Where is the Urban Pedestrian?

Over on my blog, it was brought to my attention that our runner-up has gone missing. Does anyone out there have any information on this strange turn of events?

Lite Rite Nite

AndrewZRX: Motorcycles, Birth Classes and Roundabouts

This is a guest posting from AndrewZRX:

I recently blew up my motorcycle. I wouldn’t do this every day, but I’d highly recommend you try it at least once.

Wait - how does pre-natal classes at 7:30 am on a fucking Saturday morning sound? With my tongue still pickled, too, from the scotch the night before. Soften that cervix, baby.

No, the motorcycle sounds better. Or it did, anyways, before it blew up. Have you ever seen piston rods blasting out the front-end of a high-revving four-cylinder 1100cc motorcycle engine?

The midwife droned on for three full hours, using stained, filthy props and plastic posters of a graphical nature. The most interesting bit was the bit about the placenta -- or, more precisely, what people do with it afterwards. Some bury it in the garden during the full moon. Incantations are involved. Some people take them home and eat them. Apparently they’re quite tasty with garlic.

Actually, neither have I. (Seen the piston rods etc.). But as it was happening I was worried about grievous bodily harm, if you follow. Luckily all is well. So says my wife at least.

Do Canadians eat their babies’ placentas? I don’t know. But I sure miss Canada. I have a soft spot for those Canadian government screw-ups. Scandals in Canada rarely involve 25 million lost records, or illegal wars, or the shooting of innocents in the back. Canadian screw-ups are generally benign, and I miss them.

I miss the seasons, too, but at least over here I can ride my bike year round. It gets slippy in the roundabouts sometimes, but you can still do it. Roundabouts are a good thing. We should have them in Canada.

Here a few things you should know about roundabouts:

• If you like, you can go round and round. Just keep going. Beware of dizziness.

• There can be several lanes in a roundabout. Incorrect use of roundabout lanes can result in permanent disfigurement and embarrassment. Utilize with caution.

• It’s usually best to figure out where you’re going before you enter the roundabout. Otherwise you may get herded and end up in East Kilbride.

• Roundabouts can creep on a man. You can prepare yourself for this irritating tendency by driving faster than everyone else. When the roundabout materializes out of the Scottish mist, just claim it as your own.

• Roundabouts are not the place to be gentle and kind. Be assertive. Exercise your roundabout rights.

• When you start seeing signs for East Kilbride, you are lost. Do not head for East Kilbride. Circle back and try again.

• Drive on the left. This can take some time to master. But it’s fairly important. Watch for roundabout combatants coming from the right.

• Roundabouts are a serious business. Remember this and you’ll do fine.

It seems there are a few things you should know about labour as well. But I can’t seem to remember. She kept heading off on these strange tangents, telling fragmented stories. My mind wandered. Once in awhile my ears would perk up, expecting to finally hear something useful. But then she’d backtrack again, and I’d drone out. I was thinking about a bass riff in a John Scofield song called Over Big Top. The bass gets right in there and opens up doors.

We’re due at the end of January, so I just bought a new motorcycle. It’s black and shiny and pulls wheelies without much effort. Maybe I’ll get a sidecar for the wean. Hopefully I won’t blow this one up too.

AndrewZRX lives in Scotland and bought the opportunity to post here from Zoom in an auction on eBay. If you are wondering what placenta looks like, he offers this link.

Requiem for a Tavern

Went to work and then to Hull. Then the B.C. Met Dan M. there. Talked about airplanes. Home at lunch, then to Capital and then the Prescott. Met John B. and Jack M. Went to Alex and had green beer. Then to Ritz and met Jim G and Eric C. and learned that Denny G. had a heart attack and died at the Ritz. Jim G. lost his driver’s license after neg. breathalyzer test.

Partially redacted diary entry: Tuesday, March 17, 1970 – Ottawa

My father kept a daily diary from the year 1965 until his death. His diary was more of a journal of the day’s events as opposed to any personal and private confessions. It sure wasn’t close to anything like a blog. Of the over thirty years of entries, I have yet to find anything getting close to wanky self-indulgence in them. His self-indulgence rested in the activities he logged about. And Ottawa’s taverns ranked fairly high in those activities.

In his diary of 1970, the Ritz Hotel, on the corner of Bank and Somerset, figured prominently, though it ranked second place to my dad’s favourite watering hole – the Belle Claire Hotel on Queen Street. The B.C. was a popular haunt for many Ottawans, and was noted for its decent food. It was regularly patronized by politicians, sports figures, police, and crooks. Paddy Mitchell and his cohorts were regulars there. The Ottawa Rough Riders also made it a second home. Yeah, the good ole days when sports pros were just regular Joes who drank as hard as they played.

On Bank St., there were a few choices. The Alexander Hotel (the “Alex”) was a popular spot near the corner of Bank and Gilmour. The Ritz, on the other hand, never had the class of the Belle Claire or the Alex. It might have in its hey-day but by the early seventies no one of note was a regular there. Up until the mid-1970’s it maintained its segregated entrances: Men’s Tavern on one side, Ladies and Escorts on the other side. I can still sense the smell of stale beer, smoke and sometimes-urine that would waft out the doors as I walked past on my way to or from Big Buds or Hartman’s IGA with my mother. A big part of why the corner of Bank and Somerset Street is still considered the dodgiest part of Ottawa rests with the legacy of the Ritz Hotel. Some of that carried over to the Lockmaster, though the Lock carried a special nostalgia by the time it came on the scene, what with taverns being very much in decline. University kids and karaoke changed things for the better, I suppose, but not by much.

Now the wrecking ball looms. The Grads. The Alex. The Windsor. They are all gone. The heritage neophytes are up in arms about losing this grand old building first occupied by the Crosby Carruthers Company in the late 19^th century. A few of us reminisce about the good old days of the Lock or the Duke of Somerset, or hanging out on a Sunday night to see Ottawa’s version of The Pogues: a band called Jimmy George.

I read, not long ago, prior to the renovation failure, that the owner was intending to open up some new retail services on the site. They were even thinking of putting in a Tim Horton’s.

Maybe it’s good that we let it fall.

For my mother, I know she won’t regret seeing it come down. She carries no such nostalgia.

Halloooo, Winter!