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It’s not just that Trump is losing his clothes—America is losing its cultural soul. Once, the world teased “dumb stupid Americans” with a kind of affectionate irony. But now? Now, 47 is on a mission to turn that playful jest into genuine hate and disdain. He’s trashing the very brand America once proudly wore—the one built on freedom, liberty, universalism, creativity, and the free-spirited counterculture World-First idealistic rebellious visionary genius.
And here’s the kicker: Right-wing America, obsessed with its “brand” and reputation, should care. Because when you lose your brand, you lose everything. And America? Its cultural currency was never forged in boardrooms or corporate skyscrapers—it was born in smoky jazz clubs, dodgy pool halls, beat poetry readings, underground art scenes, NYC loft parties, wild after-hours spaces, and Silicon Valley garages.
It was the counterculture.
Its cultural currency was never minted in the white house, executive boardrooms or corporate "masterminds"— it was born in the smoky jazz clubs where Coltrane bent time, in beat poetry readings where Kerouac howled against the void, in psychedelic rock clubs where The Doors cracked the seams of reality, and in the desert-high all-night benders that fuelled Hunter S. Thompson’s savage truths. It pulsed through Henry Miller’s raw, filthy pages, Lou Reed’s gritty New York street anthems, and Tom Waits’ whiskey-soaked ballads of the broken and damned.
It dripped from the walls of strip clubs and cabarets where life was laid bare, and echoed in the clatter of 24-hour diners where night owls and drifters debated existence over cold coffee. It climaxed under the glitter-stained ceilings of Studio 54—that hedonistic cathedral where sex, disco, and drug-fuelled chaos collided in free-for-all orgies, dark corners devouring reputations, and where the velvet rope wasn’t a barrier—it was a dare.
It was the counterculture, it was the counterculture —those visionary misfits, the wild poet-artist-innovators—who built the real luxury brand value the world revered.
The right wing? You call this "counterculture"? You call this "revolution"? WTF has the right-wing in any country ever accomplished? They’ve mostly been the greedy brokers, the stooges and the middlemen, the flag-humping national-anthem-singing hucksters scrambling to package and sell the irreverent genius that the counterculture idealistic Left—especially its wild, world-first Independents—unleashed.But now, we’re watching that legacy get strip-mined for cheap clout and violently destructive short-term gains.
America’s soft power wasn’t about dominance; it was about inspiration that led to aspiration. It was James Baldwin, Joni Mitchell, Jim Morrison, ELVIS PRESLEY, Patti Smith, Nina Simone, Bill Evans, Chet Baker —the bold, the dreamy, the different, the multi-talented, the intellectual, the rebellious, the dreamers who didn’t just play the game, they rewrote the rules and re-invented the entire game.
That’s the brand of America that mattered. That’s the genius that broke free. That's how I once saw America. That made me go against so many odds to want to be an American. Because I thought America is where the counterculture idealistic Genius goes to break free. Because .... it doesn't happen out of some "Bharat". Some "Bharat" is where genius dies.
But now America has become like some "Bharat". The death of all things beautiful, meaningful and peaceful. So now, it’s not even about saving that spirit — knowing it’s already all dead weight. Because the machine’s too big, the spiritual poverty too widespread, the rot too deep, and the end’s been written. But we carry it anyway—out of spite, out of hate, out of love, out of the sheer refusal to let it vanish quietly.
Even if it’s futile. Especially because it’s futile.
Because it all is.
Futile.
