It works for Etrigan.

Argh! Ever since I got all fancy with the font options for that Young Galaxy post, I can't shake the feeling that I messed up the default settings. Then again, I suppose there's a difference between "minimalist aesthetics" (what I wanted), "simple and clean" (what I'd settle for), and "default settings" (what I got). Maybe I should take this as a sign to start fiddling... but maybe later.

Anyway, the poetry night is Wednesday, so I've been busy preparing for that. Over the weekend, I tried my hand at edgy social commentary in the form of free verse: I already know that slam poetry's awesome, and I still want to work my way towards that. So, I went with an experience I once had in Ottawa: an unemployed man approached me on the street and asked me for ten dollars. That was a bit more than the price of cheap calories, so I asked him why... he explained that he had a job lined up in Fort McMurray, but he just needed to get there, and he had to supply his own steel-toed boots.

Now, I've never been to Fort McMurray, but even in Swan Hills they'll pay for your steel-toed shoes as a job perk. They even paid for *my* steel-toed shoes, and I never dropped anything heavier than a ball-point pen on them.

(Well, that and sixteen litres of hexane. But that's a different story.)

So was this fellow lying? Was he hoping that the appearance of self-betterment would help his panhandling? Did he figure that getting ten dollars an eighth as often as getting one dollar would be more profitable in the long run? I can't really argue the cynics in that appraisal of the situation.

But yet... what if he simply had his story wrong? What if he heard from a friend of a friend of a friend about the good life in the Oil Sands, and along the way, the stories got distorted so that the steel-toed boots became the key that caused those kingdom gates to open, rather than simply being direct consequence of living there?

(And it is, too - I doubt there are schoolteachers or dental assistants in Fort Mac that don't have their own pair of steel-toed footwear.)

If that's the case, then this unemployed fellow is not the swindler, but the swindled. Who knows? Perhaps he's already paid some unscrupulous headhunter a "finder's fee" to line up a job for him... Either way, I thought it was an interesting commentary on the perception of the Oil Sands in Ottawa, so I tried knocking out some blank verse that reflects such a view.

And then I tried editing it a little, and it turned into a terzanelle. Maybe I'm just going to be one of those poets cursed to rhyme in everything they write?

Anyway, here you go.

Strangely efficient, strange that it's necessary

This is the hour they hose down the Glebe

The African restaurant's still open to passersby

Spilled beer and pizza run into the street

His jacket of denim deflects the deluge

This is the hour they hose down the Glebe

He wants to be clear, he's not asking for food

It now seems like everyone's caught in a hurry

His jacket of denim deflects the deluge

He could start work tomorrow in far Fort McMurray

He just needs ten dollars for steel-toed boots

It now seems like everyone's caught in a hurry

He can't ask for quarters, seeking humbler loot

It's a myth told by friends he has to believe

He just needs ten dollars for steel-toed boots

He's convincing himself or the people of Glebe

Strangely efficient, strange that it's necessary

It's a myth told by friends he has to believe

The African restaurant's still open to passersby

It's not quite right - not just yet. As is always the case with these things, the central image that inspired the whole thing (the homeless Caucasian being ignored outside a bustling African restaurant) is also the line that doesn't quite fit anymore. Argh! Ah, well. Such are the demands of the terzanelle.

Anyway, thanks for reading - both the poem, and the blog for its first month of revival! Here's to many more, and many better!

I draw the line at buzzwords.

And so ends the 2006 Ottawa expedition. As always, I love visiting the city, and it's always good to see old friends. As for the training itself...

It was a fun time, and I met some really nice people... However, was it worth it? No, of course not. Did I gain a new respect for my job? None I didn't have already. Did I learn anything useful to my job? Nope. Did I learn anything useful at all? Nothing that can't be gleaned from a day of idly surfing everything the government's already built for that purpose.

Did it make me a more effective public servant? Surprisingly, yes.

My options were simple. Either I learn something from this mandatory course, or I don't. One option makes the program a total waste, the other doesn't. So, even though I didn't learn anything particularly motivating, I am going to make myself work harder than usual this Monday.

I guess it's a lesson learned through bad example.

I hear the library's really nice.

Today, I sat in a conference room in an old City Hall with a group of civil servants, as a former prison warden explained the structure of Assistant Deputy Ministers, the Privy Council, and Cabinet Committees.

If I hadn't already said I was in Ottawa, you might have guessed.

It was an informational day, although it was particulary depressing moment when we were asked to put together a presentation describing our department's products, services, and programs. Apparently, that portion of the class was what they called "The Culture of the Public Service." What? Products and services are "culture"? You know, if they'd just asked me to describe the culture of the DRDC, I would have gladly obliged.

Afterwards, they'd scheduled an evening tour of Parliament -- to make up for the one that got cancelled tomorrow morning -- and after getting off the tour bus and going through security, the organisers were still nowhere to be seen. That being the case, the security guard told us we could go spectate in the House of Commons instead... and when we came out, the entire security department was apparently out covering a Christmas Party somewhere. Random groups of civil servants ran through the halls of the senator's offices. Some looked for an escape, others tried to see how far they could get before someone stopped them. I was in the latter group, but after I actually passed a senator in the hallway and said hello, I figured the challenge just wasn't there.

An odd evening, to be sure. But the oddest thing by far happened during the lunch hour. As we all filed into the catering service, some music was piped through the speakers. They'd obviously been asked to provide Canadian music, so what we heard was Sam Roberts' "The Canadian Dream."

Have you ever heard those lyrics? Here's the excerpt which they should have noticed:

"S-O-C-I-A-L-I-S-M is here to stay,
S-O-C-I-A-L-I-S-M is the only way."

Stephen Harper's Canada isn't what it used to be.

Wish you were here.

Well, I'm writing this from the main lobby of the Novotel Ottawa. Nice place -- right between the waterfront market and Parliament Hill. And much nicer beds than the U of O, to boot.

So far, the trip to Ottawa's been great -- I got to meet with some Ottawa novelists last night at a local Denny's. Ah, Denny's... preferred choice of both the poor and the cheap, the undemanding and the tolerant. No wonder it's the de facto meeting place for writers everywhere. A great meeting, though -- it's wonderful how much a room full of strangers can have in common.

And, of course, I got to meet some old friends. The odd highlight that evening was watching one of them insist on preparing a cheese fondue in a shirt and tie, because his wife said it looked hot.

The really odd part is that it wasn't Al.

Government training tomorrow! Tune in next evening for all the gory details of bureaucracy unleashed!