As you well know, I am no fan of unions. That being said, the recent actions of Abitibi-Bowater in Nova Scotia and at their Head Office makes me feel for the union members.

What Abitibi-Bowater did is put a gun to the workers heads and state that if the company didn’t get large concession from the workers, amongst other demands, including lower costs from the cutters for wood fibre, they would shut their mill in Booklyn, NS. Well, just like every other mill town in North America, there are few other options for employment. Consequently, the workers agreed to the cuts.

At the same time, Abitibi-Bowater released figures of the bonuses it recently paid to its top executives. So, the optics of all of this is a company that wants to reward its top executives with the moneys pulled out of the workers pockets. Morons.

I would hope that the Nova Scotia government and the Union, bring this up as negotiations drag on. They better hold tough and demand that some of this money gets put back into the workers pension fund or some other vehicle. Otherwise, I think they should tell Abitibi-Bowater where they can go.

Until then, I remain,

A Sour Kraut

We recently had a Day of Remeberance for the brave men and women who have answered the call of their Country and traveled to foreign lands to fight wars that needed to be fought. Some returned, scarred by the experience. Some never came home. On the 11th Hour of the 11th Day of the Eleventh month, we meet, we cry, we lay wreaths and wear poppies, all in the hope that at some level these brave soldiers and their families will understand the depth of our enduring gratitude.

The hell that these men and women experienced and the courage they required to actually function amidst such chaos truly points to a level of character most of us will never achieve. My youngest has a way of cutting to the chase. Taking about the First World War, he looked at me and said “The trenches were not a nice place. Why did they do it?” Since I supposedly know everything, once again I was on the spot to deliver an earth shattering yet comforting answer. “Well,” I said, “Some men and women mistakenly went for an adventure while others went due to a sense of duty.”

“Why did they stay?”

“Hmmmmm,” I paused, “Because they were ordered to.” I had to laugh at the expression on his face. This was a boy who will not clean his room no matter what the “order”, trying to comprehend staying in a rat infested, sewer laden hole in the ground because someone of authority told you so.

“Oh.”

I digress. It struck me that while I spend the period around Rememberance Day remembering people I didn’t even know, there are people, friends and family I have lost, that I am starting to forget. I have lost a parent, grandparents, peers and friends. Some have died before their time. Others after leading a good life. And some have just disappeared ( that says a lot about me doesn’t it!). I have lost touch with people as a result of careers, foreign committments and other reasons. They have all turned into two dimensional pictures and memories. It has been my loss and I have done nothing to keep those memories and lessons learned strong.

So from now on, I vowed to stop doing whatever I am doing on the Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of each month and remember those that have meant so much to me. I will remember the lessons they all taught me, and how in some very big ways they have made me the person I am today. Sure, they left before the job was near completion, but I can tire people out.

Until then, I remain,

A Sour Kraut

Outside, the TV van waited. The side door opened and Cliff stepped in. “What are we going to do now?”
Mrs. Flanagan turned in her seat. She had a confused look on her face. What do you mean?”
“What are we going to do without Fred?” Cliff stated, in a slow, plain voice.
Then Cliff heard Fred’s voice. “What did I do?” Fred wondered as he turned in the driver’s seat to look see Cliff’s response.
“What are you doing here?” Cliff demanded.
“Where else should I be?”
“The Man said that they had you. What are you working for them too?”
Mrs. Flanagan was getting annoyed. She stifled Fred’s response and asked “Cliff, you are not making any sense. Care to elaborate?”
“The Man said that they had Fred. They obviously don’t have him, so that can only mean that he is one of them.”
“Who is this Man, you keep babbling on about?”
“Big guy, said they were watching me and wouldn’t let anything go wrong. Said that they controlled everything. Seems to be quite the control freak. He can appear anywhere.”
Mrs. Flanagan looked at Fred. “Griffin?”
“Sounds like him,” Fred agreed.
“What is going on here,” Mrs. Flanagan demanded. “None of our intel said anything about Griffin showing up.”
“I’ll make a call,” Fred offered. He picked up his phone and started talking.
“Griffin,” Mrs. Flanagan started to tell Cliff, “is like the overlord of the Western intelligence community. What he wants done, gets done.”
“Great,” Cliff sighed. “Who does he work for?”
“Everyone and no one.”
“Uh huh, and what does that really mean.”
“It means that you stay on his good side or you get into trouble.”
“Well he doesn’t like me very much,” Cliff confided.
Mrs. Flanagan laughed. “Au contraire my dear boy. If he didn’t like you, you would be dead now. I would say he likes you a lot. You are still walking and talking.”
Cliff didn’t know what to say. He was trembling. Fred put down his phone. “Sounds like he is here.”
“Why?” Mrs. Flanagan demanded.
“They don’t seem to know. He just showed up this afternoon. This is bigger than we thought.”
“The bigger they are the harder they fall,” Mrs. Flanagan offered.
Fred smiled. “Well if we pull this off, there are going to be a lot of people going off the edge.”
“We will,” Mrs. Flanagan assured him. “We have Cliff.”
“Right, you have me. Mr. Wonderful. Everybody thinks I am great. Care to tell me what I am going to be so great at?” Cliff asked.
“Lets go,” Mrs. Flanagan said.
Fred pulled away and started out of the parking lot.
“Care to tell me why we keep driving every time we talk?”
“Simple, my dear boy,” Fred started. When we are moving we pipe music through the shell of the van. The vibrations throw off the listening equipment they use to eavesdrop.”
“They are listening to us?”
“All the time.”
“Well why not do it when we are stopped?”
“Lasers can target the skin and eliminate the background nosies. When we are moving the road noise and engine noise is random. They cannot lock on the lasers to one spot and the randomness is too hard to eliminate. Think of it as a sound-proof room.”
“Fine. I will forget what I don’t understand. Although, that is all starting to make sense. If we varied our speed that would make it more difficult wouldn’t it?” Cliff suggested.
“I think he is getting it,” Mrs. Flanagan said to Fred.
“Okay Cliff, here is the plan. Tonight we perform this charade of a Telethon…”
“Charade?!!” Cliff yelled.
Mrs. Flanagan stared at him. “Oh come on, you didn’t really think that this was all that we were going to do?”
Cliff felt embarrassed. “No I remember about stealing a kidney. Humour me.”
Mrs. Flanagan continued, “Tonight after the Telethon is a big success, we all go home and relax. Tomorrow is another day.”
Cliff interrupted again. “Dr. Bob said that Monica, may not be Monica during the Telethon.”
“He didn’t need to tell you that.”
“Well he did. What did he mean?”
“Nothing. We may need to do more tests on Monica tonight and as a result she may not be available on cue.”
“That’s it?” Cliff asked.
“That’s all you need to know for now,” Mrs. Flanagan said.
“Uh huh.”
“As I was saying, before you rudely interrupted,” Mrs. Flanagan began again, “was that we were all going home to relax. Tomorrow morning, Mary will come to the hospital to check on Monica and the Telethon results and you will go to work. You will receive a shipment of a 1985 Lotus Esprit Turbo. Cecil will give it to Joe, but Joe will tell him that you are the one who should check it out. There will be a very special item in that Lotus.”
“Let me guess, a birthday cake?”
Mrs. Flangan ignored him. “Before you do anything you will have to check the vehicle’s identification number. It will be different from the original. If the numbers don’t match, we will abort. Somewhere along the line we had a breakdown and we will not risk lives on a misstep.”
“So, no pressure,” Cliff moaned.
“None for you. Well not much. Looking on the positive side, we will assume that everything matches. Once you confirm that this is the right “package” you will have to gain access to the intercooler. This model has the updated liquid intercooler.”
“I’m familiar with them.”
“Not this one,” Mrs. Flanagan interjected. “The coolant lines do not carry coolant. They are filled with liquid nitrogen.”
“What?”
“Yes the intercooler is a tiny freezer. That is why you have been getting cold burns on your arms when you have been working on these cars lately.”
“Ohhhh…”
“Yes, and the key to this is you getting the package out of that intercooler without destroying it, setting off the alarms and getting it back together so that no one notices.”
“I see. For my next trick I will pull a rabbit out of my butt.”
“I would pay to see that,” Fred shouted.
“So would I,” Mrs. Flanagan agreed. “Instead you will perform this trick and leave work with the package in your lunch box. By the way, you lunch box at home has been modified. It looks the same, but no it can maintain a temperature of -225C.”
“No way,” Cliff was incredulous.
“Once you have the package, you need to get it in the lunch box as soon as possible. Cecil will be watching you like a hawk, but we have some help to distract him.”
“Help.”
“Someone on the inside.”
“JOE!!”
“Very good Cliff,” Mrs. Flanagan smiled. “Joe has been there to help you at any point. So far you have made his life easy. Tomorrow however, you will need his help.”
“Does Cecil know?”
“About what?”
“Does Cecil know about Joe?” Cliff said.
“Not that we are aware of,” Mrs. Flanagan assured. “To continue, once you have the package, you need to get out of the shop as soon as possible. Joe will let us know. You will receive a phone call from Mary saying that Monica is in distress and failing fast. Tell Cecil the car is done and walk. We will be outside. Joe can handle Cecil from there. Once in the van, you will exchange your “new” lunch box for the old one and we will drive you to the hospital. You and Fred and your lunch box will go into the hospital to Monica’s room. She will be prepped for surgery and Mary and she will head to the operating room in one elevator. Leave your lunch box in the room and you and Fred head up in the other. You will actually be going to the underground parking. A car will be waiting. Get in.”
“You think they are going to be fooled by my old lunch box?”
“No, but they will have to check it,” Mrs. Flanagan stated, “that takes some time.”
“Why aren’t I going to the operating room?”
“No one is going to the operating room,” Mrs. Flanagan conceded.
“No one?”
“No one.”
“Mary is going to be pissed.”
“Let us take care of her.”
“Good luck,” Cliff laughed.
“Where am I going”
Mrs. Flanagan started again, “You are going to the airport. A plane will be waiting. Get on and the rest of you questions will be answered there.”
“And Mary and Monica?”
“They will be on another plane.”
“Okay, lets get back to the package. How am I supposed to get into this intercooler?”
“It is a three step process,” Mrs. Flanagan explained. This system has two alarms. One for temperature and one for flow. In your “new” lunch box is a jumper for the temperature sensor. The system allows five seconds to retest any temperature fluctuations. Find the temperature sensor, unplug it and attach the jumper.”
“In five seconds?”
“In five seconds. We have tried it and it is possible. Next, this is a typical refrigeration system. Two lines, high pressure and low pressure. They both have quick connects. You have eight seconds to connect the bypass in your lunch box to these lines. Remember, low pressure first.”
“Then what?”
“Then is gets harder. You have five minutes to open this thing up, get the package into the lunch box and close it back up with all the lines and sensors back in place.”
“I am really starting to sweat,” Cliff admitted.
Mrs. Flanagan chuckled, “Good. That means you know what we are asking. The access panel is supposed to be held in place by for bolts, head pattern, Torx 20. Remove that panel and the package will just pull out. As if I have to tell you, be careful, it will be cold. There will be a special set of welding gloves on your bench. Yell that the exhaust is hot and use those. It sounds stupid, but Cecil is not the sharpest knife in the drawer and this will distract him for a minute or two. Just grab the package and put it in your lunch box. It should fit easily.”
Cliff was trying to absorb all of this. “What is the number I am looking for?”
“It will be on a piece of paper in the lunch box so you don’t have to remember it now. The number is 1BHLACC9.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” Mrs. Flanagan stated, “that the kidney inside is a match for Monica.”
“Oh.”

That’s it! I have heard so much BS recently that I have reached my limit. Lets start with my favourite Mayor, Peter Kelley of Halifax, Nova Scotia. The man who is famous for walking around with a bullet in his briefcase, for having his own little concert slush fund and for giving Halifax a $700K skating oval for the bargain price of $5.7 million, is in the news again. This time he is claiming that the “Occupy Halifax” encampment at the City’s Grand Parade has cost the municipal coffers $25,000 or more. Yup, a demonstration that has lasted less than a month has racked up tens of thousands of dollars in extra garbage and policing costs. Really! He said that. Well the encampment has been taking care of their own garbage and why the city needs to put on more police is beyond me. Mr. Kelley, if you truly believe the numbers you are spouting, let me introduce you to the garbage company that picks up my garbage. They will provide a huge dumpster and pick it up weekly for a monthly fee in the $200 range. Install two dumpsters. You are still below $500 for a FULL MONTH.

Nova Scotia is on my map again with the shenanigan’s in the Town of Bridgetown. This past spring the Town admitted that it was in financial trouble, that money may have been misappropriated and the Mayor and councillors resigned. The amount of money thought to be missing was in the $120,000 range. The Province moved in and hired a firm to do an audit. The audit came in last week, at a whopping cost of $300,000 dollars. Chew on that for a minute. THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS! An audit. One audit. An audit for a small town. If you went to a business that had one thousand customers and said that an audit of the company would cost three hundred grand, the company executive would laugh you off the premises. Not the Province of Nova Scotia. They think that they have gotten good value. Why they just didn’t pay the $120,000 and get it over with is beyond me. The Town is still out the money and the Province’s tax payers are out $300,000. Nice job.

Now we have all of the “Occupy (Insert City Here)” being torn down, you really have to look at the opportunity that has been missed. These demonstrations have been so badly managed that the constituency that the protesters are trying to reach are so befuddled and confused that they have no idea what was going on. The protests tried to be all things to all people and as a result became nothing. When will people learn that trying to be all things to all people and leading by committee is a recipe for disaster.

The BS coming out of Europe is getting too much. Instead of admitting that the continent is broken beyond repair, the socialist old guard is still trying to convince the rest of the World that they are on top of things. The European banking system is broken. It will not pass the stress tests applied to the Canadian Banking system, yet the regulators are still painting a rosy picture. All of the economies are in debt up to their eyeballs, yet they still tell their populace that they can keep their bloated social perks. Give it a few more months. Once Greece, Italy and Spain fail, the next thing will be a wake up call to the French.

Finally, we are in the month of “Movember”. Gag me. Here we go with another feel good cancer fund raiser. This time it is a guy thing. Grow a mustache and help fund research into prostate cancer. Yippee. Let me tell you something about prostate cancer. Number one, it killed my father. I probably have it. Most men do. Number two, there are two types of prostate cancer. If you have the “benign” kind, you don’t have a concern. You can have a fit over your PSA. You can run around in a frenzy getting biopsied, opting for surgery and radiation. No worries, it will never kill you. You can live with it and wait for lightning to take you out. Doctors (most) don’t tell you this unless you ask. The other kind is the aggressive sort. If you have aggressive prostate cancer you might as well put your head between you legs and kiss your a** goodbye. Literally and figuratively. You can do anything, but it will get you. It got Dad and it gets lots of others. Doctors (most) don’t tell you that either. Nice. Too many vested interests and power bases to actually tell the truth. The BS is easier to handle when you can get people to grow mustaches.

Don’t even get me started on Canada’s sub program.

Oh well, it takes a while before people learn that the only way to fix things is some really bad tasting medicine.

Until then, I remain,

A Sour Kraut.