SAINTS PRESERVE US

Election Reflections 

Well, here we are now: Save Us. Canada’s federal election day is Monday, 28 April. Less than two weeks to go. Churn and chaos in global affairs (“I’m Afraid of Americans”) have overshadowed domestic issues, subsequently turning this one into a two-party race. One of them has got to win. The result will likely be a majority mandate and something like a prairie burrowing owl, a rare bird in Canada these days.

Even though it’s getting harder to laugh, I was amused to learn that Wednesday’s French language leaders’ debate in Montreal was moved forward by a couple of hours so as not to compete with the Canadiens’ pivotal final game of the regular season. The NHL playoff derby is similar to a tourist compound in a politically unstable sun destination during hurricane season, pretty much all inclusive, but you still need at least 90 points (They won, they’re in).

As I read that item in the newspaper, I thought, “This is us.” I could not help but smile. But hockey, like “Queen on Moose”, maple syrup, the Group of Seven and a two-four of brown stubbies, is a Canadian cliché. A tired truth. “We’re not Americans” is the default Canadian identity. The reality in a big empty country with a housing crisis is deeper, more complicated. When I look south of the Medicine Line, I see the American Dream is alive and well and within the grasp of some individuals. I see too that many individuals will never ever get a fair shot at even attempting to achieve it. Individuals all.

The national dream in Canada was the construction of a transcontinental railroad (twinned a century later with a paved highway). The Canadian experience has been one of collectivity: “We can do this for the betterment of all.” Results and benefits have been spotty; the past and present then are akin to novelist William Gibson’s “unevenly distributed” future (imperfect in the sense of grammatical tense). So, we are contemplating the character of the man who will serve as our next prime minister. Our choice is between an erudite, highly educated and highly experienced policy wonk and an ideological demagogue who spits attack ad catch phrases. Alas, there is no “Northern Magi” on the slate, no philosopher-king, just as les Canadiens have failed to draft an anointed Quebecois saviour. I don’t know, maybe things are looking up all around. Maybe. All this endemic mediocrity has to end somewhere.

Mondays Ann and I collect our granddaughter from daycare and deliver her to playschool. The divine Ms Moore will turn five come October. Her Monday afternoon playschool is conducted in Spanish. I believe it’s important to learn a second language – if you can. I took Spanish in Secondary One. The introduction of a second Romantic Language was supposed to goose my passably brutal grasp of French. Things did not shake down well for me. Eh bien. Alors. When I visit Montreal these days I find myself thinking in French from time to time. Trouble is, my vocabulary consists of a few hundred words (Last summer I tried speaking French to the proprietor of a cheap café in Bruges, Belgium and he looked at me as if I’d just wandered off the grounds of an asylum). While our granddaughter isn’t fully bilingual, she knows that Nana will bring her snacks for the short drive. This Monday she announced from her car seat in the back of the HR-V that she’d dropped her empty treat bag and Nana or Papa would have to pick up after her. Now, I was not raised in a warm family; love but never awkward displays of it. My experiences with very young people have always been peripheral. I’m as cuddly as an exhibit in a reptile petting zoo. I said, “No. You will pick it up. What you just did is called littering and littering is wrong.” I was going to relate “Alice’s Restaurant” but that was probably too much too soon and, anyway, it’s just a tiresome novelty song now.

Litter dumping gets my back up. I pick up litter around The Crooked 9, up off the street, in the back alley. Sometimes I pack a trash bag, gardening gloves and a sharp stick into the river valley. Something useful to do. I keep informal statistics. The litter winner is always Tim Hortons. McDonald’s and Coca-Cola are tied for second. It’s a crowded field after that – some of which is best left where it lays. Come election time, I apply a similarly strict data gathering metric to party lawn signs.

Candidates’ authorized lawn signs may strike you as quaint. Advertising from analogue times, much like unaddressed mail. But the key to any message is its frequency. Content defers to repetition. Repetition perpetuates perception. The word-of-mouth isn’t just gossip, the buzz is real! Best get on board, ride the prevailing winds like everybody else. I mean, Jesus as a shepherd and the rest of us as sheep has always pissed me off, but, hey, his public relations apostles were good at what they did (“We’re talking to you Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,” said Lazarus and the leper).

The primary identifier for political lawn signs is the party’s base colour. Our riding of Edmonton-Strathcona is pimpled with New Democratic Party orange. Liberal red is as alarming as a rash in an embarrassing place and so there aren’t any. Another factor in the lack of Liberal presence could be that the party’s usual loser is running this time in Edmonton-Centre where she has a ghost of a chance. Her stand-in is a Sisyphean fellow who is usually ritually slaughtered like a lamb in a rural riding south of the city.

On the drive back to The Crooked 9 after our Spanish playschool errand, Ann said, “Who are the black lawn signs for?” I said, “Black? I don’t know, the Pirate Party?” We detoured from our regular route so we could slow down and have a look. We found another black lawn sign. Upon closer examination it wasn’t really black, more New York Yankees navy blue, a deceptive colour depending upon the light or lack of it. We learned the identity of our riding’s Conservative candidate. I would add “Farm” to his name – make him a real berry-picking roadside attraction (I am childish: I like to finish those fortune cookie fortunes with “in bed” or insert “butt” or “ass” between an American football franchise’s city and nickname).

Contemporary Canadian Conservatives are acolytes of former prime minister Stephen Harper and his regressive right “Calgary School” gospel of shrill complaint. They cannot even be described as 90s neocons, let alone traditional Tories. But the unifying thread through the party’s various guises has always been Royal or Union Jack blue, that blue, however you describe it. When you’re driving past a lawn sign (or a billboard for that matter), you have a fraction of a second to comprehend and absorb what you’re looking at. During an election cycle the accurate reproduction of a party’s identifying colour, its shorthand, is utterly crucial.

Edmonton-Strathcona Conservative nominee Miles Berry probably doesn’t own a farm and so it’s unlikely he cultivates blackberries. Certainly not blueberries. Was any old drum of ink lying around the sign shop close enough (as in horseshoes and hand-grenades) for his pirate signs? Is he indifferent? Incompetent? He’s blown more than a few chances to leave an impression on undecided voters because his botched lawn signs display more as litter than message: thoughtless.

All of the candidates on your riding’s federal electoral ballot have sworn they would be honoured to represent you in the House of Commons. They have promised to fight for you. You will note that some promises made by your slate of candidates are beyond the legislative powers of Parliament and therefore subject to judicial review. You will note too that hot-button issues such as education, housing and healthcare don’t actually fall under Ottawa’s jurisdiction. Don’t be like Miles Berry; pay attention to details – they matter.

                             

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything since 2013. Sunset Oasis Confidential is with its publisher. Have a look at the jacket design at my companion site www.megeoff.com. Of Course You Did is still available.