Oh Canada

 

In two days we celebrate our nation's birthday. Woo-hoo, Canada, good on ya. We have every reason to celebrate it, and every reason to keep on celebrating it. I don't have a specific gift for you, but I did pay my taxes on time, continued to stay out of jail, and voted every time I possibly could.

I even cheered for the Montreal Canadiens, the last-remaining Canadian team in the recent NHL finals.

My one-year teaching stint in El Salvador thirty-one years ago cured me of any whining or whimpering about this great country. And teaching Canadian history here and there over the years has likewise given me a great appreciation of how we have come together – revisionist history, notwithstanding.

And as a commoner out here in the West - a schmuck in the prairie trenches, if you will - I have a couple of suggestions to help this country journey on.

As I write this, I find it terribly ironic that there's crowd gathering in Los Angeles and another one in Toronto. The connection? you ask. The former speaks of what's right about this country: young guys from every town and hamlet across this country realizing their lifelong dream, namely, being chosen to play professional hockey, Canada's national winter sport. The latter is a good example of some leftist notion called "freedom of expression." (And let me quickly add that it is a small band of anarchists within the legitimate thousands who are creating the damage.)

The Los Angeles scene has brought together those with big bucks and big budgets that provide incomes for thousands of people. And the Toronto scene, well, it's doing the same, just in a different way. The difference is that the loud, raucous noise at the Staples Centre is, for the most part, peaceful, positive, and supportive; whereas the streets of Toronto are filled with vandals who are hell-bent on the destruction of property owned by the multinationals. And they don't even have the guts to take off their masks.

Technically, at this point, I would throw in a word that writers and speakers use to show how one event or experience is actually a word picture for another event or experience. The word, of course, is metaphor. So I suggest on that basis that the NHL draft is a metaphor for what is good about Canada and the protest by a cabal of doorknobs in Toronto is also a metaphor for what is bad about Canada.

A good sport Canada means a good Canada. We cheer and we jeer, we announce and we denounce, we have our winners and we have our losers. We do our best, play hard, then let the champions take home the hardware. There is hope for the player, spoils for the victor. This is what Canada is all about.

But a selfish Canada means a bad Canada. This version of Canada – or as in the case of the G20 anarchists, professional vandals from around the world – disallows true freedom of speech (unless it involves broken windows and burned police cars); this version of Canada takes some of the facts, sees only the small picture – then reacts in the most immature, harmful way possible.

It is unfortunate that honest protests can be marred by such behaviour.

Ironically, this column is a prime example of true freedom of speech: I express my opinion or conviction each Tuesday, and on occasion, people who also have the right to freedom of speech to disagree write a letter to the editor. No smashed windows, no damaged property, and no burned buildings.

So, listen up Canada, whoever and wherever you are – here's a birthday gift to you: Let the kids play hockey all across this country. The joy (for being selected) and honour (to their parents) that I have heard over the past twenty-four gives me much hope for our nation's future, at least in a little way. And if those imported morons have an urge to protest the millions of dollars that the billionaire corporations are pouring into this sports industry, I have a further suggestion:

Give them a penalty, befitting the game. Let's try an instigator penalty, or delay of game. But instead of two minutes in the penalty box, let's try two years in North Korea or Somalia. That would cure them of their lawlessness. It might even save a few windows on Bay Street.

A Truly World Cup

 

I have been doing my best to follow the World Cup, now taking place in South Africa as I write. The ultimate soccer championship takes place every four years and is arguably the greatest tournament in the world.

Unlike the misnamed "World Series" - a tournament between teams only from the USA (with the occasional team from Canada, once every twenty years or so) – this festival of the world's best soccer teams is really incomparable to anything else. There may be some vague similarity between, say, the Stanley Cup play-offs, but it's a stretch. The only link I can make between these two events is that, at some given point, there are sixteen teams vying for the same goal – athletic glory.

I follow and understand hockey (I'm a Canadian, eh!); I do not follow and understand soccer. Well, I understand it a little, but I do not follow it. For example, in hockey, there is bumping and grinding and crashing; whereas in soccer – at least at the World Cup level – there seems to be a lot of standing around, with occasional outbursts of dashing hither and yon.

I say the above tongue in cheek, because I actually admire all the precise passing, the adroit footwork, and the gutsy headers. I tried that header stuff once in grade nine: The ball hit the side of my head instead, so I took up inter-varsity ping-pong the next year.

However, what I find most intriguing (a euphemism for "irritating") about soccer are the theatrics. Not the half-time show type of theatrics; not the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders type of theatrics; and certainly not the moronic touchdown victory dance type of theatrics.

No, these are the knee-in-the-groin-I'm-going-to-die theatrics. Oh, the pain! My, the writhing! What anguish! This is what we call an embellished reaction. That is, until the ref tells the actor, er, player, to get up, get going, or get out of the game, courtesy of a yellow card. Their instant recovery would make a faith healer blush.

In hockey, we call that diving, and there is a two minute penalty for that. Soccer's version of time in the "sin bin" should be as definite, if not harsher. It really cheapens the game and detracts from what I sincerely consider a great sport.

The other "however" is the strip tease show after each goal. Okay, okay, not total undress, but this goofy practice of taking off one's shirt, dashing madly to the sidelines, then sliding on one's knees, is just a little too much for me. Cartwheels, yes; maybe even a little can-can; but running like one has just won the lottery seems to be a waste of time, energy, and common sense.

As far as I know, Canada didn't quite make it to South Africa this year. I think they are about 152^nd in the world, somewhere between Iceland and Greenland. And I don't think there is any real shame in such a low standing. Canada is good at many things in the sports world, hockey being the most notable. I suggest we stick with what we're good at, and let the Brazils and Italys of the world play in the World Cup.

Now, if we could train them to keep their shirts on, we would have a world class act.

Israel, By Land or By Sea

 

I am assuming you have watched both the "Fiddler on the Roof" and "Munich," two diverse portrayals of the Jewish mindset. If it is possible to sum up movies with one word each, it would be, of course, "tradition" and "justice," respectively. This might be one of those rare instances where Hollywood actually got it right.

So you were quite possibly as outraged with the news of Israel's response to ships heading for Gaza a couple of weeks ago as I was. Imagine: A flotilla of ships bound for the Gaza strip, reputedly carrying humanitarian aid, only to be stopped in their tracks by a bunch of Hebrew henchmen.

You might say some of that armada (or would that be "army-mad-at"?) were caught dead in the water.

But my outrage may not be the same as others' outrage, especially when the so-called aid on that first wave (no pun intended) of shipments turned out to be munitions, weapons, and other terrorist paraphernalia. My outrage, then, was not against the nation of Israel; rather, my outrage was against the shallow reporting of the biased media and the mindless gullibility of the general populace.

I believe I could agree with them that the boarding of ships in international waters is wrong, but sometimes the good must be countered by the better. Modern day application: If I was aware that someone was on their way to blow up my house, it would be in my best interest to head them off before they did any serious damage to me and mine. And if I was wrong, appropriate apologies would be in order; but if I was right, appropriate punishment would likewise be in order.

I don't know if you have read any follow-up stories in this Israel-versus-the-world saga, but there have been a number of Israeli ship-boardings since that infamous one, all very amicable, all very peaceful. No blood, no gore, but also no coverage. Not sure if the left-leaning, pro-Arab media has spent any time reporting those accounts in any detail.

After all, why report on an Israel that is doing something right?

This nation is a marvelous study in so many ways. When you consider the topography, economy, and politics of Israel, to say nothing of its durability against all odds, I find it all most fascinating – whether I agree with its ethnicity and religion and quirks, or not. They certainly have a lot of pluck and gall, and many of their military victories against all odds, undercover feats around the globe, and incredible scientific developments, are lost in the morass of the bad press they get by simply defending their fellow-countrymen.

I am not oblivious to many of their strong-armed tactics. Some of their greatest heroes were former leaders of various terrorist organizations. I am aware of that. But what nation doesn't have a rogue element to it, including our friends to the south? If we had any idea about the undercover agencies within, say, the USA and Britain, I believe we would be rightfully alarmed. No sense sticking our heads under the covers, if the undercover...oh, forget it.

Where I have issues with the world media is their complete bias against Israel, without presenting all the facts. I personally am not Jewish, and I hardly know any Jews, but I do dabble in history – both secular and Biblical – and I am fully convinced that Israel deserves to be where it is and has a mandate to carve a viable, contemporary nation out of that wasteland. And that they have done, very admirably, I may add.

I would love to see some responsible reporting, for example, on how the Jews treat the Arabs in the areas of education, health, and economics. Suffice to say, most Arabs are far better off existing under the rule of progressive Jews than they are under their own people.

My interest in monitoring the Israeli situation has been piqued by a visit that an American family is paying to the southern Alberta this week, including right here in Bow Island. I don't know these people personally, but local posters indicate they have a vision for the small farmers in Israel and are planning to share their experiences this coming Thursday, June 17^th, at the Bow Island Legion.

It will be refreshing, I'm sure, to get a genuine, behind-the-scenes account of what a normal Jewish family does on a normal Jewish day – flotillas notwithstanding.

Good-bye, Mr. Linkletter

 

The entertainment world is losing their heroes in spades these days. Just last week, I see where Gary Coleman passed away with a brain hemorrhage, Dennis Hopper was taken away with cancer, and then there was Art Linkletter.

Art Who?

Great, I'm glad you asked. You may find it curious that some ninety-seven-year-old stranger is lumped in with the likes of Coleman and Hopper, but I find it sad that many readers will know these two, but not Mr. Linkletter.

Arthur Kelly was born in Moose Jaw, just a few hours away from here. His unwed mother gave him up for adoption (rather ironic, considering last week's column). It wasn't long afterwards that his adoptive parents, a Mr. And Mrs. Linkletter, moved to the States.

The rest is history, and you can delve into his life through any manner of archived form, but, suffice to say, he was a hero to many of us, both on television and radio. To be honest, I never watched or heard him live; everything I enjoyed was a re-run. Still, I felt I knew him somehow.

The thing that hits me again and again with most celebrity deaths is the way they lived. On the one hand, you can read Hopper's own admission of his lifestyle over the years, and Coleman's repeated brushes with the law is well-known to celebrity groupies. There is even talk of some sort of "curse" (the media's word, not mine) with the former stars of Diff'rent Strokes stars. Many of them seemingly have met with tragic ends that matched their tragic lives.

Mr. Linkletter, on the other hand, represented a different class of Hollywood entertainers. To be sure, his life was marred by death and tragedy and scandal, but unfortunately enough, those were his kids who suffered such things, not Linkletter himself. When he passed away last week, three years short of his 100^th birthday, he was still married to the same woman after all these years, and I understand he was free from the usual assortment of grief that marks celebrities.

Imagine, a Hollywood star who was monogamous, drug-free, and trafficked in humour without smut, filth, or sexism! They are around, but they are as rare as a snow-free April. (For you old-timers, Perry Como was another one of those classic stars.)

As you know, I lament the smutty excuse that passes for humour these days. That is one of the reasons, if you recall, that I have opted out from having television (though with the Stanley Cup finals, it has been difficult to maintain that position!).

Linkletter had many claims to fame, and perhaps one of the greatest was his show, "Kids Say the Darnedest Things." That was a television show where kids would give the most spontaneous and impetuous answers, whenever Mr. Linkletter would ask them questions. It was hilarious and wholesome – not unlike most comedies that came out of the '50's and '60's.

With the death of some of these stars, there is a welcome relief – not for us, but for them. Their lives had been torture after torment after tragedy for them (their own observations) with drugs, booze, relationships, and disappointments. A few columns ago I developed the idea that movie stars are some of the last people you should trust. Naturally, I stand by that thesis still. And I am certain few of us hardly know the half of what really goes on, even with the apparent good ones.

So, I mourn the loss of Mr. Linkletter (and even I wouldn't feel as motivated to say Mr. Hopper or Mr. Coleman, even though I wish them no ill). But I mourn, possibly even more, the loss of the age of innocence that he embodied, both up there on the silver screen and down here on planet earth.

Indeed, kids still say the "darnedest" things these days, as did Mr. Linkletter himself. We'll miss everything he represented.