I Want Stanley!

You know me, Lambs. Always trying to blend in and go with the flow. It would work better if everyone had a chauffeured RRRRolls, but what fun would that be?

Still, the spirit of Bill Cosby spoke from inside my toaster and told me that I should show my civic pride and root (what is rooting, exactly? If I have to get dirty, forget it) for the local hockey team, the Red Wings. I know about them! The morning that Paul Simon turned up smashed on my perfectly manicured lawn, he was singing:

Detroit, Detroit...

Got a hell of a hockey team

So I raided my piggy bank and got a suite for one of the payoff games. Oh, my toaster is saying that's "playoff" game. Well, they must do things differently than they used to, downtown these days.

Anyhoo, it was an eye opener. The players have these enormous beards. You can hardly see them, they look like wookies. They skate around and bash the hell out of each other at every opportunity. Sometimes they score, and usually it is some Swedish fellow who does that. They must be so proud in the Alps , or the North Pole, or wherever Sweden is. Then they all mill around and talk to each other just the way Mother used to talk to the help. Then they grab each other's sweater and start flailing away. Mom used to do that, too. Is one team the help?

The night I went, the opposing team was called the Anaheim Ducks. Well, what does that mean? If they're from Orange County, they are likely staunch Republicans, which would explain their sour mood, bad reception in Detroit, and all the boo-hooing at the end. But ducks? Listen, cherubs, I see yellow ducks, not Anaheim Ducks. And certainly never without a proper introduction first!

One thing surprised me. The fans (that's all those people below me, not in suites) throw calamari on the ice. Who knew Detroiters were such foodies? I may bring Judith, my personal chef, with me next game, and throw duck a l'orange or escargot! But maybe it's too late for duck. RRRRamon tells me we play the Chicago Blackhawks next. So I suppose that Judith can still go with fowl!

Well, I'm exhausted. And RRRRamon says there are still two rounds to go. Rounds? Well, it wasn't golf, certainly, I can tell because I stayed awake and no one discussed investments while wearing embarrassing clothing. The name of the building was Joe Louis Arena, so perhaps it was boxing! The players did wear big clunky gloves, which they seemed to like to rub in each other's faces. So touching to be grooming each other in the middle of it all like that! Like cute little Swedish monkeys!

Lambs, if you need to know anything at all about ice hockey, I'm your girl! Go Red Wings! I want Stanley! And a few others, hmm, well, never mind. Ta, darlings!

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