Okay, so I apparently missed a prime stalking opportunity earlier this afternoon when the HurriMcCain touched down over at the Confed building in anticipation of his date with David Emerson. To make up for letting him slip out of my grasp like that, I’ve now installed myself outside the Rideau Club, where me and a bunch of cops are awaiting his imminent arrival.
For reasons too complicated to explain, I am also wearing an Oily the Splot shirt, which seems somehow appropriate.
They just cleared the sidewalk – it must be getting close. The street is mostly shut down, but for some reason, nobody seems particularly alarmed by the fact that there are a dozen of camera/berry-wielding people waiting to grab a shot of the man.
I love this country sometimes. Well, always, but you know what I mean.
There’s quite a crowd that has gathered, although a lot are simply innocent bystanders trapped by the sudden shutdown of a fairly busy street.
And there he is! Or at least his car! Everyone is staring politely. Canadianly. He waved at the crowd, rather gamely, and the crowd waved back. There was even a ‘whoo!’ See, this is why they totally should have invited him to RibFest instead of the Rideau Club.
Okay, stalking having been accomplished, I’m headed off to wait out this reception. Which, oddly enough, takes me right to the Hy’s patio.
Well, maybe. It depends whether I’ve staked out the right door. I’m outside the Rideau Club – well, the gigantic monolith that houses the Rideau Club – waiting for McCain to make his exit. Actually, more precisely, I’m standing in a bus shelter, because it’s pouring out there, but I have my eyes on the corner where he may or may not appear.
There is a full phalanx of security here, which is how I know he’s on the move, but not yet free of the city (and consequently, his stalker). Who really ought to be tough enough to stand out in the rain, but what can I say; she’s not. At least I managed to ditch the Oily shirt (into my bag, not like – handed to a random hobo).
Okay, it’s now a gentle mist, and I’m on the move. I’m not sure if he’ll come out the way he went in; there aren’t any visible security types out here on Bank, so I’m thinking maybe not. Or they’re trying to fool any potential stalkers out there into *thinking* he won’t come out this way. They’re playing chess while I’m playing dominoes.
Okay, I’m pretty close to giving up. I’m just not sure that he’s going to surface; it seems more likely that he’ll be whisked away via the underground parking garage. What I wonder is what the travelling press have been doing all day. Did they find RibFest, and gorge themselves senseless during the off-hours? I hope so.
Mystery probably solved: the drivers idling outside are probably indentured to some other VIP – maybe Ambassador Wilkins – and hence, do not merit the kind of meticulous stalking that I have lavished on the McCainiacs.
With that, I’m going back inside, where it’s warm. Maybe McCain will drop by for a beer. Or cheese bread! Happy Friday, everyone. See you next week! (Or before.)
I should have stayed right where I was. Not five minutes after I got back to the patio, the street outside was shut down, and the now familair trio of black SVUs motored past, presumably from the underground parking lot – just like I had predicted.
I don’t think I would’ve gotten a better view even if I had stuck it out in the bus shelter.
The McCain has left the precinct. Let the traditional Ottawa Friday torpor return!