Thursday, September 06, 2007
At work the other day chatting with our man from Dublin when the bell rang. The Irishman went to answer it and came back, followed by a rather tall shaggy man.
"Its your man sacamano", says our man from Dublin.
So it was. I've never met him but I recognized him immediately. I was confused - wasn't he in Sheffield? Or Siberia? And how did he find me? And what the hell does he do when he goes to Siberia? And why did the Oilers sign Souray to Smyth's money when they said they didn't think Smyth was worth the money but everyone and his brother knows that Smyth is, at the very least, far superior to Souray.
"Lets go for a couple of pints", quoth your man. "I know just the place."
Twist my arm. I love to drink almost as much as I love to fuck.
So down the street and around the corner we walked. Right into McVeighs and ordered a couple of pints from old Jimmy.
"We're going to go into the back, Jimmy", said sacamano.
"Suit yerself, ya wankers", says the grumpy old bastard.
"I didn't even know there was a back, what?", I said. But sure enough sacamano led me through a door which I had never noticed before. Into a dark room we walked. A large screen TV was on. With a gasp I recognized Game 7, 2006 Stanley Cup Finals. Oilers on a power play. Suddenly I hear a tortured moan from the corner.
"NO! NO! Always the same shit! Simpson you're a dead man! Put out Schremp! Put out LeGG! Always the same goddamn shit! Argghhhh!"
"Isn't that Grabia," I whispered.
"Shhh, he's very fragile.", sacamano whispered back. "He still doesn't know the Oilers lost that game. Pronger, the whole fiasco with the D, the Smyth disaster, EIG's angling for a publically funded arena, Pisani's illness. He chooses to forget it all - he's in a state of denial. Probably best for all of us. He'd fly into a murderous rage if he ever came to." Suddenly Grabia rose from his table and staggered drunkenly, tearing at his hair and sackcloth tunic, frantically trying to claw his out eyes out, sobbing uncontrollably. We fled the room.
"Hey lads," waved Pleasure Motors, reclining on a velvet chesterfield, naked but for a strategically placed Oilers' hat. I'd link to a picture I took of this but apparently Blogger removed it.
Anyhow we fled the room. Quickly. I mean really really fucking fast.
"Jesus!", we both gasped.
We were in a quiet dark room. At a small table two men sat with a big bottle of Black Bush Whiskey. One was, um, black and white.
"Who's your monochromatic friend, Lowetide?", said sacamano.
"This handsome guy is Edouard "Newsy" Lalonde , in the uniform of the 1910/1911 Montreal Canadiens of the NHA, the precursor to the NHL. In 1909/1910 Lalonde played twelve games, seven with the Canadiens and five with the Renfrew Hockey Club. He scored forty goals and racked up fifty nine penalty minutes. Looking at Desjardins' numbers, there is no comp for Lalonde. His accomplishments are completely unbelievable, sort of like trying to compete with a team full of rookie blueliners or signing Dustin Penner to an offer sheet. He was a beauty. No Marc Pouliot, mind you, but then again, who is?"
"Right on", I said with breathless admiration. "Lowetide."
"Who's your friend, sacamano?", Lowetide inquired, throwing back a big glass of the good stuff.
"Its the Black Dog Eats Rats guy", replied my guide.
"Oh", says the Blogger Emeritus coldly. "You're going to put him in his place, I presume. His shit makes no more sense then the existence of the California Golden Seals or Lowe's failure to sign Don Awrey. I did not see him good."
That's when I began to sweat.
To Be Continued.
Posted by Black Dog at 8:11 PM