SAINTS PRESERVE US

Monday Morning, You Sure Don’t Look Fine

Chrystia Freeland, Canada’s Deputy Prime Minister and Finance Minister, reached her fuckery threshold a week ago today. She wisely quit her job(s) before having to deliver the government’s fall economic statement to the House of Commons knowing she'd be forced to walk the plank afterward. Just as well. She’d overshot her “guardrail” $40-billion operating deficit by some 50-per-cent.

Freeland has emerged from this fiasco spun as a Liberal with integrity. No mean feat given past shenanigans of Canada’s Natural Governing Party, but something of a mulligan during Justin Trudeau’s third term as prime minister, one which began with a needless and opportunistic post-pandemic snap election. Polls were positive for the former Rolling Stone cover boy then. The result, another minority government, was a high school drama teacher’s elaborate panto production gone horribly awry. Tellingly, Freeland’s not the first rat bent on self-preservation to desert HMCS Sunny Ways. The federal Liberal talent pool has become awfully shallow – I’m talking expertise and practical brains over inherited charisma.

Good government, responsible government, is akin to an engine, whether it powers my lawnmower or car. Size doesn’t matter so long as it’s reliable. While it requires maintenance from time to time, its efficiency shouldn’t cross my mind. It’s just there, dependable. Not a big ask; there are other things to think about. Ottawa has seized up. The fan belt snapped.

Canada is a big country with three coasts. It’s been at sea on Trudeau’s watch these past few years. I’ve never devoted much thought to Canadian foreign policy. We were always a middle power with strong ties to our allies. If we couldn’t always pull our weight, we at least had the moral authority to be heard. Our standing in the world order has slipped.

A convicted felon who holds regressive views on a number of issues including trade is set to assume the presidency of the Hysterical States of America. Der Trumpenfuhrer refers to Canada as his fifty-first state and calls our prime minister a governor. I can’t decide what riles me up about his remarks. Is it my latent soft nationalism or the blatant piling on football flag of his wordplay? Kick ‘em when they’re down, that’s what thugs do. India’s secret service executed a Canadian citizen on Canadian soil. Documents recently released reveal our spies foiled a similar plot by Iran. China habitually interferes with the Canadian democratic process and, like India, harasses its Canadian diaspora. Fuck knows what the Russians are up to.

Domestic affairs have descended into dysfunction somewhere beneath the nadir of farce. Prime Minister Trudeau is flailing in deep, rough waters for his political life. His latest lifesaving gambit was to declare a goods-and-services tax (five-per-cent) holiday for the holidays. From now until sometime in February I won’t pay the GST on a case of beer (see opening paragraph; scratch your head). I’ve never been bribed with my own money before. Payment deferred.

A prime example of inept and ineffectual governance is how Trudeau is managing a strike by Canada Post Corporation employees. CPC is a floundering Crown corporation saddled with a nineteenth century mandate and business model. It needs a thorough reset, a proper reboot. Still, I can mail a letter from Victoria, BC to Charlottetown, PEI for a dollar-something. The corporation handles more than two billion such bargains annually. Postal strikes, alas, are a lot like your relatives, they come around with alarming regularity. Now, national mail delivery isn’t overly glamorous, not like mingling in Davos or posing for a G7 group photo-op, it’s like municipal sewage treatment and garbage collection, somewhat essential. Dirty work, but somebody’s got to do it.

CPC employees walked off the job in mid-November. Whatever your opinion of unions, you’ve got to grant them their pressure tactic expertise. Held hostage for four weeks were charity solicitations, small and medium business fulfillments and passport applications for discounted dream vacations in secure tourist compounds during hurricane season. I missed my subscriptions to The Economist, The Walrus and AlbertaViews. No need to bother with Christmas cards this year. I trust the result of the revoltingly awkward home colon cancer test I undertook was negative. Otherwise, somebody would’ve called? Maybe not, health care is a provincial jurisdiction. Except for the funding.

The federal government’s solution to the CPC strike was a pause. A pause, not a resolution. A pause, like its concurrent GST consumer holiday. The postal strike will resume early next year. Another temporary reactive measure, akin to bailing a sinking ship with a milquetoast jug instead of flushing its ballast.

I imagine power is no easy thing to relinquish even if it costs you your common sense, ethics, integrity and marriage. The Globe reports Trudeau will spend the Christmas break pondering his future, fully aware half his caucus wants him gone, a majority of Canadians want him gone and that his government will fall when parliament reconvenes in the new year. Will he choose to lead the Liberals to slaughter on election day or decide to watch the carnage from the sidelines? While the machinery of the state can grind on without a functioning executive branch, the country, especially in times like these, cannot.

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. My companion site www.megeoff.com is a little dusty, but up to date.

HUMAN WRECKAGE

The Coffee Maker

Ann “hearts” her morning coffee. Me too. I’ve come a long way from freeze-dried granules of Maxwell House (Good to the last drop!) or Nescafe and hot tapwater. But we’re not precious about our coffee. We brew a 12-cup pot of coffee-flavoured coffee every morning and none of that medium roast stuff. I prepare everything the evening before because it saves nine minutes come dawn. Whoever awakes first hits the BREW button before their ritual ablutions – again, time management is crucial – while the other comes to to a delicious smell.

Late October Ann and I began having to jimmy open the lid of our Krups unit’s cistern with a bread knife. The latch mechanism permanently jammed. After about a week we both got pretty adept at it, one more step added to the routine. We knew something had to give, probably a hard water-encrusted plastic hinge. Disposable consumer durables tend not to fix themselves – especially after their limited warranties have expired. Ann was proactive, researching replacements. We asked around our circle of family and friends for recommendations.

The coffee snobs chimed in. One recommended an elaborate system or solution (no mere coffee maker) retailing for some $500. Another couldn’t get past our electric grinder because, you see, coffee beans require an artisan touch, pressing or crushing. Spinning grinder blades create heat, enough heat apparently to further roast a roasted bean and the desultory result is, of course, bitter. In his defense, he lingers over a cup of coffee while Ann and I swill ours. Also, he hasn’t smoked 25 a day for 50 years. My palate is unsophisticated. All I desire is black diner joe in my Stones, Beatles or Who mug. If there’s an oily slick or Carly Simon clouds on the surface, I’m cool. Ann’s a bit fussier, hot coffee into hot milk, not quite half and half. Her ratio changes with each subsequent cup: less dairy, more joe.

The Crooked 9’s kitchen was designed and built before either of us were born; working space is limited. A countertop appliance is no easy purchase. It must fit into its designated place; its footprint must be compact. A coffee maker’s height is of particular concern: it cannot obstruct the kitchen light switch (the second thing to be turned on each morning) nor interfere with the bottom of the cupboard door where we keep our mugs. We elected to buy a Braun unit. German again. According to the email I received, Ann and I are now part of the Braun family which, I suppose, is less lucrative but morally superior to being welcomed to the Krupp family whose company armed all of Europe in the two centuries prior to this one.

Our morning coffees are my gig – even if I forget to add water from time to time. Ann suggested I might read through the operator’s manual and do the set up for our new machine, learn its ins and outs, which I did. Simple stuff. I scanned the instructions in the way I look at most posts on my Facebook feed, blankly. I wasn’t exactly going to Mars with Elon or even booking a domestic flight and hotel room.

My first task was to set the unit’s digital clock to Mountain Time. The display read 10:28 out of the box. I plugged the unit into the wall socket under the cupboard on the backsplash and depressed the CLOCK button for three seconds. I jigged local time. Cyan lights flashed but the clock didn’t move from 10:28. Jesus Christ, this thing’s going back to the store. A fresh off the assembly line dud. I got my face up real, real close to the clock and saw the actual functioning clock face was protected for shipping by an opaque black cling decal reading 10:28. Well, fuck.

Next up was programming for water hardness. Some new-fangled function. The unit’s default setting was H3, Alberta hard, eh, bud? Mineral content. The button I was supposed to depress didn’t work. I thought: Fuckit, it’s the default anyways.

The third button was for setting the temperature of the hotplate. That button didn’t work either. The default heat setting was MEDIUM. Ann had wanted it set to LOW. I thought: Fuckit. We always pour the pot into a different carafe so it won’t stew on the burner anyways. The clock’s working and we won’t have to open the lid with a fucking knife.

Ann was in the kitchen too, her back to me, taking care of other business. She asked, “How’s it going?”

I said, “Good, good. I’ve got this.”

The fourth button was STRENGTH. This button was the subject of some previous discussion because ROBUST takes twice as long as REGULAR and time is a delicate subject for seniors. Waiting on a ROBUST brew might not see us out one morning and I can’t imagine facing Judgment Day without a couple cups of coffee and a few cigarettes first. Must present at my absolute best; seconds count. I couldn’t set the strength button either but its default setting was in our favour: REGULAR. I thought: Fuckit.

Ann said, “All set up, ready to go?”

I replied with my favourite hedging portmanteau, “Welp.” I continued, “I got the clock working, but the other buttons don’t seem to function, so I’ve left them on their default settings.”

Ann said, “Would you mind if I take a look?”

I said, “No, no, not at all. Have at ‘er. I think I did everything right. I read the instructions.”

We switched places in the kitchen. I got out of Ann’s way.

Ann said, “Geoffrey.”

I thought: Uh-oh.

“Did you turn the power on?”

I said, “Coffee makers don’t have power buttons. You just plug them in, the clock lights up and then you press START or BREW or whatever, whenever.”

“This one does.”

“Fuck me. That’s two buttons to press in the morning now.”

Just yesterday, our new machine in service for more than a week, Ann showed me how to remove the filter basket.                  

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. My companion site www.megeoff.com is a little dusty, but up to date.