Obama's State of the Union and the End of Move-Oppose

When a President uses The State of The Union to take the Supreme Court to task for a recent decision, you know not all’s right in the land below the 49th. When a President use The State of The Union to take his own party to task for having a majority and yet heading for the hills, you know not all’s right. And finally, when the President takes the other party to task because saying “no” is not leadership, well, while that’s politics as usual, it also reveals that not all is right in the U.S. of A.

The real message of Obama’s speech was the simple, unspoken and disturbing undiscussable that the structures of the American political system are no longer adequate to address 21st century problems. Poisonous partisanship has broken the back of the government’s spine that runs from the White House to the Senate and Congress. And guess what? It is the same in Canada. Pro-rogued, with opposition leaders giving speeches and teach-ins, with the Prime Minister seeking to look Prime Ministerial about Haiti and waiting for the bright lights of the Olympics, the Canadian government is not governing. It holds no pretense about tackling problems other than one’s political misfortunes. It is in absentia. Going, going, gone.

Is it possible that the long run of representative democracy that replaced the demise of monarchies needs to end because it cannot evolve sufficiently? (Bit of an ambitious question for a blog, eh?) Let me throw out a simple notion from my own work. For the past ten years at least, new ways of talking with one another are being explored in organizations, even the corporate kind. Democracies are stuck with the dysfunctional dance between the party in power and the opposition. Organizations, however, are free to avoid that structure, and governments could learn from it.

Being trapped in debate doesn’t move the agenda forward and, if it does, it leaves a wake of losers who will seek to win in the next debate. Winning, rather than arriving at the optimal solution, becomes an end in itself. Organizations, looking to avoid that fate, have been experimenting with dialogue, “Open Space”, circle conversations. One method of conversation, with its origins in family systems therapy, states that the structure of “Move-Oppose” creates dysfunction unless other roles modulate that dynamic.

Government, unfortunately, is little more than a space for playing the game of move-oppose. Some love the game, they play it for the sake of playing it, and they’re called politicians. The best ones simply win the game more than they lose. Now and then when compromise raises its nervous head and has the crown placed upon it, we see that as proof that move-oppose can work. It has been enough to delude us into honouring representative democracy as the pinnacle in the evolution of political systems. There’s nowhere better to go. Yikes! Hold on for a bumpy ride.

Is there a way out? Not yet. We’re as locked in to move-oppose in governments as we’re locked in to the QWERTY keyboard I’m typing on. (How locked in are we to that? Apple released its I-Pad yesterday, and you still have to write your email on the QWERTY keyboard that was created in 1873). The Move-Oppose system sustains itself, the architecture prevents us from questioning it (look at how they sit in the Parliament), the culture of competition reifies it. Alternative ways of engaging tough problems do exist; you can even be trained in them. But that doesn’t mean there’s a way to shift the system from within. I will let go of the political system healing itself. It will not happen, not in my lifetime.

What might happen in my lifetime is the rise of the web as a means for a new kind of democracy to appear. It is in its early stages right now. What form it will take, I can’t say. What particular dysfunctions will appear in web-based democracy, and they will appear, I won’t conjecture. As the State proves inadequate, humanity will follow the path of least resistance to solving its innumerable challenges. And that path, Dear Reader, leads directly to the medium which has you reading this.

God and Guns

Sometimes news items come out slightly below the radar that are simply too delicious to pass up...

And speaking of radar, the Canadian Forces in Afghanistan have learned that their gunsights, supplied by the U.S. company Trijicon, are inscribed with biblical references. That’s right, just as you’ve got a nasty Taliban in your sights, you can take comfort in the raised marking on your gunsight referring to the Book of John, Chapter 8, verse 12 (then spake Jesus again unto them, saying I am the light…) then BLAM! Shoot that infidel! Onward, Christian Soldiers. Amen. Thank you, JN8:12.

On its website, Trijicon lists it’s values. Standard ones, such as teamwork and honesty, appear and then its last one comes up, morality. It says: We believe that America is great when its people are good. This goodness has been based on biblical standards throughout our history and we will strive to follow those morals. Obviously Trijicon is referring to that old biblical standard called an eye for an eye, because we know they’re not talking about turning the other cheek.

As to Canada, well, we’re ranked 13 in Arms Exports, so we do have an industry. When I look at an alphabetized list of the world’s arms manufacturers, the first Canadian company to appear is called Armament Technology. I go to their website and—I kid you not—they specialize in “professional-grade weapon sighting systems” just like Trijicon. Armament Technology does not have morality for a value. In fact, it has no values and no history, no pictures of people, nothing about Canada being great when…The website is, how should I put it, Spartan.

But suppose Armament Technology wanted to brand its Canadian values on is gunsights, what might it put on them? A reference to the Queen Canadians swear an oath to—QE2Apr21,26? A reference to the date of confederation perhaps—CaJly1,67. Wait, of course, I’ve got it—CaSu72G7:4-3. Now there’s a religious code only Canadians could decipher!

A Republican Sits On The Kennedy Throne

What just happened in my home and native land, the Republic of Massachusetts? The Kennedy Throne handed over to a Republican! Travesty! Say it ain’t so, Joe. However, given that the Bay State is usually out of sync with the rest of the country—offering up candidates like Dukakis and Kerry, for example, when the country wanted to nurse on the breast of Republican rhetoric—maybe Massachusetts voting for a Republican is a sign the country is turning Democratic! Then again, maybe not.

So why’d it happen? Four possible reasons I like. Take your pick:

Take 1—Coronations Don’t Cut It
Coakley got dumped the same reason Hillary lost the primaries to Obama (and it’s not about gender). Hillary thought she was entitled; a Clinton, she expected to breeze into the nomination like fresh air through the window. Coakley suffered from the same assumption. Why campaign? This is Massachusetts, I’m a Democrat, this is Ted Kennedy’s seat; I await my coronation. Ah, Americans, we never have been one for coronations. We are distinctly anti-coronation. Act entitled, and you’ll be taken down. (Now Canadians aren’t like that, are we? Coronations are cool. Wasn’t the current leader of the Liberals, the Honourable Michael Ignatieff, crowned. Of course he was. Fine with us. All hail Michael.)

Take 2—Fast Fix our pain, says the Fast Food Nation
Geez, give the poor guy a break; he inherited the biggest mess of any President taking the oath of office. The mess had been years in the making, and it wasn’t even one mess. It was like trying to walk through the leash-free doggie park: multiple messes. Unfortunately, they aren’t the kind of messes that can be cleaned up with a pooper-scooper. Right? Right. We know that. But in Fast Food Nation, we want it fixed yesterday. The vote is a kind of national holler: hey, things still suck out here, you’re taking too goddamn long, I need a paycheck; if you can’t do it, let’s give somebody else a shot.

I pray this one isn’t it. And if it is, I pray Obama learns how to convince Americans to pin the tail on the donkey he inherited the mess(es) from.

Take 3—We’re scared and you’re not holding our hand
Being scared was a national theme in the States during the ‘00s. No reason for it not to continue. Though Obama may not seem to be moving fast enough or thoroughly enough for those on the left, to others he’s a damn tornado, stirring up winds of change faster than they can dodge the debris. Healthcare, healthcare, the economy, healthcare, Aghanistan, healthcare, the environment, the economy, healthcare, healthcare. Let’s see, thats 20% on the economy, 60% on healthcare, and 20% on other stuff. (God I love statistics!) The real fear is—I don’t know how else to put this—I’m out of work and terrorists are out to get me. Americans are at war and people are out of work. In the past, war was a full-employment strategy. Not anymore. Not this time. Something’s different.

Take 4—What goes around comes around
Well, the Massachusetts legislature has to eat a bit of crow on this one. They worked too hard to insure the positions of Democrats and it all backfired. As a perpetual democratic majority, the Massachusetts legislature changed the rules for succession when Kerry was running for Prez. At the time, the Governor was republican Mitt Romney who, by law, could appoint a Senator to fill an unexpected opening—like Kerry going to the White House. Not wanting Romney to appoint a Republican, they passed a law requiring an election in 60 days. Of course, Kerry lost; the bill was unnecessary. If they hadn’t made the change, Governor Deval Patrick would have appointed a Democrat.

Several years later, Ted Kennedy dies and suddenly the legislature doesn’t want that election because if a Republican wins, there’s goes Teddy’s dream of universal healthcare. They pass a law pushing out the election by six months to allow Obama's healthcare to pass, which gives enough time for Coakley to run an inept campaign and for the voters to get to know Brown. The rest is history. Mess with the system, the system messes back.

The Winter Olympics

In thirty days, the Vancouver Winter Olympics begin. It seems there’s a familiar pattern happening—the financial promise that has cities beg to be awarded the games turns into a distant memory as the games approach. Will tourist dollars pour in so Vancouver can recoup its investment? Will local tax payers be paying for the games long after they’re over? And if that’s the case, might the Federal Government contribute? Ah the glory of sport…and then the bills roll in.

In all the hoopla over the task of staging the Games (and this is the Winter Games mind you, a fraction the size of the Summer undertaking), there’s not much talk over what the Games mean. And in the Department of Meaning, I fear Canada has fallen into the same mindset as the United States. The meaning of the games is contained in victory. In providing the largest showcase for winning on the planet, the Olympic movement has somehow seduced countries into believing their medal haul validates their worth as a nation.

Canada, however, seems to have become seduced only recently. Ever since I first watched an Olympics through the perspective of Canada (the ’92 Winter Games in Albertville, France), I thought Canada had a different take on the Games than the States. Its athletes--gracious in defeat, delighted with a personal best, not arrogant in victory—seemed to embody what I understand to be the ideals of the founder of the modern Olympics, Pierre de Coubertin, as expressed in what some call the Olympic Creed:

The most important thing in the Olympics is not to win but to take part,
just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle.
The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.

Raised on a virulent strain of Lombardism,* I was shocked to see Canadian athletes unashamedly happy with a personal best that left them too far to see the podium or hear the anthems. Americans, on the other hand, would win bronze and bemoan their fate. (I hear voices claiming, “Well, that’s how it’s should be. Are you going to the Games just to lose? Set the bar high, or don’t show up.” Unfortunately, contained in that single-mindedness of purpose is an inability to acknowledge limitation, accept defeat or admire the capabilities of others, behaviors that seem to spill over into other areas of American life.) In the Games, America has always sought to deliver a general butt-whupping to the rest of the world and make good on its most fervent creed: We’re Number One.

That infection seems to have finally spread north. Canadian athletes aren’t quite on the bandwagon yet, but the Canadian Olympic Committee is all in. At the last Summer Olympics, Team Canada had no marathoners. Two had qualified but didn’t go. Why? Because they weren’t considered podium material. That’s right. It’s not enough to qualify by achieving the Olympic standard, you’ve got to meet the Canadian standard. Participation, it’s a bunch of hooey. The Canadian Olympic Committee started a movement called Own the Podium, focusing on athletes who had a shot at winning, dumping those that didn’t. The Committee announced that they would give cash to athletes who won a medal. Canada, like our southern neighbour, can now only be as worthy as its medal haul is large.

I am proud to say Canada’s athletes are less on board. Recently, Kurt Browning, one of Canada’s great figure skaters, said this about medal-hopeful Joannie Rochette, Canada’s current women’s figure skating champ: whether she gets a medal at the Olympics doesn’t really matter anymore because skating has made her into such a confident woman. And Kristina Groves, who has qualified for 5 events in long track speed-skating, said this: My expectations [for the Olympics] are virtually non-existent. I find expectations a negative approach to skating. I just go out to skate my best. Thank you, Kurt and Kristina. We’ll leave it to the athletes to remind us what sport is for and what the Olympics are meant to be about.

*Lombardism (origin: Am. football coach, Vince Lombardi)--the belief that winning isn't everything, it's the only thing.

Pro Rogue #2 and Cottage Life

Never mind the current Parliamentary vacation, even when Parliament IS in session I haven’t heard much about it working overtime. On the other hand, every now and then the U.S. Congress backs itself into a corner where they have to work all night to hammer out an agreement or to approve the federal budget, and if they don't, the President says something like “hell no, those boys aren’t going on summer break til they get ’er done.” (Does that sound like an odd mix of Lyndon Johnson and Sarah Palin?) Now that’s not something you’d hear a Canadian Prime Minister say. No sir, the Parliamentarians summer break would never be messed with. Ever.


That's because time at the cottage is sacred in Canada (second only to early evening ice time). Canadians even give their Prime Minister a cottage, a lovely setting on Harrington Lake not far from where I live. It’s a sort of “national cottage” that the nation loans to whomever happens to be Prime Minister. Whereas a new U.S. President is introduced to the button that controls the nuclear arsenal, a new Prime Minster of Canada is introduced to the national cottage, the national canoe and, of course, the national paddle (wouldn’t want the Prime Minister “up shit’s creek without a paddle” as they say, an expression I’m assuming has to be Canadian in origin). I’m also quite sure the Prime Minister is introduced to the National Donut, a French Cruller originally ordered by Laurier in 1898 and now preserved in a secret room at the National Archives(“and this, Mr. Prime Minister, is the French Cruller, lightly glazed and still bearing the teeth marks of Sir Wilfred”). Ah, but I digress.

I don’t know if the huge emphasis given to cottage life means that the States has more of a work ethic than Canada. The U.S. Congress might spend more time in session but the real question is do they get more work done, because we all know that time spent and work accomplished don’t necessarily correlate. Just ask any union member (ouch! okay, okay, I admit it’s a cheap shot). So how many bills went through the U.S Congress last year? In its 159 legislative days the U.S. 111th Congress passed 125 public laws; in the 130 legislative days of Canada’s 40th Parliament, 2nd session (Jan 26-Dec 30, 2009), they passed 31 of 64 bills. That comes to .81 bills passed per day in the U.S. Congress compared to .23 bills passed per day in the Canadian Parliament. So there you have it. Case closed. Canada can’t compete, and why should we bother. So let’s just get a keg and head up to the cottage. I say let's pro-rogue the country; we could all use a break.

Pro Rogue

Whaddya know, we’re back where we began. A little more than a year ago, I began BBM because the Canadian Parliament had been prorogued by its Prime Minister when a coalition was readying to boot him out of office. Well, we’re prorogued again. Parliament is not reconvening until sometime in March. Ya-hoo, time for the boys on Parliament Hill to hit the ski slopes, down a couple of brews, kick back in their local ridings and hobknob with real citizens. Prorogation is an extremely technical, parliamentary procedure that means “the ability of the governing party to declare a vacation whenever it thinks its ass might be on the line.”

Why, you ask, is its ass on the line? Because it seems the government might have knowingly handed over Afghan detainees to Afghan authorities who were likely to torture them. And that qualifies as a war crime. The opposition pushed for an inquiry and asked for documents. The government released the documents but they were heavily redacted, an extremely technical, parliamentary term meaning “there’s no way I’m going to let you read this shit.” The government made matters worse by trying to smear the diligent and capable bureaucrat who reported on the matter. Yes, if it’s one thing the Harper government is consistent about is its hair-trigger readiness to shoot the messenger. Is it any wonder they’re against gun control? Yessiree, Harper is one rootin-tootin, fast shooting rogue. He’s become a real pro at it. Wait! Come to think of it, doesn’t that make him a pro rogue?

Christmas in Quebec

It has been more than 15 years now that I’ve been fortunate enough to celebrate Christmas in Quebec. I’m quite sure those celebrations aren’t like anywhere else in North America (though I wonder if some folklorist could identify similarities with traditions in the French cultures of Louisiana).

It begins Christmas eve with a small meal. The table is set with small plates of homemade lightly salted, roasted almonds. A wonderful, spicy chicken broth leads in to some foie gras served with lightly toasted, thin slices of baguette (shown here with those anglo triangles called sliced toast). My late mother-in-law, who was a superb French cook, would work for days preparing the foie gras, cleaning and cooking it, coating it in a delicious layer of gelatin. I had never had foie gras before my first Christmas with my in-laws, but I quickly understood why the French had been torturing those baby ducks for years and seem unlikely to give up the practice. The foie gras (meaning fattened liver) is always served with a deliciously cold French Sauterne, a sweet white wine that adds to the delight.

Following the foie gras, the main course, if it can be called that, is served. Small crescent-shaped pouches of ground pork are served; the pork is cooked with onion and spices and then placed individually on dough that will becomes the lovely, lightly-browned pouches. Technically they are patè a la viande, though they are more typically called tortière (though technically tortières, I have been told, require potato), and these pouches are petite tortière. The tortières are meant to be eaten with tomato aspic, something jello-like which I think of as the French contribution to advancing beyond mere ketchup. Of course, the main dish is served with wine from France. My late father-in-law, a serious afficianado of French wines, would serve as sommelier during the meal. Now that both in-laws are gone, their children will allow wines from Australia or South American to find their way to the table, a mildly heretical act if for no other reason that French wines have been losing ground as of late and need all the friends they can get. If Quebecers don’t remain loyal, who will?

Dessert is the tipping point, where one can choose to keep the dining experience an exercise in light eating or descend into gluttony. Truffles, mocha, croquignoles, white cake, pudding de noel (a molasses and spice cake that serves as an excuse to pour on a addictive sauce made of sherry, sugar and eggs) are all available. Croquignoles are essentially donut balls coated in icing sugar, though they do take different shapes. The truffles are balls of ultra-rich chocolate. The mocha are lovely yellow cake-squares lightly sprinkled, if you're lucky, with coconut. I generally make a quick decision to choose gluttony rather than waste agonizing minutes trying to convince myself to eat lightly. It is after all—I tell myself—only once a year. My goal has always been to focus on the mocha and the Pudding de Noel, trying to scarf as much as the sauce as others will let me get away with. Of course what would dessert be without a dessert wine? Hardly worth eating, I’d say. Yes, I’ll have another glass.

All of this precedes the short walk to the church for Midnight Mass. The kids have long ago been put to bed and I would then accompany my mother-in-law to the church. Though not of the faith, I have a soft spot for Christmas carols and singing them out into the lofty architecture of the cathedral is a treat, as well as a means to alleviate the possibility of falling asleep from too much wine.

We come back from Mass to quickly put all the presents under the trees. My in-laws had six children, each of whom has children, so that’s a lot of presents. We’d wake the sleeping children and bring them downstairs to open the presents. It wouldn’t take long before the sleepiness left them and they would become as wired as fireworks. Then we’d all sit down to a little snack, put the kids back to bed and nod off to sleep sometime towards 4 a.m.

We all wake sometime late in the morning in various states of consciousness, wonder aimlessly about the house, nibble on left-overs from the previous evening for lunch, knowing the big Christmas feast was still to come. Wine was still available for lunch and oftentimes my father-in-law would take out a plate of cheeses, mostly disgusting ones from my point of view. Then again, my reaction to these foul-smelling oozing gobs of pus called cheeses would result in someone reminding me that I grew up in the states on individually wrapped slices of Kraft crap, er, I mean cheese. My father-in-law would spend a wee bit of time each Christmas day suggesting I try a stinky cheese. It was a waste of breath. I’ve always thought that calling those cheeses a delicacy is like someone leaving used athletic socks in a locker for a year and then, upon pulling them out, declaring them Haute Couture. Stinky cheese is the one area in which the French took a wrong turn and, somehow or other, never saw the error of their ways.

The Christmas feast starts at six or so and—here I think it takes on the typical cuisine of any Christmas dinner—after the almonds and the broth, out would come the turkey and cranberry sauce and potatoes. More French wines, desserts, dessert wines, conversation until we were all talked-out, then amble off to sleep. The remaining day was for recovery primarily: wake to Boxing Day, move about the house as slowly as a snail, consider the snow on the slate rooftops and trees, open the door to feel the cold air, sit down in some comfy chair with a book, have some tea, get dressed to go outside and walk to the local park so the kids can sled, push the sled, watch them fall off, get on the sled, feel the cold air on my face, gather the kids to walk back home, have a modest meal, decline the wine (thank god), appreciate all that you have, watch your kids run around the dining room table as the grandmother chases them (where does she get her energy), read more of the book, crawl off to sleep knowing it will all happen again next Christmas