Israel and the wars to come

As the calendar rolls over, national media are hyping up anti-China, anti-Russia, and anti-Iran hysteria. 

We shouldn't roll over for the propaganda.

If you've been paying attention, you'll know that our mainstream media has been busy getting us to see the nations of the world as the Good Guys and the Bad Guys.

The Good Guys are the Anglo-American Empire, its colonies and camp followers. The EU. NATO. The Nations of Virtue and the Axis of Kindness. We are led by the Light unto the Nations, City on a Hill, the Greatest Democracy and Military and all the usual claptrap ad infinitum.

The Bad Guys are those nations who have notions of freedom from US dominance.

And, led by Xi and Putin, the Bad Guys have been getting way too uppity. They've been making demands and threats all over the place.

Uncle Sam needs to put his foot down, and soon!

Which brings us to Israel, a charter member of the Nations of Virtue.

As everyone knows, Israel has outsize influence in the corridors of power throughout the Anglo-American empire. Israel is by far the biggest recipient of US "foreign aid," which aid generally comes in the form of bombs and bullets.

At the same time, Israel also has cosy relations with two out of three members of the Troika of Tyranny, as the erstwhile warmonger John Bolton has framed it.

When the current cold war with Russia turns hot, it will be interesting to see what US allies do. The recent NATO add-ons in Eastern Europe will be howling for US/NATO involvement, as will the Western world's legacy media.

With the exception of Boris' UK, there isn't a lot of enthusiasm for escalation in the original NATO bloc.

Open warfare with Russia will split NATO. When that war goes south for the Good Guys, the second tier allies like Canada and Australia will melt away.

The fascinating question is, what will Israel do?

As much as the Israelis would like to see Iran obliterated, Israel is up a stump. There have been way too many retired IDF brass speculating in public how many rockets and missiles Iran's regional allies have for Israel to consider an attack on Iran, and Iran has various bilateral mutual support agreements with Russia and China.

When push comes to shove, and American hubris and over-reach leads to the end of the American Empire, I don't think the Israelis will be pitching in for the losing side.

Canada keen to follow USA over the cliff

There has been a very long debate among political scientists and such as to how much information a democratic government can keep from its electorate and still be considered democratic. The self anointed leader of the democratic world operates on the assumption that virtually anything the government does is none of the public’s business. 

That’s why Assange must die.

Ironically, that was also the approach taken by another Joe, Stalin.

Joseph Stalin famously proclaimed that power is exercised by those who govern, not by those who elect.

Although we have adopted Stalin’s interpretation of democratic governance, the leaders of the Nations of Virtue are very concerned about the current leadership in Russia, which has become unacceptably authoritarian.

We have therefore followed a long-term plan to topple that government and install one that is more democratic. This long-term plan has by now brought the Axis of Kindness to the very borders of Russia.

The national newspaper of record today featured an op-ed by three veterans of think tanks sponsored by military contractors. The topic was government secrecy. They believe in Stalin too. Government secrecy is sacrosanct.

Any weakening would put Canada at a severe disadvantage. Our most important intelligence relationship - with the United States, would be gravely undermined by any loss of confidence in the government’s ability to safeguard its sensitive information.

That’s the default position across all legacy media in Canada; we absolutely MUST loyally follow Uncle Sam’s dictats. That’s the reason we need to commit to hundreds of billions in military spending. We gotta stand with our allies when Putin gets too big for his authoritarian britches.

We're the good guys, after all.

It's a shame the opinion pages are so cluttered with writers shilling for the US armaments industry. 

Comfort and joy and pet therapy

Are you the kind of pet owner who gets your cat or dog a Christmas present?

I don't. I figure the scraps from Christmas dinner will be present enough. Not that we would ever do that.

But I'm sitting here in front of the fire, laptop on my lap, of all places, and old Doublewide is purring away right beside me. I'm running my fingers through her thinning fur, and she's enjoying it.

So am I. 

We're obviously enjoying one another's company.

Doublewide has been with us for approximately 8-11 years. We're not exactly sure.

You see, Doublewide arrived at a time when we had a deluge of stray cats congregating in our barn. We were new to Falling Downs, and a friend in town had a cat that just kept having kittens. Instead of advising her to research some possible methods of kitten prevention, we took 'em in.

Well, it's a farm in the country... the coyotes took it from there.

Doublewide well knows what it means to be a survivor.

Bella made my day

Bella lives a kilometre down the side-road where I take my daily walk. 

Back in the day, as I walked by her house with the dog-pack, she would often join us. Bella was a mid-size girl, with collie looks but shepherd markings. She always reminded me of Husso, the first dog I remember having as a kid.

The old pack is long gone by now. Instead, we have Bruno. 

When he's in the mood, I take the mastiff. When he's not in the mood, I don't. And he made a very bad first impression on Bella. I wouldn't quite call it attempted murder, but close.

So today, Bruno opted to stay home with mom, and Bella, for the first time in many months, came out and joined me down to the end of the side-road.

She's definitely getting old. She'll often come out to say hello, but usually turns back after a few hundred feet or so.

Which made today special.

Thanks, Bella!

A fresh start

Turns out the folks next door moved last week, and left their dogs behind.

That would explain why their aggression has been ramping up, to the point where by yesterday, they were standing in front of the house barking, for hours on end. Poor Bruno was afraid to go out for a crap.

We’ve watched the long-term disintegration of the folks next door, so their moving does not come as a surprise. But it pains me to see those beautiful German shepherds suffering because their owners made poor life choices, and there’s no way around it; fentanyl is always a poor life choice.

So yesterday we started making phone calls. We soon discovered it’s not as simple as looking up “dog-catcher” in the phone book.

I called the township. They’ve contracted their dog-catching out to a local shelter. They won’t come and catch the dog, but if you catch it, they’ll come pick it up.

Angry, frightened, and hungry shepherds rushing me with their fangs bared?

No thanks!

I called the OPP. At least they were well acquainted with the neighbours. Alas, they got way more on their plate than barking dogs, but an officer was thoughtful enough to call back a couple times to see if they were still barking.

Late last night, after many hours of barking, I put out a dish of kibble for them. I know that’s not a great strategy for getting rid of hungry dogs, but at least it let them settle down for a few hours.

By 4 a.m. they were ready for breakfast, and the barking started up again. The Farm Manager got on the phone and made another half dozen calls before noon.

Early this afternoon I happened to be standing at the window and witnessed their apprehension.

A white 4 door Jeep drove slowly through the slush and came to a stop. The dogs were already on the road, tails wagging. The driver’s door opened and a hand reached out to pet the dogs. They haven’t barked since the guy stopped. He gets out and puts a leash on one of them and guides it into the back of the Jeep. The other dog follows.

This dude is a serious dog whisperer!

I would have thought these dogs had a bleak future, but after witnessing this interaction I felt hopeful. Get them in a shelter, clean them up and feed them properly, and for the right owner, they would make affable canine companions.

Which is a much better outcome than getting shot!

I’m hoping they get a new start. They’ve earned it.

You know things are bad when the pot-addled hillbilly calls the cops on the neighbours

Because they're fucked up on drugs!

I don't call cops, period.

But I did tonight.

Those poor animals next door have been barking in front of my house for hours. I don't feel particularly threatened, but the big boy only got out for a pee when the shepherds went to bark in front of the neighbour on the other side for ten minutes.

But they're back now.

Constable Priestley, if I got his name right, told me he had got in touch with the neighbour, and while the neighbour wasn't home, someone would come by to coral the dogs.

That was two hours ago, and the dogs are still barking outside my house. 

Who the fuck isn't home while their dogs are out roaming the 'hood?

That does not compute in my world.

But I don't blame the dogs.

In fact, just moments ago, the Farm Manager opined that perhaps we should invite them in the house and feed them.

To which I rejoindered, don't be retarded.

I think the douche-bag next door has moved on and left his dogs behind.

PS.  Almost midnight; after writing the above I put out a bowl of kibble for them. Ya... that'll keep 'em away from the place!

Guns, dogs, and the addicts next door

The addicts next door let their dogs out for days at a time. I assume those are days when the dog owners are off on a dope jag.

Their dogs are a beautiful pair of shepherds, and it's not their fault that their owners are drug-addled assholes.

Nevertheless, after a couple of days of the non-stop barking they do in front of my house, I'm mightily inclined to just get it over with and shoot them.

That's well within my rights according to the country living code of conduct.

At the same time, buddy next door has way more firepower than me. I've got the Cooey .22 single shot I bought at Canadian Tire, back when you could buy guns at Canadian Tire.

The addict next door has the "Don't tread on me" gun rights banner draped over his stoop.

I'm not about to fuck with whatever that might mean.

About that blockbuster bestseller you're not supposed to read

Here’s a great interview with the author, a guy with a famous last name.

That book is apparently the number one bestseller across the USA these days, but if you get all your news from CBC, odds are you’ve never heard of it.

The book has been out for about a month. Here’s what baffles me.

The author utterly destroys the reputation of a guy who has been made into a secular idol by legacy media.

So where are the law suits?

-------

I look in on Jimmy Dore from time to time. Apparently he was an actual B-list actor/comedian before covid, but frankly, I'd never heard of him till he started the current show out of his garage.

He's a little over the top at times, but it's one of the few places us old-school lefties feel at home. I'm a Tommy Douglas and pro-union kinda guy and always was, but I don't seem to have a lot of common ground with what's "left" today.

With respect to the pandemic, I was shocked at how many of my friends made "trust the drug companies" their default position.

What?

Really?

Since when?

Where the coyotes sing Christmas carols

I stepped out on the stoop for a breath of fresh air a few minutes ago, and the hills were alive with the sound of music.

Indeed, the coyote choir was in full throat, and they were belting out Good King Wenceslas, or so it sounded like to me. At the chorus the dogs up the hill, the German shepherds next door, and even Bruno joined in!

Take that, pandemic!

We're not going to let a virus ruin Christmas!

Not again!

We've been bent, but we're not broken after two years of fighting the virus.

And just to prove it, I'm heading back out to sing a few more Christmas carols with the coyotes.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

The beer shortage

I knew that would get your attention.

I've been a beer-drinker since my mid-teens. I used to like the heavier stuff, especially the saftig European brands. 

After a few decades of enjoying full-bodied beer, I realize one day that it had been at least ten years since I had last seen my dick whilst in the shower. 

I was fat!

That's when I realized drastic measures were required.

Time to cut back on those random trips through Mickey Dee's drive-through. Now that I do two Big Macs a year instead of two a week, I appreciate a Big Mac much more.

There's way more home-cooking with fresh local ingredients in my diet these days.

I also had to get serious about exercise. I'm not a go-to-the-gym kinda guy. Way too much spandex. So my walk-in-the-woods became my religion. I've been worshipping for about 30 kilometres a week for quite a few years, and almost always with one or more canine companions.

And then there was the beer. I had to ditch the heavy beer.

I settled on what is perhaps one of the blandest brews on the market; Busch Light. But only in the tall cans. It doesn't feel the same in bottles or the wee cans. Sure, that's a come-down for the taste-buds, but at long last, I can see my genitals again.

So here's where my healthy lifestyle gets run over by the current supply-chain crisis; there's been a shortage of Busch Light tallboys!

I've been using the shortage as an excuse. Instead of coming home with the usual, I've been coming home with a six-pack of Lowenbrau, which, at two bucks a pop, is probably the best deal on the market right now, and has allegedly been brewed from the same recipe for over 700 years!

Fat City beckons...

All dressed up and... oops! Here's another lockdown!

Thought we might get the family Christmas party going this year. It's been a family tradition to get together Christmas eve. 

Covid put the kibosh on that last year, but this time around, we figured we were good to go. Plans were made. 

Arrangements were arranged. 

Whoo-hoo!!!

We'll party double hard to make up for last year! Slip an extra mickey into the festive punch and see what happens! 

Oh Ya!

And then...

Omicron!

Oh well... maybe next year.

The sky is always falling somewhere

For the last two years they've done a pretty good job of scaring the shit out of everybody, at least in what is known as the "developed world."

Everybody I know sits around talking about covid and vaccines and whether they should go to the family Christmas party.

That's a First World problem.

Do you think the people in the slums of Lagos or Mumbai or Gaza City are sitting around worried about that?

Oh, they might have some concerns about Christmas dinner all right, but I'm pretty sure those are not covid concerns.

Probably more concerned about starvation or a rocket coming through the roof.

We are herded from one great fear to the next. 

This week it's Omicron, at least in places where they don't have bigger fish to fry.

Which is a revealing metaphor. If you follow this kind of stuff, you'll know declining fish stocks represent an existential threat to communities from the great inland lakes of Africa to the North Sea to the South Pacific and beyond.

Fortunately for us, the pharmaceutical industry gives us plenty of options to deal with the anxieties of life in this age of pandemic.

First World problems deserve First World solutions.

Whether it's a deadly pandemic or a deadly depression, Big Pharma's got your back!

Hope stirs as days grow longer

Another winter solstice in the tank. The days grow longer from here on in.

I find that a hopeful thing. 

Not that you see much reason for hope when you look around...

But that's not true either. It depends on where you are when you look around.

If you're looking around from your perch in an urban homeless encampment, ya, probably not much reason for hope.

When you follow the news, which I do to a clinically pathological extent, it's easy to think there's no hope in the world whatsoever. 

Putin's on the brink of starting a nuclear war over Ukraine.

China's on the brink of annexing Taiwan, and possibly Australia.

And while all those existential threats are threatening you, you're also being existentially threatened by a certain deadly virus that's gosh-darn sure to terminate your existence pronto if you don't get booster shot 17...

That's a shit-load of existential threats, and I understand why it weighs heavily on everyone, and why one-time sensible people line up for booster dose 22 of the safe and effective vaccine.

Then again, when I turn off the screen and look around me, I realize I'm not living on the street, not homeless, not hungry, not existentially threatened in any way whatsoever.

That's because I'm a country bumpkin who lives among farmers. There's food growing all over the place in these parts.

There's also a deer season. And a local fishing industry. Let's not forget the wild leeks and the fiddle-heads. Crisp and delicious apples, one of nature's most perfect foods, fall in the ditch and rot by the ton on the country roads around here.

Maybe that makes it easier to be hopeful.

When the woke warriors of the new US Army carry the Pride Flag into battle against Putin's hordes...

Hilarity is guaranteed to ensue!

First off, the traditional bugle call to action, which dates back to the earliest days of the US Cavalry, is going to have to be updated.

As it stands, it's got way too much structure. It sounds the same every time a competent trumpet player sounds it, and I suspect the notes have been written down somewhere.

Structure is the enemy of inclusion, and note-reading, even more than alphabet reading, is a tool of the oppressor.

Nope, we need more of a free jazz battle call, one that's gonna be fresh and surprising every time. One that is open to buglers of varied abilities. One that embraces, rather than excludes.

Secondly, if the Rooskies don't die laughing at that, we'll hit them with our Inalienable Pronoun Protocol. Even when the commies want to surrender, we won't let them till they sign off. No point in fighting for freedom and democracy and human rights if we don't get them to sign off on the Pronoun Protocol.

Finally, when the oppressed gays throughout the Russian Empire rise up in support of our triumphant invasion, we will install them as our occupation authority throughout that long-suffering land. We'll put in a Paul Bremer, (or even the Paul Bremer if he's gone gay) in our Provisional Rainbow Governing Authority of our Russian Territories.

Our conquest of Russia will be Gay Liberation like you've never seen it before!

On the other hand, if it doesn't work out, maybe the Americans will finally go home, leave the world at peace, and get their own house in order.

Whatever happened to Lackie Brothers?

I served time at the Lackie Brothers shop in Kitchener back in the day.

We were in the International Brotherhood of Iron-workers, Shopmen's Division.

That "Shopmen's Division" was often referred to as the "n-word Division," although at the time, folks actually said the word.

Not that there were any people of colour in the shop, but we considered ourselves n-words because we got about half the hourly rate of the glamour guys who went out on the high steel.

Lackie Brothers was a going concern, and they had big contracts moving machinery into the Bruce Nuclear complex near Tiverton. They did all kinds of millwrighting work and machinery moving. It was actually not a bad gig.

They had a few old Germans on the shop floor. These were guys who learned the trade in the old country. They also learned subservience to authority in the old country. I saw an old dude in tears because he'd asked for time off to attend his grand-daughter's birthday party, and was told no.

Anybody brought up here wouldn't even think about asking permission. You'd just call in sick.

The shop steward was an affable dude. He had a cream job building the heavy-haul floats that Lackie Brothers built in-house. He'd be hours with the rose-bud on those I-beams trying to get the right arc into them. At the time, that was more art than science, and you could pretty much fandangle the process out indefinitely. So Buddy the union boss wrote his own overtime ticket and made out like a bandit.

Which probably made him less than enthusiastic when I came whining about an outside guy working in the shop.

They needed some columns for a project ASAP, and sent a Ironworker from the job site to get the job done. I'm welding the connector plates to one end, and the outside guy is welding them to the other end.

The "Shopmens Local" Ironworker is welding his end of the column for $12/hr.

The regular Ironworker at the other end of the column is doing the same job for $20/hr.

Anyway, it was a decent gig. But they seem to be gone...

Whatever happened to Lackie Brothers?

Adopting Bruno

We had, with great sadness, put down our faithful 16-yr-old Boomer around Thanksgiving last year.

For the first time in many years we were completely unencumbered by dogs.

That felt liberating for about a half hour. Then we just missed Boomer. We knew we'd need another best friend.

The Farm Manager was dialled into a website where they show you dogs available for adoption all over North America. Every other day she'd demand I come and view a new candidate on her screen. Sure, all of them had attributes, but what do you really know about a dog in Texas or Colorado?

Then one day, that website features a dog at the rescue place, R&R, which is like a two minute drive down the road!

Right away you know this is gonna be different.

The dog is a Neapolitan mastiff. The FM had a mastiff before, and loves the big dogs. Needless to say, we had to have a look right away.

We get there and we're in the yard, and they let the big boy out. The big boy rears up on his hind legs to lick the FM's face... and he towers over her when he does that.

She flattens the dog with a ju-jitsu move I had no idea was in her. I figure, well, she just guaranteed we'd never get this dog. Beating up the dog you want to adopt would seem to disqualify you, to my way of thinking.

But I was wrong.

Demonstrating that you can control a dog that's bigger than you is an asset, not a liability.

And that's how Bruno joined our family.

 

The future of beef farming

When I was in my early teens, I spent a couple summers working for the farmer across the way. He made his livelihood via 150 acres and a cow-calf operation of roughly 30 cow-calf pairs.

I remember he got a "Century Farm" plaque in '67. That was an attempt to honour the pioneers who settled this land we stole from the Indians, to mark Canada's centenary. Anyway, his modest beef operation generated enough income that he had a summer place up on Colpoys Bay.

Imagine that; a farmer with a holiday cottage. 

That was a fun job for me. I was barely 14 years old and I got to drive tractors, a combine, and the farm truck.

My summer job included dinner with the farmer and his two spinster sisters. After dinner, the boss would take a nap, which gave me a certain amount of licence in my field activities.

Like trying to get the speedometer on the farm truck to touch 100mph on my foray to the back corn field. I never got it to 100, but I passed 80 on a couple of occasions. 

130 kilometres an hour in a cornfield when you're 14 years old really opens your eyes to life's possibilities...

Fast forward (and in hindsight, it was way too fast) half a century.

This neck of the woods is known for beef farming. That's probably due to the fact the soil is often too boulder-strewn to be viable for cash cropping, thanks to the glaciers dropping random boulders all over the place 10,000 years ago.

But it makes good grazing land.

Beef operations around here are old-school. The cows and their babies walk around in the sunshine, eating grass. Yes, they're being farmed as eventual protein, but in the meantime, they've got a good life.

Problem is, for that kind of farming, you're pretty much limited to a dozen or so cow-calf pairs per hundred acres. When you sell off the calves at 1000 pounds and deduct the $400 it cost to keep the cow over the year, you're left with a profit of roughly $600, or $7,200 for your 100 acres.

Any random 100 acre farm around here typically sells for over a million now. Obviously, nobody spends a million to get a return of seven grand. It's not farmers buying the farms anymore.

Like my boss fifty years ago, beef farmers are in beef farming only because they inherited the farm. Once this generation dies off, it'll be the end of grass-fed beef in Canada.

Unless the folks who raise those animals humanely get a much bigger slice of the retail price. The farmer gets two bucks a pound for something that turns into $12/lb at the meat counter at Foodland. Failing that, you're doomed to feedlot beef going forward. 

And that's where the guilty pleasure of beef becomes all guilt, no pleasure.

More COVID hysteria

Check out this headline, on view at CBC right now; Ontario reports 3,301 new COVID cases on Saturday highest 1 day total since early May.

Highest daily case count since early May?

OH MY GOD!!!

Quick, shut er down again OR WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!

Oddly enough, those climbing case counts coincide perfectly with rising test numbers. For the past three days, Ontario has processed over 50,000 tests per day. We haven’t done over 50,000 tests per day since… early May!

What an amazing coincidence!

The addicts next door

The dogs will be out for 36 hours straight.

Then we won't see the dogs for three days.

Sounds about right for a decent dope jag.

Tonight they got the car stuck in the driveway again. That happens a lot. Those bald all-season radials don't do well in the winter.

We marvel at how it's possible to keep getting your car stuck in the driveway, but then again, these are folks who haven't figured out how to cut their lawn the last two summers.

And I hate being a judgemental prick. After all, I've had my moments too.

But there comes a time when you just have to let things take their course.

Commander Ford rallies Team Ontario one last time and girds his loins for battle

And for sure it's the last time. Doug said so himself. 

"Roll up your sleeves for one last booster," he said. 

Ya, right!

We're two years into this shit-show. Surely he doesn't imagine "one last time" has any effect other than inducing maniacal laughter throughout the ranks of Team Ontario?

This is of course fallout from the dreaded Omnicon variant, first officially discovered in South Africa two weeks ago. Our media have told us hundreds of times in these past two weeks that this variant is hyper contagious. 

What they haven't been repeating hundreds of times is that the same lab that found the virus also told us, two weeks ago, that it appears to be significantly less deadly. 

So we're staring into the maw of a highly contagious virus that doesn't make anybody particularly sick.

Sound a lot like the common cold to me.

Flying beagles at the dog park

Weather permitting, I've been taking Bruno to the dog park for a spell every day. He's figuring out how to be a dog, after spending the first year of his life mostly in a crate.

He's made a pack of friends. There's Dexter the golden doodle. Buster the miniature terrier. Cooper and Lilly. And a couple of beagles, Tilley and Grover.

The beagles aren't a quarter of Bruno's size, and they are super fast. They delight in getting the big boy to chase them, and then deke him out at the last second. When he gets his 120 pounds to full speed, he's not very agile in the corners. This can lead to ass-over-teakettle tumbles.

After about fifteen minutes of non-stop romping, he'd had enough. He flopped, exhausted, on his side.

Whereupon Grover flopped right in front of him, nose to nose, pawing his snout, goading him into another run.

Meanwhile, Tilley circles wide, comes at them full tilt, and launches over the both of them. She must have caught a good four feet of air and cleared the two of them with room to spare.

I briefly owned a beagle, Nellie. She too was a rescue. She was a loyal and faithful dog... until it caught a scent. Then she was gone. We rented a cabin one year up on the French River. She disappeared the first day. 

We put up signs and asked around. She'd found her way to Port Loring, a good fifty miles away, where she spent a couple of days in the cab of a high-hoe, whose operator had found her at the boat launch near our cabin.

From there she found her way to an island resort. We were at the dock when a load of folks from Ohio disembarked. She'd been the toast of the resort for the past three days. They had re-christened her "Peaches."

So I was well acquainted with Beagle wiles. But I had never seen one fly until today.

Assange is the ultimate litmus test

It's a done deal across all media in the Nations of Virtue, that Julian Assange is a bad dude.

His crime?

Exposing the war crimes of the "Exceptional Nation," that "City on a Hill" so determined to spread her democratic values all over the world, regardless of how many Muslim prisoners they had to sodomize in 

Abu Ghraib.

But America truly does really love Muslims, and our support for East Turkestan proves it.

Yup, America loves them Uyghur Muslims, so that collateral damage video Assange and Manning released, where the US good guys were yukking it up while machine-gunning unarmed Muslims, well, that's just... PROPAGANDA!!!

Assange is the guy primarily responsible for speaking that ugly truth to power.

That's why Assange must die.

It is disgusting how many so-called journalists have turned their backs on Assange just to keep their pay-cheques.

And that's because the billionaires who own our media aren't about to bite the hand that feeds them.

Oh, that holy union of state and corporate sector! 

Where freedom is home, where the billionaires roam, and the skies are not cloudy all day...

By now I think it's too late.

Fascism has overtaken America.

Julian Assange is all the proof you need.

Chain race at Varney Speedway

Here's the epilogue to my epic saga about the Chevette's I have owned.

When their useful days were done, I sold those 'vettes on to a student of mine, a chap who was active in the stock-car racing sport.

Varney Speedway, the nearest stock-car track, and we're talking a few levels below Nascar here, used to have a novelty called the "chain race." That's where a couple of actual race cars did battle while towing two other vehicles on chains. Those other vehicles had been stripped of propulsion and brakes. The idiots who volunteered to "drive" them had a steering wheel and nothing else.

My enterprising student stripped the 'vettes of their drive trains. Those were good running motors, so I think he made his money back right there. Then he hooked them up to his race car, which, if I recall, was a mid-80s Monte Carlo. 

Chain races are filler, but they're crowd pleasers. Buddy had the two 'vettes hooked up to his racer and went all the way to the finals. When you chain a couple of cars without brakes to a race car, all sorts of hilarity ensues!

Alas, he didn't quite win the championship. On the last lap of the last race, the last 'vette in the chain went over the embankment right after the first turn, tumbled over a few times, and ended our trophy run.

But the thousand bucks he got for losing still gave him a 100% return on what he put into my Chevettes.

The serpent and the menorah

Remember the Chevette? 

One time I’m at a gas station and a wise-ass kid on a bicycle shouts out “nice ‘vette.” I didn’t come up with the right comeback till I was ten miles down the road.

“Nice Harley, kid.”

For a couple of years one of my ‘vettes drove my kids from my place in the country to their mom’s place in town. It was about an hour each way. One time, at the Teviotdale lights, before they put in the round about, I pulled up at the red in the right-turn lane, thinking I’d easily get a hole-shot on the tractor-trailer unit in the other lane.

My strategy might have worked, it not for the jerk making a right turn in front of me. He apparently hadn’t heard the news that you can make a right turn on a red. Then, when the light changed, he took another five seconds to get going.

By that time the transport truck was across the intersection, but not to worry. I’ll just stand on it and let those 88 horsepower work their magic in that 300 yards of merge lane ahead of me.

The abject humiliation of losing a drag race to a Freightliner haunts me to this day.

But by and large, those Chevettes were cheap to run, cheap to buy, and cheap to maintain. Those are the kind of cars the automakers kill, because there’s a certain segment of the consumer public that won’t buy a new car if the old one still works.

One of my Chevettes ferried me back and forth to Guelph every Wednesday night, where I would have dinner and spend a few hours with my children. After dropping them off at their mom’s, I’d meet up with my old pal Robert and his wife, “The Dean,” at the Albion for a couple pitchers of beer.

At the time, I was the welding instructor at a high school 100km up the road. I had a sideline of building metal artsy-facts; furniture, sculpture, bondage accessories. Robert and his wife loved my stuff and have a nice collection to this day. So I took them the hand-crafted menorah to admire.

But during my visit with my children, my dear daughter handed me a box.

“Take good care of it, Dad. It’s the biggest garter snake I’ve ever seen. Keep it till the weekend and I’ll set it free in the garden.”

Sure thing, kid.

So I had a jovial visit with my friends, menorah on our table at the Albion, and when we come out I gotta show them the snake.

I hand the snake box to The Dean, and the snake falls out the box and goes slithering down the street, at midnight, in downtown Guelph.

With my dear daughter’s admonition to take good care of the snake ringing in my ears, I chase the snake down the street…

I got the snake, but I should have noted right there that this would be a stressful evening…

I’m heading home with the menorah and the snake sharing the Chevette. Just as we’re passing the cemetery between Elora and Salem, the headlights go out!

Holy heck! I’ve got another hour to drive… without headlights?

Better to turn back.

I wheel around and take the back roads with the four-way flashers on. I’m half way back to Guelph, when, wonder of wonders, the lights come on!

I stop, say a prayer of gratitude, wheel the ‘vette around and head home again.

I shit you not; we’re heading north again on County Road 7, and just as we pass that same cemetery, THE LIGHTS GO OFF AGAIN!

OK.

Now I got a problem. There’s voodoo going on in my car.

I got the menorah back there.

I got the fucking snake back there.

I got bad mojo happening right here in my Chevette!?!?

I pulled in the lot at the the tractor place just past the gas station in Salem.

I’ve got the forces of Good and the forces of Evil wrestling in existential rage in the back of my car, and I just want to get home and go to sleep!

Obviously, the universe will not allow me to get home. I must decide. Do I ditch the snake?

Or do I ditch the menorah?

If I ditch the snake, I’ll never find it again, breaking my daughter’s heart.

But if I ditch the menorah… it ain’t going anywhere. I could easily retrieve it on my next trip!

But… do you toss the menorah and keep the snake? In the overall scheme of things, that doesn’t sound kosher to me.

I sat there pondering the possibilities for a good ten minutes.

Then I started the car, and… the lights came on!

Made it all the way home!

Next day I called a mechanic. He told me the ‘vettes were famous for a defective electrical relay that caused the lights to go out under certain conditions.

So I guess it wasn’t the epochal battle between Satan and the angels after all…

Why old people smell funny

Bear with me. As a dude who recently got old and retired, I might have some insights.

First off, when you don't have to go to work every day, what's the point of the morning shower? And if there's no point to the morning shower on Monday, what are the odds things are gonna change over the course of the week?

See where this is going?

And since you don't go anywhere or do anything anyway, you probably don't need your old laundry schedule either. 

I've been wearing the same Fred Rogers-style sweater every day for three months now. I do it because I can set the heat to 64 instead of 68 with that sweater.

But by golly, you can see why old people might smell funny.

Everybody's got a crazy uncle

I'm not sure if that's a trope or a meme, but it's definitely a thing.

In my family, amongst the first generation to get off the boat, the crazy uncle was the guy who went to university.

What went wrong? Did he just get too big for his Lederhosen?

That was early years. 

By now, pretty much the entire clan has got their third generation enrolled in post-grad programs of one sort or another. They're doing their Doctor Phils in the most esoteric fields of study. Climatology? Public health? Library science? 

What is this stuff?

Here's what's a little f'd up; a lot of these kids see me as the crazy uncle!

Putin prepared to pounce?

Media are chock-full of speculation that Bad Vlad is about to annex the Ukraine.

This strikes me as dubious. Ukraine is for all intents and purposes a failed state. The US-managed "Revolution of Dignity" didn't deliver much in the way of dignity, or anything else.

Why would Putin want to take on that mess?

There's a larger agenda in play. America is an empire in decline. It gets harder over time to play world hegemon when you haven't won a war since 1945. Many nations in the "Western" bloc continue to take instructions from Washington, but the obvious rot within the "City on a Hill" makes it an increasingly unappealing role model.

Contrast that to our adversaries, ie those nations not willing to take directions from DC. 

China's momentum is going in the opposite direction from America's. Unless we do something drastic soon, China is bound to prevail.

Russia has been a threat to American interests in looting Russia ever since Putin came in and put the run to hyenas like Bill Browder. Unfortunately, Russia also, by all accounts, is a decade ahead of us in hypersonic missile technology. Russia's trajectory also seems to be going in the opposite direction.

When a failing empire is gasping for breath, bad shit is bound to happen.

If we can just goad the Russians and/or the Chinese into reacting to one of our provocations, we'll be fully justified to hit 'em hard with all we got.

The freedom of the world depends on it...

Armageddon is coming sooner than you think.

My Palestinian hashish connection

Back in the day, my pal Abbie was a reliable source of Bekaa blonde. Abbie, short for Abdul, was a Palestinian from the West Bank.

Abbie had a dream, and it wasn't a dream about a Palestinian homeland.

He was of a more practical bent.

Abbie's dream was to have a variety store of his own. 

This was back before the big chains took over the variety store space. There was a time when an enterprising family could open a snack-bar/variety store in their front room. You had one of those every few blocks in every neighbourhood. If you ran a successful operation, responding to the needs of the community, you'd make a decent living. Plus, the real estate you were paying off would be your retirement nest-egg.

Circumstances intervened, and I didn't see Abbie for a few years. I'd been out and about making my mark in the world. Or not, but eventually I came back to the home town. One day I randomly walk into one those old-school variety stores for a pack of smokes, and there's Abbie!

Sure enough, he owned the business and he owned the real estate!

Fate had smiled on Abbie in the most unlikely way. 

Fate had cause a grape to fall from the produce shelf at Zehrs.

Fate then led Abbie into that Zehrs, where he slipped on that grape, sprained his neck, and got a concussion.

The only down side was he had to wear a neck-brace, at least in public, till the court case came up.

Long story short, Zehrs bought him a nice variety store, on a corner lot, with more than adequate living quarters, and Abbie and his extended family lived happily ever after!