There he is with two of the horde of followers that turned up to greet him as he arrived in town for a talk, on the way to a youth event elsewhere in the north.
Detail: These two ladies buggered off after having their picture taken. Seems they were less interested in listening to his call for renewing Canadian politics and more interested in ogling his six-odd foot of manly, chiseled hotness.
And such hotness.
Yes. I am man enough to admit it. Justin Trudeau is hot. Good speaker, too. But mostly hot.
Seriously, look at this guy! Son of one of Canada's greatest Prime Ministers, and he turns up in jeans, a casual shirt, friggin' boots and a scarf. Also, great hair. Lovely, lovely hair.
The Tories must hate him. Lookswise, they got nothin'.
And, boy, was it like a rock concert in there. Took him ten minutes just to get to the podium, stopping to shake a hand here, pose for a picture there. It was like a cult.
Me? I was less impressed. Everyone saw Canada's next prime minister. I saw a good-looking, 38-year-old ex-teacher with a famous dad and two years of experience as an MP under his belt. Let him come back in five or seven years, with more experience in the cavernous abyss of grungy politics that is the House. Then I might be impressed.
This appeared as part of my monthly column. I never actually posted it, so here it is. Enjoy.
------
The year 2009 will mark a huge milestone for me. It's the year I lost a battle I'd been waging for more than a decade.
It was a long fight, lasting 27 years, a war of sleepless nights and heavy lids, of battles against the elements, and even the very night itself.
I'm talking about coffee.
Yep. It took a lot of time and effort but this was the year I finally lost the protracted struggle against coffee. I bowed down before the dreaded forces of caffeine, surrendering my sword and placing myself at its bitter, sweet mercy.
It was a long time in coming. Who knows how many times I've been offered coffee by friends or waiters, and refused. How many times have I had The Conversation with people about coffee, and how I've managed to squeak by in life without even a sip of the blessed elixir, insufferably proud of the dubious distinction of being probably the only reporter in Canada who Doesn't Drink Coffee.
I lived in Brazil for years. Brazil, the empire of coffee, where governments have been made and broken on the fortunes of the mighty bean. And I never touched the stuff, like a blind beggar wandering into an unguarded bank vault.
So you'd think, by now, I'd be immune to the unquenchable thirst, right? You'd think I'd have acclimatized my body to functioning without coffee, requiring only regular meals and decent bed times.
Except ... well, back in university, I was really a lazy bugger. I worked hard, but I avoided all-nighters like the plague, if I could. I even picked my courses so I wouldn't have to get out of bed before 10 a.m., most days, which was good, because me and the roommates were usually up until the crack of dawn watching bad movies and playing videogames. Even on the days when there just wasn't any way around a 24 hour marathon, I usually survived on adrenaline and sugar, then crashed for 12 hours to make up for it.
So, at last, when I emerged from my post-secondary cocoon and got a Real World job like the Big Person I now was, then began the nine-to-five. Or eight- to-six, or seven-to-seven, or however the split is, depending on how busy we are, plus the occasional weekend.
Yeah, 10 a.m. wake up times? All gone now.
So now, confronted with actual, tough work and sometimes difficult scheduling, of course, the mind and body get tired. They needed a boost. And they weren't getting one.
Enter: Tea.
I went to a couple of British schools growing up, so I picked up a lot of their mannerisms, but I didn't get to be a tea swiller until taking this job. But boy, did I ever become one.
One cup a day became three, then five, some days seven. It got to the point my boss could tell whether I'd had my cuppa, and when I hadn't. I became a regular fixture around the office, wandering from department to department, steaming cup in hand, lost in thought and wearing a track in the linoleum.
It was an ineffective placebo.
Finally, after a few hazy days of bleary mornings and titanic struggles with the alarm clock, I decided it was time to bow to the will of the universe.
I rose one Tuesday, gunned the car and made the grim, sandy-eyed pilgrimage I'd postponed for so long. The sun was just coming over the horizon, making it even harder to keep my eyes open.
When my destination, crowned with the two-word name so familiar to Canadians you could probably base a whole religion around it, hove into view, I pulled into the slowly filling drive-thru, like millions had done before me.
I was awed as the car inched forward, bringing me ever closer to one of the great Canadian rituals, central to our culture, like a young Aztec child's first trip to the sacrificial pyramid.
At last, the car stopped by the grille, and the tinny voice inquired as to my pleasure that morning. With a dry, slightly quavering voice, I said the words. Double Double. Medium.
There was a pause. For a moment, I feared I'd misspoken, and now the ritual was ruined. Had I doomed us all? Then the Voice spoke again, telling me an unfamiliar price and peppily asking me to drive on.
So I got my coffee, my first. As I drove to work, I gingerly sipped the hot liquid, like the last survivor of some Amazon expedition, happening upon the long-sought fountain of youth and unsure what to do now.
It was good. Now I have one every morning, just one - and one only - extra boost to get me going.
Although ... I could really use another right now ...
What we have here is a blue lobster ... one in two million chance of getting one. This lad hauled her up one day, stuck her in the deep freeze and intends to have her mounted in his finished basement.
He didn't seem to think it was a big deal. He claims he caught an albino one 15 years ago...that's like one in 500 million.
Never dream of eating one. First, they turn red when boiled. Second ... c'mon, really? That's like hanging the Mona Lisa in your basement bathroom.
Well, last weekend was that time of year again. Time for Danny boy to head to Halifax for the Atlantic Community Newspapers Association conference, gala and award dinner.
Like last year, I was up for an award, this time for outstanding photographer.
And, like last year, I won the vague honour of being a standing finalist, while top spot went to the photographer from the St. Croix Courier in St. Stephen.
:(
Ah, well. It's enough to be named top three in Atlantic Canada, at least for the weeklies! Suits me, and I got a free weekend in Halifax to boot.
For your viewing pleasure, here's the shots that almost got me the top spot. They've been up here before, but what the hell.
------ The Hilary Bonnell vigil.
------ The murdered girl's mother, Pamela, in a once-in-a-lifetime shot during the funeral.
------ Nick Hardy of the Chatham Ironmen tumbles into first to earn the pennant-winning run of the 2009 season.
----- Three ex-Boston Bruins in Miramichi for the pond hockey tournament.
------ Lt. Tyler Hamm takes me up in the Air Cadets' training glider one fine Saturday.
----- And, finally, local MLA and public safety minister John Foran caught in a moment of marvelous hunger
May turned out to have some good shots. Here you go.
------
Here's Freeman Ward, newly elected chief of Metepenagiag First Nation, just upriver from us.
It turned out to be an excellent portrait of the guy. The incumbent was turfed out by, like 14 votes (a common occurrence). He had great ideas for the place, like alternative energy and, of course, a new gambling hall right in the heart of Miramichi. But it seems he pissed off too many folks, so out he went.
Or something. I don't know ... it's hard to tell what goes on behind the scenes in these places, but this reserve tends to be pretty quiet.
The new guy was VERY suspicious of me. When I got to his house, he was on the phone with someone in Mi'kmaq, and later he told me it was a band councillor from another reserve on the river who told him to slam the door in my face.
He didn't, and we had a long, long talk off the record before I turned the recorder on. I'm cautiously optimistic ... he called the next week to thank me for the article, and point me in the direction of a rising baseball star in New Brunswick who everyone thinks is from a reserve out of our coverage area but was actually born in Metepenagiag.
Of course, it happened to be his son. But hey, gotta start somewhere, and it turned out to be a cool story. Let's see what he does when I have to ask the tough questions.
------- Aaaaaand, the token candid shot gone awry:
The lad on the left is Councillor Robert Trevors, just after he won the Tory nomination for the Newcastle area of the city in the upcoming provincial election. I love single-frame candid shots that make politicians look crazed.
------- Just some lads painting the tennis courts. Turned into a nice enough shot, so here it is.
Apparently that paint is specially designed to deliver the right kind of bounce, and is used for the masters, or something.
------ This lad, playing a young Max Aitken, shows off what a li'l scamp the old bastard was as a child.
Aitken, later Lord Beaverbrook, went to school in Newcastle, NB, and rose to become a cement magnate, later a newspaper giant who practically owned Fleet Street in the UK, rising to become part of Churchill's war cabinet. Apparently he was also a bit of a dick, but he left a sweet art gallery behind in Fredericton, so it's all good, right?
------ This one isn't the best in the world. I just like the posing.
From a Saturday morning mosquito practice. Cute kids.
------ This one is probably my favourite of this bunch: Opposition leader David Alward standing in the Miramichi city council chambers.
Stood on a chair to get the panorama shot. His handler was adamant he was behind schedule and wouldn't have time after the press conference. So I smiled, nodded, then went up to him directly to ask him to pose. As always, he was happy to oblige. Silly communications people.
Reason this is remotely significant is because the big Norwegian solar panel company that wanted to set up shop in Miramichi announced the lousy global economy was forcing them to shelve the project. The people blamed the Liberal government, and the Tories capitalized on that by arriving for a much-publicised meeting with the mayor just two days after the news hit. The speed of it was impressive.
This shot, sadly, never ran, but I guess I just liked its depth.
Forged in South Africa, shaped in Brazil and cooled in Ontario, this wandering blade is sheathed on the East Coast, learning his craft and biding his time.
