Hiccup

That would be me, hiccupping, just short of twelve a.m., January One, New Year's Day.

Too much wine has been drink, drank, drunk by now, and still i am primed for another glass. a great night it has been with The Moustache, The Banker and all others in our proximity. i will say, however, that the keyboard cvrom wchich i type is crap, especially in the drak... so i'll wrap it up here by wishin all who lurk here a wondrous and merry 2010. may peace and prosperity andn good health and good wishes find you without problem in the new decade. \\

all the best rom this air blogger. shit, my eph don\'t work no more!!

happy new year.

Twas the night before Christmas – v. 2009

Back by popular demand (o.k., nobody asked but I did it anyway), my take on the classic Clement Clarke Moore poem,
The Night Before Christmas...

A new Confessions of a Blogophobe holiday tradition.

******************

Twas the night before Christmas, when in the Chubbs-Hot Wife house
The laptop was dormant – screen, keyboard and mouse.
CoaB visitors, however, stood awake and aware,
In hopes that a new post soon would be there.

With the children up nestled all snug in their beds,
Hot Wife was near sleep when she looked at my head.
With a quizzical glance, she asked ‘what’s with the hat?’
To which I replied ‘this is my thinking cap.’

At the launch of those words, to my brain an idea,
So I sprang from the bed, told Hot Wife ‘I’ll see ya’.
Away to the laptop I flew like a flash,
Tore open its top, then typed dotcom backslash.

The glow from the screen cast me in shades of green-blue
As the colours of CoaB, they came into view.
Then, what to my wandering eyes should appear,
But a comment below my last post of the year.

We need us a story, come on Chubbs now quick,
It was signed by anonymous, just an X to that quip.
Without knowing its source, I thought oh what a shame,
So I whistled, and shouted CoaB readers by name!

"Now Ginger! now, Shammy! now, Mother of Men!
On, Kirby! Jennine, and the Hawaiian!
Who’s prodding me so, I wondered aloud,
While silently pleased that CoaB had such a crowd.

In response to the prod, I began my retort,
With much to announce, and more to report.
So down to the keyboard, all my fingers flew,
And from a blank page emerged, a Christmas message to you.

Tis’ the season of joy, it’s finally here,
A time to soak up good tidings and cheer.
And although I am guilty, of indulging with might,
I still pledge to you, that I’ll not drink and write.

But should my intentions, as good as they be,
Get muddled from drink, maybe one, two or three.
My thoughts for the season, here they will find you,
Even if those said thoughts, are about my kids’ poo.

My message went on, towards its apex,
As I fought back the urge to talk about sex.
But since no one should know, if I’m shaven or hairy,
I shifted the message towards January.

For the year twenty-ten, to all many wishes,
First and foremost, that you not sleep with the fishes.
What a shame it would be, if you went astray,
For CoaB can’t afford, to lose readers that way.

All the year through, may you find what you want,
And may always at CoaB, you find readable font.
May your highs be so high, that always it shows,
And may you escape the lowest of lows.

Soon as it began, the note met its end,
With one final thank you to family and friends.
And that’s when I noticed, as I exited CoaB,
That my wiener was hanging right out of my robe.

So I sprang to my feet, like a spry man of thirty
And carefully wrapped, my little birdie.
And then I exclaimed, as it dove out of sight,
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!

The Century Club

Nobody does ceremony like the Montreal Canadiens.

Tonight, as the Habs bring to a close their 100th anniversary celebrations, the tradition, the heritage, the lore of what is, without question, the most renowned and celebrated franchise in National Hockey League history, has come to life in vivid, living colour on Bell Centre ice.

They skate before an adoring crowd, the legends do, stride for stride as memorable as always they were, though far slower than when last they were winning Stanley Cups and otherwise thrilling the masses, the fans, the families that have passed along their love for all things Sainte Flanelle from generation to generation like a cherished family heirloom.

Lafleur, Cournoyer, Dryden -- the heroes I am too young to have seen play, yet recognize without a second look the moment their faces flash across the screen.

Carbonneau, Richer, Roy -- the faces I remember from the first times I sat transfixed on a Saturday night, mesmerized by the size and skill of the professional players I wished I would one day become.

In the booth, the squeakily velvety voice of one Dick Irvin Jr., a man of a near-80 years who looks not a minute older than he did two-plus decades ago when first his intonations caught my ear, his descriptions so perfect, so pure, that even with eyes closed I could still see the play, as if I too held a seat high above the frozen surface, perched like a pundit up there on press row.

The red carpet, on this night reserved for the who's who of Montreal Canadiens history, stretches to centre ice, at once a path of sure footing for the eldest of alumni, at once a roadway that takes us on a journey through time.

They raise to the rafters the numbers of Montreal's oldest living legends, Emile Bouchard's Number Three, Elmer Lach's Sixteen, two men who never I saw play, two men who barely I have ever even heard of, and misty-eyed I am as the two grizzled graybeards wilt under the weight of an appreciative crowd's roar.

The past and the present then converge one final time, a confluence of red and white jerseys to be preserved forever in photograph, combining to tell the historical story of hockey's most famous, most fabled franchise.

To you from failing hands we throw the torch.
Be yours to hold it high.

Vivement le Bleu, Blanc, Rouge du Canadien de Montréal.
Vivement Les Glorieux.