Women and Men

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Campbell noticed right away that something was bugging me. I guess I wear my emotions like a flashy T-shirt, for everyone to see or maybe it was just my hair that I forgot to brush. “What’s eating you my friend, you look like shit, if you pardon my French,” he said.

“Clare and I had an argument and we never argue. I can’t believe this #metoo campaign has wedged itself into our marital bliss.”

“Oh,” Camp as we all call him, said with a raised eyebrow. “That’s a touchy subject, if you pardon my pun, with clear sides but no clear winners.”

“Well exactly. I just read that letter from ‘Le Monde’ to her this morning, which was signed by over 100 female French writers, academics and artist, Catherine Deneuve among them. They denounce the #metoo campaign as a witch hunt against men. They also say it puts inappropriate and clumsy sexual advances on equal footing with violent aggression and rape, which diminishes the later which are real punishable crimes.”

“It’s mostly about control, not sex,” Camp said, “and men in positions of power, as we know, can be corrupted. Women on the other hand do have the power to say no or when there are real transgressors, like that sleazy Moore, there is the law. But the public forum leaves no chance for the accused to defend himself.”

“That’s what I said but Clare claims that it is about time women stood up and not tolerate this endemic, inappropriate behaviour by these men any more.”

“And do what?” I argued. “Legislate moral behaviour? The state has no place in the relationships between men and women. Their mandate is to educate the citizenry so they can make proper choices and behave in a civilized manner.”

“From the military to the entertainment industry men have harassed women without consequences for far too long,” Clare said, standing her ground. It is at this point I left to come here.

“She is right you know, and it’s true, these transgressions are intolerable,” Camp said, making me feel even worse.

“But to legislate morality will cast us back to a puritan age, which was the opposite of feminism and freedom of expression. Also this #metoo movement portrays women as victims which is anything but equal and only plays into the hands of the religious zealots who do not even want to talk or educate about sexual behaviour.”

“I agree with you and believe this campaign has overshot the mark,” Camp said in an attempt to pacify me.

“Just look at all the magazine covers at the checkout in the grocery store. It’s all about sexual allure, body hype and who sleeps with whom. Is that helpful?”

“I guess, Clare watched Oprah’s speech at the Golden Globe awards. Very powerful and some even say presidential,” Camp said, trying to focus the conversation.

“Yeah, I watched it as well. She is a very accomplished woman who has come from humble beginnings to become one of the biggest entertainment moguls. On the other hand she did not accuse anybody by name nor did she condone trial by the internet. “

“We should ask Vicky, what she thinks of it all,” Camp said.

I waved Vicky over and asked her straight out what she thought about this #metoo campaign.

“Well fellows, having worked as a server in bars for a few years I’ve had every form of interaction with my customers, from simple flirting to ass pinching to sexual proposals to outright lecherous harassment and even a couple of marriage proposals.”

“Oh, and how do you deal with these, eh, advances?” I asked

“I ask them to stop or swat their hands away or threaten them with emasculation or a phone call to their wives. That usually does the trick.”

“In other words you deal with them yourself. Did you ever complain to your boss?”

“What’s the point, it’s the nature of the beast. Believe me, all those actresses knew that Harvey was a pig but they still met him in his den, wanting that gig. He produced some great movies though.”

“As did Polanski. I’m with you. You have to separate the work from the man. Do you think Picasso or Marlon Brando were choir boys?”

“I do not condone accusing anybody in public,” Vicky said. “If I have an issue with somebody I’ll deal with them directly or there is always the police and the law for real assholes. You two need another drink?”

“Do we ever! Thanks Vicky.”

“There is a woman in Britain who want’s ‘Sleeping Beauty’ pulled from the shelves, claiming the prince had no right to kiss a sleeping girl without her consent.”

“Have we all gone nuts or what?” Camp said.

“I’ll better go home and make up with Clare. I hate it when we’re not agreeing and she is usually right in these matters.”

“She’ll forgive you,” Vicky said, “ask her out for dinner.”

“Like a date?” I said, kind of liking the idea.

“Yes, girls like to have fun. Tell you what fellows, maybe I‘ll start a new hash-tag and become famous. How about #notme,” she said, followed by a throaty laugh.

 

 

 

 

 

Las Vegas New Year

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                                    Where the rich come to play

                                    And the poor come to pay.

As soon as you step into the arrival and departure lounge the mechanical whirring, dinging and ringing of the ubiquitous slot machines permeates the atmosphere like everywhere in Las Vegas. This soundscape of gaming lures the masses to sit in front of, and feed money into, these blinking and clanging automated gaming terminals, depicting in bright neon lit screens various cartoon like scenes of fantasy themes, television and Hollywood icons. Casinos are at the heart of Las Vegas and they are the foundation on which this city has been built on and is still supporting thousands of jobs and the 150’000 hotel rooms. In this mirage in the desert you can go from the Coliseum in Rome to the Eifel tower in Paris to the canals and palaces of Venice, the roller coaster and Greenwich Village in New York or enter the pyramid in Luxor by just crossing Las Vegas Boulevard on one of the many elevated and escalator equipped crosswalks.

Seventy years ago Las Vegas was just a dusty old western village where today Freemont Street is covered by the ‘world’s largest’ video screen. This section features zip-lines under the video canopy with hourly visual effect shows to 80ies rock music like The Who or Heart. Its’ gaudily lit casinos and restaurants are older and a bit seedier then the glitzy new palaces on the strip, with lots of freaky performers at street level entertaining the crowds for spare change. Restaurants like ‘The Heart Attack Grill’ where 350lbs eat for free can be found here.

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Squirrel against Man

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At present the score is in favour of Chip the squirrel who has chosen to take up residence underneath our house and is living off our bird feeder. I tried to chase it away but it came back. That was: 1:0. Then I suspended the birdhouse from an ornamental garden hook, surely much too challenging for a silly squirrel. Guess what? 2:0 for the other team. Next I suspended the birdhouse from the eaves and watched as Chip climbed up the wall of the house and then leapt the four feet into the birdhouse, by itself a spectacular feat that defies the laws of physics. 3:0.

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At first it was just a distraction, then a nuisance and lately this furry critter has ballooned into an obsession. I felt like Bill Murray in Caddyshack, being outsmarted every step by this darned squirrel with its big beady eyes following me into my dreams. What am I to do?

“Just leave it alone and enjoy watching it,” was Clare’s sage but utterly pointless advice.

“You must be kidding, this critter has got to go. What if it multiplies and pretty soon we’ll have a whole family of squirrels living with us.”

“You could remove the bird feeder.”

“Oh yeah, it’s not only about the birds who cannot get to the feeder because of you know who, but also about yours truly who enjoys watching the birds.”

“Must be nice to have your mind taken over by a simple squirrel. There is a whole world out there with wars and famines, epic disasters and political upheaval but no, my husband’s mind and resources are being hijacked by a cute, furry wild animal with the brains the size of a peanut and the ability to outwit him all the way.”

I resented that last remark and took it as an additional challenge. No, that will not happen. I found a long, telescopic pole and suspended the birdhouse about 5 feet above the deck railing. ‘Jump into that!’ I giggled under my breath while Clare watched me with a look of concern in her eyes, probably worried for my sanity.

I perched in my favourite chair by the window, proud of my ingenuity and pleased that the birds would flock to their feeder uninterrupted by Chip the squirrel. Here he comes, stealthily, eyeing the situation from the railing, jerking left to right, tail in the air, then he sat back on his haunches and remained stock-still. What’s Chip doing? Meditating and scheming with his little paws in front of him and a look of surprise or was it defeat in his shiny eyes. I got all day if this is a waiting game. I settled in for the long haul. “Got you,” I yelled triumphantly, clapping my hands. Suddenly he’s on the move, changing tactics I guessed. Where is he? I momentarily lost sight of him but then he appeared on the windowsill on the outside, looking in at me. Was he mocking me? And then, oh horror, the wily critter took a tremendous leap and practically flew into the birdhouse and made itself at home while I chewed my nails in defeat and muttered and cursed to myself. Clare almost doubled over from laughing so hard. “4:0 for Chip,” she crowed gleefully.

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“Should I just give up and feed the darn squirrel or abandon the birdhouse altogether. There was another option: A live trap. When I talked to our neighbours about the defiant squirrel, practically taking over the dinner conversation with my ‘obsession’ as Clare calls it, Adam went out to his workshop and returned with a homemade contraption made out of a piece of 4” pvc, a hinged light cover plate at one end, a pivot in the middle and a coat wire that held the cover plate open for Chip to crawl into the pipe after the peanut bait. The weight shift would tip the pipe and release the cover plate and trap the furry beast. I was very impressed with the ingenious device and ignored the evil eye from Clare. On our way home she lectured me: “First of all it’s illegal to relocate wild animals and secondly, Chip would surely die a miserable death of starvation and stress, deprived of his cache and territory. I will not tolerate your ‘final solution’. If you go ahead you might as well relocate yourself as well. “

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This was seriously getting out of hand. Even I could see that. Now that darned squirrel was becoming an existential problem, much bigger than a mere technical challenge. Should I admit it.? 5:0. This uneven contest was starting to impact my life in ways I didn’t foresee. I lost my appetite but made up for it with a fortifying drink much earlier in the day then even on holidays. I became morose and self-absorbed and according to Clare was ‘lurking around the house like an old dog with it’s tail pulled in.’ I couldn’t let that bleeding squirrel win and make me capitulate and remove the birdfeeder altogether. The situation left me two choices: either tolerate Chip and live with it, practically impossible at this stage in my sorry life, or trap and kill it without Clare finding out about it, in itself almost an impossible feat in my inebriated and confused state. Also, could I live with the murder of an innocent woodsy animal on my conscience, just trying to survive in this mean old world,?  Squirrels are people too I read somewhere. Those were my conundrums at the beginning of this brand new year.  Not a promising start.

I realize this wasn’t ‘The old man and the Sea’, more like ‘The fool on the Hill’. This contest between squirrel and man mirrored my eternal battle against mediocrity: myself and my insights and feelings against the world; Chip exemplifying the world getting the better of me while I was trying to outwit nature which felt ever more like swatting at windmills like the legendary squire of La Mancha except where was my Pancho? Clare refused to take on that role. I was on my own.

I scanned the Internet and found dozens of sites about squirrels; anything from repellents to traps and all manner of squirrel-safe bird feeders. I even came across a U-tube video of a squirrel catapult, which would not go over with Clare. It was comforting to know  that I was not alone.

And then Chip didn’t show up. Maybe he gave up, maybe he moved, maybe I scared him off – fat chance. It was a new development and it kind of took the wind out of my sails. I suddenly found myself hoping for Chip to reappear; he had become my raison d’être or more precisely, the bane of my existence. Truth is: I missed Chip and the endless hours of entertainment he provided. Now suddenly I was bored, trying hard to go back to of some of my neglected chores, like paying the January bills and answering belated Christmas e-mails, but always, out of the corner of my eyes, I kept a wary watch on the birdhouse, knowing full well that our acquaintance wasn’t over yet.

“There he is,” came Clare chirpy voice from the Kitchen. I almost dropped my coffee and sure enough there was. The audacity, the nerve, the utter lack of respect. That does it, I thought grimly. Chippy, as Clare calls the wily critter, left me no choice but do what is always called for in stalled and seemingly unresolvable situations: Compromise. I planted the birdhouse, which by the way I built with my own hands, in the yard on top of a 2m high, metal, telescopic pole. No way José could he get there without wings.

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I placed a few conciliatory peanuts where the bird house used to be, for compensation and a token of our lasting  relationship, hoping Chip would take the hint and  go away. Clare thought I handled the dilemma with aplomb but missed seeing the birds from our living room window. “Birds didn’t get anywhere near the feeder while Chippy ruled the roost,” I said and she had to admit that I had a point.IMG_3179.jpg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frequent Flyer Woes

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It’s a brand New Year and we’re all settling back into the doldrums of January: Paying off credit cards, considering diet and exercise plans, putting away Christmas lights and decorations, sorting through tax receipts, returning unwanted presents or just plain sobering up. I for one am glad the jolly season is over and we can get on with whatever each of us deems the ‘normal state of affairs.’ For Camp and myself that means we’re back to our weekly Thursday meeting over a couple of pints at our same old table on the closed-in terrace at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ in Gibsons, overlooking the harbour and the grey, wintry waters of Howe Sound with Keats Island in the near distance. Not such a bad spot to air your latest observations or complaints from the fools pulpit or just plain gripe about the latest ferry schedule or in my case the many wasted hours spent at airports trying to get somewhere.

Campbell or Camp as we Gibsonites know him as, was already comfortably seated in his usual chair. After exchanging happy New Year wishes Camp was grumbling about all the Christmas returns and exchanges at the bookstore. I listened patiently, nodding and commiserating and finally was able to vent my latest peeve: Flight cancellations and/or delays.

“Have you ever flown anywhere lately Camp?” Since this was a rhetorical question I didn’t expect a reply from my friend who just shook his head and looked at me with a raised eyebrow and the demeanor of someone who is being served up a stale, warm pint on a thirsty summer’s day.

“Can you make this quick, like in ten words or less?” he asked.

“Ok, I get it. How about ten sentences?”

“If you have to.”

“Alright here it comes: Our flight was delayed due to a flat tire. After an hour long wait we were informed that the tire was en route from Montreal. The flight was delayed for 24 hours, not cancelled, just delayed. Get it? That was last year.”

“That’s five sentences,” Camp quipped, taking a sip from his pint.

“On our next flight we couldn’t land because of smog and fog and were detoured to another city, parked on the tarmac for two hours then finally cleared for our destination where we missed our connection. Fourteen hours later, around midnight, we are re-booked, and arrive at our final destination at 3AM instead of at noon. Or how about after boarding we are informed that there was a scheduling issue with the pilots and the two guys in the cockpit will have to be replaced with two new guys who were en route on another delayed flight. We had to deplane with all our luggage, were handed a ten dollar voucher and had to wait for three hours for new pilots. Travelling can be hell Camp, not all fun and games. Herded like cattle, treated like inmates and then finally released into our vacations exhausted, unnerved and definitely late and yes, also relieved. That’s it in ten sentences.”

“You can’t possibly ask for my sympathy?” Camp said. “You jet around the planet, leaving a carbon footprint the size of a small island nation and then complain about the ordeals of airports and airlines. Meanwhile us landlubbers and stay-at-home-guys try to save the planet by walking and biking, recycling and promoting a green economy.”

“Ok, you got me but am I supposed to feel guilty, stay at home and bemoan the state of the world? From what I could find out air travel accounts for about 5% of total emissions and us staying at home is not going to improve that. I’m hoping that more climate friendly fuels like hydrogen will eventually be used as jet fuel. I’m sure the Germans and maybe even NASA is working on it.”

I was on the defensive end of a loosing argument and quenched my frustration with a healthy swallow of soothing beer while Camp, against our rules, was thumbing through his smart phone.

“One round-trip flight from New York to Europe or to San Francisco creates the equivalent to 2.5 tons of carbon dioxide per person. The average American generates about 19 tons a year; the average European, 10. So you fit right in there my friend, but between the two of us we’re below average if that makes you feel any better.”

“Not really, but I cannot row across oceans, nor walk across continents. And neither do Al Gore, Naomi Klein, David Suzuki or Richard Branson to name a few, all jetsetters and vigorous proponents of a greener world. I guess I’ll have to buy the next round and convince Clare to turn the heat down and wear a sweater instead, to offset some of our jetsetting.”

Camp laughed. “That’s called offsetting.”

Vicky arrived with two foaming mugs before I could even give her the usual victory sign. “You fellows had a nice holiday season?”

“Yes we did,” we both answered in stereo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Missing the Boat

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Another couple of days and this year is over. I can think of a few things from 2017 we could all live without: Trump, Hurricanes Irma, Maria and Nate, Kim Jon-Un, the Rohingya genocide, the senseless war in Yemen and the BC and California forest fires. A stiff wind blows cold across Georgia Straight, rippling the chilli waters of Howe Sound. Not too much activity in the harbour and nary a boat coming or going. Which brings me around to a nagging concern ghosting through my mind as the year draws to a close.

As I entered the pub I passed Vicky who gave me a thumbs up and then pointed a pistol finger towards our table and my friend Campbell, or Camp for short, already seated in front of two blond mugs of the frosty brew, which sometimes seems like the only constant in my life. How did she know that I was about to walk in?

I sat down, rubbing my icy hands together. “What’s on your mind this week, you look a bit peeved.” Camp said. Am I really that transparent?

“Camp, do you ever get the feeling that you missed the boat or to use another metaphor, that your train has already left the station and you’re not on it?”

“Wow, what brings on this fatalistic mood of yours? Is it the weather?”

I ignored the dig and ploughed right ahead. “Well for one, remember when I touted the Bitcoin craze a couple of months ago, shaking my head at the stratospheric price of the block-chain currency. At that time one Bitcoin was nine grand, now it’s over twenty. I should have, could have and did not buy into the bonanza.”

“Hold your horses there my friend,” Camp said, using another popular turn of phrase. “You sound like you want to get money for nothing, get rich quick for no value added to society? Looking for that free lunch?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind making some easy money once in a while. It seems that all the money we have, Clare and I, didn’t come easy, only by way of work rendered for pay. I’m not a gambler but surely, reasonably smart guys like us should be able to cash in once in a while.”

“My, oh my. Stop chasing that elusive grail, money isn’t everything and free money always has a price as well. Imagine if you would suddenly come into a few million bucks by sheer luck, like a lottery or some pyramid scheme or if you found a hand full of long forgotten Bitcoins in your underwear drawer? Then what? It would change your life. Suddenly your comfy house wouldn’t be big enough, and how would you deal with all those new friends you would instantly acquire. Next, the taxman knocks on your door and every charity in the world miraculously has your number and what about all those long forgotten relatives crawling out of the woodwork, or those needy friends, like me for instance. I would love to borrow a bucket of money so I could renovate the store, add better lighting, buy a new computer, increase the stock and hire some help. Could you handle the added pressure of being rich?”

I had to admit that Camp had a point. Sudden riches would probably change my life, it might even wreck it but I sure as hell would like to give it a try. I know money doesn’t buy happiness but it facilitates contentment and opens doors and offers opportunities.

“I think I could handle being rich but then again I already have everything: Good health, a loving partner, a decent roof over my head, a mitt full of true friends, time on my hands, a trove full of unread books, and money in my pocket.”

“As Anheuser Busch, the famous brewer, once famously said: No matter how rich you are, you can only drink between ten and twenty beers a day.”

“Words of true wisdom, those,” I said “but I still feel like I’m missing the gravy train somehow. What do you think will be the next bubble, Camp? You always have your fingers on the pulse.”

“Water. It’s going to be water, specifically the latest desalination process, reverse osmosis powered by solar. Or it could be seaweed, farmed for fertilizer, finger food and a carbon trap. Maybe oil pebbles, as in turning crude oil into floating pebbles to be shipped risk-free by rail or boat. No more pipelines. Watch out for all those trains and boats still in the station or the harbour.”

I couldn’t be sure if Camp was pulling my leg or if he was serious. Then again if he would be that clever why wasn’t he filthy rich already, instead of running a ‘non-profit bookstore’ as he calls it. When I put that to him he just laughed. “Exactly my friend, so obviously it’s not a lack of knowledge that prevents us from getting filthy rich, it’s a lack of desire, a lack of naked ambition and an adversity to risk and gambling. Let’s face it, we’re never going to get rich sitting here chewing our cud and drinking our beer.”

“Maybe we’re already rich,” I mused “compared to the rest of the world, and all that angst about missing the boat is just about the passage of time. I feel I have just a limited amount of time left to do all the things I should have done. The Germans call it ‘Torschlusspanik’, literally ‘closing-of-the-door-panic’. Clare thinks I should just relax and smell the flowers and watch the birds instead of the stock and real estate markets.”

“You’ll never be wrong listening to Clare who is surely amongst those exalted few who can tell reality from fantasy.”

“How many beer did Anheuser Busch mention? I think we’ll manage another one. By the way, Happy New Year to you, wishing you good health, prosperity and a few good laughs along the way.”

 

 

 

 

Costa Rica

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As soon as we walked off the plane into the airport in San Jose I felt comfortable because the floor tiles were shiny and polished, the air conditioning worked and the walls were not peeling paint but were displaying scenes of the country we were about to visit. Everybody smiled, from the customs officer to the taxi driver who delivered us to our hotel for less than we expected to pay without any haggling or confusion. “Welcome to Costa Rica,” everybody said, because it was obvious that we were newbies with our pale northern tans, our tagged luggage and lack of common currency. No matter, US dollars were pretty well equal modes of payment like the local Colones and accepted everywhere. We were not used to think in terms of tens of thousands for a meal and it took a mental adjustment to figure in the local currency, which basically was 500 Colones to every US dollar, mas or menos.

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Charity

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“At this time of year we always get inundated with donation requests; the mailbox is flooded with generic envelopes full of address stickers, key-chains, Christmas cards, all with appeals from charitable organisations, fishing for a buck,” I complained to Campbell, at our usual Thursday get together at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ on the Gibsons Harbour. Camp, as we all call him, was already seated at our corner table on the glassed in veranda, ignored my tirade and said: “Did you see the festive lighting display in our lovely village this year, thanks to some very committed merchants?”

“Yes, I have and I hear they’ll leave it up all year round.”

“Why not, I think it’s a good idea, also saves on labour,” Camp pointed out.

Vicky, wearing a blue and white Santa hat today, dropped off a couple of frosty pints and I tried to get back on track to my peeve of the week. “You must get dozens of unsolicited begging letters around Christmas.”

“I do and for the most part I recycle them. They all try to guilt us into sending money because at this time of year we are supposed to help out our less fortunate fellow men and show compassion and charity,” Camp said.

“Except it seems to me that the rich seem even richer while the poor are even more marginalized at this time of year,” I said. “We hear about the soup kitchens, open houses and turkey dinners for the poor and homeless while on the next block the glitter and sparkle of the Christmas window displays lure the credit card holders with gifts and consumer goods nobody really needs.”

“You’re in a cheerful mood,” Camp said, where is all the jolly good humour this festive season is supposed to elicit?”

“I guess it’s just that I feel a kind of common guilt and helplessness towards the less fortunate and those who have no family or loved ones. It’s a miserable time of year for the lonely and sick.”

“As you know, Christmas is the one bonanza the book store cannot live without. People give gifts, even if they swear they will not succumb to the pressure but at the last minute they need a present for somebody that sent them a present even if they all agreed to abstain from gift giving. The 23rd and 24th of December are by far the best days at ‘Coast Books’. Books that haven’t sold all year fly off the shelves. Fact is nobody begrudges a book. In other words, I need giving time of year and am happy to participate.”

“It’s the family dynamics that always go sideways,” I said. “First nobody wants to do the Turkey dinner, then somebody volunteers but doesn’t want to invite the sister or brother in-laws parents, then the kids want to go to their partner’s family for the dinner and then accusations fly, promises are broken, feelings hurt. Gifts ? We abolished gift giving in our family decades ago, but still every year somebody breakes the agreement and gifts appear. ‘Just something small Dad’, ‘mom always wanted one of those’, or ‘I couldn’t resist it seemed so perfect’. Clare believes that Christmas it’s all about family and if you feel the need to give, donate to a charity.”

“I tend to agree with Clare in principle,” Camp said.. Although I don’t have a family and have spent many Christmas eve’s alone reading a book or wandering the empty streets, this year Muriel and Sophie invited me to dinner. I’m looking forward to it. As far as donating to a charity, ‘Chimp’ is the way to go. ‘Chimp’, which was founded by a friend of mine, is short for ‘charitable impulse’ meaning that if you feel in a charitable mood but don’t know who to give too, Chimp will hold your money for you, issue a tax receipt, and pass your donation on when you make up your mind who the beneficiary should be. It’s a great way to alleviate your guilt: park it for a while and make up your mind later. Check it out”

“I usually buy a couple of those pre-packaged bags at the grocery store and give some money to the local food bank. Drops of mercy into a sea of misery. I’m always glad when the holidays are over and the humdrum, mundane everyday takes over again,” I said.

“For millions this is the time of year for celebration. For rich or poor it’s about getting together and cherishing each other. You need to cheer up my friend.”

I had to admit Camp was right. I need to snap out of my humbug mood. There is lots to celebrate: Our exclusive way of live, our unprecedented comforts and technology, our advances in health and wealth, our children’s successes and last but not least: our loved ones and partners, our friends and neighbours and our communities. “You’re right of course Camp and I feel a charitable impulse right now and will buy the next round. Just because I can.”

“ho, ho, ho,” Camp cheered.

 

Santa Hunters

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I liked walking to the pub, along the beach into the village, which was festooned with ornate seasonal lighting and quirky front yard scenes of cardboard reindeer and chubby Santas. I needed to tell Camp about my dramatic childhood Santa experience.

“I do like the colourful lights and whimsical fairy tale displays,” Campbell said as I sat down at our usual table. “It brightens up the dark dreary days.”

“Do you know what day it was yesterday?” I asked Camp, after ordering two frosty mugs from Vicky, who wore a cute Santa hat with a white tassel.

“The 6th of December,” he answered with a curious look.

“Exactly, it was Saint Nicholas Day, commonly known around here as Santa Claus or simply Santa. Where I grew up Santa was a vastly different version then the one Coca Cola and Disney invented.”

“Oh yeah, how so?” Camp asked.

“Santa was a personage that struck fear and terror into the hearts of kids. I used to hide in the farthest corner under the bed in complete dread of the loathsome Santa. He would come into the homes of people where the parents had arranged the visit, dressed in red or blue with a kind of tiara like the pope on his bearded head and usually accompanied by two black robed and hooded servants or helpers. Nasty characters. Santa carried the dreaded black book with all your sins noted in there; how you didn’t listen to your parents, how many time you beat up your sister and how you didn’t do your homework. He would know details of your misdeeds and then meted out appropriate punishments with a whip made out of twigs, according to the wishes of the parents who pre-arranged all that, but we frightened kids didn’t know that. I tell you Camp, Saint Nick’s day was the most dreaded day in all the year. I would get whipped and only then, after the punishment, would Santa’s sinister helpers dispense some goodies like nuts and chocolates.”

“Sounds medieval,” Camp said, shaking his head.

“In Germany and Austria the evil Santa is called Krampus, a cloven hooved demon-like creature who snatches up the worst behaved children, stuffs them into a bag and then carries them off to his mountain lair. Our Santas in Switzerland would occasionally stuff kids into their bag with the threat to take them back to the North Pole . Every year, kids would die of heart attacks.”

“You’re kidding?” Camp said, almost spilling his beer.

“Remember, this was the fifties and sixties and before anybody heard of the Coca Cola or Hollywood version of Santa. But here comes the good part: We took our revenge to the Santas when we were teenagers. Armed with slingshots and hiding behind snow banks or trees we would wait for the Santas to emerge from their cars. Ducking and dodging our onslaught they would run towards their appointments through a rain of pellets and horseshoe nails. Then we would again wait for their return and attack them again, cat calling and throwing rocks and pepper them with projectiles from our boyish weapons. Most of these Santas were guys who would make a bit of extra cash, some of them drifters and most likely not your best upstanding citizens, if you get my drift. As you can see my Santa experience is somewhat different from here. Every time I see a little boy or girl being forced screaming and crying onto some fat Santa’s lap at the mall I recall those days when we hunted them down.”

“Maybe you should go see somebody about this my friend,” Camp said, “this sounds like some nasty childhood trauma you’re dealing with. Santa psychosis. I can’t imagine. I’ll buy you a beer for that story. I’ll never look at Santa the same way. You managed to completely destroy a picture of perfect bliss and benign good will and replace it with what you call that guy? Krampus?”

We both solemnly looked at the jolly red Santa pulled by a slew of cartoon reindeer across the pub’s front window. I do prefer the local version of the tubby gift bearing Santa sliding down a chimney for a welcome of warm milk or a beer to the one I grew up with. Vicky brought us two foaming mugs and said: “These are on the house boys, compliments from Santa to our regular guests.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wellness or Selfness ?

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I practically sprinted towards the pub hoping to dodge between the raindrops but it was like running through an intense shower, water pouring relentlessly from the pewter coloured sky. After I had struggled out of my soaking wet jacket I finally sat down across from Camp who was eying me with a puzzled look on his craggy face. “Ever heard of umbrellas? It’s the only way to go and they serve as a convenient walking stick and can also come in handy as a weapon against unwelcome wild life.”

I grumbled something about having five of those at home. It’s not what I think about when I leave home when it’s not raining.

“I feel like I’ve got a cold coming on, “ I complained,“ so I better opt for a Guinness since it’s the healthy choice.”

“Yes, there are studies that show that Guinness reduces the risks of heart attacks and it also contains immune boosting antioxidants, which might help fend off a cold,” Campbell or Camp, as he is known in this part of the universe, said with some authority as if he was a professor of beer.

“Just like red wine and dark chocolate, as Clare pointed out to me,” I said.

“Make that two Guinness,” Camp told Vicky who is a clairvoyant, I swear, since she didn’t bring us our usual brews but waited for the special request.

“Wellness is all the rage these days, I guess it represents the absence of illness or maybe it’s more than that. Some of these wellness providers claim to add a spiritual component as in: feeling good in mind and body. All I know is that there is money in the Wellness Industry, sort of a new age health fad,” I said.

“I have a whole section in the book store dedicated to wellness, well being and well, just about anything to do with health improvement, physical and may I dare say it: spiritual well being,” Camp said “and it’s a popular section. The health of the bookstore depends on it.”

“Most of these wellness practitioners pander to the self-indulgent and have more to do with pampering than health, I think.”

“You’re treading on dangerous waters there my friend. Many women, including your lovely wife, and some men no doubt, would disagree.” Before I could stop him, Camp palmed his smart gadget from his pocket and was reciting from Dr. Google. “Ok, here we go: According to my little screen here the global wellness economy turns over a whopping 4 trillion dollars. That’s a 4 with a dozen zeros or 1000 billions, according to a research study done by the Global Wellness Institute. To put it in perspective, that is 8 times the yearly global arms industry trade. Think about that for a moment.”

“I’m not good with abstract numbers like the size of the universe or the world’s consumption of beers or the methane output of Kiwi sheep and cows,” I said, bracing for more of Camp’s words of wisdom.

 

“Beauty and anti-aging’ come in at a cool trillion, then there is ‘Mind and Body Fitness’, ‘Nutrition and weight loss’, each worth over half a trillion and let’s not forget preventive, personalized and alternative medicine. That probably does not include the thousands of books on all these subjects.”

“I suppose it’s all driven by us boomers,” I said. “We can’t stand the thought that we’re perishable goods and that we’re all eventually consigned to the spiritual and physical compost heaps.”

“It has to do with the fear of death or aging. In the middle-ages they looked for the fountain of youth and today, the modern alchemists, charlatans, snake oil salesmen, gurus, saddhus, doctors and scientists, all claim to have discovered a part of it. Selling hope in the form of meds and concoctions, from Noni juice to chemo drugs, all promise a better, longer, newer slice of life. From wrinkle cream to Botox injections, organ transplants and cosmetic surgery it’s all about preserving that youthful body or at least the skin-deep look of youth. ‘New teeth, new hair, tucked skin and implants does not make a new me but it sure helps if others see me that way. Not everybody can be like Jane Fonda at 82, besides I’m more in the Keith Richards corner as far as health and looks go,” Camp said, taking a healthy quaff from his Guinness.

“Now there is a real enigma,” I laughed,” puts all those wellness gurus to the test. If Keith can do it, so can we. I heard that he once made the cover of a British Health Magazine. Sold a million copies I bet.”

Wellness is all about self-ness. Nobody else is interested. And who can afford all those spas and treatments? The boomers of course.”

“Aren’t we boomers Camp,” don’t you feel the need for a back rub or a facial?

“No, but I should pay a bit more attention to Muriel and a hot rum toddy would help to keep that cold at bay.”

“To your health,” I toasted my old friend.

“Santé”

 

 

 

 

 

Legalize It

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I stopped by ‘Coast Books’, Camp’s non-profit-bookstore because this was the busy time of year for him and that would likely make him late for our usual Thursday beer conference. On my way I passed the local pot dispensary, quaintly called ‘The Healing Shanty’. It loomed empty. I thought those purple Sativa buds would make great stocking stuffers.

Campbell, Camp to all us locals, was just about to close up. “This was one of the better days. If all days would be like today I could actually make a living selling books,” he said.

A minute later we were comfortable seated in our usual corner, even though this time of year there was nothing much to see apart from a few twinkling lights across the dark expanse of water. While Vicky set two foamy mugs in front of us I had to ask what Camp thought about the legalization of pot.

“It’s a weed,” Camp said, “that is why it’s called weed or grass. Should we regulate Dandelion tea? I hear it has a calming effect.”

“Yeah, I get it but the topic is all over the news. Quebec just announced their policy, 15 government outlets, no home growing, zero driving tolerance.“

“Therein lies the problem,” Camp pointed out, “legislations and restrictions do not make for a good business model. Zero tolerance means that if you smoked on the weekend and you get stopped on Wednesday, the THC is still in your blood. Does that mean you can never drive again if you indulge once in a while? Also, the choices, quality and price need to be equal or better then the street merchandise. In other words, the Quebec model is rather flawed.”

“Alberta announced that all their outlets will be private and you can grow up to four plants at home. Saskatchewan and Manitoba are looking at similar models. Not sure what the Minister of pot in B.C. has in mind. All we know is that the feds really want to push this legalization as of July next year.”

“That’s all fine and well but where is the standardization, especially for medical marijuana, who or where is the quality control and who are the distributers? Is it the provincial liquor boards or Big Pharma; maybe Reynolds or Philipp Morris, the cigarette companies?”

“Lets hope not,” I said, “but there will be huge business opportunities and hundreds of jobs from cultivation to distribution. I believe BC will allow ‘craft growers’, sort of like ‘craft beer’ and bigger companies like Aurora Cannabis and Canopy Growth Corp. who by the way have taken over the old Hershey Chocolate factory, are cultivating over a million square feet of pot already. I read that this could be 25 billion dollar bonanza with world wide business opportunities.”

“And all the millions in taxes will go to the government, hopefully to support health care and social services,” Camp said with a hint of sarcasm.

“It will go the same route as gambling and Tabaco profits. First they were designated for sports and culture, now they just go into the big pot. No pun intended,” I said.

“I also read that high profile pot advocates like the prince of pot, Marc Emry and his wife Jodie, will not be eligible to get into the business because of their criminal records – for pot offences. Kind of upside-down-backwards,” I pointed out.

“Yes, and there should be an amnesty for all those kids who were busted for pot and now have a criminal record,” Camp said. “I personally like the Portuguese model. They legalized all drugs 14 years ago and decided to treat drugs as a public health issue and not a criminal one and now hardly anybody dies from an overdose.”

“Here in B.C. we have over 1,400 overdose deaths this year, but the legalisation law will only be about marijuana, nothing else.”

“It’s a bit like legalizing beer but not Rum or Vodka,” Camp said, taking a long swallow from his beer.

“What about the kids or juveniles?” I said. “I believe it’s not a good thing to be a pot consumer when you’re in your puberty. There is research that claims it stunts your motivation and ambition. I know from my own experience in my twenties, when I couldn’t even get up to change the record.”
Camp gave me a raised eyebrow look. “I never really indulged,” he said. “I tried but it gave me a headache. My mind is too overloaded as it is. Tell me, how did an old hippie like you meet a princess like Clare. You must have really pitched a flawless game to win her heart.”
I was a bit taken aback by Camp’s rush to judgement but then I have asked myself the same question. Clare once told me that she instantly liked me because: “You were an open book and spoke your mind,” and then added with a twinkle in her eye, “Now, I wish you would keep some of your opinions to yourself .”

“That’s perfect,” Camp laughed.

“You know there are so many ways to consume pot these day,” I said, trying to get us back on track. “From joints to chilums, hukas and vaporizers, candies and cakes to oil and inhalers.”

“Yes, pretty soon we’ll be able to order marijuana infused beers,” Camp said, “like a Sativa lager or and Indica pale ale.”

“Hey, there will be a niche market for the local breweries.”

“You two seem to have a good time,” Vicky said, standing beside us with her tray smartly on her hip. “Ready for another one?”

“Twist my rubber arm,” Camp grinned.

 

 

 

Salmon Talk

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I took off my rain jacket and sat down across from Campbell, or Camp as I call my friend. He was once again staring into his smart phone, violating Rule # 1, which states: ‘Don’t mix leisure time with screen time’ or simpler put: don’t websurf while sharing a pint with your buddy.

“There is nothing to see outside,” Camp grumbled. “It’s dark at 5PM so I check the news on my phone. Listen to this: According to the ‘Paradise Papers’, the rich are parking their money in offshore tax havens, avoiding taxes, once again,” he mockingly elaborated.

“We always knew that the rich have ways to hide their money from the taxman while the working class pays taxes until they bleed,” I said, while at the same time signalling Vicky who was already on her way with two pints. I swear she is telepathic.

“Two pints on the tab boys. Enjoy.”

“On another money issue, do you know what Bitcoins are?” Camp asked, pocketing his phone.

“Not really, it’s some kind of virtual money I think.”

“Bitcoin is a digital currency.” Camp explained. “It cuts out the middle man in payments like banks or credit card companies, which means no transaction or exchange of fees. Like Uber, it’s here to stay. But here is the catch: With the electricity each Bitcoin transaction uses, of which there about 300,000 daily, you could run a fridge for one year. It takes 45 times more energy than a Visa transaction? This is according to Alex de Vries, who is a crypto-analyst, in case you didn’t know. All together the yearly energy footprint of Bitcoin transactions is about 24 terawatthours, which equals the energy demand of Nigeria. Switzerland uses about a third of that..- today. In 2011 one bitcoin was on par with the US dollar, today the same Bitcoin is worth over $ 10’000.

“Blows my mind,” I said. It sounds complicated and unstable and I don’t think we’ll have to worry about paying for our beers in bitcoin.”

On that note we both concentrated on our mugs.

“I bbqued some wild Salmon on a Cedar plank last weekend and Clare raised the issue of Wild Salmon vs. farmed Salmon,” I said. “When I owned the restaurant we had to serve only wild salmon. Nobody wanted farmed fish. Now the pendulum seems to be swinging the other way. It’s about conserving the wild fish stocks now. It’s very confusing.”

“You must have heard about the Cypress Island fish farm collapse back in August resulting in tens of thousands of Atlantic farmed salmon escaping into Puget Sound down in Washington or what about ‘Marine Harvest’, the Norwegian company, which operates over 100 licensed fish farms in B.C.’s coastal waters. I suppose the debate is about if these farmed fish infect wild salmon with sea lice and other diseases and the amount of effluent 4’500 tons of farmed fish produce, or the red pigment they add to their food in order to enhance there natural grey and unappetising colour?”

“Yeah, all of that,” I nodded. “I think the Chileans have 30 times as many aqua farms than B.C. We should just concentrate on ecologically raised fish in closed net pens that minimize harm to wild salmon and the surrounding environment. It could be a lucrative niche market,” I said.

“For the ones who can afford it,” Camp said. “Muriel doesn’t have that problem; she doesn’t like seafood. We should all be glad that we have a choice of what and when to eat and not if,” Camp said, downing his pint. I did likewise.

“What do you think about this latest feeding frenzy over sexual assaults by these celebrities?” I asked, knowing I get a spicy opinion out of my friend.

“Well I don’t doubt it goes on in millions of homes and work places,” he said “and we all know that the glamour business pushes sex and allure. I just don’t believe that we, the public, need to know about all these allegations. We have laws and courts for that. A charge about a drunken sexual advance 30 years ago against somebody who is now rich and famous seems a bit suspicious. Wasn’t it in the nineties when suddenly everybody had a sexual childhood trauma that they could only remember under hypnoses but that explained their present stunted emotional states.”

“I remember. It was almost contagious. You think this current wave of sexual harassment claims is like that?”

“I don’t know but you put those celebrity claims up against the horror of tens of thousands of Rohingyas, who are being raped, maimed and killed and driven from their homes in Myanmar, as we speak. Yes, Harvey Weinstein is a pig and so is that Alabama Senator Moore, but the real tragedies are unfolding in Myanmar, the Congo, Lebanon and Yemen, not so much in Hollywood,” Camp said, shaking his head.

“You have a point there, Camp. Just be glad you don’t own a TV.”

“It just makes it clear to me that we can’t really complain about our corner of this world,” Camp said. “We don’t really have problems here, just situations. We can bitch all day long about the weather and the ferry but then we go home and turn up the heat.”

“Are you two ready for another one?” Vicky asked. “It’s the lack of sunshine that seems to affect you two. It’s called SAD, ‘Seasonal Affected Disorder’. My mom suffers from it.”

“How does she deal with it?” I asked, being one of those afflicted.

“She takes Vitamin D and goes to Hawaii for a month.”

“Must be nice,” Camp grumbled. “How about some sunshine in a glass?”

“Coming right up.”

The Pain of Addiction

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“Remember that song ‘Addicted to love’ by the late Robert Palmer? With the catchy refrain ‘you might as well face it, you’re addicted to love,” I asked Camp as soon as I sat down at our usual Thursday table at ‘Gramma’s Pub’. The song was stuck in my head, playing the catchy refrain over and over, driving me crazy.

“Yeah, I sort of remember,” he said warily, “where is this going?”

“Well, if you change the refrain to ‘addicted to pain’ you’re right in line with the latest epidemic. I’m talking about the opioid crisis in the US and also here in BC where over 800 people have died from overdoses this year alone. It’s a crises as big and more complicated than Aids, some experts say.”

“I take it the pain you refer to is threefold: First there is the real pain which gets dulled with ever increasing pain meds, which can lead to the pain of addiction itself; the stigma attached to it and then follows the pain of loss; loss of self, loss of money and loss of relationships and eventually loss of life itself.”

“That’s putting it pretty crassly Camp,” I said, sipping my beer.

“By the way, Americans, who are 5% of the world’s population, take 60% of the world’s painkillers. Americans are the most drugged people on earth,” Camp stated and then went on, “according to an article in ‘Guardian’ over 90 people die each day from opioid overdoses in the US.”

“It’s incredible,” I said, “and how does all that heroin get from Afghanistan to the US each year?”

“Well you can start with the CIA trained Mujahedeen which later turned into the Taliban and who outlawed opium production in 2000. Then the US took the war to the Taliban in 2001 and after 2,300 US soldiers were killed and thousands maimed, Afghanistan in 1995 was once again the producer of 90% of the world’s supply of heroin. Figure it out.”

“And as long as millions of people need and want these drugs, somebody will produce and deliver them. The war on drugs should be a fight against addiction with medical, social and judicial resources, not guns, military and cops. I still don’t know how all these illegal drugs get into the US and Europe.”

“From the south they come in mostly by sea in everything from pleasure boats to submarines, also by cargo containers and tunnels and even catapults and air canons are used to send drugs across the border. Heroin from US-occupied Afghanistan gets in by airplane. People getting on and off military and CIA aircrafts aren’t searched. It’s as simple as that.“

We both sat quietly for a few beats, contemplating the enormity of the mess. Time to change the subject, I thought.

“Camp did you hear about New Zealand’s new prime minister ? She’s 38 years young and tweets as a kitty cat named ‘paddles’ ?”

“No, that news item escaped me.”

“Well, I’m glad I got something new for you. Her first tweet after being elected was: ‘You asked fur it.’ Get it?”

“And here in Quebec they elected Valerie Plante as the new mayor of Montreal. I can tell you Muriel is ecstatic and for my money women can run the world. Get rid of all the old men who are in power the world over.”

“You’re preaching to the choir Camp, we’d all be better off I believe. You know the first thing Jacinda Ardern, the new Kiwi PM, wants to do is stop the sale of New Zealand properties to foreign buyers, because the housing market is through the roof and has become unaffordable for middle-class kiwis, with more and more homeless people on the streets. Kind of reminds me of Vancouver, except here everything is still up for sale. If someone from Timbuktu wants to, they can buy ten properties at once.”

“Yes, this is a problem, even here in Gibsons, property has become unaffordable for young people,” Camp agreed.

“How do you guys want to pay,” Vicky, who suddenly appeared, asked. “I prefer cash or would you boys like the machine?”

“How about a tab Vicky? Could we start to run a tab?” I asked.

“And where would my tips go ?”

“Oh, they’re separate, due each Thursday,” Camp laughed.

“Under what name would you boys like to start a tab”

“Thirsty Thursdays,” I said and Camp pulled out a fiver for Vicky’s tip.

 

 

 

 

Global to Local

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We’ve been having glorious, ‘Indian summer’ weather lately, but last night the wind howled, black clouds rolled in and it looked and felt decidedly like November. Car windows are fogged up, frosty dew on the ground and all the deciduous trees are dropping their leaves. Halloween, The Day of the Dead and Hallows Eve are thankfully over and already a lot of businesses are switching to Jingle-Bells and Christmas décor.

“I hope the pub holds off for a while with the usual Frosty the Snowman window decorations. All this pre-Christmas cheerfulness doesn’t really brighten up my gloomy November and it brings out the early Grinch in me, and my friend Campbell, Camp to all his cronies, feels the same way.

“Santa Claus sounds like Mr. Amazon from the North Pole. A regular mail order business, disguised as a free gift giving enterprise, replete with a fantasy delivery commercial and no warranties. Baloney and Marzipan,” Camp grumbled, “except it’s the best time of the year for a bookstore.”

“Santa goes global Camp. Everything from cars to smartphones, from kitchen gadgets to appliances to electronics is made globally with parts made in China, Japan, Mexico and then assembled maybe in India or even in the US. We just bought a washing machine and it’s a South Korean brand but with parts and pieces in it from around the globe.”

“You must know that globalisation or the outsourcing of jobs has been reversing for the past 10 years, something few people are aware off,” Camp pointed out.”

“Really, I thought it was just one of Trump’s empty battle cries.”

“Not exactly. Caterpillar, NCR and GE built new factories and brought thousands of jobs back form China, Hungary and Japan. Foxxconn, the world’s largest electronic sub-contractor with clients like Microsoft, Apple and Nintendo is creating thousands of new jobs in the US. Tesla built the biggest new car factory in California and their battery factory in Nevada is gigantic. All in all, over 350’000 jobs have been repatriated into the US since 2010, not because of Trump but because wages and transport costs have risen in 3rd world countries and market stability is better close to the consumers which are still mostly in the US. All this bellyaching about unfair trade deals is just so much window dressing. The CEO’s of the world’s biggest companies are ominously silent about this trend and nationalism, a cousin of protectionism, is here to stay.”

“Well, here in this small town we now have 3 local breweries and one distillery. I guess it’s a microcosm of the big picture,” I said. We both sipped our beers, looking out at the grey, gloomy harbour, almost like they painted the whole scene in black and white and took all the colours away.

“Camp, you’re a councillor, what do think about the latest court injunction to stop ‘The George Hotel’ development on the Gibson’s Harbour?”

“It’s just the latest frivolous misuse of the courts by a fringe group who want to subvert the democratic process. Back in 2014, 63% of the town’s voters have elected representatives who support the project. The accumulated costs for defending these abuses of process have cost the local taxpayers over a hundred thousand bucks so far.”

‘It’s a shame. The money could be used to move the breakwater.”

“Don’t get me started, that is also being challenged by certain people who don’t want more boats, more people or even more tourists in this town. They don’t want any change. In fact these people want the ‘good old days’ back or their skewed version of a past that didn’t exist in the first place. Luddites, every one of them.”

“Oh, boy that calls for a drink,” I said. “The local politics are every bit as fascinating as those in far off places. Have you been driving in the city lately,” I asked Camp, changing the subject. “It’s absolute chaos and a game of chicken every time, no matter what time of day, it’s gridlock everywhere. Instead of adding more bicycle paths to the already congested roads why don’t they do what Zurich (Switzerland) has successfully accomplished.”

“What’s that,” Camp wanted to know. “Did they ban cars?”

“Not quite , but they built a brand new three story underground parkade right under the center of Zurich at the Bellevue and topped it with an open event plaza, where people can roam and congregate. The cost for parking downtown? A whopping $ 25 an hour. That keeps a lot of cars away but on the other side of the equation they made all public transport like trams, buses and even some cable cars, free for all. Now that’s what I call thinking out of the box. The teens were riding for free anyway and now they can save all that infra structure like ticketing machines, controllers and policing.”

“It’s going to be cold day in hell before they make public transport free around her. Imagine free ferries. Now that’s a wish Santa won’t be able to deliver,” Camp said, shaking his head. “I do have a good news item I’d like to share with you. It’s a quote by the late Ojibway writer, Richard Wagamese, at a lecture to a white audience, referring to the disastrous residential school policy, which devastated and traumatized so many first nations families. He said: “You can’t undo the past and you don’t have to apologize for the past, or even feel guilty about it, all you have to do is say YES, yes this happened.”.

“It’s a great sentiment,” I said, I’ll drink to that.”

 

 

 

 

Follow the Money

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Campbell struggled out of his heavy wool knit jacket before he sat down.

“Winter is coming,” he said ominously, quoting a favourite line from ‘Game of Thrones’. Winter here on the Sunshine Coast consists mostly of water, i.e. rain. Only once ever eight years does it actually snow in Gibsons. Last year was one of those years. Since neither the town nor the people are prepared or equipped for any accumulation of snow it pretty well shuts everything down. Four-wheel drives, private snow ploughs and shovels were suddenly in big demand or better yet, a plane ticket to a warm place.

“Going anywhere this winter?” Camp asked me.

“Well, in fact we are. We booked a two-week trip to Costa Rica in December. We’re really looking forward to this.”

“Must be nice. I’m looking forward to a rainy Christmas season at the store. Just no snow please until January. Talking of places in the sun have you ever heard of Malta, the small Island state, between Sicily and Libya, once a British Colony?”

“Sure, I’ve heard of it. Sounds lovely.”

“Last week, Malta’s most famous blogger and investigative journalist, Daphne Caruana Galizia was murdered with a Semtex car bomb. I’ve done a bit of digging and it turns out that the small island state is home to over 70’000 corporations and 600 investment funds and for a mere $ 650’000 you can buy Maltese citizenship which makes you a European. Last year Malta sold over 5000 of these dubious passports. It looks like Daphne stepped on some golden toes with her reporting of corruption, drug and oil deals, prostitution and money laundering right up to the young prime minister’s wife. Apparently Malta has become a play ground for Libyan militia-billionaires to Italian Mafiosi and multi millionaire tax-evaders from Russia, the Gulf states, China and anywhere else.”

“Sounds like a real treasure island,” I said. “Costa Rica on the other hand seems like an interesting place. No military, no air force, no submarines. Imagine that. They spend their money on education, social programs, healthcare, infra structure and debt financing.”

“It’s a smart move not to have a military. I wish more countries would adopt that policy. Do we really need a military or fighter jets here in Canada?”

“You know it’s the US who is pressuring us Camp, to increase our military spending from 24 billion to 32 billion, part of our Nato commitments they say but it’s mostly about the flow of money south. Just look at the latest spat between Bombardier and Boing. It’s all about the mula.”

“Isn’t everything?” Camp said laconically. “You want to find the culprit in any shady enterprise. Follow the money. No matter if it’s the Vatican or the drug cartels. Or take a look at our federal finance minister. He thought a blind trust was when he closed his eyes while his millions moved into a loop hole and an account in Alberta He’s been going around the country waving an accusatory finger and scolding us middle classers to stop using legal means to avoid paying taxes.”

“Tax avoidance is legal, tax evasion is not,” I pointed out. “Of course in my case I have nothing to avoid or evade.”

“Nor me,” Camp laughed.

“Clare and I went on the Sunshine Coast Art-Crawl last weekend,” I said, switching to a positive topic. “We had a ton of fun. Over 150 studios, homes, workshops and galleries opened their doors all the way up the coast, from Gibsons to Earls Cove. So many talented artists from blacksmiths’ to glass blowers, painters, potters, stained glass artist, photographers, designers, weavers, carvers and jewellers presented their work. What I enjoyed the most was seeing all these fantastic houses and workspaces tucked away in the woods, including the wonderful traditional longhouse of the Sechelt Band.”

“Yes, the Sunshine Coast is awash with artists of every description including writers and playwrights, actors and filmmakers. We have our very own cultural treasure island here on the coast,” Camp said, proud like a father about the achievement of his many children.

“Did you decorate ‘Coast Books’ for Halloween next week?” I asked, knowing that I’ll get a rise out of him.

“Halloween! It’s just an aberration of the Celtic New Year and used to be called Samhain. The custom probably came to America with the Irish and as far as I’m concerned it should go back there.”

“No trick or treat then?”

“I’ll show you a trick. Watch this beer, close your eyes, count to ten and then open them again…well?”

“Wow, the glass is empty. That’s a pretty neat trick Camp. Can you do the reverse?”

“Just watch me.” With that he held up two fingers in a peace or victory sign and like magic two fresh foaming pints arrived.”

 

 

 

Social Criminals

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“Ever heard of Crazy Eddy?” Campbell, or Camp for short, asked me after we both looked out at the gloomy grey world of Gibsons Harbour where the only colour was the bright yellow glasses of beer in front of us.

‘”Can’t say it rings a bell,” I said, ready for a homily that I knew was coming.

“Crazy Eddie is the former hedge fund manager Eddie Lampert and CEO of Sears since 2013; the iconic retail flagship formerly known as Sears-Roebuck which brought Catalogue shopping to small towns, a century before on-line shopping was even a concept. Crazy Eddie is also a fervent admirer of Ayn Rand’s bat-shit philosophy that humans perform best when acting selfishly and only winners survive. He pitted company managers against each other fighting over resources and market shares. Eddie believed that this would make them boost overall performance. Crazy Eddie’s downfall was hubris and his unfailing belief in himself, regardless of the outcomes. Damn the torpedoes. Even as far back as 2015 he was viewed as the worst CEO in America and should have fired himself long ago.”

“Wow Camp, you obviously did your homework. Why so obsessed with this guy? He sounds just like any other egoistical, maniacal, self-serving captain of industry.”

“Not quiet, the guy takes the price for worst manager, worst CEO and self-proclaimed Lord of Chaos. Just this past July he paid out $ 9.2 million dollars to executives in ‘retention bonuses’, completely in the face of the employees who are now fearing for their pension fund which is $ 200 million short and never mind any severance pay when they’re all laid off on short notice. It’s a total disgrace and a social crime. “

“A social crime,” I said. “Never heard of that one. What are the punishments?

Un-friending by social media or maybe public shaming.”

“Well, I personally think that social crimes of the sort Crazy Eddie has committed are every bit as destructive as corruption in politics or stealing from the old and vulnerable or watering down wine. Social criminals usually manage to squirrel away plenty of cash for themselves while pulling the rug out from under people that depended on them.”

“It seems to me that most of these ‘social criminals’ were once considered geniuses and wunderkinder before their fall from grace; guys like David Walsh from Bre-X mining or Ken Lay from Enron or the celebrated Bernie Madoff, a bigger thug then even Charles Ponzi himself.”

“Yes, these guys were all fuelled by one of mankind’s worst deadly sins: Greed. It’s what drives the casinos, investor schemes and even parts of the stock market.”

“Wow Camp, you’re about as gloomy as the weather outside. What happened? Did Muriel ask you to marry her or what?”

Camp looked at me as if he was going to say something rude and nasty but then instead took a long swallow from his brew. “Believe me my friend, if Muriel would ask me to marry her the sun would shine in the darkest corner of my soul. No, it’s the sad news of Gord Downie’s passing on Tuesday. He was only 53 and added more to Canadian music and public awareness of indigenous maltreatment, than any other man. His Secret Path project highlighted the death of Chanie Wenjack, a 12-year-old Ojibway boy who died from hunger and exposure after attempting to make the 1000km journey home, on foot from an Indian Residential school. Gord Downie was the ultimate Canadian voice; with his music, poetry and engagement with everybody he came in touch with. As our prime minister put it: We are less of a country without Gord in it.”

I felt stupid to have said what I did and apologized. “I’m sorry Camp, I guess the next round is on me. One for the Tragically Hip.”

We both took a beat, not saying anything. When Vicky brought us a couple of refills I couldn’t help myself and just blurted out: “It just seems there isn’t any good news out there these days. The tragedy in Myanmar, which is nothing less than genocide, with over half a million Rhohingyan refugees crossing into Bangladesh since August. It’s the largest humanitarian catastrophe since the 1994 Rwandan genocide, and it has been brewing for years.”

“Yes, and the only person who could make a difference is treating the atrocities committed as ‘fake news’ and infighting amongst extremist groups. Aung San Suu Kyi is no Nelson Mandela or Ghandi, she is only a self serving political opportunist, kowtowing to the generals.”

No lament is complete without mentioning Trumpelstilzchen. “He seems hellbent on undoing anything Obama built, like the Iran nuclear deal, the affordable care act, relations with Cuba and surely one of the worst betrayals is the annulation of the DACA program, kicking people out of the country who have no other home then the one they grew up in.”

“Yes, he’s mean and crazy in a world full of good and decent people,” Camp said, shaking his head. “But we have our own mini crisis here on the sunshine coast. We are once again forced to adopt stage 4 water restrictions and this in a place where the annual rainfall is close to six feet. It’s not a lack of water but a lack of infrastructure and political will. If we have to restrict water use here on the rainforest coast then we are really in trouble.”

“I’ve read that. Yes, it pisses me off too. First they spend millions to install water meters in order to monitor use and detect leaks but now apparently also to police water use. Imagine: The Water Police. It sounds like a Monty Python stick. Here come the water detective, stalking through the rain, brandishing a water pistol. Maybe I’ll just become a water terrorist and hose him down.”

Even Camp grimaced in a kind of lopsided grin at the picture. “Here is to the Water Police then, may they drown in their own folly. Cheers.”

 

 

 

 

 

Social Media

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It was unusual to see Campbell or Camp staring at his smart phone instead of the calming vista of the harbour, violating one of his basic rules:

phone off after working hours.

He had some other rules of conduct, which he was wont to proclaim as if they were laws of nature. For example:

Put tools back where you borrow them from

            Leave no bottles or jars with caps unscrewed

            no books read and returned for refunds

            no photocopying in the book store

            never any beer left behind.

“What’s with the phone Camp, is this an emergency or a change of habit?”

Camp looked up, taken aback for a moment. He was obviously engaged with the contents of his device. “Oh, that. No, no. It’s just that both Muriel and Sophie want me to join Facebook – which I told them was never going to happen – but since I’m a curious guy I wanted to do a little research on the issue, hence the phone. Did you know that Facebook is now the world’s most dominant information medium with over 2 billion subscribers, but it has miserably failed to take social responsibility for its content.”

“No, oh well I know it’s popular but neither I nor Clare are subscribers. Remember, we’re the boomers, the generation with the computer free childhood, unlike the millennials whose first moments were most likely immortalized by a smart phone or broadcast on social media.”

“There you have it. Mark Zuckerberg has no idea what he unleashed onto the world. From his ideal of a romantic place on the internet where people find and understand each other it has been transformed into a murky non-transparent

information giant with enormous political power. Zuckerberg now admitted to the Russian disinformation campaign of over 3000 political ads masquerading as real news. These ‘boosted posts’ posed as concerned US citizens alarmed about Clinton’s candidacy which reached ten million Facebook users in the US and definitely influenced the election in favour of the moron in the white house. Facebook is incredibly successful but therein lies its weakness. For so many people it has become indispensable, almost like an addiction,” Camp said, rather passionately. “It has replaced analytical thinking and posts are consumed like fast food at face value without any proof, research or integrity. Teens use it as much to bully each other as to share moments and photos. It defines fashion, behaviour and modes of thinking. ”

“I don’t really understand the whole thing,” I admitted. “I understand the platform’s content is regulated and filtered by algorithms rather then people. Something I read the other day,” I ventured, taking a sip from the brew that magically appeared in front of us.

“That’s right,” Camp nodded adamantly, “even Zuckerberg has now relented to hire a thousand human controllers to filter content. Should be a few shekels out of his 70 billion dollar fortune. He also apologized for the ways his work was used to divide people rather than bring them together. To little to late I say. The network is constructed in a way that favours sensational and exaggerated entries, articles and videos, which can all be sponsored without identifying the submitters, thus it’s hard to separate slander and deceptions from genuine content. Fake news are consumed and broadcast without any journalistic integrity, usually to propagate misogynistic and extreme views. Thanks to Facebook such distortions and manipulations spread like a viral disease.”

“I see why you don’t want to join any social media Camp, but Facebook, Instagram, Linkedin, U-tube and Twitter are here to stay. We have a president who governs by Twitter. Nothing you and I can do about it,” I said. “Maybe you should put your phone away now. Look there is a rainbow over Keats Island. Now that is something we can all share without a subscription.”

“You’re right for once,” Camp conceded to my chagrin, “and I promise it will not happen again.

Just then his phone cascaded through the first bars of Randy Bachman’s ‘Taking care of business’. I looked at Camp and shrugged my shoulders. He answered reluctantly. Some promises last only as long as it takes to say them. He hung up almost immediately. “A goddarned telemarketer doing a surveys on eating habits.“

“You were more fun when you left your phone at work.”

“Right you are again,” he said with a shake of his head, dramatically pushing the off button on his smart device.

“Cheers to face-to-face,” I said.

“Yes, I’ll drink to that,” Camp retorted with a lopsided grin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guns, Crazies and History revised

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It’s a perfect Indian summer day here on the Sunshine Coast. Baby blue skies, summery warm in the sun and cool enough to wear a sweater in the shade. Camp was sitting at our usual table on the patio, alone except for a couple of locals. He was immersed in the latest news and about to share his insights with me.

“Fifty nine dead, over five hundred wounded, the worst massacre in the USA which is saying a lot. One crazy loner, a retired accountant, armed with a truckload of automatic assault rifles is responsible. When are the Americans going to realize that guns and crazy people don’t mix. In fact guns do not belong in glove compartments, purses, pack pockets, pick-up trucks, hotel rooms, houses and apartments.”

I sat down and signalled to Vicky for a couple of pints. “Camp, you’re preaching to the choir. I grew up in country that is armed to the teeth, where every able bodied male that has served in the Swiss military has a semiautomatic rifle and ammo stored at home. I looked it up. Switzerland has about 47 guns per 100 residents while the US has 89 guns and Yemen 55. Yet in Switzerland gun ownership comes with a lot of education and gun crimes are unusual. In the US 33’000 people died due to gunshot wounds in 2015.”

“People with guns kill other people,” Camp said. “It’s as simple as that. They should outlaw all handguns, automatic rifles and assault weapons. Hunting rifles only with background checks. Gun control and a buyback of prohibited firearms in Australia after the 1996 Port Arthur massacre, which left 35 people dead, stopped mass shootings and plunged gun death by 72%.”

“You obviously have done your research Camp. You need to watch Jim Jeffries u-tube video about gun protection. He says it all.”

We solemnly sipped our beers, gazing out at the tranquil harbour spread out before us. Hard to imagine what snaps somebodies mind to where they become a harbinger of death and mayhem. “Only humans murder humans and only humans know how to hate and loathe,” I said.

“On the other hand only humans know love and show kindness to strangers and only humans display compassion,” Camp countered.

“Yeah, but we always find ways to hurt one another,” It’s a miracle that we made it this far as a species.

“I want to change the subject to something closer to home and equally troubling. Muriel and I went to see a film adaption of Richard Wagamese’s novel,: ‘Indian Horse’ at the Vancouver film festival on Monday. The story follows the life of Saul Indian Horse, who was taken away from his Ojibwa family and placed in a Catholic residential school where he was not allowed to speak his language. As was the directive he was denied his Indigenous heritage as he witnesses abuse. He finds escape in hockey, where his talent helps him escape the nightmarish school and he eventually became a professional player. However, the traumatic experiences of the past continue to haunt him and he is also constantly belittled and taunted for being native. It’s a fantastic film and profoundly moving, about a very sad chapter in Canadian History. We really have not come to terms with the fact that we are still racist and prejudiced and that we constantly revise the true history.”

“It all comes down to a lack of education,” I offered.

“Yes, but it is us, the colonizers, who are lacking the education, not them,” Camp said. “Treating them as victims rather than as equals and part of our national family does not improve their lot in life. If you have a chance, go watch this movie.”

“Yeah, when we were in Mexico last year and I brought up the disappearance of the 43 students in Guerrero to Carlos, my language teacher, he asked me about the 1500 indigenous woman missing or killed in Canada.”

“We have a lot to learn,” Camp said. I looked at the calm waters of Howe Sound and wondered how much mystery lurks just below the surface and is hidden from view, a good metaphor for the way we view our collective history. “We can shape the future and we can revise the past but we cannot escape the present,” I mumbled, feeling a bit confused.

“You’re wiser than a tree full of owls,” Camp remarked with a lopsided grin. “And presently my mug is empty which calls for a refill I believe.”

“Two pints coming up,” Vicky acknowledged our hand signals.

 

 

 

 

Unreal Realestate

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My first thought was: there is somebody else in our seats. I looked at the back of a short-cropped grey head and only after a second look did I realize it was Campbell, or Camp for short, who was looking out over the tranquil Gibsons harbour with his back to me.

“Holy shit Camp, what happened to your hair? Is this in sympathy to Muriel’s ‘hair on fire’ and subsequent re-styling from last week?”

Campbell swivelled around and he now looked like an army general. “Yes and no,” he said. “Apparently respect is also in the eye of the beholder and my new look improves my public appearance both at the book store and in council. Short hair is in these days. Haven’t you noticed? On the other hand Muriel has pointed out to me that I looked like a cross between Einstein and Beetlejuice and was in serious need of some grooming. I aim to please in such trivial matters; it gives me an edge on the important stuff,” Camp explained.

“Wow, I guess it’s my turn next, except I only have to please Clare who doesn’t much care about my hair. It’s my weight she is more concerned with. My diet plan of: drink more beer and eat less is not having the desired effect.”

“We all have our cross to bear,” Camp said cryptically and with a nod to Vicky ordered us two pints of the foamy beverage.

“Nice haircut Camp,” Vicky said, lending credence to his argument.

“To change the subject, have you seen the latest stats on homelessness in Vancouver, over 3500 as of the latest count and the corresponding rental housing crisis? According to the latest census over 25’000 empty homes and 800’000 empty bedrooms, based on a study by Paul Smetanin, president of the Canadian Centre of Economic Analysis. All this in a housing market where the average house price is north of a million bucks,” I pointed out. “Shocking, to say the least, it’s a real estate casino where the renters are the losers.”

Camp just shook his short cropped head which was much less dramatic then when he shook his former lions head of curly white hair. It will take me a while to get used to it. “Yeah, and the government is spending more money on taxpayer election subsidies, $ 2.50 per vote, to replace the corporate and union donations, and nothing for daycare or rental subsidies but a few million defending the new premier’s public sliming of a senior bureaucrat.”

“I guess it is politics as usual in BC,” I said. “ Would it really be that hard to improve affordable housing and encourage more rental housing investments?”

“I guess there could be preferred tax rates for investors and developers in building and maintaining rental stock or there could be direct investment by the government in building and acquiring rental units. Something the CMHC (Canada Mortgage and Housing Corp) used to do before they became an insurance company or subsidies for co-ops.”

I thought this over while our beer arrived. “As long as there is extensive money laundering through real estate and offshore investors, flipping paper properties and mortgages and getting away without paying capital gains taxes, there is little incentive to invest in long term rental units. Add to that the tendency to take rentals out of the market by turning them into Airbnb’s. It’s a real detriment to affordable housing from Barcelona to Vancouver, from New York to Paris. More and more people rent out anything from the empty nest bedrooms to whole apartments via Airbnb. They can make as much as a month’s regular rent in ten days daily rentals, without the added worries and responsibilities of renter’s demands and problems.”

“This makes it difficult for Universities as well as business’s to attract young brains and talents. I have a good friend who was offered a coveted job at UBC but couldn’t afford to make the move from Halifax into the Vancouver real-estate market. What you pay for a house in Halifax you can barely buy a one bedroom apartment for in Vancouver. We should be happy to live on the tranquil Sunshine Coast,” Camp said.

“I guess we’re talking about popular destinations. I’m sure this maxim doesn’t apply to Detroit or Milwaukee,” I said.

“Yeah, but the word is out about the beautiful Sunshine Coast I believe. Mass tourism has arrived here as well. Like in that small town in Switzerland’s Ticino. Somebody posted a u-tube video on the idyllic hamlet, which received a million hits and resulted in hundreds of tourists descending in cars, trains and automobiles on the unsuspecting and unprepared town and it’s denizens. It could happen here.”

“It already has,” Camp pointed out, “multiple coaches, sometimes three or four at a time, have taken up all the parking across from Winegarden park this summer and disgorged a couple of hundred thrill seekers onto our main street. Most of them were looking for a bathroom and photo ops of local curios, myself included,” Camp said.

“With your new hair style you’ve eliminated that problem,” I said.

“Hey, that’s a benefit I hadn’t even considered,” Camp laughed. My descent into anonymity. “That calls for a celebration !” With a flourish he raised his arm, making the V sign to Vicky who efficiently replaced our empty glasses with two full ones.”

“I’m not so sure if we can celebrate much these days. The lunatic in the white house is ready to flip the switch and hurricanes and earthquakes are devastating entire regions like Puerto Rico, the Florida keys and parts of Mexico. A volcano is about to erupt in Bali and add to that the half million Rohingya refugees in Bangladesh fleeing ethnic cleansing by the Buddhists in Mayanmar. On and on goes the list. It’s a crazy world out there,” I lamented.

“On the contrary my friend, there is lots to celebrate. Take a look at the Invictus Games, currently going on in Toronto or how about McCain, even though he is diagnosed with brain cancer he seems to think with a clearer mind then all the other republicans, or closer to home we now have a third micro brewery and distillery in our small town. That’s real progress I dare say.”

“I suppose you’re right Camp, celebrate the small victories since we can do little about the big picture. Cheers.”

 

Heros or Fools

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As soon as I sat down, Campbell or Camp to all and sundry, wanted to get something off his chest, even before we ordered anything to drink. This was unusual but I could guess what was bothering him.

“Hey Camp, I heard about your eh, fire drill at the restaurant.”

“Well yeah, you could call it that but I better tell you what happened before you listen to any nasty rumours.”

I played the peeved and doubted Thomas. “Oh Camp, I’d never.”

“Yeah sure. It all started like the perfect evening. A pleasant dinner out with my co-counsellor and friend.”

“You’re talking about Muriel. Your special friend.”

“Right, Muriel. Anyway we were just waiting for our orders when Muriel leaned across the table to whisper something  to me.”

“Maybe she wanted to give you a peck on the cheek or maybe even a kiss on…”

“Hold it right there, buddy. That’s the sort of gossip that turns facts into fiction my boy.”

“Ok, carry on. She was leaning across the table and then ?”

“Well, there was a candle on the table and for this eh, occasion she let her hair down, so to speak.”

“She let her hair down?”

“Well yes, she wore it open and falling onto her shoulders. Anyway when she leaned over the table her hair instantly caught on fire from the stupid candle on the table. I couldn’t believe it. It was instant. And because I’m a man of action I reacted instinctively since there was no time to think.”

“What did you do Camp ? Call 911 ?”

“I threw my full glass of beer at her head.”

“You did what ?”

“I just told you. I put out the fire but the smell. Oh boy, nothing worse then burning hair.”

“Doused Muriel in beer ? I can’t believe this Camp. How to ruin a romantic dinner.”

“You tell me. Muriel wasn’t too impressed at the moment but she came around later on, after she returned from the bathroom, and forgave me. She actually thanked me from saving her from a worse fate. Anyway she now has bangs and a cute page cut. Actually looks quite good on her.”

“Camp you’re my hero. You throw a glass of beer at your date and come out a champion.” I couldn’t stop myself any longer and burst out laughing until even Camp, who seldom smiles and never laughs, chuckled.

“Here are two complimentary pints from the new brewery in town,” Vicky said, setting two foaming glasses in front of us.”

“Free beer ?” Camp said, nonplussed.

“Yes, I figure you deserve it.  I thoroughly enjoyed your volunteer fire fighter episode,” Vicky said, “Like a real hero.”

“Hold it there girl, heroes risk their lives for others. Stanislav Petrov*) was a hero. He saved the world from nuclear war. I merely put out a fire, in more ways then one, which makes me a fool, not a hero, by all accounts.”

I needed to share my worries of the week with my friend. “Now that the BC fires destroyed 150’000 hectares of forests this hot summer and displaced 37’000 people we’re happy to see some rain around here. Meanwhile serial hurricanes are ripping through the Caribbean and earthquakes are pounding Mexico and the leader of the free world is threatening with annihilation and world war III at the UN,“ I said glumly, staring out at the calm waters of Howe Sound.

“There you go again, like Atlas, carrying the world on your shoulders.”

“I can’t help it Camp, these things worry me.”

“I have to compliment your Swiss Councillor whose rebuttal pointed out that the UN is there to keep the peace of the world and is not a forum for threats of war and destruction,” said Camp. “A voice of sanity in a wilderness of confusion.”

“I sometimes feel like I live in the wrong alternate universe Camp. Maybe somewhere I slipped through the wrong rabbit hole. The universe I wanted to live in was where Al Gore won the presidency, fossil fuels have mostly been left in the ground, Russia joined the EU and borders and fences have been disbanded,” I said much to Camp’s amusement.

“Maybe you need to sign up for one of those mood enhancing cannabis prescriptions,” Camp suggested.

“Clare wouldn’t go for it,” I said. “She believes in facing reality, no matter how difficult, and forge ahead with a positive outlook and an open mind. Useless clichés when you’re faced with a constant barrage of bad news, I say.”

“She has a point,” Camp said. “What use is it to brood on misery when you can just enjoy the sunshine and the fine new craft beers being offered everywhere.”

Just at that moment Muriel walked in, looking rather cute with her bangs and page cut. “Mind if I join you two?” she asked and pulled up a chair.

“No need to stare at my new hair style,” she said with a wink and a tilt of her head. I just want to make it clear that Camp here is my Champ. Without his jungle reflexes my hair would not be quite this stylish.” And with that she smacked a kiss  on Camp’s cheek which made him him look like he had an instant case of tropical sunburn.

“All is forgiven then?” Camp asked sheepishly.

“No need for forgiveness, but I’ll have one of those beers as well.”

Vicky must be psychic when she appeared with a pint for Muriel. “This is for you from me and I must say the new hair style suits you.”

“Thanks, I’m just happy I still have hair.”

We all laughed and drank to that.

“Beer always tastes better when it’s free.” Camp said. I couldn’t agree more.

I have to admit that my mood improved markedly with Muriel’s sunny presence.  For just that moment she made disasters and dangerous demagogues go away.

*) https://www.commondreams.org/views/2017/09/20/man-who-saved-world

 

The Bottom Line

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Lucky for us, Campbell or Camp to all his friends and foes, was able to snag us our usual table at ‘Gramma’s’ Pub, on the glassed in veranda in the corner under the TV. Another glorious day with a few clouds drifting across the pale blue sky, a westerly whipping up a small chop in the harbour and providing some wind for sailing enthusiasts. All in all, a perfect late summer’s day. I said that much to Camp, who sadly shook his full mane of unruly white curls.

“We need some rain. I didn’t think I’d ever say that in these parts. We are after all in the rainforest, even though a lot of it is paved,” Camp said ruefully.

“I have to say I love the sunshine and since there is nothing I can do about the weather, I might as well enjoy it,” I said.

“Easy for you to say my friend, you’re retired and have a working partner. I’m on my own in the bookstore, which is truly a non-profit venture, albeit one that has it’s perks: Usually intelligent and curious customers, lot’s to do and read even when there is nobody in the store; a great view of the harbour out back and perfect working hours and last but not least: within walking distance of the pub.

We drank to that.

“You must have some best sellers that hold up the bottom line and always sell,” I said.

Camp was quick in responding. I must have hit a nerve. “A good book is a book that sells. It doesn’t matter what it’s about, who wrote it or if it’s literature or trash. All that matters in the book business is to be able to sell the book. It’s a sad truism that often times the best written books just sit on the shelf. Why? It’s as simple as a fickle public. Second guessing Joe or Jane Public is a waste of time. And yes, you can judge the book by its cover. Years ago our summer best seller was: ‘How to shit in the woods’. A thin volume that deals exactly with what the title implies. But what sold the book was the picture on the cover of a guy with his pants wrapped around his ankles, one hand with a roll of toilet paper the other holding a small spade. That image and the title sold that book, not the contents. The same applied to: ‘Women who run with wolves’ ‘Men are from Mars, Women from Venus’. If I would be interested in producing a book simply for it’s commercial value it would be entitled: ‘How to get rich quick, legally’, or ‘True love, just around the corner’, ‘Sex, love and money: Guaranteed!’ or ‘Life after death’, as told by the ones who came back.

All the promotion in the world isn’t going to sell a book if the public is not interested. I should know because we have the store full of beautiful coffee table books with gorgeous photography bound in expensive glossy paper and endorsed by famous people. Children’s books are a prime example. Grandmothers used to buy the old standby classics like ‘Anne of Green Gables’, ‘Winnie the Pooh’ or the fairy tales. Not any more. Now they come in and bluntly ask: What do the kids like? If it has a TV show or a game attached to it that so much the better. All the beautiful artistic books by unknown authors just sit there and look pretty. The bottom line is like in any business: sales, profits and losses and if it’s not on the shelf, you can’t sell it.”

“And then there is Murphy’s law: ‘If it can go wrong, it will go wrong’, I lamely added, surprised by Camp’s passionate monologue.

“Or the weather,” he said. Remember Christmas Eve Day past which is always our best day of the year, except last year when we awoke on the morning of the 24rh December to the beautiful sight of a about a foot of fresh snow. This is Lotus land! This doesn’t happen here! Remember, it never snows in the lower mainland. I barely made it to the store. On foot that is. The best day of the year turned into the worst day of the best month. My thanks to all those customers who heroically braved the lovely weather looking for that last minute gift, we survived. I am in the book business because I love books and all that it entails. Definitely not for the money. Here is another truism, the last one for today: If it ain’t fun it ain’t worth doing. That after all is the ultimate bottom line.

That was by far the longest soliloquy by my friend.

“Hear, hear, long live Coast Books,” I toasted him. We emptied our glasses in one long drought, two thirsty men for sure. We immediately ordered another round from Vicky who must be a mind reader because she already had two fresh cool pints ready for us.

“But lucky for you Camp, you’re also a politician. I hear there are big bucks in politics. Just look at the latest golden handshakes for civil servants that have been let go by the new government In Victoria.”

“Well again, I’m the wrong kind of politician. Volunteer, not paid, honest and elected, unlike those deputy ministers who ended up with half a million dollars severance pay.”

“Disgusting,” I said.

“In the contract,” Camp retorted.

“There you go. All you need is a proper contract with lot’s of small print.”

“All I need is cold beer and a book that everybody wants to read.”

“Cheers to that,” I toasted my friend.