31 August 2014
Hunky and Kitty were over last night. Harvest meal. Fresh salmon from the sea. Green salad fresh as an East End single mom roller derby recruit. Scalloped redskin potatoes dug from black Fraser Valley earth. Jubilee corn still glowing with the seemingly endless summer sun. Bumbleberry pie warm from the oven.
Ate like the motherfucking Royal Family we did.
Afterward, having gained the courage many glasses of DOA ale provides, Kitty chided me about how I still have a cassette deck as part of my home entertainment system. "For someone who loves the modern world as much as Jonathan Richman does you sure are an old fashioned motherfucker."
"There's another three in the house besides that one. One in my office, one in the man cave, one in the fucking garage. Jonathan Richman, who knows a thing or two about the modern world, does not own a cell phone. The homeless and Jonathan Richman are the only free people left on the planet."
30 August 2014
Like many British Columbians I spend as much time as I can exploring the parts of the province the fucking loggers and motherfucking miners have not fucked up beyond recognition. Fuck the States, fuck the rest of Canada (especially Alberta), I like tramping around the only province left that has not completely left its hard won sing song Anarchist past behind.
For me, most of that exploring happens when the snow is gone. And what a fab summer this has been for exploring. George Harrison wrote that hippie song of his about the sun for summers like the one we have been having. Dope City is ok but if you have the smash to get the fuck out of it as often as you can and you do not, you, my friend, are an asshole.
Every summer it seems I find a new place that I hold dear all winter long as I sit sipping scotch behind the double pane windows that protect me from the country my ancestors thought dreams were made in. All I have to do is think of those places for a moment to find the strength to make it through the black days and do it all over again.
This summer Sonja, the Hammer and I returned to the unspoiled country around Two Cold Lakes as guests of our old friends Kyle and Stacy. Having been handed over his dad's undeveloped lakeside property Kyle and Stacy built a cottage there with the assistance of their family's generous labour.
"Holy fuck," I said as we approached the cottage along its steep stone drive, dogs bouncing off the walls of Kyle's pick-up's canopy like a hairy pong game. Was a day people in BC built small unassuming structures at their lakeside getaways. Not any more.
"We get that a lot," Kyle said. "It started out as Paul St. Pierre's cabin in the woods and ended up as the Taj Ma-fucking-hal."
As we were toured through the cabin's many rooms, and the Hammer and Kyle and Stacy's dog Rocket Man made sure it was spook free, we found it to be even more splendid than the cabin's shell.
"I'm guessing the legalization of grass in a couple states has not slowed business down any," Sonja thought out loud.
"Not yet," said Stacy.
"And if Obama won't even legalize pot (because he's too busy killing fucking crazies with his murdrones) it will be a long fucking time before the States goes all in on legalization," Sonja added.
"Speaking of drugs," Kyle continued as he pulled a small ziploc from a pocket, "we did not stop back there at the Indian's place to stock up on sweetgrass."
He spilled the contents of the bag onto a tray. Peyote buttons. Enough to get a football team loaded for a week.
"Tonight we'll clean them up," he said pulling four magnifying glasses from a drawer. "Tomorrow it is off to Neverneverland."
The next morning, after our blueberry pancakes and much coffee, we washed down our doses of Mexican magic and loaded all the gear necessary for a day's worth of dangerous as a bus tour for well heeled Chinese rubbernecking sightseers boating down to the dock and into the boat before the shit kicked in and we ended up sitting on the porch drinking beer all day.
Peyote, for those of you who have never taken its magic carpet ride, is the greatest high of them all if you are not drawn to the needle. It brings to life all about you. I especially like the way trees, the hundreds of thousands of trees that surround you in the Canadian wilderness, dance their communicative dance from their hillside dance floors. "Thanks for not cutting me down you wasted dumb ass logging motherfucker," they seem to say.
The fish too seemed happy to see us. "Thanks for leaving your fishing poles at home you crazy beer guzzling Canuck motherfuckers," they seemed to say when they jumped free as birds of their responsibilities below the surface of their home.
(For comparison's sake I wonder how happy the fish of now poisoned Quesnel Lake are. If any of the good people of Likely, Horsefly or the Beaver Valley have any peyote on hand (they surely do) I suggest they fuck scientific enquiry for a moment, get loaded on peyote and go see how happy the fish of the big lake are now Capitalist Greed has dumped the biggest of all possible shits on them.)
Such was our daily routine for well over a week. We came home refreshed, cleaned out. (Fuck all the other cleanses marketed to the wishful thinking. You want to clean yourself out properly? Get yourself some peyote. I am so clean Stephen Harper can see his reflection in my asshole.)
22 August 2014
Just back from some well deserved time away from the fucking mill. More on that later. Firstly, however, I have this.
What is the difference between a Muslim loon beheading a white man and a fucking pig shooting an unarmed black man to death?
Absolutely nothing, as War once sang.
Sing it again.
4 August 2014
I have gotten away some this summer but not near enough. I like living in Steepleton well enough but, like most places, you cannot get out of it fast enough when the time comes.
That is how our planet came to be choked with human beings I guess. That and we like to fuck a great deal. If we were not chasing down food and fighting or running from enemies we were getting bored of our surroundings, thinking of striking out somewhere new, like the motherfuckers from Star Trek.
There is nowhere new to go now. We have known this since the going to the moon days. Trouble is once we got to the moon it turned out to be just slightly less lively than a Steepleton Saturday night.
Now Mars has become the Western Lands awaiting our arrival, awaiting its first hamburger stand, its first pusher, prison and professional sports team.
Steepleton had its summer fair this weekend. I have been before. It is alright. Did not go this year but I saw some of the people it attracts around town. Rodeo types. Like the people I grew up with in Sliverville. They would like it on Mars and I would pay them to go there.
2 August 2014
Learned Paul St. Pierre died this week. Among Canadian writers I would rank only the late George Woodcock ahead of him. If you have not read all his books you really ought to. My favourite is "In the Navel of the Moon," a poetic story about Mexico and its and our place in the ongoing war crime we know as the war on drugs.
St. Pierre was the best story teller I have ever come across. Better, even, than Bukowski, if only because he, unlike Bukowski, got the fuck out of America and chose Canada as his home. We have lots to write about up here and my country is so much more than the cesspool Bukowski inhabited although we are sure as fuck headed in that very direction.
It would not be an understatement to say the Dope City Free Press would never have existed if I had not enrolled in a creative writing class, one of many he put on out here in the motherfucking sticks, St. Pierre put on near my home after he retired from Dope City's slowly dying newspaper of record. I have only ever taken two writing classes since I turned my life over to the great sawmills of my land. His was the second.
I wrote him a few years back to thank him for helping me and letting him know what I was doing. He seemed pleased.
Now I think I will go drink that scotch that helps me when people I like die.
31 July 2014
I had let the dog in and out. The Hammer was on the floor hoping I was going to phone in sick. I was at the kitchen table drinking coffee in my underwear. The Hammer knows there is always a chance I will stay home until she sees me pulling my work clothes on.
The Hammer got up as I rose and emptied my Millwall mug into my liquor ravaged gut. I walked over the same warm area she had vacated. As I did so I noticed a slimy sensation on my left foot. A slug had hitched a ride on the dog into the house and I had stepped on it.
Black one. Not too big.
If it had been a big one I would have vomited.
Somehow I had not killed it. It looked up at me with his half squished slug eyes.
He was not happy with me. Nor I with it.
I picked him up in a piece of paper towel and threw him out the window to Freedom.
29 July 2014
The first poem you saw here in the Dope City Free Press referenced Leonard Cohen. Man is something of a hero of mine. He is one of Canada's many Gretzkys. That's right: Canada - Land of a Million Gretzkys. Yet, despite my appetite for records, Canadian ones especially, I do not have all Cohen's records. Do not think he even released all that many.
I am a bad Canadian. Either that or little fucking Jews piss me off. When I have rectified matters, which should not be long, and bought all Cohen's records I will be a better Canadian and a little less of a motherfucking Nazi I hope.
Cohen is on my mind because I picked up a cassette copy of his "Songs of Love and Hate." Cost me a fifth of a sawbuck. It is one of the best records I have ever heard. You probably already know that.
Sorry Leonard for not buying more of your records sooner. I will try and make it up to you by writing a poem for you and then another one when you are dead.
28 July 2014
Took another geezerly leap towards modernity today. Got myself some over the ear headphones just like my young pot smoking asshole skater neighbours wear.
First thing I did when I brought them home was listen to WDVX-FM in my backyard picking the year's first blackberries. Station was playing some wicked bluegrass when a tornado warning was broadcast to the good people of East Tennessee. Warning came over the airwaves about three minutes after a dangerous storm began to develop. Told everybody what direction it was heading and at what speed, what to do (everybody had already been to church so God was in the corner of their basement shitting his pants with them), and what to expect - hail bigger than dog shit and winds strong enough to pick up people and such and dump them in another state.
Had to pick up some stamps while I was out too. First time I had to do so since the assholes we know as the Conservative Party of Canada hiked the rates. $8.50 for a book of ten stamps. $15.00 for a pack of six international stamps. Canadians have been robbed so many times by our latest disaster of fucking government that the only thing a picture of the Prime Minister is any good for is being pasted onto a WANTED - DEAD OR ALIVE poster. Motherfucker makes Billy Miner look saintly.
27 July 2014
The Hammer's wee perfumed sort of poodle or something buddy made it through surgery. Dog was out walking in the park a few days after its hospital stay.
"Tumour was two pounds, two ounces," the dog's owner told me, every bit as proud as a new father handing out chocolate cigars.
Little dog weighed less than twenty pounds to begin with. That would be like you or me having a thirty pound tumour carved out of us.
"We should have the little shit with us for years yet," my neighbour beamed.
Before the surgery I had seen the two of them communicating as the healthy and not so healthy do when both know their time together may not be long. They are going to get to do that again some other time.