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Toronto Star
July 20, 2007
Debating a Distant, Divisive
War
If truth is the first casualty of war, then
the tendency to spew platitudes must be war's first-born child. A
current Canadian bromide is, "I don't support the war in Afghanistan,
but I support our troops."
On the surface, that would seem an acceptable
sentiment. But if you scratch the surface, many who object to Canadian
participation in the war will begin spewing further platitudes, each
more nonsensical than the previous. Platitudes about imperialism, about
the wanton killing of civilians, about the war on terror being "all
about oil."
If one honestly believes that foolishness, how
can one "support" our troops?
If you believe Canadian troops are taking part
in the slaughter of civilians for no reason other than to line Dick
Cheney's pockets, then how can you "support" said troops?
If you believe that Canada's forces should
only be donning their renowned "peacekeeper" hats, then how can you
support them when they are at war?
Not to mention that most of those who don't
believe Canadian troops should be fighting but who "support our troops"
are also those who argue in favour of gutting our military. In other
words, they "support" our troops by robbing them of proper equipment.
Some support.
The recent debate about keeping "Support our
troops" stickers on Toronto's emergency vehicles put me in the odd
position – for about three seconds – of having a small bit of regard for
Mayor David Miller. Initially, he opposed keeping the stickers, which
struck me as consistent with the rest of his politics – his stated
doubts about the war and his apparent anti-American world view. He
changed his mind, however, claiming that the deaths of Canadian soldiers
the week of the sticker debate "brought it home." I believe the "it" to
which he was referring was the fact that popular opinion wanted the
stickers to stay. So I am back to lacking regard for him.
Jack Layton is always good for a platitude or
two (or three). And the one that appears on his party's website
concerning Canadian troops in Afghanistan is exceptionally plebeian.
"Support our troops. Bring 'em home," it pleads. How perfectly banal. I
love the "'em" – lest we forget that Layton is a man of the people (and
not just of the people who would take Afghanistan back to the eighth
century), he reminds us by dropping that snooty "th."
In a statement on the website, Layton refers
to the war in Afghanistan as a "George Bush style counter-insurgency
war." (In case we've forgotten who we should be blaming!) But Canada's
soldiers are volunteers. They have signed up for a profession that is
not, by definition, safe (unlike Layton and Miller). And they do their
job well (unlike Layton and Miller) – so why "bring 'em home" as though
they were hapless children or disillusioned draftees?
The need to offer surface "support" for troops
stems, of course, from the Vietnam era. So I would suggest that rather
than declaring, "I support the troops," people with misgivings about
Afghanistan wear stickers that say, "I promise not to spit on troops or
call them baby killers."
I support our troops because I support the war
in Afghanistan. That includes supporting the deliberate killing of bad
people. It also includes accepting that civilian deaths and military
casualties will occur and that both are grim inevitabilities of war.
Still, I would prefer that, rather than spout
clichés, all Canadians understand why our troops should be encouraged to
do their job with the best possible weaponry on this most important
battlefield.
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Capital Research Center -- Foundation Watch
July, 2007
Media Matters for America: Soros-Funded Watchdog Attacks Conservatives |
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The Globe and Mail
July 9, 2007
Forget
Soccer Moms -- We're Single, Anxious and Female
After years of soccer moms, security moms and
NASCAR dads, my time has finally come. Politicians are turning to the
single female vote. Or, as Ann Lewis, a senior adviser to Hillary
Clinton, recently termed the demographic: "Single Anxious Females" (SAFs).
And we are that - especially the anxious part.
Married people with children are not alone in worrying about the
jihadist threat. Goodness knows I worry. And, like my SAF sisters, I
worry about health care and all matters pertaining to money. Or a lack
thereof. According to data gathered by the American non-profit Women's
Voices: Women Vote - I imagine the Canadian numbers are not different -
most SAFs are "unaffluent," between 18 and 44, and white. Many do not
have a university degree, and though they make up nearly a quarter of
the voting public, many are not politically passionate.
We'd rather watch TV, something we do a lot of
(more than four hours a day). Can you blame us? Why would we have much
interest in politics? Remember the last federal budget? It went
something like this: "Young families with kids, here is extra monthly
money for you, just 'cause! And also, here are tax breaks for virtually
every sport, activity or music lesson your child is even thinking about
signing up for. Single people: Thank you very much for coming. Now
bugger off."
In a way, I understand. For a long time,
single women were dismissed as an insignificant voting force. Marriage
always seemed the primary factor where voting was concerned. But with
marriages crumbling apace and people choosing the lazy common-law
version of commitment, we singletons are gaining moral ground. Growing
in numbers, we represent an untapped well of support and are turning out
to vote more and more with each election.
Ms. Clinton, ever prescient, has recognized
this. She has been holding events throughout her presidential campaign
for "women on their own." Her campaign slogan is the estrogen-tainted
"Let the conversation begin." And she has played up to women by making
"jokes" about her husband's infidelities. These are all politically
savvy moves, since SAFs tend to be less trusting, apparently, than other
voters. Likely why we don't run around gullibly saying, "I do."
Stephen Harper should take heed, especially
since the received wisdom insists he has trouble with female voters.
There are simple ways in which he could appeal to Canada's SAFs. Like
Ms. Clinton, the Prime Minister could share experiences with which women
would instantly empathize. I have it on excellent authority that when
Mr. Harper was president of the National Citizens' Coalition, his
nickname around the office was "F.B.," short for "Fat Boy." What
resonates more with women than body-image issues and the cattiness of
peers? A heartfelt television interview about self-esteem and weight
would be wise.
There is also the cat-lover angle. Yes, he has
played that one up a bit, by posting on his official web page pictures
of adorable kittens romping on his desk, as he looks on benignly. But I
suggest we go back to the federal budget, and take things further. What
about a tax break for women with huge feline medical expenses? In the
past year alone, my cat has cost me more than the national debt of
Brazil in vet visits, insulin, syringes, special diabetic cat food,
kitty litter and professional carpet-cleaning. I'm certain I'm not the
only woman in this position. Or what about $100 a month to every SAF to
spend on whatever she pleases? Just 'cause! What about a tax break for
our extracurricular activities? If the Prime Minister is not going to be
a fiscal conservative, he should at least hand the goodies out evenly.
Finally, what about a federally funded dating
agency so we don't have to be SAFs forever? It would be in Mr. Harper's
best interests to see us all married off. After all, once we've become
security moms, he'll have our votes sewn up, and then some.
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Righthinker
July 4, 2007
Reality versus "Sicko" |
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Righthinker
June 16, 2007
Women with "Needs" |
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Toronto Star
May 31, 2007
What Would I do without
Facebook?
It's a good thing I am not a Conservative
ministerial exempt staffer because I would no longer be permitted to
engage – even on my own dime – in my cherished waste of time: Facebook.
Last week, blogger Stephen Taylor reported that the popular site was now
off limits to certain federal Tory staffers.
An overreaction on the PMO's part and a shame
for those who will have to close down their accounts. Facebook is sickly
addictive, fun and offers cyber-proof of Frank Zappa's statement, "Life
is like high school with money."
Once signed in, you are treated to the news
that, for example, seven of your "friends" have been invited to some
event to which you have not been invited. As that news sticks in your
craw, you can check out how many friends others have, compared to you.
You can be the needy kid who begs everyone to be their friend. Or you
can be superior and only be friends with those who come calling.
There is also that most high school of things:
peer pressure. I was recently invited to "support our troops" by buying
a doughnut or something at Tim Hortons. I have no clue how (or whether)
it works, but I also know that if I had said no, there would have been
an announcement on Facebook saying, "Rondi Adamson will not be
supporting our troops." So I'll be at Tim's, shelling out for some vile,
greasy concoction. (Didn't I tell you Facebook was fun?)
Facebook has been banned at Queen's Park, but
that decision was made because staff were less productive with access to
Facebook. On their home computers they may still do as they please. The
reasoning behind the more draconian Tory dictate seems to be that
ministerial staff could reveal embarrassing things about themselves on
Facebook that reporters also on Facebook could subsequently reveal
elsewhere.
Controlling the message is an important part
of any politician's success and Stephen Harper has shown himself to be
an adept controller. But surely the Facebook decision is
counterintuitive. If your staff is so moronic as to list "bondage" as a
preferred activity, or to post pictures of themselves on a recent trip
to a developing country buying shoes at a sweatshop full of
undernourished children, then may I suggest you hire new staff?
For Facebook is also a useful way to create
professional networks. You can toady with the best of them – and I mean
"toady" in the best possible sense. I recently befriended Mark Warner,
the (doomed) future Tory candidate in my federal Toronto riding. Yes, I
will likely vote for him, as will three other people. I notice he lists
Sex and the City as a favourite TV show. If he wants to win votes
in my neighbourhood, he ought to change that to Kink or Weeds.
Stephen Harper and Stéphane Dion have pages
where you can "support" them – but you cannot be their friend. The same
is true of several cabinet ministers. You can further suck up by leaving
a fulsome message on your favourite politician's "wall." And even in
these small gestures, high school looms. When last I checked, our
terrifically handsome Industry Minister Maxime Bernier had more
supporters than Stockwell Day, Jason Kenney and Monte Solberg combined.
The good-looking kids always do better.
Mind you, I imagine those gentlemen have sweet
little to do with maintaining their profiles. They are probably tended
by some pitiful staffer who is now no longer allowed their own Facebook
page.
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Calgary Herald
May 23, 2007
Mingling with Desperate
Conservatives
I attended the recent Civitas conference in
Halifax. Civitas is a gathering of Canadian conservatives — as its
literature suggests, a "society where ideas meet." I have other names
for it. "A parade of my failed romances," comes to mind, and so it
should follow, "Hell with a registration fee."
For while I enjoy the policy sessions and
guest speakers at the annual event (neither of which I am allowed to
write about), the personal aspect can be trying. Since there are so few
conservative females — one for every 32,000 men, approximately — it
makes it inevitable that at a conservative gathering, a girl will run
into an ex (or two), and maybe even her current flame. In short, it can
be rather like an unglamorous soap opera — Desperate Housewives without
gorgeous people.
And without female protagonists. I am often
asked why there are so few conservative females. I have several
theories, the most plausible of which are: 1) That the lack of
conservative women perpetuates itself. If you feel you are doomed, at
any gathering, to be emotionally assaulted by the presence of your exes,
with little support from your sisters-in-arms, you might choose to stay
home; and 2) The appalling display that passes for "style" at any
rightwing event, Canadian or international. I attended the Mont Pelerin
Society meeting in Guatemala last November, and it was no different,
despite the participation of French women. And I'm talking about real
French women. Not their French-Canadian cousins.
With few exceptions (at Civitas they included
a Calgary woman, to my astonishment, and a quite clever girl from
Winnipeg), most women at conservative events have what I call the "Stepford
political candidate" look. It's a suit with a knee-length skirt or
pants, designer scarf, designer purse, and a shoulderlength, blunt
haircut. It's the look that screams out, "I am possessed of
soul-crushing political ambition and have never had an original thought
in my life." Variations on the Stepford candidate include the somewhat
frumpier "think-tank lady," "policy nerd," or "faux 'I wrote a book so
you must take me seriously' intellectual." For these women, dressing in
any way that indicates you have an iota of creativity, or breasts, is
verboten. (In some cases, that is a blessing. There are some whose
"creativity" and flesh are best left hidden.)
It was a Stepford candidate who rushed towards
me the first day in Halifax, gleefully announcing that an ex of mine
would be speaking. I considered attending his speech, sitting in the
front row, glaring and asking pointed questions about "character." Or
else convincing everyone not to attend, by spreading a rumour that he
breathes anthrax.
I decided instead to go sightseeing. But a
couple of hours before I planned to go stare at the tombs of Titanic
passengers, I bumped right into my ex. And it was fun, easy and not even
remotely icky. Surprisingly so, because I had previously felt such
passion for him. I introduced him to a friend of mine, who was
dumbfounded, as my short, greying ex's appearance is so apparently
contradictory to my descriptions of him as a sex god.
The joy of re-establishing contact with
someone I so enjoy had an unfortunate consequence. It filled me with
hope. Flush with optimism, I told my current beau that I loved him. His
reply? "I think you have psychological problems." While I was hoping for
the more traditional, "I love you, too," it occurred to me that this man
— though not known for his poetic nature — was speaking in metaphor.
Canadian conservatives have suffered enormous emotional trauma. Our
parents — whom we dearly love — broke up, rancorously, in the early
1990s. They got back together a few years ago, but their marriage is
unstable. We feel guilt, because we know they are only staying together
"for the children."
This has resulted in collective instability,
sibling rivalry and bad fashion choices.
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Righthinker
May 16, 2007
State-sponsored Busybodies |
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Jerusalem Post
May 4, 2007
Fakejewess@hotmail.com
I am certain I'm not the first shiksa to join
JDate and pretend to be Jewish, but I believe my story is unique.
It started more than two years ago, when
the friendship I had developed with a Jewish colleague (a.k.a.
Jewish Guy) began to blossom... mostly over e-mail, as we lived in
different cities.
E-mails between us proliferated,
becoming flirtatious. He even wrote a poem for me. He began
calling and we talked freely, conversations filled with
laughter, for hours each week. Occasionally, he visited my city,
Toronto, and we would see each other. The sparks were flying,
but never acknowledged.
My best friend (a.k.a. Best
Friend) warned me that my brain cells were leaking - a code
we have. It means, "You're falling stupidly in love." Soon
after, Jewish Guy and I were part of a media trip to Israel,
where the sparks finally went boom.
In Jerusalem, under the shadow
of Montefiore's windmill, he held my hand for the first
time, ostensibly to help me up a flight of stairs. He
pronounced the experience "delicious." In the Church of
the Holy Sepulchre, as we leaned against a column and
our hands touched, he quoted Shakespeare: "O, then, dear
saint, let lips do what hands do." Oh swoon. He was
Romeo. Or maybe he was Paul Newman in Exodus, and I was
Eva Marie Saint. To me, he was as handsome as Ari Ben
Canaan.
In Haifa, in a grubby
hotel room, we - finally - spoke our hearts, and
made love for the first time. In a kibbutz close to
the Lebanese border, he told me he thought he should
be married, and asked if I would ever convert. It
was hypothetical, I knew, but I was excited. "Yes,"
I answered. Oy vey, yes! He asked my age. I told him
(five years older than him).
In a Druse village on
the Golan Heights, he promised he would always
be my friend, no matter the future, making me
promise the same. I had fallen hopelessly,
fecklessly in love. My brain had cracked wide
open - every last cell leaking into the Dead
Sea, where he and I floated and talked in the 43
heat.
After the trip,
the relationship continued. Business brought
him to Toronto, and we kept up frequent
contact. But he began to show the familiar
signs of "male pushing female away" -
ultimately being more direct. "I do not want
to pursue a relationship in Toronto," he
announced.
We had an
awful fight. We said awful things.
I cried every day for weeks, until he called. He sounded meek, not the blustering, brainy jokester I knew. "I miss you," he said. "Me too." We agreed to be friends. And with some prescience, I made him swear he would be the one to tell me when and if he got married.
Being
"just friends" was rough. He
scrutinized me for flaws, determined
to find them. (I sometimes made this
very easy for him.) "You and I are
not viable," he wrote tersely. Soon,
we were no longer talking.
Selfishly, I could only think of
how achingly I missed him. He
had once told me that he used
JDate to meet women. I began
checking the site to see if any
profile rang a bell. It wasn't
long before I recognized him.
Oh, he had fudged some facts,
but I would know him anywhere,
my Jewish Guy.
I
had to talk to him. But I
was afraid, as "not viable"
me. So I created a JDate
profile. I was unprepared
for the questions about
one's practice of Judaism,
so I enlisted the help of my
friend Amanda (a.k.a. The
Real Amanda), a Jewish woman
I had been close friends
with since university. We
giggled as we drank wine and
made my profile - starting
with my name.
Amannda. We added an
extra "n" because I
wanted her to have a
funny name she had to
spell for everyone,
since I have a funny
name I have to spell for
everyone. "How often do
I go to temple?"
I asked the Real
Amanda. "On some
Shabbats," she said.
"But Jewish Guy only
goes on the High
Holy Days," I
pointed out. "Yes,
but you want to be
slightly more noble
than he is," she
said. "Do I keep
kosher?" I asked.
"You try," she said.
And so on.
I (or rather
Amannda)
approached
Jewish Guy
first. He
responded
quickly. Had I
had any doubt
about his real
identity, it was
gone. My heart
raced, as the
cozy banter
began... again.
It was like
old times. I
could tell
him
everything,
and he would
respond with
warmth and
interest,
sharing
similar
experiences.
I was
happier than
I had been
in months.
Best Friend
thought I
should "mess
with him."
No, I said.
I just want
our
friendship
back. "You,"
she sighed,
"are a sap!"
I felt
guilty
for
deceiving
him.
Best
Friend
pointed
out that
he was
probably
meeting
other
women on
JDate,
not a
thought
I
relished.
(For my
part, I
ignored
the
dozens
of other
eligible
Jews who
contacted
Amannda.)
As
Amannda,
I made
no
attempt
to dumb
myself
down, or
change
my
writing
style.
Yet he
didn't
recognize
me.
George
Orwell
said
that
seeing
what is
under
your own
nose
needs a
constant
struggle.
At
one
point
I
realized
that
the
first
anniversary
of
our
having
been
intimate
had
passed,
and
had
been
marked
- to
the
day
- by
Hizbullah
firing
the
first
rocket
of
the
summer
of
2006
on
Haifa,
the
city
where
it
happened.
Fitting?
I
hoped
not.
Eventually, Jewish Guy suggested he and Amannda exchange photos. I panicked, and considered having Amannda move to Ghana to help orphans. But the Real Amanda insisted I send him a picture of her cousin, who looked rather like Amannda. Then, one late summer morning, I received a message from Jewish Guy, telling Amannda he would be in Toronto. He invited her to dinner and a movie. I had twisted myself into an absurd pretzel - I was jealous of myself.
It was the stuff of chick flicks. Again, I considered having Amannda disappear. I talked it over with Best Friend. "If this were a chick flick," I said, "I could say yes, and go, and he would have an epiphany and realize he loved me." We laughed so hard we cried as we cast our chick flick, starring romantic leads Reese Witherspoon as me (Best Friend was being kind), and Liev Schreiber as Jewish Guy.
But life is not a chick flick. Something had to give. So I e-mailed him as Amannda, telling him I was not available that week. Then I bit the bullet. I e-mailed him as me, simply saying hello. To my delight, he replied quickly. "Nice to hear from you," he wrote. I asked, boldly, if we could see each other when he was next in Toronto, hoping I would get the same invitation as Amannda. He suggested breakfast.
I went, with high hopes. But as life is not a chick flick, breakfast was only polite, tentative. He kept the focus on superficial matters, and his chubby cheeks turned beet red when I hugged him good-bye. He was far more at ease with Amannda. But without so much as a fare thee well, Amannda disappeared. I would never treat a man like that.
But still, I thank her. She gave me borrowed time with Jewish Guy, and the vertebrae to contact him.
After that, Jewish Guy and I shared another awkward breakfast, and a few e-mails. Then one recent morning, a mutual friend told me that she heard he was getting married. Hadn't he promised to tell me that? Crushed, I told myself: "We'll always have Haifa." I phoned him. He did not say whether he had met his fiancee on JDate. All he said was, "She fits my life."
Maybe Amannda could have fit his life. I guess I didn't. And that's fine. I never want someone to choose me because I "fit." I want him to choose me because he loves me, and will allow me to love him, even when neither of us fits.
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Righthinker
May 3, 2007
Wolfowitz Derangement Syndrome |
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Toronto Star
April 3, 2007
A
Small Victory for Treating Animals Humanely
I am a longtime vegetarian – no
meat, fowl, fish or seafood. So I am thrilled with Burger
King's recent decision to begin buying eggs and pork from
suppliers who do not confine their animals in crates and
cages. Burger King will also begin favouring suppliers who
use gas to knock chickens unconscious before slaughter. The
method, however gruesome, is more humane than the
commonly-used electric shocks.
These are small steps, but they
are taking the fast-food chain in the right direction.
The morality behind Burger King's
decision is not a hippie-dippie, leftist, anti-war, Wiccan
philosophy. It is, at its root, the same compassion and
wisdom that put an end to slavery, that questions the value
of the death penalty and that attempts to lessen cruelty
when and where possible.
There's nothing flaky about it,
and surely nothing inherently left-wing or right-wing about
it, either.
Animals do not have the
intelligence of humans, but they do have this in common with
us: They feel pain and fear, and they suffer. They do not, I
imagine, enjoy a tortured (literally) life, or a brutal,
painful death, any more than you or I would. And if, with
our superior reasoning, we are not able to see this and
understand why compassion should matter to us, then that
does not bode well for our collective future.
Many on the political right, and
many classical liberals, recognize this. Matthew Scully, a
former speechwriter in the Bush administration (and author
of Dominion, a book about – among other things –
the horrors of industrial farming); Clive Crook of the
Atlantic Monthly and National Journal;
journalist, blogger and Conservative Soul author
Andrew Sullivan; and John Mackey, the founder of the
enormously successful Whole Foods chain, are but four I
could name.
In November, I attended a
conference where Mackey was a keynote speaker. He identified
himself as a libertarian, a capitalist, a man who loves
profit and money-making, and he peppered his speech with
Adam Smith quotes. But he also talked about what he called
"conscious capitalism," a longer-range view of business
success that includes accommodating humane treatment of
animals.
It was clear from the expressions
on the faces of the people at my table, that they mostly
found this laughable.
It was clearer from the comments
and audience questions after his speech that much of what
Mackey said went over many heads. Initially, I was dismayed
by this, but his speech was the talk of the day, and his
passion made me hopeful.
One misconception people have
about this issue is that a corporation can either make a lot
of money and be heartless, or change its ways and lose out
financially.
But it is possible for a business
to make a moral decision, to be generous, and still
flourish. I hope Burger King will be an example of this. I
hope burger-lovers will abandon other chains until those
other chains make similar changes.
For now, yes, it certainly costs
more to buy humane products. I eat eggs, and I pay nearly
twice as much for a dozen free-run eggs than for the kind
that come from tortured hens. But that may not always be the
case in the future.
The more businesses, farmers and
consumers make moral decisions, the more competition there
will be to find reasonable alternatives. And, should
cruelty-free products remain more costly – well, so what.
Some things are worth the extra
expense, or a meatless supper.
Current industrial farming
practices are simply not defensible.
As a vegetarian, I have no desire
to take meat away from anyone, but I'd like consumers to
choose more wisely. And as a libertarian, I will be very
pleased indeed to see consumers help a free market right its
wrongs.
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Righthinker
April 24, 2007
Indignation,
Flagellation...Journalism? |
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Righthinker
March 20, 2007
Are Bush Cooties Really
the Problem? |
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Righthinker
February 8, 2007
Whew, We Didn’t Kill Him |
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