My biggest fear...

...upon hearing rumours last night that some poor, misbegotten, and likely well-muddled schmuck was apprehended sparkin' a, ummm, small puddle of undefined burning liquid on the sidewalk outside the Prime Minister's official residence at 24 Sussex, was that this obviously dastardly crime of national import would go unreported.

Whew! Glad that's been taken care of! (1) (2) (3) (...)

Now they can jug up said schmuck in a real prison instead of an unreported one. Or worse yet, instead of the mental hospital he most likely needs. Because now is obviously the time to get tough on crime...

Unless of course, it was Maclean's Magazine columnist Paul Wells... I'm just sayin'.

Alrighty, then! Let the judiciary commence with the important book-throwing formalities. Everybody else, back to your Sunday morning hangovers, crappy take-out coffees, and matching breakfast sandwiches!

Bunk. And double bunk.

We coyotes note with (uncompounded) interest that G8 and G20 leaders visiting Toronto for next month's world summit - mostly a grand (standing) photo-op for the Prime Minister - are now projected to cost Canadians, according to one estimate, something approaching $1.1 billion. With a "B". As in "Bunk".

It's more than three times - closing on four times - the cost of any previous "most expensive G20 summit". The record until now was a paltry $300 million. With an "M".

The billion buck boondoggle arises, says Public Safety Minister Vic Toews, and I quote, probably pretty accurately: "Because since 9/11... mutter spread fear mutter ... terrorism... mutter non sequitur mutter... high tech security!!!!" Huh. Even the lately-habitual conservative defender Rex Murphy couldn't buy that.

Mr. T. is also the government's designated faux-hardass in charge of cluelessly punitive prison policy. As in, "If we build lots more jails and lock up everybody for everything no matter how trivial, crime will drop."

Apparently Tories haven't been reading Statistics Canada analysis showing that, ummm, crime has been dropping steadily for a couple of decades already in the absence of such ideologically-driven programs. Damn statistics, anyway! Never let 'em get in the way of a good media line!

Lately, confronted with, you know, actual costs for building all them penitential buildings that ain't revivalist churches, Mr. T had to do some quick media spin. He now alleges his government's policies won't cost much. Because, hey, having thought deeply about it - possibly for the first time, although what passes for deep in this case would barely cover my doggy toenails if I stepped in it - he'll just double bunk all the new prisoners in existing hoosegows. No problemo!

In the spirit of liberté, fraternité et egalité, we coyotes suggest that if double bunkin' is gonna save so damn much in incarceration costs, howzabout double-bunking G20 leaders? And all of their high-tech security? By Mr. Toews', ummm, logic, if it saves proportionately as much for the G20 bunfest as he thinks it'll save the corrections system - I admit you're free to argue that's complete bunk - us coyotes figure we're back down to only equalling the previous most expensive G20 summit. Bargoon!

Ottawa's anti-prorogue rally

Ottawa's prorogue protest, timed to coincide with several dozen across the country today, wasn't exactly slick. It was long. The student cheer leaders were endearingly amateur. A speaker or two wandered lengthily off-track. And there looked to be a lot of ad-hoc cooks trying to salt their own spice into the bouillabaisse.

But ya know what? If it had all been slick clockwork, I would have been more concerned. That might've meant some oily pro had pumped backroom grease into what looks to be real Facebook populism, rising spontaneously among concerned citizens.

Ya know what else? It was big. Far larger than the coalition rally after Prime Minister Stephen Harper prorogued in late 2008.

Even so, I heard a trio that looked like pro journalists, asking each other as pros are sometimes wont, if there was any story.

We coyotes, amateur and unjournalistic to a fault, would say there is. It is this: Anger and frustration over Harper's cynical manipulation of the democratic process in general and the prorogation card in particular is grassroots, authentic, and to be reckoned with.

If no smooth professional political types are involved yet, it may well be because the PM's disregard for the niceties of traditional politesse confounded and hamstrung them.

But while he smugly ties Parliament in knots, apparently he forgets that the real power of this country rests in many millions of people who, while they may never step onto the Hill, care deeply that what goes on there should be aboveboard. Especially when somebody starts jacking around with it too much. There's irony in self-anointed populists being bitten by the populace they claim to represent. Based on today's event, the PM might do well to remember that. If he ever got it in the first place.

Look up. Wa-a-a-a-a-a-ay up.

Something we coyotes notice about many Ottawa residents is that they don't seem to look up much. We do, because we're just like that. It's survival instinct. Ya never know when one of them crows is gonna swoop in and try to swipe your bag lunch.

Anyway, this being the nation's capital, when we're swivelling our heads around, we often see stuff that you rarely see in other places, apparently unnoticed by everyone around us.

Things like a whole team of guys in black helmets and jumpsuits, from who knows what tactical team and who knows what paramilitary/military outfit, casually rappelling down the side of the Westin Hotel on a sunny November afternoon. Taking lotsa pictures of themselves doing it, presumably for their Top Sekrit Taktical Skrapbooks...






...so I took some for my Top Sekrit Taktical Skrapbook too. We coyotes are just like that.

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.

Canadian Graffiti

Yeah. And what about the larger metaphysical implications...?

Hello... Newman.

Back in the Pleistocene epoch, before Allan Fotheringham became a geriatric nincompoop, and still occasionally sparked up an original neuron or two, he labelled Ottawa "The Town That Fun Forgot". He never stopped calling it that. He aspired to poophood very early on.

Well, I beg to differ. Nuthin' says fun to ardent Ottawankers like an inaugural national teevee newscast right from the Winterlude stage on the canal. Yup, that's right, as of Monday, Canwest Global TV anchor Kevin Newman, late of Vancouver, is now desking the network's evening Global National newscast right here in Fun City, every night.

Since there were general invites to come down and mark the occasion, and I do love an occasion, I went. Okay, maybe the -23° C windchill drove all the usual fun lovers someplace else. I had my tail tucked firmly between my legs, because that's how us coyotes warm up our... oh, crap. Promised I wouldn't go there, didn't I...?

Anyway, the (sparse, yet heavily dressed) studio crew freezing their Aspers off pretty much outnumbered the (even sparser, but just as heavily dressed) audience, yet Kevin's voice seemed fine and his cheery demeanor never faltered. I welcome his regular appearance in the parliamentary press corps, and trust that he will focus his considerable investigative reporting talent on important national issues like John Baird's hair, the startling number of Canadian journalists named Newman (Kevin Newman. Don Newman. Peter C. Newman. What's that all about?) and maybe, maybe, on addressing the burning (heh...) question, "Why the hell did they ever start building cities up here, anyway? It's fucking freezing!"

Bank & Somerset...

...reopened to motor traffic at 9 a.m this morning, after being blocked two months ago when Somerset House partly collapsed during renovations. Vehicular response: immediate, enthusiastic. We await the inevitable legal endgame with interest.

Bringing down Somerset House

Demolition crews crunched down about ten per cent of Somerset House today. CBC says it's an attempt to gain engineers and repair crews access. Depending on provincial and city officials' assessments, they could soon begin foundation repairs that may save the rest of the building. Or not.

Unfortunately, for the street vista, work centred on the building's easternmost wall, decorated with an iconic mural depicting what street life in Ottawa may have been like around the time it was built. The old gal didn't give up easily -- one bystander said the big shovel 'could only break off about seven bricks at a grab'. After the first shots were done, the engineer went up in a manlift to take a look at the situation, then ordered a little more crunching. Being suspended by crane was the only safe way for him to check the building, apparently. There was a lot of 'hurry up and wait' while it happened.

Nevertheless, there were a buncha rubberneckers, watching a fair storm of brick and masonry dust flying around at times. And one coyote. Who still has a lot of antique brick dust in his coat...

Holes

Holes hold a fascination for people. Coyotes understand this -- I like a nice snug one myself, smelling of dry earth, roots and many good books. Lately, though, my wanderings have taken me past this very large hole at Kent and Laurier Streets, where a noticeable crowd of men -- always men -- gathers to gape every week day at civil service quitting time. Which is anywhere between 1:30 and 5:00 on a given day... I digress.

This hole is a former Canadian Tire, and was the only hardware store left in Centretown. I do not address that loss directly here -- the Independent Observer is passionate on this, and tells hilarious, twisted stories around a series of crotchety correspondences with blandly clueless corporate flacks. He may write 'em up sometime.

Let's just say that the store's demise, and that of an adjacent pocket park, have left holes in the Centretown community. Now there are holes in the ground, soon to be replaced by um, erections, that we coyotes would argue are actually holes in the sky. Ones that punch holes in the ambient sunlight reaching pedestrians way down at ground level. In summer, there is permanent semidarkness. In winter, add cold, bitter winds shrieking between the walls of artificial canyons created by this and all the other holes in the sky in that part of the city. No one knows precisely how all of this will interact with the remains of the local micro climate until it's a fait accompli...

Among the definitions for 'hole' extant in the Oxford English Big Word Thingy for Literate Dogs are: "an empty space in a solid body; an aperture in or through something; an awkward situation". Less polite, more scatological dictionaries have other definitions of interest also. To describe the many levels of politicians, bureaucrats, city planners, investors, developers anon anon, who have taken part in imposing this dense skyscraper farm, one might refer to the latter...

*Note: The photo here is a composite, created with a demonstration version of a program called Autostitch. Five dozen separate pictures of the construction site and two hours of chugging on my wood fired computer -- et voila! The estimable David Scrimshaw told me about it and explained how the algae-rhythm works when the Irregulars went to his last party. He's gone to school for these kindsa things. What I took away from it was that this algae-rhythm thing has to do with pond scum -- either an R&B band formed by some of the more musically talented, or a method of asexual birth control sanctioned by their traditional church. I have no idea what this has to do with photo software... but I like the subtly off-kilter, weird, rickety, blurry thing, because it's pretty much how us coyotes see cities...

Somerset House

Somerset House, to some, is one of Ottawa's architectural and historical grand dames, even if it's appeared to fall on hard times recently. Okay, so it's on Bank, not Elgin. But we have a proprietary interest in downtown Ottawa, even if the Duke of Somerset was a rather nasty tavern before the building was sold.

The whole edifice lay vacant for a couple of years, endlessly 'awaiting renovation'. But lately things were looking up. Crews were actually renovating, and it looked like upscale retail/restaurant space was finally going to re-anchor Bank and Somerset across from the new Hartman's Independent Grocer, after a lot of arid years. At least until midway through this afternoon, when one of the walls caved in on a crew member in a skid loader in the basement. Hard news details are here, -- they got the guy out okay. These are images of emergency efforts to check the stability of the remaining building. At the time of this post, the other three walls still looked solid, but you can never tell with these things... heritage lovers, keep your fingers crossed.

CBC: Worker rescued after partial building collapse in downtown Ottawa
Citizen: Cage saves worker after building crashes down
Zoom: Swap Box survives building collapse
CBC: Downtown roads shut for 1 week near partial building collapse
Youtube: Jimmy George
CBC: Collapsing Ottawa building's owner given 55 past safety orders
Citizen: City still can't say when roads near collapsed building will open
Zoom: Swap Box saved in daring daylight rescue
Citizen: Now no frickin' idea when roads will re-open: officials
CBC: Building still collapsed; road still closed; Santy Claws Parade rerouted, for cripe's sake...

Does Frank know?

Near the Bayswater tube station, west London / Sunday, Oct. 7, 2007

Countdown...

Damhnait Doyle, who with fellow East Coast ex-pats Kim Stockwood and Tara MacLean form harmony-driven Canadian sorta-supergroup Shaye, runs a sound check at the main stage on Parliament Hill, 1:00 p.m. Saturday, setting up levels for Sunday's celebration. One of 'em was missing, so they called themselves "Two-Shaye". Y'all know by now about certain coyotes' affinity for lousy puns... I like these people!

Hours before game time, hope abounds..

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...

In lieu of Conch Shell's Thursday post...

Our favourite street...

If the shoefitis, wear it

For weeks I saw them dangling there, high above the intersection. But I had no idea why anyone would bother to toss not one but two pairs of sneakers onto the power lines that criss-cross Lisgar and O'Connor streets.

Then I stumbled across the term for this footwear phenomenon: shoefiti. It seems the dangling running shoes have been spotted everywhere from Australia to Poland.

What's it all about? Well, theories abound, from reassuringly innocent to downright disconcerting. Could be kids messing around. A sign that crack cocaine is sold in the neighbourhood. A gangland ritual to celebrate a murder. An act of dissent against government. Or, the most obvious explanation, a vivid illustration of New Wave polysemy.

And then there's this outlandish notion from Eric Nygren, quoted in the Indiana Daily Student. "It's pretty simple," Nygren said. "It's a stupid college thing people do. Somebody probably got drunk and thought it would be fun."

Springifying

We coyotes are a nocturnal bunch. Comes with the genetic territory. When we're not howlin' at moons, we like runnin' under 'em. And it so happens that on my nocturnal perambulations, I've been seeing signs of spring returning to the centre of the city. Others note the seasonal birds chirping in the mornings. Bah. The little buggers wake me up, no matter how cheerful they sound. What I'm talkin' about is clean sidewalks and gutters.

As the city sleeps, the hired help is out sweeping sidewalks with pushbrooms and pressure-hosing them off, a winter's grim grime swept down the catchbasins in a single night.

As a four-legged type who eschews, (but sometimes, uh, chews) shoes, I appreciate this greatly. It means far fewer soggy cigarette butts squishing between my toes. Always a plus, in my books.

I also like the relative silence of this cleaning work. The plows that rush into the middle of the night after winter snowfalls are noisy damn things, given to loud, irritating roars and odd scraping and crashing noises that are hardly conducive to good napping.

Hand-held pushbrooms and water hoses beneath an early morning moon, on the other hand seem tolerably organic. After midnight, a city sounds quite different. The people who clean the streets during that time seem to respect this, and match quieter rhythms. The hum of traffic remains, but is greatly muted, and one can hear smaller sounds that rarely stand out after daylight. Like, say, the toenails of rather undomesticated dog types, splashing in puddles and romping on newly clean concrete...

Listen, and you can hear 'em...

Image: David Woodward, Cardiff University School of Physics and Astronomy

Hiphuggers

Walking out of the Chateau Laurier gymnasium the other day after a rather vigorous workout with the medicine ball, I spied a couple of young women holding signs.

They read: Free Hugs.

Naturally, I scurried briskly in the other direction, fearing these ladies to be intoxicated.

A short time later, I stumbled across a most interesting website devoted to this vexing phenomenon, The Free Hugs Campaign.

It seems things began when a disheartened young man, returning home from vacation to Sydney, Australia, was so starved for attention he sought the embrace of strangers in the street.

The authorities have now seen fit to ban the movement. But that hasn't stopped the campaigners from recruiting new jihugists.

Actually, it all reminds me of the whimsical days of my youth, as I could often be found strolling around the Kent State University campus placing daisies in the barrels of the guns clutched by National Guardsmen.

Ah, but that was a more innocent time.