Countless articles and columns I wrote about Montreal between 1999 and 2011 have disappeared into online ether.
So here in no particular order, or theme, or quality are a few that I found on an old hard drive.
Most of them appeared in the now-defunct Montreal Mirror weekly newspaper.
**
1-18-2005
The economy of insults
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Francine Lamarre dropped
the N bomb and now she’s going to pay three grand to her arch
enemies for the mistake.
Last month Quebec’s
Human Rights Tribunal ordered her to pony up for mouthing the
ultimate racist insult in an outburst against her upstairs
neighbours.
Racist,
sexist, ageist putdowns and acts of discrimination are policed in
Quebec by at the cost of $13 million a year by the Human Rights
Commission, which receives about 800 complaints and chooses about 40
to bring to the Human Rights Tribunal, a court that force
transgressors to pay up for discriminating based on gender, ethnicity
or age, stuff in section 10 of the Charter of Rights.
Lamarre had excuses. She
was on medication when she said the regretted words; she was
overwhelmed and unprepared by the hearings, conducted largely in
English.
She was frustrated by her belligerent tenants who she claims
used to reply to her efforts to collect rent with a “fuck you.”
It was a perpetual quarrel,” she says, complaining that the noisy
boy upstairs would wake at 7 a.m. and “run around like a chicken
with his head cut off.” All these couldn’t rationalize saying
the word-that-must-never-be-uttered. She must pay.
Last year a good number
of the cases the Commission took before judges took aim at landlords
on behalf of apartment seekers. If a landlord is stupid enough to be
outspoken – for example saying out loud in front of the applicant
and a witness that he doesn’t want a family or young adults - he’ll
be a few thousand dollars lighter.
But sometimes a landlord
gets sued even when he doesn’t say anything discriminatory. Last
year one of the 20 Tribunal decisions dealt involved an Arab refused
an apartment in Brossard. The commission sought $9,000 from the
landlord who never said a prejudicial word. He simply rented to
someone else.
The
plaintiff got nothing, but Commission rep Robert Sylvestre says cases
of perceived discrimination have ended up in fines for landlords.
And yet in this new rental world landlords often choose randomly
between a heap of candidates, undoubtedly leading to a lot of hurt
feelings and suspicions of discrimination.
You
know that I’m waiting for the day the Commission fines a would-be
tenant for turning his nose up at an apartment when seeing it’s
owned by an immigrant landlord. Alas the Commission’s last annual
report includes a tribute to FRAPRU, the rabidly-anti landlord social
group on its site, so gives you an idea of the chances of that
happening.
Of
course discrimination and prejudice are all around and only an
infinitesimally tiny sliver of the total number of racist utterances
will ever get in front of a Tribunal judge.
So
how much can you score for having your pristine dignity assailed?
Last year Martin Sacksner got $2,500 from a woman who sent him crazy
anti-Semitic mail. A Sorel car dealership guy had to pay up $1,000
after describing somebody as a “fifi” behind his back. Jacqueline
Drouin-Pelletier had to dole out $2,000 to Farroudja Yekene for
dishing out the ‘what’s-that-towel-on-your-head style banter at a
garage sale in Sherbrooke three years earlier.
So if
you feel like shooting your mouth off, don’t. Ask yourself – as
always – what would Steve McQueen do? Stay cool. Say nothing. Show
no expression. Just walk back to your ’68 Mustang and drive away.
But
if you’ve got the Tourretian impulse, where you really can’t keep
your mouth shut or resist a trashtalking duel, be aware of the line.
Never insult somebody in front of witnesses because you’ll have to
find and kill him afterwards (don’t sue, I’m kidding!) Stay
creative, choose your words, extreme-condescension, and derision or
terms like “pickle nosed airhead” or “vegan waffle eater” or
some other such meaningless but cryptic-sounding nonsequitors can be
devastating.
Your
quarrel buddy could still technically hit you with a civil harassment
suit, but the Commission won’t be there at his side helping him
out.
***
8-29-1999
In praise of the pimp
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
A pretty young hooker, her pimp and me
are standing around the corner of Charles Mayer Park, which isn’t a
park. There is no grass, no trees, just lots of bricks. It looks like
a house got tired standing in such a wretched spot and simply
collapsed into the earth.
This spot at Montcalm and Ontario was named
after the journalist who invented the hockey tradition of the three
star selection.
Tonight’s Molson three stars: la premiere etoile,
da first star, is the hooker. The second star is the columnist, only
because the pimp has to come in last. We can’t glorify pimps, no
way.
“I’m not a pimp, you know. I’m
don’t even get paid for doing this.” He says, his dark eyes
shifting and evaluating the men in cars trying to catch the hooker’s
eye. “There were a lot of beatings of the girls that were working
from this corner,” he says, interrupting his sentence for one of
his frequent conferences with his female friend, “but it has
stopped since me and this another guy came around to protect them.”
The pimp-who-says-he’s-not-a-pimp is bald on top with straggly
dreads coming down from the sides and says he wasn’t present when a
street-walker recently went into labour while working the corner. Nor
would he tolerate his girl shooting up in public, a practice that has
pissed off locals to no end.
He’s mad at the
media. “The Journal de Montreal put her picture in, they blurred
out her face, but you could see her tattoos clearly, what if her
mother sees that?” Yet as he speaks, at least three cars full of
men – perhaps thousands over the night – ogle his pretty,
pouty-lipped friend.
While do-gooders and government-funded
groups have fought to help street-hookers in the last few years, the
fate of her traditional organizer has flown in an opposite direction.
There are no movies about the pimp with a heart of gold.
Official-looking reports often blame these guys for the problem,
without acknowledging their potential for good.
If, as the new thinking has it, street
prostitutes need support and help, then a person who theoretically
helps, defends and supports that worker must be of value. But
according to federal legislation passed a few years back, judges can
sentence a boyfriend, or assistant, or anybody “living off the
avails of prostitution” to six months in prison.
So, gone are the
wild guys with the fur hats and jackets that hung out at Harvey’s
and apparently gone is the protection they offered. According to
local prostitutes’ rights lobby group Stella, only 20 percent of
hookers admit to having a pimp, which mean that only 200 or so
procurers our streets. It’s possibly why hookers get killed all
over. Seventy have disappeared from the Vancouver-Tacoma strip.
Seventeen were killed in New York by a psycho who never encountered
an irate pimp with a switch-blade. And here, south-central residents
complained of the frequent noisy fights with clients.
Next month cops and social workers
meet to continue to develop solutions to the problems of our
south-central skin trade.
Claire Thiboutot from Stella, admits that
pimps offer “a certain protection and they bail the girls out of
jail.” And though she says the group doesn’t have “a miracle
cure” don’t expect their suggestions to include the return of the
mack. MUC Police Chief Inspector Serge Gascon says that the cops
won’t be sub-contracting the protection to playas anytime soon, “We
are against pimps, we will keep fighting against them because they
abuse the women. It’s the police who have the role of protecting
all citizens.”
Area residents have
told city councilor Sammy Forcillo that the hooker bedlam is worse
than ever and he’s hoping cops start targeting clients, redirecting
the women to non-residential areas and increasing their access to
social resources. I hope it helps, but for my two cents, if I needed
protection on the streets and had to choose between a bad-ass playa
with a piece or a do-gooder grad student with a bunch of pamphlets?
I’d even settle for a pimp-who-says-he’s-not-a-pimp.
***
2-10-2004
Quebec is a woman
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Why
is Quebec so seductive, mysterious and so fickle? It’s because
Quebec is a chick.
Proof:
a Leger and Leger survey from a few years back had Quebecers choose
their favourite words. The most popular words reflected feminine
values: “harmony,” “human relations,” “tenderness,”
“culture”, “spirituality” were the overall winners. Men under
35 chose words that ranked low overall: “risk,” “danger,”
“speed.”
Plus there’s the money
factor. Women have it. The number that keeps getting repeated – a
statistic apparently so authoritative and that nobody even knows
where it comes from – asserts that women in North America control
85 percent of household spending. Mathematically, this means that a
man with a job making $35 grand, after divvying up half to the
taxman, then to his woman, is left with $2,600 a year – that’s
$200 bucks a month to live on. Welfare recipients make more. Stores
shouldn’t even be letting us men in.
But
back in old Europe men were phenomenal shoppers. When their women
sent them to fetch spices and beaver coats, men came here from across
the world in leaky boats and killed Indians just to fill out the
shopping list.
Nowadays
women keep stores going, even electronics stores where they buy over
half the junk. Yet a new study shows that women are routinely ignored
by gizmo store clerks. I asked a clerk in Nerds’r’Us what he’d
do if a woman wanted to buy, say, a remote control. He replied: “Men
should really be shopping for that particular item.”
He
makes a good point. Women aren’t great with remotes. They don’t
even change channels for commercials, maybe because they’re
studying products they might be buying with their 85 percent. But I
can assure you that TV commercials should not be watched except those
featuring drunk housewives like the Devo-inspired “Swiff-It mop”
and the hammered Aunt Lorelei dancing at Disneyland.
Retailers generally know
that women have cash, which is why they charge them double for
haircuts and shoes. This policy should also be extended to music
stores because women need a disincentive to buying Sarah McLaughlin,
Cheryl Crow and Brian Adams CDs, which really stink up radio.
Women
are also less likely than men to read this column because
statistically they read for pleasure, whereas men read to acquire
knowledge. Women rely on school for their education, something that
men are increasingly giving up on. A cool trick: walk past the
graduating class photos in the hallways at McGill law school – the
grads slowly morph genders - all men 40 years ago to all women today.
Anyway,
degrees are overrated. They lead to jobs, but newspapers are where
you’ll find a true education. Unfortunately you’ll never get a
job by writing “I read newspapers a lot” on the “Education”
section of your resume.
Another problem is that
women professionals seek to marry male professionals. They do this –
according to yet another study - because women consider men more
attractive when told the man has a good job (men didn’t care either
way about the woman’s job). But there won’t be any rich hunks
left. That’s ok because lawyers marrying lawyers is not only
anti-wealth distribution – it’s just icky. Professional
class-incest should be taboo.
Women used to court
powerful men to gain their status but the new trend is to do this by
spurning them. Famous guys might get groupies but they also get shot
down famously.
For
example an Ottawatian I once met told me before our handshake was
complete about how she had once turned down hockey legend Steve
Yzerman’s marriage proposal. A single Haitian mama I know casually
bragged to about how she refused Pedro Martinez’s request for her
phone number and I’ve heard chicks do oneupwomanship duels over
their biggest celebrity slam – a game that involved such local
notables as Brian Hayward, Brian Barnes, Roy Dupuis, Jean Leloup, as
well as a particularly messy tale about Robbie Alomar in the room he
lived in at SkyDome.
So
anyway, Quebec is an alluring but hard-to-understand temptress, with
a couple of flaws, she nonetheless deserves a big Valentine’s Day
smooch.
**
9-11-2000
Urban hounds in bondage
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
In the dog-friendly confines of
elegant Percy Walters Park, bitches and studs frolic freely, as they
scratch themselves, establish territory and check out potential
mates. Meanwhile their dogs do largely the same things.
For decades, dog lovers have convened
on this picturesque, sloping Pennefield Avenue field tucked inside
the low redbrick walls that once fenced off a millionaire’s estate.
Unlike my part of NDG where snarling, predatory hounds devour 10
pounds of raw beef and get their teeth sharpened daily, this seems a
laid-back, successfully self-governing community of dog fanciers.
So naturally
somebody had to try to put an end to it. That somebody was an unnamed
middle-aged woman – rumoured to inhabit a condo behind the Trudeau
mansion - who has slapped the city with a cease and desist order to
force dogs to wear leashes. The complainant accurately points out
that Percy Walters Park was never meant to be Poochy Walkers Park
because the donor, a cigarette company official and member of the
Royal Automobile Club, gave his land to the city in 1944 as a place
for kids to play.
Walters decreed
that there never be any playgrounds on the spot, that it be named be
named after him for all eternity and so forth. If we violate Percy’s
commandments, he will get cryogenically unfrozen and kick some ass.
Failing that, the land would revert to a nearby hospital.
Typically, such deed clauses are
easily changed with a simple provincial legal amendment. And
traditionally the city has diplomatically smoothed out periodic
disagreements over the illicit dog run. But this time, rather than
let sleeping dogs lie, the city has cried havoc and let slip the dogs
of the canine patrol. First they handed out tickets and pamphlets.
Next, public works staffers welded-open the wrought iron gates that
make the park safe for the hounds. After somebody un-welded them,
city workers – complete with police escort - removed the gates
entirely.
“I’ve been coming here for seven
years and never seen a problem. We’re forced to buy a dog license,
so we get the financial responsibilities of dog ownership without
receiving benefits of it,” says leashless dog owner Martin Hasler
who claims that he once unsuccessfully tried to write his dog off on
his taxes as a legal dependent.
“Dog owners move to apartments
nearby just so they can live close to this place,” says fellow
illicit dog walker Genevieve Larocque. She asks, “where else can we
go to let our dogs run?”
When asked that
question, a city official reads an address from a list of 20
city-approved dog runs. “I’m not sure where that is. I think it
might be in Pointe Ste-Charles.” When reminded that the Pointe is
miles away, the official replies, “yes, but don’t forget, a lot
of these dog owners bring their cars to walk their dogs.”
**
More stuff to feel outraged about:
A big
Canadian-owned boutique at Peel and Ste-Catherine pays its workers
bare minimum while forcing them to pay for and wear company clothing.
Yet when well- paid rock stars Dave Grohl and Melissa “Chuckles”
Auf der Maur recently strolled in, the star-struck manager loaded
them up with free clothes.
A black woman in a
rich neighbourhood is steamed because people assume she’s the maid
when she answers her door. Unfortunately, dark skinned people still
clean mansions and too-rarely own them. Forget social manners, let’s
quibble over wealth distribution.
Jaggi Singh, the
infectiously angry radical TV darling, said a few weeks ago on a CBC
TV panel that “welfare cuts are violence.” Not bad, eh?
Personally, I consider overheated coffee, Billy Joel songs and rainy
weather to be violence too.
The McGill Daily
has brilliantly presented their not-very-interesting office space
squabble as a right wing conspiracy to quash the paper’s
dangerously mind-blowing agenda of political enlightenment. In fact,
the paper has been offered a similar office on the same floor only
about 17% smaller than their current digs, which were very spacious
last time I looked.
***
9-19-1999
How our sky got scraped
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Forty years ago the city as we know it
was born after city hall agreed to play ball with some Yankee
developers. It was the fall of ’59 when William Zeckendorf would
find the final investor in a project that would turn a huge downtown
crater into the city’s gleaming core. The steel and concrete
goliath, to be the first to scrape our island’s virgin sky, nipped
urban sprawl before it started and gave us the option to work in the
clouds or shop beneath the snow. And a lesson to those who oppose
government funding for the proposed baseball stadium: Zeckendorf’s
amazing building, a tax cash cow for the city, would never have been
built had the city not pitched millions to the developers.
Here’s the tale: long ago, much of
today’s downtown was a grassy slant called Burnside, the name James
McGill gave his farm. McGill built his university in the northern
part and sold off the lower portions to tycoons like Harrison
Stephens whose elegant stone mansion long graced the site. Stephens
persuaded his blue-blooded buddies to build the St. James Club, a
snooty drinking club, next door in 1864. Other neighbours were to
include Dr. David Macbean’s Turkish Bath Hotel, which promised to
cure “gout, catarrh, dropsy and dyspepsia.”
In 1911 the
Canadian Northern Railroad secretly bought much of the Town of Mount
Royal in order to build a three mile underground train tunnel to the
city center. Speculators gambled that the other end would wind up
where Montreal High is now, or where St. James United Church now sits
on Ste. Catherine, but the train folks dug right through to the land
just south of the St. James Club.
In 1943 Central Station was built, in
1956 Dorchester was widened, and in ‘58 the Queen Elizabeth Hotel
opened its doors. The land around the St. James Club was a huge pit,
sad and lonely as the bed abandoned by your lover.
Enter the American developer William
Zeckendorf who was already famous for selling the United Nations on
his New York property rather than locating in Philadelphia.
Zeckendorf persuaded the CN to let him build a city-within-the-city,
a “Rockefeller Plaza but better” on Dorchester and University.
The Mayor jumped on
board, as did the Royal Bank, but locals were resentful and
suspicious. One city councillor complained that the west, ie:
english, side of town would get the tallest building in the
Commonwealth, while the east got the unwelcome Jeanne Mance housing
projects. Another councillor demanded that Zeckendorf’s company be
fined $200 for putting the city crest on his pamphlets. And all hell
broke loose when Mayor Fournier agreed to spend $7.5 million on
street widenings around the project.
Unfortunately, the historic St. James
Club got the wrecking ball and if you believe Zeckendorf, city hall
encouraged him to knock it down, as a French gentlemen’s club had
been demolished a year earlier. The city built a traffic tunnel on
Berri as an olive branch to jealous east enders and city council
wisely rejected Zeckendorf’s proposed 20 foot high sloping concrete
ramp from his Cathcart Street plaza to Ste. Catherine, along McGill
College.
Construction fever
swept town: Zeckendorf-in his own confession-was knocking down
on-site buildings his company didn’t even own. The CIBC attempted
to usurp the Zeckendorf/Royal Bank project by quickly erecting their
own, even-taller tower at Peel and Dorchester. CIL tossed up a
quickie skyscraper on Dorchester just east of University.
In the first 19
years after construction worker Victor Cloutier bolted the last
girder on the 42 nd floor of Zeckendorf’s Place Ville Marie on July
12, 1961, the city collected an astounding $100 million in taxes from
the project. The cross-shaped building gave the city the cash flow to
finance the metro while Torontonians, whose city core was controlled
by the unimaginative John David Eaton, stood back in awe.
Now that a glorious
downtown baseball stadium needs cash, the city should dream again and
remember the great things that can happen when they agree to play a
little pitch and catch on a good project.
**
Nov 7 2001
Celine Dion and the not-so free press
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
At first we thought
it was just another inexplicable phenomenon, as impossible to
understand as the local popularity of prog rock bands like Gentle
Giant and Genesis and foods like poutine, an unappetizing concoction
of French fries soaked in cheese and gravy. There was no reason to
imagine that Celine Dion would make a mark outside of her native
Quebec, much less dictate her own press to a media happy march in
lockstep to her commands.
Previously no
French Canadian star had ever shown much determination to break out
of the local ghetto, although those who might have had the best shot
include 60’s era queen sized shouter Ginette Reno. She now lives in
the countryside, married to a character in the ongoing biker war, a
conflict war that has killed 150 to date. Other more recent
candidates vowed that they’d never betray their people by singing
in English, including the cute-as-a-button buxom, blonde Mitsou who
now spends her days attending mall openings and accompanying
geriatrics on travel tours.
But there’s no
turning back now, the fourteenth and last child of a poor family
raised in a village south of Montreal, the same girl who’d sing
Mamie Blue at local bars at age 5, is the reigning princess of pop.
I couldn’t be
more embarrassed because of it.
For the sake of
disclosure, I tend to agree with my brother’s quip that Celine Dion
sounds like what her name suggests: a sea-lion dyin’. Her every
note, to me, evokes soap operas and soggy suburban emotional
pornography and it's endlessly frustrating that she has come to
represent my geographic area.
Musical tastes
aside, Dion’s lesser-known side contains a far more sinister trend
as she routinely uses legal threats to terrorize – ok, ok, bully –
the free press into becoming little more than a forum for her own
press releases. To understand the long and dark history of Dion’s
relationship with the press, one might first flip through any Quebec
entertainment magazine where one might get the scoop on how a minor
local TV star changed his hairstyle or how an aging singer has redone
her living room. In their implicit mission to promote French language
culture, such publications appear to have banned criticism in favour
of actively promote the stars.
But this summer
Allo Vedettes, one of those very fluff-bearing publications,
reprinted a report originally printed in the Star tabloid
maintaining that Celine and husband-manager Rene Angelil had rented a
large chunk of Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas in order to sunbathe
nude in privacy. The report was repeated around the world but Dion
was particularly displeased at it appearing in the small Quebec
paper. The couple demanded $5 million for damaging her reputation,
although in the earthy values of post-Catholic Quebec, charges of
nudism could barely elicit a yawn.
“I never thought
it was serious,” Michel Girouard, the gossip columnist named in the
suit, told me this week. “I thought it was hysterical.”
Girouard, known for his golden tan that virtually lights up the
coldest days of Montreal’s infamous winters, had his own victim
card to counter the warbling diva’s claims of damage. Dion, he
noted, was targeting an openly gay man, locally famous for a gimmick
marriage to another man in the mid-70s. Allo Vedettes boasted
that they wouldn’t back down. Yet the publication dutifully printed
Dion-Angelil’s letter of complaint and Angelil eventually dropped
his threats with a murky explanation that it was no longer
inappropriate after September 11. According to legal custom, those
who drop threatened libel suits have to pay one percent of the sum
they had accused, plus legal costs. Angelil balked at paying the
$50,000 or the legal costs of the Allo Vedettes.
Girouard considers
the affair a desperate publicity grab. “The problem is that Celine
hasn’t been singing for two years and now she wants to be in the
news just the same. If you want to be in the news,” says Girouard,
“you have to provoke things.”
Dion’s attempt to
punish the French language media for its intolerable disobedience was
far from an isolated case. Indeed her steadily growing reputation as
a serial victim of press freedom includes an incredible tale from
last year when Angelil asked the popular entertainment weekly Sept
Jours to destroyed 200,000 ($62,000 US worth) of magazines. The
Dion-Angelil team, which agreed to the interview only if a personal
friend was to conduct it, objected to a headline “My Son Already
Has a Twin” in reference to Dion having frozen her eggs for the
purposes of fertility. Angelil demanded all copies of the magazine be
destroyed and the brass obliged and reprinted the magazine to his
specifications, apparently without a peep from the shareholders.
And the duo’s
libel chill has also blown in the sunny south. Not long ago, while
Dion and Angelil were on a media blitz to let the world know that
they were trying to have a baby, the National Enquirer
announced (February 1, 1999) that Dion was indeed pregnant with
twins. Within a couple of months Dion actually became pregnant but
didn’t forget what she considered to be a huge insult, which she
deemed worthy of $20 million, which she demanded for invasion of
privacy.
The Enquirer,
noting that there are worse things to call someone than pregnant,
demanded to see her gynecological reports. A year ago the Enquirer
printed a retraction and donated money to the American Cancer
Foundation in her name for having said that Dion, by then a mother of
a 9-month-old child, had been pregnant with twins.
To employ a
description usually directed by Canadians against unmanly hockey
players, one might postulate that Dion can dish it out by can’t
take it. A rarely-discussed incident suggests that Dion herself was
once guilty of a slander far more serious than anything tossed her
way and she’s made sure the compliant media rarely makes mention of
it. One who tried to bring it up in 1997 was a journalist for
Canadian TV Guide who, in the course of an exclusive
interview, asked about the incident. Before the article came out, the
TV Guide brass received a subsequent request from Dion’s reps not
to publish the interview.
No explanation for
the request to nix the story was provided (Dion apparently following
the royal dictum, never apologize, never explain). But according to
the well-respected interviewer, Rosa Harris-Adler, Dion was likely
offended by a question pertaining to a reference to Dion’s
behaviour at the a Quebec French-language music awards ceremony in
1990. Following her debut English album, awards organizers had
decided to honour Dion with a nomination in the category of best
English singer alongside such Montrealers as Corey Hart and Men
Without Hats. But rather than simply withdraw her nomination in
advance, Dion chose to wait until she won to refuse the award. She
explained that she couldn’t accept the award because she is not an
anglophone, rather, she is a Quebecker.
The insinuation was
clear that Dion didn’t consider Quebec’s English-speaking
community – which forms about 15 percent of the population – real
citizens of the province of Quebec. To fully grasp this egregious bit
of redneckery, imagine, say Madonna winning an award for best Spanish
language song only to purposefully take the podium and reject the
prize, saying “I’m not a Latina, I’m an American.”
Some reports say
that the little-discussed affront almost led to Dion being booted off
the Sony label and her elderly husband made sure she didn’t make
any more misguided political statements from that day on.
All the same,
Dion’s Quebec fan base was never much bothered by her contentious
statement and the Premier of the moment, Jacques Parizeau, who later
resigned in shame after making a racist remark of his own, sent her
an effusive thumbs up for her puzzling statement. Celine’s Quebec
fans also appear indifferent to her subsequent anglicization, which
has seen her champion Canadian patriotism, American patriotism, shed
the accent on her first “e” and give birth to a child in Florida,
far from her homeland.
This is perhaps
because Dion had started disciplining her hometown reporters, curbing
anything that looks like criticism in 1994 when they demanded $20
million from the Photo Police crime tabloid which printed the
unspeakable rumour that Angelil had umm… relations with Dion while
she was still his underage protegee. The crime rag settled out of
court. Others who have received lawyers’ letters from the duo
include France’s Voici magazine, which they sued for taking
unauthorized photos of the then-pregnant diva. Then there was the
obligatory URL web site suit against somebody cybersquatting her
name, which they won earlier this year. Somewhere out there is an
angry drummer who complains of having his songs stolen. As well, a
Montreal businessman who was sued for producing a line of Celine
lingerie ended up locking horns with Angelil who said he never gave
permission to do so. It soon came out in an interrogation that
Angelil had indeed signed the rights and the issue was settled in
private.
Indeed for a such a
stickler to detail, Angelil’s management decisions are not
unsloppy. Indeed a few weeks ago I was sitting in the kitchen of a
guy who works for a food company that does charity work with Muhammad
Ali. Angelil, in gratitude for a chance to meet his idol, happily
inked a waiver that allows the company to use Dion’s image for
whatever purposes they see fit, any time. But when the food company
came under some criticism, Dion instantly disavowed herself of any
connection to it.
In fact local scandals
frequently find a way to tie the Dion name into stories, pointing out
that news editors are aware of the insatiable appetite for all things
Celine that turns any story into journalistic alchemy. Dion and
Angelil once helped found a restaurant chain called Nickels (the “s”
in Nickels represents plural, not possessive, as the apostrophe is
illegal for smaller chains under Quebec’s French-first language
laws). Soon the chain was fingered in a massive tax fraud. While
other restaurants rounded up in the sting were quickly relegated to
the back pages, Dion’s association with the restaurant made it hot
news. Dion rapidly sold her interests under the condition that her
name be erased from all mentions of even the history of the eatery.
Even crime stories will thrust Celine
into their headlines if given the slightest opportunity to do so, in
1998, newspapers told the tale of Christian-Dominique
Ethier, who was convicted of 19 charges of extortion. He’d hang
around mall bathrooms pretending to be a police officer and accuse
old timers of peeking at his wiener over the urinal wall, for which
he’d demand instant payment in recompense for the offence. Rather
than standing on its own bizarre-ness, the story was spun as a tale
of Celine story because it turned out that the offender once received
money from Dion for the funeral of his daughter who had died of
cancer.
The ubiquity of Celine in
the media and her finger trigger for litigation might seem less
scandalous than the various sins of the divas that have gone before.
We can shake our heads at Diana Ross’s conceit, Madonna’s
perversions, Whitney’s Bobby and blow and Mariah Carey’s obvious
struggles. But let’s save our gravest head shaking for what Dion
stands for, which is more than just bad music, but the attempt to
control the very press that created her.
Judging that which
is or isn’t true doesn’t seem to require anything but her
blessings. Once when she was asked in an interview what she thought
of the many biogrphies out there dealing with her. “I don’t know
what you’re trying to say,” she answered, a bit prickly, “I
only know of one biography and it’s written by Georges-Hébert
Germain, it’s the only one I respect because it’s true.”
***
4-7-2003
Taxman threatens charity restaurant
Every day 120 cheap meals are brought
to diners while another 40 meals brought to needy homes from the Chez
Mes Amis restaurant on Sherbrooke in NDG, but Tracy Dorion’s seven
year old restaurant could close its doors thanks to complicated new
provincial tax rules. “We are in a lot of trouble,” says founder
Dorion, “and it has to do with Bill 150 and the reallocation of
taxes. We’ve always been exempt but for some reason things have
changed around this year and the result is we received a tax bill in
the amount of over $8,000.” The restaurant is a registered charity
for which donors can receive tax receipts, but it is not associated
with the powerful Centraide fund, which can often help charities out
in such binds. Bill 150, passed in 2000, forced municipalities to
rearrange tax rates, leading to tax problems at such non-profit
groups as the province’s Legion Halls, and more recently led
bailiffs to seize the contents of Reverend Bagot’s food bank in
Villeray. “When they seized that food bank I called to see if there
was something we could do. I was made aware to be careful because
we’re going to get it too, and sure enough we got our own bill in
the mail a few days later,” says Dorion. “I can’t imagine how
many charities are going to be closing down over this.” Bureaucrats
have advised Dorion to reapply for charitable status, an effort that
will require a nine-month wait and won’t exempt her from her
current bill. Chez mes Amis welcomes support at 482-2210.
***
11-9-1999
Kill the chill
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Just when I suspected that my history
degree couldn’t get any more useless, Premier Lucien Bouchard is
trying to prove that yes indeed it can. That’s because Bouchard,
along with ex-Premier Jacques Parizeau has charged investment
councilor Richard Lafferty with libel and is suing him $300,000 for
making one of those historical comparisons that us history scholars
were trained to make. Lafferty’s apparently “absolutely
unacceptable” statement – made in a newsletter to his clients –
is that our big business is scared of the nationalist movement in the
same way that German industrialists bowed down to the Nazis.
Personally, I would never compare
the PQ to the Nazis. Bouchard has nothing in common with Adolf
Hitler, other than a haircut. Nor would I ever suggest that Bernard
Landry has the panache of Luftwaffe chief Herman Goring. I’d never
say that Francois Legault is about as qualified to run the Education
Ministry as Heinrich Himmler, the chicken farmer was to head the SS.
My heart and soul, thankfully, are clear of such impure thoughts!
The problem with debating the Nazi
movement is that white collar pencil necks have written so much about
the straight-armed saluters that one could literally plow through the
material 24 hours a day for an entire lifetime without getting
through it all. And it’s not all inoffensive, for example,
according to Pierre Ayconberry’s authoritative historiography The
Nazi Question, most historians agree that Hitler would have been
considered a German hero had he been assassinated in 1938. But when
Bobby Hull said something similar to a Russian newspaper, it became a
front-page scandal.
And what any
European café sprocket worth his expresso could tell you – like
Lafferty suggests – is that nationalism has historically been a
suspected puppet movement of big capitalism. As a result, our
Premier’s game of libel-threat chicken looks to leading him to a
winter hemming and hawing about European politics rather than dealing
with his part-time job of heading the government. Naturally,
newspapers will drone on every day about this irrelevant question
that Bouchard really didn’t want to discuss at all.
My advice to the thin-skinned Bouchard
is to ignore his critics, who are best left unacknowledged or
pityinglingly treated as unfortunate victims of intellectual
deficiencies. Who, for example, would ever heard of Ernst Zundel had
he not been given a national stage to expose his views?
Repression is like one of those pretty
pendulum toys, with those shiny metal balls swinging on strings. And
thanks to Bouchard’s reaction, I find my thoughts bouncing the
other way, wondering if he’s lunching today with Alcan’s CEO or
spending the weekend in the country with Jean Monty, Bell’s
shiny-headed CEO.
But Bouchard
couldn’t resist Lafferty’s provocation because the PQ react to
being called Nazis about the same way as anglos like being labeled
“the best treated minority in Canada.” Indeed, the first words
out of Réné Levesque’s mouth when the PQ was elected for the
first time was “we are not Nazis.”
So I decided to use my history
training to devote the last two inches here to the question, is
Quebec nationalism fascist? The answer is that nobody knows because
there is no consensual definition for the term, particularly since
hippies corrupted it by using it as invective. Like when your uncle
tells you to take your feet off the table, you say, “hey stop being
a fascist, man.”
One leading definition of the term
fascist is that supplied by Zeev Sternhell, an Isreali scholar, who
is the son of Polish Holocaust victims. His simple formula,
nationalism + socialism = fascism, is worrisome because the PQ
embraces both nationalism and socialism. The good news is that
Sternhell doesn’t think that fascism has to be a bad thing.
So forget the
nurses, civil servant negotiations and trade delegations, this winter
Bouchard will be discussing the historical equivalent of how many
angels can dance on the head of a pin. He’ll also look bad if he
loses the case, although it’s hard to feel sorry for him or anybody
else who blows the cold winds of libel chill.
**3-21-2001
Crouching Dragon
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
James Wing was 10
years old when he left his mother and blind, older brother behind in
a Chinese village to join his father in Montreal. He moved in with a
half dozen waiters and cooks, his father’s colleagues. They all
lived above a Chinese restaurant on St. Catherine across from
Ogilvy’s. It was 1923.
“Nobody really
took care of me, my father was too busy with work,” says Wing. He
attended Belmont Elementary School near Beaver Hall Hill. Had
classmates at Belmont Elementary asked Wing why his mother could not
live with him, he might have explained that his father already had to
pay a $500 head tax for himself – about the price of a house in
those days – and another $500 for young James. Dad couldn’t
afford to pay the tax – applicable only on Chinese immigrants –
for anybody else.
As other
communities gathered capital to advance their status in society, the
tax kept Canada’s Chinese community divided and indebted and forced
them to work extra hard to pay off the discriminatory charge.
But other kids
rarely asked young James anything. “They weren’t friendly to me,
they saw us as the yellow race, I guess because our culture and
customs are so different.”
After 1923 no amount of money would
have persuaded Canadian authorities to allow James’ mother to join
him in Montreal because Canada abolished the head tax and slammed the
door shut with the Chinese Exclusion Act.
James moved back to China for a five
years, married and had two children but he was not permitted to bring
them when he returned in 1936. “I was sad. For 19 years I passed
as a single man, even though I had a wife and kids in China and I was
here living alone on Dorchester where Complexes Desjardins is now.”
He would also never see his mother again.
During those years, few politicians
opposed the blatant discrimination against the Chinese and the only
white faces of support came from a few members of the Montreal’s
Protestant clergy. “Chinese just minded their own business and
tried to make more money so they could keep their families fed, they
had no political objectives or power. We just lived honest lives,
working and earning our living,” he says.
Wing worked as an
electrical technician at Canadian Marconi for 34-year career, doing
top secret work helping develop radar and radio equipment for the war
effort. In 1947, Canada finally repealed the Chinese Exclusion Act
allowing Wing to finally be with his wife and children, who moved
here in 1952.
In spite of the
forced divisions, Wing’s children flourished: Mao handpicked two
for a Chinese state-paid education. One now practices medicine and
another is an engineer in China. Another son practices and teaches
medicine in Montreal. But Wing still regrets having missed their
childhoods. “I wish I had been a better father.”
The Chinese head
tax netted Canada $23 million, coincidentally about the same cost of
our national railway built largely by Chinese immigrants. Canada has
compensated other communities for historical damages, for example,
the Japanese were given cash and an apology in 1988 for being
interned during World War II but they refuse to return the head tax.
After years of
failed lobbying, the Chinese Canadian National Council has recently
launched a new legal challenge to have the money returned with
interest. An Ontario judge will decide whether to hear the class
action suit in late April. The federal government has sought to have
the case tossed out, possibly in hopes that in delaying, potential
recipients would have died off.
Returning the head
tax would be the final step to accepting Chinese as true Canadians.
“We accepted discrimination as a reality, as a clash of
civilizations, but it came from the fact that Canadians didn’t know
much about the Chinese,” says Wing, “now they do and so naturally
Canadians now admire Chinese culture,” says Wing.
A petition to
support the return of fund collected in the head tax is present in
Chinatown’s better restaurants.
**9-25-2000
Westmount wannabes are revolting
We can’t all move
in the same circles as the pinkie-out tea drinkers of Westmount. But
we might be inspired by the bold initiative of the Circle Road
Association which figures that if you can’t move to Westmount, then
move Westmount to you. A recent petition to join Westmount was
circulated on the road that lies west of Victoria between the
Boulevard and Queen Mary and received 450 signatures, around 98
percent of the road’s residents. A Mirror phone survey
confirms that the Circle folks squarely support the municipal
migration. Better snow clearance, lower taxes, a cuter library, more
English services and increased home values are roundly cited as the
advantages of the plan.
As the province,
city of Montreal and various municipalities now jockey for a new
regional structure, residents consider this a good time to circle the
wagons, says councilor Marvin Rotrand. He sympathizes with the Circle
folks even though residents are attempting to flee his Montreal
riding. “Suburban municipalities have more democratic rights. They
can hold referendums, challenge bylaws and the nearnesss of the local
council ensures much more public awareness,” says Rotrand. But the
Circle Road annexation, which Westmount Mayor Peter Trent tentatively
supports, could be short-circuited because the area is not
geographically connected to Westmount. The proposal would create an
unprecedented, separate island of Westmountness, a sort of
Beemer-driving municipal equivalent of cold war West Berlin. Rotrand
says new rounds of similar initiatives to redraw island boundaries
are undoubtedly forthcoming.
-George Maddux (a pseudonym I occasionally used)
**
11-18-2003Citywide hostage taking
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Imagine
you could legally take a whole city for ransom. In this scenario
you’re a diabolical Dr. Evil where you – in the understandable
aim of personal enrichment - stop people from getting to work,
separate friends and lovers and keep the cash till precariously empty
for small shopkeepers. Best of all, you don’t even need a laser
beam satellite gizmo aimed down from space, all you need is to be a
Montreal Transit Corporation card carrying unionized employee.
Now for those of us who
remember the bad old days, bus strikes seem a throwback
pain-in-the-ass anachronism that we assumed went the way of banks
that made your cash unavailable after three and grocery stores shut
on Sundays.
But
we were wrong to assume that the bus strike plague had been put down.
There hasn’t been a bus strike since ’89
but in the 25 years prior we endured 40 such irritants, only 10 of
which were of the legal variety.
So
now the downtrodden proletariat of the 20 bucks + per hour variety
are on the picket line asking you to honk your horn and wave. But why
on earth would we want the MTC employees to earn more money? Heck
they almost surely make more than you. It’s not like they have nine
kids to support as we know Quebecers don’t have children. And half
of any raise they get will go to taxes anyway. So is it legitimate
for a few hundred well paid workers to strand millions just so can
earn a few extra bucks to pay the Seadoo off?
And
hey… you want more money too, but has the MTC union chief has never
called your boss and demanded bigger paycheques for you?
There
are two worlds of labour in Quebec, the non-unionized dregs and the
40 percent of workers (compared to 28 percent in Ontario) who have
their union cards. They’re both radically different cosmologies.
As
unionized Bell Canada employees, my gang was paid heaps more than
those doing an equivalent non-unionized work, yet in one of those
pervasive paradoxical peccadilloes, we were generally miserable,
unknowingly wallowing in a self-pitying culture of entitlement and
resentment. We’d spend half our days trying to imagine some
management slight that we could file a union grievance about.
Economically
speaking, unless somebody is making scandalously little pay, there’s
no burning reason to hope a union wins a strike. If too many local
workers start earning higher wages, inflation goes up. Thus you’ve
also got to get a payhike just to keep up. And when wages get too
high investors plant their cash elsewhere, so the whole economy sags.
It’s no fun to strike
either. As an activity, picketing is akin to standing hands in
pockets outside the Old Brewery Mission all day although you might
have to occasionally holler “So-li-dar-itay,” which seems
embarrassingly dumb as far as slogans go. Plus it’s hard to
generate much self-righteous adrenaline. After all, hardballing for
more long weekends ain’t exactly as exciting as rioting in the
“three shillings or blood” Beauharnois canal diggers strike of
1843.
And money doesn’t buy
happiness, if you believe The High Price of Materialism by Tim
Kasser which details the Deci experiment. In that study two groups
were asked to fiddle with a Rubik’s cube. The unpaid group kept
gleefully twiddling away after the experiment was officially over.
The paid group grumbled, reported less enjoyment from the affair and
knocked off at immediately at quitting time.
So my advice to the MTC
strikers: life’s too short to make enemies with everybody on the
island. Take the money and get the buses rolling.
-
A remembrance for a
good friend and bright guy once mentioned in this column – L.M.D.
was a witty intellectual with a love for cold beer and hot women. The
soft spoken bon vivant and author of a novel espousing the violent
separatist overthrow of Quebec leapt to his death off the Jacques
Cartier Bridge Monday last. The faster they put up suicide barriers
around that span the better.
**
9-12-1999
A moveable beast
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
One of life’s
great ironies is that those who hang a place with the clichés that
form its identity- in our case, as poutine-eating North American
Parisians- usually just got here on the last Voyageur from
Hogansville. Blessed with a gift for getting things wrong, these
come-from-away know-nothings generate much local head-shaking yet
somehow still get taken seriously. And worst of all, they make much
more money than me.
Want to know about
the Italian province of Tuscany? Ignore the Italians, look instead to
the American Frances Mayles, whose Under the Tuscan Sun sold
several truckloads by droning on about architecture and wine. A
sample: “As we hoe weeds around the vines, naturally, we begin to
think of a year 2000 Bramasole Gamay or Chianti.” Somehow,
pitchfork-wielding locals have so far resisted the urge to smash her
word processor.
Equally best-selling and annoying was
Peter Mayes’ A Year in Provence, a trite little story of an
extreme bore who condescends to locals while blabbing endlessly about
what he ate on which day. These, as far as I can tell, are all
cookie-cutter knock-offs of Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast
which set the tone for wistful descriptions of Parisian vistas and
torturous descriptions of waiters and bars.
I don’t give a rat’s ass about
bagels and smoked meat and all of the other irritating images that
our city automatically evokes, but I’m less indifferent to big
piles of cash, so I thought I’d have a whack at the formula.
Besides, my manuscript Stripper Cop was stalled after the
shoot-out scene.
So I shut my eyes
and imagined I was from Burnaby or Scarberia, just opening my virgin
eyes to this city. The following is an excerpt of my attempt at a
formulaic heartfelt, cliché-ridden, hopefully profitable salute to
the city through newbie eyes called A More Than Adequate Poutine.
-----
“THE DAY STARTS at the Orange Julep,
a great orange orb perched atop the exciting Decarie, a wondrous site
of thunderous vehicles which sounds like a pulsating waterfall. The
big orange once symbolized the fruitful dominance of the west-end
English oppressors. Today, the bright round circle can only be seen
as burning west-end sunset of anglo control. I’m lovingly handed un
carton de patates frites, potatoes cut in strips thick like
thumbs, apples of the earth lovingly plucked by pious farmers named
Jean-Guy and Marie on the outskirts of the city. As a tribute to them
and their 18 children, the city fathers built an airport in a the
countryside to allow international tourists to witness the loving
harvest as they flew over, but alas travelers were too insensitive to
local beauty and Mirabel airport was heartlessly abandoned.
Towards the raw
throbbing heartbeat of la ville Marie I caught a locally
manufactured Novabus, a great improvement over the former imported
model as it reflects the sensitivities of a unique culture. The
limited floor space forces people into intimate contact and the
ineffective defrost mechanism reflects the steaminess of the popular
mood, not to mention the jerky acceleration, another indication of
the mercurial temperament of this lovable city.
After that it was onto the wondrous
Metro, where the euphonious rubber friction rang through the concrete
tubeway, I looked for happy collectivist smiles but instead the
distinct society expressed itself by seriously staring downwards.
Surely they were pondering the wonders of their local culture. Later
in a brasserie the locals expressed their passions by turning their
backs and lovingly caressing video lottery terminals. As a local
custom, the waitress kindly saved me the trouble of arranging her tip
by simply pocketing her gratuity.
My evening ended with gentlemen of the
east, who appeared to be on their way to a masquerade in which
they’ve decided to go as women. Although Montreal is known for its
many taxis, these men in dresses seemed to be waiting endlessly on
street corners. So as I shared a cab into town with one of them,
while admiring the cross to the north and the sun rising to the east,
I learnt how friendly Montreal could be.”
**
6-12-2002
Conference room blitz
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
“I got to this
deserted hallway. It was empty except for a guy walking back and
forth with a cell phone. Suddenly I could hear the roar at the end of
the hall,” says Rod Vienneau, “Then I came to this conference
room full of cameras, with a big table and Quebec flags in the back.
I said to myself, ‘well Rod it’s now or never.’”
The not-so-rich,
not-so-young Vienneau marched to the front of the conference and
stood face-to-face with the PQ government bigwigs holding the
conference.
“Monsieur Legault!,” Vienneau
shouted to the Justice Minister, “I represent the Duplessis Orphans
and we want to know: when we will get justice?” he asked.
The Health Minister squirmed in his
seat as by-election hopefuls David Levine and Michel Belhumeur looked
on. An uncomfortable looking Legault finally replied, “Well, Landry
took a little step to doing that.”
Legault’s response might not have
seemed like much of a triumph but it was to become ammunition for
Vienneau, a master tactician in the battle to persuade the government
to revise the paltry settlement given the one-time orphans forced to
grew up in insane asylums.
A few days later Vienneau stood
outside a Joliette hotel with his wife Clarina Duguay and Paul Aubin
– both victims of the government-sponsored child abuse. The trio
toted specially designed flags to represent their struggle. The flag
depicts a child crucified on a fleur-de-lys encircled in thorns.
When Landry emerged, Vienneau pounced.
“I went right up to him and starting yelling at him, I got three
shots in the ribs from his bodyguard but I kept going, calling him a
fucking liar.” Vienneau informed the Premier that even his own
minister dismissed Landry’s settlement as “little steps.”
Vienneau’s bating provoked a
you-can’t-HANDLE-the-truth! moment. Landry replied in front of
cameras, “I’ve accorded $50 million to that dossier.” In fact
Landry had only ponied up $25 million. An offer accepted by the
victims in a show of hands in a closed-door session at an east end
church last year. The compensation works out to a $10,000 payoff per
victim – about one tenth of that offered to comparable victims
elsewhere - plus $1,000 per year spent inside the insane asylums.
So where’s the other $25 million of
our tax dollars supposedly devoted to these people forced to grow up
in monstrously cruel circumstances? Here’s a possibility: their
lawyer Yves Lauzon, assuming he’ll get a15 percent cut of the
settlement - a standard established by lawyers during the Saguenay
flood – will receive $5.6 million of the cash. The Orphans former
PR. guy Carlo Torini, based on similar precedents, could be scoring a
cool $2.3 million from the deal. Orphans Committee President Bruno
Roy will get $100,000 a year for frais professionels, plus
whatever other funds might have been accorded him. “The whole gang
are all in cahoots, the whole bunch of them,” says Vienneau, “and
now we’re catching on to them.”
Vienneau has no plans to end his
tireless one-man Blitzkrieg. “I’m going to keep going. They’re
going to have to shoot me or something,” says Vienneau, who was
recently nominated for a humanitarian award in California. “Landry
will be afraid to come back to Joliette now. Just like Bouchard never
came here because he knew how I confronted Guy Chevrette when he was
talking to (then-Premier) Parizeau about ‘l’avenir du Quebec,’
of all things.” Vienneau invites sympathizers to come Friday
morning to protest the situation in front of the Hydro Quebec
building downtown at 11 a.m.
-
Pop culture hasn’t
been kind to stepfathers, as they routinely get portrayed as
psychotic interlopers intent on abusing their stepkids at every
possible opportunity. Undoubtedly the occasional stepdad lives up to
his bad press but others put on daily displays of gentleness,
patience and tolerance in delicate circumstances that many – myself
included – would no doubt find overwhelming. To salute those
stepdads (and perhaps remind the less good ones of their potential to
do good) I propose that the upcoming paternal celebrations be renamed
Fathers and Stepfathers Day.
2-11-2003
Tyrannical tax gods
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
It’s time to bust the warm fuzzy
myth that the compassionate state confiscates half what you earn and
then tax you again when you spend what’s left.
Quebec’s tax
system – as has been pointed out elsewhere – punishes the poor
worse than any other province. Our taxman has the gall to demand
money from those earning as little as $6,213 a year. No other
province taxes people making as little as that, indeed in Alberta you
can make twice that and still not pay a cent in income tax. If you
make six grand in a year - about what a Canadiens’ goaltender makes
in six minutes by the way - you’re not just being charged a token
cut either. Little rollers making sixty-two hundred per annum are
forced to fork over 16 percent their earnings, once again, the most
shamefully high introduction tax rate in the country. And if you can
ever overcome the odds and move into the middle class, Quebec’s
government vampires want even more of your blood: here in la belle
province you jump into the highest tax bracket at a lower level than
anywhere else in Canada.
But for some reason questioning
taxation isn’t on high on the agenda of the social activist crowd,
but its time we all examined this obscene cash rape of the less well
off. Presumably this government extortion of the poor chez nous is
deemed okay because that the tax dollars are thought to be spent on
good things.
But unless you have a magic red phone
that connects top the Premier and Prime Minister you have no direct
say in how your money gets spent. When I was a kid, a rather naïve
one in retrospect, I assumed that somewhere in the packet of tax
forms was a checklist of government expenditures that we could tick
off to ensure that our money doesn’t get spent on the things to
which we are ethically opposed. Not only does such an option it not
exist, I’ve never even seen it suggested.
For example I don’t want to pay any
money to farm subsidies because I don’t like milk and also because
the cash is used to undercut third world farmers hoping to grab a
share of the world market, thus ensuring that those nations stay
poor. I highly object to paying to service the debt, too. As far as
I’m concerned the whole darn government should shut down until the
debt goes to zilch. The concept of having parts of my wages deducted
at source to help pay for a squad of bureaucrats that cruises around
threatening people for speaking English almost sends me into vomiting
convulsions. And would somebody else please pay my share of the
upcoming $250 million concert hall? I’m not a big classical music
fan. Thanks.
Allow me to change
the subject briefly, as this topic has me hyperventilating. I
realized that what this city really needs is a Valentine’s Day
parade. Indoors. It would be unlike any other because it would travel
through the downtown indoor malls of the underground city. Okay, the
floats might have to be small to fit through some of those tunnels,
but hey, think intimate.
Okay.. taxes. I’d
prefer not to pay the feds to have Sheila Copps give millions to
MacLean’s and other such pap, for some bogus notion of keeping them
Canadian.
I’d prefer politicians not touch my
wages to pay for the Senate or the Ottawa Senators for that matter.
The gun registry is very nice but it works out to $30 per Canadian
and I’ve got seven under my charge, so no thanks, I’m trying to
cut down.
Though we assume
tax reduction advocates are right wing loons, the Canadian Taxpayers
Association is lobbying to make sure the 2.1 million Canadians that
earn under $15,000 pay no income tax. They want all sorts of
corporate welfare abolished as well. It’s time activists,
conservatives and everybody else start making noise about the casual
and careless confiscation of our cash.
**10-3-2000
Celebrity sightings
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Sometimes I read a
book and immediately forget every word. I can leave a movie with only
the vaguest recollection of what I just saw. But put a celebrity in
front of me, no matter how obscure and my brain turns into a rabid
paparazzi creating a memory of a thousand details that gets played
like a video endlessly in my mind forever.
I couldn’t tell you five things
about the history of Japan, although I passed a year long university
course on the subject, yet I can describe in minute detail a single
three second episode seeing Gil Heredia, an obscure ball player,
walking out of downtown Provigo.
On my deathbed, as I see my life flash
before my eyes, I’ll undoubtedly remember the brief moment in which
Mitsou smiled at my daughter Livia and myself on Stanley. I’ll
recall walking by Peter Gabriel at a party. I’ll remember meeting
Rex Murphy. And absurd as it may seem, some bizarre neurological
function has permanently etched a memory of local TV newsreader
Mutsumi Takahashi walking past me in the most urgent part of my
brain.
Like Fitzgerald’s curiosity about
the rich, my appetite rages for brushes with greatness. I’ve even
started appropriating friends’ experiences. I can recall Pedro
Martinez asking for my phone number, even though it’s an event that
happened to my friend Reginalde. I can see James Woods gassing up his
SUV, although it’s a false memory based on a story recounted by my
friend Bernie. And I can recall Jane Fonda jogging past even though
the thrill of that experience belongs exclusively to my friend Barry.
I’m certainly not alone with my
fascination with the stars. Last year an old man in Westmount Park
spoke to me about his life and quickly zeroed in on a ten second
encounter that was the highlight of his 80 years: having given
Winston Churchill directions as a boy.
The only thing I
can conclude about this inexplicable desire to venerate the famous is
that humans aren’t meant to be monotheistic. We want our gods to
near and be human and we want them to sign autographs for us.
Naturally, I’m
warming up for a Trudeau anecdote. The first time I saw Trudeau we
shared an elevator in the pink granite building kitty corner to Ben’s
Deli. The ex-PM stood in the corner grinning while a couple of
secretaries deferentially cooed in his direction. He was impressive.
I saw him again
five years ago. While standing on Ste. Catherine on a mild winter
evening, I intuitively recognized the most famous Canadian from an
impossible distance. Trudeau seemed suited to Montreal’s main drag,
a high-energy place that fuses dignified, old time architecture with
the flashy bombast of neon lights.
As he approached
Drummond in an expensive-looking, black fur coat, carrying the aura
of an Apollonian sky god, he again wore the same crooked grin. We
made brief eye contact. It seemed extremely significant that the man
who had filled TV and newspapers for a generation, whose name was
always spoken with awe by both millionaires and taxi drivers, friends
and foe alike, had looked my way.
Trudeau was truly the antithesis of
his arch-nemesis, who I once saw downtown at a booze shop across from
what’s now the Faubourg. I reached down for a bottle of gin and saw
a skinny hand of Réné Lévesque next to mine, plucking the same
stuff. When I looked up, the scrawny premier and his towering
bodyguard stood looking distinctly unstatesmanlike. His unpretentious
demeanor still managed to cause the cashier to gush and wilt in a
puddle of awe.
Another sunny
spring day I saw the great separatist premier looking exhausted in
the back seat of a limousine near the museum on Sherbrooke. The sight
of my outlandish red ’63 Vespa scooter seemed to perk him up. Our
eyes met awkwardly. We waved. As a fitting contrast to the
overwhelming electricity emitted by Trudeau, Lévesque seemed
exceptional for his disarming ordinariness.
**3-6-2002
Island of exclusion
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
I’m increasingly alarmed and
disenchanted with our elected officials who have been treating us
average citizens with mind-numbing arrogance and contempt one would
expect to be reserved for a guy who loses his NAMBLA membership card
at the daycare.
Firstly there’s the Dorval Island
shocker, revolving around the summer home to 74 wealthy cottage
owners. Pre-merger the island was an official MUC municipality with
four full time employees and a budget of $260,000. But the town was
rather unwelcoming. In fact, last summer, according to island
gossip, residents went into panic mode when a non-resident came to
the island. I’d like to describe this part of our city but I –
along with all over non-residents – is forbidden to go. I spent six
weeks last summer trying to negotiate a visit to the island with an
administrator who refused my request.
Anyway, the Dorval Islanders clearly
feel that the St. Lawrence isn’t a big enough moat to keep us
commoners out, so the landowners bought the island from Dorval, whose
mayor (and current Dorval councillor) Peter Yoemans happens to have a
place on the island. They paid $25,000 for property evaluated at
$664,491. It’s a questionable deal that’ll forever ban us from
this historic piece of turf.
In another instance of suburban
exclusion, Westmount has been demanding fees for its recreation
facilities even though we’re now all part of the same city. Now if
psychologists use the term integrated to mean healthy and
alienated to signal mental problems, then I worry about
Westmount’s state of mind. Over a thousand non-Westmounters hold
Westmount Library cards (mine was the 62 nd) and there’s still no
proof of the damage that former Mayor Peter Trent warned would come
with the influx of outta-towners. Yet Victoria Avenue resident Jean
Charest, likely the next premier, has confirmed that he’ll let
Westmount leave the city of Montreal if they vote to do so. That
return to urban exclusion would deprive the less well off of city
services and possibly make Westmount a separate island-within an
island, an elitist Salo on the St. Lawrence.
And you’ve
doubtlessly heard that the province will be pouring over a quarter
billion into a new place for snobs in cummerbunds to play classical
music. Where’s the money for the music that people actually like?
If this massive tax grab for music by dead European men and listened
to rich white folk doesn’t shock and depress you, then I’d
suggest you put a mirror under your nose and check yourself for a
pulse.
In a related
injustice, a reader who’s a great music lover that goes to concerts
(not classical ones, thanks) complains that he can’t get good seats
to concerts because he’s working poor who can’t get approved for
a credit card and best seats go to credit card holders. As a result
he’s punished with lousy seats for shows. This policy of excluding
music fans from good seats has been around for purt-near 20 years but
governments continue to do nothing to outlaw this discrimination
against non credit card holders.
And this week
Quebec’s new Education Minister proudly announced that he’s
plugging a loophole that allows kids to go to public school in
English after one year in a private school. It’s another policy of
exclusion and which means that the big-eyed Tamil boy who rides a
mean tricycle in my alleyway won’t be allowed to go to school with
his big brothers and sisters. It’s against international law to
discriminate against a child based on his parents’ status but it’s
justified, according to the minister because if the loophole isn’t
closed, “French in Quebec will be wiped out in two or three
generations,” as he said on TV. I half expected him to further
explain that French are rapidly being eaten by mountain bears while
anglos are spontaneously generating at alarming rates in dirty piles
of laundry.
Feel free to
complain to our various levels of government about these shocking and
depressing examples of poor judgment.
**
10-5-2004
Getting Scrooged
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Old
money, new money, dirty money, counterfeit money, drug money, you got
it – I’ll take it.
There’s
a thinking that encircles each of those types of cash. Our megarich,
for example, have an entire culture that include such habits as
talking condescendingly to waiters, as scribe-to-the-megarich Peter
C. Newman once noted.
But
there’s a more noble philosophy meant to surround great wealth, as
exemplified by the thinking of Scottish born coal baron Andrew
Carnegie, once the richest man in America. He had such guilt seeing
his fast-dying, soot-covered working bees that he vowed that his
money would be devoted to the less fortunate.
Thus
90 percent of his fortune went to good causes like libraries, and
Carnegie shamed his ruling-classmates by announcing in his Gospel of
Wealth “The man who dies rich dies disgraced.”
They
should teach that book in elementary school. And yes I am aware that
in the past I’ve demanded that schools teach everything from
contract law to lawnmower repair, but I mean it this time.
Carnegie’s
message is embraced by big rollers ranging from Warren Buffet to Bill
Gates. But up here it’s not so big, and particularly small in
Quebec.
But
it’s important to guilt our rich into spending to fight deprivation
rather than seeking solace in conspicuous consumption. They must be
convinced into giving their cash up for the good of society (hey -
one study shows that the altruistic live longer!) and the alternative
is passing it onto families and how much greed is rationalized
through the ol’ “family security” excuse?
If
money just stays in the family the ruling elite gets further
empowered and inheritors like David Frum and Conrad Black stroll
around with entitlement complexes.
So while materialism runs
rampant – you can’t turn a TV on without hearing Jay Leno
bragging about his fleet of cars or see starlets show off million
dollar necklaces - a lesser-known disdain for gaudy spending zooms
under the radar just like billionaire Sam Walton motored around in
his beat up old Ford pickup.
In
Quebec the rich have come put particularly wanting in the ol’
wealth-distribution test.
Five
years ago Hilary Pearson chose to locate her Philanthropic
Foundations Canada here because we’re Canada’s soft-underbelly of
the wealth-sharing. “The reason we’re here in Montreal is that we
want to reach the francophone market, we have a few francophone
foundations but there’s not many.”
Some
of the largest Canadian private sources for cash for the needy are
here in Montreal, like the McConnell Foundation, Canada’s second
largest. And there’s been further improvement; she notes the
largesse of a certain former cable baron. “We have the Chagnon
Foundation, it started three years ago, and has a billion and a half
of assets, it’s a phenomenally impressive foundation.”
Pearson
laments federal tax laws that discourage people from launching such
private foundations. Seven years ago, while Finance Minister, Paul
Martin reduced capital gains taxes on shares for those giving to
public foundations. Charitable giving shot up but restrictions have
been maintained on private foundations. The fear is that the rich
will manipulate their books for their own financial advantage, but
Pearson says we should do in the States, simply allow it and then
police against abuse
Another
problem: our current common law definition of philanthropy is based
on Elizabethan-era alms-for-the-poor that exclude the possibility of
setting up, for example, a foundation for the rights of abused
prisoners. “It’s a hot topic, it’s a big can of worms, a number
of voluntary sectors say this is archaic and must be changed.”
Canada
is home to about 8,000 philanthropic foundations that give to all
sorts of causes, the most common of which is to education. It’s a
disproportionately small total compared to what the rich give to the
needy in the US, although in Quebec, coops, rountables and
paragovernmental organizations, assume part of the role that
philanthropic efforts achieve elsewhere. But as long as our wealthy
residents don’t consider Carnegie’s notion of having a duty to
the poor, our less well-off will continue to be Scrooged in the end.
Comments? kgravy@openface.ca
4-6-2004
Here’s to the little guy
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Lefties are neurotic
sissies. Anarchists are smug hippies. Conservatives are greedy.
Libertarians are pornmongers.
My negative notions of
the political spectrum left me in a wasteland. Not knowing which team
to cheer for left me in constant crisis mode at dinner parties. I’d
ask to pass the wine whenever it was time to comment on the Mideast,
or farm subsidies.
What’s
a girl to do?
Luckily I grabbed an
unlikely political lifeboat. I’ve found a point of view by becoming
a petty bourgeois egalitarian. It’s a creed so obscure it almost
appears that I’ve invented it myself, although there have been
echoes of it in every generation. I haven’t written the manifesto
yet, but it demands a fair chance for the little guy
Here’s
the logic: unionized employees are protected by big labour, big
business looks after their management personnel quite handsomely but
nobody’s watching out for the rest of the world - depanneur owners,
the cab drivers, the kid pushing the mop at Burger King.
The embattled little guy is the underpaid, underecognized muscle of the system, the progenitor of steel-willed self-sacrifice and initiative and16 hour work days, often earning annually what the governor general’s spends on a week’s dry cleaning.
The embattled little guy is the underpaid, underecognized muscle of the system, the progenitor of steel-willed self-sacrifice and initiative and16 hour work days, often earning annually what the governor general’s spends on a week’s dry cleaning.
My
egalitarian political utopia is not one where everybody’s equally
miserable but one in which everybody feels that they’ve got a fair
chance to succeed.
Sadly,
in our current reality, a poor kid would have to bust his ass and
still wouldn’t be anywhere near where a rich kid starts off at.
It’s
a betrayal of the New World escape from Old Europe’s class
structures, but there’s no pretending that Montrealers aren’t
born into a social class.
The
lack of hope for a dignified life leads many to despair. Check out
the alarming drop out rates, the increasing romanticization of outlaw
gangster cults or the preposterously high percentage of youth who
vegetate into a marijuana deep brain freeze.
It
doesn’t help that the one person many petty bourgeois could
identify with, that populist mascot, cynical quip-making PM Jean “Da
Little Guy” Chretien, has been replaced by a humourless corporate
amoeba.
Prioritizing
opportunity for this clientele seems well down anybody’s agenda
indeed the government’s strategy to favour proletarian emancipation
doesn’t go far beyond selling lotto ticket.
And
the media infotainment smokescreen has sabotaged aspirations. I mean,
it’s sad that a kid got killed in Toronto, but it’s not going to
impact your life like a story about the amount of time it takes you
to get to work every day. Reports about natural disasters might be
interesting but the unrecognized real news is that our tax system
zaps low-income earners and that banks that refuse commercial loans
to the less-wealthy.
The
lefties, self-proclaimed heroes of the less-well off, don’t
consider fostering social mobility as part of their mandate. I’ve
heard more discussion about whether institutions should install
separate transgender bathrooms than I have about helping the poor
escape the crushing monotony of poverty.
Lefties
will go on all day about Enron’s connection to Condoleeze Rice;
Columbian coffee growers and the Mideast question but when it comes
to local questions, some of their darling policies actually hurt the
poor, for example, some advocate the right of prostitutes to operate
on sidewalks in front of the homes of working class people, which has
– of course – proved massively unpopular with the poor
themselves. (You’ll note that local every politician who has
embraced that position has seen their career quickly levelled: Sammy
Forcillo, Sam Boskey, Louise O’Sullivan, etc).
Sadly,
I’m thinking that many are no longer buying into the system anymore
or hold any hopes of conquering their degradation, or even dream of a
world in which they can achieve and attain prosperity.
If
you’re a hustler with energy and ambition and hopes to escape the
grinding dullness of deprivation, get a plan, and hope to get lucky
because I’m not sure anybody’s going to stand up for you except
for a small number – indeed very very small number - of us petty
bourgeois egalitarians.
**
8-22-2001
I ♥ the megacity
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
I was described as
an “indignant progressive” this week in the op-ed page of a local
English language daily. It could have been worse, I suppose. I could
have been called a “toothless village idiot with a wobbly bum.”
Or I could have been accused of sun bathing naked in Vegas with Rene
Angellil.
In fact it’s my
very lack of indignation that had me concerned. I don’t feel very
up-in-arms about the megacity. Perhaps you’ve noticed that Gazette
bigwig Henry Aubin has written around 3,578 columns warning us about
this issue. He’s pulled out every argument in his sock drawer but I
figure he’d be just as convincing if he simply replaced his regular
efforts with a large note reading, “I’M GONNA HOLD MY BREATH TILL
THEY CANCEL THIS THING.”
The
one-island-one-city deal is good. It will kill irritating rules,
borders and restrictions. For example, I’m a Westmount boy. I grew
up there, my family has paid taxes there for decades, I was employed
by the city, wrote for the town paper and still live a couple of
blocks away. But when I go, I hit an invisible border that prevents
me from using the swimming pool. Meanwhile Westmounters are similarly
deprived of swimming ops as their burg has no indoor pool. After a
few legal signatures put the sledgehammer to the invisible border,
I’ll be able use their pool and they’ll be free to float all day
in Montreal’s gorgeous, newly built indoor pool in Little Burgundy.
That’s good, no?
Want something
flashier? Suburbs could now force you to kill your fluffy cat. Today,
if you move elsewhere on the island, you could be subject to a whole
new set of regulations on numbers of pets and force you to kill a
pet. With the megamerger, silly rule variations like this could be
forever zapped and your happy critters can sleep soundly.
Although the ‘burbs
get good press, when scrutinized, it emerges that along with the
obvious fear, paranoia and xenophobia, many burbs have a lesser-known
history of amazing corruption (detailed in the Mirror February 22,
2001). This is largely ignored, for while our dailies happily snap
photos of Montreal workers sleeping on the job, I can personally
assure you that many suburban manual workers also do their share of
snoozing instead of working.
It’s also implied that the suburbs
have achieved some higher form of enlightenment. Is it because they
hire battered, handicapped, ethnic singe mothers with cleft lips?
Nah. As far as I could tell, the boast comes from the fact that they
pay their workers less. So a suburban chief street cleaner can’t
afford a new bike for his kid. There’s cause for civic pride, eh?
And while doubtlessly serving their
own interests, suburban towns often disserve those beyond their tiny
borders. For example Cote St-Luc has fucked this city’s
transportation system for decades by blocking the extension of
Cavendish to the T-Can highway, forcing drivers to make a huge, time
wasting detour. (In one of his more psychedelic moments, Aubin argued
against extending Cavendish, as it would contribute to global
pollution by making more people want to drive).
And in spite of the
strident protestations, the merger won’t hurt Montreal anglos,
quite the opposite. Rather than cowering off in their insignificant
little towns, anglos will now be politically mobilized partners in
their island. Defragmented West Island grannies will be down at city
hall putting the fear of Jesus into the mayor. The new city could
even elect an English mayor, which would be pretty mind-blowing.
Funny that Mr.
Aubin and myself don’t agree on more, considering that I grew up
about a block away from where he and his neighbour Jean Charest
reside. But I sympathize with his panic. Suburbanites pay more taxes
in the future to rectify the fact that us Montrealers are now taxed
at twice the rate of many suburban residents. But it’s never the
money, is it? It’s always the principle.
1-17-2001
Get the lead out
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
My problems started over Christmas
when I bought my wife a cute little imported-from-China tea set at a
store that sells handicrafts made by dirt-poor Third Worlders too
poor to buy farms. It’s a sexy little number with a dull glaze and
almost impossibly greasy texture. I felt pretty pleased with myself
until I started feeling dizzy and unable to concentrate after
admiring it. I could almost feel my precious few IQ points
diminishing every time I held the cup to admire its shape and
texture.
Ever since I got
the damn set I can’t remember where I put the toothbrush and sit
looking for Benny Hill on the TV. I’m ever dumber than usual. I’ve
sent the teacup into a lab to check for lead content because I
suspect lead poisoning.
Now lead poisoning
might be the world’s biggest problem that you don’t give a shit
about. It turns out that imported ceramics and crystals often expose
Canadians to lead, a substance that leads to reduces intelligence and
damages hearing damage, central nervous system and stunts growth and
is particularly devastating to children.
Unlike other
toxins, the body can’t tolerate even the smallest amount of this
metal. One of a whole lot of studies I found on the Internet suggests
that 5 percent of American kids suffer lead poisoning. 80 percent of
homes built before 1978 have lead paint according to the Centre for
Disease Control. And needless to say we’re still making sure the
poor people in developing countries still get hit with lead poisoning
through leaded gasoline.
You might have seen
the headlines in tiny articles stuck between classified ads of the
dangers of lead, or perhaps you heard the warnings on the radio down
the hallway when you’re not really listening. But recently Health
Canada recently warned us about lead in candles and children’s
jewelry. Before that it was Grecian formula and before that it was
vinyl blinds that turn into toxic lead dust in the sunlight. And of
course there’s paint.
Just a couple of
years ago I bought a can of paint in a small paint shop on the
Plateau. Wink wink, the guy told me, I’ll give you an extra good
price on this can because it has lead in it. I went for it and a few
months later I moved out and a woman with a child moved in. Her kid
is undoubtedly zapping whatever brains he might have developed by
munching away on the sweet-flavour of chipping lead paint at this
moment.
Now as I later
found out from a Health Canada official, who confessed to me that he
played with lead soldiers as a child, there are few rules on what
non-controlled substances we can import. There are no officials down
at the docks sniffing through crates for lead flavoured bubblegum.
The government doesn’t conduct tests for health hazards either,
according to the spokesman. Instead, they wait for complaints to come
in or hold off until they find out about it from some ambitious
academic.
As a result, the
feds tend to brush off the dangers of lead poisoning, for example
when such products made of rigid vinyl like backpacks and rain
ponchos were exposed by Greenpeace for high levels of lead, Health
Canada told us not to worry because kids probably won’t…uhh…
sorry, what was I was talking about?
Anyway, what I’m
getting at in my newly-diminished way is that the Germans, who have
more people than land, are happily sitting back while Canadians
poison ourselves and future generations with lead. We wouldn’t be
the first to knowingly doom ourselves by turning a blind eye to this
problem. The ancient Romans, like us, knew that lead was toxic, but
figured that some amount was acceptable. So they put it lead in their
wine and sprinkled it on their food, used lead pipes and cooking
pots. Eventually it lead to a society gone mad and sterile. And then
the Germans took over.
4-24-2002
Maria Monk’s ghost
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Imagine getting diagnosed with cancer.
In your darkest moment of devastation, shock and distress you’re
brought to the hospital and put on a cot in a crowded hallway full of
other ailing Montrealers. People walk within inches of you day and
night. Staffers bang into your bed every time they roll a cot down
the hallway. Can’t sleep. Privacy zero. The air reeks with the
stench of other people’s sickness. Your most intimate conversations
are fodder for strangers’ ears. Visitors to your space in the hall
have to move whenever get up whenever somebody passes.
A reader named Phil tells me his
mother endured such hell for four days last week after being
diagnosed with cancer. Among the other 15 lining the hallways,
waiting for rooms included, in Phil’s words, “a whacked-out
junkie, a very sick 90 year old woman – imagine the poor lady’s
been paying taxes for 70 years! - and some guy who looked like he’d
been shot.” Ironically, the bullet-riddled victim, apparently a bad
guy, was immediately assigned his own room with two guards at his
door.
Phil’s mother
finally has a room, yet a week after her arrival, the docs still
haven’t had time to analyze her biopsy results. Whether the news
turns out good or bad, she’ll have to wait until a Tuesday or
Thursday for action because those are the days that surgeons operate
on cancer patients at Hôtel-Dieu.
In fairness, the
Hôtel-Dieu is likely no worse than others and put me down with those
who figure the PQ should be spend more on hospitals and less on
concert halls. And it’s said that Hôtel-Dieu will be folded into a
new superhospital in Rosemont, which will have fewer total beds than
the hospitals being closed, so hopefully it will have superhallways.
Yet when the Hôtel-Dieu closes, we’ll
lose a major source of jaw-dropping and often spooky tales as this
hospital, founded in 1642 and moved to its current location in 1861
has generated some amazing stories. And I’m not talking about the
urban legend of the woman who falls sick only to have ambulance
attendants notice her bracelet that reads: “In case of illness
please bring me anywhere but Hôtel-Dieu.”
Last September 15 evening-shift
janitors were fired for chronically getting high at work. In ’92 a
25 year a lunatic yelling, “you will go to hell” attacked at 25
year old paralyzed patient who had won the right to die before the
courts. The hospital’s union has pointed out a high suicide rate
among staffers. And there was the nasty feud from a decade back over
whether this place should be moved to RdP, a war that ended in
accusations of land speculation and fraud.
But the biggest-ever Hôtel-Dieu
scandal was detailed in the 1836 book, "The Awful Disclosures of
Maria Monk as Exhibited in a Narrative of Her Sufferings During a
Residence of Five Years as a Novice and Two Years as a Black Nun, in
the Hôtel-Dieu Nunnery in Montreal.” Maria Monk’s purportedly
true story details her being a young nun forced into being a
sex-slave to priests, where she witnessed all measure of cardboard
collar crime. “…one of my great duties was to obey the priests in
all things; and this I soon learnt, to my utter astonishment and
horror, was to live in the practice of criminal intercourse with
them,” she writes.
The book of pious
porn that reads like a gothic novel was wildly popular, reportedly
selling 26,000 copies right away and 300,000 more in the years that
followed. Catholics to this day energetically refute her tales, which
were likely false, although judging from some of the subsequent
excesses of the local Catholic authorities, there might have been
some grain of truth in her story.
Maria Monk moved to
Philadelphia the next year and died after being arrested as a
pickpocket in 1849 at age 33. Nod to her ghost if you ever get stuck
in the hallways of this place.
**4-15-2003
Regime change time
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Hey what happened? I mean, what the
friggin’ frick happened? One minute you’re calling for a pizza
and by the time the box is at your door, Quebecers have hopped beds
from the ADQ to the PQ to the Liberals.
Now the separatists are out and
Captain Canada is in. Language police are gingerly discarding unis
and swimming across the St. Lawrence. Instead of a hopping in a
cortege of limos, the PQ’s 372 cabinet ministers will fill their
pension papers as son as they get their Tercels tuned at Speedy.
Just a few hours ago the PQ was even
with the Liberals and it looked they’d win thanks to the solid
advantage the system offers the rural woodchopper vote.
But overnight the Liberals had a
serious lead.
Why? How? Why?
Most figure the
debate changed everything. For those who missed it, the decisive
moment occurred when Charest blasted Landry by saying – and I
translate this from the original French: “So I hear you’ve got
that blame-the-niggers guy campaigning for you… I mean what’s up
with that?”
But the debate
pulled Charest even, it was the phenomenon-to-be-named-later launched
Charest’s team into the big lead.
SARS did it. When
you turn on the TV and see dozens dying just down the road in a
rapidly-worsening epidemic, Quebecers started wondering if our
hospitals are up to snuff.
The Liberals owned health care while
the PQ addressed this issue with the ol’ Gallic shrug technique. In
one ad, a soft-focused Premier Landry repressed his usual bulging
forehead vein long enough to tell us that “We believe that eating
well, and living right and exercising are also keys to health care,”
to paraphrase the nonsense. Hey, when the plague hits, you don’t
need a doctor tsk-tsking you for firing up the BBQ every night for
the last three weeks. No sir, you want the scalpels and dope.
Frankly the PQ government left me
tense. They were perpetually one youth conference away from passing
lousy new restrictions on our civil liberties. The way the party is
rigged, it encourages grassroots meddling, meaning that a
fast-talking cegep student could sell the rest of the crowd on a
nutty policy, which the brass would be obliged to follow, a set-up
that deeply discouraged the PQ’s two great leaders, Levesque and
Bouchard.
This time the PQ,
rather admirably, appealed to Quebecers’ laziness, promising to
make every weekend a three-day affair. Tell your boss you’re just
not showing up one day this week and see how fast your career motors
up that greasy pole. Then Landry tried to rope that all-important
just-graduated-parent demographic by promising tax breaks for those
who have kids right after university. Then we heard something about
tax credits to holiday in Quebec. Hey isn’t the entire point of a
vacation to go away?
And course women
and immigrants don’t vote for the PQ, so Landry obsessed over them.
Women, anyway. He wants more female candidates. Talk about your
who-gives-a-shit issues. Does it matter what the gender is of the
person nodding their head to the leader? Is it important to know
whether your MNA has an innie or outie?
And Landry –
apparently too cheap to buy a ring – hauled his fading vedette sack
buddy – (can you describe 60 year old as a “girlfriend”?)
everywhere. She looked a little too anxious to redecorate the palace
in her framed ye-ye records.
Thank god for Mario
“Mr. Puniverse” Dumont, who makes up for his scrawny pecs by
calling his gang an “action” rather than a “party.” Cool.
Maybe he call them the “X-Treme Action Democratikz” next time.
And who said there’s no black candidates? Dumont makes Vladi
Guerrero look like Tom Mesner. Check your email baby, you heard it
here first, Dumont’s our ebony surprise, even has the thick wife.
But I’d never vote for a candidate under 70 because they could quit
young and collect pensions for decades.
The church bells rang loud Tuesday.
Birds sang and streets were awash in the warm spring rain. A new era
started this week.
**
12-12-2000
Bidding on
misfortune
by KRISTIAN
GRAVENOR
Haddad looked like
a well-dressed Anthony Quinn with his tan cashmere coat draped
elegantly over his broad shoulders. He lingered around his twelfth
floor downtown office with an assistant who looked a lot like Omar
Sharif and a pair female staffers with good hair.
They were trying to
look dignified in the face of the invasion of a dozen cash-carrying
men clad in sweatpants, old sweaters and giveaway vinyl jackets.
Haddad’s trading company owed money to the city and the bums had
descended, vulture-like to bid on his goods. A nice-looking blonde
with an impressive air of authority was the auctioneer. “Next item
is a red wooden desk, any bids on this?”
Within a few
seconds Haddad’s desk, from which he made the big decisions -
probably not great ones considering he couldn’t cough up the $3,000
he owed in taxes - was gone for just $65. A big photocopier went for
$120. A bony-faced neurotic-looking guy inexplicably bid the
microwave up to $35. A three-sided reception desk that goes for at
least $400 new was snapped up for so little that I forgot to write it
down.
Throughout all
this, the secretary answered calls as if the medieval-like ritual of
public humiliation and tax retribution was business as usual. Haddad
played it cool, acting like being stripped of his filing cabinet,
conference table and wall clock was part of a secret plan he’d
hatched up. But he sorta blew it when told that the purchasers would
have to take their stuff right away. “Right away?” he asked, as
if the reality of his government-forced liquidation suddenly hit him.
Such tax auctions
go on all the time, they’re advertised in the newspaper and mounted
on a bulletin board at city hall and bargains can be had. But around
90 percent of these sales get called off before minutes before they
actually take place as the presence of the sassy blonde auctioneer
seems to inspire deadbeats to suddenly and miraculously find the cash
they owe.
The next auction
was slated for the Basement Boutique, a few doors down from Magnan’s
Tavern. The address proved to be a defunct café full of white
plastic lawn chairs. I waited along with a friendly Egyptian guy,
who’d snapped up most of Haddad’s office stuff for $1,700. His
plan is to rent a space in the same building and resell it all over
the next few days.
There would be no
last minute saving of the Basement Boutique as a tiny, smiling,
bearded city-hired locksmith with a tuque and a voice like Melanie
Griffiths unlocked the door. Soon the blonde auctioneer was escorting
the Egyptian and myself to the Basement Boutique, which was a cellar
lit by a bare bulb full of old board games, a desk, a Quebec flag.
“Anything you want to bid on here?” she asked. We chose to leave
the treasures intact.
The Egyptian and I
became fast friends and decided to follow the auctioneer to the next
big sale. Our three cars cruised purposefully through Ville Emard,
Verdun and the Point, past a sign that said Surplus de Pain, past a
few slutty cigarette mamas and at least one used hubcap store.
Eventually we found
the next public auction, but the Egyptian doesn’t do apartment
sales. “It’s always just one TV and one VCR. The smart ones
replace them with cheaper ones they buy before the auctions begin,”
he warned.
I knocked on the
door of the impending victim, showing him the written proof fact that
I’d soon be bidding on his worldly possessions. As he studied the
document, I struggled to size up his TV. It looked good. His
cigarette smoke drifted into my face. “No, no,” said the dude
with a Vietnamese accent. Eventually the blonde auctioneer showed up
and went into a long private discussion with the man. They talked.
And talked. The delaying tactics succeeded; the only other would-be
bidder and myself left empty handed. I have a TV anyway.
**
4-18-2001
Pigsty Cemetery
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Not long ago the
sloping fields just east of the Radisson Metro contained no Place
Versailles Mall, no Loblaw’s, no liquor store, no tunnel entrance
and no SAQ warehouse where you can fill your own bottles of wine.
Pretty much all that used to sit between Sherbrooke and the St.
Lawrence were the massive greystones that now house the Louis-H.
LaFontaine Hospital, Montreal’s largest psychiatric facility since
1874.
The hospital, formerly known as
St-Jean-de-Dieu, was not only home to up to 6,000 psychiatric
patients, it was also a separate island municipality complete with
its own police force until the 70s. Although many towns were annexed
after 1910, Gamelin, as it was known, remained separate until 1982.
Gamelin had no elections or democracy, as the Sisters of Providence
ran it. And no public archives offer any significant information
about the mysteries of the town’s past.
Louis Riel was once interned there, as
was poet Emile Nelligan. Dr. Ewen Cameron sometimes sent zombified
patients to live out their days in Gamelin after unsuccessful
experimental treatment he did on locals for the CIA. And according to
one medical journal, “In the days before effective therapy they
housed many young schizophrenic patients who were there for life.
Indeed, their parents were encouraged to consider them deceased and
to put a death notice in the newspaper.”
In a l’Actualité inteview,
the hospital’s final Mother Superior denies all misdeeds except for
defrauding the federal government. The scam was in convincing Ottawa
that parentless children were insane. Ottawa would give more money
for mental patients than orphans from the 40’s to the 60s, a
practice that scarred many normal children now in their dotage. They
include author Bruno Roy, who spent his childhood wiping the
backsides of adult psyche patients.
In another anecdote
from that time, current U of M psyche professor Dr. Jean Gaudreau
describes an episode at Mont Providence - a similar institution in
RDP - where a normal five-year-old child was straitjacketed and
attached by the neck to a pipe. The nuns had deemed the child a
physical threat.
In controlling a major facility in a
town they themselves policed, in paying no tax and receiving many
free services from neighbouring municipalities, the sisters had a
good thing going in Gamelin. In the early 60s they fetched over $2
million for what became the Place Versailles mall. In 1974, they got
$4.9 million from the liquor board for land closer to the river. And
they profited again in 1973 in selling the hospital to the province.
But others did less well. Jean-Guy
Labrosse, who wrote a local bestseller detailing his 24 years in
torturous confinement as a Duplessis orphan, told me details of the
hospital in where he suffered electroshock and massive drug
treatments. “There were 44 cells par department, each had a metal
door, when you disobeyed, they’d send you to the backrooms among
the dangerous patients where there were no toilets, so you had to
shit in cement bowls. The guards would rape you and if you couldn’t
get erect, they squeezed your balls. On my file I was at four
different (asylums) at the same time, so the nuns could get four
separate payments.”
Labrosse accuses a Dr. Bernard Piché
of signing documents that transferred normal children to the insane
asylums from 1954 on. When I visited Piché at his Laval home last
Friday afternoon, the unshaven, pajama-clad 84-year old resisted an
old lady’s insistent background appeals to close the door on me, as
he assured me that he saw nothing amiss in his 38 years at the
hospital.
But questions need
answers. In the fields closer to the river 2,000 bodies were buried
between without explanation between 1877-1958. Provincial bureaucrats
refuse to discuss the pigsty cemetery as it’s known, although a
Journal de Montréal report from May, 1999 documents that
between 1956-58 alone, 55 children died at St-Jean-de-Dieu between of
“suicides and accidents” while dozens of others died as a result
of “surgical intervention.” When confronted, Cardinal Turcotte
promised to “look into” the mysteries of the graveyard. Many
await his findings.
**
10-14-2004
Expos to smash gay
Washington
Heartbroken
local baseball fans have an unlikely gay bedfellow in their
sufferings. Plans to ship the Montreal Expos to the American capitol
have Washington DC’s gays crying foul balls because the new ball
park would require the demolition of the city’s fabled O Street gay
scene. “It’s a kind of unofficial red light district but it’s
all perfectly legal and they’ve been paying taxes for decades,”
says Richard Rosendall, VP for Political Affairs at The Gay and
Lesbian Activist Alliance of Washington D.C. “Washington is a
tourist destination and there ought to be room for these kinds of
businesses here, if the plan goes through the city has a
responsibility of finding another place for those businesses..” In
the early 70s DC police authorities suggested they’d leave gay bars
alone if they moved to the warehouse district, and the clubs have
been thriving there ever since. But the return of the Grand Old Game
would wipe out two male strip clubs, a gay film theatre, a peep show
and a drag queen showbar. The controversy offers a glimmer of hope to
beleaguered Montreal baseball fans who pray DC residents will derail
the proposed move. Among the DC city councillors who opposes the plan
is the openly gay David Catania whose director of communications Ross
Weber says, “David Catania opposes - 100 percent – the public
financing of the stadium and if it goes forward, he wants the
businesses relocated elsewhere. But it’s somewhat farfetched, no
neighbourhood is going to want that in their district.”
-Kristian Gravenor
**4-7-2005
Fundraising fatigue
Donors face
cash call as public loses taste for giving
by KRISTIAN
GRAVENOR
When
it comes to giving to charity, Quebec wallets have long been like the
jaws of a crocodile, fast to snap closed and painfully slow to open.
Now fresh
after an uncharacteristic display of generosity during the tsunami
disaster, Canada’s least charitable people are soon to be faced
with an unprecedented demand for donations, including a $300 million
fund-raising campaign for a new McGill superhospital.
At least one
expert believes that fundraisers might have a big challenge. “With
the daily appeal for funds it becomes overwhelming for everybody,”
says Soma Hewa, a Chateauguay-based academic researcher and author
specializing in the politics of philanthropy. “Charities have
become a profession in itself. People hear from fundraisers and feel
tired of it. There’s a growing antipathy to giving. When they get
asked for money, people feel ‘what the hell, you’re asking me
again?’ It’s at the point of a saturation of benevolence.”
Hewa, who
consults with many local fund-raising efforts, says that the tsunami
experience proves that we’re ready to give, but just not to the
same old institutions.
“There
was clear evidence people weren’t giving money to charitable
organizations, compared to how they showed their support for tsunami
victims.”
But
philanthropic fundraising isn’t an entirely democratic practice.
Charities have learned long ago that about 80 percent of what they
raise is collected from about 20 percent of the population. So they
save their most seductive pitch for those with money to give.
Indeed
a campaign to raise $300 million for the $1.2 billion superhospital
slated to be ready by 2011 has already began but unless you’re a
member of the deep-pocketed elite, you’ve almost certainly not
heard their appeal quite yet.
One
MUHC fundraiser official acknowledges that we’re in the first
“quiet stage” in which past donors and wealthier people are
already asked to contribute. “We’re working around leadership
donors to make sure they’re properly informed, cultivated and
solicted,” says Don Taddeo.
“In
campaigns of this size you identify your dearest and closest
supporters, people who have support the hospital and you bring them
around the table,” he says Don Taddeo, president of the MUHC
Foundation. “You have to do your homework, you have to identify as
scientifically as possible who the top donors would be.”
The
MUHC hopes to have $120 million dollars pledged from the well-heeled
set by the time they started publicizing their fund raising campaign
at the end of September. The bgig givers are asked to give upwards of
half a million each. Seven percent of which will go towards funding
the administration of the fundraising campaign.
But
Hewa says even the rich can get tired of giving. “Sometimes the big
philanthropists get tired of giving, JD Rockefeller Senior felt their
lives are overwhelmed by the everyday appeals for money, he totally
stopped giving at hte peak of his wealth”
Hewa
says McGill could face some scepticism from would-be donors about how
much the project will end up costing. “Quebec has a culture of
underbudgeting for public projects and then halfway through
increasing the budget, it justifies the government’s overtaxing of
the people, these budgets are based on appealing to public opinion
rather than a real financial estimate.”
***
9-9-2008
Invention by design
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Inventing a sellable item can be as
simple as painting a broomstick. Proof: Daniel Paquette got some
orange paint, dabbed it on a wooden rod and sold the concept to
Canadian Tire, which now sells thousands every winter. Paquette’s
sticks demarcate lawns and helps jam his pockets with healthy wads of
cash.
Paquettes eureka came when he saw his
neighbours jamming old hockey sticks into snow banks to keep snow
clearing devices off lawns. He reckoned that suburbanites would
purchase a highly visible lawn marking device. And they did. He has
no patent on the painted stick but he owns the market. “My stick
sells because it’s cheap to make and cheap to buy,” he says.
Paquette believes he can help you with
your own little eureka device with his Inventarium, located inside
the 22nd floor of an east side penthouse tower. His dayglo
lumber is one of countless locally-conceived and produced
contraptions and gizmos - ranging from the sublime to the suspect –
that he and other local tinkerers have put on the market.
The retired cop and longtime inventor
counsels would-be inventors, along with his wife Jeanne Morin and
partner Gary Nolan. For around $3,000 the team takes your idea or
prototype, gets a provisional patent and a market study to see if
your idea sits on the right side of that fine line between brilliance
and stupidity.
The Inventarium initially had its own
storefront but was quickly overrun by curious rubberneckers hoping
for a tour of the unique items placed throughout the office. That’s
because Paquette’s tour of local inventions is like a scene from a
James Bond film with fewer laser watches. There’s an ingenious
leash-like harness that fits atop a child’s head to stabilize it
when the kids dozes off in the car seat. There’s a plate with a
protruding ring that allows you to secure your bagel while you slice
it. A loofa attached to your shower wall allows you to scratch your
back without the help of a shower mate.
The Inventarium’s most successful
concepts include the Tutti-Frutti scented modelling clay that sells
in 57 countries as well as the Fondue 2000 pot that combines a fondue
and a grill.
But not all are concepts merit the
over-exuberant treatment that inventors too often provide their
concepts. “We constantly have people coming here who already spent
$10,000 in the States trying to get a patent or perfecting a
prototype. It doesn’t have to cost that much,” says Paquette.
Equally the inventor has to lower
expectations of quick and massive profits. “Everybody who conceives
of an invention has a friend who says ‘that’s brilliant you’ll
be a millionaire!’ Very few inventions make that kind of money,”
says Paquette.
If your brilliant idea stinks, they’ll
break it to you swiftly but tactfully at no cost. “There’s a way
of telling people gently,” says Paquette.
The first step to trying to evaluate an
invention is to see if it has already been patented elsewhere or if
it’s even legal. Then they tackle big question, would anybody in
their right mind would pop it in their shopping cart?
The Inventarium’s Gary Nolan, a
longtime invention industry vet, helps weed out the flawed concepts.
“We had a fisherman come in here who had a light on the end of his
line that attracted fish to the lure. It worked great. They hopped
onto the hook but we found out pretty fast that lights on a lure are
illegal,” says Nolan.
Some hot ideas fall short for other
reasons. A back-friendly shovel with an ergonomic extra grip was
flying off shelves. Until, that is, consumers found that the plastic
attachment broke easily. Retailers banished it from the shelves
floors. The inventor rushed the product, thinks Nolan. “Nobody
bothered doing a test on this thing, they should have test marketed
it at a flea market first.”
But even the biggest manufacturers
reject hot ideas, including the Cabbage Patch Doll and those
ubiquitous car windshield shades, concepts that were passed over
everywhere before going on to massive sales. “You’ve got to keep
a really open mind to everything because sometimes what seems like a
lousy idea can sell,” says Nolan.
Bad timing can also kill an invention.
Long ago Nolan presided over a can’t-miss concept, a plastic
grocery divider that allowed shoppers to store their paper grocery
bags upright in their trunks. “Provigo was crazy about them and we
had hundreds of orders. But then we got word from the top that they
were no longer interested. It turned out that they were about to
switch over from paper to plastic bags.”
It’s difficult to tell how many
Montrealers are tinkering around with their killer concepts. Stats
show that Montrealers patented 531 inventions in the USA in 2006,
almost double the amount from the early 90s. The total is higher than
that of Vancouver, but Toronto patents about twice as many items than
Montreal. Many of those patents are snagged by industrial labs, so
it’s difficult to tell how many independent hobbyists are
developing their ideas in the shed.
Efforts to invent are, Paquette
believes, mothered by the headlines. “A few years ago there a story
of hunters lost in the forest and within a week we had about nine
people here proposing concepts for devices that could find hunters
lost in the woods,” says Paquette.
When an inventor ever gets to that
hallowed point where their product is considered marketable, the
creator faces a choice of selling out. Four out of five inventors
choose to sell their concept, according to Paquette. The Inventarium
will handle the negotiations upon request. “When we negotiate a
deal for an inventor we make sure he gets an advance on royalties and
minimum sales requirement so the manufacturer can’t just put it on
a shelf and mothball it.”
Paquette quit inventing in 2001 because
he felt that representing inventors while inventing things on his own
would amount to a conflict of interest. Yet he hopes to infect others
with the inventing bug, not only for the cash. Indeed Paquette’s
proudest inventing moment remains one that didn’t make him a dime.
A few years ago he learned that many children were being hit by cars
after exiting school buses. So he created the now-familiar arm that
whips out a large stop signs from the side of the bus. “It didn’t
make any money for it and never sought a patent for it, but I think
it saved a lot of lives.”
Some of the Inventariums hot new
products:
The T-Rack Luce Belle stroke of
genius came eight years ago when flummoxed by her small garage. “I
couldn’t figure out where to put my winter tires,” says Luce
Belle, 81 of Lasalle. “I was going to stack the tires on top of
each other but I heard that this damages the rubber.” Belle figured
a compact rack that could hold hold two tires below and two on top
would be useful. The Inventarium agreed and so did Wal Mart which has
sold around 5,000 of the pre-assembled T-Racks for about $30 each.
“We wanted to manufacture them in Quebec,” says Belle. “But
nobody could make them here for less than $30 per unit, so we ended
up getting them made in China for under $13 each.” Belle thinks a
new law requiring Quebec motorists to have a set of winter tires can
only help sales. But she’s not doing cartwheels. “I’ve put so
much time into it that the excitement is gone. I’m tired now.”
C Mon Ange Christine Tremblay’s
work with children stricken with cancer led her to dream up a concept
where every sick kid on earth would get a soft cuddly blue doll to
comfort them. Proceeds of the doll, meanwhile, would go to fight
cancer. She recently designed and ordered 1,000 dolls, 400 of which
were quickly sold through her sitecmonange.com. Tremblay donates $2
per doll to Lucan to support a cure but now faces some decisions on
how to market the doll. “The toy manufacturer said it’s one of
the best concepts he’s ever seen. I want the doll to sell but I
also want to make sure it remains clear that the idea is to raise
money and awareness for children with cancer.”
We Care Step In his 38 years
driving a local taxi on the South Shore, Harold Ware has seen an
increasing number of aging clientele having more trouble getting into
vans. So he invented an easily transportable step that can be placed
in front of the door to allow passengers to get in and out with a lot
more ease. “It’s portable, foldable, fits under the seat and
really helps people with reduced mobility,” says Ware. It’s still
early days but the device has found takers among those who transport
people with special needs. Ware has also designed a swivel seat and a
handle to allow the elderly to travel easier inside vans.
Fruit-o-Gume Back in high school
two years ago 16 year old Virginie Kelly was given a class assignment
to somehow help the world. She figured that kids should be eating a
lot more fruits and veggies so she created a poster with images of
the edibles. Parents put the poster on the wall and a kid gets the
right to slap a special magnet on the good eats they’d consumed
that day. It has been a hit everywhere she’s taken it. Kelly has a
patent pending and will have a product shipping from China. She also
has some small scale inventorial notoriety. “They’ve written
about me in the neighbourhood newspaper and all my friends think that
I’m a big deal, I get congratulated all the time.”
2-28-2000
Suffrage the children
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Corrupt governments all around the
world, including those in Ottawa, Quebec City and Montreal deny basic
human rights to a large portion of their citizens.
Like slaves from
generations past, today’s victims of discrimination, sometimes
characterized by short arms, high voices and nasty acne, have been
told that their oppressors are their protectors. People whose only
crime is to have not experienced an eighteenth birthday are denied
the right to vote, smoke, drink quality alcohol, gamble and stay up
late. As well they’re strongly discouraged from getting jobs and
having children.
So when I heard there was a youth
summit, I imagined Quebec’s two million underagers swarming the
capital like Power Rangers, but instead, it seems there were no kids
anywhere. The summit was a grotesque perpetuation of the socially
accepted political exclusion of youngsters as college-aged adults
dominated the proceedings with their post adolescent angst. When many
twenty-somethings – who polls suggest are entirely hostile to
politics – chose to firebomb the event rather than participate in
it, the politicians looked confused. But it’s simple: the young
adults are hostile to politicians because they’ve been
disenfranchised most of their lives.
The Canadian Charter of Human Rights
theoretically bans age discrimination but in practice the protection
only applies to the geriatrics with the cash to control government.
In fact, if anything, there’s a crackdown on the few remaining
rights of underagers. The government’s newest crusade is to string
up any lotto salesman who sells 6/49 tickets to a kid. Nowadays, kids
can score marijuana more easily than cigarettes. Underagers who work
are also strongly frowned upon, kids no longer drive depanneur beer
bikes, nor do they deliver newspapers. And I’m pretty sure that
nowadays, if a 14-year old worked as a parking lot attendant, as I
did, some do-gooder would be bitching to the authorities about it. As
a result of this condescending coddling and the outlawing of child
responsibility, young adults know only how to party-down and sadly
their idea of a worthy project is to pour beer suds down tank tops on
spring break.
What’s worse is that we’re
exporting these bad politics of youth infantilization. Take the
crusade of Oshawa teen Craig Kielberger who traveled to India to
attack child labour. Paradoxically, an underaged Kielberger got an
early start on his career in politics by going to India to denounce
young craftsmen getting an early start on their careers. Rather than
learning to manipulate a loom to learn to weave dazzling works of
traditional art, us Westerners would have them vegging on the
Playstation and getting to the ninth round of Street Fighter II.
The exclusion of young people from
adult affairs is undoubtedly based on unspeakably negative and
inaccurate assumptions adults have of their youngsters’
capabilities. What would happen if children were allowed to vote?
Probably not much. For kids, the vote would be, as it is for adults:
a feel-good, meaningless placebo. There are few political
alternatives and parents could threaten their kids with “time outs”
for voting for Mario Dumont. If combined with proportional
representation, true universal suffrage could open politics to an
exciting array of genuinely new voices. Besides, underagers aren’t
exempt from income tax, therefore denying them political emancipation
violates the principle of “no taxation without representation.”
Granting the
franchise to any child old enough to read the ballot would not only
address their subsequent political alienation, it would give them a
voice to deal with stuff. Little kids, in case you forgot, have big
problems. For example, an NDG woman told my wife that daycare
attendants flick her kid’s hand and squeeze his ear as punishment,
but she’s leaving him in there because it’s near her house.
Another mother mentioned that her kid’s teacher called him an idiot
in front of the class and soon all the kids were calling him that.
Who are we to mute these young citizens with real problems?
Politicians should be made accountable for such genuine suffering;
indeed it’s because they’re vulnerable and powerless that
children should have the vote.
**
11-6-2000
Legendary cop
recommends muscle
by KRISTIAN
GRAVENOR
It was a cold
twilight that fell over Lasalle on March 28, 1985 as Bob Menard
emerged from a car cradling a shotgun in his familiar black leather
gloves. He and his partner on the MUC Police Holdup Squad had spent
the day following a pair of bank robbers through the city. “We were
waiting for them to do something, it became like ‘hurry up and
choose a place,’” says the 66-year-old.
The bandits were members of the brutal
East End Bouchard clan, “It was run by their mom, she was a real
bitch,” says Menard. “Most crooks try to get in an out as fast as
possible but this gang took pleasure in beating on innocent people.”
After the armed thieves entered a bank on Shevchenko, Menard lowered
his sights and raised his aim.
“I had them lined
up but there was an old man sitting in a car blocking my angle. I
went around back and waited.” Soon Menard was face to face with the
robbers and guns were drawn. “I could hear the bullets whizzing by
my ears. From ten, fifteen away I was shooting this guy repeatedly
but he’s not going down. Next thing I know I feel something like a
baseball bat on my back and I see blood spurting out of my chest, I
looked down and thought, ‘what the hell is that?’”
Soon Menard’s
partner settled the score by blasting the Bouchards with a machine
gun. But the day that Bob Menard got shot three times in the back by
a bandit wearing body armour was the day policing in the city changed
forever. Menard recovered from his injuries but his days as one the
city’s leading take-no-prisoners officer was over.
Black and
White and Blue
Menard’s days in blue brought him
regularly face to face with some of the most brutal and armed
criminals of the 60s and 70s, the decades when bad-egg boomers
wrought the highest toll of violent crime the city has seen. His
souvenirs from the battle include nine disabilities, including one
lost lung, hearing damaged by the blast of his gun, a metal plate in
his hip and both knees are equipped with braces.
In light of the
Quebec government’s recent proposal to ban biker gangs, Menard
bristles. “When I hear (provincial Public Security Minister) Serge
Menard saying that the justice system is ‘helpless to fight crime,’
I have to wonder what the hell’s going on? How would I feel if I
was a little old lady and I heard the top guy who’s supposed to be
protecting citizens talking like that?”
In conversation, the boisterous ex-cop
makes references to the Toopes, the elderly couple sadistically
murdered by teens in their west island home, the murderous Karla
Homolka “living in a setting better than most could afford,” and
“that 12 year old boy killed by a biker bomb.” He suggests a
return to a system in which criminals think twice and innocent
citizens can feel safe. But if the clues to Menard’s prescription
lie in his policing career, then it’s not a plan for the squeamish.
The phony
mobster
As a child growing
up in the Eastern Townships, Menard had an appetite for action. “I
was a real bad little shit,” he says. Menard was sent to a Montreal
reform school and reaching adulthood he served in the Korean War. But
his return civilian life was rocky, “I worked for the CNR, but it
wasn’t steady, they kept laying me off.”
In 1959 Menard was
accepted into the Montreal Police and joined the Social Security
Squad, “a quasi-intelligence squad, we were called the SS.” He
was sent undercover into the dens of iniquity that made the city
famous. “You have to be a real good actor to enter a room full of
people who don’t trust you and want nothing to do with you and gain
their confidence.”
Menard became an
important secret agent in Drapeau’s war against the
Mafia-controlled gaming dens and all those other places where
cold-blooded killers battled for control of the city’s dark
underbelly. In the nightclub age mobsters were big news as people
would gossip in the street about whether Louis Greco put mob rival
Frank Petrula through the meat grinder at his Decarie restaurant
before himself being burnt alive. “Violence, threats, intimidation,
murder, coercion, breaking bones, it’s their business and these are
their tools,” says Menard of the people he infiltrated. “They
don’t take it personally, they’re predators that use the system
against us.”
In spite of an
unusually long undercover career in which he assumed 17 undercover
identities, including a seaman, a priest and a taxi driver during
Expo ’67, Menard never had his cover blown. “It almost happened
once when cops raided a gambling den and one started saying ‘Hey
Bob’ but he caught himself and stopped halfway through. He slugged
me in the face to make sure nobody suspected.”
In 1973, Menard infiltrated the top
brass of the local mob, controlled together by the ponderous Vic
Cotroni and the fearless Paolo Violi. “We were trying to figure a
way in and noticed a ‘For Rent’ sign in the window of Violi’s
Café Reggio near Lacordaire. I posed as Wilson, an electrician and
took the room upstairs.”
For three years Menard lived a careful
life, “I used to put a hair on the door so I’d know whenever they
entered my place.” He had scant dealings with his family as he
collected wiretaps and took notes of the comings and goings of
Violi’s visitors. “There were always details, like I couldn’t
sneak out to visit my wife during a snowstorm because they’d see
that there was less snow on my car and they’d have known I had been
out.”
One day Violi asked his ersatz
electrician-tenant to repair a faulty light. “I knew nothing about
electrical work so I went to see my brother, who’s a master
electrician, and got him to teach me as much as he could in one day.
I remember the last thing he said was ‘check the bulb.’ So with
Violi watching my every move, I was trying to fix the light and
nothing was working. I was getting worried until I remembered what my
brother had said. It was just a burnt-out bulb after all.”
The two would sip cappuccinos together
on weekends. “We both hated the PQ, we talked about that a lot.”
But eventually Menard’s information put Violi behind bars. “One
of Violi’s men, Jimmy-Rent-a-Gun wanted to whack me but Violi
wouldn’t authorize it,” says Menard. Eventually Violi was shot by
two gunmen at his restaurant. “He knew they were coming. He just
sat there at a table in the back, he didn’t even move.”
Graveyard
shifts
In the mid 70s Menard joined the Night
Patrol, a roving team of about ten cops that dealt with nighttime
crime all over the island. “My approach to the job was that all of
the respectable people were in bed at 3:00 in the morning. If I see
you in the streets, my question is: what the hell are you doing out
in the city when all of the law abiding citizens are in bed
sleeping?”
Many have spoken fondly of the Night
Patrol, including former columnist Nick Auf Der Maur. Menard says
it’s because, “We had a solution rate of about 90 percent, it’s
the highest of any force that I ever heard of.”
But another veteran
police officer, speaking on condition of anonymity, says “These
guys would put metal garbage pails on the heads of suspects and hit
it so hard the guy would pass out. And those stories about the cops
putting a phone book on a suspect’s head and hitting it with a big
flashlight were true.”
“People would
confess to crimes they didn’t even commit, just to stop what can
only be called the brutal torture,” says the police source. He also
describes the following Night Patrol interrogation: “An officer’s
talking to the suspect. He shows him a starter’s pistol and says,
‘here take a look.’ The guy picks it up and looks at it and hands
it back. The cop says, ‘Thanks, now I’ve got your fingerprints on
the gun, if you don’t confess, I’ll blow your head off and say
you came at me with it.’”
Menard hasn’t been directly linked
to such acts but he concedes that, “I did a lot of fighting in my
day as a cop.” He points to a scar in his palm. “We were
responding to a domestic dispute between a gay couple. I was trying
to calm one of them down and he put a meat cleaver right through my
hand. That’ll teach me to be a nice guy.”
The unit was
disbanded in June 1979 after members of the St. Henri-based Dubois
gang - one of the city’s most brutal crime groups in the 70s -
complained of a beating laid on them by the Night Patrol. Menard says
that the Dubois brothers initiated the conflict. “They had come to
the station and roughed up one of the desk officers pretty bad.”
Armed and
ready
Menard then joined the Holdup Squad
and became a constant fixture at armed robberies throughout the city
as he earned the nickname “Shotgun” for his talent in putting
permanent end to the careers of armed robbers. “It costs $75,000 a
year to house a prisoner. A bullet costs only 65 cents,” he
explains.
But he refuses
reveal how many armed bandits he shot down. “I’m no butcher,”
he says. “But I empathize with the victim,” he says, adding that
since he retiring he has helped and personally supported victims of
crime in the west island.
The MUC police’s
approach to armed conflicts changed after Menard was felled by
bandits and he concedes that, “I might have had something to do
with it.” Pierre Gauthier Chairman of the Police Tech Program for
John Abbot says of the old-style approach, “If I had any hair left,
it would stand up just thinking about that way of doing things. If
police wait for a robbery occur, it’s almost criminal, the officer
could be charged with risking people’s lives,” says Gauthier.
Today, police
officers are instructed to arrest armed robbers, when possible,
before committing a crime. SWAT teams, huge cordoned-off expanses and
negotiations for a peaceful resolution have also become standard
tools in the police response to armed robberies.
But Menard says that circumstances
often dictated swift and daring action. “One time we were at
Metcalfe and Ste. Catherine around lunch hour, thousands of are
people walking by and these guys are robbing a bank. So we went out
back and blocked the alley with the car and I shot from the inside
the car.” The bullet went through two windshields and injured the
robber. “We made the arrest,” says Menard, “but me and my
partner lost a lot of our hearing from the blast of the shotgun.”
The age in which criminals lived in
terror of a police force that equated brute force with gritty
determination is gone forever, according to officer Pablo Palacios,
who himself faced considerable flack after vigorously fighting the
drug trade in Little Burgundy a decade ago.
“Today there are
more independent agencies, there are more lawyers involved, judges
are more savvy and there are so many commissions of inquiry. The
rules have changed,” says Palacios. “The Charter (of Rights and
Freedoms) became law in 1982, it took about ten years to really seep
into policing but it has been the number one factor for change.
“Back in those
days the Police Commission would recommend suspensions and the chiefs
would toss the report straight into the garbage. They can’t do that
anymore. Plus, kids today are more educated and officers are better
paid than they were back then, nobody wants to jeopardize a job where
they make $60,000 working four days a week,” says Palacios. “Even
if you wanted to, you couldn’t duplicate that era.”
Palacios also notes
that the scarier policing never succeeded in wiping out organized
crime. But he can’t resist speculating on how the old-style
officers would fare in the biker war. “They might,” he says, “be
able to end it in a few days.”
And if he could,
Menard would be happy to join the battle. “I miss policing a lot.”
But it’s not the status or the community role that he misses. “No.
It’s more primal than that. It’s the hunt.”
12-14-2004
The ethical glutton
by KRISTIAN GRAVENOR
Now that ’tis the
season to be blowing your cash, the Flintstone shoulder-angel
descends on many shoulders burdened with neurotic inclinations
otherwise known as a conscience.
The
guilt factor can be a major psychological obstacle when whipping out
that Mastercard. Now that just about every item on every shelf store
is assembled mysteriously behind the walls of distant factories in
exotic lands, it becomes more difficult than ever to know what sort
of labour conditions our dollars are supporting.
We’re
smack dab in the middle of the age of information, and yet there’s
little way of knowing if any given consumer product we toss in our
cart isn’t supporting inhumane cruelty.
For
all we know, the assembly line workers who make these doodads in
those far off places are tiny children kidnapped at knifepoint from
their villages and chained to machines and feed them every 12 hours
until they perish from exhaustion.
There’s
a whole secret unsavoury world of cruelty behind every consumer
product that I’m not sure we should even probe. Oblivion to the
dark side of your purchase is probably the safest strategy to
enjoying your consumer purchase. For when you commit yourself to
considering the moral consequences of every nickel you spend, it
could suck the joy right out of that bargain that you snapped up.
For
example, it might totally bum out your buzz if you knew that your
friendly dealer mercilessly pistol-whipped a competitor to gain the
privilege of selling you the pot in your area. .
Coffee,
running shoes, clothing and automobiles are the purchases most often
scrutinized by those wishing to spend ethically. But once you become
a conscientious consumer, you’re taking on a huge, possibly
unworkable task.
When
you’re in aisle six pondering bottles of mustard, how are you
supposed to weigh whether the Grey Poupon bosses are nicer or meaner
than the French’s mustard overlords? To make any purchase, you’ve
got to compute and analyze massive reams of trivial interactions to
weigh the cruelty – both perceived and intended – that went into
its creation. Did the assembly-workers get a raise last year? Is one
bottle more environmentally friendly? The label tells you nothing.
Then
there’s the massive issue of whether boycotting products made under
inhumane conditions ads to the poverty in that place, it’s an issue
way too complex to ponder in such a short paragraph as this.
Plus,
when it comes to ethical spending, how many generations of spending
are we responsible for? If you give your money to a saintly
shopkeeper who then spends it at a place that uses it to build a date
rape drug lab, are you still indirectly responsible for the
nastiness?
And
even if you spend more on a certifiably ethical product, could you be
accused of being morally abusive to your dependants or charities that
would otherwise have received the extra money you blew on being
morally superior? And is it even ethical to consistently deprive
oneself the occasional episode of consumer gratification?
I’m
not even sure that it’s ethical to become a conscientious consumer
if it means you’ll be punishing others by droning on
condescendingly about your moral superiority and holier-than-thou
ethical consumerist crusades.
I
know, I know. Just typing these questions out is giving me a
head-pounding headache too.
This
is one instance when being poor is better. Boycotting the diamond
industry, SUVs and Nikes is a no-brainer when you have $16.04 in your
bank account.
Perhaps
we should look to our government as the moral beacon to light up
these foggy questions of personal economic morality. Unfortuantely
taxes are probably the hardest place to boycott. Even if you have
major objections to the way they spend your tax dollars, you’re not
offered the choice of boycotting.
My
own personal irritation of the week is that Quebec funds private
schools more generously than other provinces, thereby using public
money to perpetuate the dominance of the elite over the poor. I’d
like to not be spending my money supporting rich kids. But try
applying your ethical spending ways to your tax bill and they’ll
toss you in the slammer
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