MPP’S RALLY TO HELP BERNARDINETTI

Something different for your morning coffee today.

Remember the piece I did about MPP’s not having retirement pensions?  Within that piece was a mention of a former MPP, Lorenzo Bernardinetti, who had fallen on hard times and was now essentially homeless and attempting to revive his law firm out of a public library.

Bernardinetti was the victim of something called life, and perhaps the more crueller aspects of it.  His fall from grace could be well identified by many of us who have fallen victim to a number of debilitating things, like job loss, marital loss, health loss, investment loss, political loss, reputational loss, and all the rest of it.  Any of these things on their own is a challenge.  Dealing with many or all of them simultaneously is overwhelming.  Not everyone living on the street or out of their cars is a fentanyl addict.

As the story of Bernardinetti and his plight circulated, a number of current and former MPPs jumped to action, and a Go Fund Me was created in Bernardinetti’s name.  This fund reached its goal of $25,000.00 in two days, as donors piled in to help, among them two former provincial premiers, none of them named Mike Harris.  The assistance crossed party lines, which is a feel-good story right there, but also may reflect the fact that all of these people share one aspect of Bernardinetti’s story, the absence of a retirement pension, courtesy of you-know-who, the self-styled Mr. Common Sense who never had an altruistic thought of his own, much less one that could be legitimately called common sense.  Mike would rather choke you out with cigar smoke than offer you any kind of help.

Of the money raised, Bernardinetti will not touch a penny of it.  Some of the donors have taken on the task of finding and renting him an apartment from which he can operate his law business.  In effect, they’re taking on the task of getting Lorenzo back on his feet, not bank-rolling his future.  Because that’s all a lot of people need, to simply get back on their feet, to find their footing, to get their legs back under them, however you’d like to have it put.

But doing that can require some seed money.  In a day and age where the wealthy among us increase their wealth, it’s a feel-good story when a bunch of people with no pensions despite service chip in to get a good man going again, a man who will one day hire others, and keep their dreams afloat.

Even the wealthy need to be reminded that we, and they, all have a life expectancy.  It’s really cool when people among the rest of us step in to prolong that in the life of someone fallen on hard times.  In this case, those MPPs rallying to Lorenzo Bernardinetti.

Well done to everyone involved.

READING THE ROOM

It’s been suggested that I learn to read the room better.

Which is a little like saying that I should get in step with whatever happens to be the flavour of the day.  I should go where the crowd goes.  Be part of the gang, and not some loser.

How appealing that sounds, to finally not be a loser.  To run with the posse, to fit in, to be part of the collective of agreement.  To, for what may even seem to be the very first time, actually belong.

Pretty heady stuff.

But it sort of brings up a bit of a question for me.  

What if I have read the room, only I don’t like what the room is saying, or where it’s going, or how it’s going about whatever it’s saying?  Like, what do I do then?

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NEW YEARS DAY

It’s New Years.

It’s a thing to make predictions as to what might happen in the year to come.  Almost every media platform does it, maybe because it’s a slow news day, maybe because it’s something that consumers legitimately want to consume.  I’m not really crazy about it myself, but I do understand the whole slow news day thing, so I guess I feel somewhat compelled to enter the fray myself, and offer some speculation as to what may happen in the new year, as opposed to making predictions.  So let’s go.

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LIBERALS IN SEARCH OF A LEADER. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR.

As 2024 draws to a close, calls for the resignation of prime minister and Liberal leader Justin Trudeau come from all compass points, both within and without the party itself.  Yet, as the clock winds down on this year and towards the next, Trudeau hangs on, head barely above water, dog-paddling furiously in search of a friendly shore to land upon.

Calls for him to step down from outside the party are nothing new, and neither are calls from his own party, although this is more of a snowball gathering momentum on its roll down the hill.  But for the Liberals themselves, there’s an element of inevitability that many of them seem not to sense, perhaps out of a willful need to ignore the obvious, maybe because they’re blinded by other things that aren’t there.  Or, perhaps better put, they’re adrift in the desert and, in desperation, they spy what they think is an oasis in the distance, some shimmering mirage  of hope that, cruelly, isn’t really there.

When it comes to the Liberals generally, there is no oasis, and really there’s not even a mirage.  What does exist in the near distance is a sandstorm that will totally engulf them and erase them from the landscape, buried under the weight of their many problems.

Continue reading “LIBERALS IN SEARCH OF A LEADER. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK FOR.”

HURRICANE BONNIE RIPS THROUGH COUNCIL

For some reason, I looked up and back towards my right.  And there she was, Battleship Bonnie.  Or Hurricane Bonnie to some.

She was looking right at me.  “I know you,” she said, at a volume that startled a couple of others in the self-check out at No Frills.

The War Department that is my brain kicked into gear, sweeping the area for threats, making assessments, analyzing inputs, recommending possible vectors of response.  All this buying a dozen eggs on a Friday.

“You’re the guy from the council meeting,” she said, which had people looking back over at me, possibly judging.

So much for my carefully laid strategy of blending in with the gallery furniture at Renfrew Town Council meetings.  I was exposed, right there in the harsh light of day, as “the guy.”

Then I got the report from the War Room.  It was her!  The woman from the council meeting!  I said as much.

And then for the next thirty minutes, we got to talking.

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BLANCHET POISED TO BE LEADER OF OPPOSITION

I wanted to introduce you to your next Leader of His Majesty’s Loyal Opposition after the next federal election.

His name is Yves-François Blanchet, and he’s the leader of the Bloc Québécois, the party that wants to see Quebec separate from Canada and form a sovereign state of its own.

In his role as opposition leader, Mr. Blanchet has no intention of speaking English, though he can, as it would offend his tender French nationalist sensibilities.  Yves-François is a bit of a dick that way.

How do you get this little pop-in-jay as leader of The Opposition?

Simple.

On election night, tune in and watch the Conservatives win maybe 230 seats in the House of Commons, making Pierre Poilievre the prime minister of Canada in a major electoral sweep.  The incumbent Liberals will be absolutely trashed, winning maybe 35-40 seats.  The NDP will be trashed right along with the Liberals, winning maybe 20 seats.

But the Bloc Québecois will win 40+ seats in Québec, since they don’t run any candidates anywhere else in the country.  Those 40 seats will make them the second largest party in the Commons, and hence the Opposition.

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DOGS CRAPPING WHERE JAGUARS ROAM

There’s a bit of a problem over at St. Joseph’s High School.

Nothing as dramatic as protestors and counter-protestors separated by police because some kid had his way with school staff over gender-specific washrooms.

No, this is bigger shit than that.

This is about dogs going toidy all over the soccer pitch because people are letting their pets run wild in there, that enclosed space the school has recently created as part of its major overhaul and new construction project.

Principal Pamela Dickerson said in a community letter that people were using the field “as a dog park” without bothering to stop and pick up any of the little treasures that Sparky leaves behind when he plays with his pals or is out for his regular sniff and squat routine.  

Those people I described in my Christmas messages?  The ones who are caring and decent  and thoughtful at their core?  Well, it’s tough for them to walk around like that all the time without reverting to their other selves, the careless, lazy and thoughtless ones, perhaps the ones they show by default most every day.

So much for Christmas spirit.

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RETIRING MPP’S GET NO RESPECT THANKS TO MIKE HARRIS

It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to Mike.

In fact, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t even remember me, since for him, I’m one of those ephemeral faces that have cluttered up his life as he climbed his way to the very seat of power at Queen’s Park some thirty years ago.

We parted company, Mike and I, back in 1995 when he was elected Premier of Ontario and began his scorched-earth campaign to unravel all manner of supports for Ontario’s vulnerable populations.  I should say that I parted company with him, and that he didn’t break a sweat, much less notice.  So he won’t be troubled by today’s column, because he won’t read it, passing as it will well below his radar.

I knocked on doors for the guy, worked the phone banks, was a poll captain, speech-maker and speech-writer.  But the last time I spoke to him was when I saw him get out of a car at the Renfrew County Plowing match back in the early 1990’s.  We came abruptly face-to-face.

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“DELIVERED.” WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?

“0-3 to base, 10-4.”

As a courier driver, it meant that I, the driver, had received the message.  And it didn’t matter if I wanted to make that inconvenient pick-up 5 minutes before the end of my shift, I still had the responsibility to do it, convenient or not.

It meant that I had received the message, and accepted the fact that it was now my responsibility to take that action for that customer.  You know, the people who pay my wages.

Often, as I said, it would be inconvenient.  Reichhold Chemicals was like that.  They were in a kind of out-of-the way spot on my route, on Wallace Road, and because of that, I’d plan my run accordingly to try and maximize my efficiency.  So when I made my stop at Reichhold at a little after 4 PM, I could quickly get back into shape to respond to things coming from the city core.

But if they called in for an “Oops, we forgot,” pickup after I’d already been there, it would mean scrambling to get back to them before they closed at 5 PM and bending me out of shape location and time-wise for other customers also closing at 5.

More often than not, that message of “0-3 to base, 10-4” would be followed by a stream of rich, creative profanity that would probably last until I got out of my truck at Reichhold, to be replaced by my corporate sunshine and roses demeanour for the secretary in the office, who happened to be cute.  Pretty shallow shit, but there it is.

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CHRISTMAS DAY

It’s Christmas morning.

For as long as I’ve been alive, this morning has had a magic for me.  As a kid, I was just like any other kid, eagerly anticipating the dawn of this particular morning, believing in Santa early on, then not caring as I grew older, so long as those presents kept appearing under the tree.

It was Christmas morning where I was exposed as a fraud, or a con-boy.  I was the youngest child, so all my older siblings, eight, ten, and twelve years older than me, gave me money to buy Christmas gifts for the family.  The only condition was that I not say anything, a condition I had no problem with, given how I was collecting cash from them all.

I proceeded in a business-like fashion, finding the cheapest of gifts, purchasing them, and pocketing the difference.  Hai Karate cologne for my brother Jeff.  Curlers for my sister Karen, who happened to have curly hair.  Janice got a scarf.  I can’t remember what I got my parents but a lightbulb wouldn’t be out of the question.  One for each.  It’s not like I’m gonna make my mom and dad share a lightbulb.

Then I sunk my hard-earned profits into myself, buying several books from the Hardy Boys series, which, in retrospect was probably a sound self-investment.  But it was a self-investment rooted in graft, in chicanery, and in the nastiness of childhood fraud schemes.

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