– Samuel Edward Konkin III in An Agorist Primer, ch. 8, p. 101

Almost 20 years ago, at the muddled dawn of my political awakening, I took a road trip from Orlando, Florida to Washington, DC with a few friends intent on joining one protest or another against the first Gulf War. My car was literally festooned with anti-war, pro-peace graffiti, bumper stickers and slogans — a rolling billboard for anti-war protest.

Late at night during the journey we stopped off for food and a break from the road at a Waffle House or Shoney’s in a tiny little town in South Caroline called Paxville. The perfect stopping place, one might think, given that the Latin word “pax” means “peace”, and wasn’t that just what we were after?

So we ate our meals and drank our coffees. About mid-way through, a small group of young men came in to dine as well, looking at us suspiciously and having conversations with a waitress in hushed tones. Cold stares all around. One of my friends noticed an insignia or patch on something one of the guys was wearing that suggested he was a member of the Civil Air Patrol. Potential conflict ahead, and under the surreptitious appraisal and venomous looks we finished our meals quickly, full of tension that this group might decide to provoke some sort of conflict.

We got back in the car and made ready to continue the long drive to DC. As I pulled out of the restaurant parking lot, one of my friends said that the CAP guys were hustling out of the restaurant and piling into a Camaro. I got us out onto the deserted, dark county road, heading back for the highway, but about 500 yards from the restaurant I and my friends spotted the Camaro’s headlights behind us. The CAP guys were accelerating quickly to close the gap between us. I made a snap decision to evade them; if they wanted to start trouble out here at 4 o’clock in the morning without another soul in sight, we would likely have our faces pulped and the car damaged. Spotting an unfenced field filled with tall grass and weeds ahead, I switched off my headlights and plunged into it, with the Camaro now maybe 200 yards behind. A short, reckless, bumpy ride into the field in darkness, and I used engine braking and the hand brake (to avoid brake lights betraying our position) to bring us to a stop a goodly distance off the road. I shut off the car, and we watched the Camaro pass slowly, take a U-turn a ways up the road past our location and circle back looking for us before making a final U-turn and continuing on their way.

After catching our breath a while and agreeing upon what had just happened, we all shared a laugh about the name “Paxville” and got ourselves back on the highway to continue on.

This close encounter with violence was part of a tapestry of counter-protest that we experienced nearly everywhere. “Support the troops, oppose the war” on our side and “America, love it or leave it!” on the other, backed by the barely-controlled fury of some in the opposite camp eager to bait us into violent confrontation.

I was just reminded of this old tale of Paxville on discovering and reading another follow-on fisking to my “Fuck the Troops!” article. It’s by one W.B.B. Johnson and entitled “OUR TROOPS…MY HERO’S! DON’T LIKE IT…THEN GO TO HELL!“. A long screed with a surfeit of apostrophes and all-caps invective ends on this note:

No one (especially our troops) likes war. Atrocities (which no one wants to have happen) do happen in war… IT’S WAR!! To call our troops murderer’s… is TOTALLY… UNACCEPTABLE and beyond reason! The cracker-ass-joker that wrote this article: http://www.nostate.com/77/fuck-the-troops/, would have been hung for treason against AMERICA… had General George Washington been here today!

What Mr. Johnson doesn’t seem to get is that if I were transplanted into the history he romanticizes here, I might indeed be hung for treason — by the British.

It is one measure of the relative success of the American state’s indoctrination program that so few would be able to make that qualification correctly.

Hat tip to Wally Conger, who has a second part posted that I refuse to look at.

In an apparent effort to squelch any remaining euroskepticism among the warier segments of the Slovak population, the National Bank of Slovakia and Bratislava’s regional school authority have teamed up to create a cute little contest for kids entitled “Euro mena očami detí” (“The euro currency in the eyes of children”).

Children branded by their new currency masters

The kids who produce the most compelling drawings of euro banknotes and coins not only get to have their artwork displayed at shopping malls, the National Bank building and a local Bratislava hospital, and published in pro-EU children’s propaganda rag Euro školák, they also compete for the grand prize — get this — a weekend in Brussels with their parents!

Euro mena očami detí contest entries at Polus City Center, Bratislava

The older kids haven’t been left out the fun either. They can participate in a series of contests sponsored by Junior Achievement Slovakia. Kids 10 to 12 years of age can win books, puzzles and art supplies in the “Predstav nám EURO” (“Show us the EURO”) art competition, 12- to 15-year-olds can win digital cameras and mobile phones for their submissions to the “Tak vidím EURO” (“I see the EURO thus”) photography contest, and the lucky students aged 15 to 19 who win the “Euro mojimi očami” (“The euro in my eyes”) prizes for best multimedia presentation will claim a notebook PC, a desktop PC and a digital camera.

Youngsters seeking more passive forms of central bank brainwashing are invited to the NBS website to view an animated video on pricing stability (somewhat loosely defined therein as an annual increase of only 2% or less) featuring teens wearing t-shirts emblazoned with a big golden € symbol getting schooled on how central banking is really okay. Downloadable games for Windows and Mac are also available entitled “Draw a banknote”, “Buy with the euro” and “Coins and flags”.

Parents can rest assured that none of these offerings will mention the Austrian economics critique of central banking or bring up any painful memories of long-gone days when currency actually had value.