Maxed Out 

Sex matters

The biggest problem with mankind is, well, mankind. Or more specifically, man. Make that men… gender specific. Being one, I may be uniquely unqualified to comment on what is unquestionably the biggest problem facing mankind but if history proves anything — and I’m not suggesting it does — it proves I have absolutely no hesitation when it comes to commenting on things I know nothing about and have few, if any, qualifications regarding. Having established my lack of credentials to proceed, I’ll proceed; consider this a binding disclaimer.

Almost a year ago, I became a Canadian. Not, according to my Perfect Partner, a Real Canadian but a sufficiently faux Canadian that I can carry a Canadian passport when it seems appropriate and I can slip in French words like “faux” without italicizing them since they belong to one of the two official languages of Canada and are, therefore not considered foreign. Suspect, to be sure, but not foreign. Given the hit or miss success I have with italicizing words in Pique, that alone was worth becoming Canadian.

I’ve been led to believe Real Canadian-ness may be afforded to me when I can remember all the words to Gordon Lightfoot’s Canadian Railroad Trilogy. Nice as that song is, I’m not planning to listen to it enough times to remember the words. Besides, I’m pretty sure if I actually learned all the words — it’s a really long song, eh? — the bar would be raised and I’d have to learn all the words to all Gordo’s songs and Bud the Spud by Stompin’ Tom for good measure. I think the truth about becoming a Real Canadian lies somewhere closer to when hell freezes over. I can live with that. Faux Canadian is good enough for me.

But there was a time in this fair land when the railroad did not run. Given CP’s predilection for derailments, resulting environmental disasterettes and total disdain for passenger rail service, that time may well be considered the Good Old Days. But I digress. Okay, I was showing off.

I became a Canadian in the eyes of Immigration Canada for several reasons. Having lived half my life in Canada I felt I should be able to vote for the lesser of two evils in my adopted country as well as my birth country. I know that’s a dubious kind of honour — distasteful responsibility? — but as enlightened feminists used to say about the Pope when the subject came to birth control and abortion, “You no playa the game, you no maka the rules.”


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