Why I won't be driving for a while...

Crying 'Go Sens Go' won't deter police

The Ottawa Citizen,

Wednesday, May 30, 2007
The Ottawa Senators may be in the Stanley Cup finals, but the OPP Ottawa detachment is telling Senators fans that yelling, "Go Sens Go" will not get them out of traffic violations. The OPP said motorists will not be able to sweet-talk their way out of a ticket using the popular slogan, despite reports to the contrary. [link]

Here am I floating in a tin can...

I'm not sure how far I'll get in this world. But I know my name has travelled widely in outer space.

When my spyglass is trained just right on a clear night I can see a special little speck in the sky: the Stardust spacecraft.

On board are two tiny microchips with more than a million names, including mine, engraved on them. I signed up many moons ago and recently remembered that I had climbed aboard the mission.

Stardust hurtled into space in early February 1999, bound for Comet Wild 2, which hangs out 390 kilometres from Earth.

It scooped up some cometary materials and plenty of interesting dust particles in a sample capsule, which returned to Earth last year. But the rest of the Stardust craft will remain in space, forever orbiting the sun.

It's good to be along for the ride.

My New Quest

Things have been up and down with me in the past week. Unlike the rest of this city, the hockey results didn't do much for me. It's nice the local boys are doing well, but you know the thing with hockey is the violence. There's just not enough. There they are with blades on their feet and what do they do? Drop their sticks, take off their gloves and punch each other. It makes no sense.

Still, last Thursday, it warmed my heart to see the fountain at City Hall flowing with blood, the blood of our vanquished enemies, I assume.

Perhaps these lads will win the cup after all, I thought. And that got me to thinking about the competition I'm in: Most Improved Person 2006-07. I realized I'd given up on winning without trying. Sure, the Amazon has got herself a life coach. And sure, all the Chair would have to do to win is get a life off the couch. But I could still pull ahead if I put my mind to it.

I even came up with an idea: volunteer work! Sharing my skills for the benefit of the community!

I called the first number I found for volunteering in Ottawa. "I want to do some volunteer work this weekend, who could use me?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," said the woman who answered.

"Aren't you the volunteer people?"

"No," she said, "we're process servers."

"Oh..." I said.

"But the marathon is on this weekend. Maybe they could use some help."

And she was right. The Foot Racing people needed lots of help. I looked down the list of areas where they needed help:

• Route Marshal
• Medical
  
• Water station
• Information Booth
• Expo
• Race Kit Pickup
• Start Line Area
• Recovery Area
• Sweat Check
• Cheering Station

"Holy Saint Nicholas!" I said out loud. "It's like they knew I would be available." If there is one thing I am an expert in it is perspiration. "If they need someone to check for sweat, I am their man!" When I thought about it, it made perfect sense. Once those runners stop sweating -- they're in trouble.

I made my way to Confederation Park and saw the "Sweat Check Tent" sign. I wondered if they had tents set up all along the route or if we sweat checkers were to be deployed from this main base to locations along the route.

Well blow me down if I didn't have it all wrong. It turns out the Sweat Check Tent is a place where the racers leave their belongings while they're running the course. Having all those valuables at my disposal was mighty tempting, but in the end, I decided that it wouldn't help me get the prize I really want.

Do you think the Dragon Boat people might need a sweat checker?

ADD at the GGGS

Scenes from the Great Glebe Garage Sale...

8:30 a.m: Dame Aggie, on a mission to buy fresh dark roast, finds Coyote confused and wandering in traffic. She takes him in hand, warning him firmly that after the Research Director's experiences a few weeks back, he's not even going to get to sniff the grounds. And if he tries to actually drink any, he will be summarily whacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.

8:50: 4th Dwarf arrives, grumpy that coffee is not yet served. Coffee is served. Coyote pouts.

9:05: The coffee hits. Aggie, suddenly aware that there's a garage sale going on, starts hauling stuff out of her house. Much of it is pretty nice, because she's compacting her possessions before she moves out. A dishevelled, sleepy waiter is among the items ejected. Coyote & the Dwarf witness this latter event with some interest.

9:10: Aggie staggers out of the house laden under a gigantic pressure cooker, saying, "I used it a couple of times, but I never really wrapped my head around the idea of a bomb on top of my stove. How much should I charge for it?"

9:10:30: Gleams of covetousness, lust and avarice alight in several eyes at once, because you just never know when you're going to need a good pressure cooker. The Dwarf & Coyote simultaneously attempt to glom it. One inconclusive tug-o-war later, they agree to flip a coin for possession. Then the sleepy waiter, rousing, offers to buy it, too. Lacking three-sided coins, the trio begin a spirited bidding war. Nobody remarks on the fact that the Dwarf, somehow, is both auctioneer and bidder.

9:15: The Dwarf, caught up in a fast-talking frenzy, accidentally sells the pressure cooker to Coyote.

9:20: Consumer hordes descend upon Aggie's driveway and run amok amid her stuff. Nobody remarks on the fact that, brown-paper-and-string-wrapped purchase in paw, Coyote has wandered off in search of Aggie's sizable cat...

You better add in Lex's vote...

...after all, according to the Pet Finder, I think he sold it to the guy...

A bridge (naming contest) too far(-fetched)

According to the City Journal, the Rideau Canal Pedestrian Bridge Naming Committee has whittled down 50 potential monikers to just three: Somerset Footbridge, Charlotte Whitton Footbridge, and Corktown Footbridge.

We ESIs turned our ADD-addled minds to this question briefly and came up with several possibilities. However, we never, uh, got around to selecting the best one for submission to the committee, though the dependable Bob did suggest the Somerset Footbridge handle.

Here then are the Top 10 not-quite-so-much-rejected-as-never-formally-proposed names for the bridge, in no particular order (though I like the playful insouciance of Aggie's possibly bilingual suggestion):

10. Le Pont Bridge (4th Dwarf)
9. Pont Ifical (Coyote)
8. Music Bridge (Harmony)
7. By-ped Bridge (Anonymous)
6. Castor Bridge (Coyote)
5. Pont of Order, Talking Pont, Pont of Insanity (Coyote)
4. Rainbow Bridge (Coyote, now smacking of desperation)
3. Justin Trudeau Bridge (Conch Shell)
2. Demarcation Pont (Apostrophe)
1. Inspiration Pont (Aggie)

The ever-waggish Research Director chimed in recently with The Choketown Bridge. Then the Sens finished off the Sabres. But, hmmm, if Ottawa quacks out four straight ...

Long-distance Matchmaking

I've been asked to be a matchmaker for people who live thousands of miles apart. One of the matchees (who lives far far away) is a friend of mine who, I believe, does not really want a relationship, but a week of intense shaggery. She has asked me to get in touch with the other matchee who lives here in Ottawa, and, in a very subtle way, to suggest to him that he needs to buy himself an airline ticket, arm himself with a week's worth of condoms, and fly off into shaggerama paradise.

I'm having trouble figuring out how to do this in a subtle way --- ie. without saying "Get your ass off to (redacted) because (redacted) wants to (redacted) your brains out with no strings attached."

Come to think of it, this scenario doesn't really fit into the traditional matchmaking model in which the two matchees are equally ambivalent. The out-of-town matchee is lusting after the Ottawa matchee. So, we're starting out with an imbalance.

As you can see, I need some advice here about how to proceed. Should I:

1) Try to find a subtle way to convince the Ottawa matchee that he needs to head south.

2) Be direct with the Ottawa matchee and tell him that he has great potential for action in foreign lands.

3) Encourage the distant matchee to be her own matchmaker.

4) Encourage the distant matchee to find action in her own town.

5) None of the above.

Emergency Meeting: Saturday 19 May

Venue: Not The Usual Spot By a Long Shot
Emergency: Earthshaking
Meeting Called By: 4th Dwarf
Present And On Time: The Independent Observer, Aggie, Coyote
Late And Breathless: 4th Dwarf
Ugly Rumbles About Convenor Tardiness:
The Independent Observer, Aggie, Coyote
Absent: Conch Shell, The Chair
Minutes by: Coyote

4D: (Redacted)!

Aggie: (Redacted)!?

Coyote: (Redacted)

Independent Observer: (Redacted)

4D: (Redacted)

Coyote: "Dwarf, sarcasm is so uncharacteristic of you..."

Sorry, Oscar, but even in 1882 it was all about us

This week marks the 125th anniversary of one Oscar Wilde's visit to our fair town, part of the witty wordsmith's cross-country tour aimed at civilizing the colonies.

In 1882, Ottawa was a bustling burgh of 30,000 brave, muddy souls, including at least a few forebears of the ESIs. The national hockey trophy was but a gleam in Lord Frederick Stanley's eye. And John Turmel had completed just two unsuccessful runs at elected office.

Wilde rolled into town on Tuesday, May 16, 1882, settling in at the fine Russell House Hotel, later demolished to make way for Confederation Square.

Then as now, the Ottawa Daily Citizen couldn't break a story even by hurling it from a second-storey window (buildings were shorter then). Behold, the paper's May 17 coverage of Wilde's presence in the capital:

Mr. Oscar Wilde arrived in the city yesterday and is staying at the Russell House.

A perusal of the 19th-century Petfinder shows the paper was more interested in the fact some louts were rowing up and down the canal at night, causing a mighty ruckus.

In fairness, our 27-year-old visitor was a dozen years away from penning his best-known plays. A poet of some repute and a leading advocate of the Aesthetic movement, Wilde delivered a lecture at the since disappeared Grand Opera House (Albert and O'Connor streets), waxing on about stuff like why it's not a good idea to wallpaper your ceiling and the reason rows of pictures should be hung asymmetrically.

His talk was rather poorly attended, competing with a city council meeting, the University of Ottawa's annual athletic banquet, the imminent end of the parliamentary session, carriage rides, tea-drinking and church-going.

Wilde apparently had dinner with then-prime minister Sir John A. Macdonald and his wife, though details are sketchy. He was snubbed by the Governor General, the Marquess of Lorne, who somehow managed to find time for two rounds of golf the day Wilde arrived.

Wilde lamented the sawdust that wafted over the city from the local lumber mills. He admired the natural scenery around Ottawa. And whatever his companionship preferences, Wilde attracted plenty of babes, according to the Citizen report of May 18:

Local News, Mr. Oscar Wilde

This gentleman had a large number of callers during his stay in the city. A number of lady admirers of the apostle of aestheticism sent him their albums for the purpose of having his autograph written therein.

But the paper, despite ignoring his lecture, couldn't resist poking fun at the fact Wilde recommended sunflower seed as some sort of decorative adornment:

It is very fattening, so if you are served with lean chickens at your country boarding home this summer you may thank Mr. Wilde and the more important demand he has created for the seed as a feast for the eyes.

Wilde's time in Ottawa was not a total loss. He met painter Frances Richards, headmistress of the Ottawa School of Art, who would make a portrait of him in London five years later. Upon seeing the results, Wilde said, "What a tragic thing it is. This portrait will never grow older, and I shall." So was planted the idea for The Picture of Dorian Gray, published in 1890.

Wilde left town on the overnight train for Quebec City, soon blazing a trail for bands like April Wine with stops in Belleville, Moncton and Charlottetown.

So, let's see: during his brief sojourn in Ottawa our boy hung out on Elgin Street, was overlooked by the media elite and did his best, under trying conditions, to liven up Bytown.

Truly, Oscar Wilde was the original ESI.

Photos: (left) Himself, (right) As represented in the forthcoming ESI: The Sock Puppet Movie (licensing arrangements to be confirmed)

(Sources: Oscar Wilde in Canada: An Apostle for the Arts, by Kevin O'Brien; the Ottawa Sun; the Ottawa Daily Citizen; Wikipedia)

Coach's Corner: At least the ratings don't sag, eh?

OK, Coyotedog, ya want dysfunction? Here’s somethin' you can really sink them molars into. Now I wanna talk about droopy members. Nah, nah -- not the slackers on the Buffalo defence. I'm talkin' about the decline and fall of the national pastime. That's right. It's playoff time, the season when real men rise to the challenge. And once in a while that means a little high-stick action. Yeah, that's right. You know what I'm sayin'. But them refs, they're callin' everything now. So no swingin' your lumber on the ice. And lemme tell ya, we could use a little more wood in the air. Yeah, you heard me. Now this ain't a problem for me. No siree. One stiff breeze from a passing Zamboni and she’s harder than a Volchenkov slapshot. But take a look at them ads they're showin' on the games now. Can we roll the ... huh? Do we have ... OK, now look at these flabby guys standin' round the barbecue talkin' about their little blue pills. Pathetic! And all the other ads are for brewskis and SUVs. So we got a nation of plastered guys flaccidly tooling around in their big honkin' cars. But we're not alone out there. Let's put some numbers up on the big board. Yeah, I done my research. Hugh betcha. Now according to this, one in nine guys in the Unexcited States of America can't salute the flag. Nope. That's cuz all the real men -- 'cept maybe Chris Chelios, gotta love him -- are over in Iraq, tryin'a-find Osama. And when you, uh, fully extend the numbers, holy Toledo, you get six million Italians and 20 million Brazilians who make like frightened turtles. No wonder them Brazilians can't play hockey. Cuz, ya know -- what, we’re outta ...? Looks like we're finishing a little prematurely – no, I don’ mean … aw fer -- jeez Louise! --

Dental Dysfunction Week

Um, okay Short Guy, thanks for that information. But I'm thinking it's time for a big Dysfunction Theme Week. And while the idea of Pentacostals datin' Goths sounds adequately dysfunctional, I've opted for dentistry.

Why? Because it is apparent from the IDonCherryO's (Cherry-Os? Har!) post, Aggie's morose reply, and previous discussions involving Conch Shell and electric toothbrushes that dentists and their evil minions, hygienists, are in the heavy guilt business. Guilt far worse than your mother laid on you for not calling on Mothers' Day.

To be fair, it's probably more transitory. Ya go to the dentist for your (depending on your insurance package) six-month/one-year/five year checkup, are soundly chastised and feel terrible for a bit, then leave with a hole in your equity. Soon you forget, and the smile on your lips and the song in your heart returns. Until the next appointment, when everyone again picks up their assigned part in the eternal morality play. Whereas Mom is going to make sure you remember her for next time. She started coming by the psy-ops tools instinctively, about the time you were in utero, and she is not afraid to use them.

Being a wild canine, equipped with wild canines, my dental amenities began and end with the odd stolen Milk Bone, allegedly to scrape tartar and improve breath. Anybody who's ever smelled a dog's breath knows that this is rarely adequate. I hereby recuse myself from this discussion.

But I know that straight, blindingly white teeth are part of the total package that wins you the heart of your prospective Pentecostal Goth amour. Why is it that dentists and their evil minions, hygienists, do not bear down on this fact?

I mean, let's face it people. For some, giving up coffee and red wine to prevent unattractive staining may lead to even more unattractive withdrawal symptoms. Flossing is messy, what with all the drool and stray bits of cotton wedging irredeemably between your teeth. Veneers, no matter that all of the extreme makeover shows on extended cable treat them as mere casual afterthoughts to a complete body lipo/hair extension/lip-and-boob-pump/nose-job/wardrobe refresh, can involve much discomfort before the deed's done. And electric toothbrushes make your eyes jiggle.

There's gotta a be a payoff. If you're going to put up with all that discomfort and lost time, you want to be assured that the Pentecostal Goth of your dreams will look upon you kindly. Yet strangely, none of the e-dating sites seem to have a 'flosses regularly' check box. Now why is that? It'd certainly motivate more flossing. Although not, perhaps, less coffee or red wine. Yet you'd think prospective dates would be crying out for this kinda data...

image: dentist.net

Metablogging for Mega Money

At a recent Emergency Meeting, Conch Shell asked, "How can we make money from this?"

It doesn't look like anyone is about to hire us to metablog them, and the Ethics Committee has some sort of issue with us charging people to not metablog them. Meanwhile, ESI: The Sock Puppet Movie is languishing in development.

That leaves Google Ads. They do an amazing job of picking ads that will match your content. Attached is a screenshot I found while perusing one of the dating sites.

I do not floss, therefore I am (in big trouble with my dentist)

I have a dentist's appointment soon. But I have not been flossing nearly enough. And I can't bear to face the tut-tutting and sanctimonious sighs of my dental hygienist.

So which of the following strategies would best encourage me to floss?

a) Tie a piece of dental floss around my finger
b) Take a spool of floss to The Observatory each day and use it during work
c) Surreptiously photograph my dental hygienist, preferably while she's scowling, and paste the photo to my bathroom mirror

In lieu of Conch Shell's Thursday post...

Our favourite street...

Strumming past the graveyard

I attended a funeral on Monday. I didn't know the deceased, but it was nice to be there to support his grieving widow.

Her husband died Friday night from pancreatic cancer. All tremendously sad. There were many tears as a silken-voiced guitarist strummed out a balm of gentle notes.

It occurs to me that the departed took his final bow as Coyote and I were enjoying a rare concert by the incomparable Daniel Johnston, a cat who's probably used up at least five or six of his nine lives.

I found the show inspiring, in part because Johnston has long struggled with mental illness. Everyone from Nirvana to Bright Eyes has covered his songs. Some are heart-tuggingly touching. Others are just plain fun, even when it comes to death. As a prelude to the funeral mass, it seems fitting that Johnston sang his cheeky little gallows-humour riff on Bruce Springsteen's Cadillac Ranch: Funeral home, funeral home / Got me a coffin, shiny and black / I'm goin' to the funeral and I'm never comin' back.

Management by magazine

Lately his Esteemed Baldness, Larry, has hired business gurus to help with his 'thousand days of change 'visioning' thing over at City Hall. (I hold a certain distaste for people 'verbing' nouns like that, but I will forebear digression -- just this once.) I suspect this exercise to be an outgrowth of that little book about 'corporate excellence and change' that he read, Execution: The Discipline of getting things done. He got so excited he publicly urged all the city councillors to read the sucker.

I suspect the mayor's infatuation with this book may be a, ummm, textbook variation on management by magazine. As excited as he is, he treads a very well-worn path. I'm a very old coyote. Old enough to have seen a buncha business cycles, a buncha companies and a buncha hotshot executives in action. And y'know, all of 'em seem to blather on faddily about cultures of excellence and paradigm shifts and methods for ensuring organizational quality. All sounding strangely repetitive after awhile.

Remember The Rules? A book of instructions that, if followed to the letter, would allow a women to snag herself a ma-yun? Heard it mentioned much lately? I thought not. It's pretty much the female dating equivalent of business guru's books on corporate change.

I'm gonna heretically suggest that this may be because so many captains of industry don't have a hot clue what the fuck they're really supposed to be doing to make their companies successful. Sure, they've gotten the MBAs (or in Larry's case, gone to Algonquin College) and they've learned to project that take-charge outer confidence that investors and voters love, but they're really as clueless as the rest of us.

Having aligned themselves with the people they believe to be the smart money, they don't want to admit that their fates depend as much as they do upon dumb luck. I can almost guarantee you that every rich guy whom I've ever visited of a night to tip over their trashcan, fondly thinks they've succeeded because they're such darn smart businessmen. They just don't get how much dumb luck is involved, and don't want to know. Because that would mean they're schnooks like the rest of us, not steely-eyed captains of their own fates.

Which leads us to management by magazine. At some level, everybody's insecure. Everybody's looking for a guru. Everybody wants to believe that someone else can tell 'em - preferably in fewer than eleven chapters - all of the rules for success in life and business. Because they don't think they know 'em themselves, and they find it heartening to think that someone else can tell 'em. A ton of writers are out there, willing to feed 'em that same old recycled bullshit, too.

Bad news: Today's guru, as soon as the next hot flavour-of-the-minnit comes out, is tomorrow's has-been. Guys who write these books are just as clueless as the people who buy 'em. But at least they're gettin' paid publishing royalties for it...

Mid-term Review for the Award

With the cancellation of the Emergency Meeting due to the failed quorum count, and the impending arrival of the Amazon, the Chair and I decided it would be a good time to have a Most Improved Person mid-term review.

You might say that as the prize is awarded in September, we should have had our mid-term review in March, but if we were the sort of people who managed to do everything we ought to do when we should, we wouldn't be competing with each other for a Most Improved Person award.

The Amazon wins most years. I won the year I started pirate school. You might have thought my graduating would have given me the award, but I didn't finish in the top 10% of the class and the Amazon went through a home renovation without losing her boyfriend.

"We were talking," the Chair told me before the Amazon arrived, "and for you to win this year, you're going to need a show-stopper."

I shrugged. Since the Chair has never won, I'd probably have given it to him if he filed his taxes on time. Of course, the Amazon isn't going to let it go to one of us that easily.

And that's what she told us when she arrived. Before she sat down she announced, "I've got Most Improved Person in the bag."

She asked if we wanted to know why and we said we did.

"I've hired a life coach. We met for the first time today and I've already got a set of objectives."

"We're going to need to see those objectives," I said.

"What are they?" asked the Chair.

"I don't remember," she said. "I think one was that I need to not be so swayed by what other people think, I need to be more self-directed."

"You need to be more self-directed? That would be like me saying, I need to eat more Mars bars," I said.

"Or do you mean it would be like you saying you need to know how to tell people 'you are wrong!'" she said to me.

"You are wrong," I said, "okay, maybe it would be like that."

The Amazon then promised to bring her objectives to our next meeting and we moved on to quizzing the Chair about the progress we'll need to see from him. This is always the fun part of the mid-term review.

Emergency Meeting: Friday, May 4th

Called by: The Chair
Venue: Not the Usual Spot
Present: The Chair, 4th Dwarf

Absent with or without the usual lame-o excuse: Eigga, Coyote, Conch Shell, The Independent Observer
Guest: The Amazon
Food: Wings, Chicken Sandwich
Beverages: Beer, Coke

Major Topics: Conch Shell Blogs !?!, Audrey Blogs !, Coyote’s word count

Minutes

The Chair called the meeting to order at 17:32.

A point-of-order came from the floor. Transcript follows.

4thDwarf: Mr. Chair. I believe we may not have quorum.

Chair: I will take the roll call. Thank you. All those present say aye.

4thDwarf: Aye

Chair: Aye

(Crickets chirping)

The Chair agreed that there was no quorum and promptly adjourned the meeting.

The Amazon arrived at around 18:00 and all three moved to a mid-year status report on who has improved the most in the last year among the three.

(4th Dwarf to follow with a summary report)

Urban bubbles

I'm fascinated by the hordes who run about Centretown in virtual bubbles, disappearing into imagined invisibility. Those with cars have used 'em as private domains for years. Just pick out all the drivers pickin' their noses, troweling on makeup, or making unknowing spectacles of themselves to the beats of spectacularly uncool music, oblivious to the fact that all of us see into their bubbles. But many bubbles are much more compact these days.

Coyotes run close enough to the ground that our noses rub in reality pretty constantly. Aggie might say we live 'in-the-moment'. Yet I see virtual bubbles that alter reality everywhere. Devices like cell phones wrap their users in tiny individual universes, light-years from this one. So that they can hold excruciatingly loud personal conversations about their herpes test results with their unsympathetic significant others. And me. I am even less sympathetic. (Extra bubble points to lame-asses who think they, unlike the hoi-polloi, can drive and phone at the same time. You drive exceedingly badly. All of you. You're just so far out of it that you never see your own wakes of catastrophic near-misses. Lucky for you -- and my bushy tail -- that we coyotes are nimble leapers. I digress.)

Or the besuited Blackberry brigades that ricochet blindly off others as they walk, eyes downcast and texting thumbs excitedly a-quiver. (Again, extra bubble points to idiots who think they can do this whilst driving. See above.)

And the somewhat more benign legions of Pod People, ears filled to overflowing with tiny stylish white headphones, eyes fixed on some inscrutable far distance. Owners of these devices use them to magically manufacture their own worlds. (And we semi-mythical coyotes know from magic....)

At the other end of the urban bubble spectrum are the shopping cart people. Sounds like a non-sequitur, but work with me: any given day, numbers of rather grubby men (a few women, but mostly men) trail each other on their self-appointed rounds, wheeling liberated free-range shopping carts full of cans and bottles between highrise recycling bins, tossing 'em for a few bucks' worth of glass, aluminum or plastic.

Shopping carts, of course, differ from i/berries. People with small stylish devices tend to use 'em to make their own virtual bubbles. The rest of us have no choice but to deal with their sometimes-profound lack of physical focus as they bob, weave and stutter their ways down the street. But most straight citizens - even those not jacked into somethin' - seem to deal with the can collectors and bottle pickers through an act of collective will that creates bubbles to make others disappear, instead of themselves. It's odd. Eccentric and colorful as they may be, very few really see shopping cart people at their business. As an oft-unnoticed urban coyote, I feel a certain kinship.

And I hafta say, I have never yet seen anybody with a cartful of salvage, wearing an iPod....

image: Rappensuncle, under Creative Commons 2.0

My 20 favourite things (other than sex):

In Honour of Audrey's List:

My 20 favourite things (other than sex):

1. Warm weather
2. Sunshine
3. Walking with a friend
4. Getting a big cheque
5. Watching things grow
6. Lakes
7. Drinking beer at the Preferred Place with friends
8. Reading a good novel
9. The sound of rural open spaces in summer time
10. Cooking exotic cuisine
11. morning coffee
12. When *redacted* brings me coffee in the morning
13. decks (with good conversation, or a book, or coffee, or good sounds)
14. cuddling
15. watching movies
16. My mother
17. my cat
18. yoga
19. Watching Young and the Restless (lame, but true)
20. drinking good red wine, at home
21. When *redacted* fills my wine glass without me asking

P.S. I didn't add things like: the happiness of others, when wars end, when cancer goes into remission, because I didn't think of them until my list was finished. And then I felt bad, and decided as penance that I still couldn't list them.

Blogs that are NOT Musie's

In case any of you are new readers to our blog, we recommend you click on "What's going on here" under the photo of Elgin Street, top right hand corner. Our original mission was to metablog the 5th Muse . We loved her, but she loved us less, we think. We suspect that we freaked/creeped her out.

Since she went offline, I have been diligently searching for her, and have found blogs that I thought may be hers, but weren't. Here are some of them:

Metamuse: I thought that the 5th Muse might start calling herself Metamuse in honour of us. When I typed in METAMUSE , I ended up finding this woman with with sexy legs, claiming to be from Pluto, who writes in both English and Chinese.

Unreliable Narrator: I was certain that Musie would give this name to her new blog. This was a dead-end blog, written by some American whose last posting was June 17 (Martin Luther King Day), 2005.

Unreliable: By accident, I ended up at this delightful blog . I was instantly drawn to the young poet, Annie, but her blog also ended in 2005. Check out this sweet little poem about a broken vase.

Metablog: I thought that perhaps in honour of us, Musie would call her new blog, metablog. I ended up on some lazy-ass professor's blog who made blogging into an assignment. There are some scarey comments on there, so don't click on any wierd links. Maybe one of the students didn't like the assignment. Yikes.

6th Muse: I thought maybe Musie was ready for a number change. So, I ended up here. When I saw the header, "I bear no resemblance to anyone living or dead," I was sure I had found her. But, no. It's not her. Musie wouldn't post a picture of George and Laura.

I think I may be on to something with one spot, though. I simply typed in ESI, thinking that perhaps Musie misses us and gets all nostalgic sometimes. I ended up here. I'm sure it's Musie, trying to communicate with us.

A pleasant goosing

I awoke rather early to the sound of honking the other morning. Strange, I thought, there's rarely traffic on my street at this hour.

Then it dawned on me - Canada Geese were gliding through the darkness above, returning from their winter sojourn.

I glanced over at the clock: 4:56 a.m. But I didn't mind.

I drifted back to sleep knowing that in a world of constant change I could count on at least one tradition to remain comfortingly the same.