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the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-eight years and a million words

Vancouver, 2002.08.28

I met with my former Trimark colleague Scott Nelson last night at a pub in Yaletown. After his fiancee caught up with us we headed to a swish hotel in the city center where Lesley Wheldrake (another former Trimarkite and hostess of the occasional very good party) was drinking with some women from her current gig. We finished off the already-depleted minibar.

It was the first time in at least four years that I'd seen Lesley. I guess, now that I'm heading back to T/O, that it won't be another four years. Somehow, I never realized that working at a mutual fund company was going to turn into a lifetime association.

Also, I noticed a girl on the beach today as I was heading downtown who had made herself something like bikini bottoms from a pair of jeans. It's startling what denim can be made to do when you've set your heart to it; they were so tight I'm not sure how she could stand, let alone walk.

rand()m quote

Remove everything that has no relevance to the story. If you say in the first chapter that there is a rifle hanging on the wall, in the second or third chapter it absolutely must go off. If it's not going to be fired, it shouldn't be hanging there.

—Anton Chekhov