GO JOHNNY GO? SLOW DOWN!

So, let me try and get this straight: Barack Obama admits to using marijuana, cocaine and binge drinking and the U.S. president is quickly proclaimed the Next Great Hope.
John van Dongen admits to a speeding problem and some want our MLA’s lead foot turfed from office faster than you can sing Radar Love.
Explain this to me.
Vancouver Sun columnist Vaughn Palmer, one of the wiser writers in the dumbed-down world of reportage, wrote Saturday that Solicitor General van Dongen – also the minister in charge of public safety – is now his Hypocrite of the Year finalist.
Predictably, B.C. Conservative Party leader Wilf Hanni then demanded van Dongen’s resignation, suggesting Gurcharan Dhaliwal would be a much better representative for Abbotsford South.
Gurcharan who? Talk about the need for being brought up-to-speed in this rather bland provincial election campaign.
For what it’s worth, the real “scandal” would be if van Dongen tried to use his power to escape traffic fines or penalties. He didn’t. He manned up. The system seems to work, doesn’t it? And isn’t it comforting to know we’re not the only ones making ICBC donations?
You expect politicians to call for his job, because it’s the only way they’ll likely unseat him in an area where he is respected.
You expect voters, especially those not preferring Liberals, to demand an execution and replacement, despite many not knowing the difference between an MLA or an MP.
It is fair to suggest van Dongen’s days as a credible spokesperson for safe driving are over. Just as Premier Gordon Campbell may not be poster material for Mothers Against Drunk Driving campaigns.
But van Dongen remains an effective politician and standup human being – and, perhaps, the perfect dude to catch a ride with if you’re running late, but we digress.
Campbell might, for perception sakes, move van Dongen to another ministry or, to raise funds in this recession-riddled province, enter him in NASCAR events. There are options for our Johnny Lightning. Worst-case scenario he could run as an Indy-pendent. Bada boom, bada bing. (I’m here all week!)
Unlike many politicos, van Dongen doesn’t phone the media for photo-ops, he doesn’t blow his own horn and doesn’t go out of his way to make rivals look bad, which is rare in the nasty bloodsport of B.C. politics.
In fact, when NDP leader Carole James announced three years ago she would have to undergo cancer treatment, van Dongen was one of the first to wish her well.
This election, really, has its “scandals.” We should focus on government adding more MLAs and costs during a worldwide recession. We should talk about tolls to get to and from work, the Olympic cost overruns and fudget-security budgets.
We should talk about B.C. Rail, the Cambie Line business killer, health care, taxes, waste disposal, poverty, the homeless, gangs, justice and foresty.
Some or all of these issues could be the Achilles’ heel for van Dongen’s Liberals or for his own political future. But speeding as a “scandal?” Get real.
Tonight at Matsqui Centennial Auditorium, you can put Johnny on the spot and ask him about this and other important issues during an all-candidates’ meeting for Abbotsford South contenders.
You can meet Gurcharan, the likable Bonnie Rai (NDP), the always “interesting” Tim Felger (Independent) and newbie Daniel Bryce (Green).
And, because this forum starts at 7 p.m. sharp, you may have to “drive like Johnny” to get there after dinner.
Start your engines!

A SACRIFICIAL LIMB BY DESIGN

Jesse Tretick laughs about his earlier days as a “pool boy” in Harrison Hot Springs, knowing that union job was secure, paid well and had many beautiful perks.
Missing, however, was a creative outlet for one of Abbotsford’s most unassuming artists. So, the affable pool boy made a big splash into the unfiltered world of tattooing, and has quickly become one of the finest talents in the craft this side of nature’s playground.
Perhaps it was The Bucket List movie that inspired this reluctant daredevil to scribble together a “must-do-before-I-die” checklist.
That pre-exit agenda included a tattoo, but a desire to be carved up on a rare day off didn’t make it a top priority.
However, a funny thing happened on the way to work last week . . . I somehow ended up in the Renaissance Hair and Body Studio talking to Jesse and what he envisioned inking on me during the weekend’s Westcoast Tattoo Culture Show.
After flipping through pages of Jesse’s amazing artwork – he has done 1,600 “tats” in 3½ years – he inquired what was really important in my life. I blurted out “overdraft protection, Starbucks, Penelope Cruz and McDonald’s drive-thru,” hoping he’d change his mind and take his eyes off my virgin arm.
I panicked when he brushed that answer aside, knowing this was actually going to happen. Visions of a Chicago Sun story suddenly came to mind:
“Tattoo. What a loaded word it is, rife with associations to goons, bikers, tribal warriors, carnival freaks, sailors and floozies.”
Yikes, what would mom think? What would my neighbours, who already wonder about me, think? More importantly, what would the floozies think?
Jesse, an easygoing dude, assured all the horror stories were mostly embellished. He pointed to his own tattoo-covered neck and admitted there was “some discomfort” but nothing unbearable. In other words, it wasn’t as painful as an Abbotsford tax hike.
So, after a short brainstorming session, we decided on an Aztec-themed armband, because while others have angels, hearts, crosses, skulls and babes inked on their skin, I wanted to be like Charlie Brown on Halloween and say “I got a rock!”
Seriously, this Gringo has spent many memorable months in Mexico exploring caves, ruins and temples. I love the people’s zest for the simple life (and siestas and cervezas) and can relate to the Aztec tradition of human sacrifice, being a journalist in these troubled economic times!
Spent two hours in a chair Saturday at Tradex bringing Jesse’s brilliant creation to life. It hurt a bit – lots of needles, lots of cuts, lots of things that irritate a raw piece of skin. But what an amazing experience.
As hundreds passed by Jesse’s booth and said his work was outstanding, the burning sensation that was my numb arm became a patch of pride.
And these passerbys weren’t the “freaks” or the “bikers and gangsters” often synonymous with body art. These were moms, dads and your next door neighbour with a gardening fetish.
They were nice, salt-of-the-earth folks, like Jesse’s good buddy “Bailey,” a 23-year-old Mission resident who had a tattoo that went from his hip to his toes and took 30-plus hours to finish – and he was getting ready for more extensive work as my session ended.
Feeling like I had just overcome a fear and fulfilled a life-long dream, I noticed a poster on the Tradex wall: “Want extreme fun? Skydive from 12,500 feet today!”
Crazy, you say? Naw, just think of what Aztec art looks like from that height.
And besides, when you think of tattoos, doesn’t “da plane, da plane” come to mind?

THE TRUTH IS WAY OUT THERE!

Welcome to the Silly Season.
No, we’re not talking about fantasies of transparent or cost-effective government, or of Abbotsford Coun. Simon Gibson pleading to fast-track a casino so we can provide revenues for the tax-sucking beast (with a splendid garden) that is City Hall.
Those gems will definitely be included in my When Hell Freezes Over column, but for now we’re talking serious silly – as in rubbish rhetoric like “Gordon Campbell eats children” and “Carole James stands for dishonesty and hypocrisy.”
Today is the official start of the 2009 B.C. election campaign, even though the unmistakable posturing and photo-ops started many moons ago in the yawnfest leading up to the May 12 vote.
Speaking of “shovel-ready,” for the next 29 days politicians and wannabes will remind you how they built things with your money, or how they would have saved your coin. Some will share jokes, some will whine, some will sport playoff beards (hopefully not James), and none will accept blame for the economy, even though many took credit for the boom.
Everyone will have solutions for homelessness, health care, education, crime and recovering from a recession. Nice they waited until now to spill those beans, eh?
Some may insist the 2010 Winter Olympics will put us on the map; expect others to argue we’ll need a map to get around all the road closures and security checkpoints.
The Liberals will argue they are the only party capable of leading us out of a recession. The NDP will point to Campbell’s retro-active raises, scandals, serious cost overruns, toll-mania, the dying forestry industry and crashing economy as proof they can also lead us into one.
Candidates, many we’ve never heard of before, will surface to claim they represent our future. Many will parrot Barack Obama-like messages of hope. Many will serve up gems sounding more like George W. Bush  – “They misunderestimated me.”
We will be reminded by MLAs of the new university, hospital, overpasses, highway improvements, affordable housing, hiking trails and “great progress.”
We won’t hear much about Cambie Line casualties, gaming addiction, carbon taxes, gang reduction, B.C. Rail, minimum wage freezes, police funding snafus, Olympic security costs, or about idiots who drink and drive.
We will be told that James has no proven track record, doesn’t connect with voters, is too negative, cares too much about funding social programs and not enough about stimulating businesses.
We will hear that Campbell is arrogant, out of touch, spend-happy and a Howe Street puppet who only cares what his inner circle thinks – an elite group that fits in a phone booth.
We will, hearing all this stuff, again appreciate that the truth is always the real victim of political campaigns.
My thoughts?
Despite the aggressive attack ads by the Canadian Office and Professional Employees Union (COPE 378), I don’t think Campbell eats children. Burly MLA Rich Coleman, maybe, but definitely not our sporty premier!
Campbell might treat children differently. For example, those in Whistler get plush Olympic mascots with gold medals, while those in Terrace get to play with pine beetles in a decrepit sandbox, which will be upgraded once the Olympic profits roll in. And those in the Fraser Valley get gang startup kits, with public safety kits to arrive later in the mail (wink, wink).
If we’re lucky, 30 per cent of the folks eligible to vote will do so, and the election winner will go back to governing however their handlers so desire.
Stay tuned. The “fun” has just begun.

TURTLE-LIKE REACTION TO LAWS

As sleep-deprived police officers rattled off the outrageous costs – in dollars and human life – for combating gangsters during another body-bag weekend, one couldn’t help but wonder how we’ve reached this pathetic point of lawlessness in The Best Place on Earth.

Two codgers, nursing weekend coffees in a local Starbucks, were quick to blame today’s “selfish youth” for ruining everything.

“They’re lazy, they have no morals, they’re hooked on drugs and they’re bloody ruthless,” screamed one so his buddy with the hearing aids could grasp what everyone in the java joint was being forced to consume.

Well, we can list a zillion examples of today’s youths making our world a much better place – or countless examples of ludicrousness by adults – but I was stunned (more so than usual) to peruse mugshots of the thugs rounded up by cops and charged for horrendous acts of violence and murder.

What makes a twentysomething punk so messed up that he has to kill to feel validated? How does a person with so much to live for decide to pursue a dead end? And, where are the parents who, on the surface at least, appear to be harbouring terrorists and turning a blind eye to the proceeds of crime?

The Bacon brothers of Abbotsford have become the latest poster boys of everything rotten. And it appears the Red (good-as-dead) Scorpions are deserving of the “honour” that has placed every resident in harm’s way and turned the lives of innocent victim Ed Schellenberg’s family upside down forever.
The ongoing gang wars have sparked lively debate on talk radio, and given soapboxes to every “instant expert” on such issues as policing, sentencing and legalizing drugs.

Politicians, never shy to embrace a top-of-the-mind issue, appear on TV talking oh-so tough and saying they’ve had enough (just like they once did protesting tax hikes). It makes for good sound bites. However, history suggests little is done between TV appearances and elections.

Speaking of sound bites, that hissssssss you hear these days is municipal coffers being drained by the war on gangs, drugs and escalating police costs. The sound you don’t hear is the turtle-like pace at which our rule-makers move to respond.
I’ve never been able to comprehend why we can’t change antiquated laws, but we can rewrite everything and anything to offer retroactive pay hikes for politicians.

Heck, if the Bible can be updated and tweaked, then certainly the Criminal Code of Canada is a candidate for change, too. So what’s the delay?

It’s time for citizens to demand an overhaul, not hope for it. We shouldn’t be held prisoner by never-ending “studies” and chicken-shift excuses from those who claim to have our best interests at heart.

Gangsters don’t obey laws, yet we appear somewhat anal about respecting them. Isn’t it time that those “known to police” are also known to the inside of prisons? Aren’t human rights for the innocent, too?

If our “leaders” really want to reduce crime they should show the same passion and sense of urgency they did while bidding for the 2010 Olympics, where no cost or challenge was too big, social programs be damned. Makes little sense to focus on Own The Podium while everything around it burns, doesn’t it?
Former New York Mayor Rudy Giulani once said: “change is not a destination, just as hope is not a strategy. Making citizens safer was not the product of accident. It is the product of design. The era of fear has had a long enough reign.”
Embrace that. And soon – money and time may be running out.

'BLACK MONDAY' HITS HOME HARD

“Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really.”
– Agnes Sligh Turnbull


It started as a “normal” Monday morning – the alarm clock screaming at an ungodly hour, interrupting a soothing snorefest to signal the start of another wild week at work.
The talking heads on CNN, determined to drown out the coffeemaker, dishwasher and shower, are going on about politics, the plunging U.S. economy and the world of corporate deeds gone wrong.
One expert called it “Black Monday,” which seemed appropriate – it was 14 years ago to the day that our first home in Abbotsford became a B&E statistic, with thieves helping themselves to stuff that reflected years of hard work and priceless memories.
My significant other, crushed by this despicable violation, couldn’t speak to the officers as they inspected our ransacked home.
“What did they say?” she asked after the tears subsided.
“We need to trim the hedges, install an alarm – and get a dog,” I said, not confessing for several years that I tacked on that last bit about the dog to fulfil a boyhood dream.
Jocko, a lovable black lab also born on that otherwise terrible day, would become our “protector” once his mom was done feeding her litter.
For the first two years Jocko “patrolled” our home, he did more freakin’ damage to the place than any thief could manage. Pillows, shoes, carpets, hats, gloves and toilet paper all became “chew toys” for the bored mutt while we were at work. Forgiveness became a mandatory trait once our furry friend arrived. The love part was easy.
Fast forward to last Monday when Jocko, celebrating his 14th birthday and showing signs of slowing down, was begging me to share breakfast, despite a large dog dish behind him overflowing with “senior” kibbles.
“The plan” was to get home after work, take him to the park and spoil him rotten. He was, afterall, the “baby” of a DINKs household, a dog that brought joy to so many for so long, ironically with his rendition of Happy Birthday. Many a voicemail carried his happy tune. He was “Dog Juan” to the ladies, “J-Dogg” to the guys.
After a long day at work, highlighted by iconic Mayor George Ferguson’s emotional departure from civic politics, I rushed home. Jocko, who always waited by the back door to greet me, was “in position” for his usual hugs and kisses. We cuddled, played and “shared” a late-night treat. Then he went outside to sniff the same grass he has sniffed every night and take care of business.
Taking longer than usual, I went out to check on him. He was sprawled out on the lawn, his breathing racing out of control and he was crying, something I had never seen this happy dog do in 14 years. I panicked, grabbed his blanket and we rushed him to an animal hospital, a five-minute ride that seemed to take forever. I prayed. I cried. I hugged him and rubbed his ears. I went numb as I whined this was no way for our beautiful dog to spend his birthday.
I placed him on the vet’s table, begged the doctor to just make it all OK. We were escorted to a small room and promised to be updated with news that we knew would break our hearts. The vet returned moments later to a tsunami of tears, informing us Jocko’s health had failed.
My tear-filled wife went to take care of the paperwork, while I struggled to find the energy to go home empty-handed. I couldn’t sleep or stop crying – and still haven’t.
If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where mine did.
Rest in peace, Jocko!

TIME TO OPEN MINDS, HEARTS

At the height of the adrenalin-charged daily newspaper war in Toronto, then-National Post wordsmith Christie Blatchford called me at our impressive Don Mills office to slowly read back her column, word for word, despite a nearing deadline in our understaffed sports department, fondly dubbed The Sandbox.
Krusty, as she was called in The Big Smoke, was on assignment in the Excited States covering a trial where two southern good old boys thought it would be plenty fun to hitch a black man to their pickup truck and drag him down a gravel road until his colour matched that of skeletal remains.
I found it difficult, as her graphic column progressed, to withhold anger at the what’s-the-big-deal attitude of the murderers and redneck supporters trying to explain that being black and hanging out in their part of the neighbourhood “was just asking for trouble.”
The murderers insisted they were just trying to teach the poor soul a lesson, not kill him. Guess they just don’t make ’em tough enough down south to survive that kind of spin around town.
Blatchford’s disturbing description of how the screaming victim died is forever etched in my brain. His only “mistake” was being the “wrong” colour.
Which somehow brings me to Saturday’s social justice Rally in the Valley and the horror stories of Abbotsford people being bullied for being fat, gay, goth or “different.” And the sad stories from many frustrated parents who, despite being told they were partners in local education, were basically told to pump sand by an elected few over the Social Justice 12 course that is accepted everywhere in B.C. – except Abbotsford.
One letter writer last week, who called himself Richard despite an e-mail address that suggests otherwise, was livid we published a story outlining plans for the rally. His letter also included a shot at me for a column outlining the death of my wonderful dog. His exact words: “Quit crying about your dog and do your job. There is no reason to have any story about faggots in your paper.” – Richard.
Well “Richard,” – or should I call you Dick? – it’s morons like you who make such marches necessary. I suppose the good thing is that at least we know where you stand, Dick. Let’s all hope you don’t own a pickup truck, Dick, or live in your mom’s basement forever hoping to one day run for school board.
The less obvious perpetrators, of course, are the ones in positions of power to influence change, tolerance and acceptance, but don’t. Often they go to church, dress well, hold public office and promise equality, fairness, acceptance and diversity – and then do the complete opposite. Gotta keep those constituents happy, eh?
During the recent civic election, mayoral candidate Alvin Epp was asked a question about supporting a gay parade. The class-act candidate eloquently explained how he’d handle the situation. George W. Peary, who went on to win the mayor’s race, immediately praised his answer. Epp, however, was forced to explain his “answer and actions” for the next two weeks by many voters who were disgusted he didn’t just say no.
I think that fact alone speaks volumes of a city that might be better dubbed Bumpkins in the Country.
Robert Kennedy said this: “But suppose God is black? What if we go to Heaven and we, all our lives, have treated the Negro as an inferior, and God is there, and we look up and He is not white? What then is our response?”
Or, as Mother Teresa said during her final Christmas on this planet: “If you judge people, you have no time to love them.”