Down For The Count

WARNING: Long Post Of Interest Only To Canadian Election-Watchers        

      I promised myself I wouldn't put down my speculations on the outcome of the Canadian election on this blog until the last minute, but I'm close enough on it now (since with heading away for the weekend Friday and other stuff still to do, I may not be near this blog for quite a while). Before I get to my predictions, though, a few notes on things that can still upset the apple-cart, other than the Monty-Burns-Can't-Swallow-His-Own-Fish-Story possibility that always remains in every election.

• The Weather/The Timing/Holidays: It's generally believed that voter turnout this time around is going to be higher than it has been in previous years. It is, however, June. Many people are on holidays, and in Quebec especially other annual events might effect the voting. I don't see this hurting any particular party, though; it should be right across the board, though the real loser with this could be the Liberals, losing votes in ridings they were already going to lose anyway.
  
  
• The Polls & The Chretienites: With the latest polls suggesting a last-minute surge in Liberal support, it's very possible that some of the Chretienites will no longer feel the need to rally behind the banner for the sake of solidarity. This could mean a significant drop in Liberal support, especially in ridings believed to be more comfortably Liberal. And make no mistake: the recent support from the Coppses and the Manleys are not burials of the hatchets a-many. Unless there's a major drop in the polls (-2/3%) between now and Monday, don't be surprised if a number of these Libs decide they can just stay home on election day. Also look for the possibility that some of these people may vote NDP to spite Mr. Martin.
  
  
• The Polls & The Greens: Let's face it, a lot of the people who talk about supporting parties outside of the Big Four don't pull the trigger when they're finally presented with the ballot. Look for a significant amount of the Green vote to go to the Conservatives and to the NDP-- the Conservatives for the finance-oriented, the NDP for the ecology-minded. I don't see the Liberals picking up much here. With polls indicating how close this election could be-- and that it's very possible we might have to have THREE parties working together to form a government, a lot of people supporting the Greens might chomp at the bit.
  
  
• The Polls & The NDP: This is a real conundrum because the NDP has, in a way, the most to lose and the most to gain. Again, the polls have a larger control of the NDP vote than most of us tend to appreciate. For the past bit, Mr Martin has been trying to scare Dippers into voting Liberal for fear of a Tory government-- and it has worked to some degree. It also looks, though, like those numbers are very, very soft indeed, possibly the softest in the electoral decision. So, before I move on, let me restate this: NDPers could jump ship to the Liberals en masse to keep the Tories out of power. Then there's the other side of the equation. There's a lot of very soft Liberal support, much of which has been identified as disgruntled left-Liberals and wary-NDPers, and if the polls, particularly in certain areas, seem to indicate a real possibility of NDP victory as either front-runner or dark-horse, these people might turn to the NDP, with the added bonus of punishing the Liberals. A lot of polling information out of the main battleground-- Ontario-- has indicated a number of people dismissing voting for the NDP for fear of wasting their votes. Well, if the numbers look close enough, if there's room for what some call electoral dickering, the NDP could pick up some major votes, and a fair number of seats, none of which have been accounted for in recent polls. The NDP has the highest "second choice" numbers in Ontario, and if something suggests to people that a vote for the NDP may not be such a wasted vote-- if only, in some areas, as a protest vote-- it could mean big, big trouble, mainly for the Liberals but also for the Connies in some ridings. We've seen this before in Ontario, and it came with the name Bob Rae. It's been a two-horse race for this election, but it's not at all beyond the pale that at the last minute the electorate -- again, mainly in Ontario, but also true in B.C., Manitoba, Saskatchewan and the Atlantic Provinces-- could vote on the "Anybody But Them" ticket. With a lot of races as close as they are between the two top parties, and a roughly 23% undecided component of the electorate, we could have a lot of dark-horse victories. (And every pollster in Canada would have a heart-attack just before being sacked.) Put otherwise: NDP could make huge, unpredicted gains at the last minute. So, which way do I think this will go? I don't know. I think the question can be phrased this way: how many people will have the guts to vote for the NDP after all (whether that means having the guts to stick with their convictions or to swallow poison is a matter for individual interpretation), OR how many people will go with what's behind Door Number 2. Will these people vote out of anger or out of caution? It's hard to tell what the dominant emotion is right now. My bet, however tenative: look for a number of unpredicted NDP victories, but not a lot. The losers here, I think, will be the Liberals. Look for the NDP to take about 18-19% of the vote. They'll lose some from caution, pick up some from anger, and it'll even out, with maybe a slight NDP advantage.
  
  
• The Harper Factor: The general assumption is that Harper's gained respectability in parts east of the Prairies, but his party significantly hasn't. Will people vote for the man or the party? Again, probably a bit of both, but I think what we'll see here is what's called the Broadbent Factor: the overriding notion that as much as people may like or respect the man, they won't vote for him-- or they won't vote for him because of the party he brings with him.
  
  
• The Martin Factor: A lot-- the majority-- of people want to stick it to Martin, to give him a good paddling for the Chretien stuff and for the stuff that's gone down on his own watch. Martin's not been particularly charismatic, he's blown a phenomenal electoral lead, and he's not regarded with great credibility by much of anyone outside the party. But this is the reverse-Broadbent factor. A lot of people may still vote Liberal despite Martin's mistakes, clinging to the party most at home with governance. If Martin wins this election, it'll be a negative victory, and there will be calls for his head soon enough. (There are already rumblings.) A lot of the vote -- it seems-- will depend upon how much individual Liberal candidates can encourage their constituents to vote for them and not the leader. In many ridings, Liberals have all but removed Martin from their campaign material. Regardless, a Martin win won't be seen in any quarters as a "win" or an endorsement of his leadership or even of the party's policies: it will be a victory by default, a spectacular pulling of their collective asses out of a self-started fire.
  
  
• The 'Off-With-Their-Heads' Factor: A lot of candidates, mainly Liberals but not exclusively, look like they're going to be executed for their acts and associations over the past while. I'm not talking about Dennis Mills likely losing to Jack Layton: that's not so much a punitive measure as it is an affirmative measure for a party (and clout-supported) parliamentarian. No, watch for those waiting for their torches to be snuffed. Stan Keyes in Hamilton-Centre is almost as good as dead. Anne McLellan, Deputy Prime Minister, is likely to be brought down under this theory. Jean LaPierre in Outremont is deader than the proverbial doornail. Look especially at some of the ridings in BC where candidates have been parachuted in. There may be guillotines waiting in the wings. It's still not at all certain if Tony Valeri will make the cut, so associated he is now with internecine warfare. A fair number of fairly-important heads will probably roll come Monday.
  
  
• The Youth Vote: It will be very, very slightly up this time around-- and it won't make a difference at all. Sorry. There's been no mobilization at all here, despite all the attempts to jostle them from their incredible inertia.  

      So, with this survey of the scene taken, where do I think all this is gonna go? It remains very uncertain, very cloudy. But, what the hell, here's my stab at a prediction of how things will turn out in the next parliament, roughly (remembering that there are 308 seats up for grabs):

Conservatives               120    (31%)
Liberals                       98     (33%)
NDP                            32      (19%)
BQ                              58      (12%)
Green/Independents      0        (4%)

A lot of those Liberal votes are effectively wasted ones-- in doomed BQ ridings in Quebec and Tory ridings in Alberta. The Tories will pick up a significant number of seats in rural Ontario and maybe a couple in Atlantic Canada. The NDP will do a bit better than the polls are currently indicating as a bit of "damn the torpedos" decision-making. The Greens and Independents won't prove factors, ultimately, except perhaps in a riding or two in British Columbia. The Bloc will rout the Liberals in Quebec, and the Tories won't win a seat there-- thus damaging their credibility as a national party trying to govern.

      One major caveat here: if the "Polls and the NDP Factor" plays the other way, subtract 8-10 of their seats and add them all to the Liberal pile. But I'm one of the few predicting the NDP will actually hit 30 seats this time around, such is the anger in some ridings against the Grits.   It's the major pronouncement of this blog that the determining factor of this election will not be the Liberal/Conservative support numbers -- both of which have found their settlement within a five-point difference of one another-- but how well the NDP does. The deciding factor in this election will be which way the pendulum finally swings for those voters on the cusp between the Libs and the Dippers. If it shifts to the Dippers, we've got an unevenly-quartered parliament. If it shifts to the Liberals, Mr Martin may be able to save face, at least temporarily.

      Martin will be offered the first chance to establish a government. He won't. He won't be able to do so. He'll let the Tories govern a while and wait to drop a Non-Confidence motion.

      One other thing: look for other heads to roll, almost exclusively in the Liberal ranks, after the election. David Herle and the Earnscliffe team have targets on their heads slightly larger than Winnipeg. Mr Martin even may find himself facing a leadership challenge within a year, though I doubt it. Regardless, the rumblings will be there, and the Liberals will start looking for a Henry V to replace the Bolingbroke that's caused such an awkward stir within the kingdom of the natural governors. Mrs Harper, Layton and Duceppe will have no such problems within their parties, all of whom have done better than was predicted six months ago. So look for another Liberal purge shortly-- a purge of some of the purgers that caused so much acrimony within the ranks. Whether Mr Martin survives this remains to be seen.

      Alright, that's my prediction, and take it for what it's worth, which is exactly what you've paid for it. You can check my answers Monday night and tell me how wrong I was. Then again, I might still be stuck at the border. Cheers.

The Buddy System

      From the (Very, Very Spam) Mail Bag this morning:

One of your buddies hooked you up on a blind date with another buddy.

Go here to accept the invitation: Accept this invitation

The FREE dating web site
CREATED BY WOMEN           [Ed: evidently this is supposed to make us think it's genuine. HA!]

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Go here if you do not wish to be invited again: I am not seeking anyone

Or send postal mail to:
Carnegie Sun, LTD
2135A des Laurentides Blvd, Suite 10057
Laval QC H7M 4M2
Canada

Buddies?!?!?!? A blind date with "another buddy"?!?!?!?!   Ooooh, I'm all a-titter...    This just sounds horribly creepy. Yeah, folks, even if I bought that this was genuine for something more than a nanosecond, I'd just be dying to go out with another BUDDY.   

      Spam, spam, spam:  it's enough to make me reconsider my stance on the death penalty.... This one's even creepier because it asked for a receipt notice (yeah, right, like I'm that abominably stupid!) and so trying to track its recipients.   Insidious, absolutely insidious.   It frightens me a bit to think how many people, Mrs and Misses Lonelyhearts, might get suckered into this.   Actually, it's not just frightening; it's kinda depressing, too.

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INTERESTING FACT:    This site has just reached a curious number in its hit count: 6969. How appropriate.

Surrender The Pink

      Alright, alright, alright--- since some people (*ahemmmm*) seem to like riding me for the current template (which, I assure you, still doesn't look the way it was supposed to look, but I couldn't get it to work as I had planned it... Grrrr....), I'm throwing out a few options for you to consider.   Some small changes have been made to the basic detail in each one, but they are, where they have been implemented, more preliminary than "fixed."    Let me know what you think about any or all of these options listed below.   And if any of you can come up with anything better, you're of course welcome to try....    Let me simply say this: now do you wonder why I stick to blacks and blues and browns in real life?   I'm typically male in this regard, and, as such, I'd make a terrible, terrible addition to the cast of Will & Grace.

      Here are the options:

• Paper


• Marble


• Skyline


• Stone Dawn

A few brief comments.    The first two are ostensibly clearer and simpler, but they're also much more typical, and I've always preferred to put my own particular stamp on thighs things, no matter how much I'm eventually mocked for them.   The other two, like the current one, are less-typical and both are based on images of Ireland, though the Stone Dawn doesn't look anywhere near right unless you look at it in full-screen mode. These two are also much more complicated. There are a lot more difficulties in colour-matching (note: colour with a U) and there are a lot more 'affective' matters (placement of the Google banner, colour shifts within the image, etc.). They also make finding colour schemes more difficult, particularly in terms of readability.   So, who knows.   I sure as hell don't, especially considering that this sort of thing is-- as you have seen and snickered about-- not my forte.   (Tangential thought: do I have a forte anymore? I'm not so sure.)    I have to confess to being at a frigging loss as far as all this is concerned....

      So, have at it.  Offer your wisdom, dear readers.   Even feel free to defend the current template when all is said and done (one I gave a go at someone else's encouragement, and which some have liked).   The real trick with this sort of thing is finding an appropriate mood for such a thing.   It's been said that the current template is less cranky (and more 'dawnish') than the old one, and thus this template may indeed be more than a bit like false advertising.   So, there's the mustard of it all.

      One (only) thing in my own defence: at least I'm not just clinging to a pre-manufactured design.   There's something rather blasé and indistinct, at least to my mind, about sites that haven't been designed from the ground up-- and thus reflect the whims and personality of the owner.   Ya gots ta do it yerself and ya gots ta do it in yer own way, the folksy wisdom goes.   There's truth in that, methinks.   Even if it means making a bloody, bleepin' fool of yourself now and again.   Or, in my case, with astonishing regularity.   *shrug*   (Hey, at least I'm consistent.    )

      (And, btw, if you don't understand the secondary meaning of the title of this entry, you simply aren't perverted enough.   )

Tinted Love

      The Grimsby Bloggerette is such a brat.  *sniff, snort*  The abuse "the good Ol' Dr." puts up with....

News From Bizarro World

      Here's one of the most curious findings on media bias I've ever heard:

One of our measures found that the Drudge Report is the most centrist of all media outlets in our sample. Our other measure found that Fox News' Special Report is the most centrist. These findings refer strictly to the news stories of the outlets. That is, we omitted editorials, book reviews, and letters to the editor from our sample.

Alas, methinks the findings from this document just a teensy, weensy bit off-the-mark. Questions here, of course, remain: if, say, Drudge and Fox are the most "centrist," what does this suggest about the far ends of the right-leaning media in the United States? and is it official academic policy to scout for liberalism in the media as if it were, like HIV, to be detected and labeled? This blog won't even begin to go into questioning the insipid methodology of all this, or the obviously questional biases brought to the report itself (see, for example, the opening epigraph). The United States, with each passing day, becomes a stranger and stranger place, and one I less and less want to know.

      BTW: Some headlines from Drudge as of 12.40 today:

• UCLA/STANFORD STUDY: 'DRUDGE REPORT IS SIGNIFICANTLY CLOSER TO THE CENTER THAN ALL OTHER MEDIA OUTLETS'... ------ Gee, that doesn't sound like a profession of moderation, a profession normally insisted upon only my non-centrists;


• UPDATE: BUBBA BLOWS HIS TOP ON BEEB...
  Clinton Book Contradicts His Sworn Testimony On Lewinsky Affair... ------ Gee, absolutely no anti-Democratic, anti-Liberal leanings there....


• NY Promoter Wants Springsteen to Upstage Bush... ---- Gee, no sense of victimization and impropriety implied in that headline....


• Hitchens Trashes Michael Moore 'Crap'... --- Gee no privileging one conservative's opinion of the new liberal-slanted "documentary" there.....

But at least Drudge gets to the important stuff.....

      This just makes me sick to my stomach.

The End Of The Affair

      Well, it looks like Ontario's brief little flirtation with the Conservatives has passed and she's gone back to her manipulative and sometimes abusive Liberal husband.   I simplify, of course.  Ontario's going back to the Liberals because it wanted to scare the Liberals a bit, and then they got scared by the Connies. No, that's too simplistic, too. Ontario's going back to the lesser of two losers. Only in Canada do all our political parties -- with the exception it seems of the very un-Canadian Bloc Québecois-- seem to set out to lose elections rather than win them.

      To my readers, however many or however few of you are out there, can we start a small movement?   Not a political movement.  I mean a movement that might actually make a difference.   It's also a very undemanding movement, which, we all know, should make it very popular.  Here it is:  from now on, let's collectively decide not to talk to pollsters.   Let's not give them honest feedback.    Tell them anything but the truth of what you feel, unless you are God's-honest-sworn-and-foresworn-committed to your political beliefs-- then you can say what you want.    For the rest of us, those of us who make our decisions on an election-by-election basis, don't talk to pollsters.    There are so many advantages to this.   One is that, after a while, the data collected by pollsters will be useless and perhaps even detrimental, and not only will pollsters start to leave us alone, they'll have a lot less work from political parties tapping them to make their decisions for them.    Another is that such polling has had the nasty effect of exaggerating the pandering effect, as politicians, like comedians, play to the bits that work and run cowardly away from the bits that don't.    Let's face it, politicians and political parties use polls like the rest of use weather reports: let's make them actually have to go outside to find out if it's raining or not.    There's yet another bonus, the polling headlines won't have the same currency that they do now, particularly in terms of making people think they're voting for/against someone or something based on "numbers."    We might start to get away from these insufferably annoying day-to-day polls that media-kill us all, as if it were somehow crucial to the future of the world that we know overnight what 600 people in the Peterborough area thought about Stephen Harper's words on Air Canada.   No, pollsters now are as much a part of the problem as the political parties.   The less we tell them, the more likely it is the politicians might actually have to figure out what we want-- and the more we might be able to make an informed decision, rather depending on gut-reaction answers to the question, "which of these bastards least offends me?"

      And we might actually be able to sit down to eat our dinners or watch our television programmes or read our books or have our late-afternoon quickies without fear of the phone ringing.   How's that for a bonus?

      So, there it is.   Let's play coy from now on.    Let's lie, omit, falsify, antagonize, ignore, infuriate, befuddle.   Let's tell the politicians and the pollsters, "Well, if you don't know what's wrong, I'm not going to tell you."    And let's watch them stew in their juices trying to figure it all out.   This strategy pretty much always works, right?   Think about it.   Just ask...   No, I'm not going to say that, I'm not going to say that at all....

      But you all know what I'm talking about, and you all know how well it works.

      Let the revolution begin.

Rash Decisions

      Let's just say that this blog isn't touching any of the jokes possible with this story.  Nope.  Not at all.  Not even with a ten-foot....

      Favourite quote: "I tried to ignore it but in the end it wasn't worth the pain" (emphasis added).  Well, that could be the problem right there....

Seven of Nine, Half-Dozen And The Other

      Gee, it looks like a lot of Jeri Ryan's secrets are coming out this week, aren't they?  Lonely Trekkie males (are there any other kinds?) rejoice.  And then rest.  And rejoice again.  And then return to their chat rooms where they pretend they are the living incarnations of Tuvok and Chakotay.  After they've washed their hands, of course.

No Thanks, I'm Just Looking

      This blog simply does NOT want to think where these people are keeping their wallets.

Hapless, Fruitless, Pointless

      Christopher Hitchens has panned the new Michael Moore film Fahrenheit 9/11. You don't say.... I know, try to contain your expressions of surprise.   At one point, Hitchens, in his typical bombast, associates Moore with two of the most controversial directors in film history-- Sergei Eisenstein and Leni Riefenstahl, but curiously and glaringly not D. W. Griffith-- as a means to imply a connection between Moore's lefty political stance and Riefenstahl's Nazi propaganda and Eisenstein's more categorically-difficult but still-technically "Stalinist" films.  (Eisenstein started as a propagandist but became increasingly unsure about, and even somewhat subversive to, Stalin's Soviet Union.)  Ergo, not only is Michael Moore's movie a bad movie, it's a dangerous movie, Hitchens implies, a movie with blood on its hands.  He then launches into an extended all-out savaging of Moore's film which may or may not be valid.  Late in the article, though, Hitchens, who'd already tipped his hat, takes it off entirely and falls victim of the same charge on which indicts Moore.  Here's Hitchens' outrage simplified, as much as it can be:

At no point does Michael Moore make the smallest effort to be objective. At no moment does he pass up the chance of a cheap sneer or a jeer.

Well, consider then the "objectivity" of the first several sentences of Hitchen's final paragraph:

If Michael Moore had had his way, Slobodan Milosevic would still be the big man in a starved and tyrannical Serbia. Bosnia and Kosovo would have been cleansed and annexed.   If Michael Moore had been listened to, Afghanistan would still be under Taliban rule, and Kuwait would have remained part of Iraq.   And Iraq itself would still be the personal property of a psychopathic crime family, bargaining covertly with the slave state of North Korea for WMD.

Hmm... Isn't that a just a tad aspersive, particularly in terms of the mentionings of Serbia, Bosnia and Kosovo?   This doesn't sound in the least bit objective to me: it's standing on another form of moral outrage-- roughly equivalent to the moral outrage which is at the foundation of Moore's film-- to offer a cheap sneer or a jeer (i.e., "Michael Moore would have let people die").   This, however, is the state of debate, born of moral and political injurement, holier-than-thou and vitriolic, and stunningly hypocritical.   I'm not defending Moore or Hitchens here; instead they seem to me the flip sides of the same coin.  The rhetorical sins of which Hitchens accuses Moore are many-- wilful obfuscation and decontextualization, factual inaccuracy and propagandism, and such, and I'm relatively sure that Moore committed many of them, if not all of them.  I'm also reminded, though, of that line from Pericles about people loathing to hear about the sins they love to act.  It's the great rule of the rhetoric of moral outrage: beware your enemy, not for what he's said and done, but for becoming the same as him.  Too bad the poles of right and left, especially in the United States but throughout the rest of the world as well, refuse to see the obvious.  Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the hapless, fruitless, pointless protestation-of-hypocrisy that, so far at least, characterizes 21st-century rhetoric.

      Long story short, mès amis, don't put too much stock in what either of them say.  Listen to them, watch them, read them, et cetera, but don't think for a second you're getting much more than screed.

"Get Up, Flash A Smile...."

      Today's "People Are Fucknuts But We Can't Call Them That So We Invent A Syndrome To Justify Their Pathetic Behaviour" notice comes from The Economic Times in India.  It seems everyone these days is entitled to at least nine different syndromes which they can wear like shoes according to the occasion.  Just make sure you don't get caught in public sporting last year's disorder. Apparently A.D.D. is just soooo passé....

So How Should He Presume?

      I guess this guy measured out his life with coffee spoons.... Oh, wait a second, is there a difference between coffee spoons and teaspoons in Romania?

Let's Get Physical

      Relatively. (How's that for a short post? Did it feel longer than it was?)

Share and Compare?!?!?

      Colour this blog confused, so very, very confused....

Mail Chauvinism

      I tested the veracity of this claim today and I didn't have any problems, but it certainly wouldn't surprise me.

Breaking News: Pack Up The Van

Remember what I said about it seeming I wasn't going to post anything else for the day? Er, I guess I was wrong. Oh yeah.....       (With major thanks to the Zaniac for tipping me that this had gone past the rumour stage.)

Pinky and the J, J, J, J....

      Just a few bits and pieces:

• The comments are screwing up again-- sorta. You can't read them without going into the "Edit Comments" section. You can still enter your remarks and the like, but they're just acting funny. I'm told it shouldn't take too long for things to return to normal....


• There won't be much of an update today. Doctor J is tired and cranky-- er, well, more than usual, anyway.


• As for the template change, we shall see how long this lasts. Although-- as Greg puts it-- "hot pink" is not a personal theme colour by any stretch of the imagination, it's the result of the mind's eye never quite getting what it wants. The background image I selected for this was much darker. This is also why we don't let Doctor J do anything colour-related. At the very least, it's nice to shake my readers up now and again.   By the way, this looks better before Blogger mangles the page by adding its infernal banner at the top of the page. Those of you that have asked: the image is of a coast in Ireland.

Anyway, I think that's it for now. I've been workin' on the graveyard shift, and my coffin's been waiting for me. Cheers.

Oh, Dear Lord, Please No....

      I think all of us that live in Canada are sick to death of election coverage, but we can rest easy in knowing that it'll all be over next Monday.  Or will it?  James Bow offers on his blog speculation of a scenario so horrifying that one would have to be a masochist to appreciate its Floridian perversity. *shudder*

Mirth Comes For The Archbishop

      And next week: the Pope on South Park....

Another Reason To Venture To Australia

      Mmmm.... virgins....

Sigh-Diddy-Shrug-Shrug

      Okay, boys and girls, this is what happens when an artistically-challenged Luddite struggles to change things around to make things look a bit better. I'm not sure what I think of this new design-- and probably won't be sure for a while; like haircuts and condoms, template changes always take a bit of getting-used-to. Feel free, of course, to let me know what you think. Feel equally free to be (gasp!) honest. If I decide to stay with this, I'll still have the bugger of a task ahead of remodifying the side-panel for all the links I've temporarily shunted aside. Oy vey.

      Why did I do this again?  Oh, yeah, I'm an IDIOT.

      By the way, some of you may be seeing things in screwy formats if you don't have all the right fonts working on you machine. So, I take absolutely no responsibility if you're not seeing Chaucer and Cooper fonts (among others).

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      Not sure you're seeing things the way they were designed? You can check against this screen-shot, although this is a full-screen capture in only rough quality.

I'm Shocked, Shocked....

Major Strasser:   What is your nationality?
Rick:   I'm a drunkard.
Captain Renault:   That makes Rick a citizen of the world.

Oh, guess what was on last night....       There's something about watching a movie on a normal TV schedule-- probably the serendipity factor-- that's very different than playing a tape or a DVD. Watching the film again for what must have been the twentieth or the thirtieth time, I was struck by a thought-- that we don't have many people in movies like Captain Renault anymore. We know there are no real Ricks (just wannabes, and even they're occasional), but no real Renaults? You'd think that in this very cynical day and age we'd be resplendent with them.

God Love Academic Discussion

      From this, on the T. S. Eliot list:

Fuck the Candians . . . .and the French. The only sane people in the world live in the United States, Israel and Britain. All of the rest have turned postitively mad. Indeed so. And forgive my language.

To which I replied:

We'll forgive your language, but not your self-righteous, jingoistic pule.

Judge for yourself. (And, by the way, it's CANADIANS, not Candians.)  I'm honkerin' now for som o' dem Freedom Fries.

Impressed Nods

      It seems one of my former students has just won the most valuable scholarship the increasingly self-parodying YU English Department has to offer. She's a bright kid-- and she was by far the most ambitious student from that year's particular group. So this news is good to hear, very good.  I may have to toast this.  

      And in similar news-- since he hasn't said it, I will-- RB, a former-student in everything but fact, got accepted to Grad School. He may come to rue this, but in the interim, congrats, good sir. May you do well and may you enjoy it.   (I kept expecting him to announce it, but since I'm happy for him and he hasn't said it aloud, like a bad parent, I'll do it for him.    ) Cheers.

Testing, Testing, One Two Three

      RK forwarded this article to me yesterday, and it's one of those pieces that makes you (okay, me, and perhaps a few others) wince in frustration. The added "bonus" to reading this article is that you may-- or may not, I haven't fully decided yet-- catch a glimpse of the future look of this blog. I'm considering revamping the template here, and the background image and the basic layout of this article may be a way I'll go. Still teasing it through. Let me know what you think, if you think anything of it, that is.

      It may be time for another, er, toast.

      (Note: the site at which the file is being hosted is being rather irregular-- bloody uppity, if you ask me-- so you may get "Internal Server Error" messages. My apologies. It is there; you may just have to try again later.)

Toast For Breakfast

      It's not even 10am on a Saturday morning and I'm setting down with a glass of "Canadian Champagne" (read in: sparkling wine with a God complex). Why? Because I can. (And because it's more like 8pm for me. Insomnia's a bitch.)

Has He Laden AmBush?

      Scary prediction here, from this article in The Guardian:

Anonymous, who published an analysis of al-Qaida last year called Through Our Enemies' Eyes, thinks it quite possible that another devastating strike against the US could come during the election campaign, not with the intention of changing the administration, as was the case in the Madrid bombing, but of keeping the same one in place.

"I'm very sure they can't have a better administration for them than the one they have now," he said.

"One way to keep the Republicans in power is to mount an attack that would rally the country around the president."

Food for frightening thought.

Oh My God, It's Panda Porn

      Er, or should that be, "Hua Mei, God, yes, yes, yes...." (In the words of Homer Simpson, "And it was finger-ling-ling good.")

Phones Penyeach

      Alright *I* found this amusing --- and, oddly enough, not at all beyond the pale of possibility. Any hackers creative enough to do such a thing would actually have my respect. After all, it's only another twenty-odd years until the centenary of Finnegans Wake....

~~Push It Real Good~~

      Alas, an article on a subject which Doctor J knows far too well: creative constipation.

      And I cannot believe I gave this entry the title that I gave it. I'm now going to have that goddamned annoying song in my head all day.

Spite Is A Powerful Thing, My Child

      This blog now knows one thing: that Christie is going to vote for Stephen Harper.   

      On a similar note: Winston Churchill one said that the best argument against democracy was to spend five minutes with an average voter. Prepare to have your belief in the value of democracy dashed (providing it hasn't been already). It seems Layton has the drooling Cougars lined up, while the Liberals are inheriting the guys who think politics isn't a lady's game, and Harper has the support of people who hate Liberals and don't want to waste their votes on the NDP. Vox populi, in-frickin'-deed....

      SATIRICAL UPDATE: Oh, those Yanks, always casting their interested glances askance...

More Canadian Election Nonsense

      This blog can only imagine the thinking in the Tory War Room, or at least one of the battle tents:

Okay, we can't say that Paul Martin was "a reptilian kitten eater." Natch, been done before. So, what's the next best thing? Hmmmm.... Can we call him a kittenish reptile eater? Nah, too soft, and most people don't like reptiles anyway.  Have to go harder, meaner, nastier.  After all, he's saying we're gonna rip up the Canada Health Act. That makes us look like monsters, and not just the ones that hide in kids' closets at night.   Hmmm, kids' closets.....  Hey, wait a second....  I GOT IT!

Yikes. One can imagine the added bonus: "Hey, if it'll work on the Liberals, it'll work on the NDP too!"  Oh, wait, the charge against the NDP was done first.  But it's obvious the smear can work both ways.

      Well, you can imagine how PM PM responded.  How bad is all this?  It's hard to say, as Mr Harper has only partially retracted the accusation (retraction, plus partial restatement = partial retraction), but even some more rabid supporters of the Conservatives are shaking their heads in dismay.  But they're still not going to remove the implied slur against the NDP from the website.  Go figure. So, Mr Harper, what are you trying to allege, exactly? Do you even know? Do you even care?

      This is despicable.  None of these paramecia deserve to govern.  And they wonder why the electorate is cranky.  They just don't get it, and I'm thinking more and more they never will.

      You know, if I were writing a column for a newspaper or a magazine, I'd probably put together a piece on the strange juxtaposition of matters right now: in Canada, we languor through a campaign that is unremittingly mean-spirited, ill-mannered, and empty--- right at the same time that Ray Charles is feted as a kind-hearted and generally-civil symbol of soul and substance.  It would be nice if the latter could bring into relief the misanthropy of the former.

      Two other thoughts occur to me as I consider all this.  The first is the bizarre question of whether or not all of these guys are desperately trying to LOSE the election rather than win it.  The second is equally troubling realization that if we took this campaign and told its basic facts in a film, you'd think the film was a satire on the absurdities of politics.  ("Gee, Bob, we really need to win, so how do we do it?" "I know: kiddie porn!" "Eeeeee-ksellent....")  Forget The Candidate. We're talking Bulworth here. As Bulworth says, "You know, there's a lesson here, which is never try to make life or death decisions when you're feeling suicidal."

"He Saw The Dream, He Didn't See The Nightmare"

      I promise, this is the last post on this topic, but it sounds like Ray Charles' funeral was incredibly moving, a genuinely ecstatic (in the original meaning of that word, ex-stasis) experience. This is the sort of ceremony I admire: earthy, genuine, celebratory, with a lot of obvious real love in the room. Hallelujah.

      For those of you with some time on your hands (and a decent connection to the Internet), you can hear the ceremony by following this link.

On Julia's Lips

This course examines collaborative writing by women, by which I mean the over co-authorship or co-signature of women's texts.

Oh, gee, I'm glad she cleared THAT up about her course.  It's good to see that English students are getting a good grounding in the literary experience.  Ahem.

Just A Closer Grind With Thee

      I guess these "Christians" missed the part about not worshipping false idols....

Oh Sure....

      Effing figures, effing bloody figures.

Four-Letter Words, Basically

      This is just too bizarre to describe. I may have to start drinkin' early today....

Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May, or To The Bastards To Make Much Of Time

      With so many women now in the sciences, this blog has to announce with a heavy heart: Chaps, we're screwed.  Seriously, permanently abandon-all-hope-checkmate-don't-let-the-door-hit-you-on-the-ass-on-the-way-out screwed.

      (But we'll remember with advantages the feats we did this day....)

She's Enthusiastic, That's For Sure

      Forgive me in advance: she swallows, but she's *got* to watch the teeth.   

      (Perhaps she did more than she remembers? A revision perhaps, RK, of Petruchio's line?   )

Lonely Retinue

You're still crazy, baby.... RIP.

---

      A few final takes on matters in this regard.

•   A long, long (long!) time ago in my residence days, I was sitting around talking with a few female friends about-- among other things-- being parents. As the discussion went on, I guess it became apparent that I'd be more protective of a daughter than a son. After a while, the group dribbled down to myself and one particular young woman, she insisting (politely and laughingly) that I was going to make life Hell for any daughter of mine when she wanted to start dating. No, of course not, I shrugged, honestly believing myself far more liberal-minded than I probably was. "Oh yeah," she said, developing a smart-alecky look of a darish "I got you now" sensibility about her: "Tell me," she continued, "A boy comes over to pick up your daughter. What's the first thing you ask him?" After smirking back with the recognition that she'd got me with a damned good question, I thought for a minute or so and said that I'd ask him if he liked Ray Charles. My friend sat there looking very puzzled indeed. "Why," I'm reporting she asked, although I'm sure it was closer to a textually-indeterminate "Huh?" I explained it to her (in moreorless these words), that if he didn't like Ray Charles he didn't have any soul and he wouldn't last very long with my daughter and at least I'd know what to expect of this kid. My friend chuckled and said something to the effect of, "That's a good one." You know, all these years later, I can still think back on that exchange (as I often have), and I can still say with some surety that I'd stick by that question. What this means, or does not mean, I leave to you to interpret. I can think of no better question now than I could then.
  
•   My remaining feline is named Trouble. Some years ago my partner (horrid word: how businesslike!) at the time and I realized that we didn't know when he was born, so we agreed to set, however arbitrarily, his birthday as September 23rd (and figuring on 1992 as the year). Why? Well, kinda complicated-- the 23 was a factor-- but it seemed right; it was Ray's birthday. Yeah, yeah. I was younger then and much more sentimental. Trouble is still in perfect health, and he still thinks he's John Wayne.
  
•   My M.A. thesis is possibly (probably?) the only one ever written in Departments of English that takes part of its title from an RC song, and even devotes one of its sections to making connections with the singer. The section, called "Ray Charles and the Hiro-Koué," was probably the only truly novel section of that thesis.

So, there. I guess you could say RC's effected not just my musical tastes but also some of the ways in which I think. Go figure. It's still one of my favourite images in all of literature-- that of a narrator "greedily" transforming himself into a film of Ray Charles against the Montréal sky. There's something positively beautiful about it, something liberatingly apocalyptic. I guess that's the way it'll end in my mind's eye tomorrow evening. Now if only someone in Montréal would do something about it.

      (Yeah, I'm probably idealizing a bit here, but for how often I do that, I think I'm allowed. And I can think of few as deserving of it.)

It's Just So-- So--- *sniff* So Beautiful....

      Can I get an "Amen," brothas and sistas? I say, can I, can I get an "A-MEN?" AAAAA---MEN!!!!! *Doctor J then proceeds to lead the choir in a rousing rendition of the old Curtis Mayfield classic*

Wanton Wind, Wilful Wind, Womanish Wind, False Wind

      I'd describe people these days as a prickly bunch but....

      The real offense in all this verbal-niggling is that of Commissioner St. Joan:

Commissioner Jacqueline St. Joan said she felt Hoffman "put her foot in her mouth," with her remarks on the C-word.

"I see it as a combination of siege mentality and academic myopia about the real world," St. Joan said.

Now this is an appropriate circumstance for the use of the C-word. Academic myopia?!?!? Sheesh. Professor Hoffman was "asked if there was any possible polite context for the word," to which she offered a factual answer, an answer she had to give with her knowledge of her own field (emphasis added). Remember, she was under oath. So, basically, Commissioner St. Joan is dismissing a knowledge of history as academic myopia. This is just disgusting PC clucking. She should have said, "She answered factually. God forbid that in the justice system."

      Idiots, idiots, idiots. I cannot believe this. How fundamentally immature-- to say nothing of absurd-- has all this become???

From The Sublime To The Ridiculous

      Ho Leigh Chit. As if the Martinets hadn't done themselves enough damage (and made themselves look slightly more desperate than Paris Hilton begging the Wizard for a brain), it looks like they're burning all their bridges, and the earth around those bridges, and salting the earth and the water within a 500 mile radius. I'll let Paul Wells tell you the tale. This is a COLOSSAL political blunder for soooo many reasons:

(1)  Those few seats in Alberta (and in BC) in which Liberals are hanging on by the skin of their increasingly-sweaty teeth will suffer the nasty backlash of simplistically accusing the popular Ralph Klein of trying "to dismantle" public health care. This will be seen as ugliest of ugly demonizations, and it will backfire. It looks like Martin and his advisors have just signed Anne McLellan's death warrant (to say nothing of those very few Liberals with a chance in Alberta), and the Martinets can't afford to lose any more seats.

(2)  It's one thing if one level of government "seeps" into another, as we've seen the natural events of provincial government contaminating the federal election prospects in Ontario; it's quite another when one level of government, in this case the Feds, campaigns AGAINST another level of government. This is not going to play well at all. It never, ever, ever does. (And let's not forget to mention that if Mr Klein was perceived by the Liberals to be such a threat to public health care, why didn't the Martinets make such insistences earlier?) Anyone who didn't see the Liberal strategy as that of fear-mongering before will now see it in spades.

(3)  For all intents and purposes, this sort of attack is stigmatizing Alberta (and playing to the "all Albertans are just a bunch of displaced hick-Texans that don't give a shit about Canada, anyway" choir). That may play in small numbers, but this takes the degree of smear to a whole new level. So much for uniting Canada, Mr Martin-- you're playing upon regionalistic divisions for cheap political gain.

(4)  Fathom, just fathom, if you now can, that the Martinets, by some stroke of Floridian luck, end up with a government, minority or majority. Alberta is one of the HAVE provinces. It holds great sway and already has a track record for making things difficult for the Feds when it sees its "Haved-ness" being played against its own interests. On an issue like health care, there are three provinces the Feds absolutely must be able to keep on side: Ontario, BC, and Alberta. The Feds and Alberta have been cranky-gusses with one another for a bit, but the Martinets have now declared open war by deciding to figure Ralph Klein as He Who Would Destroy Health Care In Canada. For those not attune to such matters, Alberta is like a Permanent Member of the U.N. Security Council. It has the clout to reject federal dicta if it wants, and it has the nerve and the financial capacity to go in its own direction (or to make life hell for any government). So, does one antagonize Alberta? No. Or at least the wise do not. Even if the Martinets win, look for payback shortly after the election. And make no mistake, there WILL be payback. There always is.

(5)  Martin's desperate attempt to make this a Health Care Crusade has demonstrated all-too-well his inability to be politic and prudent when it comes to dealing with serious and complex matters. Canadians tend not to vote for crusaders (ask John Turner after the 1988 election); they vote usually for managers, to the point they usually vote for politicians they don't personally like but that they respect for the managerial cool. (Trudeau, at least in image, was the exception: he could cast both airs at the same time.) Team Martin has just set up the situation for Martin to look even less Prime Ministerial than he already does.

Long and the short: the Herlers have made yet another monumental blunder by pressing too hard in their zeal and their desperation. They've moved from demonization to outright fear-mongering, and as much as I find Mr Klein objectionable, going after Klein and Harper as if they were Sauron and Saruman is so profoundly unwise that it boggles the already perturbed mind. This is pathetically, pathetically, pathetically stupid. Gee, Mr Martin, when you're low in the polls, make sure you go out and alienate even more people. And while you're at it, congele the support of your major opponent. Oh my God. Let's just shatter even the faintest remains of cooperation into a fine white powder.

      You see, Mr Martin, this is why so much of Canada is reacting so negatively to you, long after the Sponsorship Scandal and such has thinned in effectiveness. It's the simple and basic fact that you don't seem to know how to play nice with the other children, and that you don't seem to have an iota of political sense. Political sense, by the way, doesn't just mean knowing how to play to the cameras or how to get to the top. It's about knowing HOW TO GET THINGS DONE. And all you've been demonstrating is that you don't know how to get things done, not even get yourself elected after a historically huge lead in the polls. I'll give you this, though. If you're going to go down, you're going to go down in a blaze of previously unimaginable political idiocy. Look out the window, Mr Martin. I think you'll see Birnam Wood is moving, you inveterate asshat.

And Yes I'm Having A Coffee....

      Here's a very peculiar article from The Chronicle on the rise of Briticisms in American usage. The odd thing is that in reading it, I notice as a good little Canuck (okay, maybe not so "good" necessarily) how many of the phrases and clichés have been in relatively regular use for some time now. I had to think about it for a minute or so: these were terms that I knew in English contexts and in Canadian contexts, but only very rarely in American contexts. As such, I'm starting to wonder if the "Briticisms" of which the author Ben Yagoda-- yes, his name is a portmanteau of "Yoda" and "pagoda," or even "Abe Vigoda"-- writes are those per se, of if they're simply terms that have been filtering through to the US through Canada, through, I suspect, the proliferation of Canadian journalists and celebrities in American media. Watch your American news stations, for example, tonight and see how many of them are Canadian-trained or Canadian-period, Christiane Amanpour and Peter Jennings just being the most obvious. The only phrase mentioned in this article that remains, at least to my ears, specifically British is "ring-up," though I know I use it sometimes myself. "One-off" has been in Canadian English since -- oh, I don't even know how long anymore. It's also worth noting that some of this infiltration might have happened simply with the contact of Americans and Canadians in border-zones. Food for thought, though. If Mr Yagoda is going to figure this out, he has to realize that it may not strictly be a British influence, but quite possibly a Canadian one-- when all is said and done.

    Postscript: My father, when he heads out to Tim Horton's, announces to my mother that he's "Goin' fa coffee." It always sounds, however, like he's "gowen fuck offey." He never says "some coffee" or "a cup of coffee." And you don't get much less British than my Dad. Oh, Canada, always the bowdlerizing state....

What The Yellow Rubbery Fuck?

      Pursuant to the mention of Stephen Fry in some of the comments, I here post this excerpt from his fine first novel, The Liar, from 1991. Thirteen years?!?! Natch!

      Since the beginning of this, Adrian's third and final year, St Matthew's had put up with a television crew on the premises. Their technique, that of becoming part of the furniture, was working so well that they had become appallingly easy to ignore. They had lived up to the name of fly-on-the-wall and only the odd irritating buzz reminded the college of their existence.
      It was clear that the President did not want Adrian to forget them. He could not possibly allow anything of the Trefusis Affair to be seen on national television. Adrian's duty lay clear ahead of him. He had to find a way of doing or saying something tht would make the film of the meeting, or this part of it, unsuitable for family viewing.
      He took a deep breath.
      'I'm sorry, Master,' he said, snapping a pencil, 'but the point is that I won't sit here and hear my friend insulted, not if the accuser is the Director of Public Prosecutions, the Procurator Pissing Fiscal and the Witchfinder Fucking General all rolled into one.'
      A splutter of incredulity from a middle-aged Orientalist met this unusual outburst.
      'Donald has been called a criminal,' Adrian went on, warming to his theme. 'If I run down the street, does that make me an athlete? If you yodel in the bath, Master, does that make you a singer? Dr Menzies has a tongue like a supermarket pricing-gun.'
      'Twisting my words won't help.'
      'Untwisting them might.'
      'Well untwist these words, then,' said Menzies, forcing his copy of the newspaper under Adrian's nose.
      'What the yellow rubbery fuck do you think you're up to now?' said Adrian, pushing the newspaper away. 'If I want to blow my nose, I'll use a frigging snot-rag.'
      'Healey, have you run mad?' hissed Corder, a theologian, sitting next to Adrian.
      'Stick it up your heretical arse.'
      'Well!'
      'Explain it to you later,' said Adrian in an undertone.
      'Oh, it's a game!'
      'Sh!'
      'Splendid!' whispered Corder, and then sang out, 'Oh, do come on, Garth, get a sodding move on.'
      'Well,' said Menzies. 'I have no idea what childish motive you have for hurling abuse at me, Mr Healey. Perhaps you think it is funny. At the risk of being told that I have no sense of humour I am quite prepared to suggest that even an undergraduate audience would remain unmoved by the spectacle of a student insulting one more than twice his age. As for Dr Corder, I can only assume that the man is drunk.'
      'Piss off, you fat tit,' said Corder primly.
      'Mr President, are they to be allowed to continue in this fashion?'
      'Dr Corder, Mr Healey, let Dr Menzies have his say, please,' said the President.
      'Right you fucking are, Mr President,' said Adrian, standing up and immediately sitting down again. He had notices that the microphone boom was only a few inches higher than his head. If he kept standing up hehad a notion it would appear in shot and spoil the footage.
      'You have the floor, farty,' said Corder.

It's a shame to segment any part of the book like this, but if I followed through with the rest of this vignette, I'd be typing for longer than I currently can. As you can (hopefully) see, this is wonderfully funny stuff. It's even funnier, I think, if you know Fry and you can imagine the various different vocal inflections he might give to parts here and there (Fry has a very distinctive voice, and his sounds, especially, of frustration and incredulity are riotous). The prose becomes much more 'musical' read in such a way. Those of you that don't know Mr Fry: check him out in Wilde or Gosford Park or any number of films; most of you probably actually do recognize him as Melchett from Blackadder.

You Can't Hit A Dog With An Irishman

      Much to my surprise, PBS tonight reaired an interview with Hal Holbrook on Bill Moyers' NOW programme. After it came a rare rebroadcast of Holbrook's classic one-man performance from 1967 of Mark Twain Tonight! The production is bloody terrific television (though based on a stage-play): it's nothing less than mesmerizing, even 37 years afterwards, and at times wonderfully funny. Watching it tonight in its entirety, it's almost impossible to believe how well Holbrook commands your attention, how thoroughly he rivets you with his story-telling and his mimicry. It's a performance of broad humour and great subtlety, and often both at the same time. It's damned near impossible to find this production on video or DVD -- and TV is terribly reluctant to air it, even its original network, CBS. PBS' airing of it means it's probably going to be in the rotation for a little bit on your local affiliates of the network. Look for it. Find it. Watch it. Television-- and acting-- don't get much better, if any better, than this, and it does it with just one man. It reminds you what really can be done with this medium that we so lackadaisically surrender to the manufacture of melodrama and "reality programming." It reminds you that there can indeed be such a thing as noble television.

Opus Posthumous: Genius Loves Company

Track Listing 1. Here We Go Again - Features Norah Jones 2. Sweet Potato Pie - Features James Taylor 3. You Don't Know Me - Features Diana Krall 4. Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word - Features Elton John 5. Fever - Features Natalie Cole 6. Do I Ever Cross Your Mind - Features Bonnie Raitt 7. It Was A Very Good Year - Features Willie Nelson 8. Hey Girl - Features Michael McDonald 9. Sinner's Prayer - Features B.B. King 10. Heaven Help Us All - Features Gladys Knight 11. Somewhere Over The Rainbow - Features Johnny Mathis 12. Crazy Love - Features Van Morrison

Some good songs there-- though I shudder to think of Natalie Cole languishing through "Fever" and Diana Krall mutilating "You Don't Know Me." The duets with B.B. King and Van Morrison should be cool, and maybe "Do I Ever Cross Your Mind." But "Somewhere Over the Rainbow"? What a cheesy choice that is. Then again, the man could even make "America the Beautiful" worth listening to.

Doctor J, Bimbo Extraordinaire

      Doctor J always wanted to be a brown-haired bimbo, but he didn't have the stupidity to carry it off.  

      (Actually, while strolling to the store earlier today-- er, yesterday now-- El Docco J espied himself being checked out by a small gaggle of young girls ambling home (gulp!) from the local high school. Considering that Doctor J is lately used to being checked out only in a John Merrick sort of way, this was momentarily and moderately flattering.  Then the creepy facts you've already been told set in.  Suddenly the John Merrick gawking seemed eerily preferrable.  Vanity is a horrible, horrible thing.    )

"I am so angry at you, I am going to rape you to punish you"

      Because enquiring minds wanted to know. Now you can dispense with all those phoney stories you've heard told over the years.

I Have Given Up Trying

      I've been thinking about Rilke lately. I don't know why, and I'm not entirely sure I want to know. There's something intensely sad and beautiful about his poems. I don't think I really want to say anything more than that, at least not at the moment. The poems below are from Stephen Mitchell's translation. (For those of you not in the know, Rilke was German-- and my German being little better than a memory of a memory of a conception of having once maybe studied the language for a couple of months in grade ten, I have to rely on translations. All considered, Mitchell's translations are quite good indeed.)

Evening The sky puts on the darkening blue coat held for it by a row of ancient trees; you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight, one journeying to heaven, one that falls; and leave you, not at home in either one, not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses, not calling to eternity with the passion of what becomes a star each night, and rises; and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel) your life, with its immensity and fear, so that, now bounded, now immeasurable, it is alternately stone in you and star.

Washing The Corpse

They had, for a while, grown used to him. But after
they lit the kitchen lamp and in the dark
it began to burn, restlessly, the stranger
was altogether strange. They washed his neck,

and since they knew nothing about his life
they lied till they produced another one,
as they kept washing. One of them had to cough,
and while she coughed she left the vinegar sponge,

dripping, upon his face. The other stood
and rested for a minute. A few drops fell
from the stiff scrub-brush, as his horrible
contorted hand was trying to make the whole
room aware that he no longer thirsted.

And he did let them know. With a short cough,
as if embarrassed, they both began to work
more hurriedly now, so that across
the mute, patterned wallpaper their thick

shadows reeled and staggered as if bound
in a net; till they had finished washing him.
The night, in the uncurtained window-frame,
was pitiless. And without a name
lay clean and naked there, and gave commands.

[You who never arrived]

You who never arrived
in my arms, Beloved, who were lost
from the start,
I don't even know what songs
would please you. I have given up trying
to recognize you in the surging wave of the next
moment. All the immense
images in me-- the far-off, deeply-felt landscape,
cities, towers, and bridges, and un-
suspected turns in the path,
and those powerful lands that were once
pulsing with the life of the gods--
all rise within me to mean
you, who forever elude me.

You, Beloved, who are all
the gardens I have ever gazed at,
longing. An open window
in a country house---, and you almost
stepped out, pensive, to meet me. Streets that I have chanced upon,---
you had just walked down them and vanished.
And sometimes, in a shop, the mirrors
were still dizzy with your presence and, startled, gave back
my too-sudden image. Who knows? perhaps the same
bird echoed through both of us
yesterday, separate, in the evening.

Master Of Your Domain

      How disappointing, how very, very disappointing....

Why You Ought To Know Your Alec Guinness Movies, Part II: The Textile Strikes Back

      Just wait until you're standing in the middle of a street, people ripping off your clothes.

Provincial, Slim Doctor J Came From The Stairhead...

      It figures. It effing-well figures. It seems I've looked anywhere and everywhere, and my blasted copy of Ulysses is nowhere to be found. And this on Poldy's day. Argh.

Ladies, Start Your Bidding

      This blog will be horribly politic and will not mention any names whatsoever in relation to this article. None. Nope. Not. One. Word.

Akrit's Genius

      Smart-ass. :-)

And The White Man Dancin'

      Marx (Karl, and oddly enough not Groucho) once said that religion was the opium of the people. He didn't know the half of it. In California, it's evidently the crack-cocaine. Absolutely horrifying. Suddenly, Leonard Cohen's "The Future" seems too close to prophecy.

      To add a bit of levity, though, I'd like to remind everyone of Leonard's "Closing Time," a song Doctor J can quote entirely from memory, usually as a spectacle over extended imbibements that require toasting. (Take a drink everytime Leonard says "Closing Time." Trust me, it starts off easy enough....) The lyrically astute among you will notice that each of the main verses is a sonnet. I can't remember the last time a songwriter tried that.

Brief Observation

      In relation to a previous post on this blog: I find it eminently comforting that, as Hamlet might say, "country matters" are gaining prominence.  What a beautiful miasma discussion is.  Cu cu cachoo.

Riders Of The Storm

      It looks like COMPAS has done some preliminary sampling of some key ridings, and here are some of the polling results (pre-debate):

Jack Layton (NDP - Toronto Danforth): 53%
versus 33% for Liberal Dennis Mills and
10% for Conservative Loftus Cuddy and
4% for Green Party candidate Jim Harris

Ed Broadbent (NDP - Ottawa Centre): 47%
versus 27% for Liberal Richard Mahoney and
22% for Conservative Mike Mahoney and
4% for the Green Party candidate (name not given)

Belinda Stronach (Conservative - Newmarket Aurora): 59%
versus 30% for Liberal Martha Hall Findlay and
8% for NDP Ed Chudak and
2% for the Green Party candidate (name not given)

Scott Brison (Liberal - Kings Hants): 49%
versus 29% for Conservative Bob Mullan and
16% for NDP Skip Hambling and
5% for the Green Party candidate (name not given)

Ujjal Dosanjh (Liberal - Vancouver South): 41%
versus 28% for NDP Bev Meslo and
27% for Conservative Victor Soo Chan and
5% for Green Party candidate Doug Perry

It's interesting to note that Deputy Prime Minister Anne McLellan is in a dead heat in her riding, and she could well be one of the many suspected victims of the Liberal immolation. Other possible (and/or probable) victims: Dennis Mills, Tony Valeri, Stan Keyes. Broadbent's likely victory in Ottawa Centre is a bit of a coup. That was once thought to be a Liberal stronghold, and Mahoney was supposed to be able to slide to an easy win. Same for Bill Cunningham in Svend Robinson's old riding of Burnaby-Douglas, into which Martin parachuted his longtime advisor. It looks like it's going to remain in the hands of the NDP. You can see some of the various discussion on riding-by-riding facts here. Notice on this page how few of the former "Too Close To Calls" (TC) are going anywhere but Liberal. The BQ numbers on these pages, though, seem rather tentative, considering recent polling information.

The Die Is Cast

      The English debate is over, and we've finally seen the federal party leaders in direct argument with one another. I don't want to go on too much here-- willpower is only barely keeping my eyelids apart-- but there are a few things to be said, at least in relatively short takes. First off, here is the image of the debate:

Martin is looking away, shrugging off with indifference the words of Stephen Harper. Harper, however, stands there in remarkably muted gestures. Yeah, that's the important image of the night. Harper came across as very controlled, moderate, thoughtful; he was the model of civility, all-considered. Martin, though, was all over the map. He was alternately flustered, aggressive, sanctimonious, arrogant; you name it, he was it. Put another way, he was very much on the defensive, and not just in the political sense of that word. He was clearly showing the wear and tear of criticism, and few of his answers were satisfactory. He looked desperate, painfully, obviously desperate.

      On the flip side, though: as respectable as Mr. Harper was, I think Martin managed his main task, to get out all the buzzwords on demonizing Harper and the Conservatives, and while I don't think any of the major points stuck, there was a clear sense to which the gestalt of his argument got through, the gestalt being that we should be afraid of what the Conservatives will do. He was a bit like the madman screaming about the end of the world, but he said so often that I'm sure it stuck to a few minds. Martin's mistake was in aiming the attacks at Harper per se-- he should have aimed them at the factions of the Conservative party that are much less reserved, the members of the party that make John Crosbie sound diplomatic. Those members are owed favours in a Harper government, if there is one, and PM PM had to emphasize that. Going after Harper himself just didn't work.

      Which means: it's official, and we now have the question that will decide the campaign. The voters have effectively condemned Martin, and they're ready to toss him: Martin did everything but admit so tonight. The question now is: Are Canadians willing to take a chance on Mr Harper? I don't know what the answer is yet. Martin may have reinforced a few fears tonight, but it now has to be said: if Martin somehow manages re-election (and it seems to me quite unlikely at this point, as the French debate was a slaughter and all those hopes in Quebec are dashed), it won't be a positive vote for him. It will be a vote against the Conservatives.

      Oh, how the tides have turned.

      On the others: Layton and Duceppe did fairly well, at least based on what they needed to do. Duceppe, with Piss-Dick-All to do, managed to be relaxed and comfortable and thoroughly enjoy needling Martin while seeming almost fey (and even a bit philosophical) about it. Layton was sanctimonious and High Lefty, but he spoke with sufficient skill and force that he managed to do what he need to do: to get right under the PM's skin, and to paint the Grits and the Tories as cover artists of each others' songs. Layton scored the best single shot of the night-- when Martin asked him if his handlers told him to talk so much, and Layton retorted by saying something to the effect that they were discussing missile defense and that this was not to be taken lightly. Martin took a hit for that, a significant one. All considered, Layton did what he had to do: he positioned himself as the dogged finger-pointer-- he positioned himself as a Opposition Leader in form if not likely-to-be in title.

      Martin was the big loser tonight, though he may have put the fear of Harper into a few people, mainly (ironically enough) New Democrats; it's the Reverse-Nader factor. Duceppe's riding high. He will probably take more seats in Quebec than the BQ ever has. Harper looked surprisingly statesmanlike, as much as his party is very often the opposite.

      So it all comes down to the Stephen Harper Fear Factor, and it's all about Ontario's pot-o-gold of parliamentary seats. In other words, it's about how many seats the Liberals are going to lose to the Dippers and to the Connies. Martin, if he's lucky, may have stopped the bleeding-- but that's all he may have done. I don't think he did it, though. It's going to be a squeaker I suspect-- between a Conservative Minority and a Conservative Majority.

      Unless, unless, unless: Martin pulls off a coup, not in votes, but in a post-election coalition with the Dippers and the BQ if it turns toward a Conservative minority. Stay tuned.

---

ADDENDUM: Don't I look ooooooh-soooo-smart predicting all those months ago that Martin would discover the crown he stole would be lined with thorns? How did I know? Political insight? Innate genius? Natch. I just knows ma Shakespeare.

I Guess He Caughte Hire By The Queynte

      How quaint. And, yes, I'm being too clever by half. But certainly, most certainly, not as clever as this chap. A fascinating read. Those of you that read far enough into it will acquire new meanings for the phrase "wedge issue." (Noting, of course, that "issue" has several different implications, too. Oh, I wonder if this is how Joyce felt, with so many possibilities there were reverberations everywhere....)

Disturbing Image Of The Day

Looks like something from the Discovery Channel. *shudder*       (And, is it just me, or does Mrs Heinz-Kerry look like Jayne Meadows in this picture? Okay, so none of you probably know Jayne Meadows anymore.... I've just dated myself very, very badly, haven't I? *grimace*)       Your mission, should you chose to accept it, is to provide the appropriate caption. And Mr Phelps, if you or any of your team are...

Forgive? FORGIVE?!

Mr. Head was unavailable to comment, but in a prepared statement he expressed "his deep regret for any inconvenience he may have caused anyone."

All those in favour of reinstating the death penalty, please raise your hands.... Grrrrr. Arrrrrgh!

I Know I'm Not Supposed To Say It But

      Excuse me a moment: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I feel better now.

Surgical Roughness

      Wow. Paul Wells' latest column for Macleans is absolutely scathing in its admonishment of Paul Martin. There's what I'd call a surgical roughness to it, the cuts are clean and precise but they're done with a shiv instead of a more dispassionate scalpel. Worse, for Martin anyway: Wells is right. Only the most ardent Liberal supporters would dispute his points, and they'd do so, it seems, more out of defensiveness than genuine rebuttal. Devastating, absolutely devastating.

    By the way, don't think I'm only inclined to pick on Mr Martin: see, for example, Lorrie Goldstein's calling-to-account of Mr Harper in the Tory-rific Toronto Sun.  I'd provide a link to a similar calling-to on Mr. Layton except nobody seems to be wasting any ink on him lately-- and that, for his blunders and idiocies, very few seem to be accusing the NDP of duplicity. But I think Mr Wells' indictment is the most forceful articulation of the "unaligned" voters' sentiment of the PM-- and why the PM seems to be on his way to defeat, unless there's a truly Sophoclean peripeteia in the next few days.

'Tis Pity She's A Bore

      "Would you like to attend a poetry reading?" I'm sure just the flip invocation of that question sent chills down most of your spines-- and for understandable reasons.  The fact is, many, many, many poets are horrible readers of their own works, and to watch and/or to listen to their readings can be exercise in masochism.  I've been, I can honestly say, to more bad poetry readings than I've been to good ones, and I suspect that even some of the "good" ones simply seemed better because one comes to assess such things on a sliding scale. (Al Purdy, just months before his death, and P.K. Page were notable exceptions, and RK and my colleague-in-drunkenness Mr Crawford can both do a fine poetic peal when the spirit takes them.)   I have to say, then, that I disagree with the conclusion of this article, that even the worst poet reads his/her poetry better than an actor.  If you want proof of this, just go to your local bistro where I'm sure there will be a Poetry Night during which pretentious beatniks likely make poetry seem the most intolerable art form ever invented.  At least the actor can claim ignorance, misunderstanding, difficulty.  The poet can't.  That's what makes a bad reading all the more embarrassing-- and all the more painful.  In the end, there's nothing to blame but the poet, either as reader or as writer or as both.  And in the pity lies the rub.

Stag and Doh!

      Well, it looks like I'm going to a wedding in a couple of weeks-- in Pennsylvania. It's a family affair, and it means a very long drive in cramped quarters, and Doctor J is not particularly enamoured of long trips anymore. (Commuting does that to you.) It's not so much that I mind making the trip or seeing the people. I don't, however, especially like going to weddings anymore, especially by my stag self, my perpetual bachelorhood calling attention to itself as much, if not more, than if the groom suddenly developed a case of uncontrollable priapism. ("Magnetic north? It's over--- there.") It's that Don Pedro symptom I've mentioned here before, only exaggerated, because everyone and their cousin's-cousin's-half-sister's-mentally-unstable-aunt has to approach you with trite instructions not that far removed from Benedick's "Get thee a wife!" Ah, yes, as if that's going to happen. There's a better chance Paris Hilton will tour Bangladesh with her very special readings of Neil Diamond's greatest hits. That, however, is neither here nor there: it's the questions, the stares, the craptacular spectacularity of it all. It wouldn't be so bad if I could go in, wish everyone well very quickly and bug out quicker than Charlie Sheen after a mandatory roll with the wife. But, nay, nay, 'tis not so easy. 'Tis ne'er so easy. Which means I'll likely be making frequent and many trips to the bar to toughen my tolerance. Gawd.

      Don't get me wrong: I'm not without my own romantic streak, and I'm not so cynical about things that I'm negative about such ceremonies from the get-go. I'll even try to keep myself from such negativity by hoping the best for the couple and occasionally imagining that Peter Cook is conducting the service. ("Mehhhh-wij...") I dunno. These things just make me very, very uncomfortable, especially with those when are yous aimed at me explicitly or implicitly at every turn. My uncle, the father of the groom, asked me when he was last up here that question, and I turned my old joke on him, the one about what my given name says when you spell it backwards. He liked the joke-- everyone does, it seems-- and it got me off the hook for a bit as it commonly does. It never, however, works as profitably with female friends and relatives, all of whom seem to get a look of matronly Oh, you will-wisdom in their eyes before they proceed to pretend they know your future better than you do. Aaargh. The only way to avoid such stuff, in my experience, is to be as glib as possible. I have a funny feeling that joke's gonna get a lot more mileage on it soon. It may soon be time to roll back the odometer.

      So: two weeks or so until the trip. Two weeks to spackle over my cynicism and rehearse my chipperness. You can do this, Doctor J, you can do it. Just remember one beautiful word: Mehhhh-wij. God bless Peter Cook.

      (Curious aside: have you ever noticed that when a couple marries, we generally refer to it as "a wedding ceremony," and yet when we inter someone we refer to it as "a commitment ceremony"? Suggestive, n'est-ce pas?)

"If I painted a picture on the side of your house, who would own it?"

      And people thought my silly exams were ridiculous....

      Footnote: the article makes a common error, that of printing Howards End as "Howard's End."  No apostrophe.  Just had to put that out there.

A Uniter, Not A Divider

      Yes, the blog's project of educating some of you on the significance of Ray Charles continues, this time with an Op-Ed piece from The New York Times in which Bob Herbert writes, "Whether he intended to or not, Ray had opened fire on two very distinct cultures at one and the same time: the white-bread mass culture that was on its guard against sexuality of any kind (and especially the black kind), and the black religious community, which felt that gospel was the Lord's music, and thus should be off-limits to the wild secular shenanigans that Ray represented." (You can read the rest of the article here.)  Now go and turn on the radio.  And no turning on a classical station just to be a smart-ass. ;-)

      See also some of these choice bits:

• from The Desert Sun:  ""America the Beautiful"? When Ray sang it, yes it was. //
  You want a constitutional amendment? Ray’s "America the Beautiful" as the national anthem, right now. End of discussion. // See, he took all of that -- country, soul, gospel, rhythm and blues -- tore off the labels and replaced them with a new one: American."
  
• from Don Grady, syndicated: "The two “Country and Western” albums Ray Charles released in the early 1960s were, to me, a tremendous backdrop to the civil rights battles going on at the time. Instead of being a powerful anthem about the evils of prejudice, the albums were a mosaic of how the lives of working-class black and white Americans were all too similar. The songs begged a question: How can two cultures be so far apart when the men and women in them share the common problems of making their paychecks stretch, dealing with heartbreaks, working hard from sunrise to sunset, and relying on God and family to get through tough times? In those two albums, Ray Charles subtly told rural whites and urban blacks that their differences were much smaller than they perceived, and there were common bonds between them that cried out to be recognized."
  
• from a collection of editorial statements, this from the Dallas Morning News: "The death Thursday of Ray Charles at age 73 silences one of the most distinctively American voices in all of popular music and leaves a hole in our culture that will be impossible to fill. It's as if the Mississippi River dried up overnight."
  
• this from Newsday, on the ironies of timing (and race relations):  "Like Reagan, he too was apparently true to himself. But his musical campaign took a far different path. It led him to bridge, rather than deepen, differences. He played everything - classical music, traditionally "black" rhythm and blues songs, traditionally "white" country music standards."
  
• from the Macon Telegraph: "It seemed like he not only loved America, he was America." See also the very funny "Ray Charles Syllogism" which has been in the air for as long as I can remember.

    The more heretical among you-- well, almost all of you, if you're bothering to read this site-- may like this from The Spoof. My favourite is the comment by OJ.

Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down! or, How To Keep That Orchid Nice And Musty

      And, gee, I thought God helped those that helped themselves....

      Seriously, I'm not sure whether to find this hilarious or horrifying.  It's nice to know, though, that problems can be addressed by fixing oneself a snack and leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar.  I'm not one to knock the spiritual beliefs of anyone, but this is the same twisted logic that got the RC church into so much trouble: deny, deny, deny, and for the love of God, never, ever, ever address a problem.  Unbelievable.

    (With thanks to MD for providing the link.)

Onomastication

      Imagine this poor chap's press if any of his staff members accused him of sexual harassment.  

Why, Mr Harper, Are You Trying To Seduce Me?

      If it came down to choosing between Stephen and the Gang versus Kelly McGillis, I think I'd pick....

      (C'mon, do I really have to complete that sentence? DUH.   Hey, hey, hey....)

"People Think I'm Crazy"

      "No one knows him like I do." "He's worth a second chance." "He'll never hurt me again." Anyone wanna bet how this is gonna turn out?

Billy BathGate

      "That damned Demi, she ain't gonna get the best of me!" Naming is everything, it seems.

      (Suddenly makes the lechery over Lindsay Lohan and the Olsen twins seem natural, doesn't it?)

Red-Handed

      Well, I think we have it: the image of the campaign, this version from The Star:

A very uncomfortable-looking PM (does anyone remember the image from Macbeth about the usurping King's ill-fitting clothes?) dogged by a demonic parody of the traditional red-and-white. And as much as Mr. Martin remains in the foreground, it's obvious where the attention immediately goes: to scandal, and to a very prominent expression of discontentment. Love him or hate him, I think this is the chrysalis image for Mr Martin and his campaign, the one that's going to go into the history books.

You've got to admit, though: Mr Martin's going down like Macbeth. And damned be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'

Her Finger Jabbing The Air

      Here's another poem I don't quite know whether to like or not, this one by the Canadian poet Lorna Crozier:

I KNOW I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO SAY IT BUT

I miss the smokers, the heavy drinkers
though my eyes burn when someone lights
a cigarette. I miss the poet who drank
a bottle of gin a day and talked to his
parrot in bird-vowels of squeaks and squawks,
its eyes following his big gentle hands
stumbling through the air. I miss the post-coital
smoke of my lover as he raised two fingers
that smelled of me to his mouth and inhaled
again and again. I miss the whiskey priest who danced
wet in his robes in the fountain below the Spanish Steps,
holding a gelato high above his head and
never dropping it. I miss the tin tobacco can
of my sixty-cigarette-a-day mother-in-law who insisted
she didn't inhale. I miss my father who asked me
to smuggle a case of beer into the cancer ward,
who dragged his intravenous stand to the dungeon
smoking room five times a day. I miss the artist
in Zagreb who for over an hour in the bar
tried to touch the mole on my shoulder
and always overshot his mark, his yellow-stained
finger jabbing the air. I miss the beautiful
woman who drank with Dylan Thomas. After three
scotch on ice, she tossed her head all night,
throwing back the long hair she didn't have anymore.
I miss the smokers, the heavy drinkers,
the ones who walked naked through parties,
covered with the host's shaving cream, the ones
who pushed dill pickles into their ears,
who played the harmonica with their noses,
who could aim a smoke ring to settle like a halo
over someone's blessed head. I miss them on the couch
where I covered them with the extra blanket,
where I took the glowing ember from between their fingers.
I miss climbing the stairs to bed, draped in their silky
cape of smoke, their singing and jubilation, the small
bonfires of their bodies burning through
what little was left of the night.

--- from Everything Arrives At The Light (1995)

In many ways, I appreciate the rhythms Crozier establishes (it seems to me to be borrowing from the patterns used in Leonard Cohen's "You Have The Lovers," with the poem's first words echoing Cohen's) and I also appreciate the effectiveness of much of her imagery and phrasing ("the woman who drank with Dylan Thomas" is a nice touch). But for all the poem's supposed lamentations and professed admirations of the smokers and the heavy-drinkers, there's a not-so-latent air judgmentalism about it all, an air of preachy cautionary tale. I mentioned the woman who drank with Dylan Thomas: Crozier undercuts this image with the words "the long hair she didn't have anymore," which is scientifically fair enough but injects an unnecessary patheticness to the image; we get this sort of structure of undermined-image again and again throughout the poem, to the point it reaches overkill-- and I think ultimately that Crozier's lecturing through the backdoor. There's something nobly true about the poem, but there's something rather spiritually untrue about it, as if all these figures that she mourns are little more than examples to say "Pity they did all the bad stuff, even if it was fun." It strikes me in this regard as overly didactic and heavy-handed, even if there's a fineness to the imagery and to some of the generated cadences to seem to counter these qualities.

      I guess it comes down, for me, to a sense of the poem's duplicity, that for its postulations to like and/or to admire the characters that she is figuring, she really doesn't seem to like them very much, and the result is a troubling insincerity, the poem of the backhanded compliment or the Tsk-tsk-tsk-ing elegy. I don't think the title helps, either. Although it does well to set up the first few lines, after the reading of the poem is complete, it seems less like a liberating declaration (breaking from the modes of what is considered socially acceptable) than a pre-emptive apology for posturing (not that different than, say, "I don't want to be telling you what to do but...."). She goes, one might say, all Wilfrid Owen on us when least I think she should-- but while pretending that she's not. The old lie for her is the life of the "hard-drinking, chain-smoking" types, and she makes clear that the bonfires burning in the night aren't at all different from Owen's "incurable sores on innocent tongues." Oh, yes, Lorna, we get the message. I however can't help but feel manipulated by the end of it, and even bitter because of it, perhaps because she seems to be using the dead to stump. It's not so much the message of the poem to which I object, but its methods and its manipulativeness, and the poem's resolution finally seems a betrayal-- souring the finer tonalities with a disingenousness that for me spoils what came before it. That's, of course, a misstating: the poem has been leading to this all along, and that's why it does seem to me such a poetic betrayal. It's not a voltaic turn, like those we become used to seeing in sonnets. No, it's more insidious, the poem seeming to lead toward a unique observation only to end up selling us a trite bill of goods, especially as her attendance upon the characters becomes more and more patronizing (her laying of the blanket, the removal of the cigarette, etc.). And, in a way, I understand her message-- that this is a world from which she had to extricate herself, which she supposedly outgrew-- but her delivery seems a cheat, the poem a lamentation of someone who now knows better.

      No, I guess I don't like this poem, in the end. What starts as a sincere reflection of loss becomes a programme for an insincere implication. In this day and age, we're supposed to admire such poetry, such morally-right poetry, but I read it as rather hypocritical and pretentious. So there it is; I've had my lesson for the day (pardon me while I nod along blankly). This could have been a much better poem if Crozier had kept to trying to understand the figures that she described, but she abandons them for the figuration of her expatriation from them. The poem's message turns out to be very PC after all, very formulaic-- though the morally-superior would call it "instructive." And, in the end, I find myself angry at the poem, angry at its manipulativeness and its insincerities and its betrayal. I know I'm not supposed to say it, but, yes, angry, rather angry indeed.