On December 23rd the Dope City Free Press will mark a decade in business. Thanks to the good motherfuckers at Google (whoever the fuck they are) my overhead is so low if I were inclined to do so I could, by economically scheduling future posts, keep this enterprise alive long after I have at last lost my mind or expired.
I could not have imagined myself creating something like the DCFP until a very short time before the dark and stormy December day I introduced you all to the Hammer and myself. I had only just begun using a computer - a much less reliable replacement for either a typewriter or a pen. Link Wray, the old rebel motherfucker, had recently died which led me to Ed's "Old Blue Bus" - a better (mostly bluegrass) music blog I have not yet encountered. That is where Mr. Beer N. Hockey got his start - contributing smart ass comments to my mentor after I had a few beer in me.
I do not think I would remember that day if I had not written about it. The wind, the sky, the crashing bough, the park empty except for me and my dog. Later that day I wrote the story now featured in the new Motherfucking Re-Runs section on the sidebar to the right about being a newspaper boy in Sliverville back in the early '70s.
Above all this Free enterprise has been brought to you by the Spirit of 1976. Run wild, run free, motherfuckers. It is the only way to be.
4 comments:
One day ahead of the annualversary decade I gotta post my admiration and dismay. I'll probably get fired off my ass for spending the time it will take to catch up on the saga of Beer.
Been reading this Dope for quite a while but like a movie that starts in flashback or whatever, I now have to go to the beginning of the damn story.
And I'm only up to like February 2006 with two days work down the drain. Fuck yeah!
Just want to say I've enjoyed every minute so far, with some overlapping memories. I only got to the Happy God club once, I was exploring alone, drunk, the show was over and the bouncer made me pay 3 bucks anyway. All I saw was a bunch of turned-over chairs and puke on the floor. From your scribblings it's obvious I was in the right place.
So next time I get my hands on some booze I'll raise a glass to all you hellraisers, the writing ones and the others who are never celebrated, who keep celebrating and sometimes end up in cells. Today I started this listening to a song called Son of a Bitch, and just finished listening to the Pogues and Kirsty McColl Fairy Tale of New York.
So appropriate tunes for the time and the season.
Rock on Motherfucker!
- Jonku
The Bad Allah crowd held their booze like champions so you can assume mushrooms caused the vomit you saw on the floor that night. Mushrooms were free, just like the patrons. Thanks for reading. And Merry Fucking Christmas.
The spirit of 76 does indeed run through every word written here. I was dwelling on that as I was sprawled on the sofa with Jim Beam, the darkness lit up on the tip of a cigarette. So I got up off my arse, signed in to type this and wish you all the motherfucking best. This Christmas and the next ten to come.
Should I endure another decade I will be joining many of my fellow '76ers in my all whites on the lawn bowling green. It's going to be great.
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