Coffee with Mister Sloppy

When I dropped by Mister Sloppy's Centretown lair the other day to wish him a belated happy new year - or whatever passes for "happy" among elite-level evil geniuses - he was frenetically stuffing mailer boxes with gift coffee mugs. Given the guy's "It is Better to Swipe Outright than to Give or Receive" schema, it seemed out of character.

"No, no. Not really," he grinned, blue eyes bright with merriment and the usual insanity. "Didja read that news item the other day? The one about the transatlantic flight making an emergency landing because the pilot spilled coffee?"

Suddenly wary, I eyed the stacks of mugs sporting myriad famous high tech logos, and reached for the Rolaids. Sloppy was up to no good again.

"You, ummm, had something to do with that?" I asked.

"Not a thing! But it gave me a great idea! Every major lab in the world is fueled with caffeine. Heck, I've even been known to abuse the stuff slightly myself, on my own projects! So I just figured, you know, anonymously send all the researchers gift coffee cups with their company logos on 'em."

"Aaaaannnnddd?" I asked. When Mister Sloppy is happy, there's always an "Aaaaannnnddd?"

"Of course there is," he said impatiently, apparently reading my thoughts.

"Creepy," I thought. "I might need to check into that."

"No. You don't," Mister Sloppy said out loud. "It's a whole other thing. Nothing to do with this. Lookit, I'm proud of these. Every science guy in the world takes their coffee cup everywhere. These mugs are my new memory-enhanced nanoceramic. They're programmed at the atomic level to scan nearby computers or test equipment, then transmit a quantum-burst packet of all their data to my stealth server farm. Oh. Then they spill hot coffee on everything and short it out."

"So you're actually stealing...?"

"The sum total of the world's latest research. It's all good!

Maybe for evil geniuses. I declined a complimentary gift mug on the way out. And behind me, Mister Sloppy's laughter echoed like cats fighting in an alley...

Shocker.... mayor hires new mouthpieces.

This morning's local news has informed us coyotes that City Hall last night fired a PR guy. While hardly causing us to spew hot Ethiopian Yirgacheffe at the monitor, it did prompt eye rolls and longing thoughts of stirring in something a tad stronger than half 'n half.

The firing was nuthin' surprising in itself.

Since the last election, appointed staffers within throttling distance of the mayor's office have been, pretty much, reluctant temps. Terms vary, but a remarkable number have been scragged and hoofed out the high-speed revolving door down there, possibly for their curious inability to articulate our Beloved Leader's, ummm, belovedness to the masses.

No, what made our furry forehead wrinkle was the new hires in Fired Guy's place. Forgot his name already... can't keep track anymore. Sorry! I digress...

Anyway, they are (ex) print reporters Patrick Dare and Derek Puddicombe, very recently late of the Petfinder's and the Stun's respective city hall bureaux. Oh, and Chris Day, lately the press secretary for federal minister John Baird's Tory-to-its-roots hair. And possibly the hair of Baird's famously late ex-cat...

I expect that in an ill-lit corner at City Hall, an elected official of less than total competence and far less than total hirsuteness may be congratulating hisself on his self-diagnosed genius in suborning two local newspaper scribes, and buying stronger ties to federal conservatives. At least until he fires them all. Very soon, when he rediscovers that the public still thinks he's unlovable. But right now, I bet he's thinkin' he's finally bought the right mouthpieces for a clear re-election shot.

Both former journos, being who they are, have probably done their due diligence. Even knowing what they're getting into, they must've calculated that job security with Larry still trumps that at the shaky newspaper conglomerates that employed them, Canwest Global and Quebecor. Good, ummm, luck with that.

And maybe they can turn things around in time for the next election. Or maybe, just maybe, the mayor will continue to do things as he has, and we will finally get to vote him into a job for which he's temperamentally and intellectually more suited. Something in the private sector. Although personally, given his record of success in office, dog catcher would suit me just fine...

Meta-Meta Contest

Aggie and Woodsy have traded days for posting. The reason why we did the switch will be apparent later today, so stay tuned.

A few months before I was invited to join the ESI, a meta-contest was held on this blog. I entered the contest and won a prize. When my prize never materialized, I started whining annoyingly to Fourth Dwarf that I wanted my prize.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear, you'll get your prize alright," he coughed out ominously.

I got my prize. It is hidden within this blog.

I would like to suggest a meta-meta-contest. Comment as to what it was that I wanted for my prize, then find the prize on this blog, and I will take you out for a coffee and a ginger cookie at Bridgehead - my treat!

I'll have a non-fat chai latte, hold the cup

Waiting for Audrey recently at a downtown Starbucks, I ordered a latte.

The woman behind the counter responded in the same tone she might use had I asked her to co-pilot an imaginary spaceship to the planet Xatox or express milk my waiting llama on the sidewalk.

"You want an actual cup?" she asked.

"Yes, an actual cup would be great," I said with a smile.

I also ordered a piece of banana cake, and upon hearing the crinkle of a paper bag I chimed in, "That's for here, too."

"Oh, yes," she said, soon adding, "We only have this saucer. All the actual plates are broken."

"A saucer would be fine."

I'm not a green-tinged saint but, hey, I try.

Common sense, not to mention a study or five, tells us ceramic mugs and plates are more environmentally friendly than disposable cups and paper bags, even when you factor in the energy needed to manufacture and wash the dishes.

But invariably the chain coffee joints offer you a disposable cup rather than a reusable one.

Starbucks says it wants to "re-establish" the ceramic mug as its "global standard" for people swilling java in-store by 2010.

Let's hope the planet is still around.

Image: http://yogitimesblog.blogspot.com/

Forget Larry, Let’s Talk About Flirting

Over at the Elgin Street Muse blog, there is quite a bit of talk about flirting. Manny Blue mentioned that flirting is a four season activity. Anonymous wanted more instruction. Conch Shell felt it was more of a pre-relationship thing. I like that Aggie concluded that we should just be doing it, and not over thinking it. Certainly, to me, it is an every day activity.

I flirted with an enchantingly pretty young woman this morning. The barista at a Starbucks. She had wild, radiant hair that had strands pulled up in a few places and that were held up by coloured elastics and pretty little barrettes. She wore shiny shell and silver jewelry, and at first I thought she looked a bit like a fairy tale princess - like the one in The Princess Bride. I noticed that the chalk board on the counter that names the baristas had a drawing of two Mermaids (one blonde with wild hair like my barista). When she handed me my coffee, I looked her in the eyes, smiled amiably, and told her that she did indeed look like a mermaid. She broke out into a lovely smile, and thanked me sweetly.

I flirted with a scrumptious young man this afternoon at a Bridgehead. I liked how he had a bit of an old fashioned look about him - as if he had just walked out of the late seventies. Maybe I just wanted to believe he looked that way, because that is when I would have been the age that I suspect he is now. I asked him if he would make my latté pretty like the last time. Last time he made a half-moon design in the foam. We chatted about how in Vancouver they make all kinds of nice designs in the latté foam. He had my undivided attention. He mentioned that a friend of his was being flown from Vancouver to somewhere in the States to compete in foam decorating.

“I’m really not very good at this,” he apologized.

“In Vancouver someone made a heart in my foam.” I mentioned.

“There you go,” he said handing me my latté, “but I don’t know what it is.”

“Look,” I said, turning the cup around for him to see, “it’s a tulip.”

“Oh, wow, so it is.” He marveled at his art.

I winked at him and said, “Now I can tell my friends that a nice young man gave me a flower today.”

He smiled and blushed.

Ms Army Pants witnessed the flirt with the young man and was told about the flirt with the young girl. She called me dirty.

“You’d do anything for sex wouldn’t you.” She accused.

“It’s not about sex,” I protested. “I am much too old for either of them. It’s about connecting, it’s about having conversations, it’s about making people smile…” I explained passionately and honestly.

“No, you’re just dirty.” She insisted.

Aggie's perfect storm

Zoom needs a little time to pull her extra-special prize guest bloggage together, but watch this space. It's coming soon, and it's gonna be brilliant! In the meantime, to cover, I'll do what ESIs do best. No, not that. I mean metablogging.

It has become overwhelmingly needful to metablog our own Essex girl.

Evidence suggests Aggie has found that the road to new-age enlightenment is no easy thing, strewn as it is with a perfect storm of pitfalls. And bad hair days. Not to mention bent-to-broken metaphors. Poor thing is now so confused, she's laying off drinking and trying to reinvent herself as a common craft blogger...

What are the ethics, here? Aggie is one of us. I mean, I love her, and she is, like Mary Poppins, Practically Perfect in Every Way. Uh, but she remains in place as our next-best Muse. Better yet, she's not here to defend herself... and we need material. No honour among metabloggers. 'Nuff said.

Anyway, I was at Bank & Slater yesterday, nose to the ground, sniffin' opportunity, when I chanced to look up. And was struck with awe. I mean, the signage at this one corner has Aggie's enlightenment covered: martini lounge named for her favorite yoga position, strong coffee options, a hair salon to repair the unfortunate mullet experiment, and a relaxing day spa. The salon's name? Perfection. Nothing better than that.

And what about that constant, soothing flow of large American cars, huh?

Truly, when one seeks satori, the devil is in the distractions. Crafting? Aggie, we barely recognize you! Just ignore the proven fact that when anyone in a dysfunctional group tries to change for the better, other members will pressure her to return to old, familiar patterns, so they can avoid confronting their own dysfunctions. Instead, think about this, Ags: Lotus Martini Lounge!

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...

Publog Research: Preston Hardware

Fieldwork by the Research Director and Coyote, Easter Weekend 2007:

Pluses (Features to emulate)

• FREE! ESPRESSO! SHOTS!

Minuses (Features to Avoid)

• FREE! ESPRESSO! SHOTS! TO! COYOTES!

Summary: I realize we normally don't PuBlog non-food establishments, but the Research Director asked if I wanted to ride shotgun in the Bookmobile with him on a consumer survey. And he offered to roll down the window so that I could hang my tongue in the breeze. Really, he had me at "ride". As usual, I digress.

A serious round of research found us at Ottawa's shrine to hardcore hardware cognoscenti, viewing an automated espresso apparatus selling for many thousands of bonez. At the tap of a touchscreen, this gizmo automatically grinds fresh coffee onboard, tamps it into the filter and pumps espresso at a precise temperature and pressure into two demitasses, all untouched by human hands. (Huh. I can do that last part for a lot cheaper. Uh, I digress again.)

The knowledgeable salesperson explained these complexities, then showed it off and gave us FREE! ESPRESSO! SHOTS! -- This was coffee of a velvety blackness to make roadside Elvis painting hawkers weep, with perfect crema and a mellow richness that seems to be taken for granted at every little store along Preston Street, even as certain international chains that shall remain nameless sometimes struggle for the same effect. Gotta love Little Italy...

Ummmm. But. Somebody shoulda warned the sales guy. And the Research Director. I can't think who would be responsible for that.... The RD placed my FREE! ESPRESSO! SHOT! on the floor so I could slurp it. I slurped. I ran in circles. I peed on the Research Director's immaculately polished footwear. (Missed the pant leg, though. I'm proud of that.) Close readers of my solo project may recall that someone inadvertantly let me snarf down too much chocolate about a year ago. And that I reacted predictably badly. People, again: you should never feed a dog chocolate. Even a two-thousand-year-old, semimythical one. Apparently, we must add espresso to this list, too.

Moral: Free espression carries with it great responsibility...