NHL – Rant and Roll

She’s just so mouthy

Part 1.

I like lipstick.

A lot.

Every time I see a lipstick I get a little bit excited.

Every time I see a lipstick I want to buy it.

I want to open it up and smear it all over my stupid face.

I’ve got great lips, and lipstick looks AMAZING smeared over my stupid face.

I prefer a good matte finish (just get out of here with your useless, disgusting gloss-soaked wands) and I’ll never pay more than $9.99 for a tube of the stuff, but that is because I am both a cheap bastard, and because I am apt to conclude that there cannot be THAT big of a difference between my Joe Fresh collection and what’s being shipped out of the Chanel Institute.

I mean, how could you possible justify charging (least of all PAYING!) fifty dollars for a shade of red that exists in perpetuity in every drug store the wide world over?

I SEE YOU SEPHORA.

When I left my last position I was gifted with a very generous gift certificate to a downtown shopping mall and with these funds I purchased a forty dollar Tarte lip pencil. And while this product is darn fantastic and makes me lips tingle and taste of minty freshness, I would never again purchase this piece of maquillage because forty dollars is basically two to three days’ worth of groceries and I’m only ever eating that pencil if and when things get really dire.

Anyway, no matter how much or little I pay, lipstick makes me feel like an absolute super hero.

I put it on five minutes before leaving work and I am immediately transformed from Grouchy Eye Bag McGrimmeister into Kick-Ass She-Warrior McHyphenate.

Sure, maybe I was born with it, but holy hell if this shade of pink doesn’t crank it up a notch:

That’s right.

Those are your nuts in my vice grip.

ENJOY IT.

I never understanding people who say to me, “I wish I could wear lipstick like you!”

And then when I inform them that there isn’t a single thing prohibiting them from taking part in the universal fun that is lipstick, they respond with, “Oh no, I could never do that!”

And to this, I always just want to yell into their faces – WHY!?

Why in the heck would you think that, you weirdo!?

Unless born lipless (and what a tragedy to befall anyone!), everyone is 100% capable of wearing lipstick.

And I urge you, and everyone to try it.

I’ll hold your hand and everything.

But it’ll cost you fifty dollars in Chanel product.

And your nuts.

Part 2.

I don’t like Mark Messier.

In fact, Mark Messier is like the anti-lipstick.

I don’t get excited when I see him.

I don’t want to smear him all over my face.

I wouldn’t spend ANY money on him, and he doesn’t make me feel unstoppable.

And much to my chagrin, he’s EVERYWHERE.

The dude is all over Youtube like some terrifying, leather-clad social media STI.

Every time he pops up, Marc (my husband) asks, “Is this a Cialis ad?”

AND IT TOTALLY IS.

I don’t know why Mr. Messier grinds my gears to the extent that he does.

Perhaps it’s the ghost of my hard core emotional hangover from the summer of 1994 (combined with the broken heart I suffered in 2011.)

Perhaps it’s the memory of his crappy Lays potato chip ads.

Perhaps it’s because the NHL is such a ridiculous bush league, run by bums, dullards, and hacks, that any reminder of this organization and the garbage it stands for makes me want to ralph.

Basically folks, it could be a whole myriad of things.

But all I really want to say is that NO ONE IS ASKING YOU ANYTHING MARK MESSIER.

You and lip gloss can just get the heck out of here.

Part 3.

Yesterday I bought a homeless person a hot chocolate.

I try to do these things as often as I can, although it can be hard. Living my own busy, silly little life can leave me so caught up in getting from A to B (or achieving A to Z) that I don’t often see the different humanities co-existing right in front of my eyes.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t spend enough of my life with my eyes wide open. That I should be feeling more, doing more – affecting more positive change within my day to day activities.

But then I know I am being too hard on myself. That I work very hard to ensure that I am engaged and making a difference every day, both personally and professionally.

I cannot do everything for everyone, every day and all of the time.

No one could do this even if they try.

Which is why I do.

Which is why I really, really try.

We are all Canucks. But why?

Well, the Canucks lost tonight.

CIMG8133 - Copy — We were all shouting Boo-urns.

And that’s all I want to say about that.

Seriously, I don’t know why I care so much about this stupid hockey club. I am sitting here asking myself how I could possibly be SO BLOODY CUT UP OVER THIS LOSS.

It actually makes less sense than a Ramada hotel advertisement (and those are obtuse in the extreme.)

One of the coolest books I read in grad school was “Imagined Communities” by Benedict Anderson. In his work, Anderson defines a nation as “an imagined political community – and imagined as both inherently limited and sovereign.”

They are limited in that nations have “finite, if elastic boundaries, beyond which lie other nations” andthey are sovereign since no dynastic monarchy can claim authority over them.

(Anderson’s work is focused predominantly on the rise of European democracies.)

A nation is an imagined community because “regardless of the actual inequality and exploitation that may prevail in each, the nation is always conceived as a deep, horizontal comradeship.”

The imagined community is different from an actual community because it is not (and cannot be) based on everyday face-to-face interaction between its members. Instead, members hold in their minds a mental image of their affinity, or their bond.

A great example of this is the sensation of “pride of nationhood” individuals share with other members of their nation when their “imagined community” participates in a larger event (such as the Olympic Games.)

Now, I won’t go into too much detail on the entirety of Anderson’s thesis (however, I will encourage you to read it without delay if your interest in the subject matter has been peaked).

But I will say that I am consistently drawn to him every time I find myself sitting here, questioning my (always baffling) relationship with ice hockey.

Do I watch because it’s been ingrained in me to watch? Do I watch because I love sport, and am, at the root of it all, a highly competitive person who gets off on watching excellence?

If I lived in Europe would I feel the same way about soccer? If I lived in the States, would I feel the same way about football?

Where is the dividing line between cultural (or national) assimilation, and personal autonomy? Or are these too, imagined constructs?

And why is it that I loathe so many elements of hockey (and so many other elements of professional sport)? Is this my individuality asserting itself over my imagined nationality? Or do I just hate goonery more than I love winning?

And why the heck am I assuming ownership over a victory that I played absolutely zero part in?

Yeesh.

When I’m not thinking about Anderson, I’m thinking about Rome and the coliseum and the gladiators. I think about complacency and apathy and what is enough to keep a society happy and unquestioning?

And what about our appetite for gore, and war, and physical supremacy? Is this somehow manifesting itself in these sporting events, because we are unsure of how to address this need in the every day political activities and actions our “nation”?

I mean, here in ye Old Great White North, we like to advertise ourselves as a “peace keeping” nation, but don’t even think about the fighting out of our national passtime!

A GOOD BENCH CLEARING BRAWL IS WHAT CANADA’S ALL ABOUT!

Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer to these conundrums.

And I probably never will.

2012-04-22 09.03.59 — The sky is beautiful. We're all still alive. We'll be okay.

All I know is that tonight the Canucks lost.

But Nadal won. So that brings a big old smile to my face.

Until of course, I start to think, would I feel this way if Djokovic was a Canadian?

Or if I was a Serb?

The best game you can name

I used to love hockey.

Like, A LOT.

For the past eight and a half years M and I spent countless hours together (and apart) watching the sport – curled up together on our couch, pacing the length of our living room, crammed into the booth of a sports bar, languishing in the nose-bleeds – we’ve done it all.

CIMG7118 - Copy — I used to be, as they say, ready to rock it. Vintage Canadian hockey sweater, Olympics 2010

And I loved it.

I listened to sports radio on an almost daily basis, often e-mailing or texting into the shows, with the hosts regularly reading them on air. I liked being a part of their banter.

I really loved going to parties and knowing more than all the dude-bros who were always congregating in the corners of the living room (seriously why only the corners dudes?) discussing the latest scoring stats, and drinking their Budweiser. Their squinty eyes and slightly open mouths always said (though never out loud): How does a girl know this much about hockey?

For my birthday last year M bought me a beautiful old school Canucks jersey that I wore with pride to every game that I attended (as well as each game I watched from said before mentioned pubs/couches/houses/etc.)

My three favourite teams were (in order): the Vancouver Canucks, Montreal Canadiens and Detroit Redwings.

My hockey husbands were Teemu Selanne and Henrik Zetterberg.

My hockey little brothers were Jonathan Toews and Drew Doughty.

M and I bought sticks and pucks and gloves and tape, and we would brace ourselves against the biting cold of the early (or not so early) Winter mornings so we could go play street hockey together at the elementary school rink, close by to our home.

I cried big, hot, sticky tears and my body heaved with my heavy sobs, when the Canucks lost in game seven of the Stanley Cup finals, on that beautiful summer day, June 15, 2011.

(Heck, I cried big, hot, sticky tears when Patrice Bergeron scored the opening goal, and was assisted by that idiot of a goonmeister known as Brad Marchand.)

(Take my word for it, that human parasite is one giant embarrassment for all of Nova Scotia. Anyone who tells you different is unhinged.)

I once made fun of Sidney Crosby and then came to love him.

I probably watched Alex Ovechkin score a hole-in-one as many times as I watched his many highlight reels.

I loved the mastery, and skill, and speed, and intuition, and love, and passion, and hard work, and magic that hockey could produce.

I lamented over and over again at the lack of sportsmanship of the league, and the violence worship by fans, and the permeation of goon culture, and the destructive and saddening “win at any cost” attitudes of so many of the players, GMs, coaches, spectators and media.

I decried the NHL as a bush league more times than I can count.

And yet.

I loved hockey.

I used to love hockey.

I used to love hockey, but my love has left.

I have not sat down and watched (or perhaps I should just say watched – as those who have ever spent an entire three periods with me would know that I can never sit still for long) more than 30 seconds of highlights since the season began in October of last year.

I feel very much strangely detached from this whole development.

My mother and I were talking on the phone last night and she momentarily commented on the World Junior Hockey tournament, asking me if I was watching the semi-final game between Canada and Russia.

“No, Mom,” I said. “I don’t watch hockey anymore.”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” she replied. “It’s just so hard to imagine. It was such a huge part of your life for so long that I keep forgetting. I keep forgetting.”

The strange thing is, I keep forgetting too.

I keep forgetting that this sport once played such a pivotal role in my life, for so many years.

The one thing I do miss is how excited I would get each Valentine’s Day. I used to pick a sports bar where myself and M would go watch the game, order nachos and drink strongbow (or diet coke) and root, root, root for the home team (in the parlance of our times). It was a tradition that was romantic and brilliant, and most importantly, it was ours.

Now, I don’t even give the game more than a passing glance – maybe if I catch a highlight here or there I will remark on the beauty of that one play, or goal, or pass.

But mostly, I just shake my head, because everything is still the same, and I can no longer protect myself from all the rot that exists inside of the League and still enjoy the game for what it should be:

Athleticism, and art, and respect among players for their ability to create and sustain, but most importantly excel, within these two noteworthy mediums.

Instead, I read about concussions, and fists, and broken backs, and slashes, and elbows, and sexism, and racism, and homophobia, and xenophobia, and I’m just so tired of all this bullshit and it’s propagation and adoration and alienation.

And I truly believe this is what destroys athleticism. This is what destroys art.

I used to love hockey.

Maybe I still do. At some level, I’m sure of it.

But not this.

I can’t love this. Not anymore.

When we were good

Hi friends,

I’m deviating a bit from our regular scheduled program because of the rage-out I am currently undergoing.

Today, in rapid succession, I read three newspaper articles, each of which could have been nominated for the most “inflammatory, intolerant and overwhelmingly ignorant article” of the year award.

I don’t know why I do these things, because it certainly isn’t for my health – physical, mental (or otherwise.) I must be one wacko masochist.

And I’m not going to lie; my heart is feeling really darn heavy at the moment. These pieces have really got me down about the state of the world, and in particular, about my place as a woman in a society where institutionalized sexism and homophobia is not only the norm, and therefore accepted, but also propagated by large scale organizations that people look to as pillars of our “communities,” which just further reinforces these already cancerous and destructive ideals.

It’s actually at times like this that I feel as though I can never have children because I can’t imagine bringing them into a world where they would have to be subjected to this crap.

This is how I feel about the world right now.

My exact feelings on the matter can be summed up in a one line e-mail I sent to a friend:

THESE THINGS RUIN MY DAY AND GIVE ME WRINKLES!!! AND I SHOULDN’T EVEN CARE ABOUT WRINKLESSS!!!

*brain explosion*

Okay. Breathe.

1. Dear Christie Blachtford. WHY ARE YOU SO SAD AND ANGRY? Seriously, what is your damage? Why must you constantly write about ridiculously-negative-to-the-point-that-I-think-this-HAS-to-be-performace-art things? Does the Grinch actually exist, and if so, are you doing his PR?

Also, meditate on this thought for a second: if one of your greatest sources of strife in your life is coming across young boys (who are excited to see each other) hugging each other YOU ARE DOING PRETTY WELL.

Like, THE BEST.

Seriously, the entire female population of Saudi Arabia just collectively rolled their eyes at you before exclaiming, “LADY, WHAT THE SHIT ARE YOU COMPLAINING ABOUT? WE LIVE IN A COUNTRY WHERE WE AREN’T EVER ALLOWED TO DRIVE A BLASTED CAR!!!”

I am so incredibly exhausted of the whole “when men were men” fallacy – as if there is some naturally prescribed recipe for what “makes a man.” After reading Ms. Blatchfords blechfest of an article (see what I did there?) I can make a pretty informed guess as to what she thinks are the ingredients:

Axe body spray
Budweiser
Flannel
Beard growth
General misogyny
No tear ducts
PENIS

Her whole argument is not only insulting to women (proposing that feminine traits are somehow lesser than the (long lost) masculine traits, particularly when embodied by a man) but also completely offensive to men!

Let’s use a seasonally appropriate simile, to help Ms. Blatchford understand the very simple, innate concept that MEN, (JUST LIKE WOMEN) ARE LIKE SNOWFLAKES. YAY!

Each one is an individual, with different traits, mannerisms, likes, dislikes, passions, ideas, goals (bloody hell, I cannot believe I am actually writing this or that THIS NEEDS EXPLAINING IN THE 21^st CENTURY) – the list goes on and on.

The archaic notion that a man needs to be X in order to past some kind of Dude Test is silly AND CRAZY. Being a man isn’t like being a bush pilot. You don’t need a licence.

And if you`re really wondering what makes a man? The Dude here (that’s what you call him) and the Big Lebowksi have the answer for you:

…

2. Pat Hickey. I don’t have too much to say to you other than you probably need to go away. To Baffin Island. For about forty-years of hard labour. That might just be enough time for you to think about the things you say and how utterly obtuse you ideas are about what it means to be a victim of sexual assault.

What is even worse is that you have a platform to spew your prejudiced bile. You are like an internet troll that has somehow figured out a way to get paid to piss people off.

You need to know, need to understand, that it is attitudes like yours that are one of the biggest reasons that so many victims are unwilling to come forward and accuse their abusers. Simply put: PEOPLE ARE AFRAID OF BEING BLAMED FOR THEIR ASSAULT BECAUSE VICTIMS ARE BLAMED ALL THE DAMN TIME.

You say so yourself that you have never been assaulted. So what makes you think you could ever cast judgement on someone who has?

The old adage goes that you can’t judge someone until they walk a mile in their shoes, so Patty ol’ Boy, I think you should thank your lucky stars you haven’t ever had to endure that long march.

And you should thank them every day.

3. Dear Chicago Blackhawks organization – When you have a complete tool bag like Dave Bolland play for your team, and he goes on the radio and shoots his mouth off, delighting his listeners with a lovely array of sexist, misogynistic crap, it really looks as though your organization openly endorses these antiquated, dangerous and violent gender norms.

The only other thing I have to ask is:

WHAT THE HECK IS UP WITH PRO ATHLETES CALLING EACH OTHER WOMEN AS INSULTS?

SERIOUSLY. WHY?

Do none of these idiots have mothers? Sisters? Wives? Daughters?

Do they respect these women? Do they love them? CAN they love them when they do crap like this EVERY DAY OF THEIR LIVES?

The thing that really gets me is that as much as I hate that this happens, it’s always women who come out looking the worst because at the base of it all – we (women) are the insult. The punch line.

Our looks, our strengths, our intelligence, our capability, our interests, our passions, our friends, our choices, OUR EVERYTHING – REFLECT POORLY ON A MAN .

PERIOD.

This enrages me ever more when I think about how the Williams sisters (in tennis) are often called men, or manly, or

brothers, but it never has the same effect as when (for instance) that idiot Bolland calls the Sedin twins girls. Because the Williams (as women) are still at fault for not being girly enough – manly characteristics are not innately bad – they are in fact the socially prescribed superior characteristics, but for a woman to have these traits and not look like how a WOMAN should look, well, that just doesn’t jive.

BAD WOMENZ! BAD!

Either way, it’s either the female sex, or the female herself that is at fault, and ultimately, not good enough.

Yeesh.

Well, on that note, I’ve definitely just convinced myself to get me to a nunnery, and stat. I may also never read a fricken newspaper again for all the days of my life.

Dear Genie of the Lamp – tell me something good so I don’t have to cry?

Please?

Take off those shades please, they’re blinding

Okay kids, it’s time for the Friday Fry-up!

1. All together now: BLACKFACE IS NEVER OKAY. Never. Seriously, are we all aware of this now? Yes? Either way, let’s just say it one more time, for those folks sitting way up in the cheap seats – Blackface? Not okay. EVER.

As for all of the Raffi Torres apologists out there, listen up: it doesn’t matter that you have black friends. It doesn’t matter that you love Jay-Z. It doesn’t matter that you’ve travelled to Africa or read Toni Morrison or that Dwyane Wade once dressed up as a white dude. All of these excuses amount to jack squat.

And it sure as heck doesn’t matter if any of this applies to Mr. Torres.

Especially when you factor in that 1) he plays for a hockey team based in Arizona, a state home to some of the most hostile immigration laws in the United States, and where racial profiling is backed by both government and law enforcement officials and 2) that the NHL has a brutal history when it comes to the treatment of its minority players (see: Emery, Ray; Simmonds, Wayne; Subban, PK; etc.) so making a racial statement (whether intended or not) that shames, mocks and marginalizes a portion of society only reinforces the deep-rooted racism and overt distrust of the non-Canandian “good ol’ boy” that for many, has come to define the NHL (see: Cherry, Don).

Apologizing for his actions just shows how oblivious people are to their own privilege. And trying to equate Ray Whitney dressing up as a toy soldier (hawhaw so offensive to GREEN people!!11!) to Torres’ costume reveals not only their ignorance, but also that people (many, many of them) are capable of telling really, really shitty “jokes”.

Well, these “jokes” are about as funny and/or witty as the crap, and totally unrealistic materialization of ten thousand spoons (when all you need knife), is ironic. In short, IT SHOWS THAT PEOPLE DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT and that as of now, their privileges have been revoked. Seriously, all of them.

All of their privileges are belong to me.

2. As for you, Mr. John Crosbie, Mr. “Holy smoke, this swearing-in is stuffier than a Moroccan footstool, it’s a dang good thing that I am a comedy king!!!” – your jokes are also neither witty nor funny. They too are ignorant, marginalizing and racist – three things that don’t really scream “gut busting laughter.” So really, your “jokes” are just sentences. Ignorant, marginalizing, racist sentences.

And I’ll tell ya, “knock knock ignorant, marginalizing, racist sentence” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as orange you glad I didn’t say banana.

NEXT!

3. Last on the docket are these creepy, and super white-washed Air Canada ads. They are the next generation of a campaign that advertised travel between Vancouver and China, using only white models. I really wish I had some photos of those posters to better illustrate my point. Every time I looked at one I just wanted to yell out: “Did one single person working on this project ever stop and look at who predominantly flies between Canada and China?”

Either way, for a company that is essentially “Canada’s Airline” it would be nice to see a bit more diversity. Or else I’ll be stuck screaming, “Did one single person working on this project ever stop and look at who is currently living and flying around Canada? Is this why the mouth breathers still think blackface and racist jokes are okay?”

HELLO? Anyone?