Jim Jefferies Brilliant at NAC

Standing in front of a sold-out crowd of 2,500 at the National Arts Centre, Jim Jefferies attempted to make his audience believe he didn't care about the night's event. It's the bad boy reputation he's formed over the years of obliterating every single aspect of society all the other comics are too afraid to mock.

It started very early on in the show, in fact, the first words he spoke.

Walking out to a careless, lazy introduction, by who may very well have been just the guy behind the audio board, Jefferies took exception and called out the presenter. The jab was harmless, but set the stage for no punches to be pulled throughout his performance.

Everyone was fair game: the couple in the third row that got up and left disgusted in the early moments of the set, the 90-year-old man with his son sitting an arms length away from the stage, and of course, the five people in the back who dressed up as the plural of Jefferies' favourite word, each with a big, bold letter on their shirt.

Before he began his set, Jefferies made it seem as if he barely even knew where he was.

"Good to be in... uh... right, Ottawa."

His opening dialogue would have the average viewer make the assumption that Jefferies just didn't care; that it was simply his last show on a short stopover through several boring Canadian cities.

They'd be wrong, though. Because he cared more than anyone in that room could fathom.

After his opening remarks, Jefferies proceeded with an outstanding 15 minute routine on Tim Hortons and flying through the Maritimes.

Canadian comics don't even do that much material on Tim Hortons, let alone an Australian who lives in Hollywood.

It was a breath of fresh air seeing one of the world's best comedians set aside a large chunk of his set for a routine he could only use in Canada. Though he has been doing a North American tour since May - with a quick detour to South Africa for a couple days - only 28 percent of his shows have been in Canada, with a further 15 percent being in Eastern Canada, the only place that specific bit would be relevant.

For a man who is ramping up to film his newest Netflix special - which will be shot in the United States, as he mentioned halfway through his generous two-hour long set - no one would have been offended if he had stuck to the script, performing strictly his game plan for the big show. But instead, Jefferies chose to deliver something that would speak to the audience as if he were one of them.

After that, it was business as usual.

His Bill Cosby act was spot on, his annihilation of the anti-vaccination group was a tight-knit piece with punch, and as always, the rants on religion were exciting, but more passionate than ever and have never been accompanied by so much bite.

After recording a handful of knockout specials, it's intriguing to see how much success the 38-year-old has had without really changing the subjects of his rhetoric. But even though the bare essence of his performance have somewhat stayed the same course, the material is always original. Jefferies may choose the same topic over and over again, but he'll never make the same argument.

There's also something to say about the style of his comedy.

While other comedians tend to pick a theme and attack it head on, Jefferies uses his own life to combat the things he - for lack of a better word - preaches about. He isn't afraid to open up about his family, childhood, embarrassing experiences or just everyday happenings.

For someone who is seen as one who attacks and mocks many people and aspects of society, Jefferies makes himself extremely vulnerable when poking at his own downfalls and weaknesses.

He's a story teller. And maybe the finest around.

Sights and Sounds From Hockey Night In Canada (Rogers Edition)

Hey, hockey's back!

Woo!

But that also means CBC's Rogers' Hockey Night in Canada is back, too.

Boooo!

*Sigh*

Yes, Hockey Night's inaugural season was nothing short of a disaster, although their head honcho rates it "a strong 7.5 out of 10." But while the show's decline has been painful, their segments cringeworthy, their panel hard to agree with, we'd all be lying if we said it wasn't damn entertaining.

So, with the 2015-16 NHL season declared open, let's remind ourselves from what last year's Hockey Night crew had to offer.

#RonFace

Don Cherry 

Don Cherry or That Thing That Comes Up On Your TV Screen Sometimes? pic.twitter.com/33aYo3TgZY

— Callum Fraser (@CallumFraser18) May 23, 2015

The Rest of the Crew

Thank you for the laughs, Hockey Night. We look forward to many, many more.

The Legend of Andrew Hammond

It's a snowy February night in Surrey, B.C. as a train of empty cars pulls into the station to rest for the night before the next day's haul. While the conductor stays put and dozes off, taking any sleep he can manage, a lone freighthopper steps out of an open-doored cargo carrier and onto the tracks.

The homeless wanderer, a man in his mid 40's with a thick, red beard and a look of disdain in his eyes, surveys his surroundings. In the distance, he sees a lit parking lot with a rather familiar fast food restaurant. "I could go for a bite," mumbles the man as he hikes over the tracks and starts to walk towards the restaurant.

It's been a long, cold winter; one of the worst in past years. But it hasn't always been this way for the middle-aged drifter. You see, before his days of going train to train, sleeping in bus stations and struggling just to stay alive, he was a wealthy professional athlete.

Somewhat of a Cinderella story, his career saw many dead ends before a major breakthrough that led him to ultimate stardom in the big league. A godsend from the minors, he had brought his team back from the dead and miraculously carried them to a championship. After signing a lengthy, and quite luxurious, contract, he became a household name, revitalizing a franchise and helping skyrocket them to elite status for the next decade.

What came after the fame was a truly tragic decline. Numerous lawsuits for copyright infringement set his financial situation into a tailspin. And after a failed attempt at a comeback in the pros, his illustrious career was declared dead.

The details of his journey to homelessness are haunting. Anything but your everyday fall from glory. Once the heartbeat of a city, he was now left without any place of belonging. A constant hopeless traveler.

As he trudged through the untouched, snow-covered field, the man never took his eyes off the restaurant, which was appearing closer and closer by the second. A sense of comfort ran into his body as he locked in on the golden arches. Even during all these years lacking residence, he always felt at home when in sight of the giant, yellow beams that towered over the red rooftop of every establishment alike.

Opening the doors, a gust of warm air greeted him into the restaurant, which, at 3 a.m., was understandably looking like a ghost town. He strolled up to the counter to find a surprisingly upbeat employee awaiting his arrival.

"Hello, sir. Welcome to McDonald's. How may I help you?" she asked.

The man politely ordered a burger and coffee and grabbed his wallet. He reached in and pulled out the only card that the leather contained: a shiny, platinum-coloured piece of plastic that had "lifetime of free food" written on the front. It was almost a one-of-a-kind. McDonald's said that over their many years of existence, only three food-for-life cards had ever been given out.

He handed over the card to the woman at the cash register and she nearly choked on her tongue when she realized what was in her hand. To a mere McDonald's night-shift worker, food-for-life cards were a myth; something the employees joked around about on break.

The woman struggled to say anything as she stuttered and stumbled over her words. After gaining composure, she spoke. "Can I-.. could I.. May I please have your name for the order, sir?"

"Of course," the man said. "My name is Andr-," he stopped and paused for a second. Caught up in a moment of reminiscence, he felt like he had to be true to himself. Collecting his thoughts, the man spoke once more.

"My name... is The Hamburglar."

How I Left Her

spoiled by life itself, I am a person who has seldom dealt with tragedy.

Sure, there have been deaths in my family, but in my immediate family, really only one.

Though anytime a family member passes away it is terrible and saddening, I'd be lying if I said I feel the same sorrow every time.

Of the non-immediate family deaths I can recall, there's George, my great uncle and Nelson, my step-grandfather. The memories I have of them, though not plentiful, are pleasant. But even though I truly miss the both of them, their passing can be healed by time.

I don't have a single friend that hasn't lost multiple people who were close to them. I've heard the terrible stories of losing mothers, fathers, siblings and grandparents, but I have never had to tell one myself.

I made it to age 18 before my first death.

G was my first.

Audrie Jean Wasylasko didn't want to be called "Grandma", "Grammy" or any other name that people insist on calling their grandmother. Apparently she was "too young to be a grandmother." So we called her "G" for short. 

I grew up in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, a very short drive away from my grandparents' house. G and Buppie (we'll get into the story of why we call him Buppie another day) were always gracious hosts of early morning get-together's, family dinners, and any holiday festivities that needed a venue.

There were decorations around their house every time a new celebration approached, and the accessories even altered by season. You couldn't have the same look for winter that you had for spring. It was non-negotiable.

99 Dorothea Drive had dark greenish blue carpet, which was almost always covered with Thomas the Tank Engine railroad tracks. The only sitting spots in the room that were permanently reserved were a pink chair for Auntie Suz and a wooden rocking chair for G. While Suz and G sat cross-legged knitting up a storm, everyone else either grabbed a piece of carpet or sat on the long, white couch. Our family could sit there for hours days on end just chatting.

If there's one thing I'll remember G for, it's conversation. 

Along with my parents and my brother, I moved away from Dartmouth at age four. After a brief stint in upstate New York, we found a home in Ottawa and have lived here ever since. 

It didn't matter where you were in the world, G was just a phone call away.

Though my family and I made numerous trips back to Nova Scotia over the years, for the better part of knowing each other, G and I spent our time on the phone.

We talked about her two favourite things: sports and her grandchildren. If it was baseball season, the Toronto Blue Jays latest gaffs would be a hot topic and if there was any snow on the ground, we'd bicker about the Senators and her favourite team, the Leafs. 

She was always the interviewer and I always sat back and answered any question she could think of. Our chats always started off with a quick inquiry about how I was doing in school. It seemed mandatory. I'd answer with an "I'm doing alright" and we'd get on to more important things. 

She would ask about my friends and how they were doing. She would ask about my latest hockey game. She would ask me about my mother, even though they talked almost every night. She would ask about my father's children (my half brother and half sister) a lot. That was one of the best parts about G. Though my parents divorced a long time ago, she was always interested in what my dad's side of the family was up to. 

I was almost never the one to end our conversations. G always thought she was keeping me from something, when I had all the time in the world for her.

"OK darling. Well, you pass me back to your mother now. We'll talk again soon."

"Alright, G. I'll call you next week. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetie."

***

February 11, 2014.

At the time, I was going to school in Fredericton, New Brunswick at St. Thomas University. It was five minutes from class time and I was just about out of my room when I received a call from my mother.

I had known G was very sick, but I'd also thought the doctors had given her a few more months. I had planned to go see her one last time in March, but it wasn't going to happen that way. 

I'd be seeing her much sooner.

When my mother broke the news to me, I didn't have a word to say. It's weird how in your head you always think a situation like that will pan out a certain way. You'll be balling your eyes out, struggling to make any sense as you fumble over your words and you'll be so devastated you might even puke. But at that moment, I had nothing.

I understood what had happened, but I didn't know how to react. In fact, I was more thinking about how I should be reacting. I thought it was inhuman of me not to be breaking down at the moment, but still, I sat there.

A couple hours later, I was on my way to Dartmouth.

A day or so before the funeral, I got to see G one last time.

After a long wait in an office room at the funeral home, a director came and asked us if we were ready to go see G. 

Out of the six of us present, I was the only one who wanted to go in alone. I needed to. I wanted one last moment, one last time to be around her.

The director walked me to the doors of the room where G was and from there, I was on my own. 

I opened the doors and creeped into what looked like a small scale church. There were rows upon rows of long pews between myself and where the coffin lay at the front of the room. Where I was standing, I could see her hands interlocked sitting on her chest and her nose was peeking out of the coffin. It must've taken me ten minutes to finally get up to the front. Not because it was a long walk, but because it's hard to move when you're shaking uncontrollably. 

When I first saw her up close, I was petrified. Once a bright-faced, fluffy-haired joyful presence, I looked down on this woman who had had her life taken from her. Her skin looked almost green, her lips were sewn together and the skin on her face looked as if it was pulled back towards her ears. Her features were more bony than usual and all I could think of was that this corpse in front of me was a completely different person.

I stepped back a few feet, scared. 

"That's not G," I whimpered. "That's not G. That's not my G. That's not G. That's not her. It's not her."

After I was done denying that the woman in the coffin wasn't my grandmother, I sat beside her for a few minutes and collected what was left of my composure. 

I thought of saying something to her. I thought of the last time we talked. I thought of how I hadn't talked to her in weeks. I thought of how I should've called her sooner. I thought of her last night alive. I thought about what went through her mind in her last day. 

Did she think of me? Did she talk about me? Did she understand what she truly meant to me? Did she know how much I cherished every moment? Did she know how much I loved her? Did she believe that I loved her? Did she believe that I loved her? Did she truly believe that I loved her?

She had to know. She had to know how much I loved her.

I spoke few words aloud to her. One sentence, no more.

"I hope you're proud of me."

Nothing else seemed to matter. All I wanted was for her to know that I lived to impress her. I lived to be someone that she was pleased with. I needed her to be happy with me. For some reason, telling her those words felt like the most sincere thing I could have said to her. 

I didn't know what the appropriate time to be finished sitting beside her was. I could stay all day and sleep beside her that night if they let me. But my family needed their turn as well.

I'll always remember how I left her. 

Facing her coffin, I started slowly walking backwards. Maybe one step every minute. I went until the back of my head hit against the doors and then slowly turned to exit.

***

Before the funeral, I had done my fair share of crying over the past few days. Through stories with my family, listening to all their favourite moments with G, I wept for all the right reasons.

I guess I had cried out all the liquid in my body because I had managed to keep my eyes dry for the entirety of the funeral. 

Until the final act.

The minister brought out three people from the choir and said G had chosen Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah as her last song.

I don't think there's a song in the world that can move me the way Cohen's Hallelujah can. 

It took me to the third verse until I broke down like I never have before.

Baby I have been here before

I know this room, I've walked this floor

I used to live alone before I knew you

I've seen your flag on the marble arch

Love is not a victory march

It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

I tried to hold it in. For some reason I didn't want anyone to see me cry that day. But G wouldn't let that happen. 

***

Audrie Jean Wasylasko was a lover. There's no other title that suits her better. All she ever did was love.

I see her in my dreams occasionally. 

In the past year, I've enjoyed sleeping more than ever.

Interview with Jim Kyte

I had the pleasure of interviewing Jim Kyte a week ago. Kyte played 13 years in the NHL and was the first legally deaf player and only one to date.

We talked about his hearing impairment and how he was able to overcome countless obstacles to have a rather illustrious professional hockey career. From his career-ending car accident to playing in Las Vegas, Kyte opened up about his time in the hockey world.

This is the best from our conversation.

With all due respect, with the hearing disability you already had to deal with, why were you a fighter?

"I’m a big guy. But I never fought until I got to Major Junior A when somebody attacked me. I guess the short answer is: It’s better to give than receive.

It came with the territory. I fought because it came with my role on the team. I never thought of myself as the enforcer. I played a regular shift when I was in Winnipeg. We were the number one penalty kill in the league.

Back then, we were playing in the Smythe Division. So you had Marty McSorley, Tim Hunter and Tiger Williams. And we’d play them a lot because of the schedule. And there really wasn’t anyone on the Jets, other than Paul MacLean, that could protect their fellow teammates. There wasn’t an instigator rule back then, so I wanted to make sure that if Marty McSorley was running around trying to instigate something, if he was going to fight someone, he would fight me.

I was kind of a lone ranger in Winnipeg, but it came with the role. And being a very physical, I would break two or three sticks a game because standing in front of my net was a high rent zone. You had to really pay the price. I feel badly for the defensemen today because you’ve got guys like Gallagher or Brad Marchand. They wouldn’t survive in my day, but now you can’t touch them or else you’ll get a penalty."

What were some of the strategies you used to help cope with your hearing disability?

"I don’t know what I’m missing because I wasn’t born with perfect hearing. All I know is what I’ve had to do to compete with people that could hear. Overall I’ve always been very visual. I’m a visual learner. Really early in minor hockey, I never went first in line. I always went third or fourth and watched the other kids do it first. But the higher level you play, any team sport, the more important communication becomes.

I developed a very positional game. I became a student of all the systems that our team and coach were using. In the NHL, it’s so fast, so you don’t have the luxury or time to be able to make decisions. You get the puck, you turn, you see option one, and if he’s not there you look for option two and if it’s not there, you either eat the puck, protect it or it’s off the glass and out of the zone.

Going back for the puck, the goalie usually puts his hand in the air, and he definitely did for me to let me know if it was icing or not. Since I’m coming back down the ice and (the goalie) is looking up the ice, I would train the goalie and tell him ‘listen, you can see behind me, and if it’s icing, then great, but if it’s not, point to one side or the other to let me know which way I should turn with the puck.'

When you start playing Major Junior A and up, they clean the glass before every game. So when you go back for the puck, you don’t look through the glass into the stands, you look at the glass and you get a mirror-like reflection. You can see the player behind you forechecking.

I did a ton of talking. I was always directing people. Being very positional, I always knew where to be. I was a defensive defenseman, so I was usually matched with a more offensive defenseman.

I wasn’t shy about asking the coach. There’s only so much that I can do, so I literally trained the coach. So, like when I was a student I’d tell the teacher ‘you can’t turn your back on me and write on the board and talk at the same time. I’ll hear you, but I won’t understand what you’re saying. I’ll hear la la la la. Because I can read lips.’”

No one was more surprised than I was when I was a first round draft pick three years in a row.

On career-ending car accident and writing for the Ottawa Citizen:

"My career was ended by a car accident. I was the victim of a car accident. Somebody ran a stop sign and my car flipped three times. I woke up to the firemen breaking me out of the car. Didn’t break anything, but I had severe post-concussion symptoms, so I spent about two years on the couch recuperating. As far as that, my rehabilitation, I started to write. The Ottawa Citizen found out that I was writing for a blog called Sport Faculty and they asked me if I’d write for them. So I wrote a column for four years called the Point Man. I’d talk anywhere from the NHL to outdoor hockey.

If you came into my home, you would have never known I’d played hockey. Now, if you go into my peers’ (houses), it’s like walking into a hall of fame. But my jerseys were way in a corner. I just felt that hockey was over and I have to move on."

On being able to do a great amount of charity work for hearing impaired kids:

****Kyte co-founded the Canadian Hearing Impaired Hockey Association in 1986 and a year later on started the Jim Kyte Hockey School for the Hearing Impaired****

"I’m very proud of that. We were able to run the hockey school for eight years. (during NHL career) 

I focused on the 7 to 17-year-olds and many of those kids went to go on to play for the Canadian National Deaf team in the Deaf Olympics.

The legacy is there.

It cost about $100,000 to put the school on and we flew the kids in across Canada and we put them up. We had two years in Toronto, two years in Winnipeg and three years in Ottawa. Everyone volunteered for it. No one got paid. It was all about covering the expenses for it.

It’s right up there. I’m very proud of the school. I’m very proud on the impact it’s had on a number of kids. You see the kids that went to the school, some of them have kept in contact with you and you see what they’re doing now."

On playing in Vegas and why the NHL won't happen in Nevada:

"I was captain of the team and we had the best record in pro hockey in 93-94. The second year I was there, it was the lockout. After my first year there, I had some offers to go back to the NHL, but with the lockout happening, if I signed anywhere, I would’ve been locked out.

During the lockout year we had (Radek) Bonk, Manon Rhéaume and Alexei Yashin.

We were very heavily involved in the community. So the Las Vegas Thunder fans, they weren’t hockey fans, they were Thunder fans. So when I left, the new owners, they brought in all these Russian players and no one could relate to them and the attendance went down. They couldn’t communicate very well, they couldn’t do too much in the community and there’s a big distinction between a hockey fan and a fan of a team.

With the population, it’s exploded, so it could be an NHL market. But because of the heavy gambling, I would be very surprised if any major league sport opens up a franchise in Las Vegas. For the players, and the influence that gambling can have.

It’s a 24/7 town. Everywhere you go you hear ding ding ding. And it’s not just in the casinos. It’s in the corner stores. The gyms are open 24 hours a day because everyone’s on shift work. The town hardly ever sleeps. When I played in Winnipeg, no one, not even my parents, came to see me. When I played in Las Vegas and San Jose, everyone came to see me. I have three boys and they were all born in Las Vegas."

Bonus -- side story on Fred Shero:

"Fred Shero, the former coach of the Philadelphia Flyers, said he wanted more commitment from his players. He used to say ‘the difference between a good team and a great team is between the ham and the eggs. The chicken makes the contribution, but the pig makes commitment. I want your commitment.’"