Good Without God

Image from Human Needs Before Profits http://hnbpjs.blogspot.ca/2013/01/les-miserables-review.html

A dozen years ago, at the start of an eight-hour bus ride to Guadalajara, an elderly nun took the seat next to me. We chatted in Spanish, in which I was just becoming functional. She asked where I was from and what had brought me to Mexico. Then, in the same conversational tone, she asked whether I believed in God. We had the time so, rather than give her the short “nope” (which I’ve often found bums out religious people, like I scored against their team), I gave her the straight and long reply. As well as my Spanish at that time would allow, I tried to convey the following:

I don’t believe in some intelligent being or force which I can or need talk to. I have never seen, felt or heard anything to make me interested in such an idea. I believe that the universe is a single continuous system in which everything each of us does affects everyone and everything around us, (which, I guess, is what Daoism would say, as would David Suzuki for that matter), and that being respectful and considerate of our environment, and the people in it, is the best thing we can do to help ourselves have an environment and society that is the way we want it to be (which is, I suspect, roughly the Buddhist perspective). And that is why I don’t pee in swimming pools. (Okay, I didn’t say that last bit to her, but it’s both true and relevant.)

The old sister (or Mother Superior; I really wouldn’t know the difference—to me, they’re all Popettes) listened patiently, seemed to understand what I struggled to express, and said simply—in a tone which was ostensibly for my reassurance but was really for her own, “It’s the same thing [as believing in God].” Both our dignities remained intact and neither of us gave up any epistemic or moral ground. We were equally comfortable with our separate beliefs and suspect she, like me, felt unthreatened and unperturbed.

With this in mind, let us consider one of the greatest novels ever written, Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables*—which, let it be said, kicks the wits out of Anna Karenina.**

But let’s get back to God. Apparently Hugo based the story of his central character, Jean Valjean,  on the life of Eugène François Vidocq, an ex-convict turned businessman and philanthropist. In Les Misérables, life hands Jean Valjean lemons, and he makes—a break for it. Then the first hero of the story, Bishop Myriel (a character inspired by the historical Bishop de Miollis), creates new possibilities for the lives of numerous individuals by making the simple choice—or, more precisely, habit—of forgiveness. By taking a chance and trusting in the potential of human goodness, the bishop presents Valjean with an otherwise unattainable opportunity to “do the right thing”.

Good “King” Wenceslas was in fact a Duke (of Bohemia). He was regarded as a good man, so it is fitting that the carol depicts him as doing the right thing for “yonder peasant” because it was the right thing to do. You don’t have to be a saint to be a decent human being; even Samaritans, druids and atheists can follow their conscience. And this Jesus of Nazareth one hears so much about, may he rest in peace, is worth no more and no less than the example he is alleged to have set. Jesus son of so-and-so, Jesus Lord of whatever. Whether or not he ever was a man, whose last breath dispersed molecules some of which would now be in each breath you and I draw, what matters is neither his mom’s sexual history nor his genetic lineage nor his magic tricks nor his sexual proclivities, nor his suffering (as if he would have suffered more than the average crucified person. Pain is, after all, such a subjective thing. Did he have inflammatory bowel disease? That might get me reading a gospel or two). What could be useful to humanity is the idea, which that particular superstar is rumoured to have espoused, of cutting each other a bit of slack.

My apologies to god-fearing Vic, but what moves me about his novel is not God’s grace but the Bishop’s human choice to say, “C’mon, Jean, you can do better than that”, and Valjean’s choice to make good, and really commit to it from one chapter of his life to the next. That is the %^@#ing message that can change the world, and there is no need for supplication to some deity to achieve that. People can be good, and I am in favour of giving people—just about every person***—a chance, and if necessary a second chance, to show their potential, turning the other cheek at least once per offender—not so many times that your head spins, mind you; once you run out of cheeks, start swinging and biting.

I have never regretted giving someone a second chance. There are a couple of cases, which I will remember, of individuals who got three strikes and a couple of fouls in between, but even those were no cause for regret because, on average, betting on human decency has continuously proven to be a good investment. Maybe I’m lucky—that’s certainly true—and I suppose it helps that I don’t hang around with a lot of conniving guttersnipes. Perhaps you should turn your cheek but not your back.

Examples of “Good without God” are abundant. I wonder whether there are as many examples of “Good despite God”.

*Hugo’s 1,500-page saga is not easy to cram into a 150-page screenplay or into a single sitting. The original French concept album and consequent English musical do a surprisingly good job of covering a lot of ground. The new movie (the first cinematic presentation of the musical, although there have been ten previous big- and small-screen versions of Hugo’s story) goes through the story way too fast, but it is worth seeing and hearing. Appropriate to the medium, the story is sung by actors rather than acted by singers. It makes considerably more effective use of CGI than Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit, enhancing rather than distracting from the story. Russell Crow made the least of a great role; he really put the “avert” in Javert. Whereas Anne Hathaway, whose performances I have often found so miserable as to bring tears to my eyes, did such justice to the role of Fantine that I did in fact cry in my popcorn. (It helped that she had no dialogue.)

What was funnier than les Thénardiers was when the soldier asks those on the barricade to identify themselves and the response is, “French revolution!” to which might have been added, “I’m French! Why do you think I have this outrageous accent?” [Je m'excuse. My apologies. In the 2000 French television mini-series adaptation (with Gerard Depardieu as Valjean and John Malkovitch as Javert, yes in French), the same question is answered "Revolution Française!" Still sounds funny to me.]

**To be fair, maybe Anna Karenina looses something in translation, but even so, Les Misérables has more to offer in a bunch of ways, and far fewer skip-able bits. It was more of a chore to get through 350,000 words of modern-English translation of Tolstoy than 513,000 words of Hugo’s nineteenth-century French. The same is true watching film adaptations of both works (although I have hope Tom Stoppard got Anna Karenina (2012) right). Incidentally, just about equal in greatness to Les Misérables, in my estimation, is Dostoyevsky’s Brothers Karamazov, which is 345,000 words in English translation, and I don’t remember wanting to skip any of it. Size may matter, but more important is how you use it.

***Witnessing someone abuse animals or children would tend to cloud my judgmentality.

If Life Had a Point, Would I Get Stabbed?

It’s getting to be that time of life when I’m increasingly unlikely to being discovered as a child prodigy. I’ve come to terms (all too easily) with the fact that I will never be the world’s greatest [whatever]. I couldn’t even be the greatest [whatever] in town, unless I go to a very small town. Hmm…

The Galaxy Song by Eric Idle, from Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life”

So what’s the point of it all? I’m not carrying the torch, or walking in anyone’s footsteps, or passing on my genes (well, I suppose it’s never too late for that. I don’t even have to be conscious to pull that off. Indeed, I wouldn’t even have to be alive.) Nothing I do is going to alter history and change the world. Except, as Gandhi said, I can be the change. And that may sum me up: a bit of change. Loose change in the pocket of the universe.

But that’s all any of us—from Aristotle to ZZ Top—can ever be. And I’m fine with that. Which is why I am a registered organ donor.

So whether your shortcoming is that you think you’re a big deal or that you feel like a meaningless speck,

consider the scale of the universe and the words of astrophysicist Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson: “the universe is in us”. Join him in recognizing “my atoms came from those stars”.

Resolution: To Be My Bohemian Self

My New Year’s resolution is to be myself.

Don’t we all, at some point, feel about our life-choices the way George Kostanza felt? “Every decision I have ever made in my entire life has been wrong!”

Generally, I don’t regret my individual choices, even the most reckless ones. In fact, my perpetual hesitation to commit to reckless choices — and follow them through to their zany ends — is the one flawed thread running through the whole pilly jumpsuit that is my life.

Despite accusations to the contrary, I am insufficiently bohemian. All my life, I have imagined myself to be one freaky rebel spirit, but I have always been far too much of a conformist.

Like the vast majority of the world’s population, I grew up privileged and ungrateful, sorted out the non-existence of God at the age of 11, got a black belt and a degree in philosophy, became a baker and playwright, moved to Japan (on a dare), Mexico (on a whim), a reserve in Manitoba (on the make), and back to Mexico (on the rebound), where I went up a mountain in my kilt with a mariachi band and a woman I’d known for a few months, and got married to her in Spanish, by a priest — of all godforsaken things! (And, just to make my status completely quo, got divorced the statistically average number of years later.)

After a couple of decades of doing a wide range of jobs rather badly, I’ve accepted it’s time for me to stop standing in my way. I am genetically predisposed to be a nomad, The Fool on the Hill, watching the wheels go round and round.

No longer will I try to imagine myself living some “normal” life, not even some normal non-conformist, anti-establishment poser life.

I gotta ask myself one question. What would Evan do?

What I was “supposed to do” was work hard in school, and then work hard at some job (40 hours x 50 weeks x 40 years), spend a few years complaining about the ignorance of the younger generation, and then die.

What I did was scrape by in school, and then scrape by in a bunch of temp jobs, and then—as happens when dreams go bad—I woke up.

Finally, I am beginning to understand the freedom of being me. The meaning of your life depends on what you consider “wasted time”. Whatever that is, it’s what you should not be doing.

People have strongly conflicting views about what constitutes wasting time. Taking the train? Waste of time; flying is faster. Taking a bath? Waste of time. A shower is ten times faster. All right then, how about sex? Waste of time. Masturbation is faster.

Taking a long, leisurely bath is one of the best uses to which time can be put. Considerably better would be having sex in the bath, on a train.

For me, the best way to waste time is to work 9 to 5 at a job that I believe should not be done, such as selling things that should not exist (e.g., insipid wooden cats playing tin jazz instruments — I’m a cat and jazz lover; these objets d’art, shipped around the world to collect dust in someone’s tacky home, should not exist), or proofreading documents which should never have been written (one that stands out in my memory was about shareholder dividends earned on the sale of long-range missiles).

Working 9 to 5, “I can feel myself rot.” Whenever I’ve had to “get a real job”, it’s bad for me and it’s bad for the job.

For me, the first step in a healthy, sane life is never to wake to an alarm clock. Why? Because it’s #$@%ing alarming! The clock used to be the first and last thing I would see in a day, tabulating whether I was approximating a healthy number of hours of sleep.

As the new me, the real me, I go to bed when I’m ready for it, and I get up when getting up seems the right thing to do.

What am I “supposed” to be doing with my life? Writing, amongst other things, this dumbass blog. Go ahead, ask why. … Wh–?  I can’t believe y– … Because, apart from generally having a laugh, everything other than juggling words is a waste time. Writing “makes the pain go away.” 

And the fact that I get paid dirt* for writing (slightly earthier dirt for editing), doesn’t distinguish it from working for ‘the Man’, so in terms of employment, this is as real as my life is going to get.

(*Unless it’s pro bono, like this blog.)

Sounds like a privileged life, you say? Damn right! And I know how to appreciate it. My parents have devoted their lives to making my life as headache-free as possible. They’ve done a smashing job, and I’m not going to muck up their tremendous achievement by letting my life dissolve into a litany of anxieties, petty or otherwise.

Kurt Vonnegut, (whom I must read some day), wisely observed,

“We’re here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Some other famous writer nailed my sentiments spot on when she said,

“Writing is the only thing that, when I’m doing it, I don’t feel I should be doing something else.” Ah, it was Gloria Steinham. (Thank you, internet. You’re so clever.)

As I began this year, embracing my bohemian self, I started my New Year head-shave but the clipper puttered to a stop and I couldn’t find the charger. Nothing left but the not-quite-bald spot on top. I have since found the charger, but I think I’ll keep my new hairstyle (which I call a “nohawk”).

I’ve been told it makes me look insane; I think it suits me.

If they didn’t laugh at it, it wouldn’t be the Way. ~ Lao-tzu, Tao Te Ching

Maybe tomorrow I’ll wanna settle down.

Lowhawk or D’oh!hawk?

What Has Happened?

I see F hastily cutting something with scissors and I say, “Be careful you don’t do what D did.”

What did D do?

“Didn’t he mention it? A few weeks ago I saw he had a bandage covering the tip of his index finger and I asked what happened. He said,

It was the stupidest thing. I was cutting open the top of a plastic milk bag, like this, and I just wasn’t paying attention. Snipped the very tip of my finger off. Couldn’t believe I did it.”

Not long after this memorable chat with F, I was back at D’s place and saw the bandage was gone. “All healed up, then?”

What do you mean?

“The tip of your finger.”

Which finger?

“Your index finger.”

He showed me his right hand. Undamaged. “Must have been your other hand.” Nothing. “Man, you made it sound like you had actually cut the tip of your finger off.”

What are you talking about?

So, knowing that D tends not to retain memories of small significance (and some of larger significance), I repeat to D the conversation I had with him several weeks before in front of his kitchen sink.

Not only does D not remember such a conversation, neither do any of his supposedly amputated fingertips. And D doesn’t reuse milk bags; I do. And the bandage was on his right hand; being right-handed, it would have been a left-hand injury.

At this point I concede, against the protestations of my mind, that the incident could only have occurred in a dream, not in lived experience outside of my imagination. “But,” I say, “I told F about that. And I know I’ve told other people. That was a moment in my life; but it never happened.”

What is this, a Philip K. Dick story? Am I a replicant, or am I struggling to achieve Total Recall?

Believe me, I’m happy for D that he isn’t short a fingerprint; but now this mind of mine has me in a quandary. Next time I’m approached amorously by Daryl Hannah, or Sharon Stone, or Kate Beckinsale , I’ll be hornswoggled: should I take it lying down, or jump out the window and wait for Jessica Biel to show up?

My Hometown and the Ballad of Johnny Montes

New Brunswick

On Thursday, I came from cosmopolitan Toronto—where I have lived restlessly for the past decade—back to my quiet east coast hometown, Rothesay, east of Saint John, New Brunswick, which I fled in the 90s in search of adventure. Now, as we flip the great Mayan calendar to the next 5,000+ years, is this the place I want to live?

I have lived, for brief and extended periods, in Asia, Latin America, and even on a fly-in reserve in Manitoba. And all over the world, when you ask someone, “What makes you like this place so much?” the cliché response is always, “Mostly, it’s the people.” But, as I recall, that was part of why I left New Brunswick. Old-fashioned, conservative attitudes, something about this place always made me feel like I had to hold my oddball self back so as not to agitate everyone around me. But isn’t that what I just said about Toronto?

OK, so maybe it’s me. But, for a change, I don’t want to talk about me. I want to talk about the people of my hometown. Not the ones I know and love; I’m talking about the ones I’ve never met. A strange concept, for a place where it always seems everyone knows everyone, but I’ve been away a long time.

Saturday morning was the first time I’d heard the name Johnny Montes. I was asked to fill in at the last minute to work the door at KV Billiards which was holding a fundraiser that night for Johnny and his family. Last month, Johnny’s car hit some ice and he went off the road. Over recent years, I have been involved in the slow, costly, nerve-wracking process of recuperation of a family member who suffered similar injuries in a similar accident. It is, to say the least, not easy.

#65 Johnny Montes from
Bigwave’s “Riverglade National” Photo Report http://www.vitalmx.com/forums/Moto-Related,20/Bigwaves-Riverglade-National-Photo-Report,578804

I soon found out Johnny’s a bit of a celebrity in the motocross world, and a very popular guy around here. A few years younger than I am, he grew up in the trailer park near my high school, where he was likely a neighbour to some of my childhood friends. Who knows; I may even have seen him as a toddler when I was visiting friends there three decades ago.

Just before 7:00pm, I met the owner and she sat me down at the door with the donations jar and a stack of pamphlets which explained what the event was about. Some people picked up a pamphlet, but it was obvious that pretty much every one of the hundreds of people who came in that door from 7:00pm to 1:00am knew Johnny. And they don’t just know him; they really care about him. People were stuffing big bills into that jar, more than a few people surely put in more than they earn in a day, a few pausing to confirm, “This is for Johnny?”

It was assumed I knew Johnny and everyone connected with him. “Is Juan here yet?” That’s Johnny’s father. No one made me feel like I was out of the loop. Johnny’s mother introduced herself to me—why? Because she didn’t know me. One stranger after another was quick to fill me in on who everyone was—“That’s his sister”—and it often turned out I did have connections with people. And people with whom I had no connection fell into easy conversation with me. Doesn’t take much to make a connection around here.

Three damn fine local bands donated their time and talents: Bigg Medicine, Chasing Dragons, and Penalty Box, with a DJ in between acts. The song that summed it up for me was a satisfying cover of “I Love Rock’n’Roll”. The place was packed but no one was pushy. Some people came back again and again to drop more money into the donations jar (which had to be emptied frequently to make room for more) or just to see how the doorman was doing. People from ages 19 to 69, a few guys in suits, a lot of guys in baseball caps, several wearing number “Montes” jerseys, and lots of attractive women but none looked like they had gone out of their way to get their outfit and makeup just right. It was, without a doubt, the most human bunch of people I have been around for a long time.

But the most New Brunswick moment I’ve ever had was just before 1:00am when a 30ish guy in a baseball cap came over and offered me a beer. I thanked him but said no. I was still working, after all. “C’mon. You’ve been standin’ at the door here for like five hours. You should have a beer.” He wasn’t on his first, and why would he be. What he said next proved him to be a true New Brunswick gentleman. “Look, I’m not gay or nothin’; I’m not hittin’ on ya. I just figure you could really use a beer.”

You’ll just have to take my word for it; there was not a drop of homophobia in that remark. His tone said, ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that’, more sincerely than Seinfeld. This guy was just clarifying the parameters of the offer. They say Canadians are ‘nice’. Well you can’t get much nicer than New Brunswick. And I had to drink to that.

I don’t know Johnny Montes but, the way everyone speaks of him, I want to know him. In the New Year, there is to be an auction in support of Johnny. In the meantime, donations are still being accepted.

Now, someone sing us The Ballad of Johnny Montes. What, nobody’s written it yet? He deserves a song. Someone’s gotta write it. Come on, I’ll race ya!

Locomotives and Tall Buildings

By train, from Toronto. Home to New Brunswick for the holidays, for the winter, for the hell of it.

Plan:

Drive 5km to station, leave bags—two checked, two carry-on—return car to house, make a leisurely return to station, board train.
Outcome:

Drive to station. Aware that construction has turned everything around the train station into trench warfare, I decided in advance to pay any amount required to park near as possible since I won’t be able to take in all my bags at once. (Surely parking for a few minutes will be cheaper than taking a cab, right?)

If there are two things I’ve learned in this life, one is, never marry someone you’ve known for barely three months, and the more important one is, never enter a corporate, automated, underground parking garage in a car you aren’t willing to abandon.

From the outside, the parking garage looks damn near to the train station, like back-to-back, but that’s an illusion. Joined, but worlds apart. Drive down three levels to the first available spot, which I take, despite misgivings that it is a trick of some sort. I take out three of my bags, unable to manage the fourth, but sensing merit in unloading as much as possible the first time around, and I drag them up three levels of prison-like stairs wells, wondering where the elevators are hiding.

Having walked what must be halfway back to my house—all the while fighting the current of commuters like a salmon returning to his spawning grounds with 75kg of winter clothing, digital apparatus, and research books—I check two bags and pay $3 to store one of my carry-ons which I’m informed is 2.5kg overweight so will have to be repacked when I return with other.

Hike back to car, discovering elevator this time. To avoid paying to park longer, I decide to drive home and bring the backpack when I return to the station. I get to the automatic exit gate and find the $10 parking fee is more than I have in cash and the machine won’t accept debit. I am informed by a man in a fancy suit, who says he’s “from head office”, (hanging around the automatic gate?—hmm, warning sign) that the nearest ATM is three floors up in a convenience store. Conscious that time is money, and that I’m rapidly running out of both, I make haste. And we all know what that makes. Anticipating a significant run, I leave my coat in the car.

I’m in a video game in which the object is to avoid and outrun angry mall security guards, retrieve parking funds, and get back to the car before the parking fee reaches the daily maximum and get the car home with enough time remaining to get back and make the train. Getting directions from one of the Mario Brothers, I find the shop. The owner asks what I’m looking for. Was he deliberately concealing the ATM behind his body? To be safe, I choose $40 quick withdrawal. Insufficient funds? That really puts the F in “WTF?” Stupid convenience-store ATM doesn’t understand I just deposited $155 @%^&* yesterday! Stay cool. This is the bloody Financial District; throw your wallet and you’ll hit a bank.

I go exploring, and promptly find a National Bank which is only across the street but gotta navigate a 500m shopping-tunnel maze to get there (which I calculated to be less time-consuming than being struck by a car). Insufficient funds lie is repeated. The entire staff gathers to give me directions to the nearest branch of my own bank—the national headquarters, sure to have all the answers, is just four blocks away! I take my chances with traffic and frostbite.

In my sweaty T-shirt I burst from the malevolent complex and fly betwixt taxis and streetcars, doing back flips over renegade bike couriers, halting for a red light at the corner of Bay St and What Aver-nue to regain my breath and composure. The little walking man lights up. Surely looking like a CGI effect, I launch myself across the street and through the revolving doors.

The foyer of Canada’s most venerable bank tower. What do I see? Bankers in elf suits decorating a 20m high Christmas tree, banks of elevators, acres of empty space. Quick, Robin, down the escalator! Ah ha, real live bank machines with no line up! Now the truth is revealed. Five day hold on all cheques. I am able to withdraw $20 of $38 available. Now, shiny new $20 bill in hand and 20m below the earth’s crust, I must navigate a galaxy of mirror image coffee shops, luggage stores and hair salons to find a nameless parking garage somewhere between the train station and Lake Ontario. How hard could that be? I was just there 80 breaths ago. There must be an app for this, but my phone is a dunce.

Subtle signage gets me part way but it’s taking too long. At the risk of misinformation I ask a custodian how to get to the overpriced parking garage south of the station. “Damn the tunnels, man; point!” He is a worthy guide. I surf the sidewalk down to a comedy of doors. Two strikes and a homerun!

In my absence, the parking fee had jumped from $10 to $15. If math is true, $20 should be more than enough to cover that, unless… It seems the machine doesn’t recognize the newest bill, and who can blame it. Even the Queen’s portrait is eyeing with suspicion her doppelganger in the clear plastic window and the clip-art maple leaves on her own bill. Thankfully, there is someone there to yell at.

“But I’m from head office. I don’t really know anything about…Wait, I’ll go ask my boss.” He disappears around corner where I hear a woman yell at him “Well you’d BETTER find me a parking spot. Here, I’m going to park in this RESERVED spot.” Poor guy. “You can’t do that, Ma’am.”

I save him, her, and myself. “You can have MY spot, right here, if I can get outta here!” Mr Headoffice opens the gate and I peel outta there like Batman after the Penguin.

The car safely returned to the Batcave, I hoist the bulging backpack onto my sweaty-T-shirt-back, throw my down-filled coat over my frosty forearm and take the subway back to the train station.
Arrive at baggage counter as boarding begins. I redistribute contents of my luggage so that neither carry-on is overweight. The big one, on wheels, is half empty; the smaller one, strap cutting into my shoulder, is vomiting computer components and gift-wrapped major appliances. The guy ahead of me is told to put his carryon on the scale. I stagger by unnoticed. Riding the escalator to the platform, I dump the excess from the small bag into the big one, and stroll onto the train with my head held high, dreaming of my east-coast Fortress of Solitude.

Toronto the Good and Bad

Three things I really appreciate are live jazz, modern languages, and descent people. Toronto has all three in abundance.

Jazz at Massey Hall “The Greatest Jazz Concert Ever”

On Friday, I was thrilled by the “Molly Johnson and Friends” jazz concert at Massey Hall, which is a splendid and venerable concert hall. Molly Johnson, who was delightful as always, is one of my favourite singers. One of her many fine guests was Denzal Sinclaire, whom I well knew would be worth the price of admission on his own. Her pianist for the evening was the outstanding Robi Botos. What a show!

On Saturday I met with a local international group a couple of blocks from home and spoke in Portuguese for two hours. On Sunday I went to a cafe a couple of blocks in the other direction and signed in ASL for two hours. On Wednesday I am going across the street to a Spanish/French evening where people from a dozen countries will switch from one language to the other every 30 minutes. Fun!

Today I heard a woman at the health food shop checkout say, “Last time I was here, the cashier undercharged me by two dollars. I hope it won’t screw up your accounts if I pay that back now.” Good!

What’s not to like about Toronto? Maybe it is just this: Toronto is a place where you hear great musicians giving a dazzling performance at a terrific venue, and the audience conducts itself as if it is trying not to get noticed, as if everyone snuck in on a school night and they are afraid they’ll get caught if they make too much noise. Decades ago, my mother saw the one and only Louis Armstrong play at [Massey Hall] the O’Keefe Centre, (which later became the Hummingbird Centre) and she says that the audience was so reserved he rolled his eyes and grumbled, “What a swingin’ crowd.” Same thing when I saw Ray Charles at the venue formerly known as the Hummingbird Centre; I wanted to shout at the audience “Come on, everybody; it’s Ray freaking Charles!” and I would have been heard without needing to shout.

Toronto has all kinds of good stuff, from the world’s greatest public library system to North America’s most comprehensive municipal recycling program, and of course endless opportunities to immerse yourself in food, music and languages from every corner of the globe. But somehow, Hogtown has no personality. Toronto is less than the sum of its parts.

It is said that Toronto looks down on the rest of Canada, and that the rest of Canada hates Toronto. From both sides, this is unfortunate and uncalled for. For better or worse, Canada and Toronto are not so different from one another. Both could and should be so much greater than they are. If only more parts of Canada had some of the stupendous resources Toronto has. If only Toronto had some of the personality that other parts of Canada have.

Sorry if I sound ungrateful, but I have to be honest about how I feel. I’m glad you’re here, Toronto, and I definitely don’t hate you, but you make me feel like a Toronto audience.