Right vs Wrong

Let me begin by first admitting something which may surprise many of you but it need be said in any event. I've been wrong before: I was wrong about Iraq, I was wrong about my first wife, I was wrong about school and the list goes on and on. With all of those errors though I have been able to get a few things right and it is the aforementioned errors which have caused me to ponder on issues with a little more diligence then in the past though I will always be a "heart on his sleeve" type of guy. What I have done right is become more selective in those I hitch my horse to. Just because people may be true of heart doesn't always make them right or good for you. 

What, you may ask, is Ted going on about - surely not his life long quest to enumerate his failures. Well I'm talking about the Chara / Pacioretty hit this week and the aftermath. I've listened to an array of opinion on this issue, both by people I very much like and people I would rather spend my day not listening to. What I believe is the result of the hit on Tuesday night, is that it is time for the NHL to change. What I want to see is a great hockey event, with good solid hits, fast skating, blocked shots, great goaltending and skilled scoring. I don't want to see the product which was delivered on Tuesday night, whereby a team which was losing a game soundly, decided that the only way to get back into the game was by intimidation. Did Chara intend to hospitalize Pacioretty? I doubt he wanted to accomplish that, but I don't doubt for a moment that he wanted to eliminate him from the game and send a message to the kid. He has done that and now so has the league. 

Now I know there are many of you old school guys who say "This is nothing new, It's been going on for years" and you know what. You're right, it has been. Cheap shots and message sending has been going on since the game was first iced by the NHL but at the time, so were many other dangerously human traits which we have managed to eliminate. Ken Dryden had a very insightful piece in the Globe and Mail in which he enumerates the things mankind has been stupid about but accepted as normal. Smoking, drunk driving, driving without seat belts, playing hockey without facemasks or helmets all have been eliminated over time and every single event was considered life or sport altering at the time. "Life will never be the same" if I'm forced to stop smoking, drinking and driving or forcing me to where seat belts. Life hasn't been the same because many more people whether victim or perpetrator are around to argue about it. 

It is time again for one of those moments where society steps in and forces those in charge of this sport to change what they perceive as acceptable. Force them to change configuration of the rink - certainly, but also eliminate the decision to plant people into the next century because you can. The sport is not the same as it was. The sport is played by bigger, faster, better athletes. The league is manned by many more people of different persuasions. They all have their human frailties and don't believe for a moment those things are left at the arena door. So in the end I'll hitch my horse to the likes of Ken Dryden, Arthur Cohen, the doctors currently working on the impact of concussions and allow them to mess the game up a little bit in hopes that they save the life and mind of either my kids and grand kids or yours. I could be wrong though....

"Don't Pay For It" Policy

I read this morning that Jean Charest has committed the province to 45% share of the cost to build a new arena to house what hopefully would be a home for a new hockey team to grace the city of Quebec. While at first blush it would seem like a worthwhile investment to attract a sports franchise, especially to the multitudes of hockey fans that I'm sure have been starved for a NHL based hockey team, I would like to offer this advice. "DON'T DO IT". Like a friend perched on a building ledge on the 43 floor of an office complex ready to end the hopelessness, I feel it my responsibility to at least try to talk you down from the ledge and point out a few key facts which may allow you to see life as it actually is and not the way you want it to be or believe it to be.

Firstly, while politicians (Jean Charest, etc), businessmen (Mark Angleson, Chairman of Quebecor and potential owner of said team) and certainly Gary Bettman would all try to convince you that this is a wise and bountiful thing, let me assure of one thing. None of them have the best interest of the taxpayers or hockey fans for that matter in mind. That's right folks, I said it right out loud. Mr. Bettman does not have the hockey fans best interest in mind. He has been hired by the owners to operate, direct and counsel the business towards the end which best represents the owners. The businessman will gain an asset through the acquisition of a team which is movable, can be used as leverage at will and provide only short term satisfaction at best when not firmly committed to the area in question and the politician is only thinking votes. Nothing more. 

Secondly, there are a litany of failed public investment into  sports complexes as evidence of all sorts which taxpayers are lead to believe will invite investment, entertainment dollars and profile to those areas, but in the end these are unabashed lies. The old Giants Stadium in NJ is still being paid for until 2025 even though it was torn down this year. Seattle has one in the Seattledome which still lies empty, the now departed Igloo in Pittsburgh and the endless stories related to the Coyotes woes, should be enough to scare anyone off.What is really troubling, however, is that Quebecers most of all should be skeptical because the payment for the Big O is still on the books and that is now 34 years old. All of these examples represent instances where taxpayer money has been re-directed away from public investment in decaying infrastructure, on the suggestion that somewhere down the line there is some big payoff. There isn't today and there won't be tomorrow. 

Thirdly and most importantly, the suggestion that it will bring new entertainment dollars to the area is of course a fabrication of the highest order. Just because a team comes to town, doesn't adjust a family income upwards to allow for that new entertainment offering. A family who earned $50,000 before the entrance will earn exactly $50,000 after the entrance of that team into that market. If they allocate $2500 per year to their entertainment expenditures, that is what they allocate. They won't spend $4000 and give up food or rent or heat. The only thing that will occur is a redirection of that expenditure away from those venues currently supported in the community. Those venues which I might add are probably bound more to the community then the promised franchise. 

Finally, this carrot dangling is based on false hope. Bettman hasn't committed to a team in Quebec, but merely suggests it won't be considered until there is a new venue. This coupled with the fact that a Canadian team hasn't won the cup in more than seventeen years should tell you something.

Spend your money on something that will offer you at least some satisfaction. Invest in high speed transit to get you to the big city that offers those slices of entertainment and straddles those taxpayers with the burden of profile and then take that high speed train back home to enjoy the thought you don't have the heartache. 

Don't Make Your Mother Cry

When we were kids both parents worked outside the home and so it was part of our daily lives that we were expected to carry our load with respect to daily chores. In consequence my parents created this duty chart in which each of our names were listed down the left hand side and along the top were the days of the week. Within each of the corresponding 42 boxes were the chores each of us were expected to perform on any given day. It was hung on the pantry door in the kitchen and every day we were expected to check the listing and perform the prescribed labor. Failure to perform those designated chores would result in extra assignments the following day or worse including, but not limited to, indentured servitude in consignment to the neighbors. Okay I'm lying about the last part but only slightly. 

In any event, as we grew older the tasks grew more troubling to our rebellious teenage status, especially given the Woodstock years, to a point where one day my brother Mike and I decided to hold a revolt and no longer give in to the free child labor dictum that was forced upon the proletariat masses (wait I digress again). In any event we stopped doing the work. When my mother got home it was immediately a point of contention and as usual, after a brief but heated discussion, she headed to the kitchen utensil drawer to find her preferred weapon of choice. THE WOODEN SPOON. She came back into the living room and gave us the final ultimatum of doing the chores or facing the consequences. When we refused to succumb to the threat of violence, she simply approached while brandishing her Aunt Jemimah artillery. What she didn't expect was that one of us grabbed the wooden spoon out of her hand and snapped it like a pretzel leaving it in two distinctly less threatening pieces. I say one of us because I really don't remember whether it was Mike or I. The affront was immediately followed for only a brief period with us cheering and laughing like convicts running from the road side chain gang.Within a flash of that my mother began to cry. We were stunned. She just sat down in her rocking chair and cried. We were transformed from Lenin to Schmuck in a heartbeat. Our party ended as quickly as if a riot squad fire hosed us with ice cold water. We look at each other and without a word set off to go do our chores. 

Never make your mother cry.

Random Thoughts on the Opening Ceremony

I still love Bobby Orr

 

I still love Donald Southerland

 

I think the entire American team have A D D and they’ve taken them off their meds

 

Why do the totems remind me of an erection

 

I think David Hasselhoff and kd Lang share wardrobes. Hasselhoff is sexier.

 

Opera is 1000 people in the world imposing their will on the billions who hate it.

 

Was it impossible for Furlong to learn more French than mon amis and do a poor job of it. And he could’ve lost the Brit accent at the same time.

 

The rocky mountains are pretty majestic when not made out of sheets.

 

The budget for the opening ceremonies was 47 million. They spent it all at linen and things.

 

Nancy Green still looks like the kid who won the Olympic gold

 

Wayne Gretzky is suffering from the Phoenix situation. Check out the hair dye.

 

The lone Monaco athlete is 55 and didn’t carry the flag. I’m taking out my citizenship.

 

Who’s selling cigarettes.

 

My hero is Betty Fox

 

I’m shocked – it’s raining in Vancouver. Somebody can sling BS

 

I hope Canada wins the gold in hockey, men and women but I’m still mad that Cammalleri wasn’t even considered. What they don’t like smart guys!!

 

I bet Bob Costas was beat up more than I was as a kid

 

They should have made all the figure skating judges take the oath on the stage and let the crowd rate them

 

4.2          1.0          5.3          6.5

 

Did they get a deal on the Iranian hats. I. R. Iran – They thought it was all in upper case at first. Come on

 

It was very fitting the Irish were between the Iranians and the Israelis. Who better to control a brawl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fare thee well

Just like the chorus from Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (he’s Canadian you know) Déjà vu track, I keep hearing voices raised high in a plaintiff and wistful drone, “we have all been here before, we have all been here before” and can’t help but feel that it is true yet again. The Bob Gainey era will now be left to the history books and the vultures known as Canadien fans who will pick at the road kill despite the dangers of the oncoming traffic. What I know is the job of general manager in the current NHL has got to be like being the impresario to the band on the Titanic -unbelievable talent and guts  being driven by a guy who can’t see icebergs (See Bettman). Being the general manager of the Canadiens is like having that band on that Titanic with tug boats latched to the side to see you don’t miss the iceberg.

 

For all the evidence one can muster on either side of an argument about whether Mr. Gainey was a good or bad gm,  the fact remains, his most recent predecessors didn’t make it to the party as often as he did.  The last icon player to hold the job of gm was Serge Savard ( I like Houle very much but let’s face it folks he wasn’t an icon) and at the time people ran him out of town with the lynch mob just waiting to heave his carcass on high from the nearest oak (thank god Drapeau had removed all of them from Sherbrooke Street). In retrospect, Savard was the last guy to bring not one but two Stanley cups to the city. In a place where one of the top two issues of hiring a gm is  that he must speak the language ( and Boivin made it very clear that it was one of the top two considerations) you are limiting yourselves. Whatever, people thought of Bob Gainey in terms of doing his job, they may find that the pickings are even slimmer now that he has departed.

 

When people raise the Gomez, Gionta, Cammalleri and Hamerlik deals as being terrible I’ll point to Briere, Lecalvalier, Brad Richards and Souray as all being worse and at the time, the outcry in the city for three of the four was resounding. The chorus of “he way overpaid” can be answered by the Komisarek and Kovalev negotiations where he offered fair market value and they took either the same or slightly better deals to go elsewhere and these were players who swore up hill and down dale they wanted to be in Montreal. It’s easy to be a manager when all you have to do is forget what you said yesterday and be the genius of tomorrow, but in these days of cap hits, taxes, climate and constant scrutiny it is easy to understand why players might take the easy road and go elsewhere. There is still nothing like playing in Montreal when you’re playing well (see Saturday against the Penguins) but lo the day when you play bad (see Sunday against the Bruins).  

 

Just like most fans in Montreal, I’m always disappointed when we don’t win a game, when we don’t make it to the payoffs, when we don’t win the cup and we blame everyone involved because of it. Fair enough. What I also know for sure is that there are 29 other teams who want to go to the dance and all of them have a crack at the same players that the Canadiens do. In fact because of their futility of floating on the bottom for so long they even got a better opportunity at the likes of Ovechkin, Crosby and Malkin. Unless Montreal is willing to forsake the playoffs for let’s say 5 or 6 years consecutively and finish in the bottom 5 teams at the specific point in time when some of the most talented new comers are on the way up, and they win the lottery to grab those players, then you’ll have to learn to live with the best that a gm can bring you while competing with the rest of the teams. If you think Bob was bad at that, hold on to your hats my friend because the winds of bad may be blowing up a hurricane.

 

Good Luck Bob and wipe that smile off your face.

 

 

New Years Resolutions

Happy New Year to everyone,

 

I'm glad you made it through the holiday season relatively unscathed and despite Zach and Marlowe not wishing to return to school (I didn't want to go to work today either), everyone seems to be fairly upbeat and ready to take on the new year with the vim and vigor that one would expect with the introduction of a new decade. It goes without saying that some of my previous new years resolutions have met with some semblance of success if I don't include anyone else's opinion other than my own, which after all is why it is "my" resolution. For instance one year I resolved to allow my nose hair to grow and I think that was a banner year in terms of fulfilling my resolution. Another year I resolved to be a better person. Well I forgot to mention that I was going to better than Attila the Hun but in any event, I believe I achieved that with some measure of success, although one or two people may wish to dispute that conclusion. The losing weight and quitting smoking one's were no brainers but thank god I didn't commit to more than a year on either of those.

 

In any event I believe it is time to declare my "new year's resolution" for 2010 and for that I have contemplated long and hard. One cannot just willy nilly change aspects of one's life without thinking about it. After all, what if that was the lone thing that people liked about you and then you decide to rid yourself of that one feature. Furthermore, to give up particular food or drink which could be damaging to you, may simply gravely wound the economy which is already suffering immensely from people giving up this and that without regard to the impact it had on their economic brothers and sisters. Hold on I say and lend some time to such an immensely serious concern. So my new year's resolution this year is to think about what a good new year's resolution would be. I will have 361 days left to decide on a good one and then declare that one next year. Well unless, despite all that thought, I've only come up with stuff that may be damaging to the environment, myself, my relationships or those who still tolerate me with any measure.

 

Oh and by the way - according to the Peruvian calendar, I will only have to do this once more because after 2012, the world will end. Thank god!!!

 

 

And in summation...

It never ceases to amaze me just how strange the world is and it becomes much more evident when one considers world  happenings over the course of a year.

 

In January of 2009 two things, which were already very evident, became even more clear. First a credible and thoughtful individual  was placed behind one nation’s figurative automobile after an eight year joy ride with a  mindless dolt. The car hasn’t stopped careening as yet but we are hitting a lot less trees and leaving much less road kill. It is still dangerous but a least we’ve got a driver that can focus on that which lays before us and not harp on what happened to daddy in the driveway. We also learnt in January that of all the shows on TV, the Soprano’s was probably the best cast show in TV history when  Lillo Brancato Jr. was convicted of Burglary ( the murder charges were dropped). His buddy got the murder rap. Who, you might ask, is  Lillo Brancato Jr. He was one of Tony’s young guns that got wasted for ripping off the New York crime syndicate after having been told not to.

 

In February we saw the Catholic Church go up against God in a face-off on whether people have the right to die episode. The Catholic church, in their infinite wisdom, feels that only they have the right to kill or molest and the rest of the world should live forever until they deem their time has come. However a young Italian women(Eluana Englaro, 38) after having been in a coma for more than 17 years finally succumbed and therefore we never did get to find out whether the Church or God would have won. Believe me, it was a toss-up. The church has more money and pull these days.

 

In March there were 2 British soldiers killed by the Real IRA. The first to die since 1997. Apparently all the other deaths in that struggle were not conducted by the Real IRA and when “all peace broke out” the Real IRA had to step in and fix it. It only took them 12 years to find any Neanderthals stupid enough not to realize the rest of the nation had moved on.  

 

In April the US declares a swine flu Pandemic and the whole world starts going nuts. What isn’t stated to the world is that only weeks before, the World Health Organization (WHO) (Exactly) changes the definition of a pandemic to simply a virus which  hasn’t been present in the population for 40 years or presents as a new virus. The other four qualifiers were removed (Increased death rate, wider presentation of symptoms than normal virus, etc.)  I guess because CNN hadn’t had the opportunity to report on a good pandemic in oh so long.

 

In May Scientists found the missing link. Apparently it was really lost because it was 47 million years old. Thank god!! Now maybe somebody could help me find my glasses.

 

In June The US is shocked to see the headlines President Ahmadinejad Wins Reelection. This in a country which elected GW Bush twice. I might add the first time people believed those results were a tamper as well.

 

In July in NJ there were 44 arrested for corruption including three mayors. This may have surprised a whole nation with the exception of everyone living in NJ.

 

In August Michael Jackson’s death is ruled a Homicide because he couldn’t possibly be crazy enough to have taken two lethal drugs together on his own volition. Nay – not the man who had shown such restraint and well thought out personal care in the past. Has anyone done a before and after picture of that guy in the last couple of years. I guarantee you he looks healthier now than any time in the last 10 years.

 

In September republicans decide to protest the fact that President O’ Bama is going to speak to students across the nation. They don’t want the president controlling the minds of their children. They would rather invite Sarah Palin to do that. Really? This is all starting to sound too Col. Flaggish to me. (See M.A.S.H. many episodes)

 

In October math results show that the “No Children left behind” has left all children behind.

 

In November we all found out that just because a nation is giving thanks – there are individuals who apparently weren’t giving thanks to family. In fact they had been giving it to everyone except family and we also learnt that even an Escalade can’t out run a good two iron.

 

And in December we all discovered that I have an opinion on just about everything I know very little or nothing about.  I suspect this too will continue in the new year.

 

 

Things Are Good

Look it – as we grow older we sometimes can’t help ourselves and start grumbling about the way it used to be. The music was better, hockey was better, life was simpler, but I have to tell you that while there is nothing wrong with reminiscences and remembering fondly those things which caught favor with us early on and remained entrenched in our memories as the best of this or that, it doesn’t mean that everything was the best. Let me tell you that I do not remember fondly, learning in school to duck beneath our desk in case of a nuclear attack. Do you remember that? Heck those desks wouldn’t have stopped a good slap shot let alone the idea it would protect you from the initial explosion and subsequent fall out of a nuclear holocaust. Automobiles is another one. I don’t care what anyone says, but driving my ’65 Corvair anywhere was taking your life into your hands. Need I remind people of the self-lighting Pinto’s, the aluminum Vega’s and the miserably constructed Gremlins appropriately named because the only thing that you could count on in those cars were the gremlins.

 

Don’t get me started on talking about the red velveteen pants that Santa left me for Christmas one year with the assurance from my parents that all the cool kids were wearing them. Oh yeah and the puffed sleeved psychedelic shirt with the mother of pearl buttons to accompany the pants. It was no wonder people wanted to beat me up lest their parents saw me wearing them and thought that all the cool kids were wearing them. Fashion was just awful back then and if you think I’m lying just check back and look at some old pictures of the great clash of plaids and dots that hammered the lenses of the brownie camera’s everyone sported. Most of the pictures went undeveloped because the cost of developing them was equal to the national debt.

 

Now TV is another item that causes most people to skew the past far too heavily in favor of being great. If you ever lived through even one Velveeta cheese commercial or the Wayne and Shuster comedy hour you would know what I mean. Hockey games that only started at 8:30 and you would join them in progress and watch them on a set with rabbit ears in black and white and if someone shifted in the room you could lose the signal until everyone returned to the exact same spot that they had been in before.

 

Go ahead, remember fondly those days for whatever reasons warm your heart but please let me enjoy my ipod, HDTV, cars with all wheel drive, DVD’s and at least enough fashion sense to know a good pin striped suit when I see one.

 

Happy New Year and bring on more of life’s changes.

Christmas Is Coming!!

Alas- a glimpse of the calendar tells us yet again that a year has sprinted by faster than a Ben Johnston 100. Though the year has held some ups and downs it has more or less transpired without delivering on those expressed wishes from the previous year. In order to try and remedy that I have assembled my personal Christmas wish list which may provide some guidance to my family when trying to buy for the man who eats everything.

 

• A dog that won't counter jump
• Kids that would counter jump
• Hair that doesn't grow in your ears
• Ears that stop growing
• Hair that grows on your head
• Feet that don't crack
• Cracks that don't feet (I couldn't resist - though I don't know what it means)
• Joints that don't ache
• Nose hair that doesn't resemble piano wire
• Hockey without headshots
• Headshots without hockey
• Less of a mid section
• Less of a top section
• Far less bottom section
• Uninterrupted sleep
• Uninterrupted anything
• The movie Trinity
• Wine that doesn't make you drunk
• Drunks that don't whine
• 4 calling nerds
• 3 french maids
• 2 hurdle shoves
• And a cartilage in a spare knee

 

Merry Christmas everybody!!

The Visitation of Those Sounds

On Saturday night I made my way to the Steely Dan concert with my brother Terry, often times my partner in crime to some of the best rock shows I've ever witnessed. I say rock but really in this case at least, SD is a hybrid Jazz and Rock band (Jack or Rozz - take your pick). In any event the show was intended to showcase their famed Aja album from 1977.

 

From the opening note of Black Cow it was apparent that what the crowd would be treated to one of the tightest, smooth sounding bands ever assembled. The band articulated every sound within the confines of this album with an ease of performance rarely heard or seen. They recreated every song in order and even halted for one of the vocalists to flip the record at its appropriate point.

 

Black Cow

Aja

Deacon Blues

Peg

Home At Last

I Got The News

Josie.

 

By the way, don't let anybody tell you different, the song Peg is about Margaret Trudeau.

 

Though this album is now some 32 years old it is amazing how well it has held up its end of the bargain. Offering only 7 songs it was one of the most detailed albums in sound arrangement and complexity of its time. Upon completion of the album Fagan intimated that they would be offering up some other favorites over the course of the remainder of the show. Rikki,  don't lose that number, Dirty Work (the only less than stellar performance) My Old School (he did go back when they apologized and gave him an honorary degree) , Babylon Sister and a host of others.

 

The encore offered up the capper (including a wonderful reproduction of the guitar intro) from Reelin' in the years. Aren't we all. I have subsequently spent the last two days revisiting their repertoire and I have to say that if you haven't listened to Steely Dan for a while take the time and do it now. It is still ear candy of the highest order.

 

Thank you Donald Fagan and Walter Becker for some of the most tantalizing sounds to come out of our generation of masterpieces. For the kids out there who aren't familiar with their offerings, take the time and get educated. This is what good music should sound like. All elements of jazz, rock, blues and a good measure of RnB to get your toes tapping and your hips to sway.

 

 

 

55 is the new Teen

Someone told me the other day that 55 is the new 40 and I had to think about that. Their reasoning of course was that unlike our parents hitting 55, where they looked and acted like, em let see 55! , we tend to be much more active and with it. However, the more I thought about it, the more I concluded that no way are we the new 40. No way. We are much more like teenagers. Now hear me out. I was first struck by this idea when I received a call from one of my brothers who informed me that he was out looking for a job. He had been let go and was hoping to latch onto something in fairly short order. In the current economy it is certainly not a rarity and in fact, in my age group, it seems to be happening with more frequency then a rabbit coupling on a bunny farm. In fact I think I have more relatives and friends out looking for a job than are currently employed. That's when it struck me. This had not been the case since we were 16 and all looking for our first full time and / or part time job depending on whether one had decided to pursue higher education or hire education. My god, I thought, I'm going to have to decide what I want to be when I grow up!!

 

Now that is not my only evidence however, because, I have also had this lingering knee pain for the last year or more and it comes and goes, is mild to severe and always hits when there is really something fun to do. While I was popping yet another handful of advil to try to get my knees working, it occurred to me that I had been through this before. When I was a kid, I got these growing pains (ask my mother) that always presented themselves in the knee or hip or shins and my god they hurt. These pains feel just like that. Maybe I've started growing again. God only knows, my waist line has. Maybe my body has been tricked into thinking I'm sixteen again. With that little tidbit, I also remembered that about a week ago I slept in until 9:30 in the morning. Usually, I would have been up for 3 hours and had at least one nap. I can't recall sleeping in 'til 9:30 since (you got it) I was a teenager!!!

 

Now the kicker. Yesterday I was busy shaving when I felt a discomfort on the back of my neck. My hand slowly travelled the distance from the facial area to the neck area, all the time wondering, what in heavens name is that.

Mother of god, I had a pimple, full prom night, ready to burst on the scene and cause immediate embarrassment, honest to goodness acne. Acne so gargantuan that aircraft would radio air traffic concerned about the obstruction. I hadn't had a pimple that big since one took up residence on the tip of my nose in 1967 and finally faded to obscurity around 1978.

 

So you're still not convinced, well I was holding onto this one not wanting to pull out the big guns but you asked for it. When was the last time you saw a group of 55 year old women sitting around having coffee. I noticed this in one of the bagel shops the other day and its when my suspicions were finally solidified into the scientific equivalent of sure thing. One lady either not realizing how loud she was or completely oblivious to everything but her immediate table company (just like a teenager) started fanning herself with a newspaper creating an airflow that may have succeeded in lifting the Spruce Goose and telling everyone within the four surrounding counties that if she had another hot flash like the one she had last night she'd be "sweating like a pack mule in the Grand Canyon country side". This fueled a cacophony of "I got you beats" and "That's nothings" all dying to be the first to humble the previous tale. Well, I thought, wouldn't they love to know just how young they are.

 

 

 

The Fading Light of the NHL

Is it me or is the NHL going bad quicker than a jar of mayonnaise on a hot summer's day. I'm not talking about the players or the game, rather I'm talking about the NHL product in all of its forms. Allow me to enumerate some of the failings that provide this ever increasing feeling of product erosion. In the last several games that I've watched, the officiating has fallen to nothing better than peewee hockey, though this may be egregiously unfair to peewee officiating. I've seen pucks hitting the protector screen over the glass, high sticks (not just shoulder high - I'm talking well over your head high), face punches, missed off sides, slashing, goaltender interference, too many men on the ice (I mean 7 men on the ice!!!!), missed head shots, slew footing and hitting players from behind. All of these infractions have gone unnoticed by the very people purported to be watching for these very things and many of these offences have been turned into goals by the team committing those infractions.
This has a very significant impact on the game and how it is perceived by the very people this league is apparently trying to attract.

We have all witnessed the often pathetic, sometimes comedic handling of the Phoenix Coyotes debacle. In business, one expects an organization the size of the NHL, from time to time, to realize failings such as the Coyotes. An organization can't expand without taking risk and therefore I do not find fault with the attempt to put a team in Phoenix. Where I do find fault, was in their inability to recognize the severity of the problem before it got so far out of hand and to take remedial steps to correct its course. What they now have is one of the hockey's iconic figures (Gretzky), at odds with the NHL in a public way. Gee, this sounds all to familiar (Orr, Howe, Hull). Furthermore, the NHL has created the distinct impression in Canada that while it is perceived and treated like the poorer cousin; this cousin is basically picking up the tab (or a large part of it) on behalf of the richer target markets. Everyone understands that Canadians would enjoy hockey if it was played at midnight, broadcast on radio in a candle lit room. Heck, it is how the NHL came about, but I would be very cautious about letting that attitude permeate the country for too much longer, lest a European league takes interest in the Southern Ontario, Quebec and western Canada markets.

Finally, many Canadians wouldn't know this but there is a huge p#$%%#g match going on between cable tv and satellite broadcasting here in the great US of A. Caught in the middle of this are hockey viewers who have paid for but don't receive the services promised. It started with the lapse of the contract between Versus and Direct TV. Versus as you may not know, was given broadcasting rights by the NHL when ESPN showed no interest in their product several years ago. Nearing the end of September 2009, Direct TV announced it would not be broadcasting the Versus network as they were being held hostage by Versus for increased fees. Versus, coincidentally is owned by one of the cable companies. Why, may you ask, would the NHL not intervene in this little tiff? Well the cable companies are also owners of several teams in the NHL and have been carving out this little territory for themselves. Fair enough, as a viewer one realizes that if you want to watch the product you'll ante up the money for the NHL Center Ice package at a fairly hefty cost of $170.00 per year. Lo and Behold, if you purchase the NHL Center Ice package on Direct TV, the cable companies refuse to provide the HD signal that viewers of the NHL Center Ice package get with the cable companies. Even the games broadcast in HD from Canada are being blocked out.

Keep up the good work NHL.

Avery, Unsavory and other Turkey Stories

Okay Okay - I know I used moving as an excuse in October but now we're moving into our new house and that too has taken an enourmous amount of time along with my day job, my school work and a nice vacation in Bermuda. The last part I really enjoyed. Upon my return a number of issues have cropped up that I'd like to talk about in no particular order.

Sean Avery is a professional hockey player who this week managed to once again cast a dark cloud over a sport which I truly love to watch. Despite its rap for being a mindlessly brutal sport by some or a hopelessly boring sport by others, I would suggest, in my humble opinion, it is by far the most althletically difficult sport of all the professional sports available. It offers the speed of sprint, the physical aggression of football (not soccer), the thoughtful detail of baseball and the sheer excitement of cliff diving (when you're doing it yourself). To have this bafoon expose the general public to his ridiculous behaviour on an ongoing basis defeats all efforts made by the real gentlemen who've played this sport before and who will play this sport in years to come. When teammates speak out against you in the aftermath of such a truly insidious public spectacle then you know you have crossed beyond the line of redemption. I would plead with the league, the NHLPA, the management of the Stars and his team to lock arms and tell him he isn't wanted anymore. I wonder as a father how he would react to someone speaking of his daughter (God forbid that should ever hold true) in the manner he chose. Shame on him and anyone like him.

Speaking of unsavory - I noted that Carl Rove is now out rewriting history for the masses. Apparently, now he indicates that if they had had different intelligence they would not have gone to war. Hold on there fella - that is the biggest crock of horse patties I've heard. You went to war, you knowingly lied to everyone about it, and you did it because you wanted to. You bought it, you own and you are not dropping the trash off in someone else's dumpster. And by the way - no one wins a war - you either lose lots or you lose more!!!

On a happy note Christmas is fast approaching and I've been dreaming of my turkey dinner. I had a great turkey dinner in Bermuda but I realized that the reason we so look forward to turkey is because it goes on and on for days afterwards so by having enjoyed it in a restaurant, you are denied the week long romance to disgust that typically follows these long drwan feasts. So those combine my turkey thoughts for the season. Ho ho ho!!!!

Whew - now I feel better.

The Great Curse of Costco

Last year I went shopping at COSCO and was hit by the COSCO curse. You know it, perhaps not by name, but it is very familiar to you. The errand was a simple one. My wife Jane, asked me to pick up four steaks for dinner. No problem. Heck I’ve done it a hundred times before. I mean how difficult can it be, right! So I set off with my brother-in-law and all the confidence of a rooster in a hen house.
 
I arrived and flashed my membership card. It carries that lovely picture that makes you look like it was lifted from the  FBI most wanted. Anyway I flashed the card and strutted right on through those doors like I owned the place. I’m aware the meat section is all the way to the back and so I don’t even take a cart because I only need four steaks remember.
 
On my way to the back I first wonder through the TV section because I’m a man and the eleventh commandment states that every man must never pass an electronic section without at least contemplating the purchase of the 93” 1080 p with HD ready flat screen with no less than 4 HDMI i/o... and then I snap out of it. I start my way down to the meat section and then call my wife to see if she needs a new IPOD because I only need four steaks and so I can carry one extra item and she was thinking about replacing hers.
 
Well after a conversation with her I set out once again to the meat section and run right past that new juicer that I’ve thought about buying before  but realized I probably didn’t need it and besides I don’t have a cart and only need four steaks. So I set off again and almost make it to the back but I’m interrupted first by the BOOK/DVD/CD table, the new BBQ section and finally halted by the wine and beer section. I wasn’t diverted by the Woodbridge, nor did the Brunello di Montelciano win me but the Sterling Cabernet Sauvignon cinched it.
 
I headed back to the front to get a cart and on my way back I stopped and picked up the juicer, and knowing I was buying some wine I decided to surprise Jane and replace those ugly wine glasses I bought last year with a new set of Crystal MIKASA’s. Then made it to the wine section, picked up 6 bottles of assorted deals and then proceeded to pick up two filets, two racks of lamb, two chickens, a pound of shrimp, enough asparagus, lettuce, mushrooms and water to feed and then sink the navy and finally bagels for the entire east coast.
 
When I got outside and tallied up the damage it was then that I realized I never did get those four steaks.

Alive and Well

Well its been 21 days since my last writing and one would have to imagine that it is impossible to be so busy that you can't take a few moments to write a small blog at least once in that time span. Well think what you will but we have been busy.

My wife and I just finished our move from NJ to Vermont. This is now our 6th move in 24 years of marriage. If you'd like to test your marriage (and I'm not sure why anyone would like to test their marriage), try moving. What's that you say. Having kids is harder; poppycock (I always wanted to write that) having kids was fun - raising them was a little more trying but moving is compressed pressure. Now, I have to admit, if my wife and I were telling this story together she would be injectung things like (what did you do?) etc. as I tell this story. Now you know why I blog. If she would like to tell it from her perspective let her write her own blog.

Imagine trying to sell your house in a market when both Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac are gasping for air like an asthma patient in a dust storm. You have to be nuts. Meet Mr. and Mrs. Cashew. In any event we put our house on the market and it sold in 4 days. Isn't that a stupid expression!!! It didn't sell in 4 days. We had an offer within 4 days which we accepted. Then all hell broke loose. The banks started crumbling like ancient Greek columns in an apocalyptic earth quake. The stock market dropped like bombs during the London air raid. With every passing day my stomach would flip thinking that the kids had found a way to override the worlds computers in an effort to prevent us from ever selling this house while belly dancing and tangoing (is that a word) their way through university.

The inspection happened and we had been told that it went very well. Well is very relative. We should have had an inkling of things to come when the radon inspection took longer than the creation of heaven and earth. Now I realize god is God but from now on I'm calling god for a radon inspection. The inspection came in with the normal riders like your house is falling down because I saw a crack in the downstairs window but we muddled our way through those issues. Then it was suggested that the buyers needed to obtain a chiminey inspection. This advise was offered up by the law firm of Dewey, Cheatum & Howe. Lo and behold, this law firm also happens to refer chiminey inspectors called Just Inspect. Let the cavity search begin. Just Inspect unlike what the name suggests also happens to perform the repairs of whatever work is found and even has the audacity to suggest that if the report of their findings is helpful in a real estate transaction that they be considered for the work. (I am shocked, shocked that their is gambling in this casino). You guessed it. Our chiminey's needed work. Lots and lots of work. In fact the suggested repairs would equal that of the Icelandic national debt (prior to bankruptcy).

Pass the Tums and my checkbook.

Let that not be the end of the story, because our lawyer (his paralegal) decided to just ballpark the figure and reduce our monies due by $15,000. and just when you'd think everything was done the Dewey lawyer called to say that there was garbage on the front lawn. Can you imagine that on garbage day there would be garbage outside the house. Oh yeah and leaves in a leaf bag in October - its an outrage!!! And these people have the vote. ughhhhhhhhhh!!!!

The Strap!!

When we were kids our family was fairly unusual in that both my parents worked and therefore punishment was meted out by both adults without degree of offense or time of day. They were full ranging and could be merely an assignment of all duties on the "duty chart" (that will be another story), through the bevy of increasingly more action to the ultimate strap.

The strap was used as the ultimate weapon and was feared much more than the wooden spoon or clip in the back of the head. The strap was my fathers belt and would be dispensed in measured increments evenly to both hands. If you were the offending party you were usually warned by the "don't make me get up" or "do it again" provocation which always seemed to me to be an order so I was always surprised that you got a licking when you did it again.

In any event, one of the most serious infractions in our childhood was playing on the street. Now, I don't care what anybody says, but there wasn't any place to play but on the street or in the stairwell, or in the electric shed or all of the other places which were named to be off limits. Nevertheless, these were the rules.

Now my borther Mike had been given a second hand bike which at the time was probably 10 years old and was fine but needed work, so one day we spent the morning and afternoon working on the thing tuning it up and getting everything in perfect working order. We pieced it all back together and Mike was going to take it for a ride. Each time we'd role it out we'd find one more thing wrong with it and would re-double our efforts. Finally, it was about 4 o'clock in the afternoon and Mike settled on the seat and shoved off using the sidewalk for momentum and scooted out on the street. The bike was running like a charm and I was so excited I started runnning after him jumping and laughing and yelling at him to go faster. I was so excited that I paid no attention to anything else until Mike scooted around a car which I came face to face with staring right over the hood ornament into my father's very annoyed eyes. That look accompanied the strap. No look - no strap. It was that simple. He merely pointed up towards the apartment and I knew immediately what it meant.

I headed up the flight of stairs with the understanding that with each step I was dead man walking. When I finally got to our apartment I marched straight to our room as would be expected but that's when I got to thinking. I was going to get it anyway so why not make it hard on everybody concerned. So I opened our closet door and hoisted myself onto the shelf. I gathered all of the clothes and boxes around me so it wasn't evident and lay very still.

When my Dad finally came into the apartment I could hear him taking his time knowing that with each passing moment I'd be ever more apprehensive about the coming consequence. Finally I heard our bedroom door open and silence for a moment. TED!!! came the voice. I shifted slightly but was resolute in my course. I could hear the footsteps as he looked under the bunkbeds. TED!! it came again with just a slight amount of annoyance. He opened the cupboard door but I wasn't there. JESUS MURPHY!! came the exclamantion as he proceeded to search the rest of the apartment. He came back to the room a second time and opened the closet again and as he searched there were more suggestions that I was only making it worse on myself. The annoyance was growing more and more and vesuvius was about to errupt. Now when I get really nervous I start to laugh. Sometimes uncontrollably but it always starts with just a giggle so when he opened the closet door for the third time it was unintended.

My Dad reached up and grabbed me from the shelf and I was jerked off and stood on the floor in the center of the room. He did this while spitting out that now I had done it. Now I was finally going to get a damn good tanning. All this while fumbling to pull of his belt. He told me to hold out my hand which I did while we wound up from the bleachers for the first swing. At the last minute I pulled my hand away and the belt caught him right across his own leg. I burst out laughing (that is a really bad reaction sometimes). LET THE BEATINGS BEGIN.

In the end my hands did recover and he was annoyed at me for quite a while. So it didn't make him feel any better either and let that be a lesson for you....

OLDS '98

My Dad had a 1956 Olds 98 when I was a kid and to this day that car affects my life in ways I would have never guessed. We had 6 kids in the family and so he needed one of those big ass cars in the pre SUV era. To the naked eye this car was sweet. It was a royal blue with white paneling. It had those big tail fins which were very popular amongst the car makers in those days (remember that the memory plays tricks so if the details of the car are sketchy, they belong to a kid who was about 7 and lived in his own little world and are now being recalled by a 53 year old man).

Our family used to love to sing, play guitar and learn proper harmonies in order to perform to friends, family and anyone who might wish to listen whenever the mood took them. The car was a perfect adjunct to that hobby. I had already indicated that the car looked fine but the inner workings offered some fairly critical flaws. The floor boards in the car were riddled with holes and apparently so were the tailpipes and in consequence the exhaust would seep up into the cabin of the car. Now one could imagine that that could be problematic for people of any age so in order to ensure that the affects of carbon monoxide would be minimal we'd drive around with the windows opened. Now during the summer time that was fine and downright enjoyable, but winter in the northeast offered a wholly different perspective. So to try and keep us warm and alive my dad insisted that we sing every where we went. It didn't matter the time of day or indeed night. There would be the entire LeBlanc clan driving around singing at the top of our lungs. "Dinah won't you blow, Dinah won't you blow......" Now as a kid you'd find yourself often looking to nap but if that even looked like a remote possibility in the car my Dad would turn around and start shaking you like the San Andreas fault misbehaving. Simultaneously, he yell "sing god dammit... sing!!!!" You could be delirious from lack of sleep but by god you were going to sing "Row, row, row your boat gently down the SING GOD DAMMIT SING....Merrily, Merrily, Merrily ...."

So when you see me driving down the street to this day I'm singing at the top of my lungs. But worse yet, every time I doze off anywhere I jolt wide awake thinking SING GOD DAMMIT, SING

FRECKELO

Like super hero’s, we all have an arch nemesis or arch rival which offer us the mirror into our souls and determine the human being we will be. Superman had Lex Luther, Batman had several but the Joker was the best and I had Freckelo.

Freckelo lived on 24th Avenue in a duplex which was directly en-route to our school. I never did learn his real name but suffice it to say that it was unimportant to the story. He was probably a year or two my senior, had carrot red hair and, as his name suggests, was one of those kids covered in freckles. I don’t know what made him so miserable but clearly someone beat him with a nasty stick early on. I had encountered him early on in my first year of elementary school when we were all called upon to make our own way to school. It didn’t matter that you had brothers and sisters because they wouldn’t be caught dead walking with you nor you with them for that matter.

The bullying began simply enough with the typical shove or blocked path but escalated at a fairly rapid pace to a point where Gregory Clark and I would try alternate routes, running, mingling or anything else to try and avoid the advances of this maniac and his clan of crazed cohorts but in many cases to no avail. He and his gang must have attended night school at the age of eight because they never seemed pressed to go anywhere or be afraid of anyone.

This bullying went on for several years and the gang seemed to get bigger and meaner with each passing month and year. Finally, Greg ended up being caught by them one day when I was left at home suffering from some childhood illness. I guess the fact that we always traveled together must have been a deterrent to their more diabolical violence because on this occasion they pulled the lid off a manhole and threw Greg down breaking his leg. I received a call from Gregory’s mother informing me that he wouldn’t be going to school for a few days and could I bring home his homework. The news sickened me and it was at that moment that the early designs of revenge began to hatch.

The following Saturday morning I woke early (my parents were still in bed and my dad used to wake the roosters so it must have been very early) and got dressed quickly and headed over towards 24th Avenue. I don’t know what gave me the courage because I was completely alone but I remember being quite certain that Freckelo would be too. I hung around his house waiting for him to show his spotted face and soon enough he did. I walked up to him and in my best sign language (Freckelo didn’t speak English) made signs that I wanted to be friends. He seemed taken aback by my audacity and amenable to the come on.

I invited him back to my apartment building on the premise that we would could get a couple of gloves and ball and play catch. Now we lived on the 3rd floor in a 3 bedroom apartment. The building was typical of those built back in the 50’s and had a gap between the window which ran the height of the building providing light to the stair well and each of the half landings leading to the summit. This gap was approximately two feet deep and so one could look down from the top floor all the way to the first floor with an unobstructed view of the front door of the building. In typical kids fashion we often would climb the space rather than use the stairs and while it seemed dangerous to the onlooker it was completely deadly to the novice unless one paid close attention to the path of sure footedness. I quickly hoisted myself up the gap and began to scale the path upwards with the skill of a Himalayan chirpa scaling Everest. Freckelo being my senior could do nothing else but follow my lead and scale the gap. Each half landing had a rail which allowed one to peer down to the level below. It also offered the staging for the next level just like in Super Mario. I was quickly beyond the first floor, onto the second and lifting up to the third and could see down and with each move Freckelo became more apprehensive but determined to keep up with the runt.

I reached the top floor and hoisted myself over the rail and looked back down just in time to see Freckelo beginning his climb from the second to third floor. He was very apprehensive and slowed by the strain of the unpracticed hand. He scaled up to the half landing and grabbed the rail as his feet slid off the ledge of the window so he was slightly swinging in mid air holding on for dear life to the lower rail mount. He began to scream and clearly feared for his life as well he should. Time slowed to a crawl as I looked down on him and he tried to see me through the outstretched arms as his swing arced back towards the window frame. He was unable to swing his feet back and his grip was desperate and straining. I waited for that moment where our eyes could make contact and when it did he knew exactly what I was thinking. The fear was obvious and heartfelt. He probably could sympathize with Greg right at that moment.

I finally ran to the apartment and called to my dad to come right away ‘cause Freckelo would fall. The beat of my fathers’ footsteps on the floor could be heard all over the building as he donned his pants and ran to the noise which was now reverberating throughout the early morning quiet. He reached over the rail and grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck and began to shake him like a wet rag. The tears were flying everywhere as the Freckelo went from bully to sissy in a heartbeat. Once the tirade slowed my dad put him down and yelled that he better not come back again lifting his foot to give him a swift kick just to accentuate the notion.

My dad looked at me and knew deep down that I was absolutely involved and showed little remorse for the near catastrophic incident. He asked me who the kid was and I told him I thought he might live over on 24th Avenue because I’d seen him from time to time on my way to school.My dad for whatever reason probably thought it was prudent to leave the questioning and we never spoke of it again.

Freckelo never did bully us again and in fact he often turned and walked the other way when we passed his house. It’s funny because I never did feel all that good about what happened but was satisfied with the result.

Life and Honesty

Have you ever noticed that lessons in life are taught to you in so many different ways and some have the most lasting effects. The lesson of honesty was like that for me and to this day I still think back to it and blush with the same degree of shame I did all those forty some years ago.

The story began in a north east city captured in the midst of a horrid winter day. The streets were caked with the awful slush which always plagued the main arteries a day or two after a fairly significant snow fall. Cars would race by and lather anyone not adept enough to dodge the oncoming torrent. I was in the fourth grade and a fairly good student. I always vyed with my best friend Greg Clark (known to his mother as Junior) and Carol Dentremont to get the “first in class” medal. It was also an extremely good year for me, because it was the year I loved my teacher. I think we’ve all had a year like that when you first feel the pangs of puppy love and you would do anything, anything at all for that teacher. Well that year for me was the year of Mrs. Gendracs.

I can still picture her with her early 60’s glasses and red lipstick always dressed to nines with a smile that would bring light to the dark side of the moon. She always had a smirk on her face which suggested she enjoyed the activity in the class but also evoked a sense that there was an inside joke to which we weren’t privy.

In any event I had set out for school that day and for some reason had forgotten to do my math homework. It was extremely unusual for me at the time (later in high school it would be the norm). I walked along the school route that we all took everyday to get there (avoiding encounters with the likes of FRECKELO but that is another blog) and it suddenly dawned on me I hadn’t completed the math assignment given for the night before. I felt awful about it and realized that I would be terribly embarrassed especially because it was Mrs. Genracs that would give witness to this quantum failure. It was just a fleeting moments thought but one which I acted upon immediately and so I took my math copy book and threw it onto the boulevard. I naively believed I was covered because I could legitimately claim I had lost it. So after dispensing of the book I made my way to class and took my rightful seat in the first row, feeling somewhat guilty about what I had done but resolved to stay the course. I hadn’t noticed that Gregory wasn’t in class yet but even if I had, it wouldn’t have altered my chosen story line.

Mrs. Gendracs walked into the classroom and asked that everyone take out their homework so she could collect the books. When she arrived at my desk I blurted out that I had done all my homework (not sure why I had to go that far) but I had lost the copy book on my way to school. I had no sooner completed my entire tail of woe when Gregory burst into the classroom out of breath but waving my copy book in the air yelling Ted, Ted I found your copy book in the middle of the street. It was completely wet and looked awful but not nearly as bad as I did. I looked like a kid with a mouthful of day old beets. Mrs. Gendracs looked at me and she could tell my story was crumbling like a stack of cards in a wind storm. She held out her hand to Gregory for the copy book as I blurted out my entire fabrication. All eyes in the class bore in on me while I sheepishly tried to find a floor tile I could crawl under.

Now this may be a figment of my imagination, but I do believe that Mrs. Gendracs lost a good deal of respect for me that day and it could be a faulty recollection but I don’t believe I made first in class for the rest of that year. Whenever I have an inkling that I should lie about a situation I think back to that day and become the most brutally honest person you’d care to meet but now you know why.

The Origins of Tedle

I worked as a liner accountant for a shipping agency early in my career and basically did the accounting for the various carriers we represented when the vessels would call any of the ports within our area. They would run up husbandry costs, dunnage costs, wharfage, towing and any number of shipping specific items which always required a good deal of paper work and hence accounting. One of the carriers which I worked on was a Steamship Company in India. They were represented by a general agent in NY to cover the North American market.

The job required a good deal of communication and authorization for the various charges and each vessel required its own accounting report in order for the owners to determine the cost of each vessel voyage which would ultimately determine the profitability or lack thereof of each sailing. With each vessels departure we were therefore often called upon to communicate with the general agents to determine the allocation of some of the more general costs which were attributable to the operation rather than a specific vessel. 

In this case, my communications were conducted with a wonderful man by the name of Prat Patel who was the traffic manager for the carrier in New York and pretty much directed all of the affairs of the carrier in North America. On my first occasion to call him I quickly introduced myself (Ted Le Blanc) and told him I was the new hire and would be tending to the accounting. In his most pleasant voice and with a heavy accent said “I’m sorry but I failed to hear your name”. So I repeated “Ted Le Blanc”. 

“What a pleasure to make your acquaintance Tedle” was the reply. 

I could barely keep myself from breaking out in a howl but also didn’t have the heart to correct him so from that day forward for the several years I performed the accounting duties for the carrier I was Tedle whenever speaking with Mr. Patel and so commenced “Tedle” often misunderstood but its worth the laugh.