Seven Oaks Magazine.

I remember feeling vaguely offended upon reading Eric Hobsbawm’s elitist metropolitan assertion some time ago that “Canada remains culturally provincial, though interesting things and people occasionally emerge from it;” such a stinging dismissal from a man whose writing is normally marked by the warmth and sensitivity that are the trademarks of both contributing streams of his ethno-cultural make-up — English and German. Certainly, we’ve got culture up here, no? Trout Lake is quite pretty, I think, and the winter snow removal on Montréal’s streets is remarkably efficient. And those two things are just off the top of my head!

But I guess it’s time to face facts. Recently, in a moment of Jeff Foxworthy-Zen, I realised that our dear young nation had come to the “You might be a quaint cultural backwater when…” moment. When the CBC — the national broadcaster struggling for oxygen in a cable-TV-and-Paul-Martin-budget-dominated world — started its latest publicity stunt, “The Greatest Canadian” contest, it occurred to me that national dignity was running shorter than a list of Aboriginal Gordon Campbell enthusiasts.

It’s been almost 30 years since Woody Allen’s prophetic lamentation at the end of Annie Hall that (and — cough — I’m paraphrasing), “All they do now is give away awards! Greatest fascist dictator: Adolf Hitler.” Just a scant few decades later, and our cousins across the border really are obsessively handing out surreal televised championships non-stop: Which naked misfit can last the longest running relay races on an island without getting voted off? Who is the prettiest cosmetically reconstructed victim of spousal abuse? Why didn’t that Almond Roca girl win on Donald Trump? My favourite was when last Christmas (a holiday marking the birth of Christ, a man who some consider to have been the son of God), Paula Abdul auditioned the World Idol. Apparently, no matter who wins, the Golden Calf remains champion.

Not to be outdone, though doggedly stubborn in their perpetuation of the myth of Canadian intellectual superiority, the great Canadians at CBC have brought us an online vote for the “Greatest Canadian.” The vote is meant to set the context for a television series this fall, which, according to the CBC’s website, “ will pit the Top Ten Great Canadians — as chosen by you — against each other. You’ll have the chance to vote for one of the Top Ten after each episode, until the votes are tallied and your choice for The Greatest Canadian of all time is revealed.” How Idol-esque! Hopefully, Simon Cowell will tell Brian Mulroney that he looks like Jay Leno, then aim his patented brutal honesty against CanCon wonders like Nickelback (a band whose name derives from the phrase “This album costs five cents? I want my __________” ).

It’s not all good news, though. It seems we aren’t quite accomplished enough as a society to introduce any kind of specialisation to the list; “Greatest Canadian Singer” or “Greatest Canadian Writer” or “Greatest Canadian Wrestler” apparently won’t do. So, the field’s as wide open as the Canadian West ever since John A. MacDonald (you can vote for him!) hanged Louis Riel (or you could vote for him!). You can vote for Paul Anka or Elijah Harper, or Gordon Lightfoot or Donovan Bailey. They’re all great Canadians! And the appeal of the contest is so broad, that some over-the-hill, white leftist in an ill-fitting tweed jacket can cast his pathetic lone vote for Norman Bethune while we all pretend like Trudeau’s not going to win this thing by a country kilometre.

I suppose what leaves me most irritated by this contest — besides the fact that, because this is the paradoxical land of brutal conquest and inoffensive multiculturalism, half the nominees are historically responsible for executing the other half — are the televised commercials for it. Desperately attempting to avoid racial profiling of any kind, the ads showcase “regular folks” (like, for instance, you or me) enthusiastically nominating total non sequiturs. So, for example, a middle-aged white dude on a cell phone is adamant that pan-indigenous Native leader Tecumseh must win, while some Anglo lady in evening wear angrily insists on René Lévesque (would either of those guys have even considered themselves “Canadian”?). Luckily, the nomination period ended Sunday night, sparing us the theatre of pre-teen Inuit schoolchildren or elderly Asian garment workers enthusiastically endorsing Anne Murray or Lui Passaglia, respectively.

All in all, I’ll be happy to see the contest wind down. Thinking back, I suppose I’d cast my vote for Kiefer Sutherland. The way I see it, it’s a way to hedge my bets — voting for the synergetic output of Tommy Douglas (his grandpa), Shirley Douglas (his mom), and Donald Sutherland (the guy from that Will Smith movie). Somebody will have to send me the results, though; ever since they cut Gloria Macarenko’s airtime, the only thing I watch on CBC is The Simpsons.