tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-201194702024-03-23T23:11:39.758+05:00Dope City Free PressNEVER GIVE A MOTHERFUCKER AN EVEN BREAKMr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.comBlogger2792125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-22136838437355679732021-01-02T06:59:00.001+05:002021-01-02T07:03:45.265+05:002021 - The Year that Began All Wrong<blockquote><blockquote><span><a name='more'></a></span><span><!--more--></span><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></blockquote></blockquote><p><br /></p><p>Every fucking year I wake up on January 1st and consider myself lucky: lucky to be alive. Cannot give ‘er now like I gave ‘er as a young man mind you. Self knowledge like that is what I hope gets me past the age so many people I have admired over the years died. Too many of them only made it to their very early ‘70s.</p><p>The fucking pandemic prevented me from spending the afternoon how I like to on New Year’s Day - at the local standardbred track. Those horses have not raced locally since March. Imagine what that must be like for the many workers out of work in the industry since then. Toss in the thousands of local casino workers who have not spun a lucky wheel since then and you might get an idea how badly so many of them have been hurt in every way imaginable.</p><p>Being out of fucking work is a bad thing. As someone who works in the forest industry, as cyclical an industry as any, I have spent my share of time on the outside looking in. Missed so many pay cheques you would not thing I would enjoy a fucking plate of Kraft Dinner any more but I do.</p><p>Let’s hope the windows at the local racetracks re-open soon.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-33085515926260151632020-11-22T05:13:00.002+05:002020-11-22T05:20:59.428+05:00A Sawmill Worker and His Typewriter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1tEgJk5VfSc" width="320" youtube-src-id="1tEgJk5VfSc"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> Just<p></p><p>Me </p><p>Now.</p><p><br /></p><p>A</p><p>Sawmill</p><p>Worker,</p><p>His</p><p><br /></p><p>Typewriter</p><p>And</p><p>One</p><p>Fuck</p><p><br /></p><p>Of</p><p>A</p><p>Lot</p><p>Of</p><p>Beer.</p>Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-25644672920010825172020-10-29T21:29:00.010+05:002020-10-30T18:27:03.120+05:00Sonja (Cheryl)<p><img been="" corn="" do="" having="" in="" like="" may.="" middle="" not.="" of="" on="" one.="" p="" page="" plant="" some="" sometimes="" steepleton="" the="" themselves="" they="" this="" times="" trouble="" with="" words="" /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/w5jkAkm4JmM" width="320" youtube-src-id="w5jkAkm4JmM"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>15 years ago the one and only Dope City Free Press began as a means to tell some stories about a man named Beer and his dog the Hammer. Soon other characters joined, characters which, like the Hammer filled Beer’s days with joy. Chief among those characters was Beer’s long time love Sonja.</p><p>Sonja and Beer met in 1967 when her oldest brother Henrik invited Beer over to his parent’s place after school to play marbles. Sonja was 3, Beer was 8. Sonja’s mom tried to keep her Shirley Temple lookalike daughter from playing with the boys that day and for many years afterwards. Sonja was always real good about listening to her mom but was deaf to the no playing with boys shit. Her mom was right of course. Over the years Sonja suffered many injuries playing with the boys. Her dad, tasked with taking his girl to the hospital, would always stop at the Dairy Queen on the way home once the doctors had fixed her up.</p><p>When Sonja was 14 her mom died. The next couple years were tumultuous for her as a result. Her dad re-married poorly and soon his second wife drank up their savings and the proceeds of the family home sale. Still she was determined to overcome this setback and make a good life for herself.</p><p>Beer meanwhile was living a life that made Sonja’s stepmom look like Mary of Guadalupe. He was taking on whatever sawmill work he could find and living like there was no tomorrow. Still friends with Henrik he could not help but notice Henrik’s tomboy little sister becoming more attractive and more feminine. At a New Year’s party they found themselves attracted to one another. Beer walked her home that evening and began questioning his life plan which was to remain a bachelor until he retired should he surprise everybody and live that long.</p><p>Shortly thereafter, on a snowy, blustery day Beer spotted Sonja returning home on the sidewalk from the neighbourhood mall’s concourse where he was sheltering from the storm. Sonja was carrying several bags of groceries, her body bent into the wind. “Fuck is that admirable,” he thought as he followed her out of sight. Beer admired many things but none more than a willingness to work hard in poor conditions.</p><p>Later that evening Beer phoned Sonja and asked her out on a date on St. Valentine’s Day. She accepted. Beer was a cute crazy fucker after all. Their dinner date was at a new restaurant in town. The first fancy restaurant their working class neighbourhood had ever seen. They fell in love that night. A love that would last just shy of 40 years.</p><p>The pair soon shacked up together and lived well, you might even say they lived the Canadian Dream, despite the trying economic times they lived in. Sonja’s practicality balancing Beer’s Jerry Jeff Walker act to perfection.</p><p>Sonja died in hospice on September 26, 2020 after a valiant 6 year battle with cancer. Beer is always going to love her. Near the end of her life she told Beer's mom and stepdad, "Your son is a good man. He's a really good man." Beer never set out to be anything more than that. He will miss Sonja until the day he too makes his way to the other side.
</p><p></p>Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-3879996514850202272020-06-29T21:00:00.000+05:002020-06-29T21:00:08.055+05:00Fear On the Streets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/kS3Fo74bMjs" width="320" youtube-src-id="kS3Fo74bMjs"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>There’s been some fucking scares in my life. The ever present possibility of a big fucking earthquake; the ever present possibility of nuclear war; the ever present possibility the nearby volcano might blow the fuck up; a parade of sexually transmitted diseases; more shit scares than I care to think about.<div><br /></div><div>And now a wee pandemic.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’m still here to write about it, motherfuckers.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-16681784995423314002020-05-30T09:12:00.001+05:002020-05-30T09:12:18.685+05:00Too Much Dope City, Where’s My Mountain At?<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ctifL0PIY6k&list=OLAK5uy_lJJmh8d3jlNfoW8iYkDQWdKfUqGFCP6IA&index=8">https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ctifL0PIY6k&list=OLAK5uy_lJJmh8d3jlNfoW8iYkDQWdKfUqGFCP6IA&index=8</a></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Go on field trips or summer camp when you were a kid? Day trips, overnighters and week long ones if you were lucky as me.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Had day camps in the neighbourhood park for several summers. Government should have never stopped doing that shit. Mind you about all I remember of it was being hit repeatedly in the head with a tether ball.</div>
<div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
One summer I got to take a week’s worth of day camping in a better part of town than the part I lived in. It was held in a park pretty enough to film<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"> a remake of Robin Hood in.</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; display: inline; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Another week I remember was a week at what would one day be my junior high. It was run by the man who I would one day help chase back into his principal’s office in one of the more epic snowball fights ever.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Overnighted on the island seaside with my Cub Scout buddies; Cypress Mountain with school and Maple Ridge where a last ditch effort to save my soul failed miserably. The ocean stunk; the snow was deep and the cigarettes unfailingly good.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I have not been more than 40 miles from my home at any time in many months. It is beginning to show.</div>
</div>
Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-62117771530959033482020-03-29T05:21:00.001+05:002020-03-29T05:29:03.552+05:00Joints That Make You Feel Good<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/bo96vU8__2w/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bo96vU8__2w?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
One of my grocery go-tos is a Vietnamese store. It is one of those family run joints that make you feel good when you patronize them. Had not been in since The Virus fucked up our world but I needed some of his stock on account I have been cooking nearly all Sonja and my meals at home.<br />
<br />
I was the only white guy customer while I was there. All the Vietnamese were wearing masks. And gloves. Very nice of them. I, the fearless half fucking drunk guy, of course was not. No one got within 15 feet of me. A couple people left.<br />
<br />
You get a true measure of people when Fear moves into your every waking and sleeping moment.Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-61776038105514248152020-03-29T03:31:00.000+05:002020-03-29T03:31:28.369+05:00Pandemic Blues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/C4lN_nCYCHI/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/C4lN_nCYCHI?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">So...two weeks ago people were giving me dirty looks for getting my groceries virgin bagged because everybody pictured a whale or a turtle choking on every one I walked out of the store with. Now it is fuck the whales and turtles!</span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Everything is bagged, double bagged, triple bagged - whatever you want. I half expect people to begin walking around in bin liners. </span><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">We have The Virus to think about and grocery bags are the least of the whales‘ and turtles’ problems because our waterways are suddenly swimming with rubber gloves tossed out faster than condoms into the sewers in the ‘80s.</span>Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-61803258984803301102020-03-24T06:54:00.000+05:002020-03-24T06:54:02.414+05:00You Do Not Get To Choose Your Natural Disaster<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/KQlg4xmSxGg/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KQlg4xmSxGg?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
Way back in 2005 when it seemed like a good idea to get the Dope City Free Press going I thought it possible I may one day write about my experience and observations of a big as fuck natural disaster. Like a 9.0 earthquake.<br />
<br />
Instead I get an incurable fucking virus. An incurable fucking virus that half the fucking population does not give a fuck about.<br />
<br />
Dope City indeed.Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-9404393345902747582020-02-25T09:12:00.002+05:002020-02-25T09:12:49.328+05:00Mind Your Head!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/MMgkXAug6L0/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MMgkXAug6L0?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
When the Dope City Free Press began 15 years ago we did so with the clear understanding that shit is so fucked up you could not unfuck it with all unfuck antidote in all the universe’s neighbourhood Anarchist pharmacies put together. And has shit got worse since then!<br />
<br />
9-1-1 was just the opening feature, wasn’t it my friends?<br />
<br />
But, what the fuck? Might as well keep trying to unfuck everything with all your might. We are still free, right? And if we remain free we might as well keep acting like our freedom fucking means something.Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-22106089923744770252019-12-18T06:40:00.000+05:002019-12-18T06:56:21.573+05:00Christmas Party Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/kyThhyOCXMU/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/kyThhyOCXMU?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
Christmas party time. Only time of the year the fucking boss buys.<br />
<br />
Me and the boys, our girlfriends, boyfriends and what have yous, a drunk before they set up cover band and two bartenders. What could possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
This year, nothing. Old guys, like myself, we got smashed as usual. None of us punched a manager in the fucking head. All the old guys with fire in their belly all retired or fired I guess. Young guys spent more time in the parking lot smoking their brains out more than ever. Pot smokers are so boring!<br />
<br />
At least a couple of their girlfriends showed off their titties on the dance floor around midnight. The boss may not have been happy with his bar tab but he was fucking happy about that! Nothing says Christmas like strange titties.<br />
<br />
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-69135307599605923172019-12-15T12:13:00.000+05:002019-12-15T23:24:15.781+05:00Punk Rock Christmas Fucks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/H-qm26uICOA/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/H-qm26uICOA?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
One year Jimi got “Never Mind the Bollocks Here’s the Sex Pistols” from his brother for Christmas. In those days me, Jimi and the guys fucked off from our families all afternoon to drink and run around. Once we had enough of that we would go home, get dinner and get back at the drinking shit.<br />
<br />
That year I stopped into Jimi’s folk’s place on my way home. Jimi walked over to the record player, picked up the bright as a stripper’s light show record and put it on, took a step back before keeling over backwards, heaving all over his chest and passing out cold.<br />
<br />
Jimi’s brother, looking at the scene over a tall glass of rye and ginger ale from the comfort of his dad’s easy chair, the room shaking like a universe of tits, shook his head slowly as an old dog walking on a hot day as he grimaced like a pastor at his parish on New Year’s Day. “You punk rock fucks don’t have any god damn stamina.”Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-91202263078492864142019-12-09T08:33:00.001+05:002019-12-10T09:48:46.745+05:00Powerage<div br="" class="">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/5iKc3-pOV3g/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5iKc3-pOV3g?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
An interview, in which Drive By Truckers’ Patterson Hood spoke glowingly of AC/DC’s “Powerage,” steered me towards taking the album off its shelf for the first time in a good long while. Its white paper sleeve having turned light brown. Brilliant record it is too. Old records, I remind you, never die.</div>
Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-27978888601986515442019-12-08T03:44:00.001+05:002019-12-08T03:44:38.445+05:00Meth, Hookers and Murder<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/7DVGT5laTyU/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7DVGT5laTyU?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
I hear methamphetamine is making its much anticipated comeback in Dope City.<br />
<br />
Probably a gateway drug will soon be identified for that shit.<br />
<br />
Blame it on the fucking coffee shops I do.<br />
<br />
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-71684502548506714202019-11-21T22:44:00.001+05:002019-11-21T23:35:23.452+05:00StranglerRemembrance Day has long meant more to me than having a few beer at my local bar and listening to and telling stories about the Hell on Earth we know as war. My dog Strangler died on Remembrance Day 25 years ago.<br />
<br />
Strangler was a big Northern Girl. Alpha, intelligent, strong, fast, independent, affectionate and good humoured. I rescued her from a neighbour who was treating her badly, just as others had done before him. I do not know where she originated from but I suspect she was a commercial dog team lead dog at one time who escaped an uncertain fate and found her way to me: a man who had never had a dog.<br />
<br />
She both rolled in and ate shit, a downside of all the northern dogs who have journeyed with and bettered me in this life. Strangler had fewer opportunities to engage in this brown behaviour than the dogs who followed her into my life because homelessness and the rise of living and shitting outdoors did not really get going until late in her life.<br />
<br />
She did not nor would not be fenced in much as I tried and she knew the neighbourhoods I lived in and their surrounding neighbourhoods better than I. Street smart, she did so without ever being injured as she wandered. Her memory was such that after being driven to visit friends she would often escape the next day and go straight back for another visit. After one house move her first escape came to an end when the local butcher phoned to tell us she was having a good visit with him.<br />
<br />
Northern dogs are known for their sense of humour. Strangler was no exception to this rule. Her favourite prank was to slip her long tongue into your mouth when you were least expecting it. She never tired of doing this and the laughter in her eyes never diminished each time she did so.<br />
<br />
I sure do miss my Strangler all these years later.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/0ltBfZrRduk/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0ltBfZrRduk?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-42504778436269135612019-09-01T19:37:00.001+05:002019-09-01T19:41:01.752+05:00Campaign Fun TimeWorking in a political campaign is more than just work. Campaigns nearly always have some fun time scheduled to keep a smile on everybody’s face. Early yesterday Chuck, the out of town campaign manager, asked no one in particular, “Where’s the worst fucking bar in town?”<br />
<br />
“The Pooter!” answered Bill, our computer and social media guy, without hesitation.<br />
<br />
Turns out The Pooter, a hole in the wall in the worst end of town with a small stage, has been an entertainment option in the city since 1925.<br />
<br />
“When’s the last time someone was fucking murdered in there,” Chuck asked.<br />
<br />
A cell phone search by Doris, the phone bank boss, revealed it was last night near closing time.<br />
<br />
“Odds are no one will get killed there tonight then. Drinks on me at The Pooter tonight!” Chuck decided.<br />
<br />
It was quiet inside when we arrived. Our crew, a dozen thirsty as a desert ridden horse campaign workers, soon changed that. You could hear us out on the street which soon attracted passers by in search of a party. Before long the place was hopping and dancing to a band playing modern day hillbilly music.<br />
<br />
On my second trip to the can I was offered some meth. Cheaper than beer and 100 times as powerful. Town is swimming in the stuff. Back at the table I poured my buy into my drink and told everybody at our tables who to talk to if they were interested. Nearly everyone is. Meth and a night out go together like ironed trousers or a fresh smelling frock at church on Sunday.<br />
<br />
I would like to tell you a story about what happened after that but I blacked out for quite a spell once I had poured some whiskey on top the powder in my gut. I already phoned around to make sure no one got jailed or murdered and they did not remember shit either so they were no help filling out the details that ought to be a part of this story.<br />
<br />
There is a moral to the story however. Always go to the worst bar in town if it is fun time you after.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/_zvTMU3APCs/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/_zvTMU3APCs?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-18861488113925679582019-08-25T04:28:00.001+05:002019-08-25T04:28:36.213+05:00Here In Manitoba<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/qbzF1N3xsA4/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qbzF1N3xsA4?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
Here in Manitoba there is an election going on. Looks like my NDP is a little behind in the polls but our leader, Wab Kinew, is much more popular than the Conservative fuck we are trying to stop in his tracks. Not a bad position to be in with 2 1/2 weeks remaining before Election Day.<br />
<br />
I am a voter contact specialist. In every jurisdiction there are different methods that work best to both identify our voters and sway the undecided. Across Canada, however, there is, with appropriate local adaptations, one method that works every fucking time: I drink steadily all day long, not enough to appear too fucking incoherent before the afternoon but from there on I am on as unsteady ground as the average voter once they have been home for 45 minutes. We then identify with one another surprisingly well.<br />
<br />
The rye is good here, as it is elsewhere. I look forward to having a glass or two of the best on September 10.Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-26662213634867118942019-08-04T19:38:00.000+05:002019-08-04T19:38:05.629+05:00The King and Queen of Oblivian<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/VAH9EdkMBkw/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/VAH9EdkMBkw?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
The long weekend began in its usual fashion when we have not fucked off out of town a day or two early. The pub half empty. Me on the beer. Sonja on the wine. Led Zeppelin on the stereo. Heaven several drinks and a stairway away.<br />
<br />
“We should go home and pack,” I suggested to the best drinking partner ever born. In the morning we would leave for our province’s Interior aka Wine Country even though more far dope is grown there than fucking wine. Such is the supernatural power of public relations.<br />
<br />
“What’s the fucking hurry?” asked Sonja. “I’m already packed and all you need to pack is shorts, socks, gonch and a toothbrush.”<br />
<br />
She was right. We did not even have to pack any booze to take with us. You cannot take a dozen steps in Wine Country without being near a liquor outlet of one kind or another and we were staying in a Super 8, not camping, as we had been listening too much Jason Isbell. I was both hoping I would not die in the motel and that I would. Dying a bad poetic death being preferable to not dying poetically at all.<br />
<br />
In the morning we would be on the highway, what we fucking live for would have truly begun, a weekend lakeside in Canada, its memory blurry before the fun.Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-62687520992465948262019-02-13T03:52:00.001+05:002019-02-13T03:52:06.971+05:00Big Kahuna<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOk_srfXX2NIxTSvSImh3Muz6jb5MskcayXR4GvY8N9vXQ-bbQz_mLf463i8AWBNKvmcY0EuQh1p7q62KhCuNZ05aE_5vtbyPMMvAlrdgJXRhSQQ7ELhdCrOSt8V3V2GXH-EqJSA/s1600/7AED37D0-163C-4AB7-8E42-2648DB73A2B0.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOk_srfXX2NIxTSvSImh3Muz6jb5MskcayXR4GvY8N9vXQ-bbQz_mLf463i8AWBNKvmcY0EuQh1p7q62KhCuNZ05aE_5vtbyPMMvAlrdgJXRhSQQ7ELhdCrOSt8V3V2GXH-EqJSA/s1600/7AED37D0-163C-4AB7-8E42-2648DB73A2B0.jpeg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The wind<br />
It blew<br />
Like a drunk<br />
Hypothermic poet<br />
<br />
The snow<br />
It fell<br />
Like Patti Smith’s<br />
Hair upon my shoulders<br />
<br />
The cars<br />
Piled up<br />
Like punk rockers<br />
Surfing the Big Kahuna<br />
<br />
Heroin<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-80292134198100797422019-01-29T09:42:00.000+05:002019-01-29T09:42:11.018+05:00A Song For British Columbia’s Departed Clerk of the Legislature and Its Sargent At Arms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/2oRsw1wuhaA/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2oRsw1wuhaA?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-22403975864258970402019-01-27T08:31:00.001+05:002019-01-27T08:37:57.034+05:00Jagmeet Singh for Burnaby, British Columbia and the World<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/vbddqXib814/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vbddqXib814?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
Spent the day working in the Jagmeet Singh campaign on Saturday. An hour drive to get there. Four hours of work. Another hour back to my home in the sticks. If I lived in fucking Kamloops I would have made it in to Burnaby for the day. How often does a motherfucker get to help out the leader of the NDP?<br />
<br />
I was teamed up with someone from Richmond to go do a little door knocking. Chinese. Cute. Union. Made it to the campaign office on the fucking train.<br />
<br />
Once we parked in the neighbourhood we were assigned I pulled the joint out of my pocket I had rolled for the occasion. “I never smoke that before!” she admitted.<br />
<br />
“I can smoke the whole fucking thing myself I guess. But if we smoke it together we’ll have ourselves one fuck of a good time with the people of Burnaby.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe I just smoke a little and you let me take the marks,” she suggested. She did just that. Relaxed her a little, like good cannabis should.<br />
<br />
Neighbourhood was solidly for our candidate. People from all over our fucked up planet too. In time we were invited into a women’s place for tea. She was a cancer patient. Braver than fuck. Full of the stories only people who spent too much time in hospital and survived can tell you. Woman, like so many of us, was just fucking hanging on. And she said this as we were about to go, “The last thing I would do with what might be my last vote on this planet is give it to those scumbag Liberals!”Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-22827471108167309952019-01-14T08:21:00.001+05:002019-01-14T08:26:28.986+05:00Memories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/qiZL5-Cdtpc/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/qiZL5-Cdtpc?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
Become<br />
So<br />
There<br />
Is<br />
<br />
Far<br />
<br />
Too<br />
Many<br />
Storms<br />
For<br />
<br />
My<br />
Memory<br />
To<br />
Store.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-79395863987808147692018-12-29T08:45:00.003+05:002018-12-29T08:45:57.709+05:00James Wilsey <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/wcn8dvBl31Q/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wcn8dvBl31Q?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
Only saw James Wilsey the once. Janus Theatre, Kitsilano. There are a couple rock shows I think of as being better but they probably were not. The only time I saw the fucking Avengers. No light show or any of that other hippie shit. Maximum rock ‘n’ roll. Fucking near put me in the grave that night did.<br />
<br />
Well, James is gone now. Happy I have stayed in touch with Penelope Houston or I would not even know it. Getting to be there are more people on the wrong side of grave than the right. Nothing left to do but keep on rocking. You did some good fucking work James. I sure appreciated it.Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-60277624612843505492018-12-11T11:13:00.001+05:002018-12-11T11:13:19.550+05:00Mike Cooley. “Three On the Tree.”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/LAU_itW0jbo/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LAU_itW0jbo?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-76609877087038863102018-11-23T11:58:00.001+05:002018-11-23T11:58:55.698+05:00If Wishes Wore Roller Skates<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/KJVUqzU7B-Q/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/KJVUqzU7B-Q?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
If I<br />
Were a<br />
Girl there<br />
Is no<br />
<br />
Girl<br />
I<br />
Would<br />
Rather<br />
<br />
Be<br />
Than<br />
Melanie<br />
Safka.<br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20119470.post-33422578231378899962018-11-17T05:09:00.000+05:002018-11-17T05:17:40.406+05:00Christmas Card From Prison<br />
<br />
I like Christmas as much or more as the next motherfucker. Too bad I cannot leave the fucking house without being Christmas fucking caroled to fucking death from now until fat fuck Mary sings. Like Christmas so much, in fact, I will share a Christmas story with you.<br />
<br />
While cleaning out my office today I came across something that plain screamed Christmas: an old Christmas card. Made by UNICEF it is. Does not get more holly motherfucking jolly Christmas than that now does it? Card is undated but I reckon it must be a good three decades old as it is not made out of recycled shit paper. From someone I corresponded with while they were imprisoned in one of those foreign countries some think a fucking wall will keep our women, children and beasts of burden from being gang raped on a near daily basis.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvvnPF8l4hxm_0lpFS8E29Y4qSjf4tsw2i8zksf9JfILhUHAS4thNtERAD6wNva4UPt7YAGMN6cuINxKHrAIjlxv4nGTIjONYQ1iQhuGMbsw2P7qzi57TNltK2PzJjfHnnSZxyw/s1600/hockey+arena.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="584" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvvnPF8l4hxm_0lpFS8E29Y4qSjf4tsw2i8zksf9JfILhUHAS4thNtERAD6wNva4UPt7YAGMN6cuINxKHrAIjlxv4nGTIjONYQ1iQhuGMbsw2P7qzi57TNltK2PzJjfHnnSZxyw/s320/hockey+arena.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Dear Beer,<br />
<br />
Being no slouch, you will have noticed the righteous as fuck jersey on the front cover. [A Montreal Canadiens’ jersey worn by a boy playing hockey in the street with his friends.] Take a good fucking look at it. In June it will be drenched in champagne and the opposition’s blood.<br />
<br />
I’ve got a new and improved TV. That means more channels, including MTV Brazil and ESPN. And that means hockey one night per week and, better yet, almost never the fucking Canucks!<br />
<br />
Thanks for all the mail. They even let the Anarchist shit you send in to me. My fellow prisoners have me translate that shit into Portuguese.<br />
<br />
Merry Fucking Christmas and Happy Fucking New Year.<br />
<br />
Take care.<br />
<br />
———————-<br />
<br />
The message within the card is a simple one. Peace, joy and friendship. Something I wish to you all. The prisoner who sent the card to me has been free for quite some time now. Could be they are your next door neighbour for all you know. Brazil, however, having elected themselves a fascist remains in chains and ready to explode.<br />
<br />Mr. Beer N. Hockeyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07184518909716677938noreply@blogger.com0