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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2007-04-12, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, APRIL 12, 2007. PAGE 5. Bonnie Gropp TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt The political landscape for the Ontario election in October has changed dramatically in the past two weeks — the prospects for the opposition Progressive Conservatives suddenly are blooming. The Conservatives have found fertile ground first because Premier Dalton McGuinty’s Liberal government was unacceptably slow to get to grips with concerns that private owners of retail stores selling its lottery tickets and their employees were personally winning more often than they could by chance and some were ripping off other buyers. This is ironic, because the politicians took over running the lotteries three decades ago mainly on the claim this would keep out shady characters who would manipulate them. But it has now been revealed ticket buyers would be safer placing bets with a guy called Big Lou in a bar. The issue interests residents more than many involving politicians failings, because most buy lottery tickets, and the affair clearly is damaging the Liberals, who usually have been about five per cent ahead of the Conservatives in polls. Conservative leader John Tory has gained stature in ferreting out details and so has New Democrat leader Howard Hampton. But the Conservatives stand to gain more, because Ontario has a history of choosing between Liberals and Conservatives. This also is the latest in a growing list of Liberal fumbles, which include repeated postponements of plans to close coal-fired power stations and dithering over producing a plan to keep down soaring property taxes on homes that in the end promises to be mainly cosmetic. This failure by the Liberals to protect those who buy lottery tickets could be close to the last straw. They should be reminded of the New Democrats who, after winning government in 1990, were labeled by opponents “The Beverly Hillbillies,” after a TV family from the backwoods who struck riches and lived lives of gaffes in a Hollywood mansion. The name stuck. The Liberals also have been helped to look more accident-prone by the coincidental desertion from their caucus of backbench MPP Tim Peterson, who will sit as an independent until the election and then run in the same riding for the Conservatives. Peterson has been virtually unnoticed and said little in the legislature, although backbenchers have opportunities to comment and propose legislation, and would be in the running for least productive MPP. His only claim to fame has been he is a brother of former Liberal premier David Peterson and former federal minister Jim Peterson. But his switch came when the Liberals were staggering under criticism for their failings on lotteries and enables the Conservatives to claim even Liberals are dissatisfied with their party. One already has left it in disgust. Tory also has quickly claimed many Liberal backbenchers are unhappy because McGuinty is not listening to them, but the Conservative leader would have no inside knowledge of this except what he was told by the defecting Peterson, who has taken his biases with him. Backbenchers in governments of every party in any case traditionally have grumbled all the important decisions are made by the premier and a favoured few, but they usually rallied around when their party needed them. This should not be taken as a sign the Liberals are falling apart. But McGuinty’s new woes should include the prospect he could be haunted in the election by his comment, when asked why he provided no general tax cuts for individuals in his March budget, he wants to strengthen Ontarians and not offer them “trinkets and shiny baubles.” McGuinty is in line with the current trend among governments of spending and strengthening services rather than cutting taxes and most Ontarians recently have preferred this to tax cuts that were the successful battle-cry of the former Conservative premier, Mike Harris. But Tory has promised a $2.5 billion tax cut and many voters may find this appealing. McGuinty might find it dangerous in an election to be pictured as a premier who dismisses tax cuts as junky trinkets. Message from the heart You’re mistaken if you think wrongdoers are always unhappy. The really professional evil-doers love it. They’re as happy as larks in the sky. – Muriel Spark Igrew up on another planet, a world that bears little relationship to the one I live in now. There were no homeless people or wandering gangs of ‘hoodies’ in my neighbourhood – or in my province, as far as I could see. Kids left their bikes in the driveway, cars and houses were never locked. We played outside, unsupervised until the mosquitoes drove us home. Nobody was afraid of the dark and strangers were just people you hadn’t met yet. It was an innocent time and place, where almost nothing horrendous, immoral or illegal ever seemed to happen. Unless the Hartmans were involved. The Hartmans – not so much a family as a pagan gang related by blood – lived in a shack that no one – aside from bill collectors, truancy officers or the occasional constable – ever ventured to. It was pretty much the private preserve of Old Man Hartman, Mrs. Hartman and an indeterminate number of grubby kids ranging from toddlers to teenagers. And all of them trouble. The parents drank and threw their beer bottles out in the yard which was strewn with trash and the cannibalized carcasses of various cars and trucks. The older kids fought, stole bikes and baseball mitts and generally terrorized their peers. The littlest Hartmans stayed in the shadows and tried to survive until they were big enough to make the shift from prey to predator. The Hartmans partied hard and often and long after the rest of us Leave It To Beaver burghers had donned our PJs and sipped our cocoa and gone to bed. They knew that they were hated and feared by their neighbours and they took a fierce, defiant pride in it. If the Hartmans were around today they would be labeled ‘disadvantaged’and invested with a succession of court-ordered counselors, adjudicators and government services to lubricate their re-entry into society. And they would laugh. In truth they were vicious deadbeats and those kids would grow up to do time for everything from petty theft to armed robbery and rape. The fact is, society was dumbstruck and gobsmacked by the Hartmans. Nobody had any idea what to do with them. What made it tolerable was the fact that the Hartmans were an anomaly. The rest of the neighbourhood was orderly and decent and, well, bourgeois, so that everything functioned reasonably well. But as you’ve probably noticed, there are a lot more Hartmans around today. And we still don’t know what to do with them. In Britain, public drunkenness, brawling and general hooliganism is such a problem that the government has taken to handing out ASBOs – anti-social behaviour orders. ASBOs are usually imposed for a term of between two and five years and forbid the subject from harassing or alarming the public. They can also exclude the subject from visiting particular areas of town and from hanging out with other named individuals. In the Netherlands, authorities have gone one step further. They’ve built special communities for anti-social types – people whose neighbours are fed up with loud, messy, drunken behaviour. The communities are on the outskirts of various towns and strictly monitored. It’s not a life sentence. Anyone who shows that he or she can live responsibly and be respectful of their neighbours can earn the right to eventually rejoin ‘society’ and move back home. Those who don’t can party and swear and fight and carouse all they want – under 24-hour supervision. Interestingly, a lot of people choose Door Number Two. “Lots of people who rebel against noise ordinances or zoning regulations actually choose to move into the special communities,” says a Dutch observer. “Some people just don’t want to fit in. Why should we force them?” Personally, I think the authorities in Australia have a better solution. There’s a car park trouble spot in Rockdale, south of Sydney, that solved its hooligan problem quickly and cheaply. The car park had been taken over by what the Aussies call ‘hoons’ – teenage louts with muscle cars and loud radios. They showed up weekends to drink and brawl and rev the night away. Solution? The authorities set up a sound system and put on back-to-back Barry Manilow CDs at full volume. The hoons fled like cockroaches from a Klieg light. Hey, I’m all for taking back the neighbourhood … but Mandy? Copacabana?? There’s such a thing as cruel and unusual punishment. Arthur Black Tories gain ground on lotteries I go on-line, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words:You've got mail. —You’ve Got Mail written by Nora and Delia Ephron The meaning of those three little words has changed considerably over the years. Where once we looked excitedly in the mailbox for letters from friends and loved ones, written communication, through e-mails and messaging, has become as immediate as a phone conversation. There’s no doubt it has its benefits. Contact with loved ones can be instant, old friends can be found and new acquaintances begun. A text message to my son travelling out west could quickly set my mind at ease to his well- being and whereabouts. A hasty e-mail punched out during a break in a busy day, gets the important message on its way. But, convenient as it may be, there’s something missing, some old-fashioned quality that just seems a little more personal. However, to take the effort and sit down, write thoughts and feelings, then post it is just too much bother in this busy, busy world. But, you know what? Sometimes it’s worth the effort. One of my children lives out west. As pleased as I am to have my family around me, the times now are rather bittersweet as our gatherings are regularly incomplete. It was at one of these occasions when I had a revelation. Our family had been enjoying a day together, yet at its end I felt infinite sadness, not just because I missed my girl, but because she was missing so much. Our kids have always been close, but now the lives of her siblings were moving and changing and she was out of the loop for most of it. Then an idea struck me, one I surmised would probably make me feel closer to her and would keep her involved in her family, albeit it from a distance. I decided that each and every day I would write her a short letter talking about feelings and apprising her of things that have happened and are happening. I would mail these missives once a week. There’s no question that the exercise has been therapeutic. As I chat about the day’s events and my thoughts I feel connected to her despite the all-too-huge distance separating us. I miss having her nearby, but writing to her somehow brings her closer. Perhaps even more than a phone chat as a letter remains after the initial contact. I can see her smile as she reads it and, of course, the occasional frown or rolling of the eyes as well. Initially, I had no idea whether she was pleased by my effort or not. She never mentioned the letters much, unless there was something specific that needed to be addressed. Then Remembrance Day came, and with it a holiday for the post office. Can’t even begin to tell you what it did for my heart when she called to say she hadn’t gotten her letter on the expected day. She looked forward to them she said, loved to sit down and read them. “I was afraid you hadn’t written this week.” Remembering that made sharing this past weekend’s Easter gathering stories with her even more special for me. Certainly in our fast-paced world there are arguments for e-mail. But it’s a cold, impersonal way to communicate. Taking the time to write something by hand just seems a much better way to say not what’s on your mind, but what’s in your heart. Other Views Cruel and unusual punishment Eric Dowd FFrroomm QQuueeeenn’’ss PPaarrkk New knowledge is the most valuable commodity on earth. The more truth we have to work with, the richer we become. – Kurt Vonnegut Final Thought