Day 39
This morning (well, at 10:30) two friends and I set out in search of breakfast. We agreed upon a spot simply called, "Diner" where we were hoping to get a greasy cheap meal but met a "Closed" sign. They were open today but not until the rather conspicous time of 11:30 despite what their menu said in the window that featured a small list of breakfast-y items. We trudged up the street. The "Diner" was the only place that had looked like good eating along this stretch of street.
My friend suggested a place a few blocks up and warned me that I wouldn't like the atmosphere (fuck, even the name sounded pretentious whatever the hell it was called) but she said the food was real good. I conceded with much whining. We entered the snobby breakfast joint and saw simple tables containing small plates topped with cloth napkins containing silverware. The host sat us at a large table near the window, boasting of its location, while a raggedy old witch in an expensive scarf (presumably the owner) said, "Seating them at a table for six when they are only three?" in a voice loud enough for us to hear. We didn't move.
We had a few lively conversations like, is the the word "shit" a swear and a long chat where my friends tried to explain to me what "carbon footprinting" is (I will never understand it). When I saw my companion's latte arrive in its pedestalled, clear mug I twinged. Again my whining started about how fancy the place was and I was told to zip it by both friends (even the nice one was getting in on the shut the hell up action).
Anyway, as I chomped down my smoked salmon omlette I found myself homesick for $2.90 fried egg sandwiches on cheap white bread that's soggy and green from pickle juice. Isn't it strange that one would actually long to eat in a place where you watch the cook wipe his nose with his hand right before he plucks out your flour-enriched bread.
After the brunch affair one of my friend's and I set out on a candy quest while the more athletic of our threesome sped away on her bike. We were to walk up a few blocks and catch a bus. Along the way my friend remarked to me something to the affect of, "Isn't it funny that we are hiking to the candystore isn't that a--what do you call it? Oxymoron?" We laughed for a bit and she let me whine about how far the hike to the bus was. And then I thought about it...it's not an oxymoron that we hiked to get our candy; it's a hike with purpose. Those nature freaks go out walking sometimes all day and for what? To see a few trees and some rocks. Now who's the moron?
Tonight the Vaguely Asian Food Night (VAFN) returned. I was greeted at the entrance by a Journalism student dishing up the rice. He looked up from his work, saw me and laughed like I was wearing a ham costume (I was wearing a hockey jersey). I asked him what was so funny and all he said was, "I'm sorry, it's my first day." What the?
Anyway, at least this VAFN we were lucky enough to not have "Chinese Cabbage" again but tonight we were confronted with a "lotus" something or other that tasted like absolutely nothing (to be specific, crunchy nothing) and a "dessert" plate. The dessert plate contained black jelly-like rolls, an alleged lemon cake (tasted like bread that had been soaked in water for three days with a horridly sweet center that tasted like artificial sweenter) and a slice of a miscellaneous seedy fruit that looked like it was covered on the edges in white frosting (maybe if it was I would've tasted something).
I begged the cook, "Can we please have pasta, pleeeease." His plastered-on smile faded, "We have pasta Thursday." At least I have something to look forward to. But more exciting is the prospect of the next VAFN how could it be any worse? But, every week I am surprised that it is worse, much worse. How long can they keep it up? At some point they are going to be forced to make something edible, right? Shit, maybe I should find a Catholic and see if I can get them to Hail Mary on it for awhile, we gotta try something.
Upon a second viewing of "Casablanca" I have begun to understand the storyline. But, what is wrong with that Ilsa, huh? I mean shit, why wouldn't she rather be with her husband with his gorgeous tallness, mysterious scar and undying love. Really, I wanted to slap her. She was gonna leave it all for Rick, what the fuck? I mean one minute she is with her sexy, heroic husband and the next she goes back to Bogart and is all like, "I don't want to leave you again." What do the writers blame this on? Female fickleness? If it weren't for the hilarious deliveries of the people cast with only one line in that film and the fact that the chair I was in was terribly comfortable and that I sorta wanted to reach out and hold the hand of the guy next to me (even though I would never have the courage to do so) I swear me and my gummy frogs would've walked out.
Tomorrow is my first workshop. A "workshop" is basically where all of the writers in your class read your work, mark it to hell and you have to sit and listen, silently to their criticisms. What fun, I can't wait to see if I bite my tongue until it bleeds. Too bad it's such an excursion to obtain candy because I could fill my mouth with gummies thus making myself unable to speak AND get a crazy sugar high. As it is I will try to save the tears and ass kickings for outside of class. But, we'll see how that goes I was never one for self control. Should this be my last blog entry for awhile please call both the local jail and the psych ward for me and bring lots of candy and a fried egg sandwich and someone to say Hail Mary.
-Canadian Castaway
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