![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rfmcdonaldI'd written yesterday that I was heading over to The Unicorn to meet up with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
serod and heraclitus. We missed heraclitus, unfortunately, but we'd a good supper with drinks in The Unicorn's rather comfortable confines. It was rather nice to catch serod before his imminent departure to study late-medieval Italian history and culture in the confines of, among other storied London neighbourhoods, Bloomsbury. Being in love would, of course, make this all the better. I envy him, in an entirely friendly way, and wish him well in the impending year.
As he notes, though, he did throw me for a loop when he mentioned that Sheila Copps is a columnist for the National Post. Somehow, that's even more disturbing than learning that she's doing dinner theatre in Kingston (Steel Magnolias, in case you're wondering).
It was impossible to take streetcars north on Bathurst today, apparently owing to some sort of accident on the northbound route. How do I know this? I waited for the Bathurst streetcar at Queen Street, and it wasn't until the third streetcar went past the island and disgorged its passengers that a driver deigned to tell us this. So, concluding an interesting brief chat withpauldrye, I hoofed it towards my meeting with talktooloose at the Bathurst stop, only briefly considering the applicability of kneecapping in this context. It was a beautiful day in Toronto today, you see, though by late afternoon the clouds were closing together across the sky.
Fortunately, I caughttalktooloose before he abandoned the Bathurst station in disgust at my feckless tardy self. I returned to him his copy of The Horde and lent him my copy of The Indelible Alison Bechdel. He, in turn, lent me his copy of Nan Goldin's The Ballad of Sexual Dependency (blogged review impending) and the first volume of Finder. He took me with him into a couple of futon stores, looking for some bookcases while I myself cased the futons since I am now in the process of convertign to short-term profitability. (In the process, I add; if I was a newly-privatized corporation, I fear that the ongoing subsidies from my parental units would be enough to precipitate a nasty government inquiry.) A flattering moment in one store when one clerk asked if we were "together," then off to lunch at Dooney's Café. The service was uncommonly slow, and their club sandwich was a bit too heavily spiced and sauced for my tastes, but it was a decent enough forum.
talktooloose is doing me a mitzvah by looking at some of the stories I'd written a couple of years ago for creative-writing classes at UPEI. I would like to become a published writer, probably of short stories, probably with narratives which would fit mostly within the broad genre of science fiction (despite, as simonff notes, that genre's failing profitability). Getting to that goal is the problem. talktooloose was moderately encouraging in his criticism. The stories' biggest problems related to a lack of detail in the settings and in the characters. This, I suppose, can be traced to my embrace at the time of a stylistic vagueness which I hoped would allow my stories to fit anywhere, somewhat like LeGuin in The Telling. My sheer lack of life experience was responsible for at least as much more. I think I've overcome these problems, enough at least to make a valid second try at these stories or others.
As we left Dooney's, we managed to run into N., a friend from dorm at Queen's. Toronto is the centre of Canada (centre of gravity, centre of evil) so it probably was inevitable that we'd meet up sooner or later. We exchanged phone numbers, and then I lent my Metropass totalktooloose so he could go downtown and pick up a video. While I waited for him in the parking lot between the Bathurst station and the Palmerston library, I lay down on the parking lot's two-foot-high concrete divider and looked at Goldin.
serod and heraclitus. We missed heraclitus, unfortunately, but we'd a good supper with drinks in The Unicorn's rather comfortable confines. It was rather nice to catch serod before his imminent departure to study late-medieval Italian history and culture in the confines of, among other storied London neighbourhoods, Bloomsbury. Being in love would, of course, make this all the better. I envy him, in an entirely friendly way, and wish him well in the impending year.As he notes, though, he did throw me for a loop when he mentioned that Sheila Copps is a columnist for the National Post. Somehow, that's even more disturbing than learning that she's doing dinner theatre in Kingston (Steel Magnolias, in case you're wondering).
It was impossible to take streetcars north on Bathurst today, apparently owing to some sort of accident on the northbound route. How do I know this? I waited for the Bathurst streetcar at Queen Street, and it wasn't until the third streetcar went past the island and disgorged its passengers that a driver deigned to tell us this. So, concluding an interesting brief chat with
pauldrye, I hoofed it towards my meeting with talktooloose at the Bathurst stop, only briefly considering the applicability of kneecapping in this context. It was a beautiful day in Toronto today, you see, though by late afternoon the clouds were closing together across the sky.Fortunately, I caught
talktooloose before he abandoned the Bathurst station in disgust at my feckless tardy self. I returned to him his copy of The Horde and lent him my copy of The Indelible Alison Bechdel. He, in turn, lent me his copy of Nan Goldin's The Ballad of Sexual Dependency (blogged review impending) and the first volume of Finder. He took me with him into a couple of futon stores, looking for some bookcases while I myself cased the futons since I am now in the process of convertign to short-term profitability. (In the process, I add; if I was a newly-privatized corporation, I fear that the ongoing subsidies from my parental units would be enough to precipitate a nasty government inquiry.) A flattering moment in one store when one clerk asked if we were "together," then off to lunch at Dooney's Café. The service was uncommonly slow, and their club sandwich was a bit too heavily spiced and sauced for my tastes, but it was a decent enough forum.talktooloose is doing me a mitzvah by looking at some of the stories I'd written a couple of years ago for creative-writing classes at UPEI. I would like to become a published writer, probably of short stories, probably with narratives which would fit mostly within the broad genre of science fiction (despite, as simonff notes, that genre's failing profitability). Getting to that goal is the problem. talktooloose was moderately encouraging in his criticism. The stories' biggest problems related to a lack of detail in the settings and in the characters. This, I suppose, can be traced to my embrace at the time of a stylistic vagueness which I hoped would allow my stories to fit anywhere, somewhat like LeGuin in The Telling. My sheer lack of life experience was responsible for at least as much more. I think I've overcome these problems, enough at least to make a valid second try at these stories or others.As we left Dooney's, we managed to run into N., a friend from dorm at Queen's. Toronto is the centre of Canada (centre of gravity, centre of evil) so it probably was inevitable that we'd meet up sooner or later. We exchanged phone numbers, and then I lent my Metropass to
talktooloose so he could go downtown and pick up a video. While I waited for him in the parking lot between the Bathurst station and the Palmerston library, I lay down on the parking lot's two-foot-high concrete divider and looked at Goldin.
