Hatred is a terrible thing. Nothing good ever comes from it, as hate only begets more hate. I consider it the single greatest flaw in the human race, and the people that spread it - those that are quick to detest, hold and nurture grudges, and thrive on conflict - are the worst of the lot.

It's such a disgusting feeling. It sits there in your gut, tying your insides into a knot; a sum of everything that's wrong with humanity mashed together into a heavy ball in the pit of your stomach. I hate to hate, and that, of course, just makes me more upset; a very vicious cycle.

I sort of feel like the guy from "Office Space", only with the word "work" replaced with "hate". "I don't really like to hate, so I'm just not going to do it anymore." Someone pisses me off? Screw 'em; they're not worth it. A really bad commercial just won't go off the air? Don't groan, just change the channel. Another boy band pollutes the airwaves? Don't fret, just turn off the radio. If you want to have a chat with me, talk about things you like, because that will interest me; don't whine about things you hate, or I'll redirect your conversation to the nearest lamppost. Don't waste my time by bad-mouthing people, because I'm not going to hate them on your behalf. And, don't bother hating me and holding a fantastic grudge against me because I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of hating you in return.

Today is my half-birthday, so I am going to fill this day with halves. Not the cheesey, typical half-birthday gags, though. No half-cakes, or half-presents, or anything like that. Today, I think, I will tell time relative to the half-hour, enjoy a half-pint at the pub, act like a half-wit, find a DVD at half-price, view the glass as half-full, and answer questions using mainly half-truths.

I started the day by only getting a half-night's sleep, not that it was entirely intentional. Due to my extreme grogginess, I will forego the half-caff cup of java, and go straight for the caff-and-a-half. I would take only a half-hour lunch at work today, but that would contradict my earlier decree that I would perform a half-assed job. Unfortunately, I can't take a half-day, but at least I'm not getting only half-pay.

You know how some of those fruity, all-natural, I-can't-believe-it's-not-whale-blubber bars of soap look more like ice cream bars than a cleansing product? Ever wonder if they tasted like ice cream bars rather than soap?

Well, they don't.

"There is a goodness in him that makes all of us feel a little better for being human. To say, 'I am so proud to be human, because there is someone like a Nelson Mandela....' Goodness. This is the wonder. Where you thought people are cynical, people who are skeptics, people are even ... secularists, who pooh-pooh spiritual values. When they encounter a good person, they become reverent, because we are actually made for that goodness, and there is an excitement that people have to see it embodied. But, it is actually achievable in a world where there is so much disillusionment, and where people see so many eager to use their positions to feather their nests. To have someone who is genuinely altruistic makes you feel good. It makes you feel as good as when you saw that young man in Beijing standing in front of a tank. We said it's good to be human; to see that there is this kind of courage." - Archbishop Desmond Tutu

"I'm OK with it, but it'll be a drag if I don't make it until the next James Bond movie comes out." - Warren Zevon, regarding being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer

I've got a hockey itch. The '72 Summit Series DVD comes out today, league-play ball hockey starts tomorrow, and the Leafs are in training camp. Summer is too long of a time to be denied hockey's greatness.

Yesterday, I started play in a ball hockey league with a small group of people with whom I've been playing on a casual basis lately. It's a small co-ed league with not a particularly high level of skill. We're no pros ourselves, but my all-star defenceman with whom I've played for the past five years is on the team, so no worries on this end. Two words come to mind: "cake", and "walk".

What a shock back into reality.

Last night, in our first game, we faced the referees' team. They whollopped us. They pounded us into the ground. They whipped us like Japanese school girls. The guys on their team didn't seem as quick as ours, but they were each big and had a tremendous reach. We only have two girls on our team, small ladies with no substitutions. The girls on the their team were lean, mean, man-pounding butch machines, with legs like tree-trunks and arms that are likely used in car-impound lots to crush mid-size sedans into those little cubes.

I was standing there in net, as if in a shooting gallery where they never shot the target, wearing two left-leg pads that weren't big enough to cover my knees and kept falling off.

Methinks we'll be a little better prepared for the next game. And, I'm going to wear my own pads this time, since I'd rather keep my knee caps in one piece and I'd rather not have a right leg surgically replaced with another left one.

This week's ball hockey game was considerably better. I had my own pads, and the opponents weren't quite as tree-trunkish. A flash of the glove, a kick of the pads, and a swing of the stick gave me shutout hockey until only five minutes remained. A solid victory, and the start to our climb up the ranks...

Toronto is famous for its quality sausage vendors; good old T.O. street meat. The nighttime vendors are all men, naturally, for safety reasons, I'm sure. Many of those tend to be surly ones at that. I've noticed, however, that during the day, all the vendors seem to be women. They're not old hags, either; they tend to be young, or at most middle-aged.

I guess the sausage-vending union got together and took some marketing lessons.

Cournoyer has it on that wing. Here's a shot! Henderson made a wild stab for it and fell. Here's another shot! Right in front of the net... He scores!! Henderson has scored for Canada!! Henderson, right in front of the net! And the fans and the team are going wild! Henderson right in front of the Soviet goal with 34 seconds left in the game!

That quote is 30 years old today, and well before my time, yet it still sends shivers up any hockey fan's spine.