Follow my non-updates on Twitter!

My favorite Sunday morning ritual is to go downstairs, grind coffee beans, brew a steaming cup of goodness (straight black) and pick through the carcasses of Saturday night’s hockey games.

I start with NHL scores and work my way through the alphabet soup: AHL, ECHL, IHL, CHL, OHL, CCHA.  I do this because I want to know what’s going on, but also because I have friends playing, coaching or broadcasting at all of these levels.  Then I log on to the CBC web site and watch the hat trick of Hockey Night in Canada television segments: Coach’s Corner, Coast to Coast, and Hotstove.

Yum.  E.

While surfing the CBC site this morning, I noticed Scott Oake’s bio.  Oake is an award-winning member of the network’s broadcast team.  His bio states he is very popular on Twitter and encourages people to follow him, so I wandered over to Twitter and logged in to my account, which I use, oh, twice a month.

I just don’t see a whole lot of value in Twitter.

Apparently, Oake doesn’t, either.  His last tweet was dated Nov. 7 and thereby reinforces what I’ve said all along:

• Twitter is a fad
• People who actually do things — people like Scott Oake — don’t have time to tell everyone else about them

Also: Former Western Michigan forward Mark Letestu had an excellent game for Pittsburgh last night, even though he did not score and the Penguins lost to Chicago in overtime.  Letestu created plays, hit the post with a backhanded shot and won the key face-off in Chicago’s end that led to Jordan Staal’s game-tying goal with under a minute left.

He did not, to the best of my knowledge, Tweet about it.

I covered Mark during his only season in Kalamazoo and remember the phone conversation we had on the day he announced he signed with Pittsburgh.  Here is the article from that day:

Wayside

What happened to Wayside?

It’s empty.

It smells like sawdust.

The chicken nachos, much like the bartenders, are not what they used to be.

When I was in my early 20s, Wayside was the bar in Kalamazoo.  Lines to get in would wrap around the building and down Stadium Drive.  The bartenders and waitresses?  To quote the little black baby in the E*Trade commercial outtake: Ohmagoodness.

Wayside was it!  Especially for young, insecure, meat-shopping co-eds (like me) who needed the perfect venue to walk around in packs and check each other out without actually having the balls to make solid eye contact or introduce ourselves.  Instead, we’d lean on the railing.

“Damn,” we’d say, gazing down at the floor below.  “Look at that one.”

Later, when that one would walk by, we’d turn … and let her keep walking … and walking.  We’d stare longer, then sip our fifty cent beers.

“Damn.“

Anyway, the point is, like we once were, Wayside is LAME these days.  What happened?  I know downtown and its trendy, voyeuristic, bar-on-every-block landscape has captured fun-seekers like a giant lobster net, but is that any excuse for Wayside to ditch the giant projection screen that once hung high above the main floor?  To hire bartenders who apparently inhale all the good nachos?  To gut the place like the display advertising wing of a dying newspaper?  To put in a poker room?

Apparently, it is.

Or maybe I’m getting old.

*
I was at Wayside to meet my buddy Grant for a beer before the Western Michigan-Alaska hockey game, which the Broncos somehow won, 3-1, to snap a six-game losing streak despite being outshot 34-31, getting all three of their goals from defensemen, and showing absolutely no sense of what to do with the puck besides turn it over.

Here are WMU’s three options when one of its players has the puck in the neutral zone:

1. Chip it high off the glass to nobody in particular
2. Pass it to the other team
3. Dump it in and let one forward chase it while the rest of the team stands near the blue line and watches

I know they won, but gosh was it ugly.

As Grant said, while observing WMU’s slick new jerseys: “They have new jerseys like every four games.  They should just practice more.”

 

 

Gene Wojciechowski doesn’t care about Tiger Woods … and then writes about it

You know what makes me want to smash myself in the skull with a Titleist 400cc titanium driver?  

This.

“Woods owes us nothing, especially an explanation. If it was an argument that triggered the wee-hours accident, then that’s between husband and wife. If there was spousal abuse, then the charges will be made public and we’ll know soon enough. If not, then the 24-hour news cycle will have to find another story to attach its suction cups to.”

[from "Tiger Woods' business is his and no one else's" -- Gene Wojciechowski, ESPN.com]

Gene Wojciechowski is ESPN.com’s national columnist.  He usually wears it well.  When other media carnies foam at the mouth over the latest controversy, Gene swoops in, laptop under his arm, and pounds out a couple thousand words that make you laugh, nod your head and — unlike the drivel produced by most other chuckleheads with endless bandwidth — think.

Except in this case.

Gene tells us the Tiger Woods accident is none of our business.  Says Tiger owes us nothing.  He, himself, says he doesn’t even care whether Tiger is screwing around on his wife, whether she did or did not go after him with the six-iron he used to hole-out at Pebble.  

Uh, then why did he write the column?    

I don’t know The Worldwide Leader’s inner-workings, but I doubt Gene Wojciechowski’s editors tell him what to think.  He could’ve chosen any number of angles.  He chose this one – the only angle that is a hypocrisy by its very articulation.  (For the record, Jeff Pearlman, one of my favorite sports writers and bloggers, did it, too.)  

Worse, ESPN even embeds video of the Florida State Highway Patrol press conference on the same page.  Gene’s reference to the “24-hour news cycle” as if he’s somehow removed from it also reeks of disingenuousness.

Then again, this is our media: Telling us donuts are bad as they use their fingers to wipe every last ounce of custard off their bulging faces.

Fore!

So the Florida Panthers’ Keith Ballard went all Elin Woods on his own goaltender, Tomas Vokoun, last night.

Atlanta scored.

Ballard was bent.

But instead of smashing his stick against the post, he brained his own netminder, who was eventually carted off on a stretcher.

What an idiot.

Stupid Signs: It’s bad enough the football sucks…

Location: Cincinnati Enquirer. Level of stupidity: Hail Mary

… but to fumble the headline about the football sucking? 

Next headline: “Weis losses job”

Stupid Signs: It’s high! … It’s deep! …. It’s … Embarrassing!

Location: Ann Arbor area store. Level of stupidity: Grand slam

Touch ‘em all: Kelly V.

Humble pie

For years, my father and I tried to convince my brother, Barry, that he needs to write movie reviews and get them published.  Well, he finally caved and started a blog after I held him at verbal gunpoint in the car on the way to the Kalamazoo Nature Center last weekend. 

Now that he’s up and running, I’ll go all Ebert and offer a review. 

WOW. 

That’s pretty much it.  Go read it.     

Also — and I don’t know how to put this in a way that won’t seem self-serving — friend and fellow Lawton graduate Eric Smith contacted me via Facebook this week and asked my permission to start his own WordPress blog ala the address of this site.  Said he enjoyed reading this space and wanted to try his hand at it. 

(He obviously believes I am the keeper of all WordPress blogs.  SHHHHHHH.)

Eric was a talented high school basketball player and to this day will strip the pants off of you, me and the oral surgeon down the street on a golf course.  He smokes the ball off the tee, serves up his short-irons with pinpoint precision and has a velvety touch around the greens.  I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact he runs Lake Cora Hills Golf Course in Paw Paw.

Anyway, he’s also a pretty darn good writer.

I’m humbled — and thankful — that I inspired both men.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The return of Hossa

Charles Cherney/AP

Marian Hossa makes his Chicago Blackhawks debut in San Jose tonight after a four-month recovery from shoulder surgery.  This is like smearing peanut butter on top of a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.

Some facts:

1. The Blackhawks allow the fewest goals in the NHL

2. The Blackhawks have the NHL’s second-best record (behind the Sharks)

3. The Blackhawks have won seven straight games

4. The Blackhawks have allowed only 11 goals in those games

5. The Blackhawks are six points ahead of Detroit in the Central Division

6. Marian Hossa scored 71 points in 74 games with the Red Wings last season

7. I would rather be Chicago than Detroit

The first shall be last

I grew up in Lawton, a small grape-harvesting town 20 minutes west of Kalamazoo. 

We lived in a peaceful, quiet subdivision at the south end of town.  It was too peaceful, in fact, so in the span of 18 months my buddies and I: mud-bombed and egged a friend’s house; used chunks leftover by the snow plow to build a three-foot high ice wall across the road so that no cars could get through; and rang doorbells, ran, and peeked into windows.  The crack Lawton PD responded each time.  The doorbell incident sprung a mob of flashlight-carrying neighbors, too.

It was fantastic.

Anyway, my dad was also known for pulling pranks.  None that involved the cops, but one in particular that might explain why a yappy, high-strung little boy named Russell is now a 20-something-year-old sobbing on a therapist’s couch.

Russell and his family lived across the street.  They had a big hill of a driveway that descended to the base of our driveway and, since the street cutting through was actually a cul de sac, it made for a perfect bicycle runway — start at the top, let the brakes go, and blaze down the hill.  Up and down.  Over and over.

One day my dad sat in a lawn chair and watched Russell, who was about eight years-old at the time, and Cody, my youngest brother who was a couple of years younger than Russell, race their bikes.  They’d start at the top of Russell’s driveway and zoom down to our garage door.  And Russell would win.  And win.  And win.  And win again.  After about the fifth or sixth time, my dad started cheering and celebrating … for Cody.

“Alright, Cody!”

Russell’s mouth hung open.

“But, Mr. Shanley, I won.”

“Actually, Russell,” my dad said.  “You know what the bible says, don’t you?”

Russell contorted his face.

“Wha?”

“The first,” my dad said in his booming, news anchor voice, ”shall be last.”

Russell thought for a second.  Then he grinned.

“Come on Cody!  Let’s race again!”

The boys went back to the top of Russell’s driveway. 

Russell purposely dogged it.  Cody won.

“ALRIGHT CODY!” my dad shrieked.

Russell’s eyes crossed.

“No, but Mr. Shanley, Mr. Shanley…”

“Yes, Russell?”

“The bible said the first shall be last.”

“Oh, yeah.  That was a bunch of crap.”

Women

Guys, listen up.

Literally.

If you want to impress a woman, listen up.

I went out with a group of people for my friend Charlena’s birthday last night.  Being one of the few straight men in attendance, Charlena was eager to introduce me to her boyfriend Owen’s sister, Nora, a nurse from Milwaukee who was in town for the weekend.

“Hey, Rick knows Myers-Briggs,” Charlena said in front of everyone, grinning.  “Rick, why don’t you see if you can figure out Nora’s personality type.”

Charlena is smart.

Charlena is sweet.

(Charlena can go to hell.)*

Still, I gave in and sat down next to Nora.  Turned out she already knew her type.  So we discussed that.  Then I listened.  I listened as she talked about her job; about how her co-workers of different types drive her nuts; about her mother, a retired nurse who is now a talented and published writer.  I made eye contact.  I paid attention.  I actually let the woman speak, sometimes in stretches that lasted for (gasp!) more than a minute.  I didn’t take a drink.  I didn’t check my BlackBerry.  I didn’t try to interject lame one-liners.  I didn’t eye bang her.

When it was my turn to talk, I spoke clearly, elaborated on points, continued to make eye contact, etc.  In other words, we had what I would consider to be a mature, adult conversation in a bar.  I write this not to pat myself on the back.  I write this because Owen, Nora’s brother, said something that really struck me.

“Hey,” he said, shaking my hand as I was leaving.  “This isn’t a loaded statement, but my sister really, really enjoyed talking to you tonight.  She said guys don’t ever pay attention and talk to her like that.”

Fellas, this is lame.

You want to meet women?  You want to impress women?  Stop dousing yourselves with Axe body spray and using cosmo after cosmo to try to get into some sweet young thang’s pants.  Instead, be confident.  Be brave.  Be bold.  Be human.  Be polite.  Ask questions.

But mostly, shut up and listen.

And I mean listen.  I don’t mean laugh at stuff that isn’t funny or affirm her every thought with “uh huh, uh huh” because you think it will get you laid.

Listen for the sake of listening.

* – Just kidding