Bring on Ottawa.

This past weekend I went on my annual Canoe Trip down the Delaware River, a topic I have written about in the past and will likely recall tales of again in the future.

For the first time since my very first trip 4 years ago, the weather was great. So great, in fact, that I decided to enjoy the sun’s rays sunscreen-free for 6 straight hours while floating down the river. This seemed like a good idea at the time, but, as it turned out, was not. At all.

The next morning I was walking around the campsite like a robot, unable to bend my arms or legs. Sitting and standing became the most painful movements imaginable. I was obviously very miserable, but my misfortune provided everyone else with a good laugh. Canoe Trip is the wrong place to look for sympathy.

Over the course of this afternoon I have emptied two entire bottles of Cocoa Butter lotion into my burning red skin. Relief has never stung so badly. I’m also looking forward to waking up in piles of skin flakes for the next week. Kids, don’t forget your sunscreen.

I’ve been a Buffalo Bills fan since I was 7 years old. The second game I ever watched was Super Bowl XXV when Scott Norwood booted what would have been the game-winning field goal wide right. While I didn’t understand the significance of these events at the time, I still remember the look on all of the adults faces after that infamous kick. It was a look of unfathomable sadness. As if their dogs had died, Sgt. Slaughter’s leg broke off and someone erased their Etch-A-Sketch masterpiece — simultaneously!

Little did I know that this was only a sign of things to come. Dealing with disappointment is as much a defining characteristic of a Buffalo fan as being drunk or vulgar, so we’re always optimistic that our chance at redemption is near. After this weekend’s Draft day acquisitions and before any regular season games can prove otherwise, I’m going to say that 2007 will be the Bills year. Here are some thoughts on our picks:

Whether you “Pop N’ Lock”, “Harlem Shake” or “Crip Walk”— every guy has his own way of celebrating the five greatest words in the English language: “You are not the father”

According to the Los Angeles Times:

In the 5th century, St. Augustine declared that all unbaptized babies went to hell upon death. By the Middle Ages, the idea was softened to suggest a less severe fate, limbo.

In his Divine Comedy, Dante characterized limbo as the first circle of hell and populated it with the great thinkers of ancient Greece and Rome, as well as leading Islamic philosophers.

The document published Friday said the question of limbo had become a “matter of pastoral urgency” because of the growing number of babies who do not receive the baptismal rite. Especially in Africa and other parts of the world where Catholicism is growing but has competition from other faiths such as Islam, high infant mortality rates mean many families live with a church teaching them that their babies could not go to heaven.

Father Thomas Weinandy, executive director for doctrine at the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops, said the document “addresses the issue from a whole new perspective — if we are now hoping these children get to heaven, there is no longer any point in worrying about limbo.”

So basically Father Weinandy is saying that century old beliefs can be changed on a whim based on cultural changes and modern practicality. If all it takes is ‘hope’ to change the teachings of the Church then why don’t we stop arguing about issues like gay marriage and just start hoping? Apparently it’s a far more effective catalyst for change.

Having been raised a Catholic, its been difficult to see my faith in the Church diminish over the years. Most of what I accepted as a child no longer seems to be applicable to my life, so I look to more open-minded sources for answers. I completely agree that Church teachings should reflect modern issues, but you can’t pick and choose what changes and what remains the same.

If you are going to say that teachings regarding celibacy, for example, are set in stone, then don’t start making exceptions for situations like this. It’s blatant hypocrisy. It seems like the Church is more concerned with helping itself than those who dedicate their lives to the faith. What an unsettling thought.

Until the Church realizes that people are looking for a faith whose teachings resonate with modern day issues, religious fanatics will continue to exist and the shortage of clerics and followers will surely jeopardize it’s stronghold of the faith community in the future.

Wednesday night I attended Game 4 of the Sabres/Islanders series at Nassau Veterans Memorial Coliseum on Long Island. This was the first time I’ve been to a postseason game at an opponent’s arena, where the numbers are not in your favor and the wrong colors turn you into a target.



Let me start by saying that I’ve watched Pee-Wee games at arenas bigger than the so-called Coliseum. My seat had literally six inches of legroom, crushing my lanky frame between the seatbacks and forcing my knees directly against my bladder.
After a few Bud Lights I needed to find a men’s room. Once I made it to the concourse, I fought my way through the unending wall of men that was encircling the arena. This couldn’t be the bathroom line, could it? Apparently it could. This place officially sucks.

Insufficient amenities aside, it was the Islander fans that caused me the most frustration. Cheering amongst the legions of Sabres fans at HSBC Arena in Buffalo is an exciting experience, filled with high-fives and borderline delusional optimism. Heckling opposing players and fans comes second to supporting the team we all love. Conversely, cheering against thousands of “fans” with no knowledge of the rules of hockey or even their own team is absolutely infuriating. When I wasn’t being called “upstate trailer trash” or some of their more vulgar taunts, I had to listen to them boo their own captain, Alexei Yashin. And they call themselves fans?

During their arena-led “Let’s Go Islanders” chants, fans were encouraged to twirl arena-supplied towels bearing their team’s logo. While I cannot deny their exceptional ability to clean my face of nacho cheese or absorb moisture in a urinal, I am confused by their name— “Rally Towel”. Does the word ‘rally’ not insinuate the need for a comeback effort? These fans were obviously confused and misguided. Considering this was likely their first hockey game of the season, if not ever, I suppose it’s understandable.



When the Sabres played the Islanders during the regular season, the Coliseum drew a staggering 8,000 some odd spectators to an arena that reaches capacity at twice that number. Meanwhile, HSBC Arena (which holds a few thousand more people, incidentally) has had every game of the season sold out since before the first puck dropped this October. Is there really any question as to which club has a true fan following?

Considering the ignorance of the Islander fans to their team and the sport itself, it’s no wonder they resort to childish name-calling or throwing full beers on the ice in lieu of just cheering for their team. This isn’t to say we haven’t thrown our fair share of things in Buffalo, but even upstate trailer trash knows you don’t throw a full beer— especially if you paid $6.50 for it.

The game itself was very intense, with pretty goals, big hits and solid goaltending on both ends. With about a minute left in the game, Jason Pominville found the back of the net to put the Sabres up 4-2 and seal the victory. As I celebrated the game-clinching goal, a middle-aged man sitting in front of me threatened to kick my ass in front of his young son. As I commended the father for being such a terrific role model, his son give me the finger to which I could only reply “you learned from the best, kid”.

As I exited the arena, another middle-aged man began taunting me saying that my team has never won any Stanley Cups. Is that really the best insult you could come up with? That fact alone is what makes us cheer so loud to begin with. Considering the last time the Islanders won a Cup was the year I was born, I was not impressed. As easy as it would have been to tear apart these idiots for being such pathetic, classless poor sports— I didn’t have to. I let the scoreboard do all of my talking. I hope all of those verbal threats the Islander’s fans threw my way offer them some consolation during a long off-season once we finish them off tonight in Game 5. (UPDATE: my prediction was correct thanks to an absolutely unbelievable save by Ryan Miller with 12 seconds left)

As long as I’m so deep into the topic of hockey, I would also like to take a moment to address all of the people who like to discredit hockey as a sport. Just because it doesn’t carry the mainstream acceptance of some other sports doesn’t mean it’s participants are any less talented or athletic. I challenge you to skate across a sheet of ice in an attempt to knock a small piece of rubber into a heavily guarded net using nothing but a stick. Add in the fact that every opposing player is looking to take your head off and all of a sudden Shaquille O’Neal putting a ball through an unprotected hole only a few inches out of his standing reach doesn’t seem so damn impressive now does it?

Allow me to further my argument with some examples of a player’s actions and their consequences across the major sports leagues:

Basketball: laugh at the ref— get thrown out of the game.
Baseball: balk at a runner— give him the base.
Football: take off your helmet— 15-yard penalty.
Soccer: no joke needed.
Hockey: knock someone unconscious— sit out for 5 minutes or less.

I think I’ve made my points. Go Sabres and long live hockey!

Now that home phone lines have been replaced by cell phones and finding an address is only a Google search away, what better way to dispose of those antiquated bricks of paper than to impress your friends, or possibly a first date, with this little trick? And to think, for all those years I thought this act of sheer manliness was reserved for only the most macho of men. Don’t be surprised if you see me shredding dozens of these in front of Curves tonight.

Note: While the video screenshot may look like something off the $3.99 rack at your local adult video store, I swear this is safe for work.

Every year, on the first weekend in May, about 50 college friends and I converge on Pond Eddy, NY for our annual Canoe Trip. This is a weekend where men can be men and your daily lives and responsibilities can be forgotten until Monday. The theme of the weekend: drunken recklessness. Mandatory items include multiple 30 packs of your favorite beer, plenty of meat for grilling, assorted fireworks and anything else you wouldn’t mind being broken, burned, waterlogged or otherwise destroyed. Clean clothes, hygienic products and sleeping arrangements are all considered optional. Girlfriends, wives and any means of contacting the outside world are strictly forbidden.

A great example of these unwritten rules being enforced with ‘Canoe Trip Justice’ occurred last year. One absent-minded attendee forgot the first rule of Canoe Trip and arrived sporting a metrosexual white turtleneck sweater. Last I checked we were in the middle of the woods, not a lounge in SoHo. So, he was given an ultimatum: burn the sweater or— well that was really the only choice he was given (real men don’t negotiate). He, of course, complied by tossing the insult to manliness into the roaring fire and cracking open a beer. Shirtless and drinking within minutes of arrival, this man was ready for Canoe Trip.

As the fabled weekend quickly approaches, my friends and I often share stories and fond memories from years past. The stories are so abundant that hours can pass as we each share our favorite hazy recollections. Due to the nature of the event, bringing expensive devices such as cameras to document the events is a rarity. Fortunately enough, one story will forever be documented thanks to the handy camerawork of one attendee.

Allow me to preface this story with some important background information. The firework-of-choice in recent years has been the ‘Whistling Charlie’. Unlike your usual firework display, ‘Charlie’ offers none of the typical explosions of color in the night sky. Rather, it emits a 90 second long, ear piercing whistling sound accompanied by clouds of billowing smoke. These have gained popularity due to their unarguable ability to wake up those unfortunate enough to have passed out around the campfire. As is the case at any get together, a premature pass-out is strongly frowned upon, carrying the consequence of humiliation, and possibly second-degree burns. Last year, Danimal was the unfortunate recipient of ‘Charlie’.

The following video is titled ‘Danimal Meets Whistling Charlie’:

Although the commotion awoke me from my own slumber in a nearby tent, the high-pitched sound is about as uncommon as birds chirping at Canoe Trip, so I thought nothing of it. Kelly (the person lighting ‘Charlie’) filled me in on the scenario the next morning. His paraphrased story goes like this:

In common fashion, Danimal passed out in the open, begging for the misfortune that followed. Kelly positioned the flaming wakeup call directly under Danimal’s chair, assuring a successful wakeup. As the smoke began to overwhelm Danimal’s drunken senses, he awoke and looked at Kelly like a deer caught in headlights. Still severely intoxicated, Danimal leapt from his smoky sanctuary and proceeded to immediately lose his balance and fall directly into the still-burning campfire. To this day I still curse that green chair for blocking the shot.

Amazingly enough, no Danimal’s were injured in the filming of this video.

According to CNN.com:

As of today, when the 200 million users of Google Earth log onto the site, they will be able to view the horrific details of what’s happening in Darfur for themselves.

In an effort to bring more attention to the ongoing crisis in Darfur, the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum has teamed up with Google’s mapping service literally to map out the carnage in the Darfur region.

Experts estimate that 200,000 people have been killed and 2.5 million more have been displaced since the conflict flared in 2003, when rebels took up arms against the central Sudanese government.

The new initiative, called “Crisis in Darfur,” enables Google Earth users to visualize the details in the region, including the destruction of villages and the location of displaced persons in refugee camps.

Once again Google has impressed me with their ability to leverage technology in a positive and thought-provoking way. Having compiled one of the most extensive (and feared) databases of personal information on the planet, I am glad to see that Google is using it’s unprecedented information-gathering powers for good when most people perceive them simply as tools of evil.


To me, visualizing data is the only effective way to truly realize the significance and magnitude of a number. I found it interesting that this was a collaborative effort between Google and the National Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. because the most powerful example of data visualization that I have ever seen in my life was at that very museum.

Obviously the mass genocide of the Jews during World War II was an atrocity of epic proportions, but the amount of people who were killed is somewhat incomprehensible as a number alone. People do not differentiate between numbers once they reach a large enough size. The difference between a million and a billion is nothing more than a few extra zeros if it’s not put into the proper perspective— which is where the real power of data visualization lies. As you walk through the museum you eventually come to a room that is full nothing but shoes. Thousands of pairs, each representing a life lost. Once you consider how many people it would take to fill all of those shoes you start to put that huge number into perspective. It becomes human.

As shocking as that exhibit may be, it can only affect those who actually make the trip to the museum to experience it firsthand. The reason the Darfur initiative is particularly powerful is that the message has been seamlessly integrated with existing and well-known technology, allowing for a significantly higher penetration rate. People are so preoccupied with concerns about privacy and spying that we fail to realize how powerful all of the information we have can really be. Instead of trying to keep everything a secret we should be open to what this information revolution can teach us about ourselves.

In a rare interview with the press, Hank Aaron announced that he will not be at the ballpark when Barry Bonds breaks his homerun record, stating “Uh-uh. No, no. I’m not going to be around.” Bonds is currently 20 dingers short of Aaron’s 43-year-old record of 755, a number he will likely surpass by the middle of the season.

While most athletes will support the record-breaker by attending the game that their record is broken in, I completely agree with Aaron’s decision to skip out. I honestly can’t believe that Bond’s has the balls to continue playing for the sole purpose of breaking Aaron’s record. Bond’s need to retire before he makes his hitting records, and even Major League Baseball itself, seem more illegitimate. To steal one of the most hallowed records in sports after being exposed as a cheater is roughly the equivalent of saying “up yours” to not only the previous record holder, but the sport itself and everyone associated with it, including the fans.

Hey Barry, I know you’re really depressed and everything, but here’s something to think about instead of whining about how everyone hates you. While you were sticking needles in Jose’s ass for all those years, honest players like Hammerin’ Hank were enhancing their performance the old fashioned way— in the gym and the batting cage. Imagine how upsetting it is for Aaron to watch the record he earned with natural (key word) talent and hard work be taken away and soiled by a juiced-up disgrace like Bonds. I’m with you, Hank. I won’t be celebrating, watching or even acknowledging this record changing hands. If I ever have to see Bond’s name at the top of a record list it had better be accompanied by a large asterisk. Or be a list of the world’s biggest douchebags.