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9/11 + 10

9/11 + 10




Inside Television 569
Publication Date: 9-9-11
By: Hubert O’Hearn

I was sent an interesting poetry anthology this week, as much an historical artifact as it is a piece of literature, although many of the poems are very, very good. It is a re-issue of the 2002 first edition and is called Poetry After 9/11: An Anthology of New York Poets. I’m sure you can deduce the content from the title. One poem in particular stood out when I was composing my thoughts for this column. This is an excerpt from Nikki Moustaki’s How to Write a Poem After September 11th:

Don’t compare the planes to birds. Please.
Don’t call the windows eyes. We know they saw it coming.
We know they didn’t blink. Don’t say they were sentinels.
Say: we hated them then we loved them then they were gone.
Say: we miss them. Say: there’s a gap. Then, say something
About love. It’s always good in a poem to mention love.

This weekend, you’ll be hearing all of that - the bad cliches both verbal and visual, the loss, the hate, and everyone trying to find the Meaning of All This. As for love? Well, we can hope.

One does wonder why ten years after is so much more significant an anniversary than six, or nine or fourteen. To be brutally honest with you in losing argument with human nature, I don’t think that the tenth anniversary memorial of 9/11 is at all healthy. Let’s look at the counter-arguments.

The first word people bring up is closure. ‘We build this new tower and do these events so we can have closure.’ Well, closure on what exactly? Will a somber ceremony and an undoubtedly well-delivered speech by Barack Obama shrink the day-to-day hole felt by families who to this day will open a drawer and find some thing - a note, a watch, a ticket to a baseball game - that reminds the survivors of the one who didn’t survive? Would that human emotions could be so easily flipped from grief to happiness.

It certainly won’t supply closure to the war in Afghanistan or the war in Iraq, to which by the way U.S. Defense Secretary Leon Panetta announced this week that troops would still be committed for the foreseeable future. That at least would mean that the mad rush to war triggered - quite literally - by 9/11 would be over. But that’s not going to happen.

For the defense contractor, this shadow war against terrorism is the perfect war. No capitol to be seized, no generalissimo to sign the treaty, and a supply of enemies that will exist as long as there are those who demand and those who refuse, those who need and those with greed, those who are mad and those who are mad and those who are mad. It will never end until all the Allies have gone home and the U.S. Treasury is bankrupt.

You won’t be hearing much of that this weekend, unless you seek out the few journalists like Keith Olbermann who don’t mind telling the truth. No, you’ll see the ceremonies and the ten year old video and people will say noble things without the slightest intent of performing noble actions.

Am I being too cynical? I think it’s impossible frankly. Last week, the Mayor of New York, Michael Bloomberg who I had thought of as one of the more progressive politicians in the U.S. announced that firefighters would not be able to attend the memorial service at Ground Zero. Not enough room. I see. Those guys who died ten years ago? They were heroes. You lot? Know your role and shut your mouth.

I’ll try and write you something happy next week. This week? No chance, in hell. Be seeing you.

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.