Plastered in Paris

Oh this is sure some kinda donkey doodoo – but what can I say. I’ve been out of it for a while and it’s gonna take a while for it all to come back, ehh.

You guys just need to hang on while I find a purpose for my being again. All I can say is that is that some where along the way I’m gonna be walking with wood again.

I’m getting a lot of my strength back – I think anyway – not real sure how much strength I had before the little boo-boo to my brain and hardshell skull. But the Hon says that I am and I ain’t about to fight with her over it, ehh. If she says it then it must be fact.

She told me last week that I’ve been talking in my sleep – talking some shit she says and usually it’s about hockey. So she sat me down last Saturday and tells me that we’ve got to dig into this. Get to the root of the changes in my sleep habit. So she got the doctor to order a sleep study. It got approved right away and I had a sleep-over for the study on Tuesday night. Oh and let me tell you guys – sleep studies are some kinda nuts.

The Hon drops me off at the sleep-over clinic at around 9:30 pm. I’ve got some jams with me, my favorite pillow and a paperback. They get me signed in, show me to my room and the bed I’m going to sleep in. I get into my jams and the technician comes in and puts twenty-four different probes on me. These wired up little do-hickies are stuck on my head, up my fool nose, on my chest, shoulders and legs. And I’m expected to sleep. Are they nuts or what?

I don’t think I slept a wink but in the morning I had to fill out a survey about my dreams. I was drawing a complete blank so part of the program was that I had agreed to an injection of fast acting sodium pentothal and their direct questioning if this occurred.

Nuts!

I really hate shots. But I had agreed to do this I guess, so off to the world of absolute subjected honesty.

They had to videotape this whole truth serum thingy and than provide me with a copy afterwards – otherwise I wouldn’t be able to relate any of the following shit to you. Apparently there is some amnesiac drug included in the serum, ehh.

Let me fill ya in on what transpired. Ya might find it just as stupid as I did.

Ok, so they start out asking me some simple questions like what is my name, how old I am and than dig a little deeper asking more personal questions to confirm my subjection to the concoction that they loaded me up with.

The tech, I’ll call her Joan, finally gets around to asking dream questions.

“Mr. Wheats do you remember dreaming last night?”

“Ahh … yup … sure”, I responded.

“Did you have more than one dream Mr. Wheats?” Joan quizzed me.

“Two vivid ones and a couple of maybe little snips of others. Oh and call me Wheats or Jasper, please, I really don’t like being called mister anything. Sounds too stuffy for me, like I might have my head stuck up my ass or something. Just don’t like it. Ok?”

“Ok, Jasper, I’ll make an effort to be more casual, though it goes against the professional nature of this study. Now let’s go over the first dream that you’ve remembered.” She made a couple of marks on the papers she had attached to a clipboard and looked over at me still sitting in my jams on the edge of the bed and said “Was this dream in color or black and white?”

“By golly” I said, “it for fuckin sure was in color! My dreams have been in color since the seventies. That’s when I used to do all them psychedelics. Whoa baby, those were some crazy times, ehh. How about you Joanie girl? You get colors too?”

She made another mark on the clipboard. “Mr. Wheats”, cleared her throat and continued “I mean Jasper, this session is about you not me. You need to keep your responses restricted to only what I ask. There is no need for you to divulge your personal history to me. Ok? Is this clear?”

“Um-huh. Sure. I gotcha.” Damn if I’m not smiling ear to ear in the video.

Ok, Jasper, back to the dream. Was it a good dream? Happy, fun, enjoyable? Or a bad dream? Scary, fearful, intimidating – maybe a nightmare?”

I responded really quick like, didn’t even have to think. “It was fun and exciting but I was scared in the end. It was a hockey dream and I got hurt.”

“Fun, exciting and scary? Was it a nightmare Jasper? Your heart rate and brain activity during your first REM was highly accelerated during this dream. That would indicate to us that it was possibly a nightmare. You also started making verbal attempts during this dream. It came out sort of like ehh, ehh, ehh on several occasions.”

“Sure, sure … maybe it was a nightmare. I was talking huh?” I said.

“Yes, you were trying to talk and yes we believe that this dream could be classified as a nightmare. Tell me some more about the dream. Were you in the dream?” she quizzed again.

“Oh yeah, I was in the dream. You can bet your bippy I was.”

“And where were you?”

“I was in Paris. Paris, France. Everything in the background was like from a Monet painting. So yeah, I’m pretty sure it was Paris where I was at.”

Joan now asked, “Have you ever been to Paris, Jasper?”

“Nope. Canada and Mexico a few times each. And Texas, too, a whole bunch of times if that counts.”

“Mr. Wheats, try to stick to the questions or we’ll be here all day. OK? Now what was the dream about? Was it sexual? The recordings indicated that you were aroused during this dream.” What can you tell me?

“Aroused? Hah, I had boner, ehh? No shit? What do ya know. The Hon will appreciate knowing that I can still get some wood after my brain injury, ehh. Whacha think Joan? She’ll be happy, huh?”

I couldn’t believe I was talking this shit – must be the meds making me a smidgen uninhibited.

“Yes, Mr. Wheats. Those are the indications but I can’t speak for you wife. Now back to the dream please.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. I was playing hockey. You know, ice hockey. I was playing in a game in the NHL for the LA Kings. Over in France. We were playing against the Islanders. I remember that Butch Goring was coaching the Islanders with John Lennon and Mick Jaeger as his assistants. Crazy – they aren’t even bitched up in hockey like Goring is. And me. I’m playing defense with some French-Canadian dude that I couldn’t understand. But he looked just like Kurt Russell in Big Trouble in Little China. The movie, you know. My Dad was coaching the Kings and Rogie Vashon was our goalie coach. But he was all geared up and would jump up on the bench and jump up and down yelling at us in French and broken English. It was crazy but we were wearing our purple, black and white jerseys; but Rogie was in the old gold and purple uniform. He looked like one of those wind-up toy gorilla’s or monkey’s that spank cymbals together. You know?”

At this point she broke in and interrupted my recollection of the dream.

“Is ice hockey important to you, Jasper?”

“Oh, fuck yeah it is. Nothing but the best!”

“And these people in your dream, are they significant in some way to you?” she asked me.

“Well, my dad for sure is. And Kurt played the part of Herb Brooks, the Olympic hockey coach in that movie Miracle. And Butchie, he’s one of my all time favorite hockey heroes. And Rogie, well, my brothers named their dog after him when they were kids. Jaeger and Lennon – I don’t know about them. No real significance that I can think of. There’s other rock stars that I like better.”

This is kinda cool. I never remembered a dream with such vividness ever before. This cocktail that they shot me up with is something else.

Joan’s making her marks on the sheet and asks me “Do you feel that because your dad was the coach that this reflects his continued control over you?

Without a second of thought I snapped “Naw, ya gotta be friggin kiddin. He’s like a best bud. Been that way for years and years.”

“Ok, continue with what you remember of this dream.”

“Well, I’m still playing in the Paris hockey game, right. I don’t know who any of my other teammates are but we’re going about the business of playing. Skating, passing, shooting, getting in position, checking, getting checked. Being winded and being exhilarated. Resting on the bench. Yelling and getting yelled at. You know regular hockey stuff.”

“Jasper, were there people or fans watching the game? Did you see them?”

I had to think for a minute on that. “No, I don’t remember anybody watching us. I don’t remember looking into the stands at all. It was all on the ice. Inside the rink, you know.”

“Ok, continue”, she said.

“I get a shift with my partner and we seemed to be caught up in some turmoil deep in the opposing zone. All five of us are along my boards and the gloves are off. The Islanders are mixing it up with us. Right now I don’t know what started it but my feelings are that it was something I did. I got one guy holding me from behind with one arm around my neck; sort of in a chokehold. And some guy with fists the size of hams just pounding the shit outta my face. In between blows I can see the guy swinging on me is Keith Tkachuk. He skates for the Blues, not the Islanders. But what the fuck – it doesn’t seem to matter. Right? Ok, so I’m just getting absolutely plastered in Paris and I can’t get a punch in even sideways, ehh. This is the part of the dream that is both exciting and scary. Scary because nobody seems to be breaking up the donnybrook and I can’t even defend myself. This is pretty bad. I can feel every blow that lands on my face. I can taste the blood in my mouth and see it running through my eyes.”

She interrupts again, “So this was pretty violent at this point?”

“Well yes,” I respond, “but normally not in real life. Just exciting there. But here in the dream I can’t use my friggin arms. Right? So that’s what’s scary. Being incapacitated is scary but the fight is just normal old time hockey – no more violent that usual – but violent yes, I guess just the same if your not used to it.”

“At this point, reaching what you describe as the scary part”, she asks, “did the dream come to a conclusion? Did it end?”

“Shit no! Rogie jumped off the bench, skated over to the fracas and straight-arm slugged the bastard that was pounding me right in the back of his neck with his blocker, smacking his head right into the jerk holding me and they both dropped like a cow drops pies. I slipped out of the whole mess, picked up the puck skated toward the slot and threw into the Islanders’ net and we won the game. Completely illegal, but I won the game, shit for sure. That’s how the dream ended. Yup. What else do ya want to know?”

Joan was marking away on her clipboard, looked at her watch and said that I’d be coming out of the drug fairly soon and we’d have to end the session with just a study of the one dream.

“You were probably trying to talk in your sleep while you were getting beat up. I’ll give this report to the clinic’s doctors and they’ll make an evaluation. It looks like you might need some psychiatric help here, though. I’d say that you’re probably nuts Mr. Wheats, but I’m only a technician and, oh my goodness, I probably shouldn’t have told you that, I guess.”

Joan was surely disturbed over that faux pas. It didn’t bother me in the littlest little bit. I kinda appreciated the acknowledgement of my disposition, ehh.

So anyway, I’m waiting for the diagnosis from the docs and whatever follow-up might be required. Patience, they say is a virtue. I can wait. And the Hon is satisfied that I had this looked into. She’s not to worried about me being nuts – as far as she’s concerned I already was when I fell for her.

Jasper here, just walking with wood again, maybe.

Hockeyweenie 2008

For gosh sakes, its Halloween, and I haven’t done shit since I last wrote a tale the week after I got out of the hospital. I’m tellin ya, I’m being a real weenie. Don’t let anybody tell ya that a coma doesn’t just fuck ya up just real good. It has been the absolute shits, like you can’t believe.

So after I wrote the last little tale for ya, I passed out for about eighteen or nineteen hours. The Hon thought that I might a slipped right back into a coma again. Worried her somethin silly I guess. Ehh? Don’t blame her, whadja expect?

All in all, they say I’m getting better. I’ve got a lot of strength to regain though. My musculature just atrophied something horrible. I lost over forty pounds while I was in the deep sleep. I look like Ichabod Crane and aged something like Rip Van Winkle in those two months.

That little chunk of my skull lodged in my left temporal lobe and the doctors decided that it would be best to leave it there rather than cause more damage trying to remove it. They said that the swelling in the area went down about two weeks after I was hit by the puck.

Motor skills seem to be ok but I have a really hard time remembering the right words to use and the names of people. The Hon said that she had to edit my last story after I wrote it and before it got published on the internet. I guess she’ll have to continue to do this – don’t know if I’ll ever get my smarts back again.

The medical folks tell me that if I’d a had the same damage on the right side that it might have put a damper on my sex drive or the reverse made me less inhibited. Far as I can tell I’m still the same old horndog that I ever was – so they must know what they’re talking about.

One thing that the Hon and Wayno noticed right away was that I always was calling Wayno as Wayno instead of D-Pity like I had always had before. It’s weird, they say, cuz only his family and people that don’t know him real well call him by Wayno. Oh, I hope I get the hang of it again.

Like I said though, it’s Halloween and the kids’ll be out trick or treating tonight if the weather holds up ok. Could snow or something before the weekend’s over. The Hon picked up some candy in case anybody comes out this far out of town, but I mainly think she’s bought it for me.

I use a walker to get around cuz I’m still feeling so damn weak. A couple of months ago I was out playing hockey with the guys and now I’m just a fool hockeyweenie. I can spit a damn site further than I can kick shit right now. I’m telling you I’m so damn far from walking with wood this very moment that if ya lined up a thousand folks for a pickup game I’m sure I’d be the very last old pucker that’d get picked.

You guys, this really sucks.

And this cabin of ours – crap-a-ninnie. It sure is heck wasn’t designed for a friggin invalid. We’ve got some nice decorative switch plates on the walls for the lights and I fumble like crazy trying to just find the switch. And our swell furniture, if I sit down on the couch I don’t hardly have the strength to get back up. I’m always yelling for the Hon to help me.

Shit, she helped down into my new basement one day and we both decided that it would be easier to get back upstairs by going outside and traversing the hill rather than using the stairs. And then when I was down there I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t get the walker into my secret tunnel to the barn. Guess I won’t be attending any meetings of the Outlaws secret Crossed Sticks Society anytime soon, ehh.

Twistin and turnin in the house and down the hallway is just a pain in the ass. We’ve just got way too much shit that needs to be rearranged. The Hon says that I can do that when I get better. Damn she makes me mad! Then she says she’s just gonna leave things the way they are to motivate me.

Motivate me! My ass!

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Thank God she’s here though. I just about can do a fair job of wiping my own ass finally. But I still have to call her to help me get up off the crapper. It’s been kind embare-assing if ya know what I mean.

So, I’ve been veggin here at home in the cabin. Friends come by once in a while to check on me and try to keep me up todate. Bronzie and Stinky are running the team for me and Wayno, I mean D-Pity, comes by to watch games with me.

Sure glad it’s hockey season, ehh. The NHL has been putting games on two different channels this year, Versus and some new one on Comcast. But shit am I sick of watching the Flyers and Penguins play. It seems as though either one of those two teams are in two out of three games. My Favorite team the LA Kings have only been televised once so far in my neck of the woods. I guess I really had better quit complaining cuz beggars can’t be choosers.

Ehh?

Someone’s at the door and I can’t get my ass out a this chair. Probably a little Freddie Krueger or maybe Jason with his hockey mask on. Could be a George Bush or a little princess. Don’t know. The Hon’ll have to let me know.

You guys have a good time tonight, ehh!

Skate hard, stir the pot a little, and don’t get caught with your head down.

Jasper here, til next time.

(Oh, by the way – the Hon says this is just one damn depressing story – I better get better real damn quick and write something funny.)

A Lert

So what’s a lert?

Sure, it’s a really stupid question that we used to ask when we were kids after Mom would tell us to be alert.

“Be a lert!” she’d scream at us.

Dabnabit. I didn’t even know what a lert was so how in the world was I supposed to know how to be one. My older sisters must have known cuz they didn’t get yelled at half as much me and my younger siblings did.

About the time that Jingles and Bronzy had started playing hockey it become sort of a family joke. She and Dad would be standing along the boards behind the fishnet and she’d yell at them “Keep your head up and be alert!” and then laugh a little or pat Dad on the back. Jingles had a habit of looking at his skates and Bronzy was usually playing with much bigger kids so the advice was not only, by then, a bit funny but also some good hockey advice.

Of course there were kids that I’ve coached and guys that I’ve played with that used another phrase of similar ilk (yeah, like I never used it myself) when appealing to a ref for his lack of a lertness – “Pull your head out Ref!!!” Kids will get a trip to the box for that shit.

Anyway.

Look you guys. I woke up about a week ago.

I mean, I woke up about a week ago and not from an overnight sleep. Not from a nap. Not from a lapse of attention. But, sheeesh, from a friggin ding-dang coma.

And my first bit of awareness was thoughts of Mom yelling at me to be alert.

No, she had not visited me in the hospital and said that to me in my unconscious state. She’s been up in heaven for few years now, bless her soul. But her memory and lessons live on and apparently quite heavily in my twilight subconscious.

Pretty weird, ehh? Kinda spooky if you ask me.

Does anybody have a take on this kinda crap? I’m mean, I’m sort of curious if she wasn’t, like communicating with me from the other side or something.

Your now asking, “Jasper how in the world didja end up in a freakin coma?” Right?

Well, I don’t remember any of this. It was related back to me by the good folks that have stopped by to visit since I woke up.

The medical staff said that I kind of waivered for a few hours coming out it. I moved a little vigorously they said and nodded back out. Then a bit later I moved again and wretched out of my dry throat “Honey could ya get me another cold one.”

Yup, thinking about being a lert and needing a brewski. Some would probably say that that’s just natural Wheat’s instinct – some sort of traditional family response kind of thing. I don’t know.

So the nursing aid called the honey and she came down right away. I guess I kind of waivered in and out for about a day or so. What I do remember was that the honey looked a wreck. My condition had just about put her away too.

I came home from the medical facility two days ago and can’t talk real well yet but I can punch this laptop keyboard ok I guess. (You guys wouldn’t have been able to read this if I hadn’t done some editing and typo correcting – “The Honey”) They moved me out of the hospital after about two weeks to a minimal care facility cuz of my insurance coverage. Seems as though the company I worked for went under while I was out of it. Guess they couldn’t function without me and our insurance coverage kind of went on the light side.

She’s filled me in on a lot, but so has Jingles, Bronzy, Stinky and Wayno. They were all with me when it happened.

I guess I wrote last about Wayno coming back to town, wealthier than shit. Right? Yup the dude’s for sure walking with wood. Do you recall that he had gotten better at hockey since I had last seen him? Hmmm. Let’s see, he had really sucked, but when he found me at Culla’s that night he claimed he was pretty good now, had taken lessons, been to hockey camps and had played all over the world. Ehh?

Me, being the way I am, I had taken that all with a grain of salt. But apparently the next evening, Wayno had called me at the cabin and said he had rented the rink for a couple of hours and could I get a hold of enough guys real quick like to ice some pickup. Curious about his skills, I was game and put some calls out to the Outlaws and the kids I coach on the Nightmare. I didn’t make all the calls but asked the ones I did call to call others.

At nine o’clock we had a good turn out with around twenty of us and three goalies. It was about an even split between kids and old farts so we decided skate that way. Wayno told me that those kids skated great and gave me kudos for their development. It’s not important but those kids were whooping our asses. Wayno said it was blast.

Jingles said that he was playing defense with me, he on the right and me covering left when Stinky lost the puck at the blue line on a breakout. Wayno said he was playing a sleeper out near their blue line so was completely out of the play. Stinky took a big sweeping old fart curve to get back into the play while the kid that stole the puck moved towards the boards on Jingles’ side. He passed cross ice to a kid that was just crossing into the zone. Bronzy shifted over towards him while Jingles dropped back into the right side of the high slot trying to stay with the kid that had made the pass. Meanwhile this big kid, I can’t remember any of their names (the doc said I might always have this problem now) was parked in front of our net and I was trying to move him. The kid crossing the blue line took a one-timer that Bronzy unfortunately got his shaft on. It gave it more loft with no loss of speed. The big oof in front of the net shoved back and I turned right into the slapper. The puck, apparently, hit me below my helmet on my left ear and skull as I was reacting and turning away from the shot at the last instant. It dropped me like a sack of potatoes as the puck jammed a small chunk of my skull into my brain.

I was out. I mean way out and I stayed in that fool coma for almost two months. What a weenie I’ve been, ehh.

Yup, out for two months and now awake for a week.

SHIT! What in the world did you guys let happen while I was out of it?????

Paul Newman passed away. Goodby Reggie, we'll miss you.

The NHL’s season just started for 2008/2009. That’s good.

The Republican Party’s got a hockey mom as their vice-presidential candidate. That’s good. And she’s attractive in glasses besides. That’s good again.

But what the HEY did you guys do to the economy? The honey says that our cabin and our woods are worth about half of what they were before I got bashed in the ear. And Wayno’s been working with her reviewing our savings and retirement accounts and he figures that their combined value has dropped like forty-seven percent or something in this same freaking time frame. This is so not good.

Not good! Not good! This is really bad. No job and an economy that sucks. Maybe I’m still in a coma, ehh?

Dudes and dudettes – that’s the shit that happens when you’re not being a lert!

New season, new start. Skate hard and keep your heads up, ehh!

Jasper here ‘til next time.

Well Ain't That a Damn Pity

It’s been a heck of a busy week. Work and all just kickin my ass. I hadn’t had a planned day off in over a year until I finally took a vacation day Friday, giving me a four day weekend.

Dabnabit if I didn’t deserve it. ‘Specially now as it’s coming to a close here on Monday night.

Ehh? You guys agree? Right?

OK, so it’s sort of like the end of the summer too. Just means hockey season is around the corner then. That’ll be some good shit to get that going again.

The honey and me went for pizza and beer Friday night. Went to an end of the summer country music concert in the park on Sunday and just kicked it easy today and Saturday. I tell ya, me and the honey danced our little drunken asses off this summer with those concerts in the park with some damn fine music, friends and family. Love our little cultural community if ya know what I mean.

Now, Thursday night if I didn’t have just one surprising evening.

I told the honey that I was gonna stop into Culla’s to watch the end of the game on my way home. Last of the pre-season, and the Vikings let the Cowboys take it away 10 to 16. Shit! Well they’ve got all season to make amends, ehh.

Culla’s ain’t such a bad little hole in the wall. I been going there since the ‘70’s – back when you could get a pitcher of draft for sixty cents and a pickled egg for a dime. Damn if prices haven’t changed over the years – sheeeet! To say the least. The bar had to move twice since back then due to municipal construction. But the beer’s just as damn good – same with the pickled eggs and all the new shit you can get there now.

Culla passed away a long time ago now and her grandson runs the place. He’s put in some big sports screens in three of the corners and one behind the bar – so there ain’t a bad seat in the place.

I’m basically drinking by myself tonight. I mean, I know most of the old hacks like myself in the place but usually don’t know any of the young college twerps. Their girls are sweet to look at but if the young-ons ain’t pucksters, then they got their fool heads right up their asses. (Sorry about that guys – but that’s my after-work-attitude coming through – until at least I’m juiced up or laid.)

So, I’ve got a couple a pitchers in me, several of them green eggs, peanuts, chips, popcorn, pretzels, and greasy little sausage links on toothpicks – damn If I’m not going to be foul tomorrow I’m thinkin calling this dinner. But I’ve got the vacation day, so what the hell.

Culla’s starts getting pretty filled up. I got a seat at the bar and folks are standing behind jabbering away and hooting and hollering at the appropriate times as the game goes along. Except for one fucking ass-hole who’s just saying the most inappropriate things inside of a frigging Viking’s bar. And he ain’t being none to subtle with it either. At one point when it sounds like it gets really rank I turn around and glance at the guy. He’s just some old codger like me, really tan though and wearing some sort of south-seas getup like Jimmy Buffet or something. One of the college kids is starting to give him back some “What the fuck?!?!” shit and I’m thinking here we go another damn bargument, why don’t you guys take it to the street.

Before it escalates into shoving and shit the Jimmy Buffet dude yells out over the noise of whole damn bar, “Hey Wheats, ain’t that a damn pity the way the Vikes are playing?”

Well, like I said most the old folks know me in this bar and I guess I’ve got a reputation with the young-ons too, cuz the place got real quiet. Like you could hear the TV it was so hushed.

Now what the devil? This surfer looking dude knows who I am and seems sure as shit to be calling me out. So I spin my stool around real slow like and plant my feet wide (though lopsided) getting ready to rumble. “What’s that you say ass-hole?”

“I said, “Ain’t that a damn pity….” he growled at a few decibels above a whisper as the crowd splits an opening between us.

He had one of those shit eatin grins on his face like Jingles gets when it’s time to drop the gloves. I’m guessing its one of Tidwilly’s friends from the joint – so I’m just about ready to give it a go when he says again “Damn pity!”

Wait a bloody second …… I’m thinkin again. The gears are spinning upstairs but the beer’s impeding engagement. Damn pity, damn pity, ummmm, damn pity???? What the …? Come on Jasper – I’m starting to sweat as I stand up off the barstool. What’s going on? My memory banks have peeled into overdrive. Damn pity, damn pity …. D-Pity.

Oh for goodness sake.

I shut my bad eye to get a better look at this dude and I say “Wayno Studholm?”

And he responds “Abso-friggin-lutely! At your service, Jasper Wheats, you old coon’s ass!”

We each took a step towards each and then both reached for an embrace like long lost friends will do and the bar crowd got lively again.

Dang, I hadn’t seen him twenty or thirty years. He had gone to school with me, played hockey with me and then just disappeared a year so after high school. His parents had named him Wayno Edward Studholm, but back when we were playing Midgets some wise ass on the team started calling him “Damn Pity’s Boy” and eventually just abbreviated it to “D-Pity”. And it stuck.

Wayno’s dad had been in a bad accident before then and had had some minor (I think it was minor anyway) brain damage. When he’d come watch Wayno play (oh shit and Wayno played sooooo bad) he’d always be yelling after a bad play or lots and lots of times after we’d lose a game, “Ain’t that a damn pity?”

So we back off from our man-hug and the guy in the seat next to me points at his stool and moves on.

So me and D-Pity sit down to the bar and the barmaid, Heidi, brings us a fresh pitcher on the house. I’m sure Culla’s smiling down from heaven. You know, when we were eighteen, after high school, you could legally drink around here and me and D-Pity tipped our share of brewskies while she was still pulling drafts.

Well, you can’t really get completely caught up on twenty to thirty years of living while you’re trying to get your Vikings to win a game. But D-Pity gave me his high points while I shared some of mine.

His dad had been hurt much more seriously than any of us ever knew. His lawyers had secured one hell of a hefty sum which Wayno inherited after his dad passed away about two years after we got out of high school. He’d gone off to college in the east somewhere and got a PhD in some zoological subject that nobody’s ever heard of (I’m sure of this – no way, no how, nobody’s ever …) that led him to a stint in the South Pacific and making his home for a while in Australia. But now he’s back and looking for a place to hang his hat for a long time in the back woods.

The shit is though, he asked me if I was still skatin. Said he’d been going to hockey camps for a few years now and could pretty much hold his own on the ice as opposed to his lack of skills back when we were kids.

Damn, we’ll see. D-Pity might just be walking with wood, ehh?

I’m sure there’s a story or two to pull out of his ass for you folks that read this garbled shit of mine.

Until, next time, Jasper here just tellin ya to skate hard ya roudy puckheads!

The Penalty Time-Keeper

Ya, the days are gone by where bench clearing brawls were the norm. The game of hockey has been revised considerably from the time where the sticks were up and elbows were flying. Hell, you can’t even tap a guy with your stick anymore without getting two minutes – I think that they’re calling that “hooking”.

Hell, I’ll show you “hooking” any day of the week and twice on Tuesdays.

Hockey has always been a rough sport. Lots of bruises, stitches, knocked out teeth, an occasional broken bone or dislocated joint is standard fare from a season on the ice. I’ve certainly had my fair share of injuries from playing the greatest game in the world. Lets see, this has included stitches from pucks and sticks to the face (had my lower lip completely split in half and took a stick blade to my right eyeball to name a few), broken wrist, broken humerus (that’s the upper arm bone ya noggin heads) from a cross check, torn knee cartilage, separated shoulder, and complete right hip joint replacement (my demise).

And I have played some dirty hockey too. The sin bin has been my refuge upon occasion. It is the bane of many a determined player too. You play your ass off and you still get beat in your own end; so you trip the guy to stop him from going in one on your goalie.

Was it worth it?

Ohhhhh ….. you’re damn tootin it was Olie!

So you’re doomed to the box for two minutes again. Your teammates give ya shit later for letting the guy beat ya. Yeah ya hear them say “Wheats, ya get beat on the right side every time. Ya gotta move em to your left before they cross the blue line you dumb-ass!”

What’s worse the box and maybe a missed shift or the razzing?

Fuck the razzing. It’s that missed time on the ice, baby.

Oh yeah and how about the intensity of getting a little rowdy and taking coincidentals only to jump back onto the ice and take up where the two of ya left off a couple of minutes ago? The fans love that shit, ehh?

I coach a bit ya know. I teach the kids to go in high, keeping their elbows up. Sure don’t want them skating like a damn Texas armadillo with their noses down to the ground now do ya? Keep your head up, go in hard and come out with the puck.

The worst of all penalties, though is too many men on the ice. Man, that is just a mistake to get that kinda shit-ass call. Whoever is running the bench should have to eat two donuts or something to serve that fool penalty.

Another one of my gripes is that goalies don’t serve penalties. Now to me, that is a real crock of shit. I think it would really open the game up. Ehh?

Have ya ever wondered about the guy that’s taking care of the box? In the NHL, he’s an official and has to keep track of the time and other sorts of pricy shit (that’s why ticket prices are so high – it ain’t the players’ salaries). In youth hockey this person is usually one of the parents that volunteers or is coerced into the position by the domineering team mother. In the infinite number of beer leagues out there it’s usually just an interested fan that just wants to help out – maybe loves the game but can’t play anymore – maybe never played but is the biggest wanna-be in the world. Kudos to these folks cuz they walk with wood too.

I’ve got a story to tell about the penalty box official at the tournament I played in last week. Got to play in the Snoopy games out in Santa Rosa, California. Wild Bill knew some guys down in Marshall, Minnesota that needed a couple of players to fill the roster for the over 45 team they were putting in the tournament. We decided that it’d make a fun little vacation, so we coughed up the bucks each and told the guys that we’d hook up with them out west. Wild Bill was coming down from the northwest with his wife and daughter and I’d be heading out of the back woods with my honey. All to play a minimum of three games with the Marshall Meat-Packers.

The honey and I flew into Sacramento, rented a car and drove over to Santa Rosa via Napa and Sonoma Valleys so that she could do some mighty fine (and awfully damned expensive) wine tasting. You guys know that I don’t drink the stuff (brewskies brothers – pour me another!) but if it makes her happy it makes me happy.

The Meat-Packers had made arrangements for all of us to stay at the same hotel which gave us a fair discount over normal rates – and I’ll tell you that’s awfully danged important when your staying in a hotel for over a week. Good group of folks, those Meat-Packers, though they were a little disturbed that Grain Belt wasn’t on tap at the hotel pub and that they couldn’t find it in the liquor stores either. We had a team meeting the first night to get introduced to all and lay down some strategies and shit. As I figured most didn’t play on the same team but had gathered for the tournament from a beer league in southern Minnesota. I brought a couple of cases of Moosehead to the meeting to appease their Grain Belt withdrawal. I had found it at a Bevmo liquor store that we had driven past and turned back to as we had driven over from Sacramento (sheeeet – I was looking-out for myself cuz the honey – I just knew – was gonna be really wined up). The meeting went well and it seemed like the dude, Mike, that was running the team, was afraid that we all would spend too much time in the penalty box. Warned us to play “nice” and kept referring to all of us as “ya bunch of brawlers”. The first time he used the phrase I glanced over at Wild Bill and gave him the thumbs up. Our kinda guys. Could be this whole team was composed of close relatives of the Hanson brothers, ehh?

Wild Bill and I told them that we’d prefer to play defense mainly. Bill had been a forward from my days of playing with him back a generation or so ago but had now maybe slowed down to my pace or something. I really think that he wanted to skate as my partner – which was really cool. Our first game was going to be Sunday evening and Mike said that we’d be wearing numbers 2 and 3, he’d bring the jerseys and socks.

I don’t know, but we really didn’t click in that first game. It’s about ten or twelve minutes left in the third and were down 6 to 2. Wild Bill’s playing left and I’ve got right de. The opposing team’s center whipped the puck back into my corner from the opposite side outside the blueline as their left week jammed in skating like a Junior A allstar. I turned and skated like hell to try to cut it off behind the net. Wild Bill was tracking their rightwing as he came in hard too. I realized that I couldn’t make the cutoff and turned to the slot as their center started to pick a perch high. Wild Bill must have had the same thoughts as me as we both punched to the high slot to pick this guy – both of us clobbering him full blast in an ass sandwich like the old days (got to do something to rile the old team – cuz right then we sure for shit hadn’t been skatin with wood). Oh and don’t you know it - the fuckin whistle blows.

Both of us get called for roughing ………….

Running time: three minutes each. It’s the shit!

The gate keeper at the box opens the door and Bill goes in first; swearing up a storm. I jump in and sit down with my stick out in front of me and start to take my gloves of when the dude shuts the gate and turns to us, (damn if he doesn’t look just like Ernie Rucks from the old days of skating Sunday pickup – in retirement, Ernie was an NHL goal judge down in LA and came from the Canadian north woods) oh yeah lost my train of thought there, ok so he turns to us and says “You boys ought to play nice now”, taps the right side of his nose two times with his index finger and ………….

Holy shit its cold! I look over at Bill and he’s looking back at me. What the fuck????

We aren’t in Santa Rosa anymore. Were outside and it feels like it’s about 50 below. Were standing next to the gate at a crude outdoor rink with some sort of antiquated equipment on. Our uniforms are harsh wool sweaters and socks with about twenty stripes on them. My gloves have got hardly no padding or length to them and on the jersey it says “St. Paul Hockey Club”. And my skates are pretty wobbly feeling – all leather it looks like.

In and instant, I knew it and I know Bill knew it too – that we had been somehow transported back in time. To another era, to another game. Utterly amazing. But we had a game to play and we knew that we both had to jump on the ice.

And off we went, skating our asses off playing with sticks that looked like they had been made from a single piece of wood. The game was seven on seven with a rover. Somehow we knew. It all came together in an instant. Our rover was Francis “Moose” Goheen, probably the second best if not best American hockey player of the time, next to or equal alongside of Hobie Baker. What a deal. This guy’s was from White Bear Lake, Minnesota – Herb Brooks’ hero when he was growing up. Silver medalist from the 1920 Olympics. This dude was good! And he walked with wood from one end of the ice to other. Untouchable.

I figure its got to be somewhere around 1925 based on the way the folks were dressed that were watching and the looks of cars that we could see over at the street.

Wild Bill skates across my lane and yells at me as he passes, “Jasper do you see who’s skating rover for Boston over there?”

Bewildered I look around and astonishingly realize that the visitors’ rover was none other than Bobby Orr. Damn if this ain’t something. He musta been somehow transported here from the late ‘60’s or ‘70’s. And oh, could he skate. He was made for the position of rover!

The scoreboard, being manned by a guy with a handlebar mustache, fur coat and the weirdest hat that I’d ever seen, said that we were tied at 4 to 4.

Game on kids!

The puck skittered up the boards on the rough ice to Wild Bill and he took off on a meandering journey into the opposing end. Shit he was skating damn near as good as young Moose Goheen. He got in about 40 feet out – and I could tell – he tried to take a slap shot. No dice – it couldn’t happen – the slap shot wouldn’t be invented for another forty years or so. Bill fell flat on his chest like he’d been close-lined.

Orr picked up the puck and took it behind his net to apparently regroup and eye the up-ice layout and off he went. Smoothly left, smoothly right … Goheen swooped in to cut him off and Orr just went horizontal in flight mode or something with the puck almost slipping through Moose’s skates. He kicks it forward and heads after it. Orr, still horizontal, spins in midair and takes off superman style after Goheen, sweeps in with outstretched downward angled stick and takes it off Goheen only to come back down to ice behind his own net again smooth as silk.
Orr eyes up ice again and takes off through the center. I pick him up as he cuts to the boards to my right. Again the smart bastard goes airborne to my left and picks up the puck off the boards on the other side of me. WTF! I’m all over myself and Orr’s on net. Oops, did he lose the puck on the rough ice or is it a deke. Wham – bam – thank you mamm– if he didn’t stuff it in the puck from between his own legs and he’s off flying again.

The fans start booing as Orr keeps flying around celebrating his goal but the game is different. No face off after goals – just pull the puck out and take it behind the net while everyone gets on side and take off skating again. Mr. Moose Goheen picks up the puck while Orr is still celebrating. He seems pumped, the crowd’s booing now sounds excited rather than angry. A teammate skates by and yells “Watch him now. His family calls him “Boo” and that really riles his ass!”

He weaves, he dekes, elbows out, he stiff arms one guy like a running back and goes in on net like a bull in a matador’s outfit. He’s putting a little drift to the left and I can tell he’s got it set to pull the goalie with him with quick plans to go upstairs in the right corner.

Its in my mind – I know it …. And poof – Wild Bill and I are back in the box in Santa Rosa. Ghosts of Charles Schulz or what. Damn! I look over to Wild Bill. “You go on first.” He’s white as a ghost and as the penalty box time keeper opens the gate he steps on the ice and falls flat on his face. Not realizing what happened I stumble over him as I hit the ice. Both of us out there like a big pile of shit.

Bill twists his bloodied up face back towards me and asks “Wheats, what the fuck just happened?”

“Sheeeesh! I don’t know, but we better get back in the game, ehh.”

The center that we had crunched getting our penalties stopped in front of us and tapped us each on our helmets with his stick and laughed as he said “You turkeys, ya might as well head back to Marshall and get back to that business of packing meat.”

Ya know you guys – some days ya walk with wood and some days you sure for shit don’t.

Jasper here. Skate hard! Stay out of the sin-bin ….. or not.

Desperate Depth

Gosh, be jiggers if summer isn’t finally here. I can hardly believe it. Wasn’t it just a couple of weeks ago that Detroit won the Stanley Cup for the gazillionth time by beating the Penguins. I’ve got to tell you guys that that triple overtime game was the best damn hockey game that I’d seen in a century or two.

Yep, ice hockey is a winter sport for f’n sure but now its summer and its cooking.
I’ve been getting to see some of the 2008 NHL draft on my evening TV – reruns from earlier in the afternoon coming out of Ottawa. No big surprise with Tampa Bay picking Steven Stamkos number one overall. The kid’s got some shit, ehh? Any of ya see that highlight segment where I figure he’s in a shootout and pulls that baffling - lost the puck - switch-hit - from behind – got your knickers in a knot – eat shit goalie – scoring shot. Like to see him pull that stunt in the Bigs – wouldn’t cha?

But what’s this bloody caca I’m hearing that the Lighting is also picking up Barry “The Hair” Melrose as their new coach with assistance from Cap Raeder. Sounds like the Kings all over again. But Melrose hasn’t coached in thirteen years. I sure enjoyed his Fancy-Dan suits that he got to wear while doing his commentating gig. Always figured that he was competing with Mr. High Collar himself, Don Cherry, for the best dressed verbose hockey nut on the tube. Oh yeah, I like the rough stuff too.

So then, my boys, the LA Kings get the second pick by drawing Drew Doughty, a defenseman. But why the heck did they trade away Cammalleri? Sure, he was minus sixteen, but Visnovsky and Blake were minus eighteen and nineteen respectively, and I like those guys too, but they didn’t get traded. So what’s the story with this?

Kings then pick Colter Teubert, number thirteen, another defenseman. Thirty-second overall they get another “D” Vjateslav Voinov.

Ok, so their first three picks, from the first and second round, are all blue-liners. So take a look at last season’s stats. They scored more goals then about half the teams in the league but they couldn’t keep the damn biscuit out of their own net. I guess it makes sense to make these early round picks defensemen then.

In the third round the Kings pick up two forwards and another defenseman: Robert Czarnik (center/right wing) sixty-third pick, Andrew Cambell (defense) seventy-fourth pick, and Gordie Wudrick (center) eighty-eighth overall.

Fourth round leaves the Kings without a named puckster.

In the fifth and sixth round they snag two centers: Andrei Loktionov (123) and Justin Azeved (153). And in the seventh round a left winger is drafted, Garrett Roe (183).

That’s nine picks in the first seven rounds. Not bad, but they paid the price last season by having one of the worst butt-sucking finishes on record.

But I like the new draft format where the Stanley Cup winner gets NO PICKS at all (LMAO). Damn I love those Wings but let’s put a damper on their talent to provide a little balance to the league. Now that was probably one of Melrose’s or Cherry’s idea cuz it sure the heck wasn’t one of Bettman’s gems. You know, I think, it maybe was Mike Milbury – he’s got the huevos to sell that to the NHL commissioners, board and player’s association. Now there’s a dude that thinks just like I do. Hockey – balls to the wall or leave em home in a jar (ya wooses!).

So all-in-all my puckhead friends – I think the Kings and the NHL overall are on to some good shit come next season.

I’m also hearing that there was more depth in this draft year than they’ve had for quite a while. Ha! Name them kids! All of my kids on the Norris’ Nightmare got drafted – some in some pretty late rounds, but sure the fuck they all got spoken for. Hell even my younger bro’s, Jingles and Bronzy, got drafted this year. The Preds got them both, if they’d a picked me then they coulda put together the world famous “Wheats Line” again – like the old days. Bronzy is like thirty years old or something and Jingles I think is thirty-two. Shit, that’s pretty old to be drafted. I think, maybe, the league is getting a bit desperate. Sure, Bronzy can dangle with the best of them and Jingles has always been one hell of an enforcer – but what the-hey? Both of these boys are walking with wood for sure – just like the early round kids. I’ve heard rumors that some other beer league bangers and buttholes got drafted too. What have you guys heard? I can’t get enough in-depth reports to confirm yeah or neigh on this locker room tale.

Got to cut this off for now. Basement requirements prevail. I’ve got to get it done someday soon.

So the rest a ya scalawags have gotta continue to skate hard and walk with wood when ya can.

Jasper, here, until next time.

ULTIMATE ROAD TRIP BREAKFAST

Oh what a great week it’s been! The sun has been out just a whole bunch and it makes ya think that spring might be around the corner. And ya know what that means ehh? Hockey Playoffs.

Yup, they’re just around the corner. I’d figure that most teams have got less then fifteen games to play this season. My Kings couldn’t wish it to last any longer. Sad, I gotta tell ya. But I’m a blue sky kinda guy and man, the only way’s “up” for them.

I’ve got the Caps versus Penguins game on the tube right now. Sidney Crosby and Alex Ovechkin in the same game. Yessirreee! This is some good shit this morning.

Fifteen or so games can change a lot of things. So can four rounds of playoffs. But I’m going to pick Detroit versus Montreal going into this year’s Stanley Cup Finals. What do you guys think?

Hey, what do you guys think of hockey fund raisers too? I like to help out with the local club team and we had our fund raising breakfast yesterday morning. Seems like just last week or so my Norris’ Nightmares had their fan appreciation weenie roast. I like to call the Nightmares kids, but they’re really young adults, you know. But the breakfast was for the rink’s club teams – Mites to Midgets. All are really good kids, with great parents supporting them and a good staff of coaches bringing them along. I pretty much expect every one of my Nightmares to participate by helping coach two to five practices a year with the rink club. Hell, that’s where their roots are, ehh. It actually helps them too, because they begin to think about the game from a different perspective.

As usual when I help out with these things I get put on the grille. I cook way better then I serve or cleanup I guess. Yo – Breakfast Chef Deluxe – that’s me. Ok, ok … greasy-spoon fry cook would be a more appropriate title. But I do a good job and enjoy it too. I’m flipping pancakes, scrambling eggs, crisping up bacon and turning sausage links like a dad-burn breakfast factory. And I didn’t hear a complaint from a single soul. Nope, not even any whiny kids today. Everybody chowed down like there was no tomorrow.

I got a chance to take a break around 10:00 when my good bud Jason showed up. He threw in some coin for about a hundred breakfasts or so I figure. Said he had just closed a big business deal and was feeling philanthropic for his home town community. He never played hockey, was a baseball and football dude through college, and now does his share of fine boarding out in the western states through the winter.

I was curious why he was in town and he let me know that it was really to follow up on some business with me. Earlier he had told me that he had a lead on some narrow box culvert precast concrete product that would work for my tunnel from the basement to the barn. Seems as though my price has dropped again because the plant needs the yard space that this stuff is taking up. It didn’t move last year and the plant has some sort of big contract for something else that they’re going to start producing and store until shipment starting in June. I could probably get what I need for the price of shipping alone.

Damn! I think that I just got myself one hell of a good deal. I’d need to take delivery by mid April so Stinky and me have got some work to do before then with finishing the excavation of the basement and trenching between it and the barn. Yup I hope the thaw is coming soon now.

Jason asked me if I could use a vault too. Said the plant also had a big old leftover vault setup with an HVAC unit to allow for underground occupancy. Said it was built for a phone company or something and I’d need a crane to offload it and set it in the ground. He said if nothing else you could put it in line with the box culvert and use the HVAC system as ventilation for the tunnel. He mentioned that I could look into writing off the crane cost as adding a tornado shelter to my property or something. I’ll have to look into that, I guess, but this is what I’m thinking … This is on the hush you guys (keep it a secret, ehh) I could maybe convert that vault into the new Crossed Sticks Society secret storage facility for all of our prized hockey antiquities and meetings. Hmmmm. Maybe. I’ll have to think about this and try to work something out with the Outlaws.

That’s just like Jason, being able to mix business with pleasure. Dude’s walking with wood for sure. And he sure mac’d on those pancakes and sausages I’d made. Between mouthfuls he says, “Jasper ya gotta see this stuff. It’s the greatest thing since spray cheese. The call it Batter Blaster. It’s pancake batter in a pressurized can like Redi-Whip. You just shoot it out on the griddle, no mess, no fuss. Damn you can really easy like make shapes, animals, spell things you know it’s really cool. And the dang things taste every bit as good as these ones you made.

You’ve gotta try it.

You know I’ve got that place out in Tahoe and I hate having to clean up and shit, would rather be out on the slopes, in the sack, or in the clubs right? Well I’ve been using this Batter Blaster all this winter for a quick hot breakfast before going out snowboarding. It’s great!”

“Your yanking my chain, ain’t ya?” I quizzed.

“Nope. Check out their website, www.batterblaster.com, when you get home. It’s for real. Some boys out in San Francisco came up with it. Supposed to be natural stuff too. I’m telling you, you’ll like it. Beats toaster waffles by a long shot.”

“Damn, it sounds like the ultimate road trip breakfast if it’s for real. I bet you could fix pancakes on the burner plate of those little coffee makers they put in the hotel rooms. This could really be the shit, ehh? Damn, maybe they’ll come up with a bacon shooter too, huh. Or maybe some sorta way to shoot mashed potatoes that could fry up crispy like hash-browns. Wouldn’t that just beat all, ehh Jason?”

“Wheats, you’re just nuts with your flamin imagination. You ought to be a fuckin inventor or something. You just take a good idea, dress it all up and make it better. You ever start up a company, I’m investing in ya. Can’t lose! What’s that ya say? Your walking with wood – you old fart!”

He finished his breakfast, made a mess as usual, talking between mouthfuls, and got syrup all over his signature orange t-shirt. Yep, that’s Jason – business with pleasure, eat and run. Probably won’t see him for a month or two, now, but sure glad he stopped by.

He’s the shit, walking with wood and all!

Wheats here until next time. Remember: Skate hard!

GRAVEL

There is a place on the other side of town that provides sand for the county highway department. We just call it the gravel pit. I guess you could say that it’s a working business that is mainly busy on-site not during the winter. I’m not saying that nothing goes on out there during the winter, but there ain’t no excavating going on. They dig up and sort the sand and gravel during the warmer months to stockpile during the winter. The highway department comes by and loads up sand to put down on icy sections of road. The county keeps one of their front loaders over there next to one of the sand piles.

The gravel pit is a pretty barren part of the area. I guess the glaciers ages ago dumped all this sand and gravel here and the excavating process has pretty much scraped away most of the vegetation. So it works out for a damn good spot to do some high speed snowmobiling. You could say that it’s been set up sort of as a winter race track over there. I’ve been over to watch a few times but I’m not too much into racing. Lots a folk do, I guess, and it looks like a lot of fun – I just got other things to spend my money and time on.

Way back, when I was in high school we used to have the homecoming bonfire over there. Hella good time! I figure the kids still do that. Hell, we even used to pull off the road over there and cut the lights at night with our dates and make-out. Sure for shit the kids are still going over these days to hook-up. Don’t want to be doing that right now unless you got a pretty heavy-duty four wheel drive. Get your ass stuck in there tonight and you and your honey are gonna be walkin home. Prolly be the last little piece you get from her for pulling a dipshit stunt like that.

Yesterday, after our morning game, Norris’ Nightmares held a weenie roast over there for our fans. We had gotten permission from the owners to have our own bonfire and they closed it off from public snowmobiling – so we sort of had it too ourselves for a great party. Some of the folks brought their own snowmobiles, sleds, saucers, toboggans and stuff like that, but we kept it kinda mild. Stinky came by with his get-up and towed kids around. We held a little raffle too and gave away some nice stuff that our sponsors had put up. I really think everybody had a great time and it didn’t hurt that we had won the morning game.

The honey had made about five gallons of her hot-fire-kick-ass chili and there wasn’t any left at the end of the day. It’s some good shit! But I gotta tell ya, there’s a damn good chance that half the town has got themselves some burning bung holes today. Yup.

These kids are the best damned bunch of hockey players that I’ve worked with in awfully long time. Sure, on occasion each and every one of them pulled some damn assed stupid thing. But what the hey? Been there, done that!

Some of them flaked on the ice on occasion but they really worked well as a team. They have had enthusiasm and heart all season long. They jelled way before I thought they would. It makes me feel good just thinking how far they have come. At the beginning of the season I had just a whole bunch of scatter brained selfish puck wangers. Now, I think I’ve got a TEAM.

These kids have tied-on to something that’s going to hang with them for a lifetime. Friendships, skill sets and a sense of belonging, all enduring. They did it themselves. My complements to them and every team out there that has been able to do the same thing. They’re all walking with wood, ehh!

It hurts to think back to tryouts. I had so many dudes and dudettes show up that wanted to be a part of this team and not enough room on the roster. I hope that those that didn’t make it on my team, found another club to play for. I hope that they didn’t give up on the great sport of ice hockey. I wish I could clone myself so that I could do more things at the same time and that I could run more then one team.

Sheeeeet!

You think about it …… with all the traveling I did this season, I got to thank my bro’s, Jingles and Bronzy, for all the help they did covering for me too.

Yep. I certainly love ice hockey. Best damn game in the world! Ehh?

We must have had about four hundred people at the weenie roast. And I know that each and every one of them loves hockey too. Even though my kids are just an amateur team, it still adds a lot to the economy and entertainment for our small little community here. If it wasn’t for the bars, a couple of restaurants and Wal-Mart, there wouldn’t be too damn much other shit to do around here through the winter. So, I’m telling you, that’s why we had a descent crowd yesterday.

The gravel pit owner, Jack Snyder, came by for a bit too. He got real interested in the get-up that Stinky had brought and chatted with him some. Seems Snyder could use someone with a good mechanical aptitude. Offered him a job yesterday if he could drive a dump truck too. Well, Stinky can drive anything. Yup. He can fix anything too. Regular old McGyver.

Snyder, hired him on the spot and said that even though tomorrow being Sunday (today). He needed a load of gravel taken over and spread on that long drive up the hill from the highway to Miller’s place. Old man Miller has been parking down the hill cuz of the ice. He can’t get up the hill to his house, even with his four wheel drive.

Stinky, I’m telling you guys, was in heaven. A real job. Working for somebody, in the winter yet. Not hustling for snow plowing excursions. Shit he’d still be able to do those in the evening.

Looked like a good deal for him.

Yup. Looked like it. But it didn’t pan out that way. He’s gotta have the worst damn luck of anybody in the world.

Here he is making that first run of gravel using Snyder’s dump truck when the gate accidently opens just enough for him to drop a speck a gravel; but more than enough to bust the windshields of three cars that were following him.

Dabnabit if that ain’t the shits.

Snyder’s insurance would pay for it all and Miller did get a load a gravel on his drive-way but Stinky lost his job before two o’clock this afternoon. I don’t know if it was his fault or not that the gate of that dumper didn’t stay shut but he caught the flack for it. I’m sure that if it’s a mechanical problem, that Stinky’d be able to fix it for sure, if given the chance. But Snyder wasn’t up for any of that after his Sunday early dinner I guess. Maybe he’ll read this and give Paul back his job. Maybe not. But Stinky’s pretty damn handy and I’ve never known him to be malicious. For the kinda work that Snyder does, I think that Paul’s the man for the job.

I guess we’ll see.

But Stinky was pretty broke up over this whole shit, lost opportunity and all, when he showed up at my cabin around 3:30 this afternoon.

Well the honey’s got some spaghetti about ready for our dinner. Figure that she probably spiked it up a bit with some of that chili that she set aside from yesterday. Have to wake Paul up to partake of this feast, I guess. He got a little snockerd over the whole ordeal and passed out in front of the TV earlier.

He’ll be ok. He’ll be walking with wood again in no time at all. I’m sure of it. If anybody can bounce well, he can.

Jasper here, just capping off another one of Jingle’s home brews and retiring until next time.

Skate hard, keep your elbows up when you go into the corners and keep your fool ass sticks on the ice, ehh!

BUTT-COLD ICE FISHING

Damn, it’s been one hell of a rough week.

Had a game last night and I had to take three Advil’s before I figured it wasn’t going to kill me to just pick up my bag. Sheeeeet I am so sore!

We lost one last night. Happens sometimes ya know. Ya can’t win em all. Nope. Not even the Red Wings can do that. Not even New England could do that.

So I’m not complaining, except I broke one of my Sher-Woods. That always upsets me just a might. I kinda think of them as being like a fine piece of handcrafted furniture or better yet like a loved young one, or an obedient golden retriever. You get the picture I’m sure.

Did my usual routine before the game except that I’ve cut out the aspirin now cuz of my stomach but still did the two hot shots of extra sweet coffee and a Snickers bar. Amps me right up. I think that when I was pretty heavy on the aspirin-train was when I was the designated team bleeder. Seemed like I couldn’t get out of game without stitches. Maybe it was just a bad batch of luck, ehh.

Oh, yeah. So I was saying … pretty achy but amped up. Busted stick and all I thought I played pretty good for an old lopsided defenseman. I got a couple of assists, three penalties (four in a game and they add a ten minute misconduct in this damn pussy league were in – yeah I’ve had a few) and pounded a couple of cold ones in the dressing room after the game before we went to the bar.

And we would have won if Otis hadn’t got hurt in the nets. Pulled his groin pretty bad I guess. That was a couple minutes into the third. Jingles said he’d cover the net to finish the game and let a couple in that would have been easy saves for Otis, but Jingles is, what forty-eight I think (few years younger then me you guys) and he’s never been a goalie. When he was younger he was a center and now he plays rowdy defense like me (maybe a bit rowdier, ehh?). Crap, he didn’t even use a goalie stick or nothing – so he did ok if you ask me. Pretty ballsy! We’re still playing against a few young pups that have some wicked slap shots and some of em don’t really like Jingles all that much, so they don’t hold anything back just cuz he’s not geared up.

And we won in the bar I guess though. Hell of a hangover this morning. You play – you pay!

But the week was tough and I’m achy not so much from last night’s game as I am from a wild escapade last weekend.

Jingles, Stinky, Bronzy and me decided to go ice fishing. We knew that cuz of the thaw that we had had and then the damn bitter cold that been on us for a while now that there’d be some good ice so we brought enough hockey gear along to play a little shinny if the fishing got boring.

The ice was really sweet, but we never did lace’m up. It would have a good time and there were a few guys out there in the afternoon that we could joined up with but didn’t.

Bronzy’s got a little shack out on the ice that we drive out to. Nothing fancy, just a shelter with some benches, a heater, windows and an electrical hookup for his genny so we can watch the tube some if a good game is on or a fool movie or some shit (course he’ll have to get a new portable that’s gets that hiney HDTV shit for next year). He’s got Outlaw stickers stuck all over the place. A few NHL team bumper stickers, too, here and there with a mess of sporting goods ones that we’ve gotten in the mail and bring out to stick on all the time. It’s tradition ya know. And the damn stickers are probably holding the shack together.

Me and Jingles rode out with Bronzy in the Suburban that he just picked up - used but great shape and sure has got all the bells and whistles. Stinky said he’d be out around noon.

The fishing wasn’t that good. Jingles caught a little six inch perch, wasn’t no bigger then my pecker I swear. We made fun of him and strung the little sucker up on the flagpole outside to flap about in the breeze. No wind though, so it just hung there like a limp dick frozen solid as a pop-cycle.

Because of the thaw, we noted that the shack was pretty much encased in the frozen lake. Probably was about three inches in if you asked me. Bronzy said that we ought to chip it out and move it a foot or so. Jingles and I both said at the same time, “Fuck that shit!” It was too damn cold that day and besides we didn’t bring any tools.

So around noonish Stinky shows up. I guess he’d seen Jingles’ perch and yelled “Who the hell caught this monster?” before he even opened the door to the shack.

We all laughed a bit and Bronzy shot Paul a quick one, “Where’s your short stick, Pauly, ain’t ya fishin?”

Stinky paused and then sort of snuffled back, “Ahhh heck, you guys don’t look like your havin much luck, there ain’t a game on I know, for sure, so I brought sumpin else for us to do. Come on, you guys. Come out and give me a hand with what I brought along.”

I hand Stinky the bottle of brandy that we’d been sippin (used to chug beers out on the ice but not so much anymore – guess old age has whupped us a bit something) and quiz him, “What’s ya got, my old pal?”

“Come on, come on and see. Just give me a hand and we’ll have a blast.”

So we all get out of the shack and see that Paul’s got a trailer towed behind his old van.

Bronzy walks around the trailer and tells Paul, “I think your trailer smells like shit. What ya doing, hauling pig pucky or something?”

Jingles pipes in, “I don’t smell a fuckin thing.” And we all laugh cuz he hasn’t been able to smell a damn thing since he was fourteen or so, back from the time I busted him open across the bridge of his nose with an errant pass as he was sitting on a bench watching me play.

Damn it did stink.

Paul had that those slobaggon thingies that he’d made from a travel trailer holding tank. Like I said before, a more appropriate name for them things would be shit-house-slammers.

Stinky gave the bro’s a quick tale of their construction and use. While he undid the back ramp of the trailer so we could get all of the stuff out.

He had a really old snowmobile back there too. Sucker must have been from the sixties or something. It was a pukey orange with a lot of duct tape on the cowling and it wasn’t so damn small – just kidding: it was about half the size of an ice-cat.

“Help me guide this off of here. I modified the track a bit for running on ice and built new ski’s up front with a ridge in em kinda like a skate blade so it’ll steer ok on this glaze ice we got out here.”

So he fires it up. Loud as a straight pipe dragster and smoked like a son of a bitch. He gets it out of the trailer and leaves it idling while he sets about rigging things up.

The deal is that one of us steers the snowmobile while a second, he says, should sit in the back facing backwards (yeah he rigged up some reverse pegs to get your feet up out of the tracks) to watch the slobaggoneers. One person per shit-house-slammer as you get towed around making tight-ass turns and getting some crack-the-whip action back there.

But he says, “Best of all, well I think, cuz we haven’t tried any of this yet, is I rigged some quick releases here at the tow connection on each sled so that anytime you feel like it, you can just pull the release and you’re on your own with these side paddle rudders to steer with. They may not steer so good on the ice but they were supremo in the snow. Ehh Jasper?”

“Ahh yup. Worked damn good over in the snow on the hill over past the tracks by Willow Creek. Uh huh.”

Jingles keeps saying, “No shit, no shit.” He’s like Stinky and has always been inventing stuff and building all sorts of contraptions since he was just a kid. “Wish I’d a brought Ryan and Dillon along. They dig this kinda shit.”

Bronzy says “Them things smell so bad, I think I’ll just stay on the snowmobile and you guys can ride back there if ya want. If I come home smelling like that I won’t be let in the house and will have to live in the garage for a week like that time the skunk nailed me.”

Stinky drove first with Bronzy as the safety observer on the back. Me and Jingles rode in the shit-house-slammers. We just let ourselves be towed for a bit first without disconnecting. Paul pulled into a tight turn and then stopped and we just snapped around the snowmobile in a tight circle. I was on the outside and Jingles' sled slammed into me and I rolled. A little messy but no damage done the ice was damn smooth. I suggested that we head back to the Suburban and snag our hockey helmets – might be safer. That we do and off we go again.

Jingles and I decide to disconnect at the same time and the snowmobile pops a wheelie as it loses the load and Bronzy slides right off the back end skidding on his keister for twenty or thirty yards. He kept his head up and didn’t eat it too bad. Jingles is free and clear, sliding along digging the rudders in hard and making some sweeping turns with him leaning hard the opposite direction to keep from flipping as he heads to open ice. Me, on the other hand am heading towards shore and one of my damn rudders breaks off (I had hoped that Stinky had fixed it since our first episode in the snow) and I dig the other one in hard to try to avoid the embankment at the shore line. All it did was getting me spinning like the Teacups at Disneyland as I did a forty mile an hour slam in to the embankment. Full-on out of control spin-o-rama tumble de jour. I hurt. I hurt bad. I hurt really, really bad. I felt like I’d been boarded with high sticks and elbows flying by three guys at once.

It knocked the wind out of me. It bruised me. It gave me bumps and lumps. It cut my face up, split my upper lip and gave me a bloody nose. I felt like my left nut might have to be amputated. It might have broken my tailbone and sprained my wrist. Ah shit I hurt.

Stinky finally sees what has happened to every one and gathers Bronzy first to come and check on me. Jingles is half a mile away or so, probably oblivious to my mishap. So I get helped back into my sled by Bronzy and I lay down as they slowly tow me back to the shack. I tell them I’m ok that I’ll just sit it out and rest on a bench in the shack. And that is exactly what I did as I polished off the brandy to stave off all my pains.

They head back out for more fun and games. Bronzy drives the snowmobile the rest of the afternoon as Jingles and Stinky go for joyrides. Thank God nobody else got hurt, ehh.

I’m pretty damn sure that we all had a good time last weekend. But I’ve gotta tell you that you can have a pretty rough week after ice fishing, you know.

Jasper here, just remindin ya to walk with wood and skate hard (yah, I’ll be better soon … I think).

I APPROVE THIS

Hey puckheads! How’s your week been? Enjoy the NHL All Star game last Sunday? Yup, me too. It was a lot of fun to watch from my living-room at the cabin on my small-screen non-HD TV. Didn’t miss it this year like I did last year, nope.

Sheeeet! I’d like to #@#*%#% former President Clinton for passing that piece of legislation. Do you know how many stinking non-HD TVs there are at my place between the cabin and the barn? I’ve got five of them puppies. It’s gonna cost me a bunch to replace them with High-Definition versions and then they’re gonna kick my ass as I go out the door – oh forgot to tell ya that you’ll get charged for disposing you’re old sets too dumpkoff. Well kiss my ass. The TV’s I’ve got work just fine. WTF do I need HD? Shit my vision ain’t that great anymore so why would I want some new fangled piece a shit, ehh. The economy is on the skids and this bull crap is just gonna make it worse.

The weather has kinda sucked through the week. Pretty much has been snowing constantly which has made my drive to and from work one hell of a mess. It’s a shame how many dipshits don’t know how to drive in this winter wonderland. Damn, I learned how to drive in the snow. Did my driver’s training way back when in it. Slid into a plowed over ditch taking my practice examine with my high school driver’s-ed instructor. Kids in the back seat laughed their fool asses off, but I’ve never done it since. Passed my first driving test to get my license while driving on top of snow-packed and iced over roads in mid March back before most a your parents even knew how to do the nasty. Yup. Why can’t you guys learn how to drive in winter weather?

But this fowl weather has kept Stinky busy shoveling out driveways and parking lots. He hasn’t been by since last weekend when we went out and did some fool-ass stink-agagoning and crashed myself all up. It was a blast but I’m still sore.

Without Stinky’s help, the honey has been doing the drive way. She’s pretty hardy for the teensie little thing that she is. She takes good care of me and feeds me well. Keeps the cabin damn near spotless which pretty near amazes me cuz I’m such a turdball messy old fart. But she pretty much does it all and is cute as a button besides. So I can’t complain too much. She’ll sit in some times when we need a goalie for pickup. But her one weakness is that she ducks on high shots, and being as short as she is, especially in her goalie crouch, those damn high shots go in over her head. Craziest damn thing. She’s pretty good in the nets otherwise.

Thursday she had to clear out a deadfall in the driveway so that she could go into town for groceries. Didn’t even complain about it much. Said she was glad the chain saw worked fine in the cold temp but didn’t enjoy trying to find a long enough chain in my mess in the barn so that she could pull the cut up outta the way. Oh well … she did just fine and I love the little honey just a whole mess.

Tonight, she and I are sitting in front of the fire just enjoying a sittin around the fire drink. Nope I ain’t havin a beer and I ain’t tellin ya what it is I’m drinkin cuz you’d laugh your fool heads off. She fixed up some special dinner earlier tonight that she had seen while watching Rachel Ray on the tube. It was a potato-leek soup with a pound of bacon in it. Damn it was yummy! More like spiced up thin green mashed potatoes then a soup – but hit the spot on a cold winter night.

The craziest thing though happened during dinner. The phone rang and the caller ID said “OUT OF AREA”. The honey had picked it up and normally would not answer unless the ID said it was someone that she knew. She took a chance and answered this time thinking it might the daughter calling from a friend’s that she was visiting over in Washington or Oregon somewhere like that. Well it wasn’t.

Damned if it wasn’t John McCain. Nope, it wasn’t some canned message that John McCain had recorded, but was the presidential candidate himself. I started laughing thinking it was canned (she had the phone on speaker) because I had answered one from Hillary earlier in the week (Oh, don’t I wish that that call had been her live – she’d have caught an earful from me on Bill and the HD shit, ehh.).

I’m telling you it was really John McCain and the honey starts chatting him up. She tells him that, yup, she’s going to vote for him in the primary and in the fall too. She told me she was last week so I wasn’t too surprised. She gets him going about Vietnam and flying fighter jets. She’s working him pretty good I’m tellin ya and after getting him into talking about the jets and all she just pops out “Well ya must have some pretty big balls, ehh?”

I’m hearing this right? He picks up on here accent and not missing a beat says to her, “Honey, where are you from?”

She says, “Well Mr. McCain I live up here in the north woods with my husband Jasper. And if you’ve got such big ass balls why don’t you come on up here some time and play some puck, I mean hockey, with me, Jasper, and the rest of the guys. Oh heck, maybe you don’t skate being from that snowbird destination, Arizona, and all. But we’d sure like to have you at least come watch sometime. (She’s getting all embarrassed a bit now.) You know I’d like to meet you sometime. You could pass for Garth Brooks’ younger good looking brother. Oh my goodness. Shit! I didn’t say that did I? (Really embarrassed now.)”

Well old John McCain said that he’d love too. Seems he has some puckster blood in him. Said he wasn’t worth a shit – was more of a windmill then a winger.

The honey about shit. I didn’t interfere one bit, no sirree. They exchanged cell phone numbers and he’s got our address now. So will see. So wouldn’t that be great if sometime we have a president that likes to lace em up skate a little puck.

So, regardless of the weather it’s been a damn fine and an interesting week.

Guys, just remember to skate hard and gals to skate your little asses off cuz sweat is sweet.

Yup, I’ll be walking with wood until next time.

I’m Jasper Wheats and I approve this.