Wednesday, August 8

Talkin' Bout My (post 67) Generation

In the 1990's I remember once seeing an almost comically overweight man wearing a t-shirt, Christo sized, that said: I MAY BE FAT BUT YOU’RE UGLY AND I CAN DIET.

I've never forgotten him or his shirt, which used a complete bolt of fabric to state, louder than anything else I’ve ever seen ironed-on, that this man was happy or at least satisfied with mediocrity.

There is something special about being satisfied with mediocrity and by special I mean the way fish served in restaurants on Monday becomes Friday's Lunch Special special. And by that I am not suggesting that mediocrity is a strictly piscine concern. Rather that, like 5 day old salmon, it stinks.


Minus the fact that not accepting the middle of the road usually means you get labeled a troublemaker and a bad influence from an early age, I think in a strictly hockey schematic, not accepting mediocrity is precisely what separates the bandwagon from the jumpers. As one of the post-67 Generation I’ve been force-fed mediocrity like an ass-sandwich my whole life. And an ass-sandwich, no matter how you slice it, still tastes of ass.

As a Leaf fan, it's MLSE (the worse acronym to hit Toronto since SARS) that are the terrible lunch ladies serving us this current steaming bowl. Let me tell you, even a mountain of salt can’t make Jonus Hoglund, for example, taste anything other than what he was: canned potatoes. In a purely Dickensian way, let me say to MLSE, "Please sirs, I don’t want some more".

The Leafs remind me of the James Bond franchise: while they were once Sean Connery, right now they're Timothy Dalton, and even the theme song is crappy. The last time they were any real threat was 93, and that team was like a mid-period Roger Moore – a little older, surprisingly good but a little too close to ridiculously lapelled jackets and leathery skin for my liking. Of course in that one Kerry Fraser stars as the villain allowing Gretzky to basically perform a bris on Dougie. My wrath is still incurred on that one; I have keyed that man’s hairdo a thousand times in my head.

I've loved this team my entire post '67 life, and doing that has left me eating more crow than Lance Armstrong. But I mean, what are you gonna do? Watch curling? A sport whose only cultural significance is that it’s the only time you’ll ever feel comfortable hearing the word "H-aaaarrrdddd!" screamed on television while sitting with your Grandma.

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