Weed vs Booze

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‘Camp I know you’ve indulged in the wacky tobacco when you were young and carefree. How much do you smoke these days or is alcohol your poison of choice?’

            ‘First of all neither beer nor weed are poisons. I don’t smoke the stuff anymore because I like my lungs to operate on air and save my throat for swallowing but I do indulge in a brownie or a home baked cookie once in a while.’

            ‘What? To get high or just for the fun of it?’

            ‘Mostly to help me sleep but I have to admit the music sounds better after a cookie.’

            ‘Where do you get the cookies or brownies?’

            ‘My neighbour grows 4 plants, the allowable limit per household in BC, and has become very innovative and creative in getting the most out of her garden produce. She also makes pot-honey. One teaspoon in a cup of tea before bed does wonders for us insomniacs. What about you? You used to smoke the stuff. Remember the lids of Mexican weed, the Thai sticks or hash from the Hindukush?’         

            ‘Well, yes, that was when I thought I’d live forever. These days beer is king and wine is the queen.’

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Change

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As soon as I sat down, Camp had news for me. Not good news, just some numbers and figures. ‘For 33 days, the global average temperature at the sea surface has not fallen below 21 degrees, according to data from the American National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). This has never happened since satellite records began in 1981,’ he said.  ‘Usually, a period of cooling begins from mid-March. Now we are at the end of April, and there are still no signs of a drop in temperature.’

‘Well, around here it’s still rather cool, too cold to swim for me.’

He ignored me. ‘Here is another interesting stat. ‘So far this year the world population has increased by 22 million people, about the population, of Ontario (15mio), Alberta (4.5mio) and BC (5mio) together. All that in just 4 months.’ 

‘Ok, so what you’re saying is the world and the oceans are warming up; there are millions of more people who all want more stuff and the world isn’t getting any bigger.‘

‘You got the gist,’ Camp said, leaning back in his chair. ‘We’re fucked.’

‘I want to point out to you that all is not lost. The trees are budding, the spring flowers are blooming, the seeds are sprouting and our garden looks the best ever. That is a project we can do something about and I’ll be damned if I just sit around and think about the demise of the human project. Moping in gloom and doom is not a healthy mental condition and is mostly the territory of old people. And I’m not old, just older.’

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America Groans:

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Joe Biden wants to run again

Here is a translation of an article by Martin Suter Published: 22.04.2023, 22:01 in the Tages-Anzeiger, Zurich, Switzerland. It’s a different Point of View.

The president wants to announce his renewed candidacy on Tuesday – so there will probably be a rematch against Donald Trump in 2024. The loser has already been decided: the USA.

The once proud superpower, torn apart from within and hostile from the outside, faces the most unspeakable of all rounds of elections next year. According to his team, Joe Biden’s will announce his candidacy for a second term the day after tomorrow. So far, all signs indicate that the Democrat will again have Donald Trump as his opponent, whom he chased out of the White House two years ago.

A repeat of the drama of 2020 is not at all what voters want. According to an AP poll this week, only 46 percent of Democrats approve of Biden’s candidacy; 52 percent disapprove. Overall, no less than 73 percent of adults wish that he should no longer compete.

Biden’s numbers are even worse than Trump’s at a comparable time. Last September, two months before the ex-president announced his candidacy, 61 percent of all participants in a poll wanted him to please refrain from doing so.

Biden forgets a lot and constantly trips over his own words

For many, Biden’s age is the main problem.  The president would be 86 years old at the end of his second term. Even at the age of 80, his abilities are noticeably diminishing. His doctor says that he is fit for the most demanding job in the world. The oldest of all U.S. presidents may seem sprightly, but he tipped over with his stationary bike and stumbled multiple times on the stairs to the presidential jet.

He never underwent a cognitive test. His mental weaknesses are now becoming brutally noticeable. Biden’s speech today is audibly more slurred than he was during the last election campaign. He forgets a lot and constantly mis-speaks himself. After speeches, he gets lost on the stage, and again and again he stretches out his hand where no one is waiting. On one occasion, he approached a uniformed man as a Secret Service agent, while he was serving in the Salvation Army.

Biden’s unpredictability is dangerous abroad. Recently, he confused the host country with China in Canada. On several occasions, his statements on the issues of Russia and Taiwan contradicted official policy, so that the White House had to hastily make a correction.

However, the electorate does not notice how bad Biden’s mental fitness really is. With the exception of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan, no US president has given as few press conferences as Joe Biden in 100 years. Unlike Trump, he does not refer to the media as “enemies of the people”, but he treats them as such: he rarely grants interviews; He has never answered the questions of journalists from the “New York Times” or the “Washington Post”.

Biden’s team is keeping the incumbent under wraps for fear of political damage. His advisers can live well with the fact that the president reads speeches from the teleprompter and signs laws, but otherwise only appears shielded.

As an ancient figurehead, Biden inspires confidence and obscures the fact that progressive leftists set the tone in the White House. Secretly directed by them, gigantic spending packages were crammed through and the entire administration was sworn into a radical climate course and a woke redistribution policy that would have been unimaginable under Barack Obama.

Leadership by an invisible Politburo, depending on ideological preference, can please domestically. Abroad, it fails. As an Atlanticist, Biden was able to commit NATO to a resolute defense against Russia’s attack on Ukraine. But indirectly, with the withdrawal debacle in Afghanistan, he encouraged Vladimir Putin to attack. Neither before the start of hostilities nor afterwards did he seriously engage in diplomacy against the war in Eastern Europe.

Trump and Biden enjoy their roles

Meanwhile, the American world order is falling apart. Russia is forging new alliances, taking the helm of the OPEC oil cartel and is spreading its influence in the Middle East. The arch-enemies Iran and Saudi Arabia come to an understanding. Israel stands alone. While China is arming itself and gathering territory and labor markets in the World’s South, Biden’s envoys are handing out reprimands. In the words of a politician from a developing country: “From China we get an airport. From the United States we’re getting a lecture.”

America’s weakness comes from the weakness of its president. His country and the world must be spared four more years of Biden as urgently as the return of the egomaniac Trump. However, both politicians like themselves so much in their roles that they can hardly be dissuaded.

Unless they are forced to do so. Trump could be thrown out of the race by criminal charges, Biden by the dramatically widening scandals surrounding his family’s potentially corrupt foreign business. Undoubtedly, it would be best if the president voluntarily renounced the second term. However, the old man lacks the strength for this decision.

Built to Fail

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‘This has to be the wettest April ever,’ Camp complained as soon as we were seated. ‘Mind you people read books when they can’t go outside. And the ducks are happy.’

    ‘My washing machine broke down, meaning the machine sounded like it was full of chains instead of laundry. I spent the next few hours trying to find out what’s wrong, how to fix it and how much it would cost.’

      ‘Let me guess: You couldn’t find a tecky in Gibsons, the problem could be fatal for the machine and parts could be weeks away and the cost prohibitive,’ Camp said.

        ‘How did you know? I spoke to a rep for two hours until he asked me for my zip code at which point he confessed that his branch office did not service Canada. A sad waste of time. Next, I watched some U-Tube clips about fixing my specific washer problem and how to solve it. Turns out that the machine is built to fail, after about ten years. An aluminium part next to a stainless steel drum which is frequently full of water. There is such a thing as galvanic corrosion which happens when the metals are exposed to a liquid like water. Really? Electricity is conducted between the stainless-steel cathode and the aluminum anode. It’s a washing machine for chrissake!  Something the makers of these machines are perfectly aware of. My machine is only six years old.’

        ‘Spacex is building a new Starship since the first one exploded shortly after takeoff. Musk calls it a success. Think about that! I suppose you’re buying a new washing machine?’

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Hammer and Nail

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We’ve had a very wet and cold Easter Weekend here on the Westcoast and Quebec has just had the worst ice storm in recent memory that knocked out power for over a million people, including Montreal. Sitting in our usual spot in the heated pub this doesn’t feel like spring at all yet. ‘Give me back Mexico,’ I said to Camp taking off my rain-soaked jacket.

Camp raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Here is a quote I read: With a hammer in hand, everything looks like a nail. With a gun in hand, everything looks like a potential target. Add a uniform to go with the gun, everything looks like an actual target. It’s about the Mexican Military taking control of the country. AMLO (Andrés Manuel Lopéz Obrador)dissolved the federal police and handed civilian security over to the military. There is no more civilian oversight and Mexico is turning into a military dictatorship. They build airports, resorts, run the railroads and the lucrative customs; they manage themselves and act with impunity and the blessing of their misguided president.

‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ I said.  ‘He’s an admirer of Ortega, Castro and Chavez and even went hat in hand to El Chapo’s mother in Sinaloa. When video surfaced of his brother accepting bags of cash or his son living in a mansion in Houston, he blames the media.’

‘He is a populist who believes in amulets and spells and his ‘hugs instead of bullets’ gospel did not curb Mexico’s rampant violence,’ Camp said raising his pint.

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Airbnb

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‘You rent out your cottage as an Airbnb?’ Camp asked me. I had barely sat down.

“Yeah, we’ve done it for 15 years, first as a B&B and we were part of an association here on the coast which in time got replaced by the no-brainer easy-as-pie Airbnb. They do everything: reservations, bookkeeping, correspondence, peer-reviews, collect and payout the money and arbitrate in case of trouble. They are really a fantastic service.’

‘Considering it started as a couch surfing app. Yes, they have become the most successful millennial organisation. They are so successful; they’ve created a monster and like all monsters it needs to be tamed.’

‘You’re referring to the latest rules and regulations here in lovely Gibsons town?’

‘Yes, and I would like to have your valuable input,’ Camp said, sitting back.

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Too Big

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Camp was already parked in his seat by the window in our seaside pub, focused on his small screen like a teenager. Maybe his bookstore is financed by Credit Suisse?

‘Hey Camp what do you think of the implosion and subsequent acquisition by its rival of one of Switzerland’s and indeed the world largest banks? Was Credit Suisse Too big to fail?’

‘That’s an oxymoron right there my friend. It should be: too big to function, too big to trust, too big to protect, too big to be responsible. As it turns out the Swiss taxpayers are on the hook for billions of dollars of unconditional bailout money and guarantees.’

‘You nailed it: Too big to trust. On the other hand, I have to trust my bank teller who knows everything about my financial situation at the click of a mouse. They know more than my family and sometime even myself, like: Are you aware that your account is overdrawn or your term deposit needs to be renewed?’

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World on Fire

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Camp is away in the big city today for a book event. My chance for a monologue. Every day when I wake up my phone dings and beeps with depressing news flashes on the one side and quirky WhatsApp messages on the other side, plus emails, more daily news, bills and the odd personal note. Depending on how I feel I thumb first through the humorous stuff, add my smilies, thumbs-ups or hearts, then move on to the calamities of the day. Today: A mass shooting in a Jehova Witness temple in Hamburg; intense missile attacks rain down on Ukraines infrastructure; Tiktok app banned from all Canadian and British government phones; visa denied to Chinese diplomat on security grounds and on and on. The best one was a new book by Trump: Dear Donald, a collection of letters from politicians and celebrities. Everybody apparently loves Donald. 

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The Canadian Way

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Camp and I talked about differences between Canadians and Europeans and I told him a story that highlighted the polite nature, sometimes painfully so, against the cut and dry and pragmatic central European way. 

 ‘If a Canadian wants to have a day off, say Friday, they will write an email that reads something like this:

            Hi Jack (presumably they are on first name terms) Sorry to bother you. How are you and your family? Did you have a nice vacation back East and how is Fluffy, your adorable poodle?

            ‘I hope I’m not imposing on your time but due to my cousin Erin having had a baby and her husband being away on a work commitment, I promised to help her out next weekend. Due to this ‘family situation’ I want to ask you a big favour. Could I take next Friday off? I’ll make sure that Bernice will cover me and nobody would be inadvertently affected. I hope that works for you and please let me know if that’s possible. Sincerely, Yours Truly.’

            ‘Ok, I get it, too much information. Too much blah, blah. What’s the Swiss way?’

            ‘Here It is: Hi Jack, I need to have Friday off. Thanks, YT’

            Camp laughed and said: You missed something in the Canadian way. Where and when does Yours Truly apologize for nothing? Like: I’m so sorry Jack but I hope I’m not imposing…

            We both took a sip from our brews and contemplated the different ways of the world. ‘I remember my French friend during his first time in Vancouver. We got on the bus and the driver said a polite: How are you?  Pierre looked at the driver taken aback. ‘Why do you care how am I?’

            ‘Even strangers used to say a polite hello, when they passed each other. Today not so much. And thanks to Covid we even step aside when we encounter somebody coming towards us, as if in passing we could infect each other. Mind you, I find Canadians on the whole a very friendly and polite bunch and I’d rather be known for being too friendly and too polite than a curt pragmatist or a snob or loud and uncouth.’

            ‘May I ask you a personal question Camp?’

            ‘Are you being sarcastic now? Trying to be a super-Canadian?’

            ‘I just want to know if you feel like a Canadian or an Irishman? You are after all from good old Irish stock, aren’t you?’

            ‘I feel like myself, most of the time, not fitting some label or stereotype. I’ve been known to be abrupt and short fused but that’s just me, neither Irish nor Canadian. How about you? Are you Swiss or Canadian?’

            ‘I’m a hybrid,’ I said, ‘mostly friendly and polite but I don’t say I’m sorry, every time I want to ask a question and I try to be exact and to the point and on time which is an exact measurement not a fluid and flexible commodity, like some other people think. And I don’t start sentences with ‘if’ or ‘when’ and I don’t answer questions like: ‘What time is the ferry today?’ with” ‘I think…” I either know the time or not.’

            ‘Point taken but Canadians are usually on time except they make sure as in: Oh, I’m sorry, I hope I’m not late.’

            ‘Sorry to bother you two. How are we all doing? Ready for another one?’ Vicky asked and we both said in stereo. ‘Yes please?’ She gave us a funny look but then she knows us by now.

Progress

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‘Camp isn’t it ironic that we’re living the most comfortable lives of any generation since the beginning of time. We are the most mobile, the technically, medically, socially and financially most advanced, the best fed, pampered and educated of any species ever to wander this planet. and yet, here it comes: we are not happy and the future looks shaky.’

‘I could say something silly like the future always looked rocky, as in the middle-ages, as in the depth of a world war, as in the middle of an earth quake. But you’re right, Instead of a natural disaster, we’re on a path to self-destruction. We are so successful and ingenious that we’ve introduced problems that we have neither the political will nor the resources to solve. Ronald Wright outlined this brilliantly in his 2004 book: A Short History of Progress, a series of Massey lectures about societal collapse.’

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STOP (The War)

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Today is the sad anniversary of the Russian invasion of its neighbour, the Ukraine. Eight million refugees spread mostly across Europe and an equal number internally displaced, mostly women and children. The majority of those who fled do not want to go back. Life in places like Switzerland and Germany seems a lot safer then back home and the war is far from over. 

            ‘But the Ukrainians need their people to return and rebuild,’ I said.

            ‘All this talk of rebuilding is futile when the Russian army and the brutal Wagner group are still destroying towns, infra structure and killing people with impunity and no respect for any international agreements nor basic human rights.’

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Carnival (Carriacou)

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Carnaval was first introduced to the Caribbean in the 1700’s by the French bourgeoisie. It was then a festival witha series of masquerade balls with elaborate, expensive costumes, house and street parades signifying the start of lent. In Carriacou carnival is officially celebrated in the week preceding Ash Wednesday. The former slaves parodied these festivities by covering themselves in ashes and oil and their orchestras consisted of conch shells for brass and biscuit tins for drums.

  We were ready and primed for the much anticipated and promoted Carriacou Carnival, famous all over the Windward Islands for its authenticity and fervour. This is not Rio, New Orleans or Cologne, it’s only a small island at the bottom of the Caribbean. The week-long super-party officially starts on the Thursday of the preceding week with the Queen Show but in reality it begins weeks earlier with several village road shows all over the island; meaning all night street parties with massive boom-boxes, hectolitres of beer and rum fuelled revellers. On the days leading up to the epic weekend, hundreds of partiers invade this small island. Many come from the mainland – Grenada – or other nearby Islands including Trinidad and St. Vincent and they are referred to with a disparaging sneer as foreigners, as opposed to us tourists and snowbirds who are more or less welcome here since we bring money and stay a while. Also, a lot of ex-pats from England, the US and Canada, make the long trek to this tranquil Island for the festivities, turning it into a party mayhem haven. The daily ferry from Grenada was mobbed and overloaded with standing room only, with many of the beer swilling passengers hanging over the railings in the rough seas. 

            The first official event is the crowning of the Carnival Queen on Thursday night. We arrived early at 9PM and got prime seats for the well run and entertaining program. Six young women showed off their sequined, feathered and glittery costumes, then each contestant performed a short drama or a musical number and then they displayed their ball gowns and answered a short quiz. Five local judges picked the winner at about 3AM in front of a jubilant and festive crowd consisting mostly of local women done up like New Year’s Eve, in stiletto heels and showing off their bling and super fun hair, braided, coloured, woven or piled high. The six girls representing their parishes, displayed a surprising amount of moxy and confidence with their ribald social commentary one-act-plays and songs, ranging from incest to their African heritage to the environment. There were only a handful of us white people in attendance but we didn’t at all feel out of place or uncomfortable. In fact, we were welcome to witness the local young women showing off their traditions and talents with pride. 

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Carnival Queens

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            I saw her the first time at Cuddy’s rum shop on the corner of Mainstreet. She wore a red and yellow plaid dress, a Redsox ball cap and large, golden hoop earrings. Her shoulder length hair was frizzy and stiff and twisted into dreadlocks. On her feet she wore plastic sandals that had seen better days. Her hands were like roots and her face was like Sonny Liston after his fight against Cassius Clay, with amber teeth and a flat nose. Her charcoal eyes looked into the distance and her head nodded to the incessant beat of the jab-jab trucks rolling slowly up and down Mainstreet, followed by gyrating partiers dressed in colourful carnival costumes. 

            She sat by herself but talked to everyone in a low cackling voice like rocks rolling up and down the beach in the surf. Obviously the locals all knew her. She held a beer in her gnarled hand and sat there like a schoolgirl with her legs dangling. 

             “Who is she?” I asked Cuddy.

            “That’s Stella,” he said. “She used to be the Carnival Queen for many years, leading the parade of bands in elaborate costumes, different every year. She is in her nineties now, a legend really but her mind has gone.”

            “She looks like she is still enjoying the carnival.”

`           “Yep, you’ll see her around for the whole three days and then she disappears again from sight. Not sure how she knows what day it is but she sure knows when Carnival starts. Everybody knows Stella, the Carnival Queen.”

            When the big steel-band truck rolled in front of Cuddy’s, she hopped from one foot to the other, in time with the music just like she was half a century younger.

*   *   *

            From the back she looked like a twenty year old. Slim, with lovely muscular legs, tight buttocks, a long back, and skin like polished Mahogany. She was dressed only in a sequined thong and glittery bra. Her black hair was braided and augmented with red extensions and loosely tied into a ponytail at the nape of her shapely neck.  She stood with one hand on her hip in stiletto heeled red pumps, swaying to the beat of the jab-jab music that pounded out the incessant rhythm and bass line louder then a 747 taking off. Then she turned around and looked straight at me as if she sensed my appreciation of her lovely body but inwardly I recoiled because the face was that of an old woman, at least sixty but maybe even older. It was not a wrinkled countenance but one of infinite sorrow, her bright red mouth drawn, her bottomless black eyes recessed, high cheekbones and an aquiline curved nose. Her all knowing eyes lingered on me until I averted mine, taking a sip from my beer, but I felt like a schoolboy who had been caught out peeking under a skirt but then she nodded and smiled at me, forgiving me for my trespass. She slightly bent her knee and barely inclined her head towards me as if in a curtsey. I could not but do the same in return and then she turned and blended with the crowd.

            “That is Marybel,” Cuddy informed me. “She is a grandmother many times over and used to work the streets in her working years. She’s probably known every man on this island and they all still respect her, as do the ladies.  She is a good Christian and goes to church regularly. She was also one of our former Carnival Queens.” 

*  *  *

            On the sidewalk, a few rows back from the front, my eyes were drawn to a very large woman with a billowing blue polka dot dress, a white blouse, covering her water melon breasts, and a head crowned by sculpted black curls like an early Oprah Winfrey. Holding on to her skirt were a half dozen children of various ages. This woman and her slew of kids reminded me of mother Ginger and the Polichinelles from the Nutcracker ballet, the larger than life fertility figure whose crinoline dress hides all of her children. 

            I could not tear my eyes off her but nobody else saw anything unusual about this imposing woman. She just belonged like all the other characters on display. Carnival is after all the one time of the year when everybody can be what they want to be and let it all hang out. 

Destabilize

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Instead of my usual conversation with Camp I am posting this article below. It appeared in the Tagesanzeiger, a Swiss newspaper and they encourage sharing. You can also find it in the Guardian. It’s real news. It’s an eyeopener but not unexpected in this manipulative new age of electronic communication where AI avatars are about to replace real people and The News is an electronic soap box, accessible to anybody with the tools and some skills.  As you can see from the article below, manipulation is everywhere. Scary? You bet. Real? Absolutely? Effective? You’ll be the judge? 

Destabilize a democracy? Team Jorge does it for 6 million

The suspicion: A secret troupe hacks politicians and manipulates elections for money. For proof, three reporters visit the group’s command center in Israel, disguised as customers and with hidden cameras. Ein Recherche-Krimi.

Cécile Andrzejewski, Bastian Obermayer, Frederik Obermaier, Oliver Zihlmann

Published today at 05:00

Jorge greets the undercover journalists who pose as potential clients – and then the Israeli shows what his team can do: With a hidden camera in the headquarters of the election manipulators.

His name is Jorge. Or George. Actually, he has no name, says the man in the blue shirt. “That’s who we are. We are nothing. We are air.”

It’s towards the end of 2022. Jorge is sitting in a desolate office in the industrial area of the Israeli city of Modiin. Here, between a scribbled whiteboard and a screen, he receives customers to offer his product: “Suppression of voter turnout”, for example, is written in English in a PowerPoint presentation of his company.

It is a kind of “manipulation AG”, but it is not in any company register. No wonder, because it also offers services such as the “disruption” of elections or “accusations” of political opponents.

Jorge and his partners are Israeli ex-agents. The office is part of their command center. They laughingly talk about how they hack politicians, in which countries they have already been active, how they proceed, what it all costs. They talk casually, because they think they have new customers in front of them. In reality, they are undercover journalists of a research team, equipped with a hidden camera. In total, they record six hours in exchange with Team Jorge.

Any politician, any country in the world, including Switzerland, can be the target of an attack: “Jorge” at the meeting in Israel.

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KELLY’S STORY

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            I met Kelly when in the Windward Island where she ran a small beach side restaurant called the Wayward Café. When I say ran, I mean she shopped, cooked, served, managed and handled complaints and compliments with the same sunny grin and shrug of her small narrow shoulders. Kelly was a tough old bird, probably quite the looker in her day when her hair was blond instead of grey and her large owl eyes were not looking through thick lenses and when she still had all her teeth. Her skin was leathery and weathered like the skin of a lizard, wrinkled, sunburned and transparent at the same time and held in place by her girl size skeleton which was protruding in all the pointy places, her knees, elbows and shoulders. Her hands were calloused, her fingers long and slender, with yellow nails that bent like claws. She never complained about her arthritis or her aches and pains of which she had many, I could just tell. ‘No point in complaining, it wouldn’t change anything,’ she said when I pointed out the burn on her arm.

            ‘Getting burned is part of cooking,’ she proclaimed in her Kiwi accent, laughing her throaty laugh which shook her whole slender body. 

            She had trained her local girls well and they made the best fruit smoothies and cocktails and they knew what white people from across the water liked: strong coffee, crusty bread, unsalted butter, crispy potatoes, creamy or sautéed mushroom sauces over their meats and white sauce on their fish except for the tuna which she served seared with a wasabi sauce. Even though the Wayward Café was just that and not a fancy eatery, Kelly’s food was the best on the island. Every Tuesday she baked her famous sourdough bread, which tasted more like a French or Swiss loaf than the usual island variety of white and soft wonderbread. I would line up for a loaf of her bread to take home and the dozen loaves she baked for sale were all reserved and coveted like slips in the marina. If somebody wasn’t going to be around for their weekly ration, they would pass the privilege to a friend or relative.

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Conspiracies

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I told Camp about a recent conversation I had at the post office the other day with a woman I’ve known for years but never really had any interaction with. We were both waiting in line. I said something about Biden shooting down the Chinese balloon, trying to make small talk. I was not ready for the unusual response. It went something like this: ‘You do know that Biden is dead and the guy you see in the news and on TV is an actor, put there by the deep state.’

            I didn’t know how to respond to that. ‘Where did you get that information?’

            ‘I do my own research since the media cannot be trusted.’

            ‘Research? Like scientific, peer reviewed and fact checked?’

            ‘Don’t tell me you’re sucked into that science crap. You know it’s all mumbo jumbo to hide their real agenda.’

            ‘Which is?

            ‘Taking over the world and making us all into obedient slaves without any personal freedoms.’

            I tried to humour her and said: ‘Like making us believe the earth is flat and the cosmos does not exist.’

            ‘Exactly,’ she said in a conspiratorial tone with her eyes darting around like looking for enemies in the jungle, except we were in the post office.

            I thought I had made a joke but it was obviously more serious than that, telling by her haughty look. ‘Ok, but you are aware that we are all here on our own free will, say, read and watch what we want, move about and go where and when we like,’ I said.

            At that point it was her turn at the counter which was the end of the conversation. After she was done, she marched out, without another word.

            ‘Lucky you,’ Camp said.  ‘At least she left.

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Rich and Poor

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              ‘A new report by Oxfam says that since 2020, or over the span of the pandemic, the richest 1% of people have accumulated close to two-thirds of all new wealth created around the world.’

              ‘No surprise there,’ Camp said. ‘The rich get richer and the poor stay poor.’

              ‘According to the report the pace at which wealth is being created has sped up, as the world’s richest 1% amassed around half of a new wealth over the past ten years. Gabriela Bucher, executive director of Oxfam International, called for taxes to be increased for the ultra-rich, saying that this was a “strategic precondition to reducing inequality and resuscitating democracy.”

              ‘Tell that to the new US Congress,’ Camp said. ‘They want to reduce spending on social and health programs and give the rich and corporations another tax break.’

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Drink Up

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As the rainy winter drags on and outside activity comes to a soggy standstill, the only fun times seem to be the frequent ‘happy hours’ with friends and neighbours; a glass of wine or a drink in hand, kicking back and telling tall tales and regurgitating memories and old stories. Our weekly Thirsty Thursday meet at the local waterfront pub falls into that category. I wouldn’t want to give it up nor would it be the same with a cup of tea instead of a cold, golden lager. 

‘You must have heard that the Canadian Centre on Substance Use and Addiction published a real spoiler last week, recommending that Canadians limit themselves to just two drinks a week – and ideally cut alcohol altogether.‘

‘Indeed, I’ve heard and read all about this shift towards prohibition funded by Health Canada. The previous guidelines issued in 2011 recommended 10 drinks a week for women and 15 drinks a week for men. Talk about a double standard.’

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Happiness

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       I told Camp that I read an interview about a group of researchers at Harvard that had been studying the same 724 men from Boston for over 80 years. They have been observing and interviewing the study participants since 1938, since they were teenagers. One of the boys was future President John F. Kennedy. 40 of the men are still alive today, now around 100 years old. These researchers began studying their children and grandchildren decades ago and eventually included their spouses as well.
          ‘I hope some interesting conclusions can be drawn from this long observation span, I’m sure.’ Camp said. ‘Did they figure out what makes a good life? The key to happiness? Can you be happy without your own family? Is it possible to escape a difficult childhood and still live contentedly?’  
‘Robert Waldinger, the current director of the study supplied some answers in the interview. Strangely, they all struck me as common sense and I didn’t really learn anything that I didn’t know already. Like the conclusions that a healthy diet, a comfortable median income, stable relationships and nurturing friendships all make for a happier life than one of addiction, unhealthy eating habits, poverty, estrangement from family and friends. Apparently, stress, be it existential like wobbly jobs and marriages or poverty makes for an unhappier life than a stable existence surrounded by loved ones.’               
‘Really?’ Camp said, somewhat cynical.  ‘How about the fact that money doesn’t buy happiness but financial security buys peace of mind, resulting in less stress. It took all those resources and brainiacs to come to these conclusions?’               ‘Well yes Camp, I thought the same thing. Guess what, one of the happiest participants wasn’t the richest or the most successful but a teacher who lived a life full of compassion for his pupils and his family, always putting the community ahead of personal needs and finding satisfaction and happiness in the achievement of others under his tutelage or within his realm of influence.’                ‘Ok, I get it. A windfall from a lottery ticket or a goal in a soccer match gives one a burst of happiness that lasts a short time but when a pupil graduates and thanks the teacher or when a charitable involvement results in the betterment of the recipients, that kind of satisfaction goes a lot further. What astonished me is that it took dozens of academics, psychiatrists and psychologists over 80 years to come to these conclusions when they could have just asked themselves.’        
  ‘Kind of reminds me of a story about this hermit who after many decades of meditation finally mastered how to walk on water. ‘For a few coins you could have taken the ferry, the buddha is known to have said to the pious sage.’        
  ‘Ok, so the key to happiness is: help those around you, reciprocate and nurture the love of your friends and family, be humble and fair and enjoy the life you have.’          ‘You’re now sounding like some wise guy. Just enjoy the beer, the pristine vistas and the company you have. That includes Vicky who just happens to be on her game today,’ Camp said with an appreciative nod to our server’s perfect timing with two fresh frosty mugs.           
   

Weather and Politics

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‘In with the new year, much like the old year.’ I said as I sat down across from Camp, We were the only two guests on this soggy and glum winter day. 

‘You’re right, not even the weather changed,’ Camp said. ‘Have you noticed how people in Canada constantly check their weather apps, several times a day, looking for improvement when the rest of the world just stick their head out the door or window?’

‘I do it as well, just to confirm that what I’m looking at is actually true. The weather is much like politics: unreliable, unpredictable and subject to change.’

‘A new congress in the US, hijacked by a fistful of fanatics from the extreme fringe, promises cold and chilly winds coming from the right. It seems to me that wherever you look, from Brazil to Israel, from the US to Alberta, a militant, fascist minority impose their ideology and agenda onto the majority by way of political blackmail, and siege tactics and propaganda built on lies and conspiracy theories,’ Camp ranted.

‘And what is their agenda really?’ I said and didn’t have to wait long for an answer from my friend.’ 

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