By Craig Funston

Move over, Stephen and Michael, here comes another celebrity spat. Stephen and Michael, as you may have guessed, are the real prime minister and the wannabe prime minister of this glorious Canada. Their recent verbal sparring at the Calgary Stampede was, well, interesting, if not unnecessary.

However, the new act in town, so-called, is Jesse and Dan. Who, you might ask? Well, the Jesse is the most holy reverend Jesse “I-have-an-opinion-on-everything” Jackson and the Dan is Dan Gilbert, the bitter and jilted owner of the LaBron-less Cleveland Cavaliers.

Just to cue things up: Mr. Gilbert wrote a scathing open letter to the Cleveland Cavaliers' fans on the team's web page a week or so ago, once King LeBron James “heard the call” to move to Miami to play for the Heat. Gilbert's outrage included feelings of betrayal, disgust, and disappointment that LaBron would leave Cleveland for Miami, after seven years of fruitless effort in getting an NBA championship.

Personally, I would leave Cleveland after seven days of fruitless effort in a getting a safe holiday.

Enter Dr. Jackson. He is the omnipresent commentator on every social, political, and moral ill that plagues America – or at least seems to, in his opinion. He shoots his mouth off at every conceivable issue, through every conceivable medium. Everything in his mind boils down to race issues. You might say that he sees everything in black and white. The case in point: He takes exception to what Mr. Gilbert wrote (and many others do), then goes on to compare Gilbert to a slave owner and James to a runaway slave who has gained his freedom.

I take great exception, not to Gilbert but to Jackson, for the following reasons:

1. James is no runaway slave. A runaway, possibly; a slave, no way. Just check his bank account for the past seven years, then look into his most-recently signed contract with the Miami Heat. If my people were slaves on a plantation a few generations ago, I would be absolutely outraged.

2. Jackson is no Bible preacher. I don't care what letters are in front of his name, after his name, or what mainline religious club he is allegedly linked with. Any man associated with the Gospel should preach the Gospel and leave the gossip-mongering and grandstanding to others. That's what God created politicians and team owners for.

3. Race is no issue here. It is completely naive to think that every time there is a rape, a robbery, or a riot, it is race-related. That's why I cringe each time I read some account and skin colour comes up. To be sure, while we have our own race issues here in Canada, but we don't generally reduce crime to the colour of one's skin. I suggest crime is a character issue, not a skin issue.

I have a few tips for the Dr. Mr. Jesse Jackson. He probably won't listen to me, but I'll give him some gentle suggestions anyway.

1. Don't feel obligated to express your opinion every time you feel the urge. You have limited and diminishing credibility. As someone once said: The more mud you throw, the more ground you lose.

2. You make me cringe when you somehow lump relation and race together, especially with your own spin. There has never been a greater bondage-breaker for the under-trodden than the true freedom that true Biblical religion brings; study the history of negro spirituals (a music genre, Horace, not a racial slur) from 150 years ago and see what I mean. It's not the tripe you're dishing out. Get back to the Book, Jesse, get back to the Book.

3. And finally (see, I know when to stop, Jesse), if that poor, downtrodden “slave” boy of yours ever needs a spokesmen, perhaps you should think of applying for a job. You seem more suited for the soapbox than the pulpit.

Just leave the playing of games to the athletes.

By Craig Funston

As I sit here in the brave solitude of my remote office, I dream of better days. I dream of starting over again in a career that pays me outlandish money (in a game where most jocks play for beer), or over again in a land where foreign government handouts allow me to build a mansion in the Middle East.

I am speaking, of course, of the obscenity that is also known as free agency – basketball or hockey, take your pick (though I believe basketball is the greediest of all); I am also referring to the land of Afghanistan, where it is reputed that Afghan nationals with international ties are pocketing aid money and building mansions in Dubai.

To be sure, I am not sure who is more culpable, team owners desperate to get a winner (as opposed to the players themselves), or foreign governments who pour money into third world countries with seemingly no strings attached. If you have read this column over the past four years, you are fully aware of my angst of non-accountability.

You'd think that the way money was being recklessly thrown around, Barack Obama was running one of the NBA teams.

Whether King James goes to Chicago, Miami, or stays in Cleveland, I could care less. He can't go to the New York Knicks because they just dropped $100 million on another power forward. During this Summer of LeBron, as they have dubbed this transient season, we are still waiting for another $100 million-dollar baby, Ilya Kovalchuk, to make up his mind as to where he wishes to play hockey – New Jersey or Los Angeles. Poor baby - decisions, decisions, decisions.

Me? I'd be happy to play in Groton for a mere $500,000.

The other disturbing and correlating news I just read is about the graft in Afghanistan. As our people are literally dying for their people's freedom, some of their other people are skimming money somehow, taking it out of the country and building Roman-like villas by the seashore in the Middle East. Earning one's own money honestly, then spending it as you wish is a bedrock of the free enterprise system; taking money that is not yours and lavishing it on yourself in another country is nothing less than criminal.

The least they could do is build the mansions in their country, thereby giving their people the employment and their government and businessmen the necessary revenue.

It is really hard to digest these figures because most of us commoners will never see a fraction of that in a series of lifetimes, let alone a short five-year contract or brief spending spree. The irony is not lost here, either: Our own government is bailing out many area farmers who were wiped out in the recent floods, families have have laboured for years – possibly decades – to put food on their table. Good on them; that is money well spent.

If I were James, Wade, or Bosh, would I turn down a sizzling contract that would set me and mine up for life? Probably not. You see, I am just as fallen as any athlete, owner, government employee, or country leader. Each one of us can easily succumb to the lure of greed, and all its incumbent vices. It has brought down countless societies before us, and we will be no exception, if we're not careful.

But I don't think it is sour grapes, either, on my part. I am sincerely alarmed at an economy out of control, both stateside and elsewhere (hello Greece), on the one hand, and this sort of fraudulent, self-seeking lifestyle, on the other. Someone needs to stop this mayhem before its stops us cold.

Leaders should be aware, whether they are leading a team or leading a country: One day, they will get to the end of the proverbial rainbow, looking for an even bigger pot of gold, only to discover an empty shell of a destroyed culture.

We can't seem to control our own urges; history is one long memo of that weakness. Some day I would like develop the hypothesis that people who recognize said failing, and turn it over to the One Who made them, become the people who will make a positive difference in their world – regardless of the sphere they have been called to.

You see, they too are investing in a mansion, but it's on a different shore...

By Delynda Pilon

My mom and I used to have conversations that would leave me speechless. I would come home from work, kind of happy and minding my own business and mom would hit me with a request.

Mom: Dee, you remember your Auntie Lana? Bruce’s oldest from  his first marriage? I haven’t seen her in ages but we were just like sisters growing up. I want you to get on the computer and tell her she should give me a call.

Me: ?????

She has been asking me to do things like this ever since Wayne Halliday, my best friend when I was 13, found me on Facebook. I told her all about Wayne getting a hold of me, and that he is living in Australia now, and how wonderful it was to hear from him. Some how she doesn’t think this is an anomoly, but thanks to my story and others like it friends and relatives have shared, this is what always happens on a regular day in computer land.

Mom: Just go onto Spacebook and find her.

Me: ?????

Oh ya. That’s the other thing. No matter how many times I tell her it’s Facebook, not Spacebook, she doesn’t remember - or maybe care. Anyway, she has done everything from asking me to find current addresses for long lost relatives to discover who my adopted great-grandma’s real birth parents were. Apparently all this information is on Spacebook, but me, being a thankless daughter who ignores her mom ruthlessly, just won’t access it for her.

So when mom decided it was time to get her own computer, a laptop no less, I thought it was a great idea.

My mom is blind in one eye and only has a small percentage of vision left in her other eye, but she can see the bright screen of the laptop. My dad, with the help of his specs, sees just fine, but because he was doing silly little things like ensuring his single mom and three siblings got a chance to eat while growing up, missed out on a formal education and doesn’t spell worth a darn. So he takes care of keyboarding while mom watches the screen and spells out websites for him. It is actually kind of cute and romantic - true love at 70 plus - but also pretty funny.Especially when dad lost her newly formed Spacebook account.

Dallas, my son, set up the account for her. She asked him to google her an email account as well, and he did that too.

A few days ago I wandered into the living room and noticed mom and dad were in a state of great anxiety.

Me: What’s up?

Mom: Your father lost my Spacebook.

Me: ?????

Then I figured it out. Dad forgot the password Dallas used to sign mom’s account up and couldn’t log on.

Mom: You better fix it.

Dad tossed his hands in the air and walked away. I asked for the password and stuff, but it wouldn’t log on.

Me: You either have the wrong username or password.

Dad: No I don’t. It’s the computer.

Mom: Maybe you should shut it down and then restart it. Then it might remember how to get on Spacebook.

I took a deep breath.

Me: Actually, if you just hit Forgot Password, it should email your password to your hotmail account, then you can log on or change it to one you can remember more easily.

Dad tried it. He really did. But, no matter how many times he did it, he couldn’t find mom’s hotmail account.

Dad: It says either the name or password is wrong.

Mom: Oh great. Now your father lost my Hotmail account too.

That was when Dallas finally came home. I was so grateful to see him I almost teared up. Dallas noticed the anxiety at once.

Dallas: What’s up?Mom: Your grandfather lost my Spacebook and now he lost my Hotmail too.

Dallas smiled that little smile he gets and sat down in front of the computer.

Dallas: Grandma, you don’t have a Hotmail account. You asked for a Google email account, and that’s what I made for you. Do you want a Hotmail account too?Well, Dallas was the hero of the day after that. First he found Spacebook, simply by spelling Mom’s password correctly, then he fitted his grandma out with a Hotmail account.

I also learned an important lesson that day. Before heading into the living room I stop first and listen. If mom and dad are bickering about Spacebook, I just turn around and quietly walk away.

By Craig Funston

Tell me, please: What is cheaper than drugs, better than aerobics, and closer than Hawaii? If your answer is Wal-Mart, I suggest your life is in serious trouble. Likewise, if you snorted something like: “Nothing is cheaper than drugs, better than pizza, and closer than Hawaii,” I have a have four-letter word for you (and don't get your hopes up, I'm not going to swear).

The word is (drum roll, please) P-A-R-K.

Park, but not a verb, as in “park the car”; it's park, a noun, as in “a walk in the park.” Park, as good green growth in the middle of a town or city park, such as Henderson Lake Park in Lethbridge, or a national park, as in the Waterton Lakes National Park. (No, Horace, I didn't make a spelling mistake - it is Lakes, not Lake.)

About 37 columns ago I suggested four or five features that should be found in every small prairie town. These included a graveyard, golf course, pub – among other things – but I should have included a park. Even if it is a small green space with a couple of swings, two or three picnic tables, along with a “him” and a “hers,” that would be a healthy start.

Parks are certainly therapeutic for me personally. A walk in the park, especially if there are woods involved (hello, Echo Dale), somehow gives me perspective. Throw in a small stream or lake (again, Echo Dale or Henderson), and all is peace with the world.

I was marveling at the draw that a park has the other day when I had some of my kids at Henderson in Lethbridge. There were young families, young lovers, and even the odd businessman, although they weren't all that odd. The frantic yet positive energy, the gulps of glee, and the measurable tranquility was worth the stopover alone. In fact, I think I was the one gulping for glee – or was I just catching my breath from chasing kids?

Apart from the green space advantages (and I can say that without endorsing Greenpeace), I think the greatest plus with having as many parks as possible are the emotional and physical benefits. Those of us who live on acreages may not feel the same urge that city people have, but there still is the sense of peace that seems to come over me when I take time to hang out in a park.

Maybe it's the lack of bins, fence posts, and quonsets that does the trick for me.

I know in the bigger centres, and that includes both Lethbridge and Medicine Hat, that parks are like magnets for all sorts of illicit behaviour and transactions, usually after dark. This is, of course, a tragedy, but it shouldn't take away from its positive usefulness. An after-dark curfew would be one possible solution, but that seems so draconian to me.

If we can't get to a park to find a sense of balance in our life, maybe we should turn our lawns and gardens into parks. A pond here, trees over there, and of course, lots of walkways. And don't plant grass; plant rock gardens, instead: No park is complete without a variety of rock gardens, so you would need to put away that lawnmower, weed whacker, sprinkler, and trimmer. (Ah, I see you're warming up to the idea already.)

Less time manicuring that lawn of yours would mean more time enjoying the greenbelt that has replaced your lawn, or an actual park just around the corner. Think of the hours and dollars you would save. In fact, it would be cheaper than drugs, better than aerobics, and closer than Hawaii – or did I say that already?

Must be that park-like fresh air getting to my brain.