28 January 2013

Forever DOA Forever

Sonja, Jimi and I all decided to wait until the long term weather forecast indicated we would not be deterred by a shitpile of snow from seeing DOA play their Friday Farewell to Dope Fucking City show. Bought the tickets the previous weekend, a day or two before the second show - the second show which would have given us a much longer drunken run up to the performance - was added for Saturday night. Just as well I guess - at our age having two days to recover from a rock show is something of a fucking gift.

So on Friday it was work first, get fucked up later. You know how time stands still all fucking day when you have your liquor and drugs waiting at home for you on a Friday afternoon? It was one of those kind of days. Just that much more excruciatingly torturous than any other day of the week.

Then, the work day done, traffic was as backed up as a crowd waiting to get at a steamy buffet with Rich Coleman first in line. Called Murphy's Law that is. Luckily, I had what it takes to break that motherfucking law within reach: three tall cans of 7% Swedish cider. Needed all three to pass the time as I inched down the highway with the rest of the fucking herd. Looking around I noticed other people working on a beer or smoking a joint. Just about everybody else was on pills. Those that were not altering their consciousness in traffic were texting their dealer.

Just another Friday afternoon in Dope City, motherfuckers.

Home at last, I boiled the kettle and set a big pot of mushroom tea on the counter to steep while I showered up. When I got out of the shower Sonja, home from work at last herself, came through the bathroom door with a glass of red. "Good fucking thing I left work early," she told me as if I did not know traffic was lined up from Burrard Inlet to the Sumas Canal. "We have to get out of this place if it's the last thing we ever do."

I filled a thermos with the tea and poured myself a small glass with what remained in the pot. I had all night to get fucked up after all.

The tea was already hitting me and I was working on the last of cider number six by the time Sonja had herself dolled up enough for a visit to Dope City's world famous East End. She eyeballed me a little closer than usual and asked, "You ok to drive?"

"If Christy Clark can run our province, I can fucking drive," I reasoned with her.

And I would have been ok to drive too except for the fucking fog. Could not see shit which may have been advantageous as it kept the hallucinations to a minimum. It was like driving through an isolation chamber. In the end I proved I was ok to drive by making it to Jimi's place without ditching Sonja's car.

Jimi was waiting on his porch with a six pack of Granville when we pulled up. "I only got home half an hour ago" he said. "I had to work an extra half an hour and got fucking stuck in the worst fucking traffic jam I ever fucking saw. Fucking fog!"

I passed the thermos and a couple small cups back to him. "Pour yourself and Sonja a cup of this. Pour mine in the lid. Fuck the fog. We're going to DOA."

As we edged into traffic on the highway we could see traffic headed into the city was just as screwed as it was coming home from work. We dawdled along until we were approaching the new Port Mann where I could then let the car breathe a little. By then the tea had taken hold of my two passengers as well. The three of us gawked out the window at what little we could see of the spaceage span through the foggy dimness of the night.

"We made it this far," Jimi remarked. "Might as well finish off the tea." He poured us another round and we drank up as the car parted the fog at a hundred miles an hour until we reached the city and slowed down as we passed winter deserted Dope City Downs, the easternmost edge of the East End.  

Parked right in front of the Rickshaw, the converted kung fu movie house which was hosting the event, and headed west towards Ground Zero to find ourself a place to eat, drink and keep warm before the show. Last time we were in the neighbourhood we mistakenly went to one of the new motherfucking yuppie restaurants that have been popping up along Cordova like earthquakes along the west coast of British Columbia. Felt all dirty after choking back quail's eggs and high end beer with the yuppie scum in that place.

This time we headed towards Chinatown where we chanced a Vietnamese place (Golden Garden) a block and half south of Main and Hastings. Carpet was dirty but it was half full of a wide variety of people. Yuppies slumming, working guys getting loaded after a long Friday shift, couples of every colour except red on dates and the three of us - three aliens from Mars.

When you are engaged in a little flying saucer rock 'n' roll, which we were, I have always found it best to drink quite a lot so it does not look like you are on drugs. Jimi and I ordered Chinese beer, asking our cute waitress to keep bringing us more when she spotted a bottle half empty until we said otherwise. Sonja went for some more red.

The food we ordered was so fucking good - fish, noodles, spring rolls. Sonja and I used to have a favourite Vietnamese place years ago. Like everything good about Metro Dope City, it is long fucking gone to the Yukon.

"We are so fucking coming back here!" was what Sonja had to say about the place between mouthfuls of food and wine.

On our way to the show and during our frequent escapes to the Hastings sidewalk to get some air I remarked to myself how it is I will forever feel more at home there than anywhere. Guess anybody who has ever spent much time there feels much the same way. One day it too will all be fucking condos and parasites and the last patch of old time Vancouver you will ever get to experience will be in a museum or a graveyard.

The show. First band forgot to bring their guitar player. Thumbs down. Ran into several old Sliverville friends. Thumbs up. Randy Rampage's band, who played a dozen late '70s punk rock classics and maybe a couple of their own songs were a treat. Two arthritic thumbs up. Randy does not get around like he used to and I spotted a group of young fuckers laughing as they watched him gingerly rock their fucking world. Us old motherfuckers are a constant source of amusement to the young. I had seen Rebel Spell before. They were brilliant. At times the addition of electric violin and keyboards to their sound reminded me of Hawkwind. High praise from this old Motorheadbanging cunt. Good to see they had loads of their followers in the crowd.

DOA, Dope City's very own long lived Sex Pistols, did not disappoint. Played loads of their old shit, including what had to be the best version of their favourite song of mine, "2 + 2," I have ever heard. A young gal did a snake dance in front of me for that song. My oh my. The new songs, of which there were several, sounded better than the record I bought recently. Two hours of rebel Canadian rock 'n' roll plus three other bands for 20 bucks plus 25 bucks for a t-shirt and a 45.

It was not like a funeral. It was like a retirement party for somebody you know has lots of other work to do before he gets tucked, as we all will one day be, into a wooden overcoat with his favourite hockey stick.

Maybe the motherfuckers who paid 250 bucks to see Paul McCartney play the football stadium think they got value for their rock 'n' roll dollar. I think some people have been robbed by the fucking government and fucking corporations so fucking often they fully expect to get robbed by rock 'n' roll as well.


Your driver said...

I might get a chance to see them nere on Thursday.

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

Do it.

Anonymous said...

Tomorrow is the Anniversary of Ken Jensen's death :( I used to work with Ken's mum, and she gave me his piano shortly after he died to help me on my way with my music degree. While I never finished my degree, I did get a diploma and the countless hours spent at that piano got me credit for my secondary instrument. Almost 20 years later and it is still one of my most prized possessions.


Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

Thanks for the reminder. Our country is renowned for its hockey moms; we ought to be every bit as renowned for our punk rock moms.