In the blood.

Repeating a Harper Majority Government (™,®,but especially ©...) mantra that already glitters with either the polish of hard wear or that sparkly Twilight vampire crap, the federal anti-labour minister has ordered Air Canada's flight attendants' union straight to a procedurally-sketchy Industrial Relations Board arbitration tomorrow. Do Not Strike. Do Not Pass Go. Definitely Do Not Collect $200.

She opines (again) that these people must not be allowed to hurt the economy. Probably better than when she opined that "cancer is sexy," huh?

"These people" took a 15 per cent pay cut back in the day when Air Canada was hurting, and are still starting out at a monthly wage that barely covers a so-so one-bedroom apartment in downtown Ottawa, never mind the food and utilities. Forget cable. Even basic.

But, hey! If you could afford that hookup, the new retrosoap Pan Am's success would prove that the job's glamour still totally makes up for the poverty, obscene shifts, and antediluvian management. Right?

Apparently it's okay for these people to hurt, as long as "the economy", usually limned as some kind of shadowy, all-powerful, yet strangely fragile third person, does not. This quasi-person must be protected with the kind of dumb, short-term union-shafting tactics that, down the line, inevitably will lead to bunch of (here's an economic term, for, ummm, trained economists...) pent-up demand. From labour.

It has apparently not yet dawned on too many Harper Majority Government (™,®,but especially ©...) types that the economy is made up of individuals. Like, say, flight attendants. And that if you pull this shit enough, they'll eventually get pissed enough to come back at ya.

About the first time Lisa Raitt started dropping legislative howitzer rounds on any union that even smelled like it might be thinking about a strike, she began to tell interviewers that she grew up in an old-school union family in Nova Scotia, that her affinity with labour was "in the blood".

Was it really only this past June that she could still pull that one straight-faced? At the time, the great grey Glob said she was "an awkward foil for critics portraying the Conservative government as an enemy of Canada’s labour movement."

To establish that article's background (and to launch my now-trademark digression, a full nine paragraphs late in my books...) one must note that its top photo is of Ms. Raitt, sportin' what looks, to my jaundiced yellow eye, suspiciously like a blue sweater, and, ummm, cuddling an expedient kitten.

In retrospect, that should have been the only tell that we really needed, to give context to her poker-faced claims to blue-collar cred...

Ottawa's Light Rail Re/Up/Set

Today, Ottawa's mayor and certain of the council are spinning their version of City Hall's latest light rail trainwreck like a 37-million-buck pinwheel. Maybe hoping that dizzying fuzzyheaded quadrupeds such as myself unto pukin', will compel us to ignore the fact that this week's good news on the light rail front is, ummm, last week's out-of-court contract settlement with Siemens AG.

Because, you see, during the election, the mayor famously vowed to "hit the reset button" on the previous administration's fatally flawed north/south light rail plan. Once in the mayor chair, he airly persuaded council to nix that signed and sealed deal in favour of his (unarticulated) better idea, claiming his vast business experience told him the penalty would be negligible. Last week the city paid Siemens that vast-bucks legal settlement.

Now we learn that the first leg they're thinking of building under the new improved light rail plan is, ummm, that fatally flawed north/south line. Because, hey, Siemens, by a huge coincidence, had already drawn the plans and done the environmental studies, before the mayor smacked that big ol' expensive button.

What Hizzoner and council apparently failed to clarify among themselves was that when you hit "reset" on a system that's nominal in the first place, you merely waste a lot of time rebooting - in this case, enough years that the damn thing would've been close to done if we'd stuck to the original plan - to get much the same system. Apparently, I am not the only one confused by council's inability to grasp this.

Sometime long before he was elected, the mayor shaved his head bald. I am not party to his reasons. My head is still as fuzzy as nature intended well-dressed coyotes about town to be. But at this point, I'm thinkin' he could hot-wax and buff that sucker 'til it glows in the dark, and he'd still look totally fuzzyheaded, next to me...

$250K to transform 3 ? The RCMP needs us!

Y'know, this front page item totally arrested me (heh...) as I pawed thru this morning's Petfinder: the RCMP is set to pay $220,000 to send three deputy minister-level guys to counselling in Arizona, in hopes of transforming their organization, particularly its sliding public image. Factoring in travel, taxes, meals and booze, they'll likely sock out $80K to $85K to ship each warm body out for, ummm, transformational counselling. Which will then, of course, drip through the RCMP org chart like wholesome milk through a bowl of Grape Nuts...

I have no quibble with transformational counselling. What with tasers sizzling amok; questionable training; organizational arrogance and rot; PR stonewalling and BS*; and all-round not-getting-it-ness, the Mounties lately have been driving their spiffy squad cars in the PR ditch more often than not. They need to change.

What gripes me is the fact that we're outsourcing this lucrative gravy train ummm, serious and delicate matter, to US counsellors...

I mean, just yesterday, Aggie was saying that our long-term plans to (somehow) make tunza bux off this blog and never work again, were in serious peril. This story is karma!

I'd like to note that we ESIs are long-time experts in both personal and systemic transformation. For $85K a pop, I'm pretty sure we can offer the RCMP a competitive service. And it shouldn't stop at three guys. Oh, no. In fact, we recommend our comprehensive counselling package for all 25,000-odd sworn and unsworn members of the force.

According to my calculator, this rings up at a touch over $2 billion. Give or take a few bucks. Almost enough, I think, to keep us in the style to which we would love to become accustomed...

We have one condition: our fees are non-refundable. Because, while we, as professional counsellers, would do our utmost to create conditions for transformative change, it's up to the Mounties themselves to (heh, again....) cop to the responsibility. They've got to really want to change...

* Blue Serge...

A carnival atmosphere

Y'know...

The thought of riffing just one more time on the weak-mindedness of politicians contributing to this town's carnival atmosphere makes me catastrophically weak in the knees. All four.

And after all, with the onset of full-on festival season in the Nation's Cap, the chimp house on the Hill becomes a mere second banana sideshow, albeit one with the undisputed entertainment value of high pitched screeching and gratuitously flung poo.

But this weekend, thank Dog, we can dive into two truly excellent little affairs that have nothing to do with politicians. Except for the inevitable drive-by glad handing, which Ottawattamies have learned to ignore with blasé shrugs and understated lip curls. Tsk. I digress.

In Centretown, Le Festival Franco-Ontarien has set up shop with a big main stage, a Ferris wheel 'n everythin', in front of City Hall. I'm pretty sure any politicians will mostly be safely locked inside. The musical line-up looks like good times.

And out in deepest Westboro is the free and extraordinarily kickass little WestFest. The musical line-up also looks like good times.

And if neither of those grab your butt, Zoom has a bunch more options posted. My best advice? Stock up on bus tickets, cab fare, or chain oil. Shuttle back and forth with un-Ottawa-like abandon! Fest early! Fest often! It's finally the season again for actual real people - and coyotes - in this burg...

Fifth things...

Fifth things -- the fifth things that we never include in this blog, because in this dimension of (alleged) reality, the only true fifth thing is our Muse - often awaken me at night. And at the risk of touching off a long, ugly decline into irrelevence, with spring finally here, there's a fifth thing that has lately bothered me. A question, as they say, of import, gravitas, and possibly, crunchiness.

I mean, no less an awesome dude than Bill Shakespeare posed the musical question, "What's in a name?", then by way of immediate answer plopped "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet" into Juliet's script.

But I happen to recall an old, small, and according to the great god Google, now completely forgotten story, in which a king and his princess daughter more or less contradicted Juliet by agreeing that everyone would like dandelions a bunch better if they renamed them 'Golden Fancies.' Of course, in this fiction, there was no question of accepting large, evil, international chemical marketing conglomerates' notions of weediness.

Now, Bill was a helluva writer, but not necessarily the final authority on everything. He was born at least five (heh) and a half millenia after certain, nearby, semi mythical coyotes. But while there is no longer any passing mention of Golden Fancies vis-a-vis dandelions left anywhere (And after all, the entire golden construct could be a cruel trick of an ancient and crotchety canine disposed to Alzheimerish daydreams, or a sharp-as-a-tack but completely unreliable narrator - your choice... I digress.) the philosophical saw-off continues to torture my poor doggie brain. Which is it?

5 reasons why Coyote isn't blogging today...

1) Frozen ears.

2) Frozen paws.

3) Frozen nose.

4) Frozen tail.

5) I'm pretty sure there was a fifth thing - but it's either too numb to count anymore, or else it froze off completely...

It's a Hoot

A few years ago, when Hooters first came to Ottawa, I thought it would be entertaining to see what all the fuss was about.

A male companion and I sat down at a table, and after a long wait a cute blond waitress skipped over to us. I admired her fit body clad in tiny tight sports shorts (the kind I had worn when I was sixteen) and her tight little wife beater t-shirt with the trademark protruding owl eyes design. She placed both elbows on the table, leaned over and cleverly aimed her tits at us.

"And what can I bring you folks today," she giggled smacking her gum.

She took our order and as she wiggled off I looked at my companion curious about his reaction.

"It's all just an act you know. She's a university student trying to earn an honest living," he stuttered as I noticed the deep blush on his face.

When in doubt, rearrange the deck chairs

Thank Dog! One election's done with. We can get closer to what passes for normal around here. And what should we do first? Support His Nibs, I think. Ooh, but where to start? So much density, so little gravitas.

Our esteemed mayor this week - the week that the city fired a mittful of its top managers in the name of economy in hard times - announced he wanted to hire a private company to rationalize Ottawa's street furniture. With loadsa advertising plastered on it. Because the current stuff just looks so darn ugly. He was obviously stepping from strength to strength, building on the success of last week's Ottawa Life Magazine hagiography ummm, profile. The one that said that city administration under Ottawa's former mayor, Bob Chiarelli, was 'marred by scandal'.

Now that's spin...!

Naturally, bein' a sensitive aesthete myself, I heartily approve of the impulse behind this pronouncement. (I'm pretty sure it was impulsive.) I mean, we don't have anything else to deal with, do we? The economy's in great shape, our mayor hasn't been convicted of anything, and those nice new CFL franchise owners want to take that ugly, unpopular, useless Lansdowne Park off of the city's hands and turn it into something the city can really be proud of. For a small consideration from the city. Ka-chiinnngggg!

Obviously we need, very badly, to talk about street furniture. Right now. Yup. And since the Irregulars are well acquainted with one or two pieces of anthropomorphized furniture, we herewith offer our expertise in aid of this important issue. For a small consideration from the city. Ka-chiinnngggg!

Breaking News: ESIs Headed For Majority

Buckyblog #4: sayonora

Roasted Cat Curry

- One large cat, deboned, roasted, cubed
- 2 1/2 cups coconut milk
- 10 cherry tomatoes
- 1 cup eggplant, cubed, or sweet spring peas
- 6 pieces of rambutan or pineapple, cubed
- 4 fresh kaffir lime leaves, shredded
- 1 tsp sugar
- 1/2 tsp sea salt
- 2 tbsp Thai fish sauce
- 1/2 cup water or stock
- 1 1/2 tbsp vegetable oil
- 3 tbsp red curry paste

Preparation
Pour vegetable oil into a wok over medium heat and add red curry paste. Stir well. Add 3/4 cups coconut milk and stir to mix thoroughly. Add cat and stir well again. Pour mixture into a pot, add the remaining coconut milk, water, tomatoes, rambutans or pineapple, eggplant or sweet peas, kaffir lime leaves, sugar, salt, and fish sauce. Bring to a boil and remove from heat. Serve on a bed of noodles.

Ummm, ignore the above text. I can't seem to get rid of id... er, it. Must be a Blogger glitch. Don't know where it came from. Anyway, Bucky has left the building. No idea where he went. Nope. None. Inevitable, I suppose. I loved that cute little guy, but we got along like, well, cats and dogs. A teensy tiff last night, and when I woke up this morning, his closet was empty except for a pile of dirty brown socks. His suitcase was gone, and his bicycle wasn't in the driveway either. Didn't even leave a lousy goodbye note, the insensitive jerk.

We had plans for taking the Elgin Street Irregulars to the very edge of the kittyblogosphere. He coulda been a star! Who knows what'll happen now? The manner of our parting was deeply deliciou - ummm, painful. It has left me completely satisf - ummm, shattered. We shall not speak of it again, from this day hence.

The great escape

So yesterday around tiffin we're sitting in what the addiction rehab counsellors call 'the sharing circle', though 'the staring circle' is more like it, because we've been eyeing each other all afternoon, mum, glum and wary.

"I think we're very close to a breakthrough here," the counsellor says, in an ineffectually hopeful kind of way.

Suddenly the hot cardboardy smell of takeout pizza blows into the room from one of the offices down the hall. Bad move by somebody, because the gang of pizza-addicted crows from Sarnia predictably goes apeshit, cackling bloody murder and rumbling en masse toward the aroma. Our counsellor rushes off to aid a couple of staff who, from the sounds of things, are getting mugged by crows. The rest of the group charges after to watch and hoot. The din is terrific.

There's just me and the horse left. He sidles out of the corner he's occupied silently for the past dozen days, stands in front of the padlocked emergency door, and looks at me hard. He finally speaks: "I'm busting out. You in?"

His drawl is oddly familiar. I can't place it, but answer, "Oh, yeah!"

A huge hindward kick shatters the door and an alarm pours new clamour over the chaos. Everybody's too busy to notice. The horse turns to head out, pauses, looks over his shoulder and cocks an eyebrow. "Which way you going?"

"Elgin Street. Ottawa," I say.

"I can give you a ride as far as North Bay," he says. "Got business there. Jump on."

Best offer I've had in days. I hop up, circle twice on his broad back, lie down, and cover my nose with my tail. He heads out into the cold twilight. The cacophony fades behind us. "Didn't catch your name," he says, after a mile or so.

"No real name. Just coyote," I say. "What's yours?"

"No name either," he says. "Just horse."

A mile or two more of clip-clopping in the dark, and another question occurs: "What were you in for?"

"Spaghetti," he says, tersely. The tone brooks no further questions. I shut the hell up. Who am I to judge? After awhile, as I start to drowse, his swaying pauses. There's a scrape, a sulphurous flare, quickly damped, then the smell of foul little black cheroot wafts over his shoulder. "Ah," I think as I drift to sleep. "Got it..."

The Horse With No Name's voice reminds me of Clint Eastwood's...

As you were...

Phew. Yesterday's drop in lululemon® stock prices appears to have been a mere knee-jerk market blip. The integrity of our (studiously mimeographed) Mumumelon® business case is intact. Apparently it takes more than being dead wrong about your product having some kinda wearable nutriceutical mojo. Or rather, not.

But lululemon®'s chairman apologized right away. They just trusted suppliers that told them the fabric was impregnated with seaweed: "Hey. It felt different! How were we, sharp business people that we are, to know the stuff was suspect? Now can we go back to making money, here?"

That's the spirit. Pure damage-control genius! As chief spokescoyote for Mumumelon®, I apologize for panicking. It was our news supplier's fault. How were we to know they'd update their story when the market changed direction again, two lousy hours later? Back to sucking on the hems of your favourite 'melon mu'umu'us, everybody... And to the naysayers? I say let the market decide. 'Cuz it's obviously so smart-like...

Image: corg.org

Zoom's Auction Status

Some ESIs think that Zoom is brilliant for auctioning part of her prize for winning the first Meta Contest. Others think she is stretching the spirit of the rules and wimping out. While we debate this, you, the innocent readers of the metablog, suffer. Why? Because today would have been the start date of the second Meta Contest, but we don't want it to be competing with the Auction.

Guest Posting from Zoom

After some angst and developing stress symptoms, Our first Meta Contest Winner Zoom writes:

Dear ESIs,

I am pleased to submit my guest post to you, and I thank you for your patience. It helped that Aggie pointed out it could be short.

My post consists of a single link: Click here

I trust this satisfies my contractual obligations to the ESIs.

I wish you all the best with your future contests, which I will watch from a safe distance.

Sincerely,

Zoom

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!

The Meta Contest

Hello Readers, following a suggestion from the graceful blogger Zoom, the Elgin Street Irregulars are having a contest.

The Prize:

1. You get to put a posting on our blog! Your writing will be read by dozens of readers; it might get picked up by OttawaStart; and anyone googling "Elgin Street" in the following week, might just read it!
2. We'll put a link to your blog in the sidebar! Along with text and images recognizing your accomplishment!
3. The Chair will put a video in the sidebar as an obscure reference to something on your blog sometime in the next few months so that we all have to keep reading you so we can understand it.

What You Have to Do:

1. Suggest another contest we can have in the next few weeks in the comments to this post.
2. Enter by 7:00pm Eastern Daylight Time (Ottawa time) on Thursday, 27 September 2007
3. Make a suggestion that will be adopted by consensus at an Emergency Meeting of the ESIs, or if consensus cannot be reached, by winning a plurality in a reader poll.
   

Time out from our regular programming

We take time out from our regularly scheduled programming to wish all and sundry in the ESI Broadcasting System (ESI-BS) viewing area a heartfelt, "Happy Quirkyalone Day!"

'Kay. That's it. Go back to whatever you were doing.

Image: www.gothamist.com