Cool story about a Canuck in King Arthur's Court...uh I mean hockey rink.  From the NHL to Altrincham

It is the jewel in ice hockey's crown: the fastest league in the world, watched by hundreds of thousands of fans, three times a week for half a year.

North America's National Hockey League - the NHL - is as good as the sport gets.

Televised, analysed and monetised to within an inch of its life, it is the sport's beating heart. It is a world away from ice hockey in the UK.

To my knowledge, only one man in England's Premier League (EPL) has stepped onto the ice as an NHL star. Now, he's talking to me in a dimly-lit Bracknell car park.

I just bought tickets online for the Dec. 26th showdown between the Note and the Wild up here in St. Paul.  As I was going through the process I was asked to verify I was a human being and not a bot by typing in two words they provided.

What two words did the Wild (and Ticketmaster) provide?

 

"Pleau"

"Enticing" 

 

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

This goes back to last week and the link on Garfield as Garfield. Here is the Bloom County strip the idea was "borrowed" from.

 

via i35.tinypic.com

I've never been a big fan of New Year's resolutions.  I've never really figured out why hitting January 1st should mean anything to anybody.  OK, fine, we have to buy a new calendar, but why should I re-evaluate my entire life just because I bought another set of 12 Far Side cartoons?

Besides, I've always been wary of New Year's resolutions because I suspected the people pushing us to make them were the same Catholic bastards that made New Year's a holy day of obligation.  Oh, yeah, like I'm so fucking sure it was totally coincidental that I was being forced to go to church after a night dedicated to heavy drinking.  Sorry, bishops, but I ain't buying it for a minute.

However, the start of the hockey season is something that has special meaning to me.  Life is noticeably different once the Blues are skating for real.  So it makes sense, to me at least, for this to be the time of year where I decide to make changes to what is important to me.  Now, it isn't my fault that, because it is this time of year, my resolutions will all be about hockey.  If you don't like it Mr. Bishop I suggest you go read a golf blog or something.  (Sit down Ben, I'm not talking to you!)

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Hockey Prof here:

I know the Blues web site says no TV/Radio tonight, but the Wild website says:

Audio from tonight's game will be streamed live via WCCO on CBS radio

For what it's worth....

ADDING:

Since none of the higher ups seem to be around (drinking?) I'm promoting this to a game thread.

Really.  I've nothing better to do.

Part Three: The Lion's Den?

The flight down to Love Field in Dallas was uneventful.  All I had to do was brood about the potential dangers waiting for me when I arrived.  This happens when someone tries to ventilate your skull for ya.  You get edgy until you learn something, anything, to your advantage.  In the meantime,  I did learn that Checketts only stocks Dewar's in the on-board bar, the cheap sonofabitch.

Once in Dallas I headed not for the downtown hotel I had made a reservation for, but instead had a cabbie drop me off at a Motel 6 off of I-35 in Fort Worth.  I registered under the name David Backes.  This being Texas I knew there was no chance any of the yokels would know the difference, neither would the guy from the Punjab working the desk.

I woke at 4 for my 9 o'clock appointment.  I made it outside the Stars' offices before 6 and took up a position in the shadows across the street.  I waited and watched.

Soon the staff began to arrive for their work day; First the stiffs came in via public transport, the janitors, the secretaries, the guy who gives Zubov his bikini waxes, etc.  Next the suits began to arrive and pull into the corporate parking lot; the guys with tiny dicks arrived in expensive foreign sports cars, the better endowed in more tasteful sedans.

Hull finally made his appearance at 8:30 driving a black Lexus sedan.  I waited another couple of minutes and was about to head across when a limousine pulled up.

"What have we got here?" I asked of myself.  I looked at the man pulling himself out of the back and audibly said, "What the fuck?"

Wayne Gretzky?  Wayne fucking Gretzky?  What in the hell is he doing here in Dallas only a couple weeks before training camp opens?  I know its only the Coyotes, but even they should attempt to put a team together.  It was too odd not to be suspicious.

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Norm Sanders says:

Veteran  center Derek Armstrong signed a two-way contract Tuesday with the St. Louis Blues.


The 36-year-old Armstrong had five goals and nine points in 56 games with the Los Angeles Kings last season. He also had 63 penalty minutes and a plus-minus rating of minus-11.

How will the Armstrong era be remembered when it is all over?

Poll

Looking 10 years into the future, how do you think you will remember the Derek Armstrong era?

59%

Derek who?

59 votes

21%

Wasn't he the first man to walk on the moon?

21 votes

19%

I'll never forget the time he said, "Kid, would you like my autograph? Pretty please?"

19 votes

99 votes | Poll has closed

Part Two: Down But Not Out In St. Louis

When I came to in the hospital I was greeted by the ugly mug of Detective Holland from the SLPD and the even uglier mug of one Nurse Fatlap.

"So, you're coming around, eh." this was from Holland and said with a smug smile.

"Once again, detective, your powers of observation astound." I replied.

Holland's smile died a quiet little death and a scowl came over him.

"Alright, smart ass. You want to tell me what happened out there."

"A cat."

"What?" said Holland perplexed.

"A cat was trying to cross the highway. Campbell musta tried to avoid hitting it."

"That's bullshit, Johnson, and you know it!" Holland was nearly apoplectic.

I shrugged. "What else can I say?" When I made it clear I wasn't about to change my tune Holland stormed out of the room. There was no way I was going to get the city bureaucrats in on this, not until I knew exactly what I was up against. The coppers get a whiff of something like this and they will keep you completely in the dark. That was a good way to wind up more than slightly dead.

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 Part One: A Different Kind Of Wrist Shot

 It was clear to me at the time that someone wanted me out of the way...permanently.

Oh, we played the thing off as an "accident" to keep the big artillery of the cops in the dark, and the college educated pinheads at the Post-Dispatch will believe almost any damn thing you tell them. Hell, they still think Bryan Burwell knows what he's talkin' about. But when the parking brake on my golfcart failed on the 5th hole while I was half in and half out of the stupid thing I knew the truth.

I was a marked man.                                                           

Who am I? I'll tell you. I'm Erik Johnson, part-time hockey player, full-time bad ass and, if you've got the cash, a private detective. I'm known as the hardest dick in the world. You mugs got a problem with that?

I didn't think so.

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