Rod McQueen's Blog, page 56

The Vision thing

Never mind the Mayan calendar, you know the end of the world is nigh when Conrad Black gets a talk show. And what about the title? The Zoomer – Television for Zoomers with Zip. Sounds like it was written by a committee. Or Moses Znaimer, owner of Vision TV, where the show will appear. I’m not even sure where Vision is on the dial. Didn’t it start out as the Church Channel? Like Henry VIII, it seems to have converted to High Church of England.

I imagine Znaimer himself will make an early appearance on the weekly one-hour show scheduled to start this spring. Maybe he’ll talk about his current bugbear: noisy restaurants and how he’s forced to order takeout all the time. Another guest will almost certainly be Barbara Amiel. Conrad could ask: “How does it feel to be married to me?” We might wait a while before seeing the host’s former Hollinger colleague David Radler.

I’m happy to be a guest, too, after he’s had Henry Kissinger and Donald Trump and gets hard up. I’ll talk about the Conrad I used to know, the one who wrote insightful biographies about Duplessis and FDR. Otherwise, I doubt I’ll be watching. I usually cut the grass that night.

Robbed Burns

I’d been editing all morning, half listening to CBC Radio 2’s Julie Nesrallah in the background. I was about to turn the music off, when she announced a special one-hour tribute to Robbie Burns on this, his celebratory day. I have visited Burns Cottage in Alloway, Scotland, where they have assembled every button and bauble ever touched by the 18th Century poet, so I put on my kilt and sat down to listen. I was ready to keen about my heritage, drink some single malt, and cry my eyes out.

None of that occurred. The musical tribute could have been to Sibelius for all the connection with Burns: there were works by Mendelssohn and Bruch, two clans beyond my ken, mixed in with Beethoven – but at least it was his take on a Burns poem, Behold My Love How Green The Groves.

Finally, at 12:48, the hour almost over, Julie played something more directly connected to her theme, My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose. But just just to stick in the sgian-dubh, the dagger a Scot tucks in his stocking, this rendition of one of Burns’s best-known poems was sung by a Welshman, Bryn Terfel. Oh, the ignominy.

That serenade was followed by the theme from Schindler’s List by American composer, John Williams. I got a brain cramp trying to figure out how that possibly related to Robbie Burns. There might have been another tune before 1 p.m., I don’t know, I turned the radio off.

There was no Ode to the Haggis, no Auld Lang Syne, not even a bagpipe solo. As I put my kilt back in mothballs for another more auspicious occasion, I thought, praise be, at least there was nothing from Brigadoon.

Tea and toilet water

As a long-time fan of Masterpiece, I am trying hard to like Downton Abbey. I saw a few episodes from the first two seasons, including the infamous moment when Lady Mary found a formerly lustful Turkish diplomat dead in her bed. But I just couldn’t seem to care.

With all the folderol in advance of Season Three, I thought I’d have another go at it, as one of the characters might say. I admire the costuming, the language, the settings, the vintage autos and Maggie Smith’s tart tongue. Even Mr. Carson’s clinging to the bouillon spoons of the past is fine, if a little foolish.

But, when it’s all over, you say, “What was all that about.?” Much of the plot is banal, laughable or too obviously playing at the heartstrings. Look at last night’s highlights. A handsome new footman makes the ladies gasp, a wayward son-in-law roots for the wrong country, and the estate charges the tenants too little. This is the stuff of everyday, not great drama. Great drama is meant to lift us out of the mundane or offer catharsis. Nothing like that happens here. It’s not even good soap opera. Dallas was soap opera; Downton Abbey is toilet water.

In order save you watching the next episode, here’s what will take place. A tray of cucumber sandwiches will go sour. Lady Edith walks to the village and marries the first man she sees. A dog gets the mange. Bates loses a tooth and puts it under his pillow, but before the tooth fairy comes, jailers barge in, search his sheets, find the tooth and throw him into solitary for cannibalism. Mrs. Hughes puts a lock on her door to stop Mr. Carson’s intrusions. It rains for a while and then stops.

Looking for leaders

I read an article recently about a Canadian business leader who was asked about his fondest memory from university. In response, he waxed on about some interfaculty football game. He then lamented the demise of the scholar-athlete and how relevant that role once was. Yes, I thought, but wasn’t that just another form of elitism, kind of a junior Rhodes Scholar?

Little wonder there seem to be fewer such scholar-athletes these days. There never were very many. When I went to Western, there were about 5,000 undergrads, among whom only a few dozen might have qualified as scholar-athletes. There’s about the same quantity of those people today because the number of players or teams hasn’t grown. However, the number of undergrads at Western has, to about 25,000, so the elite proportion is smaller than ever.

Time was when those who fought in the Second World War dominated the executive suite. In the 1970s and early 1980s, CIBC was headed by former paratrooper Russ Harrison, Bank of Montreal’s Bill Mulholland had fought in the Philippines, and Rowlie Frazee of the Royal had led infantry in the Italian campaign. The next elite to rule was the aforementioned scholar-athlete. If you hadn’t played for the McGill Redmen, the Varsity Blues, or the Harvard hockey team you were cast aside because you couldn’t possibly understand the way the world worked.

Trouble is that such a narrow-minded view of business barred women from the executive suite. They were told to take up golf or learn locker-room jargon so they could keep up with the teamwork jock-talk of their male colleagues. Fortunately, we can no longer count on wars or sports to create enough leaders either in real life or metaphorically. We have to locate our leaders from a larger pool of people, one that includes women and the racial diversity that is Canada.

Anyway, I don’t think you can make a leader later in life. Sure, maybe you can learn a few leadership skills along the way, but the best leaders are born, just like the best singers come equipped with the best pipes. The Julliard or the Rotman School can only do so much.

Bury my heart on bended knee

For lo these many days I’ve been following the hunger strike of Theresa Spence. I worried about her, just getting by on fish broth, until I saw her interviewed on television recently. I thought, Whoa Nelly, she looks pretty hearty for somebody who has been starving herself to death for almost a month.

Then I learned that she was also the Attawapiskat First Nation Chief. Isn’t that the same place that, according to an audit by Deloitte and Touche, managed to take $104 million from the federal government over six years and have nothing much to show for it and no explanation for where a lot of it went? Sounds like what my university English Lit. prof would call “seeming and being” where how things appear are different from what they really are.

But before you dismiss me as just another redneck, let me declare myself. I’m on the side of the First Peoples of Canada and have been ever since I was six, travelling by car with my parents near Lake Couchiching. We took a wrong turn and somehow ended up on the Rama Reserve. Even at that young age I knew such squalor as I was seeing should not exist in a country with Canada’s bounty.

In my own small way, I’ve tried to do something. I helped raise money for the Native Canadian Centre of Toronto on Spadina Road. It was a tough campaign. Many people we approached were racist in their response. One business person captured the prevalent mood when he said, “Why would I give money to a bunch of people who are just going to piss it away in Nathan Phillips Square?”

But we pressed on and attained our goal. I was given an Ojibway name that means “He who strings words together.” As a business journalist, I also wrote articles and once did a TV documentary on native entrepreneurs who were succeeding against all odds. Did any of what I did make a difference? Of course not. I just have never been able to erase that searing boyhood memory from my mind.

All of which brings me back to Theresa Spence and her plea for help. Such demands are no longer about the money or the principle. There’s been plenty of public money sent over the years to Attawapiskat and many other places like it without any noticeable change. This is all about leadership. Chief Spence, give up your hunger strike and go home. There should enough money in the kitty to build each family a wonderful residence, hire good teachers, and supply fresh water for the community. If you don’t, I’m going on a hunger strike. It looks like a healthy way to begin the New Year.

The crystal ball

As promised, here are my predictions for 2013.

1. Sandra Pupatello will be the next leader of the Ontario Liberals and Premier of Ontario. Pupatello and her party will be replaced later in the year by Tim Hudak and the Progressive Conservative Party.

2. Despite all the new players and being named the odds-on favourite by Las Vegas oddsmakers, the Blue Jays will not win the World Series.

3. Hilary Clinton will take herself out of contention for 2016.

4. This is the year that the TSX will rise by double digits.

5. And the Bank of Canada hikes interest rates.

6. Canada’s gross domestic product will grow by a middling 2 percent.

7. At year’s end, Rob Ford will be mayor.

Look back in anguish

A year ago I made seven fearless predictions for 2012. Time to fess up and see how I did.

The first: “The problems in Europe are not over, but they will muddle along. Fear will subside.” While the words seem a tad milquetoast today, at the time I was way out on a limb. Anyway, count that one right.

The second: “Mitt Romney will defeat Barack Obama for the presidency.” Not only did Mittens have a tin ear, he had no heart. Son Tagg now says his father didn’t even want the job. I was wrong.

Third, “The Bank of Canada will raise interest rates.” Wrong again.

Fourth, “Kate and Wills will be pregnant.” Bingo.

Fifth, “The Canadian dollar will end the year about where it is now, 98 cents U.S.” With the C$ closing the year at $100.51 (U.S.) I think that’s good enough to call me correct.

Sixth, “Rob Ford will be charged with an offence.” Bingo. In November a judge found the mayor guilty of breaking the Municipal Conflict of Interest Act and ordered him removed from office.

Seven, “The S&P/TSX Composite Index, down 11 per cent in 2011, will rise by at least that amount.” The S&P/TSX was up only 4 per cent. If I’d picked just about any another index I would have achieved my predicted double-digit return. The S&P 500 was up 13 percent; the S&P Euro index, measured in U.S. dollars, was up 15 per cent. NASDAQ rose 16 per cent; the German DAX 29 per cent. Even the Greece Athex Composite was up 33 per cent.

Overall, four right and three wrong. Barely in positive territory. But, expressed as batting average, four for seven is .571. Good enough for the Hall of Fame.

Coming next: My fearless predictions for 2013.

You can go home again (The Sequel)

Joey Slinger, long-time columnist at the Toronto Star and winner of the Stephen Leacock Memorial Medal for Humour Writing, has been pummelling me with messages ever since my recent post about Guelph. Slinger also grew up in Guelph where he rose to the rank of sergeant-major in the cadet corps at Guelph Collegiate Vocational Institute. I was just a lowly private. Both of us wrote for the Guelph Mercury. He was full-time. I was merely a weekly high school news columnist while I was a student. So you can see he was always one step ahead.

Slinger took umbrage at my description of the bakeshop with the donuts. You didn’t name it, he pointed out, it was called Guthrie’s and the automated donut maker was right in the window. Some time went by and he must have woken in the night screaming because he remembered the name of the candy and nut shop I had also mentioned. Victoria Sweets, he emailed me, renowned for its caramel corn.

Before he starts sending me restaurant menus from Guelph in the 1950s and 1960s, I better get my cutlery going. I earned nine cents a column inch writing for the Mercury so I’d sit down at my typewriter Sunday night (the deadline was Monday morning) and write until I fell asleep. I’d earn about $4 which was enough to take my girlfriend to the movies at the Odeon on Friday night then to the Treanon for chips with gravy and Cherry Cokes. No worries about cholesterol in those days.

The local Junior A team, the Biltmore Madhatters, often contended for the Memorial Cup. They were a farm team for the New York Rangers, so Guelph saw such future NHL stars as Andy Bathgate, Harry Howell, Rod Gilbert and Jean Ratelle. I’m mentioning them because between periods there was enough time to scoot across the street right into the kitchen of the Green Rooster, get greasy fries wrapped in newspaper, and be back in your seat before play resumed.

There was also the Royal Dairy Milk Bar for tin roof sundaes and Dutch Toko for chocolates containing what I believed at the time was real liquor and Dopey Dutton’s where we’d buy Reinhart’s Flip, a locally made soft drink, for a nickel.

Some lads growing up in Guelph had a misspent youth in the pool hall above Ryan’s department store. Not me. My money went for treats the like of which I’ve never tasted again.

Shifting sands

My opinion about Stephen Harper began to shift last March. I met him for the first time when he was in Toronto for the official sod-turning of the tunnel to Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport. Unlike his cold and stand-offish public image, the Prime Minister was warm, gracious, and relaxed. My two grandchildren were also present. With a smile, he said to each of them, “Shake my hand, look me in the eye, and tell me your name.” He took time to chat even though the official ceremony awaited.

Last month during a lengthy Q&A session at the Canadian American Business Council, Harper looked like a man comfortable in his own skin. He talked frankly about relations between the two countries, including protectionist sentiment in the U.S. There was no political side-stepping, no gilding of any lilies.

He also spoke openly about personal aspects of his life, including a tour on his fiftieth birthday of the Abbey Road studios and the pleasure of playing a piano used by the Beatles. He even admitted crying as a 12-year-old boy in front of the television when his Toronto Argonauts lost the Grey Cup to the Calgary Stampeders in 1971.

I was surprised by how much I concurred with his recent decision on CNOOC Ltd.’s takeover of Nexen Inc. Ruling against the deal on a retroactive basis would have been wrong. I thought he struck the right balance by letting that deal go ahead, with provisos on net benefits, while at the same time drawing a line on future purchases by state-owned enterprises. After all, why should we privatize former government-owned entities such as Air Canada, CNR, and Petro-Canada only to allow foreign governments to own any or all of our businesses.

I was surprised at my own reaction on this foreign takeover because I started out my political life working for the Liberal Party as a student in the 1960s. I was a Pearsonian Liberal and a Walter Gordon nationalist. During my time working for Progressive Conservative leader Robert Stanfield in the 1970s I was a Red Tory. As a result I disagreed vehemently with most of what Harper did in his early years in the renamed Conservative Party.

Siding with him on CNOOC doesn’t mean I now concur with all his policy views. I’m too much of a curmudgeon for that. Yes, I’ve changed since my Red Tory days, but I’d like to think the Prime Minister has moved toward the political centre, and a little bit my way, too.

You can go home again

My co-author, Susan Papp, and I attended a reading and book signing today at The Bookshelf, a wonderful bookstore in Guelph. Susan and I each read passages, we did a short Q&A with Frank Hasenfratz, the subject of our book, Driven To Succeed, and then Frank answered questions from the 75 or so people on hand.

Barb and Doug Minett, owners of The Bookshelf, have done a terrific job in a difficult industry. Their establishment – which also offers first-run movies and has an excellent cafe – is among the best independent bookstores in Canada.

For Susan and I, the event served as a bit of a bookend. We started this project two years ago and made many a trip to Guelph for interviews with Frank, who founded Linamar in his basement making oil pumps for Ford. Linamar now has 17,000 employees in eight countries. Susan also travelled with Frank to his native Hungary as part of the research while I did the business-related interviews in Guelph and elsewhere.

For someone like me, who was born and raised in Guelph, the event brought back fond memories of far-off times. When I was six years old, Guelph was such an idyllic place that I could do the one-mile walk from my house to downtown and home again all by myself. Among the attendees at the signing was a couple I’d never before met who now live in the house where I grew up on Metcalfe Street opposite St. George’s Park.

The Bookshelf, of course, did not exist on Quebec Street in those days, but two of my favourite destinations did. On the nearby corner was a candy and nut shop. I couldn’t afford to buy anything, so I’d go in and just enjoy the aromas until the owner threw me out. Then I’d go to the bakery, right about where The Bookshelf now stands, to watch them make donuts in a trough of boiling oil. For a nickel, I’d buy a paper bag of centres that had been punched out – the original TimBits.

If I close my eyes, I’m a boy again, digging into that greasy bag for the first tasty morsel on the walk back up the hill toward home.