Howard Stern And The Man Who Stands By My Office Door

I think of the man who lost his dark glasses while watching an atomic test, and, putting his hands over his eyes to protect them, saw clearly his finger bones through his skin. Maybe my man was careless, let his guard down, saw our own reality, and it struck him hard. Saw half a world starving for crumbs, while health club windows fill with people Stairmastering off their fat. Saw Innu kids sniffing gas, too poor even for Listerine or vanilla extract. Saw an old woman lying in a dirty hospital corridor because a bed in a room is bad for a bottom line. Heard the jingle of car keys and cigar clippers as we step past the human wreckage lying in the lee of doorways. Maybe he's just cold, because this is a cold country. Maybe he remembers it was a country where people got together to care for each other. To stay warm. Maybe he remembers that this was a poor country that got over its poverty by its people helping each other. I think that's why I like the hand-made mittens and the tuque. The man at my front door is at least honest in his poverty and the terror of what he’s seen and felt. But I have news for him. The caring shit is over. And behind our reality-shields is a growing pack of media and brand colonials who admire irrelevancies like Howard Stern or Lindsay Lohan. Who are happy to let another country's culture describe us to ourselves. Who think ER is drama. Who go to hockey games for the music. We’re in denial of everything that made us: cold, caring, compassion, cooperation. Sharing and caring instead of grabbing and stabbing. Another way to be a North American. We've faced south so long our asses have frozen solid. And we can no longer turn around and face ourselves. Now a hand-made mitten is nothing without a Nike swoosh. A hand-made person, even less. And I have some words I've learned from my poor, unbranded man: Excuse me but can we get real? Running shoes look like pick-up trucks. Someone's paying a man $12 million to spit and miss a ball seven times out of 10. No feat is judged too small to be celebrated with less than two minutes on Entertainment Tonight. Excuse me, But Alexander Mackenzie managed to find the whole Pacific Ocean without the benefit of Gore-Tex or Vibram soles. He was into old stuff like "What's over there?" a little sweat, some considerable fear and evenings laced with tea and doubt. Excuse me but can we get real? We're at a point where the boxes things come in are the things themselves. Our minds are rented out to Monday evening football, and after, they sit there idling (like a Bimmer on a Mississauga winter morning) waiting for someone to come and take us somewhere warm. [Proofreader's note: this article was edited for spelling and typos on September 4, 2007]