“I see the first nations want to buy the trans mountain pipeline from the government. So let me see if I’ve got this right. Trudeau’s government paid 4.9 billion dollars to buy the pipeline, now the first nations want to buy it for a similar amount. The only problem is that one of the first nations primary source of income is government largesse. And they pay no taxes. So if this deal goes through then the Canadian taxpayer will have paid 9.8 billion for the pipeline – that hasn’t been built yet. This sure sounds like liberal economics.”
BTW, Canada is now viewed as a nation that is unable to build anything of major importance!
I didn’t know I was toxic. I’ll have to order one of those Haz-Mat suits from Amazon. Notice too in the ad that whitey males are toxic and black males are righteous.
Or become New Age Enlightened. Like these guys
SNAG (see add above) or “How I Spent My Summer On Hornby Island.”
Or perhaps this guy.
I always hated this cartoon character. Annoying!
From the new age journalism file comes this bit of journalistic professionalism…or “This is really awkward file:”
CNN host accuses guest of “White Privilege.” Only problem here being is that her guest was Black. She tried to apologize, accusing others such as her producer for her own lack of preparation, but her guest would not let her off the hook. In quoting Martin Luther King her guest stated that he would rather by judged by his character and deeds rather than by the colour of his skin…….or what razor he uses in the morning.
Be the best a man can be…not get….always.
Still a great song after all these years. Stevie Winwood (singer) was only 17 years old when this song was produced in the 60’s. Play it LOUD!
Words! What is in a word? My kingdom for a word! A horse it may be but a horse is only a word that by any other name is still a word. Words declare wars, they garner peace. Words can be hurtful, they can be playful. Words describe words as in spiteful words, hurtful words, insightful words. We can have a war of words, crosswords or them’s fightin words. Words can be theatrical: we can have a play on words. Word is law. It is the word. Words are prophetic. Words can be the gospel truth. So sayeth the word of the Lord. Words inspire, they transpire. Words transcribe: you have my word on that. Failing that, can I have a word with you? But words are not enough. That’s why we have lawyers. Words can also be despotic, or chaotic. A single word can inspire poetry, lyricism.
We can combine words to make quotable quotes: some profound, some sublime, some simplistic, some stupidly clear:
“To be or not to be – that is the question.” That may be but on Jeopardy it is the answer!
“If things are good in moderation then they must be great in excess.” My favourite.
Yet words are not enough when communicating. Context and understanding are crucial. Without context confusion arises to the point of ridiculousness. Let me try to illustrate this by something that I learned in school:
Take the word “nit.” The Concise Oxford English Dictionary defines “nit” as a stupid person, a louse. Then add the letter “k” before the “n” and you have “knit.” Yet the word “nit” from the word “knit” is a whole different kettle of fish. And what is that anyway: a kettle of fish?
Now, let’s take the word “wit:” defined as someone with a sharp sense of humour, a player of words perhaps. As in “that man possesses wit. He has a sharp mind.” But then add the letter “t” before the “w” and you have “twit.” Or, combine the word “nit” with the word “wit” and you have a “nitwit.” But “nit” and “twit” together does not sound quite right – “nit-twit?”
Nonetheless, given that a “nit” is already defined as a stupid person, and “wit” is someone who has a sharp mind, then “nitwit” defiles all logic in a descriptive sense except perhaps to define someone who possesses a stupid “wit” – which in itself is oxymoronic. But “dimwit” already has that locked up. Yet what is really frustrating about the undercurrent of this word is that “dimwit” is the opposite of someone who has a sharp “wit.” So, that being the case, let’s call him or her a “blunt-sharp” person!
To make matters worse a “twit” could be someone who has a sharp “wit,” and is still a “nitwit” or a “dimwit.” So why can’t we call him or her a nit-twit? Or a “dim-twit”? The bottom line is that “nitwit” or “dimwit” sounds better. The other bottom line is that English words are just downright confusing without context and a shared understanding of the contextual environment we are communicating in.
Words can mean different things to many different people. It is how we shape them, construct them, and construe them that are key to our success in using them. Timing may be one thing but context is everything. Take my word for it. You’ll be surprised at how much fun words can be. You’ll be truly amazed at your wordiness.
Oh yeah, and I remember my Italian uncle declaring to his Italian spouse: Hey Flora. Let’s go to the big city and have some fauna – hey? Groan
You have my word on it.
* Excerpt from my book: “I Thought I’d Died and Gone to Heaven”
“Hey Jay? What’s shakin today eh? Hey, I’m a poet.
“Yes you are George, yes you are”
“So Jay, before we even get started with all the craziness out there I would like to know one thing. How’d you get that handle, Shakey Jay anyway?”
“Well you see George, my hands shake. And my left hand really shakes. Much worse than the right. So most of my friends and not so friends call me Shakey. But I don’t mind. You see, whenever I had to perform in front of a crowd or give a presentation or a speech, the audience would equate my shakin hands to nervousness. Yet I am no more nervous than any one else. If one is anxious before public speaking, well so am I. If one’s hands sweat, well so do mine. If one has butterflies in their gut well so do I only mine are bigger. But, on top of all of that I have an additional affliction. No, affliction is not the right word here. A physical trait is more like it. It is something that is called a Benign Familial Tremor. I have had it all my life. Benign because it doesn’t grow as an affliction; Familial as it is hereditary, normally on the male side of a family, and Tremor for obvious reasons. It is now called an Essential Tremor although I really see nothing essential about it.”
“Sorry to interrupt Jay but again, who is one?”
“Let me share a very short but personal journey with you George.”
“I first noticed that something might be amiss with my hands when I was about 6 years old. On those summer days: hot, humid and sweaty, with a parched thirst, I would run to the fridge and to the consternation of all mothers out there, grab the chocolate milk carton with my sweaty, dirty palms, and bring my chapped, cracked, swollen dry lips to the spout and chug a lug to my hearts content. With my right hand there didn’t seem to be a problem. But when I grabbed it with my left hand, that carton would be a shakin all over. The contents of which were a shakin with me and a shakin all over me. But that was okay you see because for every swill with my left hand I had a chocolate milk shake.”
“It became apparent that the medical profession would not be in the cards for me. Indeed, dental surgery, neurosurgery was definitely out of the question. And you know what? I always wondered why on earth my parents never ever bought me a chemistry set as a kid.”
“As I got older I had to be very careful with the kind of work I did. Summer jobs were quite plentiful but some, like waiting tables, were not in the cards. But there was one city construction job that was right up my alley…workin the jackhammer. This job masked my physical trait…. and everything else for that matter – and our crew was something else indeed. Man oh man I cannot begin to tell you or show you how a crew of jackhammer artistes act while taking a break…off the job. But one thing I learned very quickly. Never, ever buy hot coffee during stand easy. And hot soup was definitely a no-no during lunch.”
“Nevertheless I moved on and was quite capable of living with my physical peculiarity. I joined the Navy at 23. During basic training there was one performance objective that really called for a steady hand… the small arms range. Needless to say I and my instructors were just a tad concerned. But you know what? With the rifle I had absolutely no difficulty at all. That’s because the NATO Standard FN rifle was heavy and I, being a left handed shot, had no difficulties with it. I actually attained marksman status at 1000 meters.”
“The sub machine gun was a blast as well. On single shot, I did have some difficulty and didn’t quite make the grade. But on staccato burst – man oh man – another story. The breech action on short burst was made for my affliction. And on fire for effect – full throttle, well those instructors had never seen anything like it. When my left handed finger action was engaged, nothing, and I mean nothing, was safe within a 25 yard radius I can tell you that. But there was one small arms weapon that was cause for concern: the 9mm pistol. Right handed, not too bad, both hands, I passed. But left handed? Not only did I hit my own target but I hit every other damn target down that firing line, without even trying. With my eyes closed for heaven sakes. It was a beautiful sight I can tell you seeing all of those other cadets on the firing line fall in turn or in unison and in panic to the ground for cover in perfect military fashion. Notwithstanding, even though I failed in the 9mm and was up for a career review because of it, I was able to convince the instructors that being on a ship the only gun I would ever fire would be a 5in 54 single shot howitzer that weighed in about 20 tons. I told the staff that I didn’t think I could lift it with my left hand. Needless to say common sense prevailed and I passed.”
“As the years went on the condition began to bug me as it would externalized my nervousness. So I went to see a neurologist.”
“Doc, what on earth can I do about this.”
“Well, he said, what seems to calm it down.”
“Well, says I, I do notice that when I have a few shooters the shakiness is less pronounced.”
“Well try that” he said.
“So, I did. It worked but not without its problems. You see, with a few shooters under the belt one gets a false sense of courage. I gave my presentation and asked for questions. One came. It was so stupid that I told the guy in no uncertain terms that his question was dumb and didn’t deserve an answer!”
Back to the doctor.
“Try these pills” he said, “but watch the dosage. Take 20 mg and see how that works out.”
“So, for the next presentation, a few minutes beforehand, I took the pill. It didn’t seem to work so I took another 2 just in case. Well, blah, blah blah, blah blah blah. Blah, blah blah. Whew.”
“Back to the doctor. He laughed, “you idiot. It takes about an hour for the pill to kick in. Try ½ dosage to start with.”
“Okay. I followed instructions and gave the presentation. Now, from your perspective it may have sounded all right. But from my perspective it sounded kind of like this……………..Myyyyy naaaameeee is Jaaaaayyyyyyy.
After a few tries I succeeded in finding the right dose and things seemed to be less pronounced.
As time went on I learned every trick there is to mask the shakiness. So, like most people I have all of the common side effects in prepping for a presentation but with this one exception. Yet for me it has never been an affliction, just a physical trait, that’s all. And besides, unlike you, when a good tune comes on the radio, I can be a shakin all over……… without even trying.
“And that’s all she wrote George”
“Shakey Jay huh? Somewhat appropriate. See ya later Jay, till next time. Oh by the way, who’s she?”
We just dodged a bullet when the referendum to implement some form of Proportional Representation failed…………..whew.
Up until this vote occurred I did some research on this issue….so you don’t have to. By the way Fair Vote Canada’s argument to trash our electoral process to one that was all inclusive was very misleading. Of course the Greens and NDP were pushing hard for this as it favours left wing coalitions and makes it extremely hard if not impossible for a centre right conservative party from ever gaining power again.
“PR? Well I tink it goes a somethin lika dis…………………….I tink. Hey…. Mama Mia.”
Well I just read an article by a group that want to change our electoral process from a First Past the Post system to one of Proportional Representation. Their primary argument was, among many, that Canada had one of the most unstable governments of the developed democracies. They cite Italy as an example of electoral stability.
I don’t know about you but as soon as I read that comment their argument became as mushy as a wet noodle or an overcooked bowl of pasta without the meat sauce. They point out that because Canada has had 22 elections as opposed to Italy’s 18 since WW2 that somehow Italy’s electoral process is a model of stability. Holy ravioli, it cannot be. Well it isn’t:
Yes Canada has had 22 elections since WW2 but I would say that this is a reflection of how strong and stable our system of government is.
Canada has a parliamentary system of government based upon Westminster that calls for an election, until Harper’s fixed election date decree, of every 5 years. That alone would require an election every 14.2 years in Canada since 1945 if all governments were majority in nature. But they haven’t been and I would argue that that is also a good thing because the strength of our democracy and parliamentary system of government holds poor governments to account (remember Joe Clark, Meighen) by forcing them to go to the polls for public validation. Minorities can also provide strong legislative government as reflected by Pearson’s successful minority governments of the mid 1960s.
Our system also prevents potential constitutional crises – Mackenzie King, Bing affair comes to mind – something that Italy could only hope for. By the way, Italy may have had only 18 elections since WW2 but they have had 65 different governments since 1945, and therein lies the problem that can arise with Proportional Representation (PR). Nothing gets done. Why? Because governance coalitions are necessary for power and political survival in these countries with their PR systems of government.
Unfortunately, by their very nature, they are unstable. Can you imagine the chaos in Canada if the Layton, Dion and Duceppe coalition had taken down Harper’s minority government back in December 2008? Luckily, through our strong and stable system of rules and protocols, Harper was able to prorogue parliament and thus avoid political instability in this country. The Liberals backed down from the coalition early in 2009. Whew! Of course all of the lefties blew a hissy fit and spewed their spaghetti all over their bibs.
As an example of the efficacy of Italy’s PR system, here are some facts about Italy’s 2008 election:
“An early election was called (in Italy) when Romano Prodi resigned as prime minister in January, after the collapse of his centre-left coalition, which had been in power for just 20 months…only one Italian government has lasted a full five-year term in the last 50 years, led by conservative Silvio Berlusconi between 2001-2006 and even he was forced to resign once during that time by fractious allies.”
“Italians blame electoral laws for chronic instability that brought down the 61st government since World War Two in January. The system, still in use, mixes proportional representation with a threshold of 2 percent for parties in a coalition and 4 percent for single parties. It permitted more than 20 parties to take seats in 2006.”
And the real kicker here is:
“Both Berlusconi and Veltroni favoured altering the system to reduce the PR element and push Italy towards a two-party system.” Unfortunately, for Italy, that hasn’t happened yet.
When I was about 17 I took my first of many treks from my home town back east to the west coast of Canada – a long and torturous trip for a young impressionable buck like me. The following is an excerpt from that first sojourn away from home. I hope you enjoy it:
Back in the day my employment prospects, while numerous, were never really career worthy. So in between jobs, or between a period of steady employment I would sometimes hit the road and do some travelling. My first bit of travel occurred just after working for A.C. Wickman. While working there polishing the fat wide ends of the tiny drill bits I was let go just one day before my three month probation period ended. All of us rookies, who had all started at this factory on the same day, were all released, terminated, let go, made redundant, superfluous, surplus, unused, outmoded, unnecessary….fired. It didn’t matter how or why or what you said to describe your circumstances, situation or bit of bad luck.
It all meant the same damn thing. Pogey! And how I love that word redundant! Code for fired. A nice English bit of linguistic mumbo jumbo, confusion-speak to tell someone that they’re sacked.
“You’re being made redundant” someone once told me. Great! I thought I was getting a promotion. Redundant… wow.
I decided to head to the west coast. By train! The Transcontinental…all the way and all by myself. Well not really by myself when I got there as my penultimate oldest sister was shacked up with a Japanese fellow. Her best girlfriend, my next door neighbour’s daughter, was also out there. You see, this was 1968, the year after the summer of love. Yet 1966-69 was, in reality, the longest summer of love in history. And “go west young man” was really hippie-speak for the wider, greener pastures of acid rain, or West Coast Bud. And I could stay with them until I got settled.
“Why not just stay here and be a stoner” someone once said. “Why go all the way out there?”
“Well, man, sunsets are really, really weird out there.” another answered.
“How so?” they queried. “You can’t see them anyway cause it’s always raining out there.”
“Well man… because man, it’s like, wow man, out of site…but there is no land anywhere west of there. Don’t you think that is sooo cool. Soooo out of site. Land I mean. You can’t see any land man. It’s out of site”
“Well yes” they thought of this stupid idiot. “Land is out of site west of there cause it’s all Pacific ocean from there on in. Until you hit Japan.”
“Japan? Like wow man! Japan? Really? Man, that is so weird, so cool, that is so profound man.”
Good gawd I thought. The future of mankind!
My parents were fine with this although they were entirely tuned out of the reality of the drug culture. Unbeknownst to them they were letting their young son, at 17, to hit the long and winding, purple hazed road of personal freedom. I can say this now, looking back on those years, but at the time I was scared shitless.
I boarded coach on the Transcontinental at the very large cavernous platform of the enormous train station that served my hometown for over a hundred years. I could imagine then and there, at that very moment in time, how the soldiers of the Great War and World War Two felt when leaving the familiarity and warmth of families and loved ones for the trenches of France and Belgium, or the training fields of England, knowing full well that many of them would not be returning to the comforts of home. Why did I feel this way? Think this way? At this particular moment? I don’t really know but the images of troops on trains in cavernous train stations like this one just seemed to pop into my head for no apparent reason: as if it had been ingrained into my psyche from such a young age that their individual and collective sacrifices paved the way for my very own freedom of choice at this very moment in time. And, as I was waving goodbye to my parents just as the Transcontinental was slowly leaving the station, I could almost see or visualize the spectres of long lost souls roaming about this very station looking for and finding, waving goodbye to their friends, their families and their loved ones for the very last time, for eternity. These willowy images dissipating slowly like some afterthought in a mist of memory in the stillness of time.
It took over three days to reach the coast. I was dead tired as it was extremely difficult to sleep in coach. The scenery for a young lad was extremely boring. Trees, and lakes; trees and lakes; the occasional hill covered with trees then more lakes with trees around them. Muskeg, Muskox and Muskrat – it was rather musky out there with a lot of musky critters running or scampering through the musky forests of trees and lakes and streams. Then more trees and more lakes and more trees and… trees. Finally, no more trees. Just flat grassland. A sea, no an ocean of grass. More grass, then a lake, maybe a river bounded by grass on all sides, but no trees, just grass. As far as the eye could see. Grass! Sometimes a small rise would come into view, a small hill covered with grass. I dreamed of grass, of trees, of lakes, of grassy knolls. It was weird man and I was no stoner.
Finally hills, as barren as Sister Mary Bernice, my grade school principal, morphed into bigger hills which transformed into very large hills with deep, deep valleys. Valley’s covered with trees. The mountains, the Rocky Mountains: all the granite one could ever imagine. Most people see these mountains as majestic, beautiful, God’s handiwork, a reflection of his power: the very smallness of mankind in full view when measured against this spectacular backdrop. Yet all I could think of was granite. Enough granite to cover every kitchen counter top on the planet. But wait, that wouldn’t occur for another thirty years. What was I thinking?
Mountains, and more mountains, snow covered, nature’s monuments. Mountain passes that scoured a route for the early explorers: Lewis and Clark, Thompson, Fraser, Carson, DiCrapio, Morrison I thought. Unbelievable! Then darkness. What? These idiot trainers scheduled the very best transit, the transit through the mountains, to occur at night? Dopes! And they called us stoners! Alas, we would arrive at our west coast destination in the morning? Try to get some sleep I thought but in Coach that was an impossibility.
Waking up to a slow moving chugalug train inching its way it seemed into the outer burbs and run-down industrial sites of this so called magnificent coastal city. Magnificent in that it was a large metropolitan area surrounded be the majesty of the coastal mountain range and the Cascades: a nice name for a string of active, dormant and extinct volcanoes. Think of Mount St Helens, Rainier, Hood, Baker, Shasta and other non descript names for mountains that have the potential of reeking natural havoc, cascading death and destruction on an unsuspecting, unassuming public. These mountainous, frighteningly natural megaliths formed a formidable barrier to the north and east of the city’s metropolis but then offset by the calm waters of the Pacific Ocean bordering its northwest, west and south-western flanks. Only problem with this visual description was the curtain of rain, drizzle and mist that permeated my vision out of the coach’s dirty windows. These titans of nature and the oceanic beauty and seemingly calmness of the Pacific were really just figments of my active imagination in all of this rain, or as a described picture by some nature magazine article I read about the place.
My first impressions were not good. I found the outer fringes of this city in disarray: disorganized, third worldly in its ardour and its feel. Low rise buildings of various sizes and shapes with facades of every colour of the rainbow. Ugly purples, grotesque yellows and grim orange decor trims added to this canvass of dirty grey stucco buildings and rusted out arches and gantries of the numerous bridges that spanned the delta of a mighty river. With the dreariness of the rain and the drabness of the grey skies these colours and contours were transformed and morphed into a visual scene that reminded me of some hippy’s bad acid dream of an undulating kaleidoscope landscape of a barf induced wasteland. When we finally reached the western terminus of this national journey, and could go no further, a young fellow like me could only sigh a sigh of relief that the torturous three and a half day trek in coach was finally over.
My sister met me at the station then took me to their abode in the downtown core. They had rented an apartment in the City’s west end, very close to the beach of the British sounding bay with water that was so cold as to render it un-swimmable. One would have an extremely difficult time finding one’s privates after a swim in waters such as this. And who was one anyway? Close to that were funky looking shops and high rise concourses that spread their way along narrow streets, avenues and boulevards toward a massive green expanse of a park that adorned itself with towering trees of old growth forest. But in the rain these towering, magnificent giants of nature were mostly obscured by the fog in the midst of a city that was blanketed for the most part of the year by a canopy of clouds and mist. With all of this rain the buildings of the downtown core exuded a depressed aura of doom and gloom being grey on the mind, grey on one’s thoughts with an outlook of a grey depressing world in the midst of all of this precipitation.
“But at least it’s not snow, you don’t have to shovel it,” I heard over and over again. Yes, but saying this was really a defensive mechanism on one’s part, a sense of insecurity or rationalization by some idiot who chose, regrettably, to live in such a grey expanse of concrete within what is, in reality, an urban rain forest. After a few days of this I wondered how anyone in their right mind could live here. The dampness of the place was bone chilling and mould worthy.
But then again I guess home is where the heart is.
(c) Shakeyjay 2016
*Excerpt from my soon to be published book: “I Thought I’d Died and Gone to Heaven”
