Chomberson in Canada

Following in Mr. Chair's footsteps, I will attempt to post entries from my continuing adventure up in the land of Canucks. I cannot promise frequent updates, but hopefully I'll be able to add new stuff every now and then. Chomberson.

DECEMBER 11, 2004

I relocated to Canada.

I wish I could say I did it for political reasons, like I threatened to do so many months ago. But I'm actually up north for a different and much better reason -- at least personally. I am working on a real motion picture -- the sequel to a fairly popular movie released late last year. It could loosely be described as what happens when two cliched Shakespearean characters live in a world with "Angel"s and "Oz"es. (Anyone who doesn't know the movie, email George for more details).

So far, no star sightings. But lots of entertainment. I work for two extremely nice guys, one a family man, the other a ladies' man. Both were instantly welcoming to me, despite my status as a "must hire" (meaning the producers hired me, not them). I honestly couldn't have asked for better people to work for. We spend hours planning trips to bars (even though we always end up at the same place), comparing apartments and pretending that they're gay lovers (hooray, Canada is supporting gay marriage. Woo Hoo!) We're all from America and, therefore, also get endless enjoyment out of Canadian-speak, "right?"

The person I feel sorry for is our other co-worker, a Canuck with major gas problems. He's very sweet, despite the foul odors, and is a good tour guide to the sights and sounds of Vancouver. But he gets more than his fair share of good ol' American arrogance each day. We make him say "God Bless America" before he enters his office in the morning. He is constantly berated with jokes about curling (shuffleboard on iceskates) which is the major national sport until hockey returns. And we recently placed a map of the USA above his desk -- quizzes on the state capitals will begin soon.

He's a good sport but when we go too far, the comeback is a killer -- "George W. Bush". Our president's reelection is an impossible thing to defend, something I feel even more now that I'm in a country without a twangy, rapture-fearing, redneck middle. But to my surprise, when I crossed the border this past weekend to have dinner with my folks and finish my X-Mas shopping I was struck by an odd sense of patriotism, something I haven't felt since 2001 (when the Diamondbacks won the World Series, obviously). It was a true American homecoming -- returning, literally and figuratively, to my "mother/land" while relishing in the low-priced commercialism that makes the USA the ticking time bomb that it is. Although I do try to occasionally slip a "soory" in here and there to disguise my (correct) American pronunciation, I'm slowly realizing that I am much like Lee Greenwood. I'm not about to join the war or support it in the slightest, don't get me wrong. But I am kind of proud to be an American, Bush or no Bush.