16 April 2018

The Dope City Free Press Rejoices

I do not know what the fuck everyone is complaining about! By this time most springs I have mowed the grass half a dozen times. This year I have yet to do so once! Cool, wet weather is a gift. Hindoos at work tell me rain is God’s way of telling them he is happy.

Happy God = Happy Life. Rejoice in his happiness, motherfuckers!

2 April 2018

Beer’s Kentucky Derby 2018 Early Prediction

The field for the 2018 edition of the Kentucky Derby and it’s sister races that comprise the Triple Crown is about to be narrowed down in the next two weeks. I expect Justify, a Kentucky bred thoroughbred with Dope City breeding and ownership angles fans of horse racing near where I live like, to win the Santa Anita Derby next weekend and put yet another smile on Bob Baffert’s face come Derby day.

Your money may be attracted elsewhere. So be it. Looks a deep field this year.

Does not look like my favourite jockey, Kassie Guglielmino, has a mount for the world’s favourite horse race. She has yet to attract the attention of horse racing’s heavy weight division. She looks ready to me but I am a little short of having the means necessary to be shipping horses to motherfucking Kentucky.

28 March 2018

Anything Is Possible





26 March 2018

Juno Day Phone Call From Newfoundland

I was listening to Lou Reed, Art Bergman, the Rolling Stones and The Pointed Sticks when the phone rang. It was my dad. Calling from Newfoundland. He sounded well.

“Sitting down?” he asked, formalities complete.

I replied affirmatively.

“Your Aunt Emma died,” he informed me.

My only aunt who is younger than me. Grandma kept making babies until she was fucking near sixty.

“When she did not show at her grandson’s first birthday party a party was sent by her house. Had to break in. She was dead in her bed.”

Natural cause.

We talked some more and said our byes.

I love all my aunts and uncles but Emma was my favourite. She would be the first to agree with Lou Reed that life is good, but not fair at all.

That is four of my dad’s twelve brothers and sisters gone. But Emma’s the first one gone to make me wonder how fucking long I’ve got.

25 March 2018

Pointed Sticks Flaming O Rock Show

I got in the car and cracked a fucking beer. The first of three I would drink before arriving in the diseased heart of Sliverville to see the Pointed Sticks - at once the much celebrated and fucking near forgotten punk rock heroes of my distant youth. At twenty minute intervals I pressed one of the fucking buttons on the door of my car which opened the passenger window and threw an empty bottle out the window. Just like the ya-fucking-hoo Happy Days of my youth.

I threw the last bottle out onto the crumbling parking lot of the Flaming O. It was immediately collected by a street crazy who appeared as if he was expecting me. I got out of the car. Locked it. Took a long steamy beer piss into the vacant lot beside the fucking bar. Yet another street crazy appeared from the darkness before I even zipped up offering to blow me for $5 more than the money than it was going to cost me to see the rock show. Been blown by the cast offs of Sliverville in the past of course. Not worth a twenty to be frank.

The show was taking place in the same room I once scored dope and watched the Sliverville Ballet in. The ceiling mirror was still there and a couple black lights remained in working order to help provide what little lighting the club was willing to buck up for. I tried not to think of the distinctive, not quite poisonous, flavour of the cheeseburger specials I once washed down with beer so bad you had to be stoned to drink it.

Opening act was the Pool Sharks. The last three white guys from Richmond apparently. I drank my $5 beer and clapped politely as one does for opening fucking acts.

Shithead was there. The daughter of my old MP. A couple of the grizzled members of the Mud Bay Blues Band. Jade from the Dishrags - one of those women who gets more beautiful with each passing year.

The Sticks played two sets. I got up near the stage to listen. Even with Frank Crass as a last minute fill in for their sick bass player they sounded fucking magic. Two sets. Several Rolling Stones covers. The Ramones “Babysitter.” Several songs I had never heard before including one that was a very nearly perfect rock ‘n’ roll song called “You’re Not the One.” And perfection was literally within reach! All the Sticks needed to do was invite a handful of their smashing looking female fans on stage to add hand claps and it may just have surpassed the Undertones’ “Teenage Kicks” as the best rock ‘n’ roll song ever.

Fuck I had a good time. Nothing tops the Voo Doo ecstasy of a good rock show.

After the show the fucking pigs and the street crazies were fighting in the street as I swerved out of the parking lot and aimed my now deafened self back towards Steepleton. No justice, no peace, motherfuckers.

17 March 2018

On Being Irish

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

On Dave Barrett and Young Me

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

Black Magic Christian

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

Dawson City Olympics

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

Better Days Ahead

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.