Why is it that you can't scroll through real estate listings for more than two minutes without running across that line?
It's everywhere! That's bare-knuckle capitalism at its finest, isn't it? OK, immigrant family just starting out with your piddly savings from your minimum wage jobs... here's a cosy little starter for you! All you have to do is beat out all those savvy "investors" and the place is yours!
May the highest bidder win!
I'd say that's a competition highly skewed in the favour of the investors, wouldn't you think?
Time to roll out your affordable housing policy, Mr. Trudeau.
And make sure it's about affordable housing, not affordable investment vehicles.
Sunday, November 5, 2017
Robert Mugabe reads this blog!
On 28th October I wrote about Zimbabwe being the only country in Africa without a US military presence, but not to worry - the National Endowment for Democracy are busy beavers there, so it's only a matter of time.
Six days later, Martha O'Donovan, an American working for a NED funded project in Zimbabwe, gets arrested for offending President Mugabe. Coincidence?
In its 2016 Annual Report NED reveals that amongst the million and a half dollars it sprinkled around the country that year was a $45,000 stipend to the Magamba Network, O'Donovan's employer, "to promote freedom of expression and pro-democracy activism by youth through the use of satire, citizen journalism, and creative new media platforms..."
That is so Uncle Sam, is it not?
How is it that the US government has money for the youth of Africa to promote all that good stuff, but not for the youth of Flint or Baltimore?
Anyway, Martha, the old coot is 93 and won't be around much longer. When he finally kicks the bucket all those pro-democracy activists that the NED and Open Society Institutes have been training for years will spring into action.
It might get a little messy.
It might require a few special ops guys on the ground to protect America's enduring interests.
But change is coming to Zimbabwe!
Flint and Baltimore will have to wait.
Six days later, Martha O'Donovan, an American working for a NED funded project in Zimbabwe, gets arrested for offending President Mugabe. Coincidence?
In its 2016 Annual Report NED reveals that amongst the million and a half dollars it sprinkled around the country that year was a $45,000 stipend to the Magamba Network, O'Donovan's employer, "to promote freedom of expression and pro-democracy activism by youth through the use of satire, citizen journalism, and creative new media platforms..."
That is so Uncle Sam, is it not?
How is it that the US government has money for the youth of Africa to promote all that good stuff, but not for the youth of Flint or Baltimore?
Anyway, Martha, the old coot is 93 and won't be around much longer. When he finally kicks the bucket all those pro-democracy activists that the NED and Open Society Institutes have been training for years will spring into action.
It might get a little messy.
It might require a few special ops guys on the ground to protect America's enduring interests.
But change is coming to Zimbabwe!
Flint and Baltimore will have to wait.
The convenient myopia of elite opinion-makers
It's Sunday once again, so The Sunday Star treats its readership to a recycled Friedman column from the New York Times circa Tuesday last; "Trump, Niger and Connecting the Dots." Much more "economically efficient" than producing original copy, I suppose. At least I'm not asked to pay $6.30 for it... yet.
So Friedman, certainly one of the most influential voices in English language media, wants us to know "just how foolish, how flat-out dumb President Donald J. Trump is. Trump is a person who doesn't connect dots - even when they're big fat polka dots."
Friedman furthermore wants us to know that unlike the imbecile Trump, he knows something about Niger. Take it away Thomas!
Connect those dots for us!
Which he does. He finds the climate change dots and the overpopulation dots and the poor governance dots and offers numerous asides about the ineptitude of the current President, all without ever mentioning the one humongous dot that arguably dwarfs all those others; Libya.
Those US special forces in Mali and Chad and Niger aren't there to fight climate change or desertification or overpopulation; they're there to fight "terrorists."
And why did these African states see a sudden rise in terror activities in 2012? Could it have anything to do with the US led destruction of the Libyan state in 2011?
That would be an exceptionally obese polka dot to leave out when one is purportedly connecting the dots in Niger, wouldn't you think?
Friedman knows this of course. The NATO assault on Libya and the murder of Gaddafi was a monstrously foolish and way-past-flat-out dumb decision. It unleashed forces that will destabilize the region for decades.
Unfortunately for the narrative Friedman is spinning, that White House decision was taken several years before Trump took up residence there.
Best to leave out stuff we can't pin on Trump!
So Friedman, certainly one of the most influential voices in English language media, wants us to know "just how foolish, how flat-out dumb President Donald J. Trump is. Trump is a person who doesn't connect dots - even when they're big fat polka dots."
Friedman furthermore wants us to know that unlike the imbecile Trump, he knows something about Niger. Take it away Thomas!
Connect those dots for us!
Which he does. He finds the climate change dots and the overpopulation dots and the poor governance dots and offers numerous asides about the ineptitude of the current President, all without ever mentioning the one humongous dot that arguably dwarfs all those others; Libya.
Those US special forces in Mali and Chad and Niger aren't there to fight climate change or desertification or overpopulation; they're there to fight "terrorists."
And why did these African states see a sudden rise in terror activities in 2012? Could it have anything to do with the US led destruction of the Libyan state in 2011?
That would be an exceptionally obese polka dot to leave out when one is purportedly connecting the dots in Niger, wouldn't you think?
Friedman knows this of course. The NATO assault on Libya and the murder of Gaddafi was a monstrously foolish and way-past-flat-out dumb decision. It unleashed forces that will destabilize the region for decades.
Unfortunately for the narrative Friedman is spinning, that White House decision was taken several years before Trump took up residence there.
Best to leave out stuff we can't pin on Trump!
Saturday, November 4, 2017
Immigrant parents
The Farm Manager was more than pleased to inform me the other day that the most junior of our Juniors was carrying a 92% average in his second year at U of T.
Hmm... 92%?
On some level, I gotta say I'm kinda proud.
On another level, I gotta say "so what happened to the other 8%?"
That's what the FM's parents would have said to her.
That's what my parents said to me.
That's what responsible immigrant parents, no matter where they're from, say to their children to this day. If you're the child of immigrant parents, I'm guessing you can vouch for that.
Message to immigrant parents; if your kid only gets a 70 or a 60, or, God forbid, flunks out altogether, don't worry about it.
It's fine. Everything is OK!
That's called "assimilation."
And there's nothing wrong with that.
Hmm... 92%?
On some level, I gotta say I'm kinda proud.
On another level, I gotta say "so what happened to the other 8%?"
That's what the FM's parents would have said to her.
That's what my parents said to me.
That's what responsible immigrant parents, no matter where they're from, say to their children to this day. If you're the child of immigrant parents, I'm guessing you can vouch for that.
Message to immigrant parents; if your kid only gets a 70 or a 60, or, God forbid, flunks out altogether, don't worry about it.
It's fine. Everything is OK!
That's called "assimilation."
And there's nothing wrong with that.
Friday, November 3, 2017
I was so dreadfully wrong about Donald J. Trump, and I'm so sorry...
Ran across this spot of brilliance in my travels this evening.
I was not even remotely acquainted with the word "dotard" at the time.
Thank-you, Kim Jong-un.
I was not even remotely acquainted with the word "dotard" at the time.
Thank-you, Kim Jong-un.
School bus shenanigans
I didn't have a plan for this blog when I fired it up six years ago, and some 5,000 posts later, I still don't.
At the back of my mind I figured maybe someday I'd do some editing and winnow things down a bit and maybe come out with a "Best of Falling Downs" e-book or something.
But editing and winnowing are way too much like work, whereas just slapping my latest insights into the human condition out into the world is rather enjoyable.
Which is why this blog is what it is. Critical analyses of US foreign policy interspersed with commentary about where my dogs shit and too-fond memories of "the good old days."
I have zero interest in editing those 5,000 posts.
But when I see which of those five thousand posts have been looked at on any given day, it can sometimes jog me into a trip down memory lane. That's what happened when it came to my attention that Wheel of Karma had a few page views recently.
Looking at that from my 2017 perspective, I'd say my school-pal Billy was guilty of molesting schoolgirls on the school bus.
At the time, it was all "boys will be boys."
Be that as it may, it got me to thinking about other goings-on on the school bus.
My friend Ev Dargie, who hails from Ripley, told me about how her school-bus driver would stop at the Ripley pub...
"Sit tight kids," he'd say, and they'd sit tight while he got tight. Never a problem. He could down three pints in the half hour the bus sat idling at the curb.
Then there were the hooligans on my bus who prided themselves on their ability to cover roadside hitch-hikers with spit as the bus drove by. I secretly wished the bus driver would stop for one of those dudes, just to find out how tough those spitters really were, but it never happened.
Bullying was a fact of life on the school bus. I got lots of that, at least till I grew big enough to kick the shit out of the bullies.
In grade nine, I'd get on the bus, and I'd hear "oh look, it's the Moose Jaw Kid!"
Guffaws all around.
By grade ten, I'd put on fifty pounds and grown six inches.
"Oh look, it's the Moose Jaw... "
Thwack thwack thwack...
Buddy had his nose flattened, was dribbling blood all over the place, and I got temporarily banned from the bus, but I was never again called "The Moose Jaw Kid."
By grade eleven I had my driver's license and a car, so it didn't matter. I was one of the cool dudes by then.
The best school bus story by far comes from my Ponsonby Public School days. That bus driver from Ev's childhood must have got a job there, because one night on the way home, the bus just slowed down and gently veered into the ditch.
The driver was sound asleep.
Or shit-faced drunk... take your pick.
No matter. One of the thirteen year old farm boys on that bus was able to manoeuvre it out of the ditch and finish the bus route.
That would be a front-page scandal were it to happen today.
Back then, you just did what you had to do.
Even if you were just a thirteen year old farm boy.
At the back of my mind I figured maybe someday I'd do some editing and winnow things down a bit and maybe come out with a "Best of Falling Downs" e-book or something.
But editing and winnowing are way too much like work, whereas just slapping my latest insights into the human condition out into the world is rather enjoyable.
Which is why this blog is what it is. Critical analyses of US foreign policy interspersed with commentary about where my dogs shit and too-fond memories of "the good old days."
I have zero interest in editing those 5,000 posts.
But when I see which of those five thousand posts have been looked at on any given day, it can sometimes jog me into a trip down memory lane. That's what happened when it came to my attention that Wheel of Karma had a few page views recently.
Looking at that from my 2017 perspective, I'd say my school-pal Billy was guilty of molesting schoolgirls on the school bus.
At the time, it was all "boys will be boys."
Be that as it may, it got me to thinking about other goings-on on the school bus.
My friend Ev Dargie, who hails from Ripley, told me about how her school-bus driver would stop at the Ripley pub...
"Sit tight kids," he'd say, and they'd sit tight while he got tight. Never a problem. He could down three pints in the half hour the bus sat idling at the curb.
Then there were the hooligans on my bus who prided themselves on their ability to cover roadside hitch-hikers with spit as the bus drove by. I secretly wished the bus driver would stop for one of those dudes, just to find out how tough those spitters really were, but it never happened.
Bullying was a fact of life on the school bus. I got lots of that, at least till I grew big enough to kick the shit out of the bullies.
In grade nine, I'd get on the bus, and I'd hear "oh look, it's the Moose Jaw Kid!"
Guffaws all around.
By grade ten, I'd put on fifty pounds and grown six inches.
"Oh look, it's the Moose Jaw... "
Thwack thwack thwack...
Buddy had his nose flattened, was dribbling blood all over the place, and I got temporarily banned from the bus, but I was never again called "The Moose Jaw Kid."
By grade eleven I had my driver's license and a car, so it didn't matter. I was one of the cool dudes by then.
The best school bus story by far comes from my Ponsonby Public School days. That bus driver from Ev's childhood must have got a job there, because one night on the way home, the bus just slowed down and gently veered into the ditch.
The driver was sound asleep.
Or shit-faced drunk... take your pick.
No matter. One of the thirteen year old farm boys on that bus was able to manoeuvre it out of the ditch and finish the bus route.
That would be a front-page scandal were it to happen today.
Back then, you just did what you had to do.
Even if you were just a thirteen year old farm boy.
Thursday, November 2, 2017
Another good guy gone too soon
Just sent a condolence message to Phil's family. Thinking about Phil took me back to the night we met.
It was late at night and my pal Dave and I had been having an evening of it in Fergus. What did that look like? It looked like young hooligans gone wild. Tossed out of every drinking establishment in town, bloodied but determinedly unbowed. The town cops were closing in.
Back in the day, having the town cops actually catch up with you didn't necessarily mean you'd be facing charges. It did mean you were most likely in for a good thrashing that was intended to give you the message that you should take your assholery over to Elora instead. Or maybe Guelph or Elmira.
It was all fun and games till my 340 Dart ran out of gas. Oh-oh!
What-ever are we gonna do? Stand beside the car and listen to the sirens get louder?
Dave had a plan. His brother-in-law worked the night shift at the Moore's printing plant just a few blocks away. He'd be good for gas money!
We borrowed a couple of children's bicycles from an open garage door a couple houses away and high-tailed it to Moore's, pedalling those wee bikes as hard as we could. I remember wheelying my CCM Mustang past the guardhouse at the plant gate. The resident security guard abandoned his post and took off after us in hot pursuit.
Phil was found. Although unaccustomed to being accosted by drunken hooligans halfway through his midnight shift, he obligingly opened his wallet and forked over enough cash to get us safely out of town.
Our paths crossed from time to time, most recently when me and the Farm Manager were seated with him at a wedding a couple of years ago. He was the same quiet, unassuming, and gentle soul I'd first met forty years before.
He'd had more than his share of hard luck and bad breaks, but there wasn't a hint of bitterness in the guy. That's worth at least as much as fame and fortune.
Godspeed, Phil. Sorry you had to leave us so soon.
It was late at night and my pal Dave and I had been having an evening of it in Fergus. What did that look like? It looked like young hooligans gone wild. Tossed out of every drinking establishment in town, bloodied but determinedly unbowed. The town cops were closing in.
Back in the day, having the town cops actually catch up with you didn't necessarily mean you'd be facing charges. It did mean you were most likely in for a good thrashing that was intended to give you the message that you should take your assholery over to Elora instead. Or maybe Guelph or Elmira.
It was all fun and games till my 340 Dart ran out of gas. Oh-oh!
What-ever are we gonna do? Stand beside the car and listen to the sirens get louder?
Dave had a plan. His brother-in-law worked the night shift at the Moore's printing plant just a few blocks away. He'd be good for gas money!
We borrowed a couple of children's bicycles from an open garage door a couple houses away and high-tailed it to Moore's, pedalling those wee bikes as hard as we could. I remember wheelying my CCM Mustang past the guardhouse at the plant gate. The resident security guard abandoned his post and took off after us in hot pursuit.
Phil was found. Although unaccustomed to being accosted by drunken hooligans halfway through his midnight shift, he obligingly opened his wallet and forked over enough cash to get us safely out of town.
Our paths crossed from time to time, most recently when me and the Farm Manager were seated with him at a wedding a couple of years ago. He was the same quiet, unassuming, and gentle soul I'd first met forty years before.
He'd had more than his share of hard luck and bad breaks, but there wasn't a hint of bitterness in the guy. That's worth at least as much as fame and fortune.
Godspeed, Phil. Sorry you had to leave us so soon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)