Habby Birthday Dad!

He's not rabid! It's Habs playoff warpaint!

I tend to pick on my Mom a lot in this blog, but this time in honour of my Dad's birthday yesterday on May 29th, and what with his recent conversion back to Habs fandom after a solid season of hard work by yours truly, I thought I'd share a tale or two about my dear Papa.

His birthday is the day before mine, so we are both Geminis and now so is Da Nephew (June 4th) much to my mother and brother's chagrin. I don't know about others born under the sign of the twins but I do know that in my family us Geminis tend to damn the torpedos, so to speak.

Back when my parents still had two young children and we were living in Newfoundland things were a whole lot different.Christmas celebrations would last for a full two weeks of drinking or more, and it was not uncommon to go to bed drunk, wake up, walk "up road" to the docks and begin the morning by starting all over again.

At one time Port-aux-Basques did not have the handy dandy roads branching out to every little tiny island that surrounds the town, and it was standard procedure to take a boat across "the gut" as it was called, to visit a friend and taste his stash of homemade brew. One night my father and uncle decided to do just that, only they did not have a boat.

Faced with such a dilemma they did what any drunken would-be sailors would do. They stole one.

The dorey itself was a bit worse for wear. Newfoundland weather has always been harsh and this dorey had seen its fair share. While rowing across the small inlet both men noticed that the rickety wood had started seeping water, and soon the seeping became full scale flooding.

They made it across regardless, and as my Dad stepped out of the boat it succumbed to the sea, disappearing beneath the waves. The next morning my Mom got a call from an irate boat owner.

"He's not getting his damned rubbers back until he pays for that boat!" she hollered at Mom through the phone.

"Keep the rubbers," Mom told her. "I'm not paying for your stupid boat."

Dad & me at Bruins/Habs playoff game 3. Time of my life!

Yesterday I called my Dad. "Happy birthday!" I shouted into the phone at him.

"Oh thank you thank you," he replied. "I forgot all about it."

Today I spoke to him three more times about a non-birthday related matter. He finally called me back a fourth time.

"Happy birthday!" he shouted at me.

"It only took you four times before you remembered," I said, laughing my ass off.

"Hell yesterday I forgot my own birthday," he told me.

I actually do understand why though. It's golf season. I get like that when it's hockey season and the Habs are playing.

Fun With Dick (Bro) & Jane (Mom)

The "Boltmobile" as I like to call her.

Logo has been blurred to protect my secret identity.

I worked until five this morning and then got roused from a solid sleep by Bro who called shortly before nine to make arrangements to accompany me to the garage.

My truck needs work done to pass safety inspection, and my usual mechanic was kindly offering me a rental in the meantime since it’s going to be Monday or Tuesday before I get my own wheels back.

I pried my eyelids open and collected him and a coffee at Timmy Ho’s. We dropped off the car and picked up the keys to the rental.

“Which one is it?” I asked the guy behind the counter, and knew I was in for a treat when I heard his reply.

“The one with the lightning bolts on it.”

Bro took one look and started in with the commentary, something which was to ensue for the better part of the day.

“What a hunk of junk. It’s got GARBAGE in the back!”

In all fairness it did not have garbage in the back. What it did have were plastic green lids to two garbage cans in the back.

Bro wrestled Da Nephew’s car seat into the backseat and I climbed into the passenger side, since my sleep quota is sadly lacking again this week and I wasn’t yet awake enough to drive, despite the caffeine.

“This car is hardly a good rolling advertisement for car maintenance,” he observed. It was a massive understatement.

The garage’s logo, complete with lightning bolts, and slogans and phone numbers covered the station wagon’s white exterior on all sides, but even if we could get past the gaudiness of the car – and we couldn’t – it was still horrifying to behold.

The front windshield was cracked almost completely across just below the wipers, and the interior was filthy and reeked of cigar smoke. Ashes and dirt appeared to cake every surface, and was swirled throughout the interior and onto us because we needed to keep the windows down in order to breathe.

“I’m embarrassed,” declared Bro as he pulled out of the lot. “I’m gonna have to duck down at traffic lights.”

I laughed because he was dead serious and I was feeling pretty much the same way. “Hopefully no one we know will see us.”

We hit the Bedford Highway and Bro started bitching. “This car is uncomfortable.”

“Don’t I know it,” I said, trying and failing to not actually touch anything. I had running around to do and didn’t want to have to shower every time I got in or out of the vehicle.

“The armrest is uncomfortable and the center console is too high.” We hit a traffic light and he ducked down lest someone see him driving The Boltmobile.

“This thing is held together by the dirt,” I realized. “It’s Dad’s hat!”

Dad used to have a crazy looking, favorite and supposedly lucky hat. When he used to win at darts his opponents would snatch it off his head and stomp it into the floor in frustration.

After two decades of smoky bars, bad weather and no care whatsoever, my Mom could no longer bear its sight or smell and threw it into the washing machine. With all the grime removed, the hat completely disintegrated and Dad has never really forgiven her for it.

“Adhesive filth,” Bro agreed. “We’d best not wash the car.”

“We need gas,” I told him.

Bro raced for the next light, lest he be shamed into stopping where people could see him again. “I’m going. I don’t care if we get hit.”

He whipped up around the corner and we started up Flamingo, a long, steep hill. “This is a Rolls Can Hardly.”

I don’t know who came up with that expression but it was appropriate. This car rolled down one hill but can hardly get up the next one. Compared to my zippy 6 cylinder truck riding this thing brings back longings for horse and buggy days.

We finally reached the gas bar and when Bro tried to yank the key from the ignition he found another thing to critique.

“Even the damned key is backwards! This car makes no sense!”

He climbed out to pump the gas and when I exited to pay he was bitching about the rust.

“What rust?”

“When you remove the gas cap there’s rust everywhere. Enough to fill the tank with it! Is that a car part?” he asked, peering into the cargo area.

“I’m sure it’s not a car part,” I said, coming over to have a look. “It’s a car part.”

“Must have fallen off and they threw it in the back.”

I paid the $20 for the gas and came out to find him shaking his head as he sat behind the wheel.

“Listen,” he said, preparing to shift into gear. “I’m going to hit the brakes.”

He applied pressure and the brakes groaned loudly in protest. We were laughing in horror by then. He cranked the wheel to the right and it let out a shriek for good measure.

“Don’t tell Mom about this,” I warned him, since we were headed home to pick her up prior to running our errands.

“Oh no. We’ll share the joy,” promised Bro.

We parked at the house and headed into the building.

“What the hell are you wearing? A gold lame coat? What are you? Solid gold dancer?”

It's LEATHER damnit! Not lame!

“It’s LEATHER!” I told him indignantly.

We collected Mom, and the stresses of the past two days combined with lack of sleep were clearly getting to her on the elevator ride down.

“I want to sit home and drink and watch the hockey game tonight.”

“I could use a drink myself,” declared Bro. “A few actually.”

“Yes we’ve earned that this week for sure,” said Mom.

“You have no idea,” said Bro.

I resisted the urge to poke him in the ribs, and he handed her the car keys so she could drive. We stepped outside into the morning sun and Mom finally spotted The Boltmobile parked in our usual spot.

“Screw that!” she said, and threw the car keys away.

Bro scooped them up and we laughed at Mom’s revolted reaction to our temporary ride.

“I wouldn’t have even taken it!” she snapped. “It stinks in here of cigar smoke.”

“But we have this cute coconut scented pine-tree-shaped air freshener!” replied Bro. “That ought to help.”

We ran our errands and I finally decided that enough was enough. It was my turn to drive and I was no longer keen on the novelty.

“I’m over the entertainment value of this car. Maybe we should get a real rental.”

“When’s our truck going to be ready?” asked Mom. “We need to know how many days to rent a car for.”

“I dunno. Call the garage.”

“What’s the number?”

“It’s painted on the side,” said Bro as I pulled onto the highway to head downtown. “Everyone stick your heads out the window.”

While he and Mom tried to crane their necks to find the phone number I watched the speedometer struggle to reach minimum safe cruising speed on the highway.

“This may have not been the way to go,” I warned them. “I’m not sure this car can do 100.”

Other, better, bigger and less interesting vehicles blew past us and we finally reached the exit we wanted, only to get held up at a light.

“Get out and look for the number,” I said, and to the amusement of other drivers Bro did just that, reading the phone number off the side of the car.

By the time Mom called the garage we were all laughing like idiots, along with anyone else who had been caught at the light with us. Between guffaws Mom managed to find out that my truck will be ready hopefully by Monday, and Tuesday at the latest.

“What did he say when you were laughing?” Bro wanted to know. “Did he laugh too?”

“No,” replied Mom. “I don’t think he liked it very much actually.”

“HE doesn’t like it?” asked Bro incredulously.

We walked into the car rental store only to find out that (a) the girl behind the counter has a sick sense of humor and (b) there are no available rentals and a waiting list of 38 people ahead of us.

“I like it,” she said, when I pointed out the Boltmobile to her and cited it as the reason I wanted something else. “I’d totally drive it.”

But alas she was unable to offer me an alternative and left with no option we headed for the mall in our rolling eyesore. Bro finally got into the spirit of the whole thing, waving and saying hello to pedestrians from his open window.

“Go to (insert name of garage here)”, I said, shouting alongside him.

“Stop it!” snapped Mom, and she was laughing but unable to control us.

“He should be paying us to drive around in this,” replied Bro.

“It’s free,” answered Mom. “He’s not charging us for this rental.”

“Like I said, he should be paying.”

We hit the mall and each went our separate ways.

After stopping for coffee Bro found me at the checkout in the bookstore.

“There you are. No trouble to find you with that gold lame coat.”

The salesgirl started giggling.

“Oh please don’t encourage him,” I begged her. “He’s been at it all day.”

Meanwhile Mom had dropped off some paperwork regarding her pension only to be insulted by the receptionist behind the desk.

“Did you fill out your name and social insurance number?” she asked.

Mom resisted the temptation to reply “Duh” and slap her upside the head. “Of course I did.”

The girl opened the sealed envelope to check for herself. “So you did. Good stuff.”

“Did she think you were senile or what?” I asked when Mom told me this later.

“I don’t know. But I want to cry. I just want to sit and drink and cry.”

Apparently Bro will join her, and they will watch the Bolts and Bruins game until the wee hours. Alas I cannot join them. I go to work at midnight and work until eight in the morning.

“We’ll be going to yard sales in this tomorrow,” Mom told me after we had dropped Bro off at his house. “You’ll be driving.”

But tomorrow night I’ll be drinking. A lot.

Gay Habs Gay

This is the free Merriam-Webster's online definition of the word "gay" when used as an adjective:

1. a. Happily excited. Merry. (ex. in a gay mood) b. Keenly alive and exuberant. Having or inducing high spirits. (ex. a bird's gay spring song).

2. a. Bright. Lively. (ex. a gay sunny meadow) b. Brilliant in colour.

3. a. Given to social pleasures. also Licentious.

4. a. Homosexual (ex. gay men) b. of, relating to, or used by homosexuals (ex. the gay rights movement)

I really think there ought to be a fifth definition for this word. 

5. a. A socially unacceptable homophobic slur typically used for purposes of bullying, especially but not exclusively, within the anonymity of cyberspace. (ex. Habs are gay, their fans are gay, Montreal is gay)

Not so very long ago I was totally surprised - and not in a good way - by the hate levelled at PK Subban by a rival fanbase simply because of his skin colour. Fool me once, but not again. I'm no longer so naive when it comes to twitter, facebook and the internet.

I suppose a lot of my original naivety came courtesy of the parents who raised me and the example they set. I have gay friends, gay co-workers, gay family members. And my father spent two decades in a senior position with the Canadian Human Rights Commission.

I have to wonder if the people who are so quick to bash Francophone Canadians online would be so quick to call a co-worker as gay to his or her face, particularly if that co-worker was a Habs fan. Would that bully be so cavalier with using gay as a negative public adjective, especially directed towards a friend or a relative? Somehow I doubt it.

There are laws in the country designed to protect the rights of citizens regardless of race, religion or sexuality. These were and in many ways still are hard fought battles to better society. Yet the reality remains that even over a decade into the new millennium such bigotry still exists.

Why is that? Have we really not evolved beyond this already? Do so many really only pretend not to think this way anymore, merely subscribe to the social pressure to be "politically correct"?

And what is it about cyberspace that compels people to behave in a manner they would not dare to dream of offline? Is it the sad and sometimes mistaken belief they will not get caught or feel any repercussions?

A lot of people who socialize regularly online - such as myself - tend to do so with a variety of people. Many of my family and co-workers and offline friends read my blogs, not just the online buddies I've been blessed with. Not all are Habs fans - I have twitter and facebook friends I chat with daily who cannot abide the Canadiens, and some I talk to don't give a hoot about sports, but even so they'll usually pause to read the hockey or golf related ones.

If nothing else, they usually like to check what kind of mood I'm in before they call and hit me up for money or to see if I can score tickets or if I've got the bar re-stocked yet. ;)

A general rule of thumb I like to follow when I blog or tweet: I don't type anything I'm not prepared to live with. Since that's how I roll offline too, what you get with me online is pretty much the same thing.

I can get emotional, and I can rant and rave with the best of them, but there are lines I do not cross even ensconced safely behind my keyboard. For one thing, I just don't think that way.

But more importantly, even if I did think that way (and once again - I don't), it would reflect badly not only on myself, but on my parents, on my heritage, on my culture, on my fellow sports fans, and even on my society and species as a whole. I am blessed with having two distinct heritages: my father's French Canadian side, and my mother's Anglophone Newfoundland side. I would never tarnish either by making any feelings of bigotry so public.

It's OK to hate the Habs. Lord knows I work with enough Leafs and Bruins and Sens fans and they sure as hell hate the Habs with some kind of unholy passion, no doubt born out of some incredible wrong the Canadiens have apparently perpetrated upon each and every single one of them. For my part I hate the Leafs and Bruins and Sens mostly because they are not the Habs and that's really all the reason I need.

I may call the Leafs the "Laffs" and the Bruins "thugs" and mock Marchand's nose, and I may smack talk my unfortunate relatives who boggle my mind by continually cheering for the Sens, but I would never call their players some of the racist, homophobic slurs I get constantly bombarded with on my twitter feed. I would never categorize the residents of an entire city simply based on its affiliation with an NHL team, let alone belittle its unique heritage and culture.

Words are powerful tools, for good and for bad. What I fail to comprehend is the desire to use it for maliciousness, and the propensity to do so where it will forevermore be tied to YOUR twitter account, YOUR email address, YOUR facebook profile, for all the world - including employers, family, friends, acquaintances, for the team you claim to support, and its players - to witness.

Who am I to judge? I'm a member of the human race, and right now these idiots are shaming it, and on behalf of my entire species I would appreciate it if they would stop already with the bigotry, ignorance and homophobia.

Whether I should or shouldn't I cannot help but take that sort of nonsense as a personal affront.

Am I gay?

Well if you are going solely by definitions number 1 and 2 listed above, then the answer is an unrepentant yes. I'll plead "no contest" to definition number 3, and regarding definitions 4 and 5 the answer is no.

But Merriam-Webster and I agree: I'm gay. I'm a gay Habs fan. You wanna make something of it?

Friday Morning Pre-Rapture Musings

Happy H**s fans unaware they will get gouged next season.

I'd type "Habs" but I fear copyright infringement. Oh wait, I just typed it. Well I guess they'll have to sue me then.

Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. Fining the Montreal restaurant owner who was merely cheering on his team at the behest of his kids is truly low class, even for a Gary Bettman-run NHL.

What can we call the Habs instead? The CH? The Montreal Money Mongers or 3M? Cause somehow that totally works for me, especially in light of the 22% increase in already over-priced tickets. I only go once or twice a year, so I'll probably still shell out for tickets.

On the other hand a visit to the Rangers would also allow me to finally see New York, or else I could head down to Tampa and do my Guy Boucher lusting in person. I resent being gouged because I'm loyal. What happened to rewarding your fans instead of squeezing out every last cent?

I do like the signing of Alexei Yemelin. I've decided to call him Yems after a character in a book I liked called "All Creatures Great and Small". The lead character, a vet named James, was called "Jems" repeatedly by a farmer who always had a pipe clenched between his teeth. I figure when I get mad at Yemelin and my teeth are clenched (sans pipe) it's probably going to sound very similar. Also, as I've stated repeatedly in the past, I'm a lazy typist.

So apparently today is The Rapture aka The End of The World As We Know It (but I'm exhausted from this night shift so not feeling so fine).

How typical of Gary Bettman and his timing to dangle the return of the Winnipeg Jets or Manitoba Moose or whatever they're going to be called right in front of Canada just a day or so before. How's that for timing?

Hey, anything I can use to kick this guy down is sufficient reason in itself for a blog post, but as per usual I've got a few thoughts on the whole thing anyway.

For the Atlanta Thrashers diehard fans - and jokes aside they do have some good loyal ones - this is a massive blow and I sympathize. Remember the Jets? The Nordiques? The Whalers? And yes, the Flames.

I'm happy that Canada may get a 7th NHL franchise, but feel sorry for the fans who fought for their team. I do hope the Winnipeg fans will be just as loyal as some of the fine Thrashers fans I've encountered online. And congrats Winnipeg (I'm assuming this deal is pretty much a given).

OK I hate the whole Moose thing. Halifax has a team called the Mooseheads, and while I cannot comment on their play (I've only ever been to a couple of games over the course of half a decade), I can comment on their logo which is ugly. See for yourself.

The Manitoba Moose logo is not any better, except the moose there looks mostly psychotic which instills me with scorn not fear. I suppose that's something at least. An example is here.

Moose are not attractive animals and frankly the only way I like them is barbecued. They look like an awkward cross between a cow and a horse, only they're tastier than both (I'm guessing here cause I've never eaten horse). Seriously this is a fashion disaster waiting to happen.

Who wants to wear ugly Moose jerseys? Even a lot of Newfoundlanders wouldn't be caught dead in moose-gear, or at least I'd kill them dead (particularly relatives) if they did wear moose-gear in public.

It's all moot I suppose if we're dead in the next few hours. I just hope not to be going wherever Bettman is headed.

My sympathies also go out to the Slave Lake area residents, a lot of whom lost their homes when the town was gutted by fire. I used to live and work there in a hotel that is suddenly no longer standing.

I won't pretend I care about the hotel itself or a particular manager who got away with more than he should have, but I do think it sucks to lose your home and your job in one fell swoop. Momma Nature can be unkind sometimes.

Speaking of which, after nearly 6 weeks straight of rain and gray overcast skies that went from light gray to dark gray, the sun shone for two and a half days in Halifax. Everyone at home, work, in the stores and on the streets started acting less bitchy and more their normal, friendly, Maritime selves. Depressing is not a good enough word to describe the mood of practically everyone I encountered during this dreary Spring.

I am hoping the sun will make more regular appearances now. I cannot go golfing when the greens are so saturated, as I find it hard to tread water and swing my driver at the same time. I can barely swing it properly on dry land as it is.

 And so my loyal readers, the end is near as I'm dead on my feet and about to shuffle off to the individual spring coils of my pillow-top mattress. Until we meet again I bid you thanks and adieu.

Habs Hockey Heaven & Bolts - Bruins

So once again because of this stupid schedule I worked until Saturday morning and at 8 am Mom picked me up so we could cruise the yard sales. Because of the incessant Halifax rain (over 5 weeks and counting) I've forgotten what the sun looks like. It didn't come out yesterday morning, but it did hold off long enough for us to grab a few treasures.

Chief among them was an antique chair for $10. It needs refinishing and upholstery, but it IS an antique and matches quite well with the Ponderosa style furniture I have in my bedroom.

Last night was the first time in awhile Mom and I sat down to watch a game together, and of course we had little choice. We caught the Bruins and Bolts going at it, and as usual I was unimpressed with Boston. This is a talented team that reverts to Thugs On Ice when they lose.

It's totally predictable, repulsive and needless. Horton and Lucic were the culprits, with Horton throwing a punch at Dominic Moore and Lurch clocking Hedman. In real life when they get frustrated, is their first instinct to throw a haymaker too? I have to wonder sometimes. I don't mind a legitimate fight. I do mind bullying, even on the ice.

And if PK Subban ever shows such little maturity and frustration as Brad Marchand did, smashing his stick to pieces in frustration on the bench, will CBC call that being engaged in the game too? My two year old nephew proved more of an adult when he got frustrated with his toy truck, walked away from it, then asked for help and came back to it later. How pathetic is that?

I don't get how Boston is continually lauded for this stuff by hockey writers the world over, but if Montreal does it then it shows how juvenile and classless we are. What I truly find galling is that CBC - a Canadian publicly funded network - is so full of Boston homers that nothing the Bruins ever do is wrong or inexcusable in their eyes.

Meanwhile Subban is an affront to the sport. Yeah, go soak your heads and I'm talking to you Millbury, Healy and the "I'm not a homer" Grapes, who blamed the refs for costing Boston last's night game. Cause the 3 goal deficit was all on the zebras I guess.

This is why I prefer twitter. More insightful commentary, even from the so-called "homers". While I'm on the subject of twitter, I do tend to ignore a lot of trolls that like to engage me mostly because they seriously lack for originality. Why is an original thought too much to ask? People, at least show some creativity, and if you don't follow the Habs don't even think about trying to educate me about my fave team.

Today I crawled out of bed after finally sleeping, something I didn't do the day before, and Mom wants to go to the flea market. The week before we had spotted a Saku Koivu Canadiens game jersey, complete with certificate of authenticity, for $100. We just didn't have the money at the time.

I figured it would be gone this weekend but we went anyway, supposedly in search of some books and a new coat for my grandmother, who is particular beyond belief about what she will wear. We struck out on the books and coat, but the jersey was still there.

Of course, I had to have it. And I just got paid on Thursday.

"Can't believe it's still here," says Mom, but you have to remember that Halifax is largely comprised of Pens and Leafs fans more than Habs fans, and in order to sell this sweater the dealer had to run across a rabid Habs fan walking around a flea market first thing Sunday morning sporting a wad of cash.

Enter yours truly.

He wouldn't come down on the price and it's hard to blame him. It's a beautiful sweater, never worn with the tags still on and in mint condition so it's really a steal if you ask me. It's a game jersey with the tie downs and everything, and after doing a quick internet check I confirmed the sweater is legit. I forked over the dough.

"It's a good deal," he told me. "I sold the Jose Theodore one for $200 and I've got a Marc-Andre Fleury one for $250 I'm going to try to sell next." He's thinning out his collection. He has quite a lot of nice stuff, including a Bobby Orr autographed photo. He's also got collector plates he's offloading for $20 a pop, well worth the price.

But it's the sweater that was the best piece and now I have a Habs jersey finally. Of course I'm never ever wearing it. We got it home and realized there was a dilemma. How were we going to display it? Prices for cases peg near the $300 mark, and there's just no way I'm dropping that for a case.

Bro did an internet search and got advice from a guy who converted an old bookshelf to house his memorabilia. So we did the same. I just need to get some glass to front the sweater this week and it's all set!

Naturally this necessitated an entire re-arrangement of the Shrine, but now that it's done I think the room and my collectibles look so much better. What do you think?

Left

Center

Right

Blame Someone Else For It Day

I went to breakfast with Mom after work yesterday and picked up a copy of an amusing little free handout that has horoscopes and cute little stories and random facts. It's called When Cows Fly and according to them today is the day you blame someone else for everything you've ever done wrong. All of your mistakes and faux pas can finally be dragged kicking and screaming into the cold light of day, and then laid at someone else's feet.

Here are the "rules":

1. Make a list of all the things you meant to do but forgot. Add the things you did poorly, or started but never finished.

For me personally that list is going to go on for a few years, so I'm just going to go ahead and lump most of it under I didn't do what I promised, say what I meant, and sometimes ran rampant with hypocrisy. Also I've started writing book after book and only ever finished one, which was not worth the time it took since this book truly sucked. I also didn't finish my university education or my law degree, and I tend to bounce careers out of boredom once I enjoy some success.

2. Find someone to blame for each thing on the list. Be sure to write everything down.

Well I'm just going to blame Brad Marchand his huge honking nose for all of it. It's totally distracting to look at, and if you get downwind when he sneezes then it gets pretty difficult to recover from that.

3. Tell everyone who asks the name of the person you have decided to blame for everything. Make sure to repeat this several times, to ensure that everyone is able to remember the scapegoat.

Well I'm writing a blog post here for everyone to see for all eternity, so it's pretty public but in case you have the attention span of a gnat or a hyperactive 2 year old, my scapegoat of choice is Brad Marchand. Notice the nose?

4. Be careful, as everything you blame on someone else may come back to haunt you later. After all, if you can blame someone else, so can they. It is best to blame someone who is your equal or who is somehow inferior to you. Best of all is some anonymous entity, such as Big Government, Terrorists, or Politicians.

Brad Marchand does haunt me, in my dreams. I have nightmares of being blown away after he sneezes. I pray he never becomes a Hab, because then when he inhales sharply there go Gionta and Cammalleri.

Marchand wishes his nose was this small!

I think it's safe to say that Marchand is inferior to me. I have a cute, pert, upturned nose and don't have to drag around the human equivalent of an elephant trunk.

Also, he's a Bruins so that's 2 strikes against him right there, and I'm a Habs fan so that's 2 points in my favour. Also, this is MY blog!

I'd blame the government or terrorists or politicians, but they pretty much take it from me for everything else and I'm trying to be honest with this post here so I have to stick with Marchand. I'll just have to be brave and risk that he may, in fact, sneeze in my general direction while I'm watching him play in the Halifax Metro Center in September.

5. Once Blame Someone Else Day passes, it's all your fault again. Use this day wisely.

Oh I am. Mom can spend the day yelling at Marchand for a change. By the time she's through he should be looking a lot like Rudolph and I'm not talking Valentino baby. I'm talking reindeer!

Edit: My brother @HfxHabby and I have started a FB group for trading hockey cards. If you want to join, here's the link: Hockey Card Trades. Just send a request and we'll hook you up. This is NOT for dealers or people looking to sell or make a profit. It's for fans who want to trade just like we did when we were kids!

Shiny Habby People Holding Hands

Watching Les Boys at the Centre Bell is always a thrill!

I've had a few random thoughts running around in my head lately regarding the Habs and the world of hockey in general, despite the fact that my fave team has been bounced from the playoffs. As per usual since it's my blog I'm inclined to share when this happens.

1 - I like that despite the first round exit a great many Habs fans, while disappointed, are largely optimistic about the team. While we wait to see how the defense corps will be shaped, it has not escaped notice that for the want of a single bounce this team could still have made the 2nd round despite being down its two best defensemen and its only power forward. Key pieces are in place, and Gauthier seems savvy enough behind the wheel so far. With a solid youth core and some proven but still young veterans, this team needs only to stay healthy to start contending regularly again, and for the first time in a long time I'm finally feeling more confidence as opposed to mere blind faith.

2 - I don't get Bruins fans. Rather than enjoy their team's success, far too many of them spend more time on twitter trolling Habs fans and provoking hate tweets. I can promise that if the situation were reversed I wouldn't be sparing the Bruins or their fans a second thought right now. I'd be more worried about my team as it prepares to take on Tampa Bay who have proved to be formidable opponents this year, and are led by an insightful and strategically sound coach.

3 - Not helping the whole "fuel on the fire" thing between Habs and Bruins fans is the reporters squaring off regarding the concussion suffered by Boston Bruin Patrice Bergeron. A Bruins reporter talks about how Bergeron's legitimate concussion makes it "harder to stomaCH fakers". Habs pundits are citing the old "what goes around comes around". Both teams have had players suffer concussions this year, and to use schoolyard nyah nyah nyah nose thumbing only helps distract from the real issue here which is that the league itself refuses to fix a correctable problem. Please, can we all grow up - journalists and fans alike - and just agree something needs to be done regardless of player or fan affiliation?

Mom with a colourful, kind and patient Habs fan.

4 - Also regardless of fanbase I always see twitter posts that run something along the lines of "if you are a true Habs fan" or "Pens fan" or "Caps fan" or "insert-your-team-of-choice fan" then blah blah blah. I did a rant about this on @cokeaddict's post about fan complacency and it bears repeating. If you're cheering a team on, you're a fan. That's it. There's no other criteria required to be a "true fan" IMO. If someone wants to call me a fake fan or a bandwagonner or whatever then my response to that is sayonara and quit bothering me while I'm over here talking to other "fake fans" who also didn't get your memo thoughtfully outlining for us what we should think, say, feel or do in order to meet your exalted standards on being a fan. Thanks anyway though.

5 - I was critical of Scott Gomez all season, and since he just came off a career worst ever I don't think I was unduly harsh. That said the 2010-2011 version of mine and your Montreal Canadiens is over and done with and therefore the slate is wiped clean with me. I tend to look at it this way: he cannot possibly do worse next season. He just can't. And anyone who thinks Gauthier will bury him in the minors might want to lay off the ganja man.

6 - I've never rooted for the Philadelphia Flyers before and I truly intend to never do it again. Truthfully whoever won that tilt - be it them or the Bruins - I was never going to be happy. Why Holmgren deludes himself about that team's goaltending situation is not something I pretend to understand. It's a great pity really because the window to be a true contender - which the Flyers are - is so painfully small in the cap era and Holmgren keeps slamming it shut and nailing it closed. With the heavy depth of talent on that team he can easily drop a few lesser pieces and shell out for a solid starter.

7 - IIHF hockey is a lot more interesting to me than the current Cup playoffs. I root for Vancouver first, because I'm a Canadian hockey gal, and I root for Tampa Bay 2nd because it's almost like Montreal-lite given all the ex-Habs linked to that club, but the truth is I don't really care and have no real emotional investment in which team wins Lord Stanley's prize this year. That said, I'd almost rather have the damned thing melted down than see the Bruins win it. Almost. After over three decades of being a Habs fan, that reaction is pretty much Pavlovian at this point.

8 - As much as I like the idea of Yemelin suiting up for the Habs blueline next season I think it's a long shot. I also like the idea of retaining both Markov and Wisniewski, but again that's probably a pipe dream. Gauthier will have to do some major number crunching to make that happen. Given the choice I'd probably go with Markov, but I'm not Gauthier and cannot predict beyond expecting Gorges and Gill to both be retained.

9 - I expect Pouliot is done with the Habs, and rightfully so since he took the last half of the season off and the playoffs too. It frosts me to no end because the difference between someone like Pouliot - who got all the breaks but has so very little between the ears and the heart - and Tom Pyatt who got the exact opposite - is complete and utter bullshit by the Hockey Gods. Talk about unfair.

10 - I think Andrei Kostitsyn is on the bubble, and I don't think that's all his fault either. He's the type of player that requires a solid chemistry with his centerman, and at the beginning of the season he had just that with Tomas Plekanec. Instead of leaving what was working alone Jacques Martin shuffled lines until way too late in the season in an effort to get Gomez going. The second line's ultimate solution was Max Pacioretty, but by then so much shuffling had gone on that a lot of things that had been working in the season had pretty much been overly tinkered with. If the Habs do retain Kostitsyn - and frankly I think he represents MUCH better scoring depth than Travis Moen or Mathieu Darche or Jeff Halpern as replacements for injured wingers - then I hope to God next season Martin puts him with a single centerman and leaves them together for the entirety. It's musical chairs, not musical hockey Jacques.

11 - If I had to pick who I'd want out of the possible UFA fowards coming to the Habs (and I'll do a post on this eventually citing why) my top choice would be Brooks Laich. I can see arguments for Ville Leino too, and there are a couple of others. Again it's going to come down to money and what kind of magic Gauthier can work, but it's not completely out of the realm of possibilities.

12 - Is it October yet? How about trades? How about draft prospects? No real Habs news is making me cranky and even more impatient than usual. It's looking like a long hard summer, far too long without my fave hockey team to obsess about.

13 - My co-worker and friend, a diehard Bruins fan, is a female player who once effectively shut down Hayley Wickenheiser. While she's happy her team is winning - and we get along fabulously and with great respect and civility while discussing our respective teams -  she made me laugh my ass off at work the other night by saying she couldn't stand "that little asshole" Brad Marchand who hails from Nova Scotia where we both currently reside. And we agree with Max Pac - he has a big schnoz.

Momma Mia

Mom in Montreal, rocking the Habs gear.

Sometime during her shift last night, one of Mom's coworkers finally remembered that today was her birthday.

"Shhhhhhhhh," replied Mom, who was content that everyone else had forgotten. "Don't tell anyone!"

Mom is usually the one organizing birthday fetes at work. She'll arrange a cake, soda, snacks, etc. whenever one of her buddies marks another one off the clock. Her big plan, since everyone forgot her birthday, was to march in today, hands on her hips, and ask indignantly, "Where's MY cake?" thereby getting her kicks by launching the entire plant into a massive guilt trip.

She made the mistake of sharing her brilliant scheme with me. When she was at the time clock waiting to swipe out, I hollered across the plant, "Happy birthday Mom!"

She managed to give me the old Evil Eye just as her coworkers fell upon her, giving her hugs and best wishes. "I hate you, Tyg," she cried back at me, leading one of her coworkers to suspect I was suddenly in hot water with my mother.

"I'm always in trouble," I shrugged. "In fact, I don't know what to do with myself when I'm not. It's just not normal."

The razzing of my mother apparently continued all the way out into the parking lot until she was able to make good her escape. When I called her a couple of hours later she answered the phone with, "You are in SUCH trouble!"

Gleneagle Bakery in Clayton Park is the BEST!

So today I bought her a couple of chocolate mousse mini-cakes in hopes of notching my life expectancy back up a bit. But even if that worked it won't for long, because in honor of my Mom's birthday I thought I would share a story with you about her.

It was the Christmas season of 1971, and my brother had only been born in November. I was barely a toddler myself, and we were snug in our beds in our tiny rented house in the Codroy Valley of Newfoundland, just outside of Channel-Port-aux-Basques where we were both born.

Mom was not snug in her bed. She was too furious to sleep. Livid, in fact, and when Mom gets mad and there's nothing she can do about it, she cleans.

Dad had gone off with a few of his buddies hours earlier, saying he wouldn't be long. With a newborn and a toddler to care for, and babysitters this time more rare than a reindeer sighting, Mom was unable to join him. Now it was the wee hours of the morning, and he had been gone a LONG time, and she had spit polished every nook and cranny of the house.

We were apparently running low on firewood for the wood burning stove, the house's main source of heat, but it was the dead of night and instead of fetching the wood Mom decided to wax the linoleum floor. Linoleum in itself tended back then to already be slippery, but for reasons I cannot fathom Mom used to hard wax the hell out of it, then polish it to a glossy shine all done while on her hands and knees.

My Mom as a child. What a cutie!

By three o'clock in the morning she was done, and Dad came home polluted drunk in a wagon being towed behind a snowmobile. He managed to make it to the doorway and Mom let loose, incensed at his thoughtlessness and drunkeness. Whatever he might have replied at her tirade was lost the minute his rubber overshoes hit the newly polished linoleum.

He went down flat on his back, feet in the air, and slid the entire length of the kitchen until he brought up solid against the wood stove. Had he not slid into the stove, Mom claims he'd have likely kept on going into the living room.

"You could have killed me!" Dad shouted at her while she doubled over helplessly in laughter. "What the hell is wrong with you? I could have been hurt!"

"You're not hurt!" Mom finally hollered back. "Get the hell out and get us some firewood from the shed before the kids freeze to death!"

Muttering and staggering, Dad hauled his wounded pride off to the woodshed. It took him a long time to return, and when he did he had only 3 or 4 pieces of wood with him, just enough to pass the remainder of the night. When Mom looked out into the yard the next morning, wood was strewn everywhere.

Apparently Dad would grab a couple of pieces, then stumble in the snow because he was so drunk. Still pissed about being almost killed and wanting only to go to bed to sleep it off, he would get mad about the whole thing, fling the wood away, then have to go back to the woodshed rather than face Mom again without the very thing she had sent him for. Why he just didn't pick up the pieces he had dropped I dunno.

So the moral of this story is don't cross my Mom unless you're me. Happy Birthday Mom! Love you!

Ding Dong The Witch is Dead

So Osama (not to be confused with Obama despite what Fox News typed) Bin Laden is dead.

I've seen twitter slow down to a crawl. I've seen it whip by at the speed of light. I've seen a lot of tweets, some good, some ugly.

As a Canadian I was still horrified when the Twin Towers fell. I was at work and in the middle of downtown Halifax the world still came to a stop because of what was happening in another country. This city took in a lot of stranded travellers as the USA's airspace became off limits. Bonds were formed.

I'm feeling conflicted. Death has never been a source of joy, and I hope it never does. But I feel relieved that a figurehead of evil and terrorism and all that is wrong with this world - hatred and intolerance - has been removed from the planet.

I don't know. Relief over a death is new for me. I'm pretty sure I don't like it, but how can I experience anything else?

I fear repercussions and not only for my American friends. Terrorism is an international disease. Bin Laden was a particularly acute case.

I feel relief he's gone. I feel happiness for my USA friends who are so rightfully joyous. I feel pride and secure in this wonderful free Canada I am blessed to live in. I feel teary-eyed for the widow on the flight who is being comforted by a plane full of strangers.

I'm laughing because even amongst all this, Habs fans on twitter manage to include their team in some of their tweets about the death of a terrorist. I think it's boggling that the Hey Hey Goodbye song and the Ole Ole Ole chant is being sung outside the White House.

We can all feel the roller coaster of emotions after 10 long years of a war on terror, a war that unfortunately will not end with this madman's death, regardless of where any lines are drawn on a stupid map.

It's not necessary to be an American to feel overwhelmed today. It's only necessary to be human.

Seething With Jealousy

I ordered a Larry Robinson sweater. He's my fave player.

The jersey came and Mom took one look and decided it was hers. I'd have had a problem with this, except the sweater is a mile too big for me. So it's her birthday gift, since her birthday is on Thursday.

Also received was my Bro's Maurice Richard sweater. The Rocket is HIS fave player of all time. Here's the photos of them in their new gear.

And today, to put the cherry on top of the whole thing Bro sends me a pic of Da Nephew in HIS new gear, which Bro bought at the Habs Zone store when we were at the Centre Bell for game 3 of the playoffs.

Is it just me, or do these colours really suit the kid? Am I just being biased here?

I'm truly happy for them. But I still don't have my own Habs jersey yet. *sniff*