Something on my Mind: There is a Difference

Wordsmiths like me feast on wordplay, nuance, and innuendo—whatever those words mean. This can lead to puns, quips, and double entendre—whatever those last two words mean.

Okay, I actually do know what they mean, or else I wouldn't use them. Words are first and foremost tools that we construct and communicate with. They can also be toys that we play with, and I may be one of the biggest kids in the the playroom.

The Good Book speaks of a word “fitly spoken”--and that could come in the form of a timely word, a right word, a sensitive word; and it could come as a phone call or card sent, or even a casual conversation. I can attest to being a beneficiary of many words “fitly spoken.”

There are words that are misused (not “abused,” which is stronger) and this can lead to confusion. For instance, do you know the difference in the following words: fewer and less?...further and farther?... imply and infer?...sensuous and sensual?

Do you care? I hope so. We all have our specialities, those motivations that drive us, excite us, touch us. Mine happens to be words in the present English language. Etymology (layman's definition: the study of the origin and make-up of words) is a real passion of mine.

So it is with some resignation (“hesitation” may be softer) that I add another pair of words to the list two paragraphs just north of this sentence: activist and anarchist.

You may know the difference, but I don't think the popular media certainly does. They often describe certain people as “activists,” when, in fact, they are “anarchists.” On the surface, they appear to be the same; beneath the surface, where we should all be looking, there is a colossal difference

Simply stated, there is a place for the one, but there is no place in a civilized society for the other.

People who feel strongly about a matter, and want to express those feelings, are activists. They peacefully put principles into deeds, words into action. They have some conviction about this issue or that law, so they get out and protest—lawfully and legally. They may write letters, walk around with signs, or march along with other activists. They are assertive yet peaceful demonstrators. They stay within the civil laws of the land and no one gets hurt, no property gets damaged.

I suggest we need more of that, not less.

I see myself as a bit of an activist, this column being an expression of things I feel strongly about. I don't rant or rave too loudly, I trust; nor do I harm, hinder, or hate. You may not agree with my particular worldview (and I may not agree with yours), so we agree to disagree. That's the mark of a civilized society.

Anarchists are, well, different. They take everything that characterizes an activist to a new level (better: a lower level). They demand and destroy, sometimes to the point of death. They are not successful unless they are lawless, not satisfied unless they are out of control.

They are more consumed with process than principle, more determined to damage than to compromise.

Activists are armed with placards; anarchists, with Molotov cocktails and guns. Activists stay within the lines of a democratic protests; anarchists cross those same lines with impunity.

So my growing concern with what appears to be, and is identified as, activism, is the naive interpretation of said actions. These are nothing less than the out-of-control antics of lawless rogue anarchists. Their motives may have some justification, but their methods never do.

Those professional rioters in Ferguson come to mind: looting, violence, and mayhem have been the order of the night. To take a stand is one thing; to attack, steal, and vandalize is another. Trumpeting the “black lives matters” cause by assaulting whites fails miserably. You might say it is irony in blood.

Of course, black lives matter, we all agree on that. But so do white, Chinese, Hungarian-speaking, and left-handed people's lives. But as a white person, I don't need to make my point by smashing everything in my way.

Another example is environmentalism. I am big on the environment. As a family, we take our property stewardship seriously. But I draw the line when it comes to attacking the lumber or oil industry by spiking this or vandalizing that. There are more mature and reasonable ways to make one's point.

Here in Alberta, for example, so-called activists have had a heyday. The fracking outrage, pipeline opposition, and “dirty oil” smear campaign are the trademarks of anarchists, not activists. Attacking oil wells is the work of anarchists, not activists.

The list is endless with G8 Summit protests, the Occupy movement, even Idle No More, though a little dated, to be sure. Maybe there was a little legitimacy in their protest(s), but they went too far. Like any sport, they need to play within the lines; any crossing the line is out of bounds.

There, I just gave my activist rant and no windows were smashed.

 

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Something on my Mind: Consistently Inconsistent (1)

It is very difficult to be consistent in everything. There's usually some character flaw or two where our walk doesn't match our talk.

Personally, I'm not as witty or even as nice at home as I come across in this column. I'm not sad about it, just honest about it. And honesty is a great policy: There is no sense in pretending to be something—or worse, having others assume the same—when we're not.

But it's the intentional double standard, the two-faced inconsistency, that's the rock in my runners (or for you cowboys, burr in my saddle). It's the moral outrage over here, but a “who cares?” over there.

So it is with a touch of confusion, but mostly anger, that I consider the consistent inconsistency of mainstream media these days, plus the people who support their viewpoint. Two seriously intentionally inconsistent events come to mind. We'll deal with one this week, the other next week.

The first case is Cecil the lion. He is not to be confused with Cecile the Lyin' (she of Planned Parenthood notoriety). On the one hand, much of the media, and its groupies, are up in arms over the killing of a lion in Africa a few weeks ago. I won't get down and dirty as to whether everything was above board in his death. That is not the thrust of today's comment.

All I know for sure is that there's a practice called “big game hunting.” You may have heard of it. In fact, you may know some hunters in your world of friends—or maybe you hunt yourself. Animals are hunted and killed legally (and illegally, to be sure) every day in Africa—and in, say, northern British Columbia, even in parts of Alberta. It's done by big game hunters from Europe and America, as well as by locals like your next door neighbour.

It's legal, necessary, and some say fun—though I myself would not find it fun. I know nothing of shooting an animal; I consider myself lucky if I swat a fly occasionally. “Big game hunter,” for me, would be “small pest flickerer.”

I'm sure as a result there will be some tightening up of rules and procedures. But the point is, it happens all the time, and, for the most part, there's no outrage. Lions and other wild beasts are to be hunted and killed. So long as it's humane, I have little problem with it.

In our “Cecil” story an American dentist stepped in, dropped Cecil, and all you-know-what broke loose. I know it's not quite that simple—let's all be reasonable—but in a nutshell, that's what happened.

Now his practice has been shut down (temporarily), his life has been threatened, and he has gone into hiding. The outrage and outcry from this everyday occurrence has been fascinating to see—with a touch of nausea. Within days, there were lawsuits, protests, and a general brouhaha over the killing of a lion.

Hit the pause button here for a moment. In another part of the world, there is a war on against defenceless victims. Not one killing, but thousands...indeed, millions; not an animal, but humans; not for sport, but for selfishness, greed and convenience. Yet there has been hardly a whimper about it.

We are now being exposed to the horrors of harvesting human body parts, of negotiating the sale of said body parts of living creatures. Those are rascals in China—right? North Korea—right? ISIS—right?

No, my friends, they are right here in the enlightened West, just to the south of us. Planned Parenthood has been exposed as both a killer of babies and now a negotiator of their body parts.

But where are the lawsuits, protests, and general brouhaha over the murder of innocent babies? Surely they are more innocent than Cecil? Are those same people trying to shut Planned Parenthood down? Are there threats against them?

Where are daily broadcasts and clips of this travesty? Where is the media on this one?

That inconsistency is appalling: There are now at least seven documented videos of the negotiations for human body parts (a truly illegal act), and there's hardly a word in the mainstream media. I have never seen clips of any of the barbaric acts against human babies on the news. Why don't they show them?

One lone lion gets killed and there is outrage. Thousands (in fact, millions) of human babies are killed, and there's hardly a whisper. I am sickened by both the deaths of human babies and the silence that accompanies it. Not sure which is worse.

I repeat: It is very difficult to be consistent in everything. We all make mistakes as we try to be consistent, no problem. But selective inconsistency is not an oversight—it's an ethical evil.

 

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Something on my Mind: How Smart is Dumb?

Children, your attention please: Here is a brief grammar lesson to get you into the mood for that blessed event that going to happen in a couple of weeks. Uh, that would be going back to school, if you hadn't clued in.

The unwritten word in today's lesson is “misnomer.” You actually have two root words here: “mis,” is a prefix that means “amiss,” badly,” or “unfavourably”; and “nomer,” which comes from “nom,” meaning “name.”

Hence, a brief lesson about a word that is badly or poorly named.

The word in question is “smart,” and unfortunately, there are repeat examples of its misuse. When it acts as an adjective (= one of those words that describes a noun) in my examples, it actually means the opposite.

In other words, a smart car is not a smart purchase, being the small, vulnerable car that it is. A smart alec is a person who thinks he's smart, but is not. And a smart phone is only a smart as its dumb user.

Let's start with the so-called smart car: It's actually not smart for a number of reasons. One, it could run into a poodle and be totalled--the car, that is, not the dog; two, the car is only as smart as the driver, and anyone who buys a smart car is not smart (see #1); and three, what other car is described with human qualities?

Have you ever heard of a Pretty Car? Mint Car? Macho Car? Smart may be a description, but it's never a name.

Smart Alec speaks of a person's ability to shoot his mouth off, whether his brains are loaded or not. We tolerate these types. I hesitate to stereotype, but it's usually a guy (or else it would be Smart Alexis, wouldn't it?), and he's usually close to either side of the twenty years old. If so, he should shut up, grow up, then finally be locked up.

(Note to avid fans, wannabe writers, and fellow-lexiphiles: See my careful use of the word “usually”: it allows writers some wiggle room and saves us a heap of trouble from the insult department.

Alec Smart would be better than smart alec, unless you're last name isn't Smart, of course. I would take it as an insult if someone would call me a smart alec today. I probably was a few decades ago, but this maturity thing finally kicked in. A more accurate rendering would be any one of the following: mouthy alec, cheeky alec, or lippy alec.

Finally, we have the (inappropriately-named) “smart” phone. Smart phones are not really that smart, compared to other tools, but they seem smart when actually they make their users look smart. Is there a place for them? Absolutely! In fact, I have one myself. But I control it. I turn it off and on; I answer it when I so choose; and I use it—it doesn't (ab)use me.

I'm not dumb enough to walk down the sidewalk consumed by my phone, oblivious to everything and everyone. In my opinion, that's dumb. And dangerous.

A smart phone can do a lot of things, but that is only because a human pushes a button here and scrolls down there. How clever is that? Some could argue that a so-called smart phone appears to be smart because it enables and empowers the user every time.

Let me pass along some tips for you: 1. use the phone only when necessary; 2. make sure you control the phone and it doesn't control you; and 3. never use it when there are sidewalks to walk on, cars to drive, and people to interact with.

Not so quick, Tonto. I find the more people use the toy, the less they are able to socialize, to think, and to function in the real world.

So that's smart?

If a smart car is unsafe, a smart alec is cheeky, then a smart phone is scary. And I say scary, not in the monster form of scary, but in the control form of scary. You will agree with me--you rational being, you—that we have an epidemic of a dumbed-down populace everywhere?

Whatever you do, don't jump in one of those puny, little cars, shooting your mouth off on an electronic gadget, and think you're smart. Now that's a true misnomer. In my opinion, I think there's a movie score that goes along with that: “dumb...dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb.”

 

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Something on my Mind: Blame it on the Bossa Nova (Scotia)

Not sure if anyone really cares, but I was back east for eleven days recently.  One of my daughters and her husband and kids live in Halifax. My wife and I were there for a long overdue visit, so we took in as many of the sights and sites on Prince Edward Island (PEI) and Nova Scotia (NS).

Quite frankly, I will get over the jet lag, but I may never get over the trip—all in a good way.

We got off to a bad start, mind you, and I was hoping that it wasn't a harbinger of things to come: One, we weren't assigned a seat, and ended up being the last two people on the plane; two, because of that, we sat in Row 32, which, in case you didn't know, was right near the toilet. With my luck, I sat in the middle seat, with no way to stretch my legs. Every flush and grunt startled me, so it was a short night.

By the time we got to Halifax, guess what? I found the rain we've been missing here in Alberta: It was at the Halifax International Airport. I was never so glad to see such a torrent.

Our first major excursion was checking out PEI: Everything that is said about PEI is an understatement. The houses are neater and brighter, the sand is cleaner and whiter, and the people are more friendly and more accommodating.

We took the Confederation Bridge there and the ferry back. I was sorry to leave, but happy to reflect on it. I would move there in a heartbeat. The turn-of-the-century houses were breathtaking and enough to woo me over. They are occasional here but plentiful there.

And inexpensive! I could sell my acreage and buy two or three of them in most places.

Next stop was Cape Breton Island. We allowed ourselves only one day there—kids and grand-kids being a priority—so we checked out Sydney and Louisbourg (pronounced “loo-ee berg,” not “lewis berg”--French, you know). That could have been an all-day excursion on its own.

The fortress was a testimony to French ingenuity, British persistence, followed by French courage, then back to British aggression. No time or space to develop that thought, but I do have more fodder for my Socials 7-9 class.

They even had people in period costumes—just not sure which period, though. I think is was History.

Both my daughter (great-great-great-grandmother's side) and son-in-law (great-great-great-grandfather's side) have deep roots in Nova Scotia, having early ancestors landing in Truro and Lunenberg, respectively, in the 1760's. (If you or yours have roots in either of these places, and your name sounds like Johnson or Mosher, we may be related.)

Hank Snow's “I've Been Everywhere, Man” comes to mind when I think of our visits to Truro, Amherst, Halifax, Peggy's Cove, Wolfville, Canning, Chester, and Lunenberg. Snow was a bona fide Nova Scotian himself and may have travelled the same routes as we did. Visiting those places made me want to sing.

I also know the French loved it: What's a trip to the east without seeing that fortress at Louisbourg, after having relocated from Placentia, Newfoundland; or the fertile fields of Acadia, one of Canada's most prolific crop garden spots? What we “British” did to the French was unconscionable. I made sure I wore my Irish t-shirt the whole time, just in case anyone was looking at me.

I even stuck a shamrock in my ear just for good measure. But I probably didn't have to dye my hair green.

The downtown Halifax harbour was as funky, historical, and refreshing as any harbourfront I have been to. Okay, that's not saying much, if you think in terms of Camrose, Two Hills and Grande Prairie. But the point is, there was live music, tourist traps, food markets, harbour cruises, and scores of two- hundred-year-old buildings surrounding the port.

You might say that it was a cheaper version of London, and a cooler version of Victoria.

The trip home was almost as eventful as the trip out there. We came home in two stages—Halifax to Toronto, then Toronto to Calgary. We were assigned different seats, so if we didn't want to talk to each other, no one would notice it. I think we were on speaking terms; I just don't recall talking about it.

On the second leg of the trip I sat beside someone who looked like “Abdul from Libya”--or so it seemed. I envisioned having a hijacker as a seatmate and going down in flames, landin' in Brandon. I'm writing this, so I must have made it out alive.

What I just wrote is called race profiling (sorry), but in these days of 9-11, ISIS and “Black Lives Matter” anarchy, it's hard not to think like that. But what do I know? I'm a third generation Irish immigrant, with green streaks in my hair.

If PEI were a woman, I'd marry her—but I'd have to divorce Alberta first. But that's not going to happen anytime soon. Alberta's been a great marriage, as such, for these past thirteen-plus years, and I'm not dropping her now.

But if it ever happens, you can blame it on the “Bossa Nova (Scotia).”

 

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