A Secret Guide for a Teacher's Grades

(A+) -  Smart and Works Hard, or
             Kinda Smart and Works as Hard as they Possibly Can.

(A)    -  Smart and Works Pretty Hard, or
             Kinda Smart and Works Very, Very Hard.

(A-)   -  Smart and puts in a token effort, or
             Kinda Smart and Works Very Very Hard, or
             Not Smart and works as Hard as Possible.

(B+)   - Smart and Puts in the Minimum Effort, or
             Kinda Smart and Puts in a Solid Effort, or
             Not Smart and Works Very, Very Hard.

(B)    -  Smart and wrote the essay on Pseudo-ephedrine and No-Doze pills in 12 Hours, or
             Kinda Smart and let life get in the way of doing a decent job, or
             Not Smart and Did a Pretty Decent Job.

(B-)  -   Smart and wrote the essay in the last hour it was due, or
             Kinda Smart and changed topics and wrote a new essay over a weekend, or
             Not Smart and Did what they think is a really good essay.

(C+) -   Smart and wrote half of an essay, after receiving a brain injury, or
             Kinda Smart and wrote the 'minimum requirements' even though it meant including          
             "Twilight" and "Harry Potter" in the bibliography, or
             Not Smart and did a pretty good job, but had to cut and paste a bit from Wikipedia.

(C)  -    Smart and wrote a paper for a teacher who was a dick, or
             Kinda Smart and wrote 5 pages of a 10 page paper and wrote in 16 point Arial font, or,
             Not Smart and tried a bit, but wasn't sure what the teacher wanted.

(C-) -    Smart and are not actually smart or your teacher didn't read your paper and was a world-class              twat-waffle, or
             Kinda Smart and have stopped giving any fucks and are pretty sure you are dropping out to
             grow pot on Saltspring and live in a polyamorous commune, or,
             Not Smart and think this is probably fine.

(D)  -    Smart and have an asshole for a teacher or you really aren't fucking smart, or
             Kinda Smart and you drew a happy face in crayons on a used tissue paper, or
             Not Smart and are pretty sure the teacher is out to get you.

(E)  -     Is this a thing anymore?

(F)  -     Smart, DOH
             Kinda Smart, Ah, fuck.
             Not Smart, What!?!
       

When Foundations Crumble.

There are people in our lives we love on promise, or what might have been. These people are in our lives for a short time, and we never forget them. They periodically inform our existence. They were one great weekend, or a summer we'll never forget.

They are an ideal we hold close to our hearts.

There are people in our lives we love through experience, exchange and memory. These people are family, and our closest and longest friends. These people are the colours we paint our existence with.

They are an idea we keep inside our hearts.

From this select second group we pick a few to create our foundations. These are the people we love, will always love and who we built our lives upon. These aren't simply our family members, although usually some are a part of this group. These are the people who came into our lives, when we became people in the fullest sense of the word.

They make up the heart of who we are.

I lost one of these foundations today.

I hadn't seem him in many years. We had lost touch, but recently reconnected. But there wasn't a week I didn't think of him and our time together. He was the third leg that dragged me awkwardly towards adulthood.

I had myself. I had Andre. And I had Clint. Now Clint is gone.

Clint and Andre were the first people I tried to be myself around. They were the first people I was honest and real and scared and vulnerable with. We spent many hours, late at night, in my Mom and Dad's Oldsmobile trying to figure out life. We never succeeded. But we did a decent job of figuring out ourselves.

I like who I became through that dialectic of friendship and honesty. I'm not perfect. I'm not even that spectacular. But, I genuinely like who I am. I owe Clint a debt for that.

It's a debt I can no longer repay.

Clint died in a car accident. I don't know the details, but I'm afraid of what I know. He was driving a truck at 2:30 am on the wrong side of the trans-Canada highway when he struck another vehicle. As I said, I don't know the details. But I hope the world doesn't remember him for this accident.

Clint was a good man. He was complicated, and funny and kind. In a small logging and fishing town full of rednecks and casual racists he was good friends with everyone. It wasn't an act. He liked people. He didn't like categories of people, or types of people. He liked individual people he met.

Clint was a good man.

He also made some questionable decisions. He drank. He fought. He cheered for the Saskatchewan Roughriders. He loved people he shouldn't. But he really loved those he should.

And I was one of those people.

I never doubted that Clint loved me, despite our time apart. I don't have a lot of people beyond my family who love me. It fucking sucks to lose one.

I love you too Clint.
I always will.

Media, Hockey and the irksome problem of pre-made narratives.

Stop with your small-minded pre-determined narratives about our game—that’s my role.

I’ve long been influenced by Waldorf and Statler, and Mystery Science Theatre 3000. Middle age suits me better than youth. I suspect old age will be my finest hours. I am prone to sarcastic dismal of popular culture. It is one of the cheap and easy ways I pretend I’m smarter than I am. This doesn’t change when I watch hockey.

I like making fun of McGuire’s overload of enthusiasm. I enjoy mocking Hughson’s fascination with players’ active sticks. I delight in abusing all those things that don’t fit my narrow view of this world. This is not the case for non-hockey sentiments. I accept other opinions about politics, religion and culture. I may not think they are right, but I accept they have that right.

My mind is small when I watch hockey.

I don’t say this because I enjoy self-deprecating humour—although that is true. I don’t say this because I want you to feel sorry for me and be charitable to my musings—although that would be super. I say this so you understand my biases. I have a particular view of the hockey world I will not compromise. I believe Brendan Shanahan was the ideal hockey player. He was skilled, tough, funny, well-loved by teammates, and tough (did I mention that). He could score, pass, fight, and skate off the ice and hop over a bench with a broken ankle (seriously, he did that).

However, I despise this small-mindedness in my paid commentators and analysts. I hate the ready-made narrative and preconceived story arcs that writers and t.v. hosts rely on. Intellectually, I understand that we need to frame the world with a narrow vision. The world becomes too big and complex to understand without them. But hockey is already small. And I want something more satisfying than a pre-made story about ‘waking up Lucic’, or ‘the Kings hitting their stride’. I loathe stories about ‘Ovechkin choking’ or ‘how Detroit does it right’.

The continuous priming of our hockey watching shifts the focus of my consciousness too far to the side of intellect. Seeing pre-made stories of ‘Kesler going into beast mode’, becomes an irresistible itch for my smug, educated self. I watch hockey to balance my mind between the frothing idiocy of fandom and a deeper analytic understanding of the systems and technical parts of the game.   

Studies of media and news organizations show us that big companies set the agenda for what we are allowed to talk about. The big news channels prime the viewer to accept certain storylines and they make the world a little smaller and more manageable because of this. Hockey is not different. Key words, key phrases, and key concepts become the starting point for every conversation. Once you pick them out, they are a constant bump in the road to joyful celebration or alcohol-soaked melancholy. You can’t ignore them.

And to the future analysts, I will mock after a few too many pretentious micro-brewed craft ales that I only buy because of the high alcohol content and to feel cool in front of the pretty sales girl, I ask you don’t ignore them either. Avoid clichés, common sayings and popular wisdom. If you are a colour analyst, then add some colour please. These pre-determined narratives are grey and dull. Don’t fill every open space with useless sound. Take a second and construct your thoughts. Ask yourself: Does this add valuable content to a viewer’s enjoyment of the game? Or, am I merely spitting up the first things that fell from my mind? Are you elevating the game, or surrendering to a narcissistic fascination with your own voice?

In the end, I know this is a petty request. But sometimes life sucks pretty hard. Like so many others, I use hockey to escape from that reality for a time. I want to revel in the glorious movement of athletic achievement and arbitrary alliances. I don’t want my mind to drift too far from the pretty dancing lights on the screen. These rote descriptions are either too easy to ignore, or too grating to get past. In each case, the mind becomes susceptible to musings of reality. And nobody wants that.

     

     

Loves, New and Old: Reflections from a hockey loving Dad. (Repost)

This is my first Father’s Day as a Dad.

I love my newborn twins.

But, I think I love hockey and the Canucks more.

To be fair, hockey came first.

My little ones are about a week old, and I’m beginning to know them I think. I realize most of the personalities I see are projection. I’m building a story from a small sample and the assumption of family traits. If I try hard enough, I’ll make them true.

I love the little guys, but my love is found in their idea.

Some people say they fell in love with their spouse, or babies, the first time they saw them. These people are different than me. I imagine they are revising history, or have a shallow comprehension of love. Love doesn’t come and go. Real love binds you inseparably. That why they say, ‘for better or for worse’. The fact of love doesn’t change when its circumstances do. Importantly, love takes time. Love takes understanding. Love takes patience. And love doesn’t require passion.

I am passionate about protecting and raising my little men.

But I love hockey.

I’ll always love Linden’s determined grit, Pavel’s reckless speed, Henrik’s vision, Lu’s reflexes and Snepts’ ‘stache.

I’m passionate about hockey sometimes, too. But I’ve been in love too long to expect it to change. The Canucks will continue to hurt my heart. My favourite players will keep retiring. And my mediocre talents will fade into drunken late night embellishments and dust covered gear buried deep in my garage.

There is hope for the little ones, though. My passion will ebb with every feeding, diaper change, new tooth and scraped knee. I’ll soon have more than the idea of you to hold. Here is where your inevitable victory for my affections lies. I will always love the idea of you.

I long ago realized the idea of hockey is flawed. It is all imagined blood-ties and contrived loyalty. It is play exaggerated and structured beyond absurdity. But, sometimes the instances are perfect. Bure’s heroics in the second overtime of game seven in Calgary was perfect. It was speed, acceleration and stick handling in a three second burst that represented Bure-as-hockey-player exactly. Those moments are the binding points of love. When I think about why I love this game I think about moments like that. In a natural world leaning towards chaos and entropy perfect moments are seldom experienced. Hockey lets me have those. And my love of the Canucks is why I care they happen. But hockey is an idea without an undeniable truth at its core. It is map without territory. There are cracks in the centre.

You, little ones, will make plenty of mistakes and I’ll love you for each folly.

But the idea of you is perfect. 

Note: This used to exist on "Pass it to Bulis" during the Vancouver Sun days. When PITB left, the Vancouver Sun got rid of the old posts. I was told it was acceptable to re-post this as a self-published piece. If that is not the case, please contact me. buddydudeguy AT gee-mail

Mother's Day thoughts on hockey (and non-hockey) Moms

I wrote a short post for my wife and my Mom and all the other Moms.

https://www.facebook.com/gerald.morton.58/posts/10156923146060013?notif_t=like&notif_id=1462726678570030

Enjoy.

A short, nameless poem about life and love

He wore his ingenuity

like a popcorn bracelet,
a clever and useless
re-imagining.

She wore her dignity
like a match book cover,
serving only to keep her
memories combustible.

They wore their love
like a purple heart,
a misguided symbol
that heals no pain.

Love, Parenting and Hockey

A new post at TheCanuckWay in which I compare two of my great loves: Harold Snepsts and my children.

http://thecanuckway.com/2016/04/04/vancouver-canucks-how-to-guide-for-fans-part-3/

(No seriously, that's what I did).

Meaning and Meaningless - What it means to be a fan

I wrote another hockey blog about being a fan and how silly it is and how I still manage to take it seriously.

http://thecanuckway.com/2016/02/14/vancouver-canucks-how-to-fan-guide-2/

I'll be back with more non-hockey stuff soon.

In Praise of Gino

In Praise of Gino

As a young fan I loved Gino Odjick. As an older fan, I’ve had my fanaticism rounded off by life’s joys and tragedies. I think it’s called perspective. My mood doesn’t rise and fall with the team’s success. My personal relations don’t suffer from bad games and unfair calls. The emotions still bubble up, but memories and understanding keep them from breaking the surface.

But I still love Gino like I’m a kid.

I’m heartbroken he has to leave us so soon.

As a young fan I loved Gino’s fire, unpredictability and joy.  Athletes from our youth anchor us to those simpler times. They are reminders of the passion and power that were so easy to hold before sore backs and reading glasses told us to slow down. These athletes usually fade away. You see an occasional news story about a charity event, or, too often, hard times they’ve encountered. Eventually, you read their obituaries. Each time another thread that ties you to your past is worn away. You still have memories of the joy they brought, but their deaths destroy the wonderful fiction of an eternal present.

The news of Gino’s illness pushes the 1994 magic further into my youthful storage closet of mundane memories I won’t recall. That is especially unfair to a hockey player like Gino Odjick. Gino was an unlikely hero. His story shouldn’t be coupled in my mind with other unremarkable memories of youth. I know we like to pretend hockey is a perfect meritocracy where issues of social inequality don’t surface. I’ve played enough hockey, and been around the game long enough, to know that a native hockey player faces obstacles and bigotry that most don’t. This isn’t a diatribe about social injustice. It is a simple understanding of Gino Odjick’s truth. If you don’t think a native kid playing hockey gets treated poorly, then you are naive, wilfully ignorant or have the luxury of blindness that comes with privilege.

Despite the difficult road, and the obstacles overcome, Gino played the game with a joy I don’t see any more. Players celebrate goals using one of their predetermined ‘cellys’. They show flashes of exuberance at designated times. I don’t know any player that brought so much ecstatic energy to every aspect of the game. Gino knew what his life could have been, what it is for so many kids born on reserves. Gino had a perspective in his youth that it has taken me decades to acquire. He had his fill of tragedies early on. The situations that filled other players with dread were another opportunity to play for Gino. I know fighting is looked upon by many as barbaric and stupid. I’m not, necessarily, talking about that. In every situation Gino let us know this was still a game. He let us know how lucky we were to play our games and watch our heroes.

I miss that.

And I’ll miss you Gino.

Sincerely,      

A fan. 

John Scott and the death of our blue collar heroes

I've started doing some hockey writing at 'The Canuck Way' on the FanSided network. In this post I explored why John Scott resonated with so many of us.

http://thecanuckway.com/2016/02/02/john-scott-dying-dream/