It wasn’t planned but this issue has taken on a bit of a green theme. In keeping with the rest of the issue’s tint, I’ll take the opportunity to present some conclusive "science" for those skeptics who still dismiss global warming every time there’s a snowfall.
For every issue of the Spiel I’ve published (except January 2007), I’ve enlisted the expert help of a friend named Shane McCune to assist with the final proofing. In truth he does much more than help me proof – he’s a newspaper editor with almost 40 years experience.
His eye for news might only be surpassed by an encyclopedic mind that’s proven extremely handy in pointing out gaffes like the popular Twas the Night Before Christmas is actually called A Visit From St. Nicholas. He’s also really good at sorting out the staggering number of variables where an apostrophe comes into play with "its."
In short, he offers legal counsel, fact checking and a general polish while pointing out items of questionable taste because, as he’d like to say, if it wasn’t for him the Harbour Spiel would be one big fart joke.
He does this all for a good meal and his more than fair portion of a bottle of single malt. But what’s this got to do with offering proof of a warming planet?
Shane travels from Comox and my house is so small I force him to bunk out in an old shed in my backyard. It used to be a crumbling ant farm before I painted the interior and unloaded 11 cans of Raid into it but it still lacks insulation and there’s no mistaking its history.
When it’s cold, I run an extension cord for a space heater but it’s for effect only — trying to heat the thing is the like trying to heat the gazebo at the Madeira Park wharf. But Shane’s a burly fellow and toughs it for most of the year except for the few bitterly cold days in mid-winter when he’s forced to the couch in my house. He’s not a young man and often grumbles about the humility of having to sleep on the sofa. Truth be told, the past guilt of waking to see his 6’ 2" frame contorted on my 5’ 11" couch has made me consider shelling out for a motel for the poor bugger.
But not this year.
The winter of 2009/2010 is the first one Shane has spent every monthly visit in the relative luxury of the spider shack.
Is he getting tougher? No.
Is he pounding more whisky before hitting the sheets? Maybe.
But I think the answer couldn’t be more clear — winter doesn’t really come here anymore. And I offer this evidence not to embarrass the deniers of science out there but to point out that what may be bad for polar bears and ice skaters could be like a warm duvet for this editor’s conscience.
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