BURSTOn Saturday, I brought my boys down to Culver City in LA, where hundreds of people lined the streets outside city hall. Folks were packed on both sides of Culver Boulevard, even commandeering the median, with signs and verve and plenty willingness to chant and yell and cheer. The boys delighted in the more vulgar chants (“Fuck this shit!”) and climbed trees to wave signs of their own. (A collaborative effort with a slogan that they came up with themselves, it read “No Donald Trump / No Elon / Allowed. You Stink! Hands off!”).
The sheer numbers and vigor were enough to discourage any counterprotests, at least here, and the vibes were good all day. The same can’t quite be said for last weekend, when I was out at a Tesla Takedown protest in West LA. Everyone was lined up on the sidewalk outside the dealership on Santa Monica Boulevard, with signs and megaphones, and it was great, especially at first. There were chants and new acquaintances and kids on their dads’ shoulders. Drivers and passengers passing by rolled down their windows and cheered, truckers in big rigs blared their horns in support. But, unlike last time I went to a takedown protest—which I still encourage everyone, everyone to do—the shape of the opposition was clearer.
The cops were there from the start. One for every five to ten protestors, just about. When one man kept standing in the street, where he was blocking traffic, despite his correctly pointing out that the cops were also standing in the same street, they quickly put him in cuffs. It was such a needless display of power—he was detained, not arrested, and he assured me he was fine, but still. Not long after that, a presumably pro-Musk Tesla driver stopped his car and just started screaming at us, middle finger extended. There would be more middle fingers, more cops making their presence know before the day was done.
It was fine, but it was a reminder of where the power lies, and how those who have it wish to wield it right now. It darkened the day to be sure, and that darkness lingered with me as I drove home, trying but failing to shake it with some upbeat New Order b-sides.
These are, it scarcely needs to be said, pretty dark times. With the markets crashing from the haphazardly applied and very stupidly written tariff rates, the Trump administration’s brutal detention and deportation campaign continuing in full force, and the US’s creep towards a Russia-style oligarchy well underway, I’ve found some solace and inspiration in a somewhat unexpected place: A nonfiction account of a bloody revolution.
Before we go on, a quick appeal: I keep all the reporting and critical analysis I do at Blood in the Machine—at least one story per week but often more—out from behind a paywall. In the last week or so I have written about economy-crashing chatbot-shaped trade policy, reported on OpenAI’s insult to Studio Ghibli and to art itself, and deconstructed the new American tech oligarchy. I know it’s a bad time to be asking for support, but paid subscriptions are now my livelihood! If you can, help ensure I can keep doing this work for a few bucks a month, and get access to Blood in the Media posts like this one. All the best—and hammers up.