Civilization as we know it has come to an end. How will Canada survive this constitutional calamity known as prorogation – the process whereby the ones in power shut down the hollering chamber in order to prevent the ones who want power from earnestly mugging for the camera?

In other words, who the hell cares … apart from a few well-meaning academics? When it comes to being taken seriously, Question Period often competes with The Muppet Show – and loses. And name three backbencher make-work project committee sessions that have shut down.

Well-meaning academics need not apply.

Now that the theatrics of Question Period has been put to rest until March 3, so has any legislation in the pipeline. But this is not the first, nor will it be the last time a party in power plays fast and loose with the rules of the game for partisan purposes.

And this will not be the first, nor the last time the opposition conveniently forgets its own sordid history.

The Liberal Party of Canada, no slouches in the practice of dirty tricks, obfuscation and Senate packing, is now busy rendering its garments to protest the Conservative’s dirty tricks, obfuscation and Senate packing.

They also want to make this about the Afghan detainee issue. That would be the one where the Libs expect the country to take notice of an “alleged criminal” in Canadian custody who was turned over to Afghan forces who eventually tortured him -- which is what they regularly do to each other over there when they’re not busy blowing people up.

And the Libs are so miffed that they put out anti-Conservative attack ads outside of an official election period, mere months after they condemned the Conservatives for putting out anti-Liberal attack ads outside of an official election period.

Party leader Michael Ignatieff, who knows better but is understandably carried away by his own partisan forces, lashed out further in a widely published opinion piece last week.

“Every newspaper in Canada … reported that the key factor in Mr. Harper’s decision was the barrage of criticism and tough questions his government has faced in Parliament over its handling – and apparent cover up – of the Afghan detainee torture issue. Questions about the government’s truthfulness and its care of Canada’s reputation overseas.

Questions that go to the very heart of the government’s respect for democratic institutions and the rule of law.”

He continued: “The audacity. The epic scale of the cynicism. The arrogance of a regime that thinks it can get away with just about anything.”

There was more: “Shutting down Parliament has raised speculation about a spring election. Certainly, there is no need for an early election. Three in less than six years is enough for the next while.”

This from the same guy who bellowed only months ago; “Mr. Harper, your time is up!”

Oy!

The NDP’s Thomas Mulcaire is miffed about how Stephen Harper chose to “control the agenda.” Note to Thomas: Harper is the prime minister and that’s one of his admittedly ill-conceived perks. Navigating the shark-infested waters of what seems like the 20th minority government in the past decade takes some nifty footwork – and steel-toed boots.

We all know Harper prorogued Parliament a year ago to avoid a constitutional crisis. And we all know Harper uses the rules of the game to his party’s advantage. But we should also know that Harper is just doing what his predecessors, Canada’s “natural governing party,” have done for what seems like millennia.

Anyway, the NFL playoffs are underway, property tax increases are coming and my nostrils hairs need a trim.

Prorogue already!

The ideas emanating from the weekend’s Parti Québécois national council meeting would be utterly laughable if not for one thing — some of these people were actually serious.

We shouldn’t be surprised because every time the PQ holds one of its policy conferences, conventions or navel-gazing wankfests, members usually tie their knickers in a knot trying to justify their attempts at social engineering as a logical extension of their desire to protect the French language.

The latest bright ideas: Forcing small businesses to adopt French as the language of the workplace; bullying high school graduates into French CEGEPs, imposing French on daycare centres, and making French the official language of Quebec’s maternity wards. Okay! So I made that last one up, but just you wait.

PQ leader Pauline Marois told the motley gathering that there is a need to stop the erosion of French on the island of Montreal — the latest rallying cry.

A recent Léger Marketing poll revealed that close to 90 percent of Quebecers believe French is threatened on the island. And a growing myth exists that francophones have an increasingly hard time being served in their own language — a belief helped along by the musings of radio demagogues like Gilles Proulx and Benoît Dutrizac, who always found a reason to invite language zealots like Société Saint-Jean-Baptiste president Mario Beaulieu and Mouvement souverainiste windbag Gilles Rhéaume on air.

As a result, PQ president Jonathan Valois produced a well-calculated line on the weekend, whining about how annoyed he was to not be able to buy a bagel in French in Montreal.

Right!

But the numbers, worrisome to the “purs et durs”, don’t really back the hysterics.

It’s true that on the island, the number of people who speak mostly French at home fell to 54.2 percent in 2006 from 55.6 percent in 1996. And true, in the same time period the people who speak mostly English fell to 25.2 percent from 25.6. But the people who spoke other languages rose to 20.6 from 18.8 percent.

So of course, blame the English.

This “erosion” can easily be explained by the exodus of francophones from the island who are buggering off in droves to more tax-friendly, off-island sanctuaries.

But why let the facts get in the way of a fresh new batch of coercive measures.

Since people from minority ethnic groups, including English, insist on speaking their own language amongst themselves, sometimes in plain earshot of an impressionable francophone child who may be dragged over to the dark side of bilingualism, there oughta be a law.

The gathering of the PQ clan had little to do with garnering the support of a larger population that is not so allergic to bilingualism. It was all about playing to the base. An increasingly radicalized base that sees nothing wrong with lobbing threats and hurling invectives at any person, group or institution that does not see the world through its PQ blue-and-green-coloured glasses.

All insecure political parties do it. Left-wing parties genuflect whenever its bleeding-heart, tree-hugging base stamps its feet. And conservatives, on both sides of the border, spring to action whenever its “family values” fanatics pick up a bible.

Here, the PQ simply dusts off the old language issue, keeping its hard-line base of intolerant xenophobes in some sort of order.

When not in power, and not in a position to distribute taxpayer-funded largess, the PQ has but one tiresome rallying call — protect the French language. And when emitted, every sanctimonious hot-head with a grievance gets to belly up to a microphone and gripe.

No wonder the weekend confab also produced some Hérouxville-like blather, putting PQ leaders in a tight spot. When Marois, language critic Pierre Curzi and former language czar Louise Beaudoin met the press, they did so with the knowledge that half the population thinks their party is crazy.

On radio, you can practically hear in the inflections and tone of their voice the strain to walk the fine line between quasi-believable illogic and outright ridicule.

It’s worse on TV when you notice the constantly shrugging shoulders and raised eyebrows that seem to say, “well, isn’t it obvious?”

So really, there is not that much to get worked up about. The PQ does what it does because they can’t help themselves.

The rest of us should simply get on with our lives — in the language of our choice.

November 24, 2009

anthony@thesuburban.com

The sky is falling.

The famous words spoken by Chicken Little should be adopted as our city’s new official motto. Away with the dated “Concordia Salus” (Salvation through harmony) and replace it with “Coelus Lapsus.” Feel free to correct my fractured Latin.

Little’s phrase has developed over the years into a common idiom indicating a hysterical or mistaken belief that disaster is imminent. But the phrase is far from hysterical and the belief that disaster is imminent is not mistaken if you drive under an overpass, walk on a city street, or sit down for a meal in the Montreal area.

A series of recent events, some tragic, have made clear that the structures that surround and support us are only as reliable as their inspection schedule — which is practically non-existent.

We have learned that they take place when a complaint is made and that some of the people doing the inspecting might as well flip a coin before they write their reports.

The elected officials who are supposedly in charge of overseeing this entire mess have already adopted their own version of duck and cover when the media shows up. And the media has been showing up quite often lately.

In the space of a few weeks, a fifth-floor window pane from a building next to the Old Brewery Mission fell onto St. Laurent Blvd.; firefighters were called into Chinatown to cordon off two buildings whose facades seemed to be on the verge of peeling away; cracks appeared in windows of the Eaton Centre tower, the lowest being eight floors up; a construction worker was knocked unconscious when a chunk of concrete crumbled and fell from the Turcot interchange.

And on July 16, the block north of de Maisonneuve Blvd. was declared a no-people zone after 33-year-old Léa Guilbeault was tragically killed when a metre-wide concrete slab fell from the 18th floor of the Marriott Residence Inn on Peel St. as she was dining with her husband at a sushi bar below.

Now, everyone is busy doing something. A tad late I might add.

City-hired engineering firms are busy preparing facade assessments. City officials are busy studying their talking points. City experts are busy advising the politicians, who in turn are busy promising thorough investigations.

The sky is indeed falling.

The Peel St. tragedy reminds us that our misplaced priorities and utter lack of enforced regulations leave us at the mercy of the first gust of wind. But we should need no reminder because our infrastructure problems go back a long way.

I haven’t set foot in or near the Olympic Stadium since that 55-tonne concrete beam came tumbling down nearly 20 years ago.

Nine years ago, when a Laval overpass fell onto the highway below, killing one, I got nervous. But three years ago, when the de la Concorde overpass in Laval collapsed and killed five people, I got scared.

It took months before I stopped hawkishly eyeing every dilapidated overpass I was about to drive under. And who can forget the Ville St. Laurent parking garage that crushed a man to death last year?

We built much of this city in the 1960s. Engineering firms got rich, contractors got fat, the bureaucracy bloated and they all wiped their hands of the shoddy mess they left behind.

And the new construction is hardly more reassuring. Montreal’s Grande Bibliothèque, which only opened five years ago, has had a hard time holding onto its glass panels — yet another piece of real estate I give a wide berth.

Maintenance takes money, but maintenance ain’t sexy. It makes a lousy photo-op.

Take a series of never-ending, economy-stalling referendums in a province that never saw a tuition freeze or social program it didn’t like, and bundle it with the — all together now — fattest bureaucracy north of Cuba, and you know where all the money is going.

In a recently published opinion piece, Saeed Mirza, professor emeritus of civil engineering at McGill University, said the city should adopt simple rules for the inspection of tall buildings. Cities like New York, Chicago and Boston, he wrote, have had a variety of ordinances on the books for more than 30 years. Mirza suggested — after explaining some basic architectural principles and listing a series of rules to follow — that we should be inspecting building facades, depending on the type, every four to eight years.

But since we all know that rules are made to be broken, if not ignored, professor Mirza’s sound recommendations will make no noise.

That’s what happens when something falls on deaf ears.

The case of Earl Jones, the West Island businessman suspected of buggering off with — according to the latest report — up to $100 million of his clients’ money is, if true, a tragedy on more than a financial level.

A betrayal of this proportion is sure to shatter the victims’ sense of trust for a long time to come.

The alleged scam must have been in the works for a while, but was only discovered last week after investors found cheques were bouncing and inquiries were left unanswered.

Imagine the sinking feeling one must have after calling the person to whom you entrusted your life savings, only to hear: “If you are calling regarding your account at Earl Jones Consulting and Administration Corporation, the company is not in a position to remit your funds at this time. You will hear from them within 30 days. In the meantime phone calls and mail cannot be answered. This message was registered on 10 July 2009.”

Ouch!

Jones’ alleged victims were mostly elderly investors. Some depended on the monthly returns for income while others sat satisfied that after a lifetime of scrimping and saving, they had some financial security. Funds that would come in handy should anything unforeseen happen.

Some saw it as a nest egg while others made good use of it now, like giving a hand to children and grandchildren, helping to pay college tuition in some cases.

When that all came crashing down, the news must have hit like a blow to the chest. Like a punch heavy enough to knock the wind out of the sturdiest soul. A hit that makes one reconsider everything, and everyone, they ever trusted.

Thud!

The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines trust in a variety of ways: As an assured reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something; One in which confidence is placed; A dependence on something future or contingent; Reliance on future payment for property (as merchandise) delivered, and as a property interest held by one person for the benefit of another.

Believing in the honesty of another is at the root of trust. So is putting faith in their competence. Having trust in our social institutions is essential for our communities to function. But that trust could be compromised if the community did not provide some form of guarantee that misconduct would be punished and the victim compensated — in theory, of course.

That would have been the case had Jones been registered with L’Autorité des marchés financiers, Quebec’s securities regulator. But he wasn’t. His clients gave him their money, some the power of attorney. But they all had something in common -- they gave him their trust.

They gave it to a smooth talker whose biggest asset was his charm and seducing gift of gab. They gave it to a poop peddler with a twinkle in the eye and a shiny grin.

Like the now infamous Bernard Madoff, Jones apparently used his pleasant demeanour and personable approach to get in. He often came recommended by friends so he must be trustworthy. He was a likeable fella so he was well liked.

But like Madoff -- the author of Wall Street’s biggest and most brazen investment fraud estimated at some $65 billion -- Jones was probably operating a Ponzi scheme, in which money from new investors was used to pay existing investors.

Bastard!

Trust, when broken, can leave a wound that takes time to heal. Sometimes it never does. We all have horror stories born of misplaced trust, some that have left marks that have yet to heal.

Imagine being a residential school student abused by a teacher, a young girl abused by an uncle, or a woman assaulted at a bus stop.

Their scars are deep. And though they might not be evident to an outside observer — like you and I — these scars have already altered their perception of the people around them and the community in which they live.

About 150 investors attended a meeting Sunday at the Holiday Inn in Pointe Claire, and they have more than just Earl Jones in common.

They all share a lost sense of trust.

It was hard at first to work up any sad sentiment when news of Michael Jackson’s sudden demise hit like a studded glove to the face on June 25.

The brittle bones of the King of Pop may have been laid to rest yesterday, but his spirit has been dead to people like me for a number of years.

Like half the planet, I followed and admired cute little Michael when he grew into handsome young Michael some three decades ago. And as what seems like half the planet, I purchased Jackson’s 1982 Thriller album and played it until the grooves on the vinyl record wore out. I even have a copy of 1979’s Off the Wall.

I bought floor tickets to the Jackson’s 1984 Victory Tour concert at the Olympic Stadium, went through my oily Jheri curl phase and, like most of the planet, tried my hand at doing the moonwalk — to no success.

But when handsome young Michael gradually and publicly morphed into a self-made freak, the interest began to wane. It sank when he was accused of child molestation in the early 1990s, and completely plummeted during his 2005 trial. Yes, he was acquitted, but then again, so was O.J.

That’s when he became that Jackson thing.

But as we have seen over the past two weeks, there has been no shortage of fans, über fans and vapid pop culture addicts who cleared their busy calendars and spared no expense to express their love for a fallen hero — preferably in front of a news camera.

And there has been no shortage of happy, bubbly people who — apparently unaware of the bloody irony — celebrated with joy when they received notice that they were to be amongst the honoured few thousand allowed to attend M.J.’s public memorial service yesterday.

Were they happy to be at a solemn event, happy to get their 15 seconds of ticket-waving TV face-time fame, or happy to have a chance to make a few bucks on eBay? I don’t know. But 1.6 million people happily applied for those coveted Staple Center tickets and a smaller horde converged on Los Angeles, wanting to be a part of history by getting their mugs in front of a camera — any camera.

Perhaps the most irritating aspect of it all is how the media has been saturated with Jackson news — and non-news. From print and electronic providers to Internet sites, blogs and social networking sites, you had to really make an effort to bypass the Jackson onslaught if you wanted to learn about anything else happening in the world. At times like this, when a rotting carcass gets their attention, media outlets belly-up like rabid hyenas, practically begging for yet another instant vigil to cover.

When respected journalists — accustomed to going one-on-one with world leaders — are reduced to interviewing yet another friend of a friend who knew someone who once cut the grass at Neverland, you know we have gone over the deep end.

And let’s not forget, as if we could, the cast of seamy characters that infiltrated their way into this sordid circus: from Reverend Al Sharpton to Debbie Rowe’s former attorney to Jackson’s father Joe — a sleazy piece of work if there ever was one.

The overwhelming coverage has gotten so bad that it almost makes one yearn for a natural disaster, or anything that would bring people back to their senses. But that won’t happen any time soon.

Since his death, the money machine has started printing again and Jackson’s coterie of hangers-on will do all they can to keep it running for a while to come. Albums are selling again at a time when few people still buy albums, books are being written and movie deals are being signed.

Man in the Mirror, Boy in the Bubble, Loon in the Padded Room… take your pick of potential titles.

Some people call Jackson a hero, an idol, an inspiration and a role model. He was, and maybe still is. But what he really was is yet another in a long list of tragic public figures that passed away too soon — before the truly sordid chapters of his life were fully written.

Now that the gloves are off, the body buried, and all concerned have lawyered-up, strap yourselves in for one helluva ride.

Jacko will be wackier in death than he was during his life.

http://www.thesuburbannews.ca/content/en/1945

The slow burn began last Friday when reports of yet another slap in the face to Quebec's already well-slapped anglo community came to light.

That would be the matter of two previously obscure English-speaking musical acts being invited, uninvited, then re-invited to participate in some equally obscure event called l'Autre St. Jean — a pre-Fête St. Jean concert held in Rosemont on June 23.

I thought I was immune by now to such petty slights, but this one got to me — for all of 10 minutes because the ridicule that was about to be heaped upon this province was evident from the get-go.

Most of us have never heard of Lake of Stew, a local bluegrass band that plies their trade in the language of Ricky Skaggs, or of Bloodshot Bill, a rockabilly singer who plies his in the language of Elvis. But the two became sympathetic nation-wide celebrities after the brouhaha made the news. They've never had so much attention.

Their photos were plastered in every newspaper and their music featured in TV and radio bits. And truth be told, that twangy Lake of Stew tune that I found so bloody annoying at first is actually starting to grow on me.

And I hate bluegrass.

The whole thing started when the very nationalist Association culturelle Louis Hébert, the main sponsor of the alternative pre-party, got their knickers in a knot when they found out that some words of English might be uttered at the event.

The organizers were then given an ultimatum — no Anglos or we pull our money.

A veiled threat of violence and a feigned concern for the safety of the participants were also thrown in for good measure.

Since other performers at the six-hour show include Malajube, Vincent Vallières, Les Dales Hawerchuk and Marie-Pierre Arthur — all francophone acts — this would mean the two minor anglophone acts would take up a total of 40 minutes of stage time. That's roughly 11 percent of the whole shebang, equal to the demographic weight of anglos in this province, as noted by Société St. Jean Baptiste deep thinker and Fête nationale committee president Mario Beaulieu.

That Bloodshot Bill was born and raised in Montreal and that Châteauguay-born Lake of Stew front man Richard Rigby has lived all his life in the Montreal area was irrelevant to a coterie of ethnic nationalists. To them, le Québec est français seulement.

Point finale!

But credit should be given where credit is due.

The event's producers, C4, showed foresight and openness for inviting the two bands in the first place. And they deserve a lot of credit, even if they caved for a day or two. Credit is also due to the large number of francophones that saw this for what it is, and voiced their disapproval for all to hear.

More often than not, slights against anglos go woefully unnoticed in Quebec's French media. A front-page humiliation in the English press, if we are allowed to use that term, might make a page-seven brief in La Presse. Or page 21 in Le Journal de Montréal — if at all.

But this one got a sympathetic ear, and some major coverage.

“Bring in an African group, Vietnamese rappers or Finnish trombonists and we think it's cute. It's La Fête nationale! Everyone is a Quebecer,” wrote Yves Boisvert in Monday's La Presse. “But an anglophone in a second-tier St. Jean show? What a repugnant idea...”

And the paper's arts columnist Nathalie Petrowski hit the same theme in her Tuesday piece. “Any singer freshly installed in Quebec whose mother tongue is Wolof or Tagalog has a better chance of singing at a St. Jean show than his anglophone neighbour who has been a Montrealer for eight generations.”

Quebec culture minister Christine St. Pierre said this demonstrates that “there are people that are very intolerant and would prefer that we live in some sort of bubble.”

And the PQ's Pierre Curzi, to my surprise, eventually agreed. "I think it's great that anglophone bands want to take part in the Fête nationale. It shows that our society is open."

Right!

The outpouring of shame, followed by outrage, ridicule and then acceptance of the anglos was heart-warming. The language zealots looked downright silly and some backtracked as fast as they could when they realised that other proud nationalist artists publicly disagreed with their myopic stance.

There is now egg on their faces but don't think for a moment that they have learned a lesson. This is but one simple victory for common sense in a long-standing kerfuffle rife with insanity.

And if a few green-haired, tomato-throwing rednecks try to spoil the party by creating their form of a mini-crisis, rest assured that this time they will be roundly condemned, if not, for once, promptly arrested.

The brutal murder last week of a 67-year-old woman who was waiting for a bus in Montreal North is enough to make anyone pause, clench their teeth and make a tight, circulation-stopping fist.

This is not the first, nor will it be the last, in a long list of irrational acts of violence to get our attention.

On Sunday, May 17, Kim Ngu Lieu was returning late at night from a line-dancing class, one of the many activities that we want retired seniors — our parents and grandparents — to take part in, in order to stay healthy and remain socially active. She was attacked on the corner of Henri Bourassa and Saint Vital and beaten by three young men who attempted to separate her from her purse.

Her purse!

The retired seamstress died of her injuries three days later.

Because the alleged perpetrators are minors, their names can’t be published, but the boys — one 15 years old and two 16 — now face second-degree murder charges. The prosecutor said she would reserve the right to ask for an adult sentence if she gets a conviction, meaning life with no chance of parole for seven years.

Unfortunately, we all know where that will lead. Not far enough.

Now, before anyone thinks this argument will lead to calls for the return of capital punishment, or life without parole in a 16-square-foot dungeon of a cell — relax! That’s not where this is going.

Where this is going is in the direction of a punishment severe enough to serve as a serious deterrent to other young brutes who might only see this as a setback — a black eye to their reputations to most but a grotesque badge of honour to some.

Since the kids had no previous police records, we are led to believe they have never done anything like this before and we should somehow moderate our indignation. But not having a record simply means that person has never been convicted, let alone caught. So who knows what havoc they have wreaked and gotten away with in the past?

The victim’s family and friends understandably want harsh sentences to be laid if the culprits are found guilty. But according to a Daphné Cameron report in Monday’s La Presse, friends of the alleged aggressors say we have them pegged all wrong and that this was just a prank that got out of hand.

“I want everyone to know that these are chill guys and that they didn’t do it on purpose,” said one 14 year old. “Media reports say she was savagely beaten, but that is not true. They shoved the old lady around a bit but I’m sure they never wanted to kill her.”

Well, isn’t that’s comforting.

The little one, who said he never wanted to rat on his friends, told the La Presse reporter that he spoke to the accused — who had been drinking that night — minutes after the attack.

“They told me that the woman resisted.” He continued: “If she had simply handed over her purse, she wouldn’t be dead.”

Right!

Looked at another way, from the point of view of a mature, law-abiding, tax-paying citizen, if these punks had left her alone in the first place, she wouldn’t be dead and they wouldn’t be facing charges.

Now, psychologists and nurturing types will scramble to tell us about the irrational impulsiveness of young men, the combined effects of alcohol and testosterone, parent’s responsibilities, yada yada. They might even have a point, but this is not the time.

This time should be reserved for Kim Ngu Lieu, and all the potential Kim Ngu Lieus out there who have just been reminded yet again that an innocent night out can be fatal.

Mourners at her funeral described her as a loving woman who wouldn’t hurt a soul.

Sounds like my mother.

Michel Bourre, her dance instructor for three years, described her as “always smiling, very sociable and so nice to everyone.”

Sounds like many mothers and grandmothers who don’t deserve this fate.

If this had happened to my mother… if this had happened to your mother or grandmother, would you really care to hear how these poor misguided teens are just innocent little pranksters at heart? Or would you simply demand that pound of flesh?

These little savages have mothers and fathers who are going through their own hell at this very moment. But before we begin to sympathise with their plight, we should first focus on the ones who suffered the greater loss. The family and friends of the real victim here — Kim Ngu Lieu.

People wishing to offer help to the family should contact Sun Youth at 514-842-6822.

A few months ago, I received a phone message from a woman I not had heard from or thought about in years. Was I the same Anthony Bonaparte, she asked, who graduated from Roussin Academy High School sometime in the last century?

The now-defunct high school was located in Pointe aux Trembles in Montreal’s east end and was one of those transitional English schools that accommodated students from the growing number of other defunct English schools that once populated the area.

Anyway, a reunion of that year’s graduating class – let’s just say the anniversary year fell somewhere between 20 and 40 and ended with a nine – was being organized, and that’s when the initial bout of mild anxiety set in.

Like many get-togethers that are being organized these days, the task is being made easier by social networking sites like Facebook and MySpace. So not long after succumbing to the dark side – that would be the day I opened my own Facebook account -- people from that long-forgotten past started popping up in my inbox. Soon, the ubiquitous social networking site became our cyberspace meeting place.

Having moved away from the old neighbourhood no more than five years after graduation, some of my high school connections were obviously lost. Others were kept through CEGEP and university, but the vast majority were laid to rest and replaced by an ever evolving set of new friends and acquaintances.

Many of the old names I was really happy to see. Others I had forgotten, but was still glad to remember. Some of those classmates remained good friends with each other through all these years, or kept in touch by not straying too far from the Anjou-St. Leonard-Rivière des Prairies-Montreal East-Point aux Trembles area.

Others stayed in touch because their kids go to the same school, or are in the same soccer, hockey or ringette league.

There were those who left our fair city years ago to pursue better opportunities elsewhere, while some simply buggered off, fed up with our province’s incessant dithering with the idea of separation.

Yet many flew or drove in for the event, from points all over the continent -- South Carolina, Alberta, Ontario, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island, to name a few.

Like all reunions, some attendees jump at the chance to meet old classmates and rekindle friendships put on hold through time and distance. Others tread lightly, heads filled with memories of their awkward, angst-filled, pimple-faced years.

There are always those kids in high school that felt left out or who intentionally left themselves out. But I was one of the lucky ones. As the only black kid in my entire school, one would think that I would have endured some hard times, but I didn’t.

I befriended and was befriended by every group: The rockers with Black Sabbath logos drawn in felt pen on the back of their jean jackets; the dopers who had Jim Morrison’s image drawn on theirs; the jocks who spent all their spare time flexing and groaning; the geeks who pranced around with Texas Instrument calculator pouches looped to their belts; and the jokers who made fun of everything and laughed their way through school.

Truth be told -- hanging with the geeks and jokers helped make me the opinionated smartass I am today.

In one of the pre-reunion emails, I found out the organizers had located and invited some of the school’s staff – teachers, and administrators alike.

This inevitably brought on more anxiety.

Like many high school students, there were teachers feared, teachers loathed, teachers we really didn’t care for, and the few that we really liked.

As a 16-year-old all those decades ago, most teachers seemed old and out of touch. Now, as an old and out of touch adult -- with my own son creeping up on that age -- I can not only relate, but empathize.

Seeing the more than 15 of them in the room that night brought only good memories. Knowing that they cared enough about one of their many graduating classes to actually show up for ours is, well, an honour.

I walked into the reunion this past weekend knowing that there would be a core of about 10 people that I would feel comfortable with. But I walked out with the list expanded to at least 50.

There is something to be said about the holders of the flame, the dedicated individuals who combine their efforts to organize, seek out and find classmates from far and wide.

If in the near future you receive an invitation to attend a reunion, and have some trepidations about it, put your worries aside and go for it!

I’m glad I did.

We Montrealers are an ungrateful and way too cynical lot and it’s time we put more faith in our municipal officials and stop the sniping.

Our good mayor, Gérald Tremblay, has been raked over the coals for something he says he knew nothing about — that matter of Frank Zampino, then-chairman of his executive committee, taking two vacations on the luxury yacht of his friend Antonio Accurso, one of the bidders for the largest public works deal in city history. That would be the infamous $355 million water meter contract.

One trip took place while the city was negotiating the contract while the other happened after it was awarded.

The mayor tells us that he didn’t know this at the time and shouldn’t be expected to meddle in the private lives — and boat trips — of his trusted colleagues.

Fine with me.

When that trusted colleague later left Tremblay’s administration for a high-level position at his vacation buddy’s consortium partner, the mayor shed a tear. It was a touching moment that left me farklempt. I still choke up when I think of it because Tremblay and Zampino were like Batman and Robin — or Mutt and Jeff, take your pick.

The mayor says that he saw nothing wrong with the way the contract was awarded and we should take him at his word. After all, he is a politician. If the process leading up to the awarding of the contract is found to be wanting in transparency, new measures will be implemented that will ensure that — all together now — something like this never happens again.

The now-suspended agreement is currently in the hands of the city’s appointed auditor general, so we should all relax. When the report is published it will shed light on what went on. In the meantime, we should not pass judgment.

Don’t take it from me but take it from the mayor because that’s what he wants us to do.

As for Zampino’s promise to hand over receipts, let us agree that he was just kidding. How can anyone seriously expect him to produce a bill from a friend who invited him onto his boat?

Zampino was just being gracious by accepting the invitations. It’s called diplomacy in some circles, good business practice in others and since we were not on the yacht listening to their conversations, we can’t prove there was any conflict of interest.

And another thing. We who know so little about how cities work have the gall to question the tendering process and wonder why private companies are contracted to select other private companies that will do the work that we clamour for. Yet we taxpayers are the ones who would rather see the work in private hands instead of in the paws of “lazy and overpaid” public sector workers.

Put in the mayor’s position, wouldn’t we give those contracts to people we trust? People who put their trust in us in the form of political contributions? The companies selected to select the others were picked because they met rigorous criteria. Only they, we are told, have the competence to know what the job requires and the bidder’s capabilities. So what if the same half dozen, well connected corporations keep popping up on the list?

Nevertheless, Tremblay wants to change the perception that public servants dropped the ball and he’s on a mission to spread the message that he and his team are on top of things.

With clenched fists and jabbing fingers, he is out and about blustering with promises to get to the bottom of whatever he has to get to the bottom of, and we should be behind him all the way.

He will have a forum at an opportune moment where everything will be made public.

City council held an extraordinary meeting on the issue Tuesday morning. And he wants to start a snitch line that would give city workers a chance to anonymously denounce any irregularities they see.

Of course, the cynics among you would label these as panic-driven improvisations from a mayor in an election year who is seeing his credibility unfairly tarnished, his reputation shattered and his poll numbers crashing.

Shame on you!

We really should have more confidence and be more appreciative. These good people we elected sacrifice lucrative careers in the private sector putting all personal ambitions aside in order to serve. So let’s all take a pill and leave the business of running the city to them.

"What’s important is that we turn the page as quickly as possible on this contract,” said Tremblay. I agree. An election is coming in November and we don’t want this to drag on.

Nor do we want any more of this blatant sarcasm to continue.

2009-04-22

Short of having a Friends of Canadian Broadcasting membership card, and short of being a blind apologist for the CBC, few people I know appreciate the institution more than I.

Then again, I know few people.

When news broke last week that the Canadian Broadcast Corporation and Radio Canada would slash some 800 jobs, cut TV and radio programs, reduce production hours on a few others (some I never knew existed) and sell off some real estate holdings in order to plug a huge budget shortfall, you could hear the usual suspects gearing up to cry foul. They emit the same shrill shriek every time the CBC’s finances, and future, is put on the table.

The holders of the purse strings – meaning the people that hand over $1.1 billion a year to subsidize the Corp. – are again reminded of the institution’s cultural importance in the face of the “low-brow commercial pap” supplied by private broadcasters. The federal government, acting on behalf all taxpayers, is lectured once more on the significance of the CBC. “It protects our sovereignty in the face of the non-cultured elephant south of the border,” the argument goes. “The CBC, like the railway, links Canadians from coast to coast and without it, we would lose ourselves and be consumed by the US.”

On the French side, the argument has nothing to do with our coats-to-coast obsession, but with protecting the language by subsidy.

Okay on both counts. But those arguments held plenty of sway in the 20th century. In the 21st, they must be re-examined.

When CBC radio came on air in 1936 and on TV in 1952, it alone had the collective resources to tie this vast country together and provide pan-Canadian content. In fact, it had such a multileveled head start on private broadcasters that it was able to keep competition at bay for decades.

Everyone over a certain age has fond memories of the CBC, and many of us still spend many hours per week taking in what it has to offer – from news, sports and documentaries to comedies, dramas and imported American game shows.

I have plenty of tender CBC memories. During the 1980s, I lived on CBC Radio: The AM morning show was on until I left for the office, Peter Gzowski’s Morningside was put on when I got there, and the dial didn’t budge until I packed up to go home.

I was exposed to every political panel, east-coast fisher, prairie ballerina, west-coast author and Inuit soapstone carver that came on the air.

Back at home, the 6 p.m. national radio news broadcast was followed by As it Happens (a 90-minute news and analysis show) and the dial stayed where it was until Ideas with Lister Sinclair (a snot-nosed hour of intellectual pretension) came to and end. Then it was time for CBC TVs The National.

On weekends, The House, Quirks and Quarks, The Inside Track, and Cross Country Checkup were not to be missed.

Now that my bona fides are well established, I hope the bleeding hearts among you will permit me to say this: That was then!

Then, I lived alone, had no cable, and commercial radio made me crazy. Now, commercial radio still makes me crazy, but less so. But I have cable, with its endless amount of specialty channels, and the Internet with its endless amount of everything – including radio.

Then, we had to follow their schedule.

Now, we have 24/7 instant access to a wide variety of news, nature, science and art shows – on a wide variety of media platforms.

Then, if you wanted in-depth reports on anything, you had the well-financed CBC. Now, you can catch whatever in-depth reports on anything you want, whenever the heck you want. And all the talk about protecting our cultural autonomy, well that is an individual choice, not one that should be imposed upon us by government.

I happen to like the CBC. I also like NPR, BBC, PBS, The Discovery Channel… the list goes on.

Information is now everywhere and there is no turning back that clock. And for those who like low-brow commercial pap, that is everywhere, too.

To someone who has always worked in the private sector, financing a bloated army of well-remunerated and gold-plated pensioned public sector employees -- and their endless levels of useless middle managers – is more than an annoyance. The state-sanctioned hijacking of my taxes to pay someone who works half as hard and makes more than I also makes me crazy. Now more than ever.

Private companies in every sector are cutting back. Jobs are being lost and once iron-clad contracts renegotiated. Media outlets the world over are tightening their belts and have to justify their existence in a changing landscape.

Nothing is safe and nothing is sacred and though I love the CBC, it has to face reality.

Welcome to the 21st century baby.

2009-04-01

A gaggle of hooded hooligans were at it again this Sunday, marching up and down the streets of downtown Montreal, throwing rocks, tossing bottles, breaking windows, confronting the police, and generally making unqualified arses out of themselves – again.

The funny thing was, they were demonstrating against police brutality. The irony of it all was obviously lost on them.

That such a demo would lead to chaos, violence and wanton destruction should come as no surprise to anyone since this is what the misguided savages among them do.

Anarchistic rabble-rousers are always attracted to such, shall we say, informal public gatherings, and like moths to a light or flies to a cow pile, they inevitably show up to do what they do best – raise bloody hell and smash as much stuff as they can.

City and police officials should have been aware a long time ago that the "manif" would degenerate into madness because it happens every year.

The police knew it would serve as a catalyst for trouble, and would attract a motley collection of good citizens clad in bomber jackets, camouflage pants, caps and black Doc Martens -- and they weren’t talking about their own costumed officers, but the bottle-pelters facing off against them.

Of course, the police have a large number of past and present shenanigans to answer for. The Thin Blue Line of self preservation erected by the brotherhood when members bleep up is a constant annoyance to the people who pay their salaries, expecting protection and not abuse. But the Collective Opposed to Police Brutality demonstration only made people like me feel empathy for the men and women in blue… green, red, beige, purple, yellow… or whatever colour they’re wearing today.

You have to at least give the rioters some credit for foresight. The chances of the Canadiens winning the Stanley Cup, let alone an opening playoff round, are slim to nil, taking away a wonderful opportunity to run havoc all over the downtown core.

Rampaging through less glamorous boroughs whenever some "totally innocent" civilian is felled by a police bullet really doesn’t have the same panache as making a shambles of St. Denis, Ste. Catherine or Sherbrooke St.

Like many, I was well aware that trouble was in the offing that day, making front page news the next. Not wanting to have my car windows broken or an object lobbed at my head, I sat down with a bowl of popcorn and watched the mayhem unravel on TV.

Both LCN and RDI, Quebec’s French language all news cable stations, had brick-to-brick coverage of the event – from the quasi-earnest sermon-cum-rallying call of the organizers, to the predictable escalation of uncivilized behaviour that followed.

They had cameras and reporters on the ground, and in the air, with helicopter-mounted cameras peering down so close at times that you could actually make out some of the marchers’ faces.

We clearly saw individuals heave rubble at store fronts and the glass façades of office buildings. One rock-thrower, a backpack and parka-wearing young lady with curly red hair, looked like a typical college student. A camera focused on her as she bent over, picked up some debris -- like the person 10 feet ahead of had done before -- and with a big smile, gleefully lobbed it toward a building. Thankfully, she threw like a… er… clumsy politician, and missed the mark by 20 feet. But others hit their targets.

Some even threw fruit and vegetables. Completely clueless, they must not be aware that we are going through trying economic times and the city’s food banks could have used the pitched produce.

We even witnessed stones tossed at animals. Officers mounted on horseback were pelted, and unlike old movie Westerns -- where the horse never gets it -- some face shield-wearing horses got it.

And since language is always an issue in these parts, let me say this. The relatively articulate speech-givers at the beginning were later overshadowed by blatantly inarticulate and vocabulary-challenged goons who pleaded complete innocence and blathered on about police harassment whenever a camera and microphone was shoved in their virtuous faces.

I’ve heard better French from recently-landed immigrants, but I digress.

The demonstration, for all intents and purposes, was absolutely counterproductive, and if the people behind it wanted to gain sympathy for their cause, they lost people like me a very long time ago; people who work hard, pay taxes, obey the law – okay, most of them -- and keep a clean record.

People like those that demonstrated, I want nothing to do with.

So next year, if city and police officials unofficially allow them to hold us hostage, I will be safe at home with a bowl of popcorn and a notepad.

By the way, hats off to the cops for their restraint that day. If I were in their shoes, standing my ground and obeying orders while some foul-mouthed demonstrator pelted me with tomatoes, I would today be serving a severe one-day suspension with pay, or relegated to administrative desk duty.

The protest organizers had a valid point to make. Too bad they blew it so spectacularly -- again.

2009-03-18

There’s something special about being part of a sports team, or practicing an individual sport. It doesn’t really matter which, but for the vast majority of kids seen on the pages of this week’s special issue, it’s all about love. A few may have higher aspirations and dreams of a lucrative career down the line, but for most of them, they love the game they play, the friends they make, the lessons they learn.

It’s been a long time since I last ran in a track meet, laced on the skates, or took to the pitch with my soccer team, but memories of the time I spent playing sports still bring a smile to my face. Unfortunately, like many creaky adults whose past sporting glories are decades old, I yammer on about them every chance I get.

There was that game when I was playing in nets for my Bantam hockey team. We were up by one goal late in the third and the puck came out of the corner and into the slot, right on to the stick of the star opposing forward who was standing alone. He had what seemed like hours to decide what to do and when he shot, I made the most spectacular glove save of my life. I never felt such love – from my team and from the parents in the stands.

Then there was that summer when I centered my Pee Wee soccer team and scored five goals in one game. For a while, coaches and parents treated me like the second coming of Pele.

And have I told you about that elementary school track meet, when I ran the final leg of the relay, got the baton in second place and chased down the…

Sorry.

These memories are more than 30 years old, but still as fresh in my mind as they were the day they were registered.

We all have them, and the kids that are playing today – the kids on these pages – are now registering their own memories.

Hopefully, they will continue to play well into their adulthood because for far too many of us, those days are long gone. Once we pass a certain age -- and undergo a few surgeries -- the number of hours spent per week on a field, court or rink, become inversely proportional to the number of hours spent poking at a computer keyboard, or thumbing a TV remote.

Sure, some of us actually do use our gym memberships, take fitness courses, play in a beer league or the odd pick-up game. But this lament is not about them. It’s for those who have allowed themselves to get left behind. People who were active in their youth until adult life got in the way and they found an excuse to stop.

But those childhood memories never go away, and for that we have the countless number of community volunteers, coaches, parents, refs and organizers to thank. People who choose to do what is most important when living in a community – give something back.

This newspaper alone has a number of dedicated volunteers and coaches on its staff, not to mention devoted hockey moms and swimming dads. The Suburban’s veteran sports co-ordinator, Mark Lidbetter, is a fine example. He has not only covered amateur and professional sports for the past 33 years, but has remained active to this day, coaching, refereeing, supervising and participating in community sports.

The 53-year-old says his long-time commitment to sport – at any level – started when he was young. “It’s what I grew up with, a sense of community,” he says. “It’s something my parents taught me and something my own daughter continued, when she coached ringette for three seasons.”

Lidbetter says he now sees many of the kids he once coached and reffed grow up, start families and begin coaching and reffing themselves. They tell him that their experiences playing way back when had such a positive impact on them that they wanted to give back what others had given.

Last June, Lidbetter went under the knife for hip replacement surgery and was back on skates three months later for a rookie ref camp -- if only for an hour.

So, for all the couch potatoes out there, what’s your excuse?

Better yet, what’s mine?

2009-03-04

Getting around this town is getting harder every day. Navigating city streets in good weather is bad enough, what with the numerous headaches created by an endless array of construction, detours and road closures. But throw in a snowstorm, like the one we had last week, and getting anywhere becomes an exercise in futility.

I still haven’t gotten over last week’s fiasco when I, like many Montrealers, got bogged down in a traffic jam from hell during last Thursday’s morning rush hour. It started the moment I left my quiet Snowdon street and turned north onto a side street one block west and parallel to the Decarie expressway.

I crawled behind a school bus, not able to see what was causing the backlog until I reached the first intersection 15 minutes later -- a drive that usually takes 10 seconds.

The reason for the blockage? Frustrated eastbound drivers obviously stuck in traffic for a while were crossing the intersection with nowhere to go, creating a gridlock and blocking northbound traffic. We were all trying to get to the same place – the Decarie service road – but found ourselves stuck in a funnel.

When I finally managed to turn east, I saw what was causing the problem; snow clearing machines were everywhere. Blowers, graders, sidewalk tractors, front-end loaders, pick-up trucks, snow dump trucks… It was total chaos.

Did I mention this was happening during rush hour?

It took 10 minutes to get to the west side of the service road -- a drive that usually takes about six seconds. There, I found more cars blocking the intersection and was immediately reminded that hell hath no fury like a Montreal driver caught in a vortex. All sense of decency goes out the window. Driving becomes a blood sport and the meek should not participate.

Staying on my side of the intersection until I had somewhere to go only permitted others to squeeze in front of me and block traffic. So three missed green lights later I decided to join the fray. To heck with civility; this is Montreal, dammit.

I was now frothing at the mouth and ready to take on all comers.

Finally going north on the service road, I now had to contend with the phalanx of snow clearing machines up ahead. It took another 20 minutes just to reach them -- a stretch that normally takes two minutes.

I had been on the road for 45 minutes and was only a few blocks from where I started.

When my turn came to squeeze past the grader that was pushing snow from the middle lane into the right lane, a sense of euphoria came over me since the road ahead was clear for as far as the eye could see. I’m sure I saw a rainbow at the end.

When I got to the office after a 75-minutes drive – one that usually takes 15 -- I called the city’s snow clearing department. Spokesperson Valerie De Gagne came on the line and I asked her a few questions: What criteria does the city use to determine when a main artery like the Decarie service road should be cleaned? If morning rush hour was deemed to be an appropriate time? And why the darn clearing couldn’t be done at, say 5 a.m. instead?

“Well that depends on the boroughs,” she responded in French. “Because there are certain arteries that are prioritized and depending on the time that was decreed for the start of the unloading in the boroughs it is possible that there is an artery that can be cleared and loaded immediately because it was one that was identified as a priority. Like I know that Jean Talon is one that is identified as a priority in the snow removal plan and that’s possibly one of the reasons why this morning’s snow removal took place during rush hour.”

Got it?

She then referred me to the city’s snow removal website () for further information. On it they have a section titled Snow Removal 101, and a subsection called Everything you’ve always wanted to know about snow removal operations in Montréal.

“Conducting a snow removal operation is much more complex than it seems,” it states. “There are many factors to be taken into account: weather conditions, the amount of snowfall, traffic, rush hour…

It goes on, but I think I’ll stop it right there.

How many times have we heard some humbled individual or group, forced to furiously backtrack on an obviously ill-fated decision, utter a pathetic mea culpa – with head bowed, of course?

Hindsight is, after all, 20/20. Consistently correct initial judgement is a rare attribute indeed. But some moves tend to be so laughable at the onset that a disastrous end result is all but a foregone conclusion to anybody not in the bubble.

What was Liberal leadership candidate Michael Ignatieff thinking when he -- along with rival Bob Rae (still being burned in effigy somewhere in Ontario) -- flanked Dominic LeBlanc, the third creaky wheel in the race, and announced that they were united behind Stephane Dion’s quest to usurp the governance of the country with the help of Jack Layton’s NDP and Gilles Duceppe’s separatist Bloc Quebecois.

Really!

Seeing these three pretend to be in line behind one of the most hapless leaders the “natural governing party” has ever seen was absolutely breathtaking.

What were any of them thinking when they assumed that Canadians would agree to be led by a Liberal leader who was on the outs with his own party, after being royally trounced in the last federal election? Dion, if you need to be reminded, led the Liberals to their lowest percentage of the popular vote since Confederation. And that election, if you really need to be reminded, was held only two months ago.

At a time when all economic hell is breaking loose across the planet, when stories of massive job losses consistently lead the nightly news, when our infrastructure crumbles and hospital waiting times still dissuade the sick from venturing near a bloody hospital -- lest one of their appendages be hanging by a thread -- they go and do this.

They get into a partisan snit that threatens to paralyse the nation and throw it into needless constitutional turmoil.

Stephane Dion was and is a great Canadian -- a stout defender of the union between the two solitudes. He famously joined the bandwagon of letter-writers that countered the blatant, unopposed propaganda letter writing the sovereigntist side was accustomed to delivering. Dion, more than once, nearly made Bernard Landry’s head explode.

But what was Dion thinking when he decided to go ballistic with indignation in the House of Commons last week? His voice cracking, his jowls quivering, at times it looked like his own head would explode.

Mousy men don’t do loud-mouthed indignation well.

And that taped response last week to Harper’s message to the nation? Let’s not even go there.

Dion is done. Quel surprise!

If the federal Liberals wanted their party to be in a position to lead the country, they should have elected a leader credible enough to run their own party.

What was Dion thinking when he introduced his completely incomprehensible Green Shift, a carbon tax he couldn't defend and which his party has already abandoned?

What in heck was going through his ample mind when he and his minions decided to make that the platform of their fall campaign?

The sorry lot of them – I’m talking about the soon-to-be-short-lived coalition -- behaved like opportunistic megalomaniacs obsessed only with their own place in history.

Many have asked what Prime Minister Stephen Harper was thinking when he, in the name of an economic statement, planted several incendiary measures akin to dropping a hand grenade in the middle of a meeting that was sure to make his parliament Hill opponents crazy with rage -- and fear.

He questioned pay equity, civil servant’s right to strike for three upcoming years, and threatened the solvency of the opposition parties who rely so heavily on the public trough for its fundraising -- all debatable propositions, but in due time.

But did he really think they would lie down and roll over?

Since then, Canadians have witnessed a festival or no-holes-barred partisanship not seen since the good old days of… err… Chretien vs. Martin.

La Presse recently published extracts of letters it had received concerning the tumult in Ottawa. One of them, by Francois Gros d’Aillon of Rosemere, roughly translated, reads like this: “After having seen the political pantomime that played itself in Ottawa, I asked myself what a coalition between the Liberal Party of Canada and the NDP, with the benediction of the Bloc Quebecois, would give us. So I took a piece of white paper, three coloured crayons, and then mixed the red, the blue and the orange… Guess what colour I came up with.”