Jack Layton: Is he Dead?

Jack Layton: Is he Dead?

Inside Television 567
Publication date: 8-26-11
By: Hubert O’Hearn

This requires careful writing, certainly more careful than Christie Blatchford - whom I generally like - demonstrated in an excremental column in the National Post a few hours after Jack Layton died. Blatchford essentially sneered with up-lifted nose at all the public mourning for a ‘private man.’ Given that the man in question was a flamboyant career politician, I’m not quite sure where that private bit enters into the equation.

No, I have my criticisms, but neither rest with either the man nor the mourners, but rather the media. But give us a moment to properly set the scene. I first became aware of Layton when I lived in Toronto in the mid-80s. He was a properly radical city councillor in a city and a time that encouraged such things. It may be hard to remember, but Jack Layton first became prominent during the time David Crombie was Mayor. Among many radical accomplishments, Crombie and Layton pursued and achieved a limit on building heights in an attempt to prevent over-development in the downtown and preserve the city’s cultural and architectural heritage. Crombie actually ran for the Federal leadership of … the Tories. As I say, it can be hard to remember.

The other thing about Layton is that he was a sexy beast. Peter Mansbridge won’t tell you that, but I will. There are only three great mustaches in Canadian history: Louis Riel, Burton Cummings and Jack Layton. The art of being sexy is in not trying, and if Jack happened to put on a bicep gun show while riding his bicycle, well that was just coincidence. One of my best friends in Toronto had a massive crush on Jack. My friend happens to be a gay man. My sister had  a massive crush on Jack. She happens not to be a gay man.

When Layton ran for the federal NDP leadership, it was very much a toss-up between Jack and the equally honourable Bill Blaikie, a good and true MP from Winnipeg who was supported by Ed Broadbent among others. I thought at the time that if the NDP ever wanted to break through the mid-table as it were, hoping for minority Liberal governments they could influence, they needed to take a gamble. They did, and the lifelong councillor who had lost two - two! - campaigns for MP was suddenly the leader.

Most of that story you’ve heard on CBC, CTV and Global. You’ve seen the guitar-playin’, speech- makin’, cave-wavin’, beer-pullin’ son of a gun. But you haven’t heard the Why and that is my argument with the coverage. All three networks have used eithere xactly or closely this phrase: ‘He was liked and admired by all, regardless of your views of his political opinions.’ Which were what? That question is left barely answered.

I did  not hear the appropriately corporate elite pundits mention once that Layton advocated that the Alberta Tar Sands be immediately shut down - I concur. God knows his opinions on corporate tax policy and preventing the off-shore drift of capital have not seen the light of day since his death. They ignored his role in convincing Jean Chretien to stay the hell out of Iraq.

Incidentally, the comparable - as they say in the real estate trade - to Layton would appear to be Chretien, le petit gar from Shawinigan. Well, Chretien showed up in Ottawa in the mid-60s, an impoverished young lawyer who lived on an MP and Cabinet salary for 20 years (no great shakes in those days) yet when he quit the Liberals in a huff after losing the leadership to John Turner in 1984 he’s miraculously accumulated enough spare scratch to buy himself a chunk of a private golf course. I rather doubt if Olivia Chow, Jack’s widow, dines often in the member’s only room at a Layton-branded country club.

The point is - the mourning is pure, heartfelt and deserved. But if you cared about the man at all, when the body is buried on Saturday, don’t add an extra shovel of dirt for his ideas. Be seeing you.

Why I'm Going to Whup Kevin O'Leary's Ass

(The second greatest Irishmen’s fight in history was the one between John Wayne and Victor Mclaglen in the John Ford film The Quiet Man. They duke it out - sorry there are irresistible puns - across the countryside and village of Cong in County Mayo while taking time in mid-fight for a refreshing pint. That was the second greatest fight in Irish history. This is the first punch of the next greatest fight. I think it is best delivered in the form of an open letter.)

Dear Kevin O’Leary -

I, Hubert O’Hearn, minor journalist and rising essayist and book reviewer do hereby challenge you to a debate. Forgive me if I talk like a wrestler, but I want it to be you and me, one-on-one in handicap match. You can pick the venue, the moderator, the voting procedures, any way you want it brother, but it’s you and me in a Hell in the Cell match.

Why? Why do I want to verbally fight you, hurt you, mock you, outwit you, expose you to the world? One reason: You are the symbol and spokesman of everything that sucks about the 21st century.

I’ve been watching you on Newsworld every morning, with your shiny little head, your shiny little hotel suites and your stupid little grin but two things finally put me over the top into a land I frankly don’t like: the land I call I Hate Your Guts. The first was that commercial CBC put out for the Lang and O’Leary Exchange. You say in it, “Everybody loves to watch husbands and wives fight.” Really? Do they? Do their kids? Their parents? Their neighbours? Their friends? You know who likes to see people fight? People who don’t give a crap about other people. And then the closing shot is you standing over Amanda Lang like you’re Big Poppa Pump with your arms crossed and glaring out while poor Amanda couldn’t look more insipid if she took lessons. So what are you? The bone CBC has to throw to its rabid Tory masters?

And that got me to thinking about Dragon’s Den and Shark Tank, the American version of the show. I got to wondering - why do the producers let into the room these poor slobs who have a half-baked idea and ask for a million bucks for a 10% investment in a company that’s never sold anything? There’s not a chance in hell you’ll ever invest in them and that’s when I realized why they’re there - so you can look like cock of the walk and tell them you won’t invest in them. They’re a bunch of jobbers so you can pretend to be Hulk Hogan.

But worst of all is this inane tripe you spout off that billionaires like you deserve tax breaks because you can build an economy better than a government. I’m not going to respond to that now. That can wait until we’re in the Auditorium, the arena, hell the damn stadium and all of Facebook and YouTube if you want, but here’s a clue:

You and me will do battle, brother, with a winner takes all of all receipts to the charity of our choice. Know what mine is? Acquired Brain Injuries. Know why? Because godforsaken billionaires like you won’t pony up, and the little parliamentary piggies you control won’t order you up, I live in a chunk of Canada the size of France that has no neuro-psychologist. So in other words, the most beautiful, smart and witty woman you’ll never meet rots while waiting for some locum to do a videoconference in between his tee times.

That. Ends. Now.

Hey, Big Kev, I’m nuthin’. You think you can beat me in a competition of economic ideas, so prove it. You got more money than me, but I got more hair than you. For one night - one night brother - let’s do battle. And I know you’ll hear about this. You’re as vain as a bathroom full of beauty pageant contestants, so you’ll have some tool, some lackey, some Bob Cratchit doing nothing but looking for your name in the media. And if i don’t hear from you? I’m going to haunt you like Cassius Clay (sic) haunted and hunted Sonny Liston until Liston finally wanted to knock his head off.

Meet you in Lewiston. Brother.

Be seeing you.

Tammy Sytch, Mickie James...and Kenny Dalglish?

Inside Television 565
Publication Date: 8-12-11
By: Hubert O’Hearn

Well I just feel as primitive as a cuneiform stamping Babylonian. According to an article from something called ‘The Center for Sustainable Journalism’ - which I’m sure involves heat lamps and incubators, possibly eye-droppers plopping out shots of Canadian Club - the terms reporter and journalist are gone with the wind of Rhett Butler. Instead, those individuals identified by droopy eyelids and equally droopy underwear are to be termed (I kid you not) Headline Optimizers, Story Scientists, or Data Detectives.

Actually, didn’t Data play Sherlock Holmes in a couple of episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation? Yellow eyes and journos can be akin, although in the latter case it usually involves liver dysfunction. In any event, the article made me wonder, What the nouvelle vogue be for columnists? I’m torn between two: Ad Interruptor, or Inch-Eater.

The article was forwarded by our friend Bambi Weavil, who is the manager of several wrestlers and bodybuilders, including Tammy Lynn Sytch, aka Sunny from her WWE days. Tammy has been working on a cookbook to which I am periodically sending harrumphing messages to Bambi asking, ‘Is it done? I want to push this cookbook!’ Answer: still in the oven.

Kenny Dalglish...(What? It's NOT Kenny Dalglish?)
er...

MICKIE JAMES!

Another friend of mine, who should go nameless but instead I’ll call ‘George Lister’ for it is he, once wrote me, ‘I used to have the hugest respect for you until you said you were a wrestling fan.’ And I understand that. I used to feel that way too, until it dawned on me that wrestlers were the greatest actors of our, or any other, age. All actors are storytellers basically, but the wrestlers must tell a story, not with words or cut/retake/cut/print but with physicality that all too often involves muscle tears, broken bones, bruises always and a life in motels 250 nights a year. You want to talk commitment to your art or craft? Now that’s commitment!

This is also why I’m pleased to fill you in on the latest project of Mickie James, whom we wrote about in an earlier column. Mickie, a former WWE champion and currently the top babyface female wrestler in TNA Impact, is ready to release a new album of her own songs. Here’s the cool part: you can be the Executive Producer of this album. You? Yes you. The album (and Mickie is a  very, very good singer who I would love to see at our 2012 Blues Festival in Thunder Bay) is being partially funded by fans. Smart idea. $25 gets you a thank you in the liner notes …$2500 gets you a concert in your living room. You can find the details, and a smart, sexy and funny video at mickiejames.com

But all roads lead to Liverpool, which is a lurching transition but the best this Inch-Eater can do. Depending on the status of the UK riots, the Premier League in footie may or may not kick off this weekend, at the time of this writing. If and when it does, the title battle will likely boil down to a tilt between the Evil Mancs of Machester United or the Lovable Doofus Mancs of Manchester City. But...my heart is with Anfield where Kenny Dalglish returns for his first full season as manager of Liverpool since 1990. Dalglish, or King Kenny as he was known in his playing days, is everything a modern athlete should be and so rarely is: skilled, forceful, gracious in victory or defeat, but above all joyful. A grown man playing or managing a kids’ game should be unafraid to let the kid appear. With a classic Number 9 brute forward in Andy Carroll and the Copa Americana MVP Luis Suarez leading my Reds’ front line, we have hope. And do you know what the beauty of hope is?

You’ll Never Walk Alone. Be seeing you.

Rupert Murdoch: Sympathy for the Devil

Inside Television 564


Publication Date: 8-5-11

By: Hubert O’Hearn


Sympathy for the Devil: Rupert Murdoch Edition





I like people who make me think. The ones I know who make me think, I treasure. The ones I don’t know who make me think, I want to know. One of the very few regrets I have in what can be broadly termed my writing career is that the interview I had scheduled with Christopher Hitchens had to be canceled because Hitchens is battling esophageal cancer with all his might. Drinks and discussion will have to wait for until his recuperation. Now there’s motivation for both of us to battle onwards, and yes in his case I say that tongue in cheek.



The Hitch, as his great friend Martin Amis calls him, is one of the very few living idols I have left in journalism. There are lots of dead ones: Lincoln Steffens, I.F. Stone, Hunter Thompson, David Halberstam are numbered among them. Their value is not as a model to copy, but rather as metamorphic Scoutmasters who show you how to hold a (moral) compass. Through all the different styles those named had, they all came from a certain point of view, an ethic, and wrote to achieve a purpose. It’s why I understand Hitchens’ defence of the various Middle Eastern wars of the past decade; his attitude towards the eradication of the terrorist factions who hide behind Islam is precisely the same as his long-standing defence of the Kurdish and Palestinian peoples. I may not agree, but I at least can admire someone who takes a stand for a moral reason rather than a mere financial one.



Which leads to Rupert Murdoch. It was inevitable that I would at some point write about the man that the delicious British muckraking magazine Private Eye refers to as the Dirty Digger. I’ve just been waiting for the right angle. As it turns out, two angles formed a perfect vector.



The first was from Hitchens. In his on-line column for Slate he referred to his own timidity in writing a book review about Murdoch’s Sun newspaper. Murdoch also owned The Times and Hitchens badly wanted to write for The Times. What would the proprietor think if he was slammed in the review. So, The Hitch refrained from mentioning Murdoch until the last sentence where he wrote, ‘What does Rupert Murdoch want?’ There’s the first angle.



The second stemmed from, not an argument, but a string difference of opinion I had with one of those friends who makes me think. I’ve mentioned our dear friend the actress and writer Lydia Cornell before. Her reaction to the great hysteria over the U.S. debt crisis and the sheer foulness and negativity of current news coverage was that people should just stop watching the news. Having the finely tuned sense of humour of a Soviet-era border guard, I missed that Lydia was joking. So naturally I loudly disagreed, but the result was I did have my Eureka moment, although I refrained from rising naked from the bath and dashing through the streets. I have the answer to Hitchens’ question.



Rupert Murdoch has no political agenda. What? You protest? You shouldn’t. Why did Murdoch drop support of Labour in order to support the Thatcher Conservatives? He needed the government of the day to back him when he broke the back of the pressmen’s union in moving The Sun from Fleet Street to the non-unionized Wapping Road. Why did he do that? To make more money. Why did he continue to fawn and bribe various politicians? To get television licenses. Why did he do that? To make more money. Why did he allow his papers and ‘news’ networks to break laws and treat journalistic ethics like so much soiled tissue? To make more money.



But how did the latter make more money for him? Because he, Rupert Murdoch, understands our ugly side better than we choose to recognize it ourselves. Murdoch is like that strange light creature in the original Star Trek series that becomes stronger the more the Klingons argue with Captain Kirk. Murdoch feeds the anger, inspires the anger, probably worships the anger because...anger sells. He has replaced prize-fighting as the televised outlet for testosterone with people in blazers spouting invective on split-screen. This is why his appearance before the British House of Commons Select Committee was so...well, banal. There is no there there, as Gertrude Stein said of Oakland. There is just a tired old man who wants more coins in his purse. Were his methods not so foul, he could be pitied.



I am convinced of this conclusion. If people on the Left had the money and the naked love of consumer products as people on the Right; if advertisers wanted big Left audiences, Murdoch would turn Fox News into Pravda overnight.

Please allow me to introduce myself - I'm a man of wealth and taste

So why hate Rupert Murdoch? He only gave us what we asked for: a focus for our fear. Be seeing you.
 
 

A Few Words About Deaths

Inside Television 563
Publication date: 7-29-11
By: Hubert O’Hearn


If death is your thing, you’ve had an awfully good week. If you find that statement to be off-putting, it really shouldn’t. Perhaps not ironic in the strictest sense, but I was starting to put together notes for my proposed talk (I loathe the word lecture - it just prepares the audience to come prepared for being bored out of their skulls) on modern writing. This was at the same time as the news was filled in short order with the tragedy in Utoya Norway, the death of Any Winehouse and the true shock any sentient Canadian must have felt upon seeing Jack Layton at his press conference.

I had been thinking, ‘Now what is the favourite topic of people generally?’ And only slightly morbidly I was considering it was death. Oh? You disagree with me? Your mind leapt to sex, now didn’t it (you rogue you)? Well your mind may have but your tongue doesn’t necessarily follow - so to speak.

Consider: You can walk up at any usual time of day to anyone you have a reasonable acquaintance with, and say, ‘Did you hear Bill died?’ Presuming you’re not just making this up and Bill himself doesn’t come strolling down the hallway with an armful of files and a cheery whistle on his lips, the person to whom you addressed this comment will change course on whatever it was they were about to do or say and will immediately start discussing Bill, his loss to the world, and whatever should we all do to help out.

If you walk up to the same acquaintance and say, ‘Did you hear Bill had sex?’, you will be treated as the office freak. And rightfully so.

The news - both television and written forms - either shine or collapse in the face of death. This past week showed us both. As it happened to fall on the week of the late Marshall McLuhan’s one hundredth birthday, you couldn’t help but observe it closely. Let us also not kid ourselves: news loves death. Death makes people feel weak and sad. We don’t like feeling weak and sad so what can snap us out of it? Let’s throw to commercial and here’s Fabio selling Old Spice. I’ll feel better if I buy some cosmetic thing - aaaahhhhh. Death is money and not just in the insurance and mortuary businesses. I’ve never formally looked it up and a Google search would ruin an otherwise instinctive call, but I’d be willing to wager that four out of seven days a week that average North American paper has a death or an immenent one somehwre on its front page. In TV news, the line is: ‘If it bleeds, it leads.’

We had both the worst and the best of it this week. Regarding Norway, the treatment of the eventual investigation and the horrific days it must be for the Norwegian people has been respectful and sensitive. However, possibly the most sheer Orwellian moment of my life came in the immediate speculation that the slaughter was instigated and carried out by Muslim terrorists. According to Christopher Hitchens’ Slate column, there was even an Al-Qeda offshoot ready to rejoice. Of course, it turned out that the publicity-seeking lunatic gaily smiling at the cameras in fact hated and feared Muslims. He believed the hype. That revelation should have given a lot more people pause than what I suspect it has.

Regarding Amy Winehouse, the creepy crawly side of the coverage was the pundit pomposity in saying through wobbling cheeks and wattles that this death was ‘predictable and expected.’ If so, then what precisely did you do to prevent it? And one wonders how much the endless tumbleweed of paparazzi trailing Winehouse - one wonders if her phone was hacked - contributed to her stress, drug abuse and death.

With Jack Layton, Canadian media deserve a collective hug. I did not watch Sun - there are limits to the lengths I will go to for my readers’ enjoyment. I haven’t heard anything awful about Sun’s coverage of Layton’s visually evidenced terminal illness either, so I think they can even be included with the Big Three English networks in providing truly empathic and calm coverage. In fact, I haven’t heard anyone say what I just wrote: based on visual evidence, this fine and good Canadian politician is dying. I don’t blame the TV news for not stating that. Not at all. I hesitated writing it. Equally, there was no leadership hype. The possibilities for the future were mentioned on both CBC and CTV, but no one speculated as to when the pistol at the starting line might be fired.

What do we learn from all this? It so happened that Dana Fuchs, the great singer who I wrote about last week, sent out an email regarding Norway. She had spent four days there last summer in the company of a young girl Oda who had been scheduled to be at the Island. Circumstances prevented her from going and likely dying. Oda wrote this to Dana Fuchs: ‘This tragedy has taught me one thing. We'll never stop fighting for socialism, peace, and anti-racism.’

It was a most instructive week. Be seeing you.

Dana Fuchs: Dreams Come True

Inside Television 561
Publication Date: 7-15-11
By: Hubert O’Hearn


I seem to have lost my cynicism along with my old car keys, but I can’t say as I miss either one. The cynicism part is much more important. Recently, my faith in the redemptive powers of art and artists has not only been restored, it has been buffed and polished into a golden glow. What follows explains why.

Now, I can’t pretend to you that this is strictly a television column. It’s not. But television with all other art forms is composed of, simply, dreamers. You can say visionaries but that term always seems so grandiloquent and stuffy. No, dreamers fits just fine. Artists have a dream, an idea, they want to express and seek the appropriate medium.

Last thing before we get to the main event. I’ve famously said as recently as last week that everything on television is a work - pre-planned, managed, and presented to provoke a response. That can be expanded to all arts. But there is an important codicil. Even within a work it is possible to be utterly sincere.

Dana Fuchs (photo credit - Amanda Zawacki)

Dana Fuchs is sincerity with a mighty voice. She played at last week’s Thunder Bay Blues Festival and I flatly wrote that she is the best singer I have ever heard. If you’ve been reading my stuff for any time at all, you know that I don’t exaggerate or hyperbolize. However, when you think someone is the best at something, why hide your opinion just because someone else might have a contrary take on the subject? Dana Fuchs is my favourite, you can have yours, and let’s just all enjoy life together.

Along with my lovely and talented step-daughter Amanda, I spent an utterly fascinating hour or so in Dana’s trailer after her set and after absolutely every last autograph seeker had received both a signature and a personal Moment to remember. What had intrigued me, even more than her voice - which matches her wind-tossed curls in beauty and natural force - was how she connected with the audience as individuals. I’d seen this on stages before - acting stages mostly - and it is the great unteachable quality. It’s almost like a coded speech, but an open sourced code, where the artist and audience let each other know they care.

I asked her where that came from. The answer was simple and sincere. ‘I want the audience to feel what I’m feeling - shout and cry and laugh and stomp. That’s why I get down on my knees. I’m tall anyway and in these big shoes so I don’t want to be above them.’

She dedicates a song to her brother as well. He passed away before her eyes of a brain tumor. I wondered why she chose to re-live that night after night. ‘I want to share with them. Everyone out there’s had something - brain tumors or cancer or heart attacks. I just want to let them know it’s okay to express that.’ Dana Fuchs deals in love and joy and making each moment beautiful.

When she was cast in Across the Universe, she was white-hot. ‘I had every agent in Hollywood after me - every agent. They all said the same thing: “Stay in LA, stay in LA.” But I’d been singing since I was 5 (she is 35 now) so I didn’t know what to do. It was a really, really hard choice to make.’

And here’s the nut of it. By deciding based on love rather than just success and opportunity, Dana has received both. In November, when her current tour ends, she flies to Asheville, North Carolina to star in a studio feature. I don’t know if the description of her part and the movie’s plot was part of the interview or part of the conversation, so I’m going to err on the side of caution. Hollywood steals ideas with the regularity of the Artful Dodger lifting wallets. But I can tell you this - Dana is doing the music for the film and given the lack of musicals produced these days...here’s a prediction and you’ll have a year and a half to lay down your bets. You’ll be seeing Dana Fuchs on television. February, 2013, Best Song at the Oscars.

Be true to who you are. Act with love. Fill each moment with joy. And dreams do come true. Be seeing you.

Thunder Bay Blues Festival Awards Column

Thunder Bay Blues Festival Daily Report

Publication Date: 7-11-11

By: Hubert O'Hearn

And so by the time you read this, the 10th Annual Thunder Bay Blues Festival will packed and gone. At the time I write this, it actually isn't quite over - more in the 'where's the toothbrushes and did anyone water the plants?' stage. So if Sunday night's curtain closers Blue Rodeo play the most monstrously magnificent set in the history of live music and it's not mentioned here, so sorry. Yet instinct tells me that The Who playing See Me, Feel Me as the sun rose at Woodstock is probably safe for another year.

For as long as I've been filing these daily reports, I've always closed with my completely arbitrary and subjective Festival Awards. They come with no trophy or plaque; only warm feelings and a hand held open in expectation of bribery which has never arrived. There is always next year however. Onwards:

The Hardcore Award - To those several hundred plastic-wrapped souls who stuck it out Saturday from 11:30AM-7PM through a rain sheet that had animals gathering two by two. This Blues Award goes to those who found themselves blue-lipped in the cold.

The Shiny New Toy Award - There was really only one previously little-known band that made the crowd spark and rise, and that was Trampled Under Foot, who played as the rain ended Saturday. Nick, Kris and Danielle Schnebelen gave a kick of boisterous energy to a Festival that was calling for it.

The Tasty Num-num Award - I try and hit as many of the food vendors' booths as I can, proudly clogging arteries in the name of research. My favourite thing this year was the Fox on the Run's pulled pork sandwich gracefully oozing with a mustard grape sauce.

The Hooterville-on-the-Lake Award - Let's call this a tie. First mentioned is whomever the anonymous City Administration putz was that pulled the internet router out of Marina Park right before the Festival...when there just maybe might be a few hundred people wanting an internet signal. Also, Thunder Bay Transit for not running any departing buses after midnight. I'm sure downtown bars and restaurants might appreciate having another 500 or so patrons who shudder at the notion of $40 taxi rides back to the south side.

The Novelty Act Award - The Blues Brotherhood, who gave a note by note recreation of The Blues Brothers act made famous by John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd. Crack studio musicians, led by original Blues Brother Tom 'Bones' Malone and high energy singing made them a great addition to the Saturday evening performances that were the guts of this year's Festival.

The Prodigal Son Award - Thunder Bay born Tyler Yarema brought his swing blues band back home for Toronto and played a sharp and enjoyable set that enlivened what had been a sleepy Sunday afternoon. I've long advocated that a local act at least be given a 6PM time slot and the crowd reaction to Yarema provided all the needed evidence for that position.

The Show-Stopper Award - Dana Fuchs. Nobody was close...okay, Buddy Guy was close. But Dana, who also kindly stayed late into the night after signing every autograph seeker's album to give an interview you'll be seeing soon, is the best singer I have ever seen. She made an incredible, personal connection with every member of the audience. The one act I would actually travel to see. To use an old wrestling line, If she's not back - we riot.

Dana Fuchs - Another wrestling line:
The Best there is, the Best there was, the Best there will ever be

Line of the Year - Again from Dana Fuchs. 'This is such an incredible city and country. Canada Rocks. There was so much love being shared out there, but I hope that everyone keeps sharing the love all the time, not just when we're at a concert together.'

Be seeing you.