Out To Pasture

Dateline July 2, 2027, Detroit Michigan.

The Detroit Red Wings surprised nobody today by extending yet another one-year contract to 65-year-old defenseman Chris Chelios, about to start his 41st season in the NHL (accounting for the three lockout seasons beginning in 2004-05).

Red Wings Senior GM and team President Josh Langfeld, who was a teammate of Chelios’ until his retirement in 2018, said the signing “continued a long and proud tradition” with the Red Wings organization, and as long as Chelios was eager to play, there would be a place for him on the roster.

Team Owner Steve Yzerman, who spent 22 years as a Red Wing before joining the front office and eventually buying the franchise, is still recuperating from his second hip replacement surgery and was unavailable for comment. However he did release a statement through the front office that read, in part, “Chelli and I have known each other for longer than either one of us can remember.”

The news of the contract renewal comes just a week after Chelios’ grandson, 19-year-old Michael Chelios, in his second year with the Ottawa 67’s, was drafted in the third round by the Red Wings. If the younger Chelios can put on a show in training camp, it may be the first time in NHL history that a player skates alongside his grandfather in the same NHL game.

Not all faces were smiling in the Red Wings organization, however. Rumblings from players at the end of last season told a pathetic story of an old man too stubborn to know when the fat lady has sung. It was widely known that Chelios would skate no more than two shifts in the first period, remain in the locker room for a nap during the second, and sit the rest of the game mumbling to himself on the bench. But rumors have also emerged about more serious deterioration than was widely reported.

Speaking on the condition of anonymity, one staff member close to the situation admitted that Chelios regularly uses a walker to get from the locker room to the bench. He has also been reported to storm around hotel hallways on road trips, scolding younger players for throwing televisions out windows, while yelling “[Expletive] Nagano!” Most alarmingly, prior to a game in Pittsburgh in 2025, Chelios apparently believed he was in a diner outside of Red Deer, asked the trainer to make him some tapioca pudding, then wet himself. He was listed as a healthy scratch for the contest, and spent two days under observation at a nearby hospital.

As has been the case for the last several years, Chelios will earn no salary from his latest contract. The cost of medical insurance incurred by the Red Wings is greater than the sum agreed to between the team and his agent. This is of little consequence to Chelios, who according to his family has not been fully able to grasp the concept of money for nearly two years.

At the signing ceremony and press conference Chelios looked fit and alert, though was quickly wheeled off the platform when he began drooling.

* * * * *

Chris, Jesus, how long are you going to keep this up? Wirtz tossed you out of Chicago because you were an embarassment back in ‘98. You haven’t improved since then. Hang ‘em up, lease a Mercedes, and sell life insurance like every other ex-player your age. You look like an idiot out there.

Sharing A Brain

My wife and I are looking for a post-graduate program in psycho-kinetic transference. We’re not sure if one actually exists, but we’re looking. Not for us to study the topic, but for us to be the topic of study.

My wife and I are sharing a brain.

Example #1. My wife and I are walking out of the bank towards our minivan. It is snowing, about two inches on the ground already, and the wheel well behind the front wheels are mucked up with brown, gooky slush. We walk towards the car, and I kick at the muck to make it fall to the ground. “That is what I was just going to do!” she exclaims.

All right, not a huge deal. Nothing to call Ripley’s Believe It Or Not over. But read on…

Example #2. My wife is in the kitchen, I am on the stairs headed down to the basement. We are out of each other’s line of sight and about 25 feet apart. Our middle child is in the living room, within earshot of each of us. She says, “Speak of the devil, and who should appear…”

Inside my head: “…but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer…”

Out of my wife’s mouth, a second and a half later: “…but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer”

Now that’s more than a little weird. But it goes on…

Example #3. I have gone at the store on my way home from work to get garbage stickers. Our little Midwestern fiefdom has decided, in its collective stupidity, to charge its citizenry for trash by the receptacle. Each can or bag of garbage must have a city sticker on it, $2 a pop. Recyclables are free, never mind the fact that they cost the city more to process than garbage and are worse for both the economy and the environment. But that’s a different blog.

So there I am at the grocery store to fetch garbage stickers. My wife knows I have made this stop for this purpose, and she knows which store I am stopping at, but we have not spoken for over an hour and as far as both of us know, the only thing I am buying is garbage stickers.

As I wander into the store, I remember what we’re having for dinner. Hmm, I think to myself, it’s been a long time since we’ve had ice cream, and I know my wife and the kids would love to have ice cream after dinner. So maybe I should grab some ice cream too while I’m here.

So I do. Two half-gallons, Edy’s Double Fudge Brownie and something called Fudge Tracks.

Fast forward fifteen minutes and three miles down the road to the moment I walk in the front door at my house, and the following conversation ensues between me and my wife, who again cannot see me, and has not spoken to me in over an hour.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey, did you get garbage stickers?”

“Yeah, we’re all set.”

“You didn’t happen to get anything else while you were there, did you?”

“Was I supposed to?”

“Well, I was just thinking that it would be really great if we had some ice cream to go with dinner tonight…”

Now I’m sorry, but there’s something more than a little FREAKY about that. These examples have all happened in the last two weeks, and they merely scratch the surface of the bizarre not-so-coincidental coincidences between me and my wife. This has been going on for years, the entire eight years we have been together, and they are becoming more frequent, and more obvious.

Most of the time it has to do with the phone. I pick up my cell phone to call my wife, and before I can speed-dial the number, the thing rings in my hand. It’s her on the phone. That, or something just like it, happens more or less every week, and has for several years.

Is this normal? You hear stories about lovers or married couples or close relatives finishing each others’ sentences. But this? Does this happen? What are we looking at here? If it were every once in a while that would be one thing. But the frequency is now up to nearly one per day, and statistically speaking that is WAY outside the standard deviations.

One of the questions we ask ourselves when we sit to think about this is, which one of us is responsible? Am I projecting my thoughts at her, or is it the other way around? Or is one of us able to read the other’s thoughts without knowing it? Or is this just a random link between two unique individuals that can only connect with each other, like finding the right puzzle piece to fit the one in your hand?

And why is it just the thoughts of the moment, and not the past or the future? Are we the next un-discovered Miss Cleo? The two of us joke about the psychic shops in the area, especially ones with “Going Out of Business” signs in the window. “Didn’t they see that coming?” we joke to each other.

We’re starting to think about harnessing this oddity in some way, some financially beneficial way, but we can’t think of anything more lucrative than a circus act. The lottery is out, similarly anything to do with wagering or gaming isn’t going to benefit us in any way. We can’t see the future, all we can do is think the same thing at the same time. We don’t really even know if the other person is actually thinking what we’re thinking when we are thinking it. It just becomes apparent when we get together again to share our thoughts. We’re resigned to the fact that this is just something we will share, peculiar and utterly worthless beyond its entertainment value, until we find out what the real story is in the hereafter.

I hope somebody up there has an answer, because it’s starting to piss us off.

Fifteen Words

I didn’t catch the news until the following morning. I had heard the early returns that evening, but in typical fashion was too busy to follow the situation closely. When I caught the final tally on CNN the next morning, I was blown away.

The Dixie Chicks had swept the Grammy Awards.

* * * * *

To fully understand this phenomenon, you have to go back to 2003 when Dixie Chicks lead singer Natalie Maines, addressing an audience during one of their shows in London, England, told the crowd that the band was embarassed that President Bush was from Texas. The story exploded in the American press, as the fervor of flag-waving in the post-9/11 era was still in full swing. There was very little opposition to the then-fresh invasion of Iraq outside of Peacenik circles and tree-hugger conventions, and the President’s approval rating was still well above 50%. It was immediately apparent that the diminutive songstress had just opened a can of worms.

Despite reluctant support from other show-biz luminaries, many of whom doing drive-by “atta-girls” on red carpet photo-ops and then quickly disappearing before any questions could be asked, the country music community was boiling over. Many artists made a bee-line for the nearest TV camera to denounce the Chicks and re-state their support for the war and the President. Others stayed quiet, wisely staying out of a fray that was about to descend into all-out war.

Within days, country music stations were on fire will callers demanding a boycott of Dixie Chicks music from the airwaves. Caught between their support of First Amendment rights and the money they love so much, nearly the entire country radio community bowed to public pressure and shoved the Chicks’ CD’s in the dumpster overnight. The Dixie Chicks had lost the means to promote themselves.

And call them what you will, the country music community has long memories. An attempted “peace-making” press conference a few weeks later did nothing to ease tensions, and for the next two and a half years the Dixie Chicks went into hiding. We can only guess the reality of what went on in their personal and professional lives, though it is widely known that the members of the band each and collectively received numerous death threats. That one fifteen-word sentence uttered an ocean away seemed to have brought an end to one of country music’s most promising careers.

* * * * *

With almost no warning, the Dixie Chicks’ new video appeared on VH-1 in the summer of 2006. The song was “Not Ready To Make Nice,” and the video was a not-so-subtle metaphor for bloodying one’s hands for the sake of oil. The song was anthemic, bold, and a definitive statement of complete and utter dismissal of any criticism they had received. Additionally it very clearly spelled out the displays of ignorance from their former fans who had made their lives so miserable for the last three years. It was proud, it was concise, it was catchy, and it was visually remarkable.

And it shot to #1 on the VH-1 charts in a heartbeat.

The new album broke and hit the Billboard charts upon its arrival, hitting the #1 spot on that music industry bellweather before the release was a month old. Despite nearly zero country radio airplay, the Dixie Chicks’ “Taking The Long Way” was the most demonstrative hit of their careers. The album was certified Gold faster than any of their previous recordings.

I have listened to the Dixie Chicks since I heard their first single, “Wide Open Spaces,” with its flowing, fragrant harmonies and simple message of freedom. On the whole, I detest country music and all that it stands for. But the Chicks’ music touched me, and I continued to listen through “Fly” and “Home” as their sound matured and their messages broadened and deepened away from the beer/jail/pickups themes of most artists in their genre.

The new album minces no words about its political position, but also contains some genuinely frank emotions about independence, peace of mind, and dealing with the death of an elderly relative. It also side-swipes the Christian Right with a song used as part of a movie soundtrack, a documentary about Maines’ hometown of Lubbock, Texas, and the fact that it ranked #1 on the watchlist of cities for sexually transmitted diseases among teens. Long and short, your hypocritical abstinence campaign isn’t working, and it’s time to stop hiding behind God and get down to the business of saving your childrens’ lives. Clearly, the Chicks have found a new freedom in their exile, and we’ve not heard the last of them — not by a long shot.

* * * * *

Fast-forward to late 2006, when the Grammy Awards nominations were released. The Dixie Chicks’ newest album and the premiere single garnered a total of five nominations, only two of which in the country categories. The surprising news was that they were nominated in the “Big Three” of Song of the Year, Record of the Year, and Album of the Year categories. The Grammies make no secret about the fact that country music is only one step up from rap on the ladder of musical accomplishment, and for a country song/album/artist to win one of the Big Three is a rarity to say the least. The fact that the Chicks had been nominated in all three should have been seen as a sign of things to come. But at the time it was viewed as more of a, “Aw, isn’t that nice” nod from the organization. Nobody expected what would happen next.

The Chicks won one of their two nominations in the country categories during a ceremony that was not broadcast, and they failed to show up to receive the award. Such things aren’t necessarily unusual, however it was viewed as a concession on the part of the Chicks that they didn’t expect to win anything, and didn’t want to be seen in public getting snubbed by the only musical community that would have them.

But on Grammy night, the landscape changed. The Chicks were all there, dressed to the nines and proud to mingle amongst the rest of the nominees, and nabbed the other country-category award they had been nominated for. But the best was yet to come. Surprising all but the most reckless Vegas oddsmakers, the Chicks walked away with every one of the Big Three awards in succession, and cemented their place in history as one of the most shocking Grammy upsets of all time.

Three successively more raucous standing ovations greeted the three young ladies as they ascended the stage for each award, followed by a standing ovation from the press in the post-mortem interview room after the event’s conclusion. The Chicks took the opportunity to land a few body blows to the country music industry and the fans that had abandoned them in the past three years. But it was apparent by the looks on all of their faces that their victories, while satisfying, were bittersweet.

* * * * *

All you have to do is say the words “Jethro Tull” and you’ll encapsulate the bizarre nature of the Grammy decision-making process. The winners are most times chosen on their merits, however when extenuating circumstances arise, you get winners that are difficult to have foreseen. Luther Vandross conveniently winning while recuperating from a stroke; Carlos Santana winning multiple awards over (arguably) much more deserving artists simply because he had never won before; and Jethro Tull snapping a sure-thing victory from the jaws of Metallica, simply because the organization members were thumbing their nose at the introduction of the “Best Metal Album” category.

It would be foolish not to consider that the Dixie Chicks sweep fell into that category. A young and talented band comprised of young women, faced with ostricism by a vocal but ignorant public minority of toothless knuckle-draggers waving the flag so hard they spill their beer, finding refuge with other talented musicians who support them and their political views. It has all the ear-marks of a giant “F*CK YOU!!!” from the mainstream music industry to the cowards who bent to the pressure from the backwards red-necks who they rely on for their livelihoods. CMT, the originator and host for the fan-voted Country Music Awards, was quick to post an article on their web site decrying the Chicks’ victories, railing about politics over substance and more deserving artists being passed over. And I don’t think the Chicks can count on any CMA nominations this year.

But when all the dust settles, the reality of the matter is two-fold. Number one, the country music community needs to take a good, long look at itself. By continuing to bend to the collective will of the Hank Junior disciples and their ilk, they alienate millions of Americans who don’t think that way, and in fact take strong objection to the position held by these morons. Squelching free speech could not be more un-American, even if that person is criticizing your country, your government, and your leader. Freedom means the freedom to object to anything, even the freedom to object to freedom if that’s what your conscience tells you to do. That’s something these addle-minded NASCAR freaks will never comprehend, and subsequently the country music industry does itself a disservice by catering to them. Ultimately it will lead to their undoing as the country artists themselves help lead the way out of the philosophical backwater and towards mainstream Americans’ values.

But more importantly, “Taking the Long Way” is a good record, whether you’re a country music fan or not. It has just been certified double-platinum, indicating two million copies sold. With the Grammy wins under their belt I expect that number to double again, aided in no small part by the country music fans who secretly order the record from Amazon without telling their friends. In the end I expect the music to win out over the ancient history of fifteen words spoken five thousand miles from Nashville.