Two Days in SLP [Finally]
[Editor's Note: I started this post the night of 2.1.06. I knew it would take a long time since I planned on deep detail of two entire days. A couple days after starting the post, I somehow completely rooted Amanda's internet. I won't get into how (because I'd start to swear about how illogical her internet setup is--I mean, come on: Internet shouldn't be hooked up through a USB port and get fucked if unplugged), but it's the reason why this post is so late. It's turned into quite an epic, Jeano-stylie. Coincidentally, I cut-n-pasted it into Word and it came out to be over six pages. New record--easy. But without further delay...]
Kato Disclaimer: I love my Kato peeps. We're folk. Nothing's going to change that. I have shit luck in poker but covetous luck in life that I have two home-towns that I cherish. This post is not bragging; It identifies things for which I'm grateful.
Now, here are some reasons how New Year's Eve and Day were two of the best St. Louis Park days in years.
INT. Cub - afternoon
SUPER: New Year's Eve
Cub was a shitstorm and AMANDA was uber indecisive about whether to make a meat-n-cheese plate or chili-cheese dip--but that's cool. An old CRAZY GUY talked to himself in that salad bar area near customer service with little tables. Talked isn't quite a strong enough verb to describe his actions: It felt like he argued with himself, gesticulated, grumbled in some exotic, crazy guy tongue. Smelled like human pee.
Another DUDE about five feet away sat at a table a row over. He was minding his own business, probably just waiting for his wife to make up her mind about meat-n-cheese or chili cheese dip. Dude and I made eye contact. He looked at me as if to say, "My wife left me sitting here on New Year's Eve with this rambling, old, walking urine-machine. Take it in, boy. Every last detail. You'll be sitting here in my spot in fifteen years."
It was awesome.
INT. Amanda's Apartment - later
The Jerk was on. I watched and loved every minute of it, even the horrible editing-for-content. Censorship always makes things funnier anyway--the terrible dubbing of "Stupid" over "Shithead," the name of Navin's dog; the A.D.D. editing through the sex scene with the carnival's motorcycle dare devilress: "It's like a ride!"
It's interesting to see fewer scenes cut out as the years progress. For instance, near the second act climax, after Navin's established his wealth, the slum lords come to talk to him. They say they want to "keep the niggers out." Navin fumes and yells, "I am a nigger!" and in a most blacksploitational way, he wastes those sucka emcees. This was the first year of watching The Jerk that the censors didn't dubbed over "nigger" with something tamer. I'm not sure, but I think it's good progress (?). It took me an hour and half to iron my clothes while watching. Taking my sweet ass time. Fantastic.
And what would be on after The Jerk? What could possibly follow that up? The Wild--the Wild winning against the Canucks. We're currently three points out of the playoffs [Editor's note: Since then, the Wild have returned to their lukewarm efforts, placing them now seven points out of the playoffs.]. I know: We've played barely half the season so there's no need to get to prophetic about playoffs--especially since we'll probably screw it up anyway [Editor's note: Which we have.]. But it gives me reason to watch when they do well and reason to weep when they dump and play for overtime. Walz got a goal. My man. He's the third ugliest man in hockey behind him and him.
INT. Pokorny/Zinnel Residence - later that night
What a successful New Year's party. As far as parties go, there probably weren't enough people to classify as a party--not in Mankato terms, by any means. But it was our type of party. (Almost) every SLPeep we love and care for was there and other surprise guests. My jazz lab instructor from high school, the great Lance Strickland, showed up. Even though POKORNY hogged Lance all night (it was like two versions of the same person at different ages talking to each other for three hours straight), it was good to catch up with the man who had such a profound, musical impact on not just me but every SLP man-friend of mine. He was just as hilarious, lecherous, and energetic as ever--even in his early 60s.
As Lance mentally undressed our girlfriends, he said my favorite Lance Quote of the Night:
LANCE
(checks out TONIE)
"I've always said if we ever partied together, if you guys supplied the women I'd supply the drugs. It appears that I've failed in upholding my part of the deal."
EDLAVICH, an old friend/fellow musician who I hadn't seen in years, showed up too. In fact, we have him to thank for giving Lance the heads up for the party. A conversation between Edlavich and Lance is like a conversation between Woody Allen and Woody Allen.
Our party was semi-formal. Everyone looked beautiful and handsome. GRANT was all Reservoir Dogs sans black suit coat. KOELSCH and the lovely SARAH almost matched their reds. So cute, I could've crapped. STEFAN's belt buckle was a scrolling LED/LCD/whatever-the-fuck marquee that read, "Happy New Year. Get me a beer." In other words, his crotch lit up.
Grant revolutionized New Year's noise makers. Somehow, he could make his sound like a goose being fucked by Don Decker, [Editor's note: link not "work safe"], the most unsavory human I've ever had the (mis?)pleasure to meet. I might post the video I caught of the sound later if I ever finish this text. It's unreal. Disturbing. Addicting.
PAT was there with WES, my once or twice annual friend through Pat. Wes was fresh from Germany. I could smell the sausage and Spaten Optimater still clinging to his fancy German overcoat. It's always good to see Wes, especially when he doesn't get me plastered on E&J. I still can't drink brandy. It makes the chainlink scar on my leg ache.
Speaking of drinking, I drank three beers and about half a bottle of Freixenet Brut, a very comfortable amount. Stefan found a chocolate, coffee, milk beer called Viking. It had fancy foil around the top. Grant brought delicious Anchor Steam. I brought Redhook's Winter Hook which tastes like two boners--you know, metaphorically speaking. We all mixed and matched and drank champagne too. We smoked Backwoods cigars which are high-high-high end quality--as far as cigars behind gas station counters go. Actually, no they aren't. They're crap. They are campfire ash rolled in poo paper and I loved all three that I smoked. I think I can still taste them two days later [Editor's note: The taste has since subsided.].
INT. Car parked in lot - later that night
So I started a dumb argument. Someone ask, "how could that be a good thing?" Well, I thought Amanda was being overly critical of the way I brought all our stuff out to the car. She'd been overly critical all week so I just assumed... The alcohol gave me spunk to stand up for myself. Bad idea. She was more or less innocent this time, but she knew she'd been critical all week and we were both sorry and blah blah blah. So it was one of those arguments that turns out great 'cuz things get solved and you're way better off after the little argument than you were before. The only thing that could have topped this night off would be make-up sex, but by this time it was 4 a.m. While I'm just getting my second wind at this time, as you all know, Amanda is a vacuum [Editor's note: Huh?].
INT. Amanda's apartment - the next day
SUPER: Slight, manageable headache.
When I woke up at nine a.m. I could feel the previous night's party in my head but I knew the pain wouldn't last. I hate getting wasted. I hate hangovers. I hate that when it counts, I don't always avoid these hateful things. This year I had. Victory. I sent out a mass text-message to seven people, more or less asking if we were meeting for breakfast at 10 or, preferably, 11. I got only two responses:
STEFAN
11
and
MALISSA
No! Breakfast at ten. We are up.
Two opposing responses. No one else responded. Classic SLP communication.
INT. Calhoun Grill - later
This place is amazing! It's in Calhoun Village--not Calhoun square--near Lake Calhoun (hence all the Calhouns). I drank at least my own pot of their delicious, dark, hot coffee, and ate my weight in hash browns and 'sage links. It's a nice place inside: wide and roomy with earthy tones--perfect for Sunday mornings. Other patrons played Hearts, Spades, and/or Rummy while waiting for food. As for the waitresses, Amanda, Malissa, and CASSIE kept saying things like "I can see her entire midriff!" and "Omm...'i-god. Her pants are so low and tight, her ass would hang out if she bent over," and "Stop checking her out, Grant," etc.
INT. Stefan and Cassie's apartment - later that afternoon
Once Calhoun Grill's coffee made it clear I wouldn't be napping anytime soon, I decided Stefan, ZINNEL, and Grant needed to be introduced to Firefly. Thank you Sire, Pat, and Canham for initially trying to get me into the Fox series when it was on the air. I failed you then. Thank you, Sire, for trying harder and successfully getting me into the series with the DVDs. Firefly spawned the follow-up movie Serenity. Our tagline for Firefly is simple: Western Han Solo. If you don't get three boners from that tagline, you're much less dorky than we, and I'm sorry. If you get at least one boner, I assure you that both the series and movie are excellent. Watch them. Sire and I wish there was a young Han Solo prequel starring Nathan Fillion.
Anyway, we four watched the two-hour Firefly pilot episode plus the next two hour-long episodes. By the end of our mini-marathon, all of us had dubbed Adam Baldwin's character, Jayne Cobb, as our role model. My favorite Jayne quote:
JAYNE
Do you know what the chain of command is? It's the chain I beat you with until you understand who's in command here.
My fuckin' hero.
After Firefly, Stefan and Grant played Mario Tennis. Unlike other consoles, Nintendo is best at transporting the gamer to a bizarre world. Nintendo achieves this through it's unique sound and visuals. It's hard to explain to non-gamers or--gasp--the Great Unwashed Playstation Heathens, but there's a quality of sound that's specifically Nintendo. And just about any Nintendo title character game (your Marios, Zeldas, Metroids, etc.) is especially unique in its world that sucks you in. What I'm getting at: After less than 5 hours of sleep, a successfully nursed hang over, a pot-of-coffee high, coming down from said high, four hours of Firefly, and a world warp into Mario Tennis land, my head was more than a little swimming. It was awesome; what a unique feel these two days--and this day was just warming up like a heat lamp at Arby's--you're damn right that was a segue.
INT. Arby's - later
Amanda's gracious mother, MARY--Mary full of grace--decided all three of us needed more curly fries in our diet. Mary has taught me lots of things. This meal with her taught me that I should pay more attention to coupons. They saved us--well, her since she bought--buttloads of money. For instance, I discovered that Arby's has a Ruben, corned beef or turkey (a Rachel). Not only did one of Mary's coupons get me a free Ruben with the purchace of a Ruben combo (count 'em: two Rubens with Kraut , Swiss, and thousand island on marble rye), but the grammar of the coupon was so confusing that the employee didn't charge us for the initial Ruben in the combo. On top of this treat, other coupons got us two free orders of coooooookies. The amount of food we got could have fed four or five people (I counted as the 3rd, 4th, and 5th person with what I ate), all just for like $13. If Amanda and I go to Arby's, it usually costs us $13 without coupons. I love coupons, Mary, and kraut. The kraut wouldn't love me later, though--wow, I'm getting good at segues!
EXT. Nelson Park hockey rink - later that night
Our session of hockey that night might have been the best we've had ever. Finding ice has always been a problem, and this year's pathetic "winter" has yet again complicated things. We've gotten really good at producing high quality hockey on low quality ice. Cain and I have had some pretty bitchin' sessions over the years, with just ourselves and/or with RANDOM WARMING HOUSERS. The rest of the SLP chaps have only been playing with us about four years. Man, are they improving exponentially, especially considering more than a couple of them skated for the first time those four-ish years ago.
Before then, Cain and I would pray for random warming housers on our way to rinks. It seems those futile days of finding ice and players are finally behind us. Each of them has improved in all areas and found their own strengths:
Koelsch: I think I've developed into a pretty good passer; once Koelsch really finds his game, he'll put my passing to shame.
Dorn: He's got the hardest shot among us, I think. Perhaps as hard as Cain's if not harder.
Grant: His skating is as fluid as his home brew; he skates like Bourque: graceful arcs, wide-stanced.
Zinnel: There's really no place for stay-at-home-defensemen in warming house hockey. But if the pendulum should ever loose itself from offense and the concept of defense should become important again, Zinnel would be the Chelios of the house (Sire: "It's got... peppers... spoons... uhh... Yzerman... uhh... peppers...")--only Zinnel'd score more often since he's developing into a grinder-style offensemen too.
Pokorny: Remember in Bambi when the poor, hooved roadkill found ice? That's what Pokorny looked like his first year on skates. Not only can he turn now, he's as fast as 11 White Castle cheeseburgers through my digestive track. We'll work on his skate-stopping next season. Shit, I guess that means I'll have to learn how to skate-stop left.
Unity upkeep time: At one point I could feel the two Rubens from earlier debating with my stomach. The subject being debated was whether or not their relationship was really worth continuing. My stomach felt more than a little suffocated, as we all know that sorrow kraut has a co-dependent way clinging to stronger people. The good news is that my stomach is patient like oak and gave the kraut a second chance. In the end, the Rubens and my stomach gave birth to a litter of somewhat sickly and loud but otherwise happy, brown children [Editor's note: I'm sorry.].
That night, two HIGH SCHOOL KIDS showed up. A couple things stuck with me about them. First, they brought a girl who just stood there and watched. It struck me as incredibly high schoolsince there's no fucking way any of our girlfriends would give two shitz about watching us play hockey, even if we asked. Then again, these guys were way better than us, and perhaps would be more interesting to watch. I figured the girl and one of the dudes were newly attached and she was there to impress him with her interest in his playing. At least I hope that was the case: How lame would it be if she was asked or dragged to the rink? Poor girl. Idiot dudes.
Secondly, aside from those speculations, the two young fellows were fun to play with. High school hockey players are often bothersome. Our little band of old men are no match for anyone with official, organized training. This is obvious to most high school kids, I'd think, because they usually advertise their skill by wearing articles of high school hockey clothing; we advertise only our wish to stay warm. Pokorny's skinny, jeaned legs sticking out under his giant parka is one of my favorite winter sights. Also, most high school hockey players brush us off, not bothering to take any game with us seriously. They certainly don't pass to us.
These two were different. They knew etiquette: They knew that one should join the north-side team, and the other the south. They knew to keep the puck down for goals. They knew we were tired, old men. They knew we'd been playing for at least two hours by the time they got there. On top of being tired, I pointed out my broken skate blade, which was unfortunate but somehow it didn't kill the session. One of them was kind enough to advise me where to go to get my blade fixed. They were fresh with youthful energy--seemingly limitless, as I recall from my own stores before I--we all--discovered our limits. They covered each other when one had possession of the puck so we wouldn't have to try and keep up. They even passed to us. There were beautiful moments when either of our teams maintained possession in the offensive zone like a real team would: keeping the puck on the outside, drawning D-men away to create passing lanes, and not just connecting solid passes but finishing goals! As I said in the beginning of this section: It was perhaps the best session thus far. Furthermore, during our short rehydration breaks, these two kids played keep-away. In lulls of their own mini-game, they complimented each others' moves and learned--the way it should be; the way, I think, our own group has progressed so well.
Who'da thought that the very next night we'd have perhaps the worst session ever. I doubt very much the difference in temperature was more than five degrees. I guess that's all it takes. It was like playing hockey on an wide, flat snowcone. The terrible ice was more or less the only reason why this streak of amazing days didn't last longer. And I don't mean to say that my the rest of my days were dull. The point-by-point incremental greatness of these two days, however, stand out amongst the other merely great days. They are days the likes of which I can look forward to come summer. They are days to keep in the back of my mind while I enjoy entirely different types of great days in Mankato over my very last semester.
Mace...back and out
Kato Disclaimer: I love my Kato peeps. We're folk. Nothing's going to change that. I have shit luck in poker but covetous luck in life that I have two home-towns that I cherish. This post is not bragging; It identifies things for which I'm grateful.
Now, here are some reasons how New Year's Eve and Day were two of the best St. Louis Park days in years.
INT. Cub - afternoon
SUPER: New Year's Eve
Cub was a shitstorm and AMANDA was uber indecisive about whether to make a meat-n-cheese plate or chili-cheese dip--but that's cool. An old CRAZY GUY talked to himself in that salad bar area near customer service with little tables. Talked isn't quite a strong enough verb to describe his actions: It felt like he argued with himself, gesticulated, grumbled in some exotic, crazy guy tongue. Smelled like human pee.
Another DUDE about five feet away sat at a table a row over. He was minding his own business, probably just waiting for his wife to make up her mind about meat-n-cheese or chili cheese dip. Dude and I made eye contact. He looked at me as if to say, "My wife left me sitting here on New Year's Eve with this rambling, old, walking urine-machine. Take it in, boy. Every last detail. You'll be sitting here in my spot in fifteen years."
It was awesome.
INT. Amanda's Apartment - later
The Jerk was on. I watched and loved every minute of it, even the horrible editing-for-content. Censorship always makes things funnier anyway--the terrible dubbing of "Stupid" over "Shithead," the name of Navin's dog; the A.D.D. editing through the sex scene with the carnival's motorcycle dare devilress: "It's like a ride!"
It's interesting to see fewer scenes cut out as the years progress. For instance, near the second act climax, after Navin's established his wealth, the slum lords come to talk to him. They say they want to "keep the niggers out." Navin fumes and yells, "I am a nigger!" and in a most blacksploitational way, he wastes those sucka emcees. This was the first year of watching The Jerk that the censors didn't dubbed over "nigger" with something tamer. I'm not sure, but I think it's good progress (?). It took me an hour and half to iron my clothes while watching. Taking my sweet ass time. Fantastic.
And what would be on after The Jerk? What could possibly follow that up? The Wild--the Wild winning against the Canucks. We're currently three points out of the playoffs [Editor's note: Since then, the Wild have returned to their lukewarm efforts, placing them now seven points out of the playoffs.]. I know: We've played barely half the season so there's no need to get to prophetic about playoffs--especially since we'll probably screw it up anyway [Editor's note: Which we have.]. But it gives me reason to watch when they do well and reason to weep when they dump and play for overtime. Walz got a goal. My man. He's the third ugliest man in hockey behind him and him.
INT. Pokorny/Zinnel Residence - later that night
What a successful New Year's party. As far as parties go, there probably weren't enough people to classify as a party--not in Mankato terms, by any means. But it was our type of party. (Almost) every SLPeep we love and care for was there and other surprise guests. My jazz lab instructor from high school, the great Lance Strickland, showed up. Even though POKORNY hogged Lance all night (it was like two versions of the same person at different ages talking to each other for three hours straight), it was good to catch up with the man who had such a profound, musical impact on not just me but every SLP man-friend of mine. He was just as hilarious, lecherous, and energetic as ever--even in his early 60s.
As Lance mentally undressed our girlfriends, he said my favorite Lance Quote of the Night:
LANCE
(checks out TONIE)
"I've always said if we ever partied together, if you guys supplied the women I'd supply the drugs. It appears that I've failed in upholding my part of the deal."
EDLAVICH, an old friend/fellow musician who I hadn't seen in years, showed up too. In fact, we have him to thank for giving Lance the heads up for the party. A conversation between Edlavich and Lance is like a conversation between Woody Allen and Woody Allen.
Our party was semi-formal. Everyone looked beautiful and handsome. GRANT was all Reservoir Dogs sans black suit coat. KOELSCH and the lovely SARAH almost matched their reds. So cute, I could've crapped. STEFAN's belt buckle was a scrolling LED/LCD/whatever-the-fuck marquee that read, "Happy New Year. Get me a beer." In other words, his crotch lit up.
Grant revolutionized New Year's noise makers. Somehow, he could make his sound like a goose being fucked by Don Decker, [Editor's note: link not "work safe"], the most unsavory human I've ever had the (mis?)pleasure to meet. I might post the video I caught of the sound later if I ever finish this text. It's unreal. Disturbing. Addicting.
PAT was there with WES, my once or twice annual friend through Pat. Wes was fresh from Germany. I could smell the sausage and Spaten Optimater still clinging to his fancy German overcoat. It's always good to see Wes, especially when he doesn't get me plastered on E&J. I still can't drink brandy. It makes the chainlink scar on my leg ache.
Speaking of drinking, I drank three beers and about half a bottle of Freixenet Brut, a very comfortable amount. Stefan found a chocolate, coffee, milk beer called Viking. It had fancy foil around the top. Grant brought delicious Anchor Steam. I brought Redhook's Winter Hook which tastes like two boners--you know, metaphorically speaking. We all mixed and matched and drank champagne too. We smoked Backwoods cigars which are high-high-high end quality--as far as cigars behind gas station counters go. Actually, no they aren't. They're crap. They are campfire ash rolled in poo paper and I loved all three that I smoked. I think I can still taste them two days later [Editor's note: The taste has since subsided.].
INT. Car parked in lot - later that night
So I started a dumb argument. Someone ask, "how could that be a good thing?" Well, I thought Amanda was being overly critical of the way I brought all our stuff out to the car. She'd been overly critical all week so I just assumed... The alcohol gave me spunk to stand up for myself. Bad idea. She was more or less innocent this time, but she knew she'd been critical all week and we were both sorry and blah blah blah. So it was one of those arguments that turns out great 'cuz things get solved and you're way better off after the little argument than you were before. The only thing that could have topped this night off would be make-up sex, but by this time it was 4 a.m. While I'm just getting my second wind at this time, as you all know, Amanda is a vacuum [Editor's note: Huh?].
INT. Amanda's apartment - the next day
SUPER: Slight, manageable headache.
When I woke up at nine a.m. I could feel the previous night's party in my head but I knew the pain wouldn't last. I hate getting wasted. I hate hangovers. I hate that when it counts, I don't always avoid these hateful things. This year I had. Victory. I sent out a mass text-message to seven people, more or less asking if we were meeting for breakfast at 10 or, preferably, 11. I got only two responses:
STEFAN
11
and
MALISSA
No! Breakfast at ten. We are up.
Two opposing responses. No one else responded. Classic SLP communication.
INT. Calhoun Grill - later
This place is amazing! It's in Calhoun Village--not Calhoun square--near Lake Calhoun (hence all the Calhouns). I drank at least my own pot of their delicious, dark, hot coffee, and ate my weight in hash browns and 'sage links. It's a nice place inside: wide and roomy with earthy tones--perfect for Sunday mornings. Other patrons played Hearts, Spades, and/or Rummy while waiting for food. As for the waitresses, Amanda, Malissa, and CASSIE kept saying things like "I can see her entire midriff!" and "Omm...'i-god. Her pants are so low and tight, her ass would hang out if she bent over," and "Stop checking her out, Grant," etc.
INT. Stefan and Cassie's apartment - later that afternoon
Once Calhoun Grill's coffee made it clear I wouldn't be napping anytime soon, I decided Stefan, ZINNEL, and Grant needed to be introduced to Firefly. Thank you Sire, Pat, and Canham for initially trying to get me into the Fox series when it was on the air. I failed you then. Thank you, Sire, for trying harder and successfully getting me into the series with the DVDs. Firefly spawned the follow-up movie Serenity. Our tagline for Firefly is simple: Western Han Solo. If you don't get three boners from that tagline, you're much less dorky than we, and I'm sorry. If you get at least one boner, I assure you that both the series and movie are excellent. Watch them. Sire and I wish there was a young Han Solo prequel starring Nathan Fillion.
Anyway, we four watched the two-hour Firefly pilot episode plus the next two hour-long episodes. By the end of our mini-marathon, all of us had dubbed Adam Baldwin's character, Jayne Cobb, as our role model. My favorite Jayne quote:
JAYNE
Do you know what the chain of command is? It's the chain I beat you with until you understand who's in command here.
My fuckin' hero.
After Firefly, Stefan and Grant played Mario Tennis. Unlike other consoles, Nintendo is best at transporting the gamer to a bizarre world. Nintendo achieves this through it's unique sound and visuals. It's hard to explain to non-gamers or--gasp--the Great Unwashed Playstation Heathens, but there's a quality of sound that's specifically Nintendo. And just about any Nintendo title character game (your Marios, Zeldas, Metroids, etc.) is especially unique in its world that sucks you in. What I'm getting at: After less than 5 hours of sleep, a successfully nursed hang over, a pot-of-coffee high, coming down from said high, four hours of Firefly, and a world warp into Mario Tennis land, my head was more than a little swimming. It was awesome; what a unique feel these two days--and this day was just warming up like a heat lamp at Arby's--you're damn right that was a segue.
INT. Arby's - later
Amanda's gracious mother, MARY--Mary full of grace--decided all three of us needed more curly fries in our diet. Mary has taught me lots of things. This meal with her taught me that I should pay more attention to coupons. They saved us--well, her since she bought--buttloads of money. For instance, I discovered that Arby's has a Ruben, corned beef or turkey (a Rachel). Not only did one of Mary's coupons get me a free Ruben with the purchace of a Ruben combo (count 'em: two Rubens with Kraut , Swiss, and thousand island on marble rye), but the grammar of the coupon was so confusing that the employee didn't charge us for the initial Ruben in the combo. On top of this treat, other coupons got us two free orders of coooooookies. The amount of food we got could have fed four or five people (I counted as the 3rd, 4th, and 5th person with what I ate), all just for like $13. If Amanda and I go to Arby's, it usually costs us $13 without coupons. I love coupons, Mary, and kraut. The kraut wouldn't love me later, though--wow, I'm getting good at segues!
EXT. Nelson Park hockey rink - later that night
Our session of hockey that night might have been the best we've had ever. Finding ice has always been a problem, and this year's pathetic "winter" has yet again complicated things. We've gotten really good at producing high quality hockey on low quality ice. Cain and I have had some pretty bitchin' sessions over the years, with just ourselves and/or with RANDOM WARMING HOUSERS. The rest of the SLP chaps have only been playing with us about four years. Man, are they improving exponentially, especially considering more than a couple of them skated for the first time those four-ish years ago.
Before then, Cain and I would pray for random warming housers on our way to rinks. It seems those futile days of finding ice and players are finally behind us. Each of them has improved in all areas and found their own strengths:
Koelsch: I think I've developed into a pretty good passer; once Koelsch really finds his game, he'll put my passing to shame.
Dorn: He's got the hardest shot among us, I think. Perhaps as hard as Cain's if not harder.
Grant: His skating is as fluid as his home brew; he skates like Bourque: graceful arcs, wide-stanced.
Zinnel: There's really no place for stay-at-home-defensemen in warming house hockey. But if the pendulum should ever loose itself from offense and the concept of defense should become important again, Zinnel would be the Chelios of the house (Sire: "It's got... peppers... spoons... uhh... Yzerman... uhh... peppers...")--only Zinnel'd score more often since he's developing into a grinder-style offensemen too.
Pokorny: Remember in Bambi when the poor, hooved roadkill found ice? That's what Pokorny looked like his first year on skates. Not only can he turn now, he's as fast as 11 White Castle cheeseburgers through my digestive track. We'll work on his skate-stopping next season. Shit, I guess that means I'll have to learn how to skate-stop left.
Unity upkeep time: At one point I could feel the two Rubens from earlier debating with my stomach. The subject being debated was whether or not their relationship was really worth continuing. My stomach felt more than a little suffocated, as we all know that sorrow kraut has a co-dependent way clinging to stronger people. The good news is that my stomach is patient like oak and gave the kraut a second chance. In the end, the Rubens and my stomach gave birth to a litter of somewhat sickly and loud but otherwise happy, brown children [Editor's note: I'm sorry.].
That night, two HIGH SCHOOL KIDS showed up. A couple things stuck with me about them. First, they brought a girl who just stood there and watched. It struck me as incredibly high schoolsince there's no fucking way any of our girlfriends would give two shitz about watching us play hockey, even if we asked. Then again, these guys were way better than us, and perhaps would be more interesting to watch. I figured the girl and one of the dudes were newly attached and she was there to impress him with her interest in his playing. At least I hope that was the case: How lame would it be if she was asked or dragged to the rink? Poor girl. Idiot dudes.
Secondly, aside from those speculations, the two young fellows were fun to play with. High school hockey players are often bothersome. Our little band of old men are no match for anyone with official, organized training. This is obvious to most high school kids, I'd think, because they usually advertise their skill by wearing articles of high school hockey clothing; we advertise only our wish to stay warm. Pokorny's skinny, jeaned legs sticking out under his giant parka is one of my favorite winter sights. Also, most high school hockey players brush us off, not bothering to take any game with us seriously. They certainly don't pass to us.
These two were different. They knew etiquette: They knew that one should join the north-side team, and the other the south. They knew to keep the puck down for goals. They knew we were tired, old men. They knew we'd been playing for at least two hours by the time they got there. On top of being tired, I pointed out my broken skate blade, which was unfortunate but somehow it didn't kill the session. One of them was kind enough to advise me where to go to get my blade fixed. They were fresh with youthful energy--seemingly limitless, as I recall from my own stores before I--we all--discovered our limits. They covered each other when one had possession of the puck so we wouldn't have to try and keep up. They even passed to us. There were beautiful moments when either of our teams maintained possession in the offensive zone like a real team would: keeping the puck on the outside, drawning D-men away to create passing lanes, and not just connecting solid passes but finishing goals! As I said in the beginning of this section: It was perhaps the best session thus far. Furthermore, during our short rehydration breaks, these two kids played keep-away. In lulls of their own mini-game, they complimented each others' moves and learned--the way it should be; the way, I think, our own group has progressed so well.
Who'da thought that the very next night we'd have perhaps the worst session ever. I doubt very much the difference in temperature was more than five degrees. I guess that's all it takes. It was like playing hockey on an wide, flat snowcone. The terrible ice was more or less the only reason why this streak of amazing days didn't last longer. And I don't mean to say that my the rest of my days were dull. The point-by-point incremental greatness of these two days, however, stand out amongst the other merely great days. They are days the likes of which I can look forward to come summer. They are days to keep in the back of my mind while I enjoy entirely different types of great days in Mankato over my very last semester.
Mace...back and out
posted by Mason @ 3:56 AM
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