The Oz Decade, Pt. 1

Let's assume the decade began on January 1, 2000.

We kinda have to, given all the hype Y2K created just prior. It seemed the second millenium A.D. would be ushered in with planes falling from the sky, toasters turning on their owners and highways littered with the carcasses of silicon-chip dependent automobiles. A digital apocalypse was upon us.

As it turned out, not so much.

But it was an all too-fitting beginning to an era built on illusions. From Enron to the 'Brooks Brothers Riot' to the tumbling of mighty images, whether Statues o' Saddam or the highly polished pedestal upon which we placed one Tiger Woods, it's been a decade of deceit.

Which is just dandy. Because I have been a tad lazy keeping this here blog current. Partially, it's been professional business and busy-ness. Equally, though, it has always felt like there was thread missing in the whole conceptual gestalt of the thing.

Well, no more.

As the 'naughties', the 'oh-ohs' or whatever they will end up being called comes to an end, there's just so much flim-flammery - 'smoking guns in the form of a mushroom cloud' to Econopocalypse through 'Climategate' - to look back on.

Personally, I think the decade ought be remembered as the 0z (Zero-z). Fittingly, for me at least, it should end with a peak at the man behind the curtain.

And, blog-purpose regained, that's what's gonna happen here for the next little bit.

Repudiate Teh Stoopid.

Where's Bill Buckley?

Not here, that's fer sure.

Teh Stoopid.

It hurts my brain.

Whatever happened to the reasonable American Conservative? I mean, say what you want about American Conservatives, but there were very few people of any ideological stripe who could sustain any level of B.S. under the withering glare of, say, Bill Buckley.

Buckley was a Conservative. But he was bloody sharp. He was also fair.

I remember 'Firing Line' as precocious 8-year-old. There was Pater Buckley, pen raised to mouth, listening patiently to his quarry. Then he would look down his nose at the interrlocuter, drawl out a patrician 'Hmmmm....but...' and proceed to eviscerate any idiot opposite. One may not have agreed with him, but he was hard to argue against.He took no quarter but rarely would he rub his conquest's nose in his own eviscera.

Now where are the arguments? Most of the goombahs showing up at 'Teabagger' Rallies share one thing (aside from skin pigment): They can't argue. All they can do is hold up cardboard festooned with laughable spelling and shout malformed opinions fed to them by Blofeld, Inc.

Even National Review has been scavenged by the parasitic and feral remnants of Bircher-ism that passes for American Conservatism these days. Well, we know what Bill Buckley would've thought about that:

"We cannot allow the emblem of irresponsibility to attach to the conservative banner."

No you can't. Repudiate Teh Stoopid. Fast.

My Best Friend

This is Kudda, the gentle giant, with our daughter Tuula, Spring, 2006.

Pappa Kudda (October 23, 2001-August 24, 2009

It was 'bloat'.

Monday, he was normal: Smiling, eating, whining for his night walk. We went. He poo'd. He got his cookies at night as usual.

At about three a.m, he started whining. We thought it was diarrhea, because he got that sometimes. So we let him out. By five he was back in, panting. My wife got me up again at about 6:30. We didn't know what it was then. So we checked Dr. Google. It looked like bloat. But there was no good reason for it.

Our vet opened at 8. We called, left a message and said we were coming in. Kudda was in the basement, panting. I tried to rouse him, using his usual 'doo-da-doo' bugle call, which means walk. Nothing. I went down and he looked truly frightened. His tongue was weirdly blue. We got him upstairs and I hoisted him into the car, because he couldn't walk. I raced wrong-way down our construction-wrecked high street and brought him to the vet's. The nice girl in pale pink scrubs at the vet said there were no Dr.'s yet, but that, in any case, if it was bloat I should take him to emerg immediately. The nearest one was Yonge and Davenport, way across the city.

I raced across town, all the way saying, "Kudda? Kudda?" We got there. I shabbily and hastily parked the car and went inside. I shakily related the circumstances to the triage nurse. The vet had called ahead. Immediately, they brought a gurney. I opened the back hatch, where Kudda was. He was not moving. They put a stethascope to him.

Nothing. 8:59 a,m.

I did the business and made the arrangements. Then I went outside into the perfect late summer day and just sat on the curb for awhile.

I drove home without him.

At dinner there are usually a few tossed treats as I cook. Then, after we eat, more. When we put the kids to bed, he whines because he wants his walk. Last night it was quiet.

He pissed me off a lot sometimes. But he was such a great dog. He bracketed my day. His walk was the first thing I did. It was the last thing at night.

He was the first member of our family. My son and daughter have never known a house without him. He always slept in doorways, as Kuvaszok often do. We called him the Shnork. for his habit of sticking his considerable snout into peoples' crotches and sofa cushions, flipping the cushions merrily.

Once, in an off-leash area of the park, he decided he was going to elude me. When he did this little game, he danced around in a kind of 'na-na-na-na-na-na you can't catch me' way, Then he took off. I chased him and watched in horror as he ran across Parkside Avenue. As he did so, he almost took out a motorcycle cop. I continued to chase him for half an hour. Finally, he just ...stopped. He let me leash him up and we headed home. I was so mad, that I didn't notice the siren until the cop wheeled his motorcycle right into my path. I was threatened with arrest and the destruction of my dog. Cooler heads prevailed with the arrival of another cop. I got out of there with my dog, he with his life.

He wasn't so lucky this morning.

Paranoid, American Style

"American politics has often been an arena for angry minds. In recent years we have seen angry minds at work mainly among extreme right-wingers, who have now demonstrated in the Goldwater movement how much political leverage can be got out of the animosities and passions of a small minority. But behind this I believe there is a style of mind that is far from new and that is not necessarily right-wing. I call it the paranoid style simply because no other word adequately evokes the sense of heated exaggeration, suspiciousness, and conspiratorial fantasy that I have in mind."

- Richard Hofstadter, "The Paranoid Style in American Politics"


It's hard to look, from a perch up in Canada, at the mass bad craziness surrounding the American health care debate and not think, "WTF is wrong with these people?". Y'know, the ones who benefit from Medicare who are out there decrying any public involvement in health care as Nazism, Socialism, or cause for 'the tree of liberty to be refreshed with the blood of patriots and tyrants'.

But as Hofstadter pointed out (47 years ago), there is a strain in American politics, that while thankfully small, is nonetheless loud. And koo-koo (Scott Horton, writing in Harper's over two years ago, concisely pointed out the symptoms of the current strain of Amerinoid Psycho-Pathology). And, in the age of YouTube and ratings-crazed cable news. the kooks make good pictures. What's going to lead the newscast, the Preznit's sober explanation of the reasonable-ness of a public option? Or an incensed 'patriot' loudmouth screaming, "Don't Tread on Me(dicare)!"? Exactly.

Thing is, this probably ain't about Health Care. It's more about The Fear of Now on the part of angry, white folks facing irreversible demographic change. And that fear manifests itself in the willingness to believe, in the face of all factual evidence to the contrary, that the President isn't a natural born American. That he wants his 'Death Panels' to 'pull the plug on Grandma'. That he's a Nazi. Or Stalin, Mao, Pol Pot or some toxic hybrid of all-of-the-above. Mostly, though, it's likely due, in large part, to the fact that his skin is brown. And that, increasingly, so is a large part of the U.S. population.

Of course, similar ravings about government over(goose)-stepping were heard from the left end of the spectrum during the eight-long years of Bush 43, especially the fulminating about fascism. However, at that time, the fulminators, when depicted in the media, were done so in an incredibly unfavourable light, their patriotism questioned. The current bunch are, more often than not, described as 'ordinary citizens' 0r, (on Fox, say) as patriots.

Jon Stewart and his writers ably skewered this glaring relativity and pointed out the inherent irony of the New Victim-hood by describing these 'conservatives' the 'new liberals'. In deft juxtaposition, they did a 'What they said then, What they say now' segment which was, while hilarious, incredibly incisive in exposing the hypocrisy of the right-wing punditocracy. They are ideologically consistent but morally relativistic (strangely enough, one of the fundamental criticisms leveled against 'Teh Left' is moral relativism).

The most baffling thing is that those griping the loudest seem woefully ignorant that they live in a nation whose government is constrained by what is probably the most elegantly designed and fully considered political document ever, The Constitution of The United States of America. That, and the fact that those most loudly defying a public;/single payer option in health care are also the same group who are safely ensured care under a public;/single payer option in health care: It's called Medicare.

But then it's not really about health care. Rather, it's a manifestation of fearful nativism which is as American as apple pie. Or the right to take a semi-automatic weapon to a presidential town hall.

Facts be damned. Fear the future. Where paranoia is powerful, there is no place for facts.

Update: The Globe's Konrad Yakabuski took on this very subject, Hofstadter and all, on the last day of last year. It's an excellent piece and highly recommended. But, as the folks in the comments say, "First!" Anyway, I am a bit chuffed with my 'ahead-of-the-curve'-iness and all.

Is that so wrong?

Travelling While Brown

Apparently, right now in our country, if you travel abroad and your skin isn't pearly white, or robustly pink (Why did Brenda Martin get a private jet ride out of a fetid Mexican jail, again?), you stand the chance of being denied return to your country of citizenship, the country whose passport you hold. What other conclusion can one reach after the abysmal treatment given Ms. Mahomud? Or Mr. Abdelrazik. Or Mr. Mahar.

Or whomever else may be guilty of the newest (yet un-announced) trespass against Canadian law n' order: Traveliing While Brown.

Of course, ignorance of the law is no excuse. We should all have become aware of 2nd-tier citizenship provisions having been apparently enshrined when the last Israel-Lebanon skirmish occurred. You will recall that Canadian Citizens in Lebanon at the time of the conflict were left to fend for themselves until the current government was pressed to fulfill their (our) obligations to them.

Now that Ms. Mahomud has been returned to her 12-year old son here in Canada, checked for infirmities contracted while detained, she's announced that she will proceed with litigation v. Regina.

Here's what some of our fellow citizens have to say about that. Kinda off-putting, I know.

That noted, one hopes she succeeds in her legal adventure, lest all or any of us set foot out of the country proudly carrying a precious document which has been dangerously devalued by the actions, or lack thereof, of those currently in government.

The Seal Hunt

In the Globe and Mail, Tory hack Tim Powers opines thus:

"I am not very happy with the bureaucrats of Brussels and the nutters at PETA who have pushed for the EU sealing ban. Clearly, neither has a true understanding of the impact of sealing on northern communities nor an awareness of modern hunting practices which are much more humane. Not always a fan of regulation myself I can however attest that the Canadian department of Fisheries and Oceans has a solid base of rules governing the hunt. In fact, they are also omnipresent on the ice during the season to provide on-site adherence to the rule of law.."

Y'know, some months ago, a blowhard named Sean Hannity proclaimed from his Fox News bully pulpit that he would be more than willing to undergo waterboarding to prove that it was nothing more than a corrective sprinkling of patriotic holy water to cleanse the evil of terrorism. When challenged by a rival commentator to do just that - at the rate of $1000 per minute, for charity - crickets were heard. And they are still.

Mr. Powers, along with Ministers Day and Shea, et al, if challenged to similarly subject themselves to the humanitarian and sustainable administration of the hakapik would also, in all probability, demur in like fashion.

One Last Sandbag

So here we are: 1/4 of a basis point from free money. Thank heavens the banks are still making 2% on whoever they deign to give money. Otherwise this whole creaky thing will wobble, fart and fall down.

How in the name of all that's holy was this allowed to happen? Was it a handful of genies chained in the basement of Darth Goldman Sachs? Magic Beans? Vast Psychotic Irresponsibility? WTF?

How do trillions of dollars go *poof*? And, does the Kurrent Keystone Government have any idea what they're doing? I'm not confident. Indeed, after rejecting tax relief as folly, half-assedly budgeting 'stimulus' and, well, just waitin' to see what the other feller does, things look grim for Mr.Harper.

So my guess is this puts the Klowns in a real bad place. So bad that they're willing do to make a deal with )gasp( Socialists!

When there's only one sandbag left, one throws it wherever they can, I suppose.

The Original Six

So, 'E.R.' is gone. Everybody who cares knows. I was never a real die-hard watcher but, still, have to admit that what I saw was mostly pretty good. A little soapy, but well-written, well-shot, edited and produced. So, now, what I assume to be it's replacement has begun to air. The production team behind 'E.R.' seems to have gone outside the ward, left Chicago's meaty fist and submarined their steadicams into the un-rarified air of the howling, violent, trash-tattooed and freak-filled streets of Lost Angeles.

'Southland', at least the episode I've seen, seems pretty good. It's real gritty. And the characters are watchable. The 'Training Cop', the guy that looks like T.J. Hooker, is my favourite. Plus, other characters kept asking 'The Rookie' - who looks like a '90210' character - if he's Canadian. Nice touch. The super-plot was pretty compelling, and the sub-plot was bile inducing. But what really struck me were the production values: Great cinematography and camera work, subtle editing, some really good writing in parts and sympathetic characters. Bonus points for the fact that they used The National's shiver-making "Fake Empire" for the wrap-up montage. Truly inspired.

So far so good, then. What remains to be seen is how they get past the 'Original Six' .

After a show get's the greenlight for its pilot, if that's up to snuff they get the go ahead to make six episodes that will then go out into the world and try to make it on their own. Since failure is always an orphan, everybody stands back and lets the show's creators do their thing. The result is usually some pretty good television because everybody involved is working their asses off to make the most of the limited funds they have. So you get six episodes of really creative Teevee. This is the Test Pattern that I've observed

If a show vaults that six-episode hurdle, well, victory has a thousand fathers. So the thumbprints start becoming apparent: Stories get weaker, craft slips and the budget is pulled places it ought not go (payroll for the six new Executive Producers anyone?). More voices, more second guessing, more at stake for more egos and the thing can potentially get feeble. I really hope it doesn't happen with 'Southland', but my bets are it's off by summer.

It makes me wonder about the British model. Generally, the really good stuff I can recall - 'Hidden Agenda' for example - were six episodes total. As was the original of 'State of Play'. The Gervais 'Office' was, I think, 14 episodes in total. They get in, do the series, and get out before there's a chance for any shark jumping. It just seems like a way better model. It's been used to some effect in Canada - 'Water' or 'Durham County' for example - but we should use it in here more often. More people would be employed, more production would be in play and we could start to really reinforce the industry here.

That said, after five seasons, Brent Butt and David Storey left the crowd wanting more 'Corner Gas'. 'Flashpoint' is in for 26 episodes, I guess. And 'The Listener' has U.S. pick-up. So the model seems to be working for some. I just think it's way too hard to maintain quality over that kind of stretch. People get too fat and happy. A constant onslaught of really compelling Original Six series would, I think, really pick domestic production up and put it on the pedestal it deserves.

Meanwhile, it's 'Southland', 'The Unusuals' and old saved episodes of 'Intelligence'.

The Humorous Right

Whatever happened to them? I mean, of course, those conservatives who actually had a good point and were able to articulate and argue it an engaging and witty way. I personally know one, a lawyer, who can systematically dismember idiotic leftist arguments, bread them in corn flour and swallow them whole. All done with a hearty grin n' guffaw. Mind this person is a rarity: A Red Tory, whose breed is being mercilessly hunted out of existence by Gun Nuts, Theo-Cons and certain senior female Conservative Senators.

Canada, sadly, seems bereft of this breed these days. Those 'conservatives' prominent in the blogosphere (Canadian branch plant division) are either shrill and annoying (Levant), Crazee and Racist (Shaidle) or just plain mean (Small Dead Animals - though she(?) can be pretty funny on occasion.) Coyne is an able shredder of lefty - and, occasionally, right-y tropes, but he has as much humour as a head nun flexing a hickory switch.

And down south? My gawd. There's a whole movement who call themselves 'tea-baggers'. Except, well, they don't really see the humour in that. These 'TeaBaggers' are being goaded on by a 'Rodeo Clown' named Glen Beck. Have you seen or heard of this guy? He stands in front of a giant screen, his pasty pudge topped with a Bircher's crew cut ("Two on the top, one on the sides. There's an extra quarter in it for you, Wilson.") while a Riefenstahl loop plays in the BG. He then alternatively a) weeps for his country, b) warns that the USA is sliding towards fascism or c) seemingly advocates that militias take up arms - Soon! Now! - because the gubmint is gonna take 'em away any day now. He's a gas if you like watching psychological train wrecks. But, this dude has one of the highest rated shows on cable-outlet Fox News, also home to the Laughin' Coughlin Twins, Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity. That said, critiques of American foibles are always best left to 'Muricans

Here at home, I must admit that the Prime Minister displayed an able sense of humour when he blustered that the leader of the opposition lacked a 'moral compass'. Why? Because Mr. Ignatieff had the temerity to call former PM Mulroney on the occasion of his 70th Birthday. It wasn't just the slapstick fact he did so while reports of the Keystone Konservatives scrappin' over the very same ex-PM began to surface. I also found it high-larious that any politician should lecture anybody else about moral compasses. Let alone Mr. Harper. I would suggest our current PM needs an 'irony GPS'.

Meanwhile, Conservative humour here seems to be jokes about 'death by a thousand cold cuts' during a fatal outbreak caused by...wait for it...tainted deli meats. Snort. Mind you, the whole 'shifting the goalposts' schtick with that guy stuck in the Canadian Embassy in Sudan has a certain humour, Kafka-esque though it is. It would be a funny screenplay - like 'Observe and Report'....oh, wait.

So where are the commentators like Tom Wolfe and P.J. O'Rourke? Wolfe, for example, ably skewered liberal silliness over and over again - most memorably in 'Radical Chic: Mau-Mauing the Flak Catchers'.

Neither Wolfe nor O'Rourke needed talking points to pants their targets. They made sly observations, articulated them with acid humour and left the field while the objectives of their mirth could still pick themselves up, re-fasten their suspenders and slump sheepishly off.

See, Conservative Humour shouldn't be an oxymoron. Step up to the plate, people. Otherwise, all we've got is the unintentional stuff like *snicker* Rex Murphy's G&M columns, 'Daryl Kramp', 'Have a Blast' and 'Moral Compass'.

Birth, Work, Flu

I have been tardy in my updates, thanks largely to an astounding simultaneous convergence of those things mentioned in the title. However, back at 'er.

Humour, Truth and Scribbles

(Shamelessly grabbed from 'Indexed')

A little light posting while I work on a Larger and Very IMPORTANT Entry. Ummmm...yeah. 

Anyways, Time has come out with it's Top 25 Blog List. And among the usual suspects, I was very glad to see this. It's funny, often poignant, keenly observed and high concept. I think Time called it "a one-trick pony with legs" which kind of nails it. I won't be surprised if this basic formula shows up in ads, if it hasn't already.

Go there. If you're like me, you won't escape for awhile. 

Comedy, Tragedy, Reality

Time was, entertainment was pretty straightforward and binary: If it ended with a wedding it was a comedy. Bloodshed. murder and mayhem just before the curtain? Well, that's your tragedy.

And that, pretty much, was the sum total of the entertainment experience, from Oedipus Rex through Rex Harrison. From Homer the Greek to Homer the Simpson, we got our extasis and catharsis from one, the other or some clever combination of both. Well, that tidy little two-mask model has taken a hit in recent years. And the punch comes from the bizarrely-named genre of 'Reality'.

That this has come to pass is obvious. The main reason is also well-known: compared to Dramatic Series or Sit-Coms, Reality is relatively cheap to produce. What I can't figure out is...what is it? And why do people watch it? 

Whatever the 'Reality' genre is, it's not Documentary. At their best, Docs are an analogue to the literary form of 'Creative Non-Fiction'. At their simplest, they're straight journalism. 'Reality' is neither. Mostly, it has antecedents in game shows (also cheap to make) and rock 'em sock 'em 'You're right there!' shows like 'Cops'. All pretty bad stuff.

So what do we get out of the third form? It sure isn't catharsis. The drama is really slim. How are we enlightened when, after suffering through 42 minutes of a 44-minute episode, we find out which pretty young thing will get the rose? This aside from  the fact that it's all about as genuine as the wrestling we used to be enticed to attend, as thirteen-year olds at the Global TV studio. Even then we knew it was goofy. 'Championship Wrestling' didn't have to be drama-ed up with ominous jungle drums, cheap tiki torches and 'alliances' between scheming competitors. Reality isn't even trying to be real. But the fact that it's hackneyed, maudlin and, well, unreal isn't the problem. Nor is the fact that everyone knows it's goofy.

No, there's something else at work here. Something voyeuristic, humiliating and moralistic. Think 'Intervention', where the addicted and afflicted are seen as they finally, finally, reach bottom and are 'rescued' by their concerned families while the tape rolls. That's entertainment? Apparently. And, taken to its awful, logical extreme - televised executions, say - it's pretty ugly.

But who, aside from the Taliban, would take it there? Why, Fox, of course. There's this new show featuring a tough sheriff down Arizona way. And we get to follow him as he keeps Law And Order by rounding up all kinds of 'illegals' should they have the grave misfortune of entering his jurisdiction. When caught, they're dressed up in B&W striped prison garb - I kid you not - and roughly paraded before the whizzing, whirring cameras. 

We're a million miles away from 'So You Think You Can Dance' here. This is using the plight and desperation of the dispossessed as entertainment. It's Klan-tastic!

The Greeks came to believe - albeit after much argument - that dramatic entertainment, whether the mask was happy or sad, could elevate us. I don't know what the 'Reality Mask' looks like, but the face behind it is definitely ugly.

Two Minute Warning

It's almost over.

Fitzgerald's catch in the 4th, holy holy. Warner's steady (but the cutaway to his wife in full prayer was...um...why?). Dockett, man, there's a reason why he has two D's in his name. But...

Harrison just gooned. That was kinda ugly.

That Cards play with the kick? That was like parliamentary arcana...what the..?

That penalty against the offense when Holmes caught that lob from the end zone...cheap.

But, now it seems like there's a little redemption. Holmes just caught one. With :35 in the game. Much deliberation, but, it's official: Steelers up by four. It's as good as over.

And, just now, Woodley turtled on the ball that Warner just....wha?...fumbled. Oh, Kurt, my friend, you shall know pain tomorrow.

Tick, tick, tick. 1st down with :05 remaining.

Spill the Gatorade.

That's VI for the Steelers. They won, but they didn't beat Larry Fitzgerald. He is amazing. Best guy on the grid tonight. He totally deserves the SBMVP. I bet they give it to Holmes, though.

Good game.

Update Type thing-y: Of course, Santonio Holmes got the MVP. A player on the winning team has won it every time except, I think, 1971. But I only tuned in half-way through the fourth, and to me, Warner and Fitzgerald totally dominated. And I think Warner needs Fitzgerald more than the other way around.

Left, Right, Centre

Or should that be 'Center'?

It seems to me, one of the new talking points a person encounters reading, watching or scrolling the news these days is this:

"Yes, Obama may be in, but you must remember that the Democratic Party in the U.S.A. is to the right of our Conservative party."

That's nonsense. It may have been somewhat true when we had a party called the Progressive Conservatives, of which I would happily, at one time, self-identify. Mind you, I would do so from what we once called the 'Red Tory' faction. (Those individuals have been purged - it's not too strong a word - from the current Conservative party, dominated as it is by a turnip truck full of Pitchfork Prairie Populists, Social Conservative loons and Calgary School Friedman-ites.)

To claim this current bunch is to the left of the American Democratic Party is hokum. And, as a talking point, I can't see the political utility, other than to suggest that our current government has more in common with the 'New Hope-y Coloured Dawn' Obama-crats then not. But that ignores a whole bunch of facts.

That American Democrats are big tent is a hoary cliche. But, it's true. Within the Donkey Camp, you'll find everything from LGBT Activists to Big Labour to Blue Dogs who, many in the party would complain, vote in lockstep with their colleagues on the other side of aisle. It's a complex gaggle of competing interests who often self-flagellate themselves in a herd to the mushy middle. And thus, somehow, manage to govern.

Red Tories would probably feel a degree of kinship with the right of the Democratic Party. After all, Red Tory meant 'fiscally conservative and socially progressive'. This is ideological real estate that I believe most people in Canada inhabit. The Red Tory saw things through a lens of 'Spend wisely, tax less and leave everyone the hell alone. Especially in their bedrooms and their businesses.'

But our current Krop of Konservatives have, heretofore, swooned in the ether of their own ideological flatulence.

Which brings us to the budget. Was it not just 60 days ago that the Finance Minister stood up in the House and, straining all credulity, claimed we were headed for a surplus? And that "Our stewardship has ensured that The Fundamentals are Sound®". Oh, and, we're taking away the public funding for your parties.

A sennet, a flourish of middle fingers and Exuent Stage Right.

Straight into pro-rogue. For a month-and-a-half. When they returned, that promised small surplus had become a $64 Billion deficit, quite possibly structural. Are they fibbers? Incompetent? Incompetent fibbers? WTF?

The reading of the budget felt like watching boy scouts who, encountering an elderly woman who needs a hand across the busy street, is picked up, flung and crash lands into a Canada Post box. "See", say the Scouts, "We helped her across the F'ing street." The budget version was, "Stimulus? Here's your GD stimulus. Gentlemen, ready your shovels. We're gonna save our previously 'fundamentally sound' economy with nail-guns and roofing tar for hockey rinks. Oh, and screw science." Then, it's back to the bar and high-fives, boo-yaa chest-bumps and triples all-around. "Hoo-hah. We saved our hides!"

A sennet, a strained flourish of tugged forelocks and a Keystone Kops-esque melee in all directions.

And that was perfectly okay with the opposition Liberals who, whether for strategic or altruistic reasons will move to support this dadaist collage of a budget. Lord help us all.

So, as a result of this fiscal Frankenstein, I will be building a fourth bathroom for my Liquor n' Ammo shop ('Shotz') . I will also construct a luxury pen for my dogs. Then I will do one victory lap at the newly-roofed rink. A cure for Cancer be damned!

Meanwhile, down in Washington, it seems they actually do want to invest in a 21st Century Economy. Naturally, there will be vocal obstructionism from the Limbaugh wing, pointless filibusters and much wringing of old white hands with mottely brown spots. But after all the flapping, a very simple conclusion seems to have been reached:

Left wing. Right wing, It takes both to fly straight.

Q, You and I!

I listen to a lot of CBC radio. A whole lot.

It's on while I work. It's on while I cook. It remains on for the dog when I leave. And the dog and I have noticed something.

'Q', the morning Ahts n' Culcha gabfest, hosted by Jian Ghomeshi, can be really annoying. And it really shouldn't be. After all, by virtue of its being the only daytime show of its kind on radio, it's attractive to anyone with a book, movie, album or idea to flog. So the show gets some real heavy hitters as guests. People any other show in Canadian - or North American, for that matter - broadcasting would kill for. There's live music in studio and pretty good regular 'sidebar' features.

The pace is snappy and the topics far-ranging. So why does it occasionally make me criiiiinge?

Then, one day it all became blindingly clear. I was driving to a meeting with a colleague. With CBC on the radio, of course. By way of nothing much at all, this colleague turned to me and said, "I can't listen to Q anymore."

"Yeah? Why?"

"Ghomeshi."

And I guess that's it. Well, not all of it. Because he's a pretty good interviewer. He's obviously smart, catholic in his tastes and reasonably well briefed by his producers and story whatsits. So he appears to be informed, engaged and engaging. Aside from the tortured opening 'essay' that always ends in some cute rhyme with 'Q", there shouldn't be an issue.

But there is.

It's the injection of Himself into seemingly every bloody story, guest and item. Here's an example: Some time just before or just after the inauguration of Barack Obama as preznit of the U.S., the opening bit was, as you might expect, about the significance of the event. Except it wasn't. It was about some tangential chance meeting Jian Ghomeshi once had with the then-senator. So it was about himself and his proximity to history and greatness. That's how it came across anyway.

Now there's no doubt that there was no shortage of pundiotic loggorhea about the big event. So a fresh take would have been great. And appreciated. But the 'Q' take, via its host, was about...its host. The more you listen to the show, the more you notice that it's not merely an occasional thing. Sadly, once twigged to this phenomenon, I find myself hearing the self-reflexive musings of the host's adventures at The Spoke Club or something rather than the Very Interesting Guest or topic.

So, I hereby motion that, until this grave matter of National Importance is remedied, CBC change the name of 'Q' to the more accurate 'I'. Meanwhile, we (me and the dog) will still be listening.

Post Billy Bob Update-y Thing-a-ma-jig:

I have to say, Mr. Ghomeshi's handling of musician and hobby-ist actor Billy-Bob Thornton was really quite remarkable. He was calm. cool and unflinching. I think that most of us, (well, all of me), when faced with such a confounding and sphincterous prescence would reach across the desk with hands in full-throttle-grip screaming "You're only famous as an actor and besides The Sadies do this kind of music way, way better".

So, yeah, full props.

Fear, Uncertainty, Doubt (1)

Anyone who has taken a look at the posts in this tiny, insignificant outpost of the digi-sphere may have noticed posts tagged with 'FUD'. Allow me to explain.

Aside from my semi-regular brain dumps here, the real intention of this space is to accumulate notes. Those notes, when sufficiently accumulated, will be compiled in a 'text' of some sort. Its ultimate form is, as yet, undetermined.

See what I'm saying? There's an insane, possibly futile mission here, a larger project. It's not as ambitious as, say, wiping the Liberal Party of Canada from the political landscape in latter day re-creation of the Punic Wars. But it does have its own humble scope. I'm just figuring it out as I go.

So the intention is to have these bigger themes - kind of chapter heads - and little subsets therein. For instance, 'RGB', 'ABC' and 'Mother, Virgin, Whore (MVW, for short)' are chapter heads. The fact that secret-ish, shadowy organizations like CIA, KGB and NSA have nice, little, three-initial names is a subset of 'ABC'.

'Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt' - or FUD - is one of those bigger themes.

FUD is used in both marketing and politics. And especially when the two come together. For the marketer, it could be as simple as the suggestion that the wrong toothpaste can lead to diminished social status. For the politician, it's usually grimmer: "Vote for my opponent and the terrorists will win." The purpose of its employ is always to keep your citizens - or consumers - on their heels such that every purchase or voting decision is filtered through a cloud of FUD.

Come Monday, when our pro-rogued parliament returns, the FUD will come fast and thick. It's already out there in the form of puerile radio ads brought to you by your friendly government. And in the wake of 'Regime Change' down south, those on the losing end have re-fueled their own FUD machine and sallied forth.

So, here at TTCIT, FUD is part of the Magic Number Way of Seeing the World®. And , as Bill O'Reilly might say in his vaguely menacing, McCarth-ese "We'll be watching".

Pictures are Nice (1)

Jem's Memory, 2007














Occasionally, I make pictures. This is one. It's worth a thousand words. At least, I could justify that quantity of artspeak trying to explain it.

Avenge me, son.

So, the Simpsons went 'Into the Wild' in a half-assed RV. Needless to say, this inevitably leads to Homer being pin-cushioned with trank darts. Before he drifts into dreamland, his last words are that ever-trope of mythology:

"Avenge me, son."

Whether fodder for crack comedy writers or bible-scale tragedians, those three words have launched countless tales. Happily, we are currently at the end of one.

The minty-fresh President of the United States signed a president-type paper today. It gives notice to that weird American outpost in Cuba. All the desperate orange-y men will have to leave chain-link-0-land and go elsewhere. One can only hope it's to a more humane place. Crawford, Texas, maybe? They can help clear the...sage...or whatever the hell it was that 43 was pushing around down there.

The other president-y thing signed today was that declaration of 'No More Torture, Thanks.' Bill O'Reilly's head may explode. He LOVED that 'enhanced interrogation' stuff. At least, when I could get through the spittle aimed at the camera as he blew hard, that's what it looked and sounded like. But whaddya expect from that guy?

Nah, you can't blame Bill. He's not really a journalist. And it's those punks that have some questions to answer. For instance, in the course of eight blighty years, not one of their number, to my knowledge, raised the following:

"Why would you authorize a practice that your own father, the Hero Pilot, might have been subjected to in WWII?"

After all, waterboarding has been recognized as torture for some time. As such it's been repudiated in the strongest language possible and further, prosecuted against. Yet...

The mythological pull of filial vengeance was stronger. And the will to persevere towards its icky conclusions - wherein senior and otherwise respected lawyers can put a primature on crushing the testicles of a child if 'The President says so'.

Nice work, fellas.

Conditions were created - and seemingly encouraged - such that low-hanging fruit - a few bad apples, if you will - can claim to be simply following orders and ably take the fall. Hannah Arendt - not that she was much for fun - would have a field day with that one.

The epic fail is over, thank the seven sisters. The era of stupid Roman vengeance is passed. And now that it is, Homer wakes up from his traqui-delic stupor.

"Thanks for the vengeance, son".

Creedence Clearwater Revival

The Rolling Stones are the World's Greatest Rock and Roll Band.

Now that that's out of the way, let's parse!

I'm not certain, but I don't think that there's been a more successful American singles band than Creedence. And. who vies for the best John voice in RnR - besides Lennon and Lydon - than that plaid-clad NoCal moptop? The multitudes shout: "NOBODY!"

Or "FOGERTY". (It's hard to tell when multitudes shout).

I've worn out five copies of 'Cosmo's Factory' in several formats (anyone who has a nice digital copy, please let me know).

Stu Cook's moustache. Doug Clifford's beard. Tom Fogerty's 'Blueprint-for-the-Eagles'-do. JF's flannel. Every follicle and thread is audible in that recording. Forgive the Exer-cycles! Just listen to "Ramble Tamble". It's proto-Mogwai. It's incipient Television. It's so great.

Oh, the summer days spent in a certain Swede's basement listening to CCR. And then, moving on. hearing a band from the PNW called Green River. Soon, the flannel was flying everywhere.

Well, here's to the PNW. Here's to the Sonics, Billy Childish and Speedy Motorcycles. Here's to Frosting On The Beater, Nevermind and Johnny Cash doing Soundgarden. Here's to the Dude abiding.

I love the Pacific NorthWest. It's where the first world meets the new. old, next world.

We've been - unknowingly - listening to the No-Cal, with-it. wisdom of '`Fortunate Son' for eight long years. It's time to re-evaluate the intent, if not the words, of that prescient, pre-punk rock classic.

After all, by all accounts, it's Revival time.

Yes, we can.

So, I don't want to be a wet blamket on the eve of 'The Day of Global Catharsis'®. And I totally get why there's a lot of excitement. I wish I shared the 'Hope'. But I think it's way too much to throw on the shoulders of this one guy. Of course, a lot of the elation has to do with the end of the 'All hat, no cattle' era. And I'm like the vast bulk of the world in that regard.

Still, much as one might like to think that eight years of of complete ass-hattery are just going to go *poof* are as deluded as the thankfully outgoing Commanduh in Chief. There's too much leftover crap. And to think that President Obama is going to put on his wellys, roll up his sleeves and muck out the sty on his own-some ought to reflect on the most memorable slogan of the campaign past.

'Yes, we can.', from an advertising perspective was pretty good. Break it down and it means 'Positive, collective ability.' Plus, I think it's essentially empty (A good thing in advertising sometimes). It's something to feel good about, but it doesn't really contain anything resembling a promise, a unique selling proposition, or a strong branding element. It's not, ''Yes, I can', or 'Yes, I will.'

What it does have is a signal of faith in the resilience of the American people to muck the thing out together . In other words, it's the Nike version of 'Ask not what your country can do for you...". It is, at its heart, a call to service, a happy face call to action on behalf of the ailing 'Greatest Nation Evah!®'.

And that's as it should be. As John Ibbitson noted in his dispatch to today's Globe, tomorrow's the celebration. After that, though, it's time to get busy.

With what? Well, positive, collective ability, one hopes.

Elitist, socialist, seperatist.

I hate talking points.

You can smell them a mile away. It's this heady whiff of sulphur, ignorance and complicity. The sulphur comes from the stale, fetid air in the bunker from which they issue. The ignorance is due to the gas emanating from the duped and dutiful sheeple who regurgitate them on talk radio, newspaper comment boards and letters to the editor. Complicity? Well that's the perfumed scent of self-importance wafting from lazy journos who are only too glad to have some kind of 'inside track' that they can breathlessly sputter from their waning pedestals.

I kind of hate politics, too. Though I confess to being a bit of a junkie for the stuff. And, having worked on advertising for one or more of the major Canadian political parties, I've met a few of the purveyors of the sinister art of political communication. And over the last couple of months, since the prorogue-ation of our parliament, the talking points have been fast, thick and especially odious. The first out of the gate after our Prime Minister hid behind the robes of the Queen - our nominal head of state - in order to avoid a confidence vote which would have toppled the government were as predictable as they were loud.

Seeing that a governing coalition might be formed between the lefty NDP, the blandly centrist Liberals with the co-operation of the region-centric Bloc Quebecois, the government sent their very vocal supporters throughout the land, over the airwaves and into the web. Their message was as simple as it was false: This was a coup, It was a cabal. It was a gang of ELITISTS, SOCIALISTS AND SEPERATISTS.

Lions and tigers and bears, oh my.

The argument may have been semi-valid had it been reasonably and calmly articulated, but it was shrieked with such hysterical, scripted vigour that it was soon exposed for what it was: self-serving bullsh*t and nonsense. The louder it was bellowed, the more Canadians had to look into it. And then, people started to talk. Soon enough, most sensible people had given themselves a little education in parliamentary democracy and probably came to the conclusion that, well, we may not like it, but it's perfectly legal under our system.

So the talking points from master to minion shifted. Now, it was a collective yawp of indignation from the sitting-around-waiting-to-be-told-what-to-be-outraged-about set. The new script, readily download-able from some place like 'MyCampaign.ca' was: "Undemocratic. Traitorous! Put this coalition thingy to vote!" This notwithstanding the fact that everywhere else in the civilized world, representative legislatures reach accords and form coalitions amongst themselves all the time. After the vote. Nobody, anywhere, votes for coalitions. They just happen .

And so with parliament set to resume in, oh, ten days, it's sad to note that a new set of talking points has lumbered upon the land. They're not as vile as those directed at the previous leader of the opposition, who was photoshopped into a grim facsimile of an autistic eel, quoted out of context and ridiculed as 'Celine'. However, this new script is no less vapid.

You see, the minty-fresh leader of the opposition comes from a prominent - aristocratic, even - family of eastern European descent, Since coming to Canada, the family has been distinguished by diplomatic and other national service. This new leader, Michael Ignatieff, is a writer, professor and television personality who, since leaving Canada after university, has done very well for himself in The USA and Great Britain. He was essentially acclaimed by his caucus after, erm, 'Celine', stepped down.

So the new talking points? Mark my words, Ignatieff will be demonized as a *gasp* foreigner. Not only that but he's...oh, my...an elitist. And Russian! And he's....sputter... unelected - he was...appointed! To really hit the ball out of the park let's call him, repeatedly and disdainfully....Count! And let's do it in a way that ambiguously suggests Dracula, the guy from Monte Christo and some Romanoff-esque consort of Rasputin. As usual, the ploy is to let him be defined by the unholy trinity of sulphur, ignorance and complicity before the Foreign, Elitist, Russian, Un-democratic Count has chance to define himself.

So, yeah, I hate talking points. Preferred script is a lousy substitute for healthy debate. Especially when said script advances nothing but the political interests of a particular party. Worse, the message in the script may even be counter to the best interests of the engaged partisans who disseminate it. However, if one is waiting to be told what to say, it's those very interests that ultimately become devalued and debased.

Mining, brining and shining.

Yeah, it's bad for your body. But, if you've ever cracked the spine of Tim Kurlansky's "Salt", you know it's pretty good for your imagination.

For instance, who knew Roman Soldiers, after a long day of crucifying, pillaging or merely enforcing the decrees of the emperor, got their wages in salt? From whence comes the root of our 'salary', 'soldier' and the fact that you're totally worth your salt. That was news to me, too. And let's not even get into Lot's wife. What a way to go.

I suspect that Kurlansky moved on from his other great book, the amazing 'Cod', to salt from the fact that the fish was salted for preservation. Maybe not, but that's the way I'd move from one subject to the next: "Okay, I'm done with Cod. So what do I do next? Cod was pretty successful, so maybe I should do something cod-related. Hmm...cod...cod...salt cod...that's it! Salt."

Anyway, as it happens, there are three ways to get your salt. You can mine it. So you spend another day in the salt mines to earn your salary. You can get it from brine, usually by boiling. Or you can do it my favourite way. Just let some sea water dry in the bright mediterranean sunshine. Nice work if you can get it.

Gandhi did his Dandi March to the sea, a protest against the inflated taxes the colonial British we're levying for salt. Kind of a non-violent Kerala Salt Party. He defied the `British Salt Law' by going to the Arabian Sea, basically drying some water and 'making salt'. And that's how that got started. Indian emancipation, I mean.

I love the fact that we can speak salaciously with our salty tongues. That ol' Crusty Mcgee, who sailed the seven seas is an 'Old Salt'. Oh, and if, like me, you loves you some Aerosmith, a little time with 'Uncle Salty, from 'Toys in the Attic' will treat you rrrright.

NaCl - it rocks. It's edible rock. But don't eat too much, or you'll keel. And then, like the Egyptians, you might even by corpsed in the stuff, only to be grimly, but elatedly, dug up by future archaeologists.

Clap. Clap-clap.

Ron Asheton, 2nd from R

Sad to hear about Ron Asheton's passing. The original wizard of motor-city-heavy rawk noize passed away earlier this week at age 60.

I was just listening to 'Tight Pants' by the Stooges. Their signature clap sound - one clap then two in quick succession- splashing out of the mix, surfing the chaos of the band's bang-klang, Iggy's sexually frustrated howls careening off R's buzzsaw fret torture perfectly. It reminded me of the primal power of three chords, and the fact that this was probably done in the late sixties as utopias were crashing down in places like Altamont, the Spahn Ranch and Vietnam. A decade was dying and the Stooges wouldn't let it go gently. But rather rage, rage, rage.

There isn't a kid with a loud guitar out there who doesn't owe Mr. Asheton something.

Yes, it is!

Maybe you can call it a manifesto.

I remember when I first heard De La Soul's reprise of this amazing tune. The floodgates of childhood memory opened. Back in the day, idealistic, media-savvy ex-hippies must have actually thought the teevee could be good for you. How else to explain stuff like the Children's Television Workshop, Electric Company, Zoom and this. All of which beat the, er, hell out of 'Davey and Goliath'.

For those of a certain vintage, "Schoolhouse Rock" was a good excuse to watch TV after school. It was vaguely nutritious. Of course, we were oblivious to the fact that it was conceived and produced by advertising guys. But it's a testament to the effectiveness of good communication that this one has stuck with me.

Rock, Paper, Scissors

RPS. The sport of, if not kings, then everyone else. A game of simple probabilities (33 1/3 - more on that later) that needs less equipment than soccer. The game that even a triple amputee - provided one hand remains - can play. And win. It's a dispute settlement mechanism: "I saw the gold first." "No, I did."

So you throw a set. Or the best two of three.

Rocks beat scissors. Scissors cut paper. Paper smothers rock. The elegance of it is breathtaking.

And yet, there's strategy. Within the simple construct, myriad variables exist: like gender, speed or...PSYCHE!s. It's universal (I think it's called "One, two, three" in Southeast Asia).

It's the active genius of play.

One, two, three, THROW!

One, Two, Three...

This is the first post here. So, it kind of makes sense to lay out what the Sam Hill will be posted here on a semi-regular basis. Primarily, I want to look at cultural signposts and touchstones that, in my view, have had influence - due or not - on (Western) Culture. In my observation, these things come in groups of threes. Why write about it? Well, mostly because I doubt any other fool is doing it.

Now, I'm no high-falutin' smarty-pants perfesser or anything, so I don't expect I'll be keying anything along the lines of the following:

"The Foucauld-ian (vs. Barth-ian) view, via Bentham, of a pan-opticonic surveillance existence would imply...".

As one can see, I can't even fake that high-minded bafflegab.

So, instead, I expect to write about stuff like area codes (mine's 416), RGB (the primary colour set of broadcast television), "Yes we can" and "Just do it". The Father, Son and the Holy Ghost. Three chords. The three notes in a triad. Information, knowledge and wisdom. Why so many of my favourite 'important' writers have triple-barelled names (step right up F. Scott Fitzgerald and David Foster Wallace). Primary colours. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. Pythagorean geometry. Oh, and the primacy of food, sex and shelter.

You know, regular stuff. Plus sidelong leaps into things I like, such as cinematography, the 1970's and large dogs.

And anything any sad lost soul who stumbles upon this outland might add will be graciously acknowledged and muchly appreciated

With these tremendous efforts, I hope to firmly establish that a little knowledge is indeed a dangerous thing.

Onwards!