Say It Ain't So Joe - But At Least Say Sumptin'

A couple of weeks ago there was a local pollster/political know-it-all on the Steve-in-the-Morning radio show on CJBK and he was adamantly pooh-poohing the notion that Federal liberal member Joe Fontana was going to run for Mayor of London in this fall's municipal elections. "Not a chance. He would have made his announcement months ago if he was even considering taking a run at it."

But this particular "expert" has been notoriously wrong in every single reading about public opinion and the political landscape that he has ever made. Take a look at his track record, he's like the Ed Dames of pollsters. Still waiting to make a hit that's right on the money. Or even close for that matter.

So, of course, the London Free Press realizes that if this guy says it ain't gonna happen, then there surely must be something to those rumors that Joe was actually thinking about going for the Mayor's job. Even tho that would mean that as a long-time member of Parliament who happens to be a current member of the Opposition, he would have to give up a job where he has absolutely nothing to do. To say nothing of the big fat pension he has waiting for him when he and the rest of his party get the final boot when Harper calls the next federal election in a few months.

But Joe is a bit of a media hog and after a day of not returning phone calls, to the Free Press, he let it be known that he is "90 per-cent sure" he was going to toss his hat into the ring. But first he wanted to talk it over with his Liberal colleagues during their caucus meeting which was held in Vancouver last week.

These would be the same colleagues who rolled over and went back to sleep when he indicated he was thinking of running for the party leadership a few months ago. (Check this blog's Archives for the April 20th entry, "Yet Another Blow to the Federal Liberals" for this story.)

But the caucus meeting was over late last week. According to the Freeps, Joe was back in town last night. And still no announcement. Is he playing coy with the media? Or is he truly incapable of making a decision? OR - God forbid, is the above-mentioned local pollster actually right for a change?

Well, I, too can look into a crystal ball and make things up with the best of them. And here's what's happening. The Liberal caucus meeting was over by last Thursday. Joe still hadn't made up his mind, so he headed north towards Whistler in search of snow, hoping for a snowstorm that he could walk about in and mention when he announced this long-awaited decision. Couldn't find either - a snowstorm nor a decision.

And we must keep in mind, for Joe, this is a big decision. Even he knows that he can't coast to victory on his laurels as a member of the most-hated federal government since Brian Mulrooney's Conservatives.

However, the really big question for Joe in this mayor's race would be how can he (a white male of Italian heritage,) possibly defeat the much-beloved current Mayor, the former Anne-Marie Decicco, a white female of Italian heritage? Now that the Mayor has recently married, and is now officially, Anne-Marie Decicco-Best, the question that has been keeping Joe awake for the past few nights is this - does this mean that I will now be able to get the support of London's Italian single male voters?

Joe - in a word, 'No.'

Mekaleka-hi Mekaheinie-ho

Wish? Did someone say, "Wish"?

It was my birthday yesterday. So, Happy Birthday to me.

Didn't really have any special plans - maybe poach an egg, watch a George Raft movie on TV. Then go to bed so I can go into work at midnight. Needless to say, it's a drag when your birthday falls in the middle of the week on a work-day. In fact, it's always a drag when your birthday falls in the middle of the week on a work-day. But that goes without saying.

So I spent the first part of the day watching that new Lillix video to Sweet Temptation on YouTube and despairing over the fact that I wasn't young and 16 anymore - and that the girls in Lillix probably don't dig me.

This is how I've been kicking off my birthday since turning 50 a couple of years ago. By feeling sorry for myself. Because there probably aren't too many left to come. I looked outside yesterday and the Grim Reaper is down the street about a block away. But I could tell he was headed for my front door and who knows how many years or days till he gets there. I'm not going to leave the porch light on for him, but what can you do?

Besides, once you reach 50, it seems kind of silly to expect an annual fuss. I mean what's to celebrate? That I've managed to live for over half a century without getting myself killed? What kind of accomplishment is that? Trees, parrots and those big turtles in the South Seas can make the same claim. So can half the people I know.

So I force myself out of this blue-funk by telling myself that I'm just looking at it the wrong way. "Hey, sport! You've lived half a century without getting yourself killed! Way to go, man!" And that always helps.

Then my parents phoned and my father told me that since it was my birthday, I could do whatever I liked. And that helped.

And for the rest of the day, I did just that. I tellya, it was like Dude Where's My Car all day long around here.

Went out and bought some corn-on-the-cob and a bottle of wine. That helped. Sat down with the boy, Gnut - and watched a Pee-Wee Herman marathon. Had a visit from Daughter 2 and her new kitten. Looked at baby photos of the dog (Rover) from Daughter 1. Opened a couple of cards and presents and ate corn, hot-dogs with fried onions, baked beans and apple pie.

Then went out and bought myself a new CD, which is a birthday and Christmas tradition of mine. Always buy yourself a gift. Run Devil Run was recorded by Paul McCartney a couple of years ago after Linda died. It's a rockin' set of old '50s foot-stompers from his pre-Beatles days. Probably the sort of stuff he and the lads played in those Hamburg dives. You might call it a bit of a vanity project to prove to himself that as a widower in his 60s, he was still alive.

Well, works for me. I put it on, got out the bongoes and started thumping along. And even tho I'm no Pete Best, I'm happy to report that I've still got it. Sir Paul, on the other hand, I'm sorry to say, sounded a twee bit off key a couple of times.

And that helped a lot. If it's your birthday today, the secret word for the day is 'Corn-on-the-cob.' Remember, whenever anyone says it, you have to scream. Real loud.

Oops, I Did it Again

Well, I am over my obsession with Smoosh, the new 'rock' band featured in my last post which is composed of two sisters - one 12, the other 14 years old.

I've moved on - to the all-girl 'rock' band Lillix, four young girls from British Columbia. The oldest of the bunch can't be a day over 19. I still dig Smoosh, but they're so three days ago.

Lillix on the other hand, plays now power bubblegum. For now people. Kinda like The Runaways only with production values. And minus the crappy attitude. This is the best Gum-rock since the chick from Letters from Cleo (or was it 'to Cleo'?) did the soundtrack to the Josie and the Pussycats movie a few years ago.

Friends, I heartily recommend you go to Youtube.com, type in 'Lillix' and then click on the video for their hit (with me) single, Sweet Temptation. Apparently, on their previous CD, they sounded like one of those April Lavine skater-girl bands. But this new song is strictly Ramones/Romantics/Otis Day & The Nights material as performed by Barbie and the Rockers.

And while you're there, check out the appearance of Smoosh playing Find A Way on the Jimmy Kimmel show and tell me you are not charmed. And then check out any of the fine self-indulgent yet goofy home videos from 19-year-old 'Brookers.' I watched her lip-synching to Mariah Carey's All I Want for Christmas yesterday.I laughed. I cried.

Then go back and watch the 'Sweet Temptation' video by Lillix again. It's unbridled teenage joy; runaway hormones tearing up the room and reminding you of a time when having fun came without invitation or effort.

God, what I would give to be young, 16 and stupid again. And a girl.

It's Official

The results are in and it is now official. I went to a family reunion on the weekend and the general consensus among the young people in attendence was that I was probably the uncoolest adult there.

And not only there - and not only in Staffordville that day. But on the whole planet.

Actually opinion was a bit mixed. I was either "uncool" or "unhip." Apparently, the word amongst the kids today (including my own three teenagers,) was that I was variously - "not cool," "hopelessly uncool," and as the final word on the subject - "terminally uncool."

Well, that settles that. Of course, none of this should come as any surprise to anyone who knows of my life-long obsession with bubblegum music. But still, it's a bit rough to hear that I am officially "out of it" from people who don't know of any cultural event prior to the Beastie Boys.

But, fair enough. I've never claimed to be 'cool' in a "Straight from the fridge, Dad!" kind of way. Even in high school, I knew better than to even pretend to aspire to such a lofty self-image as the kind projected by the registered cool kids.

But "unhip"? Geez, that hurt. I've always prided myself on being at least slightly hip. If only in the sense that next to no one shared my taste in most things. In the sense that only a few people got my jokes. And most importantly, in that I liked the kind of music that not only my parents hated but that most of my peers did as well. Now, that's hip.

Unhip? I read all the right magazines. I read all the right novels and bad poetry filled with angst and nihilism. I used to be able to quote Leonard Cohen at the drop of a beret. I listened to Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music. And not just once. I was the first - and only - person in my Grade 13 class to have even heard of the Ramones. I was the only person I know to pick up the debut Blondie album - and smart enough to disown them as soon as the crappy radio hits followed. I was ironic before ironing caught on as a cultural touchstone. Why I once had lunch with that icon of cool Jim Dean - and never even asked for his autograph. Man, that guy made great sausages.

And even tho I once dated a stewardess, I wasn't the type to brag about it. That's what being cool and hip is all about. But that was then, and as I've been told, this is now.

So just what did I do to deserve this fall from grace with these relative self-appointed arbitors of all matters cool?

I raved enthusiastically in public about Smoosh, a new 'rock' band consisting of two sisters. A 12-year-old on drums. And a 14-year-old on keyboards and vocals. That was my crime. And to make matters even worse, I then bragged about owning their CD. I think you could have heard their laughter as far away as Aylmer.

But I stand by my taste. It's hard to get insulted by the same people who gave the world Billy Talent and Ashlee Simpson. Besides, I knew right from the get-go that despite their ages, Smoosh was no teeny-bopper band. They were the real deal. A week earlier I had been flicking the channels on the remote on the late late-night talk shows. Craig the Scottish guy was doing a 10-minute monologue on something he almost forgot the point of. On Conan, Abe Vigoda was doing a silent skit with a guy in a masturbating bear costume. And on Jimmy Kimmel, something even more bizarre - two little white girls were rocking like the best of them. And the audience were actually into it and responded respectfully and enthusiastically. And strangest of all, Jimmy Kimmel, the most annoying and rudest, jaded and misogynistic of the late-night hosts, didn't even make fun of them - not even of their admittedly stupid name, Smoosh.

So what the hell. The next day I bought their CD. I had done the same thing after seeing Nine Black Elfs on the same show. And found that the only good song on the whole CD was the hit they did on the show. The rest was that all-sound-the-same crap you hear on FM 96.

Not so with Free to Stay by Smoosh. Every song was different. Every song was good.And sounded like nothing I had ever heard before. What more can you ask? True, the vocals sound like what you might expect from a 14-year-old girl, but what can you do?

Despite what the too-cool-for-school contingent think, I predict great things from this band. Three decades ago I was dead on in predicting the enduring popularity of the Partridge Family. I was publicly ridiculed in high school over that one. True, my similar announcement about 'Hanson' a few years ago has not yet come true, but time may prove me right.

So I predict big things for Smoosh before the inevitable solo career of 14-year-old Asya.And if I'm wrong, I'll eat my Archies Greatest Hits record.

Well, I Blew It Again

My chance to have an affair, that is.

I was down to the Gilligan's Island Lagoon on the riverbank last night with my good friends Zak and Slater when Three-Dollar Bill, a neighbourhood character turns up with a couple of hippie chicks - one being his ol' lady and the other being their friend. They were all high on mushrooms and smoking 'pot' and after a while, it became apparent to me, that the one girl - I think she liked me!

I say this not because of any overt flirting. Or meaningful silent glances. Or an 'accidental' soft brush of her hand on my knee. No, I say this because she sat down alongside me on the grass and actually carried on a conversation with me while the others were getting tips on how to save on your water bill by using rainwater to flush your toilet.

I don't want to read too much into this - but I had the definite feeling that she found me fascinating. She sat there looking into my eyes with rapt attention. Hanging on my every word. Then again, maybe it was the mushrooms.

So when she asked if she could have a sip of my beer, I offered her a whole can of her own. And considering that I only went down there with four cans and had already consumed one and had an open one in my hand and that would only leave me with one beer for the rest of the night... well, you can understand what an unselfish considerate gesture that was.

You know, this isn't the first time this has happened to me down there. Maybe that's what has been drawing me back for the past quarter-century.

The other time was about 10 years ago. I was down there with my friend, Stanley who had dragged along his guitar and was singing Gordon Lightfoot at me. When out of the lengthening shadows of twilight, these four young girls come out of the field and run smack dab into us. They were celebrating the end of high school by having an all-girl bush party. And so they joined us.

Now, I've read enough letters to the editor in Penthouse's Forum section to know what the possibilities were. Four girls. Two studs like me and Stanley. You do the math. But the problem was the guitar. It made for a seventh wheel. In other situations, the guitar is a wonderful aphrodisiac. Women love to hear a guy playing a guitar. It's a fact. And it's a natural fact that young hippie girls just out of high-school love it even more. It just does something to them. It shakes them. It quakes them. It makes them feel all goose-pimply all over.

But not on that night. And the problem was with what the guitar was saying. At that point, Stanley was going thru a Gordon Lightfoot phase. And the only song he knew was 'The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.' Well, to make a long story short, nothing happened and they left shortly after that. Let's just say this, if you ever want to pitch woo or impress women, if you sing a song with the words "Lake Gitchigoomi" in it, then you can pretty well kiss off your chances of getting laid.

.... Anyways, back to last night. Eventually, the girls wanted to leave because they were stoned out of their minds and had started thinking about food. Even the instructional talk about how to embalm your mother-in-law for a do-it-yourself funeral at home didn't dampen their appetites. So they split. And I sat there - one beer short, basking in the glow that I had made a new friend. And thinking, "Hey, that girl liked me!" And I mean really liked me. If you know what I mean. And then realizing, "Oh, shit - I blew it again!" Another misssed opportunity to have an affair with a younger woman. Which is my right as it is of every man who is having a mid-life crisis.

But who am I kidding. Nothing would have happened. I'm too much of a gentleman. Sad to admit, but I'm just not the Warren Beatty type. And the truth is that I love my wife too much to do anything as cheap and tawdry as have an affair. But the thing is - I think I could have!

So I went home and woke up Mabel and told her all about it. And she said, "That's nice dear, I'm glad you had a good time."

Well, thanks alot for being jealous. Could you act just a bit surprised or worried? Could you at least pretend that there's a possibility that other women find me fascinating. That other women might actually want me. And want me passionately. In an inwardly-downwardly manner? That some women just might be attracted to my wild and impetuous ways?

And Mabel responded by laughing and quoting directly from The Seven Year Itch - "The only thing wild about you, Richard is your imagination."

Well, that hurt. Okay, fine for you this time, Mabel. Be happy with your illusions. Because other than you, there are such women out there. Plenty. Believe you me.