Often when Sonja and I go away her dad takes care of our dog. The Hammer loves Sonja's dad. Sonja's dad is like me: He likes sitting around the house in his boxers, drinking beer and watching the parliamentary debates on television. Just like me he interjects when his opinion might help steer the nation away from dead certain disaster and towards the Promised Land, "Those dirty cocksuckers! They don't care about the working man. They're ruining this fucking country one motherfucking election at a time."
This past weekend we left the Hammer with him and took off with Hunky and Sal to Mount Fizzler. The government is staging the Winter Olympics around there in about a year or so.
We took the scenic route until we reached the highway that leads to the great mountains north of the city. There were many joggers on the route. Many of them appeared on the verge of sudden death. There is some sort of marathon run about this time of year on the north side of the river that is 100 miles long or something. It is supposed to be a Fun Run. Many of the runners on the verge of sudden death were wearing silly costumes. They were having one fuck of a lot of fun. Junkies and joggers are more alike than you might think.
Sonja helped me pick my way between the jogging junkies, their costumed spotters, traffic and the fucking police. "Slow down!" "You're going too fast!" "How much did you say you had to drink?" "Get your eyes off her and on the fucking road!" "Is that smell you?" "It wasn't me."
As we approached the city I reminisced about what good times I had once had in a strip joint we passed. Sonja asked me, "They really let you dirty pig motherfuckers into the club with flashlights?"
The drive up to Fizzler was slow. Much of the highway is still being transformed from being a two lane dangerous highway into a four lane dangerous highway. The road crews are supposed to have their job done in time to Welcome the World To Spend Their Money in 2010 and beyond.
We stopped in Horsemilk Bay for a snack on the way up. Sonja bought herself something healthy, a blueberry granola bar; I bought a Nanaimo bar and an Orangina. Orangina, which is delightfully fizzy, comes in an unusual looking glass bottle. I like drinks that come in glass containers.
Once we met up with Hunky and Sal on the mountain I took some peyote and started drinking. I do not remember much about the weekend except for being driven up the mountain to the retreat we were staying in after many hours drinking pub brewed bitter interspersed with shots of Canadian absinthe. The bus driver took the hairpin corners so fast I spent half the trip laying in the middle of the aisle. The community of Fizzler Mountain likes to do everything first class. The bus driver probably swept the medals at a recent Bus Driver Olympics.
Thinking about that bus trip reminded me of one other thing: When we walked into our place from the bus stop the Swiss Women's Luge Team, who did not want to join our peyote party when we asked them about it earlier in the day, were undressing with their curtains wide open and their lights all on. Sonja and Kitty were briefly speechless. Hunky asked me, "Are we Peeping Toms if we just stand here and watch?"
"I think so," I told him. "So walk really slow."
It was the coffee at Mountain Burger Heaven, when we stopped to eat part way home, that started me back on the temporary road to sobriety. All four of us have been eating at the MBH since we were teenagers any time we were up Fizzler way. There is a big picture of Elvis among the many decorations and a little pro-logger propaganda as well.
It was a good Remembrance Day weekend. The weekend I remember my grandfather, who fought for the right to do the shit I do, and my first dog Strangler. A couple fucking warriors.