WRITER - Vancouver Lifestyles -
Politics are Better from a Distance
There was a time when the three funniest guys in the world were named Benny, Burns and Berle. For the pre-prostate gang, that would be Jack Benny, George Burns and Milton Berle, all giants of vaudeville, radio, movies and television, long before anybody loved Raymond.
Now, the three funniest guys in the world are Bush, Blair and Berlusconi.
The difference between these two sets of renowned Comics is that the first group wasn’t so scary. In fact they were rather benign and avuncular. Berle was even called “Uncle Miltie.” And they didn’t hold the future of human kind in their sweaty little hands.
It is instructive to leave behind what we claim to know every once in a while and venture forth into the great unknown. Then, from the relative safety of Massimo’s Caffe on the Strada Nuova, one of the two broad streets in Venice, Italy, we can read the local papers and take a fresh look at all that we’ve deemed so important these passing winter months.
To begin with, locals and tourists alike see Canada as something exotic and legendary. Beautiful, perhaps; foreboding, we’ve heard. Cold, very cold. And wild, Arctic, wolverine. Almost nobody has even heard of Vancouver. You might as well be from Christchurch or the Cook Islands.
Europe has its own concerns. The Euro, and again, the Euro. Everyone knows that they have been gouged. The one-dollar cup of coffee is now one Euro or better, which is really almost two dollars. And immigration. Nobody is happy; everyone is under siege. Germany is a Turkish stronghold. The Dutch are minorities in The Lowlands.
Everybody thinks Bush is an idiot. It’s just a given. Nobody disputes this. Let’s get a gelato and take a walk.
Blair is a little better, but he is really a Junior Bush. Berlusconi is a conjurer, a Houdini. He is charged, tried and convicted of one crime or another, and still he is set free. His government collapses in the Rome morning, only to rise again shortly after lunch. His face lifts and hair transplants are taken to be daily exercises. Let’s have a Prosecco before dinner.
Around any embassy or synagogue are the heavily armed, jack-booted National Guard. In Frankfurt, Europe’s biggest air traffic hub, tanks and soldiers encircle all El Al flights. To quote Lionel Bart (whose one big hit was the musical, “Oliver!”) “It’s a Fine Life!” Shall we take a brandy with our coffee?
Against this background, one looks at our local scene with a slightly different eye. The three stories that seemed most important, most “newsworthy,” were the B.C. election, the Belinda Stronach Leap, and the Gurmant Grewal Intrigue. The Gomery Enquiry continued at pace, sending tiny shock waves through the Canadian collective self-righteousness on an almost daily basis. We all eagerly await the Punchline.
The B.C. election was, well, Morgless. Is that a Word? It was tired, dull, without verve, sex, scandal, cash-in-envelopes or inspired leadership on any team. The results were spectacularly predictable: a small Liberal majority, a re-invigorated NDP opposition, and an opposition leader who was actually an elected member of the legislature. Will miracles never cease? Now, we sit back and watch for the unfolding of the soap opera we’ve all been contemplating. Can this modest girl from a social worker’s background make the hard-ass Premier behave like a human being and mix in a little charity and compassion for the halt and the lame along with his ski slopes and skating ovals? Will silk purses soon emerge? Will we ever know why the RCMP took boxes out of the House that morning not so long ago? Stay tuned, boys and girls.
The Belinda Stronach story is the one that gains the most from being viewed at a distance. Seen up close, living with this nonsense day to day, one is instinctively outraged. How dare she? Who does she think she is? How could she do that to poor Peter? And so on. But from afar, it all seems so tawdry, so unseemly, so politics-as-usual.
Paul Martin, The Little Prime Minister Who Couldn’t, pulls off a major coup. He not only gets The Lady in Waiting to cross to the other castle, but he gets her to stab the ascending Prince in the heart while she’s at it. Paul Merlin!
Gurmant Grewal is the erstwhile Conservative Member for Newton-North Delta; but when does this go to print? He’s so busy shifting through the shadows, he and his wife might have started a new party by mid-summer. Mr. Grewal, like Jesse Jackson and Svend Robinson before him, has never met a photo op he couldn’t embrace. Ten years ago, he was accused of taping secret political conversations with Gordon Campbell’s Liberals. Now, he claims he has taped secret political conversations with Mr. Martin’s Liberals. The story line never wavers: They offered me favors. Aren’t they terrible? Somewhere in the Psychiatric Diagnostic Bible there must be a prognosis for The James Bond Syndrome. Somebody should be able to help.
Meanwhile, the real stories lie unattended. Are your kids safe playing on the street? Is your paycheck bigger than it was in 1980? Does it buy more? Will eight years of University and two degrees get me a job?
Rome is not burning, but there is a strange red glow on the horizon.
