24 April 2014

Modern Break Up



One of my bartenders gets visited by his girlfriend at work every so often. Good looking gal. Could be Scarlett Johansson's sister. Met her on an on-line dating site. Goes by the name Tiffany on her passport. Everybody knows her as Tuff.

Every one in the bar likes it when she swings open the bar door. Had not seen her for quite some time so I asked my bartender, "Haven't seen Tuff for a while. She ok?" My bartender took on a hurt expression and opened up. "She broke up with me. With a fucking text. Haven't seen her since she sent  a video of herself to me being diddled with a Molson's bottle by some fucking biker."

Young people today. They got it all. And they got nothing at all.

21 April 2014

Winner! Winner! 69 Mile House Dinner



Visited 69 Mile House on the weekend. It is easy to forget winter ever happened when you live in Dope City come April. Only heavy drinking will help you forget in 69 Mile where my favourite fishing lakes are nowhere near freeing themselves of ice and where snow dirty as RCMP history remains piled at the roadside.

There are always winter end stories to be told by your 69 Mile House friends, no matter who they are. Broken marriages, some expected, some not so expected; deaths slow as solutions to poverty and sudden as Stanley Cup overtime goals.

One evening we went to the casino - even towns as small as 69 have those now. Somebody we were with won $5000 playing roulette as I was busy losing a little playing Australian races. Did so by covering half the wheel with chips and cashing repeatedly.

You should have seen the pub after he cashed and shared his good fortune with his new friends. Before long it was like a fight scene from Gunsmoke in the pub.

"Isn't the owner pissed getting his placed smashed up like this?" I asked no one in particular.

"Fuck no," came the reply. "It's like this every Saturday night."

17 April 2014

Singing Up a Storm on the Drive



On the weekend Sonja and I were down on the Drive. It was dinner time. The sun, bright as the mastermind behind the hijacking of the Malaysian passenger jet we are sick and fucking tired of hearing about every day, was casting the darkest shadows of Shadowland on the town.

You hear a lot about people not drinking enough to keep the pubs open in British Columbia since the anti-drink Nazis clamped down on this far flung corner of the Empire's favourite way to entertain themselves. You would have never guessed we had a shortage of drinkers from the packed pubs and restaurants, half of them with line-ups stretching onto the sidewalk, we saw as we made our way up and down the street. People who live close to their favourite watering holes need not concern themselves with our province's overkill drinking and driving laws. That is why the pubs out here in the sticks are having such a fucking time of it: the only people who walk here are the homeless.

A couple were just leaving a sundrenched window table at St. Gus' Tavern when we arrived to join in the spring party. Sonja hit the wine. Portland cider for me. We were flying like shitface angels when we were done.

The record store I often patronize was open past its usual closing time so we went in. Came out with Hendrix's BBC recorded triple album set (only listened to one platter so far), a noisy racket recorded in '96 by the UK Subs and a cd version of the Velvet's super '69 Texas show - been listening and singing along to it (especially the versions of "White Light/White Heat" and "Heroin" on it) in the car over and over again.

Sonja picked up a Pink cd. Pretty good for overproduced modern pop music. She uses many of the words that pop up with regularity here in the Dope City Free Press. We like that motherfucking shit.

On our way back to the car I heard a woman singing in the distance. I recognized the voice right away even though I had not heard it in person for about a year and a half. It was e. Gazz from the Pacific Gazzette's eldest. Clear as a bell her voice is and sweeter than Patsy Cline's.

To my surprise she recognized me as I fished in my trousers for the change that would later put food on her poor family's table. "Why if it isn't Mr. Beer."

It was the first time in my life I was called Mr. Beer. Usually it is just plain Beer. Sometimes it is, "That motherfuckin' Beer."

We chatterboxed briefly about our disparate lives. My sixth sense, the one I have been nourishing with alcohol all these years, told me she is in a much better place, much better frame of mind than when I saw her last. That is what happens as you grow up. Once you have told a couple dozen people to, "Fuck off!" you get to be feeling pretty damn good about shit.

We could hear her return to her singing as we walked away. "She really is good, isn't she?" Sonja asked. I did not have to answer as we fucking near skipped up the street in the fading light of a ukulele day.

14 April 2014

On the Sudden Death of Canada's Minister of Finance



Well he was only 5'3"
But girls could not resist his stare
Jim Flaherty never got called an asshole
Not in Ottawa

- with apologies to John Cale



Had not seen Dave Gregg in a long time before he died. That will happen. Last I heard of him he was selling crap for bands on tour so they could afford to get to the next town on their itinerary (the smaller acts) or so they could afford more cocaine to fuel their personal jets (the big motherfuckers). Did not even know he was playing guitar for years in the Real McKenzies.

As has been well established over the years, I do not know shit.

Despite our obvious distance his death came as one fuck of a Doc in the guts. Guess those of us old school punk rockers who lived past their 20s figure we are going to live forever or some fucking thing. Or, if not forever, that we would meet again for happy hour beers, before we fucked off for good, in a senior's residence built atop the crumbling rat teeming ruin of the Smilin' Buddha Cabaret.

When I heard the bad news I could think, off the top of my head, of several billion people I would have preferred to die before they reached the age union forestry workers can start having monthly cheques mailed to them in Mexico.

So it came as a justified relief when word spread around the sawmill on Friday that Jim Flaherty had died. The fucking cunt. He is the thieving asshole that stole two years of my pension from me (and millions of others) with a stroke of a pen a few years ago.

And I do mean stole.

You would think the ex-minister of Fucking With the Finances of Canadians would have got nothing but hisses and jeers from the Opposition once word got around Parliament Hill he had croaked. Instead there was a line up from Ottawa to Port Hardy wanting to kiss his crooked ass.

I have few words to mark the the death of Jim Flaherty. I could say it was timely but he died a few years too late. See you in Hell, motherfucker.

10 April 2014

L-U-V



The Hammer loves me. Kisses me and everything. But I think she loves Hunky Z even more than she loves me.

When Hunky and Kitty were over on the weekend, first time they had been over for a spell, the Hammer attached herself to Hunky the way a barnacle clings to a piling.

Hunky loved her back of course in the way only Hunky can. "If her farts did not smell so bad I would marry her," was how he described his feelings for her.

"Guess that explains why it took so long for you to marry me," Kitty added, to our amusement.


8 April 2014

Eleven Bottles of Backyard Wine For the Wolf of Wall Street



Hunky Z and Kitty paid Sonja and I a visit on the weekend. They brought some wine with them to share with us. A fucking case minus one bottle. "Twelfth bottle did not survive the fall off the back of the truck," is how Hunky explained it.

Red wine. Named Back Yard. From a Valley winery I had never heard of called Nosey Neighbour. We did not have to drink all eleven to get ourselves pretty ripped. None of us upheaved, therefore I give it 103 points.

I picked up dinner after helping finish off the first two bottles. Punjab food. As I waited for our order to be brought out to me I noticed a bottle of whisky I had never seen before. "What's that shit?" I asked the barman.

He reached an empty bottle my way with a hairy brown arm. It was called Antiquity. Distilled in the Punjab. I pressed my nose to the top of the bottle and breathed deeply. Smelled good. Smelled fucking good.

Seeing the pleasure in my eyes the bar man got me a glass and poured me a wee one. Not half bad. Never seen it in the liquor store. If you do do not be afraid to pick up a bottle. Looks like corruption and gang raping women in the backs of buses is not the only thing Indians do well.

After dinner we watched "Wolf of Wall Street." Great fucking movie. Turns out those Wall Street motherfuckers were acting the same as punk rockers in the Reagan years. Only difference was we were fucking higher class women and they were snorting their coke instead of shooting it up.

If you have been put off Martin's latest by asshole critics who would not know the difference between life and death if they went on a Holiday In Afghanistan it is time to say fuck you to them. Wolf of Wall Street was the best film of 2013 by a motherfucking mile. May just be Martin's best film ever.

(Great music too - especially the Howlin' Wolf.)

4 April 2014

Thank You Dave Gregg



One fuck of a long time ago the guys from DOA did me a great favour. I first approached Ken, their manager, who I tracked down in a cozy greasy spoon not far from their East Georgia headquarters. He was sitting with a blonde punkette (love that word) who is probably long dead now. I wanted the band to perform "General Strike" on the labour affairs radio show I was helping out with. It was a go.

We would sort out the details soon enough. I was clear on one detail straight away however. The band did not need to haul all their electric gear up the three long twisting flights of stairs to the studio. None of the members (or ex-members) of DOA had died yet. I did not want to be the motherfucker to knock over the first of those many dominoes.

When show time approached Joe and Dave brought their acoustic guitars, Dim his bongos, Brian his bass and a practice amp. If I had been thinking I would have provided him one of those fat ass Mexican acoustic bass guitars. Once we had tested the sound levels and such off air we had some time to bullshit. All I remember of it, nearly three decades later, was the gist of my conversation with Dave. He was working for positive change for our world in the cultural arena. I was doing so by trying to keep my class organized. We were both on the same side, motherfuckers.

If you have not done so yet you better decide which you are on. If you are on the same side Dave and I chose, we need all the fucking help we can get.

1 April 2014

In Which I Dream of A Tasteless Movie and Turn It Into A Fucking Near Epic Poem



- dedicated to Dave Gregg, killed by death in Punk Rock, British Columbia -

The missing plane
Incident
Sure has commanded
People's imaginations.
The saga
Ought to be captured
At some future date
By a film festival
Comprised
Only of
Different takes
On the same
As yet unfinished story.

What is known,
Becomes known and
Will never be known
About that
Fucking plane makes
For quite the palette.
The film adaptation
Of this remarkably
True story
I am waiting for
Will feature
The plane
Being levitated

By aliens
To a distant galaxy
Where all the passengers
Will be anal probed
By some outer space
Assholiness.
"What more could
You ask from a movie?"
 I asked myself
In the dream
In which
The Missing Plane Film Festival
Revealed itself to me.

"Load of Chinese and
Two cocksucking Iranians
Traveling
On stolen passports
Getting the old
Space alien anal probe."
Motherfucker had Oscar
Written all over it
Until
I appeared
In my own dream
Next in line
For an exploratory probing.

30 March 2014

Almost Heaven



Steepleton, a city whose bus drivers are not constantly under physical attack, is where I live. Never thought I would live in Steepleton because it is, as people in Dope City describe it, out in the fucking sticks.

Cows and shit.

Metaphorically (and without conscious intention) I moved back to the motherfucking Alberta of my early childhood when Steepleton became my home.

It was the early years of the New Democratic Party's political control of British Columbia, a province that, like a beat down crack whore, likes to think of itself as Beautiful. There were no homeless people on the streets. Nor were there homeless people in the woods. It was like a John Denver song.

Almost Heaven.

It stayed that way until one year after the fucking Liberals (a political coalition funded by my province's unethical economic elite - the parasitic 1%) got elected. That was when a lot of people, mostly men with few, if any, prospects got kicked off welfare.

Imagine having NO money in a world that worships money the way Muslim loons worship fucking around with airplanes.

Almost Heaven became almost the East End. Stayed that way ever since.

Steepleton, from whence the Fuck You philosophy of the Liberal Party began and continues to fester, has yet to come to grips with the unspeakably poor created and cast aside like stained mattresses at the end of a secluded dead end street. A lesson ought to have been learned by now: do not turn your back on desperate times. To do so only invites such desperation to come bakatcha.

27 March 2014

Hate of the Week

See the relatives of the presumed dead passengers of the doomed Malaysian 777 going ape-motherfucking-shit on the Malaysian embassy in their body part selling country? Nazis, skinheads and the KKK are who we usually associate with hate. I think we can add the fucking Chinese to that list. We may even want to consider putting them at the top of the list.