A Rain of Frogs

Co-worker #1: Wouldn’t it be something if Stephen Harper were the first Canadian Prime Minister to be assassinated?

Co-worker #2: C’mon, we’re Canada, we’re not like that.

Me: We are now.

Thank the powers that the stupid election is over after today. After listening to a bunch of unworthy leaders tell everyone why they are better than the other guy for the longest campaign I can remember, its finally time for them to get our of my face.

Of course, not a single decent leader is up for the top job. They’re all grumpy old men with hidden agendas and jowls. The incumbent Prime Minister was the finance minister for the most corrupt party in Canadian history. The likely successor is a right wing, fag-hating neo-con that will sell us down the Mississippi river to the Bush government faster than he’ll be able to repeal our progressive same-sex marriage laws. He also intends to nationalize every womb in Canada.

Then there’s the “smart” choice, what we here call the NDP (National Democratic Party) and the rest of the world would call the Labour party. The leader of THAT party has a mustache. Nobody in western politics gets elected while in possession of a mustache. And lets not forget the “Bloc,” a party bent on making the province of Quebec a country of its own.

Then we have the full gamut of insignificant parties. There’s the Green party with its environmental agenda that nobody can take seriously because there’s not financial support structure to back up their ambitious plans. There’s the Christian Heritage Party, which nobody even understands.

The (un)usual suspects, bearing red stars and arguing with each other are the Marxist-Leninist party and the Communist party of Canada. If only they would realize they have identical hopeless agendas, they could get off the ballot and save us all grief.

The upshot is that we have two major national parties and a gaggle of tiny ankle-biter parties mucking up the stew. Because Canada lacks proportional voting, it means that in many ridings, a vote as low as 15% can result in a some idiot who can’t tie his or her own shoes representing the will of tens (or hundreds) of thousands of people.

Democracy my ass.

This weekend marked the start of the week-long Toronto boat show, which is one of the few things that gets a sailor like me through the long, depressingly cold winters we get here in Canada. It is an almost carnival-like atmosphere of consumer confidence, with half—million dollar yachts on display and people from every corner of the boating universe.

It’s fun as hell. Wanton consumerism in glossy fiberglass.

I have, as many of you know, a small sailboat. A Contessa 26, specifically. Unlike most sailboats in its size range, the Contessa 26 has a claim to fame. In the 1990s, a Hawaiian teen named BJ Caldwell sailed a Contessa 26 around the world single-handed, becoming the youngest person to ever do so and breaking a record held by an eighteen year old New York woman named Tania Aebi, who sailed a Contessa 26 christened VARUNA around the world in the mid 1980s, becoming the first American woman and the youngest person ever to do so. It made her a bit of a folk hero, a legend in her own young time.

It’s a hell of a pedigree, and applies to my Contessa 26 more than many, as it sat on the factory floor beside Tania’s boat, its production delayed so her more famous sibling could be delivered on time for its famous globe-girdling voyage. In fact, some of the upgrades applied to VARUNA made their way to my boat. All that aside, the fact that both of these intrepid teens chose the same type of boat for their circumnavigations speaks highly of the tiny vessel. All of that I learned while researching my boat purchase two years ago. What happened yesterday at the boat show was different. I met Tania Aebi.

She had given a presentation at noon, supporting the publishing of her second book . Unfortunately I missed the presentation, but I did manage to see her off to one side, sitting at a table, about an hour after she was finished. I was surprised by her small stature, as I had never really given consideration to what she would actuallly be like in person. Introductions were made and we began talking about how her trip had been an inspiration and one of the factors which helped me buy the boat I love so much. She, in turn, shed a more personal light on her trip and life afterward, and her opinions of sailing and its place in her life since her famous voyage. We also talked about the surprising number of Contessa 26 owners she has talked to over the years.

What was interesting was how little emotional attachment she had to her boat after completing the biggest circle in it. For me, the boat is almost a kindred spirit, a steadfast friend who will forgive my clumsiness and bring me home safely every time. I definitely consider my boat a being, far more than just a thing. She has a soul. For Tania, though, it seemed the boat was a means for her to discover herself, and that the tiny ship was part of the equipment of the adventure – like a backpack or a pair of shoes.

It was interesting to discover that she had no boat now, though she was considering a purchase. She mentioned justification, she mentioned costs and maintenance. All things that apply to a boat, but are always secondary to the joy mine brings.

I secretly think that she believes all us “Contessans” as slightly mad. That we’d willingly purchase such tiny cramped boats and gleefully sail them to the ends of the earth, following in her footsteps. I think she believes we can find more practical boats for such trips, and save ourselves the grief of banged shins and skulls.

We may be mad for our love of these boats, but I will never know. What I do know is that when I first stepped aboard her two years ago, my boat sang to my heart, and it was clear that she was meant to be mine. Subsequent searches for larger boats, with more creature comforts (and headroom) have lacked that connection I had with my pocket cruiser, and I’ve left comparing them negatively to what I already had.

Maybe some day I shall step onto a boat that sings to me like that, but until then, I shall sail my little yacht over horizons and enjoy the smile she brings to my face each and every time she leans her diminutive shoulder down and heads into the breeze.

Like Tania, my boat may be small, but she’s also a legend in her own time. And in my mind.

Before the long and unfortunate labour dispute in the National Hockey League, the game was facing a serious problem. Through careful statistical research, and man-years of trolling through videotape replays, an incredibly defensive system of play was developed which almost (but not quite) guaranteed victory. It was called “The Trap.” The Trap was effectively a practical representation of the mathematically most correct way to play the game.

While The Trap was spoken of in sneers and jeers by those who despised it for its systemic perfection and for the way it slowed the fastest game of ice down to the point of boredom, even coaches who hated it were forced to adopt it in order to have any chance of success. Watching a game between New Jersey and Ottawa was like watching paint dry, except slower. Many claimed The Trap was destroying the game, but everyone had to follow suit merely to remain viable.

Fortunately, the labour dispute which cost the league a year of hockey also gave it the chance to change the rules enough to break The Trap, and while there’s debate about the merits of many of the new rules (penalty shot anyone?), the destruction of The Trap was a smashing success.

All of that, of course, is preamble for the fact that I read a book this weekend.

The United States of Wal-Mart by John Dicker is an interesting look at the worlds largest corporation. I won’t go into the details of Wal-Mart’s successes, or the hundreds of statistics the book presents, but I will suggest that everyone go to their public library and give it a read. For most people, it’ll take about a day to read.

Wal-Mart’s strategy for dominating the marketplace is virtually identical to The Trap in hockey. By carefully monitoring massive amounts of retail information, Wal-Mart has hit upon a strategy that mimics, in three dimensional reality, a mathematically perfect way to play the game of commerce.

While it is not difficult to see that Wal-Mart’s strategies often reduce the standard of living in communities in which a Supercenter opens, and that the company is driving manufacturing jobs overseas in the pursuit of lower per-unit prices, it is incredibly difficult (as the book states) to explain to someone who makes minimum wage how a $25 DVD player could be a bad thing.

Lets face it. Wal-Mart is the ultimate expression of our capitalist, free-market system. They’ve perfected it. And, just like in hockey, competitors are forced to follow suit or perish. Mostly they’re perishing, because Wal-Mart is so very good at the game.

Nothing short of a change to the rules will stop the Bentonville juggernaut. Nobody is forcing people to shop at Wal-Mart. The market is, as it’s supposed to, voting with its wallet, and Wal-Mart is winning. They will continue to win. The formula for the game has been found, and honed to perfection.

In commerce as in hockey, The Trap is destroying the game.

Long-time readers of this site and those who have met my family know, I was raised by a communist father. My sister and I were raised, from a young age, to believe that America was far behind in the cold war, that Soviet technology, while perhaps less polished, was obviously superior, and that American propaganda was what made the USSR look so very very evil. One of the most important things we were taught was a healthy distrust of the press. Eventually, as my father had hoped, both my sister and I developed independent opinions on social systems such as capitalism and communism.

It should therefore come as no surprise that I had never, until recently, read either 1984 or Animal Farm. And yet, for anyone who knows me, it undoubtedly does come as a surprise.

I am well read. I have been so since I was quite young. I rarely form an opinion without researching it to some level, and because I hate being at a disadvantage in a debate, I have a breadth of knowledge that occasionally humbles people twice my age. This isn’t arrogance, just an observation.

Nonetheless, these two books somehow slipped beneath my radar, and remained unread. I knew the gist of 1984 – who hasn’t heard of Big Brother? – and had heard one or two references to Animal Farm (two legs bad?) but had never actually read either. Until last week.

Both were given to me as Christmas presents.

Despite its diminutive thickness, Animal Farm took me the better part of a day to read. That’s slow, for me. I think it was because I was absorbing so very much of the nuance and comparison to the way I was raised, crushing condemnation of the lessons my father tried to teach me as a child.

1984 was similarly eerie, though not so much a condemnation of Stalinism (though interestingly not Leninism) as it was railing against totalitarianism. Obvious and shallow comparisons can be made to virtually any government in the world. It is, after all, the governments job to exercise control over its people.

Interesting reading nonetheless. I wish I had read them earlier, but it was wonderful to finally have both under my literary belt, so to speak. Both gave me ample break from another excellent Christmas present, a 61-key Midi Keyboard Controller.

I was given this keyboard by people who strongly support my musical interests. I won’t go into much technical detail about the keyboard, since that’s not relevant to this writing, but I am happy to answer any technical questions about it via email.

The keyboard connects to my Powerbook vis USB, and also comes with standard Midi inputs and outputs. Coupled with software like GarageBand, I can turn the keyboard into any instrument you can imagine, from the sublime (a grand piano on stage) to the ridiculous (take a listen to Circuit Dialogue in Garageband sometime).

For those who aren’t aware, I am a classically trained pianist, though I stopped playing a long time ago to pursue other interests (electric bass). It was interesting to plug in and set up this keyboard and see what sounds I could create. There was trepidation – the reasons for leaving piano came rushing back to me and made my heart race – but there was also exhilaration. I was excited.

Over the last week or so, I’ve relearned a great deal about music that I had forgotten, and found once again the joy that is John Lennon. Imagine, Jealous Guy… playing these songs on a keyboard is touching me in ways it never could on any other instrument.

It’s nice to be back. Four strings good, 61 keys different.