I Have A Bad Feeling About This:An Open Letter To Gary Bettman

Dear Gary Bettman,

You sir, are an idiot.  I'm sorry.  That's no way to start a letter.  And if my daughter heard me say that she'd remind me I'm not supposed to say that word. You sir, should be ashamed of yourself.  It's not just that you have tried to make professional hockey into the NBA on Ice.  It's not that you are presiding over your third(!) work stoppage during your tenure as NHL commissioner.  It's not that everyone I know agrees you resemble the Count from Sesame Street. (One player lockout-ah-ah-ah, two player lockouts ah-ah-ah, three player lockouts ah-ah-ah.)  It's not that you oversaw the unnecessary Southern Expansion Strategy.  It's all of the above.

I'm not an economist, nor an accountant.  I don't have to be, because the number-crunched details of the labor negotiations do not matter.  I don't care about the salary cap.  I don't want to see your books.  I don't care about revenue sharing or what percentage operating expenses are devoted to player salaries.  I'm not saying you and the owners should cave into every request of the players (who are not absolved of sin in this), but as the caretaker of major league hockey in North America you can not cancel even one more game. 

When you last locked out the players it cost an entire season.  An entire season without NHL hockey.  It is a wonder missing an entire season didn't destroy the NHL forever.  You are lucky that there were enough dopes like me who love the game so much that, despite millionaires and billionaires spitting in our faces, we tuned back in and even paid outrageous prices to attend games.  You were also incredibly fortunate that when hockey returned last time, it was buoyed by the emergence of two dynamic rookies, Alexander Ovechkin and Sidney Crosby.  A season of empty arenas was wiped from memories by acrobatic goals and a rivalry reborn.  You will not be so lucky this time.  Ovechkin will have to have a huge bounceback (fingers crossed) to be the player he was then.  Crosby is one hard check away from moving from Mario's basement to the Lindros-Lafontaine Wing of the NHL Retirement Home.  You must make the owners understand how damaging this lockout will be if games are actually cancelled.  Get training camps open on time.  Be ready on Opening Night.  Get this done.

And if you need any more incentive, I make you this vow: I will not cut my hair until the lockout ends.*  I am need of a haircut now, so this brillo pad will be a honkey afro before long.  Aside from my brother-in-law who encourages me to grow the fro to match his own, no one wants to see my hair expand like a well-watered Chia Pet.  There is a reason, except for the unfortunate Afro Summer of '95, my hair hasn't been much longer than crew cut length in over thirty years.  But I'll do it Gary, I'll unleash this hair helmet on the world if you don't do what is right.  So, please Mr. Commissioner, save hockey, save the eyeballs of those around me.  End this unnecessary conflict now.

*I reserve the right to break this vow around the time my wife looks at my head and says, "Dude, really?" 

Is this what middle-aged feels like?

What's the difference between 37 and 100?  Not much in my neighborhood, at least as it pertains to age.  To my college age neighbors I likely seem an ancient 37.  Yesterday, I got out the door a little later than usual for my morning walk so I was walking among students heading to Salisbury University for class.  A blond bicycle gang, more Mean Girls than Hell's Angels, rolled past trailing a cloud of perfume and smug indifference.  Athletes jogged by making my "fitness" walk look meager and pointless.  Surrounded by hoodies and skateboards, pony tails and short shorts, I felt as awkward and uncool as I did when I actually attended the university twenty years ago.

The students eyed me warily.   My first generation iPod may as well have been a Walkman, my white daddy sneakers sandals with black socks.  My backpack, worn to keep my pockets free of keys, phone and wallet, had them wondering whether I was an old student or some sort of creeper.  I'd have been less conspicuous had I donned a trench coat and shouted "Pervert Alert.  Pervert Alert."

I spotted an older gentleman, maybe mid-50's, walking on the opposite sidewalk.  I searched his eyes for a hint of old man solidarity only to be spurned.  His eyes conveyed not solidarity, but contempt as he lumped me in with the other backpack-toters.  I longed to stop him and explain that I was not one of the punks that pukes in his yard every weekend.  That I don't leave the neighborhood covered in broken beer bottles.  I'm on his side.  Alas, I stayed silent as he blew past.  But my encounter brought me to my senses.  Why did I care what these kids thought?  I chastised myself for ever feeling awkward and uncool even when I was in school.  The heck with these kids.  And the heck with that older guy.  No longer a young punk and not yet an old man, it's my time to feel comfortable right where I am.  But those damn kids better stay off of my lawn.

Welcome.

I know of a couple new people who are checking out my page (Which basically doubles my readership. Thanks guys!) so I thought I'd link to some of my favorite posts to help them catch up.  A Greatest Hits album, if you will.  If by greatest I mean least boring and by hits I mean posts people have told me they enjoyed.  The posts range from my thoughts on my disdain for Coldstone Creamery, ethnic profiling ,my never ending battle with lawn tools, grocery shopping with an infant, my raging germophobia, filthy bowling alleys, cursing at Santa, why you should visit the potty before visiting the playground, traveling with a three-year-old, and condoms in the ocean.