Still nothing going in the Hockey right now, unless you're interested in depth signings for the Chicago Wolves or the ongoing "Where will Alex Tanguay land?" caper. It's amazing that right now, in the middle of the worst recession since the Great Depression, when magazine staffs and everyone else are being laid off by the gazillions and the blogging underclass offers up its writing for free, oftentimes every day, so many people still want to read what most of the hockey press offers: lifeless headlines, bad writing, and robotic daily coverage of stagnant news stories without a single new development. Well, all that stuff characterizes the press in general, so I suppose the beautiful and brutal sport of hockey shouldn't be an exception.
Truth be told, most of the hockey blogs are as dull as the traditional media, totally unsuited to the thrilling sport they cover. I mean, really: where is the Joseph Roth or Ryszard Kapuscinski of the blogosphere? I mean...really. So far there's not even a Hunter S. Thompson of the blogosphere. And he wrote about sports!
Puck Daddy, who can always be counted on to avoid the demented gopher-hole of banality, shares two items of interest:
- Some homeless Christian rock fan stalks Mario Lemieux with letters, advice, and music.
- Ovechkin, Semin, and several other Russians throw down in Moscow, with blondes.
His commenters are complaining that he "favoritizes" Ovechkin and that he shouldn't be writing about such fluff when there are important hockey news stories to be covering, like the impending retirements (unannounced, but still) of Brendan Shanahan and Chris Chelios, how great the Penguins are, etc.
How to avoid the horror of boredom? Well, read Eliot Weinberger's new book, for one. If that's not your cup of tea (and really why should it be?), try these these two concrete examples of the fruits of our republic's long slide into morondom:
First, a young lady whose disjointed, meaningless psychobabble is so appalling and stupid that, well, just watch:
Reminds us a bit of Miss Teen South Carolina, of course, not to mention the probable next President of the United States. An important difference, though: being from Santa Cruz she 1) has a slightly larger vocabulary, even if she doesn't know what she's saying, and 2) is on drugs.
Second, this untouched, non-Photoshopped image from America's favorite news outlet:
Whoa hey the Bolts have bought out Prospal. He's an on-again, off-again sort; is it time for the Thrashers to claim him for his scheduled upcoming good season (which inevitably follows all his bad seasons)?
Oh yeah I believe the Chronicle is planning a hockey-oriented road trip during that long stretch in December when the Thrashers out of town battling various teams in faraway places. Except we won't be following the Thrashers. No sir, we've decided to go West. The Sharks, the Ducks, and the Kings. The romance and poetry of the Pacific Highway, with swelling mists and lumbering elephant seals and enormous waves breaking against black crags. Yessir, that's our game, along with Union Square and City Lights and the Marin Headlands. And Venice Beach and the Hotel Figueroa and the Philip Marlowe tour.
And hockey too, of course.
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