The Path

A true story.

In the summer of 1973, when I was 7 years old, my family moved to Markham from a small town in Northern Ontario. As usual, I settled in and started making new friends. My father was an engineer for the MTO (then MTC), so moving around and finding new friends pretty much defined my early childhood.

Markham life was pleasant. People were friendly, though as a whole they seemed more homogeneous than the folks up north. We lived in a bungalow in a postwar neighbourhood -- a middle-class subdivision. In fact, it was much like Scarborough, but with corn fields and more money per capita. As for our family, we were neither rich nor poor; there were certainly no major obstacles. I took my place in the universe for granted.

And I had my own route to school: go north up the street, turn left behind the dry cleaners, walk a small parking lot, and swing north past the tavern, and then go west on the sidewalk until I arrived at my school.

My path. My own turf.

That winter, I learned a bloody lesson about turf. One weekend I was walking to my school to play. I decided to to cut through "the apartments," two monstrous compounds that loomed within view of our house; their mere presence was vaguely threatening.

Strange turf.

I'd heard the warnings from my classmates: apartment kids are delinquent, illegitimate, evil; they hate the kids who live in houses. Besides, they must be poor Protestants, not moral middle-class Catholics like us. Even at that age I was suspicious of such distinctions. My friends didn't know that I was Protestant on my mother's side. So I dismissed the words of these doomsayers as I made my way between the parking garage and the first apartment building. Instead, I focused on the sound of snow crunching under my feet.

Suddenly, my carefully balanced sense of bliss was disrupted by a coarse voice: "Hey, what do you want?!"

Three apartment boys, looking rough and ready. Which is more than I could say for myself. The rest is a blur. Memory is incomplete. I recall feeling the cold, raw aggression, and the taste of warm iron. It was like an unruly hockey game compressed into several seconds. I arrived home with a bloody nose and a fat, bleeding lip.

My parents fixed me up. My father is a steady man, not easily alarmed. There was some discussion about my route to school. Naturally my mom was worried. My father then asked me if I wanted to keep going that way. I nodded yes, even though I was scared. I didn't want to let him down. Nor did I want to let myself down. Back in the 1970s, fights between boys were cause for discussion, not public inquiry. And no self-respecting boy would accept a lift from his parents. Maybe an armed escort -- an older brother or sister. But my streetwise older brother had his own turf, his own battles to deal with.

This was my problem.

Monday came. My stomach felt like a block of acidy lead. Sullenly, I grabbed my bag and started walking. Sure enough, the leader of the three boys was waiting for me behind the tavern and dry cleaners that separated the apartment buildings from my street. He was saying something about his friends being close by.

I hesitated. He sneered with delight. I told myself (in boy terms): "If you don't walk this walk now, you'll never be in control of your own space. These boys will own you. And you'll never be free."

Shaking, I stepped forward and said, "This is my street. I'm going to school."

The boy held his tough stance, just to see if I had as much strength in my spine as I had in my words. Something revelatory happened: I found my own strength, and I realized my opponent was just another boy with turf that happened to meet my turf.

I marched toward him, my eyes locked on his. He seemed surprised, and strangely pleased. Grinning, he backed away, and I passed. I'd earned his respect. That was enough for him. He took off. His friends were nowhere in sight. I never saw them again.

And I never feared "the apartments" again. And to this day, I don't hate Protestants or apartment building dwellers or anyone else for that matter. But my space is mine. I walk my street. Whenever I choose.

This is my freedom.



Copyright (C) 2005 Tom Kernaghan

Comment on Comments

Perhaps I've grown weary of all the speculation and anxiety. Or maybe I'm just tired of thinking up blog post ideas for a story that grinds on. The new locale and the looming presence of Joe Fontana helped me for a couple days. But when it comes right down to it, it's all about the two teams squaring off and getting a deal in place. Same shit, different city? I seriously hope not.

Still, I need another diversion.

So I find myself looking at numbers. More specifically, I've been looking at the numbers of comments made about the news items on CBCunplugged.com. Now, my investigative process is hardly what you'd call statistically sound and meaningful. But I do find some mild amusement in the results.

From the past few days (at last count):

Ottawa picket line and the feed -- 24
Inside the negotiating room -- 10
Standing down on the line -- 8
How to blow up the TBC (legally) -- 7
Fontana scrum -- 6
Read the Hansards -- 2
MPs aren't going to yell at Rabinovitch just yet -- 1
Question Period in Parliament -- 1
G&M article report's Fontana's hope -- 0

Now I've stayed away from the more personal stuff on the site. Just out of respect.

I know. My methodology is not only flawed, it's just plain nonexistent. However, isn't it funny that the closer we get to the Hill, the less people have to say? People are interested in the real battle, and the video game, it seems. The Globe and Mail zero at the end of the list? Uh, that's my control? A red herring? Okay, clearly I'm no statistician.

I've completely ignored the qualitative aspects of the comments. Someone could sum up an argument so well that other readers feel no need to comment. Granted. And no doubt there are other qualitative factors and explanations...

... Okay, so much for statistics. I took it in university and hated it. I also hated my industrial relations course. Funny.

Later.

Blog on Bobby

Read the latest blog entry by Matt Watts.

Joe says...

Joe Fontana says: "unacceptable."

He's even returning to Hull this afternoon, where he will check on the two teams and their progress at the table.

After six weeks of no talks, talks, and talk about talks, this is the only kind of talk I want to hear.

Moog and other matters

I should start off by saying that the nice people in my last post's photo are not officially connected to the CBC or the CMG in any way. You likely surmised this, but I thought I'd mention it just to be on the safe side.

Okay, it's time to talk Moog.

Yes, Moog.

I'm referring to Robert Moog, the engineer and synthesizer guy. I'm sure many of you, especially those of you in radio, know about this chap. He passed away last month at the age of 71. Today I had some time on my hands, so decided to read a bit about him. Interesting stuff.

After building his first theremin at age 14, Moog was hooked on sound-making machines. The theremin, named after Russian inventor Leon Theremin, was used to make that weeooweeoo sound in The Day the Earth Stood Still, not to mention some other sci-fi movies and shows. Years later, while at Cornell University, Robert Moog created his own electronic instrument, the Moog music synthesizer.

The Moog (rhymes with vogue) changed the way music was made during the late 1960s and early 1970s. Canadian rock band Rush was known for its use of the Moog, and the synthesizer was used to create the eerie soundtrack for Stanley Kubrick's film A Clockwork Orange.

For me, one of the most striking bits from the Robert Moog bios has nothing to do with his innovative genius or his weird, preternatural relationship with electronic devices, or the many uses of the Moog synthesizer , though these many aspects of the man and his legacy are quite fascinating. Strangely, what piqued my interest even more was the story of Walter Carlos, the musician who in 1969 won three Grammys for "Switched-On Bach," which Carlos created using a Moog.

Robert Moog praised the work and the man ... who, as it turns out, went on to become a woman named Wendy. I'm guessing this decision had nothing to do with Mr. Moog's praise or his sythesizer. I would hope not.

Anyway. For whatever reason, Wendy then distanced herself from the Moog work she'd done as a man. I like to think that art can transcend gender, but perhaps sex is so fundamental to our sense of self that art must explore and express who we are within some kind of gender framework.

Deep questions. I don't know. I guess until you walk a mile in another man's pumps, you can't begin to understand his decisions.

Me, I'm partial to my own Rockports and blue jeans. ;-)

I'm also partial to stories about underdogs. Which brings me to this one, written by CBC casual worker Nancy Westaway. Thanks to Ms. Westaway for writing this piece about the strain she felt working on contract for so many years. Her words remind me never to lose my perspective, and never to hitch all my hope on a situation where I have little or no control over the outcome. Just for my own sanity, if nothing esle. However, her words also encourage me to find a ways to contribute, which brings me to this, this -- my blog.

Over these past several weeks, my blog has been a source of frustration and freedom. The frustration has been the result of uncertainty -- not knowing if what I'm writing matters to anyone. No one likes to write in a vacuum. This was more the case in the early going. During the past few weeks, I've received a couple of nods and hellos, which is good enough for me.

The freedom of the blogosphere, on the other hand, lies in its availability. While my blog has driven me nuts a few times, it is entirely at my disposal. And I don't need to know html to do my thing. I can think of nothing more liberating to a writer than to have immediate access to the world.

If you've been reading my blog, you'll have realized that feeling free is rather important to me. Hey, Walter Carlos found freedom in being Wendy Carlos.

My freedom? Well, you're reading it, baby.

Thanks for reading.

Joe Fontana called?!

Hey look, honey, Rabinovitch and Amber are going to Ottawa!

Another day

Today I find myself reassured by the realization that the BOD's statement may be just another play in the game.

For a brief moment last night I was in a blog-mood I would describe as the funk Dostoevsky would be in if he were alive today and listening to Nine Inch Nails while killing a bottle of vodka. I was feeling so down that I contemplated brooding just to cheer myself up! Budalump, pshhhh!

Back to today. Uh, have a nice day, quite simply. Keep passing the open windows (a John Irving reference). And for crying out loud, swat those friggin' wasps. And I don't mean the people that make up half of my family tree. They mean you no harm. I'm talking about the insects.

...I wonder if they can be trained and sent into the negotiating room... Hm. Might speed things up. You know, put things in perspective: "People, today it's wasps -- tomorrow it's locusts! Chop chop. Enjoy the dessert tray!"

Wasps love dessert.

You see, I'm willing to sacrifice tasty treats for a resolution. That's big.

Seize the day.

Full circle

Okay. So. After reading the board's announcement today, it appears the Flatliners nightmare has swung back on the CMG.

Disgusting. I'm going to bed.

I'm back

Well, that was neither amusing nor productive. During my blackout, I saw all these managers coming at me, calling me names, shouting "Shame!" and swinging ladders at my head...

Fuck. You see, I'm even cussing for real now. It was horrible. Phew, I'm glad I have some stuff to do. This lockout is getting too much. People puffed up with glee over a bumped head! Honestly, folks, show some class.

Really.

And for the record, I've never been physically attacked by any manager. But just imagine!

Media Flatline?

My media blackout...

Watch your head

Richard Stursberg must be feeling as though he has fallen asleep only to wake up in Robert Rabinovitch's Flatliners nightmare.

Meeting somewhere

Rumour has it the board of directors is meeting here.

No. That's false. I was kidding.

The point is, wherever the board meets, I just hope they talk until they can all agree to do what is necessary and ask Rabinovitch et al just how the lockout and management's intransigence regarding the contract worker issue is fulfilling the corporation's mandate to serve the Canadian public.

Because believe me, in the middle of what many call "nowhere," there are people who truly feel that way without their CBC.

So, board members, if you're reading this (not likely), remember who you serve. Don't leave them nowhere.

Don't leave me nowhere. Hell, just don't leave me in debt. I need my project back to help pay for, well, my project.

...I hope your meeting spot is really nice, with haute cuisine, and trays of nice desserts. You know what I'm talking about. Read my profile. And read the other blogs!

Thanks.

Two you

My partner and I were at the U2 show last night.

Someone had purchased tickets for us long ago. A thoughtful gift. Otherwise we wouldn't have been able to go. Too expensive.

Now I've been a fan of U2 since I was in high school. I just love the passion they convey with their punchy beats, lofty bass runs, escalating guitar sequences, and urgent lyrics. Bono is a natural performer. Even if you don't like U2's music, you have to admit the man knows how to work a room. People talk about his big ego. Well, like politicians, performers must have strong egos to withstand the barbs and arrows of critics.

Speaking of critics and politics...

I have mixed views about celebs using their positions as platforms to draw awareness to causes. At times I think it's fine to do this; other times it just seems over the top. Not politically, necessarily, but in terms of audience membership and the joy of letting loose at a concert.

Last night on the massive screens over the stage, which I'll admit were impressive to watch, Paul Martin's name and number streamed across the pixels. This occurred during a portion of one song. No big deal, right? Well, there I was, trying to enjoy my evening and forget the CBC and blogs and careers and all that shit, when I was immediately reminded of the question lingering in the back of my mind: "What, if anything, is Martin or anyone big going to do about the lockout?"

*&#!. We're talking Bono here, so I shouldn't have been surprised. Don't get me wrong. I had fun and would go again. And thanks, bro', for the tickets! I still like U2.

But at that moment, I knew what I was going to do. I sat down. So did my partner. My partner and I shrugged at each other. And we never quite regained that sweet performer-listener intimacy that Bono is so adept at creating. My mind was temporarily locked out of the show.

Now my CBC-related angst is hardly Bono's problem. But while he was speaking about equality and Toronto and Canada, it would've been nice if he'd said, And to all the locked out freelancers who give their heart and soul to CBC projects, and who now have a blog no one has fucking well deigned to leave a message on...! The crowd, already whipped up, would've gone wild as the eminently charismatic Irishman turned the spotlight on me. It would've been cool, and I would've felt all warm inside (and not just from the beer), and tens of thousands of people would've been motivated right there! Hell, he could've pulled me on stage (though I was too far away) and asked me to work the tubs (drummer talk -- I used to play) for a while. The pied-drummer, maan!

I would've been a hero. I could've been someone, instead of a locked out freelancer bum, which is what I am. :-( (- :

I know, I took you from Bono to Brando with no warning, no segue. Sorry. And I don't mean to be a big ungrateful baby about the show last night.

... Okay, in truth, I needed blog post material and the concert seemed a perfect fit.

Really, I just hope the negotiations go well this weekend. So to the two teams at the table, remember, Bono might just be watching.

I know the rest of us are.

The long run and Terry Fox

As a new freelancer, I won't pretend to know all the details and politics involved in this... THIS! Really. I'm not on the line, I'm focused on other work, and neither management nor union heads know me from Adam. And I don't know them as human beings.

My father, a retired MTO manager who used to go out of his way to chat with the union people at their events, inculcated in me a healthy level of sketicism about almost everything. Especially messages driven by agendas (no matter what the position). Whether it be someone trying to sell me potato chips or a group peddling a cause, I learned to watch, read, and listen. What I took away from his example was this: As much as possible, trust should be reserved for individuals. If I can't read someone's eyes and body language, then I don't sign over the farm, if you know what I mean.

The upshot: be wary of groups, just on principle.

But what I also learned, from both of my parents in fact, was to be compassionate toward individuals, to deal with individuals.

Perhaps this is why self-employment has always appealed to me. If an environment is at odds with me on some philosophical level, I walk away. If there's a problem with the work, I simply call up the client and settle the matter in one phone call. (Which is why I find it particularly difficult to sit and wait for faceless bargaining teams to do their work. This is hard for everyone, let's be honest.) Are there compromises and hardships in my life? Yes. Is my lifestyle easier because I have a partner with a steady job? Well, really, this is none of your business, but since I'm opening up, the answer is yes.

Another thing I learned from both of my parents is to step into the shoes of others. Hey, if a writer/journalist can't do this, then he/she should put down the quill and put away the ink well. You are all individuals with lives, and I can understand the privation you're all suffering. Which is why I support your fight on a human level.

Do I think most CBC workers should be permenant? Yes. Most people need security. I'm not thrusting my preferences on others. I've read the positions and agree that security for the majority of CBC workers would make for good public journalism. And it's the decent thing to do.

However, I do not support either side of the table when the conflict results in moves contrary to my personal views.

Which is why I feel the need to speak up about the Terry Fox 25th Anniversary fiasco.

Fox epitomized the virtues of individual spirit, courage, and selflessness. He's one of my heroes, for sure. As much as I miss my radio project, I wouldn't give a leg for it. Terry Fox ran halfway across the country to encourage Canada and the world to focus on an issue. He gave his life doing so.

We're dividing the whole by exploiting the memory of a man who stood for full unity.

Shame on all of us today. While I support the individuals walking the line, I feel even more kinship with the young man who ran alone.

I'm with Terry on this one.

Apropos of nothing...

A boat.

Ha! Usually the existential joke involves a fish. Well I got you. I wanted to paint a bigger picture.
Aren't I the maverick, unh?

Seriously. There's nothing remotely (or even weirdly) symbolic about it. This is just a nice boat I took a ride in a few months ago.

I liked the framing of the shot and wanted to share it.

Bye bye. (Photo courtesy of Michael J. Scanlan)

A pie-dea whose time has come

Even more good news! Wow, what a week.

Matt Watts has finally revealed -- yup, you guessed it -- the panacea pastry, in response to other recent recipes from cbcworkerbee.

It's all good. Nay, it's great.

Maffin's Magic

As I said in my previous post, I just got back from Winnipeg and I'm feeling fine.

Well I feel even better now, for I have just finished listening to Tod Maffin's podcast.

I've loved listening to radio since I was a kid, and what has always struck me about the medium is its potential for marrying intimacy with the magic of infinite possibility. I also love how you don't have to sit still to enjoy it.

Tod understands radio and radio listeners. He understands broad vision, healthy forward motion, and the power of the moment. And clearly he understands that when it comes to new technology and the right decisions for the CBC, the moment is now.

Enough of me. Listen for yourself: It's worth a second link.

Distance

The Prairie Provinces have a salutary effect on me. There is something rejuvenating and liberating about vast blueness, endless horizon, clear air, and strong wind -- reminders of a universe that has nothing whatsoever to do with human motives, foibles, and agendas. In the great outdoors I drop my mental baggage and immerse myself in the tasks at hand. Ah, the blessed and immediate relief of having things to do. (Don't worry, I'm not going to start quoting W.O. Mitchell or anything.)

Speaking of tasks, I must add that an interesting project, engaging work, great company, free food, and the joy of seeing your work in production are also pretty good for one's well-being and long-term perspective. (I remember having that at the CBC... Well, I bought some of my own food.)

This past weekend I returned from out west with a fresh, more relaxed view of things. Of course, regular life in Toronto can and will blow that to hell if I'm not careful. I suppose that's why I'm writing this now.

Quite likely others have already realized what is now clear to me: lockout blogging is not a gig! The lockout is not a client. No one is paying me for this research: I'm new, so I'm not getting lockout pay. And tuning out family members while you edit blog copy is just plain wrong.

Last week, my partner, a wise, gentle, and wonderful woman, said: "Tom, you're freaking me out!"

I had locked on the lockout. My body was locked out and my mind was locked in.

Not doing that anymore. To the forces that thwart: kiss my ---.

For now, I'll blog for the fun of it. And when the blog becomes a bog, I will just keep moving, like the dry prairie wind. I know, that's an obvious and corny simile. But today I don't care! I feel good, for the first time in weeks.

Ah, I think I can see the horizon.

Sweet.

I blog therefore...

I was about to post something silly, self-serving, and self-indulgent about my radio project. Then I read today's news and was reminded of issues bigger than my blog.

Time to thank my lucky stars and get to work on my other stuff.

Tomorrow I'm off to a TV shoot (not related to the lockout in any way) in Winnipeg.

Take care, folks.

Blogo-severe

Sometimes I think the current CBC vs. CMG situation is nothing more than history inside an enigma inside an agenda inside a riddle inside a lockout inside a bubble of acrimony inside a bigger bubble of the blogosphere inside a bursting bubble of the unknown future all wrapped up in a big steaming, tasty pie that, mark my words, will be served at a reasonable price per slice at a lockout fundraiser hosted by Matt Watts with Pedro the Gnome as his straight man. Or the other way around.

... But really, that's up to them. I'm not an event promoter, just a guy killing time and looking for laughs.

Thank you, gentlemen.

Okay...

That's enough blogosphere for today. There are too many anonymous writers, and too much information I can't possibly qualify. It's kind of tripping me out!

Well, in the absence of any clear answers, I am strangely buoyed by the timeless and universal truth that management will try to get the most for the least, and the union will try to get the most for as long as they can, that it's just bargaining, not voodoo. So I hope the talks do what they're intended to do -- help the two sides arrive at a good deal. Simple, right?

It sounds naive and optimistic, I know. But hey, it's better than going to bed dreading the thought of no CBC, no future for public broadcasting, and the utter pointlessness and high cost of gathering material for a radio documentary that may never come to fruition.

Lately I've started wearing my night guard, just in case I start grinding my teeth again.

Speaking of grinding, if you haven't had your fill of opinions and perspectives for the day, here's a link to one of my favourite sites: http://www.aldaily.com/

Now, time for some real work -- grocery shopping -- and other writing.

Ta ta.

Oui for Ouimet?

During war...

the good journalist opens his/her mouth and screams outrage, revealing, exposing...

the good manager/business person, on the other hand, moves with stealth, watching, waiting, communicating very little.

This is a strange beast of a war. I hope Ouimet is being a bad manager in this case.

Odd

As we await this week's news from the bargaining table, some strange shit is happening. The volume of rhetoric and sniping seems to be on the rise. This after the two sides have already started talking this past week. I'm not an expert on labour negotiations, but I have to wonder if all this continued yelling isn't doing more harm than good. Granted, the progress was "minor" and likely dealt with the no-brainer stuff, and it seems there's still a fair bit of trust to be gained on both sides.

I am inquisitive by nature, as are most writers. Why is the chatter growing? Are people coming home and realizing what is happening? Are columnists positioning their pieces for maximum readership and effect? Are CMG journalists swarming CBC management, gleefully kicking and punching? Or are the journalists still worried and angry and suspicious (understandably)? Or is it all part of the elaborate game of collective bargaining?

As a storyteller, I find things make sense to me when they're placed within a metaphorical and narrative context.

So here goes.

Two parents have already started shovelling the driveway, but they're yelling a lot and shovelling very little. You see, one has been trying to have an affair and the other is hurt and pissed off. Not only has the offending partner tried to spread it around town, but he/she has also had the gall to lock the heartbroken partner and the kids out of the house, accusing them of not being progressive enough: Come on, swing with that 1970s key-swapping party, honey. It must be noted that the heartbroken partner, though generally a good spouse, can be a little shrill and self-righteous from time to time. So, the snow is moving slowly. And the children are heckling from the street, sometimes throwing punches at each other, as they are wont to do. But no one steps in. The neighbours are too busy, though some are speaking up. All the while the foster children of this dysfunctional family are sitting across the street, smoking (stunting their growth), spitting on the sidewalk, and wondering when in the hell the Children's Aid will arrive and what family will have them next. Their siblings, the real offspring, turn and tell them they're in the family. The foster kids cast steely-eyed stares into the unknown distance, and say, "Thanks, I'm with you, but I'm just going to finish my smoke here..."

Talks, not yelling. That's what we want.

Correction

I've been told I am a member of the CMG by virtue of my freelancing for Outfront. I suppose this makes sense: if you're covered by collective bargaining then you're part of the collective. However, my project was halted mid-production when this lockout began, so no money has changed hands. As this is my first project with the CBC, I assumed I was still in limbo as far as membership status goes, that I was a supplier.

Strange, hazy zone to be in. I'm seeing more and more why so many want permanent employee status. Of course, I wouldn't be devoting so much of my thought and energy to this stuff if the lockout hadn't occurred to begin with. Funny that.

By the way, the above photo was taken during happier times -- while I was working on my project this past July. Note the rosy optimism on my face! Little did I know...

New blog kid in town

Hello. I'm neither a CBC manager nor a member of the CMG. I'm a humble freelance writer who was working on a CBC Radio Outfront piece when that loathsome, cursed day known simply as August 15 brought darkness to the light of creative collaboration I had been enjoying with my wonderful CBC producer.

Pah! (This was used frequently in a Jean-Paul Sartre novel and I thought it would fit here, given the apparent pointlessness of starting anything at the CBC these days. I hope the reference to existential philosophy isn't too pompous, esoteric or artsy for some of the CBC-haters. Hell, I read the cereal box like everyone else! And I have a fairly good wrist shot as well.)

The writing life can be a real rush. I have a column in a west end community newspaper, and I'm also working on a cool TV gig. But the writer's life can really suck when you're vulnerable to and in fact affected by managerial obstinance. Like right now!

I have a business degree and yet I'm not quite sure what management is doing. Their behaviour is bizzare and puzzling. Unless, of course, they want to ruin the CBC, break the union, or both ... in which case their behaviour makes perfect sense. On the other hand, I can see quite clearly why you CMG folks are fighting so hard.

Your performance these past three weeks is nothing short of inspiring ... even if you do seem to take the Ouimet blog bait and start bickering at each other from time to time. That said, you're an impressive bunch. I'm not sure if it's Sun Tzu or just a school yard axiom: Never underestimate the other kid in the sandbox.

It appears management did. And I hope they realize this, become reasonable, and end this absurdity. They haven't underestimated me, however. I'm just some guy whose project is on hold (as are the projects of many other freelancers), whose money is on hold, and whose minidiscs of content (some of which will belong to CBC) are locked up while you guys are locked out. Just peachy.

I've signed my name to my blog because I'm a writer. I feel that's what writers should do. Otherwise, how do you know who's writing what? I'm simple that way. Besides, it's not as if I'm telling anyone to *$&@ off. Even though I'd be well within my rights in doing so.

That's it for my first post. Have a great weekend!