"I'm the only one here under twenty years old," whined a thirteen year old to her grandma behind me in the line up for wine. I already had a beer in each hand. It was cocktail time at yet another fundraising event for the healing properties of beer. The thirteen year old, who could probably already identify more varieties of dope than beer companies, may as well have been taking a stroll in a cemetary after dark. Fundraising events such this one are one of the few ways to pry the living dead from the Stanley Cup play-offs on their big tvs this time of year.
The tables would have been half empty if the Dope City Canucks were involved in late spring hockey action. Fundraising organizers, knowing the chances of spring hockey action in this town are slimmer than Princess Diana after she fucked all her man servants, often schedule events for this time of year.
There were silent and live auctions to further boost the substantial amount of money raised by ticket sales. All of the items auctioned live were sold for less than their worth except the dates with two of Steepleton's most prominent politicians. The two dates with our hack politicians sold for thousands of dollars. Proof, as if more were needed, that a politician in hand is worth two in the bush.
I overheard a man at a table near ours tell a story about growing up in Edmundsten, New Brunswick. "When April Wine came through town after their Stand Back record came out the drummer and the singer golfed at the course me and a buddy caddied at. We knew April Wine hit the links in every town they played in so we were waiting for them to show up. When they called for a caddy we were ready. Those guys were so motherfucking cool. You had to be there when they shot off their cannon at their shows. It blew your fucking mind!
I bumped into them at an outdoor show last summer. They fucking remembered me caddying all those years ago. Those guys are so fucking cool."
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