London Welcomes Diversity - Whities, get yo asses on down here!

In her debut move as the first female member of Board of Control, Gina Barber complained at London's first City Council meeting of the "new & improved" council - that there were no women councillors on the committee that governed the Western Fair board.

And I can't agree more. Anyone who ever grew up on a farm knows that the work of the women goes largely unappreciated. Even tho it's dawn to dusk just like the work the men-folk do. And an hour before and three hours after the farm-hands even get up and go to sleep. And that's not even taking into consideration the contributions of livestock on the farm who happen to be female. Dairy farms? Where would we be without them? Veal, eggs, prime rib, chicken wings, giblets - where would we be without females down on the farm?

But Barber's point was that we need more "diversity" on city council-nominated boards and commissions. And a point well taken.

So what does City Council do to rectify this situation? They appointed a woman councillor to the Western Fair board. To do this, they had to get rid of one of the three male councillors who already sat on the board.

So "Mr. Creative Cities" himself, Board of Controller Gord ("Diversity") Hume, suggested that councillor Harold Usher give up his place on the Western Fair board - in the name of diversity and opening things up to "everyone" irregardless of sexual orientation, race, religion and dorkiness.

Harold, of course, initially declined this wonderful opportunity saying (according to the L.F. Press,) "I'm not going to take my name off the nomination list voluntarily. I don't think there are any visible minorities on that board and with 24 members, I think that's pathetic."

After that was said, to quote the L.F.P. - "Councillor Cheryl Miller was then appointed."

It should be pointed out to non-Londoners that Harold Usher is the ONLY black member of City Council. In fact, until Harold was elected about a decade ago and occassionally showed up on the TV news, the truth is that most Londoners didn't know that we even had any black people in London. Wow! Times sure are a-changin' when black people are no longer a "visible" minority up here in what was once known in Michigan as "Honkie-town."

Don't believe me, just ask Butch McLarty for his thoughts on the special insert entitled "150 of London's Most Prominent Citizens of the last Century and a half" the London Free Press did a couple of years ago to commemorate the sesqui-centennial of the founding of London. Not a black person in the whole bunch. Not to mention the original settlers (meaning the 'native' tribe of the 'Neutrals' - a London name if I ever heard of one.)

Only in London in the name of 'diversity' and 'inclusivity' would our elected fave raves appoint a woman and take away the appointment from a black man who already had been doing the job for years. I guess I don't have to point out that Mrs. Miller is a white woman.

In all fairness, it should be pointed out that Mrs. Miller had spent the last eight months on the Western Fair board. It should also be pointed out that according the Free Press, the fair board position is a popular appointment because it is "loaded with perks such as free tickets and meals."

It makes you just wonder what happened at council that night if a newly-elected councillor asked if it was okay for someone recently charged (but not yet convicted,) with assault, to be appointed to the Police Services board.

Another Productive Friday Night

Spent most of yesterday on the phone giving sensitivity training to Michael Richards - best known as 'Kramer,' one of the best TV stooges of all time but now known for having the absolutely worst stand-up hecking comebacks since Andrew Dice Clay. Hmm, maybe 'comeback' isn't the right word here.

Anyway that was a bit emotionally draining so I spent the rest of the night trying to find Britney Spears' home phone number on the Internet. What the hell, she's single now, the wife and kid are going camping next weekend, I'm willing to spring for a return plane ticket for her. I figure I got a shot. It's not like she's Marilyn Monroe or anything.

And getting loaded. Well, as loaded as you can get on a drink that involves Kool-aid, that magic powder that helps people become cool.

Even invented a new drink. The drink isn't anything special. Just Kool-aid (any flavor you happen to find in the cupboard,) and Canadian champagne. Equal parts of both. Best served in a chilled glass that originally held peanut butter. But it's the name of the drink that I'm most proud of - Sex On My Office Desk With the Cleaning Lady.

Can you imagine walking into a bar, and loudly proclaiming to the bartender, "Hey old sport, I'd like to have Sex on My Office Desk With the Cleaning Lady!" Oh, I tellya, the hilarity that would ensue.

Of course it would have to be the right kind of drinking establishment to be properly appreciated. Like a sports place full of jocks. Or a lesbian bar. Location is everything. I once made the mistake of trying to be funny in the 'Chuck E. Cheeze' in Grand Bend by loudly insisting that I wanted to have Sex On the Beach. They damn near chased me halfway out of town.

I Miss My Girls

It's funny how the most routine daily stuff will get the ol' tear ducts working.

Like every time I go to the fridge to get myself a vodka martini (stirred, not shaken thank-you - as if I give a damn, Ha-ha,) and there they are. Snap-shots of them on the refrigerator door. Reminders of what was and is and always will be.

It's worse at this time of year because the American Thanksgiving holiday season always has that effect on me. When they were in school, I'd let them stay home for the day so we could sit down as a family, gather round our friend Mr. Television and watch the Macy's parade live from N.Y.C.

And wonder if this would be the year that the 'Underdog' balloon would be cancelled. Irregardless of the popularity of Wally Cox, just how long can you keep a parade-attraction going long after his TV show has been off the air for decades - regardless of the fact that it's a perennial crowd favorite?

I don't know if they'll be coming over for the traditional American Thanksgiving fest this Thursday. After all, you can only eat so many marshmellow-candied yams and Jimmy Dean's turkey rolls between our Thanksgiving and Christmas - and what with them having real jobs now and it being an American holiday and all, well ...

It's kind of strange. This used to be a Venus-dominated house. A mom, two daughters and at one point four cats - all females.And a father who uses 'Uncle Charlie' from 'My Three Sons' (a maid in any other 60s sitcom,) as his professional and personal role-model. Sure I may be gruff but loveable, but my only fault is that I care too much.

But since the birth of the Gnut some 12 years ago, this house has become more balanced and now that the girls have moved out and an old dog has come here to retire, the testosterone level has reversed the way things were not too long ago.

For one thing, these days I don't do no work around the house. No, not nuthin'. That may come as a bit of a shock to anyone who knows me but I figure if I work nights and I'm being paid to spend my entire shift dusting and cleaning and cooking and dealing with other people's personality quirks and then picking up dog shit - why would I want to do the same thing when I come home? So I don't. I watch TV, listen to the radio and read.

But it's different only having one woman in the house. They'll only tolerate so much sloth - so you have to keep a step ahead of the game just to give the impression that it looks like you're trying to make an effort. And that you care.

But I don't care. And I don't know if that's some sort of latent sign of becoming a man or what but ever since turning 50, I 've come to the conclusion that I don't really give a shit about all that stuff. Who cares if the place hasn't been dusted in two days? Who cares if the dirty breakfast dishes are still in the sink before lunch? Who cares if the plants don't get watered daily? Who cares if I don't change my underwear on a weekly basis?

These are all life lessons I hope to pass on to the boy. I'm only sorry that I hadn't experienced this kind of revelation in time earlier so's I could teach by example the same practices and principles to my girls.

But I don't worry too much. I raised them as best I could. And only relied on their mother for about seventy per-cent of their good upbringing. I have no worries there.

Just as I have no worries about spending the American Thanksgiving alone since Mona has to work and the Gnut has already made plans to skip school that day. Because whether it is snowing, raining or the buses are running late due to regularly-scheduled incompetance, I know those girls will be here on Thursday morning to watch the Macy's parade with me and then pop 'Miracle on 34 Street' into the ol' VCR.

And they come not because the house has been recently dusted, and not just so I can do their laundry for them. And not just because of the marshmello-candied yams.

They come because they want to. They come because they are always welcome and have their own keys and don't have to ring the bell. They come because I really do make the best marshmello-candied yams in the world. And they come because no matter where they may have an apartment lease-agreement, this is home.

You know, I have a feeling that this is going to be the best American Thanksgiving Day ever!

Oh Lord, please don't tell me to stop

Did it again last night.

And I gotta tell ya, I kinda liked it.

No, that's not true - I really like it. That's why I did it again about half an hour ago - and my heart is still beating fast. And hard. Maybe too fast. And too hard. But if I die from it, at least I'll die happy.

What I do is, I wait until the wife and kid are out of the house for the night. Then I turn off all the lights in the living room, light a single candle so that people walking by on the sidewalk will still see my silouette on the blinds - and then I put an old record on the turntable. And dance. And dance like there's no tomorrow. Not only no tomorrow but no dawn and I couldn't care less if I even get to see midnight.

And luckily, most of those old songs are no longer than three minutes tops - because, my heart is about to pop by the end. And that's what the rush is. That's what the 'danger' part of this is all about. Some may call it 'suicidal' - I prefer to think of it as flirting with the Grim Reaper, When you're in your fifties, this is what's known as living on the edge.

Yeah, I hear your giggles. But I dare ya, anyone out there who's forty or even thirty or what the hell, even 17. And I double-dog dare ya to fill your arteries with cheese and burger-grease and first-hand smoke and half a distillery of Canadian Club and then get up there and do what I do - dance like a maniac, dance like that chick in the leggin's from 'Flashdance,' dance like ya mean it, dance like your life depends on it; dance like you're on 'Soul Train' and not some piece of shit like 'Dancing With the Stars'; dance like at that very moment there is nothing more important in the world because you are in tune with the universe and you don't give a damn how stupid you might look ---- and then live to tell the tale.

Or better yet, record the whole thing and put it up on YouTube for'Posterity.' Because that's what I do.

The first time was a couple of weeks ago. When you watch the video, you can tell that I was a bit self-conscious. But at the time, it was like I was the life of the party - that is, if there was anyone there other than me and the dog - who mostly looked embarrassed. I got my kid's web-cam, closed the rec-room door , put on Otis Day and the Knights singing that ol' Motown classic, 'Shout,' and I tell ya, the magic just happened. For the curious, this is filed at YouTube under "Kevin Arnold Dancing."

I tried it again recently to an entire CD of greatest hits by Soundgarden. But it just wasn't happening.

But tonight, I thought I'd go for the gusto, push myself with an endurance test - and if Mr.Heart Attack was to show up, I'd mop up the floor with the mutha - if he could even hang in there as long as I planned to be on my living room boards, bopping round and round to a four minute song!

It wasn't an intentional idea on my part to pick out such a long song. But for the first time in a decade, I had a hankerin' for some Sinead O'Connor. And my favorite - and the only rockin' song she has - is 'The Emperor's New Clothes,' ... and that's all I need in the way of tunes to rock out to. And when you see me bite my lower lip real hard during the chorus? - I meant to do that.

... and when it's all over and you're waiting for your pulse to subside back to normal, the following song from that CD - 'Black Boys on Mopeds' is a good thoughful relaxer - and a reminder as to why this baldy-chick ever mattered in the first place.

But by all means, check out my dance interpretations of Sinead on YouTube. It's filed under "Your Dad dancing like Axl Rose."

anutha crappi wknd

Stuck here in babysitting hell thanks to the grups having the wknd of their wet dreams. First, Dylan on Friday night. Then on Saturday, a "new album" listening party in anticipation of Sir Elton John's arrival in town on Monday.

Why doesn't anything cool ever happen in this town anyway???? Oh don't tell me that it does - and Cher is coming back for another 'farewell' concert. And speaking of people I'd like to kill - ya jus know that Rod Stewart is coming back. It's inevitable. Rod "re-inventing" the works of 70s bands like Bread - and Air Supply. Is it just me or do i hear Rod warbling 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oake Tree' as a future gesture of support for our troops in France? As my old man would say, 'Wow, dega view!'

And then today, a "let's get primed" open house party for all my parents' sap friends who were lucky enuf to get tickets for tomorrow's concert. Sold out ten thousand seats in 5 minutes. A new record for the JLC. And says all you wanna know about this town officially known as Hicksville, Ohio.

To tell ya the truth tho, yuh know, i kinda like that 'Tiny Dancer' song. From the first time i heard it in that 'Almost Famous' movie. How could yuh not? But i swear, if I have to listen to another spin of 'Crockadile Rock' or 'The Bitch is Back' or any duet featuring Kiki D, then I'm gonna puke.

...... sorry about the bad attitude, (and yes, i did retch,) but when i was about 5, my parents thought it woud be a good bonding thing to do to not only force-feed me to watch 'The Lion King,' but to actually listen to the soundtrack by Sir Elton non-stop.

Yup, nothing like listening to music for dead people while watching a cartoon in which you get to see your Dad die. And in our house, that was at least two times a day. Any fans out there of 'The Circle of Life'? Gawd, sucks to be you. Ya know, I wooda bin just as happy watching 'Pokieman.'

Ya-soses anyways, here I am spending the entire wknd babysitting the Gnut. Ever since older bro Brian, (middle-name 'Cooper' - my parents had this thing about Alice Cooper but didn't want to stick their kid with a middle name like 'Alice'- let's all thank the Lord for good taste and homophobia,) got shipped off to Afghanistan, I'M the one who gets stuck with watching the kid. Harmless that he is in that obnoxious kid-brother fashion that all males seem to be born with.

I guess there's worse ways of spending a wknd.I mean, it could have been that Elton was playing on Friday night and Dylan was the weekend concert closer. A whole weekend of listening to Sir Bob and his new album? No thanks.

Wouldn't mind getting to see the Food Fighters open for Dylan tho. Of course, this being London, they were told to play unplugged. Wouldn't want to wake the neighbors. They actually said that to a guy that was once in Nirvana.

Geez, whatta wknd. Dylan, Elton and Dave Growl being a folkie. Gawd, I can hardly wait till I'm old enough to move outta this Gwengontonamo prison.

Peter MacKay Kinda Sorta Apologizes

Canada's foreign minister Peter MacKay has issued a public apology for being a dink. The apology came in the form of a brief tersely-worded press release from MacKay's office on Parliament Hill.

"I apologize for my silence in these past two weeks, signed Peter MacKay. There, is that enough?" read the press release. No mention was made of Belinda Stronach and the allegations that MacKay had referred to her as a canine in the House of Commons.

When contacted by the Sonny Drysdale Media Empire and asked if the apology was connected to his former girlfriend and former Conservative MP, all MacKay would say was, "Oh yeah, well she once called me a dickhead sucky-babe!" The phone line then went dead.

Prime Minister Stephen Harper, when asked if MacKay's statement was indeed a public apology for the incident that has now become known as "Puppygate," and has dogged the minority Conservative government for days, neither confirmed nor denied that it was directed at Stronach.

"I can't speak for Peter MacKay," said Harper. "But let's just say that Pete is a young man with a good head on his shoulders. However, he's still young and single. Once he has finished sowing a few wild oats, settles down and gets married, I'm sure Pete will soon learn that 'Love means always having to say you're sorry."

When asked to comment on MacKay's apology, Belinda Stronach could not be reached. According to her office, she was having dinner with actor Vince Vaughn and was not to be interrupted.