Probably only coincidence

Inquiring coyotes can't help noticing how carefully all the government news releases, media stories and pundits have been pussyfooting around the suspicious confluence of today's two great television events: the fact that August 31, 2011 is the, ummm, drop-dead date stamped upon not only the Great Digitul Switchover, but CTV News anchor Lloyd Robertson's retirement from the 'lectronical firmament.



Both huge! Both televisiony! Has nobody but me connected the two? Even though they hover blatantly in front of us like giant hi-def bats, everybody is carefully pretending they aren't in the room.



(In related news, coyotes are mourning the loss of analog rabbit ears. Digital ones are practically inedible. I digress. Ahem.)



Anyway, it's probably nothing for torch-carrying global villagers across the nation to worry about. However. An ever more parchment-complexioned Lloyd has been calling late night TV bingo for so unnaturally long that even people that don't believe in the undead, openly call him "Count Floyd" to his face now.



So those of us attuned to the semimythical realms, while not feeling certain about this one (Call it a theory. Like economics. I digress again.) suspect pretty strongly that vampires, whom everyone knows cannot be seen in mirrors, may also be incapable of manifesting themselves on digital TV. So, perfect time to retire.



Ummm. Probably only coincidence. But I'm just sayin'...

Pinch Me

When I was a kid growing up in La Belle Province, if you did not wear green on St. Patrick's Day, your peers were allowed to pinch you hard. It was an English custom that I did not get.

I did not wear green today, and no one pinched me. When I mentioned the pinching to co-workers, they did not get it.

If I was more brazen, I would have pinched the fellow below for being so cute in his kilt.

Walk along Bank Street with me ...

Green Shamrock on a Mannequin

Green paint

Green Leprechauns

Green cookies

Green furry shot glass hat

Green cuties

The fabulous Sally in her green shirt accompanied by her fellow and her talking dog, Boots

R.I.P., J.D.

Life as the Elgin Street Irregulars' designated literary coyote is not all free wine and cheese book launches, lemme tell ya.

Cards and letters began pouring in last week, politely pointing out that after the royal sendoff one gave to Erich Segal, it would be utterly churlish of one not to do the same for the late J.D. Salinger.

A more recent rash of polite missives has begun to pose the question: "Speaking of late, why the hell has one not stirred one's fuzzy butt and done so, already?

My bad.

But JD poses a unique quandary. His record. About mid-last century, he writes a clutch of short stories and novellas, and a vanishingly small number of novels, one brilliant, and one pretty damn good.

After which he bugs out to New Hampshire and turns recluse, not publishing another word for half a century, amid whispers that he's still writing reams of brilliant stuff for his own amusement only.

You can see the problem for pioneering metabloggers such as ourselves, even ones that have moved on from their original purpose. We have lived (and occasionally died) by the daily outpouring of committed bloggery. People who post more than regularly and who veer into the breathtakingly confessional at the mere drop of an innuendo. An innuendo often as not picked up, dusted off, undressed and punted center stage to swing around the pole, a bare sentence or two later.

JD? All that copy for 50 years, and we get nuthin'... The ESIs' unofficial position on his passing is that we think he would have made a lousy blogger. Make of this what you will.

Together at Last

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

(OTTAWA - Aug. 21) Ottawan’s have waited for this moment. And now it’s here. Two musical greats bring down the house in this once-in-a-lifetime concert event.

On Saturday night at Britannia Park, on one stage, at one time.

Bruce and Britney: Together at last.

Hear some great collaborative songs:

Hit Me Baby One More Time (and I will go to the Woman’s shelter)

If You Had a Rocket Launcher In Your Pants

Toxic (Chemicals that is)

I’m a Slave 4 U and Your Fascist Architecture

Rumours of Glory Booty

It’ll be social justice-alicious.

-30-

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.

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!

And the Winner is...

Last week I asked you if you preferred oatmeal or tank tops. As of early this morning the results of the poll indicate a tie - 19 votes for each. So today, you get a picture of Woodsy in a tank top with a bowl of oatmeal. For those who had issues with last week's oatmeal, this week it is plain oatmeal with milk and maple syrup.

Nursemyra, since you showed me yours, I am now showing you mine. That's my little snowman. He's always this happy when presented with a bowl of oatmeal.

Wishing you all a lovely whatever it is you celebrate at this time of year, and a happy 2009!

Beaded Black Lace Tank Top
A top that I like to think Édith Piaf would have worn

This Week's Fun from Ottawa Blogs

Nik at Kill Everything had a fun Facebook chat with a woman, Sarah G, whose name showed up in some insulting graffiti. Sarah G didn't realize at first that Nik was actually doing her a good deed and lashed out at him. The way Nik turned it around is an example we can all learn from:

I was walking my dogs with my wife and we saw the graffiti. And I said, jokingly, "I wonder who Sarah G--- is? Maybe I should look her up in the phone book."

She laughed and said, "Look her up on Facebook."

So I punched in "Sarah G---" and your profile was obviously in Ottawa. So I sent you a message.

It struck me as vaguely funny. And your response ("fucking dick") made my wife and I laugh. So now everyone is happy.

Well, except maybe you. And maybe some other Sarah G.

Zoom over at Knitnut reported on Nov. 12th that XUP said she talks about her Gentleman Caller (GC) too much [ed: I disagree and would like to read more adventures of GC.] And so, Zoom announced that she will be mentioning XUP in every post until the end of the month.

P.S. A little birdie told me that XUP thinks I’m mentioning GC too often on my blog, so I’m going to mention XUP every day for the rest of November.

Do you see what is happening here ESIs? Zoom has already schooled us on Kitty blogging, Craft blogging, Local Politics Blogging and Photos of Dead People Blogging, but now she is coming after our main turf: Self-Referential Wanking (SRW)!

Hella Stella is going for a spa massage soon and tells us that this always brings to mind an experience she shared with her Better Half (BH) in India:

...actually, every time I get a spa massage I flash back to that time I was in India and decided to get a Aryuvedic massage with my BH. Then we got stripped down to nothing, oiled up, and spanked for over an hour. It was pretty much the worst massage EVER. The only thing my massage "therapist" could say in English was "ticklish?" and I had to laugh and nod because she wouldn't have understood "no, I'm bleeding internally." Then we limped back to the hotel.

Remember last week when Hella met Mae for the first time and told her that she loved the story about her vibrator [which was really a dildo] and the eight orgasms in one night?

Now Mae (or you) when you see Stella somewhere in public, can say "Stella, I love the story about you and your guy getting oiled up and spanked by women in India!"

When Bloggers Collide or Secret Identities Often Aren't

Do any of you remember years and years ago when the Atlantic published monthly stories about famous people meeting each other for the first time? Last week, Mae Callen met Hella Stella:

HS: "Hi, nice to meet you too. I love your blog. I read it all the time"

MC: "oh, I ah, didn't realize people actually did, wow, oh thanks, I didn't expect that"

HS: "yeah, and that vibrator (you know the one that gave you 8 orgasms in one night) yeah, I'm totally going to order one."

• Description from MC
• HS Explains
  

An irreverent pause

American stand-up comedian George Carlin died yesterday in Santa Monica of heart failure. He was 71. The creator of the Hippy Dippy Weather Man ("the whole country is high, man") and Seven Words You Can't Say on Television was a unique contrarian whose humour pointed up the absurdities (some pretty damn unfunny) of living on this planet. He was smarter (and funnier) than most of the politicians who ran his country.

The US Supreme Court ruled his routine based on those words was, indeed a bad thing. Actually, seven of them. Yet an entire generation made it a priority to know what they were. In his memory, we pause to recite the infamous seven, three times fast, giggling a little snarkily, no longer certain why the Supreme Court was so het up in the first place. Unless the prosecution wasn't really about the words, per se, but his attitude toward authority(ies)... Carlin will be missed, but not forgotten.

Image: The Charleston Paper

PETA + KFC = ESI opportunity

Yesterday's papers were all clucking over the news that PETA - People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals - has finally twisted Kentucky Fried Chicken of Canada's drumsticks painfully enough that the company has pledged to: a) buy only what PETA deems to be humanely scragged poultry (which apparently means gassing it); and b) introduce what the Petfinder called "a vegan, faux-chicken flavoured menu item". How droll.

PETA and point-person Pamela Anderson, who by virtue of having surgically crammed her chest full of dangerously gratuitous plastic products, twice, is an ideal spokes-Barbie for the cause of cruelty to animals, have been after KFC for years on this.

Pam, sweetie: Without even going in to the mental images I see when I hear the term "gassing chickens", for your own good I advise you to plan never to be around when I knock off a pheasant or partridge for tiffin. Not pretty. Yum. I mean, ummmm, now 'scuze me, I have to wipe the drool off of this keyboard thingie, so my claws stop skidding... Ahem. I digress. All better now.

Anyway, with this announcement, I believe I smell a toothsome business opportunity for ESI Global PLC. The Mumumelon® line is doing very nicely, and our new lingerie is taking off... so it's time to diversify. The Globe and Mail reports that KFC's vegan menu option will apparently be some sort of soy-based product, generically labelled 'unchicken'. Sounds inhumane to me, but I'm willing to roll with the market: a contract to supply KFC with this stuff could be worth a little scratch. So here's to dee-lishus ESI ChickUn®, served up on a foam platter with sides of fries, gravy and three-bean salad. By the time we finish breading it with eleven secret herbs and spices and deep-frying it, it'll be almost as healthy as the real thing.

Now. Somebody explain to me: why the hell would vegans want to go to KFC anyway....?

FLASHFLASHFLASH!!!!!

Uh oh. Suddenly, Shania Twain is single again... and 4th Dwarf is a die-hard country music fan. When in his cups, he's been known to publicly bemoan the fact that Canada's Country Music Cutie In Incredibly Abbreviated Outfits ever got married. He always said it should've been her bed his moonboots were under. Fourteen years ago, and the shock still feels just like yesterday to him. She broke Dwarfie's heart. Oh, sure, he says he burned all of her CDs, but on certain dark nights, the sound of her digitally-enhanced voice could still be heard seeping beneath the door of his grotto, singing harmony to loud tormented wails. It was all very embarrassing.

What effect this earth shattering news will have on his revolutionary new dating paradigm research is anybody's guess. Will Dwarf's hope rise, phoenix--like? I dunno. But I bet this'll probably be interestin'...

Kitty Blogging on Hiatus

I thought Duncan wanted to stay. But while I was watching TV upstairs, Zoom snuck in, softly called out to him and he zipped downstairs and into her arms. I discovered them outside waiting for a taxi only because I went to get myself a ginger beer and checked the door after I found a parcel on the staircase.

I tried to be graceful about it... if you love something set it free, if it comes back to you, blah, blah, blah...

2D has made his choice. At least Zoom left me someone else to keep me company at night. 2P (Pirate Pal) was in the parcel along with a bottle of wine. He's not the same, but he won't need pedicures and regular grooming.

I'm going to drink that wine now, I think. And maybe call in sick for tomorrow.

Pantsing Duncan

So as the latest round of kittyblogging proceeds down its predictably cutesy path, and the kittyblog fans settle back into a presumptuous air of unquenchable smugness, I have pressing and urgent questions. First: When is that lousy Dwarf umm, my very good friend, going to invite me over? Second: Why is that lousy Dwarf umm, my very good friend, suddenly obsessed with cat grooming? Third: why is Zoom so confident that Duncan can take me out? Fourth: what's all this euphemistic crap about his underpants? Fifth: There is no fifth thing.

I believe these issues to be not unrelated. (You're welcome, double negative fans...) Here's what I'm thinkin': Zoom seems a teensy bit overconfident about Mr Donut's ability to take me, in an altercation that assuredly will have no connection at all with the Marquis of Queensberry.

This is because she knows he's got brass knuckles concealed somewhere in that mountainous hairball he wears. Without 'em, he's lunch. Or at least mini-donuts.

Now, I've never seen any fur bearing creature wear underpants in my life, so I'm guessing this is some kind of cute kittyblogger euphemism for really major shedding. And I bet the Short Guy hasn't gone on his unprecedented furline hygiene kick for nothing. It's Spring. Cat's gonna shed all over his cave. The more seriously pantsed Duncan becomes, the fewer illicit utensils he can hide. I also welcome the Dwarf's timely action to clip Mr. Donut's usual weapons. Although I have to say I've become a little disturbed by the Mini-Me direction the whole relationship is taking, and feel a timely intervention is due. By a good friend.

It'd be sooo cool if Shorty'd just invite me over for tea and crunchies. I've dropped hints, I keep checking my answering service and inbox, but so far nuthin'. What's with that?

2D is doing well

Did you know that Duncan likes to call himself 2D? Duncan Dogcat.

The pedicure went just fine. 2D wasn't into any of the soaking solutions I offered, so we went without.

He also decided to do his own filing.

Sorry Audrey

The people appear to have spoken.

1-handed kitty 'n' meta-blogging

so i m blogging wit 1 hand. because duncan is in my lap and he gets testy when both hands are on the keyboard.

he seems to like to have his neck fur scratched and when his chin is rubbed he gets real dopey.

when he gets that way or falls asleep i've been practising at getting him used to me holding his paws. why? just as i was about to leave with him on tuesday night, zoom said, oh, he could use a manicure. would you mind?

of course not, i said.

oh, good, she said, i've never had the nerve to give him one.

but enough about the cat. how about some meta-blogging...

• have you been following evey the former la canadienne who is now in a jar? she's a high school student. so her life often sucks. except her improv team is going to the nationals! the fricking nationals! congratulations evey and her team! even duncan thinks it's impressive and i think it's great she's bringing the blogosphere along 4 the ride.

damn either duncan better get that manicure or i better put on a thicker shirt.

• over on peripheral vision Kate Wilhelm shows us how to get a controversy going on your blog: link to some artists who have opposite views on the artistic and social merit of one of their works and let them have at it.

i also need a wider lap. my right hand is supporting his head and it's going to cramp up soon. my hand. not his head.

• Reduction on Myspace is putting 50 small, pamphlet sized artworks, carefully printed by hand from one block of wood on OC Transpo buses around Ottawa. did anybody get 1?
  

he's asleep now. he's got the cutest little snore. not like mine. there are imperial marches based on my snoring. duncan's snoring would barely rate a lullaby.

Duncan the Dog Cat is Here!

You may have already seen the news on Zoom's blog. It is true. Duncan is staying with me for a week. What can I tell you? When the Celebrity Cats' bloggers leave town, the Celebrity Cats want to stay with me.

Duncan is a boy cat and I'm told he has boy parts. So the gender issues are straightforward. I am happy to report that he did not sleep on my head last night and he did not try to hop in the shower with me.

However, I am prepared for there to be some weirdness: (1) He brought a ziploc bag full of q-tips with him; and (2) Zoom said that she read somewhere on the internet that Norwegian Forest cats like Duncan "take off their long underwear in the spring." Zoom also said that she wants to be around to see this. I am encouraging Duncan to wait until Zoom is back because I don't want to see him take off his underwear. I've got the thermostat set to 15° C and I say things to him like "look at all that snow out there."

Something I don't understand is how Zoom manages to do any blogging from her house. This is the first five minutes that Duncan has allowed me since he got here. I'm either petting him or listening to him whine about me not petting him.

Farewell, Freya...

Megan came by last night and took Freya home. Home to Megan's house, I should say, because I think Freya came to think of my abode as home while she was here and I came to think of it that way too.

Freya is an excellent animal companion. If she were here now, she'd be resting on my belly while I type, with her chin resting on my left thumb. Only meowing when I make a typo.

"She's a great cat," said Megan, "but she doesn't give you much to blog about."

"It's true," I agreed. "But when you acquired her, you wouldn't have been thinking of finding a bloggable cat. Not like Zoom picking Duncan because he was the most bloggable cat she could find."

I could have blogged Freya's unconventional gender assignment, but I figure it's her business and if she is comfortable with it, so am I.

I hope Freya comes to stay again. As long as I'm here, she'll be welcome.

Meanwhile it's back to my word cop beat.

Freya still fine