Dope City Day

Last night, because of the wine, I slept like the motherfucking dead.

In the morning I got up, headed to the clinic, where I gave several samples of my blood to be tested on behalf of the Better Living Through Lots Of Beer Society. There were a lot of sick looking folk at the clinic. If only they drank more beer and maybe smoked a little pot our health care system would be swimming in money like Belinda Stronach swims in eager, dim-witted conservative men who like it when she barks like a dog as they pull her hair as they ride her ass.

When I got back from handing over my blood for scientists to measure Sonja and the Hammer jumped into the black Cadillac with the whips, furs and cold Canadian beer in the back for a visit to Dope City. Luckily for us we got behind a speeding ambulance for much of the journey. When you see a speeding ambulance the best thing is to get as close as you can behind it and enjoy the escort. Fuck the law.

First thing we did was park in Stanley Park and hike around Dope City's forested jewel. We veered off the beaten path to allow the Hammer to take a huge shit below the towering western red cedar and Douglas fir. We were in the very same forest where the young Hockey family used to pick huckleberries with grandma. It did not take us long to find discarded hypodermic needles and empty tubes of KY lubricant.

The walk around the seawall did me the world of good. I grew up in that park almost as much as I grew up on the potholed streets of Sliverville. Some of the trees, now as big around as my thigh, were just seedlings as I pissed on them as a young boy. That is one of the great things about living in the rain forest: shit grows (and decays) so fast.

We stopped at Third Beach for something to eat and drink. The Hammer lapped up the dog water marked for her in a bowl left by the considerate concesssion workers where we ate. Consideration of one's fellows and their thirsty mutts is still alive in Dope City. Too bad they did not leave me out a bowl of wine to lap up.

As we left Third Beach an old-timer accompanied by a man I guessed was his son stopped to pet the Hammer. Big dogs are one of the best medicines for old fuckers. The old guy said, "Damn but she's a friendly one!" as the Hammer nuzzled him with her wet snoot and drooly gob. I have damn few wishes and no motherfucking prayers in this life except to be carried by my thin arm around the Stanley Park seawall in the warm autumn sun in my last days. Think about it assholes - you only get one fucking spin of the wheel of life - it is the custom of giving a hand to the near dead that gives us all the opportunity to enjoy life as our flame burns dim. You could tell the old-timer's son appreciated us stopping to take a little time with his father. But hey - what life is worth living without sharing a little of it with old people we do not even know. If you do not do so already try spending some time with people who have been around since the early days of the 20th century. It will do you and them some good. And do not forget to bring along a little something to smoke if that's what you are into and a flask of good Canadian whisky. The fucking near dead like the fine things of life as much or more as you ever will.

Take your old friends to the horse races for fuck's sake!

When we were finished with the park we headed for the Dope City Drive to pick up some books and grub for dinner. On the way there we passed through Ground Zero. The motherfucking police have obviously given up chasing the good and fucked up people of my favourite Dope City neighbourhood into the rest of the city. I almost ran over one crazy fucker on his bicycle. At a light we watched folks sit and smoke crack like they were smoking Benson and Hedges. Looking back, it is hard to believe how much of my life was spent in the very same neighbourhood.

On the Drive the Hammer got the public's love. City fuckers do not see many real big motherfucking dogs like the Hammer. The people on the Drive love a big drooling dog better than a dope smoking mayor.

On the way home to Steepleton we listened to the radio as the Canucks scored in overtime yet again. People in their cars pumped their fists and stepped on it as we raced for home before Canuck fans emptied the pubs with their heads full of overtime beer.