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"Red Maple Leaves And Machine Guns"
posted June 26, 2007 @12:56a
 
"Pressure! Pushin' down on me, booda dow do you, becha bawn chaw conk." That's what all the Native Americans just heard, wailing from my Canadian-rented, blue Toyota Tercel, as I drove through the Mohawk Indian Reservation at dusk near our northern border.

Some songs, "Under Pressure" by Queen/Bowie included, need to be sung with confidence, whether or not you really know all the words.

After being lost in French Canada for nearly nine hours last night, it was good to be back on some American dirt.

...By the way, I can perform in front of hundreds of people. I can hang with vagrants at midnight in New York City. Even getting lost in Canada doesn't scare me. But I almost completely freak out every time I attempt to puncture a Capri Sun juice sack with that stupid, little, yellow, dull straw they give me. I just know I'm gonna squeeze the container too tightly, and then... well, who knows what will happen? Dumb, worthless straw...

I arrived at the airport yesterday around noon, en route to Canada. Placed on the entrances to the airport were large, orange squares, with words underneath reading "High Risk Of Terrorist Attacks." Apparently, somebody in charge of something decided yesterday was worse-than-normal when it comes to the possibility that somebody somewhere might try to hurt me. I don't keep up with the news, so I'll have to trust their judgment.

So I guess here's how it all went down: The Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776. Two hundred and twenty-five years later, a group of organized haters (putting it lightly, of course) attack and kill on U.S. soil. Six years later, the government seizes my Ban Roll-On deodorant before I board my plane, to ensure it doesn't happen again.

As everyone knows - in the absence deodorant, terrorism cannot exist.

And yes, I know I'm the only male that uses Ban Roll-On.

Anyway... while being lost last night in Montreal after arriving, I decided to ask a French-Canadian dude on the street for some directions. As I approached, he gave me a polite smile and waited for me to speak. When a big mouthful of Southern-accented words came out, his whole demeanor changed. His shoulders dropped, he lost is smile and his mouth opened. Then, with his eyes closed, he slung his loose cheeks from left to right a few times, like Scooby Doo. When his face stopped moving, he just stared at me with hollow eyes. I could see the Frenchie was trying to understand me, but it was a lost cause.

Let me just tell you - being lost in the backwoods of Canada, with no cellphone, French-only road signs and no buildings or people for miles really is awesome.

 
 


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