We Do Not Ask For Much

Sonja wanted to spend the day in the city so we did. We brought the Hammer along with us because she loves Dope City even better than we do. Like any old fucking geezer will tell you, our city was once a better place to live in than it is now but it is still not half bad.

"Looks like we got a Hindoo picking his nose in a Hummer behind us," I told Sonja. That is the worst thing about traffic jams: being close to other people you do not want to be close to. "I bet he just finished scratching his nut sack with the same hand."

We were treated to a city corked from stem to stern in gridlocked traffic. Took us half an hour to cross town. It was a good thing I took a couple pills with my Saturday morning beer. I do not see how the city is going to function at all during the Olympics next year. The situation is beginning to remind me of traffic in cities many times larger than this old shit stain of a logging town.

Sonja spotted a $350 hand purse in a little shop. Three-fifty. Plus tax, motherfuckers. Four hundred. Bags must come pre-filled with first rate coke. Four hundred dollar Barbie bags just happens to be a dead-fucking-on metaphor for the shit hitting the fan today. $400 Barbie bag bullshit.

The Hammer snagged the best looking brunette that tried to pass us on the sidewalk with her leash. Pulled her right into us. The brunette giggled as I sidewalk-fucked her in the innocent looking horse hide hooky-wooky snare.

"You've got the Hammer trained better than any of our other dogs, haven't you?" Sonja asked me.

A guy having a sidewalk coffee said, "Right on! Now that's a fucking dog!"

I bought a dvd of Bukowski reading in Dope City 30 years ago. 1979. Too bad I had not already tuned into Bukowski in '79. I was reading Orwell, counting down the days to 1984.

The Hammer and I hung outside the record store for quite a while as Sonja looked for a Valentine's Day present a little more modest than a coke filled Barbie snatch purse. Leaning there on the wall; my dog in the middle of the busy sidewalk. A logger from the Island strolling along with his wife and wee girl stopped for a chat with old Beer and his big old strange pussy loving dog. Used to run into a lot more forestry workers on the street than I do now.

"Course I'm laid off," the logger told me. "Fucking near everybody is. But we'll scrape by. We always have and we always will."

Motherfucker is logging dope to pay for his wee baby's shoes now.

Took us 45 minutes to cross back across town to The Drive to have our romantic as fuck Valentine's dinner. Sonja and I are dim lights and cheap wine Romantics. The Hammer watching through the wood frame window, waiting in the streetlight shine.

We do not ask for much

Dim light

Cheap wine

Us