My hands are killing me. My forearms and shoulders are joining the fray. Typing just hurts too much, so I’m on a break from the blog
Sometime this week I’m going to pick up a copy of Dragon Naturally Speaking and begin to play with it. Until it responds, I don’t think I’ll be posting much at all.

Improbable comedy of manners and errors that made me laugh out loud like a traitor to feminism and, in the end, cry like a sentimental fool.

First I heard of Canada’s new meat inspection regulations was when Herb Barbolet commented during the Q&A after Naomi Klein’s presentation at the Writers Festival last week. Then Tim Pawsey wrote about them in the Courier, and today Don Genova posted about them on his blog.

Since September 1, the federal food inspection agency has required centralized slaughtering and processing of meat and poultry. These new regulations suit the aims of big agribusiness, while threatening to put the boots to small local producers, for whom transporting produce to these centralized facilities is cost prohibitive.

Lyle Young of Cowichan Bay Farm, which is renowned for its pasture-raised poultry, has faced financial risk and operational challenges since establishing Farmhouse Poultry in 2004. Farmhouse Poultry is a local slaughtering facility established to provide small scale poultry farmers on Vancouver Island a fully compliant local facility to which they can take their poultry for processing. In this six-minute mp3 format interview with Don Genova, Lyle describes the difficulties he has faced in operating Farmhouse.

We live in an age of disconnected government policy, not least here in BC. The Liberals cut social programs, telling us it would increase prosperity. They introduced Gateway, telling us it would decrease vehicle emissions. Touting the benefits of local agriculture while pandering to the scaled-up needs of agribusiness is just another example. We elected a two-headed monster, represented in the caricature of Gordon Campbell on the cover of the most recent Georgia Straight.

Denial is one of the hallmarks of addiction. What US drug czar John Walters is addicted to isn’t especially clear, power maybe? Why else would he make the outrageous claim that America is winning the war on drugs, even if the results cannot be “sustained over the long term.”

The situation isn’t entirely hopeless, however. Rush Limbaugh has triumphed over hillbilly heroin.

Homelessness in a Growth Economy: Canada’s 21st Century Paradox

October 15, 1 pm, SFU Surrey, Central City, 250-13450 102 Avenue, Surrey (Room 5240)
October 15, 7 pm, SFU Harbour Centre, 515 W.Hastings, Vancouver (Room 1700)
Admission is free, reservations required. Email cstudies@sfu.ca

Drawing on his recent report of the same name for the Sheldon Chumir Foundation for Ethics in Leadership, journalist Gordon Laird will discuss his findings on homelessness in Canada. Mr. Laird has observed that governments have focused more on short-term crisis management than long-term strategic investment. Inaction over the past decade on housing and homelessness has exacerbated efforts to reduce poverty in Canada. Mr. Laird’s writing and commentary have been featured in The Globe and Mail, CNN, CBC Radio, National Public Radio, MacLean’s and National Post. Laird is a Media Fellow emeritus at The Sheldon M. Chumir Foundation for Ethics in Leadership.

Link to Mr. Laird’s website gordonlaird.com

Moderators:
Surrey: Michelle Ninow
Metro Vancouver Homelessness Secretariat Vancouver: Kathryn Gretsinger, journalist

Panelists will give the local context including Alice Sundberg, Chair, Regional Steering Committee on Homelessness (SFU Harbour Centre lecture).

Sponsored by the Metro Vancouver Homelessness Secretariat. Co-sponsored by the SFU City Program and Community Education Programs. With generous financial support from the Vancouver Foundation.

Journalist and ex-wunderkind, Naomi Klein, held a homecoming love-in for herself at the Vancouver Writers (and Readers) Festival last night. The sold-out event started later than advertised, and the love-in was a surprise to at least some of the attendees, myself included, who had expected Ms. Klein to present a precis of her recent best-selling book, The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism.

The late start, as explained by event host and Writers Fest artistic director, Hal Wake, was because the event had been relocated (at Ms. Klein’s suggestion) to the much larger John Oliver secondary school auditorium from UBC’s Frederick Wood Theatre, where some attendees had mistakenly arrived. We would, Mr. Wake announced, be waiting for the latecomers to arrive before the evening began.

I was a bit miffed about the late start, believing as I do in personal responsibility and the greatest good for the greatest number and all that, but I rationalized that I would probably prefer to not be disturbed by late arrivals, so I settled in for a bit of a chat with Mr. V, one of the topics of which was the heartburn we were each suffering from the curry supper we had gobbled too quickly to ensure we’d be on time (and get decent seats) for what we’d hoped would be an informative lecture.

Don’t get me wrong. Though I may not share her brains, her talent, or her privilege, I am definitely on an ideological page that is contiguous to Ms. Klein’s. I’ve been scratching my head off and on since 1976, trying to figure out if someone held a gun to the heads of the members of the Nobel Foundation to ensure Uncle Miltie got that economics prize.

But I was not prepared to be underwhelmed by Naomi Klein’s decision to present a series of road stories, even though I understood it. She’s been on an international book tour, presenting the same information again and again, and on this night her parents, her brother, and her husband (and apparently many other relatives) were in the adoring audience, which she assumed would cut her some slack.

Road stories are fine, if they illuminate the contents of a book, or the arduous process of writing it. But Ms. Klein’s did neither. Though she is confident and likeable, Naomi Klein is not a riveting speaker, and this talk was a non-event, at least for me.

The worldwide increase in human misery brought about by the hubris, greed, and misplaced faith in the perfection of markets that is proselytized by the priests of the Chicago School has been decried many many times before. We know that globalization, privatization, neo-liberalism, public-private partnerships, call it what you will, doesn’t work all that well, and doesn’t provide even a modicum of “trickle down” goodness. The middle class shrinks while the rich get super-rich and the underclass grows. Environmental disasters and proxy wars encircle the planet while the developed world’s infrastructure implodes.

The main idea which underlies The Shock Doctrine–the parallel metaphor of shock and awe military campaigns, political torture, and free-marketeering that follows various geopolitical shocks–is powerful, though not necessarily valid, except on face. But it is this idea that motivated Klein to produce this tome which, she was proud to announce, contains 72 pages of footnotes.

The acid test is whether Klein’s metaphor and book merely describe a problem that has already been described or whether it moves us toward an alternative. She believes the use of mercenaries in the middle east war is a strong sign that the neo-liberal beast is now devouring its own core, and will soon destroy itself. She also believes that Evo Morales is an exemplar of good things to come. But aside from an oblique reference to Keynesian economics, praise for direct action, and a recommendation for regional banks to replace the World Bank and IMF, Klein didn’t come to talk about solutions.

Which is a pity, because we know that when the right-wing intelligentsia fails, then it is the left-wing elite, of which Ms. Klein is a member, who will step up to the plate to mess things up in their own special, though (at least in Canada) much more humane, way.

When Ms. Klein’s talk ended, Hal Wake retook the stage to announce that because of time constraints, the Q&A portion of the evening had been purloined in favour of book-signing. The subtext of his message seemed to be “If you haven’t bought a book, you can go home, now!”

His announcement, brought about by a timing glitch mini-disaster, was met not with shock, but with some successful direct action on the part of the audience, which was not going to go quietly or without answers–Naomi’s answers, which she gave graciously.

When we left the hall, there was a burgeoning line up of eager readers, patiently waiting for the Naomi imprimatur on their newly purchased books. People, it seems, are hungry for critiques of the conventional wisdom that has held sway over our lives for the past half-century. It remains to be seen what we can do to change it.

A girl’s gotta eat, even when her tendons are troubling her. And Mr. V. and I have been doing our share of eating, most of it pretty mundane. Even so, there are a couple of cheap and cheerful joints we’ve recently visited that deserve a mention.

The Kabab Hut, just east of Main Street, at 219 East 49th, sells Indian/Halal street food. This cramped and cluttered hole in the wall hasn’t seen a paintbrush since well back into the last century. It offers a number of dishes, includng biryani, tikka, kabab, and mango lassi, mainly for takeout. Try their chicken roll–freshly cooked tandoori chicken, lettuce, tomato, and secret sauce, rolled up in an equally fresh naan. Very tasty, very filling, and very reasonable, at $5, including tax.

On a somewhat different plane is Kitsilano’s Heart Attack and Vine, just off Broadway at 2480 Vine Street. The room is pleasant, with nary a Tom Waits clone in site, and the food, though delicious, is healthy enough. Definitely not the sort that would leave one living in fear of a coronary occlusion.

On a recent visit Mr. V. and I had lovely maple butternut squash soup, a turkey panini, and a breakfast wrap for well under $20.

Heart Attack and Vine offers a range of soups, sandwiches, salads, baking, and full entrees including lasagna, curried chicken, to either eat in or take away.

A couple of weeks ago, in no mood to stand around in a cold, and potentially rainy Malkin Bowl, I returned a pair of tickets for the Flaming Lips to Ticketmaster. The tickets had been a birthday present to a show originally scheduled for the Orpheum, currently shut down by the municipal strike. I heard later that I’d missed a very good show.

And so it was with considerable alacrity that I accepted a consoling offer from a friend for a ticket to the Arctic Monkeys show in the PNE forum last night. I’d only hear about this band once before, from the same friend, who works in the music business, when the Arctic Monkeys won the Mercury Prize for their first album. They were, she said, going to be as big as Oasis, maybe even the Beatles.

It had been some time since I’d attended a concert at the Forum, a practice I began back when I was about sixteen, and it was an odd feeling walking into a show where all I knew for sure was that the main act was currently the hottest band in Europe and I was easily old enough to be the mother of most of the other attendees.

Concert goers everywhere have long been used to the new normal: First there is the search for contraband. Bags and purses are opened, pockets are emptied, and bodies are patted down. One either submits to this indignity in the name of safety and security, or is thrown out on one’s ear. There are a few uniformed VPD officers, and plenty of private security personnel milling about.

Then it’s a stroll past the concert merchandise, which for this event was a modest assortment of T-shirts. This is then followed by either a hunt for seats or a hunt for refreshments.

While opening act Voxtrot crashes and thunders bar-band-style in the concert area, most of the attendees are crowded into the beer garden in the outer room. Garden in this case being a loose term. Hundreds of young folk are standing on concrete, crammed behind iron stanchions, swilling cheap draft. I remembered, not completely fondly, a time in my life when joining the beer garden scene would have been the time of my life.

Instead, my friend and I buy some orange juice and try to find a quiet corner where we can indulge in a catch up. Sound ricochets everywhere, and ordinary conversation proves impossible, so I head for the conveniences, which are very nearby each other. Two long line ups form, one for the boys and one for the girls, just like in long ago baby boomer kindegarten classes. Most of the people in the line ups are half drunk, but in the very best possible way. There is plenty of laughing, joking, and good natured teasing, as if everyone has known each other for a long time.

When the Monkeys begin their set, the beer garden empties, almost instantaneously. Only a sea of plastic cups and one stumbling, unsteady fellow linger. We find some seats near the back of the smallish hall. Most of the audience is on the floor, happy to sing along to songs I’d never heard before, despite the abysmally muddy acoustics.

The lighting is complex, and very well done. The band plays a tight, high energy set. They all appear to be good musicians, particularly drummer, Matt Helders. Front man, Alex Turner, a skillful lead guitarist, handles all the vocals. His voice is true and strong, but I find toward the end of the set that I am getting a bit bored. As this band grows and evolves it will definitely need to mix up its vocal line with a few harmonies and a bit of back up singing.

Is this band the next big thing? It’s possible, though the only number that left a lasting impression for me was Fake Tales of San Francisco. There were definite rumours of brilliance in those riffs, along with echoes of The Who, Bowie, and even Eric Burdon, the old man himself.