A perfect afternoon?

Summer ended before September 12th. But you'd never know it that Sunday afternoon. Unless you felt a difference in the light from the sun. Unless you realized that tobacco-tinged leaves signalled early autumn. Unless you suffered allergies from abundant goldenrods.

My feet stamped along a trail of packed dirt, knobby roots and river stones around Fanshawe Reservoir while my eyes feasted on the views. Open meadows of purple asters with yellow centres offered landing pads for Monarch butterflies. Undulating farmland of now-harvested crops whizzed by. As did giant anthills of crushed aggregate from a stone quarry. I entered an airy forest of white pine and maple trees. Sunlit mushrooms graced a fallen trunk, and patches of blue-gray from a lake shimmered beyond the foliage of an embankment.

One hour into my brisk walk, I reached the 6-kilometer marker. And there, I stopped. To the west, stalky remnants of a harvested crop lay curled. To the east, the river Thames snaked through bush and marsh.

It was a perfect afternoon. The country air smelled, well, wonderful. My thoughts gained a new coherence.

But the goodness I experienced shattered like the crinkled glass from the passenger window of my car, when I returned. I had parked by the side of a dead-end country road, between the back entrance to the trail and the driveway of a farmhouse whose road sign read: "No Honey, No Bees." The maroon Jaguar, ahead of me, and the old red SUV in back, provided the comfort of civility, as did the gates of the Fanshawe Golf Club, diagonally across. But it appears I was not in safe territory. Nor was the Jag whose passenger window ended in the same state as mine.

Who would have resorted to this, I wondered. I discounted the riders on their mountain bikes who had earlier whizzed by me with acknowledgement. That left two suspect groups: the younger punks on too-small bikes who passed me while extending no courtesy, or the two thirty-something men who sat between parked cars in collapsible chairs, when I first arrived to the area. So eager was I to "smell the flowers" that I failed to assess their set-up. In hindsight I wondered if these men were "fishing" with no body of water in sight, other than the ice in their cooler, set between them.

Ultimately, the responsibility was mine. I had left my purse discretely tucked in the darker recess of the floor of my front passenger seat. Had I placed the purse in the trunk, well ahead of arriving, I might have been spared the break-and-entry. Or not. For when I discussed the incident with various others, I learned that some thieves now know what button to activate so as to pop up the trunk and check for valuables.

I am knee-deep in recovery of plastic cards for banking, driving, health/organ donation, Library, and Blockbuster Video. I've claimed a brand new pair of reading glasses against the VISA credit card that offers replacement value.

Unrecoverables: a purse, a wallet, cash and coins, bus tickets, subway tokens (for Toronto), and a few months of receipts, not yet organized.

When I reported the theft to the London police, Constable Fraser mentioned that since the economy has taken a tumble, "petty thefts have skyrocketed."

Perhaps this is the new status quo, until politicians stop giving us mixed signals on the economic recovery, and markets show us more consistency than they have in recent times.

So citizen, beware! Consider using a fanny pack next time you take a simple walk over local terrain. You could save yourself a load of grief.

A Russian Angel

Angel by
Marc Chagall

Call it writer's block. Effects from an accident with an urban transport bus, late last November, have left me in a curious limbo. Stress-related anxiety and limited performance continue to plague me. Though I've improved since the first week after the accident, when I was bumping into glass doors and burning myself without feeling pain for an unusual length of time. I still freeze whenever I face general complexities, view quantitative data, or find numerous tasks on my back burner.

Until recently, I waited for a physical from my new family physician. It was tough enough to find a doctor in my new home town — a small city in southwestern Ontario. Last winter, only 10 family physicians showed up in the official Doctor Search as accepting new patients. Two of these physicians had disciplinary notes against them; seven had changed their status to "not accepting new patients" (a euphemism for "I've reached my allowable profit level") or were part of a walk-in clinic. Only one was a 'free agent': Ketan Patel.

I finally saw Dr. Patel in February. But only to renew my prescriptions. The physical, I was told, would have to wait.

The physical never took place. The clinic kept postponing them for a later time. I was getting anxious.

Not helping was a representative in accident/benefits at my auto insurance company. When I mentioned to Ms. Hetal Choksi of RBC Insurance that I had memory loss and concentration difficulties, she retorted with some vehemence: "Those are not injuries!" My anxiety levels rose as I questioned her on this so-called policy. Reluctantly, she sent a benefits package with an agressive cover letter and a deadline for completion.

The forms might as well have been written in hieroglyphics for all the sense they made.

Facing another aggression from Ms. Choksi in a subsequent conversation, I asked her to escalate the call. Mr. Chris Metson was far more understanding when I explained what I had been through. He was patient on the filling out of the required forms. They kept sitting, keeping other papers company.

In August, I called Dr. Patel's clinic again, asking for the overdue physical. When the clinic informed me that the doctor was no longer offering this type of service, I was beside myself. It had been over six months since I had first seen Dr. Patel — briefly, for prescription fill-outs. And it had been over nine months since the accident. I was still having cognitive difficulties.

Upon expressing my anxiety in no uncertain terms, I was transferred to a Russian angel. It's true. I didn't recognize Irina as such, for I had trouble calming down. But once she and I found common ground, she informed me of the Motor Vehicle Assessment clinic that Dr. Patel had formed the month before. Gee, why did I have to get unhinged to finally hear about this new development?

Irina asked me to come in with the accident/benefit forms that had languished among my papers. And with great patience, she helped me fill them out. She also wondered why the package from my insurer did not include OCF-12, the form produced by the Financial Services Commission of Ontario and dealing with cognitive issues. I asked her if it was common practice for other insurers to provide this. "Yes," replied.

When I mentioned the ommission of OCF-12 to Mr. Metson, he produced a spectacular slip-and-slide. Lies, too, that this was the first time he had heard about my difficulties. (Well, hello, dear! Why on earth did I have the call escalated, why did I complain to you about Ms Choksi and her comments if there was no problem?)

But the best was yet to come. When I mentioned to Metson that my doctor would be performing a motor vehicle assessment, covered by the insurer, Metson replied vehemently: "We're not paying for that!"

"They have to. By law," Dr. Patel said when I mentioned the incident.

Is it any wonder that veterans and others experience difficulties, having their stress disorders recognized seriously?
They need a Russian angel — and a doctor Patel. They also need to know their rights with, say, insurers, information kept close to the vest by the Financial Services Commission of Ontario. Who even knew they existed to protect the interests of — whom?

Do the guidelines produced by the FSCO have teeth? Or has this organization been created to protect members — financial service companies who pay the FSCO a fee?

Things to ponder.

For now, I'm in good medical hands — at last. A preliminary motor vehicle assessment by Dr. Patel showed some dysfunction. He requested a CAT scan, among other items. All the while, my Russian angel filled out more insurance forms, which continue to confuse me.

"They do that on purpose," Dr. Patel explained.

That's the compensation you get for the hefty premiums you pay the insurer on a monthly basis. Swell.

Sisyphus from my sliding-door window

Ordinarily, it's a hum-drum view. Not much breaks up the monotony of shingled rooftops in this not-so-new development of north London, Ontario. So when my neighbour popped up against darkening skies, I was marginally curious. More so, because I'd never seen him before. All of a sudden, there he was, balanced on the rung of an aluminum ladder. He had propped it up against his garden shed, next to the wooden fence between us. With his forearm resting on a checkered cloth on old shingles, he jiggled the antenna of his satellite dish. Not without some help from an unseen family member, below. In a guttural Arabic, the men communicated while my neighbour kept fiddling with his Digiwave. I didn't need a translation. For my neighbour had morphed into Sisyphus. Or so it seemed to me.

I dashed for my camera. Long lens — check — before I hurried back to capture the moment. I quietly pressed the shutter. Gotcha.

Only the image resembles the myth. For there is no connection between the condemnation of the ancient king of Corinth by the gods of the Underworld, and a man who tries to gain better reception from his satellite dish. Unless you add the condemnation from the king's neighbor, the peasant with a camera, whose view has been damned by a god-awful contraption.

The shadows protect the identity of the subject. They also reflect my dark sentiments on the dish. At least, for another five years. By then, the pyramidal cedars I planted last fall will start blocking Sisyphus' satellite from my view. And when those cedars have reached their maximum 17-foot height, by Zeus, the gods will smile. For their victim will be forced to climb Mount Olympus, or the garden shed, to move that boulder. Again and again. In the eternal pursuit of a microwave.

Mythological justice served.

Argentina's Fritzl

Nineteen years. That's how long it took the authorities in Mendoza, Argentina to fully investigate the more than 20 anonymous reports of sexual abuse, committed by Armando Lucero, 67.

The victim: his daughter. Now 35, she was violated, beginning at age 8. Tormented, sometimes at gun point, she was not deprived of her liberty, unlike Elisabeth Fritzl of Amstetten, Austria. But she was psychologically controlled, even in the clinic, where she delivered her seven offspring, now ages 2, 6, 11, 12, 16, 17 and 19. After every delivery, she was discharged as a "single mother" with her new baby whose father was "unknown."

The unemployed Lucero maintained a front as a good citizen in his community. He would even go the children's school to pick them up. While on the homefront, he would threaten to take them away. As a result of this climate of terror, his daughter would do little all day except watch television. She slept in the kitchen on a mattress, where it is thought that many of the violations took place. Today, she has the developmental age of a 12 year old, according to her older brother, now 37.

His sister is one of six children born to Lucero's concubine, now 56, a local justice official who chose to remain silent for 27 years. That silence broke on May 8, when after delicate talks by authorities, the justice official and her abused daughter testified against Lucero.

Years earlier, other family members had reported the sexual abuse to authorities. But each time, when social workers would arrive at the family home, they were met at the front door by the justice official, who said "nothing was going on," and that "everything was normal," according to the victim's older brother. It was this older brother who met with two legislators in the presence of three local journalists, two months ago. Their discussions added weight to the enquiry that was already underway. It was ordered by Family Court after a teacher heard a suspicious comment from one of the children, fathered by Lucero.

A confirmation followed. On May 27, results matched Lucero's DNA with all seven of the children he had with his daughter.

In all, Lucero fathered 22 children: eight with his wife, six with his concubine and seven with his daughter. He now awaits trial on charges of "sexual abuse with carnal access, aggravated by an undetermined number of times." He could serve up to 50 years in jail. His concubine, the justice official, could also face charges. For now, she is cooperating as a witness.

One person is not surprised by the unfolding drama: the woman who married Lucero when she was 13 years old. Fruit of that union were eight offspring in 10 years. But unlike the justice official, Lucero's wife was alert. "When the children were getting older, he began to approach them in a manner I did not like," she said. "I did not like how he touched them. Also he was too violent with me."

Back in the mid-1960s, Lucero worked in the city's Hotel Plaza, "But he left that job and gave it to me, I think so that he could stay longer with the children," she said. "Then I threw him out of the house. He left, leaving me with eight children, alone. I always had the sensation that he abused some of them but I could not prove it. I lost his trail until one of his sons, who he had with his new partner, appeared not long ago."

That son believes his father is ill and unaware of the damage he has caused — even to other daughters. Now living in Spain and Buenos Aires, they "were also abused by him, but were able to escape," said the son.

Lucero, too, was able to escape. When neighbours suspected that something was not right, the Lucero family would simply move to another part of the city. Thus, Armando Lucero kept hiding his dark side. He even tried hiding on the day of his arrest, when he was handcuffed and hunched over with a jacket over his head. To a peppering of questions from the press, he answered, "Yes, yes, I repent...of course...I don't want to live any longer...forgive me, forgive me for everything."

The funny thing about psychopaths is that when they're cornered, without any other means of escape, they know. They know they've done wrong. They know they have bullied. They know they have damaged. But up to that point, they are masters of evasion.

One wonders then, how many other Josef Fritzl's and Armando Lucero's go undetected? How many others keep perpetrating abuse under the blind spot of an enabling partner?

Those questions are far too complex for Lucero's new neighbours: the inmates of the Mendoza penitentiary. During recess, when Armando Lucero was brought in and placed in solitary confinement, the prisoners furiously yelled, "Hand him over to us! Hand him over to us!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With thanks to Clarín, Urgente24, La Voz, TL9, the BBC, Telegraph and Guanabee.

Crossing the Rubicon

Even if you drive a jalopy on the digital highway, you can still embrace an aspect of new media. The journey may be nerve-wracking, but keep in mind four guidelines. One, if you can dream it, it is likely possible. Two, there's more than one way to reach your destination. Three, you may need to test some bumpy freewares before you find the one that's best for you. Four, it's going to take time to sort things out.

Take this example. You've recorded a presentation and created a digital audio file — a feat in itself. Now you want to post it to the Web. What do you do?

Blogger, for one, only accepts image and/or video files, no stand-alone audio files. How are you going to get around this barrier? Simple. You combine audio with just one image to make a video file.

But, say, that mock video file is too large for Blogger, which has its limits. Whatcha gonna do? Well, you upload the heavyweight to an external site. That site, in turn, will generate a URL, which when posted and hyperlinked on Blogger, can be accessed by viewers. Voilà!

It is a circuitous solution, to be sure. And it's only partial. For next, you have to find a hassle-free software, plus an external site to make it all happen. The road can get bumpy.

At least, that was my experience. Exasperated, I was ready to throw in the towel, when all of a sudden, I received some help from a bedroom in Scandinavia. No, no. It was not Sven with his massage oils, you naughty reader. But rather, a boy presenting a how-to on his computer. As a videocam tracked the cursor on his monitor, "spikensbror" patiently showed us how to synch an image to a sound file, then upload the results. His presentation on YouTube made it look so easy. At last, I could solve my problem! I followed spikensbror's example, not before downloading the freeware Movie Maker for my Windows XP. In the process, I jumped another hurdle in the field of new media.

Care to have an overview of that hot field? How about making money from it? Dawn Boshcoff of BOSHmedia and president of the Professional Writers Association of Canada (Toronto chapter) discusses some good stuff here and here. And who do you think put together those photo-audio files of the presentation? Yep, the former jalopy driver that's me. There's no turning back now. I dumped the old clunker. Though the Maserati is a stretch — for now.

Waay before podcasting

Audio recordings have come a long way since my first exposure to this medium. Back in 1957, my dad tried to figure out how to operate the buttons and reels of a portable apparatus the size of two breadboxes. When he had mastered the basics, my Mom called us children to gather round. Then she asked each one of us, in turn, to speak into the microphone and tell a favourite story, or sing a song we had learned. I was eight, my brother was six, and my sister was three.

It was a time of innocence in Caracas. And not. For Venezuela was under the dictatorship of General Marcos Pérez Jiménez. Unbeknownst to us and most others, that iron-fisted rule was about to crumble.

After a military coup on January 23, 1958, Pérez Jiménez fled Caracas with an estimated $250 million, or one half the national treasury. You'd think everyone would be jubilant. Not quite. Some saw in P.J. the strong arm the country needed. And in fairness, he did more for economic growth, as well as for law and order, than did all the subsequent governing bodies. That was the good side.

After the ouster, the commander of the country's navy, Wolfgang Larrazábal, took charge in an interim government. No one knew what lay ahead. Immigrants were apprehensive. They had arrived in droves when a war-ravaged Europe could only offer chaos. With well-compensated sweat, the immigrants helped build massive projects that positioned the oil-dependent nation as the most modern in Latin America. At least for a few decades.

The majority of Venezuelans saw the flight of Peréz Jiménez as a cleansing. There had been too many years of brutish undercurrents from his police force, the dreaded National Security, dubbed Gestapo. With the change in government, hope that civic freedoms, including free speech, was restored. The widespread torture of political prisoners had ended.

As the drone of military planes over valley skies died down that afternoon, my dad wanted his sentiments known. He invited his brother-in-law to come over, even though my uncle Pedro Pablo Benedetti was more interested in business than politics. After a drink to celebrate the occasion, the two men set up the recorder for that moment in history. But only my dad took the mike. That he had an audience of one was a plus.

The audio recording remains to this day. In it, my dad revs up his political oratory to a feverish pitch, when all of a sudden, you hear two little words in the backround: "Ah pué." Translated loosely that would be, "Oh, brother." You'd think my uncle's phrase would help keep things in perspective. But oh no. Henrique Hedderich Arismendi had a visceral need to vent. He'd been victimized for too long by governments known more for the rule of thugs than the rule of law. Jailed, even, for voicing a youthful opinion on democracy. It was the dawn of a new age and he wanted that known. For posterity. Even if just for an audience of one.

Play it forward — credibly

Enough with the confusion! As a cautious adopter of new technology, I have a bunch of questions. Some get answered on the Web. Other questions get the red-carpet treatment. Meaning, they get posed to tech-savvy people I know and trust. As a result, the answers are generally accurate and normally realiable.

Can you say that about answers you find on hobby forums or social marketplaces, online? I can't. That's why I stay away — for now — from the likes of Facebook and Twitter. My reasons are simple. I like the personal. I prefer not being misinformed by those with shallow knowledge. And I believe that knowing the person, or being referred to a source you can trust, ensures better information. At worst, there are checks and balances. Call me old school.

Here's a for instance. Recently, I was frustrated. After offering a photographer-friend some post-processing on a large image, I realized I was missing a key component: how to transfer that file, back and forth, online. Sending the image of 12 megabytes by email was out of the question; it was too large. And using a file transfer protocol for uploading the file was impractical. Reason being, my FTP experience is limited, my friend didn't mention her familiarity with the protocol, and my website plan provides me with only so much space.

Was there some external storage we could each access upon registering? I searched for clues on forums related to photography. Nada. The professional ones didn't address the issue; the popular ones were full of wild goose chases from wannabes, wishing to sound well-informed. Nor was Google helpful when I inputted logical key words. Perhaps I wasn't logical enough.

Something had to be out there. But what? And where? I scratched my head some more, when ... Bing! The light bulb went off. Certain I'd get, not just any old answer, but the straight goods, I emailed a friend who teaches at RMIT University in Melbourne, Australia.

Ric Lombardo answered: "I haven't had much experience with it but a very clever IT student I met at the university union this morning, where I pick up my newspaper, told me that this [Megaupload] would be ideal for you. If you go into the site and click on the FAQ area you'll find the following information ..."

It was a timely response. With intellectual honesty, Lombardo disclosed the limits of his experience. He was able to source with precision a good answer. And he went beyond the call by pointing to FAQs related to my needs. That's quality information. No pretense. No bull. Just the goods. Right in my mailbox. Try getting that from anonymous posters on the web, hiding behind their avatars.

Consider, too: In less than 48 hours, the information from an Australian in Melbourne spanned 15 time zones, covered over 10,000 miles, and hit the nail on the head. That's a remarkable transformation in the sharing of knowledge. Yet, some things never change. Without credibility from the source, information is, and will always be, useless. The opposite is a win-win-win. For the provider, for the medium, and for the recipient — multiplied when played forward.

That's worth more to me than a 1000 'friends' on Facebook. Now go ahead. Burn me on the stake for heresy.

Allied forces

Normally, dim circumstances are just that: dim. But one had a silver lining.

It happened during rush-hour traffic in north Toronto on a rainy night, last November. A public transit bus entered the centre lane from the median and stopped on a diagonal ahead of me. Not before the bus had scraped the driver's side of my car then with full impact, crashed into my front-wheel well.

Before I knew it, a revolving light swirled too-brightly in my rear-view mirror. I recognized a tow-truck and wondered what it was doing there.

Hearing a 'tap-tap' to my left, I rolled down the window as freezing raindrops slid in.

"Are you OK?" asked the bus driver in rain gear.

I told him I thought so.

"You know, I have the right of way," he added buoyantly before returning to his bus, diagonally ahead. I was puzzled.

Hearing another tap-tap, I again rolled down the window.

"Are you OK?" asked the tow-truck driver.

"I think so," I replied.

Ahead, passengers stepped off the bus. None appeared visibly injured. They were being shepherded by the bus driver to the side of the road, where another city bus had stopped to take them further on their journey.

Two hours passed. No reporting police were in sight. By then, I realized I had a companion: my camera. I normally don't travel with one over short distances. But I did that night for a light assignment the following day.

The camera was a soother. Using the dashboard as support, I began to shoot with a slow shutter speed. How ironic, I thought. The ad on the back of the bus read: "Minimize road rage." Was there a connection? I continued to click objectively as though I were documenting something interesting, as though the incident had not happened to me.

I should have been more aggressive. I should have gotten out and used multiple points of view. But my door wouldn't budge, it was cold and rainy, and I was too rattled to function normally.

Another two hours passed. I slid across to the passenger door, got out, and informed the tow truck driver that I was going to the bathroom at a Tim Horton's coffee shop across the street.

Returning to the scene of the accident, I saw the reporting police. Four and a half hours after the incident. Two young women in police uniform were speaking to the bus driver and a supervisor-come-lately from the transit company. The foursome talked a good while. I sensed my goose was cooking.

Tap-tap. Again I rolled down the rain-streaked window.

"So what happened?" asked the policewoman with an attitude as brittle as her chewed-off French manicure.

"The bus barrelled down the median before it switched lanes and hit me," I replied.

"Oh, REAL-ly?" she asked in forced disbelief.

Could she not see the obvious positioning of the vehicles? My anxiety grew. Was I being used as a scapegoat for the transit company? My suspicion gained ground. At the end of her procedure, the policewoman charged me for careless driving.

"You're at fault," she said with gusto.

Staff members of my auto insurance company were more thorough. So was their associate who came by my home to take a sworn statement. But the real angel was the tow-truck driver. Glen Witney of GW Towing had not witnessed the accident. But arriving within five minutes, he recognized the meaning behind the position of the vehicles after impact. It was a reality the policewoman chose to overlook.

"My job doesn't end with the accident," Witney informed me. True to his word, he provided testimony to the auto insurer. It bolstered the photographs and drawing I had submitted to the Claims Adjustor.

It took four months to process the claim. In the end, the insurer informed me that I was "not responsible for the incident as per the Fault Determination Rule 10.4." * My deductible was refunded.

Why didn't the policewoman know the rules of the road?

The trial for my "careless driving" is set for November 2, 2009. As partial evidence, I will enlarge the photographs of the scene, grateful again to a staunch ally: my camera. Consider keeping one in your glove compartment. It could be your only bright prospect.



* Revised Regulations of Ontario 1990, Reg. 668

Barbie's back

Barbie's 50. And she's still turning heads. Even mine as I arrived at a neighbourhood park last Sunday. Above, four Barbie kites fluttered in the clear blue sky as tweens, below, tugged the lines.

Mattel introduced its teenage fashion model at the New York Toy Fair on March 9, 1959. Ever since, Barbie has continued to "inspire several generations of girls to dream, discover and explore a world without limits — all without ever leaving home."

Has Barbie done that much for girls? I decided it was time for a straw poll and some word associations.

"Perfect body, perfect hair and perfect face," says Toronto teenager Cindy Glorioso, when she remembers what Barbie meant to her. From the age of two until she was 10, Glorioso collected 30 Barbies and 20 outfits. Most of them were given away in recent years, except for three Collector Barbies that were gifts from an aunt. Her mother, Irene, who never played with Barbie, recognizes their investment potential.

Memories of the plastic doll are mixed for 50-something Alison Rowe from Ottawa. Growing up in Caracas, Venezuela, she wanted a Barbie because two of her grade-school friends, both Americans, had the "it" girl.

"I was so excited as I opened the long, narrow box," Rowe recalls. But her heart sank when she saw the "ugly" brunette with side-glancing eyes and a bee-hive hairdo. A Barbie clone.

It got worse. Young friends were setting up their Barbies, accessories and "gobs of outfits, including a queen-like costume and a wedding dress," Rowe recalls. Whereas, she arrived for the play date with a brown paper bag from the local supermarket. It held her one Barbie and two dresses — one of which she made herself in sewing class.

“Just pitiful,” Rowe remembers. It was impossible to keep up. For one, American imports were costly. For another, her mother did not encourage her to play with a voluptuous doll. As a result, Rowe's earlier fascination hit the dust. Did Barbie care? Not at all. At the house of more adoring fans, she simply drove off in a red convertible with her boyfriend, Ken, and her BFF - Best Friend Forever – Midge.

Barbie's 50th anniversary has inspired more than just girls "to dream." The occasion marks a publicity blitz that is sure to increase sales. Shareholders could use the relief from that result. In 2008, the company lost 58 per cent of net income from a four-year high of $600 million U.S. in 2007.

Will the company generate strong sales beyond 2009? The Barbie timeline would indicate 'yes!' Mattel has proven to be a formidable marketer of its flagship product, ably responding to trends, even ahead of time. Witness Miss Astronaut Barbie in 1965 and Barbie for President in 2000.

Nationally and internationally, there are many more markets for Barbie, even though she does not always appeal to the buyers. Some mothers view the doll as a hook, creating a need to buy even more products and accessories.

"It's a bottomless pit," says Rowe. "Even if I could have afforded it, I wouldn't have indulged my daughter. I view Barbie as a meat market — giving girls the wrong impression."

No matter what your opinions are on the world-famous doll, one thing is certain: Mattel can sure think outside the long, narrow box.

No broccoli ... yet!

I confess.

Long after posting, I may tweak one phrase or another before republishing. That makes me wonder: Is there a rule in blogdom that stipulates commitment to a post once published? If so, I plead the low-readership defence. Turns out, I have an audience of ten. One of those readers is me. And I'm not complaining.

I'm also the push-button publisher of this blog called Exploro. That's kinda like saying I can do what I want. Kinda like what George H.W. Bush, the father of W., did with broccoli. Remember the foot-in-the-mouth comments from Bush Senior? I liked this one the best:

"I do not like broccoli and I haven’t liked it since I was a little kid and my mother made me eat it. And I’m President of the United States and I’m not going to eat any more broccoli. Now look, this is the last statement I’m going to have on broccoli. There are truckloads of broccoli at this very minute descending on Washington. My family is divided. For the broccoli vote out there: Barbara loves broccoli. She has tried to make me eat it. She eats it all the time herself. So she can go out and meet the caravan of broccoli that’s coming in."

--George Herbert Walker Bush (March 22, 1990)

For bloggers who respect the rules of traditional publishing, who never change what they've posted after the fact, well! I take my hat off. But I can't commit myself to pushing that button just once. At least, not without the option of editing - after the fact.

My position could change. Forcibly.

I suspect if I ever join Facebook for viral marketing and hordes of unknown friends, this blog might become better known.

"Hey, whatcha doin', changing things on us?" might be the feedback from my new FF (Facebook Friend) in Mumbai, followed by a Greek chorus in related time zones. All the while, I would be fast asleep as other FFs around the world agreed, ganging up on me.

Shamed by the market, I'd have to tow a more traditional line. I'd have to commit to a post once published. I might even have to start eating broccoli for breakfast. Let's hope that day doesn't come anytime soon.

Vuongs v. St. Joe's

The Vuongs* have faced monumental challenges, before.

They've ploughed through mud up to their shoulders. And they've ducked the beams from search lights that scanned the dark shores of the Mekong Delta.

It was 1990. And crouched in the reeds was a dory, waiting to take the young couple to a small fishing boat, farther out. Both vessels would be overloaded. But not as badly as other boats that sunk from greater weight. Their passengers were so desperate to leave communist Vietnam, they gambled all. And they lost.

With Ho Chi Minh City, formerly Saigon, a receding memory, the small fishing boat chugged across the South China Sea. By day two, with adrenalin still flowing in their systems, the passengers were subsisting on the small packets of dried food they had been allowed to bring. Water was forbidden; it was too heavy. Dehydration was a short-term risk for those who wanted a better future. In freedom. Under the rule of law.

During their stay in a camp for displaced persons in Indonesia, the Vuongs received sponsorship from Canada. It was a welcomed relief. They arrived in London, Ontario during a blast of winter. But no matter. They knew they would make it. They felt safe, at last. Until they experienced a crushing blow the following year. Their first-born, Danny, sustained irreparable damage while in the birth canal. It resulted from simple negligence, attributed to an attending nurse at St. Joseph's Health Care in London.

Today, Danny Vuong is 17 years old. He is utterly unable to defend himself.

Chris Beckett of Ledroit Beckett in London has represented the Vuongs during the past eight years. He was building their case for the five-week trial that began in mid-January, 2009.

Deb Berlach of Stieber Berlach in Toronto, represented St. Joseph’s Health Care, which had hired the nurse whose actions were in question.

The Superior Courtroom at London’s Court of Justice is dominated by a large coat of arms, hanging high from the wood-panelled wall, behind the Judge’s seat. On the insignia, a golden lion and a white unicorn flank a blue shield. It is circled by a belt with the words "Honi soit qui mal y pense" (evil to him who evil thinks), and a gold buckle to remind us of the royal Order of the Garter. At the base, lie the words "Dieu et mon droit" (God and my Law). The coat of arms provides one of the only sources of colour, other than the sash that cuts a red diagonal from the judge's shoulder, and his badge of gold and red. All else is a sombre sea of black gowns and white collars and tabs, hovering over tables of paper-white documents, stacked in columns.

The Honourable Justice Wolfram Tausendfreund listened intently as the wheels of justice ground over the gnarled terrain of medical detail. To bolster each side of the case, Beckett and Berlach had plucked their expert witnesses among nurses, obstetricians and pediatric specialists. Each witness underwent examination before coming in the crosshairs of the opposing litigator. Through discovery, clarity was distilled from the complexities. It was a journey of significance.

Prior to his elegant closing statement, Justice Tausendfreund mentioned to counsel that he would read the legal submissions this summer. Suspecting his decision in the fall, I hope justice prevails. For Danny’s sake.


* Of Chinese heritage, the name Vuong is pronounced Wuang, but it has used Vietnamese spelling since the elders fled communism in China for Vietnam. Little did they realize that their adopted homeland would also topple, decades later.

Organ donation redux

Organ and tissue donation needs more publicity than my blogging efforts. So imagine my surprise when I came across a related ad in, of all places, the weathernetwork.com.

It goes like this. Ontario has instituted new rules on organ and tissue donation. If you marked "Yes" to the question of whether you wish to donate your tissue or organs, your answer will be stored in the database of the Ontario Health Insurance Plan (OHIP). And it will be forwarded, at an appropriate time, to the Trillium Gift of Life Network (TGLN), Ontario's provincial organ donation agency. If, on the other hand, you recorded "No" or "Undecided", neither of these answers will be disclosed to the TGLN.

These steps point to a greater organization in organ and tissue donation. They also remind us of how important it is to tell loved ones of our wishes. If we don't, those who advocate on our behalf can't convey the necessary information to health professionals at "the relevant time". Meaning, at or near the end of our life.

There may be no guarantee for interpreting our exact wishes at "the relevant time". We are evolving. By millimeters.