29 August 2016
My journey began with the sawmill's whistle. My Cadillac (with the cold beers, whips, and furs in the back) and I were immediately on our way to Desert Park. On our way to do a little gambling on the only card British Columbia's interior horsemen were able to offer their horse racing fans, due to our province's genuine horse shortage and the provincial Liberal government's incompetent meddling, in 2016.
Left the fucking city straight from work so as to get through Manning Park before dusk - when the the large deer population likes to come down to the highway and scare the shit out of people. Only saw one speed trap, which an approaching motorist making his way into Dope City warned me of with a couple flashes of his high beams. Fucking cops appeared to be in a bad mood too. They all have been since they learned they soon will not be able to confiscate people's stash and smoke it to improve their dim outlook of the world.
It was dark by the time I reached the bed and breakfast I had booked for a couple nights. Once Dale, the owner, had sorted me out, something that takes one fuck of a lot less time than checking into a motel or hotel, I went for a walk in the desert night by the lake. It was on that walk I saw the full moon rise above Anarchist Mountain. When that happened I knew without a shadow of doubt Desert Park would be generous to me as Justin Trudeau is generous with Canada with his Celine Dion like charm. The walk ended at the pub I had been thinking about for four and a half hours in the car.
Had several of the draught cider on offer, Turning Point, and tried unsuccessfully not to listen to the shitcan disco that the fucking pub had thoughtfully substituted for live entertainment. Not the best cider on the planet but a lovely one nevertheless.
Next morning I was up early. Excited about my day at the races about as much as any horse owner is when they wake on Kentucky Derby Day with their horse in it to win it. Coffee was on and my breakfast of crepes with more sides than a box has put to shame every hotel breakfast I have had in my life and put a jump in my step rarely seen these days.
You can never be young again but you sure as fuck can feel like you are.
Drove straight to the racetrack once done to have a look around. If you want peace there is nothing more peaceful than a racetrack once the horses have been returned to their stalls in the hours us beer drinkers and Hell raisers rarely see. Got to see a family of mule deer making their way through the nearby golf course on to the sagebrush that is a feature of the area. A woman out for her walk who knew the deer's habits stopped a car because she knew the fawns would be soon to follow the adults crossing the quiet road.
Went to town then to buy something for Sonja. There was a farmer's market where I found her a couple bottles of wine and a little dress for a grand niece my family is looking forward to further populating a Canada so in love with it's fucking Prime Minister if he told everybody to go fuck themselves they would all do so and take a selfie of themselves to be shared with the world while they were at it.
Got a couple more things for Sonja and found myself an Anvil cd for $5, before I found a great cheap place for an early lunch. Place right where I expected it to be in such a small town - a block off the main drag. Had a Fortissimo cider with it. Fucking brilliant cider that is.
Then it was back to Desert Downs. Paid my admission and went back to my cooler of beer in the car with my copy of the past performances to see what horses I would throw my money at. Hit two of the six races with win bets for a couple hundred dollar profit on the day. Not enough to cover expenses but enough to make the experience a cheap weekend away.
The jockey on my first winner was Sheldon Chickeness who rides regularly at Marquis Downs, my favourite racetrack in the whole wide world. Good to see someone I have only ever seen via the magic of the internet.
I could describe the races to you but I bet you would prefer to either google "Osoyoos Desert Park horse races August 20, 2016" or go to the Osoyoos Times newspaper site to see a very good seven minute video of the day's activities. It shows all the races, including a horse tossing his boy leaving the gate and running the wrong way around the track towards the field of runners heading towards the finish line. The whole crowd held their breath as one waiting to see what would come of that. All the races except the last which was the one that I put most of my money into.
I would like to thank everybody, including the fucking mayor of Osoyoos, who volunteered to put on this year's Race Day. Great job everybody! Thanks to the horsemen from near and far for bringing their horses for everybody to watch. Thanks also to the fine people of Osoyoos who clearly love their Race Days. And finally I would like to thank all the CFAs like myself who love bush racing as much as I do. Hope to see you again.
Later that evening after a few more beer to cool me off I had dinner downtown. The Tragically Hip were playing their last show in far away Ontario. Downie looked thin and tired from the cross country tour. The fucking Prime Minister was there. Fucker rarely makes a wrong move if there is a camera in his vicinity.
A couple I had seen the previous night in the pub were eating and drinking there too. When the show was over they both had tears in their eyes as they made their way to the door. As did I. And I could not give a fuck about the Tragically Hip.
I am glad Anne Murray did not get a brain tumour when she was in her prime. Motherfuck cancer. That is all I have to say.
20 August 2016
16 August 2016
My Big Fucking Union put on a retirement seminar recently which I attended. The retirement coaches impressed upon everybody that preparing for your retirement is an imperative. "If you are not ready, you better get ready!" more or less summed up their punk rock message to my fellow grey beards.
I listen pretty close when the Big Fucking Union brings in people with advice. More often than not Big Fucking Union advice is good advice.
I bought some KD for the first time in maybe twenty years. It tasted good washed down with a cheap beer. I am ready to retire now, motherfuckers.
6 August 2016
Added a couple new Fellow Motherfuckers I thought I would draw your attention to.
First one is the Canadian Encyclopedia. I do so primarily for the benefit of readers who do not live in the true north, strong and free (never minding our beer swilling oh so KGB wannabe fucking secret police) country. The book is better but this is very cool. Learn why Canada is so lovable but not so lovable you would want to move here and freeze to death.
Second one is the Wayback Machine. Barely scratched the surface of this one myself but any archive that includes something as unthinkable as a listen to Dope City's Subhuman's October 31, 1981 show in Las Vegas is something you may just want to look into. Makes me wonder if there is a better quality live recording of the band that ought to be available in a record store near you.
Lots of Anne Murray too!
Sonja and I went for a picnic. More of a wine-nic really. Eventually I had to water my horse so I walked over to the shithouse while Sonja kept an eye on the wine.
There were a lot strange looking motherfuckers in the vicinity of the shithouse. They appeared to be lost. As if their smartphones were all acting up or something.
I asked one of them, "Pokemon?"
4 August 2016
Walked a dog for the first time since the Hammer died on the long weekend. Sonja and I were at an outdoor party where leashed dogs were on the invite. A couple, neither of whom felt like hanging onto their pooch all that much, were trying to convince one another to be the dog handler. It became clear neither of them were interested in being the taker at that particular moment.
"I'll take him, " I offered.
"You sure?" they asked a couple times.
"Give me the fucking dog and go fucking enjoy yourselves," I told them.
Dog's name was Whiskers. He was attached to one of those retractable leashes. Never used one of those before. Bit gay for my liking. Even had a poopy bag dispenser attached to it.
"Fuck the party," I told Whiskers as I stuffed a couple beer in my pockets to go with the fresh one in my hand. "Let's go for a walk."
We had not gone far before I changed Whiskers' name to Knickers.
Pretty soon Knickers had to take a shit. "Good Knickers!" I told her. "You're the best Knickers ever."
I picked up the shit, twisted the bag up tight because Knicker's shit smelled a lot like flowers, and we continued on.
When we got to a church I threw the bag of dog shit on their lawn. Knickers looked at me sideways when I did this. "The voices in my head told me God wants his priests want to eat dog shit today," I explained. Knickers must have understood because he took another shit (I did not pick up) on the church lawn. Gave them an empty fucking beer can too.
"Good Knickers! You're the best dog ever!" I told her as we continued on our happy way.
After a bit we came upon a pretty lass. She bent over and petted my new dog. Gave me a pretty good show.
"She's cute. What's your dog's name?" she asked.
I told her.
"Cute dog but weird owner," she offered.
"She's named after the noise horses make," I lied.
She seemed unconvinced. Kids watch too much porn these days. Dirties up their minds.
"Nice meeting you Knickers," she said before we went our separate ways.
It was nice walking a dog again. Never know what the fuck is going to happen next when you have a dog.
"I should have named you Panties," I told Knickers as we turned the corner back to the party.
"Have a nice walk with Whiskers?" Sonja asked when I got back.
"Whiskers? I thought the dog's name was Knickers. She is a bad dog. She shit on the churchyard."
"We'll get another one for you soon," Sonja reassured me.
"Can I name it Knickers?"
"No Beer. No one names their dog Knickers."
2 August 2016
It is not a exactly a secret that I have more of Anne Murray's records than her biggest, baddest and rockin'-est fan of all had - the King himself, Elvis Presley. Cannot get enough of Canada's Queen of country music and I have missed her since she retired like a man misses his favourite dog after it has died.
I am so motherfucking lonesome I could cry.
If Anne Murray were to put her painted fingertips to her computer keyboard one night when she is feeling lonely and write a wee comment to the DCFP I would be happier than if Redneck Dumbfuck America woke up one morning to the faint sound of a banjo being played in the nearby woods and found everyone even the slightest bit not white, Christian and misled had vacated their suddenly great as fuck again nation.
I have all Anne Murray's records except for a few of her 45s and the children's music she has produced. If Sonja and I had a half a dozen children we would be like the Nova Scoctian Von Trappes we would be singing along to Anne's music so much and so well.
Recently I picked up a few sealed copies of Anne's vinyl to add to the collection. Was not like they broke the bank to buy them. Anne is the most under appreciated living national treasure on Earth. The DCFP has been trying to correct that for over ten years.
We may not have as much talent as some but what we lack in talent we try and make up for with persistence and tastelessness.
31 July 2016
One of the best bits of news I heard all year came courtesy of one of the DCFP's fine readers correcting my belief BC's bush track crowd was not going to be able to put on a Race Day this summer for the first time. Your fellow reader informs me Desert Park is indeed racing August 20th! Post time is scheduled for 1:00 PM if that is ok with Christy Clark.
Seems the provincial fucking government is getting in the way of my interior friends putting on more Race Days. One more reason not to vote for the crooked fucks if you ask me. Horgan is up there this weekend. Hope he has made it clear to people up there the NDP will not stand in the way of people doing their god damnedest to keep racing alive and well outside of Dope City.
May only be five races but it will still be worth heading up to the best wine country on our doomed planet for sun, fun and horse racing.
See you in the beer garden and at the finish line, motherfuckers!
29 July 2016
Been to your local horse racing track lately? Everyone has their favourite summer pastime. For some it is a baseball game, for others it is a round of golf, still others prefer a sandy beach. For me it is the race track, the beer tastes best there. Twice a week it is the best party in town what with the big crowds horse racing is again attracting to Dope City Downs.
The local track is all I have now. My province's bush racing enthusiasts have been unable to get together a card this year. They are still training racehorses in the spring and winter at Sagebrush Downs and Dessert Park. Do not think they are even doing that at Sunflower Downs, my favourite track of all. Some motherfucker burned down the grandstand at Kin Park and from there I have had no news at all.
If a racetrack is not near you all but the bush races are available in your computer. That is where I keep up on my favourite jockey Kassie Guglielmino, who I saw ride her first races at Sunflower Downs. She has been doing well in Portland and honing her craft in the northwest bushes. Somebody needs to start putting her on some much better horses at much better racetracks. She is ready.
Big races, like the Haskell Invitational featuring both Nyquist and Exaggerator (who I think will win) in New Jersey Sunday, attract pretty big audiences themselves broadcast on national television.
My favourite new jockey is Scott Bethke. Still just 16 he has raced at Fonner and Canterbury already. A 16 year old with a 10% win rate. Appears to have a career worth following the young lad does.
27 July 2016
They are big on foreshadowing future targets. Real big.
So. What do you make of the murdered Norman priest? Much I should hope.