Beavertown

Motherfuck the boss! Happy Labour Day to the workers of the world.

Sonja and I have not strayed from Dope City this weekend. Why go somewhere else when the weather is as bright as a liquor store beer display at home?

Took a drive to Beavertown with Hunky Z and Kitty yesterday. Beavertown is an old fishing village located on the edge of our cannot handle its booze city. A long time ago somebody figured tourists could be tricked into visiting Beavertown and the place has slowly become what it is today: yet another Disneyland the world could get by without. But what the fuck, Sonja and I had never been there and Hunky and Kitty had not been in many years.

We met in the morning. Kitty was elected to drive. "But I'm not driving you drunk assholes home," she said in her acceptance speech. I hate being driven by women. I would rather be driven by a drunk man. Kitty is a worse woman driver than most. Foot to the floor. Johnny Horton turned up loud on the stereo. Like any long weekend's Sunday there are a smaller number of fucking police on the road than usual. Kitty was just taking advantage of the odds. We were in Beavertown before I could exhale.

Turns out Beavertown is a pretty relaxing place to spend a day. Everybody else there sure was nice. The shopkeepers because of the money in our wallets; the tourists because they are not from Dope City. Not winning the Stanley Cup since the early years of the last century has not been good for the mood of the city that thinks it is so fucking great.

We got lunch at a place overlooking the harbour. Lunch, in this case, meaning liquored up. We were tourists, after all. We had a right to be loud and obnoxious. We bought the ticket and were taking the ride.

After we paid for everything, including the HST, we walked around the village, filling our packs with fruit and vegetables at the large outdoor market. All good Canadian produce. None of that foreign shit.

I wanted to get some more drinks but my fellow tourists and I then explored several of the village shops. The biggest one was a marine store. Hunky and I looked through that one while the girls were choosing a few Christmas presents for our young relatives in a toy store. It was a manly experience looking around the marine store. Everything from paint to propane heaters. After we looked at the price tag of just about every item in the place we looked at each other and said, "Holy fuck!" A man has to sell a lot of dope to keep a boat on the water.

As we were about to unload our gatherings in the car before we returned to the water's edge to make our seafood buys I spotted a small music store. Used records, new ones and cds too. My three companions were the ones who went for drinks while I flipped through the shop's product. Bought Ginger Baker's memoir, highly recommended by the shopkeeper; a cd pairing of Status Quo's "Piledriver" and one of the records they made about a decade later, after the cocaine had done its dirty work on the long hair cunts; an old record by old fave Jeff Beck; and The Stooge's latest live recording of themselves, this time playing all of "Raw Power." A man can never have enough Iggy Pop product on his shelves.

When Sonja and I returned home we watched the CBC 75th Anniversary show. Martin Short, who clearly has dreams just like mine, had a lifelong dream fulfilled when Anne Murray gave him a great big kiss. I love Anne but she is looking more like Neil Young every time I see her. That is what happens when you spend too much of your time golfing. The game's frustrations subtracts from a person's longevity almost as fast as watching the Canucks does.

Watched a Gene Simmons roast from a few years back after that. Not even I can watch a re-broadcast Anne Murray special more than one hundred times. The roast was ok. It was followed by a documentary of KISS touring Australia called KISSTERIA. Very funny.

It was like going back to the Golden Age of Television. Cannot remember the last time I watched the big screen, when a hockey game was not on, for so long.

Sometimes it pays to stay in during the evening, sitting in front of your television and knocking them back like you are an NHL tough motherfucker out to slay all the bloodthirsty demons in his head.