Bloorp.

There are many things wrong with this picture, all of which have to do with the existence of the product strategically blocking my wide-eyed face.

I brought these back for my friend Andrew as a gag gift when I was in Cape Cod earlier this month because, come on, they’re bacon gumballs.

I also had the (mis)fortune of being present when he unwrapped the plastic, at which point the repugnant odor of factory-manufactured fake bacon launched an unforgiving assault on my olfactory sense.

Daring to hold the tin this close to my nose was nothing compared to what happened when Andrew flipped up the lid to reveal a group of not-so-innocent little red gumballs.

Eau de bacon was increasing in offensiveness — even for a pair of carnivores like us. Then came the first bite, unleashing the full flow of foul flavour on my remaining taste buds, each chew more onerous than the next, driving every last drop of industralized bacon juice deeper, enhancing the bad bacon bang.

Andrew then shut the tin, slipped it into his bag and spoke of ways to foist them on unsuspecting friends and “friends.”

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But you already knew that.

This is what happens when you have a softball game after work, you’re rushing to leave your house in the morning and your black cleats are sitting right next to your black runners in a slight disarray so you grab them in a hurry and head for the office and just as 5 p.m. approaches, you eagerly start changing into your softball gear because you’ve been itching to redeem yourself on the field from your embarrassing black eye(lid) incident during the pre-season practice session, and as you’re pulling out your footwear, you discover to your absolute horror that you really, really should have taken two extra seconds that morning to make sure you were bringing the right shoes:

Well. At least I had the unintentional foresight to bring a left and right shoe. I ended up playing like this — ignoring the guffaws and good-natured claps on the back from my fellow players — and helped lead the team to our worst loss of the season.

Go, DangerCats! And, um, go me?

I’ll never underestimate one person’s power to move the world — or 40,000 baseball fans at Fenway Park.

It was about two weeks ago when I was in Boston, Massachusetts with Matt and some friends and we were on a mission to catch a Red Sox game. We scored a six-pack of tickets from a shady scalper at US$60 a pop, grabbed a few Fenway Franks once we walked through the turnstile, and emerged into The Triangle where thousands of hardcore fans had already settled in for the evening.

Doing as the Romans do, as the saying roughly goes, is my favourite part of travel. And when you’re in the same city as the oldest current Major League Baseball stadium with a sold-out game almost every night, how can you not want a taste of the all-American sporting experience?

Dark clouds rolled over downtown Boston as the night progressed, bringing a slow misty drizzle. In defiance of the impending rain, or perhaps through sheer balls and slight inebriation, a dude in the row directly behind us stood up with his beer in one hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he bellowed. “Would you like to start the wave?!”

His friends and those within earshot snickered. Then another guy decked out in Red Sox merch about 10 rows back took a stand, leaped to his feet and pointed at The Wave Man in approval, hollering, “YEAH!!! YEAH! LET’S DO IT!”

He needed no further encouragement. “On the count of three!” He thrust an arm above his head and three fingers. “One…two…THREE!”

Some bodies and hands rose, but the wave hardly made a ripple. A few chuckles followed, but The Wave Man was undaunted by the less than enthusiastic first response. “One…two…THREE!”

…and he persisted, and I stared in awe at the increasing number of curious participants with each effort, and more and more rows joined in, followed by a growing number of sections…

Until the seventh or eight attempt, when The Wave Man cried “…THREE!” and my eyes widened at the flailing limbs bursting into the air, accompanied by a deafening roar of cheers as this tsunami stormed clockwise throughout historic Fenway Park.

The wave circled back to our section and I found myself laughing and cheering through a second round…and a third…and a fourth before it finally came to a rest.

Satisfied, The Wave Man finally took his seat, receiving pats on the back and high-fives from his buddies. I turned around discreetly and caught a quick glimpse of his face underneath the brim of his white baseball cap — he was beaming.

A grin spread across my own face. If I was him, I’d be feeling pretty damn good about myself, too.

Is it an exaggeration that one person can move mountains? Perhaps. But give a man Fenway Park and 40,000 sports fans — and maybe it’s not so hard to imagine after all.

Would you believe that search engines account for 5% of traffic sources to this silly little blog? I myself have difficulty believing that any search results could possibly bring people here. So as a standalone figure, that’d be interesting in itself to me…if it wasn’t completely overshadowed by the fact that the word “pornishness” comprised 20% (read: a single instance) of the keywords plugged into search engines.

In short: Someone ran a search for “pornishness” and ended up on this blog. Never mind that “pornishness” isn’t even a real word, the word porn doesn’t even appear here!

Well, okay, I guess now it does. The closest I’ve gotten was with this post and while it could conceivably be translated in pornish ways, there was no actual mention of porn.

So when I made this discovery, I naturally Googled “pornishness” to see what I’d get. I scanned the first five pages of results before giving up and concluding that the person who performed the original search must have been relentlessly specific. To end up on this blog in the first place via a search engine for pornishness when there’s no pornishness to be had here must have been quite the undertaking. In fact, I almost wish I had seen it take place. Almost.

Now that all paragraphs in this post thus far contain the word “porn” in some form, I can’t even begin to imagine the unlikely potential of dramatic single-digit traffic increases to Bloorp through searches for porn.

And don’t get me started on the possibilities of other bizarre keywords that may bring someone to my little online den of oddities. I’d rather just be surprised—it’s a lot more fun that way.

It was a usual boring two-hour Canadian politics class in December 2003 and during the ten minute break, Barry and I were engaged in a heated debate: who would win in a fight—me or him?

I kept insisting I’d emerge victorious, while he was so sure he would win. I don’t even know how the conversation got started, although it very likely began when Barry wouldn’t let me help him with the daily crossword, and I said I’d kick his ass if he didn’t give it to me.

We decided to bring in a third party. Rather, I decided to bring in a third party. I leaned over Barry to get Jason’s attention.

“Jay,” I said. “Who would win in fight? Me or Barry?”

Barry jumped in. “Me!”

“No, ME!”

A mischivous grin spread across Jay’s face and he said, “Why don’t we find out?”

Barry started chanting, “Cage of death! Cage of death!” while pumping his fist in the air.

I should have been listening more closely when he said that, but my focus was momentarily diverted and therefore, my hearing was temporarily impaired.

“What?!” I blurted out, snapping back to attention and leaning in closer to Barry and Jason to make sure I had heard right, which (as you’ll soon find out) I didn’t. “What’d you say, Barry? ASIAN DEATH?”*

They just about killed themselves laughing, and I was more amused than embarassed. I suppose if you wanted to be rational, chanting “Cage of death! Cage of death!” makes more sense than chanting “Asian death! Asian death!”

*No Asians were harmed or offended in the writing of this entry.

Big, big, big. That seemed to be the general running theme during my trip to Michigan in September 2006, even with their portable toilets. Or maybe that’s the running theme in general? Regardless, those massive American portable toilets could definitely kick the nonexistent asses out of wussy Canadian portable toilets. Brandy asked me to take some pictures and it wasn’t until I made my way to the area and started snapping away that I realized how creepy it must have seemed for me to look as if I was photographing people after they’ve finished doing their business.

But no one said anything and at least one man thought it was funny. He decided he wanted to be in one of my photos, smiling broadly in a way that was creepier than me taking the pictures in the first place.

Right after the flash went off, he nodded at me and shut the door. I thought he was just going for the full effect, but no….no, he was definitely going to pee. When you gotta go, you gotta go, right? I left immediately thereafter.

The memories of my last trip south of the border include me accidentally smashing my head on a hand dryer nozzle in a Burger King public restroom, my godbrother from New Jersey re-discovering a taco in his pocket five hours later—and then eating it—and Scandinavian waffles topped with cloudberries (cloudberries!) from a cozy little cafe near Wall Street.

But Michigan…Michigan was different. In a good way. We didn’t even get to Detroit, instead being confined to Auburn Hills and Pontiac. Everyone was making a big deal about me and Brandy—soon dubbed Captain Blonde and The Hug Stand—being sent to the US because they thought a) we’d bring down the city, b) we’d end up partying the whole time and c) we’d get shot.

We rode what our new friend Sam appropriately dubbed The Porn Bus To Motown, which the wonderful bus driver Jerry later told us once belonged to a former NASCAR driver. Green leather couches, mirror-panelled walls and satellite television…the pornishness was clearly felt all around. Except for the presence of actual porn.

And it was in Michigan where I made the discovery of a restaurant that serves a 1lb Oh My God Burger. Don’t believe me?

I spoke with the restaurant’s manager who, after some brief confusion with my curious fascination, allowed me to come around to snap a close-up shot.

I then asked the manager if he’d be in the photo, so I asked the nearest chef to play photographer. I handed him my camera and, in an unexpected exchange, he handed me a pair of sticky, barbecue sauce-stained tongs, insisting that I had to pretend to flip the burger. We took a few shots because the manager didn’t like the way he looked in any of them—even though he looked the same in every shot.

—

Originally written September 2006, with edits. Brandy and I ended up splitting the meat monster because there was no way in hell that either of us would have been able to polish one off on our own. So why did we eat it? Well, when you come across something called a 1 lb Oh My God Burger, how can you not go for it?

I’m off to Boston and Cape Cod for the rest of the week and for no real reason other than the fact that I’ll be visiting the US again, this random trip to Michigan swam to mind. And as luck would prove, those weren’t the only random snapshots to come out of that trip…

When Charlie thrust her bare breasts into my face as she pouted that I kept looking away, two very clear thoughts popped into my head.

One, I’d never been more sure of my heterosexuality, and two, this was a birthday I wouldn’t soon forget.

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My friend Christina used to have an obscenely messy roommate. One day, she was so fed up with having to constantly clean up after her and take out her garbage and the recycling that she decided she wouldn’t do it anymore so her roomie would get the hint.

So the garbage and the recycling, which stood side-by-side, kept piling up higher…and higher…

“Until there was so much fucking garbage and recycling that a bridge formed between them!” recalls Christina.

Was she exaggerating? No. How do I know? Because she provided me with some highly convincing photographic evidence:

The flyer with “BEAUTY” emblazoned across the top in all its red, capitalized glory slumped sadly beneath the bridge of refuse is my favourite part.