Angela Burns Replies

It's an interesting idea, Harry, but I don't think it will fly. A bricks and mortar shop is just not smart these days. Authors and publishers need to look outside the 'box' (sorry for the cliche).

I'd much rather see members create a distributor and ensure that books are placed in independent bookstores around BC. Most books are produced in digital format for printing, so a website offering downloadable versions for a small fee would also be a good idea, and generate some income for authors. Websites are cheap.

It's important that authors have their works available to be read - by any means available. E-books are soon going to replace print copies - simply because they will be more accessible. Google and Amazon are gearing up to flood the market with them. I love books and bookstores, but this is the future. If we don't recognize this, we will all go down together.

Readings by the author or a professional 'voice' can be done through audio files and made available online - thereby opening another market for books, and a way to publicize them. Audio books are a huge market.

I don't live in Vancouver, nor do I visit the Mainland - so a bookstore there would have no value to me, either as an author or a publisher. I certainly could not assist in the front.

Also, setting up a printing business is an expensive, complex proposition. It isn't something that can be done in a 'back room'. Print-on-demand shops, like Printorium in Victoria, have economies of scale and technical expertise. I use them and find their product both very good and affordable - as long as one understands the technical side - which I do.

So, digital media has to be considered seriously - websites, audio, visual - even a virtual shop fronts in Second Life. It would be a lot cheaper and give a bigger bang for the buck. Even a chat room devoted to authors and publishers would be helpful. There is open source software for this. We all need to discuss our trade - and not everyone can attend meetings or events.

If we diversify, we may survive.

Cheers,

Angela Burns
GSG Ltd.
Publisher/Editor/Writer/ etc.

Dear Fellow Author,

I’m shopping an idea around to all the members listed in the Federation of B.C. Writers.

Let’s get some publicity and attractive window display for our book(s) at a retail shop that we own. As a group we can afford to rent a store downtown Vancouver and each author will get one week of window display and chance to read and promote their work intensely throughout that week. Before and after, their work will be on the shelf with posters and such to attract attention of the browsers; and as an incentive to the shoppers the writers will always be welcome to commingle on site with their would-be readers. And hobnobbing with fellow writer/authors, some of whom may be wildly successful, might be fun, huh?

To keep costs down, I propose that, given enough of us, we could each do a 4 – 6 hour cashier shift per fortnight and keep the store open from 8 – 8. Other books can be ordered from our computer access to amazon.com at wholesale rates; but the focus of the store will be to promote local writers.

The readings and access to the authors should generate some public interest and hopefully may cover the monthly cost of running the operation. If enough authors are relying on a print-on-demand process, perhaps we could look into printing and binding our own work in the ‘back room.’

It’s all just germinating now so let me know if this idea appeals to you. And if you are enthused about this and would like to see this idea come to fruition then call me about how I can best allocate a half hour a month of your time.

For more on me, see www.deadsearevelation.com or have a cruise around my e-zine at www.ebaybanner.blogspot.com

Cheers, and hope to hear from you.

- Harry Langen

Back in the Saddle

Horseshit from the Mounties
Armed to the teeth with deadly sidearms, batons, their eight trained fists, handcuffs and the currently dubiously underrated electrifying tasers, four members of the RCMP managed to kill an unintoxicated, frustrated man from Poland whose only crime it appears was that he threw a little temper tantrum when he couldn’t find his mother at the airport. Boy did those fellas in the noble serge teach him not to misbehave in Canada… permanently.

As members of that goon squad attempt to defend their deadly behavior on that occasion explaining why one of them over-tasered the poor man from Poland, Mr Robert Dziekanski with five trigger-pulls, others have already retracted and changed their testimony, obviously laying waste to their original horseshit excuses.

FLASH! The video account of the horrendous incident does not reconcile with the testimony of the trigger-puller! Will he now change his original testimony to keep up with the revolving-door testimony of his brothers-in-arms?

It is hoped by Yours Truly that the government of Poland will recognize all this as pathetic ducking and weaving and exercise its right to charge these morons in uniform with manslaughter. Reports of dozens of cases of abuse including incidents of death during incarceration and glaring omissions (leaving a couple lost in the frigid wilderness at Whistler) are shining a light on soiled uniforms and ugly tactics employed by miscreant members of what once was a truly heroic organization.

This load of recruits which were hired during the disgraced former commissioner Zacarelli’s regime seem to be disproportionately populated by thugs having been hauled out of some redneck sewer to dress up in pretty scarlets and long black boots, eager to swing their batons and deploy their tasers a multitude of times (as opposed to deploying their hand-to-hand combat skills which might require a hint of courage). If it were ever proven that these four at the airport were preordained by attitude toward violence during their encounter with the exhausted victim, Mr. Dziekanski – who was apparently in the surrendering mode just prior to being jolted to death – then let the law be enforced to its fullest extent and have these men charged with murder right here in Canada.

The sunny days of Sergeant Preston of the Yukon are clearly past and in view of the many accounts of RCMP abuses in the last decade outdated and obscenely over-romanticized.

Perhaps it’s time for retailers trading in tourist trinkets to remove all RCMP statuettes, bobbleheads, pictures of them parading around on horseys with spears pointed at each other and any other iconography glorifying their heroic past until they clean up their bloody act once and for all.


Prime Minister Rides in for some Wild West Gang-Bashing

In a recent letter to the editor of what used to be an alternative press newspaper and which has weirdly morphed into a celebrity-worship rag, the writer seriously suggested that the Hells Angels be approached to police the other gangs because after all they know the ropes and the inner workings of gang management.


Duh?

Our Prime Minister who apparently privately yearns to win a Prime Mortician Look-a-Like contest thought he would drop by and pretend to inflict some gang-bashing in an effort to stem the flow of bleeding bodies piling up on our streets. By extending the jail term for murder and drive-by gunplay he seriously expects to inject the fear of God into these stoned dunderheads who really couldn’t give a crap about anything. They’ve watched and played so many dehumanizing videos where killing gains them points that now some concrete-haired politician is the least likely to make any kind of impact on their chosen lifestyle.

Let’s get real. The only way to sink their ship is to blow a hole in their treasury. Follow the money. Every ‘successful’ gang is laundering its ill-gotten profits (selling meth and crack to kids) by establishing businesses with legitimate licenses and renting properties from cooperative landlords and using turn-a-blind-eye lawyers to come out on the other side smelling like roses and doing charity work through their local business councils and such.

There’s a simple counter measure here. Just demand of your local common media that all businesses owned by members of gangs be listed in the paper and a boycott called to prevent them from conducting any more over-the-counter trade.

The downtown eastside of Vancouver is in the state it’s in because the gang there is renting property, calling them hostels and fronting the addicts with crack who do their sidewalk trade. Close those hostels and prevent that gang from ever securing any business license whatsoever, forever.

No amount of gushing over the Olympics with the huge cost overruns being allowed is going to distract from the embarrassing truth that Vancouver’s civilian populace isn’t really acting very civil towards its homeless population and its addicts who are being poisoned daily by these gangs. A fraction of the funds that have been earmarked toward the two week Olympic spectacle could go a long way to establish affordable housing, and debugging of current city-owned housing (which defy the health bylaws) and assaulting the so-called legitimate businesses owned by gang members through media supported boycotts.

With the extinction of this moral malaise in Vancouver, rather than deepening it by our persistent indifference we could actually enjoy the Olympics and take pride in our city as we host tourists from around the world, knowing that we are looking after our own and eliminating the elements of an insidious underworld.

Toughen up, folks. It’s the only way.


Curiouser and Curiouser

While the 12 theories of Creationism are abounding in debate clubs around the civilized (ahem) world, we find a mention in Science magazine that footprints precisely resembling modern man were discovered in sedimentary rock in Kenya and dated to 1.5 million years ago.

I wonder how this ancient prehistoric man amused himself in those way-bygone days? Given the propensity of the native cultures for casino-building one might be apt to guess gambling might have been part of their leisurely way, after all that hunting and gathering or pizza delivering. Who’s to say?

And then there was that bee in amber dating back tens of millions of years ago and with bees, don’t we find honey and where’s there’s honey are there not bears and perchance to dream - bear rugs?


In short, it would appear that the ecological balances to sustain man and beast have been with us for what might be described as time immemorial. Somewhat bolstering my mentor’s rather brave comment I heard when of the tender age of 17 he spoke, “Man has always been man.” And his interesting ‘cousin-comment’: “There is nothing new under the sun.” Which supports my own belief that enlightenment must occur here in this dynamic environment, on this splendid earth, amidst these wondrous elements and under that mysterious personality of the infinite which manifests itself as the radiant sun. No matter how many lifetimes it takes. We need to acknowledge the perfection around us and then allow ourselves to be enjoined with it.

And who knows? Those footprints probably belong to one of our previous manifestations and here we are still fumbling along denying our perfection. Oh blessed day, come hither.


Something Wicked This Way Comes

At 89, James Lovelock, has made a seriously dire prediction about what we as a species can expect in the not-too-distant future. Lovelock, the scientist who originally rang the bell of warning that the earth, being a unified living organism he called Gaia, was at risk from man's bumbling about the delicate balances of the eco-system.

Our great grandchildren will inherit death on a grand, cataclysmic scale with rising sea levels, floods and the creation of new deserts. And this soothsaying he believes is founded in reliable science which affirms to him that this doomsday scenario is too late to avert.

Oh wicked day, get thee thither.




My Mother's Passing

Two days before I knew my mother was gravely ill I wrote the following...
You can kiss the underside of the ground upon which Yahovah walks and persevering with whispering prayers and persistent to the point of annoyance to all, witness Him - at last! - pluck you into divinity.

Such is the bounty of Light.

My mother, Molly Sullivan Langen Pirie, passed away two days later on December 15th, 2008 after a two day ordeal and a second heart attack. She refused to have her hospital room phone hooked up (to prevent I suppose worrying her sons. She said at the time, "I'll wait til I get home.") so I could only pass messages on to her through the nurses. I suspected she was quite ill and so my last message was "You're not alone." She died the next morning at 3 a.m.

It was her good fortune that her parish priest was by the day before on his rounds and noticed her and correctly detected her grave state. He offered her the Last Rites and she accepted happily.

She died in peace in the eyes of her Lord.

As a church elder and member in the Catholic Women's League she was also responsible for the cemetery where many of the Langens are buried - the Sacred Heart Catholic Cemetery, at Red Rapids. She had fundraised for its upkeep and the establishing of a bell there to be rung at times of interment. Appropriately, as though by Design, it rang the first time for Molly's.

The following memorial was passed out at her 'viewing' at the funeral home and all 50 copies were taken up gladly by my distant cousins, great uncles and her many friends.

She was born in the year of the Tiger, 1926, according to the Chinese astrological calendar. And this ancient lore informs us that Tiger people are sensitive, given to deep thinking, capable of great sympathy. They can be short-tempered and occasionally impulsive but are courageous and powerful souls. Maybe Molly’s life was indeed written in the Chinese skies because it’s not far off the mark at all.

In the war years, Molly was the eldest of four sisters whose father, Louis, had recently been killed in a roadside accident as he was walking his plow horses home. To help her mother Mary, Molly was picking enough potatoes to fill 80 barrels a day earning 10 cents a barrel, and at week’s end she sure was looking forward to her night of dancing at the old Silver Slipper dance hall. This, she made the point to Mary, was her treat to herself.

She managed to save $12 for a bicycle and began to make personalized Christmas Card sales biking to the old farm homes separated by two or three miles each. She was well received by her neighbours, many of whom began to eventually rely on their charming young saleslady for magazine subscriptions, cosmetics, information and gossip about their little community of Rowena and their Victoria County. Molly had established her sales run and was very pleased to find her innovativeness, courage and perseverance paying off at $50 profit a day! She saw an ad in a slick magazine for a Buick Wildcat and Lord Jesus by God did she ever want that! And a Wildcat just like her, bustin’ out with mischief and life, all revvin’ to get up and go and not so hard on the eyes either.

But she would still be making her sales by bicycle for some time yet remembering fondly from those exhilarating days her first tippling episode, with Mrs Ed Tomlinson who got along famously with Johnny Barley Corn. In that one afternoon Molly managed $62 in profit and a precarious and wobbly ride home. (Good thing they didn’t bring charges in those days against young lasses for operating a bicycle while under the influence.)


At 18, Molly started to teach school at Crombie Settlement with 13 students, from grade one to six. She excelled at teaching, her attentiveness to each pupil, her loving care, her bounty of good human qualities all came to shine in the classroom. She remembers to this day how those students were so “sweet and well behaved, and so willing to learn.”

And they remembered her. Isaac Goodine remembered his teacher, Miss Sullivan, and decades later recom-mended her for the Certificate of Appreciation which was presented to her by Mr Goodine, then the Chair of Human Relations, World Academy of Letters, on October 7th, 2004. It read in part, “She is a most inspirational and caring teacher who guided me through the 6th grade and is still a loving mentor today.”

Her young teaching career included the schools at Foley Brook, New Denmark, and Gladwyn with 52 students from grade one to eight (including two of her sisters); the California Settlement; Medford and South Tilley.

She married the war-ravaged George Langen when he returned from duty on the front line and had three sons by him - Roger, Scott and Ronnie. The family moved to Toronto following so many other maritimers to the big city. George worked with a law firm there playing “wrinkle-fender” every night to get home while she dabbled in real estate sales and waitressing before landing another teaching job, this time for six years at St Philip Neri in Downsview, Ontario. There they bought their first real home for $10,000 on Lorne Bruce Drive in 1955. It was a cold mile in winter to walk to school every day.

All the boys attended St Philip Neri and Molly looked out for each of them, managing to cover their medical expenses and boyhood needs while her brilliant husband George was holding court, dispensing free legal advice to the neighbours bearing beers, and gradually descending into alcoholism. He was often heard lamenting his move from the forests and fishing streams of New Brunswick.

Molly had to make way for more academically qualified teachers coming to St Philip’s. She had served the nuns as chauffeur and gave much of her personal time to that institution but it was time to find another job and she did at the Toronto International Airport as an insurance saleslady. She started at 5 a.m. and after her shift there was over at two p.m. she went to work at Lockhart’s on Jane St. keeping books and once again building a sales network, this time for auto parts.

Seven solid years of work at the airport came to a close when the ladies were let go for younger lasses. Molly had learned by then that injustices were commonplace in the work environment of the modern world, especially for women.

She was building the Lockhart business and soon became a celebrity – “Molly the Muffler Lady” featured in newspapers and on national radio. With the Lockharts, she bought lakefront acreage around Bracebridge, Ontario and built a “hunt lodge” (called such to get around building inspector licensing problems). It turned out as a magnificent many-roomed cottage, and her son Scott and his wife Trudy bought land adjacent to it. Many happy autumns were spent there hunting deer, and in summer with the children of relatives and friends playing in the yard.

She finally returned to New Brunswick in the mid 90’s and made all the applications necessary to return her hospitalized husband there too. George died after two decades of institutional-ized veteran’s care during which Molly never abandoned his personal welfare nor neglected to bring him his smokes and new clothes.

She was courted by the charming Alton Pirie of Tilley, NB, a successful landowner and potato farmer, and father of 11, and she married him when they were both in their 70’s.

She keeps busy visiting her old friends, dancing at the halls, playing cards with her Aunt Bea and writing emails and letters to her family, friends and the politicians she lambastes - and touring in her gutsy new Chevy Impala (having somewhat outgrown her old Buick Wildcat).

Her boys have all met with varying degrees of success: Roger as a teacher and union executive; Scott as a business owner and salesman (both husbands and fathers in Ontario) and Ronnie as a writer and more recently a real estate salesman in Vancouver.

She is the doting grandmother of seven, and stays in touch with each of their lives, always with a kind word and a patient ear.

Her many nephews and nieces, though spread across the continent, all are very dear to her and they regularly swap stories.

Her boys have all inherited Molly’s compassionate nature for people and are proud to know that she is remembered most fondly by not only her many former students, the Dionnes, Goodines, Finnemores, Rattrays, ONeils, Kinneys, Hamiltons and Brooks and countless others but also her old clients, the Bakers, Boones, DeMerchants and so many more.

When any one of them encounter her dropping in on socials in their beloved rural New Brunswick, they respond with warmth and affectionate hugs.

And quite naturally there are many in heaven who still remember the wildcat on the bicycle who brightened their days with her laughter, her stories and her love. Indeed, as such God-given love of humanity is to be remembered and cherished forever.

Green Motors?

While the CEO’s of Ford (Mustang!), Chrysler (LeBaronski!) and GM (Caddilacky!) are presenting hats-in-hand while getting paid millions in bonuses every year for their accumulated losses, may I make a teensy suggestion that might have a very nice compact... impact, impact! Chevy chevy, eh, ya know? Sawee.

Go ahead and take 50 million out of the original 750 million the feds were going to use to bail out the mortgage holders or buy bank shares (or roll dice) and hope the Americans take this rare opportunity to insist on a couple of conditions:

1. No more golden parachutes for exiting executives and keep their salaries and bonuses within a range that doesn’t appear obscene to the rest of those taxpayers whose money they’re pleading for;

2. Pay back this principal amount at bank prime + one (devilishly ironic, bank shares et al);

3. And by far most importantly: insist that these Big Three - whose cars look like each other's and who could not, or refused to see the inevitable consumer trend to smaller, less gas guzzling vehicles of lesser emissions - just go green.

And that’s what this 50 million should be used for: retooling their factories to create electric and crossover, city-friendly vehicles. Then all those zoom-zoomers at every little red/green light in cities, braking hither and thither can finally relax and stop counting their gas-fueled frustrations amidst all their noise.

I always did know: the louder your vehicle the smaller your ... (ahemski). Just ask the Hell's Weenies. "Vroom, vruh, cough, cough, see my big belly and hairy ass hangin' out. WOW am I cool!" I suppose it's too much to ask those morons to just give us all some relief from their means of coping with their shortage in the manly dept.

After all this minor revolution directed by goodness, we can finally and legitimately ask GM to change its name: Green Motors.


BoobToobitis?

The University of Maryland analyzed 34 years of data collected from more than 45,000 participants and found that watching TV might make you feel good in the short term but is more likely to lead to overall unhappiness. - Reuters/Hollywood Reporter

You mean after watching all those gratuitously violent, shamelessly vulgar, intellectually vapid, joyless programmes we might actually not feel so hot after a big dose of viewing?

As if the so-called TV Standards people didn't know this for decades. Now that these programmers, producers and celebrities have created this embarrassingly massive appetite for crap, me-wonders how we get back to genuinely interesting and rewarding television viewing?

NO POPPY FOR ME

My Dad was a war hero. Last one left for dead at Rimini. And then his letters show he was prepared and expecting to return to the front.

After the war he suffered the memories of his dead fellows in the river of blood. As to his command: “The failure taught a useful lesson: not again in Italy in the 11th Brigade was a Company dispatched to take a Battalion objective.”

My Dad suffered and was hospitalized for 24 years as a veteran. After his death, successive federal governments stole his and other veterans’ estates from their families by not allowing them interest on the monies accrued and not permitting their families an inheritance.

My eldest brother has been waiting four years to receive from the Veteran’s Affairs Dept my Dad’s war record. So far nothing.

So much for all this weepy sentimentalism.

Blow somebody else’s horn.

Winning Back Our Earth

This morning as I strolled I noticed a patch of ground, ¼ block perhaps, that had been transformed into an urban garden. I couldn’t make out exactly which vegetables were growing as the gate was locked but it reminded me of my mentor’s comment: “All you need is food, shelter and the company of loved ones.” In this holus bolus part of Vancouver (downtown eastside, Hastings) it is well to bear those words with us day to day.

And why are we so busy as a society exporting crap, importing crap from China and manufacturing jobs that have nothing to do with “the company of loved ones” or eating?

It is time to deindustrialise. Industrialisation was born only 100 or so years ago and born from greed. And now it is consuming our earth in harrowing ways (ask the polar bears).

Deindustrialise now. Make more gardens until the urban area is full of brightly coloured veggies for all. And easy on the eyes.

Of Principles and Fundamental Value…

After watching closely the presidential race for the most powerful position in the world and witnessing the occasional gaffes of both candidates (McCain parading around the TV debate stage was hilariously unpresidential - wound up with too much gravitas maybe), I have concluded that the Americans need the leadership presented in the qualities of Mr Barack Obama.


Qualities of leadership are sometimes hard to define but not really hard to spy. When a man speaks consistently with passion about what he believes and his content returns regularly to the human condition, and he seems to yearn for a better world for all, inclusive even of the disenfranchised, then his integrity may begin to become visible. And that’s who you want to support in any field, associate with and point your children to as an example of successful living – even if that individual has suffered most of his life for his principles, to wit: Nelson Mandela.

We use in our society a kind of rewards system and too often unfortunately short term greed is rewarded with a quick buck, and inevitably a golden handshake and the keys to an escape hatch.

For our society to be more effectively fortified to withstand major upheavals like the current financial collapse, we need to reward more people of principle who demonstrate their will for peace and the intelligence to bring it about and show daily their commitment to goodness, charitableness and the promotion of universal love. This is not, I believe, a namby pamby or pollyanna approach. Quite the contrary: by supporting such individuals and representative organizations we can eventually divine the inherent power of righteousness as it transforms, subtlely but certainly, the moral fabric and colour of our global society from a kind of grey bleakness to that of an astonishingly bright sunrise rife with fresh ideas and the sweeping hues of hope.

It is sad to say that as I work within the Canadian junior mining industry I find very little of this newness and strength of commitment to long-term gains of happiness and joyously righteous business. Where are the leaders who are prepared to stand up and have their company counted now as one of fundamental, long term value? The rather disgusting truth of it is that more 90% of my initial contacts with this group of CEO’s is met with a lie: that voice mail which informs me, “And I’ll get back to you shortly” or some such empty promise. They don’t, which is just rude and reflective of their lack of interest in any decency of humanity and clearly indicative of their single-minded, narrow drive and blind greed. If I were, however, to call and leave a message on their deceptive little machine that I was actively interested in laying out some serious moolah for them to manipulate, methinks I would be graced with a return call.


And now that their shit is hitting the fan, these CEO’s, once all full of promises of heydays, are hiding on tall limbs in high trees somewhere in the general vicinity of their splashy offices, licking their wounds and mapping their escape route.

Is it any wonder then that our global economic circumstance - somewhat billowing out from a Wall Street obscenely populated as it is with clowders of fat alley cats - is in such dire condition? With those lords of the iniquitous at the helm, we can all expect more of this short term desperate lurching and little of the long term success that principled men and women might bring to bear upon our current, rather pathetic situation. The steady-handed and clear-headed can be found among those exasperated people who have been trying to ring the bell of righteous business for their lifetimes. Find among them your leaders.

The voices of these principled gentlefolk are still being muzzled by the recent wailing and breast beating of those former glad-handers and back-slappers of the old regime who chortled shamelessly in dark corners and sneered at the people who abide by “the still small voice.”

Mr Obama, I suspect, wouldn’t last long in that company of patented shit-eating grins, and thank God for that and good luck to him. In this climate of impossible avarice he’s going to need all the luck the sun can muster.

Leadership Credentials?

The following letter was posted to the Vancouver Sun and The Globe and Mail on Sept 26th.

The only way this amateur pundit can imagine the victory of the Liberals is if Michael Ignatieff and Bob Rae step up to the plate more aggressively; or if they have, that the general media cover their speeches. Otherwise, ordinary Canadians are being shortchanged as to the qualitiies and benefits of these particular statesmen and the real contribution they can make to all Canadians.


To focus soley on the leaders of the respective parties seems too much inclined to personalities (Harper the Mortician and Dion the fussy professor) and not the principles of those parties. While it seems so cheap for people to hop parties, regardless of principle, I felt I understood Rae's swapping parties. Why not have sway to bring about good change? Not an unusual dilemma I suppose.

Let us not discourage too many worthy potential candidates. Just keep an eye. Keep an eye on the moral compass of your candidates.

To paraphrase the core statement of the Vedic Sciptures re politics as found in the Baghavad Gita: "Politics is the eternal sea of Maya (darkness and confusion, up and down chaos)."

But what choice do we have? Hobson's choice is all. Hope is our ultimate and only choice and intellect is a reasonable guide. Why not sail on with some comfort? -end

So now we can not only see what little role did these two play in the campaign but we can now reasonably presume that by their quietness they were angling for leadership positioning since having allowed the captain of their ship to steer into the fog, and likely political oblivion. I can't imagine worse leadership credentials than the sharpness of your blade and skill at shoving it in from behind.

The No-Vote Smart-Asses

Of eligible voters, 49% were no-shows at the ballot box. So here comes your local news reporter asking if you voted today.

"Nope. I don't vote."

"No. I never have."

"No. I don't understand the politics."

"Sawee." (Vancouver)

Etc etc.

When these nicely dressed smart-ass nobodies find themselves in a foreign jail, maybe they will reconsider the value of the government they might have voted in.

Or during their next defense against being crowded by bad opinion they might appreciate the ultimate social value of democracy.

But methinks they play video games too much (97% of our teens) and us adults watch Disteria Lane (or something). There is a form of intellectual debauchery in which animated corpses might have membership and those no-thinkers are goose-stepping with the best of them.

Discovering the Depth of the Moral Black Holes

Well, well.
How deep the people are now paying where it hurts to have discovered the moral black holes of their communities. They used to be visible at every corner but as they retreated, consolidating their so-called services (charging you to give you your money and colluding among themselves about those fees), we are now witnessing this humongous "bailout" of the banking industry. Those very places which make you cue up in herd-like fashion waiting dumbly for the slaughter. And they make you wait so long that whatever illusion you may have had about seeing your deposits increase goes up in smoke and mirrors but not before golden handshakes of zillions of dollars handed over to those very same people who have caused this economic collapse and the loss of peoples' pensions, investments etc.
And they still (those bankers) have those silly little Charity ads on their counters while you're attempting to conduct your business in some privacy (gooda lucka).
Yeah... it was just the more obviously greedy U.S. bankers who needed the 'bailout' because our Cdn fellows were so much more shrewd... keeping us waiting and upping their fees. And more tightfisted about supporting the entrepreneurs who ultimately make their system tick. The shame belongs easily as much to the Cdn banks as it does to the other world banks being nationalized (good thinking. Nationalize the pharmaceutical industry while you're at it!).

Defying 'Black October'

My message to CEO's first week of 'Black October'

“Keep a level head and see the opportunities that are there.”
–Fred Ketchen, Scotiabank Investment Guru.

This is an extremely tense but exciting time to be involved in mining in Canada and the choices we make today about our Jr Mining Cos or our investments will tell our tale in years to come.

I feel very strongly that recovery is on its way now that the 850 billion dollar bill passed in Congress and banks and governments internationally are cooperating. Hobson’s Choice or Global Economic Collapse. Duh?

Now is the time to pitch to the “cherry-pickers” looking for the hot deals, buying low. Now is the time to show that your enterprise has fundamental value, a sound rationale for valuing its properties, and this moment as an excellent time to jump into the game.

Great opportunities are abounding now especially with those companies which boast promising properties and a management team of unadulterated integrity.

That’s the message I believe you, as CEO, should be getting out now, defying the pessimists and reminding investors everywhere how much you believe in your operations. Besides, panicking doesn’t become the CEO of an important and prestigious corporation.

Call me today and be part of my inaugural issue, Harry Langen’s Mining.NOW. The astute in the industry will be sure not to miss this provocative new magazine. All 40,000 of them.

Harry's New Venture

LEAD EDITORIAL
With the oceans of grief and the prevalence of conflict being sustained by almost all forms of the popular media, it is the intent of Mining.NOW to enjoy and bring a sense of pleasure and relief to an otherwise staid industry.
Mining.NOW will deliver a readership by consistently showcasing the happier side of the business of promoting with which most junior mining CEO’s are pre-occupied. The stories featured in these pages will be forward-looking without being wishy-washy and will include those words of the CEO’s as they elucidate their vision and strategy for success of their companies.

Also though, and as importantly, hilarious anecdotes of their early days as prospectors and their misadventures will be included. The forests of North and South America veil many of these stories and the mists of time will cloud them forever if writers don’t unearth them.

New land leases, junior mining plays, mergers and ore-producing enterprises will be covered in all the heroic or checkered details.

It is commonly the objective of the junior mining executives to secure takeover by the majors and that is their definition of success. It’s the thrill of these deals as they are being constructed that we hope to capture. And to remind us all of the necessity of ethical conduct to guide us through the complicated maze of deal-making, number-crunching and huffing fly-by-nighters we will focus on some of the more derelict deeds of the VSE in its shameful heyday. When playing the shell game you really are supposed to find a peanut eventually.

As for myself, I was recently canned by one publication after I attempted some due diligence and asked to see their distribution credentials and print run docket. I was met with significant (and telling?) hostility. So Mining.NOW will show the print docket for each issue – starting at 20,000 – and will offer a transparent documentation of our distribution strategy.

Our rates are 20% less than that dubious Brand X for which I worked and our credentials will, as mentioned, be made irrevocably clear. To publish means to distribute. No argument there.

Our management will be client-focused as opposed to a kind of arrogant pro-management characterized by mindless bullying; and our commitment to service will be relentless in accommodating the client requirements. Welcome. To the adventure that is Mining.NOW.

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Joy

Continuity of pleasure is given through intimacy with the truth.

A Weekend Day, Downtown, Last Day of Summer

I travelled by bus, alongside all the zombie-like passengers looking out at the downpour on a Saturday (that morning the weatherwoman proclaimed gleefully that we were in for a grand day). After having phoned ahead and speaking to the proprietor and making a verbal deal I got skunked anyway at the store on Main by 14th for $10.
On the way out nature called and as soon as I went into a Starbucks to relieve myself my bus had come and gone. A fellow rushed from behind me and managed to catch the bus while I was running after him and missed it. I walked toward Kingsway to give myself the option of more busses at that stop and just before I got to the junction there, the Kingsway bus passed and I was getting soaked while starting to fume. I was tempted to walk the rest of way in the rain but my nice suit jacket was becoming a bit weepy.

The bus finally came and I trudged on and joined the melancholy lot. I got off at Chinatown and wound my way through the milling crowd of Asians oblivious to my presence, so I had to duck and dodge their pointy umbrellas.

When I got to Cordova I observed a blind woman I had seen before walking alone and looking quite disoriented. She finally cried: "Can anyone help me?" I felt compelled to assist her and we walked and chatted three blocks out of my way through crowds of addicts and idiots who made the going rough; worse than Chinatown. But Brenda was a delight. I escorted her to the Carnegie Library where she wanted me to lead her to an outside post where I suppose she was going to meet someone. I felt for her situation. She was in the thick of the downtown eastside with desperate crackheads swarming about and entirely vulnerable. I left her there.

As I crossed Hastings Street I recognized my young friend Sean whose countenance betrayed being crestfallen about something. He informed me that he discovered his half brother yesterday hanging. Sean called the coroner and the police. He was then apprehended by the police and insensitively interrogated for three hours. He said he was all cried out. I gave him a small hug and told him to call me later.

My dearest and most troubled friend called when I got home and I said I could see him in three hours. He showed up an hour later at the door downstairs and while he's not allowed in the building and I could get evicted if I let him in, in his intoxicated state he couldn't give a rat's ass as he was quite insistent about coming up. I resisted him and just left him standing there by the door and I walked away alone. I was getting rather despondent and just walked it off in Gastown where all the moronic tourists gather around that silly steam clock and each snap their little cameras when the thing blows off a teensy puff of vapour. To me this fascination is plainly infantile.

Eventually I returned home and received three calls from my troubled friend who sounded delusional and again insistent about sneaking in. I just turned off the intercom for a while and when I clicked it back on Sean buzzed and I shared dinner with him.

In retrospect, the most pleasant aspect of that Saturday was the stroll through the hordes of maniacs with the brave and delightful Brenda. God keep her safe and may Sean's step-brother rest now in peace.

Almost forgot: I got a rare visit from a neighbour in this building who wanted to pick up a splitter for his TV. He was unusually talkative and he shared his background: from Winnipeg, raised as a polite, well mannered child; was born from an alcoholic so suffered attention deficit; abused at home by a relative; and after arriving in Vancouver as an adult became addicted to heroin which he now declares as his means of getting anything accomplished. Occasionally he spray-paints arenas for employment. With his straggly blonde hair and jerky manner he reminds me of the scarecrow from Oz. This two-time manslaughterer was pleased to inform me that to this day he stands for the elders on busses relinquishing his seat and opens doors for women. Gotcha.

President Hockey Mom?

The first decision of the next Captain of the World...

"Duh?"

Hey Vlad, you ready for her?

Clinton Supporters Going To McCain
What happened to those Hilary Clinton supporters' Democratic Party principles? Their bloody sour grapes can cost the whole globe's welfare. Crippling Obama's election campaign will only deliver another four years of Bush-style creepiness. What cretins.

China Gushing

The Globe and Mail,
The Vancouver Sun

Dear Editors,

All this gushing in the general media about how niftily the powers-that-be in China handled the Olympics and the assorted sentimental ceremonies serves to eliminate or diminish the memory of their brutal management of the students at Tiananmen Square.

How about some real investigative reporting and find out what happened to the lone rebel student who faced down the line of tanks that day (like yesterday) on June 5th, 1989.

His name remains obscured and his fate unknown.

Why not let us all see what became of him and then give the Chinese government their due?

The Rational Act?

Some time more than 10 years ago, I asked in the original editorial of The Nelson Village Voice after fulminating somewhat, "Is suicide a rational act..?" in this day, era. And then after, within this context we describe as time, a friend committed suicide. He was to others a healer. A homeopath. With a Phd in biochemistry.

He left behind a wife and son. Somewhere in that mix was his problem I suspect. He used a gun. And he left a few people bewildered and shaken.

He was my intellectual partner for decades and the man whom I modelled the character of Eric Summerman after in my book. The depth of his anguish is beyond me and I'm sure his son too. But all our prayers now will help him escape the misty grey zone (which he visited while human) and his sense, every wave, of being so lost.

Rest in peace, brother. Your laughter and joyous moments will be remembered and will continue to increase the body of God.

The (unwitnessed) Magnificence of Man

For the first few years after I returned to Vancouver from the Kootenays, I walked and shopped alone. Having been on my own since I was 16 arriving from Toronto at English Bay in 1968 to join the sand mites, I was accustomed to my aloneness and park benches. What I didn’t expect this time in this new millenium was the indifference of everyone I encountered. Perfected indifference. Zip for progress in the spiritual zone.

From my perspective as I strolled by these people who thought they were tuned in, they were just i-puddled, completely under the human climate, almost subterranean in their awareness of their fellow human beings. And they think that’s cool. To me it’s cold. Very. The only time I heard a human voice aside from someone taking my money at a counter was when I heard, “Sawhee,” or something similarly spoken by another disinterested neighbourhood shopper who manages to bump into me with their human lights turned off.

And the house I’ve lived in for years is populated by isolated individuals whose show of politeness borders on seething contempt. And they’re all depressed from what I can gather. So I’m escaping. The property janitor acts like a Lord while he mumbles about the property unintelligibly and the security guards who live here spy at my quiet-as-doormouse visitors imagining that we’re all cooking up crack every night. And they report this slander to the arrogant bully of a property manager who took over control of the house from an 82 year old female owner who sells her long-dead husband's clothes on the sidewalk and keeps the lights indoors turned off to save ten cents. Sometimes, the tenants here have gone without shower services for three days because of this unabashed greed and fear of paying plumbers. Yawn.

It's all in keeping with this 'new age' of unadulterated greed and self-indulgence. People in this mass media age are throwing off words like the sensationalist newscasters they listen to every day. Meaningless, and resulting word by word in the unravelling of any sense of civilization.

Sneermeisters in their super-cars pumping and braking at every little light in the west end (raging?) and urban pet owners with their stretcho-leashes pompously hogging the sidewalks are all wasting their humanity as they overlook that vastness of the individual who walks by, head up, and looks them in the eye, to absolutely no avail. The doggie-freaks preoccupied with being bent over as they are scooping the excrement of their little precious.

In the case of that individual where his charitableness is automatic, he is the one of true wealth, who upon each encounter with another human being will detect beauty, the depth of God’s love and mercy and the magnificence of man. Upon every encounter joy and the full wind of freedom will reach him.

And who would know if the one passing you by was the Righteous Teacher? What do we do? We sweep past them grandly gazing at the sidewalk, pondering, ever pondering. How would you know? Keep staring at the sidewalk listening to your bizarre, self-chilling tunes. Another animated corpse, "...less than a scratch on the surface of the earth."

Considered Master

I ask you not to speak of our father's will. While I continually falter in my own will to serve the deserved, I aspire and believe without doubt even in this wicked, chaotic world honour will be served true. Considered master, your emanicpation merits service... even here in the long, radiant shadow of that unspeakably sublime will.
-Stephen (the swimmer)

Duck Ponds and Dog Days of Summer

Ducks, little to my foreknowledge, quite enjoy sticking their asses up for a special tan and while paddling their orange tootsies, manage to feed themselves unabashedly. All quite hilarious as Stephen and I watched nature in all her bounty at the edge of Lost Lagoon. We can sit for hours.

We have found special benches where we can sit again in quietness and enjoy peace while observing the loveliness of Stanley Park from what seems like unlimited perspectives. Once, when we found what we thought was an unpopular trail, one man came struggling through the underbrush furtively and managed to examine us without a word; and then another from the other direction and then I realized we were in a gay zone of anonymous sex fiends. Oh well. They were surely not predisposed to conversation… panting and exhibiting animal propensities. Perhaps they succeeded in finding each other but they didn’t succeed in communicating the vastness of their humanity. Stephen and I were equally repulsed.

But for some comic relief we always watch the urban dog-owners with their stretcho- leashes which command the sidewalks until they have to bend over and heel as they 'scoop' their dog's remainings. Ah, and who's the master.


I am gratified that Stephen can make tuna salad sandwiches and his sense of generosity is so plain he reminds me of the hospitable maritimers I am so thankful to have as my ancestors. He continues every day to come to life, swimming sometimes as though baptised again and it is a mercy to witness. Hope.

Colours in the Sky

When the hordes of people were flowing towards English Bay for the first night of the fireworks, Stephen and I were going in the opposite direction. We were strolling (or loping as Steve does in his rather mystical way) towards Lost Lagoon and hoping to find some quiet spot away from the mob where we might catch some of the celestial display.

On a path before the Lost Lagoon area, we found a spot, hesitated there and watched when the boomings of the fireworks began and looked up and discovered that we had actually found a perfect little place right on that path which afforded us the best possible and private view of the spectacular fireworks. Tucked in between the canopy of the trees. Every colourful explosion in the sky we could see. And somehow we knew it was for our private pleasure. A tremendous gift from the personality of the infinite and it went on for long enough for Stephen and I to know we were being given something.

Thus Man

The divine breath is an explosion. It takes form, gives rise to voice and then to words. And words, their insistent meanings compel the existence of other souls. All by perfect necessity.

The voice sets the original harmony which establishes the form for all pleasantness of hearing. The severe words enjoin curiosity with adventure and creativity. This song is daring the void, impelling a response.

Thus creation. Thus continuity.

Thus Man.

The Elders

(the unedited version of letter published today in Globe and Mail)

Dear Editor:

Re: the Elders

Your article was particularly fascinating to me. Ten years ago I hustled Pierre Trudeau in Nelson, B.C. for an interview. He declined at first but then he read my letter and back issues of The Nelson Village Voice which I was publishing at the time. He wanted to respond to the third and last question in my letter: Is there a necessity to put in place (in writing) a moral imperative as in a global creed by which all countries, corporations and religious fiefdoms must abide?

He replied that indeed, “Yes. A Charter of Obligations. We have a Charter of Rights. We need a Charter of Obligations.”

He informed me as I escorted him around town that he had indeed been working with former heads of state (including Jimmy Carter) known as the Interaction Council on a document entitled The Universal Declaration of Human Responsibilities.

After subsequent correspondence with Mr Trudeau, he graciously permitted me to become its publisher (even before its “ratification” by the Council). Unfortunately, this important document, though on the internet and published by me, received little acclaim. That edition which featured it was even trashed by the Nelson librarian for “lack of space.”

It is most gratifying now, however, to see a similar moral creed being advanced today by such luminaries. Mr Trudeau would be thrilled to see these saints marching in.

Friends and Sprites

The day before yesterday I was sitting out front with my dear friend, Stephen, and while we were enjoying each other's company - quietly as he is disposed to be rather untalkative - we saw what appeared like a little sprite dancing about the lawn right in front of us. It seemed like its personality was playful and mischievous. I was quite excited having seen my first faerie, the whole while Stephen seemed to be taking it all in his usual stride, which is a kind of lope and sweep. Finally, my upstairs neighbour, Jim arrived and saw the origin of this little light emanation - it was a reflection from his upstairs neighbour, John's yellowish, glittering fabric studded with rhinestones all being windblown.

Oh well. Maybe I'll find a leprachaun sometime before I expire and tell you all about it.

Meanwhile, I have been hosting guys living 'rough' and one at a time they sleep on my floor, snoring in peace at last and help themselves rather aggressively to the fridge. I think they eat out of fear of starvation. But they are each great company for a man like me. They're adventurers and just need some TLC. And a bigger fridge.

B.C. Surplus?

Dear Globe and Mail Editor,

So Carole Taylor and her criminal partner, Premier something Campbell (see Hawaii driving record and his hesitation to admit to his identity at the cop-shop) are now boasting about a $4.1 billion provincial "surplus."

Ask anybody who considers themselves a Vancouverite and then tourists: Why is this city suffering such growing numbers of helplessly depressed and then deliberately addicted numbers of young and old alike? These sons and daughters and otherwise (when not desperate) decent human beings have been tossed off welfare (that extremely inadequate monthly pittance) so this creepy government and lovely Carole and her 'budget' shoes can brag and dance about reducing the bean-count of welfare recipients.

Would somebody please rescue this province from this ethical evacuation we call leadership here? Corky (former NDP leadership candidate): Are you out there? Mr Evans, please?

Published, July 9, Vancouver Sun

Dear Editor,

Re Disabled Veterans

Despite the Ontario Appeal Court's technical ruling against the disabled veterans and their families which supports the vile act of the Brian Mulroney parliament to disown veterans and their families of their estates, the moral outrage is alive and visceral.

(My own father was a war hero who was wounded at Rimini, Italy.)

Even the judges in the original case made it plain they were holding their noses in favour of the technical right of parliament to block interest on veterans' pensions before 1990. Throughout this ugly process over the years, judges have characterized that parliamentary move as outright theft. Ottawa has always admitted mismanaging the veterans’ funds as far back as the First World War, by failing to invest the money or to credit them with any interest.

Only Prime Minister Stephen Harper can set this moral compass right. That sole responsibility during these trying times among our soldiers and their families belongs now to him alone. Now that all the fed lawyers have been paid (at enormous taxpayers' expense), make a decent offer, Mr Prime Minister.

Visages of the Slaughtered

THE POLITICS OF COURAGE

Pale and distressed, the man had the look of a poet or doctor. He might have been 32. His face was sensitive, intelligent. From the black and white video it seemed clear that his hands must have been tied behind his back. The source of his distress was clear; his head was under a boot and a heavy knife was being drawn against his neck, like a violin. A thin line of blood and an inarticulate utterance followed it. The excellence of the audio became all too clear when the knife was re-applied with cutting force, and the head wiggled strangely and screamed. The Nova Scotia professor in our group was unable to sleep for two nights.

We had gathered in the bar of the Caviar Hotel in Bogota, Colombia, to hear a presentation by Jose Fernando Ramirez. He is an executive committee member of USO, Colombia’s national oil union. His bodyguards could be seen waiting outside in the sunlight. Jose had survived seven assassination attempts, the last one the previous Tuesday. The dark-tinted SUV we all crammed in to go to supper, like the bodyguards, was provided by the government, except the official “risk assessment” for Jose did not qualify the vehicle for bullet proof windows. I thought about that as I sat in Jose’s seat speeding through the city. I kept an eye out for high cylinder motorbikes.

The snuff film was a Chechnyan import. It was used by Jose’s employer at the refinery to send a message to the union. Also on the laptop we saw “mug shots” of the union leaders. The employer posted these to the paramilitaries, complete with full names, addresses; telephone, social insurance, and employee numbers; alleged links to the insurgents; and even colourful nicknames like Pinky, The Boss, and so on.

I was in Colombia to help the Federation of Agricultural Workers’ Unions, FENSUAGRO, celebrate 30 years of survival. OSSTF was an ally. With me from Canada, the U.K., Australia, Spain, and Ecuador were other unionists, organic farmers, academics, and “international accompanists” like the Christian Brigade. At lunch by the hotel pool, we were watched by soldiers with machine guns. Jose observed that the presence of internationals like us was an even stronger protection than bodyguards.

The previous month in November, the International Trade Union Confederation, based in Geneva, had released its Report for the WTO General Council Review of the Trade Policies of Colombia. It wasn’t pretty. Colombia remains the undisputed king of anti-unionism, accounting for nine out of every ten trade unionists killed globally. “In 2005,” the ITUC adds, “44 of the 70 trade unionists killed were working in the education sector.” The report stresses that the “involvement of state authorities needs to be underlined.”

Of particular concern for Canadians is the alleged involvement of CIDA and Canadian corporations in the repression of Colombian unions. According to the NGO, Mining Watch, CIDA has had a hand in re-writing Colombian mining law to allow for the diminishment of energy sector unions and the setting of fabulous royalty rates for Canadian and other resource extraction multinationals. These companies, in turn, sign “corporate security contracts” with the Colombian army/paramilitaries, which then take video, helicopter, and chainsaws out to measure community and union dissent.

As we pulled up to Jose Fernando’s home, we were met by yet another bodyguard, the last chill in our evening. Inside everything was warm. There were books, art on the wall, food and drink. The hospitality made us jovial. We played a game. The prize was a book of poetry by Jose’s old friend, a metallurgical worker assassinated two years previously. The room swelled momentarily with feeling.

Although assassinations take place in the city, most of the carnage is rural. Over three million Colombian peasants have been forced off their land, making Colombia second only to the Sudan for numbers of internally displaced persons. Most are women and children. Many are Afro-Colombian or Indigenous. As we found out, a trip to the country takes you through mountain towns scrabbled over by soldiers. When the bus blew out the first of two tires along the way, police watched our driver put on the spare. We struck tourist poses.

At our eventual destination, FENSUAGRO’s experimental organic farm, La Esmeralda, a military helicopter flew overhead as we walked among the sugar cane and the coffee plants. Every member of FENSUAGRO’s executive is on the paramilitary list for execution. Not so long ago, two workers on the farm were butchered by the army, their heads placed in their stomachs. The farm was temporarily closed.

As we were about to leave, Liz, the solitary Australian in our group, finally made it. Jose had had to help her extend her stay, visiting a government office that morning. She had made the mistake of mentioning FENSUAGRO when she got off the plane and was immediately whisked away for interrogation. Jose did not risk the trip to La Esmeralda with her.

Jose is a handsome, cultured man, a lawyer. His wife and three daughters are beautiful; the eldest, a singer, was heading to university. I had taken photos. Their faces were intelligent and sensitive, also faintly distressed. Thinking of his employer’s rogues’ gallery of photos, I asked Jose what his union actually bargained for. He replied, “Our lives.”- Roger Langen

Dancing on Burrard

Worried about the meeting I arrived early, dressed to the ‘nines.’

Of all places, right outside the building where I was to have the 9th floor meeting was an eight man blues band all hooked up to their electronics and Kenny Wayne on the piano singing his ass off. The jive was spot on and I danced in the sun and in front of at least 200 onlookers on a bright day in that business district of Burrard St amidst all those splendid, sparkling glass buildings. And I danced and cadenced like a 17 year old and then I realized I was being watched.

All that observation increased me somehow as I was not then self-conscious, but I was aware of being watched there in my jacket and tie, old briefcase to the side, snapping my fingers and shifting my hips etc (dancing, gotcha?).

After the band finished and I proceeded to my meeting in the building, on the elevator the first woman (a lovely Asian) told me “I wanted to dance with you.” On my way out, on the sunny street a couple confessed they would have enjoyed to dance with me. I was surprised and said, “Sometimes, as you may recall, we have to dance.” We laughed remembering our youth.

It was a pleasure to dance for them all. And Kenny Wayne and his band knew and appreciated it that glorious few moments on Burrard.

Hippie Who?

Not too long ago there was a piece published about 'hippies' and I am pleased to have forgotten the name of the common media which permitted the article and the writer fella who talked about how 'hippies' were so important. The word itself - hippie (as in being one who is hip) - was thoroughly repugnant to social revolutionaries of that day.

Had the phony knower known or been a part or experienced anything from that era of intellectual challenge, even been a minor member to assault the establishment of the day, the word 'hippie' would have smelt clearly to him as a betrayal. The so-called 'hippie movement' was reposited in a burial parade in 1967 in San Francisco at Haight-Ashbury. Trust the common media and some idiot, google-defect scribbler to fumble history.

"In 1963, Beatniks were fleeing North Beach to take advantage of the cheap rents and available storefronts of the Haight. But a sea change took place between the scruffy existential Beats and the earliest denizens of the Haight: LSD. Haight-Ashbury was the site of a remarkable syncretism, an admixture of influences that coalesced over time into the psychedelic eddy that Haight Street became. Like the collection of thrift-store finery and period costumes the original hippies fancied, their philosophy was fashioned from Eastern mysticism, comic books, science fiction, and the Beat writers who acted as a filtering agent through which the younger poets picked and chose their reading. Similarly, acid-rock emerged out of a grab-bag of styles: Be-bop Jazz improvisation, folk and bluegrass modalities, dabbed on a heavy impasto of garage-rock primitivism. For the hippies, LSD was their communion, and rock music their liturgy.

"At first the scene was remarkably self-supporting, with small venues catering to a local group of cognoscenti. In 1965, there were an estimated 800 hippies in residence. By 1966, new arrivals had flooded the Haight, with an estimated 15,000 hippies in residence. A more disturbing statistic, but at this point hardly a blip on the radar were the 1,200 runaway teens who flocked to the Haight as if guided by some special teen-alienation magnet. Shops, boutiques, restaurants, and clubs sprang up to cater to the new arrivals, and an activist collective, the Diggers, provided for the needs of the more indigent among them with a soup kitchen, crash pads, and later, a free store.

"The year 1967 started off optimistically enough with the first 'Be-In,' a massive free concert and showcase of the local musicians. A hippie parade in the Haight-Ashbury district, 1967. It was by all accounts a magical event. The next logical phase, or so it seemed to the movers-and-shakers of the community, was to invite the youth of America to the Haight for the summer.

"They envisioned a kind of hippie training: the youth would come, get turned on, and return from whence they came with the blueprint for a new culture. It didn't quite turn out that way. Young people did arrive for the summer, but they were not the beautiful people the Haight habitués anticipated. 'They had bad teeth and acne scars and it was easy to see why they hadn't been voted homecoming king or queen back in Oshkosh or Biloxi or wherever they'd come from,' wrote Jay Stevens. 'These kids were rejects; they'd come here because they were losers, and while they had a certain Christian appropriateness, it was not what the Council for the Summer of Love had expected.'

"By summer's end, the dream of a self-sufficient urban conclave of tripping Luddites had dissolved in a miasma of hard drugs, runaways, and incipient neglect. The fragile social infrastructure the counterculture had built was overcome by the onslaught. Tour buses and sight-seers flooded the district, as did reporters. Their dispatches only added to the throng of destitute, addled kids. The indiscriminate use of every variety of drug was legion, as were drug busts, hence informing and informers.

"The language was Love," writes Hunter S. Thompson, "but the style was paranoia." That October, the Diggers held a mock burial of the "Hippie, son of Media" in Golden Gate Park. It was a pointed bit of street theater, but it was after the fact. The wave had surged and broken, leaving human jetsam in its wake. By then, the Haight-Ashbury pioneers had already fled to higher ground."

Joachim Foikis wouldn't even pause to piss on that local writer's grave... too busy dancing.

Lost Child of the Sun

He strode to the Pacific in only his ragged blue shorts ruffling in the wind. His shoulders could carry burdens and the recalled souls of many children, his musculature clear but his swagger mysteriously timid. It was a gait his grandmother would know, love and dearly want to protect. This private march in the tricky sand and the presence of that skin called all the gods out. As witnesses and protectors.

He hesitated in the bright formless, blue sky before his toe touched the ocean. He proceeded into that grey vastness of stories, poked about to his knee length and then paused to look back at a friend as though asking for reassurance. The wind was making his hair. His hands were delicately upraised as he gingerly stepped deeper into Father Ocean.

He knew the coldness of that body now; then holding his nose he baptized himself. The sun celebrated when he reappeared. Then he dove and swam. And all his fears were left... in that fleeting breeze.


He cleared the water, wiped his face; returned to the baked sand of the beach amidst the dormant crowd, thumbed about his breeches for a good wind there and with a newly invigorated stride accepted momentarily his affirmation as child of the sun and given of good earth. Though distant and vague to him, his possibilities were pronounced by his shoulders carving a new form of the mountains behind.

His name is Man. He is my friend.

Taliban Threatens Canada

New words have entered the traditional Cdn’s vocabulary of late and all seem to add up to a level of bewilderment not seen by this writer for a thousand years. These words include Hamas, Taliban, Al Kite-ah! Sunni, Shite (sp?), Fatah, insurgents; and then phrases and acronyms like suicide bomber, IED’s (improvised explosive device – true sneekiness) and collateral damage (costing zillions more lives than 9/11) while still looking for 6.5 foot Osama-been-there-before; and the stories of heroes at war are now scripted very differently or buried in terms like Friendly Fire. The word Christ obviously got lost in this new vocabulary among all these insurgents and God-Lovers. Allah be praised and blah blah boom boom. How endlessly and mortally exasperating and why for the love of Allah are not moderate Muslims striving every day to end this brtual, life-sucking nonsense? It’s really up to them to speak that language.

Only through communication and the courage of commitment to the holiness of life will this profoundly grievous warring in the Middle East of Nowhere ever end.

But hey: they’re buying Ipods and tuning out over there too. So much for communication and hope. Humanity rots on the vine of our indifference to each other as we pass by on the sidewalks sneering because we have the latest tune-out device plugged into our heads.

Gooda-lucka.

And wait till the chaos comes here to Vancouver – which previewed its emergency awareness during the drinking water “crisis” of last year. Instant panic. If the Taliban suicidalists make their threat true to visit Canada watch for new levels of frenzy among us, the sophisticated and sneering and woefully unprepared - for the lack of any real moral commitment to anything.

The Death of Joachim Foikis

He died dancing.

I met him when he was dancing and I took his hand as we skipped about the fountain at what is now the art gallery on Georgia Street – which was then a courthouse where the RCMP had a detachment at the Howe Street side, so Joachim’s dancing was also a challenge. The Vancouver Town Fool as he allowed and prided himself to be called was blessed with a voice, demeanor and courage which combined with his unintimidating physicality and gentle manner spooked the sad little bureaucracy that Vancouver was morphing into under the ‘leadership’ of frightened little men like Mayor Tom Campbell. While the desperately wasteful Vietnam war and other intellectual assaults were commonplace in a time when men needed to hear the voices of champions of good thought, Joachim Foikis stood tall, and while dancing high on a precipice above a band at Victoria harbour fell to his divinely scripted demise. Way to go, Joachim.

Brad Firmino's Genius

Now here's a guy I am lucky to know and who was generous with his artwork when I was selling menus to pay the rent. He's living in Montreal now and obviously (see below) that city is inspiring him - which is no surprise considering the spirited Gallics. Watch this boy's work carefully. If the Canadian media ever awaken to the burst of new and profoundly interesting talent in this country, the name Brad Firmino will take its rightful place among our stars.

miraculum.gratias.adquietum... et iam.

Monuments Worth Erecting

I heard recently that those two entwined rings at English Bay (my version of a cheap prize in the bottom of a box of CrackerJacks) are finally coming down and are to be installed at the Port of San Diego. Bon Voyage! It took months to install these cheesy trinkets. Good luck to the Americans. Divorce never looked so good.

And might I suggest we Vancouverites awaken to the fact that that we are not Eskimos and that the much slavered over Innukshuk doesn't really have a place there at the bay either.

With Captain Vancouver's 215th anniversary of his discoveries coming up this June why not commission the striking of a proper statue there at that Two Ringed Circus site of the visionary man who was reviled in his home country until his early death? And where the slab of stones is now, why not erect a statue of Chief Khatsalano who was unceremoniously evicted from his home at Stanley Park, peering stoically across the inlet at his namesake community? Real figures of history sharing the same beach and different visions where they probably met each other on occasion and shared a few laughs.

Besides, wouldn't such an artistic initiative help in the process of distracting tourists as we go about sweeping away our homeless and hoisting hordes of colourful banners tilting in the wind at the downtown eastside?

Reasons for Optimism

A brisk walk this morning along the English Bay beach facing a wind that could be described as ebullient, I realized that every day brings with it another reason for optimism. Yesterday, for example, I met a couple of gentlemen at a bar on Davie Street and both of whom were interesting and showed an interest in me. The handsome blonde of a very striking face, full of intensity, was also a trembling man, lips quivering, facing his limitations I suppose. The elderly burly Hollander invited me for dinner which I declined only because by then I was a little tired. But they both pleased me and reminded me of the value of my humanity.

The streets of the west end are really spectacular with the magnificent trees spanning the width of the thoroughfares, their leaves mingling with the trees across. All of this loveliness would be so much more appreciated if we could as a citizenry look after and show personal care for the homeless and the desperately unemployed. Why can't we find a leader who will show simple compassion? Even the Roman autocrats of yore kept corn bins available to the hungry. The indifference of our current leaders is an embarrassment to all good people and all those people who keep voting for these city and provincial leaders are guilty of a kind of sneering inhumanity that puts Vancouver to shame. Why would we want to put this on global display at the Olympics?

But early morning walks around Lost Lagoon (and occasional runs) help to reconnect me to godliness as there is an absence of people who, unfortunately, with their lack of manners and choosing to be tuned out can be a blight upon the overall scenario. We are yet a long way from a climate of goodness but these walks and my contemplations about the possibilities of mankind remind me that we each have a powerful means to make those changes which ultimately could bring peace and comfort and even occasional bliss to all.