I’ve been trying hard to change my act. I turn off my computer at night, do the laundry in cold water, and have changed the light bulbs in my house.

I know that cutting my household electricity use will be a miniscule contribution to the fight against global warming. But when I’m basking in the weird blue glow of my lamp and admiring the gray tint in my once-white T-shirt, I remind myself that my contribution counts for something, however small.

While I’m reducing my energy use, though, I’m not likely to eliminate my need for it altogether. Even the alien-glow lights need to get their power from somewhere. So will all the new people who add to our population every year.

So where should that power come from?
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B.C. Teachers Federation president Jinny Sims is sounding remarkably excited these days. It looks like her union will be heading back to court to sue the provincial government — yet again.

She and her top people are huddling this weekend to discuss their options, but there doesn’t seem to be much doubt what they’ll do. Sims is already telling people she thinks they have “an excellent case.”

The source of her excitement? The recent Supreme Court decision in favour of the Hospital Employees Union.
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Back in the 1990s, I used to travel the province pointing to empty shop windows. Those were the days when you could walk down the main street of almost any town in B.C. and see empty shops with “for rent” signs plastered on the windows.

While the rest of North America experienced what was perhaps the biggest economic expansion in history, B.C.’s economy tanked.

And when the economy dips, it’s the little guys who struggle. Hundreds of small businesses drowned in red ink. It was fertile ground for politicians hoping to convince voters that it was time for a change in government.

The B.C. Liberals pitched themselves as the small-business party, and voters gave them a chance to prove it.

The economy isn’t in the stinker anymore. But if you want to remember what those bad old days were like, take a walk down Vancouver’s Cambie Street. It looks a lot like Campbell River’s battered main drag in 1995.
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The last time I went to a Police concert, I had a front-row seat. Actually, I didn’t technically have a seat. By the time we arrived at the Coliseum on Aug. 31, 1983, our seats had been flattened by rioting fans.

The crazed fans must have been mad that they’d had to endure the hideous opening act, the Thompson Twins.

Concert staff offered us seats up in the press box instead. Not a chance. Who wanted to sit?

I was a devoted fan. I had a picture of a bare-chested, smokin’-hot Sting taped up inside my locker. I loved the boys, their music, their politics. In my opinion, the ’80s and the Police had come just in time to rescue us from the ’70s — which except for punk rock, seemed utterly bereft of good music.
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