blackhockeyjesus (at)


Neil Young Trifecta

In honor of the end of my first month of being a Daddy Blogger, I'm taking the day off writing. But me & Jackson never take the day off rocking because we live breathe & bleed Rock, so here's 3 Neil Young songs for Cynical Dad, as promised. I understand this is where I lose 100s of readers, but Dylan did Self-Portrait. Pearl Jam did No Code. Artists need to destroy themselves sometimes in order to begin anew. But you don't need to be so literal about it Mr. Really Kill Yourself Kurt Cobain.

Dear Long Haired Dudes Who Can Really Play Guitar: O shut-up.

Dear Other Critics: We don't use mixers. We don't edit sound. We don't even do more than 1 take. We just burn the living room down so we can go bang groupies.

The highlight of this first video is during the 2nd verse when someone sneaks up behind Jackson, injects cocaine in his ass, and the tempo goes through the roof. What the hell, Jackson?

That was fun. What else do you have to do? Watch for Jackson in this next one to turn into Ninja Drummer. You'll know what I mean. He just gets all Ninja on the drums. Jackson's straight up crazy.

OK. On this last one Jackson keeps yawning & I'm pretty sure he falls asleep at some point. Am I boring you Jackson? Is all this Father/Son time getting in the way of some Pokemon tournamant or something? This song goes out to all my Canadian readers, especially the ones in N. Ontario.

If you watched all 3 of these, you're either addicted to the internet or you're addicted to Rock. Don't try to get a hold of Cynical Dad; he's out buying Decade.


OK Mom Christ!

So my mom is all like "Can you find some time between all your filthy vagina talk & eff words to post some videos of those babies?"


Lucy just started ballet & tap last Wednesday so we got some good practice film. I understand the potential boredom here is off the charts but at least watch the beginning to see Jackson going off. Jackson's crazed. There's also some good slo mo in the middle. I'm an editing wizard.

This next one is only 12 seconds but it's a good argument for me winning some "Father Of The Year" award. Me & Jackson just finished a song that went pretty well. Take a look.

Lastly, I know you've heard this song before but it's a lot tighter now and Jackson added some fills that he's stoked about and wants you to hear. Plus we added a verse that goes something like "Step to this & see how it goes / Blood dripping from your nose". When we're finished with the song, this is some good film of me & Jackson just going off like Phish or some other rad jam band. Check it.

We understand that we're lacking a chorus so please put your 2 cents in the Comments section. Plus help us make up some verses too. Remember, it's about bullies messing with Jackson.

If you read Cynical Dad, you may remember this Q & A from his blog awhile back:

"1. What do you think of Neil Young?
I've always thought he was overrated. I do like a few of his songs, but for the most part, I don't see what the fuss is all about. "

When Jackson saw that, I had to whip out the smelling salts. We call Neil Young "Uncle Neil" around here, so tomorrow we're going to post 3 Neil Young songs we played today in 1 take that will make Cynical Dad a Neil Young Junkie. Cause every junkie's like a setting sun, Chag.

And I I sure hope that all this Daddy Rocking inspires Mike Spohr to give us a taste as well.


Mr. Hockey Jesus

My wife has become so addicted to modern comforts like the house that she is now forcing me to whore myself out as a substitute teacher on her days off.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: But I am a professional blogger who requires great doses of leisure time by the pool to generate my zany blog scenarios. Let’s not forget that I’ve earned $5.90 in just under a month. Of course you understand that these things take time. Karl Marx’s family nearly starved to death while he wrote the Manifesto. And what of Van Gogh, that solitary visionary? He only lived to see one painting sell. ONE!
JENNY: First of all, it should be noted in the context of your argument that Communism was a miserable failure. And second, you’re no solitary visionary, sweetie. You’ve got an interesting sense of humor and you’re cute. I’ll give you that, but we could use the extra loot.
BHJ: Extra loot?!? We wouldn’t need all this extra loot if those gluttonous children didn’t suck on silver spoons all day and live in their laps of jewel laden luxury with all that soap and food. Devil take your extra loot. O I’ll show you extra loot little lady. I’ve just opened a Black Shopping Jesus Store where people can purchase Black Hockey Jesus shirts, jerseys, intimate apparel, baby clothes, coffee mugs, mouse pads, stickers, and posters. All the items have that adorable image Jackson made of me & him for Father's Day, the one I used for the tattoo on my arm. They can also purchase Black Hockey Jesus shirts that say “I Heart Calamari” as a means for them to proclaim their loyalty to the awesome powers of the imagination.
JENNY: Well that sounds great, but all I’m saying is that until your blog and Black Shopping Jesus Store start generating more substantial income, I think you need to substitute teach.
BHJ (a light bulb alights above my head): Your use of the word “substitute” led me via association to a great idea for a slogan. Black Shopping Jesus: Accept No Substitutes.
JENNY: That’s lame. You’re just looking for lame excuses to repeatedly link to Black Shopping Jesus over & over in this post.
BHJ: Bite your tongue woman! I’m an artist painfully bound and restricted to the confines of my relentless integrity. You won’t catch me resorting to any repeated shameless plugs for Black Shopping Jesus. JENNY: You just said Black Shopping Jesus again.
BHJ: You’re tottering on the verge of domestic assault. Or would it be teetering?

06/19/08. First day of subbing. 1st Grade.

MR. HOCKEY JESUS: Good morning. I’m Mr. Hockey Jesus. Let’s start right out by establishing some ground rules.
PUNK 1 (not raising his damn hand): What’s ‘establishing’?
MR. HJ: To establish is to institute. Listen don’t just leap in and interrupt me. I have some hardcore anxiety deals. OK. The only thing I can’t tolerate is all of you yapping at me at the same time. I will seriously flip out and start throwing desks. [various punks giggle. note to self: throwing desks is funny]
MR. HJ (cont.): You are 7. I have been 7 five times. This makes me five times cooler than all of you. In fact, I’ll tell you how cool I am. I have this humonstronormous trophy at home. It’s made of gold and covered with the finest of fine rare gems. I would’ve brought it but it’s too big to fit in my car. You wanna know what it’s for?
VARIOUS PUNKS: Yeah… Uh huh… [nodding]… What?
MR. HJ: Let’s review. I need you to raise your hands. [hands fly into the air]
PUNK 2: What’s the trophy for? What’s the trophy for?
MR. HJ (wondering if this is the Resource Room): I got the trophy for—I had to build a new house just to put it in you know? The trophy is for being… THE GREATEST SUBSTITUTE TEACHER IN THE ENTIRE WORLD!
VARIOUS PUNKS: Cool… Awesome… Dude we’re so lucky… YES!... sweet.

They believe me. This is like stealing $110 from 21 7-year-olds.

Exchange of the day…
KID: Mr. Hockey Jesus. What date were you born?
MR. HJ: January 28th.
SAME KID: When’s your birthday?
MR. HJ: Coincidentally enough, January 28th.
SAME KID: Well that’s weird.
MR. HJ (in a thought balloon): This is dim even for 7, no?


Pedophile With A Ball Of Many Colors

Yesterday at the master planned community pool there was a pedophile with a ball of many colors. I don’t have any hard evidence that indicates with any kind of certainty that he was indeed a pedophile. However, he looked like a pedophile and—even though you’re not supposed to know what I mean because that would be recklessly judgmental and you’re too open-minded for that—you know what I mean.

I should’ve had my camera. I am an irresponsible blogger. Dude was carrying 75-100 pounds of extra weight all around the belly and his entire back was covered with hair. He had that weird hollow desperate vacant staring glassy look that finds harbor in the eye of many a pedophile. Plus he had that completely suspicious hair situation going on where only the patches of hair just above the ears were grey. Are you sold yet? Keep reading.

ROXANNE (my wife): Black. Are you seeing this game of catch Jackson is playing with that weird man?
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Yeah. And it’s so completely strangely awesome that it’s blowing my mind. I am transfixed. Every single time I come to this master planned community pool, my blog writes itself. This pool’s water is made of melted blogging gold.
ROXY: What?
BHJ: Exhibit A. That dude came here alone. No kids. He’s just here by himself.
ROXY (nodding): Yeah.
BHJ: Exhibit B. 45-50. Overweight. Hairy back. Glassy stare. Goofy patches of grey hair.
ROXY (her eyebrows are kinda knitting together. ROXY is so hot right when she starts getting miffed, but not so much after): OK.
BHJ: Exhibit C. He brought a ball. No kids. But he brings a spongy multicolored nerf ball. Yup. He came alone with a ball of many colors. [ROXY is now looking at me like I ate the last Klondike Bar] And look—he engaged our son off in that remote corner of the pool in a game of catch. Roxy. A pedophile is grooming Jackson at the master planned community pool.
BHJ: I’m watching the whole thing like a hawk, honey. There’s no enduring psychological consequences for Jackson just because he’s having a catch with a pedophile. Plus I’m almost positive that that’s Chris Hansen over there lurking in the gazebo with a plate of cookies and a pitcher of sweet tea. This is about to go down. [but she was gone]

PWABOMC: Did you say ‘Jackson’? That’s a cool name, Jackson. I bet you like bubble gum don’t you, Jackson?

OK I made that last quote up. I am a bad person. What I saw next was Roxanne from a distance, mutely, addressing the Pedophile With A Ball Of Many Colors, pointing at him, pointing at Jackson, not letting him get a word in, waving her arms wildly, amplifying her articulation, and I loved her. The Pedophile With A Ball Of Many Colors looked at her with mouth gaping, stunned.

I felt a little sick in my stomach for him. Isn’t being a pedophile a passive condition? He can’t help the fact that he relentlessly craves sexual liaisons with young people. But empathy for his pathetic condition was not the fundamental root of my discomfort. I mostly felt sick for him because he was catching hell from Roxy. Sometimes, when I’m catching hell from Roxy, she can issue the silent treatment for up to 4 days. And the kids intuitively join forces with her and I wander around the house like a ghost with no impact on the corporeal world… for 4 days!

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned AND a dream deferred. The Pedophile With A Ball Of Many Colors was totally striking out.


Ask Me.

Guess what? I just got a sweet invitation to guest post for Cynical Dad while he's on vacation next week. I'm not sure what I'm going to do exactly but my head is swirling with ideas. And one of my ideas entails a mock interview format. So I need your help.

Ask me a question. Anything. I know you think I'm kinda weird. So isn't there something you're wondering about? Ask me! Leave a comment and ask away! Your question might end up in my Cynical Dad guest post. Or even if it doesn't, I'll try to answer all your questions. It'll be fun. Maybe.



Jackson Day

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: That’s right little guy. I think Surrealism was overly programmatic too. Dada was fresh and innovative and—
BABY JACKSON: Dada. [and the world exploded]

Let’s get this straight, Jackson. I was just your mother’s boyfriend. I met her when she was 2 months pregnant with you and there was no way in hell I was getting wrapped up with some pregnant chick but she acted like she fell asleep at my place when we were watching movies. She looked like a wayward Goddess who took a wrong turn at some sacred crossroad and got lost in our profane world. So I let her stay.

Then when Bryan hooked up with that job clearing trails in Colorado, I couldn’t afford to rent the place above the tattoo parlor by myself. I moved in with your mom just 1 month before you were born. But, like I said, I was just your mother’s boyfriend. That was the agreement. You were her kid. You were her responsibility.

The capacity for male denial to convince itself of blatantly absurd realities in the face of the contrary is far reaching. In due time I will verse you in its ways.

Without getting too technical, there’s an interesting branch of philosophy that denies the essential existence of things. They don’t believe that the world of things existed first and mankind went around naming everything second. Rather, they believe that the existence of a thing is bound up in language, that, for instance, a tree was called into Being by the word “Tree”. This is tough stuff to get your head around because there’s a place where reason fails you and something else is required. But I know it’s true, Jackson. I know in my heart it’s true.

Because you spoke me.

Do you understand, boy? Please understand this someday. I was a disparate collection of blurry fragments until you uttered me into the world. You spoke me. You said “Dada” and called forth a Dad out of the teeming formless void. The word “Dad” blurred the myriad distinctions in the impermanent march of ceaseless change and instituted my emergence: a somebody, a Dad in service to his Son. You Dadded me. The who of who I am coheres in your word. I am the plaything of your speech.

The mouth of the baby gives birth to the Dad. You made me a man, little boy, with the sound of your newly emerging voice. So this morning, today, Father’s Day is not just about me. It’s about you.

For you are the boy with the magical golden tongue.



Lucy appeared in our bedroom like a ghost. She was scared. “What are you afraid of, sweetie face?” Guinevere queried, the sympathetic one of our parenting duo. Consciousness makes me irritable. “This,” she said and revealed in her tiny little hand a green frog made of rubber. “The frog? You’re afraid of the little frog?” Lucy nodded, and in the act of this admission, her whole sad face tightened and a single tear tracked down each of her perfect cheeks.

“I’m. I’m afraid that it’s real.”

My wife is an oncology nurse. Her day to day life entails walking people gently into their good nights. She hears their last stories, laughs with them, cries with them, hugs them as they lay dying when they are unable to bid farewell to their loved ones stuck in traffic. My wife is a saint. Where she works there is a brilliant doctor. He’s on the verge of curing cancer. He lives in a mansion on top of a big hill that looks down on us all. He is intelligent and funny and he looks like Patrick Dempsey. His penis is a monstrous serpent that makes a mockery of my ridiculous penis. One day he asks my wife for a chart and their eyes lock and he is struck dumb like I was when I saw her for the first time in that bookstore. Suddenly, his life revolves around her. It’s even hard to focus on curing cancer. I stop shaving and bathing and I take to drinking heavy. I pick up the kids on weekends and every other Wednesday to have dinner at T.G.I.Fridays. When I drop them off at the mansion on top of the big hill that looks down on us all, my wife refuses to answer the door. The doctor answers. He wears no shirt and has rock hard abs. We shake hands. He’s made of rubber, but I’m afraid that he is real.

Sometimes I lie awake at night and my vivid imagination sees 4 piles of bones. We will all one day perish. When you see Jackson & Lucy rolling around, wrestling, laughing and making messes, it seems impossible to fathom. When you tickle Lucy’s belly, the sound of her laughter itself seems an airtight argument against the truth of death. But sometimes when I can’t sleep, I am haunted by these images of bones. And I wish I wish with all my might that they were only made of rubber.



Jackson was trying to skin the cat. Pan was giving him a tough go of it too. Pan’s very nervous. He has 5 feet of personal space in which he rarely permits invasions. And when you’re trying to give him ear drops or skin him, you better look out. I don’t usually mess with Pan. But Jackson was getting all scratched up and he was holding the knife wrong, so I had to intervene.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: Dude. Stop. Jackson. Stop. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.
JACKSON (bleeding): Please do tell.
BHJ: You gotta hold him by the scruff of the neck. Tight. Like this.
PAN: Damn!
BHJ: Quiet down you. And then—gimme that knife—you pick a leg and start at the top like this.

I was showing my son another way to skin the cat when a very ugly woman from the SPCA busted the front door off its hinges.

VERY UGLY WOMAN FROM THE SPCA: Freeze! Drop the cat! Everyone freeze! I said drop the cat! Drop the cat! Drop the cat! I said drop the cat!
PAN: Lemme go.
VUWFTSPCA: What is the meaning of this?!?
BHJ: Nothing. We’re just goofing around. Relax. Good lord you’re shockingly ugly.
VUWFTSPCA: You call skinning a defenseless animal “just goofing around”?
BHJ: O you mean the cat? Hold on one second. We’re not really skinning the cat. It’s a figure of speech we’re riffing on. It’s not really happening. We’re not inside a literal space here.
VUWFTSPCA: Not inside a literal space?
JACKSON: No. This is… text. Words.
PAN: Psst. Lady. Cats don’t really talk.
VUWFTSPCA: O but this is merely showy evasion. Maybe you’re not literally skinning the cat. But you condone cat skinning. Your writing perpetuates cat skinning. You’re admitting your support for the skinning of defenseless cats.
BHJ: Nope. Not really. Like I said. We’re not being literal.
VUWFTSPCA: But these are first person prose pieces on a personal blog about your specific family!
JACKSON: Again. Not really. For instance, my Dad’s not as cool as he’s portrayed. We’re characters. It’s not real. Lighten up Very Ugly Woman From The SPCA.
VUWFTSPCA: Not real?!? But I’m I’m I’m I’m I’m real.
PAN: There is no self that abides.
BHJ: You’re not real and this conversation never really happened. We’re just having fun.
VUWFTSPCA: But how can you have fun in a world where cats really are skinned? Children are starving to death. Right now. Children are starving. Women are being beaten by aggressive males. Races are being oppressed. Life is not fair for homosexuals. People drink merrily in front of anxious recovering alcoholics. Members of differing socioeconomic statuses are having major conflicts based not in logic itself but rather in the clash of opposing logics springing from their respective socioeconomic statuses. There is suffering, sickness, old age, and death. We are at war. How can you write poetry after Auschwitz? And did I mention death? How can you have fun when there's death? What of death?
LUCY: I wanna play. Will you play with me, Daddy?