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Day for Black Beans and the Man in Black
Feb. 26th, 2006 07:03 pmI woke up this morning holding the bed covers, feeling them in my arms as if they were Tete. I was petting the covers because she had just jumped on my lap. The house was still asleep so I washed the dishes to the sound of Magic FM, made myself breakfast (boiled egg, german bread with butter, and tea) then retired to the living room to watch some doomsday documentaries.
Early afternoon, Kevin and I watched the first episode of the British version of The Apprentice. The premise is genius: pick people with loads of business experience and big egos then put them to do small things like sell fruits at the local market. I actually learned a lot just from the first episode: don't ever become a businessman unless you can deal with people stabbing you in the back when things turn sour, steer clear of HR managers, and never underestimate the public's appetite for rotten fruits.
If Johnny Cash were alive, he'd be 74 years old today. I didn't know this when I went to see Walk the Line yesterday. I had intended to buy one of his CDs today but I never made it past the Portuguese cafe near Budgens supermarket. Kevin and I sat at the back of the cafe, underneath the television broadcasting the latest CNN hysteria; we talked about the film script he's writing with Mark, and the cult surrounding the book Story. My creative writing teacher from last year swore by this book. I also remembered a novel written by one of Kevin's creative writing teachers in Concordia, Gail Scott, which now seems to me a precient piece on the whole blogging phenomenon. I read that book twice but I know plenty of people who hated it and couldn't get past the first couple of pages. It was called My Paris.
After our cappucinos were done, we had to leave: the woman beside us was smoking up a storm and interfering with my throat. She was also reading some kind of Palestinian resistance pamphlet and giving me the heebie jeebies.
I'm making brasilian rice and beans for dinner tonight. I'm using for the first time the pressure cooker my mom gave me two years ago. Let's hope I don't blow up the kitchen.
Early afternoon, Kevin and I watched the first episode of the British version of The Apprentice. The premise is genius: pick people with loads of business experience and big egos then put them to do small things like sell fruits at the local market. I actually learned a lot just from the first episode: don't ever become a businessman unless you can deal with people stabbing you in the back when things turn sour, steer clear of HR managers, and never underestimate the public's appetite for rotten fruits.
If Johnny Cash were alive, he'd be 74 years old today. I didn't know this when I went to see Walk the Line yesterday. I had intended to buy one of his CDs today but I never made it past the Portuguese cafe near Budgens supermarket. Kevin and I sat at the back of the cafe, underneath the television broadcasting the latest CNN hysteria; we talked about the film script he's writing with Mark, and the cult surrounding the book Story. My creative writing teacher from last year swore by this book. I also remembered a novel written by one of Kevin's creative writing teachers in Concordia, Gail Scott, which now seems to me a precient piece on the whole blogging phenomenon. I read that book twice but I know plenty of people who hated it and couldn't get past the first couple of pages. It was called My Paris.
After our cappucinos were done, we had to leave: the woman beside us was smoking up a storm and interfering with my throat. She was also reading some kind of Palestinian resistance pamphlet and giving me the heebie jeebies.
I'm making brasilian rice and beans for dinner tonight. I'm using for the first time the pressure cooker my mom gave me two years ago. Let's hope I don't blow up the kitchen.
