There is a light that never goes out…
Buffalo, NY We love to throw the term “die-hard” around when we talk about our passion for a particular sport or team, but when it comes down to it, can any of us really say we are willing to die for a hockey game? According to my drama queen of a mother, the Panthers/Sabres game last week was the game I was willing to risk it all for…
Umm… not quite.
“So I guess you could say you would die for hockey” she texted me without being facetious. My mother, although young and much less clingy when I was born, is growing progressively more protective as she gets older. No lie, she texts me personal questions every time I get off a plane in the Middle East to determine whether or not I’ve been kidnapped (seriously). If I respond to her questions in a hostile manner and with no less than one F-bomb, then she knows I’m safe.
Anyway, during my brutally extensive visa medicals last year, my doctor uncovered some unpleasant things. Some things weren’t serious, like when my liver function test came back with startling results the first time around. Apparently, as I would learn, torn muscles from a reckless beer league game followed by immediate golf tournament will yield the same results as those of a failing liver. However, some things were not so excusable.
So I went to the Middle East knowing I should probably do something about it, but doing something like that in a country like this was more than a little complicated. I wasn’t all that motivated either. Deep down I felt like nothing was wrong. I convinced myself that the move had stressed me out to the point of affecting my health. But, for the first time in my life, I have NO stress. Living here is surprisingly easy, so I figured my sudden stress-free life was enough to fix me. Plus I lost 24 lbs from all those 3AM puck drops at the gym, so I figured that must have been good for something, too.
I hope it’s a little more clear why I was so quick to call the whole thing off once the hospital revealed that the ONLY day they could see me was game day in Buffalo. It’s not like I was trying to bring new meaning to the term “die-hard,” I just thought the whole thing was ridiculous. If it was a Leafs game day, then maybe, but on a game day that requires travel, and dickheaded border guards (Yep, had another one of those, “WHY DO YOU TRAVEL SO MUCH?!!!!!!”), well, let’s just say I’d rather not get hacked up to pieces that morning.
Alas, I agreed to be sliced and diced under the one condition that I was waltzing out of that hospital at 11AM whether they were done with me or not. Luckily, I was out of there long before that, but the whole experience definitely ruined my game day. I looked like shit, I felt like shit, and I had to go to Buffalo.
The game wasn’t all bad despite the fact that the tickets I ordered weren’t the tickets I received, so I was sitting in the wrong place! One thing that amazed me was that Steve Ott scored his 100th NHL goal that night. You see, from my anti-social oasis in the desert that I mentioned in another post, I was under the impression that NHL players only score goals when they are showing off for the models they are trying to stick their dicks into. I can’t imagine any model going to Buffalo, so *gasp* can some hockey players still do their jobs without the incentive of trying to get a stick insect into bed?
Maybe this is just a “thing” in those beach markets where bikini models are plentiful. And, I suppose, if you aren’t a real professional and DO require a token dime-a-dozen bl-odel (blonde model pronounced blahhhh-del) or two to be in attendance at your games, then an easy solution is to ensure that the local model population eats up all the free tickets the players have available. Surely, there aren’t any underprivileged children or “wounded warriors,” or what have you that are deserving of a free ticket surplus. And, yeah, models definitely don’t get enough free shit in their lives… “Thaaaaaaaaaanksssss #SOBLESSED.”
Anyway, thank you, Steve Ott, for reminding me that the NHL isn’t officially the National Modelizer League just yet. There’s just one thing I don’t understand. If the modelizers of the league can just switch on their talent whenever a model comes to watch, why the fuck don’t they bother to turn it on all the time?! They clearly know how. But, yeah, don’t mind me, I’m just bitter because nobody scores goals for me #NOTBLESSED.
As you can see I was in no mood for superficial bullshit that night (or now). And did I mention I was still jet-lagged? But I suppose I should have been happy. The doctors seemed to think my little problem was a false alarm. “It’s like when the alarm goes off at the airport, it doesn’t always mean you have a gun.” (I wish I did, so I could shoot myself re: modelizers) So, I guess cheating death yet again is a good thing. Or is it?
Before attempting to relay this story to you, I tried to put myself in your shoes. For some reason, I have it in my head that you are all sane, rational people, who come to this site to marvel at the train wreck, but perhaps some of you are just as fucked up as I am. I’ll never know. But, anyway, I tried to imagine what you would do if you were told you have a serious health problem. I feel like many of you would drop everything and do something about it because everyone seems to think that long life is a good thing. For people like me, however, long life seems more like a curse. How do I picture myself old? Uhh… not good. Alone for one. If you didn’t get married, have children, grandchildren, then what happens to you at the end? The outlook is bleak. So, yeah, a hockey game is a lot more fun than actually giving a fuck.
Blazing through the world is great, really, but one day you will wake up and you’ll be old, and nobody will want to fuck you anymore. Wouldn’t it be so much better if it didn’t get to that? That’s what people like me secretly hope for – an early death just as we start to slow down or, the alternative, some miraculous lightning bolt that jolts us into finding our place in the mundane. But, even if I was to give up the world and settle into one place, it still doesn’t solve the lineage issue.
It’s easy to be alone when you aren’t lonely, but it’s not hard for that aloneness to become habitual, especially when you’re the type of person who would never settle for anything or anyone. It’s even harder when you’re in your little anti-social oasis and basically view 99% of the male population as modelizers and neanderthals due to the internet. Plus, most of us have outlasted our friends, and have seen them get chained to some questionable or hasty decisions made in their youth. We tell ourselves that we’ll never let that happen to us, but deep down the cynic in us tells us that eventually we will all suffer the same unfortunate fate if we take that path to the altar.
I suppose there is always the fantasy, though. The idea that someday, somehow, somewhere my path will cross with a guy slightly less insane than I, who is man enough to want to follow me through the perilous mists of my lonely planet. I have even convinced myself that this time will be different, and I will be intelligent enough to recognize his one-in-a-billion-ness and not simply use him up as yet another one of my many “for nows.” And if by some miracle, a girl like me really can change her ways, I might actually be moved to extend my hand to his – not to pull him into the fog, but rather to let him pull me out.