Invisible Ink

 

Sometimes I get these imaginary letters from fake fans, asking for my advice. It would be remiss on my part not to share my wonderful wit and wow-factor wisdom with you, even if it is facetious, wishful, and immodest of me. As in every element of humour, there is likewise an element of truth. Pick through the following make-believe correspondence and see for yourself.

1. Edward Monton (we'll call him "Ed" for short) writes: "If you could fix the Canucks' woes, what would you do?" Thanks, Ed; you Edmontonians certainly have had plenty of experience fixing a team's woes, you, from the City of Chumps, er, Champs.

I would come up with a simple yet shattering trade: I would shift Roberto Luongo and a high draft pick to Montreal for Carey price and Mike Cammalleri. We need a more dependable goalie and more firepower, and brother Price needs a new home.

2. Next email comes from a Lloyd Minster. Talk about a tale of two cities! Lloyd, do you live in the Alberta or Saskatchewan side of Main Street? Just for the record, Mr. Minster, there is no provincial sales tax here in Ralphsland. Anyways, your question was regarding yet another British Columbia issue: "Why are the BC Lions so fickle?"

Good question. I have often compared the Lions of 2010 to Alberta's weather: If you don't like it now, wait for a few minutes and things will change. The Lions can be like a fresh rose: Today is smells wonderful, but next week it will stink. As much as I love them--and I have been actively following them since they went into BC Place in '83—I find I am wearing my Ottawa Renegades hat more than ever.

Their problem? Well, Lloyd (can I call you Lloyd?), there are two problems The first one: they need a first-string quarterback. The Casey Printers' experiment was a disaster, and their backups were not groomed sufficiently enough. I thought they would have made a pitch for a proven back-up, but they are hard to find. I left my phone number (or was it my weight?), but they didn't return my call.

The other obvious problem is durability, as in they can get a lead but they can't hold a lead. This problem is not as easy to solve, so I won't pretend to do so. The years of a monster defense are a mere fond memory and a faint hope. Where's Don Matthews when you need him?

3. Finally, I got a phone call from Camillia Rose (she prefers to be called Cam Rose). She was picking my brain about the recent civic (but not civil) election in Calgary. She wasn't addressing the fact that a Muslim is now the new mayor; rather, her concern was the mudslinging that marked (or was it marred?) the final two weeks of the election.

Ms. Rose, I agree with you. I love democracy and the freedoms that go with it. But I hate the liberties (note the nuance between the two words) that always precede the ballot box. In another context, there could be some wonderful lawsuits coming out of the character assassinations.

The way the three leading candidates treated each other may have contributed to the crummy turnout. I know everyone in Cowtown thought the turnout was wonderful, but when it's only 53% of the eligible voters, something's seriously wrong. I should add, Ms. Rose, that down here in the Deep South, our elections are much more civil: Most of our mayors and aldermen simply return to office by acclamation, not defamation.

Hey, guys and gal, thanks for the sorta letters/emails. I have two words for you next time this may happen: Get real.

Deadly Duplicity

 

Well, it looks like we have yet another Canadian version of Ted Bundy sitting in an Ontario jail. Russell Williams, once known as Colonel Russell Williams, from Tweed, Ontario, has been charged with over 80 various counts of breaking and entering, sexual assault, and in the case of two unfortunate women, murder.

Details are scant to the casual reader or viewer, but what has come through is very, very disturbing. Despite the fetish for women's underwear, despite the sick penchant for taking pictures of his various conquests, despite his twisted sexual exhibitionism, and despite the vicious murders, I suppose one of the most evil aspect of this case is the duplicity-- fancy word for a double life—that marked Williams' life.

On the one hand, he was a rising star in the Canadian military, but on the other hand, he was a sadistic pervert and torturer. One wonders just when this slide began, and how it remained unnoticed, especially by those near and dear to him. Didn't any of his army peers pick up on anything strange in his behaviour, or was he just that good at leading a double life?

Perhaps it's a poor comparison, but Tiger Woods' "road show" smacks of something similar. While no women died, many women were used for his sexual fantasies and fulfillment, while those close to him either knew nothing or simply said nothing. And as I write this article, the media is monitoring the Brett Favre situation, with allegations of moral impropriety with an erstwhile New York Jets' female beat writer.

Why do the words lying, misleading, faking, and duping come to mind?

As much as I long for the simpler times of yesteryear, that isn't going to happen. In a day of Face book, Twitter, and cell phones, the fresh warmth of true accountability appears to be a fading reality. People can hide behind the mask of anonymity, with the use of coded or pen names, as they write, tweet, and opine about anything and everything. I should add here that I use none of the above and when I write, I use my real name.

One of life's greatest ironies at present is that we appear to be more open with each other, via the afore-mentioned tools-- what with texting continuously, producing reality television shows, and blogging daily--but I believe we are more distant from each other than ever before.

In other words, we give the impression of connectedness, when in fact we are more disconnected than ever. The gross over-use of "tolerance" and "individual freedom" has been an unmitigated and deadly disaster in most quarters.

Hence, the Williams story is really a confirmation of this duality. He wore the right uniform, said the right things, followed the right protocol, yet at the same time, he was prowling neighbourhoods, looking for fulfillment of his twisted fantasies.

The people in Tweed are devastated and humiliated: Devastated, so they should be; humiliated, not at all. Tweed is no different than, say, Camrose or Weyburn or Brandon. What happened in Tweed could happen anywhere. Tragically, it probably already is.

And if Tweed is a microcosm of an everyday Canada, then Williams is a reflection of the unaccountable Canadian. And he is not the first Canadian to shock and disgust us: We have already been sickened by a Paul Bernardo, but this case appears to be far worse. When will we ever learn?

Is there a lesson in this calamity for us? Indeed, there needs to be that fine balance between greater awareness without unnecessary intrusion, between the freedom of transparency and the need for privacy.

I can think of two grieving families back east who would concur.

Rescued from the pit

 

Last week's rescue of the thirty-three Chilean miners from their sixty-nine-day entombment is indeed one of the best feel-good stories of the year, possibly even the decade. It is rare, in the history of global mining disasters, that so many miners remained alive for so long, with so happy an ending.

It may not start with "once upon a time," but it should end with "happily ever after."

I can't possibly even start to imagine how I would handle being a) underground for so long; b) not totally confident that I would get rescued in the end; and c) devoid of most of life's basic necessities for weeks on end. I know practical things were sent down on a daily basis, but that is not the same as having them in a natural, normal way.

And when I speak of life's basic necessities, I'm not talking about cell phones, laptops, or iPods, people; I am talking about the thrill of eating regular meals, of enjoying fresh air, of even getting up and going to work everyday. Those seemingly basic pleasures were beyond the reach (literally) of these men, and it will be interesting to hear how they battled the daily monotony of confined living, week in and week out. I'm sure there are a few bestsellers in the works.

For me, there are a few jobs in this world that I could never do, no matter what the incentives were. Among them: emergency room doctor, funeral director, kindergarten teacher, and airline steward. And, of course, a miner of any sort.

My chest even tightens as I write this, as I think of any miner descending deep into the bowels of the earth. Down below, there is no daylight, no fresh air, no immediate access to the surface. It's like a grand tomb, a huge cemetery plot, if you will. I maintain the underground is for rabbits, gophers, and badgers. If the Lord above wanted me to earn a living below, I'm sure He would have given me more hair and a bushy tail.

I am beyond claustrophobic: freezers and closets have their own special terror for me. Maybe that's why I like the prairies so much—looking at wide open spaces, singing, "Don't Fence Me In." I am even selective where I sit in public places; close to an aisle, if possible; maybe even an aisle and a window, if I'm lucky. And if not either one of those, at least near a fire exit.

So these Chilean miners are heroes to me, in a sense, on at least two counts: They chose a job that needed to be done, a job that I couldn't do (but then again, maybe they couldn't teach junior high Grammar); and they co-existed with each other for weeks on end, and seemingly kept in good spirits doing it. I tend to go batty just waiting in the truck at Wal-Mart.

Another significant factor in all of this was the faith of many, if not all, of the miners. I see where Bibles, prayers, and God were a vital part of their daily routine. It usually takes a disaster, a confrontation with one's mortality, to recognize the crucial role faith plays in our lives.

Adjusting to life above for these guys will one long story and I'm sure the media will be full of every intriguing nuance in the months to come. Thirty-three men, crammed together in such a small space for so long, may find that it will take months, possibly even years, to get back to the normalcy of marriage and family, work and leisure, and life in general.

And before we hand out bouquets only to those underground, there were many above the mine who waited, planned, hoped, prayed, and strategized the whole time. There is a host of family members, mine officials, local politicians, and rescue workers that deserve international applause. Thirty-three men were not rescued by simply passing a bill or draping a banner over a corporate headquarters. It took selfless initiative on the part of many. Various people rose to the occasion, putting aside their petty differences, with lives being saved as a result.

In a world where the words Taliban, recession, gang warfare, and Paris Hilton fill our newspaper headlines, it is indeed a great day to read of people putting themselves out for others, or better stated, others looking out for others.

Thank you, people of Chile; you taught us a great lesson.

Vancouver Canucks, Stanley Cup Campions?

 

I was busy looking at potential parade routes in Vancouver the other day. In any given city, this would be a route that celebrates fat heroes (such as Santa Claus); or arguably the two best college football teams (as in the Rose Bowl); or it could be for any number of holidays.

Or, in the case of Vancouver, it could be the route of the 2010-2011 Stanley Cup champions, the Vancouver Canucks.

Now before you assume that I've hit my head on the ice one too many times, I can assure that people wiser and smarter and best-looking than me (does such an animal even exist?) have said the same thing. Well, maybe not quite the parade thing, but many of the hockey gurus have said at worst, the Canucks will take the West, and, at best, possibly win the whole thing.

As many of my fans in newspapercolumnland know, I have been a fan of the Canucks since 1966. That would be before they had an NHL team—four years before, to be precise. Some wags would argue, of course, that they still don't have an NHL team. Pagans, infidels, and bottom-feeders: the bunch of them!

Truth be told, I probably have minimal interest in any form of professional sports these days, partly because I don't watch it much, and partly because of the obscene salaries these guys make. I cannot relate to anyone who makes $35,000 a night, for playing literally twenty to thirty minutes in a game that most play for free beer. When I think of an economy that continues to be on the verge of financial collapse, yet allows its paid athletes to rake in millions of dollars, I am outraged.

They may see green, but I see red.

But NHL hockey, with the Vancouver Canucks in particular, still remains the best ticket in town. Some of the present NHL cities, in my opinion, don't deserve having teams. Gary Bettman, the NHL commissioner, has made some mistakes in his leadership tenure, but placing teams in Phoenix, Atlanta, Nashville, Tampa Bay, and Miami have been colossal mistakes--especially when there are a few American cities just south of the Canadian border that would be more suitable, to say nothing of a number of Canadian cities.

Vancouver, of course, is a city that justly deserves the right to have a hockey team. One, they are Canadian; two, they have a history of a large fan base; and three, they put out a very good product (most of the time). And this year, according to the pundits, they could go all the way.

Since being ousted by the Blackhawks in the second round of last year's playoffs, they have upgraded in every position, except for goaltending—and there was no need for that. They have done that by jettisoning some players who were dead weights, trading for others who were better, or bringing up "kids" from the farm.

Do I honestly think they are better than the Washington Capitols or the Pittsburgh Penguins? Well, honestly, yes. In both cases, they have a more balanced attack than either team, as they are not so dependent on one superstar. And, again, they have superior goaltending.

Is it too soon to plan the parade? Probably yes. But either way, I'm sure the Canucks will be there, either riding the convertibles and waving at all their fans, or running after the horses, scraping up all their you-know-what.

For that matter, maybe all this hockey talk championship stuff this early in the season is nothing more than all those recycled oats.

Merry Thanksgiving Day

 

Within a few days of this column showing up in your mailbox, it will be the Canadian Thanksgiving holiday. For some, it means a day off school and work; for others, a family reunion. In a drastic sense for others, it means death. (Horace, I'm talking about the turkeys.)

Sad to say, I am probably more aware of the origins of American Thanksgiving than I am of the Canadian one. I suppose I could dive into one of Pierre Berton's books and solve that problem, but this column is not, for the most part, even a casual history lesson.

Regardless of origins, it is good to take time to reflect on all the good things we enjoy, both as a nation and as a family. The Lord above knows that there are enough wankers—if that is even a word—in this world (and that includes all the players in the staffroom, boardroom, and dining room) today.

Actually, I saw a small Veggie Tales poster in a classroom the other day. It said: A thankful heart is a happy heart. Translation: if you are grateful, you will be happy. Re-statement of the translation: if you develop a thankful spirit, you will be more content.

If you are a parent or a grandparent, and have experienced a birthday party or two with your darlings, you may recall that there is much pouting, fits, and outbursts. The gift was too small, wrong colour, or a myriad of other insensitive responses; and instead of gratitude for the present, there was ingratitude. And in case you failed to make the connection: an unthankful kid is an unhappy kid.

As a result, the little darling was miserable for the rest of the day, making everyone around him or her likewise miserable.

I live in what in what I believe to be the greatest country in the world. I could write column after column about Canada's faults at every level, but I choose not to. Yes, I allude to the blind spots of the politicians on occasion; indeed, I decry the moral and spiritual decay of our culture betimes. But that is not the same as whining perpetually about everything I disagree with.

I don't know about you, but being around those types of people really gets me down. It's like a negative net has been thrown at my feet, and trips me up; or a negative fog is is my face, and it clouds my thinking. Around them too much, and I develop some of the same attitudes.

So I am happy to be in Canada, because I am grateful for all there good things we have. I am slowly running out of space here, so let me try to list them. You can add your own reasons at your leisure. And by the way, these are not in any particular order

1. The freedom and right to vote. My man or woman may not always get in, nor do they necessarily conduct themselves the way I wish them to, but I at least have some say. And I feel I have the liberty to express my preference.

2. The freedom to worship God. It's my choice to do so; it may be your choice not to. There is no state-run institution that demands a certain religion, with terrible consequences if not followed. Forced worship flies in the face of the real thing.

3. The freedom to speak out. Another term is "free speech," and while it can and is often abused, it is still out there. I see this freedom slowly eroding, so I am concerned about expressing my concerns about any number of societal issues and trends that are neither wise nor healthy. To date, though, there is still a measure of free speech, even for the conservative voice.

So Merry Thanksgiving Day to one and all. I am so thankful (= happy), I'm going to put a happy face stamp on the next ballot I see, right after church. Glad I have the liberty to even say that.