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I am not Owl Meat

A colleague at The Baltimore Sun believes that she has outed me as Owl Meat.

She is mistaken.

Owl Meat — some civilians may require a little background — is one of the frequent commenters in the Sandbox on Elizabeth Large’s blog, Dining @ Large. The members of the Sandbox are largely harmless, though they occasionally stray onto this site. (I drew their attention, and they’ve been conducting conversational exchanges here.) Owl Meat is given to baroque extravagances, sometimes extending into the rococo, and it should be obvious even to the casual observer that he lets his id out on a longer leash than I allow mine.

In any case, I am prepared to place my hand on a copy of Fowler’s Modern English Usage and attest before any civil magistrate that I am not Owl Meat, neither have I ever made any use of that pseudonym, nor have I any knowledge or speculation as to Owl Meat’s identity.

My own identity is burden enough for any man to bear.



Posted by John McIntyre at 11:34 AM | | Comments (24)


Regarding Owl's id leash: Have you heard of the space elevator
idea? I think that is what Owl Meat uses to leash his id.
We love you Owl Meat Space Elevator, whoever you may be!

My friend Sparky Flapdoodle just alerted me to this travesty........

There is only one Owl Meat Mr. McIntyre. Do we really want to use the word "outing"? Elizabeth Large can confirm all this, as she and only she knows my secret identity.

I am much too tired to get into this right now, but I am more than a little annoyed. I think this is just a ploy to get me to leave my Nest of Iniquity and show myself in the daylight. Not to worry, I had my awesome gal-pal Bourbon Girl scout this place first. And anybody who knows my writing knows that I don't follow many rules and tend to make up words and sometimes entire languages. That's just how I roll - Owly and Meaty, sometimes Gravy-licious.

I'm not sure that getting my attention is a good thing. So far I have left this site unmolested, but now I think it's time to have an old school throw-down Old Meat style! And where I go, so goes my flock. No doubt Bourbon Girl will bring her federation of Gyno-Bots along too (aka the Girl Squad).

I really, really, really hate the term Sandbox. One of the Roberts started that. I can't seem to kill it, but that's okay, because I eat pointless rage for breakfast and turn it into wrathful justice. That being said about sand boxes, you will see in this Funtastic Thursday post that I included a picture of myself. Now, you're a dapper looking fellow JM, but were you this cute when you were two? Unlikely. Although young I already hand the Meaty Hands of Justice.

Urrrrrrr...... this interrupted by preparation for Bourbon Girl's visit later to the Nest of Iniquity. Just for that I will see if I can summon D@L poster Pierre, whose crazy English grammar and spelling will make your head explode. Normally he is busy tormenting Sam Sessa, but I think he could make time for you. I think that just my own language atrocities will send you looking for Dramamine. For example, the word that I have been pushing lately is "croutonicity". And no, I will not tell you what it means. Okay, it's a new kind of awesome that my friend Crouton and I share. Me with Bourbon Girl and her with a Croatian dude named Dragon.

So now that you brought me here, see my Thursday guest posts on Dining@Large and judge for yourself. If you click on my name you can see my old blog, which was mostly about my obsession with Hot Pockets. Know this: there is only one Owl Meat Gravy and he is watching!

Funtastic Monkey Roundup

Owl Meat Crossword 3 - What a Tool

Owl Meat Crossword 2 - Kitchen Weltschmerz

Owl Meat Crossword 1 with Awesome Prizes

And there are many more Funtastic Thursday before these. So now that I have opened up a can of grumpitudy wrathiness on you, you should all come over to Dining@Large and see where Owl Meat lives. And come on weird nerds, get down with the crossword puzzles. Do you know how hard it is to make up one? Damn hard.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.................. Bourbon Girl ... attack attack attack!

Owlie - get back to peeling those grapes or you know what will happen later.... yes, I will take you to the river.

JMc - you know I adore you but did you have to plant this bomb on our date Saturday? Do you have any idea what it takes to tame this feathered insanity? And now he is all agitated....

Civilized translation of our Owl's missive:

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place, search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Now hold on there.

I know that reading is laborious, but if you would take the trouble to read the post, you would see that I did not instigate this. An employee in another department (always blame Human Resources -- that's safe) insisted, despite my protestations, that I must be Owl Meat. This post is an effort to protect both our reputations.

Bourbon Girl, it's hardly imaginable that anything I might say could thwart whatever frenzied coupling you and Owl Meat contemplate (and let us draw a veil, gentle reader, across this imagined scene).

Hyacinth Girl, when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not speak, and my eyes failed.

Hyacinth Girl, when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not speak, and my eyes failed.

Damn you, McIntyre...only Owl Meat could have written that, to his Sybil-like Hyacinth Girl personality.

You are Owl Meat Gravy.

I've been bamboozled again.

I believe that Mr. Eliot got there before the both of us.

Bucky wrote: "only Owl Meat could have written that, to his Sybil-like Hyacinth Girl personality."

Not to stoke any fires, but...

He did write that to me a month or two ago

over on that other blog (what is it called again?)

JMc - I still love to hear it. Somewhat unrelated question: Would you agree that The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock one of the top three greatest poems ever?

I dislike "greatest" categories, but "Prufrock" is one of my favorites. A fellow teaching assistant at Syracuse used to invite me to come to her class and read it aloud every semester. Ah, those were palmy days.

Oh I read the post and understood it, but a comment from me that said "Okay", would have been less owl-meaty.


I think that cross-blog pollenation (I'm out of words today) is a very healthy thing. Not quite a frenzied coupling (we had a good laugh about the one), but interesting.

You want to watch out for that kind of talk. Some people are apt to think that you might be mellowing.

... read it aloud every semester Sounds like its time for another very excellent video, to me.

Mr. McIntyre... Do you attest or affirm? Or is there any difference? I guess that one attests that the painting is genuine or the signature authentic, and one affirms the truth of his testimony. The differences are pretty subtle, though.

Courts give you an out if swearing bothers your conscience: "I do hereby swear (or affirm)..."

Sounds like its time for another very excellent video, to me.

I second that motion.

I think Mr. McIntyre is the mysterious Owlmeat. I saw him at his desk this weekend when nobody else was around typing furiously and huffing Wite-Out from a Wendy's bag. He kept muttering over and over, "I am the Wizard of Id and I can fly!" while eating lime Jell-O salad with grapes and marshmallows in it. Then he spilled a large bag of peanut M&Ms onto his desk and arranged them by color. Most inexplicable. Maybe his bowtie is too tight.

Thanks for the words Hyacinth Girl and Susan. It balances the McIntyre-ite who commented on my D@L post about how I could never be JM because I can't write. I cried a little. I dare not linger too long on my appreciation or Bourbon Girl might challenge you to nunchucks at dawn. Off I go.

Yes, please, on the video JMc. Take us back to the palmy days ....

Owl - smart choice. No doubt you are off to peel me some more grapes and slice an apple and some manchego for my frenzied pleasure.

BTW, I can attest and affirm that OMG has the biggest hands I have ever....

Sweet frenzy!

Get a room, you two.

Please stop Bourbon Girl. Please stop, Bourbon Girl. Please.

"I [McIntyre] at his desk this weekend when nobody else was around typing furiously and huffing Wite-Out from a Wendy's bag. . . . Most inexplicable." wrote Julio, likely from the school yard.

Inexplicable, indeed!

I am calling for an in-depth investigation and report into just where everybody else was when there should have been "typing furiously and huffing Wite-Out fro a Wendy's bag." Just where were they and what were they doing? Most importantly, who, if anyone, was paying for these activities! my, God, we're talking about a newspaper, not state government!

The accusation is outrageous. I will not dignify it with an answer. The charges have been completely discredited. No evidence has been produced. Mistakes were made. It was on fire when I got there. My wife wears a cloth coat. The report exonerated me.

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About John McIntyre
John McIntyre, mild-mannered editor for a great metropolitan newspaper, has fussed over writers’ work, to sporadic expressions of gratitude, for thirty years. He is The Sun’s night content production manager and former head of its copy desk. He also teaches editing at Loyola University Maryland. A former president of the American Copy Editors Society, a native of Kentucky, a graduate of Michigan State and Syracuse, and a moderate prescriptivist, he writes about language, journalism, and arbitrarily chosen topics. If you are inspired by a spirit of contradiction, comment on the posts or write to him at
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