In which journalist Emily Claire Afan
takes great pleasure in sharing stories and other oddities
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San Francisco for Game Developers Conference, March 4, 2012. Early morning. My friend Danielle and I are sharing a hotel room and we’re fast asleep in our respective beds…
…which suddenly begin to shake. A lot.
The rumbling lasted a solid 30 seconds, but I was so tired that I barely registered what was happening. I heard the rustling of Danielle’s bedsheets, followed by a loud whisper:
“I think that was an earthquake!”
In discussing my friend Kym’s neverending obsession with New Kids on the Block last night, she recounted the day that her husband Adam (who plays on my softball team) waited by his computer until the very second that he could enter a code online to buy $500 VIP concert tickets, which would grant her backstage access to talk and *gasp* touch her favourite boy band.
She then told us about his experience in picking up the tickets from the box office, at which time he also happened to be getting Nine Inch Nails concert tickets for Kym.
The box office attendant did a double-take when he handed the tickets to Adam, then turned to him and said, “Either you’re fucked up or you have two girlfriends.”
“They’re for my wife,” he replied. “And yes, she’s fucked up.”
Hesitation can be a beautiful thing.
I happened to be in NYC at the same time as the Play Me, I’m Yours art installation in which 60 pianos were given temporary homes in public spots across the city.
Purely by accident, I discovered the first one in Battery Park when Matt was attempting to figure out how to snap a decent shot of the Statue of Liberty.
It was a brutal scorcher of a weekend in New York and I don’t adjust well to heat. So with zero interest in being exposed any further to the unyielding sun, I retreated to the nearest shady area.
My sights were set on the first wooden bench, but as I was about to sit down, my ears immediately perked up at the faint and familiar sound of a solo piano.
A quick turn of the head revealed the source of the sound. I forgot about sitting down and moved closer.
While waiting to meet up with Mike last Friday, I stepped into a four-floor HMV with the intention of possibly picking up Super Mario Galaxy 2.
I ended up in the PS3 game aisle first and I wasn’t alone. Nearby, a dude in a black shirt was trying to catch my eye and mumbled something. I thought he was an employee asking if I needed help.
“Just looking,” I said with a quick smile.
He kept looking at me. Maybe he was staring at my Katamari t-shirt.
He spoke again. “What’s your name?”
Before I could say respond, he said matter-of-factly, “I’m Vince. I break dance.”
I stared in silence for a moment. Did he actually just say all those words together? Were they supposed to mean something?
Too confused to say much, I muttered, “Well, that’s a way to introduce yourself…” Then I turned around abruptly and walked away.
I didn’t want to leave the comfort of the air-conditioned building, but I did want to get away from Break Dancer Vince, so I retreated to the second floor.
And before you read any further, you must understand that what transpired next falls into the Only Emily Claire category. If you haven’t already figured it out, this is a crucial bit of information that you will need to know going forward.
My friend Jonathan in Dallas sent me a message yesterday morning. This is what it said:
I had a dream where I was being pursued by the Canadian border patrol, and you helped hide me at your place. You had a tree-house that I hid in first, and later I hid in your bathroom. When they asked who was in the bathroom, I responded with a fake Canadian accent.
He’s weird, which is mostly why we’re friends.
Leave it to Pixar to make me think about my childhood toys.
I’m not just talking about Toy Story 3 — even though the film touched on just about every thought and feeling I have about growing up and how I never want to grow up, and it turned me into a teary mess by the end.
I had the pleasure of attending a master class this past weekend taught by Pixar animator Andrew Gordon and story artist Matthew Luhn. And somehow, Matt managed to single me out from the dozens of students, asking me to come to the front of the class with two others to talk about our favourite childhood toy.
I had a few preferred playthings, so to pick one on the spot was difficult. Or so I thought. Then the smiling face of an old plushy, Taffy Tiger, swam to mind…and I couldn’t think of anything else but Taffy.
Matt had described earlier that one simple thought will trigger others and sure enough, that’s exactly what happened next: a rush of wonderful, happy memories flooded my mind and I found myself telling a room of strangers about one of my most cherished stuffed animals.
Matt asked where he was now and without missing a beat, I knew. I was still thinking about Taffy when I was finally permitted to escape back to my seat so I decided then and there to go on a mission. With photos, no less.
NEW YORK, June 2007 - In a Manhattan dive bar on Avenue A, I was partaking in the drink with friends I hadn’t seen in years. I felt classy in my business attire (and, um, running shoes) from meetings and parties for Licensing Show, and twice as classy when I discovered the bar’s unusually priced Ass Juice.
It was a humid summer night and over refreshing sips of Ass Juice, I regaled my friends with a past story about Woofstock. I’d been wandering through the annual dog festival event in Toronto when I met the friendliest, puffiest dog who immediately won my heart.
The Old English Sheepdog’s name was Boomer (Boomer!), and his endless layers of fur flapped in all directions as he jumped up and down in my presence. I decided then and there that this was the dog of my dreams.
I returned the following year with Matt, determined to find Boomer again—or at the very least, a suitable equivalent. I eagerly scanned the hoards of canines, weaving through the crowds of dog fanatics, but alas, no sheepdogs in sight. Oh, sure, there were plenty of other dogs to stare at, many of which certainly fell in the category of Emily Claire’s Favourite Dogs…but alas, no Boomer.
Dejected, we started walking away and we passed a nearly empty leash-free park. Nearly empty…except for a man who just happened to be walking his Old English Sheepdog across the grass!!! It wasn’t Boomer, but it was still My Kind of Sheepdog. Needless to say, the encounter put me over the moon.
My friends laughed at my excited story retelling. But nothing…NOTHING compared to what happened next. And I have photographic evidence to prove it.
Could there be a more perfect way to spend a beautiful Saturday afternoon in late May?
This video brought to mind a column I wrote when I was a reporter for The Mississauga News many years ago. Unfortunately, it isn’t available online, but in it I described a summer evening with two friends. We were cash-strapped students who didn’t want to spend another Friday night going to the movies. Again.
We ended up in a nearby park and my buddies brought a couple of gloves and a baseball. And you know what happened?
They taught me how to play catch.
I remember the bright stadium lights from a nearby football field giving me just enough visibility to see that I was learning pretty quickly not to throw like a girl—a skill that’s later proven to come in handy.
And even though I take great pleasure in exploring my love of video games, nothing can beat some of the purest and most basic forms of entertainment. Sometimes, a ball and glove is all you need to have the best time ever. I write that with all the sincerity in the world.
A Frisbee, as it turns out, will also do the trick.
(For the record, I was actually tossing the disc around with those guys, but Mark Rabo’s video didn’t appear to have any footage of that. Also shown in the video: my pal Will, Brandonnn, Kris, Robyn, Jason, Mark.)
Perhaps the only thing better than having talented friends is having a personal love of their talents, and Jim Clayton is no exceptional to that rule. This enormously talented local jazz musician was recently in New Orleans with his lovely partner Tracey recording a solo jazz piano album at The Music Shed.
Jim was coincidentally performing a vibraphone gig on my birthday almost exactly a year ago, and I had requested the song “Emily” after which my dad named me. I was utterly delighted when he actually played it—even more surprised when I discovered that Tracey had recorded part of the song for me!
He sent me a message a couple of weeks ago, saying he’d been “digging that tune” since that gig and that he had recorded “Emily” on the album. Not long after, I finally got to hear it and now I can happily share it here.
I’m probably biased, but for what it’s worth, I think it’s a gorgeous interpretation. Listening to it transports me back to an era more fitting of my old timey soul, an era when it made sense to describe this beautiful love story unfolding right in front of you with nary a lyric to be heard, and the melody guided you blissfully through the night.
Thursday Night in New Orleans is now available for streaming and I can’t recommend it enough. Thank you for sharing your beautiful talent with the world, Jim. We need more of this.
