Rod McQueen's Blog, page 45

The merits of mediocrity

A year ago, there were six female premiers in Canada. Now, for various reasons, there are only two. Life remains tough at the top for women in the professions, too. Of the 193 Lexpert Ranked Lawyers pictured in the ROB Magazine distributed today, only 15 per cent are women. And this in a field where for two decades women have comprised 50 per cent of the law school graduates. Some of the banks and other corporations are making progress with female director appointments following a push by the Ontario Securities Commission, but full boardroom equality remains a distant, forlorn hope.

Some women in politics are not helping the cause of the sisterhood. There have been allegations about expense account and travel fiddles made against women in three levels of government: former Alberta Premier Alison Redford, Senator Pamela Wallin, and Susan Fennell, the mayor of Brampton, Ont. All of these complaints appear to fall into the category of a sense of entitlement, a failing that catches men at the top, too. Conrad Black, Garth Drabinsky and Alan Eagleson, all of whom went to jail, come to mind. 

But rather than commit major fraud, as do many men who go astray, women seem to get ensared by spending issues, just like the stereotypical female shopper. As for real equality, that day will only arrive when numerous mediocre women are promoted. Lord knows there have been too many mediocre men in charge for far too many years. 

Your money or your life

The current ruckus between retail giant Amazon.com and publisher Hachette will have a huge impact on the publishing industry. Amazon already dominates the retail book business. There used to be numerous bookstores along Bloor Street over the 10 km between my house in the west end and Yonge Street in downtown Toronto. Now there is one.

To date, no one has given much consideration to authors, nor is that likely to change. A group of 900 authors took out a full-page ad last week in the New York Times to protest Amazon's monopoly power, but the public won't rally to the cause. They like the convenience of e-books online; lower prices are a bonus. The standard price for an ebook is $16.99. Amazon wants to sell at $9.99. If that happens, the outcome will be costly for authors and publishers who are, after all, two of the three legs in the book sales stool. 

Readers have already been getting a good deal. Hard cover book prices haven't even kept pace with inflation. In the thirty years I've been writing books the retail price of a book has risen 50 per cent while inflation is up more than 100 per cent. As for income, royalties remain 10 per cent of list whether it's a hard cover or e-book. At $9.99, an author makes $1 versus $3 for a hardcover. As e-books increase as a proportion of sales, author incomes will fall. In times past, 25,000 hard cover books at $32.95 yielded $82,000; 25,000 e-books at $9.99 is $25,000, more than a two-thirds drop. There is no sign that a cheaper ebook version will sell more copies than a fully-priced hard cover did. Even as ebook sales have increased to one-fifth of sales, overall sales are flat. 

So here's the bottom line. You can have lower prices if you want, but you'll have fewer authors and fewer books. Is that a worthy choice? 

Robin Williams 1951-2014

The suicide of Robin Williams is a chilling reminder of what's important in life and what's not. The only time I ever saw Williams in person was in Florence a decade ago. He was ambling alone along Via dei Calzaiuoli, one of the pedestrian streets in the city's historic centre, carrying a large Dolce & Gabbana shopping bag. Despite dark glasses and a stubble beard, he was instantly recognizable. People were gawking at him and popping out of shops for a better look.

His body language was fascinating. His eyes were fixed on the pavement two metres ahead. Every once in a while, he'd veer toward a shop and peer intently in the window, then resume the same slow pace. He was smirking, as if trying out jokes in his head. While he didn't seem to be seeking recognition, if someone stopped him to say hello or take a photo, he was happy to oblige.

It struck me that Williams was afraid to make eye contact in case that individual didn't know who he was or couldn't remember his name and had to ask. What a catastrophe that would be for a needy comic who requires constant feeding and attention. The way Williams was comporting himself was safe. If a stranger was flummoxed, it didn't matter, because Williams was unaware. He was lonely but would be satisfied by nothing less than adulation. 

Janis Joplin suffered similarly. She used to complain that she spent the evening with 10,000 fans at a concert and then passed the night alone in her hotel. She died of a drug overdose in her search for happiness. Whether it's Williams, Joplin or Philip Seymour Hoffman, the message is the same. Fame isn't what it's cracked up to be. 

A tale of two teams

On my way to the Blue Jays game last night, I caught up and passed another fan wearing an Arencibia shirt, the worst-hitting catcher we've ever had. We traded J.P. to Texas but he got his vengeance when he clubbed a three-run homer last time he was through town. Anyway, I asked this man, "How are we going to do tonight?" To which he replied, "Depends on which team shows up."

Indeed. The Bad Blue Jays showed up and we lost 9-3. I've been down to the ballpark nine times so far this season and the Bad Blue Jays have shown up for six of those games. I've only seen three wins.

Fortunately, there's a rhythm to these events that begins well before I'm seated. There's the flow of fans along Front Street, the piper in front of the convention centre with his left shoe tapping the pavement, a stop at the Don Juan chip wagon for a hot dog and fries, the scalpers and the panhandlers, Batman and Spiderman (where's the silver Elvis?), and Ralph, who's been selling programs since the Jays played at the CNE. Ralph and I always have the same conversation. I say, "Hi Ralph." He looks at me quizzically and asks, "Where do I know you from?" And I say, "Here, Ralph," and keep walking.

On the field are more rhythms: R. A. Dickey's pump-handle windup, Jose Bautista's back-bending antics with his bat while he's on deck, Edwin Encarnacion spitting in his glove, and the choreographed moves of Jose Reyes greeting a teammate who hits a home run and arrives back in the dugout.

The Jays organization has gone to some trouble this year to reach out to fans through social media. As a result there's all kinds of silly contests involving tweets and something called the Chirp Chair where famous players from the past like Robbie Alomar sit and smile for the camera.

Instead of all this jim-crackery I'd prefer another month like our high-flying May when anything seemed possible. Meanwhile, just don't mess with the rhythms of the game. 

Shavian success

Never take seriously what a theatre critic says. That's never been more true than it is about The Philanderer, now playing at the Shaw Festival. Robert Cushman of the National Post tells chapter and verse about the plot but never quite gets around to saying whether he likes the play or not. At one point he even says he's going to plagiarize himself from a 2007 review by joking he "would never have joined any club that would have me as a mentor." Of course, Cushman is also sampling Groucho Marx, not just himself. 

Globe and Mail critic J. Kelly Nestruck's review calls the play "so-so" with only Richard Ouzounian of the Star giving the play four stars out of four. Shaw had a jaundiced view of critics. In The Philanderer, Shaw puts these words in the mouth of Leonard Charteris (ably played by Gord Rand), "He's a dramatic critic. Didn't you hear me say that he was the leading representative of manly sentiment in London?" Replies Julia Craven (Moya O'Connell), "You don't say so. Now really, who'd have thought it! How jolly it must be to be able to go to the theatre for nothing!" 

My daughter and I headed for The Philanderer worried that the critics were right. They weren't. The nine-member cast was superb, the staging excellent, and the repartee and wordplay were marvelous, just as you might expect from Shaw, who also said, "Beware of false knowledge; it is more dangerous than ignorance."

Make mine sugar-free

My problem with Sugar Beach is not the three dozen pink umbrellas that cost $11,000 each or the $500,000 spent on decorative rocks. No, my problem is that you feel like an idiot sitting in one of those white Muskoka chairs with nothing much to do and even less to look at.

Mind you, I'm fair-skinned so sun tanning is taboo, but what kind of a beach has no access to nearby Lake Ontario for wading or swimming? Moreover, since there's no place to walk, there's no way to admire bikinis going by, either.

Depending how early you arrive, your view is most likely to be to the west, directly into the Redpath Sugar refinery and the pier where ocean-going ships deliver raw cane. As for the smell of production, let's call it sickly sweet with a touch of sewage. And at sunset, your view is blocked so you can't watch the sun slipping into the water while someone plays Amazing Grace on the kazoo.

Sugar Beach is nothing more than a 2-acre sandbox. Just another dud destination on Toronto's wasteland waterfront.

 

Consider the alternative

A while back, when Kentucky Fried Chicken updated its logo and began calling itself KFC, they also altered the presentation of founder Colonel Harland Sanders. He now wears a chef's apron and, I swear, looks younger than he used to.

Or maybe it's because I'm getting older. I recently celebrated my 70th birthday so I've now had my biblical three score and ten. I know I'm no spring chicken, but I don't feel 70, either. Until some young man in his early 20s offers me his seat on the subway. I always accept. Might as well enjoy the fruits of my years because I can't say I've become any wiser with the passage of time. But I can still walk for miles, do my daily yoga and continue to get up at 4 a.m. to write my books as I've done for the last thirty years.

A few things, however, have changed. I cry at movies. I no longer read stories about the sudden death of a child; I've had enough heartbreak of that sort. I'll give a book 50 pages and if it doesn't grab me I'll start another. 

Meanwhile, let others worry about aging. No hair dye for me. Unlike George Burns, I buy green bananas. I could die in twenty hours or live another twenty years. Not knowing which outcome will prevail adds a certain frisson to your life and reminds you to enjoy every day to the full. Which I do. 

 

 

Right time, right place, good luck

Donald J. Savoie has written an excellent book about an entrepreneur who deserves to be celebrated. The book, Harrison McCain: Single-Minded Purpose (McGill-Queen's), tells how Harrison and his brother Wallace, built McCain Foods from a rural startup in backwater New Brunswick to a global powerhouse that makes and sells one-third of all the french fries in the world. "One world, one fry," was the company motto. From a profit of $1,822 in its first year of operation in the 1950s, McCain Foods has annual revenues of more than $6 billion today.

Savoie, who holds the Canada Research Chair in Public Administration and Governance at l'Université de Moncton, was a long-time friend of Harrison McCain who died in 2004. Savoie declares his involvement up front in an almost apologetic fashion, but in fact, the relationship is a strength. No one else could have seen as deep inside McCain as Savoie. He vividly relates the beginnings of the empire and the government mindset of the day when grants and loans were first becoming available in helpful amounts.

Throughout, McCain is portrayed as unstoppable, focussed on helping his community of Florenceville, New Brunswick, and a visionary with a self-effacing manner. When asked the reasons for his success, he always said, "Right time, right place, good luck."

Only in the middle of the book, when describing expansion to various countries, does the story drag. As long as Harrison McCain is on the page, his impatience, focus and folksiness keeps your interest. Drawing on Harrison's personal papers, Savoie adds new details to the family feud that eventually drove Wallace away from the business. But to my mind, the best comes at the end when Savoie tells stories about Harrison's interest in public policy, his genuine love of farming and farmers, and his integrity. At one point, for example, an employee trademarks the name 5 Alive to stop a U.S. competitor from bringing the drink to Canada. When Harrison learns of the dodge, he orders that the name be sold back to the U.S. company for one dollar. "We are not goddamn crooks," he said. "This is not the way for us to do business."

Savoie concludes it is unlikely another Harrison McCain will rise from rural Canada. The focus is all on big cities now and governments are unlikely to help a little guy from nowhere. Too bad. We need more Harrison McCains in this country. 

Borderline personality

I have a confession to make. When I was bureau chief (and all the Indians) for The Financial Post in Washington, D.C. from 1989-93, there were occasions when I would make news happen. Here's how it would work. If by 11 a.m. I couldn't see an obvious story that would interest my editors, I'd phone around. There were three sure-fire calls. One was a guy I knew at a U.S. organization that had a long-standing trade fight with Canada. I won't name him. It's OK to embarrass myself, but I'm not going to snitch on someone else.

I'd ask him if there were anything happening on his file and, sensing my need for something to be happening, he'd come up with a poll that was about to go into the field or a hearing some no-name member of congress was thinking about considering, and pretty soon I'd have a trade story concerning a pox on Canadian exports to the U.S. that I knew my editors would like.

If he wasn't available, there was aways Senator Max Baucus (D-Montana) who was forever trying to slap duties on Canadian wheat or lumber or anything else that moved from north-to-south. Canada's former Ambassador to the U.S. Derek Burney used to kid Baucus that he appeared on CBC-TV 's The National more often than some Canadian cabinet ministers. If Baucus's staff weren't cooperative there was always Byron Dorgan, a Democratic member of the House of Representatives from North Dakota whose particular problem with Canada was the quality (or lack thereof in his mind) of meat coming across the border.

You get the idea. These were all serious trade issues but readers might not have read about them quite as often as they did if people like me didn't get in there and stir the pot. I got thinking about all this when I read a story in the Globe and Mail this morning about long-simmering Canada-U.S. issues such as Keystone, the Windsor-Detroit bridge, and Buy American legislation. Maybe if journalists would stop hyping these topics, some so-called irritants might go away or even get solved. Or would such behaviour be too much to ask?

Direct import

There must be no other country in the world that publishes and broadcasts more news and feature articles holus-bolus from a single foreign source than Canada does from the United States. If KOCO-TV in Oklahoma City has footage of a tornado near the tiny town of Broken Arrow, CBC and CTV will run it on their national broadcasts. Wildfires in the Hollywood Hills are another favourite. The footage is so easy; the fires just keep burning. And the cost is low to fill one-minute-thirty in the newscast.

Some Canadian newspapers even have special package deals. The Sunday edition of the Toronto Star includes two sections filled with news and book reviews from the New York Times. The Globe and Mail has complete pages every day devoted to material from the Wall Street Journal. By contrast, if you happen to be in the U.S., you'd have a hard time finding one story about Canada in a month of searching.

Time was when such U.S. content was only available to subscribers at high costs, but these days, you can read everything on line. So what's the purpose of all this U.S. spillover other than to fill up the newscast or the paper with something that's ready to go? What a lazy way to serve readers and viewers.

Obituaries offer a particularly egregious example. On all too many days the Globe runs obits plucked from the New York Times Service or The Guardian about people you never heard of before with little or nothing to do with Canada. Go to London, buy any of the quality papers, and you'll get half a dozen wonderfully written obituaries of Britons. In Canada, now that Sandra Martin has retired from the Dead Beat, as she called it, other than regular offerings by Fred Langdon, good reads are few and far between. All we get is another Kansan whose corn grew higher than an elephant's eye.

Our fevered independence so celebrated yesterday is a joke. If a U.S. celebrity comes to town on a book tour, movie promo, or just to parade her pulchritude, Canadian journalists line up in droves. We went from being British colonials to American lapdogs and didn't even notice.