Rod McQueen's Blog, page 33

A reader writes

I confess to being a little late learning about this bit of news but a National NewsMedia Press Council was established last year. Its two main purposes appear to be: respond to complaints and promote ethics in the media. Some good people are involved including John Fraser, former editor of Saturday Night; Joanne De Laurentiis, former CEO of the Investment Funds Institute of Canada; and Ken Whyte, my boss at National Post, now at Rogers.

This national group replaces four press councils and represents most English-language media. This being Canada, Alberta and Québec are not aboard; they continue to have their own press councils. The group considering complaints consists of both public and media members. Of the twenty-two matters dealt with so far in 2016, all but one complaint was dismissed.

Still, organizations such as this can be important places for redress. Court actions are expensive and can take far too long. In July, former foreign correspondent Arthur Kent won a defamation suit against Postmedia that arose from a column that ran in 2008 – eight years ago.

I’d like to file two complaints with the National NewsMedia Press Council. First, the organization is voluntary and self-regulatory, which I assume means any finding can be disregarded by the offending individual or publication. Second, it seems to be responsive only, rather than proactive. I would prefer the Council act like cops on the beat and tackle wrongdoings when they see them rather than just wait until someone calls 911.

 

 

 

They spill more than we drink

There were gawkers galore as I wandered through the new Nordstrom store in the Eaton Centre, part of the U.S. retailer’s push into Canada. This is the fourth location to open with two more to come. This latest is sizeable, 220,000 sq ft on three floors with a bar and lounge on the second floor called Habitant and a $14 signature drink called Dundas Streetcar. Those are two nice Canadian touches, except for the fact that the main ingredient in the drink is bourbon.

I said gawkers because there were few shoppers. In Nordstrom’s signature department, ladies’ shoes, there must have been one hundred beautiful chairs and places on couches for trying on shoes. Only five were occupied. Usage was even lower in mens’ shoes, one chair of the maybe forty in all. How are prices? I checked two items: Nordstrom’s brand in men’s briefs and pinpoint Oxford dress shirts. Both were about the same as in the U.S. after taking into account the weak Canadian dollar.

My fascination, maybe fixation, in comparing U.S. retail to Canadian is foolish. We will always come up short. There are no shopping areas in Canada like Newbury Street in Boston, St. Armands Circle in Sarasota or Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Even Canadian philanthropists are a measure of the difference between the two countries. Arthur Irving, whose family made most of their money in New Brunswick, has just donated $80 million to Dartmouth College, New Hampshire, where his daughter graduated in 2010.

Imagine what a Canadian university could have done with $80 million. The current issue of Impact, the official publication of Western University, my alma mater, features a cover story on Stephen Jarislowsky who just donated $2 million for a chair in central banking. The other major donation in the same issue is Scotiabank’s $3 million for a digital banking lab. We’re really a lesser place when it comes to philanthropy, university endowments and a lot of other elements. And no amount of American retailing in our midst will change that.

Lonely is the cloud

I fear the cloud. I agree totally with the dialogue from Sex Tape, the romp starring Cameron Diaz and Jason Segel. They’ve made a sex tape that he was supposed to delete, but forgot. And somehow now it’s on the Internet. “It went up to the cloud,” Segel tells Diaz. “And you can’t get it down from the cloud?” she asks incredulously. “Nobody understands the cloud,” he says. “It’s  a mystery.”

In an attempt to unravel the mystery, I went looking for an explanation. The first one I read made it all sound so sensible. You want to plant some tomatoes but don’t have a shovel, went the description, so you borrow a shovel from your neighbour and return it when you’re finished. So folksy, so foolish. The cloud is nothing like that. I can see the borrowed shovel in my hand; I return it and the deal’s done.

But as a writer, I worry incessantly about losing my work. My current book project will take two years. I’m not quite halfway through so I’m building the word count and the number of chapters daily. I can’t afford to lose everything and have to start all over. If my iMac expires I need backups.

So here’s what I do: I backup daily on an external hard drive. I back up weekly on a flash drive and keep it at home. Every three weeks I put a flash drive in my safe deposit box at the bank. Every time I visit my daughter in Hamilton, I leave a flash drive there in a drawer. If I travel out of town, I take a copy with me. I think that makes five different iterations in different locations at any given time. Except for asking my favourite local squirrel, Nutsy Fagan, to bury a flash drive somewhere in the neighbourhood, I think I’ve done all I can.

So, even though it’s inviting, I’m certainly not going to send my work up to the cloud. That would be like watching a member of your family march off to war.

 

Long gone John

Someone asked me recently, “How do you think John Tory’s doing?” I realized I had no opinion. After becoming mayor of Toronto two years ago, John Tory’s become all but invisible. Oh, he marches at Pride parades and announces parks on top of railway tracks, but nothing comes of anything.

I know Tory. He’s an admirable man. He has certainly shown his mettle in tough political campaigns. He ran Kim Campbell’s efforts in 1993 when the federal Progressive Conservatives almost disappeared. Tory ran for mayor of Toronto in 2003 and lost. As leader of the provincial PCs, he ran in a safe seat and won, then went up against Liberal leader Kathleen Wynne, and lost. He then ran in another supposedly safe seat, lost again, and resigned as leader. Finally, in 2014 he was elected mayor.

Tory is a vast improvement over Rob Ford, but after all that work to get elected to a position of power, you’d think Tory would have arrived with a to-do list. After almost two years in office, the only I thing I can think of that he’s stood for is that foolish multi-billion-dollar one-stop subway extension in Scarborough.

John Tory is like Paul Martin Jr. who fought for years to become prime minister. But when Martin finally got where he always wanted to go, he didn’t have any idea why he was there. Same with John Tory. His strength, his ability to talk, is also his weakness. He’s sure a talker. But he’s not a doer.

Grip, grin and grab

I think I’ve finally hit the small time. I just got an emailed invitation to attend one of those “cash for access” events with Prime Minister Justin Trudeau and Finance Minister Bill Morneau. The invitation came from a man I’ve never met, Malcolm MacKillop, a Toronto lawyer. Well, it didn’t actually come from him. It was sent by his law clerk Adela Zawadzki. I’ve never met her, either.

The event, described as “cocktails and conversation” will be held on September 29 at the National Club in Toronto, at a time to be determined. But the invitation helpfully says it’s expected to be 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. So I’ve been invited by someone I don’t know to attend an event at a time to be decided later.

The cost, however, is big time: $3,000, with the money split between the Liberal Party of Canada and Morneau’s constituency, Toronto Centre. I have to write two cheques; they can’t cut up the cash in the back room. And, oh yeah, this is such a select gathering that I’ve been asked to forward the donation form “to anyone else who you think would enjoy this event.” If that individual can’t attend, I’m to let them know that their money is welcome without them.

So, let’s say 100 people dig deep and show up for the two-hour event. One hundred and twenty minutes divided by 100 people means everybody gets 72 seconds with the two special guests, or 36 seconds each. A receiving line would offer as much opportunity for conversation. Oh well, based on the selectivity of the mailing list, there’ll be lots of nonentities like me in the room to talk to.

Tastes of summer

First word of what lay ahead came by roller skate. “Lemonade for sale,” called out the young girl as she zipped by. I was ready for a cool drink while on my walk, but I would have bought some lemonade even if I weren’t thirsty. I never pass a lemonade stand without buying. I’ll even stop my car and cross the street to be a patron. The quality differs, but the maker-seller is always the same: some youngster who needs support. I’m happy to give it.

In this case, there were a few wrinkles. In addition to lemonade, she was also selling snow cones. I chose the lemonade, then was offered two sizes: large for $1 and small for 50 cents. I chose small but gave her $1 anyway. “Free refills for that size,” she added in a final marketing ploy. I tucked the empty cup into my back pocket for later, but ended up coming home a different route so never collected.

Compare that small business to Nestlé Canada’s sweetheart deal. Nestlé has licences from the Ontario government to pump about 20 million litres of water a day out of the ground for the ridiculous price of $3.71 per million litres. Imagine running a company where your total daily input cost (plus bottling and distribution) is about $75. No wonder my local grocer can sell a case of 24 Nestlé 500 ml. bottles for $1.88.

I used to buy Nestlé water because it came from Aberfoyle, about 20 km. from Guelph, my birthplace. I felt like I was drinking the same spring water I did as a boy. Now that I know the Nestlé deal, I’ve joined the boycott. From this day forth, my feelings of nostalgia will flow only from lemonade stands.

Memento mori

Along with millions of other Canadians, last night I watched the last concert of The Tragically Hip, broadcast on CBC-TV in its 30-song setlist entirety. I’ve never been a fan of the group, but there I was anyway, because lead singer Gord Downie has terminal brain cancer. That was our last chance to see and hear him.

Final tours have a dubious history. Sir Harry Lauder, the Scottish music hall singer, said in 1926: “I have come to that time of life when home is good enough for me, and I will not tour again.” Of course, he did. His final North American tour was in 1932, and his final, final retirement in 1935, yet he carried on, entertaining the troops during the Second World War.

Glen Campbell, who suffered from Alzheimer’s, also did a final tour that can be seen in the compelling 2014 documentary “I’ll Be Me.” As with Downie, Campbell used a TelePrompTer so he could sing the lyrics that he’d written himself. The film spares nothing, including Campbell’s angry outbursts at his own family during those farewell days.

There was none of that with Downie, the concert was full of frolic and music, if not glad tidings. But why do we as a people love to gather round someone else’s last flickering embers? I’d like to think it’s a celebration of that individual’s life and contribution. But I fear it’s more about each of us as individuals, terrified of our own mortality. He’s dying and we’re not.

 

Just asking

In the last few days I’ve read an article about how Justin Trudeau was the first to put his hand on his heart when he spoke, a move other politicians have copied. And I’ve read a piece about how a bust of Napoleon or Caesar or somebody famous looked just like our prime minister. Oh, and a friend told me that he saw Trudeau playing with his kids in an Ottawa park on a Sunday morning – just like any other father. Next thing you know, the summer sun dappling on my garage door will create an image of our leader and the world gather in my driveway to pay homage.

I like Trudeau; I voted for him. But I’m wondering when his photo-op life will be replaced by parliamentary action. So far, it looks like the deficit could reach $30 billion without creating any new jobs. And the infrastructure that was supposed to create jobs goes unannounced. And the new chair of the Gordie Howe Bridge is talking about buying the Ambassador Bridge rather than building the bridge he was appointed to build. And marijuana looks like it will be tougher to buy than in the past, which in fact is just fine with me.

And do we really want judges and lawyers applying for positions on the Supreme Court? And is the review panel that will pick new justices really independent? Didn’t I read somewhere there’s a parallel selection committee in the office of the prime minister? What happened to employment insurance reform? What happened to change?

I believe it was Justin Trudeau who said during the election campaign, “We need to know that when we vote, it matters.” Well, does it?

A season of lassitude

The Blue Jays are having a great season; more fans are attending than at any time since the early 1990s. Through 56 home games including Sunday, attendance at the Rogers Centre is 2.3 million, up more than 600,000 compared to the same time last year, the biggest year-over-year increase among all major league baseball teams. Everyone’s wearing Jays merchandise. Buying a beer or a hot dog takes forever on line.

But what sort of fans are these? Like the Jays, this is my 40th season. I’ve been going since the first ball was tossed out at Exhibition Stadium in 1977 and I’ve never seen such a reluctant group in all that time. In the ninth inning on Sunday, with Roberto Osuna throwing strikes and the game tied 2-2, nobody was standing, nobody was applauding. A small group in the right field corner tried several times to start the wave but it rolled for less than two sections, flattened, and then faded away.

Most of these new so-called fans are just joyriders on a bandwagon. The Jays are doing well; let’s go take selfies. Their bored behaviour gives new meaning to fickle. I liked better the half-full Rogers Centre of yesteryear. You knew you were with baseball lovers. This bunch wouldn’t even know a baseball if it hit them.

Walk on by

What is fame? Is it honourable, something of heft, reputation, renown or is it just possessed by someone who drives fans to acts of dizzy demonstration? It’s hard to think well of the definition as applied by Canada’s Walk of Fame to its current inductees.

You’ve probably stepped on those stars in the sidewalk along King and Simcoe Streets in Toronto’s entertainment district. There are a few truly deserving winners such as Alexander Graham Bell, Mordecai Richler and Team Canada 1972. Some, like Rush, were wise before their time; the rock group was inducted into the Walk well before the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame chimed in. But, for the most part, the Walk of Fame is a harmless exercise with too many granted status simply because they found work in Hollywood. Think Mike Myers, Alan Thicke and Pamela Anderson.

This year’s seven inductees include several for whom talent is tangential: Michael Bublé, who never heard someone else’s song he didn’t want to sing, plus Lorne Greene and Wendy Crewson, two more transplanted Canadians in Los Angeles.

But there were also two other inductees who established a new low to qualify for fame: Don Cherry and Ron MacLean, the Abbott and Costello of Canadian broadcasting. Now I know what Andy Warhol meant when he said, “In the future everybody will be world famous for fifteen minutes.” Does Coach’s Corner even last that long?