Breaking Mews!

All muses have been claimed!


But, perhaps the monkey is still available for you Coyote...

Going begging

It was either extensive research, or insomnia last weekend after one too many beavertails on the canal, that led us to the momentous discovery that could lead the Elgin Street Irregulars out of cyber-irrelevance. Or, more likely, allow us to continue to be the self-referential wankers that our regular readers have come to know, and be deeply disturbed by. People, the domain name "ca.ca" is apparently unregistered. Online gold going begging!

Gosh, I don't know about you, but I can think of a ton of business propositions that could hang off that kind of online identity. And three or six political parties, too.

Thank you. I just wanted you to know. That is all.

A Muse Yourselves

I have been known to get grumpy with the ESIs over their whining about their missing Muse. I have been know to tell them to, "Get over it!".


Good news darling ESIs! You can now trundle on over to Images on Bank Street where it seems that you can pick out a new muse...

Let Bigfoot be!

The last day or two, I've seen an unfamiliar term. At least one media story has characterized the PM's treatment of international development sock-puppet minister Bev Oda as "Bigfooting".

Us semimythical critters have a circuit. We all know everybody else. I'm proud and privileged to say that back in the day I shared stages with "the" Bigfoot when we gigged psychedelic festivals at the height of his fame. Later, after the biz lost its innocence, went commercial, and the suits and beancounters and copyright grifters co-opted everything that was good and pure, Ol' Biggie took to the nostalgia tour circuit to keep hairy body and soul together. When I had backstage passes, I'd look for him in the greenroom and catch up over a complimentary sody pop or two.

Ol' Biggie was one of the true giants, an enigmatic prince of a guy who was talented beyond belief. It was perhaps inevitable that a fire that burned so brightly would start to consume itself. But even during his later, well-documented struggles with the dark, self-destructive downsides of early fame, he never lost his innate sweetness, his openness or his generosity. His subsequent choice to become a virtual recluse was one he took to protect himself, and one that nobody who knew him would begrudge. I don't even know how to find him anymore, really. But I'm glad he finally got clean and sober.

So, if Harper has the temerity to think he can ever authentically Bigfoot anybody, I say only this:

"Prime Minister, I served with Bigfoot, I knew Bigfoot, Bigfoot was a friend of mine. Prime Minister, you're no Bigfoot."

For Valentine's Day Kisses...

... don't forget to wear your prophylactic plastic lips. It's the height of flu season, people! These babies totally smack down Purell®ing your tongue after the fact, no matter what some of the dodgy-looking gentlemen hovering near those now-ubiquitous hand sanitizer dispensers (in the lobbies of better public buildings everywhere) might say.

And after you've made your sanitary smooshing preparations, and served your sweetheart a romantic Valentine's banquet, remember to get back to us on how you, ummm, made out.

Some of us are all ears. At least the parts that aren't plastic lips...