Spartan

A Tim Tebow Poem (First Down)

2012-01-12T18:47:00.000-08:00

#15

—Sonnet +1 after Tim Tebow

In one fabled city close to clouds, citizens clustered, stretched their necks,

hearing of a magician who promised to pull dragons from his hat.

Laid upon by eye after gawking eye, the nervous magician goofed rabbit,

and the streets crumbled under disenchanted foot—each riot springs from single lies.

Dislodge the cobblestones! Pull clay from storefront columns!

Turn cities into weapons, stomachs with teeth realizing where the best meat is.

The magician held captive, each limb roped to the saddle of a bucking city steed,

whips about to crack and quarter…when a wise man appeared before the booing mob,

through brannigan steam circling at the bloodlusting heads, the wise man begged

their amazement, speech from mouth moving like a whisper, his elocution echoing down

to all fabled cities. And the nation’s men disarmed, truces grew in heartland’s fertile dirt,

rabbit-from-a-hat was born and magicians allowed to carry on. Just in time for an encore.

All children are born immoral, and will ask just what that wise man said,

so that a world without dragons, again believed in magic. Recite, their good books report,

Yes, a rabbit is not a dragon, but rabbit from a hat is not half-bad. Is it?

The Best Curling Music Video Ever

2011-09-01T18:44:00.000-07:00

I know it's from 2009, but I'm in my thirties, and new stuff takes a while to get to me, and Men with Brooms (the TV show and especially the movie) was disappointing; this clip is ten minutes long, yet it's worth it, so watch it:

Jamie Foxx is in it. Count the Fanboys.

Le Bon Jack: 1950-2011

2011-08-22T18:45:00.000-07:00

'We can look after each other much better than we do today.'

5 ball. Corner pocket.

'You have every reason to be optimistic, determined, and focused on the future. My only other advice is to cherish every moment with those you love...'

Truly funny.

'My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world.'

Jack Layton

"Macho Man" Randy Savage: The Value of the Bad Guy

2011-05-20T10:42:00.000-07:00

Randall Poffo ("Macho Man" Randy Savage) was the greatest WWF(E) wrestler-entertainer of the 1980s. Like a lot of amazing wrestlers, he was often in the shadow of another more popular one, in his case, Hulk Hogan.

Sometimes he was Hogan's friend (Mega Powers)

And more entertainingly, he was his adversary:

Savage was always the alternative to Hogan: the good guy. To a kid who, consciously or not, never liked the coolest or best thing (I liked GoBots, Hey Vern! It's Ernest, the band Skid Row), Macho Man was the first time I can remember embracing the alternative choice: the bad guy.

After hearing about his death, I (like others I imagine) am thinking about myself as a kid today. There's really no other sane way to contextualize the death of celebrities you didn't know personally other than to remember their first effects on you. Before Macho Man, Darth Vader and Clubber Lang were the bad guys, and therefore, I hated them. I didn't want to understand them. Pro wrestling taught my single-digit self how to be interested in the villain, and that first villain, was Randy Macho Man Savage.

Savage provided a counterpoint to Hulkamania that wasn't draped in a foreign flag like Nikolai Volkov or the Iron Sheik (intricate political concepts like xenophobia were likely lost on me at 8 years of age). Savage was like Hogan, only, he was nothing like Hogan. And that was all a kid needed if he wanted to avoid the clutches and restrictions of Hulkamania.

Somehow, Macho Man dying reminds me of how glad I am to have never embraced Hulkamania for fear of the effect that might have on my current adult life. Hulkamania indoctrination might have inspired me to say my prayers and eat my vitamins, both rather mundane things. Maybe, being a Hulkamaniac would've led to a love for Nickelback or pleated khaki pants or conservative politics? I don't know. I really don't. But with Hulkamania, there was little room for human nuance. Savage was every shade of grey.

I'm positive the Macho Man taught me something when my brain was still soft. Learning to embrace the bad guy, hopefully, hasn't resulted in my becoming a bad guy, but I believe it has somehow expanded my tolerance, my defense of "unpopular" choices (yes, I realize I'm giving a lot of weight to pro wrestling now). Savage was neither wholly good nor wholly bad. He was as human a superstar the WWF ever dared present.

And for that, his death is not just another wrestler death. It really is, as people will say, a piece of childhood. The piece that didn't yet know, the good guy is not always so good and the bad guy, not always so bad.

Dig it.

Botaoshi: Another Sport I Haven't Heard Of...Until Now...

2011-05-17T11:05:00.000-07:00

Okay, watch this. Maybe I'm late to the party, as this seems to be reaching viral video status, but better late than never. The sport is called Botaoshi, and even though I have no idea what's happening for the first half of it, I want to play it:

Literally meaning (apparently) Pole-pull down, according to Peter C. Smith's Fist from the Sky: Japan's Dive-Bomber Ace of World War II, Botaoshi is a Japanese Naval sport where two opposing teams [of possibly 75 a side] attempted to protect their respective flags placed atop a pole. Obviously, the game has replaced the flag with, well, a human being. (Though the pole has yet to become a Pole)

So what, you want me to just stand here like this until they knock him off?

The aggression of North American football, the rule confusion of Aussie Rules Football (though the OAFL's High Park Demons are currently at 2-0), and the mayhem of WWE Royal Rumbles, Botaoshi should be a surefire hit for North Americans into alternative sports who have long grown tired of Ultimate Frisbee and Unicycles.

So what do you say? All we need to do is get two poles and 150 people to the park this weekend.

Should be easy. Start Bataoshi!

Or maybe Americans invented Botaoshi in Japan. I need a research department.

Need a Favourite Toronto Blue Jay? Try J.P. Arencibia

2011-05-10T07:02:00.000-07:00

Is it the destiny of a Blue Jay to always look up at Yankees, Red Sox and Rays?

Maybe you don’t have a burning need to have a favourite Blue Jay. That’s okay: not having one is forgiveable, and in the pantheon of important opinion, rests somewhere between “What’s your favourite Canadian play of the last ten years,” and “What is the best Billy Joel song post Storm Front?” (So, like, low.)

But let's say you do want to have a favourite Blue Jay and don’t know where to look. Or, maybe your favourite is Bautista, but you have trouble committing, fearing he will someday be a Yankee or Red Sock. Might I suggest J.P. Arencibia. Who impresses me. Not to gush, but here’s why.

1. That proper balance of a connection with Alex Rodriguez & massive disconnection with Alex Rodriguez. Okay trivia buffs: who holds the record for most home runs at Westminster Christian High in Miami, Florida? I’ll give you a hint: the record is 17. Give up? It’s a tie between J.P. Arencibia and Alex Rodriguez (did the heading give this one away?). Now, just so no one confuses the two players, according to ESPN, Arencibia makes $US417, 400 and A-Rod makes 76 times as much ($US 32,000,000). I’m not sure why this disparity makes me like Arencibia even more. There's something very 1970s Bruce Springsteen about the difference.

I have no problems with this. If was A-Rod, I would do this. I might anyway.

2. Magic: I tried to explain to two people this weekend how Arencibia has the potential to be that new breed of “magical” baseball player (like Kirk Gibson, Fernando Valenzuela, maybe even Joe Carter) without getting all pre-teen about it. To avoid the obsessed Twilight zone—the vampires, not the Rod Serling dreamscape—I have, more than once, compared Arencibia to Roy Hobbs in The Natural.

For any writer (still) reading this, Arencibia is to major league baseball what Johanna Skibsrud is to writing novels. In Arencibia's first Major League at bat, he hit a homerun on the first pitch. Only 28 players have ever done this. In that same first game, he hit a second homerun, for a total of four hits. He saluted the crowd, got a shaving cream pie in the face, and hugged his mother all on his first day. Magic...

Reminds me...the first Darkman movie was really good.

3. He is already the best catcher the Blue Jays have ever drafted in the first round. This might not be saying much given that Jay Schroeder (1979) never played for the Blue Jays and Matt Stark (1983) only played 5 games for them (and 13 in his MLB career), but it’s safe to say, J.P. can already claim this prestigious title. This is not to disparage either Schroeder or Stark, who in their own right, seem to have pretty great sporting lives.

a. Jay Schroeder played 11 seasons as an NFL Quarterback and picked up a Pro Bowl spot and a Super Bowl ring (as a non-starter, though); Schroeder enters that elite group of people you hate for being good at two things you suck at.
I wonder what it'd be like to catch for Jimmy Key....

b. Matt Stark was a hitting coach for the Florida Marlins AAA affiliate (apparently during one of the World Series years), and his bio boasts the curious stat that in 1993 he became the first player ever to earn 100 runs, 100 walks and 100 RBI's in a single Mexican League season. That’s a good thing, right?

4. Sportsmanship and proper comma usage: This past weekend, J.P Arencibia “broke up” Detroit Tiger pitcher Justin Verlander’s perfect game in the 8th inning by not swinging the bat at non-strikes, a logical choice. Post-game, Arencibia brought with a classy tweet, and what he lacks in full second person pronouns, he makes up for in commas used to join independent clauses when separated by coordinating conjunctions:

@jparencibia9 At times we u have to tip ur cap, and today was one of those... Verlander was special today… Hats off to him..

Ultimately, these smaller gestures are really good for the fragile image of baseball players en masse. [For more on tweeting Athletes, check my last entry on Rashard Mendenhall and Osama Bin Laden.]

5. He Likes His Mama: I was at the Blue Jays' game on Sunday (Mother's Day), and there were some inter-inning clips of Blue Jays talking about what their mothers meant to them. All of them were a nice touch, but the clip of Arencibia hugging his mother (who it was mentioned raised him alone) after his first pro game (see point 2) combined with the fact that I had drank two ten dollar Budweisers had me a bit weepy. After that clip, a sea of people went to their phones to text their own mothers. It was impossible not to succumb to a bit of contagious behaviour—like when someone you’re talking to scratches their nose, you just have to scratch your nose.

So yeah, not to gush, but in a world of athletes who can sometimes make it difficult to actually like them, this guy is off to a good start. We'll worry about the batting average later.

Yeah, man, you were gushing. It's a bit weird. You're really in your thirties?

Rashard Mendenhall & Osama Bin Laden, with Obligatory Tie-In To Candian Politics

2011-05-04T13:04:00.000-07:00

We're about to start with one discussion, and leave it dangling on another, barely related one. This will be a problem for some. If this were one of my student's essays, I might write "lacks cohesion." We like a thesis. We like conclusions stemming from said thesis. However, the only real conclusions mentioned here will be death (Osama Bin Laden's) and 140 Character limits (Pittsburgh Steelers Running Back Rashard Mendenhall's). But a thesis? Okay.

I’m not upset that Osama Bin Laden is dead, or that Rashard Mendenhall tweeted about it.

On Monday, Rashard Mendenhall tweeted the following with respect to the Bin Laden death announcement:

"@R_Mendenhall What kind of person celebrates death? It's amazing how people can HATE a man they have never even heard speak. We've only heard one side...”

Obviously, some people were pissed. ESPN dusted off the "Should Athletes Tweet" discussion.

Hold up now, and let me finish.

Now, I didn’t follow the Pittsburgh Steelers running back on twitter (until now) because following NFL players on twitter can ruin their appeal for me. Last year, I followed one of my favourite players in the NFL, and maybe of all time, Atlanta’s WR Roddy White, only to find out he is a terrible speller with an addiction to comma splices. It hasn’t ruined my admiration for him as a football player (though maybe for the standards at his College), but it certainly threatened to. To be fair, seeing Billy Collins attempt to catch a Matt Ryan pass in the slot might affect how I read his poetry.

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers,
Hands cupped around their mouths" - From Marginalia by Billy Collins

But back to the @R_Mendenhall tweet:

“What kind of person celebrates death? It's amazing how people can HATE a man they have never even heard speak. We've only heard one side...”

The impractical philosopher side of my brain was with him until “We’ve only heard one side….” – I respectfully disagree that we did hear Bin Laden’s side, and the obvious literal side of me says it was pretty friggin' loud. It sounded like airplanes crashing and has echoed with war and global paranoia for the past ten years. Okay, so Mendenhall is a 9/11 conspiracy theorist. We're all a little bit insane. If the Steelers can forgive Roethlisberger's raping, I think we can forgive Mendendall for a questionable belief.

The tweet as a whole shows some intellectual balls (brain balls), particularly as NFL players twitter accounts often centre on football training and inspirational quotes (@jeremyshockey) unwavering love for America (@drewbrees) or solipsism and product endorsement (@TerrellOwens). Now, despite my leading adjectives, there is nothing particularly wrong with any of these tweeting styles, and each are well within what one might want or need from an NFL tweeter—particularly during Fantasy Football season. Hey, we all can't be @JohnFugelsang.

Rashard Mendenhall works a job where it’s necessary to have a personality, but anathema to display the real one (it's a bit like what us teachers are "supposed" to be). But Mendenhall did both, and agree or disagree, here’s why that’s awesome:

1. He actively engages in politics through a thoughtful and difficult question. If you're an athlete (which he is) and 23 (which he is), it’s likely too easy to let Twitter be a string of empty bullshit, especially if your fan base has no interest in what you ACTUALLY have to say (which his did). For anyone who bounces around this blog, a few years ago, I suggested Sean Avery was an asshole for “having a personality.” My preoccupation at the time, his only engagement was in being a thoughtless asshole. Mendenhall might have been a bit of an asshole to some, but puts considered thought behind it. That difference is huge, and the reason why every verbal disagreement doesn't become a fist fight (or why every difference of policy need not become a war).

Athletes dipping into politics without thought is bad (e.g. John Rocker's "The biggest thing I don't like about New York are the foreigners."). Yes, sometimes athletes, like everyone else, will piss people off with politics, and sometimes, yes, that starts a necessary conversation with the people who are most offended:

Mexico City, 1968 (from R to L: Uncomfortable white guy, Tommie Smith, John Carlos)

2. Mendenhall didn’t delete the tweet after receiving what must have been a shit storm of 140 character Patriotism and sports news roundtables condemning him. That takes wherewithal. Last week, I deleted a tweet, embarrassed because I spelled colour the American way “color.” Monday, a 13 year old girl tweeted me unsarcastically about a joke I had made regarding my "adolescent orange zits" and to be honest @skysfamousbaby, it took all my strength to let it go.

3. Mendenall clarifies his tweet with this follow-up letter (because sometimes, there is no shame in saying something using more than 140 characters). While I don’t share his religious justification for the tweet, he still had the stones to say the following:

Nothing I said was meant to stir up controversy. It was my way to generate conversation. In looking at my timeline in its entirety, everything that I’ve said is with the intent of expressing a wide array of ideas and generating open and honest discussions, something I believe we as American citizens should be able to do. Most opinions will not be fully agreed upon and are not meant to be. However, I believe every opinion should be respected or at least given some thought.

Mendenhall didn't express anything that was immoral (though pin that down). He expressed an opinion as a person, which is not the same thing as expressing an opinion as a football player. Yes, he gets paid to do the later, but it's refreshing to see the former, particularly in the follow up, which acknowledges without recanting, teaches without lecturing, discusses without concluding.

Now, as the title suggests, here's the leap:

Sometimes conversations don't need to end right away...in fact, the ones that do, probably weren't even conversations. This sounds too simple. And it is. I likely could've expressed in half a tweet, and more people probably would've read it too. Fresh off a disappointing election and extremely negative week of "discussion" in Canada, which will no doubt continue until 2015, I sort of just want to leave it at that for now...if you made it this far, and now ask "So what was the point of these 6500 characters (approx. 46 tweets)?", great...step one.

"The Holy Roman Empire was neither holy nor Roman nor an empire. Discuss."

The NHL Playoff Mascot Battle Part Four: Bruins v. Flyers

2011-05-01T12:23:00.001-07:00

A day late, but cry about it why don't you? Let's finish up this premise, shall we….

What's a Bruin?
It's a bear. Killer of Goldlilocks, eight month hibernator, comedian friend to Kermit and comic relief for Dan Aykroyd's The Great Outdoors. Specifically, a bruin refers to the Eurasian Brown Bear, which has likely only ever been to Boston as part of a circus or as a rug.

Another Dan Aykroyd reference, Brock? Really?

What's a Flyer?
A Flyer is someone who flies. I thought it would have more significance, but really, it doesn't. So, I guess let's find someone who flies. UFC fighter Ben Henderson has giant wings tattooed on his back (any they're terrible), but he doesn't fly (and we need literal flying here). 90% of Seal songs discuss his ability to soar, glide, or fly, but that seems to be a metaphor. The only angels I believe in are Rod Carew's 1983 California Angels and the Greek mythology thing was sort of done in Lightning v. Capitals. No, we need a frequent flier. We need a pilot. And who better than the world's most famous pilot Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger.

I don't like where this one's going. You're actually going to make me fight a bear? I saved like, a bunch of people.

What if Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger fought a Eurasian Brown Bear?
As poised and heroic as Captain Sullenberger was on flight 1549, come on, this is a bear we're talking about here. There's really not much of a fight. I do, however, feel somewhat reticent to discuss the mauling of a guy who saved so many lives. I started writing about what a bear would do to a 60 year old man, and then thought, whoa, this is in poor taste, and hadn't I learned my lesson after the 2006 blog entry fiasco "Who would win a punch fight: Oscar Schindler or Ogopogo?"

So here's what happened in the scenario. The morning of the fight, Sully wasn't feeling well. He went to the Doctor who diagnosed a minor cold and recommended he avoid all strenuous activity. "But I have to fight a bear today" Sully said. "Not today you won't," said the Good Doctor. Enter the bear, "Are you kidding me? I trained to fight a pilot. I'm ready to fight a pilot. I AM GOING TO FIGHT A PILOT!"

What a bear wants, a bear gets. Now, keep in mind, no matter who fights, the results will be the same. The Bear will maul the Flyer. So, I ask you, dear reader in order to save Sully Sullenberger, which of these pilots would you like to see mauled by a bear? (leave a comment why don't ya). The nominees are....

Maverick in Top Gun

Ted Striker in Airplane!

Snoopy when he pretends to fight The Red Baron

Mel Gibson in Air America

John Travolta

Result: Exit, pursued by a bear. Regardless of the Pilot the winner is...

Whoa, a Shakespeare reference! Show off!

The NHL Playoff Mascot Battle Part Three: Lightning v. Capitals

2011-04-29T13:23:00.000-07:00

We now move to the Eastern conference semi-finals, not because we want to, but because we must start what we've finished. I've noticed some nice blog stats, so thank you, Poland! Without further ado (and a tonne of embedded pictures and links to break up the dense parts)....kumate!

What's Lightning?
Though this question often comes up while smoking pot or in Insane Clown Posse lyrics, lightning is electrical atmospheric discharge (that's all I can tell you. Go to Wikipedia for the real story). Lightning is all powerful, all consuming, and an element that figures prominently in at least three Dan Aykroyd movies (The Great Outdoors, Both Ghostbusters). Though lightning has many representatives, from Percy Jackson who likes to steal it to the cast of Grease who liked to um…grease it, when it comes to the heavy hitter, we look to the God of lightning (and thunder) himself: Zeus, occasional rapist in swan's clothing and father to more children than the Palins and 1980s L.A. Lakers combined! (note: click that swan hyperlink if you want a PG13 surprise)

Don't you know that if you hold it like that, you could go blind?

What's a Capital?
The major region of a country where governmental decisions are made, and we can narrow this decision down easily as the Washington Capitals play in, duh, Washington D.C. Capitals are basically buildings (i.e. The Capitol) bunched up in a particular area, but as Tom Hanks' Josh Baskin said in Big, "It's a building. What's so fun about playing with a building?"

I don't get it. Why is he writing about mascots fighting? Maybe it can turn into a bug...

No, we need a symbol of the capital that isn't a building. We need a leader. Someone with the guts to stand up to the scourge of lightning, which in a Live song crashed, causing a new mother to cry, while her placenta fell to the floor (Damn you, Lightning! Placenta on the floor is a hygiene issue!). Who's the man for the job? Well, it's gotta be the man in charge of the Washington Capital. Suit up, Barack, you're going in!

My right fist is called lunch, 'cause you'll be eating it.

What would happen if Zeus fought Obama?
We need a soundtrack for this clash of the Titans. So who better than one of the 16 greatest bands of the late 1970s Thin Lizzy. Press play for some good fighting' music and read on, if you've made it this far, oh, battle hungry reader:

Hold onto your hats here, but sometimes, lightning actually strikes capital cities. Instances of lightning in capitals provide some guidance. In 1902, lightning struck Paris' Eiffel Tower.

So, what you're saying is...Eiffel liked his penis.

The lightning damaged the tower and brought the getting-engaged-in-an-obvious-place economy to standstill; however, the tower was repaired, so the capital was more than able to Ride the Lightning. In 2008, lightning struck an Ottawa home (that's Canada's capital for the more than 40% of you who seem to be reading outside of North America), and burned it. So lightning takes that one. It's too close to call. This one goes to a game seven. Who will be the hero?

Serendipity! Last week, a lightning storm occurred directly over the American capital's White House. That's right: directly over Hawaiian-American Barack Obama's house! Now, and this is important (in relative terms), the lightning never made contact. So what do we take from that? Nice try, Zeus! Where France's wimpy icon failed, America's conquers! That's freedom lightning, Frenchy! Note how the American flag is so repellent, that even lightning will avoid such an obvious lightning rod:

U Can't Touch This!

Result: Capitals win. Nowhere in the literature (and I read it ALL) has there been an instance of lightning destroying an entire capital city. The Great Fire of London was started by a London area baker who left some bagels in the oven while he went to the store for some tonic. True Story, no one in particular.

Tomorrow: 4 of 4. Have you heard the one about the Bear and the Flyer. What's a Flyer exactly? Tune in, Tokyo, and find out!

The NHL Playoff Mascot Battle Part Two: Red Wings v. Sharks

2011-04-29T06:08:00.000-07:00

We continue with the second of four analyses: "Which NHL mascot would win in a fight?"

What’s a Red Wing?
Of all team “mascots,” insomuch as a wheel with a wing on it can be a mascot, this one is the most elusive (only the Blues would be tougher to personify). A Red Wing is essentially, nothing. It’s a nickname based on a nickname. From Total Hockey: The Official Encyclopedia of the National Hockey League:

“(Detroit Falcons' owner) Norris had been a member of the Montreal Amateur Athletic Association, a sporting club with cycling roots. The MAAA's teams were known by their club emblem and these Winged Wheelers were the first winners of the Stanley Cup in 1893. Norris decided that a version of their logo was perfect for a team playing in the Motor City and on October 5, 1932 the club was renamed the Red Wings."

So, a Red Wing is a symbol: a single wheel with a single wing, but given the inspiration for the symbol, the Red Wing is a more usefully, more literally, a cyclist.

I ride bikes! And use Pert Plus!

What’s a Shark?
A shark is a deadly fish that ruined one summer for Roy Scheider.

Will Joe Thornton ever win the big one?

What if a Deadly Fish fought a Cyclist?
In the Will Ferrell/Mark Wahlberg movie The Other Guys, there’s a nice scene of antagonism between characters which provides precedent with which to discuss a battle between land dwelling and ocean bound animals.

WAHLBERG'S CHARACTER
If I were a lion and you were a tuna, I would swim out in the middle of the ocean and freaking eat you, and then I'd bang your tuna girlfriend.

FERRELL'S CHARACTER
OK, first off: a lion, swimming in the ocean? Lions don't like water. If you placed it near a river, or some sort of fresh water source, that makes sense. But you find yourself in the ocean, 20 foot wave, I'm assuming off the coast of South Africa, coming up against a full grown 800 pound tuna with his 20 or 30 friends, you lose that battle, you lose that battle 9 times out of 10. And guess what, you've wandered into our school of tuna and we now have a taste of lion. We've talked to ourselves. We've communicated and said 'You know what, lion tastes good, let's go get some more lion'. We've developed a system to establish a beach-head and aggressively hunt you and your family and we will corner your pride, your children, your offspring. […] You just lost at your own game. You're outgunned and out-manned.

Since game one of this series is in San Jose, the Shark/Cyclist battle must therefore take place in the shark’s home arena (i.e. the Ocean). Though cyclists have incredible lung capacity and thigh muscles, riding a bike in the ocean is next to impossible; actually, the bike is a definite impediment (have you ever tried to swim in running shoes? Like, way harder than that), and the cyclist is easily (b)eaten by a shark. If the Red Wing had home ice advantage and game one took place in a velodrome, I suspect the cyclist would gain advantage. We'll never know what could've been, though Shark in a Velodrome is possibly a good indie band name.

If Pavement stuck with their original name, Shark in a Velodrome, they would still hate you.

Result: Sharks win (just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water with your bike….). In these literal mascot battle scenarios, I wonder if anything will beat a shark (Lightning maybe? A Bruin-Shark final could be interesting, and is the premise of a 2001 book by Chris Bachelder.)

Fun Fact: Based on a 1990 fan vote, The San Jose Sharks original name was to be the San Jose Blades, but owners were concerned about the association with weapons and gang violence. The Shark received the second most votes, and history was sort of made.

Later Today: Mr. Lightning Goes to Washington.

The NHL Playoff Mascot Battle Part One: Canucks v. Predators

2011-04-28T13:31:00.000-07:00

Though this idea would've provided more (hopefully) yuks-yuks in round one, I woke up this morning thinking about my predictions for the second round of the NHL playoffs. Watching hockey domestically with a "life partner and best friend" who 1. doesn't care about hockey, but 2. will sit beside me as I watch, affords a fine time to answer obvious questions and reflect about why it is that sports are 1. Fun to watch, 2. Hard to explain literally.

Inspired by the fairly cool Spike TV show Deadliest Warrior, where violent scientists simulate who would win in a war between say, Ninjas & Vikings or KGB agents & the 1978 Pittsburgh Steelers, starting today (and finishing before each Game One starts), I will examine who would "literally win" the round two NHL playoff battles were they meetings between the actual team mascots.

Series One: The Vancouver Canucks vs. The Nashville Predators

What's a Canuck? Well, nothing much to report here: A Canuck is slang for a Canadian. Given the size of our home and native land, and the constant redefining of what a Canadian is during the current federal election, I suppose we need to be a bit more specific. A quick Googling narrows down the term Canuck to a 19th century Americanism for, specifically, a French Canadian. Though there are as many "types" of French Canadian as there are Canadians, the election run-up tells me that a French Canadian, as of May 2011, is either NDP or Bloc Quebecois. As I am more familiar with the NDP, let's say that in this battle, the Canuck is Montreal born Jack Layton. (see endnote 1)

Bring it on, Pussy!

What's a Predator? Another broad one. Animals, plants and conservatives can all be predatory. Schwarzenegger took on a Predator with dreadlocks, and even he couldn't kill it (somehow, Danny Glover was able to though). The Nashville logo gives us an easy clue as to which type of predator we are dealing with: why it's a sabre-tooth cat named Gnash!

A Top Ten Logo in Sports Blog coming?

The sabre-tooth cat has been extinct for a good 9000 years, but in its day, it could take down a mammoth. Were the Green party around 9000 years ago, they would've attempted to protect this predator, and it would have eaten them.

Don't vote strategically, and do shoot high on Luongo!

So what would happen if a sabre-tooth cat fought Jack Layton?
I suppose it depends if Jack Layton carried a weapon. His platform is certainly anti-gun, so all Jack has for this one are bare hands, tenacity, and 30% national support. Unfortunately, a sabre-tooth cat has little interest in political platforms, and can't understand Layton's attempts to compromise rather than fight dirty. Though Conservative and Liberals both have torn through Layton's plan to increase taxes, the sabre-tooth cat tears through his thigh flesh. Thanks to his focus on health care, Layton manages to escape with his life (and his seat), but realizes that the he could've beaten the cat as part of a larger team. Alas, it's too late, and the sabre-tooth cat is onto the next round battle (or, the Western Conference final).

Result: Predators win. (Sorry, Canucks. That's sort of what Predators do.)

Get over here, Harper. I just want to ask you a question.

Tomorrow: A Red Wing meets a Shark, and oh baby!, Lightning will fight the Capital. The results will astound you.

Note 1: the results end up the same if the Canuck is Gilles Duceppe, except that scenario ends with Duceppe having his leg separated from his body.

Another Top 5: Sport Beards!

2011-04-16T23:30:00.000-07:00

I don't have a hairy back, and I can't grow a beard. You win some you lose some, I guess. I often think about beards. Don't read anything into this, although, please, keep reading.

Though I don't have any stats to back this up, my guess is that more men have beards in April than in any other month. There might be a case for more beards-a-sproutin' in whatever month it is that people enter week 2 of mountain climbing expeditions, but we are entering NHL playoff beard season, and University exam beards are in mid-swing, so in North America, I hypothesize that beard season is upon us. Now (let's make the connection) having just watched professional sports for 10 hours straight and counting, I feel the need to take a hairy little look at the top 5 Regular Beard Wearing Athletes of all time (playoff beards not eligible). I'm not the first to do this, I'm really not, but who has time to obsess about being original anymore? And besides, no other list drops a Jeff Reardon reference (OH! TEASER ALERT!)

1. Brian Wilson (2006 - Present)

Wilson's the obvious number one, for having both a thick and lustrous beard and for practically branding the thing. This includes the phenomenally extraneous site where you can play with his beard and click on it for fun little follicular surprises (try it). This guy's ebony beard is so famous, his twitter is a silhouette of a featureless bearded face. In 20 years, when my brain cells can't quite access the name of the pitcher who closed the 2010 World Series, I will remember a beard and a Giants' cap.

2. Randy Moss (1998 - Maybe the Present)

Besides being one of my favourite athletes of all time (when he was a Patriot), Randy Moss's eyelashes nearly touch his beard. Randy sports the rare case of a beard at high tide that threatens to take over the entire face. I remember a high school math teacher who possessed a similar lupine appearance, but instead of catching passes from Tom Brady, he seeped brown armpit stains. If Randy Moss wore slightly large sunglasses, you might see no unbearded cheek skin of the Mossy one. Sort of like how Teen Wolf looked in the segment of the movie where he starts to turn into an asshole....

Hey, Boof. Can you believe I'm 5'3 and on the basketball team?

3. Clark Gillies (1974 - 1988)

Though the most dramatic beard in hockey history has to go to Mike Commodore, that was a playoff beard and is disqualified from top 5 contention. A bit of a nostalgic choice, Clark Gillies' regular beard is really the only thing I remember about his face. It seemed a lot of 1970s New York Islanders looked like members of the Spartan Army. I'll go out on a limb and declare that the best team facial hair in NHL history would probably have to go to the 1979 New York Islanders, though because I don't want to research it, I will accept nominations. The internet is abuzz with rumours that Gillies was the first playoff beard, and though he would end up going moustache only through the 1980s, his best seasons were in full beard-face.

4. Jeff Reardon (1979 - 1994)

Growing up, I can only remember one player on my baseball cards who sported a full beard to any conspicuous degree. It was Jeff Reardon, who looked like my best friend's dad and who has had a rough post-baseball career which has included the death of a son, a charge for armed robbery, and a legal declaration of drug-induced insanity. There's nothing funny about that, but man, as both an Expo and a beard wearer, The Terminator was pretty great. I hope Jeff Reardon someday Googles himself, finds this blog, doesn't sue me for posting the picture, and sees that I thought he was pretty awesome.

5. "Macho Man" Randy Savage (1973 - 2005)

Ohhh yeah, dig it. The Macho Man's beard is so pure, that one wonders just how much of the savage was derived from the beard itself. I remember being a kid and wondering how a man with such a hairy face could have such a smooth body. WWE chest hair removal methods remain its great cultural contribution (not that I'd know). Because I had a massive crush on Miss Elizabeth (who didn't? She screwed up a generation of boys' image of what a beautiful woman was), I thought that my hairless body was half way to my dream of injuring Ricky Steamboat and kissing Miss Elizabeth on the mouth. I dreamed of the day (I was guessing maybe 16) where a beard would christen me "macho" - alas, it didn't happen, though I did pick up a small mound of chest hair in my early twenties.

Honorable Mentions (but disqualified for being too obvious or lacking in material for me to write a paragraph about): Dan Fouts (too Will Ferrel), Alexi Lalas (talking about U.S. Soccer is pretentious), Brett Keisel (too everyone else has already talked about his beard), Kimbo Slice (MMA people will find my blog and write "Homo" in my comments), Sebastien Chabal (too nobody reading this will know him), Hacksaw Jim Duggan (too...Two Wrestlers?).

Anyone make to the end of this? Anyone have any favourite bearded athlete they care to discuss? Come on anonymous bots and people putting porn links in my comments - I know you're going to tell me how informative my blog is for your essay, but go out on a bearded limb. Let me guess: you like 70s Bjorn Borg.

I am not David Beckham.

Rebecca Black & American Idol “does” Nirvana

2011-03-17T04:51:00.000-07:00

Some people love ketchup. I am not one of those people. However, I will admit that ketchup is food. Last night, I finally caught up with the two phenomena I’d been behind on: Rebecca Black’s Friday (6 days late to the meme party) and season ten of American Idol, who “broke ground” last night when top 12 contestant Casey Abrams became the first to perform a Nirvana song. Both Black and Abrams present themselves like music, but both were not music.

Not Music

Rebecca Black’s video Friday is awful. This seems to be the consensus, and add me to the pile of high-minded self-righteous lefty writers who seem obsessed with blogging about this girl. If you haven’t watched the video, please, do it now. Please.

Most likely you have watched (the official video has 11 million youtube hits) the 3 minutes and 48 seconds of a vacant video faces, partying without alcohol, and observances and metaphysical quandaries such as “Kickin’ in the front seat/Sittin’ in the back seat/Gotta make my mind up/Which seat can I take?” Rebecca certainly has a lot on her plate—or bowl, as her first decision in the video is to eat cereal—and now she’s more famous for being a joke. As a joke, she’s much more Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road? than she is Justin Bieber.

There are so many obvious jokes in this song, and the easiest target is Black’s recounting of the days of the week: “Yesterday was Thursday, Thursday/Today is Friday, Friday/Tomorrow is Saturday And Sunday comes afterwards” that unless this song and its video were written, produced, directed and distributed entirely by 13 year old savants, there is no way Friday is not an adult deconstruction of that THING that makes Justin Bieber a music celebrity. It’s sort of what bands like Bush did to Nirvana. Or Weird Al Yankovic did to Nirvana. Or soldiers in basic training do to guns. Break it down, show the component parts, and then build it back up to show you know exactly how it works.

Though it has already received multiple parodies on YouTube, my gut tells me that it is itself the parody. A respectable friend of mine thinks it’s no worse than anything Justin Bieber is doing, but in its coyness, it is worse. Being put in the position of defending Justin Bieber is not a case I take lightly, but even O.J. Simpson has lawyers. Black’s Friday is much worse for not tipping its hand (yet) and telling us how to watch. Pop music, even “bad” pop music has never needed a legend to tell us how to read it. That said, I understand that men in their 30s are not Rebecca Black’s target audience, but I still need to know what’s ketchup and what isn’t, so that I can avoid it. So I grapple. And maybe, you are still reading.

Rebecca Black is not “so bad it’s good” because it is so bad, it’s scary. In six days, it has entered the category of Macarena bad. It’s Wrath of Khan earwig bad, burrowing into the brain, feasting, feasting…Rebecca Black’s Friday will likely kill us all if it is real. But it can’t be real. It just can’t be. Please, let this be an exercise in the vein of Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds or Joaquin Phoenix’s fake breakdown. Let the joke be on us, and let us get the joke…soon.

Music

And then there’s Casey Abrams. Ryan Seacrest’s twitter account had pre-announced that a contestant would be “taking on Nirvana” on Tuesday night’s live American Idol. The show saw the top 12 singing a song from their birth year, and Abrams was born in 1991, so you guessed it: Smells Like Teen Spirit. While it's still an active link....

Now, I recognize the place Nirvana had in the world of my fellow white people born between 1971 and 1980, but they’ve always been ketchup for me. If you asked me what the defining moment of 1994 was for me, it wasn’t Cobain’s death, it was that I had finally made out with a girl and that Quiz Show was released.

Part of my somewhat cool Nirvana reception has always been the borderline fanaticism of Cobain fans, that if he was as cool as his fans believe (which he probably was), he would hate the reaction. Cobain fans are like Bieber fans. Cobain fans are like Dave Matthews Band fans. It’s not really the music that’s the problem, it’s the way in which the musician is worshipped that becomes the problem. By all of my other musical standards and tastes, I should love Nirvana. They fit right into my musical map. But I’m getting off topic here. The point is not to slag Nirvana. They are not a-musical.

American Idol is not a-musical either. The people can sing. Abrams, who in watching his promo seemed like the funny guy, can sing. He also played a bass on stage, has a beard, and is the only top 12 contestant not whitening his teeth to the molars. He is 1993 quirky. But Nirvana fans are having none of it. More common tweets when Abrams was singing Smells Like Teen Spirit were “Kurt Cobain would come back to life and shoot himself in the head again” and “He’s ruining my youth!” But for whatever reason, perhaps it’d be considered my shortcoming, I don’t agree with those who think American Idol cannot touch Nirvana. If Weird Al and Tori Amos can do it, we aren’t treading on sacred ground here.

American Idol contestants should continue to do songs they shouldn’t. It’s interesting. It’s maddening. It’s what good television drama is. My problem with the Abrams’ “doing” Nirvana was that it wasn’t particularly good. This is not because it was on Idol, and this is not a critique of a 20 year old song which is at least as good as any other rock song that year and definitely better than Rebecca Black’s Friday. Abrams certainly took on a big song, but unlike my unproven Rebecca Black Theory, there was no breaking it down and building it up. He sang the song, but he didn’t quite show that he knew “how it worked,” and that’s not to suggest that I do know, but hey, I’m not on American Idol. This year at least.

But Idol doing Nirvana is, in effect, a joke I know how to take. It is ketchup, but it is food.

Rebecca Black as truth scares me. It is calling itself ketchup, but I worry about what its consumption will do to my insides.

Andy Griffith and Blogger Stats

2011-02-24T14:14:00.001-08:00

So, yesterday I discovered Blog Stats. I know, it's simple and stupid and I should've been more in touch with the now generation of Vox Populism and becomingtrubie who consider stats and analytics the same way I used to consider Dill Pickle Chips, Jolt Cola, and Saved by the Bell: things you must consume everyday.

Turns out, my post "Top 5 Musicians with Muscles" gets a lot of hits (mostly it appears, through people who google Iggy Pop Muscles). That was a fun one.

My most contentious post has been "The Worst Sport in the World: Volleyball." When it first came out, I had a few emails from people who called me Fat for not liking Volleyball. It was funny, but who takes the time to send an email to an ectomorph with mesomoprh tendencies to call them fat? The comments from Anonymous Volleyball playing people were quite right: I am ridiculous, and the reason I don't like it, is because I suck at it. I mentioned that in the post, but people still seemed angry. I suppose that's another reason why volleyball could suck: volleyball players not reading. I realize, almost two years after that post (which had 15 views today), that I was basically trying to write about Volleyball the way Andy Griffith discussed football.

It's cool to see that more Russians than Brazillians have stumbled onto this blog. That 14% of people who have been to Spartan use Macs. And that I am interested in this makes me feel very out of touch as I know this discovery is akin to currently "digging" a DJ Shadow album that came out in 1999. In a sense, I am more Andy Griffith than I ever thought I would be.

And so, while I look at the masturbatory Blogger Stats and stare at the bright colours and flashy things, here's some Andy Griffith discussing football. Spartan will be making its way back to Andy Griffith terrain over the next little while since that seems to be what makes strangers come to this thing. Though perhaps, I was always here:

Snow Day 2011: a Snow Day Retrospective

2011-02-02T08:04:00.000-08:00

Every ten years, I get a snow day. Perhaps I only remember two.

The first was in North Bay in 1991. North Bay will always seem much colder than any other place I've ever lived, and my memory of the snow was that one morning it piled up 6 feet high at our doorstep. Perhaps that's relative since I had probably just cracked 5 feet in height. The highlight of that day was filling garbage bags with snow and using them as sleds down the driveway. It was all very folk art of us. We couldn't have imagined that something like the internet would be around some day, and I am positive that garbage bags were made a lot stronger 20 years ago when it didn't matter as much what went into landfills. By 2 in the afternoon, we were probably in the basement watching Jenny Jones and that was as perfect a day as a slow-to-develop-preteen-would-need until a few months later when someone introduced me to chewing tobacco and slow dancing.

In 2006, I heard this song over 200 times and went ten months without seeing snow.

My second snow day was in Vancouver, probably 2001. Vancouverites are like Americans when it snows: the city shuts down emotionally, people become "shocked" by the mere existence of cold precipitation that doesn't land on Whistler, and everyone starts driving like a raccoon in a live-action kids movie would, especially if there wasn't another raccoon working the pedals. As I was part of the workforce in '01, slinging vitamins for a company owned by the cult of Jehovah's Witness, this snow day was less about exploration, and likely turned into an excuse to drink on a Wednesday afternoon. Jenny Jones was still on TV, so I probably watched it. The best part of this snow day was that by noon, the snow had melted and I actually saw grass. The Vancouver snow day was like a Sphinx riddle: what acts like an osteoporotic ex-tennis pro in the morning and actually plays tennis by mid-afternoon? Or something.

In 2010 Captain Beefheart died, and it snowed all day.

That's it. Until 2021,
SnowDayve.

4 Alternative Theories: The 90s

2011-01-14T18:42:00.000-08:00

I've been listening to a lot of 90s music lately. It's the only music I can claim first person or non-pretentious nostalgia for (like I do when I claim that music was soooo good in the 1940s and those were the good old days; or that Janis Joplin is listenable; or that I was into Motley Crue in 1981, but I was 2 years old, and they were already one year into 5 combined venereal diseases.).

I was planning a number of long pieces on the 1990s, and still might have a go at them, but in the past few weeks, here are some things I've been thinking that can't fit in a tweet or status update (except maybe #4).

1. The only band of the "alternative era" that was both truly alternative and truly popular was The Presidents of the United States of America. Primus was too alternative to be popular. Smashing Pumpkins were popular but not an alternative to anything by time Siamese Dream was out. You can make an argument for Tool, but Tool is perhaps outside of the genre of alternative and are probably art metal. The big four (Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Nirvana and Pearl Jam) were all just rock and roll bands of varying degrees of awesome.

2. Of all the lead singers who died young, Mother Love Bone's Andrew Wood is perhaps the most significant. Mother Love Bone would have made Porno for Pyros unnecessary if Andrew Wood could've have avoided a heroin overdose before grunge "broke." Not to mention, Pearl Jam probably doesn't happen if Wood doesn't die. This was a really cool band, and when nostalgic 90s movies start getting made, MLB will be playing in the background of party scenes.

3. The best movie about the 1990s is somehow 1993's Dazed and Confused which is a movie set in the 1970s. This seems like something I didn't think of on my own, yet I know I've thought it for a while, probably because everyone was dressing like the kids in D&C in 1993 (unless you were dressing like 2Pac). Possibly someone else has expressed this idea (Klostermann maybe, he says shit that we're all thinking all of the time). Singles, Reality Bites and Threesome do not transcend the era like Pearl Jam's Ten, Soundgarden's Badmotorfinger or even Mudhoney's Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge. In a 100 years, Back to the Future Part II will be a more accurate depiction of 2015 then any of these movies are of 1993. Which is not saying a lot.

4 more years until this is a reality!

4. Axl Rose probably killed Kurt Cobain. He had motive.

Tour with us, Kurt! We play stadiums and have 3 junkies in the band for you to play with!

Kickstart my Blog

2011-01-14T16:57:00.000-08:00

Setting: Skype. Time: Today.

Q: "Why have a blog if you aren't going to post anything?"
A: "I know."
Q: "So post something?"
A: "Why, will you read it?"
Q: "Maybe."
A: "I've just listened to 9 straight hours of 1970s progressive rock. I don't feel like writing anything for instant public consumption. Check out Jake Mooney's blog. He's interesting. And diligent."
Q: "Cool. Anything good?"
A: "You mean, music or the blog?"
Q: "Music."
A: "Yes, everything good."
Q: "Like what?"

A: "Did you listen to it?"
Q: "Yes."
A: "Liar."
Q: "I listened to it. It's cool near the end. "
A: "I believe you because it is very cool near the end. Most of the time people don't click links."
Q: "Yep."
A: "So I'm going to post this, okay?"
Q: "Post what?"
A: "This conversation."
Q: "Boring."
A: "Yeah, but I woke up with only about 150 words in me, and you just took them all up with your questions."

In Defence of the Vuvuzela

2010-06-15T15:59:00.000-07:00

The People versus Vuvuzela

Part 1: Horny at the World Cup

Today’s Toronto Star website asks: Should vuvuzelas, the native horn that has become the defining feature of the World Cup, be banned from stadiums?

And with nearly 15,000 votes finds that 61% of voters say Yes, while 39% say No (to hell with 3rd party candidates "Maybe" and "Who gives a crap?").

Though the vuvuzela buzz on television during World Cup games is slightly noticeable, like all things annoying, we get used to it, and perhaps even grow to like it. The issue is being blown out of proportion (get it?), as what was a minor annoyance on television has become a race issue via the syllogistic reasoning of Internet forums:

Major Premise: Vuvuzelas are traditional African horns.

Minor Premise: North Americans don’t like hearing them on TV.

Conclusion: North Americans hate Africans.

That leap is more annoying than all the vuvuzelas in Durban.

I personally voted that, No, they should not be banned. As BBC sports commentator Farayi Mungazi said the sound of the horn was the "recognized sound of football in South Africa" and is "absolutely essential for an authentic South African footballing experience." Good enough for me.

We should all suck it up (although we wouldn’t get much of a sound from it if we did. Get it?)

One small step for vuvuzela. One giant leap, for plastic horns.

Part 2: Noises Off!

This got me thinking about noises. The ones we like, the ones we don’t, and the ones we think we like but really, shouldn’t. This list will be a work in progress. Someday it will be comprehensive. Perhaps this list will be my contribution to society.

Feel free to add to or disagree with this completely subjective list. Though if you disagree too loudly, you’re bound to end up on the Electric Sax list.

The Vuvuzela Category (Noises that aren’t so bad that “people” seem to hate): Afternoon lawn mowers, Billy Joel’s 1990s music, Michael Buble, Snapping gum.

The Bagpipe Category (Noises that are bad that “people” seem to romanticize): Cicadas, John Secada, Tap Dancing, Elton John’s songs from The Lion King

The Electric Sax Category (Noises that are horrible and under no circumstance should be allowed to exist): Wet hands on a balloon, Fran Drescher’s Voice in The Nanny, the sound quality of local car dealership commercials coming out of Buffalo, New York, a mouth chewing bread, teenagers talking on a bus

The Baby Laughing Category (Noises that really aren’t that great, but people love): Synth Pop, Carol Channing, Drum circles in parks, Proficient violin

Eeeeeeek!

On Notice: World Cup 2010

2010-06-09T20:11:00.000-07:00

Put that Canadian pride aside and be ready to see the Portugal flags from space: the World Cup is coming! Time for Spartan to resurrect. Starting this weekend, Spartan will be one of a batrillion blogs capturing the sights, sounds and debauchery of futbol.

During my MFA, I heard a lot of crazy bullshit. Most of it was someone repeating back to me something I just said. One thing that stuck was the wisdom of Canadian playwright Guillermo Verdecchia who told me "Absence of culture is still culture." It's true except during grand International spectacles like the Olympics and the World Cup of Soccer when those with an absence feel a void. Unlike the Olympics, the World Cup never allows us to exercise the Canadian jingoism instinct. Many of us have to do some digging at these times.

Toronto is a city of world cup nations (there must be Hondurans here somewhere), and I am a boy who can lay claim to culture exotique every four years. Mama is Italian and Greek. Papa is German and English. All four countries are in the 2010 World Cup (and Canada never will be again, which is good - we need to suck at glamourous sports to keep the equilibrium). For the next month, Spartan will follow one boy looking for his cultural roots, commenting on hooligans, and acknowledging the cool parts, all the while, only marginally caring about soccer.

For the record, unless they lose to South Korea in the first game, Spartan supports:And, if like the Greek economy, they tank, I'll be throwing all my elbows into supporting:

Spartanly Yours,
db

Me and Mother Discuss American Idol

2010-04-14T08:37:00.000-07:00

I watch American Idol. So what? Who cares? I don't really watch it for the music, but like any television show, there is some drama to watching a complete season. There are characters, heroes (Crystal Bowersox, Michael Lynch) and villains (Tim Urban, Ellen DeGeneres).

Once in a while you hear a decent performance, and it certainly resurrects the original versions of songs that some viewers would not have otherwise been exposed to (I am sure American Idol contestants botching Hallelujah has lead to discoveries of Jeff Buckley and Leonard Cohen).

Okay, so the point. This morning my mom sent me an email with her recap of last night's American Idol. And well, it turned into a brief back and forth. My mother and I rarely get to discuss things like artistic merit, music, fashion and competition: Spartan's fun zone. Here are some (mostly unedited) highlights.

And for those that argue American Idol is a dumbing down of society, a future blog that will attempt to justify it. For those that argue this entry dumbs down Spartan, a reminder of this.

Dave's Mom: Crystal - good job; liked it a bunch
Dave: Agreed. She's solid and doesn't need the show anymore.

DM: Right - I don't think she will win because the audience tends to choose less out there singers.
D: Maybe. I just think there are 4 rockers this year and it's rarely an all rock final. So something has to give. I don't really think it's going to hurt her career to be booted early. It might even help.

DM: Andrew - Karaoke a bit; a bit boring or unexciting
D: Brutal. Worst of the night and surely he'll go home. Song choice has destroyed him. He always picks something lame and light instead of going for gravitas (Can't Buy Me Love and Hound Dog?! Are you kidding me? Your dad was in a gang! Where's your depth and pain?)

DM: Agree 100% with your comments

D: Thank you. And to add: I mean, you have a neck tattoo! Where's your edge?!

DM: Tim - the Karaoke continues; give this boy a telethon to buy a personality (don't understand why the judges liked it. Perhaps he is wearing them down and they have to start saying something nice about him)
D: I didn't hate this. It was pretty good. Even pretty. I still don't like him and think he's soulless.

DM: Pretty indeed. I do agree that he is soulless.
D: He'll go into cruise control now and only do those songs. He reminds me a bit of Jason Castro now. Empty masquerading as deep and cute masquerading as important.

DM: Lee - I really like his voice and enjoyed this one possibly better
than Crystal. (Let's call it a tie for now.)
D: Lee was amazing. I like him better than David Cook, who I guess is the most obvious comparison.

DM: He reminds me a bit of Dave Matthews. By the way I LOVED David Cook.
D: Good comparison to Dave Matthews. Look at you! The song Dave Matthews played at the Grammy's was amazing and I can see Lee going that way. I didn't love David Cook. His originality was someone else's originality (doing a version of a song the exact same way as someone else's version is not creative e.g. when he did Billie Jean he was ripping off someone else's version of Billie Jean; sort of how it bugs me when people sing Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah...it's amazing, but it's not amazing to do HIS version...it's Leonard Cohen's song. Do YOUR version Tim Urban!)

DM: Aaron - Ouch! Started really poorly and went downhill from there. (He will get pre-pubescent votes and remain in the competition however.)
D: I think the pubescent votes got to Tim. Strong finish, great voice, but this guy is in trouble, though in 5 years, you and Dad will buy his album.

(Editor's Note: a brief conversation about Pamela Anderson ensued. Most of that has been redacted. But here's how it ended:)
D: I don't watch Dancing with the Stars. I don't think she's slutty per se. Besides, it seems to keep her rich. She's got maybe 5 more years of people thinking she doesn't look creepy.

DM: Siobhan - Not my favourite of hers until she got funky toward the end. I don't like her lower register because it sounds like she is trying to be some sex kitten.
D: She's sounding very 70s right now. Which might not be a bad thing. I actually think she's peaked and can't really do anything to surprise. I originally thought she'd be in the top 2, but not anymore. Her song choices haven't helped. If they do a Dusty Springfield week, she'll be fine. They won't.

DM: Too bad because I really like her voice, her look and her attitude. Again, the voters won't keep her around to the final 2.
D: Agreed. Though most people think she sings from her nose. I did like her defence last night.

DM: Michael - I liked it but think the judges should have let him go last
week. Really nice, pure tones to his voice.
DM: This was amazing. Second or third best of the night and I completely agree with the judges keeping him (especially when Tim is still around). Totally deserves to be in still, and should be top 3.

D: I just think they may need the save for Crystal because the voters aren't smart enough to keep her.
DM: They could use it after the top 5 and she'll surely make it that far. I think voters are smart enough to keep someone like her around. I give the AI audience some credit. Very little though until they turf Katie or Tim.

D: Katie - Most upbeat, most personality but time for her to say goodbye in my humble opinion - I personally am tired of her.
DM: Dislike her completely. She's got a poor sense of who she can be as a singer. I've agreed with Simon's comments. She's not Mary J Blige. At most, she's Taylor Swift. She was great last week, but I think she should be bottom 3 with the other two young ones.

DM: Total agreement!
D: Cool.

DM: Casey - I like Casey but this was not his best for me. Too many other really good Elvis songs he could have chosen.
D: I agree with you. He's pretty awesome, and while I'm glad he chose something cool (Hound Dog and Blue Suede shoes are just lame choices from two this week), I think something like You'll Never Walk Alone or something more epic from Elvis would've been good (even Guitar Man, which is a great Elvis song made famous by Jerry Reed!)

DM: Needs a stylist to dress him as well. I know it is tough for the men to look good but Casey looks like he got dressed in the barn before going out to milk the cows. And yet he has that rocker vibe when he sings. Perhaps he could watch some Bon Jovi videos to see how Jon dresses and presents himself on the stage.
D: I disagree with you on every single point there. Are you suggesting Casey should wear leather pants? Casey wears fantastic shirts. I am inspired by how they keep his sleeves rolled up without rolling? I asked Erin, how do you think he does that. Erin thought safety pins. I think it might be a tailored button. Anyway, he isn't looking farmery, he looks blues musiciany (google Derek Trucks who I think he's ripping off a bit). Big ass difference. To say he should be MORE like Bon Jovi is like you telling me I should be more like an accountant. Sure it's respectable, might mean a steady income, but...hm, maybe I should be an accountant.

Home Opener!

2010-04-12T09:46:00.001-07:00

...and of course, what better way to prepare for the 2010 Jays' (currently 5-1) season than a cross-blog pollination with Jake Mooney and his optimism project through the Torontoist.

Click here and read not just today's entry by yours truly, but the previous six days which have me feeling pretty damn good about...well...everything. Even Vernon Wells!

It's hard to excerpt something that's less than 300 words, but here's a taste of my treatise which Mooney summarizes as "the ineffable feeling of hope that accompanies the beginning of a new MLB season"

Opening day optimism is a shared secret. Shhhhh, stay sober in the face of perceived conclusion that the Blue Jays’ playoff hopes are obstructed by behemoths of history and finance; the AL East is the terrain of baseball’s best (Yankees, Red Sox, and Devil Rays). A failed optimist lingers on other’s success, on cruel divisional alignments; she transforms to pessimist instantly.

I'll be in the upper deck tonight and expect to see a decent game, a lot of completely hammered white people, and Alex Rios, being escorted by armed guards to and from the dugout each inning. Ah, sport.

Alice Cooper, Tiger Woods, a Big Hump

2010-04-10T09:55:00.001-07:00

Although Alice Cooper isn't my favourite metal icon (I bet you're all interested as to who is), the combination of metal and sports is well, arousing.

There are a boat load of comments on this graphic on the Globe and Mail website, and Tiger Woods is probably going to win the Masters this weekend (not coincidentally and quite unnecessarily, Alice Cooper is touring Canada with Rob Zombie right now). Repugnant or reprehensible as one may find Tiger Woods, if he wins the Masters, it will be an amazing sports story .

I can't wait until Dave Mustaine makes his NHL Playoff picks.

Dave says: "Cup Finals...Coyotes and Capitals."

Eva Markvoort

2010-03-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

I think we underestimate how athletic each of us are. How, even if we're not "in shape" we can climb a set of stairs, and although we may be winded, we can still breathe. I am guilty of taking for granted that I have yet to come face to face with a major health obstacle: that I sail freely around each room.

This morning, someone I knew, someone I wish I had the privilege of calling a friend, as she seems to have had nothing but a positive affect on people who did have that privilege, passed away after 25 years fighting cystic fibrosis. To me, she was a best friend of my best friends. I cannot claim to have known her, yet, like any star worth following, I felt as though I did.

From her friends in theatre, her friends from the online community, her friends as a result of her activism, and her friends living with cystic fibrosis, there have been and will be many eloquent things written about Eva Markvoort, all of them true, all of them reaching to express what her, her family and her close friends have experienced, screamed, cried and laughed at in these past couple of months since the acceptance that her battle was coming to an end. Without preface or apology, I'm compelled to reach. To acknowledge that good friends, acquaintances, strangers, and friends of friends are better off just to have heard of Eva.

Suit

—For Eva Markvoort

Put this poem in

a pretty book, if I can

put these words in a pretty place,

a next-stop-to-heart-sink kind of spot,

a here lies the meaning of life sort of joint.

And put my body in the perfect suit

if it goes, if it goes, if it’s something

fit for viewing. Dress it up and pin

these words to my lapel, just so,

and pretend my style

really had panache; make it

look like my arrangement meant the world,

or said anything at all, or everything

at once.

Sport Costumes!

2010-02-15T08:27:00.001-08:00

kd Lang was great at the opening ceremony. Got a problem with that, hippy?

Some of you may know I'm working on a book of fashion writing with Sean Horlor in a sort of tag team affair of poetry. Added to the writing, we have some really beautiful sketches from Mara Gottler. Sean's much better at promoting this beast than I am, so watch the awkwardness with which I say that next week I will be reading some of these poems from my chapbook Gasmask Summer which is being launched and released by Toronto's Emergency Response Unit.

Launch and release seem to be very powerful and aggressive words for something that weighs less than a pound, but these verbs will be happening Monday, February 22 at 7:30PM at the Magpie in Toronto. (Note: the gold medal game will not be happening at this time or on this night).

Also releasing chapbooks this evening, Elisabeth de Mariaffi, Aaron Tucker, and the boyish and brash Jacob McArthur Mooney, who will soon be entering into a steel cage match of arty sport discussions on either my blog or his or both (or somewhere else - these negotiations take time).

In writing the poems for this book, I've been thinking about clothes pretty much non-stop for a year and a half. It's to the point where if we've seen each other in that time, I probably looked you up and down for ideas. But what I really want to discuss: last night's figure skating costumes. Not all of them; I'm sure there's a site for that. But this one:

Tatiana Volosozhar (she's graceful) and Stanislav Morozov (he hates the chaffing)

These two are certainly athletes. I am in no way making fun of figure skaters. Even when they fall, they are doing something that very few people could ever do, and with the exception of lugers, aerialists and VANOC organizers probably have the most Olympic balls of any of the participants (Jake, there's a possible discussion).

But even the commentators couldn't withhold their giggles at these beauties (and two of them WERE figure skaters!). Highlights were David Pelletier (gold medalist - pairs figure skating) saying that "this is sport not a carnival" and Rod Black (sports analyst, someone I got drunk with at a 2001 Winnipeg social: pictures forthcoming) claiming the skaters were "channeling their inner Avatar." I'll likely have something new written about these blue beauties for next week's Magpie launch.

I feel like Joan Rivers, excited to see what the Ukrainians will be wearing tonight.

Sidenote: I also met Joan Rivers, but didn't get drunk with her. She kept calling me Barry. I didn't correct her.

Who are you wearing, Barry?

Brad Cran shoots....

2010-02-10T22:39:00.000-08:00

Pro-Cran

And scores. I think.

If this doesn't fall right into my wheelhouse, nothing does...for those few who follow this blog, please please please read Vancouver Poet Laureate Brad Cran's NOTES (not a "blast" as the Globe calls it) on why he has declined to participate in the Olympics games. It's measured, controversial, timely, and even if you love the Olympics, impossible to disagree with if you are actually proud of your ties to Vancouver (which I am, but Brad is even more: times 2010).

Read it now. It's good. It's smart. And so are you.

Ignore the comments if you can; they are extreme on both sides (but mostly on the side of people who didn't read the article and think poems are limericks). The internet is so damn ugly when free speech stampedes: off-topic is off-topic. Dumb is dumb. Right or wrong, it might be easier to admit we don't want poetry and hockey intersecting; that poets should not be fucking with the opening ceremonies; that Granville pubs do not need poetry readings for two weeks in February; or, that these intersections are god damn interesting, and your brain can love both a poem and a penalty shot - the theme of this whole damn Spartan thing since day one.

I am very happy that Brad, as I, is not simply against the Olympics as a general evil; this would make it impossible for me to be his soldier. Yes, Facebook friends, I know of the corporate evils, the arts' cuts, the hypocrisy, Stephen Harper's prorogue, etc. etc. etc., but I also know of two friends who are getting the chance to do what they love on a stage all amateur athletes, writers and theatre people wish we had. Though I'm sick of Donald Sutherland's voice and the McDonald's ads, it's the lesser of two evils for these athletes for the next two weeks (and yes, some of that funding does go to them).

I support them, and when your time comes, I support you.

Now, let's not pretend the Olympics are worse without Brad Cran, Al Purdy poems, me, you, artists, non-qualifiers, or ski-jumpers without penises. The fact that a representative like Brad has made a stand and that stand is making the rounds shows how perfect and deserving an Olympic city Vancouver is; when its poet laureate poet can get 141 G&M comments to outscore those dealing with the injury to Ryan Getzalf, that's a gold medal for Cran.

In no way does Brad's (and I suppose my) stance negate that the sporting events at the Olympics can be enjoyed, inspiring, and, if we're interested, unifying (as opposed to the high school battle polarizing art and sport). Maybe these games are simply a fantastic hockey tournament, a decent curling playoff, and a figure skating exhibition you can watch with mom, rather than what I think they set out to be during the 2002-2003 bid: a cultural, inclusive, and for lack of a better term, cool games.

I guess I would have rathered a bit more of the competitive spirit from Brad Cran. The internet is not the only place where any of us should speak (easier said than done, says the blogger).

Where a two dimensional internet speech sits, he could've taken his beliefs to the streets and attended his events, read what he wanted to despite VANOC, and shown the "world" what Vancouver really is: outspoken, ballsy, a metropolitan middle finger sanctioned by the IOC.

What's the worst that could happen? A mic cut? A municipal press conference? Page 12 headlines about that renegade poet?

Awesome shot, Brad. But it hit the post. Please...take another. A nation looks to you.

Andre Dawson and other Funny Names

2010-01-28T06:41:00.000-08:00

Andre Dawson (AKA The Hawk) doesn't want to enter the hall of fame as an Expo (a team he played ten years for, a team no longer in existence), but rather, a Chicago Cub (a team that will probably still be around in 100 years if baseball is). Though a lot of Expos "fans" are upset, it does make sense to want to enter the Hall of Fame with a city where there are still fans to clap you in. Compare it to finishing a marathon in 5 hours (when most participants are finishing and so there are loved ones at the finish line) to completing a marathon in 16 hours, where only the city's clean up crew is there, and really, they don't care. They've got more problems than your silly bourgeois fun-run.

Upon his 2003 induction, Gary Carter (#8, Caucasian, pictured below) asked to be let in as half Expo/half Met. This seems reasonable, but baseball is nothing if not unreasonable, and he was indeed inducted as a Montreal Expo. With class, Carter said a few words in French, and life, as it does, went on. But The Hawk seems to want to do no such thing. It took Dawson nine tries to be elected into the Hall of Fame, which is hardly evidence of a no-brainer decision, so he probably shouldn't complain (as Craig Gary Greenham likens it "It's like begging for a dinner invitation and then publicly whining about the dessert."). The puppy dog reaction to this story from "Expos' fans" (of which I was once one) is just another symptom of baseball nostalgia, of the good old days gone by. He never loved us. We know that now. Though this time, it's hit us where it hurts: right in our Canada.

Hey, Gary, did you hear the one about Phyllis Mangina? You didn't? Then check out the next section.

Hi, I'm Dick Butkus, but you probably know me as the coach on every 1980-90s sitcom (except Coach)

Ah, names. This link below is both nostaligic (Ron Tugnutt and Dick Butkus) and informative (Phyllis!). From the file of things I should have been researching, comes one of the most well done photo-retrospectives I have ever seen. Props to the site Manofest (hey, they're on theme) for multiplying masculinity times infinity!

Take a look at:
The 30 Dirtiest Names In Sports History

Lakers versus Celtics: The Video Game

2010-01-22T07:12:00.000-08:00

James Worthy taking it to Robert Parish as Dennis Johnson watches

I still haven't found a way to watch and enjoy NBA basketball, though there was one phase where I was an authority on the great 1980's rivalry of the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics. Okay, so I didn't understand the cultural significance of the rivalry. Perhaps I still don't. The Celtics, led by two white guys (Larry Bird and Kevin McHale), played for Catholic pride in the birthstate of basketball against the Lakers, led by the cocaine flash of Magic Johnson and Lew Alcinder (AKA Kareem Abdul-Jabbar). There has been much written on the politics of this rivalry, Chuck Klostermann's essay '33' among the best (though whoever wrote the Lakers-Celtic Rivalry wikipedia article did a hell of a job too).

But little, if anything, has been written on the significance of the video game Lakers versus Celtics, a video game I spent hours playing on my Tandy 1000 in 1990. Born of necessity (my Nintendo was broken and I suspect my Mom had sabotaged disk two of Leisure Suit Larry III: Passionate Patti in Pursuit of the Pulsating Pectorals), Lakers versus Celtics was my first flirtation with the sedentary lifestyle I regularly now practice of sitting in front of a computer for hours.

Grade seven was not a stellar academic year for yours truly. I actually failed grade 7 art. This is, in part, due to the hours I spent on this video game when I probably should have been, I don't know, making a collage. But to me, Lakers versus Celtics was all the art I needed. Just look at all those colours as Magic lines up for a free-throw. Also note the awesome detail of Kareem Abdul Jabar's goggles (yellow number 33).

Looks like a brick

Computers were still a mystery. Good for little more than pretending I was going to write a novel or playing video games. In 1986, Ferris Bueller changed his attendance records from home; in 1990 Screech created a fully functioning Robot named Kevin. But the idea of a computer functioning externally was not on my radar. The solitary and private intimacy of playing Lakers versus Celtics was akin to reading a book (did I mention grade 7 was not a stellar academic year?).

This might not seem like much now, but this was the first video game I remember with real players. Actually, this still might not seem like much. But these were the days of Nintendo's Ice Hockey where the most identity a player had was to be Fat - Skinny - Medium (and from one of six countries, including, if the following picture is correct, Poland).

Go Poland!

Lakers versus Celtics is over 20 years old. For the hours I spent on this game in my soft-brain years, the actual sport of basketball never caught on with me. In fact, video games have never really been a part of my life either (I couldn't finish Super Mario Brothers until I was in my twenties). However, sitting in front of computers has been a giant part of my life. Though we all have our reasons for our computer habits (work, information, keeping in touch, porn), I can trace it all back to Robert Weatherby, Don Traeger and Michael Hosaka - the pushers of my pre-internet fixation with staring at bright colours and sports statistics, when there was probably something else "meaningful" I could be doing: a collage, protesting government, attending Conan O'Brien rallies, checking up on that whole environment thing, reading, writing...

Where does the time go?

Everything is Competitive

2010-01-18T20:03:00.000-08:00

Pour a Colortini and watch the pictures as they fly through the air.

For the first time in my life, I posted something on a Facebook group of which I am a member. Like others, I am interested in the Conan O'Brien-Jay Leno thing (is it really a feud between them?). On Monday night, Jay Leno gave what I think he believed to be a heartfelt speech about "show business" but really, probably tried to keep the issues over the heads of the very viewers both he and Conan enjoy (let's face it, neither are Tom Snyder). A good blogger would post the youtube clip, but if you're going to read on, I assume you either saw it, or are just reading on to see what pop culture references I make.

Below is a transcript of the 9 minutes that followed after I typed the following (tongue so far in my cheek I was licking the bookshelf) into the I'm with Coco Facebook page:

Leno just appealed to my sense of 'it's show business' ... now I understand and will leave this group and join the Leno one. Wow, he really is a great guy that Jay Leno...

With all names but my own protected, and no corrections made, here's what ensued when the proverbial puck was dropped (and because I think I write plays, let's present it as such):

ACT ONE

DAVID BROCK
Leno just appealed to my sense of 'it's show business' ... now I understand and will leave this group and join the Leno one. Wow, he really is a great guy that Jay Leno...

JOSH
but sometimes it's about the people. CONAN'S CREW WILL LOSE THEIR JOBS.

ANITA
~sarcasm~

JUSTIN
Lame!

JOSH
see, conan said he'd rather leave the network than make this about business. he has a sense of integrity that leno just showed he doesn't have.

SONY
lol

TODD
Wedon't need you Dave.

TIMOTHY
If that speech moved you, I'm glad you weren't born in Nazi German, you sheep.

JOSH
and "my sense of 'it's show business'" is a sense devoid of heart and compassion, and if you truly don't CARE, then you can leave and we won't even miss you. it's because we CARE that we continue to fight.

BARRET
That's fine, leave! Moron!

END ACT ONE

Analysis: It only took me five minutes to be called a moron. Most of you didn't come to this conclusion for at least a few days after meeting me. At this point my heart started beating...every athlete knows this rush: adrenalin.

ACT TWO

DAVID BROCK
Timothy, what's this Nazi Germany you speak of? Sounds interesting...do they do a version of Jaywalking or Headlines?

CHRIS
if "show business" is code for "lack of principle" - you can have it.

JOSH
here's what amuses me about you: you say you'll move to the Leno page, and yet you're still here. this tells me your intention is provocation. i want you to respond to this argument: CONAN'S CREW WILL LOSE THEIR JOBS IF THIS GOES DOWN. They all moved to L.A., they moved their families, and they put all their hope in this new show, and THEY WILL ALL BE JOBLESS. Respond!!!

AMY
I'm thinking maybe David is just being sarcastic?

DAVID BROCK
People of the internet (to pay homage), you're silly. Special thanks to Amara. Glad to amuse you, Josh; your three exclamation marks have inspired me to stay. And to Amy as well.

PAUL
Those of you who don't understand that David is using sarcasm deserve to watch Leno.

JOSH
WHOOPS. I am REALLY REALLY sorry, man. I absolutely suck at reading sarcasm online. That one's totally on me. Didn't mean to overreact I just was a little too pissed off at Leno to think clearly.

DAVID BROCK
It's okay, Josh, I didn't download that new sarcasm punctuation my internet provider is trying to sell me for 2 dollars. I figured an ellipses and an ignorance of Nazi Germany would be enough to tip my hand (well done to Timothy for proving the internet theory that every mild disagreement will find its way to the word Hitler or Nazi).

JOSH
lol. that one's DEFINITELY on me.

BLACKOUT

Analysis: Anyone who watched football this weekend recognizes what happened here. Sides formed - trash talking ensued and only females and Paul supported me. When all was said and done, two quarterbacks (me and JOSH) met in the middle of the field, and shook hands. For a few minutes there, we were rivals, but it was just a game...it's just a game.

Good game, Josh.

Inspired by my foray into online flaming, Jay v. Conan, and an actual category on Jeopardy tonight, the next few entries will be about great rivalries in sport, entertainment and literature. Excited aren't you? AREN'T YOU?

Postscript: I wasn't completely proud to be a Conan fan on this one given the company, but I accept it was all in good fun. That said, I now feel that sense of being part of a group where everyone is kind of insane and therefore, maybe I am too: this sense of awareness must be what people who go to Berkley or live in Portland feel like when they realize they are still Americans.

Jose Canseco should be in the Hall of Fame

2010-01-13T13:38:00.000-08:00

I promise, I'll never tell a soul.

Oh, you pretty things, don't you know you're driving the mothers and fathers insane?

Take note 1987-1990 Oakland A's fans (of which I am sure there are many reading this): the Bash Brothers are bashing each other. In one corner, Jose Canseco: juiced, tanned, handsome, and the poster-boy for how to admit steroid abuse, get over it, and turn it into money. In the other, Mark McGwire: The Willie to Sammy Sosa's Lester, the brutal apology maker, the poster-boy for how not to admit steroid abuse (until Barry Bonds finally gets on with it—honestly Barry, you're drawing this thing out more than the Sam and Diane will they/won't they).

Willie and Lester. Get it?

Like a late New Years’ baby, Mark McGwire's recent admission to steroids has arrived, though Canseco’s claim that when they were teammates, he and McGwire would inject each other with steroids, is one McGwire still denies…for now.

McGwire’s teary confession does little for me. His apology sucks. His tears fall as though he’s jockeying for a spot in the Baseball Hall of Fame and even in the admission, he can’t cop to using them to hit homeruns; rather, they were used to recover from injuries. If you’re a professional athlete, claiming you took steroids solely for recovery is like saying you have sex solely for procreation.

(For the record, I have nothing against steroid use. Very little convinces me that they are worse for the organs than Jack Daniels, KFC, or Sandra Bullock movies. If someone paid for a cycle for me (p.s. my birthday is in a month), I would probably try them, just to see what the big deal is.)

As yet another baseball player admits to steroid use (that McGwire was outted years ago is, I suppose, academic) it confirms for me that Jose Canseco belongs in the Baseball Hall of Fame. If his steroid-stats aren’t enough to convince you (at least 1985-1994), then he should be nominated in the builder category. His admission and his telling of truths when that wasn’t in style have certainly done more to positively change baseball’s future than teary Mark McGwire ever will. Were I in a second year politics class, I might decide to write an essay entitled “Cuban/American Relations: why McGwire will Get into the Hall of Fame, and Canseco won’t”—but I don’t really believe his being Cuban has anything to do with anything (false activism be damned). Canseco was the first big league player of any note to admit he juiced and McGwire was thirty-fifth or something. We always remember our first. Sadly, this means that Canseco will seem like the first to do them.

I propose that the Baseball Hall of Fame adopt the same rules for entry as the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Parents who have to find a lesson in this should probably look to the way Jose Canseco has come clean regarding his drug use, rather than Mark McGwire, who, even in admitting he did steroids, still lies. That said, I’m not a parent, and if end up being one, my baby-mama would probably make little Quenton play soccer; in which case, Quenton, Daddy offers this advice: Don't do drugs that aren't glamourous, don't drink and drive, and please, son...don't watch the Miss Congeniality movies.

The Gateway Drug to Renee Zellweger: Talk to Your Kids

But I was There: When in Buffalo, Roam as the Buffalo Do

2009-12-22T19:01:00.001-08:00

Exhibit A. It's Sometimes Sunny in Buffalo

Dear Reader, I am no longer a virgin.

It was my first NFL game and associated tailgate. This weekend I attended the Buffalo Bills–New England Patriots game with none other than…my Dad. It was everything I thought it would be, and something I would do at least once a year. Though this father-son moment is something most boys do with somewhere around the age of six, thirty seems about right. I won’t bore you with the details of the game other than to say that I saw two of my top ten all time favourite athletes connect on a touchdown (Brady to Moss), but (and cue the music) more importantly, I connected with one of my top ten all time favourite parents.

Here are the highlights.

8AM – woke up in Burlington at my Uncle's house. He is an awesome football fan and an actual University coach (like Craig T. Nelson, but real). I drank a delicious glass of orange juice and pa and me b-lined it to the Tim Horton’s for what would have been a lovely little commercial.

9AM – Driving through St. Catherines, I had the following exchange with my Dad (married 35 years to Ma), which is definitely, a top 5 all time for me:
Me: All my friends seem to be married now. How do you decide to finally do it?
Dad: If you think maybe you should marry the person you’re with, that’s a no. If you think yes, then get married.

9:30AM – We cross the border. I realize how much I’m like my Dad when I notice how panicked he gets around border guards. Border guards are pricks. There, I said it. I know this is part of the uniform they need to wear to catch Osama, but I actually think they will probably do more to increase terrorism than prevent it if they aren’t nicer to people: I should sell that to the government “Kindness: one weapon against terror.” When we handed him our passports, the border guard ordered us to hand them to him open as though he were ordering us to put all hands on the wall for a cavity search. I stuttered when he asked us our seats numbers and then laughed at how ridiculous a vetting question that is.

9:43 AM - Buffalo is a shithole. It looks like Hamilton except the billboards are for beer brands we don’t have.

10:00 AM – We arrive in Buffalo and pull into a parking lot. We pay someone in a yellow vest $25 dollars and park between two trucks. On our left, a group of guys bbq’ing chili. On our right, the same thing. In fact, everyone had chili on the go. My Dad and I feel slightly left out, so we go over to the KK Convenience Mart and pick up 18 Miller Lite and a bag of plain chips. We’re ready to roll.

Exhibit B. Friendly People

10: 15AM – We open the back of the Hyundai Santa Fe (painfully close to a Mom SUV) and sit on the bumper. It’s -5, there are drunk Americans everywhere, yet I feel like the Buddha must have felt sitting under the lotus tree for the first time.

10:20AM – I put on my New England patriots toque. Instantly, Bills' fans start yelling at me (e.g. “New England sucks!”), and Patriots' fans start offering me their first born.

10:26AM – A father and son selling pie to fundraise for their church tug on my and my father's collective heartstrings. We buy a peach and apple for 5 bucks each. They're not bad, more tarts than pies, but I guess their father son moment is a good cause; I have no idea what the church was: it sounded made up to be honest. 20 minutes later, high school cheerleaders come by and try to sell us peanuts. Though they'd go much better with the beer, I feel like I'm being pandered to and we reject. I'm glad we bought the cult-pies.

10:30AM – The first Miller Lite is going through me like water. My Dad and I start getting really folksy and I say something like “You don’t buy it, you rent it.”

10:32AM – I return from the portable toilet at the far end of the parking lot and warn my Dad that if he can avoid using them, to do so (then again, are they ever Shangri-la?). I should sell that name to a portable toilet company: Shangri-La Septic. My Dad tells me the second hand story he just heard from the group to our left of a guy who randomly had sex with some girl in a bar bathroom last night. When we’re kids, our parents try to protect us from these stories; I wish I were there to protect my dad from that one.

11:40AM - We get into an excellent conversation with the car to other side of us (I feel like we knew everything we needed to about the group to right). They are a group of Mormons (lapsed) from Erie. At first we talk about how my Patriots toque sucks “giant ass”, but then get into talking about the economy and careers. We offer career advice to a welder to look into the Alberta oil fields. It’s a completely asinine conversation to be having when 20m in the distance, I think I just saw someone throw up and urinate at the same time.

Noon – The game starts at one, so we decide to start making our way to the field. I see one guy so drunk, I wonder how (or why) he will get into the stadium. He’s doing that sideways walk thing, where the feet seem to be pointing to the side, but the legs and body continue to move forward. If he gets into the game, at least he can say, “I was there.”

1:00PM – The game starts. I scream like a little girl when Randy Moss and Tom Brady run onto the field. I take my hat off when the National Anthem begins (which you should do, even in a country where the border guards are dicks).

1:10PM – One row in front of us, this:

Exhibit C. The Worst Nap In Buffalo History

Now, I know what I paid for my tickets, and in this economy, I just can't believe this can happen. This lovely couple probably had a great Sunday morning, but they are to tailgating what the hare is to a race against a tortoise; furthermore, this kind of thing probably provides a lot of ammunition to people who try to argue that soccer is the better game than football (Let’s face it, Euro football vs. American football debaters: they are both boring. In fact, at some point, all sports (and sport blogs) can be boring if you aren't moderately drunk. But I think I’ll take the puking America tailgater stereotype over the murderous soccer hooligan stereotype for the simple reason that I can clean vomit from my clothes, but I can’t clean a knife from my chest).

1:20PM – A woman in her mid-50s sitting in front of me is offended by my Patriots toque. She takes a pink Buffalo Bills cap, puts it on my head, and takes my picture. If we were both half our age plus seven, we'd have exchanged facebook names and I'd be able to get a looksee how this picture of me turned out. Alas, not. Somewhere in Buffalo, my picture is on a her computer; I wonder what she’ll do with it. I worry that with the Pats toque under the Bills hat, I will someday be used for anti-Patriots propaganda, possibly with Perez Hilton style graffiti over my picture claiming that I am a "douchebag."

2:45PM – I brave the washrooms at Ralph Wilson Stadium. It's packed with men, of which I am one: when in traffic, don't complain, because you're a car too. If hell exists, it is found in a men’s washroom at a sporting event. All the senses are assaulted. I realize I'm growing up when the first thought that comes to my mind is whether or not the fire department would have a problem with all the people in this bathroom. A Bills' fan is banging on a stall door wondering what the person 'in there' is doing. A few minutes later, we all find out, when the guy who was in the stall exits, a fresh sheen of vomit down the front of his Terrell Owens jersey. But he was there. At least he was there.

4:15PM – The game ends and the Bills lose (see, I told you I wouldn’t bore you with the details). I take one last look back to see Randy Moss, and my Dad catches me. I quickly say something about girls.

4:40PM – We arrive back at the Hyundai Santa Fe and most people are on their way out except one group of Ontarians who can’t start their car. We give them a boost, talk about football, drink a beer and swear probably 30 times each. We wear the uniform of a tailgater to the bitter end.

5:35 PM – At the Niagara Falls border, the Customs officer wants to know why we both have suitcases if we were just in town for the Bills' game. We tell her the completely true story, that because of our nervousness sounds made up, about sleeping the night in Burlington at my Uncle's, a football coach, like Craig T. Nelson, only real...etc.

What I really wanted to do was to tell her to read my blog today—both to get her answer and to up the number of hits on my counter…just so she could prove, that yes, she was here.

Exhibit D. When in Buffalo, Roam as the Buffalo Do

On Disappointment: The Two Tigers

2009-12-17T09:23:00.000-08:00

For a while, Chris Henry was one of my favourite NFL wide receivers. I’m not really sure why. He played on the Cincinnati Bengals which doesn’t really arouse anything in me, and he wasn’t even the best (or second best) on the team. He was fast and athletic: all the things you probably should be if on career day, the guidance counsellor says you should be an NFL football player. Chris Henry looked weird (my girlfriend recently called him “alien-like”), which was actually bonus, and I was pretty sure that by liking him, I would be alone, fulfilling the need that some of us have to like things that others don’t in order to seem indie or unique or ironic (other examples: Steely Dan, Raspberry ginger ale, not having a cell phone).

If you’re not up to speed on this, here are the basics (or reported basics as this story is less than a day old) regarding the recent death of NFL wide receiver Chris Henry. From espn.com:
“Police said a dispute began at a home … and Henry jumped into the bed of the pickup truck as his fiancée was driving away from the residence. Police said at some point when she was driving, Henry came out of the back of the vehicle."

There will be some speculation about what happened before Chris Henry fell out of the pickup truck (although much less than that surrounding the Tiger Woods vehicular-domestic dispute) and sadly, in a week, Chris Henry’s death will likely be forgotten or chalked up as inevitable given his history. Unlike Tiger Woods, Chris Henry had a pretty public spotty past: the almost cliché case of someone with all the talent in the world constantly disappointing those who took a chance on him. Since this is not setting out to be a tribute or obituary, I won’t shy away from some of those dirty bits. Since 2004, Henry had been charged or accused with the following: DUI, supplying underage girls with alcohol (though come on, they were 20), drug possession, gun possession, and assault (not against women), not to mention some pretty ridiculous on-the-field conduct where coaches referred to him as an embarrassment to the game. Note this is a game where Plaxico Burress goes to jail for shooting himself yet Ray Lewis stabs a woman, and wins a Super Bowl MVP the following year. Chris Henry’s crimes were largely the stuff of college movies and 1970s porn scenarios.

But this year, Chris Henry was moving on/growing up. The Bengals gave him a second (or tenth) chance, and at only 26, he was finally getting on with it. Sometimes it takes the first 26 years to sort your shit out (or if you’re Italian, 42). Chris Henry benefited from being not quite famous enough, which allowed him these under the radar chances, unlike say, Tiger Woods, who will, with little professional consequence, be just fine, despite the next few years of being asked about his “transgression.”

The next few days of Chris Henry stories will all be the same. They will mention his checkered past, his attempt at redemption, and perhaps the astute attempts will recognize that he was just a kid. Unlike Tiger Woods, nothing much was expected from Chris Henry. Within 20 minutes of the news that Chris Henry died from his injuries, the news that Elin wanted to divorce Tiger Woods had already taken over the top story. Between you and me reader, I don’t give a sweet fuck. Elin will still be rich and hot; Tiger Woods will still be rich and have his pick of cocktail waitresses or celebrities who have recently broken up with A-Rod or Tony Romo. Their kids will be fucked, but there is a chance that is going to happen regardless when your Dad is the athlete of the century.

But back to Chris Henry: as Jerry Reed (another thing to like if you want to seem unique) said, “He who don’t expect much, ain’t gonna be disappointed.” So 650 words to get to my point: despite his rather cliché athlete existence, despite my constant vigilance to try (and fail) to not care about celebrity lives, and despite those low expectations, Chris Henry’s death disappoints me, not simply because he was young, but because he wasn't getting any younger.

How Fantasy Football Ruins Football and Lives (in that order)

2009-10-14T14:23:00.000-07:00

This will make sense to no more than five regular readers of this blog. I'll get the rest of you next time. For those of you who do care to read, I have provided a glossary at the bottom of this entry.

Brady Quinn: Back in the day when things were cool
all we needed was bop ba ba ba ba ba du

My New Reality TV Show

Okay, so there's new reality show called Fantasy House...no, there are no women in bikinis, no beer coming out of the faucets, or any of those other erection inducing things that men aged 14 to 95 are want to like...this is about 10 men who have been kicked out of their own houses by the wives and girlfriends sick of hearing about their fantasy football team. For 16 weeks the men live, eat, and surf the internet for football stats, unfettered by Thursday night Dancing with the Stars' hiberdates, Saturday afternoon trips to the mall, Sunday dinners with family: the men are free to spend every waking hour in the fantasy house discussing how crappy their quarterbacks are and how much the other nine men in their house/league "suck ass" - they will lose all perspective, proclaiming that yes, they could coach in the NFL and yes, being 3-2 in the first five weeks is qualification enough to lead the Cleveland Browns (they would be right).

Viewers will tune in to watch the 10 men systematically begin to never enjoy football again. The game of football will lose all meaning, like a computer translating Hamlet into binary code and an audience hearing "To be or not to be" as "1 0 1 0 0 0..."

By the end of season one on Fantasy House, nine of the ten men will swear it's not worth the anguish, that they will never to play a season of fantasy football again; they will return home, without their signed football and $400 cash prize, to the open and forgiving arms of beautiful wives and beautiful girlfriends; they will return home to towels which match the bathmats; to meals with cilantro; they will return home to biweekly intercourse; and then, they will realize what's truly important, who the real 'keepers' are. And for eight months, they will have what the wise call perspective. They will have love (or at least a comfortable arrangement), and all will be right. Fantasy House will go on hiatus until the following August when the league commissioner email reminding you that September 20th is draft day; season two of the show will begin, and the fog will return like it was Devin Hester, all that hard-earned perspective will vanish as though it was Brady Quinn's career: yes, Yeats encapsulated man's loss of perspective best when he wrote those famous words: "1 1 1 0 0 1 0 0 1 0 0."

Glossary

Brady Quinn - Former mancrush and all-American quarterback who was amazing in college at Notre Dame but sucks in the NFL, leading one to believe that he plays for God, not the Cleveland Browns
Cleveland Browns - the worst team in football. They wear brown and have Brady Quinn as a quarterback.
Devin Hester - A guy who runs fast and gets touchdowns sometimes.
fantasy football - 1. sports gambling masquerading as friendship; 2. the activity that makes Sunday a bad day to make plans with a significant other and places the emphasis on a romantic Saturday.
keepers - 1. Fantasy Football - n. an actual player who you have from one fantasy football year to the next (see, me: Brady f'ing Quinn); 2. Real Life - n. a romantic partner who you want to have from one actual year to the next.
league commissioner - the friend who organizes your fantasy football league in much the same the way in which a drug dealer organizes your baggie. (AKA. Johnny Commish)

Eleven Rules for Talking About Sports in Larger Groups

2009-09-04T06:42:00.000-07:00

Be it dog catcher Michael Vick being allowed to play football, poker being on sports TV five times a day, or MMA achieving Monster Truck status with audiences, the berth of what constitutes sport talk has widened. And so, I present a public service for those at the beginner-intermediate-“expert” levels of sports conversation. Even if you don’t talk about sports, one of these tips may save your (social) life one day and make you look exceedingly well-rounded as though you were of common the people.

The Eleven Rules

1. Pick your Spots: If you’re the only one in a gathering who wants to talk about sports, don’t push the issue. Now’s not the time or place. Save it for next time you’re with an uncle or stuck with your girlfriend’s friend’s boyfriend who you’ve never met but find yourself at a table with while the girls have gone to the bathroom.

2. Take the road less traveled and make all the difference: One person should always take the least popular opinion on any sport debate. Possible POVs to try include women’s sports are not as interesting as men’s, North Americans who play soccer are douchebags, and baseball is awesome.

3. The Tom Brady Effect: Man crushes are allowed and cannot be judged under any circumstances. Who is anyone to get in the way of true love?

Figure 1. Take that David Beckham

4. The events in sports movies are fair game for discussion and can be argued with the fervor of actual sporting events: Ivan Drago really did kill Apollo Creed in Rocky IV, Kadeem Hardisson’s ghost really did help Marlon Wayans in The Sixth Man and there really were Angels in the Outfield helping Matthew McConaughey catch fly balls. [For less obscure references, please comment below.]

5. Yelling doesn’t mean you’re mad. It means you’re possibly wrong (see: Leafs fans, Italian soccer fans, those who earnestly follow Alpine Skiing).

6. Professional Wrestling is a sport. This became true in 1987 when Hogan body slammed Andre the Giant at Wrestlemania III. When engaged in a wrestling conversation, excessive name-dropping is recommended for nostalgic purposes. What conversation isn’t improved upon by reminding everyone at the table of the existence of "The Natural" Butch Reed?

Figure 2. Does putting quotes around "The Natural" undercut how natural you are?

7. Telling friends about your Fantasy Sports teams is acceptable. Telling friends about your fantasy sex scenarios is not …unless you’re on a camping trip in which case, go ahead [Addendum: Camping trips are no place to talk about fantasy sports]

8. There’s no I in Team: Try to include everyone in the conversation, but don’t reach for it. If there’s someone who doesn’t like sports in the group, let them go: they’ll catch up during the next conversation topic. Though consider how strong your friendship is if you always seem to be talking about sports and they don't. Oh, and for ye who don’t like sports…

9. There’s no U in Team: If you don’t like sports and a sports conversation breaks out, you have two options. 1. Silence and 2. Steer the topic to your own field of knowledge for momentary cul de sacs (examples: A-Rod’s play at third base → A-Rod getting to third base with Kate Hudson; Michael Vick’s right to play → animal rights; O.J. Simpson savagely murdering people → O.J. Simpson comedically murdering audiences in the Naked Gun movies). However, under no condition can you chastise sports conversations as stupid or pointless: not every conversation is Douglas-Lincoln and not every one is Nelson Mandela (who by the way, used World Cup Rugby to unite South Africa shortly after apartheid ended - holla bitches!).

10. With the exception of wrestling, spewing sport history, stats or award winners do not make a conversation: no one likes a show off. Learn the art of gentle history dropping and don’t submarine people with wikipedia entries as though you were some kind of 5x AL Rolaids Relief Man of the Year Dan Quisenberry

Figure 3. It is really hard to throw underhand and look cool. Dan Q could do it.

11. The Tennis Rule: Tennis is the least interesting professional sport getting regular television coverage that a group can discuss. If, after observing the above points, you find the conversation has found its way to tennis, do your friends in #8 a favour and change the topic to movies or sex, but never weather or politics, and only in certain climes, fantasy sex scenarios.

Now scroll back up to Figure 1...your man crush is safe here. Your man crush is safe here.

Day 34: Casablanca Dave and the Temple of Dumps

2009-07-24T12:42:00.000-07:00

Indiana Jones feared snakes, Casablanca Dave apparently doesn’t care much for rats. Giant rats which drag tails the size of baby arms; rats that make Willard look like the recently deceased Taco Bell Chihuahua (Rest in Peace you 90s icon); rats that make you wonder what the hell little Michael Jackson saw in his pet rat Ben (if it’s not “too soon,” insert MJ joke now). Fievel might have gone west, but the rest of the rats are hunkering down right in the heart of Toronto.

So, I went back to the illegal dumping site today to get a better look:

Though it's not completely visible at this angle, in the bottom lefthand corner, and I shit you not, is an open bag of shit. This is not the cutesy garbage I thought I was going to explore. This is dirty, filthy trash that not even Oscar the Grouch would tolerate.

I didn’t get too close to this nasty pile as I was wearing my new Old Navy flip-flops (as all good adventurers do) and didn’t want to risk flesh-eating disease getting in through my toenails. Besides, the minute I arrived on the scene, a family of hedgehog sized rats came flying out of the pile and into the surrounding bush. For a moment I thought they were charging me, but this would have been far too dramatic to be true. As I walked the railway tracks home—don’t worry safety police, Via Rail went on strike today too—I realized what a big fat baby I was becoming.

My “eww” reaction to the rats surprised me since I never really considered them something to “fear”—in four years of a zoology degree I probably rooted around the large intestine of a dozen or so large white rats; I even recall a lovely three hour lab tweezering through fresh rat feces in the search for parasite eggs. I consider myself to have a pretty high tolerance for creepy crawlers and last night heroically* killed a bunch of spiders and a moth in my apartment, the latter of which unexpectedly had guts that looked like a Kraft Caramel. Alas, I did all this with nary a flinch.

But call me conservative, there is something about a big fangy rat bursting from a crap pile that makes me wonder how much longer Toronto can go on like this. It’s now day 34 of this CUPE strike; even Gandhi's hunger strikes didn't go on this long, and CUPE, I saw Gandhi, I knew Gandhi; Gandhi was a friend of mine. CUPE, you're no Gandhi.**

What started as potentially gross has now become potentially plague inducing. Parks are closed, social assistance paperwork isn’t getting filled out, people are blaming EMS workers for heart-attack deaths, union workers are punching people at garbage drop sites, and that 16 year old lifeguard blogging for The Star is showing me up with her good writing, mature perspective and first hand knowledge of the city strike. Meanwhile the rats are having a big old laugh as they develop our taste for convenience.

Frig, I should go wash my feet.

And speaking of feet, here are the footnotes.

*Heroically because my girlfriend watched me do it! Nothing shows you're a man like killing bugs in front of a woman. And unlike Indiana Jones’s girls, I am pretty sure mine won’t turn out to be a Nazi.

**One of the top 5 most obscure allusions. I barely even understand it. Lloyd Bentsen on Dan Quayle anyone? Anyone?

Raiders of Illegal Dumping: Part I

2009-07-16T12:54:00.000-07:00

Last night, I felt like a Goonie. Go on you say? Okay. I will.

Which Goonie was I? I don’t know yet. I wish I could say I was Mikey, but the reality is, I was probably Chunk. While I’m sure there is some facebook application called “Which Goonie are you?” I’m going to do this the old fashioned way: self-reflection based on reaction.*

Last night, while walking home from my local Loblaws (the one that had a rat infestation last spring), I decided I would take a shortcut and walk along the railway tracks. In hindsight, this decision was an attempt at a Stand By Me moment, not a Goonies moment, but I guess we can’t pick which 1980s coming of age stories find us when we’re in our 30s.

So, here I am, walking the rails, trying to get all Will Wheaton, when I happen upon an illegal dumping site. Now, there is a dirt road to access this area, but other than that, I am walking in a very out-of-the-way area by Toronto standards (meaning I can’t see a Starbucks, anyone in skinny jeans, or hear a horn honking for no good goddamn reason). This is the type of area where you have bonfires or drink 4 bottles of Red Dog before your 10PM curfew.**

So, I come upon this giant pile of garbage filling up a natural valley made by the railway and high grass on one side and anonymous warehouse walls with half-assed graffiti on the other. Remember when the Goonies found the Fratteli’s hideout? Yeah, I know…I know.

The trash is fresh, and not even proper trash—a lot of it was simply white paper and other materials which are apparently recyclable (plastic and wrapping). But there was a shitload of it. It honestly looked like office waste, not household waste; I decide I’m in Dateline Investigation territory here. I pull out my camera to take a picture (‘cause this would be wicked investigative blogging) ready to blow the whistle on some corporate scandal and get a street named after me...when I hear a car approach…

Now, if you can picture a grown man scampering, well, shit, I scampered. I am not sure when the last time I scampered was: at least 20 years ago and probably on a Christmas morning. I ducked to the other side of the railway tracks and once there, self-conscious as I am, pretended I was “just chillin’” lest someone in a high apartment or literally, on the other side of the tracks, saw me making this bizarre move. My position must have represented the most unnatural “just chillin’” pose of all time: man with grocery bags, sitting on the rocks beside a railway track, looking intently at nothing in particular, holding an open cellphone, and I probably started whistling…a sure sign of someone who hasn’t seen something.***

I had to take a look at the car, so I peaked over the tracks where indeed, a Reliant K Car**** pulls up, and a man pops the trunk and dumps a few garbage bags into the pile. What was I supposed to do? Does Canada have citizens arrest? Should I call Mayor David Miller? I have raw chicken in my grocery bag! Do I really care that much? And what were the dumpers going to do if they saw me? Frig, what would a Goonie do?

Well, this Goonie hid out and waited for the car to leave. Yeah, I know: way more Chunk than Mikey.

So tonight, while many of my friends prepare for upcoming weddings, the birth of first children, maybe pay a bill and eat a meal with some vegetables, David Brock (b.1979) will put on black clothes, pretend he’s “just chillin’” and go check out the secret garbage dump by the railway tracks. Anyone want to come on an adventure? There are still positions available for a Corey Feldman type, an older brother in the mold of Josh Brolin, and a Data.*****

Footnotes (because they are important):
*Besides, I was slightly dissatisfied with recent Facebook application claims that my Punk Rock self is Iggy Pop (I wanted Fat Mike), my Sesame Street Character is Elmo (screw those second generation SS characters) and my Theatre Career should be Lighting Designer (I wanted “None of the above”).

** Anyone remember the rumour that the logo on a Red Dog bottle cap was supposedly Batman performing oral sex on Catwoman?

*** Or “hasn’t seen anything”. Or “has seen nothing.” There are too many indefinite pronouns which seem to make sense here.

**** Indeed is an overstatment. I don’t think it was a K Car, but it’s the crappiest car I can think of. It was probably a Contour or Malibu or something. I don’t know cars and am a crap eyewitness.

*****Must provide own spring mounted boxing glove, oil dispensing sneakers, and booby traps (that’s what I said, booby traps).

4 weeks In...

2009-07-15T14:31:00.000-07:00

For those of you that I had reading this on the first 4 days, my apologies...I was taking my 18 sick days. Now that I know what it's like to take 18 sick days, my sympathies are creeping towards those city workers. We should all get AT LEAST 18!

Refreshed, I will resume...starting tomorrow (it's after 5PM...you can't expect anyone to work after 5PM).

Day Four: I Forgot About the Garbage Thing (MJ)

2009-06-25T22:17:00.000-07:00

If I may indulge...

If you are even close to my age (and if you’re not a baby or 125 years old, you are), then you probably owned Thriller. If you were born between 1965 and 1983, you probably had the first release of the record while you still lived with parents—in the days when records were the only choice and not the hipster alternative to practical listening.

Thriller wasn’t even music for me when my parents bought it: I was four and liked album covers (which explains Taco’s Puttin on the Ritz, Abba’s Super Trooper and Laura Brannigan)…Thriller’s cover was perfect: a good looking black man in a white suit with a tiger. When you’re four and don’t know what sex is, this IS sex.

Though I wasn’t born in the peak Farrah Fawcett age, I get that she was the icon for many of those in pre-sex mode. I wish I had more to say, but Lynn Crosbie’s Globe and Mail piece on Farrah Fawcett from a few weeks ago says it much better (actually, Lynn’s eulogizing is much more polished than this attempt).

Back to Michael Jackson. His death today is not heartbreaking. That doesn’t mean it’s not too bad (no pun intended), but it’s not something that shocks and saddens as much as Larry King claims it does. Michael Jackson’s death is reflective and symbolic. No one will miss the Michael Jackson of Jay Leno jokes, Oprah interviews, court cases, or cosmetic surgery. We’ll miss Thriller Michael.

The Michael we miss, we missed long before today.

In 2004, my cat Kamala died. Our family had had her since 1987, and while we were all upset, I don’t know if we were sad at her actual death, but rather, the thought of 1987 and the simple thought of how much time had passed. The death of a pet always seems to elicit a montage: when Kamala died, I was 25 and all I could think of was getting her when I was eight years old and a few other scenes, none of which involved me as an adult. Michael Jackson’s death has the same effect for the 8 billion people on the earth who don’t know him personally: nostalgia. But we already had that.

I don’t compare the death of a man I didn’t know to a pet I did, but last week, if asked why the world liked Michael Jackson, no one would have called him the King of Pop for anything after the Bad album. It was Thriller. It was Off The Wall. It was the Jackson Five. Watch the news: any music we hear will be 25 years old* and amazing and not pop music as a synonym for empty sounds (looking at you Will.I.Am).

Today when I heard that Michael Jackson died, I thought of 1983: I was four and he was awesome and my mom made all my meals and all we had were records. Fuck the Thriller album was good. So was that cover.

The Michael we miss, we missed long before today. Yeah, okay...today is sort of heartbreaking.

(* Not including his 1995 duet with Janet Jackson Scream which is still a pretty amazing song)

Day Three: My Garbage is Boring.

2009-06-24T19:21:00.000-07:00

"A small one-man fighter should be able to penetrate the outer defense." - General Dodonna (Star Wars)

Today I left home with a little grocery bag (the green kind that costs 99 cents). I brought it out with the expectation of buying tonic water, limes, and BBQ corn chips (see Day 2). I ended up not purchasing any of those items and thus, write Day 3 stone cold sober. Sort of.

With no open trash cans and no shopping spree, I found myself using the bag as my own little garbage tote. When I got home, I was fairly astonished at how lackluster my garbage production can be on a typical day:

Plastic Starbucks cup
Nivea water bottle
Extra Gum wrapper
Flyer for some play I wasn’t going to go to
Bank machine receipt
Debit receipt for a white shirt

If garbage is any indication of a man (“man”), frig I’m boring. Uninterested with my on-the-go garbage and needing personality vindication, I decided to look into the bin under the kitchen sink—which has not been taken out since Monday. It smelled a bit, but Honourable Mayor David Miller told me to keep my trash inside for a week: maybe it’s the 25% Greek in me, but if Leonadis’s 300 Spartans could rally around a leader at the Battle of Thermopylae, why the hell can’t I support my elected official (I didn’t vote) in the Battle of the City (needs a better name)? The Casa Blanca apartment complex doesn’t have compost, so pardon the lack of green-savvy, but here’s what’s in the kitchen sink garbage as of now:

Corn husks and Various Vegetable parts
Tin Foil
A burned CD labeled “White People Music Mix #2”
A snapped screwdriver
A flower
Something I can’t identify and don’t remember throwing in the garbage.
A penny

My house garbage is far cooler. This is the sort of thing that leaves some questions! This is the sort of thing that TMZ would report! Also, it sort of reads like a list of possible murder weapons for the board game Clue.

As for the civic update, things didn’t seem that filthy on the streets today. I jogged in a park that was still litter free, and the only thing that seemed out of place on the Toronto streets was a pile of dog shit in front of a Toronto Star Newspaper box (though this may have been a dash of biting media commentary—I noticed no such defecation at the Globe and Mail box).

I don’t know what I was expecting today, and day three was a bit anticlimactic on the garbage front. The drama has yet to crest in mid-town unless you have kids in daycare, in which case, your Day 3 blog would probably be far more interesting to read (the home garbage to my portable garbage, if you will).

Tomorrow, I’m going to the reported mother of temporary dumps: Christie Pitts.

Day Two: Liquor Store? I Hardly Know Her Store!

2009-06-23T19:15:00.000-07:00

Well, it’s day 2 in the great city strike of 2009. I haven’t been to Chinatown (this isn’t racist, my mom’s Chinese) or any city parks yet, so I haven’t quite noticed trash on the streets. In the thirty degree heat, I smelled pretty bad today, but the air stench remains negligible.

Someone (the city?) has taken the mature step of putting a thick saran wrap over garbage cans with a sign saying “Not in Service”—this has the same affect of putting a “No Girls Allowed” sign on your treehouse: you’re only going to get MORE girls—and people have brilliantly poked a hole through the saran wrap and jammed garbage in anyway. Screw you talking, garbage can! Don’t tell me what to do!

The more exciting news of the day was the rush on liquor at the LCBO (which is set to strike as of midnight tonight). As I love the combination of booze and panic, I thought I would join my fellow Torontonians and check out the liquor store.

Have you ever been dumb enough to buy your booze on New Year's Eve? I have. This was times 10! The competition for bottles was fierce! Elbows were thrown...bodies were bruised. If you've seen Jingle All the Way, it's like the scene where Sinbad and Schwarzenegger fight over a Turbo-Man Action figure for their sons on Christmas Eve.

I haven’t seen a gin shelf this ravaged since I visited my Grandma Todd (love you, Grandma!)
*Note how no one seems interested in the Russian Prince Vodka.

Though I’m pretty sure the booze strike will end before the garbage strike (we have our priorities) and there will be no shortage of getting a buzz-on (beer stores and crappy Ontario wine stores are still open), it was fun to look at all the empty shelves and see everyone filling baskets, sure that sometime soon, they will NEED peach schnapps.

Ah, Toronto. You’re a mess. If this was an episode of Intervention, we’d be bringing in Jeff Van Vonderen to take you on a plane down to New Beginnings in Miami.

And speaking of Intervention, here is my 2009 panic haul.
p.s. Don’t Intervene on me. I got caught up in the frenzy.

Tomorrow's Day 3. And you know what happens on the third date?

Day One: City of Toronto versus City Workers

2009-06-22T20:20:00.001-07:00

Well, it's not a sport, but it's going to be a competition: Toronto vs. Toronto City Workers (and let's be honest, despite public pools, daycare, and a few museums being affected, this is going to be called a garbage strike). As of day one, I am on the side of the city, but I'm also a bit ignorant...all I've heard is that city workers want 18 sick days. That sort of feels unreasonable, then again, all the exposure to spores, sick kids, public pool feces, and... museum specimens (?) must mean more susceptibility to illness with this group. All I know is, it's going to suck and a lot of people are going to be saying this sentence: "I pay my taxes, and this is ridiculous."

Today is normally garbage day in front of my building. So we're already one week in...last week I put half a cooked turkey in the garbage. I bet that starts smelling first.

While Toronto is gripped by 30 degree heat, garbage in city parks, and now, an impending liquor store strike, I'll be filling this blog with daily installments to distract myself from the smell and lack of gin.

It's CITY VERSUS CITY WORKERS!

Here we go. Let's get ready to rumble.

Gym Culture: The Sauna

2009-04-25T09:17:00.000-07:00

Tell someone you just came out of a sauna and, 83.2% of the time, watch their noses and foreheads scrunch (in all languages, the semiotic connotation is “Ewwww. Gross”). The gymnasium sauna conjures up the most odious of images: sweaty bodies oozing last night’s toxins, pools of bacteria festering in deep cedar crevices, orgiastic bath houses, Finnish people.

But I sauna at my gym. I admit it. Scrunch if you must, but know that I have a routine in all public places where genitals are exposed (my public bathroom ritual is well-documented). The gymnasium sauna is not an imperfect place; in fact, it can be downright carnal and disgusting (not that carnal can not also be pretty great). But, oh sauna, place where almost anything goes, you need reformation. Oh, the things we tolerate in cedar boxes...

Here are my 5 Theses for safe and courteous sauna’ing:

1. Sit on a towel. I’m perplexed by the amount of people who are comfortable sitting bare-assed (and because of the heat: bare-balled) on a place where a stranger also may have sweat bare-assed/bare-balled. I am convinced this activity alone contributes to most of the sauna’s bad reputation.

2. Don’t make eye contact. Look, I know we’re both naked, sweating, and close to meditation, but let’s not ruin it, okay? This is as far as our bond needs to go. Effective saunas are about pretending you’re alone. And while we’re at it, don’t say anything: Yes, it is hot enough for me, and yes, I do think it’s quite a nice thing to sauna after a workout (The no contact rule has been adapted from my previous: “How to Piss at a Urinal in a Civilized Society.)

3. Don’t shave in a sauna. Now this seems obvious, but on numerous occasions, I have seen men using their sweat as shaving lubricant. Stop doing this. Do I need to go into all the reasons why?

4. Don’t eat in a sauna. I’ve never witnessed this one first hand, but a fellow teacher I know who saunas (though it’s a female sauna, so maybe it’s a different world in there) has told me of a woman eating a sandwich in a sauna. The idea of a ham and cheese slowly melting in the steam of a sauna is enough to make me regurgitate last night's toxins. Eating and sweating don’t mix.
a. Addendum to rule 4: Don’t vomit in the sauna.

5. Legs together, both feet on the ground/bench below you. Let’s keep the money shots to a minimum. To get a better idea what I'm talking about, envision Kevin Costner in this picture but with no pants on:

Next week I shall nail these rules to the sauna door at the gym. Like Martin Luther, I hope to begin the reformation of sauna culture, so that we might all sweat in peace.

Amen.

The Worst Sport in the World: Volleyball

2009-03-07T14:17:00.000-08:00

I love almost every sport. Love is too strong a word. I can pretty much watch any sport on TV and, because of my general coordination, can pick up the general mechanics of most sports pretty quickly (I thank my Dad for bestowing upon me the ability to throw things great distances—the ability to project an item (e.g. a ball) is an awesome skill everyone should possess).

But I hate volleyball: both forms (Beach and Court). The reasons for this are multitude, so let’s get into it.

1. Indoor Volleyball is pointless. There are only two places where the sport exists in any context: school and the Olympics. This is true of many sports, sure, but none of my schools had luge a team and volleyball gets a lot of attention in the K-12 set, when really, the sport belongs to the same family of elementary school skillsets that have no bearing on the rest of your life like playing the recorder, learning the names of all the Canadian Prime Ministers, and Pizza Day. (Though I could make an argument that volleyball is an important athletic element in community centers, I won’t because I’m trying to make a point here.)

2. Shifting Priorities. The junior high preoccupation with “your vertical” (a measure of your athletic ability measured by your ability to jump) was all people could talk about in the early 90s. Sure, basketball is 40% culpable in this obsession with touching high things, but it doesn’t have a lot of these other points against it so stays off my shitlist for now.

3. People who play beach volleyball are generally annoying. Wedged somewhere between yachtsmen and North Americans who get excited about cricket, the beach volleyball player is generally pompous in his athletic pursuit, demanding a level of seriousness and attention when it comes to “the game.” The closest thing I can compare people who play beach volleyball to are first year theatre school students who really want you to look at them, but aren’t really doing anything that interesting to warrant it. When the term douchebag stops being useful to describe people who are being douchebags, I think “beach volleyball player” might be a good candidate to replace it. e.g.“Dude, did you drink my last beer? God, you’re such a beach volleyball player!”

4. Too Much Hand Touching. I sometimes wonder if beach volleyball exists as an excuse to high five. In the indoor game, there are just too many damn group handshakes. People who think too much happens between football plays should watch the monotonous pattern of hand sluttery which volleyball on TV follows (BUMP-SET-SPIKE-WHISTLE-GROUP HAND TOUCH).

5. Creepy Bodies. The body of a competitive volleyball player is like the body of a competitive gymnast: specialized in size, impractical for anything except the niche skillset of their sport, and in general, dressed in a way which only highlights anatomical anomalies. Notwithstanding, the reason beach volleyball is an Olympic sport is because the participants are generally hotter, more tanned, and more Brazillian. However, this exploitation (and I’m no prude, I am always up for a little exploitation) puts beach volleyball on par with mud wrestling, a solid reason for not liking a sport.

6. I suck at it.
a. I tried out for the volleyball team in grades four, five, and six, and was cut each time. For the mini-jock that I was, this early childhood experience was tough to accept. Then again, I was also cut from the floor hockey team in grade five, which was utter bullshit, and you know it, Mr. Mckee. The result was a deep seeded need to be accepted by a net sport, resulting in my finding solace in the sweet rush of the badminton team; I don't need to tell you what kind of cool cache a 94 gram Yonex racquet sticking out of my backpack brought me (Ladies, get in line.)

b. 2001, Byron Bay, Australia. I was part of a team of 6 Canadians playing 6 Israelis in a beach volleyball game. Ladies and gentlemen, Chretien's finest lost 15-1 that day, and the one point we did manage to have was probably due to an Israeli spike landing out, rather than us earning it. I am not sure why we agreed to play a game none of were any good at (probably a mentality that anything we did in grade six gym class, we could do now; probably alcohol), but it was the last time I touched volleyball. I guess until now.

Top 5 Musicians with Muscles

2009-01-15T14:20:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while, someone known for athletic pursuit will attempt a foray into the arts. This sort of fish out of water story makes news when it's really incongruous: Pro QB Randall Cunningham took ballet, WWE Wrestler Chris Jericho has a “band,” and Dancing with the Stars is doing a great job at softening (or ruining, depending on how much you like cars and Budweiser) Hall of Fame Football players' reputations.

Usually this blog attempts ridiculous amounts of masculinity (see my mini-ode to Elisha Cuthbert). Well, this week, let’s mix it up a bit. At the risk of changing the usually uber-masculine tone here (or come to think of it, confirming it) and stepping on Sean Horlor's Up Your Alley terrain of showing lots of near-naked men (http://www.xtra.ca/blog/vancouver/), this week I’m taking a look at those artists who "go" athlete?

Below…my top five athletic Musicians. I realize that all musicians require some amount of physical ability and endurance, particularly drummers, singers, and people who blow air into things (if a Tuba player ever had the balls to play shirtless, I bet we'd see a severe drop in Pilates DVDs in favour of tuba lessons); however, this week's list has three eligibility criteria:

First: It will be only male musicians. This saves me a boatload of trouble when I choose five female "musicians" (i.e. Fergie) and open up a can of worms on what exactly constitutes a healthy/athletic body. Not going there, sister. (For the record, Tina Turner would be on the list).

Second: It will only be people I’ve heard of. If there is some bodybuilding opera singer living in Romania, post a link to his freakish, talented figure…we’ll all be more cultured for it.

Third: It will be pretty shallow, based mostly on some male physical ideal formed in my impressionable childhood brain while watching Superstars of Wrestling on Saturday mornings. The reality is, a number of the people on this list are surface athletic: 80s Stallone on the outside, 90s Billy Joel on the inside…and so…

Boyd Tinsley – Electric violinist for the most abused rock band in history, The Dave Matthews Band. Not only is this guy ripped (who knew the violin weighed so much?), but he also started his own tennis tournament. Clearly he has a string fetish.

50 Cent – Who knows how much resistance training he receives from carrying around bullets lodged in his body, but the fact is, 50 Cent is freakishly large for someone who MCs with such malaise. 50 might be on roids, but are you gonna accuse him?

Glenn Danzig – Though he was sort of skinny during his days in the Misfits, well, punk and muscles don’t really go—sort of like punk and bike shorts (though what do bike shorts go with? I’m not sure they even go with bikes). Once Danzig went more metal, dude made even the most testosterone-y teenage boy feel inadequate.

LL Cool J –Though his music is near unlistenable these days (notwithstanding his part on Hit ‘Em High for the Space Jam soundtrack), this guy has his own workout book! I bought it. It was a bit embarrassing. I hide it when you come over to my house. But I tried it. It worked a bit. Though it didn’t say much about drinking draft beer as a muscle recovery drink, so I’m willing to take part of the blame for that one.

Nikki Sixx – I recently finished Nikki Sixx’s journals The Heroin Diaries. Well worth the read. What astounded me about the Motley Crue bassist was that he was strung out on heroin, cocaine, Jack Daniels, pills, etc. and every once in a while, he’d go to the gym! Unlike LL's diet book, Nikki's seems to work pretty well. Oh, and let's not forget, Nikki Sixx died twice. Once in 1986 and once in 1987 when on both occasions, his heart stopped. Do you know how hard it is to live after your heart has stopped? And we think Michael Phelps has a strong cardiovascular system....

On the Bubble: Usher (but there was no way I was putting his shirtless body on my blog), Sepultura's Derrick Green (You’ve heard of him right?!), Henry Rollins (He did pushups in the video for Disconnect), Gwar (But I think they just wore body armour), Times Square Naked Cowboy (the term artist is used loosely), Grace Jones.

Did I miss anyone? Let me know...

A Theory of Hugging in Sports

2008-12-19T15:10:00.000-08:00

I played for years, and I still don’t know why hockey players hug after every goal? Seriously, watch any game: if a team is down 8-0, and they score a goal making it 8-1, they’ll still put together a group hug, even if it’s an exhibition game! Sometimes I think about what it would be like if cars were invisible—I imagine how incongruous it would be to see only the people, sitting and moving along at 60km/hr (like Wonder Woman, but not animated/not as hot). In the same context, I wonder what it would be like to see five guys not in hockey equipment celebrating something with a group hug 3-5 times a night.
Baseball has far less hugs. It usually takes a World Series to get baseball players hugging, and who could begrudge them that? Baseball’s just not an emotional enough game to illicit any respectable hug tally.

The only football player I ever see hugging is Brett Favre, but he’s earned it I guess. I think there are just too many players on a football roster, not enough hug worthy moments, and the guys are just too big, so football has a lot against it in the hug department.

Basketball players don’t really hug either. Again, there are some hugs during championships, but I think the reduced incidents of basketball hugging is due to the fact that basketball players wear the least clothing/padding of any of the 4 major sports; there’s something about hugging another man in shorts that probably creates an increased probability of dicks touching. I think height is another major factor cutting down the number of basketball hugs—hugs are for the short and stocky, the people who wear wool; in fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone over 6’4 hug—how would it even work? I mean, I’m sure it’s happened, but, man, I’ve never seen it…

Although, hold on now, soccer players don’t have a lot of uniform coverage—maybe that’s why soccer is seen as a more cosmopolitan game (e.g. less North American)…that said, they also score a lot less, and the hugs are usually between two players—so it’s more special. I’d like to say intimate. Yes, soccer’s global popularity is due to its intimacy; they aren't hug sluts, but when they do give it away, watch out, there will be fireworks!

I’d still need to see what’s going on in North American soccer games re: hugging. I expect it to be of low frequency, based on the general enthusiasm for soccer: except for upper middle-class families who name their sons Tyler and Zachary, the third-or-greater-generation-North American’s zest for soccer is still, at best, something that ebbs with World Cups (sort of like how after seeing Michael Phelps, I made a summer resolution to swim more—I’ve still yet to see, let alone swim in, a pool since.)

Take the following picture:

I'm willing to accept this as an outlier, and I don't think we'll be seeing this in North American sport any time soon...anyway, as my enlightened Grandpa said when I quit baseball for soccer "Soccer is gay." While I don't think it's "gay", it confuses my theory, and therefore the data is rejected (take that unbiased science!)...

Which leads me back to hockey: I think the prevalence of hugging in hockey has to do with the amount of equipment…you’re not “really” touching, and since everyone wears a jockstrap, there’s no danger of accidental genital contact. And we thought all that equipment was to protect them from injury?

The study continues....

Plaxico Burress: this could be you!

2008-12-05T12:31:00.000-08:00

I am sitting here in my underwear, Friday afternoon, drinking sugar free juice, and watching O.J. Simpson talk to the judge moments after he has just been told he’s spending 15 years in prison. His voice is cracking. He is on the verge of tears. I don’t feel bad for him.

O.J. Simpson is going to jail for 15 years (minimum 9) for armed robbery. CNN just used the term Cosmic Justice. This has absolutely nothing to do with sports. Does anyone even remember that O.J. Simpson played football?

NFL Career Totals:
• Rushing - 2,404 Carries for 11,236 Yards and 61 Touchdowns
• Receiving - 203 Receptions for 2,142 Yards and 14 Touchdowns
* Some nice Fantasy numbers there…

NFL Highlights:
• NFL Most Valuable Player (1973)
• First player to rush for more than 2,000 yards in a season (1973)
• Unanimous All-Pro
• Won Four NFL Rushing Titles (1972,73,75,76)
• Named All-Pro Five Straight Years (1972-76)
• Named to Six Pro Bowls
• Pro Bowl Player of the Game (1973)
• Inducted into the Buffalo Bills Hall of Fame (1991)

Does anyone remember that he was pretty funny as Nordberg in three Naked Gun movies?

O.J. ruined the Naked Gun movies for everyone. And for that, may they throw away the key...

Fuck Up Athlete #1: Sean Avery

2008-12-04T11:36:00.000-08:00

Sean Avery gets paid millions of dollars to be a fake asshole, and then is chastised when he is an actual one; it’s sort of the Dennis Rodman Effect (dying the hair, cool—kicking a photographer in the nuts, not cool). Avery’s a professional wrestler; he’s Daniel Day Lewis going squirrely and asking everyone to refer to him as his character on a movie set; he’s Christian Bale losing 100 pounds for a movie no one saw; he’s Don Rickles.

If you’re on this sporty blog (and my counter says about 650 non-me hits have been), you probably know what Sean Avery said in Calgary when referring to the fact that his old girlfriend was now with another NHL player (the progerian Dion Phaneuf). Even though he only said it two days ago, PuckBunnygate already seems like old news.

Okay, so sloppy seconds is a bit of a mean thing to say about an ex-girlfriend, especially when he’s referring to my number two crush from 2002-2006 inclusive: Elisha Cuthbert. I imagine the angelic voices of young Billys from Gravenhursts all over Canada asking Ma and Pa over dinner last night....

BILLY: Ma, what’s a sloppy second?
MA: It’s nothing...
BILLY: But the sportsman on TV said sloppy seconds.
MA: When you’re older....
BILLY: Can I have sloppy seconds?
PA: Stop it, boy!
BILLY: Can I get sloppy seconds for Christmas...
*If that's not proof I can write plays, what is?

What all this amounts to is that Sean Avery told a locker room joke in a locker room, only we all got to hear it. Should he be kicked out of the NHL? I don’t know—a million sports websites are talking about that—go look at them. The point is, lots of guys (fuckups and non-fuckups) have made stupid jokes out of jealousy, bravado, carlessness, accident, bullying, self-defence, or just plain absence of thought.
I'm not defending him. I still don’t like him. But no one’s perfect(except Elisha Cuthbert 2002-2006).

Fuck Up Athletes...

2008-12-03T11:48:00.000-08:00

...piss us off. And by us, I mean those of who delayed our virginity (if for only a moment) and sacrificed our marks (meaning we had to go to Universities near the bottom of the MacLean’s ranking), growing up in the pursuit of some sport. Life as a Tim Hortons commercial isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, when at 6AM on a Sunday morning, you’re putting on an ice cold jockstrap in Astorville, while your friends are just getting in from a party at someone’s house where there was a bonfire—I mean, come on, a bonfire!

A pro athlete who throws it away isn’t the same as say, an actor who dies early. I don’t care what you say, a fourth line centre in the AHL has sacrificed more to get where he is than River Phoenix, Heath Ledger, or anyone else a teenage girl cries for when he dies. Having tried to learn even the simplest of guitar, you could convince me that Kurt Cobain worked hard to get where he did before he threw it away, but then again, he could do heroin and drink at work: name a pro sport where I can do that, and I’m hitting the gym/pipe. Maybe it’s not a fair comparison, since for athletes, it’s usually not such a matter of life and death, but rather, prison or suspension or looking like a lame ass.

For a number of boys, the youthful pursuit of sport with an eye to “the pros” was with hockey, but for some it was baseball (though Terry Puhl and Larry Walker were the only Canadian baseball players I had ever heard of), or if your parents were eccentric, you had outliers like tennis, golf, or track. (*I won’t even start with the girls, who endure the mysterious phenomenon of stripper training known as competitive dance—come on, Jazz Dancing? Really?).

So when a professional athlete spits in the face of all us losers, we get angry. I don’t mean to say jealous. After the age of about 16, you pretty much realize there are a lot other things to do, a lot of other paths to follow, other than pro-athlete. And while only few people actually live in a Deloreon, I don’t know anyone who grew up playing a sport at any level, who truly says “I wish I could go back and do something about the fact that I’m not a pro athlete,” as though they could do something about being 5’8, 140 pounds.

In light of this week’s multitude of fuck up athletes, I’ll start periodically profiling athletes who...well...are fucks ups. Who have taken a gift (a gift they WORKED for no less) and usually through sheer stupidity, treated it like Sean Avery’s sloppy seconds.

So with that, I’ll start with the biggest fuck up out there right now: Sean Avery.

Bocce Art

2008-10-16T07:42:00.000-07:00

In trying to forge an identity for the new blog, I have only a vague idea of combining sport and art. As I approach 30, the thought of improving at any sport seems far off; new sports are for kids and hobbyists (people who think doing things you suck at can still be fun).

A year ago, I discovered urban bocce: 8 big balls, one smaller ball, a measuring tape, public cocktail consumption, and your municipal park tax dollars at work. From cow paddies to concrete abutments, since April of 2007, I have probably played 100 games of urban bocce in varying levels of sobriety.

This picture sums up where I think the blog might be headed. I would hang this over my fireplace if I had one. Behold the visual magnificience of my new #1 sport.

Being in a Mall on Sunday

2008-09-26T10:46:00.000-07:00

On the afternoon of September 26, 1986, I am at the top of our driveway in Kingston, shooting tennis balls into a hockey net. The net is one of those flimsy types—with a base and a back, but no sides or “top-shelf.” More a lacrosse net than a hockey net. Framed mesh, if comparisons to lacrosse nets mean nothing. I am seven, and have three Steve Yzerman posters on my bedroom wall. Nothing unique by mid-80s standards.

I don’t know what I am thinking on this afternoon. I mean this literally. I don’t remember. Nor will I try to probe the depths of that seven year old with romantic adult make-em-ups: dreams of playing in the NHL (who didn’t have that?); grade three crushes on a black girl who was actually from India (Sorry, Jaspreet); a fight with a teacher about how many States there are (Fuck you, Ms. Holden, there are fifty!).

I don’t know what I am thinking on this afternoon when after a wonderfully average shot (or a stiff wind), the net falls over and instead of bending down to pick it up, I stomp on it the way Marty McFly does on one end of his skateboard to pop the whole thing up into a waiting hand. Simple lever mechanics…I think.

Ah, the flimsy net…the flimsy net. Well, what can’t stand up to my rad wrist shot is strong enough to pop past my hand and McFly into my mouth, knocking out my front tooth—an “adult” tooth! I don’t suppose the net hits me particularly hard, but for whatever reason the little guy comes out. When there is no tooth where a tooth should be, it’s always going to be disconcerting*; anyone who has had wisdom teeth removed can relate to the idea of getting used to a new mouth architecture. Let’s catalogue the scene here:

• A tooth is floating in a small pool of blood and saliva just under my tongue
• I yell for my Mom (probably)
• When my mouth opens, some blood and spit spills out onto the driveway (probably); there is a splat (unlikely)
• I run inside, lean over the kitchen sink, and cry.

"We" call an emergency dentist whose office is curiously at the Cataraqui Mall, and he tells us to put the tooth in milk. A bloody tooth in a bag of milk: Strawberry Cow, anyone?

Bundled in a hoodie, I am buckled into the front seat of our ‘85 Grand Am. I wonder if in the middle of my first trauma, I marvel at being let into the mall on Sundays—the opening of malls on Sunday being a social hurdle we had yet to overcome. Guess what Dr. Sunday does with the tooth? Just guess. Did you guess that they ram it back into my gums? You shoot, and you score. I shit you not. And like any broken bone, they put a cast on it. Splinting it to the uninjured teeth which surround. Even at seven, the joke, “Can I sign your cast,” is at best, only slightly amusing. It hurts to laugh anyway, so stop making jokes, Jaspreet.

The very tooth will stay in my mouth, changing colours, until 1997 when the dental artists at the University of Manitoba are good enough to give me an implant. Some things we just can’t let go of.

Thus began the years of putting a hand over my mouth when I laughed, mouth guards at recess, being nervous in pictures, and even now, cringing when teeth clink during makeouts.

Not to mention the saddest grade three school picture ever taken...on Tuesday.

* Since this time, I have had four periods in my life where I’ve had to live without a tooth in my mouth, most recently, early 2008 when implant surgery meant a three day self-imposed exile.