|Good Days (eh?)
||[Jan. 23rd, 2004|09:09 pm]
This is really for me and is unlikely to interest any of you Gentle Readers.|
But I'll keep it public anyway, since I'm that kind of bear.
Wednesday was good. Work was relatively slow, with charming dead-times between calls. Once home, I attempted to email Vern and Helen with the dates for the tickets I scored for Ronnie Burkett's Providence (which I can't wait to see.
Sympatico, bless its efficient, corporate heart, told me I had Helen's email address wrong. I tried a number of possible permutations, none of which worked.
Called Vern. Literally as he answered his phone, I found Helen's address. No matter. I would have called Vern anyway. As Wednesday is my Friday, I wanted to go out in any case, nevermind that I had not yet admitted that determination.
So. Drank some beers and had some talk with Vern. I bragged that I would have a letter in Thursday or Friday's Globe.
Wrong again, Young Geoffrey.
Thursday, was for me.
I smoked a bowl around 11:00 and hopped a streetcar for Queen and Peter - the Paramount. You know, I like that theatre. Sure, it's garish, and will no doubt look hideously dated a decade hence, but I like it. It has a feel of the starship Enterprise, all flashing lights and glass, but with a soft carpet like some giant suburban rec-room.
Saw The Return of the King.
You know, Peter Jackson's done a pretty good job. As a story, as a text, it doesn't hold a candle to the text, but it looks magnificent. Some of the shots from the upper reaches of Minis Tirith nearly gave me virtigo; Mordor was an appropriately blasted desert of stone and lava. As a companion to the book - a photo-album, if you will - it works very well. And I even managed a few tears at the end, nevermind the fact most of them were due to my memories of Tolkien's words, rather than Jackson's adaptation.
Well, today was productive.
I (finally) called Revenue Canada and put in an order for 5 of the last 10 years of tax-guides. Within 1 to 3 business weeks, I'll be filing my back taxes for the past decade.
I worked out - sits-ups, push-ups, hefted dumb-bells.
Caught up on my correspondence, and saved and printed the last month and a half of email.
Then hied myself off to Rhino's, where I admired (but, sadly, didn't actively flirt, with their most magnificent waitress). More importantly, I wrote over a thousand words in the dim, smoke-shrouded light.
By god! my friends, it isn't that hard!
Walking to my bike afterwards, a gutless wonder of a thug, apologized for almost running into me on the sidewalk. I shrugged it off but managed - okay: I MANAGED - to stay in his path.
"Make up your mind!" he said.
I turned, and realized he was a lot bigger than I am. But I persevered.
"Get off the sidewalk," I said.
"I'd like to see you riding on the street," quoth our young thug.
To which I was happy to reply, baring the front and rear lights already in my hand, "I'm just going to unlock mine now!"
He rode past me as I bent to unlock my bike, while I was torn between pride at showing him up, yet angry that I hadn't had the nerve (or was I too civilized?) to clock him one.
Incidentally, I have to put my cat on a diet. He's a big boy, but I think 14 pounds is a little over his fighting weight.
That is all.