Bloorp.

I, uh…think I’ll have syrup instead. (Photo and...

Sat, 19 Dec 2009 16:17:52 -0500

I, uh…think I’ll have syrup instead. (Photo and caption via reddit.)

If that was my honey bear container, I’d keep it forever and ever.

"I want that to be what kills me."

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 07:56:00 -0500

“I want that to be what kills me.”

- My buddy Pete’s reaction to The Double Coronary Burger via thisiswhyyourefat:

A burger topped with five slices of bacon, four slices of cheese, two fried eggs, mayo, lettuce, tomato, and onion between two grilled cheese sandwiches.

A sandwich that’s sandwiched between two sandwiches. What more need be said?

The air up there

Thu, 17 Dec 2009 08:24:00 -0500

MM is probably one of my most unapologetic, candid friends, especially when it comes to the female persuasion. So when he mentioned that he had paid a visit to swingers joint Club Wicked, and in particular its upstairs, members-only Shlomo’s Penthouse, I was completely unfazed.

Well. Unfazed in the sense that he brought a date there. But I’d never talked to anyone who’d been to a sex club before, and as is always the case when I talk to someone about something unfamiliar, I unleashed a stream of endless questions.

“How much were drinks?” (Expensive. Go figure.)

“What were the people like?” (All very attractive, apparently. It seems no uglies are allowed in Shlomo’s Penthouse.)

“Do people use condoms?” (Yes, they have them scattered around the penthouse.)

“How are condoms distributed?” (They’re served like chips in a chip bowl by the bedsides.)

“There are beds?” (Yes, including one giant bed for orgies, and a hot tub.)

“And people have sex in the hot tub?!” (No, no sex allowed in the hot tub. Common courtesy to others, you know.)

“Was the penthouse…dirty?” (Not at all. In fact, it was quite clean.)

Enquiries about hygiene naturally led me to the next question—and a very valid one, I might add—which was soon to be my last on the topic.

“What was the ventilation system like?”

MM and the others were already making fun of my interrogating, and that last question put them over the top so I didn’t get a chance to ask any more. That’s because I was constantly on the defense as my ventilation query was repeatedly thrown back in my face, much to everyone’s amusement.

I don’t care what anyone says. Sweaty bodies of sweaty strangers + booze + beds/hot tub/sex swing + copious amounts of sex = potential for generating a fair amount of body heat and nasty B.O.

Let’s just say the phrase, “It’s a valid question!” became my automatic response for the rest of the evening. Jerks.

Supper of champions! My cousin’s winning second-last plate...

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 13:44:00 -0500

Supper of champions! My cousin’s winning second-last plate at the sub-par Starwalk Buffet from this past spring. Most notable is the steak and Jell-O combination. Honourable mentions go to the piece of sushi and what appears to be a slice of crème caramel propping up the steak at a presentable angle.

You always remember your second time

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 08:08:00 -0500

Some things never change when you go clubbing: There will always be the creepy, rotund old dudes trying to make themselves at home in your personal space and there will always be the leering younger dudes wanting you in their personal space. But if you find yourself at El Convento Rico in Toronto, throw some drag queens in the mix and it will definitely be a night to remember.

It would seem appropriate that my first time at this club was this past Halloween. I’d heard much about it and was undeniably curious to see it for myself. And it just so happened that Rico had the shortest line that night, making it a prime spot for us to spend the evening.

Heading downstairs in last year’s Cleopatra costume flanked by a witch and the Dick in a Box duo among others, I was immediately swallowed by the done-up, flamboyant crowd. Of couse, October 31 falling on a Saturday this year only helped pump up the party atmosphere and my eyes were dancing across the room as quickly as some people’s hips were shimmying to the Latin beats.

Alas, when midnight struck for the nightly drag queen show, the throngs of people were so thick that I couldn’t see through them. If I craned my neck enough, I was able to catch glimpses of extremely theatrical costumes above everyone’s heads. I gave up after a while and consented to feeding off the energy from the lip synching, the thumping beats, the raucous cheers. But not much else happened that night to make it close to a memorable evening.

Little did I know I’d be back not more than a month later for—what else?—a bachelorette party.

Johanna’s getting married in Cartagena, Colombia in less than four weeks (!!!) and a bunch of us will be there to share in her and Anthony’s big day. So her bridesmaids pulled out typical bachelorette party staples: cupcakes with penis-shaped sprinkles, the pink penis-shaped bowls filled with sour keys and Skittles, and chocolate-dipped strawberries (the only penis-free fare that night). What better place to serve them than at a drag queen club?

This time, as the show was getting underway, we scored front row seats—and boy, do they know how to entertain a crowd! I enjoyed the show, but I have to say one of my favourite parts of the night had nothing to do with any of the performances.

Someone had spilled their drink on the ground and a liquid trail was trickling through the centre of the stage. So while one of the dancers was engaging the crowd on one side of the room, a staff member was dutifully, but swiftly, mopping up the mess (below left), then he managed to get out of the way with no interference. It all happened so quickly that I remember it as the blur that this photo has become.

You know what you need to complete your evening? A ridiculously...

Thu, 10 Dec 2009 23:31:00 -0500

You know what you need to complete your evening? A ridiculously out-of-focus shot of the gingerbread house that three other girls and I put together on our lunch break. Our project drew several curious stares from our officemates who were chowing down on their midday meals around us.

Some would even go so far as to pipe up rhetorically, “…are you guys building a gingerbread house?” although the tone in their voices implied that they really meant to ask, “…are you guys actually building a gingerbread house?!”

The lack of focus in the above photo may or may not reveal the seriousness with which we completed our fun little project. Or that I just having trouble admitting I took a bad photo, but was so excited about building my first gingerbread house (I know, I know, me of all people) that the blurry image doesn’t even matter.

What does matter is that I built a gingerbread house with three lovely girls who were just as happy as I was to get sticky, icing-coated fingers and get into the festive spirit of my favourite holiday.

In the company of Charlie: Part II

Mon, 07 Dec 2009 23:04:31 -0500

He may be benign and who the hell knows if he actually exists, but Charlie the ghost can still scare the crap out of me.

A few entries ago, I mentioned my “dealings” with Charlie, concluding with “But if the day ever comes when Charlie finds a way to say hi back to me, then I think I’ll be allowed to be scared.”

It was déjà vu—another slow news day in the summer of 2004, and I was once again scheduled to work the late shift. I had also made the mistake of not-so-subtly revealing to the editorial team that the idea of a newsroom ghost had me on edge.

So it was no surprise that Joe, who had informed me of Charlie’s supposed existence, was getting a kick out of taunting me. “I’m going to come back later tonight and call you, or knock on the door to scare you!”

“Sure you will, Joe. It’s because I know you’re like that.”

And as soon as I let those words escape my lips, I wasn’t sure why. Joe wasn’t like that at all. He wouldn’t waste his time on a silly prank. Right?

One by one, the reporters and editors filtered out of the office. I had already parked my car in the front lot so I could make a quick escape from the building as soon as the clock struck 10 p.m. The minutes agonizingly ticked by and there was no Steve or Declan to relieve my loneliness this time. I busied myself and the next time I glanced at the clock, it was time to go. I bolted.

A few quick strides and I was at the front door in seconds. Avoiding any backwards glances at the dark halls, I concentrated on the door and getting through it. With a bit more urgency in my steps than I’d like to admit, I was outside and within reach of my car. I yanked on the handle, clambered into the driver’s seat, immediately flipped the locks shut and revved the engine. Then I breathed, since I’d forgotten to do so in my hasty and overly dramatic exit.

As I reversed out of the parking space, something unexplainable compelled me to look back at the building, back at the window into the reception area. What I saw in that window nearly made my heart stop—this…this figure. A still, black silhouette.

My eyes widened. My pace quickened. I wanted to tear my eyes away, but I was frozen. The figure’s head appeared to cock from side to side, as if studying my paranoid reaction. I DON’T CARE!, my mind screamed. GET ME OUT OF HERE!

Then I remembered I was the one behind the wheel. Tearing my fearful gaze away from the window, I sped out of the parking lot as fast as stupidly possible, not daring to look back this time. My heart rate remained erratic for the rest of the night.

I marched right up behind Joe in his cubicle the next morning, unimpressed. “Very funny, Joe. VERY FUNNY.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Coming back here last night to stand in the window and scare me. That was a reeeeeal nice touch, Joe.”

He stared blankly. “What do you mean? That wasn’t me.”

I stared back at him, in silence. I blinked. “Yes, it was,” I said in a voice as small as I was beginning to feel.

“No, Emily, I didn’t come back. That wasn’t me.”

No crack of a smile. No michievous glint in his eyes. He was telling the truth. “That…wasn’t you.”

“No.”

“Well, shit.” I paused. “Then who was it??”

Joe shrugged. He really had no idea. So I left him alone, going around the newsroom suspiciously accusing everyone like a gruff detective in a tweed coat with a pipe between my lips.

Dave thought I was being ridiculous. He said I probably set off some sensors which alerted a security guard, who was probably just checking to see that nothing incriminating was happening.

So that was it. I was assured it was nothing more than that, or a mere figment of my imagination. Still. I hadn’t seen anyone or heard anyone before I exited the building and it really wasn’t that long from the moment I left to when I got in my car. Something was amiss. But I decided to rest my case and return to my desk.

You win this round, Charlie.

Click: Vanishing act

Thu, 26 Nov 2009 08:23:00 -0500

Click: Vanishing act:

Receiving physical mail and packages—whether at home or at work—always gives me a little thrill, and my monthly issue of Wired is no exception.

I was particularly enthralled when I caught a glimpse of the cover story, which detailed writer Evan Ratliff’s amazing adventure/game/experiment of how to disappear and start a new identity in the digital age. He wrote a fantastic feature in the September issue on how and why others have made the attempt, also announcing that he would attempt to do just that—vanish. And to up the stakes, offered US$5,000 to the person who could track him down.

I can’t begin to describe how fascinating this story is, both from a reader’s and fellow journalist’s perspective—and an e-mail that Ratliff received from someone who’d been following his pursuit asked the perfect questions: “I want to know firsthand from you, what is it like disappearing? How does it feel? Are you lonely? Do you miss life? Is it liberating to be free from everything?”

Right down to the dedication of some hardcore hunters to Ratliff coping with his constant paranoia until the final moment, this story is a must-read.

Charts like this make me happy in the nerdiest of ways. (via...

Wed, 25 Nov 2009 08:15:54 -0500

Charts like this make me happy in the nerdiest of ways. (via reddit)

Eating words

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 08:07:00 -0500

“There are two kinds of information,” stated prolific Canadian journalist Ian Brown at a panel earlier this month on food writing. “The information you know you need to know to live, and the information you didn’t know you wanted to know.”

I was transported to my magazine reporting class three years ago, which was the first and only time I had seen and heard this man speak. Maybe he’d actually imparted that sage bit of advice on that stressed group of journalism students, but my memory was no help on that front.

Were the Emily-esque Excited Lines radiating from my head, the way they do for excited comic book or anime characters? Probably. I could feel them. Because right there, Ian Brown had unintentionally described my favourite method for finding the unusual and quirky stories for which I was known in j-school.

And there’s one thing all four panelists have in common that made my heart: Brown, The Atlantic’s Corby Kummer, Canuck writer Margaret Webb, and Australian food writer Michael Symons all have journalism backgrounds, whose trained reporting abilities have been put to good use in their food writing.

That was about the time when their voices faded out ever so slightly and all sorts of lofty dreams began to drown them out. Combining my love of food and writing? It was definitely not a new thought and one I’ve explored a bit in this blog. Still, it was heartening to hear that the journalistic skills I’ve been refining over the years are so applicable to any good writing.

It’s strange to me that some writers don’t think of their readers. I’d be a dirty liar if I said Bloorp was just for myself. I wouldn’t post for the internets to see if I wasn’t hoping that others might be the slightest bit interested in sneaking a peek at my world.

Brown’s words “Write about the stuff you’re interested in, not the stuff you think you should be interested in” stil resonate because they’re also part of my own philosophy. And to have that reinforced set thrills in motion as I let my mind wander, thinking about the exotic and drool-worthy eats waiting for my tastebuds to discover them and how others who don’t quite grasp the pleasures of food should perhaps consider a second helping.

"I didn’t know candy canes were chewy."

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 23:59:00 -0500

“I didn’t know candy canes were chewy.”

- My cousin Patrick after raiding the candy jar of unfathomably old sweets in my parents’ basement at Christmas one year, knowing full well that no one can remember how long they’ve been decaying in said jar.

Somebody Rescue Me!!! (via cavaz) If this was on Cute...

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 23:42:00 -0500

Somebody Rescue Me!!! (via cavaz)

If this was on Cute Overload—which it may very well be and I’ve somehow missed it—it would definitely fall under the Cute or Sad? category.

Though not quite to this extent, it would not be unreasonable to...

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 23:17:00 -0500

Though not quite to this extent, it would not be unreasonable to say the comic above is sometimes an accurate representation of me and Matt, interchangeably. That’s my fault for getting him The Orange Box and my fault for finding an excuse to own a Wii, DS, 360, PS2 and loaner PS3. It’s just too bad that we can’t play nicely together, the way a good couple should. (via thedailywhat)

Overcasting

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 20:31:00 -0500

On the night of November 2, 2005, Richard Adjei hopped on a subway train in downtown Toronto. Slung over his shoulder was his faded black canvas bag on a thick black drawstring. No one ever really knew what was in it, but everyone was sure of one thing: his trumpet was almost always there.

After his college classes finished, Richard was on his way to music practice with the Royal Regiment Band of Canada. He had been a member for a handful of years, and had his high school music teacher, Nathan Haynes, to thank for the recommendation to the military band.

Richard was last seen on a platform at Osgoode subway station by two strangers: one on the subway platform and the driver of the subway train pulling into the station the way he would on any other night.

But there was no way the driver would have known what Richard was thinking or what Richard was going to do.

As the train sped through the tunnel, 22-year-old Richard Adjei consciously set down his bag and jumped in the train’s path.

On the platform, on a nearby bench, lay his canvas bag, his trumpet inside.

Late on Friday, November 4, Richard’s friends were calling each other in a panic with terrible, unconfirmed rumours about something impossible. They tried his cell phone—it was out of service.

Early morning on Saturday, November 5, his friends were still trying to piece together what happened and no one wanted to call his family to find out the truth.

At 11 a.m., I dialed Richard’s home number and his father picked up. He asked, “Who is this? Who is this?” I told him I was a friend of Richard’s from high school and I’d played in the school band with him and Mr. Haynes and he said, “Hang on,” and I waited to hear Richard come to the phone.

But instead, I heard his mom and she asked, “Who is this? Who is this?” And when I asked for Richard again, she abruptly began sobbing and my heart lodged in my throat.

She managed to choke out, “Richard’s dead.” She couldn’t speak through her cries. A soft click on the other end of the phone ended the call.

For students at Richard’s high school, he was “that quiet guy” or “the guy with a British accent.” Passing him in the school hallways, he’d smile a little smile and if you were lucky, he’d give a little salute and call your name—your last name. It was never “Emily,” it was always “Ms. Afan.”

Mostly, those who attended the school from 1997 to 2002 knew Richard as The Trumpet Guy. As a member of the school band, Richard was immediately recognized as the guy who stood alone in front of the entire student body every Remembrance Day and played a bugle call on his trumpet. That solo bugle call is played around the world and is called “The Last Post.”

Knowing that Richard would never again play that song hit Nathan Haynes especially hard. Haynes arrived at the school in the fall of 1998 as the sole music teacher. He and Richard were not just student and teacher, but also friends. When Richard graduated in 2002, he asked Richard to play the trumpet with the Royal Regiment Band of Canada. Haynes soon left for a new school, but continued inviting Richard to play with his new student band.

On the morning of Friday, November 7, a teacher pulled Haynes aside. She had heard the news about Richard through an e-mail from the first school’s chaplain. Haynes had not yet checked his e-mail that day, and the teacher didn’t want him to find out while sitting alone at his office computer.

Haynes was “devastated, simply devastated” recalls the attendance secretary. On his way to the photocopying room that morning, he broke down in tears, eliciting looks from students and teachers who were worried that perhaps something had happened to his pregnant wife and unborn baby.

I am holding up the best that I can, writes Haynes in an e-mail on November 11, Remembrance Day. This has been a really tough week. “The Last Post” was hard to hear this year. I even found it difficult to work with one of my grade ten students who had to play it. I ended up calling him Richard three or four times.

I talked with Richard’s mom (on November 11). That was really hard to do, I just wanted to burst into tears. She wanted to know if Richard could be buried in his military band uniform, if the band could play and if anyone had pictures of Richard in his band uniform. I never realized that he liked playing the band that much, I was really shocked. I’m trying to do whatever I can to make these things happen, but I don’t know if they will be possible. I really hope so though.

The visitation was set for the evening of Friday, November 18 and the funeral for the following morning, two and a half weeks after Richard’s death to allow for family to fly in from the U.S., England and Africa.

A few hours before the visitation, three of Richard’s friends-–Christina, Sandy and I–-visited Haynes at his new school, where we watched videos of past high school concerts. For 15 happy minutes, we laughed and pointed and felt no sense of loss. Reminiscing was the easiest part. There was Richie, with green reindeer antlers on his head from a Christmas concert in 2000. There was Richie, twirling his trumpet in the way that always drove Haynes crazy. There was Richie, wailing away on his trumpet while his fellow bandmates were packing up their sheet music and instruments.

The drive to the funeral home was a quiet one. Christina had begun sniffing quietly in the backseat and tears were streaming down her face as we got out of the car. She shook her head.

“I can’t do this,” she protested weakly. “I can’t go in there, I can’t do this.”

The three of us gripped hands and approached the front doors. We went up one flight of stairs and found the rest of our friends in their black coats and black pants. For many, it was our first funeral and particularly, the first funeral in which we knew the deceased. We did not just come to pay our respects—we came to honour our friend Richard Adjei.

A collage of photographs from happier times was on display. Richie as a young boy in South London, England, wearing his little private school uniform—complete with bow tie—standing next to his older brother, Orson. Richie as an innocent child, his head cocked to the side, his lips curved in a winning grin. Richie as a young man graduating from high school.

Glimpses of a shining white casket at the front of the room flashed above and between the many heads. After several Bible readings and hymns, a line formed in front of the Adjei family, sitting in a row before their beloved nephew, brother and son.

On an easel to one side of the casket was an enlarged photo from Richard’s high school graduation. To the other side was a low table covered with a white cloth, and on that table lay Richard’s trumpet. The sight of the casket caused many tears, but the sight of his trumpet caused many more.

Lyrics from the night’s last hymn, “Farther Along” echoed into the night.

When death has come and taken our loved ones
Leaving our homes so lonely and drear
Then do we wonder how others prosper
Living so wicked year after year
Farther along we’ll know more about it
Farther along we’ll understand why
Cheer up my brother live in the sunshine
We’ll understand it all by and by

When everyone left, Haynes lingered behind to speak with Orson about the funeral the next morning. Orson was twisting his hands and there was something familiar folded between them.

A thick black drawstring hung from his clasped grasp—Richard’s canvas bag.

Many who had come to the previous night’s visitation met again on the morning of Saturday, November 19—much of Richard’s high school graduating class and members of the band who had played with him, some of whom hadn’t seen each other in years. But as Richard’s friends discovered, funerals and death have an unexplainable way of bringing people together in a way that feels oddly natural, despite the circumstances.

The pallbearers arrived, bringing Richard into the room, followed by another man in white gloves carrying Richard’s trumpet. When the casket was firmly set down before the pulpit, the silver instrument was placed atop and stifled sobs resonated through the cavernous room.

Members of the Royal Regiment Band of Canada in full uniform opened the service with a song of mourning. Nathan Haynes and Richard’s girlfriend and trumpet player, Victoria, stood tall and played for their fallen soldier. When Haynes sat down, he removed his glasses and dabbed at his eyes with a tissue, his jaw clenched.

Orson slowly stepped up to the podium to deliver a eulogy, pausing several times to compose himself, then apologizing several times for his pauses. Once, he sputtered, “I can’t do this” but continued to speak. His voice became increasingly shaky and he closed his eulogy abruptly with a quick “thank you” as his eyes met the floor, avoiding the sight of his younger brother’s casket, and he hurriedly retreated to his seat.

The softened grass sunk beneath the feet of those who attended Richard’s interment at the cemetery following the funeral. A brisk wind whipped through the staid oak trees and occasionally, rays of sun broke through the dull, slate clouds.

Standing by the grave, Victoria held her trumpet high. She paused several times and blinked several times before she could play. As soon as the opening notes of “The Last Post” sounded, shoulders shook and sobs carried through the cold air as Richard’s casket was slowly lowered into the ground. It was the final farewel and now it was someone else’s turn to play “The Last Post.”

This time, it was for Richard.

A harsh cry pierced through the gasps and sobs. Lydia Adjei, Richard’s mother, clung to her sisters, her face twisted in anguish, and she screamed, “Richard! Where are you going? Richie, come back! Where are you going, Richie?” over and over, sobbing and not moving.

“Come back, Richard!”

Back at the church, Richard’s friends approached Orson with a gift for the family—a photo album that captured favourite moments with Richard, to show the Adjeis that Richard had friends who loved and cared about him. Touched, Orson hugged each of us and began flipping through the album, laughing and smiling for the first time we had seen him in the last two days.

His aunt stood behind him, looking over his shoulder with tear-stained cheeks and a peaceful smile. I didn’t know her, but I impulsively put my arm around her and hugged her tightly as she hugged back.

“He was an angel, you know?”

“I know.”

“He was God’s angel. They are born unannounced and they leave unannounced.”

I’ve never liked goodbyes. Even though Richard is gone, I still can’t bring myself to say goodbye. I can’t. I won’t.

I’ll see you later, Richie. I’ll see you sometime.

Come home! Come home!

The last post is sounding for you to hear.

All good soldiers know very well

there is nothing to fear while they do what is right,

and forget all the worries they have met

in their duties through the year.

A soldier cannot always be great,

but he can be a gentleman

and he can be a right good pal

to his comrades in his squad.

So all you soldiers listen to this

Deal fair by all and you’ll never be amiss.

Be Brave! Be Just!

Be Honest and True Men!

(Lyrics, “The Last Post”)

R.I.P. Richard Adjei, 1983-2005

In the company of Charlie: Part I

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 20:45:00 -0500

Halloween calls for a true ghost story. Whether or not you believe in ghosts, there’s no denying that some strange occurrences are void of logical explanation. Here is the tale of my close encounter with the ghoulish kind.

I was a staff reporter for my city newspaper in the summer of 2003. When I headed into work, I entered from the rear parking lot. Once you step through the door, you pass through a large, dim storage area. Tiny windows cast beams of opaque light on cardboard boxes, steel shelves and a cardboard cutout of a man and woman decked out in hula gear.

A sliding cage wall separates the storage items on the far side of the room. I know it’s there because they don’t want people going in, but my wild imagination wonders if it’s trying to keep something out. Which is ridiculous because we’d know if something was back there. The interspersed junk behind the cage wall couldn’t possibly provide a decent hiding spot.

Unless there’s no need a hiding spot.

One person in the newsroom will get the 2 to 10 p.m. shift and and I’ll always remember my first time. When rest of the team was leaving for the day, I whined to Dave and Joe about being alone for the rest of the evening—or, at least, until Declan came back from a late all-candidates meeting

“Don’t worry,” said Dave casually. “You’ll have Charlie to keep you company.”

Joe chuckled. I raised an eyebrow.

“Charlie?” I repeated. “Who’s Charlie?”

“Charlie’s ghost,” Dave corrected himself. His casual tone kills me sometimes. “He’s 36 years old, he’s a former employee of this building, and he’s been living in the back storage area for the last three years. Ask Joe, he wrote a story about it.”

Immediately I turned to Joe. Turns out he’d recently interviewed an 80-year-old man who’s spent over $35,000 over the past decade learning how to exorcise ghosts and spirits. When he came to the office to have his picture taken, he was waiting by the reception area at the other end of the building and could still feel a presence.

Joe showed him to the back, and there The Ghost Man discovered Charlie. A benign Charlie.

That was all I needed to know.

Dave soon left and Joe was on his way out. I didn’t like the thought of walking through the back at 10 p.m. to reach my car. But Joe had a brilliant idea—I’d move my car to the front of the building so I wouldn’t have to leave through the back.

We headed through the back together and we stopped when we reached the storage area. Right in front of the cage wall. “Here, let me show you where Charlie lives,” he said. Joe pointed to the far corner of the room, where there was a second cage wall and stacked boxes on shelves below a tiny window. “There, right there.”

I stared at the boxes. “Hi, Charlie,” I called out, waving apprehensively. I don’t think I’d have been so brave if Joe weren’t there.

We turned to head for the door. But something compelled me to turn around and suddenly, a man was standing behind us. I jumped. He gave me a strange look.

“Oh!” I cried, then tried to compose myself when I realized he was one of the distributors. I pointed at the cage. “Hey, um, did you know there’s a ghost back named Charlie?”

He laughed and walked out the exit. I turned to Joe with wide eyes, hissing, “Did you see him coming?!”

“No, I didn’t! It was like he came out of thin air.”

I moved my car, bid Joe a good night and headed back to the newsroom. Alone.

I was afraid of the dark as a kid and slept with a nightlight and my bedroom door wide open. Every little noise would cause me to bury myself deeply under the covers, and I’d shut my eyes to shut out the scary unknown.

But some 20 years later, in a grown-up office with all the lights on, I felt like that little girl more than ever. Being alone in an unfamiliar place with a ghost story didn’t help.

I kept busy, but every clank startled me and I had two hours to go until I could escape. It was shaping up to be the longest two hours of my life.

A miracle happened around 8 p.m. The door opened and relief flooded through me when the managing editor walked in.

“I’m so glad you’re here! I was afraid of being alone all night with Charlie the ghost.”

He chortled. “You know, I’ve been coming in late to work for the last…I don’t even remember how many years, and Charlie has never bothered me,” he assured, like a father to a child. “If there is a ghost, he’s harmless.”

Twenty minutes later, miracle number two happened: Declan came back.

Okay, so I was feeling pretty stupid. I’m still undecided about ghosts, like doubting the existence of Santa Claus but believing in his spirit. Only no one’s afraid of Santa Claus.

I wish that was the last I had to hear about Charlie, but as my luck would have it, another late night shift that summer gave me a real reason to get the adrenaline pumping… (For Part II, read on.)

I’d gladly stand in the rain to wait for Catbus with...

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 22:55:16 -0400

I’d gladly stand in the rain to wait for Catbus with Totoro, wouldn’t you? (via cavaz)

Humour double fail

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 22:51:00 -0400

If you’re a buffoon, please don’t try to make me laugh. Epic fail will ensue and I will tell you why.

July 2002. It’s the summer between high school and university and I’m working customer service for a large suburban mall.

Stupid Man approaches the booth, immediately starting a pointless conversation about a seemingly anorexic woman he had met the week before, and something about her toes.

“So, I’m a stand-up comedian, you know,” he felt he had to mention, then proceeded to tell incredibly lame jokes. I did not laugh, remaining expressionless and wondered how the comedy clubs of Canada could ever allow Stupid Man’s presence to un-grace the stage—assuming he really was a stand-up.

Stupid Man looked at me and spoke. “Why aren’t you laughing? Don’t you like to laugh? Come on, don’t you think I’m funny?”

I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing me laugh, even though it was at his buffoonery. “Actually, no, not really,” I replied. “I laugh when something’s funny and I’m sorry, I just don’t find your humour very funny at all.”

Stupid Man became more determined. “There must be something I can do or say that will make you laugh.”

“I really doubt that.”

He tried again, failing miserably. When he finally realized he really couldn’t get me to laugh, he gave a dismissive wave of the hand and left.

One month later…seriously.

I felt my Buffoon Radar going off. Unfortunately, I recognized Stupid Man, who was not wearing a shirt this time, and he made a beeline in my direction. “Excuse me, maybe you can help me,” he piped up. “All these people are laughing and staring at me, and I don’t understand why!”

I blinked. Had Stupid Man actually returned? Was he still wasting my time? “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”

Stupid Man refused to be pushed aside. “Aw, COME ON!” he whined. “There must be something I can do to make you laugh. Oh! What if I show you my bum?” He started to turn around.

“No, no! Please, don’t!”

“Okay, how about this?” Stupid Man proceeded to make stupid ugly faces and picked his nose.

I threw my hands up in frustration. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, even though I wasn’t sorry at all. “But I really don’t think you can make me laugh.”

At long last, he gave up, probably feeling rightfully foolish that his buffoonerific antics were as unfunny as he was. And probably still is.

After exerting monumental effort to bite my tongue while...

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 08:33:00 -0400

After exerting monumental effort to bite my tongue while watching The Ugly Truth (“men like tits and ass!” “women are controlling bitches!” “here’s a visual vibrator gag that will make everyone laugh because no one except the audience will know she’s havng an orgasm, ha ha, we’re so clever!”), I almost went home with memories of the horrible movie haunting me when my friends began flipping through the channels and came across The Impossible Kid.

I’d like to draw your attention to the plot synopsis on IMDB, paying particular attention to what’s underlined:

Weng Weng is now working for the Manila branch of Interpol. The Chief sends him in the pursuit of Mr X, an arch villian with a white sock on his head, who is holding the Philippines to ransom. Two businessmen, Maolo and Simeon, pay the demands but Weng Weng suspects foul play and goes deep undercover to reveal the identity of Mr X.

There’s an amazing chase scene in which the James Bond-esque two-foot-nine-tall Weng Weng as Agent 00 effortlessly evades a huge muscle car on the highway, finds himself at the edge of a cliff (of course), then watching the most spectacular visual effects that 1982 had to offer as he drives his motorcycle off the cliff and lands easily across the chasm without kicking up so much as a cloud of dust. It could not have been more perfect.

Does it get better? If you consider that The Impossible Kid is actually a sequel to the 1981 film For Y’ur Height Only (see video above), then yes, oh god, yes. It is exponentially better.

"When I’m at No Frills and I see a couple spending five minutes on what fucking toe-MAH-toe to..."

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 08:10:28 -0400

“When I’m at No Frills and I see a couple spending five minutes on what fucking toe-MAH-toe to buy, that’s not life.”

- My friend Kevin on how his relationship with his long-time boyfriend is the exact opposite of this.

Snapped at the Butchart Gardens in Victoria, B.C., September...

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 20:26:00 -0400

Snapped at the Butchart Gardens in Victoria, B.C., September 2007. I’ve been sorting through old vacation photos in an effort to figure out which ones would look best printed and framed on our too-bare walls.

This was also the day I discovered that my little point-and-shoot camera could do things with colour. And even though I later found out that I could just as easily do something similar on Photoshop (which I only use for resizing images since that’s all I really know what to do with it), I still love this photo. It also helps to have a pretty awesome boyfriend who’s willing to pose with a bunch of girly flowers.