New dog in town

new dog in town

Back at the dawn of TV, on Sunday afternoons there was an NBC show called Wide Wide World.

Dave Garroway hosted this hour experiment, as they attempted to put up a live picture of Niagara Falls, a live street fair in Chicago, traffic moving across the Golden Gate Bridge.

Since this was all done with patchplugs, coaxial cables and transcontinental switches, it was about 20% static and 80% miracle. When things went wrong, Garroway turned to his closeup camera--while technicians scrambled--to explain how impossible it was to do such a show in the 1950s.

Like much in life, the long-ago show lives in memory as a childhood miracle, flickering images that beget videotape, satellites, high def.

At the end of each Wide Wide World, Garroway would recite the following benediction:

"The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide...
Above the earth is stretched the sky,
No higher than the heart is high."

He'd hold up two fingers and add: "Peace."

I think of the verse ever time I go kayaking....

happy canada day

Ready?

Where did I go?
Out.
What did I do?
Rafting in Costa Rica.

I have hundreds of photos...
. Lots of tree frogs in blue and red.
. Birds of every description.
. Perfect curves of nearly deserted Pacific beaches.
. Surf as sweet as Hawaii.
. Dozens of new beans and rice dishes.
. Friendly locals on the party bus that takes you up above Jaco and buries you in beer.
. Amiable Ticos and the world's best coffee.
. Moody volcanos and zip lines thru the trees.
. Crocs and holwer monkeys and spoonbills in the trees, as pink as a baby's butt.
. Magic landscapes as only nature can design them.
... but alas, no picture of the baby ant eater.
(It moved too fast for me to stop being slack-jawed.)

I still dream green.

But what haunts me still is the overnight raft trip down the Rio Pacuare.
One of the world's five last great wild rivers.

Beyond magic.
Beyond words.
Midnight: just stars, darkness and the whisper of water.
Yes, I had fun.
That is where I've been.
Happy Canada Day.

night lava, volcan arenal

Costa Rica pictures

rio pacuare

sunset up above jaco

sleeping capuchin monkeys

playa hermosa

rio pacuare

manuel antonio

chestnut-mandible toucan

happy crocs

Volcan Arenal at dawn

Costa Rica postscript

After conversing with Costa Rica's scarlet macaws, I returned to find a reader desperate for a copy of a performance piece originally written for Bruno Gerussi's seminal CBC Radio show in the 1970s.
Yes, this was just before Bruno became a TV beachcomber.
Seven Days appears in multiple anthologies and my own column collections.
Why not here?

(appears below)

Seven days

in the beginning,
man created the mudhole and the marsh
damming streams for viaducts
and routing waters for his own benefit
waters, white as crystal, rushed through trenches
trickled through makeshift reed piping
splashed clean into clay bowls
bubbling to do man's bidding

and it was the morning and the evening of the first day
and the seagulls were dying

on the second day, man created the slaughterhouse and the zoo
and the wild animals of the earth
which wandered at will across the planet
instead watched man from behind wire mesh
scruffy lions with sad faces
and elephants, their bottoms calloused from sitting on cement

and it was the morning and the evening of the second day
and the seagulls were dying

on the third day, the buffalo disappeared.
simply disappeared.
and across the pampas
safaris, $1195 per person, sought out exotic creatures
to mount in rec rooms or multiply in cages
and the ice floes ran red
jungle monkeys reeled in terror
antelope, gazelle, deer
stared back thru every rifle's sights

it was the morning and the evening of the third day
and the seagulls were dying

on the fourth day, man created the sewer and sump
and pumps to pipe sewer to sump and sump to sewer
at incredible cost
to nose and pocket.
and the pumps pumped
and the sumps drained
and the sewers flowed
into creeks and lakes
and every drop of sewage makes
an ocean spread across the world
the promised universal apocalypse

and it was the morning and the evening of the fourth day
and the seagulls were dying

on the fifth day, man crated and canned atomic wastes
and made up the word megaton
packing lethal wastes in rusty old drums and concrete caissons
cramming biological uglies into old train tank cars
that ran on undetermined schedules
across the landscape
somewhere, sunken tanks of arsenic are cloaked in barnacles
rust slowly in salt water
and now and then, on october afternoons
underground explosions occur
but smiling spokesman describe them as necessary and safe
as desert floors collapse and islands tremble.
the smiling spokesman swears
the san andreas fault
remains faultless

and it is the morning and the evening of the fifth day
and the seagulls are dying

on the sixth day, man created the additive
which differed in name, but never in purpose
and was gleefully installed in cereals and fertilizers
soft drinks and cookies
field and bug sprays
creams and cosmetics
it was added to everything man ate or drank
but scrubbed from smokestacks
and sewage
and lakes
and eventually,
even the additives had additives
and counter-antidotes to combat the counter-pollutants.
even the experts gave up explaining
exactly what the additives were to accomplish

and it was the morning and the evening of the sixth day
and the seagulls were dying

on the seventh day, there was quiet over all the earth
except for the lapping of waves
and the bubbling of storm drains
and the seagulls were dying
the plankton
the oceans
the atmosphere
the trees were dying

and man
rested

BlowHard

Taking a swipe at those who oppose wind turbines off the Scarborough Bluffs, Premier Dalton McGuinty is signalling he won't hesitate to foist "green" energy projects on communities across Ontario.

Wind Hustlers

So like the medicine shows of old, sky smoothies in suits tour rural Ontario, pitching hopefully rube councils the virtue of Catching The Invisible Wind.

After all, these friends of the Ontario government--and numbered companies who'd like to be buddies of the government--will be subsidized and tax-breaked up the yin-yang to erect 40-storey wind turbines all over the Algonquin boondocks. (Turbines sounds much better than windmills, dude. Very high tech.)

The wind catchers will operate when the wind blows--just 30% of the time--pissing a piddle of power into the grid now and then, but the when cannot be predicted. Or harnessed. Or stored. So the same coal/oil/nuke that currently fuels the grid will grind away 24/7 just like now. Duh.

Wind blows hardest when it knocks down trees or during ice storms when the power grid goes down. Will the blades spin in vain? Or not spin at all? What's wrong with this picture?

How often does the electric grid blink or fail in rural Ontario? There is a more consistent power supply in Ecuador.

Each wind-generated kilowatt hour will be purchased at a guaranteed McGuinty price that is three to five times the price of a kilowatt from existing sources. This surcharge will be passed along to Hydro One customers, like the Retiring Past Mistakes entry on each bill which repents the sins of the 1950s. We have new sins.

Nobody really knows what happens to a 400-foot high windmill in an Ontario ice storm. Can blades the size of jet planes hurl ice slabs? Does the whole structure go down, like a high tension hydro tower?

What happens to wildlife?
Or neighbours within earshot?
How bad are the sound and vibration?
Are there health implications?
How much land will bulldozers tear up to place these suckers?
Who removes them if a cheaper, better source of power makes turibines antiques?
Shut up.

That is why the wind experiment must be carried out east of Algonquin park, where eyesores can easily be erected on heights of land. That these low-per-capita income areas of rural Ontario rely on tourism to survive is... well, what would the word be? Unfortunate? Opportune?

I know! Green!

Ontario must retro-fit all existing Group of Seven paintings to include a large wind turbine next to Tom Thomson's scraggly pine.

If Ontario's cities are the main beneficiary of schemes to feed their wretched excess, shouldn't they lead by example?

I want a wind turbine atop each turret of Queens Park. How about one to replace the communications mast on the CN Tower? Imagine Rochester, green with envy to see a propeller spin atop Toronto's landmark beanie.

Each Toronto skyscraper should have its own rooftop wind turbine to supply--a third of the time--the electric needs of Commerce Court or the Toronto-Dominion Centre. Who needs a grid? Just a long extension cord to the roof. Why they could leave the lights on all night! Whoops, I forgot. They do that anyway.

Where does the wind blow harder than straight in off Lake Ontario?

Eureka!

Alas this is not the plan.

No windmills allowed in David Smith or Dalton McGuinty's yard, thank you.

Rural councils smell a Wind Hustle that will benefit everyone but themselves, and are dragging their feet. Will they get free power? No. Tax benefits for ratepayers? No. Construction gigs? Hah! A little brushing? Maybe.

One rebel council slyly passed a resolution to make no decision in the matter for 10 years.

That prompts Queens Park to fast-track the Wind Hustle and bypass the locals entirely. Shut up! This is called parliamentary democracy.

So we'll get costly power--but only 30% of the time--from unsightly structures taxpayers have underwritten in subsidies and breaks, from towers that won't make much of a dent in the "dirty" supply we use now.

A few favoured companies will roll in free taxpayer cash.

Turbines will go up whether tourists, taxpayers, MPs or locals want them or not. But only in areas that don't have the population or pull to do much about it. What luck!

Why I'm feeling greener already.

Pass the barf bag.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas

Shaeffer/Graham Bezant

True, all dogs love Christmas.

These next few days are the officially-sanctioned Dog Disobedience Days.

Nothing dogs do this week is worth the time or trouble to yell at them.

And finally, there is enough going on to interest dogs.

Many of the best holiday events are conveniently staged below knee level, where dogs get the best view.

But one large dog--in his middle years and wise beyond time or space--actually shivers in delight at the first flakes of snow. He quivers on the day he can see his breath. He knows the happiest hours are just ahead. This particular dog sings as The Great Day of Winter approaches: his is a sweet soprano whimper, as clear and determined as a kindergarten kid at a pageant, trying to soar to the tricky "sleep in heavenly piece" moment of Silent Night.

"Gosh," people would tell the mutt, bending down to rub his ears whenever he sang: "You are certainly one dog who loves Christmas."

And he was.

Weeks before the big day, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would track each present as it came in the house, watch coyly as it was wrapped, then memorize its hiding place and wait to be alone. He would unwrap it so it could easily be re-wrapped, two or three times if possible. When the presents were finally moved to high shelves or locked closets, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would take to opening whatever he could reach: eight-packs of toilet paper from the bathroom cupboard, boxes of corn flakes and raisin bran--often in the living room. When everything was finally moved out of his reach, he knew Christmas must be very, very near.

During those delicious last days, if the door opened and The Dog Who Loved Christmas was indoors, he would seize the opportunity to go out. If the door re-opened and he was outdoors, he would come in. Sometimes he would travel in the direction of the door-opener. Other times he would race from the opposite direction, always timing his speed and momentum to squeak cleanly past his doorman's knees.

If anybody tried to direct the animal's activities, a kinder soul was sure to warn: "Hey, leave him alone! You know how much that dog loves Christmas!"

The Dog Who Loved Christmas most loved his tree. It was always set up in the coolest room of the house, the very space the dog himself favoured for sleeping. It was clear the people in the house brought the tree inside as a special present for the dog. He would watch as it was decorated, sniff the unfamiliar indoor odor of pine, sprawl for hours on the floor, using the family as cushions. He liked it when they turned on the lights. Or turned them off. The Dog Who Loved Christmas would sleep under the tree and night and pretend he was camping. He made sure to sleep on the opposite side from where he marked the tree when no one was around. It was, after all, his tree and there was a certain pride of ownership. Sometimes people would stick their finger in the tree's pot. "Yep, it's still wet," they'd say. He was happy to help.

On the day the family decorated the biggest window in the house, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would hurry upstairs. Standing on his hind legs, he would press sweet, heart-shaped dog noses on the undecorated windows of the bedrooms and kitchen. Then he would slip outside to admire his work, with a sidetrip under the porch--the better to coat his paws with clay to decorate the rugs.

"Look!" he imagined visitors might cry in glee. "This house belongs to A Dog Who Loves Christmas!"

The Dog Who Loved Christmas could count on a fine buffet of appealing snacks on the holiday, always placed on coffee tables and low snack trays where he could see them. There were cheeses and round little crackers, sometimes smeared with stinky fish. The dog would feign disinterest and pray for a phone or doorbell to ring, the better to snatch a few. At Christmas, no one kept count. When he was by himself at night, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would help himself to hard candies in a low bowl, suck each piece for a few seconds, then stick it back to try a new flavour. They always wondered why the candy stuck together.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas enjoyed an occasional lick of chip dip and sometimes, to amuse himself, would carry a few potato chips in his mouth to his water dish. There, he'd float them like boats. Then he would whimper pathetically til someone came.

"What's wrong?" they were sure to ask. "Oh poor dog! There are in chips in your water dish. Let me get you a new one." They'd fetch a fresh dish of lovely, cool water, give him a pat and sometimes a treat. Minutes later, there'd be a familiar whimpering, new chips in the water dish and a new victim to say, "Poor dog."

The Dog Who Loved Christmas rolled happily in the wrapping paper on Christmas Eve and--since he growled menacingly at anybody who tried to retrieve wrappings--got to guard the paper overnight. It was collected the next morning, no piece bigger than a torn movie ticket, while the dog took his morning walk. It reappeared Christmas Eve as confetti.

On Christmas Day, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would sit politely under the dining room table. He was so quiet visitors had to peek underneath to convince themselves he was even in the house.

"I can't believe it!" they would cry. "My dog would be begging, barking and carrying on! Why I'd never know your dog was even in the room! What a Good Dog!" Dozens of times, hands would appear under the table offering turkey and tidbits.

The Dog Who Loved Christmas learned at a very young age that dogs who never beg get more turkey than those who do. Every guilty person at the table eventually offered something, a carefully-chosen pay-off. Indeed, some years, so much food was gingerly collected below the laughter and conversation above that The Dog Who Loved Christmas would have to slip away to the basement two or three times during the meal and ralph everything he'd eaten thus far into a cool corner. He'd always upchuck against an outside wall, so no incriminating evidence would be found til Easter. Sometime he re-ate it for snacks. Then it was back upstairs for another pound or two of dinner.

After the meal, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would race outside with the kids. It was his duty to destroy forts and snowmen as quickly as tots could build them. Bundled in snowsuits, the kids could barely feel his nips. The smaller ones had difficulty walking. The Dog Who Loved Christmas would grab them by their parka hoods and drag them backwards through snowdrifts, playing crack the whip. He did this only with wee ones who couldn't really talk, so they could not report him to the authorities. And of course, bigger kids all thought it was funny.

On Christmas night, The Dog Who Loved Christmas would sprawl on his back under the tree, fat and happy, his legs splayed like a broken toy, his mouth open, and snore like a horse.

Every year at about midnight, they would take his photo for the family album.

There were eight years' worth of pictures of the animal, paws to the sky and snoring. So cute, so content, under his tree.

"That Dog Sure Does Love Christmas," somebody would always whisper, as the camera shutter clicked. Sometimes his eyes would flutter and he even heard them say it. It made him very glad to please them so.

dunford/pagesix 1986

Swim with the sharks

So a few feet underwater, six miles off the north coast of Oahu, I feel a tap on my shoulder. A torpedo-shaped Galapagos shark coasts by. I come up for air.

"Your knee was outside the shark cage," sez my responsible pal.

This is good to know.

"Shut up," I tell him, just as you would.

In the bobbing cage, sucking a snorkel tube, circling sharks ripple in sunlight, all IMAX, Discovery Channel and light show. It is an irresistible swim of beautiful greys and blues.

Fools try to touch the sharks, a hypnotic arm's length away. This is why God gave us liability waivers.

Never give them a knee.

Summer

What's more fun than visiting cows?