21 February 2010

2010 Olympic Lesson

I packed a couple tablespoons of dried mushrooms into a jacket pocket, topped up my flask and we got going. At the train station several hundred fellow travellers were already waiting impatiently even though we all knew it would be over an hour before the train left for Dope City. Several hundred more people soon joined us as we waited for the train to pull into the station to take us to The Party.

We were going into the city to join in the debauched dope-fuelled bedlam known as the Olympic Spirit. Hundreds more anticipatory revellers joined us on board at each station until our choice of rapid transit resembled a squirming pestilence or a political convention.

Sonja leaned over and whispered a question in my ear as the squirming pestilence threatened to explode like a giant ass crack boil as the train slid slowly into the giant concrete whore on the western shore of the fattest land of them all - Canada. "Is this why some people think the only hope for our planet is the extermination of every last one of us?" she asked. I nodded. There is a certain grim rationality behind the Final Solution of the most pessimistic environmental fascists.

It took more than half an hour for the train's occupants to be fed spoon-like into the pig on every corner streets of Dope City. We had to eat and we had to drink and we knew just where to go -our favourite hole in the wall restaurant just a couple minutes away from the location of the first bar ever built in a city that would, after the first couple barrels of whisky were emptied, immediately begin dreaming of one day hosting the Winter Olympics. The owner, a slight Ethiopian named Kiros smiled when he saw us and came to our table with a bottle of red and a couple beers, the perfect welcome to town. "You should have seen it last night! My customers drank everything in sight!" We ordered and I handed Kiros the dried mushrooms discretely. "Put a little more than half of these in my dish and the rest in Sonja's and get me some more beer before I run out." I knew the cook would set some of the mushrooms aside for himself but that was ok. Eating a whole tablespoon of dried mushrooms is only the sort of thing anyone should do at the Olympics if Canada reaches the gold medal hockey game.

Our stomachs full and our inebriation begun, we headed towards downtown, stopping by Marc Emery's place along the way. Emery is still in Canada, still free and still loaded as loaded can be. His block smells like Freedom; Freedom to tell the government to fuck off and die.

A couple doors further along I spent a few minutes in a huge used record store where I got into a conversation with a couple beautiful young women as Sonja waited outside in the psychedelic sunshine. One of the young women was pissing on April Wine. "How could so many people have bought so many of these boring old fucker's records?" I told her a couple of my '70s April Wine war stories, comparing the band's stature to that of Bachman Turner Overdrive, the slightest of exaggerations. Her friend said, "Really? BTO? That's pretty fucking big. I work with Randy's daughter. She is sweet as could be." I was not surprised to hear Randy's girl would be a top notch individual. Randy Bachman and his wife are the sort of people that gave this country the good reputation it may or may not deserve.

The mushrooms were beginning their six hour grip on our dark souls as we walked further along the road and slipped into Malone's. The sports bar was packed, noisier than a Hindoo wedding and everyone was plastered as a Dope City special. A couple, now drunk enough to brave the riot outside, gave us their table which we gratefully accepted. Now it was time to drink. A waitress came by, brushing her pointy tits across my back as she did so. We ordered several drinks and marvelled at how so many shitface motherfuckers from so many hockey loving countries could get this crammed together without the good time turning into a fight scene from an old Gunsmoke episode.

Every bar in town was like this: like a punk rock bar in 1979. A table of Finlanders were taking turns spewing beneath their table as they shot back beer and Taboo absinthe. The Swiss crowd looked about to pass out en masse until one of their bobsledders began speeding down the Death Track on the big screens when they would suddenly spring to life like a Vampire Olympic Organizing Committee fed with more money.

The Canadians too would find new life as our athletes sped ingloriously down the track. Nobody cared that they did not win. This is Dope City after all, a city more accustomed to losing than most.

Hunky Z and Kitty then squeezed into the madness, fresh from their much delayed ride into town on the welfare train. Hunky looked like a mad king, wrapped as he was in the Ukrainian and Jamaican flags. Kitty could not have been more Dope City patriotic draped in her '98 Olympics Trevor Linden jersey. The pair of them looked at us curiously before Hunky asked, "So how are the mushrooms?" When neither of us could come up with an answer fast enough for him he answered himself. "They hit us before we even got on the fucking train we had to wait so long. What a long strange trip it's been already."

We continued the booze-up until we were ready to hit the streets in search of more booze and dinner. There were line-ups to everything you could think of. The cops were tipping a little booze into the gutters here and there because of the city getting out of hand the night before but we saw no problems to report on we were not personally involved in.

We ate well and drank well at a Greek joint in the West End before visiting the huge Inukshuk on the bay. Hunky and I both pissed on it much to the chagrin of those passing by. Heading back into downtown we went by the much maligned Olympic Cauldron. It looked real cool at night. During the day it looks like a high speed train wreck.

As we made our way back to our trains home I spotted sportscaster Squire Barnes and his gal making their way to the cauldron. "Barnsie!" I slurred. He said hi back and seemed pleased I wished him luck with his horses for the upcoming thoroughbred season. Squire's gal took a great snap of Sonja and Squire with the cauldron in the background. Squire and his gal are two of the human gems in our sports mad city.

The train ride home was uneventful except for a couple fights, a couple arrests and a couple people who could have used an open window to paint a flame down the side of the train through.

Until yesterday I did not see what attracted some people to spend their holidays and considerable piles of cash at as many Olympic Games in their lifetime as possible. I get it now.

Go! Canada! Go!


RossK said...

Kinghell piece Beer.


(but the Hammer.... how'd her day go?)

Anonymous said...

What a great slice of real Olympic life!


Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

As the train did not head into the city until the lunch hour the Hammer and I enjoyed a long walk before she was left at home to warm her belly all day in the warm sun before sticking her nose in her furry butt to keep warm in the dark until we got back home. Too bad they do not have a dog car on the train, she would have loved the crowd downtown if she could have come with us.