The one and only time I tried spam it pretty much blew my world apart. This was pre-vegan, still being an idiot days, hanging out in downtown Ottawa and being a general bad influence on sane people. The other liz and I bought some spam at Giant Tiger and cut a hole in the bottom of the tin with a knife, so I could make a lamp out of it later, and we sat there at the top floor of the rideau mall eating spam and mussels and playing go fish with spiderman cards. And scowling at children.
Then we went to the national art gallery, still eating the spam (did I mention yet that it tastes really good, like buttery salty ham? I think it has potato flake in it. anway.). It was kind of an honoured guest, we danced with the tin in some exhibition rooms and were strangely unimpeded by every security guard in the place. Except when liz touched some hollow truck, I think it was james angus's hollow truck. I don't like his work all that much. But yeah, spam.
There was a microphone set up, I think it was around Valentine's and you could walk up to a platform lit all nicely with golden blue lights and profess your love for whatever you wanted, and they must have been recording it for something later I think. I went up and I tried to express my love for the salty meat, but I got too emotional and started to cry. Liz grabbed me off of there, looking kinda scared, but the moment wasn't ruined or anything, and we watched some more art-house movies like this cool one about wonderwoman spinning and exploding and being generally deconstructed to a nice disco beat, and then we went home to drink.
