Bloorp.

In honour of my upcoming adventure north of Finch Street with Andrew today, I bring you this story of my last trip to a particular special place.

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Once upon a time, Matt and I went to Pacific Mall. My cousins were visiting from Ohio and they wanted to go shopping to this supposedly largest indoor Asian mall in North America.

In the car, I shared my excitement about perusing the shops in search of Engrish, which in recent years, has become an unusual hobby that brings me unexplainable glee. Something else that falls into the Emily Claire’s Favourite Things category is playing a game of trying to find as many examples of Asian stereotypes as possible.

“Be on the lookout for spiky-haired Asian dudes drinking bubble tea and playing Dance Dance Revolution in the arcade,” I advised, just assuming there would be an arcade (I might add that it had been years since I’d visited P-Mall). “You know, they’re the guys who buy the home version and practice their moves in the safety of their parents’ basement and then go to arcades to show off their so-called skills in public.”

I was kidding. Sort of. I thought the DDR-Asian boy craze seemed to hit its peak a while ago.

We all split up once we got there, and it wasn’t long before I got in trouble for taking photos, so I reluctantly shoved my camera back into my bag.

Dejected, I immediately perked up when we came across an arcade. I pumped my fist in the air out of sheer anticipation. I insisted that we go inside to determine the accuracy of my earlier predictions. But nothing prepared me for what lay before my eyes.

What did we see?

Exactly the scenario I had jokingly described earlier: a group of young, spiky-haired Asian dudes playing Dance Dance Revolution. And the ones who were taking a break? They were quenching their thirst with—what else?—bubble tea.

When exaggeration evolves into truth, what more can you ask for? Happily ever after, indeed.

Walking to work one morning, I noticed that several people in the vicinity were staring at the southeast corner of the upcoming intersection and—could it be?—smiling to themselves.

Wondering what was turning so many heads, I sped up just a little and my eyes curiously scanned the area.

And randomnly nestled among some nearby tree branches, there sat what was unmistakably the source of their amusement:

The DangerCats — in addition to always coming in just shy of the top-tier playoffs — are known for their game recaps, also known as DangerMails. And in honour of the upcoming inaugural game of 2009, I’ve decided to post the DangerMail I wrote last season after a particularly awesome win.

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DISCLAIMER: When I harassed Evan this morning about who was going to write this week’s post-game e-mail, he suggested I do it because I’m a writer. After fact-checking some details with him (in true journalistic style), I bring you my very first DangerMail.

By E-Claire Afantastic

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact reasons why the DangerCats kicked all kinds of ass last night. Maybe because it was such a beautiful night for ball at McCleary Park, which runs parallel to the bustling Lake Shore Blvd. and sits in the tall shadow of a looming phallic smokestack. Maybe because Kym brought a potato sack-sized bag of peanuts that gave us an extra protein boost. Or maybe because an e-mail from the league captain about drinking at games just wouldn’t stop us from hiding “cold tea” in some very inconspicuous paper cups under the guise of coffee.

Or maybe it’s because Cineplex just plain sucked. But really, that’s not to say the ‘Cats were good because they were bad. I’m no softball expert, but I know good playing when I see it and even though this write-up may seem biased because it’s written by a girl, I have to say: The power of the DangerKittens should never be underestimated.

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It was 1:38 p.m. last Friday when Jeanne and I emerged onto the streets of Toronto from her apartment where I’d spent the night. We half-stumbled down the sidewalks of melted snow, having just rolled out of bed five minutes before.

“It’s so pretty today,” I remarked, briefly closing my eyes and drinking in the sunshine.

She nodded and I smiled, unable to get over the change in the weather. I’d forgotten how pretty change can be. That’s when I noticed just how hot I was getting in my winter coat and that Jeanne wasn’t even wearing one.

I wish I had my leather jacket.

My cousin and I had been on a Europe school trip, and we were sauntering down the streets of Rome when we decided we both wanted a leather jacket—she wanted red, I wanted beige.

There was no shortage of leather jackets in Italy, so it should have been easy. I’m generally not so picky, but I was having a hard time finding the jacket, which struck me as odd—I’d have thought Kris would have more difficulty getting a red one, but she spotted one almost right away. Where was mine?

Approximately five minutes before we had to return to our group, I found it in a small boutique tucked away on a dim side street.

“That’s it,” I said to Kris, grinning. “That’s the one.”

After four hours of searching, it was mine. I had my beige leather jacket.

Two years have gone by since that night in Rome and I still have it. From a distance, it looks like it’s in fairly decent condition. But if you look closer, you can already see how it’s aged. It’s worn, but not tattered. It still fits, it’s still wearable. It’s old, but it’s comfortable and I refuse to part with it. Why wouldn’t I keep it? Because it doesn’t look as good as it once did?

Regardless of the condition, I’ll keep it until it falls apart in ragged pieces and even then, those pieces will still be mine because they’ll once be the leather jacket I had refused to let go.

Yes, it was pretty, wasn’t it?

And while traces of the day’s prettiness were replaced by another prettiness in the form of soft, endless snowflakes the very next day, the sudden change still made me smile.

I’ll wear my leather jacket soon enough.

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Originally written March 3, 2003, with edits. And for the record, that leather jacket turned nine years old this past spring. It’s more tattered than ever—but it hides most of its flaws so well—and I was thrilled to pull it out of the closet when the warmer weather beckoned. It’s perfect just the way it is.

No one should go through life without being locked in a bathroom at least once.

I turned the lock above the doorknob right to left and left to right, simply staring at the door and asking it quietly, “So, are you going to open anytime soon?” It responded by remaining annoyingly closed.

Then I heard a voice on the other side of the door spoke, “Uh, sorry, I have to go, I think my friend’s stuck in the bathroom…”

“Nikki…” I called out through the door.

This was my first time at Nikki’s. And now I was locked in her bathroom.

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