Daily Archives: February 28, 2009

Solving the Chicken Mystery (20/28)

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Convinced that I knew the answer to this classic riddle, I was surprised when a recent read brought so many forms of enlightenment at once.

“Why did the chicken cross the road?”

We don’t really care why the chicken crossed the road.  We just want to know if the chicken is on our side of the road or not.  The chicken is either with us or it against us.  There is no middle ground here. (George W. Bush)

Did the chicken cross the road?
Did he cross it with a toad?
Yes, the chicken cross the road, but
why it crossed, I’ve not been told! (Dr. Seuss)

I envision a world where all chickens will be free to cross roads without having their motives called into question. (Martin Luther King Jr.)

In my day, we didn’t ask why the chicken crossed the road.  Someone told us that the chicken crossed the road, and that was good enough for us. (Grandpa)

To boldly go where no chicken has gone before. (Captain Kirk)

For the greater good.  (Plato)

Give us ten minutes with the chicken and we’ll find out.  (L.A. Police Department)

Asking this question denies your own chicken nature.  (Buddha)

To die in the rain.  Alone.  (Ernest Hemingway)

Could you define chicken, please?  (Bill Clinton)

The chicken did not cross the road.  I re-peat, the chicken did NOT cross the road.  (Richard Nixon)

Mmmmm.  Chicken.  (Homer Simpson)

To cross the road less traveled by.  (Robert Frost)

Chickens at rest tend to stay at rest.  Chickens in motion tend to cross the road.  (Sir Isaac Newton)

It saw Elvis on the other side.  (National Enquirer)

And God came down from the heavens, and He said unto the Chicken, “Thou shalt cross the road,” and the Chicken crossed the road.  (The Bible)

Hockey Pleasure (19/28)

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I just got out of a post-hockey shower, so a blog post is in order while my blood is still pumping.

I can still remember learning to skate.  I was four or five years old, and my skates were Microns–those plastic molded skates that had removable cloth inserts.  I had pairs like that a few years into my hockey career.  Take note that this is a sure-fire way to NOT be one of the cool kids.

Those Microns and me skated all over the ice at the old Mortlach rink, pushing a chair around like some sort of pre-school skating walker.  My mom says she remembers watching my first hockey games, laughing at how much we looked like giant bobble-heads on ice.

I played all through my younger years, right up until the end of Pee Wee.  A couple things saw me sit out a season, pick up a basketball, and move on.

Until recently…

Upon returning home to Canada from China, our church hockey team had a few spots open.  Some off-season bargain-hunting rounded me up my equipment, and within the first minute on the ice, I knew I had missed this game more than I’d realized.

There are so many small things about hockey that set it apart.  Of course, there’s the speed, skill, and excitement.  But I’m talking more simply right now…

The smell of the rink after the zamboni pulls off.

The sounds of blades and sticks on ice or of a puck ringing off a post.

The feeling of a sharp turn or quick stop on your skates.

The feeling of a pass perfectly placed or a shot finding the back of the net.  (Note: I’m better informed about the other three pleasures than these particular ones.)

Simple pleasures to a simple fellow, I suppose.

Anyway, my resurrected hockey career has confirmed a few things: It was a smart move to go to college instead of trying for the draft, it was a poor move to have never learned how to slapshot, and I’d better hold on to my two or three great hockey stories from a previous lifetime.  I don’t appear on the verge of creating many new ones.  When I was ten years old, everyone told me what a great skater I was.  After enduring several years of figure skating, I should have been!

The problem?  I’m still a great skater… for a ten-year-old.