Mary Jane You Are Reborn Hard

I was just thinking of that.  Reading again and hearing again about the outfall, the continuing developing story, the “strange and terrible saga”, the weird turnaround for cannibis sativa on the greatest planet in the solar system, Colorado.  How things are going now that Washington State has developed new ideas about right and wrong.  And that’s strong, followers.  That’s strong medicine.  There’s something wonderful about America.  I wish someone would figure out what it is.  But it’s out there.  It’s out there.

I remember when a “lid” was seven dollars.  $7.  It wasn’t bad.  It was all right.  It was all there was and when you bought your tenth bag you got one free.  All the dope was sort of flaky, not sticky.  It was Mexican marijuana, unless it was from around Powell River and some of those places where the pot grew like Christmas trees.

Thai-stick.  This was deadly stuff.  You could.  You really could.  Get interested in throwing a stupid thing like a “Frisbee” for way too long.  It came on little four inch bamboo sticks with a bamboo strand holding the goods together.  It was good.  And it came from a place called “Thailand”.  That was an exotic country and you felt cool, and really wrecked, and it was new.

Thai-stick was a lot more like the excellent stuff that’s around today.  It blew your head off.  I mean that figuratively.  Figuratively.  BC bud.  Pretty darn famous as the best.  So proud.

The beastly bud mostly doesn’t grow in the ground as far as I’ve heard.  Never been in a modern grow-op.  All I know is I get my stuff from a gentleman who has good stuff.  I swear by grass.  It’s nice and green.  I like the look.  There’s nothing like a brilliant patch of green grass in the sun.

I feel sorry for all the people who were damaged by the law because of sweet Mary Jane.  That’s right.  You can talk about absurdities, but if you have to live them, and suffer, Mary didn’t know anything about it.  I’m just a plant.  A weed, darn it, that grows in the darn ground.  I’m not going to jail, or submit to some sort of bullcrap fine.  I’m Mary Jane!

Are there people still in jail in the great USA for possession of weed?  Ah, they probably did more than that.  But I remember those fantastical tales of some poor Texan getting 20 years or something for pot.  Great, cruel state of Texas.  That was the story.  Sorry about that, prisoner.  Born in the wrong time.

Weed shops are growing like bakeries.  It does need controlling.  But by the good guys.  And girls.  Time and again it’s been shown that there’s nothing worse than something getting out of control.

The anti-weed brigades have retired or died off.  They got smoked out.  Why couldn’t they realize a lot of things are just a passing fancy?  Weed may die out.  But it shouldn’t be illegal.


“I wonder what they do in there?”  Now, come on.  1 hour parking?  You gotta be kidding.  Oh, oh.  I see.  It’s just a “dispensary”.  I have to check this place out.



With apologies to Gustav Hasford

Gun Crazy

The security guard was upset. And so he should have been. An armed guard had been shot four times that morning in Toronto. He’d survived and was in hospital. The security guard heard about it on his break and when I got back from lunch asked if I could bring the story up on my phone at my next break.  I did that before the break, and passed him the phone.  After reading the story, when we had a moment, he said, “That’s the company I used to work for.”

I knew what he meant because there’s a lot of companies I used to work for.  But I never worked for one where you carry a deadly weapon and also someone might try to use one on you.  I never did that, so I’m always interested in people who have.  Why not?

We chatted a bit in another brief conversation a bit later that afternoon.  It was up near the high-end Napa Valley stuff.  Good stuff.  The guard talked about working for that company and told me a short story about being on the firing range, practising with the standard issue Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.

He’d forgot his speed loader and the boss was ticked because it was supposed to be part of the training session.  How to get more rounds into the weapon speedily.  Before they kill you.  I looked it up later.  I was getting an idea of what it’s like to do that, to “pack” or “carry” a gun, all those clichés.  It’s not always really well paid and can be mostly routine and very ordinary and job-like and not always really well respected.  Until the day comes when somebody starts shooting at you.

Smith & Wesson .38It’s a serious subject.  ‘We know the power of the gun.  We wear the scars of the violence.’

‘Gun Crazy’ is a very good film.  It’s older than me.  I remember right here and now, right off the top of my head, ‘I just like guns.’  Good old B&W feature.

There’s been gun violence in my neighbourhood, and probably in yours.  Maybe not.  The people doing the shooting don’t think about it as ‘gun violence’.  It’s strange to hear from someone in the same work situation as you that he used to work for a company where people get shot.  I never did that.  It needs repeating.

I’m reminded, I don’t know why, of the police constable from right around here in our town, who lost his gun.  VPD. I can’t remember if he got it back or what, but it was one of these.  I found it for him.  I’ve had it on file it for awhile.  The much traveled Sig Sauer P225.

Sig Saier P225

I was also reminded, in the midst of all this gun craziness, of a TV news item already quite a few years ago but I’ve never forgot it, of a police arrest of a youth, a young man out in Surrey, who didn’t look like he was more than 12.  He had a loaded nickel plated .45 pistol on his young person.  I remember thinking, ‘What the heck is it with that?’  I looked up ‘nickel plated’ later.

Almost immediately there were stories about the Toronto heist fail and the goofy, deadly goons including courtroom sketches.  Three young men.  Not old enough to drink or vote and, apparently, the second time they tried.  Well get on with it lads!  Why not?

So it’s come to this. The end of the post about guns.  They’re beautiful, really.  They’ve got style and sophistication.  They carry some weight and that feels good in your hand.  I’ve experienced that part.

All right hold it down.  I know, I know.  You need to see what a nickel plated .45 looks like.  Especially after all this.

350px-NickelPlatedM1911A1The kid.  The child.  With this beautiful weapon under his little plaid shirt. Sheesh-ya!  Stay in touch!

less later…

 Boundary Pass




It Just Gets Weirder

That’s right.  If you can say it you can do it. Everything’s a mystery now.  You just don’t know what’s coming next but at least you’ve realized that’s how it should be, instead of fighting it.  It just flows.  You don’t want to die.  You try to be on time.  It takes guts to do anything after all you’ve learned, but punctuality is the main thing when you come up here.  Your girlfriend may not be on time but you have to be.  If you aren’t she’ll beat your head in.  Word of caution.  Never, ever have an 80 year old girlfriend.  It’s terribly difficult to explain.

I’ve figured something out.  There comes a time in everyone’s life when you need it.  You need it but more importantly it needs you, and even if you didn’t need it, you’d want to be around for your girlfriend.  He always has whatever you need.

Get out the ‘writing helper.’  Because it’s too late, and you can’t do this anymore.  You’re not ‘getting and spending’ and that quote from Dr Johnson haunts you.  ‘Nobody but a low-down, filthy con-artist ever wrote for anything but money.’  So what’s going on here?

Fact is I like it here because nobody bothers me.  I get very few mentions and there’s something else.  I’m powerless, really, to effect change.  Have no illusions.  You can do everything right and no one will notice.  Why should they?  Who are they, anyway?  It’s not about content, it’s about the triumph of ephemerality.  It’s about mastery of the inconsequential.

Allen Wrenches.  What do you know about this guy?  He’s a tool.  He’s a pistol.  I figure my girlfriend’ll know about this clown and we’ll have our solution.  My girlfriend has tools that have tools.  Incredibly well connected.  And I need something so here I go.  I despise tools.  I won’t have one in the house.


It’s a nice drive up to the old sod in slumbering Point Grey.  Everything’s been planted here long ago.  A lot of houses are disappearing in the face of thundering new houses.  The sod went up in 1913 but will be staying on as long as my girlfriend’s around.  We down a kilt-lifter to kick things off then move on to Señor Wrenches.  He’s got a lot of friends in an old salad dressing jar.  I remember this line of salad dressings.  They used to locate in the produce section, not in the salad dressing aisle, so they were special.  The jar is brim with the tool in all its many sizes.  I don’t know what I’m doing so take the whole jar.  There’s a problem at home with a tap and before we send in the plumbers we’re pledged to try a fix ourselves.

We talk irrelevancies, my girlfriend and I, then I drive away.  Down the hill I try everything in the bottle but the fishhook circa 1937, but nothing works.  We just can’t do it.  A part’s coming from Barrie, Ontario and if it don’t get here soon even Russell Crowe won’t help.  To rinse a glass is to take a bath.  I forget the rest.  What’s a fish hook doing in a jar of wrenches?  Thought about that one too.  It’s about as sensible as anything else around here.

The thing is you try.  You try and fail and you try again and fail again.  Then you try again and fail again.  So what’s it about?  It’s about failure.  I think it was C. States, in  a slightly different context, who uncovered that gem.  Failure will admit of no solution but success will.  Let’s drop some big likes on that idea.  I’m ready.