Boyhood Memories of Saskatchewan

I was trying to remember if I had been to Saskatchewan ever in my life. I had lived in Motherfucking, Alberta, near enough the Saskatchewan frontier for me to have visited the Green Rider province when I was a boy. I could not remember so I phoned my mom. "How are you Beer, my little, little boy?" she asked after saying hello. Mom had been drinking, so had I. "Saskatchewan! Those redneck cocksuckers! I wish I could tell you you have never set foot in Saskatchewan," she spat, "but that would be a lie. The summer before we left Alberta, for good, the summer after I had Kitty, we all went camping to a lake where we met the Hoods on the Saskatoon Berry Day long weekend. I forget the name of the lake. It might have been Shit Hole Lake. Or maybe it was just near Shit Hole Lake. That was a long, long time ago Beer."

The Hoods were old family drinking buddies. They were not fond of mixer. That was,"For God Damn Americans," I heard old man Hood say over and over once the party had passed from beer to better things.

"You and your brother had a grand time eating bugs and snagging suckers with the Hood boys on the lakeshore and of course we all got eaten alive by the mosquitoes," mom continued as she looked deep into her wine glass. We were on the phone but I knew she was doing that. If you are ever looking for your past, have a look in a glass of wine, it is in there somewhere. "We weighed Kitty when we got home and she had lost a pound during the long weekend we were in Saskatchewan. The motherfucking mosquitoes had sucked a pound of blood out of my baby. She was pale as your father and I were after that weekend from all the rye we drank. Other than that, none of you got hurt for a change so it was a pretty uneventful weekend. Just what you'd expect in Saskatchewan."

That's Entertainment

Sonja and I listened to a 1964 Smothers Brothers record this morning. On the cover is a picture of Dick smashing Tommy over the head with a guitar. That is some funny shit.

"I can remember fucking near pissing myself watching the Smothers Brothers on tv," I said to Sonja, who was listening to the record as she crunched her cereal. My brother and I loved the Smothers Brothers so much we even performed skits we thought were every bit as funny as their shit. I was Dick, Axel was Tommy. Axel's funniest bit was when he would lay on the floor, raise his legs high in the air and light his farts on fire. When Axel's fuel was mom's homemade beans it was like a KISS concert in the living room some nights.

"They were the funniest brothers since the Marxs," Sonja said between milky crunches.

Listening to Tom and Dick got me reflecting on how much joy I have experienced watching television. Anne Murray entering my life on Don Messer's Jubilee; Bobby Orr and Gordie Howe skating back and forth across across the screen; Yo-Yo Man.

But it has not just been the technology of television entertaining me. Radio, records, movies, punk rock shows, computer crap and much, much more all delivered to me with technology. Walking the dog is probably the only thing I do unaided by technology and even then it is an activity I do in Jetson shoes developed by a team of doped up scientists who could cure cancer with the Olympic sized budget they have to work with.

Today I am watching a Canadian Football League game when taking breaks from raking up wet leaves. The leaf raking is technology free but it is more fun watching Canadian football in November. Motherfuck the Bombers!

What Makes a Good Monarch?

"How come you no go Victoria see Prince Charles?" asked Ma. "In China if Prince come near where anybody live they go see him every time. You don't like Prince Charles or something?"

Ma knows damn well I think Canada's next King is a boob. Everybody does. I cannot think of a bigger boob offhand. I picked up my coffee and let Ma continue. When you are having a conversation with a woman there is little risk in being economical with your words.

"Prince Charles look strange, eh Beer? Like maybe he is not all human. How come so many white people so funny looking?"

"You have a point there Ma," I agreed. "You should visit England. It is like a funny looking people museum. I guess that's what we mean when we say Chinese people all look alike. You just are not funny looking enough for us. The odd thing is that us strange looking white people have been at the top of the totem pole for a long, long time. Being funny looking enough to suggest multiple inbreedings is just what we look for in a monarch. Just so long as we do not have to get too close to the motherfucker."

High Noon

I sat down at a table at the back of the bar near an emergency exit. I always choose the table a hunted man in an old western movie would choose: a table from where you can clock every fucker that walks in and is close to an exit so you can get the fuck out if you have to get the fuck out. That is Dope City in 2009 - High Motherfucking Noon.

The bar was not my regular bar. It is the bar closest to the garage my car gets fixed up in. It is the bar I ended up in during the aftermath of the successful attack on New York City's twins many black Septembers ago. Visiting the bar is like revisiting the scene of a good old fashioned flaming car crash you just about died in.

I ordered my beer. It came in a pint pot. The beer did not taste quite right but I drank it quick. I ordered food and another pint of the same beer. Beer does not have to be perfect. The waitress smiled as she took my order and listened to my beerside banter. Her smile was fake, just like her tits.

I looked up from my Racing Form around the room as I waited for my food. Everybody looked sick enough to keel over right then and there. The people in my bar are sick looking but these people looked like the living dead. Nobody was looking at me. I thought, "I must fit right in with these dead motherfuckers."

The food came and with it another beer. A song I liked played through the bar's speakers. It was the Strangler's "Always the Sun." I could not place the band or the song right away. The Stranglers are a long fucking time ago to me. I like their first several records. They drip of the best dope money can buy and way too much of it.

After the fourth beer the waitress' fake smile and fake tits were starting to look like maybe they belonged to Pamela Anderson. That was when I thought maybe today four beer would be enough. I settled up and was soon driving my fixed up car towards home, a violent hockey game on tv and the honest smile, real tits and freaky punk rock Hallowe'en sex waiting for me at home.

Drink Beer and Watch Television

I have started watching Jay Leno on Friday nights. I remember Jay from when he was a regular guest on Letterman's late night show. I never missed Letterman when I was working nights. He wore a Harley t-shirt most of the time. Sonja says, "He's old and fat," but I do not care. Jay is a symbol of America after all, as old and as fat a country as has ever existed on our dope crazy planet.

Last night Michelle Obama was on. She was good looking, funny and a teeny bit regal. That is one Show Business Nation down there. Maybe that is why America gave us the taser: the inventors knew it would look cool seeing someone (preferably a black someone) being tasered on the big screen. Zap-pow!

Can you imagine Canada's Prime Minister's wife doing a comedy bit on late night national television? Do you even know what the Prime Minister's wife's name is? I sure as fuck do not. I could see her telling a little off colour joke about Indians at a Cowichan Terrorist Knitting Bee but that's about it.

Pretty soon Michelle and her Leader of the Once Free World husband will be in Dope City to attend the most stoned Olympics in history. You will see them on your television. It is going to be smoking. The Obamas will be smiling all the fucking time except for when Canada kicks their old, fat American ass in the cold, hard light of day.

More Olympigs

The Dope City Free Press is a rabid supporter of the 2010 Winter Games. Have been since the '70s. Knew it was going to happen. As Prime Minister Handsome Dick Manitoba once commanded, "The party starts now!"

Olympigs

There was traffic trouble so we turned off the main drag and headed down an eastside sidestreet. We were in the real Dope City now. Deals were going down behind every door and in the shadows, in the alleys, the dope was as cheap as the high was short lasting. That is the best thing about being a beer hound: you know what you get in every bottle and you know how many bottles it is going to take to get you where you are going.

Sonja has not spent half the time in the city as I have. She is nearly always aghast when we get near the diseased heart of the city. The only way for Sonja, and most people, to get around that aghast feeling is to get good and fucking loaded like the locals. On this day Sonja had not had enough wine.

As she was shaking her head in disbelief a solution to all the Eastside's problems occurred to her. "I bet Oprah would know what to do. Why doesn't Canada have an Oprah? All we've got is Fanny fucking Keefer and she doesn't know her ass from a hole in Olympic security any more than the Olympigs can tell the difference between a knitting bee and a sleeper cell hiding in a cave on Whistler."

Everyone is calling the police in charge of Olympic security the Olympigs. The word may just be one of the unexpected legacies of inviting the world over to get drunk and watch curling.

"Hey!" Sonja shouted as we slowly rolled down the forgotten street. "That's the Roller Girl store!"

We had looked for the Roller Girl store before but never found it. We had even asked the Olympigs where Roller Girl Street was. They were standing on a street corner, trying, like always, to look important. They were looking for someone, anyone, to taser. Stumped them all. They had heard of Roller Girl Street but they could not even point towards where the street might be. Do not go looking for donuts on Roller Girl Street.

I pulled the car into the sparkly store's rock parking lot. Sonja said, "You go in by yourself. You'll have more fun." I went in.

The first thing I saw when I walked in the door was a blonde trying on a pair of roller skates. Her white legs stretched out one after the other like two limousines. I ought to go out shopping more.

Then I saw Roller Girl. She is real exuberant. I like that.

She learned to skate at the Stardust. I like that too. The Stardust fucking rocked. Taking a girl out to the Stardust and then the Round-Up after was as close to guaranteed head as you could get back in the '70s.

I bought some roller girl socks. Swedish colours. Real pretty. Told Roller Girl, "They're for my girl."

"Lot of guys who buy socks here say that," she almost winked.