Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

March 28: A friend recently sent along a link to a post on Torontoist related to the passing of Rob Ford which essentially said that our late Mayor was a disaster for the City and the democratic process ( http://torontoist.com/2016/03/373870/ ). Although I agree for the most part with that view, I do have a great deal of respect for Rob Ford the man, who apparently brought his addictions and lifestyle under control for the year or so before his death. That he should die without having time to enjoy that achievement with his young family seems particularly cruel, yet none of us truly knows how long we have remaining.

I had the great privilege of working with many politicians, of all stripes, when I was with the City. They are a unique breed: committed, passionate, egotistical and determined, they can also be stubborn, obtuse and malevolent. Ford was raised in a political family and was clearly part of the “elites” he fought so hard to oppose. He apparently went door-to-door with his Father as a child to meet constituents. This became his trademark as Councillor:  He was well-known for answering his own phone, returning all his messages and arriving on the doorstep to solve problems. This may be wonderful for getting elected, but it’s ultimately useless for running the city efficiently.

Ford was never a deep thinker. He operated on assumptions, stereotypes and a truculent support for those he perceived to be aggrieved. I never had the impression from dealing with him that he had a clear understanding of how the City actually operated, or a vision of how he might make it better beyond the mantras of “stopping the gravy train” and building “subways, subways, subways.” In a city as complex as Toronto, we needed a Mayor who could provide a clear vision of the future and inspire action to get us there. Ford had none of that.

As Mayor, where Council procedures allowed him the opportunity to introduce important resolutions as priorities, he was tongue-tied and seemingly unable to use the opportunity to make a strong case and inspire Council to the cause. Instead, he was divisive and confrontational – a situation that only got worse when his addictions got out of hand. In a public meeting one night, Ford said to me: “politics is a blood-sport and God I love it.” He certainly behaved that way. It often seemed to me that spoiling for a fight was more important than doing the right thing for the city as a whole. He was frequently the only member of Council to vote against a measure, and while I understand that he may have felt that there was a principle involved, he could and should have been working to advance a more consistent and clear vision of the outcome he supported.

Ironically, voter participation in the last 2 elections has been at new record levels. During the first election he rallied Ford Nation to get elected; the second election I believe people rallied themselves to make sure he was booted out. Whatever the case, I can only hope that the sideshow he created helped people to realize the importance of good municipal governance – arguably the government with the most direct impact on day-to-day life in the city – and that this will be his lasting legacy.

 

Photo by Christopher Drost / Torontoist

 

March 15: I frequently hear myself say “I’m not really a bird guy, but…” right before I launch into some story about a siting or the behaviour of birds. What I really mean is that I don’t track birds for a “lifetime list”, and I don’t really know about migration patterns or nesting habits and such. But I do try to be aware of the birds around me because I think we can learn things from them (and the rest of nature, for that matter).

When I lived in the Lakeshore, I had a feeding station in the yard during the Winter. It attracted the usual list of suspects: Sparrows, Chickadees, Finches, Goldfinches, Nuthatches, Cardinals and sometimes a Blue Jay or two. If you were alert, you might also see Cedar Waxwings and Grosbeaks that seemed to appear for a day or two and then were gone – presumably migrating through. Their behaviours were all a bit different and it was fun to watch the different birds feeding and then moving along.

One day I looked out to see a hawk sitting on the deck, clearly looking at the feeders as the bird-equivalent of a buffet. While I know that predation happens all the time in nature, I must say that I was not unhappy to see that he left without lunch that day. The incident reminded me that my feathered friends really only have one purpose in their lives: to procreate. They absolutely don’t care if it’s Monday, rainy or sunny or -34 C. They don’t have a new car, or a nice apartment or a great wardrobe. They just have to eat, avoid being killed for another day, and ultimately, make babies. They are not concerned about much else.

I think most of us have far too many possessions. We develop emotional attachments to “things” that tie us to places and behaviours that might not be appropriate to our lifestyle. Many of my friends are “downsizing” and facing the sorting and boxing and recycling that goes with it.  I went through that process last year when I moved and I found it cathartic even though I still have far too much “stuff” hanging around.

Over the weekend there was an eloquent article in the Globe written by Danielle Meder, a 33-year-old woman who had recently lost her Mother; resigned her job in favour of self-employment; ended a relationship that was holding her back; ended the lease on her apartment in favour of moving overseas; and sold off most of her possessions so that she could leave for Europe. She ends her article writing:

“To pack a single suitcase for a journey with no return was more difficult. I have a small but heavy bag with all the equipment I need to work. To wear, I have a tightly edited selection of my best clothes. Everything feels great – silk and cashmere and angora, a little black dress and good hosiery and real lingerie – and everything goes together. For the first time in my life, it is impossible to put together a bad outfit. Every time I get dressed, I am ready to meet my professional or romantic destiny. Or I’ll just get lost in the city, alone and free.”

While cleaning up I’m sure many of us have dreamed about doing exactly what she did, though I know of nobody who has actually done so. And such a radical step is probably unrealistic for most of us in any event. So maybe we need to focus a little more on the living of a good life day-to-day, and less on the trappings that tie us down. Perhaps then we too might be, dare I say, free as a bird ?

March 10: There was an obituary in the paper today for George Martin who died March 8 at the ripe old age of 90. Martin signed the Beatles to the Parlophone label after virtually every other record producer in the England  had turned them down. He was apparently not impressed at first, calling them a good regional dance band. But he is credited with taking them from humble beginnings to being what was arguably the best (rock and roll) band of all time.

As a trained musician he could actually write musical scores – something none of the Beatles could do. He introduced them to orchestral instruments, and then to the mysteries of the recording studio and the wizardry of mixing tapes. He had a very direct influence on their style and was often called the “fifth Beatle”. According to the obit, he listened to the first recording of Please Please Me and felt it was too slow. The Beatles had written it as a tribute to Roy Orbison, but he felt it would be more effective at a faster pace. As he then recorded it, the song was their first break-out hit in March 1963 and the first number 1 album in the UK. Over the next 3 years, they released an astounding 17 albums. While some were obviously compilations and others were available only in specific markets (ie. Germany), measured by today’s standards, the output is incredible.

That productivity might have been made a bit easier by the fact that much of the music was pretty straightforward rock and roll with typical chord structures and harmonies. The accepted knowledge of the day was that songs should be no more than 3 minutes long. But even with those limitations, one could sense the music changing with each new release. By 1966, they were beginning to imagine whole new musical directions and technical innovations. I remember it as a very hopeful and imaginative time.

In June 1967 they released Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band which was said to have taken an equally astounding (for that time) 400 hours over 129 days to record. My friend Tim brought a copy to my Grandfather’s cottage where we listened to it for the first time on a huge old hi-fi (monaural of course) in the living room. My Mother and her sister, my Aunt Marg were there and forced to listen as well. They tolerated the first side fairly well. Most of the songs were not too dissimilar to the “noise” they had been exposed to by us previously, and some (With A Little Help From My Friends, She’s Leaving Home) are downright tuneful. But the second side started with the full-on sitar and tabla attack of Within You Without You and that provoked the first cries of “what the heck is that??” I think that even Tim and I were a bit mystified, but of course, we would never let on…. Later there was the rooster crow and barnyard sounds that opened Good Morning – all put to good use one very early morning several years later at one of our famous Corduroy Enduro weekends.

I remember listening to Sgt. Pepper’s as a watershed moment, although I am perhaps exaggerating its significance. Whatever the case, it evokes strong and happy memories. Sad that it took the passing of George Martin to remind me of those days.

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March 22: Addendum: The Globe and Mail today reported that on this date in 1963, the Beatles released Please Please Me, their first album. They were each paid “the princely sum” of 20 Pounds Sterling for the 10 hours it took to record. It held top spot on the chart for 30 weeks until being replaced by – what else ? – their second album, With the Beatles.

March 8: I started painting about 15 years ago. I remember arriving at Mimico Community Centre looking forward to learning the mysteries of putting acrylic on canvas. The instructor, Zaria Manook, was a small man topped with a shock of greying hair that made him look a bit like Einstein. In truth, there was not a lot of instruction; I think Zaria preferred that we learn from experience. But from time to time, he would take the brush away from me and demonstrate a bit of technique. I thought that I was finally becoming reasonably good at painting when I finished an entire painting without Zaria’s “little touches”.

When I moved, I changed classes and found a new instructor. John was Greek and the same height as Zaria, but younger and more solidly built. Where Zaria painted icons for the Orthodox church, John was a modernist and his paintings were tremendously complex. Some had the character of enormous tattoos. Again, his instructional technique was hands off, and there was a period where we were trying to understand the other’s capability. In time, he suggested a couple of new techniques that moved my style forward.

Most of my paintings have been landscapes or townscapes, and I could not escape the feeling that I had “been there and done that”. I had pretty well figured out how to get the effect I wanted, and I could punch out a painting an about 3 hours if I wanted. Melinda always hated the fact that they were “all green”, and perhaps she had a point. I have dozens of canvasses stored here and at the house, and most of them are not very good. Following the same path has led me to a place where I am feeling that there is no challenge to it, so I have decided to stop painting. Perhaps not “forever” but certainly “for now”.

For decades, I’ve randomly doodled with pencils. I had thought about taking a sketch pad with me to Europe last summer, but never really got around to it. So I have signed up for a sketching class and will start that in a few weeks. I’m looking forward to something new and different.

February 17: Seriously ?

PS: March 7: A murder avoided: apparently my standing in the window and sending evil thoughts toward my friend with the leaf-blower has worked. The house went up for sale and was sold over the weekend with an asking price of $1,500,000. I wonder if the leaf-blower is one of the chattels ?

February 14: Today I got word that my ex-Father-in-Law had passed away after a lengthy battle with cancer and dementia. This had been expected for some time and, as Marisa said: “Typical Jeffery. Stubborn to the end.”

Jeff emigrated from South Africa to Canada in the late 60’s. While the family seemed to have lived a comfortable life on a farm near Durban, selling it all and moving here meant starting over. He worked in construction, determined to provide a good life for his wife Margaret and three children: Melinda, Veronica and Rolland.

He was a hunter and a fisherman. After Melinda and I got married, I mentioned a passing interest in fly-fishing, more as a way of passing time in what seemed to be a tranquil and reflective place than actually catching anything. Within a few weeks, he had given me a couple of rods, some tackle, and some lessons on how to cast. He was obviously reaching out for some connection with his new son-in-law who saw no fun in shooting or catching and killing any of God’s creatures. (I’ve been known to catch spiders and take them outside rather than kill them…)

While he could be kind, helpful, supportive and thoughtful, he could be very stubborn. He never really shied away from telling you what was on his mind. His outspokenness about religion and race had alienated many of his friends and he was living what must have been a very lonely existence near Orillia. That was his choice; he was determined to do it his way whether or not other people agreed with him. Undoubtedly this made it extremely difficult for his family – particularly Veronica – to manage things as he aged and his physical and mental abilities declined.

In the end, it’s easy to see only the crusty old geezer living alone and cursing the world around him. I may get there myself some day. And while some of his views are no longer socially acceptable, with the great benefit of distance from his situation, I remember the determined, thoughtful man who brought his family to Canada and gave them the foundation for a good life here. They got a good start, and more, because of him. As he aged and got more out-of-step with those around him, he was doing what he thought was right for him, in the context of what he had learned in his life experience. I’d prefer to remember him that way.

February 1: A friend texted this morning to say that we would have to change dinner plans because she was not feeling well, and my little demented mind went immediately to an episode of the Goon Show titled Lurgi Strikes Britain. The Goons were three guys: Spike Milligan, Harry Secombe, and some guy named Peter Sellers. They were on BBC radio during the 50’s and early 60’s and laid the foundations for later comedians, notably Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

That connection was perhaps front-of-mind because I’m reading a great book by John Cleese wherein he says: “(The Goon Show) made the best use of radio that has ever been achieved in comedy, mixing a huge variety of wonderfully silly voices and astonishingly creative sound effects to tell ridiculous stories with humour that was witty, insane, insanely logical, breathtakingly stupid and thoroughly subversive…”

The Dreaded Lurgi which strikes Britain causes the afflicted to cry out “Eeee Yakka Booo” for no apparent reason. It turns out to have only one cure – the ability to play a musical instrument. In short order, with much anarchy and diversion, an air-drop of millions of  brass musical instruments is organized and the country is saved.

The Lurgi has entered the lexicon in some quarters as a descriptor for an unspecified illness. I use it from time-to-time and I’m usually greeted by quizzical looks. In any event, I hope my friend overcomes her bout of Lurgi – without having to learn the Sousaphone…..

http://www.thegoonshow.net/index.asp

January 23: Back in the 60’s, I went all Greenpeace over the issues around the proposed construction of nuclear power plants in Ontario. Leaving aside nagging questions about the safety of the technology, there were two issues that I didn’t feel were resolved: Firstly, there was the question of how the spent nuclear fuel would be transported and stored long-term, and secondly, there was the cost of the program which was staggering, even in 60’s era dollars.

Some 40 years later, there is still no clear solution in sight to the question of secure storage. The current front-runner seems to be deep disposal in a location that may or may not compromise the Great Lakes. We are in a push-pull between a municipality which sees the storage proposal as a longer-term employment opportunity, versus the potential environmental damage which must be assumed by the greater public over the next 1000 years or so. Whatever the case, there’s still no answer.

The initial cost of constructing Darlington and Bruce was truly staggering and they have only gotten more expensive.  ( The final cost of Darlington alone was roughly $14 Billion. ) Hydro users are still paying a “debt retirement charge” on every monthly bill for their construction, and several weeks ago, the Province decided to fund about $25 Billion in repairs and maintenance for the existing nukes.

Granted, the nuclear industry provides roughly 30,000 jobs (direct and indirect) across Canada*, and nuclear plants provide almost half of the Provincial electricity, but I have often wondered what alternative future might have arisen had the Province decided to spend even a fraction of the initial budget of the nuclear program on the development of alternative energy sources. With that 30 or 40 year head start, we might now be in a leadership position in alternative industries. Instead, we put all our eggs in the basket of an expensive, complex and ultimately unsustainable technology. We  seem to have painted ourselves into the corner of having to shore up  nukes until other sources of energy can be developed.

Similarly, we are facing an economic downturn brought on by our reliance on fossil fuels, particularly oil. I don’t think there is any doubt that we are seeing the end of carbon-based fuels, yet we can’t seem to get beyond the urge to yank the stuff out of the ground and send it down a pipe to another country for processing. Surely there is an opportunity now to think differently and invest in other sectors – perhaps bio-medical research or aerospace – that might make a long-term contribution to a more sustainable Canadian economy and move us away from being “hewers of wood and drawers of water”. If it keeps going this way, I may have to dig out my Greenpeace T-shirt.

* By comparison, the auto parts industry, based largely in Ontario, had a 2008 employment of roughly 100,000.

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Or there’s this February Report on Business article by Eric Reguly:

http://www.theglobeandmail.com/report-on-business/rob-magazine/running-on-empty-bp-needs-to-revisit-green-approach/article28397699/

January 11: Yesterday brought the shocking and sad news that David Bowie had died. I saw the headline “David Bowie has died” at Yahoo.ca and for a nanosecond thought it must be another ridiculous rumour, but then the “oh my God” moment followed as reality took over.

I have to admit that I was not a big fan of his earlier stuff.  The music was not the good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll where I was comfortable. “Space Oddity” was released in 1969, when the Billboard Number 1 song was “Sugar Sugar” by the Archies. “Changes” was big in 1971, when the Number 1 song was “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night.  In time his music became part of the soundtrack to my life and those of many others.

His appearance, persona and performances were way out there. It was challenging in a strange and slightly disturbing way that forced me to think outside my personal boundaries. But that was the point. “Performance art” was not widely accepted at the time. Pushing the sexuality envelope forced me, and many others I’m sure, to confront my own feelings not just about the music, but other issues like homosexuality and gender identity. And just when I thought I might have come to terms with one iteration of the man, a new and different Bowie would appear. No doubt about his staying power: all told he released something like 27 studio albums, 9 live albums and appeared with others on 49 compilation projects. As one of the pundits on CBC pointed out, half in jest I think: “He survived disco…”.

And I think that’s what makes me sad. Here was a guy who was not afraid. He put his art out there no matter the context of the days and was always open to the next challenge, the next page in the story. He was a master showman, and I mean that to apply to his life as well as to his stage presence. While many celebrities live with a public persona that is more marketing than reality, his presence felt more genuine and legitimately part of his music and artistic expression. That he was an artistic genius seems inescapable, and the world is a sadder and less vibrant place with him gone.

There is nothing more painful than watching someone do something they don’t love because they think it’s a way to get people to love them.   DB