Tag Archives: Harvey’s

On death, Harvey’s, beef and tomato stew, and a pigeon.

Outside of Harvey’s on the Queensway, a favourite resort-like destination for us when we have access to a car, the Beast turned to me and said, “Doesn’t this feel like the kind of slightly rundown place where a business man would come into after a long day at work to order a burger? And in the movie version, he’d be at the wrong place at the wrong time and there’d be some kind of armed robbery?”


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Odd in Ottawa

I remember one of the last things the Beast told me the night before I left for Ottawa to attend a workshop on how to tell better stories using sound and images.  I had just gotten home from work and flopped myself down on the bed with my pants around my ankles, too weak to pull them all the way off in order to get into my joggers. I said something about being frustrated with this post-TIFF 10 lb. I need to lose.  And he said, “Well, can I tell you a fucking way to drop a quick five lb.?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Try getting rid of all that,” he said, motioning in a circular fashion down there.

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