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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.