1 February 2015
Sonja and I had tickets to see DOA and a couple other bands at Steepleton Bandstand on Friday night. I am a geezer and Sonja is well on her way to becoming one but we still like to blow it out on Friday nights instead of getting drunk in front of the fucking television every so often.
When I got home from work however I could see our plans had changed. Sonja was already home from work herself, was on the couch and not looking happy.
"I have the fucking flu," she snuffled.
On the table in front of her were a pretty box of tissues, a bag three quarters filled with snot loaded used ones and enough medication to eradicate ebola in Africa for the next 100 years.
"Obviously I am not going anywhere tonight. You go on without me," she rasped at me like a creature out of a late Friday night television creep show.
Sonja is a lot of things but best of all she is a sport.
I got washed up, ate dinner, had a couple triples and headed out to the rock show.
Got there early enough to have a word with Joe (the guts of DOA since 1978 in case you are not up to snuff on your punk rock history) and meet the new guys in the band before they sound checked. My first impression of them, a long hair on drums and a recently homeless guy from Steepleton on bass, was positive but they were both clearly out of their minds - you would have to be to join DOA, everybody but Joe that has been in the band for more than five minutes having now been planted, if ceremoniously, in the punk rock graveyard.
Joe was clearly still sad about DOA's latest addition to that punk rock graveyard, as am I. Only the slow ticking bomb of time and a fair amount of liquor can get a man over that shit.
The joint soon began to fill up with Steepleton's hard core never say die rock 'n' rollers. People talk a lot of shit about my city that we do not give a shit about because we may look (and smell) like a pin dick hick town but we are just as Rock City as Detroit ever was.
Two of the early arrivals were a couple women I know from my gym. More than half my age they are. Tonight was going to be fun after all. I motioned them over and got them each a drink. It would be expensive keeping those drinks filled as the night progressed but it still ended up being cheaper than keeping something cold and fizzy in front of Sonja all night.
"Aren't you a little old to be out rocking on Friday night Beer?" the one wearing a t-shirt that said SHUT UP AND FUCK on the front and the back said to thank me for the drink.
Her friend, wearing black leather pants that did not need the words SHUT UP AND FUCK printed on them in big letters let out a little "hee hee" about that. Like us old people are only here for their amusement.
I am old but I am not dead yet.
Like I do to most everybody I meet I do not know real well I asked both my new punk rock buddies who their first concert was. One said Britney Spears. The other the Backstreet Boys.
I fucking near puked.
"Unless you count the time my parents took both of us to see Burton Cummings and Randy Bachman to the hockey rink when it opened," one of them added when she saw the look of nausea on my face.
Saved by the bell sisters.
Band called the Injectors started things off. Brilliant they were. Noisy as a head saw hitting granite embedded in a tree.
Next was the Jolts. Even more brilliant. And even more loud. Like a foreman tearing a new one for a lazy trainee on a Monday morning after his beloved sizzleless Canucks had lost a pair on the weekend.
DOA were brilliant too. Played all my faves and something I had never heard from them before - "Brand New Cadillac." They were even louder yet. Louder than the next Stanley Cup Riot.
Everybody had fun and there were not any fights. Like a punk rock night in 1979 before the skins fucked it up for everybody. Made me proud I joined the fight to save rock 'n' roll from disco, urban cowboys and itself when I was still a bored teenager.
It is called the Spirit of '76. Get yourself some, motherfuckers.
It's free, liquor not included.
29 January 2015
Thought I would watch the news from Seattle. People, it would seem, are pretty fucking stoked about their football team's chances on Sunday. The only stories not related to football to make the broadcast concerned police brutality (a long fought Anarchist cause Americans have grown mighty fond of), chemical spills and the lack of snow in the mountains.
One of the football related stories caught this old Anarchist's attention. A marijuana business down there is cashing in on Shithawk fever by selling 12 packs of joints. Cannot roll the motherfuckers fast enough.
This contrasts strikingly with Canada where you would think an Iranian mullah has been Prime Minister for the past several years.
We really have to kick out the Tories. Fuckers do not even have one foot in the 21st Century when we need leadership from the streets, the shop floor, the boardrooms and, yes, the fucking government with two feet planted in the right fucking here in the right fucking now.
27 January 2015
Had this old amplifier sitting around for decades. Hitachi, once a trusted Jap brand. Decided I might as well make use of it and an old Sansui turntable that had been sitting around for just about as long so I went to the store to buy some speakers so I could hook all the shit up in my office.
Too motherfucking much! Is what I thought to myself when the salesman told me how much the ones I like would set me back.
Bought a pair of used ones instead. Toshibas from 1977. Weigh fucking near 50 pounds each. Got them reconditioned. Lovely sounding they are. Cost me a third of what I would have paid for a new set.
Once everything was hooked up I realized the amplifier and turntable had to go. Found a used amp. Technics from 1997. 100 watts a channel and it is laser disc compatible! (Shows how fast shit changes these days.) Got a new turntable. Audio Technica.
Found a cd player for ten bucks. A twin cassette player/recorder for the same.
Never had two stereos before. I felt richer than the old cocksucker who owns Wal-Mart when I turned it all on and watched it light up like an airport runway.
My office is now louder than the Smiling Buddha ever was. All for about the same amount it costs me to drive by my local auto mechanic.
First record I played was The Who's "I Can See For Miles." The record, one of my oldest, once played on my parent's old console, quarter keeping the stylus in the groove, in my spidery rock 'n' roll basement bedroom.
Sweden's The Rude Kids were right. Punk will never die! Never die! Never die!
26 January 2015
Caught a wee bit of Jerry Lee Lewis' appearance at a car auction tv show on the weekend. His '59 FLH, given to him by the factory and rode, soberly I am sure, a good many miles was going under the gavel.
Sang "Great Balls of Fire" in a white trash jacket. Voice sounded like it was coming from a distant, well heated corner of the afterlife. Can still play the piano like a fucking champ. Made me feel happy to see and hear him what with all the other much younger rock 'n' rollers dropping dead on a near daily basis.
Keep on rocking you old hillbilly motherfucker.
25 January 2015
18 January 2015
Reggie is the man my mom has been shacked up with for about as long as Sonja has been living with my dogs and I. Took mom a while to find Reggie after she split with Beer Senior. Sometimes it takes time to make good shit happen.
Reggie is the man I hope to be when (and if) I make it to Retirement. He enjoys life: drinks, shares my mom's pills when she has some good ones and never turns down a joint when one needs smoking.
He phoned me yesterday.
"Why the fuck aren't you writing?" he asked.
I was hoping no one would ask. It is a long story but I do not write many long stories. I will make it short.
"New Years Day Sonja was not feeling so good so I went to the pub by myself. Even took a cab there I was so fucked up from partying the night before. People in the pub were fucking animals as one must be to be drinking, and drinking heavily, on New Years Day. One drink led to another until I was quite blotto."
"You drink like that all the time and still manage to write fucking near every day," Reggie interjected.
"I'm not fucking finished," I told him somewhat wearily. "When it was time to go home one of the old boys offered me and several other fucking drunks a ride home. For some reason I bought a case of beer to go home with. I had shitloads of beer at home but I bought some more which would have been fine if the old boy had not crashed his car after he had dropped off everybody but me. I had the case of beer in my lap and when the airbags showed up to save our ass from sudden death it shot the case of beer straight into my hands cutting them up like shredded paper. I've been in too much pain to write."
Never think everybody else can drive drunk as good as you can - not unless you do not want to return to the sawmill for several weeks once Christmas holidays are over..
"That's the only reason you haven't been writing?" Reggie asked disbelievingly. "I'll be right over."
When he arrived he fixed me up with some of my mom's pills. I like to think of alcohol as a writer's best friend. Pills might just be better.
31 December 2014
Watched Woody Allen's "Magic In the Moonlight" a couple nights ago on my big motherfucking television. (I still cannot believe, much less get used to, how big televisions have become.) Word of the movie had not reached me until then. I could not be more out of touch if I lived in Alberta. I would surely be more out of it but that is quite another story.
It looked like a magnificently shot movie. Effortlessly magnificent. That's Woody for you. Wished I had seen it in a theater right away. Both Sonja and I lacked the clear-headedness to appreciate the movie that night however. So much dialogue! Woody's films mirror what real life used to be - before our smartphones turned us all into fucking zombies. People never used shut the fuck up. We used to yack-yack-yack. Now we click-click-click. The human race's potential to become bigger and bigger assholes is fucking limitless.
So I watched the movie again this morning aided by the clarity a pot of sweet black speed brings. It is the usual, by now well worn, metaphor for Woody's life. The man is such a magnificent fucking pig.
You simply must watch it. Maybe not tonight - you will be too shitfaced - but soon. It is worth watching for the observatory scene alone.
25 December 2014
On Christmas morning I awake before Sonja. The day I do not it will be too late to call 911. The dog is happy to see me but she does not move from the warm spot she has created; just wags her tail and looks at me with her I have been a good dog all year Christmas morning eyes.
Put some tea on. Prince of Peace organic tea. Some Christian loons down in California import it from China. Lovely drink it is. I suggest you search for it if you are the tea drinking kind. Not the strong English tea I generally prefer. It is a subtler refreshing brew.
After a couple cups I shall take the dog out into the cold and, shortly thereafter, Sonja will awake and Christmas will have officially begun. I will brew more tea and look forward to seeing both my family and Sonja's. The Hockeys and Sonja's family do not fuck around.
As Handsome Dick Manitoba still sings this time of year, "The motherfucking Christmas party starts now!"
Fa La La La La La La La.
Carolers came by this Christmas Eve. Wee ones. Girls about 10 I suppose.
Fa La La La La La La La.
They knocked, thinking I would like to hear them better I guess. I took hold of the Hammer by her collar. She only likes people she knows knocking on our door. Fuck knows what she thinks about people singing Fa La La La La La La La.
I opened the door. The Hammer, to my surprise, sang along.
Grrr Grrr Grrr Grrr Grrr Grrr Grrr Grrr.
Me and the Hammer do think real kindly of Christians. Think of them what most people around here think about people who film themselves videotaping beheadings for all the world to see. Same shit, different shitpile, as we say at the sawmill.
Girls kept right on singing. Did not stop smiling or back up one hello kitty sneaker. Little jamhands think they are martyrs or something.
When they finished their Fa La La La La La La Las I asked them, "You want some money or something?"
"No," I was told. "If want to help someone out this Christmas I'm sure you can figure that out on your own."
Christians who did not want money or my soul to add to Jesus' collection? What is the world coming to?
24 December 2014
Put two big hits into my Christmas mainline yesterday. Both of them from, and associated with, New York's World Fair which set up there in 1964.
The first was "The Real Jamaica" a ska compilation sold at the live ska festival held within the confines of the Fair. I have some old ska in my collection, there are times its unique rhythm is the only thing that will do. I found a cd re-mastering of the original album. Brilliant shit that when soon mixed with large quantities of ganja and rebellion gave us reggae.
Find yourself some old ska, motherfuckers. And dance.
The second was the "Magic Trip" documentary about Ken Kesey and the Merry Prankster's bus trip to the '64 Fair that year. I always had a lot of time for the Pranksters and read a lot about them but this is a case of the movie being better than the books. Motorhead punkrocker me especially had a lot of time for Neal Cassady, the driver of the bus. Modeled my life after the crazy motherfucker in many ways but I had the good sense to take my foot off the gas so I would not die much younger than I ought to like he did.
Where the Pranksters fucked up when they got to New York was wasting their time with Leary. They ought to have shared some acid, and the recipe, with the ska crowd. Fuck knows what may have come of a meeting of those two sub-cultures.
I was still skating on the horizon to horizon hockey rink of the Canadian Prairies in '64. Still believing it was fucking Santa who brought me a new hockey stick, some books and flannel pyjamas at Christmas. It was a magic motherfucking year, was 1964.