wawasworld

All Hail To The Great One

I'm gonna be honest with you: I can't stand hockey.  I'm not even sure why.  If there is a late winter sport that I'm going to watch leading up to baseball, it's the NBA.  I guess I'm just one of those overindulgent Americans that loves sports with alot of scoring.  To a certain extent, I can see why Canada would love hockey.  Canada's cold and miserable, just like hockey.   But I'm losing my focus.  This blog isn't about knocking Canada or Hockey.  This blog is about the greatest hockey player to ever live: Wayne Gretzky.  The great one.

Now, if I hate hockey so much, why the hell would I write anything about it?  Well, sometimes in life, you run across a person who has it all.  Someone who transcends his profession, in this case the game and sport of hockey.  That person was Wayne Gretzky.  Just to give some background, let's run through some of his accomplishments:

All time point scorer (Um . .  . alot)

All time goal scorer (Again . .. alot)

All time assist leader (You get the idea)

Wow.  Look at all those accomplishments.  With all those records you'd think he's worthy of his nickname: THE GREAT ONE.   Say it with me: THE GREAT ONE.  It just rolls off the tongue.  That nickname is up there in the pantheon of nicknames with the Edge, Flea, and Eddie Vedder.  With the cool nickname, all those records, and being a coach in the NHL and owner, you'd think I'd have enough to idolize the guy.  However, To be honest, before this week, he was just Wayne Gretzky to me.  Just another guy.  He needed something to earn that nickname with me.  And then I found something out about him:

He's married to a woman who gambles on sports.

Oh.  My.  God.  Just yesterday my buddy Marc pointed out the key detail that Janet Jones, Wayne's wife, is linked to a huge hockey gambling scandal in New Jersey and that she bet on a few games.  At first, I kind of just shrugged him off.  Big deal, I said.  She knows some sports and she bets on them.  I know lots of people like that.  And then he said something to me that made me see the light: "Yeah, but how many chicks do you know who know enough to actually bet on games???"  Holy Christ.  He was right.

Don't get me wrong, I've known a couple of girls who claim to know something about sports.  Hell, I know one who even plays in a few fantasy sports leagues with me, but I don't know many who actually just bet on sports.  To bet on sports, you actually need to know what the hell is going on with the sports world.  You need to know injuries.  You need to know players, coaches etc.  I don't know any women who actually go that in-depth into any sport.

Sure, I know a few who claim they know what the hell is going on, but then the inevitable: "Oh, I didn't know so and so was still on that team!" comment comes out of there mouth, and then I know it's amateur hour.  To actually know that there is a woman, no,  she's not merely a woman, A GODDESS, who knows sport enough to bet on it . .. Well, that's just hot.    Now that I think about it, I can't think of many things hotter then a woman who says: "Don't forget the milk.  OH, and also put 100 on the Arizona/Tampa Bay game, Tampa to cover.  Thanks, honey!"   And to top it all off, Janet Jones isn't bad on the eyes.  Christ, she was even in Police Academy 4!!  Could she be any more awesome?  I say no.  Oh, and one other thing:

She's Married to The Great One.

Before today, I thought the Gretzky's nickname was just pretentious.  Not anymore.  I knew he held all those scoring records in hockey, but it turns out I missed one very important scoring record: Janet Jones.  That sure looks like a hat trick to me, Wayne.  ALL HAIL THE GREAT ONE! 

Wawasworld Super Bowl Diary

I have issues.  Lot's of them.  I like to paint myself into corners, and then bitch about the fact that I painted myself into the corner.  I think it's a gift I got from my Mom.  Her favorite trick is to volunteer for something she doesn't want to do for my brother, and then turn to me and bitch about him.   And I'm sure she'll do something for me and then bitch about me to him.  It's a destructive cycle.

So to this backdrop of passive aggressive behavior, I committed the ultimate move of self-loathing: I volunteered to miss the Super Bowl for a concert that my friend wanted me to attend.  That's right, I volunteered to miss the world's biggest sporting event (and I don't even want to have the soccer discussion, so please, PLEASE, shut it) to go see some  female Indie rock artist (Jenny Lewis . . . who actually is playing in NY in a month anyways . . . son of a . . . ).  Once I said the words: "Ok, yeah, I'll go see Jenny Lewis . . ." I knew I was going to complain like a little girl about it all week leading up to the game.  Which is exactly what I did.   I complained left and right: "I haven't missed the Super Bowl in 20 years!!" or "I'm now a freaking communist for doing this!!" or "Wow, it's gonna be me and a bunch of lesbians!  Sweet . .." or "The Terrorists win when I miss the Super Bowl!!"  And I wasn't even sure if I was kidding or not.   All I knew was that I freaking hated myself for volunteering.   The only solace I take is the fact that I did the right thing by going to the show (I think . . .IT WAS THE GODDAMN SUPER BOWL!).

With that being said, I now give you my running diary of my Super Bowl Sunday:

4 P.M.-Meet my buddy and his brother for a couple of drinks.  His words: "You should do one manly thing today."  Which is a lie, since I peed standing up in the morning!  See?  I did TWO manly things on Sunday.  Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

5 P.M.-Head over to buddies apartment for pre-game snacks prepared by his mom before heading for dinner before the show.  Which is gayer: Missing the Super bowl or having your "Mommy" make you snacks before the game?  Ok, the first one. 

5:30 P.M.-With the pre-game action going on and a mozarella stick in one hand, I try to weasel my way out of dinner.   Doesn't fly. 

5:45 P.M.-Leave to meet my friend downtown.  My buddies mom removes Pigs in the Blanket from the oven, which is like a kick to the nuts to me.  She offers me a few before I leave.  I decline.  If I have one, I know I'll bail on the show altogether.  PIB's are hypnotic, I tell ya.

6:30 P.M.-Dinner is at the beer garden (or biergarten, if you want to get all Colonel Klink on me) .  . . WHERE THEY HAVE A BIG SCREEN TV TO WATCH THE GAME!!!!  I start to calculate how much of the game I can see before we have to head over to the show . . . .

6:45 P.M.-. . . Until they seat us on an angle parallel to the screen, where I can see just enough of the TV that I can gather that one team is wearing blue and the other white, but not much else.

7:00 P.M.-A couple of my friends friends show up for dinner.  I am unable to pay attention to any of the  conversation, since I only hear the oohs and aahs of the people who actually got seating in front of the television. 

7:15 P.M.-Big play happens in the game for somebody.  Don't ask me which team.  I have no idea.

8:15 P.M.-Head over to Lillith Fair . . . errrr . . . Jenny Lewis show.  The Lillith Fair joke is not actually mine.  I think I heard it about 5 times prior to Sunday the week before.

8:30 P.M.-Take a spot in the balcony next to a woman, who's haircut can only be described as making Rosie O'Donell's hair look feminine.  I do note the number of unathletic hipster kids.  At least I know I have the unathletic part down.

10:30 P.M.-This blog is beggining to tire me out, so I'll cut to the chase: Jenny sings some songs about feelings and emotions with an acoustic guitar, I constantly torture myself by texting for score updates from people actually watching the game, a bunch of lesbians make out in the audience, and we  leave.  (ok, I made up the lesbian part, because if that actually happened, I don't think I'd bitch so much.  Actually, that really depends on which lesbians made out). 

11:15 PM-I get home to discover that we have leftover BIG sandwich from the Super Bowl party my roommate threw.  That's right: there was a super bowl party in my apartment that I did not attend.  But at least there was big sandwich left.  (sigh) I love big sandwich.  Think of the pot scene in Harold and Kumar go to White Castle, and you'd understand.  Oh, and I also watched the highlights of the game.  The team representing Pittsburgh won. 

12 A.M.-I start knitting a sweater.  Hey, I missed the Super Bowl for a female singer songwriter. . . I may as well keep going.  I feel like  Peter Griffin going off to sensitivity training.

And that's my Super Bowl Diary.    I promised myself that this blog was going to be the last time I bitched about missing the big game.  And actually, this has proven kinda cathartic.  No, no, actually, it wasn't cathartic at all.  I should just keep telling myself that I did the right thing.  I did the right thing.  I did the right thing . . . . ugh . . . the super bowl. . .