Pique'n Yer Interest

Tis the season people. No, not the powder season.

The truth can be hard enough, because often with journalism it's a case of lies, damned obscuring or trying to make sense of it all through statistics. Relevance is another matter altogether.

One of my best friends works at a rock 'n' roll hair salon (earning its title for both clients and ambience) in Lower Manhattan on Sullivan Street.

Winter is coming.

Here's the thing: I would find it impossible to explain to a pizza-delivery person that the house they sought was on Ashleigh McIvor Drive between Lauren Woolstencroft Way and Jon Montgomery Stroll without bursting into laughter.

Public speaking is just not my thing. I get panicky, my palms start to sweat, my heart feels as though it's beating out of my chest and my blush starts somewhere below my neck and quickly creeps up my face to the roots of my hair. It's not pretty.

I like to talk about what journalism is and what it isn't with "civilians." There are many different threads to that particular conversation.

Shortly before I moved to Whistler a month ago I acquired my first iPhone.

So," a random person will ask my wife and I, "when are you having another one?" One being a child. Apparently you need at least two to be happy. It's a question that makes us uncomfortable, although we seem to get it all the time.

I was born in the '70s. Well, not really, but that's what it often feels like. Entering the decade as a young teen made the era a coming of age on all fronts.