Commander Covfefe: Still Lost in the Ozone...

...with yuuuuuge apologies to Commander Cody, the Lost Planet Airmen, and late, great album cover artist Chris Frayne...

Sincerely, Coyote.

The Greitch Who Stole Christmas -- a seasonal bed time tory

...with deepest apologies to Dr. Theodor Geisel, whom we trust would probably understand, given his views on Sneetches...

This Weekend on the ESi-Fy Channel !!!

Coyote couture

Dearest Internet;

So, it finally comes to this. Snarky fashion commentary from an addled, ancient, colourblind dog. Like you don't have enough of that kind of thing already.

I was primed to go all semimythical on Globe and Mail columnist Margaret Wente's ongoing plagiarism woes this post, but then realized that chuckin' rocks at her from a glass palace housing a remarkable collection of putative monuments to copyright infringement might be taken wrongly. (Pro-tip for Peggy Plagiarist: fair use and satire provisions of the copyright act figure heavily in any future legal defense of this blog. We ain't proud.)

So on to Plan B: fuzzy fashionista-ing. Sadly, I'm not even sure who to blame for this turn of events. The, ummm, Learning Channel's weird-ass assertion that What Not to Wear, and Honey Boo Boo constitute education? The guilty coffee-break pleasures of seeing Go Fug Yourself.Com -- a cosmic-level snark-ladler, even on off-days -- tear fraying strips of red carpet off actresses and celebutantes I've never heard of?

Now that I consider, the question burns hotter than any random Tory cabinet minister's pants in any given Question Period. But it is, as usual, a(nother) digression. Betcha didn't spot that one comin'!

No, we're here to speak of the tricks of perception and public relations that cause fashionistas worldwide to suddenly label one young woman possessed of Mediterranean extraction "fat", while another young woman possessed of Mediterranean extraction and pretty much the exact same body morphology, but arguably less talent, manages to keep getting called "hot".

I mean, yeah, Lady Gaga has been thinner, and maybe Kim Kardashian has, too. (See how I cleverly mentioned two heavily-Googled celebrity names in the same sentence? Pure hit counter gold, that. Not that this blog would ever stoop to such a thing.) Apparently I, ummm, digress again. Us coyotes are really no good at the fashion commentary thing, even though some of us were paper trained on back issues of Women's Wear Daily. Go figure.

What I meant to say, before chronic ADD once again bested my good narrative intentions is that Gaga's and KiKa's (can I call her KiKa...?) hips are pretty obviously about the same relative circumferences for their heights.

So from where I sit, KiKa's spackle-and-spin support team is earning its pay, because to my untrained yellow eye, both women are selling the same runway strut. Both outfits are analogously ridiculous. Ditto the shoes. Peroxide aside, there isn't much to tell the hair. Cheez. If we didn't have publicists, reality shows and entertainment "reporters" constantly telling us what to think, we'd be in deep, deep trouble...

Air Kisses and Fake Professions of Undying Love,

Coyote

The world needs Lo-Rez Ipsum

A few weeks back, whilst I was conducting an impromptu if spirited inventory of the trashcan behind Fourth Dwarf's place, as us coyotes are wont to do of a warm summer evening, he lifted the lid and invited me to get the hell out so he could dispose of his garbage. Then he invited me inside to watch a little cable, so long as I stayed on the newspaper on the floor, and away from his couch.

We lit the screen just as Here Comes Honey Boo Boo sashayed onto, ummm, The Learning Channel. It was like witnessing the wreck of a train full of obese, neckless passengers in real time -- no slo-mo about it, bubba! I was horrified in moments, but the Short Guy is made of sterner stuff.

"We're watching it!" he ordered. "It'll be educational!"

It was. I learned that the evil trolls who produce Honey Boo Boo have, against the odds, managed to tamp the ever-lowering cultural bar into a fresh grave somewhere beneath sub-sub-basement level. I hadda take a midnight swim in the Ottawa River to clear the air after. And I ain't impugning the reputation of the Dwarf's trash, either.

It was a harbinger of things to come. A couple of days ago, certain of the Irregulars noticed a net-based lorem ipsum generator modelled after Fifty Shades of Grey. As soft-porn cultural phenomenons go, Fifty Shades is a really, really badly written one. And selling like cheap chocolate bunnies right after Lent.

Lorem ipsum, for the uninitiated, is a body of random-pseudo Latin text that graphic designers put where text should be, when the real words aren't written yet. It's a way to mock up what the finished page looks like. So a Fifty Shades-based lorem ipsum generator is probably some kind of smart marketing move in certain circles. Some of us might even applaud, if we'd thought of it.

In fact, some ESIs even wondered whether we could use it to automatically write one-click posts for this blog, so we'd never ever have to look at, or think about, the damn thing ever again. When cooler heads prevailed, we decided that so long as we're blighting the webscape, we'll stay an original blight.

But what to do about all the cultural bar-lowering offenses that aren't ours? Honey Boo Boo and Fifty Shades prove they're epidemic! And they burn our eyes! They burn! How the hell do we get rid of 'em?

Then the genius idea: An ESI Lo-rez Ipsum browser plugin, to blur out everything that offends. We'll get rich! If we ever figure out a business model...

5 reasons why the RCAF needs Catcopters, not F-35s

Oh, Hai! Is this old bloggy thing still turned on? It is? Cool!

So, it occurs to me* that Catcopters could solve this government's recent problems with, you know, the optics surrounding the whole F-35 stealth fighter purchase. Especially since the usual spin-doctoring seems to be flying about as well as a high powered post-hole auger.

I offer this stroke of genius with a certain reluctance. My stink-eyed stance against just about everything this government stands for is well-known. But us semimythical coyotes feel we must begin searching for whatever common ground we can find, in the current highly divisive political environment. Although now that I think of it, even mentioning the word "environment" probably gets me bunged onto some terrorist watch list for life. I digress.

Yet I note that the current Prime Minister and I can, in spite of all else, at least agree upon a deep and abiding love of cats. To be strictly fair, he loves his cats smothered in image-softening political spin, while us coyotes generally love ours smothered in Thai red sauce. What the hell. Ya gotta start somewhere, right?

So, in the spirit of offering a figurative fig leaf olive branch to a bunch of fiscally-reprehensible responsible hawks intent on purchasing the latest in bleeding-edge stealth aviation technology to, ummm, defend Canada's Arctic sovereignty from 60-year old Russian survey planes, I present five reasons for ditching the troublesome F-35 Stealth fighter for something stealthier, cheaper, and just all-round better for the True North Strong, Stable, and Majorly Responsible:

• Stealth: The F35 is not nearly as stealthy as advertised. Since so much of the government's early rationale seemed to center on stealth capability, this could be a deal breaker. Not for the Catcopter. Does anybody know anything as stealthy as a cat?
• Multiple engines: The F-35 has been criticized by some people for its single engine. If it fails on an Arctic patrol, the pilot is pretty much polar bear bait. Or a seawater ice cube. Not a problem with a Catcopter! It has four engines.
• Handling: The most dangerous time in any flight is during takeoff and landing. And the F-35 apparently handles kind of badly. In fact, it needs a whole whack of onboard computers to help it fly straight. Catcopters? Surefooted to a fault. They always land right side up.
• Fuel costs: The government and the defence department got themselves in a whole mess of trouble with the Auditor General for somehow omitting about $10 Billion - with a "B" - in lifetime fuel and maintenance costs from the cost estimates they presented to parliament. Pessimists called this outright lying. Optimists called it "a mere accounting quibble - and which would you rather be, a Gloomy Gus, or a right-thinking red-meat optimist?" I digress. Again. I say Catcopters would erase any accounting quibbles by fueling on kibble. And I'm pretty sure that the price of one stealth fighter gets you a whole swarm (herd?) of Catcopters. Instead of five dozen lousy planes to cover 202,080 km of coastline, you'd get bajillions!
• There is no fifth reason. Ever.

* I had big help. Shake-a-paws to the Independent Observer and the Research Director, each of whom added their valuable imprinteurs to frank, open and productive discussions, after seeing Dutch artist Bart Jansen's Orvillecopter...

Harper: starting to wear that robocall thing...?

In all of the old and new media characterizations of the prime minister, Stephen Harper - including, but not restricted to, suggestions that he is a hyperpartisan, ethically-agnostic, neo-conservative, humourless, neo-controlfreakazoid, scheming, democratically-challenged, micromanaging, vindictive, teflon-milkshake-chugging, fiber-glass-haired robot, there was never much indication that it was the robot part that might take him out.

It has so far merely been the stuff of This Hour Has 22 Minutes satire.

But if I read aright the minor tsunami of e-ink rushing onto the shores of the rapidly-developing robocall scandal, he might actually be wearin' this one. It seems so obvious now, with even a short weekend's worth of retrospect. All the best reference works - yallerback science fiction paperbacks, graphic novels, comix, movies and futuristic role-playing games - often recommend fighting fire with fire.

Or in this case, ill-intentioned robots with ill-intentioned robots.

Although us semimythical coyotes hail from an ancient, far more animistic age, we try to stay on top of breaking trends. But we confess our ancient fuzzy-assed selves to be as flummoxed as anybody to find that the dumbest, scummiest, least-loved robot in modern life - demon dialer, robocaller,what you will - appears to have become, inadvertantly, the unlikeliest of unlikely heroes of the piece, rattling the relentless grey course of the uber-robot currently in charge of the country. He's probably telling the truth when he says he didn't know anything about it, but the weight of past evidence certainly suggest he actively fostered a,ummm, certain atmosphere and mindset among his partisan minions.

Irony abounds.

One can only imagine the mindset of the untold legions of spin doctors and strategists who've burrowed into the pickled oak wainscotting up at the PMO and PCO like a King-Hell carpenter ant infestation. They followed the standard playbook, fer cripes' sake, admitting no guilt but making the required ritual sacrifice. In this case, a low-level, hyper-enthusiastic little tory shit somehow fell under the party's increasingly bloody bus for unspecified, but highly-implied reasons. It should've satisfied the party base, and, really who cared about anybody else? They're all liberals and/or child pronographers anyway.

But the howls of the torch-bearing rabble under the ramparts got louder instead. Many who in the past could be relied upon to defend such behaviour have taken offence and started yowling themselves. It all appears to be too endemic, organized and well-bankrolled to be the work of one half-smart, if misguided, kid.

Seems you can pull a lot of fast ones in pursuit of partisan goals these days. Ignoring the traditions and laws of parliament has lately been seen as "welcome decisiveness" among a certain goal-oriented crowd, as if it was a good thing. But suddenly, it's seeming that if you appear to have really screwed with the bases of democracy enough times... well, then. Pattern recognition kicks in. Things Change.

We coyotes seen lotsa changes in our time. We're keepin' our yellow eyes on this one with more than our usual interest...

Ottawa Openfile: come unHenged...?

I think I've been admirably patient for a species not noted for its impulse control. But now that we've hit the second week of February flatfooted, it behooves me to ask: What the hell happened to Openfile's OttawaHenge photo contest? The one Trevor Pritchard announced on November 30, with a cash prize, and everythin'?

In the spirit of full disclosure, or possibly enlightened self-interest, I confess that some coyotes are not entirely disinterested in the outcome. Okay, I entered it. The idea of a sunset shining straight down the Sparks Street Mall tickled my semi-mythical fancy.

Also in the spirit of full disclosure, or possibly enlightened self-interest, I will note that I did my trademark lurk at the appointed hour, both of the days in the original contest period when an actual sun visibly set. Having taught numerous Fall Continuing Ed workshops in lurking, I think I might've noticed if anybody else had been doing so avec camera. They weren't.

Again in the spirit of full disclosure, or possibly enlightened self-interest, I confess that this turn of events had me rubbing my paws together in highly unseemly anticipation-slash-glee. I figured my entry had really decent odds, me being the only critter on two or four legs that was there to paw a shutter release.

But, noooooooooo... Mr. Pritchard, the morning of the first deadline, posted that sunsetty goodness had been lacking, so the deadline would change. He did not come out and state outright that there might've been only one entry. Loosey-goosey contest design ain't my problem, but I figured, oh what the heck. Maybe he doesn't run a lot of these. He didn't really post any rules -- ummm, other than the deadline -- so maybe he feels okay about changing contest rules - such as they are - after they're already out there.

Fourth Dwarf asked a buncha pointed questions about this on December 13. Since then, when we've run across one another in a back alley (we're both avid dumpster divers, for different reasons...) I've raised what passes for a querying eyebrow on a coyote, and asked, "Seen anything on an OttawaHenge winner yet?" Each time, he's shaken his head and grimaced, "No". Then we commence to scuffling over the pickin's. Woohoo!

But it's a little weird, ya know? Not the scuffling; the black-hole-like lack of a winner for a contest which was announced with a certain hoopla November 30, even if it was extended. The event's maestro may not have run many contests. I dunno - but the lack of caveats and conditions beyond the entry date was notable. But it seems to me that not setting ground rules beyond an entry deadline does not allow one to move the goalposts - twice - without making a token effort to broadcast who won the damn thing at some point. Sure I feel like the rug got pulled out from underneath me. But I'm a fair coyote. Somebody should win, even if it ain't moi. However badly my id may be pissed, you may surmise that my rambunctiously healthy doggy ego can probably take it.

When the Short Guy, always gimlet-eyed about such things, started asking questions in December, a comment from Mr. Pritchard thanked Dwarfy for noticing the contest. The lad also sidestepped 4D's questions with a degree of native talent which suggests that if this Openfile gig doesn't work out, he's still got lucrative career options writing non-reply reply scripts for federal ministers... but I digress.

Except that on this very blog, Trevor said, and I quote, "...we'll definitely be announcing a winner in January."

That's unequivocal. I believe that Trev, and Openfile, will want to make good on it. Now that we've landed flatfooted in the second week of February, 'n all. Possibly before Valentine's Day...

Going mediaeval on our asses

As a semimythical coyote, I recognise that mythical cosmogonies, including mine, may be internally consistent, yet correspond only roughly with what most people think of as reality. One side of the (mythical) line, I'm a totemic critter of some religious import. The other, I'm just a mouthy talking doggie with a sideline in eating your cat. Having had about 6,000 years' practice at being semimythical, I've learned to deal.

So it's with a practiced and critical eye that I watch the government attempt to build its own mythical cosmogony. You know, the one where empirical science never happened, and all must defer to the Prime Minister's gut. The one that spills out over the dinner-plate belt buckle he wears once a year at the Calgary Stampede, and tells him that basing decisions on actual facts is less desirable than just making crap up and calling it the truth.

Having had his mythical dogma (heh...) called out so often by the empirical facts on stuff like safe injections sites, mandatory sentencing, rising crime rates and blahblahblah ad nauseam, he's apparently started screwing over the people who collect these facts, such as Statistics Canada. Because nothing is more inconvenient than having your irrefutable gut feelings and cherished truthinesses shot to hell by your own government agency.

Give the guy credit. He and his base are doing their best to willfully ignore the entire Renaissance. You know, that insignificant 400-odd years when empirical science, ummm, evolved. Would they prefer the ignorance and superstition that came before? For an entire modern nation? How's that for going mediaeval on our asses?

As an over-opinionated quadruped with long experience in issues that rise when one's core beliefs reject the, you know, actual world in which you must exist, I gotta say: no matter how stubbornly you cherish that mythiness, sooner or later reality whacks ya upside the head. How's that for cognitive dissonance? And how ya gonna deal with it?