Rose's Cantina

That Simon Cowell is a heartless bastard, isn't he? There's word today that he dumped Steve Jones, Nicole Scherzinger and even his favorite little puffball, Paula Abdul from the judging panel at the Xploit Factor . Apparently Simon is disappointed with his numbers for the past season, which were roughly half of those from American Idol and the upstart The Voice . Methinks Simon should blame himself. First, American audiences are getting tired of the Brit-factor, lame presenters who might work on U.K. television but certainly don't fly on the highly energized American nets. The Brit drone, I like to call it. Secondly, the show suffers from the hubris of its makers. It isn't a singing competition at all. It is a chance for Cowell and his judges to showcase their fabulous homes and yachts while bickering about who is the best music producer. The contestants get completely lost in the ego. Third, Cowell knew what he was getting with the flaky Abdul who didn...

In a parking lot exactly two blocks from my house, a beautiful young woman sat holding hands with her loving boyfriend. It was 2 a.m. and the pair had been tooling around Ottawa, enjoying its wonderful gifts and they stopped for just a moment to steal a kiss. In their final hours of life, there was joy, love and happiness. Their future plans were shattered forever when the girl's brother drove up and shot them both dead as part of a family-sanctioned honor killing. Like an old-fashioned western, a common theme was played out: the boy was no good for the sister. A wrong had to be made right. Two lives were wasted because of some kind of misguided patriarchal principle. Women come to this country to escape this kind of barbarism. They pack up, leave everything and start up with new dreams for their daughters. Unfortunately, for many women, there is no escaping their native culture and values. Within their families, as we saw during the Shafia trial, they are abused, to...

Truth be told, not everybody in this household is happy with the arrival of The Little Peanut. Gordon J. Blackstone is positively apoplectic. He whines and he barks, he spins backwards like a New Zealand toilet. If I'm feeding Skye, Gordie will nose in, lick her feet, then bounce back on his back paws, startling himself. When I get up with her, Gordie runs around my feet. My elderly pug may think she's a cat; I'm not sure. I fear dementia. If he thinks she's a cat, I'm concerned. Gordie chased the last cat we had into the furnace room and she wouldn't come out. We had to find her a new pugless home. Can't do that with a baby. Gordie's going to have to learn that there's a new sheriff in town and she wears Pampers. I'm hoping he'll adjust. Yesterday, he was spinning so frantically, he let several tiny turds fly out of his butt hole like it was a machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat.

Stephen Harper is considering raising the age Canadians can receive the Old Age Security benefit from 65 to 67. I have questions: Shouldn't he have mentioned this little detail in the Conservative platform during the election? Do you think this will play well with the traditional Conservative constituency that skews a tad old on the demographic scale? Has the Prime Minister developed a case of dementia? Has he paid his bodyguards? This is how our fearless leader thanks the millions of boomers who have worked hard and paid high taxes over the past forty years. This is how he repays Canadians who do not have pension plans. Canadians working in low income, back-breaking jobs that barely pay a living wage. Canadians who look forward to enjoying their senior years. Not to mention the many women who have stayed home to raise their children, or who worked part-time so they can care for aging relatives. Harper doesn't care about these Canadians. Heartless Harper on...

Sad news today. Carole Anne's husband was found dead today. This note was just posted on CTV Ottawa from anchor Carole Anne Meehan whose husband, Greg Etue, disappeared eight days ago. Let's all pray for his return. I am compelled to give everyone an update on my husband Greg’s disappearance. Those are incredibly hard words to write – this is a nightmare that is now into its 8th day. Ottawa Police continue to work hard to find Greg’s Pontiac Montana Van. He had a full tank of gas on the day he went missing, Monday, Jan. 16th. He was last seen on Robertson Road that afternoon. The van has a Thule ski box on top. I ask anyone with information to please call police. We need Greg home. We miss him terribly and our children are lost and confused. I want to thank everyone who knows our family for their discretion in dealing with this subject. Our kids have not been approached with awkward questions…to them Dad, is just lost and will make his way home. I pray this mystery ...

It's the week that every hockey fan in Ottawa has been waiting for. The NHL All Star Game is coming to town. Lights! Camera! Action! Get ready for the big intro on Thursday when the Stanley Cup will be taken down the Rideau Canal skateway, hoisted by NHLers and topless girls in bikini bottoms. I can't wait to see that. They'll have to wear rubber boots and hip waders given the state of Canada's largest skating rink which is, currently, under water. Ditto, I suspect, for the brand spanking new skating rink in front of city hall that we taxpayers forked over a small fortune to build this year. Let's call it what it is, shall we? Mayor Watson's Paddling Pool.

My Uncle Vern was mentally challenged. We didn't call it that in his day. We didn't really call it anything. Uncle Vern just never grew up. School officials put him through public school until they didn't anymore, and then he went to work for my granddad on our farm in Southern Ontario. Vern was a great guy and I loved him. Throughout my childhood, Uncle Vern was my playmate, a little man who pulled me in a red wagon and took me out for Hallowe'en. He always liked to dress like Freddie the Freeloader. One day, this boy-man of 54 went out to visit a neighbor, to help bring in the crop of apples. I didn't hear the ambulance. I only remember my mother saying that Vern had died from a massive heart attack. You might say Vern died with his rubber boots on. I couldn't believe it. I was heartbroken, as any child would be in losing not just an uncle but a playmate. I remember Vern putting a lot of sugar on his cornflakes but other than that, I think he ...