It is one of Canada's many (but not many enough) long weekends. We get about a dozen of them. If you do not get at least a dozen long weekends per year in your country I suggest, as Lou Reed once did, that you "gather force and take dead aim and attack." As in most places our long weekends are set aside for celebrating freeing ourselves from an insane English monarch or for celebrating the insane English monarch. What we really celebrate is beer. Here in the treeless province Dope City dominates like the USA dominates the world we are this weekend marking Beer Celebration Day - B.C. Day for short. The big day is preceded by a week of fireworks on the waterfront at which the consumption of alcohol is forbidden. This rule is enforced with Talibani glee by a police force which turns a blind eye to just about everything except noisy motorcycle mufflers.
Many Canadians believe the next paid day off we award ourselves with should be Hockey Day, I cannot think of another country in the world that sets aside a day to celebrate its national sport if you do not include the day just about all countries set aside to honour dead soldiers. Once my country gets over the grief of Gordie Howe's inevitable death I sure hope we remember him and our violent hockey mad culture with Mr. Hockey Day.
Sonja, the Hammer and I are spending Beer Celebration Day at an unpoliced lakeside in the middle of motherfucking nowhere. Dope City has become a little too crowded for my liking; I long for the day I pack up my gear at work and leave the exploding city for good. The fishing is good, perhaps a little slow with the summer heat. I hope my beer supply holds up as it is a long way to the closest beer merchant. There is always whisky and Sonja's wine if I get carried away with the ale.
The Hammer is laying in an old pile of fire ash gnashing at mosquitoes that disturb her with their bloodththirstiness much as the Canadian Armed Forces abroad swat at Afghani warriors. Sometimes a mosquito penetrates her defences and makes a meal of her big black nose.
We are many hours away from home by car. Too many hours for two people to be cooped up with one another, a dog and six cases of beer. According to Sonja my speed was either too fast or too slow; the air conditioning too cold or too warm; the stereo too quiet or too loud. She wondered, "Why do you have to listen to that Drive-By Truckers cd again and again."
After a time I cast an eye outside to my right and wondered aloud, "It is amazing there are not piles of guy's wives along the roadside."
Sonja said, "Do you still love me Beer?"
I said, "You are still in the car aren't you?"