What the Actual F**k, Canada?

You know how you guys sometimes say, "What The Actual Fuck, Canada?"

Well, what the actual fuck, Canada.

Many of the the politicized people I follow on Twitter (whom I assumed were my like-minded peeps because of their outspoken views on the way Prime Minister Stephen Harper is destroying the environment of Canada) have revealed themselves to be conspiracy nuts with little attention paid to the facts. I've become the person with the facts. If my life as a social media pundit was doomed (and it was) my life as a political pundit is laughable at best.

But what the actual fuck, Canada?

I'm afraid the country is going to go all "Lady Di" on Nathan Cirillo's funeral. The family has been asked to have the funeral at the Colosseum in Toronto. We didn't even know he had a girlfriend until yesterday and have yet to see her or his 4 yr old son or either of his parents but they're being asked to throw a funeral in a stadium?

Harper is criticized for hiding in a closet in chambers when told there was a shooter in the house? This is normal, although maybe in other countries the hidey hole is less makeshift. And by the way, if he arranged this event to make our country into a police state, wouldn't he have made like a hero and grabbed a flag pole, too?

And if you're going to criticize the lack of security on Parliament Hill (which should be criticized) you cannot turn on a dime and accuse Harper of infringing on our rights. You can't ask Harper why the government knew that we'd been hiked up the ISIS list since joining our USA allies in strikes against it and did not act (a good question) and then accuse him of being a totalitarian when he seeks broader rights and increased policing powers.

It's Canada's turn to relinquish freedom for protection and we're perplexed. We want everyone to like us. Maybe we really are the tard little brother of the USA, a description I've kept to myself for many years.

Who the hell voted for Harper? This is his third term in office! Cut it out!

Right now, Stephen Harper is our leader. Pick your battles, peeps.

Canadians want to "get back to normal" but that can't happen until we're sure the threat from ISIS and Lone Wolf types inspired by ISIS is over and that time hasn't come yet. It may never come.

As well:
The vote for Toronto mayor takes place tomorrow (Monday.) Rob Ford is out (he has cancer, bad) but he's been replaced in the campaign by his brother Doug. So Doug Ford is running for major and might WIN the race.

Earlier today I was arguing on Twitter that Harper cannot, as the above pundits proclaim, dismantle the CBC. They say it will happen under Harper's watch and I tell them they're wrong. I worked at CBC Radio (regional and network) when the Corpse didn't have a building of its own. There were major attempts to destroy it back then. Now its got pride of place in downtown Toronto. Harper won't take it down. But . . . this afternoon we discovered . . .

Jian Ghomeshi, the talented host and co-creator of CBC radio's Q, was just fired from the CBC (because, he says, his private life has been paraded all over social media and the perception of it is not in synch with CBC standards) and fighting back on social media by telling us he's into consensual BDSM. C.B.C. can't respond because Ghomeshi has launched a law suit. We shall see how this unfolds. If he's a date-rapist, he loses. If he was fired for his sexual predilections, he'll become a rich pervert. He's suing the CBC for $50 million The C. B. C.
The CBC does not have fifty million bucks to spare.

So, What the Actual Fuck, Canada?

These are dangerous times, which is why it's integral that we all keep our WITS about us. Justin Trudeau says, "I want your smarts." Until we can give them to him we have to use them individually, as best we can.

Justin's Dad, Pierre, said, "There's no place for the state in the bedrooms of the nation."
Did the CBC just cut its own throat. At the very moment when we really need it?

Pierre Trudeau also called in the National guard during the October Crisis. Remember it? We got through that bout of domestic terrorism. We can get through all this. Everyone just needs to smarten up.

xoxo Mad

Bruce Cockburn - Lovers In A Dangerous Time

The Trickle Down of Tragedy

A lost Canadian man, age 32, applied for a passport to go to the middle-east. Due to his criminal record the application was denied. Stuck with no way to join his like-minded brethren in another part of the world, he struck at the very heart of Canada. Domestic terrorism.

The symbolism of what he did, murdering a 24 year old soldier who stood ceremonial guard over the War Memorial on Parliament Hill, is breath-taking. Minutes later he burst into the Federal Parliament Buildings, House of Commons, pursued by police. If he'd done it an hour later, the corridors would've been packed with MPs and press. Inside, a lot of gunfire took place and when it was over he was dead. He died less than ten minutes after he murdered Nathan Cirillo.

Even for a big country like Canada, this was a big shock.


The killer's father (originally from Lybia) hasn't spoken. Today, the killer's mother (an employee of the Federal Gov't) issued a statement on behalf of the family. She said, in part, "I am mad at our son, I don't understand and part of me wants to hate him at this time...Please respect our privacy although many may not feel we deserve any . . . Once again we are so sorry."

Cirillo had a 4 year old son. (The mother is no longer in the picture.) Now, Nathan's mother will care for his son. Today she is “... just completely broken, broken right now."

Everybody is so sorry. People get weary of dealing with crazies, even when the crazies are their own kids; members of their communities; fellow citizens. It's even easier to get weary of crazies who live far away.

93 passports have been seized from people the RCMP deem "dangerous." We keep them here rather than let them ship off to boost the ranks of the radicals. Maybe that's an act of charity on Canada's part. Or is it an infringement on our rights? The killer in question wasn't one of the 93.

All this terrible pain has come about because a deranged man wanted to make a statement. I wonder what his statement really would have been? Neighbours say he was a nice kid. Was there anything left of that kid? Probably not. I suppose he'd have said something maniacal and senseless, although his actions were astonishingly clear. It was too late for him.

Keven Vickers said, "I took him down."

It's also too late for a seemingly all-around nice guy, a reservist who dreamed of becoming a full-time soldier. The manager of a Hamilton restaurant where Cirillo served as a bouncer said...." he would often come straight from the armoury in his fatigues, and change at the club before his shifts, joking he would go from one service job to another."

It's typically Canadian for us to produce this black and white story. There's a bad guy and a good guy and both are dead.

So much sadness and loss trickles down, all the way down to the dawgs.


These are Cpl. Nathan Cirillo's dogs.

photo credit: Molly Hayes, Hamilton Spectator (I think)

#LeonardCohen80 Happy birthday to The Man!

The Man is 80 years old today. Lou Reed said, “We're so lucky to be alive at the same time Leonard Cohen is.” Lou Reed is right!

Here's my tribute to Leonard Cohen, written for Lust Bites "Crush Wednesday," on the occasion of his 76th birthday. (To the melody of Famous Blue Raincoat)

Famous Troubadour

It’s four in the morning but everything's okay
I’m writing you now just to say ‘Happy Birthday’
Toronto is steamy I like where I’m living,
they’re busy on Clinton St. all through the evening

I hear that you’re working
writing your poems, singing in Europe
You were robbed of your savings, G-d!
I hope you’re keeping some kind of record

Yes, and John came by
just to drop off the girls
we’re finished as lovers, for sure
It’s been good for us, we have grown
Apart, and for good.
I loved you, as John did,
your songs were about us,
destructive, creative and tortured with love/lust
You were part of our courtship,
and part of our wedding
still we weren’t prepared
for the pain of our ending

And you treated all women to a sip of your life
I took more than my share, now I’m nobody’s wife

Well I see you, hair grey and wrinkly face
Silent One so full of grace
Well I’m dry again
but now I know how to wait

He took all of your albums
I knew they would help him
He cried all the time, just like me
It cost us so much
to be free of each other
a home and a whole family

It’s hard when you’re young
it gets soft later on
so much to collect,
then so much to be gone


Yes and thanks for the trouble you took for us all
for showing us it's okay
to fall, rise, and fall
I’m so happy you’re happy
an old monk who’s still sexy
and living among us again
I said, ‘Leonard I love you’
at the time of our meeting
I feel like we’ve always been friends

John and I aren’t pals
No secrets, no sighs
but we talk and last night
we laughed at his lies

And thanks for the poems and songs that you write
for helping us give up the fight

We're beautiful losers, like you.

Sincerely, M. Moore

Fantasy Sanatorium

This is where the fragile go for treatment, because in this fantasy land psychological pain is honoured, even if the source of it is common. Death, divorce – even the existential dilemma we call ‘mid-life crisis’ is treated with compassionate care.
The patients’ rooms are large and immaculately clean. The nurses wear traditional nurses’ garb. There are doctors who treat both physical and mental disorders and each one has plenty of time for each patient.
There are lovely drugs, of course. Therapeutic baths. Little walks around the aesthetically pleasing grounds are encouraged but not mandatory. The food is irresistible, delivered three times a day by pleasant people. There is beautiful music.

Everybody is kind. The more the patient suffers, the more delicately she is handled. Sensitivity, in this world, is highly regarded. Those who work in the arts are valued for their dedication, not their popularity. There is art everywhere in this land but in the sanatorium all the art, while of the highest quality, is soothing.

The patient has no workload; it’s all being taken care of. If her home needs to be cleaned it is cleaned. If she has pets they are well-looked after. If she has children they are coddled. There is nothing for her to worry about while she is in the sanatorium.

She sleeps between sheets of fine Egyptian cotton. She sleeps until she isn’t tired anymore. She talks until she doesn’t want to talk anymore. She visits with her friends as often or as infrequently as she wants. Everybody understands. When her children come to visit they bring fresh flowers and chocolate and they are delightful. They shower her with baby kisses, even if they aren’t babies. They love her more for her fragility than they did before. She doesn’t have to be strong for them, they are magically strong and well and sweet.

There are peer-affection-workers; nice men and women who have been where the patients are now. They visit often and their job is to pet and compliment and make love to their patients. No pain; no expectation. If she wants kisses she is kissed. If she wants sex she gets sex. She is not expected to play any role of any type. She accepts what she wants when she wants it. There are no complications or consequences, except she feels better. The human touch.

Because she has been diagnosed as sad, all her external problems are taken care of in her absence. If she needs a bed, there will be a bed in her home when she is discharged. And so on.

Really, this is a place dedicated to loving and accepting those who have become, through sadness, pitiful and irritating. They don’t ever have to leave but because they get better they want to leave and so they do. Some return as peer-affection-workers or volunteer flower-arrangers. Some donate their paintings or their music or their art, some donate their time, or money. Some donate nothing. It’s okay not to give back. By getting well, the patient has already given back.

Oh! That’s right! In this magical sanatorium, everyone always gets well.

8 Months

If you could see me
you’d be so sad
your eyes might fill
with the only kind of tears you ever had
unshed.

I’m skinny, I swear, I smoke and I flirt like mad
there’s no black on white only the blur of grey and –
look, never mind, I promise I’ll be okay
I’m still here so I may as well stay.

Don’t let little old me
make you feel bad.
It’s a bitter pill
I choose not to swallow.
Close your eyes, sweetheart, or turn away
I do not want to burden the gentled shoulders
of the dead.