Monday, January 7, 2019
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
Sportsnet with Bill
I got to live a dream, albeit too brief, of announcing a sports highlight. As readers of this blog know, sports is probably my number two passion. I was initially hesitant, though why I'm not sure. But I vowed last year that I was going to smash my comfort zone, or at least dent it a little. So into the breach I went. The dialogue was written and displayed on a teleprompter, and there was a human teleprompter as well. How hard could it be?
It wasn't hard, it was easy, and after an initial stumble I think that I acquitted myself quite well. Wish I wasn't looking so hunched, but the words were a little difficult to see (GET GLASSES!) Evanka talks over me at one point.
I left feeling so happy and energized. I wanted to go back and do more. Hopefully I will get to experience this again.
It wasn't hard, it was easy, and after an initial stumble I think that I acquitted myself quite well. Wish I wasn't looking so hunched, but the words were a little difficult to see (GET GLASSES!) Evanka talks over me at one point.
I left feeling so happy and energized. I wanted to go back and do more. Hopefully I will get to experience this again.
Saturday, December 5, 2015
I Did A Show And They Laughed (Mostly)
I did a corporate stand up gig last night for a local business's staff party. I have been marketing myself as a "Comedian For Hire" for just over a year, posting ads on UsedVictoria and Kijiji and promoting on LinkedIn. It's tough going. I also have ads running for "Cleaner" and I receive double the responses for that one than I do for this one. (That one will be pulled.) I get queries from potential clients who never respond back after I send a link to myself on You Tube, which is mildly disconcerting. Or they come to see me live, as happened last year, but clearly do not like the environment I am performing in. (It wasn't me; I killed that night. Made sure I would.) Or they don't like my price. Or don't quite understand what it is I do. ("So you tell jokes? Are they funny?")
But this one had a good feel from the outset. The client and I chatted on the phone for over a half hour; the longer the conversation the better, I'm discovering. She had taken improv classes and attended open mikes. She knew who I was talking about when I mentioned Stephen Wright.
It sounded great. And it was.
It is not a requirement that I be provided food and/or drink. All I ask is for a mic, an introduction, and to not be shunted to "mop up duty" at the tail end of the evening when everybody is blasted or bored. I'm not a diversion, I am the entertainment. But the offer of refreshment is a good sign to me. It tells me that I won't be ignored or treated like "the help." It permits me the option of mingling if I choose and relieving the pre-show nerves. I was handed a drink ticket from the staff - who knew I was coming and had my name in the reservation book - met the client, who was lovely and lively (and not hammered) and was introduced to a veteran of the comedy stages, now retired, who offered me advice and support.
The atmosphere was low-key, friendly. When it was my turn, I was relaxed and ready to go.
I did okay. Not great, I'm not there yet. But I had their attention and I didn't lose it. A few jokes bombed (blame the writer.) Some were hits. I decided to change my style, combining my usual one line observational and word play (NOT puns) humor with story telling. I've written and performed longer bits recently, and I like it. It give me more options, and pads out the time if needed. My closer, a story about mishearing "tp" for "tv" and the hilarity that ensued, was listened to and greeted with laughter and applause. I was scheduled to do 30 minutes, had timed it out at 28, and I felt that it was only 20. But a quick check of my phone told me that I'd done 30.
Time does fly when you're having fun.
I stayed and chatted for a while afterwards, got paid (yay!) and thanked my client.
Not everybody in the room was interested. But those that were listened and appreciated. Nobody was falling down wasted, nobody held a long conversation over my set, and I saw no one checking their phones.
I still have much to learn; I still felt the need to use my notes as a crutch, as I've written about in an earlier post; I could have used the room more.
But I left feeling confident. It was a fitting end to a whirlwind nine days in which my life literally changed for the better forever. (More on this in future posts.) I will continue to learn, to promote myself, to write, and to experiment.
Happy Holidays!
But this one had a good feel from the outset. The client and I chatted on the phone for over a half hour; the longer the conversation the better, I'm discovering. She had taken improv classes and attended open mikes. She knew who I was talking about when I mentioned Stephen Wright.
It sounded great. And it was.
It is not a requirement that I be provided food and/or drink. All I ask is for a mic, an introduction, and to not be shunted to "mop up duty" at the tail end of the evening when everybody is blasted or bored. I'm not a diversion, I am the entertainment. But the offer of refreshment is a good sign to me. It tells me that I won't be ignored or treated like "the help." It permits me the option of mingling if I choose and relieving the pre-show nerves. I was handed a drink ticket from the staff - who knew I was coming and had my name in the reservation book - met the client, who was lovely and lively (and not hammered) and was introduced to a veteran of the comedy stages, now retired, who offered me advice and support.
The atmosphere was low-key, friendly. When it was my turn, I was relaxed and ready to go.
I did okay. Not great, I'm not there yet. But I had their attention and I didn't lose it. A few jokes bombed (blame the writer.) Some were hits. I decided to change my style, combining my usual one line observational and word play (NOT puns) humor with story telling. I've written and performed longer bits recently, and I like it. It give me more options, and pads out the time if needed. My closer, a story about mishearing "tp" for "tv" and the hilarity that ensued, was listened to and greeted with laughter and applause. I was scheduled to do 30 minutes, had timed it out at 28, and I felt that it was only 20. But a quick check of my phone told me that I'd done 30.
Time does fly when you're having fun.
I stayed and chatted for a while afterwards, got paid (yay!) and thanked my client.
Not everybody in the room was interested. But those that were listened and appreciated. Nobody was falling down wasted, nobody held a long conversation over my set, and I saw no one checking their phones.
I still have much to learn; I still felt the need to use my notes as a crutch, as I've written about in an earlier post; I could have used the room more.
But I left feeling confident. It was a fitting end to a whirlwind nine days in which my life literally changed for the better forever. (More on this in future posts.) I will continue to learn, to promote myself, to write, and to experiment.
Happy Holidays!
 |
| This is me in front of a big tree. |
Friday, October 16, 2015
Improv: First Blood
 | |
| Still far apart 20 years later, but this time I brought a weapon. |
 |
| Surrounded and protected. |
 |
| 6 Degrees..... |
Mostly.
In the second season of The Impromaniacs, we maintained an open door policy; we did not hold auditions in the traditional sense but let it be known that new members were always welcome. One of the newbies on this particular Saturday morning was Robert. Unlike many newcomers, Robert had a strong background in theatre and was not showing any signs of trepidation or hesitation at jumping right into the midst of it. At one point, he and I ended up together in a game called "Role With....", which entails four improvisers playing a scene in four styles, be it emotions, film genres, accents, or pretty much anything else. When each player enters the scene, those on stage adapt that player's style. Then it goes backwards, each player exiting until one is left. If this sounds complicated to read, try writing it, or introducing it.
Robert enters. His style was "Woody Allen." I was excited because this was also a style I could do well - I struggled with some back then - and I was ready to "Woody it up." What the scene was about I do not remember. Here's what I do remember: my elbow coming up and landing on Robert's mouth. I carried on. There was a collective gasp. I turned and saw blood streaming from Robert's lip.
I'd split his lip open. While doing improv.
I stopped, stunned at what I saw. I am not squeamish about blood, but I'd just met the guy an hour ago, and now he was never coming back. Because I'd split his lip open. While doing improv.
But I'd not anticipated what we would all soon come to know: Robert's quick reaction time and laser wit. Far from panicking or stopping, he used his injury, in true method acting style. Never breaking character, never hesitating, he declared:
"I just came out for an improv audition and I'm bleeding from the lip!"
It was perfect. It broke the tension and let everybody know that no serious damage was done. The scene went on, though I remember nothing of the rest of it. That hardly mattered. Robert had created an indelible and legendary moment in Impromaniacs lore. Today, twenty five years later, I still relive this moment with him and with others. Yes, Robert stuck around. That's a mild understatement, as he went on to produce some of the greatest improv moments, lines, characters, and scenes which still sound fresh and exciting when I relive them. He and I have become great friends, both on and off the stage. He returned to Victoria several years back and leaped right into scene. I was pleased that he'd never stopped, performing improv and "serious theatre" while he was living elsewhere.
For the past five seasons, the two of us have played together in "Sin City," Victoria's live improv serial. He still does killer accents. I still do not. We are among the last of our ilk: forty-something improvisers with a link to the past. We are sort of the "wise old men" of the improv community, but we have kept our youthful enthusiasm and maintained our love of and for the art.
Robert was always an idol of mine; I'd always wanted to be like him: to be able to think so quickly and effortlessly on my feet, to say and do things which delighted players and fans.
I've been told that I'm a good improviser. I like to think that's true. If it is, perhaps some seeds were planted that day at The Fernwood Community Association, when an errant elbow met a lively lip and formed a blood bond.
***Robert is in all three of the photos at the beginning of this post. He is at the far left staring at the ground in the first picture; dressed in green with a pseudo-bowl cut in the middle pic (that was for Sin Season: Kingdom Of Thrones) and looking suave at the far right in the last one. Note that in the first and last shots he and I are separated by a buffer of actors, which I don't think is a coincidence.
Friday, October 2, 2015
"Why, Yes, I'm Still Doing Improv
Every so often I meet people who have seen me on stage in the past, enjoyed my performances, and are happy to tell me so. I am happy to hear it.
I also encounter those of whom, based on their avoidance of direct eye contact, it can be safely assumed did not enjoy my performances. Of them we shall not speak another word.
In nine out of ten of the former moments, THE question is asked of me, and the following conversation - or a facsimile of - ensues.
Them: "Are you still doing improv?" (sometimes asked with wonder and hope; other times with a shaking of the head and and a different vocal emphasis, as in, "are you still doing improv?")
Me: "Oh, yes!"
Them: "Wow!" (again, with very different inflections and tones. It's interesting how many ways a three letter word can be manipulated to denote attitude.)
Me: "Oh, yeah. I'm never gonna stop."
Them: "That's ....cool." Or a word like that. There is always a small pause before the word, whatever it is, as if the speaker is flipping through their mental thesaurus to find the one response which will denote mild interest without being too committed to the cause. The encounter ends with a "good to see ya," with maybe a handshake or complimentary (?) pat on the back/shoulder.
And again I am made to ponder this particular life choice.
For about FOUR SECONDS.
Yes, I am still doing improv. I will always still be doing improv. I love it and it loves me. The marriage began twenty five years ago. We've had some bumps along the way, some frustration and, yes, even tears. We've even separated for brief periods. But we always come back to each other. We were made to be together.
In a future post, I will explain how discovering improv saved my life, how it gave me a purpose and a self-respect I had not been able to find.
Why the Hell would I ever give that up? Why would I want to?
I know that many consider improv to be a "young person's game," that at age 47 maybe I should have outgrown it, or grown tired. But I am not your grandmother's 47 year old. Only my birth certificate says how old I am: my attitudes, goals, and sometimes my thoughts and desires are those of a much younger person.
Somebody still well suited to do improv. Somebody who (hopefully) is able to communicate and get along with people of all ages. Somebody who has dedicated many years of his life to performing, teaching, and studying this often very misunderstood art form.
Why the Hell would I ever give that up?
It's true that most of those with whom I 've worked over the years no longer do improv. Some have chosen other careers in the performing arts; some grew bored or frustrated; others - the great majority, in fact, - opted for "real lives."
I have no life mate. I do not have children. Or a mortgage. I'm only truly responsible to myself. Improv has helped me to love myself.
Why the Hell would I ever give that up?
So, yes, I am still doing improv. Still growing and learning. I do many other things, too. Stand up. Shakespeare. Character Roles. I love it all. Admittedly, improv has taken a back seat to these often in the past several years.
I always return to my first love.
I always will.
Why the Hell would I ever give it up?
I also encounter those of whom, based on their avoidance of direct eye contact, it can be safely assumed did not enjoy my performances. Of them we shall not speak another word.
In nine out of ten of the former moments, THE question is asked of me, and the following conversation - or a facsimile of - ensues.
Them: "Are you still doing improv?" (sometimes asked with wonder and hope; other times with a shaking of the head and and a different vocal emphasis, as in, "are you still doing improv?")
Me: "Oh, yes!"
Them: "Wow!" (again, with very different inflections and tones. It's interesting how many ways a three letter word can be manipulated to denote attitude.)
Me: "Oh, yeah. I'm never gonna stop."
Them: "That's ....cool." Or a word like that. There is always a small pause before the word, whatever it is, as if the speaker is flipping through their mental thesaurus to find the one response which will denote mild interest without being too committed to the cause. The encounter ends with a "good to see ya," with maybe a handshake or complimentary (?) pat on the back/shoulder.
And again I am made to ponder this particular life choice.
For about FOUR SECONDS.
Yes, I am still doing improv. I will always still be doing improv. I love it and it loves me. The marriage began twenty five years ago. We've had some bumps along the way, some frustration and, yes, even tears. We've even separated for brief periods. But we always come back to each other. We were made to be together.
In a future post, I will explain how discovering improv saved my life, how it gave me a purpose and a self-respect I had not been able to find.
Why the Hell would I ever give that up? Why would I want to?
I know that many consider improv to be a "young person's game," that at age 47 maybe I should have outgrown it, or grown tired. But I am not your grandmother's 47 year old. Only my birth certificate says how old I am: my attitudes, goals, and sometimes my thoughts and desires are those of a much younger person.
Somebody still well suited to do improv. Somebody who (hopefully) is able to communicate and get along with people of all ages. Somebody who has dedicated many years of his life to performing, teaching, and studying this often very misunderstood art form.
Why the Hell would I ever give that up?
It's true that most of those with whom I 've worked over the years no longer do improv. Some have chosen other careers in the performing arts; some grew bored or frustrated; others - the great majority, in fact, - opted for "real lives."
I have no life mate. I do not have children. Or a mortgage. I'm only truly responsible to myself. Improv has helped me to love myself.
Why the Hell would I ever give that up?
So, yes, I am still doing improv. Still growing and learning. I do many other things, too. Stand up. Shakespeare. Character Roles. I love it all. Admittedly, improv has taken a back seat to these often in the past several years.
I always return to my first love.
I always will.
Why the Hell would I ever give it up?
 | |
| Here I am doing improv |
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| Still doing it. Sometimes I get to wear a costume. |
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| I'm not doing improv here. But I am drinking a beer and wearing a scarf, two things which, in my experience, improv inevitably leads to. |
Friday, September 25, 2015
Gotta See It: Subban’s hilariously accurate Don Cherry impression
This is a comedy blog, after all, and as I am also a sports nut, I figured that I would combine the two. PK Subban is one of my favorite NHL players, and he's a good guy, too. His recent donation of 10 million dollars to a Montreal children's hospital adds to his legacy. Don Cherry is, of course, one of pro sport's most colorful and controversial personalities. He and PK are buddies.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Saturday, September 12, 2015
Thursday, September 10, 2015
A Comedic Conundrum: Leaving A Paper Trail
Note the page of notes in my hand. It's taken me a long time to feel confident enough to do a set without that crutch. James Ball, a fellow comedian and one of Victoria's best, paid me a great compliment when I explained the crutch analogy to him. He knew what I was talking about, of course, and told me that "you can walk." He is not the only one who has urged me to ditch the notes. My style, as you can hear for yourself, is reminiscent of two of my comedic idols, Steven Wright and the late, great Mitch Hedberg. I love word play and "garden path sentences" (thank you, Wikipedia), taking the audience (hopefully) by surprise with twists and turns. But it works better when I flow paperless.
It's ironic, I suppose, that I felt the need to keep my notes with me, as I have acted in many plays over the course of my career and have never had a problem with memorization. But in this case, my fear - and it was a fear, that's not an exaggeration - was that I would forget my best material. Or blank on a great new joke that I wanted to debut. One day an epiphany struck (ouch!) and it crystallized to me that the only person in the room who will know that I've forgot a joke....IS ME. Nobody else will know. I am not a "storyteller," therefore there is not a risk of me losing my place. There is no place to lose. My improv background has given me a schwackload of experience in facing the void, at filling in the blanks with properly timed pauses and silences. Plus, I can just end it if I'm floundering. That nifty joke can return another time.That bon mot that I lovingly nourished with the milk of human comedy might actually welcome its delay into the world and be all the more stronger the next time.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Fifty Word Stories
Jo was terrified of spiders. What made it worse for her - though she could have no way of knowing this - was that spiders were not afraid of her.
Not in the least.
When Blake texted, the world around him disappeared.
This was why he neither saw nor heard the speeding car which would destroy him.
Probably just as well.
"This is my stop," I told the chubby, balding cabbie. I paid my fare (plus a five buck tip), got out of the cab, and walked up to the front door of my building.
The cab drove off.
All of the other shepherds admired Bo Peep's new woolen sweater.
Not in the least.
When Blake texted, the world around him disappeared.
This was why he neither saw nor heard the speeding car which would destroy him.
Probably just as well.
"This is my stop," I told the chubby, balding cabbie. I paid my fare (plus a five buck tip), got out of the cab, and walked up to the front door of my building.
The cab drove off.
All of the other shepherds admired Bo Peep's new woolen sweater.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Saturday, February 4, 2012
February 4th
It was twenty-nine years ago today that Karen Carpenter passed away. Last night I honored her memory by listening to some of my favorite Carpenters songs. I figure that it was the least I could do. I did not cry, as I had last year.
I still miss her, however. I miss her voice, of course, but that, fortunately, lives on in her recordings. I also miss her smile, her loveliness, and her passion for what she did.
What would she be doing today? I like to believe that she would have finally branched out on her own. Produced a few more solo albums, possibly in the jazz genre. Won a Grammy or two. Finally got a chance to sing and act on stage, as she always wanted. She had grown up as her own person, had that taken away from her, and was slowly gaining her individuality back at the time of her passing.
Karen was a beautiful, fun, and happy person.
The world is a worse place without her.
I still miss her, however. I miss her voice, of course, but that, fortunately, lives on in her recordings. I also miss her smile, her loveliness, and her passion for what she did.
What would she be doing today? I like to believe that she would have finally branched out on her own. Produced a few more solo albums, possibly in the jazz genre. Won a Grammy or two. Finally got a chance to sing and act on stage, as she always wanted. She had grown up as her own person, had that taken away from her, and was slowly gaining her individuality back at the time of her passing.
Karen was a beautiful, fun, and happy person.
The world is a worse place without her.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Rainy Days And Mondays
Karen Carpenter's Finest Performances
This is a difficult choice to make, as Karen rarely gave a poor, or even average, performance in her life. (I can think of five off the top. There are likely a few more. But considering that she recorded over 120 songs, that's a pretty good average.)
But, great as she was, there are times when she was GREATER than that.
In no particular order:
1) "Little Altar Boy:" All of Karen's Christmas recordings are golden, but this is the standout. This recording puts all of her skills on display: the emotions, the intelligent reading, her incredible range. That last note!
2) "Bacharach/David Medley:" This is the medley which turned me into a karenfan. May be Carpenters finest recording as well. "Make It Easy On Yourself" shows off the richness and beauty of Karen's "basement" voice. Listening to this for the first time made me run to You Tube to see who the drummer was. Lo and behold. It was Karen! I was in love!
3) "Hurting Each Other:" Many 70s artists recorded this Ruby and the Romantics song. Karen does it best, reaching way down into the depths of her soul to get at the heart of the matter.
4) "Solitare:" Also much recorded, none better than Ms. Carpenter. This is, in my opinion, the finest recording by a female in the history of pop/rock music. This performance literally makes me stop in my tracks in awe. It should be compulsory for every serious student of voice to listen to this performance.
5) "Leave Yesterday Behind:" Mediocre, sugary lyrics and not a much better arrangement either, but Karen, as she so often did, rises above her material.
6) "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina:" Woefully overblown arrangement. Richard Carpenter tries his best to drown out his sister, and he nearly succeeds. But Karen ultimately wins. Quite possibly the gold standard performance of this song.
7) "Eve"
8) "Nowhere Man"
9) "Someday"
These three recordings from Karen's very early years are pretty much forgotten today, except by serious Carpenters fans or musical historians. But all three are breath taking. She gives "Nowhere Man" a wholly different reading from John Lennon, and in her version we hear the loneliness and desperation in the voice of the song's narrator.
"Eve" is stunning. A story of a lonely girl trapped in a bad place. A hospital? A terrible family environment? The song is not clear on that, but I can't help but think of her own family situation. Like the song's protagonist, Karen Carpenter, too, was a "rose among the thorns" of the Carpenter family.
Karen had a cold when she recorded "Someday." She never liked her performance and had always planned on re-recording it. The arrangement is somewhat over the top, and the lyrics are nothing special, but Karen certainly is.
These three songs show Karen's intelligence and depth of feeling. She was approximately 17 when she recorded "Nowhere Man." She was 19 on the other two. Think about that for a moment. Has there ever been another teenage singer with the majestic maturity of a Karen Carpenter?
10) "Look To Your Dreams:" Yet another shlocky, "elevator music" arrangement from Richard Carpenter. Are we detecting a pattern yet? Karen is handed another sow's ear, yet she somehow manages to make a silk purse out of it. (It should be noted that Karen was given next to no say as to her material. Richard made virtually all of the decisions. More on this in a future post.) Her reading of this song never fails to move me to tears. It's inspiring and beautiful. And we are treated yet again to this woman's phenomenal range. She hits the high notes, nails the low notes, and sails through all of the other notes in between.
These, then, are my Top Ten. There are, of course, so many more moments of greatness. "Superstar," recorded in ONE take. "Rainy Days And Mondays." "One Love." Love Me For What I Am." "Road Ode." My list will surely differ from other lists. But it doesn't matter. It's all great. It's all the stuff of legend.
This is a difficult choice to make, as Karen rarely gave a poor, or even average, performance in her life. (I can think of five off the top. There are likely a few more. But considering that she recorded over 120 songs, that's a pretty good average.)
But, great as she was, there are times when she was GREATER than that.
In no particular order:
1) "Little Altar Boy:" All of Karen's Christmas recordings are golden, but this is the standout. This recording puts all of her skills on display: the emotions, the intelligent reading, her incredible range. That last note!
2) "Bacharach/David Medley:" This is the medley which turned me into a karenfan. May be Carpenters finest recording as well. "Make It Easy On Yourself" shows off the richness and beauty of Karen's "basement" voice. Listening to this for the first time made me run to You Tube to see who the drummer was. Lo and behold. It was Karen! I was in love!
3) "Hurting Each Other:" Many 70s artists recorded this Ruby and the Romantics song. Karen does it best, reaching way down into the depths of her soul to get at the heart of the matter.
4) "Solitare:" Also much recorded, none better than Ms. Carpenter. This is, in my opinion, the finest recording by a female in the history of pop/rock music. This performance literally makes me stop in my tracks in awe. It should be compulsory for every serious student of voice to listen to this performance.
5) "Leave Yesterday Behind:" Mediocre, sugary lyrics and not a much better arrangement either, but Karen, as she so often did, rises above her material.
6) "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina:" Woefully overblown arrangement. Richard Carpenter tries his best to drown out his sister, and he nearly succeeds. But Karen ultimately wins. Quite possibly the gold standard performance of this song.
7) "Eve"
8) "Nowhere Man"
9) "Someday"
These three recordings from Karen's very early years are pretty much forgotten today, except by serious Carpenters fans or musical historians. But all three are breath taking. She gives "Nowhere Man" a wholly different reading from John Lennon, and in her version we hear the loneliness and desperation in the voice of the song's narrator.
"Eve" is stunning. A story of a lonely girl trapped in a bad place. A hospital? A terrible family environment? The song is not clear on that, but I can't help but think of her own family situation. Like the song's protagonist, Karen Carpenter, too, was a "rose among the thorns" of the Carpenter family.
Karen had a cold when she recorded "Someday." She never liked her performance and had always planned on re-recording it. The arrangement is somewhat over the top, and the lyrics are nothing special, but Karen certainly is.
These three songs show Karen's intelligence and depth of feeling. She was approximately 17 when she recorded "Nowhere Man." She was 19 on the other two. Think about that for a moment. Has there ever been another teenage singer with the majestic maturity of a Karen Carpenter?
10) "Look To Your Dreams:" Yet another shlocky, "elevator music" arrangement from Richard Carpenter. Are we detecting a pattern yet? Karen is handed another sow's ear, yet she somehow manages to make a silk purse out of it. (It should be noted that Karen was given next to no say as to her material. Richard made virtually all of the decisions. More on this in a future post.) Her reading of this song never fails to move me to tears. It's inspiring and beautiful. And we are treated yet again to this woman's phenomenal range. She hits the high notes, nails the low notes, and sails through all of the other notes in between.
These, then, are my Top Ten. There are, of course, so many more moments of greatness. "Superstar," recorded in ONE take. "Rainy Days And Mondays." "One Love." Love Me For What I Am." "Road Ode." My list will surely differ from other lists. But it doesn't matter. It's all great. It's all the stuff of legend.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Personal Reflections On 2011
2011 was not my best year. It would be hard to top 2009. It also wasn't my worst year; 2003-04 were both equally painful. But the year just past was, in many ways, my most significant year. It was filled with equal parts sorrow and joy. Epic highs. Cataclysmic lows. Turmoil and beauty.
Not a single minute was boring.
After living in the same house for over ten years, I was forced to move not once, but three times over the course of four months. I do not like moving. Dislike the feeling of rootlessness it left me in. It was due mostly to my mistakes that I had to move in the first place. I lost my beloved cat Soot, whom I will forever miss.
I'm often forced to ride the bus or rely on a ride home. I hate having to rely on others to get me somewhere.
But on the flip side, I believe that I've learned some important lessons. Be a pro-active roommate. Communicate. Chip in. I now live in a nice little house with a good friend. There is more freedom here than I had before; I'm allowed to keep my cutlery, plates, and towels in the same place as his are. No longer do I have to keep everything in my room because there is "no room" for my collection of things. I'm sharing a home, not just staying someplace. And I am no longer paying $200.00 to $300.00 a month in bills. Oh, and there's a washer/dryer.
It still feels odd at times. I'm very much a creature of habit, and this is new. But I understand that change can be good, and I believe that this was and is a good thing. I'm happier. More relaxed. No longer looking over my shoulder, afraid that any decision which I make (not, truthfully, that I made that many) will be laughed at or labelled "weird." I look forward to going home now. I WANT to go home, rather than stay out all day or night in an effort to avoid those I'm living with.
Oh, and there's a washer/dryer. I think that I may have mentioned that.
My alcoholism, which has been steadily growing over the years, was at an all time high in 2011. There was rarely a day which went by when I wasn't drinking. A lot. Booze led me to commit a few shameful acts, acts which will stay in my heart and between me and the other parties involved.
I often felt helpless against the powers of the bottle this past year. But I think that I'm okay. I'm still drinking heavily, but feeling better about it. I'm not ready yet to quit or cut back. When I am I will.
Creatively speaking, my year was a marvel. I acted in three plays back to back to back: a very good production of "Hamlet," a Victoria Fringe Festival play which was critically well received and relevant ( a first for me in The Fringe), and a cute Christmas production which not only paid money but gave me my first puppeteering experience.
I became a stand up comedian, doing my first set in January and carrying on throughout the year. I won The Showdown (a talent competition) in April. My sets have been well received and I even have a video on You Tube. I've discovered that I love the rush of stand up. It was long a fear of mine, and I conquered it in 2011.
Alas, it appears that, at least for now, I have left my beloved improv behind. I've lost a part of my passion for it. Let's hope it returns this year.
Also in 2011, I acted in a murder mystery, an improvised soap opera (which is on-going), and started this blog. All good things.
I was hideously broke much of the year. Not good. But I rediscovered my empathy. Good.
As most of my friends know, I am writing short stories based on the life and music of the wonderful Karen Carpenter. This project took on a life of its own in 2011. I wrote like a demon, more than I ever had before. Almost each night for six months, dating back to the end of 2010, I wrote. By the end, I had filled nine notebooks worth, 126 stories in all. I've never been so passionate about writing. It's made me want to write more, instilled in me a new found discipline. The goal for 2012? Finish editing, get some readers and outside opinions, and look towards publishing.
More good things: I have continued to post a daily anagram on Facebook, and they are better and sharper than before. I participated in - and won - Victoria's first Haiku Slam.
More bad things: I hurt some people in 2011, alienated some others. Made mistakes. Occasionally got lazy at work.
There were some crazy nights. These, too, will remain between myself and the people involved.
There was beauty in the insanity.
In 2010 I discovered that I have a soul. That things can touch me. In 2011 I learned more about the depth of my feelings.
In 2011 I discovered that underneath the alcoholism, arrogance, and aloofness, I'm all right.
Here's to 2012. I can't wait.
Not a single minute was boring.
After living in the same house for over ten years, I was forced to move not once, but three times over the course of four months. I do not like moving. Dislike the feeling of rootlessness it left me in. It was due mostly to my mistakes that I had to move in the first place. I lost my beloved cat Soot, whom I will forever miss.
I'm often forced to ride the bus or rely on a ride home. I hate having to rely on others to get me somewhere.
But on the flip side, I believe that I've learned some important lessons. Be a pro-active roommate. Communicate. Chip in. I now live in a nice little house with a good friend. There is more freedom here than I had before; I'm allowed to keep my cutlery, plates, and towels in the same place as his are. No longer do I have to keep everything in my room because there is "no room" for my collection of things. I'm sharing a home, not just staying someplace. And I am no longer paying $200.00 to $300.00 a month in bills. Oh, and there's a washer/dryer.
It still feels odd at times. I'm very much a creature of habit, and this is new. But I understand that change can be good, and I believe that this was and is a good thing. I'm happier. More relaxed. No longer looking over my shoulder, afraid that any decision which I make (not, truthfully, that I made that many) will be laughed at or labelled "weird." I look forward to going home now. I WANT to go home, rather than stay out all day or night in an effort to avoid those I'm living with.
Oh, and there's a washer/dryer. I think that I may have mentioned that.
My alcoholism, which has been steadily growing over the years, was at an all time high in 2011. There was rarely a day which went by when I wasn't drinking. A lot. Booze led me to commit a few shameful acts, acts which will stay in my heart and between me and the other parties involved.
I often felt helpless against the powers of the bottle this past year. But I think that I'm okay. I'm still drinking heavily, but feeling better about it. I'm not ready yet to quit or cut back. When I am I will.
Creatively speaking, my year was a marvel. I acted in three plays back to back to back: a very good production of "Hamlet," a Victoria Fringe Festival play which was critically well received and relevant ( a first for me in The Fringe), and a cute Christmas production which not only paid money but gave me my first puppeteering experience.
I became a stand up comedian, doing my first set in January and carrying on throughout the year. I won The Showdown (a talent competition) in April. My sets have been well received and I even have a video on You Tube. I've discovered that I love the rush of stand up. It was long a fear of mine, and I conquered it in 2011.
Alas, it appears that, at least for now, I have left my beloved improv behind. I've lost a part of my passion for it. Let's hope it returns this year.
Also in 2011, I acted in a murder mystery, an improvised soap opera (which is on-going), and started this blog. All good things.
I was hideously broke much of the year. Not good. But I rediscovered my empathy. Good.
As most of my friends know, I am writing short stories based on the life and music of the wonderful Karen Carpenter. This project took on a life of its own in 2011. I wrote like a demon, more than I ever had before. Almost each night for six months, dating back to the end of 2010, I wrote. By the end, I had filled nine notebooks worth, 126 stories in all. I've never been so passionate about writing. It's made me want to write more, instilled in me a new found discipline. The goal for 2012? Finish editing, get some readers and outside opinions, and look towards publishing.
More good things: I have continued to post a daily anagram on Facebook, and they are better and sharper than before. I participated in - and won - Victoria's first Haiku Slam.
More bad things: I hurt some people in 2011, alienated some others. Made mistakes. Occasionally got lazy at work.
There were some crazy nights. These, too, will remain between myself and the people involved.
There was beauty in the insanity.
In 2010 I discovered that I have a soul. That things can touch me. In 2011 I learned more about the depth of my feelings.
In 2011 I discovered that underneath the alcoholism, arrogance, and aloofness, I'm all right.
Here's to 2012. I can't wait.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
On Dreams
I had a doozy of a dream last night. It starred Brittany Murphy, one of my all time favorite actors. She was hosting Saturday Night Live. Here's where things got weird. SNL was in Victoria. Outside. On Yates St. There were kites and remote-controlled PAPER airplanes. And Brittany was actually Sarah Jessica Parker. Even though she was Brittany.
Got that?
It wasn't the strangest dream I've ever had. That honor goes to the night that I dreamed that Ed Asner and I were fighting The Blob in the parking lot of the old Bay store. We were using toy laser guns and leading a whole gang of "Blob fighters." We won.
I've dreamed about improv. Years ago, royally pissed off at what I perceived as a lack of respect for the art from performers and audience members alike, I dreamed that I machine-gunned down everybody in the theatre, actors and audience.
Twice I dreamed this.
I've had many dreams about losing my teeth. Apparently, this is a subconscious sign that one's dreams or plans will crumble. And yes, my teeth did crumble in the dreams. More accurately, they fell out of my mouth like little Chiclets. Or Tic Tacs. I have long worried about losing my teeth, They're not in great shape. I have gum disease, bad fillings, and a lot of cavities. (Ooh! Sexy!)
Sometimes I dream that my teeth are falling out one by one. Or are about to. But something in my subconscious tells me to wake up before the disaster hits, and usually I do.
Sometimes in these "dental dreams" I am very aware that I'm dreaming. I screamed at myself to wake up the last time this particular dream occurred.
Even knowing that I'm experiencing a dream, it's still a relief to wake up and discover that, for one more day at least, I still have all of my teeth.
There are, indeed, few better feelings for me than waking up and realizing that it was all "just a dream."
I once dreamed that my Grade Ten Science teacher (whom I liked) was a child molester. I couldn't look at him in the same way after that.
As a child, my greatest fear was that I would become separated from my mother. Lost forever. Not abducted. That never occurred to me. Just lost, and unable to be found. A recurring dream of my childhood was getting lost in The Bay (yes, it was always The Bay. My mother and I went there a lot.) I would run up - or down - the escalator in a panic. Frantic. Eventually I would fall down the escalator. It was always a slow motion, tumbling fall. Soundless. Soaring through the air. Always waking up before I hit the bottom.
I once jerked awake in the middle of the night, hands clutched tightly around my throat, gasping for breath. Strangling myself in my sleep. At least, that's what I've always believed that I was doing. But I have no memory of what I was dreaming.
Having no memories of my dreams is rare for me. I usually remember at least fragments.
I kept a dream journal for an entire year a few years ago. My plan was to write a play or perhaps several short stories based on my dreams. Never happened. It still remains a plan.
I dream in color.
Another favorite aspect of my dreams is knowing where I am, even though the dream location bears no resemblance to the real life location. The University of Victoria has been a 7 - 11, for example. Nobody in the dreams ever questions the location's change. It's what it is. In the dream world, everything is accepted.
Kind of like improv. Or, at least, what improv SHOULD be.
I'm an actor. Actors have dreams about being late, bombing on stage, being in the wrong play on the wrong night, and many more. Enough to fill a book. (Hey!) I have dreamed most of these, too. Most often it's being late, knowing that I'm late, and just not able to get there. Over the past few years, the "dream me" can't get to the venue because I can't walk. My knees and legs are weighted down and I can only crawl painfully.
My knees do hurt in real life. I may be developing arthritis. Maybe my acting dream is really a "scared of getting old dream?"
I have dreamed that I'm performing drunk, or have forgot my lines. But in these dreams my actions are deliberate. I WANT to get drunk. I WANT to forget my lines.
Rarely do I have sexual dreams. And when I do, they never involve anybody, real or imagined, whom I am actually attracted to.
I cannot remember ever having a dream where I'm naked and nobody else is. Apparently these nude dreams are fairly common. I'm still waiting.
Several years ago, I had a recurring dream in which my mouth was filled with black bile. It would spew out of me like endless lava. I would grab the stuff and break it off, but more would follow. Very scary. I had this dream at least once a month, sometimes more. It was during a relatively bad period in my life, a time when I was feeling alone, remorseful, and guilt-ridden. I've always believed that the "bile dream" was my soul trying to cleanse itself. It's been at least three years now since I've experienced this dream. A good sign?
I don't drive. Have never had my license. Yet in most dreams involving a vehicle, I'm the driver. Occasionally I've "borrowed" a friend's car and gone driving. That's the dream. Me. Driving.
Real life sometimes creeps into my dreams, especially where money is concerned. I usually have the exact amount of money on me in a dream as I do in reality.
I finish dreams, sometimes after I wake up. I've also started dreaming in serial. Episodic dreams have occasionally reran in my head, with some of the same characters. I doubt that this is unheard of, but it sure is awesome.
Since I became an avid reader of detective stories, I sometimes dream the book which I am currently reading. Or I write a new chapter in my sleep.
This is also awesome.
Every now and then, the first thought I have when waking up was the last thought I had before drifting off.
Got that?
It wasn't the strangest dream I've ever had. That honor goes to the night that I dreamed that Ed Asner and I were fighting The Blob in the parking lot of the old Bay store. We were using toy laser guns and leading a whole gang of "Blob fighters." We won.
I've dreamed about improv. Years ago, royally pissed off at what I perceived as a lack of respect for the art from performers and audience members alike, I dreamed that I machine-gunned down everybody in the theatre, actors and audience.
Twice I dreamed this.
I've had many dreams about losing my teeth. Apparently, this is a subconscious sign that one's dreams or plans will crumble. And yes, my teeth did crumble in the dreams. More accurately, they fell out of my mouth like little Chiclets. Or Tic Tacs. I have long worried about losing my teeth, They're not in great shape. I have gum disease, bad fillings, and a lot of cavities. (Ooh! Sexy!)
Sometimes I dream that my teeth are falling out one by one. Or are about to. But something in my subconscious tells me to wake up before the disaster hits, and usually I do.
Sometimes in these "dental dreams" I am very aware that I'm dreaming. I screamed at myself to wake up the last time this particular dream occurred.
Even knowing that I'm experiencing a dream, it's still a relief to wake up and discover that, for one more day at least, I still have all of my teeth.
There are, indeed, few better feelings for me than waking up and realizing that it was all "just a dream."
I once dreamed that my Grade Ten Science teacher (whom I liked) was a child molester. I couldn't look at him in the same way after that.
As a child, my greatest fear was that I would become separated from my mother. Lost forever. Not abducted. That never occurred to me. Just lost, and unable to be found. A recurring dream of my childhood was getting lost in The Bay (yes, it was always The Bay. My mother and I went there a lot.) I would run up - or down - the escalator in a panic. Frantic. Eventually I would fall down the escalator. It was always a slow motion, tumbling fall. Soundless. Soaring through the air. Always waking up before I hit the bottom.
I once jerked awake in the middle of the night, hands clutched tightly around my throat, gasping for breath. Strangling myself in my sleep. At least, that's what I've always believed that I was doing. But I have no memory of what I was dreaming.
Having no memories of my dreams is rare for me. I usually remember at least fragments.
I kept a dream journal for an entire year a few years ago. My plan was to write a play or perhaps several short stories based on my dreams. Never happened. It still remains a plan.
I dream in color.
Another favorite aspect of my dreams is knowing where I am, even though the dream location bears no resemblance to the real life location. The University of Victoria has been a 7 - 11, for example. Nobody in the dreams ever questions the location's change. It's what it is. In the dream world, everything is accepted.
Kind of like improv. Or, at least, what improv SHOULD be.
I'm an actor. Actors have dreams about being late, bombing on stage, being in the wrong play on the wrong night, and many more. Enough to fill a book. (Hey!) I have dreamed most of these, too. Most often it's being late, knowing that I'm late, and just not able to get there. Over the past few years, the "dream me" can't get to the venue because I can't walk. My knees and legs are weighted down and I can only crawl painfully.
My knees do hurt in real life. I may be developing arthritis. Maybe my acting dream is really a "scared of getting old dream?"
I have dreamed that I'm performing drunk, or have forgot my lines. But in these dreams my actions are deliberate. I WANT to get drunk. I WANT to forget my lines.
Rarely do I have sexual dreams. And when I do, they never involve anybody, real or imagined, whom I am actually attracted to.
I cannot remember ever having a dream where I'm naked and nobody else is. Apparently these nude dreams are fairly common. I'm still waiting.
Several years ago, I had a recurring dream in which my mouth was filled with black bile. It would spew out of me like endless lava. I would grab the stuff and break it off, but more would follow. Very scary. I had this dream at least once a month, sometimes more. It was during a relatively bad period in my life, a time when I was feeling alone, remorseful, and guilt-ridden. I've always believed that the "bile dream" was my soul trying to cleanse itself. It's been at least three years now since I've experienced this dream. A good sign?
I don't drive. Have never had my license. Yet in most dreams involving a vehicle, I'm the driver. Occasionally I've "borrowed" a friend's car and gone driving. That's the dream. Me. Driving.
Real life sometimes creeps into my dreams, especially where money is concerned. I usually have the exact amount of money on me in a dream as I do in reality.
I finish dreams, sometimes after I wake up. I've also started dreaming in serial. Episodic dreams have occasionally reran in my head, with some of the same characters. I doubt that this is unheard of, but it sure is awesome.
Since I became an avid reader of detective stories, I sometimes dream the book which I am currently reading. Or I write a new chapter in my sleep.
This is also awesome.
Every now and then, the first thought I have when waking up was the last thought I had before drifting off.
Friday, November 25, 2011
The Loneliness Of Single Socks
I have a collection of unmated socks. They occupy a comfortable corner of my dresser, nestled closely to my t-shirts. Most of my socks are black or grey, but I also own some patterned argyles. In my recent frantic move from my long time residence to my (perhaps) temporary lodgings, I had quickly gathered up all of my pairs of socks and stuffed them into various modes of transport-backpack, canvas carry bags, black garbage bags. Some of the pairs were clean and rolled up, ready to wear. Others were not. But I thought that I'd done a good job of finding mates. They all APPEARED to match.
Appearances are, of course, deceptive.
Laundry done. Socks sorted. Shit! I'm missing some! A quick recheck of both the washer and the dryer, because it's common knowledge that socks will hide. They are the shy children of the clothing world, afraid to come outside and play with the rest of your clothing, scared, perhaps, of being shoved into shoes. But a little coaxing, with promises of better future treatment ("I promise I won't leave you wadded up in the middle of the living room floor for the cat to bat around!") usually works.
But not this time.
This time the socks were gone. And I knew deep in my heart that they were never coming back.
Their abandoned mates miss them. I can tell by the forlorn way in which they lie limply in the drawer, in one big heap. They don't go anywhere anymore because I can't be seen in public with mismatched socks. I haven't told them this, but I know that they know. Socks are the most intelligent members of the clothing world. I do occasionally don them for sleeping, or when I've run out of clean socks to wear around the house. But they do not get along with each other; they miss their mates. I get that. After all, they had grown up together, from the sock factory (or wherever socks are made) to the store shelves to my feet. Presumably, they believed that they would be together forever, either as vital members of my wardrobe or as laundry fugitives, hiding out in dark corners of the house.
What can I do? I have plenty of matched pairs, but I'm forced to keep them apart from the orphans, as I want to spare feelings as much as possible. I wish that everybody would just get along, or that the runaways will someday return. But I'm a realist. I know that, soon, the single socks will outlive their usefulness. I'll buy more pairs. Or go barefoot at home. Whatever my course of action, I know that feelings will be further hurt.
And I know that it will be my fault. After all, if I hadn't washed them, they would still be together. Dirty. Smelly. Relegated to the bottom of the laundry basket.
But happy.
Appearances are, of course, deceptive.
Laundry done. Socks sorted. Shit! I'm missing some! A quick recheck of both the washer and the dryer, because it's common knowledge that socks will hide. They are the shy children of the clothing world, afraid to come outside and play with the rest of your clothing, scared, perhaps, of being shoved into shoes. But a little coaxing, with promises of better future treatment ("I promise I won't leave you wadded up in the middle of the living room floor for the cat to bat around!") usually works.
But not this time.
This time the socks were gone. And I knew deep in my heart that they were never coming back.
Their abandoned mates miss them. I can tell by the forlorn way in which they lie limply in the drawer, in one big heap. They don't go anywhere anymore because I can't be seen in public with mismatched socks. I haven't told them this, but I know that they know. Socks are the most intelligent members of the clothing world. I do occasionally don them for sleeping, or when I've run out of clean socks to wear around the house. But they do not get along with each other; they miss their mates. I get that. After all, they had grown up together, from the sock factory (or wherever socks are made) to the store shelves to my feet. Presumably, they believed that they would be together forever, either as vital members of my wardrobe or as laundry fugitives, hiding out in dark corners of the house.
What can I do? I have plenty of matched pairs, but I'm forced to keep them apart from the orphans, as I want to spare feelings as much as possible. I wish that everybody would just get along, or that the runaways will someday return. But I'm a realist. I know that, soon, the single socks will outlive their usefulness. I'll buy more pairs. Or go barefoot at home. Whatever my course of action, I know that feelings will be further hurt.
And I know that it will be my fault. After all, if I hadn't washed them, they would still be together. Dirty. Smelly. Relegated to the bottom of the laundry basket.
But happy.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Ranking The First Overall NHL Draft Picks: Part I
The first NHL Draft was held in 1963. A grand total of twenty one players were selected, led off by Garry Monahan, who was chosen by Montreal. The following Draft saw twenty four players selected. And so on it went, in the NHL's pre-Expansion, six team era, which mercifully ended in 1968. It was in 1970 that the Draft took on meaning. This was the year of the "roulette wheel," when the Vancouver Canucks and its expansion brethren the Buffalo Sabres spun a wheel in order to determine which of them would select first. As any diehard Canucks fan will know - and if you don't know this, then you're not a true fan, sorry - Buffalo won the spin, selected Gilbert Perreault, and never looked back. The Canucks were left with the consolation prize, Dale Tallon,a decent player but one who never reached the stardom envisioned for him. That 1970 Draft was the first time when the hockey world and its observers saw a palpable result; realized that the Draft DID matter. It was also the period of ferocious expansion. The NHL had brought in six new teams in 1967. Two followed in 1970. Two more would appear in 1972. With this expansion of the league came the corresponding expansion of the Draft.
I have tried to reflect this in my rankings. I started with that 1970 Draft and continued on through to the 2008 Draft. I stopped at that year as it is still too early to judge the careers of John Tavares (2009), Taylor Hall (2010), and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins (2011.)
I settled on five criterion for these rankings:
1) Production. The numbers. Goals, Assist, Points. Simple.
2) Impact on the team which drafted them. Were they the "face" of the franchise? Did their being drafted improve the team's fortunes?
3) Hardware. Scoring Champions and MVPS received a higher rank than those whose careers were bereft of awards. Ditto for any Rookies Of The Year (of which there have been surprisingly few.) Stanley Cup championships were given priority because, in theory, the number one pick is meant to be the foundation on which winning teams are built. As we shall see, this often turns out not to be the case. But it's the reason why Vincent Le Cavalier is ranked ahead of Joe Thornton, even though Thornton is the more productive player.
4) Intangibles. Did they live up to the hype? Who was chosen after them? Did they have the "feel" of a number one pick? Was the draft year strong? The 1996 class was so legendarily abysmal that nobody truly deserved to go first.
5) The last consideration I used was simple. Would this player be the first choice if the draft were done over? This is the "hindsight test." Guy Lafleur would still have been the first pick; Dale McCourt would not have been.
These rankings are one man's opinion, and will no doubt be open to much debate. In several cases it was simply too close to call.
Eric Lindros over Dale Hawerchuk? Flip a coin. Pierre Turgeon better than Mats Sundin? If you wish. Who is REALLY the worst of them all? Your choice is as good as mine.
The Rankings:
1) Denis Potvin (Islanders, 1973) This took some soul searching, as Potvin and Mario Lemieux are clearly the two best Number One picks of all time. But I have to give the (very) slight nod to Potvin. Both he and Lemieux won The Calder Trophy Rookie Of the Year.) Both were captains of Stanley Cup teams. But Potvin's impact on the Islanders was immediate. In his first season, the team improved by twenty six points and cut its goals against by one hundred. It became a playoff team in his second season and did not miss the post-season until after his retirement, a streak of fourteen years. In contrast, Mario's teams missed the playoffs in five of his first six seasons. And his two Cup winning teams were hardly in the class of Potvin's dynasty, which won four in a row and NINETEEN consecutive playoff series, marking it as the greatest dynasty in League history. And Potvin had all the rest: Three Norris Trophies as Best Defenceman. Lived up to the hype and then some. Changed the landscape of the organization. Durable. (another edge over Mario.) He was still close to the top of his game when he retired. Plus he was a defenseman, a more challenging position.
Also, I'm an Islanders fan. Biased bonus points.
2) Mario Lemieux (Penguins, 1984) Two Stanley Cups. Three time MVP. Six time scoring champion. An Olympic Gold Medal. Captain. Cancer survivor. Owner. The most exciting offensive player of his generation (Sorry Gretzky fans.) The Penguins all time leading scorer. Mentor to Sidney Crosby. And like Potvin, he never left his team for another. But he lacked, in the early part of his career, Potvin's intense desire to win, and his championship teams never reached the Islanders' level of greatness. But it's closeohsoclose.
3) Guy Lafleur (Canadiens, 1971) For six years, 1974 - 1980, there was not a more dominant and exciting player than "The Flower." Six consecutive 50 goal and 100 point seasons. Four championships. Two MVP awards. Three scoring titles. The Playoff MVP award. The most recognizable hockey personality of his era. The Habs' all time leading scorer. But he wasn't durable later in his career, his numbers and the team faded badly after the retirement of Ken Dryden, and I'm not liking his ill-fated comeback so much. Still, an obvious great. He, Potvin, and Lemieux are the epitomes of what a first overall pick should be.
4) Sidney Crosby (Penguins, 2005) Normally, I would say "too soon," but "Sid the Kid" is a special case. His early career is actually BETTER than Lemieux's: A scoring title and MVP award, an Olympic Gold Medal, a championship AND a second Finals appearance. He makes all those around him better. And, he has avoided the mistakes Mario made at the start of his career (the selfishness and aloofness, the indifference to defence) thanks in no small part to "Le Magnifique" himself. How his concussion issues will play out is a matter of speculation, but few players have accomplished more in such a short period. Keys to the pantheon which houses The Big Three await him.
5) Gilbert Perreault (Sabres, 1970) But he never won a Stanley Cup! True,but he WAS the face of the franchise for fifteen years, he won a bunch of hardware,and he was, after Lafleur, the most dynamic offensive player of his generation. Over two decades after his retirement, he remains Buffalo's career leader in goals, assists, and points. Buffalo was a terrific team and Perreault was its leader. He was certainly flawed, but there have been few better number one picks.
6) Mike Modano (North Stars, 1988) I am not really a Modano fan. He may be the highest scoring American born player in history, but I've always considered him to be somewhat overrated. He never had that "one big season." His career numbers are mostly the result of playing forever. And I hate that he played a final and fruitless season with Detroit rather than retiring as a career Star. But, he did win a Cup, he was easily the most recognizable and popular player in franchise history, and did everything which he was drafted to do. So it's with a grudging reluctance that I rank him this high.
7) Dale Hawerchuk (Jets, 1981) Never won a championship. Never really came close. Was a moody, complaining "coach killer." But the team improved by an NHL record 48 (!) points in his rookie season. That matters. As does his Calder Trophy, his 103 point rookie season (he was the first rookie to achieve this) and his status as THE Winnipeg Jet. He was drafted to produce points, and he did. The franchise's all time leading scorer. A Hall Of Famer. Just not quite at that super elite level.
Part II to follow.
I have tried to reflect this in my rankings. I started with that 1970 Draft and continued on through to the 2008 Draft. I stopped at that year as it is still too early to judge the careers of John Tavares (2009), Taylor Hall (2010), and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins (2011.)
I settled on five criterion for these rankings:
1) Production. The numbers. Goals, Assist, Points. Simple.
2) Impact on the team which drafted them. Were they the "face" of the franchise? Did their being drafted improve the team's fortunes?
3) Hardware. Scoring Champions and MVPS received a higher rank than those whose careers were bereft of awards. Ditto for any Rookies Of The Year (of which there have been surprisingly few.) Stanley Cup championships were given priority because, in theory, the number one pick is meant to be the foundation on which winning teams are built. As we shall see, this often turns out not to be the case. But it's the reason why Vincent Le Cavalier is ranked ahead of Joe Thornton, even though Thornton is the more productive player.
4) Intangibles. Did they live up to the hype? Who was chosen after them? Did they have the "feel" of a number one pick? Was the draft year strong? The 1996 class was so legendarily abysmal that nobody truly deserved to go first.
5) The last consideration I used was simple. Would this player be the first choice if the draft were done over? This is the "hindsight test." Guy Lafleur would still have been the first pick; Dale McCourt would not have been.
These rankings are one man's opinion, and will no doubt be open to much debate. In several cases it was simply too close to call.
Eric Lindros over Dale Hawerchuk? Flip a coin. Pierre Turgeon better than Mats Sundin? If you wish. Who is REALLY the worst of them all? Your choice is as good as mine.
The Rankings:
1) Denis Potvin (Islanders, 1973) This took some soul searching, as Potvin and Mario Lemieux are clearly the two best Number One picks of all time. But I have to give the (very) slight nod to Potvin. Both he and Lemieux won The Calder Trophy Rookie Of the Year.) Both were captains of Stanley Cup teams. But Potvin's impact on the Islanders was immediate. In his first season, the team improved by twenty six points and cut its goals against by one hundred. It became a playoff team in his second season and did not miss the post-season until after his retirement, a streak of fourteen years. In contrast, Mario's teams missed the playoffs in five of his first six seasons. And his two Cup winning teams were hardly in the class of Potvin's dynasty, which won four in a row and NINETEEN consecutive playoff series, marking it as the greatest dynasty in League history. And Potvin had all the rest: Three Norris Trophies as Best Defenceman. Lived up to the hype and then some. Changed the landscape of the organization. Durable. (another edge over Mario.) He was still close to the top of his game when he retired. Plus he was a defenseman, a more challenging position.
Also, I'm an Islanders fan. Biased bonus points.
2) Mario Lemieux (Penguins, 1984) Two Stanley Cups. Three time MVP. Six time scoring champion. An Olympic Gold Medal. Captain. Cancer survivor. Owner. The most exciting offensive player of his generation (Sorry Gretzky fans.) The Penguins all time leading scorer. Mentor to Sidney Crosby. And like Potvin, he never left his team for another. But he lacked, in the early part of his career, Potvin's intense desire to win, and his championship teams never reached the Islanders' level of greatness. But it's closeohsoclose.
3) Guy Lafleur (Canadiens, 1971) For six years, 1974 - 1980, there was not a more dominant and exciting player than "The Flower." Six consecutive 50 goal and 100 point seasons. Four championships. Two MVP awards. Three scoring titles. The Playoff MVP award. The most recognizable hockey personality of his era. The Habs' all time leading scorer. But he wasn't durable later in his career, his numbers and the team faded badly after the retirement of Ken Dryden, and I'm not liking his ill-fated comeback so much. Still, an obvious great. He, Potvin, and Lemieux are the epitomes of what a first overall pick should be.
4) Sidney Crosby (Penguins, 2005) Normally, I would say "too soon," but "Sid the Kid" is a special case. His early career is actually BETTER than Lemieux's: A scoring title and MVP award, an Olympic Gold Medal, a championship AND a second Finals appearance. He makes all those around him better. And, he has avoided the mistakes Mario made at the start of his career (the selfishness and aloofness, the indifference to defence) thanks in no small part to "Le Magnifique" himself. How his concussion issues will play out is a matter of speculation, but few players have accomplished more in such a short period. Keys to the pantheon which houses The Big Three await him.
5) Gilbert Perreault (Sabres, 1970) But he never won a Stanley Cup! True,but he WAS the face of the franchise for fifteen years, he won a bunch of hardware,and he was, after Lafleur, the most dynamic offensive player of his generation. Over two decades after his retirement, he remains Buffalo's career leader in goals, assists, and points. Buffalo was a terrific team and Perreault was its leader. He was certainly flawed, but there have been few better number one picks.
6) Mike Modano (North Stars, 1988) I am not really a Modano fan. He may be the highest scoring American born player in history, but I've always considered him to be somewhat overrated. He never had that "one big season." His career numbers are mostly the result of playing forever. And I hate that he played a final and fruitless season with Detroit rather than retiring as a career Star. But, he did win a Cup, he was easily the most recognizable and popular player in franchise history, and did everything which he was drafted to do. So it's with a grudging reluctance that I rank him this high.
7) Dale Hawerchuk (Jets, 1981) Never won a championship. Never really came close. Was a moody, complaining "coach killer." But the team improved by an NHL record 48 (!) points in his rookie season. That matters. As does his Calder Trophy, his 103 point rookie season (he was the first rookie to achieve this) and his status as THE Winnipeg Jet. He was drafted to produce points, and he did. The franchise's all time leading scorer. A Hall Of Famer. Just not quite at that super elite level.
Part II to follow.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
A Few More Haikus
It's been a while
Since I have made my last post
It's about time, yes?
This blogging business
is fun but time consuming
when life intervenes
Yet I will go on,
to paraphrase Celine
That's Dion, of course
It is the typos,
which need to be corrected,
adding extra time
But I will not post
with any mistakes at all
A Spelling Nazi
Many ideas
for future posting have I
I feel like Yoda
Capitalizing
the letter "Y" in Yoda
makes it a true word
That was a surprise.
Something I did not expect.
Hooray for spell check!
This was a tangent
which I sure knew would happen.
Just go with the flow
But now I must go
This is not my computer
And I am hungry
Plus I grow weary
Well, that was literary!
How fucking artsy!
Has the word "fucking"
appeared in a past haiku?
I've never seen it
I'm trying to stop!
But the words just keep coming
Vocabulary
Okay. That is all
I mean it this time; I do
I'm pressing "publish."
Since I have made my last post
It's about time, yes?
This blogging business
is fun but time consuming
when life intervenes
Yet I will go on,
to paraphrase Celine
That's Dion, of course
It is the typos,
which need to be corrected,
adding extra time
But I will not post
with any mistakes at all
A Spelling Nazi
Many ideas
for future posting have I
I feel like Yoda
Capitalizing
the letter "Y" in Yoda
makes it a true word
That was a surprise.
Something I did not expect.
Hooray for spell check!
This was a tangent
which I sure knew would happen.
Just go with the flow
But now I must go
This is not my computer
And I am hungry
Plus I grow weary
Well, that was literary!
How fucking artsy!
Has the word "fucking"
appeared in a past haiku?
I've never seen it
I'm trying to stop!
But the words just keep coming
Vocabulary
Okay. That is all
I mean it this time; I do
I'm pressing "publish."
Thursday, October 27, 2011
A Little Test
Post started: 1:51 pm.
LOL: Laughing Out Loud
WTF: What The Fuck?
LMAO: Laughing My Ass Off
IMHO: In My Humble Opinion
TTYS: Talk to You Soon
:) Smiling
FB: Facebook
Post Finished: 1:55 pm.
Time spent checking typos, thinking, and dealing with a slow computer: 1min,30secs.
Actual Time It Took To Physically Type This Post: 3min,30sec.
Get It?
STOP WITH THE COMPUTER SHORTHAND! TYPE WORDS WHICH HUMAN BEINGS HAVE BEEN USING FOR CENTURIES! MAKE THE EFFORT!
That is all.
TTYS
LOL: Laughing Out Loud
WTF: What The Fuck?
LMAO: Laughing My Ass Off
IMHO: In My Humble Opinion
TTYS: Talk to You Soon
:) Smiling
FB: Facebook
Post Finished: 1:55 pm.
Time spent checking typos, thinking, and dealing with a slow computer: 1min,30secs.
Actual Time It Took To Physically Type This Post: 3min,30sec.
Get It?
STOP WITH THE COMPUTER SHORTHAND! TYPE WORDS WHICH HUMAN BEINGS HAVE BEEN USING FOR CENTURIES! MAKE THE EFFORT!
That is all.
TTYS
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