The Olympics Are Over.

So I don’t know how many of the readers have ever been in Canada during a gold medal ice hockey game – and been cheering for the wrong team – and lived to tell about it – so here, this is it.

I’m done.

Never again I said, will the moment be so beautiful downtown. So patriotic on the Skytrain. So much managed happiness.

This can’t be my last Vancouver 2010 Olympic tagged post! Already?

No notes during the Game (spoiler alert: Canada wins.) It’s Crosby’s moment. As I sat meditating, I saw white Helvetica numbers being formed, too true, too much, the night before, so I closed my eyes and waited for Sidney Crosby to score on us in overtime, which I also predicted.

As the sun came out in Vancouver, shining into our house, the party from Cole Harbour, NS, is broadcast to us as the Legend of the Young Kid Grows.

Ahh ok and I finally hit my CTV limit soon after the interview with Crosby.
Thank you to NBC for the intervention there with the 6-5 hockey.
With the Nash interview, the announcer comes out and professes it: “Everyone in
Canada has an attachment to everybody.”

“It was going to happen all along,” I write.
Do I really care that much?
I know I would love.

But there is something palpable in the air and it is driving my soul. It is, partly, a personal end to things, but, is the energy gone? I have an epiphany.

“Everyone here loves to watch hockey – but – if it matters – how many (and yes I’m speaking to you) are actually players in rainy Vancouver? (i.e. this man sitting next to me on the couch), I would probably throw a punch he’s had a few beers but so obnoxious man … give it a rest. I feel like I could school all these hockey-watchers on the ice, Canadian or not. Call up my “boys.” Drop the puck.

Enough.

A Chevrolet commercial: “Here’s to making history.”
Coca-Cola: “Now they know whose game it is.”

I’m back to observing this worthless stuff, getting wrapped up in it; madness only because of this one person spoiling the entire mood of the game, he’s got no idea. Literally the first person I’ve disliked in two months and he’s stuck next to me on a couch pouf for two hours, blocking my view of the most beautiful Montrealer I have ever had the chance to see. She was exuding it, concordia salus, and I refuse to let the Olympics come down to one game. I refused to let this man’s negative energy ruin my experience or the day.

I try communicating that with Nick, he catches on, “ok, we’re out,” and finally back to the outside, back to celebration.

Cars are honking all around me walking down Kingsway. Even the trains make a Canadian harmony as they come to a stop .. the passengers get rowdier the further west we go … and I swear Bryan Williams was on drugs for most of the Games. That guy is a machine.

Negative energy derived from me, too. Lack of a phone. Impending credit card fraud. But now I’m caught up, you see.

The party, the sport, the spectacle. Most, just pixels. For Americans at this point, angry at the loss, what’s the difference between Canadian red and Russian Red?

I knew the Canadians were going to win – their hearts were on their hands, they were here for the spirit, they knew it, just as the advertisements told them to do.

Olympics over, closing ceremonies are spotted in the Choices market looking for Zenith. I guess there was a clown?

Not much to dwell on?