Rose's Cantina

Some 25 years ago, I found myself rudderless, having sold my rather large pile of a house in Orleans after my husband left me with three little kids. At the time, Dan had offered to take the kids for the summer, and I agreed. I needed to spend the summer healing. I bought myself a townhouse and sold most of my belongings to pay for the move. With the little cash I had left, I invested in some cheap Ikea furniture. Trouble was, I had no idea how to wield an Allan key. Let's just say, I had left all the heavy lifting and practical stuff to my husband, who was now in the wind. One day, after dropping the kids off at our mid-point, where Dan's girlfriend picked them up, I decided to stroll over to the National Press Club. It was tough. I was still reeling, still grieving the death of my marriage, and hurting about passing off my three little kids to the woman who helped break up my marriage. It was summer, with the Parliamentary recess on, and there was absolutely nobo...

If there's an empty chair at Val Sear's table in Heaven (or the other end) I want to reserve it for myself. Of all the scribes I've met during my 40 years in and around the business, Val was the wittiest and most colorful, at least when it came to using language. He was a master punster, who could always be counted on to deliver the most "Searing"  and insightful comment or lede. Val took ideas, masticated them, and spit them out in 30 words or less. His take was always a "blinding glimpse of the obvious". Today, many of his long time colleagues from the Hill and beyond shared Valisms like these on the National Press Club Virtually Speaking site. Without their permission, I am sharing their stories today. One of my memories of Val Sears was him coming to Ottawa to cover something that turned out to be far less interesting than The Star expected. He just shrugged and said, "Well, we've turned chaff into bricks before....

It is said that membership has its privileges. And I would say it was a privilege indeed to be a member of the National Press Club. It was more than a drinking hole, though as drinking holes go, it had few rivals. It was more than a place where journalists gathered to pick the brains of federal politicians. The Press Club was like a home and we were a family where stars shone, achievers were appreciated, braggards were put in their place and weirdos were tolerated. For the most part, press club members checked their egos at the door lest they be jeered at, mocked or punched out. What I loved about the club was that the employees -- the bartenders, servers, maintenance staff -- were not just slaves to the minimum wage; they were family, too. Many a Saturdays would see club members competing with staff in shuffleboard or snooker. And it wasn't unusual to see Pete Leblanc standing against his vacuum cleaner talking politics with media sta...

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 hi...

Watching yesterday's clown parade in Ottawa, I couldn't help but feel some nostalgia for the old Press Club. If the Club were still alive, we would all be heading there noonish to chatter about former colleagues, rivals and ne'er do wells who seem to have their knickers in some pretty serious knots over their juvenile spending habits. The talk would turn to Mike Duffy, of course, who, as the French say had been farting above his asshole in recent days. The usual crowd would chow down on Chef Paul's famous roast beef and pea soup lunch. Everybody who was anybody in Ottawa would be there. Charles Lynch, Stu McLeod, Gus Cloutier and the Van Dusens in one corner. The French table spreading out in the middle. Nino would be fighting with Michel Vastel who would be telling the manager to go fuck himself. Vastel would be expelled. Again. Over at the Sandinista table all the Tories would sit in their various states of "in or out". They would be chain smok...

There are people in this life who make everything around them sparkle. Peter Morton was one of those people. He just couldn't help himself. Peter was unconventionally handsome, a wiry little ginger all covered in freckles. He was nerdy in a Ronald Weasley way but it was his charm and infectious laugh that made him special. As a financial journalist, he had the ability to take the driest subject matter and lift the words right off the page. He was at the forefront of a movement that turned bean counters into rock stars. He made money talk cool. I met Peter at the place I met most people in 1994, at Dapoe's bar at the National Press Club. Peter walked into the place and decided it needed fixing. So he became its treasurer. We became fast friends, spending hours playing tennis and drinking beer on various patios. We didn't have much in common. He was happily married, I was unhappily divorced. He wrote about numbers and lived in cool Westboro. I wr...

At the National Press Club bar, there was always one guy. The guy who held back while the others held court. The one everybody looked to for answers to the question of the day. The guy who could clean anybody's clock at trivia, on any subject but never bragged about it. The guy who showed quiet competence at the office. The guy who kept the coolest head. Al Toulin was that guy. He was a gentle giant, with a great sense of humor to go along with his tremendous sense of history. Al was habitual. He took his lunch every day at Dapoe's bar in the lower part of the Press Club. He devoured books like they were candy. He was one of the boys but would spend time with a kid brought to the office by a single mother, distracting him while mom got her job done. I spent more than a few lunch hours with Al and the boys shooting the shit. Every time I did, I learned something. I didn't know Al well, but I liked him. Everybody liked him. He was that guy. Al left this world...

You know you're getting old when you sign up for ObitMessenger, a service that delivers the latest obituaries right to your iPhone. Ever since I signed up to get the Ottawa Citizen on my Kindle, I've missed the obituaries which, for some reason, the Citizen doesn't relay onto the Kindle edition. I can't understand it. As today's Census will attest, and what we already know, is that we are an ageing society and with that ageing society comes more dead people. I want to know who they are. I've lived in this strange burg more than half my life, so I know a lot of people. I want to know who exactly is dropping dead. I don't get out much, so funerals provide an important opportunity to network with the living. My former colleague and press club friend Gord Lovelace was recently asked whether he might consider getting his buddies back together for a Bad News Band reunion. Gord shot back on Facebook that he'd love to, except that most of the band is pla...

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. ...