Jimi came by yesterday afternoon. He felt like drinking. He always does after he visits his old man in the old dear's home. Brought two dozen Pacificos with him.
Jimi's dad is in that place we do not want to go. He is ok but he is not ok. Every Saturday Jimi and his brother take the old man to the pub for lunch. His old man used to go to the Legion every Saturday with his war buddies. They are all dead now. Cannot drink with dead people.
"How is the old boy?" I asked as I put the first of many requested records onto the Stanton.
"He's just about the same every time we see him now. You fucking Catholics call it Purgatory. He's not bad but he's not good either." Jimi drank his beer and petted the Hammer. He does not have a dog any more.
"Every week it's the fucking same," he continued. "Me and my brother have a couple beer. My dad has a glass of red wine. After that the waitresses bring him cranberry juice in a wine glass. We do not know if he can tell the difference. He never says the second and third glass taste any different than the first. The cocksuckers who run his place told us not to give him more than a glass of red after the time he drank a few and then vomited all over his room after we dropped him off back around Christmas time."
We listened to Mountain, Patti Smith, Stiff Little Fingers and the Undertones before it was time to put the hockey game on. The first period was dull.
"Fucking Sedins," spat Jimi. "Every play-off it is the same. They're like jockeys who overeat and fuck too much before stakes races but masturbate and keep light the rest of the meet."
Sonja came home. She had drank too much wine with her friends while she was out and she was hungry. "What are you making me?" she asked.
We went to the Wet Spot. They have new big televisions and I figured if we had a few beer there we would not have to make a liquor store run before the night was done with and their ale is quite drinkable.
Burrows scored as Sonja was draining her first glass of red and Jimi and I were ordering our second pitcher. No one gave a shit and no one will until the Canucks make their much expected return to the Stanley Cup Final.
After the Nashville Pussies tied the game late in the third we headed home. The waitress let us sneak a pitcher of ale out the door after we promised her a sizeable tip and I further promised to bring the pitcher back the next morning.
Jimi passed out before the Pussies won the game. Sonja had already gone to bed. I felt pretty fucking good myself.