WHERE IS THE LEADERSHIP?

Letter posted to Globe and Mail

Dear Editor:

Waving the French flag. Describing the acts as “barbarism” and “outrageous” and declaring “solidarity.” Blah blah blah. Lip service at this point is simply cowardice. The civilized nations of the world are late. Had they declared war a year ago there would very likely have never been such a crisis of refugees washing up on beaches with families cramming themselves at border towns throughout Europe etc.etc. 

Civilized countries need to declare war simultaneously against the membership of these extremists so no one country can be singled out for retaliation and put so many boots on the ground that the jihadists would be overwhelmed and obliterated, town to town. Stop dithering! Where’s the leadership? Where’s the global backbone? Why do we have a military?

A RECIPE FOR PERFECTION

He was awakened by the musical jingle of his telephone and after patiently nodding to his mother-in-law’s instructions, he placed the receiver down, blanching at the thought of doing her troublesome will. It was time to shake a leg so he stripped for his shower and put the memory of that shrill voice on his back burner. The warm water cascading down his back and legs, across his chest and through his hair had the desired effect - deglazing him of the week’s trivial worries. It was easier now to contend with his tribulations retiring them, taking them as importantly as grains of salt. He enjoyed a dollop of a warm, chocolate pastry downing it with his fresh-brewed ‘ethical’ coffee. He remembered why he first bought it: he was searing with anger at the treatment of the labourers by multinational companies soaked in their own greed. His was a minor contribution but it helped restrike his moral compass; as did practising as he was wont recently at resisting all temptations, learning to covet nothing and desire little. It was an awakening of its own sort: realizing he could actually be free of anxieties and fretfulness related to these illusions of joy.
   This was his day off and he resolved to enjoy a walk alone in the  quiet park before joining his wife for lunch. Lunch with his lover was all the luxury he would indulge today and later as he strolled under the canopy of autumn leaves he was to experience a peacefulness and a kind of tactile pleasure quite privately, as though the Creator had written this day his name only. And he saw something else that afternoon before lunch that inspired him. In all of this natural upheaval given continuously by an intelligent and loving force for naught but his edification and enjoyment, that it behooved the aware man to tend this garden he called earth. It wasn’t enough to be a gentleman. Well-mannered and considerate. Not anymore.
   Every living thing in the park that day, the flocks of birds and even their songs, were beseeching; the myriad, multi-coloured leaves; the squirrels and the swans in the small lagoon all cried out for his protection. This he knew he could not retire to the  convenience of a back burner. This brew he would let boil.
   It was necessary now, incumbent upon his humanity, to reverse the hands of the doomsday clock and herald a new age of an earth at peace. Though he was approaching his senior years he knew this challenge belonged to him now; to defy the global rapists, the wealth-addicted.
   And it became obvious to him that once a man knows that which is right then that man is called upon to conduct himself righteously. Even if this meant a radical departure from his cozy lifestyle, an abandoning of the mundane. And now, as he was making his way to lunch, he was enjoying a new aroma, the scent of a meaningful departure from the listless. And the profound pleasure he was experiencing was affirming him; every aspect of creation was assuring him that he indeed was on the verge of knowing a recipe for his
perfection.  

Salvaging the Soul of Gastown

Can't Go Wrong with this man's music. Go brother, go!

Hey folks! Guess what? Steam clocks don't talk. Boo hoo. So no matter how many pictures you take of the quirky little machine which pretends to run on steam, you will hear nothing from it that can deliver to you the one simple message: Where is the soul of Gastown?

James singing and playing hauntingly beautifully.

Dale, whose passion and note perfect play, will stop any thoughtful listener.

That answer can only be found in having conversation with those human beings (my cultural heroes) who almost every day earn their keep entertaining you with their songs, their voices, their guitar picking, their drumming and their passionate commitment to music. Here is a just a sample of some of them at work, for you.


So next time you're strolling in Gastown and browsing at the T Shirt and trinket shops, high end restaurants of dubious service and food, why not express your own humanity, make a new acquaintance and perhaps appreciate the real soul of Gastown, the one that you will find in the concerted efforts of these fine people.

His hands whirl about the skins of his drums as he raises money not only for himself but for young drum students who can't afford to buy their own instruments. His motto: More drums. Less guns.

Landon, Bongo Drummer of PEI and Saltspring Island, taking a break to exercise his dog at Andy Livingston Park.

Most Capable Artist and Happy Conversationalist

Native artisans, a happy crew at the lemonade stand; artist; and the Fertile Artists Post card duet.

The Other Half of Fertile Graphics

Fertile Graphics ebullient saleslady and artist

Happy Lemonade Stand  (reminds me of my little stand!)

Native Artisan

Mathew Lennox

Just trying to get home...

Wild Cat Gal

Postcard cover image of Harry Jerome furnished by Fertile Graphics. 

Chameleon

Upon arising, colours of my nightmare flee and dissipate to paleness.

Defeated.

Upon my first walk in the late spring that billowed morning, a flush of pink begins to bloom on my cheeks.

Upon my first conversation, contours of empathy begin their sketch outlining the revisiting of pleasure.  Coral-coloured tongues singing so pure.   

Upon my first eruption of laughter, all the hues of humanity race across my countenance and erase those etchings on the dank enclosure of my cave of fear. Its walls asunder.

Away! Away I push the foreboding thunder. I am alive, alive changing colours.

The Lightning Probes

The lightning is my brush and my ink-stained quill;

Peering and probing.

Throwing scarlet daubs across a pale-faced sky.

All reddening now this trembling canopy

By the fierce voice of a misfired strike.

By happenstance the lightning has pierced the vent,

unlocking the vault,

Where the colours of time have been in store.

All imbued now with that rich array of hues and dashes, monstrous clouds crashing;

Standing amidst I, newly attired, at last festooned with violet textures;

This deliberate blooming, create wild weaves ripped across my torso.

Standing there now in concert with the strikes of light, thrown by the mortal-minding hands of gods, all having lit the grey fuse.

Giving rise to the ghostly chariots delivering the death-carrying hues,

One more day. One more I insist to chase away the phantoms, away by will;

Not one more sunrise will I lose. 

The Litter Issue

I’m picking up litter to keep our streets clean. 
I work for your donations. Thank you!

Q for Mayor:
Why doesn't the city offer $2.00 a bag full of litter per carrier? Keep the fussy unions and bureaucrats away from this resolution, PLEASE!

Witnessed at MacLean Park

At Gore and Pender,

I witnessed about 12 adolescents practising their Tai Kwon Do poses while the litter in front of their school was left unattended. What happened to their teacher's sense of community? Couldn't those kids practice their Captain Kung Fu routines while raking the loads of litter right in front of them? Boy, have we got our values on backwards here?

The Right Idea

This man has the right idea.

Vancouver City and the B. C. Province and all their unions and attendant bureaucrats can't manage to pick up litter. But Todd can. He works for all of us; picking up after us. He works for your donation.

Then we could all be laughin'.

The Haunting Breeze

Cool grass under my bare feet,

The slope crowded with summer flowers, tilting wild;

Propped up on my 12 year old elbows

Sensing something incomprehensible.

Something so vast, pure and radiant; alive, yet apart from me.

And a breeze comes a’calling, whispering mysteries;

Perhaps to make sense of it all.

Something sacred in this space, revealed; something tangible.

But this secret was more a quiet blessing than a telling of it all.

I lend my ear still when wild flowers in all their majesty

bring life to a lonely hill and a light on life’s complexities.

I lend my ear still

When I pass by that lonely hill;

Knowing I may never escape that haunting breeze

that whispered to me all of life’s mysteries. 

My Marching Song

“How many roads must a man walk down…”

My voice would sail into the night sky
Free, robust and louder than alone in the shower.

As I marched along highway 17,

Near the stretch of limbs from the forbidding forest 
cloaking the night flower.

Moonlit lakes winked at me 
while myriad stars pierced the purple veil,

All a’twinkling, in response of course to my lonesome hail;

Free, robust, singing words of power

To enliven all about my voice that darkening hour. 

“How many seas must a white dove sail…”

My legs were fueled, my boots marching on,

The weight of my pack lighter still;

Because words found their hidden tablet where there upon

A man from crowded streets, an irregular New Yahkee, 

Just past a windblown boy then of fierce free will

Sketched his name into the face of eternity.

My legs were strong, their direction true,

Even the nightshades deterred me none;

As I found my shelter in the bush honeysuckle 
at the foot of that dark treeline;

Til cold morning dawn, 
thereupon my thumb made its daily sign.

So thank you, boy Robert, 
for sailing with me on those lonesome nights;

Ne’er really alone but there with your words, 
my beacon joining the starry nights;

One less road now before I know…

“How many roads must a man walk down,

Before you call him a man?

The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.

The answer is blowin’ in the wind.”

The Power of Gentlemen

This ‘old guy’ occasionally goes dancing at nightclubs populated by the ‘hip.’ At one of these festive joints I was actually asked “What’s an old guy like you doing here?” Well, I recall fondly the last time I went dancing at one of these ‘cool’ zones and after being rejected by young ladies to dance with me, I danced with myself pretending I had a swing partner. Then these ladies noticed and one spectacularly attractive, tall, dark-haired beauty, all smiles, joined me and attempted to lead. I assured her she’d be safe with my leading and we proceeded to swing with great élan on the floor to the joy of all witnesses. And if her bright smile and laughter are any signal, my partner was having a thrill. This girl’s smile was in the 1000 watt department. Anyway, her boyfriend, who had been camping his jowls in his mug finally noticed that his babe and I were having too much fun and decided to grunt his way onto the dance floor and take charge, barely managing a twirl.  (Work boots don’t quite cut a rug, Bubba.) It was quite fun to know that I hadn’t lost my touch despite my moustache having gone white; and bearing the brunt of the dreary ageists. (Don’t they realize that according to their value system, they’ll hate themselves after climbing past 50, if they make it that far given their evident narrow-mindedness and poor judgement?)

   Women, especially of the ladylike sort, seriously appreciate a gentleman and a gentleman’s manners which I happen to exude. For my good manners I thank my upbringing and private Catholic school education which included etiquette and elocution as course subjects.

   Now it occurs to me that gentlemen have other more pertinent powers at hand than just stealing some ‘dude’s’ babe.

   Let’s skip through a few and see where we gentlemen may rank in the scheme of values in our society.

   Now let’s start with the gentleboy. He is taught early about the scourge of bullying and its terrible consequences. He learns not to become abusive. 

   Now onto the hard stuff. Dope. The gentleboy would not be a bully. He would not be abusive in any way. Neither of course would the gentleman. And the gentleman knows not to be self-abusive. The use of dope is a form of self abuse. The ideal gentleman would totally shun drugs and their proponents. Now with all men being gentlemen we can now discount the useless, unemployable riffraff who populate our streets blocking the sidewalk with their inane chant: “Rock, powder, down.” No buyers. No market left. They’re out. Period. Off to the organic rehab farms. And to expedite the suppliers being eliminated, a minor change in the law allowing the foreclosure on all their properties gained from illicit drug use and sales would be an entirely appropriate change for a gentleman to recommend. And make it retroactive. A civilization can close a loophole. Neat little windfall right there, deposited unto the control of good people.

    And now without gangs to contend with and no gentlemen carrying guns, we can then assume the end of the era of the thug cop. No more of that brutal fraternity.

     Corrupt politicians would become extinct as none of that scheming nonsense and graft would be neither tolerated nor participated in by a gentleman. A gentleman’s vote counts. Vote those freaks out. With the riffraff gone and the dope, the crude language would be next. Rough language invites rough behaviour and such behaviour is absolutely anathematic to the man of gentle manners. Make the use of that language repugnant to all.

     And the time has come: remove the cyclists; the selfish and noisy skateboarders; the obese go-carters and the long-leashed doggies from our sidewalks and return the sidewalks to the elegant strollers. Such would be a welcome change for men of peace enjoying a walkabout.

    Pornography and crude TV programming celebrating violence, conflict and grief would come to its deserved end. Sex addicts would have to find their rightful place in an asylum; and the hysterical public grievers can traipse off to Italy where that culture seems to cultivate such nonsense. Wail on to Sicily!

    Celebrity gossip and the media hounding of good people would also find their way to the dustbins along with the litter which has been crowding our streets and walkways for decades now. No decent man would throw their garbage out into the street. That is precisely ungentlemanly. And neither would a well-mannered man drive aggressively threatening their fellows. New immigrants should be required to take a course in driving manners.

   The wealth-addicted can be reprogrammed to look after the children going to school hungry every day and their golden parachutes can be remade into quilts for the homeless; until the homeless were properly looked after, as would be the mission of a gentleman.

     Distrust and its cousin loneliness would expire in the home of the hospitable and arguments and minor feuds can be settled with an eye to resolution, being moderated by fair-minded men. We could all have an expectation of good neighbourliness in a community of gentlemen. And scheming and conniving would become amusing vignettes of darker times.

    Divorces, as with those feuds, would be extremely rare as a good man would remain faithful and decent and loving throughout the entire (lifetime) of the marriage. Giving one’s word means something of honour to the righteous man.

   Bigotry and ageism might be the last blights to go but indeed go they would the way of the do do bird. And urban pet owners might finally get the drift that their pooch is not more important than the elder walking the streets. Long leashed dog and do do bird cemeteries anyone?

   All of this would result in greater optimism and better health. Health encouraged by a more profound joy as scientists tell us now that our neurotransmitters rely on a balanced mind before those dopamines and seratonins associated with pleasure can be delivered more effectively and with greater impact (though subtle) to the unpolluted mind. No more forcing the gates open with artificial means – like drugs or alcohol. When searching for a delicate, antique teapot you don’t send into the china shop rampaging elephants, stoned crackheads and wild-eyed boors.

   So what faction of our society would suffer for these enlightening changes? Hmm. Lawyers and bureaucrats who rely on mischief making and feud-creation; deliberately obfuscating the obvious and gentlemanly way to go to simple resolutions. Instead of charged by the syllable, we’d have lawyers as panhandlers? Oh poetic justice!

  

   Now, dear reader, has it occurred to any of you yet just how much we as taxpayers would be saving if our society were totally populated by gentlemen? Have another gander at these changes mentioned above and start counting the staggering amount of money we’d all be the beneficiaries of, in the event of living in a truly civilized, elegant society.

   I can live with those numbers. I can live with gentlemen.

   Afterthought: gentlemen ultimately identify the serious issues affecting our society and which of those issues need to be addressed in order to encourage the civilizing of our communities. This educated man would be morally driven to incite those changes. He becomes a leader, fierce and brave, as he confronts the wealth-addicted and all the other elements of his society which are preventing the return of a civilization to one of true peace. The gentleman will accept the moral imperative to become a warrior of righteousness.       

Never Lonely

I live alone. No pets. Don’t enjoy TV much. Don’t eat out. Cook alone. Eat alone. I walk alone. I sleep alone. I am the victim of ageism. Sometimes slander. And have been assaulted and am occasionally threatened.

I am not afraid. And I am not lonely.

     When I encounter a person, a stranger, I make a point of saying something gentlemanly like “Good morning. How are you today?” and I sound like I mean it; because I do. I do care about how they are today. When I find a reason to expand on the one-liner and perhaps mention the weather as being pleasant or find some other relevant anecdotal comment to include, I watch their reaction with extreme care and I find in their hint of a smile, which I aim and look for, a contentment. I hear in their voice all of their humanity and sometimes it seems I notice an ancestral presence too. I can usually tell them them if they’re European, Irish, Brit or American and they find that charming. Within a minute or shorter, I can find something humorous to add. It is in this brief exchange that I am filled. Their humanity has touched me. I have been, as it were, topped off. Good to go. I am never lonely.

Mea Culpa?

What crime? I have been ostracized; demonized; avoided; dismissed; burdened with slander; sneered at; victimized; ignored; ridiculed; targeted; maligned; vilified; and oh well, to call a spade a spade, just generally and almost unanimously pissed on.  I have searched, scoured my mind, in a vain effort to find the sore point that has landed me so unceremoniously on the bottom social shelf. After all that scouring, I finally got it.

My crime? My moustache went white.

The Elder Strikes Back

In a restaurant you think of me as a wallet. In a nightclub you think of me as being out of place, like a lurking pervert. In a fashionable clothing store you think I’m in the wrong place. On the sidewalks you expect to walk through me; and your dogs come first. In traffic,

you think I’m a doddering idiot who can’t maneuver a car fast enough for you. If I’m spotted outside a school, according to you I’m definitely a deviant on the make. When I smile at you, once again you hold me in contempt. In the social stream of things I’m a has-been. To a landlord I’m a guaranteed income. In museums you think I belong there. When I make an innocuous comment about the weather you think I’m hitting on you. In movie theaters I’m invisible. In line-ups I’m a pest in the way. My worth to you is that you may ask me for money. At scenic pull-overs I’m in the way of your camera. To the thief I’m a target. If you’re car salesman I’m a mark. In parks I might as well be an infested ancient willow. To the social helpers I’m an object of their charity. To the bank tellers I’m a waste of time if my balance doesn’t match their expectation; and to the bankers if I’m not playing into their hand I’m wasting their valuable time while they sneak their hidden fees into the two point type at the bottom of my bank account documents.

Now it’s my turn. To me: you’re disrespectful of my accumulated knowledge; my life experience. You shun my humanity. I take your insults as indicative of how tiresome you are. Because you are in university I’m an old fool; which makes you in my mind witheringly dull; of no curiosity and no inquisitiveness – earmarks of what I have come to know as prerequisites to learning anything. You dress slovenly and consider yourself a beau brummel. You don’t know how to wear a fedora and can’t carry an umbrella without stabbing someone and visit tattoo parlours like religious shrines while you waste your money painting the flower. You eat the same crap every day of no nutritional value whatsoever and think because you’re beefy with muscles that you are in good health. You use steroids to

build that confidence you lost when you entered the cave of fear and began your life of cheap, slanderous judgements. While you’re sneering at the whiteness of my moustache I’m

taking in the beauty of that rare youth who still has a sense of humour. Rare gems. Your expertise at violent video games has prepared you for nothing except to increase your anxiety and embolden your pretense of enjoying your life of illusions. While your jowls are camping in their mug, I’ll steal your woman for a swing on the dance floor and show her more intimacy in that few moments than your bullying and bragging has ever shown them. Ever. Your vocabulary is a three word wonder: dude; awesome and bro. You lack mystery. Sophistication is well beyond you. Elegance is foreign territory and good manners are already extinct in your insipid life. Your best days are gone; when you were twelve. You think you’re sexy because you’re young while I find your narrow judgements precursors to how boring in bed you’d be. So dude, don’t call me bro because in my book you aren’t even remotely awesome. Now that I’ve eviscerated your entire conversational repetoir in one sentence, might I suggest learning a whole new word? Curiosity.
   Now if I were to offer you advice in the odd event you’d actually listen, I’d say Get a life. But I suspect it’s too late for you. You’re too old now. Too set in your ways and deploring the thought of aging. That makes you black toast. And this one old guy doesn’t eat burnt toast. 

Marching on...

DECLARE WAR NOW

The First World War was declared after the assassination of one man - Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria by a confused Serbian assassin - which was then used as pretext for Austria-Hungary’s invasion of Serbia.

    Is war declared against a country or an ideology – was war declared against Germany or the ideology of Nazism? What matters is that the mass-murdering ideologists be stopped. Wherever they hide.

    Why are not all civilized countries in Europe and North America declaring war now simultaneously to avoid being singled out by terrorists to advance an overwhelming number of boots on the ground – ready now. Don’t tip off the enemy. Deploy the intelligence gatherers, the armed drones and a multinational militia in numbers so overpowering that they may succeed in short order.  Leave the international lawyers and despots out of the mix and ignore the country borders. Just emasculate the breast-beating Jihadists and Islamist extremist beheaders wherever they are, annihilate the murderers of innumerable children and rapists of women who use the protection of border laws to expand their reach… much the same as did Osama bin Laden hiding out in his villa in Pakistan while orchestrating his reign of terror. 

    Empty the mosks of fire-breathing Imams inciting radicalism among its vulnerable youth. End the internet outreach of ISIS video games and their pernicious messages. This kind action demands a global forum to act and the cooperation of CEO’s of internet traffic. 

    We need global leadership here and a resolve to go to resolution and end these heinous attacks. These extremists are assaulting civilization itself. The answer is global. Let a global moral action wield the sword of righteousness.

   The world needs a coming together of global elders to be empowered to initiate these decisions. Call to action the global army.

TIME FOR A GLOBAL ARMY?

Radical Islamists under whatever pretext in whatever country are murdering innocent women, children and men. Kidnapping young women, raping and ‘converting’ them to Islam (or at least their brand of it) is becoming hackneyed to the newshounds.  Corrupt Mexican mayors and cartels are equally guilty of atrocities. Some countries are overwhelmed and unable to fend off these attacks. The monstrous, deluded perpetrators must be stopped and annihilated. The United Nations is fraught with political complexities, and is legitimately suspect of the political influences of its membership.

    Is it not time to incorporate an international fighting force mandated to thwart and put an end to these extremist maniacal organizations? How can any member of a civilized nation stand back and twiddle about, doing nothing? Why not cull from these civilized nations around the world our best fighters equipped with the most modern military equipment, the drones and intelligence to bring about the long overdue demise of these radicalized murderers? Let these murderous zealots taste first hand absolute military defeat at the hands of an internationally sanctioned army of ‘super-warriors.’ Why not  bring to bear a global police force serving all countries in dire need of being freed from the terrifying grip of rampaging monsters mouthing off their bizarre dictums?  Let distinguished former heads of state write a simple, clear constitution to guide them and give them a clear path to respond with alacrity to these growing threats. Equip them with every ounce of military firepower the world can muster and give them a straight shot across any border under attack. Sanctioned boots on the ground in breathtaking numbers.

Like hell, yes, it’s time!

And there’s more this virtuous force could tackle, for example: after besieging the Islamist radicals to the point of near-extinction, charge this global force with the burning of the poppy fields of Afghanistan specifically responsible for the production of the world’s heroin and replace them all with another sustainable, unhurtful and tradeworthy crop of export. Teach the Afghanis how to sow and harvest this new crop. Lend them the money from internationally governed funds – the same which pays the Global Police -  to survive well and now with dignity until the new crops are in.

    There are so many strategies that could be advanced to bring solace and sanity to the world if we had a global police force to back the cause of peace. 

    Leave the lawyers behind on this one too. Lives are at stake. We can’t afford their fancy-dancing, charging per self-glorifying syllable while young women are being maimed.  Who needs that fussy lawyer, the kind of which had removed from our driver’s license Organ Donor status. How many lives has that moment of lawyer-glory cost?

    Just imagine the global elders we could call upon and their wise statesmanship which could imbue this right-eous initiative with life, and pilot this new properly placed over-whelming force.      

 The radical Islamist would shudder at the prospect.  I’d pay to see that. -RHL

FLASH! ISIS just slaughtered 13 students for watching a soccer game in which Jordan played.

A CHALLENGE TO 
MAYOR GREGOR ROBERTSON:

Bust the Solicitors

Vancouver is experiencing the same epidemic with which every major metropolis in North America and Europe is contending: crack at $2 a hoot.

   As a long-time observer of Vancouver streets, bars, hotel rooms, SRO’s and guys roughing it, this poisonous growth has presented serious and complicated social, legal and moral problems. 

   There is however a simple resolution (if we can gag the lawyers long enough): the law is already on the books. It is illegal to solicit the sale of illicit drugs. Period. Enforce the law. Bust the solicitor. Over to you Mayor Robertson of the Hollywood smile: it is high time you insisted that the Vancouver Police just do their job. No more: “Slow down. Look. And drive on.” Busting these creeps cuts the arms off the gangs providing the crap from wherever they’re hiding. And now drum-roll please (loud enough to drown out the howling lawyers): Give the judge a way to ‘throw the book’ at them. Open rehab camps for minimum six month stays. These organic farm camps (think an improved Oppenheimer park experience eliminating the drugs, alcohol and corpses in tents) can be situated on vacant, fertile land. No more excuses: the jails are full; they’re just back on the street the next day; the judges are too soft; the prosecutor won’t prosecute blah blah blah. The officers of the law just have to do their job and enforce the law. Cut the crap.

   Mr. Mayor:  you can lead Vancouver out of the swamp of crackheads (fast becoming mentally ill) and clear the crowded Hastings street and those dope-peddlers blocking the passage in front of the Carnegie Centre – actually and ironically adjacent to the site of the first Vancouver City Hall. Our very first mayor, Malcolm Alexander Maclean would be wailing in his Scottish brogue: “Shame! Shame on you, Gregor!”

    We’d get our streets back and to the surprise of many and the chagrin of noisy lawyers, those camps would empty out in a year or two when it just wasn’t cool any more to slither on the sidewalks sneaking out the words: “Rock, powder, down.”

   So what will it be Mayor? Keep paying the police for not enforcing the law or rolling up your sleeves, getting your hands all mucky and showing the world how to beat this problem?

    Your Hollywood smile won’t cut. I’m expecting a man’s response. 

*   *   *

Excerpt from The Adventures of an Urban Wizard
Diog’s Day in Class

Once upon a time, there were ladies and gentlemen. They lived in a new suburb where wild fields surrounded a lively school, the neighbourhood variety store, a library and other nicely set out new homes. One couple was blessed with three boys of whom one was most rambunctious. He played outdoors in those fields rousting the neighbours’ kids to join him in his frolicking, fencing with wooden swords, blasting the Indian rubber ball in ball-tag; and sometimes they played out their favourite super-heroes and being naughty on occasion would vault over the backyard fences, scramble through the little gardens, blast past the stupefied families trying to barbeque in peace.

   The kids were OK, flushed with vigor, their minds stuffed with dreams and wonders.

   This youngest of the three excelled at his private school where he was inspired  by teachers who took the time for his enthusiastic curiosity and his jarring outbursts of authentic glee. The decibel volume of his laughter rattled the halls.

    Max, the variety store owner, was of a relaxed demeanor and knowing these kids he recognized the handwriting of their parents when the scallywags were charged with their minor shopping missions; and Max had won them over hands down when he dutifully displayed the superhero comics in their racks the moment they were delivered and he had his candy jar full to the brim and his freezer chock-a-block with orange, lime and cherry popsicles on those super-special summer mornings. He would discreetly offer a fistful of candies to his favourites, no charge. A true gentleman.

   Summer days were a lark. By mid afternoon warm breezes carried the scent of freshly cut lawns and new cars, the brands quite distinguishable by their design, sparkled after a wash in the driveway. Fathers swapped stories over the fence and a beer after work and mothers everywhere in the house: cleaning, cooking, laughing and gossiping on the phone or ironing; and out back they would hang their wet laundry clothespin by pin drifting in that breeze above the lawn which doubled as an ice rink in winter. 

    Church-going was a social affair especially after the holy stuff at Sunday services and the sermons would remind one and all souls of the plight and hope of the world. The ladies of this one couple’s block would organize their garden planting to assure a variety of bounties could be shared and the resulting salads were robust in flavour with jumpy radishes and the heat and zip of the long-stemmed onion bulbs; and the neighbourhood dogs all managed to look importantly busy sniffing everyone’s behinds when they were quite through with chasing their tails.

    Our star third boy, son of George and Molly, had mastered Latin and French, actually won a trophy for highest world religion course marks while he enjoyed working out math problems in his unique way.  He graduated into a public high school and became bored silly and somewhat dumbstruck by the goon mentality of the uninterested fellow ‘students’, so he founded the debating club. He had already been versed in the big thinkers of his time having read Tolkein, H. G. Wells, Huxley, and the fantastical science fictional worlds of  Asimov, Herbert and Bradbury and had seen the movies Star Wars and 2001, A Space Odyssey, all of which dovetailed nicely with his comic book narratives.

    But something about adulthood was becoming increasingly unattractive to him but he couldn’t put his finger on it, this mortifying, creeping adulthood. All he knew was that he didn’t want to become like them but little did he know that there was even a much darker nightmare taking shape on his horizon. 

    His mother Molly was a grand lady forever working, either in the kitchen, cleaning the house, doing the laundry or working at one of innumerable jobs she held down. A great examplar of the work ethic. To her the revolution began with pop and rock music which at first she refused her children to listen to.

    His dad, George, was a war hero, undecorated. His first letter to his mother after recuperating in the Brit hospital stated “I’m going back to the front.” The military wouldn’t let him return as he was already badly damaged even in hidden ways, in mental ways. He passed the bar exam, became a lawyer and was most pleased to host the neighbours at the family home and hold forth boozily about the law. His oratory was highly respected and sought after. But a war was raging in Indo-China, the revolution was taking shape, and innocence was lost too early for most. The days of exuberant swordplay had come to an end. There seemed very little time to examine this loss and the rush to adulthood. And this loss was compounded most seriously by the arrival of that lurking nightmare which appeared in its most ghastly form as cocaine and heroin. Even the sheltered suburbanites were being impacted. Our third boy lost his brothers to elopements. Neither said Good-bye. Not so gentlemanly.  George succumbed to alcoholism and Molly worked herself to the bone to assure the survival of the family even during its break-up. She was still a lady despite all tribulations and found great pleasure in dressing up for a night of dancing, her laughter the charm of all.  

   But our third son contemplated much upon this loss of innocence and with his curiosity still well founded and his sense of wonder still active he proceeded into life’s labyrinthine demands.

   In retrospect he realizes now that it wasn’t really life making those demands but the society of adults who generation after generation expected its young people to absorb the impact and manage the horrendous mess they’d left behind after having chased their illusions to death – a mess so humungous in scope that the very earth we walk upon is under threat and even this story is being written on the other side of the doomsday clock - time having run out for earth’s limited resources and its ability to resuscitate itself. 

    Science fiction has become good science for the most part and we understand now that our brains are provided neurotransmissions of dopamine and serotonin which provide us the sensation of pleasure. Street drugs imitate this action and flood the mind with these chemicals tipping the balance in a way that is so dramatic that the mind’s precarious equilibrium is almost irretrievable.

   Wonder and euphoria are cousins and need a biochemically anchored mind in order to accept the natural flow of these deliverers of joy. And when one is enjoying all in precise balance the importance of sustaining one’s gentlemanliness is always obvious. 

    Our third boy having laid his mind on these scientific studies realized that the kids were right all along – that curiosity and the joy of spontaneous living with a kind of steady ebullience should be carried into adulthood; not lost until the adult is zombified by repetitive action as a doldrum; or more succinctly apt: an animated corpse.

   And he realized this when he was 60. He re-cultivated his curiosity and today he enjoys every day as one of wonder and child-like awe as he discovers in every face the handwriting of God, a joyous thing, and where may be spied the instructions on how to remain ladies and gentlemen, appropriate to host in their kitchen that eternally young, mischievous whippersnapper – by Gawd the source, the sustainer of all these infinitesimally complex balances -  the Creator Hisself!

  

    “Now class, your homework is to write a 1000 word essay addressing the question: Does Adulthood Necessarily Preclude Wonder?  Dismissed.”

    Lisa didn’t dismiss herself right way. She fussed about waiting for Dr Innis to leave before she approached his desk and having noticed he had left behind the book he was reading from, she opened it idly to discover it was all blank pages.

Later That Day

“How did class go today?” inquired Lilith.

“Oh fine. I just channeled an elderly gent I had recorded last year who was reading aloud a letter he had written. It was charming really. About wonder. As well, I think it was a tribute to his mother.”

“Oh how nice. Did you use your own voice or mimic the author?”

“No. I wanted to bring in someone special. I was thinking about using that Mockingbird star, Gregory Peck but put Spencer Tracy to work instead. Really quite suitable for that tender letter.”

“You sly old fan… still got Kate Hepburn simmering on the brainpan.”

     Diog blushed. They laughed. Lilith put on ol’ blue eyes and they waltzed on the porch as the sun was now near set over the glittering river.

Horrorscopes

from Uncle Harriet’s Crystal Balls

Aries: Your number is up. Ask Scorpio to perform Right of Assisted Suicide with Cancer taking up the rear. Pay lawyer first.

Taurus: This car’s a heap. Trade up for Pieces from an electric lawnmower to add Medicinal Grass to the slop. Capitalcorn will collateralize damage to intestines when moon is in heat. 

Gemini: Contrary to popular opinion, two heads are not better than one. Be of singular focus when attempting to straddle Virgo. If all fails, spell Sagittarius correctly and find solace in winning spelling bee for morons.

Cancer: It’s terminal. Join Aries in the cue for Dr Didlittle whose oath - Thou Shalt Only Do Harm - works for you. If boredom sets in while cued up, borrow Tim’s Cheerios and sprinkle liberally on all and sundried. Your stars are similing. The thug in front may blow a gasket. He’s a Taurus.

Leo: At last, a lion-hearted soul to tame the Aquarium in all of us. Before feasting on the fish bones say a prayer to the deity on a moonlit waterbed. And if you followed that, you have veered seriously off the Yellow Brick Road. Skype Judy after pubic trim.

Virgo: Fat chance. Studbuttons and gum-smacking meatmuffins need not apply. The sun is in your lower intestine. Wait for movement of celestial gloryhole. 

Libra: Veeve lay K-Beck Libra! Sixteen languages on each box please and rotate circles while orbiting Uranus. Pass wind to collect 200 cheerios.

Scorpio: Your overbite is bigger than your bark. Use chisel. For persistent bark, apply glue from ancient cheerios box – see Tim’s pantry. Rub into crevices. Hold nose while swallowing the lunar cycle.

Sagittarius: Your sun is in Virgo’s house. She can’t make out whose next. Open a window to the soul. Reach out and grope someone. Spin-dry for maximum exposure.

Capitalcorn: After harvest, marry banker if the signs are auspicious. Otherwise, just settle for the wilting Countless Virgo (again). She’s lost count anyway.

Aquarium: So it’s your age. Chance to discriminate against your elders when sun is in Scorpio’s house. Brush your falsies in anticipation of darkening eclipse. Rent out at going rate of beacon and eggs.

Pieces: Humpty Dumpty’s got nothing on you. You came like that. No assembly necessary. Beware the Eyes of March. Paranoid delusions will persist. Take your notepad.   

A Secure Canadian Identity

…for One

This letter is a cobbling, a patchwork of memories of my getting acquainted with Canada and its people, and a sketch of our history and values which together helps me to stitch together what I might call a Canadian identity. 

     My family derives from ancestors who arrived in Nova Scotia from Ireland in the mid 1700’s. So the Langens were not bailing out because of the potato famine but for a new life in a vast land of seemingly inexhaustible resources; or to escape debtor’s prison? These pioneers didn’t leave any letters behind so I can’t really say what motivated them to come here on The Mary arriving in Pennsylvania and making their way north. What a life that must have been. When more borders were outlined and provinces appeared we became New Brunswickers, maritimers and yes, potato farmers.

     My grandfather on my dad’s side was a hunter’s guide and farmer who contributed a column to the local paper entitled “This Happened to Me!” detailing in graphic panels his adventures in the bush carting around hunting rifles and rich Americans. As it turned out, he wrote at length about the importance of conservation of our natural and animal habitats and vehemently opposed leg traps. So there was this stream of conscientiousness I as a lad had the opportunity to be exposed to. Better than letters I guess.

   We pulled up stakes and evacuated New Brunswick for the glamour and riches the big city apparently offered… or at least so thought my mother and much to the chagrin of my father having inherited his joy of hunting and fishing from his dad. But from Toronto we visited the grandparents’ homestead every summer for seven years, me getting carsick like clockwork around Trois de Riviere and mom making fresh cucumber and tomato sandwiches just after entering New Brunswick. Summer parties on the porch, sleeping in the old cabin behind Grampy Langen’s farm, and watching Uncle Charlie almost make a fool of himself fiddle-playing, step-dancing and beer swilling on some old church stage …while keeping the harmonica in his mouth and the old fedora on his head - that’s about as Canucklehead as you get.

    Mother and I picked fiddleheads, ate them at dinner and tapped maple trees. Her industriousness was indefatigable.

    I left my home in Toronto after the family disintegrated. Dad flopped as a lawyer in the big city and my mother was retired from the teaching profession after 13 years (because she didn’t have a certificate); and my two older brothers eloped and I cut out at 16 for Vancouver. That was 1968.

    Hello Vancouver: draft dodgers, paranoid pot smokers, weird mayors and a town fool who liked to dance around fountains as he expounded upon his philosophical ideas (himself holding PhD in philosophy from UBC) and the rest of all that psychic sundry.

    I sold the Georgia Strait to pocket five cents a sale at the corner of Georgia and Granville streets, and pre-Eatons the area was a heap of dirt. With the exception of the grand old Hudsons Bay and Birks and their clock.  I met loads of people – tourists ogling the hippies; hippies cavorting at be-ins in Stanley Park; draft dodgers running antique shops, and fellow teenagers from all across Canada.

    That summer of ’68 was a blast. Then home to T.O and hating it again, I travelled to Newfoundland to stay with my elder brother the chess master whom my mother had cajoled to persuade me to return to school; perhaps even to skip right into Memorial University of Newfoundland. In those days that was a believable proposition. I thoroughly enjoyed the humour and hospitality of those Lord ‘tunderin’ people but alas found them to be “colonially content” in an era of intellectual revolution. So off I went, working my back to B.C. But before I hitchhiked back I did spend some time as a quasi-resident of Rochdale at Bloor and Avenue Road, the ‘free school’ which had almost immediately upon opening with hope for alternative teachers and students became a drug capital of the downtown core. Once again, I met a variety of young people from all corners of our country; and more draft dodgers; and by then Nixon’s beading-with-sweat forehead  was becoming queerly popular.

   But back in Vancouver after a memorable four day hitch taking in Fort William (and after taking the road to Kapuskasing), I took in the guys watching the gals on the strip there; and visited Banff; Lake Louise; and was enchanted by all the grand rivers and lakes along the way.

    I met Hansadutta Das preaching the Krishna  Consciousness dogma in front of the Courthouse in Vancouver (now the old art gallery). He answered my one question without hesitation: “What is the purpose of life?” “To enjoy.” And that was so impressive to me (the former leader of the debating club in high school) that I joined their little crew and trucked on down to the Rathayatra Festival in San Francisco – but that’s the States and I’m supposed to be writing about Canada. I did however take note that Canadians were well liked by our Yankee neighbours. And with Trudeau giving the draft dodgers status, our sociological make-up was changing.

    So OK we’re back in Vancouver now after three months of chanting and worshipping Hindu deities. But no $. No fun.

    I  returned to Newfoundland after landing back in T.O. at mother’s insistent behest and once again that same feeling of some self-imposed limitedness of intellect impelled me to leave that island, especially after receiving an intriguing letter about a commune on Lasqueti Island.

    The gulf islands here in B.C. attract artists, eccentrics, thinkers, writers etc.; some of whom fantasize about creating their own utopian environment, everything small scale and facilitated by the remoteness and lack of noise or the commotion of travel-throughs. And they’re beautiful ecological stand-alones. Those islanders are Canadians who have evolved from the island life into rugged individualists, initially having imported their culture from wherever in Canada and those individuals introduce a unique mix into their community.

     Much like what multiculturalism attempted to do across Canada. Here we are open-armed, inviting and meek almost to the point of obsequiousness and we have ended up too often with criminals laundering their money after buying their citizenship and forms of tribalism, rampant among the immigrants; and lawyers fighting deportation of gang members from some creeped-out place in Asia at our expense while we refuse to allow doctors from foreign countries to practice here. Only in Canada, eh? Duh?

     After communing on the island, my itchy feet found Montreal and the eastern Quebec townships. Montreal was a breath of sultry, exciting air. The Gallic Montrealer is incomparable, disproportionately pulchritudinous and alluring in a natural, disarming way. How seriously unfortunate that language became an issue. Rene Levesque almost single-handedly destroyed the easy trust and charm that the anglos and the francophones shared. How grandly we all danced together at nightclubs on St Catherine’s or Bishop streets stuffed with joy and camaraderie. Just making the effort to fumble through your French was enough for the lion’s share of Montrealers to accept and encourage you. While Winnipeg was like a lonely spike in the railroad, Montreal was the buffer beam, the hell-raising locomotive. And in comparison, especially after businesses evacuated Montreal for Toronto, that anglo city became snobbier and more bland. The dynamite in this country is exported from the people of Montreal. I got a whiff of this at Expo 67 and the full impact throughout the mid seventies. Lucky me.

    Wars have a tendency to make a mark on a people. Across this country young men and women joined the war efforts, many of whom enlisted as a lark. Unemployed and kicking stones on sidewalks couldn’t compare to the glory of uniforms, parades and gunplay. It was during and after those wars that we more singularly established our identities. We fought alongside the Brits and we carried the wounded and defended our fellows. And we remembered. The bonding right across this country of the brave soldiers is one sure-fire way to embolden the national spirit. Wicked as war is, it serves to build character and define us as a people.  I am the son of a Canadian war hero and will to my dying day be cognizant of that fact.

     My fondest memories of my country escorted me to this day and it really wasn’t too long ago that something seeped into our spiritual climate and weakened us. Three anecdotes might help to illustrate my point here:

    An elderly Chinese woman was staggering in the middle of Keefer Street in some distress. It was impossible to tell if she was drunk or ill. But she was left there at risk by her fellow countrymen of Chinese extraction as the traffic flowed dangerously by her. Finally, I stepped out and stopped the traffic and then one retail business owner came to help. We got her safely to the sidewalk and called for an ambulance. She wasn’t drunk.

     When Vancouver’s water supply reservoir had retained too much silt after a heavy rainfall, the city alerted the populace to boil their water. Two ladies attending the Shoppers Drug Mart on Davie Street actually got into a scrap right there as they attempted to haul out the last of the bottled water. And finally, this last Saturday morning I was walking at 8:30 a.m  in a misty grey and few people were out jogging and strolling. I would look their way to greet them with a “Good morning” but they averted their eyes. Not one all morning of about 40 would meet my eyes to wish each other well. What is all this fear? Or indifference to my humanity? Oh I know. I almost forgot. My moustache is white.

    I view these anecdotes as quite telling of a moral malaise we are experiencing here in Vancouver and very likely right across the country (with the exception perhaps of the maritimes). And I blame my generation for having invented the rationale for using recreational drugs for a large part of the reason people are now so hopelessly antisocial. Even just by itself marijuana has a negative impact on our desire and ability to socialize successfully, as would a lady or gentleman. And in losing this lovely manner of interacting we lose our identity as a human populace, a good neighbour, a responsible voter etc. And now our streets are populated with the animated corpses selling $2 hoots, chanting as they block your way: “Rock, powder, down…”

    Now we have to contend with an onslaught of immigrants, some of whom are flashing ‘hot’ Chinese money (illicitly gained) to buy our condos and now even rural stretches of land. Chinatown is staggering to its cultural demise as they discover that service with a scowl really isn’t attractive. Bank policies and hidden fees are eroding our optimism about securing our nest eggs.  Truckers from India have undercut traditional truckers so dramatically that those truckers who own their own vehicles can’t keep them on the road. And then those Indians had the gall to go on strike after demanding better pay. The aggressive driving habits are obvious and unfortunately having monitored who is responsible I have found it to be people of Chinese extraction at a going rate of approximately 90%.  Multiculturalism was typically a nice Canadian idea and it is clear now that allowing people to buy their citizenship was a serious misstep. We’ve opened a Pandora’s box allowing thieves, executive criminals and gang members to infiltrate.

    These anecdotes are also quite telling in another way: we are that individual who engages in the conversation with a foreigner; and we are the guest of others; and the host of the hungry. All of this makes us a citizen of our neighbourhood, the city, the country and soon enough the globe.

    The unions have a stranglehold on management and the poor members look (and drive like warped-off bus drivers) like they’ve just swallowed another poison union pill. Easily annoyed and just plain unhappy.  Eavesdrop on a conversation of posties out back the office. It’s all carp and grind against the evil management.

    And there’s poison we permit into our private lives: TV programs and movies are blatantly promoting conflict and grief. And we can thank the Yanks for laugh tracks – the true measure of phoniness. And in our cultivated appetite for crap, we have video games showcasing pornographic images or the glory of suicide bombings.

    We need face to face conversations that we may laugh again, taunting fate and reversing doomsday clocks. We need to instruct our guests with a gentle hand as to how to conduct themselves in their host country. We need to reexamine our values every day and rethink dope, hopefully to recover our sanity as our neurotransmitters reestablish their divine balance… that balance which permits spontaneous and steady joy.

    My generation didn’t introduce ‘awesome’ or ‘dude’ into the popular vernacular but we can take credit for ‘cool’ – having appropriated it from the beatniks and Yes, the granny dress and teensie round shades were definitely out of our bailiwick and more importantly perhaps, we hammered home the value of peace and invented that two-fingered salute that anybody in the world would still recognize. Enough of these cultural tidbits comprise the overall mosaic of a society and its identity. We are enshrined by our words and all those ebullient pub conversations didn’t quite initiate a revolution but did give the little grey cells of generations something to cogitate (as some of those spirited intellectuals became writers). We actually contemplated world peace.

    We are the land; the golden plains; that Salish Sea and its whales; the foot wide moss on the grand cedars of Calvert Island; the dugout canoes and the natives are their stories, their rituals, dances and masks. We are the broad expanses of unpopulated land sometimes as far as the eye can see or stunningly interrupted by giant mountains leaning on a rain-clouded firmament. We are the scent of the earth and witnesses to the arrivals and departures of four distinct seasons.

     And we are defined also by how the citizens of other countries perceive us. In Peru the peasant cries out: “Harry! Take me to Canada! Take me to Canada, Harry!” and they mean it. In San Francisco we garnered applause in the parade and were feted at restaurants and pubs in the weeks that followed our rescue of the American hostages in Iran. The Californians found us a curiosity and the New Yorkers thought we were harmless, patted our heads, and being overly proper we couldn’t imagine accepting their invitation to imbibe in a bar before work. This was totally foreign to us; and against our prudish grain.

    Vancouverites are an awkward mix of Brit prudishness, random hooliganism, newcomers and so laid back we’re as threatening as a water lily – liberal, pot smoking and horny free-lovers. (Blame that on the French Canadian.)

    And I have indeed visited Calgary and Edmonton and I would be remiss not to include them with at least a memorable one-liner: ___________________. Oh alright. Yeehaw and Gretzky. Moving right along...

    Our leaders defined us by the fact that we voted for them and they, each in their distinct way, made their mark for Canada and for Canadians on the world stage.  We are viewed as neutral where military threat is concerned and akin to being the younger brother of the Brits and a distant cousin to the yelping, gunloving Yanks.

    We spend too much money on hockey while too many children go to school hungry; and our wealthy are all a’sweat to emulate the manners of the wealth- addicted Americans. Our TV comedies aren’t funny but our documentaries and investigative reports are dead on.  We are fearless on that stage.

    Our pristine land is vast and our resources coveted and our people are fundamentally good, not just nice. We are a tough, hard working people who need to make a few changes to recharge our national batteries. We enjoy a good humour and are generous to a fault. And, yes, we have a lot to tackle but that’s for the next generation.

    Tonight I’m going for a stroll under that black, velvety drape pierced with myriad pinholes giving us a teasing peek inside the house of God, all a’twinkle. Maybe I’ll hear a river roar or crickets in song; or smell wild strawberries in a field; or hear the whispering of a breeze through the canopy of tall maples or dapple in the cold Pacific. And tomorrow maybe I’ll find that beaver dam three miles into the dense bush, populated solely it seems at by mosquitoes and black flies who know my name. Or boil an Atlantic lobster.

    I’ll remain invisible of course. Ageism is sometimes welcome in my life as it permits me a preferred isolation. But I remain a social being, a Canadian host and will set out the feast of our bounty here in my home any time for anyone. And that, dear fellow Canucks, is because I am a Canadian.

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Now that the digital dust has settled on the ‘desktop publishers’ and the bloggers multiplied themselves into bland oblivion, let’s have some real news. Local news reported by locals; letters written by thoughtful readers joining the discourse; artists engaging us; photographers fascinating us; caricaturists intriguing us; and, you betcha!, cartoonists making us laugh or ponder. That, dear reader, is really what periodical publishing is all about.

   I should know. I’ve been in and out of this shark-infested pool for some 30+ years.

   Let’s start with what you’ve been reading, on the sky train, the busses, in the waiting rooms, lounges, and eateries. – The Georgia Straight; 24; Metro; West Ender; the Vancouver Province and The Sun. 

   Percentage* per sample issue of hard news reportage generated by the management team/ownership of:

The Georgia Straight:

24:

Metro:

West Ender:

The V Province:

The Sun:

(*Based on column inches of news in relation to total column inches of newspaper.)

And then you get your fluff pieces, celebrity goop served with vapid repetitiveness; movie and TV listings, and of course those advertisers who do indeed have sway in those respective editorial offices.

   The volume of litter these dailies and periodicals create attests to the fact that without original, independent, investigative reporting these papers are just not keepers.

    This first issue of The English Bay Banner will also be light on investigative reporting as I’m in the hunt for a fearless reporter. More next issue.

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