21 July 2017
My dad was a soldier. The killing kind. "Good thing Newfoundland joined Canada so I could enlist in the army when I was still young enough for priests to find me attractive or else it would have been a short life on the sea for me."
I, in turn, became a soldier too. The political kind. Always a political fight needing muscle when you are a working class fuck like myself.
Won the last fight we did.
I am not in line for any six figure jobs in the public service.
I am not in line for any job.
I am in line at the liquor store on a Friday afternoon as usual.
The next fight never more than a few ticks distant.
20 July 2017
Mountainside drinks and lunch out of the way, as Sonja and I paid for everything, and we made chit-chat with our winsome server, I said, "Too bad there is not a little record store tucked into a corner of this fucking village."
"There is a board shop you passed near the parking lot that has a corner dedicated to vinyl," our server corrected me.
We were soon there.
Much of what was on offer was as overpriced as fucking near everything else in the so-called village. Bought a 1987 Third World album not in my collection anyway and 1967's "The Explosive" Little Richard which turned out, upon closer inspection, to be a lovely hard to find mono copy worth maybe $200. Not bad for about half an hour's worth of some of the motherfucking best rhythm and blues ever recorded by a man much copied but never equaled.
17 July 2017
14 July 2017
"Old Joe locked horns with somebody on the highway on the way home. Saw him bleeding pretty good from his head when me and Sunny crawled by the wreckage. He already had first aid helping him so we just kept going."
"Highway is a real fucking cunt these days," I complained.
I missed the bloody scene. Old Joe is too nice a guy and too supportive a union brother to deserve a dose of the highway's chaotic justice. I had stopped for a drink on the way home. Been doing that with only a book for company since I started Hubert Selby's "Last Exit To Brooklyn." Best union story ever it is.
About time I fucking retired to reading books and warming bar stools. Before the highway puts me in an early grave.
12 July 2017
The Dope City Free Press has been existence since 2005. "The Fucking North Koreans Just Nuked Us" was the first time we have mentioned the world's favourite gooks. Thought we had better get the mention in before they are all crispy like.
Front room amplifier packed it in after many years of good service. Only the third such front room appliance I have owned in my life.
Ought to buy a new one but I am a cheap fuck so I moved my office amplifier into the front room. It is a used one, bought a few years ago for about $50. The good sound I was getting out of the Polk bookshelf speakers in the office was no mistake. Clear as a mountain creek it is.
Motherfucker is loud too. Twice as loud as the recently deceased one. An amplifier to fuck the neighbours with. Hell, if I open up the windows early one morning and play the last bit Wire's "Pink Flag" half my city will think the fucking North Koreans just nuked us.
10 July 2017
Caught "Monterey Pop" (the newly restored version) in Dope City Saturday night. Just Sonja and I.
Pre-movie meal at La Casita. We felt good before we sat down. Once done with a couple pitchers of margaritas we reached the point where you do not get to feel any better. Then we ordered one more pitcher.
"We should do this more often," Sonja coo'd.
I concurred. Next morning we both thought better of the idea. Tequila. Talk about pleasure and pain.
Film was a real treat for the ears. The Who, Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix impressed me the most, same way they did when I first saw the film on tv fucking near 50 years ago, but it was the Jefferson Airplane singing in my head when I woke in the morning.
I have records by all the people who played that festival. Over a hundred of them surely.
A little sex, acid and rock 'n' roll never hurt anybody.
9 July 2017
Spotted a man trip and fall near home today. Drunk. Looked like he hit his head. I stopped to see if there was anything I could do for him.
We chatted for a spell as he lay there in the middle of the road getting his shit together. I did my best to assess just how fucked up he was as we did so. He was plenty fucked up.
"I'm going to my girlfriend's," he explained. "She is going to suck me dusty. Dusty as a Cariboo dirt road."
"Think she'll do me too?" I asked.
He tried to focus on me, somewhat successfully, when I asked him that.
"Fuck, yes," he concluded. "She'll blow a God damn corpse if she's paid to."
People drove slowly by, others peered from their windows or their well kept lawns, no one offered to help.
I helped the old boy up. He brushed himself off. He thanked me for my assistance.
Drunks, I again observed, are one fuck of a lot nicer than most people.
The drunk aimed himself towards his blow job and slowly propelled himself forward.
7 July 2017
Old movies. I like them more than ever and not just the Marx Brothers ones (the movies that made me the man I am today) I watched lots when I was a young one.
I like a wide variety of old movies but there is one genre I appreciate more than others. Surf movies.
How the fuck can you beat a surf movie. Lots of bikinis, lots of dancing, lots of rock 'n' roll.
Hoochie-koo, motherfuckers, I am riding the wild surf!