Like most weekends that follow long weekends this one was quieter than a shut down sawmill's lunch room. On Friday Canuck fans were busy speeding between beer stores, their dope dealer and the many gathering places the sorry lot of them gather to dream the way Roy Orbison dreamed about pretty women about another Stanley Cup Riot or two. They had forgotten about hockey by sunset and were busy beating the orca snot out of one another after their dope dream team had been given a motherfucking Alberta ass-kicking by Dallas.
The Hammer and I took our first two very long hikes of the year this weekend due to the surprizingly sunny cool weather. One of the cool things about hiking around Dope City this time of year is how fast you can get away from spring depending on elevation gains and the distance you put between yourself and the moderating influence of our grossly polluted ocean.
All the mountains surrounding our Calcutta-like urban homes are turning the pale shade of green only deciduous trees turn as they come to slowly to life. Streams already rise with melted snow from the mountain peaks waiting for the arrival of the chainsaws of beer fed loggers.
Sonja is sleeping on the couch; the Hammer is sprawled on the back garden grass; I am hitting the wine: the whisky is fucking killing me.