Balls of Rice

Category: Politics

  • Roof-Ready Regina

    I will be presenting the following at the April 29, 2013 Regina City Council Meeting. If you are also concerned about the fate of housing in Regina, please show up at City Hall at 5:30pm. To read the Roof-Ready Regina – A More Comprehensive Housing Strategy, click here.

    My name is Nicholas Olson. I’m the Frontline Support Manager at Carmichael Outreach. We at Carmichael teamed up with some other organizations and non-profits in Regina such as Regina Anti-Poverty Network, Project People, Making Peace Vigil, Regina Anti-Poverty Ministry, and the Queen City Tenants Association to come up with a document we call Roof-Ready Regina – A More Comprehensive Housing Strategy. In it we highlight several strategies that we as community organizations feel are imperative to add to the proposed housing strategy in order to properly represent all populations in Regina, and thus making the current Comprehensive Housing Strategy truly comprehensive.

    At Carmichael, in dealing with those who are most severely affected by the housing crisis on a daily basis, we have noticed that several things could be improved upon in the Strategy to benefit all populations. First of all, we ask that the ‘Made In Regina’ definition of Affordable Rental Housing, defined in the Comprehensive Housing Strategy as “housing with rents at or below average market rent,” be changed to coincide with the definition provided by the Canada Mortgage and Housing Corporation, or CMHC. Using the ‘market price’ as the marker does not at all ensure affordability. The CMHC definition states that “The cost of adequate shelter should not exceed 30% of household income. Housing which costs less than this is considered affordable.” Using a ‘Made In Regina’ definition will leave many citizens behind. The hourly wage required to afford the average cost of a Regina bachelor apartment is $13/hour, something a cashier or sales clerk working full time at the average rate cannot afford. A single non-journeyman carpenter making the Saskatchewan average of $15.40/hour cannot afford to live in a one-bedroom apartment. In order to properly afford a three-bedroom apartment in Regina, a person must make $23/hour working full time. A single unemployable person on Saskatchewan Assistance gets a shelter allowance of $459 which does not come close to the $633 average cost of a bachelor apartment. A family with 5 or more children on Saskatchewan assistance can barely afford to pay rent on a one bedroom apartment in Regina. All these statistics are based on numbers from the Saskatchewan Wage Survey of 2011 conducted by the Government of Saskatchewan; Saskatchewan Assistance Rates (October 2012); and the CMHC Fall 2012 Rental Market Report. Although average wages in Saskatchewan are at an all-time high, using the CMHC definition for affordable housing shows that many full-time employed citizens can’t afford to pay average rental costs. Basing the Affordable Housing portions of the Housing Strategy on an improper definition prevents equal and effective decisions to be made for those urgently affected by these the housing crisis.

    Secondly, with the limited resources that a city has in the development of housing, affordable or not, we ask that more be done with incentives, programs, policies and bylaws. We would ask that the city require developers to include affordable housing in their plans, or alternatively, to pay into an affordable housing account or ‘Inclusionary Fund’, run and managed by the City and non-profit developers. Similar practices have been in place in Montreal since 2005, which function similar to Density Bonusing. Montreal strongly encourages developers who built over 200 units to include 30% social housing, or if social units are impossible to accommodate, that the developer can offer land, buildings or a financial contribution to the ‘Inclusionary Fund’. This practice, housing groups in Montreal have suggested, will not slow overall development but rather deter gentrification, encourage proper proportions of housing in all neighbourhoods by community minded developers, and encourage social mix in all neighbourhoods as well. Targeting developments that require important zoning changes, and developments that rely on municipal or government land is important to best use the City’s assets and jurisdiction.

    Third, we ask that special needs and supportive housing be given special consideration by the City and that they work with existing subsidized housing providers to look into for opportunities. Carmichael Outreach works with the people most difficult to house in Regina. Many face one or more barriers to finding housing, including: addictions, mental illness, poverty, racism and a less than ideal past rental history. Further, we house a position to help find housing for people living with HIV/AIDS, as many of those diagnosed name homelessness or precarious housing as one of the main barriers to improving their health and adhering to their medication regiment. This is an increasingly important issue considering the fact that Saskatchewan has the highest rates of HIV/AIDS in Canada. It is almost impossible to find housing for these people within the current housing market.  

    Housing First models, where people are given a home as the first step and then programming and outreach is offered second, has been a successful approach to getting and keeping people housed, but it must be done in such a way that support is on-going and constant. It is for this reason that we ask the City of Regina to actively pursue supportive housing opportunities as well as projects that subscribe to a Housing First model as an effective means of housing the difficult to house.

    We believe that these requests, as well as the remaining the requests on the Roof-Ready Regina document are reasonable, attainable, and achievable goals for the City of Regina to ensure all populations are properly represented with adequate forms of housing. 

  • Thou Mayest

    I sat at the Housing Strategy Public Forum at noon on Thursday. I listened as four city representatives justified a plan to fix a city, scrambling to answer questions from dozens of disgruntled citizens about housing in various forms. Providing housing for the masses is a priority, they said. Just not as serious of a priority as making a lot of money, they neglected to say. The citizens’ sole chance to have their say in a hotel lobby with free cookies and Fruitopia. Democracy works.

    I wondered whether it counts as having a voice if you are speaking to those do not have ears.

    So mom said this, “I think sometimes for your own sanity you have to believe that people will eventually do the right thing.” I genuinely do not believe that people will eventually do the right thing. I only have so many years of life to impatiently wait. What I do believe, for my own sanity, is that people can do the right thing. They have the choice and this puts me at greater ease. Because I expect nothing. Because I am not waiting with fried nerves for the sun to explode. I’ve got to believe at least this or I will give up, and giving up is a cardinal sin in anyone that matters. I’ve got to believe this or I might kill myself. I’ve got to believe it whether it is true or not. My cynicisms no longer reach as far as believing in an inherently evil humanity. I have passed that point in my perpetual anger. If that were the case, we would have starved long ago.

    “Maybe it’s true that we are all descended from the restless, the nervous, the criminals, the arguers and brawlers, but also the brave and independent and generous. If our ancestors had not been that, they would have stayed in their home plots in the other world and starved over the squeezed-out soil.”

    -Steinbeck, East of Eden, Chapter 51.2, p568

    Though we may not be an evil people, we are still not inherently good. We are inherently selfish, and this to me seems concrete. As animals we instincually make decisions to ensure our personal survival. This is not news. Humans can, however, break this conditioning. There is still a choice.

    In East of Eden, Lee studies the story of Cain and Abel.

    Lee’s hand shook as he filled the delicate cups. He drank his down in one gulp. “Don’t you see?” he cried. “The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’—that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ Don’t you see?”

    “Yes, I see. I do see. But you do not believe this is divine law. Why do you feel its importance?”

    “Ah!” said Lee. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time. I even anticipated your questions and I am well prepared. Any writing which has influenced the thinking and the lives of innumerable people is important. Now, there are many millions in the sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interefere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.” Lee’s voice was a chant of triumph…

    “…This is not theology. I have no bent toward gods. But I have a new love for that gilttering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed because ‘Thou mayest.’”

    -Steinbeck, East of Eden, Chapter 24.2, p301-302

    I still question the effectiveness of a political process that is so inane as a public relations exercise with five different types of cookies. I question the point in trying to penetrate the infinitely-layered inclined mountain of bureaucracy. But possibilities arise. Thou mayest triumph over sin. Thou mayest triumph over ignorance. Thou mayest triumph over selfishness. This, Steinbeck says, is what makes man great. He still has “the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.”

    It doesn’t matter what others do—I must remind myself of this. Letting the poor decisions and monumental mistakes of others disrupt your progress along the line of choice is foolish. Thou mayest. Or thou mayest not, and it doesn’t fucking matter to me what the innumerable morons of the world decide to do. As long as I remember that both they and I had a choice.

    Because ‘Thou mayest.’

  • Cheap Attempts at Warping History

    I mean, he was a nice man. Well-mannered. He shook my hand. He was… punctual.

    But he didn’t smile. Once. Even when I broke out my witticisms and self-depracation. Just cold, straight eyes of someone who was deeply offended but didn’t want to give his offender the satisfaction of knowing it. A man trained in the language of confusion and conditioned in the attitude of smugness couldn’t let an uneducated, idealistic brat have that victory. He is obligated to believe he is right, just as I often think I’m right. The difference is that he is in a position where he has no choice but to convey certainty, so much so that he begins to believe it himself, blinded by a pride that does not allow him to admit mistakes, to admit there is potentially a better, more effective way of doing things. I will gladly admit my faults, my ignorance, my wrongs in the overwhelmingly frequency in which they arise. He seemed light in his chair, not willing to let his muscles relax either because of something long, hard, and conservative lodged up there, or because of an impatience and unwillingness to stick around. Waste of his time.

    Democracy is a faultless system when you are an affluent white male sitting in the golden velvety chair in the middle of the room.

    That night Buffy Sainte-Marie put things into perspective during a talk at the FSIN. This too shall pass, she guided. She consolled that these people are just politicians, they do what they do. They do what they do from being bullied from who is on top of them. We must express ourselves regardless. Like a canoe that is tipping, we must balance their acts of selfishness and greed with acts of selflessness and sharing. Their acts of exclusion and individualism with acts of inclusion and community. Their arrogance with modesty, humility.

    I did something wrong. Legally and perhaps morally, depending on who you ask. I can admit this, I can apologize for this. My actions did nothing. They did not prompt intelligent thought as I wished they would. They prompted two days of social networking guffaws and condemnations. But for myself, it was a step. It was a step that led me to several meetings I would have not had otherwise. A step towards peaceful dissent. A stone stepped over in the path.

    The direction of a big act will warp history, but probably all acts do the same in their degree, down to a stone stepped over in the path or a breath caught at sight of a pretty girl or a fingernail nicked in the garden soil.

    -Steinbeck, East of Eden, Chapter 4.1, p33

  • Report: Disillusionment on a steady incline

    In a recent report of the psychological state of Nicholas Olson’s being, disillusionment has shown a heavy thrust upwards to a near 100% rate. Recent events, including government policy concerned only with the bottom line, simultaneous workplace battles that dichotimize populations from unhealthy materialism to unhealthy addiction, and daily interactions with a selfish, thoughtless, over-emotional, arrogant human race have increased this particular man’s cynicisms exponentially, with a plummeting rate of hope in humankind. Similar trends have been noticed in the past five consecutive years, documented through countless unofficial Balls of Rice reports, however this report is especially significant because of recent serious attempts at bucking negativity, increasing leisure time, and focusing on making a tangible, but simple, difference in day to day life, all of which have proven failures.

    When asked how his day went, Olson replied, “Oh.. fuck.” When asked to comment, Olson replied, “How do you live happily in such a mess of human beings metaphorically and physically tugging at their genitals in order to improve solely their own lot?” For obvious reasons, reporters declined to ask further questions.

    Direct causes for the rate increase include the growing gap between upper and lower classes in ‘developed’ nations noted locally through irresponsible housing policy, environmental neglect and purposeful ignorance in environmental issues in order to expediate financial dividends, as well as general selfishness, arrogance, and impatience of human beings, especially in that of the male in question.

    There has been no noticeable correlation between the frequency of ‘disillusionment reports’ released on Balls of Rice, and the rate of disillusionment, however many outsiders wonder whether Balls of Rice reports are the cause or the cure of the current high rate.

    *Rates of disillusionment are measured in the following formula: # of migraines multiplied by degrees of apathy added to hours of exhuastion divided by ‘shits given squared’.

  • Entitled to Poverty

    “I’m called crazy a lotta times already. It don’t bother me.

    My wife says, ‘Leon, you gotta expect it.’ She says, ‘People never understand a man who wants something more outa life than just money.’

    People think you gotta be one of two things: either you’re a shark or you gotta lay back and let the sharks eatcha alive—this is the world. Me, I’m the kinda guy’s gotta go out and wrestle with the sharks. Why? I dunno. This is crazy? Okay.”

    -Richard Yates, A Wrestler with Sharks, Eleven Kinds of Loneliness

    I have never done drugs. I have had very brief moments of controllable levels of alcoholism. I have lived in a life of love and unending comfort. And I curse myself for it. I curse my parents, though with thankful undertones. If I hadn’t been brought up in comfort, I’d know what people mean when they say addiction is a cave, where every step towards its mouth is also a step towards vulnerability’s gnawing teeth of open air and light. I’d know what they meant when they tell me about being dope sick, being shunned by lifelong friends. Instead, I’m that fucking ignorant suburban kid who got arrested once for being too much of a goddamn square to know how to spraypaint a wall in secret, who nods and says ‘it’s hard’, when I actually haven’t the slightest goddamn clue.

    After one of my cynical, over-tired rants about people who own Mercedes-Benz vehicles, my father asked me where the line is when wealth becomes acceptable. Mom wisely, fairly, replied, as I was walking out the door to get my dad to drive me to the pub, that each person must decide this line themselves. As I shut the door, I told her that everyone sucks at determining where wealth is acceptable, so maybe I should decide for them. The makings of a true communist dictator. We all smiled and soaked in the exaggerated version of my disgruntlement. Dad drove me to the pub. I brought my cynicisms to my boss on Monday morning. She said that she doesn’t think wealth is bad. Wealth is a dirty word to me. It is entitlement. Entitlement based on good decisions and investments, hard work, responsibility. Entitlement is based on the belief of personal ownership when really nothing in this world is wholly ours. Therefore entitlement is greed and arrogance. Entitlement in any form is unattractive and abrasive. Wealth is not unacceptable, but it must be responsible, sustainable, frugal, generous, moderate, fair.

    My recent public speaking engagement revolved around my travels, my writing, my work, and punk rock. I spoke to a group of twenty seniors who likely relate punk music to Elvis. I told them that it took me quitting university, going to India three times, travelling North America with the musically-inclined, writing a sorry excuse for a book, to finally find a place where I felt like I was supposed to be. And it has never been harder. I also told them that we all fit in in the same way, by an obligation to help those in need, in whatever means we can. However, it is not, and will never be, enough.

    Ann Livingston is a true wrestler of sharks. A co-founder of VANDU, she helped establish the first safe-injection site in North America as an act of civil disobedience, done before it was made legal by the government. She suggests that the obligation to save lives is always greater than the obligation to obey the law. This seems like common sense. Similarily, the obligation to help others is greater than the obligation to obtain wealth. This may (or may not) be widely agreed upon, but not widely practiced. I know that I am lucky to have the job I do. They could’ve hired another graduate student, straight off of the uninformed teat that is institutionalized education, who would be more able than I to write government grants and better know the system in which people must play to find comfort and peace. And there wouldn’t have been anything wrong with that. I am lucky to have a job that has a direct impact, and though it may seem otherwise, I do not give myself credit over others for it. I often do the opposite.

    It is important not to be the shark. There are enough of them. It is equally important to not allow the shark to ‘eatcha alive’. If each one of us decided to poke the shark, to throw a rock at the shark in the pool of water that it circles hungrily, the problems that I am unable to relate to would change substantially. We would leave our entitlements and privilege behind. We wouldn’t have to curse our parents for loving us.

    I love you, mom and dad.

    However, it is not, and will never be, enough.

    Why? I dunno. This is crazy? Okay.

  • Wrestlemania: Mystique vs. Mick Foley

    I’m losing my mystique. Perhaps mystique is not the proper word—it reminds me of a flamboyant 1990’s wrestler or WNBA diva. But the mystery. The mystery of a man that doesn’t say much. If I don’t have that, what’ve I got? The ladies mentally whisper: nothing.

    Not that I’m a greatly mysterious man. I write down everything embarrassing about myself and post it on the internet. That is maybe mysteriously narcissistic. But in my mind, maybe falsely, there is still mystery. I spend most time alone, don’t go out often, am usually quiet. I will usually say my word only if necessary and only if conflict will be avoided.

    This past Sunday, at crokinole practice with Wilf, I left no one guessing. The last time things got this heated at the dinner table was likely when I was eight years old and said, “Thanks for Jeremy’s big hairy butt” in a prayer. This time I began as a tired observer with no intentions of contributing to the civil conversation. Then I figured I’d take civil and evolve it into civil-yet-indignant, probably offensive rants about gay marriage and closemindedness. The rage spilt over into another issue, topics related to my new workplace and the unending cynicisms that have arisen from my short time there.

    I’d beat cynicism a while ago, I’d thought. I had it in the bag. But a Christmas hangover and a frustrating Friday crept up on me, the cynicism resurfacing like an overflowing septic tank floaty on the basement floor. I finally found a job that I believe in (whatever the hell that means) and the cost is pessimism at an all-time high. The things at work that get me enraged aren’t the threats-uttered or the feces spread on the floor, but rather the nice old ladies dropping off donations of clothing in the back alley. The people who drive Mercedes SUVs and give us their husband’s old golf shoes and cross-country skis so that they can justify purchasing thousands of dollars of shit that in five years they will donate to the poor. I create non-existant scenarios in my head, coldly judging people that support, in any way, an organization that supports the homeless. All the while, fully knowing that I am unfairly judging them. And on Sunday this barked out of me in several brief, animated tirades. I said excitedly in ten minutes what I have a hard time properly expressing on paper calmly with hours at my disposal. And when I finished, I felt stupid. Partially because it was ineloquent. Partially because I was getting upset for no reason. Partially because I was essentially cursing out grandmothers that support feeding and clothing the homeless. But mostly because I said so damn much in such a short amount of time. I became an angry Mick Foley wearing a Mankind mask, raging about humankind.

    Mystique has imploded. This guy is a real prick, the ladies will say.

    I blame my loss of mystique on working at Carmichael Outreach. I can’t decide if it is dealing with the burdensome, the awkward, or the exhausting that has broken me down to where I am unable to keep my mouth shut. Or maybe it is my new found interest in the perpetually depressing world of local politics that boils up stadium-fuelled rants. Or just me, gradually becoming an opinionated pissant with no self-control.

    I have been scheduled for a public-speaking engagement. The last time I did this was my valedictorian speech, or maybe an ill-researched, uncertain, pitiable sermon since then. My old best friend’s dad ran into my potentially-gloating parents in the supermarket. Nic wrote a book. Nic works with poor people. So I am now a motivational speaker, trying to sell books and charitable tax-refundable donations while not offending old baptists in Balgonie. No damn clue what I’ll say, but when I form it, if it is suitable, you will see it here.

    But this is what I mean. Two years ago if a man from my childhood asked me if I do ‘public speaking’, I’d laugh and say, “Uhh, you don’t want that. Ask one of the Roughriders,” but this time I laughed and said, “No, but I could.” Mystique gone. He asked if I need to be paid, meaning he expects something decent. I told him I am only ever paid in food. I’ve sold out.

    Instead of semi-yelling at no one in particular at the dinner table, I need to better utilize this forum. An audience-less, editted version of my anger. The perfect filter.

    I felt ill when I laid in bed at the end of Sunday. Not the headcold that Glitters Buffet gave me, not the two beers and Beyonce half-time show headache I got, but just ill at the inability to properly control myself to think before I spoke, potentially offending, potentially saying something I don’t even believe, potentially looking like a stupid politician. Being someone that regularly talks too much is one of my worst fears, and I was that guy for a day this week.

    I’d rather be unknown in silence than well-known in speech. Right now I am poor at both of them.

  • Lyrics of the Month: February 2013 – The State Lottery

    Now the real prospects for authentic democracy depend on something else. They depend on how the people in the rich and priveliged societies learn some other lessons. For example the lessons that are being taught right now like the Mayans in Chiapas, Mexico. They are among the most impoverished and oppressed sectors in the continent. But unlike us they retain a vibrant tradition of liberty and democracy. A tradition that we’ve allowed to slip out of our hands or has been stolen from us. And unless people here in the rich and privileged society, unless they can recapture and revitalize that tradition, the prospects for democracy are indeed dim.

    Does it seem strange to you? The confetti. The balloons. The mile-wide grins and the victory dance to welcome in the heir to a state of (utter and complete) disrepair? Because it sure seems strange to me: they’re acting like they won the fucking lottery! I mean, shouldn’t they feel terror at the task that lies ahead: to feed and house the people that this system’s left for dead. And could I have hit the nail much harder on the head? It’s profits before lives. They are motivated by greed. First they taught us to depend on their nation-states to mend our tired minds, our broken bones, our bleeding limbs.

    But now they’ve sold off all the splints and contracted out the tourniquets and if we jump through hoops then we might just survive. Is this what we deserve? To scrub the palace floors? To fight amongst ourselves? As we scramble for the crumbs they spit out, frothing at the mouth about the scapegoats that they’ve chosen for us. With every racist pointed finger I can hear the goose-steps getting closer. They no longer represent us so is it not our obligation to confront this tyranny?

    -Propagandhi, Less Talk More Rock, The State Lottery

    Quote by Noam Chomsky
    Dedicated to all High Profile Victims of Graffiti in Regina, promising Housing Summits, but providing Stadium Summits instead

  • Burn Down Your House

    I can’t help but think that those who read gossip rags must have the most pathetically boring lives. Or that those who own iPads have a mental inability to entertain themselves. There are times where distractions are positive, but they are undoubtedly negative when moments of awareness are less than those of blind entertainment. A distracted population is easy to manipulate. Like when a child asks his mother if he can play with matches and she just says yes because she is busy with two other kids, supper, the phone, laundry. Then he burns down the house and when she is tending to her melted flesh, she admonishes him. Except we were so busy sifting through the internet on our phones, cheering for a football team, or shopping for seasonal gifts that we didn’t even bother to give an answer. So we’ll have no place to admonish later.

  • Why I Got Arrested

    There could be two ways of telling this story. I will tell both.

    1. In the year 2000, a man named Pat Fiacco was elected Mayor of Regina. I was newly twelve. We had just finished our PeeWee football season and were celebrating by going to LazerQuest—the dream of all twelve-year-olds. Getting out of the car we heard early election results from the radio: Pat Fiacco had defeated Doug Archer, who had been mayor since I was born. Mr. Thibault, driver of the car, eventual SaskParty MLA-hopeful, father of a teammate who almost broke a kid’s neck, expressed his delight with the outcome. We went inside. I shot friends with lasers. Nothing else mattered.
    I was never able to vote in a civic election in which Pat Fiacco ran for mayor. I supported his I Love Regina campaign, which seemed to rouse up civic pride in a city that has little more appeal than decent folks and short commutes. I bought the shirts, I shared the shirts, I gave the shirts as gifts.
    Eventually, as politics became more important and professional sports became more absurd, in the latter part of Pat’s mayoral career, I began to question his legitimacy as mayor. Sure, it’s a tough job. Never enough money, lots to do, boring council meetings to attend, a populace to actually care for. But the more I saw the failed developments in a city that Pat encouraged me to love, the less I could stand it. I love the city too much. I saw the stadium as inevitable and necessary. I saw it as a positive if done correctly, timely, and not at the cost of a part of the population that couldn’t find a place to live. But instead the stadium project became fishier by the day. Hurried, sketchy, reeking of illegitimate money, and mostly all presented just before or during an election. Handled worse than a sopping jock strap. Instead of his first vision—a statue of himself shadow-boxing shirtless to be placed at city hall—Pat instead opted for the quarter-billion-dollar stadium project for all of us to remember him by. So that he wouldn’t be remembered for the goofy smile, the phantom moustache, the over-moussed hair. He would be remembered for the glorious ride on which he took us, instilling unwarranted levels of civic pride in our hearts with t-shirts and an ill-gotten stadium.
    Some might say that I was arrested because Pat Fiacco was an unfit mayor.

    2. As a twenty-four-year-old who hasn’t accomplished much, the allure of political activism and vandalism drew me in like it were the aroma of a bowl of popcorn or a pretty lady’s hair. Live a little, it whispered in my ear. Don’t roll over and let them ram that stadium up your ass, it admonished. So, I somehow came up with this piece of art, tried it several times on several different materials with several different versions of moustache. Speckled. Muffled. Filtered. Full-on. The slogan came naturally (that is, poetically, with no research and based on conjecture). I came up with a route, I came up with an outfit, I didn’t wear a hat, I didn’t wear glasses, my jacket was manufactured with a hideable balaclava. The surveillance videos would lead them to anyone but myself.
    But then I ran. Paranoia got the best of me, as it usually does with poser try-hards. Civilian cars started to look a lot like cop cars. Cop cars looked a lot like jail. Jail looked like something worse than a stadium up the ass. I ran, forgetting that I’m an out of shape bum and that running gave them reason to pursue. They caught me, cuffed me, realized that I wasn’t casing cars. They asked me my name when my nose was on the concrete, breathing deeply with leaves shooting out from under my head from my heavy exhale. Andrew Gurr was the only name that came to mind, following my plan to never give my real name if I ever got arrested. Then, in my first moment of clarity of the night, I realized that a fake name would only make it worse. I was cooperative. I slept in a cell. I got fingerprinted. Mugshot. Tattoo information. Left with one charge, five times. They caught the real bad guy.
    Some might say I was arrested because I am a moron. Most would say this.

    As a football-loving PeeWee, had I been able to see Fiacco’s vision of a ‘state-of-the-art’ stadium meant to cup the balls of an already over-celebrated professional football team, I would have been ecstatic. The Riders were my idols, of course they would deserve the greatest our money had to offer, even at the cost of the city’s lower class. I would’ve celebrated with Mr. Thibault, and entered LazerQuest with a little more victory in my heart. But alas, I grew up. I grew up with the ability to prioritize. I grew up with recklessness and a mind partial to moronic errors. I grew up into the graffiti-slinging, overly-idealistic, dissenting, once-upright child that you now see before you, fresh from his second court date where the Honourable Judge amended the curfew with an order to ‘Keep the Peace.’

    Innocent no more. The stadium will be built and shortly thereafter rammed up my ass. My twelve-year-old-self congratulates you, former Mayor Fiacco. You win once again. You will forever be immortalized as the mayor that started the botched stadium project and left thousands of people out in the very real, very wintery cold. But with me, you will forever be immortalized in a stencil and five charges, under the slogan of your twelve year career: Greatest mayor ever sold.

    Does this post count as an inability to ‘Keep the Peace’? If so, lock me up.

    Calm down, Nic.

  • Who Terrifies Least

    And I’m still terrified. I am not relieved.

    Canadians who would normally condemn Stephen Harper are currently celebrating the election of a man who is little more than the sexier version of the Canadian Prime Minister. Both leaders carry a similar policy, but one of them you could potentially have a conversation with without wanting to stick cobs of corn in your earholes. Obama is a man we have seen hanging out with Jay-Z. Harper is a man that we would expect to see hanging out with a bank’s CEO, or country club golf pro like Shooter McGavin, or oil and gas investors, although we are skeptical that even these people would be able to carry on a conversation with such a potently awkward man. In Canada, as non-participants, we watch the Presidential Election as if it were the 100-metre dash. We cheer for who seems most approachable in sound bites and video clips. We cheer for those who our favourite celebrities endorse. We cheer for the most famous and recognizable face in the entire world. We cheer for the one who terrifies us the least.

    And that is the problem. The lesser of two evils, people say. My idea of democracy doesn’t line up with voting for ‘who terrifies least.’ I can understand people’s relief in the election of the lesser of two evils, however I cannot understand people’s acceptance of the situation. The two-party system is terrifying. In the only podcast worth listening to, Escape Velocity Radio, Chris Hannah levels with Americans, saying that the two-party system is, “only one party away from the Soviet Union.” There were other options (Green Party, Justice Party, etc), recognized on ballots in only some states, and not recognized at all by major media outlets. Denouncing these as non-effective is denouncing democracy.

    Sure, Nic. You read two websites about how Obama still supports the Keystone Pipeline, about how he still issues drone killings in the middle east and Africa, about how he passed the National Defence Authorization Act that allows the government to detain citizens without fair trial, and now you can’t take a minor win and leave it alone. You’ve gotta act smarter than you are.

    Yes. I do. I am hard to please.

    More and more I am learning that if you vote and do nothing else, then it is almost not worth your vote at all. Although Peter Mansbridge’s voice almost seduced me into staying upstairs on the couch, I came downstairs into my room and streamed DemocracyNow.org‘s coverage of the election. In it, Ben Jealous, President of the National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People said: “You don’t vote for someone to make a change,  you vote for someone who can make it easier for you to make a change. You don’t lose the responsibility of making change. We have to stay in movement mode.”

    Although the man that terrifies me the most is not the leader of the most powerful nation in the world, he is still one of the richest most powerful men in that nation. Celebrating and expecting the less terrifying man to make all the changes is irresponsible. It is still the responsibility of the citizens to ensure that change occurs. That an oppressive two-party system is shut down, that Obama’s right-leaning policies are kept in check.

    The lesser of two evils is still evil. The ‘least-worst’ is still the worst. The man who terrifies me the least still terrifies me. His manufactured image is pretty comforting. He is hard not to like; I’d go for a beer with him. But I’m still terrified for a population willing to settle, if that is actually what happened. Hell if I know.

    What Ralph Nader Is Thinking About the 2012 Election