his face is young
his hands are old
the past is empty
blind & cold
ball of sweat
on his back
grabs the dirt
stains his shirt
push all day
rest at night
do some hobbies
drink to forget
--Minutemen, "plight"
Kind of a weird night last night. In the aftermath of my biggest piece of writing in like forever, I put my head down, put a beer into me, and started rocking out to early Blue Oyster Cult. 
Somewhere in the night, I had a goal-judge's-eye view of Greg Mauldin scoring what my dream knew to be a shorthanded game-winner. He got low and ripped it high on the glove side. He was wearing the captain's C, and the strangeness of that plunged me upward through the membrane separating dream from life in mind. 
I...don't often dream about athletic young men. But Mauldin's a nice story--career AHL guy, former high-school chess team member (as am I!), occupier of Joe Sakic's old locker, and scorer of shorties, saddener of the Minnesota Wild* and fan of the infinitely estimable Mike Grier (and if you aren't, you should be, too). Not sure this is the sort of player/man I'd've guessed would Haunt My Dreams, but I can live with it.
-Collision, day to day w/ dread-tinged malaise
*I wanted to flip this and call them the Mild, but then they'd be Winnesota, and I'm not cool with putting any win into that state.
Mauldin action image yoinked from Yahoo!. Thanks Yahoo!. Album cover image yoinked from Amazon. Thanks Amazon.
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