Black Ice Vancouver

“Did you ever wake up to find, a day that broke up your mind, destroyed your notion of circular time?” –Jagger/Richards

There is so much to love about Nirvana but at the end of the day, I can’t help shake the fact that KC made a maggot farm out of his beautiful, tortured brain. The point of the exercise is that he is dead kids.

So why is it when I’ve sunken into a deep depression–the soul teetering on the brink of the abyss–that I look back on horrible sections of my life with a dissonant fondness? It is as if feeling terrible isn’t enough, I have to look back at life’s failures and convince myself that it wasn’t half-bad. Collective unconscious institutional expectation management? Grandma Pearl’s glass-half-full serum of optimism? Pathological inability to call a spade a spade?

And yes, the Vancouver Canucks are still finding new and clever was to kick their own ass. Which gives rise to another tortured season of missed blog deadlines (there are no deadlines, so the process of firing and rehiring myself is a mystical cycle) and the perpetual attempt at resolving non-sequitors.

There was so much to love about the 2009-10 campaign. Yet, the one thing that went wrong was the most important can’t-go-wrong. Last night, the Canucks seemed to pick up right where they left off last year–losing in gloriously self-inflicting fashion. I can’t help shake the fact that we lost (Last night? The cup? You choose).

But I will shake it, because in the immortal words of some asshole, sports is about losing.

The Vancouver Canucks are all about raising expectations to fever pitch (only to end each season with an Eliot-eque whimper). And rock and roll is all about dying before your time. For those of us who are still left on this cold-heartless rock there is always hope. The hope that rings out of the end of shotgun you ask? No, that is too easy for the nuanced loathing of a Vancouver fan (always too embroiled in their native West Coast lugubriosity to riot). The hope lay in hockey’s eternal return, another full year of untapped potential by the blue-n-green and another full year of ecstatic whining from yours truly.

With that logic, I think this might be our year.

–Joseph F. Delamar

“For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against the principalities, against the powers, against the world-rulers of this darkness, against the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly place.” –Ephesians 6:12

Moments after Game 3 in Boston I had this image cross my mind. I looked down and saw that my belly had been sliced open with a samurai sword and all of my innards were spilling out. That is a what a 8-1 pounding does to the psyche of your everyday, run-of-the-mill Canucks fan.

Today, I have been thinking all day about what it might feel like to get hit by a train. For anyone who watched Stand By Me as a child, it was a not so pleasant reminder not to play on the train tracks. Those speculations I once had as a child have come throttling back. I wonder what part of my body gets hit first. Perhaps my chest. I can imagine my cage splintering first, then shattering. All of my organs would explode, in alphabetical order, upon impact. The force of the steel would tear my body into three parts. My right leg ripped clean off. My right arm, neck and and head would fly a few hundred feet upon impact and lay pulsing in a bloody lump in a ditch. The rest of me strewn all over the rails and possibly the front of an engine.

Many parts of me would never be found. I’m sure it would be over quick. Which makes this analogy not quit sufficient to describe the feelings of what it might be like to get beaten by the Bruins tonight.

No, perhaps a more apt description would be that of getting torn apart by a large predatory animal. You do the math. First it gives us an edge. Let’s us think that they are the prey. Then it takes a swipe with it’s mighty claw. Possibly across the face. Just to make a real mark. Then the beast draws back. Looks to see if anything is coming, then strikes with it’s face, mauling a couple of limbs and taking out the chest cavity. But there is fight in us. We never say die. Us humans. Us Canadian humans. Strewn out here in the Northern timberlands to carve a life out of the wilderness, both inside out hearts and in the landscape that consumes us, that which becomes, our will to survive.

I wonder about being a Canadian sometimes and living in the most peaceful city in the most peaceful country in the whole wide world. And rich to, we are. But there is still a thirst for blood that seems to never cease. Never has that been more apparent in this Stanley Cup finals. Where nothing short of bodies wheeled out on stretchers will do.

This is not a moral judgement at all. This war of flesh and blood brings to mind another war we all fight each and every day. That one of principalities and powers. It is this war that we project onto our athletes, our team, our men.

Imagining the outcome of this match is a microcosm for trying to imagine the outcome of life. How I will feel. What I will do. What mountain I will conquer and what mountain will conquer me.

But mostly–mostly, I just don’t want to get hit by a train, or eaten by a bear.

–Joseph F. Delamar

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” — John Keats

We listened to the first period of Game 2 laying in the sun in Crab Park, not the game, but the roar of the crowd. The sound caromed off of Burrard Inlet and let out a holy yop which thundered out toward the furthest reaches of the Fraser Valley. It was an awesome sound to behold.

Then we walked up Main St. and caught the final berths of the game at the Rumpus Room. The experience of being a long suffering Canucks fan has left my tender heart in tatters. Today we have reason to celebrate, not because we won (that will take two more wins) but because we have percervered. We have crawled through 40 years of shit and we are on the cusp of coming clean. We are on the cusp, and it is a beautiful thing.

Burrows OT winner at the 11 second mark was a perfect execution of speed, skill and intelligence. It is a part of our game that Canadian failed to invent, but seem prone to perfecting these days in the NHL. Burrows has been accused of having an insatiable appetite (sorry, couldn’t help myself) knowledge of the game. He is a student of the game, and when all is said and down, he will be a benefactor of not just the game, but the very notion of percerverance. Consistancy and perservearance.

Fuck Disney. We have an entire team filled with feel-good stories. One only has to peak into the dressing and see what this team (much like it’s battered and bruised fanbase) has endured. The Sedins endured years of verbal abuse off the ice and physical abuse on it before settling in, without a hint of complaint, as superstars. Sami Salo has recovered from a league record: 40 injuries. Kevin Bieksa recovered from not one but two potential career threatening calf lacerations.

Fuck Disney and fuck the script. All we need are two swift brushstrokes and we will have a masterpiece to celebrate all on our own.

–Joseph F. Delamar

“If you can’t beat ‘em in the alley, you can’t beat ‘em on the ice.” Conn Smythe

Considering 77% of teams that win Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Final go on to win the Cup, it seems only fair to start thinking of Conn Smythe candidates. Keep in mind that this is my anti-list.

Manny Malhotra

Sure he hasn’t played a game since getting a puck declected into his left laser beam, but his off-ice leadership is still intact. Should he dress for game two he will provide an emotional boost to a squad that doesn’t actually need an emotional boost. Think, emotionally boosted (times) emotional-boost-from-spirited-leader-previously-considered-out-for-the-season-with-near-career-ending-eye-injury (equals) Stanley Cup.

Yannik Hansen

There are already a crop of youngsters from the land of Kierkegaard and yummy breaded treats who are being enshrined with the Yanni moniker. His speed and his audaciously Beaker-esque voice provided the scene for the “I’m open Kes!” heard around the world. Should his hands ever catch up to his feet we may have the Danish Mats Naslund on our hands.

Corey Schneider

Just think, if Schneider had played 21 games in the regular season we might already be lining up for the parade. He played brilliant in Game 6 against Chicago only to go down with cramps after that weird penalty shot. Luongo came in to back him up and lost the game ingloriously in OT. Somehow, SOMEHOW, that cramp was contagious, clearly Luongo caught it in his head and has since forgotten how terrible he is. If he wins the Cup, the entire province of British Columbia will have to forget too.

Alex Burrows

Sure he is no Greg “the Gentleman” Adams, but his clutch performance in Game 7 against Chicago is a thing of Tolkien lore. Some asshole will probably write a prequel and an even bigger asshole will probably invent a language based on the philology of the Pipsqueak from Pincourt. If he had swallowed Patrice Bergeron’s finger a suspension would have been warranted, but as it stands, I’m trying to think of a street in Vancouver that needs a new name. Actually, let’s just change every street name in Vancouver to Burrows Street.

Keith Ballard

Po’ Keith. Ain’t get no respect. Despite sending Jamie McGinn into a full windmill and providing the best rock ‘em sock ‘em of the 2010/11 campaign, Ballard just can’t earn the trust of Bam Bam. But I garantee one thing, it is his attitude (a winning one!) that has kept this team abreast of infighting and locker-room clickery. These guys loves each other, and it’s a very, very sweet thing to consider. So sweet that your correspondent at this moment of typing is getting a little too misty-eyed to keep writing. Gotta run folks, got something in my eye. Enjoy Game 2.

–Joseph F. Delamar

Woop Woop. It’s over. We win. We win. We win.

It’s over. Finally I can move on with my life. Move on with my poor tender little heart. Lick my wounds and grease my chops for another off-season filled with remorse and a Greek Chorus of coulda, shoulda, wouldas.

And then we won it all. The regular season that is. Here I was, all set to kiss good-bye to another season. Another year filled with crushed hopes and dead babies. Much to my surprise little of the usual suspects have materialized this year. The Canucks have been consistent. There is not one me-first player on the squad to steal the spotlight. It is a well oiled machine ready for her first real post-season test.

Historically the Canucks have never won a championship because historically we were never really good. Even the called contender teams in ‘94 and ‘03 never had the talent laden roster. Now we do.

What will we do?

That is the only question Vancouver. It’s out of our hands.

“Anxiety is the state in which a being is aware of its possible nonbeing.” –Paul Tillich

Before the First World War there was a particular code that European generals followed in battle. It was an extension of the gentleman’s code practiced by European men all over the continent since ancient times. A code of courage and mutual respect (very different from mutual love or admiration). The dropping of the Atomic Bomb and the rise of the cold war essentially saw the death of this particular code from military practices.

It was the mutually assured destruction of the United States and the USSR that relegated conflicts between the two superpowers into satellite theatres such as Vietnam and Afghanistan. But for both the US and Russians these lacked the social grace of a previous generation of warfare. It lacked gentlemanly conduct. It lacked a code. After all, nobody wants to win a fight with an unfair advantage.

One could say then that the rise of professional sports in post-war America (and Europe of course) was a reaction to this global ceasefire. After all, even the world’s only superpower needs a pissing contest now and then.

It was the cold war that propelled professional sports such as hockey into the gladiator realm. It was only here that combatants could compete with an equal advantage. It is on this stage that the Vancouver Canucks and the Chicago BlackHawks are set to do battle in Game #2 of the Western Conference Quarter Finals.

Game #1 was the best game I’ve seen the Vancouver Canucks play in an awful long time. They looked great. They hit hard. Scored timely goals. Killed penalties and shutdown one of the leagues top offensive pairings in Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane. Aside from Luongo, the best player on the ice for Vancouver was Maxim Lapierre and Yannik Hansen. That’s says a lot about a team boasting the talents of the reigning Hart Trophy and Art Ross trophy.  It speaks a lot about a bunch of things but mostly it says that while the depth of our anxiety as fans may run deep, the depth of talent on our squad this year may run deeper.

Maybe.

What is most impressive about the team and the series thus far (and I know it is early) is the parity between the Canucks and the Hawks. Make no mistake Canucks fans, we could still lose this series. We could lose the game tonight. Anything goes in the Tabula Rasa of the NHL playoffs. I get the feeling, however, that a lose won’t be judged so much on negation, but rather description. How exactly will a win look like for the BlackHawks? How will the lose look for the no-luck Canucks? Nobody can seriously settle for anything less then a Cup Final appearance here in Terminal City.

Win or lose at this point, appearance is everything.

–Joseph F. Delamar

“I feel The Fear coming on, and the only cure for that is to chew up a fat black wad of blood-opium about the size of a young meatball and then call a cab for a fast run down to that strip of X-film houses on 14th Street…feel back the brain, let the opium take hold, and get locked into serious pornography.” –Hunter S. Thompson

Probably not gonna watch the game tonight. Probably not. In-spite of myself. In-spite of my team. Just plain in-spite. And there is a reason for this sentiment. A reason for this attitude of annihilation I feel for this most beloved of National Hockey League clubs. The reason is this. The reason is fear.

Vanouver fans have been a tight-lipped group this past few months. There has been little cause for celebration. There has not been any ticker tap tickering it’s way down the alleys of Granville Street or Burrard. There has been no yellow ribbons wrapped around old oak trees. And all the snow falling on cedar happens above the snow line.

Here, we are a city of business. Pleasure is a principle, mandated by city-council, which states: no resident or citizen shall enjoy, this day April 13, 2011, until the Vancouver Canucks have won the Stanley Cup. This makes participation in any celebratory action deemed, heretofore, to elicit, incite or elucidate enjoyable feelings, illegal and punishable by death. Fuck you smiles! Fuck you happy! Fuck you cheers of ecstatic joy! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!

We have a job to do folks. Until then, it is a strict diet of Fear. Fear and pornography the city over.

–Joseph F. Delamar

Editors note: Unfortunately the Olympics burned down all the good porno shops and peeler bars in the city. So once again I say, “Thanks be to god for the Internet.” Go henceforth and reap your rewards!

“Since the house is one fire, let us warm ourselves.” –Italian Proverb

In the past I have gone to sleep in a number of different capacities. I’ll make a cup of Sleepytime Tea. I’ll write in my journal of the days escapades. Perhaps I’ll pull one off before reading a little Tolstoy. In the past, when I used to go to sleep after Canucks lose, it was with the agony of a parent who’s child was just killed in a house fire.

And oh how that burning feeling has returned.

It’s unnecessary to get into “who didn’t show up” or what ails a first place team, leading in every major statistical category, with nothing left to play for. The best team in the regular season dropped two straight to the worst team in the league, the befuddling Edmonton Oilers. That is a fact. If this were a playoff situation (which is in clearly not) the Canucks would find themselves down 2-0 in the series. But none of that matters. Just like all the players on the team have been insisting all season, none of the regular season accolades and hardware are pertinant to a team that has it’s sights set on one goal.

That which we shall not speak of.

The Canucks are clearly unhappy with the outcome of the past few tilts. But it doesn’t actually matter. REALLY, it doesn’t matter. (Say that to yourself ten times fast under your breath dear reader.) What matters is that thing. So until that fat lady comes a–singin’ all bets are off.

And about those children we lost in the fire. I’ll reserve that nuclear holocaust in my gut until further notice.

Tell yourself. (Over and over again under your breath dear correspondant).

–Joseph F. Delamar

Editor’s note: Does anyone know this girl? Is she single? Does she like short walks on long beaches in just hockey socks and a wet translucent “away” jersey?

“It is not possible to eat me without insisting I sing praises of my devourer?” –Fyodor Dostoevsky

Kinda figured the Canucks might take the night off on this one.

Kinda tempting to do the same. While some might claim much ado about nothing, it is not so much the final tally that is concerning, but the way in which the tally was earned. Too many odd-man rushes. Too many bad penalties. And goal-tending was sloppy and inconsistent. For a team that has garnered a reputation for consistency all year it all may be easily forgiveable.

Maybe.

However, this club has a record of shitting the bed amidst the most comfortable slumber. They shouldn’t take this defeat lightly. Perhaps Coach Vee should make his entire team run bag-skate drills today until Aaron Rome pukes. Just to send a message.

Wake-up fellas. The city is counting on you. The country is waiting for a return of her majestic chalice. Like our grandparents before us, this generation wants her V-Day. Ticker tape and yellow ribbons. And by-golly, who wouldn’t love to impregnate some bewitching damsel in a public setting? Like the steps of the Vancouver Art Gallery.

If the Canucks can manage to play (and win) 16 games in the playoffs all of this is possible.

If they keep playing like a rag-tag group of mouth-breathers this correspondant may be without progeny for at least one more year.

–Joseph F. Delamar