I do a lot of writing for RWD while I'm driving. I mean, not the actual putting of pen to paper (yes, some of these entries exist in this realm, not just the virtual one), hello, between screwing with the radio, drinking Vanilla Coke, texting, eating Chex Mix, and applying lipgloss (I know! Women drivers!), I barely have time to check on what's happening on the road, let alone write down the brilliant passages that spring forth like Athena from the head of Zeus.
That was an unparalleled amount of sarcasm in one paragraph. I wonder if it's some sort of record.
To continue, I'm often driving either to or from a hockey game by myself, so there's plenty of time to think, and since I pretty much eat, sleep, and breathe hockey and interest rates, and I'd rather die than think about the yield on the 10 year U.S. Treasury Bond off the clock, I think about hockey a lot! At least, when I am not screaming along to mix CDs while terrifying people in SUVs who are observing. I try not to do that anymore after what happened when I was driving up for the Western series. Let's talk about what's happened so far in 2009:
Jan 1-4: I went to almost-Chicago for the Shillelagh Tournament.
Jan 10: I drove into an ambush in St. Cloud after a full day fo school.
Jan 16-17: I stayed over in Duluth for both Bermidji games and one mini-mites Jamboree
Jan 24: I worked 8 hours, drove up to Duluth, watched the game, ate excessive Taco John's, and drove back home at 9:30 the next day so I could be in class by 1.
THIS IS INSANE. Especially since I have night-blindness and am generally about 2 seconds away from driving off the road at any point. Please keep this in mind if you are planning on being on the highway when I am. Also, please keep in mind that if you're driving less than 75 mph you are driving too slow. And that's just for city streets.
More importantly, what exactly is the point? Why? Why I am spending my hard-earned dollars (and they are hard-earned, honey. I'm not sure where I was going with that, but let's leave it in) and burning precious fossil fuels to wear down I-35 so that I can verbally berate grown men I've never met and have total strangers stare at me because I am flailing my arms around, beet red and spitting, then go home and prop my eyelids open so I can get my post up before passing out in bed just in case someone is actually waiting to hear my take on what happened in the game (if I even write about the actual game) even though no one has ever expressed that sentiment to me and god help humanity if they ever do. Especially because I write run-on sentences, but that's because I talk that way and think that way, so it really helps with the ambiance around here. Would you like it if I lit some candles?
Ok I took some Ritalin.
What is it that makes us pledge allegiance to a team, one Bulldog Nation, under Lessard, with Connollys and Fultons for all? I have been thinking about writing this post for a long time, and I even read the book Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby to get some references and everything, except the book is about soccer and is unbelieveably boring so I didn't finish it. (Just wait, the Ritalin needs to reach my bloodstream.) I don't mean what makes us enjoy hockey, because it is fun and entertaining and certainly enjoyable to play. But really, most people who read RWD are not casual hockey fans. People who write RWD (ok, me) are not casual hockey fans. I mean, let's face it, I probably like hockey more than 99.9999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999% of the rest of the universe and 99.99999999999999999999999999999999999 of people who are actually hockey fans. I think it might be a mental illness but I'm not sure.
I imagine it's either really awesome or really creepy to be a hockey player in the era of the blog. I mean, if you like attention and stuff, it's great, but if you're not interested in crazy chicks using Photoshop to paste your head onto Han Solo/Ralphie/a person carving a kayak or giving you embarrassing nicknames and calling you sweetie and cute and darling, it's probably somewhat unnerving. I'm sure that pretty much every blogger with any sort of self-awareness has to realize that on some level they are a giant joke to the very people they spend so much time writing about and chasing after and possibly ogling in bars (this is not me, I might be a creeper but when Cardinal is doing things to a Miller Lite bottle that should never be done [including DRINKING FROM THEM], I have no interest in anyone else in the bar), and those that have no capacity for self-reflection are probably even more of a joke.
THIS is the stuff I think about when I'm driving.
The conclusion I reached Sunday morning? It's not important why. What's important is the fun I've had and the friends I've made, and if hockey blogging is the medium for meeting amazing people and doing crazy things and connecting with people I'd never otherwise, then I'll be a joke in the locker room and endure the restraining orders and the sleep deprivation and the writer's block and hoarse throat and pathetic checking account balance and the highs and lows and doldrums and excitement and drunks and stupid USCHO threads and hilarious anonymous comments and fatness accusations and whiskey hangovers and Taco John's heartburn and frostbite and crusts of salt on my car and weird looks over the shoulder and slow claps and endless sentences.
