Bloorp.

When I encounter a restaurant that offers a completely unrealistic eating challenge, I can’t help but wonder what deluded masochist would be so ready, willing and able to tackle ungodly amounts of food.

Then along came my cousin Mark.

Mark, he of steak and Jell-O-filled plates. He whose sky-high piled meals cause  paper plates to literally bend under the weight of the food. With his boundless energy and active lifestyle, he manages to keep a trim figure — one look and you’d never guess he could eat his weight in food.

Last month, he came pretty damn close.

It was his sister Kris’s birthday and a bunch of us gathered at RealSports Bar and Grill, where we discovered The Hail Mary on the menu:



That’s right: 67 oz steak. One pound of fries. One pound of coleslaw. One hour.

It began as a joke. He even dared to utter the phrase, “I’ve always wanted to try that.” But as the jokes progressed, they soon become, well, not jokes at all.

Then he spoke the inevitable words: “I’m gonna do it.”

We weren’t sure if he was serious, but he shut his menu with such conviction that we knew he’d made up his mind.

“DON’T DO IT!!!” cried Kris, arms outstretched.

He wouldn’t listen. It would take an hour and a half for the steak to cook, meaning he had an hour and a half to mentally prepare himself. (And you can bet there are pictures…)

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This is my friend Mark, and there’s a very good reason we’re pelting him with rice (and no, it has nothing to do with getting married.)

He’s a survivor of testicular cancer. Last month, he was known as The Guy at Home in His Underwear, having spent 25 consecutive days confined to a loft wearing nothing but his gitch and streamed live à la Truman Show (except he actually knew there were cameras on him). All in the name of raising $50,000 for the Canadian Cancer Society.

On his last day, we gathered outside the loft — unbeknownst to him — to greet him back into the real world as he donned clothes for the first time in 25 days.

This is how it went.

I’ve lost count of the times that people my age — and younger — have already whined profusely about “getting so old.”

What is it about age that is so upsetting? Or maybe the more accurate question is, when did it become fashionable to complain about getting old? I know I’m not counting down the days until I can justifiably whine about counting down the days to my oh-so-fast-approaching old age.

Two months ago, I celebrated another year being tacked on to my life and I embraced every second. Matt took me to a cute French restaurant in one of the most unexpected areas of Toronto where we feasted on garlicky escargot, hearty cassoulet and to cap off the evening, a plate of a puffy profiteroles trio…

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