Even on the day after arguably the most ignominious hours of the most ignominious life of Toronto Mayor Rob Ford, we in my tribe were still hard at it — perched outside his home (“Are you going to rehab Rob?”), even door-stopping his mother Diane on the way out of her hair salon.
“Just leave him alone,” was Mrs. Ford’s plea, as if there was a prayer.
I am not at all confident that if and when the poor SOB is finally ensconced at an addiction joint, some enterprising sort won’t try to infiltrate the 12-step group or camp outside the place, hoping for a glimpse of the round pink fellow through a long lens.
It would, of course, be deemed to be in the public interest.
This is a long way of saying that in this ignoble round of the RoFo storm — wherein the addiction counselors are again getting face time on the tube, journalists are trying to out-clever one another on Twitter, Toronto city councilors are lining up to “react,” and mayoralty candidates intoning upon the human wreckage while not hesitating to take advantage — the mayor certainly emerges as the most diminished figure, but journalism itself is running a close second...