My doorbell rang the other day.
There was a slightly pudgy middle aged man on my porch. "I'm here to put up your sign," he said. A short, dumpy-looking woman next to him nodded.
"What sign?" I asked.
"Why, your Economic Action Plan sign, of course." He pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Sorry," he said, "they're new." The short woman nodded some more.
"Why do I need an Economic Action Plan sign?"
"We're putting them everywhere. Beside roads, on trees, in windows, on uninhabited islands. It's just your lawn's turn, that's all. It is Canada's Economic Action Plan after all. Your lawn is a part of Canada, isn't it?"
I assured him my lawn was not a socialist-separatist lawn, but I was doubtful that it had been getting any action.
The short woman handed him a blue cardigan. He put it on and began to explain patiently how Canada's Economic Action Plan worked. "So far we've installed 143,849,594 signs. That's created jobs for a lot of sign makers. And then there are all those working at newspapers and radio and TV stations, not to mention the advertising agencies. Yes, my friend, Canada's Economic Action Plan has put thousands of Canadians back to work." The dumpy little woman was nodding vigorously.
I began to feel patriotic. But while he was here, I thought I'd ask him a few questions. "I thought you were a big fan of law and order. How come you're at odds with the police over the long gun registry?"
"As soon as all the police chiefs have had French language training, I'm sure they'll see things our way."
I was impressed by his logic.
"Well, then, how about scrapping the mandatory long-form census? Won't that cost more and give us worthless information?"
"We already know everything we need to know." The nodding was now non-stop.
I had to admit, his argument was bulletproof.
"Right then, where do you want that sign?"
I told him where to put it.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
To Serve You Better
No question, we live in the golden age of b.s.
I remember when this first really hit home with me. It was some years back and we were staying in a high-rise hotel. Maybe you're like me and are old enough to remember when hotels had ice machines on every floor. Well, on this occasion, a card in the room announced that, to serve me better, ice machines were now located on the third, seventeenth, and twenty-ninth floors.
I've learned to dread those words "to serve you better". They're the modern equivalent of "duck and cover". You know a load is incoming; you're just not sure how big or which directions it's coming from.
It's not just "to serve you better". Companies also tell us our call is important to them. We know it isn't. If it were, they'd answer the darn phone.
And have you ever noticed that the ones with the worst customer service (insert name of phone company, bank, or airline here) waste bazillions on advertising telling us how great their service is? Why don't they spend some of that money on actually improving customer service instead?
Of course it isn't only companies. During elections, politicians shower us with promises we know they won't keep. Once elected, they do pretty much what they condemned the previous guys for doing when they were in office.
The common thread here is that we know we're being lied to. In fact, I'm sure that they know, we know. They just expect us to be good sports and play along. To believe our teeth will be whiter, our clothes brighter.
And that's what really riles me. It's not that I object to being fed a steady diet of b.s. (well, OK, I do). It's that I'm expected to smile and agree it tastes like chocolate pudding.
I was in a local grocery store a while back. You probably know the one; it's famous for its supply chain problems. In layman's terms: it never has the specials advertised in its weekly flyer. Anyway, hope springs eternal, and I went in looking for three items in the meat department. I didn't see any of them in the display cases, so I enquired of a friendly fellow behind the counter.
They did not have any of item A, he cheerfully informed me. Ditto for item B. Beginning to feel a little like John Cleese in a cheese shop, I asked about item C, with predictable results. His smile never wavered. "OK?" he chirped.
"OK?" I spluttered. "Why would it be OK? You haven't had a single item you advertised that I was looking for." I was beginning to work myself up into a fine state of Cleese-ness.
But then I saw his face fall and I felt bad. Like I'd told him his puppy was ugly.
So maybe it's better if we just play along. I mean, where's the harm? And it does seem to give them so much pleasure. Seems mean to spoil their fun.
I remember when this first really hit home with me. It was some years back and we were staying in a high-rise hotel. Maybe you're like me and are old enough to remember when hotels had ice machines on every floor. Well, on this occasion, a card in the room announced that, to serve me better, ice machines were now located on the third, seventeenth, and twenty-ninth floors.
I've learned to dread those words "to serve you better". They're the modern equivalent of "duck and cover". You know a load is incoming; you're just not sure how big or which directions it's coming from.
It's not just "to serve you better". Companies also tell us our call is important to them. We know it isn't. If it were, they'd answer the darn phone.
And have you ever noticed that the ones with the worst customer service (insert name of phone company, bank, or airline here) waste bazillions on advertising telling us how great their service is? Why don't they spend some of that money on actually improving customer service instead?
Of course it isn't only companies. During elections, politicians shower us with promises we know they won't keep. Once elected, they do pretty much what they condemned the previous guys for doing when they were in office.
The common thread here is that we know we're being lied to. In fact, I'm sure that they know, we know. They just expect us to be good sports and play along. To believe our teeth will be whiter, our clothes brighter.
And that's what really riles me. It's not that I object to being fed a steady diet of b.s. (well, OK, I do). It's that I'm expected to smile and agree it tastes like chocolate pudding.
I was in a local grocery store a while back. You probably know the one; it's famous for its supply chain problems. In layman's terms: it never has the specials advertised in its weekly flyer. Anyway, hope springs eternal, and I went in looking for three items in the meat department. I didn't see any of them in the display cases, so I enquired of a friendly fellow behind the counter.
They did not have any of item A, he cheerfully informed me. Ditto for item B. Beginning to feel a little like John Cleese in a cheese shop, I asked about item C, with predictable results. His smile never wavered. "OK?" he chirped.
"OK?" I spluttered. "Why would it be OK? You haven't had a single item you advertised that I was looking for." I was beginning to work myself up into a fine state of Cleese-ness.
But then I saw his face fall and I felt bad. Like I'd told him his puppy was ugly.
So maybe it's better if we just play along. I mean, where's the harm? And it does seem to give them so much pleasure. Seems mean to spoil their fun.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Let's Remember Who We Are
The first boatload of migrants was soon followed by others. They were fleeing hunger, oppression, and sectarian violence in their island homeland. Their religion, customs, and language were foreign, even repugnant, to many Canadians. Some among them had violently opposed the government in their native land. They carried disease.
I'm speaking, of course, of the Irish; but when thousands arrived at Québec in the late 1840's, Canadians took them in. The courage, generosity, and compassion required to do so became foundational in the Canadian national character.
Only ninety years later, to our everlasting shame, we forgot who were. When 907 Jews, fleeing Nazi persecution, approached our shores in the S.S. St. Louis, we turned them away. They were forced to return to Germany, where only a few would survive the war.
To our credit, we have done much better since. In 1956 we admitted 37,000 Hungarians fleeing Soviet repression. And when hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese took to the sea in leaky boats in the chaotic aftermath of war, Canadian families, church groups, and community organizations took in 60,000 of them.
Canada has one of the most generous refugee policies in the world. We should be proud of that. But it bothers some people. I'm not sure why the fear of being occasionally taken advantage of should be greater than the fear of being responsible for sending someone back to his or her native country to face persecution, imprisonment, or death.
Sri Lanka has just come through a twenty-six year long civil war. Atrocities and human rights abuses were committed on both sides. Canadians have been bombarded by wildly differing versions of who the good guys are and who the villains are. We are understandably confused.
I don't know if the Tamils are real refugees or not, part of a criminal or terrorist conspiracy or not, a danger to Canada or not. But there's a process in place to find out; let it work.
And it does work. When 600 Chinese economic migrants arrived on our shores in 1999 claiming refugee status, all but 24 were sent home.
Canada processed 34,000 refugee claims last year; that's nearly 700 per week. The arrival of 492 Tamils is not going to overwhelm the system.
So let's just tune out the overheated rhetoric coming from politicians who seem more anxious to take the spotlight off their own problems with the census, the police, and the veterans.
At a minimum, the Tamils deserve the benefit of the doubt and fair treatment under Canadian and international law.
But we can do better than that: we can treat these people with compassion. Let's remember who we are: let's act like Canadians.
I'm speaking, of course, of the Irish; but when thousands arrived at Québec in the late 1840's, Canadians took them in. The courage, generosity, and compassion required to do so became foundational in the Canadian national character.
Only ninety years later, to our everlasting shame, we forgot who were. When 907 Jews, fleeing Nazi persecution, approached our shores in the S.S. St. Louis, we turned them away. They were forced to return to Germany, where only a few would survive the war.
To our credit, we have done much better since. In 1956 we admitted 37,000 Hungarians fleeing Soviet repression. And when hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese took to the sea in leaky boats in the chaotic aftermath of war, Canadian families, church groups, and community organizations took in 60,000 of them.
Canada has one of the most generous refugee policies in the world. We should be proud of that. But it bothers some people. I'm not sure why the fear of being occasionally taken advantage of should be greater than the fear of being responsible for sending someone back to his or her native country to face persecution, imprisonment, or death.
Sri Lanka has just come through a twenty-six year long civil war. Atrocities and human rights abuses were committed on both sides. Canadians have been bombarded by wildly differing versions of who the good guys are and who the villains are. We are understandably confused.
I don't know if the Tamils are real refugees or not, part of a criminal or terrorist conspiracy or not, a danger to Canada or not. But there's a process in place to find out; let it work.
And it does work. When 600 Chinese economic migrants arrived on our shores in 1999 claiming refugee status, all but 24 were sent home.
Canada processed 34,000 refugee claims last year; that's nearly 700 per week. The arrival of 492 Tamils is not going to overwhelm the system.
So let's just tune out the overheated rhetoric coming from politicians who seem more anxious to take the spotlight off their own problems with the census, the police, and the veterans.
At a minimum, the Tamils deserve the benefit of the doubt and fair treatment under Canadian and international law.
But we can do better than that: we can treat these people with compassion. Let's remember who we are: let's act like Canadians.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Kurt Browning, My Hero
We've all done things we're not proud of. Things that make us cringe to recall them. Things our wives won't let us forget.
For me, a washing machine and cargo pants were involved. Twice. So were my cell phone and my passport. They should put warning labels on those things.
But Kurt Browning has shown he's in a different league from the rest of us mere mortals.
By now I'm sure you've heard how the former Canadian and world figure skating champion torched his Forest Hill home when he attempted to dry the seats of his Porsche convertible with a leaf blower. You read that right.
You want to laugh; I know you do. So go ahead.
Finished now? But before you consign Kurt to the ranks of this year's finalists for the Darwin Awards, and forever equate his name with klutz instead of lutz, consider for a minute the sheer manly awesomeness of what he attempted. No wimpy hairdryer for Kurt; he used a freakin' leaf blower!
Now, I have a leaf blower, an electric one, and I have to hold the trigger down, or it stops. A safety feature they call it, something dreamed up by women or lawyers, probably women lawyers. Did that stop Kurt? No siree!
And here we enter the realm of speculation, because, understandably, Kurt is reluctant to share the secrets of his seat-drying technique, but I'm betting he had to duct tape that trigger down. Woulda probably worked too, except (and you guys will relate to this) Kurt got distracted by some other things he had to do and left the leaf blower running and when he got back to check on how things were going, well, Porsche and garage were burning nicely.
Of course, and again I'm speculating here, it might have been a gas-powered leaf blower he was using. In which case I'd award him a 9.9 for awesomeness!
So while I suspect his wife is never again going to let him use the toaster unsupervised, and every man he meets for the rest of his life is going to slap his back and ask if his seat is dry, I also know that deep down we guys are going to harbour a sneaking admiration for Kurt Browning.
Because, in that Red Green, Possum Lodge world of the middle-aged male imagination, he is our Icarus.
Keep your picks on the ice, buddy.
For me, a washing machine and cargo pants were involved. Twice. So were my cell phone and my passport. They should put warning labels on those things.
But Kurt Browning has shown he's in a different league from the rest of us mere mortals.
By now I'm sure you've heard how the former Canadian and world figure skating champion torched his Forest Hill home when he attempted to dry the seats of his Porsche convertible with a leaf blower. You read that right.
You want to laugh; I know you do. So go ahead.
Finished now? But before you consign Kurt to the ranks of this year's finalists for the Darwin Awards, and forever equate his name with klutz instead of lutz, consider for a minute the sheer manly awesomeness of what he attempted. No wimpy hairdryer for Kurt; he used a freakin' leaf blower!
Now, I have a leaf blower, an electric one, and I have to hold the trigger down, or it stops. A safety feature they call it, something dreamed up by women or lawyers, probably women lawyers. Did that stop Kurt? No siree!
And here we enter the realm of speculation, because, understandably, Kurt is reluctant to share the secrets of his seat-drying technique, but I'm betting he had to duct tape that trigger down. Woulda probably worked too, except (and you guys will relate to this) Kurt got distracted by some other things he had to do and left the leaf blower running and when he got back to check on how things were going, well, Porsche and garage were burning nicely.
Of course, and again I'm speculating here, it might have been a gas-powered leaf blower he was using. In which case I'd award him a 9.9 for awesomeness!
So while I suspect his wife is never again going to let him use the toaster unsupervised, and every man he meets for the rest of his life is going to slap his back and ask if his seat is dry, I also know that deep down we guys are going to harbour a sneaking admiration for Kurt Browning.
Because, in that Red Green, Possum Lodge world of the middle-aged male imagination, he is our Icarus.
Keep your picks on the ice, buddy.
Just Peachy
It's late August and that means the peaches are here. Lots of them. I love peaches, so I always buy a basket, and then... Then most of them grow moldy sitting on the kitchen counter.
But this week I offer a two-fer, two easy ways to use up a lot of peaches.
Start with a dessert recipe: Peach Sorbet. We've had this one in the form of a yellowed newspaper clipping taped into a recipe binder for over twenty years. We'd forgotten it was there until last week. Then we rediscovered it and made it for company. I say "we" because my wife is the sorbet maker at our house.
Peel and pit 10 medium-sized peaches. I find peaches easier to peel if you pour boiling water over them in a large bowl. After about a minute, drain off the hot water. Slice around the circumference of the peach and the skin should slide right off. Cut the peaches into slices.
Bring 2 cups of water, 2 cups of sugar, and 2 ounces of freshly-squeezed lemon juice to a boil in a large pot. Add the peaches. Reduce heat, and poach about 10 minutes, until the peaches are soft.
If you have a hand blender, purée the peaches right in the pot. Otherwise, remove the peaches to a blender or food processor and purée. Return the puréed peaches to the syrup in the pot and mix thoroughly.
Pour into a large shallow pan, cover with plastic wrap, and freeze for about 12 hours. You could also pour into molds, or ice cube trays. Makes about 10-12 servings. Leftovers keep well, covered, in the freezer for a week.
When ready to serve, let soften a little on the counter and scoop, scrape, or cut into cubes. A scoop of vanilla ice cream is optional.
I mentioned this was a two-fer. You can also make a great cocktail from this: the Peach Daiquiri. To a blender, add 2 ounces of white rum, 1 ounce of freshly-squeezed lime juice, and about 6, 1-inch cubes of the peach sorbet. Blend for about 10 seconds and pour into a Margarita glass.
I have a wicked good Peaches 'n' Cream Pie recipe too. If you're interested, I'll share it next week.
But this week I offer a two-fer, two easy ways to use up a lot of peaches.
Start with a dessert recipe: Peach Sorbet. We've had this one in the form of a yellowed newspaper clipping taped into a recipe binder for over twenty years. We'd forgotten it was there until last week. Then we rediscovered it and made it for company. I say "we" because my wife is the sorbet maker at our house.
Peel and pit 10 medium-sized peaches. I find peaches easier to peel if you pour boiling water over them in a large bowl. After about a minute, drain off the hot water. Slice around the circumference of the peach and the skin should slide right off. Cut the peaches into slices.
Bring 2 cups of water, 2 cups of sugar, and 2 ounces of freshly-squeezed lemon juice to a boil in a large pot. Add the peaches. Reduce heat, and poach about 10 minutes, until the peaches are soft.
If you have a hand blender, purée the peaches right in the pot. Otherwise, remove the peaches to a blender or food processor and purée. Return the puréed peaches to the syrup in the pot and mix thoroughly.
Pour into a large shallow pan, cover with plastic wrap, and freeze for about 12 hours. You could also pour into molds, or ice cube trays. Makes about 10-12 servings. Leftovers keep well, covered, in the freezer for a week.
When ready to serve, let soften a little on the counter and scoop, scrape, or cut into cubes. A scoop of vanilla ice cream is optional.
I mentioned this was a two-fer. You can also make a great cocktail from this: the Peach Daiquiri. To a blender, add 2 ounces of white rum, 1 ounce of freshly-squeezed lime juice, and about 6, 1-inch cubes of the peach sorbet. Blend for about 10 seconds and pour into a Margarita glass.
I have a wicked good Peaches 'n' Cream Pie recipe too. If you're interested, I'll share it next week.
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