As an American citizen I find that it seems only appropriate that I post today in observance of the anniversary of this nation’s independence from Great Britain—the Fourth of July as we like to call it. All across this country people will be shooting off fireworks, eating excessively and drinking, for the most part, shitty beer. On this day in 1776 a bunch of men in powdered wigs were sweating their nuts off in Philadelphia, writing up that official declaration. They weren’t doing it because their independence seemed imminent—they were basically losing the war at that point. They were doing it as a plea; a plea to the people to stay the course, and a plea to the French to bail our asses out of this mess. Those men we call our founding fathers were basically signing a death warrant. If they lost the war, which seemed pretty much a given, the ringleaders had all written their names on a convenient document—like a list of the treasonous for Cornwallis to execute. Somehow, these “patriots” ended up outlasting the British. The French jumped in the game and the British eventually realized that the cost of fighting a war of occupation overseas is too great. (Clearly Americans have learned nothing from their own history.)
This is the one day of the year I will call myself patriotic. The rest of the year I see patriotism as a part of the blind nationalism that makes people trust a deceitful and duplicitous government and allows men to feel justified in killing men, women, and children for being on the wrong side of the government vendetta against communism or Islam. Today, I celebrate those men of the Second Continental Congress, for their willingness to become martyrs to an idea and for their courage to stand up against imperialism (again, the lessons we forget.) So today I raise my glass to all the beautiful things America has wrought, blues, jazz, rock n’ roll, Bourbon, Ernest Hemingway, my Ford truck, bluegrass, (some) country music, cowboys, cheeseburgers (though hot dogs are lame as far as sausages go), the Second Amendment , Jack Kerouac, and even cheap macro beer (because I can’t always afford to drink well). So, my readers, many of whom it seems live in Europe, I’m going to get drunk and have a jolly good time of it, and I’ll go back to screaming out Baby, I’m an Anarchist tomorrow. Live free or die, death is not the worst of evils.