Countdown to Armageddon

He looked ... shabby.
His wispy hair hung limp, his leather jacket looked as if it were made of rubber, his pants were ill-fitting, and he wore these boots that looked like 1950s NASA surplus.
But, for all the underwhelming impact Gwynne Dyer made on his short walk to the stage, his presence was undeniable and riveting once he began to speak.
My father, stepmom and I took in Dyer's lecture at my alma mater, Kwantlen, during my last visit to Vancouver. It was part of his tour of universities across Canada speaking on the topic of climate change, and the impact it will have on our future.
At this point, I fully expect for most of you to stop reading. I mean, climate change? Heard of Al Gore, anyone? That topic has been done to death.

Or has it?

Dyer spoke, off-the-cuff, for almost two hours, with an impressive display of knowledge and logic. His crucial point is this: In 40 years, the biggest crisis facing humanity will be its most base need — food.
Check out this column he wrote — it sums it up far better than my ill-informed and untrained pen could.
When the climate changes - and it will, at the pace we're going - there are going to be massive food shortages world-wide when once-aerable areas are reduced to desert. Those countries with the geographical good fortune to be located out of the impending disaster areas will soon have hordes of hungry people at their borders.
The UN even recognized this — five years ago.
What's going to happen in Canada, when the U.S., deprived of its breadbasket states, which can no longer produce enough food to feed its people, get hungry?

As my dad put it, "The animals around the watering hole start looking at each other differently when the water gets low."

Britain recognizes that fact, (Read Dyer's column, dammit. I won't tell you again.) and is arming itself because of it. We can't defend against the U.S., and its even more worrisome, considering the agreement the two governments just signed, allowing U.S. military the right to cross onto Canadian soil in the event of a disaster or emergency.
Like, say, 300 million starving Americans?

And for those of you who really don't think the environmental crisis is that big a deal, watch this video:

To Hate Like This ... is to be JJ

My column from Friday... Miceail and you Dookie cronies, take heed...


Will Blythe begins his book like this:
"I am a sick, sick man. Not only am I consumed by hatred, I am delighted by it. I have done some checking into the matter and have discovered that the world's great religions and wisdom traditions tend to frown upon this."
Sure, God, Buddha, and the aliens in the Hale-Bopp comet might dissuade despising your fellow man, but Blythe's illness is rampant, all-encompassing, and shared by many blue-bloods the world over.
His sickness? An overwhelming, passionate, quasi-militant disdain of all things Duke.
His book (my bible) To Hate Like This Is To Be Happy Forever, dissects the Duke-North Carolina rivalry to almost the molecular level. But the believe me when I say, the nemesistic relationship transcends the mere stage of college basketball.
As Blythe put it: "It's Ali versus Frazier, the Giants versus the Dodgers, the Red Sox versus the Yankees. Hell, it's bigger than that. This is the Democrats versus the Republicans, the Yankees versus the Confederates, Capitalism versus Communism. All right, okay, the Life Force versus the Death Instinct, Eros versus Thanatos."
Just ask the man with the most illogically spelled name in the world, Duke coach Mike Krzyzewski (pronounced "Rat-faced cheater"). Beelzebub, errr, I mean, Krzyzewski, broke it down beyond the mere geographical proximity the schools share, and their overt sociological differences.
"Forget the Big Ten. . . . We share the same dry cleaners. . . . There is no other rivalry like this," he said. "It produces things, situations, feelings that you can't talk to other people about. Because they have no understanding of it."
You might, if you tune in at 6 p.m. on Saturday, glean a glimmer of comprehension. The Tar Heels, now the nation's top-ranked team, take on the No. 6 Blue Devils in a winner-takes-all game for the Atlantic Coast Conference title.
Both teams are 13-2. Both teams hate each other. And Duke's Cameron Arena will double as the Thunderdome — two teams will enter, but only one will leave — and will leave as champions.
This is the time of year when my Carolina blue-blood sickness might cause me to miss a few days of work. The Madness is almost upon us.
"It's March," DeMarcus Nelson said Wednesday night after the Blue Devils knocked off Virginia 86-70 to set up this Saturday's regular-season conference-championship deciding game vs. the Tar Heels.
"We're playing for a conference championship, and we're definitely excited about that. Then we're going to the ACC tournament to play for a championship and then we're going for a regional championship and then a national championship."
It's like this: Duke represents the arrogant upper-crust, and North Carolina, the hard-working, blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth type folks.
You know, people like you and me.
Blythe has a dream that I share. He once professed the hope that when the Cameron Crazies of Dukedome explode over a good play by their team . . . they might really explode.
"You know, blue-painted body parts shooting through the air, cheerleaders spiraling above the city of Durham, all those obnoxious students and that out-of-state arrogance disappearing in one bright blast."
I beseech you, Oh Holy Hale-Bopp Aliens. Make this happen.