In the interest of faster service, please remove your pants before arriving at the cashier.

The state of Indiana has passed what the media is calling a “religious freedom law.” In a truly extraordinary display of cruelty to the English language, the law protects people from having their religious freedom “burdened substantially” by what one assumes are – at least in Indiana – inconsequential matters like the rights and freedoms of others.

One potential outcome of this legislation is causing a furor. It is now possible for devout business owners and employees to refuse to serve gay or lesbian persons and/or same sex couples if doing so would “substantial burden” their religious beliefs.

Predictably, a firestorm of protest has greeted the law’s passing. Companies have threatened to cancel business deals, conventions are threatening to move, and the usual list of Hollywood stars are announcing that they will refuse to shine – at least in Indiana.

I would like to suggest we take a different approach. Rather than opposing this law, let’s do the opposite! To avoid religious hypocrisy, let’s insist that these business persons be forced to refuse to serve any individual whose actions go against their faith. And in order to assist them in achieving this state of purity, I am happy to provide this biblically sourced list of those who must not be served. In addition to gays and lesbians, it includes any of the following:

  1. Those who eat bacon, cheeseburgers, pulled pork sandwiches, shrimp, or meatballs with a sprinkling of parmesan cheese.
  2. Men who are now or who have ever been drunk. Only men who have mothers may be refused service. Any man who can provide documentary proof he never had a mother may still be served (as long as he also never had a cheeseburger of course.) Women who are drunk may still be served, even if they have mothers (but not if they have a cheeseburger.)
  3. Anyone who worships a false god. (Lists of false gods are easily available, but yes, they would likely include the Kardashians, Dr. Oz and One Direction.)
  4. Men who are not circumcised.  OK, the test for this might be a tad embarrassing at the check-out counter  but hey, we’re talking about religion here! Besides, it gives whole new meaning to the term “check out counter.”
  5. All magicians – of both genders – with or without mothers.
  6. Anyone who tries to convert people to another religion. This would include all evangelicals, about 40% of Indiana’s population.
  7. Anyone who refuses to control his or her bull in public. (What they do to their bulls in private is entirely up to them and – one assumes – their bulls.)

There are other groups who may not be served, but this list will likely ensure that those business persons involved will very quickly no longer be business persons. This will ensure that they will never again be “substantially burdened” and will be free to practice their religion as Jesus did his – in poverty.

It will also mean that the rest of us will never have to deal with them – at least in Indiana.

 

Sochi and the “Putin Wants a Penis” Games

After the unexpected PR failure of the first new event, “Puppy Killing”, Putin games organizers nervously roll out the second group of new sports: the Putinathalon!

Welcome to Part Two of The Elegant Bastard’s preview of new sports debuting at Sochi’s Putin Olympiad (also known as the “Putin Wants A Penis” Games).  The first sport, Dog Destroying, failed to garner much public support but organizers have big hopes for the much hyped “Putinathalon” .

Like the decathlon and heptathlon of summer games fame, the Putinathalon is actually a collection of events, the main difference being that any number of separate contests can be added at any point by any on-site Russian president.

The rules for these contests vary but each must involve an identifiable phallic symbol being modelled in public. A phallic symbol is arguably anything that’s penis shaped – in other words, it’s longer than it’s wide – but purists have demanded that only traditionally masculine objects be included. Thus, rolling pins, sharpies and curling irons were not approved for these games. Instead, a competitor must successfully squeeze in his (right) hand any one of the following: an automatic rifle, a fishing rod, a paddle, a large dead fish, skis or a tranquilized tiger. Alternatively he may pose sitting astride what appears to be a very old horse or a photo-shopped bird of prey.

Whatever the phallic object, the subject must grip it tightly long enough for state media to take the appropriate pictures. (Photographers are expected to crouch and angle their cameras upwards, thereby adding height to the subject and length to the object.)

Note: There is no expectation that the competitor will actually use the object. In fact, those standing nearby would prefer that the subject not have the opportunity to let the object go off prematurely.

As we all realize, symbolism is a fragile art and to ensure that the penile does not accidentally become the puerile, certain mandatory exclusions have been imposed. No competitors are permitted from countries or races that allow men to grow taller than is absolutely necessary. In fact, to ensure symbol security, potential competitors must be exactly 5 foot 7 inches and hold a public position equal to but not greater than that of  … well … a Russian president.

All events require competitors to appear bare-chested. Some will also require the wearing of Speedos but a quick glance at similar Putin pictures already posted at Google Images (just enter Putin and “bare”) makes it clear that no one could possibly be offended. (There may, however, be a fair amount of giggling.)

Given the necessary restrictions, no one will be much surprised to learn that current Russian president, Vladimir Putin, is the only competitor and will likely take gold, silver, bronze, tin, lead and silly putty medals in each sport. Please note that the medals for these events will not be circular. A special assortment of ten inch long rods has been commissioned. It is unlikely that Putin will wear them around his neck.

At the conclusion of these new events, Putin is expected to announce that Russia’s current national anthem is to be replaced by that popular ‘70’s songs, “I Wanna Be A Macho Man” by the “Village People”.

You heard it here first! Tell your friends.

Those wishing to hear the original version of the proposed new anthem may find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AO43p2Wqc08

Puppy Killing and other new sports at the Sochi Winter Olympics (1)

In which the Elegant bastard chronicles the smaller stories that are part of these, the Putin Ego Games

The Elegant Bastard’s Winter Olympic Games Report (1): My task is to provide ongoing analysis of the new sports Russia is introducing to these, the Putin games. The first, Dog Killing, will begin – like a few other sports – prior to the official opening. The unusual feature here is that organizers hope to have the entire competition wrapped up early as well.

This new sport includes three events:  Whole Pack Pumping, the Individual’s Elimination Round and, for younger viewers, Puppy Popping. The first will involve teams armed with light machine guns converging on those Olympic sites where groups of stray dogs gather to sun themselves and beg for scraps. Making every effort not to accidentally strike straight tourists, teams will fire carefully aimed bursts whenever they encounter suitable targets. Official scorers will travel with each team. Points will be awarded for greatest number of targets hit within the allocated time. There will be “only wounded” and “still whimpering” deductions.

The “Individual’s  Elimination Round” will focus on single dogs who enter journalists’ unfinished hotel rooms or who take “unsightly” naps at official venues. Competitors will initially be expected to use only pistols but, if necessary and with permission from any official, machine guns may once again be used. Games volunteers will accompany competitors and will have a supply of plastic bags in which successfully achieved targets will be stored. In those few cases where single small dogs have been taken down with machine guns, it is likely that hoses will be necessary to prepare the field for subsequent events and official visits.

The final sport is arguably the most difficult to master. Puppies are small and unpredictable targets, dashing in all directions in search of food and their mothers (all of whom will likely have been involved in the Individual’s Elimination event.) Competitors will be expected to take down one puppy per shot (officially referred to as a “pop”.) Bonus points will be awarded if one “pop” takes out two or more pups.

In keeping with the IOC’s expectations that Olympic sites and materials be recycled wherever possible, all weapons used in the three events will be sent to the Syrian government at the conclusion of the games.

As is expected to be true in all judged events, Russia will likely sweep the medals board.

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/sochi-killing-stray-dogs-in-preparation-for-the-winter-olympics-9105046.html

(While the Original Elegant Bastard attends to the games, apprentices will post the regular pieces. Later today, a new way to deal with fitted bed sheets will be posted here.)

Sticks Up The Bum, mr. putin!

A word of explanation: the Elegant Bastard acknowledges that this is the second consecutive post involving foreign objects being inserted in various body parts. This should not be regarded as a trend. The “fly up the nose” of the previous post was a committee decision, one made after more than one bottle of a good Ripasso. As for “Sticks up the bum”, that phrase came (as does so much that is wise) directly from the mouths of babes.

Oh mr. putin, mr. putin, mr. putin. What are we to make of you, eh? Here it was, a lovely Friday morning, one so sunny and so mild that here in Toronto we could all sit back with our morning beverage, gaze at the whimsical flurries of snow  and imagine a ford-free future.

And then you had to spoil it all by saying something stupid like, “Gay people will be safe at Olympics if they ‘leave kids alone’.

Now really, mr. putin, what was that all about? Did you grin at the image of outraged crowds rushing to all available microphones, ranting and raving about homophobia, your own abuse of children and your latest insult to the Olympic spirit? Did you smile and envision hordes of commentators spluttering in fury and waving the reports that completely invalidate your scummy accusation? Did you giggle in anticipation of the storm?

Look around, vlad. Listen carefully. It’s only one day later and – guess what – no storm. Where are the offended masses?

They’re walking dogs, vlad, or they’re watching football, or studying, or, in my case, prepping an upcoming post about some recently encountered white wines.  And why not? You’re the boy we’ve called “goof” once too often for there to be any chance we would take you seriously. Oh, there might be some minimal “analysis” or “commentary”. It’s a Saturday, typically a slow news day and something’s got to keep the ratings up. But most of us will, I think, just shrug our shoulders and see it as yet another bad vlad day. That’s how irrelevant you’ve become.

And in any case, mr. putin, we know you were not posing an argument. You were performing. For you as for Iran’s ahmadinejad, North Korea’s un (and recently its rodman), Syria’s assad, Toronto’s ford, and all the other piggy-eyed little chinless wonders who periodically find themselves on the world stage, it’s not about the content, is it? It’s about the noise. You are there to make noise and any noise at all will do. What’s fascinating is the motive, this question of what makes putin “tick”?

Just who are you, mr. putin? At first I saw you as a modern day Iago, that great villain from Shakespeare’s Othello. For readers who have yet to experience the play, here’s a brutally brief synopsis of Act Three, scene one. Othello, a Moor (and therefore non-white) has married Desdemona (quite white), the young daughter of a Venetian nobleman (very, very White!) All the affected and offended parties (largely white) storm into the palace to see who (or how many) will end up headless. Every Grand and not-so-grand Poobah is there. So is Iago (kind of pale grey or off-white). He is Othello’s servant and a truly nasty little man.

In the next few minutes, everyone – except Iago – gets to speak: the ruler of Venice, the Moor, some senators and even a teenage girl! Iago clearly feels this is an insult because as soon as the stage is empty, he struts, frets, threatens, pronounces, fumes, cackles and even adds an occasional mwahahaha to show himself what a big bad boy he is. He basically behaves like a poster boy for erectile dysfunction.

That’s more or less how I saw putin – Iago without the cool iambics. In short, he seemed to be the classic little man. Throw in a big case of penis-envy and you’ve got someone the NRA would love to get to know.

But that idea didn’t work. Oh it explained the most recent anti-gay slur and his unsubtle bullying of the Ukraine. But these acts were obvious and clumsy, akin to our ford’s attempt to toss a football or run a lap in the council chamber. The original Iago could be subtle when necessary, and putin doesn’t do subtle.

I next imagined him as a little boy wearing his daddy’s shoes and demanding to be allowed to sit with the grown-ups. His manners are so terrible, however, that he is banished to the children’s table in the pantry. Here, instead of throwing potatoes at his sister, he sells arms to Syria.

Whether little man or little boy, the key word here is “little”. It’s clear that putin, like our ford, feels his smallness. In one famous television scene, he and America’s Obama are sitting beside each other on a stage.  putin gets to his feet. Then Obama stands up – and up – and up, up, up. The look of absolute hatred on putin’s face is almost shocking. Rumour has it that putin’s photo shoots are arranged to ensure that no one taller than he is included in the scene. (Apparently this makes it difficult to assemble much of a crowd.)

Yet there was something about the “little” variants that still didn’t quite satisfy me. “Little” came close to expressing his essence but something essential was missing. I discovered the secret in Prague.

The Czechs are famous for puppet theatre. A year or so ago, I had the opportunity to walk through a showroom created by one troupe of performers. Here we could see the puppets at rest. They were all standing and with most, the strings were evident. But a few had the strings folded and placed neatly beside them. How then, I wondered, did they stand erect?

One little girl, clearly bursting with scientific curiousity, decided to find out. To the crowd’s horror, she slipped under the guard rope, ran up to an elaborately dressed puppet king and lifted his gorgeous robe. She then called to her mother, revealing the answer to all (who spoke Czech.) However, translations were made available and the whole room soon dissolved into multilingual laughter. What had the little girl said?

“Mommy. He has a stick up his bum.”

In fact, he didn’t. The puppet was simply mounted on a cleverly designed stand. Still, the little girl’s mistake was understandable. And as I reread the story of Putin’s gratuitous and boorish insult to visiting gay athletes and spectators, I am reminded of the little girl’s comment. It captures the missing piece of the putin puzzle  and is equally true of assad and ahmadinejad and our ford. They are puppets, caricatures of power, each held in place with a stick up its bum until its time for it to dance,  twirl, kick, or fight according to its masters’ dictates.

What part of putin made the comment about gay visitors – the Iago, the little boy, the man on a stick? It doesn’t matter. It’s noise. What can we do about it? I suppose it would be nice to expose those who pull the puppets’ strings or manipulate the stick. That would help. Oh yes, and one more thing.

 We could stop electing them to high office.

To the Reader: As Facebook attempts to deal with its unpleasant economic realities, it seems to be changing the way it serves its members. Whether the issue is capacity or shifting priorities, fewer and fewer people are notified when members post. If you enjoy “The Elegant Bastard” and wish to know when new material is published, you should consider going to its facebook page and “liking” the page ( not just a specific post.) Apparently you will then be notified when new posts occur. Here is the link:  https://www.facebook.com/theelegantbastard

 

 

What It’s Really Like Living In Toronto Under Rob Ford? Imagine A Fly…

In which the Elegant Bastard promises to avoid fat jokes as he explains to those unable to live in Toronto what it’s really like having Rob Ford as mayor.

Over the course of this thing we call life, others occasionally ask us to help them understand the essence of some experience we take for granted but that they are unable to share.   For example, I am a Canadian living in Toronto. Many are not so fortunate. I am therefore often asked to describe my world so that they might at least know what they are missing.

Examples are legion. A group of Detroit school children once insisted that I define and pronounce – repeatedly – that ultimate expression of our nationalism, “eh?”[i] (I understand they attempted a choral rendition when they returned home.) Two tourists from the UK loudly demanded that I show them dangerous bears or badly behaving Biebers and seeing neither, accused me of having deliberately hidden them. (I pointed out that we’d tried that with the Bieber but he kept getting loose and trying to sing.) And one unenthusiastic guest from New York  inquired as to whether we had anything to eat “up here” other than 1) wind 2) snow and 3) poutine (which she regarded as even less edible than the wind and the snow.) [ii] Add to these the usual stream of astonished “My God, just how big are your feet!” comments and it becomes clear that I should now be an expert at helping those who are busily trying to expand their minds and improve their educations.

Still, I do occasionally encounter a question I cannot answer easily. And by far the most challenging of these is also the one most frequently asked. To date, people from Paris, London, Chicago, Bruges, Vienna, Bratislava and something called Oxnard have declared their urgent need to know the answer to the following: What is it like having Rob Ford as mayor?

I can understand this curiousity. After all, the world has very few Rob Fords and they are all, not surprisingly, quite busy. Russia has its Putin[iii] but his hands are full beating up orphans, quelling pussy riots, harassing homosexuals and preparing to embarrass the entire Olympic movement. He can hardly be expected to run from one foreign city to another giving everyone a “Ford for a Day” moment. Dennis Rodman[iv] is America’s much taller version but he too seems to have landed a permanent gig pretending to play basketball for short North Korean dictators who are trapped in perpetual Bad Hair days.

That just leaves Toronto’s One and Only Original Ford.  And not only do we get to have him all to ourselves, we also have a spare in reserve! (Let’s call him Tweedledoug.) I fully understand that some of you may see this as completely unfair.  If so, I can only suggest that you play upon a key Canadian character trait – guilt.  If you first make us feel bad and then ask us very nicely, perhaps we would be persuaded to let you rent one of them for a while. I don’t think we’d charge much – certainly not by the pound[v]. In fact, a two-for-one deal is a strong possibility! And if you were willing to take Conrad Black, the CN Tower and the Maple Leafs as part of some overall package, we might even be willing to dispense with payment altogether.

Should you accidentally keep them all past the return date, don’t worry. Our other national trait will ensure you barely hear our protests for as you all know, Canadians are polite!

However, such complex trade negotiations are best left to others. You want the original question dealt with now and I think I have discovered a way to answer it effectively. You will, Dear Reader, be required to exercise a little imagination but having read your letters, I know that this will pose no problems whatsoever.

So, what is it like having Rob Ford as a mayor?

Imagine a fly. It is a very large fly, perhaps the largest you have ever seen. You are sitting quietly in your kitchen when you first notice it. You groan for you realize you have once again left the patio doors open, thus providing the creature with a window of opportunity.  Having achieved entry, it now flies in awkward and ungainly circles about the room, periodically bumping into walls and crashing into furniture. It lands and appears to stumble before it scurries off, first in one direction and then another, as if searching frantically for something. You notice a tiny puddle where it landed and you hope that it was there before.

The fly now spots a bag of icing sugar and instantly climbs upon it, buzzing excitedly and stamping its many feet in some bizarre version of a happy dance. But sadly (for the fly) the bag is sealed.  Now the buzz becomes louder, almost angry. It’s as if the fly is swearing. Suddenly it returns to the counter and stomps its way towards the window, trampling an innocent ladybug on its way. You notice another tiny puddle.

You are beginning to think it’s time you did something about the number of insects taking up residence in your kitchen. You are idly pondering whether or not to take a course in Effective Door Closing when suddenly the unthinkable happens. The fly flies up your nose.

In that brief moment, the once great world collapses inwardly upon itself and disappears. The planets are gone. The stars have disappeared. Asia and Europe have lost their romance and Africa its mystery. All is gone, all. Only two things remain: you and the fly up your nose.

You briefly wonder why it chose to do this to you. Was it cold? Was it hungry? Did it look up at your nostrils and imagine them to be two subway tunnels? But then you stop seeking understanding. What does “Why” matter when you have a fly up your nose?

Solutions begin to present themselves. Blow your nose. But wait! Blowing out requires first breathing in. What if you simply draw the fly in deeper? And nose blowing requires nose gripping! What if you accidentally crush your unwelcome guest? What’s the only thing worse than a fly up your nose? A dead fly up your nose!

An agony of indecision invades your entire being. Meaning is lost. So what that you have access to concert halls, opera houses and glorious shopping malls? Who cares that thousands of restaurants wait to serve your every need or that there are legions of pubs and bars and coffee houses dedicated to various forms of stress management? Forget the promotion, the deal, the bonus and the perks! What does life mean any more?  There’s a fly up your nose.

And as you writhe in helpless torment, you hear a sound. It’s a sinister new drone and it’s approaching fast. You close your eyes in denial; you grip your chair in fear. Nothing can save you now. A moment later you discover something much worse than even a mutilated fly up your nose. Its brother has arrived. A fraternity of flies is now camping in your nose!.

Nor is your situation helped in any way by the fact that three million other souls are also suffering, each with its own two-fly burden. Knowing the state of my neighbour’s nose brings me no comfort. In moments like this, I am my nose and my nose is me. A fly enters one nostril; love, sympathy, sharing and compassion instantly fly out the other. And even if I were that rare individual who could see past his own nose and gaze in brotherly sorrow upon yours, what practical good is such empathy? Are you expecting a helpful finger? It’s not going to happen.

In fact, a flies-in-the-nose epidemic like Toronto’s instantly proves false the notion that misery loves company. If anything, tensions rise dramatically. Approximately one third of the population either refuses to admit it has flies up its nose or claims to be enjoying the sensation. Another third is obsessed with denying any and all personal responsibility. They proclaim themselves innocent victims, undeserving of their flies. And the last third strides around the city, pointing sanctimonious fingers at others and chanting, “Who let the flies in? You let the flies in!”

Then, slowly at first, but soon with increasing speed, things fall apart.

And the low grey sky teems with grieving crows.
A brooding pathos in my dark soul grows.
Are there some who would stand and strike brave blows?
I won’t.  You see, there are flies up my nose.

And that, Dear Reader, is what it’s like having Rob Ford as mayor.

Any questions?

As always, please feel free to send me your comments. If you enjoy the post, by all means :share: it or :tweet: it. You could also print it, roll it up and use it to ward off furious flies.

Since the links in the footnotes are not hyperlinks, I’ve provided them here. The definition of “eh” can be found at http://wp.me/p3cq8l-6n

The piece concerning new Canadian snack foods can be accessed at the at the following: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-1K


[i]  For the definitive definition of “eh” and other small marvels of meaning, see The Elegant Bastard’s “Dictionary of Helpful Words and Phrases” here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-6n

[ii]  For the answer to her crudely put question, see The Elegant Bastard’s learned treatise on the subject of potential new Canadian snacks. The piece is called “Do You Want Bieber Chips with That?” and it can be read here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-1K

[iii]  Yes, I know his name is Putin, not Ford – but as Juliet reminds us, “What’s in a name?”

[iv]  See Juliet’s comment above.

[v]  I’m sorry. I said no fat jokes. But I’m only human. I made a mistake. Nobody’s perfect. I’ve apologized. That’s all I can do.

The Deadly Art of Napping

In which the Elegant Bastard argues in favor of limited warfare and offers instruction in the use of appropriate weapons.

I am never at my best when I am under attack.

To a certain extent, these repeated assaults are my own fault, the outcome of my unfortunate tendency to stray without purpose or protection into the larger world. One moment I am safely involved in determining whether this will be a whole wheat or a multi-grain morning. I decide, I toast, and I butter. I then settle into the sunlight and my favorite chair. I am ready to chew peacefully. I turn on the radio…

And suddenly, I am being told that assorted biker-persons have taken to assaulting large sports utility vehicles, that Suzanne Sommers wants the world to know that she and her husband have sex twice a day, that a television network somewhere is promising to provide its viewers with hungrier zombies.

When I find myself wondering if zombies eat toast, I know I have been wounded.

I recover and a little while later, I try again. Friends have arrived. The beans have been properly ground and their rich scent fills the room. We talk about Alice Monroe, the weather in Barcelona and the price of organic asparagus. Someone turns on the television…

And Boehner’s blaming Obama and Obama’s blaming Boehner. The Sochi Olympic flame has gone out four times in two days. Hannah Montana has been murdered; the self-proclaimed killer: Miley Cyrus. Malala wants to be Prime Minister of Pakistan; Beyonce has a new perfume,

I begin to slip over the edge. I lose my grip on the narrative, it fractures into fragments and brand new headlines start to scream: Suzanne Sommers Denies She Had Sex with Olympic Torch; Miley Cyrus Blames Sochi for Boehner: Malala Launches Four New Fragrances; Beyonce Wins in Pakistan; Obama Charged in Hannah Zombie Assault.

I could, were I more careful, avoid this chaotic state of mind. I could simply discipline myself to spend as much time as possible focused on the immediate here and now. I could rush to the rescue of colleagues in need of caffeine, or spend a fruitful hour selecting tomatoes, or unleash a wave of scrubbing bubbles upon the kitchen counter for no reason other than, like Everest, it’s there. And surely somewhere there are essays to mark? But just as I push myself to my feet and stride off to find writers in need of correction, a newspaper is pushed through the mail slot and there, staring up at me from the floor, is the most recent news about the Dennis Rodman – Kim Jong Un bromance … and something in my brain goes TILT.

Now everything I see and smell and hear offends me: my breakfast cereal snaps feebly and it crackles not at all; the pigeons gathering nearby are clearly engaged in a conspiracy; there are far too many people wearing pink who shouldn’t; I discover I live in a city where no matter which way I bike, the wind is in my face; my baguette turns stale in protest; suicidal moths find a window I left open; I swear at the annoying rain but it falls anyway.

Do I flee, gibbering and groaning? Do I stumble off in search of drink or drugs or dark, dark closets? I do not. No, not I, for I am made of stronger stuff. I do what I have learned to do before when all that’s sane seems ready to betray me. I declare war on the world.

What’s that, Dear Reader? You did not know we were allowed to declare war on an individual and ad hoc basis? But of course we are. I see it as a basic human right, and as something we have always done very well. So by all means, wage away. You simply need to find the most effective means of doing so.

I nap.

And before you scoff, let me assure you that the very best authorities endorse my chosen means of engagement. Consider the purpose of a just war (and all my wars are just!)  It seeks to deny an actual or potential enemy the ability to inflict harm. To accomplish this I must understand the nature and motive of the enemy and strike it at its weakest point. I must also attempt to protect myself from unnecessary risk or catastrophic costs. This requires the efficient movement of all available forces as well as the careful observation of rituals and traditions to keep morale at the highest possible levels until victory is finally achieved. It is to these ends that I have developed the Deadly Art of Napping.

My enemy (and yours, Dear Reader) is the mindless and ceaseless barrage of useless “infotainment” launched at us by the barking hordes some call the media.  As massive as this foe might seem, it is vulnerable at one key point: the moment it enters our homes, our private worlds. It is here that our horizontal hostility may – and must – manifest itself!

Let’s review some basic rules. Combat Napping cannot be done on a bed, in pajamas or in the dark. It must not be subtle or easily confused with sleep. Sleep is submission; only naps have teeth. My enemy must know it has been bitten.  I nap fully dressed on the living room couch.

I commence hostilities in the late afternoon or very early evening, precisely when assembled media forces begin to launch their heaviest weapons, their nightly news programs. Like any good soldier, I have gathered reliable intelligence (I love Google) and I know exactly when the first incoming salvos may be expected. In preparation, I turn on the television, set it to mute and scroll through the sub-titling options available before finally selecting something that looks like it could be the national language of Mars. I spend a few delightful moments watching Woolf Blitzer jabber soundlessly, nonsensically and – dare I say it – desperately while I grin (evilly). Ah, but then I remember that this is war and I take up my position.

I open the curtains and the window. I sit down, lay back and position my head upon two plumped pillows, for while I acknowledge that war is hell, I am not prepared to have it be uncomfortable. My feet point east and the back of my head points west, thereby ensuring that the setting sun does not enter the fray as a CNN or BBC agent provocateur. I pick up the novel of my choice – an oh-so subtle insult, no? – open it and rest it on my chest. I check for rations and notice that allied forces have thoughtfully contributed some wine, a few olives, a bit of cheese and a sleepy kitten.  I move my reading glasses down my nose, I breathe deeply and I close my eyes.

The battle is joined.

I know it is intense. I know that just over my right shoulder, the legions of prattle and tattle are demanding my attention. They urge me to regard with shock and awe the news of the great world’s turning. They may offer me panoramic views of floods and fires and fist pumping mobs or close-ups of the tearful, the terrified and the outraged. Whatever!  I am unmoved. I enter my mind, scroll down through the list of prepared dreams, select one and press Play.

They turn to new tactics: not tragedy, but scandal. If killings do not engage me, then what about inappropriate donations, unfortunate copulations, unhealthy inhalations, or even just weird things done with tongues. But in my napping state – somewhere  just below consciousness –  offerings like these cannot arouse me. Yes, I could surface. Of course I could stretch and twist and at least see. But doing so would disturb the kitten on my chest, and that would be cruel. I am never cruel.

We enter the final stage of the conflict. Here come the “Cute”: the chubby baby pandas, and the clumsy puppies, and the strangely dressed cats, and the funny videos of people falling in or out of places and the interview with yet another celebrity who wants to work for third world peace, albeit only on a New York stage. I am invited to please, please, please laugh and cry and be moved.

But I am unmoved. I sense their weakness; their force is dulled and their edge is blunted. Here, safe on home ground, I launch my most powerful weapon. I like to think that at the moment of detonation, three anchor persons, each equipped with at least two of the Big Teeth-Big Hair-Big Smile trinity are gazing out on what they believe is an attentive and adoring world. I imagine them asking each other questions and then telling each other how wonderful the questions were. I almost hear them telling me to wait while they switch to their correspondent who is “LIVE” in Washington and ready to tell me what the president is doing in Wyoming.

And then I snore.

In The Art of War, Sun Tzu refers to the use of weapons in Chapter Twelve, “The Attack by Fire”. A snore is admittedly not combustible, but well timed and well-delivered, one snore can achieve an ironic force  measureable only in megatons.  (And for the record, those who have heard me snore are quite unanimous in preferring immolation to being forced to attend a repeat performance.)

Having snored, I wake, and look around. My war is done. I have demonstrated the truth of one of Tzu’s most critical pieces of advice. “Good warriors take their stand on ground where they cannot lose.” Damn right, Sun, ol’ Buddy! It’s my room, my remote, my couch, my nap, my snore. I win.

I restore my television to its normal settings. The network puppets and my imaginary trinity are all gone, replaced by men with bad hair and plaid jackets telling me what to do when I’m hurt in a car or have stolen jewellery to sell. I go to the window and gaze out over my city. Things seem calm. Order – or its semblance – appears to have been restored. The pigeons even seem to be apologizing.

We cannot write the whole script. But we can always write a little, and improvise an occasional ad lib when the dialogue gets dull. As for those times when the chattering classes seem on the verge of pushing us over the edge, well, that’s when we soldier up and bring out the heavy artillery. We turn our backs and execute an elegant nap, snoring away our foes and reducing them instantly to nothing more than ludicrous mime and impotent fury.

It is Thanksgiving Day in Canada. We shall have turkey and football, both excellent precursors to naps. I have already claimed the couch. And tomorrow we shall have our Prime Minister’s Speech from the Throne. Given his recent history, I am anticipating the sale of at least one – and perhaps two – provinces. Subsequent couch access will apparently be determined by lottery. I have my ticket..

 As is the norm, our outrage has a short shadow, even when it should remain alive. Today for some reason I remembered a young man killed recently by police. I wrote about it at the time. The piece is here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-6s

 

 

 

 

On Justin Trudeau and the Demon Weed (Oh My!)

In which the Elegant Bastard examines the drug of choice for each of several Canadian political leaders.

I like to think that I have a real appreciation of both satire and irony. I love a good joke. I adore puns and I chuckle quietly for the rest of the day after hearing a good one. But never, ever, ever until now – for all my love of humour – have I been able to begin my day rolling on the floor laughing thanks to the morning news.

It all started with the seismic bulletin that Justin Trudeau, leader of Canada’s Liberal Party and son of a former Prime Minister, had smoked – the horror – marijuana – Out, damned spot! Out I say – five or six times – Oh keep him away from the children! – in his lifetime – Bless me Father… – including once in his own home – Barricade it! – when a friend – Satan? Where are you Satan? – passed him a – Get thee behind me – joint.

No less a moral leader than Canada’s Minister of Justice, Conservative Peter MacKay (who has always reminded me of Elmer Fudd) denounced Mr. Trudeau’s admission as evidence of a “profound lack of judgment”.  And since Mr. MacKay is the politician who famously spent $20,000 of taxpayer funds on 1) a trip to the Grey Cup, 2) a trip to a seafood show and 3) a trip back home from his remote vacation spot via a military helicopter, we have to admit that he is an acknowledged expert on profound errors – and, of course, on a different kind of “tripping” than the one apparently experienced by Mr. Trudeau!.

Canada’s Prime Minister, Stephen Harper – who always manages to look as if he is trying to disappear up one or more of his own orifices – clearly has no patience with even a hint “reefer madness”[i]. He displayed his normal distaste for anything he can’t find looking back at him in his morning mirror by sneering that Mr. Trudeau’s words “speak for themselves”. (That’s what other people’s words do, Mr. Harper, and you should try it someday!)

That Mr. Harper would respond with scorn is no particular surprise. He is adept at contempt, his most recent targets being the global environment, all those opposed to him selling the country to China and that inconvenient Canadian thing called a parliament.  He, too, is no stranger to questionable judgment, having raised con artists Mike Duffy and Pamela Wallin to Canada’s senate before icing that particular cake with the appointment of Patrick Brazeau, a recent addition who has since been charged with sexual assault. And given that his philosophical  “bros” include Conservative Toronto city counsellor, Doug Ford (linked in the media to drug dealing) and the Conservative mayor of Toronto , Rob Ford, reportedly a “crack head”, Mr. Harper might want to stay as far away as possible from discussions of “judgment”.

Really, the poor man! Imagine the stresses of leadership. In fact, anyone who looks like Mr. Harper does in this picture (http://www.pixdesk.ca/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/Stephen-Harper-Cowboy-Outfit-Stampede.jpg) might want to consider trying a little judicious cannabis use. (Take two tokes and call us in the morning.) He might even want to consider making the whole Tory party 420 friendly; Ottawa would at least be a happier place to work.

The Conservative fear of Mr. Trudeau and their subsequent efforts to belittle him have come dangerously close to making them a national joke. They started by flaunting a picture of him sporting a scruffy hippy-ish moustache, and then learned it was a “Movember” effort. Next came the PR disaster rising out of their attempt to portray him as preying on charities for gain, only to have the nation discover that the complainants originated with Conservative party hacks. I am now waiting for them to re-spin Trudeau’s boxing match with Brazeau under the headline “Trudeau Seen Assaulting Aboriginal Leader”.   They will see the marijuana news, whatever its source, the same way dogs see bones or other dogs and will react with about as much finesse. And by doing so, they will once again demonstrate how far away from the Canadian main stream they have drifted.

I grew up in the same era as many of Harper’s cabinet, caucus and cronies. As I see him sniff disdainfully at Mr. Trudeau’s actions, my mind wanders back to my university days. Essentially we had those who did a lot of weed, those who did some, those who did a little, and those who drove to Quebec every Friday morning to get the “BIG” bottles of beer.  Among our favorite pastimes was heading to the pub where we would order rounds of draft and – as a macho rite of passage – steal the emptied glasses. (The pub knew, pretended it didn’t, and factored the cost into the drink prices.) And before Tory apologists start going on about weed being illegal and booze being nothing more than good ol’ boy Friday Night stress relief, the drinking age was then twenty-one. Sadly, we were all criminals.

As time went on, our preferences changed and mild political stereotypes emerged. The NDP crowd – loud and hairy – stayed with beer out of what they called “solidarity” – with whom or what was never clear. The Liberals abandoned  the ubiquitous Mateus Rose and Blue Nun and gravitated towards slightly better wines; they were urban cool, you see, and Beaujolais went well with polo shirts and boot cut jeans. The Tories headed for the scotch bar as soon as they could afford both it and the dark blue three-piece.

Weed, grass, Mary Jane, Ganja, dope, happy herb – whatever it was called – receded gradually into our pasts, emerging from time to time when the children were away and the time seemed right for a discrete after dinner giggle! (That’s right, Dear Reader – exactly what Mr. Trudeau and his party did in the privacy of his home and not, as Toronto’s current mayor prefers, on camera and in the middle of Main Street.)

Interestingly, as I look back on what Mr. Harper would regard as these misspent moments of my youth, I realize that I “toked” with or observed the toking antics of a boisterous crowd that now includes three CEO’s, several respected artists, an ambassador, two philanthropists, dozens of successful legal and medical professionals and – my favorite –one current member of Canada’s Conservative “inner” circle. Many apparently still indulge, and with about the same frequency as Mr. Trudeau.

In short, however we may all feel about decriminalization and/or legalization or marijuana, we are unlikely to get our political shorts in a knot because Mr. Trudeau has occasionally and privately “passed the dutchie”, even if he did do so from the left hand side. We are much more likely to come down hard on those who speed, evade child support, drive while over the limit,  scam their insurance companies, or pour themselves a third martini on an empty stomach,  real social crimes that can have consequences for others  and which occur – according to some – more often than pot smoking.

As a teacher, I strongly oppose the use of marijuana by all who are under the (admittedly arbitrary) age of eighteen. I also oppose with equal fervor their use of cigarettes, alcohol without a parent present, Red Bull, French fries, tanning salons and diet pills. Since several of these items are legal, it should be obvious that my feelings have to do with healthy minds and bodies, not some fuzzy laws the courts keep telling us are not valid. I support decriminalization and have not made up my mind regarding legalization but I do lean towards it.

Therefore, when it comes to political decision making, Mr. Harper, you need to understand that when I enter the voting booth the next time, I will not be wondering if Mr. Trudeau is “one toke over the line” with Sweet Mary. I will be  thinking of the damage you have done to our international reputation, your use of public funds to purchase thinly veiled political ads extolling the virtues of notoriously unsuccessful job training initiatives, your mockery (and disembowelling) of environmental protections, your contemptuous attitude towards parliament, your little-boys-wanting-big-toys love of obscenely priced fighter jets, your adoption of a Tea Party “Say anything!” approach to campaigning and most of all, your unrestrained addiction to the Tar Sands. I am sometimes surprised you aren’t found crawling towards them with a straw.

If I do vote for Mr. Trudeau – and I may – it will be because I find his candor, his energy, his cooperative work ethic and his thinking out loud to be a refreshing change from your anally retentive and secretive micro-managing. Grey flannel was never a personality style, Mr. Harper, until you made it so. And it will be because if anything really important is going to pot, it is this country under your rule.

Power is a far more dangerous drug that marijuana ever was, Mr. Harper, and I am tired of your addiction.



[i]  “Reefer Madness” and “Assassin of Youth” are two mid-1930’s propaganda films that “document” the dangers of marijuana. They are masterpieces of accidental humour and are easily available.

Of Vladimir Putin and Rob Ford: Brothers Under Our Skin

In which the Elegant Bastard argues that boycotts and demands for resignations are not enough.

I doubt that many of you need to be told who Vladimir Putin is, but readers not fortunate enough to live in Toronto the Good may wonder who this character called Rob Ford might be, and why am I suggesting that these two sad little men are in some way siblings. More, why do I firmly believe that Olympic boycotts and mayoral resignations will do nothing to address the issues associated with each man, both of whom are nothing more than symptoms, festering growths  on the surface that distract our attention from the breeding germs  at work beneath our shared skin.

Robert Ford, the mayor of Toronto, does not so much move around the city as much as he lurches, stumbles, and oozes. Reportedly a failure in nearly everything he has ever attempted (other than running for mayor) and seemingly a classic example of self-loathing mixed with self-hatred, [i] he is a seething and obese ball of platitudes, prejudices and panderings, all designed to keep his legion of haters –  often called “Ford Nation” – submissive, obedient and ready to leap to his defence.

His role in their lives is important. He embodies and celebrates their failings, calling them in from the margins and placing them vicariously alongside “their boy” at city hall. Let him mouth his racist and homophobic (or, in the case of cyclists, cruel) comments. He merely says out loud what they are terrified to say in whispers for fear of censure. Let him wander aimlessly and apparently intoxicated along the wrong stretch of a Toronto street festival, where he is filmed and ridiculed far from his panicking handlers. His followers will morph him into a “hard working boy” letting off a little steam – just like them! He is the little man of the little people and those who think he will be easy to remove are politically naive. For as much as he may be one Torontonian’s nightmare, he is another’s wet dream.

Mr. Putin is cut from the same bolt of cloth – albeit a much smaller piece. An authoritarian and petulant narcissist, he would be a sad and silly figure on the international stage –  if only he had less oil and fewer nuclear weapons. As is, he repeatedly gives the world reason to roll its eyes and wring its hands.  This past year or so, he’s been quite a busy little boy.  He has in off-hand and almost cavalier fashion supported the brutal Assad regime in Syria. He has used Russian orphans as a political tool against the United States. He has established bureaucratic networks that assault and/or imprison all who protest against the increasingly undemocratic structure of the Russian state. And he has allowed virulent homophobia to be enshrined into law, even to the point where it threatens to profane the upcoming Sochi Winter Olympics.

But his pathos becomes more evident than his politics when Putin attempts to show us the man that he would like to be. Among many many other carefully created images and anecdotes, we get “heroic” pictures of him crouching beside a (tranquilized) tiger, posing in a (stationary) race car, sitting bare-chested upon a (walking) horse and wearing a hockey uniform in the company of real (and much younger) players prior to a game.[ii] His overt need to have his masculinity validated at every possible location becomes first ludicrous, then wearisome and finally, troubling. He is a man in search of his own penis and world affairs are apparently a means to that end. (Mr. Ford must make do with a mere city.)

Just as there are childhood issues behind the accidental and self-abusive buffooneries of Toronto’s Rob Ford, so too are there multiple dynamics at work creating the putative super-hero, Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. But whether he was made by the horrors of post-war Leningrad, the fact that he was born to doting older parents, the relative poverty that meant he was raised as a slightly built skinny child in a neighbourhood of violent toughs, or the Soviet hierarchy that condemned him to impotent decades of mindless bureaucratic tasks when he wanted so badly to be a spy, [iii] this “leader” – who proudly claims to have been a childhood “thug” – seems somehow incomplete as a person. Small wonder that he “despises” the comparatively elegant and confident Barack Obama. We need only look at a recent picture (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/08/08/world/europe/obama-cancels-visit-to-putin-as-snowden-adds-to-tensions.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0) of the two together to perhaps understand the real reasons a gleeful Putin will keep Snowden safe in Russia. Obama has not even unfolded to his full height and he already towers over the vengeful little man beside him, the one whose face shows the strain as he tries to puff himself just one centimeter higher.

Yet just as Fordian bigotries appeal to the weak in Toronto, Putinian myth-making resonates in a Russia where many remember and long for the superpower status of bygone decades, the time when the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics stood toe to toe against the Yankee behemoth and nearly won the Cold War. Putin is their manufactured poster boy, the man who tweaks American and European noses at will and gets away with it.

It is this essential similarity – the ability to siphon political strength from the weakness of others – that makes a Ford or a Putin so difficult to defeat. True, the actions of each appal us – and rightly so. Offended at every possible level, we call for the resignation of the puerile mayor and a boycott of the Olympics so dear to the heart of the pathetic president. But these strategies will not work.

Many of my friends are calling passionately for action against the Sochi games and I share their anger. But I cannot support a boycott of the games. It would be a dramatic gesture, yes, but not much more. We would be “seen” to act, but others – our athletes – would pay the price of our “action”. No cost would accrue to us. It seems unfair to let others bear the brunt of our outrage.

A boycott may also backfire. Action creates reaction. Outrage breeds counter-outrage. Is the Russian response to a Sochi boycott likely to be the nation turning against Putin en masse and wagging a remonstrative finger at him, saying “Now look what you’ve done!” Or is it more likely to be a nationalistic and xenophobic slam right back at us – and the lionization of Putin into the Hercules he so clearly needs to be. What then might be the fate of Russian gays and lesbians when they face not just discrimination in the Duma[iv] but energized anger on the streets?

This power of counter-outrage is evident here in Toronto.  It is one of two forces keeping the grotesque little mayor politically alive. Every time angry voices demand his departure, equally angry armies thunder back, calling Ford’s attackers “leftist losers” and Ford the “BEST MAYOR EVER”. As I write, posted comments in response to his allegedly drunken appearance at the street festival are running in his favour! He may very well be re-elected next year.

The other force keeping both men in power – and it too argues against boycotts and resignations – is the political powers arranged behind Ford and Putin. Each man is a puppet. Ford is the front man for a powerful right wing cabal that loves the appeal he has to a large segment of Ontario’s voting population. They hope that with his “Nation” and their marketing, a right wing government in Ontario, in concert with its federal cousins in Ottawa,  will start removing a lot of the “anti-business” regulations that currently restrict their unfettered (and unprincipled) version of capitalism. A man named Tim Hudak – a slightly better dressed Ford clone who expresses the same hates but with more syllables – is even now busily being groomed to take power at the provincial level.

As for Putin, he is nothing more than a desperate move made by desperate men seeking to protect and enrich themselves. As President Boris Yeltsin began to fall apart, his backers elevated the unknown Putin, even though he was seen as “kind of small”, because he would be loyal, not to Russia, but to them. It is Russia’s oligarchs and its emerging upper class that manipulate and maintain Putin now. Even if we savage Sochi, they will be relatively unscathed. If anything, the fallout might enrich and empower them further.

Ford and Putin are assailable, but there will be a cost. If the villains in Russia are more the billionaires in their mansions than the bigots in the streets, then our actions need to be directed at them, a move that could cost us revenue, investment and growth. There would be political scandal when the degree of our own governments’ complicity in Russian corruption – including Putin – becomes evident.  If Ford is to be brought down, he has to be made a political liability rather than an asset to those financial and media forces who benefit from his polarizing presence. Our mockery must be directed at them as much as him. Again, there will be costs as unsavoury links are revealed. Still, if we want there to be a fight, it is up to us – and not our surrogates – to pay the price.

I am not counselling radicalism. I am far too comfortable here in the political mushy middle for that. But if we are truly outraged at what is happening in Toronto, Russia and so many other places in the world where gestures calm anger and allow business as usual to go on, we need to move away from feeble “shows”. We need to rise from our couches. We need to bare our teeth and show our claws and run the risk of wounds. Otherwise we may as well remain silent, for no successful wars were ever fought with noisy fireworks set off by unpaid and unwilling mercenaries.



[i]  For an admittedly somewhat biased but nonetheless fascinating story of how Mr. Ford became what he is, see http://www.torontolife.com/informer/features/2012/05/15/rob-ford-the-weirdest-mayoralty-ever/

[ii]  For more of these quite accidentally hilarious images, go to http://www.theatlantic.com/infocus/2011/09/vladimir-putin-action-man/100147/

 [iii] For a riveting biography – decidedly unauthorized – of Putin, see Masha Gessen’s much admired The Man Without a Face,available here (http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/the-man-without-a-face/9781594488429-item.html) or at Amazon.

 [iv]  The Duma is the Russian parliament

The Mayor’s Guide to Sexual Harassment in the Workplace

To assist mayors, would-be mayors and office managers everywhere, the Elegant Bastard patiently explains why people do – and do not – bring their genitals to work with them!

As the last song finishes at the concert of your favorite star, do you rise from your seat and sound your approval with an enthusiastic fart? No?

Do you stalk the squirrels in the closest city park? You don’t?

Do you enter hotel lobbies and rearrange the chairs into patterns more pleasing to your eye? Never?

Neither do I.

Nor did I pee in the Fountaine de Mers in Paris, regardless of an urgent need. I did not – hungry as I was – mug the little old lady in Vienna and dash away with her sachertorte. And even in the midst of a mid-morning shower when I suddenly realized I was late for an important interview, I did not rush naked and dripping to the bus stop. I put on my shoes first.

So how is it, Dear Reader, that you and I are such constant models of restraint? What wisdom do we possess that prompts us to voluntarily set our own needs aside? Paris had no signs saying “Please do not piss in the fountains”. Prague saw no need to post notices asking hungry tourists not to assault pastry possessing seniors. Nowhere in Toronto’s public transit system will you be formally notified – in writing – that clothing is required. And I doubt that the squirrels in your city come equipped with stencilled “Do Not Molest” collars. (And if they do, you might want to consider relocating.)

It seems that most of us understand that certain rules of behavior do not need to be hung up upon the wall. They are obvious. Yet the mayor of San Diego, Mr. Bob “I’m a Hugger” Filner, claims that the charges of sexual harassment he faces are to be blamed on that city’s failure to provide him with proper information concerning the nature of “unwelcome sexual advances”. How, Bob wonders, can he possibly be held responsible for unknowingly crossing some arbitrary line in the sand? “Look,” he seems to say, arms spread wide in contrite surprise. “There are no signs! They never put up signs!”

Well, Bob, perhaps you have a point. Perhaps, overwhelmed by the stresses related to your job, you just assumed that a woman’s breasts were an office perk, like a stapler but softer. Or in the spirit of brotherly love and compassion, you just felt a need to reach out and touch someone. Is it your fault that San Diego foolishly keeps all its STOP signs outdoors? And maybe we should also offer sympathy to New York’s Antony Weiner? I doubt that anyone posted anywhere a notice reading “No Sexting Until Elected.”

Clearly, remedial action is necessary, and the Elegant Bastard, ever mindful of his weighty responsibilities regarding the moral education of lesser souls, has not only agreed to provide a simple six-part guide concerning sexual harassment in the workplace but has also promised to provide it free to mayoralty candidates all around the world.

One: Understanding Why People Bring Their Genitals to Work: As a mayor, you will need to be aware that while objects and people are both found in offices, they are not the same. For example, if I choose to bring cookies to work and place them in a public spot with a sign attached saying “Help yourself”, you are free to do precisely that. I may one day bring fresh apples or a case of bottled water. These are optional objects. Crunch yourself silly or slurp ‘til you burp.

However, when I bring my buttocks, my breasts or my genitalia with me to the workplace, I do so because it is not really possible for me to leave them at home. They are with me necessarily.They are not accessories. It is therefore unwise to assume that their presence means I am offering them to you instead of butter tarts.

And you should not assume that any reference to non-human objects is acceptable. If I have pictures of my children on my desk, by all means tell me they are sweet. Do not offer to help me make another. Asking me if you can borrow my Harry Potter is acceptable. Dumping your stained and ragged copy of The Joy of Sex in my lap while breathing heavily is not. Praising the colour of the mittens that I knit at lunch will earn you a smile. Offering to show me your other body parts in need of warming will likely result in your parts and my needles achieving instant intimacy.

Two: Sexual Harassment via Eye Contact: Invariably, mayors encounter people and some have even learned to speak when doing so. This leads us to the issue of where to direct the eyes while conversing. Since eyes are considered the window to the soul, face-to-face contact is the safest and most useful strategy. It suggests intelligence, honesty, respect for others and even a certain poetic spirituality, especially if you avoid drooling while gazing. Chests, buttocks and crotches cannot properly be regarded as windows to anything you need to see, and mainstream religions will resist your efforts to declare them holy. Claiming to be the founder of a new cult will not fool anyone.

Three: Sexual Harassment and Touching:

It is possible you might feel that ass-slapping is a common way to offer congratulations or encouragement and that your role as a city manager entitles you to motivate others any way you can. However, you need to remember that few – if any – of your duties will be performed on the volleyball court or the football field. As well, a quick look at relevant “You Tube” videos should make it clear that while even pro-basketball players engage in public ass-slapping, they have yet to start ass stroking, fondling, pinching and kneading – at least in public. Finally, just accept the fact that not even a last second winning goal in the Stanley Cup final would justify nipple-tweaking, crotch grabbing or pelvic thrusting. It therefore seems logical that you avoid such actions altogether and restrict your efforts at physical contact to the occasional hand shake, remembering, of course, to let go.

I will concede that hugging or patting is not always “lewd and improper behavior”. Still, it is best to be safe. If you must hug, why not arrange to have trees of the appropriate size scattered about the office and the city? If you must pat, rent a friendly dog. If necessary,you could periodically pat your own ass. Or stroke it. Or fondle it. It’s your ass. That’s the point!

The ultimate solution for real touch-addicts would be buying an inflatable sex doll and keeping it in your office closet. As long as you remember to close your door, turn up the music, and indulge only during lunch hours, you will likely be safe. The other major advantage of these toys is their inability to hire or pay for lawyers.

Four: Sexual Harassment and Terms of Endearment: It has been my experience that many people come with names already assigned. Efforts to replace those names with terms like “Honey”, “Tootsie”, “Studly”, “Cupcake”, “Woody” or “My Little Strudel” will likely encounter some resistance. Your peers may point out that they were not hired because of their sweetness, their curves, their bulges, their crumbly texture, their hardness or their lavish icing. A quick glance at their job descriptions should convince you that they are right. And referring to them with terms like “Bimbo” or “Tight Ass” will likely result in many new names for you, among them “The Accused”, “The Convicted” and “Inmate 2136421”.

Five: Sexual Harassment and Comments about Clothing: Some people appreciate a compliment when they wear a new or expensive or symbolic article of clothing. And most will respond well to comments like “That green matches your eyes” or “What a lovely scarf”. Go beyond that and you could stray on to shaky ground. This is likely because as a mayor, you are expected to focus your attention on issues like lowering tax rates, repairing bike lanes and creating new jobs. If your constituents do want you involved with porn at all, they will likely want you stamping it out rather than making more. Whistling at someone’s jeans, hollering “Sexy!” at the sight of a short skirt, suggesting that Fridays be made underwear free days or responding to someone’s new jacket by whispering that your favorite hobby is sucking polyester should all be regarded as actions that are career limiting.

Six: Sexual Harassment and Headlocks: San Diego’s Mayor Filner apparently put one of these on a female staffer whom he then led around the room while discussing city business. One wonders how he would have responded to her grabbing his testicles and leading him to an open window while discussing the effect of gravity on falling objects.

Mayor Filner’s actions prompt me to make the following suggestion to potential office seekers. If what you are thinking of doing to another person is normally an action performed by a professional wrestler, a masseuse, an exterminator, a terrorist or a surgeon, take a deep breath, a large drink and a running jump – alone! The outcome will likely be less painful for all concerned.

Let me close with one last piece of advice. Careers in the public service are not for everyone. Being a mayor – or any office holder – means tip-toeing through potential minefields on a daily basis. If, despite my efforts in this handbook, you still believe that your sexual advances will always be welcomed, you might wish to choose a career in prostitution rather than politics. The hours are about the same, many of the duties are similar and you will rarely be required to make long speeches.

 

Of Demons and the Death on Camera of Sammy Yatim

All of us battle the demons, whether we are boys with baseball caps and knives or men with uniforms and guns.

We are deep in a Toronto night. The video begins without sirens. I notice their absence.

Men and women dressed in black and armed with guns move back and forth or stand outside an eerie yellow haze that cannot properly be called light. Another figure, an apparent man-child, half in black and half in white, moves back and forth within the stopped streetcar.

Now I hear the sirens. They seem faint and far away, muted voices rushing to the scene, noises in the night.

The video images are vague but I am the parent of young men, and in Sammy’s posture I can see what might be arrogance mixed with fear – that, or the failing struggle of someone much too young to keep the demons in or out alone. But whatever else I see, I see a boy. For all that he may be spewing foul words or waving about a knife, he is a boy. He is one boy. The calling sirens still sound distant.

I was not in that streetcar on that street. I do not know who lost the struggle first. I know that shots rang out – first three and then six more – and Sammy was no longer there. I notice his absence and I peer closer, searching. He is gone. The boy has disappeared. The remaining men and women mill about, as if not certain where they are or what they’ve done or what they are to do.

The noise now finds its power, and it grows. Its howling invades the night, rising and falling and pulsing. It does not feel as if it came closer; only that it grew louder. It seems to be rushing everywhere at once and for a moment, I can almost believe that it is gloating.

Some will be disappointed with the video. They came to it because of media warnings that promised it was graphic. They wanted horror, obtained with a free ticket and savoured in their own homes. Let’s have some blood, some louder screams, and just a little crying please? But there was none of what they wanted.

They do not see the horror that is there for them to see.

When the man with a gun killed one boy with a knife, those nine bullets ripped a hole in the walls of our world. They left a tear large enough that, as  Sammy slipped away from us, the demons could enter, dancing with others of their tribe, screaming out the news of their victory and madly rising higher in our now much darker sky.

 

 

In Praise of Sinful Pleasures or Acknowledging Your Inner Slut

In which the Elegant Bastard points out the advantages of having a good long chat with one’s inner slut.  

I can be perfect for only so long.

Eventually the strain will show. My fingers will begin to twitch, my molars will grind, and my eyes will look about, perhaps searching for anything cute to kick. My smile – taut, and holding as if glued in place – will tremble. A sneer will threaten at the corners of my lips. I will resist for as long as I can, but if the grumblies are gathering, the snarlies cannot be far behind. I soon will be combustible.

Somehow I will avoid ignition. Most of us do. We try to push away the feeling that we are forever standing at attention. We concentrate on being green enough, and smart enough, and parental enough and cool enough. We strive to be multicultural, we pop our multi-vitamins and we multitask like mad. And we generally manage to stumble through life on emotional auto-pilot.

But when that control falters, when the warning lights begin to flash, we panic. We pull back from unauthorized acts and suck in unsavoury sounds. We look for the always present judgmental eyes. We are in a no-fart zone and our claim that pressures are building will earn us no sympathy. Woe to those whose social sphincters fail them.

We may try to divert ourselves. Memos get sent, the calendar is updated, the bills get paid, the light bulbs are changed and so on down the take-my-mind-off-my-life list until you snap yourself out of the trance and realize you’ve just dusted the dog. It then chases the cat, the kids take opposing sides and you wonder if you could just vacuum seal the entire group. But you can’t. The noise of your failure is all around you and it goes downhill from there. You are falling groaning into guilt.

It is at that points like these that we reach for our “pick me ups”, our sedatives, our “tranks” of choice. It might be “Big Bang Theory” reruns, or another night spent watching Indiana Jones running from a rolling stone, or listening yet again to 2 Live Crew practicing dirty words. It could be gummy worm ice cream, truffled mac and cheese or a triple G and T. But whatever we may turn to, it brings no real pleasure. Good chocolate used in this way is chocolate wasted!  Even as we tell ourselves that we deserve our little treat, something deep within us whispers “No!” And we sigh, for we know the truth. There is no place to go to escape bad guilt.

Bad guilt is life’s nasty little gift. It starts when you first discover there’s a wrong way to tie your shoes or do long division or eat pasta. You learn that there’s a wrong sport to play and a wrong way to play it. Then you discover there’s a wrong subject to study, a wrong career to choose, a wrong party to support, a wrong person to marry. Guilt’s moving finger points and its voice won’t go away: “Not Good Enough!” “Wrong, wrong, wrong!” “Guilty, guilty, guilty!”

 And you groan.

Bad guilt is the kind your mother hoped would make you clean your room, be nice to your sister and become Prime Minister. It makes you pay most of your taxes. It forces you away from the eight-or-less express lane when you have nine items. It denies you carrot cake. It pops up when you think, say or do the wrong thing and again when you don’t think, don’t say and don’t do the right thing.  It stomps around the intimate rooms of your inner brain, mocking the pictures and kicking the furniture. Then it beats you with the whips that it forces you to make.

Fortunately, there is an alternative. The imaginative among us can get off the bad guilt treadmill if we want to very much and we try very hard. You start by getting in touch with your inner slut. Oh, don’t be silly. Of course you have one. You just haven’t let it out to play in a while. Once released, this powerful and essentially naughty persona rushes into the limbic system, grabs bad guilt by the scruff, stuffs it in a environmentally unfriendly bag, seals it with duct tape, tosses it in a closet and slams the door. Then it turns, looks at you, grins an evil grin and blows you sexy little kisses. And you giggle. Welcome to Good Guilt!

I know, Dear Reader, that some of you may be questioning this strategy. You will reasonably point out that “inner” is often kept inside for a reason. Best to keep it locked away in there where it can not cause embarrassment, cause acne or lower property values.. But such reasoning is fallacious. Not everything that lies hidden out of sight is necessarily evil. What about a leprechaun’s pot of gold? What about inner beauty. And  just where do they keep the caramel in Caramilk, eh? Why can’t your inner slut be just as sweet?

Perhaps the reluctance has more to do with the sexual connotations the word “slut” usually carries with it. But I am not counselling rampant sexual excess – unrestrained flash mobs chorusing “Wham, Bam, Thank You Ma’am and Sam”.  I’m not necessarily talking about sex at all, and certainly not of massacres, or gluttony, or anything else rapacious. If I were, I would be saying that it is quite all right to manipulate others, making them instruments to be used for your own enjoyment. It isn’t and I’m not.

What I am talking about is simply indulging our inner sensualist, that happy sluttish imp that savours some modicum of pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Why then use the word “slut” at all? I do so because the word adds a necessary dimension. Our most potent little pleasures must be those we know will elicit judgmental frowns. They must not be “deserved”. They must have about them just the faintest scent of sin.  We must take our delight the same way Alexander took the world: by choice, by force, and because it was there! If bad guilt bends our backs and saps our strength, Good Guilt lifts our heads and helps us build our empires.

The expected tasks and the prescribed chores and the assigned worries will wait. For a while I will be at the spa, eating cookies while I have a pedicure; or in front of the television, watching royal babies enter life; or heading off on an unnecessary jaunt to Montreal, perhaps first class; or eating a second Ritters Sport square; or having a second nap on the good couch; or buying and refusing to share licorice-flavoured toothpaste; or ordering a strangely complex coffee at a cafe farther away than it needs to be. Concerns about money, time, calories and good taste will be tossed away. Do not be misled by my soft tones; this is my rebel roar!

Why indulge in these pleasures? Because I can! Did I earn any of them? Not in the least! Then isn’t there guilt? Of course there is – that wonderful lingering shivering guilt that comes with a smile. “I am so bad,” you whisper to yourself. “Yes you are!” responds your inner slut. You smile and offer the world one proud chocolate dipped finger.

Now those urgent voices chanting “Wrong” and “Guilty”  are reduced to a feeble “tsk, tsk!” or a silly “tut, tut!” with only the shaking of disdainful heads or the elevating of arrogant noses to add a little drama. But these are ineffective and impotent acts. We are now in the land of Good Guilt. Here we rule. Here there are no whips, or, if there are, they are consensual and they come with mounds of fresh whipped cream.

We cannot stay here long; we all know that. Duty calls. But it is a wonderful place to visit, and we return to the real world restored. We take with us a new smile and a new strength. The issues and the causes and the people that depend on us will once again gather around our feet. They will notice, however, a difference in our posture, a spring in our step, a sparkle in our eyes. They will sense that we are free in a way that wasn’t true before. They will not understand it when we smile, giggle, and blow them sexy little kisses.

Those wishing to read more about the saving power of pleasure may do so at http://wp.me/p3cq8l-3S

And, as always, feel free to comment, criticise, “share”, “tweet” and ask for the locations of stores selling licorice flavoured toothpaste.

Of Rolling Stone, Maggots and the National Anthem

In which the Elegant Bastard considers what appears to be the new American national anthem and decides that he would much rather they keep the old one.

“Lean to the left; Lean to the right! Stand up; Sit down! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Do you remember that chant, America? I do. On autumn Friday afternoons we would buy our way out of afternoon classes and gather on our ramshackle bleachers to cheer on our football heroes. And about every ten minutes or so, the cheerleaders would strut out to the track – hands on hips, pompoms ready – and when their leader gave the signal, the chanting would begin.

“Lean to the left; Lean to the right! Stand up; Sit down! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

It was wonderful in that context. Now, things are different. Something more than a football trophy is at stake.

It’s been an interesting news week. We had flailing arms, frothing mouths, pointing fingers and pounding fists. We had marches and vigils and crowds and parades. We had media everywhere, tossing out misleading headlines, filming crying eyes and screaming  mouths and throwing in enough  inflammatory bits of speculation to keep everything bubbling .  Then, in the evening, near identical sets of polished faces and sculptured hair sat on panels to “tut tut” and “tsk tsk” in predictably confrontational “discussions”. Organized outrage was on another big roll; it was a nation-wide case of choreographed flatulence.

And now, before we even have a chance to clear the air, there’s a whole new drama. Out of the way, Mr. Zimmerman. Mr. Snowden, stop whining. It’s all about Rolling Stone magazine and it’s “fluffed and buffed” cover photograph of alleged Boston Bomber, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev.

“Lean to the left; Lean to the right! Stand up; Sit down! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

The Right Hand Rant:  How dare this radical smut-filled rag offer such disrespect to the victims of the Boston marathon tragedy? How dare it glorify and glamorize a terrorist and a murderer by placing him in a spot normally occupied by teen idols and rock superstars. This tears at the nation’s moral fibre. Those who read this or profit from it are anti-American and greedy traitors! ( And godless! We mustn’t forget godless!)

The Left Hand Rant: Freedom of the press is one of America’s most precious traditions, a cornerstone of its democracy. Rolling Stone has always been a symbol of cutting edge and responsible journalism. Its fearless devotion to truth was epitomized by its award winning interview of convicted serial killer, Charles Manson. Those who can’t see this are right wing red necks who need to get with the times and go with the flow. (Now play with your guns and get over yourselves.)

What’s wrong with this? All of it really, but the worst threat is also the most subtle.

Those who defend Rolling Stone by pointing out the fundamental role freedom of the press plays in creating and maintaining the essence of America are on solid ground. So are those who argue that displaying the smouldering pretty boy charms of Tsarnaev on the cover of the iconic entertainment magazine elevates a terrorist to the stature of a Bob Dylan sex-god and denigrates the suffering of his victims. But as will inevitably be the case in a society that only listens to itself when the screaming starts, both sides go too far.

“Lean to the left; Lean to the right! Stand up; Sit down! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Rolling Stone defends its actions by claiming that all they are doing is maintaining their “long-standing commitment to serious and thoughtful coverage of the most important political and cultural issues of our day.” Oh please! This is just silly, and anyone who has followed the magazine even intermittently over its history knows that. The brainchild of a maniacal, manipulative and media-savvy 60’s radical, it brought together what one critic called “stock, shock and schlock” and made it profitable. The Manson interview, seen as edgy in its more innocent historical context, would be dismissed as sensationalism today. The new cover’s caption, claiming that the article will show how Tsarnaev “became a Monster” – Oooooo! – suggests that nothing much has changed. (And by the way, Rolling Stone, what happened to innocent until proven guilty?)

Another obvious argument against Rolling Stone’s attempt at noble self-justification is both the choice of picture and its placement. Past media images of Tsarnaev tended to be far less attractive than this posed photo. The story is one of several in the issue yet it makes the cover.  Why use this picture in that place? There can be only one reason. Sales! And sales, sadly, have to be a concern for a magazine that has reportedly been slipping pretty steadily since its glory days. That picture is where it is for the best and basest of all capitalist reasons. A woman I spoke to today sniffed that what Rolling Stone has done was no different than maggots with dead flesh.  I would disagree. When maggots feed, they do not claim they are dining.

“Lean to the left; Lean to the right! Stand up; Sit down! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

Still, Rolling Stone’s sensationalism is not the real issue. More dangerous is the deliberate encouragement of polarization in American society. And most dangerous of all is the rise of impotence!

In response to the Zimmerman verdict and the Snowden … whatever that was, we had streetscape after streetscape filled with placards and chanting and grotesque faces thrusting themselves at television cameras like lovers to each other’s bodies. And afterwards, nothing. These were gestures, moments of strutting and fretting, tales of sound and fury screamed aloud by idiots. Even as catharsis it was feeble.

And now, in response to the Rolling Stone photo, we will have boycotts. Oooooo! That means that people who never buy the magazine will now loudly proclaim the fact that they are not buying it. Stores that barely sold any – or none – will now point out that they are selling none. An equally impotent act will be accomplished by the other side. Those who normally buy it or have it delivered will simply draw attention to their purchases, perhaps dispensing with a paper bag or by reading it ostentatiously on a bus.

And that will be that. Gestures. No bang. Barely a whimper. If your lovers loved like that, you would push them out of bed.

None of this is activism. None of it is profound. Yes, the images and sound bites of your marches and your mewlings will be gathered and broadcast, but this will be, like Rolling Stone, commercialism – not potent political philosophy. You will be camera fodder only, something to be used. The media and its pundits will profit enormously and they will do so by encouraging this schism they foment in America.

Perhaps if Americans put aside the “My way and only my way” posturing and choose to come together (over coffee, tea, or beer) and talk (no yelling, drooling, or spitting) things out on common ground (pubs are good; so are churches), things would change. Everyone would give a little and get a little. Daily life would be less stressful.  The evening news might get tad boring but would that be such a bad thing? (We can always get North Korea to do something entertaining.)

And politicians would have to do more than stir up hate to get elected. That last American presidential election was less a smear campaign than it was a sneer campaign, and that’s really dangerous.

Let’s all listen to the old chant one more time:

“Lean to the left; Lean to the right! Stand up; Sit down! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

It makes a grand football cheer, I agree.

But as a national anthem, it sucks.

 

Since it seems to be Rant Day, here’s a link to a short story concerning my encounter with an aggressive vegetarian: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-49

As always, feel free to “share”, comment, “tweet” or buy coffee.

 

 

To My Royal Baby Not Yet Born

In which the Elegant Bastard converses with an unborn child, vows to clean up his room and urges others to do the same.

Well hello!

Aren’t you the Royal little wonder! No, don’t worry. You’re not late. That big old world out there will stop whatever it is doing when you arrive but until then, it will be business as usual. For now, be as comfortable as you can and enjoy these final noise-free hours.

I do not mean to add any pressure to the life you are about to lead, but you have suddenly become rather important to me, all the more so since you are not mine in any conventional sense. What with all the recent media baby hoopla – you’re not the only one making an appearance – I am more than usually aware of your impending arrival. And for the very first time, I am also aware of the fact that when you eventually assume your crown – and we all assume our crowns, little one, even when we don’t want to – I will very likely no longer be here. Your world will lack that certain something special that is me. That fact concentrates things wonderfully.

Like most, I tend to postpone the issue of legacy. What kind of world I will leave behind doesn’t really occupy my mind the way it should. After all, every day is a brand new day and I have places to go and things to consume and people to annoy. I’m here and now; I’m flash, I’m fire; I’m boom, boom, boom. How does merely the potential existence of anything, let alone something that will initially do little more than wail, feed, poop and play with its toes, mean anything at all to that process?

It seems to all be wrapped up in this idea of handing over. I am suddenly aware of the baton in my hand, of the noise of a crowd, of the thudding of feet behind me, of a shortness of breath within. Ahead I see nothing really distinct, just shadows really, but that baton needs to be handed over, and the only thing I do know is if it touches the ground, it will break. Would that be fair? Royal baby isn’t even here and already I have broken the baton.

Yet while I am talking to the idea of you, I am glancing at the news of the day as it streams across my 18 inch screen. A recent verdict in a murder trial is causing two groups of racists to call each other racist. Musicians are telling us where they won’t travel, former secretaries of state are keeping the potential base sweet by playing to one family’s tragedy while ignoring another’s, ex-jurors are trying to sell books, and “protesters” are looting a department store. A far away state is gearing up for its newest temper tantrum. The deaths of twenty two children in a food poisoning incident are being used by politicians as a reason to call protest strikes and by mobs as a reason to burn buses. Everywhere there are people causing crises, people caught in crises and people cashing in on crises. Is this a baton you want? Ah, right, I forget. You can’t hear. It is not for you to answer that question.

It’s strange. Yesterday, the news was much the same, and all I could hear was a friend’s voice telling me it was time for a martini. Today I know that you are coming and all I can hear is my mother’s voice telling me to clean up my room before I leave the house.

Pondering that, I walk over to my living room window and look out at the big world stretching away as far as a cloudless sky permits. Across the street I see a new kindergarten school nearing completion. The third fire alarm of the week sounds in the subsidized housing complex next door. Adolescents are happily flirting with each other while taking a break from their summer jobs in a new Target store.  The haze in the air is almost visible. Two friends are walking up the driveway. One waves. The other is carrying a tray containing six pints of golden raspberries. Only babies are more beautiful. I go to the wine cellar and take out the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Do you see, Royal baby, the problems you are causing me? I might – might – if I devote enormous time, energy and thought do something about the local haze and the desperate fires in the building next door. But what about the obscene noise issuing from the news stream, the daily resume of sorrows and deaths and the cause of far too many cowardly afternoon naps? Yet what else can I possibly do? And why? I didn’t ask for a crown, you know. I really didn’t.

No, that won’t work. I didn’t give it away when it came, either. And it certainly needs a good polishing. I can’t promise it will be much brighter when you get here but I’ll see what I can do.

For I don’t suppose it really matters what mother’s Royal baby you are, and whether you arrive in Afghanistan, or China, or America or Toronto or yes, in a much-photographed hospital ward in the center of the world in London. All babies are Royal babies; all are deserving of our loyalty and love.

So here it is, little one. I will do what I can about the near-by fires. I will contribute to the fight against the local haze. I will look daily at the kindergarten and the laughing teens to remember one reason why I make this vow, and I will think of golden raspberries and white wine to remember the other. My mother was right.  I need to clean up my room before I leave the house.

And I further promise that whenever I can, I will remind others that we all had mothers and we all have rooms and so the house needs lots and lots of cleaning. And by doing so, Royal Baby, I will remain true to this pledge I make to you today – that I will be, as long as I am able, your loyal Elegant Bastard.

Toronto, June 17, 11:11 a.m.

Please read and, if you find yourself nodding, then “share”, “tweet” or smile at any pregnant lady you might see.

A reader more observant than I noticed a similar theme in a piece I wrote in a more tragic context. “A Child, Waiting for His Father, was Murdered Today” is my response to the death of young Martin Richard, killed in the Boston bombing. As Jim, a Christ Figure in Twain’s Huckleberry Finn suggests, we must not waste children. I concur. Those wishing to read the earlier piece may do so here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-3o

 

 

Sunday Morning Coffee 5: the Elegant Bastard’s Dictionary of Helpful Words and Phrases, Part Two

In which the Elegant Bastard continues his crusade for transparency and honesty in the definition of modern words and phrases. In deference to last week’s outraged comments (see the definition of “outrage” below), this list is alphabetical. Motivated readers are welcome to submit suggested additions. Others are simply asked to enjoy:

Creationism: A philosophy first popular among fundamentalists seeking to deny the idea that they descended from apes, it is now gaining popularity among apes trying desperately to deny that creationists descended from them.

Diet Soft Drinks: These sugar-free beverages were widely assumed to be effective aides in the battle against excess body fat. New reports suggest that they accomplish this by killing those who use them.

Fast Food: The word “fast” is popularly assumed to describe the speed of service. More accurately, it refers to the rate at which the calories contained find their way to whatever body part you wish they would avoid.

Guerrilla, Insurgent, Jihadist, Mujahideen, and Survivalist: To some extent, all these words originally incorporated elements of heroism and self-reliance. None necessarily involves violence. However, if recent self-referential and media use is examined, they now collectively refer to groups of young men with unfortunate personal habits who spend far too much time in each other’s company.  Their primary activity seems to be the growing of badly maintained facial hair. When television cameras approach them, they crowd together, invent short chants and pump their right hands, leading many to speculate that the world would be a quieter and safer place if they discovered other things to do with their right hands.

Another distinguishing characteristic is a tendency to fire guns into the air. It’s difficult to know exactly what this action accomplishes but it is likely best regarded as ejaculation for the sexually challenged.

A third and rather messy habit is their tendency to kill themselves and each other. Many would accept – or even welcome – this with a “Boys will be boys” shrug. Sadly however, they also tend to target those they seem to fear. This includes children, anyone praying, the unarmed, the elderly, women, some statues and those who shave without permission.

The Elegant Bastard’s only suggestion is one made to the media. The terms in question being of honourable origin and notoriously difficult to spell, why not abandon them entirely and use the shorter alternatives available. Might I suggest “thug”, “bully”, “coward” or if more syllables are really necessary, “inadequate”?

Idol: Once an object of worship carved primarily from stone – or, for the broken-hearted, ice cream – the term now can be used to describe teen males who are 1) generally blonde 2) acne free 3) able to at least hold a simple tune and 4) unable to complete puberty. While there is apparently no truth to reports that listening to their music can cause early onset diabetes, it is generally accepted that these young men are not to be trusted with fast cars, hair gel and – in foreign countries – pet monkeys.

Left Turn: In cycling, a signal accomplished by extending the right arm and then bending it at the elbow until it forms a 90 degree angle. However, since any bike signal has the same effect on some drivers as red capes on bulls or blood on sharks, most cyclists simply avoid them and offer up short prayers instead.

Outrage: Driven by the masses of new participants attracted by The Martin-Zimmerman case, the Edward Snowdon silliness and now the Asiana pilots’ names hoax, “Being Outraged”  is now the number one participatory sport in America. It requires no real logic, no noticeable training, no opposing players and best of all, no sense of responsibility. All that is really required is a mouth that opens.

Racist: The definition remains the same; it’s the scale of things that’s changed. For years, the sanctimonious assumed that racism was a phenomenon peculiar to religious conservatives, the southern states and the Republican Party. The fact that long before his trial and even before he was charged, millions took one look at George Zimmerman’s photograph and instantly declared him to be a racist invalidates that assumption. If racism denotes a judgement based on skin colour, the term can now be applied to many liberals, a number of Democrats, most of Hollywood and the entire NAACP. Who would have thought equity was something to be achieved via irony?

Reality Show: By now one of the world’s most popular oxymorons, it refers primarily to outrageously contrived competitions that offend logic, decency and all of the natural sciences. To determine the intended audience for these productions, simply delete the first two syllables of “oxymorons”.

Vodka: A substance Significant Other maintains will shortly play a pivotal role in domestic life if 1) the Duchess doesn’t have that kid, or 2) the Duchess has that kid, or 3) I write one more definition.

Noting that our focus has now twice been the definition of words, some readers have asked me to define the term, “Elegant Bastard”. The process of doing so will begin soon. In the interim, the George Zimmerman trial ended yesterday and the Elegant Bastard is both happy to be proven wrong (so far) and saddened to be proven right. The post in question can be accessed here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-5K

Those who missed part one of “The Elegant Bastard’s Dictionary of Helpful Words and Phrases” can find it here. http://wp.me/p3cq8l-5q  Newcomers are advised to read it first.

The Tragedy of Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman

In which the Elegant Bastard argues that seeing and hearing are not necessarily worthy of believing.

Sometime in the near future, a Florida jury will render its verdict in the Trayvon Martin – George Zimmerman case. That verdict will be largely irrelevant. Truth and Justice long ago left the building, disgusted by the muck and mud being trucked in by the armies of special interest.  The case is now trapped in the centre of a screaming crowd so vast it would have filled the Roman Forum, where, thumbs down , it would have stood and cheered the death of both protagonists.

The Martin-Zimmerman case is a carefully choreographed and scripted spectacle. Was Zimmerman a man suddenly in danger who therefore had the right to defend himself? Or was he a racist? A drop out? A man with a history of violence? A failure who strutted his little-man walk around his gated community, drooling over the idea that he was the original American hard-ass, worthy of respect and deserving of his balls? Who knows anymore – and in much of America, who cares.

Was Trayvon Martin the world’s cutest and most innocent ever teenager, targeted by that nasty fat  white man when all he was doing was spending his time helping old ladies and loving babies and grinning photogenically? Or was he just another pot head, a jewelry thief, an unstable and oft abandoned man-child, a cracker-hating racist with a growing fascination with guns, an angry young man serving out his third school suspension in one year. It doesn’t matter anymore.

What matters are the needs of the duelling narratives.  

We have the Tracy Martin and Sybrina Fulton Good Parents` Narrative, a tear-stained many-hankies story of life-long love and oft declared devotion. Their “Mother’s-love” and “Father’s pride” sound bites have featured prominently in media reports.  It’s a marketable angle and it sold. No mention is made of the fact that Trayvon lived with and was fed, housed, clothed, schooled and disciplined for most of his brief life by another woman, Alicia Stanley, a lady being kept far away from the camera. No one mentions that “Mother’s Love” is seeking financial compensation for her son’s death or that “Father’s Pride” is rumoured to be preparing a multi-million dollar civil suit following the criminal trial. There are dollar making machines out there – book deals, speaking tours, and more. But this potentially lucrative narrative needs perfect grieving parents and perfect grieving parents need a perfect dead child. No wrinkles, please!

Then we have the Race in America political narratives. The day the case first broke, long before anyone was arrested, demonstrations broke out in cities across America. To any observer, they seemed well-planned, a bit choreographed and big on rhetoric. (Does anyone remember the threatened “Million Hoodie March”?)  Black Democratic Leaders and the NAACP fulminated, the usual activists breathed the usual fire, professional media manipulators manipulated, and thousands – or hundreds – or dozens – it was never really clear – shouted their approval: “Zimmerman is guilty.”  “End Profiling Now!” “Justice for Trayvon!” “Am I Next?” And on and on and on.

The Politics of Race in America is both Big Politics and Big Business. Rhetoric aside, many groups and individuals have a powerful and vested interest in keeping groups divided. Fanning hatred, resurrecting feelings of victimhood, pointing accusatory fingers and creating guilt have many times proved themselves to be effective ways of raising profile, gaining political office and generating dollars. Outrage is forever sexy. Truth is … whatever. Yes, it works far more effectively if the marketed anger is squeaky-clean virtuous; it should not be tainted. Trayvon must be nothing less than saint and Zimmerman nothing more than sinner. It is for this reason that we have watched commentators tie themselves in knots trying to explain away Trayvon’s racist utterings while at the same time castigating his step mother for suggesting Zimmerman was not motivated by race. It is why conservative commentators attacked the “white Hispanic” label some applied to Zimmerman by arguing that those who used such a term were themselves racist.

We cannot forget the Save Our Guns narrative. Now the dynamic changes. Now the story is a tale of prowling delinquents, possibly armed, of drug deals gone badly, of possible threats to the great god Property. Enter that law-biding-just-tryin`-to-help-the-folks-at-home-good-old-boy-George, out there keeping a neighbourly (armed!) eye on things, and what happens?  The poor boy’s rolling on the ground fighting for his life. Oh Mr. and Mrs. America! Can’t you just feel the fear?

This narrative can be more flexible. Zimmerman’s heroism need not be as perfect as Trayvon’s virtue. The story is really the concealed danger lurking everywhere in gated communities populated by people able to afford good guns. That Trayvon wasn’t armed was initially inconvenient, but now they have text messages suggesting that he was “fascinated” by firearms. Good enough. That’s a wrap. Not perfect Zimmerman; Perfect Fear.

Let’s not forget the Your Right To Know media narratives, proof again that America’s biggest White-Black problem is not race. It`s media driven false dichotomies:  Left vs. Right, Good vs. Evil, Red vs. Blue and so on. It’s the hand-wringing “Oh My God No!” stories constantly pushed by the news media and then manipulated by competing power brokers. Nothing sells more ads than crisis, conflict, hate, war, disaster and tears. It’s Ryan vs. Biden, Spy vs. Spy, Superman vs. Lex Luthor and now, Trayvon vs. Zimmerman. Gray is only good in dress slacks.

And of good or evil, which sells better?  That’s easy. If the Second Coming of Christ coincides with riots over a Zimmerman verdict, the CNN lead will be, “Suspicious birth in Bethlehem. Now back to Florida and our main story. Over to you, Wolf!”

One last narrative is worth a mention. Since the story broke, aging and has-been “stars” have been all over it, finding a way to use one side or the other to get their faces back in front of any camera anywhere. Cher, Roseanne Barr and Spike Lee are among the worst offenders with the latter two tweeting Zimmerman’s parents’ address, resulting in a deluge of hate mail and threatening calls. In Lee’s case, absurdity was the order of the day as he gave out the address of the wrong Zimmerman family. The much-frightened and angry elderly couple promptly sued.

What happens after the jury retires sometime today will be at best accidental justice. There will likely be rioting in either case as rioters are more about excuses than causes. And all over America, people will continue to shout or plead or demand or pray for a certain verdict. It will not matter to them whether the outcome is true or false. They have a necessary narrative to defend and they don’t really care what Zimmerman did or did not do or who Trayvon really was. They need the verdict that brings their chosen narrative to a successful close. Whether they need to hate or they need to believe or they need to feed the greed, they will let nothing interfere with satisfaction.

As for the rest of us, we need to remind ourselves of what we already know –  that often, when we turn to what we are told is news, we are encountering well polished sales pitches, complete with practiced tears, orchestrated outrage, rapidly assembled crowds, deftly prepared sound bites and carefully concealed motives. We will be asked to shed a tear or shake a fist.

Much better, I think, to leave the crowded forum, eyes dry and hands in our pockets. We can then take an invigorating walk while we examine what we’ve been given. We can unleash our inner sceptic and let it do its necessary work. (We should remind ourselves that this is necessary practice since we still have the Hernandez, Tsarnaev and Holmes trials coming up.) This reflective process will not be as noisy or exciting or cathartic as what’s going on back in the arena, but it will be decidedly more elegant.

And Truth and Justice might just then stand a chance.

We will return the “The Taxonomy of Cyclepathic Behavior” soon. For those interested in the impact of well-shaped bums on GPS fanatics, the answer may be found at http://wp.me/p3cq8l-19