Emergency Meeting: Saturday 19 May

Venue: Not The Usual Spot By a Long Shot
Emergency: Earthshaking
Meeting Called By: 4th Dwarf
Present And On Time: The Independent Observer, Aggie, Coyote
Late And Breathless: 4th Dwarf
Ugly Rumbles About Convenor Tardiness:
The Independent Observer, Aggie, Coyote
Absent: Conch Shell, The Chair
Minutes by: Coyote

4D: (Redacted)!

Aggie: (Redacted)!?

Coyote: (Redacted)

Independent Observer: (Redacted)

4D: (Redacted)

Coyote: "Dwarf, sarcasm is so uncharacteristic of you..."

Sorry, Oscar, but even in 1882 it was all about us

This week marks the 125th anniversary of one Oscar Wilde's visit to our fair town, part of the witty wordsmith's cross-country tour aimed at civilizing the colonies.

In 1882, Ottawa was a bustling burgh of 30,000 brave, muddy souls, including at least a few forebears of the ESIs. The national hockey trophy was but a gleam in Lord Frederick Stanley's eye. And John Turmel had completed just two unsuccessful runs at elected office.

Wilde rolled into town on Tuesday, May 16, 1882, settling in at the fine Russell House Hotel, later demolished to make way for Confederation Square.

Then as now, the Ottawa Daily Citizen couldn't break a story even by hurling it from a second-storey window (buildings were shorter then). Behold, the paper's May 17 coverage of Wilde's presence in the capital:

Mr. Oscar Wilde arrived in the city yesterday and is staying at the Russell House.

A perusal of the 19th-century Petfinder shows the paper was more interested in the fact some louts were rowing up and down the canal at night, causing a mighty ruckus.

In fairness, our 27-year-old visitor was a dozen years away from penning his best-known plays. A poet of some repute and a leading advocate of the Aesthetic movement, Wilde delivered a lecture at the since disappeared Grand Opera House (Albert and O'Connor streets), waxing on about stuff like why it's not a good idea to wallpaper your ceiling and the reason rows of pictures should be hung asymmetrically.

His talk was rather poorly attended, competing with a city council meeting, the University of Ottawa's annual athletic banquet, the imminent end of the parliamentary session, carriage rides, tea-drinking and church-going.

Wilde apparently had dinner with then-prime minister Sir John A. Macdonald and his wife, though details are sketchy. He was snubbed by the Governor General, the Marquess of Lorne, who somehow managed to find time for two rounds of golf the day Wilde arrived.

Wilde lamented the sawdust that wafted over the city from the local lumber mills. He admired the natural scenery around Ottawa. And whatever his companionship preferences, Wilde attracted plenty of babes, according to the Citizen report of May 18:

Local News, Mr. Oscar Wilde

This gentleman had a large number of callers during his stay in the city. A number of lady admirers of the apostle of aestheticism sent him their albums for the purpose of having his autograph written therein.

But the paper, despite ignoring his lecture, couldn't resist poking fun at the fact Wilde recommended sunflower seed as some sort of decorative adornment:

It is very fattening, so if you are served with lean chickens at your country boarding home this summer you may thank Mr. Wilde and the more important demand he has created for the seed as a feast for the eyes.

Wilde's time in Ottawa was not a total loss. He met painter Frances Richards, headmistress of the Ottawa School of Art, who would make a portrait of him in London five years later. Upon seeing the results, Wilde said, "What a tragic thing it is. This portrait will never grow older, and I shall." So was planted the idea for The Picture of Dorian Gray, published in 1890.

Wilde left town on the overnight train for Quebec City, soon blazing a trail for bands like April Wine with stops in Belleville, Moncton and Charlottetown.

So, let's see: during his brief sojourn in Ottawa our boy hung out on Elgin Street, was overlooked by the media elite and did his best, under trying conditions, to liven up Bytown.

Truly, Oscar Wilde was the original ESI.

Photos: (left) Himself, (right) As represented in the forthcoming ESI: The Sock Puppet Movie (licensing arrangements to be confirmed)

(Sources: Oscar Wilde in Canada: An Apostle for the Arts, by Kevin O'Brien; the Ottawa Sun; the Ottawa Daily Citizen; Wikipedia)

Coach's Corner: At least the ratings don't sag, eh?

OK, Coyotedog, ya want dysfunction? Here’s somethin' you can really sink them molars into. Now I wanna talk about droopy members. Nah, nah -- not the slackers on the Buffalo defence. I'm talkin' about the decline and fall of the national pastime. That's right. It's playoff time, the season when real men rise to the challenge. And once in a while that means a little high-stick action. Yeah, that's right. You know what I'm sayin'. But them refs, they're callin' everything now. So no swingin' your lumber on the ice. And lemme tell ya, we could use a little more wood in the air. Yeah, you heard me. Now this ain't a problem for me. No siree. One stiff breeze from a passing Zamboni and she’s harder than a Volchenkov slapshot. But take a look at them ads they're showin' on the games now. Can we roll the ... huh? Do we have ... OK, now look at these flabby guys standin' round the barbecue talkin' about their little blue pills. Pathetic! And all the other ads are for brewskis and SUVs. So we got a nation of plastered guys flaccidly tooling around in their big honkin' cars. But we're not alone out there. Let's put some numbers up on the big board. Yeah, I done my research. Hugh betcha. Now according to this, one in nine guys in the Unexcited States of America can't salute the flag. Nope. That's cuz all the real men -- 'cept maybe Chris Chelios, gotta love him -- are over in Iraq, tryin'a-find Osama. And when you, uh, fully extend the numbers, holy Toledo, you get six million Italians and 20 million Brazilians who make like frightened turtles. No wonder them Brazilians can't play hockey. Cuz, ya know -- what, we’re outta ...? Looks like we're finishing a little prematurely – no, I don’ mean … aw fer -- jeez Louise! --

Dental Dysfunction Week

Um, okay Short Guy, thanks for that information. But I'm thinking it's time for a big Dysfunction Theme Week. And while the idea of Pentacostals datin' Goths sounds adequately dysfunctional, I've opted for dentistry.

Why? Because it is apparent from the IDonCherryO's (Cherry-Os? Har!) post, Aggie's morose reply, and previous discussions involving Conch Shell and electric toothbrushes that dentists and their evil minions, hygienists, are in the heavy guilt business. Guilt far worse than your mother laid on you for not calling on Mothers' Day.

To be fair, it's probably more transitory. Ya go to the dentist for your (depending on your insurance package) six-month/one-year/five year checkup, are soundly chastised and feel terrible for a bit, then leave with a hole in your equity. Soon you forget, and the smile on your lips and the song in your heart returns. Until the next appointment, when everyone again picks up their assigned part in the eternal morality play. Whereas Mom is going to make sure you remember her for next time. She started coming by the psy-ops tools instinctively, about the time you were in utero, and she is not afraid to use them.

Being a wild canine, equipped with wild canines, my dental amenities began and end with the odd stolen Milk Bone, allegedly to scrape tartar and improve breath. Anybody who's ever smelled a dog's breath knows that this is rarely adequate. I hereby recuse myself from this discussion.

But I know that straight, blindingly white teeth are part of the total package that wins you the heart of your prospective Pentecostal Goth amour. Why is it that dentists and their evil minions, hygienists, do not bear down on this fact?

I mean, let's face it people. For some, giving up coffee and red wine to prevent unattractive staining may lead to even more unattractive withdrawal symptoms. Flossing is messy, what with all the drool and stray bits of cotton wedging irredeemably between your teeth. Veneers, no matter that all of the extreme makeover shows on extended cable treat them as mere casual afterthoughts to a complete body lipo/hair extension/lip-and-boob-pump/nose-job/wardrobe refresh, can involve much discomfort before the deed's done. And electric toothbrushes make your eyes jiggle.

There's gotta a be a payoff. If you're going to put up with all that discomfort and lost time, you want to be assured that the Pentecostal Goth of your dreams will look upon you kindly. Yet strangely, none of the e-dating sites seem to have a 'flosses regularly' check box. Now why is that? It'd certainly motivate more flossing. Although not, perhaps, less coffee or red wine. Yet you'd think prospective dates would be crying out for this kinda data...

image: dentist.net

Metablogging for Mega Money

At a recent Emergency Meeting, Conch Shell asked, "How can we make money from this?"

It doesn't look like anyone is about to hire us to metablog them, and the Ethics Committee has some sort of issue with us charging people to not metablog them. Meanwhile, ESI: The Sock Puppet Movie is languishing in development.

That leaves Google Ads. They do an amazing job of picking ads that will match your content. Attached is a screenshot I found while perusing one of the dating sites.