[In an attempt to expand his insular perspective, Rendar Frankenstein became An American in Canada! Join Rendar as he tells of the wonders encountered while traveling through North America’s most jovial nation. It’s one-third travel guide and three-fourths misguided interpretation!]

The urge to fill our gullets with sugar is a human condition, not a national one. Therefore, unless you were raised in the sullen ghettos of Dentalvania, chances’re pretty good that you like candy. With that being said, every country has its specialties, its own interpretations as to how one should simultaneously excite the taste buds and destroy the teeth.

Canada is no exception.

I present, for your informational consumption, three of Canada’s tastiest candy-treats: Smarties, Mr. Big, and Wunderbar.

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[In an attempt to expand his insular perspective, Rendar Frankenstein became An American in Canada! Join Rendar as he tells of the wonders encountered while traveling through North America’s most jovial nation. It’s one-third travel guide and three-fourths misguided interpretation!]

The greatest attribute of any chemical dependency is its steadfast resolve. Olympic athletes may have an incredible level of focus, but even their efforts are diminutive when saddled next to those of an honest addiction. There are no external forces that’ll curb the insatiable appetite of a chemically-inspired jonesin’.

So even though I’d crossed borders and time zones, I still had that damn monkey on my back.

However, if you’re anticipating sordid tales about my forfeiture of oral dignity in exchange for heroin, you’re likely to be disappointed. I know, I know, I’d be much more artistically inclined if I used the drug preferred by the great songwriters of my generation and my parents’. Moreover, if I was going to break drug laws in another country, I might as well jump to the zombie-conclusion and rock some bath salts.

But alas, I’m a simple man and my substance of choice is good `ole fashioned caffeine.

As such, I had no doubt that I’d be able to cop a fix in Canada. After all, my two favorite types of caffeinated beverage – coffee and soda pop – are celebrated in every corner of Spaceship Earth. Nevertheless, there were some interesting differences in the modes of caffeine-delivery available to me during my Canadian adventure.

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Happy 4^th of July everyone.  Today we Americans get to celebrate the birth of our country by eating too much, drinking copious amounts of booze, and then when we’re just about to pass out, play with explosives.  Take that Belarus!  In your face Mongolia!  Catch you on the flip side Latveria!  Since we all love freedom so much, let’s take this opportunity to actually recognize what we have.  This week’s High 5 will take a look at what the world would look like with either too much control, or not enough control.  There are some movies that tackle the subject quite well.  So let’s hear it for the dystopias!

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[In an attempt to expand his insular perspective, Rendar Frankenstein became An American in Canada! Join Rendar as he tells of the wonders encountered while traveling through North America’s most jovial nation. It’s one-third travel guide and three-fourths misguided interpretation!]

For those of you with a shaky understanding of Canada’s geography, Yarmouth is on the very tip of the Nova Scotian peninsula. Consequently, getting there from Boston by car means driving through Maine and New Brunswick, and then traversing the entire province of Nova Scotia. Not wanting to push my luck, I decided I’d stop for the night and pick up the journey the next day.

Thus, this episode is archived under the title Mr. Frankenstein Goes to Halifax!

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[In an attempt to expand his insular perspective, Rendar Frankenstein became An American in Canada! Join Rendar as he tells of the wonders encountered while traveling through North America’s most jovial nation. It’s one-third travel guide and three-fourths misguided interpretation!]

In the seven hours I’d spent on the road since leaving Boston, I hadn’t had any problems.

Which is really astounding, given the fact that I seem to be a real shit-magnet when it comes to travel plans. If an airline baggage handler finally decides to express his displeasure at the fact that his boyfriend left him three years ago for a younger man, it’s my bag that’s getting pissed on and thrown on the wrong plane. If the terror alert goes from beige to cyan, it’s the very day I’m hopping on a transcontinental train. And if my iPod is going to die, it’s going to be right when the elderly couple I’m sitting next to on the bus decides to discuss their love of vomit-sex.

But it’d been seven hours of open road and blue-sky optimism. Hell, I even got through customs without any trouble. Actually, that was pretty easy – I just gave a fake name (Rendar Frankenstein raises eyebrows) and told the guy I was on vacation. Ha! He didn’t even suspect that I was going to be looking under his country’s fingernails for the cultural dirt!

Anyways, I was cruisin’ along New Brunswick’s highways, taking in the wonderful scenery – no doubt modeled after Middle Earth – when I saw a sign that made me gasp. The posting shouldn’t’ve been a revelation, as it was just another bit of standard freeway fare. But in my excitement to venture forth into alien territory, any thought of such a sign or its implication had slipped my mind.

Nevertheless, there it was: TOLL AHEAD.

Which was no problem, aside from the fact that I didn’t have any Canadian cash!

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Man, I’m eating my feelings lately. Straight-up gorging. My bikini body is suffering, yo. I think it’s safe to say that I slather on another pound or three every time I’m tasked with writing a paper. Got this weird as fuck schedule riffing right now too, where I’m on campus until 9 pm. No gym. Mucho food. Gotta cut back. Not this week though! Why? It’s America Fuck Yeah! week. An abridged existence for those of us slaving it out in the United. I am eagerly anticipating stuffing gullet with many a chlorine-soaked beef patty and unethically snuffed chicken. There will be a momentary pause as I mourn the animals, before respecting their sacrifice by ingesting them with a fervor.

This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where we all share the various arts and artifices we’re employing to get us through the week. Won’t you be my date on this fairest of occasions?

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[In an attempt to expand his insular perspective, Rendar Frankenstein became An American in Canada! Join Rendar as he tells of the wonders encountered while traveling through North America’s most jovial nation. It’s one-third travel guide and three-fourths misguided interpretation!]

My name is Rendar Frankenstein, and I’m an American.

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There’s something to be said for taking advice of the locals.

Now, I’m not enough of a daredevil to suggest that indigenous peoples are always lookin’ out for the tourists. There’re more than a few cases of an innocuous wayfarer being purposefully misdirected by the natives. Hell, I can tell you from experience that if you get lost on the way to Mos Eisley, don’t ask any Jawas for help.  I hate to perpetuate stereotypes, but Threepio was right when he called them “Disgusting creatures!”

But for Pete’s sake, don’t be one of those turkeys who goes on an adventure and then searches for the stuff you have at home! That’s total bogwash! Why even leave the front door?

So if it’s your first time venturing into a land whose citizens seem trustworthy, follow their lead. Even those who’ve led mundane lives will be able to steer you towards the essentials. So park your pride and incredulity under your bottom lip, and simply go to where you’ve been told you can find the region’s best burgers, babes, and beers.

When Rome, do as the Romans (and when in Hell, do shots at the bar).

During my recent trek through the Canadian Maritimes, I posed a simple question to anyone who I thought might have the answer (for the most part, this meant winos and women of ill-repute): “What’s the best Canadian beer?”

Without failure, they’d size me up, pausing for an extra moment at my ostentatious hi-tops, and then say in a tone that belied the thought that I could be an honest-to-Vishnu beer-drinker, “You’re goin’ to want to drink Alexander Keith’s.”

Tonite, from the porch of a farmhouse in Nova Scotia, I’m drinkin’ Alexander Keith’s Dark Ale.

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I’m glad this is going up in between lunch and dinner.  I have enough time to make you sad at what you had for lunch, but give you enough time to change your dinner plans.  I’ve been wanting to do this one for a while now, so here goes.  Do you ever wonder what your last meal will be?  I do.  Be it the last meal before I am executed for the public and brutal execution of Michael Bay, passing away in the night at the age of 90, or trading in this fleshy meat bag for a robot body that no longer need food.  So if my last meal was any of these, I’d be happy.

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[face of a franchise presents two individuals that’ve fulfilled the same role. your task – choose the better of the two and defend your choice in the rancor pit that is the comments section]

Most us are nothing more than sacks of flesh feebly held together with some chicken-finger ligaments. We’re weak, cowardly, and directionless. The human condition, if you haven’t noticed, is not generally teeming with dignity. Consequently, we rely on those who manage to combine natural talent with hard work so as transcend the mundane. Whether into the realms of fiction or reality, we all venture forth in hopes of finding a hero.

So there’s really nothing more treacherous than when a hero turns his back on his admirers.

Unfortunately, there’re more than a few examples of our heroes failing us. No, these don’t include instances in which our champions fight on our behalves but fall short. Hell, dying for a cause might be the most heroic act of all. Instead, idols truly disappoint us when they disregard the joy and admiration we’ve afforded them, essentially spitting upon the very people who’ve forged the crowns adorning their heads.

So this begs the question – who is the most traitorous hero of all? Well, we’ve narrowed it down to two contenders: LeBron James and Hollywood Hogan.

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