Don't worry -- Be happy!!

This is a silly time of year, and that’s a good thing. It’s healthy for all of us to have a time period in which we can be unfocused and undisciplined and indulge in the slothfulness and overindulgence we deny ourselves the rest of the year.

Unfortunately, the season always ends with otherwise decent folks brimming with guilt and therefore driven to resolve to mend their ways. Hence, you are left with that pointless annual ritual known as the New Year’s Resolution, and the making of those.

What is a resolution? It’s a self-indictment about our bad behaviors, and it’s a vow to rectify those things that we perceive as being harmful to ourselves or those nearest and dearest. Not in itself a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all, but generally an improbable, and sometimes impossible thing.

But, we set forth at midnight on December 31st, filled with the best of intentions and we vow that we will:
* stop smoking for the 27th time;
* stop drinking more than is good for us, or quit altogether;
* not harbor salacious or naughty thoughts about people for whom we are not supposed to harbor those selfsame thoughts;
* not act on those same salacious thoughts regardless of how provocative the temptation;
* watch our cholesterol;
* watch our waistline and weight in general;
* cut out junk food except on special occasions. Tuesdays aren’t special occasions;
* spend more time with spouse and family, and not begrudge the time;
* read the classics.

And so on. Such resolutions as the foregoing, however, are largely doomed to fail because we are not really committed to them except in the heat of the December 31st moment. Some of them don’t even make it to the end of January. I think this is the most unfortunate aspect of resolutions. We’re destined to crap-out and this saps our self-esteem. Come February we can only look back wistfully at how forthright we felt a month earlier, offer up a sigh and vow to do better after Dec. 31st, 2007.

There are a couple of alternatives to the foregoing scenario. One is to make resolutions you will have no problem keeping. Self-esteem will soar and you will get a great deal more enjoyment out of life by not being guilt-racked. Therefore, for 2007 you might consider such resolutions as the following.
For the next year I resolve:
* to not gloat insufferably when I win the lottery.
* to not involve myself in any political assassinations;
* to not develop a heroin habit;
* to have sex with my partner whenever the time seems right and passion is profound;
* to not commit any major crimes;
* to watch only those TV shows I find entertaining;
* to work only the number of hours the parameters of my job call for;
* to not go into a biker bar and utter threats at the biggest motherfucker in the place;
* to not ask my sunbathing bikini-clad neighbor to cover up on a sunny day regardless of how much she might offend my sense of propriety;
* to not kill or maim a skateboarder regardless of how irritating I might find them to be;
* to not see an image of Jesus in a dinner roll, or the face of the Virgin Mary in the tiles of a locker room floor;
* to not actually take part in perpetrating the death of or bodily mayhem on a former professional colleague, but reserving the right to want to see ill befall the scumbag, regardless. Actually, public disgrace of this man would work well, too, but now I’m getting off topic;
* to not sire any extracurricular children.

See, those ones are easy, so that represents one alternative to the resolutions conundrum.

Another is the approach my wife and I began a number of years ago. It involves – and I’m serious here – something called ‘Good Intentions’ in lieu of actual binding (and shortly to be discarded) resolutions. In other words a good intention is what you would ‘like’ to see happen in the ensuing year, and you might even do your level best to make it happen. If it doesn’t, you will try again the next year. See, nothing etched in stone. No failure implied. Even better, with this approach you don’t tell anybody your good intentions. They’re just between you and the God of your understanding.

The process is simple. You write out your good intentions; whatever number, five, ten, twenty, five-hundred. You might have the intention to, let’s say, stop smoking. Write it down in this manner: For 2007 I intend to make every effort I can to stop smoking. When that intention is joined by a few other intentions, you fold the paper up and then wait until midnight. Then, go to the fireplace or outdoors and light the paper and let it burn up while saying: “I offer these good intentions to the universe, or God, or Allah or whatever your belief system would call for you to do. When that is done, you simply let it go and let the magic of the universe manifest.

Oh, and create two copies of your good intentions just so you can check on next Dec. 31 just to see how you did.

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL MY BLOGGING FRIENDS!

Ding-dong, the Butcher's dead!

As time has gone on I find that I’ve changed my views about certain verities of life. I’ve become more sensitive in some realms – like the protection of children, for example, or the various and wonderful species of nature, endangered or not. A toddler stumbling across a beach or a park lawn can bring a warm tear to my eye, and I revel looking out at the birds using the feeders I have set up in the back yard.

Likewise, I admire those who do what they can, and then even try to do more to help out their fellow human beings.

At the same time I know I’ve become more hard-nosed about other aspects of life, and I am not ashamed that I have. When I was young, and arguably more idealistic than I am today, I was an avowed pacifist and was also (heatedly sometimes, especially when arguing with my elders) stridently opposed to capital punishment. To me there was no justification for taking another human's life, regardless of the heinousness of his or her crimes. I just believed we did not have the right to take a life.

Over time I changed. I think the change came about around the time I read Ann Rule’s book The Stranger Beside Me, which is her sometimes chilling account of once having worked next to serial-killer Ted Bundy at a Seattle crisis centre. Then, consummate crime-writer that Rule is, she went on to recount the pretty-boy psycho’s sadistic brutalisation and murder of what ultimately was probably scores of young women in Washington State, Utah and eventually Florida. So, after they caught Bundy, and when the time came for them to fry him, I rejoiced at the news. I also secretly hoped he suffered agonies of fear and much physical distress. Maybe something to just vaguely equal the horrors he’d perpetrated on his victims. Of course, considering what he'd done, no system of criminal justice could come close to meting out genuinely appropriate punishment. But, for me, “fry the bastard,” sat well.

So, did I shed a tear today when I heard Saddam Hussein had been hanged? I did not. I didn’t rejoice either. What I felt was a sort of neutrality in my soul and a kind of world-weariness. In other words, he’s gone and if ever a man deserved to be hanged, it was he. At the same time the realization came to me that somehow it wasn’t enough. Mere hanging couldn’t come close to sufficient punishment for the horrors he’d imposed on thousands upon thousands of people. Thousands upon thousands that weren’t even granted a trial, like he was. So, how can we find punishment sufficient to deal with such a reptile? Even if a Ted Bundy could have sat in the gas chamber for a year, choking and gasping, it wouldn’t and couldn't make up for the horrors he’d imposed on the friends and families of his victims. If they'd caught Hitler in 1945, what could they have done to him that would have been enough?

But, I’m glad that Saddam and I no longer suck the same air on this planet. I am glad he can now pathetically attempt to make peace with Allah. I don’t think he’ll succeed. I love the scene in the movie Ghost where the bad guy is hit by a car and killed and the dark underworld shapes come up and drag his horrified soul down the manhole and into the netherworld. I hope Saddam Hussein is in the same place.

Regardless of your feelings about the Iraq War – and we all have feelings about it – there are very few, even in the Islamic world that believed that Saddam Hussein had a right to live. I shared such thoughts and feel no shame whatsoever about feeling that way.

A chance meeting in time and space

Once, about 10 years ago, I had a terrific young female friend. Just a friend, despite the fact she was as cute as two buttons in a row. But, she was a lot younger than I was, had two tiny kids, had just come out of a very nasty divorce, and was a rising young TV producer. In other words, she was at a different place in her life.

But, we cherished the presence of each other and had a wonderful older brother and sister, or uncle and niece kind of relationship. I lived where I did, and she lived in a different city, but during the days we were both romantically unattached we would bunk down at each other’s place when either one or the other of us was in our respective towns. No hanky-panky other than warm hugs and kisses on the cheek transpired. It was just a wonderful loving friendship at many levels.

“Your ex-wife thinks we’re lovers,” she told me over coffee one morning when I was staying at her place.

“I’m flattered she would think that,” I replied. “How do you know she thinks that?”

“Because she’s a good friend of my ex-mother in law. She also said you were a male slut, so she wouldn’t be surprised if we were having an affair.”

“I don’t know how flattered I am by the ‘slut’ appellation, but whatever turns her crank, I guess. I don’t like the implied insult to you, however.”

“That’s OK. My ex’s mother hates me so she'd want to think the worst of me.”

Anyway, that was the sort of relationship she and I had, and we both loved it. Eventually, we both linked up with other people and, being separated by geography, we drifted apart; lost each other’s respective phone numbers, emails, etc, and I would periodically get little twinges of angst that told me I might never see her again.

But, enter synchronicity. This morning I went for a long walk to meet up with Wendy for lunch. She is working in the same city my friend lives in, and I’ll also be living here part time. As I walked along the street I noticed up ahead a young couple with a baby in a stroller. They had stopped to tend to the infant, and I headed out to go past them. As I passed, the woman looked up and smiled. I stopped in my tracks.

“April?”

“It’s Ian,!” she exclaimed.

And, it was she. And just like that we reconnected after nearly a decade.

“You don’t know how many times I’ve tried to find a way to get in touch with you,” she said.

“Same with me,” I replied. “I’d almost resigned myself to never seeing you again, and I thought that would be so sad.”

“Me too,” she said.

So, we exchanged emails and phone numbers, and I found that she lives literally a block away from where I now live part of the time. I feel quite awestruck.

I also am coming to believe more and more in synchronicity. My meeting with April represents the third such episode in a little over a month. The first was the meeting with my old landlord in England, and how he had found the cartoons I had drawn 25 years before on just the same day I arrived on his doorstep.

The second involves my reconnection with my old friend, John, who lives in Australia but just happened to be in the same city I was to be visiting two weeks ago.

And the final one is my meeting with April this morning. I mean, what are the odds? I could have left home 10 minutes earlier this morning, or could have chosen another route. So could she have. But, both parties left at the time they did and chose the route they did.

I am choosing to believe that was meant to be.

I'm a lousy consumer

So – what did you get?

According to stats, consumer spending this Christmas was up 4700 percent, or something ludicrous. Household debt loads got another good boost and that can only be welcome news for Visa, Mastercharge, banks, and assorted other purveyors of money you don’t actually possess, except on the most temporary basis.

I’m a very bad citizen because I don’t play that consumerism game at all well. I have a 14-year-old car that runs well (except when it doesn’t), we have every household appliance one would hanker for (other than a dishwasher, I’d really, really like a dishwasher, OK?), and we don’t have a big, flat screen TV. I suspect, and please correct me if I’m in error, that no matter what sort of state-of-the-art TV I owned, the programming would still be shitty. So, I remain content to watch shitty programs on my decade old non-flat-screen TV which still works like a charm.

So, what did I get? I’d like to say I got peace, love, security and joy for all of humankind but, as altruistic as I might be, that doesn’t seem to be happening. So, on a more mundane level, my favorite gifts were some art supplies, which means there is a domestic suggestion I should get off my cute li’l bum (I’ve been told) and become creative once again. Good thing, too. I just checked, and the last painting I completed was in June. Not good enough. The world can only agog with anticipation for so long before it moves on to look at the efforts of others.

Otherwise, I unwittingly passed by the materialistic thing about 15 years ago, and have felt blessed by that ever since. I was once married to a shopaholic, and that was a bit frightening. Today (no hippie impulses influencing me) I am quite happy to only buy what I feel I need and then when I spend money – which I do – it is for necessities or such things as travel. An ability to purchase experience of any sort is superior to anything material. Bought experience represents a certain freedom for me. And, if I have freedom, I am blessed.

As for Wendy: Well, if I had been a less-than-honest person, I could have given her an item that was quite dazzling. I was walking along the street about a week before Christmas when I espied, lying on the sidewalk, one of those very, very, high-end and classy Burberry scarves – you know, the beige plaid ones in the same pattern as the linings of the equally posh raincoats and topcoats. I picked it up. It was dry, and had obviously just been dropped. I looked high and low for whoever might have dropped it. Really, I did. I saw nobody in either direction. So, I thought I could box it up, wrap it and present it as a gift. But, some sort of residual honesty within kept me from doing that. I merely passed it on to Wendy a few days before Christmas.

Other than a few special things, like earrings, I mainly bought Wendy undies. She said she needed new ones. And, fortunately for me, I am not a man who gets embarrassed by purchasing unmentionables for a loved one. Actually, I kind of enjoy it (immensely, but I won’t go into why). So, I bought her workaday skivvies, and some more exotic confections of the frou-frou sort. That made it very easy for me.

Anyway, I hope you got all that you wanted – and needed.

Still a little bit of magic in the air

When I was very young – about 5, I think – and I still believed in magic and sugarplums (what exactly are sugarplums?), Christmas was almost painful in its promised delights. As I said, I still believed in magic and knew that Santa Claus truly did see you when you were sleeping, and kept tabs on you being awake, prompting him to put an ‘X’ on the deficit side of your personal roster if he detected wakefulness. Why Santa should have cared if you were awake or not was beyond me even then. But knowing well it was a bad thing in his esteem, I would scrunch my eyes tightly closed when I went to bed, hoping I could fool the Jolly Old Elf. A Jolly Old Elf who had a bit of a mean and vindictive streak about him, kind of like the Old Testament God.

We lived at my grandparents’ house when I was 5, and my bedroom was in the far back of the upstairs and my stocking, rather than being hung by the fireplace, was hung at the foot of my bed. I expect the reason for that was because the aged farmhouse had nothing resembling central heating, so the living room, in which the fireplace was to be found, would be excruciatingly cold in the morning. The fireplace would be lighted later in the morning, so by Christmas afternoon the room would finally be moderately warm.

In the night I lay there, feigning sleep for part of the night at least. But, I must have drifted off because I recall awakening at some point when it was still dark. There was a rustling in the room and I could see the silhouette of a figure in the gloom. The figure was rummaging around in my stocking. I immediately shut my eyes. It was Santa! It had to have been Santa! I hoped against hope he hadn’t espied my open eyes. I thought perhaps I was off the hook because the figure continued with the task at hand. At that point, despite my excitement, I must have actually gone back to sleep, for when I next opened my eyes there was a shaft of light coming through the panes of the tiny window. It was morning. I could look in my stocking to see what largesse lay therein.

I don’t remember what I got, but since I remember that Christmas so well, it must have been perfect. It must have been all that I wanted. It must have been the best Christmas ever. Or – is that just part of the mythology – for I know it is mythology – of that idealized Christmas. I think many of us have an idealized Christmas and maybe that is something that keeps us moderately sane and still permits a bit of the magic to remain in the air. Magic that suggests that Christmas Eve is unlike any other night of the year.

In my idealized Christmas, there is always snow. I don’t believe for a moment that there was snow in every Christmas of my childhood, but in my mind there was. Deep snow. Snow covering all the trees and shrubs and being tramped through the back door and into Grannie’s kitchen. Snow and chill that sent people to pull up chairs next to the big old wood burning range with the warming oven on top. On Christmas there were always loaves rising in the warming oven, and their rich, yeasty fragrance would permeate the kitchen.

In the living there sat the big brick fireplace, and also the tree. It was a huge tree; a gargantuan conifer that was festooned with baubles and lights and tinsel. I don’t know how huge it actually was, but from my vantage point at age 5, most things were huge, and the tree truly was mammoth, and surely extending right to the 10-foot ceiling of the old house.

Turkey was in the oven, and its fragrance competed with the bread aroma (the loaves of which were by now baked, and were resting on cooling racks). Friends and relatives began to arrive. Legions of friends and relatives, it seemed, and most of them long since gone from this sphere. There were aunts and uncles, and great aunts and great uncles, and mainly there were cousins. Cousins with whom one would sit at the ‘little’ table, the kids’ table when the meal finally appeared. In my myth it was always a fine meal. Port and sherry were served to the adults (my grandparents were ‘very’ English), and ginger ale to the children. Sometimes even ginger beer, which I didn’t like so much because I found it too strong. After dinner there was plum pudding and custard sauce. I took the custard sauce. To this day I have never developed a hankering for plum pudding.

After the meal was all squared away, everybody retired to the living room for gift exchanging. More presents! It was like a repeat of the morning. How blissful could one day possibly get? After the presents were done, the cousins played with them throughout the house while the grownups nattered in the living room. Eventually cousins, and myself, sauntered into the living room. Somebody was at the piano and those who felt like doing so sang desultory Christmas carols. Cousins and I, tuckered from the festivities of the day, slowly crumpled into torpor next to parents on couches, or curled up in a corner somewhere. The time eventually came for cars to be fired up in the long driveway. Cars needed to be warmed up in those days, or they would stall in the cold air. Cousins were carried out to the awaiting vehicles once the heaters had kicked in. Goodbyes were exchanged, and that was the end of it.

It was the end of it for that year. I as yet had no idea what a harsh handmaiden time was to be and how that Christmas had come to an end, and in certain respects my magical Christmases had come to an end, and for each ensuing year they would diminish just a little bit, just like the numbers of first the great uncles and great aunts, and then the grandparents, and then the uncles and aunts.

But, even today there remains a vestige of the magic. A low-key, relatively non-mystical magic, but magic enough to take me back to a wondrous earlier time that only exists in my false memories.

And, what are most memories, but false? That's part of their blessing.

Merry Christmas Everybody!
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The music of the season makes it work

It behooves me to state my case plainly and that is, while not being a Scrooge, Christmas is not a time of year that particularly enchants me. It doesn’t for a number of reasons, and the most important one being, that the season is a reminder.

A reminder of family members no longer here (in some cases blessedly, if truth be known); a reminder of lost loves and marriages and those families; a reminder of long-ago Christmases at my grandparents’ home that to me was blissful, mainly because I was too young to appreciate the stresses of family drunks and philanderers, or how bloody poor my grandparents were; a reminder of a season in which my parents invariably disappointed their kids and likely each other.

It is also a reminder of the profligate greed of a society that deems it proper to encourage people to send themselves into the poorhouse in order to buy gifts they absolutely cannot afford; and it is a reminder of those who literally can afford nothing and a guilt-racked society that deems it proper to lay a turkey-dinner on them and buy a few cheapskate gifts for their sad kids – and then forgets about them for the rest of the year.

Do not misconstrue my words about the season, however, because there are aspects about Christmas I cherish, I truly enjoy and always look forward to:

The 1950 version of A Christmas Carol with Alastair Sim as Scrooge. That’s the only version I want to watch, and always do on Christmas Eve.
Listening to my ancient recording of Dylan Thomas’s A Child’s Christmas in Wales.
Watching the Christmas Story if only to hear the Chinese Waiters sing Happy Holiday and to listen to Dad cussing at the furnace.
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. I mean, I don’t actually do that, but the idea is warm and homey.
Wendy’s Spanish Cream dessert after Christmas dinner.
Christmas brekkie, in which I make my killer eggs benedict and serve them on the lox that Wendy prepared during the summer.
Christmas Eve carol service at church.
And most of all, the music.

The music indeed. I have exceptions in this regard, but Christmas music, like all other forms of music, I find highly evocative, nostalgic, sometimes spiritual, and serenity inducing. Some pieces can fill the soul, and others will take one back to earlier times in life. Oh, and there are some pieces I have come to loathe because they are so overdone. I would be very, very happy if I were to never hear The Little Drummer-boy again in this lifetime. A fellow can only stand so many rumpa-pum-pums. The Twelve Days of Christmas I would also happily relegate to the trashcan of unwanted seasonal offerings. But, there are others that range from the sublime to the sweet to the silly.

Here are mine, in absolutely no order, with the artists. Would be delighted to read about yours:

Hark the Herald Angels: Kings College Choir, Cambridge

Adeste Fideles: Same as above, or Bing Crosby

White Christmas: Has to be Bing

Blue Christmas: Elvis Presley

Jingle Bell Rock: Bobby Helms

Fairy Tale of New York: Shane MacGowan/Kirsty MacColl and the Pogues

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas: Judy Garland

The Christmas Song: Nat King Cole

Happy Christmas/War is Over: John Lennnon/Yoko Ono

Merry Christmas Everybody: Slade

I’ll Be Home for Christmas: Judy Collins and assorted other people

O Holy Night: Any really good choir and also Bing

Santa Claus is Coming to Town: Gene Autry

Santa Baby: Eartha Kitt

And last, but assuredly not least – I Yoost Go Nuts at Christmas: Yorgi Yorgeson

Please share your faves and blessings of the season on you all. Or, as Yorgi would say: "Merry Christmas, effryvun."

"Uh-oh -- maybe a bit of a judgment error here!"

I have written before about the things I haven’t done and that I would like to do before I shuffle off this mortal coil. Some of them, maybe even most of them, will not happen, but in moments of idle speculation I still think I’d like to:

See the pyramids along the Nile,

gaze upon the Taj Mahal (without the hassle of getting there),

stay in the most expensive penthouse suite to be found in London or New York City, While staying there, order in pizza.

have a conversation about Bogey with Lauren Bacall,

learn how to surf

win a Pulitzer Prize for writing,

have a best-seller published,

drive a Bentley convertible,

spend an evening with Deborah Harry of Blondie,

referee an intellectual barroom brawl between Donald Trump and Gonzo guy Hunter S. Thompson. Let’s see, Trump’s a teetotaller and Thompson’s dead, so it should be a fairly even match.

Never having had the chance to hang out (in a disreputable manner) with the late Princess Diana despite my great big crush on her. Gee, she probably didn’t even know how I felt.

Get a nice vacation home in the Hanalei Valley of Kauai

On the other hand, there are some things I haven’t done and that I have no desire to do, or even if I had some vague inkling of desire to do them, my better judgment suggests to me that it might be best if I let them stay where they are. A writer years ago suggested that one should perhaps try everything with the possible exceptions of incest, homicide, and opium smoking. Since I have tried none of those, I think too it would be better if I didn’t try at this stage.

So, as follows are the things I haven’t done and even if I have been curious none of them ever been activated nor likely ever will:

Injected drugs

Bitch-slapped anybody

Screamed obscenities in the street
Had sex in public (semi-public doesn’t count if there’s nobody else around)

Served time in prison

Stuck my tongue on a frozen pipe in wintertime

Been in a riot (or even public demonstration)

Uttered profanities in a place of worship

Thrown a bigoted comment at a member of a minority

Been overly familiar with the Queen. I have taken a number of close-up photos of her while on the job, but I wasn’t even tempted to say: “So, how ya doin’, babe? Bet you find these royal tours a drag.”

Committed a violent crime

Bungie-jumped

Sky-dived

Extreme skied. In fact, I haven’t skied at all since I was about 16 and by now I don’t really have a great desire to be cold and wet or to fracture whatever limbs I might have. Truth be known, I hate winter sports, mainly because I hate winter.

Gone snorkelling in shark-infested waters. I mean, I have gone snorkelling right in the same area where the little Hawaiian girl had her arm chomped off, but what are the odds?

Acquired an STD.

Cross-dressed – oh, maybe at Halloween when I was a kid, but that somehow doesn’t count

Worn garments made from the pelts or skins of endangered species

Spanked a child. Corporal punishment may have some virtues, but somehow it seems not right for a grown adult to slug a kid. Call me a softie, if you will

Likewise, I have never physically hurt an animal, nor would I, unless maybe it was a wolverine about to take out my throat.

In that context, I have no desire to hunt. I have no issue with those who do hunt, for meat (never for trophies), but I don’t choose to shoot some little Bambi.

OK, now that I have shown what a softie I am, it might be better to bring this to an end. I would, however, love to hear some of your taboos.

The various 'Joes' of Peter Boyle

I guess younger people can be excused for only seeing actor Peter Boyle as the curmudgeonly father on the sometimes mildly amusing Everybody Loves Raymond, but those who are a little older will recall that this guy was a consummate character actor whose roles (for me at least, not to mention a few critics) remain riveted in the mind.

Consequently, I was saddened last week to learn that he had died. Died at a relatively early age. Truth be known, he had been dying for years from both a severe heart condition and myeloma, but it still came as a shock.

For those whose viewing goes beyond the realm of television, Boyle is no doubt best known for playing the ultimately loveable monster (shown right) in Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein. Ultimately decked out in topper and evening dress the monster dances with Madeleine Kahn and hoofs with Gene Wilder’s Dr. Frankenstein (“That’s Fronkenschteen!”) to Puttin’ on the Ritz. For that flick Boyle’s scene with unbilled Gene Hackman is worth the price of admission.

Former seminarian Boyle first gained audience attention with a 1970 film called Joe, in which he played a blue-collar reactionary father of a young girl. He was a guy so bigoted he made Archie Bunker look like a Gore liberal. Redneck doesn’t begin to describe a man whose hatred of blacks, hippies, and anything else that smacked of a challenge to his lockset view of what should be that he ultimately turns to crazed homicide. That the film was clichéd and over-the-top in its left-wing inspired sensibilities goes without saying, but Boyle’s performance caught the attention of critics, and so it should have.

The Boyle role that really caught my attention was a 1977 TV movie called Tailgunner Joe, which was a bio-pic study of the notorious 1950s red-baiting senator, Joe McCarthy. Boyle brilliantly captured the droning monotone of this ruthless and ultimately pathetic man who destroyed so many lives during his brief reign of DC terror. You think there are reactionaries in Congress today? You should have seen McCarthy in his glory days. If you remember McCarthy, you know what I mean. Boyle remembered the man who destroyed so many lives in his chosen calling and he reveled in the role.

With his prematurely bald pate and his pedestrian looks, Boyle never offered a leading man persona, but the power of his personality in those works mentioned, and notable others like Taxi Driver, tended to dominate whatever he was in. If you get the chance, check it out and see what he was capable of well beyond the meanderings of Raymond. There you will see the sort of ‘presence’ that can be found in Spencer Tracy, Bogart, Nicholson, Nolte, Duval and DiNiro, and not many others. And, if you must, watch Raymond and see how Boyle’s character dominated that series.

Sanctioned highway robbery

Decades ago humorist Stephen Leacock (a Canadian Mark Twain in many respects) wrote a highly amusing little essay on how banks “rattle” him. I understood what he meant even at an early age, but by this later age I find that Canadian banks don’t rattle me one little bit – to be rattled you have to have respect for the institution, and I have none – they infuriate me.

My latest fit of pique came about following our European sojourn during which I used my ATM card many times. What a blessing to not have to go through that American Express nonsense any longer. And, with ATM card in hand I stuck it into instant tellers all over the place – in France, Belgium and England. Each time I got a little message that informed me that while Barclay’s Bank, for example, was not charging me for the transaction, what my own bank might do was entirely up to my own bank. So, naïve soul that I was, I thought I was off the hook in terms of extra charges.

You see, in Europe it is illegal for banks to charge an extra ATM fee even if the user is not dealing with his home bank. That is as it should be. In Canada, of course, with the tacit approval of successive Canadian governments, none of which would dare utter a word against the banks (because the banks are their owners, not the voters), they charge me a fee of $1.50 if I am not using an ATM associated with my own bank. The bastards.

But, adding grievous insult to fiduciary injury, when I got my first bank statement from the European trip I found that the sonsofbitches had charged me $5 for every ATM transaction. To say that I am outraged by the thievery is to state the case mildly. I am antagonistic enough that whenever I hear that somebody has pulled a successful bank job (provided nobody gets hurt or traumatized, let’s make it a safecracking, OK?) I silently applaud the crime. So, for an institution to raise so much rancor in an otherwise scrupulously law-abiding citizen indicates to me that something is wrong with the system.

Something is indeed wrong with a system in which I can be charged $1.50 or $5, depending on where I am, for the right to use a bank machine. Something is wrong with a system in which there is utterly no point in maintaining a savings account because the interest payment is so low that it’s worthless bothering. Banks in England, by the way, pay 3.5% on savings account. Something is indeed wrong when chartered banks blithely shut down branches in communities so that they can “centralize” their services, and then have the audacity to peddle the bullshit that such changes are to the benefit of customers. And something is truly wrong when I read the business pages and find that the chartered banks in this country have yet again posted huge profits in the past year.

Of course they have. What’s there to stop them? They have their hands in your pockets no matter what you do. They own your home; they charge felonious rates for their services; and they do as little as they possibly can to serve you. Oh, and by the way, they are also getting into the insurance racket. There’s another business I’ll ‘rant’ about someday.

Phew. That feels better. I’ll only close by saying that I understand perfectly why Granny stuffed her meagre savings into the mattress.

Surely it's just coincidence -- no?

My grandmother, who was a sensible, intelligent, realistic and remarkably sane woman believed in ghosts. She especially believed in portents (of either doom or good fortune), as well as synchronistic circumstance. To her there were also guardian angels, and maybe even fairies at the bottom of the garden. Nothing in the universe, she maintained, happened by accident.

I am more sceptical than she, or at least more of a believer in randomness because I tend to hold (sometimes) that we are the products of our choices and if something seemingly mystical transpires, then it is pure chance, and pure coincidence. We are the living (temporarily) entities that we are and if there is an afterlife, let alone a netherworld, we are not about to find out in this sphere.

Actually, I’d like to believe more fully in ‘magic’ because I think that those that do have more fun. Weirdness is much more fascinating than day-to-day routine. I also harbor the sneaking suspicion that I might be wrong and it just could be that we are not quite as alone in this universe as our logic tells us we are.

So, I am prepared to admit that I do read my horoscope and, if it’s a good one, I am comforted for the day. If it’s a bad one, I say it’s all BS and move along regardless. Furthermore, I do know that I show far too many Piscean traits for even my own serenity, but I still believe much of it is wishful thinking. Hey, I even watch Medium once in a while, and not just because Patricia Arquette is stacked like gangbusters, but because the yarns are fun, if unbelievable.

All that said, however, we did have an incident transpire on our European sojourn that not only gave me pause-for-thought but also made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up just a tiny bit.

I think I mentioned in an earlier blog that I had gone to visit the house in which I resided in Great Yarmouth, England in 1981. In so doing, I also looked up my old landlord who still lived next door.

When we arrived at the door, I rang the bell. Footsteps told me that somebody was in. In case he had forgotten me in 25-years, I reintroduced myself. He looked at me almost perplexedly. He then held up his hands and told Wendy and me to wait on the doorstep and to not go anywhere, and that he would be back in 2 minutes. Odd, we thought, but we obeyed his request. We then heard him pad upstairs, and shortly thereafter, back down again.

He looked at me when he arrived again at the doorstep. He was holding a couple of pieces of paper in his hand.

“Look at these,” he said.

I did so. They were cartoons I had drawn a quarter of a century ago as birthday cards to his late wife, Daphne. I was something of a working cartoonist among other things back in those days, so I often drew people personalized, hand-etched cards. It was kind of neat to see something I had drawn so long ago.

He then said: “I have not seen those cards in all the time since you left here. I had no idea where they were, and I wasn’t looking for them. I was just going through some old papers of Daphne’s this morning to decided what I was going to keep and what I was going to discard. The cartoons fell out of the papers. I looked at them. I was amused, and I thought nothing more about it. That was two hours ago. And now, two hours later, without having contacted me to let me know that you were in England, there you are on the doorstep. I find this very strange.”

So did I. I’ve mentioned it to a couple of people who are more mystical than I, and they suggested that my energy had transmitted to him because I was going to pay a call. Therefore, to prepare him for the visitation, he happened upon the cartoons. It was all part of the same metaphysical package, as it were.

Probably it’s all just coincidence, but in this case I am not quite as dogmatic about it as I might have been at one time.

Pre-Christmas rant

Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas.

There, I wrote it. So sue me. That was my little gesture against the forces of Political Correctness as they continue their quest to not only secularize the season, but to secularize any trapping of Western society that dares to make mention of a Christian heritage or that Christ fella.

The biggest proselytizers of anti-clerical bilge our the schools in these parts. In this particular district there is almost unanimity among those who hold sway over our tiny-tots that there must be no mention of not only Christmas but also there must be no mention of the (shudder) Christ connection with what is going on. This is being done, of course, in some sort of a spirit of exclusivity. That is, those kids who are Jews, or Muslims, or Hindus, or Buddhists must not feel left out.

But, why should they? Hey, come and join the party. All are welcome. Not only that but nobody will even try to convert you. And, if we invite you along for Christmas festivities, maybe you’ll invite us to Chanukah or Chinese New Year, Ramadan, or any other religion-inspired festivities peculiar to other faiths. The irony here is, though, while our schools deny mention of Christmas, Christianity and the like, they run out and embrace the festivities of other faiths. What in hell is that all about? Is the inference that our kids should be somehow ashamed to have a Christian background, but that Chanukah and Ramadan should be sources of pride? Well, of course they should be sources of cultural pride – but I protest, so should Christianity. In my esteem, it’s either that, or damn well do away with them all and make our schools utterly secular.

And, to truly embrace that concept, I want all those teachers and school boards who are determined to get the Christ out of Christmas to also forego that annual Christmas vacation, not to mention the Easter break. Why should they have them? They don’t believe in the inspiration behind them.

I don’t write this as a practicing, churchgoing Christian, for I’m not. But, I still subscribe to my Christian heritage and the concept of Christ has given me solace in this life more than once. Much as I imagine Allah gives others solace, and the ‘Creator’ subscribed to by Native North Americans gives them succor. That’s what it’s all about, after all.

A case-in-point from this area shows how foolish and insulting this has become, especially when the school system imposes its view on the susceptible young. A few years ago a new junior school opened not far from here. At the ceremony spiritual leaders of the local Native band were invited to do a “smudging” ceremony to bless the new school. Nothing wrong with that. But, can you imagine the outrage if a pastor or priest had been invited to give a Christian blessing to the new school?

However, despite the gloom over such offensive silliness, the advocates of secularizing the Christmas season will end up, as Scrooge suggested, boiled in their own pudding because an apparent backlash is growing.

Not a moment too soon, in my esteem. Now I think I’ll go and play a Christmas carol.

Passing the test of true friendship

My friend John on the left, myself centre, and our respective spouses, Joy (centre) and Wendy.

‘Friendship’ is a word that is difficult to define. We all have many acquaintances, as well as neighbors, colleagues, people whom one encounters (and likes) in grocery stores, at the dentist’s office, and while traveling. All of these people ‘count’, but are they friends. As a reporter I have interviewed individuals, male and female, with whom I have developed an easy manner and a certain bonding.

But, are such people ‘friends’ in any true understanding of the word? I’m not so sure. I’m put in mind of the old song, Together:

Through thick or through thin,
All out and all in,
And whether it’s win, place or show,
It’s you for me, and me for you,
Together, wherever we go.

Or lyrics to that effect. And that, to me, is what friendship is all about. And therein I have no trouble counting my ‘friends’ for their numbers are few when compared to a much larger (and also much cherished) acquaintanceship.

My friends, I believe, are the ones with whom I can pick up conversation immediately upon seeing the individual, regardless of how many years have intervened since last we set eyes on each other. My friends are also no specified in terms of gender. I have close, caring and intense female friendships (not lovers) and close, caring and intense male friendships.

I say without equivocation that my wife, Wendy, is my best friend. I’m not saying this as some sort of expected protocol, but because it’s true. Our friendship (and love) began shortly after we met, and there is nobody in the world with whom I’d rather spend time.

Another mark of true friendship for me is long-duration (through that old thick and thin). In that I have one female friend with whom I actually attended first grade and then went right through high school (even though we lost touch for well over 30 years). She is my longest duration friend. I have another friend who lives thousands of miles away. We met in our 20s and still cherish the existence of the other, even though we only see each other about twice a decade. I had another very close one from my 20s who, alas, died accidentally in his late 30s. I still miss him. I have a female friend whom I met when she was 20 and I was 40. Now, many years later, we would still do anything for each other. I regard her as my baby sister, and she sees me as her big brother.

But, in many respects my best friend is ‘John’. We became friends (we lived next door) when we were 11 or 12. We’ve had many separations over the years, but somehow we always find each other. Our respective lives have taken many turns – some good, some not so good – but there is a bond between the two of us that seems insurmountable.
In 1990 John, his wife, and two young daughters moved to Australia. Then, somehow, through a succession of moves and the like, I lost his address. That was distressing. I did a number of Internet searches, to no avail. Then, my life changed quite radically. A marriage broke up, and a further relationship faltered. But then, after my life settled down once again, I often thought of John; wondered how he was; even wondered (God forbid) if something bad had happened to him or his family. If it had, I wouldn’t have known.

Then, last week, via a convoluted means that I won’t go into here, John connected with me. He was back in Canada, visiting his aging father for possibly one last time. He wanted to chat. He was in Victoria. As the fates would have it, we were traveling to Victoria the next day.

And that was how it went. We met for lunch. It was immediate rapport, as if no time had elapsed, despite the 16-years hiatus. That was what friendship was supposed to be like. That primal connection is still a profound connection. We now, of course, have a standing invitation to visit them Down Under. We might just have to do that sometime before too long.

John and I had some rather amazing adventures in our lives, some of which are not suitable to be recounted if there are youngsters present; we’ve also both had our woes and our tragedies. Yet, the friendship has prevailed through all of that.

That’s as it should be, and I’m very grateful for both him, and the circumstances that brought us back together, even if very temporarily.

Lathering up in the Jacuzzi the 'right' way

Once upon a time I worked with a reporter/columnist who came-up with a prize-winning (in my esteem) guide to marriage. I found the column he wrote on the subject to be both very funny but also, in its own way, sensible. I’ll take the liberty of telling you how it worked.

He called it the Tabasco Test. It’s very simple. He decided that the average small bottle of Tabasco sauce lasted in their household about 12 years. That to me seemed like a long-duration, and suggested that maybe they just needed a bit more ‘spice’ in their relationship and then they wouldn’t need the test. But, that’s not important here. Back to the test. If, in their household, the bottle lasted 12 years, he felt that at some point, part way through year 11, a couple should sit down and note that the Tabasco was nearly gone. It might be time to appraise the relationship and to decide whether or not they would make it all the way through the next purchase, and therefore should they take the plunge and renew. If they did renew, and then the marriage broke down, they would be forced to deal with all sorts of complications, not the least of which, who would get custody of the Tabasco.

Anyway, the Tabasco consideration came to mind when I was having a Jacuzzi this morning. Next to the tub, I always have a bar of Pears' soap – you know, that wonderful amber glycerine English product that actually smells like soap rather than perfume. This is not a plug for the Pears' company, I might add. When we bought the house with the Jacuzzi tub (which was a major selling point since it offered the potential for even more than just cleanliness and relaxation, but I won’t go there) I felt it should be honoured by more than just regular old soap. It needed Pear’s, with its patina of class – you know, sort a Princess Diana, Ascot tailgate picnic with champagne and caviar, and hobnobbing at Annabel’s sort of association – and also nostalgia.

You see, my maternal grandmother was more English than the Queen, and she always had Pears'. The fragrance of Pears' takes me back to lying in her big old tub (with the clawed feet) decades ago and lathering up with Pears'. They say that fragrances are the most evocative sensory triggers for us, and I fully believe it. A smell can transport you right back to the first time you experienced it.

The point of this blog is to suggest that while we smugly disparage commercial products and think we should detach ourselves from them and their hold on us (and we probably should at least be sensible about the bullshit advertisers run past us), we must be aware that some products are more than their names. They are associations and it is our associations that keep us connected with both ourselves and others.

In my father's day, guys were 'Ford men' or 'Chevy men', and they were unstinting and unwavering in their loyalty. God help anybody who tried to take that away from them back in the days when every kid could not only identify the brand of all vehicles on the street, but he could tell you what year they rolled down the Detroit pike for the first time. Today, with our cars emanating from Osaka, Beijing and Seoul, and Rolls Royces and Bentley's and sexy li'l Minis coming from Germany, you can understand the despair of a certain generation.

Our products are more than just a label, they are an association and a state-of-mind, and maybe we're the poorer if we entirely ignore that impulse.

Hell, I still miss Studebakers.

Whatever happened to Bob and the Girls?

Not necessarily Bob and one of the girls, but a pretty reasonable facsimile and it is on Rarotonga.

It happens when one stays in a certain place for a period of time during one’s travels that one happens upon the same people at various times. One doesn’t know these people, and one often wonders who they are, or perhaps what they do. What are their lives like?

If such people are unique in some way – either beautiful, or not so beautiful, but maybe seeming a bit eccentric, so much the better. It is then that these people become fodder for verbal playwrighting. Wendy and I have amused ourselves for a number of years by developing scenarios about the individuals and fitting them into a tale of some sort. We then will wonder how much of our tale is true. Sometimes we even give them names. Sometimes the names are true, because we’ve overheard them, but other times we christen them ourselves.

Our most elaborate travel play was back in 2001 and it concerned the curious behaviors of ‘Bob and the Girls’ at the far-off destination of Rarotonga in the Cook Islands.

On our second day there we took the little local bus into the tiny town of Avarua (which, despite its minuscule nature, is also the capital city of the ‘Nation of the Cook Islands.’) and a few stops past our own the bus stopped to pick up a trio of folk: a rather portly middle aged man and two women (also a tad on the zaftig side). They got on the bus and, judging by their accents, they were North Americans – either Canadian or American.

One of the women made a number of references to ‘Bob’, so that was the reason for Bob and the Girls. One of the girls -- the one who seemed to be married to Bob, as her familiarity seemed greater – began a conversation with the bus driver (a wonderful and witty Maori named Dennis) in which she was bemoaning the plethora of dogs on the island. And, it’s true. Dogs are everywhere. They are never vicious, nor are pathways befouled with poop, surprisingly. Anyway, one of Bob’s girls didn’t like the dogs, and complained to Dennis they should be doing something about these strays. By the way, I detest people who go to another culture and then complain because things aren't done exactly as they are 'back home.' You don't like it, then stay home!

“We did have a way of dealing with them in the old days,” Dennis graciously replied. “But then the missionaries came and put a stop to that.”

His reference was to the fact that puppydog had once upon a time been a mainstay of the Cook Islands diet. Now they couldn’t eat them, so the canines had multiplied all out of proportion. Anyway, we hadn’t found them bothersome, but Mrs. Bob obviously had.

A couple of days later we were in Avarua again and espied Bob and The Girls trying to get comfortable on the little motor scooters that are popular transport on Raro. The other ‘girl’ was astride this tiny 90 cc motorized velocipede, the tiny seat of which was having trouble accommodating the rather large cheeks of her too-tight-shorts covered bum. It was amusing.
So, from that point we started to work on our tale. Who were Bob and the Girls? We devised a few scenarios. Some were innocent (the ‘other’ girl was Bob’s sister, a school teacher, recently divorced (or never married) whom Bob and the Missus decided to invite along. Bob himself, meanwhile, looked like the manager of a small Midwest bank, and his wife looked a bit like maybe somebody that had clerked in Bob’s bank, and they had fallen in love.

So, that was our tame tale of Bob and the Girls. The more salacious one was that this was a ménage-a-trois and the trio was off in the South Pacific, going native, and getting up to sexual shenanigans that would have made Margaret Mead (or even Erica Jong) blush. The mind balked at that scenario, for esthetic reasons if no other (I have no objection to consenting adults doing whatever they like in the carnal realm as long as all are in accord), and I attempted to dispel that thought and return to our Midwest banker, spouse and sister. Well, they looked fairly wholesome, if truth were known.

Anyway, we saw them many times on our travels, and always took up the story afresh whenever we spied them. Then, the day to depart came. We got to the tiny air terminal early and were milling around a nice little patio area while awaiting boarding permission. We saw Bob and Mrs. Bob, but where was the third party? We saw her way over the far side, chatting with other people. It was obvious she’d had a few drinks since she was very demonstrative and verbal and was smoking one 100-millimetre cigarette after another. She was most definitely ‘not’ with the other members of the threesome.

What had happened? Was the sexual thing true, and had there been a jealousy issue arise? Or, had sister-in-law just become a pain-in-the-butt? We were almost tempted to ask, but realized that would be ridiculous.

Anyway, we boarded the flight from Rarotonga to Los Angeles, and prepared for the 10-hour-journey that was to follow. Bob and Mrs. Bob were sitting together. The ‘other’ person was sitting well away. We pondered this for a while, and then dozed on the long trip, and thought little more.

When we got to LA we transferred to an Air Canada plane for the flight to Vancouver. Lo-and-behold we were forced to scrap our Midwest scenario, since Bob and Mrs. Bob were also on their way to Vancouver. They were compatriots. In fact, Mrs. Bob sat right across the aisle from Wendy, who grew increasingly irritated by Mrs. Bob constantly unwrapping candy and crumpling the cellophane. We were very tired and out of sorts by this point. We also realized we didn’t see sister/mistress/whatever on that flight. Mr. and Mrs. Bob, by the way, exchanged absolutely zero words between the two of them on the three-hour flight to Vancouver. Hmm. We pondered what that was all about.

As the last leg of our trip, we had to change to a small commuter craft for the trip to Comox. To our relief, there were no members of the Bob family on that flight.
Yet, to this day, we still wonder about them and how they are doing. Did they eventually come back together as family/friends/lovers/whatever they were? I surely hope so.

Bad things come in threes -- don't they?

An old superstition suggests that bad things come in threes. I choose to believe that right now, but I’m not certain if one of the items I am about to suggest actually qualifies as a ‘bad thing’ or just a pissoff. I like to think it’s a bad thing because that would mean we’ve had our three and the demons and/or gremlins of the universe will let us off the hook, believing we have completed our turn for now.

The bad thing/minor pissoff consists of the sash chord on our kitchen window blind having broken, meaning that we have to hold the window covering up with rubber bands. I know, it’s a thing that is irritating, even irksome, but I’m not entirely sure about the ‘bad’ part. It all depends on the perspective, I think. As I said, I want to think it is bad, and that is what I choose to do.

The other two, since our return early in the week, are more nefarious. They consist of the washing machine having imploded and suffered a complete nervous, or transmission, breakdown. You don’t replace a major component like a washer transmission. You renew. So, we marched smartly off to Sear’s and told the guy to give is the most absolute cheap-shit washer they had in stock.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a brand-new, front-loading washer dryer combo?” he asked.

“Of course I would,” I replied. “I’d also like to have a vacation retreat on Kauai and drive a Porsche, but reality dictates that right now we can handle the purchase of a crappola top-loader, so that’s what we want. Lay it on us.”

Well, they did have such an item, and we purchased it. However, they didn’t actually have it in stock; only a display model. So, we had to wait. And, as of this juncture we are awaiting it’s delivery. Not waiting with avid anticipation, but waiting because the necessity of many dirty clothes from our travels calling for laundering. Calling plaintively and despairingly.

The third of the three (I am sticking with my three, you’ll note) is that yesterday I set forth in my car to tend to some business in town. I was happy to have it out because it had been sitting idle for nearly six weeks. We’ve had Wendy’s out, but had left mine in the garage because there was still a lot of snow around prior to yesterday. Anyway, I fired it up and it ran like a charm. So, I set forth on my errands.

In the early part of the journey I stopped at a local store to pick something up. I picked it up. I went back to my car and turned the key. It started – and then it died. Odd, thought I. My car doesn’t do that. It is infinitely reliable. It doesn’t stall. I won’t stand for that sort of behavior. I turned it over again; it started; it died again. I was becoming distressed. I turned it over again. It sputtered. It tried to start, but it didn’t accomplish the task. It was like a drunk trying to make love. The will and desire were there, but the attainment was impossible. My car was flaccid in its performance. I turned it over, and over, and over, and eventually the battery died. I felt like I was once again driving one of the beaters I had in university. I called Wendy on my cell and told her to call the Automobile Association for a tow-truck. She then came down to wait for the truck with me. I was hoping against hopes that it was just water in the fuel-line. The tow truck guy came. He put jumpers on the car and cranked it over and over. Nothing happened. He looked in the gas tank and said: “I think your fuel pump isn’t working. Those were words I did not want to hear. I didn’t want to hear them because I knew they were probably true. Fuel pumps on an import cost about $500. “Take it away,” I told him, giving him the name of my garage. He did so. A call from my mechanic later confirmed my fears.

So now, I am awaiting the fixing of my car; the arrival of the cheapshit washer, and we still have to get the blind fixed. And I choose to think the blind repair is most definitely a bad thing.

I didn't miss my car all that much, surprisingly

Piccadilly amazingly devoid of heavy vehicular traffic.

For more than a month while I was in Europe I didn’t once get behind the wheel of a car. It wasn’t until I got home and took my own car out that I realized I had undergone a protracted bout of driver interruptus. So, obviously, having not driven didn’t bother me at all.

A while ago London’s commie-inspired mayor, Ken Livingstone, came upon the idea of banning private vehicles from the core of his city – one of the biggest and most congested in the world. That is, unless you wanted to pay a really hefty toll, you might as well leave your car at home. The initial response was outrage. But then, when folks saw the effect of a city core largely devoid of private cars, attitudes changed in a positive direction.

A week or so ago I was standing at Piccadilly Circus -- London’s Times Square – and I was amazed at how quiet it was. In times past there was such a traffic flow that the thought of crossing one of the many streets coming into the circus was a cause for trepidation, and one that drove many pedestrians to slog down to the Underground station and come up the other side just to avoid being run down. This time virtually the only conveyances passing through the place were buses, delivery vans and taxis. I was amazed. I was equally amazed and delighted to see that the street between Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery had been turned into a pedestrians-only area, because the demand for the use of the street had diminished so greatly. Mayor Ken, I may detest your political leanings, but I do doff my hat to you in the matter of traffic control. You were right; if the bastards want to bring their cars into central London, then make the bastards pay.

Generally speaking I was hugely impressed with the quantity and quality of public transit in Europe. I didn’t miss having a car because I didn’t need a car. We were able to get to where we wanted to go, in good time, by using what was at hand. In Grenoble there is a brilliant streetcar system in which the trolleys run mere moments apart. In Brussels there is an underground metro system and, London’s extensive underground is the oldest and in many respects the most efficient subway system in the world. Meanwhile, there are commuter trains, and intercity trains, and international trains. They are fast and comfortable and, if you choose your times well, not overcrowded.

Back on North American turf, we are not so successful. We’re not successful with public transit because the will to change isn’t there. We are told North Americans are in love with their cars, and would be loath to leave them sitting in the garage so that they might take a bus, train, or subway. I disagree. I like my car as much as the next guy. Indeed, I have quite a sentimental affection for my car. Yet, if you were to provide me with a viable alternative to taking the thing out on a daily basis, I would welcome it. It would save wear on the aging Nissan, and would save stress on me. Added to which, it would be just a little friendlier to that old planet I call home.

While I’m not obsessed about hydrocarbon emissions to the degree that they make me lie awake at nights (maybe they should), I would be a fool to believe that the gazillions of private vehicles that ply our highways and byways aren’t having a negative impact. Not only a negative impact environmentally, but a negative impact esthetically in which so much infrastructure cost must be directed towards accommodating your and my hydrocarbon-spewing bucket-of-bolts.

But, I’ll go back to the lack of will to change. I read a letter to the paper yesterday in which a guy was complaining of the new and higher rates to park his car at the ‘Skytrain’ station in Vancouver. For those unfamiliar, ‘Skytrain’ is Vancouver’s EL, and a sleek and sexy system it is. But, the point is, as the writer attested, that if it is going to cost him as much to park at the station, as it will for him to park downtown, he might as well take his car to work. He’s right, and the parking gouging is wrong, and shows that lack of will. He, and those like him, should be rewarded for using public transit, not penalized. If they can’t afford the space for parking without gouging, then establish rapid and efficient buses to take commuters to and from the Skytrain, enabling them to leave their cars at home.

Back to the beginning. I didn’t miss not having my car. I can only imagine there are millions more like me. Provide a realistic alternative and I think we would be amazed at how obliging people might be.

Something of a last word on Europe -- maybe

Like King John I survey my realm from the Tower of London.

I seem to be gaining a modicum of functionality once again as I accommodate the time-change and its concurrent jet-leg manifestation. Last evening I kept nodding out through Law&Order CI, which wasn’t as calamitous as it might have been if it had been an episode with my TV fantasy girl, Kathryn Erbe. Anyway, I turned in and then actually slept through to 6 a.m.

Anyway, I thought I would turn my attention to a very loose, not to mention singularly biased post-mortem of my European sojourn. An extended jaunt that was, in retrospect, a highly satisfactory endeavor. In that context, here are some of the impressions that stick in my mind from an excellent adventure of the globetrotting sort.

La France et Les Francais:

- French cities and towns have more graffiti per block than anywhere else I’ve ever seen, and certainly more than other European centres. Some of it is artistic (I guess) and some of it is crap. Some is political. And some is, no doubt, smutty, but I’m not up enough on French profanity to be able to say for certain.

- It’s appropriate that laissez-faire is a French term because they practice it more than any group I’ve encountered heretofore. A shop may or may not be open, depending on the whim of the proprietors. A restaurant may start serving dinner at 6 p.m. one night, but may not open until 7 the next night. France works the shortest week in Europe with a state-decreed 35-hours. At the same time the economy is reeling. Think there’s a connection.

- Highly state subsidized French trains are the cheapest in Europe, and they are splendid; fast and smooth.

- French women do ‘not’, for the most part, look or act like Bardot at her enticing best. Actually, they seem both prim and quite serious.

- French coffee is superb, and Wendy and I had cafes au lait at an outdoor bistro in Annecy that we concurred were two of the best coffees we’d ever had. On the other hand, they cost as much as a full pound of ground coffee at home.

- I wish I was still a drinker only in the sense that wine in France is practically free, and it is the sort of plonk you’d pay 20-bucks a bottle for here. There it would probably be €3 or 4. About five-bucks. Wine is much cheaper than coffee.

- The French are admirable in the sense that they absolutely do not give a shit what anybody thinks about them. The Gallic shrug prevails, and that is why they, as a nation, are so difficult to deal with diplomatically. They do everything ‘their’ way, regardless of whom they offend. I’ve concluded you cannot shame the French. We had food stolen from our hotel room, obviously by the chambermaid, since she was the only person with access. It wasn’t a big deal, but we thought we’d mention at the desk. We received that aforementioned shrug as a response.

The Belgians:

What can I say? Some are French-speaking, some are Dutch-speaking but, blessedly, a huge number seem to speak English. Otherwise we found Brussels to be a much more enchanting city than we had anticipated and the restaurant district in the little side streets down from the ‘Grand Place’ will actually solicit customers on the street and try to entice passers-by into their eateries. We once succumbed, and didn’t regret it for a second. It was a splendid lunch. I love mussels, which are virtually a Belgian national dish, and I never get enough of them as a rule. This day I actually got enough of them. I would go back to Brussels and Belgium in general without hesitation.

England and the English:

England has, in the years I’ve been away, become much more progressive and in-tune with the modern world. One can also avail oneself of a truly nice meal at a reasonable price, and it is possible to not only get a decent cup of coffee, but it is now normal to get one. How civilized.
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London remains for me just a fine place to spend time and is far too big to make a genuine dent in what it has to offer if one were to have months at one’s disposal.

On the other hand, the English have still not mastered plumbing. Every toilet is different and the use of such facilities must be approached with tolerance and understanding. Some, once business has been attended to, must be approached with firm resolve, and others with gentle cajoling. Even then, the facility might not function on the first, or even second attempt.

Whilst mentioning plumbing, it must be mentioned that women are treated unjustly in reference to public facilities. In other words, if a woman must attend to a call of nature, it is going to cost her 20-pence to get into a stall, even if it’s just to pee, rather than to attend to a ‘serious’ matter. Yet, urinals for males are free, and payment would only be necessary if the male had that sort of need. So, as my wife indignantly pointed out, if a woman didn’t have 20-pence she would either be forced to wet herself, or grit her teeth and carry on until she got home. That’s hardly right.

A final point might be made about the huge accessibility of public transit, trains, buses, the underground and more. The underground in London has become somewhat inordinately expensive, in my esteem, but commuter trains are somewhat of a bargain still. On the other hand, the roads and motorways remain hugely congested in a society that seems to love the car as much as North American society does.

And, in Bath, I actually saw a guy drive by in a Hummer. If somebody in the UK feels compelled to drive a Hummer, I am left to wonder what hope there is for any of us.
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Having nothing better to do, I came back

I am now in that mode that strikes me every time I've been on an extended journey and that is one of relief for having made it home safely, and one of huge anti-climax for having made it home, and for it all being over. Combine that with jet-lag, and I mainly want to escape in sleep. All quite understandable.

Equally understandable is that all the things that irritated me in my home community before I went away still irritate me. Funny how you forget that stuff when you get some ever-so-slight yearnings for the familiar. And what you forget is that familiarity does breed a certain contempt, and that was why I, or anybody else for that matter, goes somewhere far afield.

Anyway, yesterday at about 5:45 p.m. UK time we got on the big BA jumbo at Heathrow and took off for Vancouver for the 9-hour flight. The Heathrow onslaught earlier in the day went amazingly efficiently to the degree I was actually impressed.

Anyway, dear friends, I will soon be coming to visit you at your blogs, and I will also do a more elaborate post-mortem, but right now I just want someone to soothe my fevered brow and to put me to bed -- in a literal sense, not in a more enchanting metaphorical manner -- I think even 'that' will have to wait at this point.

Anyhow, I have formulated some thoughts that I will, as I said, share with you later when I get over a full 24 hour day of having to function 'in transit'. A day that began with arising at 7 a.m. in our Greenwich hotel room, catching the commuter train into central London; hiking our bags through city streets as we went from Charing Cross Station to Leicester Square Station to get the underground to Heathrow. It all went well, blessedly -- and here I am!

Back to you soon, folks, and I will come to call. Now that I have unlimited time here -- unlike in Europe, I will be able to browse at leisure and with pleasure.

The Tower -- Age 1,000 and still doing OK

So, it’s come down to this now. Tomorrow we are to get the plane after having made it through the Heathrow melee (without incident, I hope). First we have to get from Greenwich out to the airport – a very big crosstown trip. I hate the thought in some respects that it has come to an end and mundane reality consequently will be approaching.

Today we did the 1,000-year-old (roughly) Tower of London after a brief river trip up from Greenwich and, in order to get us primed for home, we had lunch at KFC. It was almost good, although I won’t go to any extremes about it. The Tower itself was as riveting as it was when first I saw it many years ago. The Crown Jewels alone are worth the price of admission. The Cunanore Diamond is fully the size of a hen's egg. Astonishing. Needless to say, security there is just a teeny bit tight. But, I thought, if you did steal it, where the hell would you fence it? Meanwhile, we also trudged through the Bloody Tower, but didn't see the ghost of Anne Boleyn with her head tucked underneath her arm.

Now an abrupt and awkward seque.

Last week we had a couple of interesting incidents. Lying blissfully sleeping in our room in Bath at about 4 a.m. we were horribly rudely awakened by the unmistakable sound of a fire alarm. It was 4 a.m., for Christ’s sake, and it was arguable I was having the best sleep of my entire life. But, we followed protocol; grabbed whatever clothes were available to throw on, and within about 5 minutes the entire population of the hotel was huddled across the street watching the fire engines arrive. Fire engines arrived, firefighters poked around. Firefighters emerged and then drove away. Five minutes after that we were ushered back to our rooms.

Now, on the one hand the idea of evacuating a hotel in the early hours is a bit dramatic and elevates a trip above the commonplace to a degree. On the other hand it was, for us, getting a bit old. You see, that was the second fire evacuation we’d made in as many days. The day before, in Great Yarmouth, this time in the late afternoon, the alarm went off, and again we were evacuated to the street. In this case, as in the case of the first one, there was no apparent cause other than a malfunction in the alarm system.

Anyway, my friends, good Lord willing, next time I write, it will be from back in Canada, jetlagged and cranky, no doubt.

London is all that it ever was

They say that if you stand in Piccadilly long enough that eventually you'll run into everybody you've ever known. Well, I tried today, and I only ran into seven people I'd ever known. Most disappointing. Mind you, there's Eros over there, and I have known him on occasion, and have never regretted an enounter. Well -- maybe a couple of times with a couple of people.

I came back, and I’m glad I did. After about five days in blogger doldrums, I am once again connected so I can offer, for those who might be interested, a bit of an update on my travels. We are currently in London and London remains a place that, despite whatever troubles it might have, remains one of the truly great cities of the world. We’re just back from a terrific day of exploring, in the case of Wendy, and re-exploring in my case, such favorite features of the place as Covent Garden, Soho, Piccadilly, the excruciatingly posh shops of Bond Street and much more. We are staying out in Greenwich where they make the ‘mean time’, as opposed to the ‘cruel time.’ Although I personally tend to find the passage of time more cruel than mean at moments. Consequently, we made the trip to the West End by water on a Thames catamaran, and came back the same way. It was great travelling the river like Henry VIII did.

Anyway, I’ve missed you all and am glad to be here for a time. We only have two days left, and fly back on Monday when we will undergo the rigors of Heathrow Airport. Fly back with some regret, and also some delight in being with home and hearth for a while.

Anyway, a brief update. Left Great Yarmouth early in the week and travelled to Bath, as I said I was planning. I was still undergoing the rigors of a nasty sinus infection, which was taking much pleasure from life. So, I broke down and coughed up 30 pounds to pay for a doctor, and it was the best expenditure I’ve made in a long while. Within a day the thing was on the way out, and within two days I was actually feeling ‘well’ for the first time in quite a while.

Bath was as beautiful and Jane Austenish as it was when last I visited the place more years ago than I would care to remember. A truly exquisite city. I was also able to link up with my adored cousin, Angie, whom I only get to see about once a decade, but it always seems like just yesterday when we parted when we throw our arms around each other. All was good and we were also invited to their home for a home-cooked meal, our first such in over a month.

If I get a chance tomorrow, I’ll blog again. Otherwise, I’ll be back here when I return to Canada.

Fawlty Towers sans Basil

There is a certain type of English hotel that was best exemplified by Fawlty Towers. We are staying in a Fawlty Towers hotel in Great Yarmouth, minus Basil and Sybil, thank God. It is a wonderful hodgepodge of two tacked-together venerable houses, boasts no lift, and has nothing resembling glitz. It is quaint, old and homey, and also spotlessly clean and quite charming once you get past the challenge of hauling a goodly lot of luggage up three flights of stairs. And, it also offers a full English breakfast in the cost of your room. Full EB, by the way, consists of bacon, eggs, sausages, hashbrowns, fried bread, baked beans (not sure why), grilled tomato and toast. There is also cereal available, grapefruit, juices, and possibly more that I’m forgetting Have the brekkie and you don’t need to think about lunch, and even mustering an appetite for dinner can be a challenge. Considering the carb, cholesterol and fat load, it’s surprising that anybody in this country makes it past age 40.

By the way, I said to Wendy this morning that after we get home I don’t want to eat at a restaurant for at least six months. Some of the charm of dining out seems to have left me.

Yesterday as a special treat we took the half hour train trip to Norwich. Beautiful smaller city that boasts one of the finest cathedrals in England. We spent a good couple of hours there. For me it was a trip back, not only to when I lived in England, but also to the three days I spent in Norwich in 1997. It was a somewhat bleak time in my life. I had just come out of a bad marriage and was feeling very, very alone in the world. I took a trip to England to try and get my head together. A big mistake at one level, and not at another. While in Norwich I was feeling excruciatingly isolated and abandoned by all whom I had thought loved me. While not despondent, I was far from happy and by the time I got to Norwich I was longing to go home, even if it was just to my bachelor apartment.

One afternoon I decided to wander over to the incredibly striking 12th Century cathedral to look around. I had been there before, and it seemed like it might be a good way to spend a couple of hours. Once inside its vastness I strolled around for a time. I then took a seat. And I thought, and I meditated quietly. I am not a particularly religious person in a churchgoing sense, but it seemed to feel right to be there at that moment in time. Interestingly (and I am ascribing nothing mystical to it, but I am ascribing a change in attitude away from ‘poor me’) my life began to change for so much the better. And here I was yesterday, with my current wife, nearlng the end of a European sojourn, and it only seemed right that I should pay a call to ‘my’ cathedral.

Tomorrow we are off to the Jane Austen realm of the town of Bath, so more later if I have access.

Deja-vu all over again

There I am standing across the street from the little bungalow I lived in 25 years ago. I am not actually grimacing, but the wind was brisk and cold, which is normal in these parts.

A man is shuffling through some old papers in an upstairs bedroom, with no particular objective in mind. He picks up a sheaf, and a couple of items fall to the floor. They are cartoons. Cartoons drawn by a guy who had been a tenant of the adjoining house that the man also owned. He looked at them. He chuckled. They were cartoon birthday cards given to his late wife, who died back in 1994. The tenant had left, after having lived next door for a year, back in 1981. He thought no more about them.

Two hours later his front doorbell rang. He opened it. There was the man who had drawn those cartoons a quarter of a century earlier. I was the artist and I was face-to-face with my old landlord and neighbor. That he was thunderstruck, especially having just seen the cartoons is to state the case lightly. If you are cynical about synchronicity, this should still give you a point-to-ponder. It did for me.

The incident happened yesterday when I decided (after some prevarication of thought, and wondering if I really wanted to take that backward step in time) to plunge into the old ‘hood’ in Bradwell, a suburb of Great Yarmouth, Norfolk, England. We stopped for lunch in my old ‘local’, the Sun Inn, and then walked up that old street that had once been so familiar, and remained virtually unchanged from when I lived there. It was a weird feeling, and I still don’t quite have my head around it. Probably won’t for weeks.

I was there with all that water having passed under a bridge, and a different wife in tow from the one he once knew, and yet it was a good reunion. We had a delightful afternoon with Richard (who would now be about 75, but was, like Bradwell, still virtually unchanged, except his hair was now snow-white. We had coffee with him, talked about his kids (who were teens then, but are now middle-aged), and his grandkids, and his lady-friend and the fact that even though he misses his wife, is having a good life.

I have never been to a school reunion, nor have I ever wanted to go to one, so I was apprehensive about this endeavour, believing that sleeping-dogs should be able to lie peacefully and, like Thomas Wolfe, knowing you can’t really go home again.

But, I did go ‘home’ again, even if it was just to a year-long home, and I am very happy that I did.

Lad with a bladder problem

So, we have moved on yet again, and it was no less than an ordeal to get here. Not an ordeal in terms of anything going wrong – in fact it all went as smooth-as-silk and is a testament to people knowing what they’re doing in terms of public transit. But, yesterday was gruelling, nevertheless, and today we are taking it very easy, just wandering around and appreciating a little leisure before moving on. Oh, and I thought I could not leave this blog posting without sharing with you my encounter with Brussels’ possibly most famous former citizen, the little boy now known as Manneken Pis. Many stories surround this tiny bit of statuary, and on this particular day he is adorned in surgical scrubs, I know not why, but the Brussels Museum has literally hundreds of costumes that are put on the statue of what can only be described as a little boy taking a leak.

Otherwise, in some ways we didn’t want to leave Brussels so soon, but other commitments were calling on us. And, we had linked up with our friends Shelley and Dean, and had a wonderful day with them and ate royally in a very classy restaurant.

But, yesterday morning we arose early and headed out to catch the ‘Eurostar’ for London. The entire trip takes a bit more than two hours, thanks to the ‘Chunnel’. Chunnel, I must confess, was a bit of a disappointment. I mean, I don’t really know what I was expecting but somehow something more dramatic. Anyway, we are there riding in the sunshine through a bit of northern France, and then we could see Calais in the distance, and then it was dark. That was it. Just dark. Dark for about 20 minutes. And then, after that time had elapsed, we were in Kent, England. Quite amazing all things considered, but I somehow thought it should be more dramatic.

By the way, the security checks before you get on the Eurostar to take the Chunnel route are as stringent as at any airport, such is the threat of terrorism.

Anyway, we arrived in London on the day the Queen was opening Parliament, so traffic in London was even more congested than normal in the capital. But, thanks to a brilliant cabbie (and all London cabbies are brilliant) we made our way from Waterloo Station to Liverpool St. Station, whence we caught the train to Norwich, with literally five minutes to spare. Arriving at Norwich, we had less than five minutes to get the little train to Great Yarmouth. But, we got it, and now we are here.

So, as I said, Great Yarmouth was my hometown for a year 25 years ago, and more about that later. It feels weird to be back, and there have been lots of changes, but none of my feelings are negative.

Back whenever I can.

And the chocolate is to die for

I said I would be back if and when I got the chance, and here I am. Sitting in the lobby of our quaint little hotel here in Brussels, Belgium. It is a nasty, rainy day but that didn't stop us from going out, wandering around, paying another visit to 'Grand Place' (part of which is pictured here, those are the 16th Century guildhouses), which Victor Hugo described as the most beautiful public square in the world. Certainly the most beautiful I've ever seen, and Vic obviously felt the same way.

So, anyway, knowing we had friends we wanted to meet in Belgium, this is what we decided. It was a fabulous decision. Took us just five hours by train from Grenoble to get here, and such a contrast. I don't know what I expected in Brussels. I had few preconceptions other than Brussels Sprouts and waffles. It is a vibrant and exciting city with enough eateries on any given block to last a couple of weeks; enough haute couture shops to rival Milan and Paris, with prices to match, and chocolate that is truly to die for. Very cosmopolitan, a lot of Congolese people, a lot of Asians, and a lot of people who speak English moderately well, so it is very user friendly.

Anyway, friends, to keep you abreast of the travels, tomorrow morning it is the Chunnel from Brussels to London, and then to the Norfolk coastal town of Great Yarmouth, where I lived and worked 25 years ago. My first time back there since then. Should be interesting.

Did I tell you that Belgian chocolate was to die for? Yes, I did. But it's worth telling you again. Wish I could bring you all back some.