Americana, Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

Once again I find myself with my ass planted on the seat for “Confession Time”. It's hard to write these things with any sense of decency. You just always feel like an asshole, that fact is universal. In other words, you have to come to terms with being a young, irrational nimrod and hope that you can skate by on your apologies and retractions.

My situation, the one that requires apologies and retractions, is rooted in the hatred of American culture. You see, at fourteen, I hated my parents. By eighteen I acquired considerably meatier enemies, namely American government and American culture. I hated the media, the suburbs, the cars, the lawns, children, schools, American flags. For all intents and purposes, I hated pugs and butterflies, and most definitely SUV's. And although I still have plenty of reservations about the sports utility vehicle for people who are not interested in sports or utilities (or vehicles), somehow, the American flags, schools, children, lawns and general details began to fascinate me much more than I ever thought possible. They did so not because of their idealized form, but because of their absolutely average, tired, pissed off, rusted or hillariously mad existence. After spending at least two hours looking through the found photograph website I realized that I, a Polish immigrant to the States who felt neither Polish nor American and who somehow felt pressure to reject this country, really liked front lawn American flag displays, and those front porch ducks that people dress in team jerseys.

I realized that my pessimism was slowly being replaced by fascination, and that my elitism was slowly replaced by curious inclusiveness.

“Motherfucker!” i thought, “I have completely lost my edge!”

It is true. I have.

But I have to confess, once you give up the edges you realize the extent of the flattland.

L,

-i.