7 October 2015

I Think I Am Supposed To Think

I think I am supposed to think
Justin Trudeau is some kind of asshole,
Which he probably is.

I think I am supposed to think
Elizabeth May is some kind of asshole,
Which she probably is.

I think I am supposed to think Stephen Harper
Is an even bigger asshole than Trudeau, May
And the Separatist motherfucker put together.

I do not vote for assholes,
Big or small.
Neither should you.

Unless you favour that sort of thing.

6 October 2015

Forty Motorheadbanging Years

Got a pile of records to listen to once the election is over and we have either a) resumed having our legs chewed by two headed Conservative dogs, b) woke up in Marijuanatopia or c) finally got it right and voted to begin building the People's Republic of Canada. No time to listen to them until October 19th has come and gone however, with one exception.

That exceptional record came with a cd tucked in with the 12 inches of grooves. Motörhead's "Bad Magic." Been listening to it in the car. LOUD. Is not a band in the history of the world that has made a record near as good as this 40 years after they made their first one.

The greatest rock 'n' roll band ever has recorded the greatest campaign song ever - "Victory or Death."

Long live Lemmy, my psychedelic warlord. Long live rock 'n' roll. Buy it or die, motherfuckers.

3 October 2015

Is Canada Sad or Angry?

In a neighbourhood unlike any other I have experienced this long slithering snake of a campaign yesterday. Just about no one was willing to answer their door. That is some oceanic trench deep fear those people are living in.

I read people pretty good even if they have little, if anything, to say at their door. Enough to give me a fairly accurate sense of the political mood of a neighbourhood and every neighbourhood is a little different from the one next door. Every individual different a snowflakes. When people will not even let you look at them, or if they do unlock their house, you see nothing more of them than what you can see in a door just barely opened, you can spend hours in a place and learn very little about what people think and feel about anything.

I cannot help but feel sad because most of the people inside arrived in Canada seeking Freedom who long ago found they had moved here only to become losers in a lost land.

"I sure as fuck would not want to live here," was how my partner, who had been chosen to accompany me because of his neighbourhood appropriate language skills, described his feeling about the place as we walked back to our car.    

You hear things behind their doors, like the sound of a piano being played then not being played until we had stepped out of a front yard. Sometimes you can feel eyes on you from security cameras and from behind dirty windows. You can smell cooking and marijuana being smoked in large quantities. Dogs sounding their alarm.

If Fear I A Best Man's Friend, these motherfuckers only need their dogs as alarms.

1 October 2015

On Not Knowing Who Is Behind the Next Door You Knock On

Old friend asked me to come canvassing in Sliverville's worst neighbourhood last night. Not everybody knows it is Sliverville's worst neighbourhood but I do because I used to live there. The only time the neighbourhood has gotten any better from one day to the next in the last 100 years was the day after I moved out.

Bikers, whores, thieves and undercover cops were who we met at every door except one. She was a long term resident. Seen it all, motherfuckers, and then some.

We had knocked, not got an answer, and reached the end of her decaying driveway when she opened the door and yelled, "Wait! Come back!" Which of course we did.

She was bald, wrapped only in a towel, still covered in bubbles from her bath.

"I've voted Conservative my whole fucking life," she began. "But I'm voting for you motherfuckers this time and I'm going to tell you why. I've got cancer. Have to go to the clinic in Van six times a week and my husband can't take me because he has to work to pay the bills and I can't help him and Christy Clark just cancelled the province's funding to the cancer agency's ride programme. She fucked me when I'm down that bitch did and I know she is no different than the Liberals and Conservatives trying get themselves elected to fuck me some more."

She went on like this for quite a spell. My canvassing partner and I had tears running down our face. The woman telling us her painful story somehow did not. If it had been Christy Clark who had knocked on her door instead of us she would have taken off her towel and strangled her right there on her front porch.

That, my friends, was the most profound political moment of my life. Going to take a few more scotches tonight and a few more nights of the same before I get over it.  

29 September 2015

Want To Come In for a Beer?

Canvassed the neighbourhood I grew up in today. Sliverville Centre. Had not been back, on foot, for about 40 years. It is an old neighbourhood by western Canadian standards. 50 years and counting. Every last house had been updated at considerable expense in the last while. Every last one of them worth well north of half a million dollars. Everybody living there a working fuck like me.

Woman who prepared me and my partner before we got kicked out of the campaign office told us, "The neighbourhood has never been great for us so we're glad you two wanted to walk it. Good luck!"

Pretty weird visiting a place where you used to ride your mustang, play road hockey, play three down no pads football, vomit up your first beers and have the fucking cops chase you around like a god damn terrorist.

Once we had knocked on a fair number of doors my partner, a young Viet, remarked, "There's more commie motherfuckers like us in this neighbourhood than there is in mine." We both figured our candidate there has the riding in the fucking bag.

An old neighbour of mine lived in the last house we visited. Retired. 87 years old. Ex-RCMP.  Healthy as a horse. "I always vote for you guys," he told us. "I don't remember why but I'm not stopping now. You guys want to come in for a beer?" We did. Drank his beer and traded stories about my old neighbourhood for three hours.

When it was time to go my old neighbour asked me, "You ok to drive?" He slapped me on the back like I was his kind of man, like I was one of his old RCMP drinking buddies, when I told him, "Fuck yeah," and saw us to the door.

Like I said, we have that one in the bag.

28 September 2015

Row, Row, Rowing the Vote Boat

Rowed my party's election boat all weekend. Easy work, no matter what the fucking polls say, when everybody's spirits have been buoyed by brilliant autumn sun.

Finished up Sunday afternoon. Enough time to walk the never say die Hammer (where I met and talked politics with a recent arrival to my 'hood for the first time) and take Sonja to the pub for a little grub and some much needed liquor.

Nobody was talking politics in the pub. Sonja noticed.

"Sure is nice nobody is talking fucking politics in here," she noted after she had emptied a glass of red, pushed it to the side and pulled a fresh glass towards her.

It was. It is a good idea to get off the vote boat here and there during a campaign. But it gets harder and harder to get off the boat as Election Day nears. Only night off I anticipate getting off between now and October 19th is October 5th when Neil Young has plans to entertain me and a few other people.

Neil would never ruin my fun night out with any political talk now would he?

26 September 2015

Making a Difference - 2015 Edition

It was about 30 years ago I became active in electoral politics. Turned out to be the sort of local campaign that would provide as good of a learning experience as one could hope for.

The campaign I joined won the election by 13 votes. We won because about 300 volunteers came through the door of the modest campaign office door to do the tasks that give all candidates a chance - envelope stuffing; putting up signs, maintaining them and then later promptly taking them down; talking to voters (and potential voters) on the phone; making coffee and passing out cookies; knocking on the thousands of doors that need to be knocked on to pile up enough citizens behind your previously little known candidate to give them a shot at winning.

(All I had to give to that campaign was my time - that and a little free media sprayed out of a can onto the walls of a shopping centre or two. I had not yet recovered from the economic shit kicking forest workers like me nearly all took 30 years back. I am fortunate to be able to offer both my time and money these days.)

I know I personally helped add the 13 voters to the pile needed to win but, of course, that was not what won the day. What won the day was the hundreds, probably upward of a thousand, young people like me who convinced their parents, grandparents, friends and neighbours to vote for the candidate I volunteered for because they knew she was on our side, the side of working people, and that our principal opponent did not give a dirty hair off a rat's ass about us.

You had that talk with the people in your life? You walked through a campaign office door to ask if you can help someone who is on your side? It is not too late to do so. It is not too late to prevent the election of someone who does not give a dirty hair off a rat's ass about you.

It is not too late to help Stop Harper, motherfuckers.

25 September 2015

On Alberta

Less than half a year ago I was in Alberta celebrating the democratic overthrow of a string of Conservative governments nearly as long as the string of years the Dope City Canucks have gone without winning a Stanley Cup.

Now it looks like the fuckers (with a few notable pocket exceptions) are about to kiss Harper's ample Albertan ass and back the federal Conservative Party yet again. I cannot help but wonder how poor of a performance the federal Conservatives would have to put on to have Albertans at long last back another more ethically promising brand because the performance they have given us the past four years has been enough to make a man dry heaving puke.

24 September 2015

TV Set Free

Sonja and I switched on the Emmy awards the other night. After a category or two had been awarded to shows we had never showed interest in Sonja said, "We don't watch any of this shit," before she turned the channel. Think that was why I caught Anthony Bourdain's Miami/Iggy show.

We have become, at last, fully disengaged from all mainstream culture it would seem. (My love of sports aside - and being a Millwall supporter is hardly mainstream.) We have been set free to find a new illusion.

Thanks Lou. The rock 'n' roll animal keeps on giving.

23 September 2015

The Right To Be Wild

Here in British Columbia, when we are not spending all our fucking money in Nordstrom's, we like forming opinions about everything and everyone. It is, or at least we think it is, important to know who is not going to try and who is going to try and fuck us and we are always trying fuck one another around here.

Our provincial motto ought to be "Fucking One Another Since 1871."

This week it is our province's fucked up wolf extermination programme everyone is weighing in on. Some people think it is ok to shoot wolves from helicopters the way Americans once shot Vietnam Cong. Others think the practice is fucked up.

One of the people who think killing wolves from helicopters is fucked up is Molly Cyrus. I have long admired the young woman. She seems like an ideal neighbour. Seems like we may be on the same page on many issues.

Our Premier Christy Clark thinks Molly Cyrus is a bitch. She thinks killing wolves from helicopters is the right thing to do.

Fuck you Christy. You do not know shit.

I love you Molly. Wolves have the right to be wild. Just like us humans do.