Camel Poops

It was getting hot. I had already walked the dog. My third cup of coffee, half gone, was getting cold. Two soccer teams from two countries I do not give a fuck about were going at it on my tv. I was bored.

Sonja had left me at home with the dog. She had gone with two girlfriends to one of the Anarchist Islands for a hippy spa weekend. They were going to attend to their inner witch. Seems like I have been living the life of one of the interchangeable male characters from "Sex in the City" for years now. If I was on the tv show, or one of the movies, I would be known as Mr. Big Drinker.

Before Sonja left she left me a list of shit to do. It was a big list. It was sitting there on the table beside my coffee. The sun was shining on it. I was not sure if I should burn it or wipe my ass with it.

It was going to be even hotter inland. I decided to take my boredom there. I fed the dog, patted her on the bum, filled a travel mug with coffee and scotch and took it out to Sonja's car. I turned the key and my boredom was gone. I was born to be on the road. Before I left the drive I noticed Sonja had left me a note by the shifter. The note read, "Don't forget to do everything on the list bad boy."

I aimed the car towards Kamloops. (When my Hockey brother and sisters were little we called Kamloops Camel Poops from the back seat of the family Chevy as we made our way to and from the Rocky Mountains each summer.) They were going to be racing thoroughbreds at Sagebrush Downs in about four hours. I had never been to Sagebrush Downs. Not only was I on the road, I was on the road to a place I had never seen.

The highway was bumpy. The fucking government, like all fucking governments, is more interested in building bigger and bigger pyramids than in maintaining current infrastructure. I listened to the live in Atlanta half of the Stooges' recent "Raw Power" re-issue all the way to Sagebrush Downs and back. Iggy and the boys were the last American cowboys.

I stopped at a roadside piss stop at the edge of the forest about halfway to my destination. Four young people were sitting at one of the picnic tables smoking their brains out. Nothing smells better than dope in the woods. A busload of Japanese pulled in. I saw one Japanese take a picture of the crapper. Probably one of those Japanese who like their frilly knickered girlfriend farting right in their face while they jack off. Being Canadian, I can understand taking pictures of an outhouse but not of a fully plumbed shithouse.

The motherfuckers still cannot believe they lost World War Two.

Back in the car, 160 mph, the mountains and their snow sped by like the life of Ken Montgomery.

I did not have time to visit Kamloops. I only had time to get lunch near the fairgrounds that surround the racetrack. It was a busy little place full of customers who had been eating there for decades. My waitress, a cheerless young lass with a body like Pamela Anderson's, brought me what I needed, a couple beer and a ham on rye. I watched her come and go. Just as I suspected, Kamloops is loaded with first rate pussy.

I parked Sonja's car where I could see it from the track. Cannot do that in Dope City. I bought a couple beer from another Pamela Anderson lookalike and took them to the rail to have a look at the track. It was bigger than I expected, at seven furlongs the biggest track in Western Canada. There were piles of mud around the outside skirt of the track. I learned later the grounds crew had had to move a lot of heavy mud from the inside of the track so they could race. It has been sickeningly wet everywhere. Despite the desperate groundskeeping the track looked in excellent shape. There would be no excuses for not making money today.

I went back for more beer. Between the grandstand and my beer girl I saw an RCMP with a pair of bolt cutters in his hand. Turns out someone had come in the night to steal all the copper wiring that ran between the track cameras and the various tvs set up for watching the races and the replays. An electrician only had enough time to provide a replay feed for the track judges before the first race went at 1:30.

One of the things I like best about the interior racing circuit is the female jockeys. If it were up to me there would be no male jockeys at all. Only Pam Enns and Carolyn Stinn were to be the female jockeys today. I found myself studying Carolyn all afternoon. She has been racing for a long time and ought to have painters begging to paint her portrait. The stories written on her pretty face could fill the motherfucking Bible.

Sagebrush Downs put on a great show. It was not the miniature Kentucky Derby that goes on every summer in Princeton (July 3 this year). It was a polite family affair. No one staggering around like concussed rodeo clowns. It was Canada, my Canada, a pink diamond on a pink hand, sparkling in the sun.

When Sonja returned from her weekend away she took one look around and asked, "So did you burn the list in the fireplace or wipe your ass with it?"