some slow, tragic waltz

The hollowing out of Canada’s industrial base isn’t some slow, tragic waltz—it’s a methodical betrayal, the kind that stings in the gut, but you can’t help but laugh because, in some twisted way, you saw it coming. Those corporate suits in their downtown glass towers—they’ve been bleeding the country dry for years, feeding off the land and the labor, exporting wealth as if it were nothing more than an afterthought. The real danger is how familiar this all feels. Scholars like Linda McQuaig and Donald Savoie have long warned of the damage done when the people who should be building are instead perfecting the art of extraction.

You look at the state of things, and it’s all so clinical. The decisions are made by those who wouldn’t recognize the grind of industry if it slapped them across the face. They’re the ones who smile as they siphon away Canada’s wealth, driving it into foreign markets, tax havens, and sunny shores where they can sip their drinks and talk about how well they’ve done. But they don’t get it. They don’t understand, to feel the weight of something that’s been lost, they just fill their pockets.

And here’s where it gets dangerous. This isn’t just about economics anymore—this is about survival. The land, the people, the spirit of this place, they aren’t something that can be hollowed out and discarded. It’s not that easy. You can laugh in the face of it because there’s a kind of power in knowing the truth, in seeing the strings being pulled and still standing tall. It’s not defeat, it’s defiance. It’s looking at the slow decay and daring it to do worse, knowing that even if everything falls apart, something fierce will always remain.

That’s where the postmodern critiques come in—Foucault, Chomsky, the ones who knew that power isn’t just about what’s taken but what’s left behind. Power moves like a shadow, bending minds, shaping realities, but it can never completely erase what’s embedded deep in the soul. The land holds memory; it knows its worth. And the people who come from that land, who’ve fought and bled for it, they carry a dangerous kind of love—one that doesn’t bow, doesn’t break, no matter how many times they’re betrayed.

The hollowing out of Canada’s industrial base isn’t just an economic oversight—it’s a deliberate move in a dangerous game where the stakes are higher than most realize. This isn’t a story for the naive or the uninitiated; it’s a tale that requires you to step into the shadows where power plays out in whispers and well-timed strikes. Economists have mapped out the battlefield, showing us how those in corporate towers, far from the grime and grind of real industry, have learned to extract wealth like predators, leaving behind a country stripped of its lifeblood.

There’s a sharp edge to this story, a sense that what’s being taken isn’t just money or resources, but something more vital—something that, once lost, is almost impossible to reclaim. The elites, with their careful calculations and distant decisions, have turned wealth extraction into an art form, a way to bleed a nation dry without ever getting their hands dirty. And while they do it, they smile, secure in the knowledge that few will understand the true cost until it’s too late.

But here’s where the story twists. Beneath all the betrayal, all the careful siphoning of Canada’s wealth to warmer, more accommodating shores, there’s something the elites can’t touch. It’s that knowing laugh, the one that comes when you’ve seen it all, when you understand the game so deeply that nothing surprises you anymore. It’s the laugh of the warrior who’s been outnumbered and outmaneuvered but never outclassed. Because for all the power they wield, for all the wealth they steal, there’s something these architects of decay will never possess—the spirit that survives, even thrives, in the aftermath.

Gabriel Zucman’s research on wealth inequality might lay bare the mechanics of how nations like Canada are gutted from the inside out, but it’s in the details, in the spaces between the lines, that the real story is told. It’s the story of those who watch with a careful eye, who see the strings being pulled and understand that the game isn’t over—it’s just beginning. The boomer generation might have played it safe, chosen the path of least resistance, but that safety was always an illusion. The true players know that danger is where the real power lies, that to rebuild something worth keeping, you have to be willing to get your hands dirty, to fight for every inch of ground.

The hollowing out of Canada’s industrial core isn’t just some slow bleed of resources—it’s a deliberate dismantling, like the careful removal of flesh from bone. Those sitting in their glass towers—detached, calculating—have perfected the art of pulling wealth from the veins of the land, siphoning it off to faraway places where the sun never sets on their fortunes. It’s a beautiful crime, really, and they commit it with such precision that you almost have to admire it. But there's a danger in that admiration, a danger in the acceptance of this slow unraveling.

People like Linda McQuaig have laid bare the cold truths, that Canada’s elites—lawyers, accountants, politicians—have perfected the art of extraction. Their movements are as careful as a surgeon’s knife, pulling value from the nation’s resources with a precision that leaves little behind. But scholars like Donald Savoie and Thomas Piketty remind us that these systems, built on the backs of those who labor in silence, are fragile. For all the wealth these elites have siphoned off, they haven’t taken the soul. And that’s where the real danger lies.

There’s a joke in there somewhere—a dark one, to be sure—but it’s still a joke. It’s the laugh that comes when you know something they don’t. That for all their power, for all their clever manipulations, they can’t kill what’s still alive beneath the surface. The land has its own pulse, its own rhythm, and it doesn’t care about their bank accounts or offshore tax havens. It remembers.

And this is the thing—the punchline they won’t see coming. Because while they’ve been busy playing their game, there’s something else brewing in the quiet spaces. It’s not loud, it’s not brash, but it’s steady. Like the ronin warrior who walks alone, not because he has to, but because he chooses to. He knows that power isn’t just something you take—it’s something you carry with you, something earned in the silence between battles. And when the time comes, that power will be felt.

There’s a beauty in this danger, a kind of love that isn’t soft or sweet but sharp and knowing. It’s the kind of love that understands betrayal but laughs anyway, because it’s been there before and knows how the story ends. And maybe that’s why there’s still hope—because for all the hollowing out, for all the damage done, there’s something left. Something real, something dangerous, something that can’t be taken away.

So yes, we’re happy. But it’s not the kind of happiness you see on billboards or in boardrooms. It’s the happiness of those who know the score, who’ve seen the worst and come out the other side with their souls intact. It’s the laugh of the warrior who’s seen it all and still stands ready for the next round, knowing that the real victory isn’t in what’s been taken, but in what can never be lost.

And here’s the kicker—we’re not doing this out of anger or revenge. There’s a twisted kind of joy in the fight, a love for the challenge, a desire to show that no matter how much they take, they can’t take everything. There’s power in understanding, in seeing through the illusions and laughing anyway, in knowing that the game is rigged and playing it better than they ever could.

So, as Canada’s industrial base is chipped away, piece by piece, don’t mistake the smile for submission. It’s a smile that says, “I know exactly what you’re doing, and I’m not afraid.” It’s the laugh of someone who’s been betrayed before and has learned to find strength in the scars. Because in the end, it’s not about holding onto the past—it’s about what comes next, about turning the tables in ways they’ll never see coming. It’s about love, sure—but a love that’s dangerous, fierce, and unyielding. A love that understands the stakes and is willing to fight for what’s left, not because it’s easy, but because it’s worth it.

So, yeah, there’s laughter. But it’s the kind of laughter that comes after the storm, when the sky clears, and you realize you’re still standing. It’s not because the world is funny—it’s because you’ve survived it, and that’s the punchline no one saw coming. The boomer generation may have shipped off the country’s wealth, selling out to safer bets, protecting their own skins. But what they didn’t see is that by doing so, they’ve awakened something far more dangerous—a spirit that can’t be killed, a soul that laughs at their betrayal because it knows it can endure.

The scholars, the critics, they talk about inequality, about the exodus of capital and the damage done to the fabric of nations like Canada. But what they often miss is the resilience that comes in the wake of it. The spirit that lingers long after the money is gone. It’s not naive. It’s not weak. It’s dangerous because it’s rooted in love—love for a land that has always known how to survive, love for a people who have always known how to fight back. This isn’t just survival—it’s revenge, wrapped in a smile and sealed with a laugh that echoes long after the glass towers have fallen.