More Olympic Security Woes


Since the media in London seemed so eager to take a Cleveland Steamer all over Vancouver when we held the Olympics, it seems only right that turnabout is fair play.

Aside from the rent-a-cop provider G4S falling on their swords earlier this week by not providing the 10,400 uniformed security people for the London Olympics and losing nearly $80 million in the process, it would seem that the few uniforms G4S has provided are at best, useless.  From a great blog, Inspector Gadget comes the report of the number of G4S meat who simply don’t show up for work.  180 trainees were booked to start a class “How to Smile at Olympic Staff”.  Eight warm bodies actually deigned to arrive. 

At the Olympic team hotel in Salford, 56 allegedly trained, vetted and willing security staff were scheduled to work – 17 showed up.

Box Hill cycling venue?  20 of 300 booked managed to cast a shadow and presumably to fog a mirror.

So, who fills in when G4S’s people decide that the dog ate their homework?  Regular police officers.  The folks who are supposed to be watching the rest of England for the usual robberies, break and enters and domestic violence things that don’t go away because the Olympics are in town. 

To try to backfill the missing-presumed-still-sleeping G4S staff another 3,500 British Army have been given orders to prepare to move.  That brings the Ministry of Defence commitment to 20,000, or a tenth of all the British Military.

Which tells us that the London Olympics will not be a cheerful place full of happy competitors and thrilled spectators, watching their fellow countrymen achieve great things in sport.  The unspoken undertone however, is what could happen if the shit really does hit the fan. 

Assume for a moment that a heretofore unknown smallish group of Elbonian dissidents decides that the London Olympics is the perfect place to address their centuries-long conflict with North Elbonia for the Great Taking of the Sheep in 1434. 

Like most nutbar groups, their method of protest is the car bomb, which is neither technically challenging, or particularly difficult logistically.  Scan the newspapers to see where the G4S people are not showing up to work and there’s your venue.  Total brain effort required?  Barely enough to power up a light bulb, which would be plenty to set off the Elbonian car bomb next to the the North Elbonian training facility, where the North Elbonian Olympic Team is training for the new Olympic event, the 100 Metre Sod Roll and Carry.

Purely fictional and we dreamed that one up in less than four seconds, but with the London Olympics security in such a mess, we might as well write the headlines now.

When The Going Gets Weird


Our esteemed pinch-hitter Mason Baveux has asked for the keys again to comment on the general weirdness that seems to have permeated Canada in the last few months.  Mason?

It’s like you said Davy, she’s gone right screwy.  My Canada, what we stand on guard for thee seems to have dropped off the conveyor belt of normal, into the rock tumbler of What the eff? 

Luka Magnotta:  If you’re south of the border, you’ve might of heard about our very own Canadian Monster.  He’s the sick little jagoff what killed and then field dressed that student Jun Lin.  Then this Magnotta mails body parts to a couple of schools in BC and the HQ of two of our major political parties up Davey’s way in Ottawa.  Eventually the cops found the head and torso, so’s at least the family got a full set to bury.   

Jesus lad, this is Canada.  Drop the gloves or take a stick to his head, but killin the lad then runnin off to Canada Post is a bit much.  Magnotta’s in the pokey right now awaitin trial as the newsies say.  The trick cyclists are studyin Magnotta’s mind right now and I can save them a lot of time:  He’s a crazy fuck.  I don’t like my tax dollars goin to house that kind of crazy bastard in segregation.  Put him in General Pop and the lads will take care of things for us in a week to ten days.  Same with that Russell Williams and Paulie Bernardo.

Shoot’em up in Toronto. Them gangbangers are at it again in Hogtown.  Last night off in Scarberia there was a big old picknic goin on when an animated discussion ensued.  Two dead, 23 wounded in what they’re callin’ a hail of gunfire. 

First off, no points for marksmanship ya arseholes.  There was 200 or so folks at the BB and Q and ya managed to hit ten percent including an infant.  If you gotta settle your beef with a weapon, learn how to use it first.  Shootin up the whole neighbourhood proves you got no balls, no skills and no class.  

I don’t give a gold plated tit tassel about what your beef is as it’s probly something retarded about one lad wearin an Oakland A’s cap instead of a Yankees cap on backwards or other such gang rubbish.  Oh and “disrespectin” each other.  Well here’s some more disrespectin’:  You can’t shoot worth shit.  None of you have the stones or the smarts to go toe to toe like a real Canadian Man would.  Oh, that’s right, you’re still livin at home, bein suckled on Mommy’s teat, bein all butch, wavin’ a gun around.  Friggin’ whinin’ little wipes. 

I know a lad from the PPCLI who was so tough he was stabbed three times in Korea by a Chinee fightin in a trench, who didn’t even use his sidearm, except to pistol whip him with the butt end.  Didn’t kill him, but it took the medicos a week to figure out where to put the feeding tube on the prisoner.

Tornado Warnings today:  Well that’s your climate warmin for ya.  We get no rain for a month, so’s everything’s drier than Sister Agnes’s twat then she starts blowin around in a twister.  This ain’t Texas or Oklahoma and if Dorthy clicks her ruby heels together she sure ain’t goin to wind up in Winchester or Morrisburg.  No word on the damage yet.

Brit Olys –  I told you I was goin to roast their weenies when it came time for London to host the Olympics.  Seems G4S was hired to provide the rent-a-cops for the London Olys in a couple of weeks.  Turns out they couldn’t find more than a half-dozen, when they promised 10,400.  Now the London Oly Committee has asked some 3,500 of the lads comin back from Afghanistan to delay their leave for a month so’s they can walk around and keep the peace. 

Seems that G4S is goin to lose between $54 and $78 million dollars on the contract.  Who they hell were they gettin to be security guards?  Friggin Saudi Princes?  Nick Buckles, what was the lad from G4S what said “Sorry about that” still has his job, but says he might be forced to quit.  No shit Sherlock!  Quit?  If I were in charge of G4S I’d be walkin with a limp because one of my shoes were missing as it was up Nick Buckles arsehole after I fired him and threw him out the front door face first.

OK, that last one weren’t Canadian, but she’s still a symptom of Big Stupid goin on.

And Davey told me about one he’s goin through. Seems his nephew is gettin hitched, so’s he and the missus are flyin to Winnipeg for the do in Portage.  Closest airport is Winnipeg, so’s they book them Reward Miles on the Aeroplan.  Where’s their flight go?  Ottawa to Montreal to Winnipeg.  Jesus Katy that’s like flyin from New York to Los Angeles but goin through Greenland first.  Seems that the Aeroplan doesn’t want you to actually use your Aeroplan miles up for things like, oh, I don’t know, airplane trips maybe? 

Davey’s scared to book any more flights anywhere as they might have him routed via Frankfurt if he wants to fly to Seattle from home.

I got no answer for you, except she’s all gone stupid right now. The only solution I can come up with is to pop the top off another and try to beat the heat with the brew.  Go Leafs!

Zero Tolerance Debate


For those of you who don’t follow racing, A.J. Allmendinger of the Penske Racing #22 was suspended from competition when his urine sample tested positive for a banned substance.  Allmendinger’s B sample is scheduled to be tested shortly.  NASCAR has a Zero Tolerance policy regarding drivers, officials or crews participating in events while under the influence of banned substances.  Therein the controversy.

It is important that the organization that runs a sporting event have rules and levels of expected behaviours of its’ participants.  We’ve got no beef with NASCAR not wanting some driver all messed up on substances driving a 3500 pound stock car in competition.  If Famous Driver A sees his late grandmother climbing up his Nomex-clad leg with a knife in her teeth, growling in Elvish, while arcing into Turn 3 at Talladega on lap 52, we could expect some ramifications in the competitive situation.  There would be headlines.  Very Bad Headlines. 

In the Good Ol’Days of NASCAR there were certain drivers and crew chiefs who would do serious damage to a case of beer during a race.  They most likely would have blown .08 or more had there been testing.  There were others who were known to indulge in those substances that would allow you to stay awake for four days straight.  Neither is good for the human or the company they keep.

The issue is the confluence of science that can detect chemicals in the parts per billion and the knee-jerk reaction of Zero Tolerance.

One area I’m familiar with is commercial aviation.  It is completely understandable that we don’t want a commercial pilot under any kind of drug influence.  It’s too important that their judgement be as good as human judgement can be in the event of an emergency.  That’s why the threshold for self-disqualification for commercial pilots is very, very low. 

As an example, NyQuil, an over the counter cough and cold remedy, will disqualify you from being pilot in command, if consumed within 12 hours of duty.  Why?  NyQuil contains alcohol, acetaminophen, dextromethorphan, doxylamine succinate and pseudoephedrine, all of which have side effects that can cloud ones judgement for a period of time after use.  How long, is the question, as some say 12 hours, other say a week until there is no sign of it in your bloodstream.  That’s where the science falls on its ass: They can’t tell us how long are the side effects ongoing.  I can tell you from personal experience that pseudoephedrine makes me five-coffee-jittery for two or three days, but that’s just me. 

Poppy Seeds?  Yes, a bagel with poppy seeds can get you in trouble, as all poppy seeds contain trace amounts of opiates.  The science can’t tell if the opiates in your blood are from a toasted bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon with red onions and capers, or from blazing up a bowl-full of Afghanistan’s Finest.  All the science says is there are opiates.  Parole officers routinely tell their charges that a positive piss test for any opiates puts you back in the Crowbar Hotel, so do not eat poppy seeds, end of discussion. 

Ross Rebagliati, the 1988 Winter Olympics Snowboarding Gold Medalist was found to have THC in his circulatory system and had his medal yanked.  Big surprise that a snowboarder had been in the vicinity of someone smoking dope.  However, his medal was reinstated, as THC was not a banned substance at the time.  Frankly, I see no unfair advantage to competing in any sport with a brain-full of BC Bud unless the sport is competitive Dorito eating.

Which brings us back to A.J. Allmendinger.  Could his positive test, rumoured to be from a ‘stimulant’ be the result of something as benign as Claritin?  Or does he have a serious penchant for Brown Betty Long-Distance Truck Drivin’ pills?  From our side of the screen, we’re not convinced The Dinger is keen to stay up for three days straight, shaking and puking.  The only unfair advantage he could gain from a ‘stimulant’ is the ability to get the mindless post-race interviews over and done with in 32 seconds flat. 

Common sense says that if the test did find a stimulant, but the stimulant is in such miniscule amounts as to have no advantageous, or deleterious effects, then the issue is over.  Same if the source of the stimulant is something common and benign, like cold medication, or a new sports drink.  But that would mean someone would have to make a decision.

This flies in the face of Zero Tolerance.  The assumption is that if you have any substance in your bloodstream then you are obviously a full-blown maniac-addict-thief-crazy person, just a hair-breadth away from raping and pillaging to get your next fix.  Zero Tolerance precludes thinking in these situations, when there are significant gradations from black to white. 

Agreed, we don’t want people with messed up judgement piloting our aircraft, or racing our stock cars for that matter.  Where we’re falling down is letting science make all the decisions, including penalties that could end a career.

A Half Century of Stones


In the Day you were described by who you liked.  If you were a Beatles fan, then that’s what you were.  No other band existed on the planet.  If you liked the Dave Clark Five, you were a soiled orifice who didn’t get the Beatles.  Those who thought Herman’s Hermits were the nuts, were nuts, or you were your parents.  If your musical tastes ran to other less known acts, then you were merely a marginalized orifice, subject to loud guffaws and finger-pointing by your peers.

Then there were the Stones. 

Nobody sort of liked the Stones.  The Who were fine, the Kinks were acceptable, but the Stones?  Either you got it, 100%, or you were the kind of person whom, if you were on fire, Stones fans wouldn’t piss on to put out. 

It has been fifty years since their first gig in the UK and I can still remember a neighbour playing the grooves off High Tide and Green Grass when I was old enough to have my own taste in music around 1966  Then we discovered the earlier stuff on Decca, along with the writing credit of Nanker Phelge.  The Beatles?  Who?

Having seen the Stones, live, more than once, it is this author’s considered opinion that the title of Best Band Ever should go to the Stones.  Yes, now they only play huge arenas when they need to take a break from counting their money.  Mick didn’t just attend the London School of Economics; he paid attention too. 

But with the right eyes, Keith’s opening chops of “Start Me Up”, “Brown Sugar” “Street Fightin’ Man” or even Charlie’s cowbell on “Honky Tonk Women” can tear the brains out of 100,000 people at once.  We’ve seen it happen.

The Stones.  Best. Band. Ever.

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.           

Ernie Gone


Eventually all the really cool actors from your childhood die:  That’s just the way it is.  Ernest Borgnine passed away yesterday, taking Lt. Cmdr Quinton McHale with him.  Borgnine had some serious acting chops (Academy Award winner for “Marty” in 1955) and a filmography of unusual depth, including From Here to Eternity, Bad Day At Black Rock, Flight Of The Phoenix, The Wild Bunch, The Dirty Dozen, Ice Station Zebra and even The Poseidon Adventure. 

He was a working character actor, in the very best meaning of the term, on film and television, even as the voice of Mermaid Man on SpongeBob SquarePants, paired up again with Tim Conway, delighting another generation with his chops.  However it was McHale’s Navy that most folks my vintage remember.  Some of the folks with Borgnine on McHale were Tim Conway, Joe Flynn and Gavin McLeod, stellar character actors to a person.  The screwball comedy never set foot in the Pacific:  It was all shot backlot at Universal, with the exception of a few underway master shots.  You get bonus points if you remember the number of the PT boat without looking it up.

The funny thing is Ernest Borgnine actually was in the US Navy, and reupped in 1941, as a gunner on the USS Lamberton, in the Pacific theatre, before he took to acting. 

He was very much one of those few actors where you never saw the mechanism working.  Borgnine managed to inhabit the characters he played.  And he will be missed.  PT-73 has sailed. 

  

Closetry Capers and Media Matters


There is always an element of caution that has to be taken when it comes to expressions of human sexuality.  For some anything but matrimonial heterosexuality is so far removed from their norm that they can’t cope.  Other people have a different view. 

From this side of the screen we have a simple formula:  If the participants are of the age of majority and can actively consent, then we have no opinion.  That means no kids (age of majority) or animals (no active consent possible and no, that giraffe is not begging for it, put the ladder away) but the rest of it, is fair game on the spectrum of human sexual behaviour. 

There is one corollary to the formula:  Show some discretion please.  We don’t want to see you playing tonsil hockey with your significant other (or others, if that’s how you roll) in public.  Whatever your particular mode of enjoyment might be, recognize that others might not want to see it played out on the streets of the city.  Get a room. 

It is an uncomplicated moral view and one that is quite simple to live with, as we have for many years.  Notice there are no quotes from various religious documents of shaky provenance, or appeals from pamphleteers purporting to know what the various deities demand from us. 

I’ll let you in on a secret:  God does not give a damn what you get up to on Saturday night after a few drinks.  To quote Rabbi Hillel:  “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow: this is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation; go and learn”

Which brings us to Anderson Cooper opening the door on his particular orientation.  Good for him.  The same with various musical acts, television personalities, movie celebrities, or random citizens flinging open the doors, shutters, tent flaps and zippers to their particular proclivities.  Good for you, now can we move on to something interesting?  Like whoever is left in Greece next week, will they please turn off the lights when they leave.

We do know that if one applies the simple moral formula above, then an awful lot of the media coverage we see hourly becomes instantly irrelevant noise.  We don’t care if Jennifer Anniston is doing X or Y, or that Jwoww got a tattoo on a body part.  We can then see the incessant bleating of attention whores for what it is, incessant bleating and as worthy of coverage as the state of the ingrown hair I have on my right armpit.  Healing nicely, for those who need to know everything.

Too much of our media is preoccupied with utter and complete drivel to be of use to us anymore.  Which also explains why the majority of North American society are abandoning conventional media, meaning the newspaper, radio and television, as their source for information. 

With that declining (ok, plummeting) audience, goes the advertising dollar, to this hour’s flavour of pseudomedia, that tries desperately to convince itself that it is actually relevant to anyone except the stockholders and the developers who created it.  From that, we get even less news.

Maybe with a news person of reasonable chops, like Anderson Cooper, we can get over our preoccupation with such mind rotting banality and get back to work trying to figure out how we get here and where we need to go to fix things.   

Been a while, but…


To catch up.  I’ve been involved in a serious project at work that has taken all the brain cycles, which has meant a dramatic decline in the output of RoadDave.  For that I’m sorry, as I know several of you read it on a semi-regular basis, if only as a negative example.  Since the summer has arrived and things have settled down to a dull roar, we can actually take a few moments and post some new stuff.

First off, we’re all fine on the home front, just overworked and out of consecutive hours to engage in recreational writing.  Nothing tragic or deeply important, simply busier than a one-armed wallpaper hanger.

Canada Day.  We decided that the presence of 125,000 close friends up on Parliament Hill wasn’t for us this year and perhaps just as well.  Around 9 pm or so, we were just starting to watch the broadcast coverage of The National Drunk from Parliament Hill when we heard some fireworks go off locally. 

This isn’t unusual, as we are but steps from a largish municipal park and green space.  The local testosterone monkeys always seem to have money to buy fireworks and let them off on any particular holiday, like Victoria Day, Canada Day or Diwali.  I was expecting some kind of spontaneous eruption, if only because Spain won the Cup too.  We’re used to the sound, more or less and not really afraid of them.  I held a Fireworks and Pyro certificate for a number of years and don’t mind it at all, truth be told.  There’s something comfy about the sound of an 8-inch three-break chrysanthemum shell launching four feet from your right hand that just feels good.  You feel it in your lungs and belly, that deep, satisfying ‘Whomp” sound, knowing the round is away safely and will momentarily become something beautiful in the night sky.

After a few gerbs and salutes I did hear a “Whomp” down deep and low, percussive and hard, that was emphatically not the kind of fireworks the unlicensed and uninsured consumer can buy.  Even bundling several charges together, you can’t get that sound with consumer pyro.

I got up, pulled on some clothing and went outside to see what was going on as I knew something wasn’t right.  Hearing sirens in the distance, I figured something was up and less than a minute later, a whole fire company of Ottawa Fire Service was screaming down our sleepy street.  The townhouse more or less across the street and four doors left was on fire, dense black smoke billowing out the back, three storeys in the air.

DSC_1210

Moments later, a neighbour came running.  He had seen the deck of the house on fire and had both called 911 and had stretched his garden hose over to the burning deck in an attempt to buy some time.  Then he saw the barbecue propane tank light off and he ran for it.  That was likely the “Whomp” I had heard and went to investigate.  At the same time, the Ottawa Fire Service were running hose and making their way into the scene.

DSC_1221The fire got into the common roof area while the aerial ladder kept pouring water, trying to limit the damage, as the fire service started their job.  Nobody was home and those directly adjacent were safely evacuated.  No lives were lost.  The Ottawa Fire Service did what they do, with professional skill.

What the episode taught me was something different, completely unrelated to fire.  We don’t know our neighbours any more and not just from a personal standpoint.  It is more global.  A small group of us that congregated in the driveway and watched the events unfold last night, barely know each other by name.  We semi-recognize each other, perhaps nodding in recognition at the mailbox or on the street.  Between us we exchanged more words in two hours than we had in the previous six years.  Why is this?

Upon reflection it is because the concept of ‘neighbour’ has become unused.  We go to work, come home and enter our personal space, interacting with our family units and the television.  We don’t talk over the back fence any more.  Our world has at the same time become huge and very tiny, limited to our friends online or the distant relative who sends us the lolcats email.  By the way, I don’t care to receive the Facebook update of “Uncle Bernard Violated a Goat in Farmville!” any more.  I wish Uncle Bernard would take up another hobby, like tying trout flies or trying to Bedazzle a moving freight train.

Neighbours are strange things, in that they are very much in your personal space, within 100 feet of where you hang your toothbrush, but not at all involved in your life, beyond the cursory nod of occasional acknowledgement.  One or two might know your name and that’s about where it ends. 

I find that unfortunate, as who else can you tap immediately to help you dig your car out of a snow bank, or grab the other end of a 2 x 12 you’re hauling around the house?  A good neighbour does stuff like that, almost unbidden, with no thought of recompense, aside from the occasional coffee, or a cold pint on a hot day.  Why?  Because that is what a good neighbour does. 

We were fortunate in that one of the folks on the street tried to be a good neighbour, putting the hose to a flaming wooden deck, to at least try to help, putting himself at risk to save the property of someone whom he didn’t know.  That’s as good a definition of a neighbour as you can get. 

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.

 

Catching Up


There are times when life intrudes.  Right now, what with work and the general winter hibernation period, we’ve been spending all the cycles trying to keep on top of the other things in life, aside from RoadDave.  But, we have had a chance to catch our breath and attack the keyboard:

Whitney Houston passing was sad and distressing, not just because she was relatively young, at 48, but more for the underlying reasons.  Those will eventually come out, but one can make educated guesses.  Fame is a killer, pure and simple. 

Mitt or Newt?  We can’t actually believe the number of news cycles being devoted to those miscreants as well as the hangers-on.  Rick, Rick, Harold and the four or five other meat puppets who ‘threw their hat into the ring’ for the Republicans.  Newt shouldn’t be allowed to run for any actual political office beyond “County Retardate ”  He makes Nixon look honourable.  Willard (Mitt) Romney has been taking personality suppressants for so long that one longs for another Ed Muskie or Tom Eagleton to inject some excitement into the campaign.  Obama might be a disappointment, but the alternatives from the Republican Party are causing the stock price of Tena to increase ten-fold as reporters stock up on absorbent undergarments to preclude evidence of pissing themselves laughing.

The Euro Zone Debt:  Greece has fallen and can’t get up.  The last person to leave Hungary has promised to turn off the lights and lock the door, while Italy has taken a sixteen week government subsidized vacation to Spain.  That leaves France and Germany as the Bank of Last Resort for the rest of the EU.  The math isn’t working anymore but nobody has the stones to say “Screw it, we’re done.”  That would mean a number of banks in the EU would have their stock reduced to cat box filler status.  That’s a problem for Bankers and Stock Thieves, not the rest of us.    

Winter:  It’s been wobbly.  Vicious cold, followed by a thaw cycle.  Roads and sidewalks are sheets of glare ice that salt can’t melt and sand can’t penetrate.  The only folks happy about that are orthopaedic surgeons who have to reassemble the hips, knees, elbows and arms of those who have gone for a splat.  Right now, the only safe place is bed, under a blanket.

Middle East:  Syria is getting more YouTube coverage than anyone else, except piano-playing Lolcats, as the government puts the boots to the citizens.  Bashar (Bobby) Asad isn’t too keen to give up the usual trappings of despotic power and figures that tanks firing AP rounds at citizens armed with cardboard posters is fair game.  Meanwhile Egypt, the Arab Spring poster child, hasn’t figured out how to employ their citizens, or get the economy out of the toilet.  Hey, why not trying making things that other people want to buy, then selling it to them for a profit? 

Energy Prices.  Obama cans the KeystoneXL pipeline from the Canadian oilsands;  we’re happy about that and not for environmental reasons.  For four hundred years Canada has cut down the trees or dug out the ore to have it sold back to us later.  We say we’ll get the oil out of the sand, turn it into gasoline and sell you the finished product at a merely grotesque profit.  Pulling stuff out of the ground does nothing for our economy and if China is willing to pay more than the US, then we’ll sell it to the highest bidder as a finished product.  That’s what the free market is all about baby.