7/4/04: Let's hear it for the Red, White and...

Last night at dinner the waitress was clearing our table and "accidentally" spilled about a quart of mussel juice on my arm, shirt, and pants.  She was very apologetic and I was very understanding, and I thought nothing of it as I headed back to the hotel to change before going to see "Spiderman 2" (very good, not quite as good as I expected).  Then, when we were in the lobby about to head back out to the movie, we ran into a work colleague (Gordon J.) who happened to be staying at the same hotel as we are (The Sofitel).  Weird as hell.  He's an interesting character, one of those guys who's done a lot of stuff in his life, lived in a lot of places, and doesn't feel the need to push his stories on you.  But he shared one from the six years that he lived in Québec. He was working in a restaurant up here, and a waitress was preparing to scam some money off an American customer. She of course looked to Gordon to help pull it off.  He spoke French, so she somehow assumed he'd be onboard with her little scheme. He refused to help her out, and she got pissed. Apparently the anti-Americanism up here is pretty rampant -- and that was maybe twenty years ago, before the arrogance of George W. Bush & Co.

Gordon said he wouldn't be surprised if the waitress had dumped the mussel juice on me intentionally.  Who knows?  I suppose I deserve it, being an American and all.

There's nothing more satisfying than watching NASA guys high-five after a successful mission. It would be cooler still if they busted out some elaborate pre-rehearsed hand-slapping ritual, complete with the little "birdie flying away/waving bye bye" gesture.

Last night I had a bunch of crazy dreams.  That always seems to happen to me when I'm sleeping in a foreign bed. In one dream, I kept catching foul balls at a Yankee game.  After each one, I would pump my fist and then give the entire crowd the finger, as if to say, "In your face!"  The people I was with would remind me that I was probably on TV, and there were kids watching, etc., so why don't I tone it down?  I would realize they were right, and apologize, only to do the exact same thing minutes later. I just couldn't help myself.  It's probably how I'd actually react if I ever got a foul ball, too.

So I am sort of sad to be leaving Canada tomorrow.  I really like it here. It's kind of laid back, almost modest.  In the U.S., we're always bragging about all the great shit we've done, and I grant you, we've done a lot.  But we've also done plenty that we should be ashamed of. Here in Canada, the list of accomplishments may be shorter, but so is the list of embarrassments.  If you invited the two countries to a party, it would go down something like this:  Canada would show up on time and bring a bottle of wine.  He'd be polite to people, he'd sip his scotch in peace the whole night, occasionally cracking a clever one-liner that catches everybody by surprise.  If he didn't leave early, he'd stay late and help you clean up. Your other friends would be asking you about him the next day, like, "Who was that dude in the turtleneck with the glasses? He was really cool."  You'd be like, "Aw, that's just Canada, man. He's always up for a good time."   Meanwhile, America would roll in around midnight, completely loaded from a previous party.  He'd have maybe six uninvited buddies with him, and they'd start knocking back your expensive liquor.  Then they'd commandeer the stereo. People would be avoiding America at all costs.  Eventually he might win a few people over and initiate a rousing singalong, but just when you were warming up to his brash attitude, one of his pals would boot on your carpet.  Then somebody would break a picture frame, and you'd look over to see America unapologetically (and maybe successfully) hitting on your girlfriend.  You'd swear you'd never talk to him again, but he'd just show up at the next party anyway.  He'd always be around.  On the days when it was just the two of you hanging out, he could be totally cool and make you feel like his best friend.  But then there were those nights, when he had a couple too many...

Fresh from his verbungle.com endorsement, Roger Federer won Wimbledon.  I guess it would have been a better story if the American had won it in England on the 4th of July, but I'm still happy with the result.  Curiously, I do find myself hating Roddick less these days.

I didn't get a chance to sample any of the hundreds of strip clubs that pop up all over the place here, right alongside more traditional businesses.  But the magic words are definitely "Contact Dance," which I assume is just a simple lap dance.  Perhaps it means a  more elaborate dance where you can thrust your sweaty crotch against the dancer in a simulated sex act.  I don't know.  I'll try to remember to ask the people at the border checkpoint tomorrow.

On Pete's advice, I watched a little of the Euro 2004 soccer final.  It was pretty exciting, I guess.  Certainly several people in the bar were into it, and it was a pretty tame bar.  It would have been more fun in a rowdy bar, for sure. But I think soccer may be too subtle a sport for me.  Call me a typical American, but I need the instant grats. I prefer the (formerly) constant scoring of basketball to the slow burning tension, occasional strategic offensive forays and 1-0 final scores of soccer.  Soccer has too much rejection for me.  Such great efforts are made just to set up one legit scoring chance, only to have the ball harmlessly, and easily, booted aside by the defense.  And then perhaps the one goal of the game is scored on a fluke or a misplay.  I've tried to love it, and I respect the sport and its players, but I definitely need a rooting interest or my mind is wandering. The Greeks were going crazy all over Montreal tonight, though.  Good for them.  First the success of "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" and now this.  What a run.

SPIDER-MAN 2 SEMI-SPOILER ALERT:  READ NO FURTHER IF YOU HAVE NOT YET SEEN SPIDER-MAN 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO.

Now that the verbungle.com snippet department editorial staff has been caught off guard by that d-bag quoting a line from "Napoleon Dynamite," we realize that the incessant quoting of movies and television is not ever going away.  If we can't beat 'em, we will join 'em by suggesting this breakup line, fresh (and maybe not verbatim) from Spider-man 2.  If you are dating a girl, and it's just not working out, and you don't know exactly how to break the news to her, try this:

First, make a really sad face, like saying what you're about to say pains you more deeply than she'll ever know.  Then say:

"I can't be with you.  Because...I'm...Spider-man."

If that doesn't do it, sort of trail off with,"...if my enemies found out..." And then turn away in mock despair.