MOAR FOARD!

In an ever-shrinking world where we are all theoretically standing on a beach ball, our privacy has become a currency.  Even your average Joe today is paralyzed by fear that his privacy is constantly at risk. So, in this day and age, does joining the cult of celebrity mean handing over your privacy entirely? Though Rob Ford unwittingly joined that notorious club, he did put himself into the public eye. In this feature I wrote for CBC, I ask 'How much privacy can Rob Ford really expect?'

How much authority does airport security really have?

Airport security officials comb through millions of bags a year and confiscate thousands of contraband items, but have no powers of arrest. (CBC) 

My in-depth look at how much authority airport security in Canada really has. I'd love to hear about your run ins with security. We all have at least one story. Email me.

Where the scorching sun sets: Exploring Death Valley pt. 2

The story of Rhyolite, just west of the Nevada Test Site, is little more than a flash in the pan in gold rush history.

But it's brief existance left behind a few crumbling bones which look spectacular backdropped by the Funeral Mountains, the mine scarred hills and the iconic Joshua trees.

When gold was discovered in the area, people flocked to the town at an exponential rate. The growing pains of such an influx of citizens meant shortages of materials and supplies. There was a lot of creative improvising when it came tobuilding infrastructure.

One house, which still remains, was built entirely out of some 50,000 discarded beer and liquor bottles.

In just two years the city was fully kitted with necessary amenities like telephones, water mains, electricity, a newspaper, a hospital, and a school. And, the huge population drew enough attention to install an opera house and a stock exchange.

At it's peak, the town boasted more than 10,000 residents, 50 saloons, 35 gambling tables, cribs for prostitution, 19 lodging houses, 16 restaurants, half a dozen barbers, a public bath house, and a weekly newspaper, the Rhyolite Herald.

A few years later, the mine was found to be overvalued and the people dropped their lives and moved on in droves.

By 1922 the population dwindled to one lone man and the town was pillaged and stripped of anything valuable. The embryonic town was stunted in it's development and condemned to sitting alone in the howling desert winds.

The remote location and harsh climate inspired an early age of independent women, like Panamint Annie, who banded together and prospected.
These women lived as men did, and for a brief time, were able to shirk the confines of womanhood and blazed a path for early feminists.

Now the town is a historic spot for tourists off the beaten paths and, now and again, the backdrop for film sets.

Welcoming travellers as they turn onto the main road is the Goldwell Open Air Museum which stands on private property just south of the ghost town.

The strange and sometimes eerie art project is overseen by the Bureau of Land Management and has a handful of sculptures, like the ghostly apostles, that sit sun-bleached for confused tourists to wander around.

Mostly the best part of Rhyolite is the spectacular view from the town on higher ground that allows you an almost complete panorama of the surrounding desert and mountains.

Take a look at my photo album.

Where the scorching sun sets: Exploring Death Valley pt.1

The somnambulant town of Darwin, California on the fringes of Death Valley in the Mojave Desert was a place that both gave me the chills and set my imagination on fire.

We had set out from Las Vegas on Easter weekend in an attempt to seek out some of the strange sights of the desert we'd read briefly about. Also, I wanted to see some of the old cars that lie bleached and rusty in the desert sun, riddled with bullet holes.


Darwin is one of many abandoned mining communities that dot the desert's landscape. It was founded by a man named Darwin French whose expedition had set out to find the fabled 'Lost Gunsight Mine' and discovered a silver mother lode in the nearby hills in the late 19th century. By the 1950's the mines had shut and only ghosts were left behind... kind of.

The town still boasts a stronghold of 43 residents who live in ramshackle buildings, fall-out shelters, and the supremely sleek Airstreams from a generation past. 

As we alit on the gravel streets, the stones crunched under our boots as we walked and we could hear nothing save sporadic quiet chattering and laughing of the residents. It raised the hairs on the back of our necks as it seemed to come from everywhere, and nowhere. 

The landscape was a mixture of derelict wooden structures harkening back to the wild, wild west -- perfectly symmetrical with false flat-wall fronts -- and corrugated metal-sheet shacks decorated with found objects. 

Other than Darwin being a semi-ghost town, I knew nothing about the area. Since returning home, the more I've researched the more I'm pulled into the surprising, and uniquely American, lore surrounding the former and current residents.

The 43 residents are artists, eccentrics and recluses who ended up in Darwin. Some by accident, and some on purpose -- and, as I learned with a quick sweep of internet databases, one registered sex offender.

The only resident we managed to meet was old pup, who we assumed must be the mayor himself, greeting us with a few friendly barks on his owner's property.

He followed us while we explored each plot of land scattered with old cars that finally found the end of the road, makeshift sculptures and found-object art.

Darwin is incredibly photogenic, but the thought of treading on private property for a great shot filled us with hesitation. So, we reluctantly explored from afar.

The bulk of Darwin is clustered around the crux of the town's two roads -- Market St. and Main St. -- and is quiet as only the desert can be.

Mid-century relics such as the hurricane gas pumps that sit chipped and sun-bleached tell a silent story of a far more prosperous time.  

Behind the gas pumps was a building that touted itself as 'The Outpost'. The windows were boarded up but, there were signs that someone had made it their home.

Across the street is the Darwin Dance Hall, and again the only face that met ours wasn't real, but an Elvis cut-out peeking through the window. 

 The building inspired the organ-pounding, whiskey-loving band Voodoo Organist to write a very Tom Waites-esque album based on tales of the town's dance hall.

The dances were frequented by miners and was said to be a rough place where you had to fight your way in, and fight your way out.  

Further down the road, the former residents of Darwin lie on the town's outskirts in the cemetery.

There they rest, as they did in life, marked by a showy array of found objects marking their territory and displaying their individual personalities.

The graves stretched back to the original residents such as Nancy Williams aka "Feather Legs". A monument was built to the well-loved madam who, later in life, turned to the ministry. Her life took a grisly turn when her throat was slit at the age of 45. Local stories report of a curse on her gravestone which many a grave robber has tried to steal, but returned when their luck took a turn for the worse. 

The former residents of Darwin not only had to endure otherworldly heat and harsh conditions, but the town was also mired in violence. Of the 124 old graves in the cemetery, 122 of those deaths were by knife or gun. 

 

Over a fence and across a dusty lane is the only building in town that boasts an employee.

The postmistress is the only gainfully employed resident. However, the town's main channel to the outside world is slated for closure in the very near future. 

As you leave, the buildings off in the distance of the Defiance mine -- where scenes from the movie Kalifornia were shot -- lie in a time capsule.

The lot is private property, and frankly is lying in wait for my return. The 70-odd company houses sit totally abandoned, peeling in the sun, just itching to be photographed! 

Darwin is a lengthening afternoon of its former self nestled in the desert as a well-kept secret... I will be back! 

Take a look at my photo gallery of my not-so-urban exploration of Darwin

Inky fingers

Today I posted the Iraq election story on cbc.ca and, as it always does with stories like this, it reminded me of how voting is not just a right, but something we should be forever thankful for.

Seeing look on the faces of Iraqis as they cast their ballots and exercised their right to choose always inspired me. It reminded me to not take for granted the right to vote for whom I choose.

Vote. Use your freedoms. Exercise your opinions and do your part to understand and change the world around you.

*steps down from soapbox*

Slacktivism is like rent for living on the internet

"Smoking dope and hanging up Che's picture is no more a commitment than drinking milk and collecting postage stamps." 

-Abbie Hoffman, author and activist

This week I wrote a follow-up feature to the RBC temporary foreign worker brouhaha caused by the Mother Corp itself. 

I have to say that my eyes were opened to how fast and furious internet outrage can mount. But, what surprised me more was how benign big-talkin' slacktivists can be in the face of injustice.

Read more: RBC foreign workers controversy won't affect bottom line, PR experts say

Keeping fit

I wrote this! I like when I get to flex my journalism muscles. It feels gooood.

Canadians brace for a cold spring start coast to coast