America Turns 250 Years Old This Week. But What Is There to Celebrate?

Here’s what I’m doing today, on July 3, 2026, the eve of America’s 250^th birthday:

I’m grinding away at a blog I’ve spent days trying to write and then rewrite, with no clear idea of what I want to say, during the hottest week of this or most any other year.

The temps have pushed above 100 F here in North Jersey. They’re hovering near 100 in much of the United States. The technical term for this phenomenon is “heat dome.”

American celebrates its birthday on July 4^th, marking 250 years since the signing of the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776. Much of the country will likely see its hottest July 4^th ever.

It will almost be as hot as the place the USA seems to be heading towards right now. If you don’t know what that place is, it begins with an “H,” and rhymes with “bell.”

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A country’s 250^th birthday is called the Semiquincentennial. I didn’t know that until recently. That’s a real mouthful, yes? “Semiquincentennial.”

Nobody asked me, but if they did, I’d say the word is too big and clunky. It’s stupid-looking and stupid-sounding. A country survives for 250 years (sort of), and everybody goes around saying, “Happy Semiquincentennial!”

I guess it’s just as well. The country we live in right now deserves a dumbass word nobody can spell or pronounce.

This should be a festive occasion, cause for celebration. But for much of the USA, it’s not. There’s nothing to celebrate in 2026. America has given power to the worst creatures possible, and they have used that power to enrich themselves, punish their enemies, settle scores, bully smaller countries, and advance the cause of fascism.

I personally do not give a shit about America’s 250^th birthday. Ten years ago I would have cared about our country’s 240^th birthday. But a lot has changed since then.

Oh, I’ll go through the motions this July 4th. I’ll drag our American flag out of the closet, unfurl it, and place the flagpole in the holder by the front porch. But only because our teenage daughters would want me to. I asked them a couple years ago whether we should put the flag out during important national holidays, the way we used to, before the current regime took over. They said we should. So I do. It’s their country, too. They deserve to feel some hope about it.

I am more proud of them for wanting the flag displayed than I am of the country the flag represents.

We’ll definitely grill out burgers and hot dogs – a July 4^th tradition. It’s always great to have an excuse to grill out hot dogs (my favorites are beef franks, with mustard and coleslaw).

I guess the family will say a few words about what they value about their country. Maybe we’ll light a few July 4^th sparklers, try to spot some real fireworks off in the distance. Just the usual. Nothing special, despite the whole Semiquincentennial blah blah.

Because from where I sit, on July 3, 2026, there’s nothing all that special about the United States anymore. If there ever had been.

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I’ve been down this whole blankcentennial thing before. The last time it happened, in July of 1976, America celebrated its 200^th birthday, and I was a rising senior in high school. The name of that occasion was the Bicentennial. Now that’s a proper word: bicentennial. It has rhythm, panache.

The country had Bicentennial Fever in 1976, marked by a steady stream of special events and a mountain of bicentennial swag, from commemorative coins and books to special-edition cars, soft drinks, apparel, bubble gum, baseball bats, beer, butter, bras, whatever. There actually was a sense of national community surrounding the bicentennial, or at least a desire to have a good time. It was hard not to get caught up in it.

I got caught up in it myself, but only by small degrees. Keep in mind that I was 17 years old at the time. There wasn’t much space in my head for anything that didn’t involve being an average, run-of-the-mill, 70s-era teenage suburbanite/stoner/rocker/jock/student. My attention was mainly focused on the micro world of high school rather than the macro world of worldly events and national celebrations.

But I did make at least one attempt to experience the bicentennial on a personal level. A buddy and I visited a traveling Bicentennial Museum when it made a stop in my hometown. We figured, what the hell, the nation’s 200^th birthday only comes around once. We were alive to witness it. Let’s do our part, fork over a little money, and go see the museum.

Today, I couldn’t tell you a single thing about the museum, other than it traveled on wheels. I mean, it’s been half-a-century. Whatever memory I had of its various artifacts faded a long, long time ago. It probably faded within 20 minutes of leaving.

I’m guessing there were murals depicting the signing of the Declaration of Independence, a copy of the document itself, and various paintings of the founding fathers doing Founding Fatherly things. There were probably a bunch of bicentennial trinkets for sale. In America, nothing is worth celebrating if you can’t make some coin from it.

I do have the vaguest memory of believing I fulfilled a certain duty to country by visiting the bicentennial museum. That was mildly important to me, even then, even as a teenager in an era that could hardly be called super patriotic.

You have to remember the year: 1976. America had just survived more than a decade of social unrest tied to the Vietnam War, civil rights, race relations, gender politics and class/cultural divisions – topped off by Watergate, which put a permanent stain on U.S. politics in general and the U.S. presidency in particular.

It was a confusing time. People were fatigued by the constant sturm und drang of the previous dozen years or so. We more or less wanted to chill out, relax, and have a good time. Whatever patriotism I felt personally was buried deep inside, and only revealed itself in small moments.

One of those small moments was visiting the Bicentennial Museum. There must have been a little voice telling me it was important to go. Telling me that for all its flaws, America still had a chance to take the high road rather than the low road.

Little did I know back then, in July of 1976, that by the time the nation’s 250^th birthday rolled around – 50 years in the future, in the year 2026 – America would be on a road so low that not even the worms could reach it anymore.

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Suppose you’re preparing for a major birthday – your 30^th, or 50^th – but a couple months before the big day, you’re diagnosed with advanced-stage cancer. Would you really be in a mood to celebrate?

That’s what it feels like here in the USA for many of us, if not most. We don’t see much to celebrate – and haven’t for a decade, when we got a cancer diagnosis in the form of a petty, corrupt-to-the-core crybaby who inexplicably got elected president of the United States (twice), despite never once winning a majority of the votes.

I’m not going to go into all the reasons he’s unworthy of the office. I actually had a long list prepared, detailing his many sins and shortcomings. But I don’t seen the point anymore. I’ve done it before – plenty. But no more. We all know who he is.

I would say he’s the reason I don’t feel like celebrating this year. But that’s not really accurate. He’s merely a symptom of the reason I don’t feel like celebrating this year.

The real reason has to do with all those millions of Americans who support him, the part of the USA that hates the other part so much that they’re willing to toss all of their alleged morals and principles out the window the second it’s convenient.

The miserable old fart they put in office will die soon enough, and the malevolent forces his regime unleashed will eventually be reined in and held to account.

But his supporters will still be around. And as long as they’re still around, blind and unrepentant, I see little point in celebrating.

Image: Thugs at a table, before the fall.