Blue face

Political staleness grabs Canada. Imagination becomes reclusive in the barrage of blandness. In a large county with dynamic climates, dynamic geography, harbors a people who are not dynamic any more.

Phillieyed

Phillies won the world series. Three years ago I got kicked off the Phillies fan website on Yahoo when I told them that the hiring of Pat Gillick meant that there was a good chance that they would get to the world series.

I am not a fan of the Phillies per se. However, I am convinced that Pat Gillick is one of the best General Managers to have been ever involved in baseball or any sport for that matter. I am a Gillick fan as absurd as that sounds. Where ever Gillick, went that team excelled under his stewardship.

For the Blue Jays he managed them to two world series. The Baltimore Orioles haven't been in the post season since he departed. Neither have the Jays come to think of it. The Mariners got to the post season. And now Gillick helped the long suffering Phillies into a World Series win. He is one of the rare General Managers who has guided a team to a World Series win out of both leagues, the American League and now the National League.

Gillick spent three years on a contract with each club after his long term with the Jays. I believe that he will seriously consider leaving the Phillies because he only intended to stay with them for the length of the contract. Despite

He especially surprised Philadelphia with his retention of Charlie Manuel as Field Manager.

Oh yeah. I am definitely going to remind that clown who booted me off that website. I saved his Yahoo messenga address. Oh Yeah.

Hile-airy-ass

Normally this is a serious grim sort of blig. World crisis's demand total attention by serious smart ass minds. But.

Some jokes just are not invented. Some simply happen. Some explain themselves.

Acting as agent for himself, Duanté Culpepper, recently retired NFL Quarterback, just decided to turn down the 1win - 6 loss Kansas City Chiefs, for a better opportunity with the 0-7 Detriot Lions.

Therapy

Recharging cell phones brings with it the realization that everyone seems to call during that period. The device can run for 24 hours per day. No one calls.

Yet, the very minute that the power cord becomes attached... ring, ring.

Sitting on a toilet brings with it the realization that everyone seems to call the cell phone during that period. The device can run for 24 hours per day. No one calls.

Yet, the very minute that the cheeks hit the plastic yoke and the little brown worm pokes out from the little hole... ring, ring.

Munching on a nice sandwich seems to perk up the pyschos that call. The device can run for the hours that you are between caloric fixes. No one calls.

Yet, let the incisors slice deep into the sandwich beef meat and the peanut butter explodes onto the roof's mouth... ring, ring.

The counteraction technique to these little life quirks is Converge Therapy. Plug the cell phone into the shaver plug. Sit on the crapper. Munch on lunch. And, no one calls.

Banking on success

Assured and confident of the power possessed, government officials from all over the world rush to prop up a crashing bank system. Canadian politicians point out that the national banking system is number one in the world and that with financial support this country can weather a world wide recession. We are so wise. Hoo-ray!

[This cynical message is being brought to you by the Blue Streak Party which advocates recycling cynical thoughts, sarcasm and puns from all parliamentary debates.]

Notes on a blug

All is quiet. Silence creeps through. Blug subjects absent.

Election results demand stun. Voters didn't vote. They were registered but not registered. Voters had to show their cards. Everyone hates cards. Voters hate politicians. Lotta hate.

The voters that went marked “x”. In school, teachers marked “x” to indicate the wrong answer. No matter who you vote for, they are always wrong then. Back in the school, I hated “x”. Hate and a wrong answer every election. This all points to something.

Canadian dollars crash into the tank. Oil prices collapse everywhere but at the pumps. Metal prices decline.

Yet all staggers along. Its one of those rare times when not having any money makes you the fastest horse in the race. One cannot lose what one does not have.

It is just another day to write into the blug.

Doing right

People wonder about the decay of civilization. The term civilization is used at the extreme abstract. Civilizations create culture. They don't consume it.

Complaining and complaining. Let's get more police. Let's make even more laws. Let's build bigger prisons. Make people obey the law and make more laws to say so.
People complain of murder, assault, rape, and theft as the leading decay factor to a nation. I say no.

You know where the failure stems from? It begins at the street corner. How many of those same righteous cross with only moments to the yellow caution light come on.

Toronto installed countdowns on the walk lights. Most lights are 12 seconds countdown to yellow. Fewer seconds in the poor people's districts as their lives mean less to the proper function of a city. Two seconds means only one thing. Run across faster.

Go through the university campus. It matters little which one. Ryerson, Alberta, Manitoba, Toronto, Lakehead, or York, you can pick any. Future society leaders, lawyers, teachers, politicians et al run across against the lights. They jay walk without looking for traffic.

It begins earlier. Stand in downtown Toronto watching people dragging kids across on lights or pushing toddlers out off the curb into traffic against a light. You know the same toddler of the same mother who says that the school can only have peanut free lunches because the little gene fart might, might have a peanut allergy. These are the same people that panic about SARS yet dive into a street in the company with two ton metal monsters driven by people with the same time management problems.

Pedestrians can only cross when the little white hand shows. The majority of people crossing at a light will cross on a red hand or the do not walk signal. Police fail to enforce this little crime but insist that more police are needed. While a murder is a crime against humanity, crossing on a 'do not walk' is a crime against all society. It states something about the person and social responsibility.

A memory moment - Fessin up

Okay, okay, the fessing up time. Homer Simpson move over, yu'all got company.

Duuohh! Did it twice. No shit. The second time wasn't so complicated.

Sunny day, late fall hunting with my cherished .22 model Winchester model 69 long barrel, down on Angler Creek road. I hadn't sighted the rifle in. It was a bolt action type.

As we 'expert' hunters know carrying a rifle around in a car, regardless of the quality of the gun case, the sights can get jarred. The older the optic sight the more likely this was to happen. I wasn't to comfortable as where the thing was sending the bullet.

On the flats above and before Neys Prison grounds, I picked up an empty pop can of virgin surface and placed it on the gravel road letting it be a partridge like target. I walked back ten yards, chambered a round, sighted and fired away. As I did, a horsefly landed on my head.

The can didn't move, I walked up and the bullet had enterred it and the can hadn't twitched in its death throes. But there was two holes, one low on the bottom third and another return exit hole right above. Picking the can up. There was only one hole on the back and right at the base.

Then I looked at the road. I had perched the can just ahead and against of a boulder, unintentionally. Oh damn that wasn't a horsefly. Did it again. Almost shot myself twice.

A memory - Hunting granite

Former youth cautiously prowling through the forest trail. On the morning's poaching walk. Stalking any moving shadow.

Autumn winds blow the winter's warning clouds across the skies. Chasing a running summer in panic drafting on the “V” wings of the Canada Geese.

No stirs to catch the eye. Its too early in the morning. They are feeding. Its too early in the autumn. Its too warm for them to sit in the warm glow of the low angles of the sun rays. They are the elusive Partridge.

Partridge camouflage their true intent. Birds, yes they are. Poultry birds and species of chicken they plague the floor of the leaf strewn forest. Plotting man's ultimate downfall they haunt the ancient primate predator's desires.

Oh there are juicy clean poultry breasts yearning for the oven pan back home. Sitting for an hour and a half under the basting sheet of wax paper at 350ºF. Cooking slowly in a land which weather's measure is metric, but galley's toil is still in old British measure.

Oh there are racks of steak packages lying in marshal array in the retail food chain store butcher shop. These square packages of plastic and styrofoam trays each marketing a barbeque's feast. Careful eyes selecting the fatty, fat free protein soldiers on parade.

Yet today's hunt frustrates. No birds hop up their heads from behind shuddering shrubs crying “Kill me, Sir.”

No luck today. Slinging the .22 rim fire rifle onto the shoulder eyes pull back from the search to the skies in evening's blue red relief. Night closes in on the diving sun. Time calls to return home. The feet tread in boots along the rocky trail out onto the open margins of an open pasture the trail weaved on through the moss towards the near town.

This shouldered rifle frustrated by the day's futility wants a measure of some sort of target. Low lying on the rocky path shines the empty aluminum hulk which once held 12 ounces of beer. The unslung rifle butt shoved into the shoulder. Eyes peering through the rifle scope to point the barrel onto the useless beer container. It is now target.

A bullet leaves the barrel. One doesn't see the bullet. One feels the explosion transmitted into shoulder. That explosion of fire pushes the drop of lead down a small .223 tube of blued steel to a speed slightly faster than the speed of sound.

On a bright day using iron sights a shooter see the bullet leaving. In an optical sight, with the face cheeks feeling the pressure touch of the brisk cold fall breeze one must imagine the bullet traveling away to the target. Spinning to the right dropping the width of four fingers in the first football field. This distance was considerable shorter than that sport field, one tenth the measure.

The can feels the impact as the bullet crashes through its fragile skins. The tiny empty keg shakes down a few feet in reaction. Triumph. Can is dead.

Rifle re-slung on the shoulder. The journey now continues.

Youth has a low level of boredom. In the north, partridge isn't the only quarry. Delicious as the little birds are, they bring no market. Any hiking effort in this forest walks in the company of the search for gold. Yes gold.

This trail leads over a field of gravel. The construction name is aggregate. The geological term refers to beach cobble. The area is terraces of ancient lake beaches stepped by the storms of thousands of years ago in glacial times. Feet walk on trails of water smoothed stone deposited in gravel heaps by ancient glaciers.

In that cobble may be chunks of stones of all sorts. It was rather easy here to gather a rock collection for this was a naturally occurring rock collection. The poorly trained eye spotted a quartz granite stone which seemed to have a yellow speck on the surface. Youth experience said this rock was a like a can of gold. It held fortune more conquest than value.

Within the personal experience of the time, it was then my assessment that there may be a chunk of gold contained with that fist sized stone. Here lies the cruel joke. Youth assumes great wisdom.

Being a Boy Scout was parked at the door. Wanting to save weight on this hike, the rock hammer was left lying by the garage door. There was no point in carrying this compound stone another two miles to bust it open to find the gold. If it could somehow could be cracked open here this would save a fruitless burden.

Lifting the water lapped stone I felt that striking it on another would crack the stone. Well one stone cracked but not the stone in hand. Darn it, or words to that effect streamed into the forest air.

No partridge but a little nugget of native gold would be a good day's prize. Ideas clashed around until like the spinning one arm bandit hitting on three lemons. Using this useless gun, it would replace the forgotten hammer.

Carefully placing the hunted granite rock on an anvil of another rock, the mighty hunter paced a distance equal to that between the hunter and the can of beer. Lucky for that can. It confirmed the sighting of correct aim.

Rifle's sights change for a multitude of reasons from air temperature to simply the angle of light. But in turning at the target range there was the affirmed knowledge that the aim was true. It was a confidence beyond confident. The centre of the stone shape was the striking point.

Even a hair trigger can feel like the strongest lunking lever resisting pull as the whole body squares to focus the weapon on target. The finger muscles load up and the metal tab slides along its path relieving the hold of the hammer laying taut inside the sliding breech block.

There is a click sound that is heard and felt on every trigger pull. While thoughts are to be black in the needed concentration of holding the weapon on target, sometimes one cannot have that ultimate little revelation. One little thought popped into the skull which said, “You really think this is a good idea???”

Despite the speed of time, occasionally it slows imperceptibly. The bullet loosed from its cartridge, voided the barrel striking the stone. Good marksmanship demands good follow through. The gun must stayed aimed until the bullet strikes target.

Unlike the can the rock stayed put. It did not crack. Only a bullet rub on its surface. Achievement for the shooting. But disappointment for the smooth glob of granite sat laughing unbroken. The First Nations say there is spirit in the land. And this stone had a little hard devil with a treasure of gold inside, keeping it safe for a billion years.

That part done, stooping to pick it up and looking at the talc white strike on the granite surface there screamed a sharp pain on top of my head. The right hand felt along the scalp feeling a glint of liquid feeling a wound. A replay of what happened meant that the bullet ricocheted straight back, hitting the top of the head.

Forty years after the fingers still feel the place where the ragged lead tore my hair out on its bounce back path return volley from the stone. The little devil hit back. “Oh that... was stupid.”

Frying shelled eggs

The topic line has everything to do with breakfast. But, the topic line has nothing to do with the content of this blag.

A movie called “W” premiers sometime later this month. It is about the present sitting President of whose name I care not to enter in this blag. Yes this person enters the rare status of not having their name recorded in this blag.

There is the name of the town that will not be entered in this blag. There is the name of a sibling whose name will never be entered in this blag. There is a city of which will never be entered in this blag. There are television shows that will never be mentioned in this blag.

And of course nominations are still outstanding for ex-friend whose name will never be mentioned in this blag. Who says I don't encourage the response of readers. Vote for your choice. Nominee number one is ___________. Nominee number two is ___________. Nominee number three is ___________.

The successful candidate will not be named at the end of next month. Mark it on a date in your calendar. Probably I won't.

Anyhow, sneak reviews of the movie indicate that its not very good. I mean what a legacy can you give to this President.

He was in office on getting elected to He couldn't catch a 6'7” bearded terrorist with diseased kidneys. He launched an unsuccessful war in Iraq. His leadership couldn't help a major US city recover from a weather disaster. And he supervised an economic collapse which has exceeded the stock market crash of 1929, all due to his sub prime loans regulations instituted by his regime. Now he is going to be a crappy movie.

Geez Loueez. Save the money you have left. Don't have to see it to confirm it. Of course, he is going make the subject of a crappy movie.

Fun in the electric chair

Charging the cell phone. It is 3:00am. The power is low. Its a Canadian phone. The power supply rested in a minority position.

Harper used about $300M dollars to get just over twenty seats. Is that $15M dollars per? All that coming from taxpayers. Oh that is punishment.

Harper shortened his promise of holding elections. He advocated and promised a four year term but took barely three. The majority of Canadian citizens are happy with political minorities. And after stating clearly that the parliament was dysfunctional, for the electorate to return another minority establishes a profound punishment.

Stephan Dion used up his dog points on this one. That grinding noise comes from the Liverals sharpening up the chopping axe. They want it super sharp. They huddle in their dark blue suits, adjusting their red ties to official choke mode. Gently waving a bespectacled professorial with a stunned expression into the conclave, they draw him in. Its punishment.

Every Canadian sourced radio or television outlet paraded a list of “experts”. Pontificating on the election results in authoritive monotone, party biased manikins launched their spin on the voting numbers. And the ideas. They may have an opinion that everyone knows, like reading between the lines of type on a Stop sign to expose the subtler meaning. Or they may espouse a viewpoint that makes you wonder on which planet the television program is made.

And don't you love that little message disclaimer that all these media manifestations pronounce. “The opinions expressed are not necessarily those of the station.”

Like crap they are. The disclaimer camouflages the obvious bias that the media owner possesses. Its a pretense. Can you imagine that a Canwest/Global station would televise an opinion that Chapters bookstores violate the municipal codes concerning the dumping of garbage . No. The owner's wife owns the bookstores. Believing that the media empires do not hold political bias and agendas violates common sense, even the common sense of those not prone to the belief in conspiracies. And the line of opinions creates the suffering of punishment on those readers or viewers.

Oh we got one, two, three or four more years of this politico-media malaise. Despite the effect of Harper's statement regarding arts and the common man, he soldiers in the dim light of cornservatist thought. He said ordinary people don't care about the arts. And you should see the profound astonished reaction of the arts and music sector of Toronto. They are aghast. Horrified. Creatively horrified. Totally abominifried. He launched the haughty tart reactions of dozens of alleged artists upon the rest of uncaring Canadians.

Of course what Harper failed to appreciate is that while most Canadians don't really care all that much about arts and music, they given even less consideration for politics and politicians. Its an inferior value to Picasso or Fartalussi. About three am in a early morning's revelation, the Prime Minister will realize this. He's saying "God no, I is worth less than an artisté, ...and thus it will be his electric chair of the mind.

Election Day amusings.

My television is going to be all crapped up tonight. Lloyd Robertson will be on CTV with his "best team" for election coverage.

This sort of thing used to be gripping. But in recent elections, I got a good night's rest instead. Stunningly it did not matter whether or not I stayed up or not, the election result was the same.

Elections Canada now demands two pieces of ID instead of rolling out the old enumeration system. While Elections Canada is supposed to be independent one can see the hand of the totally stupid Cornservatives behind all this. So they all say that the voter must prove it, but they on the other haven't told anyone where to vote.

I have no idea where I am to cast a ballot. I have to resort to searching on the internet. Others have to phone in. Others who are poor or living in reduced circumstances must now be absent from the voting. Such a bunch of screw ups.

On CBC's "The Debaters", host Steve Paterson said he was happy that the leaders of the major parties were also a variation on Steve. The question for debate was whether a majority of Canadians preferred a minority or a majority Parliament.

Paterson went on to say that while most Canadians preferred a majority, in this case Canadians wanted to see the election ... even Steven.

Soothing

I mean can't anyone within the 5th estate figure this one out? What is this? There have been quite a few elections in this nascent millennium where the actual election results do not match the alleged forecast polls.

Why this for? My hunch is that with the advent of the widespread use of the internet people have really gotten used to lying to technology sourced queries. Also with the internet and news cable channels there are streams of information which do influence people's attitudes.

Another problem with modern society is the lack of loyalty. People used to be fiercely loyal to political parties. No more.

Prime Minister Harper called the election in the belief that he could achieve a majority in Parliament. This he could control. But he could not control the parade of exterior events beyond his management. The extreme example is the collapse of the global economic system due to misguided economic policy administrated by the US Republicans. Harper fashioned himself a friend of the US government. Ouch!

Harper also led a weak attack ad campaign which only attacked the weak Liberal party in a land where attack ads have failed historically. The one saving grace of Canadian political culture is that people appreciate the installation of at least one policy per ad. Indeed the Conservatives didn't come up with an alleged platform.

Green Party Follytics

In the past few weeks, and between bouts of going from one medical "expert" to another, I've been helping a friend try to win a Parliamentary seat in Davenport. No I have not yet become a member of the Green Party. There lies a problem.

I always have tended to vote for the person with the best character. The question appears in past conversations regarding the honesty of politicians. I don't always agree with this person politically. Rather the issue is integrity and honesty. Regardless of the nuance variations of views, this person would be an asset to the Parliament of Canada.

Have I voted for a person I didn't always agree with. Oh yes. I have even voted for persons I didn't even like personally. But in a Parliament of any country, to get the legislature loaded with honest people one pushes ideology to the rear of any list of considerations. Party politics tends to accelerate corruptive practice.

There is no real federal Green Party. Rather under they are rather an alliance of former environmental interest groups assembled together under a banner. It is rather a fractious political assemblage. One would think that for any group of people who recognize the environmental urgency of political policy, the individual would subvert the inertia of personal bias.

In the Canadian Green movement that rampant form of radical emotion imparts fraction. I am not saying that people should abandon their views but instead recognize that any party that functions in a democracy should within its own inner world, should itself be democratic.

Democracy functions better as a two way street. The supporter of the majority must always strive to understand the minority positions. They must appreciate the arguments less like an opposition but as intelligent options.

At this point the Green Party possesses a lot of native advantages politically. Unlike the stagnant concepts of the New Democratic Party the political potential of the Green Party has a lot of upside. Individual Green Party candidates could make excellent Members of Parliament.

Yet as a party the Greens would not make for a good government at the moment. They lack the cohesive gene. This also disables their ability to win an election. One would think that when the health of the human world is at stake, they would make the effort to unite the movement.

CBC puke themes

Five opening songs for Hockey Night in Canada was meant to be a ratings booster for the old lady of Canadian media. But like all things selected by committee the five great songs that were filtered by a committee of experts falls way short.

Hosted by the urbane banal and exceedingly boring boy progeny George Strombopolous, he guided the hapless hockey fans through several mind numbing minutes of horror. The final two themes hold to the tradition of abysmal. They are both terrible.

Myth take 02

When the label on the pill bottle full of your diuretics says "take once a day", be careful. It is not a smart idea to take them in the evening.

Myth Take 001

Myth take numero uno. Those who say that hard work doesn't kill: LIARS.

Variation 1.1 Those who say that hard work is good for you: LiARs

Most of the guys with whom I started out in the American James Liver Marathon mill thingy. DEAD.

In memoriam,

Jimmy Stimpson. World war two veteran, Dieppe Raid. POW. Germans didn't kill him but work did. Dead. Cancer.

Vern Quinlan. Merchant Marine World War II, Murmansk and Halifax runs. Germans didn't kill him. Word did. Dead. Cancer.

Robert Ramsay. World War II Veteran. Test Pilot Air Force. Innovation didn't kill him. Work almost did. Survived into retirement. Throat Cancer.

This could go on. Except it makes me depressed. Remembering my mentors however, and expressing in anger their anger. Helps.

Bang bang big toe

The old man, my father, said to me once, that “Tory times are tough times”. Yes he stole the cliché. Appropriately segue this.

One of Prime Minister Stephen Harper's speeches apparently appeared a plagiarized script. Thus delivered and suitably outed by political opponents, god fearing Harper, the orifice supreme of Canadian ethical behavior, stole the words from an Australian prime minister.

Its made bigger news in Australia than in Canada. Not surprising since Australians possess a greater degree of critical thinking, than most Canadians.

A political aide who allegedly wrote the speech for Harper abruptly fired. A lot of Harper's aides have been turfed on the run up to, and during this election. Harper has been through a lot of assistants. Either his party is rife with too many of inept assistants, or he cannot chose people.

Machiavelli pointed out that it was important to be able to surround yourself with competent assistants. Oratory was Pierre Elliot Trudeau's greatest skill. Hardly recognized was Trudeau's skill of almost always being able to choose the right guy for the job. Harper seems to have great difficulty in doing this.

There is a point where Harper must be held accountable for the words he said. It wasn't the speech writer who spoke the words. When presented to the public Harper took all the credit for making the speech. He, Harper, was ultimately responsible for orally making them published. He signed off on the speech. They were in essence his own words. It is not the speech writer who is accountable.

So typical of the primitive structure of the neo-conservative brain. Everyone else is accountable. They claim that they are. Harper should be the one taking the heat for this. It is not a faux pas. The Canadian Conservatives introduced a more stringent copyright regulation because ordinary people were having fun listening to music free from the avarice of the American music industry. Yet this is the download copyright violation of the century.

Harper appears intelligent. Politically he has skill. But obviously he is not an original thinker.

Back atcha

It is amazing. Friends of Bush are back in Congress still trying to get that $700B free lunch that they wanted.

At the moment its before the Senate. They did however add some restrictions.

Not to be outdone, one top executive worked at a failed bank for about two weeks to get discharged and got a golden parachute for $19M.

Ordinary peeps are pissed (OPAP).