Made �good time� across Canada�s lower eastern flank. Across from Detroit into Windsor, with little incident, thank the Lord of the Road. Those borders can be a real motherfucker, believe me. Over into Ontario, where those miles turn to kilometers and well, the populace gets a little more interesting. I hopped on Canada route 401 and didn�t stray from it but for a couple pitstops. I followed that Canadian sonofabitch all the way to Toronto, passing the �Land of the Barenaked Ladies� (fuck.) just to the north a bit, continuing across Ontario�s eastern side up towards Montreal.

Crossing over into Quebec was interesting. Everything went French, from road signs to advertisements, to exclamatory remarks from passerby motorists enjoying my reckless, �hopelessly lost� ways. I passed through Montreal quickly, heading south towards Burlington, Vermont for Lance Violette�s wedding to lovely Vanessa.

Crossing the border into Vermont was somewhat of a relief, as my time in Quebec was haunted by visions of�

01. Being pulled over�
02. Being unable to speak Francais�
03. Being arrested in a foreign country�
04. Being thrown in some weird frontier prison�
05. Being accosted by French-Canadian trappers and shit.

It coulda happened.

- - - -

Back in the U.S.A., down 89 to Vermont. Happy ol� Burlington. Rich, privileged college kids were out and about. Yay, youth! Wilco was playing at some theater, which I missed by a couple hours due to the lateness of the hour. Nectar�s was alive and festive, with some sort of jam music blaring out of it. I headed through the downtown, gassed up and hit the road for Stowe, some 35 miles southeast of Burlington.

I made it to Lance�s a little after midnight, to find a hearty gathering in mid-swing. Jared, Sue, Michaylira, Tevis, Rose, Frank, some bridesmaids, some groomsmaids, and Lance and Vanessa, of course. Some shit was talked, and Rose and I split back to the Stowe Inn.

- - - -

I made camp on the floor, and settled in to watch a repeat of the big debate. I thought Kerry did a good job. Bush, that coached little marionette, resorted to his �down home� mentioning of names and their respective hometowns to reassure us in such troubled times. I�d rather he tell us about what he�s gonna do to change the situation, versus tell us what �Homer McGillicutty of Devil�s Knuckle, Texas feels about the the Iraq situation.� Complete, bumbling fool. It doesn�t work on me.

�It�s hard work,� served as a good filler when a big word or clear thought escaped his grasp. This is war we are talking about, not digging a ditch. Sure, he�s �resolute,� about protecting fatcat money, oil interests and Halliburton contracts. Oh man, he�s gotta go.

I think Kerry sounded firm and clear. I�m all for getting the world back on our side, and gaining respect from a world community who sees us a bully cowboy. We gotta go at these problems on a global level, not as �big ol� America who isn�t gonna back down from nobody.� We gotta think and solve on a bigger, multinational level. Our blinders are on.

I watch Bush on that podium, and I want-so much-to be soothed by him, to be impressed and inspired. But that never happens. I see a dimparody fumbling through his lines, through transparent soundbites, through macho promises. I want to feel good about �what we�re gonna do to make things better.� I fear what comes next. I fear what comes next, on his watch.

Let�s get him out of there and start over. They�ve fucked enough things up.