Poverty is a Death Sentence

Fairfax County, Virginia, and McDowell County, West Virginia, are only 350 miles apart. In suburban Washington, D.C., Fairfax County’s median family income is $107,000. That’s five times greater than the median income in rural McDowell County. The stark difference has life and death consequences. Residents of the West Virginia county die years younger. The link between income and longevity was examined at a Senate Subcommittee on Primary Health and Aging hearing. “Poverty is a thief,” Michael Reisch of the University of Maryland testified before Sen. Bernie Sanders’ panel. “Poverty not only diminishes a person’s life chances, it steals years from one’s life.”

Only the Night Breeze

Only the night breeze sees you

     the way I do. The way I do.

Not even the loneliest star,

The loneliest star

Covets you the way I do.

Only the night breeze sees you the way I do.

You’re my vision come true

Only you know that song

That comes in the night

And only that night breeze

Sings for you the way I do.

Not the loneliest star, the loneliest star

Even all the way from heaven sent

Only the wind at night

      ‘neath that lonely star

Knows what your love to me has meant.

Only we hear that song

That comes on the breeze,

On a night no bluebirds along

Can ever my soul to please

On a night coming with a breeze.

Only that violet breeze at night

Knows what your kiss to me has meant.

Ever since came this private light

When you kissed me, my heaven sent.

Only the night breeze sees you the way I do.

And Every Dream to Be

You never leave me, never leave me.
Your love believes in me.

Eyes like pools of mystery; your honeyed hair I see

In my dreams and every dream to be.

You never leave me. Never leave me.

In my dreams and every dream to be.

You never leave me.

Your love bewilders me.

Enchanting eyes I see, your eyes I see

In my daydreams and every dream to be.

Your voice will always be

A song so bewitching me.

Your song awakens me

From every dream and dream to be.

You never leave me. Never leave me.

In my dreams and every dream to be.

Your hands you give to me

And I start to see, I start to see

Every dream, every dream,

You are every dream to me.



A SECRET FLUTTER

Above me, behind me, I could hear it.
A secret flutter.
It knew and I could hear it.
It knew I could hear it…

Fluttering. Your love fluttering away.

Quickly then this dove,
Escaped me.  Escaped me. 
Your love away; away and above.

I’ve lost this love. 
This love I’ve lost.
I’ve lost this love. 

This love I’ve lost.
Above me, behind me, I could hear it.
A secret flutter. Love fluttering away,
Fluttering, fluttering away.

This love I’ve lost.
I’ve lost this love. 
This love I’ve lost. 
Fluttering, fluttering away.

Appealing to the Collective Conscience

The meeting hosted by the good people spearheading Poverty Reduction Plan at SFU Harbour House last night was seriously inspiring. Especially the spontaneous presentation by Dr Gary Bloch who showed glimpses of righteous anger. It was gratifying to see a full house of people obviously from different wealth classes. Dr Bloch’s message in a bottle is: Poverty is a disease. It fosters ill health and the economic mathematics of creating ill people doesn’t add up when they can become well and contributing members of society again.

There was, however, a sense I got that these guest speakers were preaching to the choir. The real challenge is to successfully lobby the professionals, the high income earners; those who enjoy influence as a consequence of their wealth. The Poverty Reduction Plan being advanced by this organization is well thought out and is practical to implement. Its points are as follows:

Priority Actions:

*Increase welfare rates by 50% and index them to inflation.

*Remove arbitrary barriers that discourage, delay and deny people in need.

Simple enough. But our politicians through their repugnant lip service at election time are effectively stonewalling organizations like the Poverty Reduction Coalition, and killing people.

Obvioulsy more lobbying is necessary and timing is critical. Doctors like Gary Bloch and many others have only so much time to commit. Bloch himself has been at this for 10+ years. It’s time to focus: Lobby the establishment: the lawyers, judges, politicians, pharmacists and pharmaceutical companies; the unions, the real estate developers and agents. Start with them. Within every grade of establishment one may find the conscientious either through their religious affiliation of their understanding and appreciation of human value. Every human being has value. Not just the rich. Every human being needs to be acknowledged by all of us that that individual can make a real contribution to his or her society like so many recovered alcoholics and drug addicts can attest. According to the Reduction of Poverty  Coalition, 400 organizations have already signed up representing a collective membership of over 300,000 people throughout the province.

And a lot more are needed. Individuals from every background and profession. If graphic artists and web site developers were among their membership; lawyers and more doctors, teachers and nurses and Yes, even pharmacists then imagine the pool of professionalism this coalition could call upon to help spearhead this campaign. Within every grade of establishment one may find the conscientious either through their religious affiliation of their understanding of human value. That’s where we’ll find these people. Are there not real estate agents of social conscience who can join? And developers? Executives from Big Pharma are welcome too. They all have a conscience in there somewhere.

And the holdouts? SHAME THEM!

The Right Honorable Pierre Elliot Trudeau taught us about striving to realize a ‘just society.’ So let’s get on with it!

The process is simple: Join this coalition. Help them inspire; organize; consolidate the organizations of like-mindedness; pitch to the professionals and the general public and then shame the establishment hold-outs. And with or without the unions on side but with strong enough numbers, stage a general walkout. Freeze the economy. Only in the wallet will some people get the buzz.

To quote the coalition’s literature: “We can afford this! BC has had the highest poverty rate in Canada for the last 13 years. We are very generous. Once a comprehensive poverty reduction plan is fully implemented, it would cost between $3-4 billion per year, while the cost of not addressing poverty is costing BC $8-9 billion per year in higher public health care and criminal justice costs, and lost productivity.” Who can argue with these numbers? Here’s hoping that economists will join this coalition and volunteer some of their expertise to lay out these numbers creating a ledger that we can all understand.

Let your conscience do the talking now and join this coalition by visiting: http://bcpovertyreduction.ca/take-action/join-the-call.

Thanks to a Caregiver

Dr Gary Bloch will be in Vancouver this week speaking at an event organized by the B.C. Poverty Reduction Commission. He believes poverty is intrinsically related to one's health. He's right of course and he's trying to raise the awareness of the establishment (other doctors, care providers, government members etc etc) that maybe some thing might be done here to make a positive change for us extremely poor folk. So thanks to Dr Bloch. Meanwhile, here's my two cents worth.

Attention:

Dr Gary Bloch,

St. Michael's Health Centre
80 Bond Street
Toronto
Ontario
M5B 1X2

From:

R Harry Langen,
harry.langen@gmail.com
deadsearevelation.com

September 23rd, 2014

Dear Dr Bloch:

Was intrigued and encouraged to read about your concern for the desperately poor people of Canada. You may count me as one. You are right to acknowledge that good health and a livable income are intrinsically connected. I can cite myriad examples. Housing that isn’t hopelessly bug infested and is equipped with a separate bathroom and little kitchen fridge to store and prepare decent food is a rare find. As you well know, unhygienic living conditions and good health do not go hand in hand. To the extremely poor, medications must all be free; not just certain ones. For example: itch medicines are not covered by the ministry in B.C. This means that if you have a horrible, itchy rash it’s only going to get more insufferably worse. People who are not on disability are docked any funds they might make outside their paltry welfare cheque. This is nothing short of draconian.

Rather than extend this letter by 10 pages listing other insults to the poor suffice to say that once you’re on your financial knees it is extremely difficult to get up again; and almost impossible if you have health issues, mental or physical. Learning how to dog-paddle in a toilet bowl might be useful. 

A disproportionate number of the mental issues here in Vancouver find their root cause in drug use. Ever since the onslaught of $2 hoots (crack), people of all ages have been felled; like a forest of souls being clearcut. When you add street drugs or alcohol to the creepy diet of someone who is suffering schizophrenia for example, you are effectively sentencing them to a life of horror.

When the police arrest mentally ill people for being intoxicated in public they have been no less than brutal and mocking. So much for ‘sensitivity training.’ I have advocated for them at sentencing hearings and finally the judge will get the drift that they are simply not capable of functioning normally in this society (a society I consider and have witnessed to be thoroughly corrupt). The system successfully criminalizes them twice which goes to their lack of self esteem; and eventually clinical depression.

Whether you can agitate effectively to make any changes in our society is open to question but that you desire to do this, to champion our plight, makes you a hero in my book. Allow me to make a few suggestions that you might want to include in your discourses with the powers-that-be.

Absolutely guarantee that all homeless people be immediately housed and that the $375 a month be paid directly to landlords who aren’t thieves. (A national study was done recently about how to resolve the “homeless crisis” and after two years and millions of dollars paying the hands-off bureaucrats for their wisdom they came up with their grand solution: Find them a home.”

The police need to enforce the law. The state of east Hastings with its constant 24 hour solicitation of crack etc (the chant around here is “Rock, powder, down…)” needs to change drastically. We have parades of these solicitors out front of the Carnegie Library on Main Street and along east Hastings for two blocks. Within spitting distance of the main police station. These dope peddlers are dangerous people and they are fronting for gangs like the Hells Angels. The cops’ excuse: They just get released again. Too many in court. No room in jail etc etc. That is not their business. Their business is to enforce the law. Let the system clean up itself after the law is enforced.

Now with the solicitors out of the way, let’s give these mentally challenged (thanks Crack) a chance at success by housing them; and where there are no structures in which to house them, then tent them as a temporary resolution. If the natives can do it at Oppenheimer why can’t the city/province/federal governments manage it?

When you have people in homes with some dignity and off the dope, you will soon have increased your labour pool. Train them in the simplest tasks; give them the integrity of employment and Hello world! They’d be thrilled with their first paycheck and all their old excuses would, as my mother was apt to say, “Dry up and mildew away.”

Anyway, it’s a crisis here. The wealthy new property owners are conveniently oblivious and uncaring as they leave their new and outrageously expensive homes vacant; and the politicians only seem to ring this alarm bell around campaign time. Lip service of the most cruel kind.

So if you’re ever in the market to find members of the extremely poor community to contribute some realistic ideas and possible resolutions while sitting on one of those nicely paid committees, keep my name front and centre, huh?

Thanks for showing some real care…

R Harry Langen

A Little Query

Is it a source of pride to members of the gay community that rates of HIV and syphilis infection are highest among their social ranks? 

Excerpt from The Adventures of an Urban Wizard

The Old Sycamore Tree at Victory Square

“Diog! Diog!” The voice as from a great distance and in some turmoil or at least dismay roused Diog from an unusually satisfying slumber. So as not to waken his beloved he shifted off the bed and slipped into the kitchen where dawn colours were glowing on the white granite countertops.

“Diog!”

“What? Who is this?”

“Come now to Victory Square. I have little time… little time.” And as an afterthought but urgently: “Bring Lyla!”

Whoever belonged to the disembodied voice from seemingly afar he knew about Diog and his secret lamp, Lyla. Peering out the kitchen window below the decorative red and green stained glass bar he noted the spring wind, the leaves rustling madly and opted to bring his green cloak, both for himself and the keeping of Lyla.

Arriving at Victory Square he approached the magic tree which had called him.

“You have come. Now climb in before you are noticed. It is time.”

Awkwardly at first and then as though with the aid of the ancient tree himself Doig with Lyla swinging in tow made their way the first joint in the old maple. He threw the cloak about his body and its green velvet melded with the leaves, all verdant and dazzling silver undersides. 
“Greetings Diog. Those buildings there you see, the Dominion and the old Sun Tower building, aren’t they hummers though eh? They are like hallmarks of a different era, when the artists who designed them were inspired by the victory of moral life which cried out for beauty as a rejoicing.”

“Yes, so it seems,” agreed Diog.

“I have heard and seen so much. My little messengers, the Grundlers you call squirrels, and the many varieties of winged wonders, the most gossipy of them all, those Werdlings you call goldfinches. The hummingbird is an annoyance but quite telling. Now I have been storing their stories and have captured in my joints some images that recall these tales and conversations my little messengers have witnessed. Peer into that very joint there Diog and see and hear.”

Diog knew the old sycamore had his ways and didn’t doubt the veracity of his words and so did look into the old tree’s joint. And looked harder.

His face had to nearly bury itself in the old limbs to get a view and to hear the exchange of what appeared like foreigners. Now his face was fully engulfed in the joint of the tree and he did see two old oriental gentlemen considering the bid they’d place on purchasing that block of Hastings Street from the Queen of Repugnant Window Displays and John Wayne Gacy Memorials. They chortled as they schemed to make their pitch when she was drunk. Then the scene changed abruptly and Diog could see Arab robes on princely men as they pointed and scanned the block where the Vancouver Art Gallery stood, there by the fountain and right over to Robsonstrausse. They too had an offer in mind. Other Asians now appeared and the old Hudson’s Bay came into view and that of the new American owned Nordstrom’s. The owner of the Vancouver Hotel, Majid Mangalji, appeared to want in the game to parlay with the Arabs for the old Courthouse. The one thing missing in all these discussions was a sense of history or the personality of a country. These dealings were banal despite their reach and ultimate consequence. It saddened Diog. The insignias of a country were on sale.

“I don’t suppose much rejoicing will be erected in the architecture thereabouts.”

“No I suppose not,” lamented Diog.

“Now arise and alight upon another joint of mine up a climb there.”

Once again Diog had to plant his face into the joint to see the images and make out the muddled voices. Not unlike getting a snootful of armpit but in the sycamore’s case it was aromatic and damp in a pleasant way. This time he was aware of men huddling, making complicated arrangements, colluding and swapping papers. Their language was secret and ugly for its cadence and twisted syllables. The atonal hemming and hawing went on relentlessly and it came to pass toward one end only – the amassing of somebody else’s money. Then he realized to whom he was listening. They were wigged lawyers and pencil-chewing bureaucrats gleefully baking cockroach cakes and playing games on bedbug infested tables. In their childish glory, all; their pale, gaunt faces precursing their death masks. Ready to serve. “Take a breather, Diog. Here have some syrup.” 

And Diog beheld a slender branch begin to leak its golden draught. And thereof he drank. 

“Diog, I have witnessed much and heard stories and conversations over the decades. You would have enjoyed Rudyard and Oscar as they sat there on the grass at my base. Hilariously drunk and full of mirth, Rudyard bragging about the little properties he bought up in Mount Pleasant and Oscar on about that picture of Dorian Gray, a story Rudyard could seriously not get his inebriated head around. Rudyard had his Sabu and his elephants and Oscar had his silken jacket puffs, cigarette holders and between the two of them they could drink the hobos dry. There was a great mutual respect and even love in their conversations and ones I’ll always recall with a true contenting.

No TV in those days. One solid newspaper per city, none of these free nonsense dailies regurgitating everything twice and blowing all over every acre of greenery left. What unearthly waste of my fellow trees.

“Alright now Diog. Another joint if you please.”

While reluctant, Diog acquiesced to the old Sycamore wondering what might be in store. Aside from a brief glimmer during the Rudyard and Oscar telling, the light of Lyla’s lamp remained dormant.

This time he saw uniforms and heard the roar of motorcycles. He smelled sweat. And urine-soaked alleyways. And cheap wine. And blood. He heard chortling again, but gruff and ghastly. And suddenly a vicious dog salivating and wild-eyed leapt right into the face of Diog almost knocking him from his perch there in the joint of the maple. He held on to a firm branch swinging. Then he pulled up and returned to peer in again. This time he could make out the armory carried by the men: truncheons, taser guns and bullet-loaded guns, helmets, gloves and leathery interiors of dark, push-bar cars showcasing shotguns. And in concert with them were old and bedraggled, bearded, beer-bellied gangsters wearing their colours cavorting with their painted women. Then two of them started rubbing noses together. And Diog could hear them, “My mind to your mind,” accompanied by their frightened cackle. Soon though, this weird parlay was drowned out by the eerie echoes of zombiefied addicts on their Pride Parade playing little boy drums marching solemnly to the monotonal refrain, “Rock, powder, down…” And down they marched. Down into an abyss of anxiety-driven horrors. Then, to the shallow steps of a jib dancer, one frolicsome zombie handing out candy-flavoured rocks was rushing his one-liner: “Some baddie touched my dinky when I was ten, when I was ten, so I get to be a brat, a brat all my life, all my life or better yet, better yet a dopey dick, a dopey dick, a dopey dick. Yay.”

Then one of the bearded gangsters got in the push-bar car and started the engine and one of the helmeted guys with a shield got on the Harley and roared it into action. This was confusing. Diog gave his head a shake and taking a moment envisioned all these players in their bumper cars at the carnival giddy with delight, unabashedly indulging their juvenile dreams riding shotgun and juggling their blood-spattered truncheons. And something was missing in this joint. This joint seemed more like a shallow grave to Diog. Even the dog looked sick. And the grave was missing a corpse. And of this one he had had enough.

“Yes,” said Syc the old maple, as if reading Diog’s thoughts, “There is something missing there. You see, Diog, how I live according to the law of nature. This is my ground and upon it I have grown, oh since the 1890’s now, and my leaves very tender every one blow and toss in the many winds and are put upon by the many forms of rain and throughout all we have that law of nature bestowing upon us more life, more thrills in the sun and billowing about under the marching clouds and in all of this there is a respect. A great respect for nature as she respects me and all of my creatures, even my limbs and leaves, roots and canopies. But man has lost something. He needs not only to live by the Law of Nature but to live by a Law of Men. And this Law needs to be enforced, enforced to preserve the freedoms of man and his mobility as I have mobility but differently so.” (His branches lifted and bent to a brisk wind.) “What was missing in what you were witnessing was the Enforcement of that Law of Man. And now freedom is appearing more like costumed funnymen purveying chaos. And there is no rejoicing in Chaos.

“The litter of the addicted is a perpetual visual blight all about my skirts. They use their holy gift of speech to whine and curse and bemoan their fates. Even the natives are littering. The wisdom of the aboriginals who never did believe in entitlement to private property has been betrayed. Now, rather than acknowledgment of the Sun Chief as giver and holder of all titles they hire mouthpieces to smudge over their new version of entitlement. All I see around my park here are empty bottles and once proud men who have demeaned themselves into dereliction. Well I suppose they feel entitled to that too. And the sloth I witness. People young and old will sit idly all day here and let the litter grow like weeds all around them, not lifting a finger. At least you can upchuck.

“See all those luxury cars that drive by here? Oodles of money to go the same speed as that jalopy there, jerking back and forth in the same stream of traffic. They revel loudly in their wealth every chance they get. But what do I hear of them at the witching hour? Weeping. A lamenting of their loneliness. Even the sister moon has taken note.”

“Syc, what will you have of me?”

“Another joint, Diog. Onward and upward.”

“Oh dear.”

“Not to worry. The worst is behind you. Or pretty much.”

Diog climbed higher. The view was enlarged now to include an impressive vista of buildings, windows populated by solemn workers and other trees backgrounded by layers of ancient mountains; flocks of birds and streams of cars and coughing buses; clouds scudding across the pale blue and the occasional plane and sounds of subways and trains.

This time he witnessed the simple goings on of ordinary looking people doing their day to day chores with little élan but stalwart and plodding. Upon deeper scrutiny he picked out the occasional slippery maneuver, gladhander and double dealer among even these ordinary folk. And the little knowing glances, the gossip and hurtful exaggerations, the passing of paper and the arousal of greed were becoming more common until this malaise was becoming the ordinary, the expected. And their brows became stitched with the workmanship of the long suffering. No reddish flash of the fierceness of the righteous. The scenario was becoming nauseating for its mundane routine, lack of originality and loss of personality. What somebody had used whose special vacuum to suck out all that human spirit? At least the mountains remained impervious.

“There’s something to be said for being impenetrable, eh Diog?”

“Reading my mind again, Syc.”

“Just one more joint and you’ll be done. Now two important points. This next one is dangerous in that it is very tempting. It might be described as a life event of sorts. And now the other point is: Syc is not my name and you of all people should know how religiously important a name is. My name is my history. The embodiment of my spirit. I have become as it were the manifestation of my name. But later. For now, rise to the top joint.”

The first thing he noticed was the scent. Very alluring. This joint was truly seductive. It had an airiness, vapours of hopefulness seemed to rise as though from a pristine pond at daybreak. A smartness about it as though a man attired beautifully were hosting you with utmost concern for your comfort. And the hole from which all this was emanating was vast. Young faces appeared, all willing to serve you. All appealing to your enjoyment of attention. Songs and ditties arose from the joint, all playful and promising and Diog, after being so ruthlessly bandied about by the previous joints was finding this one quite to his liking.

He peered deeper and therein he saw a billowy swirl and smelled cigar smoke. This wealth smelt just fine. It was his wealth he detected and he liked it and he liked the bringer of it. He got in closer. Ah, the women. The prestige. The swanky car. The luxuries, all of which he could manage humbly he was sure. He was truly deserved. All this he felt belonged to him. Just that paper to sign, that one profferred by that handsome mature fellow whose gait was one of success and windy confidence. Even the man’s face was pulchritudinous and engaging, so reassuring; and he was – what was he doing? – he was… puckering? He was puckering! Puckering! Diog flew back so hard he bumped his head on the limb above him and now was swooning. Dazed he vaguely heard Syc’s old voice, “Hold on there, Diog. Hang on. Can’t fall from there!”

“Whew. Ouch. That’s an owie. Dang! Who was that man? I recognized him from somewhere just in time. Devious. Yes, he was devious. And cunning. Oh my. Very cunning. And God he was wearing lipstick! He was preparing the kiss of death. No. It was more than that. It was the kiss of the death debt. God it was my bank manager!”

“Now take it easy, Diog. You’ve managed now to get through all the stages of my joint rot. And you’re going to be fine. Just take a deep breath. And try to relax. Enjoy the view.” The wind picked up and the whole tree rustled about and Grundles scurried down the limbs. Birds took flight and even the insects seemed to be on the bailout. And there came the rumble. A mighty unearthly deep and strange rumble.

“What’s going on Syc? What’s happening?”

“Diog! I told you that’s not my name. My name is…” and then the old tree gave out a horrendously loud cracking sound.

“Diog! Get down now! Get down!”

And Diog obliged and gymnastically swung limb to limb bearing toward the earth while the old maple began its toppling. Right there on Cambie by Pender it crashed and Diog in all the cacophony thought he heard the tree utter one more word. Just two syllables. But he couldn’t make them out. Even though they sounded similar to that of a lumberjack calling. Diog was more intent on surviving this collapse uninjured. It was a calamity to be sure. Old Syc, or whatever his name was, had truly met his demise right there on the street atop two vehicles.

While everyone there at Victory Square were agog with the aftermath and busy trying to unpuzzle what had just transpired, Diog made his way home cloaked. There his wife was dutifully chopping the garden’s delights for a dinner salad to be served with that lamb roasting. And thence Lyla lit up nicely and the day unfolded with a loveliness. Just before the setting of the sun, Diog spied a Grundler on his window sill nipping at a nut.

He divined that the Grundler was there to communicate something of import to him so quietly and without disturbing the wife at her porch chair, reading, he ambled over and lent his ear.

“Did you hear the old maple on its way down. What he said?”
“No. I was too distracted. All that thrashing and such.”
“He was naming himself I believe.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I heard clearly two syllables.”
“Yes! Come to think of it, so did I but I couldn’t make them out.”
“I could but it was as though he hadn’t finished by the time he hit the street.”
“What were the syllables?”
“Well he said, in a holler like a lumberjack, ‘Van Koo…’ and that was it.”
“Ah. Yes.” And despite all he had seen that day, Diog chuckled. He laughed wistfully remembering the old Sycamore with affection and gratitude.

The Ordinary Criminals Among Us

If love is necessary to a man’s life, necessary to the survival of every individual on the face of this planet, then gossip is a spiritual crime.

Hem, Haw and Dither

Putinistas shining it on Obama from a desecrated graveyard in somebody else's country. Alongside them tap-dancing are a just 're-elected' Syrian dictator and Lybian and Iraqi tribesmen, holy fucks of Al Quaeda and a camping Nigerian girl-raping demigod. And that picture of his blushing wife holding her home-made sign "Bring our girls home!" must be, I'm sure framed in silver by now at the White House bedside. 

CIA geniuses charging around throwing billions of Yankee dollars at secret projects of their dashing choosing. 

Go Barach go. Or spread your hawk wings, fast.

The longer and faster you chant "hem-haw-and-dither" in the shower and no matter how many repetitions of that mantra you can squeeze into a minute of air time means nothing more than chaos getting out of hand... like a bar of wet soap.   

An Open and Fetching Letter to the Lonely Hearts Club, Vancouver Branch

With all this Vancouverite loneliness being discussed and restaurant owners plotting ways to introduce strangers to each other and all that useless texting and hopeless, anxiety-driven cell phone calling, and given the absolute popularity these days (witness our sidewalks) of the dog, I suggest a resolution to once and for all settle the issue of the lonely hearts club, Vancouver Branch. Date your dog.

The Noble Pooch. Just imagine. Well I did and here’s my list: Smoochie Poochie picnics in off-leash zones; Pedicures for all fours; Dog salon visitations to experience intimate de-licing techniques; Dog-breath sunsets; Panting salivations to accompany Al Green serenades on the dance floor; Slop tongue remedies for facial hangovers (and acne); Doggie instructions on how to catch the poop; Shopping for new boots to fit nipped ankles; Speed-dating with Greyhounds; Binge-drinking with St Bernards; Double-dating with underfed pitbulls; Watching Sylvester Stallone movies with 101 Dalmations; Powdering your Silky Terrier’s nose; Lap-dancing with your Pomeranian; Tickling the chin of your beloved Shih Tzu;

Private lessons in removing Shih Tzu teeth clamped on bleeding nose; Naked Tummy Rubbing Competitions at Wreck Beach for the salacious entertainment of the RCMP; Fetching sticks (quickly) for your occasionally misbehaving, irritable Doberman; Playing Frisbee with your Japanese Spitz Fire. A photo album to die for – oh, and speaking of which, there’s always taxidermy. With science just purring along these days it won’t be long before you can just wind up ol’ dead Yeller and take him on that heavenly stroll down memory lane, being kept of course on a long leash so all and sundry can swoon and gander, and pet and tickle your fur-shedding zombie pup.

THE DILEMMA OF THE COMMON MEDIA

Postmedia, a giant in the newspaper industry in Canada, has recently announced that it is revolutionizing the make-up and presentation of some of its primary metropolitan newspapers. There will be a new focus on internet news reporting for transfer to mobiles and tablets and such. As with any corporate announcement this decision is money driven and is accompanied by a note that advertising revenues have been falling off the scale dramatically since the rise of the net; and the arrival on our cyber-doorsteps alternate sources of entertainment information and news.

Read all about it! The newspapering formula seems to have flopped.

In my view it flopped a long time ago. About when the editor’s pen was handed to him every morning by the advertising department head. Editorial integrity died unceremoniously without the hint of a somber parade, piping dirge or modicum of witty repartee at the scribe’s saloon.

Blaming the global demise of the newspaper industry on the mildewing and blowing away of advertising sources is disingenuous in the extreme. Once the editors began kowtowing to the advertisers, they betrayed the trust of their readership. And a readership, as any editor worth his ink should know, is built painstakingly article by article, editorial brick by brick, with scribes on the front lines and in the back rooms armed with torches and recorders, pens and notepads poking about at all hours to get to the bottom of the story to get their lead ‘tits above the board’ - on the top half of Page One and in those glorious days when even contemplating selling any ad space on Page One would have gotten you a free one way ticket to obscurity.

But alas, the ones who were eventually assigned their place in the annals of the obscure were indeed those very those editors who balked at publishers who insisted on a servile, obsequious approach to those wizards behind the curtain, the bland CEO’s of the mega-corporations. Those faceless bean-counting button-pushers controlled the movement of mountains of advertising revenue, squeaked out every three months at significant discounts for being such ‘loyal’ newspaper supporters.

Conrad Black’s old partner – you know the one, that Radler guy who back-shanked little boy Black when their shell game got tougher to hide behind the smoke signals - knew all about firing writers and editors who stood their ground in the integrity department. The shame being: they are probably still unemployed, wasting away on a tab in the scribe’s saloon but at least their last laugh was well-earned, toasting their old bosses decked out behind bars.

When independent ownership of newspapers in Canada dissolved into those mega-corporations (as did most big city dailies anywhere in the world) we could pretty much kiss the editorial life of that paper a long good-bye. And now those newspapers are distressed trying to establish themselves once again as being even the least bit relevant let alone of any editorial bone whatsoever.

TAKE NOTE PUBLISHERS: You can’t betray a readership twice. Loyalty doesn’t offer itself up to your corporate footballing. You’ve priced yourself out of the market because you obliterated that market with your high-handed mediocrity.

By suck-holing to the advertiser in the first place, you strangled the editorial interest of your own paper. You've spilt the juice.

The irony would be exquisite and worth a cackle or two except for the grim fate assigned to those heroic chain-smoking writers of real integrity upon whose backs were written those cheques which inflated those newspaper barons.

The English Bay Banner does not, never has and never will depend on advertising to serve its readership. The last of a dying breed? You bet.  

Sketchy Memories and Mirror Neurons

Mirror neurons. That’s what I’ll blame. For all those cockeyed screw-ups, impulsive decisions with sober consequences. Trying to keep up with everyone else’s version of wealth and happiness. We all reflect each other at times. We are so intimately connected sometimes we mirror each other.

At other times we may stand alone and actually show some courage or a moment of true principle. How easily I can intellectualize the righteousness and morality demanded of a circumstance; but I notice I’m not experiencing much of anything. Reminds me of the Dalai Lama’s answer. Some impertinent reporter put the question to him: “Are you enlightened?”  Well, excuse me, but that stopped the train. A sacred hush descended upon one and all like a flock of dead doves. Our holy man of that giddy giggling (should get betrothed to Desmond Tutu?) did seriously pause and entone, “No.”

But for some reason my major moral misfires have been visiting me of late. Raise money for a project. Great excitement. Jubilation. Run out of money and raise some more. Do that more than a few times and you have entered into a habit worse than addiction.

Being nickled and dimed to death doesn’t work either for an entrepreneur of grand schemes – and the word ‘schemes’ does not necessarily infer conniving or duplicity. One needs a scheme to win a chess game. And a scheme to best an immoral employer.  When a great idea works, it works big. I was accused once by a former editor of a local Vancouver rag that I had great ideas almost every day of my life.   

But alas: the square holes and round pegs bewildered me. And cost others. Darts anyone? Maybe with a picture of Ponzi front and centre. 

In all of these remembrances of backstroking through cesspools, trying to dredge up enough detritus to haul oneself out of financial mire, I am fondly reminded of attending Mass every Sunday and really listening to the sermon. That weekly occasion of standing, kneeling and singing and praying shoulder to shoulder was more critically important than I could have realized. That one hour connected me once a week to all those other desperate people and a brave priest fumbling about with us tinkering faithfully with our moral compasses; and there we mingled with all those tricky mirror neurons, trickier even than the spooky house of mirrors at the local carnival all those bumper-car-crashing decades ago.  

And I for one could survive with increased comfort hearing words well spoken of love and the magnificence of Man every day.  

Bang, bang, You're dead! Or not.

Why do we call it the “big bang” theory when no one was around to hear it? Creation, while fierce, is a quiet wind impregnated with myriad souls, each eternally reflecting facets of the endless fountain, all full of colour and breathing forms. Each form, each body a reflection of perfection.

“Nothing in the human body was designed to cease functioning.” Ted (Sideras) Pirtle, 1979.          (Artwork: Steve Cross of Melbourne)

A lot of wrinkled people know this inherently. That’s why they keep saying ‘I feel young! I don’t feel old. I don’t feel the way I look in the mirror.’ They mean it. They want to be accepted for the way they are and were when they were young – because they are young. But today’s youth – in their wisdom – seem all to be judging the elderly by their ‘covers.’ What hopeless snobbery. And this judgment, so common and overbearing, is ultimately dissuasive of the older person’s optimistic self-assessment.I envision within the next few generations (if we don’t succumb to crack addictions et al) that the life span of  those who have sustained a simple healthy lifestyle, and a diet and exercise regime will easily crest 150 to 200 years. Science is quite reassuring even now. Genome analysis; stem cell cures; respiratory remedies; organ transplants etc. etc. 

The other component to long life is right-headed thinking. One’s belief system needs to be more than belief. One needs to know that one’s energies may flow freely from spirit to mind to all corners of our biology. As we are affirmed per footfall and per syllable by the surrounding nature, our bodies will act as though thankful and live up to their infinitely expressed designs. I envision people living within their enlivened spiritual bodies which then are sustaining the perfect health and vigor of the carnal hosts. One’s gait becomes a dance; one’s voice a source of melodies; of meaning. One’s utterances the conductors of new genetic streams, engineering enhanced spiritual fields.

What peace then knowing this when all but 20 years old. What bliss. What happy anticipation… all confirmed per sunrise by the personality of the infinite.

"Imagine if you can..." Living as co-creators and being created daily by that which one hears, sees, smells, touches, tastes and experiences. Even our most intimate rhythms and far-reaching observations and the hearing of Kepler's skies all set out in that one divine exhalation, on-going yet.

More Vancouverisms 

So Canadian corporations are avoiding paying their fair share of taxes to our federal government by hiding their incomes in overseas parent accounts. So much for their patriotism - about as big as their shriveled wigglers they hide under their rolls of fat behind their corporate boardroom tables. Kudos to their precious lawyers.

And how ‘bout that Canadian lawyer who got the organ donation law changed so as to prevent organ donations as being automatic as prescribed on drivers’ licenses? Protecting somebody’s rights I guess while he murders thousands who can’t wait any longer for a transplant. Thanks pal. What exactly did you get out of that deal anyway? Your name in the paper?  

PROPERTY VALUES TRUMP HUMAN VALUES

West Vancouverites protesting the establishing of a seniors’ care home in their neighbourhood? Worried as they are about their property values diminishing. I guess those snobs didn’t have grandmothers. 

Winding Up The Corpses

We are the hoarders. We are the opinionaters and slanderers who value our long-leashed animals crowding the sidewalks more than a child of God passing by. We talk foolishness to animals because we don’t know how to talk to each other. We remain desperately lonely painting our faces and polishing our shoes with anxiety. We consider infatuation to be the crest of love. We evacuate the company of the divine and go on private head trips. We allow sloth into our bones and blame it on depression. We steal from and lie to people we call our friends. We parade about with broken moral compasses and find splinters of fault in everyone else… blind to the logs in our own eyes. We hit and run. We kick when the man is down. And run again. We persecute the righteous.

We even judge our children and speak unkindly to them.

We are less meaningful than the ugliest insects, which at least serve a purpose in their activity. Snakes have more nobility. They have a reason for being. And by trivializing our neighbours with our gossip we diminish ourselves. We stagger forward while our souls are burdened by a million judgements. 

And we expect the Heavenly Father to pay us a personal visit. To force His rescue mission upon us.

If the Heavenly Father of Mercy did arrive and spoke to us, we wouldn’t hear Him. His words would be so strange in our ears we would find Him offensive and ask Him to leave.

So dine alone. As usual. Welcome back to your nightmare.

You are an animated corpse.