Hashtag: Doug Ford

I read in the Globe and Mail this morning that Doug Ford was a hash dealer back in 1980.
A refrain of an old song went through my head.

Those were the days my friend, I thought they'd never end.
We'd sing and dance for ever and a day.

I didn't smoke a lot of hash in 1980 but I did smoke my share.
It was during my rock and roll days when I was a music reviewer for the Ottawa Citizen and I was tooling around in my bright white bowling alley car, sometimes ferrying musicians over to Hull where we would get wasted, then roll home to sleep for 12 hours.
I only got arrested for drunk driving once -- another story entirely -- and I only snorted cocaine once, but I did do it. I remember vividly being high on coke, sitting on a Go Train and feeling my throat swell up. I also spent six hours at a Tim Horton's.
For a time during that period, I might have been fashioned as a drug dealer, though I like to think of it as being a purveyor of organic substances that were provided to me by one of the boys in the band. Needless to say, I was a hit around the Press Club in those days.
My husband Scott also has a few stories to tell about his disco years. Like the time he smuggled cocaine into the People's Republic of China zipped into the collar of his leather jacket. Or the time he shared a farmhouse with a drug dealer named Ihor.
I'm neither proud nor ashamed of my younger self just as I don't hold it against my kids that they were caught shoplifting or were found sleeping under a bridge near the canal. It's part of growing up for some of us. For some, it's a badge of honor.
In any event, I'm not that person anymore. I no longer drink and drive, or drug myself into oblivion. Neither does Scott.
We were just mixed up kids with nothing better to do with our time.
Reading this story about Doug Ford reminded me of those times.
I thought, boy he must have been one popular dude. The Globe story gives new meaning to the word "hash tag" -- tag you're it Dougie Wougie. The story notes that Doug Ford was never arrested for purveying substances; it simply paints him as kind of a rich fattie kingpin in the hood.
I didn't really get the point of it, other than to smear the guy.
It has nothing to do with his bro the Mayor of Toronna, who apparently didn't have anything to do with the drug nonsense, who instead spent most of his time in a Chris Farleyesque farce, trying to run a mile in his fat suit hoping to make the football team.
The story has been researched for two years and was only printed in today's paper, supposedly, because John Stackhouse felt he had to run it eventually, given all the money he paid the reporter and freelancer. Also, I suspect, he's feeling a little low that the Globe didn't get the scoop on that video which nobody has seen in which young Rob is hoisting a pipe to his lips and calling Justin Trudeau "a fag".
There doesn't seem to be a connection between the Somali drug dealer video and Doug Ford's past as a purveyor of substances. Doug wasn't selling crack cocaine, just hash, which was awesome in 1980. I don't think he hurt anybody, although there is some pretty nasty stuff revealed about his sister nearly getting her face blown off, but I'm not sure Dougie had anything to do with that either.
Cut to the chase, Rose. Okay, I'm getting there.
Rob Ford is a fucking weird buffoon who has some pretty nasty issues with the booze and most likely the crack. He probably shouldn't have been elected Mayor of Toronto because he's an asshole.
But this whole Rob and Doug Mackenzie dance the media is doing is bordering on bullying.
Just because a guy is fat and a buffoon and an embarrassment to the elite in Toronto doesn't mean he has to be used as a punching bag and punchline.
The people of Toronto elected his sorry ass.
And that is their problem.
They also elected Doug Ford who has never been charged with any crime.
In fact, Doug Ford seems like a pretty honorable guy. A standup.
He practically weeps while defending his brother. You have to admire the loyalty.
Back to Rob Ford.
If Rob Ford is guilty of a crime other than being a first class asshole and buffoon, then he should be prosecuted in a court of law. If he has a substance abuse problem, call in Dr. Drew and Dr. Phil, and let's get him better.
It'll be a changing day in your life, Rob.
Seriously dudes, you can't make someone go to rehab.
He'll get there eventually or be locked up by the constabularly in the GTA.
That my friends is a certainty.
Meanwhile, the media circus is a distraction. It keeps the mayor from doing his job.
And that is the media's fault, not his.
Show us the evidence, or get a life.
There have been too many column inches devoted to this nasty business.
Let's have detente.
And get Toronto back to work.



 

Marjory LeBreton: Who you calling a licksplittle?

Stephen Harper would do well to tell Senator Marjory LeBreton to zip it.
Instead of giving Canadians some useful information yesterday, she took the time to lambast other parties and what she called "media lickspittles" for asking legitimate questions about the Senate expenses fiasco.
This is vintage Marjory, herself a quintessential "lickspittle" or toadie mouthpiece. LeBreton is well known as a hyper-partisan having polished the toenails of Tory leaders since before Brian Mulroney was pocketing Shrieber money. Essentially, the good Senator has been on the public dole since 1984 -- that's thirty years -- and she's got another few to go, suckling at the public tit either as a patronage princess dispensing goodies to Conservatives across the land or as a publically-paid apologist for Tories everywhere.
Yesterday, she was showing her partisan thong accusing people who are paid to question the government of being biased towards the opposition. I can tell you for a fact that people like Bob Fife and Tim Harper are equal opportunity pests who would be just as happy to skewer a Liberal as a Tory.
The Tories have been in power for quite some time now, and they're starting to smell like a decomposing corpse being devoured by opportunistic maggots who want to ingest the good stuff before it's nothing more than bones.
The Tories are, in other words, a Stephen King fantasy.
It does nothing for the Tories for LeBreton to bad mouth the media.
As Craig Oliver once told me, "we have the last word".
Yes, indeedy.
And as the venerable Globe and Mail noted today, LeBreton's comments "are bitter and easily disproved claims, and they are an insult to Canadians".
Liberals have always been accused of arrogance, rightly so. Liberal are arrogant.
But they've always been pretty friendly and upfront about it.
Marjorie LeBreton is not just arrogant and entitled. She is a shrew.
Who, in the interest of her fragrant party, should keep her fangs behind her lips and her partisan tail between her legs until Duffygate simmers down.

 

Senate cheats: Takes one to know one

Word came down from high yesterday that Mike Duffy's expense claims were going to be re-examined by the same Senate committee that whitewashed his case in the first place. This, after a Liberal proposal failed to have the whole thing punted into the waiting arms of the RCMP.

Doesn't this make you feel better? And didn't you feel even better upon hearing that our Fearless Leader was "upset" and "angry" yesterday?

Let me give you something else to think about.

The head of that Senate committee is one Dave Tkachuk from Saskatchewan, a man who had a distinguished career as principal secretary to Grant Devine in the 1980s. His claim to fame back then was the time he tore the blouse of a female MLA. Which again makes a sane person wonder: how do these guys pass the smell test?

Okay, so a history of sexual harassment shouldn't disqualify a guy from getting a cushy seat in the Senate and leading a probe into the expenses of his peers, right?

Tkachuk has a lot of experience with Senate expenses.

More than 15 years ago, he was the target of challenges against his own expenses.

In 1997, he came under scrutiny for almost $100K in travel claims -- not unlike Pam Wallin. Apparently, he racked up those expenses while travelling the country as campaign chairman for the Progressive Conservatives.

Senate cheats: Takes one to know one.


For more on Tkachuk's distinguished career in Saskatchewan, watch this fun video (you'll see him about two minutes in).

 

Jimmy Kimmel releases Rob Ford crack video

Stephen Harper: Duffalumps and woozels

Shortly after Prime Minister Harpo finished his back-patting speech about what a great job the Tories did at improving accountability in Ottawa, I saw a post on Twitter from canada.com which described Stephen Harper's talk as "angry".

No, I corrected them.

He wasn't angry; he was defiant.

Harper is a political firebrand, the kind of leader who rises to the top because of his own brand of psychopathy. As Hannibal Lecter describes his own condition, "you have a perspective, I have a view". To a psychopath, the truth is irrelevant as are the implications of their actions on other people. All that counts to a psychopath is himself, and in Harper's case "the brand".

Harper didn't defend Duffalump and the other woozels because he cared about them. He only cared that they had been loyal foot soldiers. Duffy and Wallin did the fundraising. Wright did his dirty work.

And now, he sits atop a heap of political rubble still not understanding that the Canadian public, the media, even soldiers in his own party are disgusted by recent events.

This isn't the Canada my father fought for. It isn't the Canada we want to leave to our children.

This is Harper's Canada, a place where rules can be broken if they don't suit the political agenda.

These are sins not to be forgiven, as the Liberals learned during the sponsorship scandal. Canadians can forgive a lot, but they don't abide liars and cheats.

Most folks don't understand or even comprehend a $300 billion anything, but they do understand a $90,000 pay off. Most of us don't make that in two years. Some people -- seniors, those toiling for poor wages or the unemployed -- won't see $90 k in a decade.

It's sickening really.

But what does the Prime Minister say?

"I'm angry, and really  upset."

Not about what Duffy and the other thieves have done to Canadians but what they have done to him.

Still, the who-hah wasn't enough to keep our Steve from his appointed rounds in South America.

He will rest well tonight.

The psychopath is a sound sleeper, secure in his nest.

He doesn't realize that it's over.

Canadians are decent and God fearing, but they aren't stupid.

They know how to rattle a serpent out of his nest.

 

Happy Firecracker Day!

My neighbor Squeaky always looked forward to Queen Victoria Day.
It was the day he got to blow up frogs.
And blow them up real good.
Squeaky and I would go down to the pond on Cole's Farm and catch frogs by the pail. I was never up for blowing up frogs; I preferred burning down the Little Red School House. Nobody got hurt and we school kids delighted at the fact we could commit symbolic arson at least one day of the year.
We didn't have money for the big fireworks, but it didn't matter. Squeaky's dad Art, the rich gladiola baron always put on a show just down the road. On our farm, we'd sit in rickey lawn chairs and eat hot dogs and popsicles while Squeaky's clan had steak and pie.
It was always seemed to me a little unfair, the class difference.
It just reinforced the great divide between poor farmers and rich farmers.
Oh well, we could live vicariously through Art's brood.
I was thinking today about how special life was when we were kids. How there was a new experience around every corner. Catching frogs. Lighting firecrackers. Running around with sparklers.
Savoring a burnt hot dog.
Watching Art's display of grandeur, a virtual party in the sky, while mom slathered us with Deep Woods Off! to keep away the black flies.
Everything was bigger, better back then.
We didn't worry about "added preservatives" in our dogs. We just knew they tasted pretty damned good.
Happy Fireworks Day!

Press Club Mashup: Dining on the carcass of Mike Duffy

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 smoking and imbibing Manhattans and goblets of red wine.

Duffy's name would be raised at approximately 12:05 by some outsider, non-Tory type.
Tim Ralfe would draw on a cigarette, exhale and start laughing.

"Well, what the fuck did you expect from Duffy," he would say. "The man is a glutton. Glutton for food. Glutton for booze. Glutton for fame. Glutton for power. It costs a fuck of a lot of money to keep that bandwagon going."

"I can't believe it took them this long to catch him," Peter Cowan would boom in his Amazing Hulk voice. And then they would turn to other matters, mostly telling old war stories, like the time Duffy got rolled by hookers in D.C. and was brought back to his hotel by the RCMP, nearly naked. And how his crew managed to clean him up in time to throw the first question at a 9 a.m. press conference with the President.

Now that was some good shit.

Nobody would be talking about Mayor Rob Ford. Nobody in the Press Club would give a fuck about Mayor Rob Ford. For this crowd, the world didn't exist beyond the Parliamentary Precinct. But then, neither did the Internet or smart phones. Cell phones weren't even allowed in the Club restaurant when this group was still alive and kicking, and you could see they always got a thrill when they were paged for a phone call.

In the good old days, if you couldn't find somebody on Friday afternoon, any secretary worth her salt would know where to call.

On days like yesterday, the Club would have made a mint. Lunch would last until the girls came to clean up the tables to get ready for an evening event. The patrons would then pile around the upstairs bar, or play a little snooker or shuffleboard and wait for the second shift which would arrive at three and stay until eight.

Some of the hardier folk came at lunch and slithered into a cab at around 10.

Makes me shudder now even thinking about it.

I don't miss the Club that much. My liver is thankful it sputtered its last breath a few years ago.

But I do miss those guys. Ralfe and Cowan, John Terry, Tom Sloan. All gone now.

But if there's a Heaven, or in their case a purgatory, I'm sure they were watching yesterday.

On a Friday in May drinking Manhattens, maybe dry martinis, and dining on the carcass of Mike Duffy.