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!”
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…)
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.”
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.
This song can be taken one of two ways:
I bought this album several years ago solely based on its title. A classic case of “judging a book by its cover,” if you will. I knew nothing of De Phazz, only that they somehow fit in the jazz/lounge category because they were filed under that section at the store. The cover art held my interest for longer than five seconds, so I figured I’d give it a shot. It’s still one of my favourite albums.
Admittedly, I don’t even like chocolate all that much and I never crave it. I know. That’s weird, especially for a girl. But that suits me just fine. If you know me to any degree, you’ll know that my girly tendencies are few and far between.
I wouldn’t call “Death by Chocolate” my top track on the album, but it’s definitely up there. And why pick that particular song to share? I haven’t quite figured it out, but something about indulgent desires seems fitting in some inexplicable way.
So let’s go with that, shall we?
I shouldn’t freely admit that I get handjobs from strippers, but whatever. It was behind a fake plastic tree in Tokyo.
— You know who I love? My friend MM, who has once again proven to be the most matter-of-fact, bluntly honest man I know. Whether or not he’s drinking, I can always count on him to tell me exactly like it it is, no filter necessary—he probably wouldn’t know what to do with one, anyway.
Did Conan just punch that camel?
— The answer to that burning question is yes. Yes, he did. I’d only known Brandonnn for three days and he spouted off this gem while watching Conan The Barbarian on Craig’s back patio. It was a calm, warm Sunday night and Super Mario World was not a part of the evening’s festivities. It sounds like a non sequitur, but the SNES classic was in full-force on that very patio the night before, when we witnessed Mark “Messhof” Essen deliver the final blow to Bowser as the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon. There are worse ways to spent a Saturday night morning.
