Drowning in The Current

While life in Florence offers many pleasures (blog entries passim), I frequently pine for a slice of Canadiana. A little Eastern Ontario maple syrup, the distinctive sound of a loonie jingling with a toonie, a good rant by one Donald Cherry, or the clink of glasses with a rousing Caribou! toast.

So I find myself tuning the shortwave to Radio Canada International in hopes of hearing a familiar voice from across the pond. Now let me be clear in the best Paul Martin fashion: I am a grande fanatico of CBC and a special admirer of its talented employees.

But regrettably one of the shows I catch most often is The Current, the daily gabfest that began with such promise, yet has descended into a ritual guilt spiral of histrionic horror. I realize the men and women of the fourth estate must dutifully skulk among the dregs of our ailing global village, overturning slimy stones in an effort to expose the charlatans and evildoers of the age. But enough is enough! Anna Maria Tremonti's radio program is a steady diet of apocalyptic calamity, the aural equivalent of pitching one's holiday weekend smorgasbord tent at the lip of an active volcano.

A mere half-hour of this sonic scare-o-rama makes me want to double-latch the apartamento door, open another bottle of chianti and crawl back beneath the comforting blue duvet.

The Current doesn't have to go all Pollyana on us. It just means less problema, more soluzione.

Why not the occasional documentary about an unsung underdog who has overcome great challenges? A sound-rich missive on an emerging musical talent the record companies ignored? An empowering look at combatting workplace stress? Or what the average Jane, citizen's group or mega-corporation can actually do to reverse global warming?

Meantime, don't stay tuned.

The idiot meter

So, the first thing I saw when I finally limped into town this morning -- boy, are my dogs achin' -- was newspaper boxes filled with headlines about parking meters for cripes sake. I go for a quick vacation (my story, and I'm sticking to it...) and La-la-larryland goes (further) to hell.

I recall hearing (As I was being ushered unceremoniously to the Greyhound depot to ride steerage to Sudbury - it's a sore point...) that council wanted to jack up parking meter rates and the total number of hours during which parkers must pay, and the total number of meters. Dog help us, council has realized that the city now needs money after enacting that dumbass budget, back in the halcyon "zero means five per cent" days. And we'll really be scraping for pocket change if Seimens wins that gigabillion dollar light rail transit suit that certain mayors and city councillors so blithely laughed off, just short months ago.

Never mind that the meters were supposed to be a revenue-neutral way to ensure traffic flow in a congested city centre. Never mind that it's just another tax, no matter how disingenuously you try to relabel it. Never mind that you'd basically promised all those neighbourhoods where you're now hellbent on planting meters that you would do no such thing. Never mind that the cost of installing said new meters mostly negates your already-dubious profits. Never mind that Mayor Larry admits (yet again) that the move might've been a little hasty and ill-thought-out. And never mind that faced with huge protests, the parking committee revisits the idea and, after a token concession on Sunday parking hours, jacks the meter rates even more. We're being fiscally conservative, dammit!

Apparently, "fiscal conservative" in this context is synonymous with "idiot".

But hey! Hizzoner says "kindness meters" solve the homeless problem, so I figure my patented Idiot Meter™ will solve this council's hash. See, the meter starts out fresh right after each municipal election, showing all the goodwill that city politicians have garnered. Every time you make another bonehead move, the total drops. When the little numbers on the digital readout say zero, it's time to vacate that convenient city hall office space where you parked your butt. Or you will be ticketed and fined heavily.

So I'm looking at the meter up there, and it's a bit blurry, but I think you have a little... oh, wait! It's all zeros! Time's up! Get the hell outta here!

Word Cop II

Or, did you mean antidote?

*Pot is a good anecdote to the winter blahs, she thought wistfully.

*I've heard that if your kid accidentally drinks anti-freeze, hard liquor is the anecdote of choice.

*They considered their blog an anecdote to the self-referential wanking so prevalent in the mainstream blogging community.

*What's the anecdote to cyanide poisoning?

*Heparin poisoning is given protamine sulfate as the anecdote.

The great escape

So yesterday around tiffin we're sitting in what the addiction rehab counsellors call 'the sharing circle', though 'the staring circle' is more like it, because we've been eyeing each other all afternoon, mum, glum and wary.

"I think we're very close to a breakthrough here," the counsellor says, in an ineffectually hopeful kind of way.

Suddenly the hot cardboardy smell of takeout pizza blows into the room from one of the offices down the hall. Bad move by somebody, because the gang of pizza-addicted crows from Sarnia predictably goes apeshit, cackling bloody murder and rumbling en masse toward the aroma. Our counsellor rushes off to aid a couple of staff who, from the sounds of things, are getting mugged by crows. The rest of the group charges after to watch and hoot. The din is terrific.

There's just me and the horse left. He sidles out of the corner he's occupied silently for the past dozen days, stands in front of the padlocked emergency door, and looks at me hard. He finally speaks: "I'm busting out. You in?"

His drawl is oddly familiar. I can't place it, but answer, "Oh, yeah!"

A huge hindward kick shatters the door and an alarm pours new clamour over the chaos. Everybody's too busy to notice. The horse turns to head out, pauses, looks over his shoulder and cocks an eyebrow. "Which way you going?"

"Elgin Street. Ottawa," I say.

"I can give you a ride as far as North Bay," he says. "Got business there. Jump on."

Best offer I've had in days. I hop up, circle twice on his broad back, lie down, and cover my nose with my tail. He heads out into the cold twilight. The cacophony fades behind us. "Didn't catch your name," he says, after a mile or so.

"No real name. Just coyote," I say. "What's yours?"

"No name either," he says. "Just horse."

A mile or two more of clip-clopping in the dark, and another question occurs: "What were you in for?"

"Spaghetti," he says, tersely. The tone brooks no further questions. I shut the hell up. Who am I to judge? After awhile, as I start to drowse, his swaying pauses. There's a scrape, a sulphurous flare, quickly damped, then the smell of foul little black cheroot wafts over his shoulder. "Ah," I think as I drift to sleep. "Got it..."

The Horse With No Name's voice reminds me of Clint Eastwood's...

Sign Language and Prime Ministers

A little news story about sign language and the prime minister of Thailand sent me on an internet search quest this week. It seems the Thai PM is not happy with his name sign. Apparently his nose resembles an apple and in Thailand, name signs are often based on a person's physical characteristics. So instead of finger spelling Samak Sundaravej, signers hold their noses between two fingers. [CBC story]

What is the name sign for Stephen Harper? I wondered. He must care given the news last week that the government lobby to the House of Commons has been transformed into a Harper portrait gallery. [1, 2, 3] Alas, after a lengthy search using both Google and Yahoo, I did not find a name sign for our Prime Minister.

However, along the way I learned some interesting things about name signs. In North America, most name signs are finger-spelled initials of the first and last name with the right hand held by the head. Elsewhere in the world, and sometimes here, the name sign is a gesture based on some other characteristic of the person. [Good detail with images here, including Wayne Gretzky's name sign.]

Another important thing about name signs is that you are not supposed to pick your own. Sort of like getting your aboriginal name. You don't get to call yourself "Soaring Eagle" unless a native person gives you that name. And if "Spawning Cod" is what they call you, that is what you get.

Illustrated above is what I think Stephen Harper would like his name sign to be. This is based on the widely reported but so far unproven claim that in his youth he attended Star Trek conventions in costume.

However, unless someone can tell us differently, I believe we should assume that Stephen Harper's name sign is a right-handed finger-spelled "S" followed by a finger-spelled "H" near the top of your head.

Bonus Links for your edification:

Practice reading finger-spelling here

Some signers don't believe in name signs

ASL Browser

Signs for Babies