Too much lulling

(For Dan and for the guys on my team.  Hockey team reminder.  Cuz baby it's hot outside.)

 

My Fellow Dragons:

 

I just realized the mistake we've made. 

As we take to the ice this Tuesday at 6:30, we have to turn it around, reverse our mindset, and then quickly move forward.

Our early season strategy of "Lulling the other team into a false sense of security" has gone on for approximately  four games too long.

Oh don't get me wrong: It was friggin' brilliant at the time.  Play with the other teams' emotions, allow them to think the season is all wrapped up, stay in a division worthy of our attention, and then lower the bombastic boom: all friggin' brilliant.

But now it's time to move forward and perhaps win a game or two.

"But Kev, won't that make the other teams think less of us?  Switching our game plan mid-season; won't the other teams question our motives?"

Well, first let me say that I respect your integrity.  Many people would cast aside our early season strategy the way Brad Pitt cast aside Jennifer Aniston with nary a look back as Angelina Jolie beckoned all hot and naughty on the horizon.

But just as Brad Pitt is now fighting fast-moving zombies (and for gawd's sake I hope Dave isn't reading this part) we too have to put the past behind us and do battle against the evil undead known as "The Bandits".

Tuesday night.  Early Tuesday night.  6:30 at the MasterCard.  Please see the various suggestions at the bottom of this email in order to help you escape work early.

Gentlemen, the "lulling" strategy worked early in the season, but it's now time to turn things around.

Please let us know if you cannot make it.  Unfortunately Brent is unable to join us for a couple of games, so we will have to win without him.  I'm bringing Zed to the game, so we are going to have a little book-reading cheering section.

See you Tuesday night.  Please look at previous emails with a six-ish start time for helpful hints to ensure you can leave early enough to make the game. And please see below for various new reasons to excuse yourself from work in order to make the game.

Yes, they call me Mr. Helpful. 

 

- Kevin.

Excuse 1: My dog ate my laptop and I have to take the computer to the vet and the dog to the computer store. 

Excuse 2: My wife just phoned, she's dizzy and I have to take the guinea pig to the hospital. 

Excuse 3: I have to escape and move west. 

Excuse 4: I have a landscape class, it's the best. 

Excuse 5: I need to manscape my masculine chest. 

Excuse 6: My neighbour asked me to look after their dog and I forgot to leave the radio on. 

Excuse 7: The seatbelt in the backseat is broken and I have to save some orphans from a fire. 

Excuse 8: I promised my wife/girl friend/partner that I'd help her with her clean the house. 

Excuse 9: It's cheap Tuesday and I need to buy tickets for my six year old to see "World War Z". 

and finally...

Excuse 10:  I have to play hockey -- Dragons hockey!!

Hope to see you Tuesday night. 

Be vewy quiet...

He looked at me with complete seriousness and said, "When I grow up, I want to be a unicorn hunter."

I tried to match his sincerity when I replied, "That's nice. But you do realize you can't hunt unicorns. They're imaginary. So you can't really kill them."

He then just looked at me and smiled. "That's funny. That's the same thing the unicorn said to me."

Why have a birthDAY when you can have...

(for my hockey team, the inspirational reminder...)

My Fellow Dragons:

In honour of Birthday Week, my kind, lovely wife allowed me to have a three and a half hour nap this afternoon.

(Okay, it may also have been due to me getting up with her yesterday at six a.m. to drive her into Toronto (in the rain) so she could be at work for 8:30 when I didn't have to be in until 9:30.  And it may have been because she then got to sleep on the drive home as I drove in DVP/404 Friday traffic, in the foggy rain, with the sense that a sinister succubus was tailgating my soul the entire way.  So -- nap on the way into work + sleep on the way home = nap for Kevin on Saturday afternoon.  Or it might have been the fact that she has final accepted the celebration known as Birthday Week.)

For those uninitiated and unaware of the wonders of Birthday Week, it is the natural and at times necessary extension of the birthDAY celebration into a week-long bonanza of birthday goodness.

As an illustration, last week my lovely wife and I were at a store and she made a joke at my expense, to which I exclaimed, "Whoa!  Hold it!  Birthday week!  You can't say that!"

My patient, lovely wife then explained to the cashier that it was my birthday on Sunday and somehow I felt entitled to a week-long celebration.  I then explained to the cashier that when one's birthday is so close to Christmas and New Year's that people tend to lose sight of it, Birthday Week is a natural response.

My wife looked at the cashier for support.  The cashier responded quite calmly, "I celebrate Birthday Month."  My wife was speechless and looked aghast at the thought.  

The truth of the matter is this: I believe if you meet the right person at the right time, that stranger's birthday gluttony can make my mere birthday indulgence look reasonable in comparison.  I believe that the notion of Birthday MONTH has cemented the significantly more manageable Birthday WEEK into an annual January event.
Thank you greedy cashier lady for my making my tiny and yet petulant pouts of self-centred egotism look acceptable.  Without people like you, my birthday would only last for a day.

GENTLEMEN...

Alas, today is in fact the last day of Birthday Week.  So on Sunday there will be no reason to service me with the tremendous hockey pleasure I was given last week.

Last week was a birthday hockey present unlike any I have received before: a 11-6 shellacking delivered to our opponents -- a game where almost every player on the ice managed to get a point on the game sheet (sorry Sean), a game where Brent scored six goals and then offered to donate three of them to me so I could have a birthday hat trick, a game where the third period saw dogs sleep with cats, Charlie Brown finally kick the football, defensemen play forward and forwards drop back to defence -- all without causing any kind of birthday, Epiphany-iotic apocalypse.  Well done, gentlemen; well done.

This week we leave the beauty of the MC Centre behind us as we head to the much-much smaller, much-much dingier Rinx 1.

There, on the infamous 'girl rink' we will battle the Jets -- a team that we beat after coming back from a 1-4 deficit to win 7-5.  

Is anyone expecting a victory like last week's? -- oh gawd, I hope not.  I am hard-pressed to remember a previous Dragons victory like last Sunday's game.  I think it's been done *to* us, but I don't recall us delivering such a spanking to another team.  And a six game unbeaten streak? I can't remember that, either.  But as the Cajun French say, "Laissez les bons temps rouler."

Sunday early evening in Rinx 1.  

Mark is out for a bit (appendectomy and then the flu will do that to a guy -- heal up, dude!) but I hope everyone else is in non-surgical, non-vomitous good health.

Let us know if you cannot attend.  

Otherwise, let the non-Birthday Week year continue with Dragons joy!

All the best,

Kevin.

Birthday with Dragons

 (Another hockey greeting for my patient and indulging team.  They were kind enough to take me out for drinks after our dazzling victory.)

My Fellow Dragons:

So I'm sitting at Starbucks, not in the comfy chair, but instead I am perched on a tall chair at a tall table and able to look down upon the other customers and smile silently and smugly as I enjoy my position of self-inflated superiority.

Bob Dylan whaling on the coffeeshop's playlist? -- He can't ruin my mood.

The books staring at me on the bookstore's shelf -- "Why Won't Men Ask For Directions?", "Is There Male Menopause?"' "Why Do Men Leave the Seat Up?", "Can You Have Too Much Sex?", the obligatory shortest title "Does Size Matter?", and finally "How Do Men Think?" -- all try to undermine my undeserved seat of power.  All fail in their reverse-misogynistic attempts to spoil my mood of caffeinated enhanced delight.

Three reasons for my happiness...

1. My eyes are fine. There is no glaucoma, but I should go for another test in two years.

2. The car passed its emissions test and the renewal sticker has been obtained. 

3.  It's just a cyst. Nothing to worry about. Not testicular cancer or anything like that. Just a cyst.

Three friggin' great pieces of news. 

Oh, and, AND even with tomorrow's birthday I will still have my final toe in the much desired 18-49 demographic so every time I watch "The Good Wife", "Elementary", "Fringe" and "Archer", Nielsen is begging to suck the juice out of my much valued eyeballs to confirm their tv viewership for advertisers. So I still have that going for another 12 months.

And yesterday my lovely wife asked what I want to do for next year's first dates/ways to leave your lover/Labatt/shades of grey celebration.

(Do you want to know how fiercely Canadian I am? -- when I was percolating on that list the other day, the number of US states did not even cross my mind. It wasn't until much later in the percolation process that I realized, "Oh yeah, American states."  Adam Sandler, Paul Simon and beer came first. So very Canadian.)

As of tomorrow, I am the same age as Captain Kirk in "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan". And I think that my hair is way, way nicer than the toupee that Shatner was rockin' in that movie. Please don't tell me if you think otherwise; if it's an illusion, it's an illusion I will cling to by its roots.

Because tomorrow is in fact my birthday, but much, MUCH more important...

GENTLEMEN...

Dragons hockey! 

A five game unbeaten streak is carrying us into 2013. Five games of glorious undefeated joyous pleasure. If those games had been beautiful women, each and every one of them would have had a delightful "Oh My!" smile on her lips. 

Welcome to the new year!

To usher in this year of non-triskaidekaphobian wonderfulness, we will battle they of the unnecessary apostrophe, the Zulu's.

Last winter we were in the same division as the Zulu's and then we were moved above them. And (continuing this email's theme of undeserved smug superiority) although we are once again in the same division, we are still above them in so many, many ways:  better looking, better listeners, better at math and definitely more polite and respectful towards both women and young children.

Gentlemen, Sunday afternoon. Down at the MasterCard.

Welcome to 2013. My eyes, my car and my non-Shatner-esque hair all feel like its gonna be a good year.

I look forward to starting it off on the right skate with you.

Hope to see you there.

Dragons' farewell to 2012 (for Dan)

(This was to my hockey team at the tail end of last year.  Dan asked why I haven't written in awhile.  I can never recall whether "awhile" should be one word or two.  So, for Dan...)

My fellow Dragons:

Imagine the heartache and the tremendous sense of loss I felt yesterday when I dropped into my local steal-their-wi-fi Starbucks, only to discover that they had removed the comfy chair!

The comfy chair -- much coveted and much beloved -- gone from the Starbucks!  Replaced by a selection of much less comfortable, much less inviting chairs.

It was as if your favourite girl, she of the beautiful, quirky, crooked smile and gorgeous Grecian nose, had decided to have plastic surgery to correct nature's wonderful imperfection  and make her more common.

(Nuts, I gotta find out what time that comic book store in Barrie opens on Sundays.)

GENTLEMEN...

Sunday night we start the long goodbye as we bid adieu to 2012 and play our last game of the year.

Oh yeah, sure-sure, we gather again in 2013, on my birthday no less, but Sunday night is the last time we will do battle on this side of the new year.

(Because if the comic store opens at noon, the boys and I might be able to sneak a visit in before we head up to my folks. There's nothing I *need*, but there might be something I *want*.)

We will take to the ice to battle the Heat. And I'm torn between an analogy of (a) dowsing their flame, (b) chilling them out, (c) turning up the heat on the Heat, or (d) showing the Heat what it really means to be on fire.

I think I'm gonna stick with the last one. Cuz, holy flip floppetty frig -- and I do not want to jinx it (I really, really don't) -- but we are on fire!  My fellow Dragons, a four game winning streak?  Ummm, that is just deliciously delightfully darn great. Comment tu dis, holy flip floppetty frack!

(Y'see, my lovely wife isn't big on making additional stops on the way to someplace. She just wants to get there, and it stresses her out when we don't go directly to where we are going. Versus me, I figure there is often/usually/always time for one more quick stop. This brings me great pleasure, being able to squeeze one more thing into the trip; she, however, refers to this as "Death by bookstore.")

The game is at Rinx 1. And it is a late night game. So it is 100% understandable if you are unable to attend given the seasonal shenanigans that tend to occur this time of year. Just let us know which way the wind is blowing.

As for me, I'm 50/50 whether I will be able to attend. My lovely wife is in Montreal for the weekend, but my Sunday consists of driving up to Bracebridge for a late family lunch, leaving the family get-together early in order to drive back to Newmarket and grab my hockey equipment, driving down to Toronto to meet my wife at the train station, and then driving to the Rinx to play hockey while my best girl cheers us on.

Oh, and I gotta try to squeeze a visit into a comic book store, too.

Therefore if the planets align, I will be at the game. If they do not align -- well, at least the Mayan calendar was wrong.

So...

Please print out the team list from the truenorthhockey website in case I cannot attend.

But I do hope to see you there, for the final game of 2012.

All the best,
Kevin.

It's Not Large, But It's Good

There's nothing quite like good news when you were kinda expecting it to be good news, but if it had been bad news it would have been really, really bad news.

Especially when it's the sort of stuff you don't want to tell people about because it's probably nothing to worry about but you're still kind of worried about it: don't want to share because it's nothing, but need to share cuz it could be something.

So my lovely wife knew, but friends mostly didn't and family definitely did not.

A couple of months ago -- heck, it was back in November -- I went for a physical. Just to get things checked out, nothing important demanding attention. But then I had to go to another office for blood work and get my blood pressure and such checked out.  Again, no big deal.

And then, in the new year, I contact my doctor to get the results. She hadn't called me, so I figure everything is hunky-dory, but it's always a good idea to follow up.

When we finally talk she tells me that everything has come back fine, but...

(And gawd knows I was not expecting a "but")

... but my heart rate is quite low. And it's probably nothing and sometimes a low heart rate is fine, but given my family history, she'd like me to see a specialist.

My father died of a heart attack years ago (one day at work, leaned over to pick something up and *boom heart attack gone* just like that) so when my doctor says it's probably nothing, I'm still thinking "Umm, no. It's something."

I checked with Stan, one of the guys on my hockey team who happens to be a doctor, happens to be a recipient of the Order of Canada, and happens to be one of just the nicest guys I know, and I asked him for his 2 cents on the matter. He told me that he's seen my play hockey, seen my heart rate go up and then come back down and there I shouldn't worry. It's good that my doctor wanted to get it checked out, but Stan felt that I shouldn't worry.

So I try not to worry.

But getting the bloody referral to a specialist takes a huge friggin' long time; as in, several calls to my doctor's office to have them chase down the specialists that are not getting back to them quick enough for my peace of mind.

Finally I see someone. He checks my heart rate, my blood pressure and also tells me that my heart rate is on the low side of normal, so let's wear a heart monitor for 48 hours and then come in for a fitness / stress test.

And the results go like this...

I do have a low pulse. Average is considered 60-90 beats a minute while at rest. My heart rate is 58-59.

At night, when according to my wife I am snoring more like a banshee, my heart rate is 35.

I happened to be playing hockey while wearing the heart monitor and my pulse climbed to 180.

And when I did their fitness test I was 58 at rest but then my pulse peaked at 166. The doctor also said he was impressed that I completed the whole 12 minutes of the fitness test.

In short, while my heart rate is below normal at rest, it shows the range that they want to see -- low at night while sleeping, goes high during exercise but then goes back to normal. He explained that if a person's pulse is low but is unable to rise with exercise, that is when they become concerned.

Oh and he also said that my low heart rate suggests that I "don't think a lot". I laughed and told him that my wife would probably agree; he then corrected himself and said that he meant I don't *worry* a lot -- that I handle stress well. I'm not sure if that's true, but I guess the heart doesn't lie.

It is strange, having a concern that you can't share. It's probably nothing, but it could be everything. I was worried that the doctor would say something like "Well, it's a good thing we caught this when we did," and I'd be told that it was a lifetime of diet and pills and very careful exercise and eggshell fragile carefulness. Knowing that things are probably okay and not to worry is not the same as being told that "Yep, it's fine. You're good. Keep doing what you're doing and go have fun."

And having that stamp of approval is pretty wonderfully awesome.

So I don't know if I'm big hearted, but I can now confirm that at the very least I am not broken hearted and from the looks of things I am good hearted.

If I Could Give Myself a Title...

A couple of weeks ago I told my team that it was my resolution to be more plodding -- not thoughtful or careful or exact or any of those words of 'precision'. And not devious or conniving or Iago-esque or those words of a 'plot behind your back' nature.

No-no, just more plodding.

But now that I think of it, I'd rather be known as this...

The Prince Regent of Pithiness.

No-no-no, not moaning, complaining, whining or general 'pissiness'.

PITHY as in straight to the point, brief, succinct, not needing three or more attempts at a definition or explanation in order to clarify a point.

But not so arrogant to claim the title of King, Emperor, Heir Apparent or Supreme Ruling Dictator for All Life Eternal.

Oh how I would so like this to be my title...

THE PRINCE REGENT OF PITHINESS.

People would smile and nod in my direction as I walked by. They would offer shy, funny grins of amusement and acknowledgment as we crossed paths, and occasionally I'd stop to tell them a quick story...

Such as the time when my son was 10 years old and we were on holidays and he was asked by a Mexican dressed up as a native warrior if he'd like a picture of a snake around his neck and my son agreed and he then had a huge thick scary snake placed around his neck and I took the photo because I thought it was the man's pet and the snake hissed and I thought "Wow, it's cool how the guy must have de-fanged his snaked because otherwise it would be scary" cuz it was one huge snake and the man lifted the snake off from around my son's neck and he set the snake down and it slithered away towards the jungle and I then realized that the snake was way too big to have fit in the guy's backpack and holy shit that wasn't his pet and I just let this guy put a wild huge thick scary snake around my son's neck!

... and we'd laugh at the quick story and the man on the street would wave and I'd wave and we'd walk off in different directions, both of us feeling enriched by the encounter.

If I was the Prince Regent of Pithiness.

Oh how that would rock my little world.

The Gift that is Toronto Star Headlines

I taught two classes this week, both fairly advanced ESL adult students. It was supply teaching both times, which can sometimes be a wee bit of a challenge because the students are always wondering, "Where's our teacher. And who is this guy?"

So I find it often helps to have an ice-breaker before getting into the assigned work.

And it is at times like these that I just want to kiss the people who do the headlines at the Toronto Star. Because one of the headlines of the print version of the newspaper on Wednesday was this...

Low Blow From Loblaw
Boss Gets Farmers' Goat

First I have the class try to figure out and explain what the headline means. They try to grapple with it and sometimes there are some very interesting answers. One student thought it had to do with low prices because of the supermarket reference of "Loblaw".

And then, as I explain it to them, we're going to translate its meaning because, while it is English, its meaning isn't clear unless you know a lot of idioms.

Idiom 1: a "low blow", which I explained to the class comes from boxing and it's a sports-based idiom. To demonstrate, I have one of the male students come up to the front of the class and we put our hands up, as if we were boxing, and then I jab at his nether regions with a low blow. We then discuss the meaning as an idiom when someone says something unexpected, cruel, nasty and/or unnecessary.

(Oh and as a side note: "necessary" and "occasion" are the two toughest words in the world for me to spell. Big blank spots with both of them. Typing them is fine because spell check will do the voodoo that I can't do, but when I have to write them on the board in front of class, I'm always thinking "sunuvabich you have got to be kidding me".)

After we get the explanation for a "low blow" established, we move to

Idiom 2: which the headline re-words as "gets farmers' goat".

I have the students scour the article to see if there is any mention of a goat in the story (thankfully, there isn't). We then read the first five paragraphs of the article to see if we can ascertain the meaning from what's been written. And the meaning is kind of there, but it's difficult to get past the idea of a *goat* (because the goat has become the elephant in the room) and where is the goat and, if there is in fact no goat, why is it being mentioned?

Finally we get to the idiom and the notion of "getting someone's goat" and, at the time, I couldn't explain the origin of the phrase but I told them it's when someone does something to anger or bother or unexpectedly irritate someone else. As for the definition itself, I was surprised to find this at the website "Idiom and Expressions"...

"The most likely explanation for the origin of this slang has to do with horse racing. It had been a common practice to put a companion animal, mostly a goat, in the stall with a restless racehorse, which was meant to help calm the horse. Obviously, if someone managed to steal the goat before the race, it irritated the owner because it could result in the horse losing the race."

... so now I know (although, that's a more difficult origin to describe to students compared to just having someone come up and then proceed to shadow box them "below the belt").

And then we deal with the pun (although it's probably just a playful juxtaposition rather than a pun) of putting "Low Blow" and "Loblaw" side by side, and then the second pun that turns that second idiom into "Gets Farmers' Goat".

All of this, as an ice breaker with the class, from the front page headline of a newspaper. Eight words turned into a half hour lesson and discussion.

And the fact that the first paragraph of the article starts with "An off-the-cuff remark by Galen Weston..." was just the icing on the cake. Oh, and get this, yesterday's lesson plan supplied by the absent teacher: a worksheet on idioms including "big headed", "pig headed" and "hen pecked" plus so much more.

Low blow, big headed, pig headed, hen pecked, get someone's goat...

It doesn't get much better than that.

When Hockey is More Important than Football?

(When is hockey more important than football? -- When you're playing it, not just watching it! Team reminder...)

My fellow Dragons:

(Please note: there is an important contest near the bottom. Oh sure, you could skip to the bottom, but what about Paul Anka and Gordie Howe? Think about them!)

No comfy chair this week. No Starbucks. No non-existent bespectacled French librarian to be tempted by and then ultimately resisted.

Instead it's an evening of Doctor Who, some gargling and it's "Not Penicillin!" medicine, all because of a dry cough that's trying to loosen up some not-quite-green awful stuff and a sore throat that occasionally feels like razor blades when I swallow.

In other words, an evening of rumpy-pumpy with the missus is probably not in the offering.

Be that as it may, the Dragons *will* take to the ice on Sunday.

And yesyesyes the Super Bowl is this weekend and if I was feeling better I'm sure I would have started with a message about Canada's national sport and the importance of hockey over football and the start time of OUR game versus the start time of THEIR game and how after OUR game you can still manage to have wings and beer in a post-victory celebration and how it's your giant, patriotic duty to play hockey this weekend, and I would have had an attachment of many, many photos of Rosario Dawson to weaken your resolve, coupled with an mp3 attachment that would have had Paul Anka, Gordon Lightfoot and Gordie Howe singing "O Canada" in a powerful and moving Bee Gees-like falsetto.

It would have been an email of such wondrous magnificence that you would have swelled up with manly tears of empathetic hockey-loving astonishment and it would have made the siren call of the Dragons impossible to resist.

Instead it was an "oh poor, poor me, I've got a sore throat and ear infection" egocentric introduction followed by...

Gentlemen!!!

Hockey!! This Sunday!!! At a perfectly suitable afternoon start time that will allow you to play our game and then watch the other game. The Halloween start time of years past has now been karmacally balanced by the start time of this Sunday's Super Bowl weekend hockey game.

Dragons! 4:40!!! Dragons versus Black Dragons!!!!! More exclamation marks than ever before!!!!!!

And don't forget about our first ever, never-before-mentioned, probably never to be mentioned again contest as our "yes or no" summer Dragons get to vote and then potentially win a date with their choice of the sexiest woman in the world.

So far the votes for the Dragons' unofficial mascot Rosario Dawson are astonishingly low, with the surprise front runner being German Chancellor Angela Merkel, closely followed by Betty White and then a feisty third place position for Canadian chanteuse Carole Pope.

Get your votes in! But remember, your vote will be counted only when you accept (or pass) on your place in the summer 2012 Dragons roster.

So your "yes" or "no" to a summer of magnificent hockey will allow you to vote and perhaps win an evening with Rosario Dawson, German Chancellor Angela Merkel, Betty White or Carol Pope. (Contest rules to be cooked up later.)

Yes, the Super Bowl is this weekend and, yes, I am finding it difficult to talk, but wouldn't it be simply wonderful to play a game where there's the potential that I might not be able to speak louder than a sultry Jessica Rabbit-like whisper? Damn, since I've put it that way, I'd sign up myself. Pasquino quieter than usual? That would be friggin' Christmas, Hanukkah and a decade's worth of birthdays rolled together.

And there you are. The aardvark is fine, the meat was not spoiled and it was the taste of a Kit Kat that proved her salvation. So, it's all come together, hasn't it?

Enter the contest! I sincerely hope you didn't skip to the end. Start at the top if you have to.

Sunday afternoon! I'm hoping to see you there.

And apologies for the short message. I'm not feeling quite myself.

All the best,

Kevin

Coveting the comfy but thinking of hockey

(Hockey greeting and reminder...)

My fellow Dragons:

Another Friday night. Another soccer practice for my older son. And me once again at Starbucks coveting the comfy chair.

The thing is this: I don't even like Starbucks. Oh I know that's horrible to say and I risk their free Internet service detecting the words "hate" and "Starbucks" in the same sentence and somehow doing permanent, horrible things to my iPad, but I'm honestly indifferent bordering on dismissive of Starbucks. I'd much rather go to Second Cup, but (a) it's not as convenient, (b) I'm not sure if they have free wi-fi, and (c) it doesn't have the comfy chair.

I don't know if it's a Pee-Wee's Playhouse thing or a Blue's Clues thing or a 'remember that poster from the movie 'Scandal' that was the famous image in Britain' thing, but I like the idea of the comfy chair, I covet the comfy chair, I want the comfy chair.

But I've decided in 2012 to be not only more plodding but also more patient. Like the Margaret Thatcher haters who will wait until she's dead to tramp the dirt down, I figure I can out-wait the two 20-something women who are hogging the chairs and using the word "like" an awful lot: "He said to me, like, 'You can't mean it.' And I said to him, like, 'Yeah, I do.' So he was like all upset and everything." I don't even know if they like the word, but they sure use it a lot.

And yet as I wait patiently (and wonder if I should switch chairs so I don't appear over-eager, but at the same time I don't want to risk someone scooping them up when my back is turned, but if I look anxious there's a chance they'll realize I'm observing them and -- oh my god, I just realized that the comfy chair has somehow become a symbol of my pathetic days as a young man who was perhaps uncertain, perhaps unconfident and perhaps a wee bit desperate when it came to women)...

And yet as I wait patiently, I know that my time will come. Patient and plodding -- that's me. Or maybe it is patient and *plotting* and I'm merely presenting a charade of plodditude? After all, I'm one-eighth Italian so perhaps I'm more Machiavellian than even I myself suspect. Could I be so Machiavellian that even the other seven-eighths of me does not suspect my own 0.125 percent's motives? Was Machiavelli even Italian? I don't care; I'm gonna go with it anyways.

As for HOCKEY....

Sunday night at 10:00 my friends. And as I write that I think "ten o'clock" and as I type this I think I'm writing it because "writing" sounds infinitively more creative than "typing" and I'm thinking about scoring and assisting and winning and all of those things. And if I'm thinking about all of those things as I compose this email, I simply must be *writing* because typing is just qwerty-fying to communicate while this, THIS, is oh so much more.

Oi! Does this guy got his eye on my comfy chair? Oops, he's just been told by his I-guess-it's-his mom that Starbucks doesn't have the hot chocolate that he wants, so he says "screw it". He's now trying to convince her to go to EB Games. He looks like he eats at Burger King / McDonald's / Pizza Hut for breakfast, lunch and dinner and eats his ice cream with gravy instead of chocolate sauce. I will slap his face silly if he even thinks of encroaching on the comfy chair, slap him so hard that his jowls will vibrate in such a violent fashion that a sonic boom will occur. Do not even think of looking at the comfy chair!!!

And with that he leaves to once again dwell in his mother's basement. And I quietly thank god that I'm drinking decaf or I might have got really upset.

Hockey! Sunday night against Shock. I don't know if they are collectively known as "the Shock", "the Shocks" or just "Losers" but somehow we were defeated by them back on December 11th so I think it'd be a wonderful idea to beat them this time. They were beaten by CIP two weeks ago, and we hammered those reprobates last week, so I think it's our mathematical destiny to get a wee bit of vengeance on Sunday. Or is that a wee bit of revenge? Do we 'extract vengeance' and 'get revenge'? Is that the way it works? -- Either way, victory shall be ours.

And so, just as the comfy chair has been mine for the past half hour, so too shall sweet, sweet victory be ours on Sunday.

Damn I'm glad I'm drinking decaf. Cuz can you imagine one of these emails on an espresso or two? Now THAT would be a ride.

Gentlemen! Sunday at 10:00. Send your regrets if you're unable to attend. Otherwise I look forward to seeing you there.

All the best,
Kevin.

Sent from my iPad (and the comfy chair)

No Drive, No Shame

Oscars, Oscars, Oscars.

A couple of years ago my friend Tim and I came up with this test for the Academy Awards and it was beautiful in its simplicity: the question must be asked, how would Tony Curtis vote?

(Yeah-yeah, Tony Curtis passed away two years ago. But stay with me on this one.)

How would Tony Curtis vote? -- Would he nominate a movie that had a German actor playing an American in New York who sleeps with lots of women, shows off his massive schlong but should be pitied because he is emotionally cut-off from the world? --> Tony might *watch* "Shame", but he wouldn't admit to liking it.

Would Tony nominate the actor who played the chimp in the 7th version of a movie that he didn't like back in 1969? -- Hell, Tony wouldn't even watch the movie let alone realize that it was Andy Serkis in an award-worthy performance as Caesar in "Rise of the Planet of the Apes".

And as for the Ryan who was completely shut out for his performances in "The Ides of March", "Crazy, Stupid, Love" and the brilliant but oh-so violent "Drive", Tony would probably get Gosling mixed up with Reynolds, and Tony hated that "Green Lantern Hornet" movie, so who cares anyway.

To sum up...

Michael Fassbender overlooked after *his* amazing year with "A Dangerous Method", "X-Men First Class" and "Shame".

"Rise of the Planet of the Apes" not getting the acting nomination it deserved.

One of the two Ryan's will just have to be satisfied with it being the Year of the Gosling.

And Albert Brooks, so very powerful as the bad guy in "Drive", is ignored. They like him funny; don't like him psychotic.

(Oh and I thoroughly enjoyed "Moneyball", but passing over Albert Brooks or Andy Serkis for Jonah Hill is a real... well, I was going to say 'shame', but I'll just stick with 'letdown'. The guy who starred in "The Sitter" and the upcoming "21 Jump Street" was good in "Moneyball", but nowhere near as powerful as Brooks and Serkis in their movies.)

So, yep, I guess I have to watch "The Help" now.

Coffee and chairs and eyes, oh my!

(the hockey reminder...)

My fellow Dragons:

I'll be honest: what slays me is the fact that he's not even drinking his friggin' tea.

I've dropped Gee off to a soccer practice and I've got some time to kill. So I've headed to Starbucks to grab a coffee and use their Internet and then wander through Chapters to look at books and potentially bump into and then heroically resist the French-accented bespectacled librarian of my childhood dreams.

And as I walk into Starbucks I see one of the comfy chairs just sitting there, waiting for me -- or is it just waiting there for me to be sitting? Regardless / Irregardless, there's a comfy chair awaiting me to be a-sitting.

"Did you throw your jacket on the chair in order to mark your territory?" I hear you ask. No, I reply. Why would I do that when karma had so generously nodded in my direction?

Alas karma (like fate, luck, destiny and my brother's girl friends one, five and eight) is a fickle bitch. And perhaps I, in my Doctor Who t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt and jeans did not seem as attractive to karma and the comfy chair as this pocket notebook writing, tweed-pant wearing, heterosexual-ish Oscar Wilde-looking dandy. He got the chair but I, according to my doctor, have good cholesterol, strong kidneys, wonderful electrolytes and a fabulous prostate!

So screw you, you not-drinking-your-tea bastard. You may have the chair, but I've got a moderately wonderful bill of health that is sure to act as an enticing and irresistibly powerful aphrodisiac for Swedish stewardesses around the world.

Oh and one more thing: did any of you hear the story on CBC radio about the Canadian artist who went to Panama to get her eye colour changed? She got some kind of implants to permanently change her eye colour from brown to green, but it turns out the operation has had the nasty side effect of effectively leaving her blind.

A couple things spring to mind: who the fuck flies to Panama for an operation? Why the fuck would an *artist* pay a doctor in Panama to mess around with her vision and thereby mess around with her livelihood? Who the fuck has eight thousand dollars for elective surgery like this and still thinks that Panama is the best place to go for the surgery? And didn't this candidate for the Darwin Awards ever hear Crystal Gayle's song and take heed of the warning: don't it make my brown eyes blue?

(Oh and as a side note -- my teammate VR said that he heard the same story, but "I didn't actually feel that bad for her though. Is that wrong?" To which I replied "Yes, it's wrong that you don't feel bad for her. But you're right not to. And by agreeing to both of those seemingly contradictory statements, we prove ourselves to be geniuses!!!")

And with that, and finally!, the 21st Century middle-aged dandy has left the Starbucks and the comfy chair is mine!! Karma delayed is still Karma received as she has smiled upon me and my magnificent prostate once more!

(Hmmmm, is Karma a woman for women, too? -- I wonder.)

Hockey! Sunday night!!

We take to the ice down at the MCC at 7:45 against CIP.

No, I don't know what "CIP" stands for, but I'm glad you asked. It could be the "Canadian Institute of Planners". It might be the "Certified Insurance Professionals". But I suspect it stands for "Certifiably Ignorant about Passionately-pleasuring-partners". In my mind they are therefore known as CIP-PP. And that of course is ridiculously close to "See my pee-pee" which is a goofy name for a hockey team (if forced, I would have chosen, CWS, which would of course would stand for "See my Wonderful Schlong") but, hey!!!, it's their bloody team name, not ours.

Sunday night we shall defeat them and silently mock them because we know their Rumpelstiskin-like hidden name and their anti-Casanova hidden shame. They deserve to lose because of their lack of partner pleasuring prowess. And they deserve to lose because I've discovered that winning is tons of gawddamn fun and I'm not about to give up on it now.

Hope to see you Sunday night. Let us know if you cannot attend. I'm now going to leave the comfy chair and tempt fate as I resist the fantastical siren call of the illusionary French librarian of my dreams.

Oh how I love coffee shops that have bookstores next door.

All the best,
Kevin.

The New Year of the Dragons

(for the team...)

My Fellow Dragons:

Sixty-four from twelve equals today.

And I know Iknow IKNOW it has nothing to do with hockey, but there you are.

It's funny. As a child/teenager I was such a comic book/sci-fi geek (and oh how things have changed!) that 2001 seemed like a hugemassiveenormous year in the future. I remember reading Arthur C. Clarke's book (and reading the book well before I ever saw the film) and thinking "Holy fuck. I'm going to be 37 in 2001. Holy fuckedy-fuck-fuck that will be old." And now it's 2012 (and because of Clarke and Kubrick I still think of the year as "Two Thousand and Twelve") and 37 doesn't seem that much anymore.

Strange how the future just... happens. And then it just keeps going. And then, here we are.

Do we get older, or do we just become more like we are?

If I had a time machine, I'd go back, tell myself to buy The Killing Joke page I saw in London, buy another Vess Sandman page, buy a couple more Totleben pages, warn myself that eventually I'd go grey and hair would grow in my ears and advise myself to have as much sex as possible and never say "No" to the opportunity.

Hmmm, come to think about it, I don't think I've ever said "no". Wait -- correct that! There was a friend's wife some 17 years ago and that woman in Vegas 20 years ago. So, yes! I have standards!! Holy shit, I have standards! Yay for me!!!

But enough about all that and the additional ring around my maple trunk...

Gentlemen, welcome to the new year and the return of the most fun you can have on a Sunday that doesn't involve religion, television or farm animals. I'm speaking of course about Dragons hockey!

The Dragons take to the ice at 6:20 in #1.

The final game of last year was against the BLACK Dragons; the first game of this year is against the MAD Dragons. It's like a CFL game where the Rough Riders will win.

After a careful analysis of their past record, I've determined that the Mad Dragons suck and deserve to be defeated. I could go into more detail, but that's the undeniable conclusion of my study and I won't be bogged down with facts. Because facts are for people who refuse to dream of the fictional wonders that they can create and turn into reality. Fact are simple and facts are straight facts are lazy and facts are late, facts all come with points of view and facts don't do what I want them to. And home is where I want to be but I guess I'm already there.

So, welcome to the new year -- a year sure to be filled with all sorts of wonders and confusions and surprises and hopefully the occasional delight.

And heck here's a crazy thought, but with a 6:20 start time on Sunday, maybe we can head out for a beer afterwards. A slightly delayed seasonal celebration of good cheer. Or something like that.

I hope your holidays were the perfect balance of naughty *and* nice. And hope to see you Sunday.

Let us know if you will be unable to attend the game. Otherwise, look forward to seeing you then.

All the best. And welcome to the new year of the Dragons.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?