Author: Jim Hagarty

By Jim Hagarty
2007

More cheery news. This just in. The average Canadian earns $38,010 a year. Meanwhile, the 100 highest-paid chief executive officers in Canada had already earned that amount by 9:46 a.m. on the second day of the new year.

“Minimum-wage workers would have barely rolled out of bed on New Year’s Day by the time the country’s top earners pocketed the $15,931 that will likely take the low-paid workers all of 2007 to make,” reported the Toronto Star this week.

The man who came up with these figures put them in these terms because he believes the average Canadian will be able to relate to them better than simply trying to compare their $38,010 to the $9 million the average top private-sector executive earns in a year. He’s onto something, for sure, but I think his comparisons are still out of reach of the comprehension abilities of most of us. In fact, if the rest of us were smart enough to figure this all out without the help of this guy, we’d probably be the ones making the $9 million.

I believe we need even better yardsticks with which to measure this discrepancy in earnings. Here are a few, courtesy of me and my calculator.

Assuming you are an average wage earner, these CEOs are making 236 times more each year than you are. Put a different way, the guys in the penthouses, driving the Maseratis and flying the Lear Jets are getting a weekly paycheque that is 23,678 per cent higher than yours. You are earning $21 an hour. They are making $4,945 in that same hour. In fact, it takes them about 15 seconds to earn what you make in 60 minutes.

Go ahead, get mad. But in the time it takes you to say, “These guys are making way too much money,” each of them just pulled in $5.50. You really can’t Win. Even if you just say, “Darn it all!”, they still earned over $3 in the time it took you to get that out. Write a letter to somebody about it if you like, but keep in mind that the half hour it takes you to compose it and mail it will have seen another $2,472.50 flow into the pockets of the ones you are writing to complain about. Make a quick call to your member of Parliament. Another $1,000 gone. An angry email. Goodbye $500.

Now, that you’re feeling really good about things, let’s look through the other end of the binoculars. You are 30 years old, making the average Canadian wage of $38,010. At that rate, you will have to work until you are 266 years old to make the $9 million that our top CEOs earn in one year. Over a 35-year career, at that rate, they’ll earn $315 million. You’ll work till the year 2866 to bring in the same.

But cheer up. Some Canadian provinces are doing away with the mandatory retirement age of 65, so you’ll be able to work away happily into your third century – even longer.

Now here’s the topper. If you get caught with your fingers in the company cookie jar or screw up so badly on the job you leave your boss no choice but to walk you to the door, you will get a severance package amounting to zero to take with you on your way home to break the good news to your family. The CEOs will do a little better than you. They don’t usually set one foot inside a boardroom without their exit from the company already having been planned for and planned for very well. A few weeks back, when Hydro One CEO Tom Parkinson. resigned his job amidst criticisms of his salary – $116 million – and his questionable spending habits, he was “bought out” by the government (a.k.a. you and I) for $3 million. Perhaps this is a reach, but I’m guessing it’s a little easier, with a $3 million cheque sticking out of your back pocket, to look into the faces of your disappointed wife and kids, who may be unhappy that Daddy got the boot.

But cheer up. Tom will soon get even a higher-paying job with a larger “golden handshake” package ready. These guys float around in a stratosphere that, while not heavily populated, is impervious to entry by the average schmoe.

However, I am in danger of being hypocritical here, as I once scaled the wage heights my friends could only dream of one day ascending. I was 16 and helping build a bridge for the Conestoga Expressway in Kitchener. I was pulling down an impressive $1.65 an hour when my poor high school friends were running around catching birds in the Monkton chick hatchery for $1. By summer’s end, I had a raise to $2 for my 50-hour weeks. Just imagine: $100 for five, 10-hour, back-breaking days. At least I wasn’t covered in chickenshit at the end of every day.

That was the last time, I’m pretty sure, that I ever earned double what my friends were pulling down. I gotta say, it felt pretty good to among the “filthy rich” for once.

By Jim Hagarty
2018

I had been disappointed in the quality of my night dreams lately. For some months, actually. It seemed like a long time since I had had one of those amazing, pleasurable dreams that would leave me in a good mood all the next day. The kind that make you go right back to sleep again in the hope of recapturing the storyline, but, of course, you never can. All I was getting were a series of strange, sometimes alarming circumstances involving people I knew 30 or 40 years ago. Or some calamity or other like a tornado or flood.

But then, one night last week, it happened. For some reason, a beautiful recording artist who is also a movie star was sitting there on my couch beside me. (I cannot reveal her name because the last thing I need are the paparazzi at my door – not to mention the police.) This star, the very last person you would expect to be sitting on my couch with me, turned to me and said, “Will you take me out on a date?” Well, apparently that blew my mind so completely that I woke up before I had a chance to scream, “Yes!” So I got up, had a sip of orange juice, and dove back under the covers, hoping to press play and carry on with this wonderful turn of events. Alas, however, she was gone. As was my couch. And me.

And she has stayed gone. But, my normal dreams are back. Last night, I dreamed I was looking out the window into my backyard when I saw a big black bear squeeze under the fence, stand up by the treehouse and stare directly into my eyes. The singer/movie star stared at me too, but seemed nowhere near as menacing. The good news is, before I woke up, the bear squirmed back under the fence somehow (the fence boards are about two inches off the ground) and was gone.

But not gone the way my movie star is gone. The bear will return, of that I am sure. I think it is because I am deathly afraid of bears. Apparently not, however, of movie stars.

Oh well. Time for an afternoon nap.

On the couch.

By Jim Hagarty
2014

The brain is a funny thing. Everybody has one (I think) but the mind that goes with it can sometimes be missing or defective.

Take David Scofield, 50, of Akron, Ohio, for example. He liked to spend time impersonating a police officer. No big deal. Who hasn’t done that? I often arrest people for fun on weekends and even issue speeding tickets (after I chase them for 10 miles to make sure they speed up.)

In any case, poor old David found a way to screw it up for the rest of us. He got caught this week when he tried to pull over a real officer. Akron police say a man driving a Ford Crown Victoria with a spotlight and made to look like a police car tried to block the path of a real Akron officer on his way to work Monday night. He had a rifle, shotgun, handguns, a bullet-proof vest, a silencer and ammunition in his car.

Police say Scofield is a firearms dealer from Lancaster. He was arrested on misdemeanor charges of impersonating a police officer, carrying concealed weapons and obstructing official business. He was in the Summit County Jail where records didn’t say if he had an attorney. However, if I could venture a guess, I think David’s next gig will be impersonating an attorney.

After that, he’ll be a jailbird, no impersonation required. His best impersonation so far is that of a total world-record shattering idiot on steroids but something tells me he did not have to practise for that role in front of a mirror.

By Jim Hagarty
2006

If I nod off in the middle of this, just tuck me in, turn off the light and shut the door. I’ll be fine in the morning. You see, I have been suffering my annual bout of over-awareness in a month that has been asking an awful lot of someone with such a short attention span. Fortunately, May is Mental Health Month, so my chances for recovery are looking better than if this had happened, say, in July.

The first week of this month, of course, was Education Week in Ontario. I just learned about it the other day and while it was nice to see a special week set aside for education, it seems to me I’ve endured about 2,875 Education Weeks in my life so far, as I am not able to remember a week that went by when I didn’t learn something whether I wanted to or not.

May 6 was International No Diet Day. Again, a bit redundant, unless you call a bad diet, a diet. Last week was National Emergency Preparedness Week but I have got to be honest with you: I was not prepared for it. National Road Safety Week started on Tuesday but I am having trouble seeing the point. I have never yet seen a road that wasn’t safe – but I have seen a lot of unsafe drivers hurtling along on top of them. Monday was International Day of Families, a day actually decreed by the United Nations as a way to recognize the importance of families. And while they are supremely important, it is fitting that a day devoted to families falls within a month devoted to mental health. Take that however you like.

I got some “rotten news” last week (that was the clever headline on top of the press release) when I was notified that May 7-13 is International Compost Awareness Week. I almost broke down when I learned about it. Just about came apart, in fact. (Should be a Bad Puns Day). The reality is, most of the time, it is not too hard to be aware of my composters as they tend to send up a very aromatic signal that they’re there. I know, I know: If they smell, you’re doin’ it wrong, but I’m long past the fun of turning the piles, adding layers of leaves, sprinkling in some soil, tossing in a handful of earthworms. Now if I can just convince the many mice who have built apartments and streets in my composters that I have not purposely accumulated organic material to satisfy their needs for habitation, I will count myself lucky.

Last week was Nursing Week across Canada and I’m glad it was. Some of my favourite people in the world have been nurses including the ones who helped me arrive on the scene. But I admit to a bit of jealousy mixed in with all this gratitude. When will somebody institute a Journalism Week? A week to mark the importance of reporters? National Editors’ Day. Columnists’ Month in Ontario. C’mon!!!!

This is not a good thing for me to dwell on as it tends to get me going but fortunately, May is Blood Pressure Month. And Saturday was World Hypertension Day, so l hope that’ll calm the nerves. I might head out in a canoe for a little natural sedation but of course next week is National Safe Boating Awareness Week so I’d have to spend my time making sure I didn’t end up doing handstands on the bottom of the creek.

The Canadian Landmine Foundation will be launching the Peacekeepers Day Yard Sale campaign this weekend, leading up to Peacekeepers Day on Aug. 9. Some of the yard sales I’ve been to could use a peacekeeper or two to separate those thrifty shoppers tussling over that awesome green velvet Elvis.

Maybe what we really need is a Don’t Be Cruel Day.

By Jim Hagarty
2015
I heard about this great flower shop in the country this summer so I dropped in. I saw a colourful bouquet for $10 and a nice, green vase (all vases should be green) for $8. I took my treasures to the woman at the till and she said, “That will be $18.” I asked her why there was no sales tax. There is, she said, but we just work backwards, calculate 13 per cent of all our sales and send it in. We hire students and this is easier than training them to do all the calculating at the cash register. How simple. I like it. I wish more places did it.

By Jim Hagarty
1986

Monday night about 10:30 I set out from the home of the Bornholm relatives I was visiting, after waiting a while for a break in the torrential rainstorm that struck this area that evening. I turned my car east onto Perth County Road 11, heading for Highway 19, Stratford and home. Though the rain had subsided, the fierce lightning continued and many times over the next 20 minutes the countryside all around me was suddenly blanketed with blue light and the pitch-black sky was stabbed by powerful forks of brightly charged energy.

All in all, as cartoon dog Snoopy likes to write, “It was a dark and stormy night.” Dark, stormy and – scary. I had little doubt my car and I would make it all the way home but the disturbing thought that we might not, that an accident or some mechanical breakdown would leave us stranded by the side of the road, crept into my consciousness and stayed there. It would not have been a nice night to be wandering up and down the roads in search of help. Suddenly my home, my cats, my TV and my bed never seemed so appealing as they did just then. It appeared to be a good time to tell God if he got me home safely, I’d never go out in a storm again.

I was not the only one fleeing the tumult – a big frog bounded across the pavement at one point and a ground hog scurried from north ditch to south. But few other vehicles were out and it was lonely. The radio was no comfort so I shut it off. It was just me, the storm and 18 miles of road to travel.

It never storms in the city. The winds get up and the rain beats down and there’s thunder and a bit of lightning. But there are also street lights to lead the way and coffee shops to duck into and somehow, except, I guess, in cases where a tornado or a hurricane sweeps through an urban area, any terror associated with a real blaster is minimal.

But among my memories of growing up on a farm in the country are dozens of frightening encounters with winds so strong they bent tall trees over like blades of grass, with thunder cracks so loud they shook you from inside out, with lightning so powerful you could hear it sizzle and spark and skies so dark they seemed evil. Those storms were naturally frightening for a child – any child – but they were made even more fearsome by the knowledge that even the adults in the family were afraid of these out-of-control elements. Grownups could shoo away bogeymen, monsters and belligerent dogs but they couldn’t chase away the thunder and it was disturbing to realize there were things out there more powerful than parents.

Nevertheless, that same fear that made it seem like a real good idea to grab the covers and pull them up tight over your head or to find another bed already occupied by someone bigger than yourself and crawl in under their blankets, gave summer storms an aura that translated into excitement for rural folk of all ages. Reminisce with a businessman and he’ll remember booms and busts, recessions and depressions. Old newspapermen recall disasters, elections and famous people who came to town. Teachers think back to brilliants students and troublemakers.

But people from the country remember storms.

There used to be no better evening’s entertainment than a mid-summer cloudburst, an electrical storm or a blizzard in winter. They required numerous trips to the window to survey the scene and all eyes were glued to the drama outside. Candles appeared on the table in the event the hydro went off and everyone huddled together in one room as these were not good times to be off somewhere by yourself. Providing everyone was home and in the house, a terrible storm could be a pretty good time, especially if a friend, neighbour or relative got “stormstayed” overnight. It was usually a big letdown when a storm began blowing itself out and someone who would know these things remarked, “Well, it looks like it’s dying down.” It would be hard to get back to routine, especially if that meant school wouldn’t be cancelled.

I felt a bit of that excitement Monday night when the skies opened up before me as I drove through the storm. But nature, too often, for a city dweller is, well, just downright inconvenient and it was nice to get home.

By Jim Hagarty
2015

Being a genius is not all fun and games. My mind is constantly working, looking for solutions to the world’s ills. This week I was sitting in a drivethrough lineup while a family of eight ordered their meals for the week, when inspiration struck. It strikes me a lot. I have many scars to prove it.

Environmentalists are very concerned about drivethrough restaurants. At any given time on any given day, hundreds of thousands of cars, vans and trucks are sitting in lineups, their engines idling, mufflers spewing crap into the atmosphere. There have been campaigns here and there to ban drivethroughs but the idea of armed insurrections by the villagers if ever a thing was done does not appeal to municipal officials.

Here is what needs to happen. I offer this at no charge to the world. Some clever people will figure out to “monetize” my brainwave.

Install moving driveways at every drivethrough, fancy conveyer belts that would stream all the vehicles in and out of the establishments. Once on the platform, engines could be shut off until the vehicles exit at the other end.

The Inventors’ Hall of Fame, here I come.