Author: wdfyfe

Before WD called himself a writer, he worked at a number of different jobs from stacking lumber to interior design. He studied English at UBC and creative writing at ASU where one of his teachers, Rita Dove, taught him the importance of the tale. He has written for radio, magazines and newspapers, but never television. He’s published both fiction and nonfiction in Great Britain and the US. He reads French passably and speaks enough Spanish to get from A to B and find the toilet. He has interviewed John Cleese, Peter Ustinov, Margaret Drabble, Kenneth Branagh and enough other famous people to make him a hopeless name dropper. His not-so-secret passions are history and trivia, and he has never lost a game of Trivial Pursuit — although he did come 4th one drunken Quiz Night at the Uxbridge in Notting Hill. He lives on the Pacific Ocean, although, not close enough to see, so he spends his days looking at a computer screen. It’s a wonderful life and he has only one regret: he can’t type faster.

MITT ROMNEY … OR ELSE! (Part I)

Every four years, whether anybody likes it or not Americans stop whatever they’re doing and turn on each other in a ten-month, bare-knuckle brawl called “Who Wants to be the President.”  It’s sort of an itty bitty Civil War that keeps the most powerful nation on earth from having the real thing.   In the past, nobody outside the fifty states cared very much about it until October, when most of the fighting was over and it was down to the final four.  However, somewhere around the time CBS cancelled The Sonny and Cher Show, the rest of the world started taking an interest in how Americans went about electing their head of state.  In those days, Jimmy Carter was president, and he was such a dolt people all over the world wondered how he’d got there.  This year, 2012, is once again a presidential election year, and as of yesterday, the war’s on.

In general, potential presidential candidates could give drama lessons to Gossip Girl.  They’re always talking about how this particular election is the most important one in history and how the future of our species depends on how the people in Michigan’s fifth congressional district vote.  With a few notable exceptions, like 1860 and 1940, this is crap.  For example, at the time, 1976 was called a pivotal year in American politics.  However, we now know that the difference between “Jimmy” and “Jerry” was minimal.  Usually, somewhere between the election and the inauguration, most presidents get sorted out.  Even though there have been a number of bad ones, none of them has actually ruined the country.  The problem is since every candidate since Washington’s Farewell Address has cried wolf, nobody believes it anymore when the sheep are actually being eaten.

We live in such a time.  If history is any judge (and it will be) 2012 will be a serious date in the continuum of our planet, and the next president is going to have to lead, follow or get the hell out of the way.

To be brutally honest, 2008 was a throwaway election.  America needed a vacation after eight years of George Bush.  On the one hand, you had a young, handsome, intelligent candidate who could talk circles around Daniel Webster and Clarence Darrow combined.  On the other, you had a guy who had actually shot at godless Commies, way back in the Cold War.  Pair the old guy with a Kardashian wannabe, and you had a slamdunk for Prince Charming from Chicago.  With the media leading the voting public in the chorus from “I Need a Hero,” the only bona fides Barack Obama ever had to provide were that he wasn’t George Bush.  Nobody bothered to ask him who he was or what experience he was bringing to the table.  Four years later, America and the world have discovered that on-the-job training doesn’t really work when the job is President of the United States.

Barack Obama is not a bad guy.  He’s not out to ruin the world or the country or even the American middle class.  He just doesn’t know what he’s doing.  He’s demonstrated that beyond redemption right from day one when he had to ask the Secret Service where the bathroom was.  It’s not that he’s stupid; he just doesn’t have any experience.  When he walked into the White House four years ago his resume consisted of Community Organizer (whatever that is) Illinois and U.S. Senator.  That’s it!  And he spent over half his time as a U.S. Senator outside the Senate, campaigning to be President.  That’s like that kid Eddie down at the convenience store (no offence, Eddie) getting promoted to CEO of the 7/11 Corporation.  For the last four years, the country has been without adult supervision — and it shows.  But here’s the kicker: Obama now believes he’s figured it out, and he wants to keep his job.  That’s the problem!  The Democrats can’t dump him now.  If they did, they might just as well hang a vacancy sign on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and get it over with.

And all this brings us back to the first punches thrown yesterday in New Hampshire. (The Iowa Caucus was just a bunch of crybabies saying “Me first!”) As of this moment, it’s the responsibility of the Republican Party to make sure Barack Obama leaves a forwarding address.  Why?  Because this is the most important election since Ronald Reagan put a stop to Jimmy Carter in 1980.

Friday; Why the Republicans have to reclaim the White House.

 

Life isn’t Fair … to the other guy!

Somewhere between the point of impact and the bloody nose, some back-fence philosopher will invariably tell you life isn’t fair.  Not very witty and not very original but true all the same.  We all know life isn’t fair.  For example, the San Diego Chargers have never won the Super Bowl and the Dallas Cowboys have won it like two hundred times.  NFL parity be damned; that’s just not fair.  Nor are the long lines at the DMV, the amount of sodium in a Big Mac™ or the odds of winning in Vegas.  I have a friend who used to say, “Life is a series of long shots and then you die.”  I never agreed with him, but he’s got a point.  The fact is life isn’t fair.  The problem is we all know that’s true, but nobody believes it – not really.

We believe life isn’t fair … to the other guy.  We think the random bumps and bruises Mother Nature dishes out on a daily basis should be reserved for somebody else.  We’re willing to take our lumps too but we want a reason for them.  We also want our personal attributes recognized by the universe, and we want rewards and punishments meted out accordingly.  When that doesn’t happen, we think we’re getting screwed.

This wasn’t always the case.  In the late 19th century, novelist Thomas Hardy made a career out of ruining fictional lives with innocent acts of chance: an appointment missed or a letter misplaced meant his characters lost out on happily ever after and went straight to abject misery.  These days, we pooh-pooh Hardy`s ùse of coincidence as a literary device, but the Victorians thought it quite acceptable.  (They were more concerned about the sex.)  Our recent ancestors realized that life was hazardous and you had to be very careful because happenstance did happen – with dire consequences.  Our benevolent universe is a recent invention.  It`s less than sixty years old.

For the last three generations, we`ve been working under the delusion that we can build a risk-free society.  Actually, we`ve done a relatively good job.  Life — as we know it — has come a long way from what 17th century philosopher Thomas Hobbes described as “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.”  Our institutions give us a level of protection against random acts of misfortune.  They provide a certain amount of certainty to our lives, and offer slight guarantees against disaster.  Unfortunately, because we’ve been living under these minimal safeguards for so long — and they have worked so well — we now not only believe in a benevolent universe; we demand it.  In short, “life isn’t fair” might apply to the generic universe, but nobody takes it personally.

The real problem is, as our society’s cocoon wraps itself around us, we simply don’t take life seriously anymore.  We don’t believe it can hurt us, and when it does, we’re shocked.  I’m not talking about life-threatening diseases or major disasters like earthquakes; you’re not going to win those babies.  I’m talking about everyday trouble that comes whipping out of nowhere and kicks us in the teeth — stuff that just happens.  It’s nothing personal.  There’s no giant ledger of debits and credits, and you didn’t get your share of credits.  Nobody’s trying to thwart your attempts at a good life.  There’s no need to rage against the machine, get angry or threaten to sue.  And it’s not going to do you any good to cry or sulk or go back into therapy.

Here’s the deal.  Sometimes, the owner doesn’t clean up after the dog. It’s that simple. There’s nothing you can do about it — except, maybe remember: despite our best intentions, life isn’t fair and you need to wear shoes.

Conversation: A Dying Art

We all know people whose primary skill is to be annoying.  They may be nice folks, and we may even genuinely like them but invariably, in conversation, they always have to pull out the sandpaper.  Nothing seriously personal — no insults to your mother or major ideological differences just — nitpicky crap that rubs you the wrong way.  These are the folks who always have something to say, and, when they don’t, weasel the conversation around until they do.  Actually, it’s mostly the tone; just a note or two above superior but not quite nasal enough to be pompous ass.  They’re the ones who roll their eyes skyward when you start the conversation with, “I was at McDonald’s the other day…” as who should say “I’ve never tasted a Quarter Pounder.”  We all know they have, but we never say so.  We never stop the story and say, “Hey! Wait a minute, I knew you in college and you used to eat Ronny Mac eight times a week.”  And that’s the most annoying part of it all.  We let them get away with this stuff, and two days later, we’re still pissed off and rewriting the mental conversation.

We let these folks trample all over us is because it’s just too much trouble to stop everything and call them out.  We know if we do say, “Hey! Wait a minute!” we’re going to get a diatribe on the icky bits that go into the Chicken McNuggets or how the Shakes don’t melt in the blazing August sun.  (As if we didn’t know that already.)  Either that or it’s a forty minute travelogue of some quaint little hamburger place over in Funkytown where the chef/owner raises her own cows organically in the backyard, sprouts her own mustard and hand blends the secret sauce.  (Probably, ketchup and Thousand Islands!)  It’s not quite as bad as the vegetarian tirade but close.  Anyway, it’s just not worth it, and that’s what these people bank on.  They think they’re safe because the rest of us aren’t willing to stop cold and take them to task every time they open their mouths.

These people are ruining the world.

Once upon a time, it was perfectly acceptable to have an ordinary conversation: just a few people hanging out with each other.  We all heard what the other person had to say — like it or not — made the right noises in the right places and waited our turn to trot out our own semi-interesting stories.  It was great fun and how we got to know each other: the Golden Age of small talk.  These days, however, the irritating people have taken centre stage and we can’t get away from them.  They’re constantly trying to enlighten us to the perils of the world, the inequities of life and the finer things that only they have the inside track on.  They’ve turned the fine art of inane conversation into some sort of verbal tennis match where every innocent lob is returned with a Roger Federer drive to the net and overhand smash.  It’s like getting trapped in an elevator with a socially aware insurance salesman: eventually, everything gets back to “Serious” without ever having paused at “Who Cares.”

The problem is there’s nothing we can do about it.  Unless we want to turn every conversation into a low-level firefight we just have to stand there and take it.  Polite society dictates polite conversation.  Personally, however, I’m tired of the monologue on microbreweries, films with subtitles and anyone who has travelled anywhere.  I no longer admit I have a passport, occasionally drink soda pop or know how to read.  Nor do I celebrate major Western holidays, know where Africa is or understand the nuances of the LCD/LED TV.  (That last one’s true, by the way.)  I’ve discovered that it’s impossible to deal with these people.  They hold the floor like some 19th century slumlord — with just about as much benefit to the common good.

Unfortunately, since our society frowns on unleashing predators like me on these people, they are multiplying exponentially.  Eventually, all conversations will consist of a number of comatose heads, bobbing in unison, while several long-winded gasbags hold forth, ad infinitum.  No one will be able to hear (or care) what the other person is saying, and eventually, in polite good time, they’ll all just wander back to their smartphones, emails and text messages.

It’s a bleak future, but until we declare open season on these perpetual pains in the posterior, we’re doomed.