Okay, people, here’s how it’s gonna be. I know you’re used to a certain level of gentle coddling and digressive fooferal around here, but things have changed, and quite frankly, CrotchetyOriginalSam doesn’t much truck with those concepts.
We do truck in full and complete explanations of current events, however, so one supposes that you’re all owed a summation of the happenings that led to this hostile takeover of TWC. Here’s what happened: a couple of nights ago, HRM Katebits retired to her regally appointed BatShack here in the rain-soaked hills of southern New Hampshire, there to view a few late-night episodes of Monk and generally decompress from another busy day spent considering the needs of her loyal Caboosian subjects. By all accounts, the decompression went well, and at a reasonable time of her choosing, HRM shut down her MacBook, tucked the various bats and centipedes that share her abode into their little miniature beds made of matchbooks and tissue paper, and lapsed into the fitful dozing that passes for sleep when your bed is a piece of plastic-covered foam slapped on top of a sheet of plywood.
Tuesday morning dawned foggy and grim, an ominous sign of the horrifying events to come. Katebits arose at her customary hour of noon(ish), and blearily made her way up the Path Of Mysterious Burrowing Creatures That Sam Will Not Investigate to the Apple Hill farmhouse, hauling her now energy-depleted MacBook with her. She plugged it into the one working electrical socket within a five-mile radius, and hit the power button, ready to spend a leisurely afternoon composing yet another brilliant missive for all you little Buffaslug fans and hangers-on.
Strangely, the MacBook failed to respond. Katebits hit the button again, and tried the enter key and a few random function buttons as well, for good measure. But the computer remained as unresponsive as RJ Umberger after a friendly blue-line encounter with Brian Campbell. HRM does not suffer insolence patiently, and she stabbed furiously at the power button, wailing and crying furiously into the New England fog as the damnable machine silently mocked her devotion to her TWC subjects.
Anyway, long story longer, the power problem proved to be quite dire, such that even a daylong trip by wagon train to the next queendom over (which, unlike the BatQueendom, has its own Mac store) yielded no solution. As a result, the offending MacBook has been imprisoned in HRM’s private dungeon somewhere on Pitcher Mountain, there to think long and hard about what it has done, and Katebits finds herself effectively cut off from you, her adoring throng.
Which is where I come in. My HP Pavilion’s working just fine, and while I may not possess a great deal of knowledge of (or interest in) the city of Buffalo and its environs, I do know hockey, I appreciate a good beef on weck, and I have been known to consume large quantities of chicken wings and cheap beer on occasion, which I have been told is more or less your town’s official pasttime. So we’re stuck with each other for the rest of the week, it seems. Those of you who know me from the comments know where I’m coming from, I think, and while I can’t promise that I won’t display a certain amount of Western Conference/Minnesota bias in the entries to come, I’ll make an effort to tamp down (slightly) my usual contempt for Devils fans, the Dallas Stars as a concept, and the defensively inept style of speed skating and puck flipping that you East Coast types call “hockey.” In exchange, I do not care to hear any derogatory comments about Jacques Lemaire, Steve Downey, or any Western teams that you may perceive as slow and/or boring for the duration of my stay. I think we understand each other?
I’ll have more actual hockey-related content for you over the next few days. For now, however, TWC wishes to officially welcome Barry Melrose back to the National Hockey League, and to ask whatever took him so damn long to jump back behind a bench. In tribute to the old greaser, please spend a few hours today rating some mullets, thinking fondly all the while of the joy you used to take while watching Barry’s coif bob and weave across your screen on NHL 2Night…
