The Schiit Chronicles Act VI: Border Rites and HST Sacrifice

The Schiit has landed.

It was delivered.

It was handed directly to a receptionist or someone at a front desk, which is one of those oddly beautiful phrases that reminds us civilization still depends on actual people sitting near counters.

The Schiit was no longer a rumour.

No longer a warehouse abstraction.

No longer a tracking number drifting through the digital fog.

It had passed into human custody.

For a brief and shining moment, optimism seemed reasonable.

Then came the next ritual.

The declaration.

Because no human pleasure may cross a border without tribute.

The paperwork was ready, of course.

This was not my first rodeo.

The invoice was available.
The value was known.
The item description was clear.
The tracking number was ready.
The emotional condition of the importer was stable, though deteriorating.

The item was simple enough.

Schiit Mani 2 Phono Preamp for MM, MC, and MI cartridges.

Silver.

One unit.

Not a medical scanner.

Not a pallet of weapons-grade plutonium.

Not an industrial turbine.

Not a suspicious crate marked “miscellaneous electronics” from a warehouse behind a volcano.

A phono preamp.

A tiny silver box whose entire purpose is to help an old Danish turntable speak properly to a modern amplifier so that records can be heard through a pair of 45-year-old Boston Acoustic A70s.

But simplicity is no defence against administration.

The customs declaration was provided.

Shippsy began processing.

And then the modern tax machine stepped out from behind the curtain, smiling its dead little smile.

At purchase, there was $15.92 US in tax.

Then came another $34 in HST.

Do the conversion, squint through the exchange rate, add the ritual pain, and the government appears to have taken roughly fifty-five dollars Canadian from a transaction in which it did not design the product, build the product, sell the product, pack the product, ship the product, scan the product, forward the product, clean the records, or help a single note of music reach the room.

Schiit made the preamp.

Amazon sold and moved it.

Shippsy received and processed it.

I prepared the paperwork.

But the government, which contributed nothing except a demand, may have made more money from the transaction than almost anyone who actually touched the box.

This is the genius of modern government.

It doesn’t have to create value.

It just has to stand near value and invoice the people who do.

The state did not make the Schiit.

It did not ship the Schiit.

It did not process the Schiit.

It did not help the Schiit sing.

But by the time the dust settled, it had taken a larger bite than most of the people involved in getting the thing from there to here.

Modern government: the only party that can make money from music before the music even plays.

This is not taxation in the noble civic sense.

This is applause for standing near the work.

And yet, to be fair, the private side of the transaction is astonishing.

From a chair in Vaughan, a man can locate a specialized American-made audio component, order it online, route it through a U.S. receiving facility, monitor its movement in near real time, file the customs declaration from a desk, and watch it inch closer to a Canadian listening room.

That part is magnificent.

Technology worked.

Private logistics worked.

Tracking worked.

Payment worked.

The package moved.

The problem is that every miracle now arrives chained to a toll booth.

That is the real comedy of the age.

The private world makes the difficult possible.

The administrative world makes the possible irritating.

One side builds systems to move goods.

The other builds systems to slow, classify, tax, approve, and process the goods already moving.

One side says, “Your package is on the way.”

The other says, “Please upload proof that your harmless little box is harmless, little, and yours.”

And somewhere in the middle sits a retired man, a Danish turntable, a growing stack of rediscovered vinyl, and an increasingly detailed understanding of why civilizations eventually collapse under forms.

Still, progress is progress.

The Schiit has been delivered.

The declaration has been made.

The tribute has been extracted.

The package is now being processed by Shippsy, that peculiar modern priesthood standing between an American warehouse and a Canadian listening room.

It is no longer in the wild.

It is in the system.

Documented.

Classified.

Taxed.

Processing.

Not yet free.

Not yet home.

But close enough to taste the finish line.

The next hoped-for words are simple.

In transit.

Then ready for pickup.

Then home.

Then the final chain becomes real:

Beogram 1602 to Schiit Mani 2.

Schiit Mani 2 to WiiM Amp Ultra.

WiiM to Boston Acoustic A70s.

A70s to the room.

The room to memory.

And, if the gods of paperwork are satisfied, Robert Johnson will finally enter the house like weather moving under the door.

To be continued.