Here are a few things I noticed Friday night:

• Every time party boy Eric Staal disappoints me, he turns around a redeems himself like he did Friday. Maybe that's why chicks always go back to bad boys who don't treat them well.

• The first period of the Canucks-Blues game was by far the single best and most entertaining period of hockey played this entire season. Bar none. And there were no goals! Go figure, eh?

• The new NHL muscle has arrived and it isn't wearing orange and black any more -- it's now black and gold, and flightless. Yep, the Penguins dominated the Flyers in the hits department; it wasn't even close. 

• Was that Popeye wearing number 44? All of a sudden, Brooks Orpik is the nasty, ugly, pulverizing, dominating, intimidating force on the blue line that I thought he'd be years ago. Yum.

• Rumors that Bill Guerin had already entered manopause were sorely mistaken. He's just at his best when he's all moody and intense in front of the net.

• Until his goal, Mats Sundin's hands appeared to be sheathed with those silly silicone oven mitts that everyone seems to want. Then again, I think his hands are still bad -- the old boy has lost more than a couple steps -- but that eye is even worse. Oh Mats, what will that young, hot Swedish blonde wife of yours think?

• Lower-body injury or just diahorrea? Why can't the Devils come clean about Jamie Langenbrunner's real "injury?" Oh ya, I remember -- this is the NHL, land of subterfuge. Grab some t.p. and step up to the mike, Jamie. Just be sure to wash your hands after and keep your distance.

• Roberto Luongo. Over and over and over and over and over... best at his position. No debate.