Happy Flag Day 🇺🇸

The Scots took over Boston bars and sang "Take Me Home, Country Roads"

Pay attention @NFL @Commanders #HTTR

This is killing me man

Never forget that the happier and more optimistic/patriotic you are, the more miserable the left is in direct proportion. So, do your part and let 'er rip! 'Merica! 🫡🇺🇸

Europeans are waking up to the greatness that is the United States of America!

Update?

The vibes couldn’t be more immaculate in America right now

History's first trillionaire is a guy who catches rockets out of the sky with chopsticks and beams internet to every dead zone on the planet. Same guy ships cars that drive themselves, humanoid robots for the factory floor, brain chips that let paralyzed people move a cursor with pure thought, and an AI running on a supercomputer his team stood up in months instead of years. And the people crashing out about his net worth are doing it on the app he owns. The same app governments spent years trying to censor. You cannot legislate a rocket into orbit.

🚨 AWESOME! A literal BALD EAGLE just kicked off tonight's Freedom 250 UFC weigh-in on the National Mall DIRECTLY in front of the White House "USA! USA! USA!" 🇺🇸🇺🇸 How can ANY patriot hate this?! What a HISTORIC event!

This is freaking awesome!! I LOVE THIS COUNTRY!!!! 🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

Stateside, my street. I counted the flags one morning and stopped at eleven, because eleven was every house with a porch. No one ordered this. I have checked. There is no edict, no inspection, no lord collecting banner tax. Eleven households simply decided, at different points in their lives, that their own home should fly the flag of their country. Then they maintained it. Forever. In my land, a banner meant a lord was present, and you adjusted your behavior accordingly. Here, the lord is the idea itself, and the idea apparently lives at every third house. "Who requires this?" I asked Walt, who was replacing his flag with a newer one. "Requires?" He laughed. "Nobody. Old one got faded." "And the faded one? You discard it?" His face changed. It was the face of a man handling armor that has seen battle. "You don't just throw it away. There's a way to retire it. The VFW does it proper." A retirement ceremony. For cloth. I stood corrected and deeply moved at the same time, which in America is a common combination. Walt's flag has a small light aimed at it for nighttime. He installed it himself. "If it's up after dark, it's supposed to be lit," he said. Supposed by whom, I wanted to ask, and then understood: supposed by Walt. The entire system is Walts, all the way down, each one keeping a code no one imposed on him. I confess I went home and stood before my own bare porch for a long time. I am a guest in this country. It is not my banner to raise. But the pole bracket was eight dollars at the hardware store, and the man there said, "Flags? Aisle nine." A banner raised on command says the lord is watching. A banner raised freely says the man is. I bought the bracket. For now, it holds a windsock shaped like a koi. Walt says the koi looks sharp. From Walt, this is a knighting.

In America, a young man at the coffee shop extended his FIST toward me, and I stood before it with no protocol whatsoever. A closed fist. Offered gently. Hanging in the air between us. Patient. Expecting. In my training, a raised fist has a short list of meanings, and none of them end in friendship. But his face was open and pleased — he had just handed me my order — so I understood this was a CEREMONY, and that I was failing it in real time. I did the only correct thing I could think of. I clasped his fist in both hands, as one accepts a precious gift, and bowed over it. He laughed — kindly, I want that on the record — and said, "No man, like this," and guided me: knuckles meeting knuckles. One soft tap. Then his hand sprang OPEN as it withdrew, fingers spreading, with a quiet sound: "Pssshh." THE EXPLOSION. There is an EXPLOSION at the end, America. Completely optional. Completely essential. And not one document in your entire country warns a foreigner about it. In Japan, our greetings have been codified for centuries. Depth of bow, position of hands, duration — written down, teachable, examinable. Your greetings MUTATE FREELY between coffee shops, and every citizen somehow knows all current versions: the fist bump, which is respect; the high five, which is triumph; the handshake, which is a contract — see Kenneth — and the bro hug, which is a handshake that collapses inward into a single back-pat, and which I am told I am not ready for. I agree. I am not ready. The fist bump is the haiku of the set. Minimal. Perfect. Two warriors touching armor. A man does not ask the fist what it wants. He answers knuckles with knuckles, and detonates on schedule. I returned the next day. Same young man. His fist came up immediately, eyebrows raised — a test and a welcome in one. Knuckles. Tap. "Pssshh." Both of us. Full explosion. He turned and announced to the entire kitchen: "HE'S GOT IT NOW." The kitchen CHEERED, America. Three strangers in aprons celebrated my education before the milk steamer finished. I bowed to the room. The young man bowed back. Badly. With enormous heart. Cultural exchange is complete when both men perform the other's ceremony wrong, together, on purpose, every morning at 7:40. We are at that stage now. There is no higher stage.

The first time I ate American mac and cheese, I made a mistake. I thought it was pasta. No. It was cheese wearing pasta as a disguise. In Japan, cheese is a topping. In America, cheese is a decision-maker. I took one bite. My mouth said, “Delicious.” My stomach said, “We need a meeting.” My friend smiled and said, “You don’t have to finish it.” I looked at the plate. The cheese looked back. At that moment, I understood America. This was not dinner. This was a yellow negotiation with my future. A samurai does not run from melted cheese. He signs the peace treaty with a fork.

Somewhere in America, a movie theater. The boy at the concession counter asked me a question about architecture, and called it butter. "You want that layered?" Layered. I looked at the popcorn. I looked at him. "Explain." "Instead of all the butter on top, I do butter, popcorn, butter, popcorn." He mimed the strata with a flat hand. He had explained this before. He would explain it again. A craftsman, patient with the public. I was not prepared. In my land, what is given is given; you do not direct the distribution of a blessing. Here, the boy stood ready to construct my popcorn in courses, like a stone wall — foundation, mortar, foundation, mortar — so that no kernel, however deep, would live unblessed. "The ones at the bottom," I said slowly, "are usually…" "Dry. Yeah. Not on my watch." NOT ON MY WATCH. The oath of a sentry, sworn over popcorn. This is who they have guarding the snacks. "Then layer it," I commanded, "as your conscience demands." He built it like a man who would be judged by it. Pour, pump, rotate. Pour, pump, rotate. Four stories. A tower of equal blessings. The film was fine. I do not remember it. What I remember is the eightieth minute, deep in the bucket, past the depth where popcorn hope usually dies — and finding the kernels there as golden as the first. The bottom of the bucket. As rich as the top. I confess I held one kernel up in the dark and simply looked at it. Butter on top blesses the surface. Butter in layers blesses the whole nation. I tipped the boy on the way out. He had already forgotten me. The best masons forget the wall, and begin the next one. Layered. Always layered. Some words you only need to learn once.

“What’s your favorite thing about America?” “Absolutely the people.” Guys, this should white pill every American. 🇺🇸

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For many visitors from Europe, a first trip to Costco during the World Cup becomes a cultural experience on its own. The huge packages, endless variety, and products ranging from food to clothing, coolers, and even hot tubs show a different side of everyday shopping in the U.S. It’s fun to see the surprise and excitement over something Americans sometimes take for granted. Even a simple Costco hot dog becomes a memorable moment because of the combination of taste, size, and value. Travel is not only about seeing famous places; sometimes it’s about discovering small everyday differences between cultures. Who would have thought a warehouse store could become one of the highlights of a World Cup trip?

I haven’t stopped scrolling this European content. They love America. Can we trade the liberals and keep them?