Mike Gravel. Have you heard of this guy? I sure hadn't. I happened to cross paths with CNN last night — unusual for me; what do I care which highway O.J. is currently driving down or who's going to be the non-entity to win American Idol? — but I was surfing last night just as they happened to highlight what this man stands for.
Earlier in the day I'd been watching Jesus Camp, the movie about how evangelicals brainwash elementary school kids into perfect, unthinking, unquestioning, militaristic, scripture-parroting little robots, and I was just about at the point of writing the United States off to its fate altogether and urging Ottawa to build the Windsor Wall as soon as we can... and then they blindside me by showing me this gentleman.
Mike Gravel is a former United States Senator from Alaska. He's a Democrat who was instrumental in ending the draft in 1972, and thus hastening the end of US involvement in Vietnam. He's currently running to be the Democratic nominee for the US presidential election next year. I listened to him tear a strip off the other so-called Democrats on YouTube, and I went to his website to read his platform. It's jaw-dropping in its wisdom. It's like God is playing some mean trick on us... there's no way this guy can get elected POTUS. ...Or is there?
All I know is, the United States deeply, badly needs this man. Hell, Canada could use him. I only wish I could vote for him. Check out some of what he advocates...
IRAQ WAR
Senator Gravel's position on Iraq remains clear and consistent: to commence an immediate and orderly withdrawal of all U.S. troops that will have them home within 60 days. The sooner U.S. troops are withdrawn, the sooner we can pursue aggressive diplomacy to bring an end to the civil war that currently consumes Iraq...
IRAN
Senator Gravel firmly opposes a military confrontation with Iran and advocates a diplomatic solution to the current situation... The threat of war against another sovereign nation while wars continue to rage in Iraq, the Palestinian Authority and Afghanistan, only serves to further threaten global stability.
FAIR TAX
There is only one one entity in the U.S. that pays taxes: the individual. Businesses and corporations do not, they merely collect taxes from consumers of their products and pass on the taxes to the government. The Fair Tax proposal calls for eliminating the IRS and the Income Tax and replacing it with a progressive national Sales Tax on new products and services...
GLOBAL WARMING/CLIMATE CHANGE
Senator Gravel believes that global climate change is a matter of national security. As President, he will act swiftly to reduce America's carbon footprint in the world bypassing legislation that caps emissions... However, any legislation will have little impact on the global environment if we do not work together with other global polluters. Fighting global warming can only be effective if it is a collective global effort.
UNIVERSAL HEALTHCARE VOUCHERS
Senator Gravel advocates a National Health Care Voucher plan that will give every American health care. Using a voucher paid for by the government, Americans are free to choose their own doctor...
LGBT RIGHTS
Senator Gravel supports same-sex marriage and opposes the Defense of Marriage Act. He supports expanding hate-crime legislation and opposes laws that allow discrimination against sexual orientation...
PRISON/DRUG REFORM
The United States incarcerates more people and at a higher rate than any other peacetime nation in the world. According to the federal Bureau of Justice Statistics the number of US residents behind bars has now reached more than 2.3 million... We are losing an entire generation of young men and women to our prisons. Our nation’s ineffective and wasteful “war on drugs” plays a major role in this. We must place a greater emphasis on rehabilitation and prevention. We must de-criminalize minor drug offenses and increase the availability and visibility of substance abuse treatment and prevention in our communities as well as in jails and prisons...
2ND AMENDMENT RIGHTS
While Senator Gravel fully supports the 2nd Amendment, he believes that fundamental change must take place with regards to gun ownership. The senator advocates a licensing program where a potential gun owner must be licensed as well as properly trained with a firearm before they may own one.
There's more, and a lot more. Do yourself a favour — particularly if you're an American citizen — and check out his website.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Holocaust Memorial, Earl Bales Park
Starting last Friday, I'm taking most of the Fridays of this summer off. I found myself at loose ends that day, so I started thinking of places I might wander. I remembered a little street that heads off into the woods under the Sheppard Avenue bridge over the West Don River near Bathurst Street, so I decided to go back there. Looking at the map, I happened to notice that connected to the paths there is Earl Bales Park, and that there is a Holocaust Memorial there. I was intrigued. Suddenly the day had focus. Off I went.
It's a beautiful memorial, shaped like a wagon wheel with spokes radiating out from a central pillar that, I think, is meant to be evocative of the smoke rising from the death camps. The names of the camps are set in the stones that lead you in. Tree-lined, the outer edge of the memorial is made up of black marble tableaux, upon one set of which are carved the names of the lost, remembered by local Jewish families, and on the other, the names of local Holocaust survivors who have subsequently passed on. Those who survived on the one hand, and those who did not in the other, now joined in memory.
I lingered there about half an hour, taking dozens of photographs in both visible and infrared light. On the way there, I passed an Orthodox Jewish family spending the day in the park. One of the most affecting moments for me was when I looked up at the terrible iconography of the pillar, only to see a beautiful red kite in a bright blue sky high above it. It could only have been from that family. It was the poignant triumph of joy and hope over sorrow and monstrosity; a spiritual phoenix.
In invite you to explore the images at your leisure here.
It's a beautiful memorial, shaped like a wagon wheel with spokes radiating out from a central pillar that, I think, is meant to be evocative of the smoke rising from the death camps. The names of the camps are set in the stones that lead you in. Tree-lined, the outer edge of the memorial is made up of black marble tableaux, upon one set of which are carved the names of the lost, remembered by local Jewish families, and on the other, the names of local Holocaust survivors who have subsequently passed on. Those who survived on the one hand, and those who did not in the other, now joined in memory.
I lingered there about half an hour, taking dozens of photographs in both visible and infrared light. On the way there, I passed an Orthodox Jewish family spending the day in the park. One of the most affecting moments for me was when I looked up at the terrible iconography of the pillar, only to see a beautiful red kite in a bright blue sky high above it. It could only have been from that family. It was the poignant triumph of joy and hope over sorrow and monstrosity; a spiritual phoenix.In invite you to explore the images at your leisure here.
Full-Monty Monday :)
A number of my correspondents here on Blogger are involved in something called “Half-Naked Thursdays”, on which they post provocative photos of themselves. Well, I guess you can call this my “Full-Monty Monday”. :)
Saturday P-Doug and I went back out to the Humber Valley trails. We discovered a closed concession road that leads up into a conservation area, very well kept, where we encountered perhaps a dozen bikers and an ambitious jogger. At the base of the trail, we found a little pond that was just beautiful. P-Doug remarked on the mirror like surface of the pond, which stirred me from my reverie and got me taking the image I tried but failed to get all last year: a good panorama of a mirrored lake in infrared. It came 
out beautifully. Since I had the presence of mind to shoot the view in visible light from the exact same position, I was doubly blessed in being able to contrast the two very different outcomes of the same scene.
After about an hour we headed back to a place on the Humber we've been before, this time to explore a flood plain I spotted in aerial shots that looked to me like a pleasant and reasonably secluded place to sunbathe. We had to ford the
Humber to do this. It was cool, verging on cold, but we managed to wade in it downstream for five minutes or so get to where we were swimming last year. P-Doug seemed to want to drift further downstream, so we effectively parted company and I headed in from the bank where we used to strip off.
If you tune in here from time to time, you know I'm a barefoot hiking enthusiast. I like the physical challenge, and I love the sensations that are out there in the forest. Not surprisingly, I forded the river barefoot; as I emerged at the bank, I found myself looking across a wide, marshy grove, and I was faced with a decision. I hesitated, then decided to accept the challenge. So with my sandals in my pocket, I pressed on. I crossed the thicket and begin climbing up the steep rise with a walking stick I'd found on the far bank. At the top, I stood and looked down, feeling pride in the accomplishment. I headed down the other side, where I met up with P-Doug in the glade.
After a few minutes, I chose a spot and stripped off, lying on my shorts and shirt in the grass. P-Doug drifted off. I lay there for perhaps three quarters of an hour, just relaxing in the sun. It was really wonderful. At one point, I called out to P-Doug and he called back from the distance, which was fine; as long as we knew where each other was, no needless wandering around when it was time to go. Eventually I heard footsteps approaching and heard him ask if I'd had my fill of the sun. As I dressed, he told me of lying nude on the river bank, admiring the view, feeling the sun, closing his eyes and settling back... at one point hearing the splish, splish, splish of... what? That's not a deer, he thought, and he looked up to see a young couple paddling by in a canoe. Ah, nature boy. We had a good laugh. Anyway, I suited back up, less the sandals of course, and rather than take the plain back, at P-Doug's suggestion we followed another deer trail back up the rise. I warned him of the swampy nature of the foot of the rise, but he was game (he was in strap sandals himself). We picked our way back across the grove and into the river again. It was a nice two hours. Then it was a beeline back to our current pub of choice on Bloor Street for a couple of pitchers of suds. Primo. :)
Saturday P-Doug and I went back out to the Humber Valley trails. We discovered a closed concession road that leads up into a conservation area, very well kept, where we encountered perhaps a dozen bikers and an ambitious jogger. At the base of the trail, we found a little pond that was just beautiful. P-Doug remarked on the mirror like surface of the pond, which stirred me from my reverie and got me taking the image I tried but failed to get all last year: a good panorama of a mirrored lake in infrared. It came 
out beautifully. Since I had the presence of mind to shoot the view in visible light from the exact same position, I was doubly blessed in being able to contrast the two very different outcomes of the same scene.After about an hour we headed back to a place on the Humber we've been before, this time to explore a flood plain I spotted in aerial shots that looked to me like a pleasant and reasonably secluded place to sunbathe. We had to ford the
Humber to do this. It was cool, verging on cold, but we managed to wade in it downstream for five minutes or so get to where we were swimming last year. P-Doug seemed to want to drift further downstream, so we effectively parted company and I headed in from the bank where we used to strip off.
If you tune in here from time to time, you know I'm a barefoot hiking enthusiast. I like the physical challenge, and I love the sensations that are out there in the forest. Not surprisingly, I forded the river barefoot; as I emerged at the bank, I found myself looking across a wide, marshy grove, and I was faced with a decision. I hesitated, then decided to accept the challenge. So with my sandals in my pocket, I pressed on. I crossed the thicket and begin climbing up the steep rise with a walking stick I'd found on the far bank. At the top, I stood and looked down, feeling pride in the accomplishment. I headed down the other side, where I met up with P-Doug in the glade.
After a few minutes, I chose a spot and stripped off, lying on my shorts and shirt in the grass. P-Doug drifted off. I lay there for perhaps three quarters of an hour, just relaxing in the sun. It was really wonderful. At one point, I called out to P-Doug and he called back from the distance, which was fine; as long as we knew where each other was, no needless wandering around when it was time to go. Eventually I heard footsteps approaching and heard him ask if I'd had my fill of the sun. As I dressed, he told me of lying nude on the river bank, admiring the view, feeling the sun, closing his eyes and settling back... at one point hearing the splish, splish, splish of... what? That's not a deer, he thought, and he looked up to see a young couple paddling by in a canoe. Ah, nature boy. We had a good laugh. Anyway, I suited back up, less the sandals of course, and rather than take the plain back, at P-Doug's suggestion we followed another deer trail back up the rise. I warned him of the swampy nature of the foot of the rise, but he was game (he was in strap sandals himself). We picked our way back across the grove and into the river again. It was a nice two hours. Then it was a beeline back to our current pub of choice on Bloor Street for a couple of pitchers of suds. Primo. :)
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Kiss my Royal Canadian
The Toronto Star reports the following...
Lawyer cleared to challenge loyalty oath to the Queen
The federal government has lost its bid to stop Toronto lawyer Charles Roach from pursuing a class-action lawsuit that challenges the requirement for new Canadians to pledge allegiance to the Queen. ...It means Roach and an unspecified number of other people who feel they've been wronged by the requirement to pledge an oath of allegiance can have their case heard in court. They want the oath repealed and a $5,000 damage award given to each person who joins the lawsuit. In Roach's case, his objections to the current requirement mean that, although he has been in Canada since 1955, he has never sworn an oath and so is not a citizen. He doesn't have a Canadian passport, can't vote, run for office or have a shot at becoming a judge. He originates from Trinidad and Tobago.
...However, Belobaba said there was nothing in the Constitution Act requiring an oath of citizenship, nor swearing allegiance to the Queen.
..."It is interesting to note that in Australia, also a constitutional monarchy, new citizens are required to take `a pledge of commitment' to Australia and its people ... and laws," Belobaba said.
...The lawsuit states that Roach and others believe in a republican form of government and want to see constitutional reform that would eliminate the Queen as Canada's head of state. It also states that the law discriminates between Canadians born here – who are never required to take the oath – and those for whom it is a condition for citizenship.
I'm hardly what most people would call an arch conservative nowadays. Nevertheless, I find all this utterly outrageous. Bluntly, if I were a bit less liberal than I am, I'd be tempted to suggest the government stick Mr. Roach on the next flight to Trinidad and Tobago, the only country to which he owes allegiance and in which he has a right to be.
If he moved to Canada in 1955, he was already a British subject at the time. Trinidad and Tobago didn't become independent until 1962, and didn't become a republic till 1976. If a republic was what he wanted, he got it then.
Bad enough, in my opinion, to presume to rewrite our Constitution from without the membership of the state... but to demand $5,000 compensation from a nation which has opened its doors to you and offered its shelter, protection, and opportunities simply because you don't deign to acquiesce to its traditions and chosen institutions is wholly unacceptable. It casts my mind into a rather dark place where immigration is concerned, as I imagine it does others, and it should.
The Queen is not the issue here. The issue here is being told by others what aspects of our nation, our history, our culture, and our way of life they will and will not accept in requesting the privilege of our citizenship. It could be anything... the status of our official languages, the secular aspect of our governance, the rights of gays to wed, the freedom of women to initiate divorce proceedings, you name it, someone can and will object to it. But this is how we live. This is how we've grown. This is our country. We change it, and we decide how, and we decide when. No one else.
Justice Belobaba is correct in saying that nothing in the Constitution requires an oath the Queen. In fact, the Constitution is mute on the subject of citizenship altogether. It is established by statute. That statute happens to require a certain oath. I would add to the Justice's remarks the fact that neither is there anything in the Constitution requiring immigrants to adopt our citizenship (nor obliging Canada to grant it!). That's a matter of conscience, and sometimes legal necessity (the citizenships of many countries are abrogated by the adoption of another). Now if Mr. Roach's complaint had been that he were denied citizenship itself for some reason, such as race, or religion, or national origin, I would be right there with him. But that's not what this is about. Mr. Roach has taken a principled stand that has deprived him of the benefits of citizenship, but no more so than anyone else in the world who is not a Canadian citizen. He has made his own bed... and out of a half century's worth of Canadian lumber, goose down, and linens, I might add. Canada has not deprived him of the vote, or political office, or a judicial position. He has voluntarily deprived himself of them. They were his for the asking, but he would not bring himself to ask, so let his pride be his consolation. Not five grand out of my pocket.
Australia's policies are Australia's; we're no more bound to follow their example on the matter of the oath than we were to follow Trinidad and Tobago's on the matter of our head of state.
Mr. Roach, et al., would prefer a republican form of government. Canadians, as a society, do not. At least not yet, at least not to any degree compelling enough to act. For this, we owe people $5,000? This idea is risible. If we're going to use Australia as an object lesson, then it's fair to ask: does Australia owe its republicans, foreign-born or domestic, $5,000 for failing to overturn the monarchy in its 1999 referendum on the matter? Of course not. Who would credit such an absurd idea?
As to the inequity of the application of the oath, no such inequity exists for practical purposes. Those of us born Canadian citizens did not have the option of deciding whether or not we would be citizens of this nation; we simply are. However, we exist under the same compulsions as anyone who takes the oath. The allegiance to which they swear explicitly is just as binding on us implicitly. Acts in violation of it are referred to as treason, and will land one in jail without regard to how one came by one's citizenship.
In the United States, one is required to swear to, among other things, “support and defend the Constitution” in the citizenship oath. Suppose Mr. Roach were a longtime resident of that country instead of this. How far do you think he would get if he went to court and said, “I would have become a citizen, but I have reservations about the 16th, 19th, and 22nd Amendments. I cannot and will not swear to uphold and defend them. In not allowing me to swear as suits me, the United States has robbed me of rights and opportunities. Therefore, I and my co-litigants demand the right to swear as we please in being granted citizenship, and the award of damages of $5,000 on top of it...”? Just imagine.
Canada may, at some point the future, dispense with the monarchy and fashion some manner of republic. Then again, we might not. That's up to us. No one else. With regard to this, people have three choices: A) don't come here; B) immigrate, but remain an immigrant and forswear applying for citizenship; or C) swear the oath as required by Canadian law, in recognition of Canadian history, custom, tradition, culture, and constitutional heritage. What you don't have the right to do is come crashing in here saying “I ain't marryin' you till you get a nose job, ugly!” and then demand payment in lieu of lost marital privilege on top of it. Good God, get real.
Lawyer cleared to challenge loyalty oath to the Queen
The federal government has lost its bid to stop Toronto lawyer Charles Roach from pursuing a class-action lawsuit that challenges the requirement for new Canadians to pledge allegiance to the Queen. ...It means Roach and an unspecified number of other people who feel they've been wronged by the requirement to pledge an oath of allegiance can have their case heard in court. They want the oath repealed and a $5,000 damage award given to each person who joins the lawsuit. In Roach's case, his objections to the current requirement mean that, although he has been in Canada since 1955, he has never sworn an oath and so is not a citizen. He doesn't have a Canadian passport, can't vote, run for office or have a shot at becoming a judge. He originates from Trinidad and Tobago.
...However, Belobaba said there was nothing in the Constitution Act requiring an oath of citizenship, nor swearing allegiance to the Queen.
..."It is interesting to note that in Australia, also a constitutional monarchy, new citizens are required to take `a pledge of commitment' to Australia and its people ... and laws," Belobaba said.
...The lawsuit states that Roach and others believe in a republican form of government and want to see constitutional reform that would eliminate the Queen as Canada's head of state. It also states that the law discriminates between Canadians born here – who are never required to take the oath – and those for whom it is a condition for citizenship.
I'm hardly what most people would call an arch conservative nowadays. Nevertheless, I find all this utterly outrageous. Bluntly, if I were a bit less liberal than I am, I'd be tempted to suggest the government stick Mr. Roach on the next flight to Trinidad and Tobago, the only country to which he owes allegiance and in which he has a right to be.
If he moved to Canada in 1955, he was already a British subject at the time. Trinidad and Tobago didn't become independent until 1962, and didn't become a republic till 1976. If a republic was what he wanted, he got it then.
Bad enough, in my opinion, to presume to rewrite our Constitution from without the membership of the state... but to demand $5,000 compensation from a nation which has opened its doors to you and offered its shelter, protection, and opportunities simply because you don't deign to acquiesce to its traditions and chosen institutions is wholly unacceptable. It casts my mind into a rather dark place where immigration is concerned, as I imagine it does others, and it should.
The Queen is not the issue here. The issue here is being told by others what aspects of our nation, our history, our culture, and our way of life they will and will not accept in requesting the privilege of our citizenship. It could be anything... the status of our official languages, the secular aspect of our governance, the rights of gays to wed, the freedom of women to initiate divorce proceedings, you name it, someone can and will object to it. But this is how we live. This is how we've grown. This is our country. We change it, and we decide how, and we decide when. No one else.
Justice Belobaba is correct in saying that nothing in the Constitution requires an oath the Queen. In fact, the Constitution is mute on the subject of citizenship altogether. It is established by statute. That statute happens to require a certain oath. I would add to the Justice's remarks the fact that neither is there anything in the Constitution requiring immigrants to adopt our citizenship (nor obliging Canada to grant it!). That's a matter of conscience, and sometimes legal necessity (the citizenships of many countries are abrogated by the adoption of another). Now if Mr. Roach's complaint had been that he were denied citizenship itself for some reason, such as race, or religion, or national origin, I would be right there with him. But that's not what this is about. Mr. Roach has taken a principled stand that has deprived him of the benefits of citizenship, but no more so than anyone else in the world who is not a Canadian citizen. He has made his own bed... and out of a half century's worth of Canadian lumber, goose down, and linens, I might add. Canada has not deprived him of the vote, or political office, or a judicial position. He has voluntarily deprived himself of them. They were his for the asking, but he would not bring himself to ask, so let his pride be his consolation. Not five grand out of my pocket.
Australia's policies are Australia's; we're no more bound to follow their example on the matter of the oath than we were to follow Trinidad and Tobago's on the matter of our head of state.
Mr. Roach, et al., would prefer a republican form of government. Canadians, as a society, do not. At least not yet, at least not to any degree compelling enough to act. For this, we owe people $5,000? This idea is risible. If we're going to use Australia as an object lesson, then it's fair to ask: does Australia owe its republicans, foreign-born or domestic, $5,000 for failing to overturn the monarchy in its 1999 referendum on the matter? Of course not. Who would credit such an absurd idea?
As to the inequity of the application of the oath, no such inequity exists for practical purposes. Those of us born Canadian citizens did not have the option of deciding whether or not we would be citizens of this nation; we simply are. However, we exist under the same compulsions as anyone who takes the oath. The allegiance to which they swear explicitly is just as binding on us implicitly. Acts in violation of it are referred to as treason, and will land one in jail without regard to how one came by one's citizenship.
In the United States, one is required to swear to, among other things, “support and defend the Constitution” in the citizenship oath. Suppose Mr. Roach were a longtime resident of that country instead of this. How far do you think he would get if he went to court and said, “I would have become a citizen, but I have reservations about the 16th, 19th, and 22nd Amendments. I cannot and will not swear to uphold and defend them. In not allowing me to swear as suits me, the United States has robbed me of rights and opportunities. Therefore, I and my co-litigants demand the right to swear as we please in being granted citizenship, and the award of damages of $5,000 on top of it...”? Just imagine.
Canada may, at some point the future, dispense with the monarchy and fashion some manner of republic. Then again, we might not. That's up to us. No one else. With regard to this, people have three choices: A) don't come here; B) immigrate, but remain an immigrant and forswear applying for citizenship; or C) swear the oath as required by Canadian law, in recognition of Canadian history, custom, tradition, culture, and constitutional heritage. What you don't have the right to do is come crashing in here saying “I ain't marryin' you till you get a nose job, ugly!” and then demand payment in lieu of lost marital privilege on top of it. Good God, get real.
Too stupid to live... literally?
On my way home from the grocery store this afternoon, I drove past a car that narrowly elected not to shoot out in front of me from a side street; a last-minute decision that probably made for a better afternoon for all concerned. As I passed the car, I caught sight of the driver... a young woman between 20 and 25, emoting rather passionately into a cell phone. I take a dim view of people who drive with their cell phones and think the practice should be banned, but this... this was beyond the beyond.
She pulled out behind me and kept pretty good pace with me. Just before the access to a local freeway, we had to stop at a light. I could see her in my rearview mirror; in fact, I could not take my eyes off of her. She was making a spectacle of herself in the literal sense of the word; phone held to her face with one hand and a cigarette poised between two fingers of the hand on the wheel (in other words, steering with three fingers total), she was shouting into the phone, her face visibly flushed. She sobbed constantly, violently gulping air; repeatedly threw her head back, moaning, thrashing. It had the air of 'girl learns boyfriend and best friend are shacked up, gets on phone to confirm, learns worst, hops in car to confront/threaten/plea/commit assault or homicide'. Terrific! Twenty years ago, these were three separate acts; now at least two (and thank God only two) of them are combined, and today teary-eyed angst is our co-pilot.
A better person than me, I guess, would have had more generous sensibilities like "that poor young woman, what's going on in her life?" And yes, I had that too. But the overriding concern I had was that this idiot was immediately behind me. I was thinking, "Please, don't let her crash into me. Don't let her crash into me. Don't let her crash into me..." Whatever pity I felt for her was drowned in my anger at her for endangering herself, me, and hundreds of others she was sharing the road with. More than anything, I wanted to use my (non-existent) telepathy to impress in her mind: What the fuck are you doing sitting behind the wheel of a car? You're in no state to be on the road. You're not even in a state to be on that phone right now! Go home, suck a bottle of gin, smoke your head off, and cry yourself into a tortured sleep. Wake up in the morning.
The last I saw of her, she was weaving down the onramp to the expressway. May she arrive in safety. And may all the people at the other end give her slap for being so stupid.
She pulled out behind me and kept pretty good pace with me. Just before the access to a local freeway, we had to stop at a light. I could see her in my rearview mirror; in fact, I could not take my eyes off of her. She was making a spectacle of herself in the literal sense of the word; phone held to her face with one hand and a cigarette poised between two fingers of the hand on the wheel (in other words, steering with three fingers total), she was shouting into the phone, her face visibly flushed. She sobbed constantly, violently gulping air; repeatedly threw her head back, moaning, thrashing. It had the air of 'girl learns boyfriend and best friend are shacked up, gets on phone to confirm, learns worst, hops in car to confront/threaten/plea/commit assault or homicide'. Terrific! Twenty years ago, these were three separate acts; now at least two (and thank God only two) of them are combined, and today teary-eyed angst is our co-pilot.
A better person than me, I guess, would have had more generous sensibilities like "that poor young woman, what's going on in her life?" And yes, I had that too. But the overriding concern I had was that this idiot was immediately behind me. I was thinking, "Please, don't let her crash into me. Don't let her crash into me. Don't let her crash into me..." Whatever pity I felt for her was drowned in my anger at her for endangering herself, me, and hundreds of others she was sharing the road with. More than anything, I wanted to use my (non-existent) telepathy to impress in her mind: What the fuck are you doing sitting behind the wheel of a car? You're in no state to be on the road. You're not even in a state to be on that phone right now! Go home, suck a bottle of gin, smoke your head off, and cry yourself into a tortured sleep. Wake up in the morning.
The last I saw of her, she was weaving down the onramp to the expressway. May she arrive in safety. And may all the people at the other end give her slap for being so stupid.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
You don't say...
The U.K. Guardian today advises that "Iraq in danger of becoming failed state facing possibility of fragmentation, thinktank says."
Yeah, and Rush Limbaugh's in danger of becoming a little portly. Thanks for the bulletin.
Yeah, and Rush Limbaugh's in danger of becoming a little portly. Thanks for the bulletin.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
An un-Christian Christian
I was in Niagara Falls on the weekend, and there in the parking lot opposite one of the wonders of the world was this. I'm sorry indeed to relate that the gas-guzzler I saw it on had Ontario plates.I find this bumper sticker offensive on so many levels, it's hard to know where to start.
Well, start with the obvious, I guess. What makes this clown so sure he's one of the chosen in the first place? Pride is one of the seven deadly sins. Seems to me anyone who's sure he's going to Heaven, ain't. QED.
Second, what kind of jerk would God have to be to do this? Let's break it down. First, a God who supposedly loves us all is presumed ready to let most of us roast in Hell, but scoop up a few others, and why? Because they're willing to "believe" without question. Other than that, inch for inch, pound for pound, they're probably morally no better than you or I. On top of that, once this fellow (and millions like him) have been shredded to ribbons as the Lord sucks them up through the roofs of their cars, homes, and offices in the name of conducting them to Heaven, those of us apparently condemned to Hell will be sent there that much faster by pilotless vehicles skating back and forth across our highways, city streets, harbours, and dropping out of the sky. Nothing like a loving God to make the end of the world a laff riot, huh? Nah, I'm sorry. I have a hard time believing that a loving Creator of the Universe would be a bigger asshole than I am, and a much bigger one at that. I can't be better than God. Ergo, this couldn't happen. If I'm wrong, well, then God's a prick and there's no measurable difference between "good" and "evil" except the power base (are you listening, Mr. President?).
Thirdly, what does putting a bumper sticker like this on your car say about your character? To me, it means that deep down, this guy is a smug, arrogant self-aggrandizer. I wonder what it implies for his conduct with other human beings. If you’re of a 'wrong' religion (and thus damned, no matter how good a person you are), or if this guy decides, for whatever reason, that you’re not saved like he is, how might he treat you differently in subtle, or not-so-subtle ways? Knowing you won’t be standing at the right hand of Jesus on Judgement Day, would he be tempted to treat you as unequal or less worthy? To me, there’s something nastily celebratory about this message. It presumes that he’s saved and you’re not; the warning is for you because it’s his unmanned vehicle you’ll have to deal with once God has saved him and forsaken you. Would a true Christian celebrate this? I would expect, knowing what I do know about Christianity, that this would be a source of sorrow for a sincere believer, not an occasion for an in-your-face joke.
What I’d love to see is the moment of the Rapture arrive, this guy standing there with arms upstretched, watching others lifted away while he stands earthbound with the condemned, and finally squealing, “But what about me?” And there’s Jesus — GLING! — and He says, “Sorry, no, you’re an asshole. I mean, just look at your bumper sticker. So long.” — GLING! — And the guy’s standing there with his jaw dropped, and we all laugh at him as we go to Hell.
But that’s what happens if you’re Protestant. I’m Catholic (at least officially), so I think he gets another chance. For me, Purgatory and Hell are the same thing (though that’s a personal view)… a separation from God and all those you love and all that that makes you happy, combined with a hunger, a yearning, a need for all that that increases with your distance from it. And you stay there till you 'get' all the reasons you can’t be with everyone else. The worse a person you are, the longer it’ll take you to learn the lessons; the longer you suffer. But once you’ve purged yourself (hence the name Purgatory) of your backwardness, you are admitted to Heaven.
Well, to me, this bumper sticker’s a ticket to Purgatory on the Highway to Hell. What a jerk.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Moore ridiculous news...
I read yesterday that Michael Moore has been given 20 working days by the U.S. Treasury Department, of all things, to ‘explain himself’ for a recent trip to Cuba. It seems Moore was down there to investigate their health care system in conjunction with his upcoming documentary Sicko, purportedly about the inequities of the current American health care system. It seems that going to Cuba without Uncle Sam’s official or at least tacit okey-dokey is a violation of the Hyper Super-Duper God Bless America Act or something.
Ironies abound here.
Think about it… these days, if Moore cannot or will not explain himself to his government’s satisfaction, he might just wind up being sent to Guantanamo in Cuba… for going to Cuba.
Also, it seems to me that if only he hailed from, say, Sarnia, Ontario, instead of Flint, Michigan, he wouldn’t have to ‘explain himself’ to his government for having visited any foreign country he chose, Cuba or otherwise, to make a movie about his country’s health care system leaving millions of people uninsured. But then, if he were from Sarnia, he wouldn’t have to make such a movie in the first place…
Finally, there’s the odd emphasis on freedom in the US… missing the forest for the trees. I can remember being condescended to by Americans who were ‘shocked’ by anti-hate speech legislation here in Canada and elsewhere. No such thing could exist in the US, I was told, where freedom of speech is absolute. Yes, Americans are free to shout from the rooftops that the Holocaust never happened but that if it had, Hitler had a great idea — though not one in ten thousand of them would exercise such a ‘right’. But travel 90 miles to a country whose government your own doesn’t like in order to make a point that could potentially help tens of millions of your fellow citizens live longer, better lives? Oh, no. No, we can’t have people doing that, uh uh. It makes you wonder if these folks understand the difference between the product and the packaging.
Ironies abound here.
Think about it… these days, if Moore cannot or will not explain himself to his government’s satisfaction, he might just wind up being sent to Guantanamo in Cuba… for going to Cuba.
Also, it seems to me that if only he hailed from, say, Sarnia, Ontario, instead of Flint, Michigan, he wouldn’t have to ‘explain himself’ to his government for having visited any foreign country he chose, Cuba or otherwise, to make a movie about his country’s health care system leaving millions of people uninsured. But then, if he were from Sarnia, he wouldn’t have to make such a movie in the first place…
Finally, there’s the odd emphasis on freedom in the US… missing the forest for the trees. I can remember being condescended to by Americans who were ‘shocked’ by anti-hate speech legislation here in Canada and elsewhere. No such thing could exist in the US, I was told, where freedom of speech is absolute. Yes, Americans are free to shout from the rooftops that the Holocaust never happened but that if it had, Hitler had a great idea — though not one in ten thousand of them would exercise such a ‘right’. But travel 90 miles to a country whose government your own doesn’t like in order to make a point that could potentially help tens of millions of your fellow citizens live longer, better lives? Oh, no. No, we can’t have people doing that, uh uh. It makes you wonder if these folks understand the difference between the product and the packaging.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Sweet dreams are made of these
Another dream I remember. This one from early this morning. I think it was partially inspired by seeing Hot Fuzz last night, inasmuch as, for some reason, I was in England in the dream.
I remember being in a dilapidated house at night, lit by candles or very low-wattage bulbs, huddled there with several other people. At some point, we all left, heading out into a dark plain. Bright lights in the distance, pointed at the sky. Search lights? Anyway, we joined dozens, scores, maybe hundreds of others, all heading in the same direction in the darkness. There was a sudden pillar of flame in the distance. At first I wasn’t sure what it was, but presently I realized it was a nuclear detonation. Others followed. They were small yield, like tactical weapons. The hot orange mushroom clouds towered in the distance, each one seeming closer as they went off; maybe half a dozen. I remember sensing one was about to fall near us and dropping to the ground, drawing snow up to my face to reflect the heat and radiation. Funny what occurs to you; any feeble defense… but in the dream it did seem to work. I had no idea what the radiation might be doing to me, but as it was happening I felt no ill effects, no pain, no burns. Just this terrible realization that the great experiment of civilization was pretty much over, and things were going to get far more brutal and desperate for us all.
I remember being in a dilapidated house at night, lit by candles or very low-wattage bulbs, huddled there with several other people. At some point, we all left, heading out into a dark plain. Bright lights in the distance, pointed at the sky. Search lights? Anyway, we joined dozens, scores, maybe hundreds of others, all heading in the same direction in the darkness. There was a sudden pillar of flame in the distance. At first I wasn’t sure what it was, but presently I realized it was a nuclear detonation. Others followed. They were small yield, like tactical weapons. The hot orange mushroom clouds towered in the distance, each one seeming closer as they went off; maybe half a dozen. I remember sensing one was about to fall near us and dropping to the ground, drawing snow up to my face to reflect the heat and radiation. Funny what occurs to you; any feeble defense… but in the dream it did seem to work. I had no idea what the radiation might be doing to me, but as it was happening I felt no ill effects, no pain, no burns. Just this terrible realization that the great experiment of civilization was pretty much over, and things were going to get far more brutal and desperate for us all.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The Two Speeches
The following is currently making the rounds on the net and email...
The Speech George Bush Should Give Next ... (but won't)
My Fellow Americans: As you all know, the defeat of Iraq regime has been completed.
Since congress does not want to spend any more money on this war, our mission in Iraq is complete.
This morning I gave the order for a complete removal of all American forces from Iraq. This action will be complete within 30 days. It is now time to begin the reckoning.
Before me, I have two lists. One list contains the names of countries which have stood by our side during the Iraq conflict. This list is short The United Kingdom, Spain, Bulgaria, Australia, and Poland are some of the countries listed there.
The other list contains everyone not on the first list. Most of the world's nations are on that list. My press secretary will be distributing copies of both lists later this evening.
Let me start by saying that effective immediately, foreign aid to those nations on List 2 ceases immediately and indefinitely. The money saved during the first year alone will pretty much pay for the costs of the Iraqi war.
The American people are no longer going to pour money into third world Hell-holes and watch those government leaders grow fat on corruption.
Need help with a famine? Wrestling with an epidemic? Call France.
In the future, together with Congress, I will work to redirect this money toward solving the vexing social problems we still have at home. On that note, a word to terrorist organizations. Screw with us and we will hunt you down and eliminate you and all your friends from the face of the earth.
Thirsting for a gutsy country to terrorize? Try France, or maybe China.
I am ordering the immediate severing of diplomatic relations with France, Germany, and Russia. Thanks for all your help, comrades. We are retiring from NATO as well. Bon chance, mes amis.
I have instructed the Mayor of New York City to begin towing the many UN diplomatic vehicles located in Manhattan with more than two unpaid parking tickets to sites where those vehicles will be stripped, shredded and crushed. I don't care about whatever treaty pertains to this. You creeps have tens of thousands of unpaid tickets. Pay those tickets tomorrow or watch your precious Benzes, Beamers and limos be turned over to some of the finest chop shops in the world. I love New York.
A special note to our neighbors. Canada is on List 2. Since we are likely to be seeing a lot more of each other, you folks might want to try not pissing us off for a change.
Mexico is also on List 2. President Fox and his entire corrupt government need an attitude adjustment. I will have a couple extra tank and infantry divisions sitting around. Guess where I am going to put 'em? Yep, border security. So start doing something with your oil. Oh, by the way, the United States is abrogating the NAFTA treaty - starting now. We are tired of the one-way highway. Immediately, we'll be drilling for oil in Alaska - which will take care of this country's oil needs for decades to come. If you're an environmentalist who opposes this decision, I refer you to List 2 above: pick a country and move there. They care.
It is time for America to focus on its own welfare and its own citizens. Some will accuse us of isolationism. I answer them by saying, "darn tootin." Nearly a century of trying to help folks live a decent life around the world has only earned us the undying enmity of just about everyone on the planet. It is time to eliminate hunger in America. It is time to eliminate homelessness in America. It is time to eliminate World Cup Soccer from America. To the nations on List 1, a final thought. Thanks guys. We owe you and we won't forget.
To the nations on List 2, a final thought: You might want to learn to speak Arabic. God bless America. Thank you and good night.
The Speech We Wish the Rest of Mankind Would Make (and Probably Will, Soon)
My fellow human beings:
The United Nations has decided to leave New York and re-establish itself in civilization... somewhere like Stockholm, Geneva, or maybe Sydney... it's warm there. We realize it was brave to establish our headquarters beyond the fringe of human decency, but we were idealistic in those days and trying to make a point. It's time we admitted the experiment has failed and aim a little lower. We will, of course, gladly pay off our hundreds of thousands of... ahem... "dollars" of New York City parking tickets... just as soon as the United States pays off its $1.3 billion in United Nations dues arrears. We would prefer this payment to be made in real money... any currency capable of holding at least a decent share of its value over time will do. That's €950 million, if you please (yes, the currency of Germany, the country currently doing more export trade than any other on Earth). We know that will be hard for you to scratch up as you have little of value to actually sell the rest of humanity anymore, but do please give it a try. You'll be better for it.
Also, China and Japan, among others, would like to announce that they're finally fed up handing you two billion dollars worth of goods and services each and every single day in exchange for A) your promise to use your overflowing military toybox to "protect" them in case the Martians show up and B) the increasingly worthless scrip you crank out with all the self-restraint of a drunken hurdy-gurdry man with a monkey grinding out Tunes from the Big Top. Hope you won't be too nervous when the lights go out; good luck finding your triggers. Please call "Who's there?" before shooting the neighbours passing by your door. It's only good manners.
Everyone in NATO would like to thank you for finally packing your carpet bags and going home after supposing that pitching in to save democracy (and ultimately your own skins) sixty years ago somehow entitled you to a permanent say in how Europeans ought to live and manage their internal and international affairs. They're looking forward to enjoying the peace and prosperity they've forged — largely in spite of your objections over the past 35 years.
Your former NAFTA partners, Canada and Mexico, would like to take this opportunity to thank you for patronage over the past many decades, and greatly regret that the oncoming massive economic infarction bearing inexorably down on you like a freight train will presently render you incapable of affording their services much longer, requiring them to sell their oil, raw materials, and manufactured goods to less conveniently located customers. For its part, Canada looks forward with little joy to the day that ballooning unemployment in the sweltering, arid, Greenhouse Effect-inspired desert you worked so blithely to create sends your millions pressing up against its frontiers, requiring the construction of the Windsor Wall (and probably just enough hydrogen bombs to make you think twice), but accepts this as the way you want things. Mexico is grateful for your quasi-institutional policy of unburdening them of their excess labour over many generations, all the while enriching yourselves by paying them starvation wages, denying them most of the human dignities of civil services and rights, and coercing them into illegalities by threatening them at every turn with the INS at the first hint of backbone. They are, however, somewhat more dubious about your insistence on hypocritically whining about it at every chance and blatantly portraying their people as vermin while you grew fat on the cheap labour they furnished. They look forward to returning the favour as trends reverse. You will be every bit as welcome! You might want to learn to speak Spanish.
Your friendly neighbourhood "terrorists" — usually people you encounter on their own soil — are sorry to see you go. Without you around to pick on, they'll have to get on with having jobs, families, houses and infrastructure that don't blow up and fall down on top of them, and, gosh darn it, having to acquire democracy the old fashioned way — evolving it and shaping it by consensus — instead of having it neatly fired into their bodies in the form of copper-jacketed steel. They will miss you, and wish you well in your future endeavors in your isolationist home.
Finally, the world would like to announce the publication of two lists. List 1 is all the countries in the world that, whatever their political stripe, prejudices, or aspirations, realize that they simply can't be assholes who go around the world taking whatever they want, murdering at will and expecting it not to result in any ill will or consequences, that there are limits to what power can and should be used to achieve and that the rights of others demand respect, accommodation, and negotiated settlements. List 2 includes the United States. The world finds this unfortunate, but wishes to earnestly assure Americans that mechanisms are already in place that promise to swiftly and humbly convert you to a solid List 1 country anytime now. O happy day!
My goodness! My Guinness! Thank you and good night.
The Speech George Bush Should Give Next ... (but won't)
My Fellow Americans: As you all know, the defeat of Iraq regime has been completed.
Since congress does not want to spend any more money on this war, our mission in Iraq is complete.
This morning I gave the order for a complete removal of all American forces from Iraq. This action will be complete within 30 days. It is now time to begin the reckoning.
Before me, I have two lists. One list contains the names of countries which have stood by our side during the Iraq conflict. This list is short The United Kingdom, Spain, Bulgaria, Australia, and Poland are some of the countries listed there.
The other list contains everyone not on the first list. Most of the world's nations are on that list. My press secretary will be distributing copies of both lists later this evening.
Let me start by saying that effective immediately, foreign aid to those nations on List 2 ceases immediately and indefinitely. The money saved during the first year alone will pretty much pay for the costs of the Iraqi war.
The American people are no longer going to pour money into third world Hell-holes and watch those government leaders grow fat on corruption.
Need help with a famine? Wrestling with an epidemic? Call France.
In the future, together with Congress, I will work to redirect this money toward solving the vexing social problems we still have at home. On that note, a word to terrorist organizations. Screw with us and we will hunt you down and eliminate you and all your friends from the face of the earth.
Thirsting for a gutsy country to terrorize? Try France, or maybe China.
I am ordering the immediate severing of diplomatic relations with France, Germany, and Russia. Thanks for all your help, comrades. We are retiring from NATO as well. Bon chance, mes amis.
I have instructed the Mayor of New York City to begin towing the many UN diplomatic vehicles located in Manhattan with more than two unpaid parking tickets to sites where those vehicles will be stripped, shredded and crushed. I don't care about whatever treaty pertains to this. You creeps have tens of thousands of unpaid tickets. Pay those tickets tomorrow or watch your precious Benzes, Beamers and limos be turned over to some of the finest chop shops in the world. I love New York.
A special note to our neighbors. Canada is on List 2. Since we are likely to be seeing a lot more of each other, you folks might want to try not pissing us off for a change.
Mexico is also on List 2. President Fox and his entire corrupt government need an attitude adjustment. I will have a couple extra tank and infantry divisions sitting around. Guess where I am going to put 'em? Yep, border security. So start doing something with your oil. Oh, by the way, the United States is abrogating the NAFTA treaty - starting now. We are tired of the one-way highway. Immediately, we'll be drilling for oil in Alaska - which will take care of this country's oil needs for decades to come. If you're an environmentalist who opposes this decision, I refer you to List 2 above: pick a country and move there. They care.
It is time for America to focus on its own welfare and its own citizens. Some will accuse us of isolationism. I answer them by saying, "darn tootin." Nearly a century of trying to help folks live a decent life around the world has only earned us the undying enmity of just about everyone on the planet. It is time to eliminate hunger in America. It is time to eliminate homelessness in America. It is time to eliminate World Cup Soccer from America. To the nations on List 1, a final thought. Thanks guys. We owe you and we won't forget.
To the nations on List 2, a final thought: You might want to learn to speak Arabic. God bless America. Thank you and good night.
The Speech We Wish the Rest of Mankind Would Make (and Probably Will, Soon)
My fellow human beings:
The United Nations has decided to leave New York and re-establish itself in civilization... somewhere like Stockholm, Geneva, or maybe Sydney... it's warm there. We realize it was brave to establish our headquarters beyond the fringe of human decency, but we were idealistic in those days and trying to make a point. It's time we admitted the experiment has failed and aim a little lower. We will, of course, gladly pay off our hundreds of thousands of... ahem... "dollars" of New York City parking tickets... just as soon as the United States pays off its $1.3 billion in United Nations dues arrears. We would prefer this payment to be made in real money... any currency capable of holding at least a decent share of its value over time will do. That's €950 million, if you please (yes, the currency of Germany, the country currently doing more export trade than any other on Earth). We know that will be hard for you to scratch up as you have little of value to actually sell the rest of humanity anymore, but do please give it a try. You'll be better for it.
Also, China and Japan, among others, would like to announce that they're finally fed up handing you two billion dollars worth of goods and services each and every single day in exchange for A) your promise to use your overflowing military toybox to "protect" them in case the Martians show up and B) the increasingly worthless scrip you crank out with all the self-restraint of a drunken hurdy-gurdry man with a monkey grinding out Tunes from the Big Top. Hope you won't be too nervous when the lights go out; good luck finding your triggers. Please call "Who's there?" before shooting the neighbours passing by your door. It's only good manners.
Everyone in NATO would like to thank you for finally packing your carpet bags and going home after supposing that pitching in to save democracy (and ultimately your own skins) sixty years ago somehow entitled you to a permanent say in how Europeans ought to live and manage their internal and international affairs. They're looking forward to enjoying the peace and prosperity they've forged — largely in spite of your objections over the past 35 years.
Your former NAFTA partners, Canada and Mexico, would like to take this opportunity to thank you for patronage over the past many decades, and greatly regret that the oncoming massive economic infarction bearing inexorably down on you like a freight train will presently render you incapable of affording their services much longer, requiring them to sell their oil, raw materials, and manufactured goods to less conveniently located customers. For its part, Canada looks forward with little joy to the day that ballooning unemployment in the sweltering, arid, Greenhouse Effect-inspired desert you worked so blithely to create sends your millions pressing up against its frontiers, requiring the construction of the Windsor Wall (and probably just enough hydrogen bombs to make you think twice), but accepts this as the way you want things. Mexico is grateful for your quasi-institutional policy of unburdening them of their excess labour over many generations, all the while enriching yourselves by paying them starvation wages, denying them most of the human dignities of civil services and rights, and coercing them into illegalities by threatening them at every turn with the INS at the first hint of backbone. They are, however, somewhat more dubious about your insistence on hypocritically whining about it at every chance and blatantly portraying their people as vermin while you grew fat on the cheap labour they furnished. They look forward to returning the favour as trends reverse. You will be every bit as welcome! You might want to learn to speak Spanish.
Your friendly neighbourhood "terrorists" — usually people you encounter on their own soil — are sorry to see you go. Without you around to pick on, they'll have to get on with having jobs, families, houses and infrastructure that don't blow up and fall down on top of them, and, gosh darn it, having to acquire democracy the old fashioned way — evolving it and shaping it by consensus — instead of having it neatly fired into their bodies in the form of copper-jacketed steel. They will miss you, and wish you well in your future endeavors in your isolationist home.
Finally, the world would like to announce the publication of two lists. List 1 is all the countries in the world that, whatever their political stripe, prejudices, or aspirations, realize that they simply can't be assholes who go around the world taking whatever they want, murdering at will and expecting it not to result in any ill will or consequences, that there are limits to what power can and should be used to achieve and that the rights of others demand respect, accommodation, and negotiated settlements. List 2 includes the United States. The world finds this unfortunate, but wishes to earnestly assure Americans that mechanisms are already in place that promise to swiftly and humbly convert you to a solid List 1 country anytime now. O happy day!
My goodness! My Guinness! Thank you and good night.
Friday, April 27, 2007
I'm sorry to hear that... or maybe I'm intrigued...
Wednesday night I was out with friends at a Mongolian restaurant. At the end of the evening I went up to pay with Interac, as is my usual practice. While I was there, I happened to glance at the credit card slips and there on one of them was one of those once-in-a-decade names. As God is my witness, I beheld the follow at the bottom of one:
LEE SUK WON
I was burning to take a picture of it because I thought, no one will ever believe me… but I would imagine restaurants don’t take kindly to guys photographing signed credit card slips, so I didn’t. All I could think, though, was that I sure hope this guy — whose name probably means something perfectly normal and unobtrusive in Mandarin or Cantonese — didn’t have to go through high school in an English-speaking country.
Would have been one for the books on www.engrish.com, though, I tell yah what. :)
LEE SUK WON
I was burning to take a picture of it because I thought, no one will ever believe me… but I would imagine restaurants don’t take kindly to guys photographing signed credit card slips, so I didn’t. All I could think, though, was that I sure hope this guy — whose name probably means something perfectly normal and unobtrusive in Mandarin or Cantonese — didn’t have to go through high school in an English-speaking country.
Would have been one for the books on www.engrish.com, though, I tell yah what. :)
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Nerdy dreams
I've had a couple of weird dreams lately. I don't ordinarily remember my dreams... if I can recall three in a year I'm doing above average, it seems to me. But I can remember a couple from just the last few days.
The first was rather surreal. I was out in the countryside and I stopped my car at the edge of a two-lane highway (by that I mean, one lane each way), with trees on one side and an wide open area on the side on which stopped. It was overcast, a little windy, threatening a storm. But I got out because I'd seen what looked like the remains of the old road surface. Anyone who's glanced over this blog knows I'm a sucker for lost roads. I got out to explore it and photograph it. I was in shorts and a t-shirt, walking along it barefoot; after a few moments I came to where a driveway crossed it, adjacent to a large, comfortable-looking farmhouse with its attendant buildings. There beside the ruined cement of the old road (just a few yards from the current highway) was a woman in late middle age. She seemed to know who I was and was both amused and perturbed. It turned out she was the wife of former Ontario premier Bill Davis (aside: I have no idea whatsoever to whom Bill Davis is married or what she looks like, but I would imagine that she’s older, whoever she actually is). She sort of invited, sort of insisted me in, and so I followed her into the house, where some kind of gathering of friends and family was going on. I was introduced to a 50-something version of Bill Davis, who again seemed to know who I was and, again, met me with mingled irritation and amiability… it’s hard to describe. It seems he was aware of my criticisms of his decision to kill the Spadina Expressway, expressed on this very blog in rather blunt terms. Naturally, I was embarrassed, but it was pretty quickly set aside and he spent time explaining his reasons for his decision. I don’t remember what they were, but I do remember understanding them, if not being persuaded by them; I guess we agreed to disagree. Eventually we joined the party, lively and friendly despite the gloom inside and the storm outdoors. Even though I was an outsider, I felt oddly connected to it all, a natural part of things.
Sometime this morning, I had another dream. I was back in my university days in a class somewhere. The class shifted to a pub setting (I remember a professor taking us to the campus pub on his last day before retiring; it always struck me as so delightfully adult and European). The professor was being heckled by someone else in the pub, and I and a couple of others began to take umbrage. Our professor seemed to have morphed into a woman without anyone noticing the change, and when the lout began making obscene passes at her, I and at least one of the other students attacked him. I remember hitting the guy on the head with the carved oaken leg of one of the pub chairs; he was hurt and bleeding and fought his way out. I realized what I’d done and fearfully resigned myself to waiting to be charged with assault, though it seemed right to have chased the guy off, and someone said the guy probably wouldn’t involved the police for exactly that reason. I woke up, anxious, and relieved it was only a dream.
The first was rather surreal. I was out in the countryside and I stopped my car at the edge of a two-lane highway (by that I mean, one lane each way), with trees on one side and an wide open area on the side on which stopped. It was overcast, a little windy, threatening a storm. But I got out because I'd seen what looked like the remains of the old road surface. Anyone who's glanced over this blog knows I'm a sucker for lost roads. I got out to explore it and photograph it. I was in shorts and a t-shirt, walking along it barefoot; after a few moments I came to where a driveway crossed it, adjacent to a large, comfortable-looking farmhouse with its attendant buildings. There beside the ruined cement of the old road (just a few yards from the current highway) was a woman in late middle age. She seemed to know who I was and was both amused and perturbed. It turned out she was the wife of former Ontario premier Bill Davis (aside: I have no idea whatsoever to whom Bill Davis is married or what she looks like, but I would imagine that she’s older, whoever she actually is). She sort of invited, sort of insisted me in, and so I followed her into the house, where some kind of gathering of friends and family was going on. I was introduced to a 50-something version of Bill Davis, who again seemed to know who I was and, again, met me with mingled irritation and amiability… it’s hard to describe. It seems he was aware of my criticisms of his decision to kill the Spadina Expressway, expressed on this very blog in rather blunt terms. Naturally, I was embarrassed, but it was pretty quickly set aside and he spent time explaining his reasons for his decision. I don’t remember what they were, but I do remember understanding them, if not being persuaded by them; I guess we agreed to disagree. Eventually we joined the party, lively and friendly despite the gloom inside and the storm outdoors. Even though I was an outsider, I felt oddly connected to it all, a natural part of things.
Sometime this morning, I had another dream. I was back in my university days in a class somewhere. The class shifted to a pub setting (I remember a professor taking us to the campus pub on his last day before retiring; it always struck me as so delightfully adult and European). The professor was being heckled by someone else in the pub, and I and a couple of others began to take umbrage. Our professor seemed to have morphed into a woman without anyone noticing the change, and when the lout began making obscene passes at her, I and at least one of the other students attacked him. I remember hitting the guy on the head with the carved oaken leg of one of the pub chairs; he was hurt and bleeding and fought his way out. I realized what I’d done and fearfully resigned myself to waiting to be charged with assault, though it seemed right to have chased the guy off, and someone said the guy probably wouldn’t involved the police for exactly that reason. I woke up, anxious, and relieved it was only a dream.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Dreaming of Home (Vimy Ridge rededication)
Yesterday, Easter Monday, 2007, was the 90th anniversary of the beginning of the Battle of Vimy Ridge… at least in Canadian terms. Canada’s most impressive war memorial is to be found there, towering over the lush plains of northern France.I don’t work for the government — which is another way of saying I was in the office yesterday — and missed actually seeing the ceremony live. I would really have liked to. God knows, I would love to have been there. But I did set the DVD player to record it, so I got to review it when I got home.
To be honest, I wasn’t really paying close attention. The French prime minister, Dominique de Villepin, was there, as was our prime minister, Stephen Harper, and Her Majesty the Queen. The first half hour was pretty much just getting everyone in place, and then the speeches began. The prime ministers spoke first, and then the Queen. As you might expect, they said wonderful things about the heroism of the men who died there, the gratitude of France, and the solidarity of Canada, France, and Britain. The words were moving; it seemed heartfelt, none of it over-the-top in the way of previous generations… I think we’re too cynical these days to be truly effusive. I was working in Photoshop at the time on the photo you see here, one eye and one ear on the screen, the other on what I was doing. It was weird… it was as though I were standing on one of the balconies of the building, listening to the speeches being given in the forest below; that’s how it formed in my mind...
When the speeches were over, there came this moment when music began. The tune was familiar… I realized later I’d heard it in the movie Joyeux Noël, about the Christmas armistice of 1914. The song is called, I think, “The Fraternizers’ Hymn (I’m Dreaming of Home)” in English. At first, just the melody, as I recall. Then men of the Canadian Armed Forces gave the song voice…
I hear the mountain birds
The sound of rivers singing
A song I’ve often heard
It flows through me now
So clear and so loud
I stand where I am
And forever I’m dreaming of home
I feel so alone, I’m dreaming of home
It was taken up by two or three dozen young girls in a choir from Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. They were joined by Susan Aglukark. It pulled my attention utterly from what I’d been doing, and just overwhelmed me. I can’t explain it. The longing of the song, the idea that they were speaking for all those men so long ago; it made them very immediate. Big tears started to spill from my eyes as I watched and listened; it just came up out of nowhere so suddenly and easily it was frightening. I felt like I was standing on that balcony watching all this, feeling the yearning for home those young soldiers must have felt, the desire to be anywhere but where they were, aching for the love, familiarity, and security of a home many of them would never see again. I was reminded of my Dad, who served in the Navy for twenty years, and how proud I’ve always been of him, and how hard it’s going to be someday to lose him (if I live long enough… you never know)... that feeling really cut into me.
The song ended with a magnificent shot of a long line of army trumpeters, facing the monument soaring in alabaster into a featureless sky of perfect azure. At that moment came a thundering fly-past by four Mirage jets of the French Air Force. By this point, I was actually crying. I had to turn it off. It completely swept me away emotionally. The only other moment in my life I can remember being so spontaneously carried off was when I was 17, stepping out of the Peace Tower on Parliament Hill just as the bells of the Carillon began to play high over my head, and the sense of Canada as something that existed before me and would endure long after me really struck home for the first time, and stood there in tears for a quarter of an hour. Like that, this was a strange, terrible, wonderful, singular moment that will be with me all my life.
I did finish the photograph. Suddenly it became the symbol of home that all those men, Allied and German alike, were fighting for, dying for, yearning for. In some small way, it’s for them. I hope they’re all home now.
I’m Dreaming of Home
by Gary Lewis / Lori Barth
I hear the mountain birds
The sound of rivers singing
A song I’ve often heard
It flows through me now
So clear and so loud
I stand where I am
And forever I’m dreaming of home
I feel so alone, I’m dreaming of home
It’s carried in the air
The breeze of early morning
I see the land so fair
My heart opens wide
There’s sadness inside
I stand where I am
And forever I’m dreaming of home
I feel so alone, I’m dreaming of home
This is no foreign sky
I see no foreign light
But far away am I
From some peaceful land
I’m longing to stand
A hand in my hand
… forever I’m dreaming of home
I feel so alone, I’m dreaming of home
Thursday, April 05, 2007
New Canadianism
Today I was introduced to a whole new Canadianism, this one having to do with ordering coffee at Tim Horton's... to wit:"Double-double, cream only."
Resulting mind dialogue: "Uhhhh... would that be 'double cream'"?
"Uh huh."
"So you want me to order double the cream, double the sugar, hold the sugar."
Either that or the other double was shots of whisky or something. That would explain alot.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Creepy cameras
Now this is just creepy. England is weird. I mean, Orwell wrote 1984 there, but this still seems to appeal to them. I know, I know, I know, cameras are everywhere these days, but I find the idea they're taping me at the ATM a lot less disturbing than the idea that some government-appointed Jiminy Cricket is staring at a monitor waiting to shout me down if I pick my nose or don't excuse myself after burping. This crosses a line for me.
From the Beeb:
'Talking' CCTV scheme expanding
Talking" CCTV cameras that tell off people dropping litter or committing anti-social behaviour are to be extended to 20 areas across England.
They are already used in Middlesbrough where anyone seen misbehaving can be told to stop via a loudspeaker, controlled by control centre staff.
Home Secretary John Reid has earmarked nearly £500,000 to add speaker facilities to already-existing cameras.
Critics say the cameras are absurd and an intrusion into everyday life.
Mr Reid told BBC News there would be some people, "in the minority who will be more concerned about what they claim are civil liberties intrusions".
"But the vast majority of people find that their life is more upset by people who make their life misery in the inner cities because they can't go out and feel safe and secure in a healthy, clean environment because of a minority of people," he added.
The example they give:
1. Pedestrian is spotted leaving can on bench.
2. Talking camera: "Please fetch your can."
3. Talking camera: "The bin is behind the phone box."
4. Talking camera: "Thank you for using the bin."
How it ought to go down:
1. Pedestrian is spotted leaving can on bench.
2. Talking camera: "Please fetch your can."
3. Though morally a douchebag, pedestrian exercises his free choice and gives camera the finger.
4. Assholes all around, but a blow for liberty is struck!
5. Next time, pedestrian realizes he was being a jerk and "bins" the can on his own. Hopefully.
From the Beeb:
'Talking' CCTV scheme expanding
Talking" CCTV cameras that tell off people dropping litter or committing anti-social behaviour are to be extended to 20 areas across England.
They are already used in Middlesbrough where anyone seen misbehaving can be told to stop via a loudspeaker, controlled by control centre staff.
Home Secretary John Reid has earmarked nearly £500,000 to add speaker facilities to already-existing cameras.
Critics say the cameras are absurd and an intrusion into everyday life.
Mr Reid told BBC News there would be some people, "in the minority who will be more concerned about what they claim are civil liberties intrusions".
"But the vast majority of people find that their life is more upset by people who make their life misery in the inner cities because they can't go out and feel safe and secure in a healthy, clean environment because of a minority of people," he added.
The example they give:
1. Pedestrian is spotted leaving can on bench.
2. Talking camera: "Please fetch your can."
3. Talking camera: "The bin is behind the phone box."
4. Talking camera: "Thank you for using the bin."
How it ought to go down:
1. Pedestrian is spotted leaving can on bench.
2. Talking camera: "Please fetch your can."
3. Though morally a douchebag, pedestrian exercises his free choice and gives camera the finger.
4. Assholes all around, but a blow for liberty is struck!
5. Next time, pedestrian realizes he was being a jerk and "bins" the can on his own. Hopefully.
Montrez-moi l'argent
Folks, I've figured it out. This whole Quebec 'fiscal imbalance' thing? Solved. Listen: all Quebec has to do to suck more mon— uhhhh, to alleviate the aggregious injustice is simply to open a chain of convenience stores across Ontario and start 'selling' lottery tickets. Et voilà!
 clipped from www.theglobeandmail.com
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Monday, April 02, 2007
Sam, don’t help!
[A small, quiet room, containing a few chairs and a table at which an Iranian man is seated. A door opens, and two Anglos enter.]
John (sitting at table, reaching across to Hassan): I’d like to thank you for agreeing to see me today.
Hassan (shaking hands with John): It is my hope that we can resolve this issue between us… uh… who is this gentleman with you?
John: Oh… um… that’s Sam.
Hassan: I don’t understand… why is he here?
John: Well, he sort of insisted. Just got in the car when I was heading over.
Sam: Listen, Hadgi—
Hassan: My name is Hassan, actually…
Sam: When you mess with John, here, you mess with me! Got it?
John: Sam, please. You promised.
Sam: Just watchin’ your six, Johnny.
John: I appreciate it, but it might help if you were to sit down and try to be pleasant.
[Sam sits, folds his arms, scowls at Hassan.]
John: Now, as I understand it, you feel that some of my crew were on your property…
Hassan: Your people are everywhere, John. If I don’t take a stand, no one’s going to respect my property. I mean, are they?
John: I understand that, old chap, and you’re perfectly right about that. It’s just that my crew are adamant that they did respect your property and the fellows you have hadn’t—
Sam: Hand ‘em over, ragtop! We’re not telling you again! Next time we’re talking with knuckles, dig?
Hassan: Who is this man?
John: Sam, please, this isn’t constructive!
Sam: You want constructive? How about I use my boot to construct a shoeshine box out of his ass?
Hassan (rising): I feel that we are finished here…
John: Hassan, please, wait! Sam, for the love of God, shut up! You’re not helping!
Sam (sitting, fuming): Cripes, John, you didn’t actually check your nuts at the door, did you?
Hassan (sitting again): Perhaps the dialog would be more fruitful if your friend were to wait in your car.
Sam: Plenty fruity already, I’d say.
John: Sam, I’m trying to get my boys home to their families. Please. I appreciate your support, but it’s not your place to involve yourself.
Sam: I don’t need your permission anymore, Your Majesty. For nothing. Remember that.
John: Yes, how could I possibly forget. You make me watch The Patriot every time I come over.
Sam: Masterpiece of historical accuracy.
Hassan: Perhaps you gentlemen could first come to a consensus and inform me when you’re ready to talk with one voice.
Sam: We’re ready to talk anytime you like, towel boy! Just ask your neighbours!
[Hassan leaves.]
Sam: Are you just gonna let him treat you like that? That guy has no respect for you, you pipsqueak! No respect for you at all.
John: I wonder why.
Tune in next time when Sam borrows billions of dollars from Chang and Kenji to kick Hassan’s ass, same stupid time, same stupid channel!
John (sitting at table, reaching across to Hassan): I’d like to thank you for agreeing to see me today.
Hassan (shaking hands with John): It is my hope that we can resolve this issue between us… uh… who is this gentleman with you?
John: Oh… um… that’s Sam.
Hassan: I don’t understand… why is he here?
John: Well, he sort of insisted. Just got in the car when I was heading over.
Sam: Listen, Hadgi—
Hassan: My name is Hassan, actually…
Sam: When you mess with John, here, you mess with me! Got it?
John: Sam, please. You promised.
Sam: Just watchin’ your six, Johnny.
John: I appreciate it, but it might help if you were to sit down and try to be pleasant.
[Sam sits, folds his arms, scowls at Hassan.]
John: Now, as I understand it, you feel that some of my crew were on your property…
Hassan: Your people are everywhere, John. If I don’t take a stand, no one’s going to respect my property. I mean, are they?
John: I understand that, old chap, and you’re perfectly right about that. It’s just that my crew are adamant that they did respect your property and the fellows you have hadn’t—
Sam: Hand ‘em over, ragtop! We’re not telling you again! Next time we’re talking with knuckles, dig?
Hassan: Who is this man?
John: Sam, please, this isn’t constructive!
Sam: You want constructive? How about I use my boot to construct a shoeshine box out of his ass?
Hassan (rising): I feel that we are finished here…
John: Hassan, please, wait! Sam, for the love of God, shut up! You’re not helping!
Sam (sitting, fuming): Cripes, John, you didn’t actually check your nuts at the door, did you?
Hassan (sitting again): Perhaps the dialog would be more fruitful if your friend were to wait in your car.
Sam: Plenty fruity already, I’d say.
John: Sam, I’m trying to get my boys home to their families. Please. I appreciate your support, but it’s not your place to involve yourself.
Sam: I don’t need your permission anymore, Your Majesty. For nothing. Remember that.
John: Yes, how could I possibly forget. You make me watch The Patriot every time I come over.
Sam: Masterpiece of historical accuracy.
Hassan: Perhaps you gentlemen could first come to a consensus and inform me when you’re ready to talk with one voice.
Sam: We’re ready to talk anytime you like, towel boy! Just ask your neighbours!
[Hassan leaves.]
Sam: Are you just gonna let him treat you like that? That guy has no respect for you, you pipsqueak! No respect for you at all.
John: I wonder why.
Tune in next time when Sam borrows billions of dollars from Chang and Kenji to kick Hassan’s ass, same stupid time, same stupid channel!
Friday, March 30, 2007
"Fed" up
I know you’ve all be dying to hear what I have to say about Quebec’s recent provincial election. Well, okay, here it is.
I’m tired. I’m absolutely tired and fed up with Quebec.
I’ve been around the boards and newspaper commentary areas and the whistling in a graveyard out there among anglophones is shrill to the point of deafening. So many of them are crowing about the rising star of Mario Dumont. Ha ha, they’re saying, the Parti Quebecois is dealt a mortal blow! No more separatists! Hurray for Dumont the federalist!
Yeah, except he isn’t. The guy is just one more Quebecois weasel who’ll do and say whatever’s going to squeeze the most sap out of Canada till the tree shudders and falls over. He was a front man for separatism in the 1995 referendum. He’s come right out and told us he’s not a federalist, but so many people want so much for this nonsense to be over once and for all that they just clap their hands over their ears and sing “O Canada” in French that much louder. Worse, he’s a conservative. At least the PQ were fairly left-wing. This chap leads that deep, quiet, but omnipresent strain of Quebecois nationalism that’s tied not so much to ideas and principles as it is to race. It’s not enough to speak French; you have to be French. White. Original stock; pur lein. That kind of thing. The Quebec of the backwoods that never really participated in the Quiet Revolution, but is asserting itself again. The ugly xenophobia that’s been building since multiculturalism robbed Quebec of its understood status as the other society in Canada. Now we have to deal with that. And you people are happy?
Look at this map. See those red areas? That’s all that’s left of Canada in Quebec. Anything in blue is practically foreign soil. You are not welcome there. You are not one of them. They do not want you there; they do not want to share a nationality with you. You are foreign. You are alien. You are either born one of them, or you aren’t. And if you aren’t, you can never be. And the dark blue areas voted for the ADQ. Why are federalists so happy?
I understand Quebec’s aspirations, and I’m not sure they can be realized within Canada. I wish they could, but there are limits, even in a federation. I think we’ve done a good job to accommodate them in recent decades, but apparently it’s not enough. I’m not sure the centre can hold. I hope so. But I’m not seeing any evidence of it. Quite the contrary. When I was a boy, Quebeckers voted for the same parties as the rest of us, at least federally. There was a separatist party provincially, and they did come to prominence, but at least on the national scene, they participated. That’s changed in recent years, thanks at least in part to Brian Mulroney’s ass-hatted, ham-fisted attempts to trump Trudeau and remake the Constitution in Quebec’s image. “I rolled the dice with Canada!” he trumpeted. Yeah, and lost. His party blew to smithereens for 15 years and gave birth to a separatist party at the federal level, and prompted the 1995 referendum that nearly carried the country off into the dustbin of history. Yes, thank you, Brian. Please go to hell, and soon.
All my life, and for several years before, English Canada has been working, consciously, to accommodate Quebec. Changing. Adapting. Asking questions, listening to the answers, and acting on them, at least as far as practicality allowed. And with every step, every turn, we’ve flung our arms wide, hoping for the embrace… that never comes. No, what follows is always one more step away from us, and the demand that we must take another step… and another… and another. But Quebec must never embrace us. No, to do that, to participate, to engage in this thing we’ve built together over centuries: that would be humiliation. Diminishment. Abject surrender.
I’m not asking Quebec to love us, and I certainly don’t ask or want them to kiss our ass and call it ice cream. But for God’s sake, 1759 was a long time ago. We’ve been on the same team for a long long long time now. Can’t you find a little pride in the uniform? The games played, the championships won (and sometimes lost)? Does it always have to be sulking on the bench, screaming to be traded, a free agent, while expecting all the perks of being on the team? That’s really, really getting old, folks. Honest. Yeah, we’re all tired of living with a reluctant roommate who feels free to help himself to whatever’s in the fridge but doesn’t feel the need to pitch in, help out with anyone else’s dishes, and expects everyone else to forgive him his share of the rent this month cause he had to buy a cool new stereo… that, of course, no one else is allowed to touch. And all the while, moaning about how hard done-by he is, and dreaming loudly of the day his family finally gives him his inheritance so he can move out to some glorious condo filled with mirrors, while shafting the rest of the household with the bills.
I’ve never had cancer… God forbid. But I have to imagine that in less lucid moments, having cancer as part of your body must be a little like having Quebec as part of your country. It saps your strength, taking resources from other organs, always demanding more as it grows and grows on what it’s already taken from you. You live in constant pain, and every waking moment is consumed with the knowledge that, sooner or later, it’s probably going to kill you. Except this cancer talks. It taunts you, mocks you, makes demands under blackmail. Tells you you’re abusing it, neglecting it, and that’s why it’s a cancer. It talks gleefully about how it’s one day going to spring from your body as a whole other being, while you drop dead without it. It threatens to kill you all the sooner if you don’t give it what it wants. There is no winning. No real bargaining with it. No satiating it. It will just take and take and take until it decides the time is right to finally destroy you in its own selfish interests. And people are celebrating the rise of Mario Dumont… a whole new tumor. A metastasization to other parts of an already troubled organ.
I’m tried of it. Tired of being scared, of making deals, of initiatives that not only go nowhere but are actually resented. How dare we try to pressure them by spending money to convince them we’ve changed, we like them, we accept, we understand? How dare you bring me roses and ask where I’d like to go to dinner? You creep. I don’t know… maybe it’s too little, too late. But damn it, I can’t help feeling that the effort deserves recognition. A kind nod of the head, even if it is too late and divorce is inevitable. But we don’t even get that.
So, fine. You want to go? Go. Just say so loudly and distinctly, without promising your kids they’ll have access to my bank book. Insure us free transit back and forth between Ontario and the Atlantic provinces, take your share of the debt and your share of all the federal infrastructure, planes, ships… and bon chance, mes vieux. Have fun setting up your embassies, your laws of cultural orthodoxy, your neo-‘White Australia’ immigration system to protect you from women in veils… And when you can’t pay the freight for your social safety net (sorry, the transfer payments end when you split) and your population rapidly ages and shrinks because next to no one wants to move to a Quebec without the advantages of being part of Canada, and when you can’t get imports in French anymore because 32 million virtual francophones nationwide the world would grudgingly service have been reduced to only six million real francophones who represent a market small enough to be told “like it or lump it; speak white”, and when it snows on what should be a beautiful sunny day in May, well… I know you’ll all still be blaming les anglais and their wicked, evil, Quebec-ruining ways, far, far into the future. It’ll be our fault for centuries after you leave, I know. It’ll never, ever be your fault.
Except it already is.
We tried. You didn’t. Adieu.
I’m tired. I’m absolutely tired and fed up with Quebec.
I’ve been around the boards and newspaper commentary areas and the whistling in a graveyard out there among anglophones is shrill to the point of deafening. So many of them are crowing about the rising star of Mario Dumont. Ha ha, they’re saying, the Parti Quebecois is dealt a mortal blow! No more separatists! Hurray for Dumont the federalist!
Yeah, except he isn’t. The guy is just one more Quebecois weasel who’ll do and say whatever’s going to squeeze the most sap out of Canada till the tree shudders and falls over. He was a front man for separatism in the 1995 referendum. He’s come right out and told us he’s not a federalist, but so many people want so much for this nonsense to be over once and for all that they just clap their hands over their ears and sing “O Canada” in French that much louder. Worse, he’s a conservative. At least the PQ were fairly left-wing. This chap leads that deep, quiet, but omnipresent strain of Quebecois nationalism that’s tied not so much to ideas and principles as it is to race. It’s not enough to speak French; you have to be French. White. Original stock; pur lein. That kind of thing. The Quebec of the backwoods that never really participated in the Quiet Revolution, but is asserting itself again. The ugly xenophobia that’s been building since multiculturalism robbed Quebec of its understood status as the other society in Canada. Now we have to deal with that. And you people are happy?
Look at this map. See those red areas? That’s all that’s left of Canada in Quebec. Anything in blue is practically foreign soil. You are not welcome there. You are not one of them. They do not want you there; they do not want to share a nationality with you. You are foreign. You are alien. You are either born one of them, or you aren’t. And if you aren’t, you can never be. And the dark blue areas voted for the ADQ. Why are federalists so happy?
I understand Quebec’s aspirations, and I’m not sure they can be realized within Canada. I wish they could, but there are limits, even in a federation. I think we’ve done a good job to accommodate them in recent decades, but apparently it’s not enough. I’m not sure the centre can hold. I hope so. But I’m not seeing any evidence of it. Quite the contrary. When I was a boy, Quebeckers voted for the same parties as the rest of us, at least federally. There was a separatist party provincially, and they did come to prominence, but at least on the national scene, they participated. That’s changed in recent years, thanks at least in part to Brian Mulroney’s ass-hatted, ham-fisted attempts to trump Trudeau and remake the Constitution in Quebec’s image. “I rolled the dice with Canada!” he trumpeted. Yeah, and lost. His party blew to smithereens for 15 years and gave birth to a separatist party at the federal level, and prompted the 1995 referendum that nearly carried the country off into the dustbin of history. Yes, thank you, Brian. Please go to hell, and soon.
All my life, and for several years before, English Canada has been working, consciously, to accommodate Quebec. Changing. Adapting. Asking questions, listening to the answers, and acting on them, at least as far as practicality allowed. And with every step, every turn, we’ve flung our arms wide, hoping for the embrace… that never comes. No, what follows is always one more step away from us, and the demand that we must take another step… and another… and another. But Quebec must never embrace us. No, to do that, to participate, to engage in this thing we’ve built together over centuries: that would be humiliation. Diminishment. Abject surrender.
I’m not asking Quebec to love us, and I certainly don’t ask or want them to kiss our ass and call it ice cream. But for God’s sake, 1759 was a long time ago. We’ve been on the same team for a long long long time now. Can’t you find a little pride in the uniform? The games played, the championships won (and sometimes lost)? Does it always have to be sulking on the bench, screaming to be traded, a free agent, while expecting all the perks of being on the team? That’s really, really getting old, folks. Honest. Yeah, we’re all tired of living with a reluctant roommate who feels free to help himself to whatever’s in the fridge but doesn’t feel the need to pitch in, help out with anyone else’s dishes, and expects everyone else to forgive him his share of the rent this month cause he had to buy a cool new stereo… that, of course, no one else is allowed to touch. And all the while, moaning about how hard done-by he is, and dreaming loudly of the day his family finally gives him his inheritance so he can move out to some glorious condo filled with mirrors, while shafting the rest of the household with the bills.
I’ve never had cancer… God forbid. But I have to imagine that in less lucid moments, having cancer as part of your body must be a little like having Quebec as part of your country. It saps your strength, taking resources from other organs, always demanding more as it grows and grows on what it’s already taken from you. You live in constant pain, and every waking moment is consumed with the knowledge that, sooner or later, it’s probably going to kill you. Except this cancer talks. It taunts you, mocks you, makes demands under blackmail. Tells you you’re abusing it, neglecting it, and that’s why it’s a cancer. It talks gleefully about how it’s one day going to spring from your body as a whole other being, while you drop dead without it. It threatens to kill you all the sooner if you don’t give it what it wants. There is no winning. No real bargaining with it. No satiating it. It will just take and take and take until it decides the time is right to finally destroy you in its own selfish interests. And people are celebrating the rise of Mario Dumont… a whole new tumor. A metastasization to other parts of an already troubled organ.
I’m tried of it. Tired of being scared, of making deals, of initiatives that not only go nowhere but are actually resented. How dare we try to pressure them by spending money to convince them we’ve changed, we like them, we accept, we understand? How dare you bring me roses and ask where I’d like to go to dinner? You creep. I don’t know… maybe it’s too little, too late. But damn it, I can’t help feeling that the effort deserves recognition. A kind nod of the head, even if it is too late and divorce is inevitable. But we don’t even get that.
So, fine. You want to go? Go. Just say so loudly and distinctly, without promising your kids they’ll have access to my bank book. Insure us free transit back and forth between Ontario and the Atlantic provinces, take your share of the debt and your share of all the federal infrastructure, planes, ships… and bon chance, mes vieux. Have fun setting up your embassies, your laws of cultural orthodoxy, your neo-‘White Australia’ immigration system to protect you from women in veils… And when you can’t pay the freight for your social safety net (sorry, the transfer payments end when you split) and your population rapidly ages and shrinks because next to no one wants to move to a Quebec without the advantages of being part of Canada, and when you can’t get imports in French anymore because 32 million virtual francophones nationwide the world would grudgingly service have been reduced to only six million real francophones who represent a market small enough to be told “like it or lump it; speak white”, and when it snows on what should be a beautiful sunny day in May, well… I know you’ll all still be blaming les anglais and their wicked, evil, Quebec-ruining ways, far, far into the future. It’ll be our fault for centuries after you leave, I know. It’ll never, ever be your fault.
Except it already is.
We tried. You didn’t. Adieu.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
And I will see my dream come alive
I've never understood those people who didn't like the original theme of Enterprise; folks who wanted one of those pompous, overblown, meaningless orchestral bowel movements like all the other Star Trek series from TNG on up. They've always been eye-rollingly, wincingly bad. But I'm sorry, guys... if you can watch the original Enterprise opening and hear those simple words and not feel the swelling of pride, a lump in your throat, and even mist up a little, hey... you ain't got nooooo soul. :)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
What flag? Our own...
In today's Globe and Mail, there's an article asking under which flag we should honour Vimy Ridge. Vimy Ridge was a huge battle in France in the First World War in which Canadian troops played the central role. It was a rare breakthrough victory, and it has often been said that Canada, as a nation, was born there.
So the question is asked, under what flag should these soldiers lie? The battlefield is, actually, Canadian territory. It was ceded to Canada by France — a gesture I have always found moving and wholly amazing. Protocol dictates that the only flag that can fly on Canadian federal territory is the Canadian flag... that is, the Maple Leaf flag.
The problem is, that was not the Canadian flag in 1917. At the time, the official flag of Canada, as part of the British Empire, was the Union Jack. But tradition of the day had made the Red Ensign, a red flag with a combined coat of arms made up of those of the provinces in the fly, and with the Union Jack in the upper left corner, the unofficial flag of Canada of the day. The Maple Leaf, the flag that we have come to know as ours today, wasn't instituted until 1965.
Some veterans are championing the 1917 flag as the one that should fly at Vimy Ridge. I can see the point, but I respectfully disagree for a couple of reasons.
First of all, while I recognize that Canadians fought and died under that flag, and that it meant a great deal to them, it was not really even technically the flag of Canada. It was never officially sanctioned; its use was merely a convention. More importantly, it is certainly not associated with Canada today. Anyone arriving on Vimy Ridge and seeing it atop the flag pole might be forgiven for assuming it was a battle site of the colony of Bermuda, whose modern-day flag it most closely resembles. "Canada" would certainly not spring to mind, especially in the absence of the universally recognized flag we have today. If this monument is meant to memorialize Canadian soldiers, it ought to first and foremost unequivocally identify them as such. A forgotten flag from a century ago does not.
Secondly, Canada is not just an object or a moment in time. It is a continuum, threaded through millions of lives and across centuries, that existed before them, was sustained through them, and continued beyond. Those men fought and died for a country that lives today. Its emblem to the world was declared, definitively, in 1965. This flag is the heritage of those men; in part, it exists as the result of what they did. They earned this flag. They helped make real the nationality that proclaimed and upholds it. Every Canadian, living, dead, or yet to be born or join us from abroad, has a right to have their flag upon that soil. It is no disrespect to the men who lie there that the flag of their country as it lives should stand over them, even if time has changed it. It stands as the banner not of dead men, but of the living pride they inspired, now and into the future. In fact, in denying these men the representation of the flag of their living country, we are saying to them, "You are something else; something from the past we have left behind. We do not recognize you as part of this living nation. By our choice of symbols, we divorce you from it. We relegate you to history." The idea saddens me deeply.
If it must be one or the other, then it must not be Canada as it was and is no more, but Canada as it is, and will continue to be.
So the question is asked, under what flag should these soldiers lie? The battlefield is, actually, Canadian territory. It was ceded to Canada by France — a gesture I have always found moving and wholly amazing. Protocol dictates that the only flag that can fly on Canadian federal territory is the Canadian flag... that is, the Maple Leaf flag.
The problem is, that was not the Canadian flag in 1917. At the time, the official flag of Canada, as part of the British Empire, was the Union Jack. But tradition of the day had made the Red Ensign, a red flag with a combined coat of arms made up of those of the provinces in the fly, and with the Union Jack in the upper left corner, the unofficial flag of Canada of the day. The Maple Leaf, the flag that we have come to know as ours today, wasn't instituted until 1965.
Some veterans are championing the 1917 flag as the one that should fly at Vimy Ridge. I can see the point, but I respectfully disagree for a couple of reasons.
First of all, while I recognize that Canadians fought and died under that flag, and that it meant a great deal to them, it was not really even technically the flag of Canada. It was never officially sanctioned; its use was merely a convention. More importantly, it is certainly not associated with Canada today. Anyone arriving on Vimy Ridge and seeing it atop the flag pole might be forgiven for assuming it was a battle site of the colony of Bermuda, whose modern-day flag it most closely resembles. "Canada" would certainly not spring to mind, especially in the absence of the universally recognized flag we have today. If this monument is meant to memorialize Canadian soldiers, it ought to first and foremost unequivocally identify them as such. A forgotten flag from a century ago does not.
Secondly, Canada is not just an object or a moment in time. It is a continuum, threaded through millions of lives and across centuries, that existed before them, was sustained through them, and continued beyond. Those men fought and died for a country that lives today. Its emblem to the world was declared, definitively, in 1965. This flag is the heritage of those men; in part, it exists as the result of what they did. They earned this flag. They helped make real the nationality that proclaimed and upholds it. Every Canadian, living, dead, or yet to be born or join us from abroad, has a right to have their flag upon that soil. It is no disrespect to the men who lie there that the flag of their country as it lives should stand over them, even if time has changed it. It stands as the banner not of dead men, but of the living pride they inspired, now and into the future. In fact, in denying these men the representation of the flag of their living country, we are saying to them, "You are something else; something from the past we have left behind. We do not recognize you as part of this living nation. By our choice of symbols, we divorce you from it. We relegate you to history." The idea saddens me deeply.
If it must be one or the other, then it must not be Canada as it was and is no more, but Canada as it is, and will continue to be.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
A long train runnin'...
P-Doug and I met up again yesterday and went back to The Bishop and the Belcher. Towards the end of our sojourn there, I noticed they had some encyclopedia yearbooks on the shelf behind him. He hauled down the one for the year 1972. We read the section on Canada... we read Mike Pearson's obit and reflected on just how much the country had changed thanks to the changes he had (quite recently, back then) instituted... entirely for the better, in my opinion.
But what really caught our eye was a mention, somewhere, of Ralph Nader. A picture of him as a younger man, still fresh from his struggles with GM. The caption under the photo said that he was warning of a dangerous trend in the United States Congress to knuckle-under to the Executive branch, and forecast an increasing usurpation of congressional power by the Presidency.
This was 1972. Before Watergate had played out, before Reagan, before Bush-Cheney. It was like finding out Teddy Roosevelt had warned of a coming attack by the Japanese on Pearl Harbor.
But what really caught our eye was a mention, somewhere, of Ralph Nader. A picture of him as a younger man, still fresh from his struggles with GM. The caption under the photo said that he was warning of a dangerous trend in the United States Congress to knuckle-under to the Executive branch, and forecast an increasing usurpation of congressional power by the Presidency.
This was 1972. Before Watergate had played out, before Reagan, before Bush-Cheney. It was like finding out Teddy Roosevelt had warned of a coming attack by the Japanese on Pearl Harbor.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Jim Morrison, we hardly knew ye
A couple of nights ago I was at a professional meeting where someone left behind some books, free for the taking. I had a quick browse and noticed a couple of paperback volumes of poetry by Jim Morrison. I was intrigued; I picked them up.
What I know about Jim Morrison you could comfortably write on the back of a stamp, lick it, and never get ink on your tongue. Here it is: he was a rock singer with The Doors, he took drugs, he died of an overdose in Paris. I've heard something about how he saw a dead Native American as a kid and it did something to him spiritually, but I'm pretty vague on the details. Okay, maybe enough to get ink on your tongue, but just.
Subjectively, I know that I like the handful of songs by The Doors that I'm privy to. I rather like Touch Me; it's upbeat and kind of a departure from all the rest, except maybe Come On Baby Light My Fire... except Touch Me knows to leave the party while it's still welcome (I'll never forget hearing Light My Fire on the radio in grade 11 shop class in the mid-80s, when one of the metalheads finally begged, "Somebody shoot the organist...").
Anyway, I've started reading the poems.
My God. This guy is jaw-dropping. It's as though, 35 years later, his ghostly finger can reach down into me and press little buttons I didn't even know were there. Poetry is always a matter of taste, but wow, does Jim Morrison ever plug into me. Or vice-versa.
From the second volume, there's a poem from a collection called TAPE NOON...
YOU MUST CONFRONT
you must confront
__your life
which is sneaking up
__on you
like a rapt coiled
__serpent
snail-slime
you must confront
________the inevitable
____________eventually
Bloody Bones has got you!
This poem can be interpreted in so many ways. Is it about death? Some unattractive aspect of modern living? For me, it reads very much like a warning to an unborn soul, drafted to be conceived and delivered into life. The snake is phallic, snail-slime a metaphor for semen, and "Bloody Bones" the living body, flesh-wrapped bones, that will imprison the soul. Heaven knows what Jim may have intended, but I'm a deconstructionist... whatever you get out of it, you largely bring to it yourself, and this is what my mind fills this container with.
Listen to this from the very beginning of the first book, a "self-interview", as he characterizes it. This man was in his mid-20s when he wrote this; you'd expect this kind of clarity from a person much older. My parting comment on this score is Jim Morrison's own...
Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.
...and that's why poetry appeals to me so much — because it's so eternal. As long as there are people, they can remember words and combinations of words. Nothing else can survive a holocaust but poetry and songs. No one can remember an entire novel. No one can describe a film, a piece of sculpture, a painting, but so long as there are human beings, songs and poetry can continue.
If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.
What I know about Jim Morrison you could comfortably write on the back of a stamp, lick it, and never get ink on your tongue. Here it is: he was a rock singer with The Doors, he took drugs, he died of an overdose in Paris. I've heard something about how he saw a dead Native American as a kid and it did something to him spiritually, but I'm pretty vague on the details. Okay, maybe enough to get ink on your tongue, but just.
Subjectively, I know that I like the handful of songs by The Doors that I'm privy to. I rather like Touch Me; it's upbeat and kind of a departure from all the rest, except maybe Come On Baby Light My Fire... except Touch Me knows to leave the party while it's still welcome (I'll never forget hearing Light My Fire on the radio in grade 11 shop class in the mid-80s, when one of the metalheads finally begged, "Somebody shoot the organist...").
Anyway, I've started reading the poems.
My God. This guy is jaw-dropping. It's as though, 35 years later, his ghostly finger can reach down into me and press little buttons I didn't even know were there. Poetry is always a matter of taste, but wow, does Jim Morrison ever plug into me. Or vice-versa.
From the second volume, there's a poem from a collection called TAPE NOON...
YOU MUST CONFRONT
you must confront
__your life
which is sneaking up
__on you
like a rapt coiled
__serpent
snail-slime
you must confront
________the inevitable
____________eventually
Bloody Bones has got you!
This poem can be interpreted in so many ways. Is it about death? Some unattractive aspect of modern living? For me, it reads very much like a warning to an unborn soul, drafted to be conceived and delivered into life. The snake is phallic, snail-slime a metaphor for semen, and "Bloody Bones" the living body, flesh-wrapped bones, that will imprison the soul. Heaven knows what Jim may have intended, but I'm a deconstructionist... whatever you get out of it, you largely bring to it yourself, and this is what my mind fills this container with.
Listen to this from the very beginning of the first book, a "self-interview", as he characterizes it. This man was in his mid-20s when he wrote this; you'd expect this kind of clarity from a person much older. My parting comment on this score is Jim Morrison's own...
Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.
...and that's why poetry appeals to me so much — because it's so eternal. As long as there are people, they can remember words and combinations of words. Nothing else can survive a holocaust but poetry and songs. No one can remember an entire novel. No one can describe a film, a piece of sculpture, a painting, but so long as there are human beings, songs and poetry can continue.
If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Heaven comes on Saturday
Saturday was a day with a perfect gold nugget at the centre of it, large and pure. It was one of those days when time seems to stand still for a little while and you know you’ll drift back to it from time to time the rest of your life.
Last week, P-Doug and I made arrangements to go downtown on Saturday. I made it to
Most TTC patrons in Toronto never get to see this. It's an "abandoned" station on the Bloor line. I gather the original idea was to loop the subway back downtown using this station, but I'm told it was abandoned a few months after the line opened in the 60s. Maintenance work is going on on the line currently, so for the moment, the line is routing through (but, as you can tell from the quality of the shot, not stopping at) the lower Bay-Yorkville station. These days, it's mostly used for training purposes, and movie shoots.(Don't Say a Word, Johnny Mnemonic, and Mimic).
When this church was built in the 1870s, it was at the edge of town. Today, it's downtown. I've always been slightly fascinated by this church and I've photographed it a few times. It's the way the other building (a Hyatt hotel, if I'm not mistaken) wraps around it that gives it its presence. This is the Church of the Redeemer, one of Toronto's Anglican churches, and one of those on the forefront of the fight for the recognition of gay and lesbian rights. This church is on the north side of Bloor Street, at the east corner of Avenue Road.
Our destination was the Anglican Bookstore just south of Bloor at the very end of
Taken on the way down the stairs to the Anglican Bookstore. "Your church name here!!!" I think this is funny. :D
We were there for perhaps an hour and a half… I lost track of time. I didn’t buy anything myself but P-Doug picked up a raft of CDs that were on sale. We left, walking along
It sounds kind of crazy to say it, but all my life I’ve wanted to find the “perfect” pub. Most of the ones I know have big screen TVs in your face showing the game, and/or they play music so loud you can’t hear yourself think let alone carry on a conversation, and/or they let drunks get their hands on the mike in that pure abomination called karaoke (people really should be ticketed for that)… they’re dark, noisy, the staff either won’t leave you alone or they’ll drop off a beer and then wait till your bones are bleaching before they ask if you want the bill…
The Bishop and the Belcher was none of that.
Taken on the way to the Anglican Bookstore. We ended up sitting in this window a couple of hours later.
We sat in the window, arranged at a 45 degree angle at Church and Hayden. It was overcast, having rained in the morning. We watched the world go by in the cool grey of winter traversing to spring, the people just coming out into the world again to reclaim it. There were board games on a shelf near us. Every table had a box of Trivial Pursuit cards, and P-Doug and I spent the time popping questions at one another while we ate curried meals and sampled a half dozen beers between us. Agreeable... highly agreeable music at a listenable level frequently interrupted our conversation… but only because we had to stop ourselves and pause to listen. The place was frequented but not busy; had presence but was not obnoxious. I found myself wishing the place were nearer my home… but then, it would have lost its sense of location down there at the edge of the downtown if it moved. So I found myself wishing I lived there instead. I’ve always been a 905er at heart, but there’s still a part of me that would love to live the downtown, walk-to-work, I don’t-need-a-car existence possible in a few cities in
Not exactly a perfect panorama, but AutoStitch choked on the four-shot spread, so I roughed it in Photoshop. And I do mean rough. But the idea here it to convey the quiet, simple loveliness of the scene, rather than make it look perfect. Besides, every once in a while, I think it's kind of cool to go with the traditional pano look. :)
Look at all the charming schmaltz from the British Isles (including the admonishments to suck down the Guinness in massive quantities next week). Ah, the Old Country. :)
Canadian money is pretty. :)
The cash is P-Doug's. I paid my $35 using my bank card via Interac.
When I settled the bill (and yes, they took Interac), I told the staff that, for what it was worth, I thought they had the best pub in the city. It was just one of those perfect moments that lives forever in your heart and your mind.
Isn't this what Iraq's been treated to for the past four years or so? :)
This is underground at, or near (hard to tell exactly) the Yonge-Bloor subway station.
But hey... don't take my word for it...
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Oh, man, does this shit never end?
An article in today's Globe and Mail points out that the divisibility... or indivisibility, depending on your point of view... of Quebec is in the public arena in that province again. This stems from the fact that there's a provincial election going on there and the Parti Quebecois leader, André Boisclair, has thrown the Hail Mary pass of promising yet another referendum on sovereignty if he wins. Like night follows day, the mantra of "if Canada is divisible, Quebec is divisible" rises.
I'm opposed to Quebec leaving (I think that goes without saying), and dividing Quebec as well if it does. It raises all kinds of incredible headaches. First of all, it would have to be achieved through negotiation: while Quebec is a province, its borders cannot legally be amended without its consent. Once it is a nation, we have no more jurisdiction over its boundaries than we have over those of the United States, or Mexico, or Namibia. And so if changes were to be made, it would have to be done by hashing it out with Quebec. The precedent of West Virginia is sometimes evoked. If the anglophones of Montreal and the Eastern Townships and the Cree and Inuit of Ungava don't want to quit Canada with Quebec, shouldn't they be able to secede from it (Quebec) to remain (in Canada), given that Quebec itself has set the example? So goes the logic. And I suppose it's sound, at least that far.
Where I see real problems arising is the next logical step. If Quebec is divisible by negotiation, doesn't it follow that rest of the country is as well? What about the francophone parts of Ontario and New Brunswick adjacent to Quebec? Long abandoned by Quebec as "warm bodies", what if they saw this as their chance to recover their patrimony instead of living under the (supposedly) benevolent largess of English Canada? What about Labrador, long coveted by Quebec but awarded to Newfoundland? If the Cree and Inuit of Quebec can leave they province they're in, what about other First Nations vis-a-vis the provinces in which they find themselves? Where does this end?
With Quebec. God forbid, but if they should choose to go, I say respect the boundaries that exist today; et adieu, mes vieux. Let it end there, and everyone adjust to those facts on the ground.
I'm opposed to Quebec leaving (I think that goes without saying), and dividing Quebec as well if it does. It raises all kinds of incredible headaches. First of all, it would have to be achieved through negotiation: while Quebec is a province, its borders cannot legally be amended without its consent. Once it is a nation, we have no more jurisdiction over its boundaries than we have over those of the United States, or Mexico, or Namibia. And so if changes were to be made, it would have to be done by hashing it out with Quebec. The precedent of West Virginia is sometimes evoked. If the anglophones of Montreal and the Eastern Townships and the Cree and Inuit of Ungava don't want to quit Canada with Quebec, shouldn't they be able to secede from it (Quebec) to remain (in Canada), given that Quebec itself has set the example? So goes the logic. And I suppose it's sound, at least that far.
Where I see real problems arising is the next logical step. If Quebec is divisible by negotiation, doesn't it follow that rest of the country is as well? What about the francophone parts of Ontario and New Brunswick adjacent to Quebec? Long abandoned by Quebec as "warm bodies", what if they saw this as their chance to recover their patrimony instead of living under the (supposedly) benevolent largess of English Canada? What about Labrador, long coveted by Quebec but awarded to Newfoundland? If the Cree and Inuit of Quebec can leave they province they're in, what about other First Nations vis-a-vis the provinces in which they find themselves? Where does this end?
With Quebec. God forbid, but if they should choose to go, I say respect the boundaries that exist today; et adieu, mes vieux. Let it end there, and everyone adjust to those facts on the ground.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Happy belated birthday
I was just reading The Hell It Can't, maintained by a fellow in Rochester, NY, and on his blog he has an image saying "Happy Birthday Toronto 3/6/2007". Huh? So I zipped over to Wiki and, sure enough, he's right. The City of Toronto (formerly the Town of York) was officially established March 6, 1834. Now I feel bad. But it's nice to know somebody cares. :)
Forgive me, darling, forgetting your 173rd birthday and all... and allow me to say that you don't look at day over 160. :) You're so much younger since you stopped hanging around with that Orange Lodge crowd.
Forgive me, darling, forgetting your 173rd birthday and all... and allow me to say that you don't look at day over 160. :) You're so much younger since you stopped hanging around with that Orange Lodge crowd.
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