Nothing to be SAD about

InCivilitis: Nothingto be SAD About

It’s the beginning of March, and shit’s not funny. The darkest months of winter are technically behind us, but the tropical dampness of our requisite hot vacations are even further behind – a distant memory that seems more like foggy a tryst you imagined during a 2:00pm sugar low. All that remains from the tropical vacation is a nagging shortage of cash and a crushing avalanche of court appearances and mediations that you scheduled in the then distant future, well into the future following your hardly-earned tropical tryst.But the future is now, my friends, and the impending rush of ill-considered matters that were punted down the line are rising like warm bread. The last throws of winter are the worst.

It might be possible to deal with all those foul matters we’ve postponed, if Mother Nature, the wretched witch, would see fit to deliver some remotely seasonal warmth. It dampens the day when you wake-up to an impending sunrise, to be fooled into thinking, “it looks rather springy out there in the near daylight of early March”, only step out your door into the face of a brisk minus 20 that cuts through your chest like cheap bourbon. Of course, the delightfully pure whiteness of our December winter-scape has given way to the grey-brown glacial sheets of densely packed ice and gravel blanketing the sidewalks and gutters. Aside from an active lava flow, it would be difficult to devise a surface less friendly to pedestrians (and the hips of seniors) than the late winter glacial cover. Fortunately (?), the icy moraine is periodically broken by the emerging lumps of dog feces that are suspiciously common beneath winter’s cloak. The thawing scats emit the smell of human shame and servitude: the stench of a sick society that hides its worst beneath the veil of winter. Of course, some of the crap is off-set by the sudden appearance of the bright red blight: the seasonal Tim’s Cup, with one piece of the paper lip rolled slightly upward, bearing the season’s most common affront, “Please play again”.

No. I’m done playing. I don’t even like Tim Horton’s and yet the prospect of a free crueler, or better yet, another coffee, somehow compels me to quadruple my TiHo’s intake during Roll Up season. One year, during law school, I won four coffees in a row and by the fourth I was praying that I didn’t win another. But the problem is, since you put everything off during Christmas and then your tropical vacation, you need the caffeine to get through the pile of stuff you adjourned. And since you’re drinking coffee anyway, you might was well get a Tim’s with a chance of winning ‘cause God knows Starbucks isn’t giving you anything for free. And since that vacation, you could really use a financial break. Besides, the TiHo’s is pretty close and the minus 20 weather and the moonscape sidewalk doesn’t invite a lengthy sojourn.  So let’s just get a Tim’s – my last cup asked me very nicely to play again anyway. Late winter is an asshole.

Of course, this year, during the depths of our Seasonal Affective Disorder, my wife and I promptly decided to finish our concrete basement and proceeded, like any brilliant litigator, to employ a contractor on a handshake to get things done. As such, the normal ugliness of the season has been amplified by all the ugliness of poorly detailed construction contract.The notion was that winter with two kids under two was resulting in some serious cabin fever that could be resolved by increasing our space and providing more room for “ripping around”. Of course, winter is nearing its end and we have no finished space yet, a meaningless budget and a thick coat of dust throughout the house. At one point, a “minor adjustment” to the position of the shower drain resulted in a grand excavation that looked more like the search for King Tut’s tomb.

The capstone to this season’s escapades was our quick“in-and-out” voyage from Saskatoon to Calgary to procure some “cheap” fixtures from Sweden’s favourite hex-key furniture hawker. IKEA ate more than three hours of my life and made a mockery of our budgeted intentions. Amidst the labyrinth of showrooms, we managed to avoid the horse-meat delights of the cafeteria, but risked low blood sugar and dehydration as a result. Of course,while we shopped, Mother Nature, in her late winter rage, descended on Calgary,pelting it with Fernie-like powder for hours, which paralyzed the town. We got stuck at a Sandman Inn across the street from IKEA for the extra night – and one more day away from the office, which was extremely helpful during the season of catch-up. If you need cupboards, you should probably just buy them in Saskatchewan.

As my wife and I quietly mulled dinner during the deepest throws of late winter this week, our eldest child, at just weeks over two years of age, continued his Ghandi-esque hunger strike, which seems to be aimed not at the realization of democratic freedom, but at taking his food to the front room. Following a very vocal and physical display of non-violent resistance that saw him writhing on the floor, and our continuing indifference to his tantrum, silence became the room. As we quietly chewed, our child very quietly and purposefully removed his socks. As his mother was turned, attending to the baby, he very precisely and resolutely placed his socks on top of his mother’s food on her plate and slowly backed away. It was the strangest, most curious display of defiance I had ever witnessed. And when my wife turned around, we looked to each other momentarily, and then attempted to contain our laughter.We knew that laughing at our child’s actions was poor patenting – it would only encourage him. But damn it was funny. At that point, we grabbed a pricey bottle of wine from the shelf and tore into it on a fine Tuesday night.

 To date, we have no idea what implored our child to such an odd act of rebellion – it made no sense. But frankly, it was hilarious. And I have to say, he’s continued his streak with our potty training efforts, wherein he decided he would pee in the potty, only because he determined that the Advil syringe he played with in the bath (yes, we give our child Advil, and yes, we let him play with medical implements from time-to-time) was equally effective at extracting his own pee from the potty. A toddler armed with a pee-filled syringe is precisely what we needed. But his acts made us laugh, not only at him, but at ourselves, and our consent to late winter misery. Frankly, life isn’t that bad, despite our climatic depression. Winter is in its final throws and the rush of February and March will give way to spring very shortly, and dreams of summer weekends on the water will come to fruition. The disputes of this month will pass, and the lazy days of summer will be upon us. I just hope our basement is done by then because we don’t have air conditioning and it would be nice to have a cool place to dwell during the sweltering heat. At least IKEA doesn’t make air conditioners.

I’m off to get a coffee… I’m due for a win.

Take the Free Sh*t: You’re Paying for it Anyway

It was an accident. Or so you told yourself as your faded iPhone 3GS crashed to the pavement from your weak, weak grip. Deep down inside, you know that your grip on that phone has been a little loose ever since you “qualified for an upgrade” with your wireless carrier. Canadians wait with bated breath for that special date every two years or so, when their wireless service provider offers an upgrade to the shiniest new device that promises to get you more connected at faster speeds in higher resolution than ever before – all for the measly price of maybe a hundred bucks…. and your sole, otherwise known as the three year contract. Six months later, when Apple smites you with a neven newer model, the cursing begins. Which of your children you wouldn’t give then to cut the three-year chains that define your life of servitude to Big Telecom so you could get your hands on the iPhone 5GS.

The Canadian Radio-television and Telecommunications Commission (CRTC) recently held a public hearing on the establishment of a mandatory code of conduct for wireless service providers. At the heart of public disdain for their wireless overlords is the wretched, universally despised three year service contract, which seems to be the hallmark of Canadian wireless carriers. Although I have limited sympathy for Canadian wireless carriers, I concur with them on one point: the three year contract, itself, is not an evil beast: it’s a purely voluntary election that people enter into freely. You can’t fault carriers if consumers choose a bad bargain. The real issue is that Canadian consumers must choose between a bad bargain and a worse bargain, where the only rational choice is to take the free sh*t.

At the advent of cellular service, Canadian (and U.S.) carriers, decided that, in order to get more people hooked on using their services, they would essentially finance the capital cost of handsets for new customers. Carriers ensured they recovered the cost of the handsets by locking those customers into long-term service contracts at minimum rates. Customers really seemed to like the idea of a “free phone” up front, and they needed a carrier for their shiny new phones anyway: it was a win-win. Then, newer, shinier faster phones that connected you better at higher speeds in greater resolution than ever before started showing-up more frequently – almost annually. But customers and their phones were locked to their current carriers under iron-clad contracts buffered by digital locks on phones. In response to customers’ unfulfilled desire for shiny things, carriers ingeniousely introduced the mid-contract “upgrade” – get the new device that gets you better connected at higher speeds in greater resolution than ever before for a couple hundred bucks… plus another three year contract. And the cycle continued, mostly because people like shiny thing.

The problem with the Canadian wireless system is not the length of service contracts. The problem is that, somehow, the financing of phones got tied-into the wireless service rates. When a person takes a cheap phone on promotion with a three year contract, there is no financing charge on each monthly statement – the cost recovery of the phone is simply tied into the overall service rates. As a result, wireless rates don’t reflect the actual cost of wireless service: they reflect the cost of wireless service and the cost of a new phone. If I show up at any Canadian carrier with my rickety, unlocked iPhone 3GS that I’ve already paid for, the carrier will charge me the same rates as the sucker who took their free phone deal, even though my phone is already paid for. Thus, I wind-up financing other people’s phones by paying the same inflated rates as all the free-phone-takers. As a result, the real suckers in Canada are people who don’t take the “free phone” deals offered by carriers, because we’re all paying for a phone anyway!

When cellular phones were first introduced, it seemed intuitive (or at least, not strange) that the wireless carriers also sold the hardware that worked on their networks. You might recall that the land-line telephone system initially required you to rent or purchase your phone from the service provider. Regulators eventually forced carriers to permit the connection of “third party devices” (ie. a telephone from Radio Shack) to the land-line systems. The availability, selection and price-points of landline phones flourished and telecom providers had to beuild their businesses based on providing service, not financing hardware. Does anyone enter into a three-year landline contract with Bell? In fact, does anyone still get a landline?

Today, you would likely find it absurd if the telephone company sold you a telephone, your internet provider sold you a computer, or your television provider sold you your television. Do you think Shaw owes you a television for free because you subscribe to its services?

The current wireless system is akin to Shell providing you a new Cadillac for $4,000.00, provided you buy gas exclusively from Shell for three years at pre-established minimum rates (which might be a little, or a lot higher than you would expect to pay for gas otherwise), with significant penalties for early termination. Also, your Caddy won’t run on Petro-Canada, Esso or any other gas you might like to try. If it breaks, you’ll need to keep buying Shell gas anyway, and we’ll offer you a replacement Caddy at the fair market price of $40,000.00… unless you qualify for an upgrade Caddy for only $6,000.00 and another three year contract tacked-on to your old one (you’ll be buying Shell for your natural born life) . It seems kind of stupid….although I might be onto something here (process patent pending, Shell).

The simple solution to this whole fiasco is not to ban three year contracts – banning things is the timeless solution of the idiot. Instead, CRTC should mandate that carriers must separate phone financing costs from actual wireless service costs for customers. Then, if I choose to buy the newest Android straight from Google, I know I will actually be paying for wireless services, not phone financing, when I go to a carrier for service. If someone wants a “free phone” from his carrier, that’s fine, but call it what it is – financing – and charge him for it accordingly, and separate from the actual provision of service. The carriers have trained North Americans to believe that new cell phones cost $100.00, instead of the actual $500.00 to $900.00 price tag. And we’ve sacrificed mobility between carriers and fair service rates for the “good deal”. It’s not that we’re all stupid, but that the only rational economic choice is to take the free phone, because you have no choice but to pay for it through inflated rates anyway.

Permitting carriers to support the “free phone giveaway” by hiding the capital costs in their wireless rates ensures everyone will be hooked on the three-year contract cycle like a bad drug. I’d like to get off the crack and would be happy to pay at least a few hundred dollars up front for my phone if I knew I could switch carriers at any point without penalty, and that the service rates I was getting weren’t inflated to pay for everyone’s shiny new phone. Forcing carriers to segregate phone financing rates from service rates is the simple solution that provides consumers with real choice respecting phone purchases and service providers. I think I’d hold onto my old iPhone 4 a little tighter in that world.

Well folks, it was a banner freakin’ year at the ol’ Dubois residence. We made it through another twelve months with a refined blend of caffeine, ibuprofen, Dewar’s with a hint of divine intervention. Wait - Maeghan just advised that was just Grandma Shelly, and not divine intervention. Although God is omnipresent, everyone I know has a key to our house now, so we can never be sure who to thank when we come home and the dishes have been put away... except that it probably wasn’t Regan.

Speaking of which, shortly after we gained a Hugo, our number two child (August 3rd), we lost a Regan (our temporary child by gift). Yes - we just had one boy, Hudson, a while back. And yes - we know how it happens now, and it’s not divine intervention, although I suspect God finds the whole situation pretty damn hilarious from time-to-time. Anyway, Uncle Regan left the house ingloriously in the midst of what appeared to be a Sunday hangover coupled with severe indigestion on an otherwise fresh fall day. Hudson was perplexed to find Uncle Regan shirtless, blanketless and curled into a ball on the front couch in the mid-morning sun, smelling of guinness, sweat and flatulence (commonly known as shame). While we were happy to have some extra space for the new guys, we certainly miss crazy Uncle Regan. He is doing well in his final year of Commerce at the U of S and he brings praise and honour to the family to offset any hint of shame.

And regarding the bringing shame to the family, Uncle Jason made a questionable move when he tossed a decked-out Aunty Jolene into the Hannen’s pool in Phoenix just after the crack of midnight on December 31st, 2011. Although Grandma Lynda takes some credit for instigating the affair, the episode inspired Randy Hannen, in a state of pure jubilation, to hurl her fully clothed figure into the pool behind them, complete with her cellphone. But as my darling wife pointed-out in an effort to assuage the damage, “It was just a Samsung.” The evening was a solid cap to a series of Phoenix-based festivities enjoyed by both of our families last holiday season.

And speaking of cell phones, I’m sure you’ve all heard about the Olympic cell phone theft from my wife that made national news a couple years back, that led to an undercover effort with the Vancouver police and a solid smack-down of the perpetrator. Well, we were robbed again in 2012 - our 2012 Chariot Cougar 2, purchased with our hard won dollars this spring to carry the expanded payload of our two guys, was taken from our garage this fall, along with a handful of other stuff. The police sent their finest 19 year-old rookie to “investigate” the theft, which investigation ended with, “We’re probably not going to do anything because we never really find anything.” That officer was obviously unaware of our previous crime fighting prowess.

First, Maeg picked-up the track of our Chariot at a children’s consignment store. My phonecall to the store got us further down the trail, such that the 19-year-old officer admitted to me that this was very exciting because this had “never happened to (her) before” and she further advised that “this (would) be an excellent learning experience”. I was armed with a serial number, some half-assed criminal law training and a belly full of anger to see this thing through. When the officer called back to advise that the store gave her some information about the person who brought the Chariot in, but that they didn’t want to provide any information about the subsequent purchaser, I got a little hot. It was clear this officer needed a little assistance and direction, so I did what I always do in a state of unbridled rage: I unleashed a strongly worded letter on the store. I advised them of how “the law” viewed their conduct and that I was content to sue them in the tort of conversion should they be unable or unwilling to provide the appropriate information. Two days later, the officer left me a voicemail advising that the store had provided her with all the information respecting the subsequent purchaser, and the video of the person who sold it to the store. We have since retrieved the Chariot and the deadbeat who sold it to the store has been charged with possession of stolen property. We don’t f&*%#ing tolerate thievery in our house... but we’ve got a bit of an issue with fire.

Grandma Shelly is pretty damn competent with all things child-oriented, and we consistently entrust her comfortably with the lives of our children, but it turns out we might want to take them to her house. A yam, which was intended to be a deliciously natural meal for the growing Hudder was placed in the microwave to cook whilst Grandma and Hudder played upstairs. Unfortunately, the yam continued to cook for a term of 45 minutes before it combusted inside the microwave sending a plume of toxic smoke throughout the house, which ultimately trashed the microwave and embedded the entire house with an ashtray-esque aroma. No one was injured, although Grandma’s pride has been slow to recover.

Several months later, once the smoke had cleared (it only took a couple months to be fair), Maeg thought to starting the fireplace on a cold winter morning. As she and our two guys went about their business, she suddenly caught a whiff of burning plastic. As she frantically looked for the cause, she saw visible smoke coming from the main floor, at which point she scrambled for her iphone (not a Samsung), and being unable to find it, fled into the street with the two guys yelling for help. Several strangers, and ultimately, the fire department responded, and our warring neighbour Cathy actually took Maeghan and the guys into her hostile territory. Several minutes later, a firefighter entered into Cathy’s and asked if Maeg was missing an iPhone, at which point, he produced a severely droopy iphone that had been melted on the top of the firebox behind the fireplace vent. Apparently, Hudder had been shoving things through the vent for some time. There was a reasonable collection of items surrounding the firebox. Fortunately, no drugs or porn were among Hudson’s fireplace bounty. I won’t tell you that we had recently fixed that same phone when Maeg drove over it. She got a whole new phone this time. It only took a couple weeks for the burnt plastic smell to disseminate - I’m sure that’s an Apple design feature.

And speaking of Maeghan causing trouble, did you hear about her ten day cruise with all the women in her mother’s family that left me with the task of weaning the Hudder? Think Trainspotting: heroin withdrawl scene insert Hudder for skinny guy and insert boob for heroin. That diddy earned me a long weekend in Banff with my law school cronies. How does 10 days of the Hudder, complete with the pain of weaning equal one three day weekend with the guys? I don’t know. I’ve never been strong at math - that’s why I went into law. Fortunately, with child number two, Maeg is pretty quick to bottle him now and then. Weaning him probably requires just a three day girl’s weekend in Vegas. However, I probably won’t earn enough plus-minus points for more than a night out on Broadway with Regan and the Mescall boys. I’m always running in the negative.

And speaking of running, did you hear that my wife ran the Bridge City Boogie when she was 7 months pregnant? Granted, she only did the 5K, stealing a WMCZ team shirt and bib from my colleague the morning of (it was raining pretty solid, and the colleague didn’t want to run). And she still managed to pull a better time than a bunch of my office folks. I had the Hudder in the old Chariot, and we did OK in the 10K, but Dad was clearly rusty. To be fair, I had to stop at one point to open Hudder’s protein bar (he hit’s the wall if he doesn’t get his fuel at 5K) - that caused us some issues. I was going to redeem us at the Outter Limits fun run at Elk Ridge in the fall, but Hugo got a rhino in his nose, which landed him (and us, by consequence) in the hospital for a fortnight (is that “four nights”, cause it kind of sounds like it... either way, it was four nights).

Poor Hugo got the full septic work-up as a result of a high fever, and when they couldn't find a cause, he was assigned to Aunty Jolene’s ward for a solid stay. We learned very quickly that the built-in counter ledge is almost precisely the same width as a standard Therm-a-rest camp mattress, which results in a functional, and even comfortable bed. At the end of the day, it seems that Hugo’s culprit was the standard Rhino-virus, or as you might know it, "a cold". But he was a pretty small guy at that point then with no vaccinations, so I guess it happens.

But we’ve been very lucky with grandparents, uncles and aunts at the constant ready to step-in when the guys get sick or when parents get lazy. Granpda Marcel constructed for Hudder a masterful sandbox on the same day that Hugo was born, and it’s sure to be a lasting sted for both boys, although Hudder has moved a good 50 pounds of sand from the box onto the lawn over the course of the fall. Of course, Hudder has a full compliment of John Deere equipment to farm his plot. But I have to say (Grandpa Grant/Uncle Morgan) that the purported “quality” of the John Deere product has not been imparted to the scale versions of the equipment. Have you seen the tractor with the missing hitch and the combine with the complete missing rear axle? I won’t say we’re considering changing colours, but if a red tractor showed-up, I’m not telling Hudder he can’t have it.

We feel that everyone around us is being promoted, winning professional awards and generally crushing the commercial world as of late. I regret to advise that Maeg is, once again, on maternity leave, and that I have no awards to show for my professional efforts, although I’ve got it on good authority that I’m not likely to be fired in the New Year, and no one has sued me thus far... so that’s something, right? But Maeg has implored that I at least mention that I was promoted to CFO of my firm. That’s Chief Fun Officer. It’s a very big responsibility and is highly regarded, although it resulted in no salary increase.... yet.

Anyway, all four of us are looking forward to a couple weeks in the Far West, just east of the Far East, better known as Hawaii. Grandpa and Grandma Dubois have decided to spend the farm to afford some time in the tropics with the next two generations. Maeg is excited because, for the first time in two years, and as far as we know, she won’t be pregnant for the birthday, New Years, and Anniversary trifecta... I presume she’ll have a mai tai or two. Really, it’s a bit of an affront to her Irish Catholicism, but I’m pretty tired, so I’m fine to spit in the face of the Church for a while, as we attempt to manage our current 2 under 2. If we had 3 under 3, I’m pretty sure I’d lose that CFO appointment right quick.

And speaking of tired, did I mention that we’re a little tired? I guess that’s to be expected. But you know, I wouldn’t necessarily say we’re any busier than anyone else. I’ve heard a lot about how busy people are in these parts. I’m not sure if we’re busy: we’re just tired. I don’t think we have particularly more or less to do than anyone else, but it’s tough enough just getting through each day with a couple of dependents in diapers, isn’t it? But then I think of all the single parents out there, and people without sufficient means to raise a family, and I think, man, we’ve got it pretty damn good. In fact, there are still small windows when we watch TV programs on the web now and then. And although we’ve spent approximately a year in self-righteous glory, announcing to all comers that “we don’t have TV”, we’re actually considering getting TV back in the new year. I know. We probably aren’t busy enough.

And speaking of being OK, we’re pretty happy about our general station in life. Although we lost Maeg’s Grandpa Lorne in 2012, he lived a long life full of love and service, and we can’t think of a better example to follow in our meagre household. We’ve got two healthy guys (well - Hugo runs fevers now and then, and Hudson is pale as a ghost in January, but Aunty Jolene assures us they’re healthy as Lance Armstrong sans steroids), a house that exceeds our station in life, supportive family and the best of friends in our own neighbourhood. Hudson has recently been requesting to go “home” regardless of where we are, and he gleefully exclaims, “Home!” as we round the alley to enter the garage. We will do our best to appreciate that while it lasts, because, one of these times, our house actually will catch fire.

Happy New Year everyone!

“Les Dubois”

When media polls become stupid. What does the average citizen know about what's being done to reduce jail overcrowding? I'm a lawyer, and as a result, I might have a better idea about jail stuff than your average joe, but I don't have any idea what, if anything, is being done about jail overcrowding. Hell - I don't even know if jails are overcrowded, even though the question presumes they are. Terrible, terrible direction in journalism: collecting and reporting ignorance.

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Hudson Likes Ketchup.MOV