I have not done this for some time. Sit down. At one of my desks. (Lucky man that. I have the computer desk I am sitting at now in addition to my Smith Corona word processing station.) And write.
Fucking ipad took me away from all this. The computer desk could not compete with the comfort of my big man chair in the front room.
Feels good sitting here however. Like riding a motorcycle for the first time after a crash and much rehabilitation.
I have the office stereo on. Sony MHC-EC9091iP. A large mini-stereo by today's standards. Sounds so good it makes me think, mistakenly, I could live without all the other much more powerful stereos that power my rock 'n' roll household.
Lou Reed's "American Poet" is entertaining me. The dead bodies pile up in mounds.
In both my offices I am surrounded by books. Some shelved, others piled in precarious stacks. Anarchist philosophy to the left. Political party Treasurer and activist records to my right. Behind me everything from handicapping manuals to over 30 year's worth of Fred Woodworth's magnificent The Match!
Coincidently it is St. Patrick's Day. A day I do not take lightly. The old boys in the family tree shot up fucking English after all.
See you in the bar, motherfuckers. Your first shot is on me if you are not an Englishman.
5 March 2018
I could not break away from life to make it to the Dave Barrett memorial. Tell the truth, I am uncomfortable with the idea of such gatherings for people who blazed trail decades before I tried my less skillful hand cutting path for my fellows.
I was alive, mind you, when Barrett and the rest got elected. The difference afterward, to barely teenaged me, was a proper bus service which provided better access to drug dealers outside the sometimes unreliable circle of neighbourhood providers of nickel bags and the like.
I took note of the other changes that happened later in life except for one other that was quite immediate. Teachers and other authourity figures in school were no longer permitted (legally) to physically punish the little fucks (like me) they were faced with on a daily basis. Every once in a while a teacher would still punch out one of us little fucks but school got a lot more social after that.
The streets, however, remained the wild, wild west same as they are today.
25 February 2018
Good day to sit home, do drugs, drink beer, practice black magic and listen to records today was - after the obligatory shovelling of much snow of course.
Highlights included listening to two versions of “Pablo Picasso” - the original release by John Cale and the Modern Lovers’ first recorded Cale produced version of their song not so long after. Might not be the best song ever written but I am sure it is easily the best song that repeatedly uses the word asshole.
Further highlight was a first listen to Christian’s one and only album. From 1972. Dollar thrift store buy purchased on the strength of the cover art which reminded me a little of a Bloodrock album or something like that. Guessing they were a Vancouver band as Paul Horn showed up to play his flute for one song. Hard to say because searching the Internet for “Christian Band” is of no help whatsoever. Great record. Pleased I ran across such an obscure gem.
18 February 2018
It happens every time there is a fucking Olympics. People are in their hotel rooms, cannot understand a word being said on their provided televisions, and they end up looking for stories about the fucking Olympics on the Internet. Enough of the bored motherfuckers do it long enough to discover a story or two about the fucking Games written by Mr. Beer N. Hockey which gets recorded on the DCFP stats page. I know this because normally no one reads my shit in Russia or South Korea.
Mostly the modern world is fucked up like nothing else. Every once in a while it is cooler than a New Year’s Eve beer in Dawson City.
17 February 2018
I do not know anything. Despite that I have developed several leanings over the years that might make it look like I know something. Most all those leanings took form in the early 1980s as British Columbia’s forest industry, the only work I had known and would ever know, and a great deal else went into decline.
At a job search seminar the government forced me attend at the time, during one of my frequent jobless stretches, the facilitator encouraged me to get trained up so I could switch careers - into senior’s care. I had never and would never set foot in the parasite economy. Never understood why anybody would encourage that sort of behaviour.
Real work was the thing for me. First dollars some call it. Forestry, fishing, mining, construction, farming. Same as it is for most people when such work is available. (To this day I cannot understand why farm work, in particular, is not more valued by society. If it were much social decay could be avoided.) Creating wealth with your own hands is good for people’s spirit.
So I am pleased the BC government, a government I took action to help elect, is moving to restore what they can in the way of community benefit (jobs) to the province’s forest industry. We need every last family supporting job we can in B.C. and elsewhere. Real work goes some ways to preventing the social decay that has become the Parasitic Spirit of Our Age.
Our logs. Our jobs. Forever.
11 February 2018
Some Christian fuckers I know, as they get older, they start going to church less and less. They are the Christian fuckers who know they have lived the sort of life that ought to give them a shot at having a fucking beer with Jesus when they die, they are getting too old to foul their record and that they have heard just about enough preacher bull shit for two lifetimes, never mind one.
The Christian fuckers who go more often to church as they get older are the ones I worry about. They know there will be no fucking beer with Jesus for them but, like lottery players, they keep buying tickets, hoping, against all odds they will not be drinking fucking beer with fucking Gerald Stanley when they fucking die.
31 January 2018
I have kept off the Fuck Donald Trump bandwagon for many years. There have been, after all, bigger, richer, far more powerful motherfuckers than him to be nauseated by. I was not alone in this. When an old white guy is not permitted into the NFL Owner’s clubhouse that ought to have been enough of a message for everybody, including the television networks, to dismiss the blowhard motherfucker.
Instead the country that is still the planet bad ass voted him in as their fucking President. Yet I still, now alone, ignored the man. Give the cunt a year I figured. He cannot be bad as Nixon, who coupled being a mass murderer ( as all American Presidents must be) and first rate animal fucker, I reasoned.
Year is up. The Dope City Free Press has summoned its editorial might and come up with a rhetorical question for the America and the world. Does no one know how to light a fucking match? Fuck. The only leader with a pair left on this planet lives in North Korea. My own Prime Minister does not have the self respect left to kiss his commie ass.
28 January 2018
Oftentimes nearabouts The Dead Centre of yet another colon dark Dope City winter you find yourself casting about for a rainy day thing or two to do. Today Sonja, Kitty, Hunky Z and I chose to visit the Space Centre, formerly known as the Planetarium. We had not been there since mushrooms were legal and the joint was full of mushroom fans for their weekend trippy Pink Floyd shows.
Stayed for a couple of their shows. One about how stars get formed and later expire and another about dark matter and our search for the shit.
Science is different than it was when we were young and dinosaurs shared our path. Dark matter, for instance, had been theorized about, but was not yet talked about in school, or elsewhere for that matter.
There was an interpreter who guided us through the two shows. He invited one and all to ask him questions once he was done. No one did after either show except us. Mushrooms, I concluded, have a long lasting, salutary effect on human being’s curiousity.
All that talk about being bombarded by dark matter and our sun one day fizzing out put the fear into us however so we retired to a pub for a late lunch washed down by many glasses of black currant cider.
“This shit is like Electric Kool-Ade,” Hunky Z observed once we were done. Do not drink the black currant cider unless you want to be experienced.
26 January 2018
Having driven the freeway from Where Your Blueberries And Marijuana Is Grown to Dope City for decades I would like to propose all lanes be closed and turned over to bicycles as soon as possible. The route has become fucking useless for car travel and I think it is past time for us to stop pretending it is a road in the usual sense of the word. It has gotten so bad I could get to work both faster and safer if I could get a pair of wheels on the freeway instead of having to navigate the more indirect farm roads. Plus no lights! Bicyclists love that shit.
As a compromise to the motoring public I think we could leave a lane for motorcycles.
Close the motherfucking Death Trap Freeway to cars and trucks! Right fucking now!