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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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CHRISTMAS EVE

So it’s Christmas Eve.

What can I talk about today?

I don’t feel like being a crime-fighter, exposer of scandals, whistle-blower, or any of those really cool things.  I mean it’s the day before Christmas for the love of Pete, so bad form to be throwing punches and slinging rocks.

I could do my own little story about the journey of the Holy Family, with the star and the kings and the Inn and the stable.  Frankincense and myrrh.  And the gold too.  But you’ve probably heard that one before, maybe plenty of times, along with eloquent analysis and commentary about what it all means.  If I were to do that, I’d be spoiling your pastor’s homily/sermon tomorrow morning, and I’m not going to do that.  Church will be standing room only tomorrow so I’ll not do anything to take away from the experience.

So I’ll share three personal Christmas Eve experiences with you and call it a day.

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RUSSIAN FLEET NEEDS A NEW HOME

I sometimes can’t wrap my head around how breathtakingly stupid the Russians are.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m more than thankful for it, but still, how can a nation that produces so much of the world’s best when it comes to the arts, literature, athletics, and sometimes science, be so knock-down drag em’ out stupid?  Other than cheating.

Usually I make a disclaimer right about now, saying I’m confining my remarks to political Russia, and not to the Russian people.  But saints alive on Christmas Eve, I’m saying flat-out that the whole wagon load of them are face-in-the-back-of-the-head stupid.

It’s what saves us from them.

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SEEMING TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF ANOTHER’S WEAKNESS

What do you call it when one party of a deal profits from the misfortune or disadvantage of the other party?  When one party enters into the agreement with eyes wide-open, with intent, and full knowledge that the other party is in a vulnerable situation, or the other party is misrepresenting their authority, or not having the full approval of a superior person or body to exercise that authority with respect to the deal in question?  When one party knows, or ought to know, that they are perhaps fleecing the other party, or the third party that person ostensibly represents?

What do you call behaviour like this?

Exploitation comes to mind as a start.  Taking advantage of someone else’s stupidity or possible malfeasance or misrepresentation, recognizing the advantage you possess, and seizing the opportunity to do just that.

Maybe opportunism is the correct word instead, just for the fact that you saw the opportunity, recognized it for what it was, and looked like you jumped on it to your advantage, possibly to the disadvantage of others.

What about predatory?  Where you may have recognized the situation, inserted yourself into it knowing that an unfair advantage could be obtained, and pursued that unfair advantage for your own benefit.  Where maybe you actively worked in concert with the weaker party all along, creating the situation where your advantage and their disadvantage would be cemented by contract, knowing that once signed, that contract would be considered valid except for very rare circumstances.

In business, they might call this business savvy, good business acumen.  They might say a deal is a deal and the other party should have known better.  They might say it’s not their fault the other party was stupid, or didn’t follow the proper rules, or that the people above that person didn’t exercise their proper due diligence.  They might say it’s not their fault everyone on the other side of the contract appeared to be asleep or intimidated.  Business is business.  If you can’t play with the big boys, get the hell out of the ring.

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X MARKS THE SPOT

Doesn’t it just figure that, when I go to expand into social media platforms, I end up on Elon Musk’s.

Life does have its odd way of expressing its version of humour, given how I feel about the man and how I take just about any opportunity to ridicule him. Yet here I am again, humbled by the dude who looks like a B-List villain from the old Batman series I once watched on television when I was a kid.

Facebook wouldn’t have me. Instagram neither. Seems I’m a slice of Canadian media to them, and they don’t like me because they’re still having their temper tantrum over the government making them pay for stolen Canadian journalism. You should have seen the notifications I got from them, telling me my accounts were suspended because I had violated their rules of service by, well, breathing. I was actually frightened for a minute, momentarily considering the implications of Facebook cops in dark vehicles outside my home. I got banned from Instagram before I was even on Instagram, it was that bad.

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SCOTT’S HARDWARE DELIVERS CHRISTMAS AFTER ALL

I knew when I saw the boys working in the window, there was going to be trouble.

The calendar had just turned, and the march towards Christmas was on.  Yet it wasn’t.  Because the window at Scott’s Hardware in Renfrew was still decidedly not Christmasy in appearance, which was pretty odd because Scott’s has an iconic Christmas window, one known far and wide, a fixture along Renfrew’s main drag.

But on this day, nothing.  Except the two employees, Connor and Jackson, rifling through some boxes in the window, Connor holding up a forlorn Santa who didn’t look as happy as the one at the mall.

“Jeff, what’s up with the window?” was the best I could come up with as I passed by on my Saturday morning walk.  Jeff Scott is the owner of the place, the guy who’s been setting up a fabulous chunk of Christmas in his store window for years.  I guess I just figured he’d know what I was asking about, and I was right, he did.

He told me that he felt a little tired this time out, that maybe he didn’t have it in him to put up the beautiful display that I’ve seen at this location for the thirty plus years that I’ve lived in this place.  I still remember my first Christmas in Renfrew, and part of that memory was the window at Scott’s.  It just gave you that ultimate warm feeling of what Christmas is all about.  It was wonderful.  

And now he’s talking about not putting it up at all.

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SMALL TOWN ELITES

Honestly, they’re just people, no different from you and I.

If all goes right, they wake up in the morning blessed with a new day.  Some get the kids ready before hustling them off to wherever it is the kids go for the day.  Some take out the trash before heading to work, because it’s, well, Tuesday.  Some get up earlier because that new hair straightener from Amazon was on the step yesterday when they got home.  A few wake up crusty, regretting those last few drinks that had them crawling into bed mere hours before and now crawling out of bed looking for the Tylenol.

It’s all pretty normal stuff, the kind of life tapestry that’s unfolding all around as others do the same things more or less, except for the night shift folks, who I won’t talk about because they wreck my narrative.

People, getting a start to their day, one foot after the next, inexorably leading to wherever it is they themselves go for the day.  Almost an old-school Norman Rockwell feel to it.

Some work for others, some work for themselves.  Some are part of the workforce, some provide jobs for that workforce.  Some have their own businesses, some own their own businesses with storefronts along the downtown corridor.  Some work for the public sector, most for the private.  And every single one of them, a lot of them anyway, are salt of the earth types, the people you see at Walmart or No Frills or Timmies, or the rink on a Saturday morning.  Their kids mix with yours, they mix with you, and it’s all a beautiful tableau of everyday life here in The Valley.

What could possibly upset all this, and transform these very same people into something less than a beautiful slice of everyday life?

Giving them a faint sniff of something they mistake for power.  That’ll do it almost every time.

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NAPANEE AND NAMING RIGHTS: A CONTRAST IN STYLE AND CONTENT

No document is a perfect document, so I’ll not suggest this is the one. But I do offer it up as a contrast to the document, or lack thereof, that governs naming rights here in Renfrew.

Sure, we have text that deals with the topic. Some of it enclosed in the Third Party Report, some of it more recent, some buried somewhere in a less than functional website, all of it subject to my criticism.

But we’re not the only place in the world building or expanding recreation centres, and you don’t have to look far down the road to see examples of how others have gone about the same business.

So I enclose, for your perusal, a copy of the Naming Rights document for the Town of Greater Napanee.

Again, anybody can pick anything apart, but I do have to say that there are a lot of elements in this document that could better inform us here in Renfrew than perhaps how we’ve been “informed” in the past, both recent and distant.

arena-naming-rightsDownload

NAMING AND SPONSORHIP RIGHTS AT MA-TE-WAY: WHO GETS WHAT, HOW, WHEN, AND FOR HOW MUCH?

The bonanza is on.

The Town of Renfrew is in the business now of selling naming rights to anything that doesn’t move, and really, if you count the ice-resurfacer at Ma-Te-Way, things that do move as well.  Just don’t get your eyes on that ice-resurfacer just yet, because I think somebody might have scooped you on that.

But fear not, perhaps in the future, rolling stock like snowplows and public works trucks may be up for sponsorship, along with park benches, various un-spoken-for rooms at Ma-Te-Way, perhaps even the waste receptacle at the Dog Park.  For pennies on the dollar, you could adorn such a receptacle with the name, perhaps even the image, of your worst enemy.

But before you start coming up with a short-list of enemies, you’d do well to understand that these naming/sponsorship rights are to be awarded on a first-come-first serve basis, yet the Town attempts to cover itself by claiming it has the right to reject any applicant for any number of vaguely defined reasons.

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