Rose's Cantina

Toronto Mayor Rob Ford has been taking a lot of unfair flak of late from the elites who believe their own piles of feces don't smell. As Mayoral Bro Doug points out, there are a lot of stinkers on Toronto City Council who drink and drive, hire prostitutes, snort blow and consort with criminals. At least, Doug would say, Robbie's honest about it. I'm in Doug's court. I believe Mayor Ford has been good for Toronto and good for politics. That's because he's the ultimate populist, a man of the people, who works hard and parties even harder. Who cares if he takes out a hit on his sister's old boyfriend? Who minds if he gets hammered on the weekends? Who doesn't? Rob Ford has become an inspiration in politics. By lowering the bar, Rob Ford has made it possible for every living, breathing, hosehead and headbanger to have dreams of a political future. Hey, it beats Fort McMurray in ninety below. Politics isn't for the snoots anymore, the ones w...

I read in the Globe and Mail this morning that Doug Ford was a hash dealer back in 1980. A refrain of an old song went through my head. Those were the days my friend, I thought they'd never end. We'd sing and dance for ever and a day. I didn't smoke a lot of hash in 1980 but I did smoke my share. It was during my rock and roll days when I was a music reviewer for the Ottawa Citizen and I was tooling around in my bright white bowling alley car, sometimes ferrying musicians over to Hull where we would get wasted, then roll home to sleep for 12 hours. I only got arrested for drunk driving once -- another story entirely -- and I only snorted cocaine once, but I did do it. I remember vividly being high on coke, sitting on a Go Train and feeling my throat swell up. I also spent six hours at a Tim Horton's. For a time during that period, I might have been fashioned as a drug dealer, though I like to think of it as being a purveyor of organic substances that wer...

I agree to meet Kate and Jose in a little bar down the street from our apartment to celebrate the end of the school year. As Jose gets ready to order a second pitcher of margaritas, and I find myself weaving a little, unaccustomed as I am to drinking large volumes of Mexican libations. Or maybe it was the crackpipe I smoked earlier. On the way to the john, I have an idea. I pick up my cellphone and dial the last number. It's Christian Gray's number, his private number, the one he scribbled on his business card. "Grey." "Hello, Christian, this is Ana. I'm sitting in a bar here, thinking about your snake trouser and wondered if you'd like to show it to me once and for all. You've got a lot of competition, here. Jose is just about to jump my bones so if you want to see me, just follow the signal." With that, I hang up, just before I lose my cookies. Nice. I wipe the drool off my face and comb my dampened hair, then re-enter the ba...