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The Hockey Frienemies

May 22nd, 2014

Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?

Ignorance is a hockey fan’s best friend. Not ignorance when it comes to what’s happening on the ice, although maybe it is for those of us in Toronto, but rather ignorance about what is happening in the personal lives of our favourite hometown heroes. We’ve all heard the stories, and if you haven’t, you’re lucky. You know, gang bangs, over doses mysteriously veiled as injuries, and despicable offseason recreation. As a coping mechanism, we’ve tried to put it out of our minds. Instead we let the stats do the talking, and take the players at their word (or tweet) when they claim that they are all “good guys.” We focus on the community service or the pucks they toss to the kiddies in the stands, and try not to notice every time they validate the rumours by posting douched-out photos of themselves with identical hoards of the kind of girls that don’t seem to amount to much more than 3 holes on 2 legs. No, hockey players definitely don’t need any help looking bad, but you may be surprised to learn that the people who make the players look the worst are the people who are the closest to them. I refer to these collective individuals as the Douche Crew or D-Crew for short.

When you meet a D-Crew member chances are all he can talk about are his buddies in the show or his close personal girl friends who have successfully fucked entire NHL teams. Cocaine, prostitution, and asshollery towards women are among the D-Crew’s favourite topics of conversation. I’ve often wondered why the players’ friends are the people who seem to care the least about their reputations. At first I theorized that the D-Crew attempts to tarnish their images as a form of cock-blocking. So, in the off chance that at some point you are in the same room with him and his NHL friends (and the right combination of music and alcohol had put you in the mood for some lovin’), then there would be no chance in hell that you would ever take one of them home with you over him. I thought this because, according to the D-Crew, hockey players treat women like this in bed:

1. The only time they dive is when they are trying to draw a penalty.
2. They are unwilling to last longer than 5 minutes because they only care about getting theirs.
3. They will pay you off to keep quiet and go away.

Sounds like a great time, huh ladies?

Anyway, the sad thing is that this particular theory seems a bit farfetched, and the reality makes me depressed about the state of our world. The truth of the matter seems to be that the D-Crew is actually living vicariously through the players, and the sleazier the players are the better life is for them. In the words of Sean Avery, they want their sloppy seconds, or I suppose, the girls that the players didn’t want at all. And we can’t forget that standing in close proximity to the spotlight is pretty damn flattering. They believe real living is getting as fucked up as possible, and that all women are the aforementioned tri-holes with a price tag. I wonder if they also view their mothers, sisters, daughters, and nieces in this light.

Here’s a recent argument to support this hypothesis. Since coming back to Canada, I’ve been trying to get out of my antisocial oasis and restore my faith in humanity by getting out as much as possible. Unfortunately, then this happened:

D-Crew Member: I heard about you and [Enter Player’s Name Here]. Why didn’t you nail him?

Me: I wasn’t attracted to him.

DCM: So?

Me: What do you mean so?

DCM: That shouldn’t matter.

Me: Uhh…well it does…

DCM: Why?

Me: Because I’m not attracted to him. I like to sleep with people I’m attracted to…???

DCM: But you could have been well compensated. You could have been set for life!

Me: Are you talking about prostitution now?

No matter what I said he didn’t believe me. He couldn’t get his mind around a woman who didn’t want to be paid off for sexual favours especially if they involved NHL players. I don’t think I’ve experienced such a stalemate in my entire life. I kept thinking about all the places I’ve been in the past 9 months: Saudi, Bahrain, UAE, Sweden, Turkey, France, The Netherlands, Egypt, USA, and Canada 2x. I went on more trips in those 9 months than many people will do in their lifetime! It doesn’t get better than that! And I was (and am) horrified by the fact that there are people out there who think that no matter how good my life is, I still somehow need to debase myself in order to leech off of an NHL player, or anyone for that matter, just because I am a woman and we are all the same. What can an NHL player give me that I can’t give myself? More shoes, perhaps? Because, as you already read, they “purposely suck in bed” according to the D-Crew, so they can’t even give me that!

Anyway, ignore this unstructured rant. I’m “writing” to try to make sense of this whole thing. My happiness in hockey is always tied to focusing as little as possible on the underbelly of the game, and frankly I’ve been shaken up again due to my last encounter with the D-Crew. I wasn’t even back in the country for 3 days before the D-Crew ruined all the progress I had made to come out of my antisocial oasis. Now, as I watch the playoffs, I can’t help but both loathe and pity all the guys on the ice. Because if life and love for them is really as the Douche Crew describes it, then that is one of the most tragic things I’ve ever heard, and I’d give them all a hug if I could, as long as they promised not to get too handsy.

As for the D-Crew, well, they may be the saddest characters of all. They are always in the shadow of their NHL friends, and that seems to have messed them up quite a bit. I remember another unfortunate time I had encountered a D-Crew member. He actually propositioned me by offering to wear his friend’s jersey in bed. I said no, obviously, but I wonder how many girls actually viewed this guy as a “stepping stone” and went for it. Anyway, I still don’t know what to believe in this whole thing, but one thing is painfully true for NHL players – with friends like these, they definitely don’t need enemies.

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Olympic Break Syndrome

February 23rd, 2014

Are you a lucky little lady in The City of Light, or just another lost angel?

Paris, France Paris syndrome is a condition that claims a handful of Japanese tourists in The City of Light every year. If you haven’t noticed, Paris is the world’s most obsessed over and romanticized city. The Eiffel Tower is plastered on clothing and other tacky paraphernalia, along with putrid hearts and kissing children in old fashioned outfits, in shops across the continents. It’s hard not to get sucked into all the propaganda, and set unrealistic expectations for your first foray into Parisian life. However, suffering a disappointment over a vacation gone wrong is one thing, but being flat out obliterated psychologically is quite another.

Apparently, in Japan at least, Paris is regarded as the most romantic and most fashionable city in the world. And the tourists from my former island home are completely destroyed mentally when they discover that, for the most part, Paris is not dripping with romance, but rather a cold, unfeeling concrete jungle, inhabited by, not fashion models, but haggard looking chain-smokers, who just happen to dress the same as everyone else. Yep… modelizing will kill you in the end!

Anyway, apparently those dozen or so tourists, that fall victim to Paris syndrome, actually have to be rehabilitated, and may even need a medical professional to accompany them on their flights back to Nippon. Maybe it sounds silly, but for those who possess the island mentality, leaving Japan in the first place was probably a huge deal, and, I suppose, discovering the harsh and unromantic reality of Paris is understandably devastating. No, they didn’t go to Paris and fall in love. In fact, they went to Paris and were probably treated quite poorly, especially being a visible tourist. Even I stuck out. Everyone I met thought I was from Spain, but that’s the case wherever I go in Europe. Plus, the Japanese come from an excessively polite society, so Parisian abrasiveness is likely shocking to them. I’m over this now, but I remember heading down to New Jersey for a couple Devils games during one of my breaks in Japan, and actually being shocked by the way people were treating me and each other. Now I probably wouldn’t even notice it or think anything was wrong with it.

Luckily, I didn’t have high expectations of Paris. Since I still suffer from antisocial oasis syndrome, any romantic ideals a younger me may have had of Paris are simply not applicable. Since I still regard pretty much everyone as modelizers, I regard pretty much everyone as being beneath me and unworthy (I didn’t say I was sane!). See, I equate the superficiality attached to modelizing with a lack of substance, which I associate with a lack of intelligence, which I then associate with a lack of manhood, which I, of course, equate with a complete and total lack of penis and playoff beard growing hormones. So, really, I have about as little interest seeing a modelizer naked as he does seeing me naked. Heaven knows I’ve seen enough of those little-to-no dicks for one lifetime. Anyway, obviously looking for anything, let alone LOVE, in Paris was definitely not on my to-do list this time around.

Plus, I was only in Paris because all the major hockey leagues in the world were on hiatus due to the dreaded Olympics. Seriously, I feel like the Vancouver games JUST ended! Where has my life gone?!?!

Four years ago, I probably droned on about how much I loathe the Olympics, and I STILL do. You know how I feel about people, and well, happiness… Frankly, I don’t care for it. People get so excited and bandwagony during the Olympics, and my Facebook and Twitter timelines get flooded with what I can only describe as uberdouching. The whole thing makes we wish I had 14 arms, so I had an extra dozen wrists to slit. The one silver-lining to the dark cloud that is the Winter Olympics is the hockey, and well, curling, if we’re being honest. But even then… uberdouching. Ohhh, you had to get up at 7AM (ON A SUNDAY) to watch the gold medal game? Poor babies. Last time I checked, I get up between 1 and 3AM everyday to watch regular season NHL hockey. And, yes, I mean get up! Once I finish my 3 hour game time workout, I shower and go to work. No naps! Pissing contest = over. Anyway, at least it’s nice to get a few games in while the rinks across Europe and North America go dark to mourn the arrival of that five-ringed bastard. Unfortunately, the few hockey games that were on, were not available in the so-called City of Love.

Oh, France. How hard is it to show a little hockey? Very hard, apparently, if hockey is on at the same time as figure skating that is! Ok, I get that not all countries like hockey as much as we do in Canada, but seriously, FIGURE SKATING! It’s not that I think it’s ridiculous or that the skaters aren’t well oiled machines, it’s just that the whole sport is so corrupt, how can anyone even take it seriously when the judges clearly don’t?! Anyway…

I didn’t mind the lack of hockey so much when Canada wasn’t playing. I decided Paris was a good place to finally dive into that Downton Abbey series (oh, yes). Maybe this sounds wasteful to you, but you have to remember I wasn’t actually traveling with touristy intentions. This trip was purely to GTFOS (Get The @#$% Outta S****) and go to a place where I was free to walk the streets alone and uncovered, order a champagne cocktail or two if I wanted, and eat plenty of bacon! However, when Canada was playing, that was another story.

I remember one particularly bad day. It had been raining, and I had been out walking my usual 15 miles a day up and down the city. After a few days of this, I was finally starting to become aware of the hockey void. My days seemed pointless and I was kind of lost without having hockey games to plan my life around. My one solace was knowing that I wasn’t technically wasting my time in Paris because the major leagues in Sweden, Russia, and the Czech Republic were all on vacation. But, my trip still seemed incomplete.

Anyway, I decided that this was the day, or rather night, that I was finally going to watch an entire Olympic game from start to finish. I didn’t care what the bar was like, or whether it was deserted or depressing. I just needed a screen! As I was on the hunt, I happened to glimpse Sidney Crosby from a TV inside one of the bars. So, I darted in and plopped myself down in front of my own private screen away from all the other peasants and modelizers attending the establishment. I was so excited to just be watching hockey at a reasonable hour, that I ordered pretty much everything on the menu. Then something went horribly wrong. As the buzzer sounded to end the first period, the coverage cut over to the toe pick brigade – never to return. Let’s just say I wasn’t above cancelling whatever hadn’t been served of my order and immediately getting the fuck outta there!

Now that the Olympics are finally over, and hockey-as-usual is set to resume, I worry about my level of involvement in the game for the remainder of the 2013-14 season. My next vacation is in 3 weeks, and as much as I want to get back to European hockey, it’s incredibly difficult to plan a full blown hockey voyage around inconsistent “if necessary” playoff games. There’s nothing worse than getting on a 6 hour flight, only to discover that there is no hockey to actually watch once you land. I don’t know what to do or where to go!!! Of course, I likely will not be back in North America until the 3rd round of the NHL playoffs either… so, yeah. Can the the Leafs hang on that long? I’m going with no.

P.S. How sad is it that I consider a 6 hour flight to be short?!

P.P.S. Click here for photos from Paris and life in my antisocial oasis.

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