Toque No More

This is a sad day. I may have lost my beloved gray-and-black toque.
Here is a picture of me in the toque.



Ok, that's actually a picture of Will Ferrell dressed as John Rocker. It turns out I don't have a picture of myself in my toque, which is sort of like Gwyneth not having a picture of herself and Apple. Nevertheless, it's still a pic of a guy in a hat.

My toque was purchased after an exhaustive search that was made all the more exhaustive for a somewhat dumb reason. I thought the Edge's sort-of-tight-but-still-comfortable style of toque was pretty stylish, so I looked for one of my own. As a fellow bald guy, the Edge is certainly qualified to act as my style maven. It is only the second time that I have borrowed a style tip from a rock star, after that time I wore the same colour shoelaces as the drummer for Zuckerbaby.

Where is my toque? I have a feeling I may have left it in one of four places.

* The bathroom at the Huron Market Place theatre. I was there last Saturday, and I know I was wearing my toque on that night. It's possible I left it on the counter while washing my hands.
* The bathroom at the Chapters across from Masonville Mall. I think I had some kind of toque on that night, but I'm not certain of which one it was. Incidentally, I'm sure you're wondering why I always have my toque on in the first place when I'm in the bathroom, or why I don't just put it in my pocket before I enter. This is one of those unanswerable questions in life, akin to why George Costanza takes off his shirt to use the toilet.
* In some random pocket of a sweater or coat.
* Place D, which is the random place that all lost clothes go. It is a mystical world full of lollipop buses and marshmallow police officers.

In the meantime, I will have to get by with my Buffalo Bills toque, my Green Bay Packers toque (ah, public shame) or my toque that used to belong to my dad and bears the initials of the Ontario High School Teacher's Union. If I wear it in public, I run the risk of some conservative douchebag trying to hurl a Mike Harris insult at me, but I learned long ago that anyone who thinks Mike Harris was a good premier isn't worth listening to about politics.

So if this is the last time we meet again, farewell, my unintended. I'm sure we will meet again in the afterlife, provided that heaven gets chilly at night and requires toques. Since my vision of heaven is a lot like northern Ontario minus the mosquitoes, things look good that we shall meet again.