Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

Too Many Cooks Means The Cooking Wine Goes Missing

I had the most terrible dream last night. Here I will insert a picture of my dear Gordon so that you, too, can feel the horror of my brain’s imagination.

No, Gordon is not actually smoking, nor is that a real cigarette that he has in his mouth. I Photoshopped it in. His true addictions are the New York Review of Books and telephone books.

In the dream, I was just coming home from being away overnight, and there was a strange silence in the apartment. It was that kind of extra heavy silence that tells you something terrible has transpired. I walked around, looking in every room, and I found the really terrible thing in the kitchen.

Gordon was lying on his side under the cupboard doors, and at first I was unsure if there was anything wrong him, but then I noticed how still he was, and then I noticed several bloody holes – one each in his neck, chest, belly, a thigh, and both feet. I turned to my right and saw a huge eagle staring down at Gordon intently, as though he was waiting for him to move, or maybe he was waiting for me to leave so he could have his meal. I envisioned the eagle’s vicious beak tearing those small holes into Gordon’s body and shuddered. The eagle had his wings outstretched while he shifted his feet along the half-wall beside my arm.

I wasn’t angry at the bird for killing my rabbit; instead, I was filled with a sense of remorse that I had left the rabbit in such a dangerous situation. I don’t know where the eagle had come from or why it was in my apartment, but I felt that I should have foreseen the possibility of this happening. Gordon’s body was so still and vulnerable looking, but I could not bring myself to pick him up or move him. All I could do was stand there staring at him and wishing that his fur hadn’t already started to lie funny in the way that fur does on dead animals almost as soon as they die.

So when I woke up this morning, I had to go and take a look at Gordon in the living room to reassure myself that the dream was not some kind of terrible omen. Not that I actually believed that an eagle would be sitting on my couch having a good stretch or anything.


It has been several days since my last update because I have had a full social schedule. My baby brother came down into town Thursday and was followed by my friends Frances and Starcat on Friday.

There was a folk festival going on in the park downtown, which my brother was a vendor at. He makes really kick ass rings and hemp jewellery, and so he is spending his summer this year making jewellery and traveling around to folk festivals all over the prairies to sell his wares. If you picked up a hitchhiker on the Canadian prairies this summer who was bearded, very gregarious, and six-foot-four or –five, I thank you greatly for helping to ferry my baby brother from place to place.

Frances and Starcat mainly came down just to hang out with little old me, which rocked. (I don’t know why I feel compelled to say the following, but I do: I am normally strangely traditional when it comes to men coming down to visit me and staying in my apartment, but since Fidridge was already there (my male relative guy), I said yes when they called at the last minute before coming up. Could it be my Menno upbringing? I find this part of myself to be a little strange).

We spent our days mostly lying about in the grass on the festival grounds, occasionally taking over my brother’s jewellery table when he needed to pee, and getting terrible service in restaurants whenever we went to eat somewhere. We had seriously bad service all weekend. I had hair baked into my spinach-stuffed chicken; waiters forgot to bring us cutlery, water, menus, side orders, and drinks; waiters brought the wrong drinks, cutlery, and menus; a waitress completely forgot we existed; another waitress totally lost Frances’ bill and then never made up a new one; a waiter gave me a plastic fork for my brother’s takeout breakfast that later stabbed an old lady in the arm (okay, that was me being klutzy, and she didn’t fall down or anything, so I think she was okay).When we weren’t getting terrible service, though, we were busy lying in the grass, reading books, chatting, and helping to sell hemp necklaces.

Our evenings started early, ended late, and involved a lot of beer. A lot. Thank god my budget calls for absolutely no more public consumption of anything, because it will take me days to rehydrate. It really wasn’t so crazily excessive until the last night Frances and Starcat were in town when we ended up at a festival after party that entailed free beer and pizza that hadn’t sold over the weekend. It was ridiculous. Fidridge and Frances got up on stage and played folk tunes for the crowd. I can’t quite be sure due to the blurriness of the evening, but I think Fidridge did a rousing rendition of Gloria Gainer’s “I Will Survive”. The next morning we all mutually assured each other that we had not made huge nuisances of ourselves the previous evening and left it at that. To quote a rip-snortingly foolish line I heard in a second-hand store on Saturday: “[Our] coolness was cooling it up”.

Frances and Starcat left yesterday, and Fidridge left this morning, so I now have my apartment and my free time back. I do love seeing everyone involved, but I didn’t give myself enough time alone over the weekend, which meant that they had to deal with me occasionally having to struggle with my thinly veiled rabid viciousness. Last night, I locked myself up in the computer room and worked on a blog template, leaving my brother to sit through most of the third season of Angel DVDs on his last night in town. Poor, poor Fidridge.


Chromatin transfer cats now in!

Gene therapy for procrastinators is on the horizon.

Are you scared of spiders?

Yikes! Stay away from AM radio towers! (thanks to Batty)

A couple of friends of mine were at the folk festival selling Sandy’s fabulous line of clothing. Check it out at Flutterby Butterfly.

Accidental Crack Smokers And A Pants-Dwelling Beetle

Happily Worn Out And Aesthetically Jinxed