Saturday October 25 , 2014

Archive for May, 2012

Conservatives Gone Wild

I live in Ottawa, highly recommended, and don’t own a car, also highly recommended, not owning a car, if you want to cut your living expenses in half, get lots of fresh air exercise walking to and from wherever and, if soon to be unemployed, need a handy excuse to give to your EI parole officer as to why an hour commute by car to steal a migrant worker’s job may be less affordable than Jason Kenney, Jim Flaherty and Stephen Harper seem to think it is.

I call them the G-Stooges, by the way (understudies and stunt doubles: Tony Clement/John Baird, Vic Toews/Rob Nicholson, Peter Kent/Joe Oliver). It makes me feel better about the fact that their party, the CPC (Cheating Party of Canada) broke our laws to get itself elected and now gets to make new ones to transfer yet more of our collective resources from our public purse to its private wallet (and information to CIMS, its database) because apparently, when Stephen Harper said we wouldn’t recognize Canada after he was done with it, he meant the good parts – the bad parts we’d recognize more than ever.

Sigh, let’s hope the Globe and Mail editorial board that endorsed him for re-election is spinning in its grave, with each spin met by a whack from a board, a wooden one – with a nail in it.

So yes, because I don’t own a car and have money practically spilling from my bank account and blowing out into the street, I take taxis now and again – a practice which will end when my employment does this fall because I’ll have less money to spend on taxis but more time to walk and/or take the bus, should I venture out at all. Also, while employed on my current contract, I got divorced, and 90% of the taxi rides I took were to my lawyer’s office, while the other 10% were trips home from recovery dinners and drinks in the Byward Market, another practice that will end when my employment does because I’ll have more time to walk to my neighbourhood grocery store to buy dented tins of organic chick peas for dinner.

(For my Ontario reader(s), that’s a reference to the Mike Harris government, famous for its commonsense revolution and original G-Stooges Jim Flaherty, Tony Clement, and John Baird – Ottawa’s most openly homosexual politician and Foreign Affairs minister currently guest-starring at American fundamentalist Christian fundraisers on behalf of our officer & office-less Office of Religious Freedom – which resulted in gas distribution companies sending criminals door-to-door to fraudulently sign up customers for services they were already getting but from what they thought was still a public utility. And as Mike Harris was rewarding his grassroots by legalizing fraud and setting the Ontario provincial police loose to shoot to kill protesters, the minister responsible for Community and Social Services was giving shopping tips to the poor to compensate them for arbitrarily and drastically reduced welfare payments that resulted in at least one death and misery and suffering for countless unemployed Canadian and Ontarian taxpayers and their children. One of his more famous suggestions was that they buy dented cans of tuna, the good minister not realizing I guess that we’re supposed to be boycotting tuna on account of the tuna trade is responsible for strip mining our collective oceans. According to Wikipedia, in 2007 he was invested as a Knight in The Equestrian, Secular and Chapterial Order of Saint Joachim in Toronto, if you’re wondering what he’s been up to post-politics.)

By the way, lawyers, expect a hit to your bottom line with fewer divorces and remarriages coming up due to the inability of migrant workers to afford your services. Oh, and public sector doctors, expect more aneurisms when the Christians in the CPC credit their new laws and infinite regulatory powers (as obtained through the Omnibus Everything Bill of 2012) with lowering the divorce rate. That’s assuming, of course, that the statisticians who keep track of the stuff  that tells us how good or bad a job politicians are doing of governing haven’t all lost their jobs along with our government scientists, auditors and health/safety inspectors.

Now, although I don’t own a car (my partner doesn’t own a car, either) we do own a house (which we can afford to do probably because we don’t own a car). It’s a modest row house just under a one hour walk to the Byward Market, 45 minutes by bus (just kidding – 1/2 hour, tops). There’s a common’s fee to keep an eye on (property management companies must be subjected to regular proctology examinations, so to speak) and a mortgage to pay every month, but it’s quite doable and we plan to stay the course no matter how badly the CPC fucks up the economy with its unconscionably bad business deals.

Or not.

Because that’s just it, isn’t it. Both my partner and I are Canadians of a certain type who have always adhered to a certain Canadian stereotype of a certain type of Canadian, conservative, if you will. Truly, madly, deeply conservative. So conservative that we can still afford to live in a nice row house in a decent neighbourhood within an easy car-less commute of downtown Ottawa on one freelance salary – he’s a columnist/writer/reporter – even after my G-contract ends and my EI/seasonal migrant work runs out. (Once again, please be advised that people like me are NOT included in the G-layoff numbers.) And so conservative that the property in which we invested could be easily sold at a fair and reasonable profit to us so that we could pull up stakes and head to Alberta where the living is apparently radically less conservative and Canadians can spend until the cows come home because money grows on the handful of trees that are still standing in God’s country.

Which brings me to the cows. I was asking a colleague who grew up in Alberta why farmers and ranchers are never heard from regarding the tarsands development, the one and only file of their Conservative (notice the Big “C”) Cheater (ditto) brethren currently running the country (into the ground). (By the way, out of respect for the oath I don’t say my brackets out loud at work.) She says it’s because most farmers and ranchers live in southern Alberta, their land already stretches further than the eye can see and the nose can smell, and the tarsands development is happening in northern Alberta, a world away from their pastoral abode. Also, they’re a Christian people just like they’re a Conservative people and don’t give a flying fuck about anybody or anything that ain’t the Almighty or the Almighty $.

And, of course, she said no such thing, that last bit is just the anti-Albertan in me talking, taking it beyond Dutch Disease (as diagnosed by Thomas Mulcair) to Shitting in One’s Own Nest Disorder.

Because that’s just it, isn’t it. While we conservative individuals live out our lives with an eye on our country’s collective future, the CPC is re-writing the Canadian rulebook before its last re-write of the rulebook has even made it to the shredder. And while we used to have at least the peeling facade of checks and balances against kamikaze government, the CPC has long since ripped it off and replaced it with a teflon coating. And even though we all know, including the CPC, that developing the tarsands is exactly the wrong thing to be doing for our collective future (which is why it is shouting down or shutting down the people and organizations that provided us with the facts and figures that prove it) we’re apparently so deep into it that we either have to sink or learn to tread shit.

Which brings me to David Wilks, MP. While politicians and pundits were busily calling out the striking students (and their parents) in Quebec for having a sense of entitlement (the irony of baby boomer politicians and pundits calling out ANYONE for having a sense of entitlement apparently lost on them all) the good MP, a Conservative, from the beautiful and bounteous Kootenay region of British Columbia, whose biography shall be called “Why Stand When You Can Sit?”, was telling his constituents that MPs, even members of the governing CPC, are powerless to stop the G-Stooges from doing… whatever. Indeed, he even made a tape of his lecture so that it could be disseminating through the internet to all of us. He doesn’t like the CPC’s Omnibus Everything Bill of 2012 (I mean, who does?) at all, and yet, even as an elected representative to Parliament of thousands of Canadians, he is powerless to act on their behalf and vote against it.

All of which calls into question the title of this entry, Conservatives Gone Wild, since, apparently, it’s just the G-Stooges who have gone wild. The rest of the CPC’s Conservatives have fallen and can’t get up.

Also, it turns out that Thomas Mulcair has some rather Big “C” mortgage goings on that belie his ostensibly conservative leanings, thereby calling into question whether or not we have Dutch Disease. (I stand by Shitting in One’s Own Nest Disorder, however.)

Ah well, it’s all good. Or as my friend in Edmonton would say, “Sooey, it’s a whiggly whirld”. But that, of course, is an entry for another day.

 

“Just the Facts, Ma’am”

According to Wikipedia, that line was never actually spoken by Joe Friday on Dragnet. The closest lines were, “All we want are the facts, ma’am” and “All we know are the facts, ma’am”.

Of course, that Wiki entry will be altered now that I’ve pointed it out online. That’s because I have a handful of middle-aged male cyber hater-fans who spend much of their day trying to trip me up on the internet. Or, I should say used to. It’s been a while, I have to admit, since I’ve seen cyber hide nor hair of my hater-fans.

Ah, the ignominy of over 50 femaledom. Now I’m not even attracting (un)wanted attention in cyber space. Thank Carp I had children and cougared a young’un when I still could to jump my brittling bones once in a while.

There, that ought to frighten off any young people from reading my blog. Fuck off, young people, nobody likes you. Better yet, go join those French students striking against an increase in relatively low (using the British Philistine Standard) tuition fees so your publicly-funded police force can bash your spoiled brains in, too.

But that’s not what this entry is about, this entry is about information. So indulge me while I backtrack. The other day, I tweeted (on Twitter) this bon mot: “How parallel universe is it that the Public Safety Minister is an advocate of unregistered weapons?” It was my most popular tweet by far, so I followed it up with, “And how parallel universe is it that the Environment Minister is an advocate of tarsands development?” That one wasn’t as popular, but many of my followers are Liberals. And, as you may or may not have noticed, Liberals are hedging their bets on tarsands development. I suppose it’s a strategy. After all, tarsands development may not lead to the end of the world, leaving a chance for a Liberal comeback. And if Marc Garneau is leader the tarsands could come in handy to fuel our rockets so we can escape this dump and colonize the moon. You know, in real space, not cyber space.

Omigawd, a Liberal moon. Can you imagine? That would be enough to drive Stephen Harper so far around the bend he’d end up in China.

Oh yeah, grr, fuck off, Liberals, nobody STILL likes you. And we can’t afford Stephen Harper being any crazier’n he already is, thanks. He’s already at level II: “Crazier’n a Bag of Hammers”.

Information. That’s what this entry is about. Information and the importance of having reliable sources of it. I know, I know, “but you said you weren’t going to blog about politics anymore, Sooey”. Well that was before Peter Kent, Minister of the Environment, “informed” Canadians that we didn’t need publicly-funded non-partisan information-providers anymore. You know, on account of Al Gore invented the internet.

But did he? Invent the internet, I mean. Or is that a South Park joke. Because if it’s not true and is in fact a South Park joke, colour me red (for embarrassed, not Communist) for spreading a falsehood all over cyber space and misinforming tens of my hater-fans.

Now, personally, I think it’s a pretty scary development, much scarier than tarsands development, that the Minister of the Environment is an advocate of Canadians getting their information from the internet, as opposed to their government. But then I look at who Canadians elected to be our government and I see the former journalist’s point. (That the good Minister speaks as a former journalist is a little disconcerting, but still not as disconcerting as our taxpayer-funded national broadcaster, the CBC, seeing fit to plague us with a Popeye-esque jabbering Newfie pundit stereotype week after week, apparently to malign anyone who points out that tarsands development can lead to “Dutch Disease”, not to be confused with “Dutch elm disease”, although it probably leads to that, too.)

Sigh. And too bad we didn’t see that emerald ash borer coming. Ottawa is lousy with beautiful big old very dead ash trees casting a gloomy and ghoulish shadow over our tulip gardens, speaking of those friggin’ Dutch. Again. Forget tulips, Dutch people, send money and trees. We’re in a recession over here with nowhere to hang our hammocks.

Now, Stephen Harper is probably Canada’s most famous economist after John Kenneth Galbraith (who, according to Wikipedia, became an American citizen, which eventually killed him, albeit several decades later) so he would know all about “Dutch Disease”, which, according to Wikipedia, “is a concept that explains the apparent relationship between the increase in exploitation of natural resources and a decline in the manufacturing sector” (i.e. what we who live in the manufacturing sector of Ontario refer to as “Alberta Disease”).

So, putting aside the Tarsands Development Fan Club backlash against Thomas Mulcair, leader of the dangerous socialist party of Canada, the NDP/NPD (I can hardly wait until those (surviving) passionate striking French students graduate from university into high paying jobs and start flooding the NDP/NPD coffers with $$$s!) for diplomatically stating the obvious, that we have contracted Dutch Disease, perhaps it’s time someone thought to ask Stephen Harper about the cure.

Maybe he could even get our smart people working on a vaccination campaign so that we don’t contract Dutch Disease again. And again. Again.

Unfortunately, Dutch Disease seems to have other symptoms not yet documented on Wikipedia. For instance, Canadian Dutch Disease has resulted in the laying off of all the smart people – public sector scientists, auditors, statisticians, inspectors – all those fact finders and information gatherers governments ignore anyway but who at least produce reports that Wikipedia can refer to in its campaign from cyber space to educate the masses. (Although, apparently our government isn’t above a little nip and tuck of reports suggesting tarsands development causes Dutch Disease. Oh, and is destroying humanity’s collective climate, of course.)

But this brings me to my own personal information campaign, one that I hope that you will pick up on as well. As you may or may not know, I’m one of the so-called affected workers being laid off in the near future. Luckily, I’m not one of the aforementioned smart people but rather a run-of-the-mill office clerk. And unlike the many aforementioned smart people, I secretly welcome being laid off as I find myself no longer suited for run-of-the-mill office clerking. In fact, if Jason Kenney thinks he can scare me away from collecting employment insurance with threats of migrant work, I say, bring it on, fat boy.

(Normally, I would never say “fat boy” but I despise Jason Kenney with every fibre of my being so what the hell – Fuck off, Jason Kenney, fat boy, nobody likes you.)

But before I suit up for apple season (cancelled in Ontario due to our new boil/freeze spring weather cycle, perhaps another symptom of Dutch Disease, although I don’t see anything about that on Wikipedia – yet) I plan to make sure as many good citizens of Ottawa know a couple of facts they may not be aware of due to a dearth of information emanating from their government.

1) I, along with thousands of other laid off public servants, am not included even in the lowball number of layoffs being claimed by the government, as I am not what is known as an indeterminate employee.

2) Non-indeterminate employees of the government number in the thousands and we’re all being laid off by way of our contracts not being renewed once they run out. We’re called casuals and terms and some of us have only ever been casuals or terms even though we’ve worked for years in the government.

3) We are in a recession and suffering from Dutch Disease and soon I will be hoarding every penny I am able to make picking apples. So if you own a business either hire me or downsize because my contribution, and the contribution of thousands of your co-citizens, to your bottom line is about to be substantially lowered.

However, lest my cyber hater-fans think that’s a bad thing, rest assured I shared a pint with a private sector friend just yesterday and she’s thinking of getting off the work treadmill, too. And the similarly-aged (to her, early 40s) hairdresser I talked to while he chopped (leaving me with more brown and less gray, oddly enough, given these stressful end times) said the same thing. “Why work my ass off saving for retirement when I could just take it easy and off myself when I get old instead? Who wants to be old if you’re just going to have to work anyways?”

So that’s my idea, that instead of relying on our government for information, which can be spotty and kind of unreliable now that politicians are in charge of providing all of it, we just start talking to each other about how we’re coping with Dutch Disease and Harperitis and brittle bones and what our plans for the future may or may not be.

Although, from what I’m hearing back so far, if I was professionally ambitious (I know, I know, I wouldn’t be blogging for a living) I might think of a future in retirement suicides.

So let’s all board the information train, co-citizens, and keep those real live facts chugging along so that we can keep Wikipedia in entries for my middle-aged male cyber hater-fans to alter. Information not provided by politicians – it’s a good thing. In fact, it may be the only thing worth living for pretty soon.

Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts.

 

The Real Measure of a Society…

… Begins and ends with its most vulnerable members.

That’s mine, I believe, although I may have ripped it off from an annual report of the Public Health Agency of Canada. I once wrote a speech for the Chief Public Heath Officer (CPHO), who at the time was Dr. David Butler Jones (still?), and the annual report I based it on was Liberally peppered with such bon mots.

Ooh… “Liberally peppered” “bon mots” – I retain the speechifying touch. Sadly, the good doctor never delivered the speech, his appearance at the conference being cancelled due to one of the many contaminated food outbreaks that started happening once Stephen Harper became Prime Minister. It may or may not have been public news. The problem with the job of CPHO is that if he says anything the government doesn’t like it can fire him because the Liberals, when they created the position, made sure it didn’t come with any security.

Although, at least the Liberals didn’t also fire all the food inspectors and then legalize the sale of roadkill. That’s one thing Canadians could count on with the Liberals. They may have been crooks, but they always left enough for the next round.

But I’m not blogging about politics anymore so that’s not what this entry is about.

The other day on my commute to work a young man with Down’s Syndrome sat beside me. He’s often on my bus and usually looking somewhat irritated. It’s something I’ve come to notice about people with Down’s, as children they look happy, but as adults they look irritated.

“Am I late?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“Are you supposed to be at work for 9:00 or 9:10… ish?”

“<Sigh>”

“Well, you’re probably late, but not by much. I’m a little bit late today, too.”

I’m always curious as to how other people get by in this mean old world but even I could tell he wasn’t in the mood to chat, so instead of asking what he did or where he was going I just took note of his stop – a convenience store. I have no idea if he works there or just goes there for something to eat before going somewhere else to work.

That’s something else I’ve noticed about people with Down’s – they’re often snacking. Deliberately and with determination. Down’s people are very focused snackers.

Of course, maybe he’s not going to work at all, maybe he’s going to school. That’s another thing about people with Down’s, it’s really hard to tell how old they are. But maybe that’s a trick of nature, too, it’s hard to tell how old they are so it’s hard to pin down where they’re going, more importantly, what they’re up to.

Trust no one. Or trust everyone to be up to something, is my motto, now that I just thought of it.

Also, and not to put too sharp a point on it, but the extra chromosone that gives people with Down’s their own human race, also gives them a shorter life expectancy. I used to find this unfairly unfair, but the older I get the more I just accept it as is, that there is no measure for life, just society, regardless of British Prime Minister (PM) Maggie T’s assertion that there’s no such thing.

As society, I mean, not life. She knew there was such a thing as life – spent her entire tenure as PM trying to wring gold for the coffers from it.

When I was pregnant with my third child my new young male doctor questioned why I wanted the pretty much de rigeur these days test for Down’s Syndrome.

“Well, I had it for my other two.”

“So?”

“Well, I want to know if the fetus (okay, I would have said baby, it’s true) has Down’s Syndrome.”

“Why? What difference would it make?”

And even though I suspected he was probably coming from an “every sperm is sacred” perspective on life (and the possible aborting thereof by the mother-to-be vs baby-not-to-be) I also suspected he had a point. I mean, did I want a baby or not? And so I didn’t have the test.

The response relates to a story as told by Timothy Findley when he made a trip to the hardware store for a device to prevent pigeons from eating the bird seed he put out. The employee asks him, “Hey, do you like birds or not?” Findley, who was living in the country ostensibly because of his love of and respect for natural life found himself somewhat revealed by the question and vowed henceforth to do better.

I wonder what he would have thought of the current government’s opinion that, while natural life has a quantifiable hierarchy of worth based on how much cash profit it yields, work is work and public servants who find themselves laid off because of the incalculable cost of fighter jets should just don migrant worker smocks and get to apple picking.

Although I guess the apple crop fell victim to the summer/winter temperatures of spring this year.

Oops, I forgot – no more blogging about politics.

Still, I was relieved to give birth to a baby who didn’t have Down’s Syndrome, mostly because I would have had a hard time with the “Oh dear” look people have on their face when they meet a new baby with Down’s. It’s natural, of course, I guess, but I wonder why we have that reaction (which most of us try to mitigate with bigger smiles and wider eyes, our cheerleading no doubt the reason why adults with Down’s look so irritated). They’re probably asking themselves, “Why did everybody pretend life was a joyous happy fest when I was a baby? Cripes, a rocket scientist isn’t good enough to get a job even as leader of a third place political party in this mean old world. Meanwhile, strangers get to brooding about the relative shortness of my lifespan just because I’m running ten minutes late in the morning.”

Anyway, it’s ironic to me that what most medical professionals would term a risk, having a baby with Down’s, increases with the age of the mother. I mean, I don’t know this to be true, I can only imagine it, but with my acquired wisdom over the years (I’ve read more on my daily three year commute to the job I will soon lose than over my four years in university obtaining a degree in english and history) having a baby with Down’s would be its own unique reward.

Then again, it could be that having a government that quantifies the value of life based on how much cash profit can be sucked out of it, is responsible for my acquired perspective.

The lesson being, of course, that we benefit from all life, even if it’s Conservative.

 

“It’s Funny Because It’s True”

The other day my boss one level up and I got into as we occasionally do. He likes getting into it because he’s a philosophy pedant who floats above the rest of us on a cerebral plane. I don’t like getting into it because I’m a kneejerk reactionary to philosophy pedants. Also, I turn into a frustrated 10 year old two sentences into the debate, which is always a variation on: Life was better back in the day when everyone accepted that father knows best because brawn was bigger than brain.

Except that my father died when I was four, and my experience with other fathers was that they were a) stupid, b) sleeping, c) perverted, d) psycho, e) all of the above. And the stupid and/or perverted ones always wanted to have the father knows best debate with me, too.

Indeed, thanks to other fathers, “I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member” was my standard with regard to boyfriends until I hit the bar scene at age 18 and my standard became “I gotta quit drinking”.

Louis CK, who I saw at Bluesfest a couple of years ago (if you ever want to freeze your face in an lol for two hours – go see Louise CK) does a bit about fathers and children that hurts, as in “the truth hurts”, but that totally vindicates the 10 year old girl in me. He talks about volunteering in his daughters’ school at lunchtime and how if there’s an emergency he’s supposed to help all the kids get out of the cafeteria. He thinks it’s funny that the lady mom principal would entrust him with this duty, since he’s a father, and as a father, he cares only about kids that spring from his loins. He doesn’t care about kids who spring from some other douchebag’s loins. He doesn’t care so much that after he rescues his kids from the cafeteria, he will take them for ice cream, leaving those other douchebags’ kids behind, screaming and on fire.

Well, I guess you have to be there with Louis CK telling it to fully appreciate the hilarity of the scene.

But I was lucky because my mom was such a “do NOT mess with me” bitch, that men, especially other fathers, were afraid of her. I knew this because every once in a while one would take a chance and diss her to me. The diss was always that she didn’t have a husband. They would never have had the nerve to say such a thing to her face, of course, so they said it to her 10 year old daughter instead. Then they’d pull rank to end the debate.

Which is why I turn into a 10 year old girl in a debate with my boss one level up. It’s not a debate, it’s a diss, followed by a pulling of rank. A double/double, as it were.

As a fatherless girl growing up in the tail end of the time of fathers I lived the debate, the diss, the pulling of rank. Louis CK would give me a double plus good for my insight, too. Men don’t care about kids, they care about their kids. So when they argue on behalf of what’s best for kids you can be pretty sure they’re really just arguing that women are bitches.

Unfortunately, although life was better for my widowed mother because she didn’t have a husband (and don’t get me wrong – she would have preferred that my father had lived) I grew up not knowing what it’s like to have a father, as in, a man who cares about you for no other reason than that you sprang from his loins. And while so many in society see catastrophe in separation and divorce, I see a lot of kids growing up knowing that their fathers will drive everyone to financial ruin in order to lay claim to them as theirs.

Hear me now, listen to me later, but that’s a good thing.

When I ended my marriage by moving out of the matrimonial home, so to speak, it was very difficult for me because I’d been a homemaker. But I didn’t have the heart (or the confidence or the money) for a custody battle, either. So the kids stayed living with their father and camped out in my apartment every weekend. What can I say? It was what it was and we sailed through the pre-teen/teen years in a one bedroom apartment, five of us and our dog, Kasey, and nobody died.

Well, except for Kasey, who keeled over in the parking lot at the start of a walk, Dog bless his mighty jerk of a soul.

It was only recently that I realized what a good thing it probably was for my kids to have had the primary father experience. Mothers care about their kids, but they care about kids, generally. (Even my mother qualifies for that statement because although she doesn’t care about kids until they’re old enough to drink martinis, then she cares about any kids, as long as they take her advice and go to teacher’s college. And Maude bless her, you’re never too old a kid for my mother to give up on her advice that you go to teacher’s college.)

I know that to be true because of how I feel about my kids, my nieces and nephews, friends’ kids, neighbours’ kids, my kids’ friends, kids in playgrounds, on the street, buses. When I volunteered at my kids’ school, it was to read to the grade ones, which I did almost until my youngest went to middle school.

Having been married with children, however, I know now that what I missed growing up (my older sister and brother who were 9 and 7 when my father died probably had a father long enough to lock in the experience) was the experience of a man caring about you just because you sprang from his loins, as opposed to men not caring about you just because you didn’t.

Luckily, I was born with a horseshoe up my ass and of a ball shriveling bitch of a mother (also very good looking, so men were triply handicapped around her) so that the best and the worst of my experiences with other fathers was pretty much limited to their complete and total lack of caring about me because I wasn’t theirs. The thing is, I didn’t really get that until Louis CK spelled it out for me in a comedy routine. So while my grown up face was frozen in an lol for two hours, my inside 10 year old was pounding her fists (with the thumb on the outside because nobody ever taught me how to make a proper fist) and railing at a society that lies, lies and lies some more about reality, so much so that fathers end up smelling like roses instead of mushrooms.

Father does not know best. Father doesn’t give a shit about you if you’re not his. But don’t take my word for it (talking the talk, as it were) – take Louis CK walking the walk away from a cafeteria full of screaming burning kids that aren’t his, to take kids that are for ice cream.