Last night the neighbourhood came to life. There was drinking on porches, laughter and music. It sounded like a campsite before everyone makes a last trip to the biffy with their flashlights and goes to bed. My dog even got in on the act, barking at a raccoon scuffling in the dark just the other side of the fence.
I told Sonja, we were watching Clockwork Orange on the television with all the windows of the house swung open to the Anarchy of the Canadian night, "When I write about Anne Murray I am really writing about you."
She looked at me the way she does when I have made it through the day without making a complete ass of myself and said, "Yeah...right."
Sonja knew I meant it though. I do not throw words like Anne Murray around willy-nilly. She got up and got me a beer even though she knew I needed it like we need a war in motherfucking Iran.
After Sonja set my Alhambra on the coffee table she sat down beside me, a little closer this time. My dog lifted her head from the floor, looking at us just long enough to make sure she thought she did not need some loving herself.
We looked at each other, like we have been doing a long time and Sonja said,"Drink your fucking beer and don't get any Anne Murray ideas Lucky. Back in your disgusting punk rocker days did you ever resemble any of the people in this movie?"
"Not really. I was way more wasted than these herberts. I had Beethoven for a soundtrack to my life, except Beethoven's name was Shithead. If anyone ever made a movie of my punk rock days it would be a lot like Sid and Nancy except with no Nancy and a lot more masturbating."