HUNTING THE HOUND

When Sartre said, "Hell is other people", I suspect he'd just returned from a long journey by bus.

Of all the forms of transportation, bus is always the last on my list. It's not that I don't enjoy road travel. It's just that I always manage to sit next to a drunk or some jabbering old woman or worse still (as happened on my last excursion), a combination of the two.

And whenever I survey the rest of my fellow passengers, I keep getting the feeling that I've seen them before - on AMERICA'S MOST WANTED.

So, it may be hard to understand why it was so upsetting to hear the news that Greyhound was threatening to eliminate all service to Northwestern Ontario starting this month.

But for those of us who live in the region (an area, by the way, the size of France), flying is expensive; rail service is available only to communities along the northernmost route (and then, only once a day); and the price of gas and condition of our roads make driving something you'd rather leave to the professionals.

So, Greyhound must have felt it had us firmly by the short and curlies, when it recently demanded a government subsidy of $15,000,000 to compensate for what it claims are "unprofitable routes".

That unprofitability is hard to credit, when you consider Greyhound has no land-based competition for a potential market of tens of thousands of passengers and does a brisk business in freight on the side.

Of course, if it's not drawing well from that base, it might have something to do with the company's stubborn refusal to modernize.

Their coaches can't stand up to comparison with European ones for style or comfort. Their depots (even the ones in large metropolitan centres) are in drastic need of upgrading. And of the food available in them, I will be kind and say nothing at all.

Admittedly, there have been some attempts to improve the Greyhound experience. 

I remember boarding a bus in Winnipeg a few years ago and was startled to see an attendant coming down the aisle with complimentary packets of juice and cookies and $2 rental headsets for the "inflight" movie. 

The middle-aged man sitting in the row in front of me asked gruffly, "What's the movie?" The attendant answered, "Bear." But before reaching for his wallet, the wary passenger demanded, "How do you spell that?" And when the attendant did, the man snorted, "I ain't payin' two bucks for that! I can see one of them anytime - for free!"

I once did an item on CBC Radio suggesting someone should invent a service called First Class Bus. The coaches would be state-of-the-art, divided into private compartments with electronic entertainment and meals. Premium service, I contended, would justify premium ticket prices. But obviously, nothing came of it.

So, now, it's up to the Province of Ontario to "negotiate" with the Hounds of Hell just to keep small isolated communities from getting even more isolated - and smaller. 

At least, the whole affair has gotten people thinking again about bus travel - even if it's only reminded them why bus is the one form of transportation rarely subject to highjacking. 

Who the hell would want one?!

THE 15 MILLION DOLLAR OOPS

Oh Canada, we stand on guard for thee. But as for your gold, well...

Last June, some observant accountant noticed an "unreconciled difference" between the book value of the gold at the National Mint in Winnipeg and the actual gold on hand.  The difference amounted to some 17,000 ounces.

Now, I've been known to misplace things now and again. And whenever I did that in my early years, my mother would always resort to that tried and true adage: "When you can't find something no matter how hard you try, it's usually because it's right under your nose."

Operating on much the same principle, the folks at the Mint not only initiated a fuller audit, they immediately began to look in every cabinet, check under every rug and scrape under the fingernails of everybody in the place.

Of course, no one really wanted to consider the possibility of theft - in part, because they didn't like the thought of betrayal by one of their own; in part, because they wouldn't want to have to admit that someone had finally figured a clever way around their rigorous security; and in part, because they hated the idea of some cunning bastard beating them to an early and luxurious retirement.

The Junior Transport Minister, who is responsible for the running of the Mint (How ironic is that?! Transport!), quickly realized that the audit would only tell them what went missing not how. So, he called in the Mounties.

The RCMP's report on the case isn't due to be released for two weeks yet, but the gist of it has already leaked out. And in effect, it says: "Don't worry! It was just a mistake - a $15,000,000 mistake."

The way they figure it, Mint officials may have simply "double-counted" bullion they sold or underestimated how much gold shrinks when it's processed.

Ah, well! Nobody's perfect.

The government has withheld bonuses intended for Mint big wigs. But now that the Mounties have been unable to find any evidence of theft, they may have to go ahead and give them out.

Some Canadians may be furious, but I only feel regret. I regret that I'm too old to apply for a job at the Mint.

At any rate, the bill for the audit has finally come in: $360,000. 

And if I were the firm that did it, I'd insist on taking my payment in gold. And I'd want to do the weighing myself.

TIME IS THE THIEF

Life is fraught with temptations for a retired tabloid writer. And for days, I've done my damnedest to avoid this one. 

But I'm weak. I admit it.

The first time I heard about this 70-something California bandit, the old tabloid juices began to flow again. And the only thing that kept me in check was remembering the reason I'd quit the tabs: I'd realized that no matter what wacky fantasy I might devise, reality would always outdo it.

In this case, the strange thing is not that a man of such advanced years should be able (or motivated) to rob a bank. I think it was John Dillinger who, when asked why he robbed them, declared, "Because that's where they keep the money."

And after all, social security isn't much to live on these days and applying for additional assistance by filling out forms is rarely as effective as walking into a bank and pulling out a gun.

No, the strange thing here is that the FBI can't seem to catch the Geezer.

Think about it! An elderly man wearing no mask (not even an oxygen mask, although he did bring his tank to one heist), a man wearing no disguise of any kind and hardly fast enough  on his feet to manage a high-speed getaway, somehow escapes time after time  - 5, so far!

So, what can we say about the vaunted efficiency of the FBI?! But then, it is an organization with a history almost as unbelievable as a geriatric gunman.  Wasn't it run for decades by a cross-dressing director who stubbornly denied there was any such thing as the Mafia?

I'm going to go out on a limb here and make a prediction. 

I predict that if the so-called Geezer Bandit is ever brought down, it will probably be by some other gun-toting senior. Or else he'll be tripped up by a bag lady while fleeing one of his bank jobs. But odds are, the one who'll get him in the end will be that biggest thief of them all, Old Father Time.

There! I've done it!

I've succumbed to temptation, and I feel better already.


In fact, I'm reminded of that old joke: What's the difference between a stick-up and a hold-up?


Age.

LAUGHTER OLYMPICS? NOT FUNNY!

There are two people in this country who've taken the smile right off my face - well, two people in particular. And I'm not sure I can forgive them for that.

They are Albert Nerenberg and Jennifer Philbrook, a pair of well-meaning but misguided promoters and exploiters of laughter. And they must be stopped!

Nerenberg, who's recently produced a documentary studying how and why people laugh (which, as far as I'm concerned, is reason enough to dislike the man), now wants to compound his crime by staging something called the World Laughter Games next year in Toronto.

Of course, some of you will say that if there ever was a city that needed more laughter, surely it's Toronto. But we're not talking about real laughter here, not about laughter that comes from the mind by way of the belly. We're talking about the artificially-induced kind, the sort that's accidentally started by one person and spreads automatically to others like swine flu.

That's the kind Philbrook encourages in her "laughercize" courses. She thinks the Games would be "a fabulous idea, because we take ourselves pretty seriously."

Well, you do, Jennifer.  That's for sure!

A friend of mine runs similar sessions in Thunder Bay. And when I noticed on a poster advertising them that she was credited with having "an Honorary Degree in Leisure" (appropriately enough, from a university in Newfoundland), I asked her if she'd been too lazy to attend classes and get her doctorate the usual way.

But most disturbing of all was the claim that her workshops would help people "laugh even without the need for stimulus".  

"Can it be a good thing," I asked, "to have people running around giggling for no good reason?" Of course, if they do, they won't be running around loose for long.

No, it's enough of a nutty, nutty, tabloid world out there without the need to create classes or competitions or any other artificial means of getting us to laugh at it - or ourselves.

In fact, I'd strongly recommend to Albert and Jennifer that they take a quiet moment, sit down and ask themselves what the hell they were thinking when they proposed this idea, then have a good, honest chuckle and pick up and move on with their lives.

Because, take it from someone who's made a living from humour, there's nothing funny about laughter!

SCROGGLED AGAIN!

Christmas is already here - at least, in the English village of Haworth in West Yorkshire.

It arrived last Saturday (or Scroggleve, as it's known in the tiny hamlet), when fairies and pixies and elves roam the cobblestone streets welcoming Santa and his missus and the Spirit of Christmas and handing out bunches of holly they've scroggled.

You won't find "scroggle" in the dictionary.  It appears to mean "gather", although no one seems able to explain its origin.

I suspect it was invented by some patron of The Black Bull after he'd had a few tankards of ale, but we'll never know for certain. So, we'll just have to count it as another of those maddening British expressions that puzzle scholars and vex outsiders (which I think may have been the intention in the first place).

And as for holly, well, I've never been fond of it.

When my parents lived in the Ozarks, they had some growing in their front yard - nasty, prickly, unlovely stuff that seemed good for nothing more than sheltering lizards and so persistent that it proved almost impossible to shift.

Let's face it. Holly's not as sexy as mistletoe or as pretty as poinsettias, but somehow its spiny green leaves and bright red berries have become emblematic of the Holiday Season.  And the good folk of Haworth have turned The Scroggling Of The Holly into a colourful annual event complete with parades, a pipe band, Morris Dancers and even a Holly Queen.

Set in the middle of the Pennine moors and better known as the home of the Brontes, Haworth takes its scroggling very seriously - so much so that they dress their children in Victorian costumes and seem incredibly reluctant to explain why such a festive fuss should be made over a plant whose berries may be attractive to birds but are mildly toxic to humans.

But then, many Christmas customs are cryptic. And just about any old excuse for a little partying will do at this increasingly cold and dark time of year.

So, I say, get out there and scroggle - even if you're not sure what you're doing... or why!

It's the Holiday Season when, after a few nogs, nobody's quite sure of anything.

RED LIGHT, GREEN LIGHT

When I was small, I never envied adults at Christmas - at least, where gifts were concerned.

I was convinced all the best prezzies came in large, cube-shaped boxes, wrapped in shiny, gold foil and tied up with wide, red ribbons. And they were almost always meant for children.

Adults got long, flat boxes full of scarves and ties and socks and all the sorts of things they might just as well have bought for themselves.

In fact, that was how I finally realized (somewhere in my mid-40s) that I'd become an adult. My mother asked what I'd like for Christmas, and I caught myself saying, "Well, I could use some socks and underwear."

It gave me an awful shock. 


But slowly, I've become resigned to my fate - even if it has taken some of the fun out of the Holidays.

So, imagine my surprise, when I recently went surfing for a gift for another senior and discovered the LavNav Light!

If the pictures in the advertisement were somewhat puzzling, the description of the product left no doubt as to its purpose.  

"The LavNav makes the toilet a lot safer and easier to use at night without irritating your partner. Bathroom lights can be painfully bright in the middle of the night. So, why switch them on? The LavNav turns on when you approach and turns off after you leave, shining with gentle yet sufficient light where you need it, when you need it."

And as if that weren't enough, it lights up in two colours: red, for when the toilet seat is up; green, for when it's down. So, aside from making late night bathroom visits a lot safer, this modern miracle of practical science also has the potential to save countless marriages. 

Even for those of us who live alone, it would make navigation easier and add a touch of Christmas colour to a room that rarely gets any Yuletide decoration.

My only concern is that inventors and tinkerers won't be able to leave well enough alone, that they'll be tempted to add a computer chip that allows the NavLav to speak... or worse still, play music!

And if they do meddle with a good thing and redesign the device so that it can play tunes, I don't even want to think which ones they'll choose.

ALIEN LIFE AT THE VATICAN

Last month, the Vatican held an extraordinary conference of astronomers, physicists and biologists to discuss ways of exploring the notion that space aliens may be real.  And now, the results are in.

But don't hold your breath!  There are no earth-shaking findings - just the simple admission that life might just exist elsewhere in the Universe and a vague commitment to do further studies on the subject.

Still, the news would have come as a great shock to Giordano Bruno, a 16th Century scientist and philosopher who had his tongue cut out and was burned alive for having the audacity to suggest the very same notion.

Funny how times change!  Although I doubt Girodano would have put it quite like that.  Upon hearing the verdict in his trial, he was reported to have flipped his judges "the bird" and said something like, "You guys are the ones who are shaking in your boots... not me!"

But then, the Roman Catholic Church has never had much grace or forbearance when it comes to dealing with scientists, let alone their scientific theories or practice.  I mean, it took them 500 years to admit that that whole business with Galileo was a bit of a mistake.  At least, they didn't burn him.

So, why this sudden turn-around?  Why should the Director of the Vatican Observatory feel obliged to admit that "The questions of life’s origins and of whether life exists elsewhere in the universe are very suitable and deserve serious consideration."

I think the answer lies not in the stars, but a lot closer to home.

You only have to read the headlines which day after day detail the horrors of broken vows and sexual predation from certain members of the clergy.  You only have to hear life-long, devout parishioners go on TV, proclaiming they'll not only refuse to pay for huge settlements to those abused by their priests and bishops but refuse, as well, to ever again set foot in their own churches.

The crisis is real and immediate.  

How does the Church reclaim the disillusioned?  How far do they have to go to find a flock that hasn't been scandalized and terrorized by wayward shepherds?

The answer is simple: somewhere out there!

The moment has come, the Pope and Cardinals have decided, to boldly go where no church has gone before.

This time, they're actually hoping the scientists are right about alien life forms, although it seems to me that it may be too late.  

And Vatican strategists must be thinking, "Where's Giordano Bruno now that we need him?!"

"Oh, yeah!  We burned him."

UNIONIZING THE SELF-EMPLOYED

My mother once begged me to find a job that could be described in one or two words, because she was tired of spending so much time trying to explain to people what the hell I was doing for a living.

I told her I had the same problem.

Truth is: I've always been a freelancer at heart - even when I was on somebody else's payroll.

I've done the nine-to-five thing (and even the five-to-five), but my heart was never in it. You might say I was a flex-time kind of guy long before there was such a thing.  

At least, it's allowed me to sample a bit here and there from the Grand Buffet of Work.

I've been a meat-cutter, a film reviewer, a TV cameraman, a radio broadcaster, a cabbie, a census commissioner, a Tarot card reader, the director of a comedy troupe and even (God help me!) a consultant.

And now, I'm supposed to be "retired". But I'm not sure, in times of financial chaos like these, if that term has any meaning.  

So, these days, when people ask what I do, I simply tell them I'm self-employed... and the boss is a bastard!

I must admit I have no patience with all those wishful wage slaves whose eyes gloss over every time they say, "Gee, I would love to start a business of my own!" That's when they ought to remember that wise old Yiddish axiom: "Get into business, get into trouble."

And believe me, the trouble is much worse when you're the business and the entire board of directors, management and staff hold their meetings inside your skull.

I really do believe that the self-employed need a union... and better benefits and paid vacations and a secure retirement plan. But let's face it: the jackass-in-charge will only whine and claim he can't afford any of that.

So, I say, "Screw him!"  

I'll just keep on showing up late and dogging it at the office and telling him whatever he wants to hear. I'll keep on swallowing his lies and smile right back at him as if I believe every word he says. But I won't.  

And then, one day when I catch him by surprise and really do retire, the son of a bitch will finally realize how much he depended on me. And as far as I'm concerned, it'll serve him right!

PRISONER OF LOVE

I was on the way to the cafe where I do Tarot card readings, when I passed a newspaper vending machine.  Normally, I don't bother paying money for our local rag; and when I do, I rarely get it from one of those mechanical bandits.  But that day, I made an exception.

Through the glass, I'd seen a face on the paper's front page that looked oddly familiar.  So, I fumbled in my pocket for a Loonie and pumped it in.

"Naw," I told myself, as I walked and had a closer look. "Couldn't be!"

But the owner of the cafe quickly changed my mind.

"See the paper?" he asked.

"That's the 'necker'," said the girl from the winery next door.  She and her sister called him that, because he and his Greek girlfriend were always holding hands or nuzzling each other while they waited for a table.

And that's when I found myself saying what everybody does, when someone they know is involved in a front page news story: "But he seemed like such a nice guy."

And, as far as most people who knew him were concerned, he was.

Adam Leon (or Yavuz Berke, as he was known when he lived in Turkey) was an articulate, mild-mannered 31-yr-old who had migrated to Canada from Istanbul after both his parents were killed in a car crash in 2002.  When I met him at the cafe, he was enrolled in Confederation College's Aviation Program.

He seemed anything but religious or political and took our ribbing about things Muslim with the same good humour in which it was delivered.  It might have been that he was too much in love to care.  It certainly looked that way.

One Friday he and his girlfriend failed to appear for their weekly Veggie Burger, but nobody thought anything about it.  Another week went by.  Again, they failed to show.

Then came the headlines.

My Dad flew in WWII and always kept a private license for the occasional bit of recreational flying.  And I'd been puddle-jumping with him since I was old enough to wear a seatbelt.  So, when I read that Adam had helped himself to one of the College's Cessna 172s and headed across Lake Superior for the U.S., I must admit my first thoughts were for his safety not for anyone on the ground.

Apparently, he'd broken up with his girlfriend.  And old problems with depression quickly took over.  He decided that he'd end it all.  But rather than take pills or shoot himself, he'd jump in a plane, head south and let the American Air Force do it for him.

It was hardly a sensible choice.  But then there are those who'd say, "Neither is love!"

He barely got to Michigan's Upper Peninsula when two F-16s were scrambled to intercept him.  All I could think of was that episode of "The Simpsons" when Sideshow Bob stole a model of the Wright Brother's plane and the jet pilots chasing him had to get out and walk to stay in contact.

Still, it couldn't have been much fun for people in Wisconsin and points south who didn't know it was self-destruction not fanaticism that sent Adam off into the Wild Blue Yonder.

Nevertheless, the authorities might have told them that one small Cessna, rapidly running low on fuel, was hardly a threat to anybody but its pilot.  They evacuated the Capitol Building in Madison.  But even if he'd been of a mind to fly into the Dome, the Cessna would have simply bounced off.

He did manage to get all the way to Missouri where, when he couldn't find an airport, he picked a deserted country road and set his craft down with the kind of skill that would have earned him high marks back at the College.

He climbed out of his barely-damaged craft and proceeded to walk to a nearby restaurant where he called the cops to turn himself in, then calmly sat and sipped a Gatorade until they got there.

This monumentally stupid suicide plan earned Leon some grave personal embarrassment, a 2-year prison term and no more chance of Veggie Burgers until 2011.

Now, I know there are soreheads screaming for a longer sentence.  But that says more about them, I think, than about Adam.

And there has been some good to come out of all this.

The College is paying more attention to aviation students in personal distress.  And they no longer leaves keys in the ignition of their planes at the airport.

So, rest easy, America!  Thunder Bay is no longer a threat.

A ROYAL HO-HUM

A recent poll of Canadians sought to determine what they think of the Royals and discovered that they don't.

This was enough to send strategists at Buckingham Palace into a royal tizzy. After all, for a constitutional monarch, there is no greater enemy than indifference.

The news was especially disturbing, since Charles, the Prince of Wales and heir-apparent to the throne, is just setting out on a cross-Canada tour, the general aim of which is to "sell" him to the public as a creditable future king.  But despite the Prince's passion for things ecological and organic, Canucks just don't see him as such.

The folks at the Palace are desperate to change this perception - or lack of one.  But I think they're going the wrong way about it.  I think there's a clear failure on their part to understand the modern public mindset.

We want SCANDAL not social relevance.  And it's been way too long since we had any of that from the House of Windsor.

I mean, Prince Harry showing up at a costume party wearing a swastika armband hardly cuts it today.

Now, in the good old days, when Chuck was cheating on Diana, when he and Camilla were swapping steamy love notes, when Chuck wrote that he dreamed of being her Tampon, well... that was more like it.  We could relate to that!  But it seems as if the Prince has reformed (or slowed down, anyway); and British tabloids have had to look elsewhere for a juicy headline.

My heart goes out to them (the editors at the tabloids, that is).  There just aren't enough vicars in England to keep the front page of a daily paper full of shocking headlines.

But before the Queen falls into too deep a funk, I'd like to remind her of something that happened here in Thunder Bay back in 1973.

Just weeks after I officially became a Canadian, she and Prince Philip flew in for a quick visit and were greeted by our Mayor, an ex-vaudevillian with a shiny, bald pate and a bright red bow tie.  He got up to the microphone and loudly and proudly welcomed "Prince Philip and his lovely wife".

Her Majesty's Chief of Protocol (who always travels with her) went bright red himself and looked as if his head were about to explode.  In days of yore, the mouthy Mayor could have lost his own head for such a gaff.

But as if that weren't enough, the Mayor then proceeded to suggest the Royal Couple come out to his summer camp and hoist a few jars.  And when they politely refused and turned to go, he patted Elizabeth the Second, Queen of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland on her royal derriere (as was his custom with all women).

So, when the Windsors worry about being ignored by their subjects abroad, they might want to remember Thunder Bay and realize that there are times when indifference is (as the British are wont to say) "no bad thing".