Loading...
The Citizen, 2008-04-17, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, APRIL 17, 2008. PAGE 5. Bonnie Gropp TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt Dump garbage elsewhere Money brings some happiness, but after a certain point, it just brings more money. – Neil Simon Jefri Bolkiah is a chap who could shout ‘Amen’ to that. Jefri is a fellow who knows a thing or two about money – not that you’d ever guess as much if you met him. Jefri wears a perpetual frown and peers out at the world through a pair of furtive, backward-glancing eyes, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Strange behaviour, considering that he’s not exactly without resources. It’s ‘Prince’ Jefri, for starters. His brother is the Sultan of Brunei, which is to say, one of the wealthiest men on the planet. The sultan may control the purse strings but little bro’Jefri has been making do nicely with hand-me-downs. He has a personal fleet of 1,700 – yes, you read right – luxury cars. He also commandeers a 180-foot yacht and owns hundreds of paintings by Picasso, Renoir, Modigliani and the like. And for those oh-so important getaways, he has his very own New York pied a terre – the Palace Hotel. All of it. But that’s all about to morph into the past tense. Prince Jefri, in his capacity as head of Brunei’s investment agency, has made rather a bollocks of the business. He’s managed in just a few short years to blow a total of $14.8 billion U.S. How? No one’s more mystified than Prince Jefri. “I keep asking the lawyers,” says the prince. “Where did it go?” Here’s a suggestion, Jefri: frisk those lawyers before you let them out of the room. As penance, Prince Jefri has agreed to turn over what’s left of his assets – the yacht, the hotel, the paintings and the 1,700 cars – to his older, smarter brother. He just hopes the Sultan is feeling benevolent enough to leave him some scraps – say, a few dozen limos and a couple of floors of the Palace, perhaps a Picasso watercolour or two – to eke out some wretched kind of hand-to-mouth existence. Takes all kinds. Kinds like George Whitman, for instance. George couldn’t be less like Prince Jefri. Nary a limo or luxury yacht to his name, and certainly no connections to royalty. George lives in Paris where he skippers a run-down book store called Shakespeare and Company on the Left Bank opposite Notre Dame. He’s been doing the same thing since 1951 and he’s got about as much dough in the bank as he had when he started out, which is to say, rien. Could be his business acumen. When it comes to turning a buck, George isn’t exactly Donald Trump. His motto: “Give what you can; take what you need”. That’s the philosophy George Whitman has operated under for the past six decades. He also offers a free place to bunk for anybody in need for as long as they need. (Well, almost free. George expects freeloaders to help out around the shop.) The bookshop now boasts a dozen beds. George reckons that over the years, some 40,000 people have spent at least one night at Shakespeare and Company. The guest list has included Allen Ginsberg, Henry Miller, Richard Wright and William Burroughs. George doesn’t do the heavy lifting around Shakespeare and Company anymore – his daughter Sylvia has taken over. But the old man is still there, every day, smiling and sipping his iced tea from a chipped water glass as he oversees his ‘tumbleweeds’ as he calls his just-passing-through staff, making sure they don’t screw up the business. So. Two men, one of them richer than most of us can imagine; the other a nonagenarian without, as the saying approximately goes, an urn to urinate in. One guy is happy as a clam; the other is going nuts with worry. Conclusions? Draw your own. But I would point out that a couple of years ago, the British Broadcasting Corporation took it upon itself to discover “the happiest place on earth”. They investigated the flesh pots of America and the cultural pearls of Europe and the Middle East. They also checked out the socialist Edens of Norway and Denmark, which placed surprisingly high. But they settled on Pentecost, one of 83 islands that make up the nation of Vanuatu, in the South Pacific. The GNP of Pentecost is non-existent. The citizens don’t even have money. What they have is an abiding sense of community, which the BBC investigative team concluded, is the most important prerequisite for happiness of all. So: appreciate your neighbours. Rejoice that our greedy, grasping world can still make room for a George Whitmore…. And spare a kind thought for poor Prince Jefri of Brunei. Arthur Black Other Views A tale of two men … and money Anewspaper reporter covering the Ontario legislature half-a-century ago became somewhat inebriated, as others described it, and unable to write his story. So reporters who had covered the same event for other papers and were trying to be helpful sent their stories to his under his byline and it wound up with two versions of the same story. The reporter kept his job, because he was well-liked and often obtained inside information from drinking with cabinet ministers. The story was told when former reporters who covered the legislature as long ago as the 1950s gathered here for their first reunion dinner. It suggests reporters drank a lot those days and there is some truth to this and it almost went with the job. But those worried about the accuracy of papers today should know, notwithstanding many exciting movies, reporters drink a lot less and this writer can attest those covering the legislature drink less than the average citizen. It was a time for reminiscing and another reporter recalled Bob Welch, provincial secretary in the early 1970s, announced he was running for the Progressive Conservative leadership being vacated by premier John Robarts. He raced to phone his paper on deadline. He was relieved to make it and a couple of hours later picked up his paper and his story was on the front page under his byline, but read “Tom Wells to run for leader and premier.” (Wells was health minister). Another reporter told of calling Robarts in the 1960s late at night in his room at the Westbury Hotel and it is interesting a premier was so accessible, because phoning one now is harder than getting through to President George W. Bush personally at The White House. The reporter identified himself, but Robarts, in his deep, rumbling voice, cut him off with “I know who it is – whaddya want?” The reporter mumbled his paper had asked him to call and he was sorry to bother him and Robarts snarled, “You always say you’re sorry to bother me, but you always do.” The reporter explained a prominent Israeli politician had died and his paper wanted some comment and Robarts demanded “what’s that got to do with me? I don’t know the man.” The reporter explained the politician visited Ontario three months earlier and the premier replied “well, I never met him,”. The reporter said he had and the premier replied “I don’t remember him,” but eventually volunteered “well, Eric, you know what to say.” The paper next day carried a report of the politician’s death and partway through it read “Premier John Robarts said last night “I met him here only three months ago and I remember him well”.” It was a deception, but should not be taken as an indication reporters and politicians colluded on important matters, because Robarts soon after attended a federal- provincial conference in Ottawa and held two press conferences to which this reporter, who had written something that offended him, was the only reporter not invited. There were many such stories. Ex-reporters flew from as far away as Vancouver and Alabama to renew friendships readily made sitting at desks listening to interminable debates or whiling away a cold winter’s night after a political meeting in Thunder Bay. One came in a wheelchair and another on crutches. It perhaps was much like gatherings of those who worked together in offices or factories many years ago or high school reunions. But there was one difference in the backdrop of politics. William Davis, Conservative premier from 1971-85, when most of these ex- reporters covered the legislature, was the guest speaker and a far right wing columnist introducing him spent all his 15 minutes accusing Davis of not being a real Conservative and being unwilling to stand up for Conservative principles. Davis listened patiently, then gently revealed the columnist twice privately asked for his support to win nomination and run for his Conservatives. There is life in some of these old dogs yet. Eric Dowd FFrroomm QQuueeeenn’’ss PPaarrkk The day began like any other. As a child I pretty much started my morning in good humour, feeling loved, secure and happy to be alive. What the weather brought didn’t matter, sunshine, snow or sleet, it was all the same. There was pleasure to be found in any condition when you have that kind of energy and innocence. But then I would enter my Grade 6 classroom and the funk would begin to descend. I had learned what to expect. The day would also continue like any other, unfortunately. My every attempt at work maligned, my every move chastised, my sense of self-worth nit-picked into non-existence. Up to now, I’d always been a good student. My marks were high and my teachers liked me. Most of that hadn’t changed, but the latter had become my first foray into the frustrating world of being unable to please. Nothing I did was good enough for this teacher, nothing I said escaped derision. I was no troublemaker, at least not at this point in life. Honestly. I was actually a pretty good kid, shy, eager to be liked by everyone and quite fond of school. I had looked forward to being in this classroom because the teacher, old as Methuselah (sorry, still bitter), had actually taught both my brother and sister too, which being years apart didn’t often happen. What I didn’t realize was that no matter how hard I tried it had set me up for a school-year of negative comparisons. And unfortunately I let them not just ruin my days, but hurt me. Older now, wiser somewhat, I know that for whatever reason her need to make me feel small, to take me down a notch at a time was her problem, not mine. What flaw in her personality made it necessary to challenge and embarrass me with regularity I can only guess. But I read something recently, e-mail of course, that made me think of her and I wish someone had shared it with me then. It was called the Law of the Garbage Truck. The lesson starts in a New York City taxi. The cabbie was driving along when another vehicle pulled out of a parking space and nearly collided with him. The guilty driver had the gall to turn and scream at the taxi driver who simply smiled and waved. Asked why, his response was what the writer calls the Law of the Garbage Truck: “Many people are like garbage trucks. They run around full of garbage, full of frustration, full of anger and disappointment. As their garbage piles up, they need a place to dump it. If you let them, they’ll dump it on you. When someone wants to dump on you, don’t take it personally. You just smile, wave, wish them well and move on. You’ll be happy you did.” The e-mail suggests that we all keep an eye out for the garbage trucks. Like the cabbie, when you see one coming to drop off its load don’t take it personally. As the writer said, don’t dwell on a hit but get ready to make the next play your best. “Good leaders know they have to be ready for their next meeting and good parents know that they have to welcome their children home from school with hugs and kisses. Good leaders and parents know that they have to be fully present and at their best for the people they care about. The bottom line is that successful and happy people do not let garbage trucks take over their day.” “Love the people who treat you right and forget about the ones who don’t.” Sometimes easier said than done, but certainly worth a try. Old dogs still have some life 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.