As I write this, the Falmes are schooling the Hurricanes 6-4. It was 6-3 when I started, but The Chosen One just scored. I’m frustrated and upset, and I can only imagine how the players feel.
So, let’s look at where the team is going wrong:
Effort is there. But frustration is setting in, and it will take an herculean effort at this point to overcome it.
Great Leader Peter Karmanos refuses to spend the amount needed to bring in veteran leadership to help this team along–he looks at the barest minimum he can spend, tops it up by a couple bills, and then JR goes and blows it on bad signings like Tomas Kaberle. It’s like the season was written off before training camp even started, and Great Leader doesn’t even care because he’s got a Cup Ring. That’s what pisses me off so much–this nickel-and-dime bullshit has GOT. TO. STOP. It’s become even more important now, with a realignment in the cards for next season that will put the Hurricanes in with teams that actually spend money. This shit’s gotta change, kids. And it’s gotta change at the top of the food chain.
I’m seriously giving thought to buying lotto tickets four times a week in the hopes that I hit the jackpot so I can invest in the team and actually have some frelling input. Here, here’s an extra few million dollars–GET A DECENT VETERAN OR TWO TO HELP THE CHOSEN ONE, YOU JACKWAGONS! Either that, or I’ll just go picket the SAS Institute in an attempt to get local billionaire Jim Goodnight to buy the damn team. #OccupySAS!
But, let’s look at the good that Admiral Kirk has done–he’s gotten the team to WANT to show up again. It’s clear that there’s a definite change in attitude on the team, and a definite upgrade in the effort level. Admiral Kirk doesn’t make excuses, and he’s very up-front with the players about what he wants and gives clear direction. They certainly didn’t have any of that with Chairman Mo. The team doesn’t quit now. They have the equivalent of duct tape and kukris left to them, and with 5:00 left in the third period they’re still fighting.
What is being shown is the lack of veteran leadership on the team–The Chosen One is being expected to carry the forward corps with the help of only one Sutter. Our defence is Tim Gleason, Joni Pitkanen, a bunch of kids, one of those “DO NOT BACK UP, SEVERE TIRE DAMAGE” speedbumps, and a Krispy Kreme donut. That’s not going to win a lot of games. Let’s be honest. They’ll make it exciting, but wins will be few and far between for the rest of the season IMO.
Can’t wait to see what happens in Edmonchuk tomorrow.
(and as I finish this post, the game is over and it’s 7-6 Falmes. The Chosen One scored twice.)
I’m going to turn this into yet another liveblog tonight, from my husband’s computer, and this post is a placeholder for that.
Caniacs and others, feel free to hop on and participate. Festivities will start at 4:30 with pre-game. I’ll bring the Rumple Minze.
Now watch, I get like fifty million hits from people googling Monty Python.
ANYway. The Hurricanes are riding a two-game winning streak into the RBC Center, where they’ll be facing off against the Habs (who SUCK…I’m just sayin’!) and prodigal son Erik Cole.
Love you Colesy, but you’re the enemy now. No hard feelings.
So–despite that little win streak, which I hope will be extended to three games tonight, the Hurricanes are right at the bottom of the Division along with the usual suspects err Atlanta Thrashers. At the top of the division? ?Florida.
You heard me–the Florida bloody Panthers are at the top of the Southeast and tied with the Pflyers for third-on-points in the East. This is a team that was at third-from-the-bottom of the league last season (having been in roughly that position the whole time), and now they’re riding the wave and looking like a team that could do some damage in the playoffs (assuming, of course, that they make it in–it’s not even to the halfway mark of the season yet, and there is of course plenty of time for a collapse).
So…what changed? The coach. During the offseason, rather than keep Peter DeBoer on and just swap out pieces and parts, the Panthers also went out and hired The First One* (Kevin Dineen) as coach. The day that hiring was announced, I was at work AND on a call–so all I could do was flail in rage at my seat and cause my co-workers to look at me like I’d lost what’s left of my mind again. The Panthers go out and hire a guy that’s proven he’s got coaching chops and that can get his guys to play for him, and we’re stuck with Chairman Mo.
Really? ?Really? ?Oh wait, this is the org that showed their gratitude to Deener (who kept the team together as best he could during the tumultuous Greensboro years) by not making him an offer during the offseason. Of all the guys that had moved down with the team from Hartford, Kevin Dineen should have been allowed to come to Raleigh with the team. It was absolutely criminal that the org wouldn’t even give him that, and it was just as criminal that this nickel-and-dime outfit wouldn’t even consider bringing him back into the fold as coach.
Anyway, the game is tonight at 7:00. I’ll have the schnapps bottle at the ready, just in case everything goes pear-shaped. Regardless of result, Mo Must Go Again.
I had a big long polemic written, taking potshots at the Sunshine and Unicorns Brigade in the Caniac Nation–but I deleted it.
Really, it’s not worth it ranting about those stupid-ass people that think that you’re not a “real” fan or that you shouldn’t be allowed to be a fan if you don’t blindly support everything the team does.
Of course, one could also argue it’s not worth it ranting about how Paul Maurice fails as a coach and needs to be fired again–but of course I’ll still do it, because I’m a fan and that’s what I do.
And on that note, I and the Rumple Minze bottle are off to watch The Mighty Forslund and Fearless Leader call a game.
I’m trying out an Android-based blog client tonight, since my computer doesn’t have good LOS to my TV. Any typos amp;c. will get corrected at intermissions and post-game.
So far, the Hurricanes are doing okay. Not great, but okay. Skinner of course showed up, everyone else seems to be going through the motions. Again.
Will update randomly. Mo must go, again!
12:40 gg Juice, way to go with a bad slashing penalty. Hubby playing Maroon 5 in his computer room. Terrence bugging me for playtiemz, had to pause dvr. Pp looking, as usual, like ass.
13:04 BIG SHOCKER, A SLUGS GOAL. Let the pwnage begin, now taking bets on number of Slugfans arrested tonight.
14:03 Husband now playing Average White Band and KC and The Sunshine Band. Terrence distracted by automated laser toy parked on my ve. Sun Tzu joining in. Slugs pwning neutral zone.
16:45 We have a Boychuk sighting! Aaaaand there he goes, back on the bench. gg Mo…putz.
Nice tour of the players’ lounge by The Chosen One. I’ve only had one Alpine, but my face is red already–rosacea for the lose. I skipped over Bob Harwood’s chat with Jay Harrison, because eh–same old same old. “We’re working on the power play.” /SlapShot
Retreating to couch for second period with another Alpine.
3:00 Was that actual offensive pressure from the Canes? No, couldn’t have been.
4:56 Oh gods, can we just decline this penalty?
5:50 Nice try Eric, but…no.
6:15 Ehrhoff has been ausgezeichnet for the Slugs tonight. Very nice play.
Aaaaaand another power play wasted.
8:00 Ponikarovsky in locker room. No great loss, but hope he isn’t hurt.
9:05 Boychuk makes token appearance for the period, and makes a lovely pass that nobody could be arsed to get and…oh I dunno…SCORE A FRELLING GOAL with. Seeya next period, bubba.
10:00 Time for more schnapps? Nah, gotta finish this Alpine first. Mmmmm….Alpines. Terrence now snoozing next to me. Sun Tzu watching you-mans on TV intently.
13:48 The Mighty Forslund flogging tickets. Yeeeeeah, okay.
16:30 Slugs aren’t even trying hard, and they are pwning us. Only Canes who showed tonight are Boosh, Boychuk, Rosie, and of course Skins. Sheesh.
END OF SECOND PERIOD
Intermission will be spent playing Angry Birds.
:45 Aaaand the Canes are making Enroth look like a Vezina winner. Staal is snakebit.
OK, no more schnapps. Face feels like I ate a bhut golokia chile.
2:15 Defensive shell and…GO!
5:08 Sheesh…Sun Tzu losing interest, and schnapps hitting me hard. I am a sleepy lightweight.
6:00 Sutter looks like he needs to drive a seedy van and offer candy to random kids, with that stache. #movember
7:00 Tripp and The Mighty Forslund talking about GM meetings and ignoring game for a bit. I dunna blame them one bit.
Wonder if I can make my cranberry dressing for Thanksgiving now, rather than waiting until Monday? Hmmmm…..
90125 err 9:25 Boucher is saving our collective asses. Would be nice if more than like three dudes showed some gratitude by trying to frelling score.
15:00 Mo must go, again.
WHY THE FRELL IS LAROSE ON THE FIRST LINE AGAIN MO?
17:00 Wonder how many Slugfans got arrested tonight?
18:22 Good job Rosie.
19:00 Pack it up, the Canes have left the building. Except for Jay Harrison, who is still there.
20:00 Slugs 1, Pod People 0. And I am wanting bacon for some reason.
OK, so I started the evening off with a trip to my local ABC store to get a fifth of my favourite schnapps. I figured I would have some fun and play a Tripp Tracy drinking game.
A Robert Burns quote about the best-laid plans of mice and men comes to mind right now, but I’ll get to that further down.
Yes, I channeled my inner redneck by drinking from a Mason jar. What can I say? The little kitty in the picture is Sun Tzu Liao–he just got done inspecting everything to make sure it was OK, because that’s what he does.
So I’m here getting started watching the game, when my large orange cat Terrence decided to come over and ask me to give him some love:
Yes Terrence, you’re a handsome cat–but Mommy wants to watch the Hurricanes game.
That game. Man. I took my first drink when Tripp called us “Toronto South”. Which is fair, but still damn wrong. Finished off the mini, and cracked the seal on the big bottle. I commenced to drinkin’ and spamming facebook with crazy updates. Steve Downie got up to his usual bitch-ass punk cheapshotting, but sadly the linesmen saved him from the furious fists of Jay Harrison. And, of course, no call. The refs are clownshoes. Tripp said that the game had reached a “pivotal point”, and I took yet another drink.
Bob Harwood had a chat with Great Leader–and I had this horrible sense of impending doom. Every time Pete Karmanos opens his yap to a mediot, bad things happen. He’s like a magnet for trouble. I mean, I’m just pointing this out here.
Then that little bastard Marty St. Louis scored in the second, just after Bob Harwood spoke to Pete Karmanos–breaking the defensive shell that the Hurricanes collapsed into just after Skinner scored. I just knew at that point that the game was about to go (in the words of Denis Leary) “STRAIGHT to fuckin’ hell!”
Facebook update: STOP SCOTING ON US, UOU LILLTE VONTZ!
And it was time to pour some more schnapps, because clearly I wasn’t misspelling things enough:
So I drank more. And the Lightning scored more. I do not think there was a correlation in either direction–it just kinda worked out that way. Somewhere along the line, the Tripp drinking game got lost in the shuffle of suck that was the Hurricanes after the score got to 3-1. I didn’t get piss-drunk, though–I got a little sleepy, and decided it was a good idea to just stop and go to bed as soon as the game was over. Really people, who’s going to think poorly of somebody who wants to keep at least some of her wits about her?
My penultimate facebook update of the night was: Yzerman just called. He told #jimrutherford “now you see that evil will always triumph, because good is dumb!” And of course, I followed it up with Mo must go, again!.
For serious–I really don’t think the problem is the players here. It’s Mo Hockey. It’s the defensive shell, which STILL sucks. It’s the 3-2 forecheck and the Musical Lines and the excusemaking, which we’ve had to put up with for years. You’d think that it would have become that much more apparent to everyone when Toronto went through the same thing with Chairman Mo behind the bench. But nooooo, Great Leader would rather keep nickel-and-diming everything while the fans get ready for yet another season of Mo-diocrity.
Mo Must Go, Again–and I’ll have another game night post after tonight’s game agin the Capitals.
Last night was disappointing, but–sadly–not surprising.
The Hurricanes that scratched and clawed their way to the ECF were, in the end, gassed and surpassed. The aliens didn’t take them away and replace them with the Pod People, they didn’t “just give up”, and they sure as hell aren’t “scrubs”. They just didn’t have anything left in the tank (except for Eric Staal–who will be the next Warchief, but he can’t carry the whole team on his back), and it showed.
Such is hockey.
Congrats, Penguins. You were the better team this series, and it showed. Luck in the next round, and I just have two words for you now:
*: If Chicago somehow pulls it out in the WCF, all bets are off.
I’m taking a page from my good buddy WufPirate and throwing a liveblog party here tonight.
(I had to delete the liveblog script, it’s infected with JS.Psyme was tripping my virus scanner. Sorry kids.)
The fun starts at 7:25 EDT
So let’s recap:
Yesterday morning, everyone in the Caniac Nation was all up in teh dramaz about the Caps pwning face on us. I slapped around some dumbass who got all up in the whiny because I said that Alex Ovechkin can be a dirty bastard–and yes, he can be–and then I took a shot at people that were claiming that there’s some kind of Sooper Sekrit Conspeerohsee going on to get the Caps into the playoffs at our expense.
Yesterday afternoon, EJ Hradek decided to clown on my coach’s meltdown behind the bench in DC. And, admittedly, it was funny–though really my coach is far less nebbishy-lookin’ than EJ is (not, yanno, that there’s anything wrong with being nebbishy-lookin’. Just saying.)–but I knew that the ‘Canes were going to get it together against the Lightning that night…and my favourite Spicy Italian, John Tortorella, gave us a lil’ hep by putting Mike Smith in goal.
Mmmm…..Spicy Italian. *ahem* sorry.
Then a friend of mine leaves me a ticket at Will Call–and my car is out of gas. Hubby was at work, clear out on the other side of the Containment Area for Relocated Yanquis. So I was stuck in my “AQ has no cash and can’t call a cab to take her to le jeu” living room for the night, which didn’t make me very happy–but what can you do, right?
So I settle in to watch the game–and 32 seconds in Eric freakin’ Staal shows why he is The Chosen One by scoring on a breakaway while practically wearing Vinny Lecavalier. I knew then that it was going to be a fun night. Merlin decided, at that point, to decamp to the foyer for some odd reason. The rest of the cats (including Jasmine the Feline Mute Button), however, parked their furry butts on the couch and watched the game with me. Martin St. Louis scored a few minutes later while Keith “Tater” Aucoin was in the box for tripping, and I bellowed “STOP SCORING ON US, YOU LITTLE VONTZ!”
Jasmine, tiny little dainty kitty that she is, then jumped on my chest and nipped my chin to let me know that I was too loud and needed to be quiet.
Then Chad LaRose, the Chuck Norris of Hockey, scored at 16:10 to put the ‘Canes up 2-1–and on to intermission we went!
Now, the second period was kinda surreal. Rosie scored again (and there was much rejoicing. YAAAAAY!), Andreas Karlsson hooked Trevor Letowski in the wedding vegetables, and then a few minutes later there was a knock at my door. I opened it, and there was Scott Walker. “Hey there, Your Infernal Majesty,” he said, “Mind if I come in for a moment?” How could I refuse one of my tribesmen, right?
I let Remo in, and–after paying the Pet Tax to Merlin–he ripped off this shot from atop my coffee table while Mike Smith was off at the Cook-Out on Western Boulevard to get a huge Cheddar-Style with double extra onion and a side of hushpuppies. “Thanks,” Walks said merrily before reaching down to pick Merlin up. “C’mon little buddy, we’re going to need you later.” Then he left, and I went back to watching the game just in time to see Jeff Halpern attempt to use Ryan Bayda as a missile weapon against his own goalie…and then try to re-enact a scene from “OZ” while poor Mike Smith is dopeslapping both of them with his blocker and hollering “GET OFF ME WITH THAT SHIT MANG, THAT AIN’T MAH SCENE.”
Then the phone rang. It was my husband. “As your lawyer,” he said to me, “I advise you to keep the noise level down so that we don’t get tossed from our apartment.” And Jasmine nipped my chin again, punctuating it this time with a meow. And the neighbours upstairs started trying to loudly remind the world that they like to engage in conjugal relations from time to time. Point taken, I turned down the TV in the living room and ChuckandtheletterK in the computer room.
Tuomo Ruutu went off for hooking, and I wondered ‘How long can we maintain?’* The answer was “as long as we have to”.
Vinny Lecavalier got dinged for a double-minor at the end of the period after he got called for interference and then decided to tell the refs what he thought of their parentage, and I knew that it was about to get surreal. More surreal. Something like that.
I was not, I assure you, disappointed.
Bishop Ruutu canonized a shot from the faceoff circle that beat Smith like a rented mule, Halp thought he was a Cap again and managed to score, and then the Chuck Norris of Hockey, Chad fuckin’ LaRose, got his hat trick.
It was at that point that I saw Merlin firmly ensconced on the top of John Tortorella’s head, and I decided that fatigue had definitely gotten the better of me and that it was time to go to bed. I walked over to the TV set and turned it on to a dead channel-white noise at maximum decibels, a fine sound for sleeping, a powerful continuous hiss to drown out everything strange*. Then I went into the bedroom and collapsed into bed surrounded by four furballs and seeing my team as monster reincarnations of Horatio Alger: men on the move and just sick enough to be confident*.
(This post inspired by (and the asterisked lines cribbed from) Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Good night Hunter S. Thompson, wherever you are.)
OK, let’s clear a few things up about last night:
1) THERE IS NO FREAKING CONSPIRACY ON THE PART OF THE NHL, THE OFFICIALS, OR ANY OTHER ENTITIES TO GET THE CAPITALS INTO THE PLAYOFFS AT THE EXPENSE OF THE HURRICANES. SO STOP COMMENTING AND SENDING ME E-MAULS WITH THAT SPECIOUS ARGUMENT, BECAUSE IT HOLDS ABOUT AS MUCH WATER AS A LEAKY SIEVE.
2) I shouldn’t have to write that in all-caps, but nothing gets on my tits more than whining about officiating after a loss.
3) Alex Ovechkin is a fun player to watch and he has leet skillz, but he can be a dirty bastard who gets away with a lot more than he should.
4) Scoring overcomes crappy officiating.
5) The Hurricanes were outplayed from the first puck-drop to the final buzzer. So stop whining.
6) The Hurricanes hold their destiny in their hands.
7) Meredith in Richmond can bite me–and on Friday, I’m going to kick her of the top of Pilot Mountain Jet Li style to drive the point home.
8 ) EJ Hradek can bite me. Him and that damnable towel of his. *shakes fist*
9) I’m going to do my work today and let the Hurricanes do whatever it is that they’re going to do.
10) I’m cutting my hair. Those of you who know me well know how significant that is.
Canes take on the Lightning at 7:00 tonight. Be there or be square.
Let me preface this by saying that I am not a William Faulkner “fan”. I appreciate the body of his work, I admire the beauty of his work and I do like his work. But I don’t geek out over the guy like I geek out over, say, Les Dorscheid‘s Battletech and Shadowrun artwork (which is some of the most amazing artwork I have ever seen–it breaks my heart that no Loren Coleman novel ever got a Dorscheid cover, even though my pet project got some).
This gem from the Sports Illustrated archives is possibly the best “my first game” story that I have ever read, and it’s something that I plan to show to anyone who ever asks me why I like hockey:
Hurricanes take on the Capitals tonight at the RBC. Puck drops at 7:00 PM. Go Canes.
(Man, I wish I could write like that)
First off: Let me just say that I love a goalie deathmatch. I do, I really do. But last night, not so much–most cos it was Florida, and they’re whiny bitches.
So yeah. First period was a little eh. Second period scared the crap out of me, with all the penalties. Our defence was completely invisible, the offence stepped out for a Cuban (mmm…Cuban) at one point–and only one thing saved our asses:
(photo courtesy hfboards poster Vulcan91)
Seriously, the boy was nails for us last night. When he flat-out stoned (STONED!) Olli Jokinen on what would have been a sure-fire gamewinner, I swear I saw half the fans in attendance calling Miami-Dade PD to report a robbery.
The shootout, by the way? That was funny–especially the winner, which made Vokoun look like Bill Buckner in Game Six. Thank you, Mookie Staal.
Next game on the 25th. Go Canes.
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 at least we won and managed to shut up most of the ASBOs that showed up at the RBC tonight. Last night. Whatever.
As usual, the Sabres and most of their fans are blaming everyone except themselves for not being able to win despite 1) the Hurricanes falling asleep during the last half of the game and 2) Ryan Miller standing on his freaking head. Must be tough, being all perfect and stuff like that.
Anyway–the Hurricanes are at the top of the Southeast by a mere 7 points over Washington…and a mere 7 points out of the top spot in the Eastern Conference. Wow. They’re off until Wednesday, when they take on Chicago in Chicago. Should be a fun one–and don’t forget to set your clocks forward, otherwise you’ll be late to work on Monday.
Edit: Duh AQ, “Spring Ahead, Fall Back”.