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.

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 Elegant Bastard’s Dictionary of Helpful Words and Phrases, Part 3

In which the Elegant Bastard explains the power to be found in the appropriate use of words like “Um” and “Ah” and “Er”.  Neat, Eh?

What began as a simple question – How many English words are there? – ended up taking me the better part of a day to determine and the outcome was at best ambiguous. Answers ranged from about 150,000 to just over one million, depending upon what constitutes a word, whether compound words and multiple meanings count multiple times and whether or not words invented by acknowledged geeks – skeuomorphism? – needed to be considered at all.

I also discovered that an absolute answer, while no doubt fascinating, would be irrelevant to what appears to be the primary function of language today – the confusing of others. The Empire of Babel, Dear Reader, has now spanned the entire globe. And the very least we now have pyschobabble, ecobabble, econobabble, edubabble, sociobabble, obamababble, boehnerbabble and baby babble, the latter being the only variant ever evolves  in to something making sense.

It wasn’t always this way. One can easily imagine a far distant pre-word era when woofs and grunts of various lengths and tonal variations were enough to get around. Given that career choice was limited to being predator or prey, resumes and interviews were pretty much non-existent and therefore the ability to tell articulate lies remained an undiscovered art.

There then followed an age of few words that all had very precise meanings. Life was just as violent as before but social relationships had emerged and caves needed decorating. Even with these advancements,  middle and upper-class cavepersons probably managed to get by with less than a dozen; “eat”, “drink”, “mate”, “fire” and “run like hell” come immediately to mind. At this point in human history, “eat” and “drink” were likely interrogative, “mate” and “fire” imperative and “run like hell” communicated by mime.

The development of urban culture, competing civilizations and effective antacids expanded the number of necessary words exponentially. Now we had thousands of pasta varieties and even more ways of killing people. The emergence of conversation added the need for sophisticated slang vocabularies and some of the more popular body parts acquired hundreds of words dedicated solely to them. The birth of government required elaborate words that meant very little while the development of political correctness spawned words that meant nothing at all. “Run like hell” has remained pretty much what it always was. However, the number of things from which one needs to run like hell has grown to include plague infected squirrels, reality shows, Russian presidents and in much of North America, the mayor.

(“Run like hell” no longer necessarily means the sweat provoking stampede over large tracts of ground while screaming. It can now be achieved by drawing the curtains, turning off the phone and conducting extensive research into European vodka or South American flora.)

However, none of these uses of language answers our species’ primary need: differentiation. How in this enormous and teeming world can we ever make ourselves special?  Some do this by creating esoteric and deliberately abstruse vocabularies that use language to impede or prevent understanding. In this way, a teacher’s complaint that he or she had to spend the weekend making up a test translates into two days spent creating a differentiated and criterion referenced summative assessment tool that serves as a gateway indicator. Special, no?

Interestingly, some of the original woofs and grunts have remained with us and, surprisingly, they can convey meaning just as and sometimes more effectively than their more complex progeny. In today’s edition of “The Elegant Bastard’s Dictionary”, I attempt to provide an exhaustive list of these very short exclamations that function primarily as emoticons or hesitation devices. Again, I ask for no reward other than your promise, Dear Reader, to use them wisely, widely and primarily with other people.

Ah: Expressed in a short, sharp fashion, the word means “Eureka!”  or “I understand!” or “I accuse!” Traditionalists would insist that upon uttering this exclamation, one should leap from one’s bath and run naked through the streets, preferably somewhere in Greece. Less doctrinaire logophiles will permit the substitution of enthusiastic fist pumping or finger pointing.

Ah(2): Expressed in long, drawn out fashion and accompanied by an elegant  finger placed lightly upon the chin, the word essentially means that the utterer has no idea what is going on but would die rather than admit it. The removal of any clothing in this situation would be an attempt to distract the listener’s attention.

Arg: Sometimes pronounced “Erg”, this exclamation expresses anger or pain. At its loudest, it means that special and intense combination of pain and anger experienced by someone applying a hammer vigorously to the thumb, Canadians trying to understand what’s wrong with Justin Bieber  or anyone using Windows 8.

Aw: Used alone, drawn out and moving in pitch from high to low, it is the appropriate response to the cute actions of other people`s pets and children. Used as a short sharp outburst followed by “Damn” or “Crap”, it refers to the actions of one`s own pets and children.

Eh(1): A Canadian expression and likely genetic in origin, it’s use at the end of any sentence expresses the speaker’s confident assumption that the listener will agree with whatever has just been said, as in “Nice day, eh?” Used properly, it also means that the speaker can name four provincial capitals and sing most of the national anthem.

Eh(2): Used on its own, it replaces “Pardon me” for those who are syllabically challenged. The speaker is able to name three provinces and hum the opening line of the anthem.

Eh(3) Its repeated use in a short period of time suggests that the speaker may know his own name but should likely not be asked to hum anything.

Er: This exclamation suggests some degree of moral anxiety or confusion. (For real confusion, see Ah(2)) Uttered as a response to your question as to whether or not an article of clothing makes you look fat, you may safely assume that the article in question does not make you look thin and the persons responding are worried they might hurt you.

Er(2): If pronounced “errrrrr” in the same context, then you are enormous and the persons responding are  worried that you will hurt them.

Ew: Used as a brief and unemotional single syllable, it suggests that your listener is mildly offended or seriously bored by whatever you have just said. It may be followed by a request that you perform some task requiring you to leave the room and/or the country.

Ew(2): Lengthened to a two-syllable sound with the stress upon the first syllable and pronounced “eee – uuu”, it refers to dogs with no shame, living organisms with more than four legs, or anything with polka dots.

Ick, Icky, Yuck, Yucky: These are used to refer to substances (or situations) that are unpleasant, especially to touch or taste. Of more importance is the fact that they are mostly used by those who see themselves as “cute”. As they will also use expressions like “itsy-bitsy” or “teenie-weenie”, they should not be left unsupervised near pre-literate children.

Oh:  Used briefly, it acknowledges an understanding of something previously unknown. As such, it is often followed by “Thanks”, “Really” or “Hell”.

Oh(2): Extended, as in “Ohhhhh”, it suggests a profound and usually unwelcome new understanding. There will rarely be thanks and “Hell” will be replaced by much stronger terms.

O: This reverential form of address should be used when conversing with any divine being that is in the same room as you and powerful enough to cause inconvenience.

Umm: The speaker is making a choice, usually between two very pleasant options. Would you prefer to sample the coconut gelato or the green apple? Would the world be a better place if all of Antony Weiner disappeared forever or just the bits he flaunts?

Uh: Said briefly or drawn out, it means that the speaker is watching whatever you are doing and is hoping that you come with an “off” switch that can be accessed before it’s too late.

As always, Dear Reader, I hope you have found our time together useful. Again I would like to stress that I will accept no material reward for my efforts. However, those who want to express their gratitude in an appropriate fashion may do so by signing my petition demanding that anyone using the word “awesome” be forced to watch televised fishing programs every day for a year.

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

 

Sunday Morning Coffee 4: The Elegant Bastard’s Dictionary of Helpful Words and Phrases

In which the Elegant Bastard undertakes the Herculean task of addressing past instances of word abuse, and vows to continue this crusade until death or the availability of really good ice cream.

Words, like people, are dynamic things. They live. And since they live, they appear to be very good at doing something else people do. They change. They do this arbitrarily, more often than is really polite, and generally without my permission. I find this to be unreasonable. I see nothing wrong with expecting words to stay quietly in one place for several consecutive centuries. In fact the world would be a much better place if more people did the same thing.

I suppose I would be less agitated if words went about changing with a little more honestly. Instead, words stroll around as if all were normal, whistling innocently with a “Who? Me?” look plastered across their oh-so- innocent syllables. They even maintain their spelling and pronunciation.  Then, suddenly – WHAM – they shift their meaning. Some see this as subtle. I call it sneaky!

That’s also why I resent it.  I like meaning. Meaning and I are good friends. Meaning is the reason why, when I order tortellini, I don’t get tofu. It’s ensures that people are not able to safely refer to others with terms like “ferret-face” or “toad-breath”.  It’s why STOP signs contribute positively to population growth. It’s all about stability. I like stability.

It’s when words don’t mean what they used to mean that we get wordquakes. I don’t like wordquakes. They make me nervous. When I get nervous, my palms sweat, I start to mutter and my eyes roll unattractively. I conceal myself in small dark places and eat all the chocolate cookie dough ice cream. These actions create tension in those closest to me. They share it with others, it spreads and eventually there is turmoil in Egypt. I think this is unfair. I like Egypt.

It is to prevent situations like this that I urge everyone to try very hard not to mess with the meaning of words. Then, when the man on the street corner tells us that our duck is mooing at the barking cat ‘cause Obama’s wearing boxers and the snow is firing bullets in Barbados, we can assume with some certainty that this is not “Breaking News” from CNN. We can start cautiously backing away from our informant while uttering soothing sounds and perhaps promising to bring candy when we return with the nice people in the white coats.

Sadly, all our vows of proper verbal behavior in the future will do nothing to eradicate the mess we created in the past. Therefore, to assist those few still hoping to make sense of the world they must live in, I humbly offer my services as lexicographer, providing periodic lists of those words and phrases that have escaped and are preparing to betray such innocents as you, Dear Reader. I will accept no payment for these efforts, heroic though they may be. However, should you encounter me on the street and wish to reward my efforts with a smidgen of foie gras, a sip of fine burgundy or a spare Twinkie, who am I to deny altruism its due.

The Elegant Bastard’s Dictionary (Part the First)

Beer: A word once denoting a beverage associated with hot days or hard work, its meaning has been usurped by vacationing college students and obese ballpark residents. Beer is now to them as a ball is to a dog – the reason they will Fetch, Carry, Roll over, Lie down and Play Dead. Sadly, dogs do it with more class and with less noise.

Mayor: Once a title referring to the holder of municipal office, in Canadian cities of more than 3 million the word now means “has been or is about to be arrested.”

Liberalism: In an apparent Hollywood variation, Liberals are those who condemn Paula Deen’s use of the “N” word but remain silent as Alec Baldwin launches an obscenity-laced violence-filled homophobic rant viewed by millions on Twitter. This should be regarded as a very liberal definition of liberalism.

(Yes, I promised a dictionary. No, I did not promise it would be alphabetical.)

Leak: An unfortunate event occurring when levees are badly built, children are tickled and narcissists are left unsupervised near microphones.

Religion: While traditional notions concerning love, charity and hope still dominate, in both the Christian and Islamic worlds there are now large groups believing that religion comes in the box marked “Guns”.

God’s Work: is what happens when they find the box marked “Bullets”.

Underwear: Once a garment worn beneath outerwear for reasons of support, comfort and hygiene, it appears to have become an optional accessory, like cuff links or good manners. On its own it is now deemed suitable attire for talk show guest appearances. Once used, it can apparently be sent through the mail as a souvenir or a greeting card. The Elegant Bastard requests that all friends continue to express their affections through Hallmark rather than via Hanes

Pope: A title not yet bestowed on either Julian Assange or Edward Snowden, but both gentlemen seem to believe that this is a temporary oversight soon to be corrected.

Weather Forecasts: In newspapers arranged from front to back according to likely accuracy, these are found just after the horoscopes and just before the ad for Harold the Jewelry Buyer

Pakistan: A chaotic mix of tribes, clans, hates and prejudices that periodically pretends to have an interest in democracy. This is done to ensure that other countries keep sending the money needed to finance the tribes, clans, hates and prejudices.

Afghanistan: An alternative spelling of Pakistan

F#ck: For several hundred years, the word meant to have sexual intercourse. Since people who regularly have sexual intercourse do not spend all their waking moments talking about sexual intercourse, the word occurred less frequently than the act. It now appears that many many millions are having little intercourse of any sort since the word is being used more frequently than the verb “to be”. It can now mean “Oh my goodness” or “Are you teasing me?” or “Please go somewhere else and pass away” or “No I don’t want broccoli” – in other words, almost anything other than “have intercourse”. This state of affairs is unlikely to change as it can only really be resolved by better sex education and/or better sex and very few governments are willing to provide either.

Waiting Room: A space set aside for 1) those wishing to be ignored by medical professionals 2) those too cheap to buy their own magazines and 3) those waiting to be invited to live in countries no one else wants to visit.

Better: For most Torontonians, the word used to describe conditions everywhere else.

So ends Part One. The Elegant Bastard would like to acknowledge the kind assistance of others who are committed to the same great cause. We will return but for now we sheathe our semantic swords. Heroics are a tiring avocation and the really good ice cream has just arrived.

And those wishing to read the inspiring and heroic tale of the Elegant Bastard’s triumph over the biggest of the Big Banks may do so here: http://wp.me/p3cq8l-58

Of Rob Ford and his Tribe of Little Men

In Which the Elegant Bastard Determines that Size is Not Everything!

Despite my status as the oldest (only) male in my family, I have made it a point to impose few rules regarding the behavior of others. True, this has as much to do with the fact  my family regards rules as bulls do red flags, ants a picnic and televangelists a dollar than it does with any notion of “live and let live”. Still, I have on occasion drawn my own lines in the sand, circled my wagons (difficult as I have only one) and stood with my back to my wall.

The issue is simple: the naming of descendants.

People being people, the need to name babies comes along fairly regularly. I am rarely asked my opinion regarding whether or not new off-spring will be sprung off. Therefore, given that I will be required to share with these new arrivals everything from a last name to the scandalously small amount of dark meat on a turkey to post-mortem unspent money, I claim and defend my right to exercise certain naming rights.

My rule is this: under no circumstances will any child whose diapers I might change, buy or stand within olfactory range of be named Genghis. Attila is also off limits, as are Napoleon, Charlemagne, Tamerlane and Thutmose. I do not jest! Let those with expectations of beneficiary status take warning – I ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie here. (I will also not allow the name Dixie.)

My intransigence has nothing to do with iambic or alliterative weirdness, although none of these first names would go well with Smith, Ali, Singh or Li. It simply acknowledges the fact that children named after the great military heroes and butchers of the past rarely go on to great and glorious lives in the present.

Allow me to offer two final proofs of the above. The first is self evident. Have you ever met a cute little sprite with blond curls, a pink dress and a lollipop whose parents had named her Boadicea? Of course not! Add to that fact the following:  Toronto, the Big Little city on the shores of the Big Little lake is experiencing some fundamental and profound pain. To many, it has gone from wannabe World Class City to Local Joke, even as its downtown towers multiply and grow taller. (Our city planners seem to have decided if they can’t have the biggest they’ll at least have the most!)

The reason?  In 1969, a male child was born and carelessly named. Here follows a tiny bit of Scottish history.

In the early 1300’s, a man by the name of Robert the Bruce, born of a powerful mother and an obedient father, spent much of his early life joining whatever army happened to be winning at the time. He ended up being both King of Scotland and a major figure in that nation’s roster of heroes. Legends abound, not the least of which was one cackled often by my grandmother, who delighted in telling me that Scotland’s greatest king was famous for gnawing on the bones of those he slaughtered, something that I never doubted given my own early experiences with Scottish cuisine. Still, while this might explain my attitude towards haggis and oatmeal, how does it relate to Toronto’s recent history?

Because, Dear Reader, our large and decidedly imperfect mayor is named Robert Bruce Ford. The poor wee mite never had a chance.

A large group of over-weight men are outside trying to determine what exactly one does with a football other than bounce it noisily and repeatedly off the pavement and each other. Forgive me while I go and make a suggestion.

You shake your head at “wee”, I know, but size is not merely to be measured in vertical achievement, horizontal displacement and in the case of Wee Robbie, tonnage. The breadth, height and length of things may interest engineers, cooks and the occasional pervert but those of us in search of Truth know she will not be quantified so easily. And so we recognize that ‘wee” here refers to the inner Robbie, the one we have observed wolfing down KFC, giving the finger to passing motorists, introducing adolescent football players to maiming tactics and public transit, suggesting that cyclists killed in traffic were asking for it, and otherwise making it perfectly clear to all that he is no renaissance man – or even a renaissance mouse!.

A recent article in Toronto Life alluded to any number of reasons why our Robbie does not generally play well with others. There are references to a powerful mother, a father at once too generous and too demanding, an older bigger brighter sib (o.k., not bigger!), a mother-in-law who makes all the stereotypes too true, a failed football career, and a mound of other baggage designed to make one both little and aware of one’s own littlehood. And so perhaps it is to compensate, to appear to be as large as he wishes he were, that he turns – as so many have before him – to the public stage, or in his case, the political arena. Which forum is chosen matters not at all; the essence of both is performance. And Robbie performs.

Sadly, he achieves mostly faint sound and feeble fury. As he struts and frets, as he smoulders and gesticulates, as he stabs his finger at invisible enemies and thrusts his belly forth in an awesome display of … well … belly, he achieves only noise and in a very limited way, spectacle. It’s as if a gladiator arrived at the forum without his sword or a lion without its teeth. In his mouth, language is badly served, and his mix of fatuous argument and flatulent style will no doubt give birth to whole new synonyms for fart. Yet he will persist. He will flail and fail. He will run after his name and his dream of greatness. For once the “Chain of Office” is well-named.

Does it appear as if I pity Wee Robbie? It would be easy to do so. I recall seeing him on his feet at Toronto City Council, spreading his arms as he made an entirely forgettable point, and he did rather look like a man attending his own crucifixion.

But I don’t. One cannot pity a puppet. And whatever else Robbie may be, as gross and gargantuan and ghastly as he is, he is not his own man. He is servant to a larger master. As soon as he entered the public consciousness as something potentially more than a crackpot voice from the wasteland, he was seized – caught – captured. He was taken by … The Other.

Some of us will now spend a brief moment or two exploring the existential concept of “The Other”. The rest need feel no guilt whatsoever if they choose to explore either naps or chocolate.

The normal example used to explain “The Other” requires you to imagine yourself as a peeping Tom, or, in the politically correct 21rst Century, a peeping Mary. As you kneel at your peephole, staring at whatever or  whoever busily doing whatever, imagine that you hear the floor creak behind you. Dying inwardly, you stumble to your feet while desperately fumbling with any loose ends. Shame thrusts itself upon you. You turn to face the judgmental gaze of … The Other.

In that moment, you have been captured, judged, labelled and defined. You will now be forced to rebel against that judgment, thereby being weirdly controlled by it or you will take the easier road, yielding to it and playing out the part it assigns. Wee Robby took the second path.

Yes, Dear Reader, I hear you.  Who, you ask, is Robby’s Other? Sadly, it is us, or rather, some of us, or rather, many of us, or rather, most of Etobicoke, Scarborough, York, North York and large chucks of Toronto. We are Wee Robby’s Other. We pull the strings to make him dance.

Have you ever trained a puppy? Puppy does his good boy dance and we lean forward, praising and offering a cookie. Puppy does a different dance and out comes the rolled up newspaper. (Be advised that this is a metaphor and that this technique does not work well on real puppies. It will, however, work superbly with Tim Hudak.)

Consider Wee Robbie in this light. He mutters about liberal downtown effete elites who screw the working stiff and tens of thousands of self defined stiffs lean forward offering cookies. He argues that subways belong to Scarborough by right and act of God and only Fat Cats and Pinkos would deny them their due. Scarborough chucks him under his little chins and offers even more cookies. He slams the lefty conspiracy (gays, cyclists, environmentalists, light rail lovers, men who don’t spit) that unfairly has more than you do since they have tickets on the gravy train and cookies avalanche in from everywhere. In short, he embodies the oldest commandment of all: Hate Thy Neighbour.

What we call Ford Nation is largely a Nation of Haters. They seethe inwardly, attributing the loss of their dreams to all around them. Everyone else is “in it for themselves”, a “rip-off artist”, “selfish”, a “cheat”, “not a real man” or  “a bitch”. Only they are patriotic hard-working Joes blessed with a little common sense. (And if they cheat a little on their taxes, so what. It’s their “hard-earned” money and “everybody else does it” eh?)

Wee Robbie simply says out loud what they may only whisper. And if he someday chooses not to speak the words they dare not, they will abandon him to his former littlehood. In fact, in the same way that Don Cherry’s jackets will need to get louder, so will wee Robbie.

Shouldn’t we then pity Ford? But why? Look at the man! If anyone were ever over-cookied, it is he! He will waddle on. Wrapped in self-love and swollen with the bile of others, he will avoid self knowledge unless some inconvenient law finally swats him down. Even if that does happen, he will seize on Noble Victimhood and charge thousands to deliver after-dinner speeches. Wee Robbie shall have cookies wherever he goes.

No, save your pity for Ford Nation. They rally around him as they have around others like him and they will continue to do so, worshipping in him their own unspeakable image.

And no one ever gives them cookies.