The mutt

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The Government of Canada had undertaken a major review of its economic policy and was trying to decide whether it should return to the Gold Standard, adopt the controversial Porcelain Standard advocated by China and British economists, or endeavour to have the law of diminishing returns repealed.

Economics is a social science and, as such, is sometimes viewed with scorn by partisans of fundamental science (i.e. biology, chemistry, physics, mathematics). While there is a Nobel Prize in Economics, it was not one of the prizes established in the will of Alfred Nobel. Paul Samuelson was the first American to be awarded this prize in 1970.

Whenever serious people meet to discuss serious matters over a long period of time, there’s bound to be a serious report to be published that will require serious proofreading.

I received a call from someone who knew someone I knew. They needed a crack team of proofreaders to work around the clock ensuring that the 21-volume report was ready for publication in only 30 short days.

That’s when I met Joan.

Joan had been the chief editor at a major legal publishing house in Toronto and was called in to work on the project because she knew how to make things move. I liked her the moment I saw her.

She was 29, just like me, and she was smart, thorough, professional and focused. She exuded confidence and had a knack of finding a quick solution to any problem that was presented to her. She dressed with a quintessential elegance and could have given lessons to Dior, Cartier and Chanel. I sincerely believe all women are beautiful but Joan seemed to be the embodiment of this beauty.

I made an impression on her the first day when I noticed in a sentence that straight quotation marks had been used instead of curved ones. Back then, my eyesight was much keener than it is today.

We started taking smoke breaks together and became acquainted. With all the class Joan showed, I was surprised that she had a common upbringing. She came from a little town a few hours’ drive away. Her parents were uneducated and, being a good Catholic family, had seven children, five girls and two boys. Her father owned a small cartage company and Joan learned to drive a ten-wheeler truck before she could drive a car. Double-clutching held no secrets for her.

Ten-wheeler trucks are often called "tractors" in the United Stated because one of their common use is to pull a trailer, turning it into an eighteen-wheeler. Ten-wheelers can also be equipped with a bin to carry rocks, sand and topsoil. They are more practical than trains because they can deliver their load right at the site where it is needed.

We worked long days on this proofreading project, 12 to 16 hours were the norm because we had a firm deadline to meet. One night after work, I walked Joan home since she lived just a few blocks away and, young men and young women being what they are, I ended up staying overnight.

Despite the hectic pace at which we were working in the office, people noticed that something was going on between Joan and me. Catherine, the general manager of the project, had hired Joan on the recommendation of the chairman of the economic review board but disliked her from the start: she was just too perfect.

When Catherine realized that Joan, a manager, and I, a staff member, were romantically involved, Joan became in her mind nothing more than the office skank and Catherine started to be overtly contemptuous towards her.

One weekend, as we were working on a difficult section of the report, we realized that there was a problem. Parts or whole sentences were missing, so much so that it was difficult to make sense of the text. Joan relentlessly searched previous drafts to find the missing content and we ended up spending much more time than planned to proof the section. The general manager was called in, quickly assessed the situation, blamed Joan for the foul-up and fired her.

When I heard the news, I impulsively resigned. To this day, I am still debating whether it was out of love, lust or loyalty. Maybe it was just that I knew that the proofreading project could not end well without Joan at the helm. I hate to be involved in projects that are doomed to fail.

That night, Joan called home for some comfort and her mother suggested that Joan come for a visit and spend a few days relaxing and reflecting on her options. Since I was now unemployed, Joan asked me if I would join her and two days later we left for her parents’ place.

They lived in the country in a large farmhouse on a gigantic lot. There were two hangars surrounded by farm equipment and several enormous trucks.

After the usual welcoming embraces and introductions, I realized we had arrived in the middle of a commotion.

Joan’s two younger brothers, Alan, 15, and Gerald, 12, had found and brought home a dog, a scraggly mid-sized mutt about one year old. Their parents had agreed to keep it but now the boys were arguing over who would be the master of the dog, Alan or Gerald?

Joan’s father intervened, saying:

– Since I will be paying to feed that mongrel, I should be its rightful owner!

There was an outcry from the boys who claimed that it would not be fair since they found the dog and brought it home.

The father then said:

– All right. Who is going to feed the dog?

The two boys looked at each other, and then Gerald, the youngest one, said:

– This is not fair! You know that I find dog food gross and it makes me puke!

Alan loudly cheered as he considered he had won the competition. But then Gerald added:

– Wait a minute! Not so fast! What goes in must come out. I will clean up after the dog if he ever has an accident. Cleaning up after a dog is as important as feeding him!

The father looked at his sons, sat on the porch and called the dog. He then picked up a piece of chalk and traced a line on the dog’s coat, around the waist, dividing it in two parts.

– All right, that’s how it will be: Alan, you will be the master of the front end and Gerald will be the master of the back end or otherwise the dog goes back to where it came from. Is that a deal?

The two boys looked at each other again, displeased at the proposal but understanding that this compromise was the only way they could keep the dog. So they agreed.

I was stunned at the wisdom of Joan’s father, an uneducated man who had managed to solve a jealousy and rivalry issue in such a simple way.

Maybe a good supply of chalk in offices and boardrooms would help those in power to make better decisions in this world.

Dividing a dog in half with a chalk line is not as drastic as King Solomon's method of splitting a newborn in two with a sword, but just as efficient.

Joan’s mother took us inside the house and served some food and drinks and I met the rest of the family. While we were sitting at the table talking, we suddenly heard a loud disturbance on the porch followed by the sound of objects crashing and the yelp of the dog.

The boys ran outside as we followed them to find the dog lying on the ground whimpering and rubbing its front paws against its snout.

It happened that the mutt had found a can of worms that the boys used for fishing and in which they had left some hooks and lures. They got caught in the dog’s jowls and now the animal was writhing in pain trying to remove them.

Gerald smartly exclaimed:

– Alan, it’s your end crying, you deal with it!

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Ghost story

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I was 32 years old and I was tired of the city. The noise, the smell, the heat and the humidity were getting on my nerves. I could no longer tolerate living amidst the concrete and glass skyscrapers.

Highrise buildings are sometimes the only way to multiply effectively real estate within city limits. Centuries from now, historians might wonder what kind of people lived in those man-made caves built inside artificial mountains.

I went for a ride in the country. I saw an old house for sale, I made an offer and six weeks later I said goodbye to the city.

It was a large house built in 1925. There was a glassed-in verandah on two sides of the house, the kitchen, dining room, and living room were large, and there were four bedrooms. Furthermore the price was very reasonable.

It was an estate sale and the notary responsible for liquidating the assets told me that the previous landlord, Alberic McGrath, was too old to properly take care of the property before he passed away.

The exterior of the house was acceptable but inside it was in bad shape. The varnish on the doors and wood trims was peeling, the bathroom appliances were stained by the well’s hard water and the kitchen had only two cupboards and a tiny counter. Instead of a sink it had a tub like those that are found in coin washes. A few essential things had to be fixed before I moved in.

There was also a huge pantry with deep shelving on three sides. In the country, people make preserves and they must be stored somewhere.

In the two weeks before I moved, while I was taking care of repairs and upgrades, I realized my new neighbours thought I was strange. Why would somebody from the city want to live in the country? What a weird idea!

In the 1920s in North America people built verandahs around their houses for health reasons. With increased industrialization and urbanization, respiratory illnesses were on the rise. Home owners would move the beds of sick people living in the house on the verandah so they would breathe fresh air. Nowadays, properly upgraded, verandahs make quaint features for older houses.

I went to the village to buy some supplies for the repairs I was making. When I told the clerk at the hardware store that I had just bought Alberic McGrath’s house, he gave me a suspicious look and became awkwardly silent.
I felt that I would not win a popularity contest.

I also had to be very obstinate with the phone company to get them to install a private line instead of a party line. Despite all my efforts however they would not give me a second line for the fax and modem. “Nobody uses a computer in the country, sir,” the lady from the phone company told me curtly.

Anyway, I had other challenges to tackle because moving in to a new house requires taming a new environment. You need to find a place for everything. Sometimes it is easy: pots and pans in the kitchen, clothes in the closets, beds and dressers in the bedrooms, couch in the living room, most things have a natural place to go...

But there are all those things that we cannot find a place for. They must remain in boxes until we find the will and time to put them away or discard them. Since I had lots of room, I turned one of the bedrooms into storage for a dozen boxes and other odd objects.

One night, as I was reading in bed, I heard a faint chime or rather a tinkling, like two glasses coming together. I listened carefully without being able to deduce where that strange noise was coming from. There was just one clinking “ting!” then nothing.

In the following weeks, I heard the same sound several times. I checked the plumbing and the heating system but found nothing unusual.

I had started to go to a bar in a neighbouring village called Chick’s Bar Saloon. On Saturday nights there was a country band whose 78 year old guitar player named Harry Jones introduced me to Hank Williams’ music.
One night, Harry and I were talking during his break and I mentioned I had bought Alberic McGrath’s old house. Harry started laughing and said: “You bought the sorcerer’s house!”

He then told me that Alberic McGrath had a reputation as a warlock and everybody in the area feared him; they said he talked to crows and wild animals and that they would answer him. He apparently could make milk turn bad and crops rot in the fields. He was praying to the moon and stars at night. He gathered herbs and plants to make potions and ointments that he would keep in his large kitchen pantry where his body was found several days after he died.

“Is that true?” I asked.

– Who knows? What I do know is that he could hold his drinks! He liked his gin!

With this, Harry finished his whisky, excused himself and went back on stage.

On my way back home that night, I thought that this could explain why my neighbours were giving me the cold shoulder. For myself, I am not superstitious and I thought this legend was adding to the charm of my new house.

A few days later, when I heard the noise again, I said to myself: “There’s the ghost of Alberic McGrath having a drink somewhere in the house!”

I poured myself a glass of wine and drank to the former owner’s spirit.

The next time my girlfriend was over to spend the weekend with me, I told her jokingly what I had learned about the house and about the ghost that I heard every night.

“You shouldn’t joke about that,” she told me gravely. “I always felt strange coming here. Now I know why. Please take me home, I won’t be able to sleep in this house.”

I was not expecting this reaction from her. I tried to reason with her but she would not listen to me. Against my will, I drove her back to the city.

On my way back, I was swearing against Alberic McGrath who could make cow’s milk turn bad and sour lovers’ hearts.
The next day, being still upset by what happened the day before with my girlfriend, I decided to empty a few of the boxes stored in the spare bedroom.

While I was working, I heard the eerie tinkling right behind me. I quickly turned around and saw at the bottom of a box I had just opened a small digital clock programmed to ring once every hour. The sound had been propagating gloomily around the house through a nearby heating vent.

That was the ghost I had been hearing.

When Robert Noyce (1927-1990) patented the semiconductor in 1959 he probably did not think that one of the most popular application for his invention would be the manufacturing of digital watches and clocks by Japanese industrialists in the 1970. He most certainly would not have guessed that one of these clocks would one day be mistaken for a ghost.

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Penelope

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It was a quiet Saturday morning and I was reading while having coffee in the kitchen of my haunted house in the country. I heard a car pull in, so I put down Francis Bacon’s Essays and went to the door.

My friend Monica was outside struggling with a plastic box and two heavy paper grocery bags.

– Hi! I have a surprise for you!

I took the bags and the plastic box from her and carried them inside. When I turned around, there was Monica standing and holding an overweight and very frightened tabby cat.

– This is Penelope. She’s two years old, declawed and housebroken. Isn’t she a sweetheart?

The cat jumped out of her arms, awkwardly landing on the kitchen floor. She looked around, terrified at the strange unknown surroundings, and then dashed through the hallway and up the stairs.

– You know my friends Paul and Andrea? Well, they split up. Andrea is staying with a girlfriend who’s allergic to cats and Paul is leaving on a six-month posting with the military in Germany. So I thought: Geoff is living alone in that huge country house, he needs company! Isn’t that a great idea?

“Uh... Sure, sure,” I said, shocked at the thought of this unexpected and uninvited feline guest.

– You don’t look happy. Come on! It’s going to be fun and good for you! And anyway, it’s only for a few months until Paul comes back from Europe!

– Uh... Sure, sure... Uh, you want a cup of coffee?

– Oh, Geoff, I’d love to but I have to scoot! I’m meeting Jenn, Rosie and Sally who want to show me a cottage we’re supposed to rent for the summer on Lake Patterson! You should come and visit us sometime! We’ll have a barbecue!

Monica gave me a peck on the cheek and rushed out, leaving me with the litter box, a bag of kibbles and the cat’s dish on the kitchen table.

I put some cat food in the bowl and set it down on the floor, and then I went upstairs to look for Penelope.

She was nowhere to be found. I checked everywhere: under the beds, in the closets, in the bathroom. I called her. She had vanished completely.

Cats have the ability to hide at the most unexpected places where adults cannot find them however hard they try. Photo courtesy of Zebra Jay, many thanks!

OK, I thought, it’s understandable. The animal has had lots of changes to adapt to lately; it’s normal that she is traumatized. I’ll let her be, when she’s ready, she’ll come out of hiding.

For three days, I did not see the cat. I knew she was there because the food was disappearing from her bowl and I could see that the litter box was being used but it was as if I had an invisible cat.

Then one night, as I was watching a movie in the living room, I saw Penelope cautiously sneak into the kitchen and go to her bowl. She crouched and started eating. I could hear the crunch of the kibbles under her teeth.

As I was watching her, a mouse emerged from a crack in the floor and scurried to the cat’s dish. The cat stopped eating, looked puzzled as the mouse took a kibble from the bowl and ran back in the floor with its prize. Nonplussed, Penelope returned to eating.

I could not believe my eyes. What kind of a cat was that? I was providing food and shelter to that beast, the least she could have done was help me get rid of rodents!

I was furious. As I got up, the cat saw me and ran back upstairs.

I went after her, determined to discover the freeloader’s hiding place. Again, I looked everywhere until I found her on the top shelf of a linen closet, lying on a pile of towels.

The next day, I went to visit my girlfriend and told her about my new guest and the incident I witnessed.

She laughed and then said:

– After all that cat has been through, she needs stability; she needs a home. Bring her here for a while, I’ll take care of her and the kids will love her.

My girlfriend had two children from a previous relationship: a five-year old daughter and a two-year old son.

For two weeks it went surprisingly well. Penelope quickly ran out of hiding places in my girlfriend’s house because the kids were too good at finding her. Once they found her, they pulled her ears and tail while trying to play with her. Penelope realized quickly though that if she went to my girlfriend, she would protect her from the children. After a few days she even let herself to be petted.

I figured female kinship had won out.

Then after two weeks, Mark, a friend of my girlfriend’s needing a place to crash for a while, showed up with Joe, a very old and meek German Shepherd with a bad case of flatulence.

Penelope did not get along with the new canine visitor and would viciously attack the huge dog when no one was watching. Being declawed, she could not hurt the dog too much but old Joe was so frightened that he regularly lost total control over his bodily functions.

Finally, my girlfriend called me to say I had to take Penelope back. So much for female kinship.

So I went to pick up Penelope and recoiled to my country house.

On our return, I noticed that something had changed. First, she did not run to her linen closet but walked instead. Then that night, as I was lying in bed with the light off, she came into my room, climbed onto the bed and lay down beside me, resting her head on my hand.

I guess she had realized that the large silent country house and its quiet owner were an improvement over noisy children and stinky old dogs.

When Paul returned from Germany six months later, he did not want his cat back. I kept Penelope until her death, ten years later, but never managed to make her understand that she was supposed to catch mice.

Maybe Penelope's problem with mice was ambition: mice were too small. She needed large and dangerous-looking animals as opponents. Who would make a fuss about a mouse anyway?

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Walking in Ernest Hemingway’s Footsteps

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My love life was not going well. The woman I was dating had just told me that she was not interested in a serious relationship.

Needing a change of air, I decided to take a trip to Cuba to walk in Ernest Hemingway’s footsteps.

Ernest Hemingway – who spent winters in Cuba from 1939 to 1960 – was a great adventurer, a keen hunter, a war correspondent, an incorrigible drinker and a cultured man. He wrote seemingly simple sentences that kept to the fundamentals, ignored superfluity and let readers decide for themselves what the author meant.

I devoted the first day of my stay to a pilgrimage: I visited La Finca Vigia, Hemingway’s domain in San Francisco de Paula; I went to Cojimar, the village where Santiago, the fisherman of The Old Man and the Sea, lived; and I stopped by the hotel Ambos Mundos in Havana where Hemingway stayed before purchasing a property.

Ernest Hemingway's study in La Finca Vigia, his property in the suburbs of Havana in Cuba. Visitors are not allowed inside the house where some of Hemingway's numerous hunting trophies are kept as well as part of his personal library.

I had six days left to quench my thirst in every (and there were many) drinking hole where the Literature Nobel Prize winner found solace from the hard life he was leading.

At seven o’clock in the morning, the sun would rise suddenly without wasting time with dawn. Exactly twelve hours later, night would fall without waiting for dusk.

After breakfast, I would take a walk on the easterly beach facing Florida. There were old bunkers everywhere. Cuba was still expecting an invasion from the United States: once bitten, twice shy.

One morning, as I was walking on the beach, I saw a group of men dressed in blue overalls gathering seaweed under the surveillance of guards who were sporting machine guns. I kept my distance. However, one of the men in overalls, on seeing that I was smoking, came to ask me for a cigarette. Immediately, I was surrounded by workers, all wanting a smoke. The guards quickly came to disperse them, telling me to continue on my way.

That night at dinner, a hotel employee told me those men were patients from a “psychiatric hospital” doing “community work.”

I never got used to seeing armed soldiers. I was also surprised every time I saw a vulture perched on a fence or a brahma bull grazing, the only bovine that seemed to be raised in Cuba.

A group of tourists are entering La Terraza in Cojimar, the village of Santiago the fisherman of The Old Man and the Sea. In the novel, the owner of this bar-restaurant was feeding Santiago and letting him have day-old newspapers so the old man could read baseball games results from the day before.

The locals I saw were often poor, sometimes dressed in rags. Despite this they had a striking dignity. They did not seem sad nor submissive. On the other hand, several times I was approached by Cubans who, sensing that I was a tourist, offered to buy my jeans or my shoes.

To better blend into the crowd, I started to wear khaki pants, a light white rayon shirt and sandals. This trick worked perfectly until somebody would try to start a conversation; my Spanish has never been very good.

On morning, on the beach, a tall blonde young woman came to ask me for a light for her cigarette. She spoke in Spanish with a strong English accent. I answered in English.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were Cuban,” she said.

“No problem; I see my disguise is effective,” I answered.

She laughed at my remark, took the lighter I handed her and we started to get acquainted while walking on the beach.

Margaret was Canadian from Ukrainian descent. She was a computer programmer, living in Saskatoon who was spending her vacation by herself in Cuba to improve her Spanish.

Although our hotels were only 15 kilometres from Havana, she had never been to the city. I invited her to join me for my daily outing in the afternoon.

We walked for a long time in the streets of La Habana Vieja. We visited small shops where ladies made cigars by rolling them on their thighs. We shopped in a bookstore. In a small record store, we saw the owner wrapping vinyl records in old newspapers to keep the cardboard jacket.

Margaret was a good companion. She was smart and curious about everything. She smiled easily and her laugh was infectious. I would be lying if I said that I did not like it when her hand brushed against mine.

It was a cloudy, hot and humid day. At the end of the afternoon, I suggested going for a daiquiri at El Floridita, one of Hemingway’s hangouts.

El Floridita is a bar-restaurant famous for its daiquiris, at the corner of Calle Obispo and Montserrate in old Havana.

As I opened the door to the bar for Margaret I noticed her giving me an odd look.

We sat side by side on one of the window seats against the wall, admiring the beautiful mahogany woodwork. There were three guitar players on a small stage at the back of the room.

As the waiter was bringing us our daiquiris, Margaret said:

“You are a gentleman. You open the door for me, you stand up to greet me, on the sidewalk you walk on the curb side. I have to say though, that I find it patronizing and a bit annoying after a while.”

I explained to her that in elementary school I had learned good manners. I applied them without thinking and I certainly was not trying to be unpleasant.

“That’s all right, I understand,” she said. “I just needed to let you know how I felt about it.”

“The Will of Woman is the Will of God,” I thought, promising myself not to offend Margaret anymore.

The musicians played well. The daiquiris were good. We lingered in the bar as it filled up with people coming back from work.

Margaret took my hand and laid her head on my shoulder. I felt good. The patrons were looking at us in a friendly way.

We had just finished our daiquiris when the waiter brought us two more. I tried to explain that we did not order any, that it was getting dark and we had to go back to the hotel. The waiter told us that the Cuban couple sitting at the bar was offering us these drinks. I looked up; they were looking at us, raising their glasses and smiling.

Courteously, I also raised my glass, nodding to thank them. After those two daiquiris, there were more; it seemed all the patrons in the bar wanted to buy us a round.

Margaret and I were laughing; the rum was making us tipsy. The guitar players came to play at our table. We danced. Our casual visit to the capital was turning into a joyful party.

Finally we managed to escape our hosts. It was very late and we had to find a cab to drive us back to the hotel.

The City of Havana shrouded in smog. In the background El Capitolio can be seen. The boulevard in the front is the Malecón, an 8 kilometre long esplanade stretching along the coast.

Margaret and I were walking and hugging on the sidewalk. We were quite drunk when I realized that I was walking on the curb side. Playfully, I swung Margaret around and, as she understood what I was trying to do, she burst out laughing.

At that moment, a car with embassy plates came speeding out of nowhere. The passengers were yelling in Spanish and one of them threw out of the window something that landed on Margaret’s blouse.

It was a freshly-used condom... If I had kept walking on the curb side it would have landed on me.

Margaret started crying. I tried to comfort her by holding her in my arms but to no avail.

We found a taxi and during the entire trip Margaret kept silent, sitting apart from me, looking nervously through the window.

She was staying at a cottage in a hotel a few minutes away from mine. I walked her to the door and told her how sorry I was about the incident that had just happened, and that it was a terrible way to end a day that had been otherwise so pleasant. Her wet eyes avoided mine. I took her hand one last time and told her I would stop by in the morning.

There was no answer when I knocked on her door the next morning. The desk clerk told me Margaret had gone out. I left a message saying I would be back later in the afternoon.

Margaret was not there when I returned around 4:00 PM.

The next day, the desk clerk told me Margaret left the hotel.

I never saw her again.

The fishing boats wharf in Cojimar.

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Electronic Smoking

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Back in 1980, a friend of mine went to France for three weeks to pick grapes. She returned a year and a half later after having travelled throughout Europe and the Mediterranean.

On Friday nights she would come over to visit me and we would play Scrabble and cribbage for hours on end while drinking wine and coffee.

Those are good memories.

One night as we were opening a third bottle of wine, my friend, whom I had never seen smoking, took out of her purse a pack of Egyptian cigarettes which she had brought back from her travels, and lit up a cigarette. I was not a smoker, however for fun I asked her to give me one. I was 25 years old and this was my first smoking experience. I enjoyed it so much that a month later I was smoking a pack a day.

I like the smell and the taste of tobacco. It reminds me of my grandfather who smoked Canadian tobacco that he purchased from farmers. It reminds me of my father, who before my parents’ divorce, when I was a child, would send me to the store to buy Sportsman cigarettes for him.

I like the gestures that come with smoking: opening a pack, taking a cigarette out, lighting it up while protecting the flame of the lighter or the match from the wind, holding a cigarette between my fingers, feeling the cigarette dangling from my lips, deeply breathing in the smoke and enjoying the taste of tobacco.

These feelings are irreplaceable.

At university, I had a non-smoking girlfriend who, when she woke up before me in the morning, would light one of my cigarettes and place it between my lips to awaken me. This is one of the most sensual memories of my youth.

Everybody smoked back then; it was the quintessential social activity. We shared cigarettes to get acquainted, to make a conversation last, to prolong an evening, to muster up courage at work. And drinking coffee or alcohol without smoking is just not the same thing.

In Jim Jarmusch’s excellent movie, Coffee and Cigarettes, Tom Waits manages to convince Iggy Pop that the beauty of quitting is that then you can have a cigarette, because you quit...

Everything is different now. First, governments implemented regulations to make cigarette packages less attractive. Then, they raised the price of tobacco products by applying whopping regressive taxes that sparked contraband and created a new underground cigarette manufacturing industry.

At work, employees were first relegated to smoking in badly ventilated rooms, then forced to smoke outside 30 feet away from the doors. The most basic principles of hospitality and health were ignored. Patrons of bars and restaurants would be subjected to the same predicament a few years later.

Which is the biggest threat? Catching cancer after decades of smoking or catching pneumonia after a few days or weeks of smoking outside in -30 temperatures?

To spare myself from having to smoke outside during the harsh Canadian winter, I decided to try switching to electronic cigarettes.

Electronic cigarettes, or e-cigs, were patented in the United States in the early 1960’s. At that time, the negative effects of smoking were not generally recognized so the product was a marketing failure.

An e-cig is about the same size and the same weight as a pen. Its components are an LED light to indicate when it is activated, a battery with the relevant electronic circuitry, a vaporizer and a cartridge containing a liquid that produces the taste and mist.

E-cigs are activated by inhaling from a hole at the end of the cartridge containing a liquid after it is screwed to the rest of the contraption.

This liquid contains propylene glycol or glycerin. These chemicals are often found in atomizers used to produce relief from asthma. It also contains food additives or nicotine although the importing of nicotine-based e-cigs is not authorized in Canada. Otherwise, it is fairly easy to find non-nicotine e-cigs.

I spent 10 dollars for a food additive-based e-cig that was supposed to provide me with the same enjoyment I would get from smoking two packs of regular cigarettes.

Unfortunately it was not to be.

While this e-cig gave me the impression that I was smoking “for real”, I was disappointed by the taste and smell of the cigarette. The device produces a sweet, herbal odour and taste that reminded me somewhat of the mixture hookah pipe smokers use: you know, the herbal stuff that tastes like apples or jasmine. I was never fond of flavoured tobacco; I prefer a strong bitter taste.

I also found the weight and size of the e-cig uncomfortable. It is impossible to let the cigarette hang from your lips because it is too heavy. Its length makes it awkward to handle.

Finally, the electronic cigarette produces a “smoke” that is really only a mist. It results from the evaporation of the liquid from the heated cartridge. In public, that mist is conspicuous and it might annoy oversensitive non-smokers or former smokers.

Since we are constantly bombarded with anti-smoking messages, it is hard not to be aware of the negative effects of this habit on the heart and the lungs. However, I am of those who believe that there are two sides to every coin. To every Romulus there is a Remus; to each Cain there is an Abel. If smoking is still popular despite the huge deployment of efforts to eradicate it, tobacco must have some benefits, benefits strong enough to resist advertising campaigns heavily subsidized by governments, the medical profession and the pharmaceutical industry.

Maybe we could learn some useful insight into the virtues of smoking from the Natives in America if we cared to listen...

In Canada, an often disgusting photo and a threatening warning about the danger of smoking must be displayed on half the surface of a pack of cigarettes. On the side of a package is a list of toxic products it contains. This kind of warning is likely to appear someday on restaurant menus, entrances to public buildings, cars, etc. Because, let’s face it, about everything we ingest, every location we visit, all consumer products we use and all of our activities constitute a health hazard of some kind.

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Heartbreaking News

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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.

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Rola, many thanks for the ideas.

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Don’t mess with the Captain!

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Version française

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We all need an island where we can rest our soul from everyday troubles, where we can get away from the trifling hassles of life. We all need a place to hang out and lick our wounds.

There was a lounge I used to go to that catered to a disparate clientele: young and old, wealthy and poor, people from the oldest Canadian Scottish ancestry to newly arrived South American immigrants.

Past the high stools by the bar, there was a couch and a couple of armchairs in a corner. The walls were decked with paintings from local artists who usually favoured earth tones.

Hanging from the high ceilings, old banged up musical instruments – a tuba, a trumpet, a French horn, even a sousaphone – were vigilantly keeping an eye on patrons. Over on one side, a smashed-up double-bass kept guard beside a piano.

The sousaphone owes its name to American bandmaster John Philip Sousa who was looking for an alternative to the hélicon for his marching band. The sousaphone is from the tuba family and is usually in the key of lower B flat. It is used mostly in marching bands but also in concert orchestras and jazz bands.

All these instruments were nothing but decorative elements. In reality, a couple of nights a week the lounge hosted live jazz bands whose members be-bopped on well-maintained instruments into the wee hours of the night.

But Friday night was DJ night, and from 8:00 PM to midnight a young Brazilian DJ would play house music. After midnight, he was replaced by guest DJs who would move the crowd into more hardcore spheres.

I liked Friday nights. I would arrive early, find a place at the end of the bar, order an anisette for starters, take out a book and read until things got too loud or too hectic.

That particular night I think I was reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island.

Around 10 P.M. – I was now drinking scotch and soda – three ladies in their early 30s wearing peasant blouses, flared skirts and flat shoes made a noticeable and lively entrance.

Looking around, they spotted the three empty stools to my right and aimed for them.
I kept reading, vaguely aware of their chatter, when the closest lady, a blonde with long braided hair and dreamy brown eyes asked me what I was drinking.

— I’m drinking whisky and soda, may I offer you one? I replied, ever the gentleman.

— I hate whisky, she giggled. Jack Daniel is a bad, bad man! He makes me do things against my will! I’d rather have Captain Morgan: he may be a pirate but at least he’s a gentleman.

So I asked the barmaid to bring my new friend a rum and cola (what they call a Cuba libre in the Caribbean), and we started to get acquainted.

Her name was Parsley and she and her two friends (Sage and Rosemary) worked at The Castle, a restaurant with a medieval theme where clients dressed in period costumes would gorge themselves with fat, salty and sweet food to forget about the dullness of life while yearning about times gone by.

I could relate to them somewhat as I could relate to the bubbly maidservant who was gracing me with her company, occasionally brushing her bosom against me.

She was funny and I enjoyed her high spirits. Sage and Rosemary however were looking at us with concern.

After Parsley downed her third Cuba libre, Rosemary scolded her, urging her to watch herself. Parsley just shrugged and turned towards me, taking my arm and telling her friends that I was the most well-behaved gentleman she could meet tonight.

Her friends rolled their eyes and suggested going to another bar.

— You go, she told them, I’m staying.

I knew better than to get involved in an argument that wasn’t mine so I returned temporarily to my drink and book, keeping distractedly aware of the disagreement unfolding beside me.

When Parsley’s friends left, she turned and looked at me saying: “I need my captain.”

“It’s all right, I’m here,” I replied and as I ordered another rum and cola for her, the barmaid looked at me and winked.

We kept drinking, talking, laughing and cuddling until closing time. The DJ put on one last song, Parsley and I got up only to realize we were so drunk we would be a road hazard if we drove. By George! We would have been a threat walking on the sidewalk!

So we just stood by the entrance of the bar holding each other.

Soon a taxicab drove by and I flagged it down. We decided to go to Parsley’s place. She lived in a high-rise downtown. When we got there, I looked up at the tower then down at Parsley’s long golden braid and I felt like I was in a brother Grimm’s tale. Still very tipsy, we took the elevator to the 20th floor and entered Parsley’s apartment.

In the subdued light I could make out velvet burgundy drapes hanging over the balcony doors and a lace-covered coffee table in front of a satin couch. One wall was covered with an impressive collection of medieval weapons: a crossbow, daggers, swords, rapiers, arrows.

Parsley certainly takes the dark ages seriously I thought.

— “I need to freshen up,” she said as she left for the washroom. “There’s beer in the fridge!”

I was drawn to the armory wall. I walked unsteadily towards it. I felt like I travelled through time and the liquor I drank all evening was not helping me staying grounded. Everything started to waver and I was afraid I was going to fall.

There was a sword leaning against the wall. I used it as a cane to support myself, resting one foot on a small wooden keg beside it.

That’s when I felt Parsley’s hands reaching from behind to hug me as she whispered: “My captain... Oooh, my captain...”

Everybody loves the Captain!.

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The hippie, the network administrator and the Monopoly board...

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Version française

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Cathy was a short, slim, attractive, 42 year old brunette hippie in glasses who wore funny hats, a bit like Annie Hall.

We hooked up at the students’ pub of the university – where she was taking philosophy classes and I was booking bands – after having a passionate discussion about Arthur Schopenhauer’s values.

I argued that Schopenhauer brought misery to his own life because of his negative frame of mind, she insisted it was impossible because good old Arthur liked poodle dogs.

Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860) was a German philosopher whose pessimistic approach to life rendered his relationship with humankind difficult. He took solace in the company of poodle dogs. According to some, this led to tensions between the German and the French which provoked some of the bloodiest conflicts of the 19th and 20th centuries in Europe. Image: luigi diamanti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Cathy told me that, several months before, she had separated from her husband of 20 years. Together, they had two beautiful children, a boy, 12, and a girl, 9, who were the sunshine of her life.

However, we live in difficult times. Her ex-husband, Günther, a network administrator, had lost his job with a large computer hardware manufacturer that closed its doors shortly after the technology bubble burst.

He was now working – though for a more frugal income – with a smaller company that maintained data centres for local clients. He worked on call and often had to go on site at any hour of the day or night to fix technical problems.

Because of this, Cathy and Günther agreed to keep living in separate rooms in the family home until they found a purchaser. They would then divvy up the family’s estate to move on with their lives.

I am always impressed when people act in civilized ways despite life’s challenges.

One Wednesday morning after Cathy spent the night at my place, she found out her cell phone battery had run out. I suggested she used my phone to call the nanny at home, inquire about the children and make plans for the day.

After this was done, we had breakfast, grateful that life made our paths cross. Then, I walked her to her car, we kissed tenderly and promised to get in touch and see each other again before the weekend.

On Thursday, Cathy called saying that a cousin invited her and her children to spend a few days at a cottage on the slopes of a trendy ski resort. She would be back by Sunday and would be delighted if we could spend Sunday evening together.

As much as I value the virtue of negating desire, anytime a lovely lady is delighted to spend an evening with me, I am delighted too.

Later that night, I received another phone call:

— “May I speak to Cathy?”

Surprised to hear a man calling for Cathy at my place I asked to whom I was speaking.

— “This is Günther, her husband...”

There is nothing more exciting than receiving a call from your lover’s ex-husband.

A husband whose wife cheats on him is said to be "wearing the horns" because, as a horn-bearing animal does not see the horns on its forehead, the cuckold does not see the infidelity of his mate while it is obvious to all. The shame of wearing the horns is not related to the unfaithfulness of your companion as much as to not knowing what everybody else does. Wearing the horns has always been quite common throughout human history. I've worn them, you probably have as well...

“I would appreciate if you keep away from my wife,” said Günther. “Do you enjoy breaking up couples and messing up their family life? Now, let me speak to Cathy, I know she’s there.”

As confused as I felt, I tried to explain that it was not the way things were, at least that was not the way Cathy explained her marital situation to me. I told him I had no affinity with the traditional backdoor man, in fact I kind of despised weak characters who went after married women.

There was a long silence at the end of the line, then I heard a painful sob: Günther was crying...

— “I know I could have done better,” he said, “I know it’s not a sufficient reason but I can make it up, I... I...” And he began to weep uncontrollably.

It’s always embarrassing to listen to a man cry especially since I felt somewhat responsible for his breakdown, yet I felt helpless.

I tried to explain again that it was an honest mistake on my part, that I would discuss the situation with Cathy next time I’d talk to her...

— “It’s useless,” he said, “without her, my life is over, I’d rather end it...”

Self-pity is the worst companion you can pick: I’ve seen its devastating effects. That’s why I worry when someone talks about hastily ending his or her days, especially when the future of young children is at stake.

So I said:

— “Listen, you’re upset, it’s understandable, but don’t do anything foolish. Let’s talk it out.”

And then, some crazy idea came to my mind:

— “Are you doing anything right now? How about coffee? You know that little café off Main Street? The Bitter Cup? Let’s meet over there in, say, half an hour?”

Günther needed some convincing, but I finally got him to agree. I figured if I could get him up and out of the house to go somewhere else, maybe he would forget about his crazy ideas for awhile.

So we met at the café, he talked for a long time, I listened, and in the end I convinced him to postpone any harsh decision until I talked to Cathy.

Sunday afternoon, Cathy called on her way back to town. After the usual enquiries about the weekend, I said:

— “Cathy, we need to talk about Günther...”

I explained the phone call I got from her husband, the discussion we had, and his frame of mind.

— “The son of a bitch! He had no right to call you! How did he get your number?”

I told her he picked it up from the call display after she called home using my phone.

— “You should never have made me use your phone! What were you thinking? Do you understand what I will have to go through now because of your lack of judgment?”

— “Cathy, I...”

But it was too late, she had already hung up. I called back; her phone was off.

Around supper time, the phone rang; it was Günther.

— “May I speak to Cathy please?”

I told him Cathy wasn’t here.

— “She came in earlier, dropped the kids and left," said Günther. "She was furious and she’s not answering her phone. What happened?”

— “I don’t know, I lied, maybe she didn’t have a good weekend at her cousin’s cottage...”

— “Anyway, I have the kids now and I just got an emergency at one of the data centres. The nanny won’t be here until tomorrow morning. I don’t know what to do.”

I suggested he’d take the kids to relatives, friends or a neighbour.

— “We don’t have any relatives or friends in town and I don’t know any neighbours.”

And then, after a moment, he said:

— “I feel awkward to ask, but could you...”

The idea of babysitting the kids of the man who was cuckolded by me was not appealing, but then, what was I supposed to do given his depressed state of mind?

So I said: “Okay, bring the kids over, I’ll watch them tonight.”

Günther dropped the kids at my apartment.

I made popcorn, got out the Monopoly board, and we played the game of acquiring other people’s property, coveting assets, collecting wages every time we passed “Go”, and sometimes ending up in jail.

I watched the kids fall asleep on the couch and was relieved when Günther came to pick them up at 3:00 AM.

I never heard from Cathy nor Günther again.

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