Bring on the holy tacos

Yeah, yeah. I know Michael Jackson posts are already about passé. But I've been busy. And even at 3,500 feet, where the air is rare, the horizon blessedly wide, nightly howl-ups with my coyote brethren loud and yappy, and the Internet is dial-up and crappy, the King of Pop's sad death did not escape my notice.

Neither I'm sure, will the ensuing tawdry burlesque. It is, after all, one of the Independent Observer's favourite states for a reason.

Jackson's life was pure tabloid: a slow-motion circus train wreck. How would his dying change things? Especially with Joe Jackson, the ever-classy Rev. Al Sharpton, a cawing murder of publicity-hungry lawyers, the odd cellphone-camera totin' ambulance attendant, carpet-bombing Fox News 'reporters' and hordes of opportunistic alleged insiders, all gyrating out of the worm-riddled woodwork.

I'm not cynical or anything. Ummm, okay, maybe a little... I digress. But I figure we have only nanoseconds - maybe less - before the end game.

Which, if I read the signs aright, will be sightings of Jackson and Elvis, still alive. Eternally cruising the American heartland together in a white '68 Cadillac, leaving humongous tips with awestruck night shift attendants in isolated Seven Eleven gas stops. Who will sell their amazing stories to tabloid TV.

After that, it's a short inevitable hop to tales of corn tortillas adorned with the King of Pop's likeness. Blessed with miraculous powers. Oh, and steep admissions for supplicants that wish to bathe in their curative aura. Later to be hawked on eBay for thousands of bucks, and displayed in a highly legitimate casino museum on Sunset Strip.

Which reminds me. My breakfast Fritos this morning? I chanced upon this amazing silhouette of Michael Jackson on one of the chips. Hallelujah! I'm pretty sure it cured me. Of cynicism. Oh, yes. It's a freakin' - and I use that term advisedly - miracle! Bidders...?

Vegan Nightmare on Sparks Street

Yes, Ribfest, a.k.a. the best thing about Ottawa's so-called pedestrian mall, is back. And life is mouth-wateringly good.

Image: flickr.com

BREAKING NEWS

Coyote spotted driving in downtown Ottawa

At first he doesn't see me (what a big nose he has)

Suddenly his keen doggie senses kick in (what big eyes he has)

Then he sees me, and I run for my life (what big teeth he has)

Room service? Send up Cirque du Soleil!

Cedric may be small but he knows some big rollers. For instance,
Prince Al-Waleed bin Talal bin Abdul Aziz Al Saud, the world's 20th-richest person and co-owner of the Fairmont Hotel chain.

Seems Cedric met the prince when they were fellow master's students at Syracuse University. The budding billionaire took a liking to the little guy, who picked up some extra cash by faithfully shining the royal Mercedes.

The prince never forgot, and presented Cedric with a Christmas gift: a cross-country tour of Fairmont digs that recently took us to Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver.

Cedric let me come along, but I drew the line at calling him Your Highness. After all, he's a dwarf.

Google Poem: Not me

* I'm not the kind of person who likes medications but with my migraines I've always taken a double dose of advil

* I'm not the kind of person to come up to a friend/colleague/family member and talk like there's no tomorrow. It's not me – at all.

* And I'm not the kind of idiot who will eat worms or a box of thumb tacks if you dared me.

* I'm not the kind of guy who says one thing today and another thing tomorrow

* I'm not the kind of liberal who thinks safety net programs are the end all be all, but I do think they serve a serious and necessary purpose.

* Don't get me wrong, I'm not the kind of cheesball man, comfortably satisfied by watching junk tv missing the fun like a spoil sport.

* I know I'm not the kind of girl vamps like to sink their teeth into.

* Normally I'm not the kind of guy who would go around encouraging people to look at my stuff

* I'm not the kind of person that instantly jumps on the "the world is gonna be nuked," "the Earth is heating up and New Jersey will be an underwater museum," bandwagon.

* Now granted, I'm not the kind of freak that needs the new and improved upgrade the day it's released,

* What should I do, I'm not the kind of person to be straightforward about these things.

* So, I'm not the kind of person who checks his email regularly, but this time I just had to, because my inbox has too many e-mails from Facebook.

* Andddd, yeah I'm not the kind of girl that ALWAYS have the perfect hair, perfect bangs, perfect face and everything.

* I'm not the kind of person who believes thieves ought to get off free.

* I'm not the kind of person who thinks there are certain things you just can not joke about.

* and I'm not the kind of person that thinks about taking pictures of clouds very often. In case you care.

* See...I'm not the kind of wife that can't sleep when her husband is not right next to her

* Because what I finally realized yesterday is that I'm not the kind of person who I used to be

* I'm not the kind of person who likes losing her time, but sometimes it feels good.

* I'm not the kind of artist who can paint the same kind of picture over and over, or write the same stuff over and over. I need to be on the move, exploring, failing, striving and challenging myself.

* I'm not the kind of guy who just sleeps with anyone

* I'm not the kind of person to not put in my two cents.

* I'm not the kind of girl to try to play a man out. I take the money and the gear and then break the hell out.

* And I'm not the kind of guy, I think you know, that spends a whole lot of time worrying these things.

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