I missed Nashville. Sounded fun.

I missed Columbus. An achilles heel with an added punch to the Johnson.

I thought I would miss Detroit too. Hell, I doubt if I’m going to be able to make it to Tuesday’s home game against Detroit.

I’ve worked 70 hours this week. It will be closer to 80 by the end of today.

I am not a happy hockey fan.

But surprise, I get off work last night early enough to turn on my recording of the Kings-Red Wings game. It was such a grand old time until the last 5 minutes. You know what happened, I don’t need to explain it to you. I’m writing mostly to garner sympathy from the hockey gods and put out a plea that some force somewhere, be it god, man or spirit, turn Mike Richards back into the dominant hockey player he has always been. Los Angeles is where dreams die for actors with no talent better than order-taking and actresses with faces no prettier than the spoon-fed sacks of silicon all around them. It’s not supposed to be that way for the talented, the dedicated, the destined. I’ve always felt Anze Kopitar destined for greatness. Drew Doughty has spent most of his life oozing success and Mike Richards has clawed and scratched his way to the top of every league in which he has played.

I did not need to spent my only free night watching the Kings unravel against a beaten, battered and bruised Detroit team. I did not need to see Richards make as stupid of a pass as I’ve seen him make. I did not need to see Filpulla dance through our entire team in 5 strides. Nor did I care for Doughty letting Darren Helm keep full control of his stick not 3 feet from Jonathan Quick as I equally needed to see Quick make the save that saved the game and tallied two points.

It’s just one game. Sure.

It’s just two points. Fine.

It could just mean no playoff hockey.

I woke up yesterday cranky that I hadn’t been able to watch Kings’ hockey.

I woke up today cranky that I had.