31 July 2012
A Story Especially For My American Readers
Lot of motherfucking Americans are reading the Dope City Free Press. Reckon the motherfuckers like being called motherfuckers. More of the fat cunts reading this than Canadians do.
Makes sense really. America has long celebrated the literary work, often anecdotal as most of mine is, of their working people, their veterans, the people whose view of The Dream is not as good as Mitt Motherfucking Romney's or Barack Motherfucking Obama's.
I used to visit America pretty regularly until the Zero Tolerance Bullshit swallowed up just about all that remaining of the Freedom promised by the American Revolution. Wanted no part of it. The Patriot Act took care of just about the rest of it except Freedom of Speech. Now that too is being ground at like a just out of the box stump grinder. The powerful will never be happy until they can read our minds and count how many times per minute we want to tell them to go fuck themselves each day.
Anyhow, I care about you Americans because the ones who did not aim a firearm at me when I have been down there were friendly as fuck. My time in Kettle Falls is especially illustrative of that fact. I was with Jimi. We were on our bikes. He passed out in our motel room soon as we got into town.
I took a walk down their main street looking for a bar to go to once Jimi got up. Found one named Ralph's Tavern near the centre of the street, west side. Going to be a Lady's Night that night. Yee-fucking-Haw. Alcohol goes with ladies like politicians go with lies. Then I got back on my bike and took it full throttle through the twisty roads south of town. Got to see the waterfall and everything. God damn it, it was beautiful up there.
Once back Jimi and I ate somewhere, probably at Crossroads, do not remember any details of that except for everybody noticing we were not their regular clientele. From there we walked straight to Ralph's tavern. It was beer time. When we walked through the door we thought the shit-kicking motherfuckers inside, all of whom made Charlie Daniels look like Mitt Romney, were going to do us in. Instead it took about five minutes for them realise we (two punk rocking industrial worker bikers) were just like them and vice versa. Party was on.
It was lady's night. And it was those ladies that gave us a truest recent human history of a town ever. All the ladies in the bar were divorced after having been knocked up by their boyfriends when they were sixteen or seventeen. Does not take long for that sort of love to wear the fuck off. Now they were in their early tewnties looking for something better than the asshole who knocked them up. The men interested in them were now all loggers of one form or another and divorced from one of the other women in the room. Hard workers with no fucking future like Jimi and I.
We knew the personal details of all those soured relationships and about the chances of future ones as we slowly but surely drank every drop of beer in that tavern, even the dollar a glass shit they had on special.
Jimi tried to convince a pretty brunette with a heart of gold to come up to Canada with him and get married to him. Asked her over and over. She probably wonders if she should have taken him up on that every now and then.
There is still logging and stuff going on around Kettle Falls so I hope everybody, especially the nice people in the bar that warm summer night of 1982, is still doing alright. Hear Ralph's, home of my fondest remembrances of the All-American town, is closed however. Tavern had been there since about the time I was born. Too fucking bad.