#rounding out the F&F anniversary weekend with some real sad feels

[aliatori]

Light as a Feather, Dark as Brine

The Forsaken and the Forsworn | Early Years | Hugo Melançon | 3k words | T rated

The true heat of summer proves an unwelcome guest on the shores of Watcher’s Cove. Whether it’s because of the preternatural damp of the Umbra and its fog-wreathed waters or some consequence of the storm wards lingering off the coast remains a mystery to Hugo.

Today, it’s a mystery he does not care to solve.

Sun cracks through the velvet grey clouds and bathes the black sands in gleaming light. Warmth permeates past his rough-spun, Fold-made shirtsleeves and straight to his bones, chasing off the deep and lingering chill within them. The ink of his bondmark is as new as the flatness of his chest this Rising; his sanctified skin tightens as if recoiling from the light, but Hugo quickly dismisses it as a flight of fancy. The Fury has more important matters to concern herself with than a single young man barely initiated into her mysteries.

So he’s been told.

Were he alone, Hugo would indulge in a moment of forbidden idleness away from prying eyes—stretch out in the sun, light a roll of smokeleaf bartered from his fellow deckhands back aboard the Boiling Brine. But he’s not alone, and there’s work to do.

There’s an older acolyte from the Siren’s Maw with him. Camille. For guidance, so the Furysworn claim, but Hugo’s not so easily fooled. Only the novices like him—the ones whose inductions to the fold were borne in force or violence—are subjected to ‘mentorship’ when about their roster tasks at the fold. It’s one of the many reasons he’d rather be aboard the Brine.

Still, she’s not bad company, as far as his minders go. She doesn’t share Hugo’s reservations about enjoying the unexpected summer day either. Stripped to the waist, her bondmark undulates across her muscles as she raises her free arm and shades her eyes, black ink a void against her brown skin. The bucket full of oysters clacks like a sack of bones where it dangles from the other.

“About halfway through the best stretch,” she says, shaking her bucket for emphasis. “We keep harvesting this good, there might be a free evening in the offing for us.”

“Seems unlikely.” Hugo looks down at his own bucket, battered pilfered metal heaped heavy with clusters of oysters. An ache thrums through his tendons in anticipation of the repetitive task of shelling them, of digging for precious Fury-black pearls beneath their slimy tongues.

“Not if I have anything to say about it. I’ve got plans after sundown I intend to keep.” Camille takes a deep breath. She faces west, brushing sand from the gentle slope of her breast as she thinks. Then she turns to Hugo, eyebrows lifted in conspiratorial arches. “Follow me. I’ve got an idea.”

Inwardly, Hugo bristles at the command, but he’s learned well these past four Risings the importance of obedience to those more blessed with Xeheia’s favour than him. He flicks his fingers in silent agreement, pursing his lips at the salt-crusted state of his brown leather gloves; soon, they’ll be fit only for the scrap pile.

He follows Camille for a quarter of a turn, he guesses. His boots, necessary to avoid jagged cuts and paying unintentional salt prices during such harvests, crunch along the sand. A sea wind gusts in from the water and whips his hair, now down to mid-back and in dire need of cutting he’s yet to earn, into a frenzy, lashing at his lips and eyes. Hugo pauses to tie it back though it means breaking into a light jog to catch up with Camille by the time he’s finished.

She stops at the point where the beach curves around the sheer cliff face, the area pockmarked by tidepools before dropping off to the seafloor proper.

“Most folks don’t come this far or want to get waist-deep wet just for some oysters. They love clustering on the long stretch of rock on the opposite side. It’ll be enough to finish these and earn our keep for one day.” She runs her finger along an invisible line, pointing to the middle distance.

Hugo also doesn’t want to trudge back to the Cove in sopping clothes, wet and sticky and deeply uncomfortable, but there’s no point in voicing his objection. There never is here. He sets off towards the area Camille indicated, bucket in tow, resolved to finish this as quickly as possible.

“Hold a moment,” Camille says, lifting a hand. Hugo clenches his jaw and stops. “I’ll help a different way, this time.”

She shakes her arm until a bone-laden bracelet slides from her forearm to her wrist, draped over enough of her palm for her to curl her fingers backwards and clasp it. Camille closes her eyes as she runs her fingertips along its jagged surface. A frisson of the Fury’s magic along his newly marked skin confirms Hugo’s suspicions—it is Camille’s focus, and she’s using it to dip into communion with Xeheia.

Moments later and the pull of the Fury’s tide becomes frustratingly apparent; Hugo’s flesh and spirit surge towards it, denied and out of reach of the Watcher’s embrace due to his lack of a proper focus. Camille opens her eyes, ink-black and luminous, and Hugo hungers—not for her, but for the power she teems with.

“It’s tough to keep hold without the brine, but I can get enough hold to do…” Camille trails off, gesturing in supplication to the water.

Hugo watches as the grey waters of the Umbra retreat further from the shore, rippling backwards as though blown back by a strong storm wind. There’s a narrow gap just big enough for the two of them to fit, granting them access to underwater portion of the rocky beach—and its copious amount of oysters, as Camille promised.

“Hurry,” Camille says. The eldritch twist to her rich voice, the evidence of the Fury’s presence, sends a bullet of yearning tearing through Hugo’s core. “I can’t keep this up for long.”

Hugo steadies himself, nods, and jumps down into the gap with her. They work quickly, boots squelching in the wet seafloor sand as they strip every inch of the miniature wall, oysters clacking and pinging into the buckets in a staccato rhythm. Hugo focuses on the pervasive smell of the sea—salt, rot, fish—with every breath, trying to ignore the way his bondmark sizzles like lightning made flesh.

Once his pail overflows with his harvest, Hugo reaches high above his head to balance it on the edge of the tidepools above him, then climbs back up, careful to avoid cutting himself on the jagged edges. Camille wordlessly hoists her bucket in his direction; he takes both towards the shore as she makes her own climb out.

As soon as she joins him on the shore, she releases her focus and her grip on the Fury’s magic. It echoes through Hugo like the deep crack of a spine, punching a breath of relief and exhaustion out of him. Camille sways on her feet. He offers her an arm and a questioning eyebrow, but she shakes her head.

“Thanks be to the Fury for her storm and her sea,” Camille intones.

“Thanks be to the Fury,” Hugo echoes, his part of the call-and-response.

They make it back to the Cove without incident to deliver their bounty. True to her word, their combined harvest earns them both a reprieve from evening duties. Camille inclines her head, offers a wink when Furysworn Barbier has her broad back turned, and slinks off into the twisting tunnels of the Cove for her own pursuits. Some social engagement, no doubt. Hugo pays enough to attention to know Camille’s popular amongst her cohort of shipmates and acolytes.

As for Hugo? His plans have changed.

-----

By the time Hugo gets back outside the Cove and descends to his favourite beach, the sun sets in a dazzling display, red spilling across sky and water like blood.

Time and time again, Hugo’s presented a crux for his focus for approval, the last step in his initiation, and time and time again, Furysworn Eloi has denied him. The Fury demands sacrifice, he tells Hugo. She demands a salt price worth the taking. What sacrifice is there in the bits and trifles he’s embarrassingly brought to the Fury’s altar for consideration?

Hugo will no longer be denied.

He bears her mark, he senses her presence, and he deserves her gifts. Why else would they have bothered to bring him here at all? Xeheia is his as much as anyone’s here, and if she wants a sacrifice, a sacrifice she will get.

Secret caves and smuggler’s nooks abound around Watcher’s Cove. Hugo knows the path to his favourite by heart.

He finds the hideaway as he last left it: the lean-to constructed from pilfered driftwood, blankets appropriated from the scrap heaps to soften the ground, a rusted lantern with dimly glowing fauna scraped from the walls of the Cove. It’s salt-rotted and damp, but it’s his.

Creature comforts are not what Hugo’s in search of tonight, however. Tonight, he looks for creatures of the literal sort.

The signs are there. On a natural shelf carved into the dark grey rock of his nook, offerings of a different sort rest: a bronze coin from foreign shores stamped with a face he doesn’t recognize, a discarded triangle-shaped gold earring, and three buttons of varying sizes and shapes. Hugo’s befriended the unkindness of ravens that also call Watcher’s Cove home, and in return, they leave him bits and baubles they’ve found, including the hoop now pierced through his own ear.

He can remember the mainland books his mother read him better than he can recall the shape of her face or the colour of her favourite dress. In a flight of fancy, he named the ravens after characters in those stories, the last remnants of a different life: Reyr, Skafti, Finnur, Eldmey. One in particular, the one who leaves the trinkets, bonded to Hugo swiftly.

It’s only now Hugo’s intent sinks into his body, spreading like delayed poison. Nausea churns in his stomach, and a suspicious ache tightens in his chest, a familiar one, a pale imitation of what he felt after a different slaughter in a different place. Red and black, black and red, spreading across a distant deck.

Can he really do this?

He scoffs aloud, disgusted by his own weakness. No wonder the Fury’s found his propositions lacking. Xeheia’s influence and power are as boundless as her very Depths, Depths Hugo has only glimpsed in brief through brine-hazed ritual.

He won’t be kept from them longer. He’s no longer a shaking child with a stolen gun. He will be—is—a force to be reckoned with. On his terms.

Cold salt spray kisses his ankles and soaks his worn-out boots as he scatters his handout. Bits of oyster, thinly sliced with the knife hanging at his hip, spread from the entrance of the cove to where Hugo sits and waits.

It could have been any of the ravens swooping in from the distant cliffs.

But of course, it’s Akkeri.

Perfect.

Hugo schools himself to stillness as Akkeri pecks at the flecks of fresh shellfish, gobbling them up in greedy tosses of his head. He was ten-and-three the first time he escaped to this nook, the first time he found the unkindness living here. Akkeri had been a fledgling too, a bold scavenger, wary of Hugo but determined to steal the bone buttons right off his shirt nonetheless.

Now, he’s even more fearless, tilting his head at a crooked angle and fixing Hugo with a gimlet eye. He lingers just out of arm’s reach. Hugo can’t catch a full breath, like his lungs are full of water.

You don’t get something for nothing. This was a lesson imparted to Hugo long before Watcher’s Cove, before creche and brine and deepest dark. The fold only heightens the stakes:

You consume, or you are consumed.

Akkeri caws, raucous and impatient. Hugo hands over the last of the oyster, a cool sliver in his palm. Stone joins the water his lungs. Tension bleeds through his chest which has nothing to do with the fresh scars across it.

Hugo pounces.

Lulled by longstanding trust, Akkeri doesn’t struggle much in his grip at first, aside from the cawing protests at his newfound confinement. But as the moments pass, he begins to thrash; Hugo’s hands tighten in a vise-like grip, barely big enough to hold him. Akkeri’s nearly the size of a hawk, and realizing the imminent danger, struggles with all his might, talons glancing and wings thrashing.

Hugo knows the feeling.

And he knows the swiftest way to end it.

Akkeri fixes Hugo with one black eye. His body’s almost hot in Hugo’s grasp, his tiny bird heart beating in frantic pulses against Hugo’s palm. It’s like the Fury herself guides Hugo’s hand to Akkeri’s neck. He calls out louder, his cries echoing off the cavernous walls.

The caws stop when Hugo twists his wrist and snaps Akkeri’s neck in a near-effortless motion. The hollow crunch echoes through Hugo’s spirit like Akkeri’s final cry throughout the cave.

In an instant, he’s a warm, dead weight in Hugo’s hand. A promise and an offering.

As Hugo reaches for the knife in his belt, his vision blurs, smearing the cavern into shades of blue and black and bleeding red. Hugo blinks hard to clear it and only then realizes he’s crying. There’s no matching pang in his heart or ache in his chest— only the traitorous shake of his chest and shoulders as sobs he can’t control hiccup through him. Only darkened speckles of stone where his tears fall.

A salt price is a salt price. Let the Fury have two this evening.

Hugo walks to the mouth of the cave where twilight spreads across the sky, Akkeri’s body cradled reverently in one hand. He kneels on the stone beside the ocean, gazing out at the salt-dark of Xeheia’s sea, and withdraws his knife from his belt.

It’s easy, too easy, to invert Akkeri’s body, his clouding eyes unseeing as they face the water. To tuck the blade against his neck and slit his throat with one firm pull. To hold him upside-down over the Fury’s altar and watch the steady flow of red as it vanishes in the sea. Smaller droplets join the waters from the tears still coursing down Hugo's cheeks.

Despite his foolish crying, his voice does not crack or waver as he declares, “Xeheia, Watcher of the Depths, accept this sacrifice given in your name. Let this salt price be a gift worthy of your blessing.”

----

The next time Hugo presents his would-be focus to Furysworn Eloi’s black, unblinking gaze, there’s no doubt in his mind of the Fury’s approval.

Long hair braided, eyes painted, and garbed from head to toe in Fury-black, Hugo presents a painting of the perfect aspiring acolyte.

The necklace he fashioned by hand drapes across his collarbones. Leather cord and punctured shells form the bulk of it, accented by long, black feathers that brush the skin of his bare chest. Akkeri’s skull, picked clean by the members of his own unkindness and the Fury’s tide, sits in the center, its weight tucked beneath the hollow of Hugo’s throat.

Eloi sneers. “Feathers? They’ll be worn down by salt and sea faster than you can ask the Fury to forgive you for your carelessness.”

Hugo inclines his head in the deference Eloi expects, even if his words don’t match. “If I have to make another, I will, and consider it her due worship.”

“Then go on. Let’s get this over with.”

Without the ceremony Hugo deserves—and with a grave trespass even for a novice—Eloi grabs at Hugo’s focus. His fingers close around the raven skull. Hugo fights down the nausea of being touched at all, let alone so intimately violated.

A heavy pause descends like the heartbeats counted between lightning and thunder. Hugo’s bondmark thrills with an electric surge as the eddies of the Depths rise within him.

Eloi gasps, releasing the skull as though burned—and he has been burned, by an errant spark of the lightning dancing along Hugo’s skin.

Because Hugo’s called to the Fury.

And the Fury has finally answered.

[backseatballads]

Murrindindi Camp

Magandang Buhay sayo lahat! 

For those of you out there who don’t know me, my name is Anthony Luis Lawang... better known as Lamaroc, the dance alter-ego that’s brought just about the same amount of joy as it has sadness haha. Who’s to say that life is meant to be smooth sailing all the time anyway? ;9 Drama’s aside, this post isn’t going to be about me, but more so about us. A concept that seems to be prevalent in all my works as an artist... even if not as apparent as my fake Filipino accent tickling your inner-ear as a call-out to the lack of brown pride of being chill and familial. 

Having spent the past month in Osaka, Japan with brother man Huy Le: “...the Poster-boy of Backseat Ballads...” as he tells me of how others view him, I thought to ask him if I could do a write-up about the crew since my fingers were getting itchy and my exit from the main social media platforms (don’t ask, it’s a long story) meant that I wasn’t writing as much as I had been since 2012. After the tumultuous year that was 2017, I felt like I’d been put through the Nutriblender enough times to finally write a piece that I can say is the smoothest, tastiest, heartfelt smoothie you can drink this side of 2018. 

Before jumping in though, the last time I ever wrote for this blog/website was back in 2015-16 for our efic “Ficnic” trip. Somehow the intentions to keep on writing and making videos of our time together instead transmuted into Huy’s passion project known as the “Pogi-SawSaw x Backseat Ballads” mixes/radio-style shows. And so through spending the past month as housemates in Osaka at my ex-wife’s house (sounds like a rom-com doesn’t it?) here we are writing about my first camping experience with my brothers and sisters at Murrindindi. *Note: soundtrack to this writing meditation is “SUPER MARIO HISTORY 1985-2010 FUN!!!

;9 ;9 ;9 <- That's three winking, smiling faces with their tongues out ;9 ;9 ;9

It’s funny how things go full-circle, albeit not as perfect as the lines meeting up. As if drawn with ultimate precision, but more like the calligraphy-style of the Japanese “Maru/丸" done with a brush the size of an adult human being. As a viewer of such simple art, you can see the amount of pressure, speed and flow that goes into the circle as you see the gradient of the ink tell you the story of the powerful miracle that is the circle. As the end of the line is deliberately disconnected from the usual perfect Maru, the opened-endedness of the circle couldn't be a more perfect example of how other's, including myself were allowed into an amazing group of loving individuals known as the BACKSEAT BALLADS.

Here I am, back in Melbourne after 3 years in Osaka. Returning from a failed marriage and beginning my own healing process. Let me state first, that the failure is not to be blamed on any individual/s but can be attributed to the circumstances that became what I've labelled it as. Logically, I jumped back into everything I once knew was, and quickly realised that things WERE not, what they used to be. Suddenly, I'm thrown back into my seat, having to contemplate how to move forward when everything around me, reminded me of what I'd built and been a part of my life prior to giving birth to our daughter. Here is an artist, who walked away from his creations, expecting that he could just walk back and pick up from where he left. How very naive of him...

Having seen and more specifically felt (through some crazy psychic sibling connection) what I was going through, my sister decided to invite me to a camp with her crew of mates. Man... I remember thinking: "I haven't been to camp since primary school, and the last camp wasn't even camp because we didn't even stay the night." So of course I was excited, and bringing a guitar with me, we departed from the area real late at night. After a bit of zigzagging and meandering through Victoria's north at breakneck speeds and a Major Laser soundtrack, here we were in pitch dark in front of the national park's camping site map. Whilst our driver Thai was discussing where to set-up with the other drivers in our entourage, the smell of fresh air almost neutralised the rolled cigarette I had in hand, and the negative-ions of the eucalyptus trees brought a sense of calm and comfort I hadn't felt in so many years.

And like a Special-Ops mission, we jumped back into the car, parked a little further up, and the whole squad of about 10 or so people switched into automatic mode, unpacking their vehicles and setting up the tent in pitch black. Slightly disorientated by the immense organisation of the crew, everywhere I looked, the members of this camp were busy setting things up in different areas of the space we were to joyfully occupy that weekend. I can almost recall the hustle and bustle of that arrival, as if it were a construction scene of a fort of some military group from the medieval times, with people zipping across the screen from all angles while our protagonist spoke to the person in-charge about what mission lay ahead. 

Here we had the sisters setting up the stove, cooking, eating area on a wooden bench, which was to be our outdoor kitchen whilst the brothers on the opposite end were effortlessly assembling the sticky, puzzle work of the tents that were to be our sleeping quarters. Stumbling back and forth to whatever I could lend a hand to, there was already efforts made to start the campfire in the centre by of course no other than the fire master himself Thai Tran. He'd brought all the wood himself and only later sourced out dry fire wood from the campsite itself... Working and sweating together to build something you can all enjoy and call your own... wow... what a way to feel part of something almost instantly.  *Note: soundtrack to this paragraph “GERUDO VALLEY" - Legend of Zelda 25th Anniversary Soundtrack. EPIC!!!

While I have toiled and tumbled with some of the best dance crews of the day, our environments were usually more "hostile" to say the least. We were always strategising, making tactical efforts to make a distinct plan of attack towards realms of battle like competitions and dance performances, but there hadn't been, for the better part of my memory, moments like this that were just as intense but towards a much more peaceful cause. You see, having a career in a realm that's predominantly competitive, at least in my own experience, there was hardly a time when we actually got together and worked on something with that concerted effort to bask in the fruits of our labours. It was always to represent the image and reputation of a name or value or principal to uphold, yet what I came to realise when we finally sat around the campfire and started drinking and vibing out, was that it was these moments and that sense of belonging that I had actually been yearning over all those years. 

Here was this 30 year old, nearing his birthday, amongst a group of mid-20 year olds rather, that seemingly had their shit together, having found a way to escape the hustle and bustle of the big smoke and the careers they were chasing. Like a shooting star that came in bursts, longer than a split second of being visible; new neuron pathways were going off in my mind that left me with a new vision of hope. In hindsight, what this crew of lads and ladies were presenting before me was the returning to barebones culture... a way to go off-grid, to get out of the matrix with all the cliches of popular trilogies. That first night was like rocking up to someone's place, setting up the backyard deluxe mode, drinks and music devices ready except the backyard you were going to was in Mother Nature's heavenly realm and the speakers were our voices! Haha! BOOM! Here [we] were, speaking and laughing at the top of our lungs, not concerned about noise restrictions while getting smashed on shots of the poison of choice. The guitar was out and we were singing medleys of whatever those 3 or 4 chords could muster up with all it's drunken splendour. Who would've thought that "F**kin' Problems" by A$AP Rocky was gonna be rapped over a nylon string guitar? What were these blessings from the Creator being bestowed on me, and what was this simultaneous coolness and cheesiness I was experiencing? Who the f**k were these kids and how can I suddenly be thrown into a pool of seemingly average individuals that [are] into the same shit that I was into? It was like heaven and hell merged together and God and Satan were having a brewski laughing about worldly matters and it was all good.

For just a moment, gone were my hang ups on feeling guilty of having these things... These desires to be part of a crew that seemed to tick all the boxes. Something so Filipino, yet different in all the best ways. No pretentiousness, no bitching, no self-celebratory vibes, just all-round good conversation, a soulful collaboration of singing, drinking and just being bloody merry. After polishing bottle number we've-lost-count, with guitar in hand, I could see how loose this crew was getting. Our medley had done a Hiphop Merry-Go-Round, losing our shit at how many times Joe would bring back that A$AP Rocky song back into the fold. Just when we thought we'd be taking it in another direction, here he was abruptly throwing that song back in with such conviction. We'd cracked up so much that it didn't matter that it was the 4th or 5th incarnation of that chorus... how pivotal that was for me to regain a sense of my inner-smile. 

How I could see almost every member of that camp, sing from the bottom of their stomachs and wail with all that passion, it was like seeing people vent their frustrations by yelling at the top of their lungs across an empty chasm. How much I felt the love when we sang about love, that later I would discover to be the whole crews cathartic response to the stressful world around them even if silently doing so. If only these guys knew how cathartic it was for me to observe them and being welcomed to be part of their outdoor rituals. Even if they didn't realise the healing power of what they were doing, at least subconsciously, deep down they instinctually knew why these camps provided them with a sense of relief from the ever-changing economic landscape that was Melbourne and whatever that meant to them. 

This crew had, what crews I had previously been part of had sadly lost. This usually was a result of a break-up or division between members, or groups of members within the crew where ego's clashed and where there was no returning... perhaps from not properly addressing issues as they were arising that would end up blowing up into a massive outburst, or being unable to tackle head on the feelings of honesty and the confrontation it took to sort these important underlying things out. This is perhaps why this written piece is directed at this wonderful crew I can proudly say I am a part of. After all these years of interacting with them as a tight self-contained unit, I could careless these days about anyone else who doesn't contribute to this commune... of course, with the door slightly ajar for any other potentials that could fortify the love that we create. See for me, my delusions of chivalry and community stay alive within the Backseat Ballads. The name itself is more than a literal analogy for the dramas of my life and for the better part a simple combination of two words that can tell the world about who I am... and I wonder if the crew can say the same thing about themselves in a similar context. 

Perhaps this continual commitment and support we have for each other, even if unspoken of those certain values and principals that are of the utmost importance to us is something that happens naturally when we are together. That's not to say that there aren't issues behind the scenes, and that certain people are unable to be part of the good times and bad times as often they would like to be, but really, in this narrative of holding onto what's dear and the challenges we would face doing so; it's as simple as literally setting up a camp, gathering or party and quite literally "airing out" whatever needed airing. In my experience, there's things we cannot control, but if we can control where we make time and place our foci on, then there's no reason why we can't focus on spending time together even when the glue isn't that strong.

Deep down, I hope the absence of Huy Le here in Australia and the realisation of how much effort he put into curating, hosting and organising these gatherings is something that would make us pull our pants up and pull our weight to maintain the legacy he opened up for us. More importantly, in retrospect, we should try to remember what we all contributed individually to the wonderful and timeless memories we shared... even if that meant just rocking up. Sure, we're all getting "older" and "slowing down", with more and more responsibilities popping up, financial and other, but I do hope that our affairs in the "real world"doesn't drop a veil over your eyes to say that what we do as a crew isn't just as important. 

Without making it sound overbearing, 'cos I mean our gatherings were always so laid back 'cos Huy and other key members were the magic to make it all happen, but that these camps and these gatherings, despite the splintering off of different groups within the group itself, were all essential for the intermittent escape we needed from the bullshit of the so-called "real world". As a matter of fact, I know for myself, in much more hyper-realistic circumstances, this place we know as the "real world", of contributing to a cold society that doesn't really care about you, but expects you to give it everything, was something that I allowed to become my internal-inferno those end days living in Japan. 

Unfortunately, that experience was in hindsight the end and the death of my romance of the illusions with her. If only in Japan I had such a group that I could be that close to, that could be so supportive as to being able to stand side-by-side with that I could and would savouringly build a tent with regardless of hail, rain or shine. The individuals that I may not interact with much outside these group gatherings, yet when face-to-face, I could talk to about the many different things and pour my heart out to if I needed to... while they honestly tuned in. Someone I could sit beside and sing the same lyrics with, the two of us releasing different yet powerful emotional energy through different interpretations of the same song. If that were the case, those many years ago, then perhaps, in blatant allegory, I wouldn't be here writing this little piece and still be side-by-side with my 5 year old daughter... 

As I wrap this piece up, I ask of you, even if you're not part of the crew, to take a memory of the unity you may have felt with those close to you and remember the smiles and the sense of belonging you felt, even if only temporarily... and then ask yourselves if there is still room for that in your life. Please don't replace this favourite past time of ours and make a concerted effort to keep this tradition alive. For surely, if there is still room for this in your life, even if only in thought, then one day soon hopefully, through a concerted effort, you'll all be in each other's company again, sitting around a campfire, chin up aimed at the stars, releasing and letting go of our woes and celebrating life by ironically singing: "F**kin' Problems"... Hahahaha~ what a cheesy way to finish up... let's embrace it and oh btw... you can change that song with any other anthem that means something to you and your people. 

One love truly.

Anthony Luis Lawang

[amtushinfosolutionspage]

DGB Grab Bag: Goodbye Jagr, Hello Whalers, and Brad Marchand, Comedy Star?

Three Stars of Comedy (All-Star weekend edition)

The All-Star weekend is weird. It’s pretty much the only time all year that NHL players are allowed to show any personality, or at least try to. Some jump at the opportunity. Most don’t. And the results are always hit-and-miss.

It’s been especially tough to find a good laugh at the event ever since the NHL dropped the breakaway challenge that had some of the stars playing dress-up or otherwise getting creative. And no, we’re not going to go with this year’s Wes McCauley’s offside review announcement, because the fact that the NHL had an offside review in an all-star game was just sad. But even if we’re grading on a curve, we’ll hand out some points for effort at this year’s event.

The third star: Erik Karlsson and Victor Hedman – Their pirate costume routine was fun, at least as long as it wasn’t foreshadowing a Karlsson-to-Tampa trade that would basically guarantee the Lightning a Cup. But the real star was this quote from Karlsson.

The second star: Brian Mach’s grandmother �� Mach is an NHL linesman who got to work all-star weekend for the first time. Grandma was not impressed.

The first star: Brad Marchand – Yeah, he wouldn’t have been my pick to steal the show either. But by embracing the heel role, Marchand at least looked like he was having fun. From his sarcastic waving to to his over-the-top injury faking, Marchand came across as… well, not remotely likable, but at least vaguely self-aware. In the NHL, that’s something.

Overall, we’ll give the weekend a C+. Ah well. While only a few of their All-Stars were all that interesting, at least we still have Jaromir Jagr, right? Now to take a big sip of water and move on to the next section…

Outrage of the Week

The issue: Jaromir Jagr has been released by the Calgary Flames and signed with a team in the Czech league, all but certainly spelling the end of his NHL career.

The outrage: NOOOOO!

Is it justified: We knew it was coming. We had plenty of time to prepare. We should be OK with this.

We are not OK with this.

And I feel pretty safe saying “we,” because over the years Jagr somehow morphed into a universally beloved figure among hockey fans. He’d basically taken over Teemu Selanne’s role as the guy that just about nobody disliked. Even Penguin fans who weren’t over the whole 2011 bait-and-switch, or Capitals fans still trying to figure out how he went from perennial Art Ross winner to “guy it makes sense to trade straight-up for Anson Carter” overnight were mostly OK with him by now.

That’s a weird twist on a memorable career, given how Jagr arrived in the NHL. Back in the early 90s, when he arrived as Mario Lemieux’s sidekick and immediately won two Cups in his first two seasons, plenty of us didn’t like him. He was the poster child for a certain kind of flashy European player that we were having trouble getting used to. The NHL was a league where you weren’t supposed to smile if you scored a goal; having your own trademark celebration was basically a felony violation of The Code. So even when he took over from Mario as the league’s best player, we loved seeing him get his comeuppance.

He just didn’t get it very often. The Washington debacle seemed to spell the end of him as a legitimate superstar, but then came his rebirth with the post-lockout Rangers. Little did we know he had another dozen years left. He spent a few of those in the KHL, and that and the two seasons’ worth of time he lost to Gary Bettman’s lockouts might have cost him a run at the all-time goals crown. The fact that we can even conceive of that for a guy who played 80 percent of his career in the Dead Puck era is ridiculous. Even better, he emerged as one of the game’s better personalities, and both he and we loosened up over the years.

But now it’s over. Probably. Nobody would be completely shocked if Jagr showed up again some time next season for one more run. We’ve been here before, after all. But this time feels different. This really does feel like the end.

So thank you, Jaromir. Father Time catches up to us all eventually, but you sure made him work for it. We’ll see you in the Hall of Fame in three years or so. And until then, we’ll always have your awkward draft day and your ridiculous highlight-reel goals and yes, the image of your injured groin slathered in peanut butter. It’s been a trip.

Obscure Former Player of the Week

Today marks the 41st anniversary of one of the weirder record-breaking performances in NHL history: Maple Leafs defenseman Ian Turnbull’s five-goal game. Not surprisingly, it’s the only time a blueliner has ever scored five times in a single game; even hat tricks by defensemen are relatively rare, with only 42 players managing the feat in the last 30 years. Many of those names are the ones you’d expect, like Al MacInnis, Paul Coffey, and Shea Weber. A few are not, including this week’s obscure player: Deron Quint.

Quint was a second-round pick by the Jets in the 1994 draft. He made his debut during the 1995-96 season, the team’s last in Winnipeg, and held down a regular roster spot in Phoenix before being dealt to the Devils for Lyle Odelein at the 2000 deadline. His stay in New Jersey didn’t last long, as he was dealt to the expansion Blue Jackets that offseason. He’d spend two years in Columbus before bouncing around the league for several seasons, making stops with the Blackhawks, Islanders, and Coyotes (again). His NHL days ended in 2007, but he continued his career in Europe for another decade, earning all-star honors in the KHL.

Quint was never much of a goal scorer, at least at the NHL level; he had only 46 in his career, and his high for a single season was just seven. But he briefly found his scoring touch on March 9, 2001, recording the hat trick in a 7-6 Blue Jackets win over the Panthers. All three goals came in the second period.

Oddly enough, that’s not even the strangest Deron Quint goal-scoring feat. As a rookie in December 1995, Quint matched a six-decades-old NHL record by managing to score two goals in four seconds. How does a defenseman pull that off? As you’ll see below, a little bit of luck helps.

The NHL Carolina Hurricanes Actually Got Something Right

The Hurricanes have a new owner. He’s a 46-year-old billionaire named Tom Dundon, and so far he’s been saying all the right things about wanting to win and keeping the team in Carolina. That’s a positive development for a long-suffering fan base, but for the most part it doesn’t really matter much to anyone else. The Hurricanes will continue their playoff push, they’ll keep being that one team you always forget is in the Metro, and Canadians will continue to make up stories about them being on the verge of moving to Quebec. New ownership is a nice enough development, but that’s about all it is.

Well, until this week. Because now we know that Dundon is toying with the idea of bringing back the Hartford Whalers.

Well, not the actual team. But Dundon would apparently like to reestablish the team’s ties to its own history. That means selling Whalers merchandise, and maybe even playing games wearing the old uniforms (which were recently voted the league’s second-best ever).

And, by far most importantly of all, the glory that is Brass Bonanza. It’s back.

Hell yeah. In a sports world where retro is all the rage, this just seems like common sense, and it’s a surprise that the NHL’s various relocated teams don’t do more of this sort of thing. You can understand not wanting to jump into right away, when fans in your old city are still recovering from the loss of a team; you don’t want to wipe their face in it. And in cases like the Coyotes and Stars, where the old city eventually got another team, then you may not want to step on any toes.

But at this point it feels pretty safe to say that the NHL isn’t heading back to Hartford anytime soon. So bring on the green and white. Find out what Pucky the Whale is up to these days. And by all means, blare that beautiful Brass Bonanza every chance you get.

(And be sure to crank it up extra loud whenever Brian Burke and the Flames are in town.)

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

We’re one week away from the start of the Winter Olympics, which won’t feature NHL players for the first time in 24 years. That’s disappointing, and it’s going to make the tournament a tough sell, no matter what those intellectual eggheads in the New York Times try to tell you. Still, we might as well make the best of it. So today, let’s look back at the last pre-NHL gold medal game from 1994, as Canada and Sweden face off in one of the most memorable games in international history.

Oh yeah, we’re doing this in Swedish. I probably should have mentioned that up front. Or not mentioned it at all, and just let you go through the whole clip thinking you were having a stroke.

But yeah, this is the clip from the Swedish broadcast, because everything sounds better in Swedish. Don’t worry, though, I’m sure the announcers will be professional and stay impartial.

Our clip begins with about two minutes left in regulation. Everyone knows this game for the shootout, but not many remember that Canada had scored twice in the third period to take a 2-1 lead and were less than two minutes away from winning gold. Poor Derek Mayer. He scored the second Canadian goal that would have been the winner if the lead had held. Mayer was two minutes from being a national hero. Instead he’s the guy who played 17 games for the expansion Senators. This sport can be cruel.

Sweden is on the powerplay because international hockey is always rigged against Canada. Man, those benches are in a weird place. One of those Team Canada players could reach over and grab the Swedish guy as he works the boards. Probably should have, in hindsight.

Sweden ties it on a goal by defenseman Magnus Svensson, which is 100 percent the name you’d come up with if you had to make up a fake Swedish identity for the cops and you panicked. It’s very subtle, but you can pick up a little bit of excitement from our announcers, one of who screams a very aggressive “YEAH.” Or I guess it’s “JA.” Either way, he seems happy.

We cut ahead to the shootout, and it’s Magnus Svensson again. Or maybe it’s not the same guy and most of the Swedish roster was just named “Magnus Svensson.” I kind of hope it’s that. Anyway, he scores on a gorgeous deke, leading to another “JA.”

Wait, a defenseman got to take a turn in the shootout? What kind of Olympic coach would ever let something like that happen?

Next up is Forsberg, although this isn’t the famous shot we all remember. He does score, though, beating Corey Hirsch on a nifty move. It’s so nice that we skip the traditional “JA” and go straight to “OY YO YO YO.” I don’t care what language you speak, that’s a flat-out fun thing to yell. I’m using that in my everyday life.

Next up is Forsberg again, because the Swedes snuck him in for a second shot even though it’s against the rules and they should have to forfeit and Canada retroactively wins gold WHOOO! [checks earpiece] OK I’m being reminded that international hockey allows players to shoot more than once. You win this round, Sweden. Literally, as it turns out.

Forsberg beats Hirsch with the Peter Forsberg Move, which… I mean, how do you not see that coming, am I right?

This is the famous goal that would wind up on a postage stamp. Fun fact: The goalie in that stamp is wearing blue instead of Team Canada red because Hirsch refused to let them use his likeness and threatened to sue. He’s since said that he regrets that, but I always liked it. It’s the equivalent of making your friend delete that embarrassing photo of you looking stupid, except at an international level. I can respect that.

Needless to say, Forsberg’s goal gets an extended OY YO YO YO from our two announcers as we head to the replays. I forgot how close Hirsch was to stopping that. Usually when The Forsberg works, it’s into a wide-open net. But Hirsch is right with it the whole way and gets his glove down in the perfect spot. He’s just a fraction of a second too late. Hockey, man.

That’s it for our clip, which doesn’t show Paul Kariya’s game-ending miss and the subsequent celebration, presumably because our two announcers dove out of the booth to join it. It was Sweden’s first ever gold medal; they’d win another with (mostly) NHL players in 2006. Can they do it again this year? Nobody knows, because we have no idea what to expect from this tournament. But if it’s as entertaining as the 1994 gold medal game, will it be worth watching? I’m going to ahead and say ja.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you’d like to see included in this column? Email Sean at nhlgrabbag@gmail.com and follow him on Twitter @DownGoesBrown.

DGB Grab Bag: Goodbye Jagr, Hello Whalers, and Brad Marchand, Comedy Star? syndicated from https://australiahoverboards.wordpress.com

[flauntpage]

DGB Grab Bag: Goodbye Jagr, Hello Whalers, and Brad Marchand, Comedy Star?

Three Stars of Comedy (All-Star weekend edition)

The All-Star weekend is weird. It's pretty much the only time all year that NHL players are allowed to show any personality, or at least try to. Some jump at the opportunity. Most don't. And the results are always hit-and-miss.

It's been especially tough to find a good laugh at the event ever since the NHL dropped the breakaway challenge that had some of the stars playing dress-up or otherwise getting creative. And no, we're not going to go with this year's Wes McCauley's offside review announcement, because the fact that the NHL had an offside review in an all-star game was just sad. But even if we're grading on a curve, we'll hand out some points for effort at this year's event.

The third star: Erik Karlsson and Victor Hedman – Their pirate costume routine was fun, at least as long as it wasn't foreshadowing a Karlsson-to-Tampa trade that would basically guarantee the Lightning a Cup. But the real star was this quote from Karlsson.

The second star: Brian Mach's grandmother – Mach is an NHL linesman who got to work all-star weekend for the first time. Grandma was not impressed.

The first star: Brad Marchand – Yeah, he wouldn't have been my pick to steal the show either. But by embracing the heel role, Marchand at least looked like he was having fun. From his sarcastic waving to to his over-the-top injury faking, Marchand came across as… well, not remotely likable, but at least vaguely self-aware. In the NHL, that's something.

Overall, we'll give the weekend a C+. Ah well. While only a few of their All-Stars were all that interesting, at least we still have Jaromir Jagr, right? Now to take a big sip of water and move on to the next section…

Outrage of the Week

The issue: Jaromir Jagr has been released by the Calgary Flames and signed with a team in the Czech league, all but certainly spelling the end of his NHL career. The outrage: NOOOOO! Is it justified: We knew it was coming. We had plenty of time to prepare. We should be OK with this.

We are not OK with this.

And I feel pretty safe saying "we," because over the years Jagr somehow morphed into a universally beloved figure among hockey fans. He'd basically taken over Teemu Selanne's role as the guy that just about nobody disliked. Even Penguin fans who weren't over the whole 2011 bait-and-switch, or Capitals fans still trying to figure out how he went from perennial Art Ross winner to "guy it makes sense to trade straight-up for Anson Carter" overnight were mostly OK with him by now.

That's a weird twist on a memorable career, given how Jagr arrived in the NHL. Back in the early 90s, when he arrived as Mario Lemieux's sidekick and immediately won two Cups in his first two seasons, plenty of us didn't like him. He was the poster child for a certain kind of flashy European player that we were having trouble getting used to. The NHL was a league where you weren't supposed to smile if you scored a goal; having your own trademark celebration was basically a felony violation of The Code. So even when he took over from Mario as the league's best player, we loved seeing him get his comeuppance.

He just didn't get it very often. The Washington debacle seemed to spell the end of him as a legitimate superstar, but then came his rebirth with the post-lockout Rangers. Little did we know he had another dozen years left. He spent a few of those in the KHL, and that and the two seasons' worth of time he lost to Gary Bettman's lockouts might have cost him a run at the all-time goals crown. The fact that we can even conceive of that for a guy who played 80 percent of his career in the Dead Puck era is ridiculous. Even better, he emerged as one of the game's better personalities, and both he and we loosened up over the years.

But now it's over. Probably. Nobody would be completely shocked if Jagr showed up again some time next season for one more run. We've been here before, after all. But this time feels different. This really does feel like the end.

So thank you, Jaromir. Father Time catches up to us all eventually, but you sure made him work for it. We'll see you in the Hall of Fame in three years or so. And until then, we'll always have your awkward draft day and your ridiculous highlight-reel goals and yes, the image of your injured groin slathered in peanut butter. It's been a trip.

Obscure Former Player of the Week

Today marks the 41st anniversary of one of the weirder record-breaking performances in NHL history: Maple Leafs defenseman Ian Turnbull's five-goal game. Not surprisingly, it's the only time a blueliner has ever scored five times in a single game; even hat tricks by defensemen are relatively rare, with only 42 players managing the feat in the last 30 years. Many of those names are the ones you'd expect, like Al MacInnis, Paul Coffey, and Shea Weber. A few are not, including this week's obscure player: Deron Quint.

Quint was a second-round pick by the Jets in the 1994 draft. He made his debut during the 1995-96 season, the team's last in Winnipeg, and held down a regular roster spot in Phoenix before being dealt to the Devils for Lyle Odelein at the 2000 deadline. His stay in New Jersey didn't last long, as he was dealt to the expansion Blue Jackets that offseason. He'd spend two years in Columbus before bouncing around the league for several seasons, making stops with the Blackhawks, Islanders, and Coyotes (again). His NHL days ended in 2007, but he continued his career in Europe for another decade, earning all-star honors in the KHL.

Quint was never much of a goal scorer, at least at the NHL level; he had only 46 in his career, and his high for a single season was just seven. But he briefly found his scoring touch on March 9, 2001, recording the hat trick in a 7-6 Blue Jackets win over the Panthers. All three goals came in the second period.

Oddly enough, that's not even the strangest Deron Quint goal-scoring feat. As a rookie in December 1995, Quint matched a six-decades-old NHL record by managing to score two goals in four seconds. How does a defenseman pull that off? As you'll see below, a little bit of luck helps.

The NHL Carolina Hurricanes Actually Got Something Right

The Hurricanes have a new owner. He's a 46-year-old billionaire named Tom Dundon, and so far he's been saying all the right things about wanting to win and keeping the team in Carolina. That's a positive development for a long-suffering fan base, but for the most part it doesn't really matter much to anyone else. The Hurricanes will continue their playoff push, they'll keep being that one team you always forget is in the Metro, and Canadians will continue to make up stories about them being on the verge of moving to Quebec. New ownership is a nice enough development, but that's about all it is.

Well, until this week. Because now we know that Dundon is toying with the idea of bringing back the Hartford Whalers.

Well, not the actual team. But Dundon would apparently like to reestablish the team's ties to its own history. That means selling Whalers merchandise, and maybe even playing games wearing the old uniforms (which were recently voted the league's second-best ever).

And, by far most importantly of all, the glory that is Brass Bonanza. It's back.

Hell yeah. In a sports world where retro is all the rage, this just seems like common sense, and it's a surprise that the NHL's various relocated teams don't do more of this sort of thing. You can understand not wanting to jump into right away, when fans in your old city are still recovering from the loss of a team; you don't want to wipe their face in it. And in cases like the Coyotes and Stars, where the old city eventually got another team, then you may not want to step on any toes.

But at this point it feels pretty safe to say that the NHL isn't heading back to Hartford anytime soon. So bring on the green and white. Find out what Pucky the Whale is up to these days. And by all means, blare that beautiful Brass Bonanza every chance you get.

(And be sure to crank it up extra loud whenever Brian Burke and the Flames are in town.)

Classic YouTube Clip Breakdown

We're one week away from the start of the Winter Olympics, which won't feature NHL players for the first time in 24 years. That's disappointing, and it's going to make the tournament a tough sell, no matter what those intellectual eggheads in the New York Times try to tell you. Still, we might as well make the best of it. So today, let's look back at the last pre-NHL gold medal game from 1994, as Canada and Sweden face off in one of the most memorable games in international history.

Oh yeah, we're doing this in Swedish. I probably should have mentioned that up front. Or not mentioned it at all, and just let you go through the whole clip thinking you were having a stroke.

But yeah, this is the clip from the Swedish broadcast, because everything sounds better in Swedish. Don't worry, though, I'm sure the announcers will be professional and stay impartial.

Our clip begins with about two minutes left in regulation. Everyone knows this game for the shootout, but not many remember that Canada had scored twice in the third period to take a 2-1 lead and were less than two minutes away from winning gold. Poor Derek Mayer. He scored the second Canadian goal that would have been the winner if the lead had held. Mayer was two minutes from being a national hero. Instead he's the guy who played 17 games for the expansion Senators. This sport can be cruel.

Sweden is on the powerplay because international hockey is always rigged against Canada. Man, those benches are in a weird place. One of those Team Canada players could reach over and grab the Swedish guy as he works the boards. Probably should have, in hindsight.

Sweden ties it on a goal by defenseman Magnus Svensson, which is 100 percent the name you'd come up with if you had to make up a fake Swedish identity for the cops and you panicked. It's very subtle, but you can pick up a little bit of excitement from our announcers, one of who screams a very aggressive "YEAH." Or I guess it's "JA." Either way, he seems happy.

We cut ahead to the shootout, and it's Magnus Svensson again. Or maybe it's not the same guy and most of the Swedish roster was just named "Magnus Svensson." I kind of hope it's that. Anyway, he scores on a gorgeous deke, leading to another "JA."

Wait, a defenseman got to take a turn in the shootout? What kind of Olympic coach would ever let something like that happen?

Next up is Forsberg, although this isn't the famous shot we all remember. He does score, though, beating Corey Hirsch on a nifty move. It's so nice that we skip the traditional "JA" and go straight to "OY YO YO YO." I don't care what language you speak, that's a flat-out fun thing to yell. I'm using that in my everyday life.

Next up is Forsberg again, because the Swedes snuck him in for a second shot even though it's against the rules and they should have to forfeit and Canada retroactively wins gold WHOOO! [checks earpiece] OK I'm being reminded that international hockey allows players to shoot more than once. You win this round, Sweden. Literally, as it turns out.

Forsberg beats Hirsch with the Peter Forsberg Move, which… I mean, how do you not see that coming, am I right?

This is the famous goal that would wind up on a postage stamp. Fun fact: The goalie in that stamp is wearing blue instead of Team Canada red because Hirsch refused to let them use his likeness and threatened to sue. He's since said that he regrets that, but I always liked it. It's the equivalent of making your friend delete that embarrassing photo of you looking stupid, except at an international level. I can respect that.

Needless to say, Forsberg's goal gets an extended OY YO YO YO from our two announcers as we head to the replays. I forgot how close Hirsch was to stopping that. Usually when The Forsberg works, it's into a wide-open net. But Hirsch is right with it the whole way and gets his glove down in the perfect spot. He's just a fraction of a second too late. Hockey, man.

That's it for our clip, which doesn't show Paul Kariya's game-ending miss and the subsequent celebration, presumably because our two announcers dove out of the booth to join it. It was Sweden's first ever gold medal; they'd win another with (mostly) NHL players in 2006. Can they do it again this year? Nobody knows, because we have no idea what to expect from this tournament. But if it's as entertaining as the 1994 gold medal game, will it be worth watching? I'm going to ahead and say ja.

Have a question, suggestion, old YouTube clip, or anything else you'd like to see included in this column? Email Sean at nhlgrabbag@gmail.com and follow him on Twitter @DownGoesBrown.

DGB Grab Bag: Goodbye Jagr, Hello Whalers, and Brad Marchand, Comedy Star? published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/