1 December 2015
I always liked Elvis.
Well into his autobiography. Old boy likes to jump all over space and time when he writes so it is just the book to read on peyote, behind shades, with the sky blue Pacific pulsing arteriorly onto the beach close by and a cold one even closer.
I do not have all his records. Only most of them. Just may have to rectify that.
Saw him and the Attractions just the once. Pacific Colosseum. Memory tells me the Battered Wives opened the show. (Whatever happened to those fuckers?) Elvis and his band fucking rocked. A long time before "Pump It Up" started getting played at hockey games nearly as often as "Blitzkreig Bop." One of the better non-hardcore rock shows I ever attended.
I am guessing he is not going to write about how great of a fuck his wife is. Not that he needs to. Diana is Canadian. Best fucking women on Earth.
30 November 2015
Arrived at our hotel without incident. New place to us. Weather hotter than the Canucks are cold. Had barely set our bags down when someone came around with beer or whatever else you were in the mood for.
The alcohol set both Sonja and I at ease. A holiday in Mexico should be just like camping in Canada and it usually is or we would go someplace that was.
"I like this fucking place already," was Sonja's first impression.
Our room was not the greatest. The first room you get here rarely is. We have already moved into the better one that will house us until mid-December. A fucking suite with a full kitchen.
"I'm really liking this place now," Sonja said once the bell boy had left. "Maybe you could cook me something?"
The fuck I will. Tequila, cooking utensils and hot stoves are a poor fit.
There were some young Albertans drinking by the pool and acting like they created the word asshole when we had our first drinks by the pool. Shithead in a cowboy hat and his too good looking for words girlfriend appeared to be the ringleaders. It was pretty clear everybody was weary of them. Especially their fellow Canadians. Canadians hate their countrymen making them look bad outside our own borders.
This morning the cowboy cunt and his girl were noticeably absent. After a bit we heard what happened to them. Cowboy split his head wide open on the pool deck after Sonja and I, too travel tired too make it past midnight our first night, had gone to our room.
"Right out of a Hitchcock movie it was," this English fucker told us. "Bloody Hell. I hear he was a Canadian like you."
"The fuck he was," I corrected him. "He's an Albertan. We kicked those redneck motherfuckers out of Canada years ago. And we are never letting them back in."
28 November 2015
By the time you read this
Will be far below us
Shining and Pulsing
Like Taylor Swift's tits.
Sonja and I
Way to Mexico.
Prefer Mexico to America we do.
Mexicans are like us.
We have found Americans like us
But it seems they all end up murdered and forgotten.
25 November 2015
Let's see if I have this straight.
The loons bomb the French; the French bomb the loons; the loons bomb the Ruskies; more loons bomb the Ruskies.
Anybody see a pattern here? If you do you might want to have your kaleidoscopic vision looked into before you think you understand Quebec politics.
24 November 2015
The world is fucked. No getting around it. Once you have gone down a road so far you are bound to find your destination.
Can the world be unfucked? That is very much the question of our time. It does not much look like it to be honest. Having said that I am optimistic our young people and their children will have something to say as regards just how fucked we are.
McCarthy's "The Road" beckons after all. Surely people will do what is necessary before it comes time to fight over who gets to roast baby for dinner.
22 November 2015
Rock 'n' roll suicide.
Usually the words pour out of me like a Latino football play by play man on such occasions. As words poured out of every other motherfucker from the President of the United States to your corner store cashier.
Nothing came. Guess I am bored of the terrorist shit. The Chairman of the Board.
Treat a region's working class anywhere in the world like shit on the bottom of your shoe for decades you are fucking asking for it if you ask me. One day Canada will get it too.
A note to y'all : there is no such fucking thing as security. Not the sort of donut powered security promised by the state. That is bullshit.
Security is best realized when we live with the most Freedom coupled with the most Society. Neither Freedom nor Society get a lot of play these days: it is all about greed and fucking people over in a dubiously motivated scramble to some imaginary top.
Something better change. The dead, I fear, will continue to pile up in mounds, as they have for thousands of years, before we give another way a shot.
17 November 2015
12 November 2015
All day last Saturday I was in the BCNDP convention. Accidentally voted negative on John Horgan's leadership. Me and 23 other people in the 500+ assembled. Hope Horgan does not find out. His family and mine are from the same Irish county. We do not take fucking kindly to the unloyal there.
I was sharing a room with a couple gentlemen who do not like to get stinko as much as I do and as I needed time both away from politics and to collect my thoughts I left the unionized luxury of the Bayshore and headed out onto the mean streets on my own.
Dope City, if you keep away from the river, is a highly walkable place and it was not long before I found myself on Puke Street. Puke Street had traffic banned from it decades ago and now, having choked the place with bars, it likes to think of itself as George Street West. Dope City likes to think it is a lot of things it is not. It is just a bunch of fucking loser Canuck fans who still have not figured out how to handle their liquor.
There were buskers of course. Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd as usual. Dope City likes to think itself modern but it still acts like people who had not heard the Velvet Underground, Stooges, Patti Smith or the Ramones by the mid '70s or if they did they hated them.
The tables of the bar I prefer down there were full but there were a few bars stools unoccupied so I draped my black leather over one and sat down. Pretty barkeep poured me a Guinness. Life is good, motherfuckers.
As that pint neared the end of its life a Canuck fan a few stools down in his Favourite Jersey who had been beer-goggling me since I walked in tried speaking to me. "I'll buy you a fucking beer," he slurred in a way that suggested he would soon be painting a flame down the side of taxi. I declined. My greatest fear is having the bad fucking luck of the Canucks rub off on me.
The bar was down to one empty stool now, right beside me, and it was taken by a hockey player sized young man who soon returned politics to the conversation. "Fucking politicians piss me off so much," he fumed, "that I ran to be mayor of the Buttfuck town I'm from a couple times. Once for MLA too."
The only thing people hate about politics is they think they should be doing the pork chopping - not some other motherfucker who thinks they are the ones who know what the fuck they are doing.
Nice guy. Told the barkeep to put another fruit beer he was drinking in front of him once I had paid up and left. That, my friends, is how you buy a man a beer. Do not ask him if he wants one - put one in front of him.
It was time to make my way to the Rickshaw. I had to think of the safest way to do that. Down through Gastown and its teeming yuppies choking on their own vomit. Down Alexander Street's dark night of the cheaply sold soul to Main Street.
Stopped to take a piss and have a flask fortified hot chocolate at a coffee shop 2 blocks from Ground Zero. The Talking Head's "Psycho Killer" was playing on the stereo. A man behind me in line thought this remarkable.
"The Talking Heads must have already known something about the 21st Century when they wrote that song."
I turned to have a look at my music critic fellow hot chocolate fiend. Had one tooth remaining in his face. Methamphetamine had not got to that one yet. He was about my age and I may well have known him in my pecker-wood days.
As I turned my one toothed fellow Talking Head fan eyed my football scarf.
"Millwall! No one likes the Millwall. Canaries man myself."
"Good on you for not being a supporter of one of the Big Clubs. Takes a real man to go around telling people he is a Canaries man. Now get the fuck away from me before that last tooth of yours is sparkling from the floor instead of your face."
He let me be. Come on strong or do not come on at all in the East End.
Got to see 4 bands. Wett Stillettos, as good or better than the notices they are gathering (that's their singer above); Boids, who played "Get A Job" so well it made me feel proud to be an old punk rock motherfucker: good enough I bought both the cds they were selling; Gob, much better than I expected: their old radio hits sounded great and the rest of their set was pretty decent besides; and DOA whose current line-up is on par with any their old school incarnations. Their new record, which I bought while I was there, is a good one too. Lots of Joe's political bullshit and a cover of San Quentin that will make your spine tingle.
Cabbed it back to the hotel. Did not vomit once.
10 November 2015
Here is what I think happened not too long before the Russian plane blew to fucking pieces high above Egypt.
British, American and perhaps other western intelligence agencies got wind of the bomb plot. They communicated with one another about what they knew. Someone probably asked someone else, "Should we tell our [political] leaders about this?" It was then agreed that because their leaders are a bunch of fucking buzz kills it would be better to keep them in the dark - permanently.
Why? To teach Putin a lesson.
I await Putin's response. I am fairly certain he can smell this rat without my help.
6 November 2015
There was a discussion at coffee time today.
Half the room was proud their guy had been named Canada's newest Defence Minister (Minister of War). "He was the best intelligence guy we had in Afghanistan! The best! Badass smart motherfucker! Our guy!"
The other half of the room was a little less enthusiastic. "You guys forget we lost the fucking war in Afghanistan. At best he was the best of a sorry lot. The best of a bunch of fucking losers."
With that one of the less enthusiastic half of the room formed an L with his thumb and index finger and placed it in front of his forehead.
No fisticuffs or anything. We are as racially integrated as any workforce in Canada. Integrated yet inharmonious.
I figure the less enthusiastic half of the room won the argument. Nobody gives a fuck who Canada's Defence Minister is. It is like giving a fuck who the manager of Slough FC is.
You may differ.