Guantanamo School of Medicine

"I'm going to the gym and then maybe have a couple pints," I told Sonja, who was out back reading in the sun. "Be back in a couple hours." It was sunny but it was cold so I closed the door. I told the dog to be good and off I went. Have to keep in shape for the end of the world.

After my exercises I had a couple, then I had a couple more. I would have had a couple more than that but Sonja and I were going downtown. I think I can keep drinking and drinking but my precious gift of drinking all day and night is getting as tired and worn out as a politician's excuses for not getting shit done.

The dog greeted me when I got home like always. Like I am Jesus Motherfucking Christ resurrected from the dead. "Hi baby," I called out. No answer. Must be sleeping I thought. Went upstairs. No Sonja. She was out back still. I had locked her out of the house. For two hours.

Bad Beer. Bad. Bad. Bad. And the baddest thing about it was that it was not the first time I had locked her out of the house. "You asshole," she told me just before her screaming fist tested the breaking point of a floating rib, pressing it against one of my remaining swollen vital organs, but not quite breaking it and sending me to the hospital.

I followed her inside and poured her a glass of red. A big glass of red. Why do I keep fucking up? A man has to be good at something besides holding his liquor I guess.

Soon after we were on our way downtown to see some dirty ass rock 'n' roll. We planned on drinks and dinner before the show so we left early, about five o'clock. Traffic was just as fucked up as me though. Took us two hours to get into the city. Used to take forty-five minutes, tops. Now might be a good time to thank everybody who moved to, or was born in, Dope City after about 1975 or so. Thanks for turning a city I once loved into a fragrant cesspool of human filth you fucking jerks.

I parked near the Rickshaw, a couple blocks from what is lovingly known as Ground Zero, where the dead bodies pile up in mounds. "You're not going to leave my car here!" Sonja protested. She had a point. I was already in enough shit. If Sonja's car got broke into the neighbourhood would soon be mine full time. I looked around for a steady looking homeless fucker. I pressed a twenty into his dirty hand, told him, "If the car's ok when we get back I got twenty more for you." He looked like I was cheating him but he accepted the offer. Everybody wants more. Motherfucker was born after 1975. That's what they all are after. More. More. More.

We started walking. Passed the cop shop, passed the big red W in the twinkly sky. There's all these quaint little eateries in between the homeless shelters and soup kitchens packed full of yuppie fucking scum behind the doors I pissed and puked against when I used to dirty ass rock 'n' roll. We were looking for a place near where Hombre's once fed me like an Incan king. In the back we found my old French friend Richard - Ree-shard! - in front of a glass of dewy ale.

We asked each other how the fuck we were doing. Richard works the docks. He is doing fucking well. Does not matter who I talk to these days: they all remind me that working in the forest industry was the biggest mistake a man could make. "Fuck you Richard," I thought. "I haven't missed a meal in thirty years."

I soon had a pint of ale in front of me. Sonja got fixed up with some red and we ordered some food. As we waited for our food Richard passed us some of the mushrooms he promised he would share with us. "Only take half of them now or you'll be fucking sorry," he warned. We obeyed him. You do not live to be my age without paying attention to warnings about drugs.

Sonja had a veggie plate; Richard had a steak raw as the streets of Khandahar; I had a plate of pickled quail's eggs and unpasteurised cheese. "That's the kind of shit yuppie motherfucking scum eat these days," our waitress told me when I asked, "Who the fuck eats pickled quail's eggs?" Our waitress was a young cousin of Richard's. It was nice to have a waitress who spoke the same language as me: motherfucking English. She comped most of our meal. Got her a nice tip and left me with enough money to give homeless fucker a bonus ten when we walked back by Sonja's car on our way to the show.

The mushrooms had started to work. The crooked streets got more crooked by the second.

The Great Baldini was drumming for the opening act. We watched them from the balcony. Heavy metal motherfuckers. Too fucking heavy for the three of us. I went downstairs, bought a Subhumans' t-shirt from Mike Normal, shook the hand that wrote "Celebrity," and bought a copy of Biafra's new record while I was there.

We hit the booze and talked to the couple beside us in the surprisingly comfortable seats. They had guessed we had seen Biafra and the Subhumans over three decades ago. We are geezers, no hiding that. We talked about dirty ass rock 'n' roll. They had recently paid $200 to see Van Halen. "But it was worth every penny." No wonder the world is overrun with homeless people. I told them we used to pay three or four bucks to watch four bands at the Bad Allah when rock was young and we did the crocodile rock.

Next up were the Subhumans. Sonja was feeling a little faint so I watched her while Richard went down and bruised a few young bodies on the dance floor. Pretty soon Sonja was puking between her legs onto the floor. That was a waste of organic vegetables. Richard came back in time to see the puke show. He started heaving too. I left the the two pukers and went down to the dance floor myself.

First thing that happened as I shouldered my way toward the stage was some chick grabbed my balls and started fondling them. No shit. I think she liked the left one best. That is the dangly one. Dope City has taken the be friendly to strangers thing a bit too far since we welcomed the world to our nightmare during the Olympics. She fondled my fucking balls. After a while she let go. Too bad she was ugly. And I do not mean rough looking. I mean hideous. Nice touch though. Gentle but firm. The hands of an artist.

I stood down in front of Useless. He is rocking a moustache. I wondered if a man with a moustache like that would get their balls fondled for free like I just had. The Subhumans, despite being as near death as I am, are still one of the top rock shows in the world. Fuck you, indeed. Too bad they did not play "Screwed Up" though. Would have liked that, considering the shape I was in.

I checked out the crowd while I was down there in the sweat and the stick and ball fondling glory of the dirty ass rock 'n' roll show. Lot of people's eyes were bugged out of their heads. Mushrooms are a popular item this time of year.

On the way back to see Richard's and Sonja's puke puddles I went into the can to piss. My mushrooms were staying in my digestive tract. People were puking in all the sinks and saying shit like, "Those mushrooms are fucking excellent. Let's take some more." Sounded like one fuck of a good idea. They would hit me about the time Jello and his crack band hit the stage.

Richard and Sonja were all better when I got back to them. They too had re-dosed and were back at the liquor. I told Sonja about the ball fondling I had just enjoyed. "You just let her play with them?" she asked. "I have never had to ask anyone not to fondle my balls before," I explained. "Why start now?"

Biafra's band, crack, like I said, blew the roof off the old kung-fu movie theatre. Played their new record, a few old Dead Kennedys hits, three long fucking encores. The theme of the night (Why Are You Letting the Motherfucking Governments of the World Get Away With Torturing People?) was pressed home again and again between songs. Richard was not impressed by this. "A bunch of wasted motherfuckers like us aren't going to change the world."

I am more optimistic than that. I think anything is possible, even if, deep in my heart, I think it is pretty fucking unlikely.

Tickets cost $27.25 all in. You are a fucking asshole for not going. Except for you Stephanie. But only because you know how to keep your hands to yourself.