Friday, May 09, 2014

And so it ends...

With the news that the Leafs have extended coach Randy Carlyle, I found myself asking what the Toronto Maple Leafs franchise stands for?

They’re no longer about their storied history. Tim Leiweke rejected the club’s past within minutes of arriving in Toronto.

They're not about innovation. Has any sports team in any league so loudly and proudly proclaimed their ignorance about and rejection of what new statistical insights might yield?

They're not about process. This is a team that has only won games when they’ve had unsustainable goaltending and/or unsustainable shooting.

Surely, if they're not about process they must be all-in on outcomes -- except the Leafs had just four regulation wins between November and January and just three wins in their last 15 games.

Their rejection of outcomes is strong evidence that they're not about accountability. Nonis and Carlyle were handed rewards that are completely incommensurate with their mediocre results.

Perhaps it’s irony or hypocrisy that best defines the Toronto Maple Leafs organization.

I can think of no greater irony than the men who run the team believing the building blocks for a successful hockey team are identity, leadership and accountability --- the very characteristics that these men and this organization are completely devoid of.

Cheering for laundry is defensible, cheering for an organization that willfully rejects history, innovation, process, outcomes and accountability is not. I won't do it.

With the news that the Leafs have extended coach Randy Carlyle it’s become all too clear what the Toronto Maple Leafs stand for and it’s something I just can’t stand.

Friday, April 11, 2014

Indifference

There was a time when the hiring of a new President for the Toronto Maple Leafs would have mattered to me. I would have passionately researched the new hire's history, draft records, trades, business deals, professional associations -- just about everything materially imaginable to gain some insight into what the move might mean for the blue and white.


That time has passed.

I haven't watched a game in almost three months.

The Leafs changed the culture but I don't think many of us contemplated that it would be a change for the worse.

Being wilfully ignorant, arrogant, consistently wrong, and unable to budget is now way to go through life and it's no way to run a sports team. 

I presumed Leiweke would hire Gretzky to coach, buying the Leafs more time in their never ending attempt clear the low hurdle of mediocrity and more goodwill from the all too obsequious media. In my haste to make the Gretzky prediction/ joke, I didn't stop to consider the Leafs might hire a former jock with zero head office experience.

In hindsight, the Shanahan hiring is as predictable as Steve Simmons guffawing at spreadsheets or Darren Dreger devoting yet another day to spackling over Dave Nonis' deficiencies like the Leafs' own Muhammed Saeed al-Sahaf.

Shanahan's arrival is as meaningless to me as possession metrics are to Carlyle. 

There was a time when what the Leafs did and even might do mattered to me.

That time has long since passed.

It's up to the Leafs to win me back. Some off-ice accountability would be a terrific place to start. 

Tuesday, April 08, 2014

Spain Part 2

I used to think the best sporting event I ever attended was the Canada-US game at the 1987 Canada Cup. Lemieux, Messier, Gretzky, Hawerchuk, Gilmour, Coffey, Borque all on the same team. Lemieux had a hat trick in a 3-2 win.

Then I went to Spain.

* * *

I only purchased two tickets to see AC Milan play Atletico Madrid. When we were planning the trip, my daughter did not want to go to a game and my wife did not think it wise to look into babysitting services so far from home.

My son wasn’t sure about going. We’d watched Atleti and Barca play to 0-0 draw earlier in the year and the boy said Atleti coach Diego Simeone looked like a very bad man.  An evil man. At one point in the game, he actually hid behind me on the couch. (Simeone does look like the bad guy from a 1980s Kurt Russel film).

If I had known what we were in for, I would have purchased four tickets and I would have worn a GoPro camera on my head.

If the Barcelona game was like Christmas, the Atleti game was like Mardi Gras, St. Patrick’s Day, New Year’s Eve and my 19th birthday compressed into about three hours.

* * *

At Alonso Martinez Metro the crowds were already thick. We squeezed into a subway car full of red and white striped fans of all ages. At each stop more people somehow managed to crush in. People sang and chanted on the subway. Old men chatted to the boy in Spanish and rustled his hair.

Crowds can feel crushing and crowds can feel ominous but there was almost a giddiness to this experience - a bubbling over of good will and happy expectations.

We emerged from Piramides metro into an ever larger crush of people. I had no idea how to get to Vicente Calderón Stadium but our lack of directions didn’t matter, if we had stood still we would have been carried there by the crowds.

The size and mood of the crowd reminded me of when the Jays won the World Series in 1993, but this was pre-game. It was as if someone was running the film in reverse – the elated crowds going back into the stadium.

Flares were going off. There were giant homemade banners. The gutters were overflowing with beer bottles and plastic cups. Everywhere people congregated they were signing and happy. It was amazing. And it was soon to get better.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is my annual trip to Maple Leaf Gardens with my dad. He’d get us one game in the greens each year.  We’d enter off Carlton Street and head for these narrow escalators with their round, crenelated handles. When you stepped off the escalators, if you looked through the narrow entries into the seats, you’d get your first glimpse of the ice. The TV lights made it so bright and vivid, the massive Dominion score clock hanging from the iconic roof, a shocking whiteness to that light and to the ice that I've rarely, if ever, seen replicated.

Vicente Calderón Stadium looks like it might be of the same vintage as Maple Leaf Gardens. It has the cinder block and chain link aesthetic I associate with Buffalo – either the old Aud or Ralph Wilson stadium. It might be the most bare bones sporting venue I’ve ever seen.

After passing through the turnstile, we entered into a wide tunnel where one security agent kindly held my son’s hand and had a friendly chat with him while I was frisked by another (note to self – give the contraband to the boy to carry).

The entrance to our seats was just to the left, as we passed through it I was taken aback by the stadium lights, the green of the pitch and the proximity of the field. I had not prepared myself for the shock of entering right at field level at the half-way line. 

Suddenly, I was the eight year old boy back at Maple Leaf Gardens, surprised by the whiteness of the lights and the startling proximity of the field of play. We could almost touch the grass.

The entire stadium was a pixilated mass of red and white. Flags, banners, signs, even the railings at field level were carrying Atleti’s colours. And the noise. Oh my, the noise. We were at least 20 minutes to kick-off and the crowd was in full voice. The supporters section full of drums, all of them jumping and bouncing.

I finally pulled the boy away from the field-level rail and we walked up to our seats. They were filthy. Plastic bucket chairs that wouldn’t have been out of place at Exhibition stadium in 1979. They likely hadn’t been cleaned since 1979. There had to be an inch of sunflower seed shells trapped in the rim of my chair. The boy’s had a solid patina of bird droppings. The group in front of us brought newspapers and spread them out on their seats before sitting down. They were clearly old pros.

We were given red and white flags to wave and we joined the throng. The stadium reverberating with songs, drums, chants, jumping fans. It felt like more energy was being expended per minute than at 41 Leafs games at the ACC combined.

When the teams emerged (Milan in uniforms that called to mind Elvis’ gold lame phase) the roar was something you felt more than heard. 

I was into it, so was the boy.

Our seats were sensational, 16 rows up from mid-field. Even over the roar of the crowd we were close enough to hear the players calling out, arguing calls, scuffing the ball.

The fans surrounding us were great. When an AC Milan player got a yellow that I did not understand, the man to left my did his best to explain in simple English: “When he fall on floor he hand the ball.” (Confession: my Spanish is so pitiful that it was only after about 10 minutes of fans randomly screaming “Asiento!” that I realized they weren't cheering on a player or calling for a play, they were telling other fans to take to their seats so we could see the game.)

When Diego Costa opened the scoring just a few minutes in the stadium boiled over.  The fans, already at a fever pitch, somehow found another more frenetic level. The boy stood on his seat and waved his flag joyously, screaming alongside the 50,000 supporters.

My little Barca fan, terrified of Diego Simeone, had been swept up in the fever and joined the masses. 

When Raul Garcia just missed on an incredible bicycle kick before the half, it was as if 100,000 arms went into the air in exclaiming "if only!" 

At half time, we took to the bowels of the stadium in search of snacks. The boy tried his first ever Coca-Cola, which he did not like claiming it tasted like donuts. I, wisely, stuck to beer.

The second half was all Atleti and we did our best to sing and chant along "Ole, ole, ole, Cholo Simeone!"

It was an incredible experience to be a part of -- the fans were so welcoming, so passionate and so enthralled by the game -- I’ve never experienced anything like it.

And then Atleti scored their fourth and final goal. It was bedlam. The gentlemen to my left pulled off his Atleti scarf and gave it to the boy who accepted it with wide-eyed enthusiasm. We joined the chorus shouting “Atleti! Atleti! Atleti!”

The night was complete. It couldn’t get any better.

And then the film was played the right way through – tens of thousands of elated fans spilling out of the stadium and into the narrow streets of southwest Madrid. Deliriously happy. The crowds continue to sing, chant, celebrate and congregate around the few bars that were open. 

The boy, smiling broadly, carried both our flags and wore his new Atleti scarf.

As we approached Piramides Metro, he did have one moment of startling clarity: he begged me to turn on my phone to check the Barcelona – Man City score.

* * *

Three small post-scripts:

My son has carefully hung his Barcelona FC and Atletico Madrid scarves on his bedroom door with a team Spain “a por ellos” scarf acting as a demilitarized zone of sorts. I occasionally have a guilty pang (wracked with guilt is a better term) that the Atleti scarf was only for the boy to wave or to hold, that it wasn't for him to take and keep from that kind fan. It’s a lovely 10 year anniversary scarf 1993-2003 and I only hope the gentleman who passed it over realizes how happy it’s made my son.

The boy is no longer terrified of Diego Simeone.

Even though I occasionally hear the boy somewhere in the house chanting “Atleti, Atleti, Atleti” or even singing “Oh Simeone!” (to the Macarena), his heart remains with Barcelona. When the teams drew against each other in the UEFA Champions league quarter finals he was quite sad as he knew one team had to lose and be eliminated.  With that elimination game just hours away, he wants Barcelona to win – but only just. He doesn’t want Atleti to lose in a blow out.  Ever the realist, he also said that if any team is going to eliminate Barca, it’s best that it be Atleti...

Monday, April 07, 2014

Spain: Part 1

Some kids rebel by growing their hair long, others drop out of school. I sometimes think my son rebelled by rejecting hockey.

I play hockey two to three times a week year 'round. I sit on the board of a community hockey league and even ran my own one-day tourney last year.

From the age of three, the boy has wanted nothing to do with hockey. Won’t play it, discuss it or even watch it on TV. He sulked through the last Leafs game I took him to. I didn't even bother asking him if he wanted to go to a game at the ACC this year.

When the boy was in grade one, he came home from school one day with questions about Lionel Messi and a team called Barcelona. Soon thereafter, we were regularly watching youtube clips and La Liga highlights together.

It wasn't long before he was coming home from school asking questions about transfer windows and what players would generate the highest fees.

For his seventh birthday he asked his grandmother for a number 10 Barcelona jersey. When he turned eight, it was a Messi Argentina World Cup jersey.

He sometimes struggles with maths but can easily explain the away goal rule and calculate which team needs to score what to win on aggregate.

Last year, when our family went to Washington D.C. for March break, I asked the boy what he most wanted to do. His request? Watch the second leg of AC Milan vs. Barcelona at a bar or restaurant that served chicken fingers.

We went. He wore his Messi jersey, ate his chicken fingers, and boldly predicted a 4-0 Barcelona win. 

The boy was into that game. He screamed in delight with each goal, yelled at each chance and was positively elated that his team won. I think he did a lap of our section when Barca went up 3-0. He didn't even brag that he got the score right.

It might be the most fun I've ever had watching sports on TV.

* * *

This past March break, we took the kids to Spain for two weeks.

On our third day there, still jet lagged, we all went to Camp Nou to see Barcelona play Almeira.

It was magic.

It was dark when we emerged from the Collblanc metro stop. The game didn't start until 9PM. Camp Nou is only about 600 metres away from the station but it doesn’t reveal itself at first. A block and a half stroll through a few narrow streets with the growing crowds and suddenly there it is – huge lighting stands atop the stadium creating a corona in the night sky, the structure lit like an enormous spaceship on the horizon.

The boy was humming with excitement as we walked up to the stadium, pausing for dozens of photos before we got to our gate. Drinking it all in. A curious mix of excitement and acute observation. He told me getting to go to the game was better than Christmas Eve.

We bought a bag of Barca brand patatas fritas and a few Fanta Naranjas from a tiny concession stand tucked away behind the seats and access stairs and then took to our seats in the middle deck.

There was an entire row of grandmothers behind us eating bocadillos brought from home. Other families appeared to have brought entire picnics to the match. It was clear we weren't in the corporate confines of a North American stadium.

The boy watched warm-ups with his mouth agape. Alves, Neymar, Messi, Iniesta, Xavi, Puyols - his Sunday afternoon heroes just a few hundred yards away. And there they were doing some of the same drills he does each Sunday at soccer.

We sang the Barca Anthem (clap clap clap) and then the game began. He was mesmerized. Huge stretches of football passed and I don’t think he even blinked. He roared when Alexis opened the scoring and leapt out of his seat like a rocket when Messi made it 2-0 with a beautiful curling free kick over the wall, high fiving the fans sitting around us.

My pouting distracted boy from Leaf games past had been replaced by a kid who was equal parts fixation and euphoric. I could almost feel the happiness exuding from him, like it was palpable.

He chanted like a madman standing with the crowd when Puyols, in his return from injury, bundled in a goal right beneath us to make it 3-1. Xavi's strike late in the game brought him out of his seat one more time.

The boy declared seeing Barca play as "Better than Christmas."

We stayed long after the 4-1 final. Taking photos, re-living the goals, chattering about Puyol’s return (the funny video of him heading flower pots to save a flight attendant) and wondering about who might replace Valdes in net next year (I tease him it will be Begovic).

Even my daughter, who didn't want to go to the game, was a convert, taken in by the quickness of Neymar and the spectacle of the game.

* * *

Often the stories we tell, the stories that help shape us and become part of our lexicon, take a while to form and even longer to burnish. Our night at Camp Nou was one of those rare moments where you're aware of the weight and significance of an event as you experience it. It was already a story we were telling post-game in the stadium and re-telling as midnight approached and our family strolled together towards Collblanc Metro to catch a subway home, with five more wonderful days in Barcelona to look forward to...

Friday, December 20, 2013

Books Read in 2013

I read 30 books this year, the lowest total since I started keeping track.

The main reason I'm down about a book a month is social media. I am addicted to twitter.

I also used to read on my subway ride home each night, but I've spent the majority of my commutes listening to podcasts - Football Ramble, WTF and This American Life being three of my faves.

I also didn't read a book from August to October, likely the longest stretch of my life. No matter what I picked up or tried to read, I was mildly annoyed by it. Couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong. Then I had my eyes checked. Turned out I needed glasses -- and I've read about six books since I got the new nerdy frames (which I'm still embarrassed by, don't ask).

As usual, I've grouped books into my favourites, the ones I'm glad to have read and those that aren't for me. I've tried to list them alphabetically within each group…

Favourites

Anatomy of England, Jonathan Wilson 

A look at the creation, evolution and – dare I say stagnation – of English football told through 10 significant matches. Lot of similarities here with hockey where there’s an inherent preference for intangibles over talent and technique. A great read.

Blood Dark Track, Joseph O’Neill 

O’Neill’s maternal and paternal grandfathers were both prisoners of War in WWII. His maternal grandfather was an IRA man, his paternal grandfather lost in the bureaucracy of shifting alliances in British Palestine. O’Neill attempts to get a better understanding of his family and his history by exploring these parallel stories. Very gripping, beautifully written

Death of the Pugilist, or The Famous Battle of Jacob Burke and Blindman McGraw, Daniel Mason 
A sliver of a book but a kinetic piece of writing. I’m a sucker for learned takes on boxing (tried to get some variation of Abbot Joseph Leibling into my son’s name – with no luck) and this book really delivers. Two short stories of about 60 pages each, would be the ideal e-book. 

The Fun Stuff, James Wood 

I’ll admit it. I’m a total, complete James Wood fan boy. His literary criticism is among my favourite things to read and his piece on drummer Keith Moon is hands-down one of the best essays I’ve read. His pieces on Orwell are terrific too.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the Bronx is Burning, Jonathan Mahler
There’s a machine in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy that can assess and produce the exact drink you desire. This being Douglas Adams, no matter what you want, the machine usually produces weak tea. If there was a machine that could assess and accurately produce the exact book I wanted to read, it would make a book just like The Bronx is Burning – a work that expertly combines municipal politics, urban planning and the 1977 Yankee’s pursuit of a World Series. In light of the Disney-fication of New York, the writing on the riots, blackouts and rampant arson of the late 1970s is almost impossible to believe…I absolutely loved this book.

Naples ’44, Norman Lewis
A diary kept by a British intelligence officer who was among the first wave of soldiers into the recently liberated Italy in 1944. Lewis serializes a series of beautiful, disturbing, and disheartening diary entries on the horror of the aftermath of war. 


His entry after the restaurants of Naples begin to re-open after years of shortages and rationing: 

Suddenly five or six little girls between the ages of nine and 12 appeared in the doorway. They wore hideous straight black uniforms buttoned under their chins, and black boots and stockings, and their hair had been shorn short, prison-style. They were all weeping, and as they clung to each other and groped their way towards us, bumping into chairs and tables, I realized they were all blind. Tragedy and despair had been suppressed upon us, and would not be shut out. I expected the indifferent diners to push back their plates, to get up and hold out their arms, but nobody moved. Forkfuls of food were thrust into open mouths, the rattle of conversation continued, nobody saw the tears.
Lattarullo explained that these little girls were from an orphanage on the Vomero, where he had heard - and made a face – conditions were very bad. They had been brought down here, he found out, on a half-days outing by an attendant who seemed unable or unwilling to stop them from being lured away by the smell of food.
The experience changed my outlook. Until now I had clung to the comforting belief that human beings eventually come to terms with pain and sorrow. Now I understood I was wrong, and like Paul I suffered conversion – but to pessimism. These little girls, any one of whom could be my daughter, came into the restaurant weeping, and they were weeping when they were led away. I knew that, condemned to everlasting darkness, hunger and loss, they would weep on incessantly. They would never recover from their pain, and I would never recover from the memory of it.




"like Paul I suffered conversion – but to pessimism" should be my epitaph with a Toronto Maple Leaf emblazoned above it...  


Glad I read them

Behind the Curtain, Jonathan Wilson
A bit of a travelogue with Wilson, one of the best football writers out there, traveling through the former Eastern Bloc countries and writing about their role in soccer past, present and future.

Between Midnight and Day, Dick Waterman
An anthology of writing with each chapter telling the story of a different blues legend accompanied by great original photography. 


Far from the tree: parents, children and the search for identity, Andrew Solomon 
A heavy read. A look at a range of issues, diseases and disorders and the impact of each of them on children and their families. Got some good advice on this one (thanks PB) to read it in chunks over a larger period of time – take one of the issues studied, ingest it, put the book down and return to it at a later date. This book really affected the way I consider disability issues and the chapter on hearing impairments has really stayed with me.

Fixing the Game, Roger Martin
An examination of the problems plaguing the economy and creative solutions from the world of sports. Martin wrote some great op-eds during the NHL lockout and this book is a provocative read, taking many of its economic solutions from the NFL.

Habibi, Craig Thompson
A graphic novel about love, relationships, immigration, culture, religion…beautiful art that matches the storytelling.


Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
Picked this up just to re-read the wonderful short story The Third and Final Continent and ending up re-reading the entire collection. This is short fiction at its finest.


Into that Silent Sea, Francis French 
Grabbed this after spending an entire day in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum with my kids. A series of pieces on the evolving American space program, it has some fun insights (John Glenn inviting Cosmonauts to his house for a barbecue and catching his car port on fire) but I was hoping for more.


Into the Silence, Wade Davis
The most powerful, depressing and disheartening writing I have encountered on World War I, this book tracks a group of veterans from that war and their earliest attempts to scale Everest led by George Mallory. There is some great writing here, stunning writing, unfortunately Davis has never met a digression he doesn’t like. To say this book is sprawling is like saying Everest is tall. Weighing in at nearly 600 pages, this really needed an editor who could (and should) have reigned-in Davis.


Lost at Sea, Jon Ronson 
So many good essays in this, all of them in some sense touching on disillusionment and disengagement. From visiting the late Stanley Kubrick’s estate, to a possible murder on a cruise line, to a visit with Juggalo fans of Insane Clown Posse. Ronson does a wonderful job observing these strange scenes and making them engaging and, to whatever extent possible,  seem less a part of the fringe. 

Low Life, Luc Sante 
I kept pestering my kids by reading crazy facts from this book out loud. The book offers a look at turn of century New York City, specifically the down and out parts. From the piles of rubbish that were routinely four plus feet high, to the number of dead horses on the streets, to suicide bars(?!?) it’s hard to believe the changes New York has undergone in the past 140 years.

The Map Makers, John Noble Wilford 
I have a bit of a thing for maps (Toby Lester’s “The Fourth Part of the World” is one of my favourite books) and this book is a great look at the evolution of map making from the earliest days of navigation through to satellite technology. The stories that rely on crazy human endeavours were enthralling; sadly the book loses steam as technology takes over the map making industry. The first half of this book is fantastic – the 1735 competition to determine the shape of the earth is simply jaw dropping – a 4 year expedition into Ecuador that left many dead, really great stuff.

My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes, Gary Imlach
Gary Imlach’s dad Stewart played for Scotland in the World Cup and won the FA Cup with Nottingham in 1959. The author looks at the working class roots of football, his father’s ascension to the top leagues, and the petty politics and harsh economics of sport in the 1960s. A really enjoyable book both from a sports perspective and from the perspective of a son trying to understand his father's life and their relationship.


Nothing if not critical: selected essays on art and artists, Robert Hughes 
I can’t get enough of Robert Hughes’ writing. His book on Goya is among my favourites and the Shock of the New maybe one of the best works of criticism I’ve read. This is a collection of nearly 100 pieces, many written for Time Magazine, on all aspects of art and the art world.

Our Game, John Le Carre
This one was a bit meh. Too many of the tropes from Le Carre’s work re-surface in this one without the tension of his better works. Kinda meanders along and then just ends. 

Sailing Around the World Alone, Joshua Slocum 
The diary of Captain Joshua Slocum, who was the first person to circumnavigate the globe solo. His journey took place from 1895 to about 1900, along the way he encounters pirates, angry tribes, heavy storms and stops in ports around the world to lecture on his progress and the sites he’s seen. A fun, quick, read. 

Signal and the Noise, Nate Silver 
I wanted to like this more than I did. Maybe it’s because much of the book covered ground I’ve read repeatedly elsewhere or maybe it’s because I was expecting more – I’m not sure what it was but I found this one mildly disappointing.

Sincerity : how a moral ideal born five hundred years ago inspired religious wars, modern art, hipster chic, and the curious notion that we all have something to say (no matter how dull), R. Magill
A 500 year look at why we seek "the authentic" some good bits, some tedium... 

The Spirit of Man, Compiled by Robert Bridges
Apparently, this is the book that George Mallory carried with him during his final attempt to conquer Everest. It was a gift from a great friend who also gave me Into the Silence.  A collection of short writings, poems, maxims, etc. assembled by Robert Bridges. I’m not a poetry guy, but there’s enough other interesting material here, all of the inspirational variety. 

The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien 
I read this just about every year. So many great short stories based on the author’s time in Vietnam.  There are times I will find myself suddenly contemplating Lt. Jimmy Cross with a pebble in his mouth, wondering about Martha, separate but together.  Go read it.


War Reporting for Cowards, Chris Ayers 
Hypochondriac British reporter finds himself on the front lines of the Iraq War, really doesn’t like it, buggers off home.  Would have been a smashing magazine article. Not enough here to support a book length piece. 

Welcome to Maple Leaf Gardens, Lance Hornby, Graig Abel
I was lucky enough to provide communications support on the transformation of Maple Leaf Gardens from a defunct hockey rink to the amazing building it is today. I'm also lucky enough to play hockey with Lance Hornby. This is a great book chronicling the rise of one of Canada's most iconic buildings with a heavy emphasis on the Leafs' final 30 years in the building. Wonderful photos from Abel accompany Hornby's prose.


Not For Me

The Art of Fielding, Chad Harbach
I didn't dislike this book so much as I disdained it. I would not be surprised to find the Onion wrote this as a satire of the Great American Novel and are waiting for the perfect time to reveal their hoax. I don’t know what was the worst part: Harbach putting great care and detail into setting up his characters and then having none of them act, speak or behave in any way that is congruent with their back story; the completely unbelievable secondary plot of the gay baseball player and his affair with the Dean; or perhaps it was the awkward codes Harbach peppered into his prose, like a first year semiotics student. Near the end, I started reading passages aloud to my wife and we would laugh in disbelief at the third rate writing. What an awful novel.

A Kite in the Wind, Andrea Barret
Want to read b-list and c-list authors prattle on about their methods? This book is for you. Have no idea why I thought it might be for me.

Prophets of Smoked Meat, Daniel Vaughn
I started out envying Vaughn and his pals. They spend almost every weekend driving around Texas searching out the perfect barbecue – be it ribs, brisket, sausages – but by the half-way point I wanted to smack him with a smoker. The more I read, the more closed minded he seemed and the more the book became little more than a 400 page list of Yelp reviews. No matter how good the writing is, it’s hard to sustain chapter after chapter of “got in a car, drove 200 miles to small town, ate 13 servings of barbecue, drove home.” The book is beautifully photographed though; don’t read it on an empty stomach.

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Diagramming my Leafs Loathing

Have I mentioned how much I hate Darcy Tucker?


On the bright side, his cap hit expires in another six months.

Friday, October 04, 2013

How the Leafs Make Tough Decisions

Just a theory I've been working on...