Boooooooooo!

Italy beats France in a shoot-out and takes the 2006 World Cup ... Suffice it to say that, in spite of my total indifference to the competition, I am extremely disappointed by the outcome. Anyone who lives within a stone's throw of the Corso Italia, as I do, will understand this. Where, I hasten to add, fate has conspired to host, this very weekend, its annual Fiesta (an Italian-Canadian hommage to all things Italian-Spanish, one assumes). As you can imagine, the blare of celebrazione is such that you can't resist to take a break from whatever it is you're doing, throw together a snappy ensemble of green, white and red to wear, get the nipper into his stroller, the wife into a comfortable pair of sneakers, and goosestep down St. Clair West bearing a huge sign saying: Il Duce is proud of you! You remember Il Duce!?

The non-stop cacophony of horns and full-throated hollering has not dropped by so much as a decibel since they won some two hours ago--and will not do so, I would suggest, until the wee hours of the morning. But I refuse to be impressed by the apparent degree of effort being put into all this frenzy. It's not just one horn or one person screaming ebulliently, you know. There's a huge rotation of them, and I doubt if anyone breaks so much as a sweat tonight before they're plied with espresso, gelato, Moretti; invigorating games of Bocci ball, or Super Mario Bros; huge uncut salamis and Wonderbreads, and plates of macaroni. It's kinda pathetic, actually.
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UPDATE (1:00am)

As predicted, the revelry continues unabated. I shall go to bed, though I feel certain I shall do no sleeping.