Dear Stephen Harper
Today’s the day you fall. I hope you fall hard. I hope it hurts. I hope it hurts so bad that you look back and see your long cold shadow and know what you’ve done.I hope you can work to understand and change and become a person who chooses love, not hate; unity, not separation; art, not money; and the land, not its guts. But I doubt it will happen. Your white male suburban attitude– the same white male suburban attititude (the same suburb, actually) that surrounded me in my neighbourhood growing up– is about thickening the walls so that nothing outside can pass through or climb over, maintaining the same dull lamp glow, the same strength of bland, and the same colours of normal that, in 2015, aren’t normal at all. You’ve shown no sign of changing despite possessing the most influence of any Canadian. You threw it away. You abused and defiled the role. You were the worst Prime Minister we’ve had and maybe the worst Canadian. Those polls that Don Cherry and Tommy Douglas and Margaret Atwood win? The Greatest Canadian? Man, you’re not even close.
Everything I tried to do as an artist, you tried to undo as a leader. You stole land and water for Canadians and gave them to industry. You fomented fear and distrust of the different, and you closed us off from the world. You built jails and filled them, robbing people of their rights through minimum sentencing, and letting the genocide of aboriginal women continue without any effort. You legislated awarding surveillance contracts to private companies and poured millions of dollars into popularizing the military in our hockey rinks, ballparks, fields and homes, a hoser monster who propagandized war after decades of peace-keeping and diplomacy and an international reputation for compassion. You used sport and music as an opportunistic tool to humanize yourself. You wrote a shitty hockey book– actually, Roy McGregor wrote it for you– and you did some shitty shows. Fuck you, Steve. You can’t fake it and yet you tried. You tried to be me. You failed horribly, miserably. And tonight you will fall. You’ll fall hard.
This blog is about rock and roll and you’re the least rock and roll Prime Minister we’ve ever had, telling people that the effects of marijuana are worse than the effects of tobacco. The songs and musicians and art that’s been written about on this page reflects the courage and daring and joy and guts of people willing to put their lives and nature and identity on the line, and risking it being savaged by the greater world, which it never is, because people are kind and grateful for other people being real. But you’re not real; you’re sub-real. Actually, I don’t know what you are. I hope you find out, as you leave office and seek comfort in the offices of some nefarious deep-right think tank, which is where you came from. But I don’t care. You’ll be gone and things will be better from the absolute first tick of the first second that your reign of power ends. You can’t hurt us anymore. Have a nice life. I’ll fucking hate you to the end.