Who would have thought the success rate was that high?
Judging by what I see when I drive by the local high school, I'd have thought maybe ten percent are ready for anything other than spitting and smoking. That's what I see them doing in droves on the street out in front. Every since the do-gooders made it illegal to smoke on school property, the hooligans have been impeding traffic with their boorish antics.
The smoking part of it I get. I'm sure the anti-smoking lobby is secretly financed by the cigarette companies, who know full well that the more you tell teens they shouldn't do something the more important it becomes for them to do it. The best way to get teens not to smoke is to make smoking a mandatory part of the school curriculum.
As for the spitting, I'm not sure where that comes from. Don't remember having that much excess saliva in my youth. But for these kids today, it seems almost obligatory to splat down a sidewalk oyster between drags on the cigarette.
For a few years they had the hackey-sak thing going on, but that craze seems to have ebbed. At least it involved a modicum of physical activity. Had the social aspect going for it too. They might not be in class but they were getting a little exercise and learning the rudiments of teamwork.
Not sure what they're learning now, but according to the latest research only forty percent aren't fit for jobs or higher education.
But at least their self-esteem is great!
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Gadaffi's Canadian connections
The plots thicken.
Just an hour south of Falling Downs there's a family waiting to hear from their dear daughter, incommunicado in a Mexican jail, busted on some trumped up claim that she was the mastermind of a dastardly plot to spirit one of the Gadaffi brood into the country.
Meanwhile, the National Toast, wannabe national newspaper of record, founded by Conrad Black and hastily fobbed off on Izzy Asper just before he died, has revealed that the very Gadaffi spawn our Mount Forest neighbor was sneaking into Mexico already owns a penthouse condo in Toronto. A 1.6 million dollar condo no less.
In downtown Toronto 1.6 million gets you about the same square footage that you got in a Don Mills tract bungalow for five grand earlier in my lifetime. No matter. The National Toast thinks it's a big deal.
Not mentioned in these news stories is that this is the same Gadaffi who hired the world's fastest man as his personal trainer a few years ago. That's right. Ben Johnson, gold medal sprinter at the Seoul Olympic games, was Saadi's trainer back in the day when Saadi aspired to a career in pro football.
Ben was the fastest man in the world for about 24 hours, when he got busted for illegal doping. That was the era when everybody was doping and who got busted was pretty much a question of politics. Suffice it to say that Big Ben got caught with his political pants down, whereas Lance Armstrong, just to pick a name out of the doping hat, has always kept his teflon political bicycle pants way up.
So Saadi is hiding out in Niger, Saif is the one in the hands of those rebels in Libya, and Safdi is the guy up in my attic with his three wives and eight kids. The randy old Colonel had more kids than the other Colonel had chickens. It's hard to keep them straight.
But for the record, when the folks upstairs get finished cleaning up the bat shit up there, I'll fulfill my end of the bargain; a trip to Michigan. After that they're on their own. Will they get to Mexico or will they stay put in Dearborn?
Who knows?
Just an hour south of Falling Downs there's a family waiting to hear from their dear daughter, incommunicado in a Mexican jail, busted on some trumped up claim that she was the mastermind of a dastardly plot to spirit one of the Gadaffi brood into the country.
Meanwhile, the National Toast, wannabe national newspaper of record, founded by Conrad Black and hastily fobbed off on Izzy Asper just before he died, has revealed that the very Gadaffi spawn our Mount Forest neighbor was sneaking into Mexico already owns a penthouse condo in Toronto. A 1.6 million dollar condo no less.
In downtown Toronto 1.6 million gets you about the same square footage that you got in a Don Mills tract bungalow for five grand earlier in my lifetime. No matter. The National Toast thinks it's a big deal.
Not mentioned in these news stories is that this is the same Gadaffi who hired the world's fastest man as his personal trainer a few years ago. That's right. Ben Johnson, gold medal sprinter at the Seoul Olympic games, was Saadi's trainer back in the day when Saadi aspired to a career in pro football.
Ben was the fastest man in the world for about 24 hours, when he got busted for illegal doping. That was the era when everybody was doping and who got busted was pretty much a question of politics. Suffice it to say that Big Ben got caught with his political pants down, whereas Lance Armstrong, just to pick a name out of the doping hat, has always kept his teflon political bicycle pants way up.
So Saadi is hiding out in Niger, Saif is the one in the hands of those rebels in Libya, and Safdi is the guy up in my attic with his three wives and eight kids. The randy old Colonel had more kids than the other Colonel had chickens. It's hard to keep them straight.
But for the record, when the folks upstairs get finished cleaning up the bat shit up there, I'll fulfill my end of the bargain; a trip to Michigan. After that they're on their own. Will they get to Mexico or will they stay put in Dearborn?
Who knows?
Zen and the art of procrastination
First of all, make peace with the idea that procrastination is an art, not a science.
As is zen. Zen is a journey, not a destination. Or more correctly, the zen journey is the destination.
Marrying zen and procrastination is Nirvana. Pull this off and you have truly arrived at a state of Bliss.
Best time for the wedding is right after a good meal. When it comes to a good meal, remember that gluttony is good. If you're sitting down to a spread of scalloped potatoes and roast beef and fresh-picked fiddle-heads, don't just have a bit of this and that. Eat as much as you can. Eat until you need to lie down.
Once you are lying down, you are ready for the zen zone. Make sure you're comfortable. Start by counting your blessings. If you are familiar with the Christian hymn of that title, hum it quietly to yourself for five or ten minutes. Remember, Robert Pirsig had to ride his motorcycle five thousand miles to get to the zen zone. You just had to walk from the dinner table to the couch.
That's a blessing.
If you are partial to the weed of wisdom, partake before the big feed and not after. After will result in you lusting for a bag of Doritos ten minutes later.
That's not a blessing.
You are now comfy on the couch. You are feeling vaguely sleepy. You are approaching the town limits of Zen.
Now, picture in your mind's eye three chores you have been putting off. The mind's eye is crucial when one wants to find zen. If you can imagine it successfully, you can avoid doing it.
For the sake of this illustration, I will choose three chores at random. Three unpleasant tasks that I'm feeling guilty about avoiding. In all probability your three chores will be different. Doesn't matter. Just think of three things somebody's been nagging at you to do.
My first chore is cleaning up the bat guano in the attic. An unpleasant task in every aspect. There's nothing good about cleaning up bat shit. Close your eyes. Visualize yourself up there in the cold attic, scraping solidified bat shit off the floor with a wall-paper scraping tool... see yourself there... imagine the cold... the smell...
Now feel the sheer joy of not having to be up there right now!
My second chore, just randomly; tidying the basement.
Yuk! The cat turds that spilled over the side of the litter-box six months ago. The detritus that accumulates on the floor as you shlepp firewood to the furnace. The cobwebs that haven't been cleared since 1948... yuk!
Now feel the pure relief of knowing you're not going to do it today! Feel it. Caress it! There'll be another day...
Chore number three; organize the shop. It's December; it's cold, really cold out there...there are boxes labelled "miscellaneous" that haven't been opened since I moved from British Columbia in 1981... but not tonight... not now... I'm... almost at... zen.
Nirvana... Bliss in the state of Zen.
If you haven't nodded off by now, switch on the Leafs game.
That will take you over the finish line for sure.
And you never had to leave the couch!
As is zen. Zen is a journey, not a destination. Or more correctly, the zen journey is the destination.
Marrying zen and procrastination is Nirvana. Pull this off and you have truly arrived at a state of Bliss.
Best time for the wedding is right after a good meal. When it comes to a good meal, remember that gluttony is good. If you're sitting down to a spread of scalloped potatoes and roast beef and fresh-picked fiddle-heads, don't just have a bit of this and that. Eat as much as you can. Eat until you need to lie down.
Once you are lying down, you are ready for the zen zone. Make sure you're comfortable. Start by counting your blessings. If you are familiar with the Christian hymn of that title, hum it quietly to yourself for five or ten minutes. Remember, Robert Pirsig had to ride his motorcycle five thousand miles to get to the zen zone. You just had to walk from the dinner table to the couch.
That's a blessing.
If you are partial to the weed of wisdom, partake before the big feed and not after. After will result in you lusting for a bag of Doritos ten minutes later.
That's not a blessing.
You are now comfy on the couch. You are feeling vaguely sleepy. You are approaching the town limits of Zen.
Now, picture in your mind's eye three chores you have been putting off. The mind's eye is crucial when one wants to find zen. If you can imagine it successfully, you can avoid doing it.
For the sake of this illustration, I will choose three chores at random. Three unpleasant tasks that I'm feeling guilty about avoiding. In all probability your three chores will be different. Doesn't matter. Just think of three things somebody's been nagging at you to do.
My first chore is cleaning up the bat guano in the attic. An unpleasant task in every aspect. There's nothing good about cleaning up bat shit. Close your eyes. Visualize yourself up there in the cold attic, scraping solidified bat shit off the floor with a wall-paper scraping tool... see yourself there... imagine the cold... the smell...
Now feel the sheer joy of not having to be up there right now!
My second chore, just randomly; tidying the basement.
Yuk! The cat turds that spilled over the side of the litter-box six months ago. The detritus that accumulates on the floor as you shlepp firewood to the furnace. The cobwebs that haven't been cleared since 1948... yuk!
Now feel the pure relief of knowing you're not going to do it today! Feel it. Caress it! There'll be another day...
Chore number three; organize the shop. It's December; it's cold, really cold out there...there are boxes labelled "miscellaneous" that haven't been opened since I moved from British Columbia in 1981... but not tonight... not now... I'm... almost at... zen.
Nirvana... Bliss in the state of Zen.
If you haven't nodded off by now, switch on the Leafs game.
That will take you over the finish line for sure.
And you never had to leave the couch!
The lobstermens' picnic; what really happens to the undersized lobster
Back when I worked at the drydock in Saint John I got tight with a few different folks who worked lobster.
By "worked lobster" I mean they or someone in the immediate family had a lobster boat and a lobster licence. One of these lads invited me to a lobster feed.
Everyplace that harvests lobster has some sort of fishing regulation about how big a lobster has to be before it can be considered marketable. So the theory goes that the lads head out in their boats, draw the lobster pots up, and then stand there with a tape measure making sure everything they put in the bin is up to code. The rest they throw over the side, to catch again when they get a little bigger.
That's the theory. In practice, the lobstermen long ago realized that just because the crustacean isn't marketable doesn't mean it isn't eatable. So they don't throw them over the side at all. They set them aside for a friends-and-family lobster feed.
Oddly enough, these are the sweetest most tender lobster you're ever going to find anywhere. You can go to the finest sea-food restaurants on the Eastern Seaboard and you'll never find lobster like you'll find at a lobster feed.
By "worked lobster" I mean they or someone in the immediate family had a lobster boat and a lobster licence. One of these lads invited me to a lobster feed.
Everyplace that harvests lobster has some sort of fishing regulation about how big a lobster has to be before it can be considered marketable. So the theory goes that the lads head out in their boats, draw the lobster pots up, and then stand there with a tape measure making sure everything they put in the bin is up to code. The rest they throw over the side, to catch again when they get a little bigger.
That's the theory. In practice, the lobstermen long ago realized that just because the crustacean isn't marketable doesn't mean it isn't eatable. So they don't throw them over the side at all. They set them aside for a friends-and-family lobster feed.
Oddly enough, these are the sweetest most tender lobster you're ever going to find anywhere. You can go to the finest sea-food restaurants on the Eastern Seaboard and you'll never find lobster like you'll find at a lobster feed.
"I liked the war" - interview with a Libyan rebel
He liked the war? Well no kidding. Relaxing on mattresses and smoking hash while you wait for NATO to lay down another run of Bunker Busters and Paveway Smart Bombs.
I've done a bit of relaxing on mattresses and smoking hash in my time too, but in my day it wasn't called war, it was called partying, and I don't recall inviting NATO to the party.
But I must admit I was just one degree of separation away from true fighting stoners. Actually I was close enough to the fighting stoner to be able to pass the pipe. He was an Israeli Arab who had been in the IDF. Don't know if they even allow that anymore.
Anyway, buddy was recounting tales of the Sinai campaign in the '73 war. Recalled thousands of army boots abandoned in the desert by the Egyptians. Apparently they could run faster without their boots.
But I digress. Back to the fighting stoners who freed Libya, with a little help from NATO, the most powerful military alliance in the history of war. Anyway, the BBC found this former rebel who is among the 99.9% of former rebels who are disinclined to give up their guns.
"We like carrying our guns. With them we can do what we want and go where we want."
Ya. Nice life, ain't it?
I've done a bit of relaxing on mattresses and smoking hash in my time too, but in my day it wasn't called war, it was called partying, and I don't recall inviting NATO to the party.
But I must admit I was just one degree of separation away from true fighting stoners. Actually I was close enough to the fighting stoner to be able to pass the pipe. He was an Israeli Arab who had been in the IDF. Don't know if they even allow that anymore.
Anyway, buddy was recounting tales of the Sinai campaign in the '73 war. Recalled thousands of army boots abandoned in the desert by the Egyptians. Apparently they could run faster without their boots.
But I digress. Back to the fighting stoners who freed Libya, with a little help from NATO, the most powerful military alliance in the history of war. Anyway, the BBC found this former rebel who is among the 99.9% of former rebels who are disinclined to give up their guns.
"We like carrying our guns. With them we can do what we want and go where we want."
Ya. Nice life, ain't it?
Training the Afghan Army
Training the less fortunate is something Canadians excel at. The inegalitarian nature of the trainer/trainee relationship appeals to the innate sense of superiority that lies at the heart of the Canadian psyche.
Our perpetual training missions in Haiti Haiti
The national newspaper of record informs me today that our training mission in Afghanistan
It costs about $3,000 to outfit an Afghan recruit. In a country with a per capita annual income of less than a thousand dollars, that’s a lifetime’s worth of Christmas presents all rolled into one!
Also attractive is that the C-7 or M-16 that comes with the new clothes is far superior to the commie-era AK-47s common among the Taliban. Until the introduction of biometric scans in the past year, signing up with the Afghan Army and making off with the kit was something a young fellow with ambition could do three or four times a year.
The underlying logic of the Canadian training mission is somewhat flawed, but it speaks to our unshakeable faith in our superiority, even in the absence of any evidence for it. Over the past ten years we in the virtuous West have spend almost $500 billion fighting the Taliban, or roughly twice the GDP of the entire country over that period of time. The results? After a glorious US-NATO victory in the initial months, the Taliban have gradually regained most of the country. They’re winning the war.
Which begs the question; why do we believe that they need us to train their army? Wouldn’t it make more sense to have your army trained by the guys winning the war, not the guys who are losing?
Maybe we could have the Taliban come over here and train our troops.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Israel at the brink
It's not the Israel we've been relentlessly cheerleading these last fifty years. It's not an Israel her founding fathers would recognize.
Yesterday there were two attacks on IDF posts by so-called Hilltop Youth gangs. Who are these "Hilltop Youths?" The new generation of militant settlers that have been coddled and courted by the state for far too long.
There are at least 600,000 Israelis who hold German passports. Well over a million who hold American passports. To say nothing of the hundreds of thousands who can fly "home" to England or Canada or France or Brazil. For several generations affluent secular Israelis have kept that other passport in the bottom drawer as an insurance policy of last resort. If the Arab tide ever rose too high, there was a fall back position.
I think a lot of those secular Israelis are rumaging through the bottom drawer these days. Not because of the Arabs. Because of that radical settler fringe that is no longer on the fringe.
Even Netanyahu, who has done more than any leader to nurture the sense of entitlement that is now on full display in the settler population, seems to be taken aback. Tragically, the so-called Christian Zionists and the American Right won't even notice, and the money and the missles will keep right on flowing.
After all, this is predicted in the Book of Revelations.
Yesterday there were two attacks on IDF posts by so-called Hilltop Youth gangs. Who are these "Hilltop Youths?" The new generation of militant settlers that have been coddled and courted by the state for far too long.
There are at least 600,000 Israelis who hold German passports. Well over a million who hold American passports. To say nothing of the hundreds of thousands who can fly "home" to England or Canada or France or Brazil. For several generations affluent secular Israelis have kept that other passport in the bottom drawer as an insurance policy of last resort. If the Arab tide ever rose too high, there was a fall back position.
I think a lot of those secular Israelis are rumaging through the bottom drawer these days. Not because of the Arabs. Because of that radical settler fringe that is no longer on the fringe.
Even Netanyahu, who has done more than any leader to nurture the sense of entitlement that is now on full display in the settler population, seems to be taken aback. Tragically, the so-called Christian Zionists and the American Right won't even notice, and the money and the missles will keep right on flowing.
After all, this is predicted in the Book of Revelations.
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