On Hallowe'en Party Poopers

A few philosophical words, if I may, on the over-sensitivity of people when it comes to what the fuck is ok to dress up as on Hallowe'en.

In Mexico they have one day, Hallowe'en, for the dead, and 364 for the living dead. This seems a fair balance. Therefore, the oversensitive can fuck off and die.

On the other hand, in England they skip right past Hallowe'en and celebrate Guy Fawkes, someone not at all unlike myself, who fucking near blew up Parliament and was later sentenced to be hung, drawn and quartered for his trouble. (He jumped from the hanging platform, broke his neck, died instantly and denied the fucking English the pleasure of killing him, if not the latter two thirds of his punishment.) No one gives a shit about that.

On the Recent Police Brutality of Seniors in Coquitlam

If the seniors recently brutalized by the RCMP in Coquitlam had been both younger and even a little more robust they would have been pepper sprayed, tasered or perhaps even shot dead because their canes looked like shotguns.

Chickenshit pigs overdue for promotion in today's police culture.

Steepleton White Power Hour

Steepleton man got himself on television this week by getting caught on a video-camera calling somebody a hindoo-carpet riding-Paki-motherfucker and hollering about White Power.

The mayor of Steepleton acted surprised as fuck someone from his town would speak racist shit like that when asked by the tv news people who showed up to ask him, "What the fuck is up with you people?"

The mayor knows as well as I there are as many redneck motherfuckers in our town as there are raspberry plants. Most of them, however, know a video camera when they see one.

What To Do With Scary Looking Clowns

I'm a gambler and I'm a runner

But you knew that when you laid down

I'm a picture of ugly stories

I'm a killer and I'm a clown

- Desperado by Alice Cooper

Are you fearful of like fucking near everything? If you are not you deserve to give yourself a pat on the back because you have every reason to be even if every reason you have to be afraid of something does not hold up real well to scrutiny.

Hell, even Canadians are afraid of a Donald Trump presidency even though Canada is a little down the hierarchy of things a TrumpAmerica would be interested in fucking with.

Besides that there is terrorists, environmentalists, drug fiends, climate change, earthquakes, forest fires, bicyclists, pit bulls, bikers, minorities, skateboarders, drunk drivers, the fucking police, street crazies, a million other fucking things and now, scariest of all possibly, people dressed up in nasty looking clown costumes.

Fear, in case you have not noticed, is something we have all been force fed since we screamed our way on to the planet. Fear paralyzes you at a time when your activity is more necessary than ever. Do not fucking buy it. We do not need that shit.

Fuck the clowns.

A Few Words In Support of Roger Waters

Hope everyone noticed Roger Water's support for the movement building to financially pressure Israel into de-occupying Palestinian territory and ending the institutional racism it practices within its own borders. I would like to applaud my old Pink Floyd hero for doing so.

The movement is not anti-Semitic, nor am I. The movement is anti-fascist, as am I.

Fuck the occupation of Israel. Fuck nationalism. Everywhere. Give peace a chance, motherfuckers.

Neighbour Cat Blues

I think Sonja is having a relationship with the neighbour cats. Today I asked her, "Do you let the fucking neighbour cats in the house to visit?"

"No! I would never let them in the house," Sonja assured me.

"You must feed them though," I further inquired.

"No, I don't. And since when did you turn fascist and become the anti-cat police?" Sonja asked of me.

Sonja is soft on animals. They probably have their own secret entrance to their own secret cat cafe I do not know about.

Just then one of the neighbour cats came on to our front grass. I knocked on the window and it freezed in its tracks. Sonja came to the window too.

"Ahh. Lookee there. It's Mr. Buttons," Sonja observed.

They looked at each other for a spell before Mr. Button, or whatever the fuck his name is, disappeared around the side of the house.

A minute later there was Mr. Button at the black door waiting to be let in like he had been let in a thousand times before. When I answered his pleas to be let in out of the rain he took off again faster than a head saw squares a pecker pole. Mr. Buttons does not see eye to eye with me like he does with Sonja.

"I think we better get some cat litter," I told Sonja.

"I don't let them in the house!" Sonja said repeating herself.

Bullshit she doesn't.

Fucking cats.

I better get another dog soon or I will be up to my armpits in them.

Hallowe'en Movie Night In Steepleton

Watched "The Shining" with Sonja. First time we had done so since the long gone days we rented both the video and the machine to play it on from the family run neighbourhood video business we were once loyal customers of.

Every performance bright, if not nearly as unexpected, as a diamond from an American politician's mouth.

We have no need to watch any further Hallowe'en fare for the scariest show of them all will be on my television in early November.

Let Out All the Prisoners Because That Is A Jubilee

The only thing like it is finding an overturned beer truck and its bubbly load spilled on the road, no police at the scene and not a siren within earshot. The power went out at the sawmill Friday afternoon.

My foreman immediately scurried off for a quick huddle with whiskery management. Even with the level of technology sawmill hands work along side with, our industry is still tied punk rock close to an age old equation - labour generates profit - when we are not working management smells money burning.

"Won't take the cheap cunts long to send us home," Old Charlie, the head sawyer told me, as he checked his watch impatiently.

Everyone was checking their fucking phones. Some of our wives, girlfriends and such had already been sent home from their work places. Our thoughts drifted, as they do, to the possibility of unscheduled afternoon sex.

Sure enough we were walking out the gate to our cars moments later. Every man smiling like a death row prisoner accidentally released.

I like the comfort of routine as much as the next fellow but that comfort does not half compare to the joy of chaos a decent windstorm brings.

Sonja was waiting in our own powerless house when I had snaked my way through the fallen trees home.

"There's no power in the pub but it is still on at the Jap place," she told me. We were soon there, at our favourite table, 600ml Asahi for me, red wine for my reason for living. Japanese music plinking its mindless mysteries from hidden speakers.

"No come long time," the owner's daughter commented with her wide as Nagasaki smile.

"Japanese has always been winter food for Beer and I," Sonja confirmed. "You will be seeing lots of us between now and the election campaign next year."

The owner's daughter nodded, understanding not a word, her understanding of English, like many Koreans, restricted to menu items and the brands of her favourite cosmetics.

After we had had a few and finished our meal we phoned a neighbour to see if the power was back up. It was not so we had a few more.

Eventually we heard the noise of a small tv coming from the kitchen and much giggling from cook, the owner and his daughter.

"What are you watching back there that is fucking funny," I asked when the daughter freshened our drinks yet again.

"Kim's Convenience," she told us. "About funny Korean family. You want watch?"

Next thing you know we were in the kitchen drinking with the Koreans watching two episodes of the CBC's newest series on their portable Korean television. The Koreans were at once embarrassed and happy to have shared the moment with us. Shots of Korean grapefruit whisky helped our tv party and our lack of a shared language along.

I know there are not many of us left who watch the CBC. You are missing out if you are not one of them.

Coke Life v Coke Death

Had my first Coke "Life" today. Tastes a little different from Coke "Death", its predecessor. I like it. But I will not know if I really like until I mix it with some rye. That will happen a little closer to Christmas I expect.

Who I Gave Thanks To This Year

Like many an old
Punk rocker before me
I am more beholden
To tradition than most.

Take Thanksgiving.

I have worked hard
In fucking sawmills
My whole life for every
Fucking thing in my life.

So again this year
I gave no thanks to God,
Country
Or any-fucking-body.

Glenn Gould, Waffles and Quebec Maple Syrup

Sunday morning I sometimes, not often, listen to classical music. This morning it was Glenn Gould playing Ludwig Van, Frank Liszt, Johann Bach and Joseph Haydn.

I listened from the kitchen where I was drinking my morning ration of sweet black speed and preparing scratch waffles.

Sonja listened from down the hall where she sipped strong, milky English tea. "Glenn Gould?" she asked unnecessarily.

Lou Reed had Delmore Schwartz. I have Glenn Gould.

We both had maple syrup on our waffles. From motherfucking Quebec. A Sunday decadence.

Could have bought a bottle of decent blended scotch for the same money. Ah, well. The maple syrup will last for much of winter and be just about as enjoyable.

October Song

Missed the rain I have. The wind too.
Autumns in Dope City are the motherfuckin' best!

Makes a man glad he has a home.
If he has a home, that is.

Good to have a big television too.
Sonja chose "Rocknrolla" for us

To watch in the dark last night.
Best part of the show was Lou Reed's

"The Gun" when it came on
And we waltzed the rock minuet.

Today, as I made my way along
Streets wet as an Haitian mother' tears,

I sang along to the October song of air bags exploding.

DCFP-FM

There are a couple additions to the DCFP's Fellow Motherfuckers sidebar I will here draw your attention to.

First up is Abbyy Lewis. She is a young writer with chronic fatigue syndrome. She is also from England but I have decided not to hold that against her. I like her style and hope she keeps writing for us for a good long time.

Second one is Tanis Miller. She used to be a young writer too and was formerly known as Redneck Mommy. She is from fucking Alberta. After taking a couple years off from blog writing she is back with her keen eye and rural sense of humour.

Besides those two there are over 40 other Fellow Motherfuckers over there to the right. Almost all them are active unless they are dead. Go read their shit.

Reassessing the Place of the Police in our Society

By now, one might hope, in the light of one fuck of a lot of unnecessary police shootings, a lot of people, who may not have otherwise done so, have reassessed their opinion of the fucking cops. Some have probably reassessed their opinion of why we need them at all.

Could be there have been enough such reassessments made to make a difference - to permit a man to dream we will all one day be safe from the police.

No reassessment was necessary here at the Dope City Free Press. Body Count got it right many years ago - fuck the police!

Make WDVX-FM Your Favourite Radio Station

Natasha Borzilova

I have three stereos in the house with a combined wattage of 250 watts plus a top notch Grundig in the kitchen, a cd/cassette boombox and a cd/radio alarm by my bed. Even though I do not have a garage dedicated stereo, like many do, it is not like I have much need for more shit that will play music for me.

But I got another piece to add to the collection. Like much of the stereo equipment I have it came to me second hand. Got one of those all white Apple speakers to listen to music from my home computer (itself second hand) and mobile devices. I am quite sure there are better such speakers out there but it sure sounds good to my ears.

Today I turned to a couple football games on the television (sound turned down/closed captioning turned on), read a book (The Christina Lake Bear Dude story) and tuned into WDVX-FM and their Sunday hillbilly jamboree all fucking day.

Made cranberry muffins while I was it. Hard to beat Dope City cranberries this time of year. Tart as an old downtown whore.

When I was testing the Apple speaker in the store I found it in the sales girl stuck close by me to make sure I did not sneak out the door with it. Place sells few items worth as much as the price tag they had stuck to it.

I tuned in WDVX-FM. They were playing some fine old country music as usual.

The sales girl was impressed. "That sounds so good. What station is that?"

"Why it's WDVX-FM from Knoxville, Tennessee. Great music all day and no fucking commercials," I told her.

She wrote the call letters down. Girls here in Steepleton like their country music. Makes them want to do things the Lord would prefer they did not.

40 Years On, The Song Remains the Same

This month, 40 years ago, Led Zeppelin's "The Song Remains the Same" was released. Is there a motherfucker more merciless than time? I think not.

Watched it then with a few of my mates a couple times in a row. Washed down our popcorn and sweets with several bottles of scotch. Shitfaced we were. Acted like we were members of The Fucking Who. Vomit in the trash cans. Vomit in the loo.

We had all bought a ticket on the punk rock ride by then but we still worshiped the old gods of rock and fucking roll. The gods of my junior and high school dances. Platform shoes stepping on wished for girlfriends' toes.

Got the DVD rolling as I type this for you, for the gods, dead and alive. No popcorn. No sweets. Bottle of Arran to help me tap my old punk rocker's toe.

It was something else, you know. Growing up in the 1970s.