POETRY CORNER
Le vin du solitaire
Le regard singulier d’une femme galante
Qui se glisse vers nous comme le rayon blanc
Que la lune onduleuse envoie au lac tremblant,
Quand elle y veut baigner sa beauté nonchalante;

Le dernier sac d’écus dans les doigts d’un joueur;
Un baiser libertin de la maigre Adeline;
Les sons d’une musique énervante et câline,
Semblable au cri lointain de l’humaine douleur,

Tout cela ne vaut pas, ô bouteille profonde,
Les baumes pénétrants que ta panse féconde
Garde au coeur altéré du poète pieux;

Tu lui verses l’espoir, la jeunesse et la vie,
- Et l’orgueil, ce trésor de toute gueuserie,
Qui nous rend triomphants et semblables aux Dieux!
– Charles Baudelaire
Kevin Michael Grace, 7.55 p.m., November 30, 2002 [Link]

3,487 AND COUNTING
Oxford gives four meanings for “whatever.”
in any way or manner
at any rate
in any case
to resume, (anyway, as I was saying)Have you noticed the change in the meaning of No. 4? “Anyway” has become much like “whatever.” Not the “whatever” of that’s crazy but the “whatever” of that’s enough of that, you. Snide and imperious. The way young people speak! I’m surprised every conversation doesn’t end with a knife to the gut.Anyway, my brief moment in the sun is over. Visitors from VDARE and Lew Rockwell brought me more traffic than at any time since my début. Unfortunately, Lew linked to me on Thanksgiving, which—as I learned when I arrived in San Diego on Thanksgiving Day, 1993, to find everything shut—is a more important holiday for Americans than Christmas. And the day after…well. My daily average is up to 99, but I’m not going to threaten three figures today. Too busy at the big box sales to give me a click, are you? Apparently.Obiter dicta: Last night I had reached 99 visits by 11.25 p.m. Would I reach 100? Would I check my stats again and again and again to find out? (Pitiful, quavering voice): Yes…I would. Visitor No. 100 came in with three minutes and 46 seconds to spare. Thank you, gov.uk!Statistical analysis reveals that many of my visitors come to me from government networks. I understand this is true for most websites. Every so often Pierre Bourque publishes a list of his tip-top visitors, and I was always impressed that so many of the addresses had “gc” in them. How very influential he must be, I had thought.
My wholly typical reaction to this disproportionate interest from bureaucrats was paranoid. It didn’t help when, reporting a story about biometric ID cards this cycle, I had cause to call the Office of the Privacy Commissioner to request an interview with the Privacy Commissioner himself. Not 10 minutes later, a computer from that office had signed on to The Ambler. The next day, the commissioner’s flack called me back to impart the sad news that Mr. George Radwanski would be unavailable to speak to me. Coincidence, I’m sure, but I bet this wouldn’t have happened if my cousin, Mr. John Grace, still had Radwanski’s job.Statistical analysis also reveals that about half of my visitors are from outside Canada. Most are from America, but others are from everywhere and anywhere. I have fans in Japan, New Zealand and Russian East Asia. I find this terribly exciting and romantic. This morning I even had a visitor from KLM, Royal Dutch Airlines.
Ah, Holland! Here is my segue—or “bridge,” as we hacks call it—to Air Miles. This is a Dutch company whose card is good only in Canada, the United Kingdom, Netherlands, Spain and the United Arab Emirates. Now there’s a singular group of countries for you. Every time you buy something from a merchant that subscribes to the Air Miles system, you get points. Typically, 1 point for every $15 or $20 spent. It’s called Air Miles because cardholders normally exchange their points for free flights, although you can exchange them for various other things.(The primary purpose of Air Miles and other reward cards is to encourage spending at particular stores. Its secondary purpose is to build a consumer profile of cardholders. I understand that some are angered by the loss of privacy entailed thereby. But it is a voluntary loss, and I don’t really care that some corporate database knows I like Grissol crackers, Knorr soups, Benson & Hedges cigarettes and Coca-Cola. I’m not that paranoid.)I’d been an Air Miles member since 9/96, but I’d got nothing out of it. Trouble was, the only Air Miles sponsor I patronized regularly was Safeway. (I also have an Air Miles credit card.) So after almost six years of use, I’d managed to collect a paltry 2,200 points. Then I felt a sudden hankering for air travel. It became imperative to collect as many Air Miles as fast as possible. I made as many purchases on my credit card as was feasible, and did almost all my grocery shopping at Safeway, but it still wasn’t doing me much good. If $1,000 spent equals 50 Air Miles (100 if bought by credit card at Safeway), and I spend less than $2,000 a month on non-rent purchases…well, you can do the math.Then I cracked the code. It’s all in the promotions. Rather like the Safeway Club card. Safeway groceries are rather dear if you buy just anything. So you buy as many items as possible offered at the Club-card discounted price. In any given week, Safeway offers a couple dozen products that yield bonus Air Miles. Ridgways isn’t your usual cup of tea? Well, if they offer 5 bonus miles a box, you switch. If you get 100 bonus miles for buying eight boxes of Post breakfast cereal and 100 miles for eight 10-pouch boxes of Tang “fruit flavoured drink” and 100 miles for eight boxes of Stoned Wheat Thins and 100 miles for eight packages of Chips Ahoy! cookies…well, you stock up. If you get 10 times the miles for shopping on a certain Tuesday, that’s what you do. And if you get emailed a coupon for 200 bonus miles if you spend $250, you make sure you spend that much.In this manner, I managed to amass a prodigious amount of Air Miles in a few short months. Then, as I was tantalizingly close to my goal, I found I had nowhere to fly to. How sad, how sad.
What shall I do with my bounty of Air Miles? I feel a sudden hankering for a diamond necklace.
Bling! Bling! As the hiphoppers like to say.
Kevin Michael Grace, 6.05 p.m., November 29, 2002 [Link]

EVERYTHING I DO, I DO FOR UU
Except now I’m thinking, maybe it’s really attbi. But that would mean Pacific Time. My mind is reeling. Pay no mind; my mind was reeling before. Sleep deprivation will have that effect. I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving, wherever you ended up.So the production cycle is over, as you might have guessed. “Production cycle” sounds like a process that involves extrusion. Not a million miles from the truth.
I should be in bed, but instead, I’m sitting at my keyboard blogging to you. Or as they say in Pacific Time, bloggin’ atcha.I see Christopher Hitchens is all over Slate these days. Where does he find the time? Yesterday’s lesson: instructing Americans in the meaning of “anti-Americanism.” I don’t understand why you Americans tolerate some bloody foreigner coming to your country and telling you your business. Seems to me America got along tolerably well before little Christopher Robin showed up.You even let Canadians get away with this. Take that David Frum. Did you know he’s Canadian? Seemed a bit rich when he lectured Pat Buchanan, Tom Fleming, Sam Francis, et al., about what American conservatism was all about. He also lectures us Canadians as well. I know why we take it. We haven’t any self-respect. What’s your excuse? Toxic hospitality? Frum is a Canadian to the Canadians (in the National Post) and an American to the Americans. Nice work if you can get it.I remember seeing Chris in a documentary about the death of the Princess of Wales. He was sitting on a bench, barracking away as the flood tide of mourners swelled about him, when one of the bereaved told him to put a sock in it and show a little respect. How dare you tell me what I may say in my country was this British bulldog’s response. I thought this rather magnificent at the time. Later I began to have doubts. My country? Which country might that be, Chris? Aren’t you an American now? Perhaps Chris regards Americanism as a universal, spiritual allegiance.Let’s see:The United States of America is not just a state or a country but a nation—the only such country, in fact—supposedly founded on a set of principles and ideas. The documents and proclamations preceded the nation-state.Our old friend the “proposition nation.” You could say the same thing about the Soviet Union, you know. The Russian Revolution was more than just a change of regime. I wonder where Chris thinks Americans came from? Did they fall from the sky after July 4, 1776? There are other proposition nations, Chris admits, but his is best “because the United States is based on pluralism as regards faith, political allegiance, or ethnicity.” This is a recent and tendentious version of Americanism, but I’ll let that pass.Turns out Chris is a pluralist but not excessively so, especially as regards faith and political allegiance. For who is his model anti-American? Step forward Pat Robertson:
who appeared on the television in the immediate aftermath of the Sept. 11 atrocity and declared that the mass murder in New York and Washington and Pennsylvania was a divine punishment for a society that indulged secularism, pornography, and homosexual conduct. Here is a man who quite evidently dislikes his own society and sympathizes, not all that covertly, with those who would use violence and fanaticism to destroy it. He dislikes this society, furthermore, for the very things that it tends to advertise about itself, namely permissiveness and variety. If this is not “anti-American” then the term is truly meaningless.
I suppose it could be anti-Americanism, but it could also be religious faith. It is also possible that God did punish America, as Robertson believes. I am not a mystic, so I have no pretensions to expertise in this matter. It’s probably best to forego such pronouncements, unless your name is Isaiah or St. John the Divine. It is also possible that Robertson is genuinely saddened by the results of what he considers God’s wrath. I make no claim to understanding Pat Robertson, so I shall remain silent. But where is your permissiveness, Chris? Is this is indeed America’s calling card, why can’t it—or you, since you claim to be American—tolerate Pat Robertson? He certainly makes a contribution to American variety, if nothing else.Here’s why:I would go a step further and say that racism and theological bigotry are “anti-American” as nearly as possible by definition, since these things are condemned or outlawed—after a bit of a struggle, admittedly—in the amendments to the Constitution if not in the document itself.A giant leap, I’d say. Are these condemnations in some secret codicil to the Constitution, Chris? I had laboured under the misapprehension the Constitution restrained government. But then I’m not an American like you. I’m sure you know best.I have the sneaking suspicion that Chris believes that anti-theological bigotry means a literal belief in the God of the Bible. Seems to me the Orthodox Jews are pretty “theologically bigoted.” Oh yeah, I forgot. You can tell us not only what Americanism really means but what Judaism really means too. Better late than never, eh? Some guys have all the luck.
Kevin Michael Grace, 9.00 p.m., November 28, 2002 [Link]

I’M CAUGHT IN A .NET
I love all
The many charms about UU
Above all,
I want my arms about UU
Don’t be a naughty baby
Come to papa — come to papa — do!
My sweet embraceable UU.Kevin Michael Grace, 4.13 p.m., November 28, 2002 [Link]

RIDICULOUS TO SUBLIME
My curiosity whetted by Michael of the 2Blowhards, I read Simon Callow’s review of Garry O’Connor’s biography of Alec Guinness. Michael is correct; Callow is a “really good writer.” He’s also a fine actor, of course.Perhaps it’s a snobbish suspicion of people called Garry, but I decided not to trust Callow’s judgment and seek other opinions. After reading Helen Osborne’s review in the Sunday Telegraph, I’ve decided I shan’t be reading O’Connor anytime soon. (Prejudice does have its uses.)Osborne declares: 
This is not so much a biography as a 400-page bluster, and often brutal with it. ‘I have absolutely no doubt that for some time in his life, and possibly even all of it, Alec had love affairs with men.’ Apart from our old friend Anonymous the evidence is scant and shoddy. She dismisses O’Connor as “a measly mastodon grubbing about in the swamp”:There are flimsy hints of a preference for what O’Connor describes as “the rough trade,” and he pounces like a sniffer dog on anyone Sir Alec regarded as “a very dear friend of mine” or “one of my closest friends.” When Guinness joined [Sir John] Gielgud’s company in 1937 it was awash, apparently, with rent boys. “There is no reason to believe that Alec did not behave like the others.” Equally, there is no reason to believe he did…Some of his findings are preposterous: “During his schooldays he expressed little or no awakening of sexual feeling or attraction to girls.” As Guinness was 86 when he died in 2000, there can’t be too many school chums around to confirm this…It is crass and impertinent to imply that Guinness’s conversion to Catholicism—”so high profile,” sneers O’Connor, “that if it had happened today I should not have been surprised to see it featured in Hello!”—was a placebo against his “demons”. The so-called proof for this is a remark made 43 years after the event: “I have one regret…that I didn’t take the decision to become a Catholic in my early twenties. That would have sorted out a lot of my life and sweetened it.”O’Connor even speculates that Guinness’s wife Merula was a lesbian. The evidence? Only one child was born of their union. What a vile man Garry must be.We live in an age in which sex is everything and God nothing, in which “sexual orientation”–whatever that might mean–becomes sociology, ideology, even theology. So I am happy to report that another biography of Guinness is to be published, next year by Piers Paul Read. Read is not only a Catholic and a man of discernment; he is in my opinion one of the finest living novelists. (Although he remains best known, on this continent at least, for Alive, his miraculous account of the Andes plane crash survivors.)
Unfortunately, Read came along at a time when the middle-class decided to abandon serious novels, so he has taken up what might be called eschatological thrillers. But then so did Graham Greene—and Dostoyevsky. Try Read’s A Married Man, the truest account of married life I have ever read. Or The Upstart, a savage account of class resentment. Or, more recently, A Patriot in Berlin, a hugely exciting and unsettling account of the unintended consequences of the end of the Cold War.And until Read’s bio is out, why not read Sir Alec in his own words? You won’t be sorry. Blessings in Disguise, My Name Escapes Me and A Positively Final Appearance are all sublime. What a good man he was.Kevin Michael Grace, 5.11 p.m., November 26, 2002 [Link]

PLEASED TO MEET YOU
Now that my review of three monographs on Canadian immigration has been published on Peter Brimelow’s mighty VDARE, I fully expect to be positively inundated with traffic.Most of you that got here via the link at the bottom of the VDARE piece will be first-time visitors, so it is fitting I should introduce myself. Or re-introduce myself, as it turns out. You will find a rather baroque introduction here, but this is the short version:
I’m a Canadian journalist seeking a wider audience. I write about Canada here but also about the United States (where I once lived and worked), Britain (I’m half-British by birth and mostly British by inclination) and everything else under the Sun. (Which, as old Ambler hands will recall, is the source of all life on Earth.)I’ve written a great deal about Canada’s preposterous immigration policy for my primary employer; you can find a representative example here. And you can find my earlier review of Daniel Stoffman’s excellent book here.Take a look ’round. Put your feet up. Set a spell. Y’all come back now, heah? (But stay away from that Black Box; it’s maudlin in there.)Kevin Michael Grace, 3.06 p.m., November 26, 2002 [Link]

WATCHING THE DETECTIVES
Contrary to what some people think–Hi Chris!–I’ve never contributed a scintilla of gossip to Frank. Nor do I post on its forums. 
(I don’t post on any forums. Two reasons: 1. An aversion to “cute” handles. 2. A terrible fear that within 10 minutes I’d be reduced to: “My mother? Well, let me tell you about your mother, you pathetic little creep…”) 
I do like to lurk there, however. I find them scabrous (consider this due warning) but (occasionally) fascinating. Some of the invective is actually funny, and their posters like detective work. They ferreted out the identity of that most unfortunate man, Rebecca Eckler’s fiancé, for instance.
And with the arrest of Rachel Marsden they went into overdrive. (For my foreign readers, she is the notorious “do-me” feminist whose bogus claim of sexual harassment by a swimming coach hobbled a major Canadian university.) Marsden, who has gone Yank and attempted to reinvent herself as a “Republican babe”—you have a lot to answer for, Ann Coulter– is now charged with the criminal harassment of a 52-year-old former Vancouver “boss jock.”
Part of Marsden’s bail agreement is that she is not allowed to post pseudoanonymously on the Internet. A clever Frank poster called “Scoopy Doo”–see what I mean?–took note of this and then noticed the disappearance of Marsden’s Frank cheerleader, a poster called “Kingryder.” Then others went into the archives to discover what Kingryder had had to say, and all I can will say is that Marsden had better hope none of this is admissable in court.
Unfortunately, I cannot find a link to Leonard Stern’s outstanding two-part investigative piece on Marsden in the December 5, 1999, Ottawa Citizen. It’s worth going to the library and hunting down–or even paying for. I’ll leave to another time explaining how Canada become the Nuremburg of feminazism, but if you want to know the practical effects of this dubious distinction, read Stern’s article.
(Thanks to Rick Hiebert for the cheesecake links.)
Kevin Michael Grace, 1.43 a.m., November 26, 2002 [Link]

MY LIFE IN (POP) SONG
“Stranger to Myself” by Peter Blegvad:
There are words I’m scared to use in conversation
Favourite books I dare not take down from the shelf
There are songs I cannot hear
Without a sense of desolation
‘Cause you left me a stranger to myself
….
I try to hide my grief from my relations
They say, come on, Pete, drink up, you don’t look well
I can’t remember how to act
In those familiar situations
‘Cause you left me a stranger to myself
Kevin Michael Grace, 11.42 p.m., November 25, 2002 [Link]

WONDERS NEVER CEASE
Had to go to Canadian Tire this afternoon to buy a 3-way, 150-watt light bulb, and I came across this:

The scales fell from my eyes. Pure, true light! Suddenly, the adulterated, false light I’d been fobbed off with all these years was completely unacceptable. I had to have Reveal™, regardless of cost—which turned out to be $3.99, a snip.I took the mysterious purple bulb home and installed it. Unfortunately, I had no tulips upon which to observe the clarifying effect of its light, and, in any case, my bedroom was already suffused with the pure, true light of the Sun, that magnificent orb that shines beneficently from 93 million miles away and is, so I am confidently informed, the source of all life on Earth. So an analysis of GE’s claims would have to wait until nightfall.Meanwhile, I had to learn more. I went to www.GELighting.com, and who did I find but our old friend Paul Harvey. (”And that little boy who nobody liked…grew up to be Roy Cohn. And now you know…the rest of the story.”) Paul was pretty excited too. “The light bulb has been invented again,” he declared in his strange, halting cadence. Putting on my socks in the predawn dark, I can tell blue from black. Reading by my bedside lamp has never been so easy. And white sheets are white. GE has developed a light bulb it calls the Reveal™. Re-veal. Because it Reveal™s every illuminated thing as it really is…GE has really done it this time!The GE website provides a virtual Reveal™ experience—for every room in your home. Examine, for instance, the grungy, jaundiced light you once suffered, and then pass your pointer over the picture. Fiat lux! (”Images enhanced to Reveal™ differences in color.”)I marvelled at the website’s gallery of ads, immersed myself in Reveal™ trivia—and was aghast to learn that the greatest advance in illumination since fire was Reveal™ed to the public (after six years of development) on June 13, 2001. Why wasn’t I told?Now it was time for the ultimate test: Paul Harvey’s final, tantalizing claim: Waitaya see…wait…till…you…see…that beautiful face…that Reveal™ bulbs…Reveal™…in your…mir-roar.Oh, baby! My, what a handsome devil I am. Call me Narcissus. Thank you, GE. You really do bring good things to life. And to light!
Kevin Michael Grace, 6.33 p.m., November 24, 2002 [Link]

MY ENEMY’S ENEMYTom Fleming is one of the wisest men I know, so it is always a pleasure to speak to him. The last time I spoke to the editor of Chronicles, I asked him to explain something that had long troubled me. Why have otherwise sound men such as Pat Buchanan and Joe Sobran become cheerleaders for the Palestinians? Isn’t this an example of the sentimental liberalism they decry in others?Tom replied that in his opinion Buchanan and Sobran had come to their position as a result of the gross abuse they had suffered at the hands of the neoconservatives. They had been Zionists, but their Zionism hadn’t been enough for Pope Norman Podhoretz and cat’s-paws like Bill Buckley. As a result, they had become anti-Zionists.It is always a terrible temptation to turn against Israel because of the excesses—at home and abroad, especially abroad—of its devotees. I can claim some small empathy with Buchanan and Sobran on this point. Two years ago, something I wrote came to the hostile attention of one of Israel’s most influential boosters in Canada. Despite a lifetime of philo-Semitism, despite a lifetime of Zionism, even unto being supportive of the Likud party, I found myself accused of anti-Semitism.This tumler moved heaven and earth to destroy me and almost succeeded. With friends like that, I thought… But this temptation should be resisted. My enemy’s enemy is not necessarily my friend, even if this little incident left me enraged and with fewer friends than I’d enjoyed previously. ”I know your opinion on Israel,” Jason Kenney (not the tumler) said to me in his superior way when I ran into him at the Canadian Alliance convention in Edmonton in April. “No. You don’t,” I was about to reply, but he had already bustled off.This is my opinion on Israel, as expressed in Eclectica, March 5, 2001:
The phrase “peace process” has become a kind of verbal antidepressant, depriving those who say or hear it of higher brain functions. The logical conclusion of the peace process is the extermination of the State of Israel. Many secretly desire this; some are Arabists or anti-Semites; others are Orthodox Jews who believe a Jewish state is blasphemous. But they should be honest enough to speak openly.
My position is nearly identical to Paul Gottfried’s, so I am in good company. Prof. Gottfried is one of America’s most original thinkers, and in a more just world he would be lionized. In a November 18 piece written for the Hudson Institute (thanks to Ilana Mercer for the link), he complains:It seems to me apparent that at least some of my soulmates have gone over the top in foreign policy. Their views on the Middle East have become over-determined by their opposition to the neoconservatives.
It is one thing to criticize, as I myself have done ad libitum, the dubious statements that keep popping up on National Review Online (NRO): for instance, that Arab leaders are recent reincarnations of interwar European fascists; that international peace requires that the United States overthrow all Middle Eastern governments, except for that of Israel, and set up forced instruction in the occupied countries in global democracy; that anti-Israeli Islamicist violence in Europe is really attributable to Christian anti-Semitism (only about half the neocons seem to believe this); and that all peoples can be turned into democrats, because we succeeded in converting the particularly recalcitrant Germans after World War II. (For those who would like to learn why these assertions make little sense, I shall gladly email essays in which I have dealt with them.)
But it is another matter to deny reasonable assumptions simply because the neocons believe them.
Prof. Gottfried admires Ariel Sharon, not least because he “is utterly free of ideological cant.” I can’t help but agree. Sharon is a “nasty piece of work,” as I have written, but Israel is fighting for its very survival, and he is just the man for the job. The Labour Party is the party of Israeli suicide.Support for Israel shouldn’t mean dancing to Israel’s tune in foreign policy, however. It is not my place to lecture the Israelis about their best interests. And they don’t need my help in that department. I am not a citizen of the United States, so I’ll refrain as well from lecturing the Americans. Yet I retain my love of America, despite what some think, and it hardly seems in America’s interest to invade Iraq. Here I part company with Gottfried:By now it is apparent that Saddam Hussein is a vicious, sadistic lunatic who has been aggressive toward his neighbours, stockpiles highly destructive weapons, and has threatened repeatedly to unleash missiles on the “Zionist entity.” Although the extent of his involvement with al Qaeda has yet to be fully ascertained, we do know that he has pay rolled Arab terrorists for years. It is consequently in the American interest to work toward a regime change in Iraq—or at the very least either force Saddam to comply fully with United Nations inspections or surgically remove his threatening weapons system. On the basis of what the president has said, this seems to be his intention—which is not the same as the stated view of writers Jonah Goldberg, Michael Ledeen, and others who want to reconstruct the Islamic Middle East. It is therefore unfair to do what some paleos now routinely do, which is to equate Bush’s firm resolve not to let the Iraqi regime go back to business as usual with the revolutionary illusions of some misnamed American conservatives.I remain convinced that an invasion of Iraq, regardless of its outcome, will lead to a ferocious anti-Israel backlash in America and elsewhere, but I could be wrong.
For better or worse, America is Israel’s military and financial guarantor. Nevertheless, Israel’s interests are not America’s interests—and they are certainly not Canada’s, regardless of neocon howls to the contrary. Israel is not even Canada’s ally, and no amount of posturing from the National Post can change that. On at least two occasions, Mossad agents have pretended to be Canadians. Such behaviour obviously places Canadians in the Middle East at great risk, as Canada recognized in 1997 when it recalled its ambassador. The Israelis swore they wouldn’t do it again, but the Akram Zatmeh affair suggests that old habits die hard. And the Israeli “art students” scandal raises troubling questions, to say the least.But I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Israel acts consistently on the basis of what is good for Israel; it pays no heed to such fatuous abstractions as “the international community.” This is wholly admirable and exceedingly rare among Western countries–which increasingly regard national suicide as a duty. My only wish is that Canada was as self-centred.Kevin Michael Grace, 3.56 a.m., November 24, 2002 [Link]

CHANGE AND DECAY
Listening to BBC Radio 3, I hear Stephanie Hughes, host of Sunday Live, refer to Johannes Brahms as “a composer with a strong Protestant faith.” My word. Brahms was an atheist. His Catholic friend Dvořák was greatly troubled by this.One no longer expects erudition from BBC announcers, but surely we can expect to be spared howlers.
Kevin Michael Grace, 2.02 a.m., November 24, 2002 [Link]

POETRY CORNER
Der Doppelgänger
Still ist die Nacht, es ruhen die Gaßen,
In diesem Hause wohnte mein Schatz;
Sie hat schon längst die Stadt verlaßen,
Doch steht noch das Haus auf demselben Platz.
Da steht auch ein Mensch und starrt in die Höhe,
Und ringt die Hände, vor Schmerzensgewalt;
Mir graust es, wenn ich sein Antlitz sehe -
Der Mond zeigt mir meine eigne Gestalt.
Du Doppelgänger! du bleicher Geselle!
Was äffst du nach mein Liebesleid,
das mich gequält auf dieser Stelle,
So manche Nacht, in alter Zeit?
—Heinrich Heine, 1797-1856Kevin Michael Grace, 11.26 p.m., November 22, 2002 [Link]

SWEET LIQUOR EASES THE PAIN
“D’you want to change?” Celia Ryder asks her husband in Brideshead Revisited. “It’s the only evidence of life,” he replies. And so it is.Yet the events of the last two weeks have left me Rip Van Winkle. A week is a long time in politics, is it? Well, two weeks is an eternity in life.
I feel the Irish in me coming out. I want the sad songs of my race. I’m going to drink a jar or ten, put on my John McCormack records and weep.I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair
Floating like a vapour on the soft, summer air.
I sigh for Jeannie, but her light form strayed
Far from the fond parts round her native glade;
Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown
Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone.
Kevin Michael Grace, 9.49 p.m., November 22, 2002 [Link]

SIX EASY QUESTIONS
Which Christian theologian am I?

Oh great, I thought at first. Must be the generations of Methodist blood in my veins. I’m half-Welsh by birth but not particularly proud of it. If the Welsh have made any great contributions to humanity I’m unaware of them. A rather dour people, I’ve always thought. It could be worse: John Calvin—or Jean Chauvin as I prefer to think of him—or Zwingli…shudder. John Wesley was a great man, it must be said, but I have no enthusiasm for enthusiasm.But the question isn’t “Which Christian theologian are you closest to?” To that the answer would be the Angelic Doctor, St. Thomas Aquinas, of course. I am fascinated by this plethora of quizzes. Why should anyone care which theologian he most resembles personally? But care they do. I’m not a Protestant and have no expertise in these matters, but is Karl Barth really au courant these days?These quizzes are diverting, but their methodologies are shoddy. The questions are not subtle enough; they are too ambiguous and capable of too many interpretations.
For instance, No. 5 of the theologian quiz:
You are invited to an infamously bad restaurant, you haven’t tried it so you…
Absolutely refuse, you have other friends.
Contemplate the issue for a while, how bad could it hurt you?
Just go, maybe this person is right to go there.
Accept and not even mention the rumours.
Thoroughly argue to go somewhere else.
Try to convince this person about the possible alternatives.
Who wrote this, anyway? “Thoroughly argue”? Surely not someone whose first language was English. That’s not the most relevant question, however. Who is it that has asked you to this “infamously bad restaurant”? Your mother, your son? A colleague, an acquaintance, a close friend, a not-so-close friend, your lover, your wife? Makes all the difference in the world, doesn’t it? I think I answered f. but this was utterly conditional.The “World’s Smallest Political Quiz” is even worse. It’s way too small. Ten questions to plot a man’s Weltanschauung? I don’t think so. I’m about 90% libertarian
–in the actualities–but this self-test has me a “centrist.” Not bloody likely.The only decent political quiz I can think of offhand is the 39 questions James Burnham poses in Suicide of the West.
Kevin Michael Grace, 6.33 p.m., November 22, 2002 [Link]

TV IS KING
Kevin Steel mentioned to me a few days ago that Lorne Gunter is not on the roster of staff columnists archived on the Edmonton Journal website. Surely not, I thought. Kev must be hitting the Sambuca pretty hard, I thought. I checked the site tonight, and boo! groan! hiss!, he is correct.
This is an outrage. (Complaints should be directed here.) Lorne is not only Southam’s finest columnist—but you knew that already—he also writes editorials for the National Post, a newspaper I realize I have criminally underrated. Lorne writes trenchant, incisive editorials for the Post, the good kind, not the pretentious kind I mocked below. What a pleasure it is to wake up to the Post every morning. Good on Conrad for founding it, and good on Izzy for keeping it! Long may it thrive. Its loss would be a crippling blow to Canadian culture, not unadjacent in effect to the loss of the Great Library at Alexandria on classical culture.Now for some housekeeping. You may have noticed that the Site Meter has disappeared from this site. Contra Colby Cosh, this has nothing to do with cowardice. Fact is, when I subscribed to the pay version of Site Meter, the gif vanished. I’ll see if I can get it back. In case you were wondering, average daily visits have bottomed out (I hope) at 79. I love each and every one of my visitors, especially GMU-U6N1ZRCHUK9, whomever he or she might be.I know I FAQed that I don’t “work blue,” but I’m afraid the Philip Owen piece just wasn’t happening without the F-word. You try and write 2,300 words on transportation bureaucracies without it. Go on; I dare you.And sorry for the light posting today. I won’t go into details, but November 21, 2002, was an epochal day for the Grace household. It was a day that shall be forever remembered with astonishment and gratitude.Kevin Michael Grace, 11.59 p.m., November 21, 2002 [Link]

SIMPLE AND DIRECT
Headline from page A12 of today’s Victoria Times Colonist: “Not an easy fix for drug addiction: Setting up safe injection sites seems logical–but the idea raises many questions.” Indeed it does: such as “Why on earth would we fund community centres for junkies?” and “Wait a minute, aren’t heroin and cocaine illegal?”But I can’t say I pay much attention to unsigned editorials. Tell me, gentle readers, does anyone?We (the collected wisdom of the editorial board) have been to the mountaintop, and we return with this carefully calculated collective expression of the received wisdom as we understand it.
Who cares? How very Old Media. I’m prepared to entertain opinions from any source. But give me a name, and then I’ll know who I’m dealing with.Collective expression encourages—nay, pretty much ensures—pomposity. Afghanistanism, I believe it’s called. As in “We Must Not Fail Afghanistan.”Uh, what you mean “we,” kemo sabe?And sez who, anyway?
Well, the collective editorial wisdom of the Victoria Times Colonist or the New York Times or the Times of London.
Yeah, but who actually wrote this?
Well, we farm the Middle East stuff out to Vicky Hackette.
So what you’re telling me is that Vicky Hackette says we MUST NOT fail Afghanistan. And who’s she when she’s at home, anyway?Well, she took a course in Middle Eastern history at UBC or Harvard or the LSE.
You see how ridiculous that sounds.
I digress. What I thought laughable about the Times Colonist editorial was not its opinion or even its context; it was its headline. So safe injection sites are “not an easy fix,” eh? No, this is exactly what they are: an easy fix.
When I was an editor, I warned my charges off metaphor. It is powerful, but it is also dangerous. Not that they paid any attention. Give a man a word processor, and five minutes later he thinks he’s P.G. Wodehouse.The lazy writer wants to be clever but 
far too often succeeds only in embarrassing himself. He forgets that metaphors have literal meanings. Like “easy fix.” 
Or—and I love this one—”hotbed.” As in, “Victoria’s arts scene is a hotbed of activity.” But a hotbed is not a good thing. Look it up. See what I mean? Use “beehive,” if you must.Kevin Michael Grace, 8.55 p.m., November 21, 2002 [Link]

PROXIMITY TRUMPS ALL
After profound reflection—a dark night of the soul, if you will—I’ve concluded I owe Stephen Stills an apology for my thoughtless comments of Saturday. He was right, and I was wrong. How could I have been so blind?And if you can’t be with the one you love, honey
Love the one you’re withTruly, words to live by.
Kevin Michael Grace, 5.46 p.m., November 20, 2002 [Link]

NECROMANCY
The dead speak; and you listen. You listen; but the vocables are cognate with nothing you understand. Are you unable to hear or just unwilling? It is as one. The dead speak; and you listen in vain.
But what is this music? It is hammering: stolen gold forged into a ring. This is the ground. Above it rises a figure. It begins with a woman’s voice; she sounds (fancy that) like Pat Benatar. It begins as a recitativo, becomes an aria, and then, finally, a mighty chorus. A great fugue of choruses: the yearning of a slave, the yearning of a pilgrim.The music swells and soars, augmented by all instruments known and unknown: a cathedral organ, Wagner tubas, Bruckner trombones, the music of the spheres!
Dolby 6.1 is as nothing to this. But what are the words? Yearning has been transmuted into triumph:
I’m movin’ on up
(I’m movin’ on up)
To the East Side
(Mo-vin’ on up)
To a dee-luxe apartment
In the sky
I finally got a piece of the pieFish don’t fry in the kitchen
Noodles don’t burn on the grill
Took a whole lot of trying
Just to get up that hill
Now I’m up in the big leagues
Getting’ my turn at bat
As long I we live
It’s him and me baby
There ain’t nothing wrong with thatI’m movin’ on up
(I’m movin’ on up)
To the East Side
(Mo-vin’ on up)
To a dee-luxe apartment
In the sky
I finally got a piece of the pieYou cry out: Nicht diese Töne! It all disappears. “Night and mist, resembling nothing.”
A terrifying portent? Or merely the way of the world? Impossible to say.
Kevin Michael Grace, 2.48 p.m., November 20, 2002 [Link]

A SOLITARY MAN
Katrina Onstad obviously doesn’t go for the strong, silent type. James Bond, she declares in the November 20 National Post, “is not generally the kind of hero thinking women dig.” By “thinking women,” she must mean Katrina Onstad. I could be wrong about this, but most thinking women would not conflate appreciation of “caviar and the finer things” with latent homosexuality. Perhaps Katrina’s hero chases Pringles potato chips with Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Chacun à sa bêtise.I suppose it would be asking too much to expect someone writing about James Bond to betray any knowledge of Ian Fleming’s novels—or of the English upper class, for that matter. Even so, the following strikes me as particularly obtuse:[Bond] may love the ladies, yet one always has the sense that he’s gazing at himself in those reflective ceilings. By definition, Bond is emotionally unavailable, what with his spying trips and licence to kill and all that. He uses the kind of pickup lines that wouldn’t work at a frosh week kegger….and he has lousy taste in women. Despite such names as Honey Ryder and Pussy Galore, Bond girls are generally aloof, robotic and as unattainable as their swain.No Katrina, Bond has deliberate taste in women. As Kingsley Amis observed in his excellent The James Bond Dossier, Bond is an exemplar of the Byronic hero. A rather well-known archetype, I should have thought. He bears a wound that cannot be healed; he chooses women he cannot love because he cannot risk lacerating it. He is irresistible to women precisely because he is unattainable. 
As for pickup lines, horses for courses, Katrina. James Bond does not frequent frosh week keggers. His tone is of his class: self-deprecating and ironic. In Bond’s world, only the gauche—or worse, vulgar—would attempt to impress women with words.It is especially ironic that Onstad’s blunderings are contained within a review of the film version of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. This, she concludes, is “one of the weirdest: the James Bond romantic tear-jerker. It’s Bond for girls.” No, this is criticism for girls—or at least those girls of all ages that believe a man must be devoid of emotion because he does not display emotion at the drop of a hat. The reason why On Her Majesty’s Secret Service cuts so deep is because it is the novel and film in which James Bond lets slip his mask. He allows himself to love again, breaking the contract he made when he foreswore love for duty. Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad. At the end of the story Bond is punished for his hubris by being made literally mad, murmuring blandishments to a dead woman.On Her Majesty’s Secret Service is tragedy, but one would hardly expect recognition of that from a girl who refers to “the Bond blankness, all manly smirk and open, pansexual breeziness.” Pansexual? Oh, I get it. Limey = Fruity. Just like Austin Powers, you dig?Kevin Michael Grace, 3.48 a.m., November 20, 2002 [Link]

IT’S FUNNY BECAUSE IT’S TRUEYou might remember that a month ago a British psychology professor called Richard Wiseman determined the world’s funniest joke. Here it is:A horse goes into a bar.
The bartender says, “Hey, why the long face?”
Oh, sorry, that’s my favourite joke. (The real winner can be found here.)It seems, however, that Prof. Wiseman spoke too soon. A new contender has come flying off page A11 of today’s National Post: “Mulroney deflects pressure to lead Tories.”Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha…
Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho…
Hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee hee…
Choke, splutter, etc., etc.
For my foreign readers:
Americans, try this: “Dukakis deflects pressure to lead Democrats.”
Britons, try this: “Duncan Smith deflects pressure to lead Tories.” 
Oh, he does? Really?
Kevin Michael Grace, 11.20 p.m., November 19, 2002 [Link]

PENSÉE
Pity is a gift that reflects well only on its donor. It is the skim milk powder of human kindness.
Kevin Michael Grace, 6.07 p.m., November 19, 2002 [Link]

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
[Warning: This post contains profanity]
[Warning: This post contains lengthy analysis of Canadian municipal transportation bureaucracies]
Saturday was an evening of conflicting emotions: joy in the savage beating the Non-Partisan Association took on Vancouver’s election day, chagrin that Philip Owen, the politician most deserving of public humiliation, escaped unscathed.I won’t say that Owen drove me from Vancouver—it was more complicated than that—but the transit strike he presided over was the last straw. For 128 days, from April to August, Vancouver’s buses lay idle, while Philip Owen—patrician so-called, fag-end of the British Columbian aristocracy—sat on his hands.Some explanation is needed. In 1999 the provincial government handed over control of Greater Vancouver’s regional transportation to the municipalities. B.C. Transit became TransLink, and TransLink created Coast Mountain Bus Company.Word was Coast Mountain wanted a showdown with the Canadian Auto Workers Local 111 over contracting out. It got one; the buses and SeaBus—which connects downtown Vancouver with North Vancouver—went on strike April 1, 2001. (SkyTrain, the robot-controlled “heavy” rapid transit system, remained in service, but since its purpose is to take commuters to and from Vancouver—and since it then had only one route, through the East Side—it was of little use.)Vancouver has no freeway system and so depends heavily on public transportation. It was obvious a lengthy strike would result in the following: businesses going out of business, workers losing their jobs, students having to quit school, oldies being trapped in their homes……and me ruining several pairs of shoes. I love walking—this site is called The Ambler, after all—but I don’t appreciate being forced to ambulate. Downtown was eight miles away from where I lived in Kerrisdale, and so walking was out of the question, unless I wanted to arrive soaking wet from sweat and stinking with exhaust fumes. I reckon I spent $500 on cabs—when I could get one—from April 1 to August 1, when I fled to Victoria.The reaction of Vancouver’s NPA government to this distress? From the June 12, 2001, Vancouver Province:The pressure is mounting to end the transit strike, but elected officials in Vancouver refuse to accept any blame for the mess.
Vancouver Mayor Philip Owen noted that B.C. labour laws regulate the operation of TransLink, the regional transit authority, and it’s up to the provincial government to intervene if it wishes.
“We have no jurisdictional control or management, supervision or involvement—or the ability to get involved,” said Owen.TransLink board chairman George Puil, also a Vancouver city councillor, said the legislation bans TransLink from interfering with Coast Mountain Bus Co., the wholly owned TransLink subsidiary that operates the buses.
TransLink cannot bargain with the transit unions, nor can it direct Coast Mountain to take any positions, he said. “The union is trying to make out as if I’m to blame, but I legally have no power to interfere.”
This was two and one-half months into the strike. Translation: City of Vancouver to amblers: Noblesse oblige, my ass. Only losers ride the bus. As you might imagine, quite a few Vancouverites got a little upset. OK, they got fucking furious.
A tent city appeared on the grounds of City Hall. A truckload of manure was dumped on Puil’s lawn. On July 24 a council meeting got a little heated. Four months into the strike and Vancouver’s NPA government still refused to discuss it. In an incredible display of insouciance, the NPA majority adjourned the council meeting after angry voices were raised, whereupon the NPA councillors fled to their chambers. A few hotheads followed. Two days later the NPA majority banned public attendance at the next council meeting.Mayor Philippe Antoinette was unrepentant: “It was absolutely appropriate,” he thundered. “You can’t have mob rule with people taking over city hall and hijacking the agenda with a lot of yelling and screaming.” (Province, July 27.)
Never was I more ambivalent about direct action than at that moment. Here is the elitist view of democracy held by everyone from Mayor Phil Fuck-You to the WTO: Citizens get to mark an X every three, four or five years. In between it’s their solemn duty to sit down and shut up. Well, fuck that. Who elected the directors of TransLink, anyway? Nobody, that’s who. They are appointed by the municipalities. And who elected the directors of Coast Mountain Bus Company? Nobody, that’s who. They are appointed by—guess who?—TransLink.Direct say of Vancouverites in the management of their transit system? Sweet FA.
Now, Mayor Owngoal was, strictly speaking, correct when he said that Vancouver City Council had “no jurisdictional control” over TransLink. But “no involvement”? All Vancouverites do is provide the lion’s share of TransLink’s revenues through their taxes and fares. No involvement? Let’s forget about Vancouver’s three representatives on TransLink’s board. And what did their three representatives—Puil and Councillors Jennifer Clarke and Gordon Price—have to say for themselves? Not our concern. We have no power over our “operating subsidiary.”Six months after the strike ended Owngoal, Puil, Clarke and Price were proved legally correct. From the February 16, 2002 Vancouver Sun:
The union representing Lower Mainland bus drivers lost its bid Friday to have TransLink, not Coast Mountain Bus Co., declared the drivers’ true employer.
The 2-1 decision by the Labour Relations Board will make it easier for TransLink to contract out bus service to private firms.
When TransLink took over transit service in Greater Vancouver from B.C. Transit, Coast Mountain was created as a subsidiary that provided bus service to TransLink.
The bus driver’s union, Canadian Auto Workers Local 111, argued the separation was artificial and was simply a way for TransLink to evade existing contracts and gain the power to contract out transit service to private companies.
Meanwhile, TransLink has steadfastly maintained, most notably during last summer’s lengthy transit strike, that it had no direct control over bus service.
In the end, the LRB said its hands were tied by the legislation that created TransLink.
That legislation forbids the LRB from declaring TransLink a common employer with any other company.
That meant the union could argue only that TransLink was the true employer, which required the union to prove, not that TransLink exercised some control over its members, but that it had more control over them than Coast Mountain.
The LRB hinted that, if the previous NDP government hadn’t specifically exempted TransLink from being declared a “common employer,” the union might have won its case.
“The evidence led by the unions established that TransLink and Coast Mountain are under common control and direction,” G.J. Mullaly and Kathy Sanderson found in their majority decision. “Had we been able to, we may well have found them to be a common employer. However, [the legislation] precludes us from doing that.”
In other words, TransLink was an unaccountable clusterfuck from Day 1. Funny how Philip Let Them Eat Shoe Leather didn’t point that out in 1998, when TransLink’s enabling legislation was passed or in 1999, when it took control from B.C. Transit. But let’s leave legal considerations aside for a moment. Let’s look at the big picture. Flaccid Phil could have stood up for Vancouverites during their ordeal regardless. But did he? Did he exercise leadership? Did he use his office as a bully pulpit? Did he swing his ceremonial mace, scourge the recalcitrant bureaucrats and stand as the champion of the people he was elected to serve? Did he buggery.It’s not as if we’re talking about Philippe Laissez-Faire here. Back in August 1999 he fully supported the Vancouver Police when they seized sealed bottles of liquor from SkyTrain passengers that might have been heading to the English Bay fireworks festival five miles away. (After an investigation the Vancouver Police apologized; guess who refused to?)And let’s not forget his infamous Millennium Eve Diktak: ”Mayor Philip Owen, on hand at midnight on the Emergency Communications Centre on East Hastings, warned people to stay away from downtown. “If you are going to downtown tonight you had better have something to do,” said Owen. “It’s not the city to come down and hang out.” (Province, July 1, 2000.)
La cité, c’est moi!Do you detect a certain anti-ambler bias here?
Remember how Mayor Ostrich said he lacked “the ability to get involved” in the transit strike? Could this be the same guy who has repeatedly got involved by demanding changes to the Criminal Code, a federal responsibility? The guy who demanded the use of the notwithstanding clause to gut Charter of Rights protections against unreasonable search and seizure? The guy who demanded a new law against home invasions, notwithstanding the perfectly good, already existing laws against break and enter, robbery, forcible confinement and aggravated assault?
By the time the transit strike was ended by provincial legislation in August 2001 Philip Owen was a dead man driving. The man who had been dragged in as a councillor on the NPA’s long coattails in 1987 and traded on the NPA name as successful candidate for mayor in 1993, 1996 and 1999 had exhausted his party. It wasn’t just the bus strike or Vancouver’s new Owen-mentored reputation as “No Fun City.” (A Millennium celebration? What, do you want a riot or something?)And this is where our saga gets really weird. For Police State Phil had fallen in love with Vancouver’s Heart of Darkness: the Downtown Eastside, the place where crack whores are only friends you haven’t met yet. He had become If You’re Not Part of the Solution, You’re Part of the Problem Phil. His apotheosis had begun—with his conversion to the “Four Pillars” approach to drug addiction: prevention, treatment, enforcement, “harm reduction.” (Le Roi Philippe to junkies: How may I be of assistance? Le Roi Philippe to small businessmen, workers, students, oldies and amblers: Piss off.)Vancouver is 40% Chinese, and the Chinese do not like “harm reduction.” They much preferred Police State Phil, and the Chinese were in the NPA’s pocket. They made their displeasure known after the NPA council endorsed an early version of the Four Pillars strategy, including a recommendation that the city provide “safe injection” sites. Meanwhile, Ostrich refused to say whether he would run again. By March, the NPA was desperate. With all the subtlety and careful planning of JFK’s Saigon coup of 1963, they ousted Owen as candidate and replaced him with Councillor Jennifer Clarke, who we will remember as one of Vancouver’s transit strike Gang of Four.Ornery complained of being “kneecapped,” and Clarke was tagged as “Lady Macbeth.” Owen refused to endorse his party and even refused to say whether he would vote for its candidates. He attacked Clarke bitterly after she flip-flopped on Four Pillars. And mirabile dictu, Mayor Ordure had become invested with the odour of sanctity. Panderin’ Phil was now Philosopher King Phil.There was pretty much one issue only in the election. How much do you love junkies? Larry Campbell, the “charismatic” former city coroner, candidate of the perennial opposition party/whipping boys Committee of Progressive Electors, said he loved them oh so very much, so much so he was willing to give them free heroin. Clarke flip-flopped for a second time and declared she loved junkies too. Too late, too late. NPA Councillor Sam Sullivan blubbed, “There are 1,200 dead junkies on my watch. I’m very ashamed. If there’s a good reason not to vote for me, that’s it.” Too late, too late, though not for Sullivan, one of the two NPA council candidates to survive the COPE landslide. Clarke flip-flopped for a third time, in an ad disseminated in Chinese only:
A front-page advertisement in the Sing Tao newspaper today shows a graphic with the international symbol for something banned—a circle with a bar through it—over a syringe. The text says that if people vote for the “reckless” Campbell, it will be bad news for them because they will have safe-injection sites in their neighbourhoods by January…The inference is that the NPA won’t bring in any safe-injection sites at all, which contradicts what the NPA is telling the English-language media. (Vancouver Sun, November 15.)Too late, too late. Clarke ended up in a body bag. (Final count: 81,000 to 42,000.) COPE swept council, the parks board and the school board. And Gang of Four member Puil saw his forty-year career in civic politics ended. Gang of Four Councillor Gordon Price had seen the writing on the wall and didn’t run again.Mayor Owngoal protested his innocence. His crocodile tears could have flooded Richmond.
“Do you think they will blame me?” he asked in a telephone conversation from the Four Seasons Hotel where he and family members gathered to watch televised results.
“This is absolutely stunning, absolutely unbelievable,” Owen said. “I would never have predicted this.” (Vancouver Sun, November 17.)
Vancouver now has the most deranged city government outside Cambridge, Massachusetts or Marin County, California. Personal favourite: Councillor Tim Louis. I used to see him on the University of B.C. campus back in the 1980s when I worked in the library and he was at law school. Even his wheelchair was defiant: “2,4-D: Not for me!” (2,4-D is a pesticide.)
A bumper sticker on a wheelchair! Fuckin’ hardcore, man. Two decades later Louis describes his recreations as “progressive politics” and claims as one of his heroes Che Guevara.I figure by 2005 Vancouver living standards will be down to a Haight-Ashbury level. Vesta la giubba! And where will Philippe Antoinette—the man who remained mute in 2001 while Vancouver was crippled by the second-longest transit strike in Canadian history and remained mute in 2002 when Vancouver was delivered to the Committee of Public Safety—be?Rumour has it that after the federal government brings in a national Four Pillars strategy Le Roi Philippe will be anointed Canada’s King of the Junkies.Let them eat syringes.
Kevin Michael Grace, 5.15 a.m., November 19, 2002 [Link]
PENSÉE
The gravest threat to happiness is not lack of love. Nor is it poverty, failure, illness or even jealousy—it is resentment.Kevin Michael Grace, 7.19 p.m., November 18, 2002 [Link]

POSTHUMOUS VINDICATION
Con Coughlin reports in today’s Sunday Telegraph, “Round one to Saddam. That is how the hawks in the Bush administration see the Iraqi dictator’s decision to allow UN arms inspectors back into Iraq, this time with unrestricted access to any site they wish to visit. It looked like a humiliating climbdown for Saddam, who had always insisted he would ‘never let the UN spies return.’ In fact it is a considerable victory for him.”Coughlin explains, “Saddam’s manoeuvering has delayed invasion of his country, certainly for months, and perhaps indefinitely…The fear now stalking the Bush administration is that Saddam’s concession to the UN could put off the day of invasion for ever, thwarting any attempt to bring about the one thing that the President has so often insisted is necessary for world security: regime change in Baghdad.”Love that word “fear,” don’t you?Coughlin: “How has the Bush administration let itself be outmanoeuvered in this way? Some of Bush’s tougher officials have no doubt as to whom to blame: Colin Powell, the U.S. Secretary of State, who insisted that America had to go through the Security Council if it was to dismantle Saddam’s regime and its weapons of mass destruction. Indeed, some of these officials seem to think that the real ‘axis of evil’ consists not so much of Iraq, Iran and North Korea, but of Colin Powell, Kofi Annan, the UN Secretary General, and Dr. Hans Blix, who will lead the inspection teams.”Is there no end to Colin Powell’s perfidy? Madeleine Albright sure had his number: “What’s the point of having this superb military you’re always talking about, if we can’t use it?” The hawks at the Telegraph are enraged by this turn of events, but I’m not. Nor am I surprised; I predicted it, back on September 19, in a piece written for another publication.Here’s what I wrote (in part):It can no longer be denied that Mr. Bush’s intention has always been invasion. It is now known, for instance, that U.S. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld spoke of invasion as far back as September 11, 2001. (The use of the word “war” in this context is mistaken. The U.S. and Britain have been at war with Iraq for over a decade; the continued bombings, the blockade and the “no-fly zones” are all recognized as acts of war.) And the Glasgow Sunday Herald reported September 15 that a paper prepared for the Bush administration in October 2000, three months before it took office, declared, ‘While the unresolved conflict with Iraq provides the immediate justification, the need for a substantial American force presence in the Gulf transcends the issue of the regime of Saddam Hussein.’But if invasion–supported only by Britain, if necessary–was always the goal, why did Mr. Bush go to the United Nations? The war hawks in the Bush administration (and its friends in the media) had long argued that the UN was a decadent institution best ignored. America didn’t need the UN; it was under threat from a depraved and dangerous regime–and every country has the right of self-defence…But Mr. Bush was only interested in the UN if it could be bent to his will. He increased the pressure: ‘It’s time to determine whether or not [the UN] will be a force for good and peace or an ineffective debating society.’ He pledged he would have a Congressional resolution on invasion ready by the end of the week.Britain remained on side. (Prime Minister Tony Blair faces a caucus and popular revolt, however.) The other permanent members of the Security Council–France, Russia and China–were not amused. Germany’s justice minister compared Mr. Bush to Hitler. The London Independent reported September 19 that the UN was to create a new inspections regime that would give Saddam one year to comply. An invasion before this deadline will serve only to confirm world opinion that the President of the United States is a cynical adventurer.
Well, QED. The piece never appeared. I took this badly at the time, but it’s always nice to be proved right.Kevin Michael Grace, 4.31 p.m., November 17, 2002 [Link]

PENSÉE
The human voice is the sound of self-justification.
Kevin Michael Grace, 12.34 p.m., November 17, 2002 [Link]

A KICK-ASS TOP TEN
I’ve long had a sneaking regard for Warren Kinsella—even though he’s the only person to ever sue me for defamation. (Case pending.) Kinsella’s rep is that he’s the nastiest man in Canadian politics. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. He’s nasty, and he’s good at it. The Canadian Alliance, by contrast, is nasty and inept. Two years ago, Kinsella’s election campaign theme was telegraphed in advance by Jean Chretien–kick Stockwell Day in the goolies. Then kick him again, harder. Smear him as a man so “extreme” he rejects our universally-acclaimed Canadian values. (Proprietor of Canadian values: The Liberal Party of Canada. Ever noticed that our Canadian flag is based on their symbol?)It was a dangerous strategy. If the Alliance had fought back, it could have exploded in the Liberals’ faces. But Kinsella had Day’s measure. Did he fight back? Not on your nelly. Day whined and twittered on about his “agenda of respect”—when not suggesting that Chretien is a criminal. It wasn’t pretty to watch. After Day had confirmed his belief in Six-Day Creationism, Kinsella brought a Barney the Dinosaur doll onto the set of Canada A.M., and oh, how they laughed! Say goodnight, Day. (For my view of creationism and intelligent design, see here.)Kinsella is a man of real conviction. He’s a small-l liberal and not afraid to say so. Americans (this means you, Goldberg) and other foreigners are liable to shake their heads at this point and mutter, “But aren’t they all liberals up there? Socialists, even?” Not a bit of it. There are no politics in Canada, of the Right or the Left. Just a bunch of ciphers exclaiming how very reasonable and Canadian their policies are.Kinsella is an ideologue, and this makes his devotion to Chretien a mystery. Our prime minister believes in nothing save getting elected. (He’s three-for-three in majority governments, and yet the Liberals can’t wait to replace him with that empty suit Paul Martin. Go figure.) Not that there’s anything wrong with that—considering the alternative. Ponder the legacies of Trudeau and Mulroney and then ponder the wisdom of Aesop’s “King Log.”Pierre Bourque (acting in his unofficial capacity as Kinsella’s press agent) informed us that Kinsella has a new, improved website. I couldn’t wait to see it. Nice design, though the font’s a little small. Therein, Kinsella finally outs himself as the author of Party Favours—that risible roman à clef of a few years back—and contributes a Top 10 albums list.In addition to his many other talents, Kinsella is a musician. He played in a punk bank, and he came of age in the 1970s, just as I did. Perhaps that explains the shiver down my spine when I viddied his list:
Ramones 
The RamonesPlastic Ono Band 
John Lennon
Never Mind the Bollocks 
The Sex PistolsCloser 
Joy DivisionMarquee Moon TelevisionPink Flag 
WireIt Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back 
Public EnemyLet It Be 
The ReplacementsDoolittle 
The Pixies
Exile on Main Street 
The Rolling Stones
I know; I know—his list smacks of graduate studies in Rock Critology, and Rocket to Russia is the Ramones album, but, even so, jeez: the Pistols, Joy Division, Television, Wire and the Pixies? It’s like this guy is inside my head: like he’s my, gulp, Doppelgänger.’Course my Top 10 list would probably contain a disc or two released after 1989.On the stereo: Loudon Wainwright III, Album III, “Say That You Love Me”:
Say that you love me
Say that it’s true
Say that you love me
I said it to youKevin Michael Grace, 9.50 p.m., November 16, 2002 [Link]

THE YELLOW BOOK
Listening to the Byrds’s The Original Singles Volume 1—and whatever happened to Volume 2? —I was struck by the modalities on “Why.” Reminded me of nothing so much as The Velvets. You hear a song dozens of times over three decades and don’t notice something so obvious until now. Curious, that.Now listening to the Buffalo Springfield: “Sit Down I Think I Love You.” What a sweet, innocent song: a million miles from “Love the One You’re With.” That Steve Stills sure pissed away his talent, didn’t he?Reading today’s National Post, I find Pamela Anderson, the Canadian Liver Foundation’s “new poster girl,” confessing that “Contracting hepatitis C was the price she paid for moving to Hollywood and living a rock star lifestyle.” Anderson believes “She contracted the virus by sharing a tattoo needle with her now estranged husband, former Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee. Mr. Lee, however, has denied having the disease. She said she also shared razors and toothbrushes with him.” Oh, that Tommy! I’m sure if we looked hard enough, we’d find he kidnapped the Lindbergh baby too.Does the Canadian Liver Foundation really want its spokesmodel confessing to sharing needles—of any kind? Is Pammy really the right girl to raise public awareness about this disease that could affect 300,000 Canadians? “I’m a small-town girl from Canada,” she says. Correction: You were a small-town girl from Canada. Now you’re a grotesque, rattled, superannuated fembot from L.A., reduced to sharing bodily fluids with the likes of Kid Rock, a man so egregiously untalented he makes Bret Michaels look like Bon Scott. You’re as close to that small-town girl as “Sit Down I Think I Love You” is to “Love the One You’re With.”(As part of my quest to provide you, gentle readers, the best in hyperlinks, I’ve just spent an unpleasant 45 minutes searching unsuccessfully for photographic evidence of pre-Hefner Pam, the fresh young thing from Ladysmith, BC, who so famously captivated that crowd at BC Place. Perhaps that girl never existed. Perhaps celebrities can now expunge their pasts, a là Seconds.)And on the topic of sharing bodily fluids… Pamela Anderson shared Tommy Lee’s toothbrush? That’s not the rock star lifestyle—that’s the trailer park lifestyle.Kevin Michael Grace, 7.00 p.m., November 16, 2002 [Link]

MY LIFE IN (POP) SONG
“I’ll Feel a Whole Lot Better” by the Byrds (Gene Clark). Le mots juste.Kevin Michael Grace, 5.04 p.m., November 16, 2002 [Link]

POETRY CORNER
Verborgenheit
Laß, o Welt, o laß mich sein!
Locket nicht mit Liebesgaben,
Laßt dies Herz alleine haben
Seine Wonne, seine Pein!
Was ich traure, weiß ich nicht,
Es ist unbekanntes Wehe;
Immerdar durch Tränen sehe
Ich der Sonne liebes Licht.
Oft bin ich mir kaum bewußt,
Und die helle Freude zücket
Durch die Schwere, so mich drücket,
Wonniglich in meiner Brust.
Laß, o Welt, o laß mich sein!
Locket nicht mit Liebesgaben,
Laßt dies Herz alleine haben
Seine Wonne, seine Pein!
—Eduard Mörike, 1804-1875Kevin Michael Grace, 7.50 a.m., November 15, 2002 [Link]

PREMATURE BURIAL (SLIGHT RETURN)
It’s early Friday morning, and I’m sitting at my desk, drinking tea (as the Russians do: tall glass, no milk), smoking cigarettes and listening to Fischer-Dieskau sing my beloved Hugo Wolf. Quietly, though, so as not to disturb the kiddies. (Hark! The gentle night is on the march.)Yes, I’ve broken my promise to post everyday. I break a lot of promises. The Grace family motto is En Grace affie, but, as many will testify, anyone who depends on me wants his head examined.My excuse? I’ve spent the week doing real work for my employer. Each two-week editorial cycle ends with a 48-hour marathon, interrupted by the occasional nap. I chain-smoke and drink endless cups of tea while bashing out 4,500 words or so. (More like 5,400 this time.) After it’s done, I stagger about disoriented for several hours and then sleep for the better part of a day.There have been other diversions. Checking out my website stats, for instance. (Why hello there, GMU-U6N1ZRCHUK9! Back so soon? Is that you, Murphy? Or is it Mason? Give Jefferson a pat on the head for me, if you would.)
I’ve also been busy with Corporal Work of Mercy No. 7: burying the dead. (Alles endet, was entstehet–ain’t that the truth.) The corpse is very much alive, however, which makes things rather difficult, as you might imagine. Performing my duties as executor of the estate—sifting through the stuff, if you will—I come across a surprise: an actual dead man. Oh dear. One had completely forgotten.But my ambling shoes are back on, and the black box now contains another entry. I interviewed Michael Fumento this week and couldn’t use all he told me, so look forward to his thoughts on AIDS in Africa. I’m also going to take another shot at Goldberg.Finally, it is my pleasant duty to welcome Dave Stevens to the roster of Report bloggers. Unlike Rick Hiebert, I know Dave very well indeed. We were comrades in production for two years, forming a bond that can never perish–whatever Michelangelo says. Semper fi. Paul Bunner rescued me before I started manifesting the usual symptoms of production psychosis—such as turning up for work dressed in combat fatigues and packing a pistol—but, five years later, Dave remains, as imperturbable as ever. (Although we never really know what’s going on underneath the ever-present ball cap.) And as tolerant. He once sat quietly as I allowed an entire Tori Amos concert to be played over the radio and didn’t once attempt to bash my skull in. Dave is a remarkable man. Not only a master of Quark XPress and Photoshop, he is an expert in and a purveyor of surf rock. He designed my banner. He even taught me how to use a Mac. Dave is one of my favourite people in the whole world.Kevin Michael Grace, 7.30 a.m., November 15, 2002 [Link]

ONE STEP AT A TIME
The permalinks are finally up. Thanks to A.C. Douglas for getting me off my arse—and for linking to my Gould piece. Next up: an archive.Colby Cosh (or 27 Units, as he’s known around here) has managed yet again to write about “Tuesday Morning Quarterback” without mentioning that Gregg Easterbrook has anointed Walter Payton the greatest NFL running back ever. What are you hiding, 27? I think we should be told.Is it just me, or is TMQ rather less satisfying of late? Perhaps it has something to do with its switch from Slate to ESPN’s Page 2, with its shockingly ugly Web design and presbyopic-unfriendly font. Perhaps it’s that TMQ’s nomenclature—”Potomac Drainage Basin Indigenous Persons,” “Mouflons,” “Jersey/B,” etc.—once seemed winsome but now seems fey, incomprehensible, even intolerable. Or that there is nothing intrinsically amusing about the names of obscure colleges. Or that my instinctive aversion to Star Trek and its fans has got the better of me. Or that 8,000 words is too bloody long for a column.Or perhaps it’s that I don’t have a TV anymore and haven’t seen a single NFL game this season. (It died, and I can’t afford a new one. I don’t miss television, per se, all that much, but I can’t watch DVDs anymore, and this is a source of genuine sorrow.)Finally secured a copy (thanks, C-Zoid) of Jonah Goldberg’s already infamous “Bomb Canada” cover story in the November 25 Goldberg Review. I’ll be writing about this for my magazine, and I’ll probably publish a response in this space as well. But here’s a first impression. In writing about Canada, Goldberg starts from a profound disadvantage: he’s American. Few Americans know anything about us, and Goldberg is no exception:”Preston Manning, a founder of the conservative New Alliance Party.”
“This guy [Manning] is sort of the standard-bearer for free-market conservatives in Canada.”
As George Costanza would say, Wrong…wrong…wrong.Lemme tell ya, if John O’Sullivan were still in charge at the National Review, we wouldn’t have had these howlers.Kevin Michael Grace, 9.53 p.m., November 12, 2002 [Link]

…IT’S GOT BELLS ON”I never think I have hit hard, unless it rebounds,” said Dr. Johnson; and considering the mail it provoked, my recent piece on Glenn Gould was a palpable hit. I was somewhat taken aback by the vehemence of the response, as I had failed to understand that criticism of the great man was akin to treason.
Treason? Fred Stubbings writes, “I find it hard to believe that a Canadian would take such a cheap shot at a fellow Canadian that has earned such a wide reputation all over the world for his genius.” But Mr. Stubbings, I don’t appraise artists based on their nationality. As you admit, Gould has earned “such a wide reputation all over the world.” So he doesn’t need me to lay offerings at his shrine; the Gould cult will continue to flourish quite nicely without my support. Besides, ever mindful of my Cancon duty; I did promote Angela Hewitt as an alternative. (As I would have done regardless of the colour of her passport.)Mr. Stubbings accuses me of ignorance: “One would think that a person with so little knowledge of the subject could keep his opinions to himself.” As it turns out, I know rather a lot about Gould. I own 20 of his CDs. Mostly J.S. Bach, of course, but also Bizet, the Elizabethans, Grieg, Haydn, Sibelius, Richard Strauss and Wagner. (No Mozart, Beethoven or Brahms—I’m not a masochist.) I have read the books by Jonathan Cott, Otto Friedrich, Andrew Kazdin, Peter Ostwald and Geoffrey Payzant, plus a coffee-table book with a forward by Herbert von Karajan, the title of which escapes me. I’ve read Gould’s own essays, heard his radio plays and watched his CBC shows and his documentary, Glenn Gould’s Toronto. It’s not a question of ignorance.Betty Trueman takes the “Great wit is oft’ to madness near allied” line on Gould. She writes:I don’t see Kevin Michael Grace or any other Gould-basher advocating the boycott of the music of Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms or Schumann because they were anti-social, weird, possessing of a serious dark side or mentally ill. Glenn Gould was autistic, for heaven’s sake.Autistic? Ostwald, the psychiatrist and musician who was Gould’s friend and medical consultant, has the best response to that: “Glenn obviously did not suffer from this disease. Had he been autistic, the remarkable success he had in a public career would have been impossible.” Ostwald speculates that Gould might have suffered from Asperger disease, but he does not release him from moral considerations, for instance, “the precipitous dropping of old friends when he thought they were no longer of any use to him.” Ms. Trueman also accuses me of believing a preference for animals over people a moral failing. Guilty as charged.And no, I don’t advocate the boycott of Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms or Schumann or any other artist because of his personal failings. But what evidence does Ms. Trueman have to prove Mozart and Brahms bad men? I’d be delighted to know either of them. Poor Schumann’s later years were blighted by general paresis. That is not a “mental illness,” however; it is an organic disorder. I’m not going to argue about Beethoven. R. Emmett Tyrrell admits he was a lout, an egomaniac and a “cad”—”but then there is the matter of art.”Ah, art. Beethoven was not merely a virtuoso; he was a creator. As Anthony Burgess pointed out, Rostropovich will be dead one day, but Bach’s Cello Suites will still be heard. Gould had the temerity to savage Mahler as “a very nasty man…blithely indifferent to the fragility of any ego other than his own.” (Projection, I believe it’s called.) I responded that Gould “was merely a performer whose achievement is dwarfed by that of any number of giants, including Mahler.” Let me go further—I’d gladly trade Gould’s entire recorded output for any one of Mahler’s Wunderhorn songs. The cult of the performer is one of the banes of the modern age.Ms. Trueman gets to the heart of the matter when she writes, “If you had such a child who accomplished one-tenth of what Gould managed to do, you’d be bursting with pride.” One-tenth? Oh please. Even if my son managed to accomplish ten-tenths of what Gould accomplished, I’d still have preferred him to have been a grocery clerk instead—if he had managed to accomplish Gould’s nastiness as well. I’d be appalled if my son attempted to bully me out of my favourite pastime.This is what bothers me most about the Gould cult: the notion that he should be celebrated as a person and even emulated.
Rick Phillips writes in the August Gramophone: 
Recently I met Natalie Webster, a young piano student at Birmingham Conservatory in England. She’s bright, with a bubbling, vibrant personality and short-cropped hair, seemingly more punk-oriented. But don’t let first impressions sway you. Natalie’s two pianist idols are Sviatoslav Richter and Glenn Gould. Shortly after discovering Gould a few years ago, she was so moved that she made a pilgrimage to Toronto, “fuelled with an eagerness to pay tribute to him somehow.” On her first and final days in Toronto, Natalie visited the peaceful Gould gravesite, where she listened to the 1981 Goldberg Variations recording from beginning to end on a Walkman. To Natalie, the appeal of Gould is the fact that he was so much more than a pianist. She has been completely won over by the man, not just the musician. “He ensured he was bettering himself and his art constantly, and his great humanist streak was a facet to this part of his personality. He possessed a type of genius that was invigorating—like an outburst of rain after suffocating humidity.”I’d like to have a talk with young Natalie. I’d like to tell her that abusive men are best avoided. I’d like to inform her that if she is looking for a “humanist” pianist to pay tribute to, there are many real ones out there. She could start with Wilhelm Kempff.In an intermittently amusing letter, Lawrence T. McDonnell declares:
Curley said it best. [I think he refers to one of the Three Stooges. But which Curley?] Your man knows about as much about Gould as my dog does. Gould was the Dylan of classical music a decade before Dylan. He made people listen to Bach in ways they’d never thought of before—and Beethoven, and Mozart, and on, and on. That he enraged and confounded many with his interpretations, that his 55 and 81 Goldbergs are so remarkably different is further proof that he is in a completely different category from Horowitz, Rubenstein [sic], et al. He offered an entirely different notion of how to read a musical text in performance—closer to John Cage, in some respects, than Leonard Bernstein. Your reviewer misses that entirely.But I don’t want a Bob Dylan of classical music. As for John Cage, if you knew me better Larry you wouldn’t throw me a straight line like that. If Glenn Gould was the John Cage of Bach performance, he should have taken 4’33″ as his model—nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.A thoughtful letter comes from Philip J. Cortens, who writes:
It is rather when we come to the matter of [Gould’s] “musical stature” if you will—even allowing for differences of personal taste—that I am inclined to take exception to the tenor of your remarks.Mr. Cortens argues that my 
characterization of Horowitz’s performance style as “rigorously objective” is completely at odds with the reality” (had you ever witnessed one of his recitals? [No, but I’ve seen films]) of the sense of abandon with which he approached the keyboard, indeed to the point of recklessness (his willingness to countenance wrong notes in the pursuit of his perfectly legitimate objectives is notorious). If ever there was ever a pianist who rather sought to conquer an audience with straightforward visceral (not cerebral), breathtaking energy it would be Horowitz (certainly not Gould, who was however quite capable of rigorous objectivity).Mr. Cortens misunderstands me. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough. I meant that Horowitz was rigorously objective externally. Jed Distler in the Gramophone explains it better than I could: Centred and concentrated…at the keyboard, he plotted every move with the utmost physical economy, avoiding the kind of gesticulations and grimaces many pianists deem necessary in the name of expression.Mr. Cortens reports: 
The many Gould CDs (wilful or otherwise) I have had occasion to hear bear no evidence of a “squeaking chair,” and whether or not the voice is “groaning” is certainly a matter of opinion; to the extent it is even audible, which is rather seldom, I find it neither distracting nor distasteful. Moreover, I much prefer the clarity of Gould’s “cardboard box” to the acoustically cavernous sound of many modern recordings (pardon me, that would be the sound achieved in an empty concert hall, or ‘cavern’ if you will). Each to his own, I suppose. Listening to Gould play Haydn the other day, I got that familiar sensation I was sharing a room with Jacob Marley’s ghost. What a relief it was to turn to Mikhail Pletnev: no malign spirits–and no clattering staccatos deliberately accentuated at the recording console.Mr. Cortens concludes: 
What sets Gould apart from other performers—his genius if you will—is his seemingly unique ability not merely to interpret Bach (et al.) but to bring him to life, to the point that a Gould performance becomes quite literally a joint-creation of Gould and the composer in question.Sorry, but I don’t hold with the “joint-creation” ideal. The performer should be content to be the creator’s handmaiden. Anything else is hubris.I don’t deny that Gould had stupendous gifts. And I certainly don’t mean to imply that because I don’t admire him he can’t be admired. (Musically!) The late Samuel Lipman, my favourite modern critic, admired Gould inordinately.Three years ago, after the Gould cult was decried by Tamara Bernstein in the National Post, I had the good fortune to interview Robert Silverman. Professor Silverman, who teaches at the University of British Columbia, is, of course, a pianist of considerable renown himself. He told me, “Gould was one hell of a great pianist, but there was something wrong with the man.” Prof. Silverman was greatly hurt by what he called Gould’s “perversions”—”the way he ruined Brahms, the way he ruined Mozart, the way he ruined Beethoven.”"The apologists are saying how post-modern, how au courant, how Derrida-ish,” Prof. Silverman explained. “You record a piece not to convey the sense of the music but your take of it: deliberately sabotaging it. But maybe I’m not as smart as these academics who are drawn to it.” Too modest by half, I’d say. Robert Silverman is more than smart enough; it is the post-modernists who are stupid.Or maybe we are all flailing for the wrong end of the stick. Prof. Silverman said something that has haunted me ever since: “I view so much of what Gould did as having fun at our expense: a put-on.”
I’ve always thought Gould was a fine comedian. Unlike most of his cultists, I do not cringe at Karlheinz Klopweisser and his Ein Panzersymphonie; I laugh out loud. Perhaps this is the best explanation of the Gould enigma. Perhaps all of it—the clothes, the moans, the conducting, the chair, the Chickering, the funereal tempos, the maniacal tempos, the ecstatic grimace, the garret pose, the humanist pose—perhaps all of it was simply a joke. If this is true, then Andy Kauffman had better look to his laurels.Kevin Michael Grace, 11.33 p.m., November 11, 2002 [Link]

THEN THERE WERE FIVE
Yet another Report colleague has started a blog. He is called Rick Hiebert. I have worked with him for years. For a couple of them, I was even his boss. Yet I know little about him except that he is a nice man. Perhaps his blog will fill in the blanks, if only inter alia. Anyway, you should check it out. Did I mention that Rick is a nice man?
Kevin Michael Grace, 2.36 p.m., November 11, 2002 [Link]

ANOTHER WACK HACK
Ben Stein once said that rap music was “the AIDS of culture.” He sure changed his tune. So have we all. (Except for Pepsi, which remains ambivalent.) New received wisdom: rap is as American as Mom, apple pie and the Glock 10mm. Why, Eminem is the new Elvis. (My own take on Slim Shady can be found here.) Why, Michael Daly writes in the November 10 New York Daily News that his appeal is so transcendent he’s “let kids get their groove back.”But were the kiddies noticeably less groovin’ of late? And if so, why? Let’s try and follow his argument. Daly interviewed Eminem two years ago. Fast forward “some months later.” It was a “sunny morning.” Uh oh. Daly couldn’t, could he? He wouldn’t dare, would he? The obiter dicta: “On a sunny morning nine months later, you chanced to hear an Eminem song over the radio in a taxi. You heard one undeniably offensive lyric and remembered that same voice saying ‘excuse me.’ Minutes afterward, you got word that a plane had hit the World Trade Center. You arrived downtown to see one and then the other tower fall.”Now what does this have to do with Eminem exactly? Fast forward again: 14 months this time. “On Friday night, more than a year later, you stood on that same spot on the West Side Highway and said a prayer for all those who perished there. You then turned west on Vesey St. past a parking lot where you had heard cars exploding in the eclipsing gray dust. You now saw a sign that struck you to be in worse taste than any rap lyric. ‘WTC VIEWING PARK HERE.’” But why is this a question of taste? People want to see the WTC site. They bring their cars. They need a place to park. So what? I was at Arlington National Cemetery earlier this year. You know what? There’s parking there too. “Ample paid parking.”Back to Daly. So he goes to see 8 Mile. “As you ascended on one escalator and then another and then another, you peered out the plate glass windows to see more and more of the brilliantly lit pit across the West Side Highway. You considered that this perhaps was the only place on Earth where visitors are awestruck by what is no longer there. In Theater 10, you sat with people of all races, some even older than you.” Yeah, and I’ll bet there were people of plenty different races at theatres on the opening day of Jackass as well. So what?After 8 Mile ends, Daly talks to some kiddies. He asks 14-year-old Daniel “if going to the movies made life seem to be back to what it was. ‘It’s never going to be like it was before,’ Daniel said.” Seventeen-year-old Gina says Eminem is “hot!” She “smiled and the others cheered as if life were at this instant anyway as wonderful as it should be. Their laughter seemed the very sweetest of sounds as you headed back past that pit.”Chuck it, Daly. Are your really trying to tell us that the body of Eminem’s work is less important than the fact he once honoured you with an “Excuse me”? Are you really trying to tell us that we shouldn’t think rap is in “bad taste” because mass murder is in even “worse taste”? Are you really trying to tell us that Eminem has given Americans back their licence to live again, to laugh again, even to smile again? Are you really trying to tell us that you, as a New Yorker, occupy some kind of moral high ground because 2,800 people were killed there on September 11, 2001? Chuck it, Daly. The waving of that bloody shirt has become intolerable.Fun With Time Travel: Dateline 1866. Michael Daly reports that Minstrel Shows have given America’s Youth reason to smile again after the Recent Unpleasantness between the States. Mr. Bones, oh Mr. Bones…Kevin Michael Grace, 1.58 a.m., November 11, 2002 [Link]
WHACKS AT HACKS
Paul Jackson in the November 10 Calgary Sun: “British Prime Minister Harold Wilson once suggested even one week can be a very long time in politics.” He did? Really? How about that?! Now there’s a lead for you.Trust Jackson to trot out the hoariest cliché in political journalism and then mangle it. And then explain it: “By that, [Wilson] meant events move so quickly in politics that within just a week, the entire picture can change dramatically.” Gosh, thanks for that “that.” A week is a long time in politics—whatever could “that” mean? Oh yes, it means that things can change dramatically in a week. To you non-specialists, a week means seven days, seven complete revolutions of the earth on its axis.When I come to power journalists that repeat the Wilson quote will be subject to summary dismissal.
Jackson really is a marvel. He takes 700 words to explain that Canada’s federal Conservatives are in a bad way, that their long-term prospects aren’t good. I used to think there were two kinds of columnists. Type One gave you news. Type Two gave you analysis. Jackson reveals the existence of Type Three: the columnist that gives you the received wisdom—and adds nothing to it. The type that tells you what you already know. Repeatedly. And at length.A former colleague told me years ago that Jackson had declared to him (”Laddie,” he called him) that no journalist worth his salt needed more than what, 15, 20 minutes to write a column. Jackson might consider bumping this up to, oh, say, 30. On the other hand, he has a column with the Calgary Sun, and I do not. So he must be doing something right.
Over at the Toronto Sun, Valerie Gibson informs us (again, November 10) that “It’s that time of year again! Party time!” Now, “Some people may groan, especially regarding the annual office Christmas party, but most enjoy a festive function.” Who would’ve thunk it? “Like everyone else, I’m not quite as keen on giving them as going to them. I guess that’s selfish, but it’s true that hosts rarely enjoy their own parties as they’re too busy making it fun for their guests.” Stop it, Val; you’re killing me! There are only so many revelations I can absorb in one sitting.But that’s not all! It turns out that parties are an appropriate venue for flirting. Val thoughtfully provides a list of do’s and don’ts. Do’s: make eye contact, smile, listen intently, move closer, keep the conversation light, laugh at your intended’s jokes (within reason), touch his/her hand and then gauge the reaction,Boy, I wish I’d known all this when I was in my 20s.I must part company with Val on the subject of compliments, however. “Everyone likes compliments if they’re not blatantly insincere.” No, as Kingsley Amis pointed out, “Flattery works—so long as it is sufficiently insincere and laid on with a trowel.” Truth is cheap; lies are expensive. The lies are proof you’re willing to put yourself out to be agreeable, and that’s half the battle right there.Then we get to the don’ts: “Don’t drink too much when flirting…Standing sloshed out of your mind in front of someone and lurching into them every few minutes is not attractive, sexy or interesting.” What a spoilsport! The drunken pass may not be much fun to its object, but it is a rich source of amusement to those looking on. I once chased a girl called Janie around a filing cabinet at a university Christmas party. The incident was remembered by many with great fondness for years. Self-abasement often brings the greatest good to the greatest number. It’s Utilitarianism, people!”Don’t flirt with someone who is obviously very attached to another guest. Flirting with someone in front of their partner is not only rude but risky. Their partner won’t appreciate it and you may end up with wine poured on your party outfit — or worse.” Aw, come on, Val, where’s your sense of adventure? Here endeth the lesson. Sadly, Val has no advice on how to remove those pesky wine stains. I’ve always sworn by the copious application of soda water, myself.Now on to Val’s stablemate, Michael Coren. Michael rarely disappoints, and his November 9 column finds him in fine form. A little background. First, the Toronto Star accused the Toronto police of the grave sin of racial profiling: specifically, singling out black people for harsher treatment. Second, a whole bunch of columnists noted that there might be a reason for this—Toronto’s blacks commit a disproportionate number of violent crimes—as Chief Julian Fantino had noted a decade earlier, almost ending his career thereby. Third, a whole bunch of columnists noted that black Torontonians were shooting each other at a fearsome rate. Enter Mr. Coren.”So much talk about race and crime, and so many arguments that some communities are over-represented when it comes to the breaking of the law. Loath as I am to agree, I have no option. It’s time to speak the truth, loudly and without fear. Let us take a few examples. Sex offenders. Overwhelmingly of one colour. I remember taking a trip to the Oak Ridge Institute in rural Ontario where the criminally insane are incarcerated. These men have raped and murdered, their victims often being children. I saw very little multiculturalism on display. Just one race really. But people simply won’t talk about it.”
What’s all this then? Where is Michael going? Could this be an example of, dare I say it, Chestertonian paradox? Yeah and as subtle as a flying mallet it is too. Serial killers: white. Lunatics: white. White-collar criminals: white, natch. Arms dealers: white. Drug importers, “race haters,” tobacco merchants (merchants of death, doncha know), “international sanctions busters who defy democratically elected governments” (huh?!): white, white, ever-so-lily white.Not so fast, Michael. Last time I checked, most big-time drug importers on the West Coast were Chinese. And as Samuel Francis reports, “That most serial killers are white has almost become a cliché. Nevertheless, a good many serial rapists are black, and the New York Times reports (October 28) that studies show that some 13% to 22% of American serial killers are black also.” (For the truth about black-white crime rates in America, read Jared Taylor’s Paved With Good Intentions or go here.) Furthermore, “Studies going back to the 1960s show that African-Americans are significantly more likely to be diagnosed with schizophrenia than whites.”And what about the modern slave trade, Michael? Arabs are Caucasian, but that’s not really what you mean when you talk about “white,” is it? And let’s not even mention the racial composition of Canada’s prisons. But never mind all that. The key word here is disproportionate. If Canada is 80% white (a back-of-the-envelope calculation), then it stands to reason that most murderers, madmen, sex offenders, big-time drug importers, white-collar perps, “international sanctions busters who defy democratically elected governments” (huh?!), etc., etc., should be white too. Right, Michael? What a ninny. And to think I once compared him to Auberon Waugh.Kevin Michael Grace, 11.52 p.m., November 10, 2002 [Link]

EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT THEN?
Messages of concern have arrived concerning two recent posts. They were either exceedingly elaborate leg-pulls or evidence of acute nervous collapse. You decide. In the event, they have been removed from this page and and placed in a black box, tolerably secure from prying eyes.
To make it up to you, gentle readers, two new posts will appear directly. The first comprises some comments on columnists Paul Jackson, Valerie Gibson, Michael Coren and Michael Daly. The second is yet another consideration of Glenn Gould.
Normal programming will now be resumed.
Kevin Michael Grace, 6.15 p.m., November 10, 2002 [Link]

MICHEL PLUS
Take a dekko at my review of the English translations of Michel Houellebecq’s novels, now posted on The Report website. I went a bit spare, as is my wont, but I’m rather pleased with it nonetheless.Now for the added value. I omitted a line from the review, apropos of Houellebecq’s penchant pornographique, after deciding I was already sailing too close to the wind. It was a 20-year-old remark (quoted from memory) by the novelist A.N. Wilson: “I think it’s possible to write honestly about sexual matters without bringing pubic hair into it.”Kevin Michael Grace, 12.15 p.m., November 8, 2002 [Link]

THE GREATEST LIVING ENGLISHMAN
Discovered to my horror I had forgotten to link to Peter Simple. This shocking oversight has been rectified and gives me the opportunity to say a few words about my favourite journalist. O felix culpa! Peter Simple is the nom de plume (the name comes from the novel by Frederick Marryat) of Michael Wharton. He originated the Way of the World column in the Daily Telegraph in 1957 (since his retirement it has been occupied by Christopher Booker, the immortal Auberon Waugh and, most recently, Craig Brown) and now contributes an End Column every Friday (if we’re lucky). Wharton is something of an immortal himself (he is in his 89th year) and certainly the greatest living Englishman. I could mention that he is the originator of the phrases “Rentacrowd” (now “Rentamob”), “race relations industry” and “We are all guilty!” Or his tireless promotion of “the racial prejudometer, obtainable from your local anti-racist stockist or from the makers, Ethnicaids.”*
Even more than delightful than all that, however, is Simple’s creation of the Stretchford Conurbation and the fantastic creations that dwell within: Dr. E.W.T. Spacely-Trellis, “the go-ahead bishop of Bevindon,” Alderman Foodbotham, the “25-stone, crag-jawed, iron watch-chained, grim-booted, perpetual chairman of the city tramways and fine arts committee and five-times Lord Mayor,” Lt. Gen. Sir Frederick (”Tiger”) Nidgett “of the Royal Army Tailoring Corps, the hero of Port Said…currently…honorary chief welfare adviser to the Sierra Leonean Army,” Mrs. Dutt-Pauker, “Chatelaine of Marxmount,” doyenne of the “proud heritage of old English upper-class Stalinism,” great admirer of the late statesman Enver Hoxha, a once-frequent guest at “Craig Gramsci, her Scottish baronial home,” documentarian Neville Dreadberg, author of The Orange Monster, a “[survey of] the daily lives of Ulster Unionists…deal[ing] with cannibalism, necrophilia and other typical practices,” Julian Birdbath, literary critic and discoverer of Doreen, the “lost” Brontë…Like so many that toil in the satiric vineyards, I am in awe of Peter Simple’s genius. Like the Beachcomber (J.B. Morton, a scandalously neglected figure), he has constructed nothing less than an alternate universe. In the future he will be celebrated as one of England’s greatest writers.*Peter Simple explains, “This simple electronic device, which slips easily into pocket or handbag, can be used anywhere. All you have to do is point it at anyone you suspect of racial prejudice (including yourself), then read off the result in prejudons, the internationally recognised scientific unit of racial prejudice. The only snag I know of can occur when the prejudometer, which is normally set to register white prejudice, comes up against other kinds of prejudice, for example, between black people and Indians. It has been known to malfunction, even implode, with unfortunate results for race relations in general.”
Kevin Michael Grace, 2.20 p.m., November 7, 2002 [Link]

I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOWEveryone hated the green background. It’s gone. The ghost of García Lorca laments, “Green, green, I want you green” (”Somnambulistic Ballad.”) I hope you find the blue a soothing alternative to “scalding white.” I know I do. Cell padding and spacing have been added, although this results in the banner not being flush with the text boxes. One day I shall learn how to fix this. Next up: permalinks.One hundred and sixty-one visitors on Day One: an excellent start. Name checks from Jeremy Lott, Kathy Shaidle, Bene Diction and fellow newbie Kevin Steel. Lott calls me a “Canadian nationalist,” and I suppose I should distance myself from this pejorative label, but I can’t be bothered. I am a Canadian, and I am a “nationalist,” if you will. (I prefer “patriot.” Karl Kraus defined a “nationalist” as “a cock crowing on its own dung-heap,” and I can’t help but agree.) Besides, I had a pleasant conversation with Mel Hurtig (the grand old man of Canadian nationalism) last week and found myself agreeing with him about everything—except social programs, of course.A generous blurb from Colby Cosh, who was responsible for about 60% of my traffic. (Kathy Shaidle sent me about 20%.) Many thanks to both. I also received a carefully considered endorsement from the lovely and talented Kelly Jane Torrance. Kelly should post more often. Unfortunately, she is assailed by “doubts.” She has also become something of a boulevardier of late. E-mail her a line of encouragement, if you would.
Messages of welcome from several readers, including Michael of the 2Blowhards. What an engaging fellow he is. The strangest (and most distressing) comment was that my FAQ suggests a man “short, tubby and balding.” Let’s knock that one on the head right now, shall we? I stand five feet, 11 inches tall: the exact average height of the North American male. I weigh 145 pounds; a little overweight, true: but I did lose 25 pounds this summer. (No-carb diet, long, fast walks.) And while I do not have all my hair, at my age, I can’t complain. So much for my wounded amour-propre.Perhaps it was the FAQ reference to not driving a car that induced such a false portrait. Consider this indictment from my colleague Carla Smithson: “Any adult who does not have a car is either a rabid environmentalist, perhaps up to something shady or very poor at budgeting (not that these are exclusive of each other).” Typical anti-ambler bigotry. People really do come over all funny when you tell them you don’t drive. I remember a conversation with an engineer at the radio station I worked at in San Diego. “Where’s your car?” he demanded. “I don’t have one,” I replied. “You mean it’s in the shop?” he persisted. “No, I don’t own one,” I explained. “I don’t even have a licence.” The engineer, previously friendly, backed away almost imperceptibly. He looked as if I had confessed to sexual congress with children. Things were never again quite the same between us.So what’s my excuse? Rabid environmentalist? Shady? Bad budgeter? I plead guilty to the last charge only. I failed my driving exam at the age of 20 and never looked back. People have speculated over the years that I suffer from some disqualifying condition or harbour some secret shame. Nope. Just never felt the need. And yet my father was a car dealer…twice the highest-selling Chrysler salesman in Canada. Make of that what you will.Kevin Michael Grace, 2.30 a.m., November 6, 2002 [Link]

“OVERTURE! CURTAIN, LIGHTS!”
For an update, go here.
Lector: And you are…?Auctor: Kevin Michael Grace, currently employed at a Canadian media organization.
Lector: Never heard of you.
Auctor: I get that a lot. It’s a condition that’s begun to grate.Lector: So you really think the world needs another one of these “blogs” (dread word!), do you?
Auctor: Well, everybody else is doing it, so why not me?
Lector: You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid.Auctor: OK. A few months ago I was talking to a journalist and author far more successful than I. He explained that a website was a professional necessity for me. I’d been thinking the same for some months. Plus, I didn’t want to become one of those guys.Lector: What?
Auctor: I’ll explain. I didn’t buy a CD player until the end of 1988. I finally did so because it was either that or become one of those guys boring on about the “superiority” of vinyl. It’s a binary thing: analog/digital. In 2002 I faced a similar dilemma—either blog now or polish up my old codger routine: “Back in the old days we didn’t need your fancy ‘World Wide Web’ when we wanted to publish something; we had something called Quark XPress, and we were glad to have it, dadgummit…”Lector: So this “blog” is going to make you famous, is it? Perhaps you are deservedly obscure. Ever think of that?
Auctor: I’ve considered it. And rejected it. I’m not interested in fame, and I don’t think I’m vain or jealous. “I’m tired of Love: I’m still more tired of Rhyme./But Money gives me pleasure all the time.” In other words, this blog is a showcase and an advertisement. Thomas Sowell says, “The people I feel sorry for are those who do 90% of what it takes to succeed.” I’m not content to be a 90-percenter anymore. I hope that editors reading my blog will say, “See if we can’t get this interesting fellow Kevin Michael Grace to write something for us.” I’m available for work, for publications in Canada, America, Britain, wherever English is spoken. What’s the point of this wonderful “Anglosphere” if there’s no pecuniary benefit in it for me?Lector: A Google search reveals you get paid for about 100,000 words a year and have done so for some time. Why do you suppose adding thousands more for free will make any difference?
Auctor: My blog will be more personal. [In the event, I no longer write 100,000 words a year.]
Lector: Yes, we’ve noticed a surfeit of personal pronouns already. Is this going to be one of those “I went to the grocery store to buy a litre of milk, and I couldn’t wait to tell you all about it” kind of deals?Auctor: Not exactly. I write about politics mostly, but there is so much more to me than that. “I am large, I contain multitudes.”
Lector: In the habit of quoting Walt Whitman?
Auctor: Sorry. Won’t happen again. But my blog will be a Song of Myself: a combination of comment, diary and memoir. I’ve been around, had an interesting life, have intelligent, well-informed opinions on all manner of subjects: politics, of course, but also music, literature, movies, television, sports, celebrity, the media—all aspects of culture, high, low and middle. Why should I hide my light under a bushel? I shall write as I please–unmediated by editorial guidelines, unconstrained by considerations of space—on anything I like. Hell, I might even write about cats. (No, I’ll leave that to my friend Colby Cosh.) [No, I won't. I've broken this promise twice.] I want people to know the man behind the curious moniker. Kevin Michael Grace: Mordant sophisticate or troubled loner? You be the judge!Lector: How often will you “post”?
Auctor: Every day. Posts might be as short as a few words; occasionally, they will be as interminable as this one. [This promise has been broken several times.]
Lector: Any other promises?
Auctor: This sentence contains my first and last use of the word “blogosphere.” [I've kept this promise.]
Lector: Why is your “blog” called The Ambler?
Auctor: Several reasons, many of them negative. KevinGrace.com was taken. KevinMichaelGrace.com was too long. Every other descriptive URL (and every conceivable variant) I could think of was already taken. The Ambler refers to a personal attribute (I don’t own a car) and sums up my character rather nicely (I’ve done a great deal to no great end). It also describes a way of seeing: from ground level at a human pace. (I had thought of The Pedestrian, but there was the obvious comeback, “Pedestrian in name, pedestrian in nature.”)Lector: Who designed your “website”?
Auctor: I did, using Microsoft FrontPage 2000. (The banner, however, was designed by my friend Dave Stevens.) I didn’t use a blogging template because a 5-point Verdana font on a scalding white background is not my idea of “reader-friendly.” Sometime in the future the readers and I shall look back and share a laugh about those days before I mastered borders and the arcane concepts “cell padding” and “cell spacing.” In the meantime, this suits my needs. [The Ambler has since been redesigned extensively by Dave Stevens.]Lector: Is The Ambler suitable for children?
Auctor: I don’t “work blue”–What, never? Well, hardly ever–but The Ambler is for adults—in every sense of the word. When quoting others, I will not bowdlerize. An MPAA rating of PG-13 is suggested.Lector: Do you have a political philosophy? Are you, perhaps, an “ideologue”?
Auctor: I’m suspicious of ideologies. Anyway, after the fall of Communism, most ideological labels are of little utility. If pressed, I would call myself (after Erik von Kühnelt-Leddihn) a right-wing anarchist—or a “paleoconservative.” (Actually, I may have invented the latter label, circa 1986.) So-called “paleolibertarians” will find much to their liking here, but libertarians of the Virginia Postrel ilk (”Every day, in every way, humans are getting better and better”) will find little to their taste. “The first Whig was the Devil,” as Dr. Johnson said. I believe in Original Sin, the Four Last Things and the Tragic Sense of Life.Lector: There are no further questions.
Auctor: On with the show, this is it!
Kevin Michael Grace, Posted originally November 4, 2002, revised February 5, 2003 [Link]