Monthly Archives: May 2011

Franchise Merry Go Round: Bring Back The Kenora Thistles

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Dying franchises. Franchises on artificial respiration. “False” markets. Markets that could be the “Lourdes” for any of them, if the NHL bothered to revisit the protocols at Head Office, the way it did for head trauma. Dark, quiet room. No distractions. Come on, guys, you can do this. Sit very still, and let the healing (if uncomfortably icy) waters of the game’s cradle pour over you. No? Obvious economic answers not doing it for you?

Begs the question: Where do teams belong? Not just financially speaking but, rather, esthetically?

 

Give Oakland Back It’s Hockey Team. But, first, Where Are They, Again?

I don’t think the good people of Winnipeg would really care, one way or the other. They just want a hockey team to fill up the nights when they aren’t curling. But, in the interest of all being right with the universe, it’s the Coyotes that belong there. Who doesn’t like a good “you can go home, again” story? Here’s an idea: Move the Atlanta Thrashers to Phoenix. Then let the Coyotes go back to where they rightfully belong. What does it matter to the NHL which team they’re traipsing around in Arizona like it was the corpse in “Weekend At Bernie’s,” as long as they’ve got a body to prop up?

 

For the folks in Atlanta, well, if you can ever get your hockey act together again, you can always take back the Flames. We can move the Blue Jackets to Alberta. After this last (and pretty much every other) federal election, blue is an entirely appropriate colour for a team in Calgary. Columbus can pick up the Florida Panthers, when the time comes. Got a name picked out and everything: “Ohio State Puckeyes.” No? How about “Ohio Players?” Google that, if you’re under 40.

I’ve often thought that the NFL should do a little franchise carousel, to set things right with the football gods. When the Colts left Baltimore, that city took Cleveland’s Browns, a few years later, as replacement. Soon after that, the city of Cleveland was granted an expansion franchise which, rightfully, belongs in Indianapolis. This is too easy: The Colts move back to Baltimore, from Indy. The Ravens move back to Cleveland and “re-become” the Browns. The “new” Browns shift over to Indianapolis and can be called the , um, hell, I don’t know. The “Ravens,” I guess, would be available. No! The “Birds!” Obviously.

While we’re at it, how soon can we move the Owen Sound attack back to Guelph and rename them the “Platers?”

140 Character Assassination

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On Sean Avery, Twitter And The Sanctity Of Marriage

Action, reaction. Actually, more like action, over reaction. A guy most hockey fans have never heard of, criticizes a guy most hockey fans have heard of with remarks that many have said before, and we’ve got us a controversy.

Todd Reynolds, agent with Uptown Sports, hit Twitter with these three missives, yesterday:

uptownhockey Very sad to read Sean Avery’s misguided support of same-gender “marriage”. Legal or not, it will always be wrong.

uptownhockey To clarify. This is not hatred or bigotry towards gays. It is not intolerance in any way shape or form. I believe we are all equal…

uptownhockey But I believe in the sanctity of marriage between one man and one woman. This is my personal viewpoint. I Do not hate anyone.

Fine. Reynolds has views that I do not, personally, agree with. I think the sanctity of marriage has been pretty well battle-tested by heterosexuals, and could easily withstand the extension into the homosexual world. Might even be better, for it.

Sean Avery: Knows The Pain Of Just Blurting Something Out

I don’t know the man, but, it seems to me, his views were clearly and definitely stated. You can object to his stance, disagree and even condemn his views, based on those tweets. It’s just that so many are ready and willing to decide, without further information, that the man must be a hate-filled, bigoted lout. Which, he may be. It’s just that, again, you’d need a bit more information about him to reach that conclusion. Do I think someone could stand against Gay marriage and NOT be homophobic? Yes, I do. I do think it’s possible. For some, it might be a multi-layered and complicated issue. I don’t think you can accuse every person who is against Gay marriage of being homophobic any more than you can accuse those who oppose the war in Afghanistan of being against the troops, or Canada, itself.

I once had a discussion with Maple leafs’ President Brian Burke, many years ago, when he held a position with the NHL’s Head Office. Something he said to me has stuck to this day.
While in a testy conversation about the state of the NHL, he told me my comments were “ignorant.” I replied that it was well and good for him to call me ignorant, but that didn’t address the issue. He quickly corrected me. “I didn’t say you were ignorant,” he told me. “I said your comments were ignorant, and there’s a big difference.” Of course there is. Burke correctly pointed out that he made a distinction between me and what I had specifically said. It may well have been that I was ignorant, but one so-called ignorant comment didn’t necessarily prove that.

This principle can be extended to Reynolds and, just as importantly, to everyone else. In the absence of further proof, I try to judge the comments, not the person.

With that in mind, I’d like to applaud Sean Avery. I think his willingness to help champion equal rights is laudable (see the video HERE), and should be celebrated. As for Reynolds, his comments do not reflect the beliefs I hold, in this matter. Sorry if that’s boring.

Twitter has certainly done some good. It’s helped topple dictators. Unfortunately, the same instant call-to-action it employed to motivate uprisers in Egypt also allows for instant, unmeasured reaction to anything and everything else. It’s pitchforks and torches for the modern world. Thing is, it’s the individual who still makes the decision: “Do I, or do I NOT pick up that pitchfork?”

[box border=”full”]To read SUN TV INTERVIEW ISN’T WORTH COMPLAINING ABOUT, click here.[/box]

[box border=”full”]To read BLATCHFORD’S LAYTON COLUMN: TIMING IS EVERYTHING, click here.[/box]

 

 

 

 

Where’ve You Been, Ron Sexsmith?

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Don’t worry. I know the real question is: “Where’ve I been?”

Sure, I’d heard of Ron Sexsmith. Well aware of his sterling reputation as a songwriter and interpreter of song. Good Lord, when Elvis Costello, himself, admits that Sexsmith helped him see “Everyday I write The Book” in a new light, you know there’s greatness afoot.

For some reason, however, I’d just never been interested in delving into Sexsmith’s almost hysterically respected canon of work. Until now. Thank you, Hot Docs, for that. I, almost accidentally, got tickets to see the film “Ron Sexsmith: Love Shines,” on the final day of the Hot Docs Festival. I mistakenly thought that my wife would really like to see it and that I’d be able to get through it, because, a good documentary is never a waste of time. Turns out, my wife was merely somewhat interested in seeing the film. I’d already bought the tickets, so, away we went.

Douglas Arrowsmith’s film about Sexsmith was originally meant to be capped by his subject’s triumphant appearance at Massey Hall (a lifelong dream of his) in 2006. Instead, it became a magnetic tale of a triumph of a different sort; a reclaiming of confidence.

Despite years of critical acclaim and fawning colleague reverence, Sexsmith had lost his mojo. Never able to break through to mainstream acceptance, it seems he came to doubt his ability to do so. He makes a conscious decision to change his approach, enlisting the services of super-producer, Bob Rock. The film chronicles Sexsmith’s struggle to craft something a little different (his latest album Long Player Late Bloomer), interceded with past performance clips, archival footage and biographical insight.

Not knowing much at all about Sexsmith, it’s hard for me to know if I saw the film with different eyes than longtime fans. Perhaps they knew and felt some things that were familiar, having followed Sexsmith from the outset. I can tell you that his polite, self-deprecating and stoically determined persona won me over almost immediately. Juxtapose that with soaring acclaim from luminaries like Costello, Steve Earle, Daniel Lanois and Lesley Feist and you quickly wonder: “Why isn’t this guy bigger?”  I almost felt guilty that I hadn’t paid more attention in the past. What becomes so readily apparent about Sexsmith is that this is a man who can’t quite grasp, or fully take in the hullabaloo that others create over his artistry. In that sense, the film’s final scene is brilliant. We see Sexsmith walking along at the CNE midway, seemingly oblivious to the lights and fanfare all around him.

Sexsmith says he felt the film turned out a little more downbeat than he would have thought. Perhaps it was surprising to him, to see just how fragile his musical psyche had become. Or, maybe some of his confessions about the guilt he feels about the less than proud moments of his life are a little sobering to see, especially for one so seemingly prone to self-examination. However, those moments in the film were among the most sympathetic to me, for there is nothing more sympathetic than true remorse.

It struck me, about halfway through the movie, that I wanted to buy Sexsmith’s latest album. And not because the music overwhelmed me. I just liked him so damn much that I wanted to be part of his triumph. The triumph of reaching new ears. As I put the finishing touches on this column, I’m listening to “Long Player Late Bloomer” for the third straight time. Turns out I don’t just like him, I like his music a whole lot, too.

After the film had been screened, a question and answer forum was held with director Arrowsmith and Sexsmith, himself. A woman in the audience told Sexsmith that she’d heard a song of his on the radio sandwiched between songs by Paul McCartney and Bob Dylan. “What station was that?” Sexsmith asked. “Not sure,” was the reply. “Sounds like the station they play in Heaven,” Sexsmith cracked as he glanced up, sheepishly , from the stage.

Maybe he was being a little sarcastic, a little ironically self – deprecating. Or maybe, just maybe Ron Sexsmith was seeing himself through someone else’s eyes.

[box border=”full”]TO READ: “Canadian Rockers Our Lady Peace choose George Chuvalo to grace their new album cover,” CLICK HERE[/box]

Tonight We’ll Fund The Parties Like It’s 1999

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Okay, really I mean 2003. But that wouldn’t have made for nearly as fun a headline.

We all know that one of the great perks Stephen Harper will enjoy with his majority government is putting the wood to the Liberal Party of Canada wherever possible. His desire to drop the federal subsidy for political parties will be pushed through. It will happen sooner, rather than later. And it will hurt the Liberals for the forseeable future. At least until they build up the fundraising strength to raise their emaciated hand in cupped fashion, and hoarsely gasp: “Can you spare a little change for a party that’s just a little down on its luck?”

Jean Chretien: Will Sell This Scooter To Raise Money For The Liberals.

So what do the Liberals do? Trot out the venerable Jean Chretien, architect of the subsidies (as well as architect, in large part, of Harper’s disdain for the natural governing party of Canada). Chretien’s argument for keeping subsidies is, at the same time, laudable and laughable:

Those [parties] who are closer to the poor people, there’s less money to raise among the … poorer people than the rich people, don’t you think? And that will be perhaps, you know, handicapping some element of politics.

 

Laudable, in that it’s a system that gives at least a fighting chance to the unmachine-like, grassroots movements that could use a leg up. In a Democracy, the more voices the merrier. Chretien’s comments will be laughable in some circles. Conservative Majority circles, in particular. The Prime Minister doesn’t want to give the little guy a leg up. He doesn’t want more voices, he wants fewer. Like one. His. So, the reaction to Chretien’s sentiments about helping the less affluent politicos would be met with a “No S**t, Sherlock!”

Moreover, Chretien’s defence of the subsidy seems just a tad self-serving, in two ways. One, it’s his baby so, of course, he’ll defend it whether it deserves it or not. Two, it’s hard to believe that he’d be as vociferous about this if his party weren’t in its own state of financial distress. Shoe on the other foot? The Chretien I remember would be doing no favours for the Tories.

I imagine that, somewhere, the Prime Minister is greeting Chretien’s plea with a couple of hand gestures. On one hand, the world’s smallest violin. On the other, a little something that might make one think of Pierre Trudeau.

Vive Las Vegas

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Much ado about the so-called “Ghost MP” who’s yet to surface in the riding of Berthier – Maskinongé.  First of all, Ghost MP? It’s a misnomer. Frankly, I think, if anyone had the opportunity to vote for an NDP ghost, they’d almost all opt for Tommy Douglas, wouldn’t they?

Ruth Ellen Brosseau has not been seen or heard from since her landslide victory of  May 2nd. Which is in keeping with her profile, of course. She barely, if ever, set foot in the riding during the campaign, even taking a trip to Las Vegas. Why hang back and partake in the ritualistic slinging of the mud when you can hang out in a mud bath at the spa in the Mirage Hotel? Then, later, be dazzled by a Cirque du Soleil show? Incidentally, by most reports, her limited ability to parlais vous en Francais may have allowed her to fit right in, when she approached the box office and asked for tickets to “The Cir-cue do So-LEEL.” If she did, in fact, learn how to say Cirque du Soleil while there, maybe she can write off the entire trip as a French immersion class.

Ruth Ellen Brosseau: Really, and I mean REALLY, putting the “New” in “New Democrat.”

There’s blame to go around here. It’s true that the NDP should be embarrassed for fielding a candidate (or candidates, actually) with very few tangible qualifications. I know, they really thought they had no chance in many of these ridings, but you at least have to leave the impression you take the thing more seriously than a run at Student Council Treasurer.

To the people of Berthier – Maskinongé: Turn your outrage back at yourselves, just a touch. Did any of you check out even her Lavalife profile, never mind just a cursory glance at her actual, I don’t know, credentials? Or investigate her, oh, what do they call them? Umm… Oh, yeah. Her views on issues? Honestly, I’ve seen a rusted-out transmission on a junkyard Chevy Nova that was more engaged than you were in this election.

Not sure how much I blame Brosseau, herself. For all I know, she’s actually an intelligent young lady with lots of political upside. We’ll see. Elections Canada has cleared her of any wrongdoing in the possible fraudulent behaviours surrounding her nomination papers. So her culpability probably only rises to the level of thinking it’d be pretty neat to tell people she ran in a federal election once. Great ice-breaker at one of those way cool parties where young people gather to put much too much Miracle Whip on their sandwiches.

Maybe the real issue I have with her is jealousy. I don’t speak much French. I’m not all that up on the issues of the day in Berthier – Maskinongé. Like her, I never once set foot there during the campaign. Where’s MY plum job with the big salary and Parliament Hill perks?

Oh, and another thing she’s got on me: I’ve never been to Vegas. How do you say? C’est dommage, Don. C’est dommage.

Election 2011: Let The Chips Fall Where They Elizabeth May

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“Dude. That’s My Brador In The Fridge.”

Last night, I dreamed of Stephen Harper. No lie, no joke. I actually had a dream with the PM front and centre (er, centre block?). No, it wasn’t a nightmare, per se, but it didn’t end well, with a group of Conservative children chasing me down a street. The really odd thing about it was that former U.S. Republican Chair, Michael Steele, was leading them. What the first part means, I have my theory. The second part just probably means that I watch a lot of The Colbert Report and The Daily Show. I recall thinking, in the dream, that I sure wish Jack Layton would do his job and officially oppose the rampaging Tory gang. He didn’t, and my dream was denied a Layton-inspired happy ending. Suppose I should be grateful for that.

After some reflection (and a few glasses of Dubonnet), I believe I may have cracked the code of this particular subconscious theatre.

The rampaging Tory kids most likely represent my fear that our new government is about to embark on a 5 year mission of tracking down moderates and giving them super-wedgie after super-wedgie, politically speaking. Despite the conciliatory words of the Prime Minister in the wake of his big majority win, I don’t believe him. He barely was made to share the toys in the sandbox when he was forced to. Now that he holds sway over the entire playground, I fully expect him to be about as magnanimous as was Daniel Day-Lewis in Gangs of New York.

Jack Layton. May Or May Not Be An Accurate Depiction.

Hoping the NDP would show up to roll-block the Tory kids, but being disappointed…that’s an easy one, I think. It’s a nice feather in Jack Layton’s cap to become the Leader of the Official Opposition. However, he’s really powerless to do anything about, well, anything. When facing a determined majority on the other side of the aisle, the Leader of the Opposition is much like an NHL Goal Judge. Sure, he can get some attention by turning on his little red light, but it’s just symbolic, really. At least he gets a swell seat to watch all the action.

One more thing I should mention about this dream. At the outset, I got all up in The Prime Minister’s face when he interrupted a Michael Ignatieff speech. After I quickly admonished the PM I turned and Ignatieff was gone. Vanished. He’d had merely a cameo in this whole thing.

Not hard to interpret that.

Obama’s Trump Schtick: More Than Just For Laughs

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“Excuse me, Don, but that’s my Titleist caught in your Feskiw.”

 

Stokes The Super-Ego for Evil.

One of those little, itsy-bitsy moments of glee came my way over the weekend, from an unexpected source: U.S. President Barack Obama bringing the funny at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. Pretty good material and, not surprisingly, nice execution from a guy who’s proven he’s pretty damn good at public speaking.

Obama, I’m sure, had much more serious things on his mind – like an impending raid of Osama Bin Laden’s compound, in Pakistan. But you’d never know it. He looked like Dean Martin on the dais, all relaxed and rat-pack devil-may-care. Maybe it’s because he knew he’d soon be uttering those most magical War On Terror words: “We got Bin Laden.” Or, just maybe, it’s because he knew he had Trump in a barrel, with his gag gun cocked and ready for action.

No doubt, The President had had enough of Trump’s ridiculous birther charade, and wanted to make him pay. Must have felt damn good. I know I enjoyed the cutaway shots of a much less than amused Trump, at his table, looking like he wished that incomparable mop of hair of his would just get it over with and finally swallow him whole.

But I think there was more to this than just a few good jokes to blow off some frustrated steam. Obama was ensuring that Trump will run for President, thereby ensuring the Republican search for a presidential candidate will be soaked in embarrassment. Let’s face it, the only place Trump would make a good presidential candidate might be on an episode of Family Guy. And even then he’d make Peter Griffin look like John F. Kennedy. Obama and the Democrats know it. They need to ensure that Trump will carry on his comical bid. So they played to his enormous, enormous ego, making sure to embarrass him in humiliating, public fashion. Because they know Trump will come back with atomic-level hubris. No way he takes this lying down. He’ll be absolutely certain that he can have the last laugh, by beating Obama in 2012. The pin has been pulled on the Trump grenade.

Not a bad weekend, Obama. 2 for 2. Destroy Bin Laden. Ensure Trump will do the same to the Republican primaries.