18 August 2013

Ramble Tamble August 17, 2013

- dedicated to Mick Farren

For the first time in a long while as I sat down to add a new page to the Dope City Free Press I did not immediately begin to write something. There is always something to write about even if I have written about the subject many times before. I did not stare at the blank page for than a few seconds however. I tuned in WDVX-FM and listened to a country girl singing about cigarettes and pick-up trucks. Then I wrote this here paragraph.

Next song was some country motherfucker singing Gord's "Early Morning Rain." A song about liquor and fast women. Both songs got me to thinking about Mick Farren's death. His finest of blogs is over there on the right with my Fellow Motherfuckers. Died on stage. 69. Singing "Cocaine and Gun Powder." Lived and died like a man, a Deviant, a White Panther, a poet for a planet with an atom bomb soul. I expect he was proud of his final evening on earth as the blue went into the black and that was that.

Farren, of course, is not that much fucking older than me.

I was up well before dawn this morning. Hard to do in the heart of summer but summer is now getting on like an old school punk rocker who could never say no to anybody but a motherfucking fascist. That is getting to be a lot of nos. Russia is not the only country looking and smelling like the Nazis that used to be our enemies.

(Heard the Canadian Taxpayer Federation referred to as "our government watchdog" on tv the other night. They are not my watchdog, television motherfuckers. They are fascist pigs, not a dog at all. All oink, no bark. They would eat shit and say it tasted like mini donuts if our Prime Minister asked them to.)

My dog and I walked for a long time along the Cherrydale river. Couple people fishing there was all. Could have walked all day but if we had stayed much longer we would been saying good morning to a lot more people than we encountered on our way back to the car.

When I got home I put on the radio. Playing Steve Earle just now. Singing a song about Galway with yet another country girl. I feel alright. Really, I do. I am still tapping my toe.


Your driver said...

You know, I felt good for Chairman Mick. He died on fucking stage. He didn't die alone in his room. He wasn't on life support being preyed upon by medical vampires. He got up on stage. He did what he did and he fell down dead. I will miss him terribly.

Mr. Beer N. Hockey said...

Died a poet's death, a rock 'n' roll suicide.