It’s been a week since I’ve posted anything in here. Usually that means that I’m going to sit down to try to make myself write a post. Which typically leads to something that seems forced and half-assed. And today is no different.
With that said…
As I was showering this morning – and singing Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind” – I remembered an e-mail exchange I had last week with a friend from high school. She is in The Hague working on prosecuting war criminals. I am working on what could end up being the world’s silliest novel. She is trying to make a war-torn country more habitable for it’s people. And I just used the phrase “cock blocked” in chapter three.
If you knew us both in high school, none of this would come as any surprise to you. Still, I’m glad there is no reunion this year.
However, I did do something this morning that I was proud of…
I totally snubbed the “highlights” of Barry Bonds “historic” home run. I woke up early, so I was doing some reading while sort of listening for the NBA playoff highlights to come on. When the perfectly-coiffured talking head mentioned Bonds’ name, I knew what was coming. I turned as far away from the TV as possible – which, if you know me, you’ll agree is not something that happens frequently.
I felt strangely proud of my little one-dude protest.
Sure the steroids thing sucks. I’ve never actually personally seen him use them. And I won’t bore you with some proverb (I think) involving “smoke” and/or “fire.” But, come on…
However, I think an equally big reason for protesting Bonds is that he’s been an unrepentant asshole his entire career.
Maybe I’m too Canadian. It just baffles me when people are absolute shits all of the time.
Not only am I Canadian. But, I’m east coast Canadian. More than that, I am smalltown east coast Canadian. That is like the perfect storm of niceness. (Before the comments pour in, yes, I have my moments of jackassery also.)
This leaves me ill-equipped to understand Barry Bonds and his fucknutsinicity.
I think that I’m very Canadian in other ways too.
People have asked me about moving to the US in the past. But, I really think that I’d cease being me. I’d be like Samson after he got a little off the top, or like David Caruso after “NYPD Blue,” but before “CSI: Someplace or other.”
I’m the guy that points out every single Canadian in every movie or TV show that I watch. Americans get sick of this quickly. “That waitress – the one with one line – she’s from Vancouver!” Nevermind that I live many thousands of miles from Vancouver, and that the only things that tie us together are that we are both carbon-based life forms and we were both born north of some imaginary man-made line on a map, I somehow feel a kinship with this stranger.
It’s like being Canadian makes them more likable to me.
I’d excuse almost any transgression if someone had a Canuck connection. “Attila the Hun? I think he has a great, great, great, great, great, great, great, great grandson in Oshawa. Ontario. His name is Gordie. Good people, those Huns.”
I’m also the guy that thinks that Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” is one of the twenty greatest albums of all time. And the guy who has had Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne” stuck in his head for days.
Can you keep a secret? When I was a baby and started teething, the only thing that could stop me from crying was the playing of Anne Murray records. Now THAT, my friends, is Canadian.
Still, despite my best efforts, I find myself feeling a bit bad for Barry Bonds. In spite of his rampant douche baggery, the guy is taking a lot of flack. I almost find it unfair. Damn my niceness! It really isn’t easy being Canadian sometimes.
But, the fact that we are better-looking and better in the boudoir than everybody else really heals the pain.