'I heard it's like a chickpea nestled in a thimble.'

Well this wretched column is blowing up my own personal Twittersphere as we speak, and I'm sure the blowback will grow to epic and national proportions. I can already foresee the result: a PR Hack-written apology, containing the phrase "I sincerely regret..." and other such anemic prose elements.

Where to start? The knuckle-dragging sexism is obvious, as is the utter pointlessness of the column. Mr. Robinson should know that extending his own personal fantasies about women of a certain political inclination into the arena of civic affairs is utterly futile and a waste of time. Does he? Probably not. I assume he was thinking something along the lines of, "I can't wait for all the hate mail from those lefty Birckenstock-wearing dykes!"

If he's that starved for female attention, then clearly we need to re-examine the prohibition of prostitution.

But the real problem here is how obviously stupid it is to engage in this sort of petty stereotyping. You could adopt Robinson's model as presented in his column. Conversely, you could say that he's wrong and that there are only free-spirited, bra-less leftist women who are enthusiastic and adventurous lovers (ahhhhh) versus frigid Nancy Reagan types who have never once had a man go down on them.

That would be equally as absurd as what Robinson has proposed.

Or I could claim, with much evidence gathered from my partisan political days, that right-wing men are greasy, sweaty, type-A anal retentives, who crave only money and control and take great amusement from the suffering of the weak. Tell me I'm wrong. Well for one, Peter McKay, to his credit, does not seem especially greasy or sweaty. There you have it. Stereotype smashed. Sort of.

I will say this. The left-ish mantra that the personal is political has officially blown up in our faces. If differences in our personal tastes are what define us politically, it's not hard to end up with a society where we only ever socialize with those who share our exact same interests, and anyone else becomes The Other.

And humanity's record shows we're not very good at empathizing and finding common ground with The Other.

Actually, that sounds like a conservative's sad little wet dream.

UPDATED: Some movie-style blurbs on 'Right Wing Women Rock':

• "Wow. Awful." - Woman
• "Worst article ever." - Man
• "This makes me want to puke in my mouth." - Woman
• "Three thumbs down." - Man
  

Soundtrack: Against Me! Searching for a Former Clarity.

Yukon MP's motion reminds public Yukon has MP

Larry Bagnell is sure earning his cake.

Yukon's MP, and the dean of elected Arctic parliamentarians (an accomplishment akin to being taller than Danny DeVito), tabled a motion in the House this week calling on the government to rename the Northwest Passage. He's not even sure what the new name should be, but mentioned something like, I dunno, you know, like, "the Canadian Arctic Passage." Or something.

How indicative of that pathetic, insipid, brand of liberal (note, please, the lowercase) nationalism in this country. Our political and chattering classes are awash in this, as befits the political and chattering classes of a country that has so little self esteem that pointless symbolism always replaces, you know, actually doing something. Last I heard there were housing and infrastructure issues North of 60.

It doesn't matter that all we are claiming is the right to control access to the passage, because international law is pretty clear that we have the right to enforce all relevant laws. It doesn't matter that there is, with the exception of the cordial dispute with Denmark over insignificant Hans Island, absolutely no claim at all against our possession of the Arctic islands and our exclusive economic zone at sea.

A physically unattractive parliamentarian says, "It's Canadian because we say so!" Is this any different from obese wrestling fans chanting "USA! USA!" No, it's not. How dare we look down our noses at America.

At least America gave us Tom Waits, Fugazi, and Miles Davis. What did we give them? Bachman Turner Overdrive and Hedley.

We have some nerve.

Soundtrack: Buck 65, Man Overboard.

What could go wrong?

I'll admit it: I like elections.

There's lots of excitement, plenty of stories to write, no shortage of controversy. And politicians actually want to talk to you, which is a nice change from the usual, when most of them would rather lock themselves in their offices and photocopy their faces.

It's municipal election time here in Iqaluit, and this one's a doozy, with 21 candidates running for eight council seats. It reminds me of that Three Stooges gag where they all try to fit through the same door at once.

And that's just the undercard. On the marquee is what ought to be an epic bannock-toss: the mercurial and controversial councillor Jim Little, a man who doesn't know the meaning of the phrase "you can't fight city hall," versus Elisapee Sheutiapik, the well-liked incumbent whose coffee shop peddles the Eye Opener: a greasy, delicious monstrosity I hold singularly responsible for my inevitable stroke.

Neither much cares for the way the other operates, although I suspect they'll try to keep things civil during the campaign.

But they're coming off a strange kerfuffle over murky allegations of the alleged bribe attempt of a city councillor. Nobody will say anything concrete about who allegedly offered what to whom. But Sheutiapik's mad at Little for reporting the incident to the RCMP after it was discussed during an in camera council session.

Sheutiapik's case is that Little violated council procedure by disclosing the contents of an in camera meeting. He did do that, but in fairness, he didn't comment publicly about the matter until after the RCMP put out a news release acknowledging they're investigating a complaint brought by Little.

So the two mayoral candidates are peeved at each other. That's not the least bit surprising to anyone who has spent hours upon hours in Iqaluit council chambers over the last three years. (Like me. HOURS. Please send beer.)

Little may sometimes needlessly rage at the way the city does things, but he's right to flout in camera rules and go to the police with these investigations. I think Sheutiapik's point is that he jumped the gun before council could figure out what to do. I know this because I asked her and she said "he jumped the gun."

But on this one there is a culprit everyone should be mad at: Nunavut's cities, towns and villages act, which governs how local councils conduct their business. The section on in camera sessions stipulates that councils may conduct secret business if it's deemed to be "in the public interest" and two-thirds of councillors approve.

This is hopelessly vague and if I have to explain why this opens the door to the potential for all kinds of misbehaviour, then kindly leave this site at once and go back to looking at jokes about Kanye West interrupting Patrick Swayze's funeral.

The other place I have covered municipal politics at length is Nova Scotia. Its equivalent to the cities, towns and villages act contains very specific rules for what may be discussed in secret. There are eight reasons and they're mostly boring. One, though, is to get legal advice from a lawyer.

It could well be that there was a lawyer in council chambers the night councillors talked about the bribery allegations. It would be nice if someone would at least confirm that.

There is a great deal of skepticism all over Canada about secret local council meetings. I believe our friends in the NWT may have something to say about the matter. But there's no doubt that increasingly, people view in camera meetings as a way for unelected staff to do the real heavy lifting of debate, without annoying public scrutiny.

And it's true, sometimes you go to public meetings and some jackass is ranting and raving about stuff that doesn't make any sense. But it doesn't matter. That's part of your job.

In the meantime, let's get real about transparency. The Government of Nunavut should immediately amend the CTV act and clearly spell out what's allowed to be discussed in secret by local councils. It ought to be a short list.

Soundtrack: Ramones, Rocket to Russia

notes on fall

Fall is a time of transformation.

(Stop the presses, shower me with lucrative writers prizes for that reflective, incisive nugget.)

In the south, the air in fall is ripe with the smell of composting leaves and the ears are assaulted by people complaining that it's now too cold to go swimming at the beach. Summer jobs mercifully end and budding young loves are crushed by the return of the school year. The legions of geriatrics, who have no idea how to pilot their elephantine RVs and who seem unaware that the locals use the roads to actually get places, have gone home.

Up here, obviously, it's different.

I was in Resolute yesterday, part of an assignment for my Clark Kent job that didn't feel at all like work, and which featured no fewer than 10 polar bears and the best hollandaise sauce I have ever tasted.

In places like Resolute, indeed even Iqaluit, summer doesn't so much end, as some godlike seasonal official turns the switch that turns fall 'on.' It took less than a week. When we passed through the first time, Aug. 28, the water was glassy, the temperature pleasant and the local urchins ran out into the streets to say hello to the strange-looking white people, most of whom appeared dressed to cross the south pole on sledge.

By yesterday, the wind had changed pushing the ice back into the bay, and forcing a zodiac driver to make a circuitous route from ship to shore. It was a grey morning, but the fog eventually withdrew from the hills around the main townsite, leaving a surprisingly pretty layer of hoarfrost on the brown tundra. By the time the charter flight arrived, the airport, which is at a higher elevation, was starting to accumulate snow.

These are natural features. Maybe it's because I have an adult job now, and fall doesn't really change my daily schedule much, only increases the frequency of my encouters with cabinet ministers and their ilk. But I don't feel that end-of-summer melancholy anymore.

It may help that the coming of fall is signalled by snowfall, and that there are no trees to shed leaves, and no storm sewers for those leaves to gum up. The real show is winter. Fall, or more accurately the two sub-seasons that comprise fall (IQ is right that four is simply an inadequate number for the seasons here), is a mere prelude.

But spot a few snowflakes in the air and the southerners start braying like Republicans about free health care for poor people. Honestly. We don't live in Belize.

How about this for seasonal angst. One of my favourite people leaves town forever in March. So don't give me no lip when I complain about the coming of spring.

Soundtrack: Torche, Meanderthal.

let us now praise famous home electronics

If you've lived in Iqaluit for any length of time, you know the heartbreak of living in a transient town. Friends move away, and despite the best of intentions (and with precious few exceptions), you just don't keep in touch. For all intents, they might as well be dead: you just don't talk to them or see them ever again.

Meanwhile, people you wish would move to Lithuania never seem to go anywhere.

Anyway, I'm coming up to another such juncture. Friend and coworker John is soon leaving for the sunny concrete pastures of Toronto and naturally, he and his lovely wife Lorraine are having a moving sale. They've sold me, for five very reasonable dollars, something to remember them by.

So finally, after three and a half years here, I own a blender. No longer will Northmart's inventory incompetence or exorbitant pricing serve as an obstacle to soup, salsa and smoothie making. And I just happen to have a bunch of leftover veggies from last week's party.

Let the merciless obliteration of delicious vegetables and their subsequent transformation into delicious soup begin.

Soundtrack: Tombs, Winter Hours