I spend hours on those roads, some paved, and others not: long solitary stretches of rock that divide the tangled grasses and earth between broken-in and broken-down ghosts of wood-paneled ranch houses.

I spend hours on those roads, uninterrupted and undistracted. Listening to the wind. Listening to the chains clink on my bicycle. Listening to my breath. Listening to my iPod.

I let go of the handlebars and I fly on those roads. I stretch out my arms in the breeze and I fly. I look out at the palominos and pintos within their chain link fences, and pity them, as I pedal along, each day.

But today was different. As I rode north on a long stretch of gravel, I began to feel a light mist fall around me. It collected on my bare arms and legs, and the delicate moist droplets tickled my nose and cheeks.

I rode further into the mist. What is this? I thought. Hopefully rain.

The mist grew thicker. It was warm, and coated my throat as I inhaled. Then it started to smell.

This is not rain.

As I pedaled onwards, I came to a fork in the road. I looked to the left. And there I saw it.

The iron monster was parked on a field and pumping the mist into the air. Except, it was not mist. It was sludge. Radioactive brownish greenish putrid and thick sludgey sludge.

And it was on me. But never mind that. It was in me. The radioactive sludgey sludge. In. Me.

I was horrified. It was disgusting.

Will I survive?

And then I had another, less frantic thought.

Maybe this really is one of those deciding moments. You know, the kind where you go into a situation thinking it is merely a strange coincidence, a fluke, but then it ends up changing your life forever?

Changing my life forever, because now that I have been exposed to this radioactive sludgey sludge, I will develop super powers. Yes. I. Will.

It was all so clear to me. I had never been more certain of any uncertainty before in my life.

So I wondered.

How long must I wait until my new super powers will start to manifest? Many days? Or only hours?

I decided I should begin testing them out right away, in order to pinpoint exactly what powers I gained.

Where would I begin? I compromised to hold off on testing the powers that might have more serious consequences if they failed… Like flying. Yes. Flying could be bad. Or, to put it more accurately, failing at flying would definitely be bad.

So I’ll hold off on jumping off roofs, if only for the moment.

I decided to start small, because, maybe my new super power would be more covert… Ones that could not easily be detected…

.I still don’t know what my dog is thinking when she sits and stares at an open space of nothing in the room. I still cannot see the ghosts that she sees or doesn’t see.

.I still drink my tea when it is far too hot for consumption. I cannot determine when it has cooled to the proper temperature.

.There is still only twenty-one dollars in my wallet. And nothing I touch turns to gold, or multiplies, or even crumples into dust for that matter.

.I can still run a mile in under ten minutes, but not under eight.

.I still cannot fry eggs by looking at them. And they still always stick to the pan.

.It still only takes one beer to get me drunk. And I am still a very very mediocre billiards player.

.I checked my passport. And I am still an American.

.I still only have 300 followers on Twitter. Oh, nevermind. Make that 299. Erm, 298.

.I still dislike the taste of unfiltered tap water, which only makes me more thirsty.

.I am pretty sure I don’t have X-ray vision. I’m pretty sure I’m not trying very hard on testing out that one. It seems like it would do more harm than good.

.I am still tired by eleven p.m. And there is still a quiet sense of wistfulness in the moments before I fall asleep.

.I am still stumbling about attempting to un-be in love with the girl who broke my heart. And I still am reminded I cannot make her love me again.

.And my baseball team is still in last place and teasingly hovering around .500.

I suppose I still have more investigating to do. Maybe a few more bike rides should help me uncover the truth. Then I can use my new super powers to start fighting for truth. And justice.

And anyways, if I had a swell new super power, I really see no reason as to why I should share it publicly with you folks. That usually seems to throw a wrench in the whole masked-vigilante-anonymous-saviour-of-the-laypeople-world-changer deal, which is pretty much what I am going for.

But now, in this awkward stretch of time between Canada Day and American Independence Day, I again find myself with one foot on each side of the border, in a search for identity and meaning in celebration and self.

Read on, reader, read on.

I had just moved New York City on my own, for the second time. Life was a confusing mix of both brand-newness and nostalgia. It was late May of the hottest, muggiest, nastiest, sweatiest, three-showers-a-day summer I ever experienced. I was lonely. Growing bored. And I needed something to do.

Well, besides hermiting.

I was mostly spending evenings alone in my apartment, eating stir fry vegetables, and trying to keep up with the scores of baseball games, and trying to keep my ethernet cord attached to the wall.

I was mostly spending evenings alone in my apartment, writing blog posts, and trying to read dense science textbooks, and trying to find the remedy for all the early nights.

It was America. I had just turned 21. My fresh young wings ached to stretch out in the moisture-rich air of the nocturnal city. My clean young liver itched to be taken out to bars and beat with brown glass bottles, aluminum cans, cardboard coasters, and swizzle sticks.

It was America. I was hardly even shy. But I didn’t appreciate the old Russian drunkards who called me Comrade, and got a little too friendly when I perched on my solitary barstool, trying to nonchalantly catch the ballgame.

It was America. But it wasn’t a place to call Home.

I was simply searching. Simply searching for a true sense of Camaraderie, and not the scary-predatory-alcohol-breath-kind. A True sense of Camaraderie:

One that involved more spur-of-the-moment enthusiastic high-fives and obnoxious cheers and stylized-fist-pumps. One with less unwarranted back-gropes and shoulder-grabs and yes-you-did-just-spray-your-drink-in-my-face-while-you-were-flirting.

I longed for a feeling of Home. A Home that brought a Sense Of Belonging among the strangest of strangers, the native inhabitants I dwelled with on this lonely island city: the fierce, fast, and forward tribe known to the rest of the world as New Yorkers.

It was America, and it was late May in the year of our Lord Stanley. Never had I worshipped him before. Never had I bowed before his altar. Never had I sung the hymns of Icing. Cross-checking. Power plays. These words were never in my vernacular, and far from my prayers.

But some small voice inside of me said, There might be a home there. Those high-fives you’re looking for? They are all really an allegory for Home. Find the Flag. And find them. Home.

My pure heart selected by the shepherd. Naked and new, blinking in the haze of the first sunlight, I shamelessly followed the flock onto the Vancouver Canucks express to the playoffs.

Maybe watching the ice in the evenings could cool me off after days in the high 90’s with equally unforgiving humidity.

And it would give me something to do.

Besides hermiting.

And if I was going to be a pseudo-Canucks fan, even if I was only trying it on in the Search For Something More, I had to do it the right way.

I knew somehow I had to find the Home under the Flag.

Something divine guided me there. Some mysterious homing beacon within my unadulterated being brought me on that Companionless Pilgrimage to the One Bar In Particular.

The One Bar in New York City, hidden in the shadow of the majestic New York Public Library.

And the Flag was there, too.

The One Bar that proudly flew a Canadian flag above the doorway.

You seek Canada Cabin, the Messengers called it.

I hesitated outside as the damp warm air clung to me. Daring myself to go in. The scarlet Maple Leaf danced in the breeze, gregariously beckoning me within. Making me Promises. Promises not made by a dimly lit room with sticky beer floors. Promises not made by men and women who think you’re beautiful tonight but leave in the morning.

Real Promises. Of Home.

I paused. This was it. I had found it. I made one final eager adjustment to my Toronto Blue Jays hat and sheepishly sauntered in. Dreaming of that Promise of Home.

The Chef smiled at me from behind the bar, welcoming me in like an old friend. He offered me things like Poutine and Beaver Tail and Labatt Blue and Molson and Caesar. Things that sounded beautiful and elegant and foreign. And were nonetheless Canadian; gifts from His Home.

I was unsure of what to do with myself as I soaked in this sea of smiling, fine, fun-loving, folks. Every one of them so enthusiastic about something I knew nothing about. Every one of them connected by some kindred spirit, which flowed from within each soul and filled each pint glass to the brim.

I was unsure of what to do with myself, but at the right moment, in near-perfect synchronization, I managed to pull my Blue Jays hat from my head, sincerely place it over my heart, and stand among them in song.

And the roar of every soul in heavenly chorus of O Canada was marvelous and deafening. I put in my best attempt at belting out every third word, when I could manage to find the pattern of the rhyme fast enough to learn the lyric. But no one, not even I, could hear my faltering voice within the crowd of hundreds gathered in this tiny room. The energy was overwhelming. The cheering. The excitement. The vibration. The zeal. Like none other I had witnessed before.

And at the heart of all this Elation, at the core of all this Praise, there was something more that brought these Beautiful People together. It was deeper than colour. It was more genuine than nationalism. It was purer than sport. It was more altruistic than pride. It was at once both as tangible as the Flag, and as abstract as Love.

There was Brotherhood. There was Sanctuary. There was this Canada Cabin of Refuge for these Special People that would never really be New Yorkers. These Special People who never needed to be New Yorkers, because they all had a Home.

Their Home was not constructed by bricks and it was not even contained in that building. And yet they welcomed me there.

I was so afraid to be an outsider, but they invited me in.

And despite my concessions of heritage, they still treated me like one of their own. I was no longer the Immigrant among them. I was more than the Wide-Eyed American Girl in the Blue Jays hat who was desperately trying to fit in somewhere, anywhere.

Because I Belonged.

They graciously accepted me into their Home. They gave me high-fives and stylized-fist-pumps and Something More than that.

Something More than Hockey. Something More than Molson.

Toronto! they called me.

I was given a new name, by my association, not by my birth. And suddenly, I knew I had been accepted. I was born again. And I knew I was finding Home. That feeling I had been searching for. It was Here.

Under this Flag. And it grew in my heart.

Toronto! What are you drinking?

Toronto! Take our picture!

Welcome back, Toronto!

Goodnight, Toronto!

The feeling was Real. The Promise was Real. I found it in A Place. But it transcended that space. Now it was everywhere. Everywhere I was, was Home now.

The sense of Home was hiding somewhere inside the Lost Girl all along. I only needed encouragement to find the doorway.

And that was how I found it.

Home. In a crowd of strangers.

Home. Singing a song that I hardly knew, in a hot room, on an evening in May.

Home. At a time when I was alone, until we united under the Flag. Until I knew I was no longer an outsider. Until I knew I was never an outsider.

Lord Stanley was the vehicle, and his blessing upon me, and unto Him I will forever owe a debt.

But it was not about Winning or Losing.

It was not about the Canucks, or Poutine, or Labatt Blue.

It was all about the Special People who helped me find a path to Home. They called themselves Canadians. And they were Real.

I found the Real Promise. I found the Flag, and I found my Home.

You may recall that first, we took a look at The Beard, with the All-Beard All Stars. Now, class, it is time to learn all about The Mohawk. From Johnny Damon’s famous fauxhawk, to the sensational Rayhawks of 2008, to (needless to say) Brian Wilson. Relax and take notes.

Click on the image below for the link:

Who Let The 'Hawks Out? Reuters via Daylife.com

I’m legitimately on the verge of a breakdown. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking: “A breakdown? Don’t be so dramatic.” But folks, this is real. Like, I want to call my therapist real. In the past 24 hours, I ate a whole tub of salsa (not even good salsa). And half a jar of peanut butter (ok, that was good). And I almost cried yesterday when I got a late bill payment fee. And now I’m listening to sad, sad, songs shuffle infinitely on iTunes.

memebase.com

It’s a little bit like this (allusion via my Religion and Literature course): Baseball is my Messiah, and I’m poor Peter, crying out: “But, dude, you can’t leave us, you’re awesome!” Then Baseball turns to me and says: “Get behind me, Satan.” I’m left feeling like a fool. Of course Baseball season must end, in order for the season to return and bless us once more. Followers of Baseball know this. </ metaphor>

Back to real life. This season has been by far, so far, the most fantastic/fanatic season in the history of all my fandom. Never have I watched so many games; never have I read so many blogs, tweeted so many tweets, viewed so many memes, etc. you get the gist. More importantly, never before was I a sports writer, and never before was I so involved in the game; re: this is a passion that goes far beyond spectating. Baseball is now an integral part of my self-identity. Baseball has consumed a large percentage of my life, and now that I can almost see the season’s impending end looming on the horizon, I want to know how I’m going to fill the void. I guess what I’m really getting at is: I’m going to need a new hobby.

via craftycorner.blogspot

For now, I need to enjoy each Baseball-filled day to its full potential, not dwell on this so-called “doom.” When that final day in September arises, I’ll deal with it, but for now, the season is still in full-swing, there’s no time for All-Star break blues!

via bleacherreport.com

Prince Fielder’s Beard hit a 3-run dinger that set the National League atop the charts in the bottom of the 4th inning. The NL maintained the lead for the rest of the game and emerged victorious over the American League Team, which was greatly lacking in beards.

Getty Images

Brian Wilson’s Beard preserved the NL’s lead to record the save. Hardcore fans of Fear the Beard anxiously awaited his arrival to the mound, when he inherited 2 AL runners after one out in the 9th. NL defense did not allow any further hits after The Beard arrived.

UPDATE: American League Honorable MVB 

Getty Images

Jose Bautista’s Beard may have been shorter than the aforementioned behemoth beards, but it was by no means lacking in #swagg. Beardtista made an incredible sliding grab in the RF corner that was originally just called foul by the All-Star Game announcers in the 2nd inning. This beard by all means brought the Hustle & Heart to the American League Team.

The National League won the All-Star Game 5-1 at Chase Field in Phoenix, Arizona, and will have a home-field advantage for the 2011 World Series.

For Elise’s article on the All-Beard All-Star Team on Aerys Sports, click here.

I always fancied facial hair, perhaps it carried some sort of masculine mystique, so I scoured the clubhouses of Major League Baseball to scout the most wonderful whiskers for The All-Beard All-Star Team. Pepare to be amazed by the splendid spectacle of these bearded beauties.

Click the beards below for a link to the article. Enjoy.

via msnbc.com

Getty Images

To read all my articles on Aerys, view my full profile.

Suddenly I understood what she meant. Generally, people have a problem with being alone. Why?

So I proceeded to explain to my friend what it means to be an introvert, and that spending time alone is A-OK.

First, we should get some things straightened out. There is nothing wrong with introverts. Am I biased? Whatever, man. Introverts are not necessarily “shy,” and they do not need to “learn” how to be extroverts. In fact, many amazing and talented people (such as yours truly, #butsrsly) are introverts. Excuse me while I drop some names. Albert Einstein. Heard of him? Okay, so you think A.E. was a genius and that’s cool, but he was a little eccentric. No problem, there are many more incredible introverts to choose from. How about: Monet. Charles Schulz. Atticus Finch. Tom Hanks. Steve Martin.

You may now be further convinced that introverts are not necessarily “weird,” (if I had a nickel….) because you think some of these people are “alright.” To extend my case, I will give you the CliffsNotes version on Introversion 101. Topics include: What are some of the defining character traits of an introvert? And what’s the deal with wanting to be alone? Do introverts hate people? No, that is silly; introverts do not hate people (maybe not all people). Introverts prefer to spend time with only one or two people at a time, in order to develop loyal and intimate friendships. Introverts are highly intellectual individuals, and they like to spend time on their own to process their myriad thoughts, feelings, and observations. Introverts are independent and ambitious, and they work most efficiently alone. Finally, introverts do like to talk, but not about frivolous subjects. An introvert will possess intense interests or hobbies that they will enthusiastically share and discuss with others for hours. Maybe you can figure out what mine is. #takeawildguess

I grew up an only child, so introversion came inherently. I spent copious amounts of time alone, developing my creativity and imagination, contemplating logic and science, and simply learning about myself. Even still, I enjoy the time I spend by myself; it is both comforting and rejuvenating. Of course, it is unquestionable that The Best Day of My Life might occur when I’m independent and unfettered, indulging in something I love, whether it is a companionless journey to a baseball game, or a string of fantastic thoughtful moments.

painting by Michael Parkes

So, what happened yesterday? On behalf of myself and the 37 other Blue Jays fans who were in attendance at the sold-out game at Fenway Park, I’m ecstatic to report: the underdog Jays beat the Sox 9-7. Did I mention: I was there. I felt like I was on a steady IV drip of amphetamines for 12 hours straight. More or less I was, because the brain produces its own neurotransmitters, dopamine & serotonin, that create similar physiological responses, particularly stimulation of the Central Nervous System, blah blah  < /science lesson> That explains why I haven’t slept, and seriously, I got more sleep on Xmas eve than I did the night before I left for Boston.

I’m filing today under “B” for Best Day of My Life. Here is the #hashtag highlight reel, or “7 Reasons My Day Was Better Than Yours (You Sorry Boston Fan)”:

1) #BraggingRights: As the Jays were leading 7-0, I thought, “WHAT?! You mean my team is going  to beat these horrible folks and their rouge hosiery?” No. Freaking. Way. The Jays’ defense was hot, and their bats were hotter. Then, the Sox rallied and put some runs on the board, and I got extremely anxious. After Frankie threw the final out, I threw my fist into the air with a ferocious yell. It was glorious.

2) #Meatsmode: I went berserk when they announced late Sunday afternoon that a certain Travis “Meats Don’t Clash” Snider was rejoining the team in Fenway for today’s game, after a recent farm stint.Then, Mr. Blue Jay Hunter  declared the day an official holiday. #MeatsDontClashMonday must be my new favorite day of the week.

3) #MakingFriends: I knew things were promising when the woman next to me sang along to “O Canada.” She and her husband were visiting from Alberta and they were my buffer zone, so I was loud and proud for my Jays without worrying I would get slapped. Later, I scouted out my prodigy, a sweet little boy from upstate NY, whose mom claimed “He chose the Blue Jays! He loves them!” His older brother was a RedSox fan, so it’s obvious which son is the bad seed. Then finally, there was the gang from Waterloo, ON. Adam was totally decked out in a sweet squeaking BJ Birdie hat, Jays flags, and his Maple Leaf draped over his shoulders. (pictures to come… trapped on my camera)

4) #MakingEnemies: Boston fans who were foaming at the mouth behind me called me a “Weird Duck,” which I suppose is the Bostonian phrase for “Black Sheep?” (I still don’t understand why they don’t speak English there) They threatened my life, a little, but mostly booed me because they were upset that my solitary cheers for the Jays were louder than their entire section of RedSox fans when Ortiz was at bat.

5) #TouchingMeTouchingYou: You better believe I got down to “Sweet Caroline” at Fenway in the middle of the eighth! It wouldn’t have been a trip to Fenway without joining in this tradition. As the Jays were still pulling the lead that late in the game, not many of the Boston fans jumped out of their seats to sing along. I was fine with that, because the day was supposed to be all about me and the Jays anyways.

6) #FriesWithThat: On the bus ride back to New York, I saw a rainbow. ‘Nuff said, right?

7) #SupersizeMe: Also on the bus ride back to NYC, once the sun had set, the sky lit up. I literally had my pick on the horizon of which fireworks show I wanted to watch, It was like art camp with third graders: glitter everywhere. The abundance of fireworks was outrageous, and honestly the day could have ended with the rainbow, but I guess that would have been almost too normal for the #BestDayOfMyLife.

via icanhascheezburger.com

But let’s get to the real #meat of this post (#hashtag to be explained later). Ladies and Gentlemen, I would like to direct your attention to an article I wrote about the growth and evolution of my Blue Jays fandom. The article was published today by Chris from Infield Fly.
This is a direct link to the post that features my article.
Thanks guys! While you’re there, check out the blog. (As usual, there is a link to Infield Fly on my footer under “Sites EliseMyers Likes.”)

A Happy Independence Day to all my American AND Canadian friends!

And here’s to an especially Happy #MeatsDontClash Monday to our old pal, Travis Snider, back in his Jays uniform today!

via postcity.com

(I can add clever photos later when I’m back to my laptop in NYC)

I’m further distraught that my illness had to fall on this weekend. Of all weekends. This weekend is extremely special. It’s the first weekend of the semester- so I have no work to do. More importantly, it is a four day weekend that is bookended by Canada Day at the start, and America Day (so titled for prosaic balance, but typically referred to as “The Fourth of July”) at the end. This span of time is incredibly significant to me, not only because everyone loves a parade, but as a Blue Jays fan, my reality exists somewhere between these two celebrations (a Baseball state of mind).

Although I may not be staggering from pub to pub for four days straight, nothing is going to stop me from eating a Fenway Frank on July 4th. I am so determined to make it to Boston to see the Jays this Monday, that I am convincing myself that I am getting better. Guess what? It’s working.

I am #sofreakingexcited to go to Fenway, on July 4th of all days, to cheer for my one and only Blue Jays. I will surely die happy, because if the Chinatown bus doesn’t kill me, the Red Sox fans probably will. Not to encourage stereotypes, but I’ve heard…. certain things…

via thesunblog.com

Which is why I think it’s best I leave my flag at home.

via laist.com

After all, it will be America Day, and we don’t want to be too provocative.

#AMURICA