8 March 2014
Seeing a few young punk rock bands last weekend reminded me how much I love rock 'n' roll.
My life would have been so Albertan without its noisy anti-authouritarian presence.
Then again I would still have Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and Anne Murray.
And an 8-track in the Cadillac (the one with whips, furs and cold beer in the back).
5 March 2014
For those of you still balanced on the fence like a drunk cat about how you feel about Pussy Riot and their distaste for Vladimir Putin I hope you are feeling like having a big stinking pussy riot of your own in light of Russia's recent American-like military behaviour.
Fuck the USA.
Go Pussy Riot!
Freedom! There ain't no fucking Freedom!
2 March 2014
Went to a good old hockey game Friday night with Jimi. Sonja dropped us off at the hockey rink Steepleton is never going to pay for without holding one fuck of a lot of bake sales. Belsen was better and more enthusiastically attended than hockey games in my tight walleted city.
It was one of our AHL team's many cheap beer nights but the novelty of that promotion appears to have pretty much worn off. There is more life in a fucking zombie movie than you will find in our infamous rink you would hear even more negative shit about if my city was not so fucking busy chasing homeless people around like Elmer Fudds chasing Bugs Bunnies.
We forewent the cheap beer instead helping to finish off the limited supply of Jack and Coke on hand. The hockey (or was it the whisky?) was particularly good even with the home team having recently lost a couple of it's best young talents to it's parent club in Motherfucking, Alberta.
We left halfway through the final period when the whisky ran out and we had shaved about $200 off what our fellow citizens get charged each year for the pleasure of having a money losing hockey club in town. Perhaps we make up the money in the tourist visits generated by having our boys travel around America in their Steepleton jerseys. (Pardon the sarcasm. Steepleton has not had a tourist since we drained the lake that once attracted duck hunters from all over fucking near 100 years ago.)
Cabbed to a club from the rink to catch a few punk rock bands and get us some more Jack. Club started putting on rock shows every couple weeks or so but we had yet to check it out. $10 to get in. Every band as smoking hot as the Ukraine. We were easily the oldest motherfuckers there but everybody was real nice to us.
We only found out we were drinking with the headline act's singer when he took the stage. Guess you could say he drank us under the table. That has never happened before. "The years must be fucking catching up with us," was how Jimi summed it up the next morning.
Sonja found the two of us passed out on the living room floor with the Hammer in the morning. She was looking at us like a nurse looks at twin jellyfish babies when we woke up in the morning.
"You boys have fun last night?" she asked.
24 February 2014
Would have been a black mark on the Hockey name if I had not woke to the Hell's bells of my alarm clock at 4:00 AM to watch Canada kick the motherfucking shit out of the hopeful, hopeless Swedes who really ought to change the colours of their flag from yellow and blue to black and blue. A younger Beer would stayed up all night. That is not me any more except when I am camping.
Snow was falling outside. The Hammer and I accepted its cold invitation to play as soon as the medals were draped over my countrymen's deserving necks.
Thought we would be the first visitors to scar our nearest park's six inch deep virgin pow but I was wrong. Couple of young neighbourhood love birds had already half finished a snow fort which my dog signalled her approval of with a warm stream of piss.
"You must have been watching the game too," the top of the pair guessed educatedly.
"Every fucking minute of it," I nodded.
We were pretty nonchalant about our country's hockey team's success. No fucking way the once logging toughened, now computer literate Swedes were going to do anything but lose.
Just another golden dream Canadian Day the rest of the world dreams of waking up to.
At home I finished off the bottle of Arran's cream liqueur (highly recommended by the way) Sonja and I had fortified a couple morning pots of coffee with during the game and then slept the rest of the morning.
As I slept I dreamed of yet another golden day four years from now in motherfucking Korea.
23 February 2014
Never did see the fucking Who much as I liked them back in my crocodile rocking days. Got all their records. "By Numbers" has always been my favourite. Same record has my favourite song of their's on it: "Squeeze Box." Some seriously rocking shit that is.
Seeing as last night I had had enough of the Olympics for one day (just about half the sawmill phoned in sick to watch Canada grind America's hockey medal hopes into coke like powder) I put up the $5.99 my cable provider charges to watch a 1975 presentation of the fucking Who live in Texas.
After a couple of tossed off early hits of their's and a horrendous stab at "Squeeze Box" the boys hit their stride and put on quite a show. Just a flare clad band, some lights and a little over 100 db of good rocking.
Sonja told me about her trip to see them and the Clash at the Kingdome over 30 years ago. "We drank those big oil cans of Fosters we bought just as soon as we cleared customs all the way to Seattle. We could not have been more fucked up by show time. It was like camping. Best rock shows ever for me. It was like the Clash's last show ever and the Who were teaching DOA how to retire but only retire for maybe 5 seconds before booking your next tour. Too bad America has turned into such a motherfucking disco cesspool. That country used to rock like fucking England."
17 February 2014
Went out for Indian Friday night. Nothing more lovely for Valentine's than waking up the next day than the old fart sack smelling like stale beer drool and curry stained pyjamas.
Sonja and I had made reservations so we were taken straight to our table. Did not take long before Sonja had a bottle of red and a long stemmed glass before her and I had a 500 ml bottle of Tiger in front of me.
We were hungry and ready to put in our order. A couple sitting nearby, sensing our impatience, began to chat with us. "Don't worry. You should not have to wait for more than a couple, maybe three, hours more," the scruffy male at the table told us. His wife/girlfriend laughed and said, "He did not have that beard when we got here."
"Beard, Hell," the gentleman said, "I had not even reached puberty yet."
The restaurant was, we noticed, understaffed on the front side and probably just as short of help on the backside. People kept coming in until all the tables were full and the phone rang off the hook like the place was the only whorehouse in town and a navy ship had just docked.
It was Valentine's Day, Sonja and I reasoned, bound to be delays. We drank and we drank. Those Tigers are not half bad.
Other customers, some people refuse to allow a table full of liquor to keep them happy when they are waiting, were getting right pissed off however. Table after table began expressing their anger with owner and her sole waitress and then leaving in a huff, the way Canuck fans did when the Bruins beat them in game seven a few years ago.
Soon Sonja was on her second bottle and I into my fourth Tiger. It was then we noticed the Indian customers who had come in well after we had were being served their food before us.
The cunts were discriminating against us. "It's like that old Johnny Thunders song," I told Sonja, "'Just Because I'm White Doesn't Mean You Have To Treat Me Like A Nigger.'"
A fifth Tiger.
Then a sixth
I was not even hungry by the time our food finally arrived. It was splendid however. Worth every minute of the wait.
We did not tip which is exceedingly rare for us and we had a polite, if somewhat slurred, word with the owner, who we know, before we left.
Never going to spend another dime in that racist establishment.
12 February 2014
10 February 2014
Movie night last night. We have started going out more often to have such nights. Guess the digital loan of a movie from our cable provider is a poor replacement for the videos we used to rent from video stores even though such digital loans are cheaper, require no standing in line behind smelly people to purchase or gas for the car to transport it home and back to the store again.
Before the movie we had dinner at Famoso's for the first time. Had a vegan Neapolitan pizza and many tap Peronis. Busy little joint. Attentive service, great pizza, great beer. Will not be long before we are back there.
Saw "Labor Day." Josh Brolin and Kate Winslet. Sonja looks forward to every Josh Brolin movie. One Hollywood starlet is pretty much the same to me since Goldie Hawn stopped making movies.
It is about a prisoner who escapes and lovingly bangs a single mom while he hides out from the authourities. No close ups of the banging however. It is just a good old Hollywood feature about a good/bad man banging a woman who needs a good/bad man in her life.
Sonja liked it. I thought it dull.
How many of you have seen a musical act over 200 times? Probably none of you. Readers of the Dope City Free Press are a sensible lot after all.
Unlike this fine publication's writer, editor, millwright and bartender.
Friday night - my 213th ticket to see DOA.
DOA? Thought they had retired? Think again motherfuckers.
Same as 35 years ago the evening began the day before at the liquor store. Cannot have a beer (bought from a union shop) in the shower before you go out if you do not go to the liquor store the day before the party starts.
You do not drink beer in the shower? Again, that is very sensible of you. Could slip and fall after all. Try having a beer while you are having a hot bath. Safety first.
Sonja had got off work early and was enjoying a bottle of acclaimed British Columbian red while I was washing the sawdust out of my ears.
"Glad it is the long weekend?" she asked.
No shit. Giving the workers another day off with pay is the only good thing the Liberals have done for my class since they began ruling for the bosses over a decade ago. Re-legalizing happy hour this spring will be the second such good thing they have done. Just like the fucking Canucks, even the fucking Liberals score a goal now and then.
Jimi was sitting on his porch with an open six pack when we got to his place. Some people are right at home sitting in temperatures meant to keep your beer your cold. Jimi is one of those people. If I did not know his parents were religious folk I would not be surprised to learn he was born in a walk in beer cooler.
Jimi has seen DOA around 200 times as well. We like our rock loud, proud and Anarchist.
He had a slightly more crazy than usual look in his eye as he walked toward the car and got in. "You want some mushrooms?" he asked as he pulled a bag half full of dried hallucinogenic caps from his black leather jacket.
We dug in. Cannot fly with one wing, motherfuckers.
The mushrooms were beginning to do their pupil dilating work when we got to Hunky Z and Kitty's place. Hunky was disappointed to learn we had already taken some mushrooms and had lots more to top up our high when the first dose began to wear off sometime before midnight.
"But they're aminitas!" he protested as he shaked his own carefully picked bag.
"We just want to get high - not be the first Canadians to walk on Mars," Jimi explained unconvincingly. We have all been to Mars many times. It is overrated.
After a couple drinks we were on our way to the East End. Parked in front of the Rickshaw. $3 for the evening - cannot do that downtown.
On our way to our favourite pre-rockshow East End restaurant we were both asked for money and offered drugs. We should have been the ones selling the drugs. Do mushrooms go good with heroin? In the East End I am pretty sure everything goes good with heroin. Everything but living.
Aging Youth Gang footed the bill. I have seen them often over the years too. Played the Strangler's "No More Heroes." Do not hear that piece of Guildford sentimentality for revolutionary good times on the radio very fucking often.
We drank our beer. Tall Tecates and stubby Canadian ales.
Jenny, big motherfucking Albertans, were next. Joe from DOA signed them a year or more back. I had assumed the band members all had tits. Couple of them did. Big hairy ones. Tight band of three guitars, bass and drum. Once in a while one of the hairy tittied guitar players tinkled on a keyboard. Found myself down front giving them a fair listen. Great rhythm section - sharper than Rob Ford and Justin Bieber's critics combined. I liked them - they played David Bowie's "Suffragette City" - never heard that live before - but not enough to buy their record. We are a tough crowd to please this side of the Rockies.
Ask the Canucks.
Ford Pier's Vengeance sang their Difficult Listening Hour set of songs before DOA, a band that will only ever be stopped with an elephant gun, took the stage. Ford is a funny guy. If he had been born in Victoria he would have been in No Means No. I wish I had the energy he possesses. (We are nearabouts the same age.) I would have to do speed to even get close to his teenage moves. Besides his quirky originals his band played Stiff Little Fingers' "Alternative Ulster." Nice.
Everybody in the old kung-fu movie palace was getting pissed as Albertan's at a mid-summer pro oil spill wiener roast country western jamboree. Mexican beer never fails me that is for fucking sure. That and the second dose of mushrooms had me feeling like maybe I was still in my '30s or something.
DOA took the stage and everybody began their Romper Room punk rock dancing. Good to be in a fucked up crowd, somewhat light on numbers because some people do not like DOA saying they are done but never being done, so ecstatic. Band was loud as ever. Joe doing his rock star guitar moves even though we was in a walking boot.
It was all good until somebody more fucked up than us and twice as big ran over Kitty. Planted her face into the dance floor pretty hard. When she came up a beer can was lodged into the side of her face tighter than a wad of chewing gum on the frozen Hastings sidewalk.
I am the first aid guy so it was up me to rip it from Kitty's face. If the band was not so loud her screams would have woke up quite a few neighbours in a neighbourhood that does wake up for that sort of thing too much.
We bailed after that. But not before Sonja told me, "You and Jimi wait until that asshole leaves and mess him up out in the street worse than Kitty."
Hunky Z and Sonja took Kitty to the hospital for a few stitches. If they heal well she will not need plastic surgery. Missed the last half of the show. Hope that was not the last time I saw DOA.
Jimi and I hung out by the bar at the back of the hall and waited for the big drunk cunt who smashed Kitty down to leave the show. We followed him and his buddies from a discreet distance until the big fucking man who hurt my sister split off from them. Shitkicked the booze-fucked defenseless motherfucker up pretty bad. We were born in Sliverville after all. Nobody fucks with our crew. Told him why but I doubt he will remember.
East End justice. Sometimes it is the only answer for assholes like that.