As I often do in the winter, I walked to school today through the PATH and the Eaton Centre. Upon nearing the foyer between the Eaton Centre and the Dundas subway station, I saw a man in his late 30s. He wore a winter coat and a toque. At the man's side his briefcase rested. He was the type of man I pass daily, constantly, without making any significant observation. But the man did something I had never seen.
He pulled something from his briefcase, but I only saw an electrical cord. He then crouched down to an electrical socket in the foyer and plugged in whatever it was in his hands. Then I heard a buzzing sound, I looked at the man and he was shaving. Naturally, several questions came to mind:
What kind of person shaves in a mall foyer?
Furthermore, why is the hell is there e an electrical socket in the foyer?
Why did this man decide to shave at this foyer?
How long did he look for a free electrical socket?
Wouldn't have been more practical to shave in a public restroom?
And on and on.
I didn't ask any of these pertinent questions, although I wish I had. I strongly doubt this man, who I should say did not look homeless, would have been able to answer most of my questions: even when you shave in a foyer, you need to concentrate.
Yesterday, I received several e-mails that lead me to ask myself if, when, why I should apply for a full-time job.
These questions remain unanswered.
Today, I met with Randy Boyagoda to discuss an imitation assignment due next Wednesday. In addition to speaking about that assignment, we discussed what I want to do after graduation, online journalism, the New York Times, and Tom WOlfe.
Boyagoda said my imitation was strong, but could be improved. He then gave me advice on my literary aspirations, made some suggestions, and told me to be ambitious; it was the type of advice that contradicted almost everything I've heard from professors and instructors in my four years at Ryerson. "Start small," they say.
Who's the one who's been published?
Yesterday, my schedule looked like this:
4 a.m.: Wake up.
6 a.m.: Leave for train station.
7 a.m.: Work.
9 a.m.: Ethics.
Noon: Coffee with Kait.
1 p.m.: Online Reporting.
8 p.m.: Get back home.
11 p.m.: Go to sleep.
I saw the cover of the new Blender issue that features Borat. I thought that film came out in November. A little behind the times?
(An aside: I've never read Blender, and I'm not sure what it is.)
Vinay Menon's preview or review (whatever you wish to call it) for tonight's new Lost episode is about pointless considering how he prefaces his thoughts:
As readers of this space may recall, I gave up on Lost sometime between The Hatch and Ana Lucia. Still, professional duty requires hit shows to be loosely tracked, even if I'm convinced the writers are smoking crack.
O.K., so Menon is about to review a show he doesn't like. He continues:
Besides, I was told Lost returns to form tonight. And if I don't write something nice I will be forced to live out my days on a mysterious island, joined by an obese lottery winner, a screechy hobbit and several women who have trouble when it comes to crying believably. So I inserted the preview DVD and hoped for the best.
What the hell? Okay, I've missed a few episodes. Help me out: when did Lost become a slapstick jumble of Grey's Anatomy, Oz and Melrose Place? And from where did these new characters arrive, with their bruises and scowls and endless supply of small arms?
O.K., so Menon has missed episodes to a show that demands its viewers see all the episodes. He stopped watching a show and is upset he doesn't know what's going on. Wow, Lost is awful.
I've had a friendship with someone for the last three years, and it seems to be ending. We haven't fought, but it seems we're moving apart. I'm not puzzled that this is happening; I'm puzzled that I don't care.