HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2002-08-14, Page 5Final Thought
Deeds, not stones, are the true monuments
of the great.'
- John L. Motley
THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 14, 2002. PAGE 5.
Other Views
T he Globe and Mail headline blared the
news last week: CELLPHONES
SAFE, U.S. STUDY FINDS.
Scientists have determined that cellular
telephones don't give users brain cancer after
all.
My first reaction was - damn! I'd been
pulling for the brain cancer option - anything
that might slacken the deathgrip of that single
most invasive and obnoxious morsel of
modern technology.
I know, I know - the cellphone is a godsend
for marooned mountaineers, stranded
motorists and anybody who can't come up
with two bits for a pay phone - but when did it
become mandatory for everybody with an
index finger to pack one? The damn things are
everywhere. For a while I thought the streets of
my lown were home to a mass epidemic of
earaches — everyone walking around with one
hand jammed to the side of their head. Then I
realized they were on cellphones.
People can't seem to just walk or sit in
contemplative silence anymore. They have to
call somebody. Right now.
And it's only going to get worse. Check the
local schoolyard. Little pre-pubertal
schoolkids cling to their cellphones as if they
were locks of Britney Spears' hair.
As a matter of fact, that relates to the latest
application for the cellphone - it's become a
pop concert accessory. Kids take their Nokias
and Motorolas to performances by their
favourite stars and in the middle of the show
they whip them out, dial up a friend and 'wave'
the cellphone at the stage so that their non-
ticket-buying friends can experience the next
best thing to being there.
Pretty spooky - . but if a couple of
is former Progressive
Conservative premier William Davis, who
has had open-heart surgery at 73, not old
these days.
Frank Miller, also a former Tory premier,
died a couple of years ago at 73 of a
condition brought on by several heart attacks
in a long career in politics.
Going back a couple of decades, John
Robarts, another former premier and Tory,
died relatively young at 65 after suffering a
stroke.
Robarts, a barrel-chested bear of a man
who looked the former university football
player he once was, became depressed after
losing control of his left side and speech,
and shot himself at home.
Other premiers have fared better. Liberal
David Peterson after leaving office had
surgery for prostate cancer, which is not
directly attributable to the strains of the job.
But Peterson had bounded into the
premier's office at 41 to a chorus of
admiration at his being a jogger and one-
time university boxer, as well as his
handsome features including his dark-brown
hair and appearing what one newspaper
called 'a lean, mean, sexy machine.
When he left defeated five years later his
hair had changed so dramatically papers
were more apt to call hiln the silver fox.
Frankenstein wannabes over in the U.K. have
their way, Cellphoneworld will soon become
even spookier.
Two researchers affiliated with the European
partner of the Massachusetts Institute of
Technology have come up with what they call
the audio tooth implant. It's also known as 'the
molar mobile', or 'the telephone tooth'.
It is a tiny receiver that can be implanted in
one of your back teeth. The device allows the
patient, hereafter referred to as the schmuck, to
receive phone calls, listen to music - even
connect to sound-based sites on the internet -
directly into a back molar, which would then
transmit the audio signal through the jawbone
to the inner ear.
The inventors aren't just targeting brain-
dead, headbanger teenager's.
They reckon the device will be popular
with investors and brokers, not to
mention sports fanatics desperate to follow the
play-by-play of their favourite teams around
the clock.
The brainiacs behind the telephone tooth
haven't figured out a way to make outgoing
calls, but, given the breakneck pace of
technology (`cellphone' wasn't even a
recognized noun five years ago), it's only a
matter of time.
I take solace in the fact that the phrase
Something the same could be said of New
Democrat Bob Rae, only 42 when he
reached the top job. .Observers marveled
how he matured in five years, as one put it,
from 'a youthful campaigner who seemed to
be perpetually brushing a wisp of blond hair
from his eyes into a white-haired elder
statesman.'
Mike Harris, who quit a few months ago
after seven years as Tory premier, has
avoided major illnesses. He has more of a
paunch and gray hairs he darkens, but so do
many men of 57.
Premiers hurt their health by long
workdays, often starting with breakfast
meetings before 8 a.rn. and making speeches
into the night.
They spend a lot of time travelling and
snatching quick bites of food, but the real
pressure is having to deal with crises every
day and making big decisions that affect the
lives of many.
In the end they have to take personal
responsibility for what their governments do
and their parties rise or fall on their actions.
They also have to 'oak cheerful or at least
composed, because news media watch their
every move.
Some have been under worse pressures
than others. Rae became the first NDP
`cellphone rage' is growing even faster than
cellphone mania. Innocent bystanders are
finally standing up and yelling back at the
ignorant yackers and jabberers in our midst.
A woman on a B.C. ferry was recently
yapping into her cellphone in the middle of the
lounge when a fellow passenger said in a loud
voice, "Madame, I think I speak for the other
passengers here when I say we don't care to
hear about the gossip from your office, so
please finish your call or take it out on the
deck."
Cell phone resentment in Toronto runs even
higher. Doctors at Toronto General report
treating mobile phone talkers for black eyes
and even in one case, a cracked rib - all results
of cell phone rage.
The actor Lawrence Fishburne stopped in
mid-performance during a Broadway play last
year, fixed a member of the audience with a
glare and bellowed "WILL YOU TURN OFF
THAT (expletive) PHONE, PLEASE?"
He got a standing ovation.
Speaking of standing, that's what I was
doing in a highway restroom recently, minding
my own business when a voice floated over the
wall of the cubicle next to me.
"Hi," it said.
"Hi," I answered uncertainly. There was a
pause, then the voice said: "What are you
doing?"
"Well," I stammered,-"I'm just making a pit
stop, I'm travelling west on the highway, just
like you are, I guess."
There was an even longer silence. Then the
voice said, "Look, honey, I'll call you back.
Some idiot at the urinals is answering every
question I ask you."
Celiphones. I hate 'em.
premier after decades in which his party
made endless promises and ran into a
recession and had no hope of fulfilling them
or being re-elected.
Premiers push themselves when ill.
Robarts while still premier and proud of his
robust physique, refused to go to hospital in
an ambulance that was called and left i i his
car with the ambulance following anxiously:
He was found to have a severe case of hiatus
hernia that kept him hospitalized a week.
Davis, after he retired as premier, said his
job as director of some of the biggest
companies on even its most interesting and
exciting days paled beside the most routine
days running a government.
Peterson, who might look back more
bitterly on his days as premier after being
turfed out, said the job involves trying "to
solve 40 different intractable problems a day
and 'whoever you are, it grinds you down.'
After premiers retire, their portraits are
painted' and hung in the legislature and
usually show prematurely aged men with lot
of wrinkles and grey hair.
Peterson, proud of his once good looks,
suggested premiers should be painted when
they start their terms, so future generations
can see them as they once were.
Being premier has its upsides, including
often leading to lucrtive careers in the
private sector, but it has not helped any
become an advertisement for physical
fitness.
* Bonnie
Gropp
The short of it
Oh, those perfect times
T
ife is full of those perfect moments,
those little gems that pop up from time
j
to time just to remind it's really not all
that bad. /
A baby's smile in the middle of an otherwise
wretched day, a phone-call from one of your
children when your nest just_ couldn't feel
emptier, the unconditional love of man's best
friend just when you feel you haven't a friend
in the world.
Then there are the times when perfection is
manufactured. A lively and entertaining
weekend with friends. A quiet but elegant
dinner. r. Time set aside to enjoy that book
you've been wanting to become acquainted
Then there are those all too rare events,
when several of these perfect moments align
themselves together and all is right. It's as soul
cleansing as a deep sigh in a stress-filled (lay.
Just such a breather happened to me during
my recent holiday. First, I must say that the
vacation had already been as close to perfect
as that many consecutive days could get.
Seven days in a lakeshore cottage, sunshine,
quiet and books.
Then one day some friends visited and after
an already lazy day and relaxing meal, we took
our glasses of wine down to the deck at the
water's edge to catch the sunset. The waves
lapped to the shore and as we watched we
suddenly spied a flock of cormorants. Sharing
binoculars we enjoyed their parade as they
flowed first northerly, then turning back, the
sun's dying brilliance reflecting off their shiny
black bodies as they dipped in and but of the
Then, as the lake and sky took on the
rainbow hues of a Huron sunset, the birds
drifted away. It was like they were killing time
for the show. The red ball sank and like magic
they were gone.
After that ;here was nothing but quiet, which
our foursome sat and savoured. And as we sat,
I realized that life is pretty darn good. With
good friends with whom conversation or
silence are equally companionable, good wine,
and all the wonders that are so much bigger
than us, there was little to ask for. While the
absence of my children eliminated the
opportunity for 100 per cent perfection, there
was no doubt that this had to be about as close
as one could expect.
Whether brief or contrived, these occasions
in our life are often appreciated at the moment,
but not for long. They were lovely at the time,
but their value goes, far beyond that.
In thinking back to those golden minutes by
the water, I understood the merit of a journal.
One would suppose, I guess, that because I
love to write I would be an avid diary keeper.
However, such is not the case. Since writing
became my livelihood, I seem to lack the
commitment it takes for a journal's faithful
reporting.
Yet, perhaps, I might try again. Because,
when life throws us a spit ball, it would be nice
to have a permanent record of those times of
perfection. In the middle of that wretched day
we can't always find that baby's smile.
Sometimes when your nest seems empty, there
won't be a phone call to fill your heart. And
even a dog doesn't always sense when you're
feeling a little lost.
So when life seems as putrid as rotten eggs
a journal can remind of the sunny side. It can
provide moments of perfection when they are
most needed.
Putting a bug in your ear
Being Ontario premier now rates
among the more hazardous jobs and
not just because of the danger of
being bored to death by long-winded
speechmakers.
Half the premiers of recent decades have
wound up with serious illnesses that can be
related to the high pressures and stresses of
their roles.
•The latest
The health hazards of being premier