17 January 2010

Punk Rock Beach


I left Sonja and the Hammer in the sunny parking lot and walked through the racetrack doors to make my bets. I made my bets with confidence, I am hotter than Henrik Sedin. When your equine gambling instincts are going right you cannot do much wrong, and I walked straight back out into the sun without saying a word to any of the crazy motherfuckers inside, just nodded at the racetrack pigs and undressed the girls behind the reception desk with my eyes.

When I got back to the car the dog was looking at me out the window with her tongue hanging out. I love my dog. Too bad women did not hang their tongues out like that all the time. Sonja, tongue tucked in her mouth, asked, "How many of them are going to win for you today?" I shrugged and told her, "I always think they will all win but that has not happened for a while. If two of the five come in for me we will not be drinking wine from a fucking box tonight."

From the track we drove to Punk Rock. I had checked the tide tables before we headed out and knew we could expect a small strip of beach for the three of us to enjoy ourselves on. The dog chased sea monsters; we chased what comes out of my flask (Glen Breton) with a few beers.

There were lots of people with the same idea as us. A family from Japan, already in town for the fucking Olympics, admired the Hammer respectfully. As long as the Japanese keep buying our lumber, I will keep forgiving them for kissing Hitler's skinny white ass.

Another family, this time from the Ukraine, approached the Hammer more informally. Their daughter, cute little Hunky gal, gave herself to the Hammer like a gift when I told her my dog was friendlier than shit. She buried her face in the Hammer's fur and my dog reciprocated with moist kisses. Are not many things that feel better than seeing your dog make somebody's day.

We went to a pub for lunch. Place was packed. American football was being played on the big tvs. Nobody was watching it. I love my motherfucking country. I had a few pints of cream ale; Sonja hit the hot chocolate with peppermint schnapps. We were about as loaded as the average RCMP on his day off as we headed back out to the sunshine and the car.

Stopped off at the racetrack on the way home to see how I did. Hit two of five. That is the goal of every horseplayer - 40% winners. Keep it up and you are a professional gambler. One of the two was 12-1.

When I told Sonja the news she told me, "Let's go to the liquor store." My favourite sentence in the whole wide world.

At the liquor store check out I noticed a lady behind me in line had a bottle of Forty Creek along with a basketful of alkie-pops. I complimented her on her taste in rye. She told me, "Only rye I drink. When I turned forty all my friends bought me a bottle. I had a whole tableful of Forty Creek."

Not only did the lady have good taste in rye, she had good taste in friends too.

2 comments:

Gazetteer said...

Very good stuff here Beer - It's like a weird melange of Bukowski/Burroughs/TiJean and, maybe, I dunno......Hammett?

____

Saw a whole mess of folks' dogs make other folks day today at the not-so-punky (Brewster or otherwise) dog beach out in the Creme Belt today.

It was fine.

As for me, I suckered a young couple in with a slow, harmonica-assisted version of that melangey-esque L. Cohen song of raptures, rooftops and kitchen chairs that he wants everybody to stop covering.

Then after they sat themselves down on a nearby log I blasted 'em with this.

Ha!

(next Sunday afternoon ~12-2pm on top of Little Mountain)

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

My mood was set to weird I guess. That's what happens when it stops raining for a whole day round here.

A nephew who got drunk and watched the video of Bukowski play a hall on Hastings '79, said, "Hey, sometimes your stuff does sound a little like his."

I love the energy and lack of concern for too much punctuation in Kerouac's best and worst. I ought to use it more. Just burn, burn, burn...

When I heard John Cale's version Of Halleluia during a screening of the first Shrek I cried. It was beuatiful to hear Joh's BIG BIG voice belt out the song for the kiddies and me. Those movie emotion benders get me every time. I hate it!

Cohen, one of our very greatest Canadians, will not be with us long. I liked his poetry too, especially when I was young man in search of heroes and there were not many to choose from.

Sonja says Little Mountain sounds cool next Sunday.