Rose's Cantina

A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others."  -- L. Frank Baum It's not easy standing out in a family like the Van Dusens. They are like tribbles; they are everywhere. In politics. In the media. In the fine arts. Even on stage at local fairs raising money for good causes. But Jack Van Dusen is no ordinary Van Dusen. He's a trailblazer. He was the voice of Ottawa anchoring the local news in the early days, with the sidekicks you see in the photo above. He was on Parliament Hill rubbing shoulders with the likes of John George Diefenbaker and making mischief with the relatively small cabal of ink stain wretches who were the first generation to talk to Canadians over the air waves. After a successful time in the media, Jack had a second career as a public relations guy. That's when I met him sitting at the lunch table at the National Press Club with his brother Tom, the columnist Charles Lynch, Sergeant-at-Arms Gus Clou...

PHOTO BY JEAN-MARC CARISSE In the fall of 1980, I got a job writing briefing notes for the National Liberal Caucus. I heard about the gig from an old Ottawa Journal buddy who bought me a beer at the Press Club.  That's how you got jobs in the 80s, sitting in the games room, smoking and playing snooker. Not like today when you need a Master's degree and a French diploma to go to the bathroom in Ottawa.  I wasn't particularly political. You might say I leaned left, more NDPish, but I was looking for a new opportunity. After the Journal folded, I'd worked freelance for the Ottawa Citizen chasing musicians around the city and writing a column about them.  My year of Carrie Bradshaw, without the nice shoes. A year of that was enough.  Both my liver and my ears needed a rest. I hadn't realized that, drinking-wise, I was pretty much jumping from the pan into the flames. In those days, booze flowed freely on Parliament Hill. You could get a drink an...

Embed from Getty Images My old boss in the Prime Minister's Office was fond of hauling me up on the blue carpet several times a day for various infractions. We worked in the correspondence division, Peggy had very high standards, and I was a sloppy hot mess back in those days. I'd stand there, and stutter. Or I'd make an excuse, or apologize. After a few minutes, Peggy would glare at me. "Stop grovelling, Rose." Her words came crawling back into my head as I watched Tom Mulcair standing on the stage during the NDP convention. His face was contorted and strange. It was as if he were a character in one of those Kindergarten books, the ones that were cut into three different strips, so you could take the eyes on one person and put them on another. His mouth was almost leering, with a strange side smile, and his eyes were glistening and small. I swear to God, his beard got greyer as he pleaded with delegates to keep him on to fight another day...

Those young whipper snappers who run with Justin Trudeau might think that they invented the politics of joy in Canada. They would be wrong. We did. Yesterday, I met up with my former colleagues from the Trudeau Liberal era. I haven't seen these bad actors for 30 years, and I haven't laughed so long and hard as I did last night in all that time. We all worked together for a few years for the Liberal Party of Canada at a time when you were never quite sure your paycheque would be honored. These were ugly times in the early 80s after Pierre was resurrected, and before his walk in the snow. These were the days of endless wrangling over the patriation of the Constitution, Trudeau's quest for peace, and the boneheadedness of the National Energy Program. My job was to write the propaganda that was sent out to the Liberal "militants' in the form of the badly monikered ad Lib newspaper. I would write lies, half-truths, nosestretchers, anything tha...

In response to much prodding and pleading from my fan(s), I have finally decided to write that first book. It will be called Party Girl: From Ottawa Hack to Parliament Hill Flack. Or something like that. The last part might change, but not the first part. Definitely not the first part. It will be an e-book to start with, though reader(s) will be able to buy a soft cover copy for much, much, more money. I'm going to follow the lead of my brilliant son, the man-child living in the Bat Cave downstairs, who has self-published three bestish-selling books of poetry. He managed to publish without ever spending a bleeding penny, and I intend to do the same. So think of Party Girl as my handmade love letter to Ottawa. It is a memoir of sorts, as much as it can be a memoir because I don't exactly remember everything. It will follow my exploits beginning with my studies at the Carleton School of Journalism where I never really managed to get a BJ (that's Bachelor of ...

Embed from Getty Images The Martini Ranch, aka Hy's Steakhouse,* was once the bastion of mandarins and politicians, a place where nobody blinked over a $300 luncheon bill. Soon, it will be a Walmart, or a Baby Gap. The chattering class has spent the last week pondering its demise. All the networks have been busy interviewing the last Hill journalists still with a pulse in this city, wondering what it all means. How could a stuffy dark place with absolutely no ambience, with a menu that offers no hint of leafy greens, possibly go down? A lot of the talking heads are offering such opinions as the culture has changed and journalists and politicians don't drink the way they used to.  Some of them are actually blaming poor old Jim Flaherty who presumably kept the place going on his tab alone. Alas, Jim swims with the fishes, and no longer eats cow on a plate. Why did Hy's fail? I'll tell you why. The real reason for the fall of Hy's and other high pri...

If you've worked on Parliament Hill, you have no doubt been to a Press Gallery Dinner. The dinners these days are relatively staid affairs. Except for this year. This year, our Elizabeth May extinguished herself by going postal on the Conservative Cabinet, f-bombing her way to a hook off the stage. Good for Liz. There's more than hot air in that helium balloon, and we frankly applaud her for whipping it out. That said, it was a frankly amateurish performance for Lizzie (who took and axe, gave the Tories 40 wacks), and it was pretty tame compared to Press Gallery Dinners of yore. I was reminded of this last night when the old codger Ray Stone filled my inbox to the brim with photos of pre-eminent journalists wearing chaps, and drunkenly crooning on stage, to the delight of a mostly male crowd back in the 70s. There were only a handful of women allowed at the Dinner back then, when I was a sweet young thing trying to break into serious journalism. The women allowed in were...

      For many of us in Ottawa, Parliament Hill is more than a place of political wrangling and policy making. It's our home.   And the people who work there are more than politicians, bureaucrats and scribes. They are family.   It's been years since I toiled there, but like most Ottawa Hillbillies, I left a piece of myself in those hallowed halls.   My husband, Scott, spent nearly 30 years on Parliament Hill as a cameraman for CBC. He knows every corner, every entrance, every tunnel, every political escape route. Scott stood for hours most days, in the hall beside the very steps that the gunman tore up yesterday, doing the job of all good camera guys -- scrumming politicians and cooling his heels waiting to catch the eye of seven prime ministers.   I worked as both a journalist and a political staffer on the Hill for nearly two decades. I had an office in the Langevin Block steps away from...

#137675083 / gettyimages.com I grew up under the care and tutilege of a single mother. We lived on mother's allowance, a more gentle term for welfare, until I was 16 when my mom went to back to work in a sweltering factory making sweaters for rich people. This is not a sob story. I never felt poor, not really, because I lived in a country that took care of its own. I knew Canada could give me a better future, a better life than my mom had. I just knew it. I didn't need any government advertising to tell me it was so. Because I lived in Canada, and I was poor, I qualified for student loans and grants, lots of them. I also got a bursary from the Royal Canadian Legion in the name of my father Russell who served his country with distinction before PTSD took his life in 1957. My brothers Bob and Gary got those loans and bursaries, too. Bob went on to a successful career as a financial manager and motivational speaker. Gary became a public school principal and, ...

#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 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...

I've been brushing up on my politics this week, and I noticed that, aside from the Ukraine and Toronto Mayor Rob Ford, everybody is talking about one subject: the plight of the middle class. PM Stephen Harper is trying to help out by using one of his tried and true tricks of economics -- income splitting. But he's only intending on trying this one on a hair of the population, namely well-to-do married folks with school aged kids who want mum to stay home and help with math problems. Justin Trudeau has uttered some piffle about the poor down-trodden middle class who "work hard (and deserve) a real chance at success" so they can pay off their debts and retire. "We're also all about freedom," he chirped. "Opportunity and did I mention Laurier?" What? There he goes again with the no sense making. And Tom Mulcair, of course, he's all about the worker bees. That's what the NDP has always stood for. More of the same. As a card-car...

Crime Minister Hairpiece looked like a lugubrious eel sitting in the front row of Paul Desmarais' shindig yesterday. It might have been a celebration of life for the great power baron, but it certainly looked like a funeral for Harper. There he sat amongst the great and powerful looking more like a homeless person than the Prime Minister of the Day. His once almost handsome face has dropped like an ill timed soufflé and his eyes are baggy and drooping underneath his specs. Dude is in serious need of some Botox. I bet if you looked at his shoes, they'd be all scuffy from all the battering he's taking from the Inquisitor--in-Chief, Tom Mulcair, the beard who walks like a man. Even his own MPs are weary of all the shit kicking they are taking whilst the Duffster recuperates from heart surgery in the Ottawa Hospital. (Here's to you, Duff, live long and prosper at the expense of the Hole in the Wall Gang.) The latest knee slapper involves the Privy Council Office ...

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...

Image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net (digitalart) I'm not an expert but I do know a thing or two about political fundraising. Back in the 80s, after my journalism career imploded, I took a job as a writer at 102 Bank Street, the rickety old office space rented by the Liberal Party of Canada. My job was to sell the Trudeau government to the Liberal masses through a tabloid magazine and direct mail fundraising letters. The best part for me, because I wasn't really political, was answering the mail from what the Party called its "militants", the people who forked over money to keep the Party operating. This was near the end of the Trudeau era and Pierre had pissed off a lot of people including many of the Party's own supporters. So most of the mail came from people who were pretty mad. It always amazed me how much time people spent crafting these letters. I guess they actually thought that Pierre read all his fan mail. One day, I opened up a letter a...

I thought that I was finished writing about Senator Joyce Fairbairn today, but I'm not. In fact, I would say I haven't even gotten started. What began as a small tropical storm this weekend has turned into a full blown Ottawa hurricane. A lot of people on Twitter and Facebook have taken to their computers to write unbelievably unkind things about a person they do not know. What they presume to know is everything. I heard someone muttering today that all the legislation passed when Joyce was sitting in her Senate seat, stricken by Alzheimer's, should be held void. People presume Joyce had no say in the matter. Do they know that for sure? Could it be that instead of taking that diagnosis and feeling sorry for herself -- in the minutes or hours when she found lucidity -- she decided to fight the disease instead of rolling over for dead? She kept on trucking, voting, showing up at meetings, touring her riding. I worked with Alzheimer's patients in another life, and...

Have you gotten any Linkedin requests lately? Linkedin seems to be the nerd's Facebook. A tool for bastards and boasters. Or the guy who has resolved never, ever to be on Facebook (because in reality he doesn't have any friends outside the office or because he left his family long ago and he's too embarrassed to put it out there). Lately, I've been getting loads of Linkedin requests. They remind me a bit of those Christmas cards folks used to send out with all the details of their fabulous lives and their perfect children. I always wanted to puke when I got those cards. I never trusted those handmade Christmas cards, and I don't trust people to tell the truth on Linkedin. What's the point of Linkedin anyway? It just seems to be a resume service. And most of those resumes look a bit padded, slightly contrived to make the vitae's curriculum a little sexier than it is in reality. Me, I'd like to write the first honest resume. It might...