HUMAN WRECKAGE

Bookends

Twenty-nine titles read in 2022. At this time last year, I was hoping to read closer to 40, break 30 for sure. Since I began keeping an annual list, I’ve found there’s always one book that bogs me down and costs me a couple of weeks of time I’d have preferred to spend otherwise engaged.

This year’s holdup was Value(s) by Mark Carney, former governor of the banks of both Canada and England. Portions of his book served as an abridged refresher of my university economics and philosophy courses. He explained the role of central banks before weighing in on the economic benefits and consequences of climate action (although we’ve all since given up on the 1.5-degree goal of the Paris Accord). Another portion of Value(s) read like a pitch for the leadership of the Liberal Party of Canada and, frankly, I wouldn’t mind a proven intellect at the national helm. Page counts never deter me, but it was a slog filled with acronyms following With a Mind to Kill, the breezy final installment of Anthony Horowitz’s delightfully retro James Bond trilogy.

Twenty twenty-two began bittersweetly with the posthumous publication of Silverview, John le Carre’s final novel; I no longer have a favourite living author. The story opens innocently enough in a bookshop. Because le Carre was unfailingly current, the cessation of the Cold War didn’t hinder his career, the reader ultimately tunes into the pandemic parallel: working from home just isn’t viable for certain branches of Britain’s secret intelligence service.

My year ends with John Barth’s Giles Goat-Boy, a sixties satiric allegory that somehow manages to combine Animal Farm with academia’s ivory tower. Its narrator is a kid who was raised as a goat. The world is the University, humanity is studentdom, rival academic factions control the East and West campuses and neither side wishes to provoke a Third Campus Riot. It is beastly strange and, I think, was of its time, until recently, now that scholarly institutions wring their hands and whinge over what constitutes acceptable and correct free speech.

The new year, hours away from now, will commence with an echo of 2018. Late that March my friend Netflix Derek, then on the University of Alberta faculty, took me to hear a lecture on Bob Dylan. The speaker was a visiting Harvard man, a professor of the classics. Dylan, like Shakespeare’s exploitation of Holinshed’s Chronicles for his tragedies, has mined earlier, primary sources for inspiration, displaying a particular penchant for digging through surviving works from classical antiquity. Naturally, academics have coined a ten-dollar word for this particular aspect of the creative process. It’s not research, no, it’s “intertextualization.”

I enjoyed the lecture. Its advertising poster hangs on the wall in front of me as I type, compliments of Netflix Derek who gently removed it from a hallway bulletin board thus saving it from the recycling bin and for me. Columbia Records released Dylan’s debut album in 1962. As with the Stones, I’ve no memory of life without His Bobness (Still mildly jarring that I can’t say the same for Queen Elizabeth II any longer). Like many Dylan fans I’ve ridden a pogo stick on a trampoline because he’s been everywhere, man, and doesn’t care who follows. Eventually you come around to his entire body of work, some of it spotty, on your own terms because, again, he doesn’t care what you think. "Jokerman" doesn’t welcome or thank his audience, he taunts us.

Seated beside Netflix Derek in that classic academic arc, that dazed lectern-facing smile, I wondered: “After all the songs, the albums, the concerts, the films, the books and the music press interviews, has it all come down to this? Guess the Nobel Prize for Literature will do that.”

Thankfully, Dylan continues to confound. His Bootleg Series of archival records continues to flow like his Bob branded bourbon. Rough and Rowdy Ways dropped during the pandemic, and like le Carre’s Silverview it’s a worthy addition to an expansive catalogue. The “Neverending Tour” is off covid hiatus. And to my latent academic joy His Bobness published The Philosophy of Modern Song a few weeks ago. This will be my first read of 2023. Sixty-six essays about 66 songs. I suspect his editor’s suggestion would have been the more obvious 61. But if Dylan wants to take that route instead of that particular highway, I don’t care, I’m riding along anyway.

For the record: The best book I read in 2022 was Colson Whitehead’s novel Harlem Shuffle. It flows like the Bob & Earl song and therefore more gracefully than the Stones' affectionately slaughtered cover. Whitehead is one of those bastard authors whose style and storytelling abilities make me wonder why I bother. This is not New York City as traditional background vaguery: American Psycho, The Bonfire of the Vanities or Bright Lights, Big City; tourist map locales, Woody Allen, Times Square; that stuff. I was reminded of Mordecai Richler boring into Montreal’s grittier neighbourhoods and Hubert Selby writing about Brooklyn. Because Whitehead set his story in the sixties and he was born in 1969 I must assume some form of intertextual process was involved. I’ll leave that question for American lit professors because Whitehead is worthy of inclusion in their canon.     

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of literature since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format from various retailers. 

HUMAN WRECKAGE

Latent Old Man Surfaces in Grocery Store

The last time I saw my father Stephen alive and relatively robust on his home turf of Ottawa was about 15 years ago, a sloppy early spring. My visit was supervised by his wife; under no circumstances was I permitted to take Dad to his preferred local, the Clocktower Pub. (Following my father’s funeral in 2014 Ann and I, along with my sister Anne and her husband Al, gathered there for a pint.) Well, didn’t Dad’s old air force comrade telephone to suggest lunch. Like my father, Mr. Young had served in the RCAF 409 Night Hawks squadron; he too had been a navigator in a Mosquito fighter. My stepmother was beyond displeased and I was very relieved that none of it was my doing.

I put on my coat, a barn jacket from L.L. Bean, sort of a neutral canvas with brown corduroy collar and cuffs. Dad put on the exact same coat, probably the same size too. Mr. Young arrived at the Clocktower when we did; he was wearing the same coat. Mr. Young laughed. “Still in uniform, eh, Steve?” He nodded approvingly at mine. “You must be a close relation.”

Ann and I spent almost a month in 2019 kicking around England with my sister and her husband. I bought a Harris Tweed “newsboy” cap in York. I’d always wanted one. But, not being a Brit I felt I had to be of a certain age to carry it off. I experienced some mixed emotions transacting my purchase, but any phantom buyer’s remorse has eased with the care of time.

Thusly attired for Edmonton’s weather, I accompanied Ann to the grocery store last week. With my tartan scarf casually draped around my neck I figured I’d cut a dashing figure at a Seniors’ Mingle. Turkeys were on sale at Save-On-Foods and we had points on our Save-On card and a coupon too. Our mission was our least costly Christmas bird in nearly a decade. Grocery shopping, should you actually do your own in a familiar store, is a lot like Sesame Street: “These are the people in your neighbourhood.”

Save-On had a cashier named Jacqueline whose till I’d do anything to avoid. Her obesity exhibited in a most peculiar way, the bottom half of an hour glass running slow. She supported herself by leaning against the conveyor belt. She was cringingly curious about every item to be scanned and unafraid to ask awkward questions. “What’s this ointment for? It’s expensive.” She’s long since retired and (I never thought I’d type this), I miss her. She, imperfect at her job as she was, was at least human.

Like most Canadians these days, Ann and I did not have a bunch of stuff in our cart. My front of the store survey was disheartening though, one of six human tills open, and a traffic jam at the five self-checkouts. I’d like to tell you that I hate self-checkouts because they cost staff paid hours, their jobs essentially. I really hate them because I expect a modicum of service from any retailer or a discount otherwise reflecting my labour, and because, they really, really fucking annoy me.

There’s a voice actor out there somewhere and I’d really, really like to meet her. At night, in a deserted parking lot or beneath an elevated expressway. She tells me twice what the next stop on the train line is. She tells me what numbers to press on my dial pad when I call a toll-free number seeking an assistant, an associate, an expert, a technician, just somebody to pick up the fucking phone. She calls me on behalf of Amazon Prime, the credit card security department, home computer IT, political parties and charities.

“Unidentified item in the bagging area.”

“Please enter the PLU code.”

“Please scan your Save-On-Foods rewards card.”

“Item did not scan. Rescan item”

“Remove items from bagging area.”

“Please ask a Save-On associate for help.”

“What is this ointment for?”

“Please insert your credit or debit card.”

“Thank you for shopping at Save-On-Foods.”

Five times, all the time yet never at the same time. It’s robotic “Revolution 9” cacophony.

 Ann and I lined up for the human cashier. She didn’t appear old enough to warrant a social insurance number. Her given name began with a K and read like a former Australian pop star’s or maybe a Marillion song, a harsh first syllable before an L. I pack our grocery bags because kids don’t know how to. Therefore every item on K’s conveyor belt was laid out in a precise order for weight distribution, frozen or refrigerated bagging and ease of kitchen unpacking. She messed with my system and so I had some time to kill.

I asked her, “Do you get extra pay for having to listen to ceaseless, repetitive self-checkout voice all day?”

“Oh, you learn to tune it out pretty quickly.”

On our way out I paused to tap the bald, god emperor of the machines on the shoulder. He’s a manager of some sort, Ann and I know him by sight. His manner is a little curt, if polite. Maybe his internal needle touches on the autism spectrum. He always seems busy, but efficiently busy, always on the move. I’d have loved a guy like him on my grocery store night crew back in the eighties when K’s then teenaged parents decided they really liked her namesake.

I said, “Doesn’t it make you crazy standing there doing something next to nothing and listening to those voices all day?”

He glanced at me and then resumed staring straight ahead into the middle distance – the delicatessen counter or thereabouts.

Ann tapped my shoulder. She said, “Come along, Geoffrey.”  

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of rage against the dying of the light since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format from various retailers.

HUMAN WRECKAGE

A Monkey Brain at Work

New York Times crossword number 1105; ten-down: Marvel Comics character played multiple times by Ian McKellen: seven letters.

Did he not die recently? This year? Last year? Superhero movies aren’t my bag. He played Gandolph in Lord of the Rings. Maybe in the Harry Potter movies too? Never seen one. Doctor Doom doesn’t fit. Who’s another baddie? Red Skull? Too many letters. Hang on, wasn’t Jean-Luc Picard the good guy? What’s his name? Patrick Stewart, that’s right. He’s in those movies they filmed on Vancouver Island, that college outside of Victoria near Colwood, Royal Something. Oaks? Roads? Rhodes? We strolled around the grounds with Ann’s brother Jim and his wife Shannon. Lovely campus. Jim mentioned X-Men was set in its castle, some of it, anyways. Picard played Professor X! X-Men, never a favourite of mine back when I read comics. Give me Spider-Man and Sgt. Rock any day. McKellen was his nemesis, but not Star Trek: Nemesis. How do I know this? Did I read a review? Why have I retained the information? Was I in the middle seat for an Air Canada flight; Ann dozing against the Perspex window and me unknowingly absorbing parts of a third party’s movie? The solution is that song on McCartney’s Venus and Mars: “You was involved in a robbery that was due to happen at a quarter to three in the main street…” Lennon said he wrote music for cartoons. Bingo! “Magneto and Titanium Man!” All right! Now, what does MAGNETO cross with? Okay, time to bust this quadrant of the puzzle open.    

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of puzzling evidence since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format from various retailers. 

SAINTS PRESERVE US

A Cunning Linguist

Canada’s Charter of Rights and Freedoms promises citizens from coast to coast to coast “peace, order and good government.” Though sensible enough, the phrase is no guarantee as there’s a “notwithstanding” clause farther down the document.

A good government to me is a duly elected entity that quietly goes about its business of dealing with the issues of the day. A good government may be reactive or, preferably, proactive but it does not create the issues of the day. Why waste the expertise and energy involved in making stuff up?

This brings me to nascent Alberta Premier Danielle Smith’s “Job One,” the awkwardly titled (perhaps entitled) “Alberta Sovereignty Within a United Canada Act” tabled Tuesday in the provincial legislature. I have not read the bill; I have only read about it. My understanding is that its language is so convoluted and hackneyed as to be gibberish in legalese. It’s essentially a teenaged Alberta telling adult Ottawa to “talk to the hand.” Canadians of a certain vintage might have an olfactory memory triggered, a whiff of “sovereignty-association.” That vague slogan championed an independent Quebec complete with the domestic and foreign services provided gratis by the Government of Canada. Sort of a mulligan ratatouille. 

The ruling United Conservative Party (UCP) has six certain months left in power as a provincial election must be held next May. Alberta’s previous premier, Jason Kenney, founded the UCP big tent coalition of the right. He was usurped by the party’s lunatic fringe whose poster dominatrix is Smith. Kenney resigned his seat in the legislature Tuesday. He has dismissed Smith’s proposed Alberta sovereignty act as a “cockamamie idea.” That assessment from a backroom Machiavelli who sold Albertans on complaint by searing federal-provincial relations with his brand of populism.

The conversation inside the centrally heated confines of the Crooked 9 has changed. Ann and I should be refining family plans for the upcoming holiday season. Ann is rehearsing with two different orchestras for a series of Christmas concerts. I’m well into the first draft of a new novel and poor Ann has to edit the drivel. I need a haircut. We’ve always lots of things to talk about. The new Springsteen album of soul covers, for instance. No! We spend our time discussing provincial affairs with all the inarticulate vulgarity of roughnecks. Ann says anger is great “cardio.”

My sister, delightedly hysterical, gleeful and mildly relieved down the landline from Montreal: “Ah-ha! Quebec’s not the national laughingstock anymore! When are you moving back?”

When the Tuesday Night Beer Club convenes, Stats Guy and I rarely touch on politics. It’s not that we disagree, but rather baseball, books and World War II movies are more engaging topics. This week Stats Guy said, “I never imagined Frau Goebbels would make me long for the days of Mini-Trump.” That sepia-toned era of the UCP and Premier Kenney was as recent as the first week of October.

Now, let us inspect Frau Goebbels, hmm? She, a member of three different provincial political parties at variously convenient times, is the type of politician who makes the electorate cynical about democracy. Outside the ring of power, Smith snuffled on the mixed grass prairie as an extreme conservative pundit. Did you know a veterinary medicine concocted for upset cow tummies cured covid? Did you know public health and safety measures are communist creeps on universal human rights? Did you know Ukraine should’ve just buckled down and submitted to the whims of the Kremlin? Smith also shilled for Alberta’s largest fossil fuel lobby. Did you know Alberta’s oil and gas companies should receive public subsidies for cleaning up their dirty sites even though they are already compelled by law to do so?

Recently Smith revealed how proud she was of her family’s heritage, the lore of Cherokee blood running in her veins. Alberta First Nations, every indigenous person in this province, didn’t quite know how to look away or at what. That’s because tone deaf Smith has said that the most discriminated against group she’s ever encountered in her whole, like, entire, lifetime are anti-vaxxers, convoy cowboys, border blockers.

Smith’s reign, while legitimate, is awfully perilous, for her and for we the people. She was awarded the leadership of the governing UCP on the sixth ballot of a run-off vote. Me and numbers being what they are, my figures won’t be exact, but…. about 140,000 Albertans (assume the province’s population is 3,000,000 and, oh, I don’t know, maybe 2,400,000 are over the age of 18) paid their $10 UCP membership dues to be involved in that process. Smith then won a by-election in the riding of Brooks-Medicine Hat by a landslide: 54.5-per-cent of the popular vote went her way! Barely 14,000 people out of 40,000 eligible voters bothered to cast ballots.

I’m not sure that 7000 or so thumbs-up from a rural region of Alberta comprises a solid mandate to conjure up provincial superpowers and constitutional chaos. The Sovereignty Act permits Smith’s government to ignore existing federal laws and future legislation she doesn’t or won’t like. Her legislation also grants her cabinet the authority to make new and contrary laws while bypassing debate in the legislature. Smith’s cabinet ministers have since been tasked with picking federal nits from their portfolios. Some of these men opposed her in the UCP leadership derby. All of these men had publicly decried her proposed Sovereignty Act as half insane. Meanwhile, constitutional lawyers are having wet dreams about future billings; I hope the relevant courts have cleared all or most of their pandemic backlogs.

A crass opportunist gaming an existing system is not without precedent. Napoleon, no democrat he, but something of a reformer in his time, infamously crowned himself emperor of France and bits and parts of Europe. The ceremony took place in Notre Dame de Paris and not a mental hospital. Modern history books and the morning papers are rife with stories of democracy being subverted or perverted in pursuit of a benign or malevolent yet somehow legitimate autocracy. Seizing Power for Dummies is never out of print. In Alberta’s case, an embarrassingly Big Lie for awfully small stakes is at play. Whether Smith’s signature Act is serious business or a disruptive negotiating ploy vis-à-vis federal-provincial relations remains a mystery to me. There is no evidence of best intentions, public good. The tragedy of this sad little story is that its outcome, whatever that may prove to be, only matters to its flawed hero, a spurious and delusional little tin goddess.

Click on the far right to order your stylishly cut UCP uniform. Colour choices range from black to brown and are available in all sizes.      

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of provincial political commentary since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format from various reputable retailers.