Ottawa River Crash: What They're Hiding

In the past couple of days, humorous speculation on this very blog has stumbled uncomfortably close to the truth. Ummm. Confession, here. Somebody's been a very bad dog. Again.

It all started earlier this week, when I realized I had only days to remove a, ummm, surplus military vehicle, acquired more or less on the up-and-up in the 1960s, from the sorta disused garage where I stored it (maybe a little less on the up-and-up) at Rockliffe Air Base. Which sadly, is closing July 31.

I just want to say that back in the 60s, I definitely scooped the cream puff. The low-flying lemons went to the US Air Force and the Smithsonian Institute. In fact, for some reason I strangely can't remember, they thought the thing never flew that well. Heh. It's come in really handy. I mean, how the hell do you think I keep evading Temporary Mayor DT's coyote posse?

It's been parked most of this summer - convertible, y'know, and all this rain. But when I started it up and backed it out that night, headed toward a new rented garage in in the west end, it totally purred. It ran so well, I scooted it up to eight or ten thousand feet and started honking up the Ottawa River in the dark. Much like the local Canada geese.

Up there, I am afraid, my natural semi-mythical exuberance got the better of me. When I remembered the parachute flare in the glove box, it just seemed natural to light it off the cigarette lighter and toss it over the side.

Big mistake.

Sigh. You know most of the rest of it. 911 calls. Constabulary and flashing lights and rescue boats and divers and stuff, all over the place. Then the beefy guys with sunglasses and black suits showed up. You know, the ones with inexplicable military license plates on their black Suburbans, and little radar scanners on top. I rather think the cops were politely asked to lay off for reasons of, ummm, national security.

It's all glossed over now, but I'm pretty sure they haven't stopped looking for me. Forty-five years, and they're still cranky about losing their saucer. Some people never know when to give up. Don't tell, 'kay?

Breaking News: Ottawa River crash debris recovered

Turns out it was just a weather balloon. Nothing to see here. Please move on.

Conspiracy or a Jeff Goldblum Flick?

The Facts:

Friday, July 24th -- 12:19 a.m.
Federal government announces that the Alexandra Bridge over the Ottawa River will be closed to all traffic for supposed repair work between 9 pm and 6 am, starting Sunday evening through to Thursday, July 30th

Friday, July 24th -- 12:33 a.m.
Only 14 minutes after the previous announcement, Public Works adds a second bridge to the list of closures. This time it's the Macdonald-Cartier bridge that will be closed to cyclists and pedestrians heading north starting the morning of Tuesday, July 28th at 9 am.

Friday, July 24th -- Late afternoon
West Ottawa experiences a flood that some describe as a "one-hundred year" event.

Monday, July 27th -- 2:55 pm
Ottawa Police issue a press release requesting the public's assistance in identifying two female suspects involved in a robbery of an Ottawa taxi driver. Both young co-eds were unarmed and were not too uneasy on the eyes from what can be gained by the photos. The driver took them from the Byward Market (only a stones throw from either of the above bridges) and drove them to Baseline and Woodroffe where the robbery took place. The two were last seen traveling east on Baseline road.

Monday, July 27th -- ~ 9 pm.
Local media report that the verdict in Larry O'Brien trial to be delivered one-week sooner than planned.

Monday, July 27th -- 10 p.m.
Britannia residents report some suspicious activity involving lights and loud noises over the Deschenes rapids followed by what appears to be an aircraft crashing into the river. Ottawa Police take the reports seriously and issue its own press release at 3 a.m. in the morning the next day. Story is odd enough that Boing-Boing, the source of everything worth knowing, picks it up.

Tuesday, July 28th -- 11:15 am
Police report a kidnapping and theft of an LCBO tractor trailer near Walkley and Bank St. (best accessed via Baseline Rd. east to Heron and south on Bank St.). The incident happened shortly after midnight. The driver is eventually found almost 200 km. east of Ottawa in Vaudreuil, Quebec.

Tuesday, July 28th -- 4 pm
Police issue a press release claiming that the search of the Ottawa River has turned up nothing despite the observations of witnesses. They halt any further search.

Tuesday, July 28th -- 5:15 pm
Police issue a media release that they have completed a two-day prostitution and "John" sweep in Lowertown (not far from either bridges) and Vanier (east of Ottawa) and have made a few arrests. No names are released.

Tasemanian gavel

The Justice Thomas Braidwood inquiry, in a beautifully lucid, commonsense finding that should surprise no one, has ruled that Tasers can kill.

There are caveats, but coyotes who have been on about electrical discharge weapons for at least as long as Braidwood has been inquiring, feel that logic has returned to the debate. Taser International, and cops on this country who may stand to face legal and civil action as a result of their, ummm, overenthusiastic endorsement - Tasemania, if you will - of the damned things, may not.

For the first time in ages, Taser International is not ranked first in the Google results for "Taser". News about the inquiry is. That's gotta suck for sales.

In fact, right after Braidwood's news conference yesterday, Taser International's spokesthingy fired off an email slamming the inquiry's report as "politics triumphing over science".

That would be the science fully-funded by Taser and hauled into a series of courtrooms to legally muddy, squelch and steamroll the faintest scintilla of evidence that its weapon had contributed to any death, anywhere. The science Taser used to sell boxcars full of its products to police forces that have come to regard them as really safe electric people prods. The science that Taser has been regularly trotting out at conventions of police chiefs and various rentacops, to show them how their under trained rookies can be handed stun guns with which to zap drunks and, say, subway turnstile jumpers. The science that Taser has been using to impress our more, ummm, law-and-order MPs when it lobbies them...

Oh, wait! Wasn't that all politics? Oops. Some coyotes just don't know when to stop thinkin'...

A salty dog

We regret to report the death of Gidget the Chihuahua of a massive stroke Tuesday, at a pubescent 15 years.

She is best remembered as the dubbed-male-voice spokesdog for a fast food chain that shall remain nameless, because at this blog, we don't espouse free advertising for any commercial ventures but our own.

The gender thing is not unusual. Lassie - through all 163 or so actors - was almost invariably played by a male dog in drag. Or perhaps a (shudder) neuter. Regardless, the quality of the show's human actors was such that I almost always mentally rooted for him/her/it to shove Timmy down the lousy well... and maybe dangle a judicious leg over the hole before buggering off. I digress.

I needn't go into details. Mainstream news is on this like cheese on a burrito. But as long as we're hinting conspiratorially at coincidental links between recently expired celebrities - and hey, these are the dog days of summer news, so what else are we gonna do? - I'll just arch a significant eyebrow and mention that the reasonably alert among you will have noted again very recently that one of the contraindications for those who wish to avoid strokes is sodium chloride. The kind that one might find in massively oversalted tacos, f'rinstance...

I'm just sayin'.

Now that Bluesfest is over ...

Cedric would like to apologize for:

(*) Knocking the cell phone out of that young woman's hands during a beer run

(*) Drooling on Neko Case

(*) The "mustard" incident

(*) Climbing Joe Cocker

Google Poem: Let's Not

* Let's Not Be Fools!

* Let's not be naive.

* Let's not be greedy

* Let's not be afraid to roll our eyes just a little.

* Let's not be unfair.

* Let's not be afraid to tap into that inner reserve of wonder that's known as imagination.

* Ok, let's not be premature with our celebrations!

* Let's not be fussed about appearing as if we are creating conflict to get universal health care, renewable energy, a Global Marshall Plan.

* Let's not be lonely, let's not be strangers. Let's wake up on the same side of the bed today.

* Let's not be afraid of political action.

* Let's not be hasty here, I'm sure there's a perfectly rational reason for this.

* Let's not be distracted by a few wheelbarrows full of cash.

* But let's not be a people who are known for what and who we're against.

* Let's not be timid.

* Let's not be ignorant on the subject.

* Let's not be ridiculous.

* Let's not be too quick to praise Tim Hortons' show of leadership regarding the recycling of paper coffee cups.

* Let's not be too hard on the boy. He's been bowling fantastically well for the last year.

* Let's not be as intolerant as those we criticize! [

* Let's not be too harsh on Cory.

* Let's not be imitations or fakes- we just need to keep it real.

* But while we are at it, let's not follow our pets back into the wild – let's not be like Timothy Treadwell in Grizzly Man

* Let's not be too hard on Courtney Lee.

* But let's not be so sure there isnt a backup plan yet.

* LET'S NOT BE IMPOLITE AND CHASE HER AWAY.

* Let's not be so quick to chase Mora out.

* Let's not be so quick to crown Roger the Greatest

* Let's not be anti-intellectual (Jesus and Paul were not).

* We all love to stick it to the corporate Man, but let's not be too hasty or judgmental.

* So let's not be lame about it, there are some things you should know.

* Let's not be so hard on her. ...

* But let's not be any more anthropocentric.

[Source Search]

When AAs sag

No, no, not those AAs. What were you thinking?

We coyotes lead portable lives. And that means we carry much small, valuable electronic paraphernalia about our ummm, persons. Anti-mayor radar, that sorta thing. If you see a medium-sized 'was that a dog?' someplace weird downtown - and it clanks with hidden gear - that's me. Oops. I digress. Who'da thunk?

Anyway, based on an anecdotal sample of one, I've lately noticed a steep climb in instances where costly gizmos go wonky, and I open them up to floods of corrosive goo from burst AA cells. Which I must clean out, or lose the gadget. This almost never used to happen if one avoided off-brands and dodgy dollar store counterfeits. Lately it's been like, twice a week.

I'm sure our friend Milan has statistics somewhere on the environmental unfriendliness of alkaline cells versus rechargeable, with life-cycle assessments demonstrating that investing in new and rechargeable gizmos is better than pumping one-use alkalines into old stuff. He's all over that sort of thing.

My issue is that rechargeable AAs are often AAAs stuffed in bigger AA cases. They're weak, and wear down fast. Still-working, but power-mad older stuff is what I have, and I am loathe to replace it. Especially that anti-mayor radar. It saves my tail sometimes... Oop. Digression detector's beeping!

Ummm, I blame Wall-to-Wall-Mart. And globalization. Among others.

Wall-to-Wall is a retail gorilla that tempts potential suppliers with huge markets. Under contract, they start relying too heavily on that fat, high-volume, low-margin cash cow. Then Wall-to-Wall orders 'em to slash supply costs, so it can undersell Target or Sears. Suppliers have to cheapen themselves or die. Win for the consumer, right? Or maybe once-reputable brands fatally debase themselves on Wall-to-Wall's altar. And maybe Wall-to-Wall throws 'em away when they're so lousy nobody buys 'em anymore. It's bidness.

Something similar can happen when formerly home-grown businesses contract out to far eastern factories for hire. Factories low ball contract bids insanely, then do test runs to prove they can actually make a thing to a "carefully monitored" North American or European firm's specifications. Once they snag the contract, they squeeze already low-paid workers, and find all sorts of cheesy, sleazy ways to progressively save a few cents per unit here, a penny a unit there, until they get a profit. Who cares if there's lead in the toys or venetian blinds? Or carcinogens in the baby formula? Or that flimsy MP3 and DVD players fail in weeks? And batteries vomit? We're only really talkin' about makin' money here!

Which may be why I keep running old, still-serviceable, but power-hungry electronic thingies on alkaline AAs. Years later, they still work. They wear out, not break. Just as long as I can keep those cheap fucking batteries from screwing 'em up...

Shannon Tweed vs. Jesus

It's the Big Day folks. She's been hobnobbing around her old haunts the past 48 hours. Hubby has got the big show tonight. He's assured us that his wife has no hard feelings about the proclamation fiasco. As he put it: Not everyone loved Jesus either.

Given Ms. Tweed was a regular staple around the Elgin Street scene of her day, having lived on Frank Street as well as working at the former Peppers, I think she would have made a great Muse for the Irregulars. In her honour, I suggest this day and Ms. Tweed be proclaimed the ESI's Honourary Muse Day.

Getting back to the comparison to Jesus point, lets take stock of these two celebrities and see where the chips fall:

Jesus: Started with 12 followers which evolved into millions
Shannon: Crowned Miss Ottawa Valley 1977 and went on to Playboy
Point: Tie

Jesus: Can walk on water
Shannon: Can walk in 6 inch heels
Point: Jesus (by a margin)

Jesus: 1965 New York Times declared his father dead
Shannon: Playboys 1982 Pet of the Year
Point: Shannon

Jesus: Never once lived in Ottawa yet every Sunday is His day
Shannon: Lived in Ottawa for 4 years but never has had her day
Point: Jesus

Jesus: Died on the cross for our sins
Shannon: Two words: Hef and Gene
Point: Shannon (no one likes a martyr)

RNDP 27: Looking, Listening and Frequency

Here is the latest roundup of research towards the revolutionary new dating paradigm.

Rating attractiveness: Study finds consensus among men, not women

From a press release about an article in the June issue of the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology:

Men's judgments of women's attractiveness were based primarily around physical features and they rated highly those who looked thin and seductive. Most of the men in the study also rated photographs of women who looked confident as more attractive.

As a group, the women rating men showed some preference for thin, muscular subjects, but disagreed on how attractive many men in the study were. Some women gave high attractiveness ratings to the men other women said were not attractive at all.

The age of the participants also played a role in attractiveness ratings. Older participants were more likely to find people attractive if they were smiling.

But an abstract for the same paper says:

Participants of both genders showed substantial consensus in judgments of whom they found attractive and unattractive, although men showed higher consensus than women.

What does this mean for the RNDP: If you're a man and a male friend tells you should meet someone because they are hot, you should. If you are a woman and a female friend tells you to meet someone because they are hot, probably you should. But maybe not.

Talk to the Right Ear

In 3 different studies, researchers from the University "Gabriele d'Annunzio" in Chieti, Italy determined a marked preference to listen with the right ear by young people in noisy nightclubs. Perhaps their most significant finding:

...the researchers intentionally addressed 176 clubbers in either their right or their left ear when asking for a cigarette. They obtained significantly more cigarettes when they spoke to the clubbers' right ear compared with their left.

What does this mean for the RNDP:

1. If you want to make a pass, sit or walk to the right of your object of affection or walk. If you're following the man-on-the-street-side-of-the-sidewalk rule, this may affect the route you take home.
   
2. Since this tip will soon be widely known, pay attention to whether your object of affection is trying to keep you on the left. It might not mean they don't want to be manipulated. Maybe they want to make the first move. Do what you can to make it easier for them if the latter.

Single women gaze longer

A study by Indiana University neuroscientist Heather Rupp found that a woman's partner status influenced her interest in the opposite sex.

...women both with and without sexual partners showed little difference in their subjective ratings of photos of men when considering such measures as masculinity and attractiveness. However, the women who did not have sexual partners spent more time evaluating photos of men, demonstrating a greater interest in the photos. No such difference was found between men who had sexual partners and those who did not.

What does this mean for the RNDP: Guys: the length of time a woman spends looking at you might tell you that she is available, but not necessarily available to you. She might only be taking the time to decide what she thinks about you. Gals: you're still stuck with no useful way to tell if that guy looking at you is married or not.

Daily sex helps to reduce sperm DNA damage and improve fertility

New research suggests that in couples trying to have babies, in order to improve sperm quality, men should not hold off until ovulation day, but should ejaculate at least daily for the prior week. Dr David Greening, an obstetrician and gynaecologist in Wollongong, Australia, says:

The optimal number of days of ejaculation might be more or less than seven days, but a week appears manageable and favourable. It seems safe to conclude that couples with relatively normal semen parameters should have sex daily for up to a week before the ovulation date. In the context of assisted reproduction, this simple treatment may assist in improving sperm quality and ultimately achieving a pregnancy.

What does this mean for the RNDP: Okay, this isn't about dating. But it does illustrate that the research community has scientists conducting research and reporting findings that may not please everyone, but will make the world a better place.

Better Proclaimers

What's with these politicos going off half-cocked, lately? It's such a prodigal misuse of their big swinging dicks . . .

After belatedly finding that his Slur-of-the-Month Club dealt him very shoddy goods, the PM retracted his latest partisan insult with appropriately bad grace, before a single TV camera in a bare studio. So as not to face the embarrassing prospect of an actual, you know, audience while he did the, ummm, manly thing.

Meanwhile at the local level, Temporary Putative Ottawa Mayor Doug ("Dog") Thompson took a minute off from harrassing innocent coyotes in the 'burbs to become a wannabe proclaimer, as reported below. He then swiftly proclaimed that he is naught but a mere groveller before the wilting rage of councillor Jan "Nobody's Bunny" Harder.

Enough. The Scots-type guys in these pictures are definitely better Proclaimers. They sing. They play. Some pogo gracefully. And on Friday night, in the midst of a superlatively soggy summer, they bore sunshine from Leith to the free Bluesfest stage on York Street. Bless 'em.

The Proclaimers

It seems the ESI were offline for a day or two. I blame some of this on the latest scandal to come to our parochial city. Yes – the sudden proclamation and de-proclamation of Shannon Tweed Day seems to have heightened the public debate regarding whom is entitled to get the keys to the city for a day. I really think this is short-sighted policy from our public officials. Long before most of us learned to type with one-hand on the internet, all that we had was what we found in our friends’ dads secret hiding spots in the basement behind the loose acoustic tiles. And Shannon Tweed was part of that history. Okay, so she wasn’t from Ottawa (a newfie no less), but she was a bit of an icon to this town having a bar on Bank St. named after her (ed. Zoom, you must have been to Shannon’s at some point? Did it become Hoopers?) And I read somewhere that she waitressed on Elgin Street for some time before breaking out for the big time. Lets face it: breaking out of Ottawa in the pre-internet, pre-instant celebrity, pre-Youtube world of the 1980’s deserves some recognition. Moreover, there was no pretense as to what Ms. Tweed represented. Meanwhile, we have currently-seated elected officials having streets named after them before they even leave office. Our Mayor is currently teaching his wife how to bake a file into a cake in case the judge doesn’t side with him. The guy who lives at 24 Sussex makes Machiavelli look like Gandhi.

So, I say, give Ms. Tweed her day. It can’t be any worse than what we have done before or what we will most likely do next. Besides, I hear Marlen Cowpland may be looking for the same recognition at some point and it may be in our collective interest if we can say: Sorry Marlen, it’s been done.

Trials of Larry: The Offishul Evil Genius

We're not outta the woods yet - the verdict doesn't come down until August 12. But as of yesterday, Mayor Larry's influence-peddling trial is all over but for the gavel slam. Done. Like summer barbecue. Or your back, say, after falling asleep on your boat in the sun, whilst contemplating a mayoral candidacy over a beer or two.

All we citizens have to do is kick back on the patio for another month and let the assorted smog from burnt hot dogs, journalists' Blackberrying thumbs and lawyers' overheated brains dissipate into the ozone, while Mr O'Brien sweats it out in his secret lair exclusive penthouse.

As an occasionally black and white kinda coyote, I really appreciated the lawyers' summations.

Prosecutor Scott Hutchison faint-praised main witness Terry Kilrea as "hardly Machiavellian." Then Larry's best-money-could-buy defense guy, Michael Edelson, did his darndest to paint him up as some kinda evil genius.

Which on the evidence, compared to Larry, he may be...

Performance Art

Stopped by Gallery 101 on Friday night with a few friends to see Not Tonight Honey, an art show that promised to include performance art.

By the time we arrived, we had missed three performances, but we stayed long enough to catch at least one.

We may have caught two. One of the gallery's bathrooms had a closed circuit TV camera in it with a monitor out in the gallery. At one point, a woman went into the bathroom and on the monitor we could see her pacing back and forth waving her arms. I wasn't sure if this was a performance or perhaps a private display of tension or strong emotion.

But we definitely caught one full performance. The room got suddenly quiet while I was in the middle of expounding on something. We had missed a young woman disrobing and then kneeling in front of a set of candles and water bottles filled with a dark liquid.

The woman lit a candle, said a prayer, whipped herself a dozen or so times on the back with a flogger and drank a bottle of the liquid. Then she lit the next candle and repeated the process. Her back was getting bright red by the fourth candle and the fourth bottle. It occurred to me that she was drinking too much in too short a time for it to be healthy. That is when I realized that a part of her ritual that I thought was silent prayer was actually regurgitation into a large container.

I decided that I didn't really want to see any more of the performance and walked out to the Gallery's back deck. The others who had come with me, Aggie, the Disheveled Waiter and Woodsy had apparently also seen enough.

We had a lively discussion about the performance and performance art in general. But I am left with several questions including:

1. Are nudity, self-flagellation, regurgitation and religious iconography passé in performance art?
2. Or do you need at least one of those elements so that people will know it's art?
3. Are the levels of self-harm and audience discomfort directly proportional to the quality of a performance art piece?
   

A significant birthday

It is time again for us to to wish the Fifth Muse a happy birthday.

When we Irregulars set up shop back in the cybercretaceous era, we were all about the Muse - we even called her "ours" in a proprietary way, although she wrote compellingly about her life for, well, the whole Net. Frankly, it was a bit of a drama. But we felt engaged.

We also saw a need for comment and occasional nudges along the way, if she chose to accept them. We filled it in our fashion, which is mainly solid individually, enthusiastic certainly, but perhaps anarchic collectively. (And no, ma'am, it was never entirely about finding a date, although that issue figured prominently for you. I digress. Again. Imagine that...)

The Muse (wisely, we think, although we miss her) withdrew from semi-public anonymity to live life rather than blog about it. We're no longer party to her thoughts, but hope that she's still keeping a journal. Someplace quite private would be best.

Oh, we still hear occasional snippets about her life. She's around. But following her lead, we don't pry, and these days we chance only upon random items. Let us just say that she, like most people, has had good times, bad ones, and a triumph or two to which we have raised quiet glasses.

The Elgin Street Irregulars have obviously moved on too. We continue, likely less impassioned without her. The first great fling is always the most memorable... But we wish her well, and hope she has a decent date now and again. Happy Birthday, Muse!

No place like gnome

Cedric celebrated Canada Day by hanging a patriotic banner in the window of ESI European headquarters in Florence.

All is peaceful today. But not so last night.

The tiny troll had a run-in with the carbinieri after guzzling a bit too much maple syrup. Seems he tried to climb the faux David statue outside the Palazzo Vecchio, alarming passersby.

Having discovered what a poor climber he is, I think the syrup is now stashed safely out of his miniscule reach.

Bring on the holy tacos

Yeah, yeah. I know Michael Jackson posts are already about passé. But I've been busy. And even at 3,500 feet, where the air is rare, the horizon blessedly wide, nightly howl-ups with my coyote brethren loud and yappy, and the Internet is dial-up and crappy, the King of Pop's sad death did not escape my notice.

Neither I'm sure, will the ensuing tawdry burlesque. It is, after all, one of the Independent Observer's favourite states for a reason.

Jackson's life was pure tabloid: a slow-motion circus train wreck. How would his dying change things? Especially with Joe Jackson, the ever-classy Rev. Al Sharpton, a cawing murder of publicity-hungry lawyers, the odd cellphone-camera totin' ambulance attendant, carpet-bombing Fox News 'reporters' and hordes of opportunistic alleged insiders, all gyrating out of the worm-riddled woodwork.

I'm not cynical or anything. Ummm, okay, maybe a little... I digress. But I figure we have only nanoseconds - maybe less - before the end game.

Which, if I read the signs aright, will be sightings of Jackson and Elvis, still alive. Eternally cruising the American heartland together in a white '68 Cadillac, leaving humongous tips with awestruck night shift attendants in isolated Seven Eleven gas stops. Who will sell their amazing stories to tabloid TV.

After that, it's a short inevitable hop to tales of corn tortillas adorned with the King of Pop's likeness. Blessed with miraculous powers. Oh, and steep admissions for supplicants that wish to bathe in their curative aura. Later to be hawked on eBay for thousands of bucks, and displayed in a highly legitimate casino museum on Sunset Strip.

Which reminds me. My breakfast Fritos this morning? I chanced upon this amazing silhouette of Michael Jackson on one of the chips. Hallelujah! I'm pretty sure it cured me. Of cynicism. Oh, yes. It's a freakin' - and I use that term advisedly - miracle! Bidders...?