We're going to be famous

Because Zoom is writing a novel about us:

a dark romantic thriller about online dating, self-betrayal, hidden blogs, horrifying secrets, and a clash of precariously balanced personality disorders. It’s set in that place where love and hate masquerade as each other, and where you can’t trust anybody – not even yourself – because nothing is as it appears

I might take the week off

Because em on Knitting is My Boyfriend wrote a darn fine Google Poem.

An irrelevant paws

These are the grey days that try a semimythical coyote's soul. I have many reasons why this is so. Sadly, they are unrelated. So no neat themes or clever segues in this post. Just the usual dogged shagginess. Or shagged dogginess....

1) I have noted that Mr Harpo's personal political party has had a bad week PR-wise, nabbed with their Tory-blue mitts all over the government treasury. And not-so-kosher Conservative Party logos all over the economic stimulation cheques with which they've been stimulating ummm, mainly their own backyards.

The fallback for Tories caught out doing this stuff has become any number of variations on, "Hey, Liberals did it before we did! This ploy's transparency is the only transparent thing left in Mr Harpo's government.

Some people want to fly with the eagles. Some wanna swim with the dolphins. These guys aspire to dredge beneath the bottom feeders.

I've suggested ad nausaeum already that Mr Harpo's idea of political discussion has narrowed to crudely partisan hype. Which I'm afraid means that his ideal governmental model is (ooh, here it comes, wait for it...) a ummm, hypocracy...

2) Light Rail: The mayor says his new plan is visionary. Well, all righty then. He should know....

3) Lansdowne Live. No. Just no. I refuse to go there.

4) Certain doggies have racked up one or two arthritic joints in the last six millenia, and each autumn the chill in the wind takes a little more getting used to.

So I'll take a brief (heh...) paws to recommend Grace Ottawa on Bank Street as purveyors of the best darned handwarmers in town. They cost a buck and a quarter each, they come pre-heated, they're an ideal size, and the toasty Jamaican glow lasts well beyond the time needed for any crosstown jaunt. (I have no idea what makes 'em so heat-retentive, but those chemical HotShot thingies that Crappy Tire sells got nothing on these babies...) Bonus: they're still hot enough to eat and enjoy after the trip, with or without Caribbean pepper sauce. You may want to consider 'em for the coming Ottawa Zombie Walk or the Sandy Claws Parade. And in the interest of full disclosure I want to say that I hold no financial or fiduciary interest in Grace and that that this celebrity endorsement is completely unsolicited. You're welcome!

5) There is no fifth thing. It's a trope. Deal with it.

Coyote: on the lam (on the lamb, shurely -- ed.)

After recently giving Ottawa's finest the slip, Coyote and a rather comely companion (nothing new for the ol' fox) were spied by an ESI operative motoring about Kingston on the weekend.

The albino disguise, just in time for All Hallows' Eve, wasn't foolin' no one.

Blissfully racking up parking tickets and chowing down on Hasenpfeffer at mouth-watering Chez Piggy,the most semi-mythical of the ESIs proved once again he knows how to roll.

Happy 40th Anniversary...

We of the Elgin Street Irregulars wish to take a moment to thank some of our spiritual forefathers and wish them an extremely happy 40th anniversary. Sure, they're kind of a boomer phenom, and all geezers now, but the partners in this firm find it positively inspirational that the Pythons managed to produce their entire TV series on a budget of about $2.98, or £1 13s 2d, if you remain fluent in the original pounds sterling.

They still cross arbitrary cohort labels to remind the world of a fresher, simpler time, when absurdists could actually make up shit faster than it happened in real life.

It's much harder now. Especially in Ottawa, where reality may never have been much of a prerequisite. Not that we're complaining. The mayor and the PM alone each have contributed enough material to our "for-comment" file to keep us skirting the other side of the outer edges of sanity for years. Possibly longer. And we haven't even begun to harvest the (over)ripe possibilities hidden in John Baird's hair... I, for one, am pretty sure that there's lethal fruit in there somewhere, and I intend to do what it takes to find it.

Happy Ruby Anniversary, Pythons!