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A Treasure Trove

AssholesA recent trip to Toronto to see family and friends – and celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary – also netted me a treasure trove of books, thanks to the proximity of a new/used BMV bookstore to our hotel. And, of course, Susan’s patience while I browsed the shelves. Several times.

I managed to find a dozen books (well, to be fair I found many more I wanted, but restrained myself to buying only a dozen). These included:

Extra Virginity: The Sublime and Scandalous World of Olive Oil, by Tom Mueller (hardcover, Norton & Co., 2012). I actually started reading the paperback version of this book only last week and was immediately swept away by it. A rich story about politics, food, economics, travel, business, law, agriculture and culture, it deserves a post all on its own. I bought the second copy so I could share it with friends. This book has already changed the way I see not only olive oil, but the food industry in general – and it added a whole new dimension to my understanding of the economics of the Roman Empire. Of course, it helped to have my eyes (and taste buds) opened to authentic olive oil by the folks at the Collingwood Olive Oil Co.

Blandings, by P.G. Wodehouse (Arrow Books/Random House, 2012). Six of Wodehouse’s Blandings tales that were made into the recent BBC series. I discovered numerous other Wodehouse titles in paperback at the store, none of which I have read, and was torn: which to buy? All? Some? One? I settled on the one volume (in part because I plan to get the BBC series on DVD) but will return for more. Several more. I already have most of his Jeeves & Wooster writing, but not much of the rest (and yes, I have the BBC Jeeves & Wooster series on DVD, too).

The Dhammapada, translated by Gil Fronsdal (Shambala Library, 2008). A relatively new translation of the teachings of the Buddha, one that will be a companion to the other new translation I recently bought. I have several versions of this work and this might be the best and most accessible, but I must compare verses to see which offers me the strongest resonance. The Dhammapada is an essential book in my library; one of those irreplaceable books of wisdom. I had originally considered this title when I got the Wallis translation but decided on Wallis after reading some online reviews (you can read my comments about it here). I think I’ll post some verse comparisons in a future post.

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A Little Uke on the Side

T1K UkeAbout 20 kilometres from home, while mentally playing the piece I had practiced all week, I asked myself if I had remembered to pack my tuner.

I remembered taking it off the ukulele and placing it in my luggage. I had raced upstairs to put it away and grab a gig bag for the Boat Paddle uke, resting on its stand downstairs.

Whew. Of course the tuner was safely stored in the luggage. And the uke was… my mental alarm sounded. Still sitting in its stand. Back home. I had been distracted, gathering my books for the trip, forgot about the case and brought the bag downstairs by itself. In the flurry of packing the car, getting the dog inside, checking on the cats, selecting music for the trip, and packing the laptop, I forgot the most important thing: my ukulele.

Uh oh. A good part of the trip centred around a ukulele. Which, like the cheese in the Monty Python sketch, I didn’t have.

I was planning to attend a weekly jam of the Toronto Corktown Uke group, only my third ever, and had wanted to play a song of mine for the open-mic portion. I had planned to be at this session for weeks. Damn.

Well, nothing to do about it now at 80 kmh. We motored relentlessly on to the city, first to visit my mother, then on to the hotel for a three-day stay downtown. But, I reasoned, if I took the right route into town from her nursing home, I might just manage to drive by the Twelfth Fret music shop on the Danforth, and if there was a parking space nearby…

Of course there was. The stars aligned for once and the usually busy Danforth had several spaces available. Stopping was inevitable.

After an hour trying this one and that, moving from room to room while Susan restlessly followed (does it sound better or worse now?), I walked out with a Martin T1K tenor uke (not the Iz signature edition). My birthday present to myself. Susan merely rolled her eyes. Another uke?

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Mayor Ford’s troubles a lesson for all Canadian mayors

Toronto Mayor Rob FordOn days like this, Toronto Mayor Rob Ford must be banging his head against the wall. This week he – and indeed every Canadian mayor – was reminded that a mayor’s powers are limited to a single vote.

That point was driven home when Councillor Joe Mihevc asked for a legal opinion on Ford’s unilateral decision to kill the Transit City plan, in December 2010, without consulting council. Mihevc also claimed Ford did not have the authority to sign a memorandum of understanding with the province to spend money from the Transit City project to put the proposed Eglinton LRT entirely underground.

The legal opinion suggested Ford did, indeed, overstep his authority. The province, too, has indicated that any agreement must be approved by the “governing body,” not just the mayor. The mayor is not an autocrat, no matter what he thinks his role is.

Unlike mayors in the USA, in Canada mayors have no additional power, and certainly no veto, that are not granted to any other member of council. Much of their authority is assumed by position or given by respect, rather than granted through legislation. They may act as chair, set the agenda, and control their own office budget, but can do little else outside the context of the democratic process. Unilateral decisions are not permitted.

In Canada, municipalities are children of their respective province, a role descended from the original British North America Act and as out of touch with current times as the BNA would be today. Cities, even our largest, have no independence as many American and European cities have. In every province, legislation defines what power, what authority and what responsibility municipalities enjoy. This antiquated – almost medieval – hierarchy puts our major cities on the same legislative level as any hamlet or village. And it puts every mayor on the same level as any other member of council: one vote, no veto.

Whether this is good or bad governance is a debate that provincial municipal organizations should be pressing on the provinces. The Federation of Canadian Municipalities should be demanding the federal government examine necessary changes to federal laws to facilitate provincial changes.

Author Gord Hume discussed this and related issues in his recent book, Taking Back Our Cities. Unfortunately for municipal politicians in Canada, Hume is a lone voice; provincial and federal municipal associations are unaccountably silent on the changes needed (and long overdue) in the provincial-municipal relationship. In fact, there seems to be a slightly too-cozy relationship between the provinces and their respective provincial associations. Association executives exhibit a tad too much reluctance to ‘rock the boat’ and upset that relationship.

The fight with Ford is not about transit dollars. It’s about authority and governance. I can sympathize: in the previous Collingwood council, I argued similarly against what I perceived as overstepping mayoral authority. It’s somewhat understandable that mayors assume they have more significance than their fellow council members because they are elected at large and, at least in Ford’s case, with a larger vote count that councillors get. But that significance is not defined in any legislation. They cannot act alone.

In the Globe and Mail, Patrick White writes,

The controversy has sparked a debate about whether he did or didn’t overstep his authority under the City of Toronto Act and, subsequently, whether it is Mr. Ford or the legislation that needs to change.

The Act may well need revision, but until such time as the province agrees to do so – and the province is very reluctant to relinquish any of its authority to municipalities, regardless of any election promises or claims to partnerships – Ford is the one who has to change.

Do some or all Canadian mayors need powers comparable to what their American counterparts enjoy? That would be a big debate, a fascinating and probably contentious one. It’s not likely to happen under the current Ontario government. None of the parties have expressed more than bland platitudes about the municipal-provincial relationship; their leaders usually smugly calling us “partners” without offering us a seat at the table for any decision that affects municipalities. In the province’s eyes, that partnership is a subservient role and municipalities have to tug their virtual forelocks in obedience.

As for the federal government, it won’t act until the provinces pressure it to do so. That day will come only when our municipal organizations show the spine to fight for a renewed, revised relationship. That will not happen, I suspect, until Hell freezes over.

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The colour of the herd

I felt not so much like I was in a city full of undertakers, but rather in a city that was in casual but widespread mourning. A sombre, solemn city where everyone dressed in black in recognition of some great death, but one of which visitors were unaware.

Standing at an intersection, the light would change and a wall of dark would approach, like a funeral procession that had just disbanded and was now going about its daily business in all seriousness.

Okay, to be truthful, not everyone was in black. There were other dark shades among the herd: deep greys and navy blues mottled its appearance, but black dominated. Now and then a tiny flash of resistance sparkled: a turquoise scarf, red mittens, a green hat. A few light greys showed as accents, like some Darwinian random mutation. Sometimes the white earplug wires of an iPod stood out in jarring contrast against all the darkness. But mostly it was monochrome: subtle shades of black.

Black hat, black gloves, black scarf, black coat, black pants and black shoes. It’s like everyone saw The Matrix and decided collectively to emulate Mr. Smith. Yes, even to the black shades worn on overcast days and into the evening.

I stood out like a crazed flamingo in a conservative wildebeest herd in my yellow-and-almond winter jacket. Now and then I’d spot another rebel against the herd instinct: a bright splash of colour like a beacon in the swirling sea of dark. If our paths intersected, and out eyes met, we’d share a secret smile, two rebels sloughing off the herd instinct, fellow travellers in the underground of colour.

There’s an old joke about New Yorkers wearing black until something darker comes along. It seems Toronto has adopted the black-as-fashion statement. I like black. I wear it a lot. Black can be forceful, mysterious, sexy, confrontational, challenging, expressive and strong. But it’s not so much fashion as anti-fashion, if everyone is wearing it. Is everyone in black mysterious and sexy, or just hopeful they are?

Fashionable means rubbing against the grain of the herd: wearing the opposite, wearing the things that make heads turn, being visible. If you accept the notion that doing the opposite of the herd is the front line of fashion, in Toronto this week, I was – for perhaps the only time anyone will ever accuse me of it – exquisitely fashionable.

At the very least I was un-black, which may be close to the same thing.