Various Items:

-There was a fire near 2nd and Quebec on Friday night. I could see the reflection of the flames out my window, on the windows of the glass towers on the opposite side of False Creek. Kind of a odd accompaniment to the release of the new Stoke record this weekend (I've got copies). The cover of the album features a photo of a piece of graffiti that adorned the wall of a now-demolished building at the same intersection as Friday's fire. The work can be seen at blacknblues.com...a portrait of an unkown woman.

-I feel very despondent these days. I'm in a shell, as JR McClelland once said. Or as someone else once said, 'how did I get to this place?'

-Instead of auditioning for a lead singer, shouldn't the members of Supernova be looking for a songwriter? Perhaps I'm being unkind, but between the three of them they've managed one great tune in 20 years (that being Gilby Clarke's admittedly superb 'Cure Me or Kill Me,' a song that has about three killer riffs in the first 50 seconds, and also includes the words 'Tarantula Fuzz'; I think I'll add it to my list of six favorite songs...I think I've finished the list now).

I know they're relying on the producer to supply a Mutt Lange-like thunderbolt or two, but is that wise?

Well, I still like the French soccer team, perhaps now more than ever.

For some reason it doesn’t bother me at all that they are a frustrating, aging group that squandered their potential after a ramdom, inexplicable act of self-destruction.

As for Zidane’s head butt, I’m bemused by all the speculation as to what Marco Materazzi said to him to provoke it. Perhaps it was a truly execrable comment, though I also wouldn’t be surprised if it was relatively innocuous bit of chiding, and that it was a combination of frustration and temper, set off by the nattering itself, that ignited Zidane.

You see, I have some experience with this myself, and therefore I’m reluctant to condemn Zidane’s act of violence. I have a co-worker who sets me off in much the same way. It’s not so much that what she says is offensive; it’s the gradual build-up of irritation that gets you.

If you fused my relationship with my co-worker with the World Cup final incident, I can envision the exchange going something like this:

Materazzi: You’ve had your chances, Zizou, but your’re finished. We’re the mighty Azzuri. Soon we will be world champions...the greatest team across all six continents.

Zidane: You mean seven continents.

Materazzi: No, six...Europe, North America, South America, Africa, Australia...what’s the other one? Let me think...

Zidane: The other TWO; Asia and Antarctica.

Materazzi: I don’t think Asia’s a continent, maybe India...anyway, we’re going to destroy you, much in the same way that the British Royal Family destroyed princess Diana. That was terrible. Of course, you French were in on it, weren’t you?

Zidane: What are you talking about?

Materazzi: The crash scene. All the evidence you destroyed. How come French police cleaned up the crash scene so quickly? Maybe the French governement is in league with the British Royal Family. Or at least in league with the Queen. The Queen could be directing a rogue element within MI5 who have connections to the French secret police who...

Zidane: Why don’t you piss off?

Materazzi: You see, you’re all discombobulated. Ha ha ha...

Zidane: Will you shut up?

Materatzi: Yes, you’re discombobulated. It means...well, I’m not sure what it means. I just made it up! I can’t say exactly what it means because I just made it up!! Sometimes I do that. I make up words. What's another one I made up? I know....

THUNK!!!

Does it seem that Vancouver’s Brazilian community swells to improbable levels around World Cup time? Perhaps it’s just me, but I suspect that many of the yellow-shirted ‘South Americans’ I’ve seen strutting around over the past couple of weeks are of questionable legitimacy.

Personally, I have a strict protocol that I follow for the World Cup, something like a royal line of succession. It has to be stringent, lest one be accused of the kind of bandwagon-jumping that seems rampant in this poser-inundated city.

First, of course, I cheer for Canada. If, by chance, they fail to make the World Cup tournament, I cheer for Scotland, as that’s the next closest family tie for me; two of my grandparents are of Scottish birth.

If, by chance, Scotland fails to qualify, I go with England. I have one grandparent of English birth. The fourth grandparent (my maternal grandfather) is also of English parentage, although he himself was born in Canada.

If...by chance...the English team is eliminated earlier in the competition than expected, I then go with France, providing they themselves are still in the running.

Why?

Well, we live in a partly French country. So there’s an official connection on that level.

But it’s largely because I’ve always liked the French soccer team. When I first started following World Cup soccer, the French had a good squad that played with a lot of pinache. They’ve had their ups and downs over the years, but they seem to be one of the most consistently watchable of the various European sides.

I was delighted when they beat Brazil on the weekend, partly because it was a nice, if wholly inadeqeuate, kick in the ass to our local fake Brazilians, but also because it epitomized what I like about ‘Les Bleus.’

Unlike almost everyone else, the French don’t seem to fear the Brazilians. They go into their games with the South Americans without any sense of awe or deference, and it seems to work.

I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere.