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Durham Council On November 7, a special committee made up of councillors from Durham Region, will meet in Port Perry to hear presentations from citizens on what is wrong (or right) with Durham Region. When the formation of this committee was first being discussed more than a month ago, the Star suggested in an editorial that it might not be such a bad idea to give interested people in this Region a chance to meet their councillors (or some of therg, anyway, ) face to face. The Regional concept has never been overly popular here or anywhere else, and many people feel that it has done little except add to their municipal tax bill. The critics of this travelling committee of Regional councillors say the exercise will produce nothing but a lot of harping from disgruntled ratepayers. And while this may indeed be true, some dialogue and input from the citizenry is better than none at all. It is, however, a good thing that the twice monthly meetings of Regional council go largely unattended by the public. For those council meetings have lately turned into a most undignified spectacle, and if the voters had a chance to witness first hand some of the antics, they would surely throw the whole bunch out of office when elections roll around next November. To put it bluntly, the meetings are a farce, a sad joke, punctuated by petty squabbles, personality clashes, political differences, back stabbing and grandstanding, the likes of which bring disgrace to the whole procedure. One would expect a measure of this kind of thing when 30 politicians sit down around a big table and try to make decisions. Personalities, political preferences and so on are bound to get In the way from time to time. But what is going on these days at Regional council is ridiculous. It would be downright humorous, if it were not so darned expensive. Each of these 30 councillors receives an annual salary of about $13,000, and as elected reps, they were responsible for a budget last year in excess of $60 million, of which $17 million came directly from the property taxes in Durham. Yet to watch some of these political buffoons in action during the council sessions would send most taxpayers storming from the chambers with fire in their eyes, and at the same time feeling ashamed that they may have had a hand in getting some of these clowns elected in the first place. It is difficult to get a real handle on why the council meetings seem to be such a farce, but obviously the deep discord that is running through the Oshawa city council is spilling over into the Regional sessions. Unfortunately, it seems to be infectious. Couple that with the fact that more than just a few members of Durham council are loud-mouth smart alecks who " think they are in a contest to come up with latest wise-cracks, and it is little wonder that the meetings resemble a three-ring circus. The chairman, Walter Beath, who presides over editorial poge these meetings, always seems to be hammering with the gavel and calling for order. Sometimes, it works; most often the brouhaha just goes on and on. It should be pointed out that not all the 30 members of the council engage in the tom-foolery. Some actually try to add a little dignity to a sorry situation by asking intelligent questions, refraining from the wise-cracks and name calling, and thinking before they stand up to make a statement. Both of Scugog's reps on the council, Mayor Jerry Taylor and Reg Rose fall into this category. But Mayor Taylor, who Is in the middle of his first term on the Regional council, seems to be almost numbed by what he is seeing and hearing. And councillor Rose, who has been there for five years, looks like he Is just getting tired of it all. And who can blame them? Sadly, the foolishness goes un-noticed by the public. Some gets covered in the local press, but the gallery in the council chambers is almost always empty. And for some strange reason, one can't help but notice that when there are visitors for one reason or another, the behavior of the councillors seems to get a little better. It is ironic that at-a time when the council meetings are such a farce, the committee would be travelling around Durham seeking input from the public who are paying the shots. If a few tax-payers had been sitting in on the meeting last Wednesday for example, they would have gone away convinced that Durham is nothing more than a $60 million joke. And that is a lot of money for clowns, no matter how you cut it. / § ir! a 4 IX 7 @ THAT'S THE BAT THAT'S THE -- YOU SWING BALL -- YoU PITCH ( . ) PERFECT GIFT Me and the old lady had another wedding anniversary last week. Holey ole Moley, how the years fly by! Usually, we remember our anniversary a week or ten days after it has gone by, and laugh about it. We don't believe much in anniversaries, as do some people who squabble all year, then ga'out to dinner with wine and roses, and are back pounding on each other within two days. One year I actually remembered and brought home eighteen yellow roses. She fainted dead away with shock, and when she came to, gave me the devil for wasting all that money. This year, I thought about it away back in August, and filed it away in my memory bank, determined to surprise her this year. 2% Show her, by George, that there was some ih fire, or at least a few embers, underneath i! that wisp of smoke. My first thought was to sneak off with her engagement ring and have it re-set in 24-carat gold. I had to dismiss this idea as impractical for two reasons. First, I'd have to remove her finger to get the ring to the jeweller. Secondly, the price of gold went up so fast it made my eyes water when I read the financial page. Then I though of a mink coat. But again there were two obstacles. One was the price of mink coats, which have soared almost as high as gold. The other was a conviction I've long held, that the only creature on this earth who needs a mink coat is a mink. Well, I worked my way down through an emerald brooch, for her Irish ancestry, a pearl necklace, diamond earrings. It was all disappointing. I knew I'd be ripped off with emeralds, she likes gold necklaces, not pearl, and she's always losing one earring, like every other woman. What is as useless as one diamond earring? I'd kill her if she lost one. That's one reason I got little done through August and part of September - worrying about the present for this one Yi at, Be Te ALENT anniversary I would have remembered. I considered giving her a new car. But I can't even afford one for the two of us, let alone one for her. One after another I discarded seemingly brilliant inspirations. I even went to the lengths of plannipg to sneak out in the middle of the night and painting the back stoop, which she'd been trying to get me to do all summer. But I shuddered at the - thought of painting out there, all alone in the cold and dark. Finally it hit me like a thunderbolt, a tidal wave of relief swept over me. I had it. Something to suggest her Mother Earth qualities. Something in green and gold, her favourite colours. Something that would suggest her sweetness, juiciness, tender- ness. Something she could get her teeth into, instead of junk like rings, necklaces, fur coats. Thirty-three cobs of corn! With the decision made, I relaxed, and promptly forgot all about our anniversary. She didn't, for once. On the fateful day, I arrived home from work, tossed out a few jollities, read her some interesting bits from the paper, asked what kind of day she'd had. All Tgot in return was cold shoulder and hot tongue. She was in a bad mood. Not because I'd forgotten our anniversary. Just one of those rotten tempers women get into once in a while because they've had to deal with the plumber and TV repairman, the vacuum cleaner went on the blink. all the woodwork in the house is "filthy", and they've scrubbed the kitchen floor and have a sore back. In the old days, I used to pet her and pat her and promise her, and she'd gradually come around. But I gave that up years ago. It was too hard on me. Nowadays, I fire right back: 'What the hell's biting you? Cut out the self-pity. I work too, youknow. Aw, go soak your head, crab." And so on. We usually have a good verbal set-to, sulk a little, and the air is cleared. But this time she speared me, right in the middle of one of my finest perorations. "Did you know this was our anniversary?" Talk about hitting below the belt. I was stricken with remorse, shame and guilt. No details, but we kissed and made up, and I did the dishes. ~ Must say we've weathered the storm pretty well. I was five years older than she when we were wed. I now look like an elder statesman of about sixty-five. She looks about thirty-four. My hair is white, hers is black. Her teeth are white, mine are black. It's a little disconcerting when you go-to a reception or some other function, the host reads your name-tag, and burbles, "Well, Bill Smiley. I've heard of you. And you've brought your daughter along. How nice." But I wouldn't trade the old battleaxe for a new one, even though she's laid a pretty good collection of scars of me, physically and otherwise. \ 1 A J Se]