28 July 2015

Millwall Way



They were not something I thought I would one day look back on with the fondness one associates with childhood puppies and shit like that. I am talking about the punk rock apartments I lived in for the first decade of my independence.

First one was close to home. Rent was a little over $150 a month. For that kind of money you could rent yourself a first rate Hellhole in the '70s. Never had to leave my floor when I needed drugs in that fucking place. The couple who watched over the place kept two dobermans to improve their chances of living through the nights. Couple pairs of fangs were all you needed for security in the days before guns became common as toothbrushes.

Only lived two months in the next place. People on the ground floor beneath my place objected to vomit and piss raining from above them. Go figure. That got me banned from all the apartments in Sliverville. No easy task that.

Next up was the class place across the scumbag filled river in Fort Royal. Lived there better than a year. Only reason I got that place was because it was haunted.  Motherfucking poltergeist. I was well suited to haunted house living. I drank a lot and did more drugs than Whitney Houston's kid. I was fucking near ready to begin haunting places myself.

Next was a shithole across the street from the class place. No elevator, no balcony, no view and a toilet that did not flush real well. A fucking prison it was. A fucking prison with two beer fridges you could order pizza from.

I did not have a television in any of those places. It was fucking wonderful. Just me, my records, an endless supply of Carlsberg and all the drugs a guy with a nurse for a girlfriend can get a hold of.

My neighbours did not like me in any of those places. I did not care. That, my friends, is the Millwall way.




26 July 2015

Jimi, Floyd and the Ramones



I fucking love rock 'n' roll music. (Got Nazareth's Greatest hits entertaining the neighbourhood at the moment.) So I notice things of a musical nature that might escape people who listen to other forms of music or the rarest motherfuckers of all: people who do not love music at all.

Sonja and I were out doing our shopping today. In one store I noticed someone wearing a "Dark Side of the Moon" t-shirt and someone else wearing a Hendrix one. The music of my stoned as Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix rolled into one high school parking lot.

In another store it is déjà fucking vu. Mom in a Hendrix t-shirt, her daughter rocking "Dark Side of the Moon." Had to ask myself, "What the fuck is going on here?" A preference for Freedom perhaps? Or maybe everybody is just plain Stone Crazy?

In yet another store a five year old boy was wearing a Ramone's t-shirt. Always knew those rock 'n' roll motherfuckers were going to have legs. Been 40 years since their first record kicked us square in the fucking head - pretty safe to assume the Ramones are going to be listened to as long as Beethoven.

Sonja and I? A DOA girlie t and a vintage Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers number. If you ain't punk rock trippin' you ain't livin', motherfuckers.

23 July 2015

Welcome Back to 1984



Not many had a sharper eye for the shit governments pull than George Orwell. Just gave "1984" another read. Greatest novel of the 20th century if you ask me.

The Ministry of Truth is still alive all these years later.

The police are your friend. Our enemy is your enemy. The medical system gets better and better. The environment could not be more pristine.

Endless fucking bullshit.

Canada, my friends, is in an economic recession. Just like others we have experienced. Our Finance Minister, however, is not so sure about that.

"Fuck the numbers!" he would say if he were permitted to use plain language. "The economy has never been in better shape."

The Ministry of Truth, as ever, needs but one spark to improve its performance. That and a fucking match.







20 July 2015

Easy Rider



It is hard not to let up on your dog's activities when they are not doing as good as you are used to them doing. Just like a horse, you cannot leave them in the barn all fucking day.

The Hammer was laying there when I got home from the racetrack yesterday not looking as happy as she usually does. I knew what to do.

"You bored sweetie?" I asked her as I got together her harness, treats, shit bags and few beer for me. Just getting out the harness raised her spirits. Only use that when we are going in the car. Put her in the car, rolled down the window on her side and off we went.

Nearer to home she tends to lag behind me now on the trail but not here in one of her favourite places to run around. She stayed ahead, looking back every so often to make sure I had not reversed course on her. Instead of turning around to keep her walk short we continued on to a bend in the creek where there is a deep pool even when water levels are as low as they are now.

She swam across the pool. Got out on the other side. Sniffed around and swam back. Got out all happy as a child learning he has been born into a rich fucker's family.

She returned to the water once more for a brief paddle before we headed back to the car where the wind blew through her wet fur like it did through Billy and Captain America's hair in "Easy Rider."

18 July 2015

Pride Day at the Sawmill



There is a few university students around the sawmill this summer again. The old boys retiring, going on lengthy absences to get their more worn out parts replaced and going insane has created spots for them at the bottom of the seniority list.

Mostly they keep to themselves, rarely talking even to each other, preferring to consult their smart phones incessantly with their dope addict's weary nod.

Four of them were doing this today in the shade of a rotting shed at lunch time when I spotted them and thought I would go see what the fuck they have to say for themselves.

"Oh we like working here fine," the spokesman for the group told me when I asked them what they thought of working in a fucking mill. "We make fucking near three times as much here working than we would stirring up coffee or whatever.

"There is one thing we could all do without though," he began to tell me with a sincere look in his eye. "Every time we bend over to pick something up some old fuck like you is looking at us with a faraway look in their eye and a hand deep in a pocket fondling themselves."

"Ha!" I laughed. "You should have seen what it was like when I was your age. Sawmills were even more like prisons than they are now back then. You just chose who you were going to take it from and moved on until a prettier boy came along looking for a safe sawmill daddy to protect him from the rest of the cornhole crew."

17 July 2015

A Gem From Early '67



Bought Neil Young's new record tonight. Look forward with great anticipation to everything he records. Be listening to it on the way home from the sawmill on Friday. Me, Neil Young and six fucking cold ones. Traffic will be fucked enough for me to get the beer down and be wishing I had a couple more unless Dope City takes the ICBM hit its Starbucks worshiping coffee drones so richly deserve.

Tonight I instead listened to Little Richard's Greatest Hits: Recorded Live! on my Luxman cassette deck. From 1967. That was a while ago. Had me smiling like Richard Thompson will have Dope City's fucking hippies smiling on Friday Night. More hooting and hollering you will not hear any place these days aside from the rail of a well attended day at the races.

And what a band - Johnny "Guitar" Watson, Glenn Willings, Eddie Fletcher, Billy Preston and an unknown kick ass drummer. God damn it they could play!


Little Richard Forever. Forever Little Richard. Long live rock 'n' roll, motherfuckers. Long live rock 'n' roll!

15 July 2015

Go Drink Beer and Write Poetry



Whenever there is news from space a wee cheer goes off somewhere deep inside me. Same goes for just about everybody who watched the initial moon landings as I did lying on the parent's shag carpet watching our the black and white.

News from Pluto included. Woohoo! So that is what the motherfucker looks like.

On an intellectual level, however, news from Pluto makes me vomit. Too much shit going untended on our own planet to be fucking around in space if you ask me. And besides, Pluto does not look like the sort of place anybody would want to go, drink beer and write poetry.

14 July 2015

The Spirit of '76



I try
Not 
Looking
Back

At
The
Years
Before

The
Fucking
Government
Took what was left of our

Freedom

12 July 2015

Six Pack Alice



I have been wondering
Where you have been
Without me

You
See everything
In those blue eyes

Butterflies

How
Do I see
You

Standing there
Without
A care

- Six Pack Alice
69 Mile House Cowgirl Poet

Was away in 69 Mile House last weekend. Been too hot to write about it until now. When it gets fucking hot I do little besides drink beer. When I drink a lot I can still type a little. When I drink more than a lot I type about as good as the Canucks play hockey.

No fires in The House yet. Even though it has been hot as most places around here they have had lots of big as Jesus before the Enlightenment thunder storms. Green as David Suzuki's dreams up there it is.

Highlight of the weekend was the cowboy poets meeting on Saturday night. Just about the whole town showed at the firetrap they call their community hall. There were eight or nine poets I guess. All men except for Six Gun Alice. She out drank everybody in the hall, including me, so I got to calling her Six Pack Alice. She did not seem to mind. Suppose I was not the first motherfucker to call her that.

"So where you from anyway Mr. Beer?" she asked me.

"Steepleton?" she asked back when I told her. "I thought only religious bum fucks came from Steepleton."

"You got it part right," I said setting her straight. "We're all bum fucks but we are not all religious."





Queue Nico Singing "The End"



Went back
To where
We last
Saw

A frightened
Fledgling crow
In our
Path

Did not
Take us
Long to
Find it

Dead