Rod McQueen's Blog, page 25

Anything to declare?

It’s alright for Donald Trump to call Justin Trudeau “weak” and “dishonest.” It’s even OK for the president to threaten that there will be no NAFTA. But to claim that Canadians smuggle shoes into Canada that they’ve bought in the U.S., now that’s really hitting close to home. Because it’s true. It is our metier.

You can always tell the Canadians in the shopping mall parking lot. They take everything out of the J.C. Penney bags and dump the empty bags in the garbage can. Next, they clip off the price tags, scuff the shoes, and stuff the other purchases into the trunk just as if they’d been there since spring break.

I have to confess to a bit of smuggling myself in the distant past. I’d gone over the border at Niagara Falls for a few hours with my late wife and her shopping friend. It was a hot summer’s day. On the return trip, we stopped to report to Canada Customs. I was sitting in the back seat of the car wearing three new golf shirts, one on top of the other, and sweating profusely. I listened carefully as the officer asked the others if they’d bought anything. “No, no, we were just visiting the Albright-Knox Art Gallery,” they said, flashing their best smiles. Then, he gave me the evil eye, and said, “Citizenship?” It was a question I was not expecting. I guess my guilt got the better of me, because I blurted “Presbyterian.” He looked so baffled that he just waved us through.

If Trump thinks we’re smugglers now, just wait until the Canadian dollar gets back somewhere near par again. We’ll smuggle him blind. And not just shoes, either.

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign

The first sign what a Doug Ford administration would look like came when the premier-elect decided he would forgo protocol and speak first after polls closed on election night. Rather than be gracious and allow Kathleen Wynne and Andrea Horwath to thank supporters and concede defeat, he played Bigfoot, and launched into his televised remarks less than a minute after Wynne had begun hers. He knew exactly what he was doing; it was a graceless gesture.

The second scary thought is that a key advisor to the Ford administration will be former premier Mike Harris. When Harris was in power, he treated Toronto like it was the “revenge of the rubes.” I guess it played well in Shelburne and Coboconk and probably will again. Now that the NDP dominates downtown Toronto ridings, I fear those bad old days returning.

Angry voters have pushed Ontario into the global movement away from liberal democracies. The cult of the leader is king. I don’t in the least like the direction we’re taking. It is narcissistic, mean-spirited, and not at all how this country was built.

Moreover, no female prime minister or premier has ever been re-elected in Canada. The answer has to be plain old misogyny – and in the case of Wynne – add homophobia to the mix. How else to explain the depths to which her personal popularity sank. Disdained policies can only drive numbers down so far. The veneer of civilization is very thin. Every once in a while, it gets scratched and shows its true self underneath. This election was one of those times.

Lessons from ancient lore

Few could pull it off. Stephen Fry’s one-man performance in Mythos at the Shaw Festival is beyond entertaining, it is spell-binding. In this world premiere of a trilogy based on his book Mythos: The Greek Myths Retold, published last year, we saw Heroes. The other two offerings are Gods and Men.

Alone on the stage, sitting in an arm chair, speaking without notes for two hours, Fry manages – for the most part – to keep the audience’s rapt attention. In the opening half-hour when Fry demonstrated his encyclopedic knowledge of Greek myths, I have to admit I got a bit of a brain cramp trying to follow the dozens of names of gods and goddesses, their progeny and their relationships to each other. The second half, when he was thoroughly into storytelling about Odysseus making his years-long voyage home to Ithaca, was far better.

Fry is best known for his comic roles such as Jeeves, the valet in Jeeves and Wooster, with Hugh Laurie as the hapless Bertie Wooster. Fry is also a novelist and the voice of the audiobooks in the Harry Potter series. In Niagara-on-the-Lake he made abundantly clear why Greek myths have inspired so many authors and artists over the centuries as he spoke about the wanderings of Odysseus and his encounters with Circe, Cyclops and Calypso. It’s because the topics represent such eternal verities: triumph and tragedy, humour and hubris, life and love.

To my mind, the onstage jim-crackery that include a game show parody and shouted responses from the audience, didn’t help. But they did not get in the way of the message: The Greek myths are not dead. Concluded Fry, “The gods are still with us.” During the performance, we could not help but believe him.

Statues and a bust

At this time of year, the portion of the University of Toronto campus near me is a beautiful place to walk. Beds of daffodils and tulips bloomed in abundance followed by pungent lilacs, flowering crab and the tall candles of horse chestnut trees. Amid the floral splendour around St. Michael’s and Victoria College are representations and remembrances of people from the university’s past who were global figures in their fields.

Here one finds the coachhouse that beginning in 1968 served as the centre for Marshall McLuhan’s program in culture and technology. McLuhan’s foresight on so many topics was daunting. Nearby is one of those selfie-ready statues with literary critic Northrop Frye sitting on a bench. I heard Frye speak in 1966 when he came to Western where I took Honours English. His Fearful Symmetry remains by far the best study on poet and artist William Blake.

U of T has been home to other renowned scholars and scientists in the years since, like John Polanyi, who won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 1986. But the best known faculty member these days is Jordan Peterson, who celebrates the 1960s – not out of any reverence for those above-mentioned greats – but because he’d like to return to that patriarchal time when men were men and women were simply vessels.

Such misogyny is neither bold nor brave. It is but the whimper of a little man who wants to ride on the backs of thick-headed social media yahoos who feel left out. Peterson is no McLuhan or Frye. His best-selling book, 12 Rules for Life, is just a melange of warmed over self-help ideas – such as “stand up straight” – that amount to nothing. I can only hope that no one ever decides to erect a statue to him. The future will think poorly of us for saluting such a social throw-back.

Healing the frazzled mind

You remember Yoko Ono? The one who broke up The Beatles? Or rode the death of John Lennon to fame? But what people forget is that Yoko Ono was an accomplished artist long before meeting Lennon in 1966. To paraphrase The Ballad of John and Yoko, “You know you didn’t even give her a chance.”

Yoko Ono’s exhibition at Toronto’s Gardiner Museum, The Riverbed, is fun, interactive, and makes you think. The room is divided into three parts. The first is a scree of rocks collected from the Colorado River, hundreds of them, weighing three tons in all. But they’re not just for regarding, you’re encouraged to pick one up and then sit on a black floor mat holding that rock until all your anger and sadness is gone. Twenty of the rocks have a word or a phrase written on them. We saw “forgive” and “count your blessings” among the possibilities.

Part two consists of tables and chairs with a supply of broken crockery accompanied by glue, twine and scissors to make something and mend yourself at the same time. Once done, you can hang your creation on the wall with a descriptive note. Mine says, “Pieces of a life lived.” Part three is all about connectivity with more hammering and stretching of string from one point to another to another, creating an intricate web built on the handiwork of many others who have been there before you. Self-portraits and other penciled artistry decorate the walls.

At the Gardiner, you can spend as long as you want being healed, mended or otherwise entertained. Five minutes or five hours, take your pick. To my mind, that’s way better than those crazy Infinity Mirrors at the Art Gallery of Ontario where they made you queue forever on the phone for tickets then rushed everybody through the rooms in a matter of mere seconds.

The ears have it

I was riding in a car recently with a young driver who might have been in his early 20s. Rap was playing. He asked, “Do you like this music?” “No,” I said, “they finally invented a music I don’t like.” He quickly switched to Sirius channels from the 70s and 80s featuring songs from artists like Bob Seger and Gary Wright. I was a happy man, transported into the past via streaming music.

If such technology doesn’t appeal, you’ll be interested to know that there is likely a group of ancient rockers playing a concert in a venue near you. Among the multiple touring bands this year is half of The Monkees – Mickey Dolenz and Mike Nesmith. The latter used to be a recluse until he found out how remunerative these gigs are. Davy Jones is dead. Peter Tork says he’s had enough gadding about for a while.

If The Monkees are not your thing, how about Phil Collins in his “Not Dead Yet, Live!” tour or Nana Mouskouri in her “Forever Young” tour? She’s 83. Fleetwood Mac and Def Leppard are also out there somewhere. Elton John’s currently on his five continent “Farewell Yellow Brick Road” tour which could last two years or until his wardrobe runs out, whichever comes first. And of course, there’s Billy Joel who plays Madison Square Garden every few months and has now had fifty consecutive sellout shows.

Why do audiences fill halls to hear these hits from the blitz? Well, we saw Chicago and the Allman Brothers Band last summer. While they look older on stage than you might like, inside you feel as young as you were when you first heard them. And that alone is worth the price of admission.

Happy warriors

When I recently learned that Centre Block on Parliament Hill was closing for ten years of renovation, I knew I had to take a nostalgia tour. Ten years could mean fifteen, or even twenty. If it took that long, I’d be in my nineties and might not be around for the outcome. I wanted to discover what was the same and what had changed since I worked on the Hill in the 1970s.

Because I’d been press secretary for the Leader of the Opposition, I first wanted to look at Room 409-S. So I wrote to the current occupant, the Honourable Andrew Scheer, and received a speedy and positive response from one of his staffers, Kelsey Regnier. She made the necessary arrangements and last Friday we were able to see that my former office has been added to an expanded meeting room with “Fear God” and “Honour the King” still carved above the doors. Scheer was in Montreal but we enjoyed a special tour of Centre Block given by John Brassard, the member for Barrie-Innisfil, and deputy opposition whip. A former firefighter, he is an ebullient man who cares deeply for his country.

Some surprises: There’s airport-style security at the main door and additional security if you want to sit in the visitors’ gallery. You can’t even wear your watch; it could become a projectile! John Diefenbaker’s office is now occupied by opposition staffers drumming up questions for Question Period. Between the official portraits of Paul Martin and Jean Chretien stands a pillar, as if commemorating the rivalry between the two former Liberal prime ministers. My favourite room in all the world, the Parliamentary Library, is as magnificent as ever.

The most enjoyable aspect was meeting so many MPs, who when they heard I’d worked for Robert Stanfield, cited the fabled comment by Richard Gwyn of the Toronto Star who called Stanfield, “The best prime minister we never had.” Stanfield would rather have become PM, but losing didn’t make him either bitter or morose. Still, it was a pleasure to hear such praise forty years after he walked those halls. Few men make that kind of mark in this world.

Choiceless choices

A couple of years ago, when I got sick of the trouble Bell was having updating its Internet server, I fled to Rogers. The young man who signed me up assured me that Rogers had its own server and was constantly updating it. Of course, he was lying. Once aboard I could see that Rogers did not have its own server, they used Yahoo. I should have known one telecom was no better than another.

My service has been OK, just the usual blips and hiccups, until a few days ago. Those of you with Rogers will have seen the pop-up declaring that Yahoo and AOL had joined to create Oath, a part of Verizon. And, oh by the way, they would be looking at any and all content I send and receive with a view to learning what I was saying and to whom. If I didn’t agree to their terms of use after some time had passed, they would simply assume I had agreed and continue their eavesdropping at will, so I might as well accept now.

Elsewhere I found a line saying if I wanted to know what private information Rogers already had on me, I could send a message to a specific email address. I got an emailed response and phone number from someone with the unlikely title of Advisor, Office of the President. I phoned and asked if he worked for a president of one of the divisions, but he was evasive. The background noise sounded a lot like a call centre. Maybe title inflation has reached the lower ranks. Turns out what they knew about me was stuff like when I’d made an appointment for a service call. Nothing about my real life as a brigand.

We made an appointment for him to call again this week when he said he would “guide me through” the process to “opt out” and gain more privacy. I was excited to think I was on the way to winning the war with the nosy American behemoths. But, when he called today, he had me go to a site and click on one thing and that was the extent of it. I can’t imagine those few seconds changed much. He said he’d just learned that morning about what he’d showed me and added that he’d get in touch when he knew more. I expect he’ll be President by then and have one of his advisors make the call. Meanwhile, I’m under Oath.

Eternal sunshine of the thoughtless mind

Am I the only one who thinks Drake was showboating the other night when he wore that Humboldt Broncos hoodie to the Raptors-Wizards basketball game? You know Drake, don’t you, the Toronto boy who became famous as a rapper, the first music invented in my lifetime that I don’t like. But there he was, to the cheers of 20,000 fans, paying his respects to the sixteen hockey players and staff killed in a collision with a transport truck.

These days, lots of people are wearing hockey jerseys as a tribute to the team. I was in the underground Path one day last week and many passers-by wore just such gear. But there’s a difference. Each of them went to their closet that morning and picked out a favourite. There was a preponderance of Leafs jerseys, but many other NHL teams were represented, too. I also saw a Sidney Crosby Team Canada shirt, a vintage Wayne Gretzky, and one from the Oshawa Generals.

In contrast, Drake had his made special. Maybe it wasn’t even his idea; maybe someone in his entourage organized the whole thing and laid it out for him at game time. Kind of a bespoke without speaking. How much of Drake actually went into the outfit may be minimal, except for the payment. I can’t imagine what it cost. $500? More?

What else can you expect from a so-called Raptors fan like Drake who has at best been an on-again off-again supporter this season? And someone who recently attended a private party at his newest Toronto restaurant for the visiting team, Raptors’ nemesis LeBron James and his Cleveland Cavaliers. Wonder what colours Drake wore that night?

The fifty-first state

I was writing a postal code, got to the Z, and said to myself “Zee” … not “Zed.” Has it come to this? Have I finally been totally Americanized? Little wonder, when you consider the inundations that daily roll into our country from across the southern border. Or as Derek Burney, the former Canadian ambassador to the U.S., used to call it, “The world’s longest undefended cliché.”

Look at retail. U.S. banners from Amazon to Walmart dominate the Canadian shopping landscape. Eaton’s is long gone. The Bay seems to have been taken over by Saks Fifth Avenue, not vice versa. And there’s a Nordstrom Rack opening in May only five minutes from where I live. If only the depth of stock and quality of service came with the names. Nordstrom has been in Canada for more than a year and they still don’t carry Smartcare, their most popular line of men’s dress shirts.

Even our language is morphing more American. The first time I heard anyone use “buddy” for everyone he met was my friend from Georgia when I lived in Washington, D.C. in the 1990s. Now you can’t escape it. Everybody calls everybody buddy; everybody’s son is called buddy. It’s like no-one gets christened anymore. And, in the movies, Toronto is still Hollywood’s most photographed city that dares not speak its name. We can be any American urban centre we are so successful at hiding our real selves.

The only saving grace in all of this is that Donald Trump is not our president. But I say, let’s retake out identity. Build a wall. Unlike Mexico, we should happily pay for it.