blackhockeyjesus (at)


One Leg Running

I like to imagine Jackson as some goofy little enlightened Buddha who was reborn into my life to unlock and free me from the shackles of my egotism. But this would mean that Jackson’s purpose in life revolves around me. So Jackson’s actually doing a pretty sucky job of unlocking and freeing me from the shackles of my egotism. His allowance is dwindling.

But he really is an egoless little dude. We’re still running in the mornings, but Jackson’s times are actually slowing down. Trapped within the tunnel vision of the rage for improvement, I search out ways to horsewhip his ego. I get right in front of him, run backwards, and shower him with a bunch of sweet ass Rocky moves. Jab. Jab. Left Cross! “Dude! Come-n-get’chole mann. Lookame! I’m runnin backwards ova here.” Jab. Jab. Left Cross! This doesn’t fuel Jackson’s fire. It makes him smile. I told you. Egoless.

When I was 9, I got my 3rd Dad (who is still married to my Mom and is a King among men. I love you Bill). But I didn’t love his ass when I was 9. This dude married my Mom and all of a sudden I was sweeping the garage. I was outraged. This is another one of those scenes I’ll never forget (like the one where me & my Mom were dancing to Elvis). Me & my brother Jeff (11) were sweeping and I was beginning to show signs of a tendency toward revolution.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: We don’t have to do this you know? He’s not our Dad. He can’t make us sweep anything.
JEFF: Just shut-up & sweep, Black Hockey Jesus.
BHJ: Plus there’s 2 of us & only 1 of him. HE CAN’T MAKE US SWEEP!
JEFF: Just shut-up & sweep, Black Hockey Jesus.

And I’ll tell you what if Bill would’ve taken me out running and did some fancy backwards running thing while egging me on, I would’ve ran myself silly. Chest heaving and throwing up. All you had to do was tell me I couldn’t do something and I was gung ho. (Come to think of it, Bill, you should’ve told me I was too stupid to sweep the garage or that I was too young for the lawn mower.) My point is that I was tenacious. I wanted to win faster bigger more go go go. And still do. How many days have I went without posting on this blog?

The luckiest days for me as a parent are when I remember that the kids are teachers, that they didn’t arrive in this world merely to be Black Hockey Jesus II & III (Good God!). If I fall into the habit of instructing them all the time, I get locked into that relationship with them and miss all their spontaneous, original ways to be. Jackson will sometimes just stop running.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: C’mon C’mon. Overcome yourself, Zarathustra. Push it. You’re better than you let yourself be…
JACKSON: DUDE! CHECK OUT THIS CRAZY ANT! Dad. He’s carrying a little piece of bread that’s 5 maybe 6 times his mass!!!

Indeed Jackson. Show me your ant. Show me your original face before your Mom & Dad were born, you perfect little boy.



Be very very quiet. The lifeguard is sleeping. Black Hockey Jesus is not here today.

Because today he guest posted over at Cynical Dad. Or is it Sarcastic Dad? I can't remember. Perhaps we should ask Backpacking Dad.


Bored Lifeguard In A Merry Shade Of Red

Yesterday at the master planned community pool there was a bored lifeguard in a merry shade of red. Guarding life is a big yawn.

Why do tightrope walkers walk on tightropes? The money is not so hot.

I have always been repulsed by the notions of insurance and retirement plans. I am not making an argument against insurance and retirement plans. That wouldn’t be prudent. But believe me when I tell you I’d much rather invest the money in the beer and hooker markets.

The bored lifeguard in a merry shade of red filed her nails. She nodded like a junkie.

Do all the people who flock to Vegas want to lose? With the obvious knowledge that Vegas was built on the broken backs of losers, what are the people who flock to Vegas really looking for?

You will find in my writings a lot of references to fire that oftentimes find expression in acts of arson: of willfully burning down the house or the self. A friend of mine, Jay, tried to kill himself by dousing his head with a bottle of 151 and lighting himself on fire. Though of course I’m glad that Jay survived, I have always considered this horrifying story instructive.

The bored lifeguard in a merry shade of red thought about malls or something.

Since I juxtaposed the Sylvia Plath post with the Charles Dickens post, I have received a lot of email declaring that I’m crazy. You could define my life as the willful construction of a rational apparatus capable of dealing with the explosions of chaos that irrationally erupt in what you might call "my ideas". What? What I mean to say is that I am the victim of frequent profound compulsions to break things and punch people in their motherfucking faces. I have spent a great deal of energy trying to figure this out and keep it under wraps. I’m not always successful.

Here I simply point out that people who have wholly conquered themselves rationally and those who overly plan for their goofy little futures are complete and utter bores. People who submit wholly to chaos are dead. Aristotle and the Buddha have discussed at length the notion of the middle.

The bored lifeguard in a merry shade of red merely stared, more bored, at the unimpressive high school boys until they gave up and walked away.

If all men are mortal and Black Hockey Jesus is a man, it follows that Black Hockey Jesus is the dawning place where light and shadow embrace.

Perry Farrell once told me that seeing images of the Los Angeles riots of 1992 on television caused him to compulsively masturbate. What’s the dealio Perrypalooza?

I got drunk for the first time when I was 12. After vomiting and dryly retching for longer than an hour, I gazed at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red and moist. I was hollow. I looked deeply into my own image and said aloud: “You need to do this more often.”

The bored lifeguard in a merry shade of red had half mast eyes. Wished the master planned community pool was Ocean Size.

Several Native American tribes of the pacific northwest engaged in a practice called potlach. They gathered and had something like a little party, a kind of game where the winner was the one capable of destroying the most wealth. You gained status by breaking all your stuff. Sometimes, whole villages were ravaged. Some theorists believe that disdain for economic wealth and the desire to lose are viable, though largely ignored, aspects of the self.

We have no traditional ritualistic behaviors that resemble the goals of potlach except for alcoholism, drug addiction, gambling addiction, addiction to destructive behavior in general, and suicide.

Why do you spend your money so recklessly?

The bored lifeguard in a merry shade of red was bored to death.

If you’ve ever met an “artist” who knows nothing of gambles & danger, then you know what it’s like to meet a bored life guard.

Jackson & Lucy survived the day at the pool in spite of the sleeping lifeguard. I consider this instructive.


This Book's An Hour Behind

Yesterday I subbed at the toughest elementary school in Myrtle Beach for a bunch of 3rd grade druggos and this was their word wall:

What the eff word, Jasper Mocks?

[READER NOTE: Jasper Mocks is the largest known enemy of The Wind In Your Vagina. I’m sure there are other larger more subversive ones, but Jasper’s the most outspoken. He’s completely at odds with 2 of The Wind In Your Vagina’s fundamental suppositions.

1). Black Hockey Jesus is a genius.

2). Teachers are mediocre intellects who play with kids half the year, loaf about for half the year, and whine about being insufficiently paid for their “job” in huge quotes.

Most Wind In Your Vagina readers find him utterly despicable. And before he makes a jasper mockery of my unemployment, I’ll here point out that letting my wife support the family makes me a radical feminist and women think radical feminist men are mad sexy. Jasper Mocks seeks to perpetuate the patriarchy and maintain the oppression of women. Utterly despicable.]

Again, what the eff word, Jasper Mocks? Most people tend to implicate the parent for the decay of moral fiber in this country’s wretched youth culture. Yet this photo clearly indicates the teacher’s reckless support of prescription drug abuse for 9-year-old people. Plus she taught them that Pluto’s not a planet. Good God, Jasper Mocks!

And what about:



Listen. I've never been nominated for Father Of The Year but I had Jackson pretty straight on the diff between a book and a clock before I let him strut into Kindergarten. And this was the 3rd Grade! Even Lucy (4) can spot the difference between a clock and a fucking book. You could even throw in a dog and she could distinguish between all 3. And Where's Waldo? Isn't there a deeper issue with putting the label "BOOK" on a big rack of books? It's tough to get your finger directly on it. But it's there. It's a rack of books with the word "BOOK" denoting their bookness. And the clock says "CLOCK". Subbing completely weirds me out.

You know what else? There was a 5th Grade teacher named Mrs. Hardcore. You don't have enough time to read all the things I want to say about this so I'm just going to repeat it in italics: There was a 5th Grade teacher named Mrs. Hardcore.

Quote of the Day: "I like pizza."

From nowhere, right in the middle of silent reading, this drug addled little girl declared that she liked pizza. And yes I checked to see if the book said "I like pizza." and it didn't. Nor did it tell me the time (couldn't resist). The girl just thought her attitude toward pizza was spontaneously relevant.

A lot of people have been questioning the veracity of my blog claims. Well tell me this. To what end would I sit at this lonely computer and conjure up a little girl that utters: "I like pizza."? What's in it for me?

Tell me. Did a girl in real clock (not book) time in the concrete phenomenal world in, like, actual biographical truthy history actually really genuinely sincerely say "I like pizza." on June the 27th, 2008, or is this just more Black Hockey Jesus sophistry? Chime in.


Sylvia Plath

Hi Dad. Oops. Call me Britney. I did it again. I’m a 36-year-old man and I keep making the same mistakes. What is it again that all those dorks in the 12 Step meetings say? O yeah. They define insanity as “doing the same things over & over and expecting different results”. Trite. Stupid even. But fitting, no? How many times have I tried to make you proud of me? Did I mention that I’m 36-years-old?

But like Jackson beaming with his report card with all ‘A’s and 1 ‘B’—BEAMING!— I was like “Hey Dad! Look, I’m doing this blog thing and it’s crazy. I swear I’m not bragging I just can’t believe it myself. It’s so crazy, Dad. Look. 10,000 people have read my blog in 30 days. 10,000. Every state in the country. Countries all over the world. Look, Dad. Look. Look at me, Dad. SEE ME DAD!”

And just like a real Dad putting his arm around his son to give him some great Dad advice, you and your wife shot me an email about your concern for my children. How’d that go again? Oh yeah: “We think your posts about Jackson’s trouble with bullies are both reckless and harmful. What if he reads it? Think of how damaging it would be for him to read about his own Dad making fun of him. How can you exploit your children for your own personal gain? You should be ashamed.”

Do you have a moment? I want to teach you something about your son, Dad. I have become a thoughtful man. And because I am a thoughtful man, I will consider your concerns. I will weigh the pros & cons. I’ll discuss them with my wife and we will make a decision together about the way for me to proceed in relation to my children. I worded this paragraph with extreme caution because it was my hope that you would infer what was implied. But I fear that perhaps my hopes might not be satisfied. Let me spell it out.

You don’t get a vote.

See, Dad, way back when you were cheating on my mother and laying out the pattern for the rest of my life, that was the perfect time for you (and Amy—Hi Amy) to really dwell on words like “reckless”, “harmful”, “damaging”, and “ashamed”.

Did that statement shock you, Dad? I wonder if it gave you something like a jolt. Wait. Please. Stay inside the jolt for a moment. (It’s not so bad. I live here.) Too often that shock jolts us right into self-righteous defensiveness. Don’t get defensive, Dad. Relax. Take a load off. Soak in the irony with me. Let’s take a bath in the irony. Simmer simmer simmer. Bring it to a boil.

You. And. Amy. Are. Going. To. Tell. ME! What’s. Good. For. A. Child?

But enough of these emotional abstractions. My life’s substance is fed by images. It’s 1977. I’m dancing with my Mom. If I close my eyes, I can be there. I hear Elvis Presley on the record player. We’re dancing. We are poor. We are poor. We are poor. We had just finished leftover meatloaf off of paper plates at the kitchen table by the yellow phone. The yellow phone is so yellow. It’s the yellowest thing in the world. I’m dancing with my Mom. Elvis is sneering about that Hound Dog. The setting of this image smacks of Saint Petersburg in some pathetic Dostoevsky novel. And yet the tone is that of complete and utter happiness. It’s lit like a Vermeer. I am with my Mom and we are dancing. We’re happy. Really happy. My Mom is the Queen of the World. I do not know that her 2nd husband is beating her. We are dancing. She does not know that his son rapes me. We are dancing. And when you’re dancing, you’re happy—really happy—and it is not time to know these things. Most of all we do not know the yellow phone soon rings.

My Mother taught me how to dance in fires. Fires you lit. You don’t get a vote.

Jackson is 9. My lip is quivering and I’m biting it because the questions I have seem too big for him. But I’m feeling selfish and I need to know.

ME: Hey little dude you’re jumping up on 10 years here in July. What’s your verdict?
JACKSON: My verdict?
ME: Yeah, your verdict. Life. 10 years of it. What do you think? How’s it going?
JACKSON: Good. I guess. [I bite my lip hard. I’m so afraid to ask.]
ME: Jack?... You think I’m a good Dad? [He thinks. He’s such a pensive 9.]
JACKSON: Well… yeah… I love you Dad.
ME: Good. I love you too. Now grab your drumsticks and let’s burn this fucking house to the ground.


Blog Wars

So the fact that I’m supposed to be “meeting” Cynical Dad this weekend for an interview brings up some interesting philosophical issues. There’s no easy way for me to say this. I’m just not convinced you people exist.

I fear that I’m merely playing a crazy game called Blog Wars where comments and page loads lead to further and further progress until the Final Level where you have a big fancy cup of flavored coffee with Dooce. You talk about expensive purses and stuff and she shows you crazy ass pictures of her dogs with hats.

But I know that a lot of you supposedly really do know each other. You have blogging meetings and groups—even conventions. In fact I was recently invited to give something of a minor presentation at BlogHer but declined because I’m a terrific bore in person (I also have a penis. A substantial penis.) However, I’m cautiously suspicious of these meetings and groups and conventions. All part of the Game, I carefully tell myself. What if I were to show up in San Francisco wearing a nice suit with note cards in hand, only to be greeted by the lonely wind? A tumbleweed might tumble. You could hear pins drop and a choir of crickets.

I go to LA semi-frequently to visit my in-laws. I have imagined the possibility of having dinner with the Blogging Spohrs (Mike & Heather—Have you read their blogs? O you should be reading their blogs; they're hilarious plus they're well connected and can help you advance through many levels of Blog Wars). Anyway, I’ve imagined that having dinner with them might serve as a kind of reality test.

They look real enough, no? Like a fun pair. So we stop by: me, Guadalupe, Jackson, Lucy, and Calamari. There is in the beginning a series of nervous first time intros. I shake Mike’s hand and it’s constructed of the finest grade of flesh like synthetic rubber. Incredible. Both Heather & Mike make a spectacle of gawking at Calamari. It’s awkward.

CALAMARI: Um. Can I help you?
MIKE: No sorry. Excuse us. It’s just that. We thought you were imaginary.

Heather looked as real as Mike. Plus she just got her hair done and it was really working for her. I slowly reached out and latched onto her ample breast. IT WAS REAL!

MIKE and HEATHER and GUADALUPE (in unison): WTF?
LUCY (giggling): wtf? wtf? ha ha wtf?

I spotted Maddie. Maddie is a little song that fairies sing when they’re anticipating something wonderful. Jackson’s name was actually Madeline until he came out with that freaky little penis. I pinched Maddie’s tiny arm as hard as I could until she shattered the room’s windows with her shrieks. O give me a break, judgmental Reader! Did you really think for 1 second that I was fool enough to believe that anything this cute could possibly be real?

Who do “The Spohrs” think they’re dealing with? Mike very angrily asked me to leave and when I didn’t do so immediately, he punched me in the jaw. You’d be surprised how realistic the punches to your face seem in Blog Wars.

And so I’m “meeting” Cynical Dad this Saturday for an interview. He seemed extremely real for awhile until some glitch in the program said he didn’t like Neil Young. O they can make fancy computer programs that seem incredibly realistic. But they can’t make souls.


Nuttin Juzz Kickin It

This post represents the first major blog advertisement of discord between me & my wife. I don’t know how this is going to work out. Wish me luck. Can I sleep on your couch?

I’ll tell you this much for sure. I am never bailing no matter what on another post based on what someone else thinks ever again. And it’s not because of some goofy ass artistic integrity either. It’s because of my buddy Deez. Let me explain. I wrote a post awhile back that did some cracking on homosexuals. I sent the post to my gay cousin Tim to see if he thought it was offensive. Well, do you remember reading it? Of course you don’t because Tim went off the deep end. And he didn’t just bang on the post; he tore my entire character to shreds too. Can't wait for the Black Hockey Family Reunion where Tim's spiking mad volleyballs in my face. I DIDN’T POST IT. Enough said.

This brings me to my buddy Deez. He couldn’t believe that I didn’t just go ahead and post it anyway, and he continues to give me incredible amounts of grief for ditching it. His latest: "George Carlin would've posted it. But now George Carlin's dead and so is balls." O thanks Deez. Plus EVERY SINGLE DAY when I post on the blog, he pastes me the same old email off his clipboard that says “Great post today. I’m so glad your gay cousin Tim let you go ahead and post it.” And Deez is my best friend why?

[I know you’re wondering so let me explain. Deez got his name from Track 6 of Dre’s 1992 smash, The Chronic, where that dude asks that poor unsuspecting girl “Hey did did did what’s his name done get at you yesterday?” “Who?” “Deeez Nuuuts”. Deez is the all time master of the universe when it comes to tricking you into saying “Who?” so he can howl “Deeez Nuuuts”. So his name has been “Deez” for 16 years. He even has variations like if you ask him “What time is it?”, he’ll say “Nuuuts O’clock”. And Deez is my best friend why? I’m sure you’ll hear more about Deez in later posts.]

Anyway, onward to the Black Hockey Marital Discord. Cristina Yang (my wife) works 12 hour shifts but she’s actually gone for 14 hours. When she gets home from her very long work day, she gets way bent out of shape about big piles of dirty dishes in the sink, the house smelling like cat poop, and human pee all over the floor around the toilet. Plus she doesn’t think “Calamari did it.” is funny.

YANG: Look at this place! What the hell've you been doing all day?
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS, JACKSON, and LUCY (in unison): Nuttin juzz kickin it.

Next I try to over intellectualize, which never works with Yang. I used to live with this chick Jill that I could just use the Jedi Mind Trick with: “Jill. You are not angry and you will clean this mess yourself.”, but let me emphasize with italics that this doesn’t work with Yang.

BHJ: Honey. Listen. The German philosopher Martin Heidegger doesn’t conceive of individuals as traditional Cartesian subjects. Rather, he conceives us as these weird kind of meteorological systems that are plugged into different atmospheres. I’m just not as plugged into the atmosphere of the house’s cleanliness condition as much as you are. But it’s all relative, sweetie. Nobody’s right or wrong.
YANG (cont.): I just need a little help that’s all. Couldn’t you just take 1 tiny hour off from blogging and flirting with every mom on the internet to sweep and mop the floor?
BHJ: Hey whoa whoa whoa. I am not flirting. It's called networking.

YANG (cont.): Do you really need to "network" with Jenny The Bloggess in a bed sheet?

YANG (cont.): And does Jozet at Halushki always "network" in her bikini? What’s next? Motherbumper topless? Do I need to kick someone’s motherbumping ass? And I'm not even discussing Baby On Bored. You two need to just get a room.


I am sweeping. I’m trying to trick myself into liking it like Tom Sawyer.

BHJ: I’d let you sweep but it’s way too fun.
BHJ: C’mon lemme try.
BHJ: No way.
BHJ: I’ll give you this apple if you let me sweep.
BHJ: Awesome.

And it’s not so bad. It keeps me mindful. I think about all those great Zen stories where some little monk sweeps an acorn into a tree and the sound—BONK—reveals all the secrets of heaven & earth. The blue & green face laughs heartily in the dharma’s mirror of ignorance and time HA HA! Just sweep, Black Hockey Jesus. Just sweep.



Dear David Crosby,

How did you do it, David Crosby? I saw you Friday night. I wasn’t really into the idea of going to your show. When the Y drops off the CSN&Y, so does the BH&J. But my wife wanted to go and she agreed to see Bob Dylan with me in September if I’d go see you. I’m not telling you all this to be insulting. I’m just reminding Guinnevere out of the side of my mouth that she is still being held to her end of the deal (to see Bob Dylan in LA on September 3rd and to remind her to ask her parents if they can watch the kids while we see Bob Dylan in LA on September 3rd).

I am getting too old for mosh pits but your shows draw a peaceful crowd. Unless they’re tripping on the brown acid—then they’re just plain irritating, David Crosby. Anyway, I was able to stand very close to you. And yeah I was hoping you’d toss me a pick. Stills was tossing picks like he was in some 80s metal band. Why so stingy with the picks, David Crosby? You wore baggy blue jeans and a denim shirt that buttoned. You were startlingly fat, but who cares? I’m not trying to make you self-conscious, David Crosby. We were lucky enough to have a rare desert breeze that blew your long grey hair all Medusa-like hissing in the wind. You were awesome. I just stood and watched you the whole show and I kept wondering over & over: How did you do it, David Crosby?

I thought about my buddy Skip stabbing his inner thigh and smearing his own blood all over his apartment like some last fuck you Rothko. I thought about my wife’s best friend, Larissa, in her house for days, overdosed, alone. I remembered listening to her crying in bed next to me and the helpless way I couldn’t think of anything to say. How did you do it, David Crosby? I thought about how Keith was so late for that gig in November and poor Brandon went to his apartment to find him and boy did he ever find him. The bodies piled up at your concert last Friday night, David Crosby. You were surrounded by stacks and piles of dead bodies all awash and floating in an ocean of blood and do you know what you did in spite of all this, David Crosby?

You sang.

And when you started singing Our House, I just cried and cried and cried because I don’t know how to grieve properly, David Crosby. I’ve heard there’s steps, but I don’t do it right. I’ve never been able to do the whole emotion thing via any kind of orderly pattern detailed in the best selling self-help books. I looked at my wife and she appeared to me in the context of your singing as the radical opposite of all dead things. She doesn’t have old friends, David Crosby. Life used to be so hard. Indeed. And I wish that Crosby, Stills & Nash covered Pearl Jam’s Alive because that would’ve been sweet because we are. We’re still alive. We’re all still alive. How in the hell did we do it, David Crosby?

I should’ve grabbed Guinnevere and kissed her right there but I’m a better writer than I am a spontaneous kisser. But dear Guinnevere (JENNA!), I wanted to kiss you. I did. I wanted to stand on top of that mountain of dead bodies and kiss you because kissing, like singing, is a strong enough argument against death. Who needs meaning and afterlives when there’s kissing? Kissing is enough.

A line from one of my buddy Skip’s old poems says: “Addiction is devotion. Look it up.”

Go do it. Look it up.