Pique'n Yer Interest

I was a typical gullible child. That's always true before you develop a capacity for critical thinking.

News that the stories of those who suffered at church-run residential schools, given as testimony by survivors to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, can be destroyed after 15 years, is disheartening.

Noted R&B crooner and closet connoisseur R. Kelly once wrote that age ain't nothing but a number.

It's funny how music gets itself so deeply intertwined with specific memories. There's a pop punk album my friends and I had on repeat throughout the summer of 2004 — to this day I can't listen to it without feeling high-school drunk.

On one hand, I suppose, we all grieve a little bit differently. And it's generally poor practice to question the sincerity of someone's mourning.

On a three-day trek through the rolling hills of Central Myanmar, atop one post-lunch climb, our guide pointed to two smokestacks about five kilometres apart in an adjacent valley and said: "One factory is for crushing limestone, the other is where t

I want to introduce you to two heroes of mine. Jeanne Sarson and Linda MacDonald are two community health nurses in Truro, N.S. Twenty-three years ago, they came to the aid of a woman who called their private practice helpline late one night.

You know how when you were just a snot-nosed kid and you thought your jamoke of a teacher never noticed you conspicuously passing love notes to your hopeless crush in math class? Yeah, hate to break it to you, but he knew the whole time.

Alex and I were on the road for nine days before we had our first big meltdown. We were drunk in an Austin, Texas theatre, waiting for Amy Schumer to take the stage and sitting in the wrong seats.

Given the headline and its Mariah Carey reference, coupled with the recent passing of Valentine's Day, you could certainly expect this column to be something mushy, possibly gross and definitely containing too much information. Nah.