Ottawa Openfile: come unHenged...?

I think I've been admirably patient for a species not noted for its impulse control. But now that we've hit the second week of February flatfooted, it behooves me to ask: What the hell happened to Openfile's OttawaHenge photo contest? The one Trevor Pritchard announced on November 30, with a cash prize, and everythin'?

In the spirit of full disclosure, or possibly enlightened self-interest, I confess that some coyotes are not entirely disinterested in the outcome. Okay, I entered it. The idea of a sunset shining straight down the Sparks Street Mall tickled my semi-mythical fancy.

Also in the spirit of full disclosure, or possibly enlightened self-interest, I will note that I did my trademark lurk at the appointed hour, both of the days in the original contest period when an actual sun visibly set. Having taught numerous Fall Continuing Ed workshops in lurking, I think I might've noticed if anybody else had been doing so avec camera. They weren't.

Again in the spirit of full disclosure, or possibly enlightened self-interest, I confess that this turn of events had me rubbing my paws together in highly unseemly anticipation-slash-glee. I figured my entry had really decent odds, me being the only critter on two or four legs that was there to paw a shutter release.

But, noooooooooo... Mr. Pritchard, the morning of the first deadline, posted that sunsetty goodness had been lacking, so the deadline would change. He did not come out and state outright that there might've been only one entry. Loosey-goosey contest design ain't my problem, but I figured, oh what the heck. Maybe he doesn't run a lot of these. He didn't really post any rules -- ummm, other than the deadline -- so maybe he feels okay about changing contest rules - such as they are - after they're already out there.

Fourth Dwarf asked a buncha pointed questions about this on December 13. Since then, when we've run across one another in a back alley (we're both avid dumpster divers, for different reasons...) I've raised what passes for a querying eyebrow on a coyote, and asked, "Seen anything on an OttawaHenge winner yet?" Each time, he's shaken his head and grimaced, "No". Then we commence to scuffling over the pickin's. Woohoo!

But it's a little weird, ya know? Not the scuffling; the black-hole-like lack of a winner for a contest which was announced with a certain hoopla November 30, even if it was extended. The event's maestro may not have run many contests. I dunno - but the lack of caveats and conditions beyond the entry date was notable. But it seems to me that not setting ground rules beyond an entry deadline does not allow one to move the goalposts - twice - without making a token effort to broadcast who won the damn thing at some point. Sure I feel like the rug got pulled out from underneath me. But I'm a fair coyote. Somebody should win, even if it ain't moi. However badly my id may be pissed, you may surmise that my rambunctiously healthy doggy ego can probably take it.

When the Short Guy, always gimlet-eyed about such things, started asking questions in December, a comment from Mr. Pritchard thanked Dwarfy for noticing the contest. The lad also sidestepped 4D's questions with a degree of native talent which suggests that if this Openfile gig doesn't work out, he's still got lucrative career options writing non-reply reply scripts for federal ministers... but I digress.

Except that on this very blog, Trevor said, and I quote, "...we'll definitely be announcing a winner in January."

That's unequivocal. I believe that Trev, and Openfile, will want to make good on it. Now that we've landed flatfooted in the second week of February, 'n all. Possibly before Valentine's Day...

Mister Sloppy wishes you all a Joyous HannuKwanzaChristmas...

Mister Sloppy has asked me to convey to you a heartfelt "Merry Christmas!" Given his extensive rap sheet, ummm, history (1), (2), (3), (4), (5), we can only suggest that this sort of unbidden friendliness on his part suggests - strongly - that if you are anyone who carries a wallet, you should check your pants. Just to, ummm, confirm that said wallet is still in 'em.

Now that I consider that advice further, you should probably check your pants anyway. Just to confirm that you are still in 'em...

Mister Sloppy is that good.

Merry Christmas, everybody. And a happy New Year. May your holiday season be pantsful and free of evil-genius larceny. Unless, of course, you're into that.

Gregg: "Artifice is the kryptonite of public life..."

"We may all have the right to our opinions but we do not have the right to our own facts..."

More about that here in today's Great Gray Globe...

Ode to beavers

Who could ever forget the Elgin Street Irregulars' historic, heady foray into the (very likely lucrative, if we'd ever actually winched our notoriously incoherent act together...) BeaverBalls™ biz?

Yup, we've long reserved a warm spot for Castor canadensis and his charming, if strange, habits. Such as (allegedly) eating his own testicles when threatened.

So, it is with a certain, ummm, proprietorial disdain that we tee off to trash conservatory senator Nicole Eaton's (ev)ill-conceived proposal to replace Our Illustrious National Rodent with some polar bear.

If beavers were ever to actually chew off their own business to spit at somebody, they might wish to begin with Ms. Eaton.

Her cover story is that the Beav is a "dentally defective rat". We need barely slow down to point out that slagging rats places her in the position of badmouthing many sitting members of her party, before hitting the gas to note that the more plausible reason for her libel of our furry pal is that, while he's claimed squatters' rights to the national identity for centuries, he was only officially installed in 1975. Under, you guessed it, Pierre Trudeau's Liberals.

It takes no genius to see that the focus of the Harper Government™®© since gaining its coveted strong stable majority™®© ain't so much the stupid economy as tearing down, stomping, burning, shooting and pissing on any and all things liberal. And calling it nation building. ™®©.

So despite the senator's cutesy persiflage, we can, ummm, probably agree that this is one more case of these guys' systematic scorched-liberal policy, as they try to replace all those inconvenient decades of collective national memory with (yet more) crap, artfully spin-doctored from the whole cloth.

Do I have to stoop to quoting literary classics, like some intellectually-bankrupt Ottawa Citizen columnist? Yes? Crap. Okay:

"If all others accepted the lie which the Party imposed—if all records told the same tale—then the lie passed into history and became truth. 'Who controls the past' ran the Party slogan, 'controls the future: who controls the present controls the past."

You already know the book. Oh, never mind. I digress

Base image: Wikimedia Commons

Try to occupy *this*

Most mainstream news media (and current perversions thereof... but dear me, I digress...) can't seem to wrap their collective consciousness around Occupy Wall Street and its offshoots.

As OWS went globally local this past weekend, they're finally trying to get to it — but news TV's hair and teeth types continue to deride and whinge over what they see as Occupy's deal breaker: no focused definition, agenda, leader or spokesperson.

Thing is, media and other big-organization complaints are more about fossilized reporting conventions than Occupy's relevance.

See, sometime mid-late last century, many media honchos and theorist types actually fretted about balancing news coverage (so quaint!) in the screaming dive toward daily deadlines. The only way they saw to do that real fast was to pigeonhole every story into a prefab template. One US network news president famously wanted to stereotype every item as a black hat/white hat Old West shootout. Somewhat more thoughtful types — well, okay, media theorists* — felt you might run to maybe a half-dozen prefabs. Still amounts to fillin' blanks with dates, names, a few telling details. Voila! News story! Like any sausage machine, it works adequately as long as you don't get all hung up on finesse.

But to get names and telling details in nanoseconds, which is all anybody on a 24 hour news cycle budgets for anymore, ya gotta have easily-contacted traditional organizations with official spokesthingies, cued to bark out bullet-point "positions" in predigested clips.

It's why many news items are tiny, dumb cartoons. It's also why many are spun to hell by the groups that can pour money into blendering up self-serving bullet points like so much liquid pig shit tasty frozen martinis and firehosing 'em at reporters.

So, the major objectors to Occupy Wall Street's style: people in news who want fast chicken nuggets to slot into a standard story; and people and groups holding some traditional form of power, who seek potshot targets with which to neutralize — or better yet, blacken and bury — a movement and retake what they see as the agenda. To occupy Occupy, as it were.

I'm pretty sure that OWS' amorphous squishiness is as frustrating to old media as its very tangible if unfocused discontent is to business-as-usual forms of power. This rabble ain't so easily cartooned or contained, when you can't find rabble-rousers or messages to pinpoint bomb. Could explain why Occupiers are covering their own revolution rather well in diffuse outlets like Flickr, Twitter, Facebook anonanon. Unhindered by convention, they get it. Anti-antisocial media at its best!

Coyote News, though we sometimes fly with the turkey vultures, is cool with it. Because it really, really pisses off political types desperately seeking some easy in, to either smear or co-opt the whole thing. And our embarrassing, illegitimate cousins at Fox and Sun, ummm, News. Did we mention them? Kinda flailing at the whole discrediting thing. Snicker...

* You, my doggybloggy reader, are of course so interested in this stuff that you will read further, maybe something like Making News (Gaye Tuchman); Deciding What's News (Theodore Gans), or Discovering the News (Michael Schudson). Because you're not the type to take your entire daily news/info/bloggossity hit on a smartphone in that two-minute lineup for your latte. You're better than the mere latte-rati...

Oar not...

It's unclear at the moment, what with different sources touting vastly different he-said-she-said versions of the story on Sunday. But it seems at least likely that the reason the incumbent minority PM is so certain that those costly new stealth fighter planes he's set his heart on would cost ludicrously less, by at least half, than the figures that every other financial and military authority other than the PM and the Department of National Defence has come up with, is because they're ummm, gliders.

But us coyotes can see the, ummm, logic. Yeah. That's it. Logic. Because this solves everything. All the haters who've pointed out that our
economically-trained PM has never actually practiced economics - nor, apparently, economy of any kind - look like losers this time.

Because ordering motorless planes saves a veritable billions-and-billions bundle on up-front costs and downline engine maintenance. And it'll put the Canadian military at the tippy-top forefront of those petroleum conservation and low carbon footprint thingies. Just what the country needs to counterbalance that plethora of negative tar sands environmental impacts, I'm sure. Not to mention how much stealthier they'll be than everybody else's stealth fighters, if they don't make any noise.

How to make 'em go, then? Look no further than Canada's proud and ancient voyageur tradition, people! Just borrow the Olympic rowing team's supply of high-tech carbon fibre oars (to match the high-tech carbon fibre wings, y'unnerstand...) and paddle them suckers! Using penitentiary prisoners as galley slaves would, without a Tory doubt, save huge bucks on the big prison-building schema, too!

All done within budget, just like those prudent, conservative fiscal managers said they would! Problem solved! Mission accomplished! Where have I heard that line before? Never mind! How could I have ever doubted?

Stirring the election pot. And licking it.

Grandad coyote was an austere guy. The sort of dog one would associate with a large framed portrait frowning severely down on a big, lustrous boardroom table surrounded by overstuffed chairs gliding on discrete casters. A portrait of the sort one might, indeed, associate with the founder of a well-established semimythical enterprise.

I know it may surprise some of you who have noted my, ummm, occasional case of pottymouth, but Grandad very much discouraged expletives of the anglo-saxon monosyllabic sort. Well, what the hell else do you call it when your breath sometimes betrays a swig or two from the occasional toilet? I digress.

I understand this credo had something to do with a long-ago day when the world was very young, when he and his callow young littermates holed up in a culvert, smoked way too many green hayseed cigarettes rolled in pages from yellowback novels, and uttered every filthy word any of 'em could think up. Family history offers no clues as to why they considered this plan sound in the first place. I blame youth. Nowadays, I imagine they'd all drink Red Bull until they ran in confused circles and peed down their own legs while hacking WiFi signals, or something.

Anyway, by the end of the day, they all felt so nauseated they swore off (heh...) swearing for life. Come to that, I don't think any of 'em smoked, either. Score one for proto aversion therapy. Oops... another digression.

Anyway. When severely riled, Grandad would admit to "having my dander up". Someone of whose conduct he generally disapproved, he might allow, was "a so-and-so". Truly egregious types, he called "stinkers". For one totally beyond the pale, he reserved the terrifying term "Dirty Potlicker".

You did not want to be someone whom Grandad called a Dirty Potlicker.

I am uncertain to this day of the true etymological origins of this prairie epithet, but the tone with which he uttered it told me all I need to know. Oh, I've seen attempts to define it (1) (2), but I'm pretty sure, on the evidence, that Grandad meant something a whole bunch worse.

Could explain why, at times much like now, when he scanned the election news in the original Calgary Eye Opener, he could be heard muttering "Dirty Potlickers!!!" under his doggy breath. Over and over and over.

Going begging

It was either extensive research, or insomnia last weekend after one too many beavertails on the canal, that led us to the momentous discovery that could lead the Elgin Street Irregulars out of cyber-irrelevance. Or, more likely, allow us to continue to be the self-referential wankers that our regular readers have come to know, and be deeply disturbed by. People, the domain name "ca.ca" is apparently unregistered. Online gold going begging!

Gosh, I don't know about you, but I can think of a ton of business propositions that could hang off that kind of online identity. And three or six political parties, too.

Thank you. I just wanted you to know. That is all.

Let Bigfoot be!

The last day or two, I've seen an unfamiliar term. At least one media story has characterized the PM's treatment of international development sock-puppet minister Bev Oda as "Bigfooting".

Us semimythical critters have a circuit. We all know everybody else. I'm proud and privileged to say that back in the day I shared stages with "the" Bigfoot when we gigged psychedelic festivals at the height of his fame. Later, after the biz lost its innocence, went commercial, and the suits and beancounters and copyright grifters co-opted everything that was good and pure, Ol' Biggie took to the nostalgia tour circuit to keep hairy body and soul together. When I had backstage passes, I'd look for him in the greenroom and catch up over a complimentary sody pop or two.

Ol' Biggie was one of the true giants, an enigmatic prince of a guy who was talented beyond belief. It was perhaps inevitable that a fire that burned so brightly would start to consume itself. But even during his later, well-documented struggles with the dark, self-destructive downsides of early fame, he never lost his innate sweetness, his openness or his generosity. His subsequent choice to become a virtual recluse was one he took to protect himself, and one that nobody who knew him would begrudge. I don't even know how to find him anymore, really. But I'm glad he finally got clean and sober.

So, if Harper has the temerity to think he can ever authentically Bigfoot anybody, I say only this:

"Prime Minister, I served with Bigfoot, I knew Bigfoot, Bigfoot was a friend of mine. Prime Minister, you're no Bigfoot."

For Valentine's Day Kisses...

... don't forget to wear your prophylactic plastic lips. It's the height of flu season, people! These babies totally smack down Purell®ing your tongue after the fact, no matter what some of the dodgy-looking gentlemen hovering near those now-ubiquitous hand sanitizer dispensers (in the lobbies of better public buildings everywhere) might say.

And after you've made your sanitary smooshing preparations, and served your sweetheart a romantic Valentine's banquet, remember to get back to us on how you, ummm, made out.

Some of us are all ears. At least the parts that aren't plastic lips...

Maman walks The Line

You have no doubt heard news of the National Gallery's new acquisition, One Hundred Foot Line, planted of late on the foothills of Nepean Point.

I understand that, nominally, it represents a bare, limbless tree. With the right lighting (read: "brooding and dramatic") it's pretty spectacular. It is a tall pointy metal stick to be reckoned with, but not for wimpy, mild cirrus-cloud summer days. Yet I was also kinda jealous when the guys over at OttawaStart.com came up with the line: "A huge monument to sticking your tongue to a cold pole."

The other day, after each of us had wandered down serially to look up (waaaaaay up...) at it, Robin K. from Watawa Life and me had a lengthy philosophical discussion about the phenomenological and epistemological implications of really humongous public art.

Long story short, Robin said he still far preferred Maman, out front. He's cooler on stainless steel toothpicks. Or in his words, "Who wouldn't like a statue of a giant spider?"

About then, some semimythical idiot piped up thoughtlessly, "...but has no one considered how cool it would look if Maman was climbing that steel tree? Epic, in a King Kong on the Empire State Building kinda way! But more spidery and metallic…!"

It was at that fateful point that Robin fatefully uttered the fateful words: "Agreed! Send her up."

Genius.

Vote. Just vote.

Y'know, it's been a long four years. You'd never realize it from reading all the crap I've posted here, but us coyotes hate blogging politics.

Unlike the mayor himself, who somehow always manages to word things so that he squirms away from taking any actual responsibility for anything negative that occurs on his watch, I blame Larry O'Brien. He has been so egregiously bad that something hadda be said.

Being a yapper, I said it. Now I'm nearly hoarse. Well actually, I'm still a coyote. For those among you who are not trained aesthetes, horses are bigger 'n dumber, kick ya in the slats when offended, and have way less awesome ears than coyotes. But I digress.

All I really want to say here is that Monday is municipal election day in Ontario. I really don't even care who the hell you vote for. Just vote. Because the way it's supposed to work is that the more people participate, the more representative are the decisions they make. Theoretically. If some schmucks happen to be elected - and schmucks very likely will be elected - at least they will represent everybody.

Tomorrow. Just vote. You'll make a very old, hoarse semimythical coyote very happy. I'm pretty sure after tomorrow I can finally shut the hell up about egregiously bad mayors and get back to my true calling: bloggin' mumumelons. Chasing your cat. Stuff that matters. It's time.

Lawn sign credit: firelarryobrien.com. In no way affiliated with the Elgin Street Irregulars, but some of us like their style.

A Big Yellow Taxi moment

This past weekend, the (almost former) mayor piled more, ummm, vision, into his "vision for Ottawa": (yet) another suburb, to be serviced by a ring road plowed through the city's green belt. It was at one and the same time a Big Yellow Taxi moment and a heartfelt cry for help. Involving emergency laser eye surgery.

Us coyotes can't help noticing that most of the mayor's recent vente speculative fictions involve the thoughtless trashing of the city's public open spaces: running electric rail along the Ottawa River Parkway; a Lansdowne Park deal that bobbled lands in the public trust into private developers' waiting hands, with a nifty side deal to carve big a new exhibition space out of the southern greenbelt; and now the ring road idea.

Now, the green belt has been eyed with avarice and intent by developer types for most of its five-decade run. To them, it is 20,350 hectares of prime open space ideally situated for plunking down any old building they care to name. If only they could get their frustrated mitts on it.

A lot has changed since a rather well-regarded city planner guy named Jacques Gréber suggested the idea in 1950, and it may well be in the public interest to revisit its whithers and wherefores. But I'm unconvinced that Mayor Larry is the guy to shepherd the process. He has already amply demonstrated a really unfortunate bias toward what us coyotes call "inappropriate development", along with a serious disregard for the niceties of due process, and an utter lack of intelligent consideration of consequences.

We coyotes, of course, are biased in an entirely other direction. You might say hizzoner's purported big picture schemes hit us where we live. Because, well, they do.

But the public open spaces that the city under this mayor has already dealt away - or wants to - are treasures. If citizens decide to give 'em up after proper debate, fine. But it should only be for the right reasons, and for a fair payback. Even, one might hazard, and I am aware of the irony of my using this word, as a part of a vision. If possible, one grander, more inspiring and more cohesive than badly focused pipe dreams.

At the very least, you'd better damn good and sure before you throw away something as scarce as green space in a city. Because if there's one thing us coyotes know, it's that once you pave paradise, it's lost. And as Joni sang back in her chirpier, more soprano-y days, ya don't know what ya got 'til it's gone.

Smells like diss-spirit

Like all canines, we coyotes are connoisseurs of the aromatic. And the strong whiff we whiffed in the environs of Hizzoner-the-mayor yesterday was the reek of sweaty failure.

The mayor had lurched off the high road he claimed he would stick to when he started campaigning, to diss 77-year-old opponent Andrew Haydon with the jibe that he was "past his best-before date".

Them darned gotcha media picked up on it, and by the evening news, His Nibs was making like a Maytag, trying to respin that infelicitous turn of phrase to mean only Haydon's ideas, not the man himself.

That the mayor was pissed about looking like a jerk (again) was self-evident. Whether he accepted that he authored his own misfortune was less so. He tried to force a smile as he twisted in the wind - but the TV interviews betrayed a flat, clipped voice, a hard glare and gritted teeth behind perfunctorily-curved lips.

With about two weeks left to campaign, he's transitioned from his usual baseless confidence into a muted desperation hallmarked, in about equal parts, by abortive Hail Mary passes and highly defensive-sounding damage control.

He still struggles to project a self-confident visual, but the invisible bouquet that cascades from him belies it. Somebody else, I might feel sorry for. Since it's Larry 0'Brien, I'm snappin' a clothes peg over my snout to block the growing odour of flop sweat. And as has been my habit for four years, rolling my eyes heavenward until election day and trusting in the, ummm, wisdom of crowds.

Summer's end

Some weird summer, huh? I fell asleep on my boat in July drinking a beer, and when I woke up I was the mayor of Ottawa!

Oh, wait. Coyotes don't got boats. Or beers. So either I'm still snoozing and dreaming, or regretfully and regrettably channeling some other rather unreliable narrator...

Dear me. I seem to digress earlier and earlier in these little screeds. This time I derailed before I even nailed down a theme, which should have been something along the lines of, "We semi-mythical trickster types are mostly optimistic souls, happily anticipating our next LOLs." I mean, we always keep an eye open for rainbows. (Especially ones made of bacon. If you see one, lemme know care of this blog...) But some of the doings in this country in the past few months have left us feeling decidedly waterbowl-half-empty. -Ish.

However ya slice it, I've been left to ponder the murkier, bacon-challenged, recesses of the canine soul.

Now that we've steamed through the Labour Day Weekend, a municipal election looms, and that other unreliable narrator is busily re-spinning his sorry-ass mayoral record to make it resemble something a touch less disastrous.

And rumours of a federal election, as always, flit about like, well, rumours in Ottawa. To decide whether one will actually happen, you'd have to look into the mind of the PM. Just try not to look too long or deeply. It's icky. But he can pull the imperial prorogue gag only once or twice before the electorate gags, so we may be safe for a bit, yet.

The problem as I see it is that no politician at the moment seems capable of lighting the kind of fire that gets people enthusiastic and behind the cause. Any cause. There seem to be no causes except narrow minded, partisan jockeying for position. Meanwhile, political offices at all levels are begging for candidates with, oh, actual charisma, intelligence and ideas that embody an authentic zeitgeist, ethos or what-have-you.

Oh, us coyotes will probably watch - and yowl - anyway. We always do. But more and more, all we're really hoping for is to hang on for the appearance of the actual bacon - some kinda inspiration that we can buy into. Meantime, we're resigned to a long, nasty, ill-defined lumpy-cream-of-wheat kinda autumn...

Going mediaeval on our asses

As a semimythical coyote, I recognise that mythical cosmogonies, including mine, may be internally consistent, yet correspond only roughly with what most people think of as reality. One side of the (mythical) line, I'm a totemic critter of some religious import. The other, I'm just a mouthy talking doggie with a sideline in eating your cat. Having had about 6,000 years' practice at being semimythical, I've learned to deal.

So it's with a practiced and critical eye that I watch the government attempt to build its own mythical cosmogony. You know, the one where empirical science never happened, and all must defer to the Prime Minister's gut. The one that spills out over the dinner-plate belt buckle he wears once a year at the Calgary Stampede, and tells him that basing decisions on actual facts is less desirable than just making crap up and calling it the truth.

Having had his mythical dogma (heh...) called out so often by the empirical facts on stuff like safe injections sites, mandatory sentencing, rising crime rates and blahblahblah ad nauseam, he's apparently started screwing over the people who collect these facts, such as Statistics Canada. Because nothing is more inconvenient than having your irrefutable gut feelings and cherished truthinesses shot to hell by your own government agency.

Give the guy credit. He and his base are doing their best to willfully ignore the entire Renaissance. You know, that insignificant 400-odd years when empirical science, ummm, evolved. Would they prefer the ignorance and superstition that came before? For an entire modern nation? How's that for going mediaeval on our asses?

As an over-opinionated quadruped with long experience in issues that rise when one's core beliefs reject the, you know, actual world in which you must exist, I gotta say: no matter how stubbornly you cherish that mythiness, sooner or later reality whacks ya upside the head. How's that for cognitive dissonance? And how ya gonna deal with it?

Facing the Evil Bunny Threat

Call me fickle. Suddenly, I'm thinkin' of perambulatin' my coyote butt out to Victoria. I mean, better climate, (only slightly polluted) ocean air, and - huge bonus - it'd remove me geographically from the stroke-inducing antics of the surfeit of lame idiots infesting City Hall and The Hill. So, healthy move all 'round.

Oh, and, and speaking of surfeits, BUNNIES! Did I mention BUNNIES? It seems the University of Victoria administration has some kinda problem with several thousand of the cute li'l guys. Says they're a clear and present danger. Seems they, ummm, dig holes, and stuff.

Now, where the hell did I put the hot sauce? Pretty sure I can help with all of that...

Whaaaaaat?

I just figured that, since Sun TV is gonna go all Foxic News North on us, it should have a classy new logo. The old one is as boring and dull as, ummm, the existing media that the new Putative Stun Channel hopes to thrash.

So, you know. Something restrained. Classy. Understated yet evocative. And with all the wit and public charm of its new, formerly pasty and now oddly-tanned executive guy, Kory Teneycke. Former Stephen Harper spokesthingy. Former Mike Harris backroom braintrust kid. Y'know?

But it wasn't easy. Endless concepts. Days of consultation with the Research Director. Multiple versions. Accusations of overthinking everything.

And locating a cuddly new mascot. You have no idea how hard it is to find a one-winged turkey vulture that can still, actually, you know, aviate in the solar wind...

Coyote injures nose

Taking Hits for Hits?

In the attached Google Analytics graph, you can see that our daily hits for the past month has ranged between 16 and 125.

There are sites with higher readership.

For example, the Salisbury Journal has received more than 130,000 hits on their story titled "Dog injures nose". [plus update that is not really an update]

Coyote, I know you would like to see our readership increase. Maybe it's time you mixed it up a bit.

Or readers, do you have other suggestions for postings that would bring us high hit counts?