Life's a mystery south of the border

Page 5

I have seen and been to Oz; actually walked the hallways. Not many people can say that.

I am not referring to the prison show on television, or that certain place over the rainbow. Oz is at the Machantucket Pequot Reservation in Connecticut, home to, not only the first, but also the largest, Aboriginal casino in North America.

The casino is a large, imposing green structure seen rising majestically from the forest primeval as you drive into the community along the highway. And because of that appearance and its obvious potential to grant dreams, the local residents refer to the awe-inspiring building simply as Oz.

My most recent visit to Oz occurred on a trip south post Sept. 11, reinforcing my humble opinion that America is a truly wacky and amusing place.

Luckily, the last dozen years or so have offered me the opportunity to visit various sections of the United States fairly frequently, and each trip, like a stamp in a passport, leaves me with truly unique memories of our southern sister.

It's often the small things you remember that say so much.

Did you know the state motto in New Hampshire is "Live Free Or Die?" It's on all of their license plates. "Live Free or Die." That seems to be the only two choices currently available in that little pocket of New England. Kind of puts "Yours To Discover" or "La Belle Province" to shame, don't you think?

Tulsa, Oklahoma holds a special place in my heart. It has some of the best art deco architecture in the world, was the home town of one of America's leading porn stars, Stacey Valentine, (or so I've heard) and for the three nights I was there for a theatre opening, there were severe tornado warnings. There's that Oz theme again.

I would sit in my room looking out at the almost continuous nightly thunderstorms and wonder where I would wake up the next morning should God decide my hotel room was a trailer park.

But my most unusual memory of Tulsa is a small bar I was introduced to by the cast and director of the play. The main point of interest hung over the bar itself. About 10 feet off the ground was an absolutely huge moose head, complete with an impressive array of antlers. That is not the interesting part of this story. The unusual attraction of that bar hung from the antlers. Over the years, the owner has managed to accumulate a collection of ...easily...possibly... over 200 bras (the plural form of a bra) that are now draped over and from this unfortunate moose. I guess you could say that moose had a nice rack.

It's the bar's policy that if you donate your bra to the collection, you get to drink free that night. There were red ones, yellow ones, blue, pink, ivory and black. The owner told me he takes them down at least twice a year and washes them to keep the dust from staining them. He also mentioned to me that occasionally, a very hung over woman would limp into the bar the next day, begging for her bra back, saying that it was a very expensive bra. But there is a no return policy at this bar unless they return the alcohol. I must remember to institute this rule at my dinner parties.

A few months later I was invited to a theatre workshop in Wisconsin, compliments of that Tulsa director who actually lived in Wisconsin. While there, she and the cast of the play were working on decided to hold what they called "a Canadian Party" in my honor. This mainly consisted of sitting around drinking some American Labatt's Blue, eating donuts from a Dunkin' Donuts, and watching a video of the MacKenzie Brother's movie "Strange Brew." They even had a bottle of Canadian Club out for me. It was almost like being at home, though I refused to wear the mandatory toque they handed me. This was basically the extent of their knowledge of Canada... that, hockey and Pamela Anderson.

Americans... you just gotta love them.

And in my travels, numerous expatriate Canadians have enthusiastically introduced themselves to me, and it isn't long before we find ourselves pining awayfor the unique Canadian experiences completely unavailable in the mighty United States.

If I had a nickel (American, not Canadian) for every ex-Canadian that asked me how I'm surviving with no vinegar on my french fries. Or asked if I managed to smuggle any butter tarts across the border. Or asked if I remembered how to make that Canadian drink known as a Caesar (if you try to describe the drink to a Yankee bartender they look at you like you're crazy). Or if I had a spare Stompin' Tom CD on me. It's truly sad and pathetic to witness.

But if you really want to throw Americans into a state of confusion, take it from personal experience, just casually tell them two things. First, that you vacation regularly in Cuba. I have stopped many a dinner conversation by letting that small fact nonchalantly slip out to members of a country where travel to that tiny communist country is illegal. They react like you've been to Mars.

And second, tell them you're from Toronto (even if you're not) where the two largest landmarks are the world's biggest phallic symbol (the CN Tower), which is located right beside what appears to be an absolutely huge boob (the Skydome). That will make them wonder about Canadians.