Gotta Get Down

So only a few games left in the regular season before the playoffs and the Senators' much-hyped golfing season. They officially have a spot in the draft draw for the top pick, so they'll have like a 10-20% chance of winning depending on their final placement in the league. The Oilers are officially number 30, which means YAY! 48% chance that they'll win. Not that that really means anything, the draft is always a surprise. Who knows, perhaps Toronto will make a split-second Boston move and trade Phil Kessel to Ottawa for their spot in the draw. Haha.

Daniel Alfredsson isn't going to be returning for this season, apparently his back injury is no laughing matter, according to the Ottawa Citizen. It isn't a surgery-related issue...yet. And also in the paper this morning Alfy and Spezza were included in the best Senators players in their many (19) years in the NHL. So, technically, of all time. That anyone remembers. Technically. Anyway. Also included in the list were Marian Hossa, Wade Redden and Zdeno Chara. Wade Redden doesn't play in the NHL anymore. Chara is currently a hated player around the Canada-area for his hit on Pacioretti. And Hossa...is still Hossa. HO$$A. I dunno. He's one of the only remaining players on the Chicago Blackhawks. And Spezza and Alfredsson still play for Ottawa. Enough said.

Someone asked me the other day if I knew that my title was spelled wrong. I do know. I spell loonie in the french fashion. Loonie isn't even a word in french, however that is my excuse. I find 'ey' too american, don't you? Well excuse me for bringing a little culture to the group. We could all stand to be taken down a peg or two when it comes to preserving our Canadian heritage. I wonder what percentage of my L.E readers are American. Hopefully a healthy dose. I like to think I have a relatively diverse range of peoples around here. I think I lost track of what I was talking about. Wouldn't be the first time, anyway.

SHHTAAAAH! The Ashbury Way.

I am soooooo over Jason Spezza. I don't even like to look at him anymore. "Sure, Al," you say. "I totally believe that you're over Jason Spezza. I am currently extremely stealthily being rudely sarcastic right under your nose." ..."It's true." I say, catching on to your undosclosed sarcasm with an ease that surprises even a black-belted vietnamese ninja like yourself. And it is true. I don't lie very often, and when I do it's completely worth it. Giggles has gone in one ear, twirled around in my brain for a little while, dancing and singing to Beatles songs played on the banjo by an arabian chimpazee, and shot right out the other in a tremendous flash of bright green and pinkish-purple light. It happened out of nowhere, but had absolutely no affect on my outside body. I handled the situation quite calmly, you might even call the event tedious. And now I am over it. Jason Spezza no longer exists in my heart. I turn away in disgust when I see him. Not a second glance from me will he ever recieve.


Bee tee dubs. Like the new picture? I made it myself. Chirps. I got it off of Google. Had you fooled though, eh? I don't know what it means.

I Am Ironman, nah nah nah nah nah nah

Did you even see the fucking game last night? I'm not even gonna talk about it. That's how epic it was. It was so goddamn epic that I'm not even gonna tell you what the score was. But I will say this: yesterday, the score stood at 9-0 Philedelphia after two games. Now, after three games, the score stands 2-1 Philedelphia. Justice? I think so. Kick their ass, Habitants. You're in your home now. Kill 'em. Habs in 6.


Now, on to more important matters. Grey's Anatomy two-hour season finale last night. Here where I'm gonna break the hearts of everyone who hasn't watched it yet. Can I freak out please? Thank you. SO MANY PEOPLE DIED! LIKE, WTF? HOW COULD YOU JUST KILL SO MANY PEOPLE?! THEY WERE GOOD PEOPLE!!!! AND YOU SHOT ALEX! AND YOU SHOT DEREK! AND YOU SHOT OWEN! GAHHHH! AND YOU KILLED MEREDITH'S BABY! IT DIDN'T EVEN GET TO LIVE! Thank you, I guess, for not killing off any of the main characters. All you did was get rid of all the useless extras, so I guess that was alright. But man, what an episode. Jesus Christ. I'm not religious, so I'll use that name in vain. That was such a fucking intense two hours. The shooting began in like the first 10 minutes too, and it was like, I have to watch two hours of this?! But I did anyway. And after a while, it was like really? Really? Are you still shooting people? Really? And now all I can think about is how I have to wait until next year to see the next episode. This sucks. Life sucks. You suck.

There we go. That was my rant. One good rant a day keeps you healthy. Tonight, Chicago will continue their sweep. All is good in the world at the moment.
All is good.

22 is the Sex Year

Guess what day it is?? I'll tell you. Today is that day that Jonathan Toews turns 22. Not even kidding. Surprised at how old he is? So am I. You should've seen us last year, when he became legal. Crazy times if I'd ever seen any.

In recognition of Tazer, I'm gonna show you guys this video. I first saw this video a year ago, pretty damn close to the eve of his last birthday. I've neglected to show it to you sooner because, well...it makes me pretty angry, to tell you the truth. You see, I used to go to this french school. And I had this teacher.

His name. Was Racine. And he was bald. And not even like, that disease that causes you to lose hair or something. He fucking shaved his own goddamn head. You know how I know this? On Halloween, he dressed up as a king or some shit, and he thought it would go with the costume to have some peach fuzz or whatever. Well, he had the peach fuzz alright. On his chin, and his head.

Gross. I know. But that wasn't the worst thing about him. He was just so fucking...you know? I can't even explain. He wasn't human. He told us his sister was his girlfriend to cover up his homosexuality. Enough said?

But it was his accent that bothered me the most. Like, he had the most legit friend accent I've ever heard in my life, just like overpronouncing every fucking word and shit. It just made me wanna rip my own arm off just so I could have something to throw at him*. It was just Johnny T's goddamn french accent in that movie that made me want to fucking punch him the face and stuff those frog legs down his goddamn francophone throat.

I'm so sorry, Tazer. I've said it once, and I'll say it again. I love you, but you, sir, are a douchebag francophone. Please don't make me ever repeat that again for as long as I live.

Happy birthday.


*I can't take credit for that line. I completely stole that from FRIENDS. Joey, thanks for that one. I swear that this won't be the last time I use it.

The Anatomy of a Girl In a Car

Here's a little fun fact:

Did you know that it takes 18 hours to drive from Ottawa to South Carolina?

I found this out today. I am currently typing this message from highway 95. I am on my way to Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. I will be staying there for two weeks. It will take me two days to drive there, and two days to drive back. Therefore I will be staying there a week and a half. Over a quarter of my trip will be spent in the car.

I'm not complaining. I've been spending the past 8 and 1/2 hours discovering the hidden wonders of this incredible journey that I am making. During the time I've spent in the car so far, I've traveled closer to more hockey playing towns than I've been in my whole life. Let me take you throught it.

I left Ottawa and traveled towards Toronto. That was nothing new for me, considering I spent almost every weekend of my life in Toronto ever since I started playing hockey. However, this was the first time I'd been there since Dion Phaneuf and Jiggy Giguere were traded to the Leafs, and it made me feel kind of special to know I was so close to some guys who probably hated being there almost as much as I did.

After leaving the painfully trafficked streets of 6:00 a.m Toronto we skimmed near Buffalo, and I waved in the direction of Tyler Myers from my caged confiment of the highway. I don't think he was even there, but I believe he appreciated the gesture. He knows I care. Well, he knows I exist, which is more than I can say for some of the other people I waved at later on in this trip.

Hours later, I managed to wake up from my slumber just in time to catch a glimpse of the "Welcome to Pennsylvania" sign. This, I have to say, was a defining moment in my life. I was not aware that we would be passing through PA. I was not aware that I would passing next to Pittsburgh, but, I have to say, I do not regret it. I do not regret it one bit.

Now, I went to a Sens-Flyers game not too long ago, so my treak next to Philedelphia was not much of a big deal for me. It was slightly cool passing near the actually houses of the players, but I was tempted to ask my father to detour so I could through eggs at Chris Pronger's humble abode.

I mentioned I did not regret passing through Pennsylvania. This is true. What I do regret, however, was having to see the sign on the highway telling us to keep right in order to enter Pittsburgh. Also, having to watch as the sign slowly dissapeared into the mist as my father, my mother, my sister and I, unfortunately, kept left. I saw the fork in the road that could have made all the difference in my life. We had the choice. The choice to go left, or right. Left, leading us to our intended destination of South Carolina, excrutiatingly close to one of the most beloved brothers of all time, or right, leading me to what could have changed my life forever. I begged my father to take the right. I begged him. Unfourtunately, my father is not susceptible to bribery.

And now, here I sit. Momentarily, we are passing Washington. I am too distraught to care. They probably aren't even here. They're probably off kicking some team's ass. Cause that's how bauss they are. That's right. I just used bauss on the internet.

Oh, they are here. I've just found this out. I am a little more excited now.

You know what makes me sad? The Sens were actually in Carolina when I was in Ottawa, and they were traveling back to Ottawa when I am currently traveling to Carolina now. It's like we swapped. And it's kind of cool to think that if I had taken the goddamn plane instead of spending 18 hours cramped up in this honest-to-God Volvo, I might've met them at the airport. Yeah. That is a cool thought. But I don't like taking airplanes. Being in the air makes me angry.

I've decided to tell you this today because I am bored. I have nothing else to do. And now my computer's about to run out of battery. So I have to go now. Leave me to suffer on my own. I don't care. Here's a funny picture.

Yes. Yes, that is funny. If you don't get it you're a ho. Here's another.

This one was not as funny. But I'm bored. So take a third one.

That was a little innapropriate. I will admit. But I don't care. I get mean when I've been stuck in a car for a day and half straight.

6 hours to go.

The Mystery of Mr. Clutch

I'm feeling constant revulsion and love to one particular individual at the moment. I hear one thing, it makes me love him. I hear something else, it makes me hate him. I'm trying to write or even think about anything else but his face is the only thing that comes into my mind. So, undoubtebly, I have to write about him. There is nothing else for me to do.



Jordan Eberle. Mr. Clutch. Before, to me he was simply an overgrown 6-year-old with some miraculous skills in making us crap our pants in the final seconds of Baby Canada games. He was a simple person, a simple guy, as simple as plain bread or an empty arena. But then came the game against the USA. He scored the goals, just like we knew he would, but this time it was different. This time, his valiant efforts were somehow unprecedented and went unrewarded. We then felt bad for Jordan Eberle. We loved him even more. We knew of his remarkable talent, it was no longer merely a consequent of good luck. Facebook began to overflow with groups dedicated to him, NHL GMs went immediately on alert. All of Edmonton beamed with pride; their unfathomable losing streak seemed to have finally stiked a finish.

But, is that all there is to our young Canadian hero? Is he simply a talented hockey player, an over-exageration of our arrogant, self-absorbed minds? Does he have the nerve, the passion, the bravery, the cheek, the spirit, the bravado to be able to stick it in the big leagues?

He has won our hearts, has claimed his name as a Clutch God. He has proved himself as more than capable of handling the foreign talents of the Junior leagues. But will his talents suffice once he takes the next step? Will he be able to handle the weariness and exhaustion of the upper level? Will he crumble under the pressure of all the hopes and expectations that have been suddenly thrust upon him?



Jordan Eberle was not known before the World Junior tournament of 2009. He was not one of the best players on team Canada, he was not a star. He was simply a fragment of the group, a tiny, insignificant piece of the puzzle. But, no matter how small the piece, if it is missing, the puzzle is incomplete, no?

It turned out he was a larger piece than any of us had ever expected. If it weren't for him, scoring that final goal against the Russians in the semi-finals with less than 6 seconds remaining on the clock, Canada would never have made it to five in a row. We would never have become legendary, if it weren't for him. He was Canada's saviour, so to speak. He gave us hope, he gave our country light again.

Or was he simply in the right place at the right time?

How can we be sure that if it hadn't been him playing on that line, if the coach had subsituted him in the final minute for someone different, we wouldn't have gotten the same result? If, say, Stephan Della Rovere had jumped off that bench for the final shift of the game instead of Jordan Eberle, would he be the one who had recieved all the glory? Was Eberle's miraculous last second goal simply luck of the draw?

No, you say, since this year he proved himself. This year, he confirmed the thoughts that were raging the nation, by scoring two goals against the US in the finals minutes of the game to tie it up when we thought all hope was lost. He confirmed himself as a master in clutch. He demonstrated that his game improved to about double his standard whenever it was absolutely needed. He proved to us that under pressure, he could do anything. Under pressure, he could be the greatest hockey player in the world.

Or did he? Again, was he simply situated in the right part of the ice when he got the pass? Was his perfect shot just...lucky? Maybe it was just a fluky coincidence that he happened to score both of the goals that tied up the game. I mean, any one player on that team could have scored those goals. It didn't take a particular amount of skill. Anyone in that tournament could've done it. Maybe it wasn't him at all. Maybe it was the opposition. Maybe both USA and Russia in those games became too cocky, maybe they thought they had already won. Maybe they figured there was no way to come back from the loss that was already eminent in the faces of all those Canadians. Maybe they dropped their game. Maybe, just maybe, they lowered their intensity just a tad, just enough to let one shot through. Just enough to give one goal, and give the Canadians an incredible boost of energy and adrenaline. Maybe that energy is what won them their fifth gold medal in 2009. That adrenaline, perhaps, is what also gave them the strengh and power to catch up from a two-goal deficit in 2010 and bring the game into over-time.

Maybe it was never Jordan Eberle at all.




Even if it wasn't him who had scored all those clutch goals, I have a feeling that we, all North America, would still love him somehow. So, what is it about him that makes us adore him? He isn't the most attractive man in the world. If it were based on that, we would all be swooning over Nikita Filatov right now. So then what? His personality? The fact that he gets overly excited about every little thing, that he has the heart of an over-grown child? His humour? If it were about that, we would be laughing at Adam Burish, not him. So what is it? What is it about Jordan Eberle that makes us holler until our throats are dry, that makes us giggle until our sides hurt, that makes our eyes well up with unexpected tears?

Could it be a mix? Perhaps all of his features, inside and out, add up to a perfect combination of a male. The perfect combination of lovelyness, that make us throw our pillows at the TV. Maybe Jordan Eberle, Captain Clutch, is simply...perfect.


We'll never know. We'll never truly know what makes him tick. Never know how he stays so calm under immense pressure, or how he manages to keep that unfathoming charm on constant reflex. I can't help but wonder if we've over-estimated him. They say love is blind. They say that if you're looking for something in someone, chances are, you'll find it. Maybe we were just looking for someone new, someone exciting. Maybe we were just trying to find someone to fill the void of hockey Canada that has been continuously gowing and growing over the past few years. Maybe we were looking for it, and, just maybe, since we were so carefully and constantly looking, we found it.

Is Jordan Eberle really as great as we've put him up to be? Or is he simply no more than an extended hope of our overactive imaginations?

That is the question.

The Sens Lost. Again.

The Sens lost again. Ahh, geez. At least it went into shootouts this time. That was cool. You know, I expected Kovalev to score. He has the nicest hands, he should be about to deek around any goalie no problem. But instead, tonight, he chose to shoot at the net from about ten feet away and go wide. Nice thinking, Alexei. KIDDING. I love you. You are a true Habitant. You will return there someday and finish your career there. I know you will. You said so yourself. Haha, you know what would be funny? If the Habs never got him back, and he kept playing until he was like 60, and they'd all be like, "Hey, AK27, why havent you retired yet?" And he'll be all like, "I shall only retire once I have fulfilled my destiny of ending my career with Montreal. Yes, that's right, my destiny. I made it for myself. What are you talking about, of course you can do that. Stupid non-believers. " Yeah, that's what he'll say. And then he'll die playing for some shit team like the Kings who will only take him because they can't afford to get anyone else.

Anyway, I tend to get distracted easily. I was talking about the shootout. Alfie shot second. He did almost the exact same thing as Kovalev did, cept his didn't go wide. He went off the pad. His shot was pretty dang awful, too. It was a wrister, and yet it did not fly. Wierd, eh? At least Kovalev's was off the ice a tad.

Spezza shot third. Yay! That's as peppy as I can be for the moment, after seeing what a crap shot he did. It wasn't even a shot, he just stickhandled and stickhandled and stickhandled in front of the net slowly inching forward, and then gave it to the goalie. He was like, "Here buddy, have a puck. Oh no, you stay put, I'll just give it to you. Here, right up on your pad, there you go. Good job, man. Good game tonight."

I can't believe Boston caught up. It was 3-1 for Christ's sake! Sorry to any um...religious people out there who I may have offended with that. I'm an Athiast, just letting you know. I think God is bullshit, along with evolution. Stupid scientists whoever thought up that load of crap. Okay, if I hadn't offended any one already, that probably shoulda done it. Please keep reading my blog. I'll be nicer, I promise.

Uhm, I'd just like to have a short bragging session right now, if that's okay. Actually no, it's more like complaining. See, my hockey team, we sell wreaths and leaf bags and shit like that and we go door to door asking for contributions to our hockey assciation. Yeah, I know, but how else are we supposed to lose every single game all season wearing welfare jerseys? That take time. Anyway, this girl on my team, Laura, she lives in the same neighbourhood as Jay Spezz. I know. I remind her how jealous I am of her every day. Apparently she sees Jenny Snell walking around her street all the time. Apparently she's really short. I believe that. She's also apparently really pretty. I do not believe that. Anyways, Laura's gone to his house a couple times, you know, fundraisers and such, trickertreating, ect. But Smelly Snelly always answers the door. You know, to let JayJay avoid the paparatzi and all. But today, Laura goes up to the door and knocks, expecting to find nothing more than that blond slut showing up in her face, when guess who opens the door? Yeah, I know. Spezz did. He opens it and he'll like, "Yes?" And then Laura's voice goes all high and squeaky and she'll like, "Hi, we're from the Ottawa Girls Hockey Association and we were wondering if you'd like to make a donation-" and before she can even finish, Spezz is like, "Ottawa? Yay! One sec," and he dissapears into that multi-million dollar house of his. Yeah, I'm not even lying right now, he did say yay. Totally hot. Yeah, and while he's gone, my friend Hannan turn to Laura and says "Oh my fucking God!" right before he shows up around the corner. They don't know if he heard. Anyway, he comes back with a ten dollar bill, and gives it to them. A ten dollar bill! You know how much money he makes in a year? He makes millions a season, and all he can think to give poor cute like 14 year old hockey players in ten measly dollars? If I had been there, I would have given him a look. A look he woulda remembered for a while, let me tell you. Anyway, he gives them the money and then they're all just standing there, and he's looking down at them expectantly. It last for about ten seconds before my other friend Aisha finally asks for an autograph. The moment the words leave her lips, he's got a pen in hand and at the ready. Apparently he keeps a pen behind the door at all times, in case of immergency autograph signings. I think that's pretty smart, you know, thinking ahead. I like that in a man. It also shows arrogance, like he expects that everyone who shows up at his door is gonna ask for an autograph. Which they are, but it's cocky to assume so. Anyway, Spezz tries to signing her team jersey, but the pen doesn't work! So he'll all like, "Oh, sorry, I'll just go get another one," and he spends twenty minutes running around the house looking for a fucking pen. And they're just standing there in the doorway, looking at each other with smiles that say, "I am mildly content and mildly amused right now." Yeah, you know that look. Anyway, after 20 minutes he comes back all out of breath with a pen and signs around, and then they say thank you and he closes the door and and they leave. And then they come to hockey practice and tell me all about it. Because they know I love him. And they felt like flaunting it around in my face. Because they're mean. Aisha even wore the jersay that he signed during the whole practice. I got mad, but then she told me that he was wearing a tight, white, short-sleeved shirt and that his arms looked really really great, so I forgot about my anger and spent the rest of the day dreaming about that. Yeah, I know, I'm pathetic.