The Dope City Free Press had little, if anything, to say about last month's American election. Fuck 'em. Besides, after all, did we all not wish we had said all that ever needed be said about America: "Give them enough rope..."
Sonja wanted to go for a walk on Sunday but it was kind of cold. "There must be somewhere we could go!" She was sure of it.
We decided on visiting the new fucking mall near the ferry terminal. It may be the biggest indoor space around Dope City that does not charge you to get in. Loads of parking too. More than you get at sports stadiums these days.
There are numbered six entrances to the place. Very thoughtful addition that. We chose entrance number six. Just like Let's Make A Deal!
There were a lot of people there but they did not appear to be buying shit. We walked and walked. It was not until the second lap we bought a few things. Nothing big.
I noted there is a record shop. Mostly shit besides records but a record shop nevertheless. There may be hope for the world yet.
There is a little reluctance in some corners to both assist in the fundraising and make the necessary effort to elect the NDP in British Columbia's election next May.
I do not fucking understand it. The time I have spent down in the street with a range of people, that includes everybody except my province's parasitic one or two per cent, this past year has taught me there is not a whole lot of love out there for the present government and their unlikeable leader. The polls tell me much of their core is still with them but that is not what I hear from a lot of people who got sucked in by Clark's Liberal bullshit a few years ago.
The election is sitting there like a moose in a half eaten field of the best marijuana on Earth waiting to the taken, motherfuckers. Get off the fucking couch and get out your credit card!
It was one of those Mondays at the sawmill today. Day after Grey Cup. Everybody fucking hungover just a little worse than most Mondays. Fewer hours of sleep than usual. The cocaine boys had not slept at all. It was like living with the occupants of the Belmont Hotel before fentanyl came to town.
The foreman were worst off of all. Motherfuckers had a wing-ding that would kill just about anybody who was not already half dead from working in a sawmill their whole fucking lives.
The day went just about the same as any Grey Cup or Super Bowl Monday: Somewhat unproductively. Every time it looked like the milmight get a little flow going somebody from the union or a fucking foreman sabotaged something and brought everything to a halt. Without the sabotage there would have been casualties. Do not need that shit a month before Christmas.
Just the same I had a busy day in the first aid room. Every sliver, nick and speck of dust (real or imagined) gets brought to my attention the day after big game days.
Asked everybody how their party went as I slowly attended to their needs.
"Great whisky," "Great strippers," "Coke that would bring Castro back to life," were popular answers.
Asked my foreman about his party after lunch when he had begun to look like he was from the same species as me. "Great whisky, great strippers, coke cut with meth and the best toothless hookers this side of the motherfucking Alberta border."
Fucking foreman always want it known their parties are better than the ones we hold on the union side. Only times that was not true over the years was when we had Angels on the shop floor.
The Dope City Free Press' readership, long led by Canadians and Americans, in that order, has been changing noticeably of late just below the uncontested leadership of my true, north, strong, beer and hockey loving uncontested leadership. France has assumed the position of our third largest audience, superseding the fucking Germans, and of late has been edging ahead of my adorable neighbours, the Americans, into the rank of second largest audience.
Publishing the Dope City Free Press internationally for such a long time has allowed for the growth of the French contingent. As I publish readable content only, with the single exception of an Anne Murray video singing a Leonard Cohen song recently, I assume the French to still be a literate lot, unlike their American fellow revolutionaries, who are fast becoming dumber than a sack of hammers.
As for the Germans, what can I possibly add to what I have been saying all along. I have never understood why those squarehead motherfuckers read the DCFP. Then again, Nico, my opioid angel, came to us from their graveyard of a country. Perhaps her spirit has guided her fellows to Dope City and its wee Anarchist Press.
And so begins the final drama
In the streets and in the fields
We stand unbowed before their armour
We defy their guns and shields
When we fight provoked by their aggression
Let us be inspired by like and love
For though they offer us concessions
Change will not come from above
Or, as we say in Canada, a poutine in every pot, motherfuckers.
Sonja and I watched Iggy Pop's whole Post Pop Depression Royal Albert Hall show last night. If you, like I, still have a rock 'n' roll heart you owe it to yourself to see and hear this rock show.
Iggy may not be quite the man he was in 1969 but he is still plenty man enough for me.
His band, and he has had some fucking great ones over the years, has to be his best ever. Motherfuckers got it going on.
The material, drawn almost entirely from songs Iggy wrote with David Bowie (who had only just died when the show took place) in the latter half of the 1970s and songs co-wrote with Josh Homme for his latest record all comes from the top fucking drawer of the big catalogue of wicked shit my favourite street walking cheetah has recorded over the years.
Package I bought included two CDs of the entire show. Listened to that as I made my way to and from a union meeting today.
I have been lucky to have Iggy Pop contributing some of the best songs that have made up the sound track to my fucking life. And I know I have been even luckier to have the old boy around so fucking long.