- Quote of the day: “She had such a great smile, back when she had teeth.”
- Video of a break dancing hand.
- A sculpture dedicated to The Birth of Britney Spears’s son, Sean Preston. The installation is said to be an idealized portrayal of Britney in delivery with a distended belly, lactating breasts and a posterior view that depicts widened hips and reveals the crowning of the child’s head. According to the artist’s interpretation, Britney gave birth on all fours (which is fitting, I suppose, because I am guessing that is how she conceived) stroking a bear (wolf?) head. Are bears (wolves?) symbolic of fertility and childbirth? If so, I am going to start rethinking some things.
- I am using a hockey analogy for this Jessica Alba. Every team has a collection of diverse players with specific skills; a select few are pure goal scorers and play makers, others are defensive specialists, muckers, grinders, etc. The point is a good hockey player knows their role and is happy to contribute. You are nothing more to the human team than talking boobs, Jessica Alba. The sooner you accept and embrace that, the better off we will all be.
John Buccigross on why March is the greatest time of the year for hockey. I enjoy the tale of his six year old son getting his first goal and a humorous anecdote regarding one of hockey best personality’s Shjon Podein. Excerpt:
So, I’m in my rookie year in Edmonton and it’s my birthday. We had just come home from one of our infamous 15 to 20 day road trips and my family is there to celebrate. So, the family and I go out to have dinner and drinks. We’re just relaxing when one of my brothers gives me a four foot high inflatable Tyrannosaurus rex for a birthday present. My other brother gives me a sombrero. We get back to the hotel and get Mom back in her room. As we’re leaving Mom’s room, my brothers jump me and rip my suit off in the hotel hallway, leaving me with just my boxers, a sombrero and my four foot high inflatable Tyrannosaurus Rex. So I’m wandering the hallways of the hotel trying to find my room. We’d been on the road for 15 to 20 days, it’s late, and I can’t remember my room number. I stick my room key in a number of doors, hoping to find the right one. All of a sudden, I look up and there is one of Canada’s finest security guards.
I go, “Hey, what’s going on!”
The security guard says, “We’ve had a complaint that some guy is walking down the hall in his boxers, wearing a sombrero, with a bottle of Bud in one hand and an inflatable dinosaur in the other making too much noise.”
I looked at him and said, “You’ve got the wrong guy, brutha.”
The future wife and I spent the past few days in the bustling metropolis of Boise, Idaho. We visited with grandparents, caught some early bird specials (unfortunately Perkins was one of said early bird specials), attended an Idaho Steelheads game and walked around Hyde Park, Boise State and the downtown area. All you need to know about big happenings in Boise is that they usually revolve around the P.F. Changs.
NC State runs a classy program. All I know is that if that Mexi-Cam business were pulled during a Denver Broncos home game? The stadium would be burned to the ground.
A funny anecdote regarding the kissing cam: A few years ago I was in attendance at the Pepsi Center when the Colorado Avalanche took on the St. Louis Blues. In the second period, Joe Sakic fires a slap-shot that shatters the non-shatterproof glass behind the goalie. This causes a long delay in the game as the Pepsi Center crews work on cleaning the glass off the ice and installing a new panel. The Jumbo Tron begins entertaining the crowd with video clips, hockey highlights and the kissing cam. The segment drags on longer than normal due to the delay, and finally, it casts a parting shot of the St. Louis Blues bench; more specifically Keith Tkachuk and Barret Jackman. The players, engaged in a conversation, look up to see themselves on the Jumbo Tron kissing cam, smile and then lean into each other and kiss. For that brief moment in time, I actually liked Keith Tkachuk.
Last night, after a strenuous ice hockey game I settled on the couch to catch the 2005 Grammy Awards (a.k.a. the Ray Charles Suckfest). Some highlights:
- Usher is the R & B equivalent to the second coming of Christ. I missed the memo.
- Producers, not kids downloading music illegally, are killing the music industry. Example: Ray Charles posthumously wins Album of the Year for Genius Loves Company. Ray’s longtime manager and twenty white men dressed in thousand-dollar suits walk to the stage to accept the award. If you were ever curious where the majority of your money goes from a CD purchase, look behind the sweet old black man in the bow tie.
- That Alicia Keys is one talented, piano-playing bitch.
- Ease up on the mascara, Billie Joe.
- Thanks for the dissertation on tsunami relief and copyright laws, Mr. Head of the Grammys. Now please shut your hole and let Usher collaborate with a musical fossil.
- Britney won Best Dance Recording with “Toxic” which left me pondering one thing: Where is the C & C Music Factory when you need them most?
Much like a keg of PBR in a university fraternity house or Paris Hilton on an aircraft carrier full of cocaine, I am tapped. I just do not have it today (“it” referring to the creative magic that makes me money and causes the ladies undergarments to moisten). While searching for inspiration that was non-porn related, I found a video of the best hockey fight I have ever witnessed. Then Jake sends over Jam On It by Newcleus. Any moment now I expect Turbo to bust out the storage room and do the electric worm past my cubicle. Things are starting to look up.
Christmas came and went like my first college girlfriend; happy and magical in the beginning but quickly degenerating into a miserable coma-like limbo where my emotions froze and my body metabolized alcohol with the efficiency of a Nazi general. I made out with holiday gifts like two groping teenagers in a PG-13 movie. Aside from a pile of clothing and art supplies, I received high-ticket items from my lady (digital camera) and the parents (barbecue grill) and a most excellent scotch sampler from Jake (as I type this I am enjoying a nice glass of Oban). Posts in the next few weeks will be scant as I knock out a freelance gig, sexify the MB for 2005, snowshoe, play in a hockey tournament, polish off a scotch sampler and generally enjoy my time off from work. Peace on earth and all that shit. And fuck you, tsunamis.
In the midst of the NHL lockout, the Altitude Sports Network (carrier of Colorado Avalanche) has resorted to showing classic NHL games. Last night I watched Patrick Roy face a career high number of shots in a 2-2 tie versus the Toronto Maple Leafs in 1997. I think I have hit rock bottom. Next, I may be seen on an episode of Cops running down the street wearing nothing but a throwback Colorado Rockies jersey, drunk off Canadian Mist whiskey, fresh from smacking my lady around screaming, “It was not Claude’s fault! Draper was skating with his fucking head down!”
The Avs lost their playoff series last night. The Broncos season does not start until September. The Nuggets got knocked out of the playoffs over the weekend. All this town has to watch now is the red-headed stepchild of Colorado professional athletic franchises: the Rockies. Sports fans will receive another summer of Larry Walker injuries, the formula for winning baseball in Colorado explained in detail at least fifty times by baseball analysts, the Rockies winning 80% of their home games and losing 90% of their road games and colorful stories in the press about baseballs being stored in a humidor because sportswriters have nothing else interesting to write about this sack of shit team.
The Colorado Avalanche kicked the shit out of Vancouver Canucks last night 9-2 and Todd Bertuzzi tried to kill Steve Moore. Moore was said to have given Canuck Markus Naslund a cheap shot during a game on February 16. The hit in question was not a penalty and the NHL, after reviewing the incident, deemed it legal. Vancouver coach Marc Crawford still opened his ballwasher claiming it was “a cheap shot by a young kid on a captain, the leading scorer in the league,” and his Canucks vowed revenge on Moore. Enter last night, the final regular season meeting between the two hockey clubs. From the moment the puck drops, the Avs play like a riot looking for a place to break out. In one glorious minute, they put three in the back of the net and at the end of one period the score is Avs 5, Canucks 0. With eight minutes left in the game, down by six goals and feeling the inadequacy of playing for a franchise that has never won a Stanley Cup, Todd Bertuzzi attacks Steve Moore from behind (a tactic he probably mastered sodomizing guys three times smaller than him in prison) and then proceeds to crush his face into the ice. Fuck Todd Bertuzzi for being a bitch punk. If he had any heart at all he would have come at Moore straight up when they played in Denver. Fuck Marc Crawford for encouraging his team to intentionally injure another player and then smiling about it when it happens. Most importantly, fuck the Canuck fans for cheering as Steve Moore lay on the ice unconscious causing me to loathe them and their franchise now more than the Detroit Red Wings.