Category Archives: Social Constructs

Free Speech Has A Cost


If you’re not familiar with Chick-fil-A restaurants and the controversy going on now, we’ll give you the short form.

Chick-fil-A was founded by S. Truett Cathy as the Dwarf Grill in Hapeville, Georgia in 1946.  The first proper Chick-fil-A opened in Atlanta’s Greenbriar Mall in 1967 and has since expanded to 1,614 restaurants across the US, mostly in the South.  We’ve eaten at a few and they do a fine chicken sandwich, perhaps one of the best chain chicken sandwiches around.  One of their iconic ads is a picture of a cow with a hand-scrawled caption of “Eat mor chickin” to encourage customers to avoid the beef. 

Chick-fil-A’s leadership has never hidden its Christian values.  For instance, all of them are closed on Sundays.  The reason a quick-service restaurant is closed Sunday?  “He (founder Truett Cathy) has often shared that his decision was as much practical as spiritual.  He believes that all franchised Chick-fil-A Operators and Restaurant employees should have an opportunity to rest, spend some time with family and friends, and worship if they choose to do so.”  Fair enough, actually kind of noble, in that a successful restaurateur recognizes that his folks need at least one day off a week.

Where the controversy has arisen is in the corporate donation side of the house.  Being a “Christian values” corporation, Chick-fil-A has donated money to various groups like Focus on the Family and the Family Research Council who, it would be accurate to say, are not exactly thrilled with those who are in favour of same-sex marriage, which has caused some outrage in LGBT groups.  Some groups say that Chick-fil-A is actively anti-gay based on their donation record.  Others, notably the mayors of Boston and Chicago are not willing to grant business licenses to Chick-fil-A based on the political beliefs of the Cathy family and the Chick-fil-A corporation.

Here’s where it gets sticky.  The Chick-fil-A corporation is a privately held, very successful company that wears its heart and beliefs on its sleeve.  No question.  Also, no question they have the right to do so. 

Other groups, like Equality Matters, also have their hearts on their sleeves and are advocating for a broad acceptance of all the spectrum of sexuality, including marriage, in an inclusive manner.  No question and no question they have the right to do so.

So what is a person to do?  If you live in the South and don’t agree with Chick-fil-A’s belief set, then don’t eat at Chick-fil-A, if it is important enough to you.  Don’t give them your money. 

If you want a good chicken sandwich and don’t give a rat’s ass about the politics of the corporation serving it to you, go to Chick-fil-A and order the Spicy Chicken Sandwich.  It’s good. 

If you’re concerned about family values and the Chick-fil-A belief set meshes with yours, then order two Spicy Chicken Sandwiches, or a  Chick-n-Strips tray for the office.  Know that your cheque will go to their bottom line and some of it will dribble out to groups that share your belief set.  All good.

What bothers us is the sheer volume of media whining on both sides about the whole subject that conveniently skips over the whole issue of Free Speech.  That is that Free Speech has a cost.

The cost of Free Speech is that you will also hear opinions that are contradictory to the ones you hold dear.  Some will be forceful, others will be muted, but there are always at least two, usually several dozen sides to any argument.  The obligation of Free Speech is to let the others be heard after you have had your chance.  Don’t agree?  Then agree to not agree and leave content.

And also to remember, that there are no black vans cruising around, looking for LGBT people to scoop off the street forcing them to eat at Chick-fil-A.  Just as there are no rainbow coloured vans trolling outside churches playing “Brokeback Mountain” on big screens trying to recruit new members.  

For heaven’s sake, it’s just chicken.  Express your opinion with your wallet.

Gun Control Redefined


Post-Colorado and post-Toronto shootups, there is increasing talk of gun control on both side of the border.  We’ll define our terms here, as this is the best way to limit knee-jerk reaction to the whole issue, which understandably, many people take too seriously.  We will also provide translation where needed, as we recognize that some people are familiar with firearms and some are not. 

First off, it isn’t a gun.  A gun is defined as a projectile weapon using a hollow tubular barrel with a closed end as the means of directing a projectile.  This could be anything from a 16-inch gun on a battleship that sends shells the size of your sofa towards a target forty miles away, to a marshmallow gun that shoots Kraft Miniatures at a square of chocolate and two graham crackers using air pressure.  They’re all guns. 

We’re talking about, specifically, firearm weapons.  True, knives, swords, crossbows and clubs are also weapons.  A stapler can be a “weapon” as it all depends on intent, which we will get to shortly. 

A “rifle” refers to the spiral grooves, the rifling, machined inside the barrel of a firearm to make the bullet spin and be more accurate over distance.  A “shotgun” refers to the type of projectile, several dozen little steel or lead balls, called shot, in a largish shell, about the size of a lipstick, for those of our audience who use makeup on a regular basis. 

A handgun or pistol is a common term that describes the size of the weapon, generally meaning small enough to hold and use with one hand.  A shotgun a handgun and a rifle are all firearm weapons, meaning they use gunpowder to propel some kind of hard projectile at high speed towards something else.  

We will define further demarcations between long firearm weapons and short firearm weapons. 

Hunting firearms are almost all, by definition, long weapons, meaning more than 18 inches long and rarely with a clip of more than 8 rounds. 

We’ve got no problem with hunting, be it ducks, moose or even sporting clays, but frankly, sporting clays taste horrible, even if you cook them for a week.  Pass a firearms safety course, keep them in a firearms safe at home and transport them properly.  Feel free to break bottles, control varmints or target shoot to your wallet and heart’s content.  All we ask is that if you do take an animal or four that you use as much of the animal as you can, be it deer, elk, bear or ducks.  How many and in what season is up to the provincial or state hunting regulations.  

The only limitation we would ever consider imposing is to limit the weapon to semi-auto and to eight rounds.  For the non-firearms folks semi-auto means you have to pull the trigger each time you want to fire the weapon and you have to reload after eight shots.  Reloading takes a couple of seconds with a well-skilled person using the weapon.

Where the problem exists is firearm weapons that are less than 18 inches long and that great mystery of intent. 

We don’t have a problem with people who target shoot using handguns, which are by definition less than 18 inches long.  One of our acquaintances is Linda Thom.  She knows how to use a weapon correctly, safely and with exceptional precision, as evidenced by her 1984 Olympic Gold Medal in 25 metre sport pistol competition.  If you want to shoot targets with a firearm weapon less than 18 inches long, the same rules for long firearm weapons would apply:  Firearms safety course, weapons safe at home, proper transportation, limit to semi-auto and eight rounds.  The only addition would be a very stringent police background check and here’s why: 

Firearm weapons shorter than 18 inches can be easily concealed.

A concealed firearm weapon has a different potential intent than one that is very difficult to conceal, like a long firearm weapon.  Yes, you can still pull a Model 870 out from under your coat and fire away at things and people, but it’s a lot harder to conceal than a M1911 short firearm weapon.  Both firearms can be used for benign purposes, be it hunting, or target shooting, but both can also be used to kill people.  This speaks to intent and the intent to conceal means you have the potential for less than socially acceptable ends in mind when you pull out a short firearm. 

Since we can’t actually determine intent up front when someone goes to buy a firearm  (Gosh, I don’t want to hurt ducks, I want to shoot several co-workers and then die in a hail of bullets from the ERT – is rarely written on a Firearms Acquisition Certificate as the reason they want to obtain a weapon) we have to make it difficult for less than lawful and socially acceptable uses of firearm weapons. 

Concealment is the first step:  Make it hard to conceal the weapon by making it illegal for the firearm weapon, except for very specific circumstances, to be less than 18 inches long.

Second step is a limit of semi-auto and eight rounds.  Hunters and target shooters don’t need to be able to fire a clip in one pull.  If you’re that unskilled that you need full auto and a 50 round clip to take a deer, we’re not sure you should be allowed to have a camera, let alone a firearm.  Make it illegal for the firearm weapon to fire full auto and to have a capacity of no more than 8 rounds per magazine or clip.

Third step:  The display or involvement of any firearm weapon in the commission of any crime results in the automatic doubling of the penalty.  Discharge of a firearm weapon in the commission of any crime results in a second doubling of the penalty.  We call it the Double-Double Rule, named after the Tim Horton’s Coffee typical order of a Double-Double, of two cream and two sugar. 

Here’s the elegance of the Double-Double:  It speaks to the intent of the use of the firearm weapon.  It has nothing to do with the legal, acceptable use of firearm weapons, aside from some sensible limits (semi-auto, no more than 8 rounds) their safe use, transportation and storage.  These laws are already on the books, or could be amended very easily.  Double-Double has everything to do with the commission of illegal acts involving firearm weapons.

So let’s take the Toronto shootings:  Illegal possession of a firearm weapon of less than 18 inches in length.  Seven and a half years is one of the more recent sentences.  Double it, is 15.  Discharge of the weapon with intent to harm another person, double it again:  30 years.  We’ll let you in on a little feature of Double-Double.  No parole or time off for good behaviour:  You serve the full 30 year sentence under Double-Double even if it is your first offence.

Perhaps the beauty of the whole arrangement is we don’t have to argue about ‘banning guns’ a gun registry, stolen and illegal handguns, or even debate the merits of target shooting and hunting by sensible, safe, firearm weapons owners.  Double-Double gets to heart of the matter, the intent of the firearm weapon holder, without changing our current situation very much.

Could a Double-Double law have prevented the Colorado shooter James Holmes or the Norwegian nutcase Anders Brevik?  Not really, except that the shooters would have less likely access to short firearm weapons, either legally, or illegally and know the penalty for being taken alive would be a very, very long time in prison.  We can’t control the crazy, no matter how hard we try to legislate things:  There will always be those who find a way to act on the voices in their head.

But we can make it very, very punitive for gang-bangers and their ilk to cross that line of intent.  A few of them being put away for 30 years tends to send the message in a clear, concise and easily understood manner:  Do not use a firearm weapon in the commission of an illegal act – You will go to jail for a long, long time.

Where’s the upside of Double-Double, you ask?  For one, it keeps our politicians from behaving in knee-jerk fashion nattering on about ‘gun’ control to gather votes.  One Toronto mayor wanted to make target shooting ranges illegal to stem the flow of stolen handguns from the US.  That’s almost as dumb as clear cutting forests because forests have trees, that are made of wood, than can be made into a baseball bats that can be used to hit other people over the head. 

The second upside is that we make it difficult enough already to legally have a firearm weapon less than 18 inches in length.  If you are that keen to take up target shooting and the pistol arts, then you won’t mind waiting 30 days or more for the background check to be completed while you take your firearms safety course and get your firearms safe installed.  No problem, as your intent is socially acceptable and the laws are already on the books.  Do recognize that we will put your ass in a sling if we find you’re storing your firearms in a dresser drawer with two full mags and the safety off.  That’s stupid beyond belief and has nothing to do with target shooting.

Third, we’re not limiting long firearm weapons, aside from the aforementioned semi-auto and eight round limits.  Hunt, shoot clays, control varmints or plink bottles all day if you want to, as long as you do it safely.  If we find you piss drunk shooting a stop sign by the side of the highway, be assured the cops will confiscate your weapon and should probably give you two black eyes with the butt of your shotgun for being a complete idiot out of season.

Fourth, we get rid of those who choose to wave a gun around, either as thieves, robbers or gang-bangers by putting them away for a very long time.  It might take a few years for the message to be delivered, but at least the perpetrators will be off the street.  It took about ten years to get the message regarding seat belts or driving drunk to become mainstream, so it isn’t an instant fix. Nothing is.

As for the crazies like James Holmes?  That we cannot fix.

Fifty Shades of Needs a Rewrite


We’re going to tear the apron off the Fifty Shades trilogy, but at least try to stay on the vaguely decent side of the equation.  We admit it, we have read all three books and as one of the few remaining white, middle-class heterosexual men out there, have our own opinion about the whole genre of female oriented erotica. 

Up front we have to recognize something important that does need saying out loud.  Humans like sex.  We’re hardwired for it by nature as the predominant way to reproduce the species.  Almost every human you meet in the next twenty-four hours is a direct result of sex.  Society, culture and by extension religion have imposed what could loosely be called ‘morality’ on top to cloud the issue, but as a species, we agree that we like sex.

We don’t use the term “porn”, as what is pornography is very much in the eye of the beholder.  A still photo of a salad bar could be titillating to someone who is starving, while a cellphone video of an unclothed ankle could produce much consternation in countries with certain cultural norms that could result in a public beheading.  Pornography is a pejorative term, with the overtone of something that has to be banned, censored, controlled or otherwise marginalized. 

We prefer the term ‘erotica’, meaning substantively dealing with stimulating or sexually arousing descriptions including literature, art, photography, sculpture and painting.  We don’t make much of a distinction between MILF Island Vol. 23 and The Naked Maja by Goya.  We don’t mean the Moro Islamic Liberation Front either.  Both are erotica by our definition.  One is a little older than the other, reflecting media and distribution methods of their respective times.

Fifty Shades by E.L. James has been tagged with the sobriquet “Mommy Porn” which we object to, but do recognize that a nugget to truth lives in the tag.  The trilogy is an old-fashioned romance novel overlaid with some rather saucy behaviours between consenting adults, delivered in a fairly graphic manner. 

The issue for many groups seems to be not in the boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-marries-girl story arc, but in the descriptions of their sexual relationship.  Some feminists are up in arms.  Some libraries won’t carry the titles.  Others have claimed that the series perpetuates violence against women, while others have applauded the series as liberating for female sexuality.  We don’t object to their behaviour, as it is two people of the age of majority, who are actively consenting, so game on.   

As a saucy read, the erotica side of the house is OK at best.  It isn’t The Story Of O by Pauline Reage (Anne Desclos’ pen name) which is significantly better.  As a romance, we could hardly keep our eyes open as we couldn’t give a flying fornicative act if they ever actually came to terms.  Really what Fifty Shades needs, in our humble opinion, is another rewrite, from top to bottom, with an actual outline this time. 

However, (our opinion and $4 gets you a fancy coffee at Starbucks) the commercial success of Fifty Shades is perhaps more illuminating:  E.L. James is laughing all the way to the bank having sold 20 zillion copies of the books, surpassing the Harry Potter series.  Even Wal-Mart stocks the titles, so you know somebody is plunking down the coin to read it.

The illumination comes not from the money involved or the breathless internet chatter (Oh God, Christian Bale should so play Christian Grey and Mila Kunis as Anastasia, which would so rock!) but the simple act of it being OK for women to read erotica without hiding it, or feeling shameful.  In our reality, it always has been OK, but we don’t consider our morality to be particularly mainstream.  If the graphic descriptions cause the creation of shall we call them, saucy feelings, then so be it.  As long as you come home to eat, we don’t care how many menus you look at. 

As long-lived, important, ground-breaking erotic literature?  We call it Fifty Shades of Meh.           

Mason Baveux Explains–The Economy


Forgive me, but he’s been pestering me to write some more since I’m up to my eyelids at work.  Then I asked him what he wanted to write about.

Thanks lad for the bloggery keys again.  Ise seen you’re up to yer arse in that computer stuff at work, so’s I figgered I’d step up like a friend and do one of the bloggerys for you. 

Everybody what’s got an opinion and an arsehole says the same thing: It’s the Economy Stupid.  Now I’ll tell you straight, she matters where you put the comma.  If’n someone says “It’s the Economy (comma here) Stupid”, they be callin you out and your right snappy riposte would be to say “Learn how to punctuate, arsehole!”  I’s expressing a preference for “It’s the Economy and she’s Pooched!” as theres less chance someone could mistake what you be sayin. 

What I mean by Pooched is:  In the Ditch.  Upside Down, Gone Cattywampus.  Taken a vacation to the Idiot Mansion.  Dumber Than A Box of Hammers.  Or to be impolite:  Fooked.

Here’s what I got to say:  There was a time when countries made stuff and sold it to other countries at a profit.  That’s what you call bein in business.  That lad Gupta what runs the Quicke down the ways sells milk and bread and smokes and about nine hundred other things.  He puts a price tag on’em.  Since Gupta’s a smart lad, the price tag he puts on the stuff is less than he pays to buy them from Quickie, or National Grocers, or where ever the hell he buys his stuff from.  When he sells somethin, let’s say she’s a magazine, he makes 30 cents or a half-dollar.  That’s whats called profit and that’s what Gupta’s in business for.  Sell enough soda, magazines or bread and soon enough you’ve made a couple of bucks.  From that couple of bucks, you can buy your own groceries for home, pay the rent, keep the lights on plus keep body and soul together.  Gupta’s just an example here, a small one what I know about.  Countries do the same thing. 

Canada, for the longest time was known as “Hewers of Wood and Drawers of Water”  What they mean was our country was where the Brits got the wood for the fleet, our wheat, and even back in the Voyeurs Day, beaver pelts, what got made into hats for all the swells in London.  They’d send over a big sailin ship to Montreal or Quebec City and all the Voyeurs would sell their beaver pelts to the Hudson’s Bay Company, who would sell’em to the Brits, who would sail’em back to Britain, then sell’em again to a hatter who would make hats.  Every step along the way, somebody make a couple of pences on each beaver.  That, again is what you call business, or to go all political, capitalism. 

Canada was where folks came to get our resources.  We’d get a bit from diggin the stuff out of the ground, like coal, or cuttin up the trees, but eventually whatever we dug up or grew, would come back at us as something more expensive that somebody else, someplace else made into something. 

We got a little smarter around the 50’s, when we started makin stuff, like the Avro Arrow, the St, Lawrence Seaway, or great whacks of electricity.  We made it into somethin more useful and made more profit.  Like televisions, there used to be a company called Electrohome down towards London, what made tv’s and stereos and radios.  They build the cabinets, made the tubes, did the wiring and all the other things what go into a tv, then they sold them to people so’s they could watch the Leafs actually win a friggin game. 

Electrohome has been gone for years, as well as Admiral and RCA.  TV was invented on both side of the border, what with Reginald Fessenden here and Philo Farnsworth down the US, more or less inventin the whole thing.  But we don’t make tv’s here any more.  Nor does the US.  People are watchin more tv than ever, but not on something made here by us.

Used to be Grand Rapids Michigan was the Office Equipment Capital of the World.  My great uncle Duke used to drive truck, takin furniture grade veneer to Grand Rapids every day, for them to make into desks and bookcases.  Later he took steel coil there to be stamped into filing cabinets, chairs and whatnot that was sold around the whole world.  Today?  About all you can get in Grand Rapids is cold.  They don’t make things there anymore.  Sure they’res jobs, if all you want to do is work at a department store, sellin stuff from somewhers else, to someone what also has a job at a restaurant that you go to once a week and leave a tip so’s in a couple of months time they’ve saved up enough to buy a clock radio from your store, what was made somewhere else. 

All you see is a service sector economy, serving a service sector economy and nobody makes things or does things except what they’re told to do.  It’s like a snake eatin its tail.  Eventually the light comes on and we’ll figure out we’re chewin on our own arse.

Which comes back to why the economy is pooched.  Like Gupta, we’ve got to make a profit on things, or we might as well close it up and stay home.  The best way to make a profit on things is to make things better, or faster or with more nifty features on’em than anyone else and then sell’em for more than what it costs to make’em.

So’s this Alberta Oilsands thing got me thinkin.  We got about the other half of the world’s oil there, but she’s gummed up in sand.  We figured out how to get the sand out of the oil and now we’re talkin about sendin the oil down south on some pipeline they want to build to Texas, but Obama don’t want to let the pipeline go, as nobody has figured out if it’s a good thing for the environment.  That’s fine, as we only got one environment and we should take care of it, but what we’re talkin about shipping out is the crude.  Not the gasoline, Jet A, Sunoco 260 or stove oil.  Just the friggin crude, like when we sent wheat and beavers to England and got back hats and bread at fifty seven times the price of what we got paid in the first place. 

Screw that I say.  We got the knowhow and the people to make that Oilsands crude oil into stuff.  We can sell the finished product to whoever shows up at the door with the cash.  If the Yanks want to pay top dollar, then we sell it to the Yanks.  If the Chinese want to pay top dollar, then we’ll sell it to them too.  If none of them want to pay top dollar, then screw them both and we’ll build our own pipeline to tube it to Winnipeg, Toronto, Montreal, Quebec City or Halifax.  There’s folks in all the cities what would want a good payin job workin on the pipeline, workin in a refinery or workin movin it around.  It’s our friggin oil and we should be makin a big buck on it what helps a lot of Canadians, not just some empty suit of clothes sittin in a boardroom in Houston.  Eff that noise.

Besides, there’s lots of other stuff you make from oil.  Like plastic pellets what they make into bags, or kids toys.  Use our own friggin oil to make that stuff and sell it to everyone else.  They need plastic bags in Ohio, and Ontario ain’t that far, so the bags would be cheaper than what someone could buy em for from China and everyone still makes a buck or two of profit.  And there’s nothin wrong with profit.  Ask Gupta.  He’s makin a go of it.

There’s a whole other side to this makin a profit and that the politics of her.  For instance, garlic.  We grow garlic here in Ontario and it’s good stuff.  I goes to the Loblaws and there’s Ontario Garlic, grown about fifty miles from the store.  She’s $4 for six heads.  Right next to it is some more garlic, $2 for six heads.  Where’s she grown?  It ain’t Ontario.  Which tells me someone’s playin fast and loose with what they got on offer.  Was that garlic grown on a field near Lambton Country, harvested by a family in the 519 and trucked for an hour or two to a terminal in Toronto?  If it’s the Ontario stuff, it sure was.

If the garlic is from somewhere else here’s where the math falls over.  They grew it on some field that used to be used for nuclear waste that the government gave them for free, along with the busload of political prisoners to plant and harvest the garlic, payin’em a dollar a month.  Then the government pays the shipping from the other side of the world, on their own ships, then sells it to a broker for half of what they charge in the Loblaws.  If you’re tellin me it costs a buck to grow and ship six heads of garlic from halfway around the world, then you’re either usin human slaves or you’ve found a way to break the rules of physics that none of us have ever found out about.

Or, your government is subsidizing you so much that you can afford to lose big money every time you plant some garlic.  Where’d they get all that money from?  The same holds true with shirts, or shrimp or electronics or furniture.  Someone is playin fast and loose to put us out of business, so’s they can jack the prices up later.  That’s one of the oldest tricks in the business book.  Once you’re the only place to get something, you can charge the moon. 

So’s maybe it’s time to stop bein cheap bastards.  Buy the local stuff, what was made by local folks, without having guards keeping the pickers working at the end of a gun.  Yes, she might cost a couple of bucks more, but instead of payin money to keep some government halfway around the world from takin over our economy, why not spend the extra deuce and keep a family in the 519 in business.  At least I know the garlic from there isn’t going to be glowing at night.

That’s all I’se got to say.  Make a buck, make it fair and make sure when you buy stuff, you buy from folks near you if you can.

 

Christmas 2011


There’s all kinds of emotional tripe that can boiled, salted, fried, poached, braised and grilled at this time of the year.  Most is as insincere as the greeting you get at any retail outlet.  Essentially “the holidays” is humans knee-jerking to what we are told Christmas should be like, as defined by greeting card companies, advertisers and a translucent egg tempera wash of pale blue religiosity with twinkly elves, lights, bows, reindeer and garlanded shrubbery.

Ignore it all and embrace the humbug.  This season is not about presents and turkey.  It is about rebirth.  Change.  A chance to start over.  To undo some of the bad things we’ve all done in the year. 

This holiday season is an oppourtunity to remind ourselves that living meaningfully, with purpose and generosity of spirit is the true story of the holiday.  It is a chance to try again to bring a moments’ grace to everyone.  Not just family or friends, but to those we don’t know and will never know.  To give what we wish we were to others, in the hope that they will respond in kind, perhaps to another stranger, combining our individual acts of kindness to all of us who live on this little blue planet.

That is our wish to you.  That you live meaningfully, with purpose and generosity of spirit. 

Merry Christmas.

Mason Baveux–Concussions


Like many businesses, we get stupid busy around Christmas, so I tapped our pinch-hitter Mason Baveux to consider Concussions in Hockey while I dig out from under a pile of work, at work.

I thinks why Davey wants me to write on the whole head shot thing in hockey is Davey don’t give a five pound corn on the cob crap about Canada’s Game.  This makes me suspect his citizenship, but since his family’s all Canadian, I think I’ll let’er slide.

So’s Sid the Kid spent most of last season ridin’ the sofa as he took one too many to the skull and was feelin’ cattywampus all over.  He comes back for two games then reaches for the yellow handle again and is back on the sofa for “an indeterminate amount of time” while he tries to find out where the horizon is again.  Or at least narrow it down to only two or three horizons at any given time.

I did some that research on that concussion thing and here’s what she said up the wikitickitavi.org.  You got your mild brain injury, mild traumatic brain injury, mild head injury and minor head trauma, which you can use for any of the others as the term for what ails ya.  We’ll just call’er concussion.  Or Hockey Head.

Down in the fine print she says what happens is yer brain bounces off the inside of yer skull and doesn’t know boo from woo for a while.  It could be a minute or two, or a week or two, depending on how hard a wallop you took.  Do that enough times and yer brain starts a forgettin stuff, like what’s a yellow light mean at the corner?  Drive’er like you stole’er! is the right answer.  Pass the effin’ ketchup Maureen! is the wrong answer.  Which is what be affecting Sid the Kid. 

Some medical folks have been studyin on this for a while, using sporty types in sports what have serious contact.  Football is one, Boxing another and Hockey.  Seems the medicos have been cuttin’ open the brains of dead players to look for problems.  They do have to wait till they pass, as the cuttin is a bit drastic for the walk-in clinic and tends to leave some marks.  Fortunately, the sport types have been quite obligin’ as the older ones are dyin off naturally, and the younger ones get all messed up on the pills and booze, then do themselves in.  So’s the medicos got lots of brains to work with and what they’re findin is lots of permanent injuries to the brain what are causin all sorts of wrongs.

Like Muhammad Ali (dammit, I still remember when he was Cassius Clay from Louisville, Kentucky) whose got the shakey jakes from what’s called Pugilistic Parkinson Syndrome.  What the science boys and girls figure is that he got the Parkinsons from too many shots to the head in his career.  Well, that took about five seconds to get ahold of those facts from the Department of Too Effin Obvious. 

Anyone crazy enough to stand within arm’s reach of Joe Frazier or Leon Spinks, two lads who could knock a CP westbound freight train off a track by looking at it hard, is gonna get some kind of side effects from bein on the receiving end of a solid punch.  You’d have to have headgear the size of Manitoba to get away with that kind of beatin.  Which Cassius Clay never had.  Which is why he’s retired and can’t speak, nor move too well no more and is a damn shame.

Now think about the hockey.  There’s plenty of roughouse, as that’s part of the game and if you’ve played even a little bit on some rink somewhere, you know there’s a lot of stuff around that can rattle your head.  The puck for one.  The other guy’s elbow for another.  Or you could try just fallin off your skates and doin a quad spin face plant on the ice herself.  The ice don’t move much.  Nor do the boards, or the posts, or the glass. 

We’re not even talkin about some dirty defenceman who thinks he should coldcock you one when you’re settin the box on the power play and are lookin away for the forward at the point.  Then all you see is the rafters, some shiny lights and finally remember what the coach said about “Keep yer head up!”

We’re talkin before helmets here.  Back when Punch Imlach coached.  When Don McKenny was part of the Uke Line on the Bruins with Bronco Horvath, Johnny Bucyk and Vic Stasiuk.  Those days when you’d see Gordie and Jean go into the corner and watch your rum and Coke shake along with the whole friggin Forum.  Not many of the lads got their frontal lobes all scrambled, as nobody wore a helmet and you were entitled to give as good as you got, but it was clean hits.  No attempt to maim the other guy, even if he was from Montreal, or Detroit.

Today, decapitation gets you five.  Maybe a game misconduct and that’s about it, assumin’ you didn’t go over to the house and piss on his sofa, or cross-check his missus into the washing machine after buggerin the family dog. 

The helmets and visors the players are wearin are important, but the side effect of all that armour (and this is true of the football too) is that the grinders and journeymen players feel they can dish out the hardest possible hits they can to make a name for themselves, even if it means puttin someone in the hospital for a long time.  But what goes around comes around and we’re findin out that givni the big hits like you’d see on Rock Em Sock Em Hockey 37, will also cost you. 

Speakin of costin you, we do know of a lad whose hockey career was what you call a small fish in a pond.  He never made the Big Show, as he took too many shots to the brain in Junior and couldn’t focus enough.  His job now?  He drives the Zamboni up to the arena for the Central Junior.  We call him Slappy, as he’s not quite sure what day it is and has to slap himself upside the head to remember it.  Sometimes he gets ‘er near right enough.  If you bet him five dollars, he’ll eat a stick of butter on a dare.  He lives in a part of a sheltered workshop for those what you would call ‘uncomplicated’, or we call Retard Park and Ride, as you can see most of them waitin for the taxi or the ParaTransport to get to where they’re goin.

He still wears his helmet most days as the doctors have said one more pop to the head and he’s likely not even going to remember how to drive the Zamboni.  He’s pushin fifty now and never had a home, or a wife, or kids.  All he knows is the hockey and how to drive the Zamboni. 

Now, just so’s you don’t think I haven’t thought this around the rink between periods, look at two other sports what don’t have body armour:  Rugby and Soccer.  About all you get is a cup and some cleats for protection.  You don’t see a lot of those careers comin’ to an end because the players can’t tell what month it is?  Blown out knees?  Sure, that’ll get you. 

But because your opponents don’t have all the gear on either, they’ll hit you hard enough to get you off the ball, but not hard enough to end your career.  And if you tell me that Rugby and Soccer players aren’t as tough and hard as Hockey and Football players, then I’d suggest you’re speakin out your arse and should go squat on the shitter to think that one through a bit more with some Metamucil to clear your talk hole. 

What she comes down to is the armour the young ones wear, be it football or hockey.  Makes them feel invincible and think they can dish it out without no consequences.  Sid the Kid is their poster child.  A great career lost because refs don’t call penalties and the gear they all wear makes’em feel like Superman.  They’ll all wind up like Slappy and that’s not what the consultants would call a Career Arc.

Breaks my friggin heart.

Remembrance Day


Every November 11th we take two minutes at the 11th hour to remember those who have fallen in service of their country.  There is a moving ceremony at the National War Memorial here in Ottawa, with dignitaries placing wreaths, the Ottawa School Board choir singing and the playing of Taps.  After the ceremonies, the veterans march past, some with walkers, some in wheelchairs, but many in step as befits their station as veterans proud of their service. 

The heart-wrenching part of the whole service is during the two-minutes silence.  Cameras pan from face to face, as the veterans reflect on those who cannot be there.  You see the remembrance in their eyes:  They’re playing back the memories of the comrades they knew, many whose lives ended in grisly, horrendous ways during events far away.

Those veterans have seen things that we are fortunate to never have experienced.  Be it Kandahar, Medak, Cyprus, Kapyong, Villiers Bocage, Vimy or some obscure grid reference in the middle of the Atlantic, over Peenemunde,Valetta, Kanggye, or Baghdad, they were there.

They were there so we wouldn’t have to be.  So we would never have to see the things they remember, the sorrows flashing behind their eyes as the camera slowly pans from face to face during those poignant and painful two minutes of remembrance.

There is nothing we can say to veterans except to acknowledge what they did.

Thank You.

Andy Rooney– The Last Real Reporter?


Most of us know Andy Rooney from his endpieces on 60 Minutes, CBS’s long-running news show on Sunday nights.  Rooney would expound on some topic that tweaked him that week, be it canned goods, doors or politics.  On occasion he crossed the line and got his butt suspended, but overall, he tried to bring some kind of enlightenment to the world around us. 

Rooney was one of the first six WWII correspondents who flew with the Eighth Air Force on their second bombing run over Germany in 1943.  He was also one of the first journos to visit a concentration camp during the invasion of Germany, as well as being one of the first to enter Paris during the liberation of 1944.  Like Walter Cronkite, or Harry Reasoner, he was a reporter, who went places and told the story of what he found, trying to put things in perspective for us regular folks.

Which leads us to the question; who does that now?  Where are the old school reporters who take the time to investigate, think, then present?  As best as can be determined, Rooney was the last of them who had legitimate journalistic chops.  Today’s crop of talking heads are nothing more than meat puppets whose sole existence depends on someone else putting words in their mouths, using the IFB line to make their jaws move and their brows furrow at appropriate times. 

Yes, they can get their approximate facts somewhere near truthiness, but the talking heads are unwilling to give us perspective.  As an exercise this morning, we watched three news networks cover the same story:  Greece political instability as regards the European Common Market. 

The story has a number of facets:  First, if Greece pulls out the EU and returns to the drachma, then a likely result would be the bankrupting of just about every business in Greece as well as most levels of government.  Business loans were done in Euros, not drachmas, so every loan would have to be recalculated on how many drachmas to the Euro?  Nobody knows, but you can be assured it won’t the favourable to the business that took out the loan.  Banks could rightly claim their loans are now due and payable.  Greece doesn’t have that kind of cash sitting around loose, be it in dollars, drachmas or dinars.  On paper Greece is already upside down, so pulling out of the EU would accelerate the process. 

Secondly, if Greece does take a fiscal leap into the unknown, what happens to the EU?  Italy is borrowing money at payday loan rates to stay afloat.  Rumour has it that they’ve already sold Milan and Turin to Rick Harrison of Pawn Stars.  Italian PM Berlusconi only got $2,500 for Milan and $2,200 for Turin.  Chumlee is going to be mayor of Milan and The Old Man is going to run Turin in a future episode. 

Would Germany and France, the two big wallets of the EU put up with Greece and then Italy going under?  Or, would Merkel and Sarkozy toss everyone under the bus with a hearty “Thanks for playing European Economic Union:  We gone!” 

That leaves most of the banks in the world holding big bags of worthless debt that they can’t recover and can’t write off because the world banking industry doesn’t have that kind of money either.  It would make the Great Depression look like you inadvertently blue-boxed an empty stubby, instead of taking it back to the Beer Store for the 5 cent refund.  Think Weimar Republic kind of global inflation.   

But the story on all three news outlets covers none of this.  There isn’t even a hint that the EU is in deep trouble.  All we see is the same repeated 45 second clip of the Greek parliament voting to create a new coalition party under Papandreou and applauding.  There’s no context, no appreciation of how far-reaching these problems could be and no sense of the future impact of Greece going under.  Just the same clip, over and over again.

He may have been crusty, a curmudgeon and quite possibly out of touch, but Andy Rooney would have made sure we understood that the stories we face today are important and will have an effect on our lives to come.   

We Go Mo!


Every year, for the past four years now, we set aside the razor and grow a luxuriant example of the facial foliage called a Mo:  A moustache for those who are not aware of the month known as Movember.  We’ve participated and raised money for Movember and Prostate Cancer Canada for a very simple reason: 

One in seven men will develop prostate cancer in their lifetime and a disturbing number of them will die from it. 

Most of RoadDave this month will concern itself with growing the Mo, some candid photos of my mug with fur and some postings regarding that icky subject Men’s Health.  You’ll laugh at the moustache and might squirm a bit at the Men’s Health stuff, but the objective is to raise awareness.   

And yes, we are going to hit you up for money.  Movember is about raising money to support the work done by Prostate Cancer Canada.  Yes, they’re legit.  They have a Charitable Donation number from the Canadian Customs and Revenue Agency and they accept any amount you care to pledge on their secure website.  We wouldn’t be involved if they weren’t legit and yes, we have looked at the financials to make sure the numbers add up.  They do.

We Go Mo! 

 

      

Mason Baveux and Libya


Since I’m up to my eyelids in work, I gave our esteemed pinch-hitter Mason Baveux the password.  He’s full of thoughts on the Arab Spring, Moammar Gadhafi and what democracy means. 

Thanks for the keys to the bloggery again lad.  Hope you had a good summer, as I found out that the price of Laker is now at the lowest she’s ever been, which is stretchin the disability dollar quite nicely thanks. How was August anyways, as I don’t remember? 

Dave wants me to be writin on the Arab Spring in the Fall, which makes no sense to me.  Fall is the same everywhere, what with the leaves and the rain.  Springtime is when you smell the dogshit thawin out on the path and the Leafs are on the golf course. 

So’s I looked her up on the Goggles.  What he’s meanin is all the revoltin goin about in the Arab countries.  Like Egypt, what tossed Hosme Moobarack onto the shitcan of history.  But like they say in the infomercials, “Wait there’s more!”  They got all revoltin in Tunisia, put in a new President of Tuna, took over Libya and to quote up that Wikitikitavi-pedia, had some civil uprisings in Syria, Yemen, Bahrain, Jordan, Morocco and Onan as well.  Although I think the Onan uprisings were just spillin’ the seeds of revolution, instead of bein in right up to the bristles of revoltin.

Yer gotta ask yerself, what are they revolutin for?  Freedom for one, and a chance to not starve to death for the other, while the dictator and his arse buddies swan about in a limousine, eatin grapes from the creamy thighs of one of the 70 virgins they keep on staff as tables.  Folks what have full bellies tend not to get all revolutionary minded up on their back legs with flags and guns.  Hungry folks can only be held down by a big ass army whose armed to the tits.  Ask Uncle Joe Stalin about that one when the Russki wheat crop took a crap, in a bad way afore the sequel to World War I.  But as Uncle Joe found out, big armies cost big money.   

Now, as for freedom, well, the Arab Springers sort of got it partially right.  Being as I’m Canadian and rightly proud of it, I get to do damn near anything I want, as long as I got the money, the time and the inclination.  If all I want to do is collect plates and show’em off at a fall fair, then I can give’r as long as I want, or until some jackoff with a ball-peen hammer takes a disliking to me. 

I can take my empties back to the Beer Store, as free as you choose, without worrying some cop is going to hijack me, steal my empties, or rob me on the way there, or back.  I can have waffles for dinner if I choose and don’t have to use margarine on them.  I could use butter and lots of it. 

The Arab Springs want some of that.  Maybe not the waffles, but the high concept of bein’ safe in their persons and possessions.  They want the right to be able to choose stuff, good or bad.  If they do want waffles, I can probably email off the recipe, if someone were to tell me where to send’er.  They’ll have to get their own maple syrup though.  I don’t think they’s got maple trees in Arabia, but I bet waffles with date juice would be tasty.   

(Davey said I have to use the CP spelling here.  What the railroad has to do with spelling, I don’t know) Let’s talk about Moammar Gadhafi.  He’s deader than the Leafs chances at the playoffs and it’s only the first week of the season.  Ol’ Moe ran Libya for 42 years like the usual crazy as a shithouse rat despot, with the usual killin’, torture and terrorism.  He wound up on the YouToobes gettin slung across the hood of a half-ton, alive, then moments later, his heart stopped beating when some lad put a couple of rounds through his head.  So’s technically, he died of a heart attack.  Good friggin’ riddance.  The World Court in the Hague wanted to try Moammar’s ass for terrorism, thievery, crimes against Humans and general douchery, but the revolutionaries sort of beat the World Court to the punch.  Just as well, as they saved a couple of million dollars in lawyers fees, trial judges and hotels. 

The question what I get stuck on is like this:  This whole Arab Springin’ is like a dog whats chasing a car.  They want that freedom and democracy and are willin to stand up to get it.  Now, what happens when you get it? 

If that dog does catch the car, he can’t drive it, he can’t reach the pedals, he can’t see out the mirror and he probably can’t even figure out where to put the gas in.  So’s the dog has got exactly what?  He’s better off because he’s got a place that smells like a stale, sweaty arse and is out of the rain?  Not much of a big payday there. 

Which is where my alnalogy leads me:  What’s the Arab Springers goin’ to get out the other side?  Jeeze, it makes the plate in my head throb just tryin to ponder the possibilities.  You could have a couple of countries decided to go all theocratic and reset the calendar to 1345 AD, makin the internweb illegal and not drawing to the house in the final end, punishable by stoning?  That’s not right.  Nor does puttin another dicktater on the chair.  Lookit Africa for how well that works out what with the tribal wars, starvation and mass murder passin for a country or five on the Dark Continent.  

Maybe, I’m sayin, they need a bit of time.  South Africa had a good idea with their Truth and Reconcilliation Commissions goin about tellin the whole story and makin sure everybody was on the same page.  Yes, they made a few mistakes and sometimes it just resulted in the Comission sayin  “Sorry. She’s fooked and we’ll fix er up, but not today.”

That’s about as close as we’ll get’er this year, even though it’s Fall and the Arab Spring is still goin’.  So’s, as I say every year at this time:  Go Leafs!