Rose's Cantina

I woke up in the middle of the night, as I sometimes do, in an agitated state worrying that the neighbors might firebomb my garage after I ratted them out to bylaw. I ratted them out to bylaw because they are running some kind of illegal operation, either a business or a school, which requires at least a hundred minivans to pull up a day and block my driveway. You might ask: why don't you go and talk to them directly? The reason is simple. I don't actually think anyone lives in the house. There are streams of young people, including children, going into and out of the house but I haven't identified one single person who seems to be a resident of the pile. So who, exactly, does one ask? As a result of the congestion, the street is turning dangerous especially after a snowfall when the plows are trying to negotiate the street. Plows can't exactly weave in and out of a sea of minivans, especially ones that are parked in the middle of the street. Also, the garbage gu...

As I sit on my perch surveying my kingdom, I watch the weirdos and drug addicts walk down the street and I try not to be judgmental. Who am I? I know nothing about their lives. Maybe they used to be rock stars or soccer kids. Somebody must have loved them. Maybe they had jobs and dreams.  Not today, not on this journey down the road to despair. I live on Saint Laurent Boulevard, a trashy street in the east end of Ottawa, a block from a Quickie convenience store, and directly across from a grow-op. It might not be a grow-op but it certainly is a quick stop for drugs. Stretch limos arrive at all hours and there's a lot of foot traffic, in and out, sure signs of nasty business being transacted within. The place is a dilapitated war-era house, the kind that might have started out as a trailer but somehow morphed into a single home dwelling in what was once an Ottawa suburb. It's certainly seen better days with its unkempt lawn, wooden deck that is oddly out...