29 April 2017
Once I was initiated into the International Woodworkers of America (IWA) as a young lad I thought they would be my union until the day I died. Retiring from work to a life on the lawn bowling green in my sixties seemed an unlikely life outcome at the time for this death wish punk rock motherfucker.
In time however the American wing of my international union weakened and the Canadian wing I belonged to disengaged from our long, close association with the American working class. We became IWA-Canada. A little further down the line, having realized the limitations of being an insufficiently large national union, we merged with the United Steelworkers of America (USW).
It was not a seamless transition, the IWA was very much a part of our individual and collective identities, but we soon came to appreciate our new identity and our increased strength. Fucking Steelworkers we are now.
That is as brief a run up to what I really want to write about as I can manage which is Christy Clark's lies, part of the set of lies which have come to frame her doomed campaign to be re-elected, which question my union's international president's, Canadian Leo Gerard, support of his Canadian forest industry members now that America is once again fettering Canadian lumber's access to its market.
Clark's lies, slander really, are nothing more than an attempt to suppress voters from purposely casting their ballots to remove her from an office they are all too aware they mistakenly elected her to four years ago. My union, and Leo Gerard, believe and are pressing for Canada to be conferred preferred trading partner status with America. A trading partner with comparable (if not superior) labour, market and environmental standards to its own. A mutually beneficial trading partner.
Too bad for Christy Clark her understanding of mutually beneficial is illegally accepting corporate campaign donations in return for obscene government contracts. The USW is trying to help put a stop to that corrupt practice. And we are not doing it for us. We are doing it for everybody, except the filthy few; British Columbians who deserve much better than what they have been getting from Christy Clark.
25 April 2017
A sawmill worker.
Not an easy life.
Dirty, dull, dangerous work.
In Woss would agree with me about that but they are dead.
Dirty, dull, dangerous work but we do it to feed our families.
Christy Clark pissing on us out her
Buick's window only motivates us to defeat her.
23 April 2017
22 April 2017
I was at a door yesterday talking to a young man old enough to vote when his mom pulled into the driveway.
"Who the fuck are you?" she politely queried as she made her way towards me.
"I'm with the NDP," I politely answered. "Who the fuck are you?"
Improbably she laughed at my echo response.
"This is my fucking house asshole. I thought you were a fucking Liberal. I was going to kick your ass out on the road right quick if you were too."
Pretty friendly we were from there on in.
Five votes for us there were in her house. Not bad for contact initiated by a, "Who the fuck are you?"
21 April 2017
Few signs of life in the Liberal campaign aside from their usual haunts and even there they are shedding votes faster than a pit full of snakes shed skin. Even amongst her supporters Christy Clark is about as popular as a incurable communicable disease. Still 2 1/2 weeks to go of course.
Same goes for the Greens everywhere near Dope City. People are looking for a better way and they know they will not get it voting for them. The votes they split off are likely to elect a few Liberals here and there across the province however. Nothing new there: that has been happening for several elections. Thanks a lot, motherfuckers.
The NDP campaign is continuing to resonate. People know they need a fucking break and supporting us is their way forward out of the Great Liberal Mistake.
16 April 2017
I must have loved rock 'n' roll music the first time I heard it. I wish I could remember what song it was. Beatles, Stones, Kinks or The Who? Cash, Lewis, Presley, Berry or Little Richard? It really does not fucking matter. It was like eating t-bone for the first time after years of tofu.
Those old boys led me to the music played by the bands who walked through the door they had kicked down. Mott the Hoople, Humble Pie, The Guess Who, Slade, Lou Reed and T Rex. Status Quo above all. First Ma Kelly's Greasy Spoon, then the rest.
As good as all those bands were I was looking for something faster, louder and snottier. I found it on a stage in England in October of 1976. The Runaways - my very first punk rock show. There must have been a thousand of us in the hall that night - our lives changed, for better or worse, forever. There was, if you are wondering, nothing better than being young and in love with the Runaways in 1976.
All of which brings me to last night's Damned show in Dope City. Me and six of the best friends you could ask for marked 40 years of punk rock by attending the show.
Played two hours they did. Not bad for a bunch of old fucks like me. Was not the shit show pogo gob fountain floor vomit sink piss overdose riddled show from the '70s but everybody had more than their share of fun. We sang along and had us what I do not get as much of as I ought to any more: Ecstasy! That is the Voo Doo power of enthusiastically played rock 'n' roll.
But before The Damned took the stage there was Bleached. Three young women from the motherfucking USA with a guy handling the stool. Made a lot of fans last night they did. Great American songs played enthusiastically as an American air blast. Reminded me of Dick Dale and the Del-Tones from that great surf movie "Beach Party." If Dale had paid a little more attention to girl groups, spent a little more time in the fucking garage and a little less time on the beach that is.
Had a chat with Jessie, one of their guitar players, when she was taking care of their merch table before the headliners got going. Some nice she is. I bought all their records. She signed the blue one for me, tagging it with a wee heart.
It may be dismembered, septic, left for dead on the battlefield, but rock 'n' roll is not fucking dead yet, motherfuckers.
14 April 2017
For well over thirty years I have been getting my breakfast nearly every day in Ma Kelly's Greasy Spoon before my sawmill shift. Weekends too when I have business in my workplace's vicinity. When I miss a day Ma, a Viet who owns the joint with her cook husband, asks me, "Where you eat when you not here? Tim Horton? McDonald? Gas station like everybody do?"
"Guilty on all counts Ma. Every once in a while I like to have a look at someone else's ass before I go to work," I told her.
"Hindoo ass all those place," she sneered. "Why you look at that? That what you like Beer? Hindoo ass. Vietnamese ass not good enough for you sometime?"
"I'm a man Ma. You know what men are like. If there was pussy on Mars we would have landed there and fucked everything in sight decades ago," I explained.
"You pig. That what you are. Fuck Martian. Dog. Everything."
She got up from the chair across from me and made her way to the kitchen and back with my hot as her ass breakfast. After she put it down she asked, "You know any good horse race Hasting this year?"
"Bergen won a maiden special at Gulf Stream last weekend. BC bred by Rosberg. Beat some fucking good ones too. If it ships back up here you might want consider backing it with a month or two of your tips."
She wrote the name down. "Horse win you forget everything I say bad this morning."
13 April 2017
On the way home from the sawmill today I stopped by a picket line at the side of the highway. The rain, stopped for a brief spell, was puddled everywhere and sparkling the reflection of the sun upon one and all. Was not warm enough to shut down the strikers' many propane fires but it was warm enough to put smiles on just about everybody's face.
I asked why they had downed tools.
"Motherfuckers want cut our benefits in half and strip everybody's seniority," I was told by one of several wet women who were standing amid a sea of wet men.
Same fucking corporate demands the miners on Texada fought off over the winter.
Corporation they are striking against is called Bimbo, which, I am pretty sure, is Spanish for fucking parasites.
Lots of people honked as they sped by the picket line. If you have a couple minutes stop by and tell them how you appreciate them fighting the good fight, the fight workers of the world are always ready fight one day longer than the fucking boss.
10 April 2017
Some things never fucking change.
For example, yesterday.
I was sitting on the couch drinking a beer when from out of nowhere I hear, "Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!"
Knocks louder than the police's on a whorehouse door.
I did not answer. I just looked at the loud knocking motherfuckers waiting patiently on my porch through the peep hole.
Suits and ties.
They come around before Easter every year.
They want my money for their fading franchise.
I already gave to the NDP.