Lidsterthoughts

'Green Sheet' impressions of yore

2006-03-01T10:38:00.000-08:00

People with any familiarity whatsoever with the Comox Valley will also recall the old Comox District Free Press (AKA the Green Sheet). The Free Press ceased publication (after a history of 103 years) on Friday, Aug. 18, 1994. A day that is etched possibly more traumatically in my memory bank than two divorces, the deaths of my parents, and the realization that if the Nobel people were going to contact me to offer my an aggregate award for the body of my lifetime's work, they would have already done so.
Anyway, the reason for this screed is I am in the process of writing a sort of history of the Green Sheet. It's actually a kind of combo job. It will be a history of the paper and all of those (some of those) who toiled therein over the years. It's a worthy subject in the sense that the GS defined much of the Comox Valley over the years, for good or for bad. It will also be a kind of personal memoir of my recollections duirng my GS time, which covered the years 1977 to the absolutely last issue of 1994. During that period I worked there as a columnist, general news reporter, assistant editor, as well as being editor of our weekend edition, the North Island News. I have no problem pulling forth my own memories -- some of them even true -- and that is a relief knowing I haven't yet gone into terminal brain-fart. I don't think. Hey, maybe none of the memories are true. Does this mean I didn't actually fall in love with the person who became my second wife, and we didn't marry, and we didn't have an excruciatingly painful divorce? Cool! But, wait a minute, how did she manage to secure a good chunk of the house in our settlement if that was the case? OK, enough frivolity.
What I am wondering is that any of my cherished friends out there who might read this and might have some GS reminiscences, I would be delighted to hear them. I plan to talk to many people over the next few months, but I would love some candid input.
By the way, the Free Press didn't die in my esteem. I have a framed press plate of the the front page of our last edition sitting right above my terminal here. It's a pleasing, though very sad souvenir. Oh, call me an old sentimentalist.

Is there something sinister afoot?

2006-02-28T10:47:00.000-08:00

They're killing all the heroes of my childhood. Is this a conspiracy. Within three days three icons of 1950s television have bought the proverbial, in this order we have lost Don Knotts, Darren McGavin and now Dennis Weaver. Hmm. Their names all begin with the letter 'D'. What does that mean? Furthermore, they were all in their early 80s. What does that mean? And finally, I found a photo that shows Don Knotts and Darren McGavin in the same scene. That seems even more ominous, not to mention just a teeny bit creepy. So, this leads me to wonder, who is next? What 1950s video stalwart will I find in tomorrow's obit section? Who else from that time has a given name beginning with 'D'. Let's see, Desi Arnaz has already joined the other Mambo Kings in the skies. Durwood Kirby died years ago, I think. The two Darrens from Bewitched are both deceased, but the Darren name just came from the role -- by the way, did you ever wonder how Samantha got into bed with the second Darren and never wondered why he didn't look even remotely like the husband she knew and loved? Oh well, for witches such things as appearance are amorphous, so maybe she didn't really notice.
I was also thinking, in my own sick way, how somebody genuinely warped might mount an on-line poll to guess who would be the next from that era to shuffle off this mortal coil. There are still lots around. But, it struck me that such an enterprise might be a bit morbid. Mind you, when I was at the newspaper, we had obits of the not-yet-deceased-but-notable at the ready just in case God paid a call at deadline time. No point in scrambling when the Reaper strikes unannounced.
I was thinking this morning when I read about Weaver -- if you never saw him in the early Spielberg vehicle Duel, make a point of doing so, he's brilliant. I, of course, remember him as Matt Dillon's slightly lamebrained deputy, Chester B. Goode, complete with his gimpy leg and Missouri drawl. Others will recall him as McCloud in the series of the same name. As for McGavin, to most he is the lovably curmudgeonly father in A Christmas Story, but those of us who were there at the time first noticed him in Riverboat, in which he was the skipper of a sternwheeler and an impossibly young Burt Reynolds was his mate. As for Deputy Fife, I already covered that ground in another blog.

Procrastination is enticing

2006-02-27T10:35:00.000-08:00

An acquaintance with more verbal dexterity than good taste once opined: "Procrastination is like masturbation; in both cases you fuck yourself." And that, you see, is part of the problem with procrastination it (too) can be a lot of fun.
I'm a professional writer, and we invented procrastination. The terror of the blank page, or screen, fills us with despair and sometimes pants-wetting anxiety. Our every inadequacy comes to the fore so that the avoidance of putting down even a single word becomes increasingly enticing. Any old excuse to avoid that which helps to put bread on the table compels the scribe to find excuses.
So, does the house need vacuuming? Does the lawn need cutting? "When did we last clean the crud from the grouting in the ensuite? Uh-oh, the cat's claws demand trimming and it should be done right this minute.
I am not a famous writer, but I've always been able to earn a living at it, both in the newspaper business, and as a freelancer. But, I've also always been a procrastinator.
I recall reading an article on Norman Mailer's daily routine. No, I'm not putting myself in the same league as Mailer. I've never had a wife stab me. I think I had one who wanted to, but she didn't carry out the deed. Anyway, Mailer says he begins his day by doing the New York Times crossword. Then he plays a few rounds of solitaire. He does the aforementioned, he says, to limber up his brain and to get set for the day's writing. Actually, I do the NYT crossword as well (though I usually crap out after Wednesday, when it starts to get really hard), and I play electronic solitaire, and I shave, and I shower and I find if I linger long enough, then it is almost time for 10 a.m. coffee. And then, there just might be a bit of shopping to do. And then, when I get back I have to check my email. Sometimes I have to respond to said emails. And then, if nothing else is happening to deter me from actually functioning, I'll blog. That is exactly what I am doing right now, as much as I love it, and as much as it allows me to give vent to (some of) my innermost passions, and as much as it allows me to interconnect with some people I've come to find quite special, it allows me to procrastinate.
One good thing devised by newspapers in their wisdom, and in their knowledge that all who write, procrastinate, is the invention of the deadline. That is, even if your mother has just been killed in a car crash, the paper must get out -- grieve later, buster.
Freelancing has deadlines, too, but they're pretty loose-ended, so they encourage procrastination even more. Anyway, dear ones, I now must actually get back to functioning, or I'll continue to fuck myself.

RIP Barney Fife

2006-02-26T10:39:00.000-08:00

I was sorry to read that Barney Fife had been transferred to that big HQ in the sky. Never was a lawman so inept, so pushy, so egomaniacal, but ultimately so charming as Deputy Bernard Fife of the Mayberry NC Sheriff's Department.
Don Knotts, a remarkably skilled actor for all his 97 pounds soaking wet, who walked onto the set of the old Andy Griffith Show and made it his owned. Designed as a vehicle for Andy himself, a widely-respected actor, both comic and otherwise, there was no doubt that scrawny Barney was not to be tampered with. Griffith, who became in real-time Knotts' closest friend, said that while he (Griffith) was intended to be the comedic centre of the Mayberry universe, after Don came on the scene it was game over in terms of the original premise. Griffith didn't mind playing straight-man one little bit. He invariably deferred to Knotts' comic talents, many of them doubly emphasized by his physiognomy.
Knotts had already earned his stripes as one of the comedic troupe on the old Steve Allen Show, further members of which included Tom Poston, Louis Nye, Pat Harrington, Bill Dana and others. Knotts always played the incredibly nervous guy who had intolerable jobs for his disposition, such as tightrope walker or lion-tamer.
Knotts also made a number of movies, and later did an amusing stint as the landlord on the otherwise execrable Three's Company. But it was Barney, with the single bullet in his breast pocket, who was truly Knotts' everlasting alterego, and even if he didn't want that legacy, that is what he got. Not such a bad thing.

2006-02-26T09:57:00.001-08:00

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2006-02-26T09:57:00.000-08:00

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I fought the law, and the law won

2006-02-24T15:33:00.000-08:00

I had a run-in with the cops yesterday. Don't worry, there wasn't any gunplay. But, I'm still pissed about the whole thing.
OK -- I got nailed for speeding in a school zone. The man said I was clocked at 50 in a 30 zone. It was on a road that I travel almost daily and I didn't think I was driving any differently than I normally drive along that stretch. I probably wasn't. I didn't even know it was a school zone. There's no school on it. The school's up at the end of the block. I mean, how big do they want their &*^% school zones to be, for chrissake? I say if the school's not on the actual road, then tough shit. At least, that is what I thought at the time. I also thought of voicing the opinion that if teachers are incessantly whining about class sizes being too big, which they seem to be, why are we worried about drivers nailing the odd one? But, I refrained from suggesting my 'modest proposal.'
I think what really pissed me off is that I have a virtually flawless driving record. I have only been nailed once for speeding, and that was back about 30 year's ago. Shouldn't that count? Couldn't I have been let off with a warning? Of course I could have. But, he chose not to. And I couldn't argue the point. I wanted to say, "What about those assholes who go screaming down my street full-tilt boogie; or the morons who who squeal their tires every chance they get; the goddamn straight-pipe motorcyclists on their Harley's; the cretinoids who drive up onto people's lawns and leave tire marks; etc. etc. etc.?" I wanted to say all of those things. But, I didn't. I was just so fucking Canadian about it all. I mean, I even thanked him when he gave me the ticket, for heaven's sake.
I used to cover the police beat for both the Echo and the old Green Sheet here in the Comox Valley, and I always wrote real nice things about the cops. I even did features on some of them. I even had a big crush on one of the lady cops -- something I never told her, the detachment, or even especially my wife; it's OK, it was all innocent, just something about a gorgeous woman in a red serge uniform -- and never did I waver about extolling the virtues of those who labor in an often thankless calling. I could have told this bozo that. I refrained.
I thanked him for my ticket. He actually wished me a "nice day."
"Lay rubber when you're leaving," Wendy said, jokingly, I think. "That'll show the bastard."
I refrained from doing that, too. So, OK, the law won this time, but I just don't think I'll be quite so warm towards my crushee the next time I see her.

Remember the days at DRS

2006-02-23T08:47:00.000-08:00

"When you are old and in distress, remember the days at DRS." So an uncle taught me when I was very young. The DRS was Douglas Road School in the heart of what was then relatively rural Burnaby. The school is pictured above. It assuredly did not look like that when I was there. Landscaping would have been unheard of during those dark days. It was a %$#&* school, not a showpiece. Was it a good school? I have no idea. It was the only one I experienced in my tender years, so I can't make comparisons.
My part of Burnaby -- the Deer Lake area -- was amazingly static in those days. I say 'amazingly' considering an unfettered growth in recent years that has rendered Burnaby unrecognizable, and remarkably unappealing to me. But, when I first set foot on the turf of DRS, I was following in a tradition set by my mother and assorted aunts and uncles in a Burnaby that was virtually unchanged from when they were growing up in the 1920s and '30s.
The school was more than a mile from my home, but I was expected to walk. We were all expected to walk in those bus-less days, including the kids who lived two and three miles distant.
The school pictured above is what was known in those days as the "brick building", for obvious reasons. Newcomers did not have the privilege of entry to the brick building. Tiny tots were relegated to what was absolutely unaffectionately called "the old grey building." It was a four classroom, nasty smelling (a lot of pee had been voided on those horrible oiled-wood floors by generations of incontinent, terrified kids who had been hauled into the corridor to have the bejesus strapped out of them in those less salutary days) ancient monstrosity that had, even in retrospect, no redeeming virtues.
Aside from the classrooms, there was the basement. There was a girls' side (with their bathroom), and a boys' side, with their equivalent can; a concrete floored 'play' area, and a massive coal bin to fuel the monstrosity furnace, and woe-betide the hapless kid who, on a dare, decided to run into the girls' side. That strap was always at the ready for transgressors, regardless of how young they might be.
So, I notice that that PAC at Douglas Road has a website, and it is interesting to me to read some of the information (and mis-information, for example, the principal in days of yore was Mr. Scutt, not Mr. Scott, as stated) on my old alma mater.
I suppose part of my problem with the whole thing is that my memories of Douglas road are not altogether pleasant. I remember a lot of tyrannical and small-minded teachers (with the odd decent one interspersed), classmates who mean little to me today, and a huge desire to exit the place all day and every day.
In fact, I don't quite understand those who wax nostalgic about their school days. I didn't really like any of my schools, either Douglas road, Kensington Jr. High or the especially loathsome Burnaby Central, at least as it was back then.
Life moves on, and the only academic experience I had that I actually cherish in retrospect, was my university days at UBC. Now, there was a time that still can offer me enchantment.

C-mon -- wish me a Happy Birthday!

2006-02-21T12:22:00.000-08:00

Today is my birthday. I don't know how I feel about that. On the one hand, I'm grateful that I am still around to have another birthday. On the other hand, I don't think I want to be the age I am. But, I can do nothing about that.
So, mainly I'm ambivalent about the entire thing.
I think that somehow a birthday should have more magnitude than it does. Yet, that's illogical. The only person for whom a birthday really has any meaning is the person marking the date.
But, somewhere in the back of my mind there is an 'idealized' birthday. No, I don't know what it looks like, and the concept is kind of Aristotelian, I suppose. You know how in Greek philosophy there are idealized versions of everything from dogs and cats through to truth and justice. There must be a version for birthdays, too.
Remember how when you were a young child you would long for it to be your birthday? All that was good would befall you on that day. Aside from ice-cream and cake, there was the sheer power suggested by being one year older. Children always want to be older -- "I am five-and-seven-sixteenths years old!" (in other words, nearly six, and in being six there was power. You knew that instinctively. There was no power in being five. And, as you got older, you had your watershed birthdays -- "16 candles make a lovely light". Ah yes, 16. Sweet 16 and never been kissed. I suppose now it might be never been kissed on any other part of the anatomy than on the mouth, but maybe that's crass and vulgar. Whatever. But, after your 16th you can get a driver's license. After 18 you can vote. Can you go to bars at 18? I don't remember. When I was young the age for booze was 21; so that was a monumental birthday. After that it was all downhill. I had my first birthday angst when I was turning 30. Youth was gone. A decade from age 20 had passed in a heartbeat. At 35 I wrote a column bemoaning the fact I was now middle-aged. It was a very whiny column. I suppose the whining kept me from shrieking into the darkness of a life in which nobody really cared what my age was. After that the years, and then the decades fell like dominoes. Now I am the age I am today. I know I am only a day older than what I was yesterday, but it feels like more.
So, I don't know what I am going to be doing later today. Maybe something. Maybe nothing. Got an email from my cutie-pie younger female friend who said a card was on its way. Not to worry. She is just a 'friend'-friend. At one time we toyed with it being something more than friendship, but there was such an age disparity (as in, I then was twice here age, though no longer am; funny how that works) that we felt the gap in years had meaning more than we could handle. So, we became friends, and are both happily ensconced in our own relationships. Anyway, I will welcome her card. Then, my wife and I might go to dinner. She said we might.
And that will be it. And then tomorrow I will be my age plus one day, and it will all start over again.

Deborah Harry still rules

2006-02-15T15:04:00.000-08:00

I watched a concert by Blondie on A&E sometime last year, and was enchanted by the idea of having a full two-hours worth of Deborah Harry right there in my living room.
She was looking good, very good, for a woman the far side of 60. And, she was sounding good. Not as good as she did in her 30s, but how many of us do? Oh, that's right, I don't sing. But, how many people in their 60s do anything as well as they did in their 30s?
But, none of Ms. Harry's chronological realities took from from my pleasure one iota.
"I think if you ever loved anybody in entertainment, it would be fair to suggest Debbie Harry would be the one," my wife suggested. Actually, my current wife didn't even know me when Ms. Harry first entered my line of vision, but in that, I guess she'd be right. I've never been any sort of a star-copulator (I'm being polite, here), but in the case of Deborah, I'd make an exception. Oh, and for Erica Ehm, too. No, I don't know why, it's just part of me.
I think it was about 1979, maybe 1980 that I first noticed the Divine Deborah. She was in prime form, then. It was on the old Vancouver Show, and a somewhat motley group of punk-rockers known as Blondie were the guests. The moment I saw her, my interest was piqued. Especially because she was wearing some sort of Merry Widow thing and high boots. Intriguing enough. But then, Blondie performed; Heart of Glass, if memory serves. Never did a disco beat sound so seductive. And, through the years, my interest never waned. When I took a year-long sabbatical in England in 1980-81, my colleagues presented me with an inscribed poster. It was the face of Deborah Harry, and the inscription by one of the signers simply stated: "May she roll you in designer sheets" forever. Worked for me then, still does. Bless you, Deborah, with your Marilyn looks, your slightly sneering lips, your deadpan. One way or another I'm never gonna "getcha-getcha-getcha", but you remain a charming speculation.

We're just not cheesy enough

2006-02-12T11:22:00.000-08:00

I have decided that what the Canadian political scene is sorely in need of is a good sex scandal. I mean, the Emerson thing, puh-leeze. A politician is a self-seeker who knows no loyalty other than to himself and didn't really mean what he said when he was running for office, and then when the other guys polled a slightly better tally than the guys he was running for, so he decides to bolt -- that's scandalous? Hardly.
In fact, the whole shambles of Canadian politics is, yes, a shambles. And yes, we should all be a little more proactive in taking these weasels to task but, quite frankly, most of us are bored with it all. The best thing going for Harper these days is that we are all so tired of the lot of him, that any other party that forces an election is going to rue the day.
So, that's why I say, we need a really juicy, scandalous, steamy sex scandal to pique our collective interest. We haven't had many of such things in Canada, alas. I don't know if this means Canadians are lacking in imagination, or in libido, but to find anything that would qualify as dirty, you really have to go back to the Gerda Munsinger episode decades ago. And even that was only "questionable", and hardly the stuff the Enquirer would be very interested in, other than as a passing aside. Added to which, old Gerda wasn't all that much of a hottie.
She wasn't a Monica, for example. It wasn't a situation of 'way too much information' revolving around a stained dress, thong flashing, and other bits of nonsense of the sort that prompted innocent children to ask: "So, Mom, what is a blow-job?" And, in the corridors of power that govern our neighbors to the south there are many scandals at the presidential level. Roosevelt died in the arms of his longtime mistress; Eisenhower was far too friendly with his jeep driver during the war; Kennedy screwed anyone in panties; and even old Jimmy Carter admitted to lusting in his heart, at the very least. Bush and 'Condy?' Hard to say, but you never know. There is precedent. Of course, that's at the top executive level. When you get to the congressional level, there are far too many scandals to list.
The Brits haven't been without theirs, either. The name Christine Keeler still attracts attention enough that they made a decent film of that bit of top level hanky-panky. Of course, other MPs make the news for their illicit transgressions that often seem to involve members of the same sex as the transgressor, or 'spanking.' Something to do with the famed public schools, I suspect.
The only people to not be involved in sexual scandals are the French. Well, actually, in France, amongst top level politicians, it is deemed more suspect if a person in power 'is not' having sex with somebody to whom he is not married.
As for Canada, it has been a long time since Gerda, and I think the time is ripe. I do understand Monica's career hasn't exactly soared in recent years, so she very well could be available.
In Britain there have b

Kind of the Debbie Reynolds of her day

2006-02-09T07:52:00.000-08:00

I've always kind of liked Jennifer Aniston. She seemed a bit like a girl I could actually date. You know, not really glamorous or stuck on herself. Just sort of, for want of a word 'nice'. I was never a huge fan of Friends, although Joey was always amusing. Great sort of guy to have a beer with. As for the women on the show, my choice would always have been Lisa 'Phoebe' Kudrow. In real life she is not only immensely attractive, talented and hugely intelligent, but she seems like a person a body could have a great conversation with. Jennifer, not so much. But she is, you know, 'nice'.
Anyway, Jennifer has had an undeservedly hard time lately, and I feel for her. Not only has her male blonde bimbo run off with a world class hottie, but her celluloid career aspirations don't seem to be amounting to very much. I mean, neither do Brad's, but he has the -- temporary, trust me -- affections of Ms. Angelina to console him in his time of trouble. And, hey, he started the thing.
This situation does have a tinseltown precedent. Witness the case of Debbie Reynolds -- every bit as much of a slightly-less-than-glamorous 'darling' in the 1950s that Jennifer is today. Well, her supposedly devoted spouse, Eddie Fisher, ran off with that eternal 'viperette' Elizabeth Taylor who was seeking a toy boy after the untimely demise of her spouse, Mike Todd. Debbie went through the same stuff Jennifer is facing.
Eddie wasn't so very much. Let's face it, neither is Brad. His filmic oeuvre is a great deal less than riveting. Eddie was a reasonably decent crooner, but not much more. In fairly short order a bored Liz chucked him and embarked on a tempestuous fling (and subsequent traumatic marriage) with the colossally talented wastrel Richard Burton. Aside from the fact the relationship (and the booze) effectively destroyed Burton's career, he was always much more interesting than the very uninteresting Fisher. In fact, the only accomplishment that could be sent towards Fisher was his spawning of daughter, Carrie.
But, back to Jennifer. As consolation suggestion, my advice would be to familiarize herself with the tale of Debbie-and-Eddie-and-Liz-and-Richard, and realize that there is karma in the universe, and it will turn out OK. It won't turn out brilliantly -- neither did it for Debbie -- it will just turn out OK. Eventually the public will tire of Brangelina, and she'll chuck the toy boy and move on. Jennifer's career won't soar. She's not a Scarlett Johansson, Reese Witherspoon, or Charlize Theron and never will be. She should find another TV series and be content to be a lovable girl-next door. And, she should continue being 'nice.'

Of course I believe everything I read

2006-02-05T08:29:00.000-08:00

James Frey should have known better. It simply cannot serve a person well to make the ego that walks like a woman need a knicker change as a result of realizing she had been duped by the best-selling author of A Million Little Pieces. And, in making Oprah wet herself, Frey also paid a huge penalty. And, if I may suggest, an utterly unfair penalty imposed by a woman who -- paucity of actual talent notwithstanding -- has been able to turn everything she has touched to gold -- for herself -- and by default to others -- provided they always play 'her' game. Remember poor, yet extremely talented, Jonathan Franzen of The Corrections (a mighty fine bit of fiction, certainly on a par with the works of another Oprah darling, Wally Lamb, of She's Come Undone, et al.), who 'dared' to opine that showing up on Ms. W's show was really a kind of whoring. Wow, did she get him for that!
In any case, the foofrah over Frey's book begs two questions. The first: is there really anybody out there who has ever cracked a book who believes that every word in a memoir is verity? The second: James Frey is a recovering alcoholic/addict. His drunk/drug-alogue outlines some of his misadventures from the time he was performing, until he sought recovery. And, it seems he tweaked some of the situations just a little bit. Well, from my few years' experience counseling addicts, I learned one important thing, known to all others who labor in an often thankless realm, and that is that addicts lie. They're even lying when their lips aren't moving. Even their body language is often a lie. So, Frey lied. He has a history of it.
But, and back to the first point, so do 'all' authors. So do 'all' memoirists (especially), and so do most verbal tale-tellers. Be honest, when you recount an incident in your life to another -- especially one who doesn't know you well -- whether the incident involves something prosaic like a fishing tale; poetic, like a memorable seduction; or terrifying, like being caught in a war zone, or having been involved in a major traffic accident -- do you tell the tale 'exactly' as it happened? If you do, you are unique, and differ from about 98 percent of your fellows. Of course we aggrandize, if even ever so slightly, for fear of being deemed boring, unadventurous, or unlovable.
When it comes to authors, including other authors of note, the process is moot. Hemingway was a consummate bullshitter. Does that make him less of a writer of note? I think not. Truman Capote made up stuff all the time. Dylan Thomas was nowhere near the drunk he liked to tell people he was; his wife and others who knew him will attest to that fact. He was mainly a decent poet (especially amongst female sophomores), and kind of a slovenly, dishonest pig of a human being. His early demise at 39 was probably more the result of medical incompetence than having had a life of debauchery take him out prematurely. But, he liked to be seen as the definitive debauchee.
And so it goes, and has always gone. Know what, the history in all of Shakespeare's historic plays is political crappola? There are probably accounts in the New Testament that perhaps should be taken with a grain of salt.
I'd like to believe what I read. I'd like to believe all the tales another tells me. I'd like to think my grandfather was the war hero he suggested he was. But, you know, I don't. If Ms. Winfrey comes out of this debacle a little more circumspect in the future, then Mr. Frey will have accomplished a miracle.

Love's labors lost, et al

2006-02-03T11:35:00.000-08:00

When I was out shopping this morning, I ran into my ex-wife. Not a bad thing. We've been apart for a decade, and we get along quite comfortably, and in a friendlier manner than the usual sort of 'Mexican Standoff' level that is, for some ex-couples, the best they can do in terms of interacting. I've always found that kind of sad. Here is a person to whom you were once in love, lived with and then married, with whom you were intimate at a whole lot of levels (not just the 'fun' ones) and yet you either wish that person in hell, or purgatory at the very least. I'm sorry, that doesn't work for me. Blessedly, neither does it with her.
However, as we chatted in the meat department, she held out the finger of her left hand to show me an engagement ring. An 'engagement ring!' That would mean she is planning to marry someone. A flood of mixed emotions threatened to sink me right in the middle of the supermarket.
The mixed emotions were nothing to do with neediness. I am very happily married to her successor -- much more happily than I ever was with her -- not through any fault of hers, or mine; just 'stuff'. Stuff that didn't work for us. And, the mixed emotions were nothing to do with sexual jealousy. I mean, I hope she's been 'active' since we parted. She's not a nun, she's a beautiful and alluring woman. No, I don't necessarily want to form visual images of her coupling with another, but you get my drift. In fact, I don't want to form visual images of virtually anybody having sex, other than myself, come to think of it.
No, the mixed emotions had everything to do with a sense of loss, and a sense of failure. You know, a kind of second-guessing I thought had long since departed my psyche. You know, if only I had done this, or done that, or done something else, we might have made it. You see, I don't really believe that divorce should happen -- ha, fine advertisement I am for that philosophy, having been there twice in my life -- and that people should be able to work their issues out.
But, alas, sometimes they can't.
So, you see we parted with much sadness. I was the love of her life; she was the love of mine. She was like an adolescent fantasy come to life in middle age. I had this mega-crush on this girl, and I found that she actually reciprocated those feelings about me. She was (and is) beautiful; the trophy girlfriend, who ultimately became the trophy life-partner, and eventually the trophy wife. Damn, did it feel good to go out with her on my arm, and to sense the envious stares of other males we passed. I would think, too bad your lady is so average, while mine is a superlative feast for the eyes. The ego is a corrupt thing; what can I say?
Eventually, life intervened in the romantic fantasy, and things began to fall apart; ultimately irreparably. And then we parted. Initially, I was bitter and deeply hurt. In those early days I thought of her with paramount disapprobation, even contempt. The ego is indeed corrupt.
Eventually time passed and wounds healed as much a they probably ever will. But, we like each other again. And that's cool.
So, with her impending marriage, I can only wish her the absolute best life can offer. But, I don't think I want to go to the wedding. That just might be entirely too 'civilized.'

"No -- but I saw the movie."

2006-01-30T10:37:00.000-08:00

Canadian writer Morley Callaghan once confessed he had never read James Joyce's Ulysses. He was a touch embarrassed about that, since he'd fancied himself a member of the 'Lost Generation', and he did spend a few years hanging out in Paris in the 1920s, when the book came out and it was ever so trendy to have ploughed through the interminable testament to poetic obfuscation.
One night in a bistro conversation with Ernest Hemingway, Hemingway confessed that he found the Joyce book very tough slogging in the old understanding department. Callaghan felt much relieved. After liberal dosages of absinthe were quaffed, the literary darlings confessed they had both read the dirty bits -- you know, the long Molly Bloom stream-of-consciousness in which she vividly opines about everything from screwing to peeing (not the sort of thing respectable young ladies chatted about in those days, most people thought) -- but that that was all they had read, or 'got.' Otherwise, life was too short to labor longer with Ulysses.
As an aside, my wife decided last year she was going to read the whole of the book. I think she is on about page 17 now.
I was relieved by Callaghan's confession, since I've only read the dirty parts, too, even though the book has been sitting on my shelf since university days (about 267 years ago). But, you know, a lot of books are like that. They are -- what is the word? -- hard.
Don Quixote, for example, is considered one of the great classics of western civilization. And, of course it is. The premise is hugely significant, not only for the 16th century, but for all time. But, Cervantes' prose is vile hard reading. I've asked people who've read it in Spanish. Nope, no easier. No wonder bullfighting, flamenco dancing and revolution became popular in Spain, they are so refreshing after Cervantes.
There are other literary milestones that lie on shelves, unread. These are the tomes that contribute heavily to 'book guilt'.
Hands up all of those who have actually read War and Peace. No, I don't believe you. I don't believe your time is so plentiful that you would pick up more than the gist of the plot. But, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe it's me. And, I'm sorry, the Classics Illustrated comic version doesn't count. Or, maybe it does. Likewise, Coles notes. In the old days, Coles got many a rogue through an exam, leaving the more perceptive student to think that perhaps the professor hadn't read the sucker, either.
Anyway, confession time. I've already laid my cards on the table about Ulysses, so I guess it behooves me to mention the others I don't think I'll ever quite be able to get to in this brief lifetime. Of War and Peace, I've seen Woody Allen's Love and Death a couple of times, but I suppose that doesn't really count, but it is much more entertaining than Tolstoi's original.
I also read, and enjoyed, Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and The Dubliners, and thought both were the bee's knees.

Other fine works I haven't quite finished

Tom Jones: Wasn't the film from the early 1960s just a romp of ribald fun from beginning to end? Starring and amazingly young and unetched by time Albert Finney, and a scrumptiously delicious Susannah York. Just a lot of bawdy, sexy fun. The book? Well, just a whole of lot of 18th century work that can be tiresome going.

Moby Dick: This is groan inducing. We had to read it for a university American lit course. We had a prof who was a Melville fanatic -- which I think said something quite distasteful about his character. And this guy would not let us just stick with the narrative, which isn't so bad. Oh no, we had to read the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of pages during which Melville nonsensically tries to convince the reader that the whale is actually a fish. Ultimately, I was happy when Ahab got it in the end, but I did feel bad about Queequeg.

Remembrance of Things Past: Herein Proust takes a few dozen pages just to describe turning over in bed, among other things of no consequence. As for this work, God only grants us more or less than three-score-and-ten years. Surely nobody wants to grant two-score-and-ten to this exercise in gargantuan tedium. A guy once told me that my problem was that I'd tried to read it in English, whereas the full flavor only comes through in French. I hit him.

My list could go on and on. Do I feel guilty about my omissions? Maybe. But, then I can sit down in the evening determined to read a little Henry James for example, and then I find CSI is on, and intellectual torpor prevails. When we die, are we found lacking if we haven't read the great treatises penned since the beginning of time? Guess I'll find out when the time comes. So will you.

Down among the sheltering palms

2006-01-29T13:48:00.000-08:00

When Hurricane Iniki ravaged the island of Kauai in 1992, it destroyed or substantially damaged some 80 percent of all the man-made structures on the island. When I first went back in 1995, I could see the scars of that mammoth wind in various locales. I went for a beer at a place called Brennecke's at Poipu Beach, which had been the spot where Iniki first visited her wrath. It was a bistro that had been a favorite in years past. I commented to he server that the joint seemed to have survived nicely, since it looked virtually unscathed. "It's not the same place," she said. "It was so popular that the owners simply rebuilt it to exactly the same specifications as the original." Hmm. Isn't that a bit like having your favorite dog or cat stuffed? But, I digress.
What struck me was that the wrathful hurricane seemed to have been unable to destroy one aspect of the Kauai scene. Indeed, it is an aspect of the tropical world in general -- the coconut palm. Coconut palms proliferate worldwide in those wondrous places where the temperatures are tropical and the seas are azure. On Rarotonga in the Cook Islands, they are so profuse they are almost orgasmic in their proliferation, and a walk in the jungle renders one apprehensive due to the fruit that is always poised to drop many feet above the head. And, you damn well know they drop because the fruit is on the ground. Indeed, coconuts are such a mainstay of the place there is even a wonderful bit of Darwinian adaptation in the form of the 'coconut crab' which, rather than being a carnivore like his species fellows, dines on ripe coconut.
My point about the coconut palm, however, wasn't its ubiquity, but its toughness. Coconuts thrive in the hurricane zones around the world -- indeed, on the west coast of North America, the farthest north they can be found is southern Baja, such is their tenderness to frost. Such is not, however, their tenderness to high winds. What amazed me about post-hurricane Kauai was that most of the coconut palms survived. Indeed, the area where we stay is in the old Coconut Plantation region (think of Elvis in Blue Hawaii, same neighborhood), and it seemed virtually unchanged in terms of arboreal splendor, pre and post hurricane.
That was a very good thing, because I have a huge affection for palms -- palms of every sort. Even little palms, like the fan palm we have growing in the front yard, life my spirits. There is something primal and biblical about them, and yes, something tropical, even when they are growing in our temperate climes. A friend once said how she loved awakening in the pre-dawn darkness when she was traveling, and hearing the rustling of palm fronds in the trade wind breeze. "That's how I know I'm somewhere nice," she said.

Last refuge of Canadian scoundrels

2006-01-27T15:30:00.000-08:00

Just to be alliterative for a moment, there is a certain ilk of Canadians whom I'll describe as 'precious, paranoid, parochials.' These are the xenophobes who wet themselves at any suggestion of foreign (read 'American') incursions into our home and native land. News of the sale of the Hudson's Bay Company to some southern gentleman with deep pockets immediately brought these people to the fore, decrying yet another sellout to the Yanks. It's all so very silly, really. HBC, to these people, is seen as a Canadian institution that goes back centuries. The truth of the matter is, its Canadian connection (from a business rather than a geographic perspective) goes back only a little over 30 years. Prior to that, HBC was a British Company which, in my lexicon, indicates foreign ownership. It's really no more of a Canadian icon than is Canada Dry ginger ale, which sold out to the Americans a very long time ago. I don't think anybody really paid much attention to that. Likewise, a genuine Canadian institution, Tim Horton's, was acquired by the Wendy's chain many years ago.
So, for those who must reach for the Depends when they hear such news, I must ask: how many of you shop at Wal-Mart rather than Zeller's? How many of you drive a Toyota rather than a Dodge that is made in Ontario? How many of you have electronic equipment that is put together in our home and native land?
The point is, HBC was going down the tubes. It had not grown with the times, and it had not changed its merchandising model much since the days of Radisson. Indeed, in recent years, I must confess that HBC and quality customer service had become virtual strangers. So, I guess the choice was to see the name disappear entirely, or to have it picked up by somebody who thinks it might be worth saving. I hope it is. We've already lost the names of Eaton's, and more sadly, BC born and raised Woodward's. The demise of Woodward's was, for me, as a paranoid, parochial British Columbian, much more significant than the death throes of Eaton's, or even the change in national status of HBC.
But, I do have one concern. The new owners had better not fuck with my Club Z points. I've accumulated about 47 billion of those puppies, and there is a wicker wastepaper basket I have had my eye on.

Faux printemps can bite

2006-01-25T15:26:00.000-08:00

False spring can be like the promise of love in the afternoon. It can be so inviting and enticing and the anticipation can make one heady at the prospect.
So, early this week, just as we returned from highly welcome sojourn in the deserts around Palm Springs before sweltering season begins down there, I found myself enchanted by the realization that the crocuses were in bloom in the garden, and that the daffodils and tulips were wending their way heavenward, in anticipation of a blossoming time that cannot come soon enough for me.
It is the sort of situation that always prompts me to write to some dear friends in Toronto just to let them know what life is like on the West Coast. Any chance I get to dump on TO always makes me very content.
But then, reality sinks in. It is only late January. January is the last month of the shitty trio, the other members being November and December. And, since it is only January, the snow could still fly. The temperatures could still plummet. That is a distressing thought. A decade ago, another spouse and I took a few days rest from distressing domestic tension by booking a room at an agreeable B&B on Saltspring Island. On the day of our departure, we awakened to a blinding blizzard. And, we had to make it all the way back to Comox that night. My dear wife of the day said: "I don't care how you do it, but we're going back home. I don't want to spend another night in such close quarters." As I think I suggested, the relationship was pretty bereft of charm by that point. Anyway, we made the horrific ride home, and arrived safely -- physically at least, emotionally is another story for another time. Anyway, my initial point is that meteorological disgustingness happened in late February, so I know I shouldn't wax too enthusiastic about the croci in the garden in January. It can still all go to hell, and my favorite season of the year can assuredly be put on hold. Never trust the promises of false spring; or false love in the afternoon. Both can turn sour on you.

Let there be light

2006-01-23T15:13:00.000-08:00

I had always considered 'SADS' to be a kind of catchall excuse for just being pissed off with crappy BC coastal wintertime weather, and with no more viability than dear old Linus Pauling's Vitamin C mythology. You know, it's kind of nice to think that certain behaviors will not only enable us to live longer, but also more happily. As much as I love this place -- in the spring, summer and autumn -- I do hate it during the dreary months of the year -- the worst being November, December and January. If I were ever to slash my wrists (not that I am planning to) it would be during this remarkably disagreeable period, when the wet and windy nights are long, and the days are short, brutal and repulsive.
This year we have found to be singularly disagreeable, and I found myself thinking that maybe there was something to the SADS fad, and perhaps we really were suffering from sunlight deprivation. Whatever may be the case, I have always found there to be a balm when rays are beating down on my shoulders. I wanted and needed to have some rays beating down on my shoulders.
That said, we realized a few weeks ago -- just after Christmas -- that we had a little window of time. A window of time, and not a hell of a lot of money. Let's go somewhere warm, just for a few days. As much as we love Hawaii, we didn't have the time (or the money), so we opted for Palm Springs. No we don't golf. I share Mark Twain's view of golf as being an activity that ruins a perfectly decent walk. But, even if we had no desire to chase a little ball around a pristine lawn, we love the sun, and we knew the Palm Springs area would have a great deal of that.
We booked a flight. We departed. And in three hours it seemed we were on a different planet. The place is exquisite in its aridity. While it wasn't hot -- temps in the high 60s and low 70s Fahrenheit -- it was so utterly agreeable. We sat in the sunshine drinking coffee at a sidewalk cafe. We hiked. We picked oranges and grapefruit off the trees in the fabulous little inn we had booked. We tramped around the MojaveDesert at Joshua Tree National Park (that wonderfully spiritual place where creative but drug addled musician Gram Parsons decided to OD many years ago. We stood amongst the cacti as beloved wife Wendy (above) was doing just a mere three days ago. And then it all came to an end much too quickly, and it seemed we shouldn't be back in the crud yet again after that three-hour return trip. But, we are. And maybe SADS has been arrested for this year. I noticed that the crocuses are up, that offers hope. And, the days are getting longer. Maybe I can carry on until genuine spring happens.
Or, maybe I can win the lottery, have my book published and make millions, or carry out the perfect crime, and then I will never have to concern myself about winter days in these parts ever again. Hell, come May I won't even be thinking about the disagreeability outside the window of this office.

Why dogs are better than people

2006-01-14T11:34:00.000-08:00

A newspaper item I spied the other day made note of the fact that many older people surveyed in nursing homes said that they would rather share their time with a dog than with another human being. In similar context, humorist James Thurber, a misanthropic dog-lover, said that he didn't believe any people of his acquaintance qualified for heavenly salvation, but a couple of dogs he has known certainly would.
I can understand such sentiments. I'm not yet quite cynical enough to agree with them in their entirety, but I do get it. Such has been my experience with dogs, that I believe they, in their own neuroses fulfill just about every emotional need their owners might possess. What I mean is, I am not yet prepared to give up human company, since I generally, despite assorted bits of treachery and disloyalty and dishonesty I have had to face to date from other bipedal humanoids, I still like people quite a bit, and some people much more than others. But, I must be honest, my canine experiences have been nothing but positive.
What is it about dogs that makes them better than people? In the first place they are loyal unto death. They never give up on one, regardless of the awful things one might do. One might stagger home blind drunk with a person in tow with whom one is not supposed to be keeping intimate company, and the loyal and faithful dog will never, ever judge. All he wants to know is: "When are we going to eat?" and "Is there any chance of a walk happening at 3 a.m.? Oh, and by the way, I won't be blowing the whistle on you for your bad behavior because you're my master, and I love you unconditionally."
The dog pictured above in this space, is my faithful and wonderful dog, Murphy. He was pondering the wonders of Comox Lake at the time. Murphy was a border collie cross who, like others of his breed, was so smart that I think he would have been able to read if somebody had taken the pains to teach him. I had Murphy from 8-week-old pupdom until he finally, and to my huge dismay, shuffled off this mortal coil in 1987, at the age of 14. Not terribly ancient, but he was, by then, blind, deaf, horribly arthritic and incontinent. He had lost his dignity, and that was highly distressing for him. His infirmity was agony for me. I miss him to this day.
A friend was once consoling author Sir Walter Scott who was in agonies of grief about the demise of an adored dog. He asked his friend why God was so cruel as give dogs such a short life-span. His friend wisely noted: "Yes, but can you imagine how much more painful it would be if they had a life-span of 30 years rather than a mere 15?" Sad, but true.
After Murphy, I had another dog. Or, I should say my wife of the day had a dog of whom I was also quite fond. His name was Simon, and he was a Tibetan Terrier. A very pretty dog, much like a junior version of an English Sheepdog. My problem with Simon was that he made a sack of hammers look smart. A sweet, affectionate beautiful blonde dog he was, but my dear wife would despair at some of his behaviors and opine: "Simon is such a blonde." She was a brunette, so could vouchsafe the opinion with impunity.
Simon is also gone, now. And, I miss him as well, but not quite as much as Murphy. Murphy cannot be touched in my memory.
My wife of this moment would like to get a dog, and so would I. But, we also cherish having the freedom to travel to far away places, and I hate leaving a dog in a kennel, so we have refrained from making the decision yet.
Maybe I'll wait until I no longer want or need people, then I can get a dog once again. Meanwhile, memories of Murphy still hold me quite nicely.

Free at last -- Free at last!!

2006-01-11T09:17:00.000-08:00

New York Times columnist Russell Baker once
said that he realized he was 'free' the moment back in the 1950s when he came to understand he cared not at all how many times Eddie Fisher married, following the erstwhile so-so singer's divorce from the uber-wed Elizabeth Taylor. That realization, he said, liberated him from caring about media-fueled trivia about which he was, and millions of others were, exhorted to react. And it is true that if I never read another line concerning braindead brat Paris Hilton (trivia moment: Liz Taylor's first of 854 husbands was Paris' great uncle) or trailer-trash slut Britney Spears, I will feel liberated. But, there is more than that, Baker suggests: simply don't read about, watch or have anything ever to do with such over-hyped wastes of skin, and instead devote yourself to such endeavors as reading significant works of literature, listening to fine music, or indulging in altruistic endeavors of some sort. I like the idea.
And, it is in this context that I have purposely, and almost entirely ignored the coming federal election. I read nothing further than headlines, and I wish them all eternities in hell, or Ottawa (the two entities are confusing, in any case). Some I wish more hellfire than others, and the loathsome Paul Martin deserves the hottest flames of all. But, I digress.
The point is, I, as a longtime journalist, have decided to eschew my commentary stock-in-trade and utterly ignore all that is transpiring. This is based on the fact that things will unfold on election day, as they unfold. Oh, to be sure, I will vote. Always do. And, I do have somebody in mind for whom I will vote, but otherwise, I am ignoring all the pollsters and pundits and in so doing, I have found a great freedom. A freedom that permits me to get through the daily papers more rapidly, since I am ignoring all election-rated stories, columns and editorials (why do I give a shit what the Sun, Province, Globe and Mail, National Post, or Podunk Picayune thinks about the election or what 'issues' are vital to Canadians? I know what issues are vital to me, and that is all I care about. Punditry is by-and-large a poltroonish calling, and politics is a poltroonish and corrupt calling. But, you know what? I don't care this time around. I'm free at last!

The keys and I

2006-01-08T15:33:00.000-08:00

When I was in grade 11 I had a spare block to fill when I was working out my timetable. I decided, on a complete whim, to take a typing course. I reasoned that I wouldn't have to work very hard, since it didn't matter much whether I passed or failed. I also reasoned (more significantly) that an inordinate number of girls took typing so the classroom company was bound to be pleasing. Of course, I found that girls who were serious about typing had already taken the fundamental course, so what I was left with was predominantly a group of loutish males like myself.
Oh well, even though I never got very good at typing, I did indeed learn to touch-type, and I have never regretted the decision. I went right through university able to type my own assignments and papers. None of them may have been brilliant treatises, but they sure looked good. Later, of course, I went into journalism and knowing how to type was essential to the trade. Now, in the day of the keyboard, whatever acumen I might have, carries on.
We had a typewriter around the house when I was a very young child. It is pictured on this page. It's a 1923 vintage Remington portable (now worth a few bucks). It had been originally owned by my grandfather, and then my mother, and finally it was bequeathed to me. Amazingly enough (and testament to the fact that things were once made with the idea they would last.) According to a couple of Internet sites, those old remingtons from the 20s cost $60 new. That was nearly a month's wage back in those days, so it never would have been a frivolous purchase since, in modern equivalences, it would be about the same price as a decent laptop.
Anyway, I began to fool around on that old typewriter when I was still in elementary school, and I never really left it alone after that.
Ultimately, typewriters of various sorts punctuated my means of making a living. In my original newsroom, all we had were manual typewriters, and late afternoons on a deadline day were punctuated by not mere clacking, but absolute pounding of keys as reporters frantically attempted to complete whatever bit of timeless journalism copy (maybe the wedding of Brian and Zelda, both of whom are now on their third marriages; Zelda's is to Elaine, since she finally decided on her true sexuality back in 1987) needed to be sent to composing.
Anyway, this is all about the fact that I loved typewriters. I liked the look of them, the sound of them, and even the smell of them (they have a distinctive odor). The contemporary keyboard isn't quite the same, somehow. There is no carriage to crash back to begin another line; there are no jammed keys (&*^%$#*); there are no strikeovers and white-outs; there is no filthy ribbon to replace. Typewriters are rudimentary, but they are virile. They're practically horny with the promise of literary satiation.
I once had a conversation with superlative BC writer, Jack Hodgins, and he told me that he writes on yellow legal pads. Well, that's kind of romantic, too. But, I cannot imagine doing so. I honestly cannot comfortably compose without using a keyboard. It just won't come for me. I once had a brief hospital stay a number of years ago and, after I was feeling better, and consequently feeling restless (I do 'restless' very well), I asked the nurse if I could access a typewriter somewhere. She happily obliged me. She loved my column, she said. I wanted to marry her right on the spot. Except she was already married and, come to think of it, so was I.)
I now have learned that old typewriters fetch a few dollars on E-Bay. I could probably sell that old Remington. But, you know, I don't really want to. A family heirloom that has also been a good friend, going down three generations, somehow deserves better than that.

Give us what we want to read

2006-01-06T15:07:00.000-08:00

Every week or so I avail myself of a copy of the British rag International Express. I absolutely love it. It contains the sort of story I like to read, with seemingly little fear of libel suits. I like it because it affirms prejudices in its readers and, at the same time, seeks not so much to enlighten one, as to outrage one. The world is going to hell in a handcart, and the Express is there to validate that fear. We are all a seething mass of moral turpitude. We are drunken and horny wastes of skin and, if you had any doubt, the Express will provide you with stories that seem to affirm the impression. If you thought the Brits were stodgy, then read this, or some of their other even more sensational rags.
So, what we have in any issue is your mandatory randy vicars or headmasters who are impregnating anyone in panties, or engaging in gay sex with anyone in y-fronts; drink crazed yobboes who murder, maim and engage in activities that would render anyone fearful of visiting the high street after 5 p.m.; equally drink crazed teen girls who, when they are not urinating in the streets, are fornicating in them; the money-grubbing activities of the PM's missus, the rather frightening looking champagne-socialist Cherie Blair, for whom the Express reserves a special category of detestation; her PM hubby in all his smarmy hypocrisy; Camilla, whom they seem to regard even less favorably than Cherie (were such a thing possible), and so on and so on. It's all bad news, and it's all just wonderful reading.
Compare this with the stodginess of Canadian newspapers. My God, but we take ourselves so seriously and we are so wimpy. No Canuck rag would dare refer to any accused as a "drunken lout", whereas the Express will often use this, or other pejorative expressions. No Canadian paper would dare call a judge "gutless" (even if gutlessness abounds in their overpaid ranks), but the Express wouldn't hesitate.
Instead, our home-turf papers, which are struggling, persist in boring us with tales of our lacklustre politicians (the horrifying hopeless Paul Martin; the stick-up-his-ass Stephen Harper, or Jack "I'll be any party's whore" Layton), and their quest to attain the prize that none of them deserves. Further, we'll get a few dozen conflicting stories on global warming; the predictable anti-American rants over pot legalization, or gun law, or medicare; stories in which some rednecked American politico is incensed over Canadian anti-American rhetoric over gun-law, pot, or medicare, whereas most Americans, if we're honest, don't really know for sure where Canada is, mainly because they don't need to; and page-after-page of entertainment drivel concerning people that nobody over 17 finds even moderately interesting; more pages on homes nobody could ever possibly afford, and I could go on and on.
I don't mean to bite the metaphorical hands of publications that have fed me periodically over the years, but if our newspapers are losing out to the Internet, TV, and all the other items of trendy techno-crap that are "must-haves" in the marketplace, maybe they should take a serious look at what they're offering.
Maybe we need some randy vicars, too.

So, does 'mentor' mean 'old'?

2006-01-05T15:36:00.000-08:00

We of a more sensitive nature who reside in and abide by the crass tenets of North American society are sometimes struck by the manner in which other societies, the Chinese, for example, and first nations people, revere their elders.
Those who have experienced a few seasons on the planet are deemed by the younger to have acquired a certain wisdom from their life experience, and those of their families or social circles who are more callow are expected to heed what grandfather, grandmother or a village elder has to say about the state-of-things.
In other words the old are granted respect. Respect by dint of their longevity. The old in our society, on the other hand, are all Rodney Dangerfields; no respect whatsoever. They are silly old farts who are to be mocked and derided, and ultimately shuffled off to the geezers' home to live their remaining days in pathetic loneliness, offset once-in-a-while by eye-rolling family members who make that 'obligatory' visit at Christmas or Easter.
I don't understand this, by and large. I've never seen the old as contemptible at an individual level unless they are actually contemptible people -- in which case they probably always have been assholes, and they aren't about to change just because the years have caught up with them.
Anyway, as I said, I don't get it. I absolutely adored and cherished my grandparents. I liked them a hell of a lot better than I did my actual parents. I also enjoyed their wisdom and their whimsy, and was fascinated by the the reality that they had seen so much. I still hearken to their words and thoughts at regular intervals.
This rambling preamble comes about due to the fact I was recently asked to be a 'mentor' of sorts to a younger person. At one level, I was excruciatingly flattered that this person, an early 30-ish member of the business community, sought my wisdom, such as it is. She based her query on the fact I've lived in this community for a long time, have served as a director on inumerable boards, and, as a newspaper guy, I know just about everybody -- sometimes casually, in some cases intimately (no, not that kind of 'intimately', or at least I'm not writing about that here), so she felt I would be a good contact to mentor her. She also based her request on the fact that she likes me, and likes the way I think. Flattering indeed -- at one level.
At another, though, I wonder if it is because I am 'old'. God, I hope not. Nothing wrong with 'old', as I suggested earlier, I just don't want to see myself as being there -- yet.
It reminds me of the time, well over a decade ago, when I was lying in the sun on the beach at Waikiki, and I happened to notice an agonizingly pretty young girl (beauty enough to bring a tear to the eye) standing nearby. My appreciation was, of course, purely esthetic, and the esthetics pleased my soul right down to my toenails. I, being relatively trim and tan at that point, kind of thought that my ambiance wasn't utterly lacking, either. Ultimately, not wanting to be too obvious, I returned to perusing my book. At one point, as I was lying there, I realized there were some very long and slim legs standing behind me, near my head. The self same turquoise-bikinied Miss leaned forward and, with devastating smile, spoke. My heart beat faster.
"Excuse me, sir," said she. "But, I want to go in the water. Would you mind watching my stuff for me while I'm away.
I was thunderstruck. Not only by the fact she called me "sir", but also by the fact she thought I looked trustworthy enough to watch her clothing, baubles and bling. She struck about 10,000 nerves, and none of them were the ones I'd have rather she struck.
Needless to say, I readily agreed to do her the favor, and ultimately that day, I walked back to the hotel from the beach at a more gentle, shuffling pace.
I felt a little the same way when my friend asked me to mentor her. Flattered, but jolted to a reality I'd rather not yet visit.

All is vanity -- nothing is fair

2006-01-02T16:07:00.000-08:00

Having nothing much else to do on this January 2nd, 2006, a group of us was sitting around talking about such esoterica as 'resolutions' and traits within ourselves we'd like to change. In other words, if we have defects or flaws, what would we chuck in order to make life better.
I thought long and hard about this and concluded that I have made numerous changes by this point in my life, and most of the changes I've made were for the better for both me and my loved ones. But, in being human, I also realize that we have traits that we hang onto that may be harmful, perhaps even destructive, but that we don't really have a strong impulse to change them because, quite frankly, we like them. We then decided that we would name the impulse that has probably gotten us into trouble in the past, but that we like sufficiently enough that we hang on. People cited the usual stuff, like smoking, drinking too much, surfeits of horniness, and so forth. Some had mended their ways in regards to the aforementioned, but they still missed them.
I decided that I could address most of them. I still smoke (a teeny bit, but that I would love to quit), I no longer drink, and any horniness I scrupulously try to confine to my connubial state (OK, I confess to a little Jimmy Carter extracurricular lust only in my heart on occasion), but I know that I have a hard time giving up vanity.
I am vain. I have always been vain. Not vainglorious, but certainly desirous of making a certain impression if at all possible by the way I dress, look, cut my hair, approach people, and so forth. In other words, for some reason, it is important to me that people's impressions of my be positive ones. It's not a good impulse to have. I mean, there is nothing wrong in a little pride of being and self-confidence, but it is never good to stake your sense of worth on the impressions you make on others. So, I had to conclude that vanity was an obvious one for me, but I still feel that when I am lying in the box when that day comes, I want to be wearing a nicely cut and fashionable suit.

New Year's thoughts

2006-01-01T16:26:00.000-08:00

So, I see by the paper that Welsh singer Tom Jones has been knighted. Arise, Sir Tom! So, I was wondering, in keeping with Jones' own traditions, did the Queen, in lieu of tapping him with her sword, instead remove her panties and fling the garment at him?
Anyway, I don't hold much with knighting bloody entertainers. Sir Elton John -- yuck! Sir Paul McCartney -- double yuck! I just know deep in my heart that John Lennon, with more talent in his finger than McCartney could conceive of, wouldn't have been offered such a thing. Anymore that would 'Keef' Richards.
Anyway, the whole thing is fraudulent. All honors are fraudulent. They are suckhole awards for people who play the game in the manner the establishment approves of. Except for 'Lady' Judi Dench, of course. I accorded my personal honors on Dame Judi long before the queen ever thought of it.
Quite seriously, though. Such honors were once reserved for genuine heroes in British society. General heroes and, OK, sleazy politicians, but you get my drift. What heroic act has Tom Jones gained fame for? Getting out of the coalmines and making a fortune as a (good, I'll grant) practitioner of his genre of music?
I think this nonsense started with Olivier. Indeed a fine classical and popular actor he was, no doubt. But, no finer than John Geilguid, and (in my esteem) nowhere near as fine as Ralph Richardson, yet the two latter gentlemen had to wait much longer to earn their laurels.
But, what am I rambling on about this subject for, anyway. I am merely here to wish everybody who reads this, as well as my regular blogging and friends, at happy and prosperous 2006. Yes, the change of the year means that we're all getting older, but we are getting older at the same pace.
As a closing thought, going back to Tom Jones; what style of panties do you think the Queen wears? Great big Bridget Jones granny ones? Surely, if there is a God in heaven, not a thong! I mean no disrespect by such a comment, of course. I certainly don't want to blow my chances should I ever make her honors list.

That old Pearl Harbor cat

2005-12-29T09:33:00.000-08:00

Let me make one thing perfectly clear, I have never truly been a 'cat person'. Unlike some, I am not a cat hater, nor am I particularly antagonistic to them as a species -- in fact, I admire some feline traits -- I've just never given them much thought. Dogs I cherish, and I've had some fine dogs in my life, whereas cats I basically tolerate, and don't spend much time thinking about them. All of that, however, was before 'Stumpy' appeared on the scene. The foregoing Pearl Harbor reference stems from the fact that we acquired her, via the SPCA, on December 7th, 2002. It was one of those shopping mall come-ons, where the SPCA trots out cages full of felines in hopes of sucking in the soft-hearted. Living and breathing kitty-cats are much more enticing than newspaper pictures when they have a feline overload at the shelter. Oh yes, I'm wise to their game. Anyway, Wendy had just lost a venerable cat (she is more cat person than I am), and was feeling a bit bereft about it all. Her cat was I think about 2,487 years old in cat years, so she had been with Wendy for a long time. Much longer than I had been. Anyway, I stopped in the drugstore, and when I came out Wendy was emotionally inhaling the caged females. She had noticed one particular creature and was concerned because the SPCA lady had informed her that the cat was very shy, not terribly friendly, and was fearsomely old -- about 13, she estimated. In other words, not highly adoptable. That just broke Wendy's heart. But I, both in a spirit of recognizing her recent loss, and also because I just love getting laid once in a while, suggested that maybe she should avail herself of this cat. "Really?" she asked. "Really," I replied.
The SPCA lady, delighted that we were taking this creature away, let us have her gratis. She extricated her from the cage, and we were struck by a feature that had escaped us when she was curled up. This cat was minus tail. None whatsoever. She was a true Manx. That was cool. I've never liked run-of-the-mill, whether it is with music, art, writing, females or virtually anything else. The eccentric appeals to me greatly.
So, this cat had a name of sorts (which I cannot recall), but I immediately christened her with the sobriquet 'Stumpy.' Not very original, but highly descriptive. No sooner did we have her at home than the fibs of the SPCA became apparent. She was the farthest thing from shy and, despite her lumbering gait, thanks to her Manx-ness, she was strong and more limber than one might have anticipated. We took her to the vet to get checked out, and the vet informed us that there was no way on God's earth that this animal was 13 -- maybe 6 or 7 tops. In other words, we thought, and with some pleasure, she was going to be around for a long, long time.
What struck me very early on about Stumpy was that she was no ordinary cat. She in fact had very little of the conventional cat about her. She followed me around like a dog, inside and out. She talked to me. She was single-minded and immensely self-indulgent. She was as predatory as hell, but the subjects of her predations were not birds (blessedly), but snakes. She would spend hours on a summer day lying in wait for slithering reptilian prey. And she caught them, and if we hadn't been able to rescue her quarry, which we always attempted to do, she would happily bring it into the house to show it off.
Before very long I realized how much I liked her. I liked hater a great deal. She charmed me. I looked forward to seeing her in the morning. She was a very cool cat.
Then, one day last May she took sick. At first I thought she was just off color. She stopped eating; she of normally voracious appetite. At first I paid little heed. We all get out of sorts. But, when her anorexia persisted, for a week, then two, I realized something was amiss. My wife was away at the time, so I had to take matters into my own hands. I took her to the vet. The vet studied her long and hard. She took immensely expensive x-rays. She came back into the chamber in which I was sitting, with Stumpy, and I knew by her expression, that things were not good. Indeed, they were very bad. It was, just like that, 'end-game' for Stumpy. She was destined to only be with us for 2 1/2 years.
The end result was a change in my view of myself. I missed her horribly. I had never really missed a cat before. In fact, even as I write this, I find myself misting up a bit. And, I certainly remembered her on Dec. 7, our funny, awkward and immensely charming little Pearl Harbor cat who was with us for much too short a time.

Along the Napali Trail

2005-12-27T12:29:00.000-08:00

Shortly before Christmas a friend told me with great enthusiasm, how she and another were going to Kauai early in January and were planning to hike along the Napali coast. As much as I like her, I hated her for that. Not that I want to hike the Napali -- it's no place for an acrophobic, with its thousand foot drops from clifftop to the beach and surf below -- but it is still the most wonderful bit of real estate on the planet in my esteem. Indeed, travel writer Paul Theroux maintains Kauai's Napali is the most breathtaking vista in the entire tropical Pacific. I, having seen a few other chunks of land in the oceanic world, tend to agree. However, rather than carrying out the overland trip, I like to view it from the water. That way is less harrowing to my psyche. That's why the accompanying picture looks along from the beach, rather than from above. It shows the scene just before the start of the Napali. The peak at the far end of the beach is Bali Hai, and the Napali is just beyond. The painting may not be all that good, but since it was done by yours truly, it has a bit of emotion connected with it.
Artistic talent or lack thereof, back to acrophobia, which is what this treatise is really all about. As much as I cherish Kauai as my second home, there are precipices there that unnerve me.
Back in the late 1980s, when I first visited Kauai, after having visited most of the other islands over the years, and cherishing them all, I was awestruck by the laid-back beauty of the place. My favorite scene is just down the road from Princeville, where there is a viewing area that offers a panorama of the Hanalei Valley. It's fabulous. Not better than sex (nothing is), but it runs a decent second in my esteem.
In 1992 Hurricane Iniki devastated the island and I didn't go back again until 1995 for a sort of honeymoon for a sort of marriage, that sort of (and blessedly) ended quickly. Yet, a glimpse of the valley from the Hanalei lookout made all the negatives of a big judgment lapse go away very quickly -- at least for a time.
But, the precipices, my dears. The first three times I drove up to Waimea Canyon (a geological marvel Mark Twain equated to the Grand Canyon), I was pretty cool about it. I didn't like the dropoffs, but I was intrigued at the same time. The last time I went up there, just so I could look down on Napali from above, I told my wife, that was "it". The heights had finally unnerved me enough that I knew I couldn't deal with the mountain hugging drive another time.
I don't know where my acrophobia originated, and it pisses me off, because it forces me to forego excursions that are wonderful. I didn't have it when I was young, but the feeling within me has expanded exponentially as I've aged. Now I don't even like looking at films where other people are rock-climbing or steeplejacking. If I were to be told that I either must pass along the window ledge of a skyscraper, or be shot, I would choose the shooting. However, my acrophobia is selective. I don't have it, for example, when I'm up in an airplane. Likewise, I can scale a building in a glass elevator with no particular stress. However, when I reach my destination on, say, the 34th floor, don't ask me to go out on the balcony. That would be out-of-the-question.
So, back to my Kauai visiting friend. When she told me she was going there, I felt a twinge of envy. When she told me she was hiking the Napali, I felt just a little relieved since I feel no cliff-envy at all.

And so this is Christmas ...

2005-12-24T15:23:00.000-08:00

Christmas is a time of emotions that are so mixed it sometimes confounds me and, through all the Christmases in my life, I have never completely sorted out exactly how I am supposed to feel. I don't really think it has ever been exactly the same since I ceased believing in Santa Claus. I continued to believe, I think, until I was about six, but my suspicions were alerted to the possible sham of the enterprise when I was five, going on six.
It happened this way:
I was in kindergarten and I recall looking forward with much enthusiasm to our pending Christmas party, for we had been told that Santa himself would be in attendance. This was heady stuff, and I was beside myself with anticipation. Alas, as the day approached I came down with some sort of childhood affliction, and I couldn't go to kindergarten, let alone have audience with the kindly old elf himself -- now remember, to a young child, Santa Claus is Jesus, the Pope and the Dalai Lama all rolled into one bearded old guy -- so I was heartbroken. But, my mother assured me that even though I couldn't attend the party, Santa was going to make a special trip to my home, as soon as I was better. When my health had returned, my mother told me that Santa was to come that day, and that I was to go out to the roadway at the bottom of the lawn to greet him. My cousin (around the same age) joined me and we stood at the roadside, and I was figuratively (or perhaps literally, considering my age) peeing my pants in excited anticipation. Of course, we didn't look towards the road, we looked to the sky, for the sleigh, you understand. He didn't, however, come from the sky. He arrived in a dusty, grey, Chevrolet. He apologized for his transgression transport-wise, but explained that the elves were tuning up the sleigh in preparation for the big night, which was a couple of days hence. Made sense, I supposed. But, I was a bit crestfallen. Furthermore, Santa himself was remarkably reminiscent, beard notwithstanding, of Mr. Jackson, our kindergarten janitor. I dispelled the thought, and was quite thrilled with the wind-up fire engine the old boy gave me. But, from that day on, I was a bit suspicious that the whole thing was a ruse to make kids good for at least a month.
But, throughout those years, much like Dylan Thomas's Welsh child, there were still bells sufficient within me to carry me through, at least for the next few year's.
Today, I no longer believe in Santa, and I deplore the crass commercialism of the whole thing, and I know damn well I won't be getting a hippopotamus for Christmas. But, there remain a few things I cherish; the love of family and friends; remembrance of Christmases past; certain carols; Alastair Sim in Scrooge, the only version of A Christmas Carol worth watching (although I'll confess to a certain admiration for the Bill Murray version, Scrooged, which I think is much more praiseworthy than critics ever accorded it); the Cambridge Kings College Choir singing In Dulce Jubilo; mandarin oranges; the few moments of magic the first thing on Christmas morning; and the view out my front window of Queneesh (the Comox Glacier) on a frosty December morning of a few weeks ago. Right now, of course, we have the 'Pineapple Express' happening, but I can still think back to a week or so ago.
And that is all about Christmas for me now. To all my friends, loved ones, cyber and otherwise, have a blessed season.

Huggy-kissy justice

2005-12-22T16:01:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the new world, folks! It's great. You can go out on the streets and do absolutely anything depraved or violent you put your feeble little mind to and, get this -- There's No Penalty! Dirtbag mows down promising young artist on the streets of Vancouver and he gets to spend Christmas with Mom! What could be nicer? What could be more compassionate? Creepy dope dealer gets his sentence reduced by a day so that he won't be automatically turfed from this fine land? His first offence as a non-citizen? Shit, no. One of many. And meanwhile the adoring and compassionate judges who make such findings tend to sleep and sleep the sleep of babes. It's a wonderful society in which there is no punishment for malefactors. Put juvenile transgressors, no matter how revolting their behavior, no matter how others have suffered as a result of their crap, behind bars? Not a bit of it. Conditional sentencing is the order of the day.
Frankly, I find it refreshing to watch the endless reruns of Law & Order just to see how a real justice system deals with bad people. It's sort of the way Canada formerly dealt with criminals, so L & O can evoke a nostalgic impulse in me. I'm not necessarily praising all aspects of the American system of jurisprudence, and it can be unduly harsh in some jurisdictions (how many folks did they hang in Texas today?), but surely to God there must be a happy medium that the boneheaded judges in this boneheaded country might look towards.
Of course, in Canada we believe in rehabilitation of our criminals, never, ever in punishment for crimes committed. Any spirit of revenge or closure satisfaction for those wronged must not be considered by our courts.
So, Merry Christmas to all with conditional sentences. I suspect your Christmas will be little different from anybody else's. Your Christmas, however, will be entirely different from the one experienced by those you victimized.

A day in the death of Richard Pryor

2005-12-21T14:52:00.000-08:00

Just recently Richard Pryor died again. However, unlike his many earlier deaths, this one looks like it is for keeps. How sad. And, at only 65, it is very young. On the other hand, the fact that he made it to three-score-and-five is a pretty phenomenal testament to the human spirit. To state that Mr. Pryor had an eventful life -- with his seven wives, assorted heart attacks, huge drug and alcohol woes, run-ins with the law, and various brushes with death -- would be to state the case mildly. Yet, it was the drama of his life that gave him his edge. Without it he would have been just a run-of-the-mill comic, rather than a comedic genius.
To me, the man was brilliant. I will say without hesitation he was the funniest man that I, as an 'entertainee' ever encountered. Oh sure, there are other amusing human beings. There are other comedic individuals who have always given me pause, such as W.C. Fields, Groucho Marx, Jack Benny, recently departed Ronnie Barker, George Carlin back when he was still current rather than a pallid imitation of what once he was, and many others. But nobody, in my esteem, was as brilliant as Pryor. He absolutely devastated me with his humor. I don't go into gales of laughter without profound cause, but in Pryor's case, just a certain expression on his face (any expression would do) would send me into those gales.
I first saw Pryor on Ed Sullivan in the early 1960s, waaaaaaaay back when those of his hue were still known as 'Negroes'. From the first instance, I was hooked by the guy. There was something about him that made him different. It wasn't because he was black -- Cosby was already around -- and it wasn't because he was especially raw (certainly not on crusty old Ed's show; remember, he wouldn't let the Stones sing Let's spend the night together), but because he was funny. He was so very funny.
In his later acts, Pryor got quite profane. Yet, he was never a 'blue' comic -- that is, using smut for the sake of smut. Nor was he ever vulgar. He talked like the street guy he was. When he used the term "motherfucker", it wasn't an expletive, it was the way real folks of the ilk he was describing, talked. It was smooth. It was real. And, you know it was never gratuitous, because you don't really remember the profanity, you only remember the routine. It's like 'non-gratuitous' eroticism or nudity in a movie. If you remember the film rather than the fucking, then you know the sex was slotted in just where it should have been, in a manner it should have been.
Pryor's comedy was like that.
He shouldn't have been funny. He should have been in prison, or living the life of a street-junkie. He should have died decades before he did. Young black guys from the ghetto don't have great longevity, demographically. Pryor was that young black man from the worst part of the ghetto. Raised in a whorehouse by his grandmother, after having been abandoned by his hooker mother, everything worked against him.
Except one thing. Genius. I don't use the term 'genius' lightly, ever. But, Mr. Pryor, you qualified for the appellation. God grant you rest. You earned it.

Letters -- we get letters

2005-12-19T14:54:00.000-08:00

At an earlier time in the world's and my own history, I was a pretty decent correspondent (as opposed to co-respondent; I was one of those once, too, but that is an entirely different story). I wrote lots of letters, and I received a fair number. These were snail mail missives and, despite the fact that people assume naughty correspondence began with the loss of inhibition emailing invites, people wrote 'dirty' via the Canada post route, too. It just took a lot longer to get to the good stuff. Maybe that was better. I once met a beautiful young woman on a plane from Hawaii to Vancouver. She was only 20, and much younger than I was at the time. But, we hit it off famously, and we vowed, when we parted each other's company, that we would correspond. And we did. And over a period of two or three years, our letters got dirtier and dirtier. Finally, a number of years later, we decided after our respective marriages had broken up -- not because of each other, by the way -- that phone sex would be better. And, it was true. It cut to the chase with greater rapidity and we had, I must confess, some fantastic sessions with each other. The irony is, we never had sex in real life. And that, I think, is what's different. There is a detachment between the real thing, and just expressions of the real thing. We are still close, she and I, 20 years later. We are both remarried, and happily. About a year ago she and I were chatting about this and that, and I said: "Do you find it odd that we've never had sex with each other?" "In a way," she replied. "But, I'm not going to do it now. My conscience wouldn't let me. Anyway, we had phone sex lots of times back then, and it was really good."
Indeed it was, but it wasn't the same. I was put in mind of this when I read a front page article in the National Post yesterday that was discussing lewd blogs by college age people, especially female, and the absolute frankness and sometimes lewdness of them. There was a bit of a tut-tut tone to the article, and I began to wonder if it was a bad thing for young females especially to run accounts and photos of their sex lives and longings, photos that range from depictions of sweet young things at such innocent endeavors as homecoming games and general frolicking, to being shitfaced drunk and peeing in somebody's kitchen sink, or even less appropriate places. Where are the boundaries? Well, maybe there never were any. Maybe we always were more candid than most people suspected. I think the difference was, we were candid, frank, phone-fucked and did all those things, but we didn't do them so that others could tap in. Therein, no doubt, lies the difference. I don't know if the difference is good, bad or (ahem) indifferent, but it is indeed different.

I like peanut butter ...

2005-12-14T14:43:00.000-08:00

Everyone by now has heard the utterly awful tale of the young Quebec girl who died of anaphylaxis after kissing her boyfriend. Lots of kisses we have in our lives hold the potential for distressing consequences, but few are so overtly fatal. The reason for the young lady's death stemmed from the fact that she had a severe peanut allergy, and her beau had consumed a PB sandwich a full eight hours before their amorous interlude. How utterly tragic for all concerned.
I would hate to have a peanut allergy for, aside from the possibility of a lethal reaction to peanut products consumed unwittingly, I would miss peanut butter especially. I love peanut butter (just like the song), and find that it works wonderfully well with nearly anything. I have it on toast every morning, I often use it as a base for a chicken wings marinade prior to barbecuing, I am impressed with the dishes of Thailand and Indonesia, because they use peanuts and peanut butter in damn near everything. It is a fine substance. A number of years ago I moved to England for a year, and I was apprehensive about the move because I was afraid they might not have yet discovered PB. To my relief, I was wrong. About 5 years ago we took a blissful trip to the Cook Islands, and I again wondered about PB, and thought perhaps I should have brought my own. Fortunately, they had fine stuff there. It was a curious brand name called 'sanitarium', which made me think of TB wards, but the substance itself was quite acceptable.
I am a bit of a purist with my PB, and I only buy the natural product, not the homogenized stuff, which is OK, but just OK, but it has such icky additives as sugar. The pure stuff only has peanuts and peanut oil. The most common natural brand is Adams, which is a bit more costly than the average. The Safeway house brand, however, is very good, quite on a par with Adams, and about half the price.
It's sad about those with allergies, and I sympathize profoundly. I mean, I wouldn't give up sex for the sake of peanut butter, but it runs a pretty close second in my esteem in terms of sensual pleasure. Combining the two? I don't know, I've never tried. Anyway, enough smut. All I know is that I think I should build a little shrine of remembrance to good old George Washington Carver because, without his discovery, life would be just a little less agreeable.

I shot a man in Reno ...

2005-12-08T11:19:00.000-08:00

"So, Paul Martin says he wants to raise the minimum penalties for handgun crimes in this country," observed a friend over coffee this morning. "What's he going to do, raise the current penalty to a four-year 'conditional' sentence?"
I share his cynicism over the matter. Do you imagine that the bad guys are really petrified by the draconian new stance of the federal 'Inane Party'; you know, the one that is held sacred by all the good burghers of Ontario, and despised for the snakes they are by everybody else? I think not, somehow.
"Geez, Harry, you've got a hand-gun. You obviously didn't read what Paul Martin had said about such weapons and the penalties entailed just by mere possession."
"No, Ralph, I didn't. But now that you've told me, I guess I darn well better get rid of it, and do my part to reduce violent crime in this country."
Oh, and of course, there is precedent for his scheme. I mean really, folks, witness the stunning success of the National Firearms Registry that preceded it.
Yet, I do understand dismay with the proliferation of ugly weaponry in our society. I hate the fact that there are so many gun crimes today. Why young gangsters have to resort to gunplay is beyond my comprehension. In my youth they were perfectly content with switchblades, chains, brass-knuckles and clubs.
Let us be realistic, however. If you really want to treat bad guys with guns effectively, you can hardly do it with legislation. Bad people don't care about legislation, that's why they're bad people. No, you have to make sure the good guys, i.e. the cops, are heavily armed, and you have to give them leave to use their guns against street-scum without writing interminable letters decrying police brutality every time the cops pop somebody.
There, that's my Lawrence Black rant for today.

He's dead -- get over it

2005-12-04T09:11:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I hate to admit it, but I am actually of the generation who first saw the Beatles on Ed Sullivan back in February 1964. I was, like millions of my contemporaries, quite enthralled with the 'Fab Four', and the person who struck me with no small impact was John Lennon. That happened right at the beginning. He was one of those dudes who was indefinably 'cool' in the manner of a James Dean, or big-band drummer extraordinnaire Gene Krupa. Just something about the guy.
In December of 1980 I was living in England. I remember talking to my landlord the day Lennon was brutally and tragically murdered, and he said he couldn't understand the almost obscene outpouring of grief for somebody he regarded as nothing more than a singer. "For Christ's sake," he said in exasperation. "You'd think the Queen had been assassinated, not some bloody rock-and-roll singer."
Today, witnessing the almost obscene outpouring of hyperbole involving the 25th anniversary of Lennon's murder, makes me realize there was wisdom to my landlord's words. Maybe it's because I'm older, but I don't think it's just that.
What was John Lennon. He was, at best, a remarkably talented tunesmith and lyricist, with skills that still render the far less gifted Paul McCartney livid with jealousy, and Macca shows his pique with much regularity. But, alas, that is what Lennon was, and little more than that. I can be grateful for his talent. In speaking of which, I consider 'Imagine' to be a banal and decidedly inferior offering in his opus. Melodically it is pretty enough, but the lyrics are trite and silly. It's emotive, with virtually no substance.
But, that gets us to the other John Lennon; the one that is too conveniently ignored with such outpourings of grief. For he was, at worst, an ego-driven, greedy alcoholic hypocrite, who abused his first wife and patently ignored his son, Julian. He played a left-wing game while he and his adulterous second wife acquired half the real estate on Long Island. He was a so-called 'stay at home father', who mainly was too stoned to get off his ass and share the talent he had with the rest of the world, until the very end of his life.
Yes, his murder was beastly and sad. But, the nonsense that subsequently surrounded it is so reminiscent of the similar nonsense around the equally tragic early demise of Princess Diana. But, you know, shit happens, and if we can't adjust to that, we are lost.
Much of these displays relates to the power we give people who are, for God's sake, entertainers. Why do we exalt such people? Who is, for example, this Bono person who dares to intrude on the running of assorted states (including our own) so that he can lay his trip of compassion and care on democratically elected (for better or for worse) politicians. I mean, really, who is he? He's an Irish rock-and-roll singer of middling talent. Why are his opinions fawned over? Indeed, it's arguable that his (sort of) namesake, 'Sonny' Bono contributed much more to his society by actually being elected as a congressman, rather than pontificating from some self-proclaimed position as global moral watchdog.
I shudder when people are rendered to be more than they are. Nothing wrong with being an entertainer. Do that, and do it well. And for a few brief years, before he saw himself as much more than he really was, John Lennon did just that, and I loved him for it.
Rest in peace, John. And may others let you rest in peace, too.

A rude and nasty society

2005-11-30T15:29:00.000-08:00

A UK writer named Lynne Truss has recently penned a bestseller titled Talk to the Hand, which is subtitled, The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, in which she decries, well, the utter bloody rudeness of the world today. She strides the planet aghast by the boorishness of her striving, getting and spending fellow inhabitants of especially our part of the world -- that is, Britain and North America. And, in her good-natured diatribe she cites examples galore to show that we are so self-obsessed that we, quite frankly, do not give a sweet fuck for the well-being and comfort of others. Speaking of "sweet fuck", she even has material devoted to the overuse of the 'F-word' in a society that used to be much more polite. When I lived in Britain a number of years ago, an English friend, who had traveled fairly extensively, said that the thing that had rendered him aghast in America was the blithe use of the term fuck by females, noting that a decent English girl would never utter the term except perhaps in a moment of deepest intimacy, when it would be used, correctly, as a sexual reference. I am certain that he also must despair over the state of his homeland, since much of Lynne's dismay refers to the linguistic and other habits of Britain -- a land that used to be noted for its reserve and politeness.
But, we all face boors every day. Even as simple a matter as buying groceries in the express lane becomes a pissoff due to the rude creeps who try to shuttle through 15 items in a lane that suggests a max of 10. A pretty good excuse to shank somebody, if I were a violent person. But, witness it elsewhere; the road-rage assholes; the people who never thank you for holding a door; people serving you who assume a familiarity with you that they have not been given leave to do; the creeps in movie houses who have driven masses of the public away due to their abject rudeness, and refusal to shut up while the film is on, and there is, as well all know, a special hell reserved for cell-phone boors who insist in sharing animated conversations with the public at large.
There are also those who are cause-driven and who believe they have the right to be as rude and obnoxious, and sometimes even violent for the sake of something they believe in, that others might not subscribe to. Nothing wrong with having a cause. Nothing wrong with conveying your message to others, but there is everything wrong with suggesting in a heated manner that those who do not subscribe to your cause are morons, or even evil for not embracing your philosophy. In that I recently praised my newfound blogger friend, Siel (aka greenlagirl.blogspot.com/) for the gentle philosophical bias of her thoughts on fair trade coffee. She conveys her message, explains it succinctly, and has also an infectious sense of humor and chattiness, and catches, as I suggested to her, by using honey rather than vinegar. That I like. She even managed to change my opinion on free trade coffee, and that's no small accomplishment for a hidebound old sonofabitch like I am.
But, back to the forces of "niceness", as Maxwell Smart would have it. This morning I held the door of a shop in town for an elderly lady. She thanked me graciously. And, then, when I was standing behind her at the cash register, she asked me if I were in a hurry. I said that actually I was. She then suggested that I take her spot in line as she wasn't in a rush.
That's the way civilization should work. So, bravo to Lynne Truss for decrying what we've allowed ourselves to become.

Sorry, Stan, but you're wrong

2005-11-29T14:23:00.000-08:00

Despite the fact Children and Families Minister Stan Hagen is my MLA, and despite the fact that he is a provincial Liberal (which sits OK with me, even though it doesn't with some folk: although we recently learned that party notwithstanding, they're all pigs at the same trough), I must take some significant umbrage with his stance against granting parents the right to force detox on drug-addicted kids.
Actually, such parent-initiated confinement of a dope addled kid is practiced in some provinces, but it won't be the case in B.C., says Mr. Hagen.
He objects to the idea, he says, because it doesn't work very well.
Of that, I can only say, wherein did you gain your expertise in addiction processes, Stan? Of course, everybody has their views on how to deal with addiction -- as Jimmy Durante used to say, "Everybody wantsta get into de act!" -- some views are valid, others are bullshit. I am not suggesting Hagen's objection to forced detox is bullshit, because in some cases it's to no avail to put somebody into a program when that person is not ready. But, in other cases, it actually does work. I've seen it work, and it's a wonderful thing when it does.
I know at least a tiny bit about the process since I am actually an accredited addictions counselor. Mr. Hagen is not.
I have seen people thrust kicking-and-screaming into detox and ultimately rehab. But then, sometimes -- just sometimes -- something of a miracle happens. Miracle is not a term I use loosely, by the way. But, miracle is the word that applies when somebody in the grips of a fearsome addiction slowly, steadily starts to 'get it.' And, of such people, I know of individuals who are clean, sober productive members of society, and have been for a number of years now.
There was a time when I would point out these facts to an assemblage of clients: "Some of you will go back out; some of you will stay clean and sober for a while, then you'll slip. And some of you will stay sober for keeps. If only one of 20 does that, then one human being has been saved, and that to me is an amazing thing."
So, I think you should reconsider your view on this, Stan. It might actually be worth somebody's life.

They're all snakes

2005-11-22T13:34:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I think politicians can't appall me any longer, when I think I am jaded and cynical enough that I've virtually seen it all it's then that they go and do something that staggers me yet again. This time it's all so easy. It's about their big fat fucking raise that they, with an incredible sense of entitlement, decided should come their way. Nothing to do with performance, nothing to do with meeting the mark on all fronts, and therefore should be duly rewarded, but just a sheer droit de siegneur sense of entitlement. They are truly amazing. Over the bodies of a bunch of dead kids, they will give themselves, out of the pockets of us all, a raise of 15, 20, 30 percent, depending on position. And hand-in-hand they went, in full-accord on this, and worst of all was that they expected the people of the province to accept it all with equanimity. The most appalling player of all in this was the NDP's Carole James. And, man is this going to hurt her. It will hurt her and her party far more than it will hurt the Liberals, of whom one expects them to be a tad on the venal side. But the NDP, the weasely, hypocritical party-of-the-people. That one really stinks. What stinks even more, in my opinion, was Ms. James' disingenuous comments the next day when she decided to backtrack and to suggest that she really, really didn't go along with it, and she would heed the will of the people. So, Ms. James, why did you ever think it would fly the first time around. Blame the Liberals all you want, and they are worthy of blame, but mainly blame your disgusting showing in the whole matter. For you all, I'll merely hearken to the words of Franklin D. Roosevelt in decrying the bad guys in another conflict: "A plague on both your houses."

A good cuppa joe

2005-11-12T15:26:00.000-08:00

We have some good coffee joints in this town now and that is a wonderful balm to me because I not only like coffee, but I find I need the ambiance of an agreeable venue. And, I am old-fashioned about the substance, too. When I want coffee, I want coffee. I want mud, I want joe, I don't want any namby-pamby cappucinos or lattes, I want good old fashioned caffeine with a powerful jolt. Oh, and decaf? Hardly. Decaf is shaking hands with gloves on; sex with your pants on. It defeats the point of coffee, which is the buzz, of course. As for the aforementioned 'candy-coffees', they are to me substances ordered by people who don't really like coffee. So, if you don't like coffee, why pretend you do? Order a Coke, order a milkshake, order a smoothie. Why order a concoction that costs nearly as much as a martini that only has a semblance of coffee about it, and that also ties up the barrista for ages while I am waiting for my plain old mud. Pisses me off. Fancy coffees remind me of fancy cocktails of the sort consumed by people who don't really like the taste of booze. People who like booze don't order a cocktail, unless said cocktail be a martini, which is, of course, 100% alcohol, with no fancy little mixer substance included to disguise the taste of the gin and vermouth.
We have two local purveyors of the elixir of the bean, and both are within easy walking distance. I like each for different reasons, depending on my mood. The first one I like for the coffee, the setting, and one of the barristas who is tiny, cute, blonde, and friendly, 19-ish and just so adorable that I want to -- well -- adopt her, OK? The other place is actually upstairs at a supermarket nearby and is decked out like the most comfortable lounge imagineable. And, I genuinely like the two women who usually are the purveyors, and they have become close enough friends that sometimes they join us just to chat. And, the place is a Starbucks outlet, to boot. And, I am not a member of that fraternity that chooses to decry Starbucks. I happen to like their product because it is bold and brave and, while not the best coffee I've every had, it nevertheless delivers. The aforementioned first place, with my fantasy-figure barrista has so-called 'fair-trade' coffee. So, what's the deal with that? Oh, the coffee is great, but do people really think that Manuel working on a fair-trade plantation is actually making more dinero than poor old Juan Valdez who is toiling on the evil corporate plantation down the road? I am skeptical about all that business. I think it's a ruse designed to satisfy the more PC amongst us, and will continue to believe that until somebody proves otherwise.
The whole coffee thing is great, though. I've frequented coffee outlets all over the place. The last time my wife and I were on Kauai -- our favorite getaway on the planet -- we found they had opened a Starbucks finally. It was great. Starbucks has become almost as ubiquitous as McDonald's and, like the Arches, you always know what you're getting.
The most enticing coffee outlet we ever went to, however, did not draw because of the coffee, but due to the confections. The coffee was good enough, but in this place, aptly called 'The Cafe' and which was situated in the teeny capital city of the Cook Islands, Avarua, we found pastries, cakes and other bits of decadence that I will suggest in my experience are unequaled in any patisserie on the planet.
And now I'm hungry, and I also would mind a cuppa.

Don't touch that dial ...

2005-11-10T16:07:00.000-08:00

In their sometimes inspired annual 'Dubious Achievement Awards', Esquire would regularly include the item: Now playing at the Hell Cineplex, in which they would list six or eight of the most execrable films of the previous year, with the idea being, of course, if you were condemned to eternal damnation, that would be all you would be able to find in the way of celluloid entertainment -- no doubt on an endless loop.
They same thought came to me about radio (the abysmal state of which probably demands a scathing blog in its own right) the other morning when they played the shudderingly awful You're Having my Baby by the shudderingly awful Paul Anka. "Canadian or not," I said to my wife, "I think it should be illegal to pollute the airwaves with any Paul Anka offering."
She essentially agreed, and said that her idea of hell would be, on the other hand, being forced to listen to Spinning Wheel, by Blood, Sweat and Pus (oh, pardon me, Tears) for eternity. Agreeing with her, and taking it a bit further, I began to devise my play-list for eternal agony. I mean, to be honest, you could basically take the playlist of any AM radio station, and it would suffice in terms of awfulness, but I thought I should refine it more.
So, also included would be most of Neil Diamond's ouevre, the agonizingly hideous, awful, disgusting, maudlin complete and utter puke called Seasons in the Sun, by Terry Jacks -- for which recording he should still be doing time, as far as I am concerned. Then you have the record that I understand has been behind a number of rage-induced multiple homicides in the U.S., that Titanic inspired ditty screeched by the frightening-enough-in-herself Celine Dion. If I never hear it again, it will still be waaaaaaaaaaay too soon.
But wait, there's more. How about MacArthur Park? Why must we give a sweet fuck if someone left the cake out in the rain? And how did the destruction of said cake also seem to annihilate the recipe, which the singer will "never have again."
In my musical hell you would also find I write the Songs, by Barry Manilow, even though he never did write any of the alleged songs. Paul McCartney has written all sorts of overrated and schlocky poop over the years, but his nadir had to come with the woefully obvious Ebony and Ivory. How Macca managed to get Stevie Wonder to be part of this banal exercise is beyond comprehension.
Feelings. Nuff sed. Honey by Bobby Goldsboro. Leading contender for the Terry Jacks award for banality and diabetes-inducing sentimentality. Horse With No Name, by America, translates to Horse with No Meaning by a group desperately trying (and failing) to sound like a choral Neil Young.
There are many many more, and feel free to think of your own. But remember, these cannot be just bad songs, these must be offerings that render you insensible, suicidally depressed, needing to take up a long discarded drug habit once again, enraged, homicidal or apt to lose bladder and bowel control in a public place. What I mean is, some songs are bad, but listenable, you know, like Sugar Sugar by the Archies. Unless, of course, this is one that forces you to reach for the Depends box. You see, it's all highly arbitrary.

I'm not egocentric, just brilliant!

2005-11-09T14:36:00.000-08:00

I am perpetually intrigued by egomaniacs; those individuals who give the impression at least that they are creatures of great accomplishment, and that others should flock to hear their words of wisdom. I am intrigued because such souls are often the antithesis of the esteem in which they and (inexplicably) others hold them. I mean, who are these people and who decided that sizable chunks of the populace should want to embrace their pronouncements?
You know who they are. Politics abounds with the ego-driven; dullards who would decide the destinies of the rest of us. What deity proclaimed that a George W. Bush could possibly aspire to be President of the United States? Why would the chirpy and dishonest Tony Blair think he would have a right to decide the fortunes of the United Kingdom? The less mentioned about his utterly icky and creepy wife Cherie (who charges about 10 grand a pop to speak) the better.
Entertainment and entertainers are amazing in this realm. When they are not decrying the state-of-world, a la Bono, or saving the world's children, a la Angelina (all the while fucking another woman's husband, but still coming up smelling of roses as far as People mag is concerned), or fulminating against foreign policies about which, while they may be right, are still no more qualified to make pronouncements about than is your butcher. And, when they're not sharing their views on how the world should work, they present scientific theories generated by their own cultism, such as decrying of psychotherapy by Scientology Uber-midget, Tom Cruise. Son, you're a so-so actor, nothing more. Count your box-office receipts, embrace your child girlie-girl, and shut the fuck up -- or words to that effect. I think Brooke Shields said pretty much the same.
But, OK, here is what I don't get about this ego thing. Why don't I have it? I think I'm entitled to it. Was it something my parents did or did not do that left me lacking in self-confidence of the sort that should tell me everybody should want to hear from me. It's not that I'm falsely humble. I think I do OK at what I do. But maybe I should be pushier. Here I am, I have earned my living as a professional writer for nearly three decades; why am I always rendered insecure when submitting a freelance piece? Why do I want to crawl into the woodwork if such a piece is rejected? I mean, I have won national and provincial awards for my writing skills, but I still end up feeling like a fraud who is impertinent for seeking publication in a major newspaper. I have been published, a number of times, in major newspapers. I've even been published in the Times of London, one of your more reputable rags, yet I still find myself, especially when I read other scribes whom I might respect, feeling like I have no right to hold the coats of such people as a Mike Royko, P.J. O'Rourke, or even Hunter S. Thompson in one of his more insane rants.
I have no answer for any of this, I only offer a caveat. Be wary of the self-obsessed, and never pay more than 20-bucks to hear a professional speaker. Nobody on the rubber-chicken circuit is worth more than 20 bucks. Hell, I can be had for $18.95, and I'm still fairly cute, to boot.

Pistol-packin' mamas

2005-11-06T09:41:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, when I used to cover the police beat for a local newspaper, I took a photo of an attractive female RCMP member, bedecked in red serge, who was out for a photo op publicizing the DARE program in the schools. DARE had just been provided a Volkswagen Beetle by a car dealer as a vehicle for the program. The lady cop in question positioned herself, along with a number of her colleagues for the shorts, and in one she rose up through the sun-roof of the car, and made a Queen Elizabeth wave. I snapped the shot. "Oh God," she said, "You didn't take a picture of that!" To make a long story short, that was the shot the editor ran, in full color, on the front page. After all, it was a good picture.
A few days later I was at the weekly press conference at the detachment office, and the staff-sergeant who handled such things, said: "By the way, you have one member extremely pissed off with you." I laughed. He then said: "Remember two things; she's female, and she's armed."
The mentioning of her being both female and armed, I must confess, sent a little thrill of arousal through me. I felt like Homer Simpson in one of his speculative fantasies. Mmm -- female and armed. I'll go no further with the images that ran through my warped psyche.
By the way, as an aside, I still have the picture, and I even gave a copy of it to the pretty lady cop, who actually has become a personal friend over the last couple of years.
But, I guess there is something Freudian about a female with the ultimate in force strapped to her belt. For, I do also have to confess to a certain adolescent crush on Kathryn Erbe as Alex on Law & Order Criminal Intent, certainly when her character, Alex, lips back insufferably egotistical Bobby, but most of all when she is around the HQ, jacket off, tight black slacks, with heat hanging off her trim hip. Wow! It couldn't be better if she was standing in flimsy undies or even naked.
All things considered, I've always liked forceful women. I've always been a bit turned on by a take-charge female. If she has been turned on by me, so much the better, because I find that situation a highly charged one, since my feelings have nothing to do with me being masochistic or wanting to be bullied. I just like the cut of a jib of a woman who keeps her 'girlie-girl' in check, except when she needs to use it -- and sometimes she does.
Another female cop I knew was one I did a couple of imbedded assignments with, and, as attractive as she was, and she indeed was, she was always in cop gear. The thing I found immensely interesting about her was that she was a former Israeli commando, and thoroughly knew how to take care of herself. But, in one incident, she brought it all together. It was at a police sponsored media function. The lady PC (as they're called in the UK) entered the room in an exquisitely frilly ensemble. It was perfect. I immediately fell in situational love with her and asked my beating heart to be still. Oh no, nothing untoward was afoot. She was taken, as was I, but I did secretly thank her for doing it so right. Whether or not she was packing heat, I didn't have the nerve to ask.

Was there ever any doubt?

2005-11-02T09:14:00.000-08:00

What are the primary differences between the Liberal hegemony in Ottawa and the thuggish regime of Robert Mugabe? Mainly complexion and the fact that fewer machetes are wielded along he Rideau Canal. In other words, the long-anticipated (by upwards of seven terminally naive Canadians) findings of the Gomery Commission are exactly what the more jaded of us had anticipated; a complete whitewash of the filth in the hopes that said filth will again appear pure and virginal. For Mr. Deer-in-Headlights who is prepared to make any Faustian bargain he can to hold onto any vestige of power, utter exoneration. For Christ's sake, the sonofabitch was finance minister during Chretien's thuggish regime, and someone in Greater Hull is prepared to tell me he had no inkling of the crap that was transpiring. Then, what in hell was he doing to fill out his days? Obviously not counting the beans very effectively. But, like Schultz, he "saw nothing."
Anyway, of this huge 'official' waste of taxpayers bucks, designed to render the Grits squeakily clean (or 'cleanish') will result in none of the bastards doing hard-time. The swine will continue to chuckle about how yet another con worked handily and sappish Canadians, being offered no alternative to one party rule. What do we do? Some of the Tories are well-meaning (when they aren't pissing on each other's shoes), and they might even boost their chances if Harper could only master the abstract concept of having a personality -- he reminds me of the clean-cut college frat-rat who was sent in to placate the Dean the next morning after the previous evening's piss-up had resulted in a minor fire and three charges of sexual assault; either that or Al Gore with even less pizzazz. And Jack Layton? In a word, puh-leeze! That sonofabitch will make a pact with either the Liberals or the PQ or appeal to the spirit of the long-gone and always overrated Tommy Douglas in order to increase his creds with the few voters for whom his teeny rump-party has an appeal.
So, we're hooped, folks. The system has long been broken, and only the government can fix it. And, since the government is the one that is able to stay in power via this broken system, then no such thing is going to happen.
On the other hand, British Columbia could divest itself from all of the crap by just politely withdrawing. Now there's a cunning plan. And that will happen the same day that Gordon Campbell is invited to give Jinny Simms a big wet tongue-kiss. In other words, about 3.5 lifetimes from now.

Little touch of Amsterdam urbanity

2005-10-31T15:06:00.000-08:00

I see where Vancouver's vastly overrated Mayor Larry Campbell (if only his talents were even in the same galaxy as his ego) has suggested that his city should look into establishing a red-light district for the sake of the protection of all comers (sorry) in that sad trade. He envisions, no doubt, something akin to the red-light district in Amsterdam, where the pretty ladies, clad in enticing lingerie sit in windows and display their charms for the passerby. Very civilized, those Dutch. But, would such a thing work in Vancouver? I mean, this guy is such a visionary, that if you want to see his legacy, just take a stroll in the sanitized and charming eastside and see what a fun spot it has become due to Larry's inspiration.
On the other hand, there is merit to his idea. Merit at a number of levels. In the first place, sex has always been a commodity and it always will be, and just pretending it's not does not translate to reality. In fact, there is nothing that much wrong with sex being a commodity, as long as all parties involved are content with the arrangement. It's just a bit of rudimentary commerce. In fact, at its most fundamental level it's not even that dirty or sleazy, unless you think that intercourse is dirty and sleazy, in which case I'll suggest you have an entirely different problem. After all, what takes place in a 'professional tryst' isn't really all that different from what takes place on a lot of Saturday nights after a good dinner and a couple of decent bottles of wine.
At the second level, the idea is commendable in that it would take the trade out of the hands of the sleazy pimps and provide a level of protection for the girls and, considering the horrors of the Pig Farm, that level of protection has heretofore been sorely lacking. So, right on in that regard. I do not hold hookers in any sort of contempt and I would rather that they are safely able to ply their trade and not suffer threats of mayhem or worse either from creepy johns, or even creepier pimps.
Personally, I would vouch for the Nevada mustang ranch model. I think it is an idea that would work in this hemisphere more effectively than anything to be found in the Netherlands. Again, sex is merely a transaction and nothing more.
There is a downside to all of this, however. Prostitution in these parts has been extensively infiltrated by gangsters and dope-dealers, and a lot of the hookers (male and female) are heavily addicted and are plying the trade to either generate enough cash to feed a habit, or to pay off a debt. Are the bad guys really going to want to stand aside if pussy-purveying is legalized.
I was once acquainted with the operator of an escort agency (as a journalist, of course) and she told me she was going to get out because the dealers were too intrusive in the running of her business. A couple of the girls who were present during our conversations -- which we carried out over a period of time for a feature series I was writing -- agreed entirely, but they (even though they were drug free) didn't want to leave because the money was too good.
All I can say is, sex for sale is not ever going to go away, so if we (or even Larry Campbell) can find an honestly workable solution -- not like his crappy 'four-pillars' program, in which only one pillar has ever come into place -- then even I will tip my hat to him.

By the way, as an absolute non-sequitur: If the members of PETA are really sincere in their obsessive concerns about animal welfare, why don't you ever hear of them hassling leather-clad outlaw bikers? Just thought I'd ask.

It just ain't so

2005-10-28T09:20:00.000-07:00

I find it highly amusing and utterly infuriating to hear assorted federal types, and not a few in this province to go railing on about public versus private health care access in this country. I'm not about to get into the debate. I have my views on the matter and I'll keep them as my own. No, what pisses me off is the knee-jerk 'liberal' (with a small 'l' if you please) attitude about 'two-tiering' as in "there will be no two-tiering in Canada's health care. I ask, why in heaven's name not? And, I ask this because this most smug, yet very corrupt in its governance core, is a highly two-tiered nation. We're all equal? As if. And the biggest double-tier manifestation lies in the fact that those who are on the payroll of the government, any government in this land, are treated much more benevolently than the hard-working bulk of the population.
Take any public servant and consider what he or she receives compared with those who labor in the private sector, and then try to keep a straight face when you hold to any belief that we don't have two tiers. Let's just look at health care. How many people in the private sector, or self-employed receive government-subsidized health care? How many public employee kids, conversely, go without adequate dental care? Very few, I would be bold enough to suggest. How many non-union private sector employees have extended sick leave.
And then, when you get to pensions, the mythology contained in our official sanctions against two-tiering in this "glorious and free" land are enough to make a body want to puke. We are told to watch our funds and invest wisely in RSPs -- which, by the way, the government will tax to the tits when they mature -- while a big chunk of the population has a lucrative pension scheme built into their employment. Pension schemes that are subsidized by the tax dollars of those Canadians who do not get any pension whatsoever, other than a paltry, subsistence level CP payment should they have made it to 65.
Am I pissed off about this? You betcha. Do I expect the weasels in Ottawa to do anything about it? You betcha not! Why would they. The assholes in line for the pensions and other perks also make the rules that shaft the majority of working Canadians.
Two-tiering indeed.
Phew, that feels better.

Middle-class Mom Madge

2005-10-24T16:30:00.000-07:00

Dontcha just love it? Was reading a story in the Sunday Times of London about Madonna's child-rearing ethic and how she is a tough-love parent, unprepared to cut her wee charges any sort of slack in raising decent and responsible citizens. On the one hand, it's kind of admirable to learn that there exist some modern parents who are prepared to impose some standards of behavior and citizens on their tiny tots, and on the other hand, this is Madonna, for heaven's sake! This is a person for whom, in her past at least, behaving with propriety and exercising tastefulness and respect were alien concepts. She will not, for example, permit her munchkins to watch television, describing TV as "poison". Fair enough, and not entirely inaccurate considering some of the execrable, vulgar and mindless shit that dominates the airwaves. But, she who produced highly sexualized and graphic music videos to decry the medium seems, shall I suggest, hypocritical. This is a woman who stuffed her tits into exaggerated pointy bras and indulged in mutual masturbation (simulated, albeit) with extras, and she is not about to let her kids look at the stuff that other people produce. I wonder, does she let them have a look at some of the things Mama Madge was up to in the past?
At one level, I've got to hand it to Madonna, though. She is a moderately attractive woman who was able to engineer herself into a sex goddess for some (never evoked a naughty thought in me, as she was always too over the top or, vulgarity does not equate to sensuality); she is a moderately decent singer (though not a good one, when compared to some), who has parlayed herself as a song-stylist par excellence, and this has all been by the sweat of her brow, or whatever else needed to get wet in order to carry out her driven quest.
ultimately, I'll say that Madonna is to motherhood as she is to her professed Jewishness or her remarkably silly Englishness, an Italian Catholic girl from Chicago who knows how to milk a good thing with such efficiency that Martha Stewart's head should swim. She's her own invention and does it well. She is an empty vessel that she alone empties and then refills with a new concoction with great regularity throughout her days on the planet. I guess you have to admire her for that, but I don't think it's required that you love her.

Samantha -- tsk-tsk!

2005-10-15T13:25:00.000-07:00

Much of the following material originally appeared as an article in the Victoria Times-Colonist in November, 2003, consequently some of it is a bit dated.

By Ian Lidster

Sometimes these days I feel like sending Kim Cattrall to her room to think about her transgressions against both propriety and good, clean family wholesomeness.
Then I remember she is an actress playing a part, and I'm not her father, in any case. So, what am I doing being all paternal and stuffy? Especially when I think that Kim is the same age as my wife. And, I don't actually mind 'improprieties' on the part of my wife. But, those improprieties have to be just with me, not in front of half the population of North America via the wonders of frank and forthright cable TV.
I must remind myself that the sexual hi-jinx of Samantha on Sex In The City are not Kim at all, but just Kim doing a job of work in the context of: "I'm not really a doctor, but just an actor playing one." But, it's hard, because Kim and I go back a long time. Back to the days when she was a picture of pristine and innocent young girlhood. In that context, she probably says to herself with much regularity, "I'm not really a hypersexualized, middle-aged, albeit immensely glamorous woman, but just an actress pretending to be one." This would be the same thing as if Sharon Stone hadn't forgotten to wear her underpants as Sharon Stone, but as her character in a movie forgot her underpants whilst in the movie. So , as Kim Cattrall exhibits tendencies towards carnality in the role ofSamantha, it's really only of Samantha doing it. Kim, the real Kim, is at home doing needlepoint homilies for the wall. They may be dirty needlepoints, but needlepoints nevertheless.
Getting that all sorted out in my mind makes me feel a little better about Kim, but maybe no less paternal. I have a hard time letting go. Intellectually I know that Kim, my former student (hence the paternal impulse) is an actress, and a good one. But just maybe she'll think about playing a nun sometime. Such a role would improve my emotional acceptance of the situation. After all, Audrey Hepburn played a nun once. She also played girl-about-New York (read 'high class call-girl'), Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffanies, and was very believable as both Holly and the nun. So maybe Kim could playa nun, too, after she finishes with Samantha at the end of this TV season.
When sweet and young Kim Cattrall was my student back in the early 1970's, I regarded her with exactly the correct pedagogical attitude as prescribed by my role as teacher. But, I was also very fond of her as an immensely talented and hugely likeable young woman. She sat there in my English and creative writing classes, and was just like any other student of mine. She was cute, attentive, polite, and very pleasant. Where she was different is that she was Kim, the future actress! In conversation, when life plans came up, her eyes would assume an intensity as she told of her quest in life. She was, even at age 14, possessed of a fierce, burning, unwavering ambition, and that was to act. In those days, before the gender-neutrality-political-rectitude-brigade took command and ordered all thespians to be 'actors', Kim was going to be an "actress" -- a noted one-- a star. There was no "want to be" about this ambition, it was what was going to be! She had her career mapped out in her mind and her determination not only to get there, but to succeed beyond anybody's expectations was her driving force.
Vanier Secondary in Courtenay was merely a stop along the way; something to be endured until she could seek out her serious training that would lead her in the direction of her chosen vocation. Other high school kids have ambitions, too. They want to be doctors, lawyers, teachers or electricians, and some even make it. Others bask in the realm of fantasy, as in: "Wouldn't it be way cool to be a rock-star?"Indeed, some even want to act -- maybe -- someday. Kim was different. Kim 'was' going to act. And she was going to act big-time, on Broadway, in London's West End, before the bright lights of Hollywood -- not in some rinky-dink local theatre society. Nothing was going to stand in her way.
By the second half of her grade 12 year, things were falling into place for her. It was then, in 1973, when she was notified that she had been accepted as a scholarship student in the prestigious American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York -- the youngest student ever to receive such an invitation. She was on her way at the tender age of 16. The rest, as they say, is history. She was in good films, and bad. She had good live theatre runs, like her personally cherished stint in the Rocky Horror Show in Toronto. She got fine reviews for the Canadian flick Days of Heaven, in which she played a downright scary, hyper-adrenaline cheerleader for a Moonie-like religious cult. She was in the raunchy teen-pic Porky's in 1981 and, Shades of Samantha, she bared her ass as the nymphomaniacal gym teacher in this critically-slagged but box-office boffo flick. As an aside, she once told me the bum in question belonged to a stand-in, and was not her own. I had no way of knowing one way or the other, alas.
With all her choices, good and bad, Kim has had a long and, by any standards, extremely successful career in a ruthless business.
Furthermore, there is nothing new to Kim getting her name out there in the media. She even once dated PierreTrudeau. You might be driven to say, "Who didn't?", but that's not the point. Kim has always known how to court publicity, even co-writing a book on the joys of orgasm (I never thought it was a depressing thing) with her former husband. It kept her current, and just a teeny bit controversial.
I followed Kim's career closely in her early days, and was thrilled for her successes and, I must confess, slightly dazzled at times. This was heady stuff. Indeed, I am still thrilled for her ongoing success, albeit the pipeline of our connection has now become quite lengthy.
The last time I saw Kim was in 1993, when she decided to attend her 20-year high school reunion. She was a bit trepidatious about the event, and was hoping nobody would jealously demean her, as in "Who the hell do you think you are?" To my knowledge no such thing happened at the reunion.
Much has happened in Kim's life since that time, but I am content to assume she is not Samantha, but merely the same slightly hyperkinetic but fun kid who loved hockey (as she reportedly still does) and was planning to go off and become a star.
And that she did. Good on her.

The Joyous God Squad

2005-10-12T16:11:00.000-07:00

The Harlem Gospel Choir played in Courtenay last night and, unrepentant old sinner as I might be, I felt Father, Son and Holy Ghost, with a goodly dose of Aretha thrown in at the same time. They were dazzling. I hearken to the wisdom of Bart Simpson after he had been exposed to a black gospel choir for the first time: "Awesome -- Black God rules!" Yes, brothers and sisters, God truly rocks in the able hands and exquisite pipes of these people. They play in Vancouver tonight (the 12th) and if you can beg or steal a ticket, do so, regardless of your spiritual persuasion, they defy you to remain in your seat.
There was a lovely irony in them playing in the Comox Valley, in a way. This must be the whitest of white-bread communities in the province. Look around and all you see is an ocean of pallid faces, with rampant Anglo-Saxonism everywhere. WASPs with all the constipated uptightness of their heritage. At first the audience was uneasy, clapping politely and wishing secretly, in a lot of cases, mine included, for just a tenth of the funk and passion that was on the stage. It's OK, the choir is used to such communities as this, but they won't let such an audience get off easy. They defy you to sit still -- indeed, they 'demand' you get up out of that seat and feel the 'spirit' right down to your naughty bits. Whatever it takes. I know it felt fine in mine as I rejoiced in the church of the Harlem Gospel Choir. Unfortunately, today I had to get back to being just a regular old, boring white guy.

Scary business, life

2005-10-11T14:14:00.000-07:00

When I worked as an addictions counselor I would periodically ruminate on what might be the most significant factor leading a person into a life of substance abuse.
All other factors notwithstanding, including the obvious need to escape reality, I concluded that fear was the salient motivator in many cases. Overwhelming, mind-boggling, pants-pissing stark terror with life and all its travails, threats and uncertainty.
In group and individual counseling sessions I regularly turned the discussion to fear, and how it predictably compelled the client to return to the bottle, pipe, needle or joint. Since I was dealing with a group of adult males, I initially thought they might be loath to admit to harboring anxiety at such a mammoth and 'running away' level. After all, the clients of the rehab were often streetsmart tough bastards, many of whom were on probation from assorted penal facilities and had been exposed to situations that might make most of us cry for our mothers. I was wrong about their reluctance to address fear in their lives. The majority were candid about the knot of terror that had settled in the gut at an early age, and that never went away until their first foray into substance use brought about temporary, yet almost mystical relief. No wonder so much mythology has developed around drugs.
"Wow, man, the world just seemed so much better. There was no way I wanted to go back to the way I was, so I just kept using and using."
The dope and the booze were irresistible to the budding addicts in their formative days because these substances, as if by magic -- and there is a magic therein, and it would be disingenuous to deny it -- made the fear go away. Decry mind-alteration by psychoactive substances as we might, we cannot disregard the fact that the shit does what it promises to do. It enables the user to actually spend a certain part of his or her day away from white-knuckle terror and paranoia. If he has access to enough, he or she can be 'altered' all the time. Of course, there's a downside to all of this. The stuff is addictive, it's illegal, it plays hob with the health, and it can either kill the individual, or lead him or her down paths of dishonesty and depravity that they would never have, before the addiction, contemplated. There is a wondrous and agonizing rebound effect with all drugs, including booze, and that is whatever emotion it chilled out during the time of intoxication, will I return with a greater vengeance leading, of course, to a dependency on larger and larger quantities of the substance. Talk about a double-edged sword. The distress you were trying to get away from, comes back wearing brass knuckles.
The majority of addicts made their initial step into indulgence at an early age. Often (though not always) they were children who felt 'apart', and lacking in emotional resources to challenge a life they perceived as being fraught with never ending peril. Consequently, they discovered that their first indulgence, whether it was a beer or a joint, evoked a calmness that had been alien to them theretofore. The next time, the result was the same: peace, merriment, loss of sexual inhibition, and the finding of a certain bravery and foolhardiness. Thus the spiral began.
While most addicts and alcoholics began their behavior early, not all did. A sizable minority of addicts come about their involvement later in life. Usually at a crisis point, when the forces of daily existence assume a magnitude that conventional means of coping no longer seem able to address . Work, economic and domestic pressures assume frightening proportions, and a substance that had formerly been a social lubricant becomes an essential coping mechanism. And, if the beer or scotch no longer make it all go away, then something more virulent, like cocaine, just might. Not only might it -- it does -- for a time, until the world falls to pieces, and former fears turn into mindless terror of virtually everything.
One of my clients was in his late fifties before booze caught up with him. He had always been a slight social drinker. But at one point, his slightly older wife was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. As he watched his beloved partner fall to pieces, he took to the sauce to escape the obviousness of her deterioration, and to allay his fears of being alone when the inevitable happened. By the time of her death he was in his early sixties, and had become in a few short years a full-blown alcoholic. In the year following her death he ended up as a street drunk, panhandling for the dollars to buy him his next bit ofliquid salvation. Fear had been the essential factor in putting him there. Combine that fear with abject loneliness and loss of a love, and you have the potential for much ugliness in the human soul.

Morons rule -- OK!

2005-10-10T12:03:00.000-07:00

To be ignorant of one's ignorance is the malady of the ignorant.
-Amos Bronson Alcott.

Are people today actually stupider than the people of yesterday? Evidence abounds that seems to validate the possibility.
But, maybe because so many people now have the means to expose their stupidity to the masses, it only seems like they are. Personal blogs, e-mailing and 'reality' TV shows hint that there is a creeping, oozing imbecility abroad in the land, but are those manifestations truly representative of the state of our intellectual weal? Christ, I hope not.
I use the television show Jeopardy as evidence for what I am presenting here. I've always been a follower of this high-end quiz. While Jeopardy remains a fine, and often challenging vehicle in the wasteland of TV (I figure I've won about $45 billion from the comfort of my living-room couch over the years. More than Ken Jennings could have ever dreamt of), something has been troubling me about Jeopardy of late. That is, the caliber of the contestants. Albeit most of them are very astute, quick on the buzzer, and obviously bright enough, but others (not all, see Ken Jennings above) dumbfound me by their lack of knowledge about anything that went before their time. For the younger contestants, that means that happenings pre-1970 might as well have happened in medieval times. Question: Who was British Prime Minister in 1970."Who is Winston Churchill, Alex.""Winston Churchill died in 1965, you ignorant bastard!"The latter quote didn't come from Alex, it came from me. But, I mean, 1970, for heaven's sake. That's only last week, relatively speaking. The Beatles had already played their last live concert by 1970. and Mick Jagger had sired at least his third illegitimate child. What's gone wrong here? Where has our sense of history gone? How can we see ourselves in any sort of context if we're oblivious to our origins?
it distresses me because the malaise of intellectual isolationism is not just confined to Jeopardy -- the contestants of which show are among the more succulent fruits on the tree of knowledge, or they wouldn't have passed the regime of tests to get there -- but is widespread. Ask any academic about the paucity of general knowledge amongst college and university freshmen, and those of us with an ounce of trepidation about the direction society is headed, would be aghast. Furthermore, this ignorance is not confined to people of little consequence, and that's what gives me the vapors, and Jon Stewart a job. Think of our political leadership. I'm not going to be partisan here, the way you vote or don't vote is your call, and I learned during my column-writing days that the best way to lose half your readership is to declare your personal political bias. But, I am going to express my distress at the buffoonery that is displayed by people who steal our money holus-bolus, and also reserve the right to expropriate our land, tell us who we should or shouldn't have sex with, and have the power to wage war. That scares the hell out of me.
Let's go back to Sir Winston S. Churchill. Not only was he prime minister during Britain's darkest days (and was in his late sixties before he even reached the top of the "greasy pole", after a lifetime of service), but he also wrote a history of World War Two; and of the English Speaking Peoples, among many other fine tomes, was a dab-hand with brush and easel, and was a lecturer of renown. His speeches stand as testament to his legacy. His contemporary, Franklin D. Roosevelt was nearly equally astute and committed, and he did all that while lugging around a pair of brutally uncomfortable and heavy leg-braces. Amazing men, both. Can't you think of any political leader in the world today who would have the right, in terms of ability, to even apply a whisk broom to the greatcoats of those men? I can't. That's distressing. Distressing because, as nasty as the world was in 1940, the potential for disaster on a cataclysmic scale is much greater today. It's greater today, but the joint is being run by oily C-minus students like George W, Tony Blair and Paul Martin. Makes you want to take to your bed and wonder why all the smart guys and girls got cut out of the leadership loop. The answer is actually simple. Less bright people will never give positions of power and authority to the enlightened. They, instead, will give the nod to intellects and capabilities inferior to their own so they can maintain control and continue to beguile with their bullshit.

Have you met her -- yet?

2005-10-08T09:01:00.000-07:00

She walks into your life sometime on your path, and you initially admire her from afar. If you're wise, worldly and aware, you'll continue admiring her from afar.
If you make the momentous decision of wanting to admire her from 'anear', then understand that you've opened a sack of snakes, and your life will never be the same again. You see, sometime in every man's life, there comes a 'Devil Woman'. If you haven't met her yet, you will. If you've reached a certain age and seem to have missed her, then you were either too pure, too blind, or too drunk to have noticed her and the ominous signs she gave off. A warning: she always spies you first, and sets it all in motion.
How will I know her?In the first place, you always know. It's a gut thing. A slight tightening in the midriff. You've noticed many women in your life. Some you've regarded with ennui, and others with interest. If you're heterosexual,you've likely even been involved with a few females. This one is different.The feeling she will evoke is not just fascination, arousal, passion, or love-at-first sight -- but also fear! So she should, for if you submit to her having walked into your life, be assured that she's not going to leave quietly. Also, be assured that she will leave on 'her' terms always, never on yours. You will never-ever be granted the power of decision when it comes to dealing with her.
There are no set physical criteria for a Devil Woman. She may be beautiful. She may be quite ordinary in appearance, but there is always the allure of the Lorelei. There are examples of the Devil Woman from throughout history and literature. Eve -- Adam didn't have much choice, since female possibilities were limited to one, but isn't it interesting that God chose a Devil Woman as His prototype? So, gentlemen, the warning was right there in the Bible. Delilah -- Bible again. Samson's hair-cutting was, needless to say, metaphorical castration. The concept of ball-busting goes back a long way. Cleopatra -- "Screw the Roman Empire, I am going to get two of the biggest players (Caesar and Mark Antony) in my sway, and to show you my female power, they're going to chuck all their empire building for me." And so they did. And so would you have. Lucrezia Borgia -- Always on her terms. If you balked at her wants or charms, she'd poison you. Madame de Pompadour -- Walked into Louis XV's life, and France was hers, not the Queen's -- nor even Louis'. Ava Gardner -- Frankie may have caused a million bobby-soxers to soak their knickers, but he had a wife and couldn't keep her. When the beauteous Ava decided to walk, the singing thug from Hoboken couldn't pound her into submission. They say he never got over her. Elizabeth Taylor -- Hold a seance and ask Richard Burton how much he would have preferred, all said and done, not to have taken that role in the appalling Cleopatra so that this wondrously talentless creature might not have entered his life.
Your Devil Woman will probably be more commonplace than Ava or Elizabeth, but her venom will be just as potent. Oh, and be assured that when you do decide to abandon all that you formerly held dear, that absolutely none of your friends, acquaintances or family members will be able to understand why you went where you did. Neither will you fully understand -- ever.
Where will she be, just so I can avoid her? She might be clerking in your supermarket. She is the one who holds your gaze while she's ringing up your carrots. She's not overt. She won't openly flirt. She'll just make a kind of chill run through you, and will look at you differently than she does other customers. Her gaze will melt into your soul. You'll know it in an instant. Or, she might say something that is a tiny bit more than a regular interchange with a customer. No, it's not just your imagination.
Your Devil Woman might work in your office. Offices are hotbeds of fantasies and actualities, no matter how much management and head office likes to discourage such shenanigans -- except on the part of senior management, of course. She may flirt with every mailboy, file clerk, and board chairman,but she doesn't with you. She knows that will catch your interest. Again, you will get the gaze, with only the slight hint of a smile playing at the corners of enticing lips. You won't even see the gaze directly, but somewhere in your peripheral vision or third eye, you know it's happening. And then, one day, she will come to your desk to ask you something, stand behind you, and touch you lightly on the shoulder. It will be like a high-tension wire has dropped from its pylon onto you. Your shoulder, and possibly the rest of you, will never be the same.
How does the scenario play out? With assorted variations, much like this: She doesn't walk, she sashays. No so much a Marilyn Monroe ass-swing, as a sensual glide through the room. A glide, if it's working right (and it usually is), that will only be picked up by you. And when it is, she catches your eye -- ever so fleetingly. Her voice is soft and treacly, and you like the way she says -- anything. You don't listen for the substance of her conversation -- there may not be much there -- only the sound. She could read the phone book to you, and you would be more enchanted than if you were listening to one of the great orators of history. To hear her speak enhances your day. To hear her speak to you, and to utter your name renders you a babbling schoolboy. Her looks? They may be fantastic, or they may be conventional, but they do it for you. They hit you somewhere between heart and stomach, and you find yourself thinking about what she looks like when she is elsewhere and hoping you'll see her, regardless of where you happen to be at any given time. You become obsessed with seeing her, or setting yourself up in situations where you know she might happen by. You'll convince yourself there is a fatalism at work, a karmic destiny, since you seem to cross paths with her so often during your day. There is no fatalism. She has designed it that way, so that she is never far from your consciousness.
At some point you are going to be powerfully tempted to go to another stage of life with her. You will initially balk at the idea. You will look at your innocent and oblivious wife or girlfriend and feel a deep sadness for her. You couldn't do 'that' to her! And then you start to figure out how maybe you could -- and not get caught. You wouldn't do anything dangerous. Nothing that would jeopardize anything at home. Maybe you could just invite the Devil Woman to lunch? That's harmless -- that's innocent. Nice meal at a quiet little out-of-the-way place where none of your friends go -- maybe a drink or two on a Friday after work -- a few laughs -- find out a bit more about her. That would work. Nothing that your significant other would feel threatened about.
Of course, you've completely missed the point with this individual. This won't be an innocent flirtation with a chick from the office. This will be something bigger than you could ever have imagined. Much bigger. She has planned it that way. But, let's say you haven't turned back by this point, you do ask her to lunch. She thinks for a moment, leaves you hanging, then looks long at you, and says, most demurely, "That would be very nice. It would be good to get to know you a little better."
And you go to lunch. And it's the most pleasant hour you have spent in longer than you can remember. You admit to yourself, you're a teeny bit enchanted. But, there's nothing to worry about. Little crushes are quite normal. At the end of lunch, you hear yourself saying: "That was nice. We should do it again sometime." She, without a second's hesitation, responds: "I'd like that very much." Not just that she'd like it, but that she'd like it 'very much'. That's significant. You feel an unease based on the realization that things are starting to assume a life of their own. But, you tell yourself, I'll keep it all under control. It's not like I've slept with her, or anything as stupid as that. What you don't realize, since you are dealing with an alien force -- a Devil Woman -- is that you have no say in the scenario whatsoever. This is all her call. She is the one choreographing it, and her plan is to ensnare you like you've never been ensnared. She will, pod-like, take over the very essence of your being, and you will chuck out all that she finds alien or threatening to her. You will do that, and she knows that you will.
So, linger for a moment in the last vestiges of your freedom and autonomy, because all you know and love is about to be taken away from you. From this point on -- until the final excruciating disaster (and it will take place; that's in her plan, too) -- you are lost. You are possessed. And ultimately a brutal exorcism will be needed to restore you to normality.
You may not even survive. If you do, you will be better and wiser for it, but you will also always be different. When the denouement is reached, and when it's all over, will she ever be completely out of your system?
Probably not.

A glorious age

2005-10-04T13:26:00.000-07:00

A female friend informed me the other day that she had just had her 40th birthday. "Good for you," was my response. "Women truly become appealing once they have turned 40." And she, a bountiful woman, was pleased by my response to her new age. My response wasn't idle flattery, but sincerely and affectionately given.
An item in the paper a while ago was extolling the new 40-plus women of film and TV, as in the case of the Desperate Housewives cast, for example. These, despite your approval or disapproval of the vehicle, it must be conceded, are fabulous babes. No doubt I would take one Helen Mirren, for any three 25-year-olds (or, any 4,798 Paris Hiltons), and I know I would have a better time both in bed and out of.
Women come into their own once they are over 40. They are more sure of themselves; they have an identity, and they needn't pose to please. And they are great sexual partners. The absolutely best sexual encounters I've ever had (and continue to have) are with women over 40. Actually, since I am married, the sexual encounters I have are with 'one' woman over 40, but you get my drift.
I remember seeing the film The Graduate when I was in my 20s and empathizing profoundly with the Benjamin Braddock character. To have had an affaire de couer with a woman who looked like Ann Bancroft would have been sheer bliss. Personally, I would have forsaken the daughter only to continue my tryst with Mom, despite the fact she had a few teeny problems. Hey, the relationship wasn't destined to last forever in any case.
So, to all the women over 40 (or 50, or 60 and on up), you've left your girlhood, and you are only the better for it in my esteem. The media seem to have just noticed you, but I noticed you a decade ago. Oh, and don't do a thing cosmetically with what you have. If your breasts sag slightly, it only makes them softer and more alluring. Stretch-marks are honestly gotten tales of your wonderful fecund history, and a few lines around the mouth and eyes only offer character, because you now finally have character. I love you all.

A Dog by any name

2005-10-04T09:05:00.000-07:00

"All I want to see in Waikiki," said wife, Wendy, "is 'Dog' the Bounty Hunter."She made the comment on a recent flight from Vancouver to Honolulu, whence we were about to indulge ourselves in a far-too-fleeting, but well-deserved, I might add, visit to Hawaii.
Hawaii is a place we try to encounter as often as time and resources permit and while we usually spend a leisurely time in laid-back Kauai, this time, due to time-constraints, we were just going to stay in touristy Waikiki for the seven days. However, since we were doing Waikiki, we decided to do it in a little bit of style, and booked our time at the almost cliche mecca of the Hilton Hawaiian Village Resort, one of the truly traditional destination hostelries. All we were looking for was sun, sea and sand. Otherwise, we were just going to wander around in leisurely manner, having long-since satisfied any desires to check out any of the traditional tourist draws like Diamond Head, Pearl Harbor, or the Polynesian Cultural Centre. Been there, did that years ago. We weren't even going to bother renting a car to get out of town. If a place couldn't be attained by foot or city bus, we didn't want to be there. And, Wendy wanted to see 'Dog'.
She had become a fan of the saga ofDuane 'Dogg' and Beth Chapman's 'Da Kine' Honolulu-based bail-bond service when it began running on A&E last year, and she jokingly suggested since we would be in Honolulu's environs we just might happen upon the over-the-top dude. I thought her chances of interfacing with Dog were pretty remote. Honolulu/Waikiki is a big town; sort of Vancouver in the middle of the Pacific. Furthermore, I knew she wasn't being all that serious -- I didn't think.But, I guess Mr. Duane Chapman has a certain macho charisma that might render him, if not appealing, then at least a bit intriguing toan otherwisee respectable woman, which my wife assuredly is.
Dog Chapman is a colorful combo of living theatre and driven commitment to justice all rolled up in a kindly, yet gruff, staunchly Christian, ex-biker felon in a muscle shirt,tattooedd-to-the-max, and sporting of the most awesome mullet to be seen this side of Bogalusa, Mississippi. There, that should be adjectives enough. Dog first became generally known to the world when he and his son, Leland (whom Dad affectionately refers to as 'Young Blood') successfully nailed Max Factor heir Andrew Luster in Mexico, for which feat his business was to share in a million dollar purse. They got Luster -- who had fled bail on assorted murder charges -- but were nailed by the Mexican authorities and threatened with about 800 years imprisonment for violating their law-enforcement sovereignty. Dog and Leland, however,managed to get back to the US side of the border and escaped prosecution.
A&E found this colorful ex-rogue an interesting soul, and developed a reality TV series around him. One that still runs regularly, and is immensely popular with those people with whom it is immensely popular -- including Wendy. Now, amazingly, in her desire to 'interface' with this folk hero, she was actually to attain her wish. As follows is how it came about.
During our stay at the Hawaiian Village, there were a number of conventions taking place. I don't know how people who labor in certain fields manageto securee a 'field-trip' to Hawaii, but some obviously do. One such convention happening at our digs was the AAMT's bun fight. For the uninitiated, like we were, the AAMT is the American Association for Medical Transcription. Don't ask me what they do. Anyway, one Thursday afternoon about 2:45, I was riding the elevator down from our 17th floor room when I overheard a conversation between two women in the lift. They were talking about the closing session of the AAMT confab, which was destined to take place at 3 p.m. One mentioned tothe otherr who the guest speaker was: "You know that bizarre guy from TV, Dog the Bounty Hunter." I needed to hear no more. When I reached the lobby, I pushed the 17th floor button and went back to our room and told Wendy the news. I then suggested that we go down to the huge ballroom whence the session was to be held, and she just might get a chance to see her 'hero' walk into the room. And so we did.
When we arrived at the door to the ballroom we were, to our amazement, pleasantly requested to go inside and have a seat. At that moment we became, I guess, honorary members of the AAMT, since nobody questioned our presence there. In itself an amazing happenstance for America's security-obsessed society, but what the hell. We didn't question it.And eventually Dog came in, and he spoke -- very articulately I might add. His level of elocution was definitely belied by his aged biker-boy costuming -- and we thoroughly enjoyed the interlude. At the end of it, I was also able to turn to Wendy and say: "This time, you owe me big-time."

Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette

2005-10-03T08:46:00.000-07:00

I just love the provincial government's lawsuit against 'big tobacco.' The reason I love it is because it is almost staggering in both its dishonesty and hypocrisy. It is designed, of course, to mollify those who somewhat justifiably hate everything the about the 'baccy' companies and their little white tubes of death. Fair enough. I hold no truck with the idea that there is anything virtuous about businesses that offer a product that deal ill-health and possible early death to those who indulge in this highly addictive practice. At the same time, it has been said before, but bears repeating, if the government was really serious about this business, they would outright ban it, rather than pissing around with lawsuits. They won't ban it, of course, because they count on the tax revenue they get from your addiction.
I write none of this as a defence of big tobacco, or of smoking. I remain a slight smoker, and I hate the fact that I am, and I will surely make another stab at quitting, as I have many times before. But, you know, I went into this with my eyes wide open. I 'chose' to smoke, well-knowing the pitfalls and the potential of getting hooked into a practice I resent more and more with each passing day. But, you know, nobody else is responsible for the fact that I smoke. I, as I said, made the choice, and more is the pity, from a personal perspective, that I did. And, unlike some smokers, I am pleased with some of the 'politically-correct' processes designed to discourage smoking. I am glad smoking has been banned in most workplaces, on airplanes, and in restaurants. Furthermore, my wife and I never rent a 'smoking' hotel or motel room because, quite frankly, smoking rooms stink, and if I hate the smell, I can only imagine how repulsive it must be for a non-smoker.
But, there is another element to government hypocrisy about suing the manufacturers of stuff that will make us sick. If those in Victoria want to step into the 'nanny' role because we are too fucking stupid to think for ourselves, why aren't they suing 'big booze'? Decry tobacco all you want, demon rum is responsible for more death, destruction and ill-health than tobacco could be in its fondest demonic imaginings. Check out the hospital wards, you guardians of our well-being. Look at the MVA tolls on our highways. Ponder domestic abuse in which booze is responsible up to 90 percent of the time. Did anyone ever go apeshit on an airplane because he'd smoked too much before departure?
So, you know, goddamnit, I can only be left wondering why alcohol was left off your list in this regard. I am a former addictions counselor, and I've seen the tragic shit alcohol abuse has left in its wake, but nobody in so-called authority questions increasing access to booze provincewide.
It is currently in vogue to quake with fear about the plague of methamphetamines threatening the youngsters in our communities. So it should be. But, lost in the shuffle is the fact that alcohol, especially binge-drinking costs more young lives than meth, or all other illicit drugs combined could ever hope to.
So, why do the booze boys get off the hook in voguish litigation time? Could it be because those who create, and those who put into practice our laws like nothing better than a good quaff, or two, or nine, of single-malt at the end of a rigorous day? Just asking.

Just a wee colony

2005-09-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

The national news providers in this country are are such a bunch of Ottawa Liberal ass-kissing whores that sometimes, even though I have been in the media business for decades, I am astonished by both their transparency and facileness.
By golly, it seems like it was only yesterday they were decrying the expenditure extravaganzas of one Adrienne Clarkson and her hubris-oozing hubby for their assorted high-end, taxpayer paid junkets of dubious value to any hardworking Canadian.
Yet, when the Countess from Hong Kong packed it in recently, never was there are harsh word to be found. Lots of 'grace' and 'dignity' adjectives, but scarcely a mention of this rather arrogant ex-CBC employee's dubious role in the nation's weal.
No sooner was she sent packing her expensive bags than the French Haitian hottie who ostensibly, in the mind of Paul Martin at least, represents all that Canadians cherish (huh?), put on her 'Her Excellency' chapeau and the game begins again. The media, and even otherwise respected columnists, for chrissakes, fawned, bowed and scraped before this woman who didn't even become a full-Canadian until days before when some thumbscrews were applied to her over her 'French-ness'.
Yet again, when her name was first suggested, these same scribes were decrying, justifiably, Martin's boneheaded choice when worthies like Romeo Daillaire and assorted First Nations notables were cast aside in favor of another CBC employee of dubious nationality and some mighty questionable associations a few years ago.
Oh, what do I care about a GG choice? Not a whole lot. What I care about is the fact that the office even exists, and that, for some antedeluvian nod to posterity the Queen of England (note, 'England', a foreign country) must have a Canadian-supported rep in our country. Well, at least we don't have to contend with the pommie bastards they used to impose on us, but it remains a vestige of our colonial past and indicates we are yet to grow up as a nation and rightly assume an independent place in the world.
That's what galls me on this cranky day.
As a footnote, I was formerly quite a staunch monarchist until spending a year living and working in the UK. Then I came to realize how ludicrous it was that Canadians should retain some sort of fealty to this crumbling-at-the-seams hierarchy-driven, corrupt nation. The Queen, of course, God bless her. A fine woman -- I'll reserve comment on the bounders, knaves and sluts connected with her -- and an apt head-of-state for 'her' country. She has nothing much of meaning to offer my own. Neither do her so-called 'representatives.'

Sorry about that ...

2005-09-27T11:19:00.000-07:00

So, Don Adams has died, and now Maxwell Smart belongs to the ages. And, I am sorry about that. Maxwell Smart takes me back to a time when people dressed smartly (no pun intended) and one of the classiest and funniest sitcoms showed up on network TV. Get Smart was a comedic gem by any standard. How could it miss, with creators like Buck Henry and Mel Brooks? They were the guys who, back in the primordial Show of Shows days virtually invented TV comedy.
But, most of all, Get Smart was Don Adams. Perpetually befuddled, invariably inept, but also a classy spy in the James Bond mold of the day. Aided always by the perpetually forgiving, deeply intelligent, and stunningly attractive Agent 99 (Barbara Feldon), Max nevertheless tended to prevail against the nefariousness of neo-Nazi Siegfried and all the other perpetrators of international evil that populated KAOS. Max, as Agent 86, was game for any sort of derring-do demanded because his heart and patriotism were in the right place, always.
Long suffering 'Chief' (Edward Platt) was perpetually prepared to forgive Max's ineptitude and bumbling because he knew he would ultimately deliver, albeit with a number of exasperating twists along the way.
And, like all spy sagas, there was the gadgetry that like the technology in the film Brazil, never quite worked as it was intended, such as the ubiquitous 'Cone of Silence', or Max's prophetic bit of tech that heralded our own ghastly cell-phone era, the 'Shoe Phone'.
We also cannot forget the turns-of-phrase that entered the lexicon thanks to Get Smart's relatively brief run: "Sorry about that," "Missed it by that much," "Would you believe...?"
Ultimately Agent 99, who was dotty about Max for indefinable reasons, became Mrs. 86, and the saga passed into electronic history.
I am sorry about that, as I am sorry about the passage of Don Adams. He brightened up a nice early chunk of my life.

A Surfeit of Zimbabwe

2005-09-26T09:22:00.000-07:00

According to a couple of essays in the National Post this weekend, the cheesy, sleazy Liberals are effectively in charge in Canada and Central Canada will continue to control the nation at its whim. The Tories are hooped, and it may take them decades before they are in a position to wrest control from Ottawa Grit corruption. Don't just blame it on the ineffective and ineffectual Harper, blame it on the fact that Canadian governance is as corrupt as Zimbabwe's single party rule. The thugs are at the tiller, and there are no penalties for their excesses.
Recent polls indicate that the Liberals, despite boasting the most lackluster PM since Arthur Meighen. are just doing fine-and-dandy. They give an on-the-payroll thug a walk. Well, the courts did, actually, but it amounts to the same thing since they are in charge of the courts, protestations to the contrary notwithstanding. Yet, people support the bastards. What do they have to do to be seen as what they are, start mowing down widows and orphans in the street? And, if they were to do such, what would happen to the perpetrators of the mayhem -- would they be ordered to speak to chambers of commerce as the more draconian aspect of their conditional sentence? But, only five days of the week, I might add.
So, this Martin fellow tells us there will be no election until 2006. He wants to wait until the Gomery whitewash is completed before he goes to the polls. Why bother? Whatever happens, the federal snowjob will continue to suck the national braindead into its sway.
By the way, this is not a partisan diatribe, because I'd really prefer no truck with any of them, but it should give more thoughtful Canadians a point-to-ponder about how we have a vile parliamentary system that permits single-party rule in a supposed democracy. That scares the shit out of me.

The Life of Brian

2005-09-20T16:08:00.000-07:00

'Whenever they got his Irish up, Mulroney lowered the boom!'
Ah, that Brian. That broth of a boyo. Hoist by his own petard thanks to Peter C. Newman, who presented the man, warts and pustules and all for his reading public to flail. Fine friend he turned out to be.
But, you know, despite his sputtering and his bullshit about all that has taken place in terms of betrayal of friendship et al, the Brian we knew and loathed as a nation is loving every single moment of his albeit fleeting return to the limelight. No such thing as bad publicity, right, Bri? In fact, considering the nature of his past behavior, it wouldn't surprise this jaded sonofabitch who is writing this screed, that Brian colluded with Peter C. all the way along the line, and the two of them choreographed the outrage. No, that wouldn't surprise me at all.
It is arguable that this walking mass of hubris was the most reviled of all Canadian prime ministers. He was at least on a par with Pierre Trudeau in some quarters, and that is not an attainment of negativity to be scoffed at. In fact, back in his day, when his mellifluous tones gushed forth from the TV, my ex-wife used to storm from the room, exclaiming, "I can't even stand his fucking voice, let alone look at him." I understood. I sympathized. Richard Nixon used to have similar effect on me.
But, at the end of it. When all is said-and-done, I just might acquire Newman's book once it reaches the remaindered bin at Chapters or Munro's (who can afford full hardback price in this country other than federal civil servants and school teachers?), because I do fancy some of his commentary; his assessments of his contemporaries, if you will.
As a western Canadian, my only criticisms of his pillorying of Trudeau, Chretien and Copps was that he was just a teeny bit too kind and tasteful. He needs to work a tad on his Hunter S. Thompson when working with adjectives. "Asshole" is quaint, but a bit overworked. "Swine" actually has more impact, but this is just a quibble.
Anyway, like it or not. We haven't heard the last from Brian, no doubt. He has threatened to publish his own memoirs. A nation awaits.
Oh, and as a male pig, I would be remiss in closing if I didn't mention that Mila was once one of my favorite national hotties. Sorry, but it had to be said.

The Madwoman

2005-08-31T14:28:00.000-07:00

(April 2, 1997)

The Madwoman is just past the gate.
She smiles, sometimes laughs, and always beckons.
But, when I get there, she is past -- past the gate, to
the next gate in time.
She's not elusive -- just.
She is a dream of late night, of torpor, of drunkenness,
of loneliness less than aloneness.

The Madwoman deceives, lies, cheats, neglects, rejects, deserts;
and in that is so alluring.
The Madwoman seduces, with panache, and silken satiny beckoning into the abyss.
When there, I know I too am mad, but she hides my madness from me until she
has pulled me beyond view of the exits.
Yet, as I turn, she is gone.
Past the gate.

And she smiles, laughs and always beckons
towards that gate that comes before the thousandfold gates
ahead of her path.
And I will approach them all, oblivious to the knowledge
that this is my never-ending quest
for sanity and love
with the Madwoman.

Ooh -- poor us! Dontcha think?

2005-08-29T08:56:00.000-07:00

It has already been stated, but warrants repeating that the teachers of this province (pardon me, their union, the tiresome BCTF) are talking about hitting the bricks due to the fact that summer is almost gone, kids are due back in school, and mommies are going to be soiling their undies wondering what is going to happen. In other words, this most irresponsible, doctrinaire and whiniest of unions had a whole summer to piss at the government, but they have waited until damn near Labor Day before rattling their chains.
Give me a break. I mean, since I no longer have kids in school, I frankly don't give a damn. They can stay out forevermore if they so choose. Of course, they won't, because they are a materialism-motivated body of folk. What do they want? More money, and smaller classes. And don't you be suggesting that class size has no bearing on quality of learning (despite the fact that it has been proved countless times that it doesn't), because they won't hear of violations to their mantra. And, more money? How much more do they want? This is a body that ludicrously cries poverty, when they are among society's better paid. They want to be paid like other professionals (a debatable point as to how such strident trade-unionists can be considered professionals, but that is for another time), but neglect to mention that, unlike doctors and lawyers, they do not have to build a practice; they do not have to find a venue in which to work, and pay rent for that venue, and they do not have to employ others, like secretaries, receptionists, aides, etc. Oh, teachers have aides, too. Lots and lots of aides. But, you and I pay for those, not these self-acclaimed professionals.
Now, if you think this wee rant is unwarranted and come from somebody who has never spent a day "doing what I do -- sigh!", I have spent far more than a day doing what they do, as a teacher in the public school system of this province for a number of years. And, during my teaching years, do you know what I found more repellent than administrators, and much, much, much more unsavory than even the worst of my students, that awful bleating and whining union and all its hideous, lazy and self-seeking minions. Yeah, I hated that. And I also hated the so-called colleagues (a minority) who were part of that idealistic lefty world-view.
I said minority, in terms of actual adherents to the BCTF world view on my staff, and likely on any other staff. And that is tragic. Why don't these people stand up to be counted at times like this?
Anyway, something else that is never mentioned when teachers are gnashing their teeth and rending their garments over their plight, is the perks. Such perks they are. Dazzling benefit packages and pension plans that 70 percent of the working population of this land could only dream of (and guess what, you 70 percent, you get to pay for that); and time off. So very, very, very much time off compared to those who live and toil in the real world.
But, you know, I would be prepared to give the teachers all that they are seeking provided their track-record of success was a consistently improving one, rather than a consistently declining one. Match genuine success in terms of turning out a big student population that can actually read, write, add and subtract, and I am prepared to see your bosses (the government) give you what you are seeking. Work for you? Works for me.
As a postscript, some of my teacher friends and former colleagues are fine and learned people whom I respect hugely. But, they aren't the ones manning the battlements. But, such people never are. They have jobs to do.

Stay away 'Mothernet'

2005-08-28T10:46:00.000-07:00

How often since the stalwart workers of the CBC hit the bricks have you experienced entertainment or information angst? Have your coffeemates or bedmates seemed notably out-of-sorts since the network was reduced to running on half its cylinders. Has life lost meaning since the future of Hockey Night in Canadaappears under duress? In other words, how important is the Mothernet to your life, and the lives of your compatriots? There are only two response categories to consider: a)very slightly, or b)Not at all. At least, the demographics of viewership and listenership seem to indicate such is the case. Personally, I think such demographics, rather than resembling something tragic and unpatriotic, instead indicate discernment, and patriotism from another perspective.
That is, patriotism from the reference point that we, as Canadians, who are indiscriminately taxed by a thuggish federal government (the CBC's ultimate overlords), have maybe come to realize that we deserve better than this critically unacclaimed network (at the TV end, at least) has offered us over the years.
I grew up with CBC Television and, when the outdoor antenna offered us only snow from the American channels, made do with it. It had moments, albeit very few of them. OK, men are pigs, and as an adolescent I harbored horny thoughts over Michele Finney of Razzle Dazzle, our very own 'Annette, albeit with smaller boobs.
Nothing much else from CBC sticks in my mind. They mounted a pale imitation of Howdy Doody, but somehow 'Timber Tom' was sort of a dorky and pallid version of the real thing, Buffalo Bob Smith.
CBC dramas are much-vaunted, but for no real reason. Oh, the plots were well enough considered in a number of cases, but the production values sucked so outrageously, that I found it difficult to get around the amateur shoddiness of the offerings. A general pejorative was, yes, it was OK, but it looked so "CBC-ish". Come on, folks, didn't we deserve better? Hmm, was this shoddiness a reflection of the fact that certain inside trackers got CBC jobs, even if they had no discernible talent? Just wondering.
And then there was the junk that went on year-after-year, like the execrable Front Page Challenge, a forum for those old hubris mavens Gordon Sinclair and Pierre Berton. And, let's get real, Wayne and Shuster were never, ever funny. They were moderately amusing once in a while, but that was it.
And no network has the right to dine out forever on the mildly successful and mildly entertaining The Beachcombers (at least it was West Coast in all its cliched glory), and Anne of Green Gables.
Yet, this was the same network that turned its back on the genuinely brilliant offerings of SCTV. Doesn't that tell you something? Sorry folks, you are only entitled to Wayne and Shuster, but not John Candy, Catherine O'Hara or Eugene Levy. Hmm.
There is more, lots more that could be added to this rant, and maybe I'll look at CBC Radio at another time. Bring back Dead Dog Cafe, pull a Lazarus job on Peter Gzowski, and get Vicki Gabereau away from TV, and bring her back where she belongs, and I just might give a listen again. And, whatever happened to Hal Wake?

Xenophobics 'R' Us

2005-08-27T13:35:00.000-07:00

When I moved to this geographically striking area on Vancouver Island more years ago than I would care to mention, I really did not like the place so much. It was a small town with all the attributes of a small town as outlined by Sinclair Lewis in Main Street, that is, parochial, petty and culturally-deprived. I was a city kid, having grown up in greater Vancouver, and I missed the array of cinemas, theatres, restaurants and galleries. In this community there was no place decent to eat, with ethnic fare being utterly out of the question. There was no book store. There was a solitary movie house that offered film fare about two years after a Vancouver run, and two TV channels. As a result of my sense of isolation, my then wife and I split for the big city as often as we could. If Vancouver could not be attained, then Victoria was a reasonable second-best.
Now, it has all changed. It has grown. It has grown amazingly. There is a local transit service, there are galleries, cinemas, a good library, book stores, and even a Wal-Mart, a Home Depot, a Future Shop, a Staples and all the other emporia of conspicuous consumption that can be found in any community in North America. We are part of the mainstream now.
The reason those businesses have set up shop is, of course, a burgeoning population. New houses left, right and centre, and property values skyrocketing. A good thing if one owns one's home which I, blessedly, do. It has accrued amazingly.
But, who are all these people? What strains are they putting on the infrastructure? Where do they come from? Who they are is newly-retired, or prospectively-retiring yuppies from Vancouver, Calgary and Edmonton, enticed by housing costs a fraction of those to be found in the larger centres. What do they bring us? I'm not so sure. What are they going to contribute to the community as they plod around one of our many golf-courses, and also, by dint of their age, put an excessive strain on our health-care services? I frankly don't think a hell of a lot.
But, within me there is something more significant happening. They are taking away the flavor of the place. With bulldozers and and construction hammers they are changing the complexion. Where once there were trees there are now ticky-tacky pseudo-upscale dwellings with identically boring interiors behind the cutesy facades. I grew up in Burnaby, and the same thing happened there, only earlier. Now I cannot go home, because it no longer resembles my childhood neighborhoods. So, now they are taking away the recognizability of my later home turf, and it is pissing me off. I mean, nothing against Albertans. We have our commonality of western alienation and that creates a bond of sorts. But, why the hell don't they stay in Edmonton or Red Deer? I mean, aside from a shitty climate, what is so wrong with those places? And Vancouver. Aside from the fact the city is run by a bunch of certifiably wacky lefties, and has a crime rate to equal Hell's Kitchens, it's a nice place. You know, beautiful setting and all. Stay there. I came earlier. I want to pull up the draw bridge. Come here to visit, and then go home.
When we were in the Cook Islands a number of years ago, the rule was, if you came to call, was that you had to get the fuck out after a month. Maybe we should do the same. Spend your tourist bucks, ski, fish, golf, and then go home.
Now I understand how parochialism comes about. It doesn't feel so bad from this end.

Paul just doesn't get it, does he?

2005-08-22T08:50:00.000-07:00

Somehow, I guess Paul Martin must have thought that hot-looking Haitian babe Michaelle Jean would have been embraced by all the good folk of Canada in the manner she was obviously embraced by him in his odd fantasies. But, it seems that the tale of the dual-passport and dubious patriotism CBC doll has legs he hadn't anticipated, and the controversy just will not die.
Nor should it. Despite her esthetic and intellectual appeal, she was a commodity so utterly unheard of outside of Quebec and came bearing creds that were, at best, dubious. In fact an (unheard of ever before) Martin aide named Helene Scherrer, trotted out the idea almost as an aside, and was astonished at the way the boss embraced the concept. Mind you, Ms. Scherrer (whoever she is) is so out of touch with the sensibilities of the rest of the country that she sees it as a bonus that the GG would speak French in Western Canada. Wow, that would go over well in, say, Cardston, Alberta or Quesnel, BC. How about if Adrienne Clarkson had only spoken English in Trois-Rivieres?
At the end of it all, Mme Jean does in no way represent Canada, other than a weirdly-placed nod to a form of multiculturalism that even at that, is only a small ethnic enclave in a Canadian city of wishy-washy loyalty to the concept of Canada.
Considering our realities, wasn't this just a wonderful opportunity to have chosen a genuine Canadian -- a Native Canadian. There are many who would qualify. If the issue was that the GG must be francophone (by the curious logic in appointing people to the curious position, it was their turn), then there are francophone aboriginal Canadians who would have filled the bill quite handily.
Here we are, ostensibly trying to come to grips with the plight of the least advantaged people in the land, but in the Martin mind, they were not to be considered. What an opportunity that would have been for everybody concerned. An absolutely genuine Canadian in the vice-regal spot. What a coup that could have been for a lame-duck PM who has thus far proved to be so out of touch and generally hopeless, he makes this Canadian long for the halcyon days of Joe Clark or John Turner.
Anyway, Mme Jean, have a nice gig.

A true labor of love

2005-08-18T15:26:00.000-07:00

A shorter version of this story appeared in the Victoria Times-Colonist in June of 2005.

By Ian Lidster

The joyous smile of a child offers a wondrous balm. It soothes the soul
and changes the perspective when the onlooker is feeling downtrodden and
thwarted by the perversities of life.
But, a child's smile is more than a mere expression of joy or
contentment. That smile can create an avenue that might mean the difference between deprivation and fruitful productivity -- especially in a Third World nation. If that smile is flawed, ill-configured, if you will, through accident of birth, then poverty, hunger, and early death will too often ensue.
Witness a 16-year-old girl in the Philippines who has spent all her life locked in the tiny back-room of a hut, is granted virtually no
outer-world human contact, and is not even permitted to eat with her immediate
family.
Her 'crime' is a clinical affliction. She suffers from a cleft-lip and palate that renders her an object of pity and shame to parents and siblings. In some cases they believe they have somehow offended God, and
a 'deformed' child is the consequence of their 'sin', whatever that might have been.
Relatively simple surgery of the sort we take for granted in our privileged society, can repair the problem, but such clinical care is out
of the question for the world's impoverished. Consequently, the child is left to face the world in a bleak shadowland of despair, and unwarranted
shame.
Coming to learn of this situation -- one that most aren't aware of -- became a life-changing revelation for a retired Comox Valley Insurance company manager a few years ago. Recently widowed, and trying to come to grips with his distressing personal loss, Bent Harder embarked on a quest that took him away from self-concerns and led him to consider that maybe part of the solution to his personal funk would be to give of himself to others.
A long-time Rotarian, Harder learned from his adult daughter (also a
Rotarian) about the club's international program, 'Rotaplast'.
Rotaplast is designed to give direct medical aid to children - often orphaned, or from impoverished families - who have been afflicted with cleft-lips and/or palate abnormalities and who are, due to the reality of their circumstances, unable to get the simple surgical help they need to live full and productive lives.
Unable to speak properly, or even eat effectively, the toll on these
children's lives is a hideous one. Armed with such thoughts, and a lot of
compassion and, he hoped, sufficient energy (he is now in his late 70s), Harder embarked on two ventures for Rotaplast - one to Cibu, in the Philippines, and a later one to Cheng-du, China.
Now, just last Month, Harder completed his third mission for Rotaplast, this time to Barquisimeto, Venezuela. And it was with Barquisimeto that Harder gained a valued acolyte and ally in a vivacious and active 51-year-old Victoria resident with a long history of volunteerism, including active roles with Child Find, the Heart and Stroke Foundation, a Community Services group with the Medical Wives Association of Victoria, and also as a fundraiser to help combat youth violence.
Beverly Hoag is as buoyed by her Rotaplast experience as Harder was when he embarked on his first mission. In fact, she's hooked. Barquisimeto became a "defining point" of her life to date. She firmly believes she will never be quite the same person she was before signing on to the expedition. In fact Hoag, a study coordinator for the Victoria clinical research company, Odyssey, is already looking for other avenues of caregiving that might satisfy her quest to be more than just a passenger in her life.
As an example, since her return she listened to a presentation given by Times-Colonist weekly columnist, Jody Paterson on the 'Peers' group working with prostitutes, and she would like to explore the possibility of volunteering there.
"That all grew out of Rotaplast and going to Venezuela," Hoag says.
How she got involved in the first place goes back to the aforementioned Bent Harder. A newcomer to Rotary (she joined the Royal Oak Centennial Club a year ago), Hoag raptly absorbed a presentation by Harder to her club. Harder speaks about Rotaplast to clubs throughout the Island in order to raise funds for future expeditions.
"I'd always wanted to go on a mission of some sort; whatever that might look like," Hoag said. "When Bent spoke, he touched my heart. I know how cruel kids, and sometimes people in general can be and the idea that these children would be doomed to lives of poverty and isolation due to a physical deformity that could be easily repaired, inspired me to see what I could do about it. I only had two days to decide. But, the decision came easily. I phoned Bent the next day."
As for the team of 30 members (surgeons, anesthesiologists, and lay assistants, like Hoag), that made the long trip to Barquisimeto - about 320 km west of Caracas, by military transport plane -- Hoag says she has nothing but praise and admiration.
"You couldn't have asked for a better team," she says. "They were all A personalities, united in their purpose. I wasn't really prepared for
the sort of bonding I experienced. One of the surgeons was 72-years-old. Another was a plastic surgeon named Barbara who had just finished intensive radiation treatments for cancer, and she was there putting in 12 and 14 hour days. Everybody there was united in their purpose. I got to wondering, why can't we be like this all the time? Why can't we always strive to be the best we can be?"
As the Canadian contingent of the mission, Hoag and Harder were also joined by Comox Valley resident, Marcia Allardice. All three belong to the same Rotary district, which includes Vancouver Island, and Washington State's outer coast down to the Oregon state line.
And those who might be thinking that such a mission would be a matter of putting in a little work, and that the effort would be offset by leisurely times by the pool, sipping mai-tais in a lovely tropical setting, would be wrong. Barquisimeto is situated in a beautiful region, to be sure, but the team saw very little of the place surrounding countryside.
As the mission unfolded, the team arrived in the middle of the night, and left before dawn on the day of their departure, a week-and-a-half after their arrival. Furthermore, they were housed on a military base, behind a fence, and were guarded by the Venezuelan military.
"The doctors were American, so the government wasn't taking any
chances," said Bent Harder, in an earlier interview. Venezuela is in a state of some political turmoil, so security was at a premium.
Their days were grueling, and the energy demands upon them were massive. During the 10 days of the mission, there was only one day off, affording the team little chance to do any local exploration. Otherwise, they were on the bus for the hospital by 6:30 a.m., and began their work day by 7 a.m. A day that would continue until at least 8 p.m., and sometimes went later. During those 13-plus hours, three operating rooms were running full-tilt so that all the children who'd been successful in their prescreening could be seen to.
The Venezuelan government picked up the tab for the clinical work. Accommodation and transport were subsidized by Venezuelan Rotary clubs. The rest of the financing was up to North American Rotary clubs, and the individuals who embarked on the mission. The total cost for the mission was $430,000 US, with the cost to Rotaplast being about $70,000 US, largely generated from fundraising at the local level.
During the time there, the medical team carried out a total of 115 different surgical procedures on 70 pre-screened juvenile patients. Most of them were afflicted by lip and/or palate fistulas and deformities.Some were burn victims.
For the lay workers of the mission, like Hoag, Harder and Allardice, their
tasks were varied, ranging from ferrying youngsters from the wards to the theatres, carrying out the screening tasks (including having to inform disappointed parents that their child, for various clinical reasons, would have to be rejected), and much more in a scenario in which the unexpected was often the norm. Indeed, on any given day, she says, there were often as many as 400 people - the medical and lay team, hospital staff, patients, parents, and others - milling around the large hospital.
It was the 'human' aspect of the mission that influenced Hoag the most profoundly in her desire to do more.
"The situation there could break your heart," she says. "It was very emotional, and you would end your days feeling utterly drained. At the same time, you realize you are truly doing something, not just talking about it. You are doing something that gives hope to another. What could be better?"
There will come a day when Beverly Hoag will again be presented with the opportunity to take her compassion, and experience on a further
Rotaplast mission. When that happens, she'll be there.
"I can't wait," she says. "Without any doubt, I would do it again. Barbara, the surgeon who had the cancer, says she plans to go on a mission every year for as long as her health will permit. And, I've come to
believe that if you can do something to help somebody, it can't help but make you happy. Barbara told us, especially in light of her own recent health crisis, that she believed that the best way to improve your own health was by healing others."
Hoag's motivation, she says, is both simple and infinitely satisfying. In this she cites the well-known line from motivational writer Ben
Sweetland:
We cannot hold a torch to light another's path without brightening our
own."

The Perils of Bingeing, Junior Style

2005-08-18T15:14:00.000-07:00

While parents are justifiably frightened by the possibility of a child
becoming involved with illicit street and party drugs, they often neglect
to consider that alcohol remains the drug of choice for many young persons.
Furthermore, health care providers, not only in this country, but
worldwide, are becoming increasingly distressed by the ubiquity of alcohol
consumption among the young. Indeed, the United Nations recently decried
the fact that the alcohol industry seems increasingly geared towards
enticing the young with its beer advertising especially, and the
proliferation of so-called 'pop' beverages, which are especially favored by
young females.
Likewise, a British survey polling young females on vacation found it to be
common practice to consume on a seven day jaunt, the same amount of alcohol
that might (by a normal drinker) be imbibed in a five-week period.
Remember, even though we consider alcohol to be a 'legal' drug, it is still
a hugely addictive drug, and for minors it is not legal for consumption in
any other form than sacramental wine.
Booze, by the same token, is not going to go away. But there are steps that
can be taken to put the matter of liquor consumption into healthy
perspective with the young.
I offer the following suggestions, many of them based on my experiences as
an addictions counselor, working on assorted drug awareness committees,
and as a former police reporter.

1. Drastically increase the penalties for bootlegging offences to at least
a $1,000 fine for a first offence, and significant jail time for subsequent
offences.

2. Return the legal drinking age to 21, as has been done in all states of
the U.S.

3. Render the providing of alcohol to minors, including by the parents
within the home (except for religious or ceremonial purposes) as subject to
the same laws as bootlegging.

4. Any minor involved in an accident, regardless of how minor, where
alcohol consumption has been a factor should lose his or her license until
age 21.

5. Make alcohol less of a feature in the home environment. Not all festive
occasions need involve alcohol consumption, even by adults. Set an example.

6. If a parent or parents have a drinking problem, then address that
problem. Either get outside help (if the problem is severe enough), or
drastically limit consumption. Parental example has a significant role in
influencing youthful attitudes to intoxicants.

7. Parents or guardians should never regard youthful transgressions with
alcohol as 'unimportant.' If a child is abusing alcohol, then the matter is
'always' serious. And never fall into the trap of feeling a sense of relief
because the substance was "just booze, and not drugs."

8. If alcohol is a problem in the home, and a young person expresses his or
her concern to you -- as a friend, relative, teacher, pastor or counselor
-- then encourage the young person to address the concerns to the parents
(if possible), and to also get involved in Alateen. Keep in touch with the
young person.

9. Any school programs that look to discussions on drugs should also
address alcohol abuse in a frank and candid manner. Make available to
students complete information on alcohol abuse and its consequences. And be
as draconian as hell in any discussion on drinking and driving.

10. Don't pussyfoot! Be frank and graphic in your discussions. Booze kills
kids by the scores in this province and country, and it's horrifying to
think that a young person on the verge of adulthood should make the
ultimate sacrifice for the sake of making a terrible judgment call, getting
loaded with a bunch of friends at a summer beach party, and then driving
home. Your role, by the way, is to never-ever drink and drive yourself.

Hearts of the West

2005-08-17T11:53:00.000-07:00

I see that the old issue of Western Canadian alienation has come to the fore again. Good. It's not an idea that should be allowed to slumber and not come to the surface for great periods of time. I was delighted to see that a recent poll indicated that over 30% of British Columbians and Albertans were not hostile to the idea of the two provinces (or more) amalgamating and going in our own direction with a pretty spiffy and economically viable nation. A nation with none of the encumbrances of Canada, such as it is.
The relevant point is, Canada is not fixable, and the West has to either accept that it will continue in the way it has, which involves placating Quebec and the Maritimes, and leaving the power and economic centre in Ontario. Why would the feds want to change it? It works for them, and that is all that counts to the Grit dictatorship. For the rest of us, the issues are alien. Not unimportant (in a Canadian context)but alien. At a personal level, I don't really care much about what happens back there, because it is unfamiliar turf to me, and such issues as biculturalism matter not a whit. The placating of Quebec and fretting about keeping them in, raises no element of stress in me.
However, insult after insult directed at my part of the land mass does piss me off --hugely. Our utter lack of Senate representation. Our similar lack of Commons impact at a cabinet level, the foisting of policies on us that we cannot relate to, the fact that our kids cannot hope to get good federal jobs because they aren't fluent in a foreign language that has no more than a handful of speakers in BC or Alberta, all make me feel like a colonial, rather than a citizen.
I have no heritage connection to Central Canada. My people, on both sides of the family, came to coastal BC from the United Kingdom. There is no connection with Ontario or Quebec. I, third generation, am a coastal British Columbian, living on Vancouver Island -- can't get further west than that. My affinities for others in the land mass go in the directions of Washington, Oregon, California, Hawaii, Alaska and the Yukon. I wouldn't know the realities of, say, Timmins, Ontario than I would know the realities of Timbuctu. However, I do know the realities of, Lihue, Hawaii, or Eugene, Oregon, quite well, and in both cases would feel utterly at home.
All I can say, in conclusion, is that Ottawa (the city whose horrible climate is only exceeded in offensiveness by its unspeakably boring nature) should pay heed to the attitudes (and strengths) of the West, or they will ultimately lose a mighty big chunk of geography. I know I won't see it in my lifetime, but it is an idea that works for me, nevertheless.

Insanity in the name of health

2005-08-14T13:53:00.000-07:00

Merciful heavens, this carries precious Mrs. Grundy-ism to new levels of madness, but it has been reported that beds at a youth detox facility in Victoria are going unoccupied due to the Vancouver Island Health Authority's blanket decree forbidding tobacco smoking at health facilities.
This is chilling. Detox and rehab facilities are in disgracefully short-supply in the province, and because some bureaucratic bullshit forbids a perfectly legal substance on site, then those who are dabbling in or outright abusing illegal substances, are staying away. Huh?
Why on earth would smoking be forbidden at a place designed to get individuals to kick short-term poison and mind-rot?
Why, because smoking is unhealthy, of course. So goes the reasoning in the minds of those who would no more know what addiction is about than they would know the inner-workings of a cuckoo-clock.
I used to run a rehab facility, and most of the adult males in residence smoked tobacco like there was no tomorrow. They could not smoke in their rooms, or in common areas, but outdoors, the choice was theirs. Not a good choice, I would be the first to accept. But, when compared with heroin, crack cocaine, crystal meth or two quarts of vodka a day, tobacco is, shall I say, the least of all evils. It may ultimately kill you, but not next week.
Periodically a client would approach me and tell me he had decided to kick nicotine, along with booze, coke, smack, or whatever else he had been disastrously overindulging in. I would advise that he think long and hard about the idea, due to the extra stress of smoking cessation. A stress that could quite possibly turn him back to his other, far more dangerous drug of choice.
All I can say is, thank God the place didn't have to subscribe to mean-spirited and ever so self-righteous VIHA rules.
Again, in reference to those who seem to know very little about addiction, but have been given the right to make the rules, I refer to one Dr. Richard Stanwick, MHO for the Capital Regional District who, when questioned about the smoking prohibition, opined: "Detox is a good opportunity to persuade young people to try replacements for nicotine, which is also a drug." I will suggest that Dr.Stanwick knows little about the nature of addiction, and possibly less about young people. He continues with an apples-and-oranges non-sequitur equation of nicotine and alcohol, and sarcastically suggests, "How about if we allowed drinking as well?"
In the first place, alcohol kills easily as many Canadians per annum as does tobacco, although you don't hear VIHA decrying the wholesale purveying of booze that permeates our society. In fact, they want to take away people's right to smoke on the patios of joints that sell that real healthful booze.
But, more importantly tobacco, while highly addictive, and a beast to quit, is emphatically not a mind-altering substance. When did you last hear of somebody being knifed because the perpetrator was high on Player's, or of a Lucky Strike crazed addict ripping off somebody's DVD Player? Surely that gooned moron photographed behind the wheel of he car he'd stolen had been indulging in something much more threatening to the public weal than a filter-tipped Rothman's.

No time like behind the times

2005-08-11T14:30:00.000-07:00

Have you heard? The federal government has just noticed a 'new' drug on the block that's called crystal meth. Shocking.
Shocking in that they are finally getting around to deciding a devastating substance that has been around for, as the English say, 'yonks', is finally to get a tad of Ottawa attention. Christ on crutches, meth has been an ever-increasing bit of chemical hideousness in our cities, towns and rural areas for a long time. In 2002 I retired as CEO of a drug rehab facility in a mid-sized town, and even then we were getting increasing numbers of mostly young meth addicts. Their 'illness' and addiction were devastating, their health often ravaged, and their behaviors disquieting.
"Have some pity on an old junkie," said a heroin-addicted client in his late 40s to me one day. "Get me out of the room I'm sharing with that fucking meth-head. Those guys creep the shit out of me."
That said, if these guys scare the junkies, you can imagine what they do to the 'normies'. That is, all normies but the feds, it seems.
Over a year ago I spent a month on the island of Kauai, and there the shit is rampant, and has been for years. Known as 'ice' on the islands, billboards about the scourge were to be found everywhere, including numbers to call to get help. Penalties for manufacturing and dealing in the stuff were, by Canadian standards, draconian. Mind you, the penalties for the illicit drug business practically anywhere on the planet are draconian compared with pathetic Canadian responses. Don't even get me started on our travesty of a judicial system.
Back to Kauai (any chance I get, I might add). I had a brief conversation with the mayor of the county during my travels, and he told me of the distinct need to radically increase rehab facilities for those afflicted with the addiction, and to increase the penalties for the manufacturers and dealers.
"We have to do something," he said.
Today the federal government has finally come to the place where it realizes it 'has to do something' to keep our communities from turning into cesspits of illness, violence and despair. In that, I commend them, as late in the day as it is. But, in so saying, I will wait to see how long it is before this concerted effort actually sees the light of day and, despite threats of huge penalties for manufacturing and dealing, I'll believe they are serious when I hear of people doing time -- lots and lots of very hard time.

Marilyn, the Big-O, and timelessly cool

2005-08-08T13:55:00.000-07:00

"I don't care if he would be old enough to be my grandfather, and I don't care if he's been dead for a long time, he's still incredibly cool," said my stepdaughter at about age 14.
We had just been watching a video of Rebel Without a Cause and her reference was, of course, to the very, very late James Dean, who died in a decimate Porsche Spyder 50 years ago this September 30th. That meant, he had been dead for 25 years when the aforementioned SD was born, in late 1980. The timelessness of the man, obviously, is amazing. I mean, I agree that JD epitomized cool, but I was 12 when he died, so he was a martyr for my generation. In fact, he was such an icon in a day when icon actually meant something, that we all exhorted our generally hard-up parents, to please-please-please buy us a red nylon 'Jimmie Dean' jacket, just like he wore in the big race when bonehead thug Buzz went hurtling over the cliff, just after Natalie Wood's Judy did her number by setting the chicken-run in motion. Her actions as the two cars screamed by her has been a cinematic cliche for decades.
But, cool people like Dean don't die, it seems.
Any more than Marilyn Monroe, who has not been dead quite as long as Dean (but is coming close), and who would be a very senior citizen by now, has ever lost her ability to draw interest. Especially if it's 'dirty' interest. Truly, we still actually care about what MM did with her nether parts even to this day. Amazing. The woman was of the same generation as my mother, yet three dailies (two of them nationals) who came into my house this week contained articles from tapes Marilyn made with her shrink 40-something years ago, shortly before her untimely death. Ethics or lack thereof notwithstanding, for some reason we are 'interested' in Ms. Monroe's orgasmic capacity. Truly, we must be, or the articles wouldn't have been given so much ink.
So, it's like this, see. At first Ms. M was largely incapable in the ashes-hauling department. It just wasn't happening for her, and she wryly noted that she should be nominated for an Oscar for her ability to fake, a la Meg Ryan a few decades later.
But, her shrink taught her how to get herself off, and eventually that translated to her coming all over the place once she had mastered that tricky business, which seemed to revolve around relaxation and trust. Aren't you glad you know that? I know I am.
Actually, what is enjoyable about the piece and the other extracts from the tapes is MM's rather delightful candor and wit, and that she, shortly before she allegedly offed herself, sounds spiritually happy, funny and the farthest thing from a suicidal depression you could imagine. Hmm. That opens some other questions, doesn't it? Just exactly what did happen to the girl?
We shall never know. And maybe that's better. Therefore, should Marilyn or James Dean now be permitted to rest in peace? Of course they should. But, they won't be allowed to. No more than will Princess Diana. Once a hottie (of either sex), then eternally a hottie, it seems. A bit unfair to all us non-hotties, but life is like that. At least we're alive, if we're reading this. They aren't.

It's clone-time in Ottawa

2005-08-05T10:51:00.000-07:00

Michaelle Jean is pretty darn tasty in a Halle Berry kind of sense, and I am pig enough to suggest that if decent genetic esthetics is a deciding criterion for choosing a governor-general of Canada, then she has my vote.
I will disregard the glaringly obvious facts that she is also a CBC talking head, has a Gallic connection (albeit via Haiti), is female, is not only female, but a 'woman of color' and, as my wife suggested (bless her), the only thing missing to make her the consummately politically-correct choice in a Liberal mindset, is that she doesn't seem to be disabled in any way. If she only had a bit of a limp, then we Canadians would have a 100 percenter in the vice-regal office.
Oh, and she is also a virtual clone of her predecessor in virtually every element.
So, I guess when it comes to the occupant of the money and space-wasting office of representative of Her Majesty, white guys need not apply. Actually, I don't think that white chicks will make the cut ever again either, as long as the Grits hold power and make the sorts of patronage choices they've been making of late, like choosing the execrable, offensive and unaccomplished Larry Campbell for a Senate sinecure.
But, back to governors general the the people who might have filled the shoes formerly occupied by such notables as John Buchan (as Lord Tweedsmuir), Vincent Massey, and the wonderfully distinguished Georges P. Vanier. Now, if ever a guy looked and acted like a GG, it was General Vanier.
What about today? I'll even be non-partisan (as painful as it is) and suggest Stephen Lewis has earned his stripes as a hard-working and thoroughly dedicated man; my first choice, Romeo Dallaire. If any one of us had the cojones to deal with what he did in Rwanda, then we too would be eligible for such a reward. The point is, most of the rest of us aren't, and we know it, so why wasn't Dallaire in the running? Even former Prime Minister Joe Clark should have had a stab at it for decades of dedication to a nation in which he believes profoundly. He may have been subject to gaffes, and didn't cut such a powerful swathe as PM, but in terms of guts and hardwork he surpassed any 10 Grit MPs of recent incarnation, including the man occupying the current prime ministerial office. The man who makes the moronic decisions on all the recent patronage appointments. No wonder Canadians flee voting day in droves.

RIP Smokey Smith

2005-08-04T16:08:00.000-07:00

Smokey Smith, New Westminster, BC's homegrown here and VC winner didn't deserve to live to the age of 91, he should have died when he was 30. That was in 1944 when he carried out the feat of nailing two Hun tanks, and saving the lives of countless Canadian soldiers, for which action he deservedly was accorded the Victoria Cross.
I liked Smokey Smith. He was what a genuine hero should have been. That is, an ordinary Joe never caught up in his heroics. He was a plain and simple soldier, cut in the mold of an Audie Murphy. He was an unschooled 'dogface' (if an Americanism is permitted here) who made corporal on a number of occasions, only to be busted back to private on an equal number of occasions. That was because he was the kind of guy who chafed at the rules -- always.
He liked a jar, did old Smokey, so the stories went. Including stories from those who knew him. Stories from members of my own family who have that New Westminster connection.
What I liked about him most of all was that he was a Canadian, and he was a Canadian of a generation of hard-nosed people who saw no shame in being soldiers. No, not Pearson and Trudeauesque 'Peacekeepers', but plain old soldiers fighting a hideous enemy in the only way that would defeat that hideous enemy, and everything the foe stood for. That way was by throwing all that they could at that enemy, and leaving the peacekeeping to the politicians and diplomats once the job was done.
So, I don't know how Smokey felt about the current and sad state of the Canadian military, and the even sadder state of the simpering, whimpering foreign policy of a once proud nation, but I imagine he found it disquieting.
So, I guess it was past-due time for Smokey to just "fade away." Sad, that.

What's different?

2005-08-04T15:35:00.000-07:00

The BC Court of Appeal has decreed that teachers shall once again be permitted to fulminate willy-nilly about their grievances and despair over the fact the rest of society doesn't follow their Trotskyite views of the ills that are befouling the western world.
So, what's new? Why was the court system used to decree that teachers could once again do what they've been doing all along, which is to decry the workings of their employers (thee and me, when you come right down to it).
Prior to the last provincial election, in this riding in any case, left-leaning, BMW driving (no, it's no longer mandatory that teachers must drive Volvos), ski-chalet-owning whiners wasted no time whatsoever in letting their young charges know what was evil about the government of the day, which was going into reelection, and how their boy (a socialist teacher) must be elected. Such politicizing wasn't a rumor; teachers were overt in their diatribes.
Now teachers are entitled to believe as they believe (as self-indulgently ill-founded and naive as most of their beliefs are, since they are based on the musings of people who have never toiled in the 'real' world), and I am entitled to believe as I do. It's the mark of a democracy and it's moot.
What I don't get is how teachers somehow believe they have the right to overtly criticize their employers in a public forum. Try doing that with your (real world) employer and see how long you keep your job.
Whatever the namby-pamby justices in the namby-pamby Appeal Court choose to believe, I don't believe teachers do have such a right, any more than anybody else does. If you think your employer is spewing shit, then have the sense of honor to get out, and then do your criticizing.
By the way, when I say 'teachers', I am only referring to those individuals who subscribe to the tenets of their ultra-left and mindless union, the BCTF, not individual teachers, some of whom are thoughtful, decent and very hard-working men and women whom I'd be proud to have teaching my children, if I still had children in school.
Of course, those people are working diligently enough that they don't have time to waste on the obnoxious and sometimes frightening ramblings of their union. That's good. It leaves a bit of hope for the system.

No buff like a 'free' buff

2005-08-03T08:37:00.000-07:00

I recently read where it has become increasingly trendy amongst young women to leave aside their skivvies when going out for the day. They do so because they then don't have to suffer either the scourge of visible panty-lines (as if), or the ongoing wedgie sensations that thongs afford. The practice is known as, according to the literature (and there is indeed literature on this) 'going commando' or, more playfully, 'freebuffing.' The reasons, as I stated, are multifoliate, but one of them is assuredly a form of exhbitionism, and the other is an awfully cute ability to titillate a male companion by quietly announcing "I'm not wearin' nuthin," just like the chick in the adorable old TV commercial did, promptly causing thousands of North American males to fall in love with her. Of course, those who give advice in such matters, suggest that panty-less-ness should only prevail if trousers of some sort are being worn. I say, pshaw to that. I think missing knickers under a skirt is ever so much more exciting. To be with a woman who makes such an announcement, especially while wearing skirt or dress, opens up (figuratively) an utter wealth of possibility or, at the very least, speculation.
According to what I've read, the custom of doffing panties is largely prevalent amongst younger females. I suppose once the age of 'Depends' need has been reached, it is believed that the leaving of unwanted puddles on the floor after moments of mirth or sneezing, might be sexually offputting. Chacun a son gout, but that is an area I have no desire to get into.
But, I do like the idea that when I go out for a coffee, and look at the pretty barrista, I can harbor the question: "Is she or isn't she?"

Yankee Time

2005-08-02T15:57:00.000-07:00

It doesn't take much for the innate anti-Americanism of left-wing Canadians to come to the forefront. Truly, anything Americans say or do is immediately a source of suspicion, and will prompt torrents of letters to daily newspapers. Most recently, the US suggested it is going to extend daylight savings time at the beginning and the end. Immediately the anti-global, anti-WalMart brigade leapt to the fore decrying any suggestion that Canada should follow suit. Well, let's face it. This is no-brainer time. If the US does so, we will assuredly follow suit, for it would be boneheaded not to. Our economies (not to mention TV schedules) are too closely linked for it to be otherwise.
Anyway, extending hours of light makes so much sense. It's even environmentally sound, since the demands on energy for lighting will be reduced. Frankly, I don't understand why we don't move to 'summer time' all the time. Come the grim days of December, it's dark in the morning regardless of standard or daylight time, and an extra hour of light at the end of the day is immensely appealing.
Of course, it is something that is environmentally-positive, therefore the sandal-wearers should love it to bits. But, goddamnit, the Americans thought of it, so we must desperately find a reason to hate it. If we'd thought of it first, and brought it into being, we (they) would assail the Americans for being anti-environment for not following suit.
There's no winning, my dear American cousins, when you are dealing with paranoid loons this side of the border, so it is well you chronically ignore us.

Fry those little boobies

2005-08-02T15:47:00.000-07:00

I see where the 'Nanny State', aka the Vancouver Island Medical Health officer, wants to keep young girls from baking their bods in the tanning parlors. He wants it passed into decree that no juveniles are to be entitled to partake of excesses of UV and, while he is at it, he also wants it rendered illegal for minors to adorn those fried bodies with tats. I think this is carrying state control to a ludicrous extreme. In fact, after a vacation in Hawaii last year, I came to believe that it was some sort of generation genetic manifestation that all young females are now thrust from the womb bearing some sort of inscription on the lower back just above the panty-line. Such tattoos were so common, that rare was the junior miss who did not bear one. I think even those spending their summers at tropical Bible camps were so adorned.
Personally, I am not so much of a tat-person, since I am of a generation who associated such decoration with seafarin' men, criminals and assorted low-lifes. Doubtless, in modern context I am wrong, but I am comfortable with my biases and choose to keep them, thank-you.
But, back to the tanning salons, will the MHO also be mounting beach patrols to chase the scalliwags from the seaside, since the same rays as can be found in the parlors, also exude from the sun?
I mean, why should I, as a citizen of this society, be particularly exercised if young females want to fry their little titties off? They are their little titties, to do with as they like. If they want to court melanoma, then that is their concern. Or, at the very least, their parents' concern, it sure as hell isn't mine. I mean, for Christ's sake, if you want to go around banning things that young people indulge in, why not ban those fucking noisy, clattering and a thousand times more dangerous skateboards? I'd buy into that one. At the same time, how about upping the minimum driver's licence age to 21, so acned boneheads with thudding boom-boxes don't scream up and down my street (a park zone) at freeway speeds. That one would have my support, as well.
However, increase incursions on the right of the public to be stupid cuts nowhere with me. It is my right, and my kid's right to court destruction as he or I would choose. It's the way of a democracy, so leave my freedom alone.

There's gotta be an easier way

2005-08-02T14:33:00.000-07:00

How long does it take you to turn off your TV? Exactly. You click the remote button, and that is all it takes. You want to heat up a bit of wretched leftover casserole in the microwave, and all that is demanded is you punch, oh maybe a couple of buttons to turn that savory into leather. I once had a VCR that I bought in about 1982. It was so easy to program and set the time to record a program that I am now left with dozens of ancient film videos that I have no desire to ever see again.
Yet, in 1996 I bought a TV VCR combo. Both have always worked handsomely, yet I have no idea for the life of me how to set the VCR to record a program. I have tried countless times, and by now I no longer give a shit -- mainly because we bought a DVD player a couple of years ago.
So, considering all the aforementioned, why does it take so long to both turn on and turn off a home computer? Why isn't it just like a TV or a microwave? You know, on and off. My point being, I know it could be. And I also know why it's not. It is because we lay-folk are victims of a massive Geek Conspiracy that sees as its mandate to keep the technologically unwashed from ever understanding how things work. Or, once we gain a modicum of understanding, to throw in a complicating glitch that will render it impossible for us to continue.
I know in my heart this is so, and I know it is being perpetrated because the people who are making the rules devote all their hours to this stuff, while the rest of us actually have lives to lead.
Or, so I believe.

Who are these people?

2005-08-02T09:12:00.000-07:00

Either I am coming undone, or a huge fraud is being foisted upon an undiscerning public. I prefer to think the latter possibility is the likely one, since denial of my own lack of currentness tends to guide me more and more these days. The fraud, as I see it, concerns certain females of difficult-to-discern calling in life, yet who seem to be preeminent in their exposure. That is, who are these broads and what is it that they do?
The first one to confuse me in this manner is Jennifer Lopez who, for a while, especially when she was connected with the amazingly untalented yet ego-driven Ben Affleck, went by the sobriquet 'J-Lo'. I don't think the name J-Lo is operative any longer, not that I give so much of a shit one way or the other. Anyway, what exactly is, or was J-Lo? Is she a singer? Is she an actress? She has deservedly never been lauded for possessing skill in either domain. She is a moderately pretty, moderately Hispanic looking young woman with a stunningly appealing ass. OK, I admit I am something of a gluteal fetishist, and that part of her works for me.
The other one is a certain Jessica Simpson. Her mug is on every mag, yet, I don't get it. I think she is on some TV show of which I have no desire to ever tune in. An article in the Globe and Mail tells me she is in a remake film of the 'Dukes of Hazard', as if such a piece of video-excreta warranted a cinematic remake, let alone having been aired in the first place.
I guess she is supposed to be attractive. Yes, she is a cute-ish blonde, with cute-ish boobs, and that seems to be about it. She is not sexy. She is not alluring. She is not even mildly interesting, and it seems she has cut a swathe of some sort by being bonehead stupid.
What a scary comment on contemporary society that such a person should be making huge sums of money just for 'being'. And, not for 'being' much of anything.
Look at other attractive women over the years, including those who have featured relatively prominently both in my, and the sexual fantasies of others. Take Marilyn Monroe. She was an actress of, if not the first order, at least one with a deft comedic touch, and sometimes a surprisingly compelling dramatic talent. Debby Harry of Blondie, aside from the fact I've adored her for literally decades by this point (and she still looks damn fine), she is one hell of a song stylist. One of the best.
For heaven's sake, even boobsie Pam Anderson does act, she actually works for a living, and has a lot more of a mind than the prominence of her torsal orbs let dirty-old-men (and dirty 14-year-old boys) lets be acknowledged. In other words, there is a reason for her existence.
But, I guess in a Paris Hilton (speaking of un-pretty, and un-interesting) world, there is something afoot that I am not to be made privy to. Just as well, for I find no wicked ideas are spawned by, in the case of the aforementioned Jessica, a female who seems to exemplify a mid-Western Baptist's concept of sin. Sort of like the Playboy centerfolds of yore, they didn't work for me, either. Maybe I'm odd, when all is said and done, but I've always fancied women who look, sound and smell like real women. You know, the sort of person with whom, after passion is spent, you just might like to lie back in bed and chat with.