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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 1999-06-30, Page 5Arthur Black THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 30, 1999. PAGE 5. Whata way to go! Of all the whacky news stories we’ve been bombarded with this year, there’s one that still makes me shake my head. It happened a few weeks ago aboard the luxury cruise ship Sun Vista sailing just off the coast of Malaysia. Eleven hundred carefree tourists were on board when somebody stopped in the middle of a sentence, sniffed the air and asked, “Do you smell smoke?” If not right away, they soon did. The Sun Vista was on fire and just a few hours away from going to the bottom of the sea. Thankfully, no one was lost. Everyone got into lifeboats and safely away, but for a long time it didn’t look good. So do you know what the passengers did to keep their spirits high? They sang the theme song from the movie Titanic. I had an immediate, instinctive reaction when I read about that. I believe the medical term for it is ‘gag reflex’. I don’t yet know how I am going to die, but I sure hope it’s not on the deck of a sinking ship doing an off-key lip-sync of a song about another sinking ship. That’s what I call an ignominious demise. Of course there have been a few of those over the years. ‘Way back in 53 BC, a Roman shylock by the name of Crassus got his just desserts. The notorious moneylender tried to shake down some Parthian soldiers. They responded by pouring molten gold down his throat. An English historian by the name of Thomas Mother usually knows best I have long had admiration for the way Margaret Thatcher ran the British economy during the time she was prime minister. Also worth admiring is the lesson that she gave the Argentinians during the Falkland Islands war when she taught them that there was still considerable validity in the old statement of never underestimating the power of a woman. One thing that Ms Thatcher, who was the daughter of a small grocer, liked to say was that, if you really wanted to see how an economy should work, you should take a look at the operations of a canny housewife. Most economists would break out laughing at that suggestion but not this one and not, apparently, a few other members of our craft. I recently came across an article by a member of our arcane society which indicated how much this ‘canny housewife’ had in common- with good economic practice. I think you would agree that the following mottos of this housewife are generally valid ones. “Save for a rainy day, don’t borrow too much, honesty is the best policy, plan for the future, treat people well, don’t lend money to deadbeats, high hiring and firing costs depress employment, diversify financial risk, incentives matter, open markets make sense.” It seems to me that most economists, too, would go along with such practices although May also fell victim to his own bad habit - in May’s case, gluttony. May was a compulsive gorger who looked like Jabba The Hut - so fat that he was compelled to tie up his drooping jowls with strips of cloth. One night as he was vacuuming up a plate of mutton, May choked on a bone. By the time bystanders got the strips unknotted, he was dead. There’s a certain rough justice to some weird demises. The pupils of St. Cassian, a third-century schoolmaster, stabbed him to death with their pens. Hey, if you think I’m giving you too much homework just say so ... The French composer Jean Baptiste Lully committed a kind of musical hari kiri. While conducting an orchestra, Lully thumped his cane on the floor to accentuate the tempo. Except the sharpened tip of his cane hit his foot, piercing the skin. Gangrene set in and Lully died of blood poisoning. In the 16th century there was an Austrian by the name of Hans Steininger who was famous for having the longest beard in the world. It was pretty long, alright. Climbing a staircase one evening, Steininger stepped on his beard, lost his balance, tumbled down the stairs and broke his neck. And there’s some deaths that make you want to yell, “What did you expect, dipstick?” Such as Ray Priestley of Melbourne, Australia. Mister Priestley was playing snooker in his garage with his friend, (and, I suspect, a dozen or two members of the Foster family). Mister Priestley decided it was time to show off his special ‘trick shot’. By Raymond Canon the thought that they were agreeing with a housewife might give some of them fright that they might be accused of heresy. At any rate, let’s consider for a moment a few of these slogans in practice. In Europe, one of the biggest problems has to be the high level (over 10 per cent) of unemployment. Yet take a look at the countries that have followed the housewife’s advice. Ireland, for one, has kept labour costs relatively low and has attracted industry by the lowest tax rates in Europe. In so doing, it has reduced unemployment from 15 per cent to less than eight per cent now. At the same time it now attracts more American investment than Germany and Italy combined. Another country in the same vein is Holland. It has also made hiring and firing considerably less restrictive and has now about the lowest rate of unemployment in Europe, a remarkable four per cent. You would think that this would make other European countries sit up and take notice but apparently not yet to any great extent. Any mother would worry if good times were taken for granted and that is what disturbs her right now. There are too many actions taking place at the end of the century as if good times were here to stay. It could be argued that Americans (and Canadians) are spending too much and saving too little. Perhaps she should write a book telling people how to save money without falling into a poverty trap. As long as the Dow Jones is at So he climbed onto a ceiling rafter, hooked himself by his knees over the beam and proceeded to take his shot upside down. Alas, he got a charleyhorse, straightened his legs, slipped, crashed to the concrete floor and landed on his head. Oh well. Wasn’t as if he was using it. One of the most bizarre passages has to be the one suffered by Mister Langley Collyer, an eccentric American recluse who died, with his brother, at home, in 1947. Sounds fairly normal - but there was nothing normal about the Collyer brothers or the house they lived in. The joint was filled, floor to ceiling, with trash, junk, crap and thousands of bundles of newspapers. The brothers got from room to room by tunnels they’d burrowed through the maze. Langley Collyer was killed by his own booby trap. He tripped a wire designed to foil burglars and buried himself under three breadboxes, a sewing machine, a suitcase filled with scrap metal and several hundred pounds of newspapers. His brother starved to death. The bodies were not ‘excavated’ for nearly a month. The all-time worst death? Well, there are hundreds of candidates for that title, but for my money, the death of England’s Edmund Ironside (1016) has to be, at the very least, a solid contender. King Edmund was ‘slain on the privy’ as it were. By’ a swordsman who had hidden himself (and his sword) in the cesspit below the ‘throne’. Bummer. record levels, who should worry? Well, mother would and so do I. It is interesting to note that with all the economic doom and gloom in southeast Asia, the country which has been best able to ride out the storm is Singapore and it has been following mother’s advice very carefully. Its banks lend money only to companies who put it to good use and the banks expect the loan to be repaid, a concept not too prevalent in that part of the world. Singapore has a very open market, has an honest if, at times, slightly paternalistic government, and sound finances. All this while there is agony in Thailand, Indonesia, South Korea, Japan and even Hong Kong. Finally, Mother would approve of any efforts to simplify the tax system and is appalled at the tendency of the Americans to do anything but. (Canadians, take note!) Well, why are governments not taking mother’s advice more frequently? Because, as economists everywhere openly admit, and politicians too, when they are not being recorded, what mother likes is easier said than done in our political world. A Final Thought The optimist sees the doughnut; the pessimist sees the hole. - McLandburgh Wilson The Short of it By Bonnie Gropp In your backyard Theatre — a word which for some conjures up images of lyrical Shakespearean prose delivered by flowery maids and goaded fellows in tights. My introduction to theatre came in elementary school, when a friend and her mother took me to Stratford to see The Merry Wives of Windsor. I admit to a definite loss with regards to dialogue, but I was fascinated by what I saw before me. By the time I entered high school I was a willing participant in the class discussions-on Merchant of Venice and found myself to be captivated by the music I heard in his writing. I enjoyed letting the words flow over me, the punch of the conversations, and riding as if on a wave the cadences of each soliloquy. But not all feel the same. Also, and unfortunately, there is a tendency by many of these people to lump theatre in with the writings of Will. I enjoy attending the Stratford Festival. Having seen many of their Shakespearean productions over the past, in recent years my favourite plays have been their presentations of musicals and classics. I have been to theatre in Toronto and Kitchener-Waterloo as well. The quality of these places ensures that with the exception of the most stalwart opponent, theatre does offer something for everyone. But none excites me as much as the first play of each Blyth Festival season. And I'm not just saying this because it's in my backyard. Then, again, perhaps I am. Blyth's summer festival had been in existence for some 10 years before I went to see what all the fuss was about. Why it took so long, I really have no idea. However, in retrospect, I must consider, rather shamefacedly at my snobbishness, that I had determined anything in small town Huron County would not compare to the larger centres. It took one night, one show, to realize how very wrong I was. This is professional theatre. That evening I saw Another Season's Promise. Its topical story about a farm family's struggle to hold onto the life they had known appealed to local folk. The quality of the show guaranteed its success with a far wider audience. And that is the story of Blyth that I have come to know. Sitting in our very own backyard is an exciting little venue, that brings us stories we can relate to, that educate us, stir us and inspire us. Certainly it's had its misses, but the calibre of the work, its writers, designers, actors, directors is generally lauded throughout the theatre community, not just nationally but across the world. Yet, there are still many, who for some reason or another have never come to see what's going on. Some think about it, but don't get around to making the call. Others opt for more recognizable fare rather than trying out the new cuisine. Last year, a woman I know told me she was attending the Blyth theatre for the first time though she has lived in this area all her life. Speaking with her later, she was pleasantly surprised. This past Friday, the Festival kicked off its silver season. For 24 years it's been in our backyard. If you've never taken a peek before might I suggest you give it a try. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised too.