Sweet Tea, Barbecue, and Bodychecks

(If you can tell me where I cribbed the subject line from, I will happily set aside beer money to be spent whenever I see you. Golfball Dave is not eligible for this.)

I apologize for the paucity of updates lately, folks–my boss has been working me like mad as a run-up to my going on vacation for 2 weeks starting Sunday. As soon as Sunday hits, I’ll do my best to come back with more obscure insanity and snarktastic commentary for y’all (and a roadtrip diary entry or two from Denver).

Canes take on the Godless Habominations tonight–Lots open at 4:00, puck drops at 7:00. Go Canes.

Toronto Star: Leafs and NHL give blessing to (fictional) gay Leaf

I see nothing at all wrong with this–except perhaps that it’s the Leafs. But that could just be me.

Christy posted this morning about fighting and its place in the NHL. It was short, it was sweet, and I agreed with it completely.

Fighting has a place as a part of the game–but at the same time, it’s not the only thing about the game. This is what tends to get me tagged “anti-fighting” by random toolboxen that are (in my opinion) the hockey equivalent of NASCAR “fans” that go to races just to see multiple-car pileups on Turn 3.

Whatever. If you only want to see a fight, go to a boxing match.

Me? I can take or leave it.

What I can leave are the big bench-clearing brawls of yore. Sure, they’re entertaining to watch on old highlight reels, but they’re kinda pointless.

What I can take–or could take, before the Instigator Rule–is the respect that came from knowing that if you took a run at or used your stick to carve up the face of a team’s big gun, you could expect to have some rough Tyrian justice dished up on you by one of his teammates or perhaps that player himself.

Action/reaction, cause/effect, action/consequence. It’s the way of the Universe, just like evolution. Anyone who blithely bashes fighting in hockey is, 9 times out of 10, somebody who either can’t or won’t see the natural progression of things.

That said:

The day of the player that can’t do anything but fight is gone–that’s an example of the evolution of the sport. A player has to have more than one dimension to his game these days, if he wants to get anywhere. I don’t have a problem with that. What I do have a problem with is the Instigator Rule, which has reduced fighting to a Flowery War rather than a means of primal justice and allowed the Bryan Marchments of the League to waylay others like marauding bandits while the patrolling cops are forced to sit by and do nothing lest they hurt their team by dealing with the miscreant. The current sad state of the League’s officiating crew isn’t helping matters either–but that’s something for another post.

Discuss.

I gave a lot of thought to this post last night while I was at work–and I just couldn’t think of how to kick it off. You know me, always looking for the perfect opener.

I decided to dispense with waxing poetic about the meaning of the holiday and how it’s a time when we should reconnect with family and friends, because who really gives a damn what I have to say about that right?

So I decided to do like I did last year and list things that I’m thankful for this season.

My family. They put the “fun” in “dysfunctional”, but they’re mine and I love ‘em.
Darryl Reaugh. The Mighty Forslund’s old broadcast partner cracks me right up every time I watch a Stars game.

Those crazy kids at Covered In Oil. They doubtless hate me and everything I stand for after this past June, but I can always count on them for a giggle. And honestly?  You have to love insanity like this morning’s post. Comedic gold, right there–especially the comments.

The Hurricanes. That team has provided me with many happy memories (and just as many sad ones) over the last 10-odd years, and I’ve met many many good people (and made several close friends) thanks to them.

Yahoo streaming video. Not that I ever get to watch many games on it (I hate second shift so much, I really do), but when I do it’s always good times. It’s a poor-man’s Center Ice!

Google Video’s NHL page.  I can’t get enough of this, I really can’t. Just wish they’d post stuff from last season, too.

The Chancellors. There’s nothing like watching a game on the couch on one of your rare nights off, with four cats draped over you.

And, most importantly, I’m thankful for hockey–the greatest sport on the planet, bar none.

Enjoy your day, folks–and don’t have too much turkey.

CNNSI: George Michael Sports Machine going off the air after 23 years

Wow.

Where I grew up in central North Dakota, there was no hockey–that was for the big towns, for the Class A schools in Fargo and Grand Forks and Minot and Grafton and Bismarck. It wasn’t for tiny little Class B schools like mine–for us, basketball was king followed by wrestling and football.

After my paternal grandmother turned the rest of the family against the three of us (my mom, myself, and my sister) when I was 12, I was cut off from the purloined cable connection that was my lifeline to my favorite sport.

I had two avenues of redress–waiting for those nights when the atmospheric conditions were just right and I could pick up CHED or WCCO in the hopes of hearing a game, and staying up after midnight on Sunday to watch the George Michael Sports Machine and catch up on all the highlights of the week.

It was all I had. It was how I saw Steve Smith own-goal the Oilers’ chance at a fourth consecutive Cup down the drain. It was how I saw Kevin Dineen make Larry Robinson look like a pylon and force a seventh game, and saw Claude Lemieux turn around and break the hearts of the Whaler Nation in that seventh game. It was how I saw a promising young rookie named Scott Stevens playing for the Capitals and a rookie Devils forward named Brendan Shanahan, who would plunge a dagger into the hearts of Whalers fans in 1997 and plunge it again into the hearts of Caniacs in 2002. I saw a young redheaded defenseman that would become one of the Hurricanes’ tribal elders trading punches with Vlady Konstantinov in Piestany in 1987, thanks to the Sports Machine. It was my hockey-lifeline during those tumultuous high school years, and soon it’ll be relegated to the same place as every other part of my childhood.

Thanks for the memories, George.

I am, however, apparently blonder than Ziggy Palffy (and that is some kinda blonde, yo). I totally forgot that I had gotten my ticket for the game last Friday night, so I sat in the lobby getting all upset for most of the first period–until I got hold of my friend Brian, who sits in 332.

“Hey Brian,” I said. “Look–you’re the only person in 332 whose cell phone number I know. Can you look down in the handicapped section (two rows down) and see if there’s a skinny white d00d with glasses and a mustache and a hat on sitting where I usually sit when I’m up thataway?”

“Yeah, he’s there.”

“Can you ask him if he e-mailed that ticket to me? I’m stuck out here in the lobby.”

“Sure–call me back at the next media timeout.”

So I call him back at the next media timeout. He’s down with my friend Nate.

“Would you like to talk to him?” Brian asks.

“Please.” Brian gives phone to Nate. I ask Nate, “Dude, did you e-mail that ticket to me?”

“I gave it to you last Friday at Chad and Ami’s.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. Don’t you have it?”

And then I looked in my coat pocket, and sure enough there it was–a little crumply, but intact and scannable. “Oh for….I’ll be right up.”

So I got in the door and made the trek around to the Locker Room (the little bar outside 111), because it was close to the end of first period and I was going to meet with friends during intermission (Dave, sorry I missed yer). I totally missed seeing the Serene Master put Erik Cole in a headlock and wind up in the box, but I did see Hands of Feet score that nice goal at the start of the game (thanks to the TVs in the lobby outside the box office).

Got back to my seat shortly after second period started, and IMMEDIATELY joined in with my buddy Tim, who was hailing on that virulently festering pustule on the ass-end of humanity known as Brendan Shanahan. Ripping on him will never, ever get old. I hate him so much more for the way he shit all over Hartford than I do for 2002–isn’t that something?

Anyway. I saw the Serene Master’s second penalty and the exchange that followed:

Master: “Republic Credits will be fine.”
Ref: “No, they won’t.”
Master: “Republic Credits will be fine.”
Ref: “No, they won’t. What do you think you are, some kind of a Jedi waving your hands at me? I’m a referee, mind tricks don’t work on me! Only an eye chart.”
Master: (as he goes to the box) ….

There was one pretty flagrant boarding of…..Whitney? I want to say it was little Ray-Ray, but I’m gapping. But it was funny seeing His Serenity look at the ref and say “This isn’t the defenseman you’re looking for”–and the ref, of course, just said “You can go on about your business. Move along, move along.” I decided, at that point, that the wise course of action was to leave my coat on and remain “incognito”. The guys behind me were getting drunker and more irate, and I didn’t want to wind up having a beer shower (or worse).

Overall, the game was fun. My freaking right leg felt like it was having a blowtorch held to it while electrified needles were being jammed into my skin, but I still had a good time (even if I did feel monumentally stupid for forgetting that I had the damn ticket. Oops).

Request for Canesvision: After each goal, please play the following snippet from “Don’t Bogart That Joint” by Little Feat:

“Rrrrrrrroll me another one,
Juuust liiiike the other one…..”

Because really, that would be very cool.

edit: Since I don’t have a big neon sign for benefit of The Chief, here’s a link to the blog’s concordance: http://acidqueen.projectremains.com/glossary/

Added a couple new folks to the blog:

Wild Puck Banter — Hockey rappin’ from the Land O’ Lutefisk err Lakes

Paperwhites In Season — Magnolia Mer talks about lots of things, including hockey.

Carolina Blue Line — A new blog, from a Caniac in the Durham Militarized Zone.

Give them links, give them love, give them a warm welcome. By the way, for those folks who’ll be heading to the RBC for the game tonight: I’m going to be up in 332 with some friends of mine, and pry down in that little bar by 111 during first intermission with some other friends. Feel free to come say hey.

Greetings from a fellow Nodak to the folks that meandered over hmyah from the message boards at siouxsports.com. Enjoy the blog, and hope y’all stick around a while.

Anyway. A comment was made to me in my previous post about Amerind/First Nations/Native American team names that I would like to cover in more depth:

Justin Bryant said:
There’s another way to look at this. Not all natives are honored by teams using names such as Sioux, Seminoles, etc. Here’s a short analogy to explain why:

Say you were promised a promotion and a big corner office at work. Then your boss reneged at the last minute, gave the promotion and office to someone else. But then he tells you that he’s naming the break room in your honor. You wouldn’t be at all insulted? You wouldn’t think, “If you want to honor me, treat me fairly and with respect, not the window dressing of an empty gesture?”

That’s why your Vikings analogy, while funny, is not relevant. Vikings were never systematically oppressed, slaughtered, cheated, etc.

I know I’m being Mr Serious No Fun Guy here, but is it really so hard to see why not all Natives see it as an ‘honor’? And by the way, the implication seems to be that “they” don’t mind. This is certainly not entirely true. Here’s the position taken by The American Indian Movement:

http://www.aimovement.org/ncrsm/

I ripped off a short response, but I wanted to reheat this a little bit because I feel that this analogy blows more chunks than a drunk supermodel.

First: This analogy assumes that the corporate culture at the fictional company has been exactly the same the whole time the fictional employee has been there–in other words, it completely ignores the passage of time and the changing of minds by other people in the company, just as it ignores the passage of time and the changing of minds by people here in the United States. It blames the innocent for the sins of the guilty, in other words, and that is something that won’t fly with me.

Second: This analogy also assumes that the US Gubmint still patronizes and marginalizes the American Indian, which I disagree with. They’ve moved on to other things like hauling off the random innocent person who happens to be Muslim, turning a horrific national tragedy into a latter-day Reichstag Fire, invading countries for their oil, strip-searching travelers that wear t-shirts with benign sayings because those sayings are in a foreign character set, and telling four-year olds that they can’t get on airplanes because they’re turrists. They no longer have the time to devote to marginalizing and patronizing the last group of people to be recognized as citizens.

Third: Universities and colleges are not arms of the federal government. This gets back to my above statement. The states are responsible for their institutions of higher learning, whether they receive any sort of Federal funding or not.

Fourth: My analogy is not wrong, especially after I hear a customer telling me (after I told her what my belief system is) that she thought I was Christian because I display what are seen as Christian values (you know, trying to treat people with respect, being honest, working my ass off, all that–stuff that my ancestors placed great stock in. Read the Eddas if you don’t believe me)–my Norse ancestors have been maligned as barbaric savages who bathed in blood and had no morals whatsoever, because of the guys that raided Lindisfarne and other such places. Sound a little like how the American Indian was painted for years and years because they defended their homes and lands from invaders? Yeah.

Fifth: The American Indian Movement, though I respect them and their goal of empowering the American Indian to stand on his own and rise out of the hole that past Administrations dug for him, does not speak for all Native peoples. Using them as the sole end-all/be-all authority on this subject doesn’t do much to impress or sway me, especially since I feel that in this matter they’re not taking into account the wishes or feelings of those Native people that may not agree with them–you know, that whole patronization thing.

Sixth: I maintain that this campaign is even more demeaning to Native Americans than the mascots themselves are supposed to be, because it’s mostly led by the White Man–and excuse me, but last I checked quite a few tribes (like the Lakota (Sioux), the Cherokee, the Illiniwek, and the Seminoles) were heirs to a proud warrior tradition. They are strong people who can fight their own battles, and they don’t need some bleeding-heart cracker with White Guilt patting them on the head and saying “There there, you poor oppressed person. You just don’t understand how this is demeaning to you so I’ll go wage your wars for you.” That, to me, is FAR more offensive than a team being named for an Indian tribe–especially since one of those tribes (the Seminoles of Florida) has been quite vocal in saying “We’re not offended, so all y’all can just step the hell off” only to be ignored by activists who are–more often than not–white.

And if THAT is not demeaning and patronizing, I don’t know what is.

Paul Kukla commented in passing about a massive print/billboard/bus wrap campaign in the Toronto Metro Area:

I’ll let Paul’s entry speak for itself and just say this:

If the Toronto Maple Leafs win the Stanley Cup at any time while Chairman Mo is coach, I will personally don a Bates Battaglia Leafs jersey, dye my hair blue and white, paint my face blue and white, change my licence plate to GOLEFSGO, decorate my car in every bit of Leafs paraphernalia I can find, and drive down Capital Boulevard and through downtown Raleigh at high noon while blasting whatever Leafs fight song the Great Helmsman himself selects for me. Not only that, but I will have a friend along to record the experience and post it to YouTube for your viewing pleasure.

Seriously.

Rather than violate a moratorium that I implemented at the start of the season (mostly because I don’t want to have to drop a bug-bomb in the commentbox to get rid of the trolls that such a post would attract), I’m going to talk about something other than last night’s debacle:

A trade.

After taking a look at the trade that the Ducks and Flyers made yesterday, I got to thinkin’.

The ‘Canes need a defenseman–preferably somebody young and less of a liability than Avi Tanabe. Given Paul Holmgren’s penchant for trading away talent and potential in exchange for garbage (or, in the case of yesterday’s trade, trading for a cat who’s on the IR), I bet we could send Avi to Philly in exchange for, say, Joni Pitkanen. If we wait six weeks we might be able to get Jeff Carter, too. Then mebbe we can flip Carter to another team for another defenseman.

(What? Why are you all looking at me like that?)

Some folks ’round these parts are salivating at Gagne, but really we need defense more than we need forwards. How about this:

To PHI: Avi Tanabe + ‘07 draft pick

To CAR: Snatch Joni Pitkanen + Freddie Meyer

I dunno, I kinda like that. Give up a defenseman and a draft pick for two defensemen? I bet we can hoodwink Homer into making that trade–though I’m sure he’ll try to get us to make some boneheaded trade like Erik Cole + Kevyn Adams for Mike Rathje + Derian Hatcher or something.

It’s worth a shot.

CNNSI – Federal Judge grants preliminary injunction to University of North Dakota, NCAA battens down hatches for fight.

Ohboyohboy, isn’t this going to be interesting. The PC Police are, of course, all up in arms about this–but Sioux fans like me are pretty happy, as are fans of Alcorn State, Felony Florida State, Central Michigan, Arkansas State, Illinois, University of Utah, and a whole raft of other schools that have First Nations (or, for those of you south of 49, Native American) mascots.

What’s funny is that the tribes that have said “Hey, we don’t mind because they’re showing us respect”–like, for example, the Seminoles of Florida, the Utes of northern Utah (which, by the by, is where Salt Lake City and the University of Utah are located), and the scattered bands of Sioux in North Dakota and (of ALL places) Minnesota that have said they have no problem–are being ignored in the great rush to be offended.

I’m having so much trouble wrapping my brain around this, seriously. If I were part Lakota, I seriously think that I’d be honored as a fan by UND having the Sioux nickname, especially since UND has tried hard in recent years to promote a better understanding by their athletes of where the name comes from and the history of the people that bear the name. I don’t think my ancestors would give a damn, were I Lakota–after all, UND’s hockey team has been a very strong program for many a year and they’ve done fairly well in other sports too. Surely if they objected, then UND wouldn’t amount to anything in any sport at any time, ever.

But what do I know, right? I’m just some cracker in North Carolina whose Ojibwe blood can only be measured in tablespoons. Not like I grew up a stone’s throw from an reservation or have kin who have had to put up with the systematic bungling of Native affairs by the federal gubmint for the last 150 years. Not like I witnessed the results of that bungling firsthand or anything. No, I just don’t know anything about the travails of the Native Americans.

I’m also the King of Siam.

I can see changing names like “Redmen” or “Savages”. That, I can see. But “Seminoles”? “Sioux”? What, are these tribes ashamed of their names all of a sudden? How the Hel does having that name demean somebody or perpetuate a stereotype? When I see “University of North Dakota Fighting Sioux”, I think of warriors that kicked the shit out of some idiot that finished dead freaking last at West Point and fought tooth and nail to keep from knuckling under to a bunch of armed bullies. I think of a proud people, a people that need to call upon the might and main of their ancestors and fight tooth and nail to get out from under the burden that’s been repeatedly jackhammered down on their heads by numerous US administrations that couldn’t honor a treaty to save their souls. That’s what I think of. I don’t think of poverty and drunkenness and nasty-ass gubmint cheese. I think of pride and strength and honor. That’s what I think of, and maybe it’s time for other people to think of that too.

Here’s an idea:/p>

Maybe I should file a protest with the NFL over the existence of the Minnesota Vikings. I, as an American of Scandinavian descent, object in the strongest possible terms to my ancestors being painted as nothing but a bunch of barbarian raiders that sacked and burned monasteries for loot, provided some extra spice to the genebase of the Russian people, traded all over the place, pioneered such concepts as equal rights for women, formed the world’s oldest standing legislative body, and discovered North America long before some Vespa-riding espresso-sipping pizza-eating Spanish-financed Italian did.

AND FURTHERMORE, as a peripheral descendant of that Vespa-riding espresso-sipping pizza-eating Spanish-financed Italian, I also object in the strongest possible terms to a team whose name implies that my people didn’t discover the New World first. How dare the NFL insult and oppress the Nordic AND Italian peoples like that by allowing one of their teams to have the name “Vikings”!

So what’s in a name? Six of one, a half-dozen of another.

Because, really, if I’m Rod Brind’amour I really like having a defenseman on my team whose idea of playing defense is to keep his teammates from getting to the net.

I think the ship has sailed on ol’ Snuggles, I really do. In fact, I think the ship sailed on him about three years ago. We could ship him to Tampa for Andy Delmore and get better defensive play–and when All-Star Andy is an upgrade, you know you’re in trouble.

If somebody can get me video of that hit from the Pens’ broadcast so I can lay this track over it, I’d be appreciative.

Tell me this is a joke, Coach.

I can dig on not wanting to be all goony and stuff. That, I can see.

But no fighting period?  Errr….Lavi, why not just put up a sign saying “OPEN SEASON ON THE HURRICANES”?

If I’m Bob Hartley, I’m salivating at this. Seriously. If I’m Derian Hatcher, I’m looking at this as a license to cheapshot everybody wearing the Sightless Eye–because that’s how Lavi’s comment will be interpreted by everyone even though anyone with half a clue knows that one doesn’t have to chuck knuckles to be physical.

(Cue the hockey equivalent of NASCAR fans in 5…4…3…2…1….)

So I’m pokin’ around Kukla’s a few minutes ago, and I see the following header:

Fans Not Showing Up In Boston

And then I clicked this here link to the Toronto Globe and Mail’s “Globe On Hockey” blog, where I read an entry by Tim Wharnsby. Now, I will be fair–I read it with an open mind, hoping against all hope that it would be free of the usual digs at all of us unworthy bumpkins who don’t deserve a team because we’re south of Fort Wayne, Indiana.

Those hopes took a bit of a hit when I saw this little gem:

It’s sad to see one of the pre-expansion six teams not only struggling on the ice this season, but at the gate. Attendance is down approximately 12 per cent for the Bruins this season. They have averaged 14,385 this season, which is way down in 24th spot in the league.

That’s an area occupied by teams like the Phoenix Coyotes, Chicago Blackhawks, Washington Capitals, New Jersey Devils, St. Louis Blues and New York Islanders.

But, of course, Chicago is listed in there (and they’re an O6 team) so I decided that perhaps he wasn’t trying to be an ass.

Señor Wharnsby then goes on to say that the Bruins’ perennial post-1990 loserdom combined with the recent successes of the BoSox and Patriots are what are keeping fans away (the 1999 crack amused the piss out of me, btw–Malik Effect, anyone?)
OK, I can dig that. But if he were writing about a team like (por ejemplo) the Thrashers, would he be as charitable toward them as he’s being toward the Bruins? A snowball has a better chance of surviving in Muspelheim, in my opinion–but of course, that’s my opinion.

(very late note: It should be pronounced like Strongbad pronounces “The Cheat”)

And he’s back on Ye Olde Blogrolle, too.

Welcome back from Niflheim, mang.

NHL’s Shawn Roarke names the top 10 current captains

..and look at who’s in the #1 spot.

10 Quatloos sez his inbox has exploded from the deluge of hate-mail from bitter Sabres fans and moronic Devils fans.

Jiri,

You don’t know me, and I certainly don’t know you. I still harbor a bit of a grudge over 2002, but that’s mostly because I know Tommy Westlund and count one of his brothers as a friend. But I’d like to set any partisanship and grudge-holding aside for a moment and talk to you about this very brief article from Ted Kulfan of the Detroit News.

In it, you talk about coming back despite damn near dying of a congenital heart defect while on the bench. I can respect your will and your determination, but the odds are not in your favor. Given the retirements of Steve Konowalchuk and Greg Johnson for similar heart conditions, I respectfully submit that you should consider doing the same thing and filing those retirement papers tout suite.

How old are you, 26?  Why do you want to risk your life like this?  Getting cut with a skate blade is one thing. Getting smacked in the grill with a stick is one thing. Getting rammed face-first into the boards is one thing. But you almost died, son! Didn’t your life pass in front of your eyes that night against the Preds?  Didn’t you see the blonde spear-wielding chick buzzing your bench waiting to haul your ass off to Valhalla while the EMTs and Don VanMassenhoven were frantically working to keep you alive?
You got a second chance that night, bubba. You’ve fought and won numerous battles–now it’s time to hang up the battle-gear and turn to new endeavours. You’re a smart fellow, so why not go to university like you’ve always wanted to? I’m sure a sharp cat like you could easily get a nice degree and be successful somewhere. Turn your attention to your family. Have some kids and watch ‘em grow up. Maybe they’ll turn into hockey players like their dad, and bring home a Cup or two to share with you.
I don’t expect you to listen to me–but I would hope that you’ll listen to your heart and do what’s best for you…and as much as it pains you to hear this (and pains me to say it), hockey is no longer it.

Respectfully,

The Acid Queen