Frackin' vapid mayor beat out Clive Doucet and I'm still bitter.

This morning I arrived at my glebe cafe just in time to line up behind Mayor Jim Watson in his red windbreaker. 


For all of my social bounciness, quasi-celebrity local politicians and academics usually make me weak in the knees. I experienced momentary paralysis and almost peed my pants on the stairs in front of Sheila Copps, for example. But Jim Watson invited the most confident (read: defiant) eye contact I could muster. I did not feel even slightly inclined to impress him (read: flirt with him), even though this is my default behaviour around well-ish known men. Instead of smiling shyly or spilling my coffee on myself, I offered him a chair, and he sat across from me and asked me my thoughts on the Bank Street construction project, to which I responded bluntly, "I have the privilege of not being car dependent."


So then his assistant came and I sat perched on one hip with my best fake-focusing-on-my-to-do-list face while the two drank hot chocolate like school children. I eavesdropped so hard, I noticed I even closed my eyes at one point. If he weren't such an unbearable man, I would not take such pleasure in revealing his inanity:


JW: "I got into a tweet debate with a crazy socialist last night."


Assistant: "Well any crazy person can make comments online, it's not the status quo. It's not proportionate. Ridiculous."


JW: "Pff, yeah I know. I need some more hot chocolate."


My dislike intensified as I heard them scroll through the schedule for the day and strategize on how to do as little work as possible. Next time, he doesn't get my chair.