This is the official logo the U.S. Semisesquicentennial--that's 250 years. Inspiring, isn't it. It looks like it could be knocked out by any adverting art department between morning coffee break and martini lunch. Even quicker with ubiquitous A.I. There is nothing inspiring about it. No human or historical context. It is branding pure and simple. A symbol of the triumph of corporatism.
It has become a regular trope of commentators across media and social platforms to contrast the dismal spectacle that Donald Trump's vanity has produced to the year-long patriotic celebration of the Bicentennial in 1976. I am old enough to remember...
There was a lot of this sort of thing everywhere you looked. Revolution! Independence! Heroism! Federal eagles were hot decor. Flags were everywhere. People literally wore their patriotism on their sleeves. All of this coming on the not-yet-heeled scars of the Vietnam War and the anti-war movement, the Watergate Scandal, and simmering racial divides. But folks celebrated--most of 'em any way--even with mental asterixis of reservations.
I was 27-years-old and hitchhiking back to Chicago after an old-style West Coast soapbox speaking tour for the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW). I was also just four years passed a stint in Sandstone Federal Prison for Draft resistance, and suitably shaggy and disheveled. Yeah, I was one of those kinds of guys.
This may have been the motel I stayed in.
As the gloaming descended on July 3, I was dropped off by an I-90 exit outside of Rochester, Minnesota. There was a 1950's style motel with older model cars parked. I calculated the jingle in my jeans and figured I could afford a night instead of unrolling my bindle in some discrete spot. A couple of nights of that already left my youthful body achy and sore. The clerk was only mildly dubious about the dusty hippy with only an old gas mask bag for luggage without a car, but let me sign the register for 6 or 7 dollars, and handed me the key on big plastic fob. The room was small and musty and the bed took up 80% of the floor space. The bathroom was tiny with just a shower stall. A black-and-white TV with rabbit ears sat on a small, battered dresser. I dropped a dime in the Coke machine outside and dined on Slim Jims and chips watching flickering coverage of Bicentennial events until I dozed off still in my clothes on top of the blanket.
I jerked away early the next morning. The Today Show was already covering the Fourth of July hoopla from coast-to-coast, especially the parade of Tall Ships sailing to enter the Port of New York, marching bands and military units assembling for parades, and reporter stand-ups in front of the Capitol, Washington Monument, and Independence Hall in Philadelphia. I watched and my childhood patriotism came back strong pushing against both anarchism and cynicism.
At dawn it was overcast, humid, and misty. Hot weather and rolling thunderstorms were forecasted for later that day. The talking heads on TV were worried about fireworks shows.
I grabbed a local newspaper from a box by the office door. It splurged for color on the front page and a special Bicentennial insert and headed over to the franchise dinner across the road next to a gas station. You may remember the kind of place--long counter with stools and worn Formica-topped tables and booths with little juke boxes. I picked the counter and ordered black coffee, sunny-side-up eggs, crisp bacon, and whole wheat toast. Crisply fried hashbrowns were thrown in. I settled in, perusing my newspaper and watch the color TV at the end of the counter. I took advantage of bottomless cups of coffee and lingered as long as I could until the annoyed staff started whispering. Time to move on before they called the cops. I left a good tip--a whole Dollar as I recall, to atone.
A vintage AmTrack Empire Builder travel poster.
Back in the motel office, I found a brochure for the Empire Builder the legendary Great Northern/Burlington special now being operated by AmTrack. I still had enough money to ride back to Chicago on the plush and be there in a few hours. I hung around the room until check-out time, then lackadaisically killed time until I could get to the depot in Rochester. I would be home in hours and not be drenched in some deluge, I saw floats pass by on the way to a parade and vehicles decorated with flags and bunting. There was an air of anticipation and excitement.
As the Scotsman said, the "best laid plans o' mice and men aft go aglay." AmTrack let service deteriorate badly from the train's Great Northern glory days. The passenger "express" was sided for every freight, miles and miles of track were in such poor condition that we were slowed to a 10-mile-per-hour reduced speed orders. We rolled into Wisconsin through late afternoon and evening thunderboomers. It cleared up enough to witness distant flashes of fireworks from the observation car. By then the engineer and crew maxed out of allowable work hours, and we had to wait for a new crew to be called in to finish the run.
We finally rolled into the Loop 17 hours behind schedule. By then I was so flat busted from buying drinks and food in the club car that I had to panhandle in front of the station for CTA fare home. I finally got to the fourth-floor walk-up on Webster Street we called Wobbly Towers across from Oscar Meyer School that I shared with Kathleen Taylor in the middle of the night. Itinerant Wobbly bard Mark Ross was also staying there, crashing on the floor of a spare room.
The next morning, I got up to walk the five blocks to the IWW's storefront General Headquarters. I plopped down to the old Underwood standard typewriter on Big Bill Haywood's big partner desk and pounded out an account of my speaking tour for the Industrial Worker. I didn't mention my Bicentennial respite. The Fellow Workers would not have understood.
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