The Ex-'Burgher: Only on VH1!

Last week was a big one for the Ex-‘Burgher. After the Tecmo Playoff Preview was linked on Deadspin, I was interviewed on the WDVE Morning Show with Jim Krenn and Randy Baumann (probably the most exciting five minutes of my life), and found my story linked on Fark. One of these is probably the reason you’re reading this now, and I thank you—as well as everyone who linked to us or emailed or just took a glance—for the support. It made my day, and has made my Tuesday night toiling more fun already.

Lost in all the excitement were my plans for the weekend: Dr, Burgher and our mutual Dad were coming to town, where we’d watch Sidney Crosby and the new-look (“new” meaning “not so good”) Pens take on the Chicago Blackhawks from the United Center. It seemed like a winnable game for the Pens, as the Hawks are an inexperienced team that hasn’t done much to help their netminder, Nikolai Khabibulin. We’d been excited about this game for quite awhile, and Dr. Burgher and I thought we’d get to see our second Penguins win of the season.

Of course, we were wrong. The Penguins got outhustled, outplayed and outscored, losing 4-1. My roommate, Joe—a big-time hockey fan from Motown--summed up the entire game: “The team I played on in high school skated harder than this.”

The Pens looked like garbage: Fleury gave up too many rebounds. Passes weren’t made on each other’s sticks. Crosby’s glittering scoring set-ups weren’t finished by his teammates. And The Kid wouldn’t take it upon himself to go all Ovechkin and take over, trying to win the game all by himself.

I left the game pretty disappointed, and had my post all planned out as I pulled out of the parking lot onto Ashland Avenue: After a watershed week, the Ex-‘Burgher’s euphoria had been “Put on Ice” by the woeful Pens. I’d use a cool font to make the words look like ice, and be satisfied that the game had at least given me SOMETHING.

And then the Steelers beat the Colts. It’s funny how a football game can change your outlook on everything. Suddenly, the Penguins/Blackhawks game had a silver lining. Four, actually.

So much happened in my SuperHappyMegaFunWeekend that I forgot to mention this: Has hockey’s rebirth spawned anything as wonderful as the superfoxy ice girls? At both the Mellon Arena and United Center, megahot hockey chicks (and we all know about hockey chicks) are all over the arena, helping with in-game promotions, shilling credit card freebies, and, at the United Center, sweeping up ice shavings during stoppages. Dr. Burgher’s taken to calling them “Ice Hoes,” and I like the simplicity.

I also think they’re under-utilized: I’m currently drafting a petition to Gary Bettman to get them to drive the Zambonis. Topless.

It’s cool enough for a Pittsburgher to find a place called “The Ironworks” inside of a Chicago arena. It’s even better when the steak sandwich they serve isn’t just a bunch of beef slices, but is actually a STEAK shoved between two slices of bread. I wish I had gotten a picture of these, but I scarfed mine down before I got the chance. Joe liked his, too, in the bleu cheese variety. We were both surprised that it wasn’t topped with cheese, but it lived up to the name: “Somehow, they found a way to infuse the meat with bleu cheese essence.” Totally worth the $9.

Much had been made of the not-so-secret dislike between Penguin Lyle Odelein and Blackhawk Matthew Barnaby. So when the two started to go at it in the third period, it was no surprise. But the fight went on. And on. And on. They threw the thing on the Jumbotron, as Odelein and Barnaby traded haymakers for what felt like an eternity. I was snapping shots as fast as I could, but it seemed that Barnaby got the better of the matchup. But no matter: This was the biggest sign of life from the Pens all night.

Even at 23, I’m still a sucker for stadium premiums. Give me a hockey stick-shaped backscratcher and I’ll show up for a pee wee game. So when the folks at United Center handed me this—a Mr. Potatohead doll with three interchangeable faces and a helmet that can be switched for a blond shock of hockey hair—I was STOKED. Everything about Mr. Potatohead’s 1980s rise to toy power came rushing back to me: the “bucket of parts” song, the garbage cartoon that accompanied the toy line, and the fact that I had a Mr. P doll that could wrangle a purse and apron and do the old switcheroo over to Missus. I also couldn’t shake my aunt’s voice telling me that “when we were kids, we used a real potato.” And I still think that’s a little gross.

I’m working on doing something about the fact that he’s a Blackhawk Potatohead, but still: A tour de force of childhood memories all piled into a three-inch doll. I cannot complain. It set me up perfectly for Sunday. Speaking of which…