Common Ground

So the world is a circle.

My favorite tune for decades comes from Paul Winter's 1977
album/CD, the title tune, Common Ground.

"Voices are calling round the earth, music is rising in the sea
The spirit of morning fills the air
Guiding my journey home
Where is the path beyond the forest
Where is the song I always knew
I remember it just around the bend
In the village, the music never ends ..."

I assumed it was a product of the Paul Winter Consort.
The only album credit is to the guy who sings it, Jim Scott.
He was the Consort's guitarist.

Last month, I discover Jim Scott in his garden on youtube--now 40 years older.
He sings Common Ground.
But his second verse is new! It doesn't rhyme.

The new verse:

"Somewhere is the melody we need
There is a certain harmony
Even a rhythm in the trees
In the song that we've always known
As every road comes to its end,
Every path must cross again
Now I'm returning to my heart
Back to the sound that is our own... "

A web search for that lyric produces a new clue: Velho Sermão.

That's Portugese!

Translation: Old/Ancient Lesson.

I enter the Portugese title into youtube. Deep dive.

Paul Winter's Common Ground came out in 1976.

But Velho Sermao was on another artist's Lp the previous year, 1975.

Scott's new verse is a literal translation of Portugese into English from the original recording.

Of course! The world is a circle!

I have every album by Ivan Lins, who actually wrote Velho Sermao.

He's been Brazil's premier tunesmith for decades.

-----

The bugs are back. Pollens drift. Eyes itch. Hear that 
rhythm in the trees? Every path must cross again ...

Sweet.

Paul Winter, Common Ground:
https://youtu.be/EAIxjjPiDTs

Jim Scott, Common Ground
https://youtu.be/LpppGJlYeLs

Ivan Lins, Who Actually Wrote the Song:
https://youtu.be/vRR_pgprTpQ

Spring

Life is a one-way test.
The correct answer is always ... "yes"
                                 --Livingston Taylor

But spring is still coming, right?

"A strong low pressure system may begin as snow overnight but is expected to quickly transition to freezing rain or ice pellets and then to rain.

"Precipitation will change back to snow late Sunday afternoon. Total snow and ice pellet accumulations up to 20 cm. Strong winds with gusts to 80 km/h will produce zero visibility in blowing snow.... whiteouts, falling trees, hydro outages, extinction of small mammals, the  Apocalypse...."

Happy New Year

Larry Hart's birthday!

Night whisper

We are all connected to each other.... even the trees.
                                             --Arthur Miller

Saturday night at Mike Pence's

Barry Blitt's rejected Trump sketches for the New Yorker

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/rejected-trump-sketches-by-barry-blitt


 The sketch of Trump and Bannon in matching bathtubs cannot be unseen ... LOL

Pray for an opening at Apple's genius bar

 "Actually, throughout my life, my two greatest assets have been mental stability and being, like, really smart ... I think that would qualify as not smart, but genius .... and a very stable genius at that!"

 --Today's twitter from @realdonaldtrump

Gonna leave my footsteps on the sands of time....

Sad

Two real estate rich kids walk into a bar.

They are joined by a a Russian lawyer, a fat foreign showbiz agent and a shady political strategist.

Next arrivals: two Soviet-era spies, trailing a translator.

"Hi guys," sez the bartender. "You must be here to talk about adoption."

It's cool to be a cat

I wish I had nine lives

I bet it feels real nice

Sitting in the sun

Letting all the waves wash over me

I do what I want

Everybody wants to be a cat ...

It's cool to be a cat.

Why God gave you the Internet....

So here's all you need to know ... just three things.

*  yourclassical.org ... Minnesota Public Radio's never-ending streams of classical music, hosted or by genre ... make your iPad or Kindle soar!

*  thecurrent.org ... MPR's genius new music fountain, streaming or on demand, studio sessions with every new songster/band eager to knock your socks off

*  wnyc.org ... public radio's best host site ... here, find the New Yorker mag's podcasts, Jonathan Schwartz's jazz stream, WQXR, all searchable by program/topic/toontype


You will notice cbcmusic.ca does not make my cut. Why is that? Look. Listen. Pity.

This is how I spent my Saturday...

It's bug season in my part of the world ... so I spend the day watching this a dozen times ... is it the video? The audio?

Do I care? LOL....

Oh so spicy

Republicans hurry to floor for Trump vote

Your moment of Zen.....

The water's rising in eastern Ontario.....

Forget Hello Kitty. Welcome Hello Doggie.

Memories of page six

What do you get if you pour boiling water down a rabbit hole?

Hot cross bunnies.

Bunny Eating Raspberries!

The sweetest season....

The chickadees are back.
Wrens pick pine nuts off the deck tree ...
Deer tracks disappear, ditto dirty snow.
We are very near now 
  to bunnies
  and green
And I search for Jimmy Scott...


"For this time it isn't  fascination
Or a dream that will  fade  and fall apart
It's  love
This time it's  love
My  foolish  heart..."

Jimmy Scott -- My Foolish Heart

Very Great, Very Important Words

http://bit.ly/2n7d5Ld

Everything's gonna be okay.

(This may be an alternate fact)

A moment from our sponsor

Vets group speaks to President Trump through ad

Evil afoot

Long night

Barack Obama offered what we can aspire to.

Donald Trump shows us who we really are.

Lucifer isn't just a hot sauce ...

July 23 2016

Donald Trump's GOP convention is over.

It made for a week of fascinating viewing on MSNBC, CNN and Fox, each with a twist on the line-up ... from the Ultimate Fighting Dude to subcontractors to the Hillary-murdered-my-son Mom.

Weeping. Screaming. Lynch mobs. Code Pink ladies in the balconies.  I'm afraid I logged dozens of hours, slack-jawed in front of the TV.

Melania's little oops was adorable.

Recurring audience shots of red faces in even-redder gag wigs and hats was well worth the price of admission--that price being a substantial number of brain cells. Who doesn't enjoy General Flynn, whose appearance on Bill Maher's show the night-after was a nice encore for the frightened. 

If Mike Pence is not a robot, he should be.  His sad eyes, like Chris Christie's, show what his ambition has signed on for. The body language between Pence and Trump is hilarious. Sealed with an air kiss.

The candidate himself is beyond words.

The Republican hoohah was missing only an appearance by Lucifer, God of the Outer Darkness.

"Yes," he would thunder. "Hillary worships me."

If Ben Carson--Lucifer's spotter--lurks anywhere near a Trump White House, pray they give him nothing to play with but toys.

But I imagine the Politburo of Trump Children will see to that.

Scratch Don Jr, who will dance on Bill de Blasio's ass in the NYC mayor's race.

If I were young Barron Trump, I would change my name soon. Pray the witness relocation program can rescue him from this hotbed of ego and ambition. 

And oh, poor Hillary.

I'm not surprised, just disappointed in Clinton's choice of Tim Kaine--a bland, pudgepoop of a running mate. Was Lucifer not available?

Yes, my fellow cynics ... two women would have been Too Much, and Cory Booker would be PC's Memories of Obama sauce. So no Bernie, Warren or Booker. Why deliver anything to the base in this all-important Trump showdown? The Democratic candidate picks the establishment, golly-jeepers white guy. Here, pass the mayo.

Hill and Tim will be trounced in every news cycle.

It will not be pretty.

And with every Breaking News TV banner, Trump will grow stronger.

I think Hillary Clinton has taken an impossible and dangerous risk.

Not even one hand clapping.

It's just an election, right?  Right.

Enter the new year....

It's 5 a.m. Christmas Day, driving thru Algonquin Park. The lakes are still open. The New Year seems as ominous as the old.

Cookie season

When a gingerbread man breaks an arm or stabs his leg with a knife, you have to let him vent ....

All dog cookies must have smiles on their faces, for Christmas....

Parka Patrol

For CBC Radio fanatics who've asked about Parka Patrol, there is new evidence it existed.

The 54-episode series ran Saturday nights for two years in the '80s. Call it an odd blues fantasy, worshipped by forest rangers, loons and bath water boilers in the Canadian Outback.

Do you hear wolves? Me too. Hear them at....

https://soundcloud.com/gary-dunford/parka-patrol-cbc-birthday

Great Pumpkin puck puck

Hooray! It's fall cider time!

County Cider

Spent a week roaming around Prince Edward County, Picton and Sandbanks Provincial Park on Lake Ontario.
Third fall trip down there, the prettiest sideroads in autumn.
Most of the pics below and above come from there.

Blood orange cider from County Cider ... pumpkins too.

Hilltop heaven

Fences make nice neighbors

You could wait forever

The dog's favorite walk, Mcfee's Bay

The road to McFee's bay

Paugh Lake

Explorer

Dog day afternoon....

Everywhere

                     Is there a restaurant in Canada that doesn't have this sign posted somewhere on the premises?

                     It's the Hang-in-there Cat Poster of 2015....

The Wiz

Who knew the CBC had advance clips from NBC's Christmas musical, The Wiz?   

We're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy....

Urine trouble now....

Among the many tweets and twitters concerning a PC candidate's exit from the election race after being caught peeing in a homeowner's coffee cup, was this one ....

Janis Millar

Laughter is always the best medicine and if that's what it's going to take to throw the cons off stride then start laughing everyone. Everyone should go out and buy one coffee mug and when the con candidate comes to your door just hand it to them with a big smile. If you can find one with a zany saying all the better. Start laughing people.

Call it the Tempest-in-a-Teacup strategy.

August 2015

How wet can you get?

So here we are in 2015, the snow dripping off the roof

So here we are in 2015, the snow dripping off the roof.

What is the warmest word in any Canadian's vocabulary?

THAW.

And in the spirit of rebirth ... the blog begins again.

Perhaps start with a joke?

How To Escape a Polar Bear

If you know the BBC's not-quite-a-game show Qi,  you may already have the answer.

When chased by a polar bear, simply toss off your clothes.

First your hat, then your coat, toss your gloves ...

Keep running.

Then your sweater, next the t-shirt, then your pants ....

Keep running.

Toss your shoes behind you, and your socks ...

Keep running.

The bear will stop to carefully paw each item.

Sniff it. Lick it.

This gives time to put distance between you and the bear.

You may escape ... 

Or wind up on the icy barrens, naked and afraid.

If you eventually meet the bear, he will say:

Oh good ... an unwrapped one.

Sons of the Snow Scoop

A half dozen e-mails and the occasional letter still pop up annually about Parka Patrol.

Ah, the sweet little Saturday night blues and Bambi fantasy about a lovesick ranger in a fire tower.
Once in a while he got into town to play the jukebox at the local hotel, which curiously only played B-17, a reference to the long-ago pop tune and Bingo.
Listeners were praised as hardy countrymen and Sons of the Snowscoop.

Or was it a fantasy? The show took its mail at a post office box in Maynooth, ON, which is on the way to Algonquin Park.
(I wanted to use Snowball, ON as our mail drop, but it was too far to go. LOL)

For 25 years, I commuted into Toronto to do Toronto Sun humour columns, and broadcast projects like Parka Patrol, and a later weekly CFRB opus, Recordhounds.

Once a month, I'd lumber into CBC Radio's old Jarvis St. Kremlin to tape three episodes. All of the strange records were my own, a frightening insight into my head and interests over 40 or so years. We'd have a lead sheet for the tunes, and a nearly complete script.

I'd say our greatest achievements included the National T-Shirt Trade, a national unity parody.

Listeners sent us their favourite small-town t-shirt and we'd trade it for one of the same size from somewhere else. Local fire companies, gas stations and unheard-of cafes seems to be the most popular. The mail handler (me) nearly went insane. In the two years of the show, we drew about 1,200 letters--all answered with a note, bumpersticker or Maynooth Bears t-shirt. Alas even then, the CBC had no budget for inspired craziness.

Our other big bark was the Parka Patrol Dog Show.
Listeners sent in a pic of their adored mutt, and the object was to send a Best in Show ribbon--100 printed up at a trophy store--to EVERY dog entered, mention each dog BY NAME on the show and send each one a ribbon. Every dog a winner! The Dog Show had about 80 dogs, with appropriate thoughts on their talents. (Owners had to tell us their talents, which included drooling, humping and farting).

We sent listeners Bingo cards for National Bingo Night. Many numbers called. Very confusing. Many winners.

A plugged-in pal got then-Communications Minister Marcel Masse to record us a promo: "I am the Minister of Communications. You are the People of the Parka." It was Very Official.

Anyway, the mail load, timing tunes and chasing ever-weirder music began to impinge on my real job as daily columnist. I begged the CBC to at least run off some pre-printed postcards--the same wolf image and the exploding pineapple seen here. Nada.

So Parka Patrol went away, to wherever old radio goes.
No more music for the Saturday night bath.
No word of whether Bambi won Bingo.
No more recipes for Stuffed Porcupine or how to catch one.
(Wait on the corner of the porch until porkie comes to eat the house. Bean a big can of V8 off his noggin.)

Where will the young learn such stuff?

Never cry wolf

Postcards killed the radio show

Hard to believe, but this postcard killed a radio show.

CBC's Parka Patrol, the wry Saturday night show that apparently came from a forest ranger tower near Maynooth, ON, disappeared after a successful two year run in the '80s.

The first year, it drew 350 pieces of mail. The second year, nearly 700.

Funny thing about the intimacy of radio: each single listener feels he or she knows the little voice in the box. They want contact.

The poor sap who wrote and voiced Parka Patrol answered the mail.

"If we could just print up some postcards, life would be so much easier," the Corporal of the Cordwood begged. "The mail load is impossible."

"What would be on the front of the postcard?" asked the Corp.

I made one for them.

I found it this morning.

They said no.

The show ended.

Sigh.

The Sun never sets

Fans and critics of the Toronto Sun know that over the years, John Cosway compiled a fascinating blow-by-blow account of its rise, flubs and failures. Virtually every staffer contributed to his feisty independent blog. Way kewl.

(See it at torontosunfamily.blogspot.com)

In the fall of 2011, the Sun "celebrated" its 40th anniversary.
Quietly is an understatement.

But Cosway solicited every staffer to contribute memories of their time at the word factory.

They're all at the above e-address.

Here was mine....

----------------------------

WEDNESDAY, 26 OCTOBER, 2011

Memories of the Toronto Sun - Gary Dunford


Bruno Gerussi - the Stratford actor-turned-Beachcomber - scored me the longest gig I ever had.

He was chums with TV critic Bob Blackburn and the amazing Kathy Brooks and knew more than most about the death of the Tely and birth of the Sun.

As the Sun invented its new Sunday edition, Gerussi insisted I meet Brooks and pitch a humour column. I added it to my handful of freelance gigs, which included Bruno's radio show and his fledgling Beachcombers.

My weekly Sunday Sun playlets mostly centred on Tiny Perfect MayorDavid Crombie and his civil circus. Three or four people found them funny. I was at the one year mark and counting - mostly counting myself lucky. But then Brooks calls . . .

Kathy drags me in to see J.D. MacFarlane when Slinger left for the Star. The scowly editorial director owl seemed dubious I could file 34 column inches, five days a week. But Brooks charms him. "I want items!" he thundered.

On a good day my space was an odd mix of jokes, media whispers, quizzes, blind items. It took about two years to become Page Six, a smart alec spreadsheet of local heroes, CBC excess and sheepdogs.

John Downing was my Sun guardian angel and mentor. It was Downing's IBM Selectric I used til he came over from city hall late afternoons. It was Downing who often advised on what was total or partial B.S. in the flotsam I collected. And it was Downing's unseen hand that allowed a wildcard freelancer - who "served at the pleasure of the publisher" for 23 years - to be treated like Sun staffers, which was very well indeed.

To repay him, I kept an ugly eight-foot tall cardboard palm tree on his desk for about 10 years, an eyesore to most, but a fine landmark for incoming Strip-o-grams.

"Gary," a worried Marj Henry would whisper into my extension: "I think there's another crazy person here to see you." Keep them in the lobby. I'll come out.

For a few years, Mark Bonokoski and I shared a back corridor office, prime real estate with a glass window allowing us to scout every model, actress and bunny wannabee, rushing with her makeup bag to a SUNshine Girl photo shoot. I think Bono missed a few stunners while out at the city desk, barking at some hapless editor about his missing adjectives. Go figure.

Old fogie that I am, I well remember Jim Yates handing me my first Radio Shack TRS-80 Model100 word processor, the cutting edge of 1983 technology. With about 10 pounds of cables and teacup-sized couplers, you could be 60% certain of filing a column into the Sun's cranky computer room. It was a miracle that dwarfs the iPad. Okay, some nights, you had to file four or five times. Up to a dozen if there were thunderstorms.

Since I was a pioneer telecomuter, my space at the Sun changed as often as fall fashion. My desk was once close to Peter Worthington's editor space: I was aware of every column complaint he took from the boss of CFTO.

Did Doug Bassett know how many iffy items came hand-written on cream-colored Desk of Douglas Creighton memo paper? Maybe. Gossip fresh from Winston's. I was a hapless pawn in some decade-old Tely payback I knew nothing about. Honest.

For two happy years, I got to see every crutch, sling, bandage and ankle cast editor Barbara Amiel sported, rolling into the office from her exercise, falls and social wars. It made me much more health-conscious.

Much has been made of what a party school the Sun was. How many Columnists' Dinners were there? Too few. Doomed by wretched excess. It was Sun style. Party hearty. Go big or go home. Rent SkyDome. Get a carousel in there. And don't miss the after-party at Hoofer's. Crooks. Betty's. Go if only to hear the Star people bitch.

Tom MacMillan was every columnist's co-conspirator, mine more than most.

What newspaper in North America underwrote every-10-year sabbaticals? Played Santa Claus in good years and bad? Cut some stock aside for those who weren't Day Oners in Sun Media's IPO? Did we know how good we had it? You bet.

A dozen wage slaves were airlifted annually to "Sun Seminars" in distant cities. Mine was in New York City in 1984. There, in the swank Hotel Pierre ballroom, I showed the directors a home-made video that mocked the paper, its editors, its readers. The legendary Amiel Reel, tagging her as the Black Queen of King Street. Always bite the hand that feeds you. It was possible. Humour was not a firing offence. MacMillan intro'd me as asked as loner and loon. True.

I'm always amused when Cos includes some whippersnappers' complaint that TSF is for and by boomers looking backwards at an amplified, impossible, golden and glorious past. How can the present ever compete with such B.S?

Memory is a blessing, kiddos: time erases most of the petty, stupid and awful. (Did we really drag Liz Braun to lunch at the House of Lancaster? May we all burn in Hell.) But you have total recall of the good stuff. Memory is sweet.

And for Sun staffers of most of the last 40 years, there was a generosity of spirit afoot that quite simply was unique.

Worth celebrating.

Awesome.

New dog in town

new dog in town

Back at the dawn of TV, on Sunday afternoons there was an NBC show called Wide Wide World.

Dave Garroway hosted this hour experiment, as they attempted to put up a live picture of Niagara Falls, a live street fair in Chicago, traffic moving across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Since this was all done with patchplugs, coaxial cables and transcontinental switches, it was about 20% static and 80% miracle. When things went wrong, Garroway turned to his closeup camera--while technicians scrambled--to explain how impossible it was to do such a show in the 1950s.

Like much in life, the long-ago show lives in memory as a childhood miracle, flickering images that beget videotape, satellites, high def.

At the end of each Wide Wide World, Garroway would recite the following benediction:

"The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide...
Above the earth is stretched the sky,
No higher than the heart is high."

He'd hold up two fingers and add: "Peace."

I think of the verse ever time I go kayaking....

happy canada day

Ready?

Where did I go?
Out.
What did I do?
Rafting in Costa Rica.

I have hundreds of photos...
. Lots of tree frogs in blue and red.
. Birds of every description.
. Perfect curves of nearly deserted Pacific beaches.
. Surf as sweet as Hawaii.
. Dozens of new beans and rice dishes.
. Friendly locals on the party bus that takes you up above Jaco and buries you in beer.
. Amiable Ticos and the world's best coffee.
. Moody volcanos and zip lines thru the trees.
. Crocs and holwer monkeys and spoonbills in the trees, as pink as a baby's butt.
. Magic landscapes as only nature can design them.
... but alas, no picture of the baby ant eater.
(It moved too fast for me to stop being slack-jawed.)

I still dream green.

But what haunts me still is the overnight raft trip down the Rio Pacuare.
One of the world's five last great wild rivers.

Beyond magic.
Beyond words.
Midnight: just stars, darkness and the whisper of water.
Yes, I had fun.
That is where I've been.
Happy Canada Day.

night lava, volcan arenal

Costa Rica pictures

rio pacuare

sunset up above jaco

sleeping capuchin monkeys

playa hermosa

rio pacuare

manuel antonio

chestnut-mandible toucan

happy crocs

Volcan Arenal at dawn

Costa Rica postscript

After conversing with Costa Rica's scarlet macaws, I returned to find a reader desperate for a copy of a performance piece originally written for Bruno Gerussi's seminal CBC Radio show in the 1970s.
Yes, this was just before Bruno became a TV beachcomber.
Seven Days appears in multiple anthologies and my own column collections.
Why not here?

(appears below)

Seven days

in the beginning,
man created the mudhole and the marsh
damming streams for viaducts
and routing waters for his own benefit
waters, white as crystal, rushed through trenches
trickled through makeshift reed piping
splashed clean into clay bowls
bubbling to do man's bidding

and it was the morning and the evening of the first day
and the seagulls were dying

on the second day, man created the slaughterhouse and the zoo
and the wild animals of the earth
which wandered at will across the planet
instead watched man from behind wire mesh
scruffy lions with sad faces
and elephants, their bottoms calloused from sitting on cement

and it was the morning and the evening of the second day
and the seagulls were dying

on the third day, the buffalo disappeared.
simply disappeared.
and across the pampas
safaris, $1195 per person, sought out exotic creatures
to mount in rec rooms or multiply in cages
and the ice floes ran red
jungle monkeys reeled in terror
antelope, gazelle, deer
stared back thru every rifle's sights

it was the morning and the evening of the third day
and the seagulls were dying

on the fourth day, man created the sewer and sump
and pumps to pipe sewer to sump and sump to sewer
at incredible cost
to nose and pocket.
and the pumps pumped
and the sumps drained
and the sewers flowed
into creeks and lakes
and every drop of sewage makes
an ocean spread across the world
the promised universal apocalypse

and it was the morning and the evening of the fourth day
and the seagulls were dying

on the fifth day, man crated and canned atomic wastes
and made up the word megaton
packing lethal wastes in rusty old drums and concrete caissons
cramming biological uglies into old train tank cars
that ran on undetermined schedules
across the landscape
somewhere, sunken tanks of arsenic are cloaked in barnacles
rust slowly in salt water
and now and then, on october afternoons
underground explosions occur
but smiling spokesman describe them as necessary and safe
as desert floors collapse and islands tremble.
the smiling spokesman swears
the san andreas fault
remains faultless

and it is the morning and the evening of the fifth day
and the seagulls are dying

on the sixth day, man created the additive
which differed in name, but never in purpose
and was gleefully installed in cereals and fertilizers
soft drinks and cookies
field and bug sprays
creams and cosmetics
it was added to everything man ate or drank
but scrubbed from smokestacks
and sewage
and lakes
and eventually,
even the additives had additives
and counter-antidotes to combat the counter-pollutants.
even the experts gave up explaining
exactly what the additives were to accomplish

and it was the morning and the evening of the sixth day
and the seagulls were dying

on the seventh day, there was quiet over all the earth
except for the lapping of waves
and the bubbling of storm drains
and the seagulls were dying
the plankton
the oceans
the atmosphere
the trees were dying

and man
rested

BlowHard

Taking a swipe at those who oppose wind turbines off the Scarborough Bluffs, Premier Dalton McGuinty is signalling he won't hesitate to foist "green" energy projects on communities across Ontario.

Wind Hustlers

So like the medicine shows of old, sky smoothies in suits tour rural Ontario, pitching hopefully rube councils the virtue of Catching The Invisible Wind.

After all, these friends of the Ontario government--and numbered companies who'd like to be buddies of the government--will be subsidized and tax-breaked up the yin-yang to erect 40-storey wind turbines all over the Algonquin boondocks. (Turbines sounds much better than windmills, dude. Very high tech.)

The wind catchers will operate when the wind blows--just 30% of the time--pissing a piddle of power into the grid now and then, but the when cannot be predicted. Or harnessed. Or stored. So the same coal/oil/nuke that currently fuels the grid will grind away 24/7 just like now. Duh.

Wind blows hardest when it knocks down trees or during ice storms when the power grid goes down. Will the blades spin in vain? Or not spin at all? What's wrong with this picture?

How often does the electric grid blink or fail in rural Ontario? There is a more consistent power supply in Ecuador.

Each wind-generated kilowatt hour will be purchased at a guaranteed McGuinty price that is three to five times the price of a kilowatt from existing sources. This surcharge will be passed along to Hydro One customers, like the Retiring Past Mistakes entry on each bill which repents the sins of the 1950s. We have new sins.

Nobody really knows what happens to a 400-foot high windmill in an Ontario ice storm. Can blades the size of jet planes hurl ice slabs? Does the whole structure go down, like a high tension hydro tower?

What happens to wildlife?
Or neighbours within earshot?
How bad are the sound and vibration?
Are there health implications?
How much land will bulldozers tear up to place these suckers?
Who removes them if a cheaper, better source of power makes turibines antiques?
Shut up.

That is why the wind experiment must be carried out east of Algonquin park, where eyesores can easily be erected on heights of land. That these low-per-capita income areas of rural Ontario rely on tourism to survive is... well, what would the word be? Unfortunate? Opportune?

I know! Green!

Ontario must retro-fit all existing Group of Seven paintings to include a large wind turbine next to Tom Thomson's scraggly pine.

If Ontario's cities are the main beneficiary of schemes to feed their wretched excess, shouldn't they lead by example?

I want a wind turbine atop each turret of Queens Park. How about one to replace the communications mast on the CN Tower? Imagine Rochester, green with envy to see a propeller spin atop Toronto's landmark beanie.

Each Toronto skyscraper should have its own rooftop wind turbine to supply--a third of the time--the electric needs of Commerce Court or the Toronto-Dominion Centre. Who needs a grid? Just a long extension cord to the roof. Why they could leave the lights on all night! Whoops, I forgot. They do that anyway.

Where does the wind blow harder than straight in off Lake Ontario?

Eureka!

Alas this is not the plan.

No windmills allowed in David Smith or Dalton McGuinty's yard, thank you.

Rural councils smell a Wind Hustle that will benefit everyone but themselves, and are dragging their feet. Will they get free power? No. Tax benefits for ratepayers? No. Construction gigs? Hah! A little brushing? Maybe.

One rebel council slyly passed a resolution to make no decision in the matter for 10 years.

That prompts Queens Park to fast-track the Wind Hustle and bypass the locals entirely. Shut up! This is called parliamentary democracy.

So we'll get costly power--but only 30% of the time--from unsightly structures taxpayers have underwritten in subsidies and breaks, from towers that won't make much of a dent in the "dirty" supply we use now.

A few favoured companies will roll in free taxpayer cash.

Turbines will go up whether tourists, taxpayers, MPs or locals want them or not. But only in areas that don't have the population or pull to do much about it. What luck!

Why I'm feeling greener already.

Pass the barf bag.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas

Shaeffer/Graham Bezant

True, all dogs love Christmas.

These next few days are the officially-sanctioned Dog Disobedience Days.

Nothing dogs do this week is worth the time or trouble to yell at them.

And finally, there is enough going on to interest dogs.

Many of the best holiday events are conveniently staged below knee level, where dogs get the best view.

But one large dog--in his middle years and wise beyond time or space--actually shivers in delight at the first flakes of snow. He quivers on the day he can see his breath. He knows the happiest hours are just ahead. This particular dog sings as The Great Day of Winter approaches: his is a sweet soprano whimper, as clear and determined as a kindergarten kid at a pageant, trying to soar to the tricky "sleep in heavenly piece" moment of Silent Night.

"Gosh," people would tell the mutt, bending down to rub his ears whenever he sang: "You are certainly one dog who loves Christmas."

And he was.

Weeks before the big day, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would track each present as it came in the house, watch coyly as it was wrapped, then memorize its hiding place and wait to be alone. He would unwrap it so it could easily be re-wrapped, two or three times if possible. When the presents were finally moved to high shelves or locked closets, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would take to opening whatever he could reach: eight-packs of toilet paper from the bathroom cupboard, boxes of corn flakes and raisin bran--often in the living room. When everything was finally moved out of his reach, he knew Christmas must be very, very near.

During those delicious last days, if the door opened and The Dog Who Loved Christmas was indoors, he would seize the opportunity to go out. If the door re-opened and he was outdoors, he would come in. Sometimes he would travel in the direction of the door-opener. Other times he would race from the opposite direction, always timing his speed and momentum to squeak cleanly past his doorman's knees.

If anybody tried to direct the animal's activities, a kinder soul was sure to warn: "Hey, leave him alone! You know how much that dog loves Christmas!"

The Dog Who Loved Christmas most loved his tree. It was always set up in the coolest room of the house, the very space the dog himself favoured for sleeping. It was clear the people in the house brought the tree inside as a special present for the dog. He would watch as it was decorated, sniff the unfamiliar indoor odor of pine, sprawl for hours on the floor, using the family as cushions. He liked it when they turned on the lights. Or turned them off. The Dog Who Loved Christmas would sleep under the tree and night and pretend he was camping. He made sure to sleep on the opposite side from where he marked the tree when no one was around. It was, after all, his tree and there was a certain pride of ownership. Sometimes people would stick their finger in the tree's pot. "Yep, it's still wet," they'd say. He was happy to help.

On the day the family decorated the biggest window in the house, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would hurry upstairs. Standing on his hind legs, he would press sweet, heart-shaped dog noses on the undecorated windows of the bedrooms and kitchen. Then he would slip outside to admire his work, with a sidetrip under the porch--the better to coat his paws with clay to decorate the rugs.

"Look!" he imagined visitors might cry in glee. "This house belongs to A Dog Who Loves Christmas!"

The Dog Who Loved Christmas could count on a fine buffet of appealing snacks on the holiday, always placed on coffee tables and low snack trays where he could see them. There were cheeses and round little crackers, sometimes smeared with stinky fish. The dog would feign disinterest and pray for a phone or doorbell to ring, the better to snatch a few. At Christmas, no one kept count. When he was by himself at night, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would help himself to hard candies in a low bowl, suck each piece for a few seconds, then stick it back to try a new flavour. They always wondered why the candy stuck together.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas enjoyed an occasional lick of chip dip and sometimes, to amuse himself, would carry a few potato chips in his mouth to his water dish. There, he'd float them like boats. Then he would whimper pathetically til someone came.

"What's wrong?" they were sure to ask. "Oh poor dog! There are in chips in your water dish. Let me get you a new one." They'd fetch a fresh dish of lovely, cool water, give him a pat and sometimes a treat. Minutes later, there'd be a familiar whimpering, new chips in the water dish and a new victim to say, "Poor dog."

The Dog Who Loved Christmas rolled happily in the wrapping paper on Christmas Eve and--since he growled menacingly at anybody who tried to retrieve wrappings--got to guard the paper overnight. It was collected the next morning, no piece bigger than a torn movie ticket, while the dog took his morning walk. It reappeared Christmas Eve as confetti.

On Christmas Day, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would sit politely under the dining room table. He was so quiet visitors had to peek underneath to convince themselves he was even in the house.

"I can't believe it!" they would cry. "My dog would be begging, barking and carrying on! Why I'd never know your dog was even in the room! What a Good Dog!" Dozens of times, hands would appear under the table offering turkey and tidbits.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas learned at a very young age that dogs who never beg get more turkey than those who do. Every guilty person at the table eventually offered something, a carefully-chosen pay-off. Indeed, some years, so much food was gingerly collected below the laughter and conversation above that The Dog Who Loved Christmas would have to slip away to the basement two or three times during the meal and ralph everything he'd eaten thus far into a cool corner. He'd always upchuck against an outside wall, so no incriminating evidence would be found til Easter. Sometime he re-ate it for snacks. Then it was back upstairs for another pound or two of dinner.

After the meal, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would race outside with the kids. It was his duty to destroy forts and snowmen as quickly as tots could build them. Bundled in snowsuits, the kids could barely feel his nips. The smaller ones had difficulty walking. The Dog Who Loved Christmas would grab them by their parka hoods and drag them backwards through snowdrifts, playing crack the whip. He did this only with wee ones who couldn't really talk, so they could not report him to the authorities. And of course, bigger kids all thought it was funny.

On Christmas night, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would sprawl on his back under the tree, fat and happy, his legs splayed like a broken toy, his mouth open, and snore like a horse.

Every year at about midnight, they would take his photo for the family album.

There were eight years' worth of pictures of the animal, paws to the sky and snoring. So cute, so content, under his tree.

"That Dog Sure Does Love Christmas," somebody would always whisper, as the camera shutter clicked. Sometimes his eyes would flutter and he even heard them say it. It made him very glad to please them so.

dunford/pagesix 1986

Swim with the sharks

So a few feet underwater, six miles off the north coast of Oahu, I feel a tap on my shoulder. A torpedo-shaped Galapagos shark coasts by. I come up for air.

"Your knee was outside the shark cage," sez my responsible pal.

This is good to know.

"Shut up," I tell him, just as you would.

In the bobbing cage, sucking a snorkel tube, circling sharks ripple in sunlight, all IMAX, Discovery Channel and light show. It is an irresistible swim of beautiful greys and blues.

Fools try to touch the sharks, a hypnotic arm's length away. This is why God gave us liability waivers.

Never give them a knee.