Stephen Maher, Vacuous Celebrities and a Hobbit's Tale

But even so, in spite of his talent and lifetime of achievement, his global impact is much less than a lot of less admirable celebrities, including the self-indulgent and erratic Justin Bieber, who has 47 million Twitter followers.

It's not hard to look at the headlines and headline-makers today and despair.  

There are so many narcissistic, vacuous celebrities out there who gain and maintain fame more through notoriety than through talent.  Making history has apparently become about shock value, not something resembling actual contributions of value.

Meanwhile, there is war, destruction and soul-sucking poverty; all avoidable, if people were willing to work together and plan ahead.

There are the preludes to war, leaders ragging the puck and offloading responsibility in ways that inevitably spark fires of social disruption.  We know what to expect, because we've seen it all again and again; it's Groundhog Day, only the loop runs just long enough for new generations to forget or ignore the lessons learned by their ancestors.

If you fear for the future of humanity, you've got just cause to do so.  

By all appearances, we're a petty, vengeful self-absorbed lot more prone to negative reaction that pro-social altruism.  How can we but end up in darkness?

And yet, there's nothing new to this picture - as Warren Kinsella points out, we've been enjoying bloodsports, ignoring the well-being of our neighbours and feeling better about ourselves through putting down others since before the written word.

Thug leaders with neither vision nor foresight like Rob Ford aren't uncommon - in fact, history is full of them.  I've said to many that Ford is like a toned-down version of Saddam Hussein and that, if not for the laws, expectations and culture of Canada, things in Toronto would be a lot worse.  

This can be taken as an insult against Ford, who is but a genetic and experiential product; it can also be taken as a compliment for the rest of us.

There are self-obsessed celebrities like Miley Cyrus, Justin Bieber and Rob Ford, but there are also good ones, people like George Clooney and Angelina Jolie who are equally famous, opt not to take themselves seriously and feel a responsibility to use their fame to further the goal of an equitable society.

More importantly, though, there are those people whose names the world will never know, but that you perhaps might; your neighbour, a teacher who cared, a boss who treated you as an apprentice rather than a resource.  There are also the innovators, the pioneers, the people who have changed the world as much as Johannes Guttenberg but without having their names recorded.  

History is replete with people like this.  In fact, history is a bit like an archaeological record; we will celebrate the names and events that are passed on through tradition, but much of what has shaped the world we live in was never written down; it simply was.

It's easy to look behind and feel frightened for what's to come, but what we see is not the entirety of what is.  The greatest people, the ones who bring promise of brighter days are not on the periphery, nor are they waiting just beyond the horizon.  

They're here, right now, doing what they do best which is not selling brands or making headlines, but doing the little deeds, developing small ideas that will lead to an avalanche of social change for which someone else will gain credit.

Don't feel bad for them, nor bitter - fewer people claim fame than we might think when we focus on those who do.  That, too, is how it has always been.  Our journey may seem like a slow decent into darkness; it isn't.  

We sometimes just need visionaries to remind us of this.

 I've found it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keeps the darkness at bay.

That Which Doesn't Kill Us...

... brings us together. 


In the meantime, Toronto Hydro has asked those who have electricity service to "share the power" and consider inviting neighbours inside.

The Storm is bad, compared to what we're used to.  It's clearly no typhoon, though.

Throughout the hit zone, people are taking pictures, sharing news, sharing tips on how to stay safe or keep warm and are sharing their resources.

The worst is over, though some branches will still come down and there are still many without power  Of course, there are those who go without heat and shelter every day.

Be thankful for what you have, look to your neighbour and plan for the worst. 

Treatment For Holocaust Movie

This is a story I would love to see told on the big screen.  It's one that, unfortunately, is of incredible relevance as we slip back into the moral nihilism and selfish hatred that catalyzed World War II and the Holocaust.

My grandfather's story of survival began in a plane over Normandy, wound through the fields of Occupied Europe and into the street of Paris before taking an unexpected segue into Buchenwald Concentration Camp.  It's not a tale for the faint of heart, but then survival is never a pretty business.

Below is just the opening teaser; I have the entire treatment plus plenty of notes, contacts, references, so on and so forth.  What I need is someone with the courage and resources to bring this story to life.

Over a black screen:

 

“I pretended not to have seen, I pretended not to have heard, because I didn’t want to be responsible.”

-          Adalbert Lallier, Former SS Officer and retired Concordia Economics professor

 

June 8^th, 1944, 01:30 in the morning.  With the invasion of Normandy two days ago, the Allied Forces have at last gained a toe-hold in Europe.  Bombers are being sent over France to smash Nazi depots and train stations, disrupting their supply lines to the front.  

One of these, a Halifax bomber with a Canadian crew, has been deployed to take out a rail yard near Paris.  Compared to many of their previous targets, this is a light assignment – the crew doesn’t expect any surprises. 

They are wrong.

 

The Halifax’s four engines rumble in the pre-dawn darkness.  A voice whispers, “approaching target – get ready.”  The hum of the engines changes pitch as the plane descends, and is joined by the explosive thuds of anti-aircraft fire from the ground.  The muffled noises are swallowed by a near-to-ear eruption; the plane is hit.

The darkness is broken by the blink of the pilot’s eyes.  The pilot is a young man, twenties – he turns his head left, craning to see the impact site.  His eyes widen as he sees the entire port wing is on fire, and spewing black smoke.  He curses.  Within the tight quarters of the plane – chaos.  Airmen scream over the noise.  Shouting to be heard over the ruckus, the pilot gives the order to bail out even as he tries to put out the fires that have sparked up.  

Barely 21 years old, wireless operator Ed Carter-Edwards from Smithville, Ontario throws on his parachute pack and lines up at the hatch.  The man in front of him jumps – Ed freezes, stares blindly.  The moment, the commotion around him – for precious seconds, Ed is removed from everything, lost in his own mental space, as if something is trying to hold him back.  Behind him, his fellow airman, Tom, shouts – something.  When Ed doesn’t respond, Tom kicks Ed out of the hatch.  The sudden drop brings Ed back to his senses; he shakes off the shock and looks around as the others pull their ripcords.  The blazing Halifax lights up the sky as it drops, a smoke trail extending behind it.  Nazi fire bursts around the former occupants of the downed bomber.  Young Ed pulls open his own chute, which he has not tightened as well as he should – the force as he’s pulled upward nearly splits him in half.  Ed watches wide-eyed as, from the darkness, the plane that brought his down – a Focke-Wulf 190 – flies past like a shark circling its prey.   Looking down, the Canadian sees the outline of the River Seine, and nearby, the lights of a small village.   The Halifax crashes into the ground, sending up a fireball as the fuel and bombs ignite.

The young airman touches down hard in a pitch-black field, cracking his chin with his knees.  He has not been trained on how to land.  In the distance, the wreckage of his plane burns, a black plume of smoke reaching up towards the starless sky.   He’s deep in the French countryside, far behind enemy lines.  Completely alone, he realizes the Nazis must already be on the look-out for survivors.  Ed separates himself from his parachute, wraps it up to stow away, all the while scanning the horizon, trying to guess where his fellow airmen might have landed.  Ed double-checks that he has his emergency kit, then takes off at a run for the nearby forest.  He stops – running parallel to him but 20 metres off, silhouetted by the firelight from the plane, is another figure.

For a second, Ed stands, quietly.  Hopefully, the gunner figures it must be one of the boys, and shouts out, “Who is it?  It’s Ed!”  A relieved voice calls back, “It’s Tom!”  The tension is immediately cut in half – even one friendly face makes a difference.   They run to each other, slap each other on the shoulders – “Ed, what happened to you up there?”  “I dunno – I just.. froze.  Hey, we can talk later – let’s get out of here”. 

They make for the woods.  Under the cover of trees, they stow their chutes in the bushes.  The young men run through the woods in the direction of the village they saw from above.  They hear voices, freeze.  When the voices have passed on, the men decided to spread out – that way, if one gets caught, they can warn the other.  Tom runs first; Ed counts to ten, then takes off after him.  To the right, a light comes on, blasting the woods in a white-blue glow; it’s followed by loud voices.  Ed stumbles, drops.  Waits as long as he dares, then, running flat out, he rushes after his friend.  In the darkness, Ed comes to a fork in the road.

He looks to the left.  Looks to the right.  Back.  In as loud as a voice as he dares, Ed calls out Tom’s name.  No answer.  Again – silence.  Cursing under his breath, the lights and noise still behind him, Ed takes the right-handed path.   It’s a choice he will live to regret.

Quilotoa: Keep On Climbing

This picture was taken 15 years ago today, at the mid-point of a brutal hike out of Quilotoa volcano in Ecuador.  That trek is far the most excruciating thing I have ever done.

A friend of mine and I, on holidays from a year-abroad program in the country, backpacked around the famous Quilotoa loop; for something different, we decided to camp out in the crater rather than around the rim with all the other tourists.

Quilotoa rests at 3,914m - right where the earth bulges at the equator, thinning the atmosphere down to a wisp.  For an asthmatic, merely breathing under those conditions was a Herculean effort.  

It was a fairly quick hike down the rock path and a sandy embankment, leading through some surreal landscape and even a field of flowers down to the edge.  My trust backpack, as pictured above, weighed me down a bit further - every step I took into the crater, I knew, would be an added torture on the climb out.

You don't dwell on such things when you're 20.

The Dark came fast within the depths of Quilotoa.  My friend and I had barely set up our tent when a lid of clouds settled at the crater's rim, sealing us in for the night.  

We explored, gingerly, afraid to stray too far from our tent.  We were both struggling for breath and energy and worried, senselessly, that someone might steal the tent while we were away.  A silly worry - on that night, we were very much alone.

It began to rain.  Great teardrops dripped from the cloud above, quickly blotting out the sky and the landscape between us and our tent.  Spent, we none-the-less mustered every ounce of speed we could and rushed down the embankment and across the impossible field of flowers that separated us and the promontory where rested our shelter.  It looked so small and fragile in the immensity of the crater; fragile, and increasingly vulnerable.

We dove in to the tent, bring both my friend's small pack and my larger one, which carried the supplies, in with us.  And then the Dark settled in, the howl of the rain blocked out all other sound and we settled in for a long night of pitch black and creeping cold.

The rain didn't stop all night - it kept pounding the walls of the crater and our little tent, creeping up through the floor and dampening our sleeping bags and clothes, chattering our bones.  Sometime past the witching hour, a new sound joined the thunderous rain; distant rumbles that grew louder, moved faster and ended with heavy splashes.  

Avalanches.  

So heavy was the rain that it was ripping loose the walls of the volcano, sending tumbling waves of rock down into the carter lake metres below us.  We'd picked our campsite well - the promontory jutted out into the water.  But was it far enough?  The night crept on as we silently waited for the rumble to grow closer and swallow us whole.

Dawn came; we were still alive.  With stiff, frozen joints my friend and I roused, opened the tent and began to prepare for the hike out.  After a quick breakfast of market-bough goods we laid our sleeping bags and clothes out to dry.  Our breath pushed heavy against the frozen air, but we knew it wouldn't be long until the sun rose above the lip of the crater and the heat poured on intensely.

Above us, we could see the sunlight glinting off the cameras of tourists up above.  Where they were, it was warm already.  We watched, holding our arms close and stomping our feet as the sun slowly spilled into the crater and crept down to our level.  The shift in temperature was astonishing - from freezing and wet to hot and sweaty within the space of minutes.  

We waited, steeling ourselves for the climb out as our gear dried and the muddy embankments returned to their sandy state.  Packing took on the airs of ritual, an attempt to connect with divine forces to give us the strength for that which was to come.

And then we climbed.

My knees ached, by back bowed under the wait of my pack made only more burdensome by the hot sun that beat down on us both.  The ground gave way with each footfall, turning every step out into a half step, or sometimes a retreat.  And all this before we reached the sandy embankment.  That we climbed on all fours, grasping at the sifting surface before us, looking for anything to cling to, to keep us from falling behind.  With the constant sliding, we must have climbed that bit at least three times over.

The world stripped away from us - we were laid bare, naked under the sun in our drive to get out of the cavernous crater that had become our world.

My lungs simply ceased to function; oxygen-starved muscles strained, whipped on by willpower alone, but it was not enough.  Finally my friend had the compassionate wisdom to suggest we switch packs for a while - mine, after all, carried the tent and gear.  I took his, barely conscious enough to show gratitude.  The hike became slightly more bearable from there.

I couldn't tell you how long it took us to ply our way out of the cave and back to the surface.  It felt like forever - or perhaps, it felt like an experience that took place beyond time, in a world that nestled below the surface of the world we accept as home.  

Close to emergence, my friend and I began to regain our youthful cockiness, even if it was just in the airs we put on for each other.  

Then a local indigenous man walked by with a massive bundle of branches on his shoulders.  It must have been twice his size, that load of branches; like an ant, he'd scurried down in to the crater with the sunrise, collected, tied and picked up his load and was now casually walking out.  It was a humbling moment.

We determined we would beat this man out, just because we felt the need for some kind of victory, some sort of validation to cap off our experience.  The man himself didn't care - this was his daily routine, he saw lots of tourists come and go.  The cycle carried on, and would long after we'd gone.

Finally, my friend and I were on the path that led to the crater's rim and then, out into the tourist encampment that greeted all visitors.  Backpackers were playing cards, taking pictures, eating local treats bought from a restaurant tent off to one side.  We paused for a picture to prove we had done this thing, then stumbled to the tent and bought a couple of Cokes.  We needed the caffeine and carbonation.

For a moment we just sat, existing, recuperating, being.  We'd earned that much.  My friend turned to me and smiled.

"Keep on climbing, eh?"  We still said "eh" in those days.

I smiled back and nodded.  Keep on climbing.  

Since then I've climbed many a peak and dipped down into many a valley.  The valleys are always dark, shadowed; while in them, you feel below the world.  The peaks can be tortuous, but after Quilotoa, always surmountable.  I did the Machu Picchu trail a bit more than a year later - it was equally hard, but never once did I doubt my ability to complete it.  Quilotoa gave me that.

You can never know what lies beyond when you're deep in a valley, nor know the depths of the valleys to come when you sit atop a mountain high.  But they are both there - they are always there.  

I'm often asked what my secret is, keeping my head high even when I'm in a valley.  

The trick is easy; just keep on climbing.  The simple experience makes it all worthwhile.

Taking it Backwards: Tackling Prostitution In Canada

Legalizing prostitution would legitimize their sexual exploitation by men.

Many will say I'm bass-ackwards about this, but are we not trying to solve the wrong problem?  Isn't cracking down on prostitution a bit like forcing women to wear more clothes so as not to tempt men, or penalizing drug users instead of the drug production chain?

If we're really concerned about women (and girls) being sexually exploited by men, it's more than just a prostitution thing - it happens in rape, in work-place harassment, in the home and all kinds of non-sex trade related contexts.  A focus on prostitution does nothing to address any of this; in fact, the sorts of suggestions Perrin brings forward will do nothing but drive existing practices underground, increasing the risk (and excitement, and profit margin) for johns and pimps, making the situation worse.

Why don't we spend more time teaching boys and men not to objectify women?  A little social-emotional learning here, a bit of self-regulation there, maybe some communication strategies.  Hell, if you want to be cheeky, teach proper courting techniques so boys can compete with each other for the affections of ladies through demonstrations of chivalry.  When you view women as products to be bought/earned through gift-giving, you're gonna be inclined to treat them as service providers instead of people.  That's easily addressed through education.

We've got this social cognitive dissonance where we want to believe it's wrong to influence behaviour, that "boys will be boys" but then end up spending far more on back-end justice measures when it would be far more effective to get in on the front end.

Instead of abolishing prostitution, why don't we instead focus on abolishing stigma, discrimination and misogyny?  Is that not a sexy enough goal to strive for?

2014's Heart-Shaped Economy

"I think, though, this is not a time to commit sociology, if I can use an expression."

   - Stephen Harper

Harper-brand conservatism considers itself to be pragmatic.  They know what works, what has always worked - carrot-and-stick motivation, trickle-down economics (though they'll never call it that) and as little government involvement in anything as possible.  Regulation-free competition in the free market is the best way to get the best of everything - it's economic natural selection.

But here's the thing - what do you do when the Free Market starts to support an emerging trend of sociology-committing?  

Because that's exactly what's starting to happen.  We'll get back to this in a minute.

As I've written about at length here and elsewhere, market conditions have outgrown the training, employment and motivation model that has sustained Canada's (mostly) natural resources and basic manufacturing-based economy forever.  What Harper and co consider to be "pragmatic" and "the natural order" is now outdated and insufficient for the complex, completely unnatural configuration that is the modern society.

At the turn of the 19th Century, education wasn't really that necessary for most people to get by - there was the family farm and perhaps a trade to learn.  Civic engagement meant community engagement, not concerning oneself with the broader economic realities of multiple domestic jurisdictions and countless foreign ones.  Competition was limited.

When we entered the 20th Century, things were different.  Social infrastructure (and the demands placed on it) were more complex and nuanced - more people had more opportunities to get ahead, life expectancies and such increased and we began to add more value beyond hewing wood and hauling water.  There was a cost to this, though, which most notably took its form in increased demand from the citizenry.

It's the 21st Century now and, sure enough, things are changing.  The people in charge may try to recreate an industrial economy policy environment, but the leaders in our midst believe that our greatest accomplishments cannot be behind us, but are waiting to be achieved tomorrow.

These leaders are digging deep (into themselves, not the earth) and reaching out further (not only to new markets, but to explore existing ones in more pervasive ways).  They are thinking critically and encouraging their teams to do so.  They're even encouraging their end-users to be part of the process, co-designing both products/services and the producer/seller/client relationship.

Critical thinking based on a broad knowledge base is becoming increasingly popular in the education sector.  Instead of dumbing-down language for youth kids or a strict reliance on a stern-father rote-learning model ("here's everything you need to know from the person who does know - now get out there and sell it!"), kids are being encouraged to draw from varied sources, be part of solution-generating and to take ownership of themselves and their relationships from as early an age as possible.

That punk new graduate who's suggesting they'd like to see more employee engagement in the office aren't being cheeky and disrespectful - they're applying behavioural economics to work design and trying to facilitate growth in your company.  Chew on that!

Of course, cutting-edge employers and HR supports are changing the way they do employee recruitment, engagement and motivation as well.  Whereas far too many leaders today will carry airs of superiority while simultaneously down-loading service/product development, sales and implementation to their teams, fostering competition between their staff to try and generate more everything, smart employers are placing themselves as directors on a stage, bringing in the right mix of talent to create a fully-engaging experience for everyone.  It works better.

This concept of lateral, relationship-based engagement is popping up everywhere; between different levels of government (at the staff level, at least), between public and private entities and between individuals.  The silo-based models of old have cracked, and hands are reaching out to meaningfully connect with each other.

The theme for 2014, I predict, will be friction between these two realities - the failing top-down model embodied by the old elite and the emerging new one where engagement, transparency and shared solutions aren't just buzzwords, they're the ticket to success.

Like a snake shedding it's skin, it'll take a great deal of social spasms before the new model is free to grow and flourish.  There will be plenty of tensions along the way; the old world won't give up it's hold on the present so easily.

There will be old-school battles between unions and governments, big business and new employees, organizations that support people vs. those who aim to grow financially.  Some of the big cracks in our social infrastructure will grow, and sadly more people will fall into them.  Count on some protests under big banners, like we've seen recently with Idle No More and Occupy, only more organized and less passive.

The combative people are still here and will continue to do what they know best - to fight for what they believe they are entitled to instead of proactively seeking shared solutions. 

Which is why it's a fun thing that tomorrow's leaders are all about sociology - not pandering to have-nots or criminals, but understanding behaviour and context so as to shape outcomes in positive ways. Folk like Harper have just as much opportunity as anyone to master the social tools of engagement, but to do so would involve becoming everything he stands against.  

There's nothing surprising in any of this - after all, it's the behavioural economy, smarty-pants.

Don't Put Brand Before Health

"The finance minister has the confidence of the prime minister," said Jason MacDonald.  "His record more than demonstrates why he continues to be considered the best finance Minister in the world.  For instance, he's already created one million net new jobs since the recession and he's on track to balance the budget by 2015."

God, this makes me sad.

First off - Ministers of Finance don't create jobs.  The only way they'd do that is by directly hiring themselves, which, given the Conservative government's disdain for the public sector, isn't likely.

But it's the rest of the statement that's absolutely tragic.  What does Flaherty's past record have to do with his current health?  It's great that Flaherty's abilities have the confidence of the Prime Minister - so, what's the PM doing to help his number one minister on the health front so he can do his job, or create the right accommodations for him?

Look, I get it - politics is all about finding and exploiting weak links.  Parties have to circle the wagons, deny anything is ever wrong (until they can't, at which point someone goes under the bus) and only ever point to successes.  To do otherwise is to let down your firewall and risk contagion or assault.

Harper's got good reason to position himself this way; if the roles were reversed, he would probably relish pointing out how an opposite member was not up to the job.  It's pretty clear that some of the existing opposition forces are looking for how best to exploit Flaherty's condition as well.

But if Flaherty's not allowed a misstep, if his Party is going to put brand before the man's health, what happens to him?

I've argued before that a good deal of the Rob Ford fiascoes that consume City Hall are related to partisan positioning, an antiquated view on wellness and poor support and training for politicians and their staff.  

Anyone that's been involved with politics has known a politicians who hid illnesses - and in some cases, had their addictions covered up by Parties - so as not to appear weak in the public/media's eye. Politics is a bloodsport, after all - if you can't cut it for any reason, you're not meant to be there.  

But politicians are human - they do a difficult, under-appreciated, poorly supported job, often far away from home.  It's noble work, but so's working in a hospice or serving with the police - but those professions take conditions like emotional fatigue syndrome seriously.  They also, in fits and spurts, do a better job of recognizing and accommodating physical illness.  

After all, it's not about the appearance of doing a good job or being able to point to a history of performance - it's about sustainability.  How do we help people continue to do a good job now and in the future?  How do we support transitions, institutional memory transfer, so on and so forth?  

Perhaps most importantly, because the whole point of work and politics is to support the social construct, thereby supporting individual well-being - how are we ensuring that individual wellness is at the centre of everything we do?

The truth is that we aren't.  We put "the economy" before the workers and "the Party" before the Members.  

It's not a crime that Flaherty is sick.  No one should be using illness as a stick to beat him with.  In fact, if he's on drugs that impact his mood, then colleagues on both sides of the House who respect him as a person and want to see him do his job to the best of his ability should be taking this reality into account during conversations (or confrontations).

I don't know Flaherty and I'm not particularly fond of his approach to politics or policy.  But I respect the fact that he is a human being, a husband and a father and, like the rest of us, mortal.

There's a lesson to be learned in this, if anyone's looking - one that ties into a much bigger, emerging picture about social stability and renewing labour in a changing economy.  We can understand the human reality and the social matrix and do both better; strong individuals can and should be the foundation of a strong society.  

But that would be a bit too much like committing sociology.