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The folks in Colorado don’t so much like hockey.  This, as you may know, doesn’t really work out so well for me because I very much like hockey. 


Exhibit A: My Television, the Hater

I moved into a house in Colorado Springs; it’s a temporary sort of thing.  It’s also the perfect time for first-time buyers to get in on the housing market which makes my roommate the next Albert Einstein.  She got in while it was hot and then brilliantly rented out the upstairs bedrooms to her friends (plus me) to help pay her mortgage.  Smart girl.  I found her living room television, however, was not prone to the same stroke of genius. 


The Blackhawks were nearing what looked like the end of their playoff run, the success of which was anticipated by few.  The easiest team to hate in the NHL, the Detroit RedWings, were going to soon take the young, beardless faces off our televisions and replace them with a buncha hairy men and missing teeth [okay, so Detroit has experience].  But the TV in my house was confused about the importance of this hockey game.  We had maybe 6 channels altogether, every one of them clear as day except the one I wanted.  I could’ve watched the weather, the news, some Spanish soap opera, or a lady baking a cake.  But I could hardly watch the hockey game.  What do they call it when the TV goes haywire?  Snow?  Fuzzy?  Dotted?  Whatever it is, that’s what was up with the hockey channel on my TV.  I did handstands and cartwheels with the rabbit ears, most of the time just annihilating the picture further.  I stuck them out the sliding door, touched them to other metal (I don’t know…) and walked up the stairs with them (better reception closer to the sky…?), but the picture remained in disgust of my desires.


To spite the TV, I watched the game anyway.  No, I couldn’t really see the puck, but I could guess where it was based on the movements of the shadowy players.  It ended up being useless because the goal gap grew too huge to prolong my squinting.  And that was the end of the Blackhawks amazing playoff run of 2009.  On a fuzzy TV in Colorado Springs.


A cute photo from flickr of my boy, Jordan Stahl, and an aspiring lil skater

A cute photo from flickr of my boy, Jordan Stahl, and an aspiring lil skater

Exhibit B: Buffalo Wild Wings, the Hater

I wasn’t about to deal with this snowy television mess during the Stanley Cup Playoffs.  Nope, sorry.  Now that I’ve got my Penguins up against the easily detestable RedWings – this is a must-see. 


Corporate never fails [sense the sarcasm, usually it does].  Look!  A Buffalo Wild Wings on the corner by my house.  Seemed like a dream come true: some delicious wings for dinner, big screen hockey in all its glory, and something for my independent self to do on Saturday night.  Brilliant!  Until I realized that they don’t advertise the company you’ll keep at this bar and grill. 


All I wanted to do was watch the hockey game.  That’s all.  I’m a simple kinda girl, honestly.  That’s what I told the sixty year old man that asked me out because his wife had died and he needed someone [apparently a 24-year old female] to talk to.  That’s what I told the severely intoxicated, very tall dude with the Steelers hat who offered to buy me twelve drinks and my next water.  It’s what I told the Cavs fan when he kept asking me about the rules of hockey, a sport which he clearly had never heard of before.  But, being an aspiring writer doesn’t guarantee conversational clarity because these kind gents didn’t get the very blatant and simple clue that I was just there to watch the hockey game. 


Thank you, Buffalo Wild Wings, for the things I expected you to offer.  No thanks for your pestering clientele.  I’ll take a skybox next time.


P.S.  Colorado, please learn to appreciate hockey even when your team is terrible and you’re sad about the Nuggets’ loss.  Asante sanna.