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.  

---

[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

Doctor Nhew. . .

Happy New Year. Time for Doctor Who.

The first one was a two-parter. I've seen it and I'm still processing it and I'm still woozy from the drugs they gave me at the clinic, so I won't go into full analysis mode now. Suffice it to say:

a) I think we're back on track. I'm almost afraid to jinx it, but I can confidently say this is the best episode of the Whitaker/Chibnal era so far. Which is faint praise indeed I understand, a lot like: "this is by far the very best toenail fungal infection I've ever had," or "this solitary confinement cell is so much better they stopped piping in Barbara Streisand tunes", but seriously: THIS is more like it. A Who episode to freely enjoy. Menacing aliens, a sense of creeping dread. Better balanced, better paced, less preachy, more Lenny Henry. . .

b) Indeed, Lenny Henry. Marvelous to see him spread his wings and display his acting chops. All the same, it makes me wistful. What a marvelous Doctor he would have made. Or a Master. . . Indeed, imagine what a Master HE would have made. . .

Can't bring myself to speak of it any more. Drugs are taking hold, off to dreamland now. . .

"'tis the season." A little phrase I utter to myself far more often than that other one. I find far more reason to be merry right around now than in other times of year - I find the weather particularly agreeable, the ceremonies, commemorating bountiful harvests and inevitable mortality, altogether appropriate, and the rituals, invariably involving food, drink, and creative expression, well, basically what life is all about.

That we as a species have managed to turn fear of death into a party is one of the great things about us. As Bradbury illustrates in "The Halloween Tree", every human culture, from cavemen on up, have had their day of the dead festivals. It's how we cope with mortality. That's why I have no truck with the idiotic objections of the Jehovah's Witnesses, whose arguments I know very well; they basically can't stand anything ritualistic, and certainly nothing that predates Christianity.   As if primitive man had nothing to offer us! What a bland-pancake of a world they would have us inherit!

But enough about them. The fact is, these rituals exist for a reason. They help us deal with death. They help us endure the changing seasons. If our current version is a little hedonistic, it reflects the culture we live in. Despite all our fancy gadgets, our electric light bulbs and internal heating, we are still apes at heart, trembling at the sound of thunder and wondering if the sun actually will rise again. I've always found the Halloween celebrations, where we pretend to laugh at darkness and mingle merriment with morbidity, more in tune with my temperament than certain other festivals. The reasons are myriad.

Again, I find the weather, no longer oppressively hot, agreeable. I like the changing colours of the trees. I enjoy the smell in the air.

 I revel in the celebration of the dark and gothic. I like old houses, gnarled trees, black bats and cats, and spiders. I have a special love for literature that celebrates these things. 

The Theatre guy in me revels in costuming. For me it, whatever it is, is not just a costume, but a character. For one night in the year, I can get into character, and the world is indeed my stage! When else do I get to do that?

Last but not least, who am I to deny the thrill of nostalgia? As I tend to consider adulthood a long, dull footnote to childhood, I am more susceptible to this than most. The ceremony of putting on the costume, the rare nocturnal excursion, the athletic thrill of darting across lawns and up porch steps in the pursuit of willingly, even eagerly, given loot (the popularity of pirate costumes is no accident). . . Greed played no small part, no denying. Where and when else could we get that much stuff for free? Call it the entrepreneurial spirit if you insist. I prefer to think of it as one of the only - possible the only - occasion in our hyper materialistic, individualistic times where communities get together and share stuff.

And of course, getting home ripping it all open, and having an abundant source of junk food for possibly weeks (storing for winter?). You could dump it on the floor and roll around in it, toss it up in the air, bury oneself in it. It was like bringing home the Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Never again would I get to interact with that kind of material wealth. And of course, digging through the treasure every day was a never-ending surprise. Granted, it diminished slowly every day as the good stuff was consumed, but hey! The enjoyment of something should never be based on its permanence.

So yes indeed, I am a sucker for the season. I engage in it fully, and I draw it out as long as I possibly can. This year I got to start early, and drew it out quite a bit. . .but that's another story.

So, we haven't gone down that road after all.

We haven't thrown in our lot with the climate deniers, the bigots, the corporate fatcats. We didn't drink from the kool-aid, didn't join the march to oblivion. At the end of the day we proved that we are not all petty, vindictive, short-sighted and small minded. For once, better nature won out over base instinct.

Just to be clear, this relief is not due to the return of Justin Trudeau to the Canadian Parliament. I think he is a bit of a goof-ball, and the Liberal Party in turns insincere, opportunistic, wishy-washy, and inconsistent, the timorous party of  bland half measures. It's the failure of the Conservative Party to unseat him. Clumsy as the Liberals are, they are at least lurching down the right path.  The Conservatives, under Andrew Sheer, would have abandoned the path altogether. They have largely turned themselves into branches of Big Business in general and Big Oil in particular, advancing a platform of burning and shipping bitumen anytime anywhere, unhampered by even the feeblest environmental regulation. Basically, the Oil Fetish party, not surprisingly, popular in Alberta. They pursued tax-cuts with the single minded determination of the religiously converted, knowing full-well they only benefits those already well-off. They ran an ugly campaign, spreading falsehoods and personal attacks. They continue to be propped up by "social-conservatives", a group who define their own freedom as the ability to suppress other people's freedom. A victory for them would have been a conscious decision to go backwards, to put on blinders, to embrace all that is ugly in current world politics. It would have been a fatalistic decision to look the world's doom in the eye and do absolutely nothing.

Much of the world has made this decision. Trump, Bolsonaro, Modi, Orban, the Five Stars. . . Here in Canada we seemed to doomed to go copycat, with Doug Frod and Jason Kenny.  With them, Scheer would have completed a hideous three-headed monster - I don't think I could have maintained any faith in a society that consciously embraced such a beast.

But we didn't. The Beast has been rejected, at least for now.

True, a lot of people did. Alberta (not surprisingly) and Saskatchewan ( a little surprisingly) went entirely conservative (and are now bitching and moaning about not being represented in Parliament). The Conservatives increased their seat count. The Liberals have been weakened. The NDP have been weakened. Progressives and middle-of-the-roaders are going to have to work together, and who knows if they can. Who knows how long this government will last, and who knows what'll go down NEXT TIME.

But for now, the Beast has been rejected. The culture of fear has been rejected. The Oil Fetishists have been rejected. Maxim Bernier's Far right project has been decisively rejected and is dead in the water - immigrant baiting on that scale didn't win a single seat. We Canadians showed ourselves just a little better than that. We've bought ourselves a bit of time. Maybe a year from now, I'll have to confront the Beast, but for now, the relief is tremendous.

I went to bed that night, to paraphrase Churchill, and slept the sleep of the saved.