7 November 2010

30 Beers To Freedom

Stopped in my old neighbourhood pub once I made it into my old hometown. Sliverville - I love you, you dirty old motherfucker. Family of Hindoos was walking through the pub door as I headed towards the bar door from my car. Would not have seen that in the old days. Unthinkable.

The Breeder's Cup was on all the big tvs that were not tuned to fucking golf. Golf! I would rather suck dick. Zenyatta was strutting as she was being led to the paddock to be saddled up. Going for her 20th straight win in her final race before she gets bred. I had money on the race but it was not on her nose. I had money on a longshot shipped in from fucking Japan for the big race.

Ordered two beer. My waitress was not pretty. Waitresses never were in that bar. Not pretty but always willing. When she set them down I ordered two more. I did not feel good. Beer fixes that. When she brought the next two I ordered two more and paid for them so I could watch the race in peace.

I was going to drink thirty beer before I slid like a bull snake under the covers after midnight feeling as good as a man can at my age without killing somebody. I had to pace myself.

As I began beer number five the horses left the gate. My horse was running near the front of the pack. I dreamed the dream of every greedy cunt who ever bet a longshot to win. Dig in you motherfucker, keep on running! He took the lead at the mile call, choked like the Canucks in '94, and was forgotten. Zenyatta lost by a head. I finished number six, no hurry, and picked up my old buddy Marky.

We were going downtown, for the next twenty-four.

"You lose?" he asked.

"Fuck yes," I admitted. "You're going to have to drive back home from downtown tonight."

"You need some beer, eh?" Marky was full of questions like the Koran is full of shit. He pulled one out of his jacket for me. "I got a few more to get us downtown and yes I'll drive us back but I will probably be even more pissed than you." We clicked cans and I pressed down heavy on the accelerator as we slipped onto the highway.

Nine down twenty-one to go.

We were going to see the Little Guitar Army's debut of their video for "30 Watts To Freedom." I have been writing for the Dope City Free Press for five years, maybe 1,000,000 words and finally I got invited out to a party for my efforts with a promise of free beer. I have made it, motherfuckers. I have motherfucking made it in the shade. First we had to get some food and some more beer.

We decided it would be best if we ate Mexican. If you plan to drink thirty beer Mexican will help you reach your goal like no other food. One, two, three, four, five, six. I was up to beer number fifteen before we were done. Our waitress had a great big Mexican can. Same size it was the last time I was in. Tierra y Libertad.

The party was not far away. I parked and we walked over.

"You ok?" Marky asked.

"I am halfway home."

As we approached the building the party was being held in Marky had a confession for me. "I got my cock sucked for the first time in this very building in 1971. Cost me ten bucks of my paper route money." Sure enough, when we later looked around the building every room had a wash basin in it. I breathed in real deep like a kid in a candy factory. I could smell the fucking and the sucking and the bubbles of the soap that washed it all away like heroin.

We got two beer tickets from the LGA doorman. Big fucker by the name of Sonny. "Who the fuck are you guys anyway?" he asked. People ask way too many questions considering how full of bullshit everybody is.

"We're press," I told him. "I'm Beer. Marky is my photographer."

"Where's your fucking camera then?" Sonny asked Marky. I like it when the question people ask one another questions.

Marky pointed to his head, "It's all up here." Sonny was cool with that.

We got our free beer. Seventeen, only thirteen to go. I felt like Paul McCallum feels in the fourth quarter, except he wants the ball, I want more beer.

We watched the video. It is fucking excellent and I am not just saying that because the beer was starting to make me feel a little woozy. "30 Watts To Freedom" is a great rock song; the video is over the top anti-authouritarian; and there is enough blood splattered in it to have your whole neighbourhood over for a good feed of blood pudding. In short, it is what rock 'n' roll has always been about: good music, cop hate and multiple murders.

Saw some footage of the band playing the Rickshaw as well. When their album comes out in the spring go fucking buy it. I will let you know when it comes out, if I am still alive.

I fucked up and did not talk to the directors of the video. Sorry. I did talk to just about everybody else in the band however as I worked on the R&B beer they were serving. (Lovely stuff. I stuck with the cream ale.) A more personable bunch of guys and one gal you will never meet. Cal, who dreamed up the idea of the band, told me about the small guitars he makes for the band. All handcrafted from odds and ends from various bigger wood shop projects. The beauty of the bunch on display for the party was made from a piece of cypress bird's-eye burl. Sharp looking as a leopard's skin on Anne Murray.

Got to talking to a whole lot of people I did not know as my beer count climbed through the twenties. The best story was from somebody remembering getting half a ton of Venezuelan loaded onto his flat deck from a leaky freighter back in the days we so bad we are good BCers had to import our dope from stranger lands than our own.

I was just starting to feel good when Marky came by. "I got to get out of here," he told me. "What are you up to?"


"Get yourself two more for the road."

I did. The beer girl was cuter than all the whores who had fucked and sucked in that building for decades put together.

Marky drove back to Sliverville. As he did so I painted the Mexican flag down the side of my car. I drove home to Steepleton. Did not see a fucking cop. It costs money to watch people all the time like they were for a while there after the drunk driving laws got beefed up. Money the fucking government does not have.

That is the only reason we have any Freedom left at all. It costs too much money to watch us how the fucking government would like to.


uniplmr1 said...

http//sundayblues.com....Pigmeat Pete, Coot Wilson, Catjuice Charlie, Track Horse Charlie and many more. Radio show. Hope you feel better soon. 30 beer hangovers are no joke. Schlitz Malt Liquor in 24 ounce cans will help. Ice cold.

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

If a good puke is what cures a hangover I would have been drinking SMLs on Sunday mornings for over three decades now.

Anonymous said...

Was a pleasure to meet you Sir. Was it YOU who puked in the viewing room? lol

30 Beers to Freedom - fucking eh!

Tammy said...

As one of the producers of the video, I also express regret that you didn't find the opportunity to talk to us, as you sound like one very legit motherfucker. Great blog.

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

Saturday night was an authentic rock 'n' roll experience. Marky and I both feel like we are better men for having survived it. I went to the party with two primary goals: to talk with the directors of the video and find out what I could about the little guitars. Only connected on one of the two. Legit, maybe; professional, not a fucking chance.

Really is a great video. Caught the tremendous spirit of the band like very few such productions do. Last one that comes to mind is SCTV's punk band, The Queen Haters's, performance of "We Hate the Bloody Queen."

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

I do not think it was me who puked in the home theatre room. Marky may have before he suddenly wanted to go. Thought it was kind of funny that he did not paint a flame down the driver's side to match my paint down the passenger side, I farted in there, Mexican you know, that may have made someone else puke as I slipped out the door to another, better smelling room.