Do they still make Old Milwaukee?

I heard that Stephen Harper, Canada's Prime Minister, and Barack Obama, President of the United States, had a wager on the results of the game between their two countries for the Olympic gold medal in women's ice hockey. The loser was to give the winner a case of beer.

Now that's my kind of bet.

With time running down in the final period and the U.S. ahead 2-0, it looked like Mr. Harper should start shopping for some very fine Canadian beer to send to Washington. But then within the last three minutes of the game, Canada scored two goals, and in the sudden-death over-time period, they scored again to win the game and the gold medal.

I hope Mr. Obama sends Mr. Harper a case of Blatz.

On My Soap Podium

When the summer Olympics were on two years ago, I complained that the commentators had turned "medal" into a verb (as in, "She has a chance to medal in this event"). For the current Winter Games, they have pretty much abandoned that, and almost all of the sportscasters talk continually about the podium -- making it to the podium, missing the podium, hoping for a place on the podium, etc. It's getting to be a bit tedious.

In my retired state, I've been able to see a lot of events during the day, since Sochi, Russia, is nine hours ahead of us. Of course, it also means that the prime-time broadcast has few surprises. I have seen a lot of things that don't make it to prime time, though, like curling and women's ski jump.

This afternoon I purposely did not watch the finals of the ice dancing competition, partly because I wanted to keep some of the suspense for tonight and partly because I wanted to watch the Canada-Switzerland hockey game. Then just a bit ago I went to Facebook to play Farkle, and right there at the top of my News Feed someone had posted a photo of the gold-medal winners. I was annoyed.

I realize that some of you may read this posting before prime time, which is several hours away, so I am very considerately not mentioning who podiumed.

My Gold Medal Pooch

My tiny dog, Soji, a pure-bred Chihuahua, started out in life as a Christmas present, given to a three-year-old girl by her (monumentally stupid) grandmother. The child’s lack of responsibility toward her pet, not to mention her habit of manhandling the little puppy, led her family to insist the dog be surrendered to the local humane society. That’s where I adopted her when she was nine months old, which was nearly 12 years ago.

I have been asked if my tiny dog was named after Sochi, Russia, where the Winter Olympics are currently underway, and, if so, does she like vodka.

The name given to her by her previous owners was pronounced the same way as the Russian town but spelled Sochee. I didn’t much care for that, but I knew someone named Soji, which I did like and which sounded the same to the dog, so I ran with it.

Information about her original name is a bit sketchy, but it is apparently a common girl’s name in Mexico, although it is actually spelled Xochitl, or sometimes Xoche. Sochee is a phonetic spelling and might also not be the only pronunciation. Xochitl is the Aztec word for flower and also the name of an Aztec goddess.

As for Soji, it appears to be a common boy’s name in Japan, although the man I knew named Soji was from India. In Hindi and/or Sanskrit, soji can mean sharp or pointed, and there is also an ingredient in certain Indian dishes called soji, which is sort of like semolina.

So, after all that, God only knows what my tiny dog is named after, but as to the second part of that question – no, she prefers tequila.

On the Lam I Am Not

Loyal Reader Kristin M. of Kansas has sent me an email full of exclamation points and words in capital letters in which she asks me to settle, once and for all, a dispute in which she is currently embroiled with her husband. Evidently he has decided that the word "fugitive" in the title of this here blog thing is a noun, as in "A Fugitive's Thoughts," despite the absence of the possessive apostrophe-S. She counters that I am using it as an adjective to describe my thoughts as fleeting, transitory, elusive. She, of course, is correct.

Apparently Mr. M. refers to me as "The Fugitive," which is moderately amusing until we stop to consider the implications thereof, since the noun can be defined as "a person who has escaped from a place or is in hiding."

From what or whom, Dear Mr. M., do you suppose I am hiding? Surely not from my audience, since these posts are full of ingenuous admissions, confessions, and self-deprecations. Or do you suppose me to be an escapee from reality?

And yes, we all know that he's just yanking your chain, Kristin. Accept it, and move on.

Guarding Toothy Grins

I watched two basketball games on television yesterday -- the men of Indiana beat Michigan (Yesss!) and the Michigan State women beat Purdue (also Yesss!). Later I watched three quarters, which was as much as I could stand, of the Super Bowl.

In all three games, I noticed, not for the first time, how many players remove the appliance that protects their upper teeth whenever there is a break. Some basketball players simply remove and hold their mouth guards, but many put one end in their mouths so that it protrudes like a giant fang. Others enhance that method by chewing on the thing.

Football players generally tuck the mouth guard somewhere on their helmet between plays, unless they have the kind that is tethered to the face mask, in which case they just let it hang there. Some of those are the kind that cover the entire mouth, sort of like wax lips on steroids.

Checking on the Internet, I find that custom-made mouth guards range in price from $50 to $300. (Ready-made ones start at $1.59.) Surely any college or professional sports program ought to be able to afford to provide their players with well-fitting mouth guards that are not so irritating.

But it does remind me of a Chicago Bears game many years ago in which their rookie running back was just about to develop the habit of lining up with his mouth guard dangling unless he was going to be carrying the ball on that play. It took the opposing defense about two plays to figure that out, and at least one tackle in the backfield for a big loss before the Bears coaches noticed and instructed Walter Payton to put the thing in his mouth on every play. Which he did. And the rest is history.