Something Old...

. . . Behold Exhibit A:

Okay, okay, okay. Not really that old.

But today, thanks to whatever pathogen has so deftly lodged itself in my cells, I positively feel like this:

... but with less of the silky tresses and sparkly eyes. We both, however, could do with a really good mani/pedi, and some moisturizer.

Never the less.

With Wednesday, comes the sometimes regular/sometimes constipated Wanderlust Wednesday, in which I present to you sad photography from around the world (courtesy of the mad SLR skills du moi).

Today's subject: Toronto's Hockey Hall of Fame:

Fact: The second most prevalent religion in Canada, behind Christianity, is Hockey.

Not unlike Muslims making The Hajj to Mecca, Jews making Aliyah to Israel, Roman Catholics converging on Vatican City, we Canadians have an inherent obligation to make a pilgrimmage to the HHOF at least once in our lifetimes.

(More than once, and you get a punch card for a Tim Horton's coffee and donut)

But you say, "Baroness, surely you are exaggerating. This is not religion".

And I would say back to you, "But I'm not exaggerating - would you believe me if there were a sign?"

And then you would say, "Like a sign from God?"

And then I would say, "Well, okay."

"If you consider God to be the creator, and he created the creators who created this sign..."

Hell-oooooooo?

Cath-edral?

Tem-ple?

Now I may not be the most religious person in the world, but even I can understand that those aren't words that one throws around lightly.

This is serious stuff, people. Much learning to be done.

So here's what I culled from my first experience at the Cathedral:

1. Some hockey players were actually psycho killers in the off-season:

Potential Looney , "Never Trust a Man With 2 First Names", #1

Potential Looney, "Name's Ken, but you can call Me Freddy", #2

2. Some were possibly porn stars (or at least had the correct hair/mustache combo*):

3. Some hockey players had never heard of putting cedar balls in the clothes closet to repel moths (or maybe they just didn't get the memo)
(because maybe memos hadn't been invented yet) :


4. She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named really is everywhere, and apparently has her own hockey team:

5. I too, apparently, had my own hockey team, The vonBloggenschtern Blustering Bulldogs. Although, apparently, the team never actually hit the ice, as it went bankrupt trying to pay for all the iron-on letters for the jerseys:

6. Whoever is in charge of stocking the giftshop is a misogynistic asshat. Oh, sure, there are jerseys and jackets and sticks and pucks and coffee mugs. Lamps and mousepads, even.

But what about Maple Leaf tiaras, like the soulful Lady Byng is rocking? I would have SO bought one of those. Maybe three. Your loss, suckers:


There is a quaint little Canadian saying, "At the end of the learnin', there should be somethin' to make it all worthwhile".

(yeah, alright already - it's not so quaint)

(or Canadian, really)

(just roll with me here - I don't have the energy to think of a fierce segue...)

At the end of all the Cathedral-esque factoids I had taken into my heart and soul, it was time for the piece de resistance.

The Holy Grail of Hockey.

Or, as the final winning team refers to it, The Champagne Glass/Ice Cream Bowl/Baby Tub/Whatever-I-damn-well-want-to-Put-in-it Cup.

As you can see from the second picture, the building that the Hockey Hall of Fame resides in was once a bank. On the top floor of the hall, the curators have done an amazing job to keep the 1800's vibe going on - there has been loving restoration; the room that the Cup sits in has a domed ceiling with lovely stained glass. One must follow the way up a set of stairs in this direction:

With each step, the angels' singing becomes clearer. At the top of the stairs, the sun's rays burst through the stained glass directly onto the cup:

"La, la, la, laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

With God as my witness, it was a truly religious experience.

Well, for my husband, at least.

I'm still kinda pissed about the whole tiara thing.
********************

* I only know this through vague hearsay