Evil-ution: Story of Dudes

So I was thinking about evolution the other day. (What? You don't?)

Legit, though--

I was thinking of evolution, possibly because I'm weird, whatever. But I was trying to figure out how we're the top of the chain. Because, let's face it, obviously we are. Right? And obviously we'd know when another species came to fruition and populated the earth if it was superior. Right? And when it comes it'll obviously be a bulbous-headed, 4-finger, (I mean, who uses the pinky. Just look at my hand), super-intelligent future-beast. Right?


No fucking clue.























I mean, it seems like the obvious choice, What separates us from the other living animals? It's that big, sexy brain. The mind. The thinker. The zombie app. (fuck the opposable thumbs and fuck speech and fuck DNA)

So intelligence is good. It's complex, it drives us to create, imagine, develop, survive. Intelligence has got us where we are, will get us farther and farther along, and if evolution works the way it's supposed to:

--intelligent people will have more success than morons
--they'll have better survival rate
--thus a better chance to mate and pass on 'intelligent' genes
--the human species will grow more intelligent

Well, according to The Flynn Effect, this is exactly the case. IQ has been studied in various countries and, on average, society gains 3 IQ points per decade. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flynn_effect (wikipedia can't lie) Cool.

And intelligence is really useful, right?
Yea, actually, it is.

Intelligence is what gives us the ability to manipulate the world around us. Intelligence gives us 'tools' (and not the guys in popped collars kind.) Intelligence delivers us from harm. It bestows on us comfort. It grants us riches.

It protects our possessions, our livestock, our families.
It builds our monuments, our shelters, our factories.
It cures our illnesses, our handicaps, our thirst for more.

So intelligence is definitely on the up?
Bingo.
Intelligence is definitely a good thing?
Yup.
And intelligence will provide a beautiful future?
Wrong.

--We're all dead.



You know how I know? Cause I'm a dude.

You only need to know 2 things for my theory:
-dudes are dudes
-intelligent people create bigass weapons


That same intelligence and complex thinking that's created some great inventions, cures for diseases and the likes of central AC are no different than the minds that created nuclear bombs, biological weapons, and the DMV.


















Men will still fight. Still battle. Still call on revenge. Still assert dominance. It's just what we do. It's only a matter of time before 'our weapons' are on a bigger scale than 'our environment'. And that's not hippie, "peace, not war bro, for WW3" talk either. It just seems logical.

I pound my chest. He pounds his. We run at each other and punch the shit out of everything--someone dies, someone gets hurt--whatever. Big deal. I pound my chest. He pounds his. And we pull out laser-guided surface-to-air 8 million megaton nuclear shells and.... well, alot of things are fucked.

Our 'tools' that elevate us above the animals will be our ultimate downfall. And maybe it just sets back humanity to a pre-tool primitive world. Maybe it all balances out. I don't know dogshit from donuts on what'd happen. Who knows. We're all dead? Cockroaches only ones left? Maybe cockroaches and just giraffes? (That'd be awkward.) Any number of possibilities, really. Which makes me wonder-- maybe we aren't top of the evolution chain.

?

What if we're just fancy nothing? Who says intelligence, a soul, a sense of purpose in this world counts for anything? Maybe it's just as good as having a fucking multi-color beak. Yea, looks cool, keeps you alive a little longer..... but it's just a beak.

What if the only purpose of life is to 'survive'? To pass 'the seed'? To reproduce--and reproduce aLOT (I'm lookin at you Irish people.) Then does it matter if you have feelings along the way? Does it matter you invented central AC along the way? Does it matter you even changed the earth?

Sure, we like to think about things and we think intelligence is the most important thing and not only do we think we're the most intelligent creature but we probably are the most intelligent creature and that in turn makes us think we're the pinnacle of life on earth.

That sure is alot of thinkin.

But we die the same as the emu. We procreate in much the same way as my dog (when I watch him at night with my infareds). We fight much the same as those two pigeons I saw at work the other day battling over a french fry. Thinking only seems to get you so much. It gets you buildings. And roads. And religions. And finances. And an 'economy' and 'government' and 'rules' and a pretty pompous self-involved view of what life should be. But it is, still afterall, life.

So maybe it's just pretty colorful beaks and we seem only to compare ourselves to the other species of the world in 'beak dynamics'. But I don't think a beetle wants a beak. (I guess if he did he might want it colorful, I'm not sure.) I think a beetle just 'is' a beetle.




















Yikes....



It just gets ya thinkin some days. I mean, does any creature think there are advanced evolutionary creatures above it? Would we? Would it even matter in the long run? Who knows. Hell----maybe Darwin was full of shit.








PS - So I don't particularly believe any of this. In fact, I was gonna write a blog on 'machines are actually the next stage of evolution--we just don't know it yet' and include tons of Terminator references and Skynet jokes. Another time.

i h8 Ry-in Feel'ds

Did you ever let anyone borrow your Ampeg BA115HPT bass amp and then the very next day did you miss it?

Me too.

Thank you Ryan Fields, I appreciate your basement holding onto my amp for me, because for a second there, I was worried I would have to have it back at my house where i could play it at my leisure. But you sure have taken that load off my mind. Thank you!

And the good news is I sold my practice amp to stupid, retarded Ben's stupid, even more retarded brother. So now I have NO amp to play on. But good news!! I found one of my instrument chords to not play on an amp with!!

Wow, I just read the specs on my Bamp. Holy shit no wonder I hate lugging that big, tube-filled beast around everywhere I go. It's 80lbs!

You can god damned keep it, Flyin' Ryan. Why would I want to carry that from your basement all the way to my car? Wow, I really had no idea it was that heavy. I might just leave it there permanently. I don't need it that bad.

And Jesus Christ, this thing has lower end. That's some monster thump. Hmmm, it says here something something something "plus the warmth and coloration of a 12AU7 tube front-end."

That just sounds so delicious. I had no idea Billy Sheehan promotes my amp. Hmmm, wow. I'm a badass. And imagine that, I want to play it now. Bad.

I wanna hear that smooth, deep low end rumble through me. I wanna get down and play that off-note on the off-beat. Like I wanna rattle and roll all over Treble's dick (assuming all treble was one individual--and a man). I wanna live it up and pick it up--the groove that is. I need it.

Like Tom Fox just picked up my bass and played a lick and put it down. Like someone was talking about my bass and it's in my eyesight. Like I just listened to The Lemon Song and I'm high. THAT's how bad I wanna jam now.

And that's pretty bad. Oh well, date night with MEGHAN. Guess I'll just go out to dinner and worry about bass later. Like when-I'm-not-at-my-house-but-instead-at-Ryan's later.

Fuck you, Ryan Fields.
Thanks for letting me leave my Bamp.
Asshole.






















http://www.ampeg.com/products/bassamp/ba115hpt/index.html

The Superbowl is Gay

I was in Vegas in June.
I was drunk.
I also bet on the Eagles to win the Superbowl.


And that's just it, I wasn't that drunk. I was feelin' fine, I was rollin roulette like a gangsta, and I was high on the Eagles draft picks.


Well, as of yesterday, I've officially hit rock bottom.
2 Months ago I was feelin' a 13-3 record.
Now I might as well say 3-13.


Book it. Done. Game over.


We'll quickly go position-by-position and give my:
Worst Case Uh-Oh's.....



QB
-Well, it's still Donovan McNaab. Good enough to give you a chance.... not good enough to win it for you in the clutch. He's getting older and mobility and injury problems have become worse over the years.
-It's also his final year as an Eagle w the job on the line (in my opinion), so maybe that lights a fire under his 'smilin,-i-threw-it-too-low-my-bad' ass. I consider Donny Mac a wash. I mean, what if we had... Rex Grossman?
-Back-ups?
RB
-Running backs have short lives. When it's over, it's over. Westbrook is one of the best in the biz, but the injuries have been piling up and the stats have started to slow.
-McCoy? I really don't like relying on rookies to make an impact. Blocking is usually an issue for them. And who's our 3rd string if B-West does go down..... Booker?
WR
-Can DeSean repeat his stellar performance w defenses keying on him now? Will Curtis be healthy and effective?
-Who the hell is your 3rd guy? You expect another rookie to emulate Jackson's breakout year last year? Good luck, especially w a kid who's never played NFL ball and has already missed half of training camp because of contract disputes.
O-Line
-So we've got Shawn Andrews who might still have back issues and now has head issues? We've got his brother--first name 'Stacy'--?
-Not only are there injury issues to deal w first (like, will they all play), but this O-line has never played together before, and the veteran presense of Thomas and Runyan is out the window?
Kicking
-The past couple years Akers hasn't been Mr. Automatic and Sav has been good, but inconsistant and super Austrlian.
-We hope to God D-ake doesn't have to kick at the meadowlands....
D-Line
-They aren't bad. Contain most rushes. Put some pressure on the QB. But they don't have a real game-breaker or sack machine that alot of other 'top-notch' teams have.
-Trent Cole has baby brown eyes that could mesmerize his teammates.
LineB
-I was super-pumped for a breakout year for my boy--Stewart Bradley--and the rest of the LB'ers and then.... there goes the year.
-Bradley was the QB of the defense and a natural leader on a team that lost alot of leadership over the offseason.
-Other LB'ers are OK, nothing great. Who will fill Bradley's void?
CornerB
-The only hard-hitting proven pro in the backfield is Sheldon and wouldn't you know it he's having contract issues w the Eagles. Another Lito?
-Asante and Hobbes are good cover-guys to a degree, but apparently the team has them learning/working out alot of press coverage---- something they didn't do for New England.
Safety
-No Dawk. You just can't replace that.
-Don't know who's gonna start or what kind of game they bring. Whoever it is will be a slightly better cover guy (in theory) and be a drop-off in every other category (all the way into the locker room and beyond)
Coaching
D -Jim Johnson. The man w the master plan. The bringer of blitz. Even if the pieces weren't the best by themselves, JJ could always find a way to fashion a masterpiece on D. Putting guys in the right places, trusting those unteachable instincts of his, and master-minding that whole explosive, unforgettable Eagles defense this city takes pride in.
-Don't know what McDermott's got. We can hope-- but it's as simple as that. Plus, think of how the players will react. He may have their attention and their praise--but does he have their unwavering trust and will to go into battle?
O -Andy will always be Andy. Yea, we have a Fullback. Does that mean we'll use him or start running? What are you, crazy-- this is Andy.
-Forget who the O Coordinator is and it's getting late....
M(anagement) -Jeffrie Lurie and Joe Banner are scum bags. They think their shit don't stink and the bottom line in their world is the almighty $Dolla Dolla bill. They look down on the very people that support them and treat the fans, the media, and the players like they're idiots.
-Won't spend the money to pay better players or keep our good players happy. Possible holdout situations.



--------------But have no need to fear. Quick Banner quote:

"I feel this year we have the best roster in the league,” Banner said. And owner Jeffrie Lurie, he assured us was all about winning. The money means nothing to him, Banner explained.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggghhhhhhhhttttt.... you faggot.




















Anyhow, that's where my brain is right now. Just jotting down my doubts and fears. Hope it'll turn around as we figure things out and finally get closer to football season. I mean, there are definite counter-points and positives to take from (almost) every position I listed. I know that. But we'll see. Just preparing for the worst case scenario.

And hopefully, this isn't just another let down year. Cause don't get me wrong, I love the 'Birds. I still got them picked to win it all baby! Shit, I got $30 or so invested in a Superbowl win. That'll pay out something like $330 or $400 or..... hmmmm, where did I put that ticket....

Jam 101 -- Funk You

yea, i haven't blogged in a week or something, but I also haven't porked anyone's mom in a week or so and no one's said anything about that.

Let's see...what to talk about with you jamokes. Hockey's far away, hammered is what I'm always getting, a jam approacheth---

YOU: A what-a whateth?
ME: A jam dickhead. You know, like a jam.

A jam. It's something that follows The Laws of the Conservation of Energy. It can neither be created nor destroyed. It's something that happens -- it doesn't occur. It's something that you can feel more than you can hear. It's something that is alive and inside. It moves and reproduces. It feeds and it grows. It's a million things more than it's a 'one single' thing. And there's no such thing as the same jam twice (that's just liberal bullshit talk).

Jams don't have to be dirty funky--but mine are. They don't have to make musical sense--I'm sure alot of mine don't. They don't have to have a top, a bottom, a beginning, or an end-- or a middle for that matter. A jam is just what it is--a fucking jam.

I know next to nothing about music theory. I know where like 5 notes are on the bass and I know where the octave to each note is.... so I know like 10 notes. I play with all sorts of people ranging from 'I-know-E-minor-sus-7-and-teach-guitar-at-george's-music' Bradford S Granberry to 'Woa-man,-check-out-this-tasty-Phish-lick' Scotty. There are styles and stipulations you have to actually bring to each jam. Here, lemme lay it down for y'all:


------------------------------------------------------















The Jam: As Sex


Woa, don't put it there--who's on my instrument!
Wrong hole--plug into my higher input!
Let's work into it slower now, it's starting to burn!
My turn to take it from the top, bitch!
Where the fuck are we right now?
Why do we always do it the way you want?
Now I'm feelin ya!
Give me that tasty lick!
Holy shit, we're going to explode all over the audience!
--and--
Hold on guys, some semen in my eye.

Just a few quotes you'll hear during the average jam. Complications and intimacies run amok over the course of a hot n heavy jam. And it's no wonder. Jams are complex, emotional, crazy creatures. You have bandmates and you don't want to step on their toes. (I won't get into what happens if you have feelings for your bandmates--and they're boys.) But you don't want to sit by on the sidelines and watch all the fun from the bench. What about the drummers feelings? Does he wanna mix it up and do some gay symbol tickling and intricate tom-work? What about your guitarists stamina-- can he withstand the rigors of intense in-your-face metal all jam long? Is your bass player solo-ing non-stop and jumping around all over the neck showing off his blazing speed instead of just laying down some solid thump? It's all very personal and very touchy. It doesn't take much to make a jam go awry, but it takes a shit-load to make a jam cut out a hot path of awesomeness.

Not only do you have to have make love to your instrument, you have to have sex with your bandmates. That's alot of dirty-dirty. And explains why Rock n Roll is all about drugs and sex.

1. Keep the Pace
Don't have everyone humping the air randomly with misguided musical notes at random intervals or you'll get something that sounds like baby sheep being thrown into an industrial blender. Stay in time. Relax. It doesn't have to be Opeth tight and technical. Keep it 4/4. Stay at a reasonable speed for the majority of the jam. You'll have your chance to unleash holy-solo-hell when the time is right.

2. Know What Makes THEM Feel Good
Don't just go out there and do what makes you feel good for 2 hours. Tickle the taint. Lay down some boring stuff and provide some cover-fire for the other guys to break out. This obviously has alot to do with your instrument and your style, but don't be that guy who solos the whole jam long or only plays the style best suited to your needs. Essentially, just don't be a selfish dick. Luckily in Uranium Bassment my boys Jones Benner and X-Factor will rock out, slow it up, and mix it up by throwing me a 'Funk Bass Jam' bone. Keeping the whole group satisfied is a hot way to 'simultaneously climax' all over during key parts of the Jam that just fucking sound 'awesome'.

3. Get Sensual
Feel the jam happen in you, in your instrument, and in your Bandies. Make love to your instrument. Go hot and heavy over her private parts or slowly build her up. This is crucial to 'changing directions without words', the hardest part of jamming. Hear your guitarist going lighter on the chords but adding that sinister bend? Is the drummer getting heavier and faster on the drums in a 'slowly building' kinda way? Something bad is about to happen and to make sure it gets pulled off in extreme awesome fashion you need to feel the subtleties around you. On the next measure make it happen. Let that wild animal passion rip out and put the balls to the wall at this next cymbal crash. Remember--musical instruments and bandmates can not press charges for rape.

4. Experiment
Whip out the blow-up dolls, the chocolate sauce, the scented candles, and put the ball gag in the dog's mouth-- it's time to mix it up. Who wants the jam to get boring? Fuck buddies is to married couple as funky jam is to written songs. Sure, they all have their place, but this is a mother-funkin jam. Don't go solo-ing around some weird Egyptian scale you learned last week all jam long but do try something weird here and there. Spice it up. Don't be afraid to mess up. You may not like it all--but you may just find the recipe for Liquid Gold.

5. Use Your Head.... Not That One
Sure, it's good to go in knowing scales and rules and pieces of songs and how to turn a riff ilonian or whatever but here's the key -- use your Dick. That's right. Whatever instrument you're playing is an extension of you. Strum that dick and crank your balls to volume 11. It's no use counting to 4. It's no use predicting where the E key fits halfway through your solo. Start just moving. I mean 'moving'. Sway with the beat. Turn off the brain. Pretend you just took your cocaine through a straw in a glass full of Jack Daniels alla Stevie Ray Vaughn and let it all out. Let go of that barrier of reason and logic. Stop thinking about the song and be the fucking song. This sound is an extension of you. If you want to shred some baby armadillo's in a wood chipper let your fingers carve a wicked riff. If you want to have sex with the pope on top of a cathedral drop those majestic beats and let your feet and snare drum do the prayin'. You feel the need to let loose the hot sexual magma of hurricane sex you slap the shit out of your dick and stop poppin' n lockin the dirtiest nastiest low-down frequencies you can find. Become something else. Become the jam.























So there it is. The Jam as sex. So next time you hear your neighbors strumming up the sweet sounds give yourself a chuckle. You know they're all dudes and if they're any good at jamming -- they're practically doing each other. LoL! MFG!!! Faggzzzzzzz!!!!

Wide World O Nick

it's been days on top of days since i've blogged. Here's the latest in


THE WIDE WORLD OF NICK



I ran over 4 miles yesterday.
I've been listening to alot of metal lately--
opeth, metallica, lamb of god, all that remains, etc
I've been obsessing over the Flyers n 'Prongs' all week.
I decided to start collecting other-team NHL jerseys--
------starting with a hot #9 Bobby Ryan (Cherry Hill what-what!)
I want to put on my boxing gloves tonight.
I'm writing this and listening to Uranium Bassment--
------Alexis on drum, Ben on Guitar, Me on the large-mouth fish
I've jammed w Hexxus and Gradford Branberry this week
I totally worked less hours than my girlfriend this week
I really like our song I'm hearing now. Black Precedent 02-1
I was told I'm paying rent in my own house on my B-Day--
------March 6, $200 / month
I really really need to do laundry.
I think I could harness the power of the sun to lift a charter bus--
-------filled with fat retards.
I'll prob play COD4 before I run in an hour--
I'll only use stab and grenade. No guns.
I think I do alot of the same thing over and over.
I've been wondering about the msytery of death.
I've been wondering where ear-wax comes from.
I've been wondering if the 2 are related.
I think Pronger is going to kill someone--
-----literally.
I just looked it up--the authentic Ryan jersey--
------cost $330ish
Fuck.
You only live once right?
I wonder how long I'll grow out my hair....
I think I'm sorta addicted to twitter--
------twatting.
Wow, I love Uranium Bassment.
My next blog is going to be about Uranium Bassment.
Or Darren Puppa.
I think the Phillies are awesome.
I am excited by almost every Phillies game--
------that's tough to do.
This team has the right stuff though.
I want to score an Utley (inside the park homer)
I want to get blood on my jersey this Sunday--
------at hockey.
I still haven't seen the movie Sunshine I bought 3 months ago.
I think I'll work out till I'm bigger than Chris Czech--
-----and gayer (just kidding)
Time to get my 'shit' together.
By shit I meant 'do something else'.
Fuckkkkk w a name on it, it's $380.

The Flyers: Destroying Teams (Literally)

If you can't beat 'em, beat 'em up.
Hard.

Apparently that's the approach the Flyers have taken to the '09-'10 season.

And I think I like it.

There's still some shuffling to do, and some rumors about waiving Cote and sending players to the minors etc. but let's look at what we have right now:
The equivalent to War Machine on ice.

Let's look at the schedule here and take a look at things. The Flyers have some games coming up and are potentially playing... let's say.... The Penguins. Sure, the Flyers are about to play the Penguins for the first time since they knocked us out of the 2009 Stanley Cup Playoffs. And through some grace of Gary (Bettman) and luck of the draw (Red Wings did not play those last 2 games at all) they won the tourney (I refuse to call it The Cup until next year) last year and they think their shit don't stink. Let's say that. It's Thursday, October 8, and we're playing the dirty fucking Penguins.

Well, Homer looks over his roster sheet and he makes the call to Stevens:

"Ahem, John? Yea, it's me Paul. How's it going? Good, good. Just wanted to call about the team, about tomorrow's game. Did you know the metal gates between teams locker rooms were named after me? You did? Good, good, just wanted to make sure. Well for tomorrow's game here's who the fuck we're gonna dress for the game-"


Aaron 'Ash' Asham













--Owns a solid work ethic and is strong along the boards. Is also willing to crash the net to create scoring chances or even drop the gloves, which he's pretty good at.
HT: 5' 11 WT: 205
STYLE: Drop Bombs on 'em.
PIM: 155








Daniel 'Car Bomb' Carcillo











--Could become the next Sean Avery. Has shift-disturbing qualities and the ability to drop the gloves against anyone. Is a solid hitter, as well.
HT: 5' 11 WT: 203
STYLE: Dirty hair, dirty teeth, ridin' dirty punches
PIM: 324







'Rockin' Riley Cote





















--Is always a willing pugilist, and understands his role as a team player. Has good size and the ability to be a bruising physical presence.
HT: 6' 1 WT: 210
STYLE: Rock 'em, Sock 'em, ohmygod
PIM: 202






Ian 'Lappy' Laperriere















--Is a very hard worker and earns a lot of respect in standing up for his teammates. Has strong forechecking and penalty-killing skills. Tends to rattle his opponents with his in-your-face attitude.
HT: 6' 1 WT: 200
STYLE: Right cross, right jab, right hook, right uppercut, win
PIM: 185







Mike 'Cannon' Richards














--Plays a smart, two-way game and possesses outstanding leadership qualities. Can kill penalties and also play the point on the power play. Leads by example.
HT: 5' 11 WT: 195
STYLE: fights w fire and fires off his Cannon!
PIM: 76











Ole-Kristian Tollefsen 'OKT'
















--Loves to lay on the body and displays a wealth of toughness and aggression along the blueline. Has the makings of a sound defensive defenseman.
HT: 6'2 WT: 211
STYLE: The Nasty Norweigan Knuckler
PIM: 111 (in 51 GP)






Chris 'Darth Vader' Pronger














--Is an awesome one-on-one defender, has a great reach and can dish out punishing body checks. He's also an excellent power-play point man and born leader.
HT: 6' 6 WT: 213
FIGHT STYLE: Be larger than everyone. Throw 'bows.
PIM: 180



That's a combined 1,333 penalty minutes.... from 6 guys!
That's a 1,337 lb Meat Train on a crash course with TheEndofYourLife Blvd and OhGodiJustShitMyself Ave!
That's more fighting firepower than the entire Canadian military! (ahem)


Not to mention the extra-curriculars from the rest of the team!

We all know Darrol Powe will drop 'em. We all watch Scott Hartnell, his hair flailing, make a nice mess in engaging the enemy. Our God damn goalie does cocaine and then fights people. He doesn't just fight other goalies either--he fights skaters and trainers. Not to mention Brian Boucher back between the pipes, he only fought in the biggest brawl in recent NHL history. (see also -- Lalime). I've seen a sad, sad Randy Jones fight. I've seen Sami Kaps fight the Oilers' Horcoff a couple years ago. I once sat in my chair and watched JEFF CARTER punch out Ryan Whitney behind the Pens net. For Christ's sake, Braydon Coburn had 3 fights last year!

What I'm getting at is this: The Flyers are going to be the toughest team in the NHL. Bar none. It will be ridiculous how badass this group will be. And they might not win every game. The Flyers might not win the Stanley Cup this year. Fine! It just appears that 'letting certain players dropkick goals and slide into our net' didn't sit well with Flyer management. And it shouldn't!

The new NHL is all about finesse and skill--and hey, I'm a big fan of those two things but please-- gimme that old school toughness any day. I take Derian Hatchers and Jason Smith's 100 times over the Joni Pitkanin's and Andy Delmore's (but Christ almighty wasn't that a playoff series to remember?) of the league. Apparently the finesse and skill though, are the new 'in'.

And this team Homer is building is a direct middle finger to the new 'in'-- to the new NHL.



It's like Collin Campbell and Gary Bettman are holding hands and kissing in the dark, whispering seductive nothings into each other's ears. Coo'ing "Sidneysssss" gently into each other's hair and tonguing "Malkinnnnn" into each other's gay-ass foreheads. Barry White is playing when all of a sudden Paul Holmgren kicks down the door with a boombox on his shoulder and he's blasting Slayer at max volume. He dropkicks them both in their faces and unzips his pants, loosing his hot, steamy justice all over those two fairies.

At least that's what I imagine the formation of this new team is.

It makes no sense! You need 2 or 3 guys who fight and a couple extra to mix it up-- Tops! We have something like 15 guys who throw down! It's a team of testosterone charged murderers and rapists let loose in a school for blind hot chicks. It's like using a rocket-propelled grenade to take out a mosquito. And the weirdest part of the whole thing --- I still think they have a damn good shot at 'it all'.

But because NHL management has been trying it's hardest not to embrace this 'ugly side of hockey' we are marked men. We're doomed before this season even starts. Chances are-- we're going to get suspended. We're going to get fined. We're going to get screwed by the refs more times than a drunk bitch at a crew party.

And I'll bitch, I'll complain, I'll grit my teeth-- but I'll know my team can kick the ever-loving shit out of your team. I'll know that my guys, pound for pound, will take your guys out back old school, and let loose the fury on your fancy asses. And that's what real hockey is all about. None of this ticky-tack new age stuff. Hockey was built on guts and grit and gore and glory.

Every year the papers read: "Broad Street Bullies are Back!!!"

And it's just hype. It's just the 'same-old' to sell stories. But maybe it won't be so far from the truth this year. Maybe this is the year they actually mean it. Maybe we're back.

And I like it. Why not? Do what we're 'supposed to' in the new NHL? Just look at the Penguins! We all want to win the right way, right?
No thanks, fuck yourself.


And let's not only do that.
Let's take it a step further.
Let's wake this league the fuck up.



Let's cross check our enemies over and over and over. And over. Let's pound the piss out of anyone on their team who slashes and runs. Take a dive? I'm landing on you with my skate-blades first if I can--have your 2-minutes, I want your achilles. Let's get under their skin and boil that pampered blood. Let's break some bones. Let's tear into some soft, girly, new NHL skate queens. Let's see how your head feels pinned up agaisnt the boards. Let's see how awesome you can dangle without your front fucking teeth. Let's make every breath hurt.

Go ahead and beat us, too, cause we're going to make you pay for it-with quarts of blood -with chunks of teeth -with black and green and blue bruises -with tears and hate and unbearable pain -with a broken soul. With no will to live.


Go ahead and fuckin' bring it.
--We're the Philadelphia Flyers--

Let's destroy the NHL.

The Day Mr Aikens Saved My Life

It has to have been at least 3 years now.

But Dan Aikens saved my life.
Or at least that's how I remember it.

I will never understand how memory works. How often it lies, how often it can become distorted, how often details change and disappear within the shoddy framework of the brain.

But as far as I remember the story it begins at one of my first ice hockey games. Probably after playing the legendary 'Ron Tracy' and the Lawnquenchers. Could have been the Raiders Alum team. Not too sure, definitely one of my first 3 ice hockey games ever as a member of Men's League C at UD on the team known around the Tri State area -- The Drunken Clams.

It's end of junior year of college, I can barely ice skate, I'm just out looking to be a team player and 'Clam' it up. One 'Clam's it up by scoring shorthanded, skating up from on defense, or by getting ridiculous unnecessary penalties. Because of my skill set, I chose the latter.

Men's League pushing and shoving after the whistles, Men's League trash talk at the faceoff circle, even Men's League hacking and slashing are all part of the game. It is Men's League. But in the offensive zone with the puck pinned agaisnt the boards with my skate I got whalloped in the back of the head. No whistle. Again to the back of the head. No whistle, again, with the stick this time, my helmet falls off. No whistle. I turn to see how far the referee must have stuck the whistle up his ass to not be blowing this play dead with my helmet on the ice. Again to the back of my bare head now. I go down hard. As I get back up in, actually, alot of pain and unbewildered reckless 'I'm-going-to-punch-someone-in-the-face' fury the whistle finally blows.

The dude behind me was huge. He had to be 6' 5. And thick. I didn't give a fuck at that point. I'm swingin at this dude's head and his teammates and my teammates are all converging and someone is between us and my arms are being held and I'm still boiling with rage.

"Fuck your mother!" I yell into his face. Probably not the best thing to scream at some guy I don't know. But then I up the ante'. I do the stupidest thing I've ever done in my life: I hock back in my throat and I start to spit right into his face.

I say start because I don't know if I actually fully spit. I think I sort of regained control and knew not to spit in some huge guy's face. I'm not an idiot, right? But then again, my arms were held and I just needed to do something to this guy to piss him off, something. But maybe I don't remember because he reacted before I could even spit--

To this day it's the quickest I've ever seen human hands move. They were in gloves right in front of my face about head-high. They were definitely in his gloves. But less than a fraction of a second they were at his sides and the gloves were gone. And less than a fraction of a second after that they were arcing around behind him and over his head. And then no time passed at all and his fists were extended right into my face and head. Over. And over. And over.

I count at least 4 punches before even 1 second has gone by. And this giant of a man, with a beard growing on his beard, who I've never seen before in my entire life, is swinging these solid meathooks into my face and teaching me that 20-year-old punks who spit at grown men will get what they deserve.

He was going to kill me, and there wasn't any pain, or remorse, or even any urge to fight back. It was some sort of judgement from God happening. All I could do was take it.

And I'm telling you-- I remember the rage in his eyes and the beard growing on this dude's beard. Then just the smooth circular flowing motion-- it was all one move-- like it was yesterday. The gloves came off, the arms pulled back, and the fists were in my face before anyone on that ice could blink. And I think I was too stunned to even feel any of it until afterward. I was ready for death.

But something saved me. Some-one.























As I was going down, my left winger took action. #23 was a blur of motion and I didn't see him come to my rescue but it was later described as:

"He just fuckin flew dude."
"All the sudden Dan was in the air and on that dude's back!"
"Fuckin' Aikens flying through the air"
"Wow."
"I don't even know, it all happened so fast, first it was him pummeling you, then it was him pummeling Dan. It was awesome!"

Apparently Dan Aikens is part shark. When he smells blood, when the scrums break out on the ice, he is driven into a 'Flying Frenzy'. He skated as fast as he could and leapt into the air onto this dude's back. What normally would have toppled an average man did no such thing. It didn't even faze this 'man among men'. He reached behind him, and again, without breaking motion, pulled Dan to the ice in front of him (now in front of me). And he began pummeling Dan like it was me. Like he never stopped swinging those rock hard meat tenderizers. It was kind of weird to see. I got up and some other guy grabbed me and we both just looked over at Dan on the ice taking those viscious hits.

They eventually broke it up. The referee wedging himself in there and the big gallute finally agreeing that 'enough was enough' and it's time to let off. Looking back, maybe he didn't even know it was 2 people he was pounding on. Maybe he was so angry, and so fast, and so unnerved by the Flying Aikens attack that he really thought he put about 20 solid punches right into one skinny 20 year-old kid's face.

Shiver.



I was introduced to a tough-guy badass from that team months later. Many months. They said Duhaddaway was the guy who laid into me and that he's one tough son o' a gun. And I'm not doubting Duhaddaway's toughness or his badass-ery but he's shorter than me. And has a pretty regular beard. And he doesn't recall the story too well / at all.

I distinctly remember looking up at this guy. And I distinctly remember that beard. The face?--not so much. I think I was too busy spitting in his or getting punched in mine to really get a good read. I don't know. All I know is that was one fucking lesson to learn. Don't fuck with a guy unless you're willing to get fucked back.

Maybe I would have died. Maybe he would have stopped. Maybe it was Dahaddaway. Maybe this is all crazy blown out of proportion. Maybe it took place in the defensive zone. Maybe I was on the bench and it never happened. I don't know.

Because memory is funny like that. Some of the biggest memories in our lives are of the smallest events and they maybe didn't even happen in the order or even the way we remember them. They just are.

And that's what this was. It just was. And I'll always remember that gloves-off to full-punching in under a second happening so fast. I've still never seen anything like it. And that beard he was growing on his beard. I never saw him again (to my knowledge) and I never need to again. The Bearded Windmill Mauler could have retired that very day.

That day I learned my fucking Men's League lesson and I gained one of my best buds. And we became BFF (if you catch my meaning) and partners in Clams Hockey crime. I was groomed into the Goon role I was born to (not) be. The brothers of bash and booze.

So whether it happened or not shouldn't really matter. What matters, is that I got fucking rocked.....and kept Men's League C-ing. All the way to the Championship.