Rose's Cantina

  Maybe it's because I lost my dad as a little kid. Maybe it's because I lost nearly my entire family by the time I was 16. Maybe it's because I was little Orphan Black before I was middle-aged. In any event, for most of my life, I've been obsessed with the rituals of death and dying. I've never been able to make sense of it. I feared it. I wondered how people survive under the ground without a coat in the winter. The worms go in/The worms go out/ The worms play pinochle on your snout. In any event, I've struggled determining how best to play out the end game. Particularly, I've wondered, why do people spend so much damned money on funerals? When my beloved mother died, she had saved $15,000, most of which went to put her withered butt in the ground after an excruciating and exhausting illness. She never got to spend that money on a Caribbean cruise or a nice wardrobe. The money got pocketed by the nice folks at Butler's Funeral Home wh...

I'm a cranky little old lady, sitting here in my chair, buffeted by pugs, anticipating another few days of having a crazy battle with the old gallbladder. Easter, what can I say? Writhing in pain, waiting the results of my ultrasound which was performed by an evil-scientist looking Russian named Yuri (sorry for the racial profiling, but he could have played the villain in the upcoming 24 series), I have taken to the Lazy Boy and I'm dividing my time channel surfing and playing Candy Crush Saga. Yesterday, I was treated to a seminar on the virtues of Bell Fibe television, as part of an infomercial on the CTV Ottawa newscast. I have Bell Fibe. I loathe it, but I'm stuck with it. So why not learn its many features? I was excited to discover that I can use my Smartphone as a remote in case Sophie the Pug runs off with the channel changer in her mouth. How cool is that? So after the infomercial, er, newscast, I got the Bell Fibe app from the Playstore for my...

A lot of namby-pamby sorts were hand-wringing today because an 18-year-old girl was found passed out on the weekend in the driveway of 24 Sussex Drive. Apparently, Ben Harper and his pals were celebrating his 18th  birthday party in Gatineau and something went sideways. The girl in question was found passed out, apparently wasted. A few folks were saying that this "was a private matter," a medical emergency. That's what the RCMP said, anyway, passing the buck as always. This stuff has happened at 24 Sussex for ages. Remember Maggie T smoking pot and dancing around the rosebushes before she forgot her pants at Studio 54? I myself have been a little wasted there on numerous occasions, right under the noses of the less-than-interested RCMP detail. We used to smoke pot at 24 when the Liberals were in power. Not saying which Liberals, but you can guess. We drank, we drank, we smoked the ganga whilst an occasional PM strolled by, none the wiser. It happens. On...

Being a freelance writer is a bit like being trapped in an iron lung. You may still be hot to trot on the inside, but you are constantly in a state of inertia. That's because you're always broke. In the freelance game, it's always feast or famine. Well, these days, mostly it's famine. As my friend, the musician Mose Scarlet once said about his own business, "you can make a lot of money playing music; too bad you can't make it everyday". It's easy to say "hey there are lots of free things to do". Sure, you can walk around your neighborhood or take the dog for a run. But everything else costs money. If you want to ratch it up a notch, you can take the dog to the dog park, but that requires gas. If you want to get the best exercise of your life, eventually, you'll need new shoes. And sunscreen. Even sitting in the house costs money. Like that $700 Hydro bill, or the Internet or the phone. Even a hot shower is costing me a King...

If you live in Ontario, by now, you will have seen a commercial warning parents to lock up their kids because the government is loosening the monopoly held by The Beer Store on the sale of ales and lagers. Should this go forward, the commercial warns, kids will surely turn into angry mobs, all liquored up. In a dramatization, the commercial shows a shifty-eyed fat fucktard behind the counter chortling as youngsters, obviously too young to purchase hooch, slam down a two-fer and a big bottle of liquor, in anticipation of a night of mayhem, hurling and date rape. The clerk sells to the kids anyway. No I.D. is checked. It's a scene straight out of Superbad. I live next to a convenience store and near a park. I should be afraid for my life and my windows as these hooligans, according to the commercial, will roam the neighborhood, like slobbering zombies, drunk out of their blasted mines. We don't see that now, right? Nope, mostly all we see, to be fair to The ...

I wonder if I'm the only person in Canada who is creeped out by all the fuss over the unfortunate demise of Jim Flaherty. I cried a few tears when I heard he had passed, as I would for anyone who had been struck down so suddenly. Poor guy, I thought. Poor wife. Poor kids. For most people, that would be it, a funeral, a wake, some hugs and nice rembrances. But the outpouring of grief is simply over the top for me. He was a politician, by all accounts, a nice guy, a person who liked to kiss the blarney stone more than his doctor might have allowed. Jim Flaherty was a guy with a bad ticker who worked too hard, drank too much and didn't watch his cholesterol. Yet somehow our country has been hurled into a weird ritual of national mourning that is bound to go on for weeks. Most of us didn't know Jim Flaherty and only saw him on budget day when he brought in a mixed bag of programs that a lot of us didn't agree with. There was more money for prisons under Flahert...

Dear Gallbladder: I've been thinking a lot about you over the last week whilst you were relentlessly stabbing me in the back. I'm disappointed in you. We've been through so much together; now is not the time to break up. Of course, we might not have any choice. The doctor may issue a restraining order meaning that you and I will inevitably part ways. I will be alone and you will be in a glass jar someplace mothering all those baby crystals for time in memorial. If this is the case, and we will know soon, I will accept my part in all of this. The drinking, the 2 a.m. smoked meat at Nate's, the T-bones on the barbecue. We've had some good times, haven't we? I was the life of the party and you, well, you were the organ beneath my ribs. I see now how selfish I've been. Putting my face in that pile of ribs was awesome, but I understand now what a sacrifice you made. Mixing up bile, spewing out stones, and I never even knew. You suffered in silenc...