Barbs & Jabs

I want a leader with personality

Liberal leader Stephane Dion and I have something in common: neither of us have  been on a honeymoon.
While I was married for 13 years and am "mommy" to five kids, I never celebrated either the beginning or the ending of the marriage.
After leaving the church on that wet September day in 1962,  I went to work.  After leaving the court on that cold January day in 1975, I went  to work.
It's obvious: I work too much.
A recent Ipso Reid poll isn't suggests the honeymoon is over for the new Liberal leader. Rather, it suggests Mr. Dion bombed at the alter, never making it anywhere near the honeymoon. Stephane and I should can hope for a miracle to give us at least a few hours on a honeymoon.
Poll results indicate Canadians prefer both Stephen Harper and New Democratic Party leader Jack Layton over Mr. Dion as leader. That may be so, but if Canadians had there way, Harper, Layton and Dion would all step off the stage. None cut it. 
The reality is we're living in leaderless times. Harper's too stiff and dull and strikes me as a guy with a hidden agenda. Layton's simply hard to take serious and, let's face it, Dion's a bit of an odd duck — smart and hard working, but still an odd duck.
As a Canadian, I want a leader with fire in his belly, complete with the ability, the willingness and the desire to stick up for Canadians. Maybe it's too much to ask for, but I want a leader with a personality.
While we all look for a strong, smart, creative, energetic and in-touch prime minister, today's pickings don't look great. The best we'll get in the immediate future is mediocrity.
When facing the boredom of it all, who's to say we can't hope someone great is waiting in the wings.
P.S.
If, by some miracle, there's a honeymoon in the cards for me, I'd like a hint. If by some chance, Canada does fall in love with Mr. Dion, I hope he enjoys his honeymoon. In the meantime, I'll keep working.

Clothes make the man

A cross-dressing York University professor is proving those who teach can also do.
A few days ago, Professor Michael Gilbert, 62, turned up at the university wearing a black skirt, matching blouse, a necklace and bracelet.
It's okay. The man's a cross dresser.
A husband, father, grandfather and well respected professor, he came to campus to to teach the philosophy of gender and sexuality. By dressing as woman, he's determined to help break down barriers.
Now the big news — nobody complained when Professor Gilbert turned up dressing and acting like a woman. This proves, once again, that life is, changing.
And, as always, we live in interesting times.

Chan celebration brought back memories of Trudeaumania

The kids did the right thing in Thursday's three provincial by-elections — they shared.
Everybody went home with a prize. What a nice party. 
Since the Liberals took Markham, Burlington went to the Conservatives and the New Democrats  picked up York South Weston in Toronto, nobody left empty handed or in a snit. 
I like a level playing field, especially in the political arena. If we have a tight three-way race in the Oct. 10 provincial election, we'll get better government. Competition keeps you on your toes. 
Assigned to cover the Markham Liberals, I was not prepared for what I witnessed.
About 1,000 people turned up to cheer candidate Michael Chan on. The crowd was predominately young, from all cultures and in a darn fine mood. They came through the door happy, enthusiastic, well-behaved and  tasting a win.
When Mr. Chan arrived with Premier Dalton McGuinty, the crowd went wild. The rock-star welcome was not for the premier. It was for Mr. Chan.
When the premier took to the stage and yelled,  "My name is Dalton McGuinty and I am a friend of Michael Chan," there was a shrill I hadn't heard since Trudeaumania swept the land.
I couldn't figure it out. Trudeau was Mr. Charisma. The most eligible bachelor in North America, he drove a racy sports car and wore saddles.
Mr. Chan, however, is a middle-aged small business owner and a family man to boot. He likely drives a compact car, wears an everyday business suit and is shy, especially on stage.
There's nothing showy about this guy. Still, you don't attract 1,000 people on a cold winter's night unless you've got something. 
Judging from the strength and intensity of Mr. Chan's support, it's obvious: he's bright, a well-liked individual who surrounds himself with positive and nice people. They joined him in running a top-notch grassroots campaign. His style, his treatment of others and his efforts paid off.
The premier said Mr. Chan is a Canadian story. Leaving his homeland Hong Kong, he struck out on his own when he was 18. Mr. Chan worked hard, played by the rules and put himself in good standing for public service.
He's a winner. After all, 1,000 people can't be wrong.
Welcome to Queen's Park, Mr. Chan.

My short-lived stint as a herb farmer

My one and only marijuana crop failed.
When I was young and hopeful, a friend, who happened to be a doctor, gave me a few marijuana seeds.
Following the doctor's orders, I planted my special seeds in a soil-filled egg carton.
Since the doctor had to return to Toronto to save lives, I was on my own.
Putting the grass-growing project high on my To Do list, I offered my seeds drinks of water, fresh air and sunlight.
It wasn't long before my little illegal crop sprouted. I was so proud. I started to pray for a bumper crop.
It was at this point in my life I realized God isn't fond of me. The Good Lord may love all creatures big and small, but not me. 
Still, I soldiered on, transplanting six pot plants to a nice little spot in our orchard. Within 24 hours, five kicked the bucket.
I visited my sole cannabis survivor every day. It seemed lonely, out of place and grew ever so slow.
Despite having an agricultural background, I am not a patient farmer. After about three weeks of trekking to the orchard, I became disappointed, disillusioned and bored.
Despite my TLC, my THC was only about two feet high.
Fed up with the whole ordeal, I cut the plant's life short, picked the ripe green leaves and hid them in the pantry.
In the dead of night, I snuck down to the kitchen, laid the grass on a cookie sheet and popped it into the oven. Since I have the attention span of a hummingbird, I set the oven on broil. My grass was cooked in less than a minute.
Using a rolling pin, I crushed the brown and shriveled leaves. 
Despite all the nurturing, coaxing, pampering, hoping and praying, I ended up with only enough grass for one doobie.
Since I was usually mad at my husband for one reason or another, I decided not to share. I'd sing Fraternity of Man's Don't Bogart That Joint My Friend all by myself.
There's another thing you need to know. For the life of me, I can't roll a joint. The stems split the paper and bulges form in the middle. It's so loose at the ends, most of the grass lands on my lap.    
This time, I decided to get smart. I used six rolling papers and ended up with a rather sad looking joint.
No one there to judge me, I sat on my porch in the middle of the night in the dead of summer of'68 and smoked the whole damned thing, coughed until my eyes bulged and  chocked until I turned blue. But I smoked it.
To top it off, I threw the roach in my mouth and swallowed it.
And then I waited. I waited for the buzz.
After about an hour, I admitted there was no buzz. Then I remembered: an ass-kicking weed plant has to be a girl. I'd just smoked a boy.