrer and Wendy Holden; 3 Shades of Blue, by James Kaplan, and Didion & Babitz, by Lili Anolik, both 2024). To allow others to “compete,” the cultural historians of the recent past would have to find something to historicize other than the current generation’s perceived inadequacy.
History, as usual, presents a Goldilocks problem—never “just right,” it is always ballooning into overwhelming excess, filling up the room and weighing down the present, or deflating into a slippery pellicular film, impossible to handle or understand. Popular internet discourse delivers jokes about millennials “watching their 173rd once-in-a-lifetime historical event unfold,” as one recent meme put it, as though my generation suffers from too much history, a “too much” that also signifies the end of itself, like the home of a hoarder that has accumulated so many mountains of life detritus that it ceases to function as a place where a person can live. This surplus of past in our everyday lives, which Reynolds has dubbed our retromania, is eased by the flattened, instantaneous libraries of Babel in our pockets at all times, and causes what the Italian philosopher Franco “Bifo” Berardi described as “the slow cancellation of the future,” a feeling of time’s forward propulsion gradually decelerating until it barely moves at all. If the second half of the twentieth century was a rushing river of culture, many feel that the present has become a brackish wetland, a marsh. This is found in the ubiquity of reboots in our movie theaters, the diffuse archive-jumbling of our fashion trends, the collapse of unifying -isms in our contemporary art, the citational frenzy of our popular music, and, most nefariously, the conservative nostalgia that currently dominates Western politics.
And yet it is hard not to hear the claims of our missing originality as a kind of nostalgia in its own right, hearkening back to a semi-mythical past when artists were brave and fun, rent was cheap, and everything was new and meaningful. (Nostalgia for those material conditions, rather than a generalized haze of rebellion and inspiration, is well placed; as Fisher wrote, “If there’s one factor above all else which contributes to cultural conservatism, it is the vast inflation in the cost of rent and mortgages.”) On a rhetorical level, Marx’s sweeping judgment is very difficult to contest: either you dredge up a few artifacts of novelty that have gone ignored, which reads as a little pathetic (please, sir, what about hyperpop?), or you are forced to defend the material he has dismissed as worthless (Addison Rae, Paris Hilton, the Real Housewives; his harbingers of cultural apocalypse—my harbingers of a great night!), which reads as a naive defense of late-capitalist consumerism. It is true that we are a generation stuck in a loop: many tiny loops, looping at different speeds, looping into other loops, as if we were all wedged inside an undulating Ruth Asawa sculpture, but instead of wire it is made of time. Maybe we are living in a marshland. Many creatures do.
“What’s so bad about repetition?” the compulsion asks. But, no, really, what’s so bad about repetition? Or perhaps it would be better rephrased as: What’s so good about innovation?…
… It does not surprise me that millennials and zoomers might be wary, unconsciously or otherwise, of contributing anything “new” to a stretch of history that has voraciously eaten newness only to cough up suffering. What about the past fifty, seventy-five, one hundred years makes barreling toward the future seem like a good idea? The Doomsday Clock reads eighty-five seconds to midnight, and for many across the globe a more local apocalypse has already arrived. Some of the archive fever of the past twenty-five years might be a form of emotional anti-accelerationism, a generation desperately trying to produce a wind drag on the forward velocity powered by the deathly machinery of the twentieth century. To approach the world “anew,” we might need to embrace the word’s cyclonic strangeness, its inherent paradox, defined as “once again” (and again, and again, and again, and again, and again), “in a different way.”…
Read on: “Is the Twenty-First Century a Creative Void?” (a perfect example of Betteridge’s Law :-) from @yalereview.bsky.social
* W. H. Auden
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As we rethink repetition, we might recall that it was on this date in 1955 that a man who used something old to make something new– and played a key role in transition from the blues to rock and roll– had his only #1 hit: Bo Diddley‘s eponymously-titled debut single reached the top of Billboard’s R&B chart.
Five months later– and five months before Elvis Presley’s first appearance– Bo Diddley, born Ellas Otha Bates, made his television debut on The Ed Sullivan Show… and introduced the mainstream American audience to the 4/4 wonder we would come to know as Rock and Roll. He performed his signature tune, “Bo Diddley”– which prefigured such classics as Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away” and the Stangeloves’ “I Want Candy,” among countless others. In the kinescope of the show (below), the studio audience can be heard clapping heartily along.
Diddley later recalled that Ed Sullivan had expected him to perform only a cover version of “Tennessee” Ernie Ford’s “Sixteen Tons” and was furious with him for opening with “Bo Diddley”– so furious that Sullivan banned him from future appearances on his show. But the damage was done: as George Thorogood told Rolling Stone: “[Chuck Berry’s] ‘Maybellene’ is a country song sped up… ‘Johnny B. Goode’ is blues sped up. But you listen to ‘Bo Diddley,’ and you say, ‘What in the Jesus is that?’”
“The clearest way to see through a culture is to attend to its tools for conversation”*…
Matt Pearce revisits Neil Postman‘s 1992 Technopoly: The Surrender of Culture to Technology…
In the 1960s, a German-American computer scientist named Joseph Weizenbaum coded an early version of today’s AI chatbots. Weizenbaum called his program ELIZA, after the “My Fair Lady” character Eliza Doolittle who takes speech lessons (and gets better).
How people reacted to Weizenbaum’s crude creation tells us almost everything we need to know about AI hype more than half a century later.
ELIZA could hold basic “conversations,” including playing the role of a psychotherapist with real human users. [In the example above, ELIZA’s responses to one woman are shown in capital letters.]
Anybody with a cursory awareness of recent headlines about AI romances and AI psychosis already knows where this is going. ELIZA’s human interlocuters in the 1960s, despite talking to a clunky machine they knew had been programmed by Weizenbaum, refused to believe that they were talking to a mere machine. His secretary, having watched him build the contraption over several months, after just a few exchanges with ELIZA, asked Weizenbaum to leave the room so she could have some privacy.
Weizenbaum, exhibiting a bit of Freudian sangfroid about all this, was not surprised to see people form emotional attachments with inanimate objects. He’d already seen people get attached to their cars or guitars or computers. But “what I had not realized is that extremely short exposures to a relatively simple computer program could induce powerful delusional thinking in quite normal people,” Weizenbaum wrote in his 1976 book “Computer Power and Human Reason: From Judgment to Calculation.”…
… I learned about Weizenbaum’s ELIZA experiment from Neil Postman’s 1992 book “Technopoly: The Surrender of Culture to Technology,” a work of technoconservatism that, like Weizenbaum’s writings, was imbued with foresight about our struggles with today’s vastly more powerful technologies.
Consider this passage from Postman’s “Technopoly”:
In a technocracy, tools play a central role in the thought-world of the culture. Everything must give way, in some degree, to their development. The social and symbolic worlds become increasingly subject to the requirements of that development. Tools are not integrated into the culture; they attack the culture. They bid to become the culture. As a consequence, tradition, social mores, myth, politics, ritual, and religion have to fight for their lives.
Technology, attacking and taking over the culture? Bending society to its own imperative for advancement? In my United States of America? Postman (most famous for writing “Amusing Ourselves to Death”) thought the U.S. was the world’s first “Technopoly,” a society marked by “the submission of all forms of cultural life to the sovereignty of technique and technology,” where information itself has become a form of pollution.
To Postman, “the milieu in which Technopoly flourishes is one in which the tie between information and human purpose has been severed, i.e., information appears indiscriminately, directed at no one in particular, in enormous volume and at high speeds, and disconnected from theory, meaning or purpose.”
Neil Postman wrote “Technopoly” before the introduction of ChatGPT and Sora; TikTok and YouTube; Twitter and Facebook; Google Search and the Netscape browser. Postman wrote the book before Windows 95 existed. A philosophy of technology that mostly holds up through successive eras of technical revolution has already passed time’s first test, which is for the philosophy to outlive the philosopher. And Postman’s philosophy is ultimately conservative, motivated by the desire to preserve the traditions of humanism, social cohesion and a shareable sense of collective history.
Technoconservatism was old before it was new. Postman quotes Plato’s “Phaedrus,” where Thamus warns that whoever learns writing (one of our first dangerous technologies) “will cease to exercise their memory and become forgetful” and “will receive a quantity of information without proper instruction, and in consequence be thought very knowledgeable when they are for the most part quite ignorant.” And Postman, to his credit, is like — well, yeah! Writing really did that. A new technology is neither good nor bad, but ecological: it “does not add or subtract something. It changes everything. In the year 1500, fifty years after the printing press was invented, we did not have old Europe plus the printing press. We had a different Europe.”
In previous generations, societies dealt with information revolutions (which always produced information gluts) by creating institutions that prioritize “good” information and deprioritize the bad; think about schools with their organized curricula, courts with their standards of evidence, newspapers with their party lines or codes of journalistic ethics. But Postman notes that we got lucky after the Gutenberg revolution, when information technology’s development slowed down long enough for societies to catch up and be excellent:
From the early seventeenth century, when Western culture undertook to reorganize itself to accommodate the printing press, until the mid-nineteenth century [with the invention of the telegraph], no significant technologies were introduced that altered the form, volume, or speed of information. As a consequence, Western culture had more than two hundred years to accustom itself to the new information conditions created by the press. It developed new institutions, such as the school and representative government. It developed new conceptions of knowledge and intelligence, and a heightened respect for reason and privacy. It developed new forms of economic activity, such as mechanized production and corporate capitalism, and even gave articulate expression to the possibilities of a humane socialism. New forms of public discourse came into being through newspapers, pamphlets, broadsides, and books. It is no wonder that the eighteenth century gave us in the work of Goethe, Voltaire, Diderot, Kant, Hume, Adam Smith, Edmund Burke, Vico, Edward Gibbon, and, of course, Jefferson, Madison, Franklin, Adams, Hamilton, and Thomas Paine. I weight the list with America’s “Founding Fathers” because technocratic-typographic America was the first nation ever to be argued into existence in print.
Contrast the luxuriously slow social pace of the Gutenberg era with today’s information development timelines. Over the course of three decades, we’ve seen the rise and now-decline of the open web; the rise and now-decline of social media; the rise of short-form video and the rise of chatbots and synthetic information. All created enormous economic and philosophical disruptions whose fundamental impacts you can’t get a group of people in a room together to describe accurately. Among the disruptions: These increasingly efficient forms of sharing information keep encountering falling test scores; universities are trying to implement AI as their own students use it for cheating or boo the tech at their graduations; people are falling in love with their chatbots, which sometimes tell their users to kill themselves. A society that wants to understand itself probably wouldn’t act like this…
Read on for how we might — dare one suggest, should— act: “A society that wants to understand itself probably wouldn’t act like this,” from @mattdpearce.com.
Compare to/contrast with with Yuval Avnar‘s riff on Pascal’s musing on the implications of his invention, the “arithmetic machine” (an early, if not the first, modern mechanical calculator): “The Inventor of the Thinking Machine Didn’t Worry. Neither Should You.“
* Neil Postman, Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business
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As we introspect, we might send pointed birthday greetings to Ambrose Bierce; he was born on this date in 1842. His satirical lexicon The Devil’s Dictionary was named as one of “The 100 Greatest Masterpieces of American Literature” by the American Revolution Bicentennial Administration. His story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” has been described as “one of the most famous and frequently anthologized stories in American literature”; and his book Tales of Soldiers and Civilians (also published as In the Midst of Life) was named by the Grolier Club as one of the 100 most influential American books printed before 1900.
A prolific and versatile writer, Bierce was regarded as one of the most influential journalists in the United States, and as a pioneering writer of realist fiction. For his horror writing, Michael Dirda ranked him alongside Edgar Allan Poe and H. P. Lovecraft. S. T. Joshi argues that he may well be the greatest satirist America has ever produced, and can take his place with such figures as Juvenal, Swift, and Voltaire. His war stories influenced Stephen Crane, Ernest Hemingway, and others; and he was an influential and feared literary critic. In recent decades Bierce has gained even wider regard as a fabulist and for his poetry.
In 1913, Bierce told reporters that he was travelling to Mexico to gain first-hand experience of the Mexican Revolution. He disappeared over the border and was never seen again.
Apropos the piece featured above:
TELEPHONE, n. An invention of the devil which abrogates some of the advantages of making a disagreeable person keep his distance.
– The Devil’s Dictionary
“Sometimes this high-tech world calls for low-tech solutions”*…
Our human war against infectious microbes has escalated. As bioscience has produced a stream of anti-bacterial and anti-fungal treatments, the continuously-evolving micro-organisms they target evolve in ways to protect themselves… and so our antibiotics become less effective.
This antibiotic resistance is estimated to result in more than 2.8 million infections from antibiotic-resistant bacteria, and more than 35,000 people die as a result. Antibiotic resistance adds $20 billion in excess direct healthcare costs each year in the US. Additional costs to society for lost productivity could be as high as $35 billion a year. All of this is driven in some measure by over-prescription (the CDC reckons that over 25% of antibiotics prescribed in US outpatient settings are unnecessary)– but the evolutionary dynamics of our microbial “enemies” being what they are, the problem would be material in any case.
So effective non-antibiotic treatments are especially valuable. Ian Ingram reports on one of the latest..
The FDA cleared medical-grade Australian sheep blowfly (Lucilia cuprina) larvae in what maker Cuprina Holdings believes marks the first debridement product to use this particular species.
Dubbed Medifly Maggots, the product [pictured above] is indicated for removing dead or infected tissue from non-healing necrotic skin and soft tissue wounds — such as pressure or neuropathic foot ulcers — and non-healing traumatic or post-surgical wounds.
A healthcare worker is required to oversee the application of the prescription maggot product, which was cleared based on demonstration of equivalence to the previously cleared medical-grade green bottle blowfly larvae — Lucilia sericata (Medical Maggots).
“Maggot debridement therapy has earned its place in modern wound care, and adding a second FDA-cleared species strengthens the entire field,” Ronald Sherman, MD, the company’s medical and scientific director, said in a statement.
“Lucilia cuprina has a meaningful international track record,” and the new clearance “gives clinicians and their patients more flexibility in how this therapy is delivered,” added Sherman, who has worked on the development of medical-grade maggots for decades and was instrumental in getting the first product cleared by the FDA in 2004.
According to recent estimates, anywhere from 1-2% of people in developed countries have chronic wounds, which are associated with greater risks of limb amputation and mortality.
Maggots, long used for clearing dead or non-healing tissue before the invention of antibiotics, can spare antibiotics and have also been associated with a lower risk of lower-limb amputation in diabetics with non-healing lesions…
As poet A. R. Ammons wrote (in “Catalyst“): “Honor the maggot, supreme catalyst.”
“New Type of Maggot Cleared by FDA as Medical Treatment,” from @medpagetoday.com.
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As we rethink remedies, we might spare a thought for Alice Stewart; she died on this date in 2002. A physician and epidemiologist, she specialized in social medicine and the effects of radiation on health. Starting in WW II, she investigated the health effects of exposure to TNT in ammunitions factories, of carbon tetrachloride, and a prevalence of tuberculosis among shoe industry workers.
In the 1950s, Stewart led a pioneering study of x-rays (especially the pre-natal x-rays of expectant mothers) as a cause of childhood cancer. Her results were initially regarded as unsound, but were eventually accepted worldwide; the use of medical x-rays during pregnancy and early childhood was curtailed as a result– though it took around two and a half decades.
And after a visit to the U.S. in 1974, Stewart consulted on a major investigation of the health of workers in the nuclear industry there: she examined the sickness records of employees in the Hanford (WA) plutonium production plant and found a far higher incidence of radiation-induced ill health than was noted in official studies (produced by the nuclear industry).
Stewart was awarded the Right Livelihood Award in 1986 “for bringing to light in the face of official opposition the real dangers of low-level radiation.” In 1997 she was invited to become the first Chair of the European Committee on Radiation Risk.
“Soft as the earth is mankind and both need to be altered”…
Indeed, especially over the last 150 years or so, both have been. And as a consequence, John MacDonald reports, the Anthropocene is presenting a challenge to geologists:
I’m standing on a beach at Workington, on the western edge of the Lake District in England [pictured above and throughout the article linked below]. Here I find myself contemplating a very unnatural object, while pondering a pretty fundamental question: what, exactly, is a rock? For a geologist like me, this should be easy to answer, but what I’m looking at has made me think otherwise.
At Workington, all seems natural – the sounds of the waves lapping the shore, the call of seabirds, the smell of the ocean, the sight of the stony beach and high cliffs. At first glance, the beach is made largely of a rock platform, which is not a particularly unusual phenomenon – many coastal areas are ‘rock coasts’ made of sandstone, basalt or granite. These rocks are ancient in human years – often millions or even billions of years old – and have been sculpted into their current cliff or platform shapes over hundreds to thousands of years.
Yet among the waves is an object that shouldn’t be there: a wheel and tyre, embedded in the rock that makes up the shore. It’s not stuck in a crevice – the rock has actually formed around it. How can this have happened? The wheel and tyre are of a mid-20th century style, but rocks are ancient, often millions of years old. Aren’t they?
Closer inspection of this hard rock platform shows it is what geologists call conglomerate: a sedimentary rock made of rounded pebbles and cobbles deposited on the Earth surface. Over thousands to millions of years, this material is buried and heated causing minerals to form and fill in the gaps between the pebbles and cobbles, fusing them together into a hard rock mass. At Workington though, this can’t have happened: as well as the tyre, my colleagues and I found several other human-made objects, under 100 years old. The pebbles and cobbles in the conglomerate aren’t natural either: they are all made of slag, a solid by-product of the iron- and steel-making process.
As a geologist, I have studied various types of natural rocks, but recently I have become interested in ‘anthropogenic geomaterials’ – things like industrial slag – and how they become entwined in geological and environmental processes. I came to Workington originally to look at the slag, because I was interested in its potential to scrub-capture carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere. However, when encountering the rock platform with the wheel in it, I was drawn by its incongruity. After studying the geomaterials of Workington more closely with my colleagues Amanda Owen and David Brown, we believe that this little-known section of the English coastline represents a tangible and potentially long-lasting signature of the impact humans are having on the planet.
Unlike many industrial landscapes, nature here has mostly returned, so it would be easy to miss that the beach is composed of human materials. Here a process that normally takes millennia or aeons has happened in a matter of decades. And it’s not the only example: new forms of anthropogenic geology are emerging around the world. These new materials are blurring the borderline between the natural and unnatural. They are also raising a rather fundamental question for geology: what actually is a rock?…
And what becomes of geology as its tasks come to resemble archaeology and anthropogy? Read on for the backstory and the answers.
Not natural, not quite unnatural, the strange new rocks of the Anthropocene stretch the boundaries of geology: “What is this rock?” from @aeon.co.
* W. H. Auden, “In Praise of Limestone“
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As we ruminate on rocks, we might spare a thought for William Logan; he died on this date in 1875. Born in Montreal in 1798, he was sent to Edinburgh for an education, after which, he lingered in Britain to work in Wales at his uncle’s coal and copper-smelting business. Logan made geologic maps of coal fields in Wales, in attempt to understand the sources of coal and ores. He noted the relationship between the underlying clay layers and fossil tree roots with local coal beds– which helped substantiate the theory that coal beds are formed in place.
On returning to Canada in 1842, he became the founding director of the Geological Survey of Canada. At the time, the country’s geology was virtually unknown; but as a product of two decades of his research, the CGS published the monumental Report on the Geology of Canada in 1863. Known as “the father of Canadian geology,” Logan was knighted by Queen Victoria; and after his death Mount Logan, Canada’s highest mountain, was named in his honor.
“The remedy is worse than the disease”*…
Your correspondent is a co-founder and director of Common Sense Media, an organization devoted to understanding the fraught media environment in which we live, to helping children, their families, and educators navigate it, and to advocating for “common sense” protections for kids. When we began, over 20 years ago, the terrain was largely TV, movies, books, and video games. They remain, of course, but the spotlight moved to social media, and now, to AI.
Advocacy, as it turns out, can be a tricky needle to thread. As Francis Bacon (and following him, a stream of others) observe, sometimes “the cure can be worse that the disease.” And that’s especially true when the “disease” one is fighting is the province of a powerful, richly funded cabal who market their moves as cures, even though, through their lens, disease is the desired state.
By way of one (chilling) example, Joe Wilkins outlines one dimension of the current state-of-play…
The White House and Congress are working on a deal to clamp down on what US citizens are allowed to say online. According to new reporting by Axios, the Trump administration is negotiating with key senators in an effort to shoehorn a massive legislation package which would limit states’ abilities to regulate AI in exchange for placing broad federal limits on digital speech.
Plenty of ink has been spilled about the Trump administration’s push to revoke AI regulation from individual states. Though the White House and its allies frame this as a matter of “safety” and “national security,” the timing is telling, coming as progressive state governments move to restrict the building of AI data centers and hold tech companies liable for harms their AI systems cause.
What makes this deal particularly insidious is the trade-off at its core. Per Axios, congressional lawmakers lead by Republican Marsha Blackburn are essentially offering to surrender their ability to regulate AI in exchange for three federal censorship bills: the Kids Online Safety Act, the NO FAKES Act, and a federal age verification mandate.
While the language around these three measures suggests common-sense cyber regulation, activists say they really amount to a massive censorship regime that is fundamentally anti-democratic.
In a blistering statement, the first amendment group Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression (FIRE) warns that “taken together, these bills would fundamentally change the internet as we know it.” That’s especially striking because FIRE is funded by conservative private interests like billionaire Charles Koch, meaning its opposition highlights the degree to which Trump is butting heads against fellow members of the US ruling class.
The Kids Online Safety Act (KORA) for example, would force social media giants to restrict lawful speech based on Federal Trade Commission regulations. FIRE complains that this would give the federal government too much power to hold platforms like Meta accountable for their harms — which, many would argue, is long overdue. But given that just a few corporations own the vast majority of web infrastructure and social media, KORA would give the Trump-controlled FTC major power to bend the internet to its will.
To put this power into perspective, just regulating Meta’s Instagram would impact about 71 percent of US citizens who say they regularly use the app.
It’s a powerful weapon, in other words — and like any weapon, it matters a great deal who wields it. Should the White House and Congress push KORA through, it’s likely it would functionally end the possibility of surfing the internet anonymously, while supercharging Trump’s efforts to criminalize left wing opposition groups in the US.
Whether it passes will depend on some shrewd maneuvering on the Trump administration’s part to secure Congressional support. But it all underscores a frustrating reality of AI regulation in the US: Americans overwhelmingly support stricter regulation on AI — but with the current cabal running the Oval Office, there’s no guarantee that the cure won’t be worse than the disease…
Common Sense Media continues to fight– both overt malignancies and the faux remedies that promise to be as bad or worse. So, I would argue, should we all.
Pending federal bills would fundamentally change the internet as we know it: “Trump Moves to Deeply Censor the Entire Internet,” from @joeonhere.bsky.social in @futurism.com.
A resonant reminder of the poisonous program to be resisted: “The Side That Won the Civil War is Now Banning Books About Why the Civil War Was Fought.”
And a look at the politicial economics that may drive it.
(Image above: source)
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As we seek sanity, we might recall that it was on this date in 1788, with the ratification of the ninth state (New Hampshire), that the Constitution of the United States came into effect. It was, of course, briskly amended to include what we call the Bill of Rights— the first 10 of 27 amendments (so far).
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