All is right with the world! There was a possibility reported at the end of the last hockey season that CBC might not renew Don Cherry's contract. Canada-wide protest followed. (Yes, I know there were actually some who cared not, but for me and people like me, the idea of HNIC without Cherry was simply not to be considered.) Now, the official announcement has come. They have renewed his contract ... and the seven-second delay, as well. Well, whatever makes them happy. Cherry helps to make HNIC the institution that it is.
   A little addendum to the entry about my friend contending with Parkinson's. I just read a tiny six-line blurb in the September 2004 "Special Einstein Issue of Discover magazine. U.K. researchers have found that adult skin cells can be transfromed into the presursors of nerve cells. They say further experimnets could lead to new treatments for the disease.
   Last item. This one is relevant to one of my pet peeves. As a teacher, and as a student, I have always gotten a bit of a snicker out of courses that bill themselves as "World History" and then concentrate solely on the western world. If the rest of the world gets any mention in partcular, it is often as little more than a chapter in the story of Europe's colonialism. We fail to acknowledge that we were not the only bipedals on the planet capable of thought and innovation. This discussion could go on and on, about such topics as math and science, and more, but let's look at a rather humble little fact. While we of British heritage had still not even figured out the intricacies of combs, ( we didn't begin to comb out those tangles until after the Danes invaded in the 8th century, and showed us how!) the people of the Indus Valley of Pakistan had us beat on modern conveniences. Archaeology proves it, in one aspect, at least. The earliest known indoor toilets, which were discovered in that valley, date back to circa 2300 to 1750 B.C.

   The weather is always supposed to be a mainstay of conversation for Canadians, and it has been serving us well here in Toronto this summer. We are currently experiencing below-seasonal-norm temperatures, and everyone is walking about saying to each other "Feels like September, eh?". That meant that last night, when my husband and I went down to the Harbourfront to see the show, we layered for warmth, instead of choosing a pair of shorts and a favourite T-shirt. We were at the CIBC Stage, and the open sides of the venue were allowing the rain to be misted in by the wind, and onto everyone. This air current aspired to more than just being called a breeze. It kept blowing all around the sides, trying to find the best place from which to wrap itself around the performers, and have a chance to mist them, too.
   While the "warm-up act" was on stage, the chill in the wind was too easy to feel. The man tried his best, and I'm sure he reached various members of the audience, but I can't even remember his name, now. Then, the real reason for the evening's gathering took the stage, in the person of the Neville Brothers. Right away, the wind seemed to drop down, in awe of the talent that was beginning to wash the audience with waves of mellifluous melody. Aaron was subdued at first, seeming almost to regard the mike with suspicion, and limiting himself to being friendly with his tambourine. But in no time, with the lively "Yellow Moon" and the classics "Tell It LIke It Is" and "Everybody Plays the Fool", he was swept up by the music that carried him on its tide, as it did so obvioulsy with all the others on stage, and in the audience. His incredible voice rang out. First,it demanded our attention and then caressed our eardrums, in moments that felt like they somehow were being shared solely with each individual hearing his vocalizations. There were no rappers scowling at the audience and making obscene gestures. No-one grabbed at their crotch the whole time they were on stage, and no-one spouted lyrics that demeaned or demoralized. Yet the audience happily sang along, and danced at their seats and in the aisles. There is a lesson here, for any of today's "musicians who are able to read the writing on their own private wall. One of the brothers said it perfectly in an interview. "One of the reasons (for our lengthy music careers) is that our music crosses so many boundaries and our performances are not contrived," says Neville. "We don't have slick choreography and fireworks. We just play the music -- it's just our feelings and thoughts about the world."
   "Just play"?. They do so much more than that. The Neville Brothers bring freedom to all those notes that the lines of the staff imprison in a jail of ink and paper. So many are unable to free them from their silent captivity, but the Nevilles liberate them all. They break the chains and send those notes soaring through the night air, while people listen, enraptured.

   I went to a friend's birthday party last night. This woman has been part of my life for more than twenty years now, but I am worried about how much time there may be left for our friendship. She is being stolen slowly from all of us who care about her by a cruel and silent thief that calls itself Parkinson's disease. It was a surprise party and when she came in to find herself surrounded by friends and family, it would have broken your heart to watch her. She stood there, smiling, and saying things like "Oh my goodness, what a surprise!", but her hands shook so badly as she raised them to her face. They were not still once, the whole evening. They move continuously, quite as though with a will of their own.They are being gradually disconnected from the motor control of her brain, as are all of her muscles. As this creeping marauder continues its course, even the muscular motion of swallowing will be affected, gradually becoming impossible.
   My friend is taking part in a clinical drug trial. I remember her beginning it with such high hopes, confident that she would be helped back to normalcy by a wonder drug. The months have rolled by, however, and her symptoms have not been alleviated. Perhaps she is in the placebo group. Perhaps, the drug is not able to do anything for her. It hurts to see what is happening to her. I hope that her condition will reach a plateau, where she will be granted a respite from its onslaught. I hope that medicine will achieve one of its all-too-rare miracles, while she is yet able to be helped. Perhaps, if there is any silver lining to her cloud at all, it might be that she is afflicted with the same disease as a couple of famous individuals. Their fame may add impetus to the search for the cure. In a 'perfect world', their star status would have no special bearing at all on the situation, but this is not a fair world. I can hope that their celebrity will have impact on the research being done, and that it will serve to help my friend, as well as all the others who live with this condition. A way to stave off this vicious thief would be more than welcome, indeed.

   I was browsing the Toronto Daily Star this morning and stopped to nibble at an article by Catherine Mulroney about what she calls the "rising tide of rudeness". She explains that she was seated in a chair at the hairdresser's when she overheard an elderly client raising her voice to be heard above the hairdryer. The woman was detailing her belief that "there's no discipline today" and laying all the blame at the feet of today's children.
   Now, dear reader, I just have to give you this full quote, so bear with me for a paragraph.    "One of the givens in life is that anyone over the age of 25 can freely dump all over children, perhaps the only segment of society left who can still be stereotyped without their critics being slapped with a harsh label."
   Such righteous indigantion, Catherine! I am only thankful that I wasn't reading this article anywhere near you, say in a coffee shop, or even that hairdresser's, where you say you go to 'relax' as long as no-one is "yapping loudly". (Newsflash, Catherine! Everybody who wants to talk, AND be heard in such a setting has to raise their voice. Those dryers are noisy. Maybe a hairdresser's salon is not the best place to look for your "quiet time".) I wouldn't have been able to help myself. The laughter exploded from me, when I read your next line, and if that had happened in your hearing, you would have lumped me in with the older people about whom you write with such stereotypes. I am not "blue-rinsed" or "over 70 and given to entertaining the whole room, whether the room wants to listen or not", but you, I am sure, would have looked at the grey creeping into my hair, and dismissed me with one pass of your pen across the paper of your next column.
   The problem, you see, Catherine, is that your very next line is one of the biggest stereotypes there is. "But children are born a blank slate." is how you actually chose to follow up that indignant outburst. John Locke (1632-1704) would have loved you for that line, Catherine. He was an empiricist who believed that all knowledge is based on experience, and that children are, indeed, born blank slates, upon which their adults must inscribe a life-script. Of course, children do learn a great deal from example, but they are not born "blank". How arrogant of you to imagine that your children will learn only what you teach them, and will bring nothing of their own to the span of their years. Do you know about Ludwig Van Beethoven and his nephew Karl? Such a famous example of how the writing on those slates does not always retain the syntax the adults seek to craft. Do you want more modern examples? I have worked long years with children, in my capacity as an educator, and I have seen so many children who were like those apples we all speak of, as not falling far from the tree. Children five years old have spouted racist hatred at me. Blank slates? Other children have talked to me so seriously of their ongoing struggles to argue with their parents against such beliefs, and how they seek with such earnestness to change their parents' mindset. Blank slates?
   Think more carefully, Catherine, before you go off half-cocked with a weapon in your hands, because words written for public consumption can indeed carry all the power of the lowly quill that bests the infamous sword.

CARBS BE DAMNED!

I took a drive north on Sunday, to visit my aunt.She lives in a small retirement community, bordered by farmers' fields. The corn is coming up! The last time we drove that way, the corn was still playing shy with everyone, and not quite showing itself above the fence, but on Sunday, it was boldly looking out over the rail, as if to say "Here I come, are you ready?" I love the look of a cornfield, with the ears ripe for the picking. I almost never eat it off the cob -hate having to pck it out from between my teeth. Ever since I took that baseball to the mouth, my teeth have been rearranged just a little and things stick where they never used to. Broken and repaired teeth notwithstanding, my pleasure in the visual treat that is a field of corn offering itself for the harvest is diminished not a whit.
   Corn has been an important food source in these parts for long centuries. The First Nation people referred to it as one of the three sisters.The first white settlers in the new world were indebted for their very survival more than once to the Native people. Corn to eat, as well as instruction on how to grow the crop were some of the life-giving gifts presented to the new neighbours. The Europeans continued to find corn just as important as the natives did. "Johnny cake" or Journey cake" became an important staple of their long trek to market. When the trip meant hitching up the team and being on the road for a whole day or more, you needed to take food with you that would not spoil. The pioneer's johnny cake was a bit dry, being made without eggs or milk so it would last the journey. Today's version is just a wee bit easier to eat, even without water to wash it down! I've made it for my daughters for years and they've always enjoyed the 'at home version'. When the pioneer wife made it for her family on a day when everyone would be at home, it could be served warm from the oven, in a bowl with maple syrup poured over its golden goodness. After seeing that corn field on the weekend, the thought of johnny cake would not leave me alone until I had trekked to the store to buy some cornmeal and then headed to the kitchen. Let me share with you my recipe, and wish you pleasure in the fragrance of the cornbread filling your kitchen, and joy in the feeding of your family.

Johnny Cake

You can bake this creation in a twelve-cup muffin pan, or in an 8" x 8" square pan. Grease the muffin cups well, or grease and flour the pan. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees fahrenheit.

*1/4 c. wheat germ
*3/4 c whole wheat flour
*1/4 c sugar
*4 tsp baking powder
*1/2 tsp salt
*1 c cornmeal
*2 eggs
*1 c milk
*1/4 c oil (sunflower,or corn or even olive oil will do)

Measure all the dry ingredients into a large mixing bowl, and use a fork to stir them together. Combine all the wet ingredients in a smaller bowl, make a well in the middle of the dry, and pour in the wet. Use a wooden spoon to mix it all well, bu don't beat it! Pour into baking container and pop in the oven for 20 minutes. Give the square pan a little longer in the oven, maybe as much as five extra minutes, but check on it first after 20 minutes. It's done when it's a beautiful golden brown. If you baked it in the square, there will be a crack or two in the surface. Use a tester (I use an old knitting needle!) if you want to be really sure. This recipe doubles perfectly.
Crumble a pice into a bowl while it's still warm and get out that syrup.You can also enjoy it buttered, or plain if you're not a syrup fan.

Canada has moved back up again in the United Nations' Human Development Index survey. For six years running, we held number one, but in 2003 we fell to eighth place. This year, we have managed to regain some of that lost ground and move back up to fourth place. Sounds good, doesn't it? We can get back a little of former prime minister Chretien's braggadocio about our rating, He repeatedly called us "the best country in the world". Just before we do that, however, there are a couple of points to consider first.
   Among the reasons for our loss of rank in the rating was the Candian government's treatment of the First Nation's' people. The federal government's policy regarding its First Nations' citizens has been condemned by the United Nations Human Rights Committee as a violation of internationally recognized human rights. As a group, they actually have a lower life expectancy than the rest of we Canadians do. How could that be right? How can that be explained? "After some 500 years of a relationship that has swung from partnership to domination, from mutual respect and co-operation to paternalism and attempted assimilation, Canada must now work out fair and lasting terms of coexistence with Aboriginal people." - Royal Commission on Aboriginal Peoples, 1996 When you read that quote, give extra emphasis to the words "domination" and "attempted assimilation" The history of the government's treatment of these people is a history of shame. But wait, you might say, if our rating has gone back up, then surely there must be progress being made in this area. Perhaps. Again, though, the rejoicing needs to be postponed for one more moment.
    The HDI looks only at how conditions impact the citizenry of the country itself. Maybe it should also look at how that country's policies impact the citizenry of the Third World. Let's take a quick look at asbestos This is a natural fiber that people have been using for centuries. Pliny the Elder, of ancient Rome wrote about it, and also about it's dangers. He recommended that one should never buy a slave who had been working in an asbestos mine, since they "die young". He couldn't articulate the dangers, but we can. We have known about the dangers posed by this wunderkind of the fiber world for decades. We know, too, that the diseases caused by exposure can take long years, a decade or more, to begin showing their adverse affects on the health of anyone exposed to it. Follow the link on the word asbestos to read about the cover-up that has gone on, in Canada and other countries, so that profits could continue to be made from its use, at the cost of the health and lives of those who worked with it and, often, unknowingly used it. The government is so concerned about the health risk posed by asbestos that a billion dollar project is being started this summer to remove it completely from our Parliamnet buildings. This project, of course, would have been okayed by the members of Parliament. They know that to continue their exposure could very likely lead to their walking the halls of cancer wards in years to come. Heaven forbid! How very interesting then, that they should at the same time be part of our federal government's push to continue its export of asbestos. Seven of our ten trading partner purchasers of asbestos are third world conutires. The workers handling it there have no idea that they need to proceed with caution. Our government is failing to include suitable caveats with their export. There are reports of workers in India cutting into bags of the fiber, standing in the middle of a cloud of it. Obviously they don't know that simply breathing in will become an action that will come back to haunt them in the future. When they are struggling for every breath, and dying of the cancer that began back in that cloud, I wonder if they will realize it started as they opened the bags from Canada.
   All of Canada's asbestos mines are in Quebec, a province with a history of petulant threats to seperate itself from the rest of the country. Could the federal gevernemnt be buying Quebec's continued participation with the health and welfare of its trade partners? I wonder, how much foreign aid are we giving to India, for instance? We of "the rich world" have been generous with our dollars, so much so, in fact, that by 1989 the Third World owed the rich countries $180 billion. The recipients find themselves unable to repay the loans. Perhaps Canada might consider cancelling the debt of any country, like India, to which we sell our asbestos. We could tell them, in our incredible generosity, that we will cancel that debt in recognition of the money they will have to hope they can find somewhere, to care for all their citizens who will be dying of cancer in a decade or so. Maybe, if we did such a thing, and made very sure word got to the United Nations about our magnanimity, they would be moved to bump us back up to first place. What do you think?

Yeah, OK, so I'm just a little wee bit late with these two, but, here goes.

I just found this out. Have you heard about it? Apparently, in May, the Swediah army "lost" 3,199 pairs of green camouflage underpants! I kid thee not. You have to wonder about a couple of things here ... Exactly how were these items 'lost'? Were they stolen? I can't quite imagine a high black market demand for 'hot' camouflage drawers. I wonder what the going price is? Finally, the big question is, WHY does the underwear have to be camouflage? Is this for midnight manoeuvres?

Alberta premier Ralph Klein apparently launched into fervent defense of Augusto Pinochet recently in the legislature, and then tabled a university essay he had written about the Chilean. (What the hell was that about? Was he hoping the Speaker would put a little gold sticker on it, maybe?) Whatever, academics immediately crawled all over it and found that large parts of it had been plagiarized from internet sources that were not credited. Just how much of a laughing stock does Klein want to be? To defend an animal like Pinocher must raise questions in people's minds about the sanity and integrity of anyone who would do so. The act of tabling the essay was an immature grab for attention. Obviously, the idiot also knew he had plagiarized. Where is the man's brain ... assuming he has one, that is?

Today's tidbits ...
   First, a follow-up on my entry about the psychopath scheduled to be released. Yesterday was his big day, and he was free for about twelve hours before he himself chose to go back to jail. The man is described as an "incurable psychopath", who has refused to participate in any treatment programs. When he hit the streets, he found himself facing a pack of media hounds. Having the short fuse that he does, it was very little time before one of the reporters was quoting the creep as having uttered a death threat. The con later denied it, but nonetheless, he asked the judge to put him back behind bars. He is quoted as saying to the judge, when asked why, "Get them (the media) to explain how I'm supposed to live out there." Poor thing, don't you feel so sorry for him?    The judge acquiesced to the request, but said "It grieves me to do it." You know, I've got a great solution to this whole quandary! It would help both of them feel so much better, I'm sure! Being a judge, you just know he doesn't live in any hovel. In fact, there's a good chance he even has a whole room to spare. Now, if he arranged to have this animal released under his supervision, he could stop grieving and let this worthy citizen with 60 convictions to his name have that spare room. The psychopath could have a nice cozy place to 'live out there' again, and they'd all live happily ever after!

   This next one is pathetic, as far as I'm concerned. Randy Bachman is looking to team up with polka king Walter Ostanek to record an album on which he actually plans to turn some of his songs into polkas. Randy, get a grip!
   First making it big in the 60's with The Guess Who, Bachman was there when hits like "American Woman" were grinding out their chords across the band's guitar frets. Moving on musically, he became part of the Bachman Turner Overdrive. The album of that name hit the charts in '73 and bloody well stayed there for 68 weeks! They went gold in the early 70's, and gave their fans hits like Blue Collar", and "Let It Ride". They provided voice to those of that generation who used their music as instant parent-repellent, and prized the protest in the lyrics of "American Woman". Randy, Randy, how can you even think of this? Apparently Bachman says that he feels the beat of some of his numbers can "easily translate into polka numbers".
   You've had your turn in the spotlight, Randy. If you have nothing more to offer, then reitre gracefully. Don't participate in making yourself into a parody and your music into a farce. Sometimes it is right to 'go gently into that good night' of musical history.

   Last item you've just got to know about!
    University of New Brunswick have reversed theri initial decision to ban a blind man and his working dog from a five-week English immersion program being given there this summer.The ban was imposed when they failed to get the "ironclad guarantees" they were demanding that the dog would not be addressed in French. Apparently, the dog ONLY RESPONDS TO COMMANDS IN FRENCH! I guess it must have been trained by French-speaking handlers, but that seems llittle excuse for the dog not being smart enough to realize this country has two official languages. I suppose the twits at the University don't know enough, either, to understand that a working dog is only supposed to take commands from and respond to its owner, so if they were planning on telling it to sit, or whatever, in response to English, they need to get themselves a little education on the protocol of the situation. Wait a minute, they do work at an institute of higher learning! Do you think there is hope? Do you suppose, if we could find some handlers with a lot of extra patience, the decision makers at the UNB could be taught, in both our official languages, to roll over and play dead?

Read any good books lately? I have - two of them actually, one fiction and one non-fiction. I'll assume that you're consumed with curiosity and give you a couple of mini reviews!
The first one was "Idiot Proof: Deluded Celebrities, Irrational Power Brokers, Media Morons, and the Erosion of Common Sense" written by Francis Wheen, and published by Public Affairs, New York.The book is sold under the title "How Mumbo-Jumbo COnquered the World" in the UK> The jacket tells the reader that the book is "a masterful depiction of the daftness of our times and a plea that we might just think a little more and believe a little less." Don't read this one unless you pride yourself on an open mind, but if you do, be prepared to be shaken up more than just a little. It seems that almost everyone who has held the public's attention comes in for a scathing rake over the coals, from Nostradamus to Princess Di, the Ayatollah to G. Bush. While it is not so upsetting to read Princess Di being treated with less than the fawning adulation that so many gave and continue to give her, it is most disturbing to read some of the details disclosed about major political figures. I won't even go near Bush. Leave him right now to Michael Moore, because there is no end to that man's narrow-minded stupidity. Let's take a quick peek instead atTony Blair. Hot-to-trot in Bush's footsteps, Blair has sent how many troops to Iraq? Anyway, he is a born-again ... a born-again ... well, exactly what, I am not sure, but be sure to read on page 126/7 about the Mayan rebirth ritual he and his wife underwent , in Mexico, in 2001. Before leaving the rebirth site, the couple were instructed to scream out loud to symbolize the pain of birth. After reading it, think of this character at the helm of political power and see if it doesn't make you want to scream out loud to signify the pain of his being there. His wife's influence has resulted in the government hiring a feng-shui consultant, Renuka Wickmaratne, for advice on such matters as how to improve inner-city council estates. She advised red and orange flowers to reduce crime. You have to wonder, how much was this veritable fount of wisdom paid, from taxpayers' funds, to spout off this misguided mental meandering? Of course, I may be wrong. Maybe it really does work, but again, it raises questions, like why haven't a veritable jungle of red and orange blooms been planted in all the slums and crime hotspots, in all the districts worldwide, where police officers fear to travel alone?
The book ends with 17 pages of endnotes that include sources galore for further reading, if you're up to it after the onslaught of this manuscript. Wheen goes to great lengths to make it clear to his reader that the safety and security of our world is on much shakier ground than they would ever want to imagine. As he says in the last paragraph of the volume, "those who refuse to learn from experience ... are not only condemning themselves to repeat the past. They wish to consign us all to a life in the darkness."
   The second book "The Third Witch" is the first novel by author Rebecca Reisert, and published by Washington Square Press. If you like historical fiction, then you're already well on the way to enjoying this read. She writes with such a sense of urgency, that it is damn near impossible to put the book down until you've turned the last page. The witch of the title is the youngest of the three who rise up from the fog, in Shakespeare's play, to confront MacBeth. Reisert constructs a life story for this character out of the richness of an imagination that is, nonetheless, well grounded in the reality of that period. Her descriptions of castle life and the struggle for existence of those who dwell in huts paint pictures rich in detail without ever overburdening the flow of the narrative. The main character, Gilly, comes from a former life of being the pampered daughter of privilege, to the present where she ekes out an existence in the company of the two old women who rescued her when her world fell apart. They rob the dead on the battlefields, and gather whatever bounty the forest offers. Herbs are gathered to exchange for foodstuffs with the good sisters at a nearby convent, but herblore places its possessor in constant danger of being hunted as a witch. In fact, the witch hunters come to play a significant role in Gilly's life. She is consumed with a need for revenge on the man who brought about the first disaster in her life, and pursues that goal with single-minded purpose, against the urgings of her companions, and even of her own heart. There is much sorrow and hardship in wait for the heroine, before her problems finally resolve themselves in a way most unlooked for. At 307 pages, I found the book to be satisfyingly long enough, and disappointingly short, all at the same time. Write another book, Ms. Reisert! I'll be there at Chapters to grab up my copy!

The sentence has been passed. Nine months is all that was handed down to the Blackstock couple who adopted their two nephews and then turned their lives into hell. When they have served one-third of the sentence, they will be eligible for day parole. After serving two-thirds of the sentence, they will be eligible for full parole. Now, let me see if I can figure this out ... one-third of nine months; that would be just three months, right? So after imposing more than a decade of torture on the two boys, the perpetrators could feel the sun on their faces again, each day. Those boys that they forcibly confined in cages improvised from cribs ... I wonder how often the sun shone in on their faces while they were lying there. Total freedom could be enjoyed by the convicted abusers after just six months. Those boys will never be totally free. Someone, please, explain to me, where is the justice in the sentence imposed by the moron seated on the bench?
   The two boys were born with fetal alcohol syndrome, already a life sentence of effects to be dealt with. Their aunt and uncle adopted them from their alcoholic mother, who later died because of her substance abuse. The aunt is trying to claim now that she suffered abuse as a child, and so this prevented her from giving "proper care". Where was all the red tape, and the investigations when these boys were being taken into hell? Who okayed this adoption? Obviously, insufficient was done to ascertain the fitness of the adoptive parents. Perhaps the case worker who signed those papers should be up on some charges, as well.
   Childhood abuse or not, there is no excusing what these two animals did to the boys. The law decrees that forcible confinement should result in a sentence of up to ten years, and that failing to provide the necessities of life should bring up to two years. The judge gave concurrent sentences of ONE MONTH for failing to provide the necessities of life. It is known that these boys ingested their own excrement, out of fear of punishment. Can you even try to imagine being driven to the state where you would be capable of that? Those teens can be given intensive therapy, and all the help possible, but they will never completely leave it all behind. It will haunt them in nightmares for decades to come. It will rear its ugly head in memories triggered by an innocent word overheard in a conversation. The triggers that will bring it back on them can not even be anticipated by the boys themselves right now. They will only know each one of them as they encounter them, on their journey through the years. Their lives have been forever altered, in ways that can never be completely quantified.
Now let us return to Mr. Justice Donald Halikowski, and his sentence. He is quoted as saying, when he gave his decision, that the actions of the adoptive parents had "descended darkly into abusive behaviour that bordered on torture". (By the way, I hope you were properly impressed by his use of alliteration. Maybe he should get a job writing something llike travel brochures, instead.) Anyway, it's quite a statement, if he really meant it. Does he intend us to understand, that in his opinion, it is basically acceptable to torture, as long as you're willing to give up at least three months of your life to atone for your actions? That would really make someone stop and think, wouldn't it? Three whole months of inconvenience! Now there's a deterrent, if ever there was one. Enough to make anyone contemplating the unthinkable to quake in their boots, and turn aside from the deed. Unfortuantely, there are bound to be far too many child abusers paying close attention to the message he has sent.
    Perhaps,just a week or two, not even three whole months. Perhaps that's all the time that Mr Justice Idiot should be confined in a cage and forced to wear diapers, because he is not allowed to go to the bathroom. Maybe after a few full weeks in those conditions, he could be allowed out during the day, and brought back again in the evening. A nice cozy cage to come home to, something to eagerly anticipate, don't you think, Mr. Justice Jackass? With dullards and lamebrains like Halikowski seated on the bench, we can all rest easy. Justice will be done!

Upon reading my Canada Day post, someone felt obliged to issue a challenge. "God, it sounds like you're getting ready to write a poem about a bloody cup of coffee" said he!
Well, for your info, the following is based on the poetry form known as the "cinquain" and, being based on a quaff so inspirational, it took mere moments to write itself on the inside of my brain, so that all I had to do was copy it out here.

One For Me, Please!

double-double

fresh-brewed, fragrant

stir, drink, smile

libation worthy of the gods

coffee

Happy 137th, mon pays!
There are those, I know, who will feel that a rousing display of pyrotechnics is the best way to celebrate Canada Day. Normally, I would agre with them, but today, the firecrackers have been pushed down into second place by the news of an upcoming entry in the new edition of the Canadian Oxford Dictioanry. They will be listing the term "double-double". It's enough to make one's heart swell with patriotic pride and one's inner being vibrate with the need for a caffeine fix! As a hockey mom, I have put in my years of sitting in some heater-less turn-of-the-century-and-about-to-collapse-any-second arena, at a god-awful hour in the morning, nursing a double-double, while my kids skated through their practise or game. The coffee made the whole thing more 'do-able'. It's a part of the Canadian identity. It's time for this fragrant ambrosia to have official status in our lexicons.