The waitress at our new favourite diner said something to me after I had guzzled a few I have heard many times over my tipsy life, "We are all out of Heineken sir. Could I get you something else?" I went for the Becks.
Next morning Sonja said, "You must be hungover." I was not. All I had done was empty a diner of its green 12 oz. bottles.
"As a matter of fact I feel fucking excellent." If Sonja drank that much in an entire weekend she would have turned the colour of a bottle of Heineken, puked a green flame somewhere and been hungover for a week.
As my coffee bubbled in the kitchen, after I had tested the john with a beer shit more powerful than a pre-election Osama bin Laden video, I turned the British soccer on the television. Westham were in the middle of a good old hooligan clobbering of Middlesborough. I do not follow the old game like I once did but the Hammers are looking for real.
A little later, the morning being overcast and all, I watched a bit of the Canadian women's thrashing of Ghana in the World Cup. Us Canadians, me included, are beginning to take a real shine to women's sports. If only our men's soccer team played with the same long haired spirit of our women's team.
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