29 July 2014
The first poem you saw here in the Dope City Free Press referenced Leonard Cohen. Man is something of a hero of mine. He is one of Canada's many Gretzkys. That's right: Canada - Land of a Million Gretzkys. Yet, despite my appetite for records, Canadian ones especially, I do not have all Cohen's records. Do not think he even released all that many.
I am a bad Canadian. Either that or little fucking Jews piss me off. When I have rectified matters, which should not be long, and bought all Cohen's records I will be a better Canadian and a little less of a motherfucking Nazi I hope.
Cohen is on my mind because I picked up a cassette copy of his "Songs of Love and Hate." Cost me a fifth of a sawbuck. It is one of the best records I have ever heard. You probably already know that.
Sorry Leonard for not buying more of your records sooner. I will try and make it up to you by writing a poem for you and then another one when you are dead.
28 July 2014
Took another geezerly leap towards modernity today. Got myself some over the ear headphones just like my young pot smoking asshole skater neighbours wear.
First thing I did when I brought them home was listen to WDVX-FM in my backyard picking the year's first blackberries. Station was playing some wicked bluegrass when a tornado warning was broadcast to the good people of East Tennessee. Warning came over the airwaves about three minutes after a dangerous storm began to develop. Told everybody what direction it was heading and at what speed, what to do (everybody had already been to church so God was in the corner of their basement shitting his pants with them), and what to expect - hail bigger than dog shit and winds strong enough to pick up people and such and dump them in another state.
Had to pick up some stamps while I was out too. First time I had to do so since the assholes we know as the Conservative Party of Canada hiked the rates. $8.50 for a book of ten stamps. $15.00 for a pack of six international stamps. Canadians have been robbed so many times by our latest disaster of fucking government that the only thing a picture of the Prime Minister is any good for is being pasted onto a WANTED - DEAD OR ALIVE poster. Motherfucker makes Billy Miner look saintly.
27 July 2014
The Hammer's wee perfumed sort of poodle or something buddy made it through surgery. Dog was out walking in the park a few days after its hospital stay.
"Tumour was two pounds, two ounces," the dog's owner told me, every bit as proud as a new father handing out chocolate cigars.
Little dog weighed less than twenty pounds to begin with. That would be like you or me having a thirty pound tumour carved out of us.
"We should have the little shit with us for years yet," my neighbour beamed.
Before the surgery I had seen the two of them communicating as the healthy and not so healthy do when both know their time together may not be long. They are going to get to do that again some other time.
23 July 2014
Quite a few years back I allowed the motherfucking geniuses at Google to stick adverts onto the Dope City Free Press. Did it so one day I would get paid enough to afford four cases of beer, drink them with some friends, and write about it.
That day is nearly here. Just a handful of people stupid enough to click one of the adverts Google thinks you will like need to do so before I get my fucking money.
Today the motherfucking geniuses at Google think I would like to buy a mid-summer vacation in Cancun. They nearly hit the mark with that one. I do not want the fucking trip however. All I want is four cases of Pacifico.
Never clicked one of those adverts myself. Back when I was still a teenager I trained myself not to be swayed by advertizing. To this day when I am in the market for something that is advertized I find it just about impossible to pay attention to the shit.
You, on the other hand, fucking love advertizing. Click the advert. Now!
22 July 2014
Turned up at a support rally for the men and women on strike against Steepleton's biggest private sector employer. At city hall. The mayor and his Councillors, having refused to hear or address the workers privately, were paid a public visit.
Got to talk to a lot of the workers before they first rallied outside and then entered the hall where council conducts business. Fuck of a nice group of people. If I were an employer I would be proud to have them around instead of trying to scare them off with a pile of anti-worker bullshit.
I paid close attention to the workers' plant chairman as he addressed everybody outside. He gave a great speech and you could tell his heart was in the right place. Not like the chairman where I work. His heart is in the right place but, like most forest workers, the only place he gives a good speech that is longer than telling the boss to "Fuck off!" is in the bar on Saturday night when most of his audience is half passed out.
Inside council I was reminded right away why nobody would meet with the workers: there is not one working class member among them. It was all free enterprise this and free enterprise that. There was one important piece of business undertaken before I walked out in disgust. A parcel of land was cleared to be taken out of the Agricultural Reserve. Soon as that was done just about everybody in the room who was not a striker picked up their briefcase with a greedy smirk and walked out like they had won the lottery.
The world's technology happy capitalists are not sure about much but they are sure, sure as green shit comes out of the back end of a Canada goose, about one thing: they, by golly, know what the fuck they are doing.
Twice in the last week Dope City's computer guided driverless commuter train network, the very system our technology happy capitalists insisted we buy, expand and "upgrade" over the past three decades, has shut down due to computer failure. Hundreds of thousands of workers in a rush to get home so they can smoke a joint and have a beer have been stranded on both occasions.
Upgrade. That is an often used word by technology happy capitalists. Like most words such people use it means the opposite of what you might expect. It means fuck you so hard you will never forget it.
As usual, I do not know why people do not take to the streets when they get fucked over like this. Remember when people had balls?
20 July 2014
Weekend began like most do at home.
Let the dog out.
Put some music on.
"True To the Blues" and
"Hey, Where's your Brother?"
Filled my digital music player.
An old rock 'n' roller
Fucking death: another dirty ass
Rock 'n' roll motherfucker gone.
18 July 2014
The Hammer has friends. Dog friends. Some from the neighbourhood, some from the trails. Some of her friends are big, some of her friends are small. She prefers her small friends. The ones that sometimes sport bows on their collars and smell of perfume when they are fresh home from a visit to the poodle parlour.
One of her bowed wee smelly friends is in for surgery today. I am pulling for her to make it.
The Hammer does not understand sickness and death like you and I. Most dogs understand the present. Smart dogs know when the weekend is coming. They learn this by watching their master's drinking habits.
15 July 2014
Old boy passed the Hammer and I other day as my dog was nosing a dusty garbage strewn shrub for information only a fucking dog would want to know. Real old boy. I noticed he had a military walk as he walked ahead of us, same walk my grandpa walked, so I sped up my pace so I could try and coax a war story out of him.
"Hey buddy," I said to him once I had closed in some.
"Buddy!" I yelled at him a few more times until I was at last at his side and he had to acknowledge me.
"What do you want?" he asked with a German accent.
"You were in the military when you were young, weren't you?"
He admitted he was.
"Who'd you fight with?" I asked.
He would not say.
Fucking Nazi. Probably thought I was a Nazi hunter when he would not answer me when I had called out to him. Canada proved to be a very safe place for the dirty motherfuckers to hide after their merry-go-round of hate came to a stop. Loads of Hitler's children landed right here in Steepleton.
"Bet you're glad you came to Canada, eh?" Everybody answers that question the same way when you ask them. Fuck yeah. But not this fucker.
"Worst thing I ever did was come to Canada."
Maybe not the worst. Maybe just the worst he would admit to.