I both love and hate Facebook. Love it because it lets me keep in touch with friends. Hate it because it provides editors with another route through which to hassle me about my shameless intransigence.
I really can’t help it folks. I am a writer after all. In my opinion a big part of the bargain I struck with the world is that I’ll agree to never be financially secure in exchange for having a life. Which is a long-winded way of saying I found this comment recently on my FB page from our beloved editor Stephen Whitworth:
“Hey whatever happened to your column The Death Of Capitalism??? It died as soon as it got a logo.”
Umm… yeah… right. TDOC. I have sort of been neglecting that ugly, basement dwelling redheaded step child (I kid, I kid… I’m a ginger myself) haven’t I? But I have a list of great reasons as long as my arm! (Did I mention I’m a writer?)
I was recovering from two broken legs and the baby learned to walk before I did. Then she turned into a toddler that required me to learn to run in my own hobbling fashion. (All while shrieking “Don’t eat that!”) Then my editors at the day job what pays my mortgage informed me that they actually expected me to complete some work for them after my vacation in hospital. Apparently when they say “Gord will be working from home” they really mean that “work” part…
And of course there’s that quietly unacknowledged reality… I was already at risk of becoming that weird guy who never left his house and always wore sweats… did I really need to elevate my risk factors by fixating on the economy, monetary policy, banking cabals and other tinfoil hat territory?
But despite my ability to generate excuses that even I’m ready to believe, I have to be honest with myself. I just didn’t feel like it. Nothing had been inspiring me, it was the summer and all the financial types were out at the seashore, preening in front of others of their ilk, and nothing was happening.
I’m told that watching a financial crisis is about as boring as watching a yacht race (Not that I’d know, I’m from Carrot River. I don’t think drinking in a rubber raft qualifies.) so for someone who’s personally more into hockey fights, it was time to ignore the whole thing.
But now summer’s over. The seersucker suits and white linen trousers are safely in storage. The summer place at the Cape is shuttered tight. All the bankers are back in their boxes in the sky. And the whole thing appears, to the uninformed observer, to be gathering speed in a sickeningly sudden fashion –- which again is how I’m told these things often go.