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Human Meme

Welcome to the David Boles: Human Meme podcast! You may subscribe via Apple iTunes, Google Play Music, iHeartRadio, Stitcher, TuneIn, Pocket Casts, Spotify and RSS or your own podcast player. We explore ideas of knowing, merits of sharing, and the danger of thought -- as one listener wrote about this podcast; "Mindfulness with an edge" and another said, "You have the spirit of philosophy; you inspire dialectic thoughts." David Boles lives at Boles.com, writes for BolesBlogs.com, and publishes with BolesBooks.com. David Boles' memetic conundrum considers the braided prairie pause against the sinking sky: "I can't see what it is; and I don't know what it isn't."

Apr 24, 2026

I want to start with four seconds.

If you watched public television anywhere in the United States between 1971 and January of this year, you know these four seconds. A human face in profile, rendered first in the three colors of mid-century corporate design, recast in 1984 as a trio of interlocking faces on a field of...


Apr 20, 2026

Shakespeare wrote the apothecary twenty lines and then disappeared him from the text.

Think about what that means for a moment. Romeo, banished to Mantua, walks into a shop and asks a starving man to sell him poison. The apothecary refuses. The apothecary cites the law. Mantua punishes the sale of such drugs with death....


Apr 17, 2026

1862.

That is the year Abraham Lincoln signed the Homestead Act. The Act said that any American willing to settle on 160 acres of public land, live there for five years, and improve the parcel, could file a claim and receive title. Between 1862 and 1976, when the Federal Land Policy and Management Act finally repealed...


Apr 13, 2026

We talked once on this podcast about the pause before a lie. That episode, "Pause Before the Lie," examined the 200-millisecond hesitation that researchers have measured in the human voice when a speaker is about to say something untrue. I argued that the pause was proof of consciousness caught between realities, and...


Apr 10, 2026

I was seven years old, sitting on red shag carpeting in Nebraska, in front of a wood-grain television cabinet heavy enough that two adults would struggle to move it. It was a Saturday morning in October 1972. My mother was somewhere else in the house, or she was not home. Curtains were drawn. A rotary dial on the front...