Hey, lookit here: David Staples has written a story in the Edmonton Journal about the Oilogosphere, or less commonly, “the Bloilggers,” a term that I coined although it never really caught on (… the wisdom of crowds, my ass).
I’m happy with my quotes in the story, as I spent most of my discussion with Staples making fun of web boards and Oilers fans in general, which in retrospect is probably not the best way to ingratiate myself to readers unfamiliar to the blog. Staples, to his credit, restrained himself from making looking like a nasty little Toronto troll, spewing invective from under the CN Tower.
There isn’t a lot of new ground covered in the story, but a couple of things stand out: at some point Colby Cosh told Andy Grabia to “grow a pair,” and we finally get to see Lowetide, the father Abraham of Oilers blogs, unmasked, looking not unlike the composite portrait I posted a few weeks ago. Also, there’s an extended interview with
Sadly, Pat over at Black Dog Hates Skunks wasn’t in the story, although his blog is a must-read for me and always good for a few zingers. Pat’s taking it in stride, I think, and it’s also worth mentioning that he’ll be visiting Edmonton for the first time ever this week, so please, show the dude a good time and refrain usual customary habit of stabbing an outsider, as I can vouch for him.
In the meantime, I’m going to cash in on my undergraduate degree and post one of favourite poems about dogs, "Black Labrador" by David Young, which I think about whenever Pat throws up a picture of his blog's namesake (although it looks to be more of a run-of-the-mill mutt than a Labrador).That's right. This blog posts poetry. Do you think you can handle that!?
Churchill called his bad visits from depression a big black dog.
We have reversed that, Winston. We've named him Nemo, no one, a black hole where light is gulped invisible by night:
by day, when light licks everything to shine, a black silk coat ablaze with inky shade. He's our black lab, wherein mad scientists concoct excessive energy.
It snows, and he bounds out, inebriate of cold. The white flakes settle on his back and neck and nose and make a little universe.
It's best to take God backward; even sideways
He is too much to contemplate, "a deep but dazzling darkness," as Vaughan says.
And so I let my Nemo-omen lead me onward and on toward that deep dark I'm meant to enter, entertain, when my time comes . . .
The day wheels past, a creaky cart.
I study the rippling anthracite that steadies me, the tar, the glossy licorice, the sable; and in this snowfall that I should detest, late March and early April, I'm still rapt to see his coat so constellated, starred, re-starred, making a comic cosmos