HAPPY BIRTHDAY SOPH! My little sister is 17 today. While I could share one of many anecdotes about you Soph, instead all I'm going to say is that I'm so proud of you for how you comport yourself. Have an amazing day.
Tuesday 28 February 2012
Happy Birthday Sophie
Not a real post today, but one that's far more important.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SOPH! My little sister is 17 today. While I could share one of many anecdotes about you Soph, instead all I'm going to say is that I'm so proud of you for how you comport yourself. Have an amazing day.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SOPH! My little sister is 17 today. While I could share one of many anecdotes about you Soph, instead all I'm going to say is that I'm so proud of you for how you comport yourself. Have an amazing day.
Monday 27 February 2012
The little salmon swims onward
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| "Just going to be taking this off now, don't mind me." |
I'm very pleased to say that I was wrong about Hodgson. Coming into this season, I honestly thought that as soon as Kesler returned from hip surgery, it would be back to the minors for CoHo. In cases like this, I'm happy to be proven wrong. Hodgson has done more than stick with the big club; he's brought an offensive side to the Canucks' third line (or fourth, because Vigneault is rather reluctant to play him ever), and has played himself into contention for the Calder (NHL rookie of the year), despite playing only 12 minutes per game. Granted, the only reason he (or anyone else for that matter) is in Calder discussions is because Ryan Nugent-Hopkins got injured, but still, well done CoHo.
Buffalo, you're getting a player that has fought through back and neck issues and come out as a better player. If it weren't for the fact that the Canucks have their top two centers locked up for multiple years, I'd like to believe that Hodgson would have been too valuable to trade. But he has been. This is GM Mike Gillis' first move that has made me hesitant, but given his track record, I'll trust him until proven wrong.
So, Buffalo fans, as a welcome gift, I've drawn up a brief package of how to treat CoHo, and you had better treat him well!
- The "G" is silent. I'm getting this out in the open right off the bat, because it took the Vancouver media three years to realize that his name is proounced "Hodson".
- For goodness sake, play him more than we did! Here, he was a victim of cirumstance and Vigneault's hesitancy to use him, but he really is quite skilled. He can man the powerplay, which if you'd like to make a late push for the playoffs, you're going to need to improve, Buffalo.
- Expect him to make some bad plays in his own end. This is Hodgson's most glaring deficiency, but to his credit, he is more responsible with the puck than he was at the start of the season. And besides, the goalie will bail him out... Oh wait, you guys have Miller. Good luck with those turnovers.
- You NEED to push this nickname: CoHo: The Little Salmon. I've been trying to get it to stick, and now it's your job to carry on this endeavour. The explanation is as follows:
- Cody Hodgson -------> CoHo.
- Coho is a type of salmon.
- Hodgson is not the biggest guy, therefore he is the little salmon.
- Hodgson has battled critisisms that he is too small, and injuries to earn a spot on an NHL roster. It hasn't been an easy path for him. Like the salmon, CoHo swims upstream.
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| As a rookie hazing, Bieksa threw CoHo into the Fraser river while shouting "Swim Cody, swim for your life!" (citation needed) Bieksa then attempted to hook Hodgson with a fishing rod. |
Upon a Hodgson goal, bring your forearms together, palms touching. Your arms are now a salmon, with the hands being the head. See Figure 1.
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| Fig. 1 |
Now, move your arms back and forth, leading with your hands and having the forearms follow, as if you were trying to mimick a fish swiming. The key is to rotate at the wrists; make the motion smooth. Don't worry if it takes practice, it's worth it. See Fig. 2 for reference.
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| Fig. 2 |
Wednesday 22 February 2012
I'm stealthy when stoned
If you've got a backache, or a deep tissue bruise in your thigh, you probably reach for some sort of painkiller, right? Chances are you do, as enough prescription painkillers are purchased in the States to be able to administer a 300mg dose to every person in the country annually (that doesn't even factor in over-the-counter brands). It makes sense; if you're in pain, take something that's called a "painKILLER", it's just common sense. Well, I don't like to.
It's not because of some holier-than-thou reason where I think I'm a better person for not using painkillers. That's stupid. (Someone once interpreted an offhand comment of mine about painkillers in this manner.) It's because they don't work for me.
Please note that I said "for me"; I don't think there's some conspiracy from the pharmaceutical corporations in which they are feeding the public placebos (Another person assumed I meant this... I need to choose my words more carefully when discussing this apparently). Believe me, I know that painkillers do their job. I remember vacationing in England with my mum and sister and having Mum stop in at every Boots we passed to buy codeine, and it did its job well. Also, please note that my mum is not a drug addict (that I know of), she had a messed up disk in her back; the codeine was the only thing keeping her capable of standing upright. When I take painkillers, one of two things happen. In scenario A actually, nothing happens. Absolutely no effect felt, which leaves me at square 1, with an aching [insert body part here]. Hell, maybe those just happen to be the placebo pills and there is a big conspiracy. Probably not though.
In scenario B, the pain becomes admittedly duller, but more throbbing, which makes me more aware of the pain at every moment, and focusing on the throbbing makes my mind more conscious of the fact that wow, I'm actually in quite a bit of pain here. Also, in this scenario, I think I'm entirely lucid, but am likely not. I once played a basketball game on, well I'm actually not sure what it was; my coach gave it to me before the game because I was feverish and achy from being sick. The point is, I was a mess.
No, for me to benefit from the intended effects of painkillers, they have to be much more potent. Local anesthetic potent. And then I just get stupid.
Apparently it runs in the family; my sister was rather loopy after having her wisdom teeth removed as well. She was on a soccer retreat several days later and was still feeling the effects. Her coach found her scouring the kitchen at 3 A.M. "looking for salt". I, of course, was determined to show no ill effects after my surgery, just to spite her. Also, I had been invited to go see a movie that afternoon with friends...
When I got seated in the dentist's chair, the surgeon asked if I had any questions before they applied the anesthetic.
Me: Yeah, how long will this take?
Surgeon: Around an hour, maybe 90 minutes. (This is what I'm assuming; I don't actually remember what he said.)
Me: (Mentally calculating how long that left me before the movie would be starting) Okay, cool. Let's get this going then.
The next thing I remember was waking up, still pretty groggy, and with no glasses on. I am BLIND without glasses or contacts. I heard the surgical assistant say "Oh good, you're up. I'll go grab your mum so she can take you home." As I began to make sense of my surroundings, I noted that my mouth felt fine; a little less mobile than my jaw normally is, but certainly not in pain. Ha, take that Sophie!
I also noted that the blanket they had covered me with was ridiculously soft and cozy. I didn't want to ever take it off. Looking around the room with blurry vision, I realized I was the only person in the room. So I grabbed the blanket and stuffed it into my pants.
A few adjustments later, and it was all even. In fact, I was rather proud of my handiwork. I mean, it didn't even look as if my crotch was stuffed with fleece, which it totally was.
I put on my best poker face (made difficult by the fact that my cheeks made me look like a chipmunk) and walked out alongside my mum.
We made it out to the car, blanket intact, where I promptly fell asleep.
When we got home, it was still relatively early (the appointment had been first thing in the morning), and my sister was still asleep. My drug-addled brain cared not for her slumber, as I was compelled to rub it in her face that I was entirely cognizant and functional. I threw open the bedroom door and yelled "SPITE!!!!!" in what must have been an incredibly slurred bellow, then proceeded to go to the living room, where I fell asleep again.
I awoke to discover that I was drooling blood onto the arm of our couch. Yum! I was napping under the blanket from the surgeon's office! A little bit of bleeding wasn't going to stop me. Besides, my dual naps had done me good.
Me: Mum, I'm going to a movie at 4 with Maria and Ruth.
Mum: No you're not.
Me: Yes I am! I'm fine. A liddle slurry, sure, but dat's normal when de dentist freezes your mouf (bear in mind I couldn't pronounce things properly)
Mum: ............................... No.
I proceeded to elaborate quite eloquently to my mum exactly why I was fine and would be going to see a movie that afternoon. When I finished, I was certain that my logic had swayed her.
Mum: No chance. You're supposed to be under supervision for 24 hours. That means rest.
Me: I'd be wif friends, it's not like I'd be unsupervised.
By this point, Mum's face was a mixture of exasperation, amusement, and suppressing murderous frustration.
Mum: Tyler, the surgeon said you weren't to go out. End of discussion.
Me: But if he said I could? Like, if I phoned them right now and asked, and they said okay, then I could go, right? I'm gonna phone them.
My mum just shook her head in disbelief as I took out my phone and dialed the oral surgeon's office. A receptionist picked up after a couple rings, and I, with the utmost confidence, began to explain my situation. The call was on speaker-phone because my mum wanted to hear this for herself.
Me: Hi, this is Tyler. You just took my teeth out. I was wondering, can I go to a movie? (*I should note that I consider having spoken those sentences entirely seriously is something I am unreasonably proud of*)
Receptionist: ........I'm sorry, what?
Me: My friends are seeing a movie in a bit, can I go with them? I feel totally fine.
Receptionist: Um, well you need to be under supervision since you're still very dru-
Me: Supervision won't be a problem, I'm going with friends. They can supervise me.
Receptionist: Well, we really don't recommend you go anywhere. And they'd have to supervise you everywhere, even the bathroom.
This was a wrinkle I had not foreseen. Both Maria and Ruth are girls, and I suspect they would be hesitant at best if a drugged up guy asked them to help him pee. I hope so at least.
Me: (thinking on the fly) No worries, I'll just hold it if I have to go.
Receptionist: Um............ It would probably be best if you didn't go.
Me: But that's not a blanket "No", right?
Receptionist: Well, Sir, we aren't able to force you to do anyth-
Me: Cool, thank you, bye!
I hung up the phone, beaming with pride. I say beaming, but that's relative when you can't move your face. I was beaming with my eyes though. Like an Andalite would.
When my mum still wouldn't let me leave the house, I threw a temper tantrum about how unfair this was. (By the way, this happened when I was 18...) Within 10 minutes, I had exhausted myself and fell asleep for a good 14 hours straight.
The next few days were a muddled jumble of atypical sleeping patterns, and the beginnings of the realization that I was maybe, just maybe, still feeling the effects of the drugs. On the fourth day, I got up in the morning, joined my mum in the living room for breakfast, and noticed the blanket from the office.
Me: Oh, how do you like our new blanket? It's so comfy! I took it from the surgeon's...
Mum: I know.
Me: Well yeah, once we got home I'm sure it was obvious. But what a job by me to get it out unnoticed, eh? It was down my pants, but no one could even tell!
Mum: I think you're remembering this wrong.
Me: Wh-what do you mean?
Mum: You shoved it into your pants, but only half of it. The rest of the blanket was hanging out the front of your pants really clearly.
Me: ... But... They didn't say anything.
Mum: Ty, it was down your pants. I don't think they wanted it back at that point. They were staring at you as we were leaving and I apologized to the front desk as we left, but they didn't say anything.
So I'm not quite as stealthy as I thought I was, but hey, I got a blanket out of it. I'll chalk that one up as a win for me, thank you very much.
**Also, if the receptionist who had to field my call ever reads this, please accept my sincere apology for you having to deal with me.
It's not because of some holier-than-thou reason where I think I'm a better person for not using painkillers. That's stupid. (Someone once interpreted an offhand comment of mine about painkillers in this manner.) It's because they don't work for me.
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| I just skip to step two... |
Please note that I said "for me"; I don't think there's some conspiracy from the pharmaceutical corporations in which they are feeding the public placebos (Another person assumed I meant this... I need to choose my words more carefully when discussing this apparently). Believe me, I know that painkillers do their job. I remember vacationing in England with my mum and sister and having Mum stop in at every Boots we passed to buy codeine, and it did its job well. Also, please note that my mum is not a drug addict (that I know of), she had a messed up disk in her back; the codeine was the only thing keeping her capable of standing upright. When I take painkillers, one of two things happen. In scenario A actually, nothing happens. Absolutely no effect felt, which leaves me at square 1, with an aching [insert body part here]. Hell, maybe those just happen to be the placebo pills and there is a big conspiracy. Probably not though.
In scenario B, the pain becomes admittedly duller, but more throbbing, which makes me more aware of the pain at every moment, and focusing on the throbbing makes my mind more conscious of the fact that wow, I'm actually in quite a bit of pain here. Also, in this scenario, I think I'm entirely lucid, but am likely not. I once played a basketball game on, well I'm actually not sure what it was; my coach gave it to me before the game because I was feverish and achy from being sick. The point is, I was a mess.
No, for me to benefit from the intended effects of painkillers, they have to be much more potent. Local anesthetic potent. And then I just get stupid.
Apparently it runs in the family; my sister was rather loopy after having her wisdom teeth removed as well. She was on a soccer retreat several days later and was still feeling the effects. Her coach found her scouring the kitchen at 3 A.M. "looking for salt". I, of course, was determined to show no ill effects after my surgery, just to spite her. Also, I had been invited to go see a movie that afternoon with friends...
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| If you ever invite anyone somewhere and their answer is "I'm having my wisdom teeth out that morning, but I can probably come", that means no. |
Me: Yeah, how long will this take?
Surgeon: Around an hour, maybe 90 minutes. (This is what I'm assuming; I don't actually remember what he said.)
Me: (Mentally calculating how long that left me before the movie would be starting) Okay, cool. Let's get this going then.
The next thing I remember was waking up, still pretty groggy, and with no glasses on. I am BLIND without glasses or contacts. I heard the surgical assistant say "Oh good, you're up. I'll go grab your mum so she can take you home." As I began to make sense of my surroundings, I noted that my mouth felt fine; a little less mobile than my jaw normally is, but certainly not in pain. Ha, take that Sophie!
I also noted that the blanket they had covered me with was ridiculously soft and cozy. I didn't want to ever take it off. Looking around the room with blurry vision, I realized I was the only person in the room. So I grabbed the blanket and stuffed it into my pants.
A few adjustments later, and it was all even. In fact, I was rather proud of my handiwork. I mean, it didn't even look as if my crotch was stuffed with fleece, which it totally was.
I put on my best poker face (made difficult by the fact that my cheeks made me look like a chipmunk) and walked out alongside my mum.
We made it out to the car, blanket intact, where I promptly fell asleep.
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| I will see your $20, and raise you one crotch-blanket. |
I awoke to discover that I was drooling blood onto the arm of our couch. Yum! I was napping under the blanket from the surgeon's office! A little bit of bleeding wasn't going to stop me. Besides, my dual naps had done me good.
Me: Mum, I'm going to a movie at 4 with Maria and Ruth.
Mum: No you're not.
Me: Yes I am! I'm fine. A liddle slurry, sure, but dat's normal when de dentist freezes your mouf (bear in mind I couldn't pronounce things properly)
Mum: ............................... No.
I proceeded to elaborate quite eloquently to my mum exactly why I was fine and would be going to see a movie that afternoon. When I finished, I was certain that my logic had swayed her.
Mum: No chance. You're supposed to be under supervision for 24 hours. That means rest.
Me: I'd be wif friends, it's not like I'd be unsupervised.
By this point, Mum's face was a mixture of exasperation, amusement, and suppressing murderous frustration.
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| "If I kill him, can I make it look like he just drowned in his own blood-drool?" |
Me: But if he said I could? Like, if I phoned them right now and asked, and they said okay, then I could go, right? I'm gonna phone them.
My mum just shook her head in disbelief as I took out my phone and dialed the oral surgeon's office. A receptionist picked up after a couple rings, and I, with the utmost confidence, began to explain my situation. The call was on speaker-phone because my mum wanted to hear this for herself.
Me: Hi, this is Tyler. You just took my teeth out. I was wondering, can I go to a movie? (*I should note that I consider having spoken those sentences entirely seriously is something I am unreasonably proud of*)
Receptionist: ........I'm sorry, what?
Me: My friends are seeing a movie in a bit, can I go with them? I feel totally fine.
Receptionist: Um, well you need to be under supervision since you're still very dru-
Me: Supervision won't be a problem, I'm going with friends. They can supervise me.
Receptionist: Well, we really don't recommend you go anywhere. And they'd have to supervise you everywhere, even the bathroom.
This was a wrinkle I had not foreseen. Both Maria and Ruth are girls, and I suspect they would be hesitant at best if a drugged up guy asked them to help him pee. I hope so at least.
Me: (thinking on the fly) No worries, I'll just hold it if I have to go.
Receptionist: Um............ It would probably be best if you didn't go.
Me: But that's not a blanket "No", right?
Receptionist: Well, Sir, we aren't able to force you to do anyth-
Me: Cool, thank you, bye!
I hung up the phone, beaming with pride. I say beaming, but that's relative when you can't move your face. I was beaming with my eyes though. Like an Andalite would.
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| Animorphs reference! |
The next few days were a muddled jumble of atypical sleeping patterns, and the beginnings of the realization that I was maybe, just maybe, still feeling the effects of the drugs. On the fourth day, I got up in the morning, joined my mum in the living room for breakfast, and noticed the blanket from the office.
Me: Oh, how do you like our new blanket? It's so comfy! I took it from the surgeon's...
Mum: I know.
Me: Well yeah, once we got home I'm sure it was obvious. But what a job by me to get it out unnoticed, eh? It was down my pants, but no one could even tell!
Mum: I think you're remembering this wrong.
Me: Wh-what do you mean?
Mum: You shoved it into your pants, but only half of it. The rest of the blanket was hanging out the front of your pants really clearly.
 |
| Pictured: Stealth. |
Mum: Ty, it was down your pants. I don't think they wanted it back at that point. They were staring at you as we were leaving and I apologized to the front desk as we left, but they didn't say anything.
So I'm not quite as stealthy as I thought I was, but hey, I got a blanket out of it. I'll chalk that one up as a win for me, thank you very much.
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| Tyler: 1, Oral Surgeons: 0 |
Reading break is anything but
Happy days are here again! DAVIDsTEA's location on fourth ave is open again! Yes, this is actually very exciting news for me, as their tea is my personal indulgence and it was rather difficult to justify going from my house to Oakride mall just for tea. I'm not saying it was impossible, because I made that trip at least 5 times over the past month, but still, you know, more of a hassle than walking a block.
It reopened the weekend that my reading break ended, and while I was there getting tea and saying hello to several familiar faces, I realized just how antisocial I had been over my reading break. The first couple days went exactly as planned: do my readings for linguistics, write blog posts, pamper self with extra sleep. Then all of a sudden I realized that excluding when I had to be at work, during the nine days I had off (both weekends included) there were 4 days where the only time I left the house was to go to the gym.
Somewhere during that week, my mindset went full-hermit mode. I pretty much stopped doing whatever other homework I had planned on doing, stopped socializing, stopped, well, pretty much everything. I was so anti-social that I couldn't even sit down and write a blog post, and that's not even something that's technically social.
Not only that, but the week off has thrown my whole schedule out of whack. My sleeping pattern's off, and my motivation to do my homework right when I get back from school needs to be built back up. Ugh...
Anyhow, this isn't really a proper blog entry, it's more of me acknowledging my hermit-ness in writing so that I can motivate myself to return to my pre-reading week self. I'm sure that going to school with a nice hot cup of Nepal Black Tea tomorrow will only help. Also, tomorrow I will post an entry that, ecluded couple photos, has been finished for nearly a week. See, I was so unmotivated that I couldn't even hit the 'Publish' button all week... I will leave you with a photo of Cee Lo Green and his cat:
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| The 'A' is Oakridge; the green dot is my house and the blue dot is where DAVIDsTEA is... |
Somewhere during that week, my mindset went full-hermit mode. I pretty much stopped doing whatever other homework I had planned on doing, stopped socializing, stopped, well, pretty much everything. I was so anti-social that I couldn't even sit down and write a blog post, and that's not even something that's technically social.
Not only that, but the week off has thrown my whole schedule out of whack. My sleeping pattern's off, and my motivation to do my homework right when I get back from school needs to be built back up. Ugh...
Anyhow, this isn't really a proper blog entry, it's more of me acknowledging my hermit-ness in writing so that I can motivate myself to return to my pre-reading week self. I'm sure that going to school with a nice hot cup of Nepal Black Tea tomorrow will only help. Also, tomorrow I will post an entry that, ecluded couple photos, has been finished for nearly a week. See, I was so unmotivated that I couldn't even hit the 'Publish' button all week... I will leave you with a photo of Cee Lo Green and his cat:
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| If you read all the way through this rambling, you deserve to see this picture. |
Tuesday 14 February 2012
What Is Love?
Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more....
I'm sorry, but it's impossible to read or say that without the song coming to mind. Anyway, Happy Valentine's Day to you if you're into that, Happy Pity Party Day if that's your bag (really, though?), and Happy Tuesday to everyone.
If you've somehow managed to blank on what day is, and are currently panicking about what to get for your special someone, well done, you've managed to forget one of 3 days you must remember when in a relationship (Valentine's Day, their birthday, your anniversary). You're probably rushing around trying to scrape together dinner plans and a gift, so I appreciate you taking time out of that to read this, I really do. To thank you, I will give you a gift suggestion he/she will love: my custom tattoo sleeves. As a special Valentine's Day promotion, they will come included with your name on the inside of the right arm so your significant other can pretend to have an immortalized poor decision. It's the perfect gift.
Back to the question in the title though, and it's a tricky question. I love lots of things - Doctor Who, bacon, basketball, tea, etc. and I certainly have love for many people, but not in the way this day stands for. I absolutely love my parents, my sister, and several of my friends, but sorry guys, don't expect a card. As for love-love, I've only been in love once, so I'm drawing from a quite limited reference pool. I wouldn't even be able to define what "falling in love" means; for me, all of a sudden I just realized that I was indeed in love.
The tricky thing about love though, is what defines "being in love"? I'm not going to pretend to have the answer to that; after a near-2-and-a-half year relationship, I'm not proud to say that, in all honesty, I don't think I was still in love with my ex near to the end (although she does now fall into the aforementioned several friends for whom I have love category, so there's that.). All I know is that it's a wonderful thing to have, so if you're in a loving relationship right now, take a moment to think of just how wonderful your significant other really is; don't take them for granted.
A few things that pop to mind when I think of Valentine's Day:
So again, Happy Valentine's Day. I for one will be working, and then coming home to the series premiere of Cougar Town, which is, in my opinion, pretty much perfection. On a side note, I want Laurie from Cougar Town to be my Valentine.
I'm sorry, but it's impossible to read or say that without the song coming to mind. Anyway, Happy Valentine's Day to you if you're into that, Happy Pity Party Day if that's your bag (really, though?), and Happy Tuesday to everyone.
If you've somehow managed to blank on what day is, and are currently panicking about what to get for your special someone, well done, you've managed to forget one of 3 days you must remember when in a relationship (Valentine's Day, their birthday, your anniversary). You're probably rushing around trying to scrape together dinner plans and a gift, so I appreciate you taking time out of that to read this, I really do. To thank you, I will give you a gift suggestion he/she will love: my custom tattoo sleeves. As a special Valentine's Day promotion, they will come included with your name on the inside of the right arm so your significant other can pretend to have an immortalized poor decision. It's the perfect gift.
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| Unless your name is Brad, in which case, this will do. But you should probably get her chocolates too. And a teddy. And a nice dinner. Basically I'm saying that this isn't a very good gift. |
Back to the question in the title though, and it's a tricky question. I love lots of things - Doctor Who, bacon, basketball, tea, etc. and I certainly have love for many people, but not in the way this day stands for. I absolutely love my parents, my sister, and several of my friends, but sorry guys, don't expect a card. As for love-love, I've only been in love once, so I'm drawing from a quite limited reference pool. I wouldn't even be able to define what "falling in love" means; for me, all of a sudden I just realized that I was indeed in love.
The tricky thing about love though, is what defines "being in love"? I'm not going to pretend to have the answer to that; after a near-2-and-a-half year relationship, I'm not proud to say that, in all honesty, I don't think I was still in love with my ex near to the end (although she does now fall into the aforementioned several friends for whom I have love category, so there's that.). All I know is that it's a wonderful thing to have, so if you're in a loving relationship right now, take a moment to think of just how wonderful your significant other really is; don't take them for granted.
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| I don't have a real reason to include this photo, I just like it. |
A few things that pop to mind when I think of Valentine's Day:
- I don't believe in the idea of soul-mates; I find it extremely cynical. Think about how depressing it really is to imagine that there's only one 'right' person for everyone. In all probability you would never meet them. I also find that people use the "they just weren't the one" excuse far too often. It's not that they weren't your soul-mate, it's either that it didn't work out, or you're in all likelihood an idiot.
- Valentine's Day was my anniversary with my ex back when we were dating. I wish I could say that I had ingeniously planned this so as to cut down from 3 super-special days to two (if her birthday had been February 14th, it would have been perfect), but the reality is that our first "date" was at a Canucks game. But, the take-home message here guys is that you can cut down on those special days if you want a shortcut; just make sure that it's extra special.
- I must give a shout out to Alexandre Bilodeau every year on Valentine's Day. Two years ago today he delivered Canada it's first Olympic gold medal on home soil. Merci M. Bilodeau!
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| Just makin' sure it's real; I'm gonna sell this on Ebay. |
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| She seems excited about it. |
Sunday 12 February 2012
Competitive peekaboo
I was playing peekaboo with the little guy in the stroller in my work today (and winning too... I think; what's the scoring system for peekaboo?), when one of my co-workers asked "So when are you going to have one Ty?" The answer is no time soon. It's a very definite answer. But the thing is, the one thing I know I want in life is to one day be a father. There are lots of things I've wanted; that I think I want now; that I know I want now; that I think I will want when I'm older, but the only constant thing I've known about what I want out of life is that I want to be a father.
Every so often I get very anxious about fatherhood, because when I look around at my circle of friends and acquiatences, of the ones who I know have been abused, either physically or mentally, neglected, or just downright treated like shit, in the vast majority of cases, it's the father who's been the abusive one. Really, only one friend pops to mind where it's the mother, and even then, it's the friend's stepmother, and if I've learned anything from Disney movies, it's that stepmothers are supposed to be evil. Oh, and racism; Disney is good at teaching that as well.
I know that it's ignorant to assume that hardly anybody in my circle of friends have abusive mothers, and especially ignorant to assume I am aware of all of the abuse present within these parent-child dynamics. I'm not assuming these things, believe me. But sometimes, I think of these things, and then seriously start worrying about whether I'll be a good father.
I'm fortunate to be able to say that both of my parents have been wonderful to both my sister and I. Certainly not perfect, they both have their annoyances and on occasion irk me (but as parents, that's pretty much their job), but I've never for one second doubted their love and devotion to the two of us. I also realize it's a bit silly to worry about these things at a time when I don't want kids. Who knows how I will have changed by the time I'm ready to have kids (twin girls, and then a boy by the way)? There's no sense worrying about it now, but I still do.
Writing about this is helping to take my mind off of something that I shouldn't even really be thinking about, which is nice. Reading Kat Von D's "The Tattoo Chronicles" is a nice distraction as well.
The piece in the center of Kai's back is my favourite in the book so far (It's Kai's only soccer-related tattoo. The text translates to "Believe".) Gosh I would love to get a Kat Von D piece; I haven't the foggiest idea what could do her work justice though. It would have to be something intricate, and I'd want her to take lots of artistic license with it. Hell, maybe when I do have kids, I'll look into a piece for them; there's something to consider.
 |
| All those results, but no helpful scoring system. If you have any ideas on a scoring system, write them in the comments; we can set up a pro league! |
Every so often I get very anxious about fatherhood, because when I look around at my circle of friends and acquiatences, of the ones who I know have been abused, either physically or mentally, neglected, or just downright treated like shit, in the vast majority of cases, it's the father who's been the abusive one. Really, only one friend pops to mind where it's the mother, and even then, it's the friend's stepmother, and if I've learned anything from Disney movies, it's that stepmothers are supposed to be evil. Oh, and racism; Disney is good at teaching that as well.
I know that it's ignorant to assume that hardly anybody in my circle of friends have abusive mothers, and especially ignorant to assume I am aware of all of the abuse present within these parent-child dynamics. I'm not assuming these things, believe me. But sometimes, I think of these things, and then seriously start worrying about whether I'll be a good father.
I'm fortunate to be able to say that both of my parents have been wonderful to both my sister and I. Certainly not perfect, they both have their annoyances and on occasion irk me (but as parents, that's pretty much their job), but I've never for one second doubted their love and devotion to the two of us. I also realize it's a bit silly to worry about these things at a time when I don't want kids. Who knows how I will have changed by the time I'm ready to have kids (twin girls, and then a boy by the way)? There's no sense worrying about it now, but I still do.
Writing about this is helping to take my mind off of something that I shouldn't even really be thinking about, which is nice. Reading Kat Von D's "The Tattoo Chronicles" is a nice distraction as well.
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| On the left is Nikki Sixx; the right is Natasha Kai. |
Saturday 11 February 2012
How many Elvis songs could be stored on a floppy disk?
I always find it a bit surreal when I think of the childhoods of the next couple of generations. I mean, my genreation was pretty much the last one where computers were still becoming a staple in every household. My family didn't get a home computer until I was 10 or 11. Before then, the only exposure to computers I had was either at friends' houses, or at school.
In grade 4, we did a little bit of toying around with Microsoft Word, to help familiarize us with how it worked, I guess because the VSB decided that this Internet thing would be here to stay. You could tell I wasn't all that familiar with computers because I found entertainment in the antics of Clippy on Word 95.
He could turn into a bicycle, use his sheet of paper as a slide, and generally do anything except be useful. I realize this now. But to my 9 year old self, it was riveting.
When we got a computer, my whole family got obsessed with Bounce Out. Flash games were such a mind-blowing concept to me at the time, but imagine a 9 year old being transfixed by that game 20 years from now; probably not going to happen.
For the rest of elementary school, when we needed to bring something in to print at school, we would bring in floppy disks. This is probably the part of the inevitable generation gap that I find the strangest: the floppy disk. It was short-lived, and would have no relevance in my mind whatsoever if it hadn't been universally adopted as the "Save" icon.
Kids 20 years from now will universally accept that the image of the floppy disk means "Save" without ever being aware of why. I find that weird. Load up Word right now, glance over at the "Save" button, and try to imagine that you have no frame of reference for what it depicts. Kids will just assume that the purple-ish square means save.
The fact that I was already 11 when we got a computer was the major reason I've never really gotten the hang of email. It was still new enough that it wasn't something I needed in order to function, and I had gotten along fine to that point, so I didn't know if it was something I should want or not. I registered a Yahoo! account, but rarely used it. Even now, I am terrible at getting into the habit of checking my email and responding when necessary. I must say, since I got a phone that alerts me when I receive an email, I've gotten a bit better, but even now, I likely will just glance at what the email is and then ignore it.
Because of this, my inbox ends up overloaded with entirely useless emails, which I leave there until the number of unread emails threatens to reach quadruple digits. At that point, I go through and delete what I don't need (almost all of it). What I end up left with is various schoolwork, records of my paychecks, and right now, a folder with the entire Animorphs series so that I can re-read it, which I am stoked about.
I just got through one of these virtual cleanses, and while doing so, came across something that made me lament my lackadaisical email checking:
How can I have missed Elvis Impersonator tickets?! Oh man, the things I miss out on because I don't checks often enough. That was the Groupon offer from late November; I only noticed it mid-February. While writing the beginning of this post, I all of a sudden realized something. For the generation before mine, when computers and YouTube weren't everyday things, Elvis impersonators were pretty much the closest you could come to seeing Elvis perform. The generational gaps rear their ugly heads. I figure that when I have kids, I will either explain floppy disks with a throwaway line just so they understand the "Save" icon, or I will spin an elaborate lie to convince them that floppy disks were the most important things ever at the time; everyone carried around a case with several disks at all times; there were special "trading card"-type disks which kids would swap for their collections; really, just a huge lie, just to fuck with their heads so that they think that society was completely moronic.
In grade 4, we did a little bit of toying around with Microsoft Word, to help familiarize us with how it worked, I guess because the VSB decided that this Internet thing would be here to stay. You could tell I wasn't all that familiar with computers because I found entertainment in the antics of Clippy on Word 95.
 |
When we got a computer, my whole family got obsessed with Bounce Out. Flash games were such a mind-blowing concept to me at the time, but imagine a 9 year old being transfixed by that game 20 years from now; probably not going to happen.
For the rest of elementary school, when we needed to bring something in to print at school, we would bring in floppy disks. This is probably the part of the inevitable generation gap that I find the strangest: the floppy disk. It was short-lived, and would have no relevance in my mind whatsoever if it hadn't been universally adopted as the "Save" icon.
 |
| "What do you mean it only holds 1.44 MB? That's like 10 minutes of music." |
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| "Where's the touch screen?" |
Because of this, my inbox ends up overloaded with entirely useless emails, which I leave there until the number of unread emails threatens to reach quadruple digits. At that point, I go through and delete what I don't need (almost all of it). What I end up left with is various schoolwork, records of my paychecks, and right now, a folder with the entire Animorphs series so that I can re-read it, which I am stoked about.
I just got through one of these virtual cleanses, and while doing so, came across something that made me lament my lackadaisical email checking:
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| The one above that, entitled :O, is the Animorphs email. |
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| Oh, that's an unfortunate photo... |
Sunday 5 February 2012
Journal Entry #3
Last week's journal entry went a bit off topic from the class discussions, but really, I don't want to write about Milgram's experiment for the dozenth time. The article we read tangentially mentioned Adolf Eichmann, and, you know what, if you bother reading the journal, it explains it:
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As always, if you leave feedback, I'll let you pick three topics which I will figure out a way to interconnect into a (hopefully) coherent post. Enjoy the Superbowl, if that's your thing. If it isn't enjoy drinking and snacking while pretending to watch football.
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I found it difficult to get excited about writing on Milgram or Zimbardo; the topics aren’t exactly new to me. That’s not to say that I don’t think they’re important to talk about, I just couldn’t muster the ability to write on these from an angle that was new to me.
Reading through Milgram’s article though, one line jumped out at me: “You can call yourself Eichmann”. What a terrible thing for a spouse to say to his or her partner; it sounds like an outright condemnation. Not only that, but I can’t imagine that anyone would be remotely pleased about this comparison. What I mean by this is that for every person to commit terrible dictatorial acts (Hitler, Bin Laden, George W. Bush etc.), there is a fringe minority that secretly (or in some cases, publicly) wishes to draw comparisons between themselves and their perverse deity. But I can’t fathom that any Anti-Semites would want to embody Eichmann. He was too bureaucratic in his evil; hiding behind the “I was only following orders” bullshit that allows ‘The Banality of Evil’ – as writer Hannah Arendt describes it – to exist. When I think about Eichmann, the only question I can ask is “Why?” Following orders is an insufficient response, and it leaves me wondering “why?” This is the most intriguing, important, and ultimately frustrating question in tragic situations.
I’m no expert on Eichmann, and I won’t pretend to be for the purpose of this paper. Rather, I’m going to examine another incident that leaves me asking “Why?” on a daily basis.
I enjoy watching professional wrestling. I don’t tell many people this; not because I find it something to be ashamed of, but because the moment one is told this, one invariably passes some sort of judgement. As I said, I don’t feel the need to defend this pleasure; certainly no more so than someone who watches Survivor needs to defend that. I mention that I enjoy watching pro wrestling only because it explains why I was watching it on June 25th, 2007, and why I was impacted by the news I learned that day.
When I turned the TV on to watch wrestling on June 25th, the arena was empty and the owner of the company was in the middle of the ring. This was striking for several reasons which I won’t outline here, but it broke established storyline. What was announced next genuinely tore my heart apart: “Chris Benoit, his wife Nancy, and their son Daniel have been found dead in their home. It appears that they were murdered last night.”
My horror fueled interest as I sought out all the details. A few days later, it was determined that Chris had murdered his wife and son, before killing himself. Yes, Benoit, a man whom I admired for his wrestling abilities and for whom I had cried tears of grief just days before, had smothered his 7 year old son; had literally felt his son’s life leave his body, leaving me asking only “Why?”
The common consensus now, years later, is that Benoit had sustained severe brain damage over the course of a career that saw him take regular bumps to the skull. An analysis of his brain showed levels of dementia congruent with an 80 year old Alzheimer’s victim. Benoit was 40 years old at the time. Prior to this explanation, it was believed that he was suffering roid-rage, leading to the tragedy. For no extended period of time was the notion that Chris was psychotic or intrinsically evil sustained. Make no mistake, there is no debate as to whether he committed an evil act – he killed his family for Christ’s sake! - , but no one has tried to explain away his actions by labelling him evil. To hear his peers talk about their memories of Chris, to listen to the way in which they cherish his memory (except the last one) and the difficulty they have comprehending his actions, it becomes clear that the act of labelling someone evil is merely an act of avoidance. Like Eichmann, like the Abu Grahib situation, like Benoit, tagging a person as evil is just our way of ignoring the most difficult question: Why?
Even the fact that Chris had severe brain damage doesn’t touch on the Why. It makes a stab at the question “How could he have justified this?”, but does little to address why. Seeing as Chris killed himself too before anyone discovered the bodies, the question cannot ever be answered. What could have compelled a man who so many people loved like a brother, to murder his wife and son? It’s such a troubling issue because it cannot be known. There is a perverse, somewhat cynical conclusion as to the question of why, that I think can be applied to situations like Eichmann’s as well: There is no answer to the question “why?” which means that it isn’t outside the realm of possibility to occur again.
June 25th, 2007 was the day the seeds of cynicism were planted in my head. But although this anecdote seems bleak, know that those seeds remain just that. All around us are indications that these instances –Benoit and Eichmann – are the exceptions, not the rule. Look at the disgust that these acts were met with. And then, ask of that disgust “Why?” I think you’ll find an incredibly tangible answer.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As always, if you leave feedback, I'll let you pick three topics which I will figure out a way to interconnect into a (hopefully) coherent post. Enjoy the Superbowl, if that's your thing. If it isn't enjoy drinking and snacking while pretending to watch football.
Drinking and bad jokes
Well, I have an answer to a question I didn't realize needed answering. What ratio of sleep to work, factoring in drinking can I have, and still function? Until Thursday, I hadn't even been drunk in this calendar year; not as a result of trying not to drink, the situation just didn't come up.
Thursday was one of my friends' birthdays, but as he had a midterm on Friday, he wasn't celebrating until the weekend. It was also the birthday of one of my former co-worker's sister, and I went out to dinner with them and several other co-workers. This will be nice, I thought to myself walking up there, I'll have dinner, watch the Canucks game, and catch up with people. Then people started ordering rounds of tequila...
That alone wasn't an issue, but our third round of those coincided with the Canucks scoring, to which I jokingly said "Look, when we drink, the Canucks score", which then implied to the rest of our group that we must drink often in the hopes of another goal. My theory was refuted somewhat by the Canucks losing... But oh well.
A rather expensive bill later, and the remaining 5 of us were now at a crossroad: to continue or to go home. The birthday girl wanted to go downtown, so that's what we did, me, birthday girl and her sister, and two co-workers.
For anyone unfamiliar with the notion of dancing, I will say only that it requires some level of motor control. So the fact that the birthday girl had all but passed out during the cab ride from Broadway to Downtown was somewhat problematic. Another cab ride later, and we were putting her to bed at one of my co-workers' places. After several check-ups to make sure she was doing well, her sister decided that going dancing was still the plan. At this point, it was 1 in the morning, and cold outside, meaning that we were going to the nearest place that was open and would serve us booze, preferably with no cover. Enter The Junction.
Apparently, I'm quite the catch in gay bars; I was getting hit on with abandon (although it could have just been that they were drunk). It makes me feel bad that I'm not gay, like I've inadvertently leading the guys who were trying to hit on me on. (The end of that sentence looks weird grammatically...)
Anyhow, we slept at my co-worker's apartment, because wow walking home in the cold would suck. Also, did you guys know that 7 A.M. can be nice? I didn't. I had previously thought of 7 A.M. with nothing more than cold contempt, but when the sun is rising, the walk home over the bridge was actually both enjoyable and invigorating, two hours of sleep be damned.
A quick noon 'til 5 shift later, and I was free to relax. Until later that evening, that is. The plan for my friend's birthday was to meet at his house, then we would all migrate to a bar on Broadway after a while. At one point, I turned around in his apartment, and realized there were roughly 25 people squeezed into his basement suite.
Trying to find a bar that can just seat 25 people is about as problematic as one would assume. But thankfully, if there's one thing you can count on drunk people to do, it's to get lost. Most of our group vanished, and we ended up with 10 or so people. An important discovery was subsequently made: Appletinis and cosmos are de-fucking-licious! Seriously, like nectar-of-the-gods-good.
Also, I'd like to share with you, one of the birthday boy's self-made jokes. I warn you, it's bad, but in Alex's own words, "Yo, I've made up literally hundreds of jokes!"
What did the jokemaker's father say to his son?
You're a disappointment.
Alex told this joke multiple times, and I still don't think I get it. What's the punchline?? Is it that there's no joke, hence why it's a disapointment? But if that were the case, then shouldn't that be something the jokemaker says, seeing as he's a bad jokemaker, and not his father, who shouldn't be expected to invent jokes in the first place? And is "jokemaker" a viable career option (I assume this is different than comedian, or else Alex would have just said that), and if so, I feel as if I missed a golden opportunity in high school when we had to do transition plans. Somebody explain this joke to me, it's apparently too sophisticated for my sense of humour.
A luxurious 5 hours of sleep later, and it was time to work from 10-5. Yay! My body finally got fed up with me around 8 P.M., when I had finished watching the recording of the Canucks game (which we won, without even needing to take tequila shots!), leading to naptime. For some reason, I got a second wind of sorts at 10:30, and needed to do something to justify being awake on 7 hours of sleep in a weekend, so I began this post.
As I said, drinking had been an unknown concept to my body, but I think my liver was in a forgiving mood since I wasn't abusing it. This is a good agreement my liver and I have, I feel. Now, my body is beginning to wind down on its energy, so bed time is a blissful future for me.
Thursday was one of my friends' birthdays, but as he had a midterm on Friday, he wasn't celebrating until the weekend. It was also the birthday of one of my former co-worker's sister, and I went out to dinner with them and several other co-workers. This will be nice, I thought to myself walking up there, I'll have dinner, watch the Canucks game, and catch up with people. Then people started ordering rounds of tequila...
 |
| I have a picture on my phone I meant to use, but I'm too tired to go to the trouble of uploading it from my phone to the computer. Google Image to the rescue. |
That alone wasn't an issue, but our third round of those coincided with the Canucks scoring, to which I jokingly said "Look, when we drink, the Canucks score", which then implied to the rest of our group that we must drink often in the hopes of another goal. My theory was refuted somewhat by the Canucks losing... But oh well.
A rather expensive bill later, and the remaining 5 of us were now at a crossroad: to continue or to go home. The birthday girl wanted to go downtown, so that's what we did, me, birthday girl and her sister, and two co-workers.
For anyone unfamiliar with the notion of dancing, I will say only that it requires some level of motor control. So the fact that the birthday girl had all but passed out during the cab ride from Broadway to Downtown was somewhat problematic. Another cab ride later, and we were putting her to bed at one of my co-workers' places. After several check-ups to make sure she was doing well, her sister decided that going dancing was still the plan. At this point, it was 1 in the morning, and cold outside, meaning that we were going to the nearest place that was open and would serve us booze, preferably with no cover. Enter The Junction.
Apparently, I'm quite the catch in gay bars; I was getting hit on with abandon (although it could have just been that they were drunk). It makes me feel bad that I'm not gay, like I've inadvertently leading the guys who were trying to hit on me on. (The end of that sentence looks weird grammatically...)
Anyhow, we slept at my co-worker's apartment, because wow walking home in the cold would suck. Also, did you guys know that 7 A.M. can be nice? I didn't. I had previously thought of 7 A.M. with nothing more than cold contempt, but when the sun is rising, the walk home over the bridge was actually both enjoyable and invigorating, two hours of sleep be damned.
A quick noon 'til 5 shift later, and I was free to relax. Until later that evening, that is. The plan for my friend's birthday was to meet at his house, then we would all migrate to a bar on Broadway after a while. At one point, I turned around in his apartment, and realized there were roughly 25 people squeezed into his basement suite.
 |
| Like this, except apartments in Vancouver are smaller than that. |
Also, I'd like to share with you, one of the birthday boy's self-made jokes. I warn you, it's bad, but in Alex's own words, "Yo, I've made up literally hundreds of jokes!"
What did the jokemaker's father say to his son?
You're a disappointment.
Alex told this joke multiple times, and I still don't think I get it. What's the punchline?? Is it that there's no joke, hence why it's a disapointment? But if that were the case, then shouldn't that be something the jokemaker says, seeing as he's a bad jokemaker, and not his father, who shouldn't be expected to invent jokes in the first place? And is "jokemaker" a viable career option (I assume this is different than comedian, or else Alex would have just said that), and if so, I feel as if I missed a golden opportunity in high school when we had to do transition plans. Somebody explain this joke to me, it's apparently too sophisticated for my sense of humour.
A luxurious 5 hours of sleep later, and it was time to work from 10-5. Yay! My body finally got fed up with me around 8 P.M., when I had finished watching the recording of the Canucks game (which we won, without even needing to take tequila shots!), leading to naptime. For some reason, I got a second wind of sorts at 10:30, and needed to do something to justify being awake on 7 hours of sleep in a weekend, so I began this post.
As I said, drinking had been an unknown concept to my body, but I think my liver was in a forgiving mood since I wasn't abusing it. This is a good agreement my liver and I have, I feel. Now, my body is beginning to wind down on its energy, so bed time is a blissful future for me.
Wednesday 1 February 2012
I hate Joe Thornton
The working title for my last entry about hockey was "I hate Joe Thornton". I changed it because as I began writing, the direction of the piece changed entirely from what I had set out to write. I was at last night's game against Chicago, and it made me want to try to write it again. So, with an angle related to the Blackhawks as well, here's why I hate Joe Thornton. (If you aren't the least bit interested in hockey, this might be a good post to just skim over, or skip entirely. I apologize.)
First, understand that I don't hate Thornton because he plays for a team the Canucks have met in the playoffs. That's the reason that I hate the majority of the Blackhawks players, but for Thornton, playing for San Jose is inconsequential. No, the reason I hate Thornton is because I feel as if I should be able to adore him.
The man stands 6'4'' and weighs 235 lbs. and is strong enough on the puck that he can shield away any defenders, while he sets up one of his finesse passes to a teammate. Him being Canadian isn't imperative by any means, but it's a bonus. Because of his style of play on the puck, he was able to absolutely dominate the league in assists for a couple of seasons, amassing 92 in 2006-07. As someone who played competitive basketball and idolizes Steve Nash's style of play, I should absolutely love this type of hockey player (amazing passer). And I do. But not Joe; never Joe.
For all his dominance in the regular season, Joe Thornton invariably struggled once the playoffs came around. The media jumped all over him, proclaiming that he didn't have the drive that it takes to win the big games; that when the lights were bright, he wasn't. Here's the thing: I agree with the media, but think it's unfair that Thornton shoulders the blame. I believe, rather, that the San Jose Sharks collectively lack what it takes to win big games. Joe is a part of it, but can sometimes be blamed too much.
That all changed this past year. There I was, watching the first couple rounds of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, quietly stewing in my loathing of a player that I can never like, and he was producing. For once, Joe Thornton wasn't disappearing during the playoffs. The media applauded this, saying this could be the year the Sharks take that step forward; the year that Thornton claims his place among the truly elite. I didn't buy it. Not for a second. And I am so satisfied that it was the Canucks who had the privilege to expose it.
Let me take you back to May. The Canucks and Sharks are playing in the Western Conference Final. On the line, a trip to play for the Stanley Cup. Game 1 began, and the Sharks had the benefit of a couple early power-plays, and one horrendous Luongo giveaway, resulting in a Joe Thornton goal. Things were looking pretty good for the Sharks; the Canucks weren't pushing back, making it tough. I sat resolutely on my couch, knowing that it was only a matter of time. (I say "knowing", but I suppose "hoping" is a more accurate term; I knew that as long as the Canucks pushed back even remotely, then they'd be fine.)
The third period rolled around, with the Sharks holding a one-goal advantage. In my opinion, these are the games you prove you're an elite player. When you either need to fend off a comeback, or close a game out, you look to the elite players to do so; not just the super-skilled, but the hyper-competitive guys who just won't take losing as an option. If you're only familiar with the Vancouver Canucks, I would point you to Ryan Kesler against the Nashville Predators.
As the Canucks began to make a push, all of a sudden, Joe Thornton vanished. Their whole top line, which had been dominating the game up until that point, all of a sudden crumbled. When you're 235 pounds, nothing should be able to muscle you off the puck, but Joe Thornton doesn't abide by those rules.
Ultimately, the Canucks beat the Sharks in 5 games, and my hatred for Thornton remains intact. I realized last night that I hate the Blackhawks' Toews for the exact oposite reason.
Toews isn't a big guy, but the man plays such a ferocious, disciplined, skilled style of hockey that it doesn't matter. Toews truly is an elite player. But I still hate him. I hate Thornton because I want to be able to like him, whereas I hate Toews despite wanting to like him. He's dead to me by virtue of playing for Chicago, it's the unwritten rule of Vancouver hockey fandom. Put Toews on any other team and he'd be one of my favourite players. But because I know and accept that Chicago has an elite player like Toews, I am required to hate him.
First, understand that I don't hate Thornton because he plays for a team the Canucks have met in the playoffs. That's the reason that I hate the majority of the Blackhawks players, but for Thornton, playing for San Jose is inconsequential. No, the reason I hate Thornton is because I feel as if I should be able to adore him.
The man stands 6'4'' and weighs 235 lbs. and is strong enough on the puck that he can shield away any defenders, while he sets up one of his finesse passes to a teammate. Him being Canadian isn't imperative by any means, but it's a bonus. Because of his style of play on the puck, he was able to absolutely dominate the league in assists for a couple of seasons, amassing 92 in 2006-07. As someone who played competitive basketball and idolizes Steve Nash's style of play, I should absolutely love this type of hockey player (amazing passer). And I do. But not Joe; never Joe.
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| Seriously; no one should be able to take the puck from him. |
For all his dominance in the regular season, Joe Thornton invariably struggled once the playoffs came around. The media jumped all over him, proclaiming that he didn't have the drive that it takes to win the big games; that when the lights were bright, he wasn't. Here's the thing: I agree with the media, but think it's unfair that Thornton shoulders the blame. I believe, rather, that the San Jose Sharks collectively lack what it takes to win big games. Joe is a part of it, but can sometimes be blamed too much.
 |
| This was their top line at the time; one decent player, one who fades under pressure, and the absolute laziest player in the league. |
That all changed this past year. There I was, watching the first couple rounds of the Stanley Cup Playoffs, quietly stewing in my loathing of a player that I can never like, and he was producing. For once, Joe Thornton wasn't disappearing during the playoffs. The media applauded this, saying this could be the year the Sharks take that step forward; the year that Thornton claims his place among the truly elite. I didn't buy it. Not for a second. And I am so satisfied that it was the Canucks who had the privilege to expose it.
Let me take you back to May. The Canucks and Sharks are playing in the Western Conference Final. On the line, a trip to play for the Stanley Cup. Game 1 began, and the Sharks had the benefit of a couple early power-plays, and one horrendous Luongo giveaway, resulting in a Joe Thornton goal. Things were looking pretty good for the Sharks; the Canucks weren't pushing back, making it tough. I sat resolutely on my couch, knowing that it was only a matter of time. (I say "knowing", but I suppose "hoping" is a more accurate term; I knew that as long as the Canucks pushed back even remotely, then they'd be fine.)
The third period rolled around, with the Sharks holding a one-goal advantage. In my opinion, these are the games you prove you're an elite player. When you either need to fend off a comeback, or close a game out, you look to the elite players to do so; not just the super-skilled, but the hyper-competitive guys who just won't take losing as an option. If you're only familiar with the Vancouver Canucks, I would point you to Ryan Kesler against the Nashville Predators.
As the Canucks began to make a push, all of a sudden, Joe Thornton vanished. Their whole top line, which had been dominating the game up until that point, all of a sudden crumbled. When you're 235 pounds, nothing should be able to muscle you off the puck, but Joe Thornton doesn't abide by those rules.
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| Can you spot Joe Thornton in this picture? Don't worry if it takes you a moment, you'll get it. |
Ultimately, the Canucks beat the Sharks in 5 games, and my hatred for Thornton remains intact. I realized last night that I hate the Blackhawks' Toews for the exact oposite reason.
Toews isn't a big guy, but the man plays such a ferocious, disciplined, skilled style of hockey that it doesn't matter. Toews truly is an elite player. But I still hate him. I hate Thornton because I want to be able to like him, whereas I hate Toews despite wanting to like him. He's dead to me by virtue of playing for Chicago, it's the unwritten rule of Vancouver hockey fandom. Put Toews on any other team and he'd be one of my favourite players. But because I know and accept that Chicago has an elite player like Toews, I am required to hate him.
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| Whooo, take that Blackhawks! |
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