Perhaps de Tocqueville commented on this, but we’ve never been interested enough to find out: Americans hate the sight of victorious Frenchmen. Though the French lose gracefully, debating what defeat means for Mother France, victory merely ratifies their overdeveloped sense of world-historical import – like a mental patient’s X-ray that shows there really is a radio transmitter in his brain. So a certain midsummer malaise was inevitable when France’s World Cup victory, followed quickly by Bastille Day, flooded our city’s streets with armies of French revelers unseen since the last time a Mickey Rourke film hit Blockbuster. Zidane’s two goals were lovely, but that and the “Marseillaise”? What could a respectable xenophobe do but mutter “Marshall Plan” and snicker about Jerry Lewis. C’est la vie. C’est la guerre. Fuhgeddaboudit.