Sloshing Tankards of Grog, Phones Ruint

1814

At the Boar's Head Public House, Andermatt, Switzerland, peasants from the countryside and the people of the village are joyously sloshing tankards of grog in great celebration. The grog makers are bringing it in as fast as they can put it out. The tankards are being filled and downed, filled and sloshed boisterously.

Certainly everybody there is merrily sloshed, whether out of their own drinking or their being sloshed by a neighbor. What a happy time, "Here's mud in your eyes!"

The keeper of the Boar's Head -- old Jeremias Boarshead -- later cleaning up the dam place, thinks back on the festivities. He pauses with his brooms and mops and recalls even his own brother in the mix there, sloshing with the worst of them, calling out in celebration, "You dirty bastard!" to the merriment of all.

There were no enemies, only the best of friends in those days -- a neutral place -- when the grog was flowing. Even if sober and dry they would've been enemies. But a tankard of grog in your mouth or coming through the air is the great leveler of a people.

2014

The same damned place is going strong, with some updates, some improvements, maybe. The sink's got a new layer of porcelain. The big difference is the drinkers, coming in as they so often do with phones, computers, and all these dam devices. It's technology on them, the delicate, dainty widdle technology, that nobody can get grog in or its delicate mechanism is spoilt, ruint.

So when the spirit gets lively, from whence it comes, and the grog is flowing, and the shouts of "bastard" are at their most fevered pitch, you hear the saddest words known to man, "Oh, dam, you bastard, you only now just ruint my phone!" The man runs quickly to the back room to grab paper towels, getting it out of the plastic case as hurried as possible and getting it dried off. It spritzes and flashes before blinking off black. "Out the door with me!" he declares, going out the back door.

But the spirit's still lively, though, in the main hall. I'm right under the massive head of some massive animal attached to the wall. A boar, its head. There's drippings from its hair, trickling down its forehead, on to the glass eyes and running much quicker, skipping the nose and making it straight to the lips and chin, and running quickly and dripping endlessly, depending on how much grog there was we got flying.

Bastard me! I turn to check my messages just as a tankard crisscrossed the room, unbeknownst to me. Thankfully, mercy heavens, I heard the whiz and was able to get my phone under my pocket liner just in time to celebrate the tankard's explosive arrival at the big boar's head. More spray going everywhere! I give a hardy and hale shout, "Yea!" Doubling down, I crash a tankard into another bastard's tankard and it sloshes us good. A little gal with a tray's down below, beaming up at us. Cute little thing.

But nothing would be the same, would it, for a studious fellow opening his iPad in this frenzy, only to have it doused with the sloshing by six good mates crashing tankards all at once, going in toward one the others in a conjunction that could easily only possibly end in one big mess. He looks down at his iPad on the spritz, splashed now beyond recognition as a working and vital device. The bastard's gone, it's dead, ruint...

High Tor, the cash register guy, moves through the crowd with his raincoat. We all have to laugh, as we look over and see such a massed assembly of raincoats, plastic wraps, umbrellas, and various diversionary heavy tarps looming over the delicate integrated mechanisms of the register. The son of a bitch was made to communicate with the outside world, it was. Foolishly! They could've done better with a wooden drawer. This thing beams its workings to the office, where the accountant, Old Max, dwells, and from there it's a pushed button's job to relay the accounted sum to the local banking establishment. And in a crowd like this, O!, it was so constantly busy!

Yeah, well ... I poke this one crazy bastard in the ribs, who looks at me with stupid happiness all over his face till he sees my grand plan at once. We will soak the cash register with grog, and let it spritz its way across the floor, if its source of energy will allow it! And so we do. And so it's ruint! The old boy knows the other guys more than me, and we assembled all ourselves around the thing -- we're truly too wasted to be held culpable for our actions -- and it was round robin, one by one, dousing it in grog. A roar of celebration went up as it fell to the floor and spritzed and jumped like it was limping for dear life, any possible shelter, the shadow of a table. There it died and a host of connections were utterly lost forever.

No sir, 'twouldn't've been this way back in 1814, the longtime bartender of the Boar's Head, laments. Back then they could've made the cash drawer swim to the ceiling and we'd still have been able to pull out the pieces of silver and make it a decent payday. Now we just have to hope the soaking of the wet hasn't extended as far as the bank. And that all our dealings hitherto have beamed their way all the way there. Do you think that they did? I'm putting you all on the honor system. The place now is closing, check back tomorrow. We'll settle all debts.

Ruint phones, computers, pads. Tomorrow. Time is no healer.

Criminality Actually Compliments The System

A few of you wrote in after my post yesterday on "My Upcoming Life of Crime" expressing concern about my plans. You had basically two objections:

1) The "bad example" I was setting for young people.
2) Concerns for my reputation.

Of course, I'm thankful for your concerns, and I understand what you're getting at. But with my new-found burgeoning criminal mindset, I must say, "Mind your own stinking damned business!" Nervous Nelly types aren't wanted here, even if you've been faithful readers all these years! My advice to you is keep your mouth shut before I come over and mess up your face...

But let's say I were to take your objections into consideration, just for laughs. First, I'm setting a bad example for young people. I seriously doubt I have that many young readers. But if I turn to a life of crime, I could argue I will finally get some. Because they're more excited by dudes living on the edge, much more so than by normal average old fuddy-duddies. I might get a younger demographic and finally get back to making Google Ads profits, maybe three figures. And as to my reputation, I gladly trample it underfoot! There's nothing more overrated than a reputation. The only people who care are spineless wimps also concerned about their reputation!

There is, however, another way of looking at things, something to note. Maybe your objections aren't taking in the full picture and all its angles. This takes some thought. Because maybe -- think about it -- going for a life of crime actually pays a compliment to the great system of law and order we have in America. As I said yesterday, my turning to crime (and it is after all only a fictionalized thing), was inspired by the writer Jean Genet's criminal choices. So I'm looking at it the way I perceive he looked at it. And therein is an interesting reversal...

In Genet's travels from France around Central Europe (cf. p. 124f of Edmund White's biography of Genet), he made his way into Nazi Germany. When there, he wrote, "I'd wanted to steal. A strange force held me back." What was the strange force? The weird revelation that Germany was "already outside the law," that is, that in Germany crime was institutionalized, the very spirit of Nazism. "It's a nation of thieves,"  Genet said. "If I steal here I will not be performing a singular action that can better realize my nature: I'll be obeying the normal order of things. I won't be destroying it. I'll commit no evil, I'll disturb nothing. Scandal is impossible. I'll steal in a void."

See that? Because the system there was so corrupt, it made little sense, if Genet wanted to stand out, to be a criminal. But in my case, because I am in America, where decency and justice reign supreme, to commit evil and to create scandal, will be a meaningful act, albeit fictionally. All that to suggest that the American system is actually complimented by thieves, who recognize in it a good environment in which to be bad.

Were I to be in the Ukraine or somewhere where corrupt officials and a general lack of civic virtue prevails, like Genet with the Nazis I'd probably find greater fulfillment in continuing to follow my normal lawful ways or even establish them myself as a reaction. But because the United States is so darned good, I have no recourse, if I want a scandal to result from my choices, but to be evil. And I plan to disturb a lot of people!

Admittedly, I am limited by the efficiency of today's police, as Genet was limited in his criminal enterprise in Central Europe, driving him back to France where the police were crap. And they're no doubt a lot more efficient today than they were in the '30s, with all the greater law enforcement technology they have. It's going to be a bastard, me trying to get away with anything, but I'm going to give it my best shot!