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La version française de ces histoires se trouve sur En direct de l'intestin grêle

Wouldn't it be great if these stories were true? Unfortunately (or fortunately) they're not; they are just the product of my overworked mind. All characters and events are fictitious and if you think you recognize yourself or somebody you know in these stories, it was not my purpose and it is purely unintentional. In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy reading this blog. Feel free to link this blog wherever else you hang out on the Internet and to post comments below. I enjoy hearing from you.

Geoff

Showing posts with label Canadian politics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Canadian politics. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Cannabis in Canada



People often come to me and ask me all kinds of questions, assuming I know the answers. I must confess that when I don’t have one (which is often) I make one up, just to please my enquirers.

Strangely, the question that I’m asked most often is: “Why is cannabis illegal in Canada?” This one is tough, I had to go back 50 years or so in history to come up with an answer.

In the 60’s, when the United States of America was at war against the ferocious enemy that was Vietnam, many young men dodged the draft because they were not allowed to smoke cannabis while enlisted. Some of these people fled to Canada for protection and to quietly engage in their psychoactive hobby.

Unfortunately, at that time cannabis was not yet growing in Canada. Its closest cousin was some low-grade hemp, good enough to make ropes to hang people with – pretty useless in a country that had just abolished death penalty. American people are smart and known internationally for their entrepreneurship, so it is not surprising that these young American deserters imported seeds to grow their favourite crop.

cannabis, marijuana, ganja, pot, hemp
A healthy cannabis crop in the great Canadian outdoors. The cannabis plant came to America from Eastern and Central Asia. The seeds were probably carried over by sea currents or the wind.


The summer of 67 was sunny, warm and humid: ideal conditions for pollination. Cannabis started to spread quickly in the great Canadian outdoors, so much that it became an invasive species.

Canadians are simple, hard-working people but they are not idiots. They soon realized the benefits of this new plant and began growing and using it.

Alas! Cannabis was growing so well in the rich and fertile Canadian country soil that it rapidly exceeded the needs of Canadian consumers. Regrettably, cannabis growers – who, like all farmers, hate any form of waste – started looking for external markets to get rid of their surplus.

This is how cannabis cultivation became what it is today, a flourishing export industry that would significantly contribute to Canada’s gross domestic product (GDP) if only it was not a more or less underground activity.

Parliament Hill, Ottawa, Canada, marijuana smoke
Every year on April 20, thousands of demonstrators gather on Parliament Hill in Ottawa to openly indulge in cannabis smoking. The smoke and smell from this activity can linger for days. This in a city where it is illegal to smoke cigarettes in a public park. I never thought I would live to see that.


Of course, Federal departments dream of legalizing this economic activity to increase tax and royalties revenues. However, few people know that since taxes were introduced in Canada, the Prime Minister goes to bed each night weeping for Canadian taxpayers who work so hard only to remit more than half of their income in municipal, provincial, federal and sales taxes. You understand that Canadian statesmen cringe at the mere idea of collecting or introducing new taxes.

As well, the machinery of Government is awkward and costly. To regulate cannabis trade, more civil servants would need to be hired to manage the new program, implement complex administrative structures and develop strict monitoring and enforcement. A real nightmare.

By keeping the status quo, the Canadian Government avoids all kinds of hassle and the income from this product is able to circulate freely within the Canadian economy. Also, all durable and semi-durable commodities and real estate purchased thanks to the gains of this industry are already taxable. Of course this economic activity is impossible to monitor through the System of National Accounts, but maybe it is a lesser evil.

So this is why even though weed grows like weeds in Canada, it is still illegal to farm and use.

The true story probably has nothing to do with the one I just told but mine could make sense and it is entertaining, don’t you think?

Friday, April 20, 2012

Working for the Russians



Lately Russian bots have been crawling my blogs. This reminds me of my early days as a professional writer and editor.

In the early 1980s, while Canada was in the midst of a recession, I reluctantly joined the ranks of the unemployed. With the jobless rate in the double-digits I decided it would be a good time to get an education, hoping that when I graduated there would be more work opportunities.

University was costly for me. Of course, tuition fees were expensive and the menial labour I had to do to support myself left me living in poor lodgings and eating cheap food. I was broke and indebted.

After completing my university degree I naively thought the days of despicable jobs were over. I was educated, I had paid my dues, I assumed it was time to reap the benefits.

I soon realized that employers were not easily impressed with my diploma: they wanted candidates with a degree AND experience.

With Canada slowly recovering from recession and nobody willing to hire me, I turned to freelance work.

The first job I found was writing essays for students who lacked the discipline to attend their classes but did not want to break their parents’ heart by flunking their courses.

With the name of their professor, the subject of the essay, and the bibliography and syllabus of the course, in two days I could whip out a decent 15-page paper for nearly any of the liberal arts.

First I would go to the university library to dig up the professor’s doctorate thesis to get a feel for his character, beliefs and writing style. All the while noting any of his ideas that I might be able to recycle to flatter his ego.

library, books, university
University libraries usually carry the doctorate thesis of all their faculty. That's where you will find what your professor sounded like when he or she was sitting on the other side of the lectern.


Then, I would read the introduction and conclusion of all the books in the bibliography connected to the subject of the essay I was to write, skimming through the content and taking notes in the process.

The speed-reading course I had taken one summer became a sound investment.

Then I would write for fifteen hours straight, peppering the document with any bit of general knowledge I had that seemed appropriate.

Without having attended any of those classes, I never got less than a “B” grade and my satisfied customers started referring me to their slacker friends.

Unfortunately, this kind of hack writing is only profitable around mid-term and at the end of a semester.

One evening as I was waiting for a customer in a university coffee shop, I met an adult student who was taking Russian-language classes and worked as a writer for the Soviet embassy press office. We became friends and after meeting a few times, she asked me if I would be interested in a position with her employer.

Starting to work in a potential Russian spy nest was somewhat frightening since the Cold War was still raging. However I had a powerful incentive for wanting that job: my landlord came straight out of a Fyodor Dostoyevsky novel and cared about the working class only if they paid their rent on time.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, public domain
Fyodor Dostoyevsky was a 19th century Russian writer known for his lengthy novels, dependence to alcohol and poor gambling skills. Hate him or love him, he is considered as one of Europe's major writers and certainly his works should be part of anybody's general knowledge.


The interview I had with the press secretary went well and he offered me a part-time job as an editor. The Soviet embassy press office was located in two contiguous apartments on the 15th floor of a large residential building. Office furniture consisted mainly of ordinary chairs and tables crumbling under piles of papers and publications. The table that was assigned to me faced a bay window which gave me a splendid view of the city.

My job was to rework stories originally written in Moscow and render them printable for Canadian publications.

I do not know if this is still valid, but since time immemorial Russian writers had been paid by the page: the longer the text, the more money they would get.

Once you know that, War and Peace and The Brothers Karamazov start making sense.

The stories I was to edit were translated from Russian to either French or English. Regrettably, translators were also paid by the page and already long bland articles were getting stretched further in the process. I quickly became quite adept at turning a 4,000-word piece of logorrhea into a 300-word somewhat adequate news story.

I say “somewhat adequate” because the subject matter of the texts I received was often a hard sell. Canadian papers did not care much about the Komsomol (Communist Union of Youth) nor about the use of pesticides to boost agricultural reform in Turkmenistan, one of the Soviet republics.

From time to time however interesting stories would appear. Papers about the Soviet space program, medical research, natural wonders such as Lake Baïkal and so forth could be respun and placed in Canadian media.

Months passed and one day, looking through my window, I noticed building cranes had appeared in the skyline. Construction was picking up, a sure sign that the economy was getting back on track.

building crane, dusk, clouds, light standards
The construction sector is considered as a barometer of the economy. Commercial and residential building projects create wealth through job creation, accommodation for new or expanding businesses and lodgings for new homeowners.


One morning, 18 months after I began working for the Russians, the press secretary called me for a meeting and told me how satisfied he was with my work. However decisions had been made higher up to modernize. They were going to replace the typewriters everybody was using with computers. This meant efficiencies had to be gained elsewhere. That was the first time I heard that euphemism meaning I was being laid off.

But in that year and a half, my freelance worker status had improved and I was no longer writing essays for students. The experience I had gained was valuable and some of my clients, learning I was available, started providing me with more work.

I had gotten myself a career.


Friday, January 6, 2012

Heartbreaking News



Thursday morning, I got up, took a shower, got dressed and went to the kitchen to have breakfast. My girlfriend was frowning in front of her bowl of cereal.

I gave her a peck on the cheek and, as I sat across from her, eating my toast, she continued to stare gloomily.

“What’s the matter hon?” I asked.

She did not answer. I picked the paper from the table and then I understood. On the front page, in bold letters, the headline read:
Canada’s Defence Minister Weds Princess of Persia
Apparently, while my girlfriend and I were sleeping, Peter MacKay, a man of action, married his Iranian-born girlfriend, Nazanin Afshin-Jam, in Mexico, land of La Cucaracha.

According to The Hill Times, it is no secret that every woman in Canada, available or not, has been nurturing fantasies about MacKay, the “sexiest male Member of Parliament”. Now their dreams were shattered.

I was aware of my girlfriend’s fantasies but I was not jealous, as long as MacKay did not hang around our house (unless it was to mow the lawn, clean the pool or take out the garbage). Still, because I am a caring man, I felt sorry for my sweetheart.

Peter MacKay, MP for Central-Nova in Nova Scotia, is a man’s man. A lawyer who plays rugby with his buddies, he loves being outdoors and spending time with Jack, his Bernese mountain dog. He hangs out with soldiers who, according to recent news, gladly pick him up with search and rescue helicopters at remote fishing locations in Newfoundland.

As Minister of National Defence and former Minister of Foreign Affairs, two of the most powerful Federal Cabinet positions, Peter MacKay commands respect.

In the past, he was associated with powerful and beautiful women such as the former United States Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice and Belinda Stronach, daughter of the owner of Canada’s largest automobile parts manufacturer.

Belinda Stronach and Peter MacKay were elected as Conservative Party of Canada candidates. In 2005, just before the Liberal government faced a confidence vote, Stronach defected to the Liberals. This move helped keep the Liberal minority government in power for a few more months. MacKay, a staunch Conservative, had only a few hours notification. He was appalled.

MacKay was left heartbroken and sore after this unforeseen turn of events. The next day, he was photographed at home in Nova Scotia with his dog, his most loyal friend.

But let bygones be bygones. Now Mr. MacKay has a new wife and a smart one at that. Nazanin Afshin-Jam holds a degree in International Relations and Political Science as well as a Master of International Diplomacy. She also has a heart. She is actively involved in human rights issues and successfully campaigned for the release and exoneration of a young Iranian woman accused of stabbing the aggressor who tried to rape her. She is an actress, a model, a singer and, not to forget, a former Miss Canada World.

I am also told that she is a licensed pilot. If she ever learns to fly a Sea King helicopter, all Canadian taxpayers will feel the utmost gratitude towards her.

The Sikorsky S-61 Sea King helicopter was designed in the late 1950's primarily for anti-submarine warfare. It was later found to be quite suitable for Search and Rescue (SAR) operations. Image: Tom Curtis / FreeDigitalPhotos.net


My girlfriend was heartbroken and I felt compassion for her as I left for work. She was so devastated that she took the day off.

My office was abuzz with the news of the wedding. Women were mourning or just plain furious while men secretly rejoiced that they would no longer have to wonder if their spouse was fantasizing about a Nova Scotia lawyer while they made love.

I called home a couple of times during the day to try to cheer up my girlfriend. She was laconic at the end of the line.

On my way back from a smoke break, a security guard told me that he thought Peter MacKay was a fake.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“When Belinda dumped him, you remember the photo they published of MacKay with his dog?” he said.

“Of course, who doesn’t?” I replied.

“Well, it wasn’t his dog. It was some dog that he borrowed for the occasion because it would be a good photo-op. The whole thing was staged to attract pity for him!”

I went back to my desk, wondering if this was true and, if so, was amazed that someone could be so devious.

At home, I found my girlfriend red-eyed and still in her housecoat. While I was preparing dinner, I noticed the empty cookie dough ice cream container in the trashcan. My throat tightened and tears welled up in my eyes as I felt the pain my girlfriend was going through.

This could not go on, I had to do something.

After dinner, we watched a Seinfeld rerun. Although she let me cuddle with her, she was unable to pay attention to the show. That’s when I decided to intervene.

“You know the photo of Peter MacKay with his dog they published when Belinda Stronach broke up with him?” I said.

“Uh-huh,” she said absent-mindedly.

“Well, I heard today that it wasn’t his dog but somebody else’s that he borrowed because it would make a good picture,” I continued.

Her cheeks flushed and she reacted instantly:

“How can you say such a nasty thing!”

“No, no, I think that was brilliant! And I think he did the same thing with Nazanin, he did not really marry her, he just borrowed her,” I concluded.

She looked at me, tilting her head, puzzled:

“You really think so?”

“Of course! Politics is like show-business. It’s just to produce an effect, to keep people interested, to entertain them to help them forget about the real issues!”

She swung her arms around me and started kissing me frantically.

“Oh you! You! I should have thought about it before! Of course you’re right! You’re always right! I love you so much! Thank you! Thank you!”

At that moment, I knew I was going to get lucky that night and I couldn’t care less if, during our love-making, she was thinking about a dog-loving Nova Scotian rugby player.

While rugby is a violent contact sport played without any protective equipment, it is not the most injury-prone physical activity. Apparently injuries occur more frequently playing basketball, football or bicycling.


Rola, many thanks for the ideas.