THE WORLD WE HAVE LOST

In his famous essay on Nick Drake, Ian MacDonald laments the triumph of rationalism:

Magic! No room for that now, in 2000. Another religion-deriding article by Richard Dawkins, another reduction of love by an evolutionist: day by day, reality thins further into physical matter as that obsolete spirit-stuff evaporates. Nowadays "spirit" is being squeezed out of our materialist society. To say that "it's not what you do, it's the way that you do it" is still acceptable, but to put it another way--to propose that what matters is the spirit in which we live--would strike most of us as outmodedly idealistic. The "spirit"? A fantasy, a dream, an evasion. Yet the difference between the view seen normally and the view seen "magically" is the spirit in which the seeing is done.

MacDonald’s words came to mind after viewing (for the first time) John Boorman’s Excalibur the other night. How long has it been that the numinous has been banished? How flat, how desiccated our lives have become. Knowledge has devolved into mere data; Eros has devolved into mere physical sensation; religion has devolved into mere health-and-happiness cultism. I have noted with astonishment, for example, the universal acceptance granted in North America to the Chinese witchcraft known as feng shui. Millions of people that pride themselves on their rationalism are now mucking about with malign spirits. Ah, but you see, this ancient Oriental wisdom makes us fitter, happier, more efficient. And what do the spirits demand in return? We shall find out soon enough, I expect.

There is more truth in any single aspect of the Arthurian legend than in the collected works of Darwin, but there are none so blind as those that will not see. Like Michael Ledeen, the neoconservative sage and warmonger. He tells Jamie Glazov:

I'm happy to do a history tutorial for Pat [Buchanan]; God knows he needs it. Arab and Islamic people have been very successful at lots of things, such as preserving Western civilization while the Catholics were doing Dark Ages.

I could point out to Ledeen that the "Dark Ages" were the centuries when Europe was reclaimed from savagery, when man learned an integrated—"holistic," if you will—way of being, but what is that next to the necessity of imposing the Golden Arches on Bosnians and other lesser breeds without the law.

I came late to Boorman’s films, and with every one I see the greater is my admiration for him. Boorman understands one great truth—man is a questing animal. For what can be the purpose of our otherwise inexplicable lives if it is not a search for meaning. Surely we were not put on this Earth merely to consume and die?

Colby Cosh writes:

The attention paid to [box-office] statistics has skewed audience and cinema behaviour, in obvious ways; it's helped squeeze the art out of Hollywood. Everything stands or falls on the opening-weekend gross now, partly because the number-one movie gets such a huge marketing boost from the Sunday stats. That, in turn, has changed the ways movies are made and marketed, privileging spectacle above staying power.

Boorman put it this way, in a 1998 interview with Charles Taylor of Salon:

Before Spielberg and Lucas revealed to the studios that the real audience was 14-year-old boys, we were allowed to make these movies in that middle ground, which has disappeared completely. That middle ground has disappeared. You've got mainstream movies--2,000, 3,000 prints, and massive advertising--and then [whistles] a huge gap. [Affects voice of studio chief] "Gonna make a film? It's gotta be under $10 million." You're down there in the ghetto.

I suppose we should be grateful that filmmakers like Boorman have been only ghettoized and not exterminated. Nobody saw The General in theatres, but it’s available on DVD for anyone who’s still interested in films that don’t need special effects to take your breath away. (Steven Spielberg saw it and discovered Brendan Gleason; too bad he wasted him in AI.)

In a 2001 interview with Stephen Lemons of Salon, Boorman describes the difficulty of working with the poet and novelist (Deliverance) James Dickey:

The problem with Dickey was that he was such a drunk. Whenever we met, he'd get very excited and terribly soused. You could never get a sensible word out of him. We had great times, but it wasn't helpful to the script. So we did a lot of it by correspondence. I'd send him a comment and he'd send it back. It was marvellous. But in person he was just a mess.

I remember I brought him out here to L.A. with me to work on the script, and he was holed up with this dancer. I couldn't get him out of his room for three days. We finally go back to Atlanta, and on the plane, he falls straightaway into an alcoholic sleep. About an hour later, he came awake, and he says to me, "If I wasn't a famous poet and a Baptist, I'd divorce my wife and marry the dancer." [Laughs.]

Auberon Waugh certainly didn’t have a high opinion of Mrs. Dickey. He describes her in his autobiography as the great man’s "speechless, catatonic wife called Maxine." He met the Dickeys in 1969, at the instigation of William F. Buckley, Jr.:

When we arrived in our vast limousine, a couple of hours late, we found that he had invited the entire university [South Carolina at Columbia] to meet us, at a gigantic reception which had been going on for several hours. Four hours later, there were still 20 guests left and no sign of any food. Mrs. Dickey disappeared into the kitchen from which she emerged at one o’clock in the morning with some canned soup which she had spent two hours heating up.

Dickey was under the misapprehension that Waugh was a close student of his work. Waugh had never heard of him. "Then why did you come here?" he asked. There’s no answer to that, is there?

The next morning the Waughs awoke to find Mr. Dickey sitting outside drinking beer. After further torture involving an archery exhibition, they finally escaped "sweating with terror."

I met Dickey again 10 years later at [Malcolm] Muggeridge’s house in Robertsbridge, where he had come to do some television program or other. He seemed to think we had all had a whale of a time.

The fog of unknowing! A nice life, if you can make it work.

Kevin Michael Grace, 10.32 p.m., December 15, 2002 [Link]

AWAKE MY SOUL! IT IS A HUN, OR, MR. ATTILA COMES CALLING

I have noted in this space that sleep deprivation is the normal concomitant of the second week of my magazine’s production cycle. This engenders a dreamlike state of consciousness. Yet I had never suffered visual hallucinations. Not until Wednesday, that is.

I was engaged in a last-minute telephone interview, pacing my house, as is my wont. I was in my bedroom when my daughter Teresa arrived with an urgent message. Several attempts to decipher it failed, as it was delivered sotto voce. All I could figure out was that something extraordinary had happened. So I went into the hall, and from there I could see, at the top of the second-floor stairs, the dapper and determined figure of Mr. Attila.

Incredulity hardly described my state. What was he doing in my home? I sought to be authoritative, but my words of banishment came out as a shriek: "I’m working!" I then returned to my bedroom. Some time later, I heard a car start and saw from out my office window Mr. Attila’s immaculate, diesel-powered German sedan depart. It took me some time to recover. Surely I had imagined it all.

I had first encountered Mr. Attila three months earlier. CBC Radio had broadcast my commentary explaining why conservatives should oppose the invasion of Iraq. The estimable Victor Olivier, Link Byfield’s assistant at The Report, emailed me that a man from Victoria called Attila was keen to talk to me about it. He had refused to give him my number and had taken his instead; this he forwarded to me.

I called Mr. Attila the next day. He began by saying he was pleased to hear from me: pleased I was not one of those journalists who ignored messages. This was my first clue something was not quite right with the man. Tens of thousands of Canadians had heard my commentary; I was under no obligation to communicate with any Tom, Dick or György who happened to call. Mr. Attila told me he had enjoyed my little talk but thought I had been too kind to Slobodan Milošević in particular and to the Serbs in general. He did not like the Serbs. I would not know this, he asserted, but the northernmost province of Yugoslavia, Vojvodina, was actually part of Hungary. He had underestimated me; I was well aware of the various European irredentisms. I had once even heard the Polish wife of a university professor declare defiantly that Kiev was, is and would always remain a part of Poland. But I did not tell him this.

"Grace," he asked. "What kind of name is that?" Huh? What does that have to do with anything? Then the other shoe dropped. Oh, my God, he thinks I’m a Serb. "It’s an Irish name," I explained. "Oh, Irish." I’m not certain he believed me. I could have changed it from Gracević, I suppose. Now I hold no brief for Milošević, but I have the highest regard for the brave and noble Serbian people. For a start, they had defied Hitler and paid a ruinous cost—which is more than can be said for some of Europe's other nations. But I did not tell him this.

Mr. Attila wanted to know where I lived. I told him. This is wonderful, he said. We are almost neighbours. We must get together sometime. I muttered something noncommittal.

I met Mr. Attila in person about a month later at a social function. I could feel his determined eyes even before I saw him approach. He handed me his card. He expressed a great desire to spend time with me. He asked whether provincial politics interested me. I muttered something noncommittal. He was very interested, he explained. He had been a provincial civil servant, and he had a great desire to inform me of his reformist ideas. We simply must get together, he burbled. We live so close; I can come and pick you up anytime. I muttered something noncommittal.

Then the telephone messages and emails started to arrive. Ah, the pushy Hungarian! I am always delighted when a cliché springs to life before my very eyes. Later, of course, I was rather less delighted. I did not respond to Mr. Attila’s importunate demands. I had made no promises. I thought it kinder to give him the brush-off than tell him the truth--I had had quite enough of his Hunnish wiles.

I first came to associate the quality of nightmare with Mr. Attila about a week later. I was about to walk to the drugstore for a pack of cigarettes when I noticed a commotion outside my front door. A tow-truck had appeared, from which two men had exited. They were attempting to break into a parked car. This car did not belong to my house, and I was attempting to explain this when I felt a familiar pair of determined eyes on me. I turned around, and whom should I see but Mr. Attila. He had found himself in my neighbourhood, he said, and thought he’d drop by. Where was I going? Somewhat disoriented, the obvious responses did not come to mind. 1. Normal people do not "drop by" the homes of casual acquaintances. And 2. He could not possibly have "found" himself in my neighbourhood, as I live at the very end of a long cul-de-sac. Instead, I found myself being driven to the drugstore and back (with a pointless detour to his home) by Mr. Attila.

Mr. Attila wanted me in his home that morning. I explained that would not be possible. He expressed his disappointment and, I thought, his irritation. Presumably, some sort of spread had been laid on. I said I would visit him the next day at 10 a.m. He said he would collect me. I had forgotten the next day was the same as my daughter’s Remembrance Day concert. I thought it best not to reschedule, however.

Mr. Attila lived about a mile away. The grounds of his home were beautifully landscaped, and I told him this. After we crossed the threshold, he sat me down at a large table and proceeded to take out several large binders. They contained a profusion of photographs detailing the transformation of the house in which I sat. The significance of each of these snaps was explained to me. Mr. Attila found time also to give me his life story. Escape from Hungary in 1956, translation to the Sopron forestry program at the University of British Columbia, work at three branches of the B.C. civil service, divorce, illegal travel back to Hungary to find a "replacement wife," imprisonment, escape, remarriage, work, retirement. I heard also a disquisition on Hungarian woodcarving and a denunciation of the Rumanians for their persistence in regarding Transylvania as part of their country. As he rabbited on, his wife, who seemed a decent sort, interrupted occasionally to suggest that Kevin did not want to hear all this. Her counsel was ignored.

A large, laminated map detailing the iniquity of the notorious 1920 Treaty of Trianon was then produced. Did I know that the Sopron school had had to be moved because Slovakia now possessed what was rightly part of Hungary? No, I did not know this. I did know that the Slovaks still resent what they regard as their brutal treatment at Hungarian hands from 1867 to 1914. But I did not tell him this.

We then moved to his television room, where Mr. Attila played me a CBC documentary on the history of the glorious Sopron translation. There was much starting and stopping of the tape as he pointed himself out repeatedly. On my way out of this room I noticed a large, handsomely framed map detailing the iniquitous consequences of the nefarious Treaty of Trianon. This was a different map than I had seen earlier.

Mr. Attila then showed me his office. There was more talk of the lack of due respect paid—in both Canada and Hungary--to the achievements of the glorious Sopron translation. Several foolscap pages were proffered to me; would I like to read more about this and of his reformist campaign in education? I accepted them.

We then retired to his dining room; his wife—I believe the cliché is "long-suffering wife"—was again in attendance. There was more talk of Sopron, and several monographs on the subject, in English and Hungarian, were produced. I ate sticky buns and drank tea. At last Mr. Attila got around to the primary reason he had buttonholed me.

As mentioned above, Mr. Attila is a retired civil servant. The proximate cause of his retirement from the Ministry of Education was his crusade to decentralize the grading of Grade 12 provincial examinations. (The proximate causes of his transfers from the Ministries of Forestry and Finance can only be imagined.) He had reckoned, a decade ago, that this action would save the provincial treasury $2 million annually. Yet his superiors remained unimpressed.

Mr. Attila had made himself quite a nuisance on this issue. So much so, the Ministry of Education had offered him a buy-out, on the condition he signed a confidentiality agreement. Too late, he had declared triumphantly, he had already spoken to the media. So his quest for provincial parsimony had cost him a couple of hundred thousand dollars. Fortunately, he still had his wife’s salary to maintain them. He expressed the desire I write something on this subject (notwithstanding that exam grading had already been partially decentralized). He confessed he had had mixed results with previously buttonholed reporters--some had written stories; some had written stories only after considerable prodding; others had ignored his entreaties entirely. He had a low opinion of the last group.

Included in the material given to me were two letters to Christy Clark, the Minister of Education. I gave one a cursory examination. It was addressed to Ms. Clark in a grossly insulting manner. It is generally not done, of course, to seek to ingratiate oneself with a potential benefactor by slapping her across the face. But I did not tell him this. I said I would examine the material more closely at my leisure.

Mr. Attila then presented me with a page reproduced from the website of the Ministry of Education. It was Christy Clark’s curriculum vitae. Did I note something untoward in it? No, I did not. Ms. Clark, he declared, was claiming educational degrees (at the Universities of Edinburgh and Paris) to which she was not entitled. I pointed out that Ms. Clark made no such claim; she claimed merely to have attended these universities. There was nothing untoward about it, I said. He persisted otherwise. I said that if I discovered Ms. Clark had indeed inflated her résumé, I would be sure to let him know.

Mr. Attila then addressed other provincial concerns. Did I not think the Liberals had gone too far, acted too meanly? I said I thought not. What about the cutback to free dental care for seniors? At this point, I found it difficult to maintain affability. Looking around at Chez Attila, I calculated he must be worth at least a quarter of a million dollars. He had no dependents, but I had four. He had a fine set of teeth, but mine were falling from my head. Why the ---- should I be taxed so this rich oldie should continue to receive free dental care? I muttered something about budgetary constraints.

Did I know, he inquired, of B.C. Ferries’s scandalous treatment of Mayne Island? No, I did not. He explained that Pender Island got six times as many arrivals and departures as Mayne Island. He explained that he owned property on Mayne and thus felt this injustice keenly. He hypothesized that this favouritism was explained by the presence on Pender of many New Democratic Party bigwigs, including former Premier Mike Harcourt. By this point, my affability was almost exhausted. Do you know what I would advise the Liberals on ferry service to the Gulf Islands, I asked. Please tell me, he said. I would advise them to slash service to the bone. Why, he asked, astonished. Because the service costs a fortune; few people live there; and they vote NDP almost to a man.

Three hours had passed, and I made my excuses. I picked up the foolscap pages he had given me. I made no promises. Limbo will freeze over before I see you again, I said to myself. But I did not tell him this. Mr. Attila drove me home. I concluded I had discharged any obligations courtesy demanded.

Then the telephone messages and emails started to arrive again. I did not respond to Mr. Attila’s importunate demands, including one for the return of his precious foolscap. I knew he had innumerable copies of these documents, and, in any event, they had been a gift. Besides, every adult knows not to expect the return of unsolicited material.

Mr. Attila’s communications began to take on a threatening tone. On Tuesday, he made his first call to my family's telephone number. Then, as you know, he came calling on Wednesday, barging into my home, frightening my daughter and, initially, refusing to leave even after I had made my anger at his presence perfectly understood. Teresa was finally able to get rid of him by explaining that she had to leave for work. He, of course, offered a ride. She, quite wisely, refused.

I completed my final interview and then looked about for a large envelope. Just as I was about to place the documents inside, I noticed something I had not noticed before in one of the letters to Ms. Clark. By his own account, Mr. Attila had chased her into the maternity room in the Provincial Legislature. And on one or possibly two occasions, he had been removed from the Legislature by security guards. A determined man indeed, this Mr. Attila.

I sealed the envelope and ambled to the post office. I bought stamps costing $1.03 and returned Mr. Attila’s precious dossier to him. Finally, I thought, I was quit of this man. Not quite. Three hours ago, while I was writing this post, another email from Mr. Attila arrived. I discovered later that a hard copy of this document had been hand-delivered to my mailbox; it had been adorned with a yellow ribbon and a Christmas decoration.

I reproduce this letter exactly as received, except that Mr. Attila’s real name is not used, and the name of his long-suffering wife is veiled:

Friday, December 13, 2002

Dear Kevin,

Thanks for the papers you sent back. 
M--- has already burnt them out of concern for the possibility of catching something from them. You understand, she is working in the health industry and worries about scabies and all those nasty viruses.

It's unfortunate that you were so upset by my visit, that you had to yell at your daughter in such an ugly way. I don't know if I was more embarrassed by it or your daughter was, but just because you are "at work", it's no excuse to behave like a jerk. This is when the though occurred to me, that grace is not the right word to describe your behavior. Did you ever consider changing your name to something more fitting to your frame of mind, like Gross?

On the other hand, you brought this situation on to yourself, because you did not reply to my e-mails or didn't return my telephone calls either, so I was concerned about you and I wanted to know, if you are sick or maybe left town? Obviously you must be convinced that the communication tools are only a one-way street, which are there to serve you? You can phone anyone you please, but others should not try to bother you. Your time is "too important" to write your earth-shattering articles to your THE AMBLER website (2 a.m. at night) which might be enjoyed by 10% of your readers. For the rest, it goes over their heads, would not understand it, or do not care.

Now, at least I know, that you are a sick man, who has an overbearing ego and a self-consciousness, with the feeling of self-importance of a grossly enlarged proportions, coupled with an arrogance and a superiority complex such as I have never seen before. This is presented in a manner of a rabid dog, who would bite the hand which is reaching out towards him in a friendly manner.

I feel sorry for your family, who has to live with you in that animal farm: a dog behind the door, a rabbit in the cage, four cats all over the tables and the rat on the telephone. Your daughter is a good example of a flower, which can grow even in the garbage dump. She deserves something much better, and I cannot help you, only a good psychiatrist could.

As a final greeting,--metaphorically speaking--if you decide to commit suicide, I would be happy to loan you a gun.

Sincerely,

[Mr. Attila]

My very first stalker! I was frightened to receive Mr. Attila’s hate literature but also relieved. It serves as an insurance policy, you see. If I receive further unpleasant phone calls, letters, or packages or, if there are any attacks on my family, person, home or animals, you may rest assured, Mr. Attila, I will be straight round to the Saanich police. I shall have your letter to hand, and they shall most likely arrest you.

I would advise Christy Clark to look into a restraining order. And I can imagine only with horror what sort of letter Mr. Attila might have sent to poor Mike Harcourt.

Kevin Michael Grace, 6.50 p.m., December 14, 2002 [Link]

THE SHOCKING TRUTH

A humbling admission: the only thing that keeps traffic to this blog above a risible level (risible by my pitiful standard, anyway) is the attention paid to it by Kathy Shaidle. Thank you, Kathy. Everyone should buy her latest book, God Rides a Yamaha: Musings on Pain, Poetry and Pop Culture. It makes the perfect last-minute Christmas gift. Her previous effort, Lobotomy Magnificat, is still available—and wouldn’t that make a great name for a punk band?

In other blogrolling news, I was speaking to Jeremy Lott today and asked, "Hey, are you related to that Trent Lott?" He replied, "Oh, shut up!" Jeremy confessed he has been bedevilled by this inquiry for years. Significantly, however, he didn’t answer the question. I think we should be told, if only because it might save him some embarrassment when it is revealed that he led the fight—unavailing, thank God—to prevent the integration of his Trinity Western fraternity.

I strongly suspect that Jeremy is related to the rightly reviled Senate Majority Leader. This would certainly explain the shocking truth behind the near conflagration at Kevin Steel’s infamous party. Various participants (including Jeremy himself) have skated around the issue, but suppressio veri will never find a home at The Ambler. Publish and be damned, that’s my motto. Why was that gentle soul Barrett Pashak so angry with Jeremy? It was certainly not any odium theologicum. Turns out they were actually discussing politics, and Jeremy uttered this shocking statement: "If America had followed George Wallace’s lead in 1968, we wouldn't have had all these problems over the years either." It was all anyone could do to look him in the eye afterward, and quite right, too. The price of multiculturalism is eternal vigilance. That’s my motto, too.

Kevin Michael Grace, 3.15 p.m., December 13, 2002 [Link]

FRANK CAPRA’S HERESY

I mentioned Gary North’s essay on It’s a Wonderful Life yesterday but had no time to comment. North argues that Frank Capra’s

themes are fundamental to the American character: good vs. evil, David vs. Goliath, money won’t buy happiness, personal salvation through good works, and--neglected by most reviewers--one of the most powerful themes in American history and uniquely American: national redemption by home ownership through mortgages.

This seems self-contradictory. Quite rightly, North calls It’s a Wonderful Life a tale of "secular redemption." And like Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, its message is a very secular one indeed: money can buy happiness. Scrooge’s monetary intervention saves Tiny Tim, does it not? Does not home ownership through mortgages demonstrate the happiness that money can bring? Are not the people of Potterville condemned to lives of dissipation—damned, if you will—precisely because they haven’t the money to buy homes?

And what saves George Bailey from "bankruptcy, disgrace and prison"? The good will, even the love, of the people of Bedford Falls isn’t enough. George always had that; it is their whip-round that rescues him. But has it really been such a wonderful life for George? In some of the most harrowing scenes ever filmed, we see him in the depths of his despair. We have seen George sacrifice for others time and again; it gnaws at him, but he sucks it up. After Uncle Billy loses the money, George at long last gives vent to his darkest thoughts, the existential terror he has spent a lifetime suppressing. After such a catastrophe, is amnesia possible?

North writes:

It is easy to criticize Capra’s view of how the economy works. His plots often had holes in them larger than George Bailey’s wad of honeymoon cash. But his movies held together, and also have held up over decades, because the holes are covered over by his fundamental theme: individual righteousness wins out in the end. The American system, while open to greedy villains, ultimately rests on ethically solid ground. Nice guys don’t finish last.

This is the American heresy. God has no covenant with America—it is not the New Israel or even the Fourth Rome. It was not conceived immaculately; Original Sin still obtains. One day America will be as one with Nineveh and Tyre, but God will still be in his Heaven. And every day in America, nice guys go to their graves having finished last. Just as they do in Canada, Mexico, Denmark, Ghana or Mongolia. Individual righteousness doesn’t win out in this vale of tears.

"Americans root for the little guy," North observes.

We are afflicted with what my friend Hans Kraepilin calls "infracaninophilia": love of the underdog. (Lawrence J. Peter, of Peter Principle fame, reworked this phrase after I told him about it: "hyperaninophobia"--hatred of the overdog. It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.)

Interesting that North uses the word "afflicted." I wonder whether "love of the underdog" and "hatred of the overdog" are quite the same thing. The first is bad enough: a sentimental disease that has blighted the Western world and threatens to destroy civilization. The second is altogether more sinister. For isn’t God the biggest overdog of all? Isn’t "hyperaninophobia" hatred of authority on Earth as in Heaven? Isn’t it the Greek form of Lucifer’s declaration of rebellion, Non serviam?

I like a happy ending as much as the next man. I watch It’s a Wonderful Life every Yuletide and weep happy tears. Even as I weep, however, my higher faculty informs me that Frank Capra was guilty of what Eric Voegelin called "immanentizing the eschaton": dragging to Earth what rightfully belongs to Heaven. Frank Capra’s heresy has become a de facto state religion, and I tremble for America when I remember Deuteronomy: "For the LORD thy God is a consuming fire, even a jealous God."

Kevin Michael Grace, 11.20 p.m., December 12, 2002 [Link]

TRIUMPH!

Ten days ago I lamented the non-release of Futurama on DVD and cursed Fox for its bloody-mindedness. This morning comes the glorious news that the first season will be released in North America March 25, 2003. Only 109 days to go; I can hardly wait. Feel the mighty power of my blog and tremble! Next up: To Live and Die in L.A.

Kevin Michael Grace, 9.04 p.m., December 12, 2002 [Link]

DARTH VADER’S CHRISTMAS

Here are couple of things to tide you over while I’m on deadline. 1. My Report cover story on the "moron" incident is now online. Americans might find it interesting, as they may not understand the extent to which Canadian anti-Americanism fulfils a national need. 2. Gary North’s Lew Rockwell essay on It’s a Wonderful Life is delightful reading and got me thinking, "Who else could find the connection between Capra’s Christmas classic and fractional reserve banking?" Why, that would be me! The following is from "Galaxy 500," my erstwhile TV column in the erstwhile BC Report:

The way the world works
How the IMF made capitalism a no-lose proposition for the rich
July 12, 1999

In Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life George Bailey is about to leave on his honeymoon when he hears of a run on his family's savings and loan. He rushes back to the office and is confronted by a mob. They want their money--all of it--now. It isn't here, George replies. Where is it? they demand. Waaal, it's in Bill's house, and Barney's house and Ed's house, he explains. His homily on equity fails to satisfy--they demand cash. Evil Mr. Potter, who controls the only other bank in Bedford Falls, is offering 50 cents on the dollar. George, a "starry-eyed dreamer," is determined to prevent Potter from beggaring his neighbours, so he sacrifices his honeymoon money, doling it out in tens and twenties. Bailey Bros. and Bedford Falls survive.

That was the 1930s. After watching the excellent PBS Frontline documentary The Crash: Unravelling the 1998 Global Financial Crisis, I wondered what the George Bailey of the 1990s would say to his terrified shareholders. The money's not here. Where is it? Looking down at his computer screen, he replies: Waaal, it's shorting Indonesian rupiahs...no, it's shorting rubles...now wait just a minute, it's shorting Eurodollars. Making up the shortfall from his own savings is unthinkable, and as the mob tears him limb from limb George reflects it hasn't been such a wonderful life after all.

Some will see this dramatization as an object lesson in the evils of fractional reserve banking. (Please, no essays.) Others will complain that generous 1930s' George is pure "Capracorn." A banker risking his own money? Not bloody likely. But that's precisely what J.P. Morgan (no "starry-eyed dreamer" he) did in single-handedly putting an end to the Panic of 1907, going so far as to lock several of his fellow plutocrats in a room until they agreed to join him in lending the millions needed to prevent a crash.

That was the 1900s. The whole world, not just the United States, is now subject to the tender mercies of the International Monetary Fund, which is backed not by robber barons but by Western taxpayers, i.e., you and me. And any country that wants to be part of the IMF's exciting New World Order must embrace what it calls "liberalization," i.e., "imperialism." Here's the Globalization for Dummies version:

The IMF, with its trusted partner/lackey the U.S. Treasury Department, persuades the "developing countries" (now known as "emerging markets") to adopt free trade and allow unfettered foreign investment. They must also offer high returns and peg their currencies to the U.S. dollar. The capital pours in, and the good times roll. But the slightest shock can burst the bubble--as in 1997 when the finance ministers of the G7 countries (wave for the cameras, Paul Martin!) agree to let the dollar appreciate against the yen. The currencies of the emerging markets appreciate in lockstep; their exports become more costly; sales fall; interest rates and deficits rise.

George Soros, the Angel of Death, has been watching closely. He bets against Thailand. Other currency speculators follow. Thailand exhausts its foreign reserves before devaluing and begging the IMF for relief. Now, economist Jeffrey Sachs calls the world's banker "Typhoid Mary," but it prefers to call its bacillus "austerity." Banks must be closed! Taxes must be raised! Spending must be slashed! The result is devastation: first for Thailand, then the rest of East Asia, then Russia and South America. Unlike in Bedford Falls, the locals are not offered 50 cents on the dollar.

Finally, after the Dow Jones suffers its second-worst loss ever, the crisis is "stabilized." In New York the good times roll on, and the Dow hits 11,000. The IMF goes on its way rejoicing. We hear not from executive director Michel Camdessus, the man Jude Wanniski calls "Darth Vader," but from his deputy, Stanley Fischer, whose steely gaze, economy of gesture and mysterious accent (Rhodesian? South African?) suggest Ernst Stavro Blofeld. "It is surprising that the depth of the social distress [the crisis] has created is less than the critics have asserted throughout," Mr. Fischer avers. He sounds disappointed. I almost expected him to stroke a white Persian and murmur, "They told me we assassinated Hong Kong."

Meanwhile, no preventative measures are taken. What William Greider calls the "poker game in the sky" is played for ever-higher stakes. Half the world is in recession or worse. Middle classes have been left poor and the poor, destitute. Where has their money gone? Straight into the pockets of the bankers that cajoled their leaders into accepting their "venture funds." From each according to his vulnerability, to each according to his greed. J.P. Morgan turns in his grave while George Bailey wonders why he was such a patsy. And evil Mr. Potter? He is angry: Risk-free capitalism? Why didn't I think of that?

Kevin Michael Grace, 3.59 p.m., December 11, 2002 [Link]

WORD POWER

The National Post editorializes this morning, "Until last week it was possible to empathize with" Cardinal Bernard Law’s "position." Empathize? Let’s see:

Sure, I know what it’s like to cover up for pederastic priests for two decades and then to advance the daring legal position that the "negligence" of a six-year-old boy and his parents was partly to blame for the boy's rape at the hands of Father Paul Shanley. I mean, c'mon, we've all been there. Let he who is without sin pay off the victims.

Golly, there appears to be one prodigy of cynicism on the Post editorial board.

To reiterate: A good dictionary: $50. Benefit of the dictionary habit: priceless.

Kevin Michael Grace, 2.41 a.m., December 10, 2002 [Link]

STRAINING (FOR EFFECT) AT THE LEASH

"Violence begets violence," declares the B1 headline in the December 7 Calgary Herald. Emma Poole reports:

If the signs are all there, it is just a matter of knowing how to read them. People who lash out and commit a serious act of violence once will likely become a repeat offender, said Dr. Kenneth Hashman, head of forensic psychiatry for the Calgary Health Region on Friday.

History repeats itself, he said.

"If significant red flags have been raised in the past about violence…it probably would have been reasonable to expect it in the future."

Dr. Hamish Deutlichman, head of forensic rhetoric for the Calgary Media Region, comments:

It was a dark and stormy night wherein all cats were grey. A cat may look at a king, but the Emperor has no clothes—and as the cat was away, the mice did play. Curiosity killed the cat, but it’s a bold mouse that nestles in the cat’s ear. Even a dead one, as cats have nine lives.

Kevin Michael Grace, 2.16 a.m., December 10, 2002 [Link]

DOGGEREL

Trust Colby Cosh to raise the bar higher. I merely quoted poems; now he’s gone and written one. Well, two can play that game, even if my skills are a parodist are not nearly as developed as his. Like Colby, I have chosen the immortal Bard as my source: "Hark, hark! the lark" from Cymbeline, Act II, Scene 3.

Hark, hark! the bark from Mason’s flat nags,
And Murphy’s mouth lies,
Her hand stills phone as Jeff’s paw snags
Floors in his Dupont prize;
And near memories begin
To tear my hazel eyes:
With every thing that falsehood is,
My lady sweet, she lies:
She lies, she lies.

Kevin Michael Grace, 1.41 a.m., December 10, 2002 [Link]

MY LIFE IN (POP) SONG

“Someday I’ll Find You” by Noël Coward:

When one is lonely the days are long;
You seem so near
But never appear.
Each night I sing you a lover's song;
Please try to hear,
My dear, my dear.

Someday I'll find you,
Moonlight behind you,
True to the dream I am dreaming.
As I draw near you
You'll smile a little smile;
For a little while
We shall stand
Hand in hand.
I'll leave you never,
Love you for ever,
All our past sorrow redeeming:
Try to make it true,
Say you love me too,
Someday I'll find you again.

Can't you remember the fun we had?
Time is so fleet,
Why shouldn't we meet?
When you're away from me days are sad;
Life's not complete,
My sweet, my sweet.

Kevin Michael Grace, 6.28 p.m., December 9, 2002 [Link]

JUST THE FACTS, MA’AM

What does "pedophilia-related" mean? Michelle Mark of the Calgary Sun reported December 8:

A convicted pedophile running for public office could be Airdrie's newest alderman tomorrow. [Airdrie is a community of 21,000 just north of Calgary.]

David Moore, 39, and a married father of seven children, was convicted of pedophilia-related charges in Cardston in 1989.

Moving to Airdrie seven years ago--after his sentence was served--Moore tried to hide his status as a convicted child molester.

But, on the eve of tomorrow's election, his past has come back to haunt him.

Last week, an estranged family member recognized Moore's name on election signs while driving through Airdrie and immediately alerted employees at the Airdrie Echo newspaper.

Confronted by the Sun about his prior conviction yesterday, Moore admitted it is something he has tried to keep from the public.

"When you make a mistake of that nature, it's something that you work hard to make sure it isn't something that is public knowledge," Moore told the Sun yesterday.

He also said he doesn't think voters should hold his past against him.

"I'm very careful about keeping myself out of situations like that again."

Moore was convicted of two counts of sexual assault and sentenced to 18 months in jail. 

What kind of situations are those? Moore doesn’t tell us, and neither does the Sun. "Sexual assault" in the Criminal Code of Canada means everything from rape to "sexual touching." (If indeed Moore was convicted of an offence under Section 271 and not of an offence under one of the various other sexually-related sections of the Code.) The age of consent in Canada is 14, but sexual relations with anyone under the age of 18 are illegal if one of the parties is in a position of "authority."

Elsewhere in the Sunday Sun, columnist Rick Bell expresses outrage:

Thank God. Thank God someone drives through Airdrie and reads the election signs and puts two and two together.

Thank God that person phones the Airdrie Echo and thank God the folks at the Echo alert us.

Thank God the Sun is able to stand up the facts without the benefit of a sex offender registry that doesn't exist.

Thank God it isn't Tuesday, the day after the by-election vote. Yes, thank God. Because you just never know.

Here is a man, the kind of man you'd meet in heartland Canada. A family man with family values who wants to keep his small city a family kind of place. A hard-working volunteer who runs for office and wants to upgrade the roads and keep the taxes down and get new businesses to move to town.

Here is a man who has publicly defended those who've defended children, a respected member of a political party priding itself on a no-nonsense law-and-order platform.

Here is a man who has already run for elected office in his city once before. Here is a man you could know and yet never really know.

But what is that Moore actually did? Moore has not been charged with further offences, so there is no legal impediment to the Calgary Sun printing the details of his conviction, so long as it does not identify Moore’s victim or victims.

Moore’s exposure is an considerable embarrassment to the Official Opposition, as he is vice-president of human resources for the Wild Rose riding, held by Canadian Alliance Member of Parliament Myron Thompson. Contacted by Bell, Thompson was nonplussed:

"I don't know what to say. How do you spell the word shocked? I'm really sorry to hear these things," says the MP, after asking if this is some sort of sick joke.

"I've known him for five years. He was another one of the guys, never a complaint about him. Far as I knew, he was a good family man. He seemed to have a pretty happy family. He has a pile of kids. I met them all.

"Nobody out here was aware of his conviction. Nobody. Anybody seeking office had better make sure their background is out in the open. The people have a right to know."

Another Calgary Alliance MP interviewed by Bell, Art Hanger, suggests strongly that Moore is a serial offender:

"Nothing surprises me. Pedophiles are manipulators and con men extraordinaire.

"They con themselves into the hearts of people and organizations.

"In my 22 years of experience on the police force, the pedophile is the most underhanded, the most deceitful, the most manipulative of offenders...

"There are those who don't want to admit there's a problem since it is a criminal act committed by every kind of person in every strata of our society. It can be the pastor, the teacher, the politician, someone in your own family," says Hanger.

"But there is always a cadre of people who go and support the convicted pedophile.

"They don't agree with pedophilia but they still take up the cause. They've put the person in a position of trust and now they're in denial.

"They forget there are consequences you have to live with, like it or not.

"The effort not to disclose something like this is not acceptable.

"Where is the shame? Where is the outrage? Have we slipped so far?

"Thank God most of our society still abhors those who pick on the most vulnerable, our children."

The Sun clearly intends for us to consider Moore a monster, a man whose crime was so heinous he should never be allowed to attain the level of constituency party official or small-town alderman. If the Sun has the evidence to prove this, it is their duty to provide it. In the absence of the facts, however, it is difficult to determine the level of social ostracism Moore deserves.

In the event, the editorial standards of the Calgary Sun do not inspire confidence. According to Michelle Mark:

Although some Alliance MPs say they're floored to find out there is a convicted sex offender working alongside them, they say he won't likely be booted from the party.

There are no provisions to bar someone from holding an Alliance membership because they have a conviction, said Wild Rose MP Myron Thompson.

He also said Moore's situation will not be discussed formally at the next board of directors meeting.

Myron Thompson is obviously ignorant of his own party’s constitution, but what is Mark’s excuse? It is freely available at www.canadianalliance.ca. Section 3.d.iii states, "Membership in the Alliance shall be terminated without refund":

For just cause, including conduct judged improper, unbecoming, or likely to adversely affect the interests or reputation of the Alliance as determined by National Council of the Alliance, in its sole discretion, after consultation with the Member's Constituency Association Executive.

"In its sole discretion." For any reason or none, in other words. And it’s not as if the Alliance has not moved like greased lightning to remove members in the past. I suspect Moore will be out of the party by Monday or Tuesday. He is certainly guilty of more than many others that have been expelled. 

I don’t think I am in denial, and I certainly abhor those "who pick on the most vulnerable, our children." But I think we deserve to be told exactly what Moore did.

[UPDATE]

The Calgary Sun reports this morning that Moore has announced he will not take his seat if elected. He evidently considers himself a victim as well: 

"I will strive every day, every day, to make sure I don't put myself or any child in that situation," said Moore.

"And six of my children are girls."

Moore said he had been sexually abused as a child which led him to commit the crimes.

He said he turned himself in to police after the incidents. 

What were the incidents? Why doesn't the Sun simply tell us the facts? "Nothing beats news in a newspaper," as Paul Johnson likes to say.

Kevin Michael Grace, 1.23 a.m., December 9, 2002 [Link]

THE FAMILY THAT BLOGS TOGETHER…

If you look to the right, under "Friends and Family," you’ll see the names Patrick Grace and Rebecca Grace. They are two of my children. My other child, first-born Teresa, 18, evinces no interest in her own website.

Patrick, 16, has devoted his site to an unknown to me videogame called Shining Force. For some reason, he has adopted the name Billy Frost. His site has been on hiatus for some time. I asked him recently when it would be active again. He said probably by Christmas. "Christmas?" I replied. Big mistake; he can’t bear teasing. You have no idea how very busy I am, was his rejoinder. I suppose I don’t. Patrick is a serious young man. Two weeks ago he asked his mother to write him a note excusing him from attendance at a school play; he preferred to study instead. He is a better student than I ever was, which should please me, even if the tone of his every utterance is murderous resentment.

Patrick was the first in the house to get his own website. He had learned enough HTML to put one up but obviously wasn’t satisfied with it. I had hoped he had learned enough code to design a site for me, but he hadn’t, so I learned FrontPage instead. The tables were turned; I was now in a position to help him, but then, rather perversely I thought, he decided he would learn Dreamweaver instead. Recently, he’s got a friend to do some Flash animation for his entry page; he was rather excited about that.

None of my children have expressed much interest in my blog. Just as well, perhaps. But then they’ve never displayed much interest in my journalistic career.

Rebecca, 12, is not as hermetic as Patrick. Although I don’t imagine this is going to last much longer, as she is on the cusp of adolescence. Soon enough, I fear, she will become sullen, humorless and obsessed with amour-propre, as all teenagers are. As I was myself, as I remember to my horror and shame. In the meantime, however, she is an engaging girl; she still wears her heart on her sleeve.

Casting about for her attributes, I’m afraid I don’t know much about her. Does this make me a bad father? I don’t think so. Children are jealous of their privacy, and I don’t like to pry. Especially as my own adolescence was blighted by my mother’s obsessive attentions. I’m certain Rebecca has a rich interior life, as her blog would seem to attest. I look forward to whatever she will choose to reveal.

What I do know about Rebecca:

• Types 70 WPM.
• Typical Harry Potter fixation (although she did surprise me by reading Pride and Prejudice).
• Horrifying soap opera fixation (decadent, I thought; although I am informed this is perfectly common).
• Plays the clarinet in her middle school band (at my insistence; she wanted to play the saxophone, but I maintained this was not a suitable instrument for a girl).
• Loves grotesque pop tarts such as Christina Aguilera and Shakira (although she likes Avril Lavigne, who is quite tolerable).
• Has the disconcerting habit of asking, "Is this person still alive?" about the people whose records I listen to.
• Has written at least one novella based on videogame characters.

Perhaps in the future all family communication will be by blog. Rather like the Tolstoys—but of course there are the diaries left out for others to read, and then there are the secret diaries.

Kevin Michael Grace, 11.23 p.m., December 7, 2002 [Link]

 

POETRY CORNER

The South Country

When I am living in the Midlands,
That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening:
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea,
And it's there walking in the high woods,
That I would wish to be,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day;
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
Their skies are fast and grey;
From their castle-walls a man may see
The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along.
They have the secret of the Rocks
And the oldest kind of song.

But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise,
They get their laughter from the loud surf,
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our sister the Spring
When over the sea she flies;
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,
She blesses us with surprise.

I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air;
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there.
And along the sky the line of the Downs
So noble and so bare.

A lost thing could I never find,
Nor a broken thing men;
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end.
Who will there be to comfort me
Or who will be my friend?

I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald;
They watch the stars from silent folds,
They stiffly plough the field.
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed.

If I ever become a rich man,
Or if ever I grow to be old,
I will build a house with deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold,
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
And the story of Sussex told.

I will hold my house in the high wood,
Within a walk of the sea,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me.

—Hilaire Belloc

Kevin Michael Grace, 12.22 a.m., December 7, 2002 [Link]

AN INCOMING WARM FRONT

Rick Salutin, one of my favourite columnists, takes issue with Marshall McLuhan in today’s Globe and Mail. In a column called "What McLuhan missed," he credits him with "underst[anding] the impact of the invention of print," but of overlooking the "continuities" in "the experience of books and that of TV or the Net."

TV is still text-based and scripted, though it's not a book. Furthermore, the communication is entirely one way, just like reading. Even on the Internet, interactive means one side speaks, then the other; not the simultaneous encounter of live beings responding in the same moment to everything, including gesture and breath—as actors do to a live audience, even when it's silent—and as happens in every conversation.

Reading McLuhan now, you'd think the kind of individualist ideologies of the past 20 years—Reagan, Thatcher, Bush—could never have happened. Instead, there should have been eternally youthful people acting tribally and dancing the twist. But the collective nature of experience in oral or preliterate societies was not based on a technology, whether focused on the ear, the eye or all the senses together; it was based on the direct connectedness of living people. Anything "mediated" by media, that is by communications technologies, whether print or electronic, will always lead to the fragmented quality of print culture. We still live, despite TV or the Internet, in the age of print.

I think Salutin is guilty of categorical confusion. When McLuhan died in 1980, the personal computer industry was in its infancy, and the World Wide Web more than a decade way. So we never benefited from his wisdom on the subject. If it were not too presumptuous to speak for the Master, I would speculate that McLuhan would say this—the Internet is a new medium and must be considered by its own laws. The Internet is print-based and hot, hot, hot. They don’t call Internet disputes "flame wars" for nothing. Just as everyone had written off print, the Internet allowed it to come roaring back. McLuhan taught, of course, that whenever a new medium arrives, its essence is misunderstood by those (almost everybody) that think in the past. What did TV give us in the early days? Vaudeville in a box. Just as New Media tyros squandered untold millions in a doomed attempt to turn the Internet into an online version of TV. Do you sit through Flash animation? Does anyone?

Remember the received wisdom that the masses would never read newspapers and magazines on CRT screens? Remember how everyone used to format and print articles off Slate and other sites? Does anyone do that anymore? But the best example of the Internet revolution is the totally unexpected success of the blog. Vanity publishing, the Old Media sneered. We have what the people want. Corporately sanctioned opinion, straight from Mount Olympus, respectable, predictable. Bland, blander, blandest. Print, naturally hot, became increasingly lukewarm as it aped cool TV, the great conciliator.

The blog gives us a single human voice. Unfiltered and immediate. And now the movement is all in the other direction. Newspapers and magazines are becoming hotter. Singularity is no longer a mortal sin. I can hardly imagine, for instance, Mark Steyn being hired by the National Post before the World Wide Web. Film and television