Bloorp.

Finding old files is like uncovering forgotten treasure, isn’t it?

I’m not sure how I could have possibly forgotten about this one, which I took in New York this past February. (I must have been too preoccupied posting pictures of rhino iguanas and emu carpaccio.)

February was my last month with KidScreen before moving over to its sister publication Playback, thus ending three memorable years of covering a most fascinating industry.

And what a way to end it all — watching the legendary Bobby McFerrin and his son Taylor belt out an a capella version of “Misty” one of my all-time favourite standards.

Bake ‘em away, toys.

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.

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The very thought of karaoke in a private room in K-Town was a strong indicator that my New York friends were going to show us a good time.

The fact that it actually happened had me laughing until the wee hours of the morning.

And while I wasn’t brave enough to stand up and take the mic like Sam or Kim under the spinning disco ball lights, I bellowed along carelessly from the sidelines.

The laughs didn’t stop when someone discovered the applause button on the Massive Remote Control of Life Disguised For Karaoke. But the most uproarious moment came when “Welcome to the Jungle” began blaring through our white-walled room’s speakers.

On-screen, stock footage of lions and tigers strutting through the wild, interspersed with extreme close-ups of flora and fauna.

We may have belted out the line “it gets worse here every day,” but really, it couldn’t have been better.

Please draw your attention to this pizza slice.

I came to this revelation when I entered New York City’s Little Italy Pizza, which was, um, not in Little Italy. In disbelief, as if I couldn’t believe my own eyes,  I asked the man behind the counter, “Is that a spaghetti and meatballs pizza?!”

And when he responded, “It sure is,” I knew immediately that this was the slice waiting for someone like me to come along and give it a good home.

Allow me to reiterate: a spaghetti & meatballs pizza. It should come as no surprise to anyone that this did not last long.

As my friend Kate pointed out, “That’s such an E-Claire thing to eat.”

Wouldn’t a homemade sign like this entice you to enter such a fine establishment?

Snapped at the Flatiron Lounge in New York this past weekend. There is much to tell about this trip…

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.

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A serving of emu carpaccio from Eight Mile Creek, an Australian restaurant in New York, complete with a bed of rocket, black truffle vinaigrette and edamame. Squeeze a fresh lemon wedge over the whole thing and let the flavours mingle deliciously on your tongue, then happily in your stomach.

I spent a mainly sleepless, party-filled and overall whirlwind week in New York. It was a business trip that involved the rhino iguana you see above.

Sometimes, I have to pinch myself when I think about my job. The things I see, the places I visit and the leathery reptiles I’ve encountered along the way make me wonder how I could possibly be doing anything else.