Last night was a bad night. I watched a little more TV than I suppose I should have. When I switched it on around quarter to 10, I went over to CP Pulse 24 - the Toronto news station. They were airing a live "memorial" to Jane Creba in Nathan Philips Square. This was no memorial. This was an anti-gun, pro-hippie, talking-just-to-hear-myself-speak extravaganza of the lowest order. There were tables set up to hold votive candles, which instead were covered in pamphlets and propaganda. Tied to the front of those tables were posters of infants and toddlers of all colors, with the quote "Guns Are Scary. They Hurt People."

One woman came on to speak, and I swear she was there for over 15 minutes. Which would have been nice, had she known the victim. I'm sure she would have eulogized her well. Instead, she was an activist who went on and on, smiling and laughing at times - very appropriate to the occasion, as I'm sure the grieving family would agree, if they wound up watching that drivel last night. I had time to make a coffee, go to the bathroom, on and on she went. At one point I raged to Mr. Right that I had time to hop on the subway, make it down to Nathan Philips Square, that cow would still be talking, and I could bitch-slap her live on television. Mr. Right just dumped more Bailey's into my coffee, waiting for the sedative effect to kick in. Good man.

Anyway, various people presented their agendas, there was a good shot of Jack Layton and Olivia Chow looking appropriately sombre (I didn't know Jack-o was able to take that smarmy grin off his face), and then mercifully it was over at about 10:15. And in a fit of self-flagellation, no doubt brought on by rage, I switched over to CBC Newsworld, to see a murdering Palestinian bastard saying how excited he was to face the Israelis. WTF?? I was intrigued. Then a voice over by Michael Douglas. Hmm...

For the next hour and 45 minutes, I sat glued to the television, alternating between screaming and sobbing, while I watched a documentary called One Day in September. CBC put it on as part of its Passionate Eye series, to capitalize on the new Spielberg movie Munich.

I knew the story. I had just never seen it. My father had told me about it years ago, because Montreal hosted the next Olympics the year I was born, and he was telling me about the heavy security that they put up. I believe we were driving through Montreal's East End, past the white elephant of the Olympic Stadium, when he brought it up. Most of the world history I know I learned from him, and this was just another fact. Some other little tidbit. Now all of a sudden it's a popular subject again, thanks to Spielberg. Last night's documentary showed the bungling indifference of the German authorities, the missed opportunity of the Israelis to bring in Mossad while the hostages were still alive, the dedication of the terrorists to their cause, and how the lone Palestinian survivor is still proud of what he did, because it put the name of Palestine on everybody's lips.

I wept. I couldn't help myself. I demanded to know how many more times we would have to see the tortured faces of dead Jews before something was done about it once and for all. Personally, I don't think it was an accident that the Palestinians picked Germany to host their little spree. They wanted to make a point. A point that the Jews were without ally. That they would die. I was shocked not only by the images at the end of the burnt out helicopter and bloody bodies of the hostages, but by the German authorities who were interviewed, saying that Issa (the terrorist negotiator at the entrance to the Israeli apartments) was a nice enough guy, who might have been nice to know under different circumstances. I was shocked by the way the retired police were saying that the way they put their own man out in the open at the airport, without bullet-proof gear or helmet, without radio communications - it was stupid, something to laugh about now. Laugh? I wasn't laughing! I was precariously close to being sick.

I am a blogger. It means I'm obsessed by the news, and watch it all the time. But this was one of the few times I let something really get to me. As a matter of fact, it was one of three times. September 11th; hurricaine Katrina - specifically the story of Mr. Jackson, whose house tore in two while he and his wife were on the roof, and he clung to his grandchild while he watched his wife get washed away; and this film One Day in September.

Tonight, Dick Clark's return will be a welcome respite. But I'm sure those images will stay with me for months to come.