November 4, 1998.

What with line transfers, lackadaisical scheduling and general ickyness, it's just taken me 50 minutes to "ride the rocket" home from class. If I had walked, I could've done it in a little over a half an hour. The better way, my ass.

My spirits were greatly cheered by the streetcar passengers, however. On the way in tonight, a small Portuguese girl began to talk to me about her medicine & her brother's loose tooth and various other things. She was one of those energetic-and-happy-without-being-hyper children that renews my faith in...stuff, I guess. Just stuff. On the way back, I rode silently with a small Scottish man who had both a Remembrance Day poppy and a medal stripe pinned to his jacket. I was mightily impressed...although my grandmother was crowned Miss Warworker one year, none of my relatives went abroad to fight. At least, none that I know about, but my family is rife with secrets. Not as many as the House of Usher, but a lot more than the Cleavers.

(My grandfather did cut hair for Mussolini, but I hardly think that counts. You don't see much action as an army barber, and certainly not enough to get a medal.)

So. Last night Cody, Trevor & myself went to see Last Night, Don McKellar's directorial debut. I've been salivating about this movie ever since I learned that Callum Keith Rennie has a bare-ass shot in the film, and I think, though I cannot confirm, that Cody was drawn to this film because of Sandra Oh. Who is, by the way, the most physically perfect woman I have ever seen. She's utterly exquisite. I thought she was pretty in Double Happiness, but I didn't get the full force until this movie: when her face is screwed up into the most pathetic expression imaginable, holding out a gun to Don McKellar and begging him to shoot her so she'll not break the suicide pact with her unreachable husband.

"I'll kill you, too."

Erm. Okay. What I'm trying to say is that it was a good movie. Quiet & slow-paced, as most Canadian films are. Full of Canadian actors (i.e. the ubiquitous David Cronenberg). Beautifully shot. A joke you'll only get if you studied French in school. The aforementioned bare-ass shot (strangely disappointing...he's a built like a rectangle, no Donatello curves.) If you're into snob appeal, it won the Prix Jeunesse at Cannes. I recommend it.

Trevor, however, was ecstatic. We sparred about the ending in the subway station until I grew weary of the topic (not a bad fight, a good fight). He had put on a Neitzsche presentation earlier in the day; this seemed to light a fire in his head & replenish the nervous energy he'd been exuding by the megawatt. I was glad to see it...academic stress is so ubiquitous here, and it's only going to get worse. Nice to see it dissipated, especially from him.

Got my Greek Drama paper back today. Apparently they didn't penalize me too harshly for mixing up to founding city myths like the fluffbrain I am. Considering that I didn't include a bibliography (d'oh!), I think I came off well. Boy, was I mad at myself for that...I'm a 4th year English major! I should be spanked (it's kinkier than you think. Have I mentioned that my Classics professor is a nun?)

one year ago today: rhapsodizing about UC