As I huddled next to a radio here in Halifax listening to the Habs game like a Bosnian refugee waiting to hear it's safe to go outside, I realized that I will never again take my television for granted. Never again will I complain of a non HD picture. I will never again wish bodily harm on Marc Denis. I will remember my evening of horrors. I will remember having to listen to John Bartlett yelp and imagine what the hell was going on on the ice. I will remember.
I felt trapped. I felt isolated. I sometimes wonder what it was like for Ann Frank. Now I know. Except I was at the Westin in a heavenly bed with a Harbor view enjoying a hot fudge sundae, but you get the idea.
That was incredibly frustrating. Having to listen to the Habs pepper Bishop with 40 something shots, hearing the rubber ring off the post, imagining Bartlett so close to climax.
Although the performance was solid, it still hurts like a bitch to drop another point that way. When you have 2 chances to win a shootout on the road, you gotta finish. Unfortunately, Gallagher and Gionta forgot that they have fans that sit there and stare at aging wallpaper as they listen to them play hockey. I said LISTEN! I felt so alone. So discarded. Like a Taiwanese male prostitute at a gay pride parade.
I don't want to be dramatic, but the entire season is now lost. I don't even see the point in returning to la belle province. I might as well stay here and say pasta as often as I please.