Rose in a Storm

By Rose Simpson

It took me several weeks to arrange an interview with the writer Jon Katz about his novel, Rose in a Storm. He didn’t answer the phone at our arranged time, and I left a message, said I hoped he hadn’t forgotten me. I got an email from him a few hours later apologizing, saying that he’d had an “animal emergency”; he offered to reschedule later that day.

He explained that one of his beloved sheep had fallen into a hole, and he and Rose, his Border Collie, had to attend to her. Fortunately, it was a small sprain, not a broken-leg-get-out-the-shotgun incident. Just another day on Bedlam Farm, the place near Salem, NY where Jon Katz and his wife Maria Wulf call home.

For those unfamiliar with his work, Katz is something of an authority on dogs, particularly working dogs, particularly Border Collies. He’s written 18 books, many of them devoted to the training and understanding of dogs, how they think, why they act the way they do. He has also been the subject of a major HBO film, A Dog Year, starring Jeff Bridges.

His newest book is his first novel in 10 years. In it, Katz imagines what would happen if  Rose, a fictional Border Collie, were left in charge of a farm and its animals during a major storm, after her owner is severely injured. In a twist, the story is told from Rose’s point of view, exploring what he imagines might be her thought process.

Katz did months of research into dog behavior, pouring over learned journals on the subject and consulting animal behavior experts at Tufts and Cornell universities.

“There’s a tendency for people to put words into the heads of dogs, and I didn’t want to do that,” Katz says. “I consulted the researchers and they’re now relating a dog’s mind to autism. They’re saying that dogs are thinking in terms of visual images, and their instincts trigger a lot of imagery and also trigger responses to it.

“The insides of their heads are like a high-end computer game. They can process all kinds of sounds, sensory stimulus, you know, light, things that we don’t hear or smell.  They’re also aware of things we’re not.”

The result for the reader is a fascinating, rollercoaster ride of emotions. It is at first a love story, but it is also a thriller, a horror story about what can happen on a farm when the power is out, the generator isn’t working and there is no one to tend to the sheep during lambing season.   Rose in a Storm is an unsentimental exploration of  the spirit and the intelligence of the working dog.

“I would go back to the behaviorists and the journals so see what was realistic, if it could be done. It was important to me that I not dignify the dog. She repeatedly ran into situations she couldn’t handle. She couldn’t bring water, or fix the tractor, and she accepted that. I think without Sam (the farmer), she could function, but not completely.”

Katz began to write Rose in a Storm after years of suffering from debilitating anxiety, which led him to abandon a successful career as a journalist and television executive. After a painful divorce, Katz moved to Bedlam Farm where he has written many New York Times best-selling books, including a series of mysteries.  He also created a successful  Facebook site, Bedlam Farm, which now has more than 300,000 fans.

His new novel, he said, is a tribute to Rose, who has been his constant companion, along with an assortment of other dogs, sheep and cattle.  

“Rose and I were on parallel journeys and she came of age here on this farm, where she always had responsibility. She always had work. Rose has evolved and I wanted to explore the limits of that in a realistic way. At the same time, I have also evolved and I’m really very different from when I came here. This place has changed me. It helped me deal with the end of my marriage. It forced me to deal with problems and opened me up to a new relationship.”

Rose in a Storm, (Random House, 28) will be available for sale in Canada on October 12.

Madame Rosalita’s honey pot

By Rose Simpson

At last, I have found my calling.

Now that many of the laws related to prostitution have been struck down, I’m thinking of becoming a madame. No laughing, Paul Park, I’m serious this time.

I certainly have the body for it. I’ve been looking for some use for these triple Ds, and if it was good enough for Dolly, it’ll be good enough for me. I’ve always wanted to be in management, but no one will trust me with a budget. Guess I’ll have to do it as a female entrepreneur. Probably get some federal and provincial start-up cash. Maybe Scott can start a side video business. Anyone with a huge dong out there? Come one, there’s good money in porn these days.

Have to have some rules. The girls have to be over the age of 21, and not my daughter. They have to have all their own teeth and no drug or drinking problems. I don’t care about weed, just not weed laced with anything.

No funny stuff at my brothel. No back door action — unless with mutal consent — and no S&M.

Just sex straight up. With really groovy costumes.

We’d have some great parties, barbecues in the backyard for our regulars, some meet and greets. Scott and I have the place for it — a really nice backyard with a margarita machine.

We might even institute a frequent flyer program and give away trips to Negril, or cool iPads. And have testimonials. Dr. Keon, are you still in town? Why not drop by? We have a great special on Viagara.

Our girls would have regular checkups and those who lay beatings on them — which would never happen in the brothel cause Scott would be the bouncer — would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. There would be an education program, so our young girls could have an opportunity to pursue real careers. And the older ones would have a pension plan.

Let’s hope the courts don’t over-turn this decision. I think I’ve got something here.

Queen’s Pork

By Rose Simpson

If you’re an Ontario Liberal, it’s hard not to be disillusioned these days.

The latest poll is showing Ontario voters would deliver a sound drubbing to Daltie McGuinty and his Queen’s Park troops. I’m betting the majority of Ontarians can’t even name the leaders of the other two parties, but they would rather let somebody off the street run the provincial government than these clowns.

The trouble with Liberals is that once they get into power, they get arrogant and they are quick to reward their friends. As soon as Daltie got elected, half of Ottawa poured into their SUVs and headed down the 417. Consultants gladly filed out of Hy’s in favor of the Four Seasons — with their meters running.

Meanwhile, the Premier hectors the opposition and lectures the public, and brings in policies that nobody voted for.

 Like the health tax, remember that one, the tax that wasn’t even mentioned in their platform two elections ago? Ditto for the HST. Mixed martial arts, where did that come from? Do we really need full day kindergarten when studies have shown that toddlers need play, not more programming? Full day kindergarten is nothing more than publically funded daycare.

And don’t get me started about the Hydro hike. I have a Hydro bill for two months that’s costing me $650!

Meanwhile, the Liberals have let their departments and agencies run amok, unchecked. They hire people who have no qualifications for their jobs — eHealth come on down — and  pay consultants for their gum. They let the Ontario Lottery Corporation hold expensive retreats and parties, frittering away much need sums that would pay for precious Ontario programs.

Why even lapsed NDP Premier Bob Rae at least looked at the books once in a while.

Clearly, the government at Queen’s Park is out of control.

I think what’s really rattling the voters is the Premier’s nonchalance in the face of their fury. Hydro costs are too high? Do your laundry on Saturdays. You don’t like my policies? Well, it’s just a poll, and the only poll that matters is on election day.

Next job for the Premier? Lead singer for the Arrogant Worms.

The King and I

By Rose Simpson

Ten years ago, I stood with my 11-year-old daughter Marissa and watched a hearse pull up on Parliament Hill carrying the body of Pierre Elliott Trudeau. His two children, Justin and Alexandre walked up the steps, supporting their stepsister Alicia, and their mother, Margaret who had not long before buried her third child Michel. Trudeau’s other little daughter Sarah and her mother Deborah Coyne rounded out the group. They were a modern family of steps and full bloods, there to remember a man who seemed crafted in another era, a mashup period of beatniks wearing ascots. He was, after all, old enough to be  his own children’s grandfather, even great-grandfather.

It was a strange, but beautiful day, watching the crowd as they filed passed the coffin. People were there for different reasons. Some came for the spectacle. Others came out of respect, some even came for love.

I came to pay tribute to a man who had been a major presence in my life for several decades. Like many Canadians of my generation, I grew up knowing no other prime minister. I first set eyes on Trudeau when I was 12, in my hometown of St. Catharines at a whistle stop during his first election campaign. I thought he was a strange little man, not handsome as many believe, but sort of odd looking, like some kind of underfed poultry; he was little, I couldn’t get over how small he was. But he was also mesmerizing, almost vampiric, reminding me of that line in the song from True Blood: “when he came in the air went out”.

He captured our attention, then sucked us dry.

Years later, I was offered a chance to work in Trudeau’s office as a writer. There was little substance to the job I was given, writing briefing notes for MPs and doing some work on an advertising project. But it was a magical time. I was so proud to go to work, to step up the stairs of the Langevin Block and feel the bounce of the royal blue carpets under my feet. In fact, the Langevin was a bit of a hole, I realize that now. But his presence around these buildings made a person feel like they were in the court of a king. I’ve never forgot that feeling.

I was disappointed when I finally met the great man a few times. In person, he was petty, arrogant and narcissistic — and a little dumb about the real world. He didn’t know anything about pop culture or the latest movies, and seemed ill at ease in social settings. He wasn’t like Iggy or Chretien, or even Martin, politicians who always tried to make people feel at ease. He was other-worldly and odd, with the poor fashion sense that plagues the privileged (Galen Weston, take note). He was too cheap to buy a new suit, and would often be seen wearing decade-old pinstripes with wide 70s lapels in a slim tie and slender lapel 1990s world.

Still, I loved him, for the mythical character he was. Heck, I was a 24 year old kid. What did I know?

Those were exciting years for me, filled with adventures punctuated by bad choices and over-consumption. The place I worked wasn’t real, it was mostly theatre.

More than 25 years have passed. The magpie in me is now suspicious of shiny objects, and the king’s crown is tarnished. There were great moments for sure — the patriation of the Constitution, the Charter of Rights, the just and emanicipated society. But there were just as many bone-headed times — the War Measures Act, the National Energy Program, Six and Five, any budget that Allan J. MacEachen tabled in the House of Commons. There were triumphs and there was corruption. There was Colin Kenny and there was Bryce Mackasey. That clip of John Turner saying he had “no option” still makes me cringe.

And there is bilingualism, a policy that, while nobley unveiled at the time, cost many Canadians their livelihood including me. I have never been able to learn the other official language and I have been punished for it. I have been tried, found guilty and convicted of being a bad Canadian. Bilingualism makes me wish I had been born American or English or Australian. 

Bilingualism makes me feel ghetto.

I realize now that Trudeau had no love for me or any ordinary Canadian. Like many kings, he didn’t understand the needs and wants of the poor or the uneducated.

He cared about a country that only existed in his mind, a country that was more like a university made up of like minds rather than a community that embraced difference and diversity. If you couldn’t make the grade, that wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t his job to sell your wheat, or find you a job. If you didn’t like the way he did things, fuddle duddle.

Still, I can’t help admiring the guy. I just don’t like him much anymore.

Jim Watson: Give me a sign!

By Rose Simpson

I’ve pretty much decided against voting for Jim Watson in this year’s mayoralty race, and here’s why.

I hate Dr. Evil, I’m talking hate, hate, hate. So I called the Watson campaign to get a sign. Three weeks ago. It never came.

I called again last week, and the young fellar on the other end of the line said something about the incompetence of volunteers. Said he would send a sign crew around this week. I told him not to forget, that I live on the ideal corner for political signs, one with heavy car and foot traffic.

This is Sunday and the sign never came.

So I’m thinking if the Watson campaign can’t organize a sign for my lawn, how are they going to sort out this city’s transit woes, or the crookedness at Ottawa Hydro? They can’t deliver one sign to one lady on a good political corner. What good are they?

My puzzle now is who to vote for. Again, I would rather see Dr. Evi’s bald head on the chopping block like some unfortunate grain fed chicken than vote for him, so he’s out. And Andy Hayden is, and always has been, a bald bully. And he looks like he’s ready to keel over. Ditto for Peter Clarke, another geezer who’s running for something.

So my vote comes down to any other candidate — I think there are about a million of them — or Clive Doucet.

Clive doesn’t have any signs. He’s too poor and doesn’t have enough support, but at least he’s not promising me a sign and not delivering on that promise. He doesn’t like any of the transit plans and neither do I. He doesn’t like Landsdowne Live and neither do I.

So I’ll probably vote for Clive Doucet on that basis — in spite of the fact he lives in the Glebe. I saw him cut an interesting rug on YouTube the other day, just to get publicity. Thought it was pretty funny, so at least the guy has that going for him. I’ll tell him so if he ever comes to be door, but I’m betting he’s only knocking on doors in the Glebe.

Maybe I’ll stay home instead of voting, though I’m still haunted by that old saying about you get the government you deserve. Wait a minute! Last time, I voted for Bob Chiarelli for mayor and got Dr. Evil instead. I didn’t deserve Dr. Evil. The city didn’t deserve him, either. So much for old sayings.

(Pssst, Jimbo, if you put up the sign even a day before the election, I’ll still vote for you. But get on it!)

Daltie’s undies

By Rose Simpson

I was at the Elmvale Acres laundromat this morning, spending my weekly $30 on washing the family clothes, when I spotted a familiar face immersed in Leah McLaren’s column in the Globe and Mail.

“Daltie,” I waved. “Didn’t realize you were a fan of Leah’s. Most guys I know would rather put the toilet seat down than read her London babble.”

Daltie looked up and smiled.

“Terry likes her and got me hooked,” he said sheepishly. “Look, today she’s writing about the shoes at Selfridges. Wow, can’t believe anybody in Canada would be interested in this.”

Daltie looked lovingly across the aisle as he watched Terry put in her eighth load of laundry. He shook his head.

“She’s just amazing isn’t she? She works all week as a schoolteacher, then comes home, makes dinner and does all the kids’ laundry. They even ship it home from university.”

It’s Saturday and it’s not unusual to see Ontario’s premier folding his boxers at the ‘mat. He’s been doing this every Saturday for weeks, in an attempt to shave a few pennies off his Hydro bill.

“You know, Daltie,” I leaned in. “If you did it at home it would be cheaper, even if you did it on a weekday. I lost my washer and dryer when I had to move, and now I’m spending half my freelance income feeding loonies into these machines. I used to feed them into the slots at the racetrack, but that’s gone now. I’m broke and I’m feeding these machines instead. Not half as much fun losing my money this way.”

Daltie put his arm around my shoulder, in a fatherly gesture.

“I know. It’s a sacrifice we all have to make in Ontario. It is truly important that we support Ontario Hydro, and change our habits to do our part to lower Hydro costs. We’re not just doing it for ourselves; we’re doing it for the next generation.”

Daltie excused himself to help Terry fluff the towels. I continued to feed loonies into the machines. A few minutes later, Daltie returned to the bench and continued reading Leah. He looked up when I sat down again.

“You know, Lady Gaga really should think about buying some sensible shoes,” he said. “Leah says this is all over something called the Sex and the City effect. I don’t know. I really don’t know.

“I, myself, wear orthotics.”

I closed his paper, and tried, unsuccessfully to make eye contact.

“There’s one thing else I wanted to talk to you about Daltie.”

“Shoot.”

“I recently moved and I got a bill from Enbridge saying we owed them a $250 deposit. Then there was a line that said I had used two bucks on energy so far this month. Heck, we haven’t even turned on the furnace. But at the bottom of the bill it said we owed six dollars HST on two dollars worth of gas. Doesn’t seem right to me. Do the math. I’m thinking the HST is ripping me off.”

Daltie smiled and checked his Blackberry.

“Must go, I have a rally to attend. Nice talk. See you next week.”

And with that, Daltie and Terry left the ‘mat, arm in arm, while the bodyguards carried out the family undies.

Doctor replacement therapy

By Rose Simpson

I once knew a woman who was told she was going to die from alcoholism. She had cirrhosis of the liver and had to have her stomach drained a couple times a week. It was a terrible time for her, but she accepted her fate stoically, even playing host at several “wakes”. She also gave away all her furniture to friends, cause heck, she wouldn’t be needing it anymore.

The hospital social worker arranged to have her go into palliative care, and she began to make her arrangements.

A few weeks later, the doctor called her in, to say that the hospital had made a mistake and she wasn’t dying after all. While she did have liver damage, what was causing her severe symptoms were the combination of drinking, taking hormone replacement therapy and Tylenol. When she got off the HRT and the Tylenol, her body ceased dying. She is still alive and still drinks today.

Meanwhile she visits a shrink every week to deal with her depression at not dying.

My mother had a similar experience with doctors. She spent a year at the Toronto Hospital hooked up to an IV because she couldn’t eat without experiencing severe pain. If she didn’t eat, she had no pain. Doctors couldn’t find out what was wrong with her, and she eventually became so  ill, she had to have surgery. The surgeon found the bowel blockage she’d had all along when they eventually opened her up. The lesson? She should have had surgery months before.  Alas, it was too late for Vera when she finally had it done.

Doctors make mistakes all the time. If more people realized that, they would steer clear of them.

Just this week, we’re hearing about two “ah ha” moments related to breast cancer. The first one is that mammograms are far less reliable than first thought. In fact, a new study is saying they don’t do much more good than self-exams. Not only that, they bring up false positives, cause women to have needless procedures, and increase their anxiety about the disease.

The second one related to that old chestnut, hormone replacement therapy. Seems having HRT makes  women susceptible to breast cancer. Yet we have a big shot doctor telling us in the paper today that women would still opt for HRT to lessen the effects of hot flashes even if they knew there was a chance of getting breast cancer.

“If you offered a woman a treatment for distressing hot flashes and night sweats and she truly understood that this was an additional risk, I would expect few women to decline,” said Dr. Robert Reed, a Queen’s University based endocrinologist.

Shut up!

I feel like asking Dr. Reed if he truly thinks women are stupid. I would rather sweat my glands out and have to buy underarm pads for the rest of my life than get one minute of breast cancer. And I think most women would agree.

Trouble with doctors is that medical school convinces them they are right all the time, and many of them are in great denial about the harm they do to patients with drugs. And patients are so hooked on drugs and doctors that they follow their clinical guidelines like lambs to the slaughter.

Our grandparents lived to ripe old ages without a basket full of pills. They ate meals cooked the old-fashioned way, from scratch, and didn’t ingest cattle fed with hormones or salmon dyed a healthy color with the help of pink pellets. They drank well water, not bottled water laced with bisphenols, and weren’t given the option of using uppers and downers and replacements to make them feel better. Sure, they complained about getting old and the pain associated with it. But they lived healthier lives than we do.

So take your HRT and shove it, doc. I’d rather take my advice from the Farmer’s Almanac.

I broke my ass today

By Rose Simpson

Well, I did’t exactly break my ass, but it certainly feels like a butcher ripped a hamhock out of my butt. I feel like one of those Barbies little boys like to tear apart limb by limb.

That’s how much it hurt.

Started innocently enough. Since moving into my new house, I’ve sort of got turned around with the stove and I keep firing up the wrong element. Today, I was making a batch of lentil soup and had the ceramic bowl on the back burner when I accidentally turned it on. When I realized my folly, I tried to pick up the bowl and it exploded in my hand. I jumped with surprise, and unfortunately jumped without my feet leaving the floor. It’s difficult to explain, but my butt seems to have jumped while my feet stood on terra firma.

Immediately, I felt an excruciating rip in my right glute, which sent shockwaves all the way to my tippie toes. Jarred my neck, too.

Christ.

Not to complain or anything, but I have had more accidents in this house in three weeks than during eight years living on Smyth Road, the current scene of the toxic oil spill which required us to move.

Let’s see. I almost sliced off my thumbnail tripping over my bamboo “for show but not for sitting” chair, then immediately sliced off the tip of my index finger with the garlic grater. I nearly lost the other hand to the overhead fan in the dining room while standing on a chair reaching for a glass bowl. And I accidentally put Spot Off in my eye after cleaning up doggie diarrhea from the new carpets the day after we moved in. Oh, yes, and not to forget slamming my temple into Scott’s dresser, then stubbing my toe when trying to go to the bathroom the other day.

I’m not the only one having difficulty.

Marissa was carrying two plates of spaghetti downstairs for herself and Jeff when she nearly did a face plant and tossed the entire contents all over the new carpet and two walls.

I’m beginning to think we have a poltergeist in our midst what with the exploding ceramic bowl, the spaghetti toss, and the like.

The dogs don’t help, either. Both Hannah and Ming had diarrhea for a week and one of them barfed. More Spot Off.

And because they love the carpet instead of hardwood, they lie everywhere within tripping distance of a human. And trip we have.

Well, that’s my rant for the day. Must go, though I’m pretty scared about getting out of this chair in case I get up and my leg doesn’t.

Will keep you posted. TA.

Guns and gophers

By Rose Simpson

I  believe in the long gun registry because it’s helpful for police to know if people have guns in their homes before they go in. Cops need to know what they’re up against, so if the registry helps, good.

People should get over this “oh, they’re treating me like a criminal, ya da ya da.” Stop whining. If you want to own a gun get it registered for your own good. You have to register your car, you have to register a new born baby and and you have to register to get married. You have to register with the government to work (SIN Number), go out of the country (passport) or if you are a sex offender.

But there is a point to be made that the register doesn’t go far enough.

Most people aren’t killed with long guns, they’re killed with short ones. That’s because long guns are hard to hide.  So people who own handguns should register them, too. They don’t because they are criminals, gang members and low-lifes. But they should.

The only people who die as a result of wounds from long guns are stupid or suicidal. Stupid people leave their guns unlocked and out so their little kids can blow their brains out. And suicidal people who decide to kill themselves on a whim do so usually because they are drunk and stupid and leave their guns out.

A registry is not going to prevent men from killing their wives or themselves. It won’t prevent kids from killing themselves either. Because, I think, if you look at the stats, most of those guns used stupidly are already registered.

What we need to do is register stupid people, not their guns. So if a person comes in to get a gun, they should have to pass the I’m not stupid, so I can own a gun test. Here’s what it might look like.

A) What are you planning to use the long gun for? Good answer: Shooting gophers. Bad answer: Getting drunk and going hunting.

B) Have you ever been charged with, or convicted of drunk driving or driving over the limit? If so, give us your car keys. No gun for you, Foster Brooks.

C) Are you suicidal. If so, try pills; and don’t leave your grieving widow with a big mess to clean up.

D) Have the police ever been to your house because you laid a can of whoop ass on your wife or child? If so, proceed to the nearest anger management class. Gun registration refused.

E) If you are a smoker, have you ever set your house on fire when you were drunk? If so, here’s some Nicorette. No gun for you, smelly.

F) Have you ever been treated for a mental illness? Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.

G) Are you unhappily married, or do you suspect your wife of cheating? See you at the tavern on Tuesday, divorce court on Wednesday. No gun for you, cuckold.

See what I’m saying. People need to be smart and well-adjusted to own a long-gun.

Either that, or they have a gopher problem.

I’m a loonie, you’re a loonie

By Rose Simpson

I’d like to admit to the world that I’m depressed.

What can I get for it?

In today’s Ottawa Citizen, the banner story warned that Ottawa was becoming the “depression capital of Canada”. Clara Hughes came out yesterday and said that she became depressed after her first Olympics. And Margaret Trudeau, I believe, got off a drunk driving charge because of her mental health issues. Oh yes, and Daniel Alfredsson came out to the world last year that his sister (?) had a mental illness.

I’m glad that mental illness is coming out of the shadows. People who are depressed, panicked, bipolar, tri-polar and polarized need to know they’re not alone. (Actually, if they just started hanging out at bars, they’d know this, and beer is much cheaper than benzodiazepines.) There has long been stigma against people with mental illness, because most people think people with mental illness are crazy. Which they are. (Before I get some nasty emails, I have already admitted to being, at one time or another, a shiny-eyed person, so I believe I can speak with some authority on the subject.)

Here’s the thing. I don’t mind all the stories about mental illness in the newspaper and on television. I do find it a little odd that the media has all of a sudden discovered crazy. Hint: go to a shopping mall and do a three hundred and sixty. One in five people — maybe even yourself — is nuts in one way or another.

What I object to is people profiting from the whole mental health mess. Margaret Trudeau makes a piss pot full of money talking about her issues. Daniel Alfredsson gets publicity for the Senators. The spokesthingy people running roundtables and associations are making their living doing it. And, well, Clara Hughes maybe couldn’t get a better gig (pretty hard for our athletes these days). I’m not saying they’re faking it; I’m just saying they shouldn’t make their living, or have their living subsidized, because they may or may not be depressed.

There are big consulting firms in Ottawa and Toronto getting rich off mental illness. Sure, they donate some time or reduce their $250 an hour fees to help out on galas and luncheons and such. But they’re not doing this because they care; they’re doing it because it’s a networking opportunity.

Then there are the companies: Bell Canada, the Globe and Mail, Canada Post Corporation. These companies have wisely aligned themselves with the cause because it’s cheap and they get good publicity. Cancer isn’t cheap; neither is diabetes. And let’s not forget about the many orphan diseases that nobody cares about until they get them. If a company wants to support mental health, all it will cost them  is a few bucks to hire a public relations firm, hire a social media expert, take out a few ads, and sponsor a dinner or an athlete. It doesn’t take much involvement, just bring out a few crazy people in the months of June and October. Definitely cheaper than a product launch.

The federal government has got on the bandwagon, too. A few years back, the government forked over a few mill to set up the Canadian Mental Health Commission which has become a good gig for Michael Kirby– who can now devote more time to his consulting practice than when he was a Senator. It’s also been good for a whole host of “mental health professional” hangers on who, no doubt will get tenure or a book contract.

Has anyone asked what the Canadian Mental Health Commission has done since it was created in Ottawa, then moved to Calgary? Sidebar: if there are so many people depressed in Ottawa, why did they move the MHC to Calgary?

As far as I can see, the MHC has managed to get a few corporations to hold a lunch and give out plaques to self-identified loons. And have stories written in the Globe and Mail, another sponsor. Not much has changed in communities across Canada, as far as I can see.

The truly laughable thing about the government setting up this commission is that all it got for it was the lousy title of employer of the most depressed people in Canada.

Why are so many superannuated people so depressed?

Because their work means nothing. Not saying federal government employees aren’t hard workers; it’s just that everything they do gets shuffled into a drawer somewhere or torn up by an over-caffeinated, Blackberry clutching 25-year-old ministerial aide who doesn’t know shit from shine-o-la. Who wouldn’t be depressed?

Fortunately, I have a solution for them. That’s right, you read it first here. 

Look at your problems, look at them really hard. Think what you should do about each problem, then do the opposite.

If you’re depressed because you’re unemployed, get a job. If you are anxious because you hate your job, find another one, maybe one that doesn’t pay as much or one that has less responsibility, or one that doesn’t require you to work for a crazy boss. If you’re anorexic, eat something. Overweight? Try eating salad. Alcoholic? Stop drinking. Gambler? Buy an iPhone, cause the apps cost less and you still get a serotonin rush.

And if you are an athlete who is depressed because the Olympics are over, find something else crazy to do in the off season. Or take up yoga.

Otherwise, if you are really mentally ill, take your medication.

That will be $250, GST/HST, extra.