From the Crows Nest
by
Glenn Shadbolt
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Glenn Shadbolt on Smashwords
The Fisherman
Copyright © 2010 by Glenn Shadbolt
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free electronic book. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support, and enjoy the view…from the crow's nest.
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Taking the "Road less travelled by"
It's September, and the kids are back in school. Confession time. Mr. Kondra, your English 100 and 200 classes were never my favourites…too subjective and open to interpretation. No, I much preferred the unyielding logic and strictly defined parameters of Mr. Yaroway's mathematical world. The section of high school English that I least enjoyed had to be poetry - it more than anything exemplified that irksome subjectivity that I loathed. If your English class was (or is) anything like mine, you read a lot of poems by Robert Frost, including "The Road Not Taken." As a younger man, I recall thinking, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, the fork in the road is a metaphor for an important life choice, blah, blah, blah…I get it."
I had occasion to reflect on Frost's poem and the road less traveled by this summer while exploring some of Nova Scotia's coast with my brother Arne. On one of our last travel days together, we set out with the intention of going to Confederation Bridge, which my brother very much wanted to see. My brother hasn't been to Nova Scotia since '94 when Confederation Bridge was still at an early stage of construction.
We left in the morning with no specific plan, just a final destination in mind. Idle conversation in the car turned to the topic of the Fundy tides and the Minas Basin - I recalled a statistic from watching the tidal bore in Truro that 100 billion tons of water move in and out of the Minas Basin - a volume of water that would take all the worlds rivers to fill. The concept of that much water fascinated my dear sibling from the hot, bald prairie, and early in our journey we were confronted with two figurative roads diverging in a yellow wood - we could take the Cobequid toll highway and make a relatively straight shot to Confederation Bridge, or we could get off the beaten path and take the road less traveled by, skirting the Minas Basin while experiencing some local flavour.
We took the other route, through Five Islands, "as just as fair and having perhaps the better claim because it was grassy and wanted wear" and stopped at Bass River where the locals were bass fishing as the tide went out. Further down the road, we made a pit-stop at Economy for some of the best cheese you'll ever taste. At Five Islands, my brother continued his quest for Nova Scotia's best bowl of seafood chowder. Back on the road, we hit Spencer's Island where we learned more about the Mary Celeste, one of the worlds most famous "ghost ships." But the highlight of our trip was Cape d' Or. The Cape d' Or scenic look-off is off the main highway, about 5 or 6 kilometers of gravel road that climbs a fairly steep elevation. I doubt most tourists in an RV would even consider leaving the highway to check it out - and that’s their loss. As someone who has set foot in 9 of the 10 provinces, and two of the three Territories, I can tell you that Cape d' Or has some of the most breathtaking scenery you'll ever see. A short (but steep!) hike reveals a lighthouse that overlooks rocky cliffs, sandy shores, and wind-swept waves and whitecaps breaking off the shoreline. After exploring a bit, we went in to the lighthouse cafe for a quick bite. It was here that Arne finally found what he deemed to be Nova Scotia's finest bowl of seafood chowder - made by a guy from Regina, Saskatchewan!
With the shadows getting long, we made one last hurried push for Confederation Bridge, but at Amherst, we opted to take the main road home to New Glasgow instead and "kept the first for another day - yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted that we would ever come back." I never did get my brother to see Confederation Bridge, and I still regret that. My brother, for his part, wasn't too put out that we never made it to the bridge. I think my regret stems from my inherent curiosity, and regardless of how satisfying that shore drive was, I will still always long for the potential experience that had to be passed by to make that trip possible. Maybe I'm at a place in life where I more fully possess the requisite amount of age, wisdom, experience and grey hair to better appreciate and comprehend "The Road Not Taken." Each choice we make limits our range of future choices, and therefore determines the course our lives take. We freely make choices, but every subsequent option is at least partially determined by our past decisions and events. "The Road Not Taken" is so much more than a simple metaphor for choice - it is also an oblique commentary on the issue of free will vs. determinism and it affirms a belief in the possibility of choice(s). I know this - I'm glad we chose the shore drive, my brother and I wouldn't have missed that experience for anything - it is a memory that I will long cherish - Confederation Bridge, or not.
Perhaps you will be reading this, or my brother and
"I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."
At least, that’s how it looks to me…from the crow's nest.
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Company's Coming
In our rushed welcoming of summer, we turn our pasty white faces to the sky and wonder if winters really are shorter, or if global warming is really such a bad thing after all. We tend to forget the pests that herald the arrival of summer. We all complain about them, dread them, and yet begrudgingly accept & acknowledge them as the inevitable fallout of hot humid days and warm summer evenings. More persistent that black flies, whinier than a lone mosquito in a tent, and eating more than a rabbit in a garden of carrots, I'm talking about that most pesky of summer inhabitants... the houseguest.
We all get them - relatives living away that return home driving a minivan of nostalgia, or even worse, ill-tempered surly young nieces and nephews to whom you are related, and thus obligated to entertain. Long lost friends & casual acquaintances seem to coalesce and appear from thin air, arriving en masse like a God-sent plague of hungry locusts for some obscure homecoming event. Finally, there is that species specific to the East coast, the lobster groupie. The houseguest invariably arrives expecting things to be the same, expecting you to be the same, and marvels at the changes while lamenting the inevitable loss of landmarks and greenery ("Hey, what happened to the Cozy Corner?") With the arrival of the houseguest comes the interminable and steady barrage of domestic drudgery and routine. Ah, yes, the ceaseless chores that are the hallmark of the household filled with company: The endless towels to be hung and dried. Hang up towels, make breakfast, wait for stragglers, clean up mess, plan lunch, prepare lunch, serve lunch, clean up lunch, plan for supper, prepare supper, clean up supper, drink beverages, plan snack, serve snack, clean up snack, hang up towels, sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat…ad infinitum.
Granted, the above list of houseguest types tends to be the more frequently encountered "Hinterland Who's Who" type of generic houseguest, but, rest assured, there are several species and sub-species of houseguests. First among these is the Big Guy, who has a better house, boat, job, spouse, et cetera than you do. The Big Guy delights in modestly highlighting his achievements while simultaneously undermining yours ("Yes, well, this Porsche isn't nearly as fast as the one I drove when I lived in Italy…where I was Head of Extremely Complicated Medical Procedures.") Trust me when I say that the Big Guy's song is among the most annoying in the houseguest kingdom.
Next up is the guzzler, who cleans you out of beer/burgers/steaks and any other consumables you have in your larder. The guzzler's stay is generally short and he does not linger in one place for prolonged periods of time, as he tends to keep moving in a constant search for new food sources. The Guzzler's female counterpart is The Cleaner. The Cleaner will try and adorn your household in such as way as to best attract the attention of the male Guzzler. One common practice employed by The Cleaner is that of being helpful by cleaning your dirty oven, even as she slights you by reminding you that it needed cleaning in the first place. Don't worry, I'm not judging you - I know your oven was dirty as a result of all those unexpected houseguests you were forced to entertain…
When you have had enough of houseguests and decide to retreat to your summer dwelling in defeat, it is then that The Cottager arrives at your lakeside domicile and invades this, your last vestige of quiet, solitary solitude. The Cottager is a type of waterfowl, and they long for days and nights filled with boating, sailing, swimming and water-skiing. The Cottager arrives with its "delightful" youngsters - children who appear right at first blush to be surly recalcitrant malcontents hell-bent on destroying any slim chance you have of getting some peace and quiet.
However, as the summer days get shorter and the nights get cooler, the leaves slowly start to turn and the last of summer's houseguests drift back from whence they came. They leave us with the warmth and laughter that adds sparkle and zest to our lives, and they bring back memories that entrance us with the small quirks of personality that we loved in the beginning. We cry when they leave and we curse the societal and economic forces that whisk them far away. We extract promises to return, or make promises to visit; we fold up the towels, pack them a lunch for the road and return to our humdrum routine, feeling a bit relieved, intensely saddened and a little empty.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I hear the doorbell - it seems that I have some unexpected company…I'd better go find some fresh towels to put out.
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Take it Outside - A Tale of manliness
At the risk of angering the fraternal order of men, who may come and revoke my membership in the brotherhood, I am about to give you a quick peek behind the curtain of the Great & Powerful Oz that is manhood. There are certain seminal moments in every male’s life that mark his progression from boy into man. Turning sixteen, and getting your drivers license. Turning 19 and purchasing alcohol or going to the bar. Defending M'Lady's honour, if it is besmirched by some uncouth bounder or cad. Getting drunk off your ass and behaving badly - and having the tar beat out of you by someone more sober and better behaved is an object lesson in acceptable societal norms that is best learned by every man. Besting another man in a physical competition or confrontation. As a younger man in my twenties, I remember getting caught up in some drama or other, and I ended up on the losing end of a fight, with a bloody nose and black eye to show for my trouble. As a man, it was a moment of shame and embarrassment that resonates to this day. Some years later, when I found myself facing another physical confrontation, I recall thinking that this was stupid, we were both rational adults, not kids, and what did we hope to accomplish by resorting to physical violence. Events unfolded that inevitably and inexorably led to me fighting this individual – whom I promptly knocked out with one well-placed, roundhouse right-hand square on his chin. As a person and as a responsible, conscientious citizen of planet Earth, I’ll be the first to admit, it was not my finest hour. But as a man, as a MAN, that moment ranks as one of my proudest moments and most significant accomplishments. I recall walking away singing the verse from “Big John” that goes “…then a crushing blow from a hinged right-hand sent a Louisiana-man to the Promised Land, Big John, Big Johnnnnnn, Big Bad John…” These are but a few of the milestones every man crosses on his journey into adulthood.
As a man, there are also certain things that bring out very primal, elemental feelings. Making fire. The tangy, acrid smell that emanates from the smouldering ruins of a house that has burned to the ground, thereby enlarging your view of the mountains through your living room window. Building things. Smashing things. The God-like sense of power & control that comes from killing a creature smaller, cuter, more vulnerable and tastier than yourself. Charring dead animal flesh over the fire I made, and, lastly, the enlightened view that there is room in this World for all of God’s creatures – right next to the mashed and gravy.
Lately, as a man who stands on the threshold of 40 and “middle age”, I find myself longing for more time in the Great Outdoors. Perhaps it is because my inner-caveman knows that my days of hunting, gathering and fighting are for the most part, behind me, and I am nostalgic to recapture that feeling. Or, maybe this yearning to be outside is indicative of a desire to return to a younger, more carefree time when I equated being kept indoors with illness, punishment, chores, or dreary weather. Childhood mumps or chicken pox meant solitary, and indoor, confinement. Stepping across the boundary of good behaviour as a surly, angsty teenager who resided in a rather dark & voidy corner of the Universe earned me a two-week sentence to my room– with no TV, phone, or video game privileges. Sundays always seemed to be the sunniest, warmest days of the week while Sunday school, perversely it seems, was held inside some moldy, musty church basement. Grade school was an endless wait for either recess, lunch, the end of the school day, Friday, Spring Break or Summer Vacation. In high school, cutting classes to drink icy-cold beer purchased underage on a warm Prairie afternoon (and getting away with it) was a defining moment.
Nowadays, as adults, we exchange our daily outdoor freedoms for meagre pay-cheques earned inside oily machine shops, hermetically sealed call centers and dark, dingy warehouses. I’ve paid my dues inside, now it’s time to go outside…and build a new deck. To demolish the old deck. To create the new one from assorted piles of various-sized sticks. To make fire and have my fellow brothers gather round to cook charred dead animal flesh while they admire my manly accomplishments with suitable measures of awe, wonder and disbelief. To kick butt if my brothers get drunk off their asses. To celebrate manhood, power tools and, with my completed deck, a return to the outside, because as the warmer weather approaches, its time to start enjoying the Great Outdoors again – and as soon as you finish this article and step away from the computer, you can come and join me. I hope to see you there.
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Water, Water Everywhere - The Social & Economic Cost of Bottled Water
I’m filling up my car with regular unleaded when the guy at the next pump started grumbling about the price of gas since price regulation came into effect (100.7 cents/L at the time, a bit more now). I didn’t pay much attention to him, but I did watch and shake my head as he strolled over to a vending machine and promptly paid $1.75 for a 541 ml bottle of plain ol’ water. That price works out to be $3.23/L once you do the math – more than triple the price of a litre of regular, unleaded gasoline – yet this individual didn’t even flinch at the price.
Maybe it’s because of my upbringing on the drought-stricken Prairies that I place a high value on water, but I do find it ironic that someone would pay that price for a bottle of water when we live in a country that has the world’s largest freshwater reserves. I think it’s curious to pay $3.23/litre for what is very likely bottled municipal tap water, as there are almost no regulations in place for the bottled water industry.
This lack of regulation combined with a rising demand for bottled water is causing one of the most pressing (but least sexy & least publicized) concerns facing the Canadian environment - the unprecedented stress being placed on our aquifers. Aquifers are naturally filtered underground sources of water, and commercial bottlers of water are mining these water sources at a rate faster than the aquifers can naturally replenish themselves. Once an aquifer is drained, it can cause subterranean cave-ins that either alter (bad) or destroy (very bad) the underlying gravel layer (or substrate), damaging the aquifer and the resulting water supply.
Our growing preference for bottled water is leading to increased financial speculation in water and our membership in the North America Free Trade Act (NAFTA) is bringing us closer and closer to the privatization of our water supply as a “good” to be sold on the open market. Indeed, the former Premier of Newfoundland & Labrador, Mr. Roger Grimes, was almost duped into a deal supplying fresh water to the United States – a deal which would have set a dangerous precedent under the current terms of the NAFTA accord.
Lastly, is it socially repugnant and arrogant of us as a culture to treat such a precious commodity so cavalierly? When you consider the plight of some of the Third World countries and the complete lack of availability of this essential natural resource, we seem to be taking our water supplies for granted, and perhaps we should endeavour to be more grateful, always remembering that while others literally die of thirst, we quench at our leisure.
We can’t seem to do anything about the price of gas (unless you’ve developed a top-secret carburetor that separates hydrogen from water for fuel and you’re sitting on that technology – if you have, please call me) – but do yourself a favour and think twice about the true and total cost of that commercially-bottled, over-priced bottle of water before you purchase it. Your pocketbook and the environment will both thank you, and you might even be able to buy a few extra litres of petrol with the money you save.
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Who Will be The Next Great Canadian Curmudgeon?
My wife was talking with a friend recently and mentioned that I was writing for our local paper. To which her friend replied, "Oh, that’s perfect for Glenn - He's such a curmudgeon!" When my wife related her friend's comments to me (and after checking the definition), I have to admit, I was slightly offended. A curmudgeon, Webster's says, is "a crusty, miserly and ill-tempered old man." However, looking in a historical context that is quintessentially Canadian, is it true that curmudgeons are simply dour, Scrooge-like, Dickensian caricatures that spend their free time chasing neighborhood children with a stick, all the while cackling with glee? Perhaps they are, but maybe there's more to curmudgeons than Webster would have us believe.
Canada has a long history of curmudgeons and frankly, we tend to love them; - W.O. Mitchell, Stephen Leacock, Farley Mowat, Pierre Berton, Gordon Sinclair, and Peter Gzowski, to name a few. Curmudgeon-dom is not the sole domain of the published author, though - other curmudgeons include Stompin' Tom, Neil Young, Rick Mercer, Don Cherry, and Gordon Pinsent. John Diefenbaker was king of the curmudgeons followed closely by Robertson Davies. Ladies, take heart - you rate as some of the best and the brightest Canadian curmudgeons. Exemplars include Alice Munro, Mary Walsh, Vicki Gabareau and many more. There are newcomers on the scene, too, young up-and-comers who 'got game.' My money's on George Stromboulopolis to attain penultimate curmudgeon status by age 55.
A noteworthy list and pretty elite company, to be sure. But how do I define curmudgeon? To paraphrase Mark Twain, one of history's great curmudgeons, curmudgeons don't hate humanity, just humanity's absurdities. Beneath the surface, curmudgeons are just as sensitive and vulnerable as anyone. Curmudgeons are warm and keen observers of the human condition, and are endowed with astute perception and sly wit. This heightened awareness is the curmudgeons curse - their cynicism stems from an inability to compromise, accept the status quo and put on a happy face. The curmudgeon steadfastly refuses to cheer mediocrity, and will shout it down - cheerfully. The curmudgeon's viewpoint unsettles us, and though their sharp barbs are blunted with humour, we still tend to shoot the messenger. Armed with this new definition, I have therefore decided to embrace my inner curmudgeon, and examine how one attains 'curmudgeon-dom' and joins this august society.
The answer
seems simple. First, you need to glower - a lot - and at
everything. Grumble incessantly while watching the news or
reading the paper. Put your scowling in context with anecdotes
that start "When I was your age..." or "Kids today
don't know the value of..." Repeat these anecdotes often,
regardless of how often you've told them before.
Next, consider growing ridiculously bushy eyebrows. They're great for non-verbal expression and they accent the furrowed brow you've developed from scowling at the news. Also, grow a long, unkempt beard - it's a great device to stroke ponderously when you're waxing philosophical about the various ills that plague society, or just musing about how things used to be.
To develop the appropriate voice of the curmudgeon, think about cigarettes and whiskey. If you haven't started smoking, or have quit in the past, consider taking up the habit. Cigarettes and booze are excellent tools for developing that Leonard Cohen, gravel-y quality to your voice. With a gravel-y voice, people really take notice when you scowl at the news or complain about kids today.
Assuming you've been dutifully neglecting your personal grooming, and that you've taken to frowning at everything that exits the mouths of Lloyd Robertson and Peter Mansbridge, you're probably wondering - now what? You, my curmudgeonly friend, need a vehicle. Nope, not an automobile - I mean a way of getting your message to the masses, because, let's face it, if you're sitting around the house in your underwear with a three-foot beard and crazy eyebrows, editorializing to no one in particular, then you're just one step away from becoming a reclusive hermit living in a dirty wood shack, hard at work on your manifesto. Options to consider include radio, television, music or even politics. You might even join a local writer's group, community columnists group or blog supported by your local newspaper.
Now that you're a curmudgeon in the public eye, you may one day earn the distinction of being mentioned in print or on air as "quirky", especially if you've been diligent about growing out your facial hair. There are few greater tributes than for the curmudgeon to be labelled an eccentric, and this is a symbol that you've truly arrived on the curmudgeonly stage. Congratulations, you're now an independent thinking, creative iconoclast. You need to remember, though, that while the curmudgeon views life through a cynical and often skeptical lens, underneath the crusty exterior there is a strong sense of decency and honour. Enjoy the moment, but try to grimace just a little as you accept the accolades. To paraphrase those pesky kids today, "Fly your curmudgeon flag high!" Me, a curmudgeon? I should be so lucky...
"Glenn Shadbolt is an aspiring curmudgeon who's diligently growing out his eyebrows and perfecting his disapproving scowl."
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In Spring, A Young Man's Fancy Turns to Hockey
f I may paraphrase from Don Cherry's autobiography, "Grapes", I died on November 30, 2005 when the Bruins traded away superstar and elite-level power forward Joe Thornton to the San Jose Sharks for a bag of pucks and some sweaty socks. The first shot that left me mortally wounded occurred on March 6th 2000 when the Bruins traded superstar, perennial Norris Trophy candidate & all-star, franchise player and future hall-of-famer Raymond Bourque to the Colorado Avalanche for a bag of pucks and some sweaty socks. The Bourque trade stung, but November 30th 2005 is the date I officially revoked my long-time status as die-hard Bruins fanatic - a position I had proudly held since 1972. I haven't cheered for the Bruins since that fateful day, and I had adored and followed them religiously from childhood.
As a former Bruin's fan I have had to endure my own numerous outrages at ownership's lack of commitment to winning as well as "my" team's under-achieving, lack-lustre performance. The current ownership and hockey braintrust in Beantown seems to have adopted the model of team ownership popularized by former Maple Leafs (why-oh-why isn't it spelled Maple LEAVES?) owner Harold Ballard - that is, put the cheapest product on the ice as possible because these suckers are going to sell out the building regardless of how good (or bad) a team we put on the ice or how much admission we charge.
In years past, I looked forward to April and the beginning of spring - and with it, the inevitable arrival of the hockey playoffs, opening day for baseball (Go Blue Jays!), CFL football training camps, and the promise of the NBA basketball playoffs just around the corner (Go Raptors!). Truly, for the sports fan, this was (and for some, perhaps still is) the most wonderful time of the year. This year feels different to me, and perchance it's true what they say, that the only constant in life is change. This year, only two of the NHL's Original Six qualified for the post-season party, and it's hard to get excited about a playoff round-up that won't see Montreal, Chicago, Toronto or Boston ice a team to compete for Lord Stanley's mug. Toronto fans are still doing a post-mortem on the Leafs season after their playoff fate was determined by one of the new rule changes this season - the shoot-out format.
Recently, a friend and I were enjoying a few pops and making our respective playoff predictions - a yearly ritual of ours. (EAST: Buffalo; WEST: San Jose; CUP: San Jose over Buffalo in seven) After we had made our respective conference and Cup winner predictions, the conversation shifted to current affairs and the presence of Canadian troops in Khandahar. My friend was of the opinion that if you were opposed to the war, you were by default also against our Armed Forces. In stark contrast, I respectfully disagreed with my friend, and argued that it is possible to be 100% in support of our service men & women while disagreeing with the treaty obligations, foreign policy, economic reasons, or will of the political leadership that brought our Forces to Afghanistan. I have the utmost respect and gratitude for the men & women that serve our country, and I am grateful too for the sacrifice made by the family members of those who serve in the military.
Sometime during the course of that debate, my whole position as a hockey fan came to a sharp focus and I had an unexpected epiphany about my status as an ex-Bruins fan and as a fan of hockey in general. I discovered that while I dislike how Commissioner Bettman and the league executive have shaped the new face of hockey, I will continue to tune in as a dutiful and diligent Canadian hockey fan. Similarly, although I don't approve of many of the hockey decisions made recently by Boston Bruins ownership, I will proudly wear my colours and wave the banner as a born-again Bruins fan who is eagerly awaiting the season-opening game to the 2008 season. Maybe in hockey, as with other things in life, it's possible to cheer for the guys wearing the uniform even if you disagree with the decisions being made by those in power.
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Sovereignty, Amalgamation and the Ties that Bind
Invisible, imaginary lines. Our lives and identities are defined by invisible lines. One border defines me as a resident of New Glasgow and not Trenton. Another denotes me as a Nova Scotian. In a broader sense, if you were born north of the 49th parallel, you are defined as a Canadian.
There’s been a lot of discussion surrounding the topic of amalgamation and regardless of your views, it raises some interesting points. As residents of Pictou County, we share shopping facilities, roads, schools, language, government representation, friends and standards of living. We have so many commonalities that I wonder what distinguishes New Glasgow from Stellarton, or Trenton from Westville? Does moving across one of these invisible boundaries and relocating somehow change who I am or what I stand for?
Expanding on that concept, I have to confess that America and Canada have always fascinated me. We share one of the world’s longest undefended borders; we share language, the same continent, much of the same popular culture, and standards of living. We shared English colonial parents who raised our respective nations to adulthood. We have so much in common, but we are such different nations, and I wonder what it is that delineates Us so clearly from Them. Why are we such a scrawny, geeky, adolescent Robin to the bold, brash, well-muscled Batman of America?
I do not hate America. Let me get that right out there, so there are no misconceptions. Speaking in broad, sweeping generalizations, I am confused by American politics. I struggle with American arrogance and condescension in its foreign policy and am angry about America’s political vindictiveness when they do not get what they want, punishing Canadian soft-wood lumber, beef, and pulp & paper for Paul Martin’s failure to sign up for the Missile Defence initiative. I am frustrated with incessant American media coverage of everything O.J, Wacko-Jacko or Anna Nicole Smith and am astounded by the partisan political system which spins and distorts information to such an extent that the average American doesn’t know what or who to believe.
I am, however, extremely concerned that the current Republican government’s xenophobic foreign policy stance appears to include Canada. The US is currently engaged in a pattern of not recognizing that Canada is, in fact, a separate country. I don’t like the fact that Canada had to spend billions on leaky, obsolete submarines because the U.S. steadfastly refuses to recognize the sovereignty of our Arctic waters. Also concerning is the issue of Marc Emery, and the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency’s blatant disregard for Canadian law, Canadian borders and Canadian sovereignty. Mr. Emery is a native of British Columbia, someone dubbed by the US media as the “Prince of Pot.” Mr. Emery established a booming mail-order business selling high-quality marijuana seeds, mostly to an American clientele. Mr. Emery did not cultivate any marijuana plants for the purpose of trafficking, but he did admittedly provide the means by selling seeds (I by no means endorse Mr. Emery’s activities) – and that really angered the folks at the Drug Enforcement Agency (D.E.A.). In fact, the DEA were so mad, they threatened to cross our border and arrest Mr. Emery if Canadian authorities would not do so – despite the fact that the activities Mr. Emery was engaged in broke no Canadian law.
If you allow me to over-simplify matters, what did Marc Emery really do? He sold some agricultural seeds and mailed them across an invisible line – and for this the U.S. DEA wants to put Mr. Emery away for life. Forgive me, but it seems to me that the U.S. trying to convict Mr. Emery for drug trafficking is rather akin to arresting a Canadian farmer who supplies seed potatoes to a U.S. bootlegger who subsequently grows the potatoes to maturation and distills them into moonshine. This is less an issue about how casual marijuana use is perceived in our nations and more an issue about invisible lines and borders, and how the US yet again fails to recognize Canadian sovereignty and Canadian law.
Perhaps, as amalgamation talks progress, there are lessons to be learned from the occasionally tumultuous US/Canada relations. We need to respect individual & community differences and appreciate the diversity that makes our County and our Country great. Yes, the lines and borders that define us are invisible, abstract concepts, but that makes them no less real or meaningful. If you don’t believe me, just ask Mr. Emery. If you still don’t believe me, tell someone that Stellarton, New Glasgow, Westville and Trenton are all essentially the same town.
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An Anti-Smoking Campaign for the 21st Century
I recently turned 40, and to be perfectly honest, I had a hard time coming to grips with that concept. The biggest change I thought I should make as I entered ‘middle-age’ was to give up the cigarettes. I wish I could tell you I was quitting for all the right reasons – that it’s a dirty habit, that its probably the worst thing you can do to your body, that its socially unacceptable and its killing me and those around me – but the hard truth of the matter is, I can no longer justify paying twelve bucks and change for a pack of smokes.
Over the years, the government has tried various strategies and advertising campaigns designed to encourage people to quit. It seems to me that every attempt by the feds to turn smokers into social pariahs has failed miserably. Remember when the graphic images came out on the packs? My friends and I were not deterred, and we quickly turned the graphic labels into a game…cut them out, collect all five, and trade amongst your friends. My personal favourite of all the warning images was “Smoking reduces life expectancy” Because really, when you think about it, don’t we all expect just a little bit too much from life, anyway?
We all know that people have reasons why they smoke – stress, habit, peer pressure, addiction, whatever - the reasons are many and varied. Number one on the hit list is probably rebellion. Try rebelling without the ciggies – it just doesn’t have the same 'cred. Lets be honest, James Dean wouldn't be half as bad-ass in “Rebel Without A Cause” without the requisite smoke dangling from his lip, would he?
People also smoke to fit in, or to be cool. At parties and social gatherings, it gives people an instant conversation starter, “I am sooo addicted” or “I need a smoke so badly” or even “I haven’t had a smoke in x days, and its sheer hell.” For the Type-A, over-worked personality, smoking also makes for a fabulous crutch – “I am under way too much pressure and stress, I simply had to start smoking again.” As a bonus, voicing this sentiment aloud can actually give feelings of inadequacy to your colleagues who may also be feeling stressed, but obviously not as badly stressed as you - or else they too would be smoking.
A smoker is a person who garners a lot of attention, positive or negative. When you are dying at age 60 and coughing up blood, you'll be getting LOADS of attention from nurses, doctors, friends and family, etc - and deep down, isn't that what we all really want? Attention?
Well, you might ask, what is the government to do?? I’m glad you asked…It's quite simple really. We need a quit campaign for the 21st century. First, Canada should buy the tobacco companies outright. If necessary, we use the military – perhaps that could be the impetus to get the fighting men and women of our Armed Forces out of Afghanistan before 2011. We offer Big Tobacco 20 million, take it or leave it, or else we re-band the Airborne Division and see if they can’t come up with some clever and imaginative uses for all those cigar tubes.....
Second, the marketing rights to tobacco should be sold to companies loathed and despised by the "liberal left." Imagine driving up to the drive-thru at Rotten Ronnie's for a pack of 25 McSmokes, or buying a carton of Exxon Valdez Lights the next time you fill up your car at Esso. Heck, Starbucks could caffeinate the smokes, and we'd be able to cut the cup of coffee right out of the equation.
Next, the government should introduce policies & procedures that are employee-unfriendly. Set up production in 3rd world countries and hand out massive tax breaks. We should happily encourage child labour and adverse working conditions. Work those little tykes harder than Kathie Lee Gifford ever did, and pay ‘em in cigarettes. Make sweatshops the norm and have kickbacks paid directly to the dictator/despot in charge of the current regime. Just for good measure, cruel and needless experiments should be carried out on cute, furry animals.
Quite frankly, we should expect a backlash and some outrage. Hollywood, TV, radio, rock videos, award shows, environmental groups, and Heather Mills will all be drooling like mad dogs to make Public Service Announcements. The actors will brand the cause by wearing nicotine-yellow ribbons to show they care. The writers will write smart-ass articles in "SPIN" and shamelessly self-promote their blogs. Michael Moore will make an insightful but biased movie, and awards shows will hand out awards for raising "social awareness." The ensuing media storm will make smoking the social equivalent of wearing a bloody seal carcass down the red carpet while munching on rhino jerky.
Eventually, I envision a time when over-zealous anti-smoking activists will exert their "strong arm" tactics on those who dare exercise their freedom as smokers with brutal acts of senseless, smoking-related hate crimes. It's really a foregone conclusion - because, you see, the key to solving problems isn't done by raising awareness or through sensible, meaningful dialogue....It's done by manipulating the mass media and twisting the attitudes of the flock of mindless sheep to your will.
At least, that’s how it looks to me…from the crow’s nest.
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About the author:
Glenn is a
two-time runner-up of the annual "Short, fat, bald-headed guys 1
mile downhill run" and is training hard to win it all -despite a
recent doping scandal and allegations he is neither short nor bald...
Glenn is currently seeking a long-term employment position as
a on-call chauffeur for a young, nubile, nymphomaniac billionnaire
heiress so that he can spend more time on his writing
Before
briefly filling for Satan (during Lucifer's brief flirtation with
transcendental meditation...), Glenn ghost-wrote "The Da Vinci
Code" for Dan Brown, and discovered every element on the
periodic table...except Boron. In his spare time, Glenn enjoys
walking on the beach with his dog, and ruling Cyprus with an iron
fist.
Where to find Glenn online:
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/gshadbolt
The Sage's Page: http//glennshadbolt.wordpress.com/
Email your thoughts to me at first name underscore last name at hotmail dotcom