BSD 2010: the Behind the Scenes Featurette

It's Saturday morning and I read in the news paper about two furniture related accidents and the attempted commandeering of an Ambulance, and I think to myself 'Bermuda Shorts Day 2010, yeah, I crashed that party'. I heard the questions before they were even asked, and my preemptive responses went something like this: "I may or may not be 26-and-counting, with a UofC degree dated in 2007, but none of that matters right now because I just James-Bonded my way into these Beer Gardens..." My degree might be from the faculty of Engineering, but my true calling is Advanced Espionage with a minor in Psychological Student Warfare. It's Confidential and kind of a 'Burn After Reading' type of thing, but I have sensitive information detailing the specifics of the 'Couch-Races Gone Wrong' and the 'prequel to the Ambulance Heist'. For right now, what you need to know is that I know, but beyond that if I told you anything I'd have to cut out your tongue, or kill you, but most likely it would be the tongue thing.

I didn't have much time to BSD-it when I was a student. This was partly because I was a crazy person taking six information intensive, lab-lecture-tutorial based Engineering Epics each semester, but mainly because BSD is on a Friday and the soul crushing, heartless Registrar bullies always loaded up my exam schedule with a Monday Morning Special followed by a straight-flush of an early week Test Streak. These are terrible people who have graduated from Santa's Naughty List and are working on tenure with Louis Cyphre*. But who cares about them when you're Out, when you no longer have the study crunch, when dues have been paid and rewards are being reaped? Not I said the Spy.

But it's not as easy as checking the 2007 Exam Timetable and penciling in a Friday Funday for 16-APR-2010. I'm a working man, I no longer belong to the academic community, I am on the list of Pro-hee-be-da-be-do, I must exercise the sneakiness. Therefore, Jack Webb's 4 Steps to Crashing BSD:

Step 1 - Cut a hole in the box.
Step 2 - acquire a BSD Beer Gardens Wristband.
Step 3 - Do not attend work on Friday.
Step 4 - Smile at security as they let you into the Gardens.

Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson would be so proud.

Things get interesting around Step 2. In order to gain access to the party's epicenter, the ground-zero of Chaos and Mayhem, you must have a Beer Garden Wristband securely strapped around your wrist, specifically your right wrist. Screw that up, and it's BS without the Day. This eliminates the option of having the Wristband swap the Owner, because these things are built as single serving friends. A BSD Wristband comes at a cost of a line up in Mac Hall, a show-and-tell with your drivers license and Student ID, and a friendly eye-down by the Fake Smile that's locking the band around your wrist. A slip up at any of these check points and it's check-mate, tip your King, you lose. So as an undercover student, if you can make it to the Uni during work hours, convince the BSD Suits that your Student ID from 2002 is good to go, and beat back the stare down with a touch of charm, all without raising suspicion, then you're ready for some Step 3.

If your 'work' is a place where saying something like 'Hey I won't be in on Friday, I need to spend all day up at the university out in the sun getting bombed with the college crowd', and you don't get escorted out of the building with your belongings tightly packed in a single box, then you probably don't need to be at BSD, your 'work' is where the party's at. For the rest of us, lying is a good option. I would also recommend 'untold truths', 'deception', 'acting', 'story telling', or 'misdirection'.

Step 4 is all about confidence. These security stiffs can smell fear, fear and weakness and a blood alcohol concentration level of over point-35. And all they want is an excuse to flex their fabricated power. Step 4 is also where Steps 1 through 3 really come together, because if you've put in the time and energy, no one will think twice as they scan your ID, examine your band, and watch you meander into the Beer Gardens... Booyakasha! (They might think twice if you bring your box with a hole cut in it, but then again, you never know, Step 4's confidence can really take you places.)

I checked off the highlights from the 4-Step BSD Approval List, and with the pre-launch work done, it was time to get serious and let the games begin...


Some of the following debrief has been blacked out and classified:

"... frisbees blocked out the sun and hacky-sacks danced around in circles just above the green spaces. I moved across Campus towards the SE corner with a soccer ball that made me apart of the culture. Firing the ball to the feet of random students introduced me into their groups and between the cries of 'Sweet' and 'Dude' and 'BSDeeeeeeee!', the soccer ball was my interpreter; I spoke their tongue. But it wasn't all Love & Peace & Hippie Revivals, just outside the Library a pack of guys, hyenas, riled themselves into a frenzy and circled a pair of..."

"... and the line was massive. We had been following the roaring hum emanating from the fenced off parking lot, and as we got closer the natives got more aggressive. On more than one occasion we were approached for _____________ We rounded the last corner and crossed streams (what ever you do, Don't Cross the Streams - words of wisdom a la Egon) with the morning crowd, the early shift of Drunks, as they staggered away from the Gardens. A paramedic wheeled an unconscious kid passed us. The guy looked ghost white even on the starch sheets of the stretcher..."

"... I hooted and hollered with the half dozen guys behind me in line; my line-mates. The key is to be loud and vulgar without being the most obnoxious jack@ss within ear shot. I built up some line-currency by talking to any girl that I could see. Next thing I knew, I was a man among boys, Mr. BSD, the guy that everyone wanted to tell their stories to, share their secrets with, campaign their ideas to. It's amazing what this kind of currency can get you, especially when _______________ A Long-Touque, wearing a dude in an oversized Tie-Dye shirt, confessed that he wasn't part of the UofC family and that he had borrowed a buddy's ID. I smiled and tossed him a 'Nice Man!'. He didn't look anything like the guy in the Student Card. He wasn't getting in. He was F%&ked. At that exact moment security announced ___________ A girl told me she had to pee so bad that she was just going to squat down right in the line. Twenty seconds later, half way through telling a drunken incoherent joke, a guy keeled over and blew up all over the girls feet. Now she had to pee, was covered in some dude's puke, and was tearing up. The guy groaned, rubbed vomit off his hands into his jeans and then offered the line a full on cheer before________________ There was a guy sporting two pairs of sunglasses that confessed that he had told his girlfriend..."

"... hit me in the side of the head and took out my beer. What could I say, it was basically my fault, it was the same soccer ball that I had brought into the Gardens. 'That's why I have two of these bad boys', I told the concerned face of a tiny girl as I showed her the other half of my double fisting routine. She smile ever so slightly and asked if she could..."

"... no cloud cover and a plus-20 sun. Other than the sunburn-red on pale white winter-skin, a common costume wandering the Beer Gardens was the blank canvas of the plain T. Like a mini-wheat, the Ts were 'sweet' on one side 'not so sweet' on the other. R-Rated slander like the messages covering the walls of a public washroom stall coloured the back of the shirts, while friendly fun yearbook style greetings were scattered on the front. I wrote "Been Here, Done This" on the shoulder blade of _____ ______'s white T, gave her a hug, and winked at the 3 Random d!cks walking passed. ______________ pirates, '70s tennis stars, nurses wearing not much of a uniform, a seemingly endless supply of tall skinny red man-unitards leaving 'little' to the imagination, guys dressed as girls, girls dressed as girls without pants, wearing neon green panties to match their neon green bras..."

"... got more physical as you got closer to the stage - Mosh-Pit meets Make-Out. Big Music, Big-Beer, Hormone-heavy guys, near-naked girls, Beer, sweaty afternoon heat, Beer ________ Beer..."

"... find someone and lose another. It's all a big game of Hide-and-Seek. Everyone in the Beer Gardens was either lost and looking for people, working hard to ditch stage-5 Clingers, celebrating a reunion by hugging-it-out-B!tch, or managing all 3 at the same time. I was hunting down my own group after touching absolutely nothing while in one of the dozens of port-o-potties lining the Gardens south wall, when I caught the back hand of a talking mime. Technically I didn't do any of the 'catching', because I matrix'd myself out of the way just as the hand swung out and back and clipped a beer out of my right hand. The hand belonged to an excited story teller who shrunk as we made eye contact. I addressed him and his listeners with the now fan favourite, 'That's why I have two of these bad boys'. The talking mime laughed, he loved it, he wanted to be friends, he and his troop of ladyfriends circled and asked..."

"... was all smiles. It's amazing that entire groups of totally random strangers can instantly become long lost friends from a different life. It was one big happy BSD family as the crowd chanted along to BEP's 'I Gotta Feeling'. It was a special moment that became too fleeting too fast, since not everyone interprets 'Tonight's the Night' as meaning it's 'going to be a good night'. No sooner had the song started to sing and the bonding begun, than a person standing right next to me ate a fist and hit the ground hard_____________ I quickly faded to black as the music became the sound track to an action sequence. Oddly enough, I didn't feel I needed to stick around to see who took the ten-count..."

"... and then she pulled her shirt back down. My partner in crime had just missed it and returned with two cans in hand. This was a problem because I had given him more than enough for two rounds each. It's such a battle to cross the grounds and navigate the sea of Swayers, that one beer each just wasn't worth the commute. But that's what he had returned with, 2 beers, and no change. 'I got hit by this girl, she was pretty large, portly really, and she took out two of the beers...' WHAT?! REALLY?!?! These beverages were beginning to become a little costly. They were already over priced, but when it takes buying two to drink one, it's quite the financial commitment. He reached out to hand what was left of my combo-round, just as a game of tag crashed into..."

"... threw a massive punch but missed. It was the second fight to breakout beside me in less than an hour. I barely escaped____________ the momentum from the three attackers carried the group of five into a wreck just beside me. They all hit the ground and rolled right into an embracing Romeo and Juliette. The two lip-locked lovers tightened their embrace and spun to the left, continuing the make-out like it was all part of their star-crossed fantasy. The police had already been call and three massive uniforms jumped at..."

"... not just like the slow-movers from 'Shaun of the Dead', these drunkards were zombieing around with just enough energy to make them completely unpredictable. Unpredictable and fluent in slurred gibber-gabber. This can make for a fun side show to the full fledged circus act colouring up the Gardens, that is until these Stumblers engage you, at which point you have no choice but to_____________ I was mid-punch-line when one of the two beer that I was holding in my right hand vanished. Like some special effect, the full can magic'd into the hand of a passer-by, a swaying, stumbling zombie. 'Unbelievable, how is it so hard to keep track of these cans of beer!' I turned back to my audience, finished the joke, and then took off after the zombie. As quickly as the can had left my possession, it was back in my hand after having reached over the little she-zombie's shoulder and pulled the old Indiana Jones swap; my old two-thirds empty for the stolen freshly cracked brew, Zombie was none the wiser. The later the day, the deeper the sun dips, the more the zombie dance becomes the walk of choice..."

"... they clock-in like it's an 8 hour day, but come 5 o'clock they forget to clock-out. Very few people can put together a competitive day. Work's a walk in the park / a piece of cake / a breeze / child's play compared to the 'Seven kinds of Smoke' that BSD throws at you (a little more Owen Wilson for those keeping score at home). You need to have developed the right skills to go with a healthy amount of pure, natural talent, while following a schedule built on strategy. Otherwise you are ________________ The consequences are Zombie, Ghost on a Stretcher, made-to-measure beat-down, memory-wipe featuring all-dressed vomitous, cop cruiser cat nap, poet-worthy regret, death, or any fun mix-and-match combination. The obvious answer might be 'Pacing', but that's not the full story. It's a high energy game with bursts of speed, heavy hitting, and an emphasis on performance and results. It's hockey, but you can't come off the ice, instead ________________ comes down to it, the 5pm last-call in the Beer Gardens is just the end of the beginning of..."

"... it was a friend of a friend. No one you talked to actually saw anything, but everyone heard from a guy who had a buddy that knew the brother of the cop/paramedic/professor/TA/Taxi-Driver/passer-by who saw the whole thing happen___________ thought it would be hilarious if______________ a sweet profile picture_______________ wasn't in the driver's seat for more than a hand full of seconds before being ripped from the ambulance and UFC'd to the ground by a clown-cars worth of aggressive police. Reports on the radio that quoted the newpapers that mirrored the Internet sites, referring to the vague interviews from nameless identities talking about a girl, "who in her drunken brilliance, tried to drive away in an EMS vehicle" are so obscure the imagination fills in the gaping holes with creative chaos that mirrors the disasters of the 'Couch-Races'______________ with wheels installed on them. They plummet down a steep hill avoiding all signs of control. It's amazing that only one individual was hospitalized, and that there weren't more vehicle-sofa related accidents on..."

"... at which point the debauchery is no longer contained in that tidy little corner of campus, and the Bermuda Shorts take to the streets for__________ what happens when the Beer Gardens close __________ because almost every night club in town has there own draw covered in themes and complementary drinks and special treatment. But before students are corralled back inside a four wall quarantine, they race off in search of random mischief. This is when things get really..."

The rest of the transmission was removed prior to publication, due to on going investigations.


The only thing better than having a spy on the inside, than having access to these stories and secrets, than getting a taste for the workings of the BSD machine... the only thing better than the words, are the pictures...

Like I said: 'Bermuda Shorts Day 2010, yeah, I crashed that party'


*Watch 1987's 'Angel Heart' with Bobby DeNiro - it's creepy and clever and a nice little weird addition to the DeNiro gem collection. DeNiro plays a pretty terrible dude... (The movie's hidden deep in the garbage of the '80s movie world. Like most of the decade, you really have to be patient with the 1980's, there's a lot of noteworthy disasters, but if you look in the right places - 1984 vintage 'Jack Webb' is a pretty good model - there's some stuff worth getting into.

Earthquakes are bad... but so are we!!!

After reading a short post made by the Washington Examiner's Online Opinion Editor title 'In Iran, Adultery causes earthquakes. In the West, it's Global Warming.' (article linked below) I was inspired to take action...

http://www.washingtonexaminer.com/opinion/blogs/beltway-confidential/In-Iran-adultery-causes-earthquakes-In-the-West-its-Global-Warming-91399134.html

Yep, makes sense to me. In fact I don't like to define myself to a single culture, I wish to be open to all the beauty that our planet (which we and the farting cows are destroying) has to offer. I believe that we are to blame for these terrible and tragic Earthquakes; adultery is up one million gagillion percent since the time of the dinosaurs, the planet is so hot because of our greed and 'Large Old' and the use of tanning beds, that even L. Ron can't convince the Aliens to return to do their probing, and the pirating of media has distracted the protestors from demanding that the government implement their secret special anti-Earthquake technology, which they absolutely have but aren't using so that the Rich can get richer!

I am going to do my part to stop the Earthquakes and save the planet from being murdered by humans (the truest of the world's viruses) - I will drive a smart car fueled by my own bio-waste, will become a Buddhist vegetarian level 12 yogilaties master, will practice celibacy, abstaining from the temptation of all humans, animals, and minerals, I will promote the recycling of energy by making a vow a silence, communicating only through the art of Signing or the art of watercolor painting, I will go technology free except for the use of my magic bullet blender which I will use to blend delicious veggie-fruity smoothies which I will donate to the hungry and the homeless and the hungry homeless and the homeless hungry pets that have been beaten by fat rich fascists, I will live with nature like they do in Avatar, and I will love everyone because life is beautiful (except over-paid professional athletes, and rich selfish celebrities, and red-necks, and skinny people, and corporate criminals, and their lawyers, and their lawyers' wives who choose to be married to them, and their own wives for the same reason, and the town of Southpark and it's children, and aggressive wild bears, but everyone else I will love like they were my family, because we are all family, especially Al Gore and Sean Penn, but not Tiger Woods though, he's worse than the Nazis, but most of us are family...)

Chose to save the planet, Kumbaya,

Johhnh (I have changed the spelling of my name, the other way of spelling it was forced on me by society)

What Day is it?

Thursdays and I have something special. Something between us that runs deeper than the superficial fame and fortune of a Saturday or the focused intensity of a Wednesday. To me an average Thursday Night offers more substance than most weekends can put together, while ignoring the anxiety of its younger work-week siblings. It has something to do with the fact that whispers of the weekend have started to circulate - queue the anticipation - but it's still a school night, so the pressure to be perfect isn't there yet. Thursday Night means that Friday is all that is left, the last line of defense after a long list of weekday casualties. And Friday isn't nearly as intense as one of those mid week messes, I'm looking at you Wednesday. Sure there are exceptions to the rule, what with the heroes who use the 'End of the Week' to make bad things 'due' or worse things scheduled (Fools!), but for the most part Friday-Funday is the flaky slacker of the group.

Thursdays are there for you. She looks after your need to escape the week's routine, while giving you a taste of entertainment that is usually only reserved for the patient weekender; Thursday's version of TV is unstoppable. From reality (Survivor) to reality (sports - hockey, basketball, golf, even the odd round of NHL) to reality (hours of great Nat-Geo and Discovery) to everything in between (history still remembers laughing through Friends and Seinfeld even as it is gifted the Office, 30 Rock, and Community with a side of the drama of Grey's or CSI or the Mentalist).

And Thursday doesn't seem to ask for a lot in return, or more importantly, spend much time claiming to 'be something'; not like the rest of that selfish seven day spread, with its labels and taglines. Monday is all in your face with garbage euphemisms like 'start of the week' and 'new beginning', when the truth is Monday is the return to work, the death of Time-Off, and the furthest possible point from 'a Break'. Mondays are pure Evil and don't seem to apologize for it. They just hope they can distract you with a little NFL and the elusive Stat Holiday. But by the time the Monday Nighter is even on, it is practically Tuesday anyway. It just tastes bad coming off my tongue: Muuuunday. It is a lost cause. Try and ignore it.

At the other end of the work-week is team Friday-Saturday. A lot of flash coming from these two. This one-two punch of carefree fun answers all questions with a mindless scream: 'WEEKEND!!!'. It's your chance at freedom from the punch-card; it's new movies, it's concerts, it's fancy-pants dinners, it's day-trips, it's running, biking, hiking, blading, riding, and playing (unleash the grass-stained boy or pig-tailed girl within), it's endless parties without early mornings, it's reading during a rainy day, turning up the heat and hiding from the snow, or catching as many rays as the sunny summer can pour down at you. It's your escape from the grind. But at the same time both Friday and Saturday are also grounds for boiler-room style pressure to perform. These two are drowning in the hype that fuels them. Friday and Saturday let you forget the rest of the week, until of course they have disappeared on Sunday morning, leaving you abandoned, needing more. They are the week's drug of choice, exposing you to the glamour of what you now can't have for another 5-plus days.

Wednesdays. Hahaha, come on, really? Look at this Calendar Reject. The fact that the name 'Hump-Day' stuck just says it all; a middle child praised for simply existing. Wednesdays are when you no longer can hold onto last weekend's energy and can't yet feel the promises of Friday. It's boring and bland and faceless, and that's on a good week. When Wednesday is on its game you can expect the most concentrated disaster of work that the week has to offer. Everything is warmed up after the cold start on Munday and there's just too much time left in the 5-dayer to let off the gas. Wednesday is like ugliness; the best you can hope for is a paper-bag with eye-holes, a nose, and mouth, or at least some industrial clown-paint and dark sunglasses to cover things up a bit. But rarely does a distraction hide Hump-Day's inner b!tch. If you could punch a day of the week, Wednesday would never escape the 10-count.

'The Day of Rest' has a nice ring to it. The words float over you with a calming seduction, lulling you into a rejuvenating R&R while Sunday plots its big reveal: 'End of the Weekend!'. Although it is still a day off, it's tough to ignore how close Monday is (Munday! Stop infecting my week); procrastinated homework loves a good Sunday, so do the pieces that Friday and Saturday have left you in. It's the first hint at the new week, and with each passing hour, the need to prepare for the 5 day stretch fills you with loss. No wonder people go to church on Sunday...

This leaves us with Tuesday and Thursday. Both are their own day and have carved out an identity for themselves, but Tuesday is well below the radar. It is too close to Monday and is sandwiched in by Wednesday that it can't really escape the surrounding pessimism and negativity. Tuesday is guilty by association, but isn't free of blame as it really doesn't put up any sort of fight. If it weren't the staple for media release (new music and the high-def on Blu-Ray), I'd have no time for Tuesdays. Congratulations, you aren't Monday or Wednesday.

Meanwhile, amidst all the chaos and disagreement of the other six days, Thursday confidently smiles. It has latched onto the fun of the weekend and is, in my mind, the Renaissance of the 7-day-stretch. Having learned from the mistakes of the rest, Thursday isn't too flashy or too volatile, doesn't want you to suffer or leave you vulnerable, won't punish you with ennui, and every now and then leads into a nice, long weekend. Thursday has it all figured out.



As you can tell, I have had these vague ideas floating around my mind since life made me distinguish one day from another. Understanding how the week affects you is a science, it's like being able to read the matrix. The key is the realization that before anything is even scheduled, these crafty little journées are spreading their influence all over you. Happy ____day...

the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

With 30 teams in the league, the NHL offers endless interpretations of the game. Individuals showcase everything from the workings of a smooth stride, the delicate art of the stick and gloves, the harnessing of raw muscle caught up in momentum, and a vision of the play like a Formula-1 ChessMaster. The plot thickens when these artist-athletes are introduced to the beautiful chaos of entangled genius; players Creating with other players in ways that expand the use of the ice surface passed what even the most advanced hockey enthusiasts can imagine. It's a never ending factory of historical highlights. And yet even as this continually evolving entity recreates itself season after season, the layout of the NHL's 30 can be categorized into three simple chapters: the Cup-Chaser, a team Out-of-Order, and TBA.

The game changes but the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly are here to stay. It's the difference between Good and Great, it's what separates a Success from a Mob-Mentality Hating, it's subtle and without metric and so elusive. Teams who have it, have everything, teams without it are forever in survival mode. It's a team's dynamic, their attitude, their strategy, and ultimately their identity. And until a club grabs hold of theirs, the NHL will be a cruel playground. It's called the Franchise Factor and it's the essence that brings a team to life.

the Cup-Chaser

Everyone wants to skate with the Cup-Chasers - sold out arenas, fans drowning in apparel, big contracts with whispers of bonuses floating through the dressing room, a second season from April to June, and ultimately a chance at pure Glory. These teams are making magic night in, night out, and despite their consistency, there seems to be an element of surprise associated with their power of complete domination. No one needs to talk about their defensive strategy, or their execution of Systems, or how they set up on the breakout; the Cup-Chasers have that extra quality that means no game is ever out of reach, that the powerplay goal is a matter of 'when' not 'if', and that they truly 'play' hockey instead of robotically implement a reflection of drills.

With the post-season just around the corner, Chicago and Washington and Pittsburgh are heavy-hitters swinging for the Stanley Cup fences, and they are all three prime examples of teams that put together a long-term strategy and didn't crack under the pressure of quick-draw critics. They sold the Old and tracked down youth. Now putting out top lines made up of the world's best, these teams aren't just 2010 Cup-Chasers, they are dynasty contenders skating young bodies and wise minds.

Only a few years ago, the better part of this season's division champs were out of the playoff race before the all-star break. A handful of draft picks later, and after a couple clever investments logged in the books, they aren't just clawing their way into 8th spot, these teams are resting their top guns the last week and a half of Regulation in order to be firing come round 1. With strong Franchise Factors, the Cup-Chasers aren't distracted with patching up a leaky boat game after game, they just race the seas throughout the season and maintain their ship when they're docked for the summer.

a Team Out-of-Order

But there's not enough room in either conference or any division for a full league of Blackhawks, or Capitals, or Penguins; with every draft pick, retirement, trade, injury, hiring, firing, win, loss, and missed call, there is a change in the league that ripples through each team, demonstrating how alive the NHL is. Franchise Factor or not, the unexpected can introduce plenty of destructive chaos. Some teams have to bite the bullet and keep company with the Edmontons, Torontos, and Floridas of the world. It's the ability to take a step back, make calculated decisions, and respect the exchange of a Temporary Set-Back for the long-term consistency of layered success. No team should strive for their 'one shot' at the expense of building up their foundation. When an NHL team begins to struggle and locks in a few bad seasons, it's like an injury. And like any significant injury, you have to treat a string of 'playoff misses' or 'disappointing seasons' with more than just a little ice and tape, more than just a little 3rd-line player swap, you need rest and rehab and a new game plan. The best hockey in the world doesn't have room for broken-but-bandaged teams. Injured NHL teams need to hit the reset button and take the time to regain their strength; they need to suck before they don't again.

TBA

In my opinion if you're not a contender and you're not stripping down and rebuilding, then you are wasting your time, and cruelly torturing your fan base. This is where the TBAs come in. These lost cause squads that lack in direction and promise are stuck in no-mans land, chasing the Chasers and pretending that they don't need to Start-Over; an empty future of 9th and 10th place finishes that gives no hope to a post season run beyond a first round in-and-out. Queue up the Flames, St. Louis, the Rangers, and Dallas; what's the plan? Who's guiding these sail-less ships? You have to respect the process and quite gambling on the quick fix.

I can respect being Out-of-Order, it's the nature of the business, the cycle of life in the NHL. What I can't understand is a team that has decided to sit on the fence and duck the big-boy decisions. Everyone who 'just barely missed the post-season' or hangs on for a game or two extra in the opening round before being benched on the couch to watch the real teams battle it out, they have three options. The first, and most mechanical, is to realize that asking for four cards is not an option - Just Fold. It takes commitment and character and perseverance, but the basement is where the Ovechkin, Kane, Crosby, and Tavares style draft picks are. Embrace change. Do not fear momentary setbacks. Holding onto pricy vets, on cruise control into an honorable retirement isn't going to guarantee anything. Option one is to gut the team and hit the reset button.

The second option is tricky and can't be pulled off by just any old GM big-wig. It asks for strategy and insight, a whole lot of hockey knowledge, and enough risk to make a day-trader think twice. It's like refueling Airforce-1, mid-air, during a terror strike. This is the Detroit Red Wings model. You need to buy low and sell high and make your moves before anyone else is even paying attention. Trade like you mean it. It is possible to slowly change your team, one player at a time, over the course of several years, without ever letting the Stanley Cup finals out of your sight, but the big brains need to be working extra hard and you need to find those hidden gems like a 171st overall entry draft pick Pavel Datsyuk or swap for an up-and-comer like Rene Bourque. It's the better of the two approaches, but it's much more than just one nice maneuver followed by dozens of bad plays; it isn't for the Painting-by-numbers crowd.

Option 3 is a disaster. It's the definition of the TBA, and it optimizes a damaged Franchise Factor. It's ignoring the severity of the problem and attempting to avoid rebuilding, while failing to wheel and deal, and yet still claiming to be after the playoff wins. Option 3 is the equivalent of a dozen busy McDonalds employees, racing around behind the counter, doing absolutely nothing, while the line of customers continues to grow. It looks like everyone is doing their job, but in reality it could take days before anyone gets to your order. Plus even then, you're getting McDonalds! Option 3 creeps up on you and before you know it the team starts to feel empty and without a soul. It could be a revolving door of coaches that are hired quickly and sent on their way before they've even been fitted for a track suit and whistle. Maybe it's an annual pattern of 'renting a player' for the playoff push, some 'wily old vet', full of experience and character, only to see them in a new jersey by September and the team back to square Zero. Maybe it's using pure, dangling talent as a forth line grinder (You don't forget the epic calamities - I will never get over the Flames brilliant idea to have Marc Savard logging 7 minutes a game on the checking line), or watching as a player's stock plummets before selling them a year and a half too late, for 5 and a half pucks (At one point Phaneuf was being called the best defensemen in the league and was in young all-star company with Ovi and Sid... the Flames dished him off after he had hit rock bottom, bounced up and back down two or three times, and finally settled into a comfortable little niche of 'Awful'). Other signs are when one great player is all that the club can afford, so they spend years nickel and dimming to scrounge up 'the perfect linemates' only to have to scrounge up new 'perfect linemates' a few months later and a few months after that, and so on (Iginla doesn't need to have Crosby and Nash, but something more than 'nothing' and we might see that same gold medal performance that Iggy had in Vancouver - the Flames are starving this poor bastard). The Flames love Option 3, they always have, and the tragedy is that they don't even know it. They need to start manning up and getting their hands dirty, otherwise all the fans will ever have to talk about is the '89 Cup Win, and the 2004 Red Mile drive, and that's about it. Don't make me bring up the rushed shipment of the 'Too Small Martin St. Louis', or the inspired Doug Gilmore release, or that brief moment when Brett Hull wore a flame on his jersey - I don't forgive or forget because nothing has changed, Calgary is shooting first and forgetting to ask questions later.

The game may change, the players may change, but the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly will always be the standard NHL breakdown, because it's the standard sports breakdown, and the standard life breakdown. It's how people operate. Call it a Franchise Factor, call it Character, call it Value, call it a Gameplan, people need to have an idea of who they are in order to have the freedom to live in the moment. Without some idea of where you want to go and how you need to get there, you will be cursed with the repetitive cycle of mediocrity. I can wait for Edmonton and Carolina, because I know that that is what leads to Washington's offensive attacks, Chicago's powerplays, San Jose's top line chemistry, and Pittsburgh's highlights. No one remembers average, be a Cup-Chaser, even if you need to toss up the Out-of-Order sign for a bit.

I am Jack's Fight Club Moment

I walk through the cubicle trenches like a mouse in a maze. The difference is there is no cheese to be found in this experiment (and in all fairness I can cheat, I'm tall enough to see over the walls). I turn a corner and as I cross paths with a fellow maze mate, giving him the customary eye-contact and mildest of smiles - acknowledging that he is in fact a human and we at least have that in common - something happens; we exchange slow and slight head nods. It's the currency of unspoken truths, as subtle and mysterious as the code of a secret society. There is no second guessing, we cross paths and continue marching to the beat of the 9-to-5, Big Brother none the wiser. It was a Fight Club moment.

I could have spotted him long before, had I acquainted myself with his stiffened stagger. The same stagger I was using. The stagger of a beaten footballer. We had cut up the pitch the night before and were now branded with the same ground tattoos and cleat scars. The two of us were on the tall-tale side of battle, but that was out there. I didn't know his name and it wouldn't matter if I did, because I wouldn't be talking to the same person that I ran with on the field. With the ball roped to his dribble, he was a magician, a creator and artist, exercising expression with strokes of finesse and endurance. Inside the maze he was just another EngiNerd, plugged into a computer living in a virtual world of design and documentation. Just like the rest of us. Zombie Clark Kents to his after work flash of SuperMan.

There are no 'Rules of Soccer Club', but in a sense the first and second unspoken ones are the same as Palahniuk's. The two worlds don't speak the same language, and the disconnect is great enough that when it comes to the cubed maze, they just wouldn't understand, 'You do NOT, talk, about Futbol Club'.

As I dipped and dodged my way through the narrow office passages back to my desk I fought the smile. This was the second Edward Norton scene I had caught myself in this week. A few days ago one of my bosses walked by and was wearing a tie, covered in Cornflower-blue, and yes, it was in fact a Tuesday. I draw the line at Project Mayhem. The last thing I need is to know that Bob has a name, and his name is Robert Paulson, his name is Robert Paulson, his name is Robert Paulson...

Like the sanctuary that the Narrator found within the walls of Fight Club, the soccer field gives me escape from the false hope of the indoor-outdoor feeling that 3 walls and no ceiling thinks it can provide - The cubicle laughs at us. An escape that wakes up my body and rewards my mind. An escape that hurls me head on into Life. An escape that only a select few have been able to find. An escape that is worthy of a slow and slight head nod...