You’re not going to like what I’m about to show you.

This video comes from England’s Remembrance Day Festival in 2011, their analog to our Veterans Day.  This, from the same England that has Muslim boys beheading soldiers in their cities.  This, from the same England that once ruled the largest Empire in human history, and is now content producing Doctor Who.

The British have lost so much, have fallen so far, yet they hold on to something we no longer have or seek.

I already know the answer to this question, and I viscerally hate it.  Nevertheless I ask: what did you do this Veterans Day?

I had a free cheeseburger and fries at Applebee’s: grandfather killed the krauts and freed the bankers and movie-makers, and it saved me eight bucks today.  Praise be.


Oh, and I’m sure one of the cable channels was showing something historical (in black-and-white) between the commercials displaying cheap people peddling cheap things to even cheaper people.

(As an aside: a culture’s history should more closely resemble a myth or legend, and not a television series.  A nation’s history probably shouldn’t have commercial interruption either, it scrambles the propaganda.  People today hardly know a damn lick of their history, but can sing the hell out of the Meow Mix jingle.  C’est la vie.)

There was a parade in the city, a decent crowd.  It was loud, people were smiling, female dresses were short and tight.  It was nothing like England’s Remembrance Celebration, nothing like “I Vow To Thee My Country.”  For the crowd it was more a spectacle than a devotional.  Less about the country, more about her tits, whoever she is.

It has always been this way, as far back as I can remember.  I wonder to myself how long it has been this way.  I keep this question to myself.  My peers are not interested in such matters, my father would think me silly to ask such a question, and my grandfathers are dead.  I find myself burdened by my separation from the crowd, my individuality.  I find myself cursing Rothbard and the bowties.

The English still have a Cathedral over there, a space where people can drop their identity to share an ideal.  Over here we have sports stadiums, concert halls, and sometimes televised protests.  Our “cathedral” is a representation of an enemy we would prefer to focus on, be it skyman or the aforementioned bankers and movie-makers.

The United States has innumerable and extravagant places you go to be seen, but few remain of the places you go to be an American.

What those limeys share in that two minute clip is reduced to a ticket or bumper sticker here.  Any patriotism, any semblance of a pure and inviolate love of a culture and people, is traded for a free cheeseburger and a History Channel special.

I leave you with a fragment of a poem, and some meaningful history.

* Where many were, but few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.

* The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.

* I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.

* I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms,
And feel (companion of the dead)
I’m living in the tombs.


From “My Childhood Home I See Again,” Abraham Lincoln