And I have to say, Justin Trudeau is making optimism really easy. Before he was even sworn in, he was doing cool things. Now that he’s officially our Prime Minister and has chosen his cabinet ministers, I’m truly impressed with the number of his actions that have made me go, “Brilliant! How did no one do this sooner??”
Highlights of that list:
Inviting not only the provincial premiers but the federal opposition leaders to join him at the UN Climate Change Conference in Paris. How do you show you’re serious about environmental cooperation and innovation in this vast and varied country? THIS IS HOW.
Changing the name of the Ministry of Environment to the Ministry of Environment and Climate Change. A seemingly small thing, and yet in light of those people who are still in denial about it, not small at all.
Changing the name of the Ministry of Aboriginal Affairs and Northern Development (so “us and them”) to the Ministry of Indigenous and Northern Affairs. (Carolyn Bennett considers herself “Minister of Reconciliation.” YES.)
Opening up the grounds of Rideau Hall to the public for the swearing-in ceremony. A great metaphor for the governmental openness that has been promised.
Appointing a family physician as the Minister of Health – I guess I don’t know if this has been done before, but when I look at this appointment, it suddenly seems like a no-brainer.
Appointing a First Nations leader as Minister of Justice. This is so fitting and makes so much sense.
Appointing a cabinet with some actual cultural diversity.
Appointing many people who are smart and knowledgeable people first and politicians second (or barely). In a time when lots of people are feeling disenchanted with politicians, what better way is there to change the way the game of politics is played – or better yet, throw out the game board and get down to the business of improving Canada?
Instituting gender parity in the Cabinet. This one is, when you think about it, so ridiculously obvious that one must ask oneself: what took us so long?? Trudeau showed today that no, these things don’t take time (or any other dumb excuse), they just take someone with the clarity and decisiveness to do it – someone who recognizes that the way we’ve been doing this forever is actually bullshit and represents neither our country nor our times – therefore, there’s no need to perpetuate the status quo. DONE.
I also loved watching those little Inuit girls throat-singing at the ceremony. So focused on their song, and then breaking into giggles. To me, that’s respecting cultural tradition and thinking into the future – and also not taking ourselves too seriously.
Anyway, I could go on, but the point is, I am having a lovely time being thrilled at what has happened in our new Canada so far. And I’m full of gratitude for the whole refreshing phenomenon.
In March 2013, I was inspired to write a blog post entitled “Living Canadian Heroes.” I had been moved by the interview I’d just listened to on Q – the one you had with Stompin’ Tom Connors, replayed on the occasion of his death.
I remember thinking how often we talk about Canadian heroes who are not alive – how it’s somehow easier to call someone a hero once they’re gone, and how we should be celebrating those people who are making Canada better every day, right now – people who represent Canada with integrity, thoughtfulness, respect, and skill.
You have been one of my Living Canadian Heroes for a long time. That blog post is still sitting in my drafts, for myriad reasons. Now, I am feeling frankly disillusioned about it.
I remember talking about you with my sister one time. She wasn’t a huge fan of yours – thought you were a bit pretentious or conceited or whatever. I defended you: “But he’s AWESOME. He can interview anyone, and he’s knowledgeable about everything, and he asks amazing questions, and all kinds of people just open up to him, and plus Moxy Früvous, hello?? He’s a CANADIAN ICON.”
When the news broke last weekend that you and CBC were breaking up, I was genuinely upset.
I have been struggling to write about it ever since, but I’ve been paralyzed, watching the hope/grief scale tip inexorably toward the side where you are actually an asshole.
At first, like all your fans, I wanted to think that the CBC had made a mistake. I thought: There is no Q without Jian.
But then, I deeply love my CBC Radio, and I have always trusted it to do its research. Back when you were a teenager obsessing over Bowie, I was a wee nerdy kid already listening to Ted O’Reilly on “Stories and Music for Children,” Jay Ingram on “Quirks and Quarks,” and Jurgen Gothe on “DiscDrive.” That connection was there long before you were, and it remains.
All the same, I wanted to believe your Facebook post, so seemingly earnest (except I wanted to forget your use of the word “jilted” – a distinctly un-classy term, for you). My first impression was: who gives a crap if he’s kinky in the bedroom? Not my business, and after all, BDSM is a notoriously misunderstood form of sexual expression.
But somehow, I couldn’t find the conviction to make a comment of support.
As more opinions poured in, I wanted to remind folks – aren’t we supposed to be innocent until proven guilty? Still, I couldn’t write about it – because something was off.
Then, more and more stories, more women coming forward, more supporters backtracking. Loyalty fizzling. Worst-case scenario looking increasingly plausible. The sleaziness that was, apparently, common knowledge in the national arts industry was shocking to the rest of us suckers… but somehow still believable.
At this point, the scale has tipped. Now, I’m finally able to write, even though it’s all been said. Even if what I write here is now irrelevant or over-discussed, I have to process this for myself.
At the risk of sounding maudlin: it feels like we, your international audience, have been cheated on. The evidence looms large that the person we thought we knew and loved has been doing slimeball things for who-knows-how-long. We’re reeling, wondering how we could have failed to see it. We’re realizing our entire history with you is tainted, and we’re questioning whether all our memories involving you are valid or even worth keeping. There were moments where we hoped it could still somehow turn out to be just a big misunderstanding, or even a bad dream.
But at this point, I don’t see how any kind of “misunderstanding” conclusion could fix this. This kind of chronic violence can’t be blamed on a misinterpretation of BDSM, or a false inference of consent. This isn’t just a bunch of “jilted” women getting mad and conspiring against you. Those who have gone public are not the vengeful connivers you describe; they just want your audience to know that there are many cats to exit the bag.
What were you thinking all this time?
Maybe you thought what you were doing really was fine. A delusion of that magnitude, superimposing enjoyment over the pain of your sexual partner, is a serious health issue. A case of hyperinflated ego that has squeezed your brain, perhaps, resulting in galactically stupid behaviour.
Maybe this is an addiction, a mental health issue you’ve struggled with. But in that case, wouldn’t a reasonable person seek help? Wouldn’t there be remorse?
Maybe you knew it was bad, and you didn’t give a shit. Or felt you were untouchable in your stardom. Which surpasses the “asshole” category. That kind of duplicitous depravity is actually filed under “evil.”
Your unsuspecting former fans will not be able to brush this off for the sake of your past work. Because unlike Sean Penn, Woody Allen, Mel Gibson, Sean Connery, and any number of other celebrities who are still popular despite violent track records, we didn’t know you were in the acting business. Your popularity was based on you being, ostensibly, you.
It sucks that you were so great at your job. You really could converse with anyone – you talked to Joni Mitchell, Mike Tyson, Taylor Swift, and Justin Trudeau with equal grace. You were eminently knowledgeable, intelligent, adaptable, insightful, charismatic. A champion of all the right things. I was proud to have you represent us all, as one of the most recognizable public broadcasters Canada has ever had.
I hate that if I ever hear one of your interviews in future, I will be listening for deceit and misogyny, and thinking about how your oh-so-listenable voice must trigger ugly flashbacks for a lot of women.
And Moxy Früvous… oh. God. You will not destroy The Gulf War Song or Fell In Love for me. And breaking into “your” version of Green Eggs and Ham is all that gets me through that confounded story some days. Even if you were already a reprobate in your musician days, you sure could sing one-quarter of a beautiful song. I hate that you have befouled those songs, and betrayed your bandmates.
At least, not unlike the shooter in Ottawa, through your dishonour you have provoked a useful conversation in this country – this one about rape culture and violence against women, still all too pervasive, even in Canada.
And at least we can be confident that the CBC will find someone brilliant – and decent – to replace you. It was a relief to find out that your opening essays – which have awed me on many occasions – are not actually written by you. A lot of extremely talented people contributed to your success, and will continue to do so with someone better. (While you try to get a date on some other continent.)
I can now assuredly say that I’m looking forward to it.
P.S. I was really sorry to hear that your dad died. Now, I’m just hoping it means he was spared the knowledge that his son is not one to be proud of after all.
To the gunman who bloodied Parliament Hill yesterday: thank you for making a statement.
Actually, you made several statements. But are they the ones you meant to make?
Whenever someone famously and violently takes a life, I wonder what brought the perpetrator to think that killing another human is the best option.
What did you intend to accomplish? Since you’re dead – and you surely knew that was a likely outcome – we can’t ask you.
Currently, we know you were born Canadian. You had a criminal record. You had long black hair and wore a scarf with a distinctive pattern. You were disconnected from your parents.
Maybe you idolized ISIL and wanted to commit “heroic” terror.
Maybe the violence that killed Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent inspired you.
Maybe you suffered from mental illness and needed to destroy something.
Maybe you wanted to see how much panic you could kindle.
Maybe you think guns are awesome, and wanted to shoot stuff like a tough guy.
Unfortunately for you, the intended meaning of your statement is unclear.
However, your ill-conceived, muddled message did do something for Canada.
You didn’t succeed in panicking the country. You didn’t unite us in hatred. You didn’t reveal us to be passive.
You made the nation think, instigating a productive, earnest discussion. Today, more than on any Remembrance Day or Election Day in memory, Canadians are soberly pondering what Canada is, and what we want it to be.
But mostly, I see thoughtful questions, careful consideration, and a calm pride born of remembering what makes our home special.
You’ve reminded us how extraordinary and beautiful it is that our government buildings have been simply open to the public all this time. We’re noticing the deep symbolism of soldiers guarding our national war memorial, unarmed. Because Canadians know that more guns do not equal more freedom, we affirm that our openness is not naïveté – we have chosen it; we cherish it.
You’ve demonstrated that cowardly violence does not necessarily result in a hysterical, aggrandized media frenzy; our CBC did us proud with calm, pragmatic reporting throughout the lockdown – no fear-mongering or jumping to conclusions. Twitter and Facebook followers philosophically discussed CBC’s questions “Is Canada changing? Has it already changed?”
We’re talking about justice, and whether our justice system is there for its people – when dramatic quasi-political deeds turn tragic; when acts of hatred go unchecked; when Aboriginal women go missing; when abuses of power go unabated; when environmental destruction goes unpunished. Our system is flawed, but we know justice is a process. We’re unwilling to abandon rational thinking for alarmism.
I admit I’m really sad about what you did. It hit our family close to home. My husband and several longtime friends were formerly Argyll reservists. In a slightly shifted reality, your victim could have been one of them. And obviously, the death of Corporal Nathan Cirillo represents the two worst parental nightmares: loss of a son, and loss of your child’s father. It is a heartbreaking tragedy.
I’m sad for you, too. Your life also ended yesterday, and while Cirillo’s death was clearly not in vain, I believe yours was. When you committed your life to hatred, you wasted it. You and Cirillo were young Canadians with the potential for remarkable lives in this country – and you ended them both far too early.
I’m also sad that you’ve further complicated an already-thorny question. As a pacifist, I’m distraught by ISIL’s atrocities, struggling with my belief that war is not the answer. I don’t want Canadian soldiers “taking a combat role” (read “killing people”) when the killing is so gargantuan already. Your twisted message has strangely strengthened both sides of this national argument.
Thank goodness Canadians have kept their wits.
Right now, they are sending caring, hopeful messages to each other, tweeting their most beautiful perspectives of Ottawa; Canada’s leaders of all political stripes are embracing each other; citizens are engaging in free expression.
And love. In Canada and abroad, people are nullifying your vitriol, defiantly scattering LOVE to the four winds, knowing it’s the more powerful force.
As always, humans are up in arms about stuff right now. The thing I’ve been reading about today is the white poppy.
Traditionally, the red poppy is worn to remember and honour war veterans, both living and dead. In the past, I’ve worn a red poppy to indicate that I am thinking prayerfully of soldiers, like my grandpa, who did what they felt they had to do, and experienced things no human should have to experience, in the pursuit of an end to conflict.
Every year on Remembrance Day, I also think about the others who have made (and continue to make) sacrifices in times of war. All those who die or are broken or see their lives torn apart. They are innumerable.
That is what I understand the white poppy to be about: the recognition that peace is the goal. That war equals tragedy. Lest we forget.
In the past few years, I’ve been aware of another belief: that by honouring those other people, the civilians, or by expressing the wish to make peace a priority, I am disrespecting the soldiers and veterans.
I am not wearing a white poppy… because I do not want my message to be mistaken.
The “I Remember for Peace” campaign at Ceasefire.ca has elicited many heartfelt messages from people who wish to respect soldiers and veterans and also honour their pursuit of peace. Inevitably, there are people who feel it’s appropriate to add messages like these:
“White poppies are bull shit and everyone involved in this should be shot.”
“wear a white poppy? expect a white loogy in return for spitting in the face of every soldier who sacrificed their blood on the battle fields so you can have the rights and freedoms you enjoy today. I will gladly spit in the face of anyone I see wearing a white poppy and I will be encouraging others to do the same.”
Incredibly, these people believe that they are showing respect. I am not wearing a red poppy this year because I know these people are wearing them. Again, I do not want my message to be mistaken.
Every year since I’ve been blogging, I have posted on Remembrance Day (and Veterans Day). This year, I am giving the floor to veterans. Even so, I know there will be people who read this and want to spew ugliness over it. I’ve decided that tomorrow, I am just going to be silent, and show my respect that way.
The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.
I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, for vengeance, for desolation. War is hell.
War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend. – J.R.R. Tolkien, The Two Towers
This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron. – Dwight D. Eisenhower
What could be more invigorating, more wholesome, more beneficial for body and soul? I can take the kids, we can all get some fresh air, and the baby can have a nice lung-cleansing nap.
On Wednesday I took my children for a walk around the neighbourhood. We have been graciously handed down a “sit-and-stand” stroller from a friend, so I could put A on the front in her car seat, and E could choose to sit or stand at the back, or walk.
We’ve done this a few times, and it works fairly well. E is happy and keeps his eyes open for tire swings and other interesting facets of people’s houses and yards. For instance, when we passed the house with the gaudy hot-pink garage door, he exclaimed, “That’s a SO beautiful pink garage!” and then proceeded to repeat pink garage, pink garage to himself for the next block or two.
Plus, A is ridonculously cute in her fuzzy snowsuit thingy.
The stroller is rather large and unwieldy, but it’s worth a bit of straining around corners to have both children contentedly bundled and riding.
By Friday, it had turned snowy. That tipped the balance: given the number of households likely to have cleared their sidewalks (not many), I was not willing to try manoeuvring the behemoth on snow.
That is how Friday afternoon found me lugging the singleton jogging stroller up from the basement. That thing corners like it’s on rails… relatively speaking, of course. I should ask my son to just walk, so we don’t need a stroller – he actually has pretty good endurance – but it’s harder in the snow. When he poops out, I won’t be able to carry him on my back. The whining that would therefore ensue is not an option today. (I know you feel me, mamas.)
Strap on the 3.5-month-old in the baby Trekker. Find a hat that fits her fast-growing head. Don my sister’s voluminous blue second-hand Coat of the Nineties, because it is big enough to zip up around the baby. Situate folded receiving blanket where it will (I hope) absorb the most drool.
Help three-year-old with coat, hat, boots, mittens. Equip him with a snack. Let him clamber into the stroller. Opt not to do up the safety straps because frankly, this kid has gotten huge.
Navigate out the door. Lock door with one hand while preventing stroller from tumbling down stairs of front stoop with other hand.
Whew – it’s chilly. That’s a windchill. (It’s -13C with wind – that’s 9F for the Yanks.)
After we’ve passed about six houses, I stop and awkwardly put the plastic weather shield on the stroller so that E doesn’t freeze. It’s wrinkly, ripping at the seams, and generally disreputable from being bunched up in the storage basket. Between that and the highly fashionable coat I’m wearing, I allow myself a giggle at what an awesome mom-picture I must make.
A is gazing as far up into the trees as the head support for the carrier will allow. She has, of course, positioned herself such that she’s drooling onto the coat. Actually, she’s sort of licking it dreamily.
Well. Getting ourselves going was a production, but now it’s pretty! Lovely and white! Not to mention invigorating!
Until we turn westerly. I realize too late that any road we take heading vaguely west enables the wind to blow the cavernous hood off my head, so that there is no barrier for A’s face. She gasps as the wind steals her breath, and pieces of my ears begin to crumble away in icy chunks. I shield her with a mittened hand, steering with my other hand, as she complains. Good thing the stroller is so light and lithesome. Kind of. With a 35-pound kid in it.
The whole nap idea is not working out as I’d hoped. Instead of sleeping, baby fusses periodically as we change direction, taking the shortest possible route home.
She finally falls asleep about a block from our house, on our own street where the trees shelter us. I ask E, “Hey buddy, you doing okay?”
There’s no answer. I peek over the shade. My son, who has not had a regular afternoon nap in well over a year, has also fallen asleep. Or frozen in place, I suppose.
I do an extra lap of my street, trying to make the most of the situation. The longer E naps, the more it will screw up his bedtime. The shorter A naps, the grumpier she will be at dinner hour. I’m sure I could figure out the optimal length of time using calculus – if I remembered any.
In my wish that E will awaken cheerful and enlivened when we arrive home, I am sorely disappointed. His circuitry has somehow gotten stuck on whine mode in his sleep.
So that settles it. We’re going to make popcorn for dinner and then commence hibernation. It’s way more fun to hang out all day in our pajamas anyway.
All you mamas and daddies with three or more children who EVER get out of the house as a group… I bow down to you. You have my eternal admiration.
For some great reading, click over and sample the blogs at Yeah Write!
On Friday evening, Sean and I had the good fortune to see ukulelist James Hill in concert with his cellist fiancee, Anne Janelle (Davison)… in the company of our not-quite-four-week-old Baby A.
We had debated about whether to go, since we would have to buy our baby a ticket, and then there was always the possibility that she would fuss and we would have to take turns missing the concert anyway. She has gotten past the stage where she falls asleep on a dime and continues sleeping no matter what.
But Sean said, “Oh, come on, we should go! It’ll be fine.” The tickets were not that expensive – still totally (potentially) worth it. I have wanted for years to see James Hill perform.
I was kinda nervous about the whole scenario – especially when A cried most of the drive to the concert venue – but she had calmed down and was actually sleeping when we took our seats. I allowed myself to get giddily excited looking at my program insert for a few minutes before the show began. Then, of course, A woke up and squawked just as James and Anne took the stage. Thank goodness for magic boobs – I got her on there and she barely made a peep for the whole first half. The only real drawback to this was that I couldn’t applaud – had to settle for grinning my face off. (There were several times when, if I’d been able, I would have initiated/elicited some more enthusiasm from this rather timid audience.)
As you may know, James Hill is the artist who inspired me to take up the ukulele (well, he and my husband – Sean’s the one who bought me my first uke). I thought (and still think) his instrumental-only album, A Flying Leap, is pure brilliance – exactly the kind of music I’d want to write if I were a ukulele virtuoso. (That sounds like a dumb thing to say, now that I’ve written it… but really. I deeply relate to his chord combinations.)
Then we bought Man With a Love Song, and I realized this guy can write, AND sing. Frickin’ awesome.
Then I put myself on his email list, so I personally received the email announcing that he and Anne were engaged. Which means we’re, like, practically buds. (We’re like THIS.)
James and Anne started off – after saying how glad they were to be in our city – with a story about being in quarantine in Singapore during the swine flu debacle (it was actually kind of a funny story). You’d never guess, listening to it, that those were the circumstances under which the “Assam/Like a Bird” medley was written. I adore this number – makes me so happy whenever I hear it. E loves it too – calls it “fair music“; sometimes we dance to it together in the living room.
I guess the concert was only billed as “James Hill” because most of the songs played were ones he wrote, and he is the guy with the melody most of the time – but really, James and Anne are a duo on stage. You can tell they’ve been playing together for many years, so seamless is their interaction, both musical and conversational. Seamless, affectionate, and full of humour.
They mostly played material from Man With a Love Song (all my favourites – ‘cuz, you know, we’re buds – but with dazzling uke solos added); it was interesting to find out that James uses a capo to play “Hand Over My Heart” on the ukulele (was it the tenor uke? I’m not sure – in the video, his banjo uke has no capo); during “Heart-Shaped Tattoo”, I wished – hypothetically, since I’m still not that great – I had my Lady (and no baby in my lap) so I could play too. James told us that the song “You Should See Me Now” – a gentle, wistful tune I’ve dubbed a lullaballad in my head – was inspired by the inane catch-phrase of the town of Springhill, Nova Scotia: “You Should See Us Now!” (The duo lives near Truro, NS.)
I was stoked that he asked us to sing along for the “ooohs” in “Man With a Love Song” (pretty much the most gorgeous song ever – I listened to it about five times in a row when we first got the album). He explained that he thinks of it as fatherly – or, in his case, avuncular (yes, he used the word avuncular, with great relish) – advice to a daughter/niece. Suddenly that song makes way more sense – and is somehow even more charming.
They also played a few from their collaborative album, True Love Don’t Weep, and a couple of Anne’s own songs, which I hadn’t heard before. They were lovely. I found I could hear Anne’s voice more clearly and individually in the live setting; it’s like a clarinet, very sweet, and pitch-perfect. (If you visit Anne’s website, you can listen to some of her music; you can also discover as I did that she is a photographer and modern dancer in addition to cellist and singer. Ridiculous in the talent department, I tell you.)
We were also fortunate enough to witness the playing of “Billie Jean”. Folks, it’s CRAZY. No looping machine, just one guy with two hands. I’d seen it on YouTube already, but now having seen it live, in its component parts, then put together… I still cannot figure out how it is accomplished.
Similarly, during the encore, they played some traditional East Coast fiddle music (“Smash the Window” and “St. Anne’s Reel” – no fiddle in sight, mind you) and James tried to teach us in the audience how to do the also-traditional galloping triple-stomp foot-tap thing (seen above at the end of “Like A Bird”). I like to think of myself as a coordinated person, being a dancer and all, but I could not do this foot-tap for more than a few bars without messing up. He did it flawlessly… and then added this wild, complicated uke-playing on top of it. I was blown away.
Baby A did very well, in general. She mostly nursed/dozed; a few times she surfaced and just looked around, seeming to enjoy the music (as well she might, since she’s been listening to it ever since she grew eardrums in utero). During intermission, we’d taken her out to the lobby where she was adored by the usher ladies. It was a good thing, too, because some of those ladies were very helpful, guiding us to seats by the “secret” exit for the second half, just in case. And A did run out of patience and start fussing about two songs from the end, so Sean scooped her up lightning-quick and took her out the secret door, where he could still hear the music and sing to her along with “Hand Over My Heart”. Another usher ferried the diaper bag out to them, and carried the car seat down to the lobby at the end of the show, just out of kindness – well, and also a confessed obsession with babies.
At the end of the show, James and Anne were all, “Hey, we’re going to be out there in the lobby, and we’d really like to meet you all, so please come say hi.” As if we’d be doing them this great favour by keeping them company out there. HA!
Of course, this would turn out to be one of those situations where my shyness and social insecurities – which I so often squelch – come rushing to the forefront. A time when I’m unable to assert my turn in the midst of an awkward clump of fans… when I’d love to say something scintillating and memorable, and instead can only think of things that would sound cheesy, like “I love your music!”, “Great show!”, or “You inspired me to take up the ukulele!”, all of which are true, but come on. Boring.
A little girl had them autograph her shiny red ukulele. James noticed it had already been signed by the Good Lovelies and said, “Yeah, they’re good friends of ours.” One of the many reasons to be a Great Canadian Musician: you get to hang out with other Great Canadian Musicians (the likes of David Myles, Stephen Fearing, Melanie Doane) and, you know, jam and stuff! Sigh.
I did manage to get James and Anne both to sign our ticket stubs (all three of them), and told them it was a great show. I also mentioned how much my colleagues and students who got to see his educational performance last year loved it (I was really envious about that because I couldn’t go). And, Sean took my picture with James. I’d like to think James won’t mind me posting it, since I know from his photo galleries that he understands the urge to have one’s picture taken with artists one admires.
Then, luckily for me, Sean had to go get the car from its faraway parking spot, which meant I was waiting in the lobby for quite a while – long enough for the crowd to have basically dispersed, so that chatting with James and Anne became much easier, almost inevitable. I got to congratulate and talk with Anne about the upcoming wedding (next September – several international celebrations happening), and found out that she and James have been together for ten years, having met while studying music together at UBC (University of British Columbia). They both met the baby (she was sleeping, but it still counts), and did not seem to mind that she had created a disturbance or two.
Then Sean returned and jovially shook hands with James – he has never been subject to shyness, that I know of. He was the one who mentioned I’d been learning to play the ukulele, leading me to admit that I’ve been learning a lot by playing along to his album. When I mentioned that I’d first heard him on CBC and found that video of him playing “Down Rideau Canal”, he looked kinda sheepish and said he’s not sure he can even play that one any more – that was back when he was “young and foolish”. (I’m sure that’s not really true – if he can play “Ode to a Frozen Boot“, which he did, his fingers are obviously still pretty nimble.)
When we got in the car and Sean found out I hadn’t even talked about my ukulele with James, he chided me (gently) for wasting such an opportunity. I guess if it had been up to him, I would have told him all about belly dancing to his music, my musical background, my progress with the Lady, etc. Ah well, maybe next time. 😉
Prime Minister Stephen Harper
80 Wellington Street
Ottawa ON K1A 0A6
As a polite Canadian, I’d like to be able to write a proper, respectful salutation; unfortunately, I have seen no evidence of respectful governance to warrant one.
This is my second open letter to you. You obviously did not heed (or read) the first one, shortly after you were elected, discussing your obligations to the more than half of Canadian voters who did not vote for you. You have, it seems, forgotten all about that particular 60% of us, but WE ARE STILL HERE. And some of us are very angry.
I already knew that I disagreed with almost everything you stand for. You glorify militarism; you want to mess with socialized medicine; you revere corporations.
You are an expert sneak, taking transparency and accountability to a new low – and no wonder, because if you were open about your dealings, people might realize that you are a disgrace to the nation. They might object to your deregulation of everything for your own purposes.
I have been unimpressed (read: disgusted) by many things you have accomplished (e.g. G20 summit) and worked on (e.g. fighter jet boondoggle) since you came into office. That robocall we received didn’t go over well either.
But still, somehow, I retained an apparently preposterous hope that you would not actually — rape — Canada.
Now it is clear that I was hopelessly naive. Assuming that Bill C-38 is the crystallization of your intentions, it’s official: