Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Our last year of high school was a dandy one and a lot of it was spent in pursuit of a good time.
I went to an all guys school. It had its obvious drawback, first of all, but other than that it was a pretty fun place to grow up. Of course it did retard one stage of development for a lot of us. (Years later after a series of coincidences a guy I knew from high school ended up being my roommate for a year or so in a house I shared with a couple of musicians. He was studying for the bar and was a conservative ex jock type guy so it was an odd dynamic, him living with me and a couple of dope smoking communist musicians. But it worked. One night we were talking about one of the old high school guys, a guy who was very bright and funny, pretty good looking (I guess anyway, I mean I'd sleep with him, of course I would sleep with anybody), an athlete, you know the whole package. And here we are, like seven or eight years later and my roommate is shaking his head - 'That goddamned school ruined him', he said. 'Fucking guy still cannot talk to a woman to save his life'.
He wasn't the only one, although I had climbed over that wall a few years before, thank God. I recalled it all too well though.
After I kissed my first girl to the dulcet tones of Toto singing Africa I spent a couple of years living the dream. Well not really. My sex life, if you can call it that, its definitely overstating things by a lot, okay never mind the whole reference to sex, consisted of the odd night at a high school dance or a party at one of the local ethnic halls, slow dancing and making out with a girl to Stairway To Heaven or a similar rock anthem. I actually dated a couple of girls for a couple of months but generally the action consisted of the odd night at a high school dance or a party at one of the local ethnic halls, slow dancing and making out with her to Stairway to Heaven or a similar rock anthem.
It was Sudbury after all.
There were a few instances that I still recall.
There was the tall blonde in the sweater with the lovely big breasts at the Croatian Hall. She had what I call 50s boobs, the ones you saw in the oldest Playboys, long before implants, enormous and perky and natural, points riding way up high, impossible I know, yet true. I was loaded and we were dancing to the band, a punk/rock outfit of some sort. I was a shrimp and she towered over me. Anyhow we ended up sitting at a table making out for a good part of the night. We actually went out on a date or two but it went nowhere, most likely because I hadn't my driver's license and she got tired of being the DD.
There was the girl, who, well, um, taught me that girls, like boys, were horny dogs. While previous encounters I had had been relatively tentative, like a few hundred British commandos raiding a French port to remind Hitler that the Brits weren't dead yet, this girl's assault was full out D-Day, we're talking the entire fleet, the tens of thousands of troops, the bombers, the squadrons of fighters, the paratroopers. It was the first time I was left exhausted and spent by simply kissing. Jesus.
And then there was one of my buddy's sisters. I knew when I met her at the dance who she was, my God there was no mistaking her with the resemblance. And once again the usual ritual, the awkward white Canadian boy shuffle to a slew of 80s one hit wonders (I remember on the aforementioned night that almost immediately before Africa played dancing, if you can call it that, to Footloose by Kenny Loggins. Everyone cut Footloose indeed.) followed by the series of slow dances, then the lean in and .... paydirt! Tongue.
I would quickly outgrow the self conscious dance stylings of my very youthful youth, by the way, aided by my friend and yours, alcohol. Even to this day I will not step onto the dance floor until I have had a few drinks, then Gregory Hines, eat your fucking heart out, I become a gyrating, pulsating, automatic, spazmatic, hydromatic dancing fool. Think Travolta in Pulp Fiction only about one thousand times more awesome.
Seriously. Fucking. Awesome.
Anyhow in this instance we did the little kkkkkissy and then wandered out into the Sudbury February night in our parkas and Kodiaks, hand in hand, a bunch of my pals and hers hanging about, her brother staring in anguish.
Pat McLean and my sister!
It never came of anything, on Monday morning we were hanging about, shooting the breeze, a buddy of ours (we were pretty well all buddies, there were only ninety of is in our graduating class, if that) smirking:
So, basically, looking at her, it was like making out with Claudio. How was it?
Yeah that was it for that.
Anyhow my last year of high school and our social lives changed. The weekly event became the house party, usually at one of the guy's houses or one of our counterparts from Marymount, almost always on the Friday night. Saturday nights were a little more chaotic but Friday night was the event night for the week. It was generally the same group of kids and a lot of the same shit happened week after week. There was a guy who smoked rather than drank and always passed out early in the evening. There was another guy who always pulled out his guitar around 11 or so; he always 'just happened' to have it around when the girls asked. ;)
Anyhow partially because of familiarity with everyone, partially because there was just no interest from anyone, partially because I ended up with a massive crush my last year in high school, partially because I was a schrimp, partially because for me a lot of the year was about hanging with the guys, my senior year in high school was pretty barren when it came to girls. Indeed I can only recall one encounter. There may have been another one or two but I only remember the one.
It was New Year's Eve, one of those classic nights from high school, I remember about a half dozen of them. It was at one of the guys' places, his folks were away although I am pretty sure they were aware of what was going on. It was a fair sized gettogether and although now, years later, most of the details elude me, I do know that it was one of the best parties of my youth. All the gang, guys and girls, my best friends, the beer was flowing, good music. It was a terrific time. And at one point as we stood around shooting the breeze one of the girls, one of three sisters actually, staggered into the room, completely loaded. She'd never given me the time of day, barely to say hello even, until now, when she stumbled up to me, grabbed me and planted a big one on me. I responded. And then we fell over.
I jumped up and as she slowly got up I prepared myself for the onslaught, thinking certainly that my host was one of seven kids (Irish Catholics) and as a result there must be a bedroom somewhere and oh boy this is it and she got up and immediately grabbed someone else and planted one on them.
So you see it is true what they say about blind squirrels and all that. ;)
What can you say about the Oilers? Its pretty fucking typical of this club in most of its incarnations over the last long while. When they are expected to win, they usually do not; when we write them off then they surprise us. Often its mirrors and smoke, as Comrade Putin would say, but still they never fail to surprise us.
Ales Hemsky goes down and so we expect the season to go down the toilet, especially with Deslauriers becoming the starter with Khabibulin also going down.
Never saw that coming, Khabibulin being injured that is.
Shawn Horcoff, battling a shoulder injury so bad he cannot even take a faceoff as well as the whispers that he is in fact, a dirty Russian, begs Quinn for a chance at the shootout in Dallas. He finishes off the Stars and then does the same to the Panthers two nights later.
The aforementioned Deslauriers somehow manages to win three in a row on the road despite looking, lets say, uncomfortable when the puck comes near him.
Laddy Smid continues his breakout season with a timely goal, riding shotgun for the brilliance of Lubo Visnovsky.
Robert Nilsson reborn, at least this week.
Tom Gilbert, paired with Souray, a good combination, same as last season.
And Ryan Potulny, gaining traction, maybe an NHL career finally?
Although apparently the answer to the question for this club is Ryan Stone. Who knew?
Again, some of this little streak is that smoke and mirrors thing but the Oilers did a job on Detroit, outchanced Dallas (even at EV) and were a minus one in chances at EV against the Panthers (all of these numbers thanks to Dennis King).
So its not like they're getting away with murder out there.
Would it be best if this team went down the tubes, taking management with them? The answer is yes, to me anyhow. I think the club hasn't a chance with this management team in place. They have to go.
But they're hanging in there and winning is a lot more fun than losing. Remember the death march of spring 2007.
That was unbearable, even though it resulted in the highest Oiler pick in years and years.
So here we are, Oilers' fans, betwixt and between again. Longterm the best thing for the franchise would be a disaster of a season, a franchise player picked, management purged, players exposed and shipped out if possible.
But where's the fun in that?
Posted by Black Dog at 9:00 PM