Rose's Cantina

What a sad day for Monkee shines everywhere. Davy Jones, what a sweet little monkey, all sugar and spice and all things nice. If Mike was the soul of the band, Mickey was the funny bone and Peter was the hair, Davy was the heart. He was every little girl's dream date. That's because when we were 11, he was our height. Who could resist the accent? And the twinkle in his tiny right eye. Davey was our Paul Anka. Our Nick Jonas. Our Justin Bieber. I will visit Davy in my dreams today. I will always be a Daydream Believer on the Last Train to Clarksville. Thanks Davy.

I was noodling around the Net looking for famous people who were born on Leap Day. My husband Scott isn't famous, not famous at all, so I wanted him to be in good company thinking guys like Steve Jobs or Einstein might have been hatched on February 29th. Alas, Leap Day seems to be for losers, thugs, faux celebs and rappas. I submit for your consideration. Jerry, from Parks and Recreation, a guy who can't get any respect, not even from the shoeshine boy. Dennis Farina, famous for playing mobsters and coppers. And once laying Helen Hunt in a mini-series. Antonio Sabato. No further explanation needed. Ja Rule. Whoever that is. At least Larry David was born on my birthday.

During Heart and Stroke Month, I got sucked in by all those Death Can Wait commercials and joined the Heart and Stroke Foundation's Healthy Weight Action Plan website. The site promised all manner of things. You could monitor your progress on high blood pressure by recording your data, partake in heart healthy meal plans and weight loss programs. The site even had a feature which allowed a person to get emails when they had doctor appointments. Cool, I thought. I gave up on this stupid website after three days. Everytime I recorded my blood pressure, bells and whistles went off, exclamation marks everywhere. Call you doctor. Go to the emergency room, stat. Dudes. I know my blood pressure is high. I just went to the doc to get medication. I don't need you to scare the shit out of me everytime I record my pressure. I had two doctors appointment, both of which I would have missed because I never got notification from the website. Also, the site kept flipping me

I had an epiphany today. Was that, the beautiful Melissa McCarthy, in Bridesmaids? Or was it master chef and Gwynneth Pal Chef Mario Battali? Separated at birth.

Scott turns 14 tomorrow. He doesn't look a day over 45. He's pretty big for his age, standing six foot two and he can drink any 16 year old under the table. And he has a lot of experience in other areas we won't get into. Scott was born on Leap Day, induced by a chain smoking, hard living family doctor who wanted to get away for a golfing vacay a few days early. He was born in the deep chill of St. Boniface, Manitoba to Margaret and Warner Troyer, the second son of, oh, thousands. It's always delighted Scott that he had a special birthday, one that only comes around every four years, so I'm feeling the need to plan something special for the occasion. Sure on Friday, there'll be much beer drinking, oh yes there will, when we gather at Liam McGuire's with some friendly faces. But tomorrow, we must plan something unique, in line with his official status as 14-year-old. Here's what I'm thinking. 9 a.m. Breakfast at McDonald's, something

Maybe it was the wine, but I had a good time watching the Oscars last night. Not because of the show, which pretty much blew as usual. I found it entertaining because of what E! put in its disclaimer. We're live, so anything can happen. Viewer discretion is advised. Better to be live than dead. The night got off to a good start when Sasha Baron Cohen dressed in character to promote his film, The Dictator , stumbled and dumped an urn of ashes on Ryan Seacrest. The ashes were supposed to be North Korean's Kim Jong -- not the remnants of the last five winners of American Idol . Or Dick Clark for that matter. Then we got to watch Jennifer Lopez accidentally slip a nip. It wasn't much of a slip, as far as I could see but it created quite a buzz on Twitter. I mean the dress didn't leave much to the imagination to begin with. But guys like Michael Douglas need something to live for, right? And the cherry on top was when that that old hasbeen Sean Young got

I don't know about you, but I'm already sick of the Oscars. Brad and Angie. George and the girl wrestler. All those stupid movies about Paris. Silent. Black and white. Who the hell cares? Scott and I watched The Tree of Life last night and I found it ridiculous. It was like tuning into a period piece only to be interrupted by the Discovery Channel. And it's been nominated for about a gazillion awards! Just so Brad and Sean Penn could get paid handsomely for what amounts to a couple of lame cameos. Sheesh. I am looking forward to Billy Crystal. Hopefully, he can save this barfest. The whole preoccupation with George Clooney and Brad Pitt puzzles me. Sure, they're okay looking, but they would make any movie made in 3D look 2D, they are so non-dimensional. Some people call these nuanced performances. I say these two guys phone in their performances. The Artist is about to win Best Picture yet it hasn't been able to translate into ticket sales.

When I went to journalism school back in the 1970s, I met a lot of people who were there because of Watergate. My second year, the film All the President's Men came out, and the theatres were packed with J students who then piled into Oliver's Pub to talk about the heroic efforts of Woodward and Bernstein. I went to see John Dean spill. I attended a packed lecture by Carl Bernstein. It was almost romantic. Journos were the white knights and dastardly politicians wore the black hats. In the United States. None of us could conceive of a Watergate style scandal like that in Canada. Certainly, we've had the Sponsorship Scandal but it was about money, not about power. And it was in Quebec, not the rest of Canada where we often view our politicians as flawed but not dirty. It's now looking like we might have our first-ever dirty tricks caper in Canada. According to Elections Canada and Postmedia reports, at least 18 closely fought ridings were targeted by robotic

A week ago, we gave her rest, so she would suffer pain no more. We said goodbye, a kiss, a hug. And then we parted. Remember, Hannah. There are no goodbyes. Just love. Letter from a Dog You must know that there is always a goodbye hovering in the shadow of a dog. We are never here for long, or for long enough. We were never meant to share all your life, only to mark its passages. We come and we go. We come when we are needed. We leave when it is time. Death is necessary. It defines life. I will see you again. From Going Home: Finding Peace When Pets Die, Jon Katz.

I went for my first physical exam in years yesterday with the dithering Dr. Ben, a former resident of Morocco who, while fluent in the language of love, has some difficulty communicating in the language of world enterprise. Don't get me wrong; he's a lovely man, an older gentleman with a warm smile and a je ne sais quoi? attitude. A change in a mole? No problem, madame, ven it groz beeg I vill take it out! Anxiety? No, you do not have anxiety! Exercise! I couldn't help but be amused. He kind of reminded me of Dr. Spaceman on 30 Rock. If Dr. Spaceman rode a camel. First, it was clear that Dr. Ben didn't have much experience with computers. He picked and misspelled and backspaced on each word, then announced the word out loud, almost triumphantly. Normal! He also didn't seem to have any of the right equipment or supplies to do a physical on a woman of my size and age. The baby blue top I was given didn't begin to cover my breasts. It was the s

One of Scott's best CBC friends died of a heart attack two days ago, while minding his own business, snorkelling in Costa Rica. Dean had been down there for eight days when he took his mask and flippers out to look at the little fishes. Did he see something scary? Did he just say to himself, well, if I must be going...? These things keep me up at night. Dean was probably 60 but always looked young for his age. He wore his hair in a bright blond shag for most of his life, looking for all the world like Tom Petty. As a newscamera and sound man, Dean lived his life on his own terms, breaking his neck a couple of times, daring the Gods to strike him down for a life full of war zones, beer and spliffs. There were many ways Dean could have gone, violently while on assignment or shockingly through his own bad habits and mischief, but he did it up right one last time with his wife of three decades in a resort called Paradise. Fitting. We heard the news yesterday just as the ma

I find it quite rich that Diane Finley is following Vic Toews' public relations strategy to sell the government's plan to raise the qualification age for Old Age Security to 67 from 65. She spoke to the Canadian Club yesterday and singled out a table of youngsters -- who no doubt had their tickets paid for by the Tories -- and suggested we oldsters should sacrifice a little for the up and coming generation. Finley took the opportunity to use young people as a human shield, just as Vic the Dick Toews had used children to protect him from those who were against his plan to have cops hack into our emails. "The total cost of benefits will be increasingly unsustainable for tomorrow's workers and taxpayers," she said. "And it's the next generations of Canadians who will have to shoulder the burden." In other words, we are unfairly burdening our children and grandchildren because of our impending slackery. Wait a minute, there missy. I suppose

After Hannah left us, I was curious to see if anything would change in the dog-family dynamic. Would the pugs be despondent? Would they be searching for Hannah, wondering what happened to the old goof ball? Things changed alright, within hours. Ming, our 12-year-old pug, became a whole new dog. Our little toothless wonder actually found a chew bone and started gnawing at it. I hadn't seen this sight for many, many years. She happily chomped away on one of Gordie's pre-chews, then started bouncing around the house like a new puppy. I realized what an impact Hannah had made on the dog politics of the household. Just by her sheer size and goofiness, she dominated the scene from morning until night. She spent a lot of time herding Ming. It was as if she were on defence making sure that Ming couldn't score a goal. I had a troubling memory last night. Ming was having little fainting spells a few months back due, we think, to sleep apnea. Ming would sit bolt upright on

We  took away Hannah's bowl and her favorite pillow, and today we're going to undertake a good and proper vacuum. But we can't exorcise her spirit from the house. She was into every activity, standing beside me as I minced ham for the egg white omelette; up on the bed hovering over me, waiting for her first constitutional of the day; greeting guests with a teddy bear in her mouth, nearly knocking drinks off coffee tables; and chilling beside the barbecue while Scott made his famous ribs. There is still evidence of her in the yard, waiting to be cleaned with the first thaw. There are tufts of hair in the corner. Toys on the floor. It will be weeks before the house will be officially de-Hannatized. Her pictures are all over the walls. Up beside Scott's chair, there is a photograph of Hannah as a one-year-old solid white, her black nose not yet turned brown. On the music shelf is an electronic slideshow jammed with her images, playing with the pugs in the yard, goof

I want to thank Vickileaks for exposing Vic Toews for what he is. A first class douche bag. The guy is getting all up in our faces, telling us that we're on the side of the child pornographers, because we don't support letting the cops read our private correspondence and check out what we put on Facebook. Mr. High and Mighty. Mr. Moral Centre. Mr. Family Man. Meanwhile, according to the leaks, Vic the Dick impregnated the babysitter and humiliated his wife of 30 years. Now he's asking for privacy. Accusing the opposition of snooping in his own personal underwear drawer. Some men think it's okay to be sleazoids, flinging their privates at all comers, while carving out for themselves the moral high ground. I was married to one of those guys. It's not okay to hurt the people you love and humiliate them while going to church every Sunday. And it's not okay for politicians to preach morality to us and then ask for privacy when they commit adultery,

It's been eight hours of crying. I can scarcely believe that the tears keep on flowing. Eight hours since we got the word that Hannah, my beloved companion, was bleeding internally and could not be saved. She was our love, our light, our girl at the end of long and horrible days. For nine years, we tended to every wound. We made her homemade food. We walked her. We loved her. But we could not spare her this final fate. She was spirited when we arrived at the vet, barked at a cat and another dog. She happily accompanied the vet tech for blood tests. And then the death sentence. Cancer. I buried my head in my sleeve and sobbed. I hugged my sweet little retriever as she happily was led away. I was too scared to be part of the execution. I simply didn't want to remember her that way. Selfish to the end. She didn't put up a fight. She seemed to agree, it was time to go. I will love you forever Hannah. You changed my life. You taught me how to love unconditionally.

My heart is broken. I love you, my precious little girl.

My lovely Hannah died this morning. She had been suffering, unbeknownst to us, from cancer. There are no words to describe how much we all loved her. There is another angel in heaven.

I have this really disturbing image in my head of Vic Toews talking to reporters using toddlers as a human shield. You see the government wants to give up your email info to the cops and its reasoning is that this invasion of privacy "will protect children from predators". It's sort of like giving cops the excuse that they can search your car because your back headlight is broken. While I do have some respect for law enforcement, we also know that cops can be heavy-handed at times and can push the envelop when given a new toy. Remember that poor unarmed Polish fellar who bought the farm after being tasered to death by the RCMP? If you can't trust cops with a taser gun, how can you possibly trust them with your Facebook photos of your kid peeing, naked on a beach somewhere? Or laying on a bear rug? I'm not saying you should be posting these photos, but stupidity isn't pedophilia. Despite what we see on tv, cops don't always get it right. Poor ba

I love Gordon J. Blackstone like a son. But he's now become Public Enemy Number One in my household. My 11-year-old black pug seems to be possessed by a malevolent spirit. He spins and spits, he's developed this way of talking in tongues which sounds suspiciously like throat singing. He's driving me absolutely nuts. The trouble with Gordie is that he hates the baby and everything associated with the baby. Little Skye is the sweetest little human but not to Gord. To Gord, Skye is an uninvited interloper, a taker of space to which he believes he's entitled. Ming will sleep soundly next to me. Hannah could care less. Gord chatters endlessly while I'm burping her or jostling her. Sometimes, he shits himself. And don't get him started on the playpen or the car seat. To Gord, baby paraphernalia are accessories after the fact. Even when Skye is finally taken down to her parents, Gordie will yip for a good hour and twirl in front of the baby seat, like

Nine years ago, Scott asked me out for Valentine's Day, which I believe was a Tuesday. Then I didn't hear from him until Friday. He took me to a wonderful Italian restaurant and we sealed the deal with pasta, seafood and two bottles of Barolo. We moved in together two weeks later and have been together, and happy ever since. At our age, there was no time to lose. It wasn't love at first sight; I met him 30 years before. Our love grew out of shared interests, fun and great food. It was love at first bite. Love you, honey.

I've been thinking a lot about beautiful, tragic, Whitney Houston and the price she paid for success. In her youth, she was regal, poised and perfect; in her final days, she was a pathetic addict, stumbling around L.A., hair and clothes akimbo, ready for a rumble. Last night Whitney was, once again, on full display at the Grammys, her image dominating the big screen, her songs belted out by the next generation of divas. A martyr to the cause, poor Whitney. I'm sure there were many tweaks, tokes and toasts to Whitney at the Grammy after party. And it won't end there. She will sell a lot of magazines. She will buoy the ratings of Entertainment Tonight as its producers delight in running and re-running slow motion images of her in various states of intoxication. Comparisons will be made to Amy Winehouse and Anna Nicole Smith. Michael Jackson. Dr. Phil will weigh in. Truth is, this is not a new story. The calf had been slaughtered long ago. Whitney's caree

Canadian journalism lost another great icon yesterday. Trent Frayne, known as Bill, died peacefully after a long and rich life. Bill will be joining his wife, June Callwood, if one believes in that sort of thing. Together, they were a unique and odd team over 60 years of marriage. Bill was the quiet, competent, inspiration behind a woman of a thousand faces and causes. Don't get me wrong; he was no slouch. It was just that June was such a big personality, a writer, a broadcaster, a social activist. Whereever there was a person in need, June was there, loudly and proudly. Meanwhile, Bill went about pursuing his great and many interests, as one does when one is married to a powerhouse, which included writing 12 books, mentoring countless young journalists and picking up a National Newspaper Award. It is a miracle that Bill and June endured. Their family backstory was ripe with tragic tales of great losses. They say that there is nothing worse that losing a child and the F

On the near-eve of St. Valentine's Day, the Ottawa Citizen asked a burning question today: why can't single women in this town find suitable mates? We've all heard the old excuse -- that there were more women than men in this burg. Apparently not so. According to recent stats, the balance has shifted and there are now 12,000 men left over after you count all the men who are currently hooked up. Okay, right off the back, I'm questioning their police work. The bean counters may have forgotten to ask one incredibly pertinent question: gay or straight? Given the fact I once heard that one in ten men are gay in Ottawa -- I am sure the number is much, much higher -- I still believe there aren't enough single men for desperate women. Once you factor out the creeps and ne'er do wells, the homeless, the nerdy and the social awkward, I think it's safe to say that decent single women outnumber potential suitors a good three to one. Odds aren't good.

To: Heart and Stroke Foundation Death Can Wait Department From: Rose Simpson Re: My email subscription Dear Death: Please cancel my subscription to your service. You have just ruined my Valentine's Day. Yesterday, you sent me an email asking me to "show a loved one you care by taking action against Death" on February 14th. Invite your sweetheart on a long walk before that romantic dinner -- research shows that walking before eating can counteract the effects of a fatty meal. Don't forget to record your healthy actions on your My Actions page (the place a person records their blood pressure)." Thanks Heart and Stroke. Thanks for then proceeding to tell me several stories about women having heart attacks and worse. I don't want to see this kind of crap on the eve of Valentine's Day. All I will be thinking about is whether I'll give my sweetie a heart attack if we decide to do the horizontal mambo. Now I'm re-planning my Valent

For those of you not on CTV's Facebook, here is a note sent today by CTV Ottawa's Carole Anne Meehan about the "nightmare" of losing her husband, Greg Etue. The past four weeks have been a nightmare. There really are no words to describe the worry and anxiety surrounding my husband Greg's disappearance and then receiving the devastating news that he was de ... ad. While that heavy cloud still sits over my family, there is one thing that truly lifts my heart, and that has been from the outpouring of support from my family, friends and our community. From the supportive calls and emails, offers of assistance with the children - to the many meals that were delivered to my door - we have felt surrounded by love. So many people have helped us, I don't know how to begin to say: 'Thank You.' I took Evan and Elena to the library tonight to get some new books. When we arrived home there was a huge package on our front step stuffed with cards and let

There is word today that House has been cancelled. Woe is we. For years, House was Monday night must-see tv for millions of fans. My son Nick even  has all the DVDs, which he watches over and over again. Dr. House made Vicadin a Household name. His life was a cautionary yet seductive tale about adventures with prescription medication. He proved some people can't lick addiction, which made the whole thing a lot more real for those of us in the ugly know. But how we loved to see him squirm and writhe in pain like a rattler. How we loved to know the man with no scruples. But House changed and that's why people stopped watching. I blame Cuddy for his demise. Once he got her blouse off, he became a simpering wet, a puppy dog in love. We hated Cuddy and her perky double D's for that. It's always a woman that takes down a great man, now isn't it? Because of Cuddy, our House is no longer our Home.

I don't know about you, but the Heart and Stroke Foundation's newest round of commercials are scaring the crap out of me. They're giving me nightmares. All I can think about is that death loves older women like me. That while I'm protecting my husband, the bogeyman is coming after me. That one of the bum-cracked guys who is fixing my roof is going to drop dead before my very eyes -- because in a threesome of roofers, death is going to get one of them. Who's writing this stuff? Stephen King? I'm not saying the Make Death Wait campaign isn't working. I got myself to the doctor and I'm now on blood pressure medication that makes me feel like Margie, the pregnant cop in Fargo. Right in the middle of the gym today, I heard the famous bit in my head. Are you alright, Rose? Nope, I think I'm gonna to barf. The meds have got my heart racing like Roger Rabbit, after a sighting of Jessica Rabbit's boobies. Before I started this medic

Seven years ago, when I worked in the mental health field, mental illness was still pretty shameful. People hid their conditions to save their jobs. Families crumbled under the weight of alcohol and drug addictions. Seniors were locked away with dementia. We knew there were plenty of challenges ahead of us. Government hearings led by Senators Michael Kirby and Wilbert Keon heard from psychiatrists, social workers, psychologists and ordinary folk about how mental illness was ruining lives and costing Canadian business millions of dollars in lost productivity. Then, under the Martin government, an announcement came that the government had heard our cry, and was establishing a Mental Health Commission to look at ways to bring mental illness "out of the shadows". That was just before the election but the Harper government later embraced the idea and appointed Kirby as the commission's first head. Doctors clamored to get on board the mental illness gravy train. Corporati

I spent last night laying on a gurney in the hospital waiting for an evaluation. Nobody came to see me. Eventually, some people came by with buckets of KFC and the whole ward turned into a party. Never did see a nurse. Or a doctor. Just a whole lot of people like me laying on gurneys with sheets over them. With chicken juice dripping down their legs. Some health care dreams are better than others.

It's been nearly a year since I joined The Athletic Club in Ottawa. I can't believe that I've stuck it out. I never stick with anything; I'm weak, what can I say? In thinking back, I realize how much I hated going to the gym in the past. Scott and I joined several gyms, but couldn't really connect with the experience. I felt old, embarrassed, silly and scared. Often, we would quit a gym over any excuse; mainly we quit because Scott had reinjured many of his joints worn down by high school football and carrying around a camera for 30 years. I was more than happy to bail. Not my fault, right? For some of us, maybe we just have to come to exercise at our own time, in our own way. When I started, I could only do five minutes on the rowing machine. Now, I pound that same machine for 30 minutes in addition to doing 30 minutes on the elliptical. Exercise has changed my life and my attitude. For years, I had trouble walking on sore feet and had tendonitis in

I think I'm speaking for a lot of 50-something women here when I say that Madonna had no business at the Super Bowl. There she was, all Miss High and Mighty, dressed like Cleo-friggin-patra, surrounded by a plethora of gay men in all shapes, sizes and colors. Oh, and Celo Green. What was she trying to prove? What was the NFL thinking? I'd rather see Pat Boone in leopard skin. Did you see her at the Golden Globes when she didn't win for W.E. standing there all snooty and entitled, with puckered biceps that looked like Jaws had got to them? Her, with that fake English accent? My, you've come a long way, Ms. Ciccone, since Susan was Desperately Seeking You in downtown 'Troit. Who could forget the old days with your lace gloves and hair frizz? Takes me back, alrighty. Now your claim to fame is being friends with Demi Moore while making terrible English bedroom dramas that even Elton John hates. Wait! You got to play the Super Bowl! Women over 50

It's hard to believe that Little Skye has been with us a month already. She's growing in leaps and bounds, sucking happily on her bottle, and looking around now. She's already a big fan of American Idol and goes to sleep immediately to the sounds of Shania Twain. Oh, how evil I am. While her dad is head-banging in the basement, his little daughter will be pleading for a hurtin' tune. Can't, can't wait to see that! I'm getting Nick back for 26 years of Linkin Park. Meanwhile, Gordon J. Blackstone continues to poop himself and twirl around the living room like a  little medicine man trying to ward away the spirit of the Eddie Bauer playstation. Even when Skye isn't around, Gordie the pug gets it into his head that her spirit is still inhabiting the evil grey structure by the balcony door. I'm going to have to consult Cesar Milan on how to end the pug-baby stand off. We might just have to wait until Little Skye becomes Big Skye and she

I was so pissed off at Rogers yesterday, I nearly hurled my iPhone into the toilet. We pay a small fortune every month to the heirs of Ted Rogers only to be offered inferior services. Yesterday was the last straw and I called to complain. I had set my PVR to record several programs and when I went to watch them, they weren't there. Most of the shows I watch aren't offered on the lame TV OnDemand service, which only carries a limited variety of prime time shows -- and not even all the episodes! So my recordings were gone forever. Anyway, what really pissed me off was that we'd taken our PVR back last week for exchange because it was showing everything I recorded in slow motion, and in PINK. This past year, we've had to return our PVRs four times because CISCO doesn't know how to make a PVR that works when you switch channels quickly. Pieces of shit. So I called Rogers and got the usual run around. Could I unplug it? Maybe it's my cable. Maybe it'

For the first time in my long life, I'm not sure I want to live in Canada anymore. The country I love is beginning to be unrecognizable. The values we have shared oh, these many years, are being questioned. Our government says we can't afford our health care system. It can't support our senior citizens. It's tossed off Canada's hard won reputation as a peace-maker. Canadians have a new image abroad. We are war-mongers, buttinskies in the politics of countries not our own. The even more stern daughter of God. Our ministers are standing up and telling Europeans -- my ancestors -- what to do, how to behave. Once proud of the legacy of Lester B. Pearson, I'm now embarrassed to be a Canadian. We're taking our  resources and selling them to the highest bidder. We're flogging seal meat to China so we can lock up precious Panda Bears at the Toronto Zoo. We're letting the Americans kill a Canadian on death row. And we're building prisons

I woke up this morning feeling pukey and out of sorts. It felt like morning sickness. Ah ha, but we know that can't happen. Yesterday, I started a new regime and I'm paying for it dearly today. I finally succumbed to the siren call of the blood pressure medication that Dr. Ben was holding in his hand. I fought him tooth and nail on taking medication. Like a Lincoln lawyer, I made my case. I work out an hour a day. I've scaled back on the alcohol. I'm eating better than Dr. Oz. But numbers don't lie. For the past week I've been testing my blood pressure and it's high -- 155 over 100 high. Dangerous high. "Well, heart and stroke runs in the family," I conceded as I watched Dr. Ben's eyes twinkle. "But I don't smoke!" He shrugged and gave me a blister pack full of tiny pills which I'm finding even harder to swallow than the horse pills they call multivitamins. I didn't feel too bad yesterday, but toda

I got out of the daily news reporting game, I'll admit, because I didn't have the stomach to cover the many sad stories that came across my desk. I remember clearly once when I had to call an RCMP sergeant after his young son blew his head off with the officer's service revolver. "Please," he pleaded. "I really can't talk right now." "It was your gun, is that correct?" He slammed down the receiver. I was ashamed of myself. People have a right to some privacy in difficult times like that. I also used to hate having to go to the door of a dead child's home and jostle the competition for a picture. Really, it felt more like ghoulism than journalism. That said, I still believe that these stories must be told in an honest and forthright fashion with all the facts and none of the flourish and emotion that is all the rage in reporting these days. Over the past two years, we, in this community, have been treated to a lot o