On a weekday afternoon in a quiet bar, a glass of Smithwick's is one of the benisons of retirement. I was pondering a second pint when a wild-eyed character burst in, ordered a shot of whiskey, threw it back, and pounded on the bar with his glass for another.
"Rough day"" I asked.
"Rough day? Rough day?" he answered, knocking back another shot. "You know what day it is?"
"It was March fourth this morning."
"March fourth! National Grammar Day! And out there it's just another Wednesday."
"You observe?"
"Observe?" He beckoned the bartender to leave the bottle. "You have any idea how it used to be, how we marked National Grammar Day? The minute gun fired from the Citadel. The Te Deum at the Cathedral. The Semicolon Ball at the Belvedere."
"I remember. I was present at the creation."
"And now. Now. It's not just low-grade prose proliferating all over social media. You remember when The New York Expletive Times dismantled its copy desk? Now all the damn corporate news organizations, along with the private-equity boyos, have not only eliminated copy desks--they've been eliminating writers altogether so they can publish cheap AI slop."
"I know."
"And the universities! Shutting down the humanities courses to turn themselves into trade schools for STEM and business administration. Nobody being taught to think, much less to write." He poured himself another slug.
"Yeah, I know."
"Yeah, you know, I'm sure, sitting here nodding and nursing that beer. Don't you understand how far we have fallen?"
"I think that playing a voice crying in the wilderness can be fun, but you may be exaggerating."
"Exaggerating? Can't you see what is in front of you?"
"What I can see is Grammar Girl still writing and talking about the language and making sense. I can see Ellen Jovin setting up her Grammar Table all over the country and engaging people with their questions. She even has a documentary film about her travels. And it's only four years since Bryan Garner brought out another damned, thick, square book."
"Yeah, but--"
"And even in Baltimore there's that cranky fellow, McIntyre, who ran The Sun's copy desk until they dismembered it, still throwing rocks at pompous and slipshod writing."
"That smartass--"
"Well, we take our allies where we find them. Now pour yourself another while I order a second Smithwick's, and we will raise a glass to the glory of grammar, as it was and ever shall be."
"Oh, all right."
"Here's to: May your subjects and your verbs live always in agreement."
"Damn straight."
