How We Lost the War on Drugs

According to the Global Commission on Drug Policy, after fighting for nearly fifty years, we’ve lost the war on drugs.  I don’t know what the terms of surrender are, but I imagine they’re going to be written on some really cool paper with unicorns and rainbows in the margins.  Actually, I didn’t realize the war was still going on.  I thought we’d won when Bill Clinton refused to inhale.  Goes to show ya, I’m old enough to be out of the loop when it comes to the recreational use of anything.

The major question is how did we lose?  After all, serious substance abuse isn’t all that pretty to watch.  I had a friend who literally turned green after six months on a steady diet of coke, diet coke and not much else.  What started out as a weekend binge ended up as a determined lifestyle.  My buddy went from a grade A student nerd, interested in the new world of binary mathematics, to an after midnight zombie, feeding on late night infomercials and horror movies.  I don’t know what finally happened to him, but the last time I saw him, he did that weird, slow fade thing with his head when he looked at me and asked if I could give him some money.  I did, and I’ve felt guilty about it ever since.

There’s no upside to drug abuse, so how did the dealers win and the losers use – oops — the users lose.  The answer is easy.  We did a few things wrong.

First of all, like idiots, we lumped marijuana in with all the nasty bastard stuff.  That made the whole war on drugs just a joke.  Anybody who’s ever had even a casual acquaintance with the grey smoke knows that it’s the most benign of the illegals.  It’s hard to get behind a battle, body and soul, when the enemy was a pretty good friend back in high school and university and still comes around sometimes on the weekend to watch a movie or play some music and chill.  The general public has never been committed to eradicating marijuana use.  Obviously, they don’t want some stoner running the nuclear power plant, but they don’t really care if Tony and Cherie have a toke on Friday night and go dancing — or sit around in the privacy of their own living room and watch Thelma and Louise.  By throwing everything in the same illegal basket we wasted billions of dollars and expended huge resources chasing the wrong criminals.  While guys like Pablo Escobar and Amado Fuentes were running around, playing Robin Hood and soaking North America in cocaine, law enforcement agents were burning grow-ops and busting teenagers.  Ass-backwards, I’ll grant you, but what can you do?

Secondly, mainly because of the idiocy of marijuana prohibition and the powerful lobby that came out of that, we decided, for the most part, drug use was a victimless crime.  In fact, the prevailing wisdom was that it wasn’t actually a crime at all; it was a social problem caused by the usual suspects: poverty and ignorance.  We then recruited an army of social workers and threw the whole mess in their laps.  It wasn’t until much later that we realized the error of our ways.  By that time, it was far too late to restructure the system to deal with the ever-increasing list of victims (who weren’t supposed to be there in the first place.)  And now the myriad of social services we created have a vested interest in maintaining the victimless status quo.  Nobody seems willing to connect the dots between meth, crack and heroin and theft, robbery and prostitution – except, perhaps, law enforcement.  Unfortunately, we forgot to tell those folks what we were up to with the victimless crime thing.  They were under the impression that illegal drug use was a regular crime like all the other ones.  They acted accordingly — complete with those archaic 19th century penalties nobody bothered to update.  In a nutshell, the cops were doing their job without any support from the rest of the social structure.  And as with Prohibition, ninety years ago, they lost public support.

Finally, the biggest reason we lost the war on drugs is we screwed up and made recreational drug use socially acceptable.  Right from the time of Easy Rider and Cheech and Chong, up to and including Harold and Kumar, drug use has been a nudge-nudge, wink-wink activity.  Like the amiable drunk from the 50s (Otis from Andy of Mayberry comes to mind) drug use is considered comic, even funny.   It still carries a whiff of rebellion, but it’s considered relatively harmless.  Even the hardcore drugs carry little or no social stigma.  Should they?  I’m not sure, but the reason we’re winning the war against tobacco is because smoking is no longer socially acceptable.  We don’t arrest people for smoking.  We don’t fine them, jail them or treat them like criminals.  All we do is go “Ewww!” and wave our hands frantically in the air.  The use of tobacco (one of the most addictive and dangerous drugs on the planet) is steadily declining in North America.

Personally, I hope the war on drugs isn’t over.  Perhaps we can’t win, but with a little ingenuity, we can at least battle some of these heavy duty blood suckers to a standstill.  I’d like to see some of the misery they’ve caused ended, some of the neighbourhoods they’ve destroyed restored, and some of the lives they’ve ruined, reclaimed.  Like most people in this country, I don’t care if Tony and Cherie roll a bomber (or whatever they call it these days) now and then — legally or not.  But I would like to see some sanity in our drug laws, some stiff penalties for the dealers we’ve grown fat on addiction and some resolute assistance for those among us who are trapped by it.

The Stanley Cup Finals: A True Fairy Tale

Once upon a time in a great northern kingdom, there was a magical city called Vangroovy.  The people there were totally cool because they lived in the most wonderful city in the whole mystical world.  They had mountains to climb and oceans to sail; tall trees they loved to hug and beautiful weather all year round.  They lived on raw fish and fresh fruit and vegetables.  They drank delicious local wine and spent their weekends smoking medicinal herbs and watching David Suzuki on TV.  Vangroovy would have been paradise, indeed, except for one thing – all the people in the great northern kingdom suffered from a terrible sadness.  Their holiest relic, an ancient Cup given to them by a wise statesman named Stanley, had been stolen.  Years before, a wicked troll named Gary had borrowed the Cup to share with his southern friends, and now he wouldn’t give it back.  Each year, the cities of the great northern kingdom sent their best knights to make war on the armies of the evil troll and retrieve the holy relic, but each year he’d find a way to defeat them.  Many great knights fought in these Winter Wars – Sir Alfredsson, Sir Iginla, Sir Roloson (to name just a few) but all to no avail.  Twice the Knights of Vangroovy had come close to beating the armies of the wicked troll and seizing the holy Cup.  But in the end, the great Roger of Neilson was forced to surrender, and even the mighty Quinn was defeated.  A dark cloud hung heavy over the land.

One day, two young magicians from a faraway place called Ikea, came to Vangroovy.  They were named Hank and Dank.  They said, “We are young now, but as our powers grow, we will use our magic to fight the evil troll.  Who will fight with us?”  Many young knights stepped forward — Sir Salo, from the timeless land of Selanne, Sir Jannik the Dane and Sir Raymond the Swift.  More knights joined them: Sir Lou from the Holy city of Montreal, and three friends from the land of the Moose — Sir Kevin, Sir Alex and Sir Kesler the Grim.

“We are ready to fight,” they said, “but who will lead us?”

One man spoke, “I, Coach V, Alain de Vigneault will lead you.  Follow me!”

For four long years, the war raged.  Each year, the Knights of Vangroovy won many victories, only to be thwarted — again and again — by the wicked troll and his minions, the Red Wings, the Ducks, and the evil Chicago Blackhawks.  But the power of the Knights of Vangroovy was growing and the wicked troll sensed his time had come.  He called on his Centaurs to help him.  Half man, half zebra, these beasts used their awesome power to punish the Knights of Vangroovy and turn the tide of battle against them.  Many brave knights fell in those years: Sir Markus of Naslund, Sir Willie, Mattias of Ohlund and the greatest of them all — Sir Trevor of Linden, who had fought side by side with the Mighty Quinn in the Battle of MSG, in ’94.  But always there were other courageous warriors to take their place: Sir Edler, Sir Ehrhoff, Raffi the Relentless, Hamhuis the Soft Spoken and the valiant Malholtra.  The war continued.

Now the Knights of Vangroovy are within sight of the Cup, once again.  There have been many casualties; the knights are battered and bruised, but they have defeated the evil Blackhawks, the Predators and the Sharks.  With the help of Gillis the Magnificent, they have silenced the Centaurs and hold them at bay.  Now they face their greatest enemy.  The Cup is guarded by the ferocious bear cavalry of Boston, led by a giant and by Timothy of Thomas — a wizard with no bones.  This is the final battle.  There will be no prisoners, no quarter sought or given.  The wounded will remain and fight — or die — where they stand.

“Troll! Hear us!  The Cup is ours, and we’re coming to get it.  Stand and fight.  We will not be denied.  So cry ‘Louuuuu,’ and loose the dogs of war.”

CRTC and The Four Shysters

There’s a fine line between brave and stupid.  Brave is charging hell with a bow and arrow; stupid is thinking you’re going capture Satan.  If you’ve ever tried to upgrade either your television or your telephone, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  You have to be very brave indeed to even attempt it and pretty stupid if you think you’re going to succeed.

A popular misconception in Canada is that the telecommunication industry is run by the Canadian Radio-television Telecommunications Commission.  This is not true.  The CRTC is a bloated, out-of-touch agency, left over from the 30s.  It was put in place originally to regulate (read “limit”) independent radio stations in Canada — to guarantee that everybody listened to the CBC.  Within hours of its inception, however, it was discovered that most Canadians live within shouting distance of the US border.  Back in the day, this meant that anybody with an antenna could listen to whatever they wanted to – and they did — CBC be damned!  Over the next several decades — useless though it was — the CRTC remained, and since nobody cared (they were too busy watching Bonanza and Father Knows Best out of Detroit) it continued to make useless rules and consolidate its power.  Soon, the CRTC was in charge of everything from television call letters to satellite communications.  However, just because the CRTC makes the rules doesn’t mean it runs the show.

In Canada, the telecommunications industry is actually run by four pseudo criminal organizations I like to call The Four Shysters.  The Four Shysters control 95% of all television and telephone services in this country.  Under the guise of healthy competition, they operate a virtual monopoly.  They own the equipment — which they sell or lease to consumers at prices that rival Tiffany’s and Faberge.  They dictate the rates — which are comparable to Tony Soprano’s New Jersey Savings and Loan.  And they pretty much do as they please.  Not since the evil days of Prince John and the wicked Sheriff of Nottingham has a country been so firmly under the dark boot of tyranny.  Canadians pay some of the highest rates in the world for cellular phone service, and there’s nothing we can do about it.  Our 500 channel universe is so expensive that most people have turned to Netflix in desperation.

You can’t even shop around because it’s impossible.  Here’s how the sordid world of telecommunication in Canada works.  Shyster A advertises a free phone with – in teeny-tiny print — a three year contract.  You get 200 free minutes a week (between noon and 3 pm) 6 minutes at five cents, 12 minutes at 7 cents, free texting to one friend in Newfoundland, free Web browsing on days with an ‘h’ in them, incoming text messaging at 3 cents a minute, long distance calling at 20 cents a minute to anywhere in North America (except Ontario, Mexico and the United States) no roaming charges unless you walk across a bridge and a free carrying case — for $45.00 a month.  Or you can choose to upgrade to one of their 52 other convenient plans.  Shyster B advertises a completely different free phone with — in teeny-tiny print — a three year contract.  You get 300 free minutes a week (between 11 am and 2pm EST) 20 minutes free texting to two friends on Facebook, one free incoming call a month from your mother, free long distance calling from religious buildings, 10 minutes of free Web browsing (if you’re looking for a restaurant) 13.5 cents a minute overseas calling to sub-Saharan Africa (except Zimbabwe) and a puppy — for $50.00 a month.  Or you can choose to upgrade to one of their 47 other convenient plans.  Shysters C and D also offer plans equally idiotic.  The only standard in the industry is the three year contract (which is etched in the stones of the Pyramids) and the unwritten rule that, if you step one nanosecond outside the prescribed plan, you’re going to get a free prostate exam and a bill for $800.00.  How — under any circumstances — can we compare the value of these?   We can’t, and that’s what the industry is
banking on.  Finally, confusion, the mother of frustration, takes over, and we say, “Give me the one without the puppy.”  And we end up paying tons of money for crap we’re never going to use, want or need.

Similarly, our 500 channel universe is so convoluted that Bohr’s Second Law of Atomic Structure is easier to understand.  However, there are certain rules that all Four Shysters adhere to.  First of all, you have to buy basic cable; it’s like Health Care.  You’re never going to watch any of those channels, but you have to pay for them first because you can’t watch any other TV without them.  Secondly, everybody gets the Golf Channel.  Thirdly, the one channel you really want to watch is lumped in with The Puppet Channel, Aardvarks and Anvils and Minus One (the arts of Khatphoodistan) and you have to buy the whole package.  Finally, sports and news are spread out so randomly that, if you’re not careful, you could end up with The Welsh Lawn Bowling Channel and 24 Timer Nyheder (news from Denmark.)  After that, it just gets complicated.  Trying to figure out what your particular Shyster is going to saddle you with is like trying to unravel the Da Vinci Code — and don’t even worry about High Definition: it’s a money pit.  If you somehow manage to chart a path through this mind field, don’t get used to it: in six months, the Shysters will shuffle the deck and change everything, again.  Channel 64 will become 31; 31 will be 107; 107 will disappear altogether and the original 64 will suddenly be in French.  Inevitably, our minds rebel, and we just grab anything that looks good.  Once again, we’re paying tons of money for crap we’re never going to use, want or need.

And where is the CRTC in all of this?  They’re sitting down in Ottawa, trying to figure out the difference between upload and download.   They’re making regulations for Facebook and Google like they were the Testaments of the Prophets and wasting time and money keeping the world safe from Sun News.  Meanwhile, The Four Shysters are playing Guy of Gisborne all over the country and pillaging the Canadian people like they were the peasants of Sherwood.  This
country needs a Robin Hood to put a stop to this villainy.

Eventually, we all have to upgrade our telephone and television services, but I’m going to hold out as long as I can ‘cause I’m not that brave — and I’m sure as hell smart enough to know, that without any rules, I can’t win.