Warren who?

Musician Warren Zevon has passed away. You probably don't know who he is. I barely do, myself. I don't really listen to music. My life is wrapped up in silence and concentration. Still, I do have a soft spot for some music. One of my weaknesses is hockey songs. And that's how I know of Warren Zevon.

Hit somebody! It rang in his ears,
Blood on the ice ran down through the years.
The king of the goons, with a box for a throne
A thousand stitches and broken bones.
He never lost a fight on his icy patrol,
But deep inside, Buddy only dreamed of a goal.
He just wanted one damn goal...

Zevon's Hit Somebody is possibly the most poignant of all hockey songs. It details the lifelong dreams and goals of Buddy, a farm kid from Saskatoon who wants to score in the NHL, but ends up becoming a Goon instead, the muscle that protects the stars of the game.

For someone who has never actually played the game, I sure do get choked up whenever I hear it. I know plenty of people who can't understand sports, but at the end of the day, at it's core, it's like anything else. There's a kind of sweet satisfaction one gets from challenging oneself and achieving a near-impossible goal, in any endeavour. The idea that sports, or anything else for that matter, are "not important" in the grand scheme of things shouldn't matter in terms of it's meaning for the individual pushing their abilities to their limits.

All Buddy wanted was what we all want. Just one shot on goal. Warren Zevon understood that.
- posted by Steven @ 11:08 a.m.

 


Bouf.
Her sweater.
Chicken! Fish!
Kissing her bald head.
Her stub wagging happily.
Her ridiculous punk rock collar.
Gravy, but only on special days.
The doctor suggesting she get a pacemaker.
Shake a paw, the only trick she ever learned.
Carrying her down the stairs when she needed to pee.
Looking guilty when she'd pee somewhere she shouldn't.
Tsuki lying in wait for her, and swatting her when she passed.
Getting excited when seeing Dad, and wanting to go away with him.
When she'd get a haircut and a ribbon and we'd laugh at her and she'd be ashamed.
Christmas, when she got to open presents, sometimes even before everybody woke up.
A heartrate so slow the doctor thought she was going to drop dead on his operating table.
Taking all sorts of abuse from the cats, but only ever growling when they came near her food.
Lying in bed at night, and everytime you moved away she'd move with you, until you were hanging off the bed.
Scratching at the door to be let out, taking a step, deciding she didn't want to go out after all, and coming back in.
Bowing down with her butt in the air, then leaping up and twirling, hoping you would follow her, like a young puppy.

We miss you, Fergs.
- posted by Steven @ 5:59 p.m.