Rose's Cantina

#182800425 / gettyimages.com I've been secretly hoping the Liberal candidate comes to my door during this provincial election. Truth be told, I've never had a Liberal darken my door here in the Liberal stronghold of Ottawa South. Maybe they don't like dogs. I think they simply don't like people. Still, hope springs eternal. This time, of course, it won't be Premier Dad coming by. It will be a handsome silver haired fellow named John Fraser (what, another one? Do they breed guys with this name just to go into politics?). I want to lay eyes on Fraser, to ask him one simple question. Remember David Peterson? Years back, David Peterson was given the keys to the kingdom of grapes and auto plants. He had the vision of building a dynasty, handing his Crown down through generations of true believers. In short, he saw himself as a modern day, Bay Street version of Pierre Trudeau. Peterson was handsome, confident, and generous. He travelled the world pi

#467876427 / gettyimages.com Last week, I was watching Power Play , the CTV blorgfest chaired by the cherubic Don Martin who was discussing the current state of the job market. According to Martin and panelists, a shocking trend has developed. One third of all people without jobs have simply stopped looking for work. The fate of the unemployed has become a hot button issue in the Ontario election, a hot tamale being tossed back and forth by Tim Hudak who would actually cut cushy public service jobs in favor of good new jobs in the manufacturing sector and Andrea Horwath who would somehow pull jobs out of thin air. The jobless situation also recently turned into a political football at the federal level when it was revealed that employers like McDonald's have been feathering their nests with cut-rate foreign workers rather than hiring Canadians. I was looking forward to hearing some spirited discussion on Martin's program. Instead, I heard this. "Ar

#108150436 / gettyimages.com For the past six months, I've been sitting in a chair with the ailing pug Gordie. He's blind, incontinent and has separation anxiety, so if I don't sit with him he cries. Sometimes, I feel like I'm in a black-and-white movie, and I'm Baby Jane watching over Blanche. Sometimes, I want to push Gordie's damned wheelchair down the stairs and be done with it. I wouldn't do that, of course. I love the little bugger more than life itself, but I'm starting to resent all the time I have to spend in front of the tellie watching the CTV News Channel. He may be going to Heaven soon, but I'm living in Purgatory, the place between Heaven and Hell, called the Ontario Election. This election sucks the big one. There's not much to choose from. It's kind of like watching TV Land reruns of the Beverly Hillbillies , Beetlejuice and The Facts of Life . Hey Blair, the Eighties are calling; they want their hair

#157436043 / gettyimages.com It's been nearly seven years since I've lived in the real world, gotten up, got dressed and went to a real job. This is not a life that I've chosen; it's a life that has chosen me. Since I've been on Plant Earth, I've only worked in real jobs for five years. Five years, and I'm coming up on 58. Not much to put on the old resume, is it? Itinerant. That's the word that comes to mind. How did this happen? Life happened, of course. I came out of journalism school with the usual expectations and sat myself down at a typewriter -- man, now this is really aging me -- and set about to have that exciting career that was promised me. I had that for three years, first as a part-timer, then as a full-time night reporter for the Ottawa Journal . Then the paper folded and I was out on my ass. I freelanced for the Ottawa Citizen for about year, writing a music column and all sorts of stories about going out in th

I spent yesterday morning with my friend Roger Levett, or perhaps I should say, I spent the morning with the last vestiges of the old guy who had expired during the night and lay resting on his bed, waiting for the funeral directors to come fetch him. Roger had spent the night before in full rascal mode, chatting up his wife Jennette, eating a sumptuous meal she had prepared for him, watching the Blue Jays get their asses handed to them. After griping through the evening news, Roger retired to his bedroom. A few hours later, Jennette heard him padding to the kitchen for a feed of pate and crackers. Minutes later, Roger left this world to meet his maker. Just like that, he was on his way. The man had some explaining to do. I'm sure St. Peter put him on probation for all his trespasses, but would eventually let him through the Pearly Gates because he was so much damned fun. Like most writers with a taste for the ale, Roger was a contrarian, the guy who might find himself

I was so damned excited that the Ottawa Farmer's Market was opening this weekend, I nearly wet myself. Going to the market has become one of the great rituals of each summer. Scott and I have a route. We start up the left side of Market (which is located if you don't know across from Carleton University, which does its part by trying to gouge visitors for parking even though there is free parking in the neighborhood). We like to compare prices and produce, chat up the farmers, ask them about their winters. Then we veer left talk to the Yak lady and Carleton the Jamaican sauce guy. Along the way, we buy eggs from John the egg guy and some wonderful Lanark cheese. On the right side, there is hot sauce and honey, baby booties and dog biscuits. By the time we're done, in past years, we've dropped $65 on a wonderful variety of colorful gnarly carrots and weird vegetables. The big treat is always, come June, when my homies from Niagara boot down the 401 to deliver lu

I was sitting outside, enjoying the first blush of spring/summer, considering the fact that Premier Kathleen Wynne was being brave enough to venture deep into the riding of Ottawa South, the former fiefdumb of Dalton McGuinty. I remember last election, I heard this great story about a guy who came to the door to find Premier Dad and his brother David on this doorstoop. "You can stay," he said to David. "You," he said pointing to Dalton. "You, get off my lawn." For years I've lived in Ottawa South and I've always voted for the Liberal Party because old habits die hard. I cut my political teeth working on the Hill for National Liberal Caucus, just a wee girl in search of quality employment, not realizing the experience made me something of a Philip Roth character. I still wear the Human Stain of liberalism even though I haven't been an active Liberal for two decades. It's hurt me workwise, no question, particularly over these many ye

#165505423 / gettyimages.com A lot of you have been waiting for the Liberal government to fall and the election to commence. Some of you. A few of you. Okay, anybody who belongs to a political party other than the Liberals. The rest of us hate elections. They cost a lot of money. They take up valuable time during the Big Bang Theory . We get to see too much video of ugly people kissing babies, surrounded by immigrants. Except Andrea Horwath, she's sort of pretty like Blair on the Facts of Life, except for that insane haircut. Nobody wants a premier who has to spend an hour every day ironing her hair. Anyway, like it or not, with or without the leader of Ford Nation disrupting the proceedings, we are going to have an election. Ready, set, yawn. First thing, first. There's nobody good to vote for. A vote for Kathleen Wynne is a vote for the Liberals who have completely fucked up everything. They squandered your precious tax money on a billion dollar boondo

#181082980 / gettyimages.com Now that Toronto Mayor Rob Ford has decided to take the cure, it's time to discuss, among ourselves, the possibility that he will indeed still become Mayor of Toronto, once again. Had he kept drinking and drugging, Rob Ford might very well have won back his tarnished crown, as the Mayor of the People of Canada's coolest, most notorious city. Unfortunately, a sober Rob Ford doesn't have a hope. Here's why. Like it or not, drunks tell the truth. Taking a few shots of the demon rum may make a person run off at the mouth, and he make indeed regret it later, but generally speaking, booze opens up the cortex of honesty. Rob Ford indeed may have wanted to, what did he say? "jam" a competitor. He also may sincerely believe he has "more than enough to eat at home". And quite possibly, Rob Ford may have wanted someone to die at the business end of his ham handed fists. He also most assuredly believes in his drunken s