Somewhere, Woodrow Wilson is muttering to his spectral self, "That's not what I meant, that's not what I meant at all...." Gee, I wonder how Mr Martin's proposal could be spun to legitimate just about anything, like, say, an invasion of Iraq? This blog actually thinks Mr Martin's heart is in the right place, but his proposal seems to be flawed form the outset-- and, frankly, too easily corruptible. (Addendum: Chantal Hèbert has an intriguing piece on Mr Martin's position within his own party, and I think she's very much right with this observation that "One way or another, the next election is likely to be his last.")But the world (and the UN) has become a caricature of its former self-- with W using the podium for his own reelection purposes, and Robert Mugabe receiving applause for his lambasting of the West. Damn, do we ever need a Mike Pearson again.
Digression: last night I was sitting at a local haunt, partaking of a draft and doing the National Post crossword puzzle. With most of the blasted thing done, I was stymied on a word that referred to some sort of Yoga position. The bartender and I wound up talking about the only Yoga position either she or I knew, the lotus position, and remembering doing it as kids. Sitting on the step, she tried to fix herself into position but couldn't do it. Sitting in my chair, I wound up trying to do the same, and eventually-- and with great PAIN-- managed to contort myself accordingly. This self-prostration lasted for a grand total of seven seconds (eerily close, I now realize, to bull-riding durations) before one leg sprung out like a broken coil. The good thing about this experience: now I won't have to have a vasectomy, because it's sure as hell guaranteed that I'll not be having any children now. Oy. And yes, this is the stupid stuff that happens when one mixes lager with crossword puzzles.
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