28 September 2016

God Save the Queen and the Fascist Regime



Four of parasitical clan we know as the Royal Fuckers are about. Of course they are getting more press than Jesus would get if he showed up with a photogenic trophy wife and two tow headed kids.

That is as close you will see me get to fawning over them. They have little, if any, right to exist.

Motherfuckers.


26 September 2016

Up Yours Belatedly Jane O'Hara



Found an old newspaper clipping inside the gate-fold of "Slade Alive" - one of the pile of well cared for albums given to me by an old friend's brother a short time ago. No date on the clipping but I would guess it is from '77 - '79. The reverse of the clipping includes a small advert for a blood donor clinic in the basement of Woodward's' downtown Dope City location and a large advert for The World On A Silver Platter - video discs and a video disc player.

The clipping itself is of a story about London's warring youth tribes: skinheads, punk rockers, rude boys, teds, mods and rockers. Seems they did not care much for one another's company.

Fucking news that was!

The photo pasted (literally) into the middle of the story is of skinheads putting the boots to some poor fucker in the middle of the street as shocked onlookers gasp from the sidewalk. Skinheads were like Millwall supporters like myself in those days: nobody liked us and we did not give a shit. Skinheads are so much more polite now their hateful outlook on the world has them on the verge of democratically reasserting the white race's superior place in the latest world war of world wars.

Writer Jane O'Hara (a prize winning journalist!) does not reserve her distaste for the skinheads however. She hates all young people - and probably hates everyone else by now - an outlook we have come to associate, if not accept, with prize winning journalism.

24 September 2016

Blue Velveteers



Sonja and I were watching "Blue Velvet."

"Have you ever met anybody as fucked up as these people?" Sonja asked.

"I grew up in Sliverville," I answered. "That is about as close to Lumberton as anywhere. There was Blue Velveteers on every bar stool in town."

The only thing that differentiated the fucking mayor, the fucking cops, the fucking rich and the fucking street people was income.

22 September 2016

Jerry Jeff - Enough To Make A Man Believe



Put Jerry Jeff Walker's "Jerry Jeff" cassette in the living room player. 1978, motherfuckers. Took a seat in my big old chair. Opened 2002's "Gospel According to ESPN - Saints, Saviors and Sinners" which I bought because of the long introduction found therein by Hunter S. Thompson.



Tonight I could wrestle the devil
You know I just can't lose
Go on out and find me some fallen angel
To help me with these lowdown blues
She be knowin' 'bout the lowdown blues

I got me a Saturday night special
In case things should get too tough
I've been laid back too long
I believe I've had enough

Well I can't get the man to call a taxi
He could take me way downtown
Well I'm gonna fire up my Lincoln instead
Throw my money around, won't it look good downtown

*************

"...and whosoever was not found written
 in the book of life
was cast into the lake of fire."
- Revelations 20:15

This was the theme of a sermon I delivered off the 20th floor balcony of the Regency Hyatt House in Houston on the morning of Super Bowl VIII - a crazed and futile attempt, as I recall, to explain the nature of my relationship with the National Football League. It was just before dawn when the urge to speak came on me. I had not planned a sermon for that morning - or any other morning, for that matter - but now, looking back on that outburst, I see that I'd been cranking myself up for it, in a slow and violent way, for at least two months and maybe three or four.


Walker. Then Thompson. I try not to spend too much time living in the past but when I do I like to spend it with the motherfucking best.   
















20 September 2016

Going, Going, Gone



Watched 1986's "Salvador" on television on the weekend for the first time in close to 30 years. Reminded me of a few things it did.

Firstly, it reminded me how much I liked James Woods' work. He is suing some motherfucker on the internet with an axe to fucking grind for telling the world he is a coke addict. All I know is he sure was acting like a coke addict in 1986.

Secondly, I was reminded that James Belushi could act at one time too. If you call staggering around with a bottle of tequila and acting like a coke addict acting.

Thirdly, of course, I was reminded of the motherfucking fascists in El Salvador and else where at the time. I was very concerned for the fascists' victims, in El Salvador and elsewhere in those days. I was also concerned that if we ignored human rights in the rest of the world we would one day lose our own.

Like a baseball hit high into a good tailwind they are going, going, gone over the right field fence.


19 September 2016

Brady Brunch



Watched American football with Sonja last Sunday. It could not have been more boring. Give me Canadian ball, American ball's under appreciated senior cousin, any day.

This Sunday we opted for something a little more fast paced. The fucking Brady Bunch. Two episodes back to back.

Pig skin motherfuckers.


13 September 2016

An Albertan, A Cliff and the RCMP



Ever cliff dive? Me neither. Extreme sports have never appealed to me. There are hundreds of them now. Maybe more. Only extremely dangerous thing I have ever done often is fuck around on motorcycles. That has provided enough death defiance for a thousand lifetimes. In comparative terms cliff diving is about as dangerous as breathing.

Anyhow.

Sonja and I took a long walk to a lake not far from Dope City to have a picnic at a viewpoint that is favoured also by people who also like to think they are being daredevils by jumping from the viewpoint to the lake one and a half bus lengths below. We were hoping that arriving for an early lunch would lessen the chances of sharing the space with any cliff divers. There was only a big pick-up truck owned by some sort of a park operator and a smaller Alberta plated truck in the parking lot.

We were right. Sort of. When we reached the viewpoint a pair of park officials were on the losing end of an argument with someone we guessed must be the fucking Albertan fucked up on a cocktail of fuck knows what and then some.

Seems the fucked up Albertan had been spotted passed out on the edge of the cliff by someone concerned enough to call on the park operator to check him out.

The park operators were trying to be reasonable.

The fucked up Albertan had been reduced to communicating in three words. "Go fuck yourself!"

Eventually the park operators called the RCMP who sent a boat to the splash zone below the viewpoint and a pair of uniforms up the trail.

They too tried reasoning with the Albertan until their patience ran out. This caused the Albertan to take a couple swings at the cops who soon had him handcuffed and staggering down the trail to an elevation where he might eventually, after a spell incarcerated, begin to think a little clearer.

We followed from a safe distance. Albertan had not done anything to deserve the beating the RCMP may have liked to have laid on him after about the 150th time he told them to go fuck themselves.

Whole thing was handled pretty well I guess. Cops probably figured the same as Sonja and I that the Albertan probably had a firearm or two hidden in his truck so they had to get him sober before reuniting him with his possessions.

The cost of the event to British Columbia must have been high however. Three cops, a boat, a night in the Crowbar Hotel. No way we will ever see that money again. So feel free to to get all liquored up and raise some shit next time you are in Alberta. Motherfuckers owe us one.







11 September 2016

On the Aftermath of 9-1-1 (Again)



About four years before the the Dope City Free Press began publishing a couple airplanes flew into a couple very tall office towers in the city of New York. Again I have been drawn into writing about that day just as I have been in other years.

Because of the nature of overseas attacks on American targets and the previous attempt on the same buildings it was clear to me America and, in all likelihood, its symbolic New York towers would soon  be attacked in some way. The use of someone else's aircraft as the means of destruction was as surprising to me as anybody.

The date of the attack that morning was a dead giveaway it was the same people, more or less, who made the first attempt on the towers: 9-1-1. Few, if any, cultures are as poetic as Arab culture. 9-1-1, motherfuckers.

Fucking history now, isn't it.

15 years later, unfortunately, the cause of the events of that day and many since remain the same: extreme inequality and hate. Extreme inequality and hate that has both spread and worsened at an alarming speed.

Worse consequences are surely on the way. Preventable worse consequences may I add. Inequality and hate are quite unnecessary - dominant but unnecessary.

There is a better way.


9 September 2016

White Wine In the Rain

Sonja and I are enjoying a lovely week off while much of the rest of Steepleton have hi-ho-hi-ho'd themselves back to work, school and whatever it is the rest of the world do who do not have be places or have shit done at a set time.

Much has happened but I have had little time to write a few words to share with you. One very short story will have to suffice for today.

We were having a rainy day picnic in Stanley Park sheltered in one of the park's many large covered spaces. There were but two other couples sharing the space with us - at the opposite from where we sat eating and drinking our beer and wine. The other people were doing the same except they were drinking white wine. They were talking animatedly but we could not hear them above the sound Dope City September rain makes on an uninsulated roof.




"I bet they are fucking Germans," I told Sonja.

She was unconvinced. "Beer you do not know shit. Lots of people drink white wine in the rain."

"No they fucking do not," I said as if it were as predictable as the Canucks not winning the Stanley Cup next spring. Then I got up and went over to see if I was right.

After I finished making nice with the white wine drinking sons of bitches I returned to Sonja.

"Well?" she asked.

"Only Motherfucking Nazis drink white wine in the rain."



4 September 2016

How To Get A Free Tank of Gas In William's Lake



Sonja and I were in the bar. Wine and beer. Mediterranean sandwich. Shepherd's pie.

Near us a table were entertaining one another with tales of their travels though the mysteries of British Columbia's fuck rugged interior. Each tale topped the next until one, judged the finest, sent their conversation in another direction.

"Back in the mid-'70s, I guess it was, JJ and I were on our way from Kettle Falls, other side of the border from Trail, to William's Lake. Snowed like fuck the whole fucking way. Fuck did it snow. But we kept on driving because we had five kilos of coke that would all be sold to the good people of William's Lake before New Year's which was coming right up.

"At times we were driving through three feet of snow and it sure did slow us down. We did not get to William's Lake until midnight where we stopped for gas before checking into the nearby Fraser Hotel. After filling up we went into pay where we found two men swinging chains at the attendant demanding all his fucking money in their best Stampede voices.

"Good thing JJ had his peacemaker with him. When he pulled that motherfucker out on the thugs they could not drop their chains and shut the fuck up fast enough. JJ told them next time he saw them off-reserve he'd shoot them for fun. Got a free tank of gas for our troubles."

Everybody at the table laughed.

William's Lake is rougher than a bear fuck the table agreed.