Playoffs?? Playoffs?!?!

Being a Washington Capitals fan can be difficult. Every postseason, save a blissful spring in 2018, suffered an ill-fated ending. Endings sometimes marked by bewilderment and genuine confusion. Often with anger and dismay. Always with bitter regret and cruel disappointment. This season, however, will likely be different. When this season began I thought there was little hope of Washington reaching the playoffs. Because they DID make it in the postseason bracket, despite losing their top two centers, despite having a rookie head coach, despite Alex Ovechkin looking cooked for two-thirds of the season, whatever happens this spring is gravy. This team, mediocre in almost every way, has already exceeded my expectations. If they could somehow further defy the odds
by knocking out the hated Rangers, well, that would just be a nice little cherry on top of the gravy.

I am under no real illusion that the Caps will win this series. The Rangers are superior across the board. They earned the President's Trophy for owning the best regular season record. New York has authored many of the springtime disappointments of the Ovechkin Era. To see them dismantle this Little Engine That Could and dump its scraps in the rail yard in four or five games would be unsurprising. However, Washington has a grit that could make this a series. A grit that, frankly, had it shown up in other years, might have propelled the Caps to more Cup wins over the last fifteen years. A grit that is one of many storylines of the series. Let's examine some others.

No Love for Laviolette: Rangers' Head Coach Peter Laviolette spent three disappointing seasons behind Washington's bench. His failure to win a playoff series was further marred by a seeming refusal to play young players unless absolutely forced to because of injury. That the young players injecting life into the lineup wasn't enough to keep them playing is an indictment of Lavi's stubbornness. I don't dislike him as much as some fans.  He got a raw deal with some Covid stuff. He also had a mandate to get a veteran team across the line. Ultimately, though, his tenure set back the franchise and wasted some of Ovechkin and Nick Backstrom's golden years. I'm sure some of the young guys, especially Connor McMichael, are eager to leave a steamer in Laviolette's postseason punch bowl.

Charlie Lindgren: Chuckie. The Outlaw. The Mustache.  Whatever you call him, he's the new number one goalie in town. Lindgren emerged as the antidote to Darcy Kuemper's poisonous porousness. Charlie bailed out a struggling team many nights this season, keeping them in games until they could scrape out a win. That Charlie Lindgren is 2-1-0 in 3 games with a goals against average of 1.35 and a save percentage of . 955 against the Rangers in his career is a bonus. After years of the Caps running into the hot goalie, maybe this is the year Washington turns the tables.

Washington's Aforementioned Mediocrity: The Caps are not what you would call a "good team." They are one of the worst teams to sneak in the playoffs in recent memory. It took luck and the stretch stumbling of a half dozen other teams for Washington to earn the second wild card spot. The Caps have wild mood swings, veering from winning close to losing big. This led to the worst goal differential (-36) of any playoff team since 1991. The offense, long a strength, abandoned ship for large stretches of the season. They struggled to build sustained pressure or generate quality scoring chances. This team takes fewer shots than a room full of Baptist Designated Drivers.  They will have to do better to upset the Rangers. The defensive core, tattered and talent-deficient, doesn't fare much better. More often matador than bull, the defense often hangs the goalies out to dry. The willingness of the team to play better team defense as a five man unit in front of Lindgren the last three games is what helped them sneak in the playoffs. Maybe they are finally clicking in Coach Spencer (Bald Jesus) Carbery's system. Maybe that will serve them well in this series.

From Young Guns to Ancient One: Captain Alex Ovechkin is the last of the Young Guns to remain in D.C. He looked lost early the season, maybe because fellow former young gun, Nick Backstrom, was away from the team. Ovechkin's scoring touch disappeared. His joy for the game seemed to wane. All that changed after an all-star break vacation in Dubai with his family. His scoring prowess returned after the break. It's easy to joke that a vacation camel ride flipped a switch, but if I were GM Brian MacClellan I would have a Dromedary rental service on speed dial just in case. Besides being the last Young (Now Old) Gun, Ovechkin is one of only four players remaining from the 2018 Cup win. Each will be instrumental in battling the Rangers. John Carlson, much maligned by me, has had a resurgent year. He is still too often the guy standing next to the guy scoring on his net. But he is a leader and continues to be an offensive force from the blue line. It has been fun to see him bounce back from his near tragic ear injury. Tom Wilson, defacto owner of the NYR,  needs to have a big series. After a subpar scoring season and stupid suspension, Caps fans would like to see Wilson continue his ascension to major team leader and likely future captain. That he'll likely have to tangle with Ranger skyscraper Matt Rempe makes the matchup all the more
enticing.  The last of the Core Four is the indomitable T.J. Oshie. Oshie routinely MacGyvers his body back together with duct tape and bubble gum. He is the gluiest of glue guys and I love him. He leads by word and deed and the Caps are a much better, more spirited team with Oshie in the lineup. They'll need him at his intangible best against the Rangers. If the heroes of 2018 deliver, the Caps can make it a series.

Today, Washington's playoff run begins. Whether it lasts four games, four weeks or four series (hey, I can dream), I'm all the way in. The Old Guns and the New Ones, primed for showtime on Broadway. Maybe they can stick one in Laviolette's ear. Maybe they can win one for Backy. If not, they have already given me an awesome gift with this roller coaster regular season. Let's drop the puck and Let's Go Caps!

The Road to Fifty

With my fiftieth birthday approaching later this fall, I have been thinking A LOT about getting older. Time is a twisty, funky thing, but milestone birthdays serve as way points that encourage some reflection. I've been pondering my health, wealth, relationships, career, parenting, and more.

I used to write a bunch. In the age of blogs, before Facebook, I posted often as a fun exercise to share news of our growing family and to simply get some thoughts out of my anxious, sometimes sideways mind. As I hurtle down the road to fifty, I plan to write again. To examine more closely some of the subjects I've been thinking about. If you enjoyed reading my stuff before, I hope you'll indulge me again. I'll cross post my stuff on my old blog. Yes, it still exists; nothing really goes away on the internet. I'll put the link in the comments.

Of course, one of the great treats of getting older is worrying about your health. Aging has sharpened my focus on health issues I should have dealt with long ago. Instead of treating my body like a temple, I have used it like a demolition derby car that crashed into the chocolate fountain in a Golden Corral. Now, on the precipice of being fifty years old, weighing in at my heaviest poundage ever, I know I have to fix some things. Things that should have changed when I got married. Or when I stopped playing ice hockey. Or when Grace was born. When I was prescribed blood pressure meds at age 35. When my dad dropped dead at age 59. When gout became a semi-annual companion. When we were told Covid might be worse for the obese. When the scale crossed 300 for the first time. Or a thousand other instances that should have been a wake up call.

Most of the annoying maladies that plague me -creaky lower back, persistent knee pain, sleep apnea- would ease, if not disappear, if I lost fifty pounds. One hundred, would be better,  but fifty would help immensely. It's so frustrating to know feeling crappy physically is mostly due to self-inflicted wounds. To know aches, pains, and worse, that we used to concede to "getting old" can be mitigated by staying physically fit. To know it really doesn't have to be this way.
So, why do I look and feel as bad as I do? Why does looking at my belly in the mirror remind me of that Jeff Goldblum quote from Jurassic Park? Because. I. Love. To. Eat.
I love healthy food. I love unhealthy food. I love the huge percentage of the American diet that is processed, factory-manufactured, food-type product food. And because I love it, I eat way too much of it. The irony is I love fruits and vegetables. I enjoy cooking. I like perusing the internet and cookbooks for tasty, healthy food. Yet, too often, the inconvenience (it's not really that inconvenient) of cooking a well-balanced meal loses out to food peddled by a clown or talking chihuahua. In a time when we have more information that we can possibly imagine at our fingertips, I routinely ignore it in favor of something, anything with extra cheese.

So that's what I'll be working on. I've been lifting weights again to protect the bones, have the bike out of the shed to strengthen the heart and lungs, and have been engaging in floorplay (read that again, you pervert) to work on mobility (a top-notch predictor of longevity and aging gracefully). Getting in the kitchen has to be the top priority. I'm putting the demolition derby car in the shop; I just hope it's not beyond repair. 

The Pringle Tingle

     

America, I have a question for you. Not a deep philosophical question like our current dark times rightfully require. No, this is a frivolous one: What is is the deal with Pringles?
     When putting together a grocery list the other day, Grace asked for Pringles. Yeah, I don't know why either. I'm not a fan. But because I am the World's Greatest Dad a dope, I told her I'd get a tube. Now, in the rare instances I venture into a grocery store during the pandemic, I race through the place like I am trying to set a new course record on American Ninja Warrior. I was a little dismayed as my internal clock ticked away while I searched futilely for Pringles on the chip aisle. As I imagined Corona droplets raining down on me from every direction, I broke down and asked  for help. The kind clerk pointed  me one aisle over to the cracker aisle. I thanked him, grabbed a random tube of Pringles and made my escape to fresh air. It wasn't until later that I wondered why Pringles were on the cracker aisle when they are America's third-selling potato chip brand.
     Maybe before talking more about what Pringles ARE, we should talk about what Pringles ARE NOT. For one, they are not potato. Well, actually, that is only partially true. They are 42% potato. Call me crazy, but I like my potato chips to be deep fried potato slices. Not some pressed compound that is 42% potato, 58% sawdust. Okay, I have no proof of my sawdust claim, but would a discerning palate honed on fine dining delights like Arby's Beef n Cheddar and Pop Tarts (also 58% sawdust!) be wrong? Not likely. Research "suggests" the remaining 58% of a Pringle is wheat starch and flours (corn and rice) combined with vegetable oils, an emulsifier, salt, and seasoning. Yum!
Basically, Pringles are a substance, a slurry, a goo pressed and baked into their perfect standard shape. There are other slurries formed by industrial machinery into non-toxic, technically edible substances like Play-Doh and Crayola crayons, but I don't advise you put them in your mouth any more than I would advise eating a Pringle.
     I guess Pringle makers deserve some measure of credit for the perfect shape. The consistency lends itself to easy packaging. Remember though, nothing is perfect. What dark secret is hiding beneath all that pressed conformity and uniformity? Each chip should be unique. I want my potato chips a little like me: lumpy, bumpy, and misshapen.
     Pringles are also ARE NOT hearty. They are as fragile as my tenuous bond with reality. This fragility renders them completely undippable. I need a chip with the structural integrity to pave it's way through a bucket of french onion dip without crumbling. Did I double-dip that chip? No sir, I octuple-dipped it because that is how many pieces my Pringle shattered into upon making contact with the salsa.
Pringles also ARE NOT tasty. I mean, I guess they are if you prefer your chips dusted in chemically-enhanced reasonable facsimiles of your favorite foods. The Pringles website currently boasts 17 different flavors. There are probably retired flavors too. If any of their flavor powders sound appealing, I suggest just eating the real deal. Like jalapeno? Eat a jalapeno. Jonesing for pizza flavor? Order a pie. If you absolutely can not resist the flavor powder, find a better vehicle for delivery. Try snorting it off a hooker's ass like a real man!
     The bottom line is, leave the Pringles on the shelf. Let someone else try to squeeze their fat little paw in that tiny tube opening to grab a tasteless, laboratory-created, flavor-dust covered, partial potato wafer that will disintegrate the moment they grasp it with their greasy fingers. You can do better, fellow snacker. Get a bag of something you can fit your entire face into. The world is full of Combos, Cheez-Its, Wheat Thins and Doritos. Pretzels, Munchos, Chicken in a Biscuits, and Tostitos. Hot Fries, Chex Mix, Funyuns, and Fritos. Ditch the Pringles and Pass the Cheetos.

Good Gosh, What's That Smell; Caps Stink In Game Three

So Game Three was a Grade-A, close-your-eyes, cover-your-junk, shit show for the Washington Capitals.  They were dominated by the Hurricanes for the final fifty minutes of a 5-0 shutout.  What does it mean? I don't know.  What I do know is it's time to play a lightning round of the most happenin' game show sensation in the nation: Fact and Opinion!

Fact: The Hurricanes savagely wrecked the Caps like a Taco Bell dinner steamrolling my digestive tract.

Opinion: The Caps were swept under by a tidal wave of a desperate team playing in front of a rabid crowd watching their first home playoff game in a decade.  Washington has the pedigree to respond. If they lay another giant dinosaur-sized egg on Thursday then I'll be worried.

Fact: The Capitals had won six straight playoff games dating back to last year. They had won all six decisions with Carolina this season prior to Game Three.
Opinion: The streaks had to end sometime.  Carolina is a formidable team that finished close to Washington in the standings.  This was always a loseable (Is that a word?) series. Fortunately, it's also a seven game series.

Fact: Alex Ovechkin smacked Canes forward Andrei Svechnikov in the mouth literally knocking him out.

Opinion: The Canes smacked back as an entire team.  They got far more juice from the fight than the Caps did.

Fact: Carolina defenseman Dougie Hamilton had two goals in Game Three.
Opinion: Dougie Hamilton should have been suspended for Game Three for blatantly elbowing Kuzy in the head during Game Two.

Fact: Throughout the second half of the regular season, opponents began pressuring the Caps' power play more aggressively.
Opinion: Here's a live look at the Capitals' power play as they still attempt to adjust.

Fact: Washington's first line is playing well.
Opinion: Lines two through four better get in gear now. The Caps had seven 20-goal scorers this season. They need their secondary scoring to come alive.  Much more bottom six play like tonight and I'll have to paraphrase the bald Captain in Top Gun, "Launch DSP on Alert 5 and launch the rescue helicopter immediately."

Fact: One coach pushed all the right buttons in Game Three.

Opinion: One coach looked like he couldn't even find the buttons.  Bruce Boudreau ultimately failed in D.C. because he could not adapt during the course of a seven game series.  I hope Todd Rierden is more Barry Trotz than Bruce Boudreau, but, boy, I don't know.

Fact: Late last week I said one of the teams that jumped out to a 2-0 series lead would ultimately blow that lead and lose the series.
Opinion: Uh-oh.  Did Caps fans delight too much in the plight of the "Ning (if that is still a thing) and Pens?

Fact: My friend Kevin called the Capitals "gutless turds."
Opinion: The playoffs have officially begun!

There's nothing else to say but, "On to Game Four." See you Thursday.

Aqua, man.

I could write a simple, one sentence review of Aquaman that conveys the quality of the film: It's another D.C. movie.  Since I've never missed an opportunity to run on when being concise would work, here's a bit more long-winded take.  I wanted to like the movie, I truly did.  I have no particular feeling, positive or negative, for the character; my only real experience with the dude is watching SuperFriends and the recent Justice League movie.  Based on Aquaman's role in Justice League, I assumed this movie would be two hours of Jason Mamoa wise-cracking like a roided-out, underwater Jerry Seinfeld.  It was that and so much more.  And by more, I mean less.

Mamoa, you know, the guy who in every role somehow looks like he always smells while also constantly looking like he is starring in a shampoo commercial, does try hard.  He seems like a decent actor deserving of a movie better than this, but he and the rest of the cast are dealing with a dog turd of a script.  The dialogue stinks like day old sushi.  Nicole Kidman, phoning it in as A-man's mer-queen mom, hasn't tread a plot this thin since Days of Thunder.  Actually, this flick makes Days look like an Oscar winner.

The short version goes something like this: forced to save his mom's hometown of Atlantis, Aquaman heads out on a Homeric odyssey to recover an ancient king's magic fork trident.  What little plot there is exists only to move you to the next action scene.  Unfortunately, the action is cheesier than the dialogue.  Remember the scene in The Phantom Menace where Obi-Wan, Qui Gon, and Jar-Jar pilot the little submarine through the underwater passages of Naboo?  Of course you don't; the scene was boring, terrible and forgettable.  If you did recall, you'd remember it was ten minutes of Jedis coughing out shitty one-liners and Jar-Jar shrieking while navigating waters populated by silly alien sea creatures.  Well, about half of Aquaman is that scene played out in different ways.  Aquaman rides, surfs, and fights every manner of video game sea creature and cartoonish crustacean you can think of.  I was surprised Sebastian and Flounder didn't show up for a musical number.  The rest of the movie feels familiar, too.  Not in a good way.  It has vibes of Power Rangers, echoes of Flash Gordon, hints of Under Siege and feels like a rip off of, not Indiana Jones, but Indiana Jones ripoffs like National Treasure and The Mummy.

To distract from this, the producers tossed in plenty of substandard special effects, bright colors, and flashing lights like the movie is actually some sort of underwater game show.  Throw in two poorly drawn villains, heavy-handed environmentalism, Dolph Lundgren, and Dolph-ins and you've got a mess.  I don't want to say I disliked the movie, but I felt like I spent the evening stuck in a plastic six-pack ring.  D.C. super hero movies act as if a thundering, soaring score and raspy voiced hero can convince you that having poo dumped in your lap for two hours is epic.  But, you know what, I could be wrong.  Remarkably, when the credits rolled the theater erupted in cheers and applause.  And not like people were happy to have finally escaped their worst ever visit to the aquarium.  They were genuine cheers.  With those folks, I will happily disagree.  This movie gets 2.5 tuna cans out of ten from me.

In Defense of Gritty

If you've been paying attention this fall, you have seen an aggressive, wild-eyed, orange monster energizing and enthralling arena-sized crowds of deplorables.  His antics border on unhinged and his manners are, well, nonexistent.  He has channeled the rage of the people he represents and courted the scorn of his detractors.  If you care about such a thing, you'll be jealous of his Twitter follower count.  And, much to my own surprise, he's starting to grow on me.  Donald Trump?  Good golly, no.  I'm talking about Gritty, the dubious mascot of the Philadelphia Flyers.

No, I haven't lost my grip on reality.  Yes, I know Gritty is an abomination.  A blight on society.  An affront to normalcy and domestic tranquility.  The Flyers claim he was "living" in an unused underbelly of the arena.  Seems to me, more like a product of Chernobyl that stowed away in a Russian player's gear. Perhaps he slipped in from the Upside Down before Eleven powered through her most recent nosebleed.  He looks like Chewbacca knocked up Mayor McCheese, but they left the baby in the wilderness to be raised by wolves.  Gritty is flatulence personified, an ethereal stench coalesced into physical form.  No, personified is the wrong word.  Personified mistakenly implies Gritty is a person.  He's more like a Sulphur-stinking hell hound poorly imitating human characteristics in order to infiltrate society.  But I love him.

I am loathe to give the Philadelphia Flyers organization any credit.  My hatred of the team and (most) of their fans is well documented.  This is the team that gave us the Broad Street Bullies, Ron Hextall, and whiny Eric Lindros.  I have no love for the Orange and Black, but with Gritty they may have, perhaps accidentally, hit it out of the park.  It depends on what you believe about Gritty's origins.  If he is supposed to be another silly, but cute lovable loser then he is an easy fail.  This mascot can't hold the Phillie Phanatic's jock in this regard.  But if Gritty is, as I firmly believe, a sarcastic rebuttal to the terrible pre-game sh*tshow produced by the Vegas Golden Knights then he is brilliant.  Vegas made all of hockey dumber last season with their Ice Capades meets Renaissance Faire stage act that preceded home games.  The overproduced community theatre may have been a sweet part-time gig for some Strip understudies and drama students, but the rest of the NHL could have done without all the phony arrows, drums, and fanfare.  If you want to entertain me,  play two minutes of the Black Knight on the Jumbotron and drop the puck.  I think Gritty is an epic troll by the Flyers seeking to bring us something worse than Vegas's Knights of the Crease.

Whether playing it straight or as a troll job, Gritty, twenty games into the season, has become an extraordinary success.  He, and the Flyers, were mercilessly ridiculed upon his debut.  Philly fans, known to boo Santa Claus, were aghast. The mocking was amplified when Gritty fell down when walking across the rink.  A hockey mascot that can't navigate the ice surface is embarrassing.  Or, maybe, a genius idea.  Either way, the Flyers embraced the hate and ran with it.  Like a comedian who feeds off angry hecklers, Gritty now courts the abuse.  The Flyers marketing team looks incredibly smart now.  The bar was set so low, so early, now they can do almost anything no matter how stupid or demeaning.  Pour popcorn on unsuspecting fans?  That Gritty is incorrigible.  Push over a mite player during intermission?  Man, Gritty, you're so silly.  Run over a kid with the Zamboni in a murderous rage?  Oh, that's just Gritty being Gritty.  By design, or by turning chicken manure into chicken salad, the Flyers have created a good kind of monster.  And, however begrudgingly, earned a tiny bit of respect from me.

What's Your Appeal?

Suspended Washington Capitals forward Tom Wilson has his appeal hearing with the independent arbitrator today.  We here at Hailey Industries found enough change in the couch cushions to fire up our time machine.  We were able to jump into the future just far enough to witness the hearing.  This is a transcript of the proceedings.

Setting:

 A conference room in NHL Headquarters.  It is appointed and furnished like a normal conference room except the walls are bathed in a weird purple hue and there are small, white blinking lights all around leaving the room looking sort of like a game show set.  Seated on one side of a long table is suspended Washington Capitals forward Tom Wilson.  Through the door walks a tall man with a deep tan and bleached white teeth.  The sound of thunderous applause roars from…somewhere.  The tall man stands at the end of the table to Wilson’s left.  Staring into the distance, the man begins to speak.

Johhny Hairdo: Hi, everybody, and welcome to another exciting edition of “What’s Your Appeal?”  I’m your host, Johnny Hairdo.  Today’s contestant is Capitals forward Tom Wilson.  Hiya, Tom!

Wilson: (muttering) What the fu…

Johnny Hairdo: Exactly! Now let’s meet your opponent…er, I mean the completely neutral, independent arbitrator assigned by the league, Mr. Barry Gettman.

(In walk four individuals who seat themselves across from Wilson. One, a short, balding man looks suspiciously like the Count from Sesame Street, but wearing large glasses and a bushy, obviously fake moustache, begins to speak.)

Barry Gettman: Hi, Tom.  I’m Barry Gettman.  I’ve been asked by Commissioner Gary Bettman to hear, and fairly adjudicate your case today.  Before we hear your version of events, I’d like to introduce my team of totally impartial assistant arbitrators.  I think you know, Sidney Crosby.

(Wild applause sounds)

Crosby: Like it or lump it, I’m an NHL elder statesman!

Barry Gettman: And you may also know Don Cherry.

Cherry:  See my suit covered in this wild pattern of middle fingers?  I had it made just for you A-hole!

Wilson: I…but…what?

Barry Gettman: And to my left, the newest member of the team, one of the finest legal minds in the land, my esteemed colleague from Philadelphia-

Gritty: Me Gritty!

Wilson: Wow.  I know today is Halloween.  Is this some sort of joke?

Gritty: Trick or treat, Mother F-

Johnny Hairdo: I wish it was!  Mr. Gettman (wink), you’re up first.

Barry Gettman: Thanks, Johnny.  Now, Tommy, I’ve read Commissioner Bettman’s nuanced, beautifully written ruling on your initial appeal.  He really took you behind the woodshed, huh? Can you tell us about the night of your brutal on-ice attack when you almost murdered helpless St. Louis Blues player Oskar Sundqvist?

Wilson: Well, I, uh, saw Oskar cut across the ice, I knew we were below the hard deck, but I had the shot, so I took it. He should have had his head up.

Cherry: Top Gun references will get you nowhere, son. C’mon, you are Canadian for chrissakes.  You want a Top Gun reference, boy? You keep this crap up and you’ll be flying a plane full of rubber dog shit to Hong Kong.  How you like them apples, eh?  See I watch movies too, Titface.

Wilson: Man, I thought you liked North American players. 

Cherry: Not you, Shitpile.  You have that Ovechkin Eurotrash stink all over you.  Wrap yourself in a Maple Leaf and we’ll talk.

Crosby (snickering and shaking his head): Hehe, Shitpile. Don, you’re incorrigible.

Barry Gettman: Um, thanks Don.  Anything else to say in your defense, Tom, before we wrap up this charade?

Wilson: Yes, sir.  I think sitting out these ten games has been beneficial.  I’ve seen how I need to change my game and think I am ready to get back on the ice. 

Barry Gettman (under his breath): That seems unlikely.

Wislon: What?

Barry Gettman: I said, before I make my ruling I’d like to hear my colleagues’ recommendations.  Should we alter the length of Mr. Wilson’s suspension? Sid?

Crosby: Yes.  Make it forty games.

Gettman: Don?

Cherry: Hang him.  And all those other nutsacks rocking the red.

Gettman: Gritty?

Gritty: Yep. Reduce to 19 games if me allowed to shoot him in balls with T-shirt gun!

Gettman: Okay, panel thanks for weighing in.  I will consider all your, uh, helpful recommendations.  Tom, I will take all of today’s testimony under advisement and will hand down a ruling, hopefully, by Christmas.

Wilson: But-

Johnny Hairdo:  Well, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have.  Thanks for playing.  We’ll see next time, and for you Tom, I’m sure there will be a next time, on “What’s Your Appeal!” Goodnight, Everybody!