In which journalist Emily Claire Afan
takes great pleasure in sharing stories and other oddities
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At Kristin’s cottage a few weekends ago, Anthony was busily chopping away at this unusually shaped hunk of wood. His Butt Revelation motivated him so much that he concentrated only on this for a while, a task that was actually quite mesmerizing to watch—like staring at a finely chiseled ass.
And don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about. Because you know exactly what I’m talking about.
At Kristin’s cottage a few weekends ago, Anthony was busily chopping away at this unusually shaped hunk of wood. His Butt Revelation motivated him so much that he concentrated only on this for a while, a task that was actually quite mesmerizing to watch—like staring at a finely chiseled ass.
And don’t say you don’t know what I’m talking about. Because you know exactly what I’m talking about.
My friend’s husband Keith and my longtime buddy Alfred. In case you can’t tell what’s going on here, Alfie had hooked his big toe into a dangling cord on Keith’s inner tube — tethered to the dock — to prevent him from floating away.
If there was a photo that embodied the absolutely blissful laziness from my girl Kristin’s cottage this past weekend, this would be the one.
How does anyone like their bass that high? It sounds like weaponized garbage.
— Matt, reflecting on those who cruise through the city with their car windows rolled all the way down and the bass turned up so high that you can still feel the vibrations in your chest long after they’ve driven past—if you’re lucky, you may even get a slight ringing in your ears. It reminds me of people on public transit whose music is blasting through their headphones so loudly that everyone within a 10-foot radius can experience the pleasure of interrupted silence. I’m not sure why this happens. But I imagine it’s a combination of the following: It’s good to know that certain individuals are looking out for other people’s wants and needs. How considerate.
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.
Getz/Gilberto (1964) is truly an album for all seasons.
It calms my nerves in the middle of spring when the rain pelts incessantly against my windows.
It’s absolutely perfect in the sun-soaked summer when beads of moisture are forming on the glass of my homemade iced tea.
It’s the soundtrack of the fall leaves as they swirl around my feet in the crisp breeze.
And when the frigid winter threatens to send me into a deep freeze, the passionate trills of Stan Getz on tenor sax and João Gilberto’s soothing vocals warm me right to the core.
How many albums can you say do that to you?
