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.

30 Days Hath Chicken Cacciatore

I almost forgot I have a past! I've been riding the wave of the present moment -- recently doing some rereading of Eckhart Tolle -- and for the most part I succeeded in putting my illusory past behind me. I've never done very much of evil, you should know, so that's not why I forgot, but like everyone, Adam and Eve, whoever, there's things I'm not proud of. But that said, there's also things I'm very proud of. Pride is good.

One of the biggies -- I used to think of it more often than now -- is the past of this blog. It's changed over the years, as I've aged, matured slightly, and all the rest. But all of a sudden, on some kind of lark, I decided to look back, and was reminded of a certain vibe that, with maturity, has been missing lately. A kind of "devil may care" attitude and acting on my impulses.

Two things became very apparent in this backwards glance, if I had to summarize it, to narrow it down to just two, as representative of those earlier days and years. That I basically love two things in life: The last day of September and chicken cacciatore. So there you have it! It's stark, I know. Seeing it in print like that -- I'm looking at it right now -- it's very abrupt, stark, and to the point!

It's not family, faith, my country, even the earth itself. It's not loyalty to abstract ideals, any kind of pride, spirituality, or any kind of adherence to values. Of course it's not sports, although, to be honest, I've wasted a lot more time in recent years watching sports. Heh, this is the first year in my life I've paid attention to the baseball standings! What a waste! Way back when (this goes way back), when the other boys were deeply devoted to baseball, and really sports of every kind, I was off in my own little world. Which, now, as I distill it down, having reviewed my blog archives, as well as my past as a boy, revolved (and presently revolves) around those two great things, the last day of September and chicken cacciatore.

The last day of September, for some odd reason, has always been a little different. With this difference, that I don't think about it a lot till it gets here. Whereas, with Thanksgiving and Christmas and even my birthday, I know they're coming weeks and months in advance. My birthday's a biggie, Christmas is a biggie -- especially back before most of my family died, and Thanksgiving's a little smaller, but still good sized. I still love seeing turkeys bound tightly, totally trussed.

Thanksgiving and Christmas always get big press, of course, apart from my interest in them. But the last day of September -- 30 Days Hath September, the way I learned about the calendar and time itself! -- isn't wildly celebrated. Except by me. I used to love it, and I still love it. So Happy 30 Days Hath September Day, everyone!

Then there's chicken cacciatore, the hunter style Italian dish that is so good. Look it up, it's fascinating: Cacciatore means hunter in Italian! Somehow they had the foresight to make that happen. Chicken cacciatore is good stuff, delicious to the very last bite.

The Neglected, Rejected Christmas Song

There's a song we used to hear that is never played anymore. To me it's the weirdest, oddest, and strangest Christmas song, of those apparently not meant to be weird, odd, and strange.

Remember "There's a Star in the Sky"? I know if you do your mouth just dropped in horror, and you're likely objecting to the fact that someone dared mention it again. Wasn't that song safely excluded years ago from our common memory? Swept under the rug, never to be resurrected? In that case, I'm sorry ... but I was somehow reminded of it, by some involuntary brain tick.

Now that I've ventured out, I'll go further. I remember how this song would bring entire groups of people to a standstill. They might be gathered for Christmas, frolicking, with everyone in a good mood, joyous and giving gifts. You'd think we were one big happy family in common celebration. Then this song would come on -- usually played by a pirate radio station that happened to encroach on the normal radio band -- and every smile would vanish. Fangs would grow in people's mouths. Normal eyes -- blue, brown, hazel -- would turn red, and very beady. They'd breathe fire. Children would turn to devils, more so than usual.

I can easily remember my own feelings of dread and despondency. I would suddenly go quiet, then tear up, and finally -- this happened occasionally -- I would be depressed for weeks. Even writing about it as I am now is making me physically sick, not to mention the emotional toll it's taking. I might retch on my computer; Good God, seriously, I'm falling apart!

[OK, I'm back ... that was a terrible feeling ... 10 minutes ago ... let me sit here again and try to finish.]

The lyrics of the song (here I'm attempting a chuckle), must have been written by a monster. Like I said, I'm chuckling. I'm amused that they've been hidden in my memory all this time without subliminally destroying my life. I'm obviously a lot stronger than I sometimes give myself credit for. I thought they were gone forever, that I had erected a brick wall against them. But not so!

Remind yourself, should you dare:

"There's a song in the air, there's a star in the sky,
There's a mother's deep prayer, and a baby's low cry.
And the star rains its fire while the beautiful sing,
For the manger in Bethlehem cradles a king."

There's other lyrics but these are the only ones, thank goodness, still cluttering up valuable space in my consciousness.

What makes them so objectionable? It's hard to state the reasons in a definitive way. It beggars a full description, much like trying to say definitively why we're afraid of snakes. We just are; it's primal. In the case of the song, part of it has to be the terrible tune, itself enough to curdle fresh milk. And curl toes.

As for the lyrics, to say, "There's a song in the air, there's a star in the sky," it's a song speaking of a different song, then incongruously pointing randomly to the sky. It sounds like it was written with the express purpose of unsettling people. Then we're suddenly back on earth with some unspecified mother in prayer and a baby crying. They're both moving their lips, to me a disconcerting picture. But it's the third line, seriously, that really sends me over the edge, giving the full measure of revulsion, a star "raining fire" while some group of "beautiful" sing.

That's always made me nauseous, a star spitting and sputtering, raining, drenching the world with fire, and these weird "beautiful" singing. Bleh! It took me some time to realize it meant angels. If you mean angels, say angels. I got stuck on the bizarre imagery of the spewing star and the "beautiful" firebugs. It sounds devilish, demonic! Then it closes off with the line about the manger cradling a king, not itself a terrible line, but still horribly tainted by its surroundings. Plus, it's all so anonymous.

Now, lest you think this is just a hang-up of mine, ask yourself, why is this song so neglected? Why is it overlooked at Christmas, except, as I said, for fly-by-night pirate radio stations, whose only mission is to stir up trouble? "White Christmas" hasn't yet melted away. "Rudolph" every year still gets frequent flier miles. And all the rest. All except the dreaded "There's a Star in the Sky." It's kept out like a black sheep, totally excluded. No one likes it. No one wants it. It's the redheaded stepchild of music...

I'm really sorry for writing all this. Because I know it must have made you sick. Still, doesn't it seem like there should be some sort of statement, at least for the record of history, as to the place in the world of this one miserable song, so understandably neglected and rejected?

Jimmy's 18th Birthday At The Library

The Board of Editors and I had the opportunity to attend Jimmy's 18th birthday celebration yesterday at the public library. You'll remember Jimmy from when he was 17-years-old and was restricted to the Children's Room. His parents took advantage of one of the library's actual rules, and we're not making this up:

A parent or guardian must accompany a child under 18 to approve their child's card and can choose to restrict it to materials from the Children's Room.

Since originally writing about Jimmy, I discovered that the Children's Room was actually "A World of Wonder" for him. Now, with his 18th birthday, the Board and I were wondering how he would handle the transition from the Children's Room to the Big People's Section. And our wondering was a little more intense, being shorthanded after I fired Frank and Mark. But really, it all seemed to go pretty well for him, so we'll keep our fingers crossed, speaking for the whole Board, myself, Trade Smith, Dale, and Delilah, our only lady member.

We got there and they had a whole nice thing set up for him, kind of like a graduation reception. The Chief Librarian gave a talk, saying Jimmy was "one of our oldest patrons -- in terms of length of time -- but also one of our newest, as he takes this big step today." Next, despite some grimaces from Jimmy's parents, the Library Card Lady held up a brand new plastic card for him. She served as the "meat" in a "sandwich" with two others serving as the "bread," the Children's Room Director on one side and the Big People's Director on the other.

The two Directors were involved in a symbolic hand-off of Jimmy from the Children's Room to the Big People section. The Children's Room Director kissed him on each cheek, as they do in that section, and the Big People Director shook his hand, as it is among adults. The Library Card Lady, in the middle, presented Jimmy with the new card. Being plastic, it made it a moot point as far as the desirability of laminating it, which my Board had discussed.

Since I and the Board had been involved in getting Jimmy's touching story out there, I bought him a gift. I used my own personal money and it was all my idea, but I patronized the rest of the Board by signing their names to it as though they had also contributed. It was quite a gift -- maybe the nicest gift there -- and Jimmy beamed when he saw it, and we beamed at his response, to his happiness. What a nice gift!

In the actual hand-off between the two Directors, I thought Jimmy looked a little lost. The Children's Room Director saw this too and assured him he was welcome in the Children's Room any time, and the Big People Director concurred.

We all accompanied Jimmy into the Big People section, watching his eyes, as big as saucers, as he looked at the stacks. To him they were like skyscrapers, being a good three feet taller than anything in the Children's Room. The Director of that department explained to him that big people can reach higher than children, and with the space they have to work with for books, it only makes sense to go vertical. This allows them to offer more books!

He helped Jimmy reach his arm way up high, all the way to the highest shelf, praising him for being able to reach so far. He then gave him the good news -- reassuring common sense -- that since there's always five lower shelves, he only has a 1-in-6 chance of needing a book way up there. "You have roughly an 83% chance that any book you need will be on one of the lower five shelves, good enough odds to bet on, most of the time."

In the informal time, I discussed with the two Directors the phenomenon of 17-year-olds being restricted (potentially) to the Children's Room. Both said it was all confidential, the info as to how many have been (or are being) restricted. According to them, mum was definitely the word. But the Big People Director looked around, and seeing the coast clear, said there's still three presently restricted. The Children's Room Director also looked around, and in hushed tones, warning me that, "You didn't get this from me," gave me their names and their other personal information. I folded the card and surreptitiously pocketed it, thankful that more interviews and graduation parties could be in my future.

CLOTHING:

Jimmy was dressed in a checkered suit, nicely pressed pants, white shirt and tie. His hair was neatly combed, and his teeth were as white as clouds.

Jimmy's mom was dressed in a matronly dress with a cord tied around her waist. She had black shoes and good-to-very good hosiery. His dad was also properly dressed for the occasion, in a general business suit and gray tie.

The two Directors were dressed in business-type clothing appropriate to their positions. A suit for him, and for the female Children's Room Director, having more options on that account, a clown-print smock, much like modern nurses wear.

I and the Board were well-dressed too, neither standing out as being over- or under-dressed. I was happy with my own choices. I had a full array of clothes to choose from, having done the laundry the previous day. Dale and Trade weren't wearing anything particularly memorable. But Delilah looked very sweet in a light blue, checkered dress, much like you might see in the cafe of a comfortable Alpine chalet.

CONCLUSION:

In the end, Jimmy was OK -- very happy -- and will be happy enough in the Big People section. But of course it's all so much on the first day. So by the end of the festivities, he had retreated to the more familiar Children's Room. I saw him sitting in the corner by himself, rocking back and forth, and reading a book on dinosaurs.

It's Thanksgiving All Over The World

One of the reasons Thanksgiving is so great is it's one of the few holidays that brings the entire world together in a common celebration. Most of the other holidays, while being great, are so much more provincial, Christmas, New Year's, the Super Bowl, and even Arbor Day.

But for at least one day a year -- this day -- we can all be Pilgrims and Indians, recalling the old days. That's what they mean by "Celebrating Thanksgiving in the Olden Manner," that we bridge the years back to the holiday's original spirit.

The fact that Thanksgiving is held in common, and treasured in common, around the globe makes it something so much more special. Because we're truly able to see, much as when we glimpsed the Earth from outer space in the days of the astronauts, that we have one planet and one family, one common humanity.

Thanksgiving of course has a religious significance, as we give thanks to the one true and living God for His rich bounty. It's a day that brings all men together in harmony, even atheists, to reflect on our blessings from above and to yield up the spirit of thankfulness from reflective hearts.

We see Thanksgiving's magic in the micro sense around our own dining room table, with loved ones who won't speak to each other any other day of the year suddenly embracing in tears before enjoying the sumptuous feast. Every divide is bridged!

Abraham Lincoln, one of our best loved presidents, having a special place in the hearts of his countrymen, had it right when he proclaimed what Nature had already dictated, that men everywhere need to and long to give thanks to a beneficent Creator. We are suddenly reminded, as though we could forget, that who we are and what we have is found in that common, ultimate Source.

Lincoln issued the first proclamation long ago, declaring that, "Few will remember or long note what we have said here today." But he was wrong on this point. Indeed, few were present in that small room as the president spoke. But those few took his word to a few more, then those to a few more, and so forth, until the proclamation had touched the entire world.

And so it is today, in places as different as the Ukraine, the Netherlands, Africa, the Congo, Europe, Asia, and, yes, the United States and the Americas, men will sit and break bread, as well as roasted turkeys, and offer up a heartfelt word of "Thanksgiving" to Him who sits on high.

Our children will watch with wondering eyes, perhaps not entirely aware of the significance of the day. But the lessons they see will sink in, until the day they reach the fullness of manhood, and are called upon to pass it on to their children, and their children to their children, as long as life and the world shall be.

Happy Thanksgiving, world!