News of Abercrombie's quarterly results just came out and it looks like 61 year old Mike Jeffries, Abercrombie's CEO, Chief Visionary and wannabe Abercrombie kid is probably reading the results in his very unlucky shoes (lucky shoes always reserved for reading financial reports - but reports that, in the past, have always been positive for this driven, quirkly - no, probably crazy - retail leader.

I recall during the start of this recession Jeffries adamently stating he would not lower prices during these difficult financial times and indeed, when I went Christmas shopping inside the Abercrombie store it was the ONLY retailer I visited that did not lower prices. The CEO's rationale was lowering prices lowered the perception of the brand and created long term brand identity issues that would not resolve in outlying years. Perhaps he is right - indeed, he made that same call during the last recession and his brand went on to soar once the economy bounced back. In the short term, however, his company is feeling the pain - see this morning's Globe and Mail report below.

I have to say, when I went into that store (and I only went in there because I was absolutely stuck on what to buy my Goddaugther - recall my article here) I was incensed to see no sale prices. The arrogance of this company to think our economic hardships mean less than another $5 for a t-shirt in their pocketbook. I vowed to never walk in there again. Maybe teenagers felt the same disgust I did, maybe they have decided to permanently boycott the brand for its callous business decisions, or maybe their parents who said "forget it!". Whatever it was, it showed up in his financial results. What will he do next?

May I suggest a t-shirt sale?

NEW YORK — Teen retailer Abercrombie & Fitch [ANF-N] says it booked a loss in its fiscal first quarter and is beginning a strategic review of its Ruehl business, which is aimed at an older demographic.

Abercrombie & Fitch Co. lost $26.8-million (U.S.), or 31 cents per share, during the period that ended May 2. That compares with a profit of $62.1-million, or 69 cents per share, a year ago. The New Albany, Ohio-based company is also in the process of determining an additional impairment charge related to Ruehl that will be added to the results.

Net sales tumbled 24 per cent to $612.1-million.

The results missed Wall Street's expectations. Analysts polled by Thomson Reuters forecast a loss of 14 cents per share on revenue of $616.5-million.

To Dubuque or Not Dubuque

From "The Onion: America's Finest News Source". My apologies to all Iowans but it appears some things just aren't worth moving for - even the Fifth Amendment!

NEW YORK—Having their sworn commitment to each other and all related rights therein recognized by the highest court of a sovereign U.S. state is ultimately not worth the hassle of moving to Iowa, longtime partners Danny Mindlin and Alex Small determined Monday. "Alex and I want to grow old together, but we'd have to drive six hours just to get a mezzaluna at Restoration Hardware," said Mindlin, who claimed he "couldn't survive" without a strawberry frosted cupcake from Amy's Bread after yoga every Thursday. "And where would we summer? Dubuque? I think we'll just buy a townhouse and live in an unrecognized union with beautiful granite countertops instead." The couple told reporters that their plans to adopt also weighed heavily in the decision, since they want to raise a child who is healthy, balanced, and "not tacky."

It's Just Another Day In the Hood

It is Mother's Day and I should be at some spa getting my nails painted, my back massaged, every once in a while sipping a relaxing cup of green tea - but I have two sick kids, hubby is away and so, I am housebound. Instead, I went looking for my daughter's "Baby" and in the process, gutted her room, then reorganised it - but why stop there? I redecorated it. I did not find Baby until I was finished. She conveniently appeared underneath the family room couch.

So - what next?

How about cleaning the fridge? I decided to rummage through, throw anything old out (that's almost everything in my fridge) and upon doing so found some items of curiosity. Pickled asparagus. What do you do with pickled asparagus? What do you do with "vegetable spread"? Canned sour cherries? And how did these things end up in my fridge in the first place? I have a rule. If I can't think of what to do with something within 20 seconds, it goes in the garbage - so off they went, into the same trash can that has become home to most of what was in my daughter's room. It wasn't the way I expected to celebrate Mother's Day but, it was, in a strange way, enjoyable.

Hero Steals the Headlines

I watched this story of a captain, selflessly giving himself up for his crew and was inspired. So often we hear stories of the "ugly American", but this time, this man - he is a true hero - the best of what America is. His country should be proud.

You Can Be Too Famous...

Yet another (not so) great pretender. Tell me, what is it that makes a guy like this act like such a dufus? His own band looks embarrassed! This is what everyday people like me hate about Hollywood stars like him - this sense of entitlement and self-importance that seems to consume celebrities. They are holier-than-though one moment and selfish, ignorant clods the next - and nobody - I mean NOBODY - is allowed to call them on it. I am told it's the pressure of the business. I say it's the fact they have too much already - too much money, too much stuff and way too much attention - so much so that someone like Billy Bob Thorton would think his mediocre music (which, despite five albums, nobody has ever heard of) should stand on its own. Um, I don't think so Bad Santa...




Update: Billy Bob Thorton got his due with lashings from a Canadian audience - and that sent him packing. Good riddance!

Wonders of the Sea

I played this repeatedly for my fascinated girls. Watch to the end because it is totally cool!

Perfectly Zen

I have told my husband many times that to curb my consumerism I only need perfection. Take my family room, for example (pictured below). Since renovating it, I have never felt the inclination to do anything else to it again - not add anything, change anything - just curl up on the couch and read a good book (off of one of my perfectly decorated bookshelves). Oh please don't roll your eyes. Can you not see the logic here? When something truly becomes "us" - whether it be our clothes, our space, our food, etcetera, we discover a peace and inner balance that wasn't there before. We love ourselves, our lives seem good again - if only in that outfit or that room or whatever.



Over the next two years, hubby and I are going to do some extensive renovations to our cottage. Hubby built it with his dad so I have been told I absolutely cannot knock it down which, of course, is exactly what I want to do. This limitation has caused me much consternation as I absolutely HATE the current building - it's too close to the water, the ceilings are too low, the layout is awkward - and you cannot change any of those things unless you knock the entire thing down. It's a limiting factor that elicited some serious whining from me because I just couldn't imagine my zen calm without creating a whole new space. But I am a reasonable woman so I have decided to move on, to open myself up to the challenge - and to make a very imperfect space feel (almost) perfect. To toast my new attitude I decided to decorate the front porch (which won't be the front porch when I'm done with it) with some lovely planters and Canadian winter fauna. Ahhh. So zen.



I know. I know. The door needs some paint...

It's All About Perspective

My sister sent me this and I thought I'd share. I totally get it - does that make me old?!

Considering the Times...

it just seemed appropriate.

On Living the Truth

Relating to a previous post I had on spin and truth, I found this May 21st, 2005 Kenyon commencement address from David Foster Wallace, and found it absolutely fascinating - especially considering the choice he made for his own violent end. The speech gets to the heart of why we line up behind ideas without exploration and how education helps us learn to avoid that default position. Would love to hear your thoughts on it.

(If anybody feels like perspiring [cough], I'd advise you to go ahead, because I'm sure going to. In fact I'm gonna [mumbles while pulling up his gown and taking out a handkerchief from his pocket].) Greetings ["parents"?] and congratulations to Kenyon's graduating class of 2005. There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says "Morning, boys. How's the water?" And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes "What the hell is water?"

This is a standard requirement of US commencement speeches, the deployment of didactic little parable-ish stories. The story ["thing"] turns out to be one of the better, less bullshitty conventions of the genre, but if you're worried that I plan to present myself here as the wise, older fish explaining what water is to you younger fish, please don't be. I am not the wise old fish. The point of the fish story is merely that the most obvious, important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and talk about. Stated as an English sentence, of course, this is just a banal platitude, but the fact is that in the day to day trenches of adult existence, banal platitudes can have a life or death importance, or so I wish to suggest to you on this dry and lovely morning.

Of course the main requirement of speeches like this is that I'm supposed to talk about your liberal arts education's meaning, to try to explain why the degree you are about to receive has actual human value instead of just a material payoff. So let's talk about the single most pervasive cliché in the commencement speech genre, which is that a liberal arts education is not so much about filling you up with knowledge as it is about quote teaching you how to think. If you're like me as a student, you've never liked hearing this, and you tend to feel a bit insulted by the claim that you needed anybody to teach you how to think, since the fact that you even got admitted to a college this good seems like proof that you already know how to think. But I'm going to posit to you that the liberal arts cliché turns out not to be insulting at all, because the really significant education in thinking that we're supposed to get in a place like this isn't really about the capacity to think, but rather about the choice of what to think about. If your total freedom of choice regarding what to think about seems too obvious to waste time discussing, I'd ask you to think about fish and water, and to bracket for just a few minutes your skepticism about the value of the totally obvious.

Here's another didactic little story. There are these two guys sitting together in a bar in the remote Alaskan wilderness. One of the guys is religious, the other is an atheist, and the two are arguing about the existence of God with that special intensity that comes after about the fourth beer. And the atheist says: "Look, it's not like I don't have actual reasons for not believing in God. It's not like I haven't ever experimented with the whole God and prayer thing. Just last month I got caught away from the camp in that terrible blizzard, and I was totally lost and I couldn't see a thing, and it was fifty below, and so I tried it: I fell to my knees in the snow and cried out 'Oh, God, if there is a God, I'm lost in this blizzard, and I'm gonna die if you don't help me.'" And now, in the bar, the religious guy looks at the atheist all puzzled. "Well then you must believe now," he says, "After all, here you are, alive." The atheist just rolls his eyes. "No, man, all that was was a couple Eskimos happened to come wandering by and showed me the way back to camp."

It's easy to run this story through kind of a standard liberal arts analysis: the exact same experience can mean two totally different things to two different people, given those people's two different belief templates and two different ways of constructing meaning from experience. Because we prize tolerance and diversity of belief, nowhere in our liberal arts analysis do we want to claim that one guy's interpretation is true and the other guy's is false or bad. Which is fine, except we also never end up talking about just where these individual templates and beliefs come from. Meaning, where they come from INSIDE the two guys. As if a person's most basic orientation toward the world, and the meaning of his experience were somehow just hard-wired, like height or shoe-size; or automatically absorbed from the culture, like language. As if how we construct meaning were not actually a matter of personal, intentional choice. Plus, there's the whole matter of arrogance. The nonreligious guy is so totally certain in his dismissal of the possibility that the passing Eskimos had anything to do with his prayer for help. True, there are plenty of religious people who seem arrogant and certain of their own interpretations, too. They're probably even more repulsive than atheists, at least to most of us. But religious dogmatists' problem is exactly the same as the story's unbeliever: blind certainty, a close-mindedness that amounts to an imprisonment so total that the prisoner doesn't even know he's locked up.

The point here is that I think this is one part of what teaching me how to think is really supposed to mean. To be just a little less arrogant. To have just a little critical awareness about myself and my certainties. Because a huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded. I have learned this the hard way, as I predict you graduates will, too.

Here is just one example of the total wrongness of something I tend to be automatically sure of: everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute center of the universe; the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely think about this sort of natural, basic self-centeredness because it's so socially repulsive. But it's pretty much the same for all of us. It is our default setting, hard-wired into our boards at birth. Think about it: there is no experience you have had that you are not the absolute center of. The world as you experience it is there in front of YOU or behind YOU, to the left or right of YOU, on YOUR TV or YOUR monitor. And so on. Other people's thoughts and feelings have to be communicated to you somehow, but your own are so immediate, urgent, real.

Please don't worry that I'm getting ready to lecture you about compassion or other-directedness or all the so-called virtues. This is not a matter of virtue. It's a matter of my choosing to do the work of somehow altering or getting free of my natural, hard-wired default setting which is to be deeply and literally self-centered and to see and interpret everything through this lens of self. People who can adjust their natural default setting this way are often described as being "well-adjusted", which I suggest to you is not an accidental term.

Given the triumphant academic setting here, an obvious question is how much of this work of adjusting our default setting involves actual knowledge or intellect. This question gets very tricky. Probably the most dangerous thing about an academic education -- least in my own case -- is that it enables my tendency to over-intellectualize stuff, to get lost in abstract argument inside my head, instead of simply paying attention to what is going on right in front of me, paying attention to what is going on inside me.

As I'm sure you guys know by now, it is extremely difficult to stay alert and attentive, instead of getting hypnotized by the constant monologue inside your own head (may be happening right now). Twenty years after my own graduation, I have come gradually to understand that the liberal arts cliché about teaching you how to think is actually shorthand for a much deeper, more serious idea: learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about quote the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.

This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.

And I submit that this is what the real, no bullshit value of your liberal arts education is supposed to be about: how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out. That may sound like hyperbole, or abstract nonsense. Let's get concrete. The plain fact is that you graduating seniors do not yet have any clue what "day in day out" really means. There happen to be whole, large parts of adult American life that nobody talks about in commencement speeches. One such part involves boredom, routine, and petty frustration. The parents and older folks here will know all too well what I'm talking about.

By way of example, let's say it's an average adult day, and you get up in the morning, go to your challenging, white-collar, college-graduate job, and you work hard for eight or ten hours, and at the end of the day you're tired and somewhat stressed and all you want is to go home and have a good supper and maybe unwind for an hour, and then hit the sack early because, of course, you have to get up the next day and do it all again. But then you remember there's no food at home. You haven't had time to shop this week because of your challenging job, and so now after work you have to get in your car and drive to the supermarket. It's the end of the work day and the traffic is apt to be: very bad. So getting to the store takes way longer than it should, and when you finally get there, the supermarket is very crowded, because of course it's the time of day when all the other people with jobs also try to squeeze in some grocery shopping. And the store is hideously lit and infused with soul-killing muzak or corporate pop and it's pretty much the last place you want to be but you can't just get in and quickly out; you have to wander all over the huge, over-lit store's confusing aisles to find the stuff you want and you have to maneuver your junky cart through all these other tired, hurried people with carts (et cetera, et cetera, cutting stuff out because this is a long ceremony) and eventually you get all your supper supplies, except now it turns out there aren't enough check-out lanes open even though it's the end-of-the-day rush. So the checkout line is incredibly long, which is stupid and infuriating. But you can't take your frustration out on the frantic lady working the register, who is overworked at a job whose daily tedium and meaninglessness surpasses the imagination of any of us here at a prestigious college.

But anyway, you finally get to the checkout line's front, and you pay for your food, and you get told to "Have a nice day" in a voice that is the absolute voice of death. Then you have to take your creepy, flimsy, plastic bags of groceries in your cart with the one crazy wheel that pulls maddeningly to the left, all the way out through the crowded, bumpy, littery parking lot, and then you have to drive all the way home through slow, heavy, SUV-intensive, rush-hour traffic, et cetera et cetera.
Everyone here has done this, of course. But it hasn't yet been part of you graduates' actual life routine, day after week after month after year.

But it will be. And many more dreary, annoying, seemingly meaningless routines besides. But that is not the point. The point is that petty, frustrating crap like this is exactly where the work of choosing is gonna come in. Because the traffic jams and crowded aisles and long checkout lines give me time to think, and if I don't make a conscious decision about how to think and what to pay attention to, I'm gonna be pissed and miserable every time I have to shop. Because my natural default setting is the certainty that situations like this are really all about me. About MY hungriness and MY fatigue and MY desire to just get home, and it's going to seem for all the world like everybody else is just in my way. And who are all these people in my way? And look at how repulsive most of them are, and how stupid and cow-like and dead-eyed and nonhuman they seem in the checkout line, or at how annoying and rude it is that people are talking loudly on cell phones in the middle of the line. And look at how deeply and personally unfair this is.

Or, of course, if I'm in a more socially conscious liberal arts form of my default setting, I can spend time in the end-of-the-day traffic being disgusted about all the huge, stupid, lane-blocking SUV's and Hummers and V-12 pickup trucks, burning their wasteful, selfish, forty-gallon tanks of gas, and I can dwell on the fact that the patriotic or religious bumper-stickers always seem to be on the biggest, most disgustingly selfish vehicles, driven by the ugliest [responding here to loud applause] (this is an example of how NOT to think, though) most disgustingly selfish vehicles, driven by the ugliest, most inconsiderate and aggressive drivers. And I can think about how our children's children will despise us for wasting all the future's fuel, and probably screwing up the climate, and how spoiled and stupid and selfish and disgusting we all are, and how modern consumer society just sucks, and so forth and so on.

You get the idea.

If I choose to think this way in a store and on the freeway, fine. Lots of us do. Except thinking this way tends to be so easy and automatic that it doesn't have to be a choice. It is my natural default setting. It's the automatic way that I experience the boring, frustrating, crowded parts of adult life when I'm operating on the automatic, unconscious belief that I am the center of the world, and that my immediate needs and feelings are what should determine the world's priorities.

The thing is that, of course, there are totally different ways to think about these kinds of situations. In this traffic, all these vehicles stopped and idling in my way, it's not impossible that some of these people in SUV's have been in horrible auto accidents in the past, and now find driving so terrifying that their therapist has all but ordered them to get a huge, heavy SUV so they can feel safe enough to drive. Or that the Hummer that just cut me off is maybe being driven by a father whose little child is hurt or sick in the seat next to him, and he's trying to get this kid to the hospital, and he's in a bigger, more legitimate hurry than I am: it is actually I who am in HIS way.

Or I can choose to force myself to consider the likelihood that everyone else in the supermarket's checkout line is just as bored and frustrated as I am, and that some of these people probably have harder, more tedious and painful lives than I do.
Again, please don't think that I'm giving you moral advice, or that I'm saying you are supposed to think this way, or that anyone expects you to just automatically do it. Because it's hard. It takes will and effort, and if you are like me, some days you won't be able to do it, or you just flat out won't want to.

But most days, if you're aware enough to give yourself a choice, you can choose to look differently at this fat, dead-eyed, over-made-up lady who just screamed at her kid in the checkout line. Maybe she's not usually like this. Maybe she's been up three straight nights holding the hand of a husband who is dying of bone cancer. Or maybe this very lady is the low-wage clerk at the motor vehicle department, who just yesterday helped your spouse resolve a horrific, infuriating, red-tape problem through some small act of bureaucratic kindness. Of course, none of this is likely, but it's also not impossible. It just depends what you what to consider. If you're automatically sure that you know what reality is, and you are operating on your default setting, then you, like me, probably won't consider possibilities that aren't annoying and miserable. But if you really learn how to pay attention, then you will know there are other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.

Not that that mystical stuff is necessarily true. The only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're gonna try to see it.

This, I submit, is the freedom of a real education, of learning how to be well-adjusted. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. You get to decide what to worship.

Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship -- be it JC or Allah, bet it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles -- is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.
They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the center of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving and [unintelligible -- sounds like "displayal"]. The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.
That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.

I know that this stuff probably doesn't sound fun and breezy or grandly inspirational the way a commencement speech is supposed to sound. What it is, as far as I can see, is the capital-T Truth, with a whole lot of rhetorical niceties stripped away. You are, of course, free to think of it whatever you wish. But please don't just dismiss it as just some finger-wagging Dr. Laura sermon. None of this stuff is really about morality or religion or dogma or big fancy questions of life after death.

The capital-T Truth is about life BEFORE death.

It is about the real value of a real education, which has almost nothing to do with knowledge, and everything to do with simple awareness; awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, all the time, that we have to keep reminding ourselves over and over:

"This is water."

"This is water."

It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive in the adult world day in and day out. Which means yet another grand cliché turns out to be true: your education really IS the job of a lifetime. And it commences: now.

I wish you way more than luck.

Sibling Conversation

Eight Year Old to Five Year Old: "What do you want to be?"

Five Year Old: "Normal. What do you want to be?"

Pause.

Eight Year Old: "Normal is nice but I think I'll be an explorer instead."

Spin Doctors Need Not Apply

It was with great interest I watched Obama’s address to Congress the other night, and then, of course, Bobby Jindal’s rebuttal. I wanted to hear what they would say, but more interestingly, what the general buzz would be afterwards. As much as everyone says they want to hear details, they want a roadmap, they want to understand, the reality is, in a media saturated, politically polarized world, all anyone wants is grab onto a headline and hit a home run – for or against you. Recall the presidential election? Recall the policy debates? Probably little comes to mind except perhaps “pallin’ around with terrorists”, “lipstick on a pig” or “you betcha”.

We live in a world where a few catchy words influence and define our thinking – not just in politics but in everyday life. There is so much information but only so much one person can absorb, so we edit and parse ideas and sentences, hoping we don’t lose something in the translation, but knowing full well we cannot possibly have the whole picture. But then, of course, nobody has time to care. Everyone is running off to the next event, the next meeting, the next whatever. Facts flash before us day in and day out with very little registering except for the odd catchphrase.

I look at business today, my world, for example. An e-mail longer than 2 very short paragraphs risks not getting read. A proposal in anything other than Powerpoint sits on someone’s desk only to make its eventual way to the garbage can. Nobody has time to have a complete thought let alone read someone else’s. I’ve seen many a deal go south because of a lack of understanding, of “busy-ness” clouding good judgment. I cannot help but wonder why banking execs, living so long in the fast lane, could not pause for a moment to think about what they were doing. I can imagine what must have happened. Between meetings and cocktails, a quick chat with colleagues, each assuring the other they were doing ok, none of them stopping to wonder if such a declaration was even remotely true.

There is too much information and not enough time to digest thoughtfully, to debate back and forth. When time is money, it is context that gets lost. There just aren't enough resources to get to the truth. I recently had an experience where a loved one went through mediation to settle a dispute with a shady former boss. What I witnessed was a legal system brushing aside facts, all parties opting for the convenience of veneer layered conclusions and a clean wrap-up. It was a disenchanting, almost disconnecting experience – as if I was watching a movie in which the good guy lost. Movies shouldn’t end that way, nor should legal cases but here we were, watching justice go blind, if only because it didn’t have time to care.

The devil's in the details, I say. Too bad institutions, corporate or otherwise don't have the appetite for it. Communication today assumes some level of ADD. But then that's the main purpose of my blogging - to keep myself from such influence, to ensure I am thorough about being thoughtful.

Many of my work associates tell me I play devil’s advocate on EVERYTHING. They are probably right. I don’t want to live in a world where life is governed by distorted one-liners, glossy buzzwords or spin room antics. I want to live in a world where ideas are given their rightful place in the courts of peoples’ minds, to be properly dissected and vetted and only then to be accepted or discarded as the truth. I want to be a truth-seeker, a BS-eliminator, a person devoutly of her own mind. I know that it’s important to go beyond the cursory. If I cannot analyze, I cannot understand. I think I’ll make that my mantra. I’ll repeat it every time I feel the seductive pull of the forgone conclusion or untested idea. If I’m lucky, I’ll become informed - and maybe, just maybe, if I’m really lucky, I’ll finally come face-to-face with the truth.

Rant

I hate work! I hate work! I hate work! Arghhh!!!!!

My Absence Is Merely A Sign of the Times

My apologies to those visitors wondering where all the posts have gone. I have been a negligent blogger of late. Work is very demanding thanks, of course, to the deteriorating economy and clients’ tightening purse strings. That means we are all working twice as hard for the same business.

There’s a sign above the exit of one the “modules” in our office building that says “Nobody ever said on their deathbed they wish they spent more time at the office.” But here I am doing exactly that, day and night spent trying to find out where our next piece of business is going to come from. And with the vast majority of my work sent to India, my days are even longer, as I meet with colleagues half way around the world, early in the morning, late at night. All of us are scared, all of us all over the world, wondering what will come of the next year – will things bounce back or will the economy completely unravel? Will we be here, amongst other heads-down toiling workers or will we be another nameless face in a long unemployment line?

Our company recently announced their 2008 fourth quarter results and 2009 outlook. Ours was a modest performance but the stock market, so desperate for good news, rewarded the disclosure with a 300 point bump on the NY Stock Exchange! Yes, I work for a very big company, but this is still quite a feat considering Obama’s inauguration couldn’t breathe even a glimmer of hope into the markets.

These are difficult times - but I don't feel the worst of it. So many others have far greater difficulties to attend to - where to get a job, how to feed their kids. People ask me how I am these days - and I say "very busy". It used to be a comment that would elicit sympathy, as if one should be more relaxed, on a permanent vacation. But these days, it gets a much different response. "You're lucky" I'm told. Yes, indeed. I am very lucky.

So if you’re wondering where I’ve been, I’m still here, more sporadic than usual, but still here, working away, doing my best to outlast 2009. Cross your fingers for me, yourself and everyone else out there. It’s a long, tight race but I’m hoping for the best.

Rivalry Makes the Champion

If you’re a tennis fan, these last two years have been champagne seasons as mens’ tennis experiences a magnificent renaissance, thanks in no small part to the rivalry of Roger Federer and Raphael Nadal. I admit, a few years ago I had almost given up my devotion to the game; with the advancement of racquet and fitness technologies, it had become a boring robotic baseline exchange.

I thought the magic that was men’s tennis had truly passed; recall those days when Bjorn Borg would duel John McEnroe, their matches, still considered the best ever. As the years went on, tennis lost its polish, partly due to the advances mentioned above and partly due to the money that came into the sport. Players could survive on fewer tournaments, spending idle time cavorting off court.

Even those on court weren’t particularly interested in being there. Have you ever heard of “Maybe the Moon”? It was the book Jim Courier so famously pulled out on changeovers at an ATP Tour event in Frankfurt in 1993. If you are speculating whether the book contained useful nuggets of tennis inspiration, consider the plot which the New York Times summarized as follows:

"Hollywood can be a cruel place, especially for Cady Roth, an overweight dwarf who longs to escape her stereotyped role in a famous film."

At 6’1”, I doubt an athlete like Courier could have used advice from a chubby dwarf.

There were more displays of disinterest – Sampras skipping the Davis Cup, Agassi skipping grand slams, nobody interested, nobody invested. I know Sampras rang up 14 grand slams, still a record today, but considering the lethargy that was the men’s game at that time, I’m just not that impressed. The sport lost its gloss – indeed, it lost its lead status as the weekend athlete's pastime of choice - and became the bridesmaid to golf’s blooming bride.

Then came Federer, a ghost of tennis past, a smooth and effortless hero, with strokes harking back to the days when tennis was more poetry than power. The tennis world, in an instant, fell in love. He was soon baptized the saviour of the ATP as fans lined up to watch him pull out one impossible shot after another. It’s cliché that rings true when I say he had it all – grace and speed, finesse and power, the gentle demeanor of true sportsman. He was of incomparable talent, so exceptional, that when Nike aired commercials of Federer in competitive stand-off, it was not against another tennis player, but rather golfer, and fellow sports god, Tiger Woods.

Everything about Federer was soon tagged with labels of greatness – greatest forehand in the game, the greatest serve in the game, the greatest footwork in the game, the greatest volley in the game - and when he was dissected to his smallest piece parts, analysts went back to the whole and asked if he was the greatest player in the game. It was in easy agreement that all would say yes but still, it did not seem enough to describe the wonder that he was. Could he, as one writer postulated and many more later proposed, could he be the greatest player EVER? It was at this point, at the consideration of his historical significance that experts of the game started to question his credibility. The doubt lay not in his raw skills which were obvious and unparalleled, but rather in his heart, yet unchallenged: was it one of a true champion?

How could we know of his heart, if he didn’t have a rival to challenge it, to try and break him and to push him to the edge? Tennis fans began to wonder if they were going to have to watch Federer march slowly into history books, unbalanced and unchecked, his greatness never really tested for lack of a worthy opponent.

Enter Nadal, arriving perhaps a couple of years late, on the slight back-end of the Federer cusp, but arriving nonetheless, a feisty, power baseliner; but not a player like we’ve seen before – he had more speed, more court sense and a lot more heart. He would prove to be the required nemesis for Federer – power to finesse, passion testing cool collectedness. The rivalry was fruitful and fans have since been treated to some of the most outstanding tennis in history, the Wimbledon 2008 finals now considered by many to be the best ever.

It is true that Nadal’s record against Federer is more impressive than vice versa – but he is still far behind in total wins. All records still lead to Federer - it was only ever a question of worthiness, but now, with an opponent to match the prestige, Federer’s wins started to mean something. His 2007 Wimbledon win was so much more credible in 2008 after he lost to Nadal – as if his vulnerability somehow proved that it did, indeed, take heart to win the ones he did.

Nadal has the edge now – his record has been almost spotless against Federer these last two years. He is also much younger at his physical peak of age 21. Federer who is turning 28 this year is no doubt, in the sunset of his career. Federer, however, has Nadal to thank for elevating his status in the game, if only because Nadal helped find him find his inner-gladiator. Through the long stretched rallies and impossible volleys, through the marathon matches and heartbreaking losses, Federer, finally became a true champion.

I don’t want you to think I’m closing the book here. This rivalry still has legs. As Federer comes back from his bout with mono, I expect him to throw everything he has into winning Grand Slam #14 and then #15. Nadal will be doing the same. They are impossibly talented athletes, with great respect for the one other, their contrasting styles and personalities providing the intrigue that together, make them so fascinating to watch. They have immortality on the line in each and every match – both chasing history, both destined for the record books. And I am so glad to be part of it, to witness such a rarity, the once-in-a-lifetime occurrence of two players arriving in synchronicity, just in time to lead the other to greatness.

This Is Not a Cop-out

You must read it - background for my next post on rivalries. This article was written in 2006 by the late, great, David Foster Wallace. "Roger Federer As Religious Experience". It's background because he plays soothsayer, predicting the opponent Federer would have in Nadal. It's a must read because it's sportswriting elevated to art. I cannot think of a sports article written with more eloquence and revelation than this one. DFW was an accomplished tennis player, technically astute with respect to the mechanics of the game and, of course, he was a master storyteller - both are evident in the perspective he brought here. I wouldn't want to have been on the opposite side of him - either on the court or on the page. Greatness must have its rivals (as you'll see in my next post) but where DFW is concerned, it's certainly not me!

Russell Peters On Indians and Canadians

For all my Indian buddies who have spent the last few years putting up with us Canadians, this one's for you:

Toboggan Ride

I was thrilled for a break in the weather today – this is what winter is supposed to be like – perfect packing snow and warm air. We (hubby, kids, Tucker and I) decided to go tobogganing on a nearby hill. The larger ones were congested with kids, (BIG kids) sweeping down with frightening speed, soaring over huge kid-made snow ramps. I had visions, none of them good, so off we went to another hill. It wasn’t nearly as tall but we had it all to ourselves. The girls used different sleds to test their speed, the faster, the better, of course.

They’re all getting older now. It seems like yesterday they were tots on their first toboggan ride. That first experience was not an easy one, a painful chore for all if I recall. I remember dragging child and sled together up the hill run after run, my legs tired from carrying both, the girls crying because either we went too fast or we crashed or it was just plain cold.

I like the phase they’re in now. They’re directing more, active in their own learning. I feel more like a participant in than an author of their lives. There was so much protecting before, but now it’s all coaching and encouragement. Things aren’t necessarily easier – homework and piano are growing hurdles, but here on the hill, watching them scream with delight, I can’t help but think how much I love this moment. I am soaking it in, their zeal and their smiles, their bantering and play. It’s a lovely warm day and I’m so glad we got out together.

Considering Ayn Rand and Motherhood

I have been doing some reading and re-reading on Ayn Rand – reminding myself of the philosophies borne out of books like Atlas Shrugged and Fountainhead. She was a fascinating woman, analytical, forthright, vocal and very, very smart. I still cannot open any one of her works without feeling a little bit intimidated. That said, I always welcome the challenge her ideas invite and the way they turn my sometimes conventional thinking upside down.

Rand was a writer and a playwright whose ideas were borne out of Aerstotilian ethics, the concept that individuals have nobility and they have a duty to realize their potential. Her philosophy she called “objectivism” and she described it as the concept of "man being a “heroic” being with the moral purpose of his life being his own happiness and reason as his only absolute". Central to her ideas were the concepts of selfishness and altruism. Selfishness, she claimed was the ultimate moral act for an individual, that one could not assume responsibility of his or her own happiness without it.

Altruism, on the contrary, was evil. She defined it as “sacrificing of yourself to someone else in such a way that you are placing their interests ahead of your own.” What is wrong with that, I would have liked to ask? “What is wrong with suicide?” she’d say. “What is wrong with giving up life? And why is the happiness of another person important and good but not your own? Why are you the outsider or sacrificial animal? In a good relationship there should be no victims, no sacrifices.”

It’s an odd thing to think about - the evils of altruism – but I decided to explore it a bit, from my own vantage point, as a mother - a great case study, I thought, given there is no competition more obsessed over than the relative martyrdom of mothers. Who has done more, who hasn’t done enough, who gave up their career to care for their children, who built a career to better provide for their children? It’s a circular argument that has gone on for decades, but has been especially vitriolic these last eight neo-con dominated years.

What is interesting is that, while we mothers argue about who has made the greater sacrifice, Ayn Rand tells us we have made no sacrifice at all – that if we love someone, then we get something out of it (children providing love and generational continuity) and that, by definition, is selfish.

A truly altruistic mother would stay at home with or work for someone else’s children but not her own. A truly altruistic wife would pay for cancer treatment for someone else’s spouse but not her own. A martyr, an altruist, does not place their interests above those of others and does not respect their moral obligation to themselves and their own happiness (their loved ones being an adjunct to themselves).

And so, she concludes, we must accept selfishness as a personal responsibility.

It all sounds so callous. I don’t think she ever had children so I can only guess at how her thinking might have evolved. She may have benefited from spending a day with someone like me. I don’t feel particularly good when I’m scolding my girls to practice piano, to finish their homework or clean up their mess - but I can’t decide if I’m being selfish for wanting their success or altruistic for letting them to drive me crazy:)

I do think exploring objectivism against our everyday values is a worthy exercise, to put accepted thinking to the test. It certainly helped me appreciate the hypocrisy of the whole “mothering” argument. But I do believe that mothers feel a sacrifice. I do think that no choice is perfectly selfish or altruistic. There are always regrets and what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. I believe this is what really ignites the “mothering” argument and perhaps what casts a shadow on Rand’s philosophy – that choosing a fork in a road is not so black and white, that even if one acknowledges the merits of a selfish act, acts out in a selfish way, one cannot necessarily conclude that, they had indeed, been selfish.

It’s a complicated argument, a great forum for discussion - I know I’ve only scratched the surface – I’d love to go on but, then with whom? I am reminded of a chapter in Alan Greenspan’s book, Age of Turbulence (great book by the way), where he mentions weekly parlour parties hosted by Ayn Rand with some of the smartest minds in New York, Greenspan among them, sitting around her apartment, smoking, drinking, debating the latest philosophical and political ideas. It would have been the coolest experience, to debate with Ayn Rand. Unfortunately, I won’t benefit from such a connection. But I still have her ideas. And I’ll continue to test them against conventional thinking, just as I did with motherhood. Maybe she’ll surprise me again as she did this time. Indeed, I was only too happy to learn I am no martyr. It was too much of a burden anyway.

Is My Dog Awesome or What?!!!!

Sarah Save Thyself

I am often asked why I never chose to write of Sarah Palin in any of my posts, that her omission seemed a glaring oversight given my obvious love of all things political. Well, my simple answer is that, as a candidate, Sarah Palin never much interested me. Other than initial surprise, she didn't bring anything that could hold my interest, save perhaps her motherhood – but then, I’ve never felt compelled to write about someone just because they’re a mother.

So, I find myself in an awkward position, asked to extend Sarah’s time in the sun, to elongate her campaign for notoriety and media presence, something she seems hell bent on doing till 2012. Quite frankly, I’d rather be the one helping to sunset that fifteen minutes of fame. I see no better way to do that than by simply ignoring her. To remove her from the spotlight is to tell her that time is up; go home and feed the dogs.

Of course, the problem is Sarah won’t go home. She won’t go away. She fights to maintain celebrity-style attention, hoping against hope that she can redeem herself from the embarrassing and sometimes bizarre behaviour she displayed during the election. I’m not sure more time in front of the camera is the answer. It’s a medium that has only served to perpetuate an already established caricature – that she is a politically thirsty neophyte, unworldly in her perspective, uneducated in her views; that she is someone who appears to lack depth on the very issues that, as a leader, she'd be called upon to address. She is someone for whom the Peter Principle crown would be aptly bestowed: “in a hierarchy, every employee rises to his or her level of incompetence”.

If I were Sarah, I’d recognize my shortcomings, then aggressively go about closing that capability gap. I’d read books (and yes, newspapers). I’d sign up for committees - on energy, foreign policy, the economy (and yes, I know she was on an energy committee but she's clearly in need of more education). I’d make friends with knowledgeable people. I’d create relationships with leading businesses - listen to what they need, ask where they want to take America. I’d establish relationships with foreign leaders. I’d visit them, even if it meant an overnight flight! I’d gather information on their successes; I’d learn about their failures; I’d understand their challenges and ask what they needed from America. If I were Palin, I’d use these four years to LEARN. It's the five letter word that should become her mantra and it's the one thing that could reinvent her and make her credible. Times are too stark and too serious for someone lacking intellectual fortitude. If Sarah wants America to take her seriously, it’s high time she did so herself.

Here We Go Again!

I'm looking out my window at yet another snowstorm - apparently fifteen centimeters when all is done this evening. School was cancelled, businesses closed early. This lousy weather is getting to be too much of a habit! I did manage to trek outside for a short time. I thought I'd make it to our head office, normally an hour away from my house but more like an eternity today, I realised it once on the highway. It was a mess, more cars in the ditch than on the road. The snow was thick and slippery, my tires no match for for the frictionless surface built up. So heavy was the accumulation, I could hardly see out my windshield, even as the wipers brushed snow aside. I remember an auto insurance exec once telling me that on these days they all sit in their offices shivering - honestly, the claims they pay out because of peoples' stubbornness! I would have been one of them today - I had an important meeting I should have attended, however a car spiraled out of control in front of me, causing me to fishtail to the side. "Enough driving for one day" I said to myself and I headed to the nearest exit. Once home, I happily set up shop for the rest of the day. My computer on my lap, a hot mug of green tea warming my hands and Nina Simone playing in the background. What could be better on such a lousy day?

Nightly Musings

From a young age, I was a great fan of poetry - I loved the lyrical nature of it, like song. And I analyzed the careful choice of words, visual but succinct, an economy that was (and pretty much remains) foreign to me. As Elizabeth Alexander once said, it is "language distilled".

I am trying to bring poetry to my girls - the two older ones are even starting to write their own!

Every night, we lay on my bed, all three of them sprawled about me as I read one classic book or another (right now it is Anne of Green Gables) but I always end with a poem. I want them to grow up with poetry as much as prose - it does not seem a complete education otherwise.

This was last night's choice. They added their own comentary but I'll keep that between them and I:)

Enjoy!

If
By Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master,
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Oh No! Not A Movie Adaptation!!

Oprah Winfrey has teamed up with Tom Hanks to turn her latest Book Club choice into a new movie.

The talk show queen introduced TV viewers to David Wroblewski's The Story of Edgar Sawtelle last year and now she has joined forces with Universal executives and Hanks' Playtone company to produce the movie adaptation.

Winfrey says, "It's something I've never done before out of all the pictures I've ever done, I've always chosen to stay out of the movie making process.

"We will honour the book."

Yikes! My new favourite book is being made into a movie. I'm a little nervous. I am not a big fan of adaptations - well at least not of those books I have fallen in love with. I can think of only two movies adapatations that I truly enjoyed - "The English Patient" and "Narnia (The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe)".

I appreciate a movie can never completely be the book. Thousands of words could never be squeezed into two hours. I also realise the director, not the novelist, has the final say - but I also believe that a director should honour the book's "intent". If he cannot, has he not somehow failed the story? Is he even telling the story? If a director cannot respect the main themes of a given book, why would he bother making a movie of it in the first place?

I am reminded of "A Prayer For Owen Meaney". It's a stellar book and continues to be one of my all time favourites. I will admit, it had it's share of problems, not the least of which was Irving's tendancy to overstuff his tale with as many vignettes and characters and commentaries as possible. With such gluttonous tendancies, Irving could have easily lost his thematic way, but, of course, he's too fine a writer and managed to make everything connect. Owen Meaney is the tale of a boy who came to die for the sins of the Vietnam war. This theme of Jesus reincarnate, the second coming of Christ, the saviour of the Vietnam sinners, carried the book through misadventures and comedy, contrasting everyday laughter with the seriousness and tragedy of the main character's greater life purpose.

Clearly, it's a political book - anti-American in sentiment, critical of Reagan and the Vietnam war. The story also tackles religion and delivers commentary on its relevance, meaning and hypocracy. Politics and religion are the book's raison d'etre.

Director and screenwriter Mark Steven Johnson significantly altered the story when moving it to script. He did not relate to the the larger political and religious themes - offering up in one interview that, he was too young to appreciate the Vietnam war and saw that as justice for eliminating that "part". What did he decide to create instead? A series of cute little vignettes of course! He even changed the caracter of Owen Meaney. Irving made Owen small and almost existential looking for the same reason Jesus was made tall and striking - to stand out in the crowd, to appear different, godly. Johnson ignored this fact, choosing to make his Owen a deformed, physically challenged, sweet little boy.

I was disappointed to see Johnson ignore these major themes. He demonstrated a lack of appreciation and understanding for what Irving created. Seems Irving felt the same way and demanded the movie not carry his book's title. It was, instead, renamed "Simon Birch".

I recall the criticism of Mel Gibson's "The Passion". Many felt Gibson showed a lack of depth in telling the story of Christ; that it appeared he didn't have the intellectual wherewithal to pull it off. I felt the same of Johnson. Where it concerned Owen Meaney, he just didn't "get it" and the result was disappointment on the screen at at the box office. Indeed, Johnson appears to have realised this was not his niche. He went on to direct lighter fare, including Jack Frost, Daredevil, Elecktra and Ghost Rider. Good riddence I say - but then who is going to remake Owen Meaney into the movie it should have been? I'm not sure. Perhaps it's better left untouched.

Good luck Edgar Sawtelle. I hope you fall into good hands...

You're How Old??!!

I have spent years haunted by an odd inability to look my age – this the problem of my ostensibly endless youth. I admit, it’s not all physical – I do give off a school girl vibe, but that’s my personality and I’ll be 65 and be the same. It’s my appearance I find challenging, starting with my height, or lack-there-of. At 5’1”, with a soft voice and no sign of wrinkles, I can be easily mistaken for someone much younger.

Don’t hate me when I tell you this. You may think it all a blessing but when you're trying really hard to be an adult, the perception of youth, and it’s subordinated status, is frustrating. I’ve fallen victim to the condescending smiles of executives who sit idly through my presentations, not hearing a word I say but noticing how “oh so cute” my chiming sounds, I’ve worked through complex contract negotiations only to have my client ask for the decision maker (ouch), I’ve even been the subject of disbelief by neighborhood children who argue vigorously that I’m far too little to be a mommy!

It was no easier being a teenager. Those uneventful years I blame on the limitations of my childlike appearance. I never, EVER got into a bar underage, never dated a guy older than me, if even my own age – never because, with my countenance, it just wasn’t possible. I felt the weight of what seemed an eternal curse - the girl whose mind matures even as she physically remains a child. I remember watching Kirsten Dunst’s character in “Interview With A Vampire” with gross sympathy as the little vampire came to realize that while she could never grow old, she could never grow up either.

I recall one year, my boyfriend (now my husband) and I went on a day long roadtrip from Orlando (where I was stationed for a conference) to Key West. We stopped at a gas station, hubby filled up while I went in to pay. I pulled out my AMEX card at which point a curious cashier asked how old I was. “Twenty seven” I announced uneasily. He pulled back in shock and exclaimed “Why honey, you don’t look a day over twelve!” Twelve?! That hurts.

I remember another time I was leading a large technology based initiative with insurance companies across the country as well as their governing body. The lead consultant to the regulator, upon learning of my appointment said to my boss “Really? You’re giving it to her? Isn’t she, you know, junior?” “Oh no,” my boss replied. “She’s not junior. She’s just little.”

Yes, there are moments I wish I really was a vampire…

I keep telling myself that one day I’ll be happy about all this, that my youth will be my calling card, or at least I’ll hang on to my vitality much longer than some – but I’m not so sure. I do hope I get to be the person I feel I am inside. Mature, complicated, earnest – perhaps a girl, but only in spirit – outside all sophistication and smarts. To be “Madame, Ma’am, Lady or the like. Deep down, all I want is to be a “woman”.

The Wrestler

It was movie night and hubby and I certainly had our choice of the lot – well with not getting out much and then the Oscars looming, there was lots to choose from. We settled on The Wrestler, partly because of curiosity – I hadn’t seen Mickey Rourke in anything since 9 ½ weeks (I told you I don’t get out much!!)- and partly because the timeslot fit – it was neither too early nor too late. The choice thrilled my husband only because he was expecting something else.

The movie was, at times, difficult to watch. Rourke was his Oscar-worthy best - a ragged, aging wrestling star, with his time in the spotlight up but his alternatives grim. His physicality was striking – he was a meaty, bleached blond, SuperTan mess. How he got here would be vague back story, but how he’d now survive was of main concern. Of course, it was impossible to watch the movie without considering the parallels to Rourke’s own infamous personal life: drugs, boxing and irresponsibility all destroying a promising movie career. For that reason, it is inconceivable to imagine anyone else playing the role of Randy "The Ram" Robinson. The movie was all Rourke, stripped entirely of fancy Hollywood-esque accessories. That fact kept it from spiraling into clichés which it certainly had the potential to do - a washed up star and a stripper with a heart of gold – how old is that?! Yes, it could have been a lot less but with the camera fixated on Rourke’s beaten frame, his scarred face and broken eyes, it was hard not to let your heart break.

He reminded me of someone I knew back in my teens – a hotshot tennis player with a fiery game and tons of athletic potential. There were comparisons to Andre Aggasi and everyone predicted fame and fortune. I had a massive crush on him – his rebellious streak being the most attractive feature, although he was also very handsome. I was absolutely convinced he’d get everything he ever wanted in life. But over time it would all unravel – he had neither the maturity nor the role models to keep him on course – and he got into the worst of it – skipping school (a $40,000/year scholarship no less), endless parties, drugs, a bad crowd – all this combined to destroy him. It was sad. I’ve asked about him now and then – and I always hear the same thing - still doing drugs, still dealing them, just trying to get by. His is a life on the edge, just like Rudy the Ram. The parallels are all there. That is what’s so striking about Rourke’s performance – not only is it a corollary of his own life, but it’s also the biography of someone we all once knew, once admired, perhaps loved. To hear of their fall from greatness seems a cruel play on the past. We want to remember them well but the story doesn’t unfold to our liking, only tarnishes our memories black.

Life is not to be taken for granted. It offers up its’ fruits, yes, but they are perishable joys and they will not bear their sweetness if taken too early; they will rot and spoil if held for too long. It’s a life those of “greatness past” fumble through to finally understand; but the lessons are hard. Most of us have neither the courage nor the inclination to test the extremes, but movies like The Wrestler allow us to step in, ever so briefly, to see for ourselves how life can so easily unravel.

In Season: The Birds and the Bees

A couple of weeks ago, I decided that, finally, I was going to tell my 10 year old daughter about about the birds and the bees. I know, I know - I've waited so long. I had been thinking about it for the last year and a half but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. She was comfortable with the c-section story and didn’t appear at all interested in finding out how the baby got into my belly in the first place, so I thought – why shatter innocence?

Then a note came home from school informing me that as part of their “Fully Alive” education this year, they would be learning about SEX!! Well if I needed a catalyst, I guess this was it, so I went to the library to do some research, spent days figuring out how to break the news about Mom and Dad and how she got here. I was really stressed about it. After this she would NEVER look at me the same way again, so approach, sensitivity and timing would all be critical.

I considered using my Gray’s Anatomy book to illustrate but that seemed too clinical. Then I thought about getting a movie to explain – but well, other than “those” kind of movies, I was not sure where I’d find one. After some deliberation I realised I was going to have to do this the old fashioned way and find the right time to have “the talk".

I followed my daughter around for three days looking for that perfect moment. She’d sit down to do her homework, look up and say “wanna help?” and I’d think about how I could weave sex into math. There were some interesting, um, angles but then - nah, I couldn't keep a straight face! And when you're laughing, that's not the best time to talk about sex.

She’d practice piano and ask me to her adjust the metronome, look over her fingering, clap out the timing. It seemed a quiet enough moment but with every beat I'd hear the clock, time ticking away reminding me I was stalling. It was as if I was 10 years old now, my mother watching over me, nagging at my procrastination, the lack of discipline I had in getting things done. And when your mother gets into your head, well, gross, that's not the best time to talk about sex either!

I decided to try another way – this time playing Wii. Her latest favourite is the High School Musical game. The fact it was a somewhat loud and distracting was not lost on me - yah I know, call me chicken - but I thought it would be a great opportunity to use some of my dance moves to blend in or even act out! So, I jumped right in the middle of “Get'cha Head In the Game”, did the funky chicken and yelled, “Guess how babies are made?!”

She smiled and slowed down to which I yelled "No!! Don’t stop! I'm talking to you!"

But then she just started laughing at my moves and well, when your kid starts to laugh at you, that’s not the best time to talk about sex.

I gave up. I couldn’t do it, couldn’t find the moment, couldn’t get over the embarrassment, couldn’t connect with my daughter. Ashamed, I went to my room and opened up my latest novel, Alan Greenspan’s “Age of Turbulence”.

She came upstairs to say sorry she laughed at me and that she didn’t mean to hurt my feelings.

“That’s ok” I said. “I didn’t really want to dance. I just wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

I explained I got the “Fully Alive” letter and I wanted to tell her about it before the teacher did. I asked her if she knew how babies were made.

“Yah.” she said meekly. “I’ve known for a long time.”

A long time?!!

How do you spell failure? How about W-A-Y T-O-O L-A-T-E!!

Apparently, her BFF’s 17 year old brother told them at a birthday party sleepover! I could just die!! I mean I could just kill him but after that I could just die. This was MY special mother/daughter moment and some pock-faced, four-eyed teenage Dr. Ruth, who I am sure has never, EVER gotten lucky, beat me to it!

After I recovered, I decided I wasn't going to let that sex-ed neophyte ruin my special moment (and duty) so I said “Darling, I’m going to tell you anyway.”

She blushed and yelled NO!! NO!! NO!! - then threw her face into the pillow and wouldn’t look up. I explained all the basics, just as I suspect the teenager did but I added in a bunch of stuff on commitment and love (which I’m sure the teenager didn’t). I stuck to sex ed 101. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about 201 - even though I’ve heard some awful things about Grade 8...

Anyway, we got through it, I said thanks for listening and reminded her if she ever needed to talk, I’d always be there. She just said “can we talk about something else?”

"Sure!" I said. How about Alan Greenspan?

The Inauguration Speech

Because on this day my words could not possibly be a match for his...

A Treasure

When I was a young girl, I would routinely accompany my mother on her favourite weekend excursion, cruising the neighbourhood garage sales. I never understood her fascination with navigating through someone else’s junk - piles of used, rejected goods, none understood to be of any importance until they caught my mother’s fascinated eye. I was a reluctant sidekick and found the Saturday morning ritual a tedious, dragging affair for which noon could never come soon enough. That was the agreed upon marker for which she’d drop everything and take me home for my well earned lunch. And earn it I did. As my mother perused strangers wares, she'd pile, precariously into my arms faded tablecloths and decorative dishes, ill-formed statues and nameless nik-naks, every so often removing an item to replace it with another more treasured find. I’d follow her around impatiently, roll my eyes and implore her to stop, repeating over and over again that we’d found plenty enough.

One particular morning - I think I was about 10 or 11 - I recall it was a very hot day, I was feeling lazy and cantankerous and could not bear the thought of trawling driveways in such heat. My mother would have nothing of my lack of ambition – after all, it was a "moving" garage sale (that's the best kind) and so I went, a long-faced laggard, following far behind. We came upon a small white sided house with a narrow driveway leading to a tiny garage in the back. Dispirited, I sat down on a nearby chair and waited for my mother to complete her regular inspection of goods.

The homeowner was a tiny British woman, a widower I assumed, and she struck a pale white figure against the blinding hot sun – white skin, white hair, white clothes – I had to squint to see her. There was a neatness about her appearance and it reflected in the orderly way she had displayed her goods. I understood from my mother she was closing shop to move somewhere warm - how she could consider that prospect on such a hot day, I did not understand.

The old woman came up to me, announced herself with a little “hello” and seeing my parched figure sprawled across the length of the chair, offered me something to drink - some lemonade perhaps? Of course! It was the best offer I’d had all day. The drink was sweet and cold and I downed it in three short gulps. That made her smile. She then asked if there was anything I wanted to see. I said I wasn't much for garage sales and would prefer to just sit and wait my mother out.

She asked if I liked books. Of course I did - but I guessed there was nothing here for me to enjoy. Come see what I have, she urged. I considered a tepid response but the lemonade treat was still sweet on my tongue and it reminded me of my obligation. Dutifully, I followed her to the garage, passing clothes, records and other household goods. Behind a table of neatly lined china was a large cardboard box of books and magazines. We both bent down and began to rummage through. She purposefully pulled out a small, thin hardcover book, the front plain white save the simple lettering of a curiously alluring title - "I Have A Dream". I was intrigued enough she saw, so she handed me the book. I opened it up and began to read. I was surprised by its unusual structure. There were only a few words per page, an entire oratory delivered in small, individual frames. It was as if the book was instructing the eye to give each word its own importance and weight.

"Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation."

As I traveled from page to page, I sunk deeper into the monologue, compelled to better understand the discrimination so hotly set before me. The anger and frustration was clear but it was balanced by a strong, peaceful defiance – words lifting off the page, calling to people (he must have been talking to people) to stand up to the injustice they wrongfully endured.

And with the turn of another page, the author made a giant leap forward beckoning his followers to band together and seek out the future that belonged to them. The words – oh those incredible words that would make me come to love language and its enviable seductive power - “I have a dream”. Over and over again, “I have a dream”.

"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal."

“I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

“I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.”

"You can keep it." She startled me and I looked up. "You like it, of course - so you can keep it - for your troubles today."

I thanked her, tucked it under my arm and went back to my mother, no longer apathetic to her cause. I now understood the thrill of the hunt and the spontaneous joy of connecting with something completely unexpected. I had found my own little treasure, a tiny book with words made so powerful, they could open hearts. It was a character changing discovery.

As luck would have it, my mother didn’t burden me with much that day. In one hand I held a small bag of costume jewelry and not much more. This time, she seemed content enough to settle on the surprise of my own enjoyment.

Over the years, most of those garage sale finds lived out a short existence, finding their inevitable way to the garbage can. Others were more lucky and breathed new life when happily passed on to another garage sale junkie. But not the book. It was a keeper. I still have it today and it's in surprisingly good shape, although not for lack of reading. I covered and recovered it many times over the years to protect its original pristine quality. Somehow that preserved neatness reminds me of the woman who gifted it to me in the first place - a bright and sympathetic senior who saw an opportunity to open the mind of a bored young girl. She is a wonderful memory, I'm a lucky lady to have benefited from her generosity and will always, always treasure her gift.

Happy Martin Luther King Day everyone!

__________________________


P.S. In honour of it all, I'll leave you with "the speech".

Best Game Ever

Geez it takes a lot to impress a kid these days...

Miracles Great and Small

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Yes another image of Flight 1549 and it’s now famous landing on the Hudson River (this one a Dateline special). I want to revel in this miracle, cheer it on and hope for more. I know they’re separate forces, but I cannot help but think of this rare landing alongside the inauguration of President Obama – two good omens, side-by-side, if only because they both bring wonder and joy. And yet, I believe they converge for far greater reasons than mere coincidence. They both signal a new hope, another chance…that things will get better. If a miracle can happen on the Hudson, then maybe it can happen in our own lives too.

It’s been a rough ride for me these last couple of years. Work and family issues brought pressures that my body could no longer tolerate - and I fell apart. Then - I don’t know what it was - maybe I felt that good force – but I came out of the cave, I took control and, for the first time in seemingly forever, looked up. Things aren’t perfect – coming back is a process, not an event – but I feel more energy and confidence and hope than I have in a long time. It’s my little miracle and I am most grateful it brought me back.

Some Things Are Best Told In Pictures

But I will add, I'm speechless...

Milton Freidman On Greed

It's a fascinating piece of footage - Milton Friedman, the foremost expert on capitalism and free enterprise - spelling out the virtues of Greed (or a least making a convincing argument that nobody is virtuous, capitalist or not). As a graduate of business school and a 20 year veteran of corporate America, I have a natural inclination toward his arguments. I believe, as Friedman articulated in this 1979 video excerpt, that free enterprise and democracy are the dynamic duo most effective in bringing prosperity to the masses.

But this is not 1979, this is 2009 and with the economic crisis dominating news headlines I cannot help but watch this as a retrospective. Given all that has happened in the financial markets, is greed really good? Given China’s growing economic clout, is democracy the only effective political model for prosperity? And, if Friedman could do it all over again, would he subscribe to all his original theories?

Indeed, other respected men of free enterprise have reacted to the challenges of the current economic crisis with befuddlement and shock. Recall Alan Greenspan's assessment when he took the stand at a recent Congressional session on the economy:

REP. HENRY WAXMAN (D. CA): shock. That sounds like to me you're saying that those who trusted the market to regulate itself, yourself included made a serious mistake.

ALAN GREENSPAN: Well I think that's true of some products, but not all.

REP. HENRY WAXMAN: Then where do you think you made a mistake?

ALAN GREENSPAN: I made a mistake in the presuming that the self interest of organizations specifically banks and others was such that they were best capable of protecting their own shareholders...

REP. HENRY WAXMAN: The question I have for you is, you had an ideology, you had a belief that free, competitive -- and this is your statement -- "I do have an ideology. My judgment is that free, competitive markets are by far the unrivaled way to organize economies. We've tried regulation. None meaningfully worked." That was your quote.

You had the authority to prevent irresponsible lending practices that led to the subprime mortgage crisis. You were advised to do so by many others. And now our whole economy is paying its price.

Do you feel that your ideology pushed you to make decisions that you wish you had not made?

ALAN GREENSPAN: Well, remember that what an ideology is, is a conceptual framework with the way people deal with reality. Everyone has one. You have to -- to exist, you need an ideology. The question is whether it is accurate or not.
And what I'm saying to you is, yes, I found a flaw. I don't know how significant or permanent it is, but I've been very distressed by that fact.

REP. HENRY WAXMAN: You found a flaw in the reality...

ALAN GREENSPAN: Flaw in the model that I perceived is the critical functioning structure that defines how the world works, so to speak.

REP. HENRY WAXMAN: In other words, you found that your view of the world, your ideology, was not right, it was not working?

ALAN GREENSPAN: That is -- precisely. No, that's precisely the reason I was shocked, because I had been going for 40 years or more with very considerable evidence that it was working exceptionally well.

There was more to the session, and then another session, but suffice it to say, it was not a good day at the office for Alan Greenspan!

And so, one might wonder, if Greenspan, the most respected capitalist in living America, a man who has a well documented history of support for deregulation and free market economies, can admit to finding a “flaw”, what would Friedman, himself, have said?

Short of getting an Ouiji board out or conducting a Nancy Reagan style séance, I cannot bring the man back to tell me, but I will take a B. Comm (that’s Bachelor of Commerce, not Brothers of Communism – just so you know where I stand…) stab at what he might say.

First - China. That one’s simple. I think he’d say that the success of China is not a validation of communism and socialist policies, but rather it is a validation of the free enterprise model. China could only secure economic successful when it started to open opportunities and resources to its people and to the world. And I think he would add, that now China has merged onto the free enterprise highway, it cannot make a sudden u-turn back. Once it has entered the free market economy, to continue to gain scale and maintain or increase marketshare in an expanding marketplace, it must continue to grow. And if it is to continue to grow it must open its doors even wider. Indeed, we can already see China adopting more of these “open door” policies - more free speech, more entrepreneurialism, more innovation. I don’t know if I will live to see a communist-free China but certainly today, this country has proven that more free enterprise does beget more freedom.

On the economy, well, that's a tougher one. I think he'd maintain that an economy that supports individuals pursuing their self interests is still the best approach for mass prosperity. I think Friedman would have said the primary reason for the economic collapse is that corporations have become too big and too powerful. While some critics of the financial crisis have said this collapse is an “indictment on the ideology of capitalism”, I believe he would have proposed that it was an indictment on the ideology of large corporations. Once corporations become too large, they begin to influence government and they begin to control regulation, which enables them to control the marketplace which, in turn, enables them to exert control on the individuals in that marketplace. Friedman would have argued for more fragmentation in financial services, less centralization and amalgamation of corporations to ensure diffusion of influence, control and risk.

On regulation – we all know he was never a supporter of regulation. He believed that once government erected regulation to protect the consumer, the corporation would have a much stronger interest in controlling government than the individual who was diffuse in the situation (because he had many other things to worry about). The result would be the creation of powerful corporate lobby groups, influencing the government to the detriment of the individual (and guess what they would lobby for – deregulation!). But it is 2009, the economy has failed us, and I think he would have had to concede that some (he would never sign up for “complete”) regulation could have helped prevent this disaster, or at least allowed it to be caught much earlier.

To close, I found the end of the video to be an ironic harbinger of things to come – here Friedman is asking Donahue, “who are these angels that will organize society for us?” In 2009 those virtuous angels are the everyday taxpayers coming to the aid of corporations that became too big and too greedy for their own good.




Oh - and for your added enjoyment, a couple of great cartoons by Bob Lang.

Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt

With the inauguration of America's first black president fast approaching, internet chatter is abuzz with all things Obama (as if it wasn't already!). There has been much made of his experience, his qualifications, personal associations and character over the last couple of years. Those same concerns have bubbled up again for rehashed debate amongst bloggers everywhere. It's the story that won't go away!

I, for one, will be happy when Jan 21st, post-inauguration day rolls around. Perhaps then, Americans and bloggers alike will have come to terms with the fact that, yes, this man is indeed, the President of the United States. Can we all get back to work now?!

Obama often speaks of himself as the "improbable candidate", whose naysayers said his "day would never come", that his "sights were set to high". I am not sure I'd give him that much credit - he had rock star status long before he'd announced his candidacy; and his looks, eloquence, intelligence and charisma were going to take him far whenever he decided to run for the highest office. As history would have it, he decided to run sooner rather than later, and that gave the establishment something to poo about.

Throughout, Obama played the cool cat. He distanced himself from the political fray and the negative tactics that had become business as usual in American politics. He was above pettiness, dirty tricks, and spin. While Obama ran as many negative ads as the next guy he always stuck to the issues, to his key talking points and didn't let his opponents take him off message. By rising above the bashing, he forced his competition into “operation nice” or face the label of being "more of the same". It was a brilliant move and a tired electorate ate it up.

I give the man high marks for this. He ran a remarkable campaign, not just because it was disciplined and focused but simply because he elevated the conversation. He brought respect back to politics. He even claimed he wanted "to make politics cool again". And cool he made it - all the way to the White House.

So what's a disgruntled right-winger to do? I understand the frustration. It's the ultimate high school envy - the guy with the movie star looks and girlfriend to match, whose marks are as high as his perfectly placed free throws, his personality so smooth and engaging that he could probably have his own syndicated talk show. It's enough to make you crazy, but face it, to try and knock the high school star down, well, that's just not cool.

Post election, you still hear much of the envy. It's more subtle now as it has become uncouth to banter about ones associations when a stark economic landscape faces the man in question. Nonetheless, naysayers continue to clog the internet blogs with their little cuts, nicks and back-handed kicks. I am not referring to those obvious and expected critics - the conservative attack dogs, life-long Republicans or Ann Coulter (because she is a category unto herself) – they, we expect to come to the table ready for a fight. And I am not talking about the voters who have opposing views and welcome open debate. They should be heard.

I am talking about people who take their Obama digs with a spoonful of sugar and a sprinkling of doubt; who use geniality and plastic concern to give credibility to half truths and speculation. I am referring to those who strike a little Fear, Uncertainty and Doubt (FUD) to ever-so-subtly put the man down.

FUD is a common tactic used in sales and marketing to thwart the competition's rise in popularity. It is not a frontal attack, rather, it is a subtle, passive-aggressive manipulation of facts and beliefs to convince the buyer, voter, friend, or whoever that a decision in favour of another is a risk. FUD strategies are typically used by those who feel they are losing or are underrepresented, but are afraid to alienate others by stating their real intentions or beliefs. FUDders, as I like to call them (isn't that cute?) use flanking strategies to spin false stories and speculation into general feelings of discomfort. McCain was the victim of FUDders back in 2004 when Bush aids perpetuated stories on the internet about his fathering a black child - and while he vehemently denied the accusations, the damage had been done, the "discomfort" had been established and he went on to lose the nomination.

Today in Obamaland, FUDders clog the internet with more subtle accusations - like "oh, I don't know I'll just have to see – you know a man is known by the company he keeps...", or "geez, I mean I'd like to see a black president just as much as the next Texan but what religion is he again?" or "yes he gives great speeches but if you can talk like that, what are you REALLY saying?" or "I know he's supposed to be smart but I don’t know what’s in his head so I'll have to wait and see..." or my personal favourite "I don't really know anything about him so I'll just have to wait and see...".

Let me address that last one - because I think it's subtlety makes it the most tempting of excuses. Hiding behind the vague notion of familiarity begs for more analysis. You don't really know him? You mean you don't know him like you know George Bush, the guy who you'd like to have a beer with, but let's face it, that's only going to happen in your dreams? Or - you don't really know him because you haven't read his books (which detail his personal history, family, values, views on politics and governing), you haven't seen any one of the thousand or so interviews he's given, you haven't witnessed the near 30 debates in which he participated?

You don't “know" him? The reality is, to say you don't know a public figure when you don't personally know ANY public figures is to hold one candidate to different standard than another. And, let's say you are considering this from a policy perspective, to say you don't know him when you know he has been open on his views on the most important issues demonstrates a lack of interest in honest debate.

Interestingly enough, nobody seemed to feel the need to "know" George Bush when he ran for president. Nobody seemed to miss the fact that there were no books of his to read, no foreign policy positions to understand, no economic credibility to be explored. Voters didn't feel the need to know any of that.

When I hear people say they just don't "know" Obama, my personal red flag goes up. This is not about FUDders’ need to “know” Obama but rather they’re need to "define" him.

Let me explain with an example.

I met someone recently (an American living in Canada) with whom I struck up a conciliatory discussion on politics - but when the topic turned to Obama, there was a shift. He told me he knew someone who knew someone who apparently knows Obama who says he's really ambitious, he's SO ambitious - and by the way he spat out the word "ambitious" I knew he meant it couldn’t be good. He said he was ambitious to the point where he didn't see his family much. I almost started to laugh. Is that the best you can do FUDder?! I mean we've had presidents who engaged in sordid affairs, committed crimes, traded arms with terrorists, worked with the mob, fought illegitimate wars - and all you can give me is "ambitious"? Are you serious?!

Last I checked, America was founded and continues to prosper on ambition. But my point here isn't whether Obama has ambition or not - of course he does and that’s ok, even expected. My point is that this gentleman, who used hearsay and unsubstantiated evidence to paint a picture of a man he didn’t know was not actually making a statement about Obama; rather, he was projecting something about himself onto Obama. And that which he was projecting was fear, and more specifically a fear of the unknown, a fear of the inability to define the man in ways they feel comfortable. This is what most FUDders are really doing when they say they don't "know" Obama.

What kind of "unknown" fear is it? Is it fear of his performance? He has proven to be quite competent so far. Is it fear of his policies? Other than the normal party clash of policies, there is nothing new here. Is it the fear of his newness? The public tends to celebrate the new and fresh rather than fear it. Is it the fear of his experience (or lack of)? Certainly, experience was a popular attack but all the candidates this year had inconsistent records on experience whether it be on the economy or healthcare or foreign relations. Even McCain, who believed his foreign relations knowledge to be a strength didn’t really have the breadth of international experience and exposure he might have led the populace to believe. He mistakenly confused Muslim factions when he said Iran was training Al-Qaeda (Sunni based Muslims) when they were actually training Shiite extremists; and he, several times referenced “Czechoslovakia” instead of the Czech Republic or Slovakia (Czechosolvaia had split into two countries in 1993). Obama, for the most part, stayed clear of such gaffs. So fear of experience isn't a terribly credible argument.

No, their fear is not of performance, ideas or experience but rather it is a fear of the black man. The fear these FUDders project is one of racism.

Eyebrows may raise at this point, but as I analyze and explore, I cannot see my way to another conclusion. What other factors are there? Certainly there is demographics and religious ideology but they only play to the typical conclusions. Time and time again, my analysis has led me back to racism.

When people say they “don’t know him” I think these people, so accustomed to classification, mean they don’t know his "type”. He is not your stereotypical black man. He is not angry black. He is not cool rapper black. He is not super-athlete black. He is a serious, educated, extremely intelligent, eloquent and elegant black. I think for most people, that just doesn’t sound black! THIS is their discomfort. Obama defies their definitions, their intepretations and control. FUDders cannot box him in the easy, stereotypical way they have with other blacks before him. And so, FUDders continue to raid the internet airwaves with their slight-of-hand remarks, painting a shadowy Obama led frontier that asks all of us, do you really want to go where no man has gone before?

I'm is sad to come to this conclusion. I wanted the analysis to go somewhere better. The reality is, if you have issues with Barack Obama but you cannot articulate your concerns concretely and plainly, if you cannot argue on the basis of fact, if you can only be vague in your criticisms and sly in your doubt then you have to ask yourself what your motivation is for knocking the man down. You have to ask yourself are you a racist?

The Faithless Wife

One of the many brilliant poems by Federico Garcia Lorca. When I think of his tortured life, this one most prominently comes to mind. It's full of beauty, wonder, of lust and denial. It is one his best and I think it's one of THE best. I won't say anymore because I've already set your expectations sky-high! Besides, poems are best interpreted personnally rather than by someone else - so, I'll just zip it!

So I took her to the river
believing she was a maiden,
but she already had a husband.

It was on St. James night
and almost as if I was obliged to.
The lanterns went out
and the crickets lighted up.
In the farthest street corners
I touched her sleeping breasts
and they opened to me suddenly
like spikes of hyacinth.
The starch of her petticoat
sounded in my ears
like a piece of silk
rent by ten knives.
Without silver light on their foliage
the trees had grown larger
and a horizon of dogs
barked very far from the river.

Past the blackberries,
the reeds and the hawthorne
underneath her cluster of hair
I made a hollow in the earth
I took off my tie,
she too off her dress.
I, my belt with the revolver,
She, her four bodices.
Nor nard nor mother-o’-pearl
have skin so fine,
nor does glass with silver
shine with such brilliance.
Her thighs slipped away from me
like startled fish,
half full of fire,
half full of cold.
That night I ran
on the best of roads
mounted on a nacre mare
without bridle stirrups.

As a man, I won’t repeat
the things she said to me.
The light of understanding
has made me more discreet.
Smeared with sand and kisses
I took her away from the river.
The swords of the lilies
battled with the air.

I behaved like what I am,
like a proper gypsy.
I gave her a large sewing basket,
of straw-colored satin,
but I did not fall in love
for although she had a husband
she told me she was a maiden
when I took her to the river.

(translated by Stephen Spencer and J.L. Gili)

She Had Me At Hello

I was navigating cnn.com when this picture (here) jumped through the screen and hit me. A mother, Captain Jennifer Moore, coming home from duty sees her six month old baby, Gabriella, for the first time since October. Both parents were on active duty so care was left to the grandfather, also pictured, holding the baby and overcome with emotion.

This photograph immediately sent me back, almost a decade, to those first days I was faced with ending the bliss of maternity leave to go back to work. I had to do it three heartbreaking times - but it's the second one that left the biggest scar. At that point my girls were babies - one six months and the other 18 months old, the eldest young enough to very much need me and old enough to know it.

Maternity leave had been an incredibly fulfilling time. The joy I felt doing something I loved for someone I cared for - well, I don't have words to describe it. But reality arrived (so fast!) and it was time to go back to work.

That first day, as I was pouring coffee into my travel mug, my toddler sensed something was amiss. She began walking circles around me chanting "Mommy up. Mommy up." - and I did pick her up - maybe a dozen times but certainly not enough. I finally grabbed my computer bag and said good-bye. It was a tiny little word that started a flood of big hot tears. I gave her another hug from which she would not let go; I gently pried her fingers, one at a time, away from my neck and, again said good-bye. I shut the door firmly so as not to go back in but her screaming following me all the way to the car. I did my very best not to look back. I backed out of the driveway, straightened the car, waited, and when I couldn't stand it anymore, looked up. There, through a fogged up window was the face of my inconsolable child, tears streaming down her flushed little cheeks, her sobs trading space with desperate cries of my true identity "Mommy! Mommy! Come back! Mommy!".

This scene would repeat itself many times before my daughter finally settled into the routine of my absence - although I don't believe she ever really got used to it. She worries about me so much. Even today (she is ten) when I leave for business trips, she is incensed at my departure. A bad mood forms an invisible wall around her the night before and I don't get a goodnight kiss. The next day she cries at the airport as I check in, she hugs me without letting go - and I still have to pry those fingers slowly, one-by-one, from my neck. And every time that happens, I go back to that first crushing day - and I want to cry.

When I come home, she is the first to the door, the first with a hug and I hug her too. I kiss her, I lift her up and this time, I'm the one who doesn't let go. She tells me the hundred things I need to know about the last three days and then when we're all tucked into bed, she sneaks into my room and lays down beside me, nestling her head in my neck for the rest of the night - and all feels right again. Due to my travel schedule, I am lucky (or unlucky? - you decide) to repeat this production many times a year.

And so - the picture of Captain Jennifer Moore and the reunion with her baby girl stays with me. It's so arresting a display of love and joy and a little bit of heartbreak. I can relate. It's the hardest thing for a mother leave her child and the greatest joy to see her again. If I know anything, I know that - and so, it appears, does Captain Jennifer Moore.

Introducing My Man

I love with him. He's helpful, he's loyal, he's honest - and he gets me a diet coke from the fridge at the snap of a finger! As you can see in the picture, he's always happy:) He's strong, he's protective, he allows me to sleep at night. He's clean, he's not fussy on dinner and before I go to bed he's completely satisfied with a simpe kiss and a hug. He loves my kids, my kids love him. He growls at mother and my mother-in-law if (I mean WHEN) they complain and he always, ALWAYS takes my side!! This beautiful creature entered my domain two years ago, he's become the love of my life, the sauve in my step, my total pride and joy. I can't imagine what life was like before him - he seems to have been eternally part of me. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a big bow wow to man, Tucker.

It's A Canadian Winter (again)

I have never been much of a fan of winter. The cold - especially the Canadian bone chilling cold - can be unbearable. I try to venture somewhere south for the worst of it but this year I won't be anywhere warm until the end of April - and what good will that do?

Last winter was an absolute saga so I had to take up skiing. I decided it was best I get my lessons at the local ski club near our cottage - fewer people and, therefore, fewer potential embarrassments - but I forgot that while yes, there are fewer people, there are a lot more friends and acquaintances!!!

I can't decide what was my lowest point - lying on top of my ski instructor, my skis, my arms, my legs entangled in his (I know it sounds hot but he was at least 70 years old!); or my daughters trying to carve a path for me down Lovers Lane only to watch in horror as I veered suddenly right - accelerating now - into a tree! All in a days work when you are learning to ski at 40 instead of 4.

The good news is by the end of the winter I was making it down the hill semi-accident free. It wasn't pretty but at least the other skiers could descend with the confidence that I'd keep a safe distance from them - or was it them keeping a safe distance from me? I can't remember. Anway, winter didn't feel any shorter but at least I ventured outside which is more than I can say for my normal pattern this time of year.

I was hoping for another trip to India this month to temper the season but I had an unfortunate cancellation. And to drive the disappointment home - today, another snowstorm - all instigating the now familiar routine of listening to the radio for school bus availability, driving the kids to school, driving them back home (because dah Mom - it's a snow day!) and then finding something to keep them busy so I can work (and WHERE is my nanny?!!! Bedridden, of course!) - agghh! But enough complaining - it will be one of many snowdays this season so I better get used to it.

As an aside, whatever happened to global warming? I should be in a bathing suit right now!

In the meantime, I'll do my best to take in the prettier side of winter - like this scene just outside my doorstep: - a little human intervention on nature but I like it! I think I'll keep my Japanese maple adorned with those Christmas balls for the rest of the season - even if it annoys my annoying neighbour (which it will) - more on her later.

Happy Winter everyone!

How Do You Define Heaven?

How about a grass tennis court in the middle of the desert? This one I snapped at the Marriot Desert Springs Hotel in Palm Desert, CA last April.

Where does a grass court in the middle of the desert get it's water, you may ask? In Palm Desert, from natural groundwater basins that sit underneath the city and are continually replenished by snowcapped mountain ranges. It's a beautfiul piece of luck to live in a place where there are 354 days of sunshine annually and all the water you could want underneath!

Dear God I Discovered Hollister

Just came back from a marathon post-Christmas shopping expedition. I think I more than made up for the lousy Christmas presents I got this year - honey what exactly is a pilates bar?!

As I said in a previous post (here)- I am not a fan of A&F so I stayed far away but after a few of my friends read my ode to Abercrombie post last month, they said I just had to check out Hollister (a subsidiary of A&F, apparently hawking slightly pricier goods). It was against my better judgement, but I ventured in.

I have to say the first thing I did was walk back out to make sure I had walked into the right store. Hollister or A&F? They look exactly the same!!! Oh - and it's exactly the same blinding, suffocating pop/rock retail experience.

Honestly, are these guys serious? They don't even bother to change the wall colours - they just slap on another name, increase the price by 20% and they're done. They must think we're stupid!

I may have to consider an official boycott...

Henri Cartier-Bresson

I was just thinking about him.

My favourite photo of his. He said he took this picture between planks, resting the camera's lens through them. He could not see the picture he was photographing - that's why it's blurry. He could not see the man leaping. An interviewer remarked "that was lucky". Henri replied "It's always luck. It's luck that matters. You have to be receptive, that's all."

I suppose the same can be said of life - can the same be said of writing? Maybe I'm just not very lucky. Not today anyway. Perhaps tomorrow holds more promise.

The Morning After the Night Before: Definition

hang-o-ver [hang'-oh-ver] - noun

1. the disagreeable physical aftereffects of drunkenness, such as a headache or stomach disorder, usually felt several hours after cessation of drinking.
2. something remaining behind from a former period or state of affairs.

Origin:
1890–95, Americanism; n. use of v. phrase hang over

Just In Time For New Year's!

Death At A Funeral - Review

A British black comedy about family's undoing at a funeral. I should have loved this movie - but what started so promising and smart, spiraled into a pathetic gagfest - just one cinematic prank after another. There was ample opportunity to build a richer story - sibling rivalry, a mother's shallowness, a father's secret, the resulting family dynamics - all screaming out for more scrutiny - all sacrified for a laugh. Nothing ventured and therefore, nothing gained. Sigh.

Still, it was time well wasted as it revealed to me much of what was wrong with my own work. My writing suffers from some of the same deficiencies. I tend to be a casual, detached observer with somewhat shallow analysis of my characters and I am over-indulgent with some of the more trivial aspects of my stories.

A story only breathes life when it's characters are real and there is ample friction between them to justify forward motion. Humour is great, but it means nothing without substance - same goes for men:)

I have been told (by my more more observant friends) that I use humour to distance myself emotionally, to hide from controversy or discomfort. I fear my writing suffers from the same inclination. I use humour way too much, dwell on it, perfect it, make it the consumate laugh, all the while running away from the real story.

It sounds so simple, but as "Death At A Funeral" demonstrated, it is all to easy to miss the obvious.

2008 Top 10 Memorable Moments and Stuff

2008 was such a wild and memorable year, I thought I'd honour it with a top 10 memories list, an exercise I know invites criticism, but, as Harold Pinter once said, "I'm the author of this play". If you don't like it, you are welcome to make your own:)

10. Terrorist strikes in India
9. Earthquake in China
8. Beijing Olympics opening ceremonies
7. Yael Naim sings "New Soul"
6. David Wroblewski's "The Story of Edgar Sawtelle"
5. Tina Fey as Sarah Palin
4. The economy
3. Nadal/Federer match (even if Federer lost)
2. Momentous losses - Tim Russert (I cried for 3 days), Paul Newman, Arthur C. Clarke, Harold Pinter, Heath Ledger and Jeff Healey
1. Barack Obama becomes the 44th President of the United States

My hubby thinks The Nadal/Federer match belongs waaaay behind the Earthquake and Terrorist strikes in terms of importance -ok true - but if I were to evaluate on the basis of uniqueness - well I'd say there are earthquakes and terrorist strikes just about every year but when did we last see a duel comparable to Wimbledon this year?!

Tell me your top 10!! I promise I won't shoot.

Harold's Truth

Harold Pinter, playwright, sreenwriter, political activist and 2005 winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, died yesterday of throat cancer. He was 78.

I humbly admit, my first introduction to Pinter's work was through a much delayed viewing of "the French Lieutenant's Woman". Perhaps that fact betrays the populist in me, but more accurately (Harold would have loved the bare simplicity of this), I think it reveals my age. Yes, I was a latecomer to the Pinter train but once aboard, I was a passenger for life.

Einstein once said "if you can't explain it simply, you don't understand it well enough". Pinter had a gift for the simplicity and economy of carefully selected words. Whoever said a picture is worth a thousand words never read a Pinter script. I loved his brevity and I enjoyed the breaking delivery he brought to his scripts - it was often fast paced and jagged, but it was always purposeful. I don't know why he chose this approach - some say it was because he preferred the unspoken words of silence to the words in between, that he preferred timing to message but I think it was because he had a hurried desire to get to the truth - however it best revealed itself. "Normal, what's normal?" Pause. A thousands thruths captured in three small words - and one pregnant pause - that's genius.

I loved him most for the honesty in his writing - however ruthless it (or he) could be. I am reminded of a poem he wrote called "Laughter". He wasn't concerned with honest, bottom-of-the-belly laughter. He was more interested in that social laughter that comes from that nervousness of being too close to the truth. The poem went something like this:

Laughter

Laughter dies but is never dead
Laughter lies out of the back of its head
Laughter laughs at what is never said
It trills and squeals and swills in your head
It trills and squeals in the heads of the dead
And so all the lies remain laughingly spread
Sucked in by the laughter of the severed head
Sucked in by the mouths of the laughing dead

With "Laughter" he had Iraq in mind. Pinter was famous for mixing politics and art - and for his full hate-on of the United States. Some of his positions I found truly offensive - his support of Milosovic being one transgression I'll never forgive - but he served us well by highlighting the sometimes unwitting but always destructive effect powerful nations have on the strategic but vulnerable countries of the world. He shunned the West's tendancy to over-reach with agressive diplomancy and military force but he was even more offended by their propensity to spill someone else's blood without the slightest regard for the damage they caused.

Not surprisingly, he was an early and fierce critic of the Iraq war, his attacks most evident in his Nobel Prize acceptance speech (no economy of words here!). It was a blistering critique, yes, but it was also cry for a better, more just world - and for that reason, I thought it was good enough to remember again. I wish Pinter could have lived long enough to (perhaps) see Obama undo some of the worst of what he called American. I think he would have died more pleased.

Harold Pinter – Nobel Prize Lecture: Art, Truth & Politics

In 1958 I wrote the following:

'There are no hard distinctions between what is real and what is unreal, nor between what is true and what is false. A thing is not necessarily either true or false; it can be both true and false.'

I believe that these assertions still make sense and do still apply to the exploration of reality through art. So as a writer I stand by them but as a citizen I cannot. As a citizen I must ask: What is true? What is false?

Truth in drama is forever elusive. You never quite find it but the search for it is compulsive. The search is clearly what drives the endeavor. The search is your task. More often than not you stumble upon the truth in the dark, colliding with it or just glimpsing an image or a shape which seems to correspond to the truth, often without realizing that you have done so. But the real truth is that there never is any such thing as one truth to be found in dramatic art. There are many. These truths challenge each other, recoil from each other, reflect each other, ignore each other, tease each other, are blind to each other. Sometimes you feel you have the truth of a moment in your hand, then it slips through your fingers and is lost.

I have often been asked how my plays come about. I cannot say. Nor can I ever sum up my plays, except to say that this is what happened. That is what they said. That is what they did.

Most of the plays are engendered by a line, a word or an image. The given word is often shortly followed by the image. I shall give two examples of two lines which came right out of the blue into my head, followed by an image, followed by me.

The plays are The Homecoming and Old Times. The first line of The Homecoming is 'What have you done with the scissors?' The first line of Old Times is 'Dark.'

In each case I had no further information.

In the first case someone was obviously looking for a pair of scissors and was demanding their whereabouts of someone else he suspected had probably stolen them. But I somehow knew that the person addressed didn't give a damn about the scissors or about the questioner either, for that matter.

'Dark' I took to be a description of someone's hair, the hair of a woman, and was the answer to a question. In each case I found myself compelled to pursue the matter. This happened visually, a very slow fade, through shadow into light.

I always start a play by calling the characters A, B and C.

In the play that became The Homecoming I saw a man enter a stark room and ask his question of a younger man sitting on an ugly sofa reading a racing paper. I somehow suspected that A was a father and that B was his son, but I had no proof. This was however confirmed a short time later when B (later to become Lenny) says to A (later to become Max), 'Dad, do you mind if I change the subject? I want to ask you something. The dinner we had before, what was the name of it? What do you call it? Why don't you buy a dog? You're a dog cook. Honest. You think you're cooking for a lot of dogs.' So since B calls A 'Dad' it seemed to me reasonable to assume that they were father and son. A was also clearly the cook and his cooking did not seem to be held in high regard. Did this mean that there was no mother? I didn't know. But, as I told myself at the time, our beginnings never know our ends.

'Dark.' A large window. Evening sky. A man, A (later to become Deeley), and a woman, B (later to become Kate), sitting with drinks. 'Fat or thin?' the man asks. Who are they talking about? But I then see, standing at the window, a woman, C (later to become Anna), in another condition of light, her back to them, her hair dark.

It's a strange moment, the moment of creating characters who up to that moment have had no existence. What follows is fitful, uncertain, even hallucinatory, although sometimes it can be an unstoppable avalanche. The author's position is an odd one. In a sense he is not welcomed by the characters. The characters resist him, they are not easy to live with, they are impossible to define. You certainly can't dictate to them. To a certain extent you play a never-ending game with them, cat and mouse, blind man's buff, hide and seek. But finally you find that you have people of flesh and blood on your hands, people with will and an individual sensibility of their own, made out of component parts you are unable to change, manipulate or distort.

So language in art remains a highly ambiguous transaction, a quicksand, a trampoline, a frozen pool which might give way under you, the author, at any time.

But as I have said, the search for the truth can never stop. It cannot be adjourned, it cannot be postponed. It has to be faced, right there, on the spot.

Political theatre presents an entirely different set of problems. Sermonizing has to be avoided at all cost. Objectivity is essential. The characters must be allowed to breathe their own air. The author cannot confine and constrict them to satisfy his own taste or disposition or prejudice. He must be prepared to approach them from a variety of angles, from a full and uninhibited range of perspectives, take them by surprise, perhaps, occasionally, but nevertheless give them the freedom to go which way they will. This does not always work. And political satire, of course, adheres to none of these precepts, in fact does precisely the opposite, which is its proper function.

In my play The Birthday Party I think I allow a whole range of options to operate in a dense forest of possibility before finally focusing on an act of subjugation.

Mountain Language pretends to no such range of operation. It remains brutal, short and ugly. But the soldiers in the play do get some fun out of it. One sometimes forgets that torturers become easily bored. They need a bit of a laugh to keep their spirits up. This has been confirmed of course by the events at Abu Ghraib in Baghdad. Mountain Language lasts only 20 minutes, but it could go on for hour after hour, on and on and on, the same pattern repeated over and over again, on and on, hour after hour.

Ashes to Ashes, on the other hand, seems to me to be taking place under water. A drowning woman, her hand reaching up through the waves, dropping down out of sight, reaching for others, but finding nobody there, either above or under the water, finding only shadows, reflections, floating; the woman a lost figure in a drowning landscape, a woman unable to escape the doom that seemed to belong only to others.

But as they died, she must die too.

Political language, as used by politicians, does not venture into any of this territory since the majority of politicians, on the evidence available to us, are interested not in truth but in power and in the maintenance of that power. To maintain that power it is essential that people remain in ignorance, that they live in ignorance of the truth, even the truth of their own lives. What surrounds us therefore is a vast tapestry of lies, upon which we feed.

As every single person here knows, the justification for the invasion of Iraq was that Saddam Hussein possessed a highly dangerous body of weapons of mass destruction, some of which could be fired in 45 minutes, bringing about appalling devastation. We were assured that was true. It was not true. We were told that Iraq had a relationship with al Qaeda and shared responsibility for the atrocity in New York of September 11th 2001. We were assured that this was true. It was not true. We were told that Iraq threatened the security of the world. We were assured it was true. It was not true.

The truth is something entirely different. The truth is to do with how the United States understands its role in the world and how it chooses to embody it.

But before I come back to the present I would like to look at the recent past, by which I mean United States foreign policy since the end of the Second World War. I believe it is obligatory upon us to subject this period to at least some kind of even limited scrutiny, which is all that time will allow here.

Everyone knows what happened in the Soviet Union and throughout Eastern Europe during the post-war period: the systematic brutality, the widespread atrocities, the ruthless suppression of independent thought. All this has been fully documented and verified.

But my contention here is that the US crimes in the same period have only been superficially recorded, let alone documented, let alone acknowledged, let alone recognized as crimes at all. I believe this must be addressed and that the truth has considerable bearing on where the world stands now. Although constrained, to a certain extent, by the existence of the Soviet Union, the United States' actions throughout the world made it clear that it had concluded it had carte blanche to do what it liked.

Direct invasion of a sovereign state has never in fact been America's favored method. In the main, it has preferred what it has described as 'low intensity conflict'. Low intensity conflict means that thousands of people die but slower than if you dropped a bomb on them in one fell swoop. It means that you infect the heart of the country, that you establish a malignant growth and watch the gangrene bloom. When the populace has been subdued – or beaten to death – the same thing – and your own friends, the military and the great corporations, sit comfortably in power, you go before the camera and say that democracy has prevailed. This was a commonplace in US foreign policy in the years to which I refer.

The tragedy of Nicaragua was a highly significant case. I choose to offer it here as a potent example of America's view of its role in the world, both then and now.

I was present at a meeting at the US embassy in London in the late 1980s.

The United States Congress was about to decide whether to give more money to the Contras in their campaign against the state of Nicaragua. I was a member of a delegation speaking on behalf of Nicaragua but the most important member of this delegation was a Father John Metcalf. The leader of the US body was Raymond Seitz (then number two to the ambassador, later ambassador himself). Father Metcalf said: 'Sir, I am in charge of a parish in the north of Nicaragua. My parishioners built a school, a health centre, a cultural centre. We have lived in peace. A few months ago a Contra force attacked the parish. They destroyed everything: the school, the health centre, the cultural centre. They raped nurses and teachers, slaughtered doctors, in the most brutal manner. They behaved like savages. Please demand that the US government withdraw its support from this shocking terrorist activity.'

Raymond Seitz had a very good reputation as a rational, responsible and highly sophisticated man. He was greatly respected in diplomatic circles. He listened, paused and then spoke with some gravity. 'Father,' he said, 'let me tell you something. In war, innocent people always suffer.' There was a frozen silence. We stared at him. He did not flinch.

Innocent people, indeed, always suffer.

Finally somebody said: 'But in this case “innocent people” were the victims of a gruesome atrocity subsidized by your government, one among many. If Congress allows the Contras more money further atrocities of this kind will take place. Is this not the case? Is your government not therefore guilty of supporting acts of murder and destruction upon the citizens of a sovereign state?'

Seitz was imperturbable. 'I don't agree that the facts as presented support your assertions,' he said.

As we were leaving the Embassy a US aide told me that he enjoyed my plays. I did not reply.

I should remind you that at the time President Reagan made the following statement: 'The Contras are the moral equivalent of our Founding Fathers.'

The United States supported the brutal Somoza dictatorship in Nicaragua for over 40 years. The Nicaraguan people, led by the Sandinistas, overthrew this regime in 1979, a breathtaking popular revolution.

The Sandinistas weren't perfect. They possessed their fair share of arrogance and their political philosophy contained a number of contradictory elements. But they were intelligent, rational and civilized. They set out to establish a stable, decent, pluralistic society. The death penalty was abolished. Hundreds of thousands of poverty-stricken peasants were brought back from the dead. Over 100,000 families were given title to land. Two thousand schools were built. A quite remarkable literacy campaign reduced illiteracy in the country to less than one seventh. Free education was established and a free health service. Infant mortality was reduced by a third. Polio was eradicated.

The United States denounced these achievements as Marxist/Leninist subversion. In the view of the US government, a dangerous example was being set. If Nicaragua was allowed to establish basic norms of social and economic justice, if it was allowed to raise the standards of health care and education and achieve social unity and national self respect, neighboring countries would ask the same questions and do the same things. There was of course at the time fierce resistance to the status quo in El Salvador.

I spoke earlier about 'a tapestry of lies' which surrounds us. President Reagan commonly described Nicaragua as a 'totalitarian dungeon'. This was taken generally by the media, and certainly by the British government, as accurate and fair comment. But there was in fact no record of death squads under the Sandinista government. There was no record of torture. There was no record of systematic or official military brutality. No priests were ever murdered in Nicaragua. There were in fact three priests in the government, two Jesuits and a Maryknoll missionary. The totalitarian dungeons were actually next door, in El Salvador and Guatemala. The United States had brought down the democratically elected government of Guatemala in 1954 and it is estimated that over 200,000 people had been victims of successive military dictatorships.

Six of the most distinguished Jesuits in the world were viciously murdered at the Central American University in San Salvador in 1989 by a battalion of the Alcatl regiment trained at Fort Benning, Georgia, USA. That extremely brave man Archbishop Romero was assassinated while saying mass. It is estimated that 75,000 people died. Why were they killed? They were killed because they believed a better life was possible and should be achieved. That belief immediately qualified them as communists. They died because they dared to question the status quo, the endless plateau of poverty, disease, degradation and oppression, which had been their birthright.

The United States finally brought down the Sandinista government. It took some years and considerable resistance but relentless economic persecution and 30,000 dead finally undermined the spirit of the Nicaraguan people. They were exhausted and poverty stricken once again. The casinos moved back into the country. Free health and free education were over. Big business returned with a vengeance. 'Democracy' had prevailed.

But this 'policy' was by no means restricted to Central America. It was conducted throughout the world. It was never-ending. And it is as if it never happened.

The United States supported and in many cases engendered every right wing military dictatorship in the world after the end of the Second World War. I refer to Indonesia, Greece, Uruguay, Brazil, Paraguay, Haiti, Turkey, the Philippines, Guatemala, El Salvador, and, of course, Chile. The horror the United States inflicted upon Chile in 1973 can never be purged and can never be forgiven.

Hundreds of thousands of deaths took place throughout these countries. Did they take place? And are they in all cases attributable to US foreign policy? The answer is yes they did take place and they are attributable to American foreign policy. But you wouldn't know it.

It never happened. Nothing ever happened. Even while it was happening it wasn't happening. It didn't matter. It was of no interest. The crimes of the United States have been systematic, constant, vicious, remorseless, but very few people have actually talked about them. You have to hand it to America. It has exercised a quite clinical manipulation of power worldwide while masquerading as a force for universal good. It's a brilliant, even witty, highly successful act of hypnosis.

I put to you that the United States is without doubt the greatest show on the road. Brutal, indifferent, scornful and ruthless it may be but it is also very clever. As a salesman it is out on its own and its most saleable commodity is self love. It's a winner. Listen to all American presidents on television say the words, 'the American people', as in the sentence, 'I say to the American people it is time to pray and to defend the rights of the American people and I ask the American people to trust their president in the action he is about to take on behalf of the American people.'

It's a scintillating stratagem. Language is actually employed to keep thought at bay. The words 'the American people' provide a truly voluptuous cushion of reassurance. You don't need to think. Just lie back on the cushion. The cushion may be suffocating your intelligence and your critical faculties but it's very comfortable. This does not apply of course to the 40 million people living below the poverty line and the 2 million men and women imprisoned in the vast gulag of prisons, which extends across the US.

The United States no longer bothers about low intensity conflict. It no longer sees any point in being reticent or even devious. It puts its cards on the table without fear or favor. It quite simply doesn't give a damn about the United Nations, international law or critical dissent, which it regards as impotent and irrelevant. It also has its own bleating little lamb tagging behind it on a lead, the pathetic and supine Great Britain.

What has happened to our moral sensibility? Did we ever have any? What do these words mean? Do they refer to a term very rarely employed these days – conscience? A conscience to do not only with our own acts but to do with our shared responsibility in the acts of others? Is all this dead? Look at Guantanamo Bay. Hundreds of people detained without charge for over three years, with no legal representation or due process, technically detained forever. This totally illegitimate structure is maintained in defiance of the Geneva Convention. It is not only tolerated but hardly thought about by what's called the 'international community'. This criminal outrage is being committed by a country, which declares itself to be 'the leader of the free world'. Do we think about the inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay? What does the media say about them? They pop up occasionally – a small item on page six. They have been consigned to a no man's land from which indeed they may never return. At present many are on hunger strike, being force-fed, including British residents. No niceties in these force-feeding procedures. No sedative or anesthetic. Just a tube stuck up your nose and into your throat. You vomit blood. This is torture. What has the British Foreign Secretary said about this? Nothing. What has the British Prime Minister said about this? Nothing. Why not? Because the United States has said: to criticize our conduct in Guantanamo Bay constitutes an unfriendly act. You're either with us or against us. So Blair shuts up.

The invasion of Iraq was a bandit act, an act of blatant state terrorism, demonstrating absolute contempt for the concept of international law. The invasion was an arbitrary military action inspired by a series of lies upon lies and gross manipulation of the media and therefore of the public; an act intended to consolidate American military and economic control of the Middle East masquerading – as a last resort – all other justifications having failed to justify themselves – as liberation. A formidable assertion of military force responsible for the death and mutilation of thousands and thousands of innocent people.

We have brought torture, cluster bombs, depleted uranium, innumerable acts of random murder, misery, degradation and death to the Iraqi people and call it 'bringing freedom and democracy to the Middle East'.

How many people do you have to kill before you qualify to be described as a mass murderer and a war criminal? One hundred thousand? More than enough, I would have thought. Therefore it is just that Bush and Blair be arraigned before the International Criminal Court of Justice. But Bush has been clever. He has not ratified the International Criminal Court of Justice. Therefore if any American soldier or for that matter politician finds himself in the dock Bush has warned that he will send in the marines. But Tony Blair has ratified the Court and is therefore available for prosecution. We can let the Court have his address if they're interested. It is Number 10, Downing Street, London.

Death in this context is irrelevant. Both Bush and Blair place death well away on the back burner. At least 100,000 Iraqis were killed by American bombs and missiles before the Iraq insurgency began. These people are of no moment. Their deaths don't exist. They are blank. They are not even recorded as being dead. 'We don't do body counts,' said the American general Tommy Franks.

Early in the invasion there was a photograph published on the front page of British newspapers of Tony Blair kissing the cheek of a little Iraqi boy. 'A grateful child,' said the caption. A few days later there was a story and photograph, on an inside page, of another four-year-old boy with no arms. His family had been blown up by a missile. He was the only survivor. 'When do I get my arms back?' he asked. The story was dropped. Well, Tony Blair wasn't holding him in his arms, nor the body of any other mutilated child, nor the body of any bloody corpse. Blood is dirty. It dirties your shirt and tie when you're making a sincere speech on television.

The 2,000 American dead are an embarrassment. They are transported to their graves in the dark. Funerals are unobtrusive, out of harm's way. The mutilated rot in their beds, some for the rest of their lives. So the dead and the mutilated both rot, in different kinds of graves.

Here is an extract from a poem by Pablo Neruda, 'I'm Explaining a Few Things':

And one morning all that was burning,
one morning the bonfires
leapt out of the earth
devouring human beings
and from then on fire,
gunpowder from then on,
and from then on blood.
Bandits with planes and Moors,
bandits with finger-rings and duchesses,
bandits with black friars spattering blessings
came through the sky to kill children
and the blood of children ran through the streets
without fuss, like children's blood.

Jackals that the jackals would despise
stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out,
vipers that the vipers would abominate.

Face to face with you I have seen the blood
of Spain tower like a tide
to drown you in one wave
of pride and knives.

Treacherous
generals:
see my dead house,
look at broken Spain:
from every house burning metal flows
instead of flowers
from every socket of Spain
Spain emerges
and from every dead child a rifle with eyes
and from every crime bullets are born
which will one day find
the bull's eye of your hearts.

And you will ask: why doesn't his poetry
speak of dreams and leaves
and the great volcanoes of his native land.

Come and see the blood in the streets.
Come and see
the blood in the streets.
Come and see the blood
in the streets!*

Let me make it quite clear that in quoting from Neruda's poem I am in no way comparing Republican Spain to Saddam Hussein's Iraq. I quote Neruda because nowhere in contemporary poetry have I read such a powerful visceral description of the bombing of civilians.

I have said earlier that the United States is now totally frank about putting its cards on the table. That is the case. Its official declared policy is now defined as 'full spectrum dominance'. That is not my term, it is theirs. 'Full spectrum dominance' means control of land, sea, air and space and all attendant resources.

The United States now occupies 702 military installations throughout the world in 132 countries, with the honorable exception of Sweden, of course. We don't quite know how they got there but they are there all right.

The United States possesses 8,000 active and operational nuclear warheads. Two thousand are on hair trigger alert, ready to be launched with 15 minutes warning. It is developing new systems of nuclear force, known as bunker busters. The British, ever cooperative, are intending to replace their own nuclear missile, Trident. Who, I wonder, are they aiming at? Osama bin Laden? You? Me? Joe Dokes? China? Paris? Who knows? What we do know is that this infantile insanity – the possession and threatened use of nuclear weapons – is at the heart of present American political philosophy. We must remind ourselves that the United States is on a permanent military footing and shows no sign of relaxing it.

Many thousands, if not millions, of people in the United States itself are demonstrably sickened, shamed and angered by their government's actions, but as things stand they are not a coherent political force – yet. But the anxiety, uncertainty and fear which we can see growing daily in the United States is unlikely to diminish.

I know that President Bush has many extremely competent speech writers but I would like to volunteer for the job myself. I propose the following short address which he can make on television to the nation. I see him grave, hair carefully combed, serious, winning, sincere, often beguiling, sometimes employing a wry smile, curiously attractive, a man's man.

'God is good. God is great. God is good. My God is good. Bin Laden's God is bad. His is a bad God. Saddam's God was bad, except he didn't have one. He was a barbarian. We are not barbarians. We don't chop people's heads off. We believe in freedom. So does God. I am not a barbarian. I am the democratically elected leader of a freedom-loving democracy. We are a compassionate society. We give compassionate electrocution and compassionate lethal injection. We are a great nation. I am not a dictator. He is. I am not a barbarian. He is. And he is. They all are. I possess moral authority. You see this fist? This is my moral authority. And don't you forget it.'

A writer's life is a highly vulnerable, almost naked activity. We don't have to weep about that. The writer makes his choice and is stuck with it. But it is true to say that you are open to all the winds, some of them icy indeed. You are out on your own, out on a limb. You find no shelter, no protection – unless you lie – in which case of course you have constructed your own protection and, it could be argued, become a politician.

I have referred to death quite a few times this evening. I shall now quote a poem of my own called 'Death'.

Where was the dead body found?
Who found the dead body?
Was the dead body dead when found?
How was the dead body found?

Who was the dead body?

Who was the father or daughter or brother
Or uncle or sister or mother or son
Of the dead and abandoned body?

Was the body dead when abandoned?
Was the body abandoned?
By whom had it been abandoned?

Was the dead body naked or dressed for a journey?

What made you declare the dead body dead?
Did you declare the dead body dead?
How well did you know the dead body?
How did you know the dead body was dead?

Did you wash the dead body
Did you close both its eyes
Did you bury the body
Did you leave it abandoned
Did you kiss the dead body

When we look into a mirror we think the image that confronts us is accurate. But move a millimeter and the image changes. We are actually looking at a never-ending range of reflections. But sometimes a writer has to smash the mirror – for it is on the other side of that mirror that the truth stares at us.

I believe that despite the enormous odds which exist, unflinching, unswerving, fierce intellectual determination, as citizens, to define the real truth of our lives and our societies is a crucial obligation which devolves upon us all. It is in fact mandatory.

If such a determination is not embodied in our political vision we have no hope of restoring what is so nearly lost to us – the dignity of man.

All Things Abercrombie

Shopping a week before Christmas makes me groan, packed malls make me want to scream, but upon leaving an Abercrombie & Fitch store I am always left with the feeling of being unhinged.

Yes, it's obvious I hate this particular "retail experience". Certainly my only desire upon entering an A&F store is to immediately get out - but it's Christmas and my Goddaughter is a huge A&F fan so off to the music dungeon I go. As I enter, I can't help but feel like my kind is not welcome. I'm too cynical, too drab and I'm definitely too old. I think it's the intention of the wise old (ha) marketing folks at A&F to make it as untenable as possible for anyone over 20 to stay longer than 5 minutes (that's how long as it takes to pick up any old $35 logo t-shirt and pay the cashier). For those of you who have never been, you may ask "how bad is it"? Let me paint the picture.

You walk into an A&F store. You get the feeling you've been there before - someplace a long time ago where the weather was hot, the food awful and the drinks really cheap. You can't quite put your finger on it but you begin to get the feeling that you are entering the Disney version of a skanky underground Mexican dance club you stumbled upon back in 1986. It has cleaned up considerably but it's still loud, dark, smelly and FAKE.

So how dark is it? Dark enough that you can't tell if you have blue jeans or black jeans in your hands. Dark enough that you can't see the counter of sweaters behind the shelf of t-shirts across the bank of cash registers and - wait - aren't those store fixtures all spray painted the same custom A&F "Elk Grey"?! Dark enough that you can't match any of the clothes because good luck actually seeing what colour they are so you just pick up a white $35 logo t-shirt because worst case if it isn't white maybe it's pink and that goes with either blue or black jeans. And you don't think about the fact that when you buy that logo t-shirt you are buying free advertising for A&F because it's so loud in there you want to get out.

So how loud is it? So loud that when you ask the salesgirl (who is gorgeous) "how much is it", she can't understand what you are saying and yells back "Whaaaat did you saaay?" and you repeat more loudly, more slowly, "hoooowww much isss it?" to which she shrugs and she smiles and hands you a $35 logo t-shirt to try on with the jeans you aren't sure are black or blue. You take the logo t-shirt and jeans and you go to the cash and the male cashier (who is gorgeous) tells you the total but you can't hear him so you don't know how much cash to give so you just hand over your credit card and it's too dark to see the total but thank God they have signature capture because it lights up like a beacon against all that A&F "Elk Grey" and you see the total is $170 and you freak out and want to ask how much those jeans cost but who are you kidding, the cashier can't hear you so you just sign the receipt and take the bag. And you don't think about the fact that you are buying free advertising because you notice an odour coming from above and it's getting to you because it's really strong, it's really smelly and you have to get out.

So how smelly is it? So smelly you're sure a bottle of Glade air freshener just broke, its scent shooting straight up your nose like a molecular guided missle, so fast and pointed that your head starts to ache, it starts to throb and you ask the customer next to you "What's that smell?" she says it's "Fierce" and you say "Whaaat did you saaaay?" and she points to a bottle and you get up real close so you can see and it's a bottle of cologne called "Fierce" and you panic because you now realise they are marketing each and every one of your senses, not just going for your eyes, not just going for your ears but now they're going for your nose, now pumping cologne through every vent in the store into every pore in your body so that if you don't buy "Fierce" at least you'll smell like it and you'll be walking down the street and someone will ask you what you're wearing and you'll say "Fierce". And damn if you didn't notice - they get you with their free marketing again! You feel so small (or is it smelly) and you feel so used, like you're their tool, their mannequin (did you notice there aren't any "real" mannequins it the store?!) and that makes you realise just how FAKE this whole thing is.

So how FAKE is it? So FAKE that when you touch the t-shirts they don't feel like cotton, they feel like paper and you ask the salesgirl, is this really cotton and she just smiles beside a picture of someone who looks just like her but the girl in the picture isn't working at A&F for eight bucks an hour, she's rowing a canoe in Nantucket in 1842 wearing A&F clothes from last season. And you feel so stupid, you feel so played, this whole thing is a sham, you spent thirty five bucks so they could advertise to your 10 friends and they haven't laid out a dime (except for the paper) and now your head starts to spin and you begin to sweat and the salesgirl doesn't have a rag so she offers you a $35 dollar t-shirt to wipe your forehead and you won't take it. No you won't take it! You're going to get out of there without that t-shirt; you're going to get out before they get you! You are not an A&F clone, you are not their marketing gizmo, you're a human being dammit, you have your own identity, your own feelings and you are going to leave with your beautiful blank body unadorned by their $35 logo t-shirt!

You escape through the doors, you can't see it's so bright - a bright white light. You can't see because your pupils can't dilate that fast but you know you are free. There is no dark, there is no loud music there is no bad cologne smell. It's the real outdoors (or at least the real mall) and you are free! Free at last. Free! Free! Free! Free!

And you say to yourself, I'll never go in there again. I'll never go back. I'll never be used.

That's great, of course, but now what do I get my Goddaughter for Christmas?

Happy (Slightly Belated) Birthday Frank

The Confidence of the House

"To be a critic, you have to have three percent education, five percent intelligence, two percent style, and ninety percent gall and egomania in equal parts." Judith Christ

Our very own political drama unfolded earlier this month...

Only a Canadian could attest to the deathly boredom of Canadian politics (and of course, its politicians) but finally, December brought the kind of drama that makes me want to switch from CNN to CBS - except it also brought the kind of drama that was big enough it actually make it to CNN - and CBS and NBC and the Daily Show of all places!

The Right and Honourable Stephen Harper, Prime Minister of Canada (or so he is for now) in a particularly narcissistic moment, forgot he was still only a minority leader and sought to introduce legislation that limits government spending on elections – which was fine for the corporately well padded Conservatives but not so good for the opposition who are still holding karaoke fundraisers in their basements to try and pay off the last election.

What happened next was – well get the popcorn out because this is the good part - the opposing leaders ganged up on Harper in a parliamentary vote of non-confidence and then organised themselves as one party thereby creating a majority government made up of minority opposition parties. This meant the Governor General (whose normal activities this time of year includes picking Parliament's Holiday Tree theme) was now weighted with the unenviable decision of calling an election or giving the newly formed Team B (or is it B Team) the keys to the Prime Minister’s office. Harper, in a rare moment of submissiveness, got on his knees and begged the Governor to prorogue (can’t they just say delay?!) Parliament till he could buy enough time to subdue his oppressors and get off the 6 o’clock news (not to mention the syndicated comedy shows).

In the meantime, Canadians on both sides of the argument, took to the streets, protesting “illegal this” and the “unconstitutional that” while calling for a moratorium on argyle vests - can't Harper’s wife dress him?! While I sympathize with Canadians everywhere (I absolutely refuse to trudge through this sub-zero weather for yet another election!!), the opposition parties are well within their legal rights to throw their Prime Minister under the bus.

I have heard Canadians argue that Dion and his Liberal cohorts did not win enough seats to lead the House and, therefore, as runnerup, could not assume stewardship of the government. Even Harper alluded to the illegality of such an act. The mistake these Canadians make is to assume their government and their constitution mirrors that of the United States where one casts their ballot to determine which party leader will become President. The fact is, the Canadian constitution is quite different from that of the U.S. and Canadians must actually cast their ballot to choose their riding representative, not their party leader. Those riding representatives then come to Parliament to make up the House with the winning party’s leader assuming the role of Prime Minister. The interesting part is that the Prime Minister’s license to govern is not through the individual votes of Canadians but rather the collective confidence of House representatives.

If the winning party secures a majority government, its leader will have the confidence of the House simply because it maintains the majority of riding representatives within its own party. If, however, the winning party does not secure a majority, it can only effectively govern by lobbying enough of the opposition to reach a majority. If they do anything to alienate their opposition, they risk a vote of non-confidence and could be forced a situation like the one we have today.

While Canadians may not wish to see Dion as Prime Minister, he is absolutely within his constitutional right to force a vote of non-confidence and organize the opposition into a majority party that could potentially unseat the Conservatives. Stephen Harper would do well to remember those pesky rules (it wasn't so long ago when he was in opposition pulling a similar stunt). Harper should know that the license to govern is through the confidence of the House. That’s our constitution. If you don’t like it Mr. Prime Minister, you can always move to the US:)

Obama Victory Speech - November 4, 2008

Remarks of President-Elect Barack Obama-as prepared for delivery
Election Night
Tuesday, November 4th, 2008
Chicago, Illinois

If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.

It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled - Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.

It's the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.

It's been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.

I just received a very gracious call from Senator McCain. He fought long and hard in this campaign, and he's fought even longer and harder for the country he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him and Governor Palin for all they have achieved, and I look forward to working with them to renew this nation's promise in the months ahead.

I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on that train home to Delaware, the Vice President-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.

I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last sixteen years, the rock of our family and the love of my life, our nation's next First Lady, Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that's coming with us to the White House. And while she's no longer with us, I know my grandmother is watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight, and know that my debt to them is beyond measure.

To my campaign manager David Plouffe, my chief strategist David Axelrod, and the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics - you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you've sacrificed to get it done.

But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to - it belongs to you.

I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn't start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington - it began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston.

It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give five dollars and ten dollars and twenty dollars to this cause. It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation's apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep; from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on the doors of perfect strangers; from the millions of Americans who volunteered, and organized, and proved that more than two centuries later, a government of the people, by the people and for the people has not perished from this Earth. This is your victory.

I know you didn't do this just to win an election and I know you didn't do it for me. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime - two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century. Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us. There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after their children fall asleep and wonder how they'll make the mortgage, or pay their doctor's bills, or save enough for college. There is new energy to harness and new jobs to be created; new schools to build and threats to meet and alliances to repair.

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even one term, but America - I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you - we as a people will get there.

There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won't agree with every decision or policy I make as President, and we know that government can't solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And above all, I will ask you join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it's been done in America for two-hundred and twenty-one years - block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.

What began twenty-one months ago in the depths of winter must not end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we seek - it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you.

So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other. Let us remember that if this financial crisis taught us anything, it's that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers - in this country, we rise or fall as one nation; as one people.

Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long. Let us remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House - a party founded on the values of self-reliance, individual liberty, and national unity. Those are values we all share, and while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress. As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, "We are not enemies, but friends...though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection." And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn - I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too.

And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world - our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those who would tear this world down - we will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security - we support you. And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright - tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.

For that is the true genius of America - that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that's on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She's a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing - Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn't vote for two reasons - because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she's seen throughout her century in America - the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can't, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women's voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that "We Shall Overcome." Yes we can.

A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.

America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves - if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:

Yes We Can. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America.

I Heart Biden. Biden Hearts Tucker.

Yet another reason to adore the fabulous Joe Biden - his choice of man's best friend for the Naval Observatory? A German Shepherd! Apparently, Biden has raised three of them already - so no surprise one is going to join him at the vice president's residence. And - you will love this one because it is oh so Joe - he's going to train the puppy himself! (Finally) A vice president with sensibility.

It is customary that both the president and vice president adopt a puppy in their new government digs. I think Bush had three - remember how they would either run away, go to the bathroom at inopportune times or bite the hand of respected journalists? Hmmm. Even where dogs are concerned this man has a challenged record!

That, of course, leads me to wonder - does Cheney even have a dog? I have certainly never seen it. As a man of tradition, I think he must - heck he probably keeps several - way down in his underground lair, right behind his personal electric chair. I can just see him test driving the his latest torture techniques - waterboarding for dogs - aghh! The more I think about Cheney, the more disgusting my thoughts become.

So back to Biden. My first reaction upon discovering his fondness for German Shepherds was surprise but, after some thought, I concluded of course a German Shepherd! Much of a gentleman's character can be presumed simply by understanding his affinity for a particular breed. It is only natural an honourable and humble man like Biden, with his sense of duty and commitment would pick a working dog whose own regality is rooted in the unbiding devotion shown to his master.

Tucker would be most pleased.

Frankie Venom R.I.P.

Frankie Venom (a.k.a. Frankie Kerr) and his family lived across the street from me on a dead end road that ended at the bottom of the Hamilton escarpment. My sister and I used to play with his much, much younger sister- God what was her name again? Aileen I think. We were best buddies as kids and not a day went by when we didn't call on her to play.

Frankie never really engaged with us, except to smile with detached humour at the marvel we displayed upon entering the presence of a rock star. Teenage Head was only a local band at the time, its biggest gig our annual street party but we worshipped him nonetheless.

I recall one particular street party – before he hit it big – when Teenage Head was the entertainment. The band drove onto the street in a station wagon, it's windows covered with towels. The neighbours stood in a row on either side, clapping and cheering as they rolled in. The band sat in the car till everyone got really rowdy – finally sauntering out when they felt we'd earned it. It was the first time I realized it was cool to keep people waiting. Yes, they knew how to play us but they also knew how to give back – we got a private rock concert right on our front yards!

I also remember Frankie’s bedroom. It was a source of a lot of education for me. When he'd leave home for band practice (his parents outlawed rehearsals in the house) we'd sneak into his bedroom and explore. It was pretty impressive, even now as I think about it from my adult designer eye. On his walls, he had wallpapered, collage style, from floor to ceiling, thousands of pictures of naked women. Not poster size pictures but small cutouts – like the ones (I imagine) you’d find in Playboy or Hustler style magazines. He was meticulous in covering every inch of his walls. No space was too small to support a nude. He had the odd picture of an idol singer (I recall Rod Stewart) but mostly it was naked women. A single bed (at the time, it didn't register with me what a juxtaposition of modesty that was given the rest of the room) but it had a shaggy black blanket on top of it (I think pretty much everything else in the room was black) – and I thought that was cool. I remember his concert outfit – hanging on a small hook off the closet door. A purple velvet suit jacket with sparkly trim and a white ruffled tuxedo shirt was considered gold. Touch it and we die!! We respected his wishes - actually we were just afraid of getting in trouble - so no dress-up parties to boast of.

I had other memories – like the time he found me under his bed after a particularly good game of hide-and-seek – God was I terrified – but mostly I recall Frankie rushing out the door for band practice, leaving us to play Nancy Drew in his room. It’s one of those childhood memories that stands out for me with its’ variegated colour and intrigue. I imagine Frankie Kerr was much the same.

Rest in Peace Frankie. Your memory lives on.

Of Joe Biden's "Better" Instincts

From Salon.com - titled "Joe Biden's 'Better' Instincts"
By Alex Koppelman
Tuesday, Sept. 23, 2008 11:27 EDT

The book on Joe Biden is that he is a solid, working-class guy who occasionally get himself into trouble by running his mouth. I think these two biographical features are related. Let me explain.

Biden stuttered as a child, something many people (myself included) didn't know until Barack Obama picked Biden as his running mate. It's easy to dismiss Biden's chattiness as an obvious compensation mechanism: The man speaks boldly and as often as possible because the boy could not -- or at least could not without suffering embarrassment.

But I wonder if Biden's running mouth problems are actually more closely related to the formative effects of his rather modest upbringing, and his current status as second behind only Wisconsin's Russ Feingold as the least wealthy senator in a chamber brimming with multimillionaires. The reason I speculate on this -- and this is a somewhat painful admission on my part -- is that I often exhibit the same pathology.

My dad drove a truck for a living, my mom was a waitress. I grew up, literally, on the other side of the tracks of an otherwise affluent, suburban Albany town. (The trains, which passed within 50 yards of my bedroom, shook my Delmar home at the intersection of Hudson Avenue and North Street.) Don't misunderstand: We weren't poor and I never missed a meal. But growing up in a poor urban or rural neighborhood is, in some ways, a psychological experience different from growing up as the son of blue-collar, non-college-educated parents in an affluent suburban town chock full of third-generation college kids whose parents have Volvos with ski racks and for whom "summer" is a verb, not a season. In my high school homeroom of just 30 students we had at least one kid go to Hamilton College, Princeton, Providence, Tufts, and St. Michael's, among others. I was the first generation to go to college, and I attended SUNY.

Similar pecking orders prevail in Washington. This is especially true in the chattering classes filled with prep school and Ivy League types, which is why I keep a small, blue-collar chip on my shoulder at all times: It motivates me to try harder when some "senior editor" just three years out of Harvard turns down some Op-Ed I submitted. (I often wonder: What does a "junior editor" look like?) In Washington cocktail party circuits I, too, abhor silence, and often rush to fill it by saying something, often trying to impress listeners by promoting my ideas or myself. I'm not proud of this, mind you. But it is what it is because I am who I am.

In Biden I see the same need to fill that vacuum of silence by pleasing, by trying to show he's an honest guy and worthy of his betters. That urge sometimes gets the better of him, which is perhaps why Biden refused to defend some recent Obama attack ads -- especially when he knew subconsciously that he would earn a short-term media plaudit for defending his buddy "John" (McCain) while the cameras were rolling. (The campaign later issued a statement in which Biden walks back his earlier comments.)

This tendency of his may appear to be mere courtesy, or a nod to a long-standing friendship between two senators who have served together far longer than Biden has with Barack Obama. But I suspect there is something deeper at work here. And I know, because I always feel my upbringing bearing down on my shoulders when I'm in public. Of course, all I have at stake is my reputation. At stake in Biden's public conduct is nothing short of what will be remembered as one of the more pivotal elections in American history.

So, Regular Joe, some advice: Even though he's third-generation Annapolis and owns seven houses and more than a dozen cars, John McCain is not your better -- and there's no need whatsoever to defend him or his honor, especially given the deceitful and often quite repellent way McCain has conducted his own campaign. (Sometimes the "betters" don't act that way, do they?) You don't owe McCain any benefit of the doubt, or the media any greater level of transparency than McCain has displayed. You owe your running mate, your party and your country far more.

So concede nothing. You'll be the better man for it.

Update: There you go, Joe...this is more like it.

Interesting analysis. As someone with a somewhat similar family history, I must admit, this article re-ignighted insecurities that grew of my own humble background.

I came to Canada over 40 years ago. Not my decision - I was only 2. It was my father who packed up our belongings and moved us across the ocean to a land of opportunity he only knew through second-hand stories.

We came from a communist country - one in which my father was a political prisoner for 7 years. I think his decision to come to Canada was partly to seek a better life for his family but I am sure it was also to bury those stubborn demons brought on by the hopelessness and abuse of prison life.

So came my father, a beaten 42 year old man, with $50 in his pocket, a young wife and two babies to support. That responsibility alone would have scared anyone but he was further burdened with language constraints and a lack of decent employment prospects. His first paying job was at the hand of a sympathetic farmer who, after seeing his small children, offered him work picking grapes at an hourly rate slightly better than that he'd paid other immigrants. That put food in our mouths but not much of a roof over our heads - so he worked hard to build his english skills, finally gaining enough mastery of the language to land a good paying job at a steel mill.

We moved into a simple, small semi-detached home in a rough neighbourhood - but we had a backyard, a school nearby and wanted for nothing save an easy bake oven with chocolate cookie mix - I still dream about it!! Those were simple times wrought with the simple struggles that limited finances bring. And, because it was 1968, it was also a period brewing with political conflicts and hostilities. My father endured the harsh criticism of locals who thought immigrants were taking away their God-given right to a job and free healthcare. We were viewed as a tax burden, even as my father worked 14 hour days to become an established Canadian consumer.

I grew up enduring much of the same criticism in school - from my friends to some degree but mostly it was their parents who reminded me I was sitting at a desk that my forefathers had not earned.

I am not ashamed of my humble beginnings. The struggles my father endured today make me very proud of him. I admire his strength of character and his ability to adjust to a new world. I am not sure if most Canadians, with entitlement on their side, could have endured what he did.

And yet, he has consistently maintained a humbleness that is bourne of such struggle. I used to think it was because he never forgot those early hardships but as I grew older, I began to wonder if that humbleness was really an inferiority complex - one which grew out of the hostility felt from Canada's white, naturalized citizens.

With all the controversy that surrounded new immigrants, he was almost apologetic for what he had earned - as if he didn't really deserve his job, his income, his house, his comforts. I cannot recall ever seeing my father relax. He never took up a recreational sport, didn't drink, didn't socialize much - all despite his homeland's (and his many brothers) renowned taste for fun and frolick. I think all that guilt just wouldn't let him to sit back and take in the fruits of his labour.

It upset me to watch his indebtedness manifest itself in daily routine - not just because I thought he deserved better but because it reminded me of who I was, of who I AM. I too maintain an almost maniacal sense of obligation to my job and to the individuals who afford me that right - I work countless hours to the detriment of my health and family. I accept a pay status lower than my male collegues even though, putting humbleness aside for a moment, I feel I have done more. I accept all this because I cannot rid myself of the sense of obligation I inherited from my father. Deep down, I too wonder if I deserve all that I have earned.

And here is Joe Biden, so much more accomplished than I, with the very same vulnerable spirit, with the very same sense of obligation and duty. I have to remind myself of who I am watching. He is after all, THE Joe Biden!!! More than any of the candidates in this election, he deserves to be here. His intellect, his leadership, his values - they combine to create the man America needs right now. And to think he cannot make the front page because he harbours the same complexities I do - well that wills me enough to say stop! Because if he can stop then maybe there's hope for me. If he can rise above his own inadequacies - small town, small income, small house, small world - then maybe, just maybe, I can too.

"Blowback" Deserves Airtime

Considering "blowback", at the start of the Iraq war, was of primary concern to American citizens everywhere, I was surprised by Ron Paul's reception (but, of course, not by Guilani's opportunism). Blowback is real, it has been happening throughout history and Americans need to understand it if they wish to prevent another attack.


Here is a supporting article.

Paul's 9/11 explanation deserves to be debated
By Roland S. Martin

Former New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani was declared the winner of Tuesday's Republican presidential debate in South Carolina, largely for his smack down of Texas Rep. Ron Paul, who suggested that America's foreign policy contributed to the destruction on September 11, 2001.

Paul, who is more of a libertarian than a Republican, was trying to offer some perspective on the pitfalls of an interventionist policy by the American government in the affairs of the Middle East and other countries.

"Have you ever read about the reasons they attacked us? They attack us because we've been over there. We've been bombing Iraq for 10 years," he said.

That set Giuliani off.

"That's really an extraordinary statement," said Giuliani. "As someone who lived through the attack of September 11, that we invited the attack because we were attacking Iraq; I don't think I've ever heard that before and I've heard some pretty absurd explanations for September 11."

As the crowd applauded wildly, Giuliani demanded that Paul retract his statements.

Paul tried to explain the process known as "blowback" -- which is the result of someone else's action coming back to afflict you -- but the audience drowned him out as the other candidates tried to pounce on him.

After watching all the network pundits laud Giuliani, it struck me that they must be the most clueless folks in the world.

First, Giuliani must be an idiot to not have heard Paul's rationale before. That issue has been raised countless times in the last six years by any number of experts.

Second, when we finish with our emotional response, it would behoove us to actually think about what Paul said and make the effort to understand his rationale.

Granted, Americans were severely damaged by the hijacking of U.S. planes, and it has resulted in a worldwide fight against terror. Was it proper for the United States to respond to the attack? Of course! But should we, as a matter of policy, and moral decency, learn to think and comprehend that our actions in one part of the world could very well come back to hurt us, or, as Paul would say, blow back in our face? Absolutely. His real problem wasn't his analysis, but how it came out of his mouth.

What has been overlooked is that Paul based his position on the effects of the 1953 ouster by the CIA of Iranian Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh.

An excellent account of this story is revealed in Stephen Kinzer's alarming and revealing book, "Overthrow: America's Century of Regime Change from Hawaii to Iraq," where he writes that Iran was establishing a government close to a democracy. But Mossadegh wasn't happy that the profit from the country's primary resource -- oil -- was not staying in the country.

Instead, the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company (now known British Petroleum, or BP) was getting 93 percent of the profits. Mossadegh didn't like that, and wanted a 50-50 split. Kinzer writes that that didn't sit too well with the British government, but it didn't want to use force to protect its interests. But their biggest friend, the United States, didn't mind, and sought to undermine Mossadegh's tenure as president. After all kinds of measures that disrupted the nation, a coup was financed and led by President Dwight Eisenhower's CIA, and the Shah of Iran was installed as the leader. We trained his goon squads, thus angering generations of Iranians for meddling in that nation's affairs.

As Paul noted, what happened in 1953 had a direct relationship to the takeover of the U.S. Embassy in 1979. We viewed that as terrorists who dared attack America. They saw it as ending years of oppression at the hands of the ruthless U.S.-backed Shah regime.

As Americans, we believe in forgiving and forgetting, and are terrible at understanding how history affects us today. We are arrogant in not recognizing that when we benefit, someone else may suffer. That will lead to resentment and anger, and if suppressed, will boil over one day.

Does that provide a moral justification for what the terrorists did on September 11?

Of course not. But we should at least attempt to understand why.

Think about it. Do we have the moral justification to explain the killings of more than 100,000 Iraqis as a result of this war? Can we defend the efforts to overthrow other governments whose actions we perceived would jeopardize American business interests?

The debate format didn't give Paul the time to explain all of this. But I'm confident this is what he was saying. And yes, we need to understand history and how it plays a vital role in determining matters today.

At some point we have to accept the reality that playing big brother to the world -- and yes, sometimes acting as a bully by wrongly asserting our military might -- means that Americans alive at the time may not feel the effects of our foreign policy, but their innocent children will.

Even the Bible says that the children will pay for the sins of their fathers.

Blame It On Mom

I haven't been around for a while - completely soaked up in a deal I have been working on. Haven't seen the light of day for the last two months, let alone enough of my kids. Which brings me to today's topic.

Yet another study blaming working moms for the woes of their chiildren. Somebody has descided to to create more than a casual link between women entering the workforce and children gaining weight. Yes, apparently the 16% childhood obesity rate has nothing to do with the general population's obsession with fast food but everything to do with mothers deciding to go back to work instead of stay at home and make meals.

This is is not a hard core study. This is simply one observer's casual connection of two statistics which made it into mainstream media (CNN): women entering the workforce in the 80s and the explosion of the obesity rate by 3x since then.

Of course, nobody tried to actually understand the makeup of the 16% obesity rate - is it infact, children of working mothers or any other parameters, such as family income level, cultural background, peer group, school cafeteria options, etc. etc.

Just another causistical statistic to make us working mothers feel like failures. Forget that most of us well educated, hard working women do, infact, feed our children very well, thank you very much. Forget that we not only understand nutrition, most of us are very well educated in it (and many other things associated with health and wellness). Forget that, because we work, we can afford healthier meals and healthier lifestyle options for our children.

I find these generalizations irresponsible and misleading. Such assessments only serve to sustain certain advocacy groups' support their traditional (and may I say, often limiting) notions of gender roles while doing absolutely NOTHING to solve the problem of obesity.

I just shake my head at CNN for airing this garbage. While they may not support fast-food, it looks like they are only too happy to support fast-reporting. Check your facts CNN. This report is a disservice to mothers and children everywhere.

Doggie Deliberation

Well our family is about to increase in size by one thanks to a recent downpayment on a baby German Shepherd boy! We have last pick of the litter and I don't yet know which is ours (we pick it up April 15th) but wanted to show you a picture of one of our baby's brothers! He is to-die-for-adorable!! And his name is Bronson.

Which brings me to the purpose of this particular post. We are in serious need of a baby-namer! We have some ideas. Let me pass them by you but we are at a bit of a standstill and would appreciate any ideas! Of course, I am hoping my tennis buddies have some tennis inspired names to share. Here is what we have come up with so far (remember - we need boy names):

Dawson - great name but then I think Katie Holmes, then Tom Cruise and then jumping on the couch which my dog is absolutely not going to do! And if he ever gets wierd like Cruise, he's a gonner. Besides, the name is a bit difficult to yell - and I see us shortening this up to Dawzie which could evolve into Dozie if he doesn't live up to his Mensa-grade lineage.

Tucker - my eldest thought of this one. At first I really liked it and then I thought omigod it's waaaay too close to F___K-ER!! I can just see it. One bad move in the neighbourhood and he is forever blacklisted!

Akio - I love this one. It is Japanese for "Intelligent boy" which fits the highly intelligent shepherd. And I have always found German Shepherds to be kinda sorta Japanese - like noble Samurai warriors of origami construction. My family just thinks it's pretentious - you tell me!

Jesse - I think this would be perfect but our neighbour's daughter's name is Jesse. So, your opinion on this. Do you think they'd be flattered or offended if we named our beautiful dog after their beautiful daughter?

And then some tennis ones:

Mac - after the only other man I have ever loved, John McEnroe
Becker - well, Boris is German, the dog is German...

Some we won't consider:
Jake - my cousin's son's name - my cousin would definately not be flattered!
Buddy - neighbour's dog's name
Bentley - neighbour's dog's name
Luke - too close to "puke" - too many pre-pubescent boys on the street for that one to ever be safe
Jimbo - never liked the conceited Conners - especially when he'd cup his hands against his groin, then shoot them up to the sky as if to offer his balls to the tennis gods. His gift to the world. I want to Luke - I mean puke - just at the thought of it!

Let me know your thoughts. All ideas will be taken under serious consideration!


Update: Tucker it is!!

The Circle of Government Services Life

I have lots of government beaureaucracy horror stories - too many too count but I can't say I have ever been pissed off enough to write about one - until now!

My beef is with Passport Canada. My passport was due to expire in the new year. I was meaning to go to their offices to renew - had all my supporting documentation but with working on a large deal 12 hours a day and then trying to fit my kids in somewhere it just didn't get done. Enter my hubbie who decided to take the matter into his own hands and send my application and supporting identification (including my precious citizenship card) through the mail and - why waste ten bucks?? - non-registered. It should be noted that being a Canadian citizen, not by birth, but by immigration, the citizenship card is the most important piece of documentation I own. I cannot get any government documents processed without it.

The timing here is also important - early December - just a couple of weeks before the government announced the new passport policy for entering the United States. I thought I beat the rush. I was wrong.

Waiting. At first I didn't take too much notice but when weeks turned into months I thought, hey, even a fat government isn't this slow! And just to give this story some urgency, I had important business travel in the next month and a half. Well not important, but it was an award trip for the big deal I struggled long and hard to win the last eight months of 2006. My company has a reputation for being somewhat miserly in the way of perks so I wasn't going to let this trip go to waste!

Off I went to Passport Canada to find out what happened with my application. After a not too long wait in line, I stood in front of the all important "officer" - a young chubby, four-eyed plain jane who looked like she belonged behind an issue of Knitting Quarterly and not in front of a high-strung, high-flyer who just lost her most important personal documentation.

After a few clicks on her computer Knitter Girl (that's what I like to call her) looked up and said "It's lost in the mail."

Lost in the mail. Sort of like "the dog ate my homework". "Gee." I said. "How does the computer figure out it's lost in the mail?" She looked puzzled. I felt compelled to go on. "Look. In, the last fifteen years, I have never had a Christmas card go missing, never had a electricity invoice arrive late, never had a credit card bill skip a month. Never! And now, a Passport application, in a very distinctive "Passport Canada" envelope, suddenly gets lost in the mail? You have thousands upon thousands of applications waiting to be processed at your Ottawa offices, probably all of which have been sitting there as long as mine, but you decide to tell me that it is, most definately, lost in the mail?!"

So Knitter Girl asked me what I thought had happened. I didn't realise I was an expert in government document processing, but since she so earnestly sought my wisdom, I took a shot at some possibilities. "Well, maybe it fell off a desk. Maybe it's sitting in Passport Canada's mailbox waiting for someone to answer the front door. Or, maybe somebody stole it."

And this is where things went downhill.

"Omigod. Like, I can't believe you said that."

"Said what?!"

"You think someone from Passport Canada stole your documents?"

"Well, I don't know. It's as good a possibility as lost in the mail."

"Oh, like, omigod. I mean I tried to help you but forget it. You obviously want to do this on your own."

I looked at Knitter Girl intently. What a waste of ten bucks an hour.

"Ok I said. "I need my passport. Your job is to help me. I need your help so how about getting me started here?" She thought about it for a while. And thought about it some more. When I realised she was going to spend lots of time thinking about it I said, "Well, if you can't help me can you please get your manager to?" She quickly finished thinking.

She told me I had to start the process all over again. Since I lost my citizenship card (I didn't bother to correct her - "THEY" lost my citizenship card) I had to reapply. Then I had to apply for my passport and supply my plane ticket. I explained my company's travel agent does not supply a plane ticket unless I have a valid passport. Ok she said, you don't have to provide a plane ticket. Wow. Instantaneous flexibility! That's more like it Knitter Girl!!

So - off I went to apply for my citizenship. This was already going to be difficult since the average wait time for a citizenship card was 5-7 months and I was going to ask they do it in two weeks. I put all my documentation together and then realised I was short one piece of ID. Rules stipulate you must provide two provincial pieces of identification. All I had was my drivers license and my health card. The problem was my health card was still in my maiden name (something I meant to change but never bothered to do). I was told it would not go through without a change to the name on my health card.

So off I went to the OHIP offices to get my new health card. Of course, they needed some identification - specifically, my citizenship card! I could not get a citizenship card without a health card and I could not get a health card without a citizenship card! This is what I pay taxes for. Circular entertainment.

So I decided I would take a chance and actually come face-to-face with a real sympathetic human government employee who would take immediate action to process my application. Ok, I am dreaming about the face-to-face part. Specifically, I wrote a letter chastizing Passport Canada. And, damn if I didn't get them right, they took pity on me and processed my citizenship card in ONE WEEK!!!!

Now for the reapplication of my passport. I waited 2 hours in front of some sleezy movie producer who was on the phone with a director lamenting the heftiness of one of the "dancers" they hired. And I thought I had problems.

When my number was called out, I looked for my friendly helper but she was nowhere to be found. Damn. I wanted to tell her about the 7 day turnaround on my citizenship card - beat that Knitter Girl!!

A very nice lady with awesome bangles [read bracelets] served me efficiently and effectively and even followed up with a phone call to confirm some data. Wow! I can feel the love! She said it should arrive on my doorstep within 10 days. I was optimistic!

5, 6, 7, ,8, 9, 10 days. No passport. Pinch me I just woke up. So I called Passport Canada. Busy. Called again. Busy. Called and called and called again. Busy, busy and more busy!! The old "busy telephone game" - yes I know all about that one. So I called 411, got the local number, and voila - a real person on the other side of the line! Never let it be said that Passport Canada will stand in the way of Bell locking up some serious long distance charges! I was told my passport was "in-process". I said, "Great but how do I get it to "my doorstep"?" I told them I had a pending flight in a couple of weeks and that this was urgent. "Well, you can't do anything. It will come when it comes." Another waste of 10 bucks an hour.

No less than 20 days later my passport finally arrived. It was a long, hard fought fight. I am embattled but satisfied. I never gave up. I got what I wanted and they didn't get to me. Take that Passport Canada. Take that.

The Start Is The Finish

It has been a little while since I've impressed myself, but let me indulge back to a moment not that long ago - September 2004 - when I completed my first marathon. This is my re-telling of that event. You may have seen it once before on a marathon stories website but I thought it worth repeating here. I did not think it would be a once-in-a-lifetime achievement but given my current health, it appears I may never do it again - and so I'm glad I immortalized it on paper (so-to-speak). Here it is. Hope you enjoy reliving this moment as much as I do!

__________________________


“I ran a marathon.” I must have said that to myself a hundred times Sunday night. I let each sweet syllable spill off my tongue over and over again – it was delicious.

Four months ago if you told me that I would finish a marathon, I would have laughed in your face. Sure, me and all my baby fat. Sure.

Well, I took the first step, registered with Canada Fit – which I think is an AWESOME running organization and met our organizers Leanne and Bob. Bob asked us to come up with our goals for the season. My goal was clear – I knew why I was there. “I want to lose 11 lbs. That’s it.” I really didn’t care whether I ran a marathon or not. Actually I preferred to lose the weight WITHOUT having to go to the physical expense of running a marathon – but I wanted to lose the baby fat and, try as I might, it wasn’t coming off any other way. So, being a woman noted for exploring extremes, I went extreme. I did a 5 km pace run to see which group I would fall into – red – slowest - dead last. How depressing is that?

I trained diligently for four months in what was probably the lousiest summer weather I can remember. I ran every Saturday morning with my running group and consistently came in last or almost last. I decided to do something about my speed – or lack of. I hired a trainer and started lifting weights two days a week. I kept the running and weight lifting schedule up for the entire summer – save a week and a half break at the cottage.

And then, almost without notice, September arrived. After four months, I was ready – at least my coaches thought so. Benchmark runs – 12 miles, then 15 miles, then 18 miles, then 21 miles. This would be only five more. Here I was – body apparently in race shape and mentally I decided it couldn’t be. apparently. My coaches informed me that I was ready to run the big race. Hmm. Not sure about that Richard! You are crazy Helen! Forget it Mary! Not me! No way! And every time the team talked about the marathon, I became very quiet. I never told anyone I had no intention of doing it. It was inevitable in everyone else’s mind – not mine.

And then, my running partner, Anna, injured her foot – she was out – just 2 weeks before the marathon. I couldn’t believe it! I knew how much she wanted this – marathon first, baby next. I cried when I read her e-mail. I thought “That’s it! I can’t do it – not without her!” I kept hoping Anna would get better but it never happened.

It took a few days, but I started to come around. I thought about what I had invested this past summer – the weight training, the carbo loading, the scheduled runs, the speed training, the hill training. This marathon training had taken on a life of its own – and here I was, near the end - about to shoot it dead. The mind of a winner? Obviously not. So, fear safely tucked away, I registered – 3 days before the race. This was, in the end, a very good thing because those 3 days spent in anxiety, self-doubt and panic were grueling. If I had to endure that any longer, I would have most likely had no energy left for the race!

The day came soon enough. September 26th. I decided I would come to the early bird start at 6:15 am, which meant I had to get up at 4:00 am. So, I did – got dressed, ate breakfast, took inventory of my necessities about a thousand times, waited for my fellow running mate, Aggie, to pick me up.

We drove down together. Aggie was excited, but calm – I marveled at her casual, stoic approach. I just felt sick. It was still cold out. “I HATE running in the cold.” I told her. “- even if it is just a little cold.” I had three layers of clothing on. I was famous for overdressing for my runs – and this marathon day would be no exception.

We arrived at our meeting place at Metro Hall and chatted with the other Canada Fit runners. We were all anxious to start. Five minutes before the gun, we made our way to the start line – a red balloon haloed structure with two separate openings. It was an awkward, tacky thing that Martha would no doubt have ordered down. I made a mental note to join the race decorating committee next year. “Remember” my running mate, Diane said. At the finish you will come through the opening on the right side – right side for marathoners, left side for half marathoners.”

So the start would be the finish.

I remembered my sister’s words: “If you can get to the start, you can get to the finish.” I laughed at the irony – those words were metaphoric when she uttered them to me just the day before, yet they were completely literal as I stared at the start line.

My coaches Helen and Richard analyzed my dress. Richard knew I got cold easily – “well, ok, keep your jacket on. Just give it to the Canada Fit folks at the 10 km water station.” “No.” Helen said. “Take my gloves, give me your jacket.” So I did – I was down to 2 layers with mittens. I would stay that way the rest of the race.

Diane looked at me and yelled with glee “Look at you! It’s your first marathon! Look at how excited you are! Look at you smiling!” It was then I realized I WAS excited! I couldn’t believe I was here!

Then I started to cry. And I don’t mean little attractive, Julia Roberts, where’s the camera, crying. No, no, no. I went for red-faced, puff-nosed, throat choked, hide your blotchy face crying. So, of course, I had to conceal this breakdown from my running group and moved as far away as I could. I couldn’t possibly let them see me like this.

The gun went off.

I moved forward. “No turning back now!” I thought. We ran down Wellington in the dark, with streetlights on, cameras flashing and floodlights in the sky. Black and light, flashing intermittently across tall buildings looked as if I had just been placed in the middle of a Batman movie. We turned onto Bay Street and then west onto Lakeshore. As I ran down Lakeshore, that song came into my head “Just Me and My Thoughts” – how true. I had long lost my running group – I had no idea where they were. I was going to have to run this race all alone.

The sun started to come up and as it did, I realized I was looking at the wrong distance markers – ½ marathon instead of marathon, red instead of yellow, and, as a result, screwed up my pace considerably. 20 minutes of considerably to be exact. I was FURIOUS! I got to the 10 km mark – the friendly Canada Fit water station. I took some water, stomped my feet on the ground, pumped my arms in anger and whipped my cup aside – how could I be so stupid?! I think I stomped my feet for about 45 minutes!

It was then I realized I had a time goal. Now, for all of you trying to learn something here, 10 km into your marathon is not a good time to be setting your time goals. No – that is actually supposed to happen over time, over months – BEFORE the marathon. I was doing it on the spot in the middle of my race! And as for your first marathon, well you aren’t even supposed to set a time goal. Your goal should only be to finish. That is what I was told anyways. Well, my one sister had run her first marathon in 4:09:09, and while I know she is an athlete, is 9 years younger, is built like Steffi Graf, etc., etc., I guess I just wanted to run as fast as her. And, truth be told, I would have been happy at 4:15:00, even ok with 4:30:00. Anything over would just be embarrassing in my family. But at 1:15:00 at the 10 km mark, I could have walked the route faster (actually I think the race walkers did walk faster!). I was too far off to achieve my desired finish time. The cynic in me gave up. It was over. I had lost.

And then at 1:29:00 - I saw THEM.

One of the benefits of running early in the Waterfront Marathon is, with all the turnarounds, you can see the late start runners coming up – so at 1:29:00, as I was running east on Lakeshore, the 7:30 am marathoners were approaching west. That is when I saw THEM – the Kenyan running team. I stared in wonder – and smiled.

Wow.

I then looked for the Canada Fit members who chose to run the late start – they saw me – waved and smiled. I waved and smiled back. I didn’t feel so alone now.

I hit the 15K mark. The race was not proceeding well for me. My legs were sore – my knees, in particular, aching. “Already!” I thought. “I am deteriorating ALREADY! How am I going to feel two or three hours from now?” I had already taken 800 mg of Advil before the race and I knew I couldn’t take anymore now. I would have to wait at least another hour before I could deal with the pain.

Running down Queens Quay, I watched boat crews work to prepare their vessels for their lazy, three-hour Sunday tours. “Hmmm. That would be nice.” I thought. But I didn’t bring any money with me. Keep running.

I came to the Lakeshore/Queens Quay intersection and saw a most overwhelming sight. 7,000 runners going by – this was the half marathon start – and they were being serenaded by a talented reggae drum band - 20 men, forcefully thumping their leather kegs – African percussion raining deep, heart-stopping beats. I could feel the combined energy of the crowd and the music. It was incredible.

I turned onto Cherry Street, Leslie, then Commissioners where a soca band leader was swaying to the sound of the steel drums. I was not so much running as I was dancing. Down I went towards the Leslie Spit. The crowds were building and the neighborhood cheering challenge was in high gear – pom poms waving, signs flashing, people wild with animated encouragement. I was starting to have fun!

At 2:22:34 – the Kenyans passed me. Five of them moving in perfect unison. So silent were they that had I closed my eyes for just one second, I would have missed them entirely! They were things of beauty – grace united with speed, sinew bound by silence. Godly creations, perfectly built running machines. Yet, for all their athletic prowess, they seemed to me the most tranquil of creatures. Zen monks. Mystic men.

Then POOF. They were gone.

It all lasted for just a second but it is a moment I will never forget. To share the road with these elite athletes – however brief - was a tremendous honour, a dream come true. To say I was awestruck is a gross understatement. Now, I am not one for celebrity worship but this was THE moment in the race for me. These men changed my course. I was headed in a new direction. “They are running gods.” I thought. “They are here for ME! They have come to take away the defeatist – that cynical demon responsible for my lousy start.’

“Forget about it!” they seemed to tell me. “It is still a great race.”

“You’re right Kenyan Running Team! It is still a great race! It is the greatest race ever! And I am here! I am part of it!”

Feeling renewed – no, converted - I picked up my feet.

At 2:34:00 my sister called me on my cell. Yes! I ran with my cell phone. How else were she and the rest of my clan going to track me down? “Ring. Ring.” I heard chuckling behind me. Two women laughed. One asked if she could borrow my phone later to call her husband. Sure lady. Not so funny, now is it?

I answered the phone. It was my baby sister. “Hi! Where are you?” she asked. “I just passed the 23 km mark.” I said. “The Kenyans just passed me!”

“That’s ok.” She replied. “They’re supposed to pass you.”

I was now well into the Tommy Thompson Conservation area and I started thinking: “Who is Tommy Thompson anyways? And why did they name a park after him? I can’t believe this is a park. It looks more like a landfill.” Ah, the thoughts that fill desperate, empty minds.

I needed to find someone to talk to.

So I looked behind and there were the two women, still bemused by my telephone conversation. We began to chat. They were best friends from London – grew up together and trained for this race together. No running club. They just bought the Running Room training book and did it on their own. “Amazing!” I said. “I could never do that!” They said they couldn’t have done it without each other. I thought of Anna. I couldn’t have done it without her.

That’s when I realized what Canada Fit meant to me. I had taken for granted what these volunteers had done week after week - the planned schedules, the organized routes, the water stations, the seminars, the benchmarks, the speed training, the hill training, and most of all, the coaching. It really did take a village to train me. And all I did was show up! Here I was doing something that less than 1% of the population would ever have the privilege of doing and I all I had to do was show up! Thank God I registered for this race. What a jerk I was to ever consider NOT running.

Then came my Kodak moment. The London Ladies and I were cruising along, chitchatting as an elite runner was approaching from behind – a handsome black, dread locked gentleman with really nice biceps. Click went a camera! We giggled. How about that for a photograph! The “Official Race Photographer” had just captured three mothers, with a combined child-count of ten, running together, a world-class runner lagging behind them. I have just GOT to get that picture! Another benefit of choosing the early start.

At 2:44:31, the lead women’s runner passed us. We screamed! “You go sister! You run girl!” She was my height – a bit stockier – but still a five footer. And you know what? The Kenyan pacer was my height too – and he was a guy! Here I thought I was too short to ever be a decent runner – I mean aren’t serious runners waify, super tall freaks? Guess not. So, feeling more part of the club, I picked up my feet again.

I eventually left the London ladies – actually they made me go. They told me I could still meet my time goals and to just go for it. They thought I looked strong. I felt strong. My fatigue was gone. So was all my Advil.

So I left them. But they were still with me. At every turnaround, when they saw me, they would yell “Go for it! You can do it!!”

I was near the last stretch of the Tommy Thompson patch when I heard a man behind me say, with some relief “11 more to go”. I couldn’t believe it. It seemed just moments ago that I was ready to leave the race behind for a boat cruise! And here I was – just over an hour left and it would all be over! I felt a surge of energy – and picked up my feet again.

Coming out of the Leslie Spit, I approached the 32 km marker. I suddenly felt very tired – my legs, especially. I knew part of it was mental. I had been told many times that the last 10 km is where you begin to feel the fatigue and the last 5 km is where you feel you can’t go on. I found this to be painfully true! But I knew those negative thoughts were making me even more tired so I just folded up them up and put them in a jar.

At that point I saw my husband, Dave, and my sister – thank goodness! I needed to see them. They were screaming and taking pictures, frantically waving signs. And I thought about them. Family – they are the other ones that helped make this happen. My husband who took care of the kids while I was out chasing my dream, my children who took care of my husband while I was out chasing my dream. Everyone working together. All for me.

And then I saw Santa Claus.

He was with Rudolph. They were in the Beaches looking a little sun-stroked. Standing beside Father Christmas was a gentleman with a megaphone, doing his best Howard Cosell: “And look at Number 10-32! She’s still smiling. I can’t believe it! This far in the race and the lady is still smiling! Everybody give her a cheer! Number 10-32! You keep smiling!”

The crowd went wild! “Wow!” I thought. “I have fans!!” I could feel my face – I wasn’t just smiling. I was grinning! People were waving at me, yelling “Go 10-32!” “Keep smiling 10-32!”

I did the 33 km turnaround –the last turnaround. My legs were really tired - my quads burning, knees throbbing. I kept my head down and just tried to run through the pain. I knew I had less than an hour to go but wondered “Can I keep it up? Would I really give up now?” Negative thoughts. Fold them up. Put them in a jar. Throw the jar out!

Then one of the volunteer bikers shouted towards me. “Still smiling 10-32! That’s amazing!” I waved to him and soldiered on. Can’t let the fans down now.

And then I saw my husband and sister again. She was waving her sign! It said “38 km and Looking Fabulous!” Yah right. Screaming and jumping up and down, she gave me a much needed energy boost! My husband stepped onto the road for just one second to get a better picture of me. A spectator yelled at him, “Get off the road asshole!” I threw him a wicked gesture. The crowd went crazy! More fans! This is just too much fun!

I ran down Commissioners Street. I heard a lady laugh in disbelief “Oh my God, she’s still smiling!” Yup. I was dog tired, my knees were numb with pain, my back was now aching, but I was having a ball.

Onto Cherry Street and then Lakeshore – under the Gardnier. I saw a large group waving dozens of yellow signs, all with the same catchphrase “Go Runners Go!” One of the women ran right up to me, ran WITH me, her sign flashing in my face. And then, in a most wonderful, thick Jamaican accent she sang “Go Mama! Just 3 more Mama! Three more! Take your booty home Mama!” I laughed and waved to her entourage. They were bouncing, rattling, ricocheting off the sidewalks, waving their signs up and down, in and out, as if trying to generate enough current so as to blow me to the finish line.

I wish it worked, because I was fading fast. “This is it.” I thought. “I have hit the proverbial wall.” I wasn’t sure I could go on. The pain was there but worse, I was really thirsty. Dehydrated. I had failed to fill my water bottle up at the last station. Big mistake. I stared at the pavement just ahead. Keep going, I thought. I remembered the task analysis my coach, Richard once gave me on running: “Right…Left…Repeat.”

I saw the 40 km marker. 2.2km left in the race. A little more than the Falconi Loop. I always hated the Falconi loop – this, our coaches would sometimes throw at us at the end of a run. Most people know this loop as the road around the U of T Erindale campus but our running club had affectionately named it after our esteemed Canada Fit coordinator, Bob Falconi. He loves that loop. Why? I am not sure. Anyways, the Falconi loop had to get folded up and put in a jar that, again, got tossed.

“It’s almost over! I am almost there!” I thought.

Oh no.

Another thing you should learn here – never, ever, ever, cry during a marathon – especially near the end. You WILL hyperventilate. And that is exactly what started to happen to me. I pulled to a walk, calmed myself down and then started up again. I had to do this three times. “Control your emotions.” I said to myself. “Keep everything under control.”

I turned onto Yonge Street – I saw a very tall, elegant black man in ceremonial African garb. He stood there, hands clapping slowly, gracefully, his baritone voice gently urging me forward “10-32 – you must finish.” I nodded in agreement. “Yes, oh noble one. I must finish.”

Under the bridge and up the hill – I was at Front Street – and there was the Hockey Hall of Fame. “I love you Hockey Hall of Fame” I said under my breath. “I love you BCE Place. I love you golden Royal Bank tower – whatever you are called” And finally, Wellington Street! “I love you Wellington Street”. A volunteer yelled to me “just 700 more!” I hope he means 700 feet! I looked up. Nope. 700 meters.

And then I heard them.

It started off small, quiet really, but quickly built to a beautiful crescendo. It was the sound of the crowd. And they were going wild. “Keep smiling 10-32! You’re almost there! You are awesome!” A tall, wiry old man swept past me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was one of the leading runners in the 70-74 age cagtegory on his way to another record finish. Now, had I understood this, I would have made the effort to keep up with him so as to be part of the photographs that inevitably come with such celebrity! Hindsight is 20/20.

I felt an electrifying swell of energy from the crowd. They were already pumped by some record performances and now my obvious excitement had given them something else to celebrate. People were screaming at me, waving flags, pumping their fists into the air, “10-32! You are there! You are there!” With all this - do I daresay worship?? - I realized this would probably be the closest I would ever come to feeling like a rock star! It was absolutely surreal!

I saw my other sister. She was yelling at me, flashing her camera, crying tears of joy. People around her were hugging her, cheering me on. She had told these spectators my story and, I guess, that personalization suddenly made me important to them. They were invested in me and applauded me forward. I waved to them. I waved to EVERYBODY. I have to admit, as far as race finishes go, I had definitely gone Hollywood. Well at least I didn’t stop to pose. But I wasn’t sure I was running anymore. I had been lifted – floating across the pavement now. I felt no fatigue. I felt no pain. “I must be going to heaven!” I thought.

And there it was.

The finish line.

It’s true. If you can get to the start, you CAN get to the finish.

I ran to the right side entrance, stepped across the mat and made darn sure the sensor picked up my running chip. I shot my arms in the air and whipped my head back in joy.

I did it! I finished the race! I checked my watch – 4:34:14. I was surprised at the time. Pretty good considering my start. Later I found out that I had a negative split, that is, I ran the second half of the race faster than the first half – a lot faster - with my fastest pace occurring in the last 9 km of the race. Saved the best for last!

And the Kenyan gods? One finished second, one finished third. The rest were scattered across the top 10. But you know what I found out later? These athletes whom I marveled at, the elite men who enlightened me with their grace and beauty, these men are wretchedly poor, starving runners. They travel from race to race, take up residence in sleazy motels and barely get by on paltry prize earnings. Then they invest it back into their training. All for the love of a sport that chose THEM. Amazing.

And now, two days later, how do I feel? Well, the pain is gone but the exhilaration has not yet diminished. I am glowing inside – thankful to all those who brought me here - this wonderfully magical place that boasts satisfaction and pride. Yes, I am still smiling a glorious smile. I am smiling right now as you read this. I hope you are too.

And if you feel at all inspired to do this crazy thing - to run a marathon - I am letting you know here and now that I will be there for you - from beginning to end. We will take that journey together – all 42.2 km of it. It is not so long – a marathon - really. For you know the truth now, as I do: if you can get to the start, you most assuredly can get to the finish.

It's The Thought That Counts

A good friend and a member of my competitive tennis team was recently diagnosed with cancer. Our group rallied together to assemble a nice gift basket of her favourite things.

I thought it would be kind of fun and "ohhh sooo her!!!" to get something a little X-rated - so, after rehearsing my "it's for a friend" speech, off to the video store I went, parking right in front of the "We Carry Adult Movies Too!!" sign. Obviously this is not Rogers Video. To get what I wanted I needed a specialty retailer - this particular one being a small privately owned shop with not much in the way of latest releases - but the kind that should have lots of porn. Confidence is key in these situations so I swept in with my head held high (although I have to admit I was wearing big dark sunglasses) and said "I'm looking for a movie."

The owner said, "Funny. That's what we sell."

Well make me freeze Mr. Repartee! I completely forgot my speech and started to blabber on to Mr. R. about my friend - oh she's so great great tennis player too wears lots of black and always looks great I know because she's on my team which is great that's how I know her but she's not playing right now not that she doesn't want to but she can't because she's not doing great she has cancer can you believe it but she'll handle it just fine because she's so strong and she's so funny and she's so great and did I say she has cancer oh yes but don't worry it's an 85% chance of recovery but it's bummer all the same and wouldn't it nice to make her smile?

"Borat?"

I see Mr. R. is confused.

I shook my head at which he started to pull out other comedies - family comedies, romantic comedies, fart comedies. "No. That's not what I was thinking of."

So then he goes over to the "Comic Live" section and starts throwing videos at me - this guy's blue collar, this guy's Indian, this guy's ironic - Mr. R. likes ironic - this guy's really a woman. "No, no, NO! Well, we're getting close with guy that's really a woman... "

But he doesn't listen.

He brings me over to the drama section - Forrest Gump (excuse me - drama?!) - I tell him Jenny dies of cancer - how about something else??!!!!

And then an epiphany. I may be wearing black stiletto boots and dark sunglasses but who am I kidding?!! The last thing this guy thinks I am going to buy is porn! He's racking his brain, he's pulling out every Disney friendly thing he's got but he goes nowhere near the porn!! This woman plays tennis, makes casseroles and reads "Goodnight Moon" - but no waaaay does she watch porn!!

And of course, I'm strategizing - I've been here for 20 minutes and I haven't brought up the porn. I can't suddenly say, "Hmmm. Well "Monty Python" doesn't hit the mark - but what do you think about "Ass Sex Live"?

So what's a good girl to do? Well, I point to the caged adult section and say "how about there - anything funny in there?"

Silence.

For a long time.

And then Mr. R. says - evenly, carefully "No. There's no comedy in there. Lots of ADULT movies, if you know what I mean, but nothing funny in there. Not quite sure it's something a sick friend would want."

And then he just stares at me.

Ohmigod he thinks I don't really have a sick friend!!!!!

And with that, I left.

I wonder how badly my friend wants a porn movie? Maybe I should just give her my dark sunglasses.

Saint Sundin

Nothing makes me feel more Canadian than a Leaf's game - and I got a full dose of it last night! They entirely outplayed the Islanders but it was to no avail, losing in a shoot-out. But I did manage to get a clip of Sundin during his shoot-out moment (and on his birthday!). The crowd does love him (as do I)!

Relive the Molson moment here - and that "woo hoo" sound? Just me:)

Is It Really About YOU?

Well, the Dixie Chicks must feel an overwhelming sense of vindication after their fistful of awards at last night's Grammys! You go girls!!



It got me thinking though. About you. Not just you. I mean YOU. As in Time's person of the year is YOU! And if it really is about you. Here we are - 2007 - supposedly living in a time and place where everything is about YOU, where you are free to ping, text, blog, video or even utter face-to-face anything you want and it's ok. Except it's not really ok. At least not without the acquiesence of the greater informal majority. If the Dixie Chicks, with all their power in the American music industry, can get fired by their once adoring American neo-con fans, think about what can happen to YOU!

Now, I do not agree with the approach Natalie Main took to communicate her message. It could have been more thoughtful, less emotional - but it was right because giving her opinion, in a free country (even if she was, physically, in the UK), is her right. It's your right. Afterall, this is about YOU (remember?)!

I wonder what Voltaire would have thought.

The Baptism

I took a writing course a few years ago, the professor a published poet. It took no time for her to move from prose to poetry and she encouraged all of us to test its economy. I chose to write about my youngest daughter's baptism. I already had a few false starts attempting to articulate the day through prose. The results were unremarkable, displaying my penchant for the cumbersome and excessive. So, I took some poetic license (ha ha - yes I know that was bad!!) and came up with the piece below.

The exercise helped me focus better on my subject, let me feel her impatience, and despite all that, the sheer beauty and elevation of the moment. Sacraments often laud pageantry, and while I absolutely relish such acestheticism, it is often at the expense of my reluctant little stars. But then there are moments of sheer transcendence, when I feel the full circle of life and think " I would never do it any other way."


The Baptism

Living Water, blessed oils
Splashing from sacred urns
A call to everlasting
Destiny for her soul.

Silken gown, graceful lacery
Flouncing, flitting in the air
Ribbons jostling 'round wet lips
Tasting luxury of rare linens.

Pious hand, resting forward
Gentle on her delicate brow
Lavishes gifts of Holy Spirit
Enduring love and eternal grace.

Jarring sideways, restless twist
She tries to move away
Anxious for the doorway now
Curiosity wins!

And then a light, a melting beam
Sacramental towing line
Brings her back, facing forward
He anoints her with the Sign.


At the risk of drawing your attention to my weaknesses [if they aren't already obvious!!], my prof's comments: "Succinct use of language. Perhaps play with some lines to tighten the rhythmic flow [i.e. she thought I was getting wordy at the end of the second stanza - actually the end of most stanzas, in my opinion]. Suggest reading it aloud to help you accomplish this. Another thing you might try is a series of haikus as your piece is so beautifully visual!! Your ending image is wonderful! Lovely!"

Did I ever improve on it? Naaah. But I did like the idea of rewriting it as series of haikus. Now there's a challenge in austerity! Who knows? You may see it again, version 2, in the not too distant future. Or perhaps I will try a net new piece for my next great circle of life moment - First Communion. Just the thought of it makes me cry! Oh well, if I can't handle the all the emotion, I'll just focus on the dress. See? Pageantry does have purpose!

New Beginnings

To all visitors - I extend a warm welcome. It has been a while since I chose to simply write for enjoyment. Work takes my ideas, my writing elsewhere - no creativity there. So here I navigate a different path - one less analytical toward the unexplored.

I hope this site becomes both an entertaining and insightful experience for those that choose to visit and spend time here. Take away and leave behind what you wish. New ideas are always welcome!