Trendy City Cats

soundtrack

1974

The Beatles will never get back together again is what we hear on the car radio for five hours, as we’re driving to Victoria City to visit my Dad’s family. They live in the capital and biggest city.

His parents live right in the center of the historic downtown  which, at the time, is full of young, scruffy adults with long hair who wear loose beige clothing, pay little to no rent, and provide the smellscape with organic substances to counteract the smell of lead in the gasoline exhaust we’re all breathing.

I escape a boring television day to visit the next-door neighbors, the Boudreau family. They live in the mirror of my grandparent’s two-story townhouse. Their grandfather, Erwin Boudreau, is always around doing jigsaw puzzles and sneaking sips of gin from under the kitchen sink.

Even though Erwin (Mr. Boudreau to me) grew up in the Acadian Peninsula speaking only French, his parents named him Erwin after one of the biggest entrepreneurs in the region – Erwin McKacey. Virtually no one in his village could pronounce his name properly, so they called him Wing.

Granpa Wing’s namesake, Erwin J. McKacey, inherited some money selling land that was taken from the Tic Tac First Nations, and over time, his family managed to claw together local monopolies in copper mining, gasoline distribution, logging, and mass media, and was considered a hero by his own mass media empire. Which is what everyone watched.

In my grandparent’s day, people believed that naming a son after someone rich and famous might mean that this boy might get to finish at least grade 5 and weigh at least a hundred pounds at adulthood. This kind of thinking is sometimes called Cargo Cult thinking. Erwin McKacey lived to 95 years despite his lifelong obesity, and his monopolies turned both Steel City and Victoria City into tangles of highways, suburban lawns, and strip malls surrounded by monoculture forests sprayed with dangerous chemicals every year.

In any case, Jimmy Boudreau, the grandson who’s around my age, is taking me on a tour of their townhouse on a rainy day. I just found out that Jimmy has no idea who Erwin J. McKacey is while we were talking. His parents own a VW van, and feed all the local wild cats in their coal shed porch. At any one time, there are between 20 and 40 cats eating snacks and using  their porch and backyard.

The smell of cat urine, coal dust, and a dank mystery smell (pot, I suspect), greets us as we enter the back porch. Opening the inside storm door, Grandad – Wing Boudreau – is standing with a full glass of gin and some anti-depressants in his hands.

1899

“This new generation only understand trends! They can’t think for themselves!”

I guess we walked in on a rant. I love old person rants! Erwin Boudreau was born in 1899, so his rants often have a turn-of-century sense of urgency.

“That screen door is useless! They saw someone’s cheap new bungalow had one, and so they had to have the same damn thing. As seen on TV! Cripes, what a mindless generation of tube heads. Just like that van. Hippy’s gotta have a van even if they can’t afford the gasoline for it! I should have forced them to play outside when they were kids!”

The tube is what we  call the TV we watch every day as a family. I can’t believe he’s insulting such an important and pleasant influence on every family I know. For me, this is like mocking God or capitalism.

“Your family are the worst, Qatzel!” He smiles while popping two orange pills into his mouth. “Suburbia, big car, company man… your parents are just following trends they saw on TV. They never saw a trend they didn’t want to follow!”

This is where Jimmy’s mom pops in and drags Wing back to his room to do jigsaw puzzles before he causes too much harm. We enter the kitchen now that he’s gone. There’s a piece of string art on the wall, and a pet rock sits next to a box on a shelf. The kitchen wall is a mural of a rainbow over Niagara Falls, and the whole scene is accentuated by the red-orange plastic chairs and table. The radio is blaring in the kitchen, and the television is blaring in the living room.

“I’m trying to talk my parents into buying me Levi’s this year,” I confide to Jimmy, just as a way of changing the subject. He nods like he knows why.

Just then, the overwhelming stench of cat urine and coal (and pot) forces us back out into the yard to play where the rain seems to have stopped.

…

The Bank of Ho Chi Minh

soundtrack

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American TV’s Effects

A lot of people wonder why so many Canadians – 30,000 or so – volunteered to help the USA terrify Vietnamese farmers out of their own home-grown communist system. I’ve often wondered about this myself. But I just finished reading a blog by a vet from Halifax, Nova Scotia that helps explain why these Canadians willingly went along.

It turns out that what a lot of people don’t know about that anti-Asian pogrom is that the Vietnamese actually started it by bombing Halifax with experimental chemicals. This was in the late 50s. Brutal Vietnamese chopper pilots – stoned on LSD and government-spiked coffee – dropped canister after canister of flammable, poisonous, and neurotoxic products smack dab in the middle of the city. And they deployed these evil poisons even though the people of Nova Scotia had done them no harm.

All Powerful Elite

The Vietnamese at the time had a totalitarian war machine. Their mighty soldiers – perhaps the best equipped and best brainwashed on earth – had been lead to believe that Nova Scotia was planning to take over the world, and this would mean that the people of Southeast Asia wouldn’t be able to live free anymore. They learned this by watching movies and listening to radio.

Of course, we now know that this was Vietnamese bank-funded propaganda whose intent was to lure local cannon fodder off to Nova Scotia to seize control of the banking there. For anyone paying attention, the many Credit Unions bombed as military targets were an obvious clue. But most people were so caught up in the wartime frenzy of burning flesh and burying family members that they didn’t notice all the money people slipping in and out of limos.

Alas, the bottomless pit of money that is the Bank of Ho Chi Minh can always buy the latest tech in propaganda and brainwashing. The Vietnamese soldiers were so psychologically altered by their basic training and their mass media consumption that they no longer saw the people they were killing as Haligonians, Canadians, or even as people. Instead, they referred to their victims as snots – as in “nasal discharge.”

On her CB radio, a Vietnamese-speaking nurse overheard Vietnamese pilots shouting things like “Pair of snots at 4 o’clock!” followed by the sound of a bomb falling, and then laughter. Her theory was that S.N.O.T. stood for “Stable Northamerican Opposition Target,” but I’ve never seen this independently confirmed anywhere.

Happy Endings for everyone

In the end, the Vietnamese Army lost their war against Catholicism (that’s what their soldiers were told they were fighting against). But in destroying all the Credit Unions and killing all the political leaders of the province, the Bank of Ho Chi Minh ended up controlling the provincial economy anyways.

And that’s probably why so many Canadians volunteered to fight these people on the other side of the earth: to protect Credit Unions.

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