Rose's Cantina

Excerpt from my new book Distressed Pavement: To Ottawa With Love, which will be published in Fall 2021.  Lester Swell started at the  Ottawa Journal  as a copyboy which was the vernacular of the day for gopher. It was the copy boy’s job to run stories typed on pieces of paper from reporters to editors. Often at deadline, reporters would still be writing their stories page by page, giving the copy boys a pretty good workout.   They also managed the various wires in the backroom pulling copy from reporters and wire services around the world.    Just as often, copyboys were sent off for beer, cigarettes, dry cleaning and food. It was a thankless job but a great way to get started in the highly competitive news business. Great reporters and photographers often credited their time as copyboys for getting a foot in the door. If a kid was bright enough, he was soon elevated to reporter status.    Lester was a coddled, spoiled brat and quickly grew bored...

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...

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...

This song is dedicated to the men and women at the Ottawa Citizen , many of whom are my former colleagues, bosses and partners in crime who lost their jobs to the Post-Media implosion. RIP Daily Journalism in Ottawa According to Warren Kinsella, the following people with packaged, some willingly, some against their will. The Ottawa Citizen   died yesterday. Oh, sure, there are still some good people there to put it out, for however long.  But make no mistake: the marquee newspaper in our nation’s capital – the equivalent of our   Washington Post   – is dead. Late yesterday, we got word that the following folks (and more) had taken a buyout, and/or were pushed out by the guild of vampires who are Postmedia: Peter Robb:   editor, arts, sports Mark Kennedy:   Parliamentary bureau chief, National Newspaper Award winner Rob Bostelaar:   longtime reporter and editor (and who edited my stuff, full disclosure) Karen Turner:   longtime re...

Today I learned that I will finally have breast reduction surgery. I am both terrified and elated. No more blisters from the underwire. No more side boob sticking out as I try in vain to stuff my size 44H boobs into a 42DDD. No more shopping at Ottawa Tent and Awning for a bra that costs more than a bottle of George Clooney tequila. Today, I start an occasional series on my journey through my surgery, and the reasons why. I want people to know that breast reduction surgery is not just cosmetic surgery. It is life and soul saving surgery that no woman to my knowledge has ever regretted -- except Kanye West's mom, but she shouldn't have also booked three other procedures to save time. This is serious business, four hours on the operating table; it's not for narcissists and it's not for sissies. Here is the first post I ever wrote, back in 2014, around the time of the Jian Ghomeshi sexual harassment debacle at CBC It's about how my big boobs played a huge ...

Embed from Getty Images I ambushed my son Nick and took him to the Ottawa Hospital to see Jennette who was recovering from oral cancer surgery, the result of 40 years on the weed. Nick has been smoking since he was in his early teens, and I have been trying to get him to quit since he began that journey. When I got an inkling he was smoking, I plastered all the screensavers in the house with horrible images of smokers' past. There were pictures of people languishing in hospital beds drooling, others with big gaping maws, others sporting gnarly teeth and nails the color of Cheezies. Nothing seemed to work. Then the other two kids started smoking. It drove me bananas. I have been a rabid anti-smoker since my childhood, since I was forced against my will to live with five smokers, the bad kind, the roll-your-own kind. I remember getting out of the shower and taking the first breath which smelled like I was mainlining an ashtray. Whenever there was a f...

Embed from Getty Images When I first set foot in a journalism class 40 years ago, I was not prepared for what I was about to hear. My first year professor, Tom McPhail, began the class this way. "If you've come here to be a creative writer, ask for your money back," he said. "There's no room for creativity in news. And if you've come to get a job in print, forget it, print is dead." I felt like walking out of the class, and transferring to Western University where I had planned to study English, but was talked out of it by an earnest guidance counsellor who predicted my future would be brightest if I went to Carleton University to study journalism. After hearing that first lecture, I believed I had made a mistake, but I'd already moved from St. Catharines, and there was no turning back. I should have listened to that little voice, I thought, two years later when I lost my first fulltime job at the Ottawa Journal which folded jus...

Rosie Tits. That was my nickname at my first job as a reporter . One of the photographers gave me that nickname nearly 40 years ago, about a month after I started writing for my hometown paper. I was 19 years old.  When he called me that, he did so in front of the newsroom. Everybody had a good chuckle over that one. He also gave my colleague a nickname. He called her Darlene Happy Crack. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't go to the principal's office, or go up to a teacher. There were other women in the newsroom, but I didn't know them, and I didn't feel comfortable discussing the dilemma with the managing editor who was an old man. So I did what all good girls do: I smiled and laughed along with the boys. I did a lot of laughing over the next few years. I was very naïve back then and didn't know how to handle this kind of degradation. I'm sure my face was red, I can't remember. Rosie Tits, just kept echoing in my ears. It was the...

I've been laid up all week with these damned gallstones and I've been watching more than my fair share of commercial television. Like most journos, I'm a news buff, so I always watch the afternoon news on CTV Ottawa . It's been bad enough of late, having to put up with the commercials for Bell Fibe which run once a segment. I have Bell Fibe and I hate it. Hate it As I've written in this space before, it cuts out leaving me staring at a blue screen saying the channel is not available. It does this all the time, especially when you're watching a gripping drama and come to the end. Then, all of a sudden, nothing. If not for On Demand, I couldn't have told you how Dexter ended. I've been tempted to ram the remote through the screen. Anyway, I was absolutely shocked today to see that CTV will be running a segment promoting Bell Fibe for the next four Thursdays. In essence, without what should contain a "advertisement" crawler, it i...

I saw today that The St. Catharines Standard  is moving from its ancient spot on Queen Street to a spiffy new locale. Brings a tear to my eye. Like many ink-stained wretches, I earned my first callouses on the typewriters of The Standard. My initial job there was in high school as a columnist reporting on all the fascinating events at West Park Secondary School.  It's hard to imagine, given the space wars today, but nearly every high school in St. Catharines had a weekly column where nerdy wannabees like myself got their chance to commit journalism. The man I worked for was Jimmy Simpson -- no relation -- who had the classic look of the old newsman. He was about 92, by my recollection, and sported a skinny torso and a basketball where his tummy used to be. We got paid 25 cents a column inch which was -- and still is! -- a fortune in the freelance game. The trick to making money was to write long, so every week I included the names of every ...

5:30 a.m. Awake with a start realizing that you're on deadline in France. Hobble out of bed, let the dogs out, put the kettle on. 7:00: Four web stories written. Mission accomplished. 7:15: Push button to send invoice. 7:30: Off to gym. Then to Farmboy to pick up kale and carrots for juice. 8:00: Head ache. Back home to feed the dogs. 8:30: Peck the husband on the cheek. Send him off to sell cheap cars to sacked public servants with severance. 9:00: Check Facebook, Twitter, newspapers, look for fodder for the blog. 9:03: Score! Rob and Doug Ford. This shit literally writes itself. 9:15: Blog finished. 9:30: Juice and three egg omelette 10:00: Check email. Nemesis in France is fired because, to quote her words, "everybody hates her and thinks she's evil". Think to oneself: God has answered prayer. Send the Holy Spirit a high five. 10:05: Send condolences. Secretly hope she drops off the Eiffel Tower. 10:10: Note to newest boss. We will hav...

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...

In its annual job survey, CareerCast.com reported that the worst job in America is being a newspaper reporter. I am reporting this as a public service for all those graduating journalism students from my alma mater, Carleton University. Good luck in your new career. Then again, how could that possibly be? What about crime scene clean-up crews, janitors, school teachers? Why is the newspaper reporter the worst job? "Ever-shrinking newsrooms, dwindling budgets and competition from Internet businesses have created very difficult conditions for newspaper reporters, which has been ranked as this year's worst job," says CareerCast.com. "Consumers can access online news outlets almost anywhere thanks to technological advancements, which are threatening the existence of traditional print newspapers. As a result, the number of reporter jobs is projected to fall 6% by 2020, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), while average pay is expected to co...

So yesterday, I was sacked from my sketchy journalism job as editor of the Canadian edition of an international magazine. The one that pays me in Euros. When the publisher feels like it. I saw the writing on the wall this month when I had trouble getting paid. When the cheques stop coming in the magazine business, ladies and germs, it spells trouble. It means the robber barons who own the brand aren't making money, so neither will you. My sacking came at the fingers of a 20 Something Over Educated Spaniard who chided me for not picking up the phone so she could ruin my economic livelihood in person. I thanked her and reminded her she owed me $2,000. Then I sent out courtesy emails to all the organizations which supported our noble effort and suggested they might use my skills and knowledge of everything from Australian Tree Wets to ear hairs. Then I put on the television, tuned into American Idol and got drunk. Not stinking drunk like the old days. I don't do that ...

It appears my dreams of a future in journalism have been, once again, dashed. For the past year and half, I have been on a wonderful, almost unbelievable, journey. I was called upon to create a new magazine in Canada, part of a chain of magazines worldwide. The topic is unimportant, suffice to say it involves commiting medical journalism, one of my favorite areas of interest. I absolutely love creating new magazines. I've done it maybe ten times in my career and I'm good at it. Lifelong learning has been a passion for me and I'm always amazed at how small our personal worlds are and how much we do not know. Part of the allure of being a journalist is being able to interview smart people: doctors, scientists, difference-makers. Interviewing them makes me want to be a better person. Anyways, the magazine is now in its eighth edition and the company has now set up a website which means that I can now commit daily journalism. Haven't done that in 20 years. It's...

It was hard not to blow my coffee through my nose this morning when BCE CEO George Cope expressed his "shock" that the CRTC turned down his company's bid to acquire Astral Media. He claims sucking another great Canadian company into the BCE vortex was "essential" to mount a domestic response to the "over-the-top" contenders who are picking off subscribers. As Barack Obama said the other night: "Could you please repeat that?" I just signed up for Netflix and I've literally stopped watching television on Rogers, another one of the conglomerates that are gouging Canadian pocketbooks with their huge fees for cable and premium networks. Right now, I'm paying as much to Rogers as I pay to Hydro for my electricity. For what? So I can watch Honey Boo Boo and Cake Boss ? On Netflix, I have been able to connect with some of the great shows made over the last few years. Last week, it was Damages , this week it's Freaks and Gee...

This Sunday will mark the end of the Ottawa Citizen's Sunday edition. It won't be missed. There never seemed to be any effort put into it and I could read it in about 10 minutes. It takes me two hours to read the New York Times on Sunday. I mean, if you're going to put out a Sunday paper, why not make it the gold standard of journalism with thoughtful pieces by insightful writers? Instead, for nearly thirty years, The Sunday Citizen published drivel and breathlessly long features about people and issues that I really didn't care about. It was like all the editors hit the snooze button when it came to Sunday. Reminds me of the radio stations that play John Tesh all weekend long. I sort of knew something was up when The Citizen started running obituaries that people sent in to commemorate the passing of loved ones or friends. Like somebody thought, 'hey, how can we put this newspaper out without actually spending money on real writers?' Sadly, with...

I sat bolt upright in bed last night as I always do every two months or so. Then the reel started..hydro...cable...credit card...Fido. I'm just minutes away from them all being cut off -- okay, not minutes, I exaggerate, as all freelancers do. But it's getting close. So is my payday. I can practically smell the Euros being deposited into my BMO account! That's what I tell my creditors anyway. I work for an international magazine that publishes every two months, which is my main gig. I do other things but being editor-in-chief keeps a body busy enough that it's hard to take on other commitments. I'm paid fairly well for my job so it allows me lots of other time to get into mischief, or look for other jobs when I start to panic. The thing is, because the magazine is published every two months, I only get paid every two months so my financial situation requires a lot of juggling, not to mention phone calls to utility companies pleading for more time. As soon...