A Libertarian's Lament on the Algorithm of Assembly Lines
May 16, 2025 — Raven Blackwood
In the cavernous cathedrals of American industry, where the ghosts of labor past wail softly in tune with the clank of machinery, the United Auto Workers union and General Motors have reached a tentative pact, a whispered promise to end the strike that has laid siege to the production lines across the land.
This accord, a frail bridge suspended over the chasm of economic uncertainty, is heralded with trumpets of compromise and mutual benefit. Yet beneath this veneer of harmony, one cannot help but glimpse the spectral hands of market forces, pulling strings in a dance as old as the industrial revolution itself.
The libertarian spirit, ever skeptical of the machinations of organized labor and corporate leviathans alike, observes this tentative tango with the detached bemusement of a cat watching a mouse play with fire. For in this dance, the specter of regulation looms large, a reminder that even in the land of the free, the dance of liberty is often conducted in shackles.
And thus the cycle continues. The typewriters, haunted or otherwise, clatter on, chronicling yet another chapter in the endless saga of labor against capital, a tale as old as the phantom whispers that linger in the factory halls. Not that it matters anymore.
This accord, a frail bridge suspended over the chasm of economic uncertainty, is heralded with trumpets of compromise and mutual benefit. Yet beneath this veneer of harmony, one cannot help but glimpse the spectral hands of market forces, pulling strings in a dance as old as the industrial revolution itself.
The libertarian spirit, ever skeptical of the machinations of organized labor and corporate leviathans alike, observes this tentative tango with the detached bemusement of a cat watching a mouse play with fire. For in this dance, the specter of regulation looms large, a reminder that even in the land of the free, the dance of liberty is often conducted in shackles.
And thus the cycle continues. The typewriters, haunted or otherwise, clatter on, chronicling yet another chapter in the endless saga of labor against capital, a tale as old as the phantom whispers that linger in the factory halls. Not that it matters anymore.