22 August 2014
Just back from some well deserved time away from the fucking mill. More on that later. Firstly, however, I have this.
What is the difference between a Muslim loon beheading a white man and a fucking pig shooting an unarmed black man to death?
Absolutely nothing, as War once sang.
Sing it again.
4 August 2014
I have gotten away some this summer but not near enough. I like living in Steepleton well enough but, like most places, you cannot get out of it fast enough when the time comes.
That is how our planet came to be choked with human beings I guess. That and we like to fuck a great deal. If we were not chasing down food and fighting or running from enemies we were getting bored of our surroundings, thinking of striking out somewhere new, like the motherfuckers from Star Trek.
There is nowhere new to go now. We have known this since the going to the moon days. Trouble is once we got to the moon it turned out to be just slightly less lively than a Steepleton Saturday night.
Now Mars has become the Western Lands awaiting our arrival, awaiting its first hamburger stand, its first pusher, prison and professional sports team.
Steepleton had its summer fair this weekend. I have been before. It is alright. Did not go this year but I saw some of the people it attracts around town. Rodeo types. Like the people I grew up with in Sliverville. They would like it on Mars and I would pay them to go there.
2 August 2014
Learned Paul St. Pierre died this week. Among Canadian writers I would rank only the late George Woodcock ahead of him. If you have not read all his books you really ought to. My favourite is "In the Navel of the Moon," a poetic story about Mexico and its and our place in the ongoing war crime we know as the war on drugs.
St. Pierre was the best story teller I have ever come across. Better, even, than Bukowski, if only because he, unlike Bukowski, got the fuck out of America and chose Canada as his home. We have lots to write about up here and my country is so much more than the cesspool Bukowski inhabited although we are sure as fuck headed in that very direction.
It would not be an understatement to say the Dope City Free Press would never have existed if I had not enrolled in a creative writing class, one of many he put on out here in the motherfucking sticks, St. Pierre put on near my home after he retired from Dope City's slowly dying newspaper of record. I have only ever taken two writing classes since I turned my life over to the great sawmills of my land. His was the second.
I wrote him a few years back to thank him for helping me and letting him know what I was doing. He seemed pleased.
Now I think I will go drink that scotch that helps me when people I like die.
31 July 2014
I had let the dog in and out. The Hammer was on the floor hoping I was going to phone in sick. I was at the kitchen table drinking coffee in my underwear. The Hammer knows there is always a chance I will stay home until she sees me pulling my work clothes on.
The Hammer got up as I rose and emptied my Millwall mug into my liquor ravaged gut. I walked over the same warm area she had vacated. As I did so I noticed a slimy sensation on my left foot. A slug had hitched a ride on the dog into the house and I had stepped on it.
Black one. Not too big.
If it had been a big one I would have vomited.
Somehow I had not killed it. It looked up at me with his half squished slug eyes.
He was not happy with me. Nor I with it.
I picked him up in a piece of paper towel and threw him out the window to Freedom.
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.