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.

 

 

Sport or Religion ?

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”Strange light,” I said to Camp as soon as I sat down, referring to the persistent shroud of smoke particles from the wildfires hanging over the south coast.

“Looks like Beijing,” Camp grumbled, “but we shouldn’t complain. Just then the TV above our heads showed the destructive path of hurricane Irma with Jose right behind. “Now that is bad weather,” I said, shaking my head. We both sat there, feeling awed and powerless. But Campbell, or Camp as the world around here knows him, had something else but the weather on his mind.

I ordered us a couple of pints from Vicky when Camp pointed an accusing finger at me. “You like to watch soccer or footie as the English call it or Football as it should properly be called, not to be confused with the game played with helmets and shoulder pads.”

“Sorry Camp, what was the question?”

“European football, you watch it don’t you?”

“Yeah , I love Barcelona, in fact the whole La Liga Espanol and I also follow the Whitecaps and some MLS games. It’s the beautiful game Camp. Artistry with a ball, accuracy, control, suspense. Hours of spontaneous, sometimes repetitive choreography interspersed with moments of pure brilliance.”

“You are talking about soccer aren’t you?”

“Camp, I detect an attitude of doubt and disapproval but you haven’t grown up with the game, haven’t played hours of football in back alleys against garage doors, in open fields and gravel parking lots.”

“It’s not the game I object to, although I don’t understand it. Most ball games are leisure activities, where the endless waiting is filled with drinking. Most of these games like golf, curling, bowling and crocket can be played by octogenarians and do not qualify as a sport in my view. Except baseball of course.”

“Hold on there my friend, you’re treading dangerous waters here. Football or soccer is a highly competitive sport demanding talent, focus, training, physical fitness. eye to mind to foot coordination and utmost alacrity. It’s the ultimate a human body can excel in. Nothing trite or trivial about it. It’s more popular than religion, have you know.”

“Well, you got me there. Actually I brought it up because of the insane amounts of money clubs spend on individual players. I just read that this Neuman guy from Barcelona was sold to a club in Paris for $ 450 million.”

“First of all the name is Neymar and Barcelona has sold him to Paris St.Germain for $ 263.- million. Yes, it’s a lot of money for a ball player,” I admitted.

“Some would call it obscene. $ 130 million per leg? It’s a quarter of a billion dollars my friend. You could build a nice size, modern and equipped hospital for that, or build 250 apartments or pay university tuition for 2500 students or any number of meaningful things. And it’s only one player on a roster of what? 20 players per team and how many teams? A hundred, a thousand? Or how about the half billion dollar payout on that recent Vegas boxing match? Hyped like it was the second coming. It’s insane! Some Sports teams have higher budgets then some countries and stadiums are today’s churches. The only difference is that sports teams don’t promise an after life but they demand and command just as fierce an allegiance and devotion from their fans.” Camp took an exhausted gulp from his beer while I tried hard to come up with a meaningful rebuttal.

“I happen to play soccer myself, “ I lamely said, “and I love it, always have. And I play for free. In fact it probably cost me plenty over the years, including reconstructive surgery on both knees, fees and equipment, travel and work missed due to injuries and not to mention all the rounds of beer after the games and tournaments.”

“You’re describing exactly what I said,” Camp pointed out, “even risking health and body parts. It’s a religion for all intents and purposes, with high priest like this Neymar guy and popes like the Russian oligarchs who own the teams, pandering to their predominantly male congregation of devoted fans. It’s bread and circuses, opium for the masses, distraction and entertainment. I guess we need that. And they’re hopped up on drugs and performance enhancers. Super humans they want to be like that Lance Armstrong and this Russian tennis player.”

“Sharapova,” I said. “I’m a bit ambivalent about drugs. Mind you the drugs I took as a young man were the performance reducers but Lance brought cycling to North America and he raised millions for cancer research and he did win the most gruelling race in the world seven times. Ok, he took drugs but apparently so did everybody else.

“Not sure why anybody follows those sports?” Camp said.

“It is all some people have, a team to stand behind and live and breathe every move, every pass, every goal. It’s the stuff of memories and stories, myth and truth, fact and fiction,” I enthused.

“Oh boy, I think I’ll need another drink.”

“Hey what’s that on the TV Camp, it’s called baseball I think.”

“Now there is a real sport !” Camp visibly livened up and sat up straight, eyes locked onto the screen over my head, forgotten was all his lament and griping.”

“Now there is talent and skill, not twenty guys running after a random ball. Here we have strategy, rules, precision timing, technique and talent and defined jobs and positions, umpires, catchers, outfielders and batters. Now that’s a ball game my boy.”

I thought it best to remain quiet. Let the man have his opium. I was going to mention cricket, probably the world’s most popular ball game after soccer but then I don’t have a clue what it’s all about. Or what about rugby, surely the most physical of all ball games with a devout fan base, almost like a brotherhood. Instead I quietly sipped my beer while Camp ignored me watching the baseball game. Comparing baseball to football. Unbelievable. Bananas to apples, both fruit but both so different.

Playing sports is healthy, watching it from the couch maybe less so. I’m glad we solved all that. I finished my beer and quietly took my leave. Camp, who was completely distracted. Just said: “Until next Thursday.”

 

 

Climate Woes

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“Did you hear about that rock slide in Bondo, Switzerland, I asked Campbell as soon as I sat down. “Three million tons of rock swept down the mountain.”

“I heard about it on the radio. They blamed climate change for it I think.,” Camp said.

“Yeah, melting of the permafrost and the resulting water pressure. Glaciers are receding at an alarming rate. Extreme weather and record breaking disaster statistics everywhere. Just look at Texas and hurricane Harvey, the mother of all hurricanes. Or close to home the 150 active forest fires in B.C. I think we’re doomed as a species,” I said glumly, depressed by the overwhelming evidence of our foolish, short-sighted mismanagement of our planet. “And Trump’s exit from the Paris Agreement is just symptomatic of our self-destructive behaviour,” I added.

Camp, one of five councillors for our small town, owner of ‘Coast Books’ which he calls a ‘public service enterprise’, and purveyor of all topics known to average people, gave me a worried look. “I think Clare is right, you carry the world’s problems on your small shoulders and neither you nor anybody else can carry all that weight alone. You need to lighten up, step back, observe from a safe distance.

You’re right, we’re doomed in the long run but not just yet. Even if the world spins off its axis, some life, maybe even some of us, might survive and adapt but we’re not helpless, we can still fight this self-destructive trend. We are the smartest carbon units we know about.”

“Too smart for out own self probably. What do you suggest? Control carbon emissions, replace fossil fuels with renewables and reduce our personal foot print,” I said, feeling a tad cynical.

“Well yes,” Camp said and embarked on one of his diatribes just as Vicky plunked down a couple of frosty pints in front of us. “The technology is here to switch to 100% renewable energy. Germany has already achieved several days of supplying all the country’s electricity needs with solar, wind and hydro. As of today, in southern countries from Chile to Abu Dhabi to India solar power costs less to produce than any other form of energy and in the US and Canada the costs for wind turbines are coming down. Electric cars are here to stay and coal needs to stay in the ground. Trump’s reactionary withdrawal from the Paris Agreement has galvanized cities, states and millions of people in the US who have vowed to uphold the agreed on targets. But the time for words or paper agreements is over. It is now time for action if we want to curtail the heating up to our fragile atmosphere, otherwise we’ll end up like planet Venus. We have the technology here but the political will is missing.”

“You’re talking radical behaviour change,” I said, taking a sip from my beer.

“Oppose all new pipe lines, stop oil exploration, prohibit fracking and withdraw all fossil fuel subsidies. You’re suggesting an energy revolution.”

“Well, as you pointed out, we don’t have much time to change our behaviour. We were able to stop acid rain, we eliminated fluorocarbon emissions, we conquered diseases, we split and fuse atoms and we figured out how to communicate instantly around the world, why the hell can’t we change our dependence on hydro carbons?”

“Maybe it’s the fossil fuel industry and lobby that still controls much of our economy and politics. I guess we should only elect politicians that are committed to radical change,” I suggested. “Good luck on that. 50 million people just elected a president that represents the exact opposite. He even promised to open up the coal mines again and calls climate change a Chinese hoax.”

“You have a point, but maybe he is the catalyst that we need to turn the fossil behemoth around,” Camp suggested.

“What about natural gas or LNG as has been touted by the previous government as the holy grail for British Columbia.”

“Two problems that spring to mind,” Camp said. “First off, all the new gas finds under American soil has to be fracked, meaning explode the subsurface geology resulting in all kinds of problems, particularly with aquifers and groundwater. Secondly the process of producing gas releases so much methane into the atmosphere that the net result of natural gas is equal to burning coal.”

“Which brings us back to renewables,” I said.

“Yes, use fossil carbons for plastics, bitumen, and for now, the airline industry, ocean liners and cargo ships which by the way burn bunker fuel or ‘navy special’, the crap that’s left over after the refining process. “

“Which leaves atomic energy,” I said.

“There are about 450 reactors worldwide with 60 new ones under construction. All together they provide about 10% of the worlds electricity. They are very efficient energy producers but the disposal of burned out fuel is a problem and so are the potential catastrophic consequences of a melt down.”

“You’re just a walking encyclopaedia Camp,” I said.

“Dr. Google and Wikipedia are my helpers,” Camp said “but common sense and responsible behaviour would solve most of the world’s problems. On a more positive note, we’re lucky here because we now have three breweries in this small town. We better step up to the plate and do our share.” Camp held up two fingers for Vicky to see and within the blink of an eye two new frosty brews arrived.

“Isn’t life a crazy thing?” I said, “We live like kings in paradise and yet we feel doomed. Is it better to know and feel helpless or is it better to be helpless and not know?”

“All I know is that we should not ignore the basic facts my friend. Cheers.”

Check out this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZDYhQ4UAnA

 

Foodstuff

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I was early and luckily a couple just freed up our usual table in the corner on the patio overlooking the harbour and the calm waters of Howe Sound. The view never tires me and there is always something to watch. I’ve seen seals popping up their whiskered heads for a look around; herons are a common sight waiting patiently at the end of the dock and once in a while an eagle cruises overhead, getting the best view of all. I was jolted out of my reverie by my friend who had just sat down.

“You’re early, “ he said, sounding kind of grumpy.

“Clare is in the city tonight, for a two day conference,” I explained to Campbell who is known as Camp, owner of Coast Books – a non-profit public service enterprise – as he calls it.

“Oh, does that mean you can have a few extra beers.”

“That is never an issue. Who stepped on your shadow today?” I asked, “you seem to be in an owly mood. Nothing to do with Muriel I hope.”

Camp gave me a shifty look from under his bushy eyebrows. “No, Muriel is fine. Mind you, I hardly see her these days what with summer break at the council and her daughter Sophie in town. It’s the Feds who are bugging me. I just found out that we need a federal permit for the harbour expansion and that could take months. It’s a snag I didn’t expect. “

“Oh,” I said, “but it’s just a formality right.”

“Let’s hope so but this is just more fodder for the opposition. With a dismissive wave of his hand Camp changed the subject. “Anyway, this beer tastes good and the view is spectacular.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said and added: “I might just have to eat here for a change since I don’t feel like cooking for one, maybe have one of those sixteen dollar burgers.”

“I don’t know about you but I can barely afford to drink here, never mind eat. A burger and a pint will add up to $ 30 with tips. I can buy food for the rest of the week for that amount.”

“Tell me about it.,” I said. “At least some greens, eggs and fruit are grown locally but at exorbitant prices. I try to buy locally but more often than not I end up buying the Mexican tomatoes and the Argentinian bananas. Or what about meat? Have you seen the prices lately? Pork is the only bargain in the meat department,” I lamented.

“Lucky for us infidels and gentiles. Almost forces one to become a vegetarian, Camp countered and then went on to expound: “Humans are omnivores, opportunistic feeders, meaning they can process both: vegetable and animal proteins. Vegans, and to some extent vegetarians, are lifestyle choices, some dictated by religious dogma, like the Jains and most Hindus and even Jews. Atheists and Christians have one thing in common: they love their bbq’s.”

“Thank God for that but I think you’re out on a limb here Camp. Food choices can be rather complex, dictated by health, affordability, availability and subject to information and food education. Remember when the Atkins diet was all the rage. The protein only diet. We called it the teamster diet. All those chubby drivers were in food heaven. Losing weight by eating only meat. It drove the caterers crazy.”

“Did it work?” Camp asked.

“For a short time until they were all so plugged up that they became very irritable. Nothing worse than a teamster full of shit.”

“Food is politics,” Camp said, shaking his head full of unruly grey curls. I was afraid he was embarking on one of his passionate soliloquies. “When I grew up we had to eat everything on our plate because the Africans were starving and meat was only served on Sundays and holidays.”

I stopped him right there and said: “Where I grew up we had to eat everything on our plate because it was hard to come by and meat was for holidays and special occasions only. The rest of the time we ate innards: Liver, tripe, kidney pie, blood pudding and even fried brain. I also remember having to sit and eat my porridge with raisins, forcing it down bite by bite until I was allowed to get up from the table. I hate porridge and raisins to this day.”

Camp laughed. “At least you were taught respect for the food on the table. I’m not so sure if that holds today. I doubt that many families even sit down for a meal together. It’s everybody for themselves, eat whenever you have the time, eat standing up in front of the fridge, and cooking is a senior’s hobby and for those parents who can find the time.”

“Three isles at every grocery store are freezers, full of pre-cooked, frozen dinners.” I said.

Not to be outdone Camp doubled down: “And one isle is for chips alone. Can you believe it? Chips or as the English call it: crisps and a whole other isle for pop.”

“When I grew up fast food was a buttered slice of bread dunked in Ovaltine, much to the chagrin of my mom.”

Camp laughed. “We did the same thing but with sugar.”

“Today, fast food is the mainstay of the American diet and pop, which is basically artificially flavoured sugar water, the most popular drink.”

“More popular than beer?” Camp asked, raising one of his shaggy eyebrows while at the same time raising his pint to illustrate the point.

“I read somewhere that Americans consume 20% of their food in the car. That means, burgers, pizza, fries and pop.”

“And then they toss the empty packaging out the window. Have you ever noticed that most of the roadside garbage is fast food containers.”

“And did you know that US schools class French Fries and Pizza as vegetables?”

“That is just wrong,” I said, “What does all this fast food do to the brain?”

“You are what you eat and drink,” Camp said while holding up two fingers for Vicky to see. This was going to be a thirsty Thursday. “On the other end of the spectrum are the health food fanatics. Food obsession is every bit as damaging as food negligence. Diets and fads, eat like a pig then starve like a fashion model,” he added.

“Everything in moderation, as Clare always maintains,” I said.

“Would you boys like to eat?” Vicky asked, plopping down a couple of menus. and then offered the coupe de grace: “Thursday is prime rib night; two for the price of one.”

“Come on Camp, my treat. I don’t want to eat alone. Let’s go for it.”

“What’s the vegetarian special?” he coyly asked Vicky who gave him a wary smile.
“You’re kidding me? Not on prime rib night!” I exclaimed.

“I got you, didn’t I. You thought I’d gone over to the other side.”

“I need another drink..”

“I’ll join you, Cheers.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moral Bankruptcy

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“It’s been a crazy few days; that is if you watch TV or read the papers. First it was the ludicrous spectre of nuclear conflict, promoted by the evil troll in Pyongyang and Darth Vader in the White House and now we have seen the worst of Trump in the aftermath of the Neo-Nazi rally in Charlottesville.”

Campbell or Camp for short, had barely sat down at our usual table in the corner on the patio, under the TV, when I assaulted him with this barrage. He held up two fingers for Vicky, the waitress who was well versed in the pub’s universal sign language.

“As you know,” Camp said, “I don’t have a TV and only read the papers sporadically but I do get my news from my customers, if there are any, and from the all-knowing world-wide-web. The consensus is unanimously that the Nasty Leader in Washington has now shown his true self to the whole world, which should not come as a surprise to anybody. He’s always been a racist – remember the birther witch hunt – and he’s always been a bigot and a misogynist and as we all knew that he is basically a white supremacist. None of that is new, it’s just that he is now the president of the USA.”

“The president is supposed to be the moral compass of the nation, especially in times of domestic trouble,” I said. “Obama always stepped up and tried to heal the wounds inflicted by murder and terror.” Vicky dropped off a couple of pints, which remained uncharacteristically untouched since both of us were quite upset, as were most sane people.

“Remember, he has been elected by a majority of white people, two thirds of white males and over half of all white women voted for him. They supported a blatant racist and they should all take a hard look at themselves and ask: Is this really the man I wanted for my president?” Camp said.

“Do you really think that will happen? And what will the next three years look like? There doesn’t seem a week goes by without a dramatic and potentially dangerous wobble at the top of the pyramid which is the American government structure.”

“Maybe it’s more like a volcano, about to blow.”

On that note we both took a tentative sip from our beers, which were in danger of going flat. That in itself was a measure of our common distress.

It was Michelle Obama who said: Being president doesn’t change who you are, it reveals who you are, I said.

“And it’s Trump who said that there are some very nice people in the Nazi/ Alt Right rally in Charlottesville, shouting ‘blood and soil’, waving swastikas and yelling Trump heil’. Hard to believe,” I said.

“Anybody who was part of that march of hate is definitely not a nice person and anybody who supports and votes for a racist is also a racist. There is no ambiguity there,” Camp said “ and whoever does not recognize the pure evil and hatred in these ultra-right fanatics has no sense of history, justice and place,” he added, shaking his head full of grey bristles in dismay.

“There seems to be a lot of young, white males who are attracted to these noxious hate groups, influenced by a myriad of racist and conspiracy sites on the web, which speaks volumes about their collective void of moral guidance,” I said, feeling rather depressed and somewhat at a loss but I could not ignore all this theatre of the absurd and bizarre that is filling the airwaves and news print.

“Maybe you should not watch any more TV news if it distresses you like that, it’s not healthy and there is very little you can do about it,” Clare, always the wise voice, advised me.

“But I cannot ignore it and stick my head in the sand,” I protested.

“I’m not asking you to ignore it, just take a step back and don’t take it so personal. For example, Trump does not rule my garden and he is certainly not my moral compass gone haywire. I cannot give that charlatan the time of day and will instead concentrate on the good I can do in my little corner of the world.”

I sort of related that much to Camp who embarked on one of his diatribes.    “Clare of course has a point and maybe we should all just concentrate on our sphere of influence and make sure that the young people we come in touch with either as teachers, parents, politicians or shop keepers, like myself, know that they’re loved and respected. The antidote to hate and fear is compassion and nurture but of course our first instinct is punishment and retribution. A lot of these young Nazis are lost and abandoned by their parents, their leaders and elders and society as a whole. Tolerance, equality and understanding are virtues that need to be taught and led by example. Sadly, Trump is a despicable example and he is the enemy of decent, educated and compassionate people and he can only lead his flock into realms of fear and hatred.”

“When we were young, a lot of lost souls were gathered in by fake gurus and brainwashers but mostly under the guise of love and control, usually to further their own material wellbeing in this world in exchange for lofty rewards in the next one. Skinheads and punks were the antidote to these movements.”

“But they were only the lunatic fringe, never embraced by a racist president and 60 million people who voted for him. That is the difference. One can only hope that this is a watershed moment that makes people take another look at themselves, their neighbours, and the dubious leaders they elected.”

““Let’s drink to the common good people and to a bright future full of peace and love,” I suggested, trying to rally some positive energy.

“Always the optimist,” Camp said, raising his glass.

“A pessimist with a positive outlook,” I countered.

“Cheers.”

 

Fire and Smoke

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We could hardly see Keats Island from our usual table at the pub, even though it’s only one kilometer from the Gibsons shore.

“Clare remarked yesterday that they’ve taken the mountains away,” I said, referring to the bad visibility due to the shroud of smoke hanging over the whole province as a result of over 120 active wild fires.

“Like China,” Campbell or Camp to everybody but his mother remarked, shaking his large messy head of grey locks in dismay.

“There are over 3500 firefighters battling the flames, many of them from Mexico, Australia and the US and apparently one third of the fires are human caused,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, I believe it. Idiots throwing cigarette butts out the window. By the way, have you noticed the sunrises and sunsets lately?” Camp asked.

“Can’s say I’ve seen any sunrises but you’re right about the sunsets and all day long the sun has a pink glow to it. One bonus is that this silky dome of smoke has kept the heat down. You can actually sit outside without shade and not be bothered by the sun. It’s a boon for outdoor patios and beer gardens.”

“I guess we should be thankful for that,” Camp smiled “and the beer stays cool a bit longer, mind you mine never has a chance to warm up. Oh, here is Vicky, I think we might as well have another, what you say?”

Never one to turn down a beer I simply held up two fingers to our waitress Vicky, the universal code for two more beers please.

“What do you think of the fierce rhetoric and sabre rattling going on between Kim Jong-un and Trump as of late?” I asked Camp, who is much more informed and politically savvy than I, even though he does not have a TV and doesn’t read the local papers. Still he is always well versed in present day politics, locally and globally.

“Seems we’re stuck with two psychopaths and egomaniacs trying to outdo each other. We’re used to threats from Kim and the bluster from the Donald but the response from him this week about answering North Korea with ‘fire and fury as the world has never seen it’ is very unsettling. It’s a game of chicken nobody can win and all the cooler heads in the room are biting their nails or checking their smart phones. Nobody laughed.”

“Do you think Kim and his generals would attack Guam with atomic missiles? It’s what he promised to do. Apparently they were able to miniaturize their nukes; make them small enough to stick them on a missile,” I said.

“Kim knows that he cannot win a war with the mighty USA”, Camp said, “all he wants is respect and ensure the survival of his regime and of course he also wants to annex South Korea, the ultimate goal of both his father and grandfather but today more unlikely to happen than ever. And let’s not forget the Japanese who have since last year the right to retaliate if any of their allies – Guam for example – are attacked. It is an escalating and worrying situation, hopefully all smoke and no fire but one that calls for more beer I think.”

“A nuclear war initiated by a tweet, that is really worrying me. What time is it on the doomsday clock today?” I asked,

“It was at ten minutes before midnight 20 years ago, today it stood at 3 minutes to the midnight hour at the beginning of the year and no doubt it has advanced in the last few day to within 30 seconds. Just ask yourself this: Is Trump the kind of guy who would pull the trigger just to show the world that he is a man of real power? Sadly this isn’t just a wildwest story, it is today’s scariest reality show.”

“Not a lot of good news I’m afraid,” I said, “and nothing you and I can do about it either Camp. On the positive side, Clare is picking blackberries today with our neighbour. It’s a bumper year for berries.”

“Is there any improvement in the weather forecast,” Camp asked, squinting toward the water as if trying to penetrate the fog like atmosphere.

“No wind, no rain and no more beer today,” I said, finishing my pint. “I better head back and keep the home fires burning.”

Tattoos or not

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“Vicky, what’s with the new tattoo ?” Camp asked our waitress at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ when she set a cool pint of Golden Pale Ale in front of him. The tattoo depicted a mermaid holding a glass of what looked like champagne.

“Don’t you love it ! It’s my birthday present to myself.”

“It is kind of cute but what does it mean?”

“When I was a little girl I always wanted to be a mermaid and now I am one, meaning I can be whatever I want to be. Enjoy your beers fellows.”

“That’s what you get for asking, I said to Camp.

“Tattoos used to be the provenance of sailors and bikers. An anchor, a skull and crossbones, maybe a tall-ship or a snake around the bicep, or ritual tattoos like the Polynesian swirls, but today everybody has to have them. There isn’t a professional soccer player that hasn’t got the full sleeve at least on one arm, most of them have both arms, the neck and god knows what else covered in ink. When the flames come out of the shirt collar that’s it for me.”

“I know,“ I said, “and not every tattoo artist is a good one. What puzzles me is that so many girls are into this body painting. Do they realize that tattoos are forever ? Can you see all these grannies in fifty years with their tattoos of fairy princesses, Celtic knots and mermaids?”

“Not a pretty sight I have to admit.”

“What about all the tattoos gone wrong, the spelling mistakes.”

“I guess there is a market loophole there. If somebody can figure out how to disappear tattoos, they’ll have it made,” Camp said, taking a sip of his beer.

“I think there are over the counter skin bleaching concoctions,” I said “and I know a former actress who opened a tattoo removal business. I think it’s called ‘Inkoff’.

“Tattoo removal creams are like hair growing ointments. It’s all snake oil. I have a tattoo,” Camp said, “from when I was a teenager. It’s home made and we did it ourselves, with ink and needles. Sort of like a hazing ritual. We were young and stupid.”

“No kidding, let’s see it,” I said.

Camp reluctantly rolled up his sleeve and displayed a round, faded blob that looked more like a birthmark than a tattoo.”

“It’s supposed to be a ‘ying and yang’ sign,” Camp said defensively.

“Maybe you can have it made into a smiley face, like an emoji,” I offered, or how about a full moon.”

“You’re a lot of help you know,” Camp said, rolling down his sleeve. “By the way where is that ‘Inkoff’ business of your friend?”

“I’ll get you the details,” I promised. “By the way have you heard of those two business grads who took on the multi-billion dollar shaving industry with their own razor. I’s called Harry and quite the success story,” I said

“I also used to invent stuff,” Camp said, but nothing quite as successful. “I invented a floating platform with wheel wells and an outboard motor that you could drive any size RV onto and voilà, there is your houseboat.”

“Oh, that’s a cool idea. What happened?
“Nobody had any money to invest and then there were suddenly a plethora of marine regulations I didn’t think of. I guess that’s why the amphibian car died.”

“What else did you invent Camp.”

“Oh, a tie with a permanent knot but I think somebody else invented the same thing. Lately I’m thinking of those in-house lap-pools with the adjustable pumps so you can swim in place. I’m thinking of building on that and introduce kayaks, and water boards to it with a half surround screen so you could paddle down the Amazon or among Caribbean palm islands. All before lunch of course and in your own home.”

“That’s a crazy idea,” I said, shaking my head. “Who would buy into that?”

“That’s what they said about snowboards or the self drive car for that matter. Anyway I’ll better stick to books. Somebody else writes them, somebody else binds them and I just sell them.”

I offered a toast: “Here is to the simple things in life, tattoo removal and the Amazon in your home gym.”

“Are you guys ready for another one,” Vicky asked.

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

 

 

 

 

Nomadic Tempest 2017 by the Caravan Stage Company

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An operatic 90 minute show performed behind a gigantic scrim draped off the 100 foot tall sailing ship, the ‘Amara Zee’, with multimedia interface between video, sound and trapeze acrobats. The projected video intercepts featured a wise woman/fairy godmother extoling the evils of fossil fuels responsible for the human extinction to an audience of wide-eyed pre-teens. A philosophical smorgasbord, somewhere between Cahil Gibran and Mad Max, interwoven with Greek and Coast Salish Mythology, repeated over and over in Spanish, Arabic and Mandarin with cryptic English subtitles. Clever use of the ship’s masts and rigging, illuminated and professionally. A permanently oscillating pumpjack kept bobbing up and down at top left of the rig while two gas jockeys brandishing nozzles like guns were dancing at center top, while backlit dancers gyrated to the music at deck level. All of which made for good visuals. But the whole spectacle lacked in story and was basically a naïve, hippyish construct of mankind’s fossil fuel addiction making us all fossil slaves and junkies and thereby destroying life on earth. What the play lacked in plot and linear story, it compensated with mesmerizing acrobatic performers repelling from 100’ long red flags, a phantasmagorical set, talented singers and an overall spectacle for the senses. The frequent and repetitive video projections were a preachy play on guilt and our fossil fuel dependence, eulogizing the demise of mankind, and extolling the rise of a fossil free peace loving future through the awestruck eyes and faces of the young teens. An apocalyptic vision survived only by a lone orca and some monarch butterflies. If anything survives this Armageddon it would be cockroaches and sharks, nowhere near as picturesque. I squirmed a few times but it might have been the cool breeze coming off the water and I had to stifle a yawn or two but it might have been the late hour. A couple of young kids behind us kept asking their parents: ‘”is it over soon Dad?” a sentiment I shared with them.

 

Changes and Choices

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I arrived at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ early and read the paper in order to kill the time until Camp arrived. I have stopped reading the local papers a couple of years ago because I could watch the news on the computer and I also couldn’t stand all the advertising throughout the print media. The news of the day was all about the change in the provincial government, a tenuous mandate at best with just one vote majority for the New Democrats thanks to a coalition with the three Green Party members. Campbell or Camp as the world here knows him showed up right on time and I noticed a bit of a swagger to his step.

“Hey Camp, you look like you had a good day at the store or does it have something to do with Muriel? Muriel Bisset is the Quebecois counsellor on the local town council and as of lately a rather close associate of Camp who is in complete denial about his true feelings for her, which are apparent to everybody, including Vicky the waitress. “Hi Camp, how is Muriel?” she asked him while setting a pint in front of him. “Eh, just fine, thank you,” he mumbled.

When I raised a questioning eyebrow he elaborated: “In fact she decided to support my proposal for the yacht club expansion. With a few tons of rock we can build a new breakwater and double the capacity of floats and boat slips which is a cheap and efficient way to boost the local economy,” Camp said. “No expensive buildings, no land use, just a water use permit from the feds and we’re in business. Mooring capacity for pleasure boats is at a premium all over the lower mainland and we have the space, the place and now we have the means to address that.”

“Congratulations. I guess you two will celebrate your political victory.”

“Well, yes, she has invited me to dinner tomorrow, but you know her daughter Sophie will also be there.”

I didn’t say anything, just winked at him and took a swallow of my beer.

To change the subject I asked Camp what he thought of the latest power swap in Victoria. “I guess a change in government is a good thing but I don’t like the fact that no matter who governs here in BC, or Canada and the US for that matter, only represents half of the populations. The other half is left out of the process altogether and can only vote again in four years.”

“What would you prefer Camp? A monarchy, a military dictatorship? Democracy is still the best form of government or as Winston Churchill said: Democracy is the worst form of government except for all those other forms that have been tried from time to time.”

“I like the Swiss government,” I pointed out, “seven Councillors elected by their peers, representing the major parties of which there are at least five as well as the choice to have a plebiscite on any issue. All the Swiss citizens have to do is collect a certain amount of signatures and the issue will have to be voted on by the people .”

“Yes, I like it too, “ Camp nodded, “except that those parties with the most money can outspend everybody else with propaganda and one could say manipulation.”

“It’s not perfect, but it’s better than being powerless and a mere spectator of the political charade played out in our houses of parliament for the next four years.”

“At least in Switzerland the people have a choice. Here, once the party with the most elected members – not necessarily the most votes – rules the roost, the other members or parliament who represent the other half of the population has no recourse, no power and no choices. They can howl at the moon all they want and nobody listens and all their howling and posturing has no consequences.”

Camp was right of course and I said that much. “It’s our system that is in need of an overhaul. You only have to look south to see what’s happening in the mighty USA where none of the people seem to be represented by the politicians, never mind only half.”

“The US is a plutocracy, not a democracy,” Camp said. “Only millionaires and celebrities have the clout and the money to get elected there. And if only half the eligible voters cast a ballot, then a mere quarter of the population is represented by the ones in power, not counting all of those millions of people who are excluded from the voting process for one reason or another. No wonder people stay away from the polls in droves, especially when the choice is between the ‘wicked witch of the West or Darth Vader.”

“And then the newly elected party spends most of their time cancelling policies and laws the party before them enacted. What a waste of time.”

“Let’s just hope that our present new government does what they’ve promised,” Camp said.

“What’s that?” I asked

“Listen to the people.”

“That’s almost as refreshing as this cold beer here Camp. Imagine: Power to the people.”

We raised our glasses to that. Cheers !

Expect the Unexpected

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It’s definitely summer time because we couldn’t get our usual table and ended up sitting inside on two high-top chairs. Camp grumbled about the tourists crowding his space even though he lived off them with his bookstore. “A lot more tourists than last year. It’s partly because of the fires raging in the interior which are redirecting a lot of holiday makers to the coast and the island,” Campbell, or Camp as the world knows him, said.

Camp was right. Over 140 fires are burning up the province and have displaced 40,000 people, most of whom are anxiously waiting to return home in make shift camps in Kamloops and Prince George.

“Business must be pretty good these days. I watched the traffic from across the street this afternoon,” I said and Camp gave me a shifty look.

“You could have come in and said hi.”
“We didn’t want to disrupt the flow and we also didn’t want to drip ice cream all over the store.”

“Well, most of the traffic was for the bathroom. At the next counsel meeting I will bring up this issue of more public washrooms or better signage pointing them to those at the end of Winegarden Park. I don’t have the heart to say no to a person in need, but it is a nuisance nevertheless. I also expected the store to do better but we’re in direct competition with the ferry, which uses ferry workers to sell books. It’s not fair competition.”

“That’s just it Camp. We expect things to happen and if they don’t we’re disappointed. Best not to expect anything and then maybe we get surprised,” I said.

“You have a point,” Camp nodded, “I have a poster in my store proclaiming just that. It’s actually the three sources of all upsets. A good friend pointed those out to me many moons ago and I decided to write them down and have them displayed at eye level so I can remind myself of them.”

“Oh yeah, what are those words of wisdom?” I asked.

“The first one is undelivered communication. It’s the most common source of upsets. People always assume but forget to tell each other what it is they assume or they get misunderstood or taken out of context. Or they think they told each other but actually haven’t. I see it all the time, even at council meetings. That’s why we have minutes so one can actually look it up if so-and-so said this-and-that or not. “

“Ok, I get it. Undelivered communications. What’s the second reason for peoples upsets?”

“Thwarted intentions. It’s when we wish to take action and for some reason cannot do so, usually due to a lack of skills or knowledge, or money or time. Like I wanted to go a sunny place last winter but had neither the money, nor the time. So I was pissed off, mostly at myself of course.”

“And the third one. Let me guess. Unfulfilled dreams.”

“Close, it’s unfulfilled expectations. Like my expectations at the store never match reality. Sometimes of course the outcome exceeds the expectations as in this new local beer. The Irish stout is actually better than I expected. There you have it. All our upsets and disappointments fit into one or two of these three sources. Unfailingly.”

“I’ll ask Clare and if she agrees than I’ll better make a copy of your poster and hang it in the bathroom. That way I get to see it everyday.”

“How is Muriel by the way,” I changed the subject.

“I expect she is well,” Camp answered. “Her daughter is arriving next week and Muriel wants me to meet her. Apparently she is an aspiring writer and loves book stores.”

“Well, that’s perfect isn’t it. You two seem to get along just fine.”

“We’re friends. Nothing more. Friends and colleagues.”

“Sure,” I said. “Talk about friends. We’ve been to two weddings in the past six weeks, both of them unions between couples who have lived together for 15 years. In one case it was the 12 year old girl who suggested to their parents to get married. Both occasions were gatherings of the tribes. Nothing like a good wedding to bring people together, including ex-husbands, new girl or boyfriends, as well as wedding crashers who drive around looking for a free party.”

“I don’t really believe in the institution of marriage. Most of them end in divorce and acrimony,” Camp, always the positive thinker, said. “You’re looking at a case in point,” he added.

“Why did you and Maureen get married, was it an expression of pure love or for tax reasons.”

“Neither,” said Camp, I lost a bet. Maureen challenged my love, which was basically pure lust and taunted me with visions of eternal ecstasy. Remember, I was a convinced bachelor, in my fifties when I met Maureen who was in her thirties. The Germans have a good word that describes the state I was in. ‘Torschlusspanik’, meaning panic of the door closing. We got married; the ecstasy never matched the expected fantasy and then reality set in. I missed my freedom, Maureen wanted me to be somebody else and that was the beginning of the end.”

“But you stayed together for a dozen years,” I said, shaking my head.

“Yes, we co-habited. She upstairs, me downstairs. If we wouldn’t have been married we would have probably drifted apart after a few months. Such are the ties that bind. Goldie Hawn credits the fact that she never married Curt Russell for the longevity of their love affair,” Camp added.

“I guess your expectations were unfulfilled, your intentions thwarted and you sure as hell didn’t communicate very well.”

“Live and learn,” Camp said. “I wish we could still be friends but the lawyers ruined that.”

“Here is to friendship,” I said. We drank to that.

Organic or Not

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I could tell that Camp was in a tizzy about something. He was fidgeting with his new smart phone that apparently didn’t do what he wanted it to. Campbell or Camp as the denizens of the Coast know him, has finally broken down and signed up for a basic phone plan. “I told them I would only sign up if it’s under $ 50, which means my brilliant phone has no roaming ability, is dependent on wi-fi and has only 100 free min per month. Entering wi-fi passwords I usually delegate to somebody at least half my age. Vicky did it for me here at the pub.” Camp was busily checking something very important since he was mumbling curses to himself. It could only be three things. Affairs of the heart, the stomach or politics. Either Muriel, our Quebecois alderwomen had stood him up or he ate something that didn’t agree with him or Trump scored another own goal.

“Imagine, Trump wants to team up with the Russians on cyber security. Isn’t that like sticking your hand through the bars of the lion’s cage with a steak or jumping head first into an empty swimming pool?”

“I think he has now retracted that brilliant idea,” I said, shaking my head. “Is that what you’re doing with your new smart phone, checking the news?”

“No, I’m trying to change the ring tone to something soothing, like Tibetean cymbals.”

“Isn’t that rather loud and grating?” I said.

“Only to the uninitiated.” Camp retorted.

“Anyway, have you seen the size of the strawberries at the store?” I asked, not really expecting a answer. “There the size of a small potato. It’s not natural. Next, they’ll breed oranges the size of melons and raspberries like tea cosies or tuques or hundred pound cabbages Where is the gene manipulating and designer food going to stop? “

“Whenever people are not buying it,” Camp said, “like the green Ketchup. Remember Findhorn, the town on the Scottish coast where they grew gigantic vegetables even forty years ago.”

“Clare always buys from the organic section but we’ve had disagreements about that. If the whole world would only eats organic crops, we would be running out of arable land. Half the work, half the yield but twice the land. Isn’t that the basic formula? But since we’re living in the privileged corner of the world we have the choice to buy organic. It’s because we can. The only item I usually look for is meat without antibiotics. That I think is a good idea.”

“It’s all a marketing ploy,” Camp said. “Just last week I came across an article citing organic wine growers in Mendocino County whose organic crops were actually cheaper to produce than conventional. The savings in pesticides and herbicides and the infrastructure to deliver (spray) them outweighed the loss in quantity. But instead of passing the savings on to the consumer, they upped the price because people are willing to pay more for the organic label.”

“That’s just it,” I said. “The marketing is as much manipulated as the genes in our food. Did you know that the corn the Mayan’s ate was about the size of a pickle, nothing like today’s cream and peaches ears of corn. It’s not even the same plant anymore.”

“And what about those dozens of Germans who died last year after eating organic bean sprouts which harboured toxic e-coli bacteria passed on via animal manure added to the crop. This use of manure vs. synthetic fertilisers is celebrated by organic proponents. Natural doesn’t automatically equal more safe, definitely not in this case,” Camp said.

“The worst are the name brands. Companies with names like ‘Organic Fruit’ or ‘Bio-Foods’ don’t necessarily sell what their name suggests. It’s just a name, much like ‘Lite Beer’ or ‘Natural’.

“How about our locally brewed beverage ?” Camp asked.

“They grow their own hops and have a ‘farm-to-barrel’ approach. Not sure if it’s all organic ingredients but it definitely makes more sense to drink locally rather then the imports from Holland or Ireland. I for one support locally produced food and drink, not because it’s better or cheaper, it just makes more sense to support local growers. “

“By the way how are you and Muriel getting along lately ?” I changed the subject, hoping for some enticing news.

“Muriel has a daughter in Montreal,” Camp said and took a healthy swallow of his drink.

“Oh, that’s eh… ok, isn’t it. From a previous marriage ?”

“She never said anything about that, just that her daughter studies at McGill and is coming to visit for the summer. “

“At least she is sharing personal info with you Camp, that is a good sign,”

I said with a mischievous grin.

“A good sign for what ? Oh, I see what you’re getting at. You are completely out of the ball park. We’re merely colleagues.”

“And sure enough, speaking of the devil, here she is,” I said.

Muriel was making straight for our table and Camp hastily pulled up an extra chair for her. She gave Camp a friendly peck on the cheek which made him turn red like one of those super strawberries and then she politely extended her hand, “I’m Muriel Bisset,” she said in that adorable French accent, “Campbell’s friend.”

“I know,” I blurted out, “I’ve heard a lot about you. Can I order you a beer?”

“Merci, but I prefer a glass of white wine.”

Camp ordered a glass of Bonterra Chardonnay for his ‘colleague’ from Vicky, the waitress, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“It’s organic,” he said, with a wink in my direction.

“Santé !” Muriel toasted us, raising her glass.

Just at that moment Camp’s phone sounded with the first bars of AC/DC’s ‘Hells Bells’. He scrambled to shut it down but couldn’t find the right button. Muriel gallantly took the phone from him and silenced the heavy rock intro.

“Sorry, I guess I chose the wrong bells,” Camp lamely stuttered.

Muriel looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Tibetan bells,” I said lamely, quickly lifting the beer to my lips to avoid any further explanation.