Saturday, December 31, 2011

Last Dragons of 2011

The last letter of the year to my team. Christmas, New Year and good cheer all around.

My Fellow Dragons:

One of the few Christmas presents I would have liked this year is, alas, not to be.

I was hoping that the fine supervisors at the Hockey Association would look at this week's game time and realize, "Hey, that Sunday start time doesn't work for Kevin Pasquino! What the fuck were we thinking? Who the hell cocked the fucking times up? Frank!! Was it you, you ignorant twat? Change the bloody game time for the Dragons you witless, clueless, fucking moron!!"

Alas, Frank's enormous error in judgement has not been caught by his supervisor and the game time remains as personally and egocentrically awful as it was a week ago.

So rather than joining you on Sunday, I'm going to be at a family Christmas gathering.

Oh what miserable pseudo-joy.

Imagine dear old Aunt Judith, still clinging on to dear life, and still as sloppy and generous as ever with her kisses. Even my boys fear going near their great-aunt.

Imagine my slightly estranged brother, Jim, who is going to be awkwardly and uncomfortably friendly, but I know that if there is a beer (or twenty) in sight that the drinking will start, followed by the flirting with every spouse he's not *immediately* related to, followed by the inevitable fight, and then finally the drunken pathetic tears of apology and embarrassment. Hopefully the afternoon lunch-gathering will impede his drinking.

And imagine my wealthy uncle's second wife, the beautiful trophy wife, Janet, who doesn't want to be there, hates everyone in her husband's family and loves nothing more that to give Jim all the alcohol he desires and thereby insuring that he'll make a pass at her so she can steal attention from everyone and leave the party in a brilliantly staged scene of scandalous indignity.

Yes. Families get-togethers can be so much fun. Can you see why I'd rather be playing hockey? --> Fucking stupid scheduling guy Frank the idgit fucking jerk-off.

(Of course, my family is nothing like that. I don't have an Aunt Judith, brother Jim or hot replacement Aunt Janet. My family and I all manage to get along fairly well. But nevertheless it would be fun to rush from the Christmas lunch to the hockey game. But a friggin' 2:10 start? -- Alas, that's friggin' impossible.)

Gentlemen!!!!

You will be playing the final game of the year against the copy-cat named Black Dragons. They're the bottom place team, but they lost 6-3 last week just as we did, so the Magic Eight Ball of Hockey Love remains cloudy with its analysis. Nevertheless, I smell a pre-Christmas victory (I also smell turkey because my wife is hosting a staff Christmas party tonight and she's already cooking -- but victory is what I smell for the team!).

Best of luck tomorrow. I wish I could be there and it honest to hell saddens me that I won't be. I detest missing the last game of the season and the final game before the holidays. But it will be nice to see my family and (let's be honest) maybe I'll even score a nice present or two. Which would be fun because lord knows I can't score a goal on the damned ice.

Have a blast tomorrow. And I'll see you all in 2012.

Merry Christmas. Seasons Greetings. And a wonderfully, terrific and joyous New Year's for everyone!

Saturday, November 5, 2011

Julie Newmar's sweet candy

hockey greeting...

(First off, congrats to Brent for being the top player on the "Playmakers" list, and also congrats to Dave for being #15 on the list. You men are the talented bookends to a bunch of lesser players in between. Congratulations guys.)

(Second thing, turn your clocks back an hour this weekend. This Saturday is the "Fall Back" daylight savings time thing-ee that always causes confusion as people try to figure out how to reset the digital clock on the stove, microwave, bedside table, car radio, etc. etc. ad. nauseum. The nice thing is that if you forget to re-set your clock you will actually be *early* for the game. The bad thing is it means that gremlins have an additional hour of mischievous playtime to create chaos as they loosen the bolts on the wheelchairs of the elderly and scare the crap out of William Shatner while he's flying. Me? -- I'm happy with the extra sleep.)

(Third thing: how about those Leafs? Whodathunk?)

My fellow Dragons:

Halloween candy is evil.

There, I said it.

Halloween candy is the equivalent of a time machine'd Julie Newmar coming from the past and purring at you, "Come here, little boy. I'm from the time period when you were only three years old. It's a total paradox that I'm even here talking to you. And let me tell you that a time paradox is even better than a trip to Las Vegas because what didn't happen in the past can't occur in the present and certainly doesn't count in the future. So help me out of this Catwoman costume and I'll let you tickle my pussycat."

Halloween candy is just friggin' like that!! I didn't pay for it -- therefore it doesn't count. I didn't ask for it -- therefore it doesn't count. And it's just lying around the house looking so delicious and tempting -- so it most certainly does not count!!!

Friggin' Halloween candy -- love you, want you, but don't want to go near you.

So, heck, I don't know about you but I wouldn't mind burning off all of those Kit Kats, Aero bars and teeny-tiny bags of chips this weekend.

Sunday!! 8:15 pm. Down at the MC (or it might be "across at the MC, but most certainly not "up at the MC") we're playing the Sharks. Unlike our class act of Brent and Dave, who are bookending the playmakers' list, they have Thomas Reynolds (Ryan's younger but slightly taller third cousin twice removed) who stands atop the knuckleheads' list. Shame on Thomas and shame on the Sharks for the 42 minutes in penalties that they racked up in one game. May I suggest that we show our displeasure at their conduct by thoroughly trouncing them in our game this Sunday? And afterwards we can share some tea and crumpets and then play some polo.

Sunday 8:15 MC 2.

And stay away from those candies and that time machine'd Julie Newmar. Both are wonderful but seductively and deliciously evil.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Wait

No-no-no.

I looked down and thought that 207.5 (and the way I thought it was "two-oh-seven-and-a-half") was completely unacceptable. And when there was a hint of 208 I just felt like walking away in disgust and denying it ever happened.

199. One-ninety-nine. That's a worthy number. And I understand the whole mumbo-jumbo of pricing and how $399.99 just feels infinitely less that four hundred dollars. I completely get the whole consumer mentality/rationalization when it comes to Wayne Gretzky's hall of fame hockey sweater.

Nevertheless. 199. That's a number to look down on with pride.

But Halloween candy, so small and innocent and invitingly tiny, is always beckoning. So much smaller than normal chocolate and chips. And next thing y'know you've scarfed down 20 of the damn things. People without children don't have the same temptation.

Having said that, being Canadian helps. Thanksgiving is behind us. I pity people who have children and then Thanksgiving and then Christmas: snacks, turkey and then more turkey.

199. That'd be a nice number.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Gibberish, not Jibberish

After placing second with her downfall being the oh-so cruel but simple sounding word 'gibberish' -- this after the success of 'homonym' and 'onomatopoeia' -- April would not stop practicing and correcting and screaming.

Three days later and much to her mother's annoyance, her daughter simply refused to stop spelling.

"April, honey, you've got to stop this. It's not cute anymore. Honestly, it wasn't that cute to begin with. But now it's just annoying."

"Ay-en-en-oh-why-eye-en-gee."

"Sweetheart, you have to stop. It's not healthy. I'm sorry you lost. I'm sorry it was with such an awful word."

"Ay-doubleyou-eff-you-elle," replied her daughter.

(At age 11 April was still slightly too young to realize that "eff-you-elle" was dangerously close to "FU all" but her mother let it slide rather than give her child even more pronunciation ammunition.)

"But it wasn't your fault. You did so very well with the other words. And they were much harder words. But that word is tricky and it isn't spelled correctly at all. Your spelling of the word was much, much better. So let's just stop this nonsense and..."

"It's all your fault, Mommy! You and Daddy helped me study and you said I'd be great and I'd win and I was smart and you were wrong! You lied to me! You said I'd make you proud and that I'd show everyone, and you lied, you lied, you lied!"

"April, how were we to know they'd use a word like that? We couldn't know. Honey, that word..."

"Don't you say it! Don't you ever say it! I never want to hear that word again. It's a dumb word, a silly word. And it should be with a 'jay', and I checked and it can begin with a 'jay' and it's not fair!"

"I know, honey. But you know the rules and they use one dictionary and..."

"You lied to me and I hate that word and I'm smart and I hate you! I'm smarter than you and Daddy and everyone and I hateyou, hateyou, hateyou."

And all her mother could think was that she would give anything to go back in time and have April as a tiny baby when it was all coos and sounds and baby talk. Back when the world was all joyous gibberish and the spelling of a word wouldn't be the cause of a tantrum.

And she found herself smiling at the word 'tantrum' even as its personification exploded in front of her and she suddenly realized that it was contagious as she found herself silently spelling in her mind: 'Tee-ay-en-tee-are-you-em.' They had thought of the name Emily for their daughter but had gone with April instead and 'Are you Emme?" spells rum and although she didn't drink liquor very often, her daughter was certainly taking her to the point were a drink wasn't a horrible idea.

But at that point she made the mistake of smiling quietly to herself while her daughter's petulant fury continued and her quiet joy at that quiet memory was noticed by the angered child.

"You're laughing at me! You're smiling! You didn't help, you lied, you promised, and now you're just laughing at me!"

"April. Stop. I'm not smiling at you. I'm not laughing at you. That's ridiculous. I was remembering a time when you were born and we were thinking of calling you 'Emily' and I remember you when you were so very tiny and..."

"I am NOT ridiculous! Ridiculous: are-eye-dee-eye-see-you-elle-oh-you-ess! That's how you spell it! You probably don't even know how to spell it! I hate you!!"

And the spelling spree continued.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Dreamt of a Lie

My wife had a nightmare the other night. I was awakened because the dream was so intense that she was shaking with fright. I asked her the next day what the nightmare had been about. She told me that she didn't remember.

And it makes me wonder: why would someone lie about something like that?

Monday, September 12, 2011

Making Trouble

I wanted a challenge so I thought I'd try to bite off more than I could chew and perhaps even more than I wanted to taste.

So over at the Trouble With Comics site I'm writing reviews of all 52 issues of the newly re-launched DC Comics.

(Okay, it's only 51 issues because I threw the gauntlet down after the debut of Justice League #1).

Part one is here...
with action and an animal, man.

And Part two is here...
as I attempt to figure out how to build a better bat-trap.

Yes, instead of getting beauty sleep I've been reading comic books that I usually wouldn't have bothered with and then I'm writing about them to see if I would have missed something great or my instincts would have been correct. Winners, surprises and stinkers.

And for my next trick I'm going to pull a rabbit out of my hat and then force feed it to a goldfish.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Post Labour Day thoughts

Four things:


1. When I was as a teenager I remember being giddy on the Tuesday after Labor Day because I would run to the local variety store and grab the Fall Preview issue of TV Guide. I read that puppy like it was my new best friend and learned about all of the great new shows. School was fun, but the fall preview issue of TV Guide was better. And for a long time (much too long) I kept all the issues.

And now TV Guide no longer exists and the fall tv season premieres run through September, October and November, and I am therefore ever so slightly less giddy than I used to be. - sigh -


2. Years ago I knew a woman who told me that when she was a child her parents bought her new underwear for the new school year and all of the old stuff would go in the trash. She told me that she now continues the tradition and, for her, Labor Day is synonymous with new undies.

I have always thought that story was kind of cool. Labor Day becomes Lingerie Day! There's a holiday every couple could celebrate!!


3. I didn't realize the proper spelling until a couple of days ago -- so it's been a lifetime of spelling the word incorrectly in my mind...

But now it seems quite obvious that "symmetry" has two m's otherwise it would look unbalanced and untrue to itself.


4. I found myself pondering this the other day...

A man and woman are hurrying through a door as they run across a wet floor.

It's a true battle of the Titans. Which wins: ladies first or safety first?

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

More coffee on the Inside than Outside


You ever have one of those mornings where the world feels just a wee bit blah?

It's funny, I'm hesitant to say "I'm kinda depressed" because that word now has this dazzling, scary weight to it, but I'm definitely feeling blah. Let's put it this way: was Charlie Brown ever chronically depressed? -- Probably not, but I'm sure that when the damn football was snatched away for the gazillionth time he probably wasn't feeling in the best of moods.

So, while it's not like I play football, I certainly feel like something has been snatched away from me.

And this is the silly stuff I do to make myself feel better...

First, a cup of coffee in a Tardis mug.

My lovely wife bought me a Doctor Who book for Father's Day (did I mention the Darwyn Cooke "Parker" page she got me for Christmas -- she is truly and astonishingly wonderful) and it was a great book but I already had it, so off I went to exchange it.

And as she said afterwards, had she seen the mug that I exchanged to book for, she would have got it for me. And there is nothing better than exchanging a gift and getting the stamp of approval for the new present. So although I went and got the mug, I really got it from her.

It is however more beautiful than it is functional. The mug is surprisingly difficult to drink from and I have to steer myself to the corners which is not where one instinctively goes to take a sip, but once I got over the awkwardness and found a way to make it work (which, I know, sounds stupid cuz IT'S A MUG but its beauty outshines its grace) it is a lovely thing. It and my Far Side 'Cat Fud' mug are treasures on a coffee needing morning.

So, cup of Tardis coffee and a bowl of cereal (Raisin Bran cuz I'm trying, really trying to be a bit healthier) as I read about Jack Layton's life. With regards to Jack: we all know the end is coming, but Layton knew his was imminent and that sense of an unavoidable closing chapter gave him the opportunity to leave with style. Quite remarkable.

And after breakfast the other silly thing I did was I opened Mister Miracle and Big Barda.

There is a wonderful comic shop in London Ontario named Heroes Cards and Comics (although I think they mostly go by "Heroes") and I was there last week as we visited my brother and his family. And I know I shouldn't have, but I ended up buying a fabulous Mister Miracle t-shirt (to which my lovely wife responded, "Does that mean you're going to cook dinner? -- Because *that* would be a miracle," which is, let's be honest, some funny shit) and of course it is a t-shirt that I don't need but it looks really geeky cool.

I grabbed two action figures as well. Hence their freedom this morning.

Years ago when "40 Year Old Virgin" came out my wife was amused with the similarities between me and the main character when it came to action figures. My boys, should they see the movie in years to come, will also marvel at the fact that "Hey, my dad didn't want to open his action figures either! We'd always ask him when he'd open the Doctor Who Dalek Attack set and he never did!"

But today -- What the hell, throw caution to the wind, be crazy! -- and out came Mister Miracle and Barda. If you know the character, you're not surprised that he escaped the packaging cuz of course that's what he does. And then he'd help Barda out, too cuz they are husband and wife. But you know all of that.

(Barda should be taller than her husband, but I guess they action figures are of a standard size but they look so nice together, free of their packaging. And yes they are standing in front of a giant Opus. I'm sure they will all get along.)

Cup of coffee in the tardis mug, open a couple of action figures and then the best part...

Zed came into my office as his mum phoned and as she & I were gabbing he starts using my 'no it's not Rory' gladiator figure from Doctor Who to quietly attack the stufffed dragon that's sitting on my desk. And as my eight year old later explained "The gladiator attacked Torch but then he realized that he's a good dragon, so they're friends now."

And with that, the morning seems so much brighter.

Between all of those things the world no longer seems so blah; instead, it's filled with creative wonder and enthusiasm. And somehow I doubt that Charlie Brown ever felt the wonderful silly grin that comes with that realization.

Monday, August 15, 2011

That Covers It

Yesterday I'm at the supermarket with the boys and I noticed that Zed, age 8, seemed all embarrassed and flustered.

I asked him what's wrong but he wouldn't tell me. I persisted and he finally confessed that he noticed a magazine cover that was inappropriate. I then explained to him that no magazine at a supermarket is inappropriate and that it's all okay. He then said that he noticed that *I* was looking at it and he didn't think it was right that I should be staring at it.

And all I could think was "You little monkey!"

Had my wife been with us perhaps I would have been more subtle. Hell, even with her absence I thought I was being subtle!! But this apparently was not the case.

But the worst of it was this: I was among men!!! And men never comment when other men are looking!!! But one of those 'men' was an eight year old boy who obviously figured his father shouldn't even be looking at images of women. Damnit.

Here is the offending (but oh so very unoffensive) cover that my son spied me looking at. I didn't even flip through the the magazine! I looked but did not touch!!

The funny thing is this: there may have been other magazines at the checkout, but my son was right cuz this was the only one that caught my eye. All other covers sit down when Rosario Dawson is on the stands.

But I have now learned that even the supermarket isn't safe when my son is watching me to make sure I'm not looking.





Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Patrick and the Playoffs

(A month away from the blog?!? Credit the volunteer work and two weeks of practicums (and the up until 2, 2 and 3:20 in the morning work that went with it) which all made me like Jack in "The Shining" (without the ax and the "Here's Johnny!" attitude). The playoff reminder for the team looked like this...)

- Where am I?
In the village
- What do you want?

Information.
-Whose side are you on?

That would be telling. We want information... information... information.
- You won't get it.

By hook or by crook, we will.
- Who are you?

The new Number Two.
- Who is Number One?

You are Number Six.
- I AM NOT A NUMBER. I AM A FREE MAN!


My Fellow Dragons:

Congratulations on the regular season and ending up as Patrick McGoohan in "The Prisoner" because in the end we ranked number six in our division.

But, let's be honest, the regular season results means sweet f.a. as we head into the playoffs cuz come the playoffs it's a whole new thang.

Two losses will mean a team is eliminated. Get to the end with no losses and you are not only crowned the winner, you also get an hour-long conservation debating the necessity of tax increases in the United States with Sarah Palin while wearing a two piece bikini. But to be clear: *you* will be wearing the bikini, cuz to picture Ms Palin in a bikini is disrespectful and sexist. But, yes, she will be keeping her hot librarian glasses on during the entire encounter. And you will be allowed to drink as many diet ginger ales as you'd like.

The playoffs start on Tuesday at 8:30 down at the MC Centre -- the site of our awesome and inspiring victory last week. And as Brent so eloquently said to my e-mail that read "victory rocks my little world," he replied "I like victory. It beats defeat ever time!"

And hence the new Dragons motto: "Victory Beats Defeat Every Time!" As a motto it states an absolute truth, but also conveys the passion and drive towards excellence that the entire team strives for. And thus it will replace the functional but slightly less inspiring former motto of "We could probably defeat Helen Keller, but no farm animals will be accepted as payment."

Gentlemen! The playoffs! Get your game face on! Bring you i.d.! And if it helps, go take 20 kids to The Smurfs movie this weekend and get angry about how you could have gone to see a good film by yourself and then spent the remaining money on beer!

Game face! Game Face!! GAME FACE!!!

Tuesday night 8:30 against the Penguins. We've tied them twice and have yet to beat them. So they're due for a beatin' Tuesday night.

Gentlemen, it's the playoffs: separating the men from the boys, the winners from the losers, and the debonair drinkers from the disgusting drunks for generations!

Sarah Palin and an unlimited quantity of diet ginger ale await!

Hope to see you at the first game,
Kevin.

GAME FACE!!!!

Monday, July 4, 2011

Dragons Attack Penguins

(When team rep's away, the team still has to play...)

My Fellow Dragons:

So, I ain't gonna be there tomorrow night.


Therefore on someone else's shoulders will lay heavy the responsibilities of making the l
ines, motivating the team, risk offending the entire squad with some only moderately acceptable swearing, while keeping all of it in-check with some obscure literary reference.

As a warm-up for the game and perhaps as a cheat sheet should someone need it...


Alex will be on defence with Veeg. We're tied in points with the Penguins so there's no reason not to beat them but we have to watch #29. I want to apologize for the funny way your mom was walking after the Canada Day firework excitement (if you know what I mean!). And did anyone else catch
Christopher Hitchen's analysis of David Mamet's newly discovered right-wing leanings? -- American Buffalo Gets Slapped Down!

There you go. At least that'll get you started.


9:00 in # 3 against the Penguins.


And don't think of that cute little cuddly penguin from the Bugs Bunny cartoons when you take to the ice. No-no-no!

Think instead of the vicious penguins from Garth Ennis and John McCrea's "Hitman" comic book story entitled "Zombie Night at the Gotham Aquarium". And remember: zombie penguins -- they deserve no mercy.

Have fun tomorrow night. I'll be thinking of y'all taking a spiritual and symbolic bat to those red-eyed brain-hungry fiends.


Best of luck,
Kevin.

Sunday, June 19, 2011

The Smell of Stinking Palms in the Morning

I had a rude awakening last Wednesday morning when my wife asked me why I smelled so foul.
“You smell bad,” she said.
“’Bad’? What do you mean ‘bad’?”
“You’ve got a stench. And you usually don’t smell. Did you shower after your hockey game?”
“Of course I did.”
“Really?!? Did you win last night?”
“No. We lost. Three-nothing.”
“Ahhhh. That must be it.”
“What? ‘That must be’ what?” I could see her immediately back away from the conversation, hesitant to say anything more. “What’s the game got to do with it?” I asked.
She at least had the decency to frown as she told me. She shrugged as she said it, as if it were no big deal. “You smell a little bit like defeat. You kind of stink of loss.”
“Oh.” I had no idea what else to say. “Oh. I see.”
“It’s okay,” she assured me. "I’m sure it will get better.”
But gone was my morning smile, my top of the morning joie de vie.
Because at that moment I realized that I had become the Lady Macbeth of hockey and no matter how much I washed and cleaned and scrubbed, it was going to be near impossible to get out this damned spot. Something more drastic would have to be done.
Never one to admit defeat (or at least not until the buzzer goes and the game is over) I have taken certain steps to help rid myself of the stench.
First thing I did, I went and bought myself a new sports shirt. Granted, the shirt was on special for $6.99, but I’m sure that even King Arthur must have thought he got a deal when he found the free sword that was stuck in the stone.
The shirt is ‘moisture wicking’, has ‘fabric breathability’ and ‘good looks on the go’. It goes by the monicker of Rec Tech Performance Gear. How could I argue with all of that? And it is brand spanking new. In other words, there is no stink on this shirt. It may not have been dipped in an oasis of victory, but it most certainly has not been dunked in a stagnant cesspool of defeat.
After buying the shirt I contemplated incinerating my old shirt. But then I realized that I might accidentally inhale some of its ashes. And ingesting some of that foul, ignoble stench seems entirely counter-productive.
So I’m keeping the old shirt in the hope that the new shirt will act an inspiration, a beacon of hope, for the old shirt and help remind it of how good it once smelled. Maybe through its clean-smelling example the new shirt will help its older counterpart find its way back down the righteous path towards victory. By doing good deeds, the new shirt will help the old one correct its ways.
As for my hockey sticks – they of the 'can’t receive a pass, can only hit the goalie in the crest and can’t put the puck in the back of the net' – I was going to throw them out or donate them to the Vancouver Canucks where they would feel right at home with all of the other sticks.
But when I mentioned this idea to my wife and asked her what she thought the shipping costs would be out to Vancouver, she commented “You mean those super-nice, very expensive hockey sticks that I got you as Christmas and birthday presents? Do you mean those sticks?”
I love my wife. And I also love receiving presents. Not being a complete doofus, I quickly realized that throwing out the sticks would be like throwing out the baby (that’s holding a gift in its chubby little hands) with the bathwater as it bites the very hand that gave it the gift. I therefore decided to re-think my strategy and instead re-taped the sticks and then cut the old tape (which had become worn and tired due to the despairing dissatisfaction of defeat) into dozens of pieces and scattered them in garbage cans all across town.
New shirt and new tape. They were definitely steps in the right direction, but they didn’t seem like quite enough.
And so, after much thought, I have decided to go the anti-REM path. I am un-losing my religion. I am going to revert to Catholicism.
Unfortunately I personally have never actually been Catholic, but I figure for this one I can tap into my ancestral roots. Somewhere back there one of my great-great-great Italian-dwelling relatives must have been Catholic. So I figure with my last name and the fact that the church is always looking for new flockers (flockees?) to join their ranks, that they will welcome me and embrace me in their pious arms.
My hope is that, after an hour or two in the church, I will then be able to approach the priest and have him exorcise the curse off of my freshly re-taped hockey sticks.
If by some unfortunate chain of events he’s one of those non-specialty priests who has to call the Vatican in order to approve an exorcism or needs to arrange with a specialist to rid my rods of their demonic demeanour, I'm hoping that the least he can do is bless the sticks, have me say a few “Hale Maries” and then send me on my merry way. If I get some wine and some cookies out of the deal, all the better for me.
But I look at it this way: the Catholic church gets me as a member for a couple of hours; and in return I get to have some holy water tossed on my sticks which will make them great for both generating goals *and* killing vampires. I figure it’s a win-win.
All right, I'm not completely ignorant. I realize that this temporary pilgrimage towards Catholicism may earn me a non-refundable coach class ticket to aitch-ee-double toothpicks, but at least it should help my team's game. And if that’s what it takes, I’ll take the risk and joyously enjoy my time on this beautiful, beautiful earth and walk in blissful, ignorant denial of my eventual fate.
It'll be worth it. Because I’ll be doing it for the team.

Monday, May 30, 2011

Dragons, beer and coffee

(Pity my team that gets these greetings every week. Pity them as you envy the verbacious joy they so unnecessarily receive!)

My fellow Dragons:

Listening to CBC Radio this morning, I was treated to a Bay Street businessman talking about his daily bike ride to work.

(This was after an interview with a bike store owner who basically told potential new-fangled biking-to-work cyclists to watch other cyclists in order to see how many rules of the road they should observe.

In other words: watch other cyclists to see how rude you can act and how much you can get away with.)

All of this in honour of Bike to Work Day.

So this Bay Street dude is talking about his daily two-wheeled commute and the show's host asks why he enjoys his self-propelled voyage. And this banking big-wig big shot replies, "It's good for the body, the mind and the soul."

And I thought, "You schmuck. Did you really say that? You better pray that your boss isn't listening.

"Cuz you need to make up your mind: either you're a Bay Street master of the universe or you're a car-hating hippie. You can't be a friggin' cow-killing meat-munching carnivore and an airy-fairy tree-hugging vegetarian at the same bloody time. Pick one and stick with it, you dick!"

This was my reaction without having a cup of super-caffeinated extra-large espresso coursing through my veins.

Oh, and as a side note to this side note, I also wonder this...

Has there been a study into the effects of coffee on the male libido vis-a-vis how incredibly horny my mid-afternoon coffee makes me?

And if no such study has been done, how do I go about getting a research grant so I can have electrodes attached to both my brain and to my willy so I can drink lattes and watch attractive women walk by?

Because I'm pretty sure some that at some point some Harvard grad has been given the cash to study the effects of beer on your average girl-watching guy, but what about coffee? -- Will two cups of coffee have the same shagadelic-inducing effect as a couple of beers?

Surely I'm not the only one curious about the results. Give me the money and I will find the answers to these unanswered questions! In cash there is truth!!

Hockey-hockey-hockey.

Tuesday night at 9:30 down at rink 3.

We play Very Tired who have won some and lost some but have tied none so we are tied with them in points. One could argue that because we're tied with them and they're tied with the Huskies, that they do in fact have wins, losses and ties -- but since they have more penalty minutes than we do, they are actually below us.

And below us they should stay. After last week's stunning -- I say *stunning* -- victory I figure we're on a roll upwards toward greatness...

("Can anyone 'roll upwards towards greatness'?" asks Dave. "Shhh, you know how volatile he can be," replies Darcy.)

... and I figure humiliating these Tired puppies should be a delicious cake walk.

("'Delicious cake walk'? How can he write crap like that?" inquires Dave. "I don't know," says Darcy, "but his use of punctuation is excellent!")

Tuesday night. Rink 3 at 9:30.

And now, time to do the census. I'm so cheesed that it's not the long-form format that I'm thinking of watching an old Marx Bros. movie as I do it. I shot an elephant in my pajamas! Three on a midget! Yeah, that'll show 'em!

Hope to see you Tuesday night,
Kevin.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

A British Block

It's always interesting seeing a film that has yet to build any buzz.

I don't mean a film that is lying there like a flopping fish that everyone has expressed dazzling disinterest in, but a movie that has yet to tickle anyone's fancy, has yet to become the twinkle in a moviegoer's eye, and has not yet started the publicity machine of the tv spots and the trailers and the appearances on Entertainment Tonight, Letterman, Leno or Oprah.

"Attack the Block" has yet to make its way to our shores in a wide multi-theatre way and is still somewhere on the horizon with its release date. It was therefore interesting seeing it last night without any major expectations or pre-conceptions.

I knew it was British, I knew it involved teenagers who battle aliens, and -- well, that was about it. The rest of it was going to be a surprise.

After seeing the movie I can tell you this without spoiling anything: if 'Shaun of the Dead' had its DNA mixed with 'Trainspotting' and 'Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels', was then transported to the original British setting of Clive Barker's 'Candyman' and was all stirred together with the deadly addition of a vicious 'Doctor Who' / 'X-Files' type monster -- it's offspring would be this film.

One challenge the film may face over here is that the British council housing accents that the young actors employ can be incredibly difficult to follow. I was often thinking "What the heck did he just say?" but you don't expect the king's speech to be roll off the tongues of these characters. And, having said that, the movie rolls along at such a quick speed that the dialogue rarely matters.

At times the pacing of the movie is a little choppy and uneven, and, like "Shaun of the Dead" I thought it occasionally went a little overboard with its gruesomeness, but the audience I was with had a great time.

It will be interesting to see if other North American audiences are as receptive to the movie's charms. Perhaps the appeal of teenagers taking on an evil extraterrestrial will prove to be international no matter where the story is set.

Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Dragons return!!! Mothers rejoice!!!!

Oh I have been oh-so naughty in my abstinences. (Hmm, that doesn't sound right.)

Oh I have been oh-so delinquent in my do-me's. (Nope, not right either.)

I've been bad and I need to make amends (There. That'll do it.)

So, in order to return with a spurt of energy that would make a rabid rabbit revel in wacky wonder, I'm going to post the team reminder I sent out for Mother's Day. Then I can play catch-up (or, as we say in Canada, ketchup) and talk about Doctor Who, The Sex Talk, Xombi, Attack the Block, Thor's day and other all-over-the-place kind of stuff.

Here's what my teammates read the evening of Mother's Day as we started our summer season of Tuesday night hockey.

Ahh Mother's Day: a salute to the women who bring so much joy to the world, while always keeping in mind that you should never be too Norman Bates about the whole thing.

My Fellow Dragons:

I truly and sincerely hope that you've done you're best to ensure that your most beloved ones of the opposite sex have had a terrific Mother's Day. But having said that, I also hope that you've kept in mind that you're playing hockey this Tuesday night.

Preparing an extra special and supremely fancy-schmancy meal for your mom as a surprise treat so she doesn't have to cook -- that's fine.

Doing a special load of laundry for your wife in cold water and set on 'delicate' so that her naughty knickers are properly cleaned -- that's fine.

Wearing the special slave girl outfit so your honey can be the gladiator for a change -- hell, that's fine too.

But I pray to the gods of hockey that no Dragon was out there doing too much gardening and has therefore hurt his back -- because that would be truly unacceptable.

Remember remember remember and repeat after me: "Honey, you know I love you and I will do the dishes, paint your toenails and happily wear the blindfold on this most special of days -- but I gotta play me some hockey on Tuesday and you know I can't risk straining my back! So, woman, I am telling you and I am begging you -- tie me up, tie me down, flip me over and spank me like a naughty teenager from the 1950s, but do not make me overdo the gardening cuz that sweet-sweet siren named "Dragons" is calling my name and I cannot resist her gloriously beckoning song!"

Of course it would have helped if I had sent this e-mail *before* today's gorgeous and potentially hazardous gardening weather, but between my wife receiving her Canadian citizenship, having to supervise my niece as well as my two boys for the weekend and ensuring that today was memorable and relatively hassle-free for my lovely wife -- well, my plate was full to the point of overflowing.

So, I hope your back is not suffering due to this e-mail's relative tardiness.

HOCKEY!!!

Tuesday night we return at the oh so very late hour of eleven o'clock. We're playing Wolfpack 2 -- and I have to figure these guys are inferior sequels to the original Wolfpack. These guys are no Godfathers or Dark Knights; much more likely they're like Charlie's Angels, Lara Croft or, dare I say it, The Matrix and they're merely a poorly carbon copied repeat of a more glorious and awe-inspiring original concept.

I don't always hate sequels, but I already hate these guys. So let's play film critic to their tedious, tired concepts and tear them to shreds.

Hockey. Tuesday late at night.

Hope to see you there,
Kevin.

p.s. - And nary a "mother joke" in the whole e-mail. Shocking. Simply shocking.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Goodbye Bloc

My favourite desperate last-minute political appeal came from Quebec.

Duceppe's question to all of the Quebecois voters was: "How could we accept putting our confidence in people who don’t even speak our language?”

And I think that statement was incredibly indicative of the whole campaign from the parties: it's us versus them, us versus the feared outsider, us versus anyone who doesn't agree with us.

Because for Mr. Duceppe it seems that only French-speaking people should vote in Quebec. Other votes do not, or at least *should not*, count.

And perhaps he's paying the price for that attitude as he resigns after today's election's results.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Harper the Anti Super Warrior

So, like many a fine Canadians, I was watching hockey last night when Stephen Harper invaded my living room.

(Which is not to suggest that watching hockey is what makes us Canadian -- it's not like a citizenship test or a proof of nationality -- but it is something that a lot of Canadians do)

During the game there was a minute long commercial for the Conservative party. Not a short, snippy & snarky ad, but instead an epic 60 second montage that describes the character of our glorious nation.

So this was not the usual "Oh that Michael Ignatieff is a rotten guy, he's not here for you and he's going to raise taxes" ad. No, the purpose of this long advertisement was to inform all the fine hockey-watching folk of what it means to be Canadian.

During the sixty seconds there are many beautiful and supposedly inspirational images of both Canada and Stephen Harper -- all accompanied with some very serious narration by Mr. Harper himself. It starts with the statement "Canada is, and always has been, our country" (and, no, I'm not sure what that statement is supposed to suggest to all of the voting immigrants that the party wants to woo, but let's not get ahead of ourselves) and the commercial then continues like this...



I've watched the video a handful of times since that initial viewing and tugging & unraveling its structure has been a fascinating exercise.

For instance, it's interesting to note that Stephen Harper doesn't make an appearance until the 21 second mark, which is approximately one-third of the way into the ad. Until that point it's only his narration that indicates who and what the commercial is about. Up until that point it's merely been images of Canada, its people and its countryside. It could be a beer ad or a car commercial were it not for the voice of Mr. Harper.

Preceding Stephen Harper's arrival there are images of a hockey game, a Canadian Olympic athlete carrying a torch, and a vintage video of Canadian soldiers -- all of them being employed as a montage immediately before Mr. Harper makes his debut.

(And please note that while most of the commercial is in glorious high-def quality, the hockey teams are kept purposely grainy -- that way there is no risk of insulting any potential voters who might favour a certain hometown team or, be it an international game, risk offending anyone who had a previous native land before their current Native Land.)

Hockey players, olympic athletes, soldiers, Stephen Harper: All accompanied by our current Prime Minister intoning "That's why we're here, that's why we strive, that's why we serve."

It's during the "That's why we serve" statement that we see Harper walk down a hallway and figuratively walk into the video.

And, just in case the viewer wasn't hit over the head strongly enough with his first appearance and the juxtaposition of images, at the 36 second mark he again walks into the video, with his self-narration stating "By turns, a courageous warrior and a compassionate neighbour."

Oh, of course the phrase "By turns, a courageous warrior and a compassionate neighbour" is supposedly part of the on-going narration that is being used to describe Canada -- but at that point any semblance of credibility goes out the window, is kicked to the curb and is then beaten to a pulp.

As I was watched this ad during the hockey game, it was the fact that Harper associated himself with the phrase "courageous warrior" that made me lose it.

I expect arrogance in politicians, but it is always in their best interest to maintain a sense of humility, a pretense of modesty and the illusion that they are just 'one of the guys'.

Harper tosses aside all of that pandering Average Joe mumbo-jumbo with this commercial. Instead, he is a warrior! He is a politician of blinding brilliance and amazing abilities! He is an inspirational action star spurring his troops into battle! He is Superman, Batman and The Mighty Thor all rolled into one! If south of the border they have Captain America, we have Stephen Harper!

He's not a politician. He is our savior.

And at that point and with that realization, the commercial then became something more then a mere political endorsement. At that point, it became propaganda of an uncomfortable and disconcerting nature.

Had I been drinking a beer, I would have hurled the bottle at the television set.

Except that would have meant wasting beer -- which is something that no Canadian should ever do. And it is our love of beer, maple syrup and, most important of all, humility that are among the few things the advertisement does not display.

Monday, April 4, 2011

Stuck In My Head

There must be some reason, some scientific explanation, as to why it happens. Last week it was Paul Simon's "Something So Right" and not even "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" by AC/DC could knock it down. And today it's "Que Sera Sera". It might even be sung by Doris Day. In my head -- somehow I've got Doris Day stuck in my head. Because once it worms its way into my mind it seems to really, really be stuck in their. One would think that AC/DC blaring from a bar as I walked by would be enough to kick the shit out of Paul Simon. It wasn't even as if I'd been listening to Rhymin' Simon that morning -- but somehow he won when put up against the much more anthematic band from down under. I've had "Que Sera Sera" stuck in my head before. It's not a bad thing. But it is kind of strange considering I don't own the song (honest I don't!!!!). Yet, somehow, there it is firmly wedged in for the duration. I wonder if AC/DC could kick the crap out of Doris Day. They couldn't win against Paul Simon. I wonder if they even want to try because I imagine that defeat would be very, very humiliating.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Beating a bully

So Zed told this story and came up with a great idea as we were wandering through the supermarket.

His story went like this...

Imagine that a bully is bothering you, but he's lactose intolerant, so you stop him from being mean by using a can of spray cheese!

"Keep that can of spray cheese away from me!" screams the bully.

"Heh-heh-heh," replies my son.

Such is the mind of my eight year old boy.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Victory. Sweet, Sweet Victory

I've decided: winning is fun.

And it was a week ago tonight that I came to that realization.

Oh part of the fun is definitely just playing the game, especially if you're fortunate enough to be playing with a bunch of people who are a pleasure to spend time with (because I've heard many a horror stories about teams that are driven to madness due to the poisonous actions of a couple players).

But winning is the cherry on top of the ice cream on top of the brownie on top of the Baked Alaska on top of the delicious glass of ice wine on top of the dvd of the best movie you're ever seen being held by your favorite person in the whole wide world who says, "I've never seen this film before, but I know you really love it, so let's watch it together."

That's how good victory feels. And it's even better when you've had to slush through a year of ups and downs and too many losses and yet somehow made it to the finals and then miraculously managed a victory.

Okay, "miraculously" is perhaps over-stating the matter, but part way through the 2nd period I don't think any of us were expecting to pull off the win.

But with minutes to spare in the game we tied it all up. And then with less than 2 minutes to go in the game, we took the lead for the first time.

And even when they pulled their goalie and had the extra attacker, it wasn't even close.

At the end I think we were shocked that we had won. After being behind the whole game and tying it up only to have them take the lead again and again, the go-ahead goal was astonishing. And the victory goal and then to keep the lead until the final buzzer -- friggin' astounding.

Because it had been a pretty bad season for us. A lot (and I mean A LOT) of losses. But after getting shifted from division to division and finally finding (or falling to) the right level, it started to go in the right direction.

And now, a week later, I'm still kind of amazed and thrilled and proud.

I'm fortunate enough to play hockey with a great group of guys. Winning simply adds to the pleasure.

And while it's only been a week, I'm already missing playing alongside them.

Thank god summer hockey, simply the most decadent kind of hockey, starts in a just a matter of weeks. Cuz what's summer -- with the heat, humidity and patios -- without a little bit of hockey thrown in?

See what I mean -- it's a wee bit decadent.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Final Dragons Battle of the Season

(Below is the team reminder/greeting/inspiration/ramblings. We made it to the finals. Joy or disappointment in the next couple of hours. I lean towards joy.)

My fellow Dragons:

The Big One. For All the Marbles. The Winner is Victorious. The Loser is a Loser. The Battle for The Golden Fleece Hidden Inside the Plutonium Piggy Bank in The Library with Mrs Robinson.

All down to this game.

The ups and downs (and down and downs) and the big ups in our last games have all led to this final battle on Sunday night.

And what a journey it's been. Take a look at who came along for the trip: Oprah, Nana Mouskouri, The Kids in the Hall, Debbie Harry, a DiPasquale and a DiPasqua, Sarah Palin, welterweight champ Pacquaio, Yoda, Douglas Adams, Airplane, Dodgeball, The Thick of It, more Kids in the Hall, and Wood Nymphs, Wood Nymphs, Wood Nymphs.

It's been salsa dancing, turkey, a nail in the foot, circumcision discussions, baby seal sweaters, the flu and weight loss, sun tan lotion, humiliation delivered in time for Valentine's, The Big Bang Theory, The Brave & the Bold and the oh so delicious Nectar of the Gods.

Perseverance, enthusiasm and comraderie -- all those helped, too. (And, man, doesn't 'perseverance' have a lot of e's in it!)

So...

The final game of the season. The Division championship.

We're up against the Beer Raiders. We have to watch #16, 4 and 2 and especially #5 who is a cherry picker with a helluva shot -- mark my words, he could cause problems. We've played these guys only once but we beat them like eggs in a souffle. So let's beat them again. And that way, y'know, we then get all the marbles and we can drink our beers with massive joy as we rowdily (but with great dignity) toast to our amazing victory.

Rink 3 at 8:45. Last game of the season. I know that Stan can't be there and that Mike is in New York. Hopefully everyone else is good to go.

"Beer Raiders" . Let's be honest: that is a truly fucking stupid name. Let's take 'em out in Dragons playoff style (and, like whoa, we have actually had style during these playoffs!!) and make them bawl in their beers like a child who just saw their balloon float into the sky, like a child who had their favorite toy stolen by harpies, like a child who has been told that all his bath toys were destroyed in a freak microwave accident -- that is how harsh their humiliating defeat shall be, that is how sad and pathetic their tears shall flow.

"Beer Raiders". Just a dumb name. They deserve to be beaten.



But before I go, for your funny bone, here is a clip of SCTV greatness. The quality is retched, but oh how I loved this one when I saw it more than 30 friggin' years ago. It's especially funny because I too use a hockey stick.

Sunday. 8:45. Rink 3. Get your game-face on, starting... NOW!

See you there,
Kevin.

Monday, March 21, 2011

Of Course You Can't Force a Horse with Water, But You Can Lead Him Down the Path

(This was last week's greeting. We did manage to emerge victorious. Now it is onwards to the Championship game.

This was the team's inspiration / distraction / reminder for the game...)

My Fellow Dragons:

This Sunday we do battle in the semi-finals.

So think not of the Maple Leafs and their semi-feeble and certainly frustrating attempts to move towards the playoffs.

And think not of Charlie Sheen and his self-centred ramblings and self-inflected ruin.

Instead think only of victory. Sweet, sweet victory. Victory that tastes like the delicious nectar of the gods that is poured by wood nymphs who never say "No" and instead say only "Yes, we could try that."

Because the team we will be beating know not of Olympus or nectar or wood nymphs or sweet, sweet victory. The lone time they gained points against us was on October 31st when we chose to graciously cancel the game. And, because they did not show the same class and aplomb, the league saw fit to penalize us and give them two undeserved points.

These were not points earned: these were points unjustly bestowed upon an unworthy adversary.

And for that reason, we shall beat them this Sunday. We shall reflect upon their unearned advantage and then proceed to remind them on the battlefield (or, if you prefer, the 'icefield') that victory cannot be granted; victory can only be achieved through passion, sweat and honour. Their shame shall be their downfall.

(Oh, and we'll also win because their top two playmakers are also their two top penalized players and, on top of that, their goalie is a total hot-head. And somehow I'm somewhat certain that someone on our team might ever so slyly and and with smooth subtlety convince the nutty netminder into taking a humiliating but hilarious penalty that will contribute to their team's defeat. Not that I would ever suggest hassling a goalie -- no-no-no! But their goalie is so quick-tempered that I imagine that he will create problems for himself.

Truly, there is no need to antagonize the goalie; instead, we will merely present him the opportunity to display his over-the-top instability. We will show him the path and he will then willingly and merrily skip along the path and knock on the door of Grandma's House of Stupid Penalties. He will then recklessly race through her home as he strips off his clothes and casts aside his suit of sanity, he will dash into her backyard, and then with complete and total abandon he will joyfully leap into the awaiting quicksand of cwaziness. Cuz that's just the kind of guy their goalie is.)

So, Sunday. Semi-finals. Do or die. Let's have some fun and beat these guys.

Let us know if you can't make it. Otherwise, I look forward to seeing you there.

Game face on,
Kevin.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

The Thuggery Continues (but this time, it's corporate)

I've resisted writing about the Zdeno Chara - Max Pacioretty incident for a multitude of reasons.

First of all, I wrote about the thuggery between these two teams a month ago and didn't feel the need to add to this latest bandwagon's weight.

After all, given the fights, penalties and savagery of the Bruins-Canadiens game of February 9, it could not have been a surprise to anyone that the re-match between the two teams was going to be incredibly physical. Having said that, I don't think anyone could have expected the severity of the physical damage caused to one of the players. It was an ugly incident and I simply cannot imagine anyone not being shocked and repulsed upon seeing the replay of the encounter.

But the thing is this: I don't think Chara intended to injure Pacioretty. He meant to hit him, he even meant to *nail him* but there doesn't seem to be enough history between the two players to suggest that he meant to do serious physical harm.

It was, to all extents, an accident.

But having said that...

If a player accidentally clears the puck over the glass out of his own end, he gets a penalty. If he accidentally high sticks an opponent, he gets a penalty. And if he knocks a player unconscious and gives him a serious concussion and fractures his opponent's vertebrae, he also gets a penalty.

But should the penalty be made more severe because of the resulting injuries? Even if those results are unintended? In short, should the penalty fit the crime?

According to the NHL the answer is a firm and definitive "No". The league spoke to Chara and he said that he did not mean to cause harm. The NHL looked at his record and determined that he does not have a history of being unnecessarily rough and is neither an enforcer or a thug.

Regardless of the injury, the NHL stood behind its standards and regulations and, in effect, protected Chara because players know the risks involved in the game. It was an accident and, while it's unfortunate, these things happen.

And with that decision the NHL wanted the whole thing to go away.

In hindsight one could argue that the refs made a bad call that night. But one certainly cannot argue that the NHL made a horrible call by declaring the case closed as quickly as it did.

For some reason the league refused to see or, worse yet, was unable to see that it had a political and public relations nightmare on its hands. And rather that dealing with it like managers or like professionals, the league went into Tough Guy mode.

Air Canada warned the league that they might pull sponsorship unless changes are made to prevent occurrences "involving career-threatening and life-threatening head shots".

They wrote, "From a corporate social responsibility standpoint, it is becoming increasingly difficult to associate our brand with sports events which could lead to serious and irresponsible accidents; action must be taken by the NHL before we are encountered with a fatality. Unless the NHL takes immediate action with serious suspension to the players in question to curtail these life-threatening injuries, Air Canada will withdraw its sponsorship of hockey."

NHL commissioner Gary Bettman responded by saying the league takes on-ice incidents very seriously, that he and many team representatives feel that the incident was handled properly and that the NHL will find other means of transport if necessary. Basically he says, don't try to bully us.

That Saturday on Hockey Night In Canada Don Cherry explained that the solution to the problem is to change the physical configuration of the stanchions. Which, in typical Don Cherry style, completely ignores the opinion that this was one incident in a major, collective problem. He shows how to extinguish one single burning tree and is smugly satisfied with the result while the forest continues to rage in flames behind him.

Cherry then went on to attack Canadiens owner Geoff Molson for the layout of the rink in Montreal (as if it was Molson not Chara who caused the injury to Pacioretty) and then said "You should be ashamed of yourself" to both Air Canada and Via Rail (and he also implied that the only reason that the two corporations are voicing their opinions is because their head offices are in Montreal). Like Bettman, Don Cherry basically says, don't try to bully us.

It is both amusing and sad to watch both Bettman and Cherry dismiss anyone who has a differing opinion by humiliating them and ridiculing them under an accusatory cloak of "You're trying to bully us. Shame on you."

But the icing on the cake and the moment when the collective emperors were revealed to have no clothes occurred last night in Montreal when Washington Capitals coach Bruce Boudreau rolled into town with his team and told the Montreal fans who were protesting the growing violence in the sport, "If you don't like it, don't come to the games."

Yes, he actually said that. "If you don't like it, don't come to the games."

In other words, why should we in the NHL listen to your concerns? -- If you were *real fans* you would understand that this is part of the game.

He then went on to say, "I don't want to get into a controversy, but what if that was Hal Gill that hit David Krejci? I don't think there would be a protest going on here today."

First of all: if you don't want to get into a controversy, it's always a good idea to keep your mouth shut and avoid saying things such as "I don't want to get into a controversy" because if you say anything after that statement... well, then it's already too late.

Secondly, of course it's unlikely there would be a protest in Montreal if a Boston player had been injured, but hopefully there would be the same sort of outrage back in Boston. It would be the same thing if one of the Capitals was injured in the game, then of course Bourdreau would be more concerned than the Montreal coach. To state otherwise is ludicrous.

But, more important, all of this dismisses the fact that a player was severely injured and people are worried that the worst is yet to come.

Max Pacioretty was taken from the ice on a stretcher in front of an arena filled with shocked fans. It is unlikely he will ever play professional hockey again. Many other players have also suffered head traumas this season. The perception is that this is a dangerous trend that must be stopped. And as the general managers are meeting in Florida to try to figure out the correct response, the fans are left waiting for their decisions, wanting to know what changes are going to be made to make the game safer, and wondering what has happened to the sport they love.

Corporate sponsors are concerned. Politicians are concerned. Fans are concerned. What does it take for the league to also get concerned or, at the very least, convey the notion that there is a problem and they are taking all of this seriously?

Gary Bettman, Don Cherry and Bruce Boudreau have now become the three poster boys for the league's refusal to take any thoughtful action as they thumb their nose at anyone who dares to speak against them. All they seem capable of doing is repeating the drunken parrot mantra of "Integrity of the game. Integrity of the game" over and over again.

Hopefully the league can rise above these attitudes and start to make some serious decisions. Because right now Rome is burning and these Three Stooges are telling the peasants to shut up and just eat cake.

Dragons greetings: time off

(Here is the team's greeting of a non-greeting nature from last week. Due to our playoff schedule, we actually had the week off. Oh what to do on a hockey-free weekend...?)

Dragons this Sunday...

... are not playing.

We've got the weekend off before we do battle *next weekend* Sunday, March 20 at 2:30 against a team to be determined.

I will, of course, send you a reminder about the game next week. I might even mention antelopes in the e-mail; we'll have to see how it goes.

Until then, enjoy your Dragons-free Sunday. And, hey, here's an idea: don't tell your partner that there is no game -- make it sound like it's *your idea* to make the day hockey-free!

She'll say, "You want to spend the whole day with me? You're willing to miss hockey so we can have all this time together? You are so sweet!"

And you can reply "Yes. Yes I am. And you're worth it, my little love pillow."

And later, that night, as she's wearing her especially functional evening gear and climbs into bed, you'll be able to roll over, fall asleep and snore with the satisfaction of knowing that calling her 'love pillow' is something no man has ever dared do before and you will never, ever be able to do again, but by missing hockey you were allowed this one time to get away with something that sounded oh so very stupid.

Isn't that a great idea? -- Enjoy your week off. See you next Sunday.

Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Two and a Half vs. The Fighter

Match the quotation to the person who said it...

Who said "Right, right, right! I mean Sugar Ray was too much too soon. You know, I...I...I needed to build up slow. You know, right?"

And who said "When you've got tiger blood and Adonis DNA, man it's like phuuuew, get with the program dude, you've been given magic, you've been given gold"?

In one corner is Christian Bale's portrayal of Dicky Eklund -- crack addict, washed-out boxer, and a man who is trying to redeem himself and help his brother achieve fame.

And in the other corner is Charlie Sheen -- father of four children, patron of many, many prostitutes and pornstars, superstar actor and a man who is going through the fastest and most public celebrity meltdown since Lindsay Lohan.

Which sounds more delusional, the fictional ravings of a former drug addict or the self-promoting testimonies of a former drug addict?

And if we have sympathy for Dicky (and the portrayal of him earns Christian Bale an Academy Award), is it not time to have sympathy for Charlie Sheen? Or is the car wreck of his recent escapades too recent, too on-going and too spectacular for any kind of empathy?

Watching Charlie Sheen's interview on 20/20 was like peering through a window and finally seeing a world where all the delusions and excesses of stardom are exposed for everyone to see.

And it is a very, very scary sight. Because even though we may have always suspected that these multi-millionaires are incredibly messed up and completely out of touch with reality, it is still shocking to see that the magical wizard is just a bizarre, little man hiding behind a curtain who is not only wearing no pants, but who also thinks that everyone should jump in the pool of craziness with him.