Homecoming

It had been 40 years since I left England and now, for fortuitous business reasons, I was making a grand return.

Having only the memories of a youngster, I was curious to find out how truly accurate these recollections were and more importantly, I was eager to see how much the island nation had changed over four decades.

I’d been following news stories of Britannia for decades and watched the rise of socialism and the decline of the Empire with great sadness, but how much of this was sensationalism via the media and how much was reality? Based on what I’d read, England was a bankrupt socialist haven where half the people worked in some manner for the state and the other half eagerly awaited funds from the state to survive. Essentially Britain is depicted as a multigenerational welfare society that had long since lost it stature as a strong manufacturing nation steeped in “can do” attitude inherited from the war years. Now just a victim of an open immigration policy and liberal welfare handouts, this once proud country was just another example of European collapse.

My memories of course were very different. As a young boy I knew nothing of economics and politics, instead my country was comprised of green grass, football fields, corner pubs and fish and chips (in newspaper of course). I wore a uniform to school and received a ruler to the hand or backside depending on the nature of my academic crimes.

My parent’s decision to emigrate to Canada was a mystery to me as I never understood the desire to trade Mushy Peas and Chips for a minus thirty degree wind chill and maple syrup.

My parents spoke the Queen’s English and chastised me for any “aint” that came out of my mouth. The three channels on my television overflowed with the likes of Python, Dr.Who and all manner of comedy and variety shows from the Goons to Rolf Harris – from “Some Mothers Do Have em” to “Are you being served”.

My trip to England was split into two distinct portions – A few days in Manchester at the European headquarters of my employer, and a few days in London to relax and see the sights. Joining me was a good friend and colleague who was eager to discover what London had in store for us.

Travel

After leaving Toronto in the evening and flying all night, we arrived at Heathrow at 6AM with an expected layover of two hours before the flight to Manchester.

After waiting like fools for quite some time for our bags that never emerged, we were finally told that they were checked through to Manchester, even though Air Canada specifically told us that could absolutely not happen as we were changing airlines. So we meandered our way through spectacular Heathrow in search of a British Airways ticket counter to check in. After multiple tunnels, elevators and terminals (I believe we changed time zone at one point) we found the domestic check-in and were promptly informed by a lovely young lady that we had no seats on the flight as it was oversold.

Watching British Customer service in action was a delight, despite our exhaustion. At one point I believe we had four individuals including a Manager working for our cause. Phone calls were being made and computers were being scrutinized, however, all for nothing as they could only give us an 11AM flight coupled with sincere apologies and a pass for the lounge - a lounge, it turned out, that was nothing short of a five star resort experience – hot breakfast, drinks, comfortable lounge chairs to nap in and an amazing view of a beautiful sunny morning (first British stereotype shattered).

Arriving in rainy Manchester we took a taxi to our downtown hotel. Although Manchester was a mere thirty minute flight from London it seemed like another country altogether. This is what I expected from reading all those stories about the British economy. Dreary street after street went by with more stores closed than open. While driving down one particular main artery we stared in disbelief as every single store front was boarded up and in decay. Depressing is too lively a word for what we were experiencing. It was obvious why the sun didn’t follow us here from London – nothing worth seeing in better light.

Although we had wonderful meetings with great people in Manchester, we were happy when we boarded the flight back to London after two days of work. Obviously I did not see the entire city in that time and no doubt there are beautiful areas, but the general malaise and hopeless feeling that surrounded Manchester were enough to solidify my negative feelings for this once giant manufacturing hub. Many tried to persuade us that two Premiere Football teams and strong prospects for regrowth made the city very desirable - they seemed very genuine and hopeful, but we just wanted to know why they stayed in the first place.

“The country of London,” One fellow declared, “is too expensive to breathe. But sadly, top talent goes there, and we lot are left to sort through the leftovers. Much cheaper to live here though!” He exclaimed with a smile and a swig of his dark ale.

Cheaper to live perhaps, but at what sacrifice to mental health and happiness? Who am I to judge? A sunny day and a different street may have made all the difference, but we just wanted on that plane.

Before leaving we were advised by our colleagues that we should avoid using a taxi from Heathrow to downtown London and instead take the Heathrow Express – a modern train that went from the airport to Paddington station in less than twenty minutes. They were right, what a wonderful experience – one thing the Europeans have perfected is train travel.

London

Paddington was sensational! Pictures of this historic Station were all I had ever seen prior to stepping out on the platform. Looking up I was transported into a clear recollection of a place I’d never actually been. Huge metal and glass ceilings above my head with dirt and grime from decades of arrivals and departures. I imagined the billowing black smoke of the old steam engines as they would have pulled into that very spot a lifetime ago. No doubt that some of that soot still clung to the rafters and walls of this magnificent place.  I thought about the war and what this station must have looked like during the blitz. I wondered how much of it had survived and how much was rebuilt.  The Brits could handle anything back then!

We were booked at the Marriott hotel downtown, beside the London Eye. While currently a hotel the building was clearly once a center of commerce and social importance and still remained a beautiful example of British architecture conveniently located within walking distance to Soho and the theatres. This convenience came at a nightly price just under an uninsured hospital room in New York (surgery included).

This was our first monetary shock in London but by no means our last. My friend and I chuckled the next morning at breakfast in the hotel where our toast (singular) juices and coffees came to the pompous sum of sixty dollars after currency conversion. Despite that it was the best cup of coffee I’d ever had – the irony being that I needed to fly to this tea loving nation to enjoy it.

The concierge was kind enough to find us tickets for the Theatre on our first night in town. He advised us that we may want to consider staying at the hotel instead of venturing out as it was their annual Christmas Lights event and the ceremony would be overseen by Henry Winkler himself. While tempted to watch the Fonz bang his fist on a switch to power up a Christmas tree, we stuck to our plans to see Book of Mormon and hopped into a waiting cab.

Taxis in London have two commonalities, they all look like a traditional 1940’s style hearse and they are all driven by cockney Londoners (at least the ten we found were). Perhaps this was one of my more pleasant surprises, but after many visits to New York or Montreal and being driven around by the ubiquitous Haitian or Jamaican cabbies, I assumed London would be similar. Instead we got a steady stream of Brits who were fascinated with our accents (first question was always, “Yanks”?) and why we were in town. So friendly was one bloke that he regaled us with stories of his professional boxing career. Wonderful chap but by the time he got to his theory on why the Scots can’t box we just wanted out of the cab.

Theatres and pubs filled our evenings, museums and historic churches our days, almost erasing the mental images we had of Manchester, but which, we wondered, was the real face of the country?

 

Dead Guy



Alien Landing Zone

The England of my memories still exists, albeit sequestered in downtown London, but it left me with sadness and foreboding. For a steep price you can still feel and live the traditional British lifestyle, but it’s now mostly reserved for the tourists, bankers and real estate developers.

The pubs were full and money flowed all around me, from Piccadilly Circus to Oxford Street, but I instinctively knew that beyond those boundaries the real England began. Manchester is without doubt the real Britain; London is now an entitled nation state oblivious or willingly ignorant of what lays beyond her boarders.

The news stories were not wrong - the horrible economy, unemployment, cost of living and social collapse are all very real and very well disguised to the London visitor. If London represents the cultural epicenter of England then the squeeze is on, for there will be no expansion of this city state, more likely the rest of Briton will slowly encircle and erode what is left of the empire.

Back in my room I turned on the television. “Are you Being Served” was playing and I watched it with no joy or humor. That England, like me, has gone, never to return.

Intangible - a short story

Arthur stood near the fountains of Highbury Square tapping the black screen on his Smart Comm. Standing under the tracks of the high speed monorail for shade, he was mostly alone, the square all but deserted in the mid-morning sun.

The hot summer morning served only to add to his depressed mood as he repeatedly tapped, shook and rebooted the electronic device that tethered him to the world.

The morning had started like any other, shower, dress, usual grey suit, two pieces of toast (margarine, never butter) and off to work. No standard goodbye to the wife this morning as she was staying with a friend for a much needed break. Break from what, he didn’t know?

No indication, in the elevator or on the train, that this would be anything other than a normal Tuesday morning for Arthur. Rigid adherence to schedules always brought him to his office door at 8:55, briefcase in hand, ready to offer his accounting services to a presumably waiting world.

Sole proprietor and only employee of Dawberry Accounting Services, Arthur treasured his little kingdom or more appropriately haven, and all the solitude and seclusion it provided for him. He took clients when it pleased him and turned down others when they represented excessive work or the possible expansion of his diminutive corporation. Arthur had all he needed. Growth and expansion were a pointless and unnecessary exertion of effort. Besides, he was profitable – quite profitable, even though he really didn’t have that many clients - but his bank account was always full, and he always had the things in life that he and his wife needed. Janice always had to have the latest fashions, even though Arthur frowned upon many of the outfits she chose. “You’re turning heads.” Arthur would say. “That skirt is just too high and I simply don’t see why that top needs to be cut so low.” Arthur was never ever jealous, it was simple logic to him – he had his wife, they were legally married – why does she need to advertise? That phase was over years ago! Her spending was insatiable, yet there were always credits in the bank.

The sun was already baking the square and the lack of people only enhanced a feeling of desolation, like an abandoned post-apocalyptic cityscape, sterile, hollow and soulless. Arthur expected a gust of wind to suddenly blow tumbleweeds across his path like the old West, or a crowd of hungry zombies to round the corner any moment.

Everything was working this morning. Arthur thought. Wasn’t it? It must have been, the elevator worked, the monorail let me on and dutifully removed two credits from my account. It must be a localized issue or glitch in the system.

Arthur had walked into his building that morning, on time as always, to find that the elevator would not respond to his summons.  Fortunately, the two flights of emergency stairs were easily navigated, but they only led to a locked office door and no response from his Comm. As with everyone else, his dependence on electronica left him without a single thought of what to do, frozen he waited for something to happen, or someone to come to his aid. He paced a little and tried to see inside other offices, an attempt to determine if others were having the same problem. But he couldn’t see anyone through the narrow frosted glass windows that were adjacent to all the office doors in his building. He had never looked before, never needed to, so he wondered if anyone actually worked in these offices at all.

He had no appointments booked that day, and even if he did, most were done by Video Comm these days. Nobody was coming to his aid anytime soon.

After dejectedly descending the stairs again he made his way past the auto attendant in the lobby, which made no effort to engage him, and back out into the square.

Now, at 9:45, a twinge of panic was bubbling in his stomach like the first plops in a pot of oatmeal. Now what? Who do I call? I can’t call! My Comm is dead. I need to talk to the Ministry, but which Ministry? He paced in a circle as a Mono Train screamed over his head. Ministry of Communications, Public Welfare, Accounting?  Maybe Ministry of Security or environment? He felt nervous. Once, as a child, he was lost in a Mega store. He had instinctively walked out to the parking lot hoping to wait by his parent’s car, back when people had cars, but he couldn’t find it. People passed him back and forth but ignored him. “Child should have a Comm Link on” one lady mumbled to her husband as she passed him. Arthur had cried then. He felt a bit like crying now. Not even a security officer in sight.

He brightened slightly at the sudden thought of his back-up device at home, in the drawer beside his bed - but how to get home?

The thought of walking made him nauseous. It really wasn’t that far but he had never walked before. He wasn’t even sure what direction he would walk. Isn’t walking for the poor? He thought. And there’s no poor in this section of the city.

The heat of the morning was already affecting him, his underarms felt damp, a feeling he detested, but to take off his grey suit jacket wouldn’t be proper. Arthur believed that sweat was for the working class. Sweat was something you did because you didn’t have an education, a profession, a position in the world. If you were nobody, then sweat was your only option. Arthur hated sweat.

Since there was no other option forming in his mind he reluctantly began walking, using the monorail track as a guide, convinced that he could come up with a better solution as he walked, or at least meet someone who could help along the way.

Mid town was a district of office towers, no homes, they were prohibited, and no shopping. Shopping was something you did from home; the only need to venture outside was for a rare treat at a restaurant, which was always located in the bedroom districts, never downtown. Most offices had catering services for lunch – Arthur had never eaten anywhere outside his own office for twelve years. Why would he? He wouldn’t have access to other people’s buildings anyway, so what was the point?

As he walked his feeling of isolation grew. Not a soul crossed his path; however, he frequently caught sight of a face or two peering at him from some obscure office tower. Had he become a curiosity? I am a normal person, a citizen. He thought. This must have happened to many people before me?

His back and neck were bathed in sweat; it seeped through his grey suit jacket and made an oval dark stain on his back and under his arms. “I’m ruining this suit.” He said out loud to nobody, more to hear the sound of a human voice than to protest his situation.

Not to worry, he thought, I will change when I get home.

Waiting for Arthur at home were 5 more grey suits - same style, identical in every way. He would often say, “Grey is the color of power, of intelligence. Gray matter displayed in suit form, to abate any professional concerns my clients may have with my competency or diligence. Grey is the color of accounting.”

He could see his building, it looked close but he knew it wasn’t. Eighty stories high it was easily spotted, but all bedroom buildings were that tall or taller, but that didn’t mean they were close.

He rounded a corner following a curve of the grey concrete Monorail track and happened upon a man sitting cross legged in a doorway with a paper bag, likely booze Arthur thought, and a grimy pillow beside him. Arthur stopped and surveyed the pathetic sight. The derelict had no Comm Link on and was therefore no use to Arthur. He walked on ignoring the pleading look from the vagrant’s hollow eyes.

Just my luck, Arthur thought, only human I meet is nonexistent, untouchable. Might as well have met a garbage bin.

The Mono Trains continued to speed by overhead. There are people in those cars, thought Arthur, people like me, at least like I was a few hours ago. He tapped his Comm Link in a futile effort to bring it back to life. He wondered if his credits would be removed today to cover his rent on the apartment.

He had walked for half an hour when the entry way of his building came into view just behind a Comm Tower that he had never noticed before - a tower that stretched to the heavens but still managed to hide in plain sight, grey and black and buzzing with life. Well that works, Arthur thought dejectedly as he glanced again at his Comm-Link, so it must be me.

The last five minutes to his building seemed like an eternity. He could see some people on their balcony’s, wide open platforms with no railings, perched precariously above the concrete ground – nothing between them and a free-fall except for the suicide bars, discretely tucked into the sides of each porch, waiting to spring into action like an old fashioned air bag, ready to catch a desperate soul or a disobedient toddler milliseconds before they fell to their deaths. Faith in safety systems was absolute, always operating in the background of everyday life. The Ministry thought of everything!

Arthur walked into the open air lobby of the apartment; he felt like he had just defeated the Trojans or climbed an impossible mountain. He had walked home.

He fully expected what came next, the elevators, cold steel with piercing red eyes above their frames, stared at him without recognition. Nobody is there they thought. Conflicting code tried to balance motion detector input against visual and Comm Link recognition software and came up empty.

Stairs won’t help me this time, thought Arthur. He wondered why they even bothered to have them in the first place. I’d rather die in flames, he thought, than run down seventy five flights to safety, much less climb the damn things. What now?

Serendipity smiled in the face of a young girl, school age, who approached the elevators to his right. The doors instantly opened welcoming the girl, without concern or judgment as to why she wasn’t in school at 10:30 on a Tuesday.

Arthur squeezed in beside her as the doors shut silently and the car began to rise with extreme acceleration that neither passenger felt due to the built-in dampeners.

The girl looked at Arthur suspiciously. She was keenly aware that he had waited for her to enter the lift before joining. She had heard stories of people, monsters, who had entered secure facilities without proper access. Mother warned her of these monsters all the time. Now she was riding with one.

The elevator rose silently, knowing exactly what floor the girl resided. The doors sprang open and she ran from the car, around a corner and down the hall. Arthur stepped out on the sixty eighth floor, very aware that the lift would immediately return to the ground floor. Seven floors to climb are better than seventy five, he thought.

The heat of the day had finally got to him and he succumbed to the desire to remove his jacket and toss it over his shoulder. It reeked of sweat and Old Spice.

At the seventy fifth floor he pushed open the crash bar on the emergency exit door and walked a few steps to his apartment.

He froze briefly at the sight of his door ajar. This isn’t right, he pondered, or even possible – but none the less a welcome sight since he had no idea how he would open the door if his manual override code didn’t work.

Shouldering his way inside he dropped his jacket on the floor beside him. The apartment looked much the same as it did a few hours prior; it was in kitchen/TV room mode, no sign of a bedroom just a small cubical entrance for a bathroom peaked out from behind a plastic plant in the far corner. The light was intense, streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling glass giving Arthur the sensation of snow blindness.

He walked over to the wall controls and punched in the code for Evening Conditions. Nothing happened. Of course!

How am I going to transform the condo to evening mode without the aid of motors and hydraulics? He thought.

He knew that the fold away room had the headboard situated at ceiling level when it was hidden. Arthur pulled an ottoman over to the area he estimated his night stand might be located and climbed up. Pushing away a ceiling grid he peered into the hidden storage that would expand into his bedroom on a normal day, simply by electronic command. He could see the edge of the bed frame and the night stand drawers.

Arthur stepped down, leaving the ceiling grid open and looked around for a suitable device strong enough and long enough to push open the night stand drawer vertically. Finding an antique umbrella near the front door he re-mounted the ottoman and poked it into the adjacent storage cavity, catching the drawer handle on first try and using the umbrella as a lever to wedge open the drawer, upwards towards the ceiling.

With all the contents at the back of the drawer, which was now the bottom of the drawer, he blindly reached around inside with his free hand examining each object he picked up until he felt the familiar outline of a Comm unit.

In one motion he removed the umbrella from the drawer handle and let it slam shut while jumping down to the floor, landing squarely to the wall, Back-up Comm Unit in hand.

With no delight or satisfaction he rapidly removed it from the protective case and pressed the orange activation button on the top.

To his relief it sprang to life, briefly going through its startup motions and then displaying a screen which prompted him to enter his security code.

Seven digits later Arthur stared at the message; Unauthorized user, access denied.

Fearing a mistake he re-entered the code with the same result. Then again, and yet again.

He stared blankly, as if the screen were the abyss. Doesn’t make any sense at all. They can’t both break. They never break.

He walked a mere three steps to the kitchen area and placed the Comm unit gently on the counter like it was a crystal figurine. Beside it sat a note. Not a customary note that may have been sent to his Comm device or left on the messaging screen attached to the refrigerator, but a real note. A white paper napkin with hand writing on it. In ink. Real ink.

His mind spun like a tea cup ride at a county fair.

He put his index finger on the paper and dragged it towards him, turning it as it moved so the writing faced him.

Arthur, it is with sadness that I write this note but you’ve left me no choice. I hate my life and what it has become. I hate us! By now you’ve realized you’re off the grid, unconnected, off line. It’s awful what I’ve done, but I don’t want you to ever find me. I’m sorry about all the money, but I need it where I’m going. David and I are leaving the country; you remember I told you of him weeks ago. I love him! He has also left his family and we will make a life together somehow. Before he left the Ministry of Communications he helped me take the credits left in the bank account, and the deeds to everything. I’m sorry, maybe you can start over, you are smart. To truly disappear he had to wipe us all from the grid, all of us, even you Arthur. We don’t exist anymore. I am sorry. Be well. Janice

Arthur slumped against the counter. He stared at the note and let his eyes defocus on the blue letters until everything was an inky blur.

By four that afternoon Arthur had transitioned to the TV viewing chair and had watched the sun disappear around the far side of his building. But not his building anymore.

This apartment belongs to the Housing Ministry again, he thought while juggling other realities as they popped into his head. The credits are all gone. Dawberry Accounting Services is gone. I can’t move, travel, eat.

Another hour passed as Arthur processed the meaning of Arthur. He came up empty.

At six PM he walked to the balcony doors and manually pushed the sliders to one side. The view from the seventy fifth floor was mostly limited to the seventy fifth floors of buildings that surrounded him. He watched two children play catch on their balcony, conscious of the tether attached to their ball so it wouldn’t be lost to the ground below. Suicide bars don’t catch balls.

Arthur’s bars never moved. Why would they? Nobody was there.

_______________________________

In the morning, a small crowd gathered at the base of the east end apartments. They were annoyed.

“Why on earth hasn’t this been cleaned up?” Said a middle aged woman in a bright pink skirt. “How long do we have to look at it?”

A man in a dark blue suit sidled around the carcass. “Strange,” he mused. “No security squad, no clean-up crew, not even a census registrar. Where the hell is the Ministry?”

“What Ministry?” said a lady staring at the body.

The man stopped and thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Any Ministry. This is gonna attract dogs and flies. This is not good.”

“Who is he?” Asked the pink skirted lady.

“Beats me,” said the suited man with an air of disgust, “Nobody wears grey suits anymore!”

Worried

Perspective

Coffee stains

Confusion over ice

Crimson sky

Guitar

Infinity

Worlds Collide

Stand up straight

I recently spent a long weekend in Florida, God's waiting room, where I was soothed by the hot sun and excited by the hot prices for booze. You see, living in Canada we get conned into believing that our state run liquor stores are exercising their buying power to bring us the best deals from the world of alcohol. We ignore the obligatory 100% mark up in taxes that fund useless and unneeded social fluff, and settle into our Canadian winters secure in the knowledge that we are a beer drinking nation well served by a presumably beer drinking government.

One trip to Total Wine and Liquor in Fort Myers popped that illusion like a champagne cork- I left armed with $18 cases of beer and $20 jugs of Rum. But I digress.

So I sat at the pool, ice cooler by my side, and contemplated life. My Blackberry continued to buzz as the office never stopped, but I still managed some quiet reflection and mass liquid consumption. Important to stay hydrated!!

As usual, the pool was sparsely used by the locals and my mere attendance brought the average age down to 90.

I overheard chatter about how Obama was destroying the American way of life, insane and unmanageable debt was being passed on to many generations by a federal government hell bent on controlling every aspect of our lives.

Then I heard how gas was outrageously over priced now (still half the price of Canada), how golfing on the local Bermuda grass was impossible, and how the government should step in and do something about it (the grass, not the gas).

After a while I realized that one person, sitting apart from the other senior pundits, had not said a word, nor moved an inch since I got there. There was a little chest movement so I assumed the reaper had not dropped by for a swim.

Then it struck me. I had seen this face before. So dark, commanding and yes, evil. Could it be possible? Surely this character was the fictional stuff of movies.

But no, there I sat, directly across the pool from the Imperial Emperor from Star Wars.

Now you may mock me for such an observation, after all, what would the Emperor, who apparently met his demise in episode six, be doing at a condo swimming pool in southern Florida? But it was him!

I hastily grabbed my blackberry and positioned it to take a picture. Knowing the quality would be terrible, I had no choice but to chance it.

Here you see the fruits of my photographic labor. Resolution is bad but you can clearly see him there, alone, unattended - not an imperial guard in sight.

I sat there thinking of the irony - all those republican candidates out there debating and campaigning for the right to face Obama in this year's federal elections, when the perfect man for the job lay right in front of me. What a lost opportunity! Obama wouldn't stand a chance!

Anyway - at that point I was out of Rum and beer so I had to decide between engaging the Emperor in political discussion, or going back to the condo for refills.

God that beer was good!

Long live the Empire!

Goodbye my friend

Its been a while since my last post. I have not really felt inspired to write about anything. Life has been busy with endless hours of uneventful filler, and my creative juices have been bottled by a need for rest and reflection after my 50th birthday has passed.

Today, when opening my ipad for the morning news, I was impacted by the announcement of Author Christopher Hitchen's death.

Christopher had been suffering from cancer for some time now and the end was inevitable - however this was still received with shock and surreal confusion.

I have often stated that I have no heroes, worship nobody, but if I were to be forced to compile a list of heroic contenders, Mr. Hitchens would be challenging for the top position.

How do you explain to someone that the passing of a man I have never met, strikes me as hard as the loss of a close friend?

I have repeatedly scoured his books and articles for comfort, smiles and support for my own position and ideology. I have watched him interviewed and experienced his extraordinary orating skills in the Munk debates with Tony Blair. I have marvelled at his humanity, generosity, love, morality and ethics for us humans and our world while never needing a belief system as a crutch. And most delightfully, I have watched Hitch fight against hypocritical and destructive religious dogmas at every opportunity, even as his body broke down from the cancer and his god loving enemies prayed for his demise.

Once in a while a person comes along that has such purpose, such intellect and such impact, that the mere consideration of them as replaceable is laughable and the world as a whole diminishes in their passing.

I never met you Hitch, but you were indeed my friend.

As your cancer consumed you, you asked for no pity and jokingly accepted your fate as being the same as everyone else, just a little accelerated.

Despite our collective disbelief in the afterlife, I cant help grin at the thought of you standing at the pearly gates as I write this, in a deep and colourful argument with St Peter, debating God's very existence.

If they let you in Christopher, go easy on the big guy!!

Thank you for being my friend.

Martin

Random Bull Thoughts

I haven't posted for a while. Not for lack of material - just lazy I guess.

There have been many great news items to discuss lately but hard to find one that deserves a lot of time. However, there are a few honourable mentions:

The US mid term elections and the rise of the Tea Party, which is not a party according to party officials. This is too easy to pick on and way overdone. I do love the "Back to freedom, small government and low taxes" vanguard - just wish it didn't come with bible thumping retards at the controls.

Bull fighting outlawed in Spain! Fantastic. Maybe, as a species, we are slowly starting to realize that there is nothing sporting or pleasurable about animal abuse. I mean seriously, who doesn't cheer for the Bull? We all love it when that emaciated sword wielding satin wearing poser takes a pair of horns in the silk coin purse right? Yaaay Bull! But now, at least, we don't have to watch that spectacle anymore and can sleep better knowing that all bovine slaughter takes place in a factory where God intended it.

There is an election for the Mayor of Toronto featuring a bunch of bald guys. They are all left wing, even though one claims to be leaning right (probably just his jockey shorts preference). They all claim to have a vision for Toronto - but near as I can tell, these opaque visions were formulated in the mid 1960's in a smoke filled room in Budapest.

Speaking of Dope(s), California may legalize pot, and Canada is watching closely to see if this can work for the 4% of Canadians who don't already have access to pot through the normal channels. The concept makes sense, the war on drugs costs Billions in California - legalizing it means goodbye to smugglers and cross boarder drug traffic, gangs, ATF costs, big black helicopters and drug related crime - and hello to a tightly controlled tax windfall. The spread between the savings and new tax revenue is massive. However, up here, the only cross board issues Canada has is undeclared tariffs on shopping sprees at Super Target stores in Buffalo. So our savings may not be as massive as California predicts, but it would still be cool to drop by a convenience store for a pack of weed. Might help increase the decorative hot dog sales too.

Africa is set to emerge as the next big economy, so they say. I hope they are ready! Right now most Africans have a solid sense of self responsibility that most of the world lacks. In the West we have laws and regulations to address any and every situation, activity, product or human interaction. We are forced (for our own good of course) to wear helmets and seat belts, publish the ingredients of a can of peanuts, pay for religious schooling, buy building permits to do work on our own land and drive on highways with maximum speed limits (except those lucky bastards in Germany). If these laws are contravened, we have criminal courts and civil courts where filing law suits is a vocational mainstay of many citizens. We have created a society with the universal luxury of blame. Anyone but ourselves. Somebody MUST pay for my pain and suffering!

But in many parts of Africa you are under your own responsibility to fend for yourself. If you trip and fall, who will you sue? If your beverage is too hot and you burn yourself - well, I guess you're an idiot and that's the end of it. If someone calls you a bad name in public - I guess you deal with it and call him one back. No slander, no negligence, no Big Brother mandating your safety whether you like it or not. Total freedom to mess up any way you wish. All blame is internalized and all damages limited to your own ability to "be careful". Freedom at it's most extreme and dangerous, but freedom none the less.

So as the major corporations prepare their attack on the African continent (and why not, who doesn't need a Dunkin Donut in the morning) their advance scouts of Lawyers are mapping the environment, getting ready to bring civility and justice to the "backwards" lifestyles of the indigenous people. And the poor bastards thought the missionaries were bad! Next up - Mongolia!!

Talk soon

M

Trans - Planting

I performed delicate surgery on an aloe plant that I have had for 5 years in my Montreal condo. His name is Bob (Robert if he has done something wrong) and he is a great companion. When I bought my condo 5 years ago, he was the only thing that came with it. Either a forgotten asset or a nice house warming thought from the previous owner.

Bob was small, about 4 inches across and in desperate need for water and attention.

I nursed him back to health and fed him plant nutrient sticks and lots of water for many months until he regained his shine and vitality.

Now he seems to feel like he has the run of the place. Outgrowing two pots so far, this past weekend I put him in a very large 16 inch ceramic home with three bedrooms. Very nice!

To date, Bob has grown to inhabit the counter and kitchen window area where his advanced scouts control the sunlight into the apartment from the west side.

My only concern with these constant transplants is whether I am being kind in allowing him to expand, or whether I am aiding and abetting his ultimate takeover plans of the planet. Bob is quite formidable now although not reaching Little Shop of Horrors proportions yet.

So I am home in Toronto this weekend and I wonder how he is doing. It was a difficult transplant operation, requiring me to take a hammer to his previous home in order to extradite him safely. My hands shook and my brow was sweating during the 4 minute procedure. I slumped in the corner and stared at the dirt on my hands for several minutes after the arduous task.

His new home is spacious and refilled with quality dirt containing vitamins and lots of shit plants need to grow, but I am worried if he will adjust. Moving to a new neighborhood is difficult at the best of times, but this is like moving from a studio apartment to the Queens summer home (sans the servants).

God speed Bob and see you Wednesday. Hang in there and I will be bringing treats and several toys to amuse you.

Pets are such a responsibility!

M

Give me my money back!

Where does a Canadian go to create his own Tea Party movement? Not that I admire the ignorant sheep like mentality of many of the bible thumping members, but some of their agenda is spot on!

Enough with the socialist state "Big Government" spending spree. What happen to liberty and self sufficiency? Are we all so brain dead that we willingly let the government legislate our every move for a mere 60% of our income in taxes upon taxes upon taxes?

I have been blessed with a successful career, much thanks to my father and good educational choices, so I have the pleasure of paying an even higher PERCENTAGE of my income to support those who are "needy". Where is the incentive? Half of my income is taken from every pay, and then there is sales tax, house tax, gas and liquor taxes, etc.

What happened to the original concept of democracy and capitalism that founded the Americas? Government was needed for defense, infrastructure and supporting the law of the land. The people were in charge - not the government!

In Canada now we have a true example of legislation without representation. Major city centres set the rules, everyone else pays for them.

Welfare, social programs, personal protection program, Health care, Health choices, environments policies and laws, language laws, freedom of speech, etc. are all the domain of the governments now! Why stop there? There is precious little left to control.

In Ontario Canada this week a proposal was tabled to give poor people free gym memberships so they could get healthy! Really!!?? So my money should pay for someone to work off the fat of the food and security I provided? Here's an idea - get off the couch and look for a job!

But wait - the policies and taxation of small businesses (the people who hire the unemployed) are so debilitating and draconian that there are no new jobs to get (unless you want to work for the city at $20 an hour to survey and count homeless people - true story).

The Tea Party folks in the States are a little over the top for my liking, but they are getting attention! The next revolution, they say, is small government, less taxes and self determination! What a concept - taking care of ourselves with our own money!

Their fair tax concept suggests that we abolish all income tax - reduce or eliminate all wasteful programs (that's most of them) and charge a significant tax on goods and services and tolls on infrastructure to create a user pay system - pure capitalism! Love it - let me decide where my money goes. I may even have enough left to give to charities and those in need.

In Canada we never had a Boston Tea Party revolt - so reenacting that moment is impossible - but if enough people get loud about this socialized direction, maybe we can create a visible coffee and donuts revolution in the Great White North.

M

Mexico

Well I just got back from a wonderful vacation in Los Cabos Mexico. For those who don't know, Los Cabos is Spanish for the "Kingdom of Sammy Hagar". Very good tequila by the way. Cabo Wabo rocks - at least from what I remember.

Mexico was quite a departure for me as I usually holiday in the Caribbean this time of year but it was so cold due to global warming, I decided to try the Pacific side.

The hotel I stayed in (Barcello) was new. Brand new, as in they were still building it during my stay. The room I had, which I must say was very nice, had never been used before my arrival. I cracked the seal on that puppy! It may need several repairs now!

During the week, as I got bored with the hot temperature, sunny sky and beautiful view, my attention was drawn to the construction workers who were applying stucco to one side of a building about 80 feet in the air, supported by something that resembled a scaffold, but I prefer my own description, "scrap wood held together with snot".

The danger of their precarious position seemed lost to these men. Their overall strategy was to wander around long enough until it was siesta time. I then discovered that siesta time had no specific starting point, and seemed to gradually break up after a few hours as workers became stiff and tired of their fetal sleep positions tucked away under the stairs, and wandered back to their standing and shuffling activities.

There seemed to be no stress at all in the indigenous population. This stressed me out!
How can one survive without an anxiety ball in your stomach and shoulders permanently fused to your ears?

The week passed slowly after this revelation and I became fixated on the charmed life of a Mexican construction worker. Surely, I surmised, this is just indicative of this particular trade, and not of the population at large.

My supposition was corrected when I arrived at the airport to depart beautiful Los Cabos. In the departure lounge, where I had 3 hours to kill thanks to the scheduling skills of my tour operator who felt they must whisk me away for a 10 minute bus ride with plenty of extra time in case there was a flat tire, kidnapping or construction strike along the way, I killed the time wandering between stores and questionable restaurants.

Within the many airport shops selling genuine original Aztec fertility symbols made from the actual plastics found at the archaeological sites, I ran across Jorge, one of the security guards for the area. He greeted me with a friendly Ola, and then showed me how he looked in his secret crime fighting disguise - Spiderman. I was impressed! "May I take your picture Spiderman"? I asked, expecting the answer no, as this would be photographic evidence that he was not doing his job of guarding the security of two or three hundred gringos. "Of course my friend!" he replied, and proceeded to pose for half a dozen pics in various Spidy action stances. The proof is clearly displayed above. I was thrilled at this response and wondered what the reaction would have been if I had asked an American customs agent to pose for me as a Webslinger.

Clearly the gentle people of Los Cabos have found the secret to living a stress free life. Perhaps it is in the water? I doubt it because the only secrets I found in the water quickly departed by body along with 12 pounds of much needed fluid. Perhaps it is genetic, or cultural, but their society seems to be operating just fine. Rich or poor, young and old, everyone's taking it easy.

There is a clear lesson to be learned here!
I should vacation in Manhattan! At least the cabbies can still drive during their siestas, and less than 35% wear disguises on the job.

I need a nap!

M

Where does art come from?

Over the holidays there is a lot of time to think, at least in my world. I realize that so many people spend this time running from place to place with various family obligations and celebrations.
I choose to hybernate, watch the winter solstice pass and begin my dreams for Spring.
At the same time, via bordom or ambition, I find my creativity retuning.
I write a lot more of my never ending novel, and I need to paint. Yes NEED.

The paintings attached represent an abstract vision of my emotions during this sequestered period.

"Doesn't Fit" is a teaser. I will leave it up to the viewer to decide if it is beautiful or obscene.

The "Days End" has a twofold meaning. A simplistic sunset, or a truly horrific scene of impending doom. It makes me happy :)

Where do these ideas come from? What makes the choice in colours so important?

I dont know. But I do know that when I need to paint, it is an overwhelming emotion that must be addressed. A physical yearning, like an addict, or a smoker on a 10 hour flight.

Love them or hate them, I hope you have a strong reaction either way.

M

Back to work in Plastic-town

The holiday season is over and I have not managed to relax one minute. Why, I ask myself, can't I just be normal and lay on a couch for a week, or just sleep. I cannot sit still. I tried to watch some mindless daytime TV but it hurt my head to the point that I needed medication. Next I tried to read - I have plenty of books left on my "to be read" shelf, but it doesn't feel right in the middle of a weekday. Like I'm cheating or something. How on earth will I ever handle retirement???

Now that I am back to work - I feel cheated that I didn't get the rest I needed. Cant win!

Tomorrow I embark on a business trip to Las Vegas. I hate it!
Every January the same thing - 5 days of business meetings and dinners while being tortured with the view of a sunny warm day out of a hotel meeting room window. And yes, once again, a Cirque de Sole show that Ive seen before but will still sit through and smile with the client and pretend that my brain isn't sliding out of my left ear and making a run for it.

Vegas is the quintessential plastic village. Nothing is real. As you drive past one casino facade after another you get the feeling that the only thing of any substance in the city is the hard sand that packs every second vacant lot and anchors the ubiquitous "coming soon" signs that have been there for 8 years.

Truthfully, I really like the desert, not that I get to see much of it, but it is a beautiful departure from Canadian scenery in January, which is an unpleasant mixture of white ground and grey trees, buildings, roads, cars, - well you get the picture.

Nobody comes from Las Vegas. Everyone you meet in hotels, restaurants or casinos have a name tag that states their home town - which is anywhere other than Vegas. I get the impression that the city doesn't really exist - it's just a temporal hole in space/time - designed to separate you from your money and cultural sensibilities.

I suppose some might consider me bitter and jaded for complaining like this, where they would love a trip to Nevada this time of year - but after 20+ years of this annual trek I am past the point of apologising as to why my anxiety and BP go up the first week of every January.

This year, I have the added pleasantness of new airport security regulations to look forward to. I believe I am required to arrive two or three days early at security, get naked, and pee in a jar. This is followed by the group cavity search activity and long discussions on the lethal potential of my sneakers.

Anyway - I shall update you all when it's over and my mood improves and the ability to relax returns to me - when the wheels lift off the ground at Macarren airport for the long but pleasant flight home.

M

Do Porcupines Hybernate

I recently went to Toronto to see my favorite band perform at the Princess Margaret Theatre. Porcupine Tree is not well known here in North America. They originate from England (so proud) and play a type of music that most try to label "progressive rock". But labels are deceiving, irritating and itchy (if you don't cut them off properly).

This incredible band is made up of all the elements needed to be monsters of popularity except the desire to produce cheesy pop rock or top 40 radio dung.

Their list of elements include;

• Incredible musicians - with possibly the best drummer on the planet - though some might wish to debate me on that.


• Truly sophisticated music that challenges while it attacks and retreats through long eclectic passages of hard edge cuts and soft soul massages.


• Lyrics that would make a poet cry. An understanding of life and a brilliant ability to encapsulate it in a few short rhymes.
  
• The perfect stage show, with CD quality sound mix and near prefect reenactment of the recorded songs. Floyd would be proud!

Having waited since the Spring to see them, tickets in hand for 5 months, I thought I might have built them up to a place in my mind where I would undoubtedly be disappointed. I attended the evening with a close friend - who originally turned me on to this band during a 2 hour wait in a Japanese airport lounge - and my son who is also inspired by PTree's music.

The first set consisted of tracks from their new CD "The Incident" which is a monster in the making. Despite it's newness to me, it felt like I was listening to music and stories I had known all my life. The second set included tracks from older albums that included two of my all time favorites, "Anesthetize" and "Start of Something Beautiful". Near perfect compositions.

With illuminating sound penetrating the tightest corners of my soul I watched 2 hours disappear in a split second. Never have I been so disappointed to have a concert end. It could have gone on all night as I felt refreshed, invigorated and inspired.

My dear friend soaked up the event in a flurry of air drumming that could have been lethal should anyone wander in the vicinity. I, on the other hand, sat transfixed, not moving a mussel - I couldn't - the music took my mind away, and just left an empty hulk in my seat to tend to my coat and wallet. I was gone! Transported in to a very rare place - a place very few get to experience. I can say that with assurance as I have attended many a great concert in my day, but this was different - this was as close to a religious experience as I would want to get without the required worship and guilt based donations.

I had spent the whole summer waiting for this late September event. The realization that it was over too fast and that the next day was October, left me feeling the night chill and a touch of sadness that often precedes winter and the social hibernation we all go through here in Canada.

The leaves on my trees are changing, the Maple Leafs are dropping, the P Trees have left and soon the white stuff will appear. Not heart warming signs.

As they departed the stage, PTree promised to be back in the Spring with a new show. Perhaps this promise will get me through winter with a smile and a memory of a night that is now tattooed into my soul.

Until then - it's hibernation time. Time to dream of new leaves and the Trees returning.