All The Kings Men

 

My brother Jeff and I were young, but old enough to know something cool was happening.  We were at Dad’s game, in the dressing room, in Los Angeles.  We had on our ridiculously over-sized Kings jerseys, and were waiting for the start of the Kings – Flames game.  The Flames at the time were badass (1988).  As most kids would, Jeff and I wanted to meet some of the guys on the other team. So, Dad arranged what needed arranging and sent us down the hall.

With our escort, we walked into the Calgary Flames road dressing room fully adorned in Kings gear.  Questionable decision maybe, but Dad seemed to think it was funny.  I remember meeting Lanny Macdonald and Mike Vernon, silently standing in front of them in the way young kids do, answering yes and no to polite questions.  It was around this point that someone on the Flames voiced their displeasure at our choice of clothing, and ideas of what to do with us started getting passed around the room. 

The solution, apparently, was to make us the ’80′s version of a chat-room message board.  Someone pulled out a Sharpie-type pen and wrote a message to the Kings on my jersey, then ushered us back to the Los Angeles room.  I have no idea what it said, but I don’t suspect it contained a lot of “doth’s” or “thy’s”. 

I took the message like a good delivery boy to my Dad, who read it, chuckled, then directed me to the appropriate respondee.  Prior to a professional hockey game in 1988, my brother and I became life-size notes in a class,  undoubtedly complete with all the subtlety and wit that the likes of Thereon Fleury were capable of.  But who knows what they wrote, because to this day, I have no idea where those jersey’s are or what was written on them.  In hindsight, Dad probably burned them both, along with all the colourful language that was permanently stained on that awful yellow and purple.

Jeff and I had some fun experiences around then that other kids didn’t get to have.  Largely those experiences consisted of being an anger shield.  By this, I mean they made us play practical jokes on people so they couldn’t be mad.  I don’t think it was by “free will” that I loaded Luc Robitaille’s hair-dryer with baby powder.  And yes, Luc used a blow-dryer everyday.

These are things I was able to remember and appreciate as I got older.  In the years immediately following Dad’s retirement, we were still around the rink.  I remember going to see a Canuck game when the Kings were in town and Dad took us down to the dressing rooms after.  Gretzky gave us his stick from that night, the classic silver aluminum complete with pre-made foam grip handle.  He signed it to “To Justin and Jeff, all my best, Wayne Gretzky”.  After we used it for indoor hockey occasionally, it reads “To   s in and J    al  my b   , scribble”.

I wish I had been older when Dad played so I could remember more of this stuff.  Somehow I have a house full of random autographed sticks and memorabilia that I don’t remember getting or who signed them.  And that sucks, because really, who cares about a signed anything by anyone?  The fun part is interacting with people, and getting to know a little piece of them.  The signature is supposed to say “this proves I had a conversation with Wayne Gretzky” for those who idolize the greats and want to prove to their buddies that they met them.  

I remember Tom Laidlaw throwing me miles high into our pool in L.A. while Mom cringed/cried/hated Tom Laidlaw.  I have all these stupid little memories from the latter years of Dad’s hockey, so I can only imagine the neat ones I can’t remember from the dynasty years.  The cool part is, I kinda went on to do a lot of it myself.  I ended up experiencing professional dressing rooms as a player, and because of that I think I showed up equipped to deal with other people’s kids in the locker room.  I just have to find the present-day equivalent for some of the old jokes.  If only players still used blow-dryers….

Stupid Quibbles and Quirks

 

I grew up an avid hockey card collector, like most Canadian boys in the 90′s.  I kept my best cards under my mattress so as to keep them in mint condition.  As the son of a player, I had access to some pretty cool signatures on some pretty special cards.  The tragedy of it all is, in the move from house A to house B in Kelowna, those cards, along with a complete set of Upper Deck cards disappeared.  I’m not accusing anyone, I’m just saying the jerk movers took my stupid cards and it was them and I hate them.  Ahem.

Where this is going is, I followed the NHL.  I watched a lot of TSN, and was an avid reader of The Hockey News.  The neat part about this is, today I got a call from the editor of The Hockey News, and I will officially be an online contributor to their website!  How cool is that??  That said, I spent a lot of time today writing my first contribution.  So just for some fun, todays blog is a smattering of nonsense, thoughts and questions I hadn’t gotten around to posting from January.

 

At Christmas this year, I officially became the owner of my very first electric razor, and it’s a beauty.  I had asked for one (read: lazy) and Mom had obliged (read: hates my scruff).  I had made it clear that I didn’t want a low-grade electric, because if it doesn’t work well I won’t use it (read: spoiled).  Mom obliged (read: misses having kids at home).  They now make electric razors so good your beard won’t grow out of fear.  This thing is so good it could shave strokes off Tigers game.

A list of people I want to defend:

Rafael Nadal and Camillo Villegas for thoroughly fitting into my pre-concieved Spanish lothario-esque stereotype (though I believe Villegas, pronounced bejegas, is Columbian).  Rock on young swash-bucklers.  For every 2 girls who find you corny, there’s one who’s melting, fanning her face and coyly saying “oh my” in a foreign accent.

Mascots.  Everybody dogs these guys.  Kids are scared of them, people make fun of them at the game.  They hear your “we don’t need them’s”, and “getta loada this clown’s”.  Mascots are freakin’ awesome.  Yeah.  I said it. 

Here’s a big one.  Aussie Rules Goal Judge Umpire Guys.  You know, when the players kick it through those skyscraper poles, those two guys out of a Dr. Seuss book come out and do that awesome two handed point thing… You love that two handed point.  You’ve tried that two handed point.  Now thats a sharp move.  Halloween costume idea, maybe?

The janitor on Scrubs.  I don’t know a single person aside from myself who likes Scrubs, I honestly don’t.  It’s not the best show on TV, but I like it.  Dr. Cox is great, but the janitor is the best.  The guy gets a hard time on the show, but I’m pretty sure when the camera’s off everyones having a good chuckle at how great his character is.

George Costanza.  Dave Cunning is my George Constanza, not in the short/fat/bald sense, as he is none of these things, but in the hair-brained scheme sense.  You gotta give it to George, he comes up with some doozies.  He represents the under-represented world of people looking for loopholes.  Cause we’re out there.  Oh yeah.  We’re out there.

And now, my questions.

Do Saturday morning cartoons still exist?  I guess since there’s a network devoted to cartoons it may have taken the fun out of it.  Tuesday evening cartoons may have been the drop that flooded the market on those things, hey?.  I’m gonna bring it back and only allow my kid (still waiting, Islanders…) to watch them on Saturday mornings.  And further: have they made a good cartoon since they seemingly outlawed violence?  What was wrong with the odd duck catching a frying pan to the face here and there?  Or, say, a bird that runs on the road (can’t seem to remember what they were called) outfoxing a ….  um… dog…like…thing.  Forget it.  Cartoons used to be good, that’s all i’m saying.

Am I supposed to be saying “an” historic?  Why do I keep hearing “an historic”?  Apparently, H words get the honor of the preceeding N?  It’s probably one of those things that everybody knows and it’s appalling that I don’t but, still… Do h words get an an?

And lastly…..

 

You Should See How Fast I Can Blog

 

Whats with NFL hats, and why can’t they make a good one?  From what I’ve seen, the NFL is popular across America.  But it’s rare to see anyone under 30 who wears the hat of their favourite football team.  It would seem a hard hitting extra-macho game like football would have a lot of appeal to the young crowd.  Why then, has the NFL chosen to mirror the marketing technique of NASCAR, which from what I can tell is to recreate the experience of being at a rave, then stick that on the heads of its fans.  Major League Baseball sells hats by the bushel, largely because of their simplicity.  Nobody wants to walk around with flames on their head, with the exception of said NASCAR fans, with whom your safest bet is to not make a motion towards their PBR, and you’ll lessen the odds of them biting you. 

The New York Giants are the only team with a simple enough logo to work the MLB approach.  Put that NY on the front, put NFL on the back.  Make it blue.  Then sell the hat.  80% of people aren’t wearing baseball hats to represent their favourite team, they just want a good looking hat.  I wouldn’t worry about the other marketing practice of Major League Baseball, which is to make hats for thugs.  According to this crowd, the best hat is a flat brimmed arbitrarily coloured Yankees hat with the skyline of NYC on it.  Most of these will be stolen and not bought anyway, so think back to simple.  Face punch for that crowd.

In my life, I’ve owned (in chronological order, all pro-fit) baseball hats of the Pittsburgh Pirates, San Diego Padres, Baltimore Orioles, St. Louis Cardinals, and now, as I’ve gotten older and chosen to represent my favourite team, the New York Mets.  Which, coincidentally is the best style hat too, rock on orange and blue.  Random shout out to the Jays.

Now, on to more pressing issues.  Why won’t the person in the apartment below me remove the pumpkin from their deck?  I mean, I’m not exactly concerned about the re-sale value of my apartment, but I am a little hesitant about what that thing may have growing in it.  Yeah, you heard me. PUMPKIN.  You know, Halloween, end of October, that gourd. The pumpkin looks like Carrie Underwood caught it cheating.  Maybe next team it’ll think before it cheats.  If you read this, person, please. remove. the pumpkin.

Charlie Kronschnabel, my college roommate and current Iowa Chop (I literally think ”Chop” refers to pork chop.  Pretty sure their mascot is a pig.  Well done, Anaheim) wrote me today and reminded of one quick story I want to share.  In college, I took a course in Learning and Cognition.  Our professor was going over speed reading, talking about retention, it’s usefulness, if it’s possible, and its general pros and cons.  He moved on, and had started going over the next topic for a minute or so, when from the front-middle of the room, a hand arose. 

Professor:  “Yeah, Dan”

Dan:  “You should see how fast I can read”

Professor: “…….”

Dan:  “……”

And that was the conversation.  What?  These people are everywhere in college, and I just want to know, who are they?  They aren’t kids who need something explained better, or have some input.  From what I can tell, their own ego’s have them thinking that the Professor isn’t teaching, rather, they’re having a conversation.  What kind of family supports random outburts like this?  I really want to know what the kid thought might follow.  Like, the teacher was going to pull out a novel, the kid was going to look at a page, turn it quickly, then look up and say, see?  It reminds me of ”Look what I can do!” from Stewart on Mad TV.   For four years we would occasionally break the silence with “you should see how fast I can read”.  Ha….  I miss that.

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Note: For those of you looking for the Bourne-Gillies story written for Islanders media, it can be found at http://www.islanderspointblank.com/2009/02/a- potentially-royal-islanders-familythe-true-ro mance-of-a-bourne-and-a-gillies/

A Potentially Royal Islanders Family

 

Everyone wants to know, and Brianna loves to answer.  I love the answer as much as her; it’s the re-telling of our little fairytale that gets a little redundant. Brianna is my girlfriend. I would love for her to be my fiancé, but I play hockey for a living. And I don’t play private-jets-to-Montreal hockey, I play sleeper-bus-to-El-Mira hockey. The pay scale varies a smidge from the first type to the second, and shiny finger circles cost about what I earn per year. But that next level is so close…it’s just so close.

 

My Dad, Bob Bourne, won 4 Stanley Cups with the New York Islanders in the early ’80s. He put up great numbers as a big man who skated like a runaway train. He killed penalties and was a playoff performer, scoring 40 playoff goals with 56 assists for 96 points. His reward for his service was induction into the New York Islanders Hall of Fame in late 2006.

 

I was playing NCAA Div. 1 hockey at the time, representing the University of Alaska Anchorage in the highly-acclaimed WCHA. The Islanders offered to fly me down to be a part of the ceremony, so I gladly took them up on their generous offer. No, thank you, I won’t be needing accommodations; Dad says I’ll be staying with family friends. Let me take this thing back a little further.

 

Bob Bourne and Clark Gillies are Saskatchewan boys.  Clark was from Moose Jaw, and Dad from Kindersley (Netherhill, actually). They played baseball against each other growing up. In fact, both were so good that they ended up in Virginia, playing Double A ball for a Houston Astros farm team. They played against each other in the Western Hockey League – Clark for Regina, Dad for Saskatoon.  Dad may have mentioned on occasion he was glad to be friends with Clark, the hulking power forward of a generation, because it afforded him the free pass from punishment other players were not so fortunate to carry.

 

When they found themselves on the same Islanders team at 20 years old, the foundation of their friendship was poured. Both married, their wives (my wonderful mother Janice, and Bri’s wonderful mother Pam) were like two peas in a pod. They bought houses next door to each other, and their 5 kids became a little posse: my brother Jeff, and Bri’s sisters Jocelyn and Brooke. (Please note that Clark Gillies has 3 daughters. That’s another article entirely).

 

Brianna and I were particularly close.  We dredged up an old birthday video (at McDonald’s, no less.  Way to splurge, parents), and at one point I can’t find Brianna, and I call for her repeatedly. The pictures and stories go on, but those are largely for the pleasure of Pam and Mom. As the paths of Dad and Clark veered in ’86 (Clark to the Buffalo Sabres, Dad to the L.A. Kings), the families stayed in touch. Even when we moved up to Kelowna, British Columbia, Clark would come to Dad’s golf tournament with the kids, and all was well. What I’m getting at is, we were close.  Really-very-quite close.

 

Yet when I was flying down to stay with the Gillies Family for Islanders Hall of Fame weekend, they were kind of strangers to me. I hadn’t actually talked with them since I had formed a personality (still up for debate), and the last time I saw Bri I think she had an inflatable alligator around her waist and water wings on. The Gillies house is full of love and dogs. They have 3 Newfoundlands, which in case you were wondering, are indistinguishable from Clark if he’s in sweatpants. They’re huge.

 

I walked in, got hugs and hellos, and got slobbered on.  Bri wiped it off with her sleeve, offered me a beer, and we all caught up with one another.  She was my unofficial host for the trip.

 

We drank a lot.  The induction was a solid 3 days of meeting at a different place to have drinks (fine with me), so Bri and I were comfortable enough to really talk. She was great. Smart, funny and cute, she was everything I sort of stopped expecting to find while trying to figure out who I’d end up with. I thought about how amazing it could be. I thought maybe she did too…

 

What? Oh, you have a boyfriend. Oh.

 

Bri and I got along a little too swimmingly, and decided to stay in touch. I had had a great week with her, but it was time to grow up and move on and all that mumbo-jumbo. We talked frequently after that, each time as good as the previous. January 2nd, I got a text from my brother Jeff saying “Brianna’s myspace status changed to single.”

 

Bri called that night. After a few weeks of talking, we decided we had to give it a go. We booked her a plane ticket to Alaska (by we, I mean our parents; we were broke and in college) to see if this could work. Not only could it, it did. Bri spent time with my family in Kelowna during the summer, and I spent the remaining time with hers in Dix Hills. I was training for my own experiences…I had been invited to Islanders rookie camp and eventually the big one.  It was confirmed…we – Brianna and I – were officially an us.

 

Brianna finishes her Masters degree in Occupational Therapy on June 26th (to add to her BA in Psychology and BS in Health Sciences). I finish my second year of playing hockey professionally here in the next few months, and we have some decisions to make. (I also have a BA in Psych, but that parlays into squat).

 

We can’t wait to start our lives together, and the tentative plan is to move close to her sister Brooke in Boston and rent a refrigerator box while we try to make ends meet early on. I’m looking for work, hoping to write, and she’ll be putting out applications. She’s one of the best in her class in a much-desired field, so she shouldn’t have any trouble. Our families love the situation so much they can’t handle it. And we love it even more. So without further ado, I present my master plan:

 

I extend this offer to the Islanders:  We will sell you the breeding rights. All you have to do is pay for the wedding, and we’ll give you the guaranteed rights to our first-born son, breeding the styles of two Islanders Hall of Famers, restoring the Island to its rightful place of glory. The potential is huge. He could be Okposo’s linemate after a Chelios-esque 18-year career. He could be draft eligible while Ricky is still under contract. We’re building something here!

 

So whaddaya say, Mr. Wang? The puck is in your zone.

The View From My Couch

 

Quick health update before I get into anything:  I had the jaw operated on again yesterday, sweet.  I’m in a little discomfort for now, but this should set me on the right track in the long term.  Arch bars are off, a piece of bone and the long plate are out.  Sounds gross, is gross, let the healing begin.

 

My brain is constantly racing, riffling through a thousand things  I need to do at once, all while functioning poorly enough to forget the most important detail.  I’ll remember to get gas, then forget I needed it to pick someone up at the airport.  Recently, to combat this, I decided to join the adult world and buy a planner.  Just a matter of where, not when I lose this thing.  Start the betting pool now.

As I’ve mentioned, I don’t go anywhere these days.  Thus, my planner sits at my side and gets filled up with a huge volume of ideas I want to write about.  Each one could probably be a blog in itself, but a few little tidbits only deserve casual mention.  With that, I bring you my wandering nonsense of the day.

 

Facebook provides you with the word “is” after your name when you post your status.  If you don’t want the “is”, you have the option to delete it.  Therefore, ”Justin Bourne is Happy Birthday Bri!” is not an acceptable status for me.  Please take the time to cleverly manipulate your status into a legitimate sentence like “Justin Bourne is wishing Bri a happy birthday!”.  Boom.

“Lately I’ve been feeling “DRAWN” to my insurance company” is the worst acting I’ve seen in a commercial in some time, including the ones that want to melt down my gold. Please watch this whole commercial.

Okay, I apologize to e-surance, that was the worst commercial ever.  But I laughed.  The image of that guy with money fanned out lip-synching in front of rap video vixens is forever seared into my brain.  Somehow I get the impression the Cashman isn’t exactly set for retirement, much like the people sending the gold.  But anyway, e-surance or whoever it is does need to stop with the poorly animated/bad actor combo commercials, they’re just so frustrating to watch.  They don’t even cross the so-bad-they’re-good line like the one you just watched, so I’m not posting it.

I’m pretty sure ESPN and the others can stop airing “official statements” from teams on topics that are obviously not good.  I’m not getting any actual news out of “The Yankees are deeply disappointed in the actions of Alex Rodriguez”, or ”We are disappointed in Michael Phelps behaviour” or “We’re totally bummed Pacman Jones shot more people yesterday”.  I think when we heard the guy was at a strip club with a garbage bag full of singles and guns that it wouldn’t be considered professional conduct by the brass.

Literally means actually, without exaggeration or inaccuracy.  So I’d prefer if news reporters didn’t say stuff like “‘The Obama administration is going to, literally, beat the banks over the head with a bat”  on CNN, or somebody has to take away microphone privileges.  Adults should have to stay slightly above the language of teenage girls (“I was like, literally gonna kill her”), especially if their career is in communications.

I think the new Demetri Martin show on Comedy Central has potential.  I didn’t like the early ads for it, but I saw some of the guys stand up and it’s super clever.

Oh, good ‘ol college.  I miss drinking.  I’ve probably had about 4 alcoholic beverages in 2009.  If you were looking on the back of my drinking card collectible, my stats would have fallen off considerably in ’09 (I was gin and juicing from ’01 – ’03).  But, I’m off antibiotics, so sales of tonic water should start to see a solid rebound in the coming months.

Lastly, I watched “W” last night.  Obviously it has a raging left wing bias, but it’s fully entertaining.  If the real Bush is anything like Oliver Stone’s portrayal of Dubya, then it’s no suprise the US is in the shape it is 8 years later.  I do feel bad for Bush, I never believed he was an evil guy.  He just wasn’t smart enough for the country’s highest office.  But, I guess it’s what the US gets for (almost) voting him in.  Anybody else wonder if things would be different had Gore become president in 2000?

 

 

Here’s Al accepting the Nobel Peace Prize.  Really, he was “too boring”?  The vote wasn’t to pick the clown for your childs birthday party.  Who do you think would’ve won that contest??

 

Wandering Thoughts

 

There have been extraordinary gains in the field of stem cell research lately.  I’ll try to keep this ramble succint, but with the regenerative qualities of stem cells, and a brother with Spina Bifida, I have a special interst in it.  In brief, they no longer need the stem cells to be from embryo’s to be effective.  The pace of new findings is insane (especially with Bush leaving office).  Time magazine has a feature on the advancements in the last 10 years since the discovery of these cells, and the chart explaining the progress went from 1 advancement a year to breaking it down by the month in the last year.  When a Japanese scientist discovered how to basically regress a regular cell into a stem cell, it was like when you’re stuck doing a Sudoku for ten minutes and you finally find that stupid number;  it opens other doors. New findings have started pouring in.

Douglas Melton is at the crest of this wave of discovery.  When speaking to a representative of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops who was opposed to the research (prior to the discovery that makes the field non-controversial), he asked if the man considered a one-day old embryo to be the moral equivalent of a 6-year-old child.  When the man said yes, Melton asked why society accepts the freezing of embryos but not the freezing of 6-year-olds.  This guy is good.

Lighter matters!  I saw the oral surgeon yesterday, and this sentence was spoken “I want you to eat everything this week, no limitations”.  I imagine its one of the first things you get told in Heaven.  I bought a beautiful steak and made a full-on fancy salad.  And sure enough, steak was what I had been missing through this ordeal.  It was like Gandalf from Lord of the Rings had lit one of those fancy fireworks from the first movie in my mouth.  Too obscure a reference?  Ahem.  He then followed it up with a pretty vicious uppercut that sounded like “but on Monday we’re going to have to do more surgery”.  As much as that sucks, a few days after that I should be brand new, with no more metal in my mouth.  Tonight might be the long awaited re-introductiom of Chinese food into my diet.  And thank God, my body requirements of sweet and sour breaded meat products hadn’t been met in ages.

Completely random note:  Kevin Nealon is hilarious.

As my closest know, I kind of have a nature show fetish.  Last night I picked up Jane Goodall’s “When Animals Talk”.  If you can ignore the personal interviews with crazy people who just love their pets to pieces (and look like them), the show is amazing.  First and foremost, they show an African Gray Parrot (I still stop everytime I spell grey, I’m lost here) who is ahead of all other parrots in language.  The bird knows a preposterous amount of words, speaks in sentences, and the kicker……  might be psychic.  I’m a raging skeptic about this stuff (“my dog was by the door when I came home!”  No way, he was psychic right at 5 o’clock again?  Uncanny.), but this had me.  The owner is in another room just looking at pictures, and the bird, unprompted, started talking about 23 of the 75 pictures.  The bird wasn’t getting the other 52 pictures wrong either, he just didn’t say anything.  Whether it’s psychic or not, it’s an amazing bird.

They then covered the curious case of the crazy guy now deemed not crazy.  He was studying how Orca’s were beaching themselves to eat Sea Lions.  Naturally, he wanted to be friends with the killers, so he would wade into the water to befriend them.  Contrary to the laws of nature, and all that is right and fair in this world, the man is now buddies with the pod of panty-waist fish (eat him already).  They circle his kayak and spout from the blowhole when he’s near.  He’s named them.  He even plays them music.  Had I seen animals risking near death to eat, my first thought would not have been to make myself more available than their food, but whatever.  It’s a neat story. 

Did you know elephants communicate to one another in a tone so low we can’t hear it, but we can feel it?  They can have a conversation at up to 8 miles.  Okay I’m done, I like animals.

I just found out I don’t have to hate Yann Danis.  This whole time he’s been with the Islanders, I’ve been cheering against him a bit.  Partly because I sat next to the hilarious Newf Joey Mac in Bridgeport last year and I wanted Joey to do well.  But mostly because I thought he stopped me on a breakaway last year. 

In my 4th game with Bridgeport, I still wasn’t getting a lot of ice time.  If you have a little knowledge about scoring goals, it’s tough to do from the bench.  When you don’t play much, each shift is weighted that much more.  So we’re playing Norfolk, and it’s early in the 2nd period.  Within seconds of being on the ice, I had the puck on a blueline-in breakaway, my first real scoring chance as a Sound Tiger.  I made a great move.  Shoulder shimmy, quick fake, forehand backhand forehand.  Had I been playing a level down, I promise you this would have worked.  I made the goalie move so far left I was just gonna tuck it inside the post.  Then, at the last second, this stupid goalie’s huge pad and toe flicked out and jammed the puck against the post.  Whistle.  Scoring opportunity missed, I had the pleasure of watching the remainder of that period and most of the third from the bench (if your role is to score, score or we’ll find someone who will). 

I hated Yann Danis the rest of that night, and until 4 minutes ago.  I just hockeydb’d his stats, and it turns out he never played for Norfolk.  This whole time, I was supposed to be directing my hate at Marc Denis.  Ah.  So, for all the negative thoughts I’ve wished on Yann, I apologize.  No more voodoo.  Check out this pic.  Are you serious Bourne?  Go forehand high!

Simply Opinions

 

My immediate reaction to Tom Daschle withdrawing his nomination for head of US health was frustration.  I felt like media scrutiny in the US had forced the administration to eliminate the most qualified candidate.  Everybody seemed pretty excited about health care reform, and they had the perfect guy for the job.  Well, good.

But the more I think about it…. taxes?  You didn’t pay your taxes?  Whatever the figure was (I think it was around a whopping $128,000), it was owed “over a period of years”.  I have to believe as a government employee taxes is a topic that comes up on occasion.  And, you know you need to have them square if you hope to achieve higher office.  Both Daschle and Geithner, when made aware of their tax debts, just paid the balance off like it was a late cell phone bill.  It drives me nuts that the US could possibly have a less successful health policy because 1 guy is smart enough to make the right changes, yet dumb enough to try to shirk tax payments.  Straighten up.

While I’m stringing people up for being fools, let’s hang Clemens.  Roger Clemens at age 40 looked like a billboard throwing a golf ball.  Okay, you did steroids, fine.  Everything about his career was hall-of-fame, and so he was placed on the appropriate pedestal.  When he sat at home and watched Sammy “Rosetta Stone”  Sosa and Pierre Mark McGuire forget English and commit perjury respectively, he must have been just. so. happy. it wasn’t him.  So when things unfolded for him, you would think he’d have learned something.

Roger was too attached to his stats and fame to place his future and family first.  Had he just come out and said “I did steroids” when this all started, he would have faced minor punishment, and a tarnished image.  Hell, when Clemens started doing the drugs there wasn’t a policy in baseball against it, who could blame him for keeping up with the (Chipper) Jonses? 

Now Roger Clemens has commited perjury too, and could potentially see jail time.  His family must really appreciate his priorities.  It’s embarrassing watching a legend lie, like a child caught crayon-in-hand against the wall saying they didn’t do it.  And sidenote: what kind of life were these guys living?  Their wives were comparing implants at a party?  Nothing like a dose of reality when that reality is 1 hour sunshine time once a day.  At least he’s really strong.

On the sports theme, I intend to write an article about my time at Islanders main camp some day.  From my experiences, the players who have achieved actual success in the NHL are ones who are the least prone to point out their talents.  Older players like Bill Guerin and Doug Weight may be a constant topic of forum debate for fans (are they worth the money), but the quick answer is that they’ve earned it.  Bill Guerin is your old-school, ultra classy player, who commands respect and gives it back.  The Islanders are heavy on super-young talent, and having a guy like Guerin there to teach them, if nothing else, is worth his salary and more.

Superbowl Bloggy Bag

 

This was the first year I’ve watched the Superbowl solo, and it’s an interesting experience.  You can really soak the whole event in, commercials, commentary and John Maddens abuse of the obvious.  The pre-game festivities are generally only well recieved by wives, girlfriends, and sexists.  It’s like watching American Idol; everyone becomes an instant critic (what a wonderful anthem, by the way). 

Everyone is hyped up in the locker room.  People are screaming,  minds are racing, the needles are empty.  They run out of the tunnel at Mach 6 and fans go crazy.  And then… it happens.  Somebody sings America The Beautiful or God Bless America.  It seems to me that any event that requires stealthy military fighter jets to do a haircut level flyby shouldn’t be allowed to have mood dampening music interupt it.  Let Jennifer “let’s give her the anthem gig to see if she breaks down on national television” Hudson rip up the real anthem like she did, and kick the damn ball.

This may contribute to the so-far-somewhat sexist theme of the article, but, um, does anybody else have a problem with female sideline reporters?  Alex Flannagan came out with something about “F. Scott Fitzgerald once said…” and then launched into a monologue about something like the importance of the screen pass in defensive games or something.  I see what we’re trying to do here, NBC.  Football, great.  Girls, great.  Football girls?  Greatastic.  But the teams already made that leap and got cheerleaders.  It’s not that I don’t think women should do the job, in fact, the women on SportsCenter, and the ones who do post game analysis are usually bang-on.  The sideline reporter is supposed to get us those little tidbits of information that you’d have to be there to know.  And if you haven’t played football before, it might be tough to pick up on those subtle nuances.  Maybe she played.  I just have a tough time believing that Alex Flannagan is speaking her own words.  Or that she knows what a screen pass is.  Or that she’s seen a game before.

The rundown.  How funny was the Doritos crystal ball commercial?  I thought it was about to be over the top cheesy (wait, was “cheesy” intentional?) til he hurled the thing through the vending machine.  It reminded me of last years Sprint commercial with the crime-deterrant cell phones.  Too bad they wrapped the Doritos one up with a crotch shot joke.

And of course, the Carls Jr. steak dinner commercial.  She’s hot and they’re both hilarious.  I’m sure you’ve seen it.

Here’s my biggest Superbowl gripe:  How did analysts not immediately recognize that the Santonio Holmes touchdown celebration was the Lebron Chalk throw??  On SportsCenter they’re saying “whattya think that is, hot sauce or teryaki?”.  I can excuse the less-than-hip Madden-Michaels combo, but Chris Carter?  Yeesh.  Nice work Holmes.

As for non-football happenings, Michael Phelps was caught on camera taking a bong hit.  I understand the problem with this, in that Phelps is a heavily sponsored role model in our society.  The real plus here is that I get to imply he’s swimming for the Jamaican team from now on, but lets be real.  Marijuana is not a performance enhancing drug, unless that performance involves sucking at life for a few hours.  The amount of people who smoke weed in our society is probably higher than the percentage who smoke cigarettes, excluding France and Quebec.  I am not pro-weed, by any means, I just don’t care.  I guess the 24 hour news-needy networks (everything from ESPN to CNN) have to talk about something, but you know what’s kind of interesting about this?  As much as its being talked about, you can tell people don’t care.  Even people who love to get fired up about nothing like Jim Rome (if the name of your show implies you’re angry, I guess you better work up a lather about something) barely seemed interested.  No wonder Phelps consumes 10,000 calories a day.

And lastly, a sad confession.  Post-Superbowl yesterday… I may or may not have watched (some of) the Puppy Bowl.  It was on some random channel, with a dozen stupid puppies on a dumb mini-field with toys and a commentator (“…and Sniffins takes down Duffer at the 10!”).  It was like that channel at Christmas with just a yule log on fire 24 hours a day.  It was mesmerizing.  My coach last year used to say we were too prone to puck watching on defense, saying we were getting “memorized” by the puck.  Well, I was memorized by the puppies.      Arf!

A Bogey, My Albatross, and Christ

 

I always go back to that stupid putt.  For those of you who play sports, you know there’s euphoric highs and sickening lows, and both can happen within the same game.  Occasionally I daydream about being in the Vernon Vipers dressing room after we won the BCHL championship, or the triple overtime goal I scored in playoffs last year.  I’ll even let myself drift back to winning my first golf tournament.  But by leaps and bounds, the sports moment I think about the most hurts.

I watched Marvin Harrison talk before the Superbowl about the year before, where an effeminate Eli Manning escaped near death to launch a wounded duck to the ever-average David Tyree.  Despite Harrisons tight coverage, Tyree then managed to somehow jam the ball against his helmet and hold on for “the catch” as it is now simply known.  Harrison had some laughs about it during the interview, but by discussions end, you could glean that there was some serious scarring beneath the surface.  My moment is 1/1000th as dramatic as this.

I had won the Shannon Lake junior golf tournament for the first time when I was 15 or 16, a two-day event that I never expected to contend in.  I played barefoot at that age, not because I didn’t have golf shoes, but because I enjoyed it (this isn’t a rags to riches story.  My parents provided for me in plenty, I was just a brat).  My previous low score on the course was 77, and I had blacked out and shot 73 on day one.  The next day, I was in the final group (and the lead) with the scary kids who won all the time.  Apparently my blackout was a coma, because I followed it up with a 75 to narrowly win.  So when the tournament rolled around the next summer and I hadn’t exactly shaved a ton of strokes off my average score, I was nervous.

I was better, but not by a lot.  There were a lot of good golfers around my age, and we were all improving together.  Better or not, you had to be the best on those two days, and on that first day, I shot 77.  I was behind by a couple.  Sunday was a beautiful day, which tends to play into the hands of the barefoot.  As luck would have it, I had zero game that day, but man… was I scrapping.  I was playing out of the trees and sand all day, only hanging on with my with strong point at the time, my Mickelson inspired-but-not-worthy short game.  I saved pars like Christ saved souls that Sunday.  14 ugly pars and 3 bogey’s brought me to the 18th hole 1 shot back of the leader.  The guy was a pretty good player, but kinda smug about it.  I remember being annoyed by his demeanor all day, and kind of being on tilt (probably didn’t help). 

Coming up 18, I needed a break.  Not that 18 wasn’t a birdie hole, but it was junior Canadian golf, and birdies happened once or twice a round.  I got that break.  The leader had blown his second shot over the green (the adrenalin I experienced the year before maybe?), and would go on to chunk his chip and two putt for bogey.  I could par the 18th at Shannon Lake 9 times out of 10 at that age.  This time, however, I hit my second shot so fat (nerves maybe?) it didn’t make the creek that runs in front of the green, a huge break.  Knowing where my opponents second shot was, I knew I had to get up and down from the tight cut fairway to the hole placed just over the creek to have any chance at extra holes.  I knew if I could just get this kid to extra holes, I would have him.  Holding the lead all day is tough, and to lose it on the 18th green is a tough punch to regroup from.  In the theme of the day, I hit a nice tight checking-chip to 5-6 feet.  Pressure distance. 

My opponent had rolled his long putt up close and tapped in for a bogey 5.  The stage was set for me to complete my less-than-flammable-performance/comeback with another par. 

Alright, the putt is right to left (kind of on a hump?). 

 It’s uphill (that’s uphill right?). 

I read it from all angles.  The problem was, I wasn’t yet good enough at the Bagger Vance technique of blocking everything else out.  I was looking, but all I was thinking about was the ball falling in the hole.  Zero data was being processed.  More information, less generalities may have helped that stupid white sphere go where it was supposed to go.  I pushed it a bit I think.  Or maybe I mis-read it.   All I know is the ball caught the right lip, and rolled 3 feet past the hole and to the left, settling in 2nd place territory.  I had meant to hit it hard because I wasn’t certain of the break, but the fear of leaving an uphill putt short to lose a tournament clearly influenced my stroke.  Yeah that was it, I hit it too hard.  I had lost. 

From there, it didn’t get any more fun.  My Mom pulled up the moment after I missed the putt and wanted to console me, which um, wasn’t the right time.  The club professional let me know that “he could DQ me for playing barefoot, and strip me of any prize” (not my Top Flite Magna’s, please).  I got in my car (Mom’s minivan) and left.  And that was how my toughest 15 minutes in sports unfolded.  I didn’t even drink at that age, so I just had to deal with it.  To this day, I’ll be in the shower and just yell an F bomb about it.  I don’t really know why, I guess it’s just that golf is a sport that’s all on you, and what I had to do to tie was my specialty, it’s just…. I dunno…. I just don’t know. !#$@%&.

I can’t imagine how Rodney Harrison feels.  The scale of that play was a catrillion fold, and I can’t imagine if I had to watch a replay of my miss every other week on TV.  Mine wasn’t even all that relevant to my life, since I didn’t end up pursuing golf.  So, my heart goes out to him, and hopefully some day, I’ll get over this.  I’m just gonna have to win another tournament I guess, I dunno…. I just don’t know.

Superfluous Superbowl Stuff

 

My thoughts on the non-game related Superbowl proceedings:

First, Snoop Dogg on the pregame show.  It’s usually awkward watching old white men deal with Snoop (though he’s getting better at figuring out how to act, they never will), but today was great.  Snoop had quality insight on the game, and then freestyled an entertaining little rhyme after Mortensens prompt that he “do a shnizzle rap” (embarrassing).  Ditka attempted one after.  Good times.

The most prominent thought I have from NBC’s coverage of the Superbowl and, well, themselves, is that they need to STOP IT.  The plugs for NBC shows are absolutely awful, and none had any segueway into them.  Just right out of the blue, they’d launch into a panel of what appeared to be sports pundits, which then turned out to be Some Gumbel, Jerome Bettis and the actors from Chuck.  Haha, it’s a blend of comedy, action and romance, I can’t wait.  I’m boycotting NBC (until they show something I want to see again).

*****

Kurt Warners wife got a full on makeover since they showed her all the time during Kurt’s last Superbowl.  Thanks, from all of us.

 

*****

I flipped to golf at some point (that point specifically being when they cut to the cast of the Fast and the Furious 4, including Vin Diesel), and David Feherty was commentating on a player who was dressed in a particularily ecclectic outfit saying “It looks the boy covered himself in glue and headed through a thrift shop”.  Fehrety is on my all-commentating team as a starter.

Why, when talking about the NFL overtime, does nobody propose the college system?  It’s intensely fair, with a rebuttal opportunity.  If not that system, how about making it not sudden death, but a time limit (5 minutes?) maybe?  Or you need six points to win?  There is no way the current system will last, because coin-toss, three first downs, field goal, is not a fair indicator of the better team.

Sarah Palin had to chime in.  She makes me laugh out loud.  America LEARN from your mistakes.  Bush was a closed-minded, uneducated, under-qualified President coming into his first term (and possibly coming out of his last).  Can we please dismiss her now and find some other “front-runner” to lose to Obama in 2012?  Start grooming Bobby Jindal now, he’s your best hope. 

I can’t believe Journey is still eating off their old music.  I had never seen the lead singer until their performance today at the Superbowl.  Iced tea came out my nose.  Their music is tailor-made for an 80′s movie montage.

Things I’ve enjoyed:  Zero gravity (they cut to an astronaut), Olbermann being kinda fun, Costas being smooth, NFL coaches sounding normal cause they weren’t defending their own team, Seth Meyers thoughts,  Brian Williams personality and my last minute decision to bet on the game, taking the Steelers minus 7.

Things I didn’t enjoy:  Bruce Springsteen’s interview in the pre-game show (does everyone go through a crazy phase or something?), Sarah Palin, Bill Belichicks current haircut.

Okay, game time!

Justin's Pre-Game Prattle

 

Superrrbowwwllll Sunday!  Here’s how I’m gonna set today up:

There are some downsides.  I’m still couch ridden.  This means that I’m going to be watching the game alone in my apartment on my  27 inch round screen (I’m not sure what you call old tv’s, but I can assure you, its not a flat screen).  The major plus here is that I’ll actually get to watch the game.  No distractions. 

Steelers Cardinals at 6 PM eastern.  During the regular season, I vowed to never watch another Steelers game.  It’s a tedious formula isn’t it?  Run 3 yards, run 4 yards, run 2 yards, punt.  Defensive stand.  Run 3 yards, run 2 yards, run 4 yards, punt.  Final score, Steelers 15 Opponent 9.  It can be awful to watch, but apparently it’s a recipe for success. 

The Cardinals, on the other hand, were sort of like my beloved Jets, if you subbed in great wide receivers for the Jets’ Coles, Cotchery and Stuckey.  Their rugged but aging quarterback may heave up a bomb touchdown on any given play, or….. or he might chuck a pick 6, then mix in a fumble 2 possessions later.  If you’re gonna cheer for the Cardinals, you know you have a chance at glory… but you better be aware that things could go seriously, seriously awry.  The good news for this game is that the Steelers have scored some points in playoffs, which makes them more fun to watch, plus they have Troy Polamalu, a guy who has always been one of the league’s most exciting defensive players.

This Steelers seem to be so solid at every position that they don’t need stars.  It’s become the trendy thing to do to bet on the Cardinals today, because it’s nearly impossible to think past Larry Fitzgerald.  And really, who are the game-breaking players you think of on the Steelers after Polamalu?  Big Ben and Hines Ward (how old is this guy?) are both solid players, reliable, above average guys.  But neither strike me as light-your-hair-on-fire game breakers like Fitzgerald (who’s hair on fire could be seen from space).  I didn’t know the name of the Steelers running back until playoffs (has there ever been a Superbowl with worse running backs?  Edgerrin James is about 37th best in the league, and Willie Parker is in the low 20′s, I think.  Here comes Mewelde Moore… Tim Hightower?  Someone throw the ball, please).  But, the Steelers keep winning, and handily.  They say defense wins championships, so lets see if James Harrison and Troy Polamalu can take over this game.

Another SB note:  Has there ever been a Superbowl with less storylines?  Usually in the 2 weeks preceeding the big game, the sports news networks pull up story after story, featuring some guys struggle with ____ which he defeated ____ years ago and this is his last shot at redemption.  Team A cuts player A who goes to team B and is playing team A for all the marbles a year later.  Something.  I haven’t even cried yet.  They tried to get me with a Ryan Clark sickle-cell spiel, but I didn’t bite.  Okay, I had a quick moment, but not a Rick-Reilly-writing-on-disabled-athletes moment.  Kick-off is coming, thankfully.  These guys need something to talk about.

On a commentating note:  Steve Young has become a more prominent part of major football coverage, but I’m not sure his playing status has translated to sports pundit success.  I think the guys who are the best at their jobs, contrary to the Skip Bayliss approach, are the ones who’re the least controversial.  Guys like Chris Berman let guys like Keyshawn Johnson have their crazy opinions, but speak their own while seeming level-headed and open minded.  Ron McLean never overreacts, and we love him for it in Canada.  Al Michaels and John Madden rarely contradict one another, and that makes them easier to watch.  The Rush Limbaugh-esque stategy of contradicting everyone and being confrontational is overplayed and not a formula for long term success, yet it seems that Steve Young cannot wait to make Emmit Smith look like an idiot.  It’s annoying.

Okay, I’ll leave it at that til post game!  Remember the important Bourne bets:  First quarterback mentioned by full name after kick-off is Ben Roethlisberger, the Superbowl MVP will thank his teammates first, Al Michaels and John Madden with refer to Roethlisberger as “Big Ben” over 5 times, Madden will mention under 1.5 food items and the Gatorade dumped on the winning coach will be Orange.  Go Superbowl Sunday!!

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