Subbing for the Ottawa Centaurs
And a cure for AI
The goalie slept in, again, but we only realized that he was nowhere to be found after the airline crew began boarding the flight that would take us to Boston for the second of back-to-back games.
“Great,” Shane said. “How can we compete without a goalie?”
“Don’t sweat it,” coach Tush said. “Someone on the roster knows how to play goalie. McCarthy, you know how to stop pucks?”
“Coach, McCarthy can’t play goalie,” Shane said. “He’s a rook who’s barely proven himself on the practice squad. And that gap tooth is wide enough to let any puck through.”
“I used to play goalie in a street hockey league growing up,” I said. “And I was backup goalie in high school.”
“Street hockey?” Hollander said dismissively.
“It’s pretty hard to stop a wiffle ball when gravel is flying at you,” I said. “Think of Neo in The Matrix dodging all those bullets, except instead of dodging, he stops them with his body.”
“McCarthy’s the only one who can fit inside Gourd’s pads,” coach Tush said, pointing out that Gourd was on the slender side for goaltenders. “He’ll be goalie. It’s just one game, Shane. Maybe the front office will finally get rid of Gourd next summer. We all know you need a reliable defensive anchor to win another cup. For now, let’s just get through this weekend.”
In the brightly lit away team locker room, I pulled Gourd’s pads from his duffel and a musty stench arose. The gear was still damp with sweat from the night before.
“Does the team not wash Gourd’s equipment or something?” I yelled. “This is gross.”
“Gourd’s crazy superstitious and he says washing them would remove the force field he builds up throughout the season,” Steel said.
“So this is more than one day of grime?” I asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
“If I was on the other team, that stench would be enough to keep me away from the net,” Dick said. “I think he’s stinky because he’s lazy and he thinks the stink will keep the other team away.”
“I was already dreading having to take Rozanov’s powerful strokes,” I said. “Now I have to do it with the smell of Gourd’s balls in my face?”
“It’s sixty minutes,” Shane said. “You’ll survive.”
I slid into Gourd’s leggings and could feel the rubbery sweat congeal and seep through my joggers. My undershirt provided a layer between my skin and the looser upper body pads, I pulled on a second pair of socks to shield my feet, and I refused to wear the mouth guard, but I could feel gunk in the finger tips as I tightened the gloves.
“Does anyone have anything I can mitigate the stench with?”
“I have an armpit stick that’ll knock out any odor,” Rod said. “Want a rub?”
“Uhhh sure,” I said, grossed out that this was his daily deodorant. He fished it from his bag and tossed it to me. I snapped off the lid and saw that the stick was overdue for a replacement. The plastic top was bone-dry. I turned the knob and bits of gel eked out of the holes. Before I could rub it across my upper lip, Shane plucked it from my hands.
“Use this instead,” Shane said, holding a small glass jar that said Dolce & Gabbana After Hours. He pressed a dot onto his finger and then gently dabbed the viscous, rose-scented lube under my nose. “Don’t worry if you swallow some. It’s edible.”
“Thanks, Captain,” I said. “Any last words of advice for tonight?”
“Rozanov is ambidextrous, but he likes to score with a flick of his right wrist,” he said. “And make sure you conceal that gap tooth. It’s a liability in the net.”
I tried to keep those words in mind as I skated toward the net and smacked its four corners with my stick. As long as I stand still and cover as much of the net as possible with my body, I’ll be good.
That turned out to be a pretty good strategy in terms of blocking shots and keeping the score low but it made me feel unexpected sympathy for Gourd’s malodorous tactic. The impact of the blistering pucks broke blood vessels. I ached in my muscles, my ligaments, my bones. I could barely lift my arms. After sustaining this much bruising, I’d need an extra rest day, too.
Shane dabbed another dot of lube on my lip and booped me on the nose before the third period.
“One more period, McCarthy,” he said. “We’re up one goal. Let’s seal the deal.”
Just then Rozanov skated by and passed his stick along Shane’s butt.
“Not now,” Shane said. “After the game. Remember: Four, One, Two, One.”
“This game is over,” Rozanov smirked. “If I get the puck through the rook’s gap, that’s two points and we win.”
“I told you to keep that gap hidden,” Shane said. “Now he’s going straight for it. When he wants something, there’s nothing you can do to stop him.”
The final period crawled by and I found myself staring up at the game clock, willing the seconds to move faster. Lost in a painful daze, head lolling back, I didn’t see Rozanov racing towards me on a breakaway. He pinned me against the net with his penetrating gaze and, as if telepathically commanded, I opened my mouth and revealed my gap. He skid to a stop, ice crystals from his skates arcing in the air, and loaded up his stick. The puck, a burst of energy, passed through my helmet, into my open mouth, and between my gap for two points.
That was the first and last time I played goalie for the Ottawa Centaurs. Gourd was traded in the offseason. And Shane finally got the coverage he needed to dominate Rozanov.
Broadway Is a Cure for AI Malaise
Any theater production, live music, or arts programming is a reminder that AI can never fully bridge the human gap. AI, the closer it mimics human appearance and behavior, paradoxically moves further into the uncanny valley, a state that we intuitively sense as off and viscerally reject.
Watching the Buena Vista Social Club from the second row the other night (thanks to the ticket lottery on Telecharge) was a beautiful experience. I could have watched the cast and band perform for hours more. The musical arrangements are infectiously enjoyable, the dancers on stage move with a grace that comes from hundreds of hours of practice, the vocal performances are moving, and the story is a refreshing and lively tale of the resilience of culture.
Broadway shows are a huge economic undertaking, collectively creating thousands of cast and crew jobs. In this era of professional displacement, live performance functions as a bastion of resistance, but only if we buy tickets and attend. We have to go to shows to keep human art alive. There’s something fortifying and life-enhancing about seeing artists embody creative passion that can permeate your life. It’s a transportive experience, traveling to another world, from which you might find that special spark that brings your inspiration to life.
Mentors, Mentaurs, Men Tours
The Channel 5 interview with Clavicular shows how consequentially the Covid-19 pandemic affected young people. He fell down the sludgy sink hole of brain-warping incel forums at the tail end of his school’s shutdown. This is not to say that closing schools was a bad idea—it was essential for public health—it’s just that our ring-wing society failed to ensure that it went smoothly. If we had solidarity, the viral curve of covid could have been broken in a much shorter time frame and if we meaningfully invested in our children then there would have been less damage to their mental health and cognitive development and we’d see less Jesters like Clavicular slogging for attention.
Anyways, Clavicular said something interesting toward the end of the interview when asked what his followers should do once they reached maximum appearance. He said he couldn’t tell anyone else how to live their life because everyone was unique and, once they looksmaxxed, had to decide for themselves what to do with their hard bods, dead eyes, and shriveled balls. This, of course, is a deflection because if anyone followed the looksmaxxing bible they would develop an extremely narrow understanding of what a human life could entail.
But in his admission, we can glimpse that humans don’t actually want to looksmaxx; they want to memaxx. Memaxx sounds like id amok, a narcissistic desire to suck the world into your own blackhole. I more so mean it in the sense of, people yearn to find out what moves them. As the Jester noted, people are unique and have a path all their own. Young men just tend to get derailed by grifters, like the Jester, who profit from their isolation and insecurities, capture their attention, sell them junk, and fool them into thinking the world is rife with enemies rather than friends and loved ones.
The New Yorker recently profiled some of the weekend boot camps that have emerged to help men become “alpha males,” a term that, as Charles Bethea writes, has an ironic history. Originally coined to describe alpha males in primate groups that act as diplomats and consolers, the term has since come to mean men who refuse to apologize and use the threat of violence to get their way. Most of these camps, unsurprisingly, are dangerously misguided and further isolate and harm men.
It got me thinking that there’s a serious need for meaningful self-development settings for men, places that can impart calmness, curiosity, playfulness, emotional resilience, and love. But, to attract easily triggered men, it has to be done within a trojan horse of alpha male vernacular.
Alpha males DOMINATE their thoughts and ACHIEVE calmness
Alpha males BUILD community and FORGE connection
Alpha males PROTECT the integrity of others and DENY all forms of bigotry
Alpha males TRUST in love
Alpha males DEMAND hugs and cuddles and kisses and sweet treats
Okay, maybe that last one needs some tweaking. But there’s a business opportunity here. Who wants to fund my venture? Scott Galloway, perhaps? Brian Johnson?
Happy Couchella to all those who observe
Some of the artist worth checking out on the livestream (excluding edm): The XX, Dijon, Lykke li, Ninajirachi, Blood Orange, Ethel Cain, Swae Lee, Bieber, the Strokes, Addison Rae, Alex G, Geese, Pinkpanthress, Nine Inch Noize, Karol G, Wet Leg, Foster the People, Jane Remover, OKlou, Model/Actriz, Little Simz, and, of course, my birthday twin FKA Twigs.