Your Tax Dollars at Work: A Cautionary Tale

So a friend of mine used to work in a sign shop. Another fellow who worked in the same shop quit and stole 200 empty binders when he left. He moved down to Washington State.
My friend and his wife were going to drive down to Seattle for the weekend. But before they go, he decided to phone the guy up and see if he'll give back the binders as long as they are in the neighbourhood. The guys says okay. What's he going to do with 200 binders anyway?
My friend phones Canada Customs. He explains the situation and asks if will he need any paperwork to get back into Canada with the binders. No, says the friendly official voice on the phone.
My friend and his wife go to Seattle and have a weekend. On the way back, they stop and pick up the binders. Then they get to the border at White Rock.
"Anything to declare?"
"Yeah, I got these 200 binders that were stolen from my company, but the guy who stole them is giving them back so I went and picked them up."
"That sounds like a commercial transaction. You need to go to the truck crossing on the other highway."
So my friend turns around, re-enters the US and drives to the truck crossing.
"Anything to declare?"
"Yeah, I got these 200 binders that were stolen from my company, but the guy who stole them is giving them back so I went and picked them up."
"Okay, you'll have to fill an excise from in Building B across the Parking Lot."
My friend goes across the Parking Lot to Building B.
"Anything to declare?"
"Yeah, I got these 200 binders that were stolen from my company, but the guy who stole them is giving them back so I went and picked them up. The last fella said that I had to fill out an excise form here."
"Do have it?"
"Have what?"
"The excise form."
"No. I'm here to fill it out."
"Well, yes, you fill it out here, but you pick it up there at Building A, where you were to begin with."
So my friend heads back to Building A.
"Anything to declare?"
"Yeah, I got these 200 binders that were stolen from my company, but the guy who stole them is giving them back so I went and picked them up. You told me that I had to fill out an excise form at Building B. They said that I have to pick up the form here."
"Well, of course you pick up the form here. Didn't you know that? Only an imbecile would go to Building B without having already picked the excise form. Here you go."
With form in hand my friend returned to Building B.
"Anything to declare?"
"Yeah, I got these 200 binders that were stolen from my company, but the guy who stole them is giving them back so I went and picked them up. They told me that I had to fill out an excise form at Building B. Here is the form."
"Okay, good. Do you have the receipt for those binders?"
"I'm sorry?"
"The receipt for the binders. You can't fill out an excise form without a receipt."
"The friendly official voice on the phone said that I didn't need to bring any paperwork."
"He wouldn't have said that if he had known there was an excise form involved! You do have receipts. Don't you?"
"Yes," said my friend. "I'll go get them."
He walked back to his car, past the trunk full of binders and got in. He started the engine and drove away. After a moment, his wife asked, "Where are we going?"
"To get the receipts. They're on my desk at home."

Feeding Our Cars

In this article, Gwynne Dyer points out something that I wasn't aware of:

For the sixth time in the past seven years, the human race will grow less food than it eats this year. We closed the gap by eating into food stocks accumulated in better times, but there is no doubt that the situation is getting serious. The world's food stocks have shrunk by half since 1999, from a reserve big enough to feed the entire world for 116 days then to a predicted low of only 57 days by the end of this year.
That is well below the official safety level, and there is no sign that the downward trend is going to reverse. If it doesn't, then at some point not too far down the road we reach the point of absolute food shortages, and rationing by price kicks in. In other words, grain prices soar, and the poorest start to starve.

So another crisis is looming in a century already full of crises. While Islamic fundamentalism takes on Western fascism, while we go to war to fight for cheap oil to burn away in our SUVs (and slowly poison ourselves in the process), while we approach massive environmental and economic upheaval, we are running out of food. And where is it going? Dyer further notes:

In the United States, a "corn rush" has been unleashed by government subsidies for ethanol, and so many ethanol plants are planned or already in existence in Iowa that they could absorb the state's entire crop of corn (maize, mealies). In effect, food is being turned into fuel -- and the amount of ethanol needed to fill a big four-wheel-drive SUV just once uses enough grain to feed one person for an entire year.

So not only are we killing ourselves and our planet to support our energy-rich western lifestyle, now we're literally starving people to do it.
And the conseqeunces? Dyer notes in this article the baffling non-response of the world's politicians and citizens to the climate change crisis, noting that:

...global civilisation falls into violent chaos as huge numbers of people start to starve. Even two degrees hotter will reduce agricultural output in the main food-producing regions of the world by about a quarter.
Much hotter, and it will be much worse, so we may end up negotiating (or more likely, fighting) over which billion of us starve first. Intelligent human beings, faced with that prospect, would act at once, or so you would think -- especially because the actions required are not really all that painful, provided that they start right away.

We need our governments to put the same effort, if not more, into the right battles as they are into fighting the wrong ones. If we don't spend a greater effort fighting climate change and hunger than terrorism, then fighting the wrong battle will have been truly a monumental waste.

The Cookie Test

A few days ago, my co-worker Linda brought in a box of Peak Frean assorted cookies to share with others in the office. I snarfed up a couple of favourites, the Garden Creams, and others dove into the Fruit Creams and the Bourbons. The only ones left were a couple of round ones (whose name I don't know, alas). Linda offered them to me to finish off.
"No thanks," I said, "I don't like those kind."
She stared at me blankly. "What do you mean? They're all the same."
"No, they're not," I replied. "Those round ones are sort of lemony and I don't like them as much as the others."
"But they're all the same," she insisted.
"Well, you'll just have to get some more and we'll do a taste test."
The next day, she brought in another box and crumbled up some cookies and fed them to me. (Your tax dollars at work.)
"That's my favourite, the Garden Cream," I said as I munched the first sample. Next came "the Fruit Cream. You didn't put any of the fruit filling in the sample so I can't tell you which flavour of Fruit Cream it is. But it's clearly a Fruit Cream."
Finally was the "round lemony one that I don't like."
Linda was amazed. "I can't believe it. No hesitation at all. Dead on everytime. Wow. I'm in awe. I thought for sure they were all the same. Well, here, I guess you better finish off the rest of those cookies that I took the samples from."
Once again, science called and I responded in triumph. It was certainly not a cheap ploy on my behalf to get more cookies.
Nosiree.

In the Drink

Last Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny. Not particularly warm, the temperature managed to crawl just a few degrees above zero. Still this was a far cry from the below zero temps and even nastier wind chills we had suffered from for much of the previous week. So it was a good time for a kayak trip at Cadboro Bay! (Note that I am wearing a red sweater... there will be a quiz later.)

Here's our gear lined up and ready to go. Paula had borrowed Alison's kayak. (Alison is kayaking in New Zealand for three weeks.) Normally, Bernie and Paula switch off with their kayak, but with Alison's kayak all of us could get in the water at the same time.

And away we go! Here's Dennis in his inflatable kayak...

...and Paula enjoying Alison's boat.

We paddled out of the bay and turned north along the coastline. That's Mt. Baker, an active volcano, ahead of us.

Three of us decided to cross over to Discovery Island. The womenfolk declined.
I had never been there myself, but both Bernie and Dennis had. There's some strong currents to watch out for, and the crossing of about 20-25 mins can be a little rough. You can see the bumpy water around Dennis in the picture below.

Discovery Island itself was beautiful. A series of small archipelagoes, it makes for a perfect place to explore inlets and rocky shores.

We found a little channel with a bit of a current in it. We decided to try our hand at running it. It wasn't a strong current, but this was our first try at something like this.

The first time I went through, there was no problem. The current was strong but not rough. I paddled against it, until it spun me around and sent me back from where I came.
No problem.
But my paddle was in the water and the current caught it, and dragged it under my boat. And over I went. Potential energy and gravity worked their magic. I was upside down in the water.
Problem.
As you can see, I survived. I made my wet exit, and grabbed onto the back of my kayak. Bernie was nearby and beside me almost instantly. As we organized ourselves to begin the process of getting me back in my boat, my feet suddenly touched ground, and I decided to walk my boat ashore at a small beach.



Out of the water but totally drenched, I took off my sweater. I was wearing my Farmer John wetsuit and that kept most of me warm, but my arms under my sweater were freezing. It was fortunate that I was wearing my wetsuit -- "goner" might be too drastic a term, but I would have been in a lot worse condition. Fortunately, Bernie had overdressed and had taken off his fleece jacket, and he lent it to me. (Quiz time - Question 1: What colour sweater was John wearing at the start of the paddle? Here's a hint: It's not the same colour as in the picture below.)
It was, in retrospect, a good thing. We were reminded that we are dealing with nature, and nature abhors cockiness. We had an emergency, and we all survived. There was no panic or hysteria. We kept our heads and did what we had to do. My kayak flipped and everything stayed attached and dry, including my digital camera.
Much to Bernie's chagrin, my glasses stayed on my head.
We re-assessed the safety equipment that we had with us. A dry bag with a towel and/or some dry clothes suddenly seemed like a much smarter idea then it did a few minutes earlier.



Bernie found the incident much too amusing (as you can see below.) However, as we left he decided to shoot the rapids again! (Okay it was only one rapid. "Whitewater" it was not.) He got caught, too, and damn near flipped. He filled up his kayak with water and he had to beach to drain it.
Bernie didn't have his skirt on. Bad Bernie.
(He didn't have any pants on either, but that's a whole other story.)

And so we headed back. We vowed never to publicly speak of the incident. ("What happens on Brokeback Island, stays on Brokeback Island," I said.)
However, it was impossible to keep secret, not when I arrived back wearing different clothes what I had started with. The womenfolk cast us some wary glances.

But we survived and adjourned for some warm drinks at a nearby coffee shop. Dennis took this picture to annoy his friends back in Toronto. Blizzard, anyone?

Now that's a hot chocolate! Sure helped get the taste of salt out of my mouth.

And remember kids, don't try this at home!

Angelina is Having Brad's Baby: Do I Care?

Angelina Jolie is having a baby with Brad Pitt.
Why is this latest chapter in yet another Hollywood real-life soap opera all over the news? (It's the banner headline on Thursday's National Post... above the title, for gods sake.) Who cares? Or more importantly, why does anyone care?
A co-worker of mine was heartbroken -- heartbroken -- that Pitt's apparent fairy tale marriage to Jennifer Aniston ended. She blamed Jennifer for the break-up (she was firmly in the Brad camp), but was prepared to be mad at Angelina should she have somehow been involved.
That my co-worker could be so wrapped up in the private lives of three people that she has never seen in person, let alone met or interacted with, is something I find amazing in a vaguely disturbing sort of way.
For starters, we have absolutely no notion of any so-called celebrity's private life. None. Zippo. Nada. Jennifer Aniston seems like a perfectly decent and nice person. But is she? How the fuck should I know? Maybe she spends all her spare-time quietly visiting orphanages. Maybe she spends all her free time bitch-slapping her puppies. Maybe she doesn't even have puppies!
How can I feel justified enough to pass judgment of these people's live when I have no inkling about them that hasn't gone through a team of publicists, an airbrush artist, The National Enquirer and Mary Hart?
And why would I be interested anyway? They are not people I know, I have no vested interest in their lives. And yet millions or people are apparently keen to know every sordid detail.
I don't understand the public's interest in celebrity, but I do understand the media's: $$$. If people want it, we'll supply it. Entertainment reporters as drug dealers, magazine editor's as pimps. It's a crazy world.
Now, when Jennifer Aniston has Vince Vaughn's baby, call me.

My Favourite Christmas

As a young tyke of eight, my family moved to Victoria from my birthplace in Montréal. (My parents decided that a place where tanks prowled through the streets at night, soldiers with pointy bayonets manned street corners during the day, terrorists were kidnapping and killing politicians, and civil rights were revoked at the stroke of a Prime Minister's pen was probably not a good place to live. But I digress. And worse, I'm dating myself.)
The one thing I remember most about Montréal was the snow. Every winter, Montréal would be covered in a fluffy white eiderdown that would last from November to April. (Okay, so after six months the novelty was wearing off, even for me.) Winter wasn't winter without snow, and neither was Christmas. Picture postcard time, right? Chestnuts roasting on a bough of holly.
Or something like thatwhenehn we moved, I knew only one thing about Victoria. It doesn't snow here. I was going to experience my first Green Christmas. In fact Victoria averages 1 White Christmas every 25 years.
As Christmas approached, I had a real problem getting into the festive spirit. It just wasn't going to be Christmas without snow on the ground. Before going to bed on Christmas Eve, I took one last look out the living room window.
Green.
And brown.
I trundled off to bed and like all eight year-old kids, spent a good ten minutes sleeping, and the rest of the night wondering what Santa was going to bring us.
Just after four o'clock, I could stand the anticipation no longer, and started my carefully worked out procedure for waking up my parents.
First, I started coughing. Nothing wakes a parefaster thanhan a kid coughing in the middle of the night.
Next, I went to the bathroom, being sure to feign some sort of trouble with the toilet to plausibly explain why I flushed it five times.
Returning to my bedroom, I made sure I knocked over an unbreakable but noisy object. (Again, another sure way to wake up your parents.)
Finally for good measure, I stepped on the cat. (No, not really, but I made you laugh, didn't I?)
After being abused in this way for half an hour, my family finally relented, and they got up. We went to the living room, and, sure enough, the tree was almost buried beneath Santa's gifts, but I was still a little let-down because, after all, Christmas isn't Christmas without snow.
I went to the window to take a peek anyway and -- my eyes must have turned as big as basketballs -- there was six inches of snow on the ground! I couldn't believe it!
A cold front had blown in unexpectedly overnight and was dumping snow on the city. I probably would have kept staring if I hadn't seen some poor guy struggling down the street. My dad realized it was the paper boy and ran out side and gave him five bucks, which was really nice considering we didn't subscribe.
That was my best Christmas ever.
And of course, a day later all the snow was gone.

John Lennon and the Button Man

The Button Man was a man that I struck up an acquaintence with when he worked at a local comic shop many years ago. He was middle-aged, I guess maybe he was my age now. He lost his job when the comic shop consolidated its two locations into one, perhaps my first personal experience with "downsizing."
He was also a music fan. We were both big fans of The Who. (In later years, I would buy a few Who items from his collection when he was short of cash, which I kept until I had to sell them because I was short of cash. The circle of life.)
New Wave and Punk were tearing apart the musical strata and the Button Man had starting bringing music buttons into the comic shop before he was let go. The buttons, mostly of Brit new wave Bands (The Selector, The Stranglers, Madness) were popular and selling well, so he continued to order them. He wore a demin jacket that he covered with buttons, and he stood on a downtown street corner. Kids would start talking to him about the buttons and he eventually he would sell them a button or two. He also brought in buttons from older acts, too. All the bands were getting in on the button craze.
He knew I wasn't much into the punk bands, and that I liked some new wave. (The Police were okay -- they might amount to something one of these days.) He knew I preferred some of the older bands, and when he got new buttons from Pink Floyd, The Who, Queen, Rush or The Beatles he always pointed out them to me.
25 years ago this very afternoon, I bought a button from the Button Man. It's a small button, a black and white rendering of an early Beatles promo photo, the four of them in their Brian Epstein suits. I still have it.
It says, "Come Back, Beatles." Hours later, any hope of a Beatles reunion was terminated by five rounds from a madman's gun.

I don't know what's worse about anniversaries of famous deaths.
Is it that yet again we are forced recognize the fact that an amazingly creative talent was stolen from us many years too soon, killed by an explosion of rage and anger, betrayed by the very thing that makes us all human?
Or is it yet another reminder that the years are passing and I am another day closer to facing my own mortality.
Either way, the result is that I am now two years older than John Lennon will ever be. And that leaves me sad.

Election Watch '06: It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like an Election

You’ll pardon me if I start talking politics now, but the federal government has fallen today and an election will be called tomorrow. So there won’t be just one turkey at your house over Christmas, whole flocks of turkeys will be knocking on your door and begging for your votes.
For once, I have to agree with Ralph Klein. I don’t see any outcome other than a Liberal minority. I think the Bloc will do very well in Québec, and that will pretty much put the kibosh on the chances of any party forming a majority.
And Klein’s point that Conservative leader Stephen Harper is seen by voters as too right wing to form a government is dead on. Ontario will never vote for a Western right-wing rump party, and that’s exactly what the Tories became when they joined forces with Reform, or the Alliance or whatever the hell they were calling themselves.
And if Harper can’t win running in a second election against Paul Martin’s Liberal Bozo Brigade, that will spell the end of Harper’s leadership. The long knives will be out. And a minority won’t do: Harper has to win a majority or he’s badly burnt toast. A Tory minority will not last long as Harper has no other party willing to team up with him. The Bloc might, and Harper might be dumb enough and power-hungry enough to accept a Tory-Bloc alliance, but that will backfire as much as Mulroney’s courting of Québec sovereignists did in the 1980s. Remember how well that turned out? No, if Harper’s Tories don’t get a majority, he’ll become this year’s Stockwell Day, an embarrassing reminder of how this country’s right-wing consistently shoots itself in the foot.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.