Straight For The Bottle

Sorry to disappoint you all, but picture at right is **NOT** of Doctor J in his salad days.       (Besides, you should know the Not-So-Good Doctor would never drink Guinness....)

Nice Bush!

Check out the junk in that trunk, George.... Yeah, baby, look over here.... Oh yeah.... Two for the price of one, baby, two for the price of one....

Young, Messy & Hungry!!

      This blog would never, ever lower itself to link to stuff like this.

Nobody's Baby?

      Paul Martin, it seems, has promised to resign in two years if he breaks any of his key promises. Gee, that sounds vaguely familiar. Who else once said she would resign if she couldn't keep a promise.... Hmmm.... Oh, yeah: HER. You know the PM's in trouble if he's taking a page from her playbook.

      In a related vein, I want to say that I am sick and bloody tired of all the reports in the Canadian media about the alienation (and apathy) of young voters (supposedly the people between 18 and 30) and the various desperate gestures being made to get them to vote. The young voters indulge their typical whines and excuses: nobody pays attention to us, our votes don't make a difference, wenh, wenh, wenh. Well, no wonder nobody pays any attention to you, for goodness' sake; talk about the self-fulfilling prophecy. This isn't to exonerate the politicians, either: they don't address youth concerns, and they patronize young voters in the most callous and cynical ways. How do they respond to this disaffection? By trying to make voting seem "sexy" or "cool" or the like, to the extent of spending a great deal of public money on getting people to vote, most of whom won't even bother when the day comes. This is profoundly wrong-headed. In Canada people go on about their rights and their freedoms, about their right to access to this and their freedom to do that, but they've stopped talking about their responsibilities. Yes, I know, I used the "R" word that dare not speak its name. We have to stop trying to court people into voting with carrots and other flimsy ecnouragements, and tell them they have to vote; yes, Canada should follow the Australian model and make voting mandatory. People could, of course, still elect to spoil their ballots and refuse to vote for anyone, but then at least they would have to publically register their displeasure. This pouty, miserable "what's in it for me" mentality (on the parts of both young voters and the politicians vying for office) gets us absolutely nowhere. How sickening is that we focus so much on providing "incentives" (read in: bribes) rather than responsibility (read in: something you have to do, like or fucking not)? I've lost sympathy for the generation that whines so much that it's never listened to, and I've lost sympathy for the generation that only knows how to deal with is youth by throwing money and airy-fairy platitudes at problems. It's nothing more than cheap excuse-making on both sides of the equation, excuse-making that allows people not to have to address one another's concerns, and that allows them to avoid the actual engagement of ideas. If one of the parties announces that it will make voting mandatory (and none of them will, all of them groups of panderers), it'll get my vote. It's my cranky opinion that it's about damned time people either shat or got off the bloody pot. Voting, after all, isn't military service: it's, at most, an hour or two out of your day. Deal with it. And maybe people might actually start talking to one another instead of at one another. Grumble, grumble, grumble. Cantankerous rant now over.

      And, for you "young voters" out there, take this to mind: if all of you started voting, the Marijuana Party could probably form the government in B.C. by the end of the decade. Then you'd know you made a difference.

"Before You Get Hurt"

      There's nothing like constructive criticism. The lunatic fringe just seems to get louder and louder.

Poems For Whitsun

      Today is Whitsun (aka Pentecost) and it seems worthwhile to post a few pieces for the day. The first poem, an old favourite, was sent to me by RK, replete with stressmarks, and these appropriate instructions:

So here is the most glorious -- absolutely glorious -- poem I know for the occasion, to be read aloud with Dylan-Thomas-like POWER and Anglo-Saxon emphasis, and utter conviction (stress=ictus=passion, the passion of the English tongue, tongue, tongue).

For some reason, I put my own tongue intro traction trying to recite Hopkins and always seem to fall short; for an equally inexplicable reason, I always hear Richard Burton's voice (in full Equus mode) when I read this poem in silence; the latter is certainly better. Hopkins' self-described "sprung rhythm" has more in common with Old and early Middle English poetry than it does with just about anything written since those times. I dare all of you to try to recite it. It's trickier than it looks.

God's Grandeur

The wórld is chárged with the grándeur of Gód.
   It will fláme óut, like shíning from shóok fóil;
   It gáthers to a gréatness, like the óoze of óil
Crúshed. Why do mén then nów not réck his ród?
Generátions have tród, have tród, have tród;
   And áll is séared with tráde; bléared, sméared with tóil;
   And wéars man's smúdge and sháres man's sméll: the sóil
Is báre now, nor can fóot féel, being shód.

And for áll thís, náture is néver spént;
   There líves the déarest fréshness déep dówn thíngs;
And though the lást líghts óff the bláck Wést wént
   Oh, mórning, at the brówn brínk éastward, spríngs-
Because the Hóly Ghóst óver the bént
   Wórld bróods with wárm bréast and with áh! bríght wíngs.

--- Gerard Manley Hopkins (1918)

The Whitsun Weddings

That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
      Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river's level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

All afternoon, through the tall heat that slept
      For miles inland,
A slow and stopping curve southwards we kept.
Wide farms went by, short-shadowed cattle, and
Canals with floatings of industrial froth;
A hothouse flashed uniquely: hedges dipped
And rose: and now and then a smell of grass
Displaced the reek of buttoned carriage-cloth
Until the next town, new and nondescript,
Approached with acres of dismantled cars.

At first, I didn't notice what a noise
      The weddings made
Each station that we stopped at: sun destroys
The interest of what's happening in the shade,
And down the long cool platforms whoops and skirls
I took for porters larking with the mails,
And went on reading. Once we started, though,
We passed them, grinning and pomaded, girls
In parodies of fashion, heels and veils,
All posed irresolutely, watching us go,

As if out on the end of an event
      Waving goodbye
To something that survived it. Struck, I leant
More promptly out next time, more curiously,
And saw it all again in different terms:
The fathers with broad belts under their suits
And seamy foreheads; mothers loud and fat;
An uncle shouting smut; and then the perms,
The nylon gloves and jewellery-substitutes,
The lemons, mauves, and olive-ochres that

Marked off the girls unreally from the rest.
      Yes, from cafés
And banquet-halls up yards, and bunting-dressed
Coach-party annexes, the wedding-days
Were coming to an end. All down the line
Fresh couples climbed aboard: the rest stood round;
The last confetti and advice were thrown,
And, as we moved, each face seemed to define
Just what it saw departing: children frowned
At something dull; fathers had never known

Success so huge and wholly farcical;
      The women shared
The secret like a happy funeral;
While girls, gripping their handbags tighter, stared
At a religious wounding. Free at last,
And loaded with the sum of all they saw,
We hurried towards London, shuffling gouts of steam.
Now fields were building-plots, and poplars cast
Long shadows over major roads, and for
Some fifty minutes, that in time would seem

Just long enough to settle hats and say
      I nearly died,
A dozen marriages got under way.
They watched the landscape, sitting side by side
- An Odeon went past, a cooling tower, And
someone running up to bowl - and none
Thought of the others they would never meet
Or how their lives would all contain this hour.
I thought of London spread out in the sun,
Its postal districts packed like squares of wheat:

There we were aimed. And as we raced across
      Bright knots of rail
Past standing Pullmans, walls of blackened moss
Came close, and it was nearly done, this frail
Travelling coincidence; and what it held
stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give. We slowed again,
And as the tightened brakes took hold, there swelled
A sense of falling, like an arrow-shower
Sent out of sight, somewhere becoming rain.

--- Philip Larkin (1964)

Whitsun

This is not what I meant:
Stucco arches, the banked rocks sunning in rows,
Bald eyes or petrified eggs,
Grownups coffined in stockings and jackets,
Lard-pale, sipping the thin
Air like a medicine.

The stopped horse on his chromium pole
Stares through us; his hooves chew the breeze.
Your shirt of crisp linen
Bloats like a spinnaker. Hat brims
Deflect the watery dazzle; the people idle
As if in hospital.

I can smell the salt, all right.
At our feet, the weed-mustachioed sea
Exhibits its glaucous silks,
Bowing and truckling like an old-school oriental.
You're no happier than I about it.
A policeman points out a vacant cliff

Green as a pool table, where cabbage butterflies
Peel off to sea as gulls do,
And we picnic in the death-stench of a hawthorn.
The waves pulse like hearts.
Beached under the spumy blooms, we lie
Sea-sick and fever-dry.

--- Sylvia Plath (1961)

The Larkin and the Plath poems are certainly less celebratory by nature, but they're good poems on their own. The phrase "spumy blooms" is worth adding to your everyday vocabulary, especially if you're a beer drinker. ;-) The invocation of "the death-stench of a hawthorn" might need some explanation, for which you can check here (see near the bottom of the page, particularly in regards to the Christian and post-Christian associations). Pay special attention to the stultifying, one might say putrefying, "whiteness" of the poem's first stanza (stucco arches, bald eyes, lard-pale clothing); leave it to Sylvia to jaundice the achromatic (though I'd prefer to coin the term 'chiaristic'). See also Matthew 23:27, which may have an 'under-presence' in the poem: "Whited sepulchers, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of . . . uncleanness." Also, a "cabbage butterfly" is often called a "white." There's more I could do with all this-- "glaucous" ("pale grey"), the whitish foam of waves, assumedly white or grey gulls, the "chromium pole," the presumedly white "crisp linen"-- but hopefully you see what's happening here. This is why they should be paying me the big bucks, even if they're not. ;-)

Canadian Gigolo

I've been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king
I've been up, down, over and out, and I know one thing
Every time I find myself flat on my face
I pick myself up and get back in the race....
         --- "That's Life" by Dean Kay and Kelly Gordon

      It's that time again. Time again to take stock of everything I've done -- and more significantly, not done-- and try to come to terms with it all, to try to accept the past and to form a future. There's something vile about this process, something both narcissistic and debasing, rather like looking into a mirror and trying to convince oneself of one's virtues while acknowledging the shortcomings as well. As a result, I don't like mirrors, for the same obvious reasons that I don't like cameras. (Such is the curse of having a face only a mother could love, provided, as the old joke goes, she's blind in one eye and has a milky-white film over the other.) I also don't like-- in fact, loathe-- putting together my CV ("curriculum vitae," for those of you not familiar with the jargon) as I dare to gather together some applications for positions here and there. This means, in part, quantifying my accomplishments (and, in some ways, the relative lack thereof), an activity I generally find distasteful. It also means accidentally reflecting on matters better left, if only for the sake of one's sanity, unpondered. This is to say nothing of the activity I detest most, the prostration and prostitution that comes with -- shudder-- selling one's abilities to possibly interested bidders. Fact is, generally I don't like writing about myself, let alone talking about myself: it's one thing to recall a memory, or to defend a position, or to articulate a personal credo; it's another thing to 'pitch' yourself, to assess yourself, especially given the human capacity for self-delusion. (Right, Superstars?) Alas, it has to be done, as much as I **hate** doing it, and even if the odds are less than favourable. But, as the Chairman of the Board reminds me, that's life. Time to drag my non-existent ass into the race. So, readers, please bear with me. I'm probably going to be rather ornery for the next little bit. Gawd.... Did I mention that I hate this? Oh. Sorry....

Nip/Tuck

      OHIP no longer covers physiotherapy and eye examinations, but it might still cover this???? Give me a fucking break.

"He Became, Of Course, A Critic"

      Reading this summary of the history of English poetry, I was reminded of those histories of the world compiled from student errors. Although this summary is not given to the same sorts of errors, there are some awfully, shall we say, jejeune statements that elicit laughter either for their audacity or for their grand over-simplification. See, for example, the assessment that after 1804 Coleridge's "poetry took a turn for the worse and his opinions to the conservative. He became, of course, a critic." Similarly this: "Although frequently intellectually arrogant and often immersed in melancholy and self-pity (not always without reason), Shelley is still highly regarded." Ho-ho. Then there's the final paragraph which rings of naive endeavour:

In the later twentieth century and early 21st, it has become perfectly possible to eschew modern poetry altogether and feel little shame. Innumerable fine poets such as Simon Armitage and Edwin Morgan simultaneously achieve recognition but condemn themselves by allowing their poems to be anthologized for teenage exams. Poetry has become a matter for study only, and volumes sell in the low thousands at best unless written by the dead or by our sole remaining public poet of any dignity and ambition: Seamus Heaney. Indeed, poetry books make up only 3 of all book sales in England. The lover of verse is best advised to seek the voices set to popular music such as Tom Waits, Neil Young, Leonard Cohen (an exceptional poet before and during his songwriting), Bob Dylan and Nick Cave. We might blame the lack of recent whole-world conflict or fear of God for our poetic decline and look to those shaken by political turmoil for inspiration. In fact, the Anglo-centrism of ‘classic’ poetry – thoroughly endorsed, unfortunately but inevitably, by this brief guide through poetry in English – has ensured that after exploiting oppression, repressed sexuality, bigotry and finally indulging in experimental poetry, we must now listen to those with something to say (American poets such as Ai and Sonia Sanchez spring to mind). This is neither a call to arms nor a declaration of the end of poetry, merely a promise that white male middle-class poetry will now have competition from the other billions of voices that make up the world and can now shout eloquently with a chance of being heard.

Ah.... Okee-DOH-kee. This is what I would call "intelligent innocence." I have to chuckle that Neil Young warrants mention in this while Emily Dickinson does not. And, of course, it has to invoke the fitful phrases of "exploiting oppression," "repressed sexuality," "bigotry," and "white male middle-class poetry." This is what happens when you take anything from Bibliomania.

Sen. Kerry Has Formidable Hair

      As the song goes, "Always look on the bright side of life...."

      (Choice bit: "Unfair, incendiary stereotype No. 3: Kerry has the appearance and the personality of a corpse -- a haughty, stiff, humorless demeanor lacking joy or spontaneity, one that goes beyond simple aloofness and suggests a deep and troubling character dysfunction -- the sort of impenetrable, icy, friendless, keeper-of-one's-own-counsel temperament typical of those who are someday exposed as assassins, spies or the sort of neighborhood pervert who steals panties from clotheslines.")

A Statue Waiting To Be Carved

      Since health care seems to be one of the hot topics these days, it's worth noting that Dalton McGuinty has received a new arsehole, courtesy of Rex Murphy. The choice quote is this, and I'm sure it'll be picked up by Liberal opponents for years to come: "I don't know if irony has a muse, but if it doesn't, rent Dalton a wig and a toga, and hand him a lyre." I couldn't have said it better myself. The column's coup de grace, though, is the sublime reference to Betty Crocker. Crock-er. Deftly done, Rex, deftly done.

Symptoms of Symptoms

      The London Review of Books has a review of the 1960-2000 volume of The Oxford Literary History, and the review does a very good job of describing and characterising "academic criticism," at least as practiced by most these days and by the author of Oxford volume. I'm what might be described as an "old hat," one who still believes ultimately in textual intent and literary value, though I admit those matters need to be addressed with care and precision; a lot of current academic criticism reads like misdirected psychology and ponderous sociology, and reading some of the material excerpted form the Oxford, particularly the stuff on Larkin, is exasperating. So much contemporary criticism, when it's not obsessively fascinated by sex and sexuality, is more interested in minor intricacies of detail than it is in broader gestalts: it is, put another way, more interested in the incidental whelks than it is in the text's body proper, and the spirit within that body irrelevant. This makes the critics coroners and their analyses autopsical, and with the body dead there's little need to worry about the subject's well-being. It sounds like The Oxford is very much par for the course in current criticism. That's too bad, really too bad.

It Ain't Easy Being Greenean

      There's an interesting piece in La Scena Musicale noting the commonalities between Graham Greene and Isaac Beshivas Singer that's worth a read. Singer I have to confess I've not read, but Greene, well, let's just say I know Greene very well and that he's one of the few novelists I thoroughly enjoy reading; that Greene is almost never taught in undergraduate courses strikes me as an oversight that is at the very least unfortunate and the very worst distressing. A couple of years ago, I introduced a young lady I was seeing to Greene by giving her an edition of his short stories (among other books). When she started reading it, she kept having these excited, impressed reactions, and it was rewarding just watching her read them. So, yes, I have fiendish reasons for wanting to teach Greene. I kid, I kid, of course. I promise that enthusing young women has absolutely nothing to do with my desire to teach Greene. Not a thing. Nope. Not. At. All.

Husband, I Come

      The Big Man in Shakespeare studies, Stanley Wells, has a new book out that examines the rather blinkered and fetishistic tendency to asperse sexual dimensions to just about every whim and word of Shakespeare. Certainly sounds like it's worth reading, as this review from The Telegraph posits. Oh, we've become a gossipy, leering lot, haven't we, when every unattached male character is figured as a latent homosexual and Cleopatra's death is accompanied by a Freudian little death. It's sad reading a lot of contemporary Shakespeare criticism because it's not really criticism but licentiousness earnestly guised as scholarship.

You Don't Know Jack

      Heard that the NDP was on the rise in the polls, nearing their highest numbers since the days of Ed Broadbent's leadership? Well, Layton's chances just flew across the room like that piece of three-eyed fish Monty Burns couldn't swallow. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This should tell you what a Ph.D. from York is worth.

Farking Idiots

      Ladies and gentlemen, one of my recurring nightmares: idiots discussing Leonard Cohen. *shudder*

Bread and Serial

      I'm sure it'll be a blow-by-blow account, but I'm not sure if it's a good idea to disseminate his story, a little bit here and a little bit there.... I'm sure something in all this will catch your eye, though.

Dire Learning

      Finally, a university that doesn't make you satisfy those nasty general education requirements. Rumour has it this school will still be more difficult to get into than Carleton.

Evil. Uncomplicated Evil.

      It's hard to decide what's the most horrifying aspect of this story-- the gruesomeness of it or that the atrocities were perpetuated by family members. No, it's one basic thing: these were KIDS for G-d's sake. No punishment is fitting enough for what these walking abortions have done, but I'd nominate dropping these bastards buck-naked in the Parry Channel, their hands bound with pantyhose and their testicles tethered together with piano wire. They'd be lucky if hypothermia got them first. There's no room for sympathy with scum like this.

Spy Kids

      I wish for the life of me that I could make sense of this story, but, dammit, I got nothin'. Unbelievable.

Who's The Cute Little Planet?

      Coochie-coochie-coo. If you want to know how the birth happened, have a gander here.

Gettin' Hitched

      Leave it to Christopher Hitchens, vivisector of Mother Teresa, to come to the defence of Ahmad Chalabi. Kinda says it all, doesn't it?

Quote Of The Frickin' Day

What we're talking about now ... [is] a campaign promise made in the thick of the campaign. Let's wait to see the outcome of that campaign so we can better determine exactly what we're going to end up with.

      --- Dalton McGuinty rebuffing Paul Martin's promise of $9 billion more in health care funding

I shit you not. See here for further details. Oh, elections: the nights in which hypocrisy like jasmine blooms....

(And, pssst, Dalton, you left your preposition dangling there, you naughty little Premier you....)

Reader Participation Time

      In a rare decorous act, I'll let you insert your own joke here. Challenge: avoid the obvious. I'll just wait in the corner and behave myself for a change.

J'Accuse!

      For a bit there, it seemed the NDP was the party trying to play positive in this campaign. Well, so much for that idea. Layton's slam has to be one of the most directly damning accusations I've heard issued in a campaign in Canada. Ouch. At least he hasn't accused the PM of being a reptilian kitten-killer. Yet. Oh, sorry, that's a Liberal maneuver.

Body English

      One has to appreciate the irony of this clause from this article: "Obesity in Britain has grown by almost 400 percent in 25 years." Well, hmmm, ahhhh, well.... Oddly, no one seems to be blaming spotted dick. You'd think English cooking would, in fact, be the best defense against such a problem....

Hard News For The Day

      Gee, I never, ever, ever would have imagined this. I also would never, ever, ever have cared.

You Know It's Bad When....

      ... your new comedy can't even get picked up by ABC. Sad....

Wolf Blitzer Is There!

      Christie will appreciate this: CNN's incredibly up-to-the-minute reportage of truly breaking news. This blog wonders if Larry King will eventually have the exclusive interview in which the ghost of Julius Caesar finally "speaks out."

But How Did He Do In Art Class?

      This blog generally doesn't like linking to strictly-partisan political sites-- except, of course, in mockery-- but, for various reasons, I found this piece from Democratic Underground cute. Cute? Well, yeah. See for yourself if it elicits any memories.

The Night's Template

      Well, it looks like Blogger is finally fixing up some of its problems that developed in revamping itself a few weeks ago. It also means that such changes are causing some cosmetic "differences" (he says gnawing ever so mildly on his lower lip). I've been modifying the basic template trying to smooth things out as much as possible, but for at least a week or so, things are going to look a little kooky so please bear with me. I have a funny feeling I'm going to have a construct an entirely new template sooner or later, though that's a royal pain the glutimus maximus. I'm glad, however, that I've finally managed to get my old Blog editor to work again which-- to my unending frustration-- has been more or less out of commission for the past while. The clichéed long-and-the-short-of-it is this, that for the next week or so, it's going to be relatively obvious some of the differences in old ways of doing things compared to the new way of doing things. The only thing I can really do is batten down the hatches and answer as an old friend would: Arf. Arf.

A Man's Got To Know His Limitations....

      After writing a rather involved response to Mr. Mitchell on the issues raised in Stanley Fish's article about the role of the academy in developing moral character, it occurred to me to look for this classic article by the "Dirty Harry of literary theory," Frank Lentricchia, at a particular stage of personal recantation. It is, to my mind, a terrific piece, a snapping rejoinder to the crapolicity so abdundant (and indeed dominant) these days. Read It. Read It Twice. Read It Severally. And, damn it, pass it on.

      The great thing is that even those not particularly interested in literary studies should be able to read this article and have no trouble with it. I particularly like this bit, an exasperate response to the moralizing pretensiousness of so much current academic posturing:

I’ve never believed that writers had to be superior in anything, except writing. The fundamental, if only implied, message of much literary criticism is self-righteous, and it takes this form: “T.S. Eliot is a homophobe and I am not. Therefore, I am a better person than Eliot. Imitate me, not Eliot.” To which the proper response is: “But T.S. Eliot could really write, and you can’t. Tell us truly, is there no filth in your soul?”

Indeed. No wonder so many people outside of the academy think the lot of us a bunch of self-absorbed poseurs; so many, in fact, are. I'd like to hope I'm not one of them, and in fact think I'm not, if only because I believe I've still retained my generally amateur status, because, more than anything, I'm interested in good and great writing. And because I have lots of filth in my soul.

When The Herle-Burly's Done

      I really am trying not to drown everyone in Canadian politics right now (and failing, I know), but I have to ask this: Doesn't this claim from The Paul sound a little familiar, at least to my readers in the Big O? Gee, I wonder if it's just a coincidence. *Dr J begins tapping his chin slowly as he contemplates the possibility....*

Jumping Jack Splash

      Now that's what I call a busy little beaver. Damn....

Shades of John Osborne?

      "I'm not mentioned at all because my name is a dirty word," says Jimmy Porter in Look Back In Anger. Evidently, he didn't know the half of it.

"She Moves To The Music"

      Picture it, readers, if you dare. Three guesses what her favourite song is, and the first two don't count.

Oh, Come On....

      Alas, they forgot the old chestnut, "If I told you you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?"

      Actually, now that I think about it, I have never developed a chat-up line, or anything of the like. There's something all too crass about the whole schlemiel. Thankfully, I'm the guy that gets introduced by someone else, or to whom ladies (albeit not nearly as many as I would like) introduce themselves. Call it pride, vanity, what you will; call it ironic, too, that a chap whose primary concern is with words hasn't put together the right ones together to start up conversations. I guess some shynesses never quite go away, never quite recede. And this from a guy who humiliates himself ritually for his paycheque. Meh. *shrug*

The Sting?

      Can't say I quite know what to make of the substance of this article, but I have a question too preposterous to answer: what would an Iranian arrangement of Scott Joplin music sound like, anyway?

What's Hecuba To Them?

      Here's a disquieting sentence: "In fact, the Iliad has already cracked the Amazon.com top 100 book list at No. 86." (The source article can be found here.) This blog can only imagine the reactions of droves of teenagers who discover that Homer didn't have Bradman in mind for Achilles, and that eventually discard their volumes, fitfully screaming, "Nobody told me this was fuckin' poetry fer Crissake!" Perhaps not. But Lord help me if the phrase "Troyboy" enters into common currency. That would be the bloomin' pits: a banner year for cocks, uh-oh, tools.

      I know, I know. I'm a heel. Forgive me.

Doctor J's New High-Wire Act

      May is near its end, and it seems the world, or at least the one I approximately inhabit, has become the setting of the end of a Shakespearean comedy. Love is in the air and people are all atingle-- and those that aren't atingle are just getting married instead. Ah, love, that four-letter word most try to believe is not really a four-letter word. As hard as it may be for some of you to believe, I'm not being as cynical or as negative about all this as I might normally be. It is, however, a difficult situation. I'm not sure whether I'm more inclined to be Jaques from As You Like It or Don Pedro from Much Ado About Nothing. The easy answer is to behave like Don Pedro even if I cannot help thinking like Jaques. When everyone, it seems, is a-May-ing, it's probably best not to seem, let alone be, even a bit skeptical for fear of inadvertently tainting the joy of others with one's doubts. So, for the next while, I'm declaring a personal moritorium on my own romantic cynicism. That's right-- no "love is a scutcheon," no "yeah, we've all heard that before," no snide jokes about herpes being different than love because herpes lasts forever. I'm temporarily at least letting my higher self-- my more hopeful, encouraging self-- take control, and restraining my more captious or distrustful impulses. There's a time to be Don Pedro, smiling dimly in the offing with the hope things prove more sweet than bitter. So, best wishes to all those of you star-crossed, moonstruck lovers-- and even a few of you cross-eyed mooners. Here's to the possible. `Nuff said.

      In other matters, I'm frankly too damned indolent to do a real update on this blog, so here are some short takes on recent observations:

• Judi, Judi, Judi:   Dame Judi Dench is costarring in the new film with-- wait for it-- Vin Diesel. I don't know why I find this so hard to believe but I do. The rule in Hollywood is this, that if an action vehicle is in desparate need of credibility, hire a British actor or actress, otherwise known as "The Alec Guinness Rule" after Star Wars. This is not to be confused with "The Clash Of The Titans Rule," by which producers snag every British actor and actress they can find-- Clash nabbed Lord Laurence Olivier, Dame Maggie Smith, Dame Flora Robson, Claire Bloom-- in a bid for star-studded respectability, of which the latest examples are the Harry Potter films, drenched with Branaghs, Thompsons, Harrises, Rickmans, Gambons, Cleeses, and -- of course-- Maggie Smiths.
  
  
• Bayer, I Don't Even Know Her:   I really have to stop watching movies and TV, because I keep finding myself appreciating perhaps a bit too closely some of the, er, shall we say, virtues of certain actresses. Inexplicably watching bits and pieces of the Angel marathon, I couldn't help but notice the charm of Amy Acker, a charm probably amplified by the fact that she was stuck in a dog of a part. That, like Debra Messing, she resembles two aspirins on an ironing board is irrelevant: her facial features are very lovely, indeed. Yes, I know what you're thinking.... All I can say in my own defense is that I'm a sucker for beauty, and I'm given to appreciating it when I see it. Colour me (vaguely) human.
  
  
• And They're Off:   The election in Canada is now on. The entire country was heard to sigh, in rare unison, on Sunday afternoon, "Oh, here we go again." One good thing about Canada: at least our elections happen quickly. We have a month and change of this political bombardment. The American process of, basically, a year-long campaign is roughly akin to Chinese Water Torture. And at least there is no way the total cost of the election will approach the $1 billion -- yes, BILLION-- mark. Thank goodness for that.
  
  
• Clueless:   A report on the CBC yesterday polled a number of Canadians, and noted that a disturbingly low number of Canadians under the age of thirty-five could identify the Prime Minister of Canada. (If I could find the link to the poll I'd provide it here, but for the life of me I can't find it on the CBC website.) How bad are the numbers? Well over 30% of people in this age-range couldn't name the PM, if my memory serves. The national average on this question was in the 85% range. So, we have a generation of young people stunningly clueless (to say nothing of disaffected, and apparently encouraging of this disaffection). Said people are also the supposedly techno-savvy future. I understand the disaffection for politics, but not to know who the Prime Minister is?!?!? The movie Dumb and Dumberer comes to mind right now.

That's enough for now. If I'm going to be unremittingly positive in the next while, I'm going to have to take a few refresher-courses. Doctor J, positive?!?!? I'll do my best. Cheers.

---

Update On The High-Wire Act (circa 10pm)

      Oh, it is hard.... Received this baiting in my email, and you can only imagine how much I am wrestling the temptation to parse through its silliness, idiocy and general crapolicity (a phrase of my own making, thank you very much: feel free to use it):

1.There are at least two people in this world that you would die for.
2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.
3. The only reason anyone would ever hate you is because they want to be just like you.
4. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't like you.
5. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you before they go to sleep.
6. You mean the world to someone.
7. You are special and unique.
8. Someone that you don't even know exists, loves you.
9. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good comes from it.
10. When you think the world has turned its back on you, take a look around.
11. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget about the rude remarks.

So...If you are a loving friend, send this to everyone, including the one that sent it to you. If you get it back, then they really do love you.

NEVER HAVE REGRETS!!!! "FRIENDS ARE ANGELS WHO LIFT US TO OUR FEET WHEN OUR WINGS HAVE TROUBLE."

Oh, my poor, poor stomach.... This is gonna be tougher than I thought, like the agnostic nodding along to the Born-Again's declarations.... Restraint, control, optimism. I can do this. By the way, does anyone have any Maalox?

I was afraid of that.

Birthday Machinations Continue

      Not much of an update today, as I have to head off for a birthday to-do for my two cousins, twins separated by four years. (Both share the same birthday, both born of the same parents, but one is five and the other is just turning one.) There are entirely too many birthdays in May, which is all to suggestive of what way too many people were wont to do in September. I'm not sure I have the energy for today-- the elder of the cousins is the little guy most enamoured of using Doctor J as his private human jungle jim. Pray for me. I may end up in traction before the day is out.

      So, not much of an update, but I found this little tale amusing from Warren Kinsella's blog (which I copy here because WK doesn't have permalinks). If you can't figure out who Very, Very Senior Person is, just think who would most appreciate the "Making History" of yesterday....

May 23, 2004 - Okay, picture this. You're in the parking lot at Target in Niagara Falls, New York. Your wife and daughter are inside Target, of course, and you've got the boys in the van. Waiting.

A certain very, very senior former, um, Privy Councilor calls on your cell phone. The two of you are talking about the days' events, with relish, because it's an historic day. Sort of.

Anyway. Your four-year-old starts to shriek: “Daddy, I have to pee! I have to pee!”

Unable to leave two little boys in the van for a mad dash to Target's toilet, and unwilling to terminate the phone call with the Rather Important Former Politician, you opt for a middle course: continuing the conversation, you slide open the van door so that the four-year-old may relieve himself on the pavement. Illegal, perhaps, but necessity is the mother of invention, etc.

Things are going well. You are proud of yourself. Then you look across to the next row of cars - where two police cruisers are stopped. Then you look down.

Where a steady stream of little boy pee is soaking your right shoe.

This is a true Warren story. The names have been changed to protect the culpable.

Okay, it amused me, especially on a day like today.

Tender Mercis

      Caveats et al, this is a busy week for birthdays. Happiest of ones, by aliases only, to Kashenka, Ms Baenre, et always already Zelda. Zozo, especially: my putz-itude knows no bounds. Bless each of you, says the man without religion, for your respective insanities. Cheers. And again, happiest.

We Call It Insourcing

      Yeah, they look to see if the candidates have "the necessary experience." Nudge nudge. I wonder: are successful candidates granted a pink card? (Oh, hush. You should have seen that coming a mile away....)

Goodbye, Farewell, and Awwwh-Man....

      Based on the preliminary reviews I've seen of the finale of Angel (of which this one from The Toronto Star is pretty typical), it seems I'm in a lonely minority in thinking it rancid. So be it. It has occurred to me, though, that Joss Whedon has a very hard time letting go of his characters. I can't help but think that if Shakespeare followed the Whedon model, we'd spend three-and-a-half acts watching characters blather incessantly before finally launching into action (a lesson, I think, he learned after Hamlet). Worse, the confrontations would be tepid anticlimaxes with absolutely no dramatic resonance. Imagine, I don't know, Henry V going into battle with the French at Agincourt and suddenly turning into a one-lining superhero with moves ripped from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

      As is typical for a "serious" show's finale, a token character has, of course, be killed, in a pandering to pathos. With Whedon, though, that character's death is so obviously telegraphed as to be obvious; Andrew's conviction that Anya would survive Buffy's final melée marked her for death, just as much as Wesley's "I fully plan on surviving" speech marked him. (Aside: sympathies and kudos to Amy Acker who had the unenviable task of trying to play Marge Simpson as a demi-goddess.) Don't kill for convention, Joss; kill because your story demands it.

      Whedon can be a damned good writer when he wants to be, but when it comes to parting with his characters on a permanent basis, he dillies and he dallies and he undermines dramatic urgency; sometimes, it seems the only thing he omits is the "And I'll miss you most of all, Scarecrow"-speech that would cause a complete sugar overdose. That's the great danger of serial writing: the writers can become overly-attached to their characters. As a result, less-sentimental audience members can be rolling their hands, frustrated with the pace of premature elegy. More to the point, that hand-rolling is an indication to get on with things, a frustration with authorial self-indulgence.

      Endings are always hard. The best writers, though, know that they can't waste time fawning over their characters' qualities and they can't hedge their bets and dilute consequence. Shakespeare knew how to harrow his characters at the finish. Most writers, including even above-average ones like Whedon, chomp at the bit. My advice to all writers working toward a big-finish: stick to the facts, stick to the story, and don't be afraid to pull the trigger when the time comes. And, by all means, don't be predictable. Endings are strangely liberating in this way. The writer is no longer beholden to expectations of continuance, with all the chips, as they say, already on the table. My advice in such a circumstance is this: play rough, play hard, and go for the damned gusto. As for Angel: good riddance. And what the *hell* was with making all the demons look like Gary Larson creations? Well, then again, if it looks like a cartoon and it sounds like a cartoon....

Islands In The Stream

      And remember, gentlemen, be sure to show your sponsors the appreciation they deserve.

Is This A Gerund That I See Before Me?

      As Homer Simpson might say, "It's funny because it's true!"

The Need For A Uranium Parachute

      Note to Bush, Martin, Blair, Putin, and the Other World Leaders: Get off your duffs and make sure this man gets more than a mere thousand dollars. That such a man isn't heralded -- and thanked, and appropriately taken care of-- is the epitome of churlishness and ingratitude. Then again, if he hadn't done what he did, we might have been spared Brian Mulroney and American Idol.

SpongeBob LoserPants

      For all of you on the cusp of Graduation, this blog offers these words of wisdom from Dave Barry. Warning: there's not a tongue to be found in-cheek. Enjoy the kielbasa.

A Rigour Runs Through It

      RK emailed me this article from today's NY Times by Stanley Fish that I think should be read and reread by all of my colleagues in the academy. The article is effectively Fish's parting shot at the academy before he retires (although I expect he'll still write odd articles and perhaps a book or two once absent from the campus environment), and he seems to be joining distinguished company in railing against the polemical tendencies of the academy. I had thought of writing a response to Fish's article-- in part a justification of my own ways of thinking, in part a jeremiad against what I deem the silly and often staggeringly-blinkered pretensions of the current hegemony of ideology scouts-- but I think I'll just leave most of this be, and continue to be and to do what I do best, other than that, well, that thing that is absolutely none of your business. We lead best by example, which, in my case, is to demonstrate constantly my own commitment to my discipline and to my field of study; we lead best by demonstrating that the sincerity of our interest and our interrogation is its own reward, and that such sincerity breeds individuality of thought and with it fidelity of character and prudence in judgment. This can be put much more plainly: love what you do and let other people know it. The best teachers and the best thinkers don't worry about any answers except their own, and they worry less about their own answers than the processes of thought which go into the exploration and consideration. This is where, I think, the academy has gone fundamentally wrong. It speaks in platitudes rather than processes; it provides templates for thought rather than encouraging intellectual individuation; it niggles on questions of relativity that make the interrogative activity little more than an anticipation of a pending contradiction or qualification. I think my fundamental problem with the academy as it exists now-- once I get past any pet snobberies to which any of us are inclined at any given time-- is a fundamental insincerity of purpose. If I elaborate on this, I know I'll end up in a full-scale rant that will go on for several screens, so I'll leave that there. My central point, though, is this: the academy needs to remember that its primary concerns are with the development of knowledge (not just the mere dissemination of it) and the development of sincere and independent thinkers (for we need them for knowledge to develop at all in the future). These concerns, as I see it, are best addressed by demonstrating one's own commitment to both of these things, and to demonstrate (note the activity of that word, please) one's own capacity to develop knowledge and to nurture intellectual rigour.

      This can be all be rephrased in another way, in a manner more decidely populistic: the academy talks the talk more than it walks the walk. The best teachers are those that love what they do and what to share not just what they know, but what they do; they want to involve their students in their own discussions, and to involve themselves in the thoughts of their students. The best thing the academy can do-- must do-- is to remind everyone inside and out of it that is an institution commited to the act, the process, of study, that all of us are still students. This is necessary carnivalistic fact of which the academy must constantly remind itself. Sadly, however, the academy of late has taken to the reassertion of hierarchies bound to disconnect. Many act like generals, refusing to engage in the muddy details of elementary intellectual struggle. Most, however, act like indifferent proselytizers, instructing from the mount while dealing with their own questions as matters of aloof course. We don't need fact-dispensers or political ideologues or cultural poseurs in the academy, all of whom tend to work from scripts riddled with talking points and extradisciplinary agendae. No, we need people who care about what they study and what they do enough to encourage those that follow them to the same concerns and processes of pursuit. Or, back to that populistic tone again: the academy needs to do more than give fish away, or even teach its students how to fish; it needs to demonstrate why fishing is necessary and why it matters beyond whatever one hauls away at the end of the day.

      And, yes, now that I've written this, I'm sure all mysocial-scientific colleagues would accuse me of mystifying all this with obscurantist humanisms and naïve idealistic pap. Well, fine, whatever. Strange, though-- as deluded as Don Quixote may often be, he's capable of something his compatriots, Sancho excepted, are not: insight.

It Brings Tears To Your Eyes

      Does anyone remember when The Onion was funny? Nah, me neither. Sad, isn't it?

Pone Booth

      We report, you decide.

Rapping Hoff

      God help us all.

Superannuated Language

      Please, oh please, let William Safire read this, some-way, somehow.... Hilarious.

The Pause Before The Plunge

      New poll results are out, and the numbers look very bad for the Liberals indeed. According to the poll, the McGuinty budget in Ontario has done serious damage to federal Liberal prospects, and considering that Ontario was the cornerstone of a Liberal re-election bid, damage to the Ontario base could lead the Martinets into minority territory. As it is, the Martinets are looking like they're going go their asses whooped in British Columbia, Alberta, and Quebec. Ontario, Manitoba, and Saskatchewan are dicier propositions, with serious damage being done to Martinet fortunes by the Conservatives and the NDP. Only Atlantic Canada remains solidly pro-Martin. The national numbers are as follows: Liberals 39%; Conservatives 31%; NDP 17%; BQ 11%. Key losses in Quebec and Ontario-- combined with diminished chances in the West-- could knock the Liberals from majority to minority government, or even worse.

      So, what does this mean? Before the McGuinty budget came down in Ontario, it was almost a certainty that Martin was going to take the plunge and drop the election writ on Sunday. In short, Martin was atop the diving-board, just read to go. With these poll numbers, though, Martin must be looking off the edge of that board and thinking twice about how cold the water is down there-- and probably suffering a bit of vertigo while he's at it. Although I still suspect Martin's going to call the election on Sunday, I also wouldn't be surprised if Martin has second thoughts and waits on calling an election until at least the fall. We've effectively been in election mode now for about three months, and all the foundations are there for an election call. If Martin takes the plunge now, it's because he thinks he has to do so; if he doesn't, it'll be a stunning turnabout of cowardice, a tacit admission that he's just not ready. I don't think he'll pull back-- hell, I don't think he can without looking like the biggest doofus in Canadian political history. But right now, Martin seems to be standing on the edge of the board, wondering how he got in this position, and wondering if the water down there really is as cold as everyone says it is.

      In other words, the game has temporarily changed. We have two days of "chicken" before anything-- if anything-- moves out on to the hustings. Interesting. It may be time to dig out Steve Winwood's Arc of a Diver album.

The Allegations Continue

      We all knew there was more-- much, much more-- to come out vis à vis the Abu Ghraib story, but if this information from The Washington Post is even partially true, then matters are far worse than even the pessimists among us dared imagine. One accusation includes the rape of a teenaged boy which will be seen as capital-T Torture, and the Rumsfeld niggling about "abuse" as opposed "torture" will be irrelevant. Ironically enough, the Post has no problems describing in considerable detail the crimes alleged, but still feels the need to censor the word "Fuck" as in "Fuck you."

      It really is hard to believe that things could get much worse for the Americans -- at least in terms of international perception-- than they are now. And yet, something suggests there's even more, even worse, to come. It sends a chill down my spine.

The High Priest Returns

      From High Fidelity Review comes notice of -- and I'm pretty sure I'm the only person at this site celebrating the prospect, but it's my blog, after all -- an August release of Ray Charles Duets. Here's the info:

Performing on the upcoming Duets album with Ray Charles will be Norah Jones, BB King, Willie Nelson, Michael McDonald, Bonnie Raitt, Billy Joel, Natalie Cole, Diana Krall and Van Morrison. Some of the songs on the album will be Here We Go Again with Norah Jones, Sinner’s Prayer with BB King, Hey Girl with Michael McDonald, Do I Ever Cross Your Mind with Bonnie Raitt and It Was A Very Good Year with Willie Nelson.

Not sure what to think of this, as there's a peculiar mix of the good, the bad and the ugly here. The good: Norah, B.B., Bonnie, Van. The Bad: Michael McDonald, Billy Joel, Natalie Cole. The Ugly: Diana "Crawl On Your Knees" and maybe Willie who can either be wonderful or abysmal by turns. The Van track, apparently, is Van's old Moondance chestnut "Crazy Love," not a personal favourite of mine but I can imagine what these two might do with it. The album, coincidentally enough, is schedule for release on 31 August-- five days after Doctor J turns (oy very, very vey) 31, and on Van The Man's 59th birthday. The great Ray's birthday isn't until September 23rd, although there's much debate as to the accuracy of that date-- and even of Ray's birth-year-- though the tendency is to agree that he will 74 this year. Now that's what I call a legend: still pumpin' and touring in your seventies. I wonder how many of our current crop of "musicians" will be doing the same in their seventies. My point exactly. Besides, I don't think any of us would be particularly enthused about watching the gyrations of geriatric Aguileras and other-such gynecologically-obsessed ingénues-- or, just as bad, the Backstreet Boys Reunion Tour, the lot of them looking like the cast of Cocoon cooked on crack. Mind you, I'd take a perverse pleasure in seeing Andre 3000 turn into Scatman Crothers. No, no, I would never wish that on the Scatman.

Even If All Fall Away On Account Of You

      I find this website hilarious. Why? Because Jean Lapierre was one of the founding members of the Bloc Québecois in the Muldooney Days, and now suddenly he has Liberal religion? I'd say the counterfeiter begs forgiveness, but neither Lapierre nor Martin would ever be so contrite. Lapierre has also become the Chief Martinet in La Belle Province. Zut alors. "See the real face of the Bloc," the site tells us, eliding over history. Is there at least a Liberal Team Martin programme (of course, spelled in American fashion)? Natch! What does this site offer, though? The chance to have Lapierre's wisdom sent directly to you live by video-mail!!!!! Yippee!!!! I'm all aflutter and atingle. Scooby-dooby-Dieu, my life has meaning again. How could I ever have wandered-- lonely as a cloud-- from the light that is The Paul.

      The Peter believes in The Paul. His stint as a Separatiste is now oubliée, like those peculiar sexual escapades that get blamed on college experimentation. (Remember Basic Instinct, anyone?) I sit with bated breath for the triple renunciation-- and the crowing of the cock.

(I'll let you infer a two-syllable suffix to addend to the last word there. Hint: it rhymes with plucker.)

And Grew Immortal In Their Own Despites

      Always a little late with things, this blog only recently stumbled upon Rolling Stone's "The Immortals," which identifies what it claims to be the 50 Greatest Artists Of All Time. The nice touch is that most of the entries on the named artists are by other artists, many of whom reflect with surprising candour on their subjects. Van Morrison, for example, on Ray Charles is right on the money, and it's as much an example of self-explanation as it is appreciation of another (see also, by the way, Peter Wolf on Morrison). Check out the named artists and their discussants:

1) The Beatles by Elvis Costello 2) Bob Dylan by Robbie Robertson 3) Elvis Presley by Bono 4) The Rolling Stones By Steven Van Zandt 5) Chuck Berry by Joe Perry (oooh, that rhymes!) 6) Jimi Hendrix by John Mayer 7) James Brown by Rick Rubin 8) Little Richard by -- who else? -- Little Richard 9) Aretha Franklin by Jerry Wexler 10) Ray Charles by Van Morrison 11) Bob Marley by Wyclef Jean 12) The Beach Boys by Lindsey Buckingham 13) Buddy Holly by John Mellencamp 14) Led Zeppelin by David Grohl 15) Stevie Wonder by Elton John 16) Sam Cooke by Art Garfunkel 17) Muddy Watters by Billy Gibbons 18) Marvin Gaye by Smokey Robinson 19) The Velvet Underground by Julian Casablancas 20) Bo Diddley by Iggy Pop 21) Otis Redding by Steve Cropper 22) U2 by Chris Martin 23) Bruce Springsteen by Jackson Browne 24) Jerry Lee Lewis by Moby

25) Fats Domino by Dr. John 26) The Ramones by Lenny Kaye 27) Nirvana by Vernon Reid 28) Prince by Ahmir Thompson 29) The Who by Eddie Vedder 30) The Clash by The Edge 31) Johnny Cash by Kris Kristofferson 32) Smokey Robinson and the Miracles by Bob Seger 33) The Everly Brothers by Paul Simon 34) Neil Young by Flea 35) Michael Jackson by Antonio "LA" Reid 36) Madonna by Britney Spears 37) Roy Orbison by K.D. Lang 38) John Lennon by Lenny Kravitz 39) David Bowie by Lou Reed 40) Simon and Garfunkel by James Taylor 41) The Doors by Marilyn Manson 42) Van Morrison by Peter Wolf 43) Sly and the Family Stone by Don Was 44) Public Enemy by Adam Yauch 45) The Byrds by Tom Petty 46) Janis Joplin by Rosanne Cash 47) Patti Smith by Shirley Manson 48) Run-DMC by Chuck D 49) Elton John by Billy Joel 50) The Band by Lucinda Williams

Unfortunately, to get linked access to all of the pages, one has to go through a Google cache (and I'm frankly too bleedin' lazy to do all the linking myself) which can be found here. This blog does want to know, though, who in the hell thought it was a good idea to have Britney Spears "write." All in all, it's an interesting list, and it makes me wish I'd known sooner and bought the issue.

Florida: America's Useless Wang

      Four words: Oh fuck, not again....

Was It A Tearduct Malfunction?

      This just in: Justin's new album to feature a moody cover of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand." Silly teenage girls around the world commence sulking.

It's A Man's, Man's, Man's, Man's World, My Ass....

      Sometimes, it really sucks being The Key Master. Wennnnh!!!!

And G.P. Gets Left Out, Again....

      These pictures completely redefine the phrase "popping a wheelie."

"Turn It Off. Try To Relax. Breathe."

      This blog is committed to providing its readers with a truly educational experience, so for those of you who need this information, here you go. Key sentence: "If the vibrator has an external battery pack, remove the batteries." D'Oh!

Those Wacky Americans

      There's nothing like smiling and gloating over a dead body. This American humour, I'm sure, will be lost on the Muslim world. Sheesh.

You've Got Mail

      This has to be one of the most horrifying, utterly appalling, stories I've ever heard. My pity goes out to the woman in it. Unbelievable.

Hot Just Like An Oven....

      Pardon me while I chuckle and guffaw aloud ("aloud" in cyberspace: go figure) upon being directed to my ratings on RateMyProfessors. I hadn't checked it in a while-- not since a teaching meeting a while ago, which, while we waited for everyone to show up, the CD perused and brought up for us. Apparently it's been updated since I last saw it, and I have since been complimented far too generously. (If the person who made that last comment is reading this: thanks.) As anyone who teaches at a university knows, though, the most important rating, the one upon which we hinge each and every one of our pathetic, desperate souls, is the chili-pepper rating, for which I am currently 6 (six) for 9 (nine). Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.... My poor, sweet charges must be blind, or they're simply far too kind. But I thank them for their support.

      It's kinda interesting to look at such statistics, though. There seems to be a general consensus that I'm not easy (fair enough), but all but one of my assessors has given my full marks for helpfulness and clarity. I can live with that, too. So, I'm a clear, helpful hard-ass that is 66.66666666% hot. Oh, my sides hurt. I wonder if I can put such data on my C.V., you know, with the kind of advisory that dentists give to certain chewing gums. In the interim, I'll just chuckle in my own self-amused little corner of this madcap, silly little world, even if, by these standards, David Letterman and Harris Yulin must be paragons of steaming sexuality.

Sorry, Oedipus, We Don't Cover That Anymore

Far be it from this blog to say "I told ya so," but I told ya so. Premier McSquinty's government brought down this afternoon one of the most punishing budgets in recent memory this afternoon, and it's almost guaranteed to cause a degree of furor in the voting ranks. I hope, for example, you don't need physiotherapy or eye examinations, both of which have been delisted from OHIP coverage (unless, of course, you're a senior and now a member of the largest voting bloc of seniors in Canadian history). Smokers, drinkers, drivers, you're all getting hit *big time,* but so too is everyone earning more than $20,000 but less that $100,000 per year. Oh, and that promise to maintain a balanced budget vanished faster than a virgin at a keg party. Here's a basic summary of what's coming effective midnight tonight. This blog is not impressed, but then again it never expected it would be.       The provincial Libs campaigned on a bigger deficit than the Tories announced, and yet they made grandiose promises they should have known they couldn't sustain. And yet people voted for them. Go figure. Anyone with a brain in his or her head should have seen this coming long before the election happened last year. You see, this is what happens when you elect a government that promises sun, moon, and stars-- and whose leader frankly looks like he's stepped out of a Hitchcock motel. This does not look good, people, this does not look good at all, extra spending on health and education et al. Another fine kettle of fish, indeed. P.S. And, btw, it seems caviar is still tax-free. Go figure.

Why, Mr. Perkins....

Lenny, We Hardly Knew Ye

      Well, not sure if this is good news or bad news, but it certainly is the end of an era. Sorry, Zane....

The Shepherd And His TROC

      Is it just me (no, it's not) or are the Martinets invoking a double-standard by playing coy and positive in Québec while playing rough and negative in TROC (in political circles, the acronym for "The Rest Of Canada," otherwise known as "the rest of us that don't really deserve to be treated with intelligence")? This, by the way, is hot-on-the-heels of Martinet candidate Brian Tobin claiming on CTV's Question Period on Sunday that voters in Québec are the most sophisticated voters in the country. Ah.... After all, the PMS PM admits he needs Québec. So I guess it's time to do a little shameless toadying in the province in which the citizenry have a fundamental second choice which is currently leading in the polls. I can begin to describe to you the comfort I take in knowing that Marty and the Martinets think so highly of those of us in TROC. On Sunday, Tobin suggested that the Conservatives and the Bloc Québecois were practically in collusion with one another to break the Martin campaign, suggesting basically that a vote for he Conservatives was an indirect vote for the separatists in Québec, though none of the articles I've seen on the topic have quoted Tobin's exact words. (I wonder why that is....) Oh boy oh boy oh boy, this is nasty politics, though Tobin's very smooth demeanour kept it from looking as nasty as it actually was, and it really is a shame that someone of Tobin's charisma isn't working for a more noble cause-- or even a Liberal policy agenda of which to speak. Natch.

      So this is where we're going: not just demonizing the Conservatives (and to some extent the NDP, but certainly much less so), but playing off regions against one another, and intimating that any vote against the Liberals Martinets is a vote for separatism, whether by self-exclusion for voters within Québec, or a vote of exclusion of or indifference to Québec from anybody in TROC. Nice.... Haven't we seen this particular brand of nastiness before? Oh yeah, in the various Liberal nomination races. And, I hasten to note, in the "You're either with us or you're against us" doctrine peddled by the Bushies. You're either with Team Martin or you're against it, and the implication is that Team Martin represents The New Canada, the nation, now under Fearless Leader, on the cusp of its Golden Age. Sad thing is, I don't think I'm in the lease overreading into this. The Martinets have been speaking (ad infinitum) in the language of The Brand New Day, the Coming Of Paul who will lead us out of the desert. I wonder if Northrop Frye, were he still alive today, would describe Martin as a demonic parody of Moses. Maybe in his notebooks.

      By the way, all this talk about the Martin manipulations reminds me: The Stepford Wives is due for release soon, and, boy, check out the cast. Impressive.

Is This Ascension-Day?

      So much for Chartesianism.... Points to anyone that can name the source of this entry's headline. :-)

You May Almost Hear The Sweating Of His Fangs

      The pain of loss when they cancelled the show? I'm going to share. --- Joss Whedon

Promises, promises.... Apparently tomorrow's finale "kills off at least one major character and hinges on the betrayal of another." Just one character? Nuts. Please don't let it be Spike, not because I like him but because I don't think any of us could bear yet another unnecessary resurrection of him when Whedon eventually takes yet another kick at the undead can. But for those of you in impending mourning, might I invoke the Bard?

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
That like two spirits do suggest me still;
My better angel is a man right fair,
My worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.
To win me soon to hell, my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her fair pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend.
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell:
For being both to me, both to each friend.
I guess one angel in another's hell:
The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

--- The Passionate Pilgrim (Sonnet II)

I'll leave you few fans of the show to tangle out my implied ironies. As Byron wrote:

The angels all were singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and the moon,
Or curb a runaway young star or two.

--- The Vision of Judgment

Don't worry, Angel fans, I'll kindly leave Milton out of it. Consider that my present for your mourning.

Because It Was There, Eh?

      So much for that Rocky Mountain high....

A General Air Of Diffident Arrogance

      It's been coming down the pike now for almost four years, but it's finally arrived: the correspondence of the late Sir John Gielgud, and the qualities so regularly associated with Sir John are in abundance-- his lacerating wit, his emotional histrionics, his frequent obliviousness to codes of policy and kindness. The NY Times has a preliminary review here that's worth reading, particularly for a sampling of Sir John's proclivity toward bone-slicing assessment. And my kids think I'm tough.... They'd have beshatten their pants severally had they worked under a Gielgud.

Requiescat In Pace

In the classic words of Homer Simpson, "He called me a greenhorn. I called him Tony Randall. It was a thing we had."

Holy Spit

      Simply put, this is the best news I've had all day. Donald Sinden and Douglas Hurd, however, are reported to have fled to safer climes in Basra.

      (It's a shame it's taken so long: now, all the old acting knights they used to do so well are gone. Alas, better late than never....)

A Tax On All Your Houses!

      As Dalton McSquinty prepares to shiv us all tomorrow with big cuts and expanded taxes, it might be worth reading this article, an oldie but still relevant, on the idiocies of taxation. This blog fully expects caviar to remain untaxed. After all, every family needs its diet of caviar.

Chocophile Rock

      Finally, a way to keep women from using Toblerone bars.... no, no, no, I won't do that joke at all.... Yes, I will be rightly ashamed of myself. Again. Do I dare to query if there will be acne consequences? Or just merely other forms of dermatological, ahem, 'bumping'? Natch. Sorry. I'll just be quiet for now.... Do-ditty-doo.... *Dr J begins whistling ever so faintly into the distance* ^~~You must remember this, / a kiss is just a kiss / a sigh is just a ....^~~

How Does This Ghraib Ya?

      Sy (Seymour) Hersh-- the journalist famous for uncovering the ugly details behind the My Lai massacre all those decades ago-- has the second and third installments of his New Yorker probe on the Iraqi prisoner-abuse scandal, now dubbed by some as "Interro-Gate." (I have to admit, that's clever, and I wish I'd thought of it first. Dag-nabbit!) Hersh is one of those journalists whose record is relatively untarnished; he's generally regarded as being more credible than Bob Woodward, though nothing he's done has had quite the magnitude of the Watergate scandal, though the My Lai coverage very much changed much of the accepted notions of American involvement in Vietnam. It'll be interesting to see if Rummy can survive these volleys. For the first installment, click here.

^~~Chop That Wood, Carry Water....

      What's the sound of one hand clapping? Enlightenment, don't know what it is.... ^~~   You can measure the depth of my enrichment in droplets. Shaken, of course, not stirred. Pardon me while I go and do my impression of Pontius Pilate.

Savour It, People...

      Today's entry for The Dictionary For Ironists is "fear." See also the Greek word "peripeteia."

Show Us Your Virtue!

      This blog would just like to reaffirm its staunch commitment to meaningful research.

A Bad Case Of Lovin' You

      Do NOT read this without a barfbag nearby. Seriously. I mean it. At the very least, you'll never look at Cream of Wheat again in the same way. *shudder*

      (With "thanks" to Christie, who evidently wants me never to eat again; she also sent this link about a couple surely doomed to hate one another for years to come.)

Play Nice, Children...

Let me speak, let me spit out my bitterness....
            --- Joni Mitchell, "The Sire of Sorrow" (Job's Sad Song) from Turbulent Indigo (1994)

      Some of you, I'm sure, wonder why I possess so much vitriol for Paul Martin, and why the possibility of his being elected with a majority government appals me, especially because I proclaim to be (and generally think myself to be) apolitical. Well, as most of you know, there are a few things that always get my goat, among them blatant hypocrisy, pandering cynicism, phenomenal stupidity, self-indulgent acrimony, fundamental disloyalty and baldly-manipulative grandstanding. Martin and his martinets frankly sicken me for so many reasons, but not least of which is this: that while making pretentious overtures about democracy and unity, he can't -- won't-- even patch the wounds within his own party, most of his own creation in his rather neck-slitting drive to replace Mr. Chrètien, to organize and to lead. There's a disgusting, to say nothing of desperate, air of Maoism to Martin's leadership, a childishness (or is that churlishness?) more indicative of a sore-winner than a statesman. Yes, he's leader now, but what does this really mean? And what are the implications of the ways in which he's risen to office, and the ways he means to employ to return him there?

      I'll begin with this jaded assessment, that Martin's commitment to his own election is greater than his commitment to govern. I say this because bills supposedly important for Canadians will die on the order-paper because he feels the need to go to the polls now before anything else can go politically wrong (and, in part, to use the election to oust most of the remaining figures who were loyal to his predecessor). His importing of so-called "celebrity candidates" for the election, the latest of whom is former hockey player Ken Dryden, suddenly has, at least to this mind, more than an echo of the Maoist letting of a thousand blossoms bloom which, we all know now, was nothing more than a dangerous pretext for the consolidation of power. Martin, far from being the policy wonk that he used to be, is now a celebrity cliquist more interested in demonstrating who his friends are (including a cadre of former-separatists) than in dealing with issues directly and perspicaciously. He relies, it seems, on a cult of personality (and protestations of blind fealty to it) rather than legitimacy, and thus he seems to me a Bolingbroke finally come to power with little idea what now to do with that power. He has caused more rifts within his own party than he has mended; he made grand promises that he has waffled on or otherwise betrayed in a fashion that would make John Kerry seem absolutely decisive by comparison; he has chosen the political strategy of negative-attack for the coming election instead of the affirmative-assertion approach he promised for so long; in short, he has discovered, as Bolingbroke as Henry IV learned, that uneasy lies the head that wears the crown.

      There's another light in which to see this. Martin reminds me of all-too-much of the Robert Redford character in The Candidate: he's photogenic, a good speaker when he wants to be, and there's even an air to which he seems sincere in some of his posturings, but when it comes down to it, when he wins that for which he jostled so long, he's lost; as Redford's character asks Peter Boyle after winning the election, "So what do we do now?" Martin, like a child, has no idea what he wants to do now that he has what he most coveted, and the last thing he wants to do is to play nice with the other children in the neighbourhood. It's a simple question that no one has yet posed to Mr. Martin: how can you expect us to believe that you can govern Canada wisely when you can't even keep order within your own party? Similarly, how can he ask us for a mandate when his tack is not to offer a specific parliamentary agenda, but rather to participate in a process of political demonization? Further-- in another question that dodged Bolingbroke for the rest of his days-- how can we trust a leader whose method to accession was that of the conspirator (and which explains his insistence upon a "Team Martin" rather than a Liberal Party proper)? If he could pose answers to these questions, if he would at least define himself and his party according to a specific agenda (however wise or unwise), he might have a legitimate claim to election. But no, and his failure do these fundamental things, or to address these questions, makes him, in my eyes, the most insidious leader in recent memory. His protestations of integrity ring hollow; his calls for political vision are farcically ironic; and his promises of parliamentary competence are meaningless, especially given his spectacularly unimpressive appointments to cabinet. In sum, he's become the epitome of all those qualities that I cited at the beginning of this entry as decriable. This has little to do with politics proper: it has to do with hypocrisy, stupidity, cynicism, disloyalty, acrimony, and generally adolescent behaviour. It has to do with issues of character that have played out with astonishingly vapidity on a scale only satirists could fathom.

      This leads me to the question of me, and why I let myself rant like this, all the while aware that I'm probably pissing in the wind and annoying people with my own protestations on this subject. Why, after all, do I not let this slide by as I have with previous politicians? Why does Martin so get my goat? Part of it I'm sure has to do with my own principles, of which betrayal and hypocrisy are cardinal sins (and, like Dante, I reserve a special place in hell for such people). Another part of it, though, is the capacity for duping that I see at play in so many circles, as so many of my compatriots seem to settle into a decision of apathetic resignation that rubs abrasively against one of the last streaks of idealism that I possess. Another-- and perhaps the telling part-- is that when I look at Mr. Martin, I don't see a leader of inclusion and reconciliation, but a leader of exclusion and antagonism, a leader who manufactures consent in a way that Noam Chomsky never quite described. In Mr. Martin, I see a spoiled child who refuses utterly to play nicely with others. And perhaps that's what I despise most, and why I rant-- vent?-- here. History may finally (hopefully) prove me wrong on this, but I see in Mr. Martin qualities that not only appal me personally, but which seem to me ominous of even more insidious things to come. This too, I'm sure, needs some explanation. However much I may have agreed or disagreed with previous leaders, I've always been able to allay my own concerns that they ultimately believed that what they were doing was in the best interest of the country. Not so with Martin. Martin's desire to be Prime Minister wasn't (and isn't) his dangerous flaw. No, it's his vanity, and in the face of such vanity I can't bring myself to believe that he would do what was best for the country if it threatened his vanity. No wonder he so egregiously surrounds himself (and stuffs his party) with yes-men and acolytes. Vanity cannot brook dissent or indifference, let alone insolence, and it's this sort of vanity that rests behind the image of Nero fiddling while Rome burned. I don't think Martin will be another Nero, though perhaps he'll be a kindler, gentler version of the archetype. Instead, Martin's vanity has already declared his own vision of a country and a political system remade in his image.

      Frankly put, I listen to Martin and his sycophants and I hear hear little more than ten words, all from a song we all know too well: It's my party and I'll cry if I want to.... Well, yes it is, but pardon me if I don't celebrate. I'm too worried about those thousand blossoms blooming.