Minor league hockey arena, 7:30 p.m. – My icy adventure, let me share with you it

While not strictly twenty-one minutes, because I'm not going to lug my laptop around for two hours and try to keep up with it, these are the highlights of my first (and quite likely last) venture into the world of minor-league hockey.

There is a woman with a sequined alligator crawling up her back and onto her head. It is masquerading as a hat – but really looks more like a tumor – sort of like that thing that Star created during the "express yourself" challenge back in the early days of "Project Runway."

Everywhere I turn people are wearing team shirts, sweatshirts, jackets, jerseys, etc. OH MY GOD THIS MAN HAS ON A GREEN WIG. All this for a team that is in fourth place – in the division. Not the league, the division. Still, they managed to pull in 6,000 people on a Saturday night. I remain amazed.

I can never see a Zamboni and not think of the episode of "Cheers" where Carla's husband met his untimely end. There is also apparently a special "Zamboni song," to which the intoxicated (yes, they sell beer – a LOT of beer) fans in the arena dance along to. It is scary. They followed the Zamboni song with The Village People and "YMCA," – and trust me – if you've never seen a 300-pound fat man in a football jersey working it to the tunes of "young man, there's no need to feel down," you've not lived!

The level of merchandising in minor league sports is astonishing. I'm frankly shocked that the patrons weren't plastered with ads when they walked in.

The backs of the tickets had ads. Both Zamboni machines had ads. There were special promotions at the intermissions. There was the "Taco Bell Power Play" and the "Wendy's Penalty Kill." Ronald McDonald must be kicking himself all the way back to his PlayPlace – because they must have mentioned Taco Bell about a million times over the course of the night. I'm wondering who exactly wants a "Taco Bell Power Play" though – might depend on the size of the burrito! Maybe the "Taco Bell Power Play" comes later, at home? And involves toilet paper?

There was a "Saturn Puck Toss" and a children's charity doo-hicky and at least six things involving special things with the program – including a free gallon of wiper fluid if the team scored during the third period. Most of which were an excuse to sell badly printed programs I am sure.

The scoreboard had so many ads on it I had trouble finding the damn score! All this on top of a $22 ticket and paying $5 for the "privilege" to park in the median because the arena would sell their own mothers for cash but won't build a parking garage. Someone is raking it in.

There was a creepy man. THERE IS ALWAYS A CREEPY MAN. We had seats behind the visitor's box – which wasn't that bad. There was a man who was right down on the first row and in the nook RIGHT beside the visitor's box. He sat there the entire time wearing blue denim shorts and a navy T-shirt, drinking an extra-large soda from the concession stands and didn't say a word. No cheering, no yelling at the refs, nothing. He did give a family of four a nasty look when they sat down next to him, but that was all. Maybe he just really loves hockey and these were the best "on the ice" seats available. Dunno. But he was strange.

My impression of the hockey is that it wasn't that good. The fights looked about as real as a wrestling match – very staged IMHO, but what the hell do I know? The players are obviously athletic, but the hockey looked sloppy.

I was sort of under the impression that hockey was a good deal like basketball on ice – just a great deal more physical. You treated the ice like a basketball court and moved the puck around like a basketball. You can run "plays" just like you run an offense on a basketball court – pass, defense, etc. I have to say that I became roundly disabused of that notion in short order. Hockey is just organized aggression with sticks and helmets. The scoring is optional and the whole "someone wins" thing is sort of just an added bonus.

Also, watching hockey players spit on the ice is just disgusting. Maybe this isn't Centre Court at Wimbledon, but act like you have a little bit of class.

Anyway. That was my night. It was only slightly cold, but my toes suffered because I was stupid and wore sandals because I was running very late (had to wash my hair in case I met a cute boy) and didn't think about the fact that I was, you know, GOING TO BE SITTING INSIDE A GIANT REFRIDGERATOR FOR THREE HOURS.

Anyway. Much love. Hockey pucks to you all.

Park, 7:38 p.m. - Old people love their heavy metal objects

OK. My friends and I decided to broaden our horizons and head out to a community park in the county north of here tonight. We saw a thing in the paper for a horseshoe thing and thought, "Hey, nice. That could be fun." So, we rolled out of work, fought traffic and landed at the park amidst a bunch of old people who haven't worked a day since Reagan was president.

I know I'm REAL down on the old people all the time, but everyone we met was absolutely wonderful. There was this old guy named Bob who adopted us liked we were his long lost children.

He cleaned off a horseshoe pitch for us, found some horseshoes, gave us a quick lesson, and told us to start throwing. And you know what, I LOVE TO THROW THINGS. Horseshoes are good. Plates are are better. Ex-boyfriends out of the car at a gas station are GREAT!

Anyway. This perfectly wonderful old lady named Barb or Ann or Sue or Deb or something else with three letters and as old as dirt was sitting behind a Welcome table. We got name tags and welcome packets and everything. Deb has on a blue jumper and those old lady blue jeans with the elastic in the waistband. She's got steel-gray hair and might be seventy but she doesn't act like a day over 40.

There's a lot of old ladies here - who are clearly just supporting their menfolks. One old bird is sitting at a picnic table behind me. She's the best-dressed person here - in Ann Taylor Loft separates and a really nice red blazer. She's got the knitting out and it looks like she's making a baby booty in pale blue. I bet she's got a new grandson. The clank and the thunk of the horseshoes doesn't bother her in the least.

The action on the pitch has died down, but there are a couple of die-hards. Three old dudes - one of them wearing a knee brace - and one skinny woman wearing black jeans and a red gingham shirt are still throwing two-pound metal U's back and forth with deadly seriousness.

My mentor, Bob, was explaining the rules of the game to me and how he goes to competitions all the time. Bob is a serious player. He's a good player too. He's got a tournament tomorrow - and he told us that he can hit a ringer in 40 out of every 100 pitches.

Wow. This is a dangerous game. One guy is cleaning the horseshoes in a bucket. The three other guys are pitching from the other end. One old guy threw a horseshoe, smacked the concrete and bounced it right into the bucket the old dude was cleaning horseshoes in. And then DID IT AGAIN!

This one old lady is WILDLY curious about what I'm writing. I think she thinks that I'm a reporter. Well, I am "reporting" the action. But not how she thinks. Real reporters would identify themselves and ask for people's proper names. Not just sit and write.

Anyway. The bugs are going something fierce out here. And I'm hungry. All that exercise helped me work up an appetite.

And I think I might have pulled a muscle in my arm!

Much love.

Park, 6:10 p.m. – Four little howler monkeys, swinging in the park

There’s something about howler monkeys that both attracts and repels me. I’m sitting here watching a quartet of them playing on the swings in one of the county’s big regional parks. They’re lying belly down in the swings and twisting round and round. They’re all trying to see how high they can twist the chains – how many revolutions can they get before they can’t touch the ground any more.

Then, when their feet can’t touch the ground, they let go and start screaming at the top of their lungs as the chains unwind and they start unwrapping like some odd demented octopus being unwrapped on a merry-go-round.

NEWSFLASH! They have now taken to helping each other wrap the chains higher – to get maximum lift and the maximum propeller revolutions.

One little boy in an orange shirt and camouflage pants is just lying limp in his swing right now. He has a decidedly greenish cast to his features. He’s a little chunky and his sandals are dragging the ground. I think he needs some time to recover from his latest trip round-and-round. I hope that afternoon snack he probably ate doesn’t decide to take a trip of its own.

Now they’re off to the monkey bars and what I can only describe as a child-sized version of a hamster tube.

The park is nice today. The breeze is blowing and the effects of Tropical Storm Noel are still keeping it quite cool in these parts. The sun is shining, but at 6 p.m., the heat is gone from the day.

One of the drawbacks of this park is that it is more urban than most. I can still hear the drone of traffic going by; even though there’s been a lot of care taken with the landscaping and trees and shrubbery, it still feels like a big median with a playground and some barbecue pits.

There is a surburban soccer mom approaching with her tots now. Shes got two kids decked out in the latest styles from the mall – striped polo shirts, tiny little GAP khaki shorts and those obnoxious Crocs. Both kids have sodas from McDonalds. And she’s carting them around in a big black – very new - Chevy Suburban. She doesn’t have to worry about money or keeping her man – she rolled up in here with her hair looking like a hot mess and wearing a pair of sweatpants I would not wash the dog in. I wish I had that life.

The sun is down – or at least behind some clouds. In the last five minutes, the shadows went from long to longer to gone. The air temperature feels just a little cooler too; the breeze has just a little more bite.

The breeze brings with it the scent of new-mown grass, along with the hint of motor oil and the tiniest anticipation of rain.

The wind is ruffling the trees now. Nature’s xylophone – such a soft and soothing counterpoint to the screams, yells, giggles and shrieks of joy coming from the playground.

There are a dozen or so kids out there now – and a good handful of parents watching or actively participating. One young father has plopped his daughter into the infant swing and is giving her pushes for all he’s worth. She’s holding onto the ropes and yelling her little head off. Her coal-black pigtails are flying in the wind; she’s loving every minute of this. Her shoes just fell off. Her dad bent down to pick them up and now she’s trying to twist and turn to kick him. Bless!

There’s a tiny little boy in a horrible outfit – red and yellow striped shorts, yellow shirt with black and red striped sleeves – he is digging in the bark for all he is worth. I wonder what he’s hoping to find? Fashion sense for his mother if he is lucky!

One bored looking dad is following his toddler around as the boy bumbles from one piece of playground equipment to the next – never really big enough to entertain himself on his own – and lacking any friends to play with him. Now they’re at the swings and Daddy-Is-Bored is giving him a few desultory pushes in the whole “I-am-a-father-and-I-have-to-do-this” way.

The little boy in the orange shirt and camo pants from earlier has obviously recovered, because now he is riding a purple worm and screaming at the top of his lungs. His little friend is screaming too. Not just hollering – but bring-down-the-house, lock up your women and children, hide the liquor from the alcoholics screaming.

Whoever this child is and whatever is going on, he has one active imagination backed by some serious lung power. Then again, maybe he just has schizophrenia.

Suburban mommy is back with her two chic brats. They’re standing around too afraid to play with the Hispanic children and she won’t push them on the swings.

My time is up. Thank you, and happy swinging.

Downtown at the park, 6:05 p.m. - Don't howl for me, howler monkey

"And the wind began to blow..." I love that line. I'm sitting in one of the city's main downtown parks. It's the oldest park in the city and jammed with "stuff," like a bandshell, picnic tables, tennis courts, a stage and a kiddie play place.

The grass is lush and green and practically begs for a picnic blanket and lazy summer afternoons spent lolling in the sunshine with families and Frisbees and frollicking dogs. Not now though.

At this time in the evening, the human population is virtually nil. The sun is mostly obscured by clouds and the light is starting to fade fast. There really isn't much going on.

The main attraction seems to be the kiddie castle. A couple families have their children out for an early evening playdate. One young and harried-looking father in a pair of sandals, some ugly black-and-red shorts and a gray wife-beater is trying to shepherd his three young howler monkeys into the play area. Two girls and one little boy refuse to be corraled. "Look, a stone dragon." "Look, a picnic table." "Look, a water fountain. I want a drink. I want a drink. I WANT A DRINK."

The light has a particular eerie quality; it is more or less gone, but still present. There is no sun, just the last half-hour of twilight.

The birds are starting now, their last calls of the evening. Verizon would do well to tape this for a commercial. A thousands tweets are suddenly coming alive. I can hear feathered fiends squawking in the trees all around me. Deep cheeps, tiny tinny cheeps and every sort of cheep, cheep in between.

The breeze is picking up. It is colder and smells faintly of the salt of the ocean, even though the water is a half-mile away. There is a taste of rain on the air, the oncoming storm. One of the city's busy arterial roads straight through to the business district is less than twenty feet away and cars are starting to come by with their lights. People are heading downtown to the old theater, the restaurants and shops and flitting by in their finery for an evening of parade and promenade.

Here come two more young mothers. Well, at least one mother and one mother to be. One is obviously heavily pregnant; she is walking with difficulty. The other, who has that "tired mommy of a toddler" look, tries in vain to call out to her child, a raven-haired tot wearing a ruffled pink tee and white shorts who has picked up a stick and is running far ahead, waving it like a magic wand. There are fewer than half a dozen people here and the mother is still rightly worried about her child.

The mother amble into the play area after the tot and amble back out. I don't know what they're looking for. Amusement?

Now the child is crying. Maybe she fell down. The howls are getting louder, although I don't see any obvious sign of hurt. I just see a brat throwing a tantrum.

I never understand why children will insist on screaming in public places. The mother is asking her "Are you done? Are you done now?"

The mommies are walking off; now they're getting in a ratty minivan. The litle girl is still staring at the stone sculpture dragon, wanting to play. They call to her "We're leaving. Sorry, Brianna stays at the park." That doesn't elicit a response. Now the tone turns angrier. "Come on."

No dice. So the mother goes over and picks up her child. Now Brianna really cuts loose with the lung power.

There's a guy juggling. He walked up to a picnic bench right across from me during the drama with the mommies and the screaming howler monkey.

Juggler Man has two cans of tennis balls and seems pretty intent on his craft. The wind is ruffling his hair and tossing the balls about and he doesn't miss a beat. Two balls in one hand. Over. Under. Over. Under. Over. Under. The eyes are the thing to watch while juggling. The concentration it must take is amazing. I could never juggle.

The wind is still blowing. The juggler continues. He's got all three tennis balls out now. Over. Under. Around. Over. Under. Around. He's crossing his arms and doing tricks with the balls. There's a lot of practice that has gone into this routine.

There's a kid and his dad walking up from the parking lot across the street. The kid is just staring at the guy juggling. I love the sheer wonderment of children - even if I hate the children themselves. The little boy can't be more than three. He has a piece of string he's toting around like it is his best buddy and a tennis ball of his own. I wonder if maybe one day he will grow up and think of that guy he saw juggling in the park.

Old people coming up now. Power walking with a serious need for speed. God forbid anyone get into their path. They would be cut down like a protester at a John Kerry speech.

She's wearing a pair of olive khakis and a blue and pink striped polo. He's got olive shorts and a ugly red and blue check short sleeve shirt. They've both got walking shoes on. Old people with a health fetish. I wonder if they eat olives? Olives are supposed to be good for your health.

The juggler is still at it. He's holding a tennis ball in one hand and moving it up and down while juggling the other two with one hand to give the illusion of juggling.

The sky is darker now. The wind is colder and the warmth of the day is almost gone. I love the evening. I wish this time didn't have to end. It feels so special, the day slipping into night.

My time is up. Thank you.