Foghorn hockey

(the weekly greeting to my hockey team...)

Sunday 7:35 in rinx 3.

That's the time we're playing the game that doesn't count.

It's a freebie. A throw-away. A bootie call of an icy nature.

Allow me to explain...

Because we beat the Screaming Eagles and then the Icemen beat the Screaming Eagles (both games by a score of 4-2) the Screaming Eagles are OUT and we advance to the semi-finals.

And, in the words of Foghorn Leghorn, "That's math, son! Simple math, I say!! You can argue until the sun sets in the east and rises in the west, but ya can't argue with math! Arithmetic!! Sums and figures!! Pluses and minuses!! Tables that are for multiplyin', not for eatin'!! Add it up, son! You can stand on your head and shake your legs until you're blue in the face and red in the bottom, but it's math and ya can't argue with numbers, son! (Kid's got as much sense as a chicken in a horse race.)"

Okay, Foghorn never said *exactly* that, but you get the idea.

So, Sunday night is a play-off game against the Icemen. It ain't a "Do or Die" situation, which is strange for a play-off game, but there you are.

But for gawd's sake don't take that statement as an "Oh, heck, I can skip the game. They'll be fine without me" kind of rallying call. Oh no-no-no. If you miss the game, you might miss the opportunity to ummm, bbbb, win a free pizza coupon. That's right!! A free pizza coupon might be given away at this Sunday's game!!

Sunday, 7:35 rinx 3. Dragons hockey!! Playoff hockey!! Maybe perhaps not likely a free pizza coupon!!

What more could ya ask for?

The smell of napalm and the mourning

I read an article today that said that Jessica Simpson is *still* ticked off at John Mayer and his comments about her in a Playboy interview.

Yes, his comments were amazingly tactless, but at the same time she, of course, can't stop talking about the interview herself.

Busy promoting her new reality show "The Price of Beauty" she confessed that she hasn't spoken to Mayer but "he'll never have this napalm again."

And then poor, sad Jessica complains, "I'll walk into a restaurant or something, and I notice that more men are looking at me, but I feel like they're undressing me."

Now, does she mean that more men than the number before the interview are looking at her? Or is it that more men are *undressing* her than before? Do these men undress her in their minds, or do they rush forward to volunteer to undress her? Does she therefore have more volunteers than she used to?

And how can someone who allowed cameras to film her life for a reality tv show then complain that people look at her?

Clean up. Clean up. Everybody do your part.

There is something to be said about going back to the basics.

As an example...

While camping for an extended period of time holds no appeal for me whatsoever, I can appreciate the beauty of a single night out in a tent: fresh air, the sounds of nature, stars glittering in the night sky. Much like the sport of golf, I can see the appeal, but I just don't want to do it for an extended period of time.

Which brings me to the joys of dishwashing.

Now, I'm sure there were better and more significant moments between my mother and I when I was a teenager, but I remember our best talks -- our best casual chats, if you will -- occurring as we were doing the dishes together. For my mom and me, it was an opportunity to do something together without the outside world (girls, school, work, relationships, 'what are you going to do with your life?') getting in the way.

Maybe it's because the task is so simple and so very achievable that it allows people to work and relax at the same time. The task of finishing a stack of hideously dirty dishes can look enormous and daunting; the sense of achievement some fifteen minutes later can be immense.

The realization I had yesterday was this: my boys, now age 7 and 10, have no idea how to do the dishes.

Somehow they've managed / we've allowed them to completely dodge the dishwashing bullet.

But, when your dishwasher catches fire, all of a sudden the basics become necessities. And all of a sudden the boys get to pitch in.

It wasn't as if they jumped for joy at the chance. There was some surprise and a bit of moaning as they were told to assist in the task. And I know Gee was none too impressed as I attempted to show him how to dry a plate without touching it with his hands. And Zed was surprised to hear that once the spoon hit the floor it had to be washed again and therefore he'd have to dry it again. But the dishes got done and for me there was some pleasure in the fact that the men of the house had cleaned up the kitchen together.

I'm not saying that the boys should help do the dishes all the time. And I certainly do not mean to imply that we won't replace our old automatic dishwasher -- delivery of the new shiny machine takes place on Thursday. (And it's strange to realize that when a person says "dishwasher" we now think of a machine. The term "automatic dishwasher" is almost archaic.)

There is, however, a kind of peaceful charm and quiet smile that comes to me as I think about the boys as they muddled and stumbled as they tried to dry the dishes last night. If I didn't think it would end up with my wife never speaking to me again, I am almost tempted to make one night a week the "Human Dishwasher Night". We would give the machine a break and clean up the old-fashioned way.

I could even ask my mother if she has any dishtowels she could pass down to her grandsons.

Not the best way to clean dishes

This would fall under the "How the Hell Does Something Like that Happen?!?" category.

Our dishwasher wasn't doing its job. Dishes were coming out with a dry, soapy covering. So I decided to get all manly and remove the top arm from the dishwasher and poke the gunk out, replace the arm and then spin the empty dishwasher with vinegar in order to further rid the machine of calcium.

So I'm opening the dishwasher every once in a while to make sure the arms are spinning and to ensure that everything seems to be functioning.

And some water splashes out. And I close the door. And a couple of minutes later I check again. Some more water splashes out. And I hear some snapping. And I notice sparks. And I notice a smell. And then there are some flames. And it looks like there's a fire under the dishwasher. And with that...

Cue the minor, moderately controlled panic.

I tell the boys to head upstairs. My wife realizes that's crazy and we should get them out of the house. She takes them to the neighbours. Out they go. Then with fire extinguisher (eventually) in-hand, we're ready to spray it down. But the fire doesn't spread and puts itself out.

No damage to the kitchen. Everything of a flaming-nature remained contained to the area beneath the dishwasher. An uncertain, cautious sigh of relief.

After shutting the circuit breaker down and making sure no electricity was getting to the machine, I removed the cover off the bottom of the dishwasher.

It appears that the machine had been quietly leaking on the right hand side. The seal on that side was no longer as tight and waterproof as the left hand side. It's slightly rusted along the right side and there was a noticeable build-up of grease on the inside of the cover.

Somehow sparks were caused and somehow the grease caught fire. I guess. I don't know. It's the strangest damn thing. I would never thought something like that could happen: a dishwasher catching fire?!? But searching on the internet after the fact, I discovered that apparently it does happen once in a while. Who knew?

What I do now know is that the Maytag repairman could ride in on his silver horse, hop off, work his magic and declare the machine restored to all its days of magnificent glory -- and we'd still be getting rid of it.

Cuz I may not know a lot of things, but I do know this: once a machine starts throwing off sparks, it's time to go shopping for something new.

The Hockey Scarecrow

I sometimes hang my hockey equipment outside.

And to be honest, it's not as romantic as it sounds.

I would like to say I put the equipment outside because there is a definite need to air it out, but, being a guy, I have never felt an overwhelming urge to freshen it up. I could, to be embarrassingly honest, just leave it alone and let it grow more and more disgusting and eventually cast it aside and buy knew equipment. Much in the same way that bachelors are eventually forced to buy new dishes.

More than anything the equipment gets sent outside because it's good for peace in the family. When my wife says something along the lines of "Wow, does that ever stink" it's a good idea to actually do something about it.

(It's a none too subtle hint along the lines of a co-worker saying to you "So, when did you run out of deodorant?" -- if you do nothing, you risk the other person taking action into their own hands.)

This morning, when I brought the equipment in to avoid the rain, Zed asked if it was outside to act as a scarecrow. I thought that was an interesting image -- my equipment guarding the backyard against aggressive birds and raccoons that were interested in scoring on our house -- and I should have asked Zed to elaborate. Maybe tonight I will.

Instead I explained why it was exiled to the great outdoors and asked if I had ever shown them how sweaty my socks are after I take off my skates. I thought, y'know, just from a strictly scientific point of view that they might find it fascinating to see how drenched with perspiration one can get after a game.

I explained to them that "It's interesting, but disgusting."

And with very little hesitation Gee laughed and replied "I don't like those two combinations."

Now, one would think after years of reading Robert Munsch that the idea of some truly smelly socks would make them at least a little bit curious to touch the real thing. But that is apparently not the case.

Apparently 'interesting' would be fine. 'Disgusting' would be fine. But put the two words together and my boys lose interest.

The King is Dead! Long live the Queen!!

It's been two days since the Academy Awards and I have to wonder if now the media will stop referring to Kathryn Bigelow as "the ex-wife of James Cameron".

There must be some kind of statute of limitations on that sort of thing. After you've been divorced for more that 20 (?) years and your ex-husband has re-married twice, one would think that it's now in the rear view mirror, passe compose, so long ago that children born at the time now have children of their own.

She just won the Academy Award for Best Director. Give the woman some respect.

Oh, and the Academy orchestra playing Helen Reddy's "I Am Woman" as Bigelow left the stage with the Best Director Oscar in her hands? -- well that was just pitiful.

It reminded me of the bit on The Larry Sanders Show where Warren Zevon begged not to be asked to play "Werewolves of London" because the song was behind him and he had other music he wanted to showcase.

And then, while taping, he of course was asked to play "Werewolves of London".

Because Artie would protect Larry, and Larry wasn't very smart. Larry would go for the easy, obvious stuff. And the same can be said of the man behind the scenes who chose the songs for the Academy orchestra.

Into the playoffs

(And what was extra nice was that we won 4-2. And I managed to score. For someone reason, winning and scoring a goal helps to make everything feel better. I'm not sure if that's childish or if it's just life.)

Dear Daring Dragons:

This Sunday at twelve o'clock will be High Noon for the frankly disgusting Screaming Eagles.

Now, you know that I don't like to tell tales about other teams, but the Screaming Eagles are known to go to funeral homes and make farting noises with their armpits.

They have been known to eat beans and cloves of raw garlic for lunch, make dinner reservations at expensive restaurants and then proceed to 'stink out' their fellow diners.

And they are known to make plans to visit your female relatives, send them exotic lingerie in order to build the anticipation and then cancel the rendezvous by texting them!

There are other disgusting things they are known for doing -- having to do with baby rabbits, beetle dung and duct tape -- but describing the horrible scenes of depravity would probably cause you to ralph on your keyboard.

Need I say that we must beat them on Sunday? -- If not for ourselves, but for the sake of our civilization?

Sunday. Noon. Rinx 3.

AND AS FOR SUMMER...

The cost is going to be approximately $275. There are still a couple of players that are question marks and pending and uncertain and other words of a 'maybe yes maybe no'

variety. Therefore the cost may change. But that's a darn good estimate.

Bring a cheque on Sunday. Or do that Interac-esque transfer thing. But do it now!! Otherwise you'll forget and I'll get upset and it will result in someone in tears. And it's tough to play hockey with your eyes stinging and swollen from crying. You know what I mean.

See you Sunday,

Kevin.