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nORTHERN FIRECRACKERs

jUNE, 2000 - mARCHING around my basement dressed as a female Mountie singing Oh Canada, I look northward this time of year, anticipating July 1st - Canada Day. A joyous time, when Canadians of all colors, creeds, and credit ratings dance, sing, and thank God that they won the War of 1812.

Quizzed for greater meaning, many Canadians soon admit that much of what it means to be Canadian revolves around what it means not to be "American" - a serial misnomer given that there is no "America." (Go ahead, check any atlas for any country called "America")

Pressed too hard, though, many Canadians eventually devolve into a wretched gut-spilling spiel about their inherent dullness.

Why?

1) Like a Shia' Muslim required to whip his back during Ramadan, ritual Canada bashing is the quid pro quo of achieving true Canadiana.

2) Telling people you're boring might preempt them from agreeing.

3) Canadians are too dull to realize that they're no more boring than everyone else.

I vote for number three. Here's why. As French are surly, Italians are unreliable, and Swiss spend every waking hour making chocolate or repairing cuckoo clocks, Canadians are unarguable dullards. Right? But compared with whom exactly? Swedes? The Macon County Elks? Pete Sampras? No. Compared to The United States of America, of course. After all, The United States is the richest, most powerful nation in history. Further, "Americans" are full of color, dynamism, high stakes and heart breaks. Just ask an accountant in Akron, realtor in Reno, lineman for the county in Wichita, or anyone doing anything in Duluth. Life in the USA runs a madcap gauntlet, from managing leisure-ware at K-Mart to clicking keyboards at Citibank. Where's some cold Canadian going to find those thrills?

Luckily, Canadians can cross the border to visit many USA marquee exhibits. There's Hollywood Florida, or Hollywood California, where actors bus at Starbucks, and older corpulent men on the take date nutritionally endangered younger woman on the make. Ah, Hollywood - there's just something about a man on a phone.

Of course, I am different. See, I live in New York. And let me be very specific. I don't just live in New York State, with that rabble speckling the Uticas and Buffalos of the world. I'm talkin' Gotham, buddy. The city. That's right. And I don't mean the Buttafuccolands of Queens, Long Island et al. I'm talkin' Manhattan. No, not in some backwater like Bensonhurst or Harlem, or with those dry drips on the East Side. I live with cool-young-cutting-edge-west-siders. You know, tiny dinners on satellite-dish dinner plates, forward brushed haircuts, Herman Munster shoes, rim reinforced glasses with yellow tints (even if we can see fine without glasses).

Exciting or what?! Check in with any magazine editor operating from a windowless cubicle or an investment banker crunching 20 hours a day over a desktop. See, this really is the-center-of-everything. That means I/we-am/are-the-center-of- everything. Think of it. We get up, take showers, ride the subway, work at desks, eat lunch, work at desks, ride the subway, repeat. This place is happening!

What makes the USA such a quick-draw, global Top Gun? Who cares. Everyone knows the USA is the Land of the Free, Home of the Brave, Nation of Rugged Individuals. Independent pioneers of shiny bicep and lion heart, forging - nay - blazing a universal trail. That's why we eat Olestra, shop the GAP, and listen to Ricky Martin; that's us, livin' la vida loca, baby, while collectivist Canadians huddle with real Mounties for protection from snow.

Reflecting over my latte with a select circle of concerned Gotham cohorts, it occurs to us that Canadians seem less dull than neurotic; like that supercilious cousin who held his open palm over an open flame if he missed just one word on his third-grade spelling bee, while the rest of us with half his grades went out to play kick-the-can.

Now an adult, still fascinated by his imperfections, our Canadian cousin sucks his thumb while we watch TV, or march around basements dressed as female Mounties. Now any sad-sack of an Arctic wolf chaser can easily see that we grew into dynamic, exiting individuals anyway. Given half a chance, we also spin very convincing myths.

Message to couz': drop the thumb thing, or you'll never get a date.

Yours Truly,

Xandor
Copy Boy In-Chief