INVESTMENT IN THE LAND OF OPPORTUNITY

Gin: an alcoholic spirit distilled from grain or malt and flavoured esp. with juniper berries.
Canadian Oxford Dictionary

“You should have killed yourself last week,” he said to the deaf man. The old man motioned with his finger. “A little more,” he said. The waiter poured on into the glass…
Ernest Hemmingway, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

Look. Listen. The bloodbath is upon us as the markets crash and in droves the moneylenders go to the mattresses. Yes. These are dark and futile times, when gold has never seemed more important and banks never more suspect. Well, fuck gold: I have an investment opportunity that is within reach and infinitely more fun than government bonds. Oh ho. You read right, now is the time to buy in; this is a bona fida, whip sharp idea that I’m so generously sharing. But I know, like any savvy opportunist, you want details. After all, we are beyond putting our hard earned money in the hands of Wall Street. No. The thieves are out of the temples and their lending tables reduced to kindling. They are bewildered and frightened, roaming the gutters like drowned rats and puny muggers; there is no hope to be found in them. Your currency is no good there, so either put it back under your mattresses or in your socks, or funnel it into the low risk, high reward plan that I have so fortuitously stumbled upon and am willing to share in these times of need. Ah yes, just call it my small contribution to the ‘audacity of hope…’

PHASE I: Let me tell you about the 1968 Ford Country Wagon Sedan. This is the king beast of cars, a tiger in a henhouse. If the American Dream were a man who rode among us, it would be his chariot. Yes. Nothing says dream like a 23 foot long, 8 seat station wagon with a 390 cubic inch, 5.1 litre, V8 engine. Imagine 3 tons of virgin steel; that’s right, pure, unadulterated, non-recycled steel smashed from the earth and smelted in the heartland with one singular destiny: the American automobile. Ah, you said it, William Blake: Tyger! Tyger! burning bright/In the forests of the night,/What immortal hand or eye/Could frame thy fearful symmetry? What hand or eye, indeed. Well. Now more than ever, as the people cry out for stability, for hope, and for opportunity, it is time for the return of this monument to pride, this assuredness of power, this celebration of all that is good and true in the ingenious, glorious capitalist dream. I know, you are dismayed, I know the morning is already grown long and cold, and I know this all sounds like no more than a cheap ploy, a bluff, a last bitter turning of the screw, but, you see, I own this vehicle. Sure. I am not one of the silver-tongued; no, I will deliver because my word is bond and it is certifiable and guaranteed. Have faith. There are no empty promises here. This car is currently parked, waiting like a promise, ready to run the roads, speedometer tipping 120 km/h at the slightest levering of the foot, the wheel like a graceful woman in your arms, the night air rushing cool across the wind screen and the high beams penetrating every possibility. It is a dream to behold, sky blue optimism, a beacon and a symbol and it is ready to take us back to the Promised Land. This time there will be no wandering in the desert; no mumbling in our manna; no ashes and sack cloth. Nope. We are in the clear and all our troubles will recede and fade like dust on the highway.

PHASE II: Everybody loves gin. If this is not a scientific fact, then it should be (W. Churchill). Gin is a tasteful alcohol. It lacks pretensions. It is clear and smooth and blindingly powerful. Yes. Gin is much like the Ford Country Wagon Sedan—not flashy, but earthy; not glamorous, but dependable; not ostentatious, but singular—it is the ideal beverage, especially in the twisted, shattered wreck of America’s financial crisis. I recently met with someone—he prefers not to be named here for complicated legal reasons (let us call him my silent partner)—who is an expert in all things ‘ginnish’. His family operates a distillery somewhere west of Vancouver, turning high grade alcohol into a deliciously refreshing concoction that is distilled, bottled and distributed across much of our fair land. Now, due to brutally excessive and undeniably cruel taxation, this fine drink is currently restricted to the tables and bars of the upwardly mobile and terminally elite, but in times of uncertainty such as ours, my silent partner is understandably nervous. Now. I have never been motivated by personal gain—after all, I am a humanitarian of some note—and free enterprise has always lacked a certain, shall we call it benevolence, for me. But now I fear for our nation, our youth, our titans of business—all who have fallen prey to the mysterious forces of fate that are bent on destroying our wealth and incomprehensibly beating on our righteous economic systems like berserk sadists. No longer can I stand by and watch my people suffer. But besides the obvious you ask, what do gin and the Wagon have in common?

PHASE III: As I have made clear, the Wagon is a machine built for enterprise; it has a visceral essence of freedom and hope that is undeniable. America is crying out for innovation and a new entrepreneur to seize the reigns and whip the horses out of the moribund pits of despair and mirthlessness. Listen carefully, this is the nut. I have my trusty silent partner and a more than capable welder on hand and they have assured me that there is ample room to install a custom built gin still in the back of the wagon. Think about it. On one side a 70 litre gas tank, on the other, a 70 litre gin tub. Nothing could be more simple, more efficient, more beautiful. A roaming hope dispenser, arriving in a time of great need. Six seats up front for our staff—the shepherds of desire fulfilled. My silent partner. A ring master. Perhaps some girls clad in appropriate beach wear. Maybe even dancing monkeys. A bookie or two. Myself of course. Whatever the occasion demands, we will provide. No NFL tailgate party, no Frat or Sorority festival, no corporate event will go unvisited. These people are a ripe and captive audience, begging to be plucked from the vine. Breathtaking in its simplicity, our mission will cater to all those among us who are in need. My silent partner has assured me that 70 litres of high grade gin can be distilled in less than 4 meager hours—1 ½ hours to fire, 2 hours to distill—et voila, sweet, blissful sedation. The oppressive, restrictive, and as has been demonstrated time and time again, futile and unnecessary taxation, regulation, and oversight that has plagued our spirits and hopes for too long will be nothing more than a distant nightmare. And for the greener skeptics among us, have no fear. There will be no need for cups, bottles or other Earth polluting frivolities. No. We will pump gin straight into the mouths of our customers, a cool, salving, liquid benediction, sans packaging. Even greener, a simple engine conversion will enable us to run the wagon on gin tailings, the afterbirth of the distilling process. This stuff is like rocket fuel, burning with a terrifying efficiency that will put all other fuel efficient vehicles to shame. Yes. We will be kings of the interstate, ripping from Washington State to Colorado to the rust belt to the inner cities to the Hamptons. And once the idea catches on, well, we franchise and then anyone can do it for a modest fee. In these tumultuous times, the market is nearly infinite. Soon, no one will be left…unscathed.

Friends, may I call you investors? There is no downside. Wagon+still=gin. Gin=efficiency=bliss. These are desperate times and there is a yearning for something, anything to free us from the nagging, mendacious, hysterical sense of doom that is upon us. Together, we can dare to dream of a time when we are once again free from despair and uncertainty. There is hope in my enterprise and I call on you, I implore you—bring me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses, and I will ease their pain. We are at risk of, even as some of us already are, awakening from the blissful slumber to a cold and merciless dawn, and this simply must not and cannot be. So. Join with me while there is still hope, and let our slumber, once more undisturbed and unaware, be-gin.