Loading...
HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2009-04-09, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, APRIL 9, 2009. PAGE 5. Bonnie Gropp TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt Signs of spring Do not go gentle into that good night Rage, rage, against the dying of the light – Dylan Thomas Ah, if only the magnificent Welsh loon could be living among us at this hour. Alas, that cannot be. Mister Thomas hiccupped off his mortal coil away back in 1953, not too long after enthusiastically downing 18 successive shots of whiskey in a New York saloon. A drunken rage, to be sure, but a rage nonetheless. Dylan Thomas would probably be amused to learn that more than a half a century later many of us still rage, rage against the dying of the light, although nowadays it’s more likely to be a green light dying and morphing into a yellow that gets us foaming at the mouth. Damn! Stuck at the intersection again! Pound the dashboard! Hammer the horn with your fist! Swear like a tar sands roughneck while you glare at the back of the head of the driver in the car in front of you! Road Rage, in all its ugly manifestations, is all the, er, rage. But a human being with an urge to vent has a cornucopia of options these days. Cattle car conditions and assorted in-flight indignities in the air travel business have given rise to a phenomenon known as Air Rage in which seemingly Casper Milquetoastish customers suddenly morph into crazed berserkers. Recently three do-gooder passengers on British Airways flight 2237 had to tackle, pin down and help handcuff a fellow air traveller who had headbutted the passenger beside him, indecently assaulted a flight attendant and threatened to strangle the pilot. All of this at 35,000 feet somewhere over the Atlantic between Gatwick and Orlando. But you don’t have to fly commercial to fly off the handle. Another avenue is Checkout Line Rage. Chances are you’ve suffered a touch of this yourself, standing in a line-up at the cash register with an armload of veggies and toilet paper and a brick of pralines and cream slowly liquefying in your arms while some moron three places in front of you tries to amalgamate his street address, his wife’s birthday and his pickup truck licence plate into a ‘lucky’ lottery ticket number. Then there’s that old cyberspace standby, Computer or Web Rage. This refers to brain- frying tantrums sparked by the infuriating antics of your laptop – glacial-speed downloads, links to nowhere, and crazy- making on-screen pronouncements such as THIS PROGRAM HAS PERFORMED AN ILLEGAL FUNCTION AND WILL BE SHUT DOWN. We are of course familiar with Work Rage – those increasingly common outbreaks of spontaneous mayhem erupting in offices, factories and other formerly pacific workspaces. Sometimes it’s just shouting or kicking a wastebasket; other times it involves intimidation and even physical confrontations between colleagues. Post Office workers seem to be particularly susceptible to this malaise – so much so that when any wage-earner puts down his ballpoint and picks up an assault rifle, we call it ‘going postal’. Far be it from me to dump on my fellow testosteronians, but have you ever noticed how it’s almost always guys who go nuts behind the wheel, in the air, over the Xerox machine or at the supermarket checkout counter? Women hardly ever go bananas in public. There’s a physiological explanation for that too. Doctors call it IMS – Irritable Male Syndrome. Ironic, because this bull-in-a-china-shop behaviour is caused not by an excess of ‘bullishness’but by a lack of it. Men suffering from IMS exhibit anger and irritability because of depleted testosterone levels. Chemically induced or not, social rage is kicking out the jambs in all directions. Observers have noted an emerging syndrome they call Prevenge – violent action taken in anticipation of a harmful action. A kind of pre-rage rage, if you will. Where will it end? Perhaps in a state that Briton Luke Birmingham describes as Rage Rage – a condition that affects people who rage against people who commit road rage, work rage, air rage, etcetera. Sounds a little out-rage-ous to me – but I’ve got a hunch that Dylan Thomas would understand. With or without the 18 whiskeys. Arthur Black Other Views Everything’s all the rage today Anyone around the Ontario legislature one day recently must have thought Barack Obama at least was on the premises. Enough police, armed and in body armour, to rid this city’s streets of crime were patrolling the grounds, watching from cars and standing at entrances and in corridors. The legislature’s regular security officers do not carry weapons. Police were packed most densely around a second floor room, helping an equal army of civil servants make sure only reporters and photographers with proper accreditation were allowed in. The government had the journalists pledge they would not take in electronic equipment through which they could pass information to the outside world and warned direly any who disobeyed would be barred from such events for life. Once inside, journalists were given copies of the budget outlining the government’s spending plans for the year, so they could write news stories, columns and editorials to send to their newspapers and TV and radio stations the moment they were allowed out. They were escorted by police to washrooms and back and not set free finally until 4 p.m., when Finance Minster Dwight Duncan began reading the budget in the legislature. The Liberal government put on as big a show of security as if it was protecting the military plan to defend the western world or the recipe for Kentucky Fried Chicken. But it was all a hoax and sham, because Premier Dalton McGuinty and unidentified government “sources” had leaked all of the budget that mattered in dribs and drabs over several weeks, as surely as if they had dropped in every home and left a copy. There were no budget secrets left to guard. This broke tradition, because governments normally have kept budgets secret until they are read in the legislature. One reason is they may affect stock prices and should not be made public until the markets have closed. Another is governments generally have recognized they should present budgets, one of the two most important documents they produce annually along with the throne speech, first in the legislature out of respect for MPPs. Both rules are ingrained in the British parliamentary system, on which Canada’s is based. A British equivalent of finance minister, who made a brief remark to a reporter that indicated he planned to raise taxes on cigarettes, was gone faster than a puff of smoke. Federal and provincial governments have been forced to unveil budgets ahead of schedule, because parts became known, and discoveries even of scraps of budgets in ministers’ garbage have produced furious recriminations. The tradition that budgets should be announced first to MPPs in the legislature was broken once, in 2003 by a Progressive Conservative government, which unveiled one in an auto factory, trying to remove itself as far as possible from opposition parties’criticisms. McGuinty said at that time “it is the undoubted right of the legislative assembly to be the first recipient of the budget.” Times have changed, however. The Liberals leaked parts of this budget ahead of time for political gains. One is bad news, and this was mostly bad, spread out over weeks can have less impact than the same amount announced all on one day. The Liberals also countered each item of bad news they leaked with a good one. Among many examples, they indicated they would harmonize the province’s sales tax with federal taxes, which generally increases the tax burden, but quickly softened the blow by almost doubling benefits for children in low- income families. Business felt it was being left out, so McGuinty fast-forwarded from the budget a plan easing corporate taxes and every chamber of commerce branch had prepared a letter by budget day defending this one as fair. When average taxpayers started worrying, McGuinty pulled another rabbit from the budget showing he would send them $1,000 each. The Liberals have broken fair and well- established parliamentary rules so they could influence votes, but so far few have noticed and they are getting away with it. Eric Dowd FFrroomm QQuueeeenn’’ss PPaarrkk There he was, charming as ever, his handsome plumage catching the eye of an adoring public. Making his way across the lawn, he strutted with a confident surety. It was almost as if he knew his presence was, to paraphrase Hank Snow, as welcome as the flowers in May to all taking notice of his early arrival. Like those eagerly anticipated buds, the robin too is a cheery harbinger of winter’s imminent demise for another year. For most in the frosty part of North America the robin is the quintessential symbol of spring. Its presence inspires good vibes and feelings, a sense that the worst is over. So popular is the robin that his praises have been put forth in verse and song. In folk lore being the first to see the bird’s return was said to bring good luck to the sighter. Not sure whether anyone actually believes in that or not. But if they do they can rest assured there will be no competition from me for the race to good fortune. While reports came in, and folks on the street talked about robin sightings by the end of February, it was almost a month later before I finally saw one proud red-breasted fellow marching across my front lawn. I don’t know if it’s some form of punishment for bad behaviour or not, but robins are always well-established in the area before I’m ever rewarded with a glimpse. So, when it comes to signs of spring I count on a few other things to keep me going. Each year as winter winds blow out and spring showers flow in, the neighbourhood begins to come back to life. Like butterflies from cocoons, the people emerge and flourish. Like the robin, celebrating the end of a Snowbelt winter, it’s time to get social again. People no longer scurry down the street, fighting off bitter cold and stinging winds, nor trudge, bucking deep snow or avoiding icy hazards. Now, though the stride may still have purpose, there is a leisureness to it. People will take moments to stop, chat and visit with others while passing by. The robin soars above while boys in shirt sleeves play road hockey. He seeks food and building materials, while ball gloves come out of storage for backyard games of catch. He trills from the trees, as beneath him bicycles and skateboards glide down the street. He sits confidently on a back deck while a clothesline is filled. He busily gathers sticks to ready his nest while keeping watch on the man who is equally busy raking the sticks from his lawn. And I watch it all feeling the same good fortune that superstition would hand to the first person who sees the robin. It’s difficult not to feel blessed each spring. Even with the grey and brown that colours that season’s beginnings, the promise of what’s to come is evident from the start. Spring’s picture is one of faces and shadows, activity and movement, life and colour. Though its many rains are dreary, they are purifying. April showers help to clean away the detritus left behind by Old Man Winter, as if preparing everything for a fresh new look. Certainly, I was excited to hear about the early robin sightings, and even happier to finally spy one on my own. But it wasn’t until those pleasant days beckoned the world around me outside, that I really felt confident spring had finally sprung. Government leaked budget for gain Letters Policy The Citizen welcomes letters to the editor. Letters must be signed and should include a daytime telephone number for the purpose of verification only. Letters that are not signed will not be printed. Submissions may be edited for length, clarity and content, using fair comment as our guideline. The Citizen reserves the right to refuse any letter on the basis of unfair bias, prejudice or inaccurate information. As well, letters can only be printed as space allows. Please keep your letters brief and concise.