Prorogue - emphasis on the "rogue".

I had written a lengthy diatribe to assuage my political frustrations, but thought the better of publishing it. It was mostly cathartic, I guess. Anyway, I'm glad Her Excellency Mme. Jean acceded to the Prime Minister's request and prorogued Parliament today. (Note to G&M posters - the word is "prorogue". Not "parole" (although that has a Freudian attraction). I really do believe that Mr. Harper brought this crisis down on his own flat-topped head, and he ought to be booted in his political ass for it - but he is still the best choice to lead Canada through the economic mine field we now face, and the "coalition" (which is already being talked of in the past tense here in Ottawa) is/was a total nightmare scenario by comparison. Mr. Dion is about as credible as a cardboard cut-out of Dabney Coleman, and the NDP has the combined leadership qualities of a four-slice toaster. Maybe a two-slice toaster - the kind that can do bagels.

Anyone who thinks that the fact that the Bloc wasn't a part of the coalition matters a tinker's damn should stop drinking the Kool-Aid. Here's what those guys were up to: The "coalition" was between the NDP and the Liberals, but they agreed to establish and maintain a continual liaison with the Bloc. The Bloc agreed, in advance, to support the Throne Speeches and the budgets of the coalition. Now, think about that. A budget is normally prepared in great secrecy by the Government. It is presented to Parliament. Opposition parties respond to the Budget during debate in the House. But in the "coalition" scenario, the Bloc (NOT a member of the coalition, and therefore NOT a member of the "governing party") has agreed IN ADVANCE to support budgetary measures it hasn't seen. Suppose the NDP/Liberal coalition brought in a budget that was prejudicial to the interests of Quebec. Are you going to tell me that the Bloc would feel constrained to support it? Not bloody likely. The only way I can figure this out is that the Bloc would have considerable input on budgetary measures BEFORE the budget was introduced. This is completely outside the protocols of Canadian democracy. Either you are in the Government and make budgetary policy, or you are NOT in the Government and you comment on budgets through debates. Budgets are the most intimate reflection of the intentions of a Government. The coalition could NOT survive without the support of the Bloc on budget day. Ergo (not "herego", to all my Newfoundland correspondents) it is an inescapable conclusion that the Bloc would have direct influence on the drafting and content of the budget. That's cool if they want to be a part of the coalition - but not cool if they pretend to be independent. And the Liberals and the NDP couldn't survive a minute with the Canadian electorate if they made the Bloc a member of the coalition. We are actually too smart for that. Nice try, you nasty little men. Nice frigging try.

Meanwhile, I sincerely hope that Mme. Jean had the fortitude to tell the Prime Minister to knock it off already with the dirty tricks, to take the job of governing seriously, and to leave all that small-town partisan bullshit nonsense for another day. The country needs leadership - not watercooler gamesmanship.

The GG is taking a lot of flak (not "flack" - "flack" isn't a word - oh, wait. Maybe it is. As in "Political Flack") for her decision. People are getting little bits of white foam in the corners of their mouths as they try to say "precedent". (Another note to G&M commentators - it isn't "president". That confuses two different political structures entirely). What are they worried about? The GG has considerable discretion to make determinations based on the facts that are before her. The precedential relevance of this decision is directly related to the chances that the same scenario might be presented to another GG at some future date. And I mean EXACTLY the same scenario, including all the current economic circumstances, the personalities (or lack of same) of the players involved...everything. Her Excellency was required to weigh ALL of the information available before she reached her determination. The fact that she decided as she did means very little to a future GG who is asked to prorogue Parliament by a fraidy-cat PM. This is no threat to Canadian democracy, or the Parliamentary process. In fact it is the reverse, because it demonstrates that we are not hide-bound by process, and what is best for Canada on any given day is really the guiding light.

So lay off the GG. And I don't say that just because she's really, really cute. I would have said it in defence of Romeo (wherefore art thou) LeBlanc if he had made the same decision. And I think he would have.

Blog Management

I don't know how to manage this thing yet. I haven't figured out a lot of the details, and I hate looking them up. Anyway, I started writing an entry on November 17, but I only just finished it. But it still shows up in chronological order - so even though it's the most recent post, it is also the oldest one. Go figure.

Big "X" Little "x"; what begins with "X"?

Not much, actually. A couple of scientific prefixes (xero- and xeno-) provide most of the words that you can use your "X" to create - but since Scrabble only gives you seven letters to play with, there is little likelihood of plopping "xenophobic" down on a triple word score any time soon. Any opponent smart enough to spell "phobic" wouldn't put it in a place where that "xeno-" prefix could do much damage, anyway.

The relative futility of "X" came home to me this evening when I was curled up with a small glass of port and a copy of "Dr. Seuss' A-B-C". I try to get through a letter every night. The man who brought you Uncle Ubb and the Tuttle-tuttle Tree; the very same man who put a wocket in my pocket and a noothgrush on your toothbrush; that guy was telling me that "X" stands for...wait for it...."X-ray and xylophone".

X-ray and xylophone? If Dr. Seuss can't do any better than that, then I say it's time to give this whole "X" thing another look. What can you accomplish with a "X" that you couldn't accomplish with, for egzample, a few strategically placed z's and g's? Almost all of those "x" words SOUND like they start with "z", anyway. It isn't "eksylophone". It's "zylophone."

I know - I know. It's those pesky Greek word roots. They get you every time. But what sort of ekscuse is that? And seriously, wouldn't the alphabet be more wieldy with a nice group of 25 letters? a nice number with a square root and everything - makes a pleasant 5 x 5 block of characters. Then when you use "X" to create any one of those non-words ("X-Men", "X-Factor", X-Box") it would REALLY be cool. The idea of 26 letters isn't cast in stone. Other languages that use the Roman alphabet have differing numbers of letters. They are merely symbols, after all, used to give shape to a sound. And "X" fails at that task most miserably, almost every time. Apart from "X-Ray", which shouldn't be a word and only gets to be one because of the Scrabble lobby, the only other words that even sound like they start with "x" rely on partnering "x" up with "e" - for example...well, example, for example. It's like "x" can't be trusted to go out there on its own and lead a word. I can imagine those word police guys, who I know egzist: "Sounds like it starts with an "x"? Ooooooh. Better slap an "e" on there. Can't be too careful about those "x's"."

The dictionary writers - lecksicographers, I guess - could have cut "x" some slack by saying that all those "ex" words started with a SILENT "e" so that 'x' could live up to its name....but they didn't.

The bottom line is clear. X may mark it, but it doesn't cut it.

And then there's the question of "Q". What kind of self-respecting letter needs to be surgically attached to a "u" all the time? Unless you are spelling "Qatar" (which you can't use in Scrabble), or "Iraq" (which you can't use either) or "cinq" (nope - it's French), you had better have a "u" handy. Turns out "q" doesn't really have a sound, at all - at least not one of its own. Without a "u", it's a "k". And with a "u" its a "kw". So what's the point? You don't even save the trouble of making a letter. And doesn't "delinquent" look more edgy and apropos when spelled "delinkwent"? Very street, as they say (far too often) on "So You Think You Can Dance."

Now we're down to 24 letters - another nice number - divisible by 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, and 12, capable of being arranged into all sorts of geometrically pleasing patterns, and no one will care except maybe the Queen and Jian Ghomeshi.





Note: The mark in the photograph is neither an "X" nor a "Q". It is a stonecutter's identifying glyph, cut into a limestone block that forms part of a wall in St. Jeronimo's Monastery in Lisbon. Using this symbol correctly in "Scrabble" is worth 1,000,000 points.

Cranes

These are Sandhill Cranes. I photographed them a month ago, not far from where I now sit in the shadow of Parliament Hill, the US Embassy, or the Gatineau Hills (depending on where the sun happens to be at any given moment). I saw them as they began drifting down to find their evening roost at the back of a stubble-covered corn field, silhouetted against a blazing sky. They are awkward, ungainly creatures by most standards, with the sort of grace that cartoonists exploit to great advantage. Their resemblance to the prehistoric skeletal remains of their distant dinosaur ancestors - or what we assume those creatures must have looked like - can be startling, especially when they are viewed in the failing half-light of late October, through wraiths of freezing vapour seeping out of freshly turned black soil. These four kited down to join an already-assembled flock of forty more, all of which had remained invisible until their presence was betrayed by the new arrivals. With much croaking and agitated flapping of wings, the flock offered an edgy greeting, although there appeared to be plenty of mud and stubble to go around. The newcomers had disrupted some sort of "settling in" event, and the mysterious symmetry of the larger group, understood only by them, fell in to a shambles of discord. Only an extended period of squawking and stalking about indignantly could put matters right, and the birds set to it, dutifully. Eventually the dynamic was restored. They all settled in again, and as one began moving methodically eastward across the muck, stalking, probing, raising their massive wings, then stopping to consider their circumstances, check the air, perhaps do a bit of gratuitous croaking. The four new arrivals, having been fully assimilated into the flock, were now indistinguishable. Their places in this particular hierarchy of crane-ness had been established, and harmony had been restored. If anyone was put out as a consequence of being moved down a notch or two on the pecking order, it was not evident. Ultimately, the addition of a few more birds was advantageous to the group - more eyes and ears to look for danger, more feet probing the ground for food that could benefit everyone, and more potential targets for the predator that would only need one bird to satisfy its hunger. They are tremendously primitive creatures.

Ottawa Cyclists

I would love to say that I am a big fan of Ottawa's cycling masses. After all, they are doing the right thing. They chug chug chug to work and back every day on their own power, saving us all from ourselves and keeping themselves fit at the same time. The problem is, a lot of them drive me crazy. As winter approaches, the antics of more than a few cyclists in the Nation's capital have caught my skeptical eye. Consider the young woman (I think I have the gender correct) who cycled past me as I sat in my parked car last evening, well into the twilight. Bundled against the cold, there was not a single sensory organ in evidence, save for a couple of dots that might have been eyes peeking out from above her PLO-style balaclava. Her field of view was restricted to a small fur-rimmed tunnel - no peripheral vision at all. And no sign of an ear anywhere, unless you could count the thin cord running from her pocket to what I assume were earphones hidden away under a layer of thick down (or the synthetic equivalent). No headlight. No tail light. An accident waiting to happen. Ditto the loonie who swerved into and out of my path as I drove along a major roadway at rush hour. Why was he swerving? Maybe it had something to do with the full water cooler bottle he was trying to balance on his rear parcel rack. But even with such menaces toodling about, blissfully and arrogantly unaware that they are saving the planet and endangering themselves and others in the process, the major portion of my ire is reserved for those whack-os who think that it is a really cool idea to trail their little kids around town in those nylon and aluminum pods, dodging potholes, commuter traffic, pedestrians, buses, taxis, stray dogs, and all manner of other obstacle. What are these people THINKING? Oh - right. Everyone is safe. There's a little red FLAG waving from the ass-end of the kiddie-pod. Like THAT is going to catch the world's attention in the face of a million other distractions. Don't these people understand that, from the perspective of a driver, those little wagons are essentially invisible? What do they think - that their good intentions will protect their kids from getting clobbered by one of the thousands of vehicles that they will encounter on an average ride to the milk store? Think of it another way - would any of these people let their kids ride their tricycles on the street? Not very likely. And yet there they are, fighting for rush-hour elbow room with guys driving SUV's talking on their cell phones, their knees blue with the cold and their eyes glowing with righteousness.

They drive me nuts.

Ottawa the Smugly Cold

The ByWard Market is no longer humming with commerce. The produce stalls have disappeared, fleeing before the dark, cold promise of another Ottawa winter. A few vendors remain, flogging giant bunches of Peruvian asparagus at deep discount prices, or trying to get us excited by maple sugar molded into odd shapes. Probably the most successful peddlars will be those fellows with the tables groaning under the weight of a thousand knitted woolen caps with earflaps. By late December Ottawa looks as if it has been taken over by hoardes of Bolivian shamen who all took out memberships at Mountain Equipment Co-op.

And of course, the first advertising for "Winterlude" is appearing.

The inhabitants of this climate-challenged capital are never eager to surrender to the seasonal inevitable. A November cyclist negotiating the black ice in a parka and gloves will probably be wearing shorts - in April she will be jogging through the slush in snow pants and a T-shirt. Still, people here love their winter, and once they have finally squeezed the last drops of warmth out of Summer, they ferret out all their winter "gear" and head for the great outdoors.

The great, grey, freezing, blowy, snowy, Ottawa outdoors.

Ottawa's claim to Winter fame is the Rideau Canal, which in Winter becomes the much-ballyhooed "World's Longest Skating Rink". It is the focus of Winterlude - the annual Bacchanal for the frozen-toed crowd - the "'Lude-ites". Even now, with the Canal still unfrozen, signs of Winterlude are popping up. A skeletal bandstand grows from the mirky waters just above MacKenzie King Bridge. Changing huts where skaters stow their boots and don their blades are anchored to the Canal walls, afloat for the moment but soon to be frozen in to place. The shacks that sell Beavertails and hot chocolate are being readied. (A Beavertail is not what it sounds like. It is a slab of dough that has been deep-fried and coated with one or another of a variety of flavourings. Lemon and sugar is traditional, but an upscale Beavertail might have a dusting of chipotle cocoa powder). Somewhere in Ottawa, a refrigerated warehouse is accepting shipments of "carving ice" - a specially formulated type of ice that is essentially free of air bubbles - that will be used in the ice carving competitions during festival, which spans three weekends in February.

I am not a huge Winterlude fan, or a Canal fan, I must confess. To me it seems like masochism. Maybe sado-masochism, if you consider the huge numbers of defenseless children who are stuffed each Winter into ill-fitting skates and gigantic snowsuits, all the better to "enjoy" a nice dipsy-doodle down the Canal in -23C weather with a north wind at 35kph blowing unchecked from Ellesmere Island.

In truth, the Canal is not all it's cracked up to be (mostly because it's usually all cracked up). The maintenance crews do their best, but there isn't much they can do about the deep pressure cracks that form a hazardous network of blade-grabbing crevasses. St. John Ambulance patrols prowl the icy route daily, sweeping up the fallen and hustling them to shelters where broken arms, broken ankles, concussions, lacerations, frostbite, and hot cocoa burns are treated with cool professionalism.

Sure, if you get out there early enough, and if the Canal was flooded the night before, and if the wind hasn't come up, and if it is actually open for skaters (because it isn't always open), you can probably have a fantastic, life altering skate. You can be Hans Brinker, or Jeremy Wotherspoon, or Catriona LeMay Doan, or Elvis Stojko, or even Maurice "the Rocket" Richard, if you want (except you can't bring your hockey stick). Your strides will be etched into the crystalline surface, begging comparisons to the best Waterford, the most exquisite Steuben, the finest Swarovski. But before the judges who are watching from the rink side seats in the back of your mind have gotten their bribes straight, and long before they have figured out your artistic impression scores, you will be set upon by the hordes. The ice will cloud and crack and blister, the wind will begin to howl up your leotards, and someone will slap you in the face with a chocolate covered beavertail. The colonic shape of the route will conspire with the wind to freeze your face and incinerate your thigh muscles as you skate for home (no matter which end of the Canal you started at). You will question your sanity, and long before you finally drag yourself back into the change hut you will have mentally scripted your e-Bay ad - "One Pair Ice Skates - Used Once Only. All reasonable offers considered."

Then you will remove the word "reasonable" from the text.

Then you will simply say, "One Pair Skates - Free."

The photo is of the Canal at Dow's Lake during Winterlude 2008 - which means it's "last year". It isn't this cold in Ottawa yet - just a lot of frozen slush to muck through.

Blog-a-log-a-ding-dong

What a curious sensation.

On the one hand there seems little possibility that anyone will actually ever read these words. Blogging is the modern-day equivalent of stuffing a note into a bottle and tossing it into the ocean, it seems to me. Although I suppose I can let people know about it. "Hey - I'm cool now. I have a blog. Come and see how clever I can be." So part of me is writing this thinking it won't ever get read by anyone - or at least, not by anyone who will ever be able to put a face to these words -and the other part of me (an other part of me?) is really, really hoping that it WILL get read and that people will write to me and tell me that they know what I'm talking about and that I have made their day more worthwhile. Or even that I spelled something wrong.

Wrongly?

What a bunch of equivocating Narcissists we are.