Brave New World

Posted on by
3

           I shook off my soaking wet jacket and sat down across from Camp, Campbell Roberts, recently elected Alderman and owner of ‘Coast Books’, right on the harbour here in lovely Gibsons on the Sunshine Coast. Camp refers to his bookstore as a non-profit business without any of the perks. Just non-profit.”

            “They have this new Craft Beer for sale, maybe I’ll deviate from my usual pint of Guinness and try one of these Black Bear brews,” Camp suggested.

         “Ok, I’m in, let’s try this new beer, there seems to be another craft beer brewery around every corner. It’s either brew beer or grow pot. There is a certain amount of security in both those commodities,” I said.

         “No shortage of customers, that’s the key,” Camp pointed out the obvious. “Not like in the book business. Today I’ve had six people use the washroom, one old gal wanted to photocopy a recipe out of a cook book and two people tried to return their books which were obviously dog eared and used. How’s your day? You were in the city, dentist or doctor weren’t you?”

         “Yeah, dentist, haircut and Costco,” I replied and related the incident that had been bothering me all day. Actually it wasn’t even an incident, more just a chance encounter but it bothered me nonetheless. I was getting on the elevator in the high rise on Davie and Burrard where my dentist is located and there were about half a dozen people already waiting to go up when this older women, dressed in Salvation Army fashion, maybe between fifty and seventy, hard to say, squeezed past the closing door into the elevator. “How is everybody?” she cheerfully announced to all and sundry, “what floor is everybody getting off?” she asked standing purposefully with her index finger extended in front of the floor panel.  Everybody ignored her, staring at the ceiling or at a blank space on the chrome wall.

         “Nine,” I said and she promptly entered it. “That’s my floor as well,” she said brightly. “That’s a nice jacket you’re wearing, must have cost of pretty penny.”

         “What this,” I said, looking at my bright green rain jacket. “Oh, it was on sale in Lunenburg.”

         “Where is that?”

         “Nova Scotia. Last year”

         ‘Oh, that’s nice”

         The elevator stopped at almost every floor letting one person out, sometimes taking more passengers on, but during the whole ride up to the 9th floor not one person said a word or acknowledged our funny old lady who was eager to punch in the floor number for them. They all acted as if she didn’t exist or at was at best an embarrassment or an inconvenience. I felt ashamed, not for her but for the rest of us. All she was looking for was a human response. A word, a smile, an acknowledgement that she too was human. Camp, I tell you, it bothered me, this non-responsive attitude of all these people. They acted as if she didn’t exist.”

         “What do you expect,” Camp said, sniffing suspiciously at his Craft Beer. “Everybody is so wrapped up in themselves they don’t have time to acknowledge anybody else, especially if they seem somewhat off the mark and don’t dress like they do.”

         “Oh yeah, I guess I’ve been away too long. I tell you one thing, this wouldn’t happen in Mexico. I’ve seen plenty of vulnerable and challenged people all day long but they somehow belonged, there was dignity even in the most depraved of souls. People didn’t ignore them even if they told them to go away and not bother them but they weren’t aloof or disconnected. Rich and poor, lame or blind, they co-exist, they’re all human, some more fortunate than others but I never saw this kind of detached response. And there was a second incident this very morning that falls into the same category.”

         “Wow, you had an exciting day. Get out much?”

         “Ok, this was different. This old skinny girl with a wild head of curly grey hair holding on to her rolator sat across from me on the bus, giggling and grinning at everybody, obviously somehow compromised but she did know how to get on and off the bus so she wasn’t a complete basket case. The bus stopped, she got up and waddled to the front and that’s when I noticed that her gray, stained sweatpants were hanging halfway down her butt. Not unlike the meathead rapper dudes we used to see with their pants about to fall off so they could expose their boxers. In this case all she had on under those sweat pants were her diapers. And nobody said a word. By the time I was gong to say something she was already off the bus and people were grinning and chuckling behind their hands. Nobody had the guts to point out to the old girl that she should pull up her pants, which I’m sure she would have done. It was just so undignified and again, no normal human response from anybody. This was Davies Street for chrissake Camp. I felt like a stranger in a strange land, I tell you.“

         “Welcome to the brave New World,” Camp said. “It’s the big city, it eats everybody up and nobody has got time for their fellow human beings. That’s why they call it the rat race. Rats racing for the piece of cheese, just as long it’s not my cheese.”

            “Yes,  I’m aware of that but still it bothered me. Everybody is so wrapped up in themselves and their busy lives.”

         Neither one of us said anything for a beat, both looking out at the choppy water and the gray clouds hanging over Keats Island.

          “How do you like that beer by the way?”’

          “A bit to hoppy for my taste,” Camp said.
“Well the price is right and I don’t mind the hops. By the way did you know that Guinness uses a fish bladder by-product called isinglass to clear up their murky brew?

           “Too bad for all those Irish vegans.”

 

 

Stay at home Guy

Posted on by
1

Campbell or Camp to all who know him, is one of five councillors at city hall. He is also the owner of ‘Coast Books’, “one of the few surviving independent books stores in the world”, as Camp puts it, right here on the Gibsons harbour front.

“How was your holiday,” Camp asked me yesterday as soon as I sat down at our usual table on the glassed in and heated patio, overlooking the calm waters of the harbour with Keats Island about a nautical mile off shore. No view of the mountains on this grey day.

“We loved the summery weather and the beach.”

“Well, you didn’t miss anything. Here it just rained. Then it poured and the rest of the time it was just gray, wet and cold. Like if you can’t see the mountains, it’s raining and if you can see them, it’s going to rain soon.”

“I checked the weather daily and I have to tell you I felt sorry for you all, not sorry like if you had an accident, more like sorry if you missed your train. And how is council business or should I ask ?”

“They’re still dithering with the marina expansion and the development around the harbour front. Anywhere else in the world they would just build it and then bitch about not enough consultation and public input; here they bitch right from the start, about too much or the wrong kind of consultation and the public input always comes from people who are personally impacted, like loosing views, increased traffic, taxes, noise etc. It’s never about the good of the town, the local economy and the common disinterest, although that is undoubtedly what everybody proclaims it to be.”

“I’m glad you had a good time too,” I said, taking a swallow of my beer.

“Here it is Camp,” I said, “Clare, my alter ego and partner in all things, and I examined our busy, stressed out lives and concluded that it would be beneficial for our health and welfare if one of us would just quit the rat race, and take care of the home front. In other words: Shopping, cleaning, yard work, laundry, paperwork and cooking.”

“I can see where this is leading, which is a call for another pint I believe,” Camp said, holding  up two fingers for the waitress to see.

“We decided that I should be the Stay-at-Home-Guy. Since Clare has the passionate career  and my job in the film industry is more like being a carney: setting up rides (sets) and then tearing them down. They call us Mexicans in sweaters. Pushers, movers, pullers, lifters and runners. Paid, hired and fired by the hour. It’s much easier for me to quit. We should be alright,  that is if we buy our wine for under twenty bucks and eat at home.”

         “Makes sense to me,” Camp said, “all you have to do is not answer the phone when it looks like work, it’s not like you have to quit a career and officially hand in your retirement request.”

“That’s exactly what Clare said.”

Up to now my idea of staying at home had meant sleeping in, goofing off, watching late night flicks and day time soccer games, the occasional lunch at the pub which would sometimes extend into a game of pool and beyond. I also had to get over the stigma of the out-of-work syndrome. No, I was not unemployed; I was now retired. As a film technician I’m used to have weeks or months between jobs but this was different. It meant that I would turn down jobs and do I need to spell it out: no income ! In exchange I would get to be the boss or is it the slave of my own time.

“We all know that a happy wife is a happy life,” Camp stated, staring morosely into his empty glass. He’s been recently divorced and doesn’t like to talk about relationships. “So what do you say if somebody asks you what you do with all your free time?”

“I’ve already thought about this,” I said, I have my standard answers for inquiries into my work status. First of all I’m always busy. ‘The days are just packed’, will be my standard answer and ‘work is overrated.’ To the serious questioner I’ll explain our life style choice with the simple facts.”

“How dare you have fun while the rest of us grind out a living.” Campbell said. “Congratulations.”

Here is my stay-at-home-motto: Plan nothing long term, deal with immediate concerns, make sure the bathrooms are clean, don’t mix the whites with the colors in the wash, make priority lists and try not to fall off the couch during the afternoon nap.

A large part of my routine is shopping and cooking. It turns out that I enjoy both. “I get to meet all the house wives at the store and I’ve received lots of helpful tips from old pros at the game. Not just about groceries or food but also some interesting stock and investment tips.”

“Here is my tip,” Camp said, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Don’t ever – and I mean never – act on a stock tip you receive in the lineup at the grocery store!”

That was yesterday, Thirsty Thursday, which makes today Friday. Since my existential status has changed I now have to watch which day of the week it is. I love being retired.

A measure of wealth

Posted on by
1

I came across an older item from April in 2012 when Campbell, Camp to his friends and foes alike, and I first started meeting regularly on Thursday evenings for a pint or two at ‘Grandma’s Pub’, down by the harbour. According to my notes this was a dreary, drizzly day and the snow capped mountains as well as the green islands were hidden behind a grey, wet wall of clouds that draped the whole world right to the water’s edge  below the pub. I shook off my soaked fleece and pasted my hair back on my scalp before I took my usual seat, in the corner under the TV, right next to the floor-to-ceiling glass enclosure, usually a scenic and coveted spot. Camp was already seated and into his first brew and looked at me as if I was something the cat had dragged in.

“Wet out there?” he said.

“Very observant,” was my curt retort, not in the best of spirits. “Sorry Camp, I meant to say: “We’re having another day of liquid sunshine here on the Sunshine Coast, or something like this.”

“Number one rule my friend: Never loose your sense of humour, especially not in the rain.”

“You’re right, but this weather is getting to me.”

“You’re not alone.” Words of wisdom.

“I tell you what’s bothering me Camp. A few days ago, I think it was Sunday night, a news item about the plight of Nigerians flimmered across the screen and a small detail caught my attention. Did you know that up to 50 people share a toilet in that country, not because Nigeria is poor but because every little bureaucrat there lives like a lord. I tell you it bothered me all night long and when I was relaxing on my throne the next morning I contemplated my own realm. 50 people per toilet! flushed through my mind. I started to count the toilets we own. Three in our house, one in the cottage, one in the rental house, one in my mother in law’s apartment and one in our town apartment. That’s a grand total of seven toilets and four mortgages. Seven thrones for just one peasant who lives like a king.”

“Well, you said it,” Camp said, sitting back with his hands open in front of him as if he was holding a large globe. “It’s in your favour that those are shared toilets, but you’re right, something is definitely out of sync here. Nobody needs seven toilets.”

“But these days teenagers must have their own en-suite otherwise they can’t properly grow up,” I said exasperated. “I tell you what Camp, I was constipated for a couple of days until I finally found release when we decided to get rid of at least 5 of these toilets, along with the walls, floors, roofs and mortgages. It’s time to scale down, divest, purge, free up space, get rid of debts and responsibilities. It’s time to sell up Campbell, but just now the market seems on a down turn and nobody is buying.”

“Such are the woes and worries of a king,” Camp said, not extending any amount of sympathy my way. I think this turned into a multiple pint session since I, as a king, had to buy the next couple of rounds.

Small Steps

Posted on by
4

“I envy people who have special interest and can loose themselves with passion in their hobbies. Doesn’t matter if it is stamp collecting or stained glass, miniature paintings or star gazing. They all can stop the clock and spend hours, days and weeks lost in their diversions,” I said to Campbell, or Camp to all who know him. We were sitting inside to our chagrin, under the blaring TV. Our usual table in the corner on the patio, directly above the water with an unobstructed view of the dock and Keats Island about a kilometer across the calm waters of the harbour was occupied. There was obviously some kind of a party being catered to on the patio. “Realtors,” Camp grumbled, rolling his eyes with a slow headshake. Camp’s nemeses, Hank Marshall, the present major elect, seemed to head the party.

“He probably gets city hall to pay for this,” I said.

“He better not or I have him impeached,” Champ said. “Anyways what were you on about? Hobbies? Hobbies are for people who don’t know what to do with their time.”

“Exactly, some even take it as far as university courses and degrees, like reading, writing, dancing and photography, even arts and crafts. Those endeavours can result in a profession and a livelong career. Lucky are those who are not distracted by the mundane nuisance that goes on around them and instead stay focused on their chosen craft.’

“Well, some claim that the subject chose them, not the other way around. Dancers and artists of all persuasions can claim that the art came from within and was not something they stumbled across in their daily wanderings,” Camp pointed out.

“I’ve always admired people who are never bored or at a loss of what to do with all their time because they cannot wait to get back to their model trains or stamp collections, studies or research.”

“That’s because you are one of those rare human beings who are spoilt by modern life into an existence with no real purpose other than to carry on, day after day, whiling away another endless stretch of time in mundane tasks like raking leaves or polishing doorknobs,” Camp said, apparently without irony.

“That’s a bit harsh Camp, don’t you think. I do have some legitimate interest, maybe not talents but some sort of aptitude. I mean, I can’t complain about my apparent lack of focus and interest because I know how good I have it and how miserable uncounted millions fight through every day, for every meal and can only dram of the things I take for granted. Like a fridge full of food and beer, a big screen TV that blares away all day long, a late model car, kitchen toys and tools for every task imaginable, down covers on my various beds, several bathrooms for my convenience, rooms that are empty or full of surplus furniture, boxes of books and utensils and sports equipment never used. But I would certainly not trade my comfortable, meaningless existence for anyone’s life, who is less fortunate than I, who is less blessed with material wealth. I do enjoy my status as one of the top 2%, if not of the exalted 1%,” I argued, apparently to the an audience that was more interested in what was going on the patio, where our illustrious mayor was giving a lusty speech, telling from the guffaws and cat calls from his receptive audience.

“ Ok, you’re feeling guilty about your social and financial status. It is something that you can come to terms with; it’s a fate you can easily accept, you can’t help it where you’re born and grown up. Ready for another pint?”

“I know it’s the surplus of time that bothers me now, being newly retired and a newby senior. The fact that I will have more time off with less things to do. Better strike me down in full flight then let me rot in my easy chair. I didn’t want to sound like a total whiner so I made a toast: “To retirement.” Some heads turned from the patio party at this sudden outburst of merriment and I quickly took a large swallow.

“Lucky for you to have a wife who has no such qualms and problems,” Camp pointed out.

“Don’t I know it, her life is so full of responsibility and purpose that she never has enough time. I wish I could give her some of mine but that is equally as impossible as banking sleep. Those two commodities are immutable, unstoppable and not refundable. Clare’s life is so full of challenges, so rich with possibilities that there is hardly time to sleep and only so because even she cannot do without. Her work is her passion and her passion is her work and then she has her garden.”

“It’s not about talent my friend, it’s about dedication to a cause and to recognize an opportunity, something that is hard to see from a reclining position on the couch with the telly on,’ Camp said. Point well taken, thank you.

Talent is a nice trait to have but with any such advantage over ordinary mortals, it brings with it added responsibility. One is to use that talent and foster it. I happen to have a talent for procrastination, constantly putting off the things I promised myself I’d do when I have time. Like learning Spanish, or doing my soccer referee course or joining a local charity. I’ll think about it some more and thinking is best done on my back, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling. And time slips by and opportunities pass on by and still I am tired at the end of the day.

There are a few things in life that I like more then some others. One is soccer, watching and playing it, another is reading and writing, in itself an endless task with unlimited resources and then there is cooking and it’s active counterpart, eating. Between those three disciplines I should never be bored. If there isn’t a game to watch, I could cook something or I could read one of about 10 books presently on my night table or I could always take the ball up to the pitch and kick some penalties. Then why do I feel as if I’m wasting time, that there should be fare more important things to do then what I do with my days.

“So, when people ask what you do all day long what is your standard answer?” Camp asked.

“My standard response is simple. The days are packed and I’m busy and there is never enough time in the day.”

“In other words: a blatant lie,” Camp said, looking over the brim of his new pint. “Your answer should be: Nothing much and I’m bored a lot of time. Of course nobody would know what to say to such a reply and would look at you with pity, feeling sorry for you, which is something you just couldn’t stomach. So instead you decided it’s best to avoid the naked truth and offer a white lie, staying in the superficial realm where feelings are skin deep, the truth is never far from the surface and no questions remain unanswered.”

“In a nutshell, something like that,” I conceded and then tried to defend my position. “Look Camp, you know that I don’t like to be alone. In fact I don’t have a monastic bone in me. I much rather be among people and part of a team then muddle along by myself. I enjoy the company of others, sometimes more then my own.”

“The solution seems simple enough. You could join a church but that would entail believing in God or a set of doctrines,” Camp offered.

“There isn’t one believe system or cult out there that interest me in the least, same as you.”

“As far as I am concerned there is no God,” Camp said as a matter of fact. “Sometimes I wish there was a God, some ethereal being that pulled all the strings on all the puppets, that was responsible for this world, and Lord of the one after, but my brain just will not accept such simplistic and fantastical concepts. I much rather believe in an alien civilisation that came to earth, travelling at warp speed, and crossbred with some orang-utans, thus spawning homo sapiens. I could believe in that, which makes me an atheist and part monkey I suppose.”

“Why don’t you join a political party?” was Clare’s suggestion. Easier said than done. First of all I would have to fit in, again suspending reason and common sense, and accepting a doctrine or a philosophy, which is the foundation and guiding principal of every political party. Almost like a religion. I consider myself a fair weather socialists, meaning that I champion equality of the sexes, fair distribution of wealth, universal healthcare, environmental responsible energy policies and most of all common sense. That puts me somewhere in between the

Rhinoceros and the Socialist Party.

“I would have to compromise some of my own values, swallow my arguments and keep my doubts to myself, and keep my mouth shut if I was to actively take part in a political party.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Clare sneered. “You always find a reason not to do something instead of the other way around.”

Maybe she has a point.

Which leads me to consider NGO’s and charities.

I’ve searched the internet for the most efficient NGO’s and came across some interesting and rather discouraging information. It looks like most NGO’s mirror governmental programmes and do nothing more then supplement official relief in areas like food help, medicines and support services already being provided by various governments including Canada. Medicines Sans Frontieres stands out as does Amnesty International but the later has very little impact on policy but has individual successes to it’s credit while ‘Doctors without Borders’ is fighting a multi headed monster in the shape of never ending wars and conflict, as well as unsupportive governments to the point of being deliberately bombed. Which leaves some local charities like Humanitas, an organisation dedicated to the building of homes and schools for underprivileged locals as well as in exotic places like Central America. That would be better matched to my skill set and I resolved to check it out. Soon.

Again I received a dose of Clare’s wisdom when I voiced my doubts about joining Humanitas. “Instead of finding a path toward a glorious goal, search inside and discover that’s where the secret to happiness hides.”

“Did you just make that up?” I said.

“It’s a common truth that the path to happiness starts from within. Small steps add up to a long walk. Waiting for it to come to you will take all your life and it might never come. I suggest you start with fixing the fence and cutting the lawn. I also love the way you cooked the spaghetti the other day.”

“Small steps, one at a time just like beer, one at a time,” Camp said, waxing philosophically which is not like him. He always has a definite opinion, something I count on. He’s probably wondering why it’s not him, sitting over there in the mayor’s chair, regaling the sycophants and bottom feeder, as he calls them. He lost by a couple of hundred votes against Mr. Realtor and head Shriner but he still retained his seat as one of the five counsellors. He still has a seat at the table.

“Time to go home.”

“See you next week.”

Over a few Pints

Posted on by
1

       Once every week, on Thirsty Thursday, Campbell, or Camp as everyone knows him, and I meet for a pint or two at ‘Grandmas’ the local pub, overlooking the picturesque harbour and Keats Island. We discuss sports, the weather and the future of mankind. Sometimes we veer off into dubious territory like politics or religion but since we both hold similar convictions and beliefs, we are each other’s most benevolent audience. Camp has a tendency to launch into diatribes and I have been known to be equally opinionated. Clare calls us the beer philosophers. She has a point. Here are our profound insights during yesterday’s discussion.

“Politics is the one domain where self-serving idiots outnumber common sensical, moral, smart, compassionate and humorous human beings,” Camp said, the moment he sat down, while taking a healthy swallow. He should know, being a politician himself. An Alderman, recently re-elected for another 4 year term. “It’s also the arena that attracts devious, power-hungry, egocentric aspirants, mostly ex-lawyers and real estate agents who use politics as a way to improve their self esteem, win new and important friends, line their pockets and secure themselves a future with a fat pension and possible seats at boardroom tables.”

“None of that applies to you of course,” I said, “definitely not the part of the fat pension. I don’t think aldermen in a small towns get any pension. Not even free drinks at the pub.”

Camp carried on. He was on a roll now, proselytizing. Something had got his goat, probably a difference of opinions, must have occurred at the council meeting that afternoon.

“Politics also carries the elusive promise of historical significance and the dangerous but tantalizing possibility of shaping and changing the world for good. In most cases this ambition metamorphoses into the exact opposite. Very seldom do people enter politics for the common good or because they want to improve the lives of other, ordinary people. Although everyone pays lip service to those noble causes, most enter the political arena to nurture and foster their own and their rich friends agenda. The socialist view of shared resources, decent labor laws and fair division of capital is not a popular platform these days when even liberalism is circumspect and cowers behind euphemisms. It remains a paradox that social democrats are generally regarded with suspicion and a certain degree of derision like they want to take away something when in fact they’re the only ones that have managed to add to the common person’s lot.”

I agreed with Camp and said so: “I totally agree with you. I also feel like an idiot when I voice my support for the ordinary people, who want nothing more then security at home, at school, at work and in their neighborhoods.”

“Yes, and security comes from benevolent policies that entrench rights and choices – not the kind that is enforced with uniforms, guns and barbed wire fences. Is it so hard to see the difference? Am I naive to believe in the security that springs from a well educated, fairly regulated and equally opportune society, which also includes the right to make money, earn profits, invest and get rich?”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” I said, “or to quote Clare, my no frills, down to earth better half and conscience: “A society that cannot look after its old, sick and poor in a dignified fashion is not a modern civilization.”

“Exactly, Camp agreed. “A society that does not tolerate diversion and division does not deserve to be supported by modern, thinking people. I’m not asking for utopia or nirvana, but simply for the only cause worth entering politics for. Maybe I’m just a day dreamer, an idealistic simpleton trying to make sense of Orwellian doublespeak, the preferred language of modern politics.”

“You should run for prime minister instead of the town counsel,” I said and Camp just laughed. I could tell he was a bit frustrated, having just been elected counselor. He really wanted to run for mayor, but was out muscled by Hank Marshall, Mr. Real-estate and most popular Shriner in town. Hank drives around in big silver Escalade with a sheriff’s star emblazoned on both front doors with the name Marshall in the center.

I consider myself reasonably well read, adequately educated and I do feel compassion and pity for the less lucky and less privileged then myself. I also have some fairly strong ideas about how a just and fair society should be structured and governed. Another pint later I launched into a diatribe of my own that only a likeminded fellow drinker like Camp could tolerate: “I’m not suggesting anarchy and armed uprising,” I pointed out, holding my hand up in mock surrender, “nothing too radical, but we need to get rid of the free enterprise think tanks that write the rules from Washington, London, Ottawa and Victoria. This includes the present gang of thugs in the White House who claim to get their modus operandi directly from the Almighty who directs them to subvert the will of the people with propaganda, lies and empty promises.”

“Hear, hear!” said Camp, accompanied by a generous burp.

“Ignorance, fear and greed makes up the three headed monster ruling the world from Washington D.C.” I doubled down, unstoppable now. “Of course, all with the help of the mainstream media, born again, fundamental religion, the industrial war machine and the privatized security and military industry. This kind of autocratic, paternalistic government makes idiots of us all.”

I was out of beer again and the hour was getting late. Clare would not be pleased by my absence and probably had ordered out by now. Camp, recently divorced did not have any such qualms and for him the matter was far from finished. “Democracy is the best political system, with all its faults and downfalls. It’s better then a monarchy or a parliamentary dictatorship, but like you, I feel we have been duped and bamboozled for the past 30 years. The fact is that we live under the yoke of a plutocracy, a rule of wealthy elitist who cleverly managed to buy themselves into positions of power. Only millionaires are able to buy the propaganda and management machinery that enables them to run for office. These are the days when movie stars and sports personalities have the best chance to get elected. It’s all about recognition. Superficiality over substance.”

“You don’t have to look far,” I said. “Just look at Hank Marshall, your own nemesis.”

Camp nodded his head and after a short pause said: “I fear a return to the dark ages, a sort of byzantine empire, ruled by electronic profiling and computerized governments run by immoral men in windowless rooms.” He morosely stared into his empty glass.

“Maybe I should step into politics myself,” I offered, “but I’d be in a brawl within the first five minutes. I think politicians should all be forced to study a crash course in Plato and Machiavelli, economics by John Adams and John Maynard Keynes and then write an exam before they are allowed to run for office. And no, Machiavelli is not one of the Sopranos.” I was coming to my closing argument with the help of my sober, moral compass in the back of my mind but also waiting for me at home. “Clare thinks the world would be better off if it was run by women: At least the wars would be fought with words rather then bombs and motherhood issues like social justice, fairness and equal opportunities would rise to the top of the agenda and would not remain utopian, socialist concepts.”

Camp agreed with Clare. “It’s true, we should let the presidents and prime ministers leave it to their wives and daughters to sort it all out and send their husbands on a yoga retreat, a place remote and private enough to exist naked on a diet of fruit, nuts and water.”

“Yes, my friend, enlightenment always starts in the dark. Where else could you see the flicker of a candle? Certainly not in the glare of klieg lights. And what does anything mean anymore?”

“Gobbledygook and blabbermush,” Camp offered, “We’re past Orwellian newspeak. Fake news are the new propaganda tools. Just look at what’s happening in the Philippines.”

“Yes, social media politics are here to stay. Rule by twitter, news by Facebook.”

Camp just shook his head. “And on todays menu you’ll find: positivism cloaked in possiblilism; pessimism disguised as realism; confusion as modern epitaph with a twist of subterfuge. And for desert: Fake news served up in real time. Maybe I’m the idiot who doesn’t get it. Check please.”

“See you next Thursday.”

Lasaka (Casserole)

Posted on by
Reply

Lasaka describes a combo casserole between Musaka and Lasagne. It is a vegetarian dish, which leaves a lot of room for improvisation. Tomato sauce can be replaced with salsa or spaghetti sauce, spinach with peas and Mozzarella with Monterey jack cheese. It can be prepped ahead of time and stashed in he fridge until you put it in the oven.

Ingredients:

1 round eggplant or 2 long (Japanese) eggplants

flour

2 eggs

bread crumbs

tomato sauce (or Salsa and hot sauce if you want to add heat)

1 purple onion

2 tomatoes

peas or spinach

ricotta cheese

Mozzarella or Monterey jack cheese

always add garlic, salt and pepper

 

Peel and cut eggplant into quarter inch slices

Dip slices in flour then in beaten egg and then in bread crumbs

fry in olive oil until golden brown

sauté onions in olive oil or butter

Place one layer of fried eggplant slices in baking dish

spread onions, ricotta cheese, tomato sauce or salsa, spinach or peas

repeat with second layer of everything

cover the whole dish with slices of Mozzarella or Monterey jack

add a top layer of sliced tomatoes

sprinkle with oregano

Here is deviation for carnivores: I call this Halasaka…

add a layer of Black Forest ham before you layer on the cheese.

 

Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes, serve hot and be gracious when the compliments and accolades start pouring in.

It’s delicious heated up the next day.

Wine: Cab Sav or Merlot or if you can find a Greek red wine

 

 

 

 

Amongst the Volcanos (Patzcuaro)

Posted on by
Reply

As in most points of view there are several, depending of where the viewer stands. It can be a wide panoramic view or a revealing close up, the bird’s eye or the dark underbelly view. Also there are usually two sides to an issue, two sides of the same coin. In order to do my Mexico impressions justice I need to break them up, into at least two categories: the touristy one, which is for the most part a surface experience, visual and sensual, maybe spiritual, set apart from the culture I drop into, like looking into a house through a window. The second part is more visceral, like being in the house, invited into the peoples lives, listening, watching, participating and seeing their culture through their eyes rather than mine. It’s a more immersed point of view, which has to take into account some unpleasant realities like politics, poverty, inequalities and other limitations.

Parzcuaro is the popular Pueblo Magico, nestled along the shallow lake by the same name amidst the volcanoes in the heart of Michoacan, located on the Tierra Alta Plateau at 2300m in central Mexico. The present town dates back to the 16th century and features the second largest colonial plaza in Mexico. It’s long been a favourite destination of mine, ever since 1984, when I first drove into the town. (in a 1962 Ford Galaxy 2-door hardtop, pulling a tent trailer with both kids (4+5) on a piece of plywood with some blankets and toys in the back seat). Patzcuaro has changed little in the past few centuries, let alone in the past 30 years. More taxis, collectivos (mini vans) and cars clog the cobble stoned streets, and today cappuccinos, pizzas and Internet are available everywhere.

Continue reading →

Mexico Revisited (Puerto Penasco, Guadalajara, Mexico City, Zihuatenejo)

Posted on by
1

                    Puerto Penasco, or as it is better known, Rocky Point is just a two hour drive south of Ajo, Arizona or can also be reached by a new road from Yuma. It is also referred to as Phoenix’s beach since it is only 4 hours from that 4 million plus city. Puerto Penasco is in the Sonora desert at the northern apex of one of the most fertile bodies of water anywhere: the Sea of Cortez also known as the Gulf of California.

We first drove through Rocky Point some 20 years ago and only remember a feast of local shrimp and lobster in a noisy bar perched atop a rocky outcropping and a crowded RV park across the road. Not much else. This time around we were guests of our friends who rented a luxury apartment for a discount price at a sprawling upscale development called Sandy Beach west of the original town and harbour. Up to sixteen stories high, several of those condo developments clustered along the shallow beach, guarded on all sides by security check points with guard shacks and guards armed with walky-talkies and clad in snazzy khaki uniforms. Hundreds of these high end condos built in the past 20 years sprawl along the sandy beach, all equipped with gourmet kitchens, rain showers and flat screen TV’s with several heated pools (replete with pool bars) and hundreds of lounge chairs spread throughout the manicured compounds, surrounded by golf course and dune buggy tracks. Very deluxe and very much affluent Americana and nothing to do with Mexico apart from the soil they are built on. Some of the buildings were abandoned in the 2008 crash waiting patiently for a developer from up north to finish them. I spent most of my week reclining on a lounge chair under an umbrella behind a rope separating the haves from the have-nots, watching the endless parade of local peddlers go by trying to sell anything from a song to a massage, from mangos to jewellery, from hammocks to hats.

Continue reading →

Carnival (Carriacou)

Posted on by
Reply

We were ready and primed for the much anticipated and promoted Carriacou Carnival, famous all over the windward Islands for it’s authenticity and fervour. This is not Rio, New Orleans or Cologne, it’s only a small island at the bottom of the Caribbean. Carnival officially takes place on the two days before Ash Wednesday, but starts weeks ahead with several village ‘roadshows’, meaning all night street parties with massive boom-boxes and beer and rum fuelled revellers. On the days leading up to the epic weekend hundreds of ‘foreigners’ (people from the ‘mainland’, Grenada, and other nearby Islands including Trinidad, as opposed to us tourists who are welcome here) as well as ex-pats from England, the US and Canada, come to this tranquil Island for the festivities, turning it into a party mayhem haven. The daily ferry from Grenada was overloaded with standing room only, and many of the beer swilling passengers hanging over the railings in the rough seas.

Continue reading →

Chiapas Incident

Posted on by
Reply

It’s been over a year ago since all this happened. It seems longer somehow, far away from the present. Those were intense days, which we came through unscathed and intact but somehow, something subtle has changed. We are not as adventurous and ambivalent about travel in uncharted places as we were. It reminds me of a bad fall while skiing, what they call a ragdoll descent. I didn’t break anything but my spirit and even though I still ski, I am not the fearless skier I once was.

We would wake up in the middle of the night and stare into space, reliving those moments when our normal lives were suddenly turned upside down, hanging in the balance between living and dying. It took several months and many retellings, mixed in with a good portion of denial and bravado to normalize our equilibrium.

We are more wary now when we encounter strange cultures, maybe more careful when we meet strangers, more reserved even. We chose not to drive our van to Mexico, as we had planned and took a flight instead. We are somewhat damaged goods when it comes to adventure travel. I insisted that this incident is separate, unique and cannot rule our lives forward. It has to stand alone and be compartmentalized and yet, something lingers on at the back of our minds.  

Continue reading →

QUINN (a love story)

Posted on by
Reply

It was 1973 and we were all 40 years younger, unless we weren’t born yet. I was still trying to get over Mona who was also my partner in a vain attempt to introduce a vegetarian restaurant into the Italian and Portuguese neighbourhood. Both ventures failed – the relationship and the business – mainly because Mona needed to expand both her physical and spiritual realm with a cherubic Yogi from India. I salvaged enough cash out of the wreckage to enable me to escape to Mexico for the winter in my cherished VW van, before Mona handed it all over to her Yogi to free herself (and me) from material entanglements.

Continue reading →

Carriacou (Grenada)

Posted on by
Reply

            Carriacou  is not the biggest but the most precious little pearl in the Caribbean necklace.

           The small Caribbean Island nation of Greneda is made up of three islands: Greneda, the largest one, Carriacou, a two hour ferry ride from St. Georges (capital of Grenada) and Petit Martinique, a further two hours by a smaller ferry from Carriaccou. Grenada declared it’s independence  from the British Empire in 1974, and the elected Prime minister was usurped by a Cuban supported armed revolution in 1979 lead by Maurice Bishop who was himself toppled and then executed by his former co-revolutionary in 1983.  A subsequent military coup resulted in ‘Operation Urgent Fury’, a US led invasion under Reagon to stop ‘the domino of commies’. The invaders bombed a mental hospital, mistaking it for a military fortress, killing 18 patients, one of which was Ricky’s mother. Ricky was our tour guide, who had a cynical view of the American conquest of his Island. These events were later immortalized in the  1986 movie ‘Heartbreak Hill’, by Clint Eastwood. Ever since the  ‘liberation’ Grenada  has struggled to attain some kind of modern status in this competitive world, relying on the World Bank and some generous donor nations.  Mother nature interfered In 2004 when Hurricane Ivan destroyed 85% of Grenada’s structures and the entire Nutmeg Crop, followed  in 2005 by Hurricane Emily which ravaged the island’s  north end.

Continue reading →

Psycho Salsa

Posted on by
Reply

My friend Dave developed this recipe and called it Psycho Salsa because he was crazy about it. He parted with it only grudgingly but I have decided to share it because it is too good to keep to myself. I have altered a couple of ingredients, and so can you, but the basics remain true to Dave’s original.

Here goes:

3 large roma tomatoes

1 medium purple onion (or white)

2-3 jalopeno peppers

4 chile guajillo (nueve Mexico) peppers (these are dark red, dried peppers)

2 chile arbol (red, long, skinny, dried, hot)

4-6 garlic cloves

1 hand full chilantro

1/4 cup balsamic vinigar

 

Blend until smooth then pour into pot and bring to boil

turn heat off and add salsa fresca for texture:

one diced roma tomato

some purple onion and chilantro

chop it all finely together

let cool

 

Now you’re ready to dip or slather it on anything you like:

eggs, pasta, quesadillas, pizza, hamburgers etc.

The Canadian, the German and the Swiss

Posted on by
1

Canadian:

I think I should and if I would then maybe something will happen.

 

German:

I know there is and when I do it then it is.

 

Swiss:

When I know there is (or not) then I will do it (or not)

 

Canadian:

Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind, please I would like to get by, thank you again.

 

German:

Attention ! Coming though here, please step aside. Thank you.

 

Swiss:

Pardon me, I will need to get by, thank you very much.

 

Canadian:

I’m so sorry, I had no idea, believe me it will never happen again.

 

German:

Excuse me. I will find out what happened and correct it.

 

Swiss:

So sorry but it wasn’t my fault . Good luck next time.

 

Beer Commercial

Posted on by
1

The following is from a beer commercial I saw in New Zealand:

Work like you don’t need the money.

Love like you’ve never been hurt.

Dance like nobody’s watching.

Sing like nobody’s listening.

Live like it’s Heaven on Earth

Make every moment count

and help somebody

help themselves

Cheers

One of Them

Posted on by
Reply

“Where are you going?” Clare asked as I was just about out the door.

“It’s Thursday love and I’m already running late.”

“Oh, how could I forget, its Thirsty Thursday.  Say hi to Camp. Are you going to make it back for dinner or should I even ask?”

“If you want I’ll bring back a Pizza.”

“What’s that in your hand?”

“Oh, I just printed this off. Camp will love it. It’s at least good for a couple of pints.”

“Have fun.” Clare looked at with a mixture of pity and admiration: Pity for my foolishness and admiration for my enthusiasm. “Pizza sounds great.”

When I walked into ‘Grandmas’ Campbell, or Camp as everyone calls him, was already down half a pint.

“Look what I just printed off.” I handed Camp the printout and he scanned it in short order. He was ready with his response by the time my pint arrived. Perfect timing is everything.

He didn’t waste any time and pontificated: “In order to feel any pain one has to get hurt, and to feel any joy, happiness has to be present, but to feel overwhelmed one just has to turn on the computer these days.”

Here is what my printout said:

If we could compress the earth’s population into a global village of precisely 100 people, it would look like this:

57 Asians

21 Europeans

14 from the Western Hemisphere, both north and south

8 Africans

52 would be female

48 would be male

70 would be non-white

30 would be white

70 would be non-Christian

30 would be Christian

89 would be heterosexual

11 would be homosexual

6 people, all from the USA would possess 59% of the village’s wealth

80 would live in substandard housing

70 would be unable to read

50 would suffer from malnutrition

1 would be near death

1 would be near birth

1 (yes, only 1) would have a university education

1 would own a computer

In a modern and medieval village such as this the need for acceptance, tolerance, understanding and education becomes tantamount for the survival of the less fit and the whole village.

 

And then it goes on.

If you woke up this morning healthy

you are better off than the million who will not survive this week.

If you have never experienced the danger of battle

the loneliness of imprisonment

the agony of torture

or the pangs of starvation

you are ahead of 500 million people in the world.

If you can attend a meeting

without fear of harassment, arrest, torture, or death

you are more privileged than three billion people in the world.

If you have food in the refrigerator and clothes on your back,

a roof overhead and a place to sleep

you are richer than 75% of this world.

If you have money in the bank, in your wallet, and spare change in a dish you are among the top 8% of the worlds wealthy.

and if you can read this message

you are ahead of over two billion people in the world

that cannot read at all.

“Well what do you think Camp? Pretty awesome, what?”

“And if you can drink several pints of beer in a pub and solve the problems of the world you surely are better off than anybody else,” Camp pointed out, raising his glass in a toast.

“Amen,” I said.

 

 

The Saver

Posted on by
Reply

I have no problems

but I hear you do

for a minimal fee

you can talk to me

I will solve your crisis

get you back on you feet

my advice is your solution

all for a small contribution

you can call me day or night

or fax me your heartaches

my service is personal

you secrets are my trust

my compassion is worth it

pay in full you must

Zendom

Posted on by
Reply

My mind is my enemy

a million racing thoughts

and my story is not me

despite it being in my head

where I come from

and where I’m going too

does not place me

in the here and now

 

Tomorrow never comes

and today never ends

I feel the need to seperate

from the me that’s in my head

but my mind is telling me

from all the information

that the world is ending

and the future is fucked

 

To be in the ‘zone’

to enbrace the present

is not about winning

and there are no losers

but I cannot dissacotiate

myself from myself

and the voices in my head

are always in control

 

Where do I stand stil

and how do I find peace

is death really the way

or is life all there is

happiness is just a concept

and pain a reality

how can I help myself

if all I am is me

 

 

Margarita Insights

Posted on by
Reply

            The sun was just dipping into the pacific ocean in a phantasmagorical display of fiery colours as only seen in southern latitudes.  Like every day since we arrived in Zihuatenejo Clare and I usually celebrate this free display of natures power and arrogance with a couple of margaritas. Today we were joined by Will, who by his own account is “a solar refugee escaping the northern rains and a couple of ex-wives.” He  is also a bit of a local celebrity, a role he gladly lives up to. His walks for miles every day along all the local beaches and can be spotted for a long ways off thanks to his canary yellow shorts, T-shirt and cap with the iconic Corona label emblazoned on everything except his sandals. He claims to be sponsored by the beer company which basically manifests itself in us always paying for his beers. Nevertheless I think it’s a great act, true or imagined. It doesn’t take away from the character he portrays with full conviction. After all everybody plays a part in the charade and parade of life, some are just more colourful than others. With his long grey hair, bushy eyebrows and pointed  Don Quixote beard, clad in bright yellow he makes quite the picture

Continue reading →

The Art of Cooking

Posted on by
Reply

“You can’t just put the pot on the stove and then walk away!” Clare unceremoniously admonished me very early on in our relationship. “You can’t cook and write a letter all at once.”

“Why not, the water boils by itself,” I answered, put in my place, feeling like you know what.

“Because you need to stir the noodles otherwise they turn into a clump of glue and you also need to watch the beans which don’t take as long as the pasta. Cooking is not just heating up a bunch of stuff. Cooking is, playing, feeling, tasting, experimenting, spicing and above all: timing !”

“Timing,” I said, feeling confident once again, furtively glancing at my watch. “I’ll set the timer to exactly what it says in the instructions. No need to watch the clock, dear.” Looks of exasperation were my just reward.

“Timing relates to everything being ready together. You cook the potatoes and the meat together, have the salad washed and prepped and make sure it’s all ready together.”

It took a while but I finally figured it out. As I slowly fell in love with cooking Clare gently stepped away from the stove, leaving me in charge of the kitchen. I gathered recopies from my mom, my sister who is to this day a gourmet cook and I also started to invent my own dishes and discovered a latent talent to improvise. I became especially good at leftover cooking, probably as much from necessity as design. I can whip up a salad out of a tomato, a leftover baked potato, some onions, a half dozen olives and some oil and balsamic vinegar. I concoct pasta sauces and pizzas out of garlic, bacon and basil or peppers, tomatoes, salami and cheese. Anything goes in my kitchen now and I dare anybody to call me an idiot while I soak the old bread under the water tap and then re-bake it in the oven. It will be just like fresh from the bakery. Which reminds me of a proverb my dad quoted every time we kids wrinkled our noses about the day old bread.

“Old bread is not hard but no bread is hard!” I guess you had to be in the war to appreciate not just the finer things in life but also the ordinary.

I also discovered that cooking is like lovemaking – both require passion, playfulness and attention to details and both go better with music. A slow stew simmers along to the blues, a sizzling steak cooks fast like rockn’roll and enchiladas turn out better with Latin rhythm. I listen to a lot of Lila Downs while chopping tomatoes, peppers and cilantro. For soups I prefer a little reggae and salads go well with country music.

In cooking, as in religion, there are commandments, meaning there are definite do-not-do’s or cardinal sins. I only adhere to three of these:

# 1: Do not overcook unless it’s a stew

# 2: Do not drown unless it’s a soup

# 3: Do not serve cold unless it’s a salad

There are exceptions. For example: you cannot overcook eggplant and there are occasions like parties where cooked food like salmon or roast can be served cold. And there are cold soups like gazpacho or warm salads like potato salad.

The main thing about cooking is that somebody appreciates the results. That’s why cooking is what brings people together, what builds memories and no celebration is complete without food. Lucky for me Clare is the most appreciative benefactor or my cooking skills. She always compliments me, never complains and always eats what I concoct. Happiness is good food and sharing it with the people you love.