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ER i I i i aia. | fait i A tii PIN 4 -- PORT PERRY STAR -- Tuesday, April 8, 1986 Editorial Comments Don't Blame Reagan Don't blame Ronald Reagan for the terrorist bomb blast on board a TWA jet last week that killed four people, including an infant girl in her mothers arms. Some of Reagan's Critics are blaming the bomb incident on his get-tough confrontation with the forces of Libyan leader Kadaffi two weeks earlier in the Gult of Sidra. American jets, with the full bless- ing of the Reagan administration blasted a Libyan gun-boat out of the water and destroyed a rocket launching installation on the shore. It was about time that somebody took a poke at Kadatffi, the man who is bank-rolling and training terrorits and murderers in many parts of the globe. Don't blame the retaliation on Reagan. Blame it on the incredibly lax security at many airports which allows a terrorist to hop on a com- mercial flight, plant plastic explosives under the seat, then hop off again before it goes pop. The woman suspected of planting the bomb was a known terrorist, yet she was able to hop a flight from Cairo, get off in Athens and take another plane back to Beirut. Incredible. Where's the airport security? As for the shut-out in the Gulf of Sidra, Reagan has served notice to terrorists everywhere that the United States, at least, is prepared to fight fire with fire. And it's about time. Crude Oil Tears The energy barons who inhabit those gleaming new towers in downtown Calgary are nervous and edgy these days. And a few miles up the road in the Edmonton offices of the Alberta legislature, premier Don Getty and his cabinet are equally in a fret wondering what to do about those falling oil prices. The price of oll, as just about everyone knows, has dropped to about $10 U.S. for a barrel of the stuff on the world market. Remember not too long ago when it was selling in the $25 to $30 per barrel range? Now, the oil companies are crying big tears, laying off all kinds of people, putting the exploration rigs in moth balls, and cancelling the executive memberships in the Petroleum Club. Alberta politicians are wailing that the provincial economy is about to come tumbling down, real estate values are in Calgary and Ed- monton are dropping faster than the price of oil, bank loans may go unpaid, and generally speaking Canada's richest province is soon going to resemble the backwaters of Newfoundland. Is the rest of the country supposed to join in this gnashing of teeth? Are the consumers in Ontario, Quebec, the Maritimes suppos- ed to feel sorry for Alberta and the oil companies? Remember what happened when oil prices went through the roof? The rest of the coun- try damn near went bankrupt paying to put a few gallons of gas in the family station wagon or fuel for the furnace in the dead of winter. Remember former premier Peter Lougheed and his words to the effect of letting 'the eastern so and so"s freeze in the dark?" Remember that cushy oil fund (neatly called the Heritage Fund) of a couple of billion sitting in Alberta government coffers just for a rainy day? It was those eastern so and so's who paid for that fund. And they didn't like it one damn bit. Remember as well that the 'boom years' in oil and gas were a complete artificial creation of ridiculously inflated energy prices thanks to an international cartel called OPEC. The cartel manipulated the world market, shut off the taps to suit its own purposes and in the span of a few short years drove the price of crude from $3 a barrel to more than $25. ~The oil producing areas of the world accumulated huge fortunes, (Turn to page 5) NTE OES) the {» CNA -- {SP | EJ) ™ OAT PLREY STAR CO \WNTID 133 Quen Tenet 20 #02 90 PORT MLATY ONTARO LO8 WO (48) 983 738) J. PETER HVIDSTEN Member of the Publisher Canadian Community Newspaper Association and Ontario Community Newspaper Association Advertising Manager Published every Tuesday by the Port Perry Star Co Ltd . Port Perry, Ontario J.B. McCLELLAND Editor Authorized as second class mail by the Post Ottice Department. Ottawa, and for cash CATHY ROBB payment of postage in cash News & Features Second Class Mail Registration Number 0265 0 AN (Oma wh Un Subscription Rate: In Canada $15.00 per year. Elsewhere $45 00 per year Single Copy 35° OCOPYRIGHT -- All layout and composition of advertisements produced by the adver: tising department of the Port Perry Star Company Limited are protected under copyright and may not be reproduced without the written permission of the publisher Chatterbox by Cathy Robb " story about just how bad this place is ..... Rick, a friend living on Queen Street East in Toronto, continued with a largely unprintable ver- sion of what he witnessed one night at a hotel best left nameless, just down the street from his store- top flat. Queen Street between a Goodwill Store with fad- ed wedding gowns in its window; a variety store filled with plaster busts of Elvis Presley and painted pigs; a thrift shop baker ("They sell stale bread," Rick pointed out); and an incongruous new Toyota dealership. "Anything can happen on this street," he said. "The little things that happen here, they'd never happen in Port Perry. The other night I was walk- ing home from work, and Armageddon broke out. The fire trucks went by, lights flashing, and I thought, yeah, there's a little bit of trouble hap- pening here tonight. And then I looked up the street and there was a film crew shooting a movie 'in front of one of the stores. And because they were doing that, a street-car couldn't make its turn, so the police were wrapped up trying to sort that out. ""And then, I couldn't believe it, a guy walk- ing along the street towards me fell down, right at my feet, and went into some sort of epileptic seizure. So I did what I could for him until the cops finished up with the street-car and came over to help him out. "You could just sit out here and everything will go right by you. You sit on a street corner in a place like Port Perry and what happens? A piece of paper might blow by." He chuckles. Rick had spent most of his life in Port. Other- wise I might have jumped down his throat about his comments. But I had to agree with most of what he was saying. Queen Street East is another world to so- meone from a small town. It's very seaminess, the dirt, the people going nowhere, is a real education. .For me, it was an adventure. The hotel's scratched wooden door opened up to reveal a glass showcase filled with photographs of the strippers who inhabit the place in the daytime. Their thickly lined eyes and hardened mouths assault the uninitiated almost as much as the stench of decades of spilled draft and lighted cigarettes. Inside, the walls aie tired red, the stand-up bar made of Italian marble is caked with grease, and the staff and patrons share a common roughness. "This place is so scuzzy. Let me tell you a The new version of the hotel squatted on. THE EAST SIDE The three men behind the bar, obviously the owners, are Greek or Italian in their late 50's, pot- bellied with cracked faces. They don't even look up as we walk by but the sole waitress in the place hurries over, a wet newspaper-lined tray in one hand, a lit hand-made butt in the other. We stare at her in amazement. "I love her, you know, but she doesn't even know I exist," Rick wisecracks under his breath. Her face, under the make-up, is actually pret- ty, but everything else about her spelled sadness. Her red-tinted hair hung down to her shoulders in tiny beaded braids, the kind of style that was fashionable a few years ago, before everyone realized what an airhead Bo Derek was. Her tight red-knit dress clung to a rounded belly and thick hips, and ended somewhere just above her knees. Below the hem were two chunky legs, encased in something that looked like pink long underwear. Her wide feet, slipped into flat soles, were bare. But her outfit was not what caught our atten- tion. It was her skin, not her clothes. Pale, white skin etched with dragons, birds, anchors and lions. - The tattoos seemed to spread endlessly around her back, shoulders and arms. "I don't suppose you have a cigarette," Rick said, interrupting my revelrie after the waitress had taken our order. I didn't, but headed to the bar to buy some. When I asked one of the grizzled bartenders, he said something undecipherable and I had to ask him to repeat it twice before the waitress said har- shly, "Follow that guy." She pointed to another of the bartenders, heading off to the back of the room. I followed him, tentatively, and wound up in a tiny kitchen. Sit- ting on the counter were a few congealed slices of pizza, and in one swift movement he picked up a slice and shoved it inches from my mouth. "Here, he said in thickly accented English. "You try." I stared at him in disbelief. All I wanted was a pack of smokes, not a piece of cold pizza. In the bright white light of the kitchen, I gazed at the grizzled face, the small, deeply red eyes, and the brief smile stretched across his rough cheeks. I bit into the crust, just the end of it, and swallowed loudly. The spicey pepperoni taste melted into my tongue. "This is good," I said, and meant it. "You didn't take much," he said, doubting me. Ebi el Vn STERIL ARERR re