myTPM | quinn esq's Blog

The Best Quiz America Ever Saw. Ever.

June 2, 2009, 8:04PM

Nationalism. It irritates the hell outta me, and I think it's pretty much the most destructive force left on the Earth. However. I also recognize the argument that different nations and their citizens can have somewhat different national characteristics. Which is what we'll be exploring in today's... QUIZ! (DickD, sit down and stop shouting. And no, Minnesota is not the right answer. To any question. Ever.)

Now, I get asked about the Canadian thing quite a bit. Some have suggested I should be sent from TPM to a frozen hell for my commenting sins. Then they stop... and think... redundant, right? And in truth, I'm not much of a Canadian nationalist. I've spent as much of my adult life in the USA and UK as I have in Canada, and my family is spread across 3 countries. Even today, I'm not overly-enthused about Canada's anthem, flag, Constitution or political leaders.

And yet... and yet... Canada does have universal health care, gun control, solvent banks, gay marriage, it's in Kyoto, has an energy surplus and a long tradition of peacekeeping. So, maybe there's something to this national characteristics business. What's given me the nudge to blog on this is that Canada just bought 12.5% of G.M. Which means it's probably time we get to know each other a little bit better. Who knows, that old saying - "What's good for G.M. is good for America" - may need a new coat of paint. Now. As Mrs. MacPherson used to say, "What better way to learn than through a quiz? Eh, children?" Well, what better way indeed?

Here's how it's played: I drew up a list of Canadian singers, actors, inventors and action figures that most Americans will know. I then set out choices which will help in highlighting our different national characteristics. Your job? Pick out the Canadians. It starts easy, gets harder, and the points rise accordingly. And yes, I may use the occasional trick.

ANSWERS AT BOTTOM OF POST. DON'T BE LOOKIN' IF YOU DON'T WANNA BE KNOWIN'.

AND NO USING WIKIPEDIA. There's no benefit to you from cheating. Other than gloating. And getting a higher score. And probably succeeding in life, vs. totally failing.

PART I. TWENTY REALLY FREAKIN' EASY ONES, JUST SO WE ALL GET SOME POINTS ON THE BOARD, EH? 2 POINTS APIECE. NOW, LET'S PLAY... FIND THE CANADIAN!

1- Star Trek's Manly & Decisive Captain, James T. Kirk (William Shatner) or... Chief Engineer and Totally-The-Biggest-Whiner-Ever, "Scotty" (James Doohan)?

2- Actress/Adultress Pamela Anderson, famous from Baywatch and the whole Tommy Lee sex video thing, or... Lucy Maud Montgomery, author of Anne of Green Gables?

3- The great economist John Kenneth Galbraith, author of The Affluent Society, standing 6' 9" tall and noble of bearing, producing another fine economist as his son, and ultimately living to age 97, or... Malcolm Gladwell, pop sociologist who has written the so-called "books," The Tipping Point, Blink and Outliers?

4- The inventors of the hand-held electronic device, the Blackberry, or... the long-haired hippie environmental founders of Greenpeace?

5- Torture-freak Jack Bauer of 24 (Kiefer Sutherland) or... cosmic e-hero and Savior of us all, Neo, from the Matrix (Keanu Reeves)?

6- Nia Vardalos (My Big Fat Greek Wedding) or... Big Fat Loveable John Candy (Johnny LaRue, Dewey Oxberger, Yosh Shmenge)?

7- Top-notch investigator Samantha Bee of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, or... bedpost-notching Samantha Jones (Kim Cattrall) of Sex & the City?

8- The creators of the joyous and transformative Cirque du Soleil, or... the inventors of the sit-on-your-fat-asses-and-try-to-remember-useless-facts game, Trivial Pursuit?

9- "America's Sweetheart," Mary Pickford, or... "Canada's Snowbird," Anne Murray? (Ok... may need to work on these.)

10- Social critic Naomi Klein (No Logo & The Shock Doctrine), or... Nationalist Socialite, Charles "Krazier Than A Shithouse Rat" Krauthammer?

11- Wrestler "Rowdy" Roddy Piper, or... Bret "the Hitman" Hart?

12- Selfish Young Republican Alex P. Keaton of Family Ties (Michael J. Fox), or... "Uber-Wimp" Chandler Bing of Friends (Matthew Perry)?

13- Lookalikes Lily Munster (Yvonne De Carlo), or... Celine "Please God, Won't Somebody Kill Her" Dion?

14- Lorne Michaels, creator/producer of Saturday Night Live, or... James Cameron, director of really REALLY big shows like Titanic, Terminator and Aliens?

15- Show-off architect Frank Gehry with his Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, or... Seller of useful household products, The Fuller Brush Man?

16- Master of Scottish & Liverpudlian accents, Mike Myers (Wayne's World and Austin Powers), or... The very loud Jim Carrey (Dumb & Dumber and Ace Ventura)?

17- Ellen Page of "Juno," or... Rachel McAdams, of "Mean Girls"?

18- Margaret Atwood, or... Saul Bellow?

19- James Gosling, creator of the programming language "Java," or... another guy named Gosling, "Ryan" Gosling, an actroid who has starred as a Neo-Nazis Jew, a crack-smoking teacher, and a guy named Lars who falls in love with a blow-up doll.

20- Bob & Doug McKenzie (I donno their real names, who does?) from "The Great White North," or... Leslie Nielsen from Airplane?

Just like being back in school, eh? C'mon... Turn it up.

Luke 4

April 19, 2009, 11:45AM

I first preached in church when I was 17. Wore a light blue polyester suit. I had never spoken in public before. Never. Not even in school. Every year, my English teachers would insist that I go to the front of the class, and do some public-speaking. Every year I'd refuse, they'd give me a zero, and that'd be that. I was happy to crack jokes from my seat, but go stand up front of everyone? No chance. Same thing kept me from answering the phone, or buying things in the store. I had to get other people to do it for me.

However, I felt seized of a topic. A message. Couldn't sleep. Knew what I had to do. I talked to my father - a Deacon - and he arranged it. We were the kind of Baptist Church that tried to live out that "priesthood of all believers" thing, so we let members of the congregation preach from time to time. The Deacons ok'ed it for me. After all, I was a pretty conservative, clean-cut kid. Never drank, had never had sex, and my career path was to become a lawyer, and maybe someday, the next local Conservative MP. None of those things changed 'til I was 20.

The Sunday came, and I stepped up to the pulpit. Terrified. I remember I gripped the edges of the wooden pulpit and did not let go. Through the entire sermon. I knew what scripture I wanted to read. I say "wanted to," but truth was, it felt like "had to." The scripture was just a couple of verses from Luke 4. The ones where Jesus preaches about healing the brokenhearted, bringing sight to the blind, release to those in prison. But especially, about bringing "Good news to the poor."

After that opening verse, I basically just called it as I saw it. Said that "poor" meant just what it said - poor. I talked about how our village (480 people) was split into the reasonably well off, and those who had nothing at all. I stated what we all knew, that the poor were easy to find, because they all lived on the dirt roads. That was the boundary. They had houses with dirt floors, outhouses and broken windows. I was polite when I described this, because I liked the people in my church - the paved road people. They're weren't rich, just better off. Their houses were well kept, they taught school or ran the post office or had a gas station or owned a functioning farm. They sang in choirs, and organized free bricks and labour to build our school, made a baseball field for us kids. My people.

But I knew - we all knew - that we didn't cross that line onto the dirt roads. Unless you were after bootleg liquor, or women maybe - "running the roads" as they called it. Or maybe you needed extra hands for picking apples, or maybe some welding done. We all knew what went on in those homes. There was no way to say this all directly. But this is what I knew, what I saw.

A family with 13 kids in a two room shack. The kids were called "the grubs" they were so dirty. Filthy. You'd hunt them, with rocks. Hit 'em - and hit 'em hard. Grubs. Another family, the father's name was exactly the same as that President you lost in 1963. Really. This guy drove truck. They lived in the top of an old chicken barn. The dried chicken shit still there, inches deep. That was their floor. With a big color tv set up on it. Both kids were his, a boy and a girl. They say he fucked 'em both. The boy used to drool out the window of the bus. The girl went to college. Second year, jumped out a window in her residence. A different kid, from down the road, used to come up to the farm a lot. Told my Dad he liked it at our place, asked if it was ok. Dad said sure. A few months later the kid comes up to our place with a gun. Goes out behind the barn and blows his head off. Another time, my Dad gets a call, this guy, 50 maybe, had been on a bender for a week. Was out of control. Everybody phoned my Dad when stuff like this happened. We drove down. The guy came raging out of the shed where they fixed equipment, screaming. Dad walked up to him, and the guy bit him. Tore a chunk right out of his arm. I drove with Dad to the hospital afterward. This other guy, I worked with him when we built the ball-field. Old guy. Nice. Sweet. Just never bothered much with fixing his place up. Tough as nails. Except, you let your house slide too far, and hit a real cold night, you might not make it. He didn't. Froze. And the really badly off families lived on the dirt roads that went up the mountain. The cops broke one incest ring up there, dozens of adults involved, going back generations. They gave this one kid 7 years in the Pen for incest. Billy. We knew him from school. He used to stand and bang his head against the concrete blocks. He wasn't really retarded, just slow. Spoke in a real soft whisper. Anyway, the whole thing's in the national papers, tv. Judge says to him, "I'm giving you 7 years because you have shown no remorse. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Billy says, "What's remorse?" He meant it.

Ultraviolet (Light My Way.)

February 14, 2009, 3:43PM

Tetrachromatic Vision.

Birds can see in the ultraviolet.

Red, green, blue... and ultraviolet. "Tetrachromatic" vision.

Whereas we can only see three.

Our brains, our words, our beliefs are all hard-wired to the idea that what we see... is what is real. If we can't see it, it doesn't exist.

I can see what you're saying.

The problem is that what we see - and thus, what we think is real - is limited. Only part of the picture. There are all sorts of wavelengths out there - radio waves and microwaves and X-rays and gamma rays. But not only don't we see them, we don't even recognize our close cousin - ultraviolet.

Light... that we can't see.

But it's out there. Bouncing off things, headed straight back at our eyes. We might like to blink it away, refuse to take it in. But in it comes. And still, our heads, our brains, can't make sense of it.

It's happening to you right now.

We filter, distort, what everything "looks like." What is.

Birds can do better. They can see large stretches of ultraviolet light. Which means every bird we see, the colors we know so well - we're seeing differently than the birds see themselves.

Crows, are not pure Black... to other birds. They have great splashes of color. Robins with their Red breasts, Blue Jays, Snowy Owls - we've got them all wrong.

We failed in one of the first tasks we were given. We've misnamed them. Mistaken them for what they are not.

Birds see everything differently - plants, animals, sunshine, the sky. They're all colored differently, once you can see into the ultraviolet.

Even the expressions on our faces look different, if you could see as birds do.

Our minds can't grasp what it's like to see in the ultraviolet, because we're locked into seeing the limited color range we're used to. It's not like you can just add another color to the mix. Nope. All the relationships between the colors, all the shadings and patterns, all the brain cells we use for vision - they all would need to change. Each of us color blind, blind, to what is right there before us.

Oh yeah. And all those skin colors we think we are? Black and white and red and yellow and all that?

Wrong. We aren't any of those colors. Not really.

None of us know what color we really are. At least, not in the eyes of God. Nor in the eyes of Science.

Fade to black?

Yes or No.

February 3, 2009, 12:13AM

Do you prefer really short, one sentence blogs.... or really long, boring, 7 pagers?

Yes, or No.

- quinn

P.S. I am writing this blog under duress.

P.P.S. No, not dress, duress.

P.P.P.S. Though it is my girlfriend Mildred who is making me write this post.

P.P.P.P.S. Originally, I had some really cool YouTube videos that I wanted to attach, but the hitting dancing was pretty heavy duty.

P.P.P.P.P.S. And also, butt secks.

Dave Letterman, Bill Hicks, Truth & Reconciliation

January 31, 2009, 5:04PM

Back in 1993, David Letterman cut a comedian's performance from his show. Apparently because the guy made some jokes about pro-lifers.

Last night, Letterman had the comedian's mother on his show, and he... apologized to her. Repeatedly. Talked to her for 10 minutes. Then showed the tape of the routine the comedian had originally done, which Letterman had once censored. The tapes keep getting yanked from YouTube, but the 3 parts are here, here and here. (If you can't see these links, please search for Letterman last night, with Mary Hicks.)

They had to show the performance on tape, because the comedian - Bill Hicks - had died back in '93, just a few months after the censoring episode. He'd been dying from pancreatic cancer at the time of the show (though Letterman didn't know that.)

Bill was 32.

It interests me how these two actions by Letterman signify how times have changed. The original show was due to air in October 1993, just months after Clinton had been elected, putting an end to Bush 43's (and Reagan's) onslaught. To compare, last night's show came just months after Obama was elected... putting an end to Bush 44's (and Cheney's) destruction.

Maybe it's Letterman's own aging, maybe he's in ill health & is just rethinking some things. But there's also the fact that when Clinton won, there was little sense that the cultural momentum of the Reagan right had been stopped. That Letterman could come on last night, apologize for what he'd done, and then show the entire clip - including the pro-life jokes - says something. In fact, Letterman said it himself, wondering why he'd censored it in the first place. Because, looking at it now, there seemed to be nothing wrong with Hicks' routine. That Hicks was likely just "ahead of his time."

In short, one small sign that perhaps times have changed. Maybe even that the Right is no longer ascendant culturally.

Something else that went through my mind is that what Letterman did, gave us a glimpse into how Truth & Reconciliation processes might work. Yes, yes, it was quite different than a formal process. But. Letterman sat Hicks' mother down, and talked with her, at length. About the fact that he had cut her son off (after 12 previous appearances on his show), and how that must have felt, with she & Bill already knowing he was dying of cancer.

And it was uncomfortable. Mary Hicks was still visibly angry. She stated, outright, what she felt. And a national icon had to take it, directly, publicly, from one he had harmed.

Letterman did extremely well, I thought. He had grace. He dealt with what he'd done directly, face to face. He replayed the whole original performance by Hicks. And he did this all (seemingly, at least) of his own volition.

It's worth watching, from beginning to end, just for a sense of the dynamic. How the audience initially doesn't "get it." The strain on Mary Hicks' face. Her strength in speaking up, telling Letterman what she thought. And for Letterman's own actions, how he handles this.

It's a crack, but only a crack, in the wall of wrongs that have been thrown up. But maybe it can show us a way to do some of what we know needs to be done. To right at least some of the wrongs of the past 8.... no, let's tell the truth here... of at least these past 28 years.

My friend Jack sent me the tape this morning. We're part of a group of 7 friends, who meet up for a weekend at least every year, who e-mail daily, who see each other whenever we can. We come from different places, work in different fields, have very different families. But one thing we agree on - Bill Hicks is the greatest comedian of the last 20+ years. And yet, most Americans don't have a clue who he is. This homegrown genius, a blow-the-roof-off voice from Texas, Bill Hicks was - his strength & his destruction - an utterly fearless truth-teller.

The fearlessness that made us cheer out loud was - of course - when Hicks went after our enemies. He savaged consumerism. He went after the viciousness & hypocrisy of the Gulf War with Iraq with a chainsaw. He was our rabid pit-bull on Reagan & Bush 43 and Rush & Jesse Helms. And perhaps because he was raised Southern Baptist, he went after militant fundamentalism with everything he had.

"It Seemed So Plausible." (4:27)

And yes, every clip has bad language.

Every Single One Of Your Atoms... Has Been In A Jam

January 17, 2009, 11:45AM

This man serving communion through the wall at the US-Mexican border reminds me of my friend.

Or rather, he reminds me of a friend of mine from twenty-odd years ago. My friend had it all. Brilliant. Well-spoken. Funny. Kind. Tall too. He had a fade-away jumper that floated on air, and he blew past defenders like smoke through trees. At the start, all I knew was that he was from La Jolla, Ivy League, and seemed to have the Royal Jelly. But after his time with us, we all knew where he'd end up. In politics. Either at, or somewhere near the top.

This man serving communion today, is not the young man who was my friend. For starters, this man's body is older. I talked to some scientists, and they tell me this man's body is made up of a quite different mix of atoms. Atoms seem to have come & joined him, from many places, people & times. Atoms from mammals that once danced in front of the jaws of dinosaurs. Atoms from Gandhi's own smile (as well as from that famous loincloth.) Atoms from recent immigrants, now lying cold & dead in the Mexican desert.

Others tell me his spirit has also changed. Not just in relation to God, since he went from being an agnostic to becoming a man of the cloth. But also in relation to those people, the ones in the picture - the ones on the other side of the wall. Now, I don't know the right word for their relationship. It's not as complete as a "joining," nor so limited & mechanical as a "connection." But whatever it is, it's as real as the fact that all those atoms keep moving, swapping places, refusing to be hemmed in (or out) by age, sex, race, religion, color or creed. Heck, atoms aren't even hemmed in by species or substance.

So, the same man, yes. But also... changed. Changed because he chose the path without the red carpet. Traded it in for 20 years in the desert. But changed most deeply because, when he came to a place of division, a wall - he decided to reach across it, take a hand. And not let go.

The place where he's serving communion is Friendship Park, down on the beach, where San Diego meets Tijuana. Once it was a place where families divided by the border could join together for meals, anniversaries, births, deaths, celebrations. They could touch, talk, handle babies, pass news on, keep hope alive. A place that straddled both sides of an invisible line in the sand. A line scratched by some men who felt the need to divide the lives of others. In the 70's, the place was made a park, and a monument placed there, by Pat Nixon, marking it as a place of Friendship. Later, the border became a fence - but you could still see, touch, talk through it. Permeable.

But now, the Bush Government - citing Homeland Security needs - has seized the land. They've overridden all relevant laws, denied any & all public approvals & consultations, ignored birds & animals, and are slamming shut the door on this meeting place for the families of California, and Mexico. By building a massive wall - 3 walls in fact, with a wide 'No Man's Land" in-between. This very week in fact, they've reached the stage of painting numbers across the very heart of the Park itself, to direct the bulldozers. Tens of millions of dollars spent, just on this stretch alone, to....

Well, I'll let the wall speak for itself....

I've Come Unstuck In Time

January 5, 2009, 2:54PM

Like Billy Pilgrim, I've come unstuck in time. And I think I like it.

For years now, I've woken up & not known what day it was. Or where I was. Or even who I was. And yes, that last one in particular can be a bit frightening, waking up & in your mind's eye your mind's hands are racing through filing cards with names on them, Dewey's Decimals doing their job, but none of the names seem to fit, though you're sure you'll remember _____ ____ when you see it. But usually, it works.

Coming unstuck in time is actually reasonably OK with me. For starters, these entire past 40 years felt to me like they were outside of history anyway. From when I was a kid & they shot Bobby Kennedy, back in '68, it seemed like I was in the middle of a dystopian movie, stuck in the part where the complete bastards were in control, and the idea that this was a workable state of affairs just seemed ludicrous (as well as being a complete-downer), and I couldn't wait 'til the later chapters, when the good guys would come through.

Funny, just now I opened good ole Kurt's Schlachthof Fünf, to remind myself of how Billy Pilgrim ended up, and here's how Kurt starts that final chapter. "Robert Kennedy, whose summer house is eight miles from the house I live in year round, was shot two nights ago. He died last night. So it goes."

So I guess I picked a good time to come unstuck. 1968.

Anyway, this Christmas seemed to be an especially strong season for bouncing back & forth in time. More than back & forth, I regularly hit all the Noughts & the 90's & the 80's & the 70's & so on... and now & then I let go & floated all the way back, back, to the 1920's or the 1750's or the 1010's & so on... but most interesting was that sometimes I'd be hurled long, into the future, History's own Hail Mary, little Doug Flutie chucking for Heaven now, and my mind has - at last - become the ball. In short, I found myself landing on various possible future timelines, and sometimes they looked like they were being offered up as is, while other times they looked like they were there for us to shape if we wished - like Neil Stephenson's Anathem & its Mathic heroes. Yes, there were paths where we rewired the economy & laid down some smokin' green infrastructure & did hearty community stuff. But also, there were times when I got tossed deep into the End-zone, paths that all pretty much ended with us freezing in the dark, ambitions no higher than to keep our heads out of the sights of Mad Maxian militiamen.

You know what I mean. Help me here, work with me people.

Beware The Little Fellow With An Idea

December 18, 2008, 5:12AM

Bumping home in the cab. Broke my toe, and since it's -40 out, no way I'm walking home. Tried that yesterday. Two & a half miles home, in that cold. Thought I'd "test the foot." Somebody should test my head. Anyway, cab rides can be interesting.

I'm headed out of the old industrial North End, down the big boulevard to the Legislature, past the park there, the one with the little statue of William Stephenson. Hometown boy. His story starts small, seemingly not enough to warrant a statue. World War One, just another kid who signs up, gets gassed. But at least he stuck it out. Came home, started his own hardware business, based around some can opener he'd seen in England. Did well, made some money. Typical "little guy does pretty well" story. Not worth a statue though. Even a little one.

But when World War Two rolls around, he becomes something else entirely. A Man Called Intrepid. Churchill's representative to FDR. The guy who helps create MI5, the OSS & the CIA. Part of the whole story around breaking the Enigma code, he also sets up Camp X to train the Allies' secret agents, saboteurs, commandos.

And is apparently the guy Ian Fleming says he built James Bond around.

But in this town... no 007 hype. Even though Stephenson was real, helped win a real War, against real Baddies.

Most of us live in nowhere towns like this, or nowhere parts of bigger towns. And no matter where we are, we tend to think of ourselves as everyday, normal, people. Little people. The Media & the Politicians & the Rich & Powerful like to support us in that self-image. Once every 4 years they preach that it's all about the little people in the small towns, but after that... it's 24/7 for the Big Boys.

Bumpbump, bumpbump, BANG... pothole. No way to ever stop these streets from frost-heaving, I guess. People here complain about the roads, and the cold, same as anywhere else. But they know they're well off not to have to face the cold head-on, full-blast, like earlier generations did. Hard to imagine, the Ukrainians & the Mennonites, the Germans & the Poles, the Brits & the French, who'd spilt so much of each other's blood, coming here, living together. Wintering in sod houses on the open Prairie, or freezing cold shacks in the cities. But when you're little people, and you live half-buried in the ground & half-exposed to a Nature that big, that raw, it humbles you a bit. You learn how to keep your head down, to pull together. You leave the old shit in the old country's latrine.

And you learn how to wink. Like, if you're a guy lucky enough to be named Homer, and with the good fortune to be born halfway between Moose Jaw & Swift Current, and the treble true blessing to be Mennonite - well, you know that's pretty much a one-way ticket to Forgotten-town for you. But if you work hard, and you're patient, and you give your kid a better name, like Matt, maybe someday he'll get lucky, and get to make cartoons on TV. And then he can slip a wink inside the jokes he tosses into all those little towns & little peoples' homes. Like so -

This is what I'm thinking about, bouncing along in the cab, through this funny little town. Funny little city, I should probably say. 730,000 people, that's the size of places like Scranton, Youngstown, Syracuse. This one perhaps most notable for the fact that it's the world's coldest capital city. Yep, Moscow & Stockholm & Anchorage & Ottawa are cold. But this place is colder. Not unexpected, when you're 6 hours drive North of Minneapolis, 3 hours North of Fargo. They hired some hotshots to re-brand the region a few years back. Some wit/arse suggested "North of North Dakota." The branding experts from NYC didn't smile. But we did.

This past week though... -40 windchills, every day. -40 being where Celsius & Fahrenheit meet, nod stiffly, and snowshoe on in silence. Too cold to take off the gloves & shake. Cold that makes your breath freeze & fall to the ground. Cold that makes your eyes water, then flash-freezes them shut. This year, I've learned this kind of cold makes new fillings hurt like hell. Nice touch. Coupla years back, it fell to -70 Fahrenheit with the windchill. Walked to work in it, 2 and 1/2 miles each way, just so I could say I did it.

Ummm... "I did it?" About as smart as "testing the foot."

Now what I hope you're thinking at this point is, "Wow. Not many rich people, powerful people, sexy people, smart people, are gonna rush to a town like that, right?" Right. But it does make the place a good test-zone for what human beings - regular little people - can do for themselves.

And obviously, for starters, they have to find ways to amuse themselves in the mornings. Pet Coffee Tricks, for instance.

Fewer, Better Things.

December 14, 2008, 2:22PM

Fewer, Better Things

Our lives are full of things. Disposable distractions,

Stuff you buy but do not cherish, own yet never love.

Thrown away in weeks, rather than passed down for generations.

Perhaps things will be different now.

Wiser choices made with greater care.

After all, if the fewer things you own always excite you,

Would you really miss the many that never could?

- The De Beers Family of Companies

Just in time for Christmas, the world's largest diamond producer, De Beers, is doubling its U.S. advertizing budget. And one totally great thing is that they're going to re-run that "Hands" ad, which was, they say, "the most enjoyable & persuasive television commercial EVER."

No half-measures from these lads. "The ad blitz is expected to reach 97 million U.S. consumers, or nearly half the adult population, at least 6 times each over the holday season." Whoo-hoo! That's bringing out the big drill bits. And it'll be "Backed by a powerful & targeted combination of national & local television." Which, in turn, will be "Backed by the highest levels of print media EVER, including 128 full-page color insertions in the New York Times, LA Times & Wall Street Journal." And that backed by the same in "Magazines of authority and stature, such as The New Yorker, Fortune, Forbes, The Economist, Time, Newsweek, Business Week." And all of this "synergistically linked with a highly-targeted online campaign covering rich media, e-mail and search engines." And no way they're forgetting their "premium online partners."

So you all can stop worrying about De Beers, and the hard economic times they're facing. They're big boys. Pros. They've done their polling & consumer & focus group homework. Which says - GREAT NEWS... FOR DE BEERS! - that 46% of Americans who already own diamonds say they want more. Let's say that again, shall we? THEY WANT MORE! Well... ME TOO! Right now, I'm checking out their...

Marie-Antoinette Yellow Cushion Ring!

Damn! This thing is so SMOKIN' hot, it deserves 24 point font!

12,000 years ago... 12 miles from Nazareth

December 12, 2008, 3:25PM

"12,000 years ago... In a cave, 12 miles from Nazareth...."

I'm reading to the Ice Weasels again. Most stories, they don't like. This one, they're wearing it out. Or rather, wearing me out.

It's time-consuming, and a bit frustrating, because I know that they can read. For instance, just this afternoon I sat with Sir Charles Kerwallop-Bollock while he tabbed back & forth through the 87 plastic-encased pages of the "Operating Instructions for a Pioneer PDP-4360HD Plasma TV" (translated by one Sulaiman bin Bedlam of Kuala Lumpur), and lemme tell you, Chuckie's paws were a blur.

See, Tech manuals are easy, 'cause there's no emotional content. You see a Weasel reading one, and the only unusual thing you'll notice is an excess of drool. The only thing they "feel" is a straight-up surge of information on how to dismember these suckers. After the info's been absorbed, comes the metallic disembowelling, and devouring.

But stories? No chance. They won't touch 'em. When they want a story, they haul one over to me, plunk themselves down in a circle, hold each others paws, steady themselves, and ask that I read it to them. And then, if they like it, reread it. And reread it again.

The problem with them reading directly is that the Weasels respond, quite actively, to what they read. They'll act out the moods, the conflicts, the twists & turns of the stories. They call it "dancing," and sometimes it's got that feeling to it. They bounce along on their toes, little paws held up in front of them, bobbing up and down, and it's kinda cute - sortof B-52's, Love Shack.

But the dancing tends to "escalate" with the quality of the story. The more twists & turns, multiple characters & (better) multiple personalities, bad puns & cosmic haha's, made-up spacemen & inside-outskie parallel universes get thrown in - the faster they rev.

Most news stories, TV shows, sitcoms, Hollywood movies - to them, that crap might as well be a Tech manual. They get the message, of which there's always & only ever one per story, and respond accordingly. They spit. Throw old appliances. Hurl. Heckle. "Caaaaaaaake," they mock.

But a good story - well, those are dangerous. Huck Finn gets 'em running around in a circle, whooping like mad, doing this aerial somersault thing that's quite impressive, even if it does end up with a lot of blood & bandages. You escalate to Alan Moore, and they'll start gnawing themselves, then the neighbors, and by the end, I'm damned hard-pressed to call the sight of a couple of hundred Ice Weasels clawing at their own flesh "dancing."

And Tom Robbins? Forget it. I won't read that shit to 'em anymore. It's like crack meets ecstasy meets, I donno, naked Natasha Kinski in Cat People. They're ecstatic by the Foreword, leaping & piling-on in great fur-heaps when the pleasure hits, carnassials gnashing & shearing in despair if it looks like the joy juice is gonna stop flowing, and at the climax, all those anal scent glands release, and the level of sexual & sensual arousal reaches heights probably only matched by a Pentecostal Girls Choir watching Elvis in leather.

Thus, the need for prophylactic measures. i.e. Me. Doing the reading. To them. And lately, they can't get enough of this one story. So I read them version after version, from the original scientific report in pdf through the mass media coverage, even throw in a couple of blogs. (They hate blogs. "Reading that TPM gruel again, are we multigrain?" Once they start in on the nasty stuff about "wanting to be Josh's boytoy," I tend to give in & read 'em whatever the hell they want. On the plus side, it does mean I'm fairly safe reporting on them here. Not like they're gonna read it.) Anyway. A riff in Time they've taken a liking to:

"A new figure in humanity's history emerged last week when archaeologists announced the discovery of what could be one of the world's oldest known spiritual figures. After years of meticulous excavation just miles from Israel's Mediterranean coast, scientists from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem unearthed a 12,000-year-old grave that held the remains of a diminutive 'shaman' woman...."

"The grave is thought to belong to the Natufian culture, a nomadic society which existed roughly between 11,500 and 15,000 years ago. Located near other burial sites in Hilazon Tachtit, the woman's body was distinctly encased in a limestone enclosure, a tomb sealed by a rock slab that Grosman's team managed to lift in 2006."

Which got them pretty excited. Picture a stuffed furry animal, 4 feet tall, titanium teeth, Taser in one paw, blowtorch in the other, cartwheeling, and shouting in an extremely high-pitched chittering language. Now picture 280 of them cartwheeling, blowtorching & Tasering - each other - in perfect harmony, and you've got a show that would intimidate the Chinese Olympic Organizing Committee.

That's the gist of the story. If you're up for a long ramble, there's more. And if you don't know what an Ice Weasel is yet, well, that's damned sad. And you can look here. But meanwhile, it'll cost you a Rec for the rest of the story. Life is hard.

Rockin' In The Free World

December 1, 2008, 7:59PM

Imagine you lived in California, and voted 62%-38% in favor of Obama, and even though he won... as a result of some split amongst your elected officials in the Electoral College, you ended up with a government run by... Dick Cheney.

How would you feel?

About the same as 33 million Canadians felt after their October 14th election, where the Conservatives (and their deeply distrusted - detested-by-moi - leader, Stephen Harper) won power - but with just 38% support at the polls.

But then, hope lost, how would you feel if your elected officials (spread across 3 parties) pulled their heads out of their armpits, and decided to form a Coalition. Which meant, out of the blue, you got the opportunity to bring in what was, officially, the most progressive & most widely-inclusive government in your history?

Yup. That's how a lot of Canadians are feeling today. 'Cause it just happened, up North.

YEAH, BABY!

The Conservatives ran as the party of moderation, lots of "concern for people during tough times," non-ideological, willing to work with all parties... and their leader, the former Mr Nasty, showing up in ads wearing comfortable sweaters.

But, first chance they got - and only with a Minority of 143 seats in a 308 seat Parliament - announced a seriously nasty set of political reversals. First, he abandoned all pretense of the need for fiscal stimulus, and in fact, brought in major budget cuts. Even though he'd just lined up with the G20 on the other side. Then, he announced he was eliminating public funding of political parties, whereby every party gets $1.95 per vote received (Harper's means to bring back in full private funding.) And for good - vengeful - measure, announced he was banning the right to strike for public service unions for the next 3 years.

But in the last 72 hours, oh joy, oh bliss, the 3 opposition parties have found some backbone. Even in the face of internal leadership races, they've dropped their differences, and formed a governing coalition. The first government ever to bring the social democrats of the New Democratic Party into Federal Cabinet, and the first coalition between any two parties since WW I.

The Liberals & the NDP have signed an Accord to cooperate for the next 2 & 1/2 years, and gotten the separatist Bloc Quebecois to support it for the next 18 months. And even though the Conservative bullies are now panicked & abandoned their nastier stances (already dropping the party funding & strike ban pledges), the Center-Left Coalition appears to have found their gumption.

A Liberal (Dion) will be interim PM until May (when their leadership convention will select either Rae or Ignatieff); the NDP will get 6 seats of 24 in Cabinet; and the Bloc will support the Coalition on votes, but take no Ministerial seats. Giving them a 163-143 voting majority.

And the Accord? To give you a flavor, here's the first sentence of the Preamble to the Accord on a Cooperative Government to Address the Present Economic Crisis: "The new Government is supported by parties that share a commitment to fiscal responsibility and a progressive agenda...."

Gotta say, I am lovin' having "progressive" spelled right out, and an officially Left party actually at the table with the Centrist Liberals. The leaders coming into Cabinet from both parties, while far from perfect, at least have some intelligence, and some real progressive commitments. Dion studied in France & led the way on Kyoto; Layton also taught university & was a progressive, and very green, Toronto City Councillor; Rae took a Rhodes to Oxford & was then the NDP Premier of Ontario; (bloody) Ignatieff (cough cough) went to Harvard & Cambridge (and was/is a tosser); Duceppe of the Bloc was a trade unionist; and other Ministers likely to come from groups as varied as the steelworkers through NHL players like Ken Dryden of the Habs.

Policy-wise they've put forward their initial proposals, including running a fiscal stimulus; expanding infrastructure investment in public transit, clean energy and water; a major expansion of child care & early childhood education; boosting employment insurance; reforming bankruptcy; adding income support for older workers who lose their jobs; support for a cap & trade system within the Kyoto framework; cancellation of the cuts to the Arts budget; more affordable housing & home retrofits; Universal Health Care is now safer; the commitment to Kyoto will get a bigt boost; and protections & budget items for immigrants, gays & Aboriginals will all increase.

For Obama, this would mean a fierce supporter of helping the Big 3 and the Autoworkers, along with a major impetus to push them toward a green retooling; stronger support at the G20 and other international agreements; a continental partner to move with on Climate Change; a partner who agrees on getting out of Iraq, but who has a significant troop presence in Afghanistan & wants some a constructive solution; a neighbor who won't be working the backrooms with the GOP to undermine him; and which will hopefully continue to offer an example of how universal health care can work, while also testing other reforms.

Is it a done deal yet? No. First, Parliament has to have a non-confidence vote (which Harper will try & avoid), and then the 3 parties have to vote down the Conservatives. And then, the Head of State - Governor General Michaelle Jean - will have to ask the opposition coalition to form a working government. Jean, by the way, is a female Haitian immigrant, who speaks 6 languages, and is an award-winning reporter, filmmaker and broadcaster.

And yes, the spine could still fail. The Conservatives still pull their fat from the fire. But right now, tonight, is for celebration.

And now... it's over to Neil. On behalf of those of us who walk amongst you, invisible except for our hoods, our walking sticks, and... our periodic shows of spine.

Neil. Bring it.

Leapfroggers vs. Leapfliers.

November 29, 2008, 5:13PM

Leapfrog. We've all heard it applied to Developing World countries, right? As in, these countries don't need to repeat every single step we took on our path to development. And we'd all tend to agree that it'd be good if they could leapfrog over the hellhole factories our grandparents worked in, brutal social practices like child labor, and the inefficient old technologies, like those big thick glasses with the ugly black frames.

The sexier version of the leapfrog idea says these countries should leapfrog over even our more recent technologies, go straight to cell phones & skip the landlines; or go straight to solar PV panels, instead of massive dams.

Most of us can see there's some sense in this. It's not a perfect idea, because sometimes the older ways are healthier or more efficient or more sustainable. But cell phones vs landlines, PV panels vs coal plants... I suspect most of us would nod at that thought.

In my mind, the leapfrog idea wants to bounce ahead of this image. Where it wants to go is toward imagining where we could leapfrog to. Because the actual game we played didn't just mean you had to bend down & hold a squat while the kids in the rear jumped over you. Played right, it would go on & on, a constantly-moving chain of kids, their positions always changing, the whole thing moving forward. That was the aim, to see where you could make the chain go, not just to replace the leaders with the laggards.

But there are counter-ideas that hold us back from seriously pursuing leapfrogging, for ourselves. Perhaps most powerful is the fact that we all know our social & economic & political world has produced some real problems. And the natural tendency is to look first to "fix" them... and not mess the good things up. Fix the bad, keep the good, right? And there's some damn good roots to this desire. Most valuable, that it expresses our desire to ease the suffering of those who're worst off in our societies.

We see how we are.

There Is No Wealth But Life.

November 26, 2008, 5:39PM

When we were kids, we got one present each year.

Pick something faddish, or breakable, or only useful during a limited season, and you were out of luck. Worse, luck might actively turn against you. Like the year I chose skates, used them once, stashed them in a garbage bag to take on the bus, and then had to live without, after they accidentally got tossed - and forever lost - at the dump.

I remember those presents. Each one. The wonderful, dark green, 3-speed bike I got one Christmas, completely forgetting I couldn't drive it for 6 months, but trying anyway, and wiping out on the icy road, chipping its paint, bending a rim, on Christmas Day. Or the year I chose a baseball catcher's glove. Even though I played both baseball & softball, I could only choose one glove, which I would then have to use in both games, catching balls of very different sizes. I chose wrongly, enthralled by the professional-looking, but smaller, baseball glove. Its real-world upside was greater padding, but the downside outweighed that, as it made catching the larger softball almost impossible.

Lest you fear I'm headed toward (another) nostalgic glorification of poverty, let me reassure you, hunger & cold haven't yet taken on any happy glow in my memory. But there are things to be learned from those days of being poor. Things our economic high priests have worked to obliterate. Things we might do well to bring back up, within ourselves, in these times. Things like, the value of something doesn't necessarily rise with its glitzy appearance; that flexibility or durability or quality may not equal dozens of specialized, add-on, features; that value may, instead, rise when we put more skill into its use; rise again if we add passion; even more, if its social & natural setting gives it room to breathe; and move of the charts, if it's shared with others.

For a kid, each present was of real importance, as it shaped what we could & could not do for the next year. And it's for that reason each one sits in my mind, fully-detailed even today, carrying not just memories, but lessons. Like the Christmas my brother picked one of those plastic race-car track sets. The initial, incredible, excitement. The plans for a hundred magical configurations & derbys. All smashed when the cars broke, late that first day, impossible to repair. And the gloom that followed.

Or the year he chose incredibly wisely, a basketball. This, on a farm of 16 boys, most of them already past 6 feet (& headed closer to 7), made it truly, our golden ball. Beyond the joy of the game, however, lay the fact that he was its sole owner - there was no chance the parents would ever buy two. Which meant that whenever he felt like it, he took his ball... and went home. Not being permitted to punch him (amongst other very specific, and strictly-enforced, rules on how we were permitted to fight), I remember following him on that long walk home, kicking him the entire way, using the side of my foot (no toe-kicking allowed.) We both remember that walk. And yes, we worked it out. We all learned to play together, to take care of each other's stuff, to ask to borrow it, and say thanks after. And the games got better, and so did our enjoyment. (And yes, I've since apologized to him. Although he - the miserly, game-wrecking, Grinchy bastard - has yet to do so.)

Without wanting to be too snotty ("too snotty" being anything over 7 on the snot scale), there is more economic sense in what I learned from the present-picking process than from most of the Latin chanting our high economic priesthood offers these days. The most important lesson? I donno. Perhaps that the most hyped characteristics of products, and in particular, their appearances, weren't just of secondary importance, they were often pumped up to actively distract us, lead us away from questions of the thing's real value. It was as though the advertisers aimed straight for our inner magpies, to stimulate us until our nests overflowed with shiny objects. Like those shining, whizzing racing cars & their incredibly flexible tracks that first captivated us, then led us into ruin. As I grew up, the cars grew as well. But... the lesson held.

Or the bike. I had wanted to be the first kid with a 3-speed. Both because I wanted to be able to go faster than the others, but also because... I'd be the first kid with a 3-speed. We lived on bikes in those days, and it was always a race. Which made this, potentially, the perfect present. Except the downside also turned out to be... that I was the first kid with a 3-speed. Which meant that when it broke, I owned the first 3-speed to be stripped down, taken apart & repaired according to the DIY ethos. Or rather, DIO - Do It Ourselves. Because there was no way everybody wasn't going to get their hands in, learning the mysteries, looking to the day when they too owned a bike like this.

I also learned that this "feather-light" bike was somewhat ill-suited to our favorite cycling activity - The Midnight Ride. The Midnight Ride actually took place between 9-11 p.m. The point being to ride as fast as possible, down the pitch black roads. The challenge was to listen listen listen, ears big as bats, and to feel with our fingers right down through to the road, waiting for the sound & feel of pavement turning into gravel. Because once you'd gotten off-line enough to have hit the shoulder, you had roughly 0.14 seconds to respond, or you'd get to go Night Flying. Into the ditch. At an unhappy speed. I could pretty much avoid taking a ditch on that part of the course, but the last laps were always run back in the farmyard, endless circles, talking & driving round under the Big Light, interrupted only by someone shouting your name, and you having to race your bike, as fast as possible, into the barn. Not inside the barn, but rather, into its side. Admittedly, an unusual game. Perhaps even unusually stupid. But the Midnight Ride was intended to prove alertness, fearlessness & toughness - not intelligence.

And thus, I came to realize that my dark green, feather-light, utterly-sleek 3-speed - with Derailleur Gears - bike was... less than well-suited for its purpose. And as we weren't about to change our course simply I happened to now own some pathetic foreign bike that wasn't up to real racing, the bike had to be... modified. Into a barely-painted, 1-speed, brakeless & well-bent thing, more suitable for rigorous, country riding.

I suspect, now that we're all grown up, each of us owns a number of these bikes. Though we may call them electronic devices, or even houses. The thing is, I'd been waiting, so long, for my Derailleur Gears. Or, as some called them, Disraeli Gears.....

At Night, The Ice Weasels Come.

November 23, 2008, 9:57PM

Friedrich Nietzsche: "The economy is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come."

Ok, Matt Groening only said Nietzsche said that, so we can't be 100% sure, even if Matt was a big fan of Walter Kaufman. But I'll take his word for it. And so what if I did change "love" to "the economy?" That was Nietzsche's inner meaning. If he had said it.

As some of you know, I hang with the Ice Weasels. Have for years. I'm neither proud, nor ashamed, of it. The Ice Weasels get smeared a lot, but I've found they're not much different than us regular weasels. Just, with white fur. And taller. Four foot, maybe. And I know all about their reputation for violence, but I think that's mostly a knee-jerk reaction to their teeth. Well, not so much teeth as... rotating, titanium-clad, scythes.

And yes, the papers are correct that they're smart, but they're NOT robots, or from the future, or any of that. It's a simple case of having evolved an opposable forebrain. It had to happen sometime, and if Dear Ole Gramma Nature threw it at the Ice Weasel & not us, well, who are we to whine?

The ecology of the Ice Weasel. For starters, yes, they eat economies. But calm down friends - it's an urban myth that they eat the people. They think of people the way you'd think of pack horses. We're the creatures who bring them supplies every Winter. They'd no more hurt you than a cowboy'd shoot a horse.

Once you understand their ecology, it's also quite clear that they eat economies not out of malice, but because it's their job. They're fulfilling their God-given role in the circle of life. As you've probably seen on the Science Channel, they spend their Springs in writhing sexual frolic. It can get confusing, even for them, being quadrasexual and all, but let's just say it gives the ole gene pool one hell of a mix. In Summertime, well, the living is easy. Fish and chips mostly. Bush planes fly in the chips, which is how I came to meet them in the first place. After a while, I guess I felt pretty much at home. (Especially in Spring.) But when Fall comes, they snap to attention & start planning. Because it takes time to prep for the Big Event, a migration whose magnificence soars above the Serengeti or the Okavango like Air Jordan over a fat kid from the 8th grade.

I speak, of course, of the American Economy, and its annual circumpolar trek - an incredible sight for those fortunate enough to witness it. The tundra, white with snow, leaping into color as the Economy arrives. Herds of pine-scented Winnebago, drivers leaning on their horns, challenging all those in their path... The three car garage, ranch-style, luxury homes, striding post & beam... The shining upturned faces of the 48" Panasonic plasmas... The endless stream of white goods (including my personal favorite, the floor-to-ceiling refrigerator, with sandwiches)... The electronic games, Gameboy & Playstation, trailing children, tethered close for safety... The trail of little blue, and red, and then lots more blue pharmaceuticals, dropped by their drooling - but surprisingly erect - owners... It's almost too much to take in, and certainly not in one viewing. This American Economic herd burns through $13 trillion on its journey, every year, and I can tell you, it's a kick ass parade.

The Ice Weasels play a very simple ecological role in relation to the Migration of the Economy. It's their job to slip past the guards, reach the laggards of the herd, and then... drag away the broken & the busted, the obsolete & outmoded, the dreary & despairing, the highly inefficient & the not too damned productive.

And most years, it has to be said, they do a damn fine job of it. Given a few months, they can pretty much hack, consume, process and, ummm... "recycle" their way through anything. I can understand how people would be frightened, seeing the wires torn viciously out of an old TV, Cathode Ray Tube imploding, its last sound that ghastly "thoomp," and then the whirring, white metal teeth of the Ice Weasel slicing through that tasteful wood veneer cabinetry.

The older Ice Weasels tell me things have changed since back in the day, when the usual meal was some trapper flipping his sled. Back then, the clean-up was pretty simple. You allow the dogs off after payment of a small ransom (a code that held fast, 'til the beginning of the Shitsu Era), tuck in your bib, and go at 'er. And after a 24 hour scour, you're good to go. About the worst problem you might face is having to pass a gold tooth later, or maybe the lads would get liquored up on 'MacEwan The Unshaven's' home brew & wanna go a few rounds. But all in all, pretty tidy work.

The old hands also say that while you used to be able to break down the economic failures with a minimum of effort, nowadays it takes planning. You need analytical chemistry capabilities, full sets of Spec Sheets, and a forecasting branch to go over the National Income & Product Accounts tables, just to get an idea of exactly how much shit you've gotta eat.

Driving With Mr. Death

November 16, 2008, 1:30PM

Couple of years ago, I had this dream about death. Death. I was walking down a street in London in this dream, up it, actually, it was uphill. Saw Bono standing outside this cool car. Bono. Really. But as I walked up to him, he changed. Into an older guy. Silver-white hair. Cool looking. Long sorta linen suit. Southern. By the time I'd noticed the change, I already had my hand on the car door handle. So I had to get in, right? Strapped myself in. And the guy turns to look at me, and shitmefuck, it wasn't Bono at all. Not at all. I was riding with Death. Him. The car was parked facing up the hill, this long cool Caddie-Roller kinda car. And he pushes in the clutch & lets the car start rolling backward, down the hill, fast. That feeling where you're strapped in, trapped inside something that's completely out of control, and you know what's coming. You can see it. And I knew that at the bottom of that hill was a cliff, and after that, a long way down, the ocean. But I can't get out of the seat-belt. And I start panicking. And he just smiles as we pick up speed, enjoying it, that I'm losing it, and then... slips his foot off the clutch, shifts the car into gear... and off we go, forward. Smooth as that. Just to let me know he's got the wheel, got control. So we're talking as we drive. Me & Death. It's cool out, he's got the window open. But all I can think about is... how do I get loose from this seat belt & harness, so I can jump out or something. As we're talking, he becomes aware that I know who he is - even though nobody else does. When they look in through the window, all they see is Bono. He's smiling... he likes this. But I'm aware of the bastard, who he really is. I can see his long white teeth. He tells me, "Nobody ever gets out. Alive." Honest to God, the guy cracks that kinda fuckin' cliche, in a dream. Pathetic, eh? He knows it, and he doesn't care. Laughs. He's got one hand out the window on his side, breeze blowing in. He's letting it wiggle in the wind, you know, up & down, hand-swimming, and I know he's got a gun in it. I'm just trying to figure a way outta that car. Lemme out. That's my only thought. Frantic. When he looks at me & says, "You know how most good men die?" And instantly, I see World War I. With trenches & fields & bombs & shit. See it like it's sprayed across the windshield. And I think, "No, I don't know how most good men die."

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quinn esq

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Lately listening to: Joel Plaskett. Jason Isbell. Damnwells. Jack McDonald. The Kills. World Party & Big Blue Ball. Neil. Prince. Chew Fu. Two Hours Traffic. Soul Coughing. Miracle Fortress. Maggie's Dream. Westerberg. Oils. Frightened Rabbit. Jane Siberry....... And Creedence.

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