Saturday, March 31, 2007

Canadian Aborginals "Different" - No Bullshit


I know this native man, his name is Rick Beaver. I got to know him by way of his wife, Ruth Clarke. Ruth was a student with me at writing classes at Queen's University in Kingston.
To me, Rick looks more like a Ukranian boyhood chum of mine, Donald Boychuk, than he does a native man.

But Rick is very much a First Nation guy, he and Ruth live on a reserve in Alderville, Ontario, just a short drive form my place in Port Hope. And being a First Nation guy, Rick is well... "different".

Rick Beaver lives in a home he built himself that has a great southern exposure and a stone floor to absorb heat from the sun in the winter. The house is dug in to the south slope of a mound of earth to advantage the natural warmth of the planet. In the winter, he burns wood for heat, and when it gets really cold he has a propane furnace he can use. There's a tandem axel gravel truck parked in his driveway when he's not driving it.

Of course Rick is a famous artist too, but his profession and his house are not what makes him different from us white folks. It's his way of being in the world that is different, something I have notice in First Nation people all over Canada. No bullshit in that.


Without going in to too much detail, I think First Nation people must "see" differently than white people. This has enabled Rick to transfer his mind onto canvas, and that is popular in the last 20 or so years, so he has a market to work toward.


I think if Rick did not have his art he would go nuts in a white man's world. I have, and I'm not even that much different than Rick.


Friday, March 30, 2007

Big Foot Documentary Saturdy, March 31.


Well, it had to happen sooner or later. Those peaceable Big Feets living in harmony with nature in the vicinity of Norway House, Manitoba, are the topic of a CTV documentary that airs Saturday night, March 31.
I can visualize the producers sitting down to a plateful of bannock, beans, fish, macaroni, wieners, and moose stew at the annual York Boat races, making friends with the locals, and looking over their shoulders for sightings of the gentle giants.
Really, all the attention might benenfit the Cree who make up the local population, but what about Mr. and Mrs. Big Foot and their family of four? Will Poppa Bigfoot relapse into his alcoholism due to being under the magnifying glass?
Will Momma Big Foot be so influenced by the invasion of modern cluture that her shopping addiction resurfaces? Trying to get a pair Manolos in Norway House is nearly impossible, let alone getting them in size 26 EEEEE width!
And how will all the attention influence the Big Foot kids? Are there any counsellors available to these folks?


Thursday, March 29, 2007

Bullshit Detector Busy This Week


Whew!
It's been a busy week. This morning when I turned on the B.S. detector it was pointing toward Ottawa and showed a 9.5 out of 10 on the scale.
Nothing unusual about centering on Ottawa, which has the highest concentration of bullshitters this side of the American border. But don't get me started on the Yanks.
No, it seems that administators at Canada's venertated Royal Canadian Mounted Police have been using the pension fund of their rank and file to pay off relatives working in the said pension office, where nearly 50 of the sixty odd employees are relatives of the administrative team. (See my March 25 post in the Archives section for more on family run business and the Mormons.)
No wonder the Mounties are hiring new people! Doesn't say anything in the recruiting poster about being a relative of a Mountie though. Must be a typo on their part.
But it doesn't end there. Seems the same administrators were contracting out work at inflated prices. No trail of cash, at least not yet, back in to the Mountie's administrators pockets. (See my post from March 21 on Corporate Greed leading to Unhappiness.)
This is a helluva way for the RCMP to support the young people of Canada, by showing them how to be white-collar crooks. Youth suppport is one of their mandates.
And incredibly, it still doesn't end there! Accused of neptotism, the former head of the RCMP, who was fired after changing his testimony under oath on the Mahar Arar case, ordered the Ottawa municipal police to investigate the hiring practices of the Mountie pension board, then two days later called off the investigation, changing his mind, to order a financial audit. He should have known, it's only a woman's perogative to change her mind. (See my post of March 23, Why I Don't Like Cops.)
So it's been a busy week for dirty administrators, what with the Ontario Lottery and Gaming Commission in hot water after failing to investigate its own dirty laundry.
I'm not hard on administrators, they are exceeding hard on themselves, and some of them haven't even been caught yet. Well, we shall see about that. Time to slap a couple of wrists then persecute someone who is innocent to take the fall.


Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Children's Entertainers Give Me the Creeps


There's something about children's entertainers that makes my skin crawl.
Children's entertainer Pee-Wee Herman, a.k.a Paul Reubens, was arrested in 1991 for masturbating in a cinema. He was fined $50 and had to do some community service. Maybe that's why I don't like kiddie komedians and their wankers.
Then came Sharon, Lois and 'Bram who were all born in the late 1930's and early 1940's, with their spot on CBC television and subsequent Order of Canada Medal. No spring chickens, them.
But oddly enough "Barney" does not scare me. I just detest his singing.


When I was standing in line at the supermarket today I heard a shopper in front of me tell the cashier that the cardinals were singing this morning. It's supposed to be a sign of spring I think.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Palestinians Die in Own Sh*t


It's a sad day. A Sh*t Tsunami has killed a number of people in Palestine. What a way to go, in your own sh*t.
Hindsight is always 20/20 but, maybe they should have stuck to outhouses.

Kids Have Balls - Again

These kids have found their balls. No bullshit here. Reminds me of those photos from the early 1960's when students all over the world banded together to stop the American war in Viet Nam and get the "vote" for black people.

The students above are from Birchmount Collegiate in Toronto. Reason they are so hyped is 'cause they have found the bullhsit in the school's administrative office, who suspended students for Blogging about their Principal.

Face it; administrators are afraid of what they don't understand, Bloggers! More power to these kids. They are learning a real big lesson here.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Ontario Lottery & Gaming Commission Fraud

When I turned on the Bullshit Detector this morning it started pointing at 1420 Yonge St., Toronto, the head offices of the Ontario Lottery and Gaming Commission (OLG).

Let me be the first print journalist to quote an executive of the OLG, who said, on the condition of anonymity, "When it gets this bad, you have to hold your nose".
Honestly, have any of you known an honest gambler? Okay, leave out the "honest" parts and ask te question again. What's that smell?
That quote did not come from Theresa Roncon, Communications Specialist at OLG and my former cougar girlfriend. Actually, she's a hired talking head, for OLG. She makes most of her dough hosting "Cottage Life" on the Life Network and some kid's show. But I digress. Seems tha the OLG was paying hush money to retailers who had scammed unwitting Lottery winning to those doughheads who are too lazy to check their own ticket numbers against the winning numbers. They insist that the retailer scan the tickets, "Just in case I miss one", duuh!

You've actually seen these lazy fat slobs, standing at the Lottery terminal at the corner store, dressed in stained track pants with a fistful of lottery tickets.
Oh, I know, you've been playing the same numbers - father's birthday, nephew's birthday, brother's birthday, cat's birthday and your christening day - since 1981, so you're number have just gotta come up soon.
But really, spending so much on Lotto that you have to eat dog food? Over $70 a week, and they're on welfare too. It just gets stupider!
Poor Mr. Chang , the proprietor, is desperately feeding tickets like .45 caliber ammunition into a machine gun, as fast as he can into the terminal scanner, and when a winner is detected a ring tone sounds.

"Ahh," he says, face all crinkley smiles, "you win fi' dolla."

The poor slob signs the ticket, which is really a loser ticket that Chang picked form his stack of losers, as he tucks the $10,000 winneing ticket into his sock.
Chang cashes out the five bucks to the mouth-breathing track-panted idiot slobbering all over his counter. This is all fine.

The OLG and the Ontario Gaming Commission (two seperate entities) run by the Ontario government is really just a vacuum device for the tax on stupid people.
Yes, about 70% of what you spend on Lotteries and in the Casinos goes straight into the provincial treasury.

"It's good for the health care system.", you say? Yes, but... you're paying a very visible tax that you don't have to. You can't con me. Well, not more than twice on the scam.

I know, you get an entertainment factor out of playing the Lotteries or plugging your hard earned cash into the slots. Why not just throw cash out the car window to homeless people as you drive around the Lakeshore district? Why not beat yourself, at least feels good when you stop.
Whoops, there goes the Bullshit detector again. Must be the Media Conference about to start at the OLG offices on Yonge. Follow the money. As for Theresa, I don't kiss and tell, but it wasn't worth it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

Vendors Prevent Tag Art in Port Hope Ontario



There's only one piece of tag art, or in this case painted graffiti, in Port Hope. I know, I've been riding all over on my bicycle looking for spray paint artwork.
This sole sample of grafitti, "We are all victims of the system" is behind the drugstore in this town's only strip mall. It's right next to the railway tracks, with a two meter wooden fence blocking the view to the rail line. A safe place to paint without getting caught.
It's not my tag. No, honest, really, it isn't.
My bullshit detector went off right away. It gave me a heading to the closest hardware store - a Home Hardware that is run by Mormons. Rock icon and pedophile Michael Jackson is Mormon. Just so you know.
So I go to the Home Hardware and start snooping in the paint department. Plenty of spray cans on display. One of the young Mormons (it's a family run business, all the employees are related) hovering near by asks if she can help me. Nice, pure blonde teenage Mormon girl, granddaughter of the owner.
"Yes," I say, "is there any age limit on buying spray paint?"
She clues in right away, eyeing me suspiciously. My reputation as a bullshit detective is preceeding me. Maybe it's my trenchcoat, deer stalker hat and pipe.
"Oh yes, you have to be eighteen or over to buy spray paint.", she says.
"Why is that?", I say, eyes narrowing.
"It's because of the fumes.", she says.
"The fumes?", I ask.
"Yes - the kids are sniffing the paint fumes, and dying."
I feel like asking how many bodies have been found to date, but let it slide. 'Cause it's bullshit.

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Bullshit Gym Classes On Line


Now this is really bullshit. High school students can sign up for on-line gym classes. Yes, it's an honour system for educating young minds and bodies on the intricate movement of the human body.
Personally, I'd rather sign up for online yoga. Maybe I could cook a roast of beef online too, and I wouldn't have to wash the pot after dinner. Think of the possibilities! Online sex? - no way. There wouldn't be any odours.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Why I don't like cops



I liked the police until I was eight years old. But then one of them screwed me, and that all changed. When cops screw up they do it big time.
But when I was eight, my buddy Stevie and I found out what they are really like.
Stevie was a Roman Catholic and had to go to confession every Saturday. I, an Anglican, would walk with him to the church because there was a littel creek and some scrub woods in the ravine next to the church.
After confession, we'd ramble around in the ravine looking for crayfish in the creek, chasing minnows, floating leaf boats - boy stuff.
On the way to church there was pay telephone booth where we religiously checked the coin return compartment. Sometimes we'd find a nickle or a dime someone had forgotten. This one Saturday, on the way to Stevie's confessional, we found a white cotton bag full of coins on the shelf right in front of the pay phone.
Our best guess was, the guy who collected the money out of the coin box had emptied it, but forgot to take the bag and put it in his truck when he left.
We decided to keep the money; I was to bury it down in the ravine while Stevie was in confession, then we'd come back for it later. It was lot of money to an eight year old, about fifty dollars.
I had almost finished digging the hole with a stick. I sensed a movement, looked up to see Stevie and the priest walking down the path toward me. Stevie had confessed the finding to the priest, who told us to take the money back home and call the police. Being a good little Catholic, and I an honest Anglican, that's what Stevie and I did.
Stevie's dad called the cops for us. When the officer arrived he drove right in Stevie's driveway, where we were waiting with money bag on the front steps.
The cop took the money, and told us what good little boys we were. I remember feeling a sense of pride in being praised by this big burly cop. He told us if no one claimed the dough after three months, we could come to the police station and claim it. We marked our calendars.
The waiting was awful. It seemd like eons. To pass the time, we'd plan and fantasize about what we would do with all that money. Stevie was going to buy a bow and arrows, I was going to buy a pup tent. We'd go camping and hunting.
On the appointed day, having not heard a peep from the police, Stevie's dad drove us down to the Cop Shop. The three of us went, and Stevie's dad explained the situation to the desk sergeant.
Smiling, like a cat that's learned to fry mice in butter, the sergeant said, "Where's your property receipt?"
"What's a property receipt?", said Stevie's dad.
"Whenever one of our officers collects anything from anyone, he gives them a property receipt. You'll have to show me the property receipt.", he said.
Stevie and I asked the nice man if he still had our bag money. "It was a white cotton bag full of coins." we stammered in unison.
"I don't know," smiled the nice man. "Where's your property receipt. It has a number on it, and I can't find anything here without that number."
Our dreams shattered, Stevie and I started to cry. Stevie's dad grabbed him by the arm, told me to follow him, as he dragged his son back out to the car.
Through clenched teeth, "Let this a lesson to you boys!", said Stevie's dad, as he viciously let out the clutch and wheeled us around to head back home. It was the first time I'd heard Stevie's dad burn rubber with the tires.
And it was a lesson.




Thursday, March 22, 2007

How part time jobs are hazardous to everyone's health


I've been working for Nucomm, a big corporation that runs call centers in economically depressed parts of Ontario. It's a part time job in Cobourg, paying $10 and hour, so it gives me pocket change after talking angry customers through to a solution. It's not the kind of job I want to spend much time at, because everyone who calls me is really pissed that they can't connect to the Web.

I'm the guy who answers the phone when you call Rogers or Cogeco about why your computer's DSL connection on the cable network doesn't work. It's a contracted out job, and Nucomm has the contract for now.

I have a lot of experience dealing with pissed people over the phone from when I worked in a call centre for major municipality answering the phone when people called about not having their garbage or blue boxes emptied on collection day. They paid me $30 and hour, plus benefits and expenses - but that was in another life.

I work shifts at Nucomm, mostly weekends and evenings. There's not a lot of people trying to surf the Net or send E-mails after midnight, and there's a geek who loves the night shift, so he gets most of the overnight time. I wouldn't want to work all night like him, so I count myself lucky by default. But I've been feeling really hollow lately, and I wondered why.

It turns out that an economist has figured out that us part-timers are not only at risk for health problems, we are actually poisoning the world too. We who hold part time jobs, it turns out, really are hazardous to every one's health.

Until I read this article, I had no idea that I was likely causing my girlfriend's yeast infection by working! I thought it came from my sleeping around with the single mothers in town!

So, I've been trying to persuade my fellow workers at Nucomm to either go full time or quit. I figure I need the job there myself to help pay for my daily expenses. I kind of like having a warm place to sleep and being able to buy a coffee and doughnut instead of walking the back roads picking up beer bottles. So I need the job, and it's all I can get right now.

But if I can't talk enough of the part timers at Nucomm into quitting, I'll have to start twisting the arms of folks working at Tim Hortons into quitting or going full time. And who hires all those women working at Timmy's? Do those Hortons uniforms only come in one size, and they have to hire to fit the fat pants, or is it the other way around? Anyone know a good union organizer?

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Why we fat, and between the ears

Over time I have learned to dumb myself down to fit in with the masses. I say "I seen it" and "youse" and "guys" instead of "people" to improve my acceptance rate with the status quo. But I don't look like a nerd, so this confuses people.

I'm not particularly intelligent either. My high brow friends suffer me like a fool because I won't kiss any ass just because they are rich. They wag their fingers at me, tut tutting, pointing out this is why I never stay out of the working poor rut. I don't say "youse" or "I seen it" to these people, even though they say it, because I actually know it's not good grammar.

But I did get a promotion out of the working poor rut, working for a major corporation. The extra money was nice for a while, but my co-workers were actually just status quo folks who had fallen their way good paying jobs after being hired by a pair of psychopaths. The psycho's talked, "I seen youse guys" or my favourite "yizz'le" a contraction for "youse will" and they listened to country music.

I had never been fat, or even pleasingly plump, so at first in that job I stuck out like a hard-on in junior high school. Such has been my fate; to be singled out for being normal in with a bunch of oddballs.

We know it's true that we accumulate the habits of those we spend the most time with. So it was inevitable, I suppose, that although I had the self control not to lose my mind working with these slackers, conformists, and sexual deviants, that I did lose my waistline.

To fit in, I stopped bringing to work my bagged lunch of whole wheat sandwich, some fruit and vegetable sticks. After all, I now had the salary to buy lunch at the local diner. Sometimes we went to the Mandarin buffet for some of what I call "fried fried" - breaded fried food that is deep fried again, or ordered in thick crust pizza.

One associate, a really nice guy that was faking his way through being a materials broker, brought in trays of Krispy Kreme doughnuts for all us saps hoping he would get a lucrative contract. Some of us were hooked on lunchtime pita wraps filled with otherwise healthy fillings, dripping with mayonnaise. The sumo wrestler who made the wraps at his walk-in restaurant knew what middle income people liked, and how to disguise it as health food, so he was worshipped in kind.

After months of over consumption, when I got home from work I was too groggy and exhausted by all the eating to cook, so there came more take-out. More drinks. No sex. I felt, and looked, terrible, but at least I felt I fit in.

One day, a coworker took a digital photo of our lunch bunch, my peers - it was some one's going away party - while I was saying "youse guys". As the photo was circulated via the corporate Intranet my memory went back to the moment I was saying youse, and the penny dropped.

As luck would have it, I quit my job soon after, to join the ranks of the working poor, again.

Because I'm between full time jobs, I now have the time to walk everywhere I want to go, or take my bicycle, can't afford take-out anymore, I lost five notches of belt and 25 pounds. My breathing improved, I lost the burning spot in my gut and no longer suffer from acid reflux so don't have to take Nexium like candy.

I can sleep through entire night without waking up sweating but I've lost most of my high brow friends because "Youse is no use to us anymore.", they say.

I get bored easily, but it's 9:41 am and the public library opens here at 10. It's bright and warm, so I hang out there, reading newspapers and good literature for free. I feel it's good for my brain.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

How corporate greed makes you unhappy

Hi all you no good slackers and guilty executivesCheck Spelling

Have you ever noticed how executives have an overdeveloped sense of entitlement lately? Lord Black of Cross Harbour (Conrad Black to Canadians) is currently getting his fingers burned in a Chicago court for conveniently forgetting that money belonging to shareholders in his companies is not to be used for his - and his wife's - personal spending.

But there's a lot more dishonesty going on in the boardrooms of our country due to this "I'm entitled to my entitlements" view, and it effects even the smallest entrepreneur trying to make pocket change. But how can a feeling of being entitled to perks make you unhappy even if the perpetrators feel no remorse, even when confronted, even with photographic proof? Here are some interesting facts on administrators, executives and their weasel ways...

Take, for instance, the low-tech "Honest to Goodness" snack system, which is a cardboard tray filled with sweet and salty snacks, left in office lunch rooms by entrepreneurs trying to make a buck.

There is an integral money box with a slot, into which the buyer places coins or bills, all on an honour system, to pay the posted price of whatever they have just lifted out of the open tray.

The cardboard trays are replenished every Thursday by an "Honest to Goodness" employee - often the owner - the money removed and balanced against the products sold, and those remaining. Honest to Goodness statistics show some revealing corporate greed occurring in offices that house the executive, clerical and administrative staff on different floors within the same building.

First understand, Honest to Goodness figures an eighty per cent return, or 20 per cent theft rate, as the cut off point where they pull the vending box.

On the floor with the clerical workers, the rate of honesty for Honest to Goodness snack purchases is a steady 92 per cent year round.

Regular folks these clerks, most of whom have children at home, bring their lunch to work, are often timed by punch clocks, and are breathed down their necks by the administrative staff to "do a good job, be accurate and don't think up new ways of doing things - just follow our orders". Most clerks get their job by passing a time limited test on computer, and the test is set up to catch cheaters, who are eliminated from the competition. Written work rules and job descriptions cover every available loophole.

Clerks are a convivial lot. You can see them "wasting time" chuckling around the water cooler, trading day-care stories, talking prices on groceries, gasoline, clothes, guffawing at crude jokes... the essentials. But honest they are, and there's a certain peer pressure for them to stay that way. They don't steal much, because they don't have much themselves, there they know if someone stole from them, the consequences would likely be life altering.

But on the floor where the administrators work, there's not so much pressure. At times the work environment is like being at a mixed gender country club, where the women rule the roost. Just smell the designer perfume on the air when you walk in the room!

There are no timed lunches - a simple in-out board instead of punch clock - and no one has to tell them how to dress because the administrators use peer pressure instead of rules to enforce an unwritten code of office chic. They have the salary to dress better than the clerks, along with the leisure of not having to account for their time spent actually working on anything.

Like the clerks, administrators are convivial lot, but it's here where the ugly head of entitlement starts.

Most administrators get their jobs on the strength of the past education and their self written resumes. They lie on their resumes because they think all the other administrators (the competition) are lying on their resumes, so there's little guilt involved in lying. After all, the reasoning goes, if I have to compete with liars, I have to lie myself - right? It doesn't end there, but more on the entitlement to lie later.

On the administrator's floor the theft rate from the snack box varies between 15 per cent on regular weeks, then spikes to 25 per cent after some major holidays like Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter. Why the spikes at the high holidays and not, for instance, on Labour Day or Canada Day? Because on high holidays , mostly family gatherings, the administrators have higher-than-clerk expectations of what constitutes a good time.

They feel compelled to spend more time and money in this pursuit to make everything "perfect" than the clerks, and have correspondingly higher stress levels before the holiday - which leads to more theft from the snack box - a bigger disappointments then the clerks after the holiday, because their bigger efforts than clerical staff do not yield commensurately better satisfaction.

Up on the executive's floor, predominately male with a token attack-trained woman sprinkled here and there, where the pay is astronomical, the Honest to Goodness box lasted only three weeks before being pulled by the operator. It's the executives who say, "They pay me for what I know, not what I do."

The executives are accountable only to their own consciences or lack thereof, and they hold long talks around the table in their lounge egging each other on to shameless exploits in business that quickly extended to the snack box. Fully half of them ( 50 per cent) regularly stole items in week one, and in week two some enterprising exec stole the money from the cardboard cash box.

The final straw for Honest to Goodness on the executive floor came in week three when the entire box, snacks and all, disappeared. The executives blamed the clerks, claiming their floor had been infiltrated by some low-life when no one was watching. So now, not only theft and lies, but false blame too!

Next article: Why are professional engineers put in the position of supervising people while human resources people are prohibited from building roads and bridges?

Musing for the next-next article: Why I gained 20 pounds of belly fat after I was promoted.