11 February 2012

Berlin Sawmill

Listened to Lou Reed's St. Ann's Warehouse performance of "Berlin" on the way to work today once it sounded like I had no multiple fatality car crashes to avoid on the way into the fucking mill. "Berlin" has been with me since I was 14 or some fucking thing. That is a long, long time and you know what? It is a long, long way back to Germany, motherfuckers.

Caroline, the character who kills herself with speed and shit on the record, and I have a deathwish in common. Figured I was here for a good time, not a long time, back when all the rockstars started dropping like sick fucking flies when I was still in elementary school being taught elementary school bullshit. I figured wrong. When you choose to kill yourself with sawmills and alcohol it can take for-fucking-ever.

Foreman came by like he does every day. It would not be so bad if he was not a fucking German. Told him that once. He did not like it. Fucking Germans have no sense of humour at all since we took all their gas chamber jokes away from them.

"How's everything going Beer?" he asked me like he could give two motherfucks about anything but the off reservation blowjob he has lined up on his way home.

"Better than World War II went for you motherfucker," I told him for the 10,000th time.

"Fuck you too asshole," he replied. Jesus fuck. The cunt was having a conversation with me. He must have been into his own flask this morning. Schnapps I guessed.

"Want to go for a beer this afternoon?" I asked, friendly like.

"Fridays are bad for me. I have to pick up the fucking kids. How about Monday?"

"If you're buying. You know I'm broke as a Liberal promise on Mondays."

"You're on. Be good for you to get to know some Germans better. I'm not that big of an asshole once I pull out of this shit pit mill's fucking parking lot."

"My grandpa said all the Germans he met in World War II were nice too. Nice and dead."

The rest of the world can forgive the fucking Germans all they want. Me and England know fucking better. The fuckers ever invent something more lethal than the atom bomb it is curtains for everybody except for them and maybe the Norwegians.

Fuck the foreman. It was Friday and a splendid Friday it was. In spite of ourselves the working class made the sawmill some money today. Not that the cheap fucks will ever admit that to anyone who might ever want to ask them for a pay rise in the future.

On the way home, through surprisingly light traffic, I listened to the last song on Reed's cd over and over again. The only song not from "Berlin." A little number called "Sweet Jane."

It is the weekend and just like the German scientists secretly developing that big motherfucking bomb I am enjoying the beginning of my weekend with a big glass of beer. Got supper cooking and five cds shuffled in the stereo. "Lulu," "Pale Green Girl," "We Sold Our Soul For Rock 'n' Roll" and "Cop Killer."

Disco sucks.

It's great to be alive.


kootcoot said...

Mr. Beer, you made me think of my Grandmother who was born in England (NorthCumbria)in the 1890's and came to the New World in the 1920's with a big hate on for the Germans already, which only grew once they developed Nazism and killed her oldest daughter who had stayed behind and was a victim of the London Blitz.

A friend who only sends GOOD humorous stuff (I consider him my spam filter) to my inbox sent the following this week, which makes me think of you.

Subject: FW: WOMAN

Woman is a man's best friend.

She will reassure him when he feels insecure and comfort him after a bad day.

She will inspire him to do things he never thought he could do; to
live without fear and forget regret.

She will enable him to express his deepest emotions and give in to his
most intimate desires.

She will make sure he always feels that he's the most handsome man in
the room and will enable him to be confident, sexy, seductive, and

No wait...... sorry...... I'm thinking of beer.

Its beer that does all that.


Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

There's voices, like the ones I hear in my head if I sit too close to the tv during a Canuck telecast if I forget to put on my aluminum foil hockey helmet, and there's the voices of experience like your gran's. Neither of us will ever warm the warm leather buckets of a German motor. Not until they name a model after Rudolph Rocker.

bewlay said...

To get you through Sunday Beer,

Cheers ; )

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

On any Sunday but Super Bowl Sunday, I need all the help I can get. I wonder if Betty Page and Lou Reed ever crossed paths.