I've been a hockey fan since I was 9 years old. Specifically, I've been a Toronto Maple Leafs fan. My friends in elementary school, all Vancouver Canucks fans, would give me their Maple Leafs hockey cards. I tend to lean towards the underdog, so I, as a West Coaster, chose the Leafs as my team to cheer for. At the time, they were definitely the underdog in my circles.

And I've been loyal to the Leafs ever since. I've bought Leafs jerseys and paraphernalia, followed the team's scores and trades, and generally handed over a lot of my brainspace to following the team.

When my wife and I visited the Hockey Hall of Fame last week, she made sure I got a picture with my favorite jersey there, and I chose the Ted Kennedy one:

But I admit I wasn't really having a great time at the Hockey Hall of Fame. Everything I saw there, which usually brings me joy, seemed tainted. 

Some events in the NHL have really turned me off of the game, and over the last week it's really strained my ability to get excited about the sport. This discomfort stems from NHL players refusing to wear novelty "Pride jerseys" at warmups. I've found the whole fiasco deeply, deeply distasteful.

It started with Russians. The Philadelphia Flyers' Ivan Provorov refused to wear a Pride jersey, citing his religious beliefs, I guess as a Russian Orthodox person. His coach, John Tortorella, supported him in this; Gary Bettman, the NHL Commissioner, also supported team's decision.

To me, this appeared short-sighted on the NHL's part. It's already bad enough that we have Russians being paid who would be sending money back to their terrorist-state homeland in the middle of a cruel war of aggression; it already felt icky to watch Alex Ovechkin approach the all-time NHL goals record, knowing his connections to Valdimir Putin. Now, in addition to this compromise with allowing Russian players at all, they were letting Russian religious sentiments get in the way of the expression of basic human rights. The NHL fell directly into the wrong side of history. 

Naturally, after Provorov got away with it, a few other Russians followed suit; some teams scrapped their "Pride jersey" nights altogether.

Then, last Saturday, I saw the news that James Reimer, a Canadian, a Christian of some sort, also refused to wear the Pride jersey.

This really pissed me off. If I have to, I can kinda' justify the Russian refusal, since these players' families might receive retaliation in their homeland if the players are seen supporting western values. I can sorta' justify it for them if I really have to.

But for a Canadian? Come on. I can't justify that. Because I shouldn't have to justify anything in the first place.

What all of this shows is such a shocking lack of leadership on the NHL's part that I don't want to follow the sport right now. The league comes off as weak and backwards, bending to the whims of people's religious beliefs, trying to be "all things to all people," which never works.

The NHL had a chance to take the moral high ground when the war with Ukraine started. They could have banned the Russian players, or at least refused to pay them. If they didn't want to do that, they, or the Flyers organization, could have taken a stand and suspended Provorov for his refusal to be a team player. Instead they took a middle road. They catered to his bigotry. And that middle road caused a slippery slope that has now lead to NHL being a platform for domestic bigotry. What a joke.

The NHL and the NHLPA (the NHL Players Union) should be ashamed; to me, they've lost all of their credibility.

Hockey has been considered a backwards community for a long time. A lot of the machoistic garbage, however, took place behind the scenes: sexism, racism, and all that. Hockey culture has been under a microscope for a while now, and this is good. But at least it was all sorta' behind-the-scenes.
 
But right now, the NHL is a platform for bigotry. The NHL platforms bigotry.

So I'm done with the NHL for a bit until they get their act together. As a fan, I can't support and enjoy it. 

I just wish I'd already downloaded NHL23 to my PS4 before I'd settled on this.

I was recently touched by an article posted to Slate, titled "Good-Enough Friends," written by Dan Kois. This article came to me at a time when I've been thinking about friendship and relationships a lot. Here's some context:

• Two weekends ago, I got married. The next night we had a celebration with my wife's friends at a small restaurant in Toronto. One of the conversations I had with someone was about how hard it is to make friends in your 30s. I argued that most of the friendships you make as adults tend to be activity partners, and not the deep sorts of friends that one acquires in university or high school. Friendships in high school and university have the benefit of time: at those times, we have the time to be selective and the time to build a strong foundation of openness and acceptance. However, as adults our time is taken up with family, home life, and bills, and we can't expect to develop the sorts of friendships that we curated in our early 20s. 
• I've been thinking a lot about my kids. I haven't seen them for a long time. They live far away. They are teenagers. Lately, I've been sending them things through the mail, since messaging seems to be so ineffective. I don't know what their friendships are like, nor do I know much about their lives right now. Therapists and counsellors assure me that this is normal teenage behaviour, but I'm still always thinking about their lives, wishing I knew them better. I really wonder about what their healthiest relationships look like. Anyhow, I hope to send the kids a couple things I picked up over the last week, but I'm nervous about doing so because our communication is so spotty. 
• I have numerous friends whom I haven't called for a long time. I've grown really reluctant to use the phone or even to email people. The last really pleasant interactions I've had with good friends have been in person, one last summer and the other a month ago. If it's not in-person, it's kinda' dissatisfying. 
• A year ago my partner and I had a housewarming party, about eight months into living in our little duplex. I invited lots of people and they all came. It felt great to have so many people in our back yard, to see so many people in person. However, since then I've seen very few of them. I've had a couple interactions through Facebook or Instagram here and there, and one tried to set up a meeting last summer, when I was in a particularly low place, but apart from that all the interactions have been through a screen. The only people we've interacted with in-person since that party have been some of our friends in New West, where we lived previously, who knew my wife in high school.

In this "Good-Enough Friends" article, Dan Kois makes a couple observations that I think might be worth knocking around in my brain. I liked Kois's concluding paragraphs:

As it stands, as a 42-year-old man, it's hard to be "up for whatever." But I like to remember those times, when a phone call could set off a serious of social adventures, when meeting someone downtown could lead to numerous connections with numerous other people.

These serendipitous experiences depended on having a good cache of "good enough friends," of being willing to hang out with people and take time for people I didn't know exceptionally well. I have numerous fond memories of hanging out with people I barely knew, or felt were a little awkward. It was important to give these people a chance, and I had time to do it.  As Steve Dangle says in relation to hockey, you need to "make your own luck;" it was easier to be lucky socially in my early 20s.

But pretty-good friends now? They all have families. We're all constrained by time and bills and jobs and whatnot. It's harder to get together. It's harder to keep up with one another. It's harder to make those deep conversations that build years of experience.

I was thinking about Chickens, the musical I was in a few years ago. It was hard and it was grueling, and those friendships were overall really positive. I think we had a lot of great conversations with both cast and crew.  But once the play was over, once I moved down the Mainland, the relationships, for me, didn't quite continue. I saw how many of the cast and crew had forged their friendships through years of performances and projects. I was glad to get to know those people for that time, but knew I would never really break in to the friend group, because they had already forged those relationships. And that's OK, because I'd already forged good relationships in other places. 

And that's the value of those folks you've known forever. Those friendships were forged when there was time to forge them. And some of those friends are people I haven't seen for decades, but the conversation could pick up smoothly, as soon as I see them again.

In 2005, when I moved from the Island to the Mainland. I left most of those forged relationships behind me. I kind of feel like I still never recovered from that move, particularly after I got married. But I'd like to believe that I can catch up with some of those folks, one of these days. 

Scattered thoughts from a scattered mind, but hopefully coherent enough.

For the last seven years or so, I've had an interest in "trauma." It started at a teacher Professional Day workshop at the school where I worked in Agassiz, British Columbia, perhaps in January of 2015. Although I don't remember what the presenter himself said, his comments moved me to do some thinking and reading. At the time, I tried to talk through my feelings in a video that I posted to Twitter and YouTube (now deleted). The presenter suggested some reading, so over the few months that followed I read two Peter A. Levine books, In an Unspoken Voice and Taming the Tiger. These books comforted me during a tumultuous time in my life: the year preceding the my separation from my wife. Since then, I've tried to pay attention further professional and personal work mentioned trauma as a concept. 

Levine's books argued that trauma was a natural response that lived in the body. At this time, the idea that "trauma lives in the body" was an appealing one to me because it felt comfortable: it comforted me to think that these mental roadblocks I felt in myself rested in places that I couldn't really think through. The Levine books described it as a thing you sort of shake off, like you might after an attack from a predator. As somebody who always felt rather disconnected from his body, it was nice to imagine that there was stuff going on that I couldn't quite access, that is was natural and ok, and that there were clinical ways to work through these roadblocks.

Since then, like I expect many people who've gone through the divorce process have done, I've been in and out of therapy with both counsellors and psychologists. Within the two years after the separation, I had two separate psychologists voluntarily tell me that I had numerous "symptoms of PTSD." I understood that this was not a diagnosis, that they were just adding things up in an observation they made based on their experiences with me in the therapy room. It wasn't a diagnosis, but it showed that there was important, consistant stuff for me to work through.  These psychologists' comments scared me at first, but as time went on, I identified less and less with those comments.

In the years that followed, in articles in mainstream publications, I read more and more that "Trauma lives in the body." It seemed like therapists appealed to trauma as a concept and experience that many people endured. I started to hear teachers and counsellors in schools make references to trauma. I started to hear the word used more and more in the news, in relation to the presidency of Donald Trump, for example, or perhaps after the death of George Floyd, and of course through the Covid-19 pandemic.

I don't have references for these observations/reflections, but the phrase that most comes to mind is "collective trauma." It seemed like our whole society was experiencing trauma all at the same time, and people wanted to write about it. To me, the fact that The Body Keeps the Score stayed near the top of the Amazon best sellers list through most of the pandemic shows that a good portion of the population wanted trauma to be an answer to the questions they were asking through the pandemic experience. Trauma seemed to be everywhere. Trauma was trending—trendy, even.

Each time I heard or read the word "trauma" outside of clinical settings, it irked me a little. It made me think things like,

• If trauma lives in the body, then does that mean everybody in the world is carrying some sort of Covid-19 trauma in their bodies?
• If I had two psychologists suggest it about me, are all psychologists talking about trauma with everybody else?
• If trauma should be dealt with in these clinical settings and with precise strategies, should everybody be going through this process to deal with their own trauma?
• If trauma lives in the body, where in the body is it?

The best I could justify it, it seemed as if, perhaps, trauma lived in those long, stringy nerve cells that connect your body to your brain. But if that was the case, what was the information that they held? These sorts of questions, unfortunately, did not lead to breakthroughs or clarity.

It just didn't seem to work. I started to feel like contemporary trauma was a concept that wouldn't exist without rhetoric, analogous to the "apologetics" that sent me reeling for my teenage years and early 20s as I tried to justify a faith I didn't really believe in, or analogous to education fads that cross the pseudoscience boundary, like Brain Gym or "learning styles." To me, "trauma" got to be too messy. So over the last year, I kinda' let my thoughts about it slide. 

But over the last month, the word reappeared in ways that alarmed me. I can't professionally describe those events here, but I can say that these events brought set my skepticism-feelers on high alert. I couldn't quite figure out what was wrong about it, but I knew something was wrong about how people around me were treating trauma as a concept in my professional sphere.

And then I serendipitously heard this episode of Oh No Ross And Carrie, titled "Carrie Talks Trauma, Pseudoscience, and Social Media: Trauma Trap Edition." (embedded below)

I've listened to "Oh No Ross and Carrie" on and off for over a decade. I love their work. This episode is a talk Carrie Poppy made for the Merseyside Skeptics, and it got my mind rolling with new ideas and perhaps some clarity.

I feel that Carrie's conclusion about "suffering" creates a far more coherent concept than any of the descriptions of trauma I've heard or read over the last many years. When I realized this, it was as if a weight slid off my back that I'd carried since those psychologists mentioned the word to me years ago. I can handle suffering, and I can see suffering all around me, and I as a non-professional can work with suffering in my relationships. But trauma, I just don't think we're using the term in a falsifiable way. I think the word "trauma" complicates things where "suffering" would simplify the conversation.

At the end of the podcast, Carrie suggests a book: The End of Trauma, by George A. Bonanno. I've started listening to it on Audible. My ideas about trauma continue to evolve. I'll write more about my new thoughts another time.

I've recently seen a couple good articles over at The Atlantic.

The first is about social media: "The Age of Social Media is Ending." In the article, Ian Bogost argues that the most recent turmoils at Twitter and Facebook's money-losing tendencies are signs of the end of "social media." Bogost distinguishes "social network" from "social media," comparing a "social network" to a Rolodex and "social media" to a broadcaster. In this argument, the media-creation aspect of "social media" is showing signs of wear. 

In the article, Bogost writes, "As I’ve written before on this subject, people just aren’t meant to talk to one another this much. They shouldn’t have that much to say, they shouldn’t expect to receive such a large audience for that expression, and they shouldn’t suppose a right to comment or rejoinder for every thought or notion either." I like this because I know I often feel as if I have very little to say, and I feel bad about it. I feel bad that I abandon this blog so often; I feel bad that songwriting is such a chore. But I feel good that I've generally abandoned the content-creation model of social media, except perhaps with sporadic Instagram posts. I don't expect many, if any, "likes" on my posts anymore, and certainly don't expect comments. 

The article reminds me of how, when I taught high school English in Agassiz, British Columbia, in order to garner attention and connection with my students, I'd try to make references to social media. However, the students generally didn't care about my references. Those kids had already moved on from the social media model, I felt. Social media, it seemed, was for old people. 

I've never understood TikTok, and I likely never will. But I'm glad to not feel beholden to creating media in the search for attention. At this point I think I make all my media just for me. 

The second article is titled, "Electric Vehicles are Bringing out the Worst in Us," by David Zipper. In this article, Zipper argues that American auto companies' obsession with SUVs and trucks may cause problems with safety and the environment in the growing electric vehicle market.

Zipper writes, "Even modest- size electric cars are not a climate panacea. A 2020 study by University of Toronto scholars found that electrification of automobiles cannot prevent a global temperature rise of 2degrees Celsius by 2100 without a concurrent shift toward cleaner travel modes such as public transportation and bicycles." This backs up a few of my suspicions: 1. that electric vehicles need very specific non-renewable resources that may not be available to all of us, 2. that the problems in our cities and roads are caused by cars, not by what powers them, and that 3. electric vehicles are a flashy way to maintain the status quo.

I drive an old gasoline-powered vehicle. I don't like the car, but it's my car. It's not powerful or sexy. I'd love to change that, to have a cooler, more fuel efficient vehicle. But I'm not jumping on the EV bandwagon because I think the technology is still in its infancy. I want to see where it goes, and I want it to be cheaper. I feel like all the insecurities I feel about my garbage-excuse-for-a-car would not be replaced by a new, electric vehicle, but would be better replaced by living somewhere walkable, where I have better access to transit, where I don't need a car at all. That would create a far better quality of life, I believe, than jumping on the EV bandwagon before I've driven this car, and a few more, into the ground. 

I also don't feel confident that worldwide mining operations will be able to keep up with the requisite EV demand for lithium and cobalt. These materials... there's only so much of them. I'm not sure that the world can produce them enough to make EVs sustainable. 

Those are the two articles that drew my attention over the last couple of days. 

I often have podcasts and video essays playing in the background while I work or do chores. Here are a few bits of content that I've recently enjoyed.

I discovered Zoe Bee's videos only a few weeks ago. According to my YouTube history, I'd watched one of her videos before, but now I'm focusing a bit on them. This video, "Grammarly is Garbage, and Here's Why," sympathetically approaches the use of grammar programs to improve one's writing. Her conclusion is fair: using a grammar program is fine, but does "more harm than good."  

I've had a difficult relationship with grammar over the years. I've always enjoyed writing and I've always wanted to write effectively. I've taken a lot of pride in the good marks I've received on specific assignments; I take a lot of pride in a couple of my songs that came out particularly well. I've gone through phases where I tried to write exclusively in E-Prime, even to the point of speaking in it. What I mean is, I take my grammar and semantics seriously. 

I may be serious, but that doesn't mean I'm skilled or effective.  I wouldn't take my successes so seriously if my writing didn't bomb so regularly. ​When I look at old essays, old blog posts, old journal entries, I feel ashamed. In those old compositions, my language comes off as sloppy and hackneyed; my arguments seem weak and unauthoritative. For someone who wishes he went into journalism, there is plenty of evidence to show a history of bad writing. 

Despite this, Grammarly often pisses me off. Sometimes I appreciate its ability to point out sloppy writing, but I rarely change the sentence the way Grammarly suggests. To me, Grammarly usually points out a small solution to a larger semantic problem in the piece. 

I've been an English teacher for most of my adult life. However, I still haven't cared to learn many of the technical terms for elements of writing. I've leaned heavily on thinking about what I'm trying to say with clarity and precision; getting fussy about technical terms isn't as effective, to me, as taking the time to just make sure my sentences make sense. I still need to go back and edit my ideas a lot. I know that I will always hate my writing when I return to it in a few months, but Grammarly and grammar programs have never changed that pattern for me.

An example might be my post from 2015 about Bill Tapley. It has six comments right now, so it's by far the most popular post on this blog. I go back to that post, however, and its writing comes off as... weak: my verbs are imprecise; my nouns aren't concrete; my sentences are sloppy. But for the life of me I doubt Grammarly could help me much there. The post, and the thinking behind it, need a complete workover from top to bottom, or, perhaps, more likely, a deletion.

I still battle with my writing. I misplace my modifiers; my passive voice use is inconsistent; my tone is clunky and cumbersome. But Grammarly isn't the way to deal with those problems. Instead, I need to keep practicing and keep trying to empathize with my reader's point of view. And I need to keep finding ways to enjoy myself while I write. 

Which is a long way to say, I agree with most of the Zoe Bee video, embedded above.

Max Headroom is one of my earliest TV memories. He was everywhere in a formative moment in my childhood. And then he was gone. I'd thought about him a bit over the years, but never in a way that led me to do any research. He was just there on the edge of my consciousness, popping up once or twice a year. Until this video appeared in my YouTube feed.

"On Max Headroom: The Most Misunderstood Joke on TV" is an excellent video essay. It provides history, analysis, context, and some synthesis that helped to bring a few of my disparate memories together. I remember a few of the commercials; I think I may have watched a few episodes of the dramatic TV series; I probably saw an interview here and there. But I couldn't cohesively assemble my impressions until I saw this video.

I've always leaned towards ironic comedy that pokes into tropes we don't quite admit to. SNL is usually too on-the-nose for me, and work like Chappelle's is too abrasively self-important. But I like how Max Headroom works in the middle: it weaves between genres and tropes and makes me ask lots of questions. And those questions often lead to smiles and quirky shifts in perspective.

And I like the ephemera of it, that something like Max Headroom couldn't really come out of a different place and time than where it came from. We couldn't re-create it; it wouldn't work. This "On Max Headroom" video is fun because it also describes numerous times when Max Headroom, even in his own space and time, just didn't work. I like the type of nuance that this video exemplifies.