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The Citizen, 2003-06-18, Page 5THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 18, 2003. PAGE 5. Other Views I must say, One of the strengths of the English language is that, when it doesn’t have a decent home-grown word, it imports as necessary from foreign tongues. One of our great imports is chutzpah. It comes from Yiddish and means supreme self­ confidence. Nerve, gall. And a little bit more. Michelle Landsberg, a columnist for The Toronto Daily Star used to live in New York city. She wrote a book about it called This Is New York, Honey! The title came from something that happened to her on Park Avenue one afternoon. Landsberg had hailed a taxi, opened the back door and was about to climb in, when she was blind-sided, cross-checked and left on the curb by a well-dressed matron who deftly wedged herself in the cab and started barking instructions to the driver. “B-b-b-but I hailed this taxi,” objected Landsberg. The interloper fixed her with a deadpan stare and snarled, “This is New York, honey” as the taxi sped away. That’s chutzpah. But you don’t have to live in New York to encounter the phenomenon. O.J. Simpson was in the news last week musing about how he’d like to try his hand as a news commentator - on the upcoming trial of alleged actor/murderer Robert Blake. “I think I have a lot of insight,” said Simpson - also an alleged actor/murderer. That’s chutzpah. If Fox News signs him up, that’ll be chutzpah squared. There’s a Swazi radio correspondent who seems to have a fair dose of the condition as well. This guy was providing live daily reports Reasons for donations hard to prove Atop fundraiser for Ontario’s Progressive Conservative party once destroyed the records of a company’s controversial donation not long before police raided the office searching for them. But an Ontario Supreme Court judge who conducted a public enquiry because the Tory government gave the company a lucrative benefit, generously found “nothing sinister” in shredding them. The judge, the late Justice Samuel H.S. Hughes, picked by Tory premier William Davis to conduct the inquiry in the 1970s, was as much a Tory as if he had been sent over by party headquarters. Hughes was an intimate of several Tory premiers, campaigned and ran for the party and even nominated Old Man Ontario, Leslie Frost, when he became leader and premier. Presumably Davis could not find a judge less partisan. These are the sort of odds critics have been up against when they tried to prove Tory governments give favours in return for donations. They have gotten close to proving it only in rare cases when some scrap of paper accidentally popped up that bolstered their cause. In their latest complaint, a developer whose companies donated $1 million to the Tory party under premiers Mike Harris and Ernie Eves was lent $36 million to buy land by a government board that manages employees’ pension assets. The board has never lent anyone else money for such purposes and the Liberals claim it lent in return for the donation, which may sound a reasonable theory, but proving it is difficult. Another recent example was a small horse racetrack, Picov Downs, which donated lavishly to Tories’ leadership campaigns and received the government’s permission to install of all the nerve! Arthur Black from Baghdad during the recent Saddamectorny. He was one of the very few correspondents willing to risk their lives to be at the centre of the attack as the American maelstrom descended. At least, that’s what his radio listeners thought. Turns out he was broadcasting from a broom closet in downtown Johannesburg. And let’s not forget Sinead O’Connor in the Chutzpah Sweepstakes. The Irish thrush-cum- flake, famous for shredding a picture of the Pope on stage, has announced that she is retiring from show business. “I request that as of July, since I no longer seek to be a famous person, and instead I wish to live a normal life, could people please afford me my privacy,” she wrote. On her website. Hey, Sinead - no problem here. I won’t call if you don’t call. No report on chutzpah would be complete without some input from the legal profession. I nominate Manhattan lawyer Jeffrey Powell. He recently sued singer-songwriter John Fogarty for $5 million U.S. as compensation for “profound loss of hearing in his left ear”. Seems Mister Powell went to a music concert featuring Mister Fogarty and found the music too loud. Alas, Mister Powell’s plaints fell on deaf Eric Dowd From Queen’s Park far more lucrative slot machines than its size entitled it to. The Liberals similarly suggested the Tory government awarded the slots because the track donated to the Tory party. What the opposition party needs is something incriminating on paper, as happened in the early 1970s after an investment company, Fidinam (Ontario) Ltd., donated $50,000 to the Tory party and around the same time the Davis government lent it money for a new office complex and guaranteed to rent space in it. The company’s overseas parent asked why and to whom the money was given and the developer sent back a telex explaining it was a “political donation” relating to the deal with the government. Davis at this time, opted for an investigation by the government’s own, trusted lawyers, who concluded there was no evidence to prove the government gave help specifically in return for the donation or any breach of the criminal code. But most neutral observers felt the memo told the real story and the Tories had been caught red-handed and Davis obviously felt worried, because he quickly changed the law to limit donations and make them public. Another incriminating piece of paper prompted the inquiry Judge Hughes presided over. The Securities and Exchange ears. An unsympathetic judge pointed out that “an objective, reasonable, 56-year-old lawyer” should be smart enough to intuit that voluntarily purchasing a ticket to a rock concert might conceivably lead to loud music causing hearing impairment. He threw the case out. Give your head a shake. Mister Powell. Might clear that left ear. Any Canadian chutzpah candidates - or are we just too bland, diffident and polite in The Great White North to play in the Brass Balls Big Leagues? Meet Dustin Dickeson, of Sechelt, B.C. He’s 21 years old now but he’s got more mileage on his odometer than the average 21- year-old. Back when he was 17, Dickeson had an affair with his high school accounting teacher. Word got out, the ordure hit the air­ circulating device, the teacher was canned and Dickeson was protected by a court-ordered publication ban. Well, Dickeson went to court to get the ban lifted. Seems he’s graduated (?) into a self- styled gangsta rapper, complete with a home- pressed CD. “I got stuff coming up in New York” he explained to a provincial court judge. That’s why he wanted the publication ban removed. He wanted to cash in on his notoriety. Traumatized by the event? Not hardly. There’s a song on his CD called Teacher’s Scandal, which features the tender lyric: “the bitch couldn’t resist my charm”. Sounds to me like Dustin Dickeson is ready for New York. If he’ll promise to take out citizenship, I’ll kick in for bus fare. Commission in the United States investigated a company there and lound it had a secret fund from which it made political payments. One was through a Canadian subsidiary, Disposal Services Ltd., which had been getting nowhere against pesky neighbours in persuading the Davis government to allow it to use a site north of Toronto as a garbage dump, but donated $35,000 to the Tory party and magically won approval within a week. An employee wrote a memo explaining the donation was for political reasons and to secure a favourable ruling and the Tories proved as secretive as the CIA - the money was paid into an account with a number, which turned out to be the car licence plate number of a Tory bagman. But the learned judge found it was only coincidence the company donated to the Tory party and quickly won a benefit from government. Any outrage he expressed was at what he called “modern prejudice against political fundraising.” He might have been one of Eves’s fundraisers of today, who would like voters to believe all donors to them give from the goodness of their hearts. Bonnie Gropp The short of it Rocking away As if it were yesterday 1 remember the first time I saw him. A thick mop of hair, gorgeous sleepy eyes and a dreamy smile. 1 was nine — and besotted. “Mom, he is sooooo cute.” It was February, 1964 and the object of my affection was a handsome 21-year-old whom most in North America were also seeing for the first time. And, while I may have grown up considerably since then, my girlish infatuation has not entirely disappeared. I still think Paul McCartney’s sooooo cute, even though today, June 18, my favourite former Beatle turns an incredible 61. Is it just my imagination or does 61 not look like 61 anymore? Granted, there’s something about drawing closer to an age one’s self that smooths the wrinkles of impending seniordom. But I think even a 20-something today would have a hard time reconciling McCartney’s own image of “When I’m 64” with the still boyish-faced, expectant dad, who can rock with the best of them, which is the reality. Similar examples are everywhere. Paul Newman was tearing up the car racing circuits into his 70s. Fitness centres are full of people in their 40s, 50s, and older striving to stay healthy and active. A story on the website of the internet magazine Grand Times for “savvy” seniors was on African safari options. There are golf courses for seniors, internet dating services for seniors, and — I admit, this one scares me a little— according to an article ii. a recent copy of Jane magazine, sex clubs for seniors. The first people I can remember as 60-year- olds were my grandparents, all of whom I loved dearly, but who always seemed old to me. It wasn’t their physical abilities that caused this; they were hard workers who gave until there was nothing left. To say they were worn down by life would be unfair; it was more that they let life show its wear and tear. They aged without question, withou' looking for ways to slow the process. Only one showed any concession to vanity. My maternal grandmother liked new dresses, wore make-up and used a six-week rinse to keep her grey hair - well, blue. But she never gave up the restricting corset, or a thought to how homely those white orthopedic shoes were. Nothing was worth sacrificing propriety or function. Well fortunately today, with aging baby boomers making up the greatest number of the population, thus giving strongest voice to demand, even function can be stylish. And as propriety has pretty much gone out the window (not always a fortunate thing, however) we can be freer about things. But just to test whether my theory of youthful seniors was wishful thinking for someone not too far off the mark, I recently asked a young friend’s opinion. Did a mutual acquaintance who had celebrated a milestone, look to her like a 60-year-old? With almost no thought to the query she responded with “no”. The man, she says, doesn’t look his age, but perhaps more interestingly, doesn’t “act like I thought 60-year-olds would.” June is seniors month, a time to remember that senior doesn’t mean oid, a time to celebrate a generation who don’t act their age. They’re rocking the golden years away, and I don’t mean in chairs. 4