Remembering the Final Performance of the Lee Harvey Oswald Trio

Posted in Americana, Goddammed White People with tags , , , , , on November 24, 2013 by TheCanadian
Final Performance of the Lee Harvey Oswald Trio November 24, 1963 11:21AM CST

Final Performance
of the Lee Harvey Oswald Trio
November 24, 1963 11:21AM CST

As many of you are aware, today marks the fiftieth anniversary of the final performance of the Lee Harvey Oswald Trio. We’ve been coming up on this day for several days now, and the internet and television have both been full of reports, reflections, and adaptations of their story.

It’s important to remember, however, that while the accomplishments of Oswald and his band were many, their short time in the spotlight is what makes it possible to remember them so fondly, as being such a talented and gifted group. Perhaps, if not for the untimely death of their front man, we would have seen a band that lived long enough to have discussed the marital transgressions of the Oswald Trio and their drug addiction. We may have seen them fade away into irrelevance.

Like Billy Joel.

Those of us who love Billy Joel and admire the man for his gifts and his talents, those of us who would speak on his many accomplishments and contributions to music are thinking of Cold Spring Harbor, Piano Man, or maybe even Glass Houses. We’re far less likely to be talking about Storm Front or River of Dreams. We think of a young Billy Joel, clad in leather jacket and black jeans, not bald old drooling Billy Joel doing duets with other washed-up hasbeens like Phil Collins.

No, by virtue of their frontman’s tragic demise, we are able to focus instead on the meteoric rise to fame of Oswald, of his contributions to the world of his time, and his lasting effect on the USAmerican psyche. One might speculate that he would have become an irrelevance (like Billy Joel), or worse that he could have become a comic caricature of his former self, like Prince. Instead, we are left with a smaller body of work by which we judge him, and because his death came all too soon and in such a public and spectacular fashion, we will never examine closely enough his accomplishments to criticise them even when he may have fallen short.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to break out my turntable and some old vinyl memories of better days…


Happy Independence Day: Here’s Your Homework!

Posted in Americana, Essential Reading with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 4, 2013 by TheCanadian

First of all, a big ol’ happy Fourth of July to all of my USAmerican friends and family!

I’m really stoked and looking forward to my Fourth of July fireworks.

…which will be held on the fifth.

…because police are cheaper to hire when it’s not a stat holiday.


Anyway, I already addressed the idea of patriotism as bullshit on my Canada Day blog, and as this is sort of a continuation of that blog, I invite everyone who didn’t yet read that blog to do so now.

Go ahead.

Seriously.The rest of us will wait for you.


Okay, then.

So yeah: patriotism is bullshit, and you need to know stuff about your country other than what your flag looks like and how to vigorously wave one while maintaining a firm grip on your beer — or spliff, if you’re in Washington or Colorado, or if you have “glaucoma” in one of these 19 US jurisdictions. And the first thing that you need to know about the US is that you are not the greatest country on earth. Don’t believe me? Ask that guy from Dumb & Dumber:

It’s easy to be convinced of your greatness, though, when all you ever learn about the world is that your country is number one, even when it’s not. Your patriotism is then easily exploited to do terrible things to people, including your own citizenry. And some terrible shit has been done to the US by your government.

And no, I’m not talking about the non-scandals of Benghazi and the IRS targeting the Tea Party, I’m talking about the fact that since Nixon, politicians and the wealthy have slowly been turning the US into Pakistan.

I only wear this shirt ironically, but in a theocracy like the US everyone takes it at face value.

I only wear this shirt ironically,
but in a theocracy like the US
most people take it at face value.

But before we all jump up and start pointing fingers, there’s something that you need to understand: yes, the Republicans did this, and the Astroturf movement of the Tea Party are doing this, but Clinton did this too, and Obama’s doing it now. The fact is, Republican or Democrat, both parties are far more conservative than the majority of their membership thinks they are. This was confirmed for me recently when I ran into an old dude who identified himself as both a Tea Partier and as a Republican, and tried to claim that “Republicans aren’t against deregulation”, and in fact “are behind regulation for important things, like our health”. Though he knew that every Republican candidate who ran for the party’s presidential nomination for the 2012 election included dismantling the Environmental Protection Agency as a part of their platform, though he knew that his own state governor, a Republican, was deregulating open-pit mining, rolling back water safety standards, and allowing corporate donors to pave wetlands — though he knew all of this, he didn’t really understand it. Not any of it.

And Democrats aren’t (much) better. Looking at what President Obama has come up with as a solution for the healthcare crisis in the US, it’s hard to see it as anything other than the truly far cry it is from a public option. He still has the insurance companies running the show, healthcare costs are going to continue to run ridiculously high in the US, but he’ll manage to lower them a bit by stirring up a smidgen of competition. I’m not sure that this is the Hope that anyone was looking for when Obama ran in 2008, and yet when I look around me on teh interwebs, I see all kinds of progressives and liberals ready to defend this half-assed solution to a genuine problem. At least everyone in the US will be covered by some kind of healthcare, but still…

The cognitive dissonance of people backing both parties is pretty extraordinary, and this is why I’m not going to point fingers. Let’s all just acknowledge that shit’s fucked up and educate ourselves as to why that is.

There’s a lot to explain, and rather than try to take it all on by myself, I’m going to give the USAmericans some homework, just as I did for the Canadians three days ago. You have two books to read for your homework:

Your first read: it's about far more than food.

Your first read:
it’s about far more than food.

My brother cringes every time I mention Fast Food Nation, by Eric Schlosser, but that’s only because he thinks I’m going to go off on a rant about just how seriously shitty the “food” is at Taco “Just-add-Water-and-Heat” Bell. While the stuff that Taco Bell wraps in waxed paper (I’m sorry — “tortillas”) and throws at you through their drive through window is un-food at best, and while this book explains why that is so, its greater purpose is to offer an explanation as to why things are just so messed up in the US, and increasingly so in other western countries that follow the US franchise business model. The world of fast food is used merely as a microcosm through which the greater world and trends in business can be viewed. franchises are essentially the new feudalism, with big business not making money from how many burgers (or widgets) they sell you, but from the leasing of real estate to the middlemen who manage the business at the front of the house.

Yes, Fast Food Nation explains just what is so terrible about the food at McDonald’s and Pizza Hut (at the same time as it explains why the food at Jack in the Box is slightly better for you, even though Jack in the Box is known for murdering children), but more than that it describes the systematic lobbying of the US government by big business to make it legal for them to pay you — you, not just pimply-faced kids in paper hats, but YOU — less than ever even as they absolve themselves of responsibility for worker health and welfare at all levels of the foodchain in all businesses, and pocket record profits as a direct result.

(And it is unrelenting in its condemnation of Republicans and Democrats both. Clinton does not escape his ties to Tyson Foods and his role in the emasculation of the USDA and FDA.)

Your second piece of reading, also for homework.

Your second piece of reading,
this one with real nice drawings.

Days of Destruction, Days of Revolt, by Chris Hedges and Joe Sacco, is decidedly more progressive in its slant than Fast Food Nation, I will admit. But in spite of its clear political allegiance (which is less to the Democratic party than it is to principles even more progressive), there is nothing in the book that is not accurate. Hedges is a Pulitzer-Prize-winning journalist, and the man does his research. While Fast Food Nation is much more academic in its approach, Days… is not afraid to tell a good story in the course of its well-researched journalism, with graphic novel segments by Sacco adding to its strong sense of narrative.

Days… is an examination of what happens to a country where there is no greater allegiance than to that of unfettered capitalism. It puts to the lie the popular line of Libertarians that if government just stepped away from things, the system would take care of itself. It reveals instead the trail of destruction left in the wake of privitisation and the pursuit of profit. I concede the point that many who’ve reviewed Days… have made, namely that the book seems to lose focus toward the end, and its last chapter on the Occupy movement is not its best. I also see that this is because Hedges seems incapable of finding and creating a meaningful narrative on which to scaffold his arguments as he so skillfully does throughout the other chapters.

Though possessed of a clear agenda, and while the book has its weaknesses, Days of Destruction, Days of Revolt is essential reading if one to understand just what is so utterly frightening about the world whose development Schlosser describes in Fast Food Nation. The time was that, in order to make revolutions and revolts less likely, high-level politicians would set up corporations or governmental agencies as the immediate face of all of their most exploitive and inhuman policies. In this way, if a native American was being done wrong by government policies, they would see that as the action of, say, the Indian Agent or the railroad, and they would appeal to the government for assistance and intervention. If they were to revolt at all, they would often take their frustrations out on these institutions, cutting telegraph wires, destroying tracks, or even killing their Indian Agent. Through skillful misdirection, government ensured that they could insulate themselves from attack, and even set themselves up as the good guy in the end.

Today, government at all levels, right up to the White House, has become the stalking horse for business. Corporations and the wealthy have turned the tables and now use the government in their sleight-of-hand to divert attention from their exploitive, self-serving agenda — and we rail against the government! — when in reality those in government are not the ones with the power nor with the agenda. It’s not they who call the shots.

And no amount of patriotism, no amount of cognitive dissonance, no flag will protect you from the truth.

Government cannot set your country right. No politician will do that. Only those with the will to become educated, to figure out why things are messed up and act upon what they learn can do that.

And they can only do that after they set down their flag.

…and their beer.

Or spliff.

…if you have “glaucoma”.

Canada Day & Independence Day Double Feature: Watching Last Night (1998) and Seeking a Friend for the End of the World (2012)

Posted in Americana, Canadiana, The Media Cart with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 2, 2013 by TheCanadian
Deja vu! We have been in this elevator before, no?

Deja vu!
We have been in this
elevator before, no?

So the other night, my wife sat me down in front of the TV. There was a movie she’d been wanting to see, and had saved it to watch with me. It was a Steve Carell movie, and I like him well enough, I suppose, so I was game. We sat down and started this up, but weren’t into it for more than about two minutes before a powerful feeling of deja vu overcame me.

Seeking a Friend for the End of the World, starring Steve Carell and Keira Knightley, bears more than a passing resemblance to the film Last Night — and no, not the Last Night with Keira Knightley, but the Last Night with Don McKellar and Sandra Oh. And I know it’s not an accidental similarity in the same way that I know that Garden State is not coincidentally like Beautiful Girls. But while that piece of shit Garden State is clearly a rip off of Beautiful Girls, I’d view Seeking a Friend as something more akin to an homage, or an “inspired by” kind of a thing as the two films embrace similar themes and ideas in their respective narratives.

Our previous elevator.

Our previous elevator.

Last Night examines how a handful of people spend their final hours before a cosmic anomaly ends the world. It seems that the earth is being drawn into the sun, and there it’s only a matter of time before we all die as a result. Naturally, everyone takes the news a little differently. Widower Patrick Wheeler (Don McKellar) is looking forward to committing suicide as the song “Guantanamera” plays, but not before he has a final dinner with his parents and chats with his friend Craig (Callum Keith Rennie) who spends his final days ticking off all of his fantasies from a list. Meanwile, Randy Bachman leads a group of amateur guitar players in “Takin’ Care of Business“.

Contrast this with Seeking a Friend for the End of the World. It’s less of an ensemble piece, focusing instead on the relationship between Steve Carell’s character, Dodge Petersen, and Penny, played by Keira Knightley. Dodge’s wife leaves him upon hearing the news that the Space Shuttle Deliverance has blown up in an attempt to save the world from an in-bound asteroid, and he finds himself on a roadtrip of sorts with Knightley’s Penny. While both films grapple with bigger issues each in their own way, Seeking a Friend concentrates more on overt comedy. Attempts to embrace any larger, philosophical and existential themes (such as William Petersen’s scene) are more subtle and are frequently used as plot devices and played for laughs.

Last Night is an independent, Canadian film (dare we say “art film”?) funded in part by a Canadian Arts Council grant, and written by Don McKellar in response to a friend’s challenge to write the best “millennial” movie. It was produced in 1998.

Seeking a Friend was written and directed by Lorene Scafaria, and was produced in the US in 2012.

Sitting as we are between the national holidays of two North American nations, with Canada Day now behind us and Independence Day coming up, I propose we sit down and enjoy a double bill that examines the Canadian and USAmerican takes on the end of the world. You may need to work a little harder to gain access to Last Night, but I have faith in your ability to be resourceful.

Happy Canada Day: Here’s Your Homework!

Posted in Canadiana, Essential Reading with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 1, 2013 by TheCanadian
What Canada looked like when your mom was still a teenager.

What Canada looked like
when your mom was still a teenager.

Well, it’s Canada Day.


And I’m not sure that I know what that’s supposed to mean.

When I was a kid, what Canada Day meant for me was going downtown for dinner for my best friend’s birthday (happy birthday, Kevin!) and then crowding in with everyone else around the rails at Canada Place for hours to catch about twelve minutes of fireworks. In spite of being crammed into the Skytrain like literati in a Gulag railcar afterwards, we had fun.

As an adult, Canada Day came to be the day I knew I would be free and clear of having to mark essays, enter grades, create assignments, and otherwise be helpful and available to a group of confused young people for the next eight weeks. It also marked the day that I could begin my roadtrip to come and be with friends and family in Wisconsin, if I hadn’t already managed to start out a day or two earlier. There were at least seven Canada Days I spent sitting and staring at the US in the lineup for the Blaine border crossing, if I wasn’t already in the US and barrelling down I-90.

In other nations, their “national birthday” is often celebrated with a great deal of flag-waving and consumption of ethnic or culturally-significant food. Fireworks are always a big thing. And we have all of that in Canada, too, but I suppose that none of that was ever particularly moving for me. I more or less subscribed to the artist Banksy’s point of view, that “people who enjoy waving flags don’t deserve to have one”. Patriotism and jingoism have never been easy concepts for me to separate, and frankly I always thought that being proud of the country where one was born was a little odd since one really had no choice in the matter. Our birthplace is actually quite arbitrary, really, and patriotism has always seemed to me akin to racism: there’s only a small difference between someone proud of being born in Canada, celebrating how great Canada is, and someone proud of being born white, celebrating how awesome white people are. In both cases, the implication is that somehow a completely random aspect of your birth made you necessarily better than other people. Me, I was always most proud of my accomplishments, the difficult shit in life that I couldn’t do or hadn’t done, and then managed to achieve after a period of trial and failure; I just somehow managed to derive more meaning from that than having been born with ten fingers or brown hair or something similarly utterly beyond my control.

What’s more is that I still remember calendars where July 1 was marked “Dominion Day”, and I knew people who flew Union Jacks and Red Ensigns on the first, harkening back to our days when Canadians were proud to have been born in a former British Colony. Is it really so easy in 1981 to be  proud and patriotic for being limited British Subjects and then turn around in 1982 and be proud that we’re no longer British Subjects? What is Patriotism™ worth if we can trade it in for New and Improved Patriotism® (Same Great Taste! Brand New Flag!) at the pirouette of a Prime Minister?

So yeah, I was never really down with the whole patriotism/Canada Day/be-proud-of-this-arbitrary-accident-of-geography-in-which-your-parents-met-and-procreated thing.

Though I can see how it would be very different for someone who chose to live in Canada.

Inevitably, someone will read this, make it all the way through that, and then give me the oh-so-very-clever response, “Well, if you don’t like it, leave!” To which I could reply, “Well, I did leave, thank you. I’ve been a US resident now for fifteen weeks.”

That said, I didn’t leave because I don’t love Canada, I just happen to love my wife more (and with her daughter and grandson here, she wasn’t going to be leaving the US any time soon). There are all kinds of things to love about those 10-million square kilometres of dirt, water, rock, trees, and rapidly-thawing polar ice and tundra, and all sorts of things I love about the 33.5-million people who live there. But I am still irritated by people’s patriotism, not only because of the very absurdity of national pride, but because of how wrong so many people are in the basis of their pride.

For example, I want to slap the living shit out of anyone who talks about Tim Hortons as a Canadian institution. Or at least I would like to congratulate them on their lack of sophistication and their gullibility for believing the very line of BS sold to them by USAmericans. Not until 1995 when Tim Hortons was acquired by the US company Wendy’s International, Inc., did ads for the doughnut franchise begin to claim that this particular doughnut shop was ingrained in the Canadian psyche. When I was a kid growing up, there was nothing particularly Canadian about Tom Hortons, no more so than there was about Nuffy’s Doughnuts, Robin’s Doughnuts, or Dunkin’ Donuts (whose poor spelling very clearly identified it as a US company). The only real association between being Canadian and any doughnuts at all was the faux Canadianisms in SCTV‘s Bob and Doug McKenzie skits. The irony here is that in responding to a CBC directive to include more Canadian content in the show, actors Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas created characters who embodied the US stereotypes of Canadians at the time.

Between SCTV‘s tongue-in-cheek portrayal of the Canadian identity and a well-orchestrated marketing ploy by a US corporation, Canadians in large numbers buy into an identity created for them by USAmericans — a cultural tradition that goes back to Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and beyond. The result is that many Canadians define themselves not by what is essentially Canadian but by what others think is essentially Canadian. Ironically, many of us do this in the same breath as we argue that we are not like the stereotypes others hold, and that we are not like those we associate with politically or economically. It was not uncommon prior to World War II for Canadians to define themselves by arguing how they were different from the British, nor was it uncommon after the war for Canadians to define themselves by their differences from USAmericans. Saying what you are not, however, doesn’t go very far toward saying what you are.

And I don’t think many Canadians know what they are.

This book will demolish your paradigms.

This book will demolish
your paradigms, and you’ll laugh.

If you’re a Canadian who thinks you know what you are, I’m going to suggest you read a little of humourist and satirist Will Ferguson. In his book Why I Hate Canadians, Ferguson takes on the preconceived ideas that we Canadians have about our nation, revealing many of them for the half-truths and nonsense that they are. He takes on the idea of Canadians as Peacekeepers, and illustrates our reputation for UN endeavours as greatly exaggerated, that the role we adopted (under Prime Ministers William Lyon Mackenzie King and Louis St. Laurent, and under the influence of Lester B. Pearson as Secretary of State for External Affairs) in the post-World War II era has only gone into decline since the 1970’s, in spite of highly-publicised involvement in the former Yugoslavia and Rwanda. We claim pride in a system of universal healthcare, but it is rapidly being dismantled by successive waves of conservative economic decisions and mismanagement (made by political parties both right- and left-leaning), and we just go on blissfully unaware of the eradication of this.

Ferguson’s book is a good read. It’s funny, and it gives a lesson in history as well as something to laugh about. More importantly, however, I feel that Why I Hate Canadians sets us up for a discussion about many of the more significant and dangerous ways in which we do not fit our own paradigms. For example, Canadians like to think we’re more environmentally conscious than other nations, and yet our (currently) strong dollar is based greatly on the exploitation of some of the dirtiest, most heinous oil resources in the world, requiring the destruction of millions of hectares of wilderness and the poisoning of First Nations people. We argue that we are a progressive, democratic nation, and yet we have not been spared the conservative (and dare I say neo-Fascist) wave that swept much of the world in the past decade.

The fact is that Canada really is something amazing — and can even be much cooler than many of us realise. And it has little to do with calling a couch a chesterfield or having a football field in the CFL that’s fifty yards longer and twelve yards wider than an NFL field. It’s because of things far more powerful and far more significant.

This book will help you to create a new paradigm, and you'll be educated.

This book will help you to create
a new paradigm,
and you’ll be educated.

In his book A Fair Country: Telling Truths About Canada, John Ralston Saul in part argues that Canada misses opportunities to exploit what truly makes us and our country unique. In Saul’s view, Canada is fundamentally “A Métis Civilization” — that is, it is a nation that is neither European nor Native North American, but rather a unique society shaped by the interaction of the European peoples who came to Canada over the last four- to five-hundred years with the Aboriginal peoples of North America who have been here for thousands upon thousands of years. This idea is nothing new to those who are familiar with syncretism who understand that whenever two cultures meet, both cultures are changed by the experience, and to those familiar with dialectics who know that the collision of opposing forces creates something heretofore unknown in either one of those forces; however, as it relates to understanding Canada and the Canadian identity, Saul’s ideas are quite novel.

The argument goes that because the Europeans did not take on a role of self-conscious extermination of the Aboriginal peoples in the way that other American nations did, and because the very economic enterprise that was at the heart of English involvement in the “new world” necessitated the participation of First Nations people, Europeans had to adapt to native ways and even adopt many native methods of interaction. While warfare was hardly unknown to native North Americans, greater emphasis was placed upon negotiation and upon mutual respect of land and resource use. Europeans would use the monolithic nation state as the primary unit of interaction, while for the First Nations people it was family that filled this role.

The result is that Canada more so than other nations (Saul argues) has a better understanding of the rights of the individual as they relate to the needs of the collective, that we are more able to see multiple perspectives on issues, and that we are better able to live in harmony with people who are different from us. The very groundwork for the multiculturalism that lies at the heart of Canadian identity (as opposed to the desire for a melting pot) was laid long before Trudeau, residing with the native North American tradition of sharing land and resources among different people whenever possible. Saul’s book gives us a new model for being Canadian and is in fact a more accurate paradigm than any of the trivial ones we bandy about now.

Blind patriotism is no substitute for a willingness to challenge our beliefs, to learn our history, and to embrace the cosmic accident of our birthplace in a meaningful way.

This is not a eulogy for Karl Schulz

Posted in Self-Obsession with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on June 18, 2013 by TheCanadian
In the days before the boy started to neglect his Ojii.

The days before the boy started to neglect his Ojii.

This is not a eulogy for Karl Schulz, but I wish it were.

Karl was my wife’s neighbour for the last twenty years, and though I’ve only been married for two years and living in Wisconsin for even less time than that, I first met Karl eight years ago and saw him nearly every day I was in Oshkosh. Every day, I saw him in his yard, feeding birds. Every day, I saw him on his riding mower, smoking a cigarette. Every day, I saw him, standing at the side of the highway, collecting his mail, the hazards on his little red truck flicking on and off. I saw him every day, sometimes as many as a hundred days a year, and yet I had only spoken to the man three times. His wife Pat I spoke to those same three times, plus two others – once just to say hello as I passed her in the front driveway and the second at her husband’s funeral. And yet I thought that Karl was an extraordinary man, and every day I’ve been here in Oshkosh, I’ve looked out my wife’s dining room window at Karl and Pat’s, and wondered what they were up to and if they would mind some company just dropping by. But I never dropped by.

Karl was born in 1928 and lived in Oshkosh during the Great Depression. He told stories of that time, and how he managed to survive with so very little. His endeavours in an attempt to help provide for his family involved no small amount of ingenuity and even a little theft, stealing chickens and keeping them a few days to lay eggs, and then eating the eggs before eating the chickens. I know this about Karl not because he told me, but because of things I learned second-hand from him telling my wife. From my own few conversations with him, I know only that Karl was an avid hunter and enjoyed fishing. I know he and his brothers built several houses on the north side of town, and I know that he wrote poetry less skillfully than Roberts Frost and Service, but no less passionately devoted to rhythm, humour, and natural beauty. And I know that in spite of all of the photos at his memorial, pictures of hollowed-out deer and strings of lifeless ducks and cold, still fish piled in pails, Karl loved all animals, evident in the dog biscuits he kept in his garage for his neighbour’s black lab, and evident in his delighted eyes as I pointed out that the squirrel running back and forth between hidden cache and garage door was taking the dog biscuits – an act of survival involving no small amount of ingenuity and even a little theft.

I know these things, but what strikes me most is how little I know of my late neighbour at all, and how much I always wanted to know more. This is not a eulogy for Karl Schulz, but I wish it were. I didn’t know him well enough to eulogise him. I’d only spoken to the man three times.

We didn’t even know Karl had died until a week after the fact. An old fellow with an oxygen tank on a scooter had to tell me this news, by the by, as we stood making random conversation on the roadside the way two strangers do.

But didn’t I just see Karl out mowing his lawn yesterday? I see him every day.

At the funeral, we stood in a long line of family, friends, neighbours, all waiting to share words and an embrace with Pat, a woman no less extraordinary than her husband of sixty-three years. Nephews and cousins, old friends and new, we all stood waiting to offer what we hoped would be comfort and affection in a new dawn of absence – and by “we” I mean “they”. My wife gave Pat a hug and tried to express what Karl meant to her, and Pat held my hand as she told Kelley just how Karl had adored her and loved our garden. But all I could do was stare, hand held, red-eye dumb back at Pat, knowing what a horrible tumour loneliness is to have growing in your stomach.

You see, my other problem was that my grandson no longer loved me. And this shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose, since he’s only a year plus a season. And really, what does anyone love at that age? He loves grapes today, though yesterday it was raspberries, and he loves books by Eric Carle. He loves watching Monsters Inc., though yesterday it was ballet, and he loves oatmeal cookies made by my wife. He loves ducks and bathtime and climbing all over and to the top of anything he can get near. He loves his mom and his Mia, and I think he liked me for a while once, but I have become for him a nuisance or irrelevance at best. Once, he would pull books from the shelf and crawl with them into my lap so that I could read to him, and he would take me by the fingers and lead me to the bathroom where we could sit together and I could make his yellow rubber duck “zoom!” across the linoleum tile to his perpetual delight. But now, books are pulled from my hand when I try to read to him, and he goes in search of someone – anyone – other than his Ojii to read to him. And he seems to have no memory of the security I once offered and the patience I shared, leading him through the house and up and down stairs before he ever had the balance to do it himself and when no one else would indulge him.

And this shouldn’t surprise me. Babies are pure Id and all he knows is what makes him happy. And so I spend a lot of time in delight and sadness as he walks away from me in search of more pleasant adults to honour with his attention and good humour. He breaks my heart when anyone else gets to read him Dragons Love Tacos twelve times in a row, even as I laugh at how excitedly he points to the dog hiding beneath the tablecloth as the dragons with tummy troubles incinerate the house. “GOU!” he proclaims excitedly, his word for “dog”, jabbing the page with a tiny finger.

It’s difficult to be too upset about all of this, not just because he’s such a bright and charming and wonderful little boy, but because in him I see something of myself, too preoccupied with my own needs, too selfish and self-obsessed to see what I’m doing or not doing to those around me.

My wife wasn’t wrong, telling Pat as she did that we’d not known about Karl’s passing, that we’d not been to see her since finding out because we have a sixteen-month-old baby living with us who requires so much of our attention – it’s a good excuse, and perhaps even part of the reason. But the truth is that we didn’t know and hadn’t been visiting because we hadn’t been visiting and so could not have known. Yes, we are trying to start a business, and yes, I am trying to find work, but even this day, the day of our neighbour’s funeral, we were making dinner for people we didn’t even really know, new business clients, when really we should have been doing something for Pat. Yes, there was the boy and he is a handful, but I had no shortage of time to obsess darkly about my unemployment and how much more profitable to my family my own death might be than my living was turning out to be. And even in looking after the boy, taking him for a walk every day, I passed my neighbours’ home, knew that they loved the little dude and found as much joy in him as I did, and yet not once did I stop in to say hello.

The boy has an excuse for his self-obsession, being far too young to have learned yet that king and kingdom are one. I have no excuse, for I know the health of the kingdom owes more to the well-being of its subjects than to that of its lord, and yet I forget daily, and I neglect my land, shut away as I am not in a tower but in a dungeon of my own creation.

This is not a eulogy for Karl Schulz, but I wish it were. If I could eulogise him, it would mean that I knew him, but really I know nothing. I know only that of all of the men I’ve met in Oshkosh, Karl was a king, seated at a round table of friends and family and love, appreciative of even the tiniest subject in his domain – so much so, not only would he not begrudge their small acts of theft, but he even found joy in their genius.

Karl always laid his birdseed out on a bare wooden bench for all the critters. While I shout and hiss to scare squirrels from birdseed I mistakenly imagine should be preserved only for the chickadees, while I ignore those who might be aching to be remembered, while I sit here still writing in a journal rather than going and holding someone’s hand as I should, knowing what a horrible tumour loneliness is to have growing in your stomach.

“You’re the Canadian…”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on February 17, 2008 by TheCanadian