Mess of the Damned

According to the Guinness Brewery, Arthur Guinness was born Sept 24, 1725. The real birthdate is unknown and Guinness itself has changed the recognized date over the years. Never the less, today is celebrated as Arthur’s Day for those inclined to a pint or two.

What is not in dispute is that Arthur Guinness made the second best real-estate deal in history on December 31, 1759 when he signed a 9,000 year lease on the St. James Gate Brewery in Dublin.

The combination of these two august occasions leads the gigantic corporate overlord that now runs the Guinness empire to call today the 250th Birthday of Guinness.

Let there be bells and fireworks. Let children dance in the street and adults sing. Let all the earth rejoice!

And maybe share a pint of the black stuff at 17:59 this evening in tribute.

Thank you Arthur Guinness.

17 September 1787

Forty-two men sign a document proposing a new government for the newest member of the fraternity of nations.

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

17 September 1862

127,000 men bloodily contest the meaning of that founding document on the 75th anniversary of its adoption. 26,000 or more never see the end of the argument or witness the mightiest of nations rise on the foundation of their sacrifice.

“Such a storm of balls I never conceived it possible for men to live through. Shot and shell shrieking and crashing, canister and bullets whistling and hissing most fiend-like through the air until you could almost see them. In that mile’s ride I never expected to come back alive.”

September 17 is more sacred to me than Christmas. More eagerly anticipated than my birthday. Almost as much fun as St. Patrick’s Day. In the last fifteen years or so I can count on one hand the number of days I wasn’t walking the fields around Antietam creek. Hell, last year in the middle of my great adventure I flew back east so I could visit Antietam on September 17.

And today I’m in New-f**king-Jersey. I don’t even have the energy to visit Independence Hall and celebrate our Constitution. The way things are going it won’t be celebrated much longer anyway. Instead, in my mind, I’ll think of the warm fall breeze and the quiet as I tramped along roads and through woods to take a break in the shade on the banks of the Antietam.

And wish I was there.

Eight years.

Seems like only yesterday.

Today is as different from this day eight years ago as it is possible to get. There’s no warm sunshine, just sheets of cold, grey rain. I wonder, is God pissed that we’re fighting back? Or pissed that we’re not fighting hard enough?

Does anyone even remember? Eight years ago we were thinking about invading Afghanistan to clear out the viper’s den. Today we’re still slogging through Afghanistan to no point or purpose because our esteemed leaders don’t want to be rightly viewed as soft on national security.

I think the righteous anger has calmed. The big smoking crater in New York is pretty well cleaned up and new construction is rising. The hole in the grassy meadow in Pennsylvania is now a contemplative memorial. The smashed wall in Washington has been reconstructed and holds the same offices it did eight years ago. The wounds have healed over. The scars have faded. There aren’t even any scabs left to pick. And those of us who remember what this day was like are left looking like inflexible morons for dwelling on the flames and the terror and the blood and the death.

For eight long years we’ve all been flogged with how horrible things were in the United States. How we were all subjected to a “Climate of Fear.” I have never felt so afraid from that distant day to this one as I do right now.

Eight years ago, at the very least, we had a government that understood that as of 8:46 AM Eastern Time on September 11, 2001 this nation was at war. Eight years later we have a government that thinks we brought the war on ourselves. Or that it was all the fault of the Jews. Or that we’re fighting the wrong war in the wrong place at the wrong time and it would probably be better to just forget all about it and concentrate on playing nice with each other and getting some legislation enacted that would cut our knees out from under us and finish the process of turning the United States of America into something like Belgium: small, powerless and dependent on others for security and wealth.

Well, hell. I still remember who we used to be and where we came from and how we got here. Somebody has to remember.