2020 Reading List

 One habit I am not trying nearly hard enough to break (though not the one I should break the most) is treating holidays as deadlines in which things must be achieved. These many blogs must be written, these many pages completed, these many films watched, these many miles hiked, these many people spoken to, and these many books read. I did not expect to beat last year's total, and tried not to think of it as some kind of race, but I did and did, completing twenty-four as of New Year's Eve Eve. That said, I read few short stories - 42- to last year's 48- so I suppose it's still a loss. I'm not so anal as to start counting pages, though I can't help wondering if massive epics from previous eras ought not to carry more weight than contemporary kids books. No matter - the purpose is in the reading. 

I did not quite match last year's total for short fiction - 43 stories as opposed to last year's 48. As of writing, it's not too late to close that gap, but that'd be exactly the sort of arbitrary goal-post chasing I'm trying to avoid. 

Last year I swore I would have something to say about each of them, but ended up posting none of them. So here's a list, before forget, to show that it wasn't an entirely wasted year. 

Diary of a Wimpy Kid: The Last Straw - Jeff Kinney.
The Noise of Time - Julian Barnes

Invaders of Space - Murray Leinster

The Information - Martin Amis

The Hunger Games - Suzanne Collins

The Cowards - Josef Skvorecky

Chocky - John Wyndam

There's One in Every Crowd - Ivan E. Coyote

The Chimes - Charles Dickens 

The Fall of Berlin - Anthony Reed/David Fisher

No Doors, No Windows -Harlan Ellison

The Hobbit - JRR. Tolkien

Black Arrow - Robert Louis Stevenson

Neuromancer - William Gibson

Transformations - James King

Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night - Mark Holdon 

100 Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

The Quiet Boy - Lois Lowery

White Fragility - Robin 

Etienne's Alphabet - James King

Mother Tongue - Bill Bryson 

The Two Towers - JRR Tolkien 

Gathering Blue - Lois Lowery 

Farewell Party - Milan Kundera 

  

 

 

If nothing else can be said about this wretched year (and to be sure, very little can), at least that orange creature in the White House has been sent on his way. Not willingly and possibly not permanently, but undoubtedly (except perhaps in his own imagination).  No one expected him to go gracefully, but I for one didn’t expect him to go this pitifully – a pathetic patch of pouting petulance, not even a pretext of maturity or adult dignity.

I remember watching not long ago a comedy sketch in which a Trump impersonator refused to leave a day care centre full of toddlers, throwing a tantrum and clinging to his bouncy ball. A grotesque parody I thought at the time. But we’re living in times beyond parody, and the sketch has proven a prescient prediction. He’s given up even pretending to be President, instead devoting all his time to sulking on Twitter. He finally got around to signing the coronavirus relief bill, dithering and delaying while people were going hungry and losing their homes. He’s devoted all his energies to ridiculous conspiracy theories which have been contemptuously thrown out of court, and which even some of his closest allies and ardent supporters have had trouble swallowing.  It is beyond farcical.

But let’s not forget how scary and disturbing it all is nonetheless. A sitting president has refused to concede office, and cast doubts on the electoral process. Do we need any more proof of his authoritarian tendencies? Utter ineptitude kept him from pulling it off, but the very fact he was able to attempt it should terrify us all.

A few things to consider:

First: A shit-ton of people voted for him. More than any other candidate in US history. Lots and lots of people not only thought what he did and what he stood for was perfectly fine, but absolutely wonderful. Millions and millions bought into him and stand by him. We are damned lucky that the only person who ever got more votes was Joe Biden.

Second: The President has cast doubts on the very notion of truth itself. Truth is whatever he decides it is. He reserves the right to make it up as he goes along, and cling to whichever version of reality pleases him most. And his millions upon millions of followers have bought into this as well. Now, at a time when accepting a verifiable, quantifiable reality is more important than ever. Climate deniers, anti-vaxxers, Q-Anons are stronger than ever. Our collective well-being depends on accepting science, and millions upon millions simply reject it.

Third: Trump has exposed the vulnerabilities of the system. Sheer incompetence protected us from his worst instincts, but he’s shown how it can be done. How masses can be manipulated, how safe-guards can be bypassed, how scapegoats can be created, how dissidents can be vilified, how reality itself (nevermind the US political system) can be twisted to suit the needs of the Leader. There’s a lesson here for any would be dictator, and the next one just might know what he’s[i] doing.

Happy New Year.

 

 

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[i] I use the pronoun intentionally: the public may long for a strongman to lead them, but will not allow themselves to be dominated by a strong woman.

We're all in Pins and Razors here. . .

 At the time of writing, the US election has been carrying on with agonizing slowness. Biden is just six lousy points away from victory, and has been for more than twenty-four hours now. The counting seems to be going at a snail's pace; the suspense is excruciating. 

At the time of writing, there are four states left to call. Trump needs to win all four. Biden only one. Trump is leading in three of them; Biden only in one. Biden's lead (in Nevada) is razor thin - only about 11,438 votes (according to the Toronto Star). It is not inconceivable that Trump could close that gap. 

Nor is it inconceivable that Biden could pull ahead in Georgia (behind 12, 835 votes) or North Carolina (behind 76,701 votes). 

The votes are still coming in. Is it any wonder Trump wants to stop them? 

Who knows what will happen. I am not the only one who wishes it would all just hurry up and resolve itself and get this wait over with. Just get it over with. 

In a few days time, this blog will seem hopelessly out of date. But for posterity's sake, I have to make note of where I was at this time, what I was seeing and thinking and feeling. A period of intolerable tension. 

Trump's jackboots are already swarming voting stations, demanding the counting be halted. They see no irony in their position - stopping a vote count in the name of democracy. Trump's got them all convinced these aren't even real votes. That hundreds of thousands if not millions are actually fraudulent. (None of his own of course). In Trump's America, voter fraud means voting against Trump. 

He's losing, and that's all the evidence he and his people needs. 

I wonder what will happen if any of those mobs decide to storm the counting stations, force their way past the guards and break through the doors. I can see them destroying box loads of ballots. 

The Sore-Loser in Chief is behaving exactly as predicted. Does anyone still doubt the threat he poses? 

Well, sixty million of his voters. . .

In short - Trump can still win. Even if he doesn't, he doesn't have to relinquish power 'till the new year. A lot of mischief can be done between now and then. 

Even if he loses, his ideas and his methods were not repudiated - millions and millions thought and think he was and is a perfectly great leader. 

He can run again in 2024. 

Even if he doesn't, someone else in his mold will. And he might know what he's doing. 

 So, the Amazing Randi's passed onto the great beyond. The magician-cum-skeptic-psychic hunter is, I suspect, already taunting mediums everywhere. 

I first encountered his work in high school, when our religion teacher of all people, showed us one of Randi's PBS specials. I'd never believed in all that psychic flim-flam, but I'd never seen it debunked so thoroughly before. Deep down, I think I figured that if there were anything to it, it'd be spoken of more often - maybe in places like science class, rather than dusty books my local library crammed in-between stories of UFO visitation and ghosts. In this way I explained away the occasional telepath or astrologer who apparently got it "right". The idea they were all just magicians was mind-blowing, and made so much obvious sense, I wondered why I hadn't thought of it before. 

Some true-blue believers insisted - usually through tears of rage - that Randi hadn't actually disproven anything. Just because he could duplicate these tricks didn't mean psychic powers didn't exist. Perhaps not, but he certainly made them irrelevant: even if they had powers, so what? Randi could do everything they could without those magic powers. Real or not, psychics became boring. 

Perhaps seeing that PBS documentary (or was it NOVA?), made me a little less susceptible to quack claims growing up.  Perhaps it made me that much more receptive to my third-year anthropology prof who taught us skepticism. Maybe it was the mental tools imparted there that soon turned their gaze to the more entrenched forms of "woo" doled out by certain Seperate School Boards. . .

  James Randi was no saint by any means - there were ethical questions surrounding his more intense investigations. He said some pretty unpleasant things about Social Darwinism. There were times he seemed a bit more contemptuous of certain people - victims of, if not perpetrators of nonsense - than was he needed to be. But, unless you're a Catholic theologian, I don't think you should be looking for saints. 

Almost no one takes psychics seriously anymore, and James Randi played him part in that. But health quackery is more widespread than ever, and thanks to a president who's not ashamed to spread it in a pandemic, more dangerous than ever. In politics and academia  as well as health, the very concept of reality itself seems under attack. People believe whatever pleases them, and make enemies of whatever doesn't. In some places, Democracy itself is crumbling. 

This was not a good time to lose James Randi. 

 

A Fiddle Emporium for Ubiquitous Neros.

So it's been a full six months since I last posted anything. It's not because nothing's been happening. Fact is, the world is changing far faster than my ability to make sense of it. No sooner did I have a thought when it was shown to be redundant the very next day - sometimes that very afternoon. A couple times I started writing impassioned tirades on one subject or other, and then just gave up. Then, the inspiration shriveled and I haven't said a thing. 

I suppose I ought to. For my own clarity of mind if no other purpose. I suppose I can't simply abandon history happening all around me to a multitude of cheap memes. 

Where to begin? 

 Coronavirus has of course changed everything. It is the giant-squid in the room that quite a surprising number of people are pretending isn't there.

In the beginning, I felt it may have been an opportunity for humanity to band together and deal with a common threat. I had ridiculous visions of international cooperation and new levels of community involvement all over the world. I thought we'd finally see the futility of our current economic system, and build something better. I even (briefly) had these ridiculous ideas of rolling up the sleeves and joining a volunteer citizen army to join the workers in the factories producing protective equipment. All out for World War C. 

It all seems so silly now. Now I have very little faith than humanity could band together to solve anything.

Unlike climate-change, coronavirus is something that can be immediately observed. There's nothing abstract about it - it is a tangible threat that can be quantified. Surely this was something we could all agree on, and all face together. We would do what needed to be done, make the necessary sacrifices. Everyone,  would be onboard - even the greedy billionaires.  It would work something like this: 

To stop the spread of the virus, there would naturally be mass lock-down and quarantine. On a scale we've never seen before. To make it work, we would need to ensure people wouldn't starve to death if they stayed home from work. Simple really: you just can't ethically force someone to miss work. People would need to be paid to stay home. The whole thing collapses otherwise. 

Universal income. Paid sick leave. Rent controls. Eviction freezes. This is what it would take to beat the thing. We wouldn't worry about how to pay for it, just like we didn't worry about how much it would cost to beat Hitler. We would pool our resources and we would Just Do It. 

And in the meantime, all those truly essential people - front like healthcare workers, doctors, nurses, those folks who keep the water and electricity running, the truckers who deliver food, and most of all - those teenaged cashiers at the supermarkets - would finally be recognized as society's Real Important People. Indeed, those supermarket workers were called heroes and given bonuses. 

It was all in sight. It could have happened. 

It didn't. And those bonuses were revoked months ago. 

Conspiracy theories started and spread as fast as the virus itself. Basic precautions (let alone social reinvention) have become strictly politicized, with roughly half the world (including all its Trumpeters) fighting tooth-and-nail for their right to get sick.  Wearing masks, social distancing, and staying home when possible were decided to be intolerable intrusions on freedom, comparable to Krystalnacht, armed thugs stormed the Michigan State Legislature, and at the time of writing, there are more cases than ever. 

Meanwhile, a different gang of armed thugs murdered George Floyd, and the great US of A exploded in an orgy of state-sanctioned violence. Their fearless leader took the side of the baton bearing thugs, climate change is probably past the point of no return, democracy Hong Kong has been thoroughly crushed, while the People's Republic continues to stuff Uighurs into concentration camps. 

School openings in Ontario have been a complete fiasco. 

Used bookshops will probably not exist by this time next year. 

It is difficult at this time to hold any faith in humanity. In recent years, we consistently made the worst decisions possible (Stephen Polyana Pinker notwithstanding). It's hard to believe Doctor Tar and Professor Fether are not in charge. Or that the UN isn't a fiddle emporium for Ubiquitous Neros. Of whom, three are worth noting: 

Boris Johnson, Jair Bolsonaro, and Donald Trump, each a contender for the "Asshole of the Year" award, have all at one time minimized, played down, or downright denied the Covid threat. All three have now had Covid. 

Believers in Karma may make of this what they will.

Partus the Seconde

I'm not a musician. I can't explain what was brilliant about Peart's drumming. I can tell there's a lot more going on than most of the tap-tap-tap back beats that most rock drummers do. The patterns are so elaborate, so demanding of your attention.  More like a story than a back beat. Which is entirely appropriate, as Peart was a story teller as much as a drummer. 

 While I'm no musician, and can't comment on his drumming (marvelous as I instinctively feel it is), I am an English teacher, and so can definitely comment on his lyrics.

Rush's success, and in particular their appeal to a certain class people, were in huge part due to Peart. True, each member was essential, and Geddy and Alex composed the actual melodies that stick in the head, but would they have quite such magical appeal had the lyrics remained of the Pre-Peart quality?

 (“Hey baby, it’s a quarter to eight! Feel I’m in the mood!”) 

Possibly; Kiss made it huge on lyrics worse than that. But find me a Rush fan who doesn’t quote them as often as sing them. . .

I’ve mentioned the science fiction themes already – to me those were a huge part of their appeal. But even after Peart came down to earth, his words remained uncannily relevant. Much has been made of his Ayn Randisms, but apart from a few of his early tracks, he rarely sounded overtly ideological; indeed, most of the songs seemed just attempts to make sense of a weird world, and hardly incompatible with any reasonable political position - I don't think any liberal could seriously object to most of what he wrote, which was deeply humanistic and compassionate.  

I mean, would anyone complain about the pre-chorus for "Far Cry"?[i]

"It's a far cry from the world we thought we'd inherit. It's a far cry from the way we thought we'd share it." 

Is this the sentiment of a heartless Social-Darwinian? If we keep going, into the chorus of that song, we'll get deeper into the heart of what I think drove him.

"Some day I feel I'm ahead of the wheel, and the next it's rolling over me."

A lot of it seems to be the musings of an intelligent, but occasionally bewildered individual trying to make sense of a weird world. A lot of people can relate to that. Rarely (if ever) has this yearning been expressed so succinctly in Rock music. Rarely has it been married so seamlessly to melodies which give it life.

Here’s the chorus of “Subdivisions”, my vote for most bonkers vocal line ever:

“Any escape might help to soothe the unattractive truth that the suburbs have no charms to soothe the restless dreams of youth.”       

           

Who’d have thought to make that a song lyric? Well, Neil Peart. And it works. In the song it works perfectly. But read it. A lot of people live in suburbs, a lot of people find them soul crushing. Not a lot of songs address that. Take it back to the pre-chorus, words which dominated the existence of every kid who’s ever lived:

“Be cool or be cast out”.        

Do these restless dreams of youth sound a bit like those described in “Dreamtime”:

“We are young, wandering the face of the earth, wondering what our dreams might be worth, learning that we’re only immortal, for a limited time”.

Who in the category of “no longer quite-so-young” doesn’t wistfully remember a time like that? Who, that does, can’t claim, as in “Circumstances” that:

“Innocence gave me confidence to go up against reality”.

“Circumstances” goes on about confusion, disillusion, and isolation.

“These walls that still surround me, still contain the same old me”.

While so much Rock music obsesses, to an almost fetishistic degree, of the energies and general concerns of youth, Rush under Peart, seemed more concerned with the wisdom that can be accumulated by age, almost as compensation for lost youth. There are precious few rock songs about aging gracefully.

The pratfalls along the way are numerous. Sometimes, the individual needs to build walls for protection. . .or barriers:

“One must put up barriers to keep oneself intact.”

“Limelight” was definitely Peart's most autobiographical song, the one where he tried to explain his aloofness to the adoring crowds, that he simply “had no heart to lie.” But we hide our authentic selves from each other:

“We are merely players, performers and portrayers, each another’s audience”.

Lest it seem too grouchy though, this infectiously upbeat song goes on to encourage one to “put aside the alienation” and get on with “the underlying dream”.

Peart didn't merely concern himself with matters of the puny individual; sometimes, he took on the big picture, as in "Farewell to Kings"

"When we turn the pages of history, 

When these days have past long ago. . . 

Will they read of us with sadness?" 

I think these words are kind of prophetic:  look at the headlines, look at the leaders we've elected, look at all our multitude of follies! I'll be shocked if historians don't read of us with sadness.

Peart sounds quite like a nineteenth century historian here, which to my mind is a good thing. He continues along this vein in a lesser known ditty:

"The men who hold high places must be the ones who start, 

To mold a new reality, closer to the heart,

Philosophers and the Ploughmen, each must know his part

To sew a new mentality, closer to the heart"

Now, I'm not a particularly huge fan of  "Closer To the Heart": it's cliched and kind of syrupy. But the words ring true. At the very least, no one could accuse him of being unthoughtful.

Leaping ahead, the notorious "Dad-Rap" of "Roll the Bones" is somewhat infamous - I rather like it though, and it remains the only rapping that I myself can actually manage at length. (Still not going to quote it). To my mind, Counterparts bristles with profundities. I could put up any of its songs as examples of first-class lyricism. I'll confine myself to a few tidbits, starting with "Stick it Out", not only their hardest guitar song since "Cygnus", but possibly the only Rock song I know admonishing its listeners to act on their better instincts.

"Trust to your instinct - if it's safely restrained!" 

(And for what it's worth, even if you don't buy that the song is about purging oneself of negative influences, he means sticking out your tongue - your tongue ladies and gentlemen, your tongue!)

"Nobody's Hero" is much more somber, a tribute to overlooked, uncelebrated, and forgotten people.

"I knew he was different in his sexuality - I went to his parties as the straight minority. Never seemed a threat to my masculinity - he only introduced me to a wider reality." 

In respectable circles today, nobody bats an eyelid at this sort of thing. In fact, they might wonder why it needs point out. But this was written in the far less tolerant 1993, where it required a bit more boldness. Consider though, that probably refers to his time in London in the late sixties, a way less tolerant time, hippies notwithstanding. To think such a thing back then required genuine open mindedness.  

While love songs are pretty ubiquitous in the pop sphere - some bands don't write anything else - they're almost all about the euphoria of early love. I don't know of anyone who's sang about the nuts-and-bolts negotiation of maintaining a relationship, as Peart does in "Cold Fire"

"It was just before sunrise,When we started on traditional roles

"She said 'sure I'll be your partner

"But don't make too many demands, 

"I said if love has these conditions, 

I don't understand those songs you love,

"She said this is not a love song, This isn't fantasy land"  

And finally, we come to my favourite of the oeuvre, the glorious "Every Day Glory", an anthem of cautious optimism in a world that makes it difficult:

"Just one spark of decency, Against the starless night

"One glow of hope and dignity, A child can follow the night" 

The song is so beautiful, I think they could have sang about squirrels and I'd still find it uplifting. But Rush had the most godly ability to match words and music, the songs always sounded just like they felt. What we have here is a spark of decency, a glow of hope and dignity, which together turn into a blaze of everyday glory. The world can be a rotten place, and it does its best to crush the human spirit. And yet, people endure, people pull through, people go on

"Right from the Ashes a Blaze of Everyday Glory"  

This, I suspect, got much closer to the heart[ii] of Peart's philosophy than something like "Anthem". In this rotten world, filled as it is with evil and misfortune, our best hope lies in each other. Little acts of decency and kindness count for a lot.

It reminds me something of Vasily Grossman's contention in Life and Fate that the real struggle of the world is not between good and evil and between cruelty and kindness. And though Grossman himself saw himself saw first hand the worst that humanity could do (Stalingrad, Kursk, Treblinka, Nazi pogroms and Stalinist purges) he maintained that kindness could not be stamped out[iii].

I don't know if Peart ever read Grossman (he'd probably have mentioned it). But I imagine he'd be sympathetic to the idea. It’s a sentiment that keeps drawing me back to Rush (the same that draws me back to Doctor Who). It’s impossible to listen to Rush and feel worse about the human condition. The songs aren’t just good, you feel they really taught you something, without being condescending or saccharine. A lot of this comes down to Peart. This was the work of Peart.  

They didn’t call him “the Professor” for nothing.  

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[i] Which is from 2007, lest you think this is entirely a nostalgia exercise.

[ii] Ha! I swear the use of this phrase was entirely unintentional.  

[iii] Which is why I have no patience with Western Nihilists. . .

Farewell to the King

            I’ve been sitting here for the past two hours trying to come up with a cute intro. It’s four o’clock in the morning and I’m getting tired, so screw it:

           

            Neil Peart was the greatest. Drummer, lyricist, musician. Take your pick, he was the best. 

            There. And I’m not being hyperbolic either. He was an artist for whom only superlatives would do. Greatest this, Best that, Finest ever, Most Whatever. Neil Peart was as good as there ever was, as good as there ever will be. Nope, this is not an arguable proposition, we are not going to debate this, I am not taking any counter proposals or alternate candidates at this time.

            Neil Peart was the throbbing, pulsing, living heartbeat of the Creative Colossus - sometimes mistaken for a rock band - known as Rush. As the drummer and lyricist, he was the body and brains of the operation (Geddy and Alex being the shared soul), imbuing each song with physical presence, and a sensitive wisdom unmatched in rock music.

            Nope, I am not joking, as I will prove presently.

            I myself discovered Rush in the 11^th grade (I think). I loved, loud, aggressive rock music, but couldn’t relate to any of it. Certainly not that LA surfer stuff. about picking up chicks. Nor that angsty grunge stuff that was making the rounds. As a timid, bookish nerd spending most of his lunch breaks in the school library, most music felt to me like a party I wasn’t invited to.

            Then, someone pushed Farewell to Kings into My Hands.

            Holy shit. I mean, Good God! Who knew rock music could do this? Even my musically illiterate ears could detect movements, themes, patterns, more in common with a symphony than a rock band. So many moving parts, so many disparate elements demanding my attention, all adding up and telling a story through sound. Untutored, inexperienced, uneducated as I was, I could feel the nuance and intricacy of it all – this couldn’t be the product of the stereotypical Precambrian knuckleheads bashing at their instruments. There was something going on here, and there was intelligence behind it.

            Unlike so many prog bands, nothing in a Rush song felt superfluous or indulgent; there wasn’t one note or beat or time signature change that didn’t need to be there. Every piece was a vital component in complex machine, a thread in tapestry, a passage in a expertly plotted story.

            And the lyrics! A spaceship descending into a black hole? Now there was something a Lord of the Rings and Doctor Who-obsessed nerd could get into! This was music for me.

This one hit me even harder. Instead of prog, it steered me
headlong into Metal

            It was only appropriate that the people who would disparage me would also disparage my new favourite band. Snotty critics, stuck-up hipsters, pusillanimous punksters and trendsuckers of the kind that used to insist “The Clath” were the only band that mattered, couldn’t get their heads around Rush. It didn't matter – Rush weren’t for them. Rush were for me, and people like me.  The profoundly uncool, the proudly untrendy, the slightly unsteady. They shy, the awkward, the alienated , the irredeemably nerdy. . .but also the bright, the creative, the expressive and the literate. You didn’t listen to Rush in order to curry favour with the arbiters of taste, you weren’t trying to be popular, and you sure as hell weren’t going to get laid. You listened to Rush because they spoke to you. They demanded nothing from you – well, your attention spans and your brainpower certainly, but nothing alien to your sense of self. Rush only required you to be what you are, and to celebrate that person, as opposed to whatever other person the world wanted you to be.

Most bands do bring with them, however unintentionally, the demands of subcultural affiliation. Think Country, or Metal, or Punk, or Goth, or indie (whatever the hell that is). But Rush had no standardized uniform. Among the multitudes who attended their shows could be found people of every age, economic situation and educational level, every profession and subcultural preference. Metalheads and hippies, professors, bikers, students, business people, forklift drivers, grandparents, doctors of music, and folks who couldn’t play the triangle. Anyone could listen to Rush, and claim them as their own.

In 2015 I watched with devilish pleasure as Rush were put on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. It struck me as the mainstream rock press finally capitulating and signing the articles of surrender, having waged war against Rush, and being utterly defeated. You can’t keep Rush down. Dedication to craft, purity of vision, and sheer damn talent make a fearsome combination – sometimes it wins out, and this time did. It didn’t hurt that Peart was such a better writer than the hacks who disparaged him. People heard the music, and felt it resonate, and wouldn’t be steered clear. The world responded. Rush sold a ridiculous amount of records. They played before huge crowds. For a band that appealed so much to misfits, they sure had widespread appeal. I never begrudged them their success; on the contrary, I thought success was rarely more deserved. For once, something I liked was getting its proper due.

Neil Peart played a huge part in this. Rush were an irreducibly complex Triad of  essential components. Alex and Geddy showed signs of giftedness right from the beginning. But Peart was the missing piece of the puzzle. Together, they scaled Olympus. And did it with grace and humility. His shadow is long, his footprint enormous. He will me missed.

It’s tempting to say Rush changed me. This would not be strictly true. Looking back, I think Rush helped me discover the real me, who had always been there. I think Neil Peart, the great individualist, would have preferred that as a tribute.   

So Iran has admitted to “unintentionally” shooting down Flight PS752.

            Baloney. Bollocks. Balderdash. How many synonyms for “Bullshit” are there?

            How does one “unintentionally” shoot down a civilian aircraft in one’s own airspace, just taken off from one’s own central airport in the capital? How does one mistake a big civilian plane just taken off from Tehran airport as “enemy aircraft”.

            “Well the pilot swerved off course when his engine caught fire and into the missile defense, path and one thing followed the other, and you know. . .”

            I’ll give you a better explanation: you make this kind of error when you’re the kind of trigger happy goon who joins the Revolutionary Guard.

            I’ll offer you another theory, that verges on the conspiratorial, but makes a shit-ton of sense to me all the same:

            Sixty three of the 176 innocents aboard were Canadian citizens of Iranian origin. From what we can gather, they seemed the cream of society’s crop. Students, doctors, intellectuals, children. . . people far too good for Theocracy. Didn’t it drive the Ayatollah crazy that all these bright people chose to be Canadian rather than stay behind and serve their rat-bag regime?

            I can’t prove it. But it definitely makes sense to me.

            (And this doesn’t let that orange slug down south off the hook either: that petulant little boy who loves his big, long, thick missiles, and doesn’t give a moment’s thought to the consequences of his actions. What cans? What worms?)


At the very least, I can copy and paste some of their names:

Ardalan Ebnoddin Hamidi | Kamyar Ebnoddin Hamidi | Niloofar Razzaghi | Hossein (Daniel) Saket | Fatemeh (Faye) Kazerani | Naser Pourshaban Oshibi | Firouzeh Madani | Ayeshe Pourghaderi | Fatemah Pasavand | Delaram Dadashnejad | Mehran Abtahi | Roja Omidbakhsh

Mojgan Daneshmand | Pedram Mousavi | Daria Mousavi | Dorina Mousavi | Shekoufeh Choupannejad | Saba Saadat | Sara Saadat | Arash Pourzarabi | Pouneh Gorji | Arshia Arbabbahrami | Nasim Rahmanifar | Kasra Saati | Amir Hossein Saeedinia | Elnaz Nabiyi

Bahareh Hajesfandiari | Mohammad Mahdi Sadeghi | Anisa Sadeghi | Farzaneh Naderi | Nozhan Sadr | Forough Khadem | Amirhossein Ghassemi

Parisa Eghbalian | Reera Esmaeilion | Evin Arsalani | Kurdia Molani | Hiva Molani | Hamid Setareh Kokab | Samira Bashiri | Mohammad Salehe | Zahra Hasani | Mohammadhossein Asadi Lari | Zeynab Asadi Lari | Zahra Naghibi | Mohammad Abbas Pourghaddi | Mahdieh Ghassemi | Arsan Niazi | Arnica Niazi | Iman Ghaderpanah | Parinaz Ghaderpanah | Saharnaz Haghjoo | Elsa Jadidi | Suzan Golbabapour | Faraz Falsafi | Alina Tarbhai | Afifa Tarbhai | Ghanimat Azhdari | Hadis Hayatdavoudi | Mojtaba (Suresh) Abbasnezhad | Asghar Dhirani | Neda Sadighi | Bahareh Karamimoghadam (Karami) | Pedram Jadidi | Maya Zibaie | Shadi Jamshidi | Alireza Pey | Ghazal Nourian | Milad Nahavandi | Sajedeh Saraiean | Mansour Pourjam | Fareed Arasteh | Roja Azadian | Mehraban Badiei | Alma Oladi | Saeed Kashani | Fereshteh Maleki | Amir Moradi | Farhad Niknam | Faraz Falsafi | Arad Zarei | Mahsa Amirliravi | Mohsen Salahi | Sheyda Shadkhoo | Sadaf Hajiaghavand | Sahand Sadeghi | Sophie Emami | Alvand Sadeghi | Milad Ghasemi Ariani | Siavash Maghsoudlou Estarabadi | Mehdi Eshaghian | Iman Aghabali | Mansour Esfahani | Marzieh (Mari) Foroutan

Masoumeh Ghavi | Mandieh Ghavi | Sharieh (Sheri) Faghihi | Fatemeh Mahmoodi | Maryam Malek