Letter to the Editor - August 28, 2009

Once again Mr. Fletcher has failed to disappoint in his effort to play a lap dog for the current government. It is rather dispiriting, as the very premise of his column is to attack the BCUC (British Columbia Utilities Commission) while unquestionably favoring the governmental position. In other words, Mr. Fletcher is all woo willing to denigrate this consumer protection institution while lionizing the brave politicians that the BCUC is actually designed to protect us from. If this is the case, what is the point of the BCUC’s existence in the first place?

However, I do not believe that Mr. Fletcher is absolutely in favor of limiting democracy. It is only convenient to attack the BCUC when his Liberal pals require it - no wonder - nearly half of Mr. Fletcher’s column was spent quoting his impartial friends. Now, let’s consider the facts - a strange notion Mr. Fletcher does not seem to be well accustomed to.

The Burrard Thermal fulfills a vital role in system support operations considering that the bulk of BC Hydro generation is remote to most of the system load. In the absence of Burrard, many millions of dollars of new investment will be required to substitute in this role.

The energy back-up Burrard Thermal provides can in no way be adequately addressed by low value run-of-the river projects, as these deliver most of their power precisely at the wrong time of the year (freshet) when BC Hydro’s own dams are awash in frequently excessive inflows. When Burrard is fired during a December cold snap there is virtually no generation available from the run-of-the-river plants.

These days the decision to run Burrard Thermal in the summer is also of tremendous financial benefit to the rate-payers as this “low efficiency kettle” can crank out power at $35 per MWH (due to the currently low gas prices) while many of the run-of-the-river projects are contracted at nearly three times the amount.

To be fair, Burrard Thermal does pollute, however it is only a fraction of the overall local particulate emissions picture due to virtually brand new catalytic converters employed at the plant. As far as comparing Burrard to the failed Sumas II project, there are certain points that require clarification. Yes, Sumas II was going to be about 50% (not twice as suggested by Mr. Fletcher) more efficient than Burrard. However, the capital costs of that project were yet to be amortized, while Burrard has long been paid for. In addition, Sumas II required substantial transmission upgrades. Finally, Sumas was a third party project with lesser long-term benefits to the BC Hydro rate-payers.

The facts, Mr. Fletcher, are clearly required when arguing a position. In the absence of such, all I can say to you Mr. Fletcher is “Here boy, here’s a nice cookie”.

Partial Review of Guggenheim, New York

“Drip, crack, drip, crack” the sounds echo in strange catatonic sequence, sort of like a nuclear chain reaction on very, very slow replay. Otherwise, the purpose is the same – to melt our brains into something rather gooey – a necessary attribute to commence a mind-expanding touring of the great Guggenheim.

The dripping torture arrives courtesy of an intricate variety of microphones crowding a small disco stage right at the foyer. Their membranes crane, stretch and strain to relay the utterances of the star du-hour – an amorphously large and very wet glob of ice. That’s it, ice - just the kind that slides of glaciers in the Rockies. Stumped by the intricate display of creativity, we ponder the meaning while the unyielding mass of H2O emits few groans here and there. Otherwise, the world is water tight with silence. With our mental receptacles sufficiently provoked we move on leaving the poor custodians to mop up the drips.

The opposite end of the same stark white foyer betrays a larger stage in no want of Michael Jackson. It too has an occupant – a dumpful of torn-up old books. In Russia we had a specially designed term for literature in obsolescence – “mukulatura”. In America, an all expansive term “recycle” grabs it all including old rancid beer cans. Guggenheim charmers, undoubtedly well-versed in keeping the paying public non-affronted, dispensed with cans but pile up a small army of books, shivering and ripped to the smallest of morsels.

“Look, this whole thing moves” says Zhenya with her deep brown Ukrainian eyes travelling all the way to the seventh heaven, or seventh floor if you will, where a pair of white-gloved hands operates a set of intricate pullies, hoisting up and lowering down very mundane and utterly adulterated “mukulatura” with mathematical precision.

“I wonder what it looks like from there” intones Dorin, mesmerised by the hands of the invisible master. She bends her neck backwards for the best possible view of the attraction. I fear a whiplash.

Inside, Guggenheim is a deep well with the roof connected to the bottom by nothing except pure, unadulterated air. White-washed in the most sterile Greek isle tradition, the main staircase swirls up like a Dairy Queen drive-through creation. It is buttoned up with impenetrable banisters, making it forever attractive to keep going – if only merely to make sure not to miss anything. So round and round we go – Dante immediately comes to mind.

The first landing displays much Oriental writing on tiny strips. They nestle nest to a long paper strip unfolded with harmonica wrinkles as if it has spent the last hundred years in some very tiny crinkled suitcase. A group of thoughtful observers guard the approaches to the mysterious strip for a long haul – with chins firmly positioned on an L-bar of their hands. I know it is a pain in the ass to find your hands something to do when inspecting art.

We carefully nudge for closer inspection. Misha giggles attracting the ire of some regulars with their chins on the L-bar. I can barely maintain my composure either. The strip, the twenty years of it, betray nothing but a straight crayon line. Black and ordinary, I can’t wait for the next exhibit. It, too, comes from a crafty person who must have read at least few verses of Confucius. The ancient sage was big on patience and this particular student must have really tried as his work of art is nothing but insides of a large cube to swallow an average size Manhattan living room. It empty, echoing in hollowness of purpose. It has to be since the every living inch of the surface in covered in tiny strips of golden paper. It blinds.

Misha staggers away mesmerized by the patience and utility of the piece, we faithfully follow. Luckily, at this point the staircase deviates into a very useful nook. It has Kandinsky with all the Parisian parasols one can possibly fancy. We breathe with relief. I do so, with my seventy two dollars on the line, with a particularly happy gulp.

Another nook and it becomes positively jolly. Monet, Cezanne and Picasso enter the scene with much meaning and, above all, mastery. With Vince the life becomes positively bright. Somewhere amide his careless swooshes of yellow and lilac, “You know. He cut his own ear” Zhenya informs me.

“You don’t say” I nervously look for somebody with Blackberry to confirm the assertion via portable Google. Alas, Misha and Dorin have already found their wireless interlocutors. “Why?” I have to take Zhenya at her word.

“He had this interesting relationship with Goggen. They lived together and then one day hell broke loose and they parted. Goggen ended in Polynesia, many hula girls and one whole wife with breasts like melons. Vincent couldn’t manage, cut his ear off and send it slow post to his old friend, sort of like “now you have it”.

A super tale! Under the tale’s heavy spell we leave the nook for the main swirling staircase once again. Given the heightened exposure we expect the ever brighter pallets of artistic genius. Alas, none emerges. In fact, it gets progressively worse. It begins with a very thick book, a copy of the Koran, perhaps shot through by a bullet of a certain bloodthirsty tyrant from Pakistan. Interesting and poignant to be sure…Although artificially fashioned on some shooting range it still reminds the world of the profound conundrum that is Pakistan. It must be something with the rarefied mountain air that swoops down from time to time, disabling folks of the most banal postulates of reason.

The shot Koran is the high point. Afterwards we stumble upon a haphazard pile of construction supplies. Pilfered from a nearby site made dormant by dismal economics, various tools marred in chunks of concrete dust provide very little use for the already finished Guggenheim décor. Aha, this is an art exhibit! Predictably, I stumble upon few folks pondering with their L-bars straining the full weight of their chin structures.

After putting an avoiding manoeuvre we swerve in the next took – Meditation Room. It is half-way up to the top and it is dark save for dim purple reflections. A security guard, poised stoically, is contorted in a mute pointing sign. “It must be tiring” a thought leisurely trundles through my brain mush. The human pointer is unequivocal though and we have to leave our shoes by a cheap white IKEA rack. Misha fidgets uncomfortably. After all the dead crocodile cuddling his feet pulls an easy grand.

“Don’t worry, it would just be a minute” encourages Dorin.

“Good, at least I don’t have to leave my Patek Phillip at the door” smirks Misha.

A well-trodden soft pink carpet charts a path for our feet. At least I think it is pink, with my retina fighting off deep purple blotches all over, these are giving off by weak pocket lights shooting off the ceiling. It is semi-dark, save for few light shadows fixed upon the surrounding walls. There are exactly four of them are they are completely…blank. A perfect spot to meditate, but ominously low and armour-penetrating throbbing threatens to shatter my brains instead. Very, very large speakers produce the monstrosity that makes any idea of serene as far-fetched, as an impending lunch date on Mars. Perhaps the room should be renamed “Meditation by Knock-Out” – fast and efficient achievement of Nirvana. I bet Buda would be jealous.

Predictably, few L-bars lurk in the shadows. As pleasant a thought, the moaning all-penetrating noise assures high turnover at the exhibit. “Sorry” Misha stumbles upon something in a dark spot behind one of the two pillars. I strain to see the object of his apology. It is a human judging by a thick hippie beard, some tangled hair and a pair of bulging eyes. His features pale and all of them nervously wrapped up so tight and unmovable like a Hawaiian gecko in sheer terror of an impending road collision with a set of premium tires. He is not about to respond. Besides, he has a large writing pad in front of him. Exuding concentration and purpose – it is stark empty.

With crocodile collected intact by the human pointer (boy, he’d better get paid a lot) we transition back onto the mute sterility of the main tarmac. Suddenly, a screen – it is black and white, exhibiting something awkward in the area of nasal hair. Predictably stationary at first, the object moves just enough to make out a nose, a leg and even something resembling a limp penis. All four of us rush to the description plaque. You know we are human after all – throw in a pinch of pornography and we can camp out here all day. But that belongs, or used to, to the 42nd Street. Here it takes a way more gentile turn with some dude deciding to film himself sleeping for full six hours. It is surely avant-guard, especially since his simian body is stark naked, except for the courtesy of a thin hospital blanket, and he rigged few camera angles to keep things loosy-goosy, you know, interesting. Having outrun the tape every six hours, the process is repeated with screeching determination until the lights go out at night.

“Sometimes having a state-wide electrical black-out is a blessing” remarks Dorin, poignantly – walking away from the crackling black and white cinematography with not a single sign of remorse. This is the opposite to what happens to folks when they finally peel their eyes off Mona Lisa.

Trundling higher by the Dante circles of Guggenheim, we pass many more a creative exercise that include an absolutely blank canvass, a pair of work gloves affixed in the most solid state to a can of dried up paint and a plethora of wall scribbles that my one year old would be happy to improve upon. Any new nooks no longer contain anything remotely close to Kandinsky with the exception of a colour moving feature, depicting a delectable process of wasp nest formation. Just like the parading Parisian bourgeoisie of the Belle Epoch, the wasps are unyielding in their quest for things of scarcity and comfort. Alas, one busy wasp nest is not match for Champs Elysees.

The only remaining explanation for our continuing quest towards the roof at this stage remains the enchanting pair of white-gloved hands hoisting “mukulatura” up and down the deep art well that us Guggenheim. Finally, we are within a striking distance. Now only a large pile of mukulatura” separates us from the apparition in gloves. I hold my breath and squeeze few L-bar observers and the pile. Curious, I can’t help and pick up a couple of torn strips. To amazement the print reveals nothing of Scott or Dostoyevsky. Mercilessly ripped and meticulously pulverized, the pitiful human remainders are nothing but discarded accounting ledgers. My, disappointed anew, mind races to Arthur Andersen’s shredding prowess right before their sinking in the wake left by crooks at Enron – “That is where it all went!”

“Do not touch!!!” punches the air. I have hard time reconciling the shrill to the noble soft white gloves. The clandestine curtain has been lifted and there is nothing but a large employee badge and a pair of eyes caught in a moment of sheer authoritative rage.

I jump out of the way. Shocked, I muster a singularly quiet “I’m sorry”. The shiny employee badge retreats into its sharp-fangled cocoon of watchful placidity. Now, I know that once across the reverent doors of Guggenheim the difference between “mukulatura” and Los Meninas is written off to oblivion.

“Vot tebe i mukulatura!” summarizes Misha, which is roughly translated into “They have handily had us all and there is no refund!”

Caught between the descending circles of white and a fast elevator to the exit, our choice is predictably blunt. Alas, even the floor buttons inside betray an undue degree of artistic creativity. Confused, we inevitably overshoot in our zeal to stop wasting time. As such, we quickly find ourselves in a subterranean “The Sackler Centre for Arts education”. Our surroundings brim over with eager crowds of local school students and foreigners on pre-packaged tours. There is not one to ask and we stumble upon on service door after another like blind kittens in search of milk. The doors are, inevitably, well-secured and alarmed, prohibiting our advances. There is much white shiny paint and reflective linoleum all around. All cringe and bolt back. Unfortunately, the retreat to the escalator is equally impossible since the elevator queue of humanity is armour-thick. The Japanese must have booked few extra plane loads to swap their economic misery for ours.

Eventually, a well-lit “EXIT” sign points to the end of hell. We crash through expecting fresh gusts of street pollution in our faces. But air is suspiciously still. It wafts of dust and cheap plastic. Guggenheim is unrelenting! Its souvenir shop with its expansive trinket displays spreads to arrest our progress to freedom. Like a fighter contemplating a punch, I take a momentary pause. My sights magically clear and I spot a breech between the L-bar crowds. We charge, giving up our last and best, filling air in our sails at last.

“At least I now know what not to do” says Zhenya as we giggle back to the parking lot.

“You mean avoid all things Guggenheim” unisons Dorin.

“Precisely. One of our oligarchs, Pinchuk to be precise, floated an idea of opening Guggenheim in Kiev. He bought a whole collection of matching nonsense and even asked for a governmental grant. What an idiot.” Zhenya continues.

“And that’s one project I know how to vote on” says Misha touting his people’s deputy ID.

The parking lot charges $30 for a mere hour and half as we depart in the lightest of spirits. After all, I know that my savings of avoiding anything that has to do with Damien Hirst and his formaldehyded sharks will handily exceed this modest outlay.

Letter to the Editor - February 13, 2009

While in agreement with certain points made by Tom Fletcher in his assessment of the run-of-the-river debate, I can’t help but notice one major gap. This gap has to do with basic economics that seem to evade the proponents of private run-of-the-river projects. Undoubtedly, there is a reason.

So could it be the fact that the overwhelming majority of such projects is completely uneconomic, and exist solely due to the fiat issued by the Liberal government? Let’s recall that seven years ago the newly elected provincial government came out with its landmark Energy Plan that explicitly forbid BC Hydro (with few exceptions) from engaging in the development of new resources while mandating that any new energy and capacity had to be a work of the private sector.

Following the decree, the economics obliged and BC Hydro busily got down to the brass tasks of undertaking numerous calls for private power in the years to come. Alas, there was a flaw. Constrained by financial, logistical and public relations capacity, private proponents aren’t capable of producing anything much beyond the-run-of-the-river projects. This is contrast to BC Hydro’s ability to advance valuable Site C and other potential projects.

The main issue with run-of-the-river projects is that the bulk of their power is delivered during the freshet period between the months of April and June. During this period it is not only BC that is awash in water to the point of spilling at such facilities as GMS, it is also the entire Pacific Northwest with the large facilities on the Columbia River. As the result, the prices during this period typically plunge down to the $20 per MWH range. BC Hydro however, as dictated by the government, has been able to acquire such power at prices ranging from $70 to $90 per MWH from private developers. Even on the annual average basis this is still much too high compared with $50 that BC Hydro can routinely contract either in Alberta or south of the border. It is even higher than the current Site C estimate in the high $60s. And please don’t forget that Site C is immeasurably more valuable since it delivers power year around and provides additional reservoir capacity.

In conclusion, I agree that regional development in some parts of the province is welcome. However it is not necessary to undertake with such dismal economics that will cost many millions to the BC rate-payers in the years to come. Why don’t we learn how to grow our domestic bananas instead? It might be way more economical and…tasty.

Joseph, the Liberal

The latest Parliament Hill fireworks have crystallized a number of things. One of them is the complete incongruence of thinking that pertains to religious conservatives when it comes to basic economics. Deriving this conclusion from numerous conversations with my co-parishioners, I conclude that there is a profound and widely held disinterest in actually living to the most celebrated economic examples of the Bible we purport to hold as the highest standard. Let’s consider the glorious wisdom of Joseph, the ruler of Egypt. Yes, he sported an egregiously luxuries Technicolor coat but this is not his most prominent contribution.

His most valuable legacy is his response to the seven years of famine preceded by seven years of abundance and plenty. So what did Joseph do in the first happy years? He restrained consumption by taxation and ran surplus budgets of hoarded grain. And what did he do in the lean years? He spurred on consumption by running budget deficits by unloading the grain. The economy in the process was spared very high peaks and very low valleys.

What the Liberals did under Martin and propose today is exactly this pattern. The Conservatives on the other hand have done quite the opposite. They encouraged consumption during peaks by cutting corporate taxes and consequently gutting the surplus. Today, at the start of famine, they propose to balance the budget while the world, figuratively, starves for grain. Yes, they persist with reduced corporate taxes. But this is of little avail when there is not enough private demand (i.e. consumption) as people’s ability to spend diminishes with every newly laid-off worker.

So considering the above it is essential that religious conservatives re-evaluate the current economic policies of this government as unbiblical. After all, is this not the time to consider a very strong possibility that Joseph was in fact an economic liberal?

McCain's MIddle Name

Throughout the year, and amidst election fever in particular, I enormously enjoy listening to rightwing talk radio on my dial. The content is typically so comedic that I find it impossible to pass on the delight of listening to the likes of Hannity, Limbaugh and Levin (by the far the most entertaining). These characters spin the most outlandish of notions so fluently that listening to the scripted anecdotes by Jon Stewart feels utterly boring. Of course, these folks do not engage in their insanity to entertain me but to mislead millions of people, the kind of folks who take their info at its face value and run with it all the way to the slaughterhouse of rightwing politics.

The great meaty press never gives out, churning, among a myriad of others, the need to fixate on Hussein, Obama’s middle name. It is just a middle name of course. The name given to the infant Barack some forty seven years ago – what could be less consequential than that? Anything more can only be interpreted as sheer bigotry and nonsense. To conceal this fact, the Hannity and Co. resort to the oldest pandering trick in the book by calling their audience the most intelligent and informed.

This is not true, of course. So to test it, ask anybody who imbibes their on-air gibberish a simple question “What is John McCain’s middle name?” I bet nine out of ten will just blanch in response. And this is the joke I would not want to miss.

By the way, the name is Sidney, John Sidney McCain.

Surrey Now - Letter to the Editor

Once again, in Nina Grewal, we elected a quintessential politician. She unfailingly raises her hand of support for the party leader whenever asked, always keeps to her talking points and vastly prefers deafening silence when queried outside her comfort zone. Fantastic! This reminds of a country where I spent my youth in – the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

Incidental Happiness - Politics in Canada

The local nightline news headline screams: A Farmer in Ohio Wins the Power Ball Lottery Estimated at $250 Million! The ensuing images whirl about some terrifyingly happy faces and droves of anchors with long-pointed microphones and the most idiotic questions. The rest of us, on the other side of the screen, seethe with envy. And we do not stop at breaking just one of the Ten Commandments – Thou Shall Not Covet – and plunge full throttle into much perilous undertaking of asking the Almighty – “Why they, why they?!”

God usually does not heed such gibberish and does on his merry way. In utter despair some citizens speed up to the next watering hole to drown in self-pity, other rush to the next lottery terminal while the rest seize their questioning with a logical consideration of staggering statistical odds – “well, it could not have been me anyway…”

All this happens, of course, on the very individualistic and hence irrelevant level. On the societal plain thing look a bit different as they are just about thirty million people in North America who seem to share in one, very incidental, jackpot. They live in Canada. Trust me, it is incidental and yet we revel in it. And when your elections and ours happily coincide, many of us are starkly reminded of our blundering, lottery luck – the one that is called normal everyday life. And the most unfair about it all is one tiny little fact – we did not fight for it, it has happened just by accident.

We, a docile stock, did not fight in 1776, happily following the overseas masters. We just kept trading our furs for cotton with those from the South. They needed slaves and we did not. Few years later our British masters told us the slavery was off. We, a demurring flock, just agreed and kept on with the furs. You resisted and a murderous Civil War followed. Finally, we got some sort of independence with not a shot fired. They just sent us some Parliament Act instead.

You wanted to be morally pure and announced prohibition. We simply switched from furs to whisky. You got Al Capone, and we got the money. Few years later you drove into Vietnam. We did not. Au contraire, our passivity got us the Universal Health Care sold by some undoubtedly nutty radicals. You then decided that fossil-powered free markets were the answer but we just simply stumbled upon some oil. Since then you have had to fight wars to live up to your ideals while we just sold much of the dark slimy stuff to you.

Today you struggle with many urgent issues, foreign and domestic. But you have hard time revving up as the issue of experience appears so crucial to the current contenders. And this is even after considering the fact that you current morass has been presided by the most experienced civil servant/private enterprise team ever, on paper at least. By some blissful coincidence, in Canada we do not discuss the experience. This is not by design of course but by sheer luck. You see, in our British parliamentarian system, all of our leaders simply come from the same old and trusted perches in the Commons. In Canada no one bickers on this inconsequential score.

Apart from the “experience” discussion you also have to sling some serious mud around and it takes zillions of dollars and light-years of one’s life. By incident of course, we, north of the 49th, largely avoid this pitfall. This is because our mouthy parliamentarian screaming and debates take place daily as long as the parliament is in session. This is sort of like an illegal cockfight that nobody, except for some C-SPAN junkies, ever gets to see. So by the time we start our election campaign, our politicians are in a tired off-season mood and thus rarely put their gloves on. And even when they do, the electorate, suddenly shocked by uncouthness of it all, usually quickly steers the fighters back into the issues corner.

And here is my final point – we never know exactly when our elections will take place within the maximum mandated span of five years. They are usually snap-called and thus mercifully short. Our latest parallel, to yours, routine just opened last week and will be over by October 14th. Imagine all the time one can spend dilly-dallying about some policy issues that normal folks sort of care about. And not only that, we have a seriously taxing public election finance scheme hence our politicians do not have to sell their souls on the fundraising circuit just as much.

I know, bragging like this is akin to receiving a phone call from that darn lucky Ohioan Farmer just to learn that yes, he is your long-lost uncle and no, you will not be seeing any of that money. But instead of seething and raging, why not just relax and stop trying so hard? Why not quit feeding the extremes and begin dusting up the old pearl of public consensus, the shortest route to meaningful solutions.

Perhaps, one day you too will win the lottery….

Surrey Now - Letter to the Editor

I always get a chuckle considering the Fraser Institute’s opposition to any increases in the minimum wage. After all, this is the organization that is also perennially opposed to any controls on executive compensation. However, my personal comedic moment aside is this not the time to ask what the minimum wage is there for in the first place? Is it there to set a minimum price of labour so to avoid a slippage into the long-discredited economic conditions of the Dickensian age, which produced neither full employment nor wide-spread economic prosperity?

If your answer is “NO” then please continue indulging in the Fraser Institute press releases. Otherwise the next question to ask is: what should such minimal benchmark be set at? An official level of poverty income strikes me as a good place to start without destroying the original intent. However, it does not end there since the real value of poverty income fluctuates with cost living just like at any other wage level. Typically, the cost of living (i.e. inflation) goes up, necessitating upward adjustments from time to time.

Since the last minimum wage reset a number of years ago, the cost of living has increased immensely. This is an undeniable fact. On this basis, it appears completely reasonable to argue for minimum wage increases, whatever the actual number. Above all, is it not what would anybody expect from a civilized society?

In conclusion, during the last decade we have witnessed considerable increases in higher, professional, wage levels without any detriment to the overall level of corresponding employment, negating the main thrust of the Fraser Institute’s argument. If accountants, teachers and doctors have managed to maintain their working hours despite increasing wages why should not fast food workers?