I can’t remember receiving any gifts at Christmases during my youth, but I am not bitter.
I remember something else: the unadulterated joy I experienced at the mix of north winds, “fire rockets,” squibs, “chi booms,” “starlights,” and the church’s “bring-and-buy” sales. (Well, there was certainly a lot more bringing than buying to be sure).
And I remember Christmas Sundays and Parson Haughton, and was that Alan pumping that good old organ and Miss Plummer at the keys? Not to mention that long climb up the hill to get to the majestic Whitfield United Church in Porus where Reverend Haughton presided. I recall waking at five to go caroling with candles and song sheets with members from Uncle Dickie’s church in Williamsfield.
I remember singing carols and Christmas songs during devotions in high school, out of that navy-blue hymnal that fitted perfectly in my back pocket: “O Tannenbaum” and “Here we come a-wassailing,” and none of us bothered to ask how come Jamaican children were singing British and German Christmas songs. (As a matter of fact, wassailing was usually celebrated in January in England, well before we started wassailing through the tannenbaums in Jamaica).
At that time, there was something called the “Christmas spirit.” It was about giving. This was encapsulated in the then popular saying, “It’s not the gift, but the thought that counts.” That was so 1970’s!
Now the recession has widened the gap between rich (not to mention the bankers) and the poor and all of a sudden it’s difficult to get into that Christmas spirit: all I have are the carols and the songs but not much else, and there isn't much giving and even less thought. It’s as if we need a kind of Christmas Viagra to lift our flagging spirits.
I am reminded of this dis-ease when listening to the advertisements: case in point an American Express ad, “Realize the Potential” which sounds like a weak knock-off of MasterCard’s ad of yesteryear, “Master the Possibilities.” How do I know these things? I use the MasterCard ad as my personal war cry, one of my motivational tools. But those ads represent stealth advertising: a pop psychology come-on to get us the consumers to purchase their wares under the guise of getting us to feel good about ourselves with each purchase.
And have you noticed how they have corrupted Christmas? It used to be that Christmas was special and you had two wonderful days to celebrate: Christmas and Boxing Day. Now there is Boxing Week and Boxing Month. I am just half expecting them to issue calls to our patriotism: “Go out and shop and help save the American (or Canadian) economy!” And why bloody not? They have taken our souls, why not take the rest? All the glory has been sucked out of the Hallelujahs.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
Of Tigers, Men and Their Peccadilloes
The fortunes of sports celebrities, to use crass economic terminology, will rise and fall like stocks and shares. For the world's number one golfer Tiger Woods, November 27, 2009 was Black Friday. That's when news came of his accident and subsequent injuries. Woods now join such luminaries as Magic Johnson, Kobi Bryant, Michael Jordan, Muhammad Ali and Alex Rodriguez as athletes who have been caught with their pants down so to speak.
There is no evidence that any of those athletes were ever permanently damaged, if at all, by the revelations of their marital infidelities. Mr. Woods will join them as well. The modern day Samson, shorn of some of his locks will lose some of his luster of course but, as long as he continues playing at his singularly high standard, he will continue raking in his millions.
Still, there is something tawdry and unsavory about the whole proceedings. The unseemliness concerns not just Mr. Woods but the peripheral players: the media and the "other women" in Mr. Woods's life. Unless he had been charged with a drink-driving offense, or his wife charged with domestic violence, the events that took place in the Woods family home should have remained private. The ambulance chasers in the media seem pathetic each day the story is given coverage.
If true, the story that the woman - or one of the women- in question has been talking to gossip magazine US about her relations with Mr. Woods, draws my contempt as well. Why is it that women who enter into relations with married celebrities always so enthusiastic about spilling their guts about the affairs? Mr. Woods may have to cut off at the pass, other women who have had a Tiger in their tanks as well.
I was prepared to cut Mr. Woods some slack until reports -unconfirmed- that he was giving his wife $60 million as atonement for his "transgressions. " (Have you ever noticed how clever PR people are in their use of words? "Transgressions" and "sin" carry religious connotations. Hence if you pray and ask forgiveness, all will be well. Right? Then, should any ungodly media person press Mr. Woods, one would imagine him saying: "Let him without sin, cast the first stone," etc.).
But back to the last point: there is a certain vulgarity about giving your wife $60 million after you have had a go at stuff. Far better to have erected in her name, an Oprah-sized high school in Haiti or some other poor country. It also brings into question the societal value of sports personalities. Mr. Woods has never come out in favor of any initiative, has never criticized any social ill and apparently has some disquiet about being called "African-American." Perhaps after this sorry incident he will pay penance to the community to which he has shown his back. What has been shown, is that Tiger Woods is human after all.
There is no evidence that any of those athletes were ever permanently damaged, if at all, by the revelations of their marital infidelities. Mr. Woods will join them as well. The modern day Samson, shorn of some of his locks will lose some of his luster of course but, as long as he continues playing at his singularly high standard, he will continue raking in his millions.
Still, there is something tawdry and unsavory about the whole proceedings. The unseemliness concerns not just Mr. Woods but the peripheral players: the media and the "other women" in Mr. Woods's life. Unless he had been charged with a drink-driving offense, or his wife charged with domestic violence, the events that took place in the Woods family home should have remained private. The ambulance chasers in the media seem pathetic each day the story is given coverage.
If true, the story that the woman - or one of the women- in question has been talking to gossip magazine US about her relations with Mr. Woods, draws my contempt as well. Why is it that women who enter into relations with married celebrities always so enthusiastic about spilling their guts about the affairs? Mr. Woods may have to cut off at the pass, other women who have had a Tiger in their tanks as well.
I was prepared to cut Mr. Woods some slack until reports -unconfirmed- that he was giving his wife $60 million as atonement for his "transgressions. " (Have you ever noticed how clever PR people are in their use of words? "Transgressions" and "sin" carry religious connotations. Hence if you pray and ask forgiveness, all will be well. Right? Then, should any ungodly media person press Mr. Woods, one would imagine him saying: "Let him without sin, cast the first stone," etc.).
But back to the last point: there is a certain vulgarity about giving your wife $60 million after you have had a go at stuff. Far better to have erected in her name, an Oprah-sized high school in Haiti or some other poor country. It also brings into question the societal value of sports personalities. Mr. Woods has never come out in favor of any initiative, has never criticized any social ill and apparently has some disquiet about being called "African-American." Perhaps after this sorry incident he will pay penance to the community to which he has shown his back. What has been shown, is that Tiger Woods is human after all.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
About Parenting: Fatherhood
I have a slight case of scoliosis (curvature of the spine) for which I blame that very Jamaican (?) practice of transporting many heavy bags of groceries by hand for far distances. When I lived in Montreal, I did this for several years: four bags in the left hand, five in the right. So now my right shoulder is slightly lower than my left.
I bring this up not to carp, but to highlight one of several roles I played as a father: the hunter-gatherer, if you will. It was a role I accepted without protest. I was also the resident coupon-clipper and the grocery list-maker. I was home every day. I was the resource person and one of the disciplinarians. Yeah, I was the father.
No, I was not the perfect father: I could have shown a bit more emotion; I could have told them I loved them more often; I could have hugged my kids a thousand times more; perhaps I shouldn't have shouted at my daughter when I reached her at 2:00 am in the morning and ordered her to come home- "Get home right now!" (A little cultural sensitivity training would have set me straight that parties don't start until midnight, for example).
But I was there! I went to all the parent teachers meetings; spoke to teachers and discussed grades in imperfect French; helped them with their homework -even when they laughed to their mother about my French pronunciation ("Daddy said this...Ha ha ha ha!); and I traveled with my son to chess tournaments. I did all this without spanking my children once!
And what do men like me get in return? Women referring to us as "always whining," or as one woman panelist said -on the TV Ontario program, The Agenda ("Shame, Confessions and Telling the Truth About our Kids")- men are "always waiting for applause" for things we are supposed to do. And frankly I am tired of such low blows. If this were a football match these women would be penalized for unsportsmanlike conduct: taunting ( and red-carded in soccer).
In the end I agree with the male panelist who quoted somebody-or-the-other who said that if your children turned out well then you were a good father. I can live with that: my kids are perfect.
I am not asking for much. All I am asking for is a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
I bring this up not to carp, but to highlight one of several roles I played as a father: the hunter-gatherer, if you will. It was a role I accepted without protest. I was also the resident coupon-clipper and the grocery list-maker. I was home every day. I was the resource person and one of the disciplinarians. Yeah, I was the father.
No, I was not the perfect father: I could have shown a bit more emotion; I could have told them I loved them more often; I could have hugged my kids a thousand times more; perhaps I shouldn't have shouted at my daughter when I reached her at 2:00 am in the morning and ordered her to come home- "Get home right now!" (A little cultural sensitivity training would have set me straight that parties don't start until midnight, for example).
But I was there! I went to all the parent teachers meetings; spoke to teachers and discussed grades in imperfect French; helped them with their homework -even when they laughed to their mother about my French pronunciation ("Daddy said this...Ha ha ha ha!); and I traveled with my son to chess tournaments. I did all this without spanking my children once!
And what do men like me get in return? Women referring to us as "always whining," or as one woman panelist said -on the TV Ontario program, The Agenda ("Shame, Confessions and Telling the Truth About our Kids")- men are "always waiting for applause" for things we are supposed to do. And frankly I am tired of such low blows. If this were a football match these women would be penalized for unsportsmanlike conduct: taunting ( and red-carded in soccer).
In the end I agree with the male panelist who quoted somebody-or-the-other who said that if your children turned out well then you were a good father. I can live with that: my kids are perfect.
I am not asking for much. All I am asking for is a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Motown Records 50th Anniversary
The newest edition of Britain's Mojo magazine - my favourite and the best music magazine around - pays tribute to the 50th anniversary of Motown Records. There is the requisite bonus fare: the Motown Nuggets CD with 15 great tracks.
The magazine features interviews with founder Berry Gordy as well as Holland, Dozier, Holland and Martha Reeves.
Mojo's 100 Greatest Motown tracks are selected by British musical elites like The Clash and Paul Weller (who would certainly dislike being called "elite"). It is hard to see how any sane person could put Martha Reeves & The Vandellas Dancing in the Street as the top Motown song, over Marvin Gaye's What's Going On (which is second). Dancing in the Street doesn't belong in the Top 10. Ditto, Barrett Strong's Money (That's All I Want); The Supreme's Stop! In The Name of Love; or Gaye's I Heard It Through The Grapevine. The Gladys Knight version is better.
The Temptations gorgeous Just My Imagination (Running Away From Me) should be in the Top 10, if not number one. On second thought though, Gaye's What's Going On should be number one.
The magazine features interviews with founder Berry Gordy as well as Holland, Dozier, Holland and Martha Reeves.
Mojo's 100 Greatest Motown tracks are selected by British musical elites like The Clash and Paul Weller (who would certainly dislike being called "elite"). It is hard to see how any sane person could put Martha Reeves & The Vandellas Dancing in the Street as the top Motown song, over Marvin Gaye's What's Going On (which is second). Dancing in the Street doesn't belong in the Top 10. Ditto, Barrett Strong's Money (That's All I Want); The Supreme's Stop! In The Name of Love; or Gaye's I Heard It Through The Grapevine. The Gladys Knight version is better.
The Temptations gorgeous Just My Imagination (Running Away From Me) should be in the Top 10, if not number one. On second thought though, Gaye's What's Going On should be number one.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
United and Ferguson in the Driver's Seat
Over the last few days, Inter Milan boss Jose Mourinho has tried to bait Manchester United's Sir Alex Ferguson into strategic miscues in the first leg of their Champion League playoff. Mourinho boasted how Inter would send Man U packing out of the tournament on March 16th.
Yet, even with many of their stars either out or playing injured, United were allowed to play their free-flowing game, especially in the first half. Their back four were hardly pressured throughout the game. While Inter did look dangerous in the second half, they were hardly a threat to United with the defence seemingly in total control.
Knowing how Ferguson's mind works, it is clear that drawing at Inter was like a win. United will be able to field a much strengthened team with main stay Nemanja Vidic back from suspension.
Yet, even with many of their stars either out or playing injured, United were allowed to play their free-flowing game, especially in the first half. Their back four were hardly pressured throughout the game. While Inter did look dangerous in the second half, they were hardly a threat to United with the defence seemingly in total control.
Knowing how Ferguson's mind works, it is clear that drawing at Inter was like a win. United will be able to field a much strengthened team with main stay Nemanja Vidic back from suspension.
The Depression Thing
After a week of highs, this one-legged dog is feeling dispirited. I am on the floor, so to speak. This is the thing with depression.
My problem with depression has always been a nagging suspicion it isn't real: how can someone as positive me be depressed? How can someone like me who has dragged himself up at every step and surprised himself, be melancholy? But that's the game for you.
But when the debilitating lows appear, I feel powerless. Weird thing: I feel almost embarrassed by the episodes.
When I lost my job with the federal government in 2006 the therapy suddenly ended and I couldn't afford a private one. So that was that. Of course I couldn't get into the habit of taking Paxil and it has been over two years since I stopped the medication. My drawer is a make-shift casket for pharmaceuticals: unfilled prescriptions and packets of Paxil mixed in with an almost-empty bottle of Valium or something like it.
It is, in a sense, remarkable that this one-legged dog is pretty much free of vices - no smoking, no drugs, no drinking. Just a boring old fart. Scratch that - just a boring, depressed old fart.
My problem with depression has always been a nagging suspicion it isn't real: how can someone as positive me be depressed? How can someone like me who has dragged himself up at every step and surprised himself, be melancholy? But that's the game for you.
But when the debilitating lows appear, I feel powerless. Weird thing: I feel almost embarrassed by the episodes.
When I lost my job with the federal government in 2006 the therapy suddenly ended and I couldn't afford a private one. So that was that. Of course I couldn't get into the habit of taking Paxil and it has been over two years since I stopped the medication. My drawer is a make-shift casket for pharmaceuticals: unfilled prescriptions and packets of Paxil mixed in with an almost-empty bottle of Valium or something like it.
It is, in a sense, remarkable that this one-legged dog is pretty much free of vices - no smoking, no drugs, no drinking. Just a boring old fart. Scratch that - just a boring, depressed old fart.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The One Legged Dog
I have long been a fan of Mickey Rourke through his films Diner, The Pope of Greenwich Village, 9½ Weeks, Angel Heart and The Wrestler. I am taken by The Wrestler’s tale of redemption which is why I would not have been disappointed if Mickey Rourke had won the Best Actor Oscar last night.
Sean Penn deservedly won for Milk. There is something breathtakingly remarkable about Penn’s ability to transform himself into each character he assumes. He inhabits each and becomes something new. Every time I see Penn in a movie role I wonder if I can’t learn from him in my ordinary humdrum, rundown life: like whether I can believe in a new reconstituted me long enough to make it real.
Mickey Rourke reminds me that no matter how low you get, that like the phoenix you can rise once more. Like Rourke, I felt like Bruce Springsteen’s one-legged dog - down, almost, but not completely out. Of course, there has been much discussion about Springsteen’s One Legged Dog and its meaning. Most don’t seem to understand that it is a metaphor for downtrodden like Rourke and me. And like Rourke, it is my time to dig down deeply and summon up all the drive and determination to reconstitute a life of quality.
Sean Penn deservedly won for Milk. There is something breathtakingly remarkable about Penn’s ability to transform himself into each character he assumes. He inhabits each and becomes something new. Every time I see Penn in a movie role I wonder if I can’t learn from him in my ordinary humdrum, rundown life: like whether I can believe in a new reconstituted me long enough to make it real.
Mickey Rourke reminds me that no matter how low you get, that like the phoenix you can rise once more. Like Rourke, I felt like Bruce Springsteen’s one-legged dog - down, almost, but not completely out. Of course, there has been much discussion about Springsteen’s One Legged Dog and its meaning. Most don’t seem to understand that it is a metaphor for downtrodden like Rourke and me. And like Rourke, it is my time to dig down deeply and summon up all the drive and determination to reconstitute a life of quality.
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