This was a Pamela Anderson of a robin. Originally, I was going to write, "a Mae West of a robin," and while I still think that is marginally more accurate, it is also entirely obscure to the majority of people currently alive and well and capable of reading my column. So, I copped out and opted to invoke the pneumatic Pam.
At any rate, whether Pam or Mae, the robin certainly had the posture right, and the shape was unquestionably reminiscent.
Not that one usually thinks of Ms. Anderson hopping through a shade garden, carrying an insect in her mouth. This is what is called, in my trade, beating an image to death. Let's leave Canada's contribution to high culture behind, and focus entirely on the real birds.
This is the time of year when robins rule. They arrived home some weeks ago, of course -- and did so, once again, mysteriously en masse. I no longer believe that robins migrate, at least in the traditional sense of the word. Instead, I am highly suspicious that they charter -- a plane, a train, perhaps a bus -- and arrive back in southern Ontario all at once, get off the bus at some secret location, collect their bags, and show up in enormous groups in our neighbourhoods announcing "we're home! Are the worms ready, yet?"
This is the only possible explanation for the complete absence of robins, one spring day, followed by a torrential deluge of robins one day later. Hordes of robins. Gangs. Herds.
Upon their return, they are initially pretty docile. Happy to be home, confused to find bits of ground still frozen, a little displeased with gardeners who had not yet filled the bird baths, but generally peaceful.
Then, they built their nests, lay their eggs, and turn into Billy Jack, ready to defend hearth and home against all incursions. They take no flak from anyone
crow, blue jay, squirrel; heck, I imagine them driving off hippos if hippos could climb trees and took a liking to raw egg.
Perhaps you have deduced that I have a certain affection for Canadian robins. As well as a certain antagonism toward those who officially named it the American Robin, for, while we Canucks are certainly legitimate residents of the Americas, that term has been co-opted by a certain nation I have no intention of discussing further at this point. Besides, I am too embarrassed by our own political mess to start throwing stones southward. I digress horribly.
I like robins. I like their cheeky attitudes, I appreciate their role as the harbinger of spring, I enjoy watching them, I am fascinated by their odd ability to seek and decant subterranean worms.
Robins carry hope. Every spring, for sure, they bring hope of warm breezes and blue skies. But they also convey hope in the same way other flourishing fauna do. Healthy and plentiful robins give us reason to believe that, just maybe, there may be hope for the environment. We are still in plenty of ecological trouble, but at least humankind has had the foresight to abandon the use of certain chemicals that were laying waste many of our songbirds.
Robins abound. They find food in our lawns and gardens. Where there are robins, there is reason to think all is not lost.
Perhaps you, too, read the news reports some time ago about the discovery in the US of the ivory-billed woodpecker, long thought extinct. Did you get that frisson of excitement -- a sudden surge of hope?
Well, I get that every time a robin looking like a Baywatch babe hops across my lawn. All may not be well with our natural world, but here is one more reason for activist optimism.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Ciao, Stephen. Come stai?
Perhaps we should all be taking Italian lessons. Not only would this make us seem sexier -- and who among us could not use a little of that? -- but it would also help us to be more comfortable with the new style of Canadian government.
Like Italy, we are gridlocked in an era of perpetual minority governments, in which every political party seems content with the status quo. Unlike Italy, our Prime Minister is not all that interesting, although I'm not suggesting that Stephen Harper adopt the lifestyle of Silvio Berlusconi.
It would make life in Canada a bit more intriguing though, wouldn't it? Imagine if our national symbols during the Olympic extravaganzas had been runway models, wine and extravagant dinners, instead of wheatfields, maple leaves and whales.
The beavers work either way, of course. I digress.
The Italian connection comes, not with playboy Prime Ministers, but through our descent into permanent Parliamentary deadlock. It would be easy to blame this on Harper -- everything is easy to blame on Harper, come to think of it -- but probably unfair.
Harper is at least interested in being in power, and he has been uniquely successful at attaining and maintaining that objective. To watch him lead the country, you might not even realize that he is the leader of a minority government, which could fall at the whim of the Opposition.
Compare his efforts to that of a Conservative predecessor, Joe Clark, also PM in a minority, also eager to lead as though he had real power, and gone in the blink of Pierre Tudeau's eye.
It's not all Harper's doing though, and this is why I think we may be in real trouble. Sure, Harper prorogued Parliament... but the MPs did come back, and have been in the House for weeks now. The Opposition raised verbal hell about Harper's move, but once they were back in their seats in the Chamber, did anyone move a vote of non-confidence because of Harper's tactic?
Nope.
Do any of the opposition parties have any intention of defeating the government?
Nope.
Is this because they have genuine faith in the Conservatives and their agenda? Actually, that would be refreshing, wouldn't it? Once upon a time, the Leader of the Opposition would actually support an action of the government, because it was patently the right thing to do. All of that sense of cooperation is long gone from our Parliament.
The real reason the opposition won't take action is because they like things just the way they are, completely for their own purposes. This has nothing to do with what is right for Canada -- it is all about what works for the parties.
The Liberals continue to struggle, and are unwilling to face any kind of election. They would probably not do better, they might do worse (the Conservatives are again climbing in the polls), and so, what they have is maybe the best they can hope for. So Ignatieff once again becomes a source of sound and fury signifying nothing.
The NDP know that the Conservatives have somehow managed to occupy the political middle ground while retaining the right, and that the Liberals -- if they are to achieve any success at all -- will need to poach as much left wing support as they can. So the NDP are squeezed, and this, coupled with their leader's health battle, leave them uninterested in any political conflict.
And the Bloc? Their cause is lost, but their jobs are secure, and so it is all about drawing salaries and eventual pensions from a country they don't believe in. Nothing could be fairer than that.
If this was all working, who could complain? But precious little is being done (did you see that the feds were unable to spend half of the infrastructure money they allocated last year, ending the year with over a billion dollars in surplus in that department?)
I'm signing up for Italian lessons, today.
Like Italy, we are gridlocked in an era of perpetual minority governments, in which every political party seems content with the status quo. Unlike Italy, our Prime Minister is not all that interesting, although I'm not suggesting that Stephen Harper adopt the lifestyle of Silvio Berlusconi.
It would make life in Canada a bit more intriguing though, wouldn't it? Imagine if our national symbols during the Olympic extravaganzas had been runway models, wine and extravagant dinners, instead of wheatfields, maple leaves and whales.
The beavers work either way, of course. I digress.
The Italian connection comes, not with playboy Prime Ministers, but through our descent into permanent Parliamentary deadlock. It would be easy to blame this on Harper -- everything is easy to blame on Harper, come to think of it -- but probably unfair.
Harper is at least interested in being in power, and he has been uniquely successful at attaining and maintaining that objective. To watch him lead the country, you might not even realize that he is the leader of a minority government, which could fall at the whim of the Opposition.
Compare his efforts to that of a Conservative predecessor, Joe Clark, also PM in a minority, also eager to lead as though he had real power, and gone in the blink of Pierre Tudeau's eye.
It's not all Harper's doing though, and this is why I think we may be in real trouble. Sure, Harper prorogued Parliament... but the MPs did come back, and have been in the House for weeks now. The Opposition raised verbal hell about Harper's move, but once they were back in their seats in the Chamber, did anyone move a vote of non-confidence because of Harper's tactic?
Nope.
Do any of the opposition parties have any intention of defeating the government?
Nope.
Is this because they have genuine faith in the Conservatives and their agenda? Actually, that would be refreshing, wouldn't it? Once upon a time, the Leader of the Opposition would actually support an action of the government, because it was patently the right thing to do. All of that sense of cooperation is long gone from our Parliament.
The real reason the opposition won't take action is because they like things just the way they are, completely for their own purposes. This has nothing to do with what is right for Canada -- it is all about what works for the parties.
The Liberals continue to struggle, and are unwilling to face any kind of election. They would probably not do better, they might do worse (the Conservatives are again climbing in the polls), and so, what they have is maybe the best they can hope for. So Ignatieff once again becomes a source of sound and fury signifying nothing.
The NDP know that the Conservatives have somehow managed to occupy the political middle ground while retaining the right, and that the Liberals -- if they are to achieve any success at all -- will need to poach as much left wing support as they can. So the NDP are squeezed, and this, coupled with their leader's health battle, leave them uninterested in any political conflict.
And the Bloc? Their cause is lost, but their jobs are secure, and so it is all about drawing salaries and eventual pensions from a country they don't believe in. Nothing could be fairer than that.
If this was all working, who could complain? But precious little is being done (did you see that the feds were unable to spend half of the infrastructure money they allocated last year, ending the year with over a billion dollars in surplus in that department?)
I'm signing up for Italian lessons, today.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Driving Miss Nancy
You learn a lot of stuff, driving to and from Florida with your beloved.
By "beloved," I refer to my wife, Nancy, not to my car, because I'm not that kind of macho guy, and couldn't be, even if I tried. The only kinds of cars I can identify with 100% certainty are Volkswagen Beetles, and even then, I seem to be the only person of my acquaintance who plays the game by saying "Volkswagen, no rebounds."
Everyone else, including my travelling companion to and from the sunshine state, believes the line begins with "Punchbuggy". This was a source of considerable controversy, as we made our way southward through the US of A.
I digress.
We logged about 5400 kilometers, all told, as we drove down the I-75 to Marco Island, visited sundry parts of Florida including Pompano Beach, Disney and Saint Augustine (the latter of which was a wonderful revelation to me), and then headed back for the border crossing at Detroit and points Canadian.
One thing I learned was that it is better to have a GPS (which we did, this year) than not to have one (which was the case last year, a contributing factor in our journey to Fort Lauderdale from Disney via Tampa. Okay, so I was listening to old time rock 'n' roll and not reading road signs. Sorry! Did that give our impatient, eventual hosts the right to eat all the appetizers, just because we were several hours late for dinner? Well? I digress, again).
I learned -- too late, unfortunately -- that picking the tunes for a four-day round trip should be a consultative effort, not a unilateral process. I did try to include something for all tastes, but it became clear -- as someone who will not be named read out the title of each and every CD -- that my preferences dominated.
On the other hand, everyone should be exposed to the timeless, classical work of The Association and Procol Harum, shouldn't they?
We learned that the mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee look pretty much the same, whether viewed from the north or the south, especially since our precise schedule planning left us driving through said mountains in the pitch dark, both ways.
We learned that the southern US is undoubtedly the billboard capital of the world. We especially enjoyed the juxtapositions, like the two adjacent signs that read: "Prepare to meet your God"... "Strippers! Need we say more?"
We learned once again -- not the hard way, that was an experience from my past that shall not be repeated -- that speeding tickets are a major source of governmental funding in Georgia and other southern states. I don't know who was chasing the criminals, because every police officer in the state appeared to be concealed along the I-75. Those that weren't concealed were parked, lights blazing, behind the next poor sucker who got caught in the ubiquitous speed traps.
We learned that when you find a bargain hotel room for the night in transit, you get exactly what you pay for. We did. There was actually a bed, but towels, soap and curtains would have been nice. We changed our approach on the way back.
I learned that you cannot assume anything in a restaurant. Heading south, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel -- a slice of Americana if ever there was one. Even on holiday, I was trying to watch my weight (which is easy, considering where most of it is located. Rim shot.)
I ordered the catfish special, and it came with grilled fish and veggies... a generally low-fat and delicious meal. So I repeated my order on the way home... or thought I did. The result was deep fried catfish, a huge plate of fries, rolls, and biscuits. Perfect. I didn't try to send it back, because apparently, this was indeed what I had ordered. Maybe my Canadian accent confused them.
We learned that everyone in the south calls everyone else "Hon." I think we should adopt this is Canada. Especially in Parliament, where if Harper and Ignatieff had to refer to one another as "Hon," the level of debate might just be elevated a bit.
Mostly, though, I learned that driving Miss Nancy is a lovely experience. I know I am supposed to say that, but it's true, none the less. Honest, Hon.
By "beloved," I refer to my wife, Nancy, not to my car, because I'm not that kind of macho guy, and couldn't be, even if I tried. The only kinds of cars I can identify with 100% certainty are Volkswagen Beetles, and even then, I seem to be the only person of my acquaintance who plays the game by saying "Volkswagen, no rebounds."
Everyone else, including my travelling companion to and from the sunshine state, believes the line begins with "Punchbuggy". This was a source of considerable controversy, as we made our way southward through the US of A.
I digress.
We logged about 5400 kilometers, all told, as we drove down the I-75 to Marco Island, visited sundry parts of Florida including Pompano Beach, Disney and Saint Augustine (the latter of which was a wonderful revelation to me), and then headed back for the border crossing at Detroit and points Canadian.
One thing I learned was that it is better to have a GPS (which we did, this year) than not to have one (which was the case last year, a contributing factor in our journey to Fort Lauderdale from Disney via Tampa. Okay, so I was listening to old time rock 'n' roll and not reading road signs. Sorry! Did that give our impatient, eventual hosts the right to eat all the appetizers, just because we were several hours late for dinner? Well? I digress, again).
I learned -- too late, unfortunately -- that picking the tunes for a four-day round trip should be a consultative effort, not a unilateral process. I did try to include something for all tastes, but it became clear -- as someone who will not be named read out the title of each and every CD -- that my preferences dominated.
On the other hand, everyone should be exposed to the timeless, classical work of The Association and Procol Harum, shouldn't they?
We learned that the mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee look pretty much the same, whether viewed from the north or the south, especially since our precise schedule planning left us driving through said mountains in the pitch dark, both ways.
We learned that the southern US is undoubtedly the billboard capital of the world. We especially enjoyed the juxtapositions, like the two adjacent signs that read: "Prepare to meet your God"... "Strippers! Need we say more?"
We learned once again -- not the hard way, that was an experience from my past that shall not be repeated -- that speeding tickets are a major source of governmental funding in Georgia and other southern states. I don't know who was chasing the criminals, because every police officer in the state appeared to be concealed along the I-75. Those that weren't concealed were parked, lights blazing, behind the next poor sucker who got caught in the ubiquitous speed traps.
We learned that when you find a bargain hotel room for the night in transit, you get exactly what you pay for. We did. There was actually a bed, but towels, soap and curtains would have been nice. We changed our approach on the way back.
I learned that you cannot assume anything in a restaurant. Heading south, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel -- a slice of Americana if ever there was one. Even on holiday, I was trying to watch my weight (which is easy, considering where most of it is located. Rim shot.)
I ordered the catfish special, and it came with grilled fish and veggies... a generally low-fat and delicious meal. So I repeated my order on the way home... or thought I did. The result was deep fried catfish, a huge plate of fries, rolls, and biscuits. Perfect. I didn't try to send it back, because apparently, this was indeed what I had ordered. Maybe my Canadian accent confused them.
We learned that everyone in the south calls everyone else "Hon." I think we should adopt this is Canada. Especially in Parliament, where if Harper and Ignatieff had to refer to one another as "Hon," the level of debate might just be elevated a bit.
Mostly, though, I learned that driving Miss Nancy is a lovely experience. I know I am supposed to say that, but it's true, none the less. Honest, Hon.
Friday, March 5, 2010
I think we've got the wrong droid
Luke Skywalker always seemed to have such wonderful conversations with R2-D2. So why is it that I cannot manage the same feat when I am conversing with cyber-creatures?
I was thinking about this after a recent bout with Emily, the cyber-receptionist at Bell. My frustration was augmented by whoever the robot girl is who handles customer calls at Disney... let's call her Mini. And then there was the digital woman who fields calls for the circulation department of a local daily newspaper.
All of this came about because we are planning a vacation. So we had to suspend our newspaper subscription, buy some American plan minutes for our phones, and confirm a short stay at Disney World, because I happen to share my life with a Disneyphile. Who has demonstrated to me, by the way, that Disney can be a tonne of fun for two silly adults, and we certainly meet the full quota in that department.
First call was the Bell Mobility, to buy the minutes. Thus, the conversation with Emily.
"Conversation" is not really the right word, is it? It's more, "battle of wits," which I am perennially doomed to lose. I know, when I make the call, that I am going to have to talk to a real, live human being. This person may well be somewhere west of the international date line, but no matter... Emily ain't gonna sell me American minutes.
But she doesn't know that. She also knows she is supposed to engage me in sprightly conversation, point out many wonderful opportunities for me to purchase services, and basically try to keep me well out of the way of real human Bell employees, wherever they are positioned on the globe.
Eventually, after hitting the 0 key a number of times, I got to a real person. But it took effort and ingenuity on my part, and I suspect Emily won, on points.
After that battle of cyber-wit vs. nitwit, I called Disney to confirm our two-day stay, and encountered "Mini: -- my choice of name, not hers -- who is right up there with the holographic doctor on Voyager in terms of conversational ability. I actually fell into the trap, and had a long talk with Mini -- we didn't discuss politics or religion, but her questions and well-programmed answers lured me into a false sense of confidence. False, because I could not actually get the information I needed, and eventually Mini gave up, passed me along, and I was transferred to the front desk of the Disney resort where we have our booking. The delightful woman there confirmed the booking for one Paul Knowles and his companion, whose name is "Unknown." She read it aloud, expecting a human name, and collapsed in giggles when she realized what she had done. I assured her my companion was certainly known, and that she is my wife, Nancy. She appreciated the information, but with great glee continued to refer to Paul and "Miss Unknown" Knowles.
That's my kind of telephone correspondent. I liked her instantly.
Then came the call to the newspaper. I loved the sequence. The digital voice -- let's call her "Lois" -- first informed me that "there will be a 15 second wait for a representative," and then took much more than 15 seconds to offer me sundry cyber-choices, so I could register a holiday break in my subscription without dealing with an actual human. There were a couple of other announcements, too, before I made it to a human being. Who took care of the cancellation in about 12 seconds.
These digital beings -- most of whom appear to be female, probably because they are designed by cyber-geek males who can't get dates -- are nothing like R2D2. But wait a minute -- they certainly do bear an uncanny resemblance to the annoying, cloying, and verbose C3PO. I've got a bad feeling about this.
I was thinking about this after a recent bout with Emily, the cyber-receptionist at Bell. My frustration was augmented by whoever the robot girl is who handles customer calls at Disney... let's call her Mini. And then there was the digital woman who fields calls for the circulation department of a local daily newspaper.
All of this came about because we are planning a vacation. So we had to suspend our newspaper subscription, buy some American plan minutes for our phones, and confirm a short stay at Disney World, because I happen to share my life with a Disneyphile. Who has demonstrated to me, by the way, that Disney can be a tonne of fun for two silly adults, and we certainly meet the full quota in that department.
First call was the Bell Mobility, to buy the minutes. Thus, the conversation with Emily.
"Conversation" is not really the right word, is it? It's more, "battle of wits," which I am perennially doomed to lose. I know, when I make the call, that I am going to have to talk to a real, live human being. This person may well be somewhere west of the international date line, but no matter... Emily ain't gonna sell me American minutes.
But she doesn't know that. She also knows she is supposed to engage me in sprightly conversation, point out many wonderful opportunities for me to purchase services, and basically try to keep me well out of the way of real human Bell employees, wherever they are positioned on the globe.
Eventually, after hitting the 0 key a number of times, I got to a real person. But it took effort and ingenuity on my part, and I suspect Emily won, on points.
After that battle of cyber-wit vs. nitwit, I called Disney to confirm our two-day stay, and encountered "Mini: -- my choice of name, not hers -- who is right up there with the holographic doctor on Voyager in terms of conversational ability. I actually fell into the trap, and had a long talk with Mini -- we didn't discuss politics or religion, but her questions and well-programmed answers lured me into a false sense of confidence. False, because I could not actually get the information I needed, and eventually Mini gave up, passed me along, and I was transferred to the front desk of the Disney resort where we have our booking. The delightful woman there confirmed the booking for one Paul Knowles and his companion, whose name is "Unknown." She read it aloud, expecting a human name, and collapsed in giggles when she realized what she had done. I assured her my companion was certainly known, and that she is my wife, Nancy. She appreciated the information, but with great glee continued to refer to Paul and "Miss Unknown" Knowles.
That's my kind of telephone correspondent. I liked her instantly.
Then came the call to the newspaper. I loved the sequence. The digital voice -- let's call her "Lois" -- first informed me that "there will be a 15 second wait for a representative," and then took much more than 15 seconds to offer me sundry cyber-choices, so I could register a holiday break in my subscription without dealing with an actual human. There were a couple of other announcements, too, before I made it to a human being. Who took care of the cancellation in about 12 seconds.
These digital beings -- most of whom appear to be female, probably because they are designed by cyber-geek males who can't get dates -- are nothing like R2D2. But wait a minute -- they certainly do bear an uncanny resemblance to the annoying, cloying, and verbose C3PO. I've got a bad feeling about this.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Carry your hockey bag, ma'am?
So the gold-medal-winning, Canadian women's hockey team members returned to the ice in an empty arena, smoked a cigar or two, and celebrated. They even popped the corks on some fine champagne.
And the media and self-appointed moral authorities were on them like ugly on an ape.
This -- let me be forthright -- is not only overkillingly ridiculous. It is also entirely sexist.
Let's imagine... and maybe, by the time you read this, it won't be imagination... that the Canadian men win Olympic gold. What do we expect in the dressing room following the game? Lollipops?
Nope, the cameras of CTV and assorted associates will be right there, in the dressingroom, capturing the emotional celebration, punctuated, I'm guessing, with cigars and champagne (an odious combination, if you like champagne, but I digress), and maybe even beer.
And all will be well.
But let our women light up a celebratory stogie, or sip some champers, and all hell breaks loose.
Has anyone checked the history of the Stanley Cup, recently? The places it's been, the excesses which it has endured, the beverages that have been sipped from Lord Stanley's contribution to Canadian identity?
Heaven help us if any of those sippers had been women, apparently.
So, enough. Too much.
I was disappointed to see that the Canadian women's hockey team had to offer an explanation, which was close to (but not exactly, thank goodness, an apology). That was entirely unfair, and should never have happened.
We Canadians, proud and free, obviously place too much national self-identity on hockey, but what the heck, this is who we are. Polite, helpful, not terribly influential, but doggone dedicated to the best game in the world.
Me, too.
So we Canadians need to say to the women who won the gold wearing Canadian uniforms: 1) Hurrah, at the top of our lungs and 2) Sorry for treating you like children. Worse, sorry for treating you like men have treated women for too damned long.
You are champions. Sip proudly, have a foolish cigar if you want (but just one, okay), and know that you have every right to celebrate an incredible accomplishment.
And the media and self-appointed moral authorities were on them like ugly on an ape.
This -- let me be forthright -- is not only overkillingly ridiculous. It is also entirely sexist.
Let's imagine... and maybe, by the time you read this, it won't be imagination... that the Canadian men win Olympic gold. What do we expect in the dressing room following the game? Lollipops?
Nope, the cameras of CTV and assorted associates will be right there, in the dressingroom, capturing the emotional celebration, punctuated, I'm guessing, with cigars and champagne (an odious combination, if you like champagne, but I digress), and maybe even beer.
And all will be well.
But let our women light up a celebratory stogie, or sip some champers, and all hell breaks loose.
Has anyone checked the history of the Stanley Cup, recently? The places it's been, the excesses which it has endured, the beverages that have been sipped from Lord Stanley's contribution to Canadian identity?
Heaven help us if any of those sippers had been women, apparently.
So, enough. Too much.
I was disappointed to see that the Canadian women's hockey team had to offer an explanation, which was close to (but not exactly, thank goodness, an apology). That was entirely unfair, and should never have happened.
We Canadians, proud and free, obviously place too much national self-identity on hockey, but what the heck, this is who we are. Polite, helpful, not terribly influential, but doggone dedicated to the best game in the world.
Me, too.
So we Canadians need to say to the women who won the gold wearing Canadian uniforms: 1) Hurrah, at the top of our lungs and 2) Sorry for treating you like children. Worse, sorry for treating you like men have treated women for too damned long.
You are champions. Sip proudly, have a foolish cigar if you want (but just one, okay), and know that you have every right to celebrate an incredible accomplishment.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
And the gold goes to... really?
Yes, I am enjoying the Olympics. I'm cheering for Canadians, I'm moved by the emotional moments, I like seeing all the flags waving. There... full disclosure.
This is not to say I am blind. Unlike most of the Canadian commentators! (Surely there is an extra syllable in that word. What would be the difference between a commentator and a commentor? I digress).
It is hard not to notice what they appear not to notice.
Consider the opening ceremonies, where a great many of the singers were clearly lipsynching, and doing so badly. The gold for worst lip syncher has to go to the usually solid Bryan Adams; silver to Nellie Furtado, his duet partner. Bronze? Well, there's a wide selection of candidates, but I'd give it to whoever decided not to trust Measha Brueggergosman, an excellent singer who should have been allowed to go live.
On the other hand, k.d. lang did sing live, and brilliantly. Wow! So it could be done.
It was cute, in an anxious sort of way, when the five torch lighters remained at attention for what was clearly way too long, while the announcers didn't acknowledge that something had gone wrong for what felt like an hour and a half.
On the other hand, the commentators clearly did notice, but declined to comment on, one of the most appalling moments in Canadian sportscasting, as -- while the American feed was showing beautiful Canadian vistas, and basically reporting wonderful things about us -- we were showing pre-Olympic scenes of apparently teenage girls in hot tubs, and then -- for the gold -- other apparently teenage girls about to do body shots off some hot guy.
That's what we're best known for... elegance and class.
I'm sure we all agree that the gold for most hackneyed phrase has to go jointly to the 1,275 broadcasters who mouthed the words "... has never won gold on Canadian soil". My goodness.
Speaking of all things Canadian, you gotta wonder who arranged that funereal tempo for our national anthem at the opening ceremonies. O Canada! indeed. It took longer to finish the song that it did to complete the Canadian Pacific Railway.
I don't recall hearing any commentator point out that although we are an officially bilingual country, it was not clear which second language the VANOC head was speaking in when he fell out of English and into what one can only assume was an attempt at French.
Vancouver has been swarming with people from all over the world, for months. Could John Furlong not have found someone to tell him that "una kip" is not how you pronounce the phrase meaning "a team" in French? Or is Una Kip a Finnish snowboarder? It's unclear.
And then there's a second mystery surrounding the clearly talented and committed Mr. Furlong... and again, nobody has pointed it out. When he was addressing the world at the opening ceremony (in English; we'll let the failed attempt at French go, now), he had a clear, if wooden, Canadian accent.
But when they showed the pre-recorded features about him, Furlong has an undeniable Irish lilt. Hey -- maybe they have spirited away the real Furlong and replaced him with a clone. It may be a North Korean plot. Stay tuned.
Speaking of staying tuned -- this is not the first time I have watched figure skating. And therefore, it is not the first time I have been utterly baffled by the judging. Is there any "sport" where the judging is more opaque?
People fell down, and won. They fell twice, and scored well. They skated beautifully, and came in seventh or 15th. And nobody said, "What the....??" Does everybody except me understand this? Do the cumulative scores of the last 12 years figure in? It's as though the Canadian hockey team, for instance, won 3-2 in the gold match, but gold is awarded to the US anyway, because the judges... well, because they can.
There. The gold in being a curmudgeon goes to Knowles. Let the Games continue.
This is not to say I am blind. Unlike most of the Canadian commentators! (Surely there is an extra syllable in that word. What would be the difference between a commentator and a commentor? I digress).
It is hard not to notice what they appear not to notice.
Consider the opening ceremonies, where a great many of the singers were clearly lipsynching, and doing so badly. The gold for worst lip syncher has to go to the usually solid Bryan Adams; silver to Nellie Furtado, his duet partner. Bronze? Well, there's a wide selection of candidates, but I'd give it to whoever decided not to trust Measha Brueggergosman, an excellent singer who should have been allowed to go live.
On the other hand, k.d. lang did sing live, and brilliantly. Wow! So it could be done.
It was cute, in an anxious sort of way, when the five torch lighters remained at attention for what was clearly way too long, while the announcers didn't acknowledge that something had gone wrong for what felt like an hour and a half.
On the other hand, the commentators clearly did notice, but declined to comment on, one of the most appalling moments in Canadian sportscasting, as -- while the American feed was showing beautiful Canadian vistas, and basically reporting wonderful things about us -- we were showing pre-Olympic scenes of apparently teenage girls in hot tubs, and then -- for the gold -- other apparently teenage girls about to do body shots off some hot guy.
That's what we're best known for... elegance and class.
I'm sure we all agree that the gold for most hackneyed phrase has to go jointly to the 1,275 broadcasters who mouthed the words "... has never won gold on Canadian soil". My goodness.
Speaking of all things Canadian, you gotta wonder who arranged that funereal tempo for our national anthem at the opening ceremonies. O Canada! indeed. It took longer to finish the song that it did to complete the Canadian Pacific Railway.
I don't recall hearing any commentator point out that although we are an officially bilingual country, it was not clear which second language the VANOC head was speaking in when he fell out of English and into what one can only assume was an attempt at French.
Vancouver has been swarming with people from all over the world, for months. Could John Furlong not have found someone to tell him that "una kip" is not how you pronounce the phrase meaning "a team" in French? Or is Una Kip a Finnish snowboarder? It's unclear.
And then there's a second mystery surrounding the clearly talented and committed Mr. Furlong... and again, nobody has pointed it out. When he was addressing the world at the opening ceremony (in English; we'll let the failed attempt at French go, now), he had a clear, if wooden, Canadian accent.
But when they showed the pre-recorded features about him, Furlong has an undeniable Irish lilt. Hey -- maybe they have spirited away the real Furlong and replaced him with a clone. It may be a North Korean plot. Stay tuned.
Speaking of staying tuned -- this is not the first time I have watched figure skating. And therefore, it is not the first time I have been utterly baffled by the judging. Is there any "sport" where the judging is more opaque?
People fell down, and won. They fell twice, and scored well. They skated beautifully, and came in seventh or 15th. And nobody said, "What the....??" Does everybody except me understand this? Do the cumulative scores of the last 12 years figure in? It's as though the Canadian hockey team, for instance, won 3-2 in the gold match, but gold is awarded to the US anyway, because the judges... well, because they can.
There. The gold in being a curmudgeon goes to Knowles. Let the Games continue.
Friday, February 12, 2010
25% vote; 100% bear the consequences
It's an intriguing experience, this political thing.
If you're reading this column, you probably already know that I am a candidate for the position of Mayor of Wilmot Township in the 2010 municipal election. I announced my intentions a couple of weeks ago, and the response has been very interesting.
(If you're not reading this column.... no, that won't work. Never mind).
A lot of people have contacted me since the announcement, mostly folks I have encountered on the street or in the grocery store or at a local restaurant.
I've been very impressed that at least half have not only congratulated me -- which is quite premature, unless the congratulations are for being brave and/or foolish enough to run, in which case, thank you -- but have also offered to help in the campaign.
Some, of course, simply say, "So, you're running..." and then look down at an imaginary speck on the sidewalk, so I suspect they are not among my most ardent supporters. This response, too, is to be expected.
What I didn't expect is the level of engagement of a lot of people, this early on. The nomination period is open, but the election doesn't take place until October 25. That's a geological age away, in political terms.
None the less, many people are engaged and eager to participate.
This is tremendous. One of the reasons I am running is because I believe that municipal government is where most of the things happen that affect our daily lives.
Of course, the feds make important decisions -- or don't, in the case of a lengthy prorogation -- and so do our provincial leaders. They do things that impact us every day, from instituting the HST to funding community facilities.
But it's at the municipal level that we feel the impact, most regularly. If you doubt that, imagine discovering your garbage at the end of your driveway, two days after it was supposed to be picked up. Think about what would happen if your taps no longer produced water, or your toilet no longer flushed; if huge sinkholes in your street were left un-repaired, or a rendering plant opened in the middle of your subdivision.
These are all municipal concerns, at the township and/or regional level. These things matter.
Listen when you are having coffee with some friends -- many of the complaints will be about all things municipal. Delays in getting approval from the GRCA? Your mayor is your only rep on that board. Electricity bills? Your mayor is your only rep on that board. Limited hours at your library? Your mayor.... this is becoming needlessly repetitive. The point is, our municipal representatives have a lot to do with how we live on a day to day basis.
I'm going on about this, this week -- and no, this will not be my weekly column topic, I assure you -- because many people still don't really know who does what, when it comes to supplying services to the people of our communities.
Odds are good, if you raise an issue, the trail will lead right to municipal or regional council. Part of my goal (in addition to the "get elected" part) is to inform as many people as possible about the importance of our township council and regional council.
But what I am celebrating, these days, is the number of people who do know, who do care, and who are eager to get involved.
As this campaign unfolds, if you are one of these, I encourage you to go beyond urging support for individual candidates. Talk to your friends and neighbours about the roles and responsibilities of municipal governments. Encourage them to get involved.
Only about 25% of voters participate in municipal elections. But 100% of voters are impacted by their results.
Get involved. Thus endeth the lesson.
If you're reading this column, you probably already know that I am a candidate for the position of Mayor of Wilmot Township in the 2010 municipal election. I announced my intentions a couple of weeks ago, and the response has been very interesting.
(If you're not reading this column.... no, that won't work. Never mind).
A lot of people have contacted me since the announcement, mostly folks I have encountered on the street or in the grocery store or at a local restaurant.
I've been very impressed that at least half have not only congratulated me -- which is quite premature, unless the congratulations are for being brave and/or foolish enough to run, in which case, thank you -- but have also offered to help in the campaign.
Some, of course, simply say, "So, you're running..." and then look down at an imaginary speck on the sidewalk, so I suspect they are not among my most ardent supporters. This response, too, is to be expected.
What I didn't expect is the level of engagement of a lot of people, this early on. The nomination period is open, but the election doesn't take place until October 25. That's a geological age away, in political terms.
None the less, many people are engaged and eager to participate.
This is tremendous. One of the reasons I am running is because I believe that municipal government is where most of the things happen that affect our daily lives.
Of course, the feds make important decisions -- or don't, in the case of a lengthy prorogation -- and so do our provincial leaders. They do things that impact us every day, from instituting the HST to funding community facilities.
But it's at the municipal level that we feel the impact, most regularly. If you doubt that, imagine discovering your garbage at the end of your driveway, two days after it was supposed to be picked up. Think about what would happen if your taps no longer produced water, or your toilet no longer flushed; if huge sinkholes in your street were left un-repaired, or a rendering plant opened in the middle of your subdivision.
These are all municipal concerns, at the township and/or regional level. These things matter.
Listen when you are having coffee with some friends -- many of the complaints will be about all things municipal. Delays in getting approval from the GRCA? Your mayor is your only rep on that board. Electricity bills? Your mayor is your only rep on that board. Limited hours at your library? Your mayor.... this is becoming needlessly repetitive. The point is, our municipal representatives have a lot to do with how we live on a day to day basis.
I'm going on about this, this week -- and no, this will not be my weekly column topic, I assure you -- because many people still don't really know who does what, when it comes to supplying services to the people of our communities.
Odds are good, if you raise an issue, the trail will lead right to municipal or regional council. Part of my goal (in addition to the "get elected" part) is to inform as many people as possible about the importance of our township council and regional council.
But what I am celebrating, these days, is the number of people who do know, who do care, and who are eager to get involved.
As this campaign unfolds, if you are one of these, I encourage you to go beyond urging support for individual candidates. Talk to your friends and neighbours about the roles and responsibilities of municipal governments. Encourage them to get involved.
Only about 25% of voters participate in municipal elections. But 100% of voters are impacted by their results.
Get involved. Thus endeth the lesson.
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