The Annekenstein Monster

Anyone who saw the incident must agree that Todd Bertuzzi should be penalized for his actions. The question is, of course, to what extent.
Hockey is the toughest, most demanding team sport going. The challenge is this: how to let the game unfold in a competitive way without the rules getting too much in the way of the inherent physicality of the game?
Because it is such a tough, physical game, it’s expected that tempers will flair on occasion. There must be strict and stern policies in place to ensure that the players understand the penalties for violations out of the ordinary; for flairing tempers. I believe that the NHL has, over the last number of years to, failed to adhere to, and enforce, these policies in any meaningful way.
It comes down to the basic philosophy of officiating. I think it’s natural for the players to try to get away with whatever they’re allowed to get away with. Because the league is too worried about the repercussions of over-enforcing even the basic rules of the game, sticks have been getting perpetually higher, constantly hovering around opponent’s faces, forever hooking without getting penalized. Checking from behind that sometimes gets called, many times not.
If the most basic rules are being broken, unchallenged, then how in the world would the officials dare to enforce more flagrant fouls? I believe this is a mentality that has, subconsciously, entered into the game.
It all leads up to Todd Bertuzzi, on the losing end of a 9-2 game, losing his sense of reason momentarily and blind-side-sucker-punches the player who hurt his teammate a number of games ago. They both fall to the ice, others jump on, and it’s a free-for-all of mayhem.
Yes, it was premeditated. Yes, it was wrong, and yes, he should be penalized severely. I think he should be suspended for the rest of the season, including the playoffs. I think he should get the same charges brought against him as were brought against McSorley a couple of years ago. He should not get jail time.
I blame Bertuzzi for doing what he did. But I also blame the NHL for allowing a game-atmosphere to exist in which such an action can enter into the mind of one of its players and be acted upon without thought of penalty. If it’s a given before-hand that such an action would result in a year long suspension, the punch never would have happened.

Side note. I just watched the Bertuzzi apology on TSN. It’s pretty clear that the guy is pretty devastated at what he did. The worst thing about the press conference though, was whenever the teary-eyed Bertuzzi moved his hand to wipe away a tear, a thousand cameras clicked, looking for tomorrow’s newspaper photo. His hand goes down, silence from the cameras. Hand goes up to wipe his nose, a thousand clicking cameras. Hand down, silence. I found that sound to be sickeningly invasive, even in such a public forum as a press conference.

I’m really late to this party.
Nothing I say that hasn’t been said elsewhere, likely. Billy Crystal was lame. The awards were predictable (20 of 24 correct in defunct Matt’s Oscar pool). A few good moments in an otherwise pretty unforgettable evening.

The highlight for me, though, was when my wife said: “Johnny Depp reminds me of you”. That is a direct quote. I’ll not bore you with the specific context of the comment.

Today, I found some writing I had forgotten about.

Back in 2000, there was an internet entity called Island Edition, run, initially by Kirby Ferguson.

For a while, I contributed a regular feature called Ask Karo, which was a spoof on advice columns. Through the course of the feature’s run, and through the answers Karo gave to questions asked, the character of Karo developed into something of lecherous, self-important know-it-all who may or may have had dealings in Hungarian wrestling and/or bestiality porn businesses. It was fun to write.

Anyway, one of the questions was from a guy who had the winter blues, what could he do to snap out of it.

Karo suggested just to wait it out, and to express feelings through poetry. As an example, Karo offered the following (bad) poem he wrote regarding winter:

I offer it to you to help you get through the rest of this snowy winter.

Spring, Ye Be An Arm’s Length Away, Yet Ye Mock Me
Boomer calls for flurries here, and up north in Yellowknife.
I forecast continued despair in a sallow’d Wintertide life.
From 4pm ’til next day’s dawn, darkness engulfs the air
Yet the only thing on TV is Who Wants To Be A Millionaire…

Stuck on top this red-isle stone
Wind-chill’d ass, glass-ice blown
Not until those spring buds bloom
Shall I lose this glum and gloom.

It is not a big scar. In fact, it’s only, perhaps, a centimetre long. And it’s barely visible, unless the light hits it right.

This scar is on my left hand, on the tip of the finger that, if I held it up by itself, the action would be considered very rude.

When I was, I’m guessing, 15, a friend of mine and myself, neither of whom had much going on that summer day, found ourselves in my family’s garage, searching for self-amusement. There was a roll of paper towels. There was a pair of electric garden shears. And, we decided, there were paper dolls to be created.

Truth be told, it was I who decided that paper dolls must be created. My friend was quite content to watch.

So, pulling the first paper towel off the roll, I powered up the electric shears. (Reading that last sentence again, just now, I can see the folly and danger inherent in it. When I was 15, nothing was dangerous and everthing was folly, so what the hell.)

Being a free-form designer and cutter, I began to cut willy-nilly, daintily holding the paper towel in my left hand, ravenously cutting with the electric shears in my right. The middle finger of my left hand was relaxed, hidden behind the paper fabric, unaware of the shock and ow that was about to befall it.

The whirring blades met the skin on the tip of that finger; the paper towel floated indelicately to the concrete floor; the electric shears dropped to the garage counter, still whirring; and for a moment, the world moved in slow motion.

Except for my left hand, which, in real-time, I began to shake like a polaroid picture. Blood flew here and there. Tiny droplets landing on me, landing on my recoiling friend, landing everywhere within a 10 foot radius of my hand and finger, which I continued to shake as if trying to flick off a snot.

Shortly thereafter, common sense grabbed hold, I could see the wound was actually not too serious, and the paper towel doll was used as a compress to ease the blood flow to a stop.

But, as I say, the resulting scar is now barely visible.

The Accordian Guy has a post about some alternate names for The Passion of The Christ. I do like the Tarantino versions: Kill Jesus and Pulp Crucifixion, as well as the poster for the version of the movie starring Snoop Dogg, called The Pazzle of The Chrizzle.

With my title to this post, I tried to stick to a Mel Gibson themed title. Lethal Weepin’ isn’t so great, admittedly, even if you understand that everyone who sees the movie is supposed to cry. But it’s a beter Gibson-themed title than BraveChrist. Perhaps I should have chosen Robed Warrior?

By the way, does anyone else think that this movie might hurt the recent Pilates workout craze?

Have you got any alternate titles?
Just looking through some of the DVD’s hangin’ ’round my computer, and some other thoughts, here’s a few more:

From Merchant Ivory productions: A Cross With A View
From Spike Jonze: Being Jesus Christ
From Spielberg: Saving Private Christian, and The Emperor Strikes Back, and Jews!
From Oliver Stone: Born on the First of A.D.
From Orson Welles: Citizen Christ
From Robert Altman: C*H*R*I*S*T
From Frank Capra: Mr. Christ Goes To Juruselum

Yeah, yeah. Pretty lame.

I feel bad, friends, for not posting more than I have been lately, to this blog.

The truth is, I’ve been too busy to think. I know, I know. You’re thinking “but Rob, it doesn’t appear that any thought goes into your posts to begin with”.

At work, I and another guy do the work of 2.5 people, which sometimes during the year escalates to the work of three, done by two. Understand? So, there’s two of us. When one of us gets a cold or whatever, the other takes over the sickie’s duties for the day or two of that illness. This is tolerable. For a day or two. Busy but tolerable.

Well, for the past 2+ weeks, the other guy has been out due to an extended (extending) illness, leaving me, a man of 1, to do the work of 2.5, sometimes 3. Unsure of when he’ll return, the office has been asking me on a semi-regular basis if I need another to help out. So far, I’ve been getting by, by treating each day as one of those he’s-out-sick-today days (I’m just not acknowledging that it’s been 12 consecutive he’s-out-sick-today days.) So far, I’ve been managing to efficiently and effectively get the work of 2.5, sometimes 3, done by one. Some (most) days, though, it leaves me completely drained, intellectually. (the first 3 “Rob + drained + intellect” jokes receive a prize) As a result, the postings here have been sparse and few between.

Regular programming will resume when technical difficulties subside.

Please Stand By.

Still ravaged by a weekend flu, anything I say to anyone should be viewed qua a heavily-medicated man.

Another idea stolen from someone else’s LiveJournal. 20 interesting questions, and my answers of the moment:

1. Your favorite song with the name of a city in the title or text.
This is easy. It’s gotta be “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” by They Might Be Giants
2. A song you’ve listened to repeatedly when you were depressed at some point in your life.
“Birds and Ships” from Mermaid Avenue by Billy Bragg & Wilco (sung, I believe, by Natalie Merchant)
3. Ever bought an entire album just for one song and winded up disliking everything but that song? Gimme that song.
“Fight The Power” from “Fear of a Black Planet” by Public Enemy. Not that it’s a bad album, but I wasn’t even close to being ready for it when I got it.
4. A song whose lyrics you thought you knew in the past, but about which you later learned you were incorrect.
“Talk About The Passion” from Murmur by REM. It was about 3 months ago when I finally figured out it was “comme bien du temps” (at least that’s what I think it is now). I always just sang gibberish when I sang along. Of course, that’s what one did when singing to early mumbly-Stiped REM.
5. Your least favorite song on one of your favorite albums of all time.
Another easy one. “Yellow Submarine” from The Beatles’ Revolver
6. A song you like by someone you find physically unattractive or otherwise repellent.
“You Never Can Tell” by Chuck Berry. Not the most pleasant mug to gawk at. Plus, there’s all that video-taping-woman-using-the-toilet-in-his-restaurant stuff
7. Your favorite song that has expletives in it that’s not by Liz Phair.
“Fuck Her Gently” by Tenacious D
8. A song that sounds as if it’s by someone British but isn’t.
“Harry’s Wall” by Loudon Wainwright lll, not because he sounds British, but only because he states his address in the song. It’s a London address.
9. A song you like (possibly from your past) that took you forever to finally locate a copy of.
I can’t think of any songs that are now difficult to locate.
10. A song that reminds you of spring but doesn’t mention spring at all.
“Oblivious” by Aztec Camera. Light and crisp.
11. A song that sounds to you like being happy feels.
“Ranking Full Stop” by The Beat. Is there anything more fun than dancing with a group of people to a ska band?
12. Your favorite song from a non-soundtrack compilation album.
“I Love Paris” by Les Negresse Vertes from Red Hot + Blue: A Tribute to Cole Porter
13. A song from your past that would be considered politically incorrect now (and possibly was then).
Can’t recall any recorded song that would fit this description. However, there’s a version of “I’m a Little Teapot” that I ocassionally sing that’s not very correct.
14. A song sung by an overweight person.
Other than my version of “I’m a Little Teapot”? Hmm, I’d say “Move Your Feet” by Junior Senior. I believe Senior is overweight.
15. A song you actually like by an artist you otherwise hate.
“Nothing Compares 2 U” by Sinead O’Connor. It’s the only song I like by her. I don’t hate her, but this is as close as I can come, I guess.
16. A song by a band that features three or more female members.
“Those Memories Of You” by The Trio (Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, Linda Rondstat) Not really a band, but close enough.
17. One of the earliest songs that you can remember listening to.
“My Brother Paul” by Stompin’ Tom Connors
18. A song you’ve been mocked by friends for liking.
I’ve been mocked for having “Oh Sherrie” by Steve Perry in my music collection, even though I don’t like him/it. It’s there for my wife. I swear.
19. A really good cover version you think no one else has heard.
Cracker performing a countryfied version of “White Riot” by The Clash
20. A song that has helped cheer you up (or empowered you somehow) after a breakup or otherwise difficult situation.
“My City of Ruin” by Bruce Springsteen from America: A Tribute to Heroes

A baseball pitcher told a reporter that it was obvious, just by looking at Barry Bonds, that he has been taking steroids.

This is part of Bonds’ reply:

“I heard about his comments. If you’ve got something to say, say it to my face,” Bonds said. “Don’t talk through the media.”

“I’m not worried about him. I’m not worried about anyone. I have a lot of respect for Turk Wendell. I have a lot of respect for every baseball player in this game,” he added. “You got something to say, you come to my face and say it and we’ll deal with each other. Don’t talk through the media like you’re some tough guy.”

…said Bonds, talking through the media like he was some tough guy.

That’s even more ironic than rain on your wedding day.

Moments ago, I was spoken to by some sort of higher force. It said “It’s time for the remake of The Warriors.”

I can see it. Absolutely. Dope ST, dawg. Starring a murder of current rappers, hip-hoppers. A who’s who of da nizzle, my frizzles.

Who’s in as producer?

What movie from the past is ripe for the remake, according to you?