6 November 2011
Dance of Death
I guess maybe I turned a corner of sorts in my life when I began the Dope City Free Press six years back. The corner got turned because I have got myself out into the world more since I did so and slowly got myself reengaged with the modern world. I have gotten to write about some pretty cool shit and some shit that is not so fucking cool at all. Tonight, with the assistance of Mr. Wiser, I get to write about both sides of the motherfucking rainbow of life.
The day began with a trip to the vet. The Hammer's skin condition has improved with the help of the vet's high priced dog food, she just needed an annual shot and her nails trimmed. On the way to the vet I heard a review on the CBC of Lou Reed and Metallica's newly released "Lulu." The review was unkind but that did not mean shit because everybody knows that everyone who has anything, or had anything, to do with the CBC is an asshole except for Anne Murray, the Montreal Expos and David Suzuki.
Once the dog was taken care of I went straight to my local London Drugs, we do not have a record store in my sad to see the HST go town, to see if they had a copy of the cd. I have faith in Lou, he has not made a bad record since he was in the Primitives. I bought the last copy. Bought a KISS baseball cap there too, for the benefit of those who may not think I am completely fucked up. Glad to support a Canadian company, even if they are a non-union one.
Best of all, for the AM portion of my day, I bought Sonja a great big hot chocolate from the motherfucking Starbucks. Sonja loves that Starbucks shit. Loves it so much she promised me I would get lucky once the Lions had crushed those Alouette motherfuckers on tv once the sun had gone down on the fucked up drunk logger's dream that is Dope City.
Had lunch, had couple cold ones, loaded the Hammer into the car, kissed Sonja good-bye and headed into Dope City for an afternoon at the Occupation. After listening to the traffic report I put "Lulu" in the cd player. Fuck that asshole at the CBC, my rock 'n' roll animal sounds just fucking fine with Metallica as his band. The two cd set had reached its second to last track, "Dragon," as we entered the east side. Always the shitfucking heroin. I always go into Dope City along Hastings. I refuse to avert my eyes from the real fucking world. As we rolled ever so slowly along I saw a young Indian woman standing in her pyjama bottoms at the entrance to the Chelsea Inn. Of course she had a cell phone in her hand. I did not know what it was but I got the feeling something creepy or something worse than creepy was going, or about to go, down.
My usual downtown parking lot was full so I had to try another. Just about hit one of the motherfucking mayor's bicycling buddies as I entered a parking lot off Hornby. He yelled at me. Fucking bastard, I thought, couldn't he see I had been drinking?
Had a time of it squeezing my old Cadillac into one of Dope City's Japanese shit box only car park stalls. Jesus Fuck, it is only a matter of time before you are only allowed to park a bicycle downtown. Took a couple big hits from my flask before I hooked up the Hammer and we walked to the Occupation.
My dog got petted by lots of people there. You get to meet and get to know way more people when you have dog bigger than a banker's prostitute's pussy. Good to see my union had some banners up at the union tent in the city square that is Occupied.
Nobody who wants to make a better world should ever, ever walk alone.
Not long after making that observation I was feet away from where the shit went down. As I predicted, and feared, a few days ago, somebody died. I backed off to what I thought was a respectful distance from where I watched the paramedics do their work and saw a few Occupants tussle with some press who were not as respectful with their unwanted presence as I. Tried to revive her for twenty minutes before they gave up, though radio reports I heard later on said she did not die until after she had reached hospital.
All this happened minutes before DOA were scheduled to play on the old courthouse steps. Does Death, that most inevitable motherfucker of all, follow around those punk rock motherfuckers like a hungry dog follows a man carrying around a bag of rotten meat, or what? In time the assembled crowd were asked if they would prefer if DOA did not play as we mourned our dead comrade.
In the finest of punk rock traditions, we danced on her motherfucking grave.