Text exchange between Son One and me. We Kinsellas are unimpressed by movie stars.

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I’m not kidding, either.

If this extraordinary story isn’t an Onion-like bit of satire – and I checked, it doesn’t seem to be – the Harper guys are done like dinner.  Dead.

Justin, here are your talking points:

“No wonder they were eager to shut down the House early. If elected, I will stop this.  Vote for me, and I will force Canada Post to keep delivering your mail.”

 

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Good pick.  And here and here and here are some reasons why.

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Rob Ford, who is the scum of the Earth, this week called Toronto Star reporter Daniel Dale a pedophile.

Quite a few of us immediately suggested that Dale needed to sue.  Falsely calling someone a pedophile is among the most serious libels.  It is libel per se.  When Ford reaffirmed his words, Dale had no choice but to sue.

Instead, Dale and his employer have apparently chosen to use Ford’s words as an occasion to write op-eds and throw back some insults of their own.

In so doing, they have (a) signalled they intend to do nothing, or (b) seriously undermined any case they may bring to the court.

Either way, Ford has won.

For Dale, who is an excellent journalist, it will mean his name and “pedophile” will live in the Internet ether forever.  If he thinks the haters in Ford Nation won’t now repeat their hero’s words ad nauseum, ad infinitum, he’s dreaming in technicolour.

For the Star, they have lost an opportunity to stand by their writer – and to show all their staff that they will not let scumbags like Ford destroy a fine reporter’s reputation with impunity.  In effect, they have implied that it is open season on journalists.

Like I say, Dale may sue now, but it’s likely too late.  If you are going to sue, and if you are serious, always let your lawyer do the talking.  Don’t turn it into a meeting of the fucking debate club.

Dale, and the Star, didn’t.  And that’s a real shame.

 

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So, Prime Minister Stephen Harper and former prime ministers Brian Mulroney, Kim Campbell and Jean Chretien took a plane to South Africa to attend the public memorial for Nelson Mandela.

Also on the plane, NDP Leader Thomas Mulcair. (Not on the plane, Liberal Leader Justin Trudeau.) Midway, the plane starts to dramatically lose altitude. The pilot comes on to say the Airbus is going down and the passengers have to jump. Problem: There are five leaders and only four parachutes.

Harper grabs one. “I’m the most irreplaceable! Canada needs its prime minister!” he hollers and jumps. Mulroney does likewise, and yells as he leaps: “I’m the one with the best legacy!” Mulcair grabs a parachute, saying, “I’m the smartest, and the smartest question period performer,” and follows Harper and Mulroney.

Campbell stares at Chretien, terrified. “Jean! There’s only one parachute left! What should we do?” Chretien is unfazed. “Relax, Kim. There’s a parachute for both of us, and one for the pilot and the co-pilot, too. The irreplaceable guy, the legacy guy and the smartest guy have all jumped using the flight crew’s backpacks.”

**

Old joke, but wouldn’t you have liked to be on that jet to South Africa, as the passengers (likely) exchanged pleasantries and (likelier) reflected on who jumped out of politics and who was pushed? On who is going and who is staying?

Campbell, of course, was pushed by voters. She led the Conservatives to their worst-ever showing in 1993, and left politics.

Mulroney won two big majorities, and quit before he could be fired.

Chretien wanted to leave in 2000, was pushed by Paul Martin, and pushed back, delaying his departure to 2003.

Harper and Mulcair, of course, are still in the game. But, as the jet buzzed towards Africa, they likely silently reflected on the whereabouts of Justin Trudeau, their opponent down on terra firma. And wondered whether Trudeau will do to them what Chretien did to Campbell and, indirectly, Mulroney.

Mulcair won’t jump. He just got the top NDP job, and he thinks he can win power by being the best interrogator in the House of Commons. He’s only auditioning for the job he already has. His party is going to lose plenty of seats in 2015, mainly to Trudeau. He’ll start eyeing the exits shortly thereafter.

Harper, meanwhile, sips his orange juice and ponders the next year and a bit.

If he stays, he runs risks aplenty. The sordid Senate mess can’t be controlled. It’s now in the hands of the Mounties, and they delight in dropping scandals on politicians. The media love it, too.

His caucus is restive, in some cases mutinous. One of his former cabinet ministers has authored a popular bill that wants to render him a figurehead. His backbench MPs have taken to grumbling to the media, much in the way that Martin’s cabal used to about Chretien.

And the economy — thought to be rebounding — is stalled, or (depending who you talk to) sliding. No one seems to think happy days are here again, or will be anytime soon.

Chretien and Mulroney, being the old pros on the plane, know Harper is unlikely to go anywhere. He’s surrounding himself with loyalists — Dimitri Soudas, Jenni Byrne, Ray Novak — and they know he’s too proud to let Trudeau, who he regards as an airhead, drive him out.

Harper and his inner circle think Trudeau is undisciplined and reckless. That he is all sizzle and no steak. They’ve soundly beaten three sure-thing Liberal leaders to date, and they firmly believe they can do it again.

They may be right, they may be wrong.

But, as his plane alights in South Africa, Harper can be forgiven for eyeing those parachutes.

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He’s my brother of another mother, so I’m biased.  But if Bernie doesn’t run, I will never speak to him again.  ‘Cause he’d win, no?

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Here.

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I’m writing an entire column about that flight in this week’s Sun (which will be out on Wednesday, not tomorrow)! But you can have fun with it, too, right now in comments.

Caption contest!

Harper: We’re, um, good to go!
Chretien: A proof is a proof when it’s proven. And dere’s proveable proof that Martin isn’t here.
Mulroney: Nor Joe Clark! Now, have I told any of you recently about my historic free trade achievements?
Campbell: This is the closest I’ve been to actual power since, well, ever! Can I have a $16 orange juice?

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What the Hell?

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Thirty-three years ago tonight, I was a student at Carleton, and Lee G. Hill and I were sharing a room at Russell House in the university’s residence complex. The phone rang. It was my girlfriend, Paula.

“Turn on the radio,” she said, breathless. ”I think someone has shot John Lennon.”

I don’t remember much else, to tell you the truth, but I recall getting calls from friends and family back home, long into that awful night. I was a punk, but – like many punks – I admired John Lennon. He believed music could be a force for political change, like we did; he was unafraid to challenge the establishment (however much he was part of it), like we wanted to; he wrote about reality, and he was fiercely honest. That was pretty punk, too.

In my circle, it was known that I was the guy with the biggest Lennon fixation: I not only had all of his albums, I had all of Yoko’s albums, too. In the Nasties, I convinced the rest of the guys to play Gimme Some Truth – but I didn’t have to try hard. I had his books, I collected clippings about him. I knew a lot about him. As I got deeper into the punk scene, I listened to his records less, but I never let go of him.

He’d be more than seventy years old, now, but I still listen to his Plastic Ono Band, which is one of the two greatest rock’n’roll albums ever committed to vinyl. (Ramones by the Ramones is the other.)

His assassination, on December 8, 1980, was a terrible tragedy – and so, in a small way, was the fact that his last album (before the inevitable avalanche of ham-fisted compilations and retrospectives) was a piece of unremarkable, glossy pop like Double Fantasy. Generally, he always needed Paul as an editor, and vice-versa. But Plastic Ono Band was the exception: it was stark, and raw, and different, and deeply, deeply personal. Some say the LP was the product of John’s dalliance with Dr. Arthur Janov’s primal scream therapy, or his response to the (necessary, and overdue) collapse of the Beatles. To me, it was instead an actual piece of art and great rock’n’roll, improbably found under the same piece of shrink wrap. It was like listening to someone’s soul, without having received an invite to do so.

Thirty years later, I still listen to that record, and most of his other records, too. The rest of us have grown older, but John Lennon remains forever frozen in time, hovering over that final autograph.

Anyway. Here’s Jimmy Breslin’s unforgettable piece on that unforgettable day, 33 years ago, which you must read.

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