Waiting for the dust to settle

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During the first intifada I had an epiphany. Having grown up in a moderate pro-Israel culture where Palestinians were reduced to the role of terrorists, news was supplied through traditional media of television, radio and newspapers. If the Internet was around, I doubt there would’ve been any realization. Social media, too often a poison on our humanity, doesn’t allow for reflection.

We were taught one of the clues indicating Palestinians still wanted to destroy Israel; the map of Palestine used in demonstrations. It was a map that included all of Israel. We equated it as wanting Israel to be wiped off the map, and it was usually prefaced with an, “Aha, you see!” because hey, it wasn’t there anymore.

The map of Israel I grew up with was identical.

There was no recognition of occupied Palestinian territories. If we thought they wanted to destroy us, they must think we want to destroy them. 

Of course this could stem from the innocuous — it’s easier to draw a map of the whole than a map of the divided, which once done, frankly is an unappealing jagged mess.

The Israeli/Palestinian conflict is drowned in propaganda designed to get you caught in the weeds, but there are moments of clarity. Even as the events of Monday are analyzed and you decide which truth to believe (wait for it, the weeds are coming), an action took place that was undeniable.

A decision was made to shoot live rounds at demonstrators who were separated from soldiers by a fence (and not your common garden variety). It is a decision that was approved by Cabinet. A hardline, right wing Israeli Cabinet with a take no prisoners approach. An approach that doesn’t give a shit about lives lost because they can dismiss and objectify protestors as terrorists. It was simple for them. They had a prebuilt narrative.

And what of the live narratives? If you glance at headlines, a few sentences, let your ears pop at newscasts of traditional media or the web of mainstream and indie news, you’d draw a picture of unarmed civilians peacefully protesting being shot by IDF snipers in cold blood — and at one big protest. 

A cursory glance at photos shows burning tyres, Molotov cocktails, and slingshots. They (Israelis) shot first are the claims, then the violence occurred. Who do you believe? What is appropriate force and where does peaceful cross the line? What level of violent protest is acceptable for a population trapped in an enclave such as Gaza, must they all be Gandhi before we make peace? The blockade of Gaza has driven Palestinians into the arms of Hamas, expecting them to vote for anyone "moderate" is fantasy (not that Gazan's can vote). Are you going to put Netenyahu on the ballot, do you want them to vote for him, because, essentially that’s what you’re saying if you do want them to change leadership.

Then it’s children. How can you shoot children, kill a baby, although it wasn’t shot. And what the hell was a baby doing there in the first place? It turns out the baby passed away because of a pre-existing condition. Was it dead before? Hamas admits to fifty of their members being killed, proof enough of terrorist activity claim Israel, but surely there’s a difference between a member protesting and a member engaged in terrorist activity (planting bombs, suicide bombs, launching rockets and opening fire on civilians)? There are reasons beyond the destruction of Israel to join Hamas. And how did the IDF know who were Hamas members when their snipers picked them off? 

And on and on it goes. The questions. The theoretical. What is reasonable self-defence for Israel? Was this the best way, the only way?

Why not let them march to the fence? What’s the worst that could happen? Take them down then? Are the optics worse to have Palestinians lining up against the fence for miles rather than the melee which unfolded? Can we see them with the wire cutters and explosives as claimed — and not old or photoshopped pictures.

Has Hamas, with their we’re peaceful, no we’re not peaceful couched in anti-semitism bollocks just won a massive propaganda battle because of a blinkered Israeli government? Are Hamas on the precipice of losing this battle, a massive reverse, because most of the dead are their members? And Palestinians wonder why the world doesn’t give a shit. 

And Israelis think the world cares more than it does. 

All this now because the idiot president, a clueless goofball, decided to move the US embassy from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem with all the sensitivity he’s shown to women, migrants, and minorities. He did it slap bang between Israeli Independence Day and the Naqba. And hey, I’m someone who believes it’s ludicrous to think anywhere but Jerusalem could be the spiritual home and capital of the one Jewish state on this planet. But equally, I recognize that official recognition and subsequent move of all embassies must be tied to a peace solution with East Jerusalem as capital of a Palestinian state. If you think anything different you are part of the problem (Jared Kushner). But hey, carry on if you do, because there are only two alternatives, a bi-national state or ethnically cleanse Palestinians from towns, villages and fields. Make life so difficult for them they’ll leave. Oh wait, that’s happening now. 

And through all this hogwash, the sense that this was premeditated, another we all knew moment, I remind myself, on Monday people were unnecessarily shot, killed, or maimed because two nations are intent on destroying each other while being aided and abetted by a man who almost daily disgraces the Office of the President of the United States.


P.S. Consider yourself fortunate this a 900 word blog and not 9,000.


Jog when you see a Photographer


The phone buzzed.

I think I’ll be at the Vancouver marathon. Want to walk a half with me?

If you walk slow.


I’m jet lagged, but yes.

My problem with commitment is when I say yes, I’m all in, so I’ve cultivated a lifestyle of avoiding the affirmative — those “maybe” buttons on Facebook are a godsend. But know; there’s really a binary person with a ton of judgment behind all those woolly maybes.

Without a maybe I caught up in person with Esther after three and half years. We had first met at the Austin Film Festival (the Driskill Bar, naturally) in 2011. She was a force of nature then and remains so. 

The last time we crossed paths she gave me a swim routine (how to swim a mile faster) helping me negotiate the gloom of winter. Prior to I was only a fair weather pool fiend. Esther btw would have been a contender for Olympic gold if the 10km outdoor was available in her heyday — her 10km indoor being eight minutes faster than the current outdoor world record — and all the more remarkable because of a serious heart condition. 

She’s young enough to go back, but both her shoulders are blown, and frankly, she’s moved on, she’ll be on the Hill shortly helping shape tax policy.

Early in the half marathon I noticed the pace. It was faster than my imagined slow. I made one quip and zipped it. The course took care of concerns. Knowing a course is a huge advantage; to me it was series of shorter walks, the vistas ever changing of glass, concrete, trees, and sea. Blue skies and cool morning air allied with jazz performers in pyjamas, official support and impromptu unofficial support eased the way. 

I smiled and wondered if I was as old and lame as I appeared to the young bystanders. Jesus, we’re only walking! Maybe it’s the act of walking and bringing up the rear in a race that makes the lameness a fair assumption. Not to be blasé — and it’s not the same — but I walk everywhere, and if I’m not walking, I’m cycling, and hey, I swim. Perhaps my three-week regime of eating every non-meat product in sight (a special nod to chocolate zuchinni muffins and chips) was telling. My runners were ten years old, my shorts twelve, both good enough for a 21.1km stroll and a little bit of air guitar. A pair of feet, what more do you need. 

Esther isn’t blasé. I had the privilege of offering notes on her memoir last year. It’s the #MeToo movement in book form. It’s a candid, heartbreaking and uplifting account of the three lifetimes she’s lived through domestic abuse, PTSD, and becoming the unlikeliest ultra runner ever, through which the memoir is framed. It’s extraordinary. I learned I could never truly understand what it’s like to have PTSD, and I’m okay with that because PTSD never goes away, its venom hovers around every corner ready to swipe your life away. To witness a force of nature, a life being destroyed through one cruel event after another, then rebuild, patchwork, to the realization of knowing she’ll be okay will never leave.

We met at Austin because she’s a talented writer, a semi-finalist (in the Nicholl’s too) at the time. She would win another competition and be recognized by the top rung of NBC. All these years I wouldn’t know the hell she went through, and to a degree nor would Esther with her memories suppressed. And here she was in Vancouver, this expert on US tax code, motivational speaker, and mother, advising when to take electrolytes, to jog a little bit every mile to help the muscles, and decreeing the most important rule of all, jog when you see a photographer. 

Before the run, her partner asked me not to let her do anything stupid. As if I could. Bring on the Cheshire cat. After 21km I had to stretch the limbs and run. I assured her we’d cross the line together. I galloped away, plenty left in the tank (I swim, remember) and when I was done turned back expecting to see Esther a good distance away. Not a chance. We ran the last 50m together. Esther said I finished just ahead of her, the video disagrees. 

*Thank you to all the volunteers and the people of Vancouver for your support adding to the experience and notion of running the whole course next year.

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Glass Houses, The First Step

In late January my face was planted on asphalt, warm blood spreading on the cold surface. In March my old yellow cycling jacket said au revoir, safety pins would hold it together for another four weeks before a new one arrived.

Blue stitches and safety pins, holding a life together — at least the image of a one.

Way back in September I knew this was going to happen. I couldn’t articulate — emotions and thoughts the stickiest of cinnamon buns — but a storm was coming, After eighteen years in Vancouver I made a commitment to waterproof, I would ride the rain through fall and winter. Something had to give, to break, to snap.

An apocalyptic piss fest followed.

I applied to the Sundance International Writers Lab in early spring, piss fest still going, acknowledging my chances of acceptance as a non-director and a Canadian were slim, then the twig snapped.

The application process made me think like a director; it was natural to express my artistic vision, even if it came off as pretentious, because, well, I’m not a director.

I’m not a director — a check box I had ticked over and over again.

After pressing submit, it was as if months of sodden bike riding had worn down the fibres of the box I had put myself in, it no longer held. My hunched shoulders were exposed, an epiphany sprung.

In Glass Houses young Cathy too has an epiphany, when magic hits. Like myself she has put herself in a box.

I’ve loved Glass Houses since I first read it. Nuanced and thematically resonant, Jenni Prange Boran’s script leapt to mind when epiphany struck. I know what to do with it.  I want to make a great film. I want to make this film.

Thoughts sprung to making a feature, Glass Houses is the first step.


Follow Glass Houses on Twitter and Facebook @glasshouses69, and Indiegogo

Attack on Sweden

Again, I wake up to hysterics, a laughable comment either by President Trump or Sean Spicer. Again, it is deflected. Again, we’re sucked down a tube of misinformation, this time about rape levels in Sweden.

The graph is shocking on its own. And we should be shocked, because Sweden IS ALONE.

Sweden has the widest definition of rape. They record each incidence of sexual violence in a case separately. Digital penetration of the vagina on a woman who is sleeping or intoxicated has been considered rape since 2008.

Compare that to the Canadian judge who couldn’t understand why a victim didn’t keep her knees together, or a US judge who thought (and said) if the victim didn’t want sex her body would shut down.

Sweden ranks #1 in the world for gender equality, women are more willing to report incidents rape, and there’s a higher level of trust in the police and judiciary.

Sweden is indeed alone in this 2012 table and if other countries followed their lead and the standards they have set, incidents of reported rape would sky rocket around the world and then we (men) would see an uncomfortable truth.

The information on Sweden's rape data has been reported widely and explained. It's easy to find, but we live in a world where we are choosing not to find.

I’m sorry people have been whipped up to live a state of fear they think refugees and migrants will step off the plane and rape women.

Maybe they’re right, after all they’re landing in a country whose President who has actively engaged in sexual harassment and perhaps they see the US as a bounty, a free for all, where rape is underreported, the law inadequate, where attitudes towards women around sexual harassment and their bodies may not be so different to their countries of origin.

It is with great irony those who fight against progressive values, such as those found in Sweden, are fighting against what will protect them. If they're so anti-progressive, they may want to take a moment and think: the people they want to ban are more likely to hold their socially conservative values, and in fact are their natural allies who want to participate in the American dream.


Orange is the New Black: The Loss of Decency

A few weeks ago I sprung off my couch and bellowed, convinced a pundit had got it wrong about Trump. “No he isn’t aiming for the middle of the bell curve, he’s targeting the edge of the bell curve. Hasn’t anyone on this panel read Spin!”

Clive Owen’s Gladwell-esque take on politics and marketing identifies how successful campaigns target the edge of the bell curve, where the most passionate constituents exist, the one’s who shout the loudest, the one’s who influence the middle of the bell curve.

Trump yanked the chain at one end, which in turn yanked the other end, which again fuelled his targeted end. That’s how he grossed $2bn of free advertising over the course of his campaign. Trump was a natural for the edge of the bell curve, Hillary Clinton wasn’t.

Who knows what Trump believes other than winning, in this case no matter the cost to America’s social fabric. Racism, misogyny, xenophobia, and Islamophobia didn’t matter as long as it worked.

If what he unleashed gave legitimacy to misogyny, the KKK and every white supremacist thug to bully and intimidate America’s women and diverse population, it was irrelevant. He won, mission accomplished.

He just forgot the bit where he has to be President.

In the early post-election days Trump seemed like he was back-pedalling and watering down key promises to his electors, presumably on the evidence of actual facts and not baseless facts. Next to Obama he was little boy lost.

If he wants to change his climate policy, I’ve written the speech only he can deliver to his supporters — hint — something along the lines of how great the people at NASA are, they're the smartest people, so smart I thought they were Chinese... Do I think Trump will change? Sure, he will change colour and become the second black president of the United States. Orange is the new black he’ll tell supporters.

We should not be fooled at any time Trump is America’s kindly, paternal grandfather. His chosen chief advisor has cultivated the intolerance, ignorance, and anger present in the U.S., another man who plays the edges of the bell curve for his own gain. Trump’s subsequent appointments indicate a man who will choke the life from those who oppose his rule.

Trump and the Republicans have set the bar so low, logical changes to policy seem at once conciliatory and a blatant U-turn.

Questions abound for Trump, but they also do for his voters, not just the white supremacists who don’t number enough elect a chicken for a senate dinner, but those who saw themselves as good people, decent, well-meaning people, who don’t identify being racist or misogynistic, even those belonging to minorities. How were they able to overlook, ignore, deny, block, and excuse?

What happened to their values of decency?

Why did they allow anger to override human decency?


It’s actually hard to be angry all the time. It needs fire, grooming. Direction. It pointed at Hillary Clinton. She symbolized every grievance. She was the focal point of false accusations and dubious facts. Reason became subservient to anger.

People have to be kept angry. Fox News is an agent of anger. Breitbart takes it to the next level. Column inches, radio, and the Sunday TV Talk Shows skew to the right. People had been primed. It’s not a mystery, and it’s not because of Trump. People didn’t have a voice? They’ve been encouraged every inch of the way. Dialogue a victim, social media a conduit.

It’s the age of binary; win/lose, them/us, me/elites, black/white, college educated/non-college educated. The college educated voted for Trump in great numbers, while non-college educated voters are dismissed as simpletons with no expectations of understanding the issues. All I see is worthless education.

Society is cloaked in fear. If you don’t win, you’ve lost, and no one has time for losers. It’s reactive. Shut down. How can you have a conversation when you can’t listen? All that the Black Lives Matter movement asked white people to do (even those of us belonging to minorities) was to listen, and we couldn’t even do that.

Political correctness is attacked. Sure, everyone can find an example of where it’s gone too far, but political correctness represents human decency, when you free yourself from political correctness, you free yourself from being decent to other human beings.

Those who remained calm, and reasoned — even if with falsities — still have to answer the same question as the anger mob. What happened to their values of human decency?

The elites who complain about the elites had a choice to engage in constructive conversation. They are leaders too. They had a choice how to approach people’s fears and grievances, cultivate for their own gain, or address them.

Globalization, is the bugbear, and a label not unpacked. You can swing in any direction on this topic and select how much to emphasize trade over technology, or vice versa. Economists aren’t certain, politicians are.

Thirty years ago, in high school geography, we studied how Volkswagen shipped vehicle parts to Brasil, built the cars, then shipped the finished product back to Europe where they could sell them for 6% less and still make the same profit if the whole process had remained in Europe. It stuck. This was the future, tariffs or not.

The rising skill level in developed countries is consistently ignored. There might be large pools of unskilled labour around the world, but there are also large pools of skilled labour to be exploited.

I drilled down (one layer), and looked at the automotive industry, because it’s considered the heart of US manufacturing, and without it manufacturing in the US would be considered dead.

Complexities and paradoxes are aplenty. 2015 saw record sales of cars and trucks, usually a sign of a healthy US economy. Only one of the three NAFTA countries has seen a reduction in car production in the last four years, and it’s not America. It’s Canada. US production has doubled since 2009’s low. Canada is the biggest market for US made vehicles. China is second, Mexico fifth.

Over the last 20 years, Kia, Honda, Mercedes, Hyundai, and Volkswagen opened and expanded facilities in the US, but critically not in Michigan, Ohio, or Indiana. They created jobs in the red states of Alabama, Georgia Kentucky, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Texas. Between 2009 and 2013 the US exported $227.7 billion worth of passenger vehicles. In the same period the US saw a 683% increase in vehicle exports to China.

Watch out trade wars.

The industry has collectively spent $46bn in expanding and retooling U.S. facilities since 2010.

The question turns to other manufacturing industries, what happened to them, why aren’t they doing as well?

And there’s a further question, what if the malaise, the discontent at politicians and elites is rooted elsewhere, but the source becomes hard to trace as it’s overgrown with other weeds of discontent, or should I say “cultivated”?

Anger at changing societal values, anger at taxation, anger at government, just angry people, the people who have spun a negative story on the state of America, the exponents of indecency, the group of elites who rage at elites, who rage at doing anything for a greater good for fear of losing, whether it be their wealth or ideology.

Forgotten in the mix is the erosion of the social safety net.  

I say pick any two of the following:

·      Disconnection from nature,

·      Disconnection from each other, and

·      The devaluation of creativity.

Driving from mall to mall, big box to big box, life-sucking florescent lighting, fast food, trained to consume (I see this in myself), buy, buy, buy, until there is nothing more to buy, or you’re excluded because your wages are suppressed – or don’t exist.

Who wouldn’t be disgruntled at the lack of the promised life? The jobs are shitty, the wages low, and your only power comes from the vitriol you can spread through social media. The positive facts of America’s automotive industry don’t help if you’re excluded.

We’re baited by this global phenomenon (social media), and we use it like the two year old who’s discovered they can shout.

Then there’s the pace of change, the over arching story.

Maybe trade and automation isn’t the problem, but where the money is funnelled. Income tax is the fairest way of redistributing wealth, but you can’t redistribute wealth when the prevailing narrative of your society hangs a devil and a pitchfork over the word tax.

John Steinbeck said socialism never took hold in America because the poor see themselves as temporarily embarrassed millionaires.

Maybe the poor now see themselves as permanently poor and are embarrassed by it, angered by it — even if they’re not as poor as their fellow citizens, the one’s who don’t vote because their situation is so bad, they don’t think casting a ballot will make a difference.

There is no flip of the globalization coin. No space to do so. I’ve been waiting since the Seattle anti-WTO protests in 1999. I had sympathy for the concerns of protestors, but anti-globalization troubled me for what it missed in opportunity toward pro-globalization: global healthcare, global education, global (standard) corporate tax rates (so jurisdictions aren’t played off each other).

This seemed to be worth fighting for, as well as making sure global CO2 reductions were met. Kyoto had no teeth — and nor does Paris — but the idea of what we can achieve globally, that aspiration, soared. Take the economic slogan/buzzword and turn it on its head. If global trade is good, so are all these other “Globals,” but I too, had no teeth.

The rage against globalization was chosen as an explanation, but this wasn’t a massive vote for an American Brexit. Even Brexit was a wafer-thin victory, despite what Britain’s gutter press and pro-leave politicians would have you believe. And if you oppose that narrative you are destroyed

Brexit was a simple Yes or No vote, with a majority to win. If the US presidency was decided the same way, Hillary would have won, and there would be no Amexit.

If Hillary Clinton had garnered 120,000 more votes in Florida and 15,000 more in Michigan, it would have been game over for Trump under the EC system, and a different narrative spun.

Trump had a smorgasbord of buttons to press on the political right, and he pressed them all.

Literalists told us not to take Trump literally, social conservatives turned a blind eye to social indecency, fiscal conservatives embraced (and let me tell you) huge deficit spending, folks claimed Trump didn’t mean what he said yet the other candidate couldn’t be trusted, Main Street chose Wall Street, those crying to drain the swamp elected the same Senate and House, anti-Semites chose a Jewish son-in-law, and the list goes on. Either Trump’s campaign was genius, or this is one confused electorate.

Or, America must have hated Hillary. I imagine Chris Rock hosting the Oscars again (please), "Man, I knew America hated black people, but geez, they really hated Hillary."

I can’t imagine the response if she had refused to release her taxes, or say she was smart not to pay them because she had run up a debt of one billion dollars. Trump pushed every button of hate and sixty million Americans said it was okay to do.

If Hillary had won, we’d all be gasping relief that racism and misogyny didn’t win, it would have been a victory for human decency. We’d move on, perhaps not taking the concerns of those who had lost seriously. Yet the same questions we ask now of that part of the electorate would still have been relevant had they lost.

Trump needed to be thumped, humiliated, for America to confirm it repudiated human indecency. In that sense the vote wasn’t even close, and therein lies what’s so troubling, how could so many people deny the obvious.



Several years ago I read a memoir by Israeli human rights activist Daphna Golan-Agnon. In it she references the work of Dr. Stanley Cohen’s States of Denial, how people are in denial about racial oppression, slavery and other suffering, how we can exist knowing, but not-knowing. It was so to the point (even beyond the political) that I kept it bookmarked.

The first stage of denial is not-knowing. It’s not true that Trump used racist language.

The second stage of denial is we say that the situation is not quite as it seems, and even if it is, there must be no other choice. It’s true that Donald Trump may have used racist language, but he doesn’t mean it, he has to do it because the media won’t give him fair coverage.

At the third stage of denial the situation is bad, (real bad), hopeless, but I can’t do anything about it, there’s no point in voting. 

Trump didn’t mean those things and almost everything else he said, so go the apologists, maybe he didn’t mean to run for President.

It’s absurd. On this basis, when Trump says he wants everyone to love each other, or if he ever gets to it, call for racists to stop attacking their fellow citizens, the KKK and their affiliates will turn around and say “He doesn’t mean it”, it’s just to placate those liberals.

If all groups who fell under the Republican tent have their own interpretation of what Trump means, then he has leeway to do whatever he wants among his voter groups, as long as he makes sure to press their buttons at the appropriate time.

As Obama said, sound bites do not always make good policy. As Trump backs away –

·      There will be no prosecution of Hillary Clinton (costly and not guilty).

·      There will be no wall (I could’ve told you that, because you’d sound like a right dipstick shouting “build the fence”), and Mexico won’t pay — at least directly.

·      He’ll do what Hillary would have done with Obama Care, amend it, and find a way to control costs, give it a name change, and shout from the rooftops it’s truly affordable.

·      He’ll symbolically rip up NAFTA, but essentially it will remain the same as he risks putting millions of American jobs on the line,

·      There won’t be mass deportations because there will be no one to do the jobs white Americans don’t want to do.

·      His infrastructure program may be reduced to putting up signs “Making America Great Again,” because Republicans after eight years of political haymaking on Obama’s deficit cannot possibly add billions to the deficit and look at themselves — or their voters — in the mirror, and the deficit is going to be huge with all those tax cuts. Seriously, become a signmaker.

·      The Iran deal will remain in place.

·      NATO will be unharmed – someone has to protect his European properties and destabilizing Europe will affect those American car exports (Germany is 4th on that list).

·      Helping people in inner cities. Yup.

He’ll find a way to sell this to his voters, because Trump excels at that, and he’ll declare himself the greatest president ever for keeping his word. You will see clips of Mexicans being deported and he’ll say we are deporting the rapists and criminals. He only has to make a few changes to NAFTA and he’ll sell it as a great deal.

He’ll sow confusion and uncertainty, only to emerge as the guy who can solve it.

In the end, there isn’t much left of Trump’s policies that aren’t up for grabs. So what did people vote for, what did they vote on?

Across the board whether people actively engaged or denied, it was hatred, anger, misogyny, racism, anti-Semitism, and Islamophobia, a hollow set of values.

They voted for change?

No, this is what Trump voters did:

Baiting, the binary aspect of society, the denial, Trump needed another factor to bind the indecency, the one thing he’s good at, and something he will continue to do as President, put on a good show.


Trump tapped into America’s love of spectacle. Without spectacle Trump doesn’t win. Whipping up crowds, inciting violence, triggering innate racism, entertaining punch lines, grabbing headlines, and providing a great act where straight shooting was equated with honesty.

I saw Donald Trump being honest twice, or should I say authentic, the rare times it wasn’t an act. One was at the end of the debate when he was asked for a positive characteristic of Hillary Clinton. The other was early in the primaries, when walls were being called for on both of America’s land borders.

Trump was walking through a melee (in Central Park) when a Canadian reporter asked if he was going to build a wall on the Canadian border. He was bombarded with questions from others as well, so the question had to be repeated. He wasn’t able to face the camera, but there was enough of a turn to see a smirk, a smile at the absurdity of that question. He had let his guard down.

Everything else was an act. No he wasn’t going to build a wall on the Canadian border. He said he loved Canada, the same way movie stars say it when they’re on the red carpet at the Oscars.

I’m sorry Americans didn’t get to see the 50% of the time when Trump was authentic.

He was playing a role, it was a ruse, and in the end he knew his audience better than most. They had seen him make decisions on television and identified him as a leader.

Sixty million people bought the act, or suppressed the fact it was an act, denied what the hatred implied, the indecency, the consequences, indulging Donald Trump.

They chanted, creating the sense they were part of something bigger than themselves, unable to realize they were part of the hallmarks of fascism.

On Tuesday November 8th 2016, I was on the Millennium Falcon, hanging out with Chewie, R2, Obi Wan, and that annoying Luke kid. We had almost reached America.

Then I felt a great disturbance, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced.

My heart dropped. America was gone.


And I was left wondering…

Didn’t Trump voters get Star Wars? Is the only thing they got from it, “Fuck, yeah, we blew up the Death Star?”

Maybe that’s why (spoiler alert) they keep blowing up Death Stars in Star Wars films — and in too many films since.

One Trump policy plank will make it through intact — unless he reads my speech to his supporters. It’s tearing up the Paris Accords. Congratulations Trump voters, you’ve blown up the Death Star, it’s called Earth.

Oh, and by the way, I don’t mean any of this, of course.

Britain has two Falstaff's smoking a cigar called Hamlet

Oh Britain. Two dimwitted game show contestants won a car, neither of them can drive, and bless ‘em, they mock those they’ve screwed along the way.

England, last conquered in 1066, the last battle on British soil in 1746, first industrialized country, ruler of half the world, last hold out against Nazi Germany, now first out of Europe, you’ve been had. You've been done like a kipper.

Nigel Farage complained of Britain’s lack of influence in Europe, but couldn't control the message on his own bus (what a surprise Donald Trump backed a campaign that lied to old white people) and the nation waits for xenophobic hoodlums to kick Boris out of Britain — or is it the accent that saves him ahead of the country in which he was born?

I've participated in two EU elections in the UK. Voter turnout on both occasions was 36%. If you think that’s low, how about 24% the year after I left the UK? Voter turnout has never been higher than 38%. Therein lies a clue to Britain’s relationship with Europe. Few people ever gave a shit.

I remember precious little of the elections because coverage in traditional media was practically non-existent. The political class and media always had a binary relationship with the EU; like it, not like it, in or out. In the 80’s and 90’s they never engaged with the public in a manner warranted given its importance. Brussels was a bureaucratic outpost tolerated if only to have the piss taken out of it.

In the 1990's the European Commission set up a website to debunk the myths of the British media such as the EU appointing aristocrats to monitor wine labelling, milk jugs to be banned, and cows having to wear nappies (diapers). Funny, yes, but it speaks volumes of attitude.

Referendums are a nonsense, particularly in countries where it's not part of the political culture. They're easily hijacked as Metro Vancouver residents witnessed (and participated in) last year, and with a 50+1 determinant they're exceptionally divisive. While 52% is a majority, it hardly screams turn the country upside down and shake it several times to see what falls out. 75% would be a significant majority, irrefutable, like the 75% of 18-24 year olds who voted to Remain. Those older, who claim not to be xenophobes and voted to leave, should be chilled by this fact because there is no chamber of sober second thought.

Perhaps future referendums of this nature should be weighted in favour of those younger, say four points for those aged between 18-30, three for those between 31-50, and… you get the idea.

While swathes of Britain feel disconnected to their political masters, and the vote was a reflection of their malcontent, in September last year 38% wanted to leave the EU not 52%. With positions so fluid, so exposed to dirty rotten lies, damn the commentators and politicians who think the other 48% should meekly accept the outcome. It's not as if it were a referendum on how many goldfish should be allowed into a pond, or if juice with pulp should be banned.

I hope the UK has a general election with the referendum as its central issue with every candidate clear on their position. This would give parliament legitimacy in overturning the result (should that be the outcome). Britons should stick their fingers up at the Conservatives, Labour, and UKIP.

If Farage and Johnson are Falstaffs, then Britons should see themselves as Prince Hal; duped by their needs to frolic with entertaining liars and those that would thieve them of a brighter future. Maturing is needed (and possible).

And who is Henry IV?

Winston Churchill.

Britain's greatest and most well known PM hovers over the British psyche, defiant, indefatigable, but he's not the future. British youth know this.


*As I posted the original blog in the wee hours of Thursday PDT, Boris was stepping out of the Conservative leadership race, and today, Nigel with his job done, has resigned as leader of Ukip (You Kipper). They'll go back to their cushy lives while everyone else has to pick up the pieces.

It's not all bad news, I can look forward to cheaper single malt as lower prices work their way into the supply chain (in about a year). You see, I will benefit from the UK leaving Europe, maybe I should celebrate.


Watch at minute 8:19


Boris your Johnson that.

I woke up to the fact rather late I might be able to vote in the referendum. In Britain I last voted in the corker of an election in 1997, but needed to be registered as a voter no longer than fifteen years ago to be eligible this time. If the leave vote wins by one, I will mount a challenge.

I’m concerned. What on earth will Britain do without the flood of genuinely rude Italians to serve coffee (at Café Nero)?

Please don’t tell me I’m going to have to put up with stroppy kids.

Immigration is a driving force of fear, manipulated by politicians. They never ask immigrants questions. They are objects. Britain (or London in my case) has changed since I left in ’98, some for the better, and some for the worse. London has become more cosmopolitan, but it also has had the crap out of it corporatized. Granted, Le Pain Quotidian is an upgrade from Wimpy, but the rootless Westfield Mall in Shepherds Bush could be anywhere, floating from Century City to Vancouver.

London has changed. A few years ago I howled with laughter when I discovered where the Silicon Roundabout (so-named because of the prevalence of tech companies) was located. It’s a stones throw from where I used to work in the mid-90’s — when Britain was cool. Used to be called the Old Street roundabout in my day, with a brilliant, if small, vegetarian store with weird and not always wonderful products to help a nascent veggie.

June 23rd/24th carries interesting personal connotations. My family emigrated from South Africa to England on these dates. I went along before ejecting myself from British shores eighteen/nineteen years later (I hit the eject button but it took 16 months to work).

As an immigrant there’s an obvious question no one ever asks, but one I have asked myself. When was the moment you became, or think you became British?

As a child there’s an advantage as you assimilate into the greater culture despite daily reminders you are not one of the great culture. Being white was an advantage, being Jewish not so much, as the blue blazers of Joe’s Fish Shop were a magnet for every anti-Semite in North London.

I was punched in the stomach by a bus conductor and chased down the street by two kids bigger than me (not hard) only to be saved by inadvertent comedy.

HOLLOWAY was the usual cry from us JFS kids as a warning, if only because shouting Saint Richard of Chichester was a little lengthy. You’d be black and blue by time those words parted your lips. Plus Holloway had the negative amplifier of being a Women’s Prison.

Nowhere to run, I turned to my Holloway pursuers swinging one of those cheap, hard blue plastic Adidas bags (about half my size) over my head, teetering on my toes and on the brink of annihilation yelling god knows what. The two attackers stopped, looked at me, then looked at each other and laughed. They went on their merry way.

That wasn’t the moment I became British, but humour had a part to play, namely Only Fools and Horses.

British humour is, of course, brilliant. Most people — and those beyond Britain —will pick out Fawlty Towers, Monty Python, Are You Being Served, The Good Life, (I liked the short-lived Citizen Smith), Porridge, and Black Adder amongst the greatest of British TV comedy classics. The list is extensive. Re-runs of Some Mother’s Do ‘Ave ‘Em was perfect for immigrant kids. Others like Til Death Do Us Part and Steptoe and Son found their way to the U.S. in the form of All in the Family and Sandford and Son. Dad’s Army, however, could never be replicated, and nor could Britain’s favourite sitcom, Only Fools and Horses.

I didn’t appreciate Only Fools and Horses when it first aired. Either I was too young, or not yet assimilated to understand. It took a re-run of the third season (one episode to be precise) before the breakthrough occurred. The other shows are relatively easy for Johnny Foreigner to get, they play nicely on British eccentricity and class — essentially how people want to and expect to see Britain. Only Fools plays on class too, but it’s brilliance lay in its reflection of Thatcherism as it was happening as well its unforgettable characters and their relationships.

Laughing uncontrollably at one episode is the moment I became British. Not passports, pieces of paper, or swearing an oath to the Queen — something I’ve done twice — but laughter.

I’m too late with this blog (not that anyone would read it), but my plea to Britain would be to trust yourself and your culture, that it is strong and will not be crushed by immigration. Don’t be mislead by xenophobia that will end up with other kids in blue uniforms being chased, because it is easily done. There are other forces that need to be kept in check first, like crude capitalism.

Capitalist Cleansing

We’ve nicknamed new houses urinals, indulge realtors who place pumpkins on the front porches of uninhabited homes for Halloween (and who cry because a tree will lower a property value that's doubled before anyone can grow a hipster beard), and shadow flip while Gordon Gecko roams the streets as if it's the 1980's. Welcome to the Beta city that is Vancouver and how its neighbourhoods are undergoing capitalist cleansing.


A full response to this article is coming.

The Mission

A friend suggested we meet at a newish coffee shop. Their beans are goose pimple good I was assured. Vancouver being Vancouver, life being life, kittens being little cats, we didn’t meet up.

Curious, and as more of a no go than an aficionado when it comes to the exotic roast, I decided to give it a whirl on my own and add the extra steps to my imaginary pedometer (the real one munches too much phone data and pegs me as an athlete when in fact I'm on the bus). 

Vancouver coffee skewers bitter. It's not just the decaf (yes, caffeine days are allowed for experimental whims), it’s a complaint I've heard from outsiders for years. So much so, I've given up being defensive seeking the perfect indie coffee house for visitors and now send them to mega Canadian donut chain Tim Hortons.

Tim's may have dispensed with the idea of doing anything cool with lighting, but they do profess to know good coffee. For hipsters, let's call it rustic pour over, for the rest of us who remember a world pre-Starbucks (1997 England), filter coffee.

New Place coffee was bitter — in a good bitter Vancouver way I related to my friend later. Smooth for sure… and bitter. But hey, I only drink decaf, so what do I know.

Bitter extended beyond the coffee to atmosphere. Not a little bit of attitude, but Snow Queen Ice Palace minus 273 degrees Kelvin take that Matt Damon on Mars attitude (that movie wasn’t very realistic btw, Matt should have been able to see at least a dozen Ikeas from Mars).

My eyes were frost bitten before I uttered a word.

Despite copious mirrors at home reflecting my every sense of self, I had forgotten how I looked. And whilst the last eight months of injury woes has left me resembling a sack of potatoes, I'm convinced my face wasn't covered in welts.

It doesn't help either when customers have ear buds fit snug into their external acoustic meatus and their faces deep into what-nots. What else are staff going to do but talk to each other and pass judgment on the sack walking through the door?

Still, it’s one step above London where Café Nero offers up real Italian coffee served by actual rude Italians.

Determination surged. I vowed not to let another coffee shop go down. How many more coffee shops must become silent offices? If I had to work in such an office I would have "left" work years earlier before I did.

People will talk I tell you, they’re not food, they’re humans.

If I could elongate my body I would dress full French mime artist and mime across the glass fronts of Vancouver coffee houses to see if anyone would notice (and not call 911).

But first, I plan to walk the streets and go to restaurants with a 42” TV, pretend to take pictures, and talk to it.

I leave the coffee shop with a myriad of thoughts and this determination not to be beat in the ice palace. All is not lost Frodo Baggins, I tell myself.

There was a chink of light. When I spoke I noticed a change, a possible thaw, and cheekily went thick with the Brit accent – you should have heard me say, quoi-sant (croissant). I kept a straight face.

Four weeks later, I’m off for the third coffee encounter and can’t remember the visit in between (probably because it was reminiscent of several bad high school experiences rolled into one).

It was a pleasant afternoon; spring in the air, sampling heather honey baklava, exchanging greetings with a woman in tight pink pants and a pair of ice skates slung over her bare shoulders. It was fifty-five degrees out.

If that didn’t rock the old man amble, then a woman wailing something unintelligible to a large fluffy toy dog in her arms did.

The wailing was loud, constant, distressing, and by the looks of everyone she passed, funny.

Us humans do this when we can’t place an oddity in our experience, especially when it’s too big to bash with a shoe.

From behind the woman appeared topless with faux-fur piping around her neck, pushing a cart with a fan wheel in pride colours placed with precision. It was quite a feat of multi-tasking.

I approached the coffee shop half-smiling to the jaw-dropping reactions on patios while contemplating states of distress, how we can function in them, and how asking this woman if she was okay would seem idiotic.

When our city finally converts to being an extension of the 90210 zip code, where will people go?

Granted, if it’s down to pushing a cart it won’t make a difference if you’re on marble or piss-ridden sidewalks, but how and where will the rest of us learn to fail if we’re not wearing Gucci shoes? What will happen to our stories?

Ta-Dah is an album by the Scissor Sisters. And can best describe what happened next.

I entered the Ice Palace to discover it had become the Seven Dwarves Cottage. Warmth exuded across the counter.

Playtime. Gaps appeared between words. I pointed to the medium cup size, but forgot to say what I wanted in the cup.

Yes, I know what you’re thinking… that I ordered caffeinated.

We entered into light, mutual self-deprecating territory, topped off with finicky. Finicky, what a great word. Neurons were firing, inspiration taking hold.


When has someone ever used that word while taking a coffee order?

The best part? 

Leaving the coffee shop and realizing for all my determination and perseverance, the change had nothing to do with me. The decaf was bitter as ever, but the non-curly quoi-sant flaky and delicious.


A Nasty Rash

I'm confused. House of Cards has stripped the satire that was present in the British series and left an unfathomably dark drama. Sometimes I think the writing is brilliant, other times I think every character sounds the same. Then the GOP Presidential race flares on my screen and I'm, "Hey! That's satire. That's entertainment." That's what that other thing should be and this is...

Rush Limbaugh.

I read the other day Limbaugh hates Trump. Wonder if the irony's lost on him? Rush, his fellow jocks, and Fox News et al have spent decades in the anger mismanagement game. They have fomented, nay, cultivated dissatisfaction with anything progressive in America. Trump is the appropriate prophet for their fertile field. Suck it up Grand Old.

American culture and politics floods across our border. I'm okay with it because I've built a wall. If Canadian politics rubs me the wrong way, I'd break out in a nasty rash with a whiff of the American stuff.

It happened on Super Tuesday.

I've recovered, but still want to know how Trump plans to bring those $2/hour Apple jobs to America.

It's tiring, but that horse has bolted. We're the humans in Wall-E, bred to consume.

One thing I learned from the Oscars is the rich have cash (oodles of it), the poor have credit cards, and the destitute neither.

Outside of professionals, people went through an education system that made them functional for a world that no longer exists.

All that's on offer are low-paid service sector jobs. That's not a future, that's bitterness (for an older generation).

Late Boomers and X'rs in low-wage jobs unable to adapt to a fast-evolving economy will be left behind. Politicians can't say that because that's a bucket load of super-sizers they're clueless how to help.

Instead they make promises of bringing back jobs that either didn't exist in the first place, or will be low wage and union free if they do come back.

Throw in nostalgia, reinvent childhood and create another non-reality. Writers have to learn to kill their darlings, politicians daren't.

Trump says he's calling it as it is. No, he's saying what he wants.

It must be heart breaking to sane Americans (pretty much all I've met) to see their fellow citizens either embrace racism and bigotry or simply ignore it. 

Pigs may fly, but the day Republicans realize there is a role for them in supporting a national public health care system rather destroying it, will be the day they have control back of their party. They've allowed Conservatism to be redefined along narrow lines.

See, I'm a natural optimist just suffering from watching House of Cards. Yesterday I thought the sun came out, I was corrected, they were store lights. 

Disney, your lack of faith is disturbing.

If there was ever a movie that didn’t need to be advertised, it’s this one. In the ludicrous fear we’re not going to see Star Wars Ep.7, we’ve been subjected to a blitz of advertising to mobilize us into cinemas.

I’m one of the children of the original Star Wars, those aged between 7-12 who went to see it in a movie theater, cinema, or in my case, the South African bioscope. That’s apartheid, not very well boycotted South Africa. We had the toys.

My brother went. I had to wait. No 1977 viewing for me.

In June 1978 my parents took me, and on the way home lasers shot from every streetlight in the sky. Naturally from the rear window I shot back in my Tom and Jerry sweater.

What do I remember?

Honestly? Not very much that hasn’t been distorted from repeat viewings since December 1982, when it first aired on British television. The Christmas TV schedule in Britain was a wonderland of movies, even if recent Hollywood blockbusters of the time didn’t air.

We had to make do with Battle of the Bulge every Christmas Eve, but there were also captivating gems like Powell and Pressburger’s A Matter of Life and Death, which aired in 1979 and seemingly never again — I scoured the Xmas schedules for the next decade.

Star Wars on a big 24” CRT in 1982 was as magical as ever, even with commercials.

Still, there are fragments that remain from 78. The opening text scroll allied with feeling pleased (and excited) I could keep up, followed by the first laser gunfight and Darth Vader’s entrance. Oh, that breathing. There were the holographs, the battle upon escaping the Death Star and… and…

… and now I have to search my feelings.

There were two standout moments.

The death of Obi-Wan still haunts, the hollowness of loss, the confusion forever imprinted, but Obi-Wan also delivered the single, most important line a child could ever hear about The Force: All living beings are bound together. It resonates today as humanity lurches from one crisis to another.

Hailing from a moderately irreligious Jewish family (we didn’t keep Kosher but didn’t eat pig) it struck my nine-year old self as truth. It may be the most important spiritual teaching I’ve ever received. Seriously, what better way to be guided in life than knowing we’re all connected?  It dovetailed nicely with an art class in school when we were asked to draw/paint God. I have no recollection of what I did. Put me through hypnotherapy and I’ll come up a blank. The class remains in memory, because while I’m certain we all created some kind of Human figure, one girl painted a sky (with clouds). The teacher recognized the perception of this child and so did I.

Oddly, Joseph Campbell in his dialogue with Bill Moyers said he didn’t understand the one God of Judaism (why there was only one God). Star Wars and an eight year’s old painting representing the oneness of existence was explanation enough for me. Even if as an adult I don’t believe in God (watching Season 9 of The Voice makes feel like I’m living in a Theocracy), the message of interconnectedness remains.

When the trailers for Star Wars Ep.7 play across various platforms, I wonder if there will be anything enlightening for a new generation. The trailers look good, slick, playing on fan sentiment, but will it have soul, will it have anything to say?

Or will it be, these aren’t the films we’re looking for as can be applied to episodes 1-3.

We should remain hopeful. This is a new era of Star Wars, an opportunity for redemption. We can be certain the story will work, as we can be certain of it milking every revenue source.

We had small action figures back in the day. They were roughly split between my brother and I along the lines of personality — and more importantly, he being the elder. He was Luke Skywalker, Darth Vader, and C3PO to my Obi-Wan, R2D2 and Han Solo. Who didn’t want to be Han Solo.

In truth we didn’t have Han Solo, and I’m uncertain about Luke and 3PO. Pretty sure we had a Storm Trooper though. I could ask my brother, but that would take the fun out of trolling through memory. They were well-used — the lightsabers of Vader and Kenobi the first to go, or be chewed by the dog.

My younger sister might have felt left out at age five, but she did have a growing Barbapapa collection and a Pink Panther in the pinkest room on planet earth.

There was a comic. We had one. It was irreconcilable to the film. Scenes with Luke and Biggs shooting it up on Tatooine (or just off planet) were eliminated from the film. I was confused and disappointed there wasn’t a literal adaptation of what I had read months earlier — the comic not lasting, pages falling apart into the oneness of a landfill.

It’s weird but I’m Star Warz’d out. I’m pleased we played and destroyed our toys and didn’t keep them in a fucking box. It’s occupied a good chunk of 37 years in our cultural landscape, and mine. I have them on Blu-ray. They’re stunning. Amazingly George Lucas didn’t change the ending.

I want to be excited. I want more from film than a distracting bag of popcorn, my own work included. I want this from Star Wars ep. 7. And I’m prepared to wait as I did as an 8-9 year old. I don’t need commercials to build anticipation, I can do this on my own.

Trust me Disney, I will watch, but on Friday my preference will be Trumbo.

"Harper's gone... I've roasted some vegetables."

Canada – Post Election, Day 6

The Daleks are gone!

Six days now, free of "protect the economy, protect the economy". Yay to the Doctor.

My neighbour (an NDP volunteer) expressed a sense of relief, that a cloud had been lifted. Justin Trudeau has the good will of progressives.

Truthfully though, Monday night turned out to be somewhat anti-climactic. The need of media to declare a winner as soon as possible nullified any sense of catharsis from the last decade.

We had an enthralling first couple of hours poring over Atlantic Canada's 32 results. Presenters and pundits were in shock. Liberals were expected to win big in this part of the country, but the manner of it blew them away. Conservatives lost seats they had won with over 50% of the vote in 2011. Good, progressive NDP MP's were also swept aside. It wasn't an anti-NDP vote, their downfall was strategic voting which mainstream media had questioned over the campaign – the tone continually one of doubt. I lost count of the poo-poo's.

We entered the evening on the west coast, where polls were still open. The warnings came: Atlantic Canada voting behavior usually ends in Atlantic Canada. Be prepared.

It was edge of your seat stuff. We eagerly awaited Act 2. Another 280+ ridings to report.

Twenty minutes later it was all over.

Justin Trudeau was declared the next PM. There was zero time to process, to build a story, to engage in its ups and downs. We had zipped to the Act 3 denouement; Stephen Harper's head being carried away by a triumphant crowd.

We had seen the arrest, but were denied the trial, and worse, we didn't get to see Harper climb the gallows, watch the guillotine's clean cut (or not so clean – tis Halloween season after all), and gawk as his head spun into a basket to be finally held aloft before a baying crowd.

No! None of this. His head had been carted off and the end credits flashed before our eyes.

Or just mine.

Crap, not even a friend had arrived on my doorstep to watch – I had opted for a quieter evening rather than a wild celebratory party (I voted Green). I received a text to see if I had popcorn.

"Harper's gone… I've roasted some vegetables." It was that mundane.

And what of us in British Columbia? The Third Act? Nary a word. For the first time it was touted our votes would be decisive, we would have a say. He-llo, throw us a wave.

Our votes were kind of, sort of, decisive. We gave Justin Trudeau's Liberals a solid majority.

In the end we watched a crestfallen Tom Mulcair trying to stay upbeat, Stephen Harper give a victory speech – less the bit about him taking responsibility, and Justin Trudeau's seemingly never-ending speech. Still, he hit plenty "good intention" notes.

Canada has its first GenX PM, a chap at ease letting commuters take selfies with him two mornings after being elected. Someone who speaks from the heart, whose false notes are more obvious and awkward than of any political leader I've seen. We've gone from the consummate liar to a horrible one. Canada has done a 180. In Stephen Harper we had a PM who played to his 25% base, and by casting fear and doubt about the abilities of others to lead the country, secured victory three elections in a row. In Justin Trudeau we have a leader who has the eyes of progressives – 65% of the voting public – watching him, hopeful that his personality can overcome the cynicism of the political machine.

He hasn't taken office yet, but already there's a sea change. Some Conservatives, now off-leash, are beginning to sound human for the first time in decades. They would do well to elect Lisa Raitt. 

I want to dig the knife in because their defeat was far worse than they're portraying – and I was denied that cathartic moment on Monday. They were the governing party, they had finally balanced a budget, they literally bought votes 1-2 weeks before calling the election by sending cheques worth upwards of several hundred dollars to families, they had a massive war chest, and what every pundit has forgotten, the new ridings favored them 2-1 for an extra 21 seats. BIF! BANG! BOSH! Take that!

I'll let Conservatives kid themselves their policies were good but the tone of the message let them down.

Justin Trudeau has made an awful lot of promises. Good ones. I wish him success in his efforts to make real change. If he can institute electoral reform, raise the bar how politics is conducted, and take meaningful action on climate change he could preside over one of the great governments.

He has opportunity to engage truthfully with First Nations, launch an inquiry into missing and murdered indigenous women, change Bill C-51 for the better, turn Environment Canada back into an environmental dept. not an economic one, and invest in municipalities. The list is exhaustive, but on first glance possible. We have a PM who wants to engage with the electorate, perhaps do it differently than we’ve seen before. I have to admit it’s exciting. My sense of catharsis will be achieved when his promises become reality. If that was the bargain of last Monday's anti-climactic moment, I'll take it.

Just one thing for Justin and the Liberals, please avoid the $15 glass of orange juice, you know that kind of sh*t is your kryptonite. 

Conservatives finished with 99 seats, the NDP 44.

Conservatives finished with 99 seats, the NDP 44.