Category Archives: Thirsty Thursdays

Fitness or Obsession

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Campbell or Camp as everyone on the Coast knows him, owner of ‘Coast Books’ – ‘a non-profit book service’ as he likes to call it sauntered in just as Vicky set down a couple of ice cold for us. After taking the first sip – which is always the best one – I confessed without delay. “Clare and I have joined a spin cycle class twice a week,” I said, “one hour of intense pedaling and sweating to 80’ies disco music.”

“Whatever on earth for would you subject yourself to such torment?”

“To counteract gravity and get our un-toned bodies into presentable shape for a bicycle holiday. It’s quite the workout and I’m proud to say I did no worse than all the other participants. Eight women and one lone guy. Me.”

“Therein lies the mystery. Women worry much more about their bodies than men do while we worry too much about money and politics.”

I ignored Camp’s comment and said: “ It’s not that I’m worried about my physique but I was dismayed when I started huffing and puffing when we walked up to Soames Hill last Sunday.”

“You walked up Soames Hill?  Good for you. As for myself I walk to and from work every day, except on Thursdays when I take a detour through the pub. I also lift boxes of books and do my stretches reaching for the books on the top shelf and bending for the lower rows and sometimes I bow and scrape at the bank.”

“That’s just everyday activity which doesn’t count as exercise,” I said.  “It’s like me claiming that doing dishes and the laundry are exercise. Maybe mowing the lawn or digging up rocks qualify but Clare decided we’ve become lazy and delinquent in the physical department and advocates for a regular exercise schedule. You know, daily push-ups, sit-ups, squats, regular swims, walks; hiking and biking. Good for the core, the back, the tummy and the appetite.”

“I think this fitness craze is just another obsession with our bodies,” Camp said. “We’re told by the fitness gurus that we all need to have flat stomachs, tight asses and calves shaped like drum sticks. When they talk about six packs I’m thinking Heinecken and Corona, not stomach muscles.”

“Well, I guess being fit is healthier and looks better than hanging guts, wobbly butts and legs shaped like sticks,” I said, “and a new study says that exercise reduces the risk for developing depression.”

“It’s all part of our glamourized body culture,” Camp retorted, “And no matter how much we jog, bike and exert ourselves in those torture chambers they call gyms, we cannot change our body types. That is always the illusion people want to buy into,” Camp said.

“Are you part of a fitness club, Vicky?” Camp asked our attentive server who was just passing by with a full tray of empties.

She raised a quizzical eyebrow and said: “I walk for miles and lift trays of liquids every day at work but I take yoga classes twice a week. What’s this about? You two boys planning to go to the gym?”

“Oh no, nothing as drastic as that,” Camp said, holding up his hand, palm out,  and shaking his head, “we’re just talking about the fitness craze sweeping our foolish western world. More gyms and Pilates studios than pubs and bars.”

“Don’t forget the joggers and speed walkers,” Vicky said, moving on.

“Not to mention the billion dollar fashion industry built around jogging, hiking, biking and yoga outfits. Fitness is big business, just like diets, weight control and ageless aging,” I said.

“Goes hand in hand with organic diets, yoga classes and light beer. It’s all because we eat and drink too much and have to shed those extra pounds by artificial means, while the other half of the world worries about their next meal and does not have a child obesity problem.”

We drank to that and looked out at the sparkly water and lush green islands framed by the snow capped coastal mountains and the baby blue sky, and it occurred to me once again how lucky we were to live in such a paradise.

“All this talk about exercise makes me thirsty,” Camp said. “I should have bought a spandex franchise instead of a book store.”

Like magic Vicky set two refills in front of us and said: “I have friends who live right on False Creek and the only sounds they hear is the swoosh of rubbing spandex and the slap of running shoes going by their house.”

“And all that rubbing of synthetic jogging outfits probably creates enough static electricity to set off a minor explosion,” Camp said.

Vicky almost dropped her tray doubling over with laugher.

 

 

Art Talk

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“It’s like summer,” I exclaimed as I sat down across from my cohort Camp at our usual table overlooking the sparkly waters of Gibsons harbour. Campbell, know as Camp in this town, was himself still dressed in woollens and a jacket while I was sporting a T-shirt and a pair of zany sunglasses borrowed from Clare.

“It’s a fake summer and we could still have a frost,” Camp said.

“You’re right Camp and where I grew up in Switzerland we waited for the three ice saints to pass before planting – Pankratius, Servarius and Bonifatius,’ followed by Cold Sophie.”

“Oh yeah, here you’re going medieval on me again. When do these three eh…Saints come to pass?”

“Somewhere in the middle of May,” I said.

“Old wives tales,” Camp said, “but not without a hint of truth. Anyway it’s cool standing in the book store all day long.”

“Can I interest you two in a ‘Blonde Logger’? Vicky offered.

“A blonde what?” Camp asked.

“It’s a new local Craft beer we’re starting to carry? You know, support the local economy.”

“Absolutely,’ I said, holding up two fingers in a victory sign.

Of course Vicky already knew our answer and had two pints at the ready.

We took a sip and smacked our lips in appreciation while Vicky gave us a conspirational wink.

Camp started right in on a topic that obviously bothered him. “Did you hear about that the Vancouver Art Gallery (VAG) mounted a show called ‘Bombhead’ about a month ago, exhibiting paintings depicting the horrendous, scary power of the atom bomb,” Camp asked.

I had to confess my ignorance.

Camp carried on: “But what was most noticeable about the exhibit was the absence of one of BC’s, and indeed Canada’s, most prolific artist and resident ‘Bombhead’. I’m talking about the iconic paintings, which make up Art Nuko.”

That rang a bell with me. “How could this happen?” I said. “I thought curators work in an objective and inclusive world, above the morass of politics and favouritism?”

“Well, think again. Art is not above politics. I believe one of Art’s function is to challenge the status quo and sometimes even shock the viewers out of their complacency as in ‘Bodies’, the exhibit showcasing real, plasticised human bodies or in the ‘Art Nuko’ depictions of the mushroom cloud over Buckingham palace, Disneyland or the Kreml, amongst many landmarks and locations including one over Vancouver called EXPLO 86. Disney sued over the painting of a fiery mushroom cloud over Disneyland with Mickey looking on. That of course made it even more popular than any other form of promotion could have achieved.”

“I remember the Art Nuko postcards. Kind of cartoonish and very colourful and blatantly explicit.”

“The originals were large paintings, like 3×4 feet, and I think they’re stored in a bunker somewhere in northern B.C. ,” Camp said.

“It’s like leaving Picasso out of a cubist exhibit.”

“Exactly. Guess what the curator said about Carl Chaplin’s, aka Dr. Nuko’s work. He called it ‘inferior…and he doesn’t deserve to be on the same wall as the other artist in the exhibit’.”

“That’s a pretty nasty judgment call for a curator,” I said shaking my head. “A little closer to home we have our own controversy involving art. Due to a scheduling change the annual children’s music concert coincided with the life drawing exhibit at the SC Arts Centre. Apparently there are still some parents who do not want their children to knew that we are all naked underneath our clothes. Words like ‘dismayed, insensitive, inappropriate, unfortunate’ were bandied about.”

“Yes, it’s hard to believe that this kind of prudish puritanism still exists in our midst. Just walk by any magazine rack at the grocery store and kids of all ages can see the sexualised and glamourized versions of body images that look nothing like their moms.”

“Would you agree to subsidise art and artist with your tax dollar?” I asked Camp, knowing the answer already.

“Of course, art is the soul of civilisation, without art there is no culture and if a society does not nurture and support its artists and their art, society fails and disintegrates into randomness without meaning and history.”

“Strong words indeed, but yes I agree that our artist use their talents, mediums and techniques to enrich our world.”

“From the earliest cave drawings to the latest graffiti, art is what makes us human and it is what endures over time,” Camp said rather passionately.  He took a large swig from his brew to douse the fire. “How could we live without music, dance, stories or pictures?  Art is nourishment for the soul and the mind, without it we shrivel up and atrophy; basically turn into technocratic zombies.”

“We’re very lucky here on the Sunshine Coast where Art is alive and well and dozens of creative people work and play,” I said and then cut to the chase: “So what is the difference between art and craft?” I asked, knowing that Camp would have an answer at the ready.

“It’s very simple,” Camp said. “Art inspires and provokes; craft decorates and is utilitarian.”

“Ok, so what about Craft beer? Why isn’t it called Art Beer?” I said.

“It’s where the twain shall meet,” Camp said with a lopsided grin. “It’s the art of making Craft beer.”

“How did you two like the ‘Blonde Logger’?” Vicky asked with a mischievous smile.

”I prefer the ‘Golden Goddess’ by the other brewery,” Camp quipped.

“It’s a silly name,” I said, “but decent beer.” We take a refill.”

“One ‘Blonde Logger’ and one ‘Golden Goddess’ coming up.”

 

 

 

 

War or Peace

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“I can’t wait  for some warmer weather,” I sad to Camp who was already seated, staring into his smart phone which he quickly put away when he saw me. We have an unspoken rule that no electronic devices are allowed at our Thirsty Thursday chinwag. We both have fancy phones but we’re also two of the five people on this planet who don’t subscribe to Facebook, Instagram, Twitter or any other social platforms. I admit to this blog, which is my way to let the universe know what the two of us blab on about every Thursday at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ on the serene Gibsons harbour. It’s amazing that we never run out of topics but part of this we blame on the instant news flashes that bombard us at a dizzying pace from all over the world. Sadly, most of it is about disasters, crimes and wars.

“I’m also ready for a spring thaw, in the weather and in international relations,” Camp said rather cryptically. “All this sabre rattling between the west and east is very worrying and reminds me of a schoolyard where the bullies rule and everybody else huddles in a corner crying out for common sense.”

“Teresa May is looking to bolster her flagging political career, Trump thinks he’s still in a reality TV show, Putin wants to be the smartest guy in the room, Trudeau doesn’t seem to know whose team he is playing on which leaves Angela Merkel who, although the chancellor again, now has to make decisions with her eyes closed and holding her nose,” I pontificated.

Camp gave me disapproving look over top of his spectacles, which he forgot to take off. He doesn’t like to wear them in public. “I don’t want to spoil my eyes,” is his vain excuse. “You’re ranting,” he said. “Let’s take it one at a time. The airstrikes last weekend for the alleged chemical attack on Douma did nothing towards ending the civil war in Syria. Nobody will win this war with weapons, chemical or otherwise, and the people of Syria suffer the consequences of this nasty conflict.”

“Well, who do you believe Camp? The white helmets, Amnesty International, the UNCR or Trump or Putin.”

“Nobody has the whole truth but the fact is that the butcher of Damascus is slaughtering his own people. There is no doubt about that.”

“Will there ever be peace as long as Assad remains in power?”

“Doubtful, not as long as both Iran and Russia support him, albeit for different reasons.”

“And there is Yemen whose war is no less disastrous for it’s people, caught between entrenched Islamist groups and blockaded by Saudi Arabia. It’s a big mess, considering Yemen is an impoverished country living next to some very rich neighbours. “

“No peace then in the middle east but thousands of refugees washing up on Europe’s shores, a crisis which will only get worse before it gets better I’m afraid.”

“A lot of doom and gloom for one beer don’t you think?” I said.

“In the end it’s always about resources and  energy like oil, gas or water. Mix in ideology and religion and you have a deadly cocktail of misery,” Camp said.

“We have our own war of words here in Canada over this Kinder Morgan pipe line. What do you think of that?” I asked Camp.

“It’s the twinning of an existing pipeline, a no brainer really if you want to get the oil to a different market than the USA and off the rail to make room for the prairie farmers to ship their grain. The Tarsands Campaign wants to land-lock Alberta oil and prevent it from reaching international markets to fetch international prices. The protesters are backed by the US based Tides and Rockefeller Foundation.  Just go to 350.org. to find the culprits,” Camp pointed out. “They coordinated a laudatory press release after the BC NDP government announced its plans to restrict bitumen coming into B.C. I call that dirty politics.”

“It’s a war of interest groups fighting the majority of Canadian, B.C. and Alberta citizens. So much for democracy,” I said.

“Sweden has Lego and IKEA, Norway has oil and gas just like Canada, which is also a resource based economy,” I said. “ No getting away from lumber, fish, water and minerals.”

“We’re also the bread basket of the world and then there is the film industry and tourism,” Camp said, “we have everything.”

Just at that point Vicky appeared with a couple of sorely needed fresh pints.

“What do you think Canada’s biggest resource is?” I asked her.

She cocked her pretty head to the side and gave us an amused look. “It’s the people of course and maybe the beer?”

“I’ll drink to that,” both Camp and I responded in stereo.

 

Self-Help

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I picked Campbell, or Camp to all his regular customers, up at his bookstore because I was early. He closed up and we sauntered down to ‘Gramma’s Pub’ on our lovely Gibsons harbour.  Before we were even seated,  he had something on his mind that he wanted to talk about.

“I have just read a review of a book ‘Stand Firm’by Swend Brinkmann, a Danish psychologist, who claims that all these self-help books are inefficient and leave us worse off, confused and inadequate. They are no help at all,” Camp said. “He has some interesting points. People are fed up with self-optimisation and the constant pressure to better oneself, to change, to be flexible, creative, to learn new things, to be a better version of yourself, to fulfill your potential. He points out that all these goals are laudable but they are concentrated on the individual and therefore have lost any kind of ethical foundation.”

“Why? Because we should focus on reaching out and being inclusive rather than self absorbed navel gazers.”

“Yeah, something like that. Self-realisation was the big demand of the youth revolt in the late sixties but today this alternative culture has segwayed into the consumer society of today. Of course it was necessary to revolt against the static and old fashioned societal structures of the forties and fifties , Brinkman claims; to fight for freedom of expression, sexual liberation and emancipation but now that opposition has become the foundation and legitimizes the same old system. Today it’s fashionable to be conservative.”

“Self-realization as an integral part of the market and consumer economy?”

“Exactly, society today wants us to be flexible, adoptive and mobile. Maximise your potential and you are a good worker bee.”

We both took a long swig and thought about all those changes in the past fifty years.  Music, attitudes, values.

“I remember being fascinated by all this lore and spiritual smorgasbord coming out of the east and India in particular,” Camp said.  “That whole fad about the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, the Beatles and transcendental meditation.  Let go of your material attachments and embrace the inner light.”

“Exactly, give him all your money, close your eyes, add some incense, sitar strumming and hashish and float away into blissful oblivion. Except I never bought into the craze, it just didn’t seem very, how should I say, adventurous.  And besides I liked rock’n roll and the blues and could never get excited about eastern music.”

“You mean to say, you didn’t want to give up your worldly belongings.”

“Which consisted of a record collection, some books, an Omega watch and a cool leather jacket,” I said, laughing at the memory. “But I thought the self-help section is the best money maker in any book store. Anything from the idiot guides to the Venus and Mars books to yoga and diets,” I said. “This Danish guy’s book might cut into your profits.”

“What profits? But you’re right, without the self-help section there would not be a bookstore.  Autobiography of a Yogiby Yogananda is still a bestseller, even though it was published in 1946. It kind of started the whole fascination with eastern mysticism.  Meanwhile I’ve come to view Hinduism as the dogma to uphold the fascist cast system and Buddhism in it’s latest brutal incarnation in Maynamar isn’t very inspiring either. And then there is the other side of the self-help spectrum like ‘The Power of Positive Thinking’ by Norman Vincent Peale. He was the pastor at the Marble Collegiate Church in Manhattan, the church Trump attended as a boy. Peale’s main ideas are: Believe in yourself and everything that you do; never accept defeat and when the reality is different then refuse to believe it. “

“Basically a blueprint for Trump’s philosophy if you want to call it that.”

“Yep, he got it from the master of persuasion. But I do agree with Brinkmann. We’re much too self-absorbed and are constantly checking ourselves for flaws in the proverbial mirror of vanity. He states that it is more important to be a sincere and polite human being than a self-improved version of yourself.”

“Speak for yourself,” I said. I’m quite happy with myself and instead of a mirror I have Clare to point out my flaws. They don’t change much either. They’re pretty consistent and reliable.”

“Let me guess: opinionated, impatient, a worrier and drinking too much.”

“Did you and Clare make this list together?” I protested just in time for Vicky, who overheard this last comment, to add her ten cents.

“You guys don’t drink too much but you both worry and talk to much but hey, there is always room for improvement.”

 

 

Walls

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“Camp, did you read about the firewall the Chinese government put up last week?” I asked my compadre as soon as I sat down at our favourite table on the covered patio. “I thought it was an April fools joke but apparently they are seriously restricting internet access for their own people. No more Facebook, no Google, no New York Times or The Washington Post or The Guardian.”

“Censorship apparently works if the censored have no need or desire for the material being blocked,” Camp said. “The Chinese have always been good at building walls, just look at the 20’000 km long Great Wall built about 2000 years ago. Did it keep anybody out? Not sure but it kept about half a million soldiers and peasants busy for hundreds of years.”

“What is it with these walls,” I asked. Are they to keep people out or in? To separate the haves from the have-nots; to keep ‘aliens’ or foreigners out?”

“Good question. Answer is: all of the above. The Berlin wall kept the free people walled inside a hostile East Germany, separating families and friends, while the 700 km long wall along the Green Line in the West Bank is supposed to keep Palestinians out of the holy land,” Camp said.

“Why is it called the West Bank if it’s in the east?”

“It’s only been called that since Jordan annexed it after the Arab-Israel war in 1948. Before that it was called Judea and Samaria. Israel has occupied that territory since the six day war in 1967,” Camp explained.

“I was there just days after that war ended. I still remember the burned out tanks along the road from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. It was a grad trip from my Swiss Highschool. We sailed from Genoa around Italy and visited Greece, Turkey, Cyprus and Israel. I was probably one of the first visitors at the newly accessible Wailing Wall. I pulled out a slip of paper from a crack as a souvenir and almost got killed by some very upset Jews. I was a seventeen year old idiot and didn’t know that I was removing a prayer from a direct line to god.”

“This Western wall is the last remnant of a temple which was destroyed by Titus and his roman legions in the year 70. The rest is superstition and religion.”

“Is there ever going to be a solution for those people and their shared ancestral lands?”

“Probably not in our life time. Of the 6 million Israelis, about 20% are Arabs but between the Jordan river and the Mediterranean there are about equal Jews and Arabs, about 11 million altogether.”

“How do you know all this Camp, you’re like a walking encyclopaedia,” I said.

“I’ve looked it up last week, after tens of thousands of Palestinians gathered along Gaza’s border with Israel to vent their pent-up frustration against their longstanding blockade of the territory and in support of their claims to return to homes in what is now Israel. “

“We both know that will never happen but many more will die. And then there is the infamous Mexican wall Trump wants to build,” I said, shaking my head in frustration.

“And we all know that is the most stupid wall of all. There are already 800 km of existing walls along the 3200 km border and none of them can stop a quarter million guns finding their way south each and every year from California, Texas and Arizona, where they are legally purchased but end up in the hands of the cartels. Juxtapose that against $ 25 billion in drugs going north.”

“Guns for drugs, once again,” I said, taking a long sip. “On top of that we’re looking at a trade wall or war between the Chinese and the US.”

“Trump plays poker, Xi Jinping plays chess, everybody loses,” Camp says.

“On the other hand there are walls I really enjoy,” I said, “like the Stanley Park sea wall, 10 km of pristine walking or bicycle path along the edge of the park and English bay. I also love the sea wall walk in West Van from Ambleside Park to Dundarave Park.”

“How about our very own sea side walk from the Granthams dock all the way to the Yacht Club and the Gibsons Public Market. A bit rough in spots but surely along the most pristine vista anywhere. I’m advocating of making it an officially and designated walk with park status. I’m going to ask for approval from the Squamish Nation, since it crosses their territory,” Camp said.

“That’s a great idea. Walking and hiking are the best tourist draws for the Coast, and that path leads right by our favourite watering hole.” We both finished our first pint and like magic, Vicky, reading our minds, brought around two fresh pints. Camp couldn’t help himself and asked her: “What do you think about the wall Vicky?”

“Pink Floyd?” she said, “that dirge about education and thought control? You two need to get with the times a bit more. Every heard of Bruno Mars or Drake?”

 

Taking to the Streets

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I walked along the seashore to the pub, enjoying the fact that the days were longer and a whiff of spring was in the air. But still I wore a whole wardrobe from socks to shoes to jacket and scarf, envying those who could escape winter and the daily ritual of getting dressed. T-shirt, shorts, sandals. Those are my three metaphors for a sunny winter.

“Look at the lovely bluebells and over here the lilies of the valley are out and see there, the daffodils are coming up.” Clare’s excitement over the crop of colourful spring flowers was a perfect counterpoint to my monochromatic state of mind. My head was filled with images of all those young people out marching for a better world. And yet they are inheriting a ravaged environment, the possibility of an overheating planet, a political landscape that resembles a wasteland, void of fruitful and invigorating forms of life. I didn’t even want to think of the millions of refugees fleeing war and weather ravaged homelands, only to be turned away, drowned at sea or in the best cases swept to the fringes of western societies. “How wonderful,” I said, taking a sip of coffee, hiding my true feelings but I couldn’t fool Clare who gave me a pitying look. “You really should get some rose tinted glasses.”

I was hoping to get some positive vibes from my learned friend over a pint but before I finished taking off my jacket and scarf, Campbell or Camp to all who hold him dear, embarked on a track not unlike my own.

“The march for our lives’ campaign is galvanizing a generation that feels betrayed by the generation that went before them, “ Camp said. I sat down and before I could respond he said: “The deafening muteness from the golf course at Mar-a-Lago was totally eclipsed by Emma Gonzales’ roar of silence. When she took the stage in front of hundreds of thousands of marchers on Pennsylvania Ave. she named the 17 victims of the Parkland shooting and then stayed silent for 6 minutes and 20 seconds, the time it took the shooter to massacre 17 students at her high school. Emma stood there with eyes closed and tears streaming down her face. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yes, I saw some of that on TV, I said. “At 18 years old, Emma has become the face of a protest movement, along with her classmate Cameron Klaski, who calls Trump’s idea of arming teachers a ludicrous plot by the NRA to put 700’000 more guns in the hands of Americans.“

“Let’s hope this groundswell of activist high-school students will translate into votes in November and turn into a tsunami sweeping anybody from office that is not committed to gun control,” Camp said, looking out at the calm water of Gibsons harbour, which seems far removed from the violence ravaging the schools and homes of our neighbours to the south.”

“Keep the dream alive,” was my sarcastic response, “and what about the ‘Black Lives Matter’ campaign. Did anything come of that?”

“Martin Luther King Jr’s granddaughter, only 9 years old, is keeping that dream alive,” Camp said. Her speech went something like this: “My grandfather had a dream that his four little children would not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character, and I have a dream that enough is enough. That this should be a gun-free world. Period.”

“Even Paul McCartney marched along, having lost his best friend John Lennon to a senseless shooting, 37 years ago, not far from where this protest march took place,” I said, trying hard not to sound depressed. “I know, there have been over 30 mass shootings this years alone so far,” I added, ignoring my pint, which in itself was not a good sign.

“Whenever there is a mass shooting, first there is shock, then anger and then grief and then hopefully action,” Camp said. “But will any of these demonstrations really have any effect on our politicians or policies?”

“Not in Washington where Trump just hired two neocon warmongers to replace his secretary of state and security advisor.”

“I’m sure someone is listening and watching. These shows of dissent will have consequences,” Camp insisted.

“I hope so,” I said. “A year ago the women marched and now there is a record number of woman running for office. They call it the pink wave.”

“Except in Ontario where thanks to an arcane voting system the conservatives elected Doug Ford as their next candidate for premier. He is a buffoon, with no legislative experience, who is already boasting about his historically large victory coming in June. The Conservative machine is lining up behind him and he has a good chance to be the next premier of Ontario. Trumpism has arrived in Canada,” Camp said.

“Yes, sadly from Italy to the Philippines to Canada, traditional conservatism is being cannibalized by populism, a very worrying trend, hopefully offset by a new generation of young voters,” I commiserated.

“It’s Easter this coming weekend,” Camp said. ‘The book store will be open and hopefully we’ll get some tourists. When I was a kid we painted boiled eggs on Good Friday. Not much of that going on these days or is there? Muriel and Sophie also invited me for Sunday dinner. Not sure what to bring. Can’t very well bring painted boiled eggs.”

“Bring a couple of chocolate bunnies. Can’t go wrong with that. I grew up in the land of chocolate,” I said, “and at Easter we used to be swamped by chocolate bunnies, hollow, candy filled eggs and fluffy sweet pastries. Bakeries displayed whole castles, mountain scenes and even chocolate trains in their windows. At home we also painted eggs and then on Easter Sunday we smashed them against each other’s eggs and the unbroken ones were the winners. Then we ate chocolate and all the broken eggs until we were all sick.”

“You Swiss have strange customs? A bit medieval don’t you think?”

“You’re not enjoying your beer,” Vicky, our savvy waitress, pointed out. She materialized at our table with her pink streaked blond hair in a ponytail at the top of her head like a samurai, one hand on her hip and an empty tray cradled under her other arm. “I’ll get you a fresh pint but you must promise me to look around and to smell the flowers and enjoy the view. I want to see a smile on your faces.”

“You sound like Clare,” I said but quickly caught myself. “We were just talking about ‘The March for our lives’ last Saturday and smashing Easter eggs.”

“These teenagers are like the spring flowers,” Vicky said, “Fresh, colourful and so necessary but smashing eggs just sounds like a big omelette.”

 

Bad News and St. Patrick

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I sat down across from my learned friend Campbell, Camp for short, town councillor and owner of ‘Cost Books’, his ‘non-profit’ bookstore and my partner in crime, if drinking a couple of pints at the local seaside pub can be called a crime. He’s also the only one who listens to my diatribes, since I reciprocate by lending his soliloquies a friendly ear. On this lovely second day of spring it was my turn to unburden myself from too much exposure to mind numbing non-sequiturs from the little screen and the printed news.

“Well Camp, I’m dying to hear what you think about Putin’s self-managed landslide win and Trump’s ongoing autocratic, narcissistic and nepotistic flaunting of the rule of law in the good old USA. His latest idol is the Philippine dictator Roberto Duterte, whose solution to the drug problem is to kill suspected dealers in the thousands with impunity; no questions, no trial, no defence. As far as I can tell, Russia is lost to the west and the US is lost to all except the gun toting, flat-earthers, who love his wrestling style of politics.”

“Apart from your being a tad judgemental, you probably watched too much television and I can only conclude that nothing has changed or indeed surprises me. The price of beer remains the same, the world still moves around the sun, milk curdles if left out in the open and Gibsons Harbour is still a work in progress. ‘The George’ is stuck in a frivolous lawsuit and local real estate is at an all time high.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It just kills me to watch and read the news these days. Like the fact that this year 65’000 will die from drug overdoses in the US alone, 170 average per day, thanks in no small measure to the doctors who have been prescribing opioid derivatives like Oxycodone for years with wild abandon. It’s all so depressing. Makes me want to stick my head in the sand and cancel my TV subscription, but covering my ears, eyes and holding my nose isn’t going to improve anything. I just feel so helpless and frustrated.”

“I don’t watch TV and I’m still pretty much up on the news but I try to concentrate on news that I can either have an influence over or falls into the category of history in the making. Putin’s win was all but predictable and has no semblance of democracy at work while Trump’s angry tweets from the porcelain throne will one day be viewed as an aberration of power and failure of a system,” Camp said, taking a long draught from his pint.

“Did you know he cheats at golf?” I asked.

Camp just shook his head. “You need to find something to make use of your mind before it becomes so inundated and saturated with banality and trivia that even a couple of pints couldn’t cure. It might even drive you to drink my friend and nothing is sadder then a fertile mind feeding on itself.”

“Have no fear of that,” I said, “Clare isn’t going to let me get senile before my time. You’re the only one I can bitch and gripe too. She wouldn’t put up with any of this. By the way did you celebrate St. Patrick’s Day in a meaningful way?” I asked.

“If you’re referring to a few ounces of Jamieson’s, I am indeed guilty as charged. Good old St. Patrick never knew 1500 years ago that he unleashed one of the biggest annual booze fests in the western world when he converted the heathen Irish to Christianity.

“No wonder it drove them to drink.”

“I’ve read that he wasn’t even Irish,” Camp said. “I think his parents were Romans living in Scotland. He was kidnapped as a teen by pirates and sold into slavery in Ireland to heard and tend sheep. He escaped to France, became a priest and returned to Ireland where he spent the next forty years preaching and converting. He used the three leaves of the shamrock to explain the holy trinity and the unusual forth leaf stood for luck. “

“I knew I could count on you Camp to keep up with the important news. As for myself I don’t really like green beer.”

Just at that moment Vicky put down two green pints in front of us.”

“Left over from the weekend,,” she said, “they’re on the house.”

I wasn’t about to complain.

“Here’s to a long life and a merry one. A quick death and an easy one. A pretty girl and an honest one. A cold pint and another one!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Progress and Enlightenment

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Campbell was unusually serious this evening, looking out at the grey-green water below us. We’ve had some lovely sunny spring weather, cool but clear but Campbell or Camp to all of us can still see the clouds in the sky. He had already ordered us two pints knowing that I was not the tardy sort. “When you look at a cloudy sky with some blue patches to the west they look small and remote compared to the big grey clouds above us,” he asked and answered himself. “That’s an illusion. The blue sky is immense and stretches from horizon to horizon, like today, whereas the clouds will always blow away or dissipate eventually.”

“Usually after they drop their collective moisture first. Your point ?” I said, sitting down.

“What we see is not always what it is.”

“You’re full of wisdom but I still don’t get what you’re trying to say.”

“I’ve just come across a book by Steven Pinker, a Canadian psychologist at Harvard, called  “Enlightenment Now: The Case for Reason, Science, Humanism, and Progress” and he claims optimistically that as a species we are much better off today then say, just a few decades ago. Yes, here are forces at play that fight and obscure enlightenment every step of the way, sort of like the clouds obscuring the blue sky above.

“Let me guess; the usual suspects: Like populism, nationalism, religion and reactionary ideologies.”

“I guess I’m preaching to the choir. Pinker believes in the US’s First Amendment prohibition of an established religion, and any other attempt to make collective decisions based on parochial dogmas rather than universally agreed-upon reasons. He also points out that there are definite improvements to humanity thanks to electricity, refrigeration and vaccines. American homicides have plunged since 1992, and rates of disease, starvation, extreme poverty, illiteracy and dictatorships, when they are measured by a constant yardstick, have all decreased but then came Trump.”

“He doesn’t like Trump? What a surprise.”

“He suggests that the media’s focus on negative reporting aided the Trump campaign which exploited voters fears. And all those people who don’t support Trump are mystified by a republican congress, which sides with a president that undermines their maxims of free trade and diplomacy in favour of militarism. He quotes Obama who said in his farewell address how much we owe to progress and enlightenment and Macron who said in his inaugural speech how these values are under attack.”

“But don’t we live in a time of growing poverty, expanding wars and a worldwide rise in violence?”

“Not really. He blames our collective news media for much of this misconception. ‘News is about things that happen,’ he writes, ‘not things that don’t happen. We never see a journalist saying to the camera, ‘I’m reporting live from a country where a war has not broken out or a city that has not been bombed, or a school that has not been shot up. Think about it: If you arrived in a new city and saw that it was raining, would you conclude, The rain has gotten worse? How could you tell, unless you knew how much it had rained before that day? Yet people read about a war or terrorist attack this morning and conclude that violence is increasing, which is just as illogical.”

“I know that us baby boomers had the best of all times with incredible economic and technological advances and growth in personal wealth.” I said, “but are we any happier than previous generations.”

“Not really,” Camp said, “according to Pinker, we have a higher rate of depression and suicide than the previous generation that went through the war or my grandfather’s generation that went through the depression but on the whole we’re better off. We still have 193 sovereign states that belong to the UN, the EU still functions, most countries try to avoid war, and there is flourishing world trade. There are exceptions of course like Russia, Turkey and Venezuela but on the whole it’s working.”

“Yes, Turkey is being dragged back to the middle ages by it’s radical mullah’s and Erdogan’s increasingly autocratic dictatorship. Not sure why the EU is sitting idly by while Turkish journalists are jailed for life and women’s right are flaunted in the worst ways,” I said, draining my beer while it was still cold. I hate warm beer.

“ And the US is also taking an increasingly nationalist course, with punitive tariffs and watch out for Pompeo, the new secretary of state, who spawned from the tea party. This does not bode well for the rest of the world,”

“Again, we’re just plain lucky to sit here in lovely Gibsons, being able to talk about all that’s good and wrong in this world, without being censored or even jailed for our views. Myself, like Pinker, still believe in progress and enlightenment, which is not a faith but a realisation that when people strive to improve their condition they will gradually succeed.”

Vicky must have overheard Camp spouting off. “I could improve your lot by bringing another couple of pints. All this serious talk must make you two thirsty. ”

“You’re right Vicky, as usual, I guess the next round is on me.”

‘Let’s raise a toast to the late Stephen Hawkins.”

“May you keep flying like superman,” I said, quoting NASA.

 

 

 

Leaders and Followers

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“It looks like Old Man Winter has moved on, “ I said to my friend Campbell or Camp for sort, who was already settled in at our usual table, scanning a newspaper. “Anything new?”

“Just the usual chaos and tweets from the throne out of the White House. It’s pathetic really, but look no further than the populist win in Italy. Maybe it’s time for a revolution but this time it looks like the revolution is coming from the right. Protectionism, fear of foreigners, ‘not in my backyard’, bigger missiles out of Moscow, trade wars and military parades from Washington and ‘serious concern’ from Ottawa .”

“Yeah, it’s disconcerting ,” I said, but I put my hope in the youth. Any positive change will come from the millenials with the help of their mothers. The age of the Old White Man will soon come to a timely and biological end.”

“Nationalism is on the rise, from the USA to Britain, from Italy to Austria.. Only New Zealand and Switzerland are social democracies it seems, where the common good and disinterest comes before personal satisfaction and where compassion and altruism are still desirable virtues.”

“It all comes down to leadership,” I said. “It’s the art of motivating people towards a common goal. A good leader is able to inspire others and communicate in a way that engages them to follow and act on his or her behalf..”

“That pretty well includes everybody from Ghengis Khan to Trump, and all the bad guys in between,” Camp retorted, “ a good leader is honest and inspires trust and respect, not fear and loathing and is good for the community and the greater good not just hubris and self-aggrandisation and conquest.”

“A modicum of humility doesn’t hurt either. Sounds to me like you would make a good leader,” I said.

“I may have the ideas and skills but I don’t have the personality and most importantly I don’t like being in the cross-hairs of public opinion. I like to be on the sidelines, watching the parade, not leading it.”

“So you’re not going to run for mayor? That would be a shame Camp. You wouldn’t be on TV or in need of a bodyguard and press secretary. It would double your income and you already spend a lot of time advocating for our little town.”

“Is this an official endorsement or did Muriel talk to Clare ?”

“Clare did say to me that you would be a good and honest mayor and a benefit to our community.”

“I could use the extra money but that would be a bad motivator. There are few good leaders but legions of followers. There is also the head bull or sheep who leads the whole herd over the cliff as Hitler did, or there is the leader who brings his flock from the dark into the light like Mandela.”

“Yes, but there are thousands of community leaders from teachers to nurses, from volunteers to small town mayors who do not shake up the world but make a difference in their community or even family. Not every leader has to be a pope or a king, a conqueror or a billionaire and you don’t have to be Mahatma Ghandi or Mother Theresa. Just be Campbell for Mayor. Integrity, Honesty, Humility.”

“Yeah, you forgot: Broke, Old and likes Beer.”

“Not the worst of attributes. Better than: Rich, Old and likes young girls.”

“You’re right about one thing. This world is in dire need of some visionary leadership and I don’t mean only the political kind, I’m talking about the environment, food politics, resource management and equality for all. There are plenty of eager followers, looking for direction and inspiration. I know what you’re saying. We have many bright minds who know what’s good for us but more often than not they are silenced and even killed. These days the power is in the hands of a few with the most money and people power is suppressed and manipulated at every level, from the voting booth to the class room.”

“Yes, but Camp all the information, good and bad, is out there, on the internet, in the libraries, even in the pubs. I have great faith in our youth. They may not have the best music but they do have the best communication tools. Like Vicky here. I bet you she knows more about the state of the world than both of us with all our books and old ideas.

“You two fellows watched the Oscars last Sunday?”

Both Camp and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

“The ‘Shape of Water’ was filmed in Hamilton and Toronto, and won four awards and Frances McDormand gave the best acceptance speech in years. Two more pints for the road?”

“See what I mean,” I said as Vicky went to fetch our refills.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Choices

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I stopped by at ‘Coast Books”, Camp’s bookstore, because I wanted to order a travel book on Finland. The store loomed empty and Camp was leafing through some bills.

“Pretty quiet day?” I asked, instantly feeling stupid.

Camp looked up and said: “Is a grave yard quiet, is it quiet at the north pole? I could point out that the only customer today was myself because I didn’t want to have a zero day. Looks bad on the books but now with you here I have two customers.”

“Come on Camp, I’ll buy you a pint.”

“I’m not complaining, it is after all my choice to run this store. I could just as easily apply for a job on the ferry or at the pulp mill. We make our choices and then try to live with them.”

We bundled up and briskly walked down to the pub, which was just as quiet as the bookstore. Vicky was leaning on the bar and greeted us with a big smile. “I knew I could count on you two,” she said.

“You probably could have stayed home,” I said.

“Yes, but then I made the choice that it’s easier to be bored at work then in my cubicle and it’s a better view and company here,” she said.

Choices. We all have them. Usually it’s between at least two options: left or right, stay or go, buy this or that or not, answer the phone, the door or the mail or not. Choose between red, blue and black or yellow, green or white. We sat down and I chose to pursue the subject. “We have choices. It’s what makes us human,” I said.

“Yes, we choose because we can,” Camp said, “but do the poor of this world really have any choices. Choices seem to be the privilege of the rich and do women in Saudi Arabia and Afghanistan really choose to wear the niqab or the burqa?”

“They have a choice to wear it or not but the consequences could be severe. Ultimatums are not choices. To confess under torture or be shot is not a choice and some choices are forced on people,” I said, like when you’re under assault. You can choose to stay or die or run for your life. I know this sounds extreme but if you’re stuck in a war zone these choices are real and as for the poor they do have limited choices like eat the bowl of rice or share it”

“You’re reaching here,” Camp objected. “When you’re starving in a refugee camp you’re lucky to get a bowl of rice, sharing it is not a choice but a requirement. That’s the beauty of living in the ‘free and rich world’. We can make choices others are denied in repressive and war torn societies, but nobody chooses to be poor except some wacky saints, and nobody chooses to be homeless and sick.”

“And falling in love is not a choice either.” I said.

“True, but you can choose to pursue your infatuation. There are circumstances which limit choices and sometimes we make foolish ones which result in unfortunate or even catastrophic outcomes.”

“And we choose to forgive and forget,” I said.

“We can forgive but we’ll never forget. Memory is not something we can choose. We may not remember an incident but something like a smell, a sound, or a word can bring it back like when Muriel talked about the Olympics and what we remember. Not who won the gold but we both remembered Eddie the Eagle and the Jamaican bobsled team.”

“When I was young the personal choices were many, so many I hardly new which way to turn, but as I got older the field narrowed and today the choices seem simple in comparison to immigrate, marry, have kids, move, buy a house, quit jobs, divorce, remarry, go back to school, buy a restaurant, travel. Today it’s much easier,” I said, “since most of my life-defining choices have already been made. Now I have dilemmas: like to choose between wine or beer for dinner, watch TV or read a book, go on holiday or stay home.”

“You’re a lucky guy but I almost feel sorry for you. Big choices are exciting like I’m thinking of running for mayor next year or pull up stakes and move to a warmer climate, like Costa Rica or the Caribbean. Not: should I put yogurt in my cereal or not, or stay up late and watch a movie or not. I still have a life to live,” Camp said adamantly, downing the remainder of his pint in one long draught.

“Ok, I get it, has this something to do with Muriel?” I asked, did she ask you to run for mayor and now you want to run away to Costa Rica?”

Camp just grumbled something unintelligible and he was saved an explanation by Vicky, who appeared at that very instant with a life-defining query. “Do you boys want another pint or not?”

“Is the pope catholic?” Camp said with a mischievous grin.

 

 

 

National Rifle Addiction

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Winter is back here to stay it seems. Our yard looks like a gigantic merengue, the trees are frosted and I’m bundled up with hat and gloves. The gunmetal water of Howe Sound looks cold but when the clouds part to let the sun through, it’s winter wonderland, if you don’t have to drive, that is.

Campbell was already seated at our usual table, scanning the Globe and Mail. As soon as I sat down he pointed with his index finger to an article in the paper,. “Did you hear the speech from that teen Emma Gonzales addressing the gun control rally in Fort Lauderdale? It was just two days after a crazed school mate killed 17 of her fellow students in Parkland, Florida. He pulled a fire alarm and then fired point blank into the exiting students with his AR 15 that he bought at a gunshop. He was too young to buy a beer but no problem to buy a military style assault rifle including the accessories to make it fully automatic as well as all the ammo he wanted.”

“I haven’t heard the speech yet but Clare has. She was all fired up about this young woman and the eloquence and passion of her speech. I guess she really put it to the lawmakers who accepted donations from the NRA.”

“Yes, she really did; pointed out that Trump himself accepted 30 million and then she divided that by the gun victims in 2018 so far. It came to $ 5’800. That’s how much a life is apparently worth but as the year goes on, that figure will go down. And what did the lawmakers do in response to this latest tragedy? They sent thoughts and prayers.”

I could only shake my head at the cowardly and senseless mindset that would make anybody support such a destructive and insane gun policy. “Can money really buy somebody’s reason, common sense and conscience?” I asked, knowing the answer already.

Camp just gave me a look that was louder than words. “They always quote the 2nd amendment , like it was one of the ten commandments. The law was meant to arm the populace, so they could overthrow a despotic government if the need arose. That was long before automatic weapons. I think they still used muskets and long rifles when the amendment was passed in 1791.”

“Sounds like they missed their chance though, instead of the government, they’re killing each other,” I said. “Kids killing kids. What for? An amendment?”      “Trump told a group of the survivors from Parkland, that were invited to the White House, that he wants to arm the teachers. Said that attacks would end with more militarized education institutions and by wearing concealed weapons.”

“Does he know that over 75% of all teachers from kindergarten to high school are women and where should they conceal their Berettas and Colts?” And does he think all teachers are gun experts or NRA supporters?”

Vicky arrived with a couple of fresh pints, pointing at the blue sky peaking through the clouds. “Just look at that beautiful blue,” she said, making both of us turn around. “It’s not words that makes the view beautiful, it just is. You two always worry about things out of your control. Like the weather or the price of beer.”

“Vicky has a point Camp. We spend half our life planning the future and worrying about the past and the other half checking the internet for what we’ve missed,” I said. “We’re all so scattered and confused.”

“Speak about yourself. I’m trying to make a living selling books and advocating for changes to improve our little town. Not all of us have the luxury of leisure like you and the time to get bored. By the way did you watch any of the Olympics? I can’t believe it’s already eight years since the Vancouver games.”

“We watched Tessa and Scott ice-dance their way into everyone’s heart and to Olympic gold , and we saw the women’s hockey team lose a heartbreaker to the US in a shootout. They should have both won the gold.”

“I watched some of the highlights but I always liked the cultural vignettes. Imagine, I didn’t even remember that it snowed in Korea. Come to think of it, you used to love to ski, didn’t you.”

“Yeah, I gave it up after a couple of bad falls but you’re right Camp, I should get involved in something useful. I’m thinking about taking a course in brewing and distilling. With all these new craft breweries springing up there must be opportunities.”

“Now you’re thinking with an alert mind.,” Camp said, “and the benefits could be rewarding.”

I’m not sure if he was having me on but I let it go. Better to quit while I was ahead.

“Check out the eagle over there,” Camp said and we both watched the majestic bird circle overhead, his aim unwavering and focused.

 

Garbage

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On my walk along the beach I picked up a couple of washed up plastic containers and put them in the next trash can. It doesn’t happen often that I see garbage or litter in our pristine coastal town, unless a bear or dog upends a garbage can and spreads it around. Unlike Mexico or many other struggling societies where plastic drift and road side garbage are the norm. I walked up the back stairs to our seaside pub to find Campbell already seated at our favourite table, glued into his smart phone, which he quickly pocketed when he saw me.

As soon as I sat down Vicky appeared like a mirage right on cue with two foaming mugs. Twilight hovered over the grey waters of Howe Sound and a pale lemony sun struggled through the gunmetal clouds with promises of longer days.

“You must recycle a lot of paper and cardboard at the book store,” I said to Camp who looked at me with his head tilted to one side.

He replied like a teacher talking to a dense pupil. “Recycling is a common mode of behaviour here on the Coast. We recycle anything from plastic bags to cardboard, household batteries and egg cartons, light bulbs, electronics, Styro-foam, even compost. It’s like a religion where littering is a sin and bad garbage behaviour is best practised in secret. What brings this on?”

“Well, you must have heard that as of this January China banned 24 different types of waste they will no longer accept from other countries, sending shock waves through the ­global, multibillion-dollar waste disposal and ­recycling industry. China happened to be the largest importer of foreign trash and up to 60% of plastic waste ended up in China. No more.”

“The world cannot continue with the current wasteful consumption model based on infinite growth in a finite world,” Camp said, “ and our waste problems start at the source. Governments, industry and corporations need to come up with transformative solutions that will stop the current flood of waste.”

“Good luck with that,” I said, “I saw the colossal waste in the film industry where entire stage sets got trashed after a few days of shooting. It’s probably better today as Polystyrene moulds are being recycled.”

“There is money in garbage,” Camp said.

“I believe so. I know that in Zurich the incinerator which imports garbage from Germany provides over 10’000 households with heat and electricity and it claims to be co2 neutral, ” I said.

“I’ve heard of Nine Dragon Paper, which ships massive amounts of recycle paper back to China which has an insatiable appetite for paper products. There is probably more money in recycling garbage than in selling books,” Camp said.

“Just think of all the old TV’s everybody had to dispose of to make room for the new flat screens. Electronic garbage. We’ve all seen pictures of grubby kids scavenging though mountains of toxic, electronic trash. I scoured the internet in the past couple of days and came across some staggering numbers and facts,” I said. “According to a UN report, up to 50 million tons of electronic waste, mainly computers and smart phones (gone stupid), were dumped in 2017. And then there is the plastic floating in the oceans of the world. Henderson Island which is part of the Pitcairn group, is covered by 18 tons of sharp, hard, toxic plastic that washed up on it’s once virgin beaches. Imagine that.”

“Take Vancouver,” Camp said. “Although it aspires to be a Zero Waste city, dumped 650’000 tonnes of waste in landfills last year, which amounts to about one and a half tonnes of garbage per resident, 30% of which is food waste,“ Camp said, after googling his pocket computer,  which is actually against our Thursday rules.

“I pick up garbage when I see it because it bothers me and I try to compost, recycle and reduce waste but I do feel a tad stupid when I save a plastic bag and then have to watch the insane amount of throw away cups and containers from fast food outlets. One family can involve 20 different containers for food and drinks of one meal of burgers, chips and pops, including straws, napkins, trays, cups and lids. According to a city staff report from June last year Vancouverites throw away 2.5 million coffee cups and 2 million plastic bags per week,” I said, checking my note book.

“I don’t frequent fast food joints but you should drink up. Stale beer is a waste of a valuable commodity.”

I immediately followed my friend’s advice. Waste not want not.

 

 

 

“

 

 

 

 

 

Ignorance and Knowledge

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We’re into the January blues. The weather, the stock markets and the local economy can only improve. Those who can, flee south towards the sun and those who have to stay behind can only imagine what it would be like. I have a picture in my mind of a sunny beach, toes in the sand and margarita in hand. Such were my musings as I ambled towards our table on the glassed in and heated veranda for our Thirsty Thursday get together over a pint or two. Campbell, or Camp as we all call him, was unusually late and after checking my watch noticed that I was early. The good news is that the days are getting longer and Clare is still working, leading a productive life and bringing in a few shekels. Tax season will soon be upon us and the beer isn’t getting any cheaper.

“You’re early,” Camp said, while taking off his old woollen tweed coat and his   fisherman cap, stepping aside to make room for Vicky who already had two foaming mugs at the ready. I guess we’re easy marks, no surprises there.

‘Hard to believe we have a water problem here on the coast,” Camp said, shaking the water off his hat. “It’s a management, infrastructure and political problem, not really a lack of water.”

“I read that the 5 million dollar water meter project will reduce demand by 20%. Which doesn’t really address the supply issue,” I said.

“Yeah, between new reservoirs, rainwater harvesting, some new wells and lowering the water intake at Chapman lake we should be able to support another couple of thousand multi-bathroom houses on the coast.”

“What do you make of all the howling coming from the White House. Not a day goes by without some new and distorted news flash, always coming from the same source. He who shouts the loudest is the most right,” I said.

“He, who every morning tweets from his throne, without knowledge, is king of the ignorant,” Camp said.

“Did you just make that up?” I asked, taking a sip from my beer.

“Well yeah, you can quote me if you like. It is a serious business, this president who wants to take the institutions and instruments of the state like the FBI, the CIA, the Pentagon and Homeland Security and make then all into instruments of the office, his office in particular.”

“Along with better access to the nuke button and a supreme court that will rule from the top of the mountain for the rich and powerful for years to come, forgetting about that we’re all supposed to be equal,” I said.

“Just last Friday Carl Bernstein warned us that these could be the darkest days since Joe McCarthy. He said something like: We have the unprecedented situation of one of the main political parties backing the president in the belief that he is above the law.”

“It’s ignorance,” I said, the fact that millions of people in the US have no clue of world history, other cultures, languages, geography, never mind philosophy or literature. It’s a lack of general education. You cannot fix or build anything without the proper tools,” I said.

“You’re right of course, public schools in the US are over crowded, under funded and are closing at an alarming rate. And then there is Betsy DeVos, who wants all science vetted against scripture and is a big proponent of school vouchers, which gives parents the right to use them for private and religious schools, basically taking the money right out of the public schools. I read somewhere that over half of black young men who attend urban high schools do not earn a diploma. Of these dropouts, nearly 60 percent will go to prison at some point. That’s a pretty bleak and sad statistic.”

“Education is knowledge and knowledge is power, not power to rule and strike fear but power to understand and tolerate,” I said, “and you can quote me on that, Camp. And while growing up they get their news-bites from Facebook and Twitter.

“Not a lot of laughs in this corner today,” Vicky said, who surveyed our empty mugs with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, we’re talking about the ignorant and under-educated masses who make up the Trump army,” Camp explained.

“Really,” Vicky said, I believe most of those senators and members of congress are lawyers and have university degrees.

“Well, eh, right you are, I guess it’s more a case of the white old men holding on to visions of aristocracy where the working poor are also the ignorant and docile, like sheep or cattle.”

“You boys need to lighten up. It’s not all that bad. More people are working, and have more choices in America then in most other countries, except of course Europe and Canada. And they have the best contemporary music. Ever heard of Khalid? He’s got a song called ‘Young, dumb and broke’ or how about Bruno Mars?”

Both Camp and I were speechless which doesn’t happen often. Camp cleared his throat and pointed to the two empty glasses. “How about a couple refills Vicky?”

“You bettcha,” she said, turned coyly on her heels and sang: “ Young, dumb and broke…”

 

 

Age and Wisdom

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“Are you a senior?” the young woman at the cash-out counter asked me. I looked around to see if she was talking to someone else.

“Me, oh, yes, senior. Would you like to see ID.”

“That’s not necessary sir, thank you.”

Well thank you too. I thought, kind of miffed, not at all happy about my senior’s discount. Was it that obvious? Did I really look my age? Maybe I should have shaved, plucked my nose hair, groomed myself a bit better. When I got home I asked Clare if I really looked that old.

“How old is that?”

“Well, eh, like a senior.”

“You look distinguished my dear and if you combed your hair you’d look five years younger.”

When I related the episode to Campbell, he just laughed. “Remember when we were in our twenties? Everybody over forty seemed ancient and everybody with grey hair had one foot in the grave. It’s the invincible age, when the future stretches out endless into the distance and old age included everybody over thirty.”

“And then comes the age of platitudes, like ‘you’re only as old as you feel’ or ‘young at heart, old in wisdom’. Well I feel fit and thirsty, curious and engaged. Who cares about a silly number? Some people are old at fifty,” I said, trying to downplay the whole age thing.

“You know when I feel old? When I sit on the ferry reading a book while all the young people stare into their smart phones.”

“That’s got nothing to do with age,” I said. “Everybody stares into their little screens like all the worlds secrets are buried in there. I feel old when a cashier gives me my senior’s discount without asking to see my ID. “

“Just because you’re of a certain, eh, mature age doesn’t mean you’re any wiser for it. In fact the older I get the more I seem to forget,” Camp said, “Or to quote Socrates: I know that I know nothing.”

“Didn’t he also say: ‘Wisdom begins in wonder’?

“While we’re at it, I like Leonard Cohen’s analysis of aging men with regard to the allure of women: You start off irresistible, then resistible until you become invisible and eventually somewhat repulsive but at the end you transform into cute and that’s something to look forward to.” Camp said.

“Yes, and I also like his line: “I hurt in places where I used to play.”

Camp laughed and took a long sip of his beer. He set it down and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I think it was one of Stephen King’s characters who outlined the three ages of man, wich are youth, middle age, ad how the fuck did I get old so soon.”

We both laughed and nodded. Only a guy who’s there would wholeheartedly agree.

“My dad used to say: getting old is easy, being old is hard.,” I said. “He didn’t like being old but never complained unlike my mom. Both made it into their nineties. He lost his mind and she lost her body. Not sure which is worse.”

“Probably losing your mind is easier on yourself but hard on everybody else while losing your physical abilities is hardest on the person,” Camp said. “Anyway we’re nowhere near the sunset years, we’re still in the fun part of life where we need to enjoy every beer like it’s the last one.”

“Wise counsel my friend. Let’s ask Vicky what she thinks. She is a straight shooter.”

“I dare you,” said Camp.

I waved Vicky over and asked her straight out: “Vicky, do you think I’m old?”

Vicky took a step back and tilted her head and put one hand under her chin, looking at me like I was a curious painting or a strange kind of plant.

“When I look at you I don’t see age, I see someone I like and know. As far as I’m concerned the two of you are ageless.”

“Vicky, you should be in politics,” Camp laughed, “we need somebody like you at the town hall. “

“Can I talk you two into another beer?” she said coyly. How could we refuse?

 

 

 

Rich and Poor

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“Gibsons is the most beautiful place on the planet when the grey clouds tear open to reveal the blue sky and the snow capped mountains across Howe Sound and the air is fresh, the grass is green and the roads are clear,” Camp enthused as I sat down at our usual table at ‘Gramma’s Pub’ in our quaint Gibsons village.

“What have you been smoking? It’s been raining for the past month.”

“Well no, we had a beautiful day on Monday. I can still see it.”

“Hey Camp, did you read the latest Oxfam report? It states that the richest 8 men own as much wealth as the 3.8 billion people that make up the poorest half of humanity? In the USA alone the income growth of the bottom 50% has been zero over the past 30 years while the incomes of the top 1% have grown by 300%.”

“You mean the one about the 99 percent economy? Yeah, I read it. No real surprises there.”

“It’s obscene for so much wealth to be in the hands of so few. Inequality is trapping hundreds of millions of people into poverty and is fracturing our societies and undermining democracy,” I said, more or less quoting Winnie Byanyiama, director of Oxfam International.

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Campbell or Camp, to all of us who know him, said, shaking his head. “And the rich get richer and the poor are left behind. Income and wealth are not trickling down, instead they are being sucked upwards.”

“You can only reduce poverty by sharing prosperity,” I said, lifting another quote from the sobering report.

Without ordering, Vicky brought us two foaming mugs of the amber liquid.    “To the 99 percent,” Camp toasted. “We could soon see the world’s first trillionaire.” Camp held up his phone, breaking one of our sacred rules once again. It’s becoming a habit. “It says here: “You would have to spend one million every day for 2738 years to spend one trillion. Talk about pressure to spend. And here is another stat,” he said pointing at his smarter-than-I phone. “In the 80ies coca farmers got 18% of the value of a chocolate bar, today it’s a mere 6%.”

We both shook our heads and took a soothing swig of our drink.

“Just last week there was a front page story in the Vancouver Sun with a homeless former electrician on the front page, now living in a makeshift shelter next to Oppenheimer Park,” I said. “People cannot afford to live in this city anymore. Real estate and rents are out of control, thanks to offshore money laundering and lax rent controls. That doesn’t just go for the homeless and the poor. Even university professors and businessmen turn down lucrative positions because they cannot afford to move here from Halifax or Winnipeg. Lotus Land is increasingly unaffordable for the middle class. “

“You can’t blame the rich for taking advantage of poor oversight and a greedy housing market and you can’t blame the poor for their own misery. That’s why we have governments and laws, rules and social safety nets,” Camp said.

“Or not,” I countered. “But that doesn’t help the working poor. The hospitals cannot find menial workers and care-aids because they cannot afford to live in Vancouver and driving every day from up the valley is a weak second option. All the income you save on rent goes for gas and all your spare time on commuting,” I said.

“And then there are us small business men who work for less then minimum wage because we cannot afford to pay ourselves. I can’t remember when I last took a pay check out of the bookstore.”

“At least you get free books.”

“Well, not really but I do take some expenses like ferry tickets, utility bills and even some meals out of the till, sometimes I take emergency cash advances, and like everybody else I juggle a portfolio of several credit cards.”

“How much does a town councillor make?”

“Not nearly enough and no way to get rich in local politics.. Just under fifteen grand, half of what the mayor makes. I’m just happy and lucky that I own my home which I built myself 30 years ago.”

“You couldn’t do that anymore today,” I said. “They would kill you with permits and licenses, paper and inspections. Death by burocracy. But don’t you worry Camp. I’ll buy the next round. It’s the least I can do for a poor, working businessman and politician.”

“By the way did you read Sean Penn’s letter in Time in response to Trump’s shithole comment? He called him an enemy of compassion and the state?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Check it out.”

“Did you boys see the latest ‘Star Wars’ movie yet?” Vicky asked, taking both of us back to reality.

We both shook our heads in unison.

“May the force be with you,” she said with a wink while setting down two fresh pints.

https://www.oxfam.org/en/pressroom/pressreleases/2017-01-16/just-8-men-own-same-wealth-half-world

 

http://time.com/5101806/sean-penn-donald-trump-haiti/

 

 

 

Doctors and Drugs

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Campbell or Camp, my sparring partner in all things, controversial, intellectual or trivial, didn’t look so good this Thursday evening. Maybe it was the lighting or the fact that we haven’t seen much of the sun lately; just monsoon like rain, fog and more rain. He looked kind of pale and even his posture was not the usual straight back, upright with chin thrust forward attitude, but instead he looked somewhat compressed, sunken in with his chin on his chest.

“What’s up Camp, you look like shit,” I said, trying to be casual.

“Thanks for your concern,” he said giving me the evil eye. “I’m feeling a bit under the weather, stuffed nose, clogged head, sore throat.”

“I think a hot rum toddy is in order,” I suggested and waved Vicky over for a consultation. “Yes, we can arrange that,” she said, “rum, lemon juice, honey, hot water and a cinnamon stir stick.”

“Sounds like medicine,” Camp grumbled

“Let’s call it Deep Throat,” Vicky suggested with a wink, which got at least a chuckle out of my friend.

“You gonna see a doctor?” I asked which snapped Camp straight back up with his chin aggressively thrust forward and his eyes big and on fire, with fever or fervour was hard to tell.

“It will be a cold day in hell before I go and see a doctor for a common cold. They’re no better than car mechanics and if you find one you can trust you’re a lucky man. I have yet to meet one. They’re bone fixers and pill dispensers. Do I need to repeat how in the US alone the doctors turned millions of patients into drug addicts and how the health care business is the biggest growth industry in history? Don’t even get me started.”

“I tend to agree with you there Camp, I don’t have much good to say about doctors either. I just read an article in my Swiss paper about how unreliable and arbitrary doctors’ consultations are. How they cannot determine anything conclusive with a stethoscope because it has a shallow penetration threshold, maybe a couple of centimeters, nowhere deep enough to diagnose lung or intestinal problems. Most of those surface examinations have at best a placebo effect this study concluded.”

“Muriel’s friend took herself to the hospital because she feared an imminent heart attack. This woman is a nurse and not prone to hysteria. They gave her some aspirin and sent her home, claiming there is nothing wrong with her. That night she couldn’t sleep and the next morning she took the first ferry into town to St.Pauls Hospital where she was immediately hospitalized but still suffered a debilitating stroke that put her into a wheel chair and months of physiotherapy.”

“There are exceptions Camp,” I said, “like ‘doctors without borders’ doing incredible work in desperate situations. Also, remember when I had my busted knee fixed? Tore my ACL, MCL and meniscus, as well as dislodged a piece of bone under my kneecap. I stepped into a divot, twisted and kicked, missing the ball completely but instead collapsed like a felled tree. The doc had a plastic model of a knee on his desk and showed me exactly what he was going to do. ‘Pull this ligament, attach it over here, then pull it to the other side and staple it there, cut off a piece of the cartilage and take out the bone fragment. Takes me about 45 minutes, takes you about six to nine months.’ When I went to the hospital for a check-up after the operation he recognized my knee but had no idea who I was.”

Camp laughed, “That’s what I call a good doc.”

“What about drugs, you must take the odd Tylenol or Advil, maybe even vitamin C or D which is apparently good for lack of sunshine? It’s supposed to help people like me with SAD, Seasonal Affected Disorder. Although no amount of pills or artificial lamps can replace real sunshine.”

Camp just scoffed. It’s all snake oil and witches brew, give me a shot of brandy or Noni juice for more serious ailments.”

“Noni juice?”

“According to Pa, a self proclaimed guru I met in Raratonga, in the Cook Islands, many years ago Noni juice prevents cancer, promotes a healthy liver and even improves memory capacity. That sounds as good to me as any other medicine.”

“So you trust a self-proclaimed shaman more than your doctor who went through ten years of medical school. Doesn’t sound right to me.”

“Why are we supposed to have faith in the medical system, like it’s some sort of religion? Faith does not replace trust and I want to trust my mechanic and doctor, not believe in them,” Camp grumbled.

“I trust the nurses more than the doctors. At least they actually talk to you like a human being and answer questions. I’m just grateful that we have a universal system here and don’t have to bring a credit card and a financial adviser to a medical consultation.”

“Now that I can agree with.”

“How is that toddyl?”

“Probably better than anything the doctor prescribes.”

“That calls for another one.” I held up one finger for my beer and mimicked one finger pointing down my throat for Vicky.

 

 

Women and Men

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do we ever! Thanks Vicky.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

Frequent Flyer Woes

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

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

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

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

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

“If you have to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Camp laughed. “That’s called offsetting.”

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Missing the Boat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

Charity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ho, ho, ho,” Camp cheered.