Everyone's somebody's kid. No matter if that someone is alive, or not. In situations like this one, I'll just quote Jason Robards on the subject of being a parent:

When does it end? It never ends. It's like your aunt Edna's ass, it goes on forever.

What's playing in iTunes?

Tumbling Dice from the album "Exile on Main Street" by Rolling Stones

Jacques at Y-2-Dray is weighing in on the CBC's Greatest Canuck debate. For me it's no contest: Wayne Fucking Gretzky.

I only got to see Gretzky play live once. It was in Washington, while he was still playing for Los Angeles with Robitaille and Sandstrom. He was about 32 or so then, and skated circles around Washington's entire team. At one point in the game, he actually killed off an entire 2-minute 5-on-3 without ever letting go of the puck. He went from end to end, the Caps forming a conga line behind him, and when Hrudek started banging his stick on the ice, he just dumped it and went to the bench for a martini. I fully expected him to run back on the ice and throw a bucket of confetti on Dale Hunter.

The man had eyes in the back of his head, the reflexes of a jungle cat, and hands like a high-dollar Swedish call girl. He scored 92 goals in one season, 215 points in one season, then he got bored and figured he'd start banging Janet Jones.

If Kurri got the assist on that one, he is, indeed, the finest wingman ever.