“And So It Begins….”
June 15, 1998:
I didn’t make a pilgrimage to the ocean yesterday. I drove by it, briefly, through Beacon Hill Park and along Ross Bay, absorbing the salty ocean scent and the sharp freshness of a late Spring shower. After I get off the ferry in two hours in Vancouver (hopefully – it’s busy this morning and I may have to wait for the eight o’clock instead of the seven), I won’t see the ocean for ten weeks. I’ve never been away that long.
My trip is off to an inauspicious start. I left most of my film and my two disposable cameras on my kitchen counter. I was bound to forget something I guess. Good thing it wasn’t anything important like money. Or underwear.
The plan is to stop around Banff or Golden tonight and camp out in the back of the truck. There’s not as much room as I’d like back there. At the last minute I decided to pack my bike and that’s using up more space than I thought it would. Still, I should get some sleep even if I’m curled up in a tight, fetal ball. But it makes me more anxious to arrive in Alberta. Haven’t slept well the last few nights, and in reality I expect to get little sleep tonight. I’ve crammed my life into ten boxes and four of them are my computer.
Currently, I’m stuck midway down row five at the Swartz Bay Ferry Terminal. And I’ve felt stuck midway down row five for years.
We’re boarding now. Will I make it, or miss the boat? (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)
*****
Mine was, literally, the last vehicle loaded on board.
In no hurry to join the huge breakfast line-up that snaked through the passenger compartments of the ferry, I was able to snag a good seat near the bow at the windows.
I’ve often thought about living on one of the Gulf Islands. It appeals to me because they are isolated and still reasonably close to the big cities. Living and working in Sooke for six years has made me appreciate the mellow, laid back approach to life, not that I haven’t been a laid back, mellow kind of guy anyway. Can you really imagine me getting any mellower?
Hunger finally breaks me down. $7.97 for three pancakes, a glass of milk, and a cookie I’ll save for later. I wonder how much it would have cost me for warm pancakes.
God bless BC Ferries – no one else will.
*****
I stand at the back of the ship, staring as Vancouver Island, my home, disappears. The ocean is a brilliant blue, like a pair of haunting eyes. The clouds have broken and scattered; the storm that was expected to sit over the coast for a couple of days went through overnight and is moving inland. I’m going to catch up to it. Now, there’s only small white cotton puffs over the receding green forests of the Gulf Islands.
*****
A number of times as I drive through the suburbs of Vancouver as I angle my way up to Highway 1, I feel like bursting into tears. I’m saying goodbye to a lot of things. I’m just not sure what they are yet.
*****
I caught up to the rain west of Abbotsford. A real downpour, great gouts of water washing across the sky and highway. Visibility sucks – cars only metres ahead vanish into clouds of spray. Gray sky hangs low like the depression of a lover scorned. The clouds are so low that they block the tops of the mountains, but not the vast subdivisions of identical houses scarring their sides.
*****
The rain lifted somewhat after Hope (yes, I am beyond Hope), but the clouds and rain returned as I climbed the Coquihalla. Here, as I lunch in beautiful downtown Merritt, the sky is battleship gray, and the sky is crying. I can tell I’m in a different world now: The Paul Harvey News is on the local radio station.
Nice country though. I’ve always loved BC’s topography, especially the coastal rainforest I call home. But I also love the mountains. And the changes in the land as you move through the wide fields of the Fraser Valley into the rolling hills and finally the mountains of the Coast Range has always impressed me.
*****
Today I drove through the towns of Lickman and Popkum. What great place names this country has. And did you ever notice that Come By Chance is right beside Conception Bay? Think about it….
*****
The rain continued even after I hit the big mountains. I am not impressed.
Steady, heavy rain, low clouds, fog. Crappy visibility. I hope it clears tomorrow for my drive up to Jasper. I finish this entry in the back of my truck in a campsite at Lake Louise. It’s pouring rain and there’s no shelter outside, so I’ve climbed into the back and I’m lying on my side using my bicycle wheel for a desk.
*****
June 16
It’s five o’clock in the morning. I’m tired, freezing, cramped up and miserable. At least I’m not wet.
I spent most of the night sleeping like this: L. Sometimes I slept like this: W. Occasionally I was shaped like this: @ or like this: &. In fact, I got no sleep. So I’m saying, “Screw it,” and now I’m heading down the road to Jasper.
My plan was to take a slow drive through the mountains between Banff and Jasper on the second day, but nature is not cooperating. The rain continues to fall, and the mountains are completely socked in. Only briefly can their majesty be glimpsed through the foggy shroud that covers them.
But some of those glimpses are breathtaking. Sharp, angled peaks suddenly slice through the fog ahead of you and tower over you, thousands of feet over you, as you drive your puny little car through the tiniest of mountain passes. One mountain ahead is awesome: its face a sheer study of sedimentary layers. At the edge of the face, the layers are parallel to the ground but as you follow the layers inward toward the centre, they begin turning. In fact, they turn ninety degrees and proceed upwards to the mountain’s peak in a smooth quarter circle. These layers are hundreds of metres thick, thousands and thousands of years old, weigh millions of tonnes, and at some point in the very recent geological past were seemingly twisted as easily as taffy.
But the weather is still not cooperating with my plans. I’m approaching the Columbia Ice Fields, possibly the most scenic point on the whole trip, and the rain returns again. And changes to snow. Wet snow, non-sticking to the ground snow, but snow. And at the Ice Field summit, the fog descends again, denying me a view of the majestic spectacle. Worse yet, as I climb, the fog descends lower and lower until visibility is next to nil and I can’t see more than twenty feet ahead of me. Then I realize it’s not fog – I’ve driven up into the clouds.
Finally, the road starts descending and at last I leave the clouds and the bad weather behind me. I see a moose, and then a herd of deer – big deer, way bigger than Vancouver Island deer. Soon I am past Jasper, out of the mountains, and roaring across the Great Plains.
Towns blur into each other as the long straight flat road stretches on ahead for mile after dull mile. Suddenly I see way off in the distance the skyscrapers of downtown Edmonton. You can see them from miles away across the smooth, even prairie. I dig out Paula’s instructions. And just after lunch, I arrive at Double Joy Farms.
I’m here.
Showing posts with label nonfic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nonfic. Show all posts
Saturday, June 09, 2007
In the Drink
A recent Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny. Not particularly warm, the temperature managed to crawl just a few degrees above zero. Still this was a far cry from the below zero temps and even nastier wind chills we had suffered from for much of the previous week. So it was a good time for a kayak trip at Cadboro Bay! (Note that I am wearing a red sweater... there will be a quiz later.)
Here's our gear lined up and ready to go. Paula had borrowed Alison's kayak. (Alison is kayaking in New Zealand for three weeks.) Normally, Bernie and Paula switch off with their kayak, but with Alison's kayak all of us could get in the water at the same time.
And away we go! Here's Dennis in his inflatable kayak...
...and Paula enjoying Alison's boat.
We paddled out of the bay and turned north along the coastline. That's Mt. Baker, an active volcano, ahead of us.
Three of us decided to cross over to Discovery Island. The womenfolk declined.
I had never been there myself, but both Bernie and Dennis had. There's some strong currents to watch out for, and the crossing of about 20-25 mins can be a little rough. You can see the bumpy water around Dennis in the picture below.
Discovery Island itself was beautiful. A series of small archipelagoes, it makes for a perfect place to explore inlets and rocky shores.
We found a little channel with a bit of a current in it. We decided to try our hand at running it. It wasn't a strong current, but this was our first try at something like this.
The first time I went through, there was no problem. The current was strong but not rough. I paddled against it, until it spun me around and sent me back from where I came.
No problem.
But my paddle was in the water and the current caught it, and dragged it under my boat. And over I went. Potential energy and gravity worked their magic. I was upside down in the water.
Problem.
As you can see, I survived. I made my wet exit, and grabbed onto the back of my kayak. Bernie was nearby and beside me almost instantly. As we organized ourselves to begin the process of getting me back in my boat, my feet suddenly touched ground, and I decided to walk my boat ashore at a small beach.
Out of the water but totally drenched, I took off my sweater. I was wearing my Farmer John wetsuit and that kept most of me warm, but my arms under my sweater were freezing. It was fortunate that I was wearing my wetsuit -- "goner" might be too drastic a term, but I would have been in a lot worse condition. Fortunately, Bernie had overdressed and had taken off his fleece jacket, and he lent it to me. (Quiz time - Question 1: What colour sweater was John wearing at the start of the paddle? Here's a hint: It's not the same colour as in the picture below.)
It was, in retrospect, a good thing. We were reminded that we are dealing with nature, and nature abhors cockiness. We had an emergency, and we all survived. There was no panic or hysteria. We kept our heads and did what we had to do. My kayak flipped and everything stayed attached and dry, including my digital camera.
Much to Bernie's chagrin, my glasses stayed on my head.
We re-assessed the safety equipment that we had with us. A dry bag with a towel and/or some dry clothes suddenly seemed like a much smarter idea then it did a few minutes earlier.
Bernie found the incident much too amusing (as you can see below.) However, as we left he decided to shoot the rapids again! (Okay it was only one rapid. "Whitewater" it was not.) He got caught, too, and damn near flipped. He filled up his kayak with water and he had to beach to drain it.
Bernie didn't have his skirt on. Bad Bernie.
(He didn't have any pants on either, but that's a whole other story.)
And so we headed back. We vowed never to publicly speak of the incident. ("What happens on Brokeback Island, stays on Brokeback Island," I said.)
However, it was impossible to keep secret, not when I arrived back wearing different clothes what I had started with. The womenfolk cast us some wary glances.
But we survived and adjourned for some warm drinks at a nearby coffee shop. Dennis took this picture to annoy his friends back in Toronto. Blizzard, anyone?
Now that's a hot chocolate! Sure helped get the taste of salt out of my mouth.
And remember kids, don't try this at home!
Sometimes the Candy Machine Wins
I had yet another run-in with the dreaded lunch room candy machine. Occasionally, I have been known to deposit money in this machine and in return have been rewarded with sweet, sweet candy.
Yesterday at lunch, I decided to need a Twix bar. It cost $1.00.
I deposited my coinage, four quarters. But the fourth quarter was returned; our candy machine is known for its random rejection of coins of recent vintage. I was 75 cents in, but I still needed another 25 cents to complete the purchase and receive my sweet, sweet candy.
All was not lost, as I also had a twoonie, more than enough for my chocolate-craving induced purchase. (For our non-Canadian viewers, a twoonie is a $2 coin). However, before depositing the twoonie, I felt I had better retrieve my three quarters. I pressed the coin return button and the machine promptly spat out three dimes. 30 cents.
"What the [expletive deleted]?" I shouted. Somehow my three quarters had been transmogrified into 3 dimes. The machine just ate 40 of my cents!
"[Expletive describing a physical act deleted] machine!"
But still the Twix bar called. Yes, I was out 40 cents, but I still had the twoonie, so I still could buy my bar and satisfy my caramel and chocolate covered cookie lust.
Against my better judgment, I dropped my twoonie in the slot. I pressed the button. The Twix bar fell from the rack into the retrieval slot at the bottom of the machine. And my change... my change... where's my $1.00 change?!?
"[Expletive describing a bodily function deleted]! Where's my [expletive describing the physical act of love deleted] change??!?"
The machine kept my change. Why? I don't know. It certainly wasn't out of change because a moment ago it had just eaten three of my quarters!!!
"[Expletive describing anatomical parts deleted]!!"
I had paid $2.40 for a Twix bar! This wasn't the first time the candy machine had eaten my money and short-changed me. I vowed to never ever buy another piece of sweet, oh so sweet candy from this mechanical hell spawn again.
Never!
"Never again! I'd sooner starve! Or crash from a sugar low than to risk my precious money on your unpredictable mechanical folly! Curse you, you mechanical [expletive describing the physical act of a love with a small domestic farm animal deleted]!"
Today, I dutifully deposited $1.00 and quietly ate my blessed Twix bar.
I am so weak.
originally published in UTOH #18, October 2006
Yesterday at lunch, I decided to need a Twix bar. It cost $1.00.
I deposited my coinage, four quarters. But the fourth quarter was returned; our candy machine is known for its random rejection of coins of recent vintage. I was 75 cents in, but I still needed another 25 cents to complete the purchase and receive my sweet, sweet candy.
All was not lost, as I also had a twoonie, more than enough for my chocolate-craving induced purchase. (For our non-Canadian viewers, a twoonie is a $2 coin). However, before depositing the twoonie, I felt I had better retrieve my three quarters. I pressed the coin return button and the machine promptly spat out three dimes. 30 cents.
"What the [expletive deleted]?" I shouted. Somehow my three quarters had been transmogrified into 3 dimes. The machine just ate 40 of my cents!
"[Expletive describing a physical act deleted] machine!"
But still the Twix bar called. Yes, I was out 40 cents, but I still had the twoonie, so I still could buy my bar and satisfy my caramel and chocolate covered cookie lust.
Against my better judgment, I dropped my twoonie in the slot. I pressed the button. The Twix bar fell from the rack into the retrieval slot at the bottom of the machine. And my change... my change... where's my $1.00 change?!?
"[Expletive describing a bodily function deleted]! Where's my [expletive describing the physical act of love deleted] change??!?"
The machine kept my change. Why? I don't know. It certainly wasn't out of change because a moment ago it had just eaten three of my quarters!!!
"[Expletive describing anatomical parts deleted]!!"
I had paid $2.40 for a Twix bar! This wasn't the first time the candy machine had eaten my money and short-changed me. I vowed to never ever buy another piece of sweet, oh so sweet candy from this mechanical hell spawn again.
Never!
"Never again! I'd sooner starve! Or crash from a sugar low than to risk my precious money on your unpredictable mechanical folly! Curse you, you mechanical [expletive describing the physical act of a love with a small domestic farm animal deleted]!"
Today, I dutifully deposited $1.00 and quietly ate my blessed Twix bar.
I am so weak.
originally published in UTOH #18, October 2006
Learning How to Not Drown
Elk Lake, just north of Victoria, at most times, is a glass-like flat calm, a giant azure puddle surrounded by green old-growth trees.
But in late afternoon, the sun can disappear as the clouds roll in, and the wind can whip the calm surface into a frothy chop. And it was in these conditions that a friend who wished to remain anonymous (for reasons that will become clear) and I found ourselves as we arrived for our first kayak lesson.
We have some previous experience kayaking. We had bought some small roto-molded kayaks earlier in the summer and we, along with our significant others, had made splashing about a regular event. We’d gone to many of the local lakes, and had gone out on the ocean a few times, always being careful not to go on stormy days, and trying not to over-estimate our abilities. Kayaking on a lake is like playing in a bathtub, but on the ocean, it’s a whole different feeling. The ocean is constantly moving and shifting underneath you, wakes bounce you, and currents pull at you.
The sights you can see! Eagles, otters, seals, sea lions, fish, crabs, sea stars… even an old paddle wheeler! (or a new faux paddle wheeler, since the wheel, although it spun, didn’t seem to actually touch the water).
It’s fun, but dangerous even you don’t know what you’re doing and that described my friend who will remain unnamed (his initials are Bernie Klassen) and myself , so we decided we’d better take some lessons and learn what we’ve been doing wrong all this time.
We arrived at Elk Lake and immediately noticed how rough the water was. (Indeed, the wind was to plague us for the entire session, as it kept blowing us ashore). A local kayak store was offering lessons, and they supplied the instructor, boats and accessories. We had our own wetsuits on; we figured we were going to get wet. But life jackets were another matter, as the tour company didn’t bring enough large ones, and after much swapping around, I ended up with an ill-fitting medium jacket that I only did up when we did our wet exits.
There were only three of us in our course: my anonymous friend (Bernie), an 85 year-old woman named Marion, and myself. We selected our boats: I ended up with a 12 ½ foot Necky, and my nameless friend (that’s Bernie in case you forgot) took a 14 ½ foot Carolina. Our instructor Brian was outfitted in top gear. In fact, he was trying his brand new $1,000 dry suit for the first time. Bernie and I had seen it in a store only a few days earlier. It was still covered with our drool stains.
Once we were outfitted and in the water, Brian demonstrated a few strokes for us. Marion was off like a rocket and poor Brian had to keep catching her and bringing her back close to shore.
The boat I was in was longer but narrower than my own boat and took a little getting used to. For a while it felt like I was always going to go over, but I eventually got used to the boat and the feeling passed.
Bernie had been in a Carolina previously and quickly adapted. Soon he was trying more sophisticated stroking techniques such as bracing and edging. Marion was doing well, too, but struggling against the choppy waves.
After covering the material in the lesson, which was the basic kayak strokes, Brian decided to give Bernie and I some bonus lessons and have us practice some wet exits. Marion declined to participate in this portion – she wasn’t dressed to be dunked.
Brian beached of his boat and walked out to Bernie and I in the lake. And we got dunked.
Basically, a wet exit is getting out of your kayak when you capsize. When you tip, the key is not to panic and remember, that it’s okay, you’re just in water. Keep your head, don’t panic. Getting out of the kayak is really fairly simple. You grab the handle on the front of your skirt (your skirt is the neoprene cover that seals you into the cockpit and makes it watertight). You pull the handle and the skirt comes off easily. Air rushes out of the cockpit and pushes you out, and your personal floatation device brings you up to the surface.
It really is pretty easy, once you get over the fear of being stuck in the tight-fitting cockpit of a kayak that’s turned upside down and there’s water going up your nose. After a couple of tries, though, it becomes doable. Bernie took his glasses off and prepared for his own dunking.
Next, Brian decided to offer more bonus instruction and show us how to do a two-person rescue. Let’s say you’re paddling with a buddy (as you should be at all times) and buddy ends up in the drink. How do you get him out of the cold water and into his boat? (And in the ocean, you’ve got to be quick. The cold water will quickly rob you of your body heat. And if you don’t have proper gear on, like a wet suit or dry suit, you’re in real trouble if you stay in the water for long.)
In our first practice scenario, I played the rescuer while Mr. Anonymous (that’s Bernie) was the hapless victim. So Bernie dunked himself.
One thing to remember when getting dunked is to try to keep track of your paddle. It’s all fine and dandy to get yourself back in your boat, but if you lose your paddle, you’re not going anywhere. We have paddle leashes on our personal boats for just such an emergency, but we were out of luck with these boats, so it was important to keep a hand on our paddles.
Bernie (our victim) capsized, exited his boat, and surfaced still clutching his oar. So far so, good. Next the hero (that would be me) maneuvered his kayak across the bow of the victim’s boat, in effect crossing the “T” while Bernie hung on at the stern of his boat. At this point, we righted his boat. Now both boats were upright, with his perpendicular to mine at about my cockpit. Before we get Bernie into his boat, we needed to get the water out, so we lifted/pulled/pushed Bernie’s boat onto mine. (This is why the first thing we did was right Bernie’s boat. With the kayak upright, it’s much easier to raise his boat onto mine because of the shape of the hull.)
With his kayak sitting on mine, we tipped his over, drained it of water, then righted it again, and lowered it back into the water. Next we maneuvered the kayaks until they were beside each other, but bow to stern. I leaned over and grabbed hold of his boat around the cockpit, and Bernie climbed onto his stomach on the back of his boat. He swiveled so his feet were in the cockpit, and he scooched down the deck of his kayak on his stomach into the cockpit, turning around so that ended up facing the correct way.
It’s not easy. You’re fighting the wave action, and the boats are slippery. As the rescuer you have to grip tight all the way through the process. Your weight is shifting constantly as the victim struggles to get in and the waves lap at both kayaks.
But, like a wet exit, it’s doable. And if you’re going to be on the water you need to be able to do this. You never know when it may come in handy.
We traded places and I dunked myself, and now with Bernie being the rescuer, I was able to return whole but wet into my boat. Brian our instructor congratulated us and said he was walking back to shore and that we should go for a little paddle to warm up after our dunkings, then return to shore ourselves. Our lesson was done.
Bernie put his glasses back on and he and I headed out for our quick paddle. The water was still choppy, and now it was about 6:30 in the evening and the light was going. We shouldn’t stay out on the lake much longer.
Then behind me, I heard Bernie shout, “Oh shit, oh shit!” Then there was a splash.
Bernie was under water.
I turned around and saw an overturned kayak and no Bernie. He broke the surface, shouting something. I called, “Are you alright?” He seemed to be fine, but he was still shouting something that I couldn’t make out.
Then I realized, “Oh yeah, I have to rescue him!”
I turned my kayak around and quickly paddled over. When I arrived, crossing the “T”, he was laughing. “I can’t believe it! Forty hours in the boat this summer and I tip while I’m having my first lesson!”
We struggled to lift Bernie’s kayak onto mine. I realized later that we had forgotten to right his boat before trying to raise it. Still, we got it up and emptied of water. Then we flipped it over and I moved my kayak beside his.
Bernie was still laughing. Something was putting him in a great mood, apart from the obvious irony of capsizing two minutes after learning how to rescue from such a predicament.
Bernie in the drink
Finally, after a few moments of struggling, he was back in his kayak and he was still laughing.
“My glasses,” he said. “I was underwater and I saw my glasses floating away from me. I reached out and was just able to grab them. That’s what I was shouting about when I surfaced. I couldn’t believe I still had my glasses!”
That’s what I heard when he went over! A couple of cries of “Oh shit,” a splash followed by a couple of blub blubs, then Bernie breaking the surface with his glasses in his fist, shouting, “Woo hoo!”
We couldn’t stop laughing. Adrenaline and near-death experiences can do that to you. We calmed down and slowly paddled back to the beach. Brian shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I guess you passed!”
originally published in Under the Ozone Hole, October 2005
But in late afternoon, the sun can disappear as the clouds roll in, and the wind can whip the calm surface into a frothy chop. And it was in these conditions that a friend who wished to remain anonymous (for reasons that will become clear) and I found ourselves as we arrived for our first kayak lesson.
We have some previous experience kayaking. We had bought some small roto-molded kayaks earlier in the summer and we, along with our significant others, had made splashing about a regular event. We’d gone to many of the local lakes, and had gone out on the ocean a few times, always being careful not to go on stormy days, and trying not to over-estimate our abilities. Kayaking on a lake is like playing in a bathtub, but on the ocean, it’s a whole different feeling. The ocean is constantly moving and shifting underneath you, wakes bounce you, and currents pull at you.
The sights you can see! Eagles, otters, seals, sea lions, fish, crabs, sea stars… even an old paddle wheeler! (or a new faux paddle wheeler, since the wheel, although it spun, didn’t seem to actually touch the water).
It’s fun, but dangerous even you don’t know what you’re doing and that described my friend who will remain unnamed (his initials are Bernie Klassen) and myself , so we decided we’d better take some lessons and learn what we’ve been doing wrong all this time.
We arrived at Elk Lake and immediately noticed how rough the water was. (Indeed, the wind was to plague us for the entire session, as it kept blowing us ashore). A local kayak store was offering lessons, and they supplied the instructor, boats and accessories. We had our own wetsuits on; we figured we were going to get wet. But life jackets were another matter, as the tour company didn’t bring enough large ones, and after much swapping around, I ended up with an ill-fitting medium jacket that I only did up when we did our wet exits.
There were only three of us in our course: my anonymous friend (Bernie), an 85 year-old woman named Marion, and myself. We selected our boats: I ended up with a 12 ½ foot Necky, and my nameless friend (that’s Bernie in case you forgot) took a 14 ½ foot Carolina. Our instructor Brian was outfitted in top gear. In fact, he was trying his brand new $1,000 dry suit for the first time. Bernie and I had seen it in a store only a few days earlier. It was still covered with our drool stains.
Once we were outfitted and in the water, Brian demonstrated a few strokes for us. Marion was off like a rocket and poor Brian had to keep catching her and bringing her back close to shore.
The boat I was in was longer but narrower than my own boat and took a little getting used to. For a while it felt like I was always going to go over, but I eventually got used to the boat and the feeling passed.
Bernie had been in a Carolina previously and quickly adapted. Soon he was trying more sophisticated stroking techniques such as bracing and edging. Marion was doing well, too, but struggling against the choppy waves.
After covering the material in the lesson, which was the basic kayak strokes, Brian decided to give Bernie and I some bonus lessons and have us practice some wet exits. Marion declined to participate in this portion – she wasn’t dressed to be dunked.
Brian beached of his boat and walked out to Bernie and I in the lake. And we got dunked.
Basically, a wet exit is getting out of your kayak when you capsize. When you tip, the key is not to panic and remember, that it’s okay, you’re just in water. Keep your head, don’t panic. Getting out of the kayak is really fairly simple. You grab the handle on the front of your skirt (your skirt is the neoprene cover that seals you into the cockpit and makes it watertight). You pull the handle and the skirt comes off easily. Air rushes out of the cockpit and pushes you out, and your personal floatation device brings you up to the surface.
It really is pretty easy, once you get over the fear of being stuck in the tight-fitting cockpit of a kayak that’s turned upside down and there’s water going up your nose. After a couple of tries, though, it becomes doable. Bernie took his glasses off and prepared for his own dunking.
Next, Brian decided to offer more bonus instruction and show us how to do a two-person rescue. Let’s say you’re paddling with a buddy (as you should be at all times) and buddy ends up in the drink. How do you get him out of the cold water and into his boat? (And in the ocean, you’ve got to be quick. The cold water will quickly rob you of your body heat. And if you don’t have proper gear on, like a wet suit or dry suit, you’re in real trouble if you stay in the water for long.)
In our first practice scenario, I played the rescuer while Mr. Anonymous (that’s Bernie) was the hapless victim. So Bernie dunked himself.
One thing to remember when getting dunked is to try to keep track of your paddle. It’s all fine and dandy to get yourself back in your boat, but if you lose your paddle, you’re not going anywhere. We have paddle leashes on our personal boats for just such an emergency, but we were out of luck with these boats, so it was important to keep a hand on our paddles.
Bernie (our victim) capsized, exited his boat, and surfaced still clutching his oar. So far so, good. Next the hero (that would be me) maneuvered his kayak across the bow of the victim’s boat, in effect crossing the “T” while Bernie hung on at the stern of his boat. At this point, we righted his boat. Now both boats were upright, with his perpendicular to mine at about my cockpit. Before we get Bernie into his boat, we needed to get the water out, so we lifted/pulled/pushed Bernie’s boat onto mine. (This is why the first thing we did was right Bernie’s boat. With the kayak upright, it’s much easier to raise his boat onto mine because of the shape of the hull.)
With his kayak sitting on mine, we tipped his over, drained it of water, then righted it again, and lowered it back into the water. Next we maneuvered the kayaks until they were beside each other, but bow to stern. I leaned over and grabbed hold of his boat around the cockpit, and Bernie climbed onto his stomach on the back of his boat. He swiveled so his feet were in the cockpit, and he scooched down the deck of his kayak on his stomach into the cockpit, turning around so that ended up facing the correct way.
It’s not easy. You’re fighting the wave action, and the boats are slippery. As the rescuer you have to grip tight all the way through the process. Your weight is shifting constantly as the victim struggles to get in and the waves lap at both kayaks.
But, like a wet exit, it’s doable. And if you’re going to be on the water you need to be able to do this. You never know when it may come in handy.
We traded places and I dunked myself, and now with Bernie being the rescuer, I was able to return whole but wet into my boat. Brian our instructor congratulated us and said he was walking back to shore and that we should go for a little paddle to warm up after our dunkings, then return to shore ourselves. Our lesson was done.
Bernie put his glasses back on and he and I headed out for our quick paddle. The water was still choppy, and now it was about 6:30 in the evening and the light was going. We shouldn’t stay out on the lake much longer.
Then behind me, I heard Bernie shout, “Oh shit, oh shit!” Then there was a splash.
Bernie was under water.
I turned around and saw an overturned kayak and no Bernie. He broke the surface, shouting something. I called, “Are you alright?” He seemed to be fine, but he was still shouting something that I couldn’t make out.
Then I realized, “Oh yeah, I have to rescue him!”
I turned my kayak around and quickly paddled over. When I arrived, crossing the “T”, he was laughing. “I can’t believe it! Forty hours in the boat this summer and I tip while I’m having my first lesson!”
We struggled to lift Bernie’s kayak onto mine. I realized later that we had forgotten to right his boat before trying to raise it. Still, we got it up and emptied of water. Then we flipped it over and I moved my kayak beside his.
Bernie was still laughing. Something was putting him in a great mood, apart from the obvious irony of capsizing two minutes after learning how to rescue from such a predicament.
Bernie in the drink
Finally, after a few moments of struggling, he was back in his kayak and he was still laughing.
“My glasses,” he said. “I was underwater and I saw my glasses floating away from me. I reached out and was just able to grab them. That’s what I was shouting about when I surfaced. I couldn’t believe I still had my glasses!”
That’s what I heard when he went over! A couple of cries of “Oh shit,” a splash followed by a couple of blub blubs, then Bernie breaking the surface with his glasses in his fist, shouting, “Woo hoo!”
We couldn’t stop laughing. Adrenaline and near-death experiences can do that to you. We calmed down and slowly paddled back to the beach. Brian shrugged his shoulders, and said, “I guess you passed!”
originally published in Under the Ozone Hole, October 2005
World Peace in Four Easy Steps
Despite the end of the Cold War, the world is still a dangerous place. Many nations continue to fight each other, and we are very lucky that in recent years the major powers have not been drawn into a conflict. It may interest you to know that the third largest nuclear power in the world is Kazakhstan. This is not a thought that fills my dreams at night with confidence and security. (For those of you unsure just where Kazakhstan is, it borders Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan. Feel better now?) So I suggest that we redouble our efforts to end conflict and bring peace to the planet. I present the following suggestions:
-- During times of aggression between two or more countries, the United Nations should be granted special powers to intervene. The U.N. hasn’t had much success with military interventions in recent years, so I suggest instead that they order out pizza for all combatants. Nothing causes young men’s minds to forget what they were doing faster than a fresh, piping hot pizza. (Okay, there is one other thing, but that’s too tawdry. Even for the U.N.) Pizza would be a quick, painless method to stop a battle (and cheap if you order from a 2-for-1 place).
-- Communication between societies must be improved. There are thousands of languages, dialects and sub-tongues in the world, and yet laughter is a universal expression that everyone understands. Therefore, I suggest the U.N. take over all military and communication satellites and instead of using them to spy on the world’s population and send secret messages back and forth, it should use them to broadcast a world-wide Mr. Bean Marathon.
-- We must build more McDonalds restaurants. McDonalds has restaurants in (at this writing) 101 countries in the world. Amazingly, no country with a McDonalds has ever invaded any other country with a McDonalds. (Some of you may be thinking that the U.S. invasion of Grenada is an exception, but it’s really just a question of semantics; in some cases involving the Super-powers, “invasion” is pronounced “liberation.”) We must make sure that a McDonalds is built in every country in the world immediately. We could even make having a McDonalds a condition of entry into the United Nations. Admittedly, this proposal will have devastating environmental and social impact. But hey, that’s progress, right?
-- Young people, particularly young men, have a lot of excess energy, pent-up frustrations and an overabundance of testosterone. In many cases, these factors influence young people in their decision to enlist in the military. We need a “military substitute” where these young people can safely vent their rage and hostility. This is why Canadians invented hockey. (You’ll note that since the formation of the National Hockey League, Canada has never started a war.)
Let’s sum up these proposals: pizza, Mr. Bean, McDonalds, and hockey. Let’s break the proposals down even further into their basic elements: make sure that everyone has enough food to eat and foster a sense of well being.
Jeez, it can’t be that simple, can it?
-- During times of aggression between two or more countries, the United Nations should be granted special powers to intervene. The U.N. hasn’t had much success with military interventions in recent years, so I suggest instead that they order out pizza for all combatants. Nothing causes young men’s minds to forget what they were doing faster than a fresh, piping hot pizza. (Okay, there is one other thing, but that’s too tawdry. Even for the U.N.) Pizza would be a quick, painless method to stop a battle (and cheap if you order from a 2-for-1 place).
-- Communication between societies must be improved. There are thousands of languages, dialects and sub-tongues in the world, and yet laughter is a universal expression that everyone understands. Therefore, I suggest the U.N. take over all military and communication satellites and instead of using them to spy on the world’s population and send secret messages back and forth, it should use them to broadcast a world-wide Mr. Bean Marathon.
-- We must build more McDonalds restaurants. McDonalds has restaurants in (at this writing) 101 countries in the world. Amazingly, no country with a McDonalds has ever invaded any other country with a McDonalds. (Some of you may be thinking that the U.S. invasion of Grenada is an exception, but it’s really just a question of semantics; in some cases involving the Super-powers, “invasion” is pronounced “liberation.”) We must make sure that a McDonalds is built in every country in the world immediately. We could even make having a McDonalds a condition of entry into the United Nations. Admittedly, this proposal will have devastating environmental and social impact. But hey, that’s progress, right?
-- Young people, particularly young men, have a lot of excess energy, pent-up frustrations and an overabundance of testosterone. In many cases, these factors influence young people in their decision to enlist in the military. We need a “military substitute” where these young people can safely vent their rage and hostility. This is why Canadians invented hockey. (You’ll note that since the formation of the National Hockey League, Canada has never started a war.)
Let’s sum up these proposals: pizza, Mr. Bean, McDonalds, and hockey. Let’s break the proposals down even further into their basic elements: make sure that everyone has enough food to eat and foster a sense of well being.
Jeez, it can’t be that simple, can it?
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Your Tax Dollars at Work
Normally, the doors in the government office building that I work in look like the doors in any other office building.
One door, one doorknob. It’s a simple but efficient system that has worked well through the ages and easy adaptable to both coming and going. This system really needs no upgrading (not until the technology behind those wooshing Star Trek doors is cheaply available).
Clearly, the inventers of the door had not counted on the facilities management personnel of the British Columbia government.
One morning in June we discovered that our normal doorknobs had been doubled up. A second doorknob had been added just below the first knob. Holes had been drilled throught the steel doors and a second door knob installed on everydoor on the starirwell. To enter the stairwell, now one had to turn both handles. To enter the building from the stairwell, one had to turn both handles and wave your entry card in front of the sensor. No announcement was given as to why an extra doorknob on every floor was deemed necessary; they simply appeared over night.
This change was made on our designated emergency stairwell. In the event of a fire or some such calamity, this is the escape route that most of the 140 or so people in our four-story building will use. Also, all the washrooms in the building are on the landings in this stairwell, so it receives a lot of use, presumably at least once a work day by each employee. It is a secure stairwell; you to have one of those new-fangled electronic keys the size of a credit card to access the building from the stairwell. However, you need nothing to enter the stairwell from the building. All you used to have to do is turn the handle and open the door so that you would not be fumbling for a key card while the building is burning or collapsing around you in an earthquake.
Events later in the day were to put the issue of the suddenly appearing extra doorknobs on the back burner as Legionella was discovered in our air conditioning system, forcing the evacuation and temporary abandonment of our building for three weeks (and that’s another article for another time).
When the Legionella threat was over and we returned, we re-discovered the double-knobber doorways. We further discovered that the security passes were not working – you could not re-enter the building from the stairwell no matter how many doorknobs you turned. Since the washrooms are accessible only from this stairwell, any employee who used a washroom was effectively locked out of the building. They could only return by going out through the basement and walking around the building and re-entering through the front door.
The work-around to this was simple – a carefully placed phone book would prevent the door from closing and access to and from the stairwell would be maintained. However, the security of the building was compromised and anyone who gained access to the basement car park (not a terribly hard thing to do if you really wanted to) would have access to every floor in the building. And the stairwell was now useless as a fireblock in case of a fire.
Fortunately, this state only lasted for a day, and the security system was fixed and functioning properly.
A couple of days later, the original doorknobs were removed were replaced by a steel plate, and below these we were left with our new, lower doorknobs and that seemed to be the end of the matter.
Or would have been, except that when the original doorknobs were removed, they tinkered with the security system. Running a few minutes late one day, I discovered that the security system now locked the stairwell doors after hours. In other words, if you were in the building after hours (as many people who work late are), you could not enter the stairwell. The doors were now electronically locked and nothing was going to get them open. The stairwell is the emergency exit, but now, stuck in the building after hours, I was confronted by a door handle that won’t open anything, and a useless security pass because the only sensor is on the other side of the door. The only exit was through the building’s front entrance. Anyone prevented from reaching the front door by a fire or other disaster would have been a goner.
I reported this malfunction the next day and the security system was reprogrammed to work correctly.
Now, the latest chapter. Quietly and overnight, the doorknobs have been moved from their new lower position back to their original higher position. Two months after this mysterious game of musical doorknobs began, we are left with our doorknobs right back where they started and ugly metal plates where the doors were cut to install the other doorknobs.
To date, no explanation has ever been provided to the employees for this apparently complete waste of somebody’s time and taxpayers’ money. There is probably a moral here. Maybe something like this: “There’s already too many knobs in government.”
originally published in Under the Ozone Hole Number 17, October 2005
One door, one doorknob. It’s a simple but efficient system that has worked well through the ages and easy adaptable to both coming and going. This system really needs no upgrading (not until the technology behind those wooshing Star Trek doors is cheaply available).
Clearly, the inventers of the door had not counted on the facilities management personnel of the British Columbia government.
One morning in June we discovered that our normal doorknobs had been doubled up. A second doorknob had been added just below the first knob. Holes had been drilled throught the steel doors and a second door knob installed on everydoor on the starirwell. To enter the stairwell, now one had to turn both handles. To enter the building from the stairwell, one had to turn both handles and wave your entry card in front of the sensor. No announcement was given as to why an extra doorknob on every floor was deemed necessary; they simply appeared over night.
This change was made on our designated emergency stairwell. In the event of a fire or some such calamity, this is the escape route that most of the 140 or so people in our four-story building will use. Also, all the washrooms in the building are on the landings in this stairwell, so it receives a lot of use, presumably at least once a work day by each employee. It is a secure stairwell; you to have one of those new-fangled electronic keys the size of a credit card to access the building from the stairwell. However, you need nothing to enter the stairwell from the building. All you used to have to do is turn the handle and open the door so that you would not be fumbling for a key card while the building is burning or collapsing around you in an earthquake.
Events later in the day were to put the issue of the suddenly appearing extra doorknobs on the back burner as Legionella was discovered in our air conditioning system, forcing the evacuation and temporary abandonment of our building for three weeks (and that’s another article for another time).
When the Legionella threat was over and we returned, we re-discovered the double-knobber doorways. We further discovered that the security passes were not working – you could not re-enter the building from the stairwell no matter how many doorknobs you turned. Since the washrooms are accessible only from this stairwell, any employee who used a washroom was effectively locked out of the building. They could only return by going out through the basement and walking around the building and re-entering through the front door.
The work-around to this was simple – a carefully placed phone book would prevent the door from closing and access to and from the stairwell would be maintained. However, the security of the building was compromised and anyone who gained access to the basement car park (not a terribly hard thing to do if you really wanted to) would have access to every floor in the building. And the stairwell was now useless as a fireblock in case of a fire.
Fortunately, this state only lasted for a day, and the security system was fixed and functioning properly.
A couple of days later, the original doorknobs were removed were replaced by a steel plate, and below these we were left with our new, lower doorknobs and that seemed to be the end of the matter.
Or would have been, except that when the original doorknobs were removed, they tinkered with the security system. Running a few minutes late one day, I discovered that the security system now locked the stairwell doors after hours. In other words, if you were in the building after hours (as many people who work late are), you could not enter the stairwell. The doors were now electronically locked and nothing was going to get them open. The stairwell is the emergency exit, but now, stuck in the building after hours, I was confronted by a door handle that won’t open anything, and a useless security pass because the only sensor is on the other side of the door. The only exit was through the building’s front entrance. Anyone prevented from reaching the front door by a fire or other disaster would have been a goner.
I reported this malfunction the next day and the security system was reprogrammed to work correctly.
Now, the latest chapter. Quietly and overnight, the doorknobs have been moved from their new lower position back to their original higher position. Two months after this mysterious game of musical doorknobs began, we are left with our doorknobs right back where they started and ugly metal plates where the doors were cut to install the other doorknobs.
To date, no explanation has ever been provided to the employees for this apparently complete waste of somebody’s time and taxpayers’ money. There is probably a moral here. Maybe something like this: “There’s already too many knobs in government.”
originally published in Under the Ozone Hole Number 17, October 2005
Hunter S. Thompson
I’ve reached the age where pretty soon now, it will be common for my friends and acquaintances to start dropping off. Fortunately, this hasn’t begun yet, but what a sad and awful time it will be.
Almost as bad is the passing of people who were influences or heroes to me. My own personal gods. In the words of another late and lamented god, another one bites the dust.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson took his own life yesterday, February 20, 2005. He was 67.
His journalism career began when he started moonlighting, writing the sports section for a local civilian newspaper while he was in the Air Force. (Ironically, his last book was a collection of sports-themed essays, Hey Rube.)
In the late 1960s, he embraced the counter-culture movement and was the on leading edge of the new “gonzo” journalism (named for a character in Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas). In this new journalism, the authors and their opinions become part of the narrative written in an over-the-top style, and Thompson was a master of its form. Other works include Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, The Great Shark Hunt, Generation of Swine, and Better Than Sex. He published one novel, The Rum Diaries, and was the inspiration for the character of Uncle Duke in the Doonesbury comic strip.
David Gerrold once noted the distinction between himself and Harlan Ellison. He described himself as a storyteller, and Ellison as a writer. Gerrold was adept at putting words in a pleasing order, while Ellison had mastered a craft.
Hunter was a writer.
Eloquent, angry, fierce, funny, and totally off the wall gonzo. Thompson spoke his mind with razor-sharp wit and venom. He spoke to the absurdity of life with absurdities of his own. No one could match Thompson in his bitter recitations of the decline of the American Empire. (Seek out his obituary of his nemesis Richard Nixon as a stellar example.)
His most famous work, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, published in 1971 and subtitled A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, was a requiem for the 1960s:
"There was no point in fighting -- on our side or theirs," he wrote. "We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."
Another wave is broken and the ocean claims its own.
Hunter Stockton Thompson 1937 – 2005
Ralph Steadman remembers Hunter here.
Rolling Stone reports on Hunter's passing here.
Kurt Loder comments here.
Democracy Now remembers Hunter here.
His local newspaper reports here.
More commentary on Hunter from Counterpunch, MSNBC, and others here and here. And here, too. As well as here.
More can be found here, here and here.
A 2003 interview with Hunter.
Read a recent Hunter piece on the 2004 American election here.
Almost as bad is the passing of people who were influences or heroes to me. My own personal gods. In the words of another late and lamented god, another one bites the dust.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson took his own life yesterday, February 20, 2005. He was 67.
His journalism career began when he started moonlighting, writing the sports section for a local civilian newspaper while he was in the Air Force. (Ironically, his last book was a collection of sports-themed essays, Hey Rube.)
In the late 1960s, he embraced the counter-culture movement and was the on leading edge of the new “gonzo” journalism (named for a character in Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas). In this new journalism, the authors and their opinions become part of the narrative written in an over-the-top style, and Thompson was a master of its form. Other works include Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, The Great Shark Hunt, Generation of Swine, and Better Than Sex. He published one novel, The Rum Diaries, and was the inspiration for the character of Uncle Duke in the Doonesbury comic strip.
David Gerrold once noted the distinction between himself and Harlan Ellison. He described himself as a storyteller, and Ellison as a writer. Gerrold was adept at putting words in a pleasing order, while Ellison had mastered a craft.
Hunter was a writer.
Eloquent, angry, fierce, funny, and totally off the wall gonzo. Thompson spoke his mind with razor-sharp wit and venom. He spoke to the absurdity of life with absurdities of his own. No one could match Thompson in his bitter recitations of the decline of the American Empire. (Seek out his obituary of his nemesis Richard Nixon as a stellar example.)
His most famous work, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, published in 1971 and subtitled A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream, was a requiem for the 1960s:
"There was no point in fighting -- on our side or theirs," he wrote. "We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."
Another wave is broken and the ocean claims its own.
Hunter Stockton Thompson 1937 – 2005
Ralph Steadman remembers Hunter here.
Rolling Stone reports on Hunter's passing here.
Kurt Loder comments here.
Democracy Now remembers Hunter here.
His local newspaper reports here.
More commentary on Hunter from Counterpunch, MSNBC, and others here and here. And here, too. As well as here.
More can be found here, here and here.
A 2003 interview with Hunter.
Read a recent Hunter piece on the 2004 American election here.
Leers and Frothing on the Campaign Trail '96 - Part One
The desperation in his voice should have been a clue. I should have known better. Something should have told me that to listen to him was a mistake. Where was that little voice inside my head when I needed it? Sure, it was there last night, spending hours telling me that there was a one litre jug of Oreo Ice Cream calling me from the supermarket, but now, now when I really needed the voice to tell me something HELPFUL it was long gone, baby. Outa here.
I picked up the phone. It was...him.
“John,” said the voice of Aurora Award winning radio personality with great hair Adam Charlesworth. “I need your help.” Quickly I sized up the situation and hung up.
The phone rang again seconds later. Damn, said the little voice inside my head, just before it vanished into the ether to force me to fend for myself, he called back. Fortunately, there’s Plan B.
I picked up the phone again. “Hi doodley-doo!” I said, disguising my voice as that of famous cartoon character Ned Flanders. No one would ever suspect a thing.
“John, it’s me, Adam. I have--”
“Sorry, you’ve got the wrong numberino!” I hung up again. Close, too close.
Then, the phone rang. Again.
Damn, said that little voice. He’s called back again!! Oh well, I want some ice cream. And it was gone.
“Plan C?” I whimpered to myself. “Is there a Plan C?”
There was no answer forthcoming, save the incessant ringing of the phone. No escape. Have a tequila, baby.
“Hello?”
“John, it’s me, Adam.” There was a long pause.
“Yes?”
“Sorry, I was waiting for you to hang up on me again. Listen, I need a favour.”
There was still time! There was still enough time for me little voice to return and get me through this. But, alas, it was not to be. My voice had deserted me. I was alone, much too alone. I had no choice but to give in, and set myself on a course that would drastically alter my life and this country as we know it. I was about to help Adam enter politics.
“Yeah, sure. Whatta you want?”
“I’ve got it on very good authority that there going to call the provincial election tomorrow.”
“That rumour’s been around every week for the last year.”
“Yes, but I have it on very good authority that they’re calling it tomorrow.”
“Okay, so they’re calling it tomorrow. So what?”
“Well, if they call it tomorrow, I’ll be announcing my candidacy for the Green Party in Victoria Hillside the day after. Will you be my campaign manager?”
Some, like MP Nelson Riis, call politics in British Columbia “a blood sport.” Wrong. Politics in British Columbia is more a cross between American Gladiators and Stupid Pet Tricks. Politics in Québec, for instance, is like watching the fifth estate; in BC it’s more like Wheel of Fortune or A Current Affair. (In fact, former Social Credit cabinet Minister Bud Smith was featured on A Current Affair because he had the misfortune of someone taping his cel phone calls to a newspaper reporter he was trying to hit on while giving her juicy behind the scenes gossip and insider information. Oops.)
BC’s second premier was Amor de Cosmos. His real name was William Alexander Smith, but he changed it to a name that he said “tells what I love most ... order, beauty, the world, the universe.” He eventually went mad.
From 1952 to 1972, BC’s premier was Social Creditor W.A.C.Bennett (Wacky Bennett). Under his reign, more dead people voted in provincial elections than at any time previously. In 1986, Bill van der Zalm was elected premier on the platform of style, not substance: “The smart candidate avoids detailed policy statements for they rarely help and can do you harm. Your answers should concentrate on style.” He stylishly treated BC to possibly the most corrupt government Canada has ever known (Mulroney’s the possible exception). Was Adam seriously considering to join these damned souls in Hades, er, um, the Legislature? Indeed, he was.
I decided the best course of action for me as Adam’s campaign manager was to hide out behind the scenes and do nothing. This way I figured I could lie low, escape unnoticed, watch some tv, and maybe see Adam at the end-of-campaign party. (I would call it a victory party, but let’s get real....)
Adam, however, had other ideas. He actually expected me to do some work. Damn him. Fortunately, the RCMP came to my rescue. Bingo-gate had reared its ugly head again.
On the day the election was to have been called, the RCMP raided a number of locations, including NDP party headquarters, for materials relating to the Nanaimo Commonwealth Holdings scandal. So for now the election was as dead as Tony Orlando’s acting career. Adam was off the hook for the moment, but plans had to be made.
Quickly, I assembled my crack crew -- The Myles in ’89 Gang: Angst Philben, degenerate, weapons expert, and speech writer for David Duke; Monika Bandersnatch, blackmailing expert and part-time Madonna stunt double; Marsha Chondrite, a financial whiz who worked in Ottawa during the Mulroney years and just loves the Airbus A320; Robert Gunderson, professional Tiny Tim impersonator and part time spin doctor; and Robert Runté, a sociologist from Alberta who paid me five bucks to mention him in this article. They were joined by our new recruits: Jamie Tower, hair consultant; Buzz Berkowitz, who claimed Adam owed him $50 and wasn’t going to let Adam out of his sight until he was paid, and Mikhail Gorbachev, former ex-communist. As the campaign manager, they were all looking to me for leadership. I ad-libbed an aspiring speech.
“Listen. We’re gonna lose. And we’re gonna lose big. But let’s make sure that doesn’t stop us from... er... not winning.”
My troops listened intently to my every syllable. Obviously, my speech had hit home; their gaping mouths and surprised expressions were testament to that. Now we needed to solidify the feeling that was in the air, that rock-hard, electrifying surge of near-apathy that was trickling through the air like a slam dancer with compound fractures in both legs.
“Now first things first,” I said. “We need to pick a campaign song.”
There was little discussion. My initial choice, Through Being Cool by Devo, was selected nearly unanimously. Jamie left our little group at this point. (They’ll never find the body. Politics is a mean game.)
Next, I presented my list of Possible Slogans:
Vote For Adam. It Could Be Worse.
Vote For Adam. He’ll Cook You Dinner.
Up and Adam.
Adam and the Green Party. Guilt is on Our Side.
Vote Charlesworth. Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures.
Adam. He Likes Cheese.
Charlesworth. He Has More Hair Than Harcourt.
Adam. No Longer on the Lunatic Fringe.
Charlesworth. Anyone But Mike Harris.
Your Options Are Limited. Vote Charlesworth.
Charlesworth. Mediocrity to the Masses.
Charlesworth. He Won’t Win, but What the Hell.
Adam liked the last one, and so did I. Mikhail liked any slogan that mentioned the word “party.”
Next I decided to spring a surprise on Adam: a practice press conference. Earlier, I had jotted down some questions he was sure to be asked. But Adam surprised me; he was ready with answers.
Question: Just how will the Green Party save the world?
Adam: I think you are really just asking me how am I going to save the world, or how is my voting for you going to save the world. My answer to this is to ask you the opposite. What are you going to do to help destroy the world? Today for instance we are over fishing and deforesting so massive an area of the planet that naturally occurring species are being removed from the Earth at over three hundred times the rate from the previous century. If we were to do nothing, the NDP strategy, all life on the planet can be safely removed in less than 250 years. But I am sure that we could improve on this figure if really try to. Lets remove those tiresome environmental bonds that hold industry back and hinder job creation in the province, of course we should also allow the foreign logging companies and the off shore fishing industry to take whatever they need so as to help provide more jobs in their countries as well. And it all will come with the special added bonus feature that we could reduce the lifespan deficit we are currently facing so as to be able to maximise extinction of the Earth in only 100 years time. But it wont happen if we are not prepared to make bold hard decisions. We will have to cut health care, selling out to foreign multinationals never actually generates any revenue for BC, just looking at the Mining and Forestry books for the last fifteen years shows that it has actually cost British Columbians money to denude our forests. Health care wont be enough of course, the Liberals plan bold incisive cuts in Education as well so as to further protect the future of British Columbia’s economy in the Global marketplace. This is how I choose to answer your question. Last year the Herring fishery was considered a success because it ran for half an hour. The entire year’s catch during a lunch break, and it was considered a success from the previous years twenty two minute fishery. Salmon rivers that carried 150,000 salmon last year brought only thirty and this year just ten thousand. A 96% reduction in fish stock is what business as usual has done for the future of this province. The flaming letters in the sky that say the World is Ending are getting bigger each day, UV ratings, Air quality index, sunblock in the high double digits. A vote for the Green Party doesn’t mean all this will go away but it does mean that you are voting for a party that can see farther ahead than four years.
Question: What’s your view on this Québec thing?
Adam: As a BC provincial candidate my views on events occurring in another province are moot I just hope that the citizens inside Québec are able to come to a decision that they can live with.
Question: Why are you goddam fascist tree-huggers taking away an honest man’s right to work?
Adam: Actually we are trying to make a world where you can keep your job cutting down trees for your entire life. A sustainable cut that provides a guaranteed number of jobs. Remember the pictures of the province at the turn of the Century. Trees so big it took forty men a week to cut one down. Today, if we had those trees still, forty men could cut them all down in a week, instead of the years it did take. Where are all those trees now? Why are you afraid you are going to lose your job. Because there are no more trees to cut down? If you are accusing us of cutting down the trees that sustained your livelihood and that of others in the logging industry you must remember that it was the forest companies being allowed to overcut in the past that has led to our present state. We are suggesting a certain level of restraint to protect what is left, but if the people of BC are willing to vote for legislation to remove every single tree from the province in order to keep you in work than we are more than willing to go along with it. Newfoundland used to be covered in trees, so did Scotland and Greece actually. Beautiful places really, a bitter cold bare empty rock of an island with no jobs, an island where you can get an excellent pint of bitters but no place to get out from under the rain with no jobs and a group of islands and bare rock with less topsoil than a pound of Moneys mushrooms but luckily also surrounded by a warm and inviting Mediterranean Sea. Best two out of three?
Question: Why are you running when you’ll know you’ll never win?
Adam: Good question! Why would someone run? I suggest you think about it.
Question: What is the airspeed velocity of an unladden swallow?
Adam: I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I may have to provide a demonstration of my silly walk after I do so.
Question: How can we balance the budget?
Adam: Carefully, considering our ozone deficit, our salmon deficit, our forest deficit and our fiscal deficit, I’d say carefully about covers it.
Question: Boxers or briefs?
Adam: Briefs.
Question: What about welfare reform?
Adam: What about it? I believe that welfare should always be there for the people who need it. If you design an American welfare system. The Laisssex Faire approach to social programs. You will find that people will approach welfare with a more “do it your self” air, with Smith and Wessons at bank machines, rather than a quiet queue. The difficult part is designing a system that provides welfare for people who need it not just people who want it.
Damn. He had an answer for every question I had posed. Some even made sense. He was serious. I realized I would have to change tactics. I was going to have to come up with a better strategy than changing Adam’s last name to Charlesworthsanjabi.
NEXT: Premier Mike Quits, The Job No One Wants, Adam on the Trail, and Stupid Politician Tricks.
Originally published in UNDER THE OZONE HOLE Number 13, March 1996.
I picked up the phone. It was...him.
“John,” said the voice of Aurora Award winning radio personality with great hair Adam Charlesworth. “I need your help.” Quickly I sized up the situation and hung up.
The phone rang again seconds later. Damn, said the little voice inside my head, just before it vanished into the ether to force me to fend for myself, he called back. Fortunately, there’s Plan B.
I picked up the phone again. “Hi doodley-doo!” I said, disguising my voice as that of famous cartoon character Ned Flanders. No one would ever suspect a thing.
“John, it’s me, Adam. I have--”
“Sorry, you’ve got the wrong numberino!” I hung up again. Close, too close.
Then, the phone rang. Again.
Damn, said that little voice. He’s called back again!! Oh well, I want some ice cream. And it was gone.
“Plan C?” I whimpered to myself. “Is there a Plan C?”
There was no answer forthcoming, save the incessant ringing of the phone. No escape. Have a tequila, baby.
“Hello?”
“John, it’s me, Adam.” There was a long pause.
“Yes?”
“Sorry, I was waiting for you to hang up on me again. Listen, I need a favour.”
There was still time! There was still enough time for me little voice to return and get me through this. But, alas, it was not to be. My voice had deserted me. I was alone, much too alone. I had no choice but to give in, and set myself on a course that would drastically alter my life and this country as we know it. I was about to help Adam enter politics.
“Yeah, sure. Whatta you want?”
“I’ve got it on very good authority that there going to call the provincial election tomorrow.”
“That rumour’s been around every week for the last year.”
“Yes, but I have it on very good authority that they’re calling it tomorrow.”
“Okay, so they’re calling it tomorrow. So what?”
“Well, if they call it tomorrow, I’ll be announcing my candidacy for the Green Party in Victoria Hillside the day after. Will you be my campaign manager?”
Some, like MP Nelson Riis, call politics in British Columbia “a blood sport.” Wrong. Politics in British Columbia is more a cross between American Gladiators and Stupid Pet Tricks. Politics in Québec, for instance, is like watching the fifth estate; in BC it’s more like Wheel of Fortune or A Current Affair. (In fact, former Social Credit cabinet Minister Bud Smith was featured on A Current Affair because he had the misfortune of someone taping his cel phone calls to a newspaper reporter he was trying to hit on while giving her juicy behind the scenes gossip and insider information. Oops.)
BC’s second premier was Amor de Cosmos. His real name was William Alexander Smith, but he changed it to a name that he said “tells what I love most ... order, beauty, the world, the universe.” He eventually went mad.
From 1952 to 1972, BC’s premier was Social Creditor W.A.C.Bennett (Wacky Bennett). Under his reign, more dead people voted in provincial elections than at any time previously. In 1986, Bill van der Zalm was elected premier on the platform of style, not substance: “The smart candidate avoids detailed policy statements for they rarely help and can do you harm. Your answers should concentrate on style.” He stylishly treated BC to possibly the most corrupt government Canada has ever known (Mulroney’s the possible exception). Was Adam seriously considering to join these damned souls in Hades, er, um, the Legislature? Indeed, he was.
I decided the best course of action for me as Adam’s campaign manager was to hide out behind the scenes and do nothing. This way I figured I could lie low, escape unnoticed, watch some tv, and maybe see Adam at the end-of-campaign party. (I would call it a victory party, but let’s get real....)
Adam, however, had other ideas. He actually expected me to do some work. Damn him. Fortunately, the RCMP came to my rescue. Bingo-gate had reared its ugly head again.
On the day the election was to have been called, the RCMP raided a number of locations, including NDP party headquarters, for materials relating to the Nanaimo Commonwealth Holdings scandal. So for now the election was as dead as Tony Orlando’s acting career. Adam was off the hook for the moment, but plans had to be made.
Quickly, I assembled my crack crew -- The Myles in ’89 Gang: Angst Philben, degenerate, weapons expert, and speech writer for David Duke; Monika Bandersnatch, blackmailing expert and part-time Madonna stunt double; Marsha Chondrite, a financial whiz who worked in Ottawa during the Mulroney years and just loves the Airbus A320; Robert Gunderson, professional Tiny Tim impersonator and part time spin doctor; and Robert Runté, a sociologist from Alberta who paid me five bucks to mention him in this article. They were joined by our new recruits: Jamie Tower, hair consultant; Buzz Berkowitz, who claimed Adam owed him $50 and wasn’t going to let Adam out of his sight until he was paid, and Mikhail Gorbachev, former ex-communist. As the campaign manager, they were all looking to me for leadership. I ad-libbed an aspiring speech.
“Listen. We’re gonna lose. And we’re gonna lose big. But let’s make sure that doesn’t stop us from... er... not winning.”
My troops listened intently to my every syllable. Obviously, my speech had hit home; their gaping mouths and surprised expressions were testament to that. Now we needed to solidify the feeling that was in the air, that rock-hard, electrifying surge of near-apathy that was trickling through the air like a slam dancer with compound fractures in both legs.
“Now first things first,” I said. “We need to pick a campaign song.”
There was little discussion. My initial choice, Through Being Cool by Devo, was selected nearly unanimously. Jamie left our little group at this point. (They’ll never find the body. Politics is a mean game.)
Next, I presented my list of Possible Slogans:
Vote For Adam. It Could Be Worse.
Vote For Adam. He’ll Cook You Dinner.
Up and Adam.
Adam and the Green Party. Guilt is on Our Side.
Vote Charlesworth. Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures.
Adam. He Likes Cheese.
Charlesworth. He Has More Hair Than Harcourt.
Adam. No Longer on the Lunatic Fringe.
Charlesworth. Anyone But Mike Harris.
Your Options Are Limited. Vote Charlesworth.
Charlesworth. Mediocrity to the Masses.
Charlesworth. He Won’t Win, but What the Hell.
Adam liked the last one, and so did I. Mikhail liked any slogan that mentioned the word “party.”
Next I decided to spring a surprise on Adam: a practice press conference. Earlier, I had jotted down some questions he was sure to be asked. But Adam surprised me; he was ready with answers.
Question: Just how will the Green Party save the world?
Adam: I think you are really just asking me how am I going to save the world, or how is my voting for you going to save the world. My answer to this is to ask you the opposite. What are you going to do to help destroy the world? Today for instance we are over fishing and deforesting so massive an area of the planet that naturally occurring species are being removed from the Earth at over three hundred times the rate from the previous century. If we were to do nothing, the NDP strategy, all life on the planet can be safely removed in less than 250 years. But I am sure that we could improve on this figure if really try to. Lets remove those tiresome environmental bonds that hold industry back and hinder job creation in the province, of course we should also allow the foreign logging companies and the off shore fishing industry to take whatever they need so as to help provide more jobs in their countries as well. And it all will come with the special added bonus feature that we could reduce the lifespan deficit we are currently facing so as to be able to maximise extinction of the Earth in only 100 years time. But it wont happen if we are not prepared to make bold hard decisions. We will have to cut health care, selling out to foreign multinationals never actually generates any revenue for BC, just looking at the Mining and Forestry books for the last fifteen years shows that it has actually cost British Columbians money to denude our forests. Health care wont be enough of course, the Liberals plan bold incisive cuts in Education as well so as to further protect the future of British Columbia’s economy in the Global marketplace. This is how I choose to answer your question. Last year the Herring fishery was considered a success because it ran for half an hour. The entire year’s catch during a lunch break, and it was considered a success from the previous years twenty two minute fishery. Salmon rivers that carried 150,000 salmon last year brought only thirty and this year just ten thousand. A 96% reduction in fish stock is what business as usual has done for the future of this province. The flaming letters in the sky that say the World is Ending are getting bigger each day, UV ratings, Air quality index, sunblock in the high double digits. A vote for the Green Party doesn’t mean all this will go away but it does mean that you are voting for a party that can see farther ahead than four years.
Question: What’s your view on this Québec thing?
Adam: As a BC provincial candidate my views on events occurring in another province are moot I just hope that the citizens inside Québec are able to come to a decision that they can live with.
Question: Why are you goddam fascist tree-huggers taking away an honest man’s right to work?
Adam: Actually we are trying to make a world where you can keep your job cutting down trees for your entire life. A sustainable cut that provides a guaranteed number of jobs. Remember the pictures of the province at the turn of the Century. Trees so big it took forty men a week to cut one down. Today, if we had those trees still, forty men could cut them all down in a week, instead of the years it did take. Where are all those trees now? Why are you afraid you are going to lose your job. Because there are no more trees to cut down? If you are accusing us of cutting down the trees that sustained your livelihood and that of others in the logging industry you must remember that it was the forest companies being allowed to overcut in the past that has led to our present state. We are suggesting a certain level of restraint to protect what is left, but if the people of BC are willing to vote for legislation to remove every single tree from the province in order to keep you in work than we are more than willing to go along with it. Newfoundland used to be covered in trees, so did Scotland and Greece actually. Beautiful places really, a bitter cold bare empty rock of an island with no jobs, an island where you can get an excellent pint of bitters but no place to get out from under the rain with no jobs and a group of islands and bare rock with less topsoil than a pound of Moneys mushrooms but luckily also surrounded by a warm and inviting Mediterranean Sea. Best two out of three?
Question: Why are you running when you’ll know you’ll never win?
Adam: Good question! Why would someone run? I suggest you think about it.
Question: What is the airspeed velocity of an unladden swallow?
Adam: I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I may have to provide a demonstration of my silly walk after I do so.
Question: How can we balance the budget?
Adam: Carefully, considering our ozone deficit, our salmon deficit, our forest deficit and our fiscal deficit, I’d say carefully about covers it.
Question: Boxers or briefs?
Adam: Briefs.
Question: What about welfare reform?
Adam: What about it? I believe that welfare should always be there for the people who need it. If you design an American welfare system. The Laisssex Faire approach to social programs. You will find that people will approach welfare with a more “do it your self” air, with Smith and Wessons at bank machines, rather than a quiet queue. The difficult part is designing a system that provides welfare for people who need it not just people who want it.
Damn. He had an answer for every question I had posed. Some even made sense. He was serious. I realized I would have to change tactics. I was going to have to come up with a better strategy than changing Adam’s last name to Charlesworthsanjabi.
NEXT: Premier Mike Quits, The Job No One Wants, Adam on the Trail, and Stupid Politician Tricks.
Originally published in UNDER THE OZONE HOLE Number 13, March 1996.
Leers and Frothing on the Campaign Trail '96 - Part Two
The story so far: Adam Charlesworth, Aurora Award winning radio personality with great hair, has convinced your chronicler to be his campaign manager as Adam prepares to run for the Green Party in the upcoming provincial election. I, sensing the chance to do a series of humorous articles agree immediately. Meanwhile, the ruling NDP government has found itself on the ropes battling a decade-old party scandal that has blown up in their faces. It is against this backdrop that we rejoin our heroes, about to thrust themselves deeply into the political muck. But first, some exposition....
The bursting boil that spoiled the NDP’s chance at re-election is a decade-old scandal only now reaching the light of day. It is not uncommon for many political parties in B.C. to raise funds by holding charity events (i.e. bingo) wherein the charity and the party split the proceeds. Back in the mid-1980s, a group of NDP bigwigs in Nanaimo formed a holding company (Nanaimo Commonwealth Holdings) to administer such events, as well as to invest the NDP’s portions of the take. But for a time in the 1980s, the charities did not receive their cut. These facts became public knowledge during the reign of Premier Mike Harcourt, who, like many members of his government, had no knowledge of the events, and whose involvement with the party at the time consisted of membership in it only.
The scandal forced Harcourt to resign, not because of any involvement (he wasn’t involved, after all), but for his inept way of handling the crisis. (After months of Harcourt’s waffling, Minister Joan Smallwood offered her resignation, saying that although she wasn’t involved, someone has to take the fall for this. Harcourt refused her resignation. When she leaked word of her attempted resignation a couple of days later, Harcourt fired her. Ain’t politics grand?)
It was Adam on the phone. Again. “I think I’ve got our slogan,” he said.
“Uh, huh. What is it?”
“‘Not Left, Not Right, but Forward.’ Whatta ya think?”
Adam’s behaviour was starting to concern me. He was taking all this far too seriously. This was but another example. Whereas I thought that “Adam. He’ll Nationalize the Hair Club,” was a damn fine piece of electioneering, he was thinking up real slogans.
“You’re serious about this,” I said in shocked realization. “I mean, you’re really running.”
“Of course I am!”
“But why? You can’t really think you’re going to be elected.”
“I hope not. But the key is awareness. If we can run a full slate of 75 candidates, that makes us all the more credible. And credibility is what the Greens have always lacked. But if we get a full slate, then maybe, maybe, we get on the leaders’ tv debate. And you know what a good showing on the debate can do.”
I did, indeed. In the last election five years ago, Liberal Leader Gordon Wilson, whose party had no seats in the house but was running a full slate, finagled his way into the debate and turned in a bravura performance. He took his party from the political nether-world to 17% of the popular vote and firmly entranced as the second party in the house after the election. (And, as the Liberals stand ready to form the next government, where is Gordon Wilson? He and fellow Liberal MLA Judi Tyabji were caught performing public adultery and eventually thrown out of the party Wilson had restored to credibility in a revolt lead by new leader Gordon Campbell.. Now Punch Gord and Judi are the only members of the PDA, a party sure to be obliterated come the election. Ain’t B.C. politics grand?)
With Harcourt gone, one would think that NDP leadership hopefuls would be coming out of the woodwork. But, no. One by one, all the party power brokers took themselves out of the race. (For a time it truly looked like “None of the Above” might actually become premier.) One by one, the mighty fell by the wayside until only cabinet minister Glen Clark remained. Oh sure, there were a couple of other people running (a mortician from Port Alberni and a tree hugger named Corky. This is B.C., after all.), but Clark was a shoe-in, winning by a landslide. Things looked rosy for a day, even two, until B.C. Hydro-gate arose from nowhere to dominate the headlines.
So this was Adam’s plan all along. If the Greens could run a full slate, they could use the Liberal Party’s 1991 precedent and perhaps wangle their way onto the Leader’s Debate. But would their message be heard? The debate was sure to be acrimonious between Clark and new Liberal Gordon Campbell. Campbell, a Vancouver backroom double-vested money boy, was currently running a series of ads in which he appeared in a lumberjack shirt to cultivate that “one of the boys” appeal but instead was earning scorn and ridicule. (His spin doctors should be sued for malpractice.) Clark, attempting to buy votes by freezing tuition fees, auto insurance rates, and taxes, is slowly watching his slim chance for victory disappear as the RCMP continue more investigations into the bingo business. And now, the B.C. Hydro scandal -- well, not much of a scandal really, but a scandal that the Liberal Party kept the lid on until it was politically advantageous to release it, namely Clark’s swearing in day. How was the Green Party going get heard through that?
“Adam, you guys are the fringe! You’re in the Political Hinterland’s Who’s Who between the Christian Heritage Party and the Marxist-Leninists! People are more likely to vote for the Rhinoceros Party than you!”
“But we’ve got some big names backing us up. David Suzuki is endorsing us.”
“!” I said. “The David Suzuki?” From what I knew about Adam’s past (the motorcycle gangs, Vancouver airport security, the atomic reactor he was forced to work in as a child, his night as prom queen, public radio, unswerving belief that the Edmonton Oilers will again the Stanley Cup in his lifetime), I considered that he might be delusional. But he sounded almost as sane as he ever was.
“Yes, yes, yes! David Suzuki! He endorsed us!”
“He did? I didn’t hear about it.”
“That’s because no one did! The press release went out yesterday morning, and only CBC radio went with it. Twice. No other media touched it.”
Ah, a media conspiracy of silence. We said nothing of it.
And then came Premier Clark’s so-called Sixty Days of Decision, wherein every day heralded a new attempt by the premier to bribe the electorate with its own money. Each day brought about a happy announcement from an exceedingly pleased Cabinet Minister. Hydro rates, tuition fees, insurance rates were all frozen, taxes were dropped, and money given away like the Apocalypse was Thursday. In six short weeks, Premier Clark made campaign promises totalling nearly a billion dollars.
“You gotta give Clark credit,” I said to Adam. “It takes balls to stand up there, give away all this money, and then say you’re not electioneering.”
“Oh, I know,” agreed Adam. “Clark is an excellent politician. He’s not campaigning – he’s seducing. It’s like he’s sneaking up behind you and cops a feel. At first you’re outraged, but then he starts talking, and then its ‘…Mr. Clark what are you doing back there? Oooh, Mr. Clark, please, I shouldn’t vote for you but, well, okay but… hey, you loosened my belt. Mr. Clark, I’m not sure what you want. You’ll promise me anything? Ooooh, yes, all right. Hey, my pants fell down. Hmmm? Sure, I’ll bend over—’ Only at this point, do you suddenly realize you’re getting screwed up the ass.”
“Well, he’s not the only one sniffing at that particular piece of your anatomy. Look at the Liberals. They’re promising a three billion cut in spending, taxes cut by 15%, but they’re going to increase health care funding by a billion dollars. Explain that one to me.”
“Simple. A politician said it.”
Next: Leers and Frothing -- The Final Chapter (unless Adam really does get elected): Adam on the Campaign Trail; Beers and Debauchery in Esquimalt; More Lies and Made-Up Facts; How To Run Hospitality at V-Con in Vancouver When You’re Running For Public Office in Victoria.
Originally published in UNDER THE OZONE HOLE Number 14, June 1996
The bursting boil that spoiled the NDP’s chance at re-election is a decade-old scandal only now reaching the light of day. It is not uncommon for many political parties in B.C. to raise funds by holding charity events (i.e. bingo) wherein the charity and the party split the proceeds. Back in the mid-1980s, a group of NDP bigwigs in Nanaimo formed a holding company (Nanaimo Commonwealth Holdings) to administer such events, as well as to invest the NDP’s portions of the take. But for a time in the 1980s, the charities did not receive their cut. These facts became public knowledge during the reign of Premier Mike Harcourt, who, like many members of his government, had no knowledge of the events, and whose involvement with the party at the time consisted of membership in it only.
The scandal forced Harcourt to resign, not because of any involvement (he wasn’t involved, after all), but for his inept way of handling the crisis. (After months of Harcourt’s waffling, Minister Joan Smallwood offered her resignation, saying that although she wasn’t involved, someone has to take the fall for this. Harcourt refused her resignation. When she leaked word of her attempted resignation a couple of days later, Harcourt fired her. Ain’t politics grand?)
It was Adam on the phone. Again. “I think I’ve got our slogan,” he said.
“Uh, huh. What is it?”
“‘Not Left, Not Right, but Forward.’ Whatta ya think?”
Adam’s behaviour was starting to concern me. He was taking all this far too seriously. This was but another example. Whereas I thought that “Adam. He’ll Nationalize the Hair Club,” was a damn fine piece of electioneering, he was thinking up real slogans.
“You’re serious about this,” I said in shocked realization. “I mean, you’re really running.”
“Of course I am!”
“But why? You can’t really think you’re going to be elected.”
“I hope not. But the key is awareness. If we can run a full slate of 75 candidates, that makes us all the more credible. And credibility is what the Greens have always lacked. But if we get a full slate, then maybe, maybe, we get on the leaders’ tv debate. And you know what a good showing on the debate can do.”
I did, indeed. In the last election five years ago, Liberal Leader Gordon Wilson, whose party had no seats in the house but was running a full slate, finagled his way into the debate and turned in a bravura performance. He took his party from the political nether-world to 17% of the popular vote and firmly entranced as the second party in the house after the election. (And, as the Liberals stand ready to form the next government, where is Gordon Wilson? He and fellow Liberal MLA Judi Tyabji were caught performing public adultery and eventually thrown out of the party Wilson had restored to credibility in a revolt lead by new leader Gordon Campbell.. Now Punch Gord and Judi are the only members of the PDA, a party sure to be obliterated come the election. Ain’t B.C. politics grand?)
With Harcourt gone, one would think that NDP leadership hopefuls would be coming out of the woodwork. But, no. One by one, all the party power brokers took themselves out of the race. (For a time it truly looked like “None of the Above” might actually become premier.) One by one, the mighty fell by the wayside until only cabinet minister Glen Clark remained. Oh sure, there were a couple of other people running (a mortician from Port Alberni and a tree hugger named Corky. This is B.C., after all.), but Clark was a shoe-in, winning by a landslide. Things looked rosy for a day, even two, until B.C. Hydro-gate arose from nowhere to dominate the headlines.
So this was Adam’s plan all along. If the Greens could run a full slate, they could use the Liberal Party’s 1991 precedent and perhaps wangle their way onto the Leader’s Debate. But would their message be heard? The debate was sure to be acrimonious between Clark and new Liberal Gordon Campbell. Campbell, a Vancouver backroom double-vested money boy, was currently running a series of ads in which he appeared in a lumberjack shirt to cultivate that “one of the boys” appeal but instead was earning scorn and ridicule. (His spin doctors should be sued for malpractice.) Clark, attempting to buy votes by freezing tuition fees, auto insurance rates, and taxes, is slowly watching his slim chance for victory disappear as the RCMP continue more investigations into the bingo business. And now, the B.C. Hydro scandal -- well, not much of a scandal really, but a scandal that the Liberal Party kept the lid on until it was politically advantageous to release it, namely Clark’s swearing in day. How was the Green Party going get heard through that?
“Adam, you guys are the fringe! You’re in the Political Hinterland’s Who’s Who between the Christian Heritage Party and the Marxist-Leninists! People are more likely to vote for the Rhinoceros Party than you!”
“But we’ve got some big names backing us up. David Suzuki is endorsing us.”
“!” I said. “The David Suzuki?” From what I knew about Adam’s past (the motorcycle gangs, Vancouver airport security, the atomic reactor he was forced to work in as a child, his night as prom queen, public radio, unswerving belief that the Edmonton Oilers will again the Stanley Cup in his lifetime), I considered that he might be delusional. But he sounded almost as sane as he ever was.
“Yes, yes, yes! David Suzuki! He endorsed us!”
“He did? I didn’t hear about it.”
“That’s because no one did! The press release went out yesterday morning, and only CBC radio went with it. Twice. No other media touched it.”
Ah, a media conspiracy of silence. We said nothing of it.
And then came Premier Clark’s so-called Sixty Days of Decision, wherein every day heralded a new attempt by the premier to bribe the electorate with its own money. Each day brought about a happy announcement from an exceedingly pleased Cabinet Minister. Hydro rates, tuition fees, insurance rates were all frozen, taxes were dropped, and money given away like the Apocalypse was Thursday. In six short weeks, Premier Clark made campaign promises totalling nearly a billion dollars.
“You gotta give Clark credit,” I said to Adam. “It takes balls to stand up there, give away all this money, and then say you’re not electioneering.”
“Oh, I know,” agreed Adam. “Clark is an excellent politician. He’s not campaigning – he’s seducing. It’s like he’s sneaking up behind you and cops a feel. At first you’re outraged, but then he starts talking, and then its ‘…Mr. Clark what are you doing back there? Oooh, Mr. Clark, please, I shouldn’t vote for you but, well, okay but… hey, you loosened my belt. Mr. Clark, I’m not sure what you want. You’ll promise me anything? Ooooh, yes, all right. Hey, my pants fell down. Hmmm? Sure, I’ll bend over—’ Only at this point, do you suddenly realize you’re getting screwed up the ass.”
“Well, he’s not the only one sniffing at that particular piece of your anatomy. Look at the Liberals. They’re promising a three billion cut in spending, taxes cut by 15%, but they’re going to increase health care funding by a billion dollars. Explain that one to me.”
“Simple. A politician said it.”
Next: Leers and Frothing -- The Final Chapter (unless Adam really does get elected): Adam on the Campaign Trail; Beers and Debauchery in Esquimalt; More Lies and Made-Up Facts; How To Run Hospitality at V-Con in Vancouver When You’re Running For Public Office in Victoria.
Originally published in UNDER THE OZONE HOLE Number 14, June 1996
Leers and Frothing on the Campaign Trail '96 - Part Three
Our story thus far: Adam Charlesworth, Aurora award winning radio personality with great hair, has convinced your chronicler to be his campaign manger as he prepares to run for the Green Party in the May 28th British Columbia General Election. The ruling NDP government, plagued in recent months by a bingo scandal, is in a tight battle with the opposition Liberals who, amazingly, are on the defensive as new Premier Glen Clark manages the brilliant maneuver of campaigning on the Liberals’ record (which is pretty amazing since no one alive can remember when the Liberals last held power in B.C.). So with the Liberals on the defensive, the NDP gaining, and the Reform Party goose-stepping, the Greens are about to make their big election-eve move. But, as we shall see, not everyone is playing fair….
Yet again, Adam was phoning me. I thought the new unlisted number would work, but no, he was still able to track me down. I, of course, had memorized his phone number, and I checked the call display when he called. Obviously, he was one step ahead of me and had changed his phone number, too.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what?” I asked back.
“Well, how did it go?” He was referring to the all-candidates’ debate on the local community cable channel. There were eight candidates, including a Natural Law candidate and NDP environment Minister Moe Shiota. The debate started with independent candidate David Shebib’s opening comment, wherein after a moment of staring crazily into the camera foaming at the mouth, he started yelling, “There’s no one watching! It’s all a big media-driven conspiracy! You aren’t allowed to vote for who you want!! Run! Run to your church basements! Conspiracy! Conspiracy! They tell you nothing but lies!!” He was right, of course, but an election campaign was not the place to bring up ethics and honesty. He interrupted the other candidates by shouting, “Fraud! Fraud! Media pawn!” until the moderator turned off his microphone. Adam gave his opening remarks last, right after the Natural Law candidate.
“Well, I think you did really good. You used that King Solomon story about cutting the baby in half to your advantage. That was one for the highlight reel. But I think you were in a tough spot having to regain the audience after the Natural Law speaker.”
“Yeah. She was pretty cute. And she didn’t even once mention levitation.”
“Isn’t that just like a politician? They tell they’re all for debt reduction and family values during the election, but when they get in they suddenly spring tofu, yogic flying and karmaic defense shields on you.” Later, it seemed ironic how my words would come back to haunt me.
“No kidding. How did I handle the question and answer session?”
Here I had to be diplomatic. After the opening statements, for the next ninety minutes, the candidates fielded phone-in questions from the viewing audience. Surprisingly, there were people other than me watching. Unfortunately for Adam, no one phoned in with a question for him. Someone had a question for the Natural Law candidate, and someone even had one for David Shebib. (This resulted in more mouth foaming.) I felt like phoning in just to tell Adam that his hockey team had lost that night. Finally, the last question was to Mighty Moe Sihota concerning transit issues. The moderator, in either a move of pity or a carefully crafted political dirty trick, said, “Well, let’s bring the Green Party in on this last question. Mr. Charlesworth, what about transit?”
Adam’s response, although witty and off the cuff, was not as lucid as I would have liked: “[snore] Huh? Wha--? Can you, ah, repeat—what?” In terms of substance, Adam’s response had been no worse than any other politician’s that night. His delivery was, I’m afraid, not up to snuff.
“At least you didn’t get spit all over your microphone like some of the other candidates did,” I replied hopefully. “How’s that lawsuit going against BCTV for not allowing the Greens in the TV debate?”
“Not well. BCTV just sent party headquarters a letter showing them all the legal precedents, and a friendly note saying, ‘Don’t bother suing, you’ll never win. No one ever has. And here’s the bill from our lawyers for their time.’”
“Yeow. Hardball.”
“No kidding. The only mention we got at all on BCTV was when one of our candidates was being investigated for having naked hot tub parties with teenage girls.”
“Well, no nudes is good nudes. It didn’t help when they interviewed his campaign manager and he said, ‘Right on!’”
“Shut up.”
My candidate was obviously tense. The campaign had not gone well. (At least, that’s what he told me. As he campaign manager, I felt it was my duty to stay out of the limelight. Far out of the limelight. As far out as possible.) “Look,” I said, “it’s not so bad. The NDP’ll squeak in and let’s face it, they’re the best choice of the mainstream parties, right?”
“Sure,” Adam grumbled. “With the NDP, we’re only speeding towards extinction, not hurtling like we would be with Campbell and the Liberals.”
“Now, they’ve done some good. They’ve balanced the budget. They created the Forest Renewal Fund, which by their own act of parliament, the government is not allowed to transfer into general revenue. It’s not like they’ve been lying about the budget during the election and will be forced to break the law and use those funds to cover the deficit, is it? No government in their right mind would do that.”
Whoever accused politicians of being sane?
Final Results -- Malahat-Juan de Fuca
Sihota, Moe NDP 13,833
Landon, Heather BC Liberal Party 6,770
Davidson, Scotty Reform BC 1,179
Whims, Ron PDA 921
Charlesworth, Adam Green Party 376
Danyluck, Sylvia Natural Law 60
Shebib, David Independent 58
O’Neil, Bob Communist 35
Final Results -- British Columbia
NDP 39 seats
BC Liberal Party 33 seats
Reform BC 2 seats
PDA 1 seat
Epilogue: Won’t Get Fooled Again
But, boys and girls, we all know how our story turned out, don’t we? You see, the NDP knew they weren’t going to balance the budget before they called the election. They, um, fibbed. That’s it. They campaigned on a balanced budget they knew they didn’t have. A big fib. And then they had to enact legislation to repeal their own law saying that they couldn’t dip into the Forest Renewal Fund and take money that they swore up and down would never be used to erase the deficit. Only took them three months in office to defile themselves totally. And politicians wonder why they get no respect anymore.
As The Who said, lo those many years ago:
“Meet the new boss. The same as the old boss.”
Originally published in UNDER THE OZONE HOLE Number 15, September 1996
2003 Update: Where Are They Now?
The NDP: went through three Premiers (Glen Clark, Dan Miller and Ujjal Dosanjh) in their last term before finally being demolished by Gordon Campbell's BC Liberal Party in 2001. The Liberals won 77 seats to the NDP's two.
Adam Charlesworth: vanished into the wilds of Toronto. Last seen trying to score tickets to a Leafs-Oilers game;
Mike Harcourt: the former Premier injured his spinal cord in a near-fatal fall at his house in late 2002. As of this writing in 2003, he is again making public appearances while on his way to what his doctors describe as an amazing recovery;
Glen Clark: Clark resigned after being charged in a casino licensing scandal. The court proceedings took years, but Clark was eventually exonerated by an acquittal. The judge said that Clark had erred in his judgment, but bad judgment is not illegal;
Gordon Campbell: Finally became Premier in 2001. He continued to blame everything wrong in the world on "10 years of NDP mismanagement," yet in his first year, he slashed taxes to the rich and created the biggest budget deficit in the province's history. He tore up contracts with hospital workers' unions and government civil servants, claiming the contracts were too expensive for the province, yet he refused to break lucrative agreements with business interests or reduce the "golden handshake" deals being given to deputy ministers that Campbell's government has hired, all the while claiming that a "contract is an unbreakable sacred trust."
Some trusts are more sacred than others in the Campbell government, as BC was about to find out.
Despite the upheaval in the province, all signs pointed towards a Liberal re-election in 2005, until Campbell got falling-down drunk and tried to drive himself home in an SUV during a vacation in Hawaii in early 2003, thus becoming the only sitting premier in Canadian history to serve time in jail. And after having spent the last decade in Opposition, demanding that NDP ministers resign for even the slightest appearance of impropriety, Campbell refused to resign, citing that his mistake occurred on his "personal time," and thus his "terrible mistake" (and presumably his brand-new criminal record) don't really count as impropriety. One can only assume therefore that if one of his ministers spent his vacation exploring the under-age sex clubs in Bangkok, that would be okay too, since it was on "personal time."
Wasting money can get you fired in the Campbell government. Recklessly endangering other people's lives seems to be a normal course of action.
British Columbia: Since Bill Bennett's second term from 1979-1983, no premier in BC has managed to survive through a complete term. Bennett retired towards the end of his third term in 1986. Since then, six premiers in a row have resigned under suspicious circumstances, or were put up by their respective parties as the sacrificial figurehead to get slaughtered in the next election.
BC was recently declared one of the "have not" provinces, and we certainly have less, unless you're in the highest income bracket. Less schools, less hospitals, less services all for the sake of luring businesses to the province. Big business must like employees who are sick, uneducated, ill trained and low paid, because those are the only employees that will be left in this province after Campbell's version of "trickle-down" economics had bled us all dry. This is now a province where deputy ministers get 15% bonuses for dropping people off the welfare rolls and bringing forth legislation that reduces provincial care for children in distress.
Hey, if I was premier of this province, I'd drink too!
Yet again, Adam was phoning me. I thought the new unlisted number would work, but no, he was still able to track me down. I, of course, had memorized his phone number, and I checked the call display when he called. Obviously, he was one step ahead of me and had changed his phone number, too.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what?” I asked back.
“Well, how did it go?” He was referring to the all-candidates’ debate on the local community cable channel. There were eight candidates, including a Natural Law candidate and NDP environment Minister Moe Shiota. The debate started with independent candidate David Shebib’s opening comment, wherein after a moment of staring crazily into the camera foaming at the mouth, he started yelling, “There’s no one watching! It’s all a big media-driven conspiracy! You aren’t allowed to vote for who you want!! Run! Run to your church basements! Conspiracy! Conspiracy! They tell you nothing but lies!!” He was right, of course, but an election campaign was not the place to bring up ethics and honesty. He interrupted the other candidates by shouting, “Fraud! Fraud! Media pawn!” until the moderator turned off his microphone. Adam gave his opening remarks last, right after the Natural Law candidate.
“Well, I think you did really good. You used that King Solomon story about cutting the baby in half to your advantage. That was one for the highlight reel. But I think you were in a tough spot having to regain the audience after the Natural Law speaker.”
“Yeah. She was pretty cute. And she didn’t even once mention levitation.”
“Isn’t that just like a politician? They tell they’re all for debt reduction and family values during the election, but when they get in they suddenly spring tofu, yogic flying and karmaic defense shields on you.” Later, it seemed ironic how my words would come back to haunt me.
“No kidding. How did I handle the question and answer session?”
Here I had to be diplomatic. After the opening statements, for the next ninety minutes, the candidates fielded phone-in questions from the viewing audience. Surprisingly, there were people other than me watching. Unfortunately for Adam, no one phoned in with a question for him. Someone had a question for the Natural Law candidate, and someone even had one for David Shebib. (This resulted in more mouth foaming.) I felt like phoning in just to tell Adam that his hockey team had lost that night. Finally, the last question was to Mighty Moe Sihota concerning transit issues. The moderator, in either a move of pity or a carefully crafted political dirty trick, said, “Well, let’s bring the Green Party in on this last question. Mr. Charlesworth, what about transit?”
Adam’s response, although witty and off the cuff, was not as lucid as I would have liked: “[snore] Huh? Wha--? Can you, ah, repeat—what?” In terms of substance, Adam’s response had been no worse than any other politician’s that night. His delivery was, I’m afraid, not up to snuff.
“At least you didn’t get spit all over your microphone like some of the other candidates did,” I replied hopefully. “How’s that lawsuit going against BCTV for not allowing the Greens in the TV debate?”
“Not well. BCTV just sent party headquarters a letter showing them all the legal precedents, and a friendly note saying, ‘Don’t bother suing, you’ll never win. No one ever has. And here’s the bill from our lawyers for their time.’”
“Yeow. Hardball.”
“No kidding. The only mention we got at all on BCTV was when one of our candidates was being investigated for having naked hot tub parties with teenage girls.”
“Well, no nudes is good nudes. It didn’t help when they interviewed his campaign manager and he said, ‘Right on!’”
“Shut up.”
My candidate was obviously tense. The campaign had not gone well. (At least, that’s what he told me. As he campaign manager, I felt it was my duty to stay out of the limelight. Far out of the limelight. As far out as possible.) “Look,” I said, “it’s not so bad. The NDP’ll squeak in and let’s face it, they’re the best choice of the mainstream parties, right?”
“Sure,” Adam grumbled. “With the NDP, we’re only speeding towards extinction, not hurtling like we would be with Campbell and the Liberals.”
“Now, they’ve done some good. They’ve balanced the budget. They created the Forest Renewal Fund, which by their own act of parliament, the government is not allowed to transfer into general revenue. It’s not like they’ve been lying about the budget during the election and will be forced to break the law and use those funds to cover the deficit, is it? No government in their right mind would do that.”
Whoever accused politicians of being sane?
Final Results -- Malahat-Juan de Fuca
Sihota, Moe NDP 13,833
Landon, Heather BC Liberal Party 6,770
Davidson, Scotty Reform BC 1,179
Whims, Ron PDA 921
Charlesworth, Adam Green Party 376
Danyluck, Sylvia Natural Law 60
Shebib, David Independent 58
O’Neil, Bob Communist 35
Final Results -- British Columbia
NDP 39 seats
BC Liberal Party 33 seats
Reform BC 2 seats
PDA 1 seat
Epilogue: Won’t Get Fooled Again
But, boys and girls, we all know how our story turned out, don’t we? You see, the NDP knew they weren’t going to balance the budget before they called the election. They, um, fibbed. That’s it. They campaigned on a balanced budget they knew they didn’t have. A big fib. And then they had to enact legislation to repeal their own law saying that they couldn’t dip into the Forest Renewal Fund and take money that they swore up and down would never be used to erase the deficit. Only took them three months in office to defile themselves totally. And politicians wonder why they get no respect anymore.
As The Who said, lo those many years ago:
“Meet the new boss. The same as the old boss.”
Originally published in UNDER THE OZONE HOLE Number 15, September 1996
2003 Update: Where Are They Now?
The NDP: went through three Premiers (Glen Clark, Dan Miller and Ujjal Dosanjh) in their last term before finally being demolished by Gordon Campbell's BC Liberal Party in 2001. The Liberals won 77 seats to the NDP's two.
Adam Charlesworth: vanished into the wilds of Toronto. Last seen trying to score tickets to a Leafs-Oilers game;
Mike Harcourt: the former Premier injured his spinal cord in a near-fatal fall at his house in late 2002. As of this writing in 2003, he is again making public appearances while on his way to what his doctors describe as an amazing recovery;
Glen Clark: Clark resigned after being charged in a casino licensing scandal. The court proceedings took years, but Clark was eventually exonerated by an acquittal. The judge said that Clark had erred in his judgment, but bad judgment is not illegal;
Gordon Campbell: Finally became Premier in 2001. He continued to blame everything wrong in the world on "10 years of NDP mismanagement," yet in his first year, he slashed taxes to the rich and created the biggest budget deficit in the province's history. He tore up contracts with hospital workers' unions and government civil servants, claiming the contracts were too expensive for the province, yet he refused to break lucrative agreements with business interests or reduce the "golden handshake" deals being given to deputy ministers that Campbell's government has hired, all the while claiming that a "contract is an unbreakable sacred trust."
Some trusts are more sacred than others in the Campbell government, as BC was about to find out.
Despite the upheaval in the province, all signs pointed towards a Liberal re-election in 2005, until Campbell got falling-down drunk and tried to drive himself home in an SUV during a vacation in Hawaii in early 2003, thus becoming the only sitting premier in Canadian history to serve time in jail. And after having spent the last decade in Opposition, demanding that NDP ministers resign for even the slightest appearance of impropriety, Campbell refused to resign, citing that his mistake occurred on his "personal time," and thus his "terrible mistake" (and presumably his brand-new criminal record) don't really count as impropriety. One can only assume therefore that if one of his ministers spent his vacation exploring the under-age sex clubs in Bangkok, that would be okay too, since it was on "personal time."
Wasting money can get you fired in the Campbell government. Recklessly endangering other people's lives seems to be a normal course of action.
British Columbia: Since Bill Bennett's second term from 1979-1983, no premier in BC has managed to survive through a complete term. Bennett retired towards the end of his third term in 1986. Since then, six premiers in a row have resigned under suspicious circumstances, or were put up by their respective parties as the sacrificial figurehead to get slaughtered in the next election.
BC was recently declared one of the "have not" provinces, and we certainly have less, unless you're in the highest income bracket. Less schools, less hospitals, less services all for the sake of luring businesses to the province. Big business must like employees who are sick, uneducated, ill trained and low paid, because those are the only employees that will be left in this province after Campbell's version of "trickle-down" economics had bled us all dry. This is now a province where deputy ministers get 15% bonuses for dropping people off the welfare rolls and bringing forth legislation that reduces provincial care for children in distress.
Hey, if I was premier of this province, I'd drink too!
Our Gods Are Not Exempt
Our gods aren’t supposed to die.
But fate/God/kismet/whatever has that annoying habit of reminding us that our time is finite, and the price we pay for our scant few years of precious life is the knowledge that in the end we all owe fate/God/kismet/whatever a death.
Whether high-born or low-life, there is a cost for our brief journey in this reality that, in the end, is equal for everyone. In a sense, we are only renting a pocket of space-time for only a short moment.
Even our gods are not exempt.
I am a bass player. John Entwistle was my god.
With The Who, as Pete Townshend, Keith Moon and Roger Daltrey slashed, smashed and strutted, Entwistle stood immobile, save for invisible fingers that powered and drove The Who’s massive sound. The Who was not the usual band with the usual line-up of a guitar and a bass/drum rhythm section. They were a band with three lead instrumentalists in constant competition, always flashing their chops, always veering off into the unknown. And beneath it all, Entwistle somehow kept it in control, yet let it soar. He was thunder to Townshend’s lightning.
His songs were tiny, humourous nuggets almost lost against Townshend’s epic canvases. Yet Entwistle’s writing could cut to the chase and make the same thematic statements in 3:30 that took Townshend four album sides.
I saw The Who live only once, in Vancouver in 1989, during what I call The Who’s “Las Vegas” period as a 17-piece band (as opposed to their original four-piece version. And the six-piece version that was starting a four-month tour tomorrow night).
The rumble that poured from Entwistle’s stack of Trace Elliot amps and A.S.S. speakers felt like it was slowly cracking my ribs. He abandoned his usual trade-marked bass runs in “My Generation” and he served up brand new riffs with techniques and skills that to this day I still can’t figure out.
He stood rock still the whole night, of course, and thunder slipped off his fingers and the long steel strings of his bass as if from a shy Norse god.
My bass, as always, is nearby, but I can’t even look at it tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll plug it in and try to conjure some thunder of my own. But my bass is silent tonight, as is my god’s.
John Alec Entwistle
October 9, 1944 -- June 27, 2002
But fate/God/kismet/whatever has that annoying habit of reminding us that our time is finite, and the price we pay for our scant few years of precious life is the knowledge that in the end we all owe fate/God/kismet/whatever a death.
Whether high-born or low-life, there is a cost for our brief journey in this reality that, in the end, is equal for everyone. In a sense, we are only renting a pocket of space-time for only a short moment.
Even our gods are not exempt.
I am a bass player. John Entwistle was my god.
With The Who, as Pete Townshend, Keith Moon and Roger Daltrey slashed, smashed and strutted, Entwistle stood immobile, save for invisible fingers that powered and drove The Who’s massive sound. The Who was not the usual band with the usual line-up of a guitar and a bass/drum rhythm section. They were a band with three lead instrumentalists in constant competition, always flashing their chops, always veering off into the unknown. And beneath it all, Entwistle somehow kept it in control, yet let it soar. He was thunder to Townshend’s lightning.
His songs were tiny, humourous nuggets almost lost against Townshend’s epic canvases. Yet Entwistle’s writing could cut to the chase and make the same thematic statements in 3:30 that took Townshend four album sides.
I saw The Who live only once, in Vancouver in 1989, during what I call The Who’s “Las Vegas” period as a 17-piece band (as opposed to their original four-piece version. And the six-piece version that was starting a four-month tour tomorrow night).
The rumble that poured from Entwistle’s stack of Trace Elliot amps and A.S.S. speakers felt like it was slowly cracking my ribs. He abandoned his usual trade-marked bass runs in “My Generation” and he served up brand new riffs with techniques and skills that to this day I still can’t figure out.
He stood rock still the whole night, of course, and thunder slipped off his fingers and the long steel strings of his bass as if from a shy Norse god.
My bass, as always, is nearby, but I can’t even look at it tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll plug it in and try to conjure some thunder of my own. But my bass is silent tonight, as is my god’s.
John Alec Entwistle
October 9, 1944 -- June 27, 2002
Wash the Glasses First
“Here’s a hint,” said Tracey. “Wash the glasses first.” My friend Tracey was critiquing my dish washing technique (or lack thereof). I had made the faux pas of washing some greasy plates before I washed my glasses.
It makes perfect sense, of course. If you wash something greasy before you wash a glass, the greasy water in the sink will make the glass greasy. It’s so obvious, but no one ever taught me that before. I think this was something I should have been taught in school.
I did learn some useful things in school. I learned about pi, helium, calculus, Peking man, Peking Duck and Planck’s constant. I was taught about Shakespeare, subjects, predicates, trigonometry and plate tectonics, all of which serve me well in my daily life. In fact, it was only the other day during one of our all too frequent West Coast earthquakes, that I stopped and said, “Ah, tectonics,” before scrambling into the alleged safety of a doorway.
No, really. The B.C. educational system taught me a lot. I can explain to you the physics behind a lunar eclipse. (One night, I explained it to a group of strangers at Willows Beach, using a garbage can, a large rock and a car as my props.)
But now, many years later, I wish that the educational system had taught me the important things that a person really needs to know to get through life. Sure, algebra is important, but it was a dirty glass that embarrassed me in front of my friend. Why wasn’t I ever taught that in school? There needs to be a class called Important Stuff 101, where you learn meaningful concepts like:
- wash the glasses first;
- how to tie a necktie;
- what to do when you can’t communicate with your partner anymore;
- credit cards and the road to financial ruin;
- how to fake insincerity;
- how to care about someone without becoming smothering and possessive;
- you can’t change the past, so learn whatever lessons you can and move on;
- popular people aren’t any happier than you are;
- how to cook more than Kraft dinner;
- spiritual well-being is more important than money;
- vacuuming can be fun;
- how to accept people for who they are;
- quality, not quantity;
- always remember to wash colours separately;
- how to ignore advertising;
- live for today – tomorrow never knows;
- where to find the strength to tell her you love her, and where to find the wisdom to know if you should;
- how to believe in yourself;
- how to live with yourself;
- how to let go.
I didn’t learn anything like this in school. These are all lessons that I have learned later in life. Some of these lessons have been difficult, most I still need to practice and some I will never master.
But if you need help to solve a quadratic equation, I’m your man.
It makes perfect sense, of course. If you wash something greasy before you wash a glass, the greasy water in the sink will make the glass greasy. It’s so obvious, but no one ever taught me that before. I think this was something I should have been taught in school.
I did learn some useful things in school. I learned about pi, helium, calculus, Peking man, Peking Duck and Planck’s constant. I was taught about Shakespeare, subjects, predicates, trigonometry and plate tectonics, all of which serve me well in my daily life. In fact, it was only the other day during one of our all too frequent West Coast earthquakes, that I stopped and said, “Ah, tectonics,” before scrambling into the alleged safety of a doorway.
No, really. The B.C. educational system taught me a lot. I can explain to you the physics behind a lunar eclipse. (One night, I explained it to a group of strangers at Willows Beach, using a garbage can, a large rock and a car as my props.)
But now, many years later, I wish that the educational system had taught me the important things that a person really needs to know to get through life. Sure, algebra is important, but it was a dirty glass that embarrassed me in front of my friend. Why wasn’t I ever taught that in school? There needs to be a class called Important Stuff 101, where you learn meaningful concepts like:
- wash the glasses first;
- how to tie a necktie;
- what to do when you can’t communicate with your partner anymore;
- credit cards and the road to financial ruin;
- how to fake insincerity;
- how to care about someone without becoming smothering and possessive;
- you can’t change the past, so learn whatever lessons you can and move on;
- popular people aren’t any happier than you are;
- how to cook more than Kraft dinner;
- spiritual well-being is more important than money;
- vacuuming can be fun;
- how to accept people for who they are;
- quality, not quantity;
- always remember to wash colours separately;
- how to ignore advertising;
- live for today – tomorrow never knows;
- where to find the strength to tell her you love her, and where to find the wisdom to know if you should;
- how to believe in yourself;
- how to live with yourself;
- how to let go.
I didn’t learn anything like this in school. These are all lessons that I have learned later in life. Some of these lessons have been difficult, most I still need to practice and some I will never master.
But if you need help to solve a quadratic equation, I’m your man.
Stalking the American Dream
Interstate 90 winds eastward from Seattle like a snake through scrub grass. It winds, it twists, it turns, and it never seems to get anywhere.
Through Montana, I-90 passes through some of the most desolate land in the Excited States. It seems that you can go for hours without seeing anything denoting "civilization," save for the road ahead of you, and the cars of your fellow travelers.
It was a hot, muggy day in the Montana desert and Monica and I were both very thirsty. We pulled into a roadside Rest Area. (Always pull into the Rest Areas in Montana; you may die of thirst before the next one.) We hoped for nothing more than a water fountain; instead we discovered Nirvana: two pop machines, each filled with ice, cold pop.
As I got out of the car and fished in my pocket for change, I noticed the crowd formed around one of the machines. One fellow at the machine already had a dozen cans or so, and seemed intent on adding to his total. Then I noticed something a mite peculiar; he wasn't putting any money in the machine. All he did was press his selection; his pop would come out, and the machine would spit some coins for change, too.
I dutifully awaited my turn and the machine gave me two cans and forty-five cents. Meanwhile, someone was shouting to all the weary travelers in the Rest Area, "FREE SODAS!"
I returned to Monica, gave her a pop, and explained the situation. "They sure know how to treat visitors down here," she said, "free pop and free money."
"Sure do," I said, raising my free can of Coke for a toast. "God bless America."
Through Montana, I-90 passes through some of the most desolate land in the Excited States. It seems that you can go for hours without seeing anything denoting "civilization," save for the road ahead of you, and the cars of your fellow travelers.
It was a hot, muggy day in the Montana desert and Monica and I were both very thirsty. We pulled into a roadside Rest Area. (Always pull into the Rest Areas in Montana; you may die of thirst before the next one.) We hoped for nothing more than a water fountain; instead we discovered Nirvana: two pop machines, each filled with ice, cold pop.
As I got out of the car and fished in my pocket for change, I noticed the crowd formed around one of the machines. One fellow at the machine already had a dozen cans or so, and seemed intent on adding to his total. Then I noticed something a mite peculiar; he wasn't putting any money in the machine. All he did was press his selection; his pop would come out, and the machine would spit some coins for change, too.
I dutifully awaited my turn and the machine gave me two cans and forty-five cents. Meanwhile, someone was shouting to all the weary travelers in the Rest Area, "FREE SODAS!"
I returned to Monica, gave her a pop, and explained the situation. "They sure know how to treat visitors down here," she said, "free pop and free money."
"Sure do," I said, raising my free can of Coke for a toast. "God bless America."
Ramming Speed
I have some friends in the Green movement and naturally they are extremely anti-automobile. And let’s face it, they’re absolutely correct. Our 20th century love affair with the car may be the death of us all. Noxious emissions that poison the air, acres of pavement, an expensive and wasteful infrastructure, and a staggering reliance on fossil fuels are the sad legacy of the automobile, to say nothing of the daily horrific carnage on the roads and highways. But in their crusade to curb the car, my Green friends may also be saving lives in a completely unexpected way. Of course, I’m referring to Justifiable Parkade Homicide.
When I’m driving in a parking lot searching for an empty space, I always try to be considerate to the other drivers. I don’t stop in the middle of the row, blocking traffic, unless it’s pretty obvious that someone is just about to pull out and free up a space. I don’t stop and wait on the slight chance someone may return to their car in the next ten minutes. Sure, if you wait long enough, eventually someone’s going to return to their car and free up their space right in front of you (unless the world ended while you were waiting and, boy, wouldn’t you feel stupid then?). But is it worth the impotent aggravation of just sitting there doing nothing? I say if you can’t find a place to squeeze into where you are, you should move on and look for somewhere else to park it.
Other people don’t feel the same way as I do. Some feel it’s their right to hold up as many other drivers as possible while waiting for a parking space to be vacated. Pedestrians don’t do this. How many times have you seen a person stand in the middle of the sidewalk blocking other pedestrians on the slight chance that a space may open up at the bus stop?
I was recently a passenger in a friend’s car in the View Street Parkade in Victoria. As we entered a new row of parked cars, he stopped his, apparently intent on waiting. It didn’t help that this particular level of the parkade was also used as a pedestrian throughway. Office workers on their way to be late back from lunch scurried by, tantalizing us by walking past the parked cars. After ten minutes, my friend noticed my annoyance, manifested by my tapping the dashboard loudly. And not in time to the beat of the music on the radio.
“We can wait,” he said. “We’re not in a hurry.” This was a debatable point. Did I really want to waste ten minutes crammed in a car so my friend could walk fifty feet to the exit instead of a hundred? (If I was a professional, I could have charged him by the minute for wasting my time.)
“Yeah, but what about the guy following us?” I asked. A car had driven into view behind us. “He might be in a hurry.”
“He isn’t. He hasn’t passed us.”
I glanced outside our car. My friend had somehow maneuvered it so it blocked the entire passage. I can just imagine what the guy behind us was thinking, because I’ve thought it myself a hundred times: why isn’t common sense a prerequisite for a driver’s license? “He can’t pass us,” I said. “It’s too narrow. You haven’t left enough room for him to get around us on either side.”
“Look, he’s not even on our bumper,” he said, checking his rear-view mirror and growing angry at my impatience. “He’s way back there.”
My friend was correct. The other driver was way back there. Then I sensed what he was up to. “He’s making sure he’s got enough room to achieve ramming speed,” I said.
My friend was still very nonchalant about the whole business. But what if this guy had been a lawyer on his way back from lunch to be late for his first afternoon appointment. Now he really was going to be late, and it was our fault. “If he was actually in a hurry,” my friend said, “he’d honk his horn.”
I checked the other driver in the rear view again. “He’s too busy shaking his fists.” I’ve never seen a face so red before. Or such foaming at the mouth. Or a windshield fog up so fast. I rolled down my window. “He’s also making a comparison between your family lineage and exotic farm animals.”
I’m not telling you this simply to embarrass my friend. That’s only part of the reason. It’s also to save his life. One day, he’s going to pull this stunt on a disgruntled postal worker and that’ll be it – out comes the Uzi and my friend is Hyundai Helper. The worst part is that no jury in the world would convict the killer. We’ve all been there, right? Justifiable Parkade Homicide. (With my friend’s luck, the judge will turn out to be that poor guy we delayed. “I remember the victim well. RJK 042. As a judge, I can’t condone violence or vigilantism, but the bastard had it coming.”)
So remember, don’t plug up traffic in a parkade waiting for a space to open. You’re annoying people, wasting fuel, and polluting the planet. The life you save might be your own.
When I’m driving in a parking lot searching for an empty space, I always try to be considerate to the other drivers. I don’t stop in the middle of the row, blocking traffic, unless it’s pretty obvious that someone is just about to pull out and free up a space. I don’t stop and wait on the slight chance someone may return to their car in the next ten minutes. Sure, if you wait long enough, eventually someone’s going to return to their car and free up their space right in front of you (unless the world ended while you were waiting and, boy, wouldn’t you feel stupid then?). But is it worth the impotent aggravation of just sitting there doing nothing? I say if you can’t find a place to squeeze into where you are, you should move on and look for somewhere else to park it.
Other people don’t feel the same way as I do. Some feel it’s their right to hold up as many other drivers as possible while waiting for a parking space to be vacated. Pedestrians don’t do this. How many times have you seen a person stand in the middle of the sidewalk blocking other pedestrians on the slight chance that a space may open up at the bus stop?
I was recently a passenger in a friend’s car in the View Street Parkade in Victoria. As we entered a new row of parked cars, he stopped his, apparently intent on waiting. It didn’t help that this particular level of the parkade was also used as a pedestrian throughway. Office workers on their way to be late back from lunch scurried by, tantalizing us by walking past the parked cars. After ten minutes, my friend noticed my annoyance, manifested by my tapping the dashboard loudly. And not in time to the beat of the music on the radio.
“We can wait,” he said. “We’re not in a hurry.” This was a debatable point. Did I really want to waste ten minutes crammed in a car so my friend could walk fifty feet to the exit instead of a hundred? (If I was a professional, I could have charged him by the minute for wasting my time.)
“Yeah, but what about the guy following us?” I asked. A car had driven into view behind us. “He might be in a hurry.”
“He isn’t. He hasn’t passed us.”
I glanced outside our car. My friend had somehow maneuvered it so it blocked the entire passage. I can just imagine what the guy behind us was thinking, because I’ve thought it myself a hundred times: why isn’t common sense a prerequisite for a driver’s license? “He can’t pass us,” I said. “It’s too narrow. You haven’t left enough room for him to get around us on either side.”
“Look, he’s not even on our bumper,” he said, checking his rear-view mirror and growing angry at my impatience. “He’s way back there.”
My friend was correct. The other driver was way back there. Then I sensed what he was up to. “He’s making sure he’s got enough room to achieve ramming speed,” I said.
My friend was still very nonchalant about the whole business. But what if this guy had been a lawyer on his way back from lunch to be late for his first afternoon appointment. Now he really was going to be late, and it was our fault. “If he was actually in a hurry,” my friend said, “he’d honk his horn.”
I checked the other driver in the rear view again. “He’s too busy shaking his fists.” I’ve never seen a face so red before. Or such foaming at the mouth. Or a windshield fog up so fast. I rolled down my window. “He’s also making a comparison between your family lineage and exotic farm animals.”
I’m not telling you this simply to embarrass my friend. That’s only part of the reason. It’s also to save his life. One day, he’s going to pull this stunt on a disgruntled postal worker and that’ll be it – out comes the Uzi and my friend is Hyundai Helper. The worst part is that no jury in the world would convict the killer. We’ve all been there, right? Justifiable Parkade Homicide. (With my friend’s luck, the judge will turn out to be that poor guy we delayed. “I remember the victim well. RJK 042. As a judge, I can’t condone violence or vigilantism, but the bastard had it coming.”)
So remember, don’t plug up traffic in a parkade waiting for a space to open. You’re annoying people, wasting fuel, and polluting the planet. The life you save might be your own.
Fire in the Friday Night Sky
Full moon and low tide at Willows Beach.
A pool of argent glow trailed across the opaque ocean, silently following the moon on its daily mission through the sky. We stood for a moment at the water’s edge as the sea vainly fought against the tidal pull of the lunar orb.
We talked about life, the future, the past, and about dreams. We talked about how we wanted to live our lives, and what we wanted from them. We walked the boundary of the ocean and the land and explored the boundary between dreaming and acting, while silently overhead the heavens caught fire.
An ocean of raining incandescence was spreading across the sky – kaleidoscopic streams of bright burning debris trailing wispy flames and tumbling cinders.
What it really was, was the funeral pyre of a Russian SL 12 booster rocket burning up upon re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere.
At first, I thought it might be fireworks. It looked a roman candle except that the angle was wrong – it looked like it was traveling downward at a shallow angle. Instead of burning itself out like a firework, it became brighter and spread out. The primary body seemed to split in two, and smaller chunks fell away from the two bright main portions. By the time it passed directly overhead, the whole sky was filled with flaming space debris dragging multi-coloured streamers of fire.
It lasted no more than a minute. By the time it disappeared behind the horizon, it had mostly burned itself out. But while it lasted, it was spectacular.
If I was a little more superstitious, I might say it was a sign or portent. But I’m not superstitious (touch wood) and I don’t believe that it was some sort of divine being (or the Russians) giving its blessing to my wanting to change the direction of my life. It was, however, a once in a lifetime vision, and I’ll take it as that – something you only dream of seeing. But dreams inspire other dreams. What dreams inspired the scientists that built the rocket that burned up over my head? Whatever they were, they were big dreams.
And if you don’t dream big dreams, your big dreams never come true.
A pool of argent glow trailed across the opaque ocean, silently following the moon on its daily mission through the sky. We stood for a moment at the water’s edge as the sea vainly fought against the tidal pull of the lunar orb.
We talked about life, the future, the past, and about dreams. We talked about how we wanted to live our lives, and what we wanted from them. We walked the boundary of the ocean and the land and explored the boundary between dreaming and acting, while silently overhead the heavens caught fire.
An ocean of raining incandescence was spreading across the sky – kaleidoscopic streams of bright burning debris trailing wispy flames and tumbling cinders.
What it really was, was the funeral pyre of a Russian SL 12 booster rocket burning up upon re-entering the Earth’s atmosphere.
At first, I thought it might be fireworks. It looked a roman candle except that the angle was wrong – it looked like it was traveling downward at a shallow angle. Instead of burning itself out like a firework, it became brighter and spread out. The primary body seemed to split in two, and smaller chunks fell away from the two bright main portions. By the time it passed directly overhead, the whole sky was filled with flaming space debris dragging multi-coloured streamers of fire.
It lasted no more than a minute. By the time it disappeared behind the horizon, it had mostly burned itself out. But while it lasted, it was spectacular.
If I was a little more superstitious, I might say it was a sign or portent. But I’m not superstitious (touch wood) and I don’t believe that it was some sort of divine being (or the Russians) giving its blessing to my wanting to change the direction of my life. It was, however, a once in a lifetime vision, and I’ll take it as that – something you only dream of seeing. But dreams inspire other dreams. What dreams inspired the scientists that built the rocket that burned up over my head? Whatever they were, they were big dreams.
And if you don’t dream big dreams, your big dreams never come true.
Growing Older With a Modicum of Dignity
I’m growing old. My marriage failed, my body’s failing, my hair is graying, and my favorite music is played only on the “Good Times Oldies” station. My Generation is a nostalgic blast from the past. The Wall has been relegated to elevator music. Some day soon, some business will feature The Fugs as their “on hold” music. It’s only a matter of time. All the songs I danced to in high school are now available on a double CD called Retro-Night. (“Thomas Dolby! Split Enz! Trio! The Buggles! The Boomtown Rats! Flying Lizards! Howard Jones! Blondie! Modern English! The Bangles! Now how much would you pay?”) The music of my youth has been marginalized into a great offer from PolyTel.
I am a demographic that no longer matters.
At first, I felt rejected. I’d walk into trendy clothing stores, aghast. Nothing appealed to me (including the muzak.). I shouldn’t have to feel guilty just because I don’t like having the crotch of my pants down at my knees. Why can’t I just find a decent pair of pants? I could go to Sears, but at Sears if the crotches aren’t at my knees, then the waistbands are around my chest. Sorry, but pants modeled by either Marky Mark or Arnold Palmer do not appeal to me!
Then one day, I had a revelation. I was looking at some sort of pseudo-sweater made from a fabric I couldn’t readily identify in a store with a name like Sassafrasparilla. It sported an unidentifiable logo and a slogan that played on some joke I didn’t understand. It was a colour I would never wear. There was a poster of some sports star I’d never heard of wearing it. Then I realized something: this sweater wasn’t meant for me.
Not only was the sweater not meant for me, but the marketing of the sweater wasn’t meant for me, either.
I was suffering the ultimate indignity; advertisers were no longer after my money. They are after the cash of pennywise seniors and pennyfoolish youth; people who’ve had forty years to save money, and people who can’t hang onto money for forty seconds. Me, I’m in the clear now; I’m too young to have saved money, and I’m old enough to have already spent whatever money I had.
My power in society is ebbing.
I felt so ashamed that I sheepishly went to Mark’s Workwear World and bought some blue jeans and a denim shirt.
But surprisingly, there is an upside to this.
No longer do I have to feel guilty that I am hopelessly out of style and not clothed in the latest chic fashions. That’s a great feeling because most of what passes for fashion these days is so damn UGLY! Put your baseball cap on the right way, Skippy! Now when I need clothes, I wander through the malls and laugh at the poor souls who are slaves to the advertising gods. Supplicate yourself to them if you must, worship Bay Street’s image of perfection if it brings you inner satisfaction. I don’t need – or want – to wear that stuff. I don’t like it. I’m not buying. It ain’t me.
And I’d much rather buy the new remastered version of Quadrophenia than the latest by Nine Inch Nails, The Bloody Chiclets, Dr. Dre or Ghostface Killah. I’d much rather listen to Pete Townshend’s anguished searches for spirituality than bad spoken-word poetry performed to an annoying electronic drumbeat. I don’t care if most of my favorite bands haven’t made a decent album since 1982, they are still my favorites. Rush rules! The Kinks clobber Coolio! In my day, music was created with instruments played by hand, not spit out by some computer program through a MIDI interface.
Yeah, I’m getting old. Big deal. So is everyone else. Even you. But right now, I’ve got Empty Glass in the car, the volume up way too high, and I’m cruising to Mark’s Workwear World to buy some blue jeans and another denim shirt.
I am a demographic that no longer matters.
At first, I felt rejected. I’d walk into trendy clothing stores, aghast. Nothing appealed to me (including the muzak.). I shouldn’t have to feel guilty just because I don’t like having the crotch of my pants down at my knees. Why can’t I just find a decent pair of pants? I could go to Sears, but at Sears if the crotches aren’t at my knees, then the waistbands are around my chest. Sorry, but pants modeled by either Marky Mark or Arnold Palmer do not appeal to me!
Then one day, I had a revelation. I was looking at some sort of pseudo-sweater made from a fabric I couldn’t readily identify in a store with a name like Sassafrasparilla. It sported an unidentifiable logo and a slogan that played on some joke I didn’t understand. It was a colour I would never wear. There was a poster of some sports star I’d never heard of wearing it. Then I realized something: this sweater wasn’t meant for me.
Not only was the sweater not meant for me, but the marketing of the sweater wasn’t meant for me, either.
I was suffering the ultimate indignity; advertisers were no longer after my money. They are after the cash of pennywise seniors and pennyfoolish youth; people who’ve had forty years to save money, and people who can’t hang onto money for forty seconds. Me, I’m in the clear now; I’m too young to have saved money, and I’m old enough to have already spent whatever money I had.
My power in society is ebbing.
I felt so ashamed that I sheepishly went to Mark’s Workwear World and bought some blue jeans and a denim shirt.
But surprisingly, there is an upside to this.
No longer do I have to feel guilty that I am hopelessly out of style and not clothed in the latest chic fashions. That’s a great feeling because most of what passes for fashion these days is so damn UGLY! Put your baseball cap on the right way, Skippy! Now when I need clothes, I wander through the malls and laugh at the poor souls who are slaves to the advertising gods. Supplicate yourself to them if you must, worship Bay Street’s image of perfection if it brings you inner satisfaction. I don’t need – or want – to wear that stuff. I don’t like it. I’m not buying. It ain’t me.
And I’d much rather buy the new remastered version of Quadrophenia than the latest by Nine Inch Nails, The Bloody Chiclets, Dr. Dre or Ghostface Killah. I’d much rather listen to Pete Townshend’s anguished searches for spirituality than bad spoken-word poetry performed to an annoying electronic drumbeat. I don’t care if most of my favorite bands haven’t made a decent album since 1982, they are still my favorites. Rush rules! The Kinks clobber Coolio! In my day, music was created with instruments played by hand, not spit out by some computer program through a MIDI interface.
Yeah, I’m getting old. Big deal. So is everyone else. Even you. But right now, I’ve got Empty Glass in the car, the volume up way too high, and I’m cruising to Mark’s Workwear World to buy some blue jeans and another denim shirt.
The Call of Technology
I called a friend on my cell phone last night.
I was heading home and my friend and I had made one of those tentative sorta maybe kinda plans to perhaps do something the next day. I didn’t want to call too late, so I dialed her up from my truck on my way home. We talked for about forty-five minutes – the drive home is only about ten minutes, so I spent half an hour or so wandering around my house talking on the cell phone.
“How long have you had your cell phone?” she asked.
“About two and a half years,” I replied. Since I live almost to an hour away from the store I own, I had decided it would be a necessity in case of an emergency.
“Don’t you feel weird walking around talking on one of those?”
“No,” I replied. I didn’t mention that the only time I ever felt weird talking on it was when I was downtown reporting on a spy mission I’d just done for someone. It’s hard to be discreet while shouting to be heard over cars, buses, trucks, and bongo drumming street kids. Someone yelling, “They didn’t suspect a thing!” into a phone in the middle of a large, metropolitan downtown core attracts a variety of worried and questioning glances.
“Well, I don’t have one,” she said. “I don’t even have a microwave oven or a dishwasher.”
I knew she didn’t have a dishwasher because every time I visit her house she starts doing the dishes. What I didn’t realize was that she was lacking a microwave. I have one – I just can’t remember the last time I used it. “I do things the old fashioned way,” she said.
It’s not that my friend is a Luddite – she’s had plenty of computer training and could run rings around me on Excel or Lotus, although I could probably do the same to her on Duke Nukem 3D. But the sentiment she’s expressing is one you hear all too frequently these days – enough with technology, already.
The pace of modern life is increasing exponentially. I’m working harder and harder to fall further and further behind. I am being assimilated by the mind control drone-toadies of the corporate thought-cults. Resistance is futile. Greed is good. Money is everything. Last year’s annual report is this year’s religious relic.
And the rapid advance of the technology that is supposed to make my life simpler just makes it more frustrating. Thanks to e-mail, cell phones, ELTs, fax, voicemail, GPS, modems, call forwarding, pagers, answering machines and satellite communication I can be reached twenty-four hours a day by anyone.
The bottom line is that I am no longer unreachable. I no longer have an excuse to be inaccessible. I can’t leave work behind because it follows me everywhere, hanging on my belt like a leech. I’ve been called at the beach, in my truck, on a date, in my sleep, and yes, in my bathroom. And worse yet, most of the time I get phoned for idiotic reasons:
“Hello?”
“Yeah, John? This is Svend at the store.”
“Hi, Svend. What’s up?”
“Yeah. There was this guy who wanted to sell you some new maps.”
“Uh huh.”
“So I told him you weren’t here.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Is that okay?”
“I wasn’t there, was I?”
“Ahh, nope.”
“Then that was fine.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, bye.”
“Bye.”
And another 75 cents gets transferred from my coffers to Cantel’s. Having a cell phone is a convenience, but often it’s an annoying and frustrating convenience. Sort of like public transit. My staff rarely calls me on the cell phone anymore because I usually get annoyed at them unless they’re calling about a disaster on the magnitude of my business burning down. (Now they get their revenge by leaving long, rambling messages on my answering machine at home.)
The point is that all these technological delights are taking away our humanity. E-mail – who would’ve thought that anyone would get worked up about a phone call you type? I don’t want to be linked to machines, I want to be linked to people.
A home in the country, fields of daisies, and not a cell phone in sight – some days that sounds pretty darn good.
I was heading home and my friend and I had made one of those tentative sorta maybe kinda plans to perhaps do something the next day. I didn’t want to call too late, so I dialed her up from my truck on my way home. We talked for about forty-five minutes – the drive home is only about ten minutes, so I spent half an hour or so wandering around my house talking on the cell phone.
“How long have you had your cell phone?” she asked.
“About two and a half years,” I replied. Since I live almost to an hour away from the store I own, I had decided it would be a necessity in case of an emergency.
“Don’t you feel weird walking around talking on one of those?”
“No,” I replied. I didn’t mention that the only time I ever felt weird talking on it was when I was downtown reporting on a spy mission I’d just done for someone. It’s hard to be discreet while shouting to be heard over cars, buses, trucks, and bongo drumming street kids. Someone yelling, “They didn’t suspect a thing!” into a phone in the middle of a large, metropolitan downtown core attracts a variety of worried and questioning glances.
“Well, I don’t have one,” she said. “I don’t even have a microwave oven or a dishwasher.”
I knew she didn’t have a dishwasher because every time I visit her house she starts doing the dishes. What I didn’t realize was that she was lacking a microwave. I have one – I just can’t remember the last time I used it. “I do things the old fashioned way,” she said.
It’s not that my friend is a Luddite – she’s had plenty of computer training and could run rings around me on Excel or Lotus, although I could probably do the same to her on Duke Nukem 3D. But the sentiment she’s expressing is one you hear all too frequently these days – enough with technology, already.
The pace of modern life is increasing exponentially. I’m working harder and harder to fall further and further behind. I am being assimilated by the mind control drone-toadies of the corporate thought-cults. Resistance is futile. Greed is good. Money is everything. Last year’s annual report is this year’s religious relic.
And the rapid advance of the technology that is supposed to make my life simpler just makes it more frustrating. Thanks to e-mail, cell phones, ELTs, fax, voicemail, GPS, modems, call forwarding, pagers, answering machines and satellite communication I can be reached twenty-four hours a day by anyone.
The bottom line is that I am no longer unreachable. I no longer have an excuse to be inaccessible. I can’t leave work behind because it follows me everywhere, hanging on my belt like a leech. I’ve been called at the beach, in my truck, on a date, in my sleep, and yes, in my bathroom. And worse yet, most of the time I get phoned for idiotic reasons:
“Hello?”
“Yeah, John? This is Svend at the store.”
“Hi, Svend. What’s up?”
“Yeah. There was this guy who wanted to sell you some new maps.”
“Uh huh.”
“So I told him you weren’t here.”
“Great. Thanks.”
“Is that okay?”
“I wasn’t there, was I?”
“Ahh, nope.”
“Then that was fine.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, bye.”
“Bye.”
And another 75 cents gets transferred from my coffers to Cantel’s. Having a cell phone is a convenience, but often it’s an annoying and frustrating convenience. Sort of like public transit. My staff rarely calls me on the cell phone anymore because I usually get annoyed at them unless they’re calling about a disaster on the magnitude of my business burning down. (Now they get their revenge by leaving long, rambling messages on my answering machine at home.)
The point is that all these technological delights are taking away our humanity. E-mail – who would’ve thought that anyone would get worked up about a phone call you type? I don’t want to be linked to machines, I want to be linked to people.
A home in the country, fields of daisies, and not a cell phone in sight – some days that sounds pretty darn good.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Alberta Reports - Number Two
June 26, 1998
Here I am in the Land of the Midnight Twilight. I’m so far north that at this time of year, it never gets dark at night. The sun does set, round about 10:30 or so, but it never gets completely dark – there’s always that bright, sunset glow on the horizon that swings around the northern sky during the night from the west to the east, where the sun comes up at about 4:00. This should change quickly now that Sunday, the longest night of the year, has passed and by August the stars, the Northern Lights and the Persieds meteor shower will be in full glorious bloom.
So I’ve been here over a week now and survived relatively intact so far. Paula and Bernie’s truck hasn’t, though. It lost a front wheel last Friday, and I do mean lost – the ball joint snapped and the wheel broke free. Fortunately, he and Lila were just starting up from a stop sign and only gone a couple feet when it let go. Impressive though, the only thing holding it on was the brake lines.
Monday morning, we finished baling the hay. 170 bales or there abouts. What a job. We have to go out in the field and follow behind a pick up truck and stack bales on the bed. We were out to midnight last night working at it. We can put about 40 bales on the truck, and then we drive back to the stockyard and unload. It’s hard because we’re piling four layers on the truck and pretty much after the first level, you’re throwing the bales over your head. They’re big, bulky, and not light. It doesn’t take much to get a sweat going out here, and soon rivulets are flowing down your face and stinging your eyes, hay is sticking to you everywhere and getting into everything, and the sun burns down mercilessly.
Later, we did some work in the stockyard. Bernie is trying to dig a dugout. So we hooked a shovel on the back of the tractor and dragged it through the mud, filling it with dirt, mud and rocks, and deposited this stuff on a hill composed of the remains of previous dugout building attempts. The shovel weighs a ton and is a bitch to move even when empty. Guiding it through a muddy pond is even tougher. We worked at it for a couple of hours, trading off turns between guiding the shovel and driving the tractor. It hardly looks like we made any progress.
Made friends with Arthur Curray, the goat. He is so named because he has a gimpy right rear foot, and therefore has three left feet. They only have one goat this year, and he is in danger of becoming a family member. As Bernie put it, “Two of the same kind of animal are livestock – one is a pet.” Arthur is so sweet; he comes when you call him, and when you pet him, he wags his stubby tail like a dog,. He just may end up being the family dog before long.
The farm needs rain. It has rained all around us; we’ve watched the gray curtains fall. It has not rained here.
You perspire just by stepping outside. A walk of a hundred feet knocks you out. A couple hours of work feels like it will kill you. Yesterday, I changed my mind about something and I broke into a sweat.
The heat is oppressive. The sun burns down unceasingly, unfailingly. It simply doesn’t stop. You look up at it, carefully, haltingly, like a slave looks to a master for relief from punishment. The Big Sky, at times glorious and stunning, becomes a cursed weight that bears down on you. It robs your strength, your energy, and your will.
It’s easy to see how ancient man created gods. Your life turns on whatever the sky deigns to bring down on you today. You’re constantly looking skyward to see what your fortunes will be. And as you watch the rain clouds that you desperately need split apart and pass by on either side of you, it’s easy to imagine some being in the sky doling out rain as a grandmother passes out candies to favoured children.
Albertans are more bound by their weather than they realize. Everything in their lives depends on the weather gods. The growing season is only 30 days long – if there’s not enough rain, if there’s too much, if it snows, if it’s too cold, if it’s too hot – there is no margin of error, no room for a second chance. God forbid it should hail. The summers are unbearably sizzling, and the winters are unbelievably frigid. There’s no middle ground, just the breadth of extremes and the gloomy massiveness of the sky.
First Nation peoples never lived here – they knew better.
And of course twenty minutes after I wrote the above bit Wednesday evening, the sky opened up with rain and thunder … for about five minutes. Actually, we had three rain bursts Wednesday night, and enough rain so that the ground was still wet Thursday morning. Today, Friday, the weather gods pelted us with rain, thunder and high winds. It was worse up to the northeast – we watched those nasty clouds roll on by. The whole weekend looks to be the same. At least Paula’s and Bernie’s worries about enough water for the crops have, er, evaporated.
Edmonton is a strange city. It shares some similarities with other prairie towns – the obvious one being that it is flat. Edmonton, like Calgary and Winnipeg, has expanded outwards. Coastal or mountain cities like Vancouver have expanded upwards. There are relatively few skyscrapers in Edmonton – the downtown core has few such windowed goliaths. In contrast, Vancouver, which has no more room for horizontal expansion, has erupted vertically with mammoth glass towers reaching for the sky on every corner.
What this means in Edmonton is that ground is cheap and plentiful, and building projects use up surface area in such vast areas that it would leave most Vancouver developers salivating at the revenue it would generate on the coast. The West Edmonton Mall is the ultimate example. The Hard Rock Café at WestEd covers surface area than Vancouver’s GM Place sports arena. (It’s honking big.) Bigger is better is not just a maxim out here, it’s a way of life. Most retail spaces are horizontally huge because it’s easy to be.
And this carries on into residential districts. Edmonton’s suburbs are huge, fenced-in developments surrounded by tall, imposing wooden enclosures. All that is missing are the armed guards. The only question is who’s guarding who? I sometimes felt like I was driving by Auschwitz – what’s going on in there that I’m not allowed to see? What secrets are being served? Why are you locking yourselves away from the world? Every new development is built on a huge section of prime, agricultural land, and comprises row upon row, street upon street of identical, cookie-cutter, look-a-like houses.
I tried to find a corner store for a quick snack, and I couldn’t. Edmonton has no neighborhood stores because it has no neighborhoods – only enclaves.
Here I am in the Land of the Midnight Twilight. I’m so far north that at this time of year, it never gets dark at night. The sun does set, round about 10:30 or so, but it never gets completely dark – there’s always that bright, sunset glow on the horizon that swings around the northern sky during the night from the west to the east, where the sun comes up at about 4:00. This should change quickly now that Sunday, the longest night of the year, has passed and by August the stars, the Northern Lights and the Persieds meteor shower will be in full glorious bloom.
So I’ve been here over a week now and survived relatively intact so far. Paula and Bernie’s truck hasn’t, though. It lost a front wheel last Friday, and I do mean lost – the ball joint snapped and the wheel broke free. Fortunately, he and Lila were just starting up from a stop sign and only gone a couple feet when it let go. Impressive though, the only thing holding it on was the brake lines.
Monday morning, we finished baling the hay. 170 bales or there abouts. What a job. We have to go out in the field and follow behind a pick up truck and stack bales on the bed. We were out to midnight last night working at it. We can put about 40 bales on the truck, and then we drive back to the stockyard and unload. It’s hard because we’re piling four layers on the truck and pretty much after the first level, you’re throwing the bales over your head. They’re big, bulky, and not light. It doesn’t take much to get a sweat going out here, and soon rivulets are flowing down your face and stinging your eyes, hay is sticking to you everywhere and getting into everything, and the sun burns down mercilessly.Later, we did some work in the stockyard. Bernie is trying to dig a dugout. So we hooked a shovel on the back of the tractor and dragged it through the mud, filling it with dirt, mud and rocks, and deposited this stuff on a hill composed of the remains of previous dugout building attempts. The shovel weighs a ton and is a bitch to move even when empty. Guiding it through a muddy pond is even tougher. We worked at it for a couple of hours, trading off turns between guiding the shovel and driving the tractor. It hardly looks like we made any progress.
Made friends with Arthur Curray, the goat. He is so named because he has a gimpy right rear foot, and therefore has three left feet. They only have one goat this year, and he is in danger of becoming a family member. As Bernie put it, “Two of the same kind of animal are livestock – one is a pet.” Arthur is so sweet; he comes when you call him, and when you pet him, he wags his stubby tail like a dog,. He just may end up being the family dog before long.
The farm needs rain. It has rained all around us; we’ve watched the gray curtains fall. It has not rained here.
You perspire just by stepping outside. A walk of a hundred feet knocks you out. A couple hours of work feels like it will kill you. Yesterday, I changed my mind about something and I broke into a sweat.
The heat is oppressive. The sun burns down unceasingly, unfailingly. It simply doesn’t stop. You look up at it, carefully, haltingly, like a slave looks to a master for relief from punishment. The Big Sky, at times glorious and stunning, becomes a cursed weight that bears down on you. It robs your strength, your energy, and your will.
It’s easy to see how ancient man created gods. Your life turns on whatever the sky deigns to bring down on you today. You’re constantly looking skyward to see what your fortunes will be. And as you watch the rain clouds that you desperately need split apart and pass by on either side of you, it’s easy to imagine some being in the sky doling out rain as a grandmother passes out candies to favoured children.
Albertans are more bound by their weather than they realize. Everything in their lives depends on the weather gods. The growing season is only 30 days long – if there’s not enough rain, if there’s too much, if it snows, if it’s too cold, if it’s too hot – there is no margin of error, no room for a second chance. God forbid it should hail. The summers are unbearably sizzling, and the winters are unbelievably frigid. There’s no middle ground, just the breadth of extremes and the gloomy massiveness of the sky.
First Nation peoples never lived here – they knew better.
And of course twenty minutes after I wrote the above bit Wednesday evening, the sky opened up with rain and thunder … for about five minutes. Actually, we had three rain bursts Wednesday night, and enough rain so that the ground was still wet Thursday morning. Today, Friday, the weather gods pelted us with rain, thunder and high winds. It was worse up to the northeast – we watched those nasty clouds roll on by. The whole weekend looks to be the same. At least Paula’s and Bernie’s worries about enough water for the crops have, er, evaporated.
Edmonton is a strange city. It shares some similarities with other prairie towns – the obvious one being that it is flat. Edmonton, like Calgary and Winnipeg, has expanded outwards. Coastal or mountain cities like Vancouver have expanded upwards. There are relatively few skyscrapers in Edmonton – the downtown core has few such windowed goliaths. In contrast, Vancouver, which has no more room for horizontal expansion, has erupted vertically with mammoth glass towers reaching for the sky on every corner.
What this means in Edmonton is that ground is cheap and plentiful, and building projects use up surface area in such vast areas that it would leave most Vancouver developers salivating at the revenue it would generate on the coast. The West Edmonton Mall is the ultimate example. The Hard Rock Café at WestEd covers surface area than Vancouver’s GM Place sports arena. (It’s honking big.) Bigger is better is not just a maxim out here, it’s a way of life. Most retail spaces are horizontally huge because it’s easy to be.
And this carries on into residential districts. Edmonton’s suburbs are huge, fenced-in developments surrounded by tall, imposing wooden enclosures. All that is missing are the armed guards. The only question is who’s guarding who? I sometimes felt like I was driving by Auschwitz – what’s going on in there that I’m not allowed to see? What secrets are being served? Why are you locking yourselves away from the world? Every new development is built on a huge section of prime, agricultural land, and comprises row upon row, street upon street of identical, cookie-cutter, look-a-like houses.
I tried to find a corner store for a quick snack, and I couldn’t. Edmonton has no neighborhood stores because it has no neighborhoods – only enclaves.
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