Drunken teens and oil barrens

Sunday morning, 7 a.m., the penultimate day of June, the free lance writer – that’s what they call me here, freelance writer and postal worker (he shoots first and writes later) – sits in front of his keyboard, as the sun rises in the sky over the valley of the Stave River.

At campgrounds throughout the area, campers are awakening to put the coffee on the Coleman stove and clean up the beer bottles and other detritus from the night before, some of it left by the campground cretins who drink and whoop it up ’til all hours. May they all be molested by bears.

That same afternoon, TW and I took the dogs down to the Railway Trail that travels along Hayward Lake. When we arrived at the site, the parking lot was near full and the area was crawling with young people celebrating, it seemed, Drunken Teen Day.

On our way down the trail to one of two beaches, we passed several of our nation’s future leaders in various stages of intoxication, one young woman in a white bikini swaying noticeably and in danger of falling over the edge into the sobering water below.

Others carried full cases of beer down the trail, one a bottle of rum, some of them in the company of dogs – three pit bulls, the breed of choice for many of the little rebels – all to swim and lie in the sun, curse a lot at the injustice of not having more of whatever it is that makes them happy, like tattoos or recreational drugs, hot cars, functioning brains.

As we left after a rather brief visit – before we were swarmed – we passed a police officer in the parking lot with two conservation types driving a dump truck. The officer was calling for reinforcements before he confronted the revellers. I was tempted to stick around and enjoy the fun as they loaded the booze into the truck and led the kids away, certainly not to jail, but at least to an army recruitment centre.

For some, this was a long, four-day weekend; others, like your obedient servant, had to work on Monday before enjoying the Canada Day celebration.

Not that it matters now that we all have our bloody cheques – you’d have thought their lives depended on it the way some waited for this $100 gift from the Campbell Liberals, this transparent bribe to be used ostensibly to offset the carbon tax that took effect July 1st and added a couple cents to the price of a litre of gas, still cheaper than a litre of water.

The papers and other media are full of tips on how to make that litre go farther: the usual crap about tune-ups and air pressure and driving too fast. I didn’t see any mention of siphoning, yet. Best to have a lock on that gas cap or you’ll be wondering why you’re only getting three miles to the gallon.

The carbon action dividend – what did it cost to administer this little treat? Money better spent on education, health, social housing – will fill up the tank once or twice.

The carbon tax ain’t such a bad idea if it gets people to drive and pollute less. The timing and the presentation were perhaps a bit out of whack and anything produced by that crowd in Victoria or Ottawa is going to elicit a fair amount of skepticism, especially when they’re spending money like drunken oil barons on the Whistler Olympics and Canada Day and the like.

You really want to get your tail in a knot, never mind the tax, it’s the daily price fluctuation that drives me to drink. Last Monday, over the course of two hours we spent in Mission, the price at the Silverdale Husky went from $1.39 to $1.45/litre.

Why?

Because of the price of a barrel of oil?

Because the next day was a holiday?

Because the guy across the street raised his price?

Where’s the competition?

They’re convicting companies back east for this kind of gouging.

Anywho, we’re into now, it’s summer time and if the livin’ ain’t nearly as easy as it once was – the pool filter needs replacing and the Hummer didn’t make it through Air Care – we’re at least doing it in the right country. MacLean’s says we live longer and have more fun than the Yanks – Steven, Gord and the oil companies, notwithstanding.

Tim Tyler is a local postal worker and freelance writer who lives in Ruskin.