I apologize for being so quiet, friends, but I took an arrow to the knee.
Oh wait, wrong game. I’ve been deep in the embrace of Star Wars: The Old Republic since mid-December. Will be back as soon as I get to 50 with my Imperial Agent.
(apologies to Dives and the other folks from Wipe Club. This transcript also may or may not reflect actual game events)
Maurice: Odd groups got left. Even groups got left. That means 1,3,5,7; left. 2,4,6,8; right. 7 & 8 are Devils groups.
Maurice: OK listen the [censored] up. We are going to skate very very slowly–and by slowly, I mean [censored] slow. If you take a penalty, it means that you are going to lose 50 DKP, because you didn’t know what the [censored] to do. *looks over at defence* And watch the [censored] puck!
Francis: If you get shoved into the Devils bench, you’re going to lose 50 DKP again because you weren’t wherever the [censored] you were supposed to be.
*murmured question from LaRose*
Rowe: There is no playoff reset. There’s some [censored] about a playoff reset when people don’t know how to manage their game. After the first two faceoffs, then you can start taking shots on him–assuming you know how playoff games work, and you don’t overthink.
(later, during the <s>raid</s> game….)
Maurice: (after calling time-out in the first) OK, rush him, shoot on him, then during period 2 we’re going to take as many shots on him as possible. You want to even the score as fast as possible. Have your shot totals up every time, four lines, play through your pain…
(during 2nd period)
Maurice: Crash the net, hits, take the body! I don’t see enough shots! More shots!
(30 seconds later)
Maurice: Come on, more defensive shell! Hit ‘em like you mean it! You’ll have time to rest before Period 3 while I try to come up with a better gameplan.
(during 2nd intermission)
Maurice: Remember to use all of your playoff-prolonging abilities. Feign Death, Vanish, [censored] Fade…anything that you can use to reset the playoffs.
*Rowe and Francis look at Maurice like he’s lost his mind* *players stare blankly*
Maurice: With 40 seconds left, you will stop shots–until then, more shots. More shots, more shots.
Maurice: Come on, more shots! *3 minutes later* K, stop shots.
Maurice: Take that, Brodeur!
*guys on bench wonder wtf they’ve gotten themselves into*
Maurice: Staal, run to center ice! Cole, run to center ice! Ruutu, center ice! Babchuk, center ice! Seidenberg, center ice! Whatever the [censored] you do, do NOT stand next to other people! *players roll their eyes and spread out* Staal, center–just take the faceoff.
*Rowe facepalms, Francis whistles idly, McCarthy sits in the booth, palm over face, thinking “Some blogger is going to have a field day with this tomorrow.”*
Maurice: Go away from their bench, Staal! Watch the puck!
Francis: Babchuk just got shoved into the Devils bench.
Maurice: WHO THE [censored] WAS THAT?! BABCHUK? WHAT. THE [censored]! LEFT SIDE! EVEN SIDE! MANY DEVILS, NOW, HANDLE IT!
Maurice: [long stream of expletives] THAT’S A [censored] 50 DKP MINUS! WHAT THE [censored] WAS THAT [censored]?! If you stand in the right place, there is no [censored] way that you will end up into the goddamn other team’s bench! Whatever hits, [censored] blocker swipe, whatever the [censored]! It’s like one in a [censored] million! From the left faceoff circle, into center ice, into the [censored] Devils bench, it’s not even remotely imaginable!
And I would about say that sums up last night’s game, which I had the displeasure of listening to while going on a Naxxramas raid. Original Wipe Club raid wipe coverage Here–warning, it’s not work-safe.
Yes, this is kinda lame. But since the ‘Canes didn’t bother frellin’ showing up last night, I can’t be arsed to post anything decent for them today.
Wednesday night after I got home from watching the Rangers game, I sat down and joined the I’m Not A Puckbunny podcast crew along with Stars blogger Cat (from Untypical Girls) for a playoff preview.
I get zinged a time or two, I contradicted myself at least once because I suck at extemp speaking, and I almost made Finny fall off her chair with a zinger on that jugheaded Italian boy Jason Spezza.
And I also asserted that, even though I’m married, I’m certainly not dead.
I’ll be trying to find someplace to go watch Devils-Rangers Game 2 tonight, just so I don’t have to hear the Caps-fellatio that will be occurring on Versus.
I can’t bag on Versus too much though–they will be showing Game 3 of the Rangers series on Sunday, and they’ve got a pretty cool playoff promo:
Give ‘em Hell, Harry.
This is Chancellor Merlin Liao. Merlin is often referred to in our house as “Der Führer”, because he is….well, he’s der Führer. He is the smallest of our cats, and along with that runtiness comes an inversely proportional sense of entitlement and extreme bossiness. Merlin runs the house–he tells us when it’s time to go to bed, he tells us when it’s time to feed the cats, he tells my husband when the TV is too loud and interrupting
me when I am trying to sleep his beauty rest, and so on. You get the picture.
Merlin, like all cats, doesn’t like it when you don’t accept his rule over the household (specifically, he doesn’t like it when my husband doesn’t accept his rule over the household–I, on the other hand, make sure to pay the Pet Tax regularly and feed him twice daily; which mollifies him). So what he will do is wait until the offender falls asleep–at which point he will hop up onto the bed and camp by the target’s head…and he will wait until he is sure that the target is fast asleep.
Then he will growl, camp his front paws on the offender’s head (with his very sharp little claws out), and start pulling on the target’s hair while asserting his status as the true ruler of the house–rather than, say, as the de jure ruler of the house, which is Maximilian’s job.
We call this a “Merlin hat”, and the recipient becomes the object of much derision. Only once have I been the recipient of a Merlin Hat, because I decided to ignore Merlin’s requests for payment of the Pet Tax in favour of getting some sleep. My husband, on the other hand, can count on “getting the Hat” at least thrice weekly.
I had the next day off, so I was up late one night playing WoW while the hubby was at work. He called home.
“Merlin did something very strange last night…”
What did he do?
“Well, I was asleep, when Merlin hopped up on the bed and ran up by my head.”
I sense that this is going somewhere….
“He stared at me for a few minutes, and then he did the strangest thing.”
And that was?
“He growled, and started pulling my hair with his teeth. Then he started humping my head.”
*peals of laughter*
“What’s so funny?”
You got skullfucked by a *cat*?
“It’s not funny.”
No, it’s not funny. It’s hysterically funny! You got skullfucked by a cat?! *falls out of chair laughing*
*husband hangs up*
Why do I tell you this story? Because Merlin has also been known to give somebody the Hat after being humiliated (like when somebody laughs at him or bounces him off the bed), or just on general principle (so that the people know who’s boss or because he got the drop on somebody).
To put this in hockey terms:
So now if you hear me talking about “giving somebody/some team the Hat”, I am referring to this.
And, as proof, I present to you the “Monty Python” dream I referenced on today’s e-maul to NHL Live:
(note: this was back in August of 2005. Thus the pre-Cup Hurricanes)
[Hurricanes are driving down Wade Avenue in a minivan. WALLY, BOB, and SKIP are clapping coconuts together, yadda yadda]
A. WARD: And that, my captain, is how we know the Lightning to be Stanley Cup Champs.
BRIND’AMOUR: This new learning amazes me, Wardo. Explain again how the Left-Wing Lock may be employed to prevent scoring.
A. WARD: Oh, certainly, sir.
HEDICAN: Look, guys!
[The Hurricanes see the RBC Center in the distance]
WALLY: It’s only a model.
BRIND’AMOUR: Shhh! ‘Canes, I bid you welcome to your new home. Let us ride… to Camelot!
[Cut to the ice at the RBC Center, chorus line of Hurricanes players bursts into song]
We’re knights of the round table
We dance when e’er we’re able
We do routines and chorus scenes
With footwork impecc-able.
We dine well here in Camelot
We eat ham and jam and spam a lot
[shots of Hurricanes players in full gear dancing, cut briefly to Scott Stevens in the penalty box clapping]
We’re knights of the Round Table
ur shows are for-mid-able
Though many times we’re given rhymes
That are quite unsing-able
We’re opera mad in Camelot
We sing from the diaphragm a lot
[tapdancing, Niclas Wallin performing a little drum solo on several players' helmets before clocking Stormy over the head]
In war we’re tough and able
Between our quests we sequin vests
And impersonate Clark Gable
It’s a busy life in Camelot
ZIGOMANIS: I have to push the pram a lot.
[cut back to the minivan]
BRIND’AMOUR: Well, on second thought, let’s not go to Camelot — it is a silly place.
[Minivan drives off]Canes take on the Wild tonight at the RBC Center. Come on out and have a good time.
…the wierd, of course, turn pro.
Or in my case, they turn to Paint Shop Pro.
Somebody on letsgocanes had posted a picture of Cory Stillman from the Great Cup Run of 2006. I took one look at that picture and was seized by a sudden burst of inspiration. After about 15 minutes (most of which was spent looking for the proper hat and sword), this is what I came up with:
“Yarrr, where be the wenches?!”
Yeah, we’re still in first in the SE (for now) despite tonight’s frustrating-as-hell loss. This storm will pass, my friends, and we’ll be steppin’ large and laughin’ easy again soon enough.
Yeah, so over at the FanHouse there’s a post from Jes Golbez about the Red Wings’ little planecrash the other day.
I say “little”, because they went off the damn runway at like 5 MPH. That’s it. The pilots cut it a bit too close when making a turn, and one of the wheel assemblies went into the grass like The Stig in a wingless Koenigsegg CCX (though not nearly as fast and with fewer divots being thrown about).
Note that nobody else really talked about it. Why? Because it’s not like the plane went plummeting out of the sky or anything–that would be some serious business, and the only person on the planet who would point and laugh would be some embittered loser on USENET. Not even I would wish that on the Red Wings, and I loathe that team the way a Yankees fan loathes the Red Sox. What they did was the equivalent of Cory Stillman’s airbag deploying after he slid into a pole coming out the RBC lots one day after practice. It was something that was scary at the time, but when you look back on it you can giggle because nobody was seriously hurt or killed.
Jes, of course, poked fun at it in that “Oh man, bet you won’t do THAT again” sort of way. He got silly, as he is wont to do–and lo, there was a great wailing and gnashing of teeth. The comments made me roar with even more laughter than the original story did, because so many people decided to get all up in “bleeding heart” mode. Veiled threats, misplaced rage, and general stupidity abound as everyone screams and hollers that Jes dared to make fun of something that wound up being not all that serious.
The plane didn’t blow up on the runway. It didn’t go down in flames. All that happened was that it went partially off the tarmac into the mud.
Lighten up, Francis. Laugh, roll your eyes, and move the hell on already.
I am off from work tonight (will wonders never cease), so I decided to liveblog tonight’s festivities at the Phone Booth in DC, courtesy of Center Ice online.
Please, control your enthusiasm.
The teams are using the “reverse-jersey rules” tonight, which means that the ‘Canes are in red and the Caps are in their snappy whites. The last shot from the Phone Booth showed Chris Bourque–yeah, I know I really wanted to see the son of the man who made my team his personal bitch throughout his career. Whoopie-ding.
This is going through the Capitals, of course, so everything is going to be very Caps-centric. Oh, won’t that be fun. And away we go!
7:00 PM Oh look! Donut Don is working tonight! We are so screwed. Donald Brashear is also playing (for the Caps), so this should be some serious kinda fun. And we’d better have some kinda sound, or I will be pissed–the only radio I have is in my car.
…wait a second. There’s this dusty ol’ boombox here….
*presses power button*
*presses power button again*
WAIT WAIT WAIT!
MY PHONE! OMG MY PHONE! IT HAS A RADIO!
And there was much rejoicing throughout the land.
7:07 PM Oh cool, Cam is in goal–and so is Olie. Ray has a groin issue–wonderful. This should be fun. This radio is whack-ass staticy and I’m missing everything, yo. That’s what I get for not having an antenna on the clock-radio-phone, I guess.
Goddamn, we’re getting the jumbotron cameras–which means we get the gratuitous crowd-shots.
7:14 PM ‘Caps win faceoff, barely. Goddamn this radio is pissing me off. *adjusts* There, MUCH better. Nice shot, Cully. Good to see you back.
7:15 PM Oooh, My Man Ryan Bayda is with Ladd, looks like.
7:16 PM Goddamn, Caps score. Mike Green out of the damn penalty box. C R A P CRAPS CRAPS CRAPS. Bastards.
*runs to get pizza out of oven and refresh the beer*
7:21 PM Heh, Green Eggs and Hamilton got a delay-of-game penalty. Bah. My soul-brother, Bret of the Gimpy Hip, is with Tim Gleason? Wow.
7:24 PM WTF? Hey people, stop putting the puck in the stands will you? This is getting frickin’ old.
7:25 PM OMFG CAM * WAR! Way to make the pinwheel save on Aleksandr Balshoii!
Heh–hubby just called (he’s working at my store tonight) to tell me that somebody just tried to pass a fake bill at Stop-n-Rob and got all ill when Hubby called the cops.
C’mon Cam, control those rebounds please.
Wonder if CapsChick is at the game? I’m sure Eric is. Hope he’s having a good time.
Man, Casey Borer is all over the place. Making some good decisions, and looks like he’s settling in well with….is that Nicky? There’s the 7–that’s our Nicky. Tim Gleason isn’t having a very good game. Poor sod.
RIGHT! Who was that rockin’ the old-skool Whale jersey? Good on yer, whoever you are.
Miz B has the cheap-ass wine, and I’ve got the Leinenkugel’s Sunset Wheat–mmmm….alcohol, gift of the gods.
7:40 PM OK, can we PLEASE stay the hells out of the box? That was such a cheap-ass hook, Cory–you should know better.
Remo has broken his stick–somebody get him one quick, plz!
Oh wait–might want to post this. Duh.
7:43 PM So, at intermission the score is 1-0 Crapitals. The jerseys look goofy, but what do you expect? ChuckandtheletterK has Cam Ward as his guest during first intermission, while the Craps have Human Sled Races….Human Sled Races? Man, no wonder the ice at the Phone Booth is teh shitz0r tonight. But it’s kids and their parental units, so I can’t bitch too much.
(This blog brought to you by Leinenkugel’s Sunset Wheat and Apis 4-year old Bernardynski. Mmmm…..)
BTW, it’s spelled “immediately”, not “immediatley”. Just sayin’.
And apparently the one beer that I’ve had so far has made me parse “G A M E” as “C A M P”. Sorry Timmy.
Do I want another beer? Maybe. I’ll think about it.
8:00 PM START OF THE SECOND PERIOD. AND MY SECOND BEER, TOO.
Kind of a wussy faceoff. Casey Borer and Bret of the Gimpy Hip are paired up right now–that amuses me, because the day we drafted Borer (Me: “DEFENCE!” JimR: “The Hurricanes select, from St. Cloud State of the WCHA, Defenceman Casey Borer.” Me: “THANK YOU!”), Bret called like the whole team to gush about the ‘Canes drafting a fellow Husky.
8:03 PM WTF? ANOTHER PENALTY. STOP THIS SHIT, PLZ.
8:05 PM My Man Ryan Bayda came outta da box and took a shot on Kolzig–but Kolzig, of course, blocked it. Bah.
Huh, they have Brandon Sutter teamed up with Letowski and Ladd? Interesting.
8:07 PM OMFG A POWER PLAY.
IM from d-lee: “you really wanted malik, huh?” And that was when I suddenly remembered that my fantasy team draft is going on! Whoops.
8:15 PM OK, WTF is up with the penalties? I gotta go to practice tomorrow to see how many guys get bagskated. Srsly.
And that’s where the radio AND video crapped out on me. Bah.
Before I blow an artery spraying yet more bile and invective about Versus and the completely craptacular way they handled the Awards show tonight (Aside to Vinny Lecavalier: tell your girlfriend to stop shoving her fingers down her throat and eat a sammich every now and then willya?), I’m going to turn myself to something more fun–like the Draft:
Looks like I’ll have to leave the trojniak at home–either that or leave it in my hotel room, take your pick–cos somehow I don’t think I’ll be able to smuggle the bottle into the Gnat. The cork-popping sound would kinda give things away.
See y’all next weekend.
The Chief, as those who read his blog well know, rarely spares his snarktasticity (and unlike some of his regular Wings-fan commenters (like the borderline-racist fuckhead “dougie”), he actually does a good job of bringing the funny)–and this post (wherein he skewers my fellow Caniac WufPirate) is no exception.
And really, I kinda gotta agree with him. Hey, I got the message–declaring that one is a True Anything because of a hatred of one particular team is kinda foolish. I’ve hated the Red Wings since I was 10, does that mean I was a True Whalerfan<tm> before I was a True Caniac<tm>?
Of course not.
It takes neither courage nor intelligence to cheer for a team only when that team wins. The true test of a fan’s mettle is the same as it is for a player: Were you there when you were needed?
–Ian Wilson (proprietor of Boston Bruins Legends, a great site that sadly is no longer extant)
For the pithy-quote-impaired, let me translate: Are you a fan of your team? Did you stick with your team when they blew more chunks than a drunken fratboy after eating a Huge Cheddar-Style (with double extra onion) from Cook-Out and drew low quadruple digits on a Tuesday night against Calgary? Yes? Then you’re a true fan. Get your ass on the bus.
Unless you’re a sports bigamist. Then you need to damn pick a lane and drive in it. Or you need to die in a fire. One of the two.
How slack am I, yo?
Mike Chen is running Rawk The Puck ’07, taking over for Chris Young (who is wicked busy). Yours truly is taking part again, just like I did last season–head on over and check it out. Listen, vote, laugh.
Back in ’04 when the Draft was held here in R’lyeh, I went with my dear friend Jenny from Nashville. She and I hung out and had a great time amid all the pomp and circumstance and what have you–including joining the Sharks table in laughing at a Red Wings scout that got hassled by one of the securebots because the picture on his credential didn’t look like him. It was very funny seeing Ken Holland have to get up from the table to go over and tell the NHL Security guy “yes, he’s one of my people. No, no really, he is. Seriously, I’m not kidding, he does belong to us. Yes, I am who my cred says I am–now will you let my guy come back to my table? Thank you.”
One of the highlights of the day, however, came after the first round was over and the people who don’t geek on Draft left the bowl to have fun perusing the card-show on the concourse and engaging in all the fun and games outside:
I got to heckle Annoying Blackhawks Fan (hereinafter referred to as “ABF”). This guy looks like Detroit goofball Mo Cheese, except he doesn’t wear a tinfoil hat, his jersey fits, and he neither has a terminal case of plumber’s butt nor does a lame dance where he flashes crack at the opposing bench in the hopes that they’ll be so wigged out that they’ll all die and let the Menses Munchers win.
But he’s equally annoying. Actually, no. He’s MORE annoying. This guy, so I was told by a couple other Hawks fans in attendance, goes to every Draft and stalks the Hawks scouting staff, trying to tell them who to draft and in what round. He shows up at the arena with laptop and clipboard in hand, and hollers out the names of guys to pick whenever the Hawks are up–I know, because I was sitting three sections over from him while he did it.
I and my buddy Erik started crackin’ on him in the second round, when the Hawks had something like 238972439827 picks and were up every other turn or so. Longest second round in history, I swear. ABF started in hollering out the names of guys to pick, and the Hawks table just blithely ignored him each and every time. He’s getting more and more upset, and Erik and I are getting more and more amusement.
When it got to Pick 68 in the third round, ABF calls out from his perch in Section 128:
The Hawks, of course, selected Adam Berti from the Oshawa Generals. ABF was mightily upset, and Erik and I were just laughing and laughing at him because there was no way in the Nine Worlds that anyone was going to listen to this guy (and it was obvious from watching the Hawks’ table that they were all having a chuckle at his expense too).
Next pick went to the ‘Canes. I called out “DEFENSE!”–and the ‘Canes selected Casey Borer from St. Cloud State University (true* story: when Borer was selected, ‘Canes defenseman Bret Hedican got so excited that he completely dorked out and called EVERYONE on the whole frakkin’ team to gush about it). I called out “THANK YOU!” and turned to neener at ABF, who was not at all pleased.
Soon it got to pick 83, which was held by the St. Louis Blues–who selected Viktor Alexandrov, the guy that ABF wanted the Hawks to pick. ABF was pissed. He threw his little clipboard and pencil down, stamped his feet, and looked like he wanted to drill his laptop in the general direction of the media section (where, if he managed to get it that far, it would have beaned TSN’s James Duthie). Erik and I kicked the heckling into high gear at that point:
Me: OH NOEZ! GUESS YOU BETTER BECOME A BLACKHAWKS FAN NOW!
Erik: LET’S GO BLUES, EH BUDDY?
(The next pick went to Montreal)
Me: ALEXANDROOOOV! OH WAIT, THE BLUES ALREADY TOOK HIM!
Erik: LET’S GO BLUES!
Not our most inventive, but it worked for us and was funny. ABF was all set to come over and throw down, but one of the RBC Securebots hauled ass down to the middle of 128 and tried to get him to chill out–and when that failed, Securebot just told him “You don’t have to go home, but you gotta get the heck up outta here.”
I got so much mileage out of that joke for the rest of the weekend, seriously. I actually got Bob Gainey to crack a smile (and made the whole table chuckle) on Day 2 (when I was sitting near the Habs and Preds tables) when it was Chicago’s turn to pick and I said “Hey, they should pick Alexandrov–oh wait, St. Louis took him yesterday. Doh!”
Of course, the best part of that was ABF hearing me from the other side of the arena and knowing that he couldn’t do a thing about it because the securebots would be all over him like Marek Malik on an empty net.
What was the point of this story? Well none really–I just wanted to share the mirth with all y’all. The Blackhawks won the Draft Lottery today, and since my car hasn’t blown up like it did last year at this time (knock on wood) I’ll actually be able to go to the Draft. We’ll see if I’m able to go and hassle ABF again–and y’all know that if I get to do it, I’ll be SURE to post it here.
*:true as in, “read in the N&O and not denied by Bret”. YMMV, void where prohibited, yadda yadda.
Yeah so y’all know how I hate blowing my own horn right?
So check this out. I gots pub in The Hockey News!
5. The NHL Blogosphere Has Zest. CasonBlog is stylishly witty, and Battle of Alberta’s “Beard Talk” post had me LOL during the playoffs. But the Acid Queen and God Send Jen show that female fans can hold their own.
First Bristol, now The Hockey News. Are they trying to get me to like them?
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.”
“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/
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.
(starting this with a work rant)
Item the first:
Dear NC Education Lottery:
YOU ARE A BIG FAT THROBBING PAIN IN MY BIG FAT HEATHEN ASS.
Now, I am all for the lottery–when my home state of North Dakota got one, I knew it was but a matter of time before North Carolina got one too. But for the love of Tyr, it is SUCH a pain in the ass dealing with it–especially at my store, which chain is all et up with the paperwork-mania. As the Germans say (when talking about their governmental bureaucracy), “es ist der Inbegriff von Papierkrieg” (the epitome of red-tape). I mean, fook me in the arse-end sideways with a corn cob–it might be more pleasurable than all the paperwork and crap that I have to deal with because of the frickin’ lottery.
And on top of that, we’re not allowed to touch the “quick pick” buttons on our cute little touch-screen terminals–if a customer wants lottery picks, he’s gotta fill out a sheet…even if he wants a quick-pick. Why? Because, some of the people that come into our store apparently feel that they just have to fuck with the clerk and ask for a bunch of lottery picks–and then say “I wanted POWER PLAY! Can’t you listen?”, when they didn’t ask for the Power Play option on their Powerball tickets. So now we make them fill out a playslip–which leads to all kinds of fun, as we get stuff like:
“Can’t you just enter them yourself? I don’t want to fill this out!” I’m sorry, but we have to have everyone fill out a playslip.
“Why I gotta fill this out? I just want quick picks!” Then please mark the “QP” boxes on the sheet.
And, of course, you get the people that fill out their slips WRONG and then don’t want to fix them–they expect you to fix them, even after you explain what they did wrong.
AND THEN…we have the people who come in at like ten minutes to 11 PM (which is when my store’s door locks–and our chain’s stores stop paying on lottery tickets at this time) and expect us to scan and pay out 40 scratch cards that they’ve won with, even though there’s a line of people at the counter already. Do they care? NO! They expect you to tell everyone else at the counter who’s trying to get their shit bought and paid for before the doors are locked at 11 to just step off, and do nothing but pay out their winning scratch tickets. If you people think I get mean in this space, just you come into my store at 5 to 11 with a huge-ass stack of winning scratch tickets and tell me to cash them all out in 5 minutes–not even I can do it, and I’m the fastest clerk in the store when it comes to getting lotto stuff processed and paid out.
But my favorite is when the terminal at the store decides that it doesn’t want to connect to the servers at Lotto HQ down on Yonkers Road–and it’s 9:45 PM on a Powerball night, and I have a line of people at the counter with sheafs and sheafs of Powerball playslips in their hands. Fuck you, GTECH, fuck you and your “we’re aware of the problem and our engineers are working on it, thank you have a nice night and don’t call cos I don’t know jack shit about what’s going on” bulldada right in your collective ear. *I* could get a headset on and bullshit callers better than the yobbos you’ve hired–and it’ll have at least some grain of truth to it!
“It seems that a BellSouth work crew decided to be stupid and cut our fiber line out of the building that houses our servers, and we’ve dispatched the Narn Bat Squad to deal with the miscreants, but unfortunately we have no estimated uptime” sounds about 500 times better than “Uhhh, we’re aware of the problem, and our engineers are working on it. Thank you for calling GTECH.” I had to actually tell the dude on the other end of the phone “So you have no idea if the problem is an internal or external network issue, and you have no estimated uptime?” in order to get a straight answer–which is that a BellSouth (or Progress Energy, the guy wasn’t sure which) work crew decided to be stupid and cut the fiber line out of Lotto HQ on Yonkers Road, amd the Narn Bat Squad had been dispatched to deal with the miscreants and get them to repair the damage.
Item the second:
NOW THAT I’M HOME FROM WORK and now that they’re done with that errant work crew, the Narn Bat Squad is being dispatched to gilooly Maxim Afinogenov before the next Buffalo-Carolina game. Love the guy when he’s humiliating Bobby Clarke’s Barely-Mobile Tree Stumps, hate him to smithereens when he pots the game-winner against us. And that’s the whack-ass thing about the Sabres. They’re a great team and I have a feeling that the Buffalo-Carolina games over the rest of the season are going to be some amazing frickin’ hockey. But I’m totally not feeling the love for the fans as a whole (except for Tom L., who is cool). It’s the reverse of how I feel about Washington. Love the fans, hate the whole team except for Alex Ovechkin (well OK, and Olie Kolzig). Go figure. It’s like the ones that are actually secure in their fandom are the rational ones that I can actually talk with–but unfortunately, they’re overshadowed by all the loudmouthed wankstains with a collective case of Small Penis Syndrome.
There. I’m officially done talking/bitching about SabresFan. That line of commentary is now exiled to join a certain unnamed “Sooper Sekrit Inzydar” on the “Don’t know WTF you’re talking about, doesn’t exist” list, and I shall speak of it no more. The horse is dead, I’m trying to keep it from rising as a Revenant, so let’s move on to the game (which I managed to watch part of on the DVR after I got home, before the hubby pitched a bitch and I had to delete it so he could record a re-showing of a Buffy re-run that he’s watched 234892742 times. Fuck you Joss Whedon, fuck you right in your left ear).
Can we trade David Tanabe again? Please? Seriously, I don’t want him here anymore. Mike Commodore, on the other hand…keeper. Definite keeper. Thank you, Flames, for giving him to us. This makes up for you bastards breaking my heart (with help from Steve Smith) in 1986. And Chancellor Jasmine Liao (the latest addition to the household) approves of him too, so there you go. Cat approval = good thing.
Thank you also to Nashville for Remo Williams–though I had to do a double-take. Sorry Joe, Lord of Evil got broked, guys. I swear, we didn’t break him before we sent him over the Blue Ridge Mountains to you.
The score aside, it was a goalie deathmatch and a frickin’ coin-toss of a game. I think I got another grey hair or three just watching what little I was able to watch.
Item the third:
There’s a new site I’m adding to Ye Olde Blogrolle: Southeast Shootout. Come for the weather, stay for the hockey (though I am a little disturbed at being compared to G. Gordon Liddy–I mean, the man is amusing in his own fanatical dude-switch-to-decaf-and-drop-the-assault-rifle-before-you-hurt-somebody way, but I’m greatly disappointed (heartbroken, even!) that I apparently don’t have enough Fun to be considered the Hunter S. Thompson of the Caniac Nation).
OK, so it was three things. Sue me.
A couple days ago, my buddy Nate sent me the following PM on Teh LGC:
Subj: Want your picture taken with the Cup?
I’ve got an extra ticket if you want it. My dad & his girlfriend can’t make it.
I, being no fool, replied with:
Deal me in!
So this morning at 9 AM I met up with Nate and his wife Kathryn at the RBC Center for the “Season Ticket Holder’s Day With The Cup”. Now, I am not a season ticket holder (ah, Nortel, how I miss the $60K/year you paid me)–but I managed to get my mitts on a ticket, so I went.
The lines weren’t very long thanks to the “all-day” nature of the two-day event (yesterday and today)–and you could only go once during the two days. I’m in line with my digital camera, and Kyle Prairie (Canes ticket sales boss) comes over and says “You want me to take your picture for you AQ?” I said “Nah, I’m cool. Nate’s got it. Thanks though.”
It’s generally assumed that people south of, say, Chicago don’t understand hockey. That folks down in places like North Carolina can’t wrap their brains around the idea of hockey being like a religion.
Anyone who says that certainly doesn’t know me. To me, the RBC is holy ground and my being at a game is a religious experience akin to being on the sidelines at Valhalla. The warriors beat the snot out of each other all day, and when the battle is done they shake hands and go chill out until Gullinkambi crows and they go do it all over again. It’s my opportunity to spend quality time with my gods.
I had all these ideas in my head about what I’d do when I finally got to lay hands on the Cup. I’d cry, I’d drop over dead from the shock (which would probably make some Sabres fans happy), I’d shout praises to the gods, whatever. When I got up to the holy Cup and I came face to face with it–not the respectful 3 feet away that I’d stand every other time I saw it, but right there an inch away from my rosaceated well-scrubbed grill–all of those ideas vanished and were replaced by this feeling of awe.
I started running my fingers over the bowl and the upper part of the base, reading some of the team names on it–the old ones that came before us. The Montreal Wanderers, the Vancouver Millionaires, and the Ottawa Senators, the “Silver Sevens” who died during the Great Depression and were reborn sixty years later. All the old teams that played for the Cup before the NHL was even thought of and who were just a memory now, immortalized in solid silver.
At that moment, I understood how Mike Keenan felt in 1994 when he sat there all night letting the spirits of the Cup speak to him and tell their stories. If I’d stayed there much longer, I’d probably have done as he did and burst into tears. Nobody spoke–or if they did, I certainly didn’t hear them. It was very quiet in the East Priority Lounge, a almost reverential silence as I stood there for a few seconds that felt to me like forever and marveled at the Cup. I let my fingertips linger over the name Victoria Cougars, and then I looked up and quietly said “We really won this, didn’t we?” as Game 7 played on the jumbotron and every TV in the house.
Kathryn said “Yep, we sure did!”–and I did the only thing that I could think of doing:
And I whispered “thank you” to the spirits of the Cup.
(OK, now I’m crying.)