THE MUSTER POINT PROJECT

“That’s How They Getcha”

Kevin Franco of The Muster Point Project and I have co-written about a dozen songs. A modest fraction of TMPP’s growing catalogue. Friends for three decades now, we kind of click: I’m his bit on the side. We work well together because we don’t rely on one another. Kevin’s a complete musician, lyricist, composer, player and arranger. And I’ve got my own stalled novel to nudge forward beyond consternation, pages of notes and five frustrating false starts.

Collaboration between Edmonton and Calgary (and often Santiago, Chile) keeps Messenger humming. Separate cities; separate rooms. My lyrics are block printed on a yellow legal pad. They’re not etched in stone. There’s always a better line or a slicker phrase to sing. My silent songs are untitled, that’s Kevin’s job – not my call. “Stuck in Transit” was the only song of ours where I suggested a sound. I got very, very technical: “I hear this one as kinda Stonesy.”

Our creative relationship has evolved since 2023 when TMPP’s 5 KG EP was released. “Goodbye America” is a fine recent example. Kevin sent me his unfinished lyrics and a short initial demo. He had a little more than half a song. Did I have anything to contribute? I loved where he was going. We’re on the same page politically. The current White House administration (if you can describe chaos and incompetence as administration) reeks of end of empire narcissism. I got to writing. I supplied Kevin with another eight or ten lines, enough to fill out his song.

“That’s How They Getcha” had a similar genesis. Kevin said, “I’ve got a title …. I was thinking about desktop printers, how they’re so cheap, they’re not built to last, but they gouge you for the ink.” Have you ever wondered why mattress store A does not match the price of mattress store B no matter what its flyer boasts? Both outlets sell the same mattress. The convenient catch is that mattress A and mattress B leave the factory with different model numbers. “Can you work with it?”

Oh, yeah. I filled up my yellow page, leaving room for Kevin to add more key lines including the audacious rhyming of “wallet” and “product.” Singers are like hucksters with their patter down cold – they can get away with stuff like that. 

We both spent too much time in advertising and marketing. One of my best friends once called me a whore (he worked for an insurance company). And this was before I became something of a burnt-out case. Still, there was no disputing his barroom assertion. And so, channeling the Rolling Stones (“Get Off My Cloud” and a really obvious one which escapes me), Jonathan Edwards (“Sunshine”) and Tom Waits (“Step Right Up”), Kevin and I wrote a song about manipulation in its many forms; the all-invasive persuasive perversity of the consumer culture mindset. It’s endemic; everything’s been infected.

The audio stream of “That’s How They Getcha” drops Friday, 3 July, in all the usual digital spaces. The video has been up on YouTube for a few days; Kevin crafted a reel that see-saws between hilarious and hysterical. There’s no mouse type in this new TMPP song. No double-talk, no scam. “That’s How They Getcha” is a public service announcement: some fine, fine new music in exchange for a few minutes of your time. Nothing but guitar strings attached.                                

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com for a taste of TMPP and links to its YouTube channel. You can also buy my last couple of books. And really, buy my books. I mean, fuck Kevin, I’ve addictions to feed.

HUMAN WRECKAGE

Of Beer Packaging and Promotional Swag

Moosehead is Canada’s oldest independent brewery. The Maritime operation was established by the Oland family in 1867, the year of Canada’s Confederation. Despite some recent and particularly salacious allegations of patricide (a guilty verdict since overturned), the dynastic enterprise has managed to sidestep the traditional tri-generation pattern of establishment, maintenance and obliteration.

Moosehead is no longer a regional rare bird eagerly sought by beer label watchers east of the four Atlantic provinces. And so, it must have been a slow national news day last year when the brewer received coverage simply by announcing its intention to revamp its packaging. Green, long-necked bottles were to be phased out in favour of aluminium cans. This in the face of der Trumpenfuhrer’s elastic tariffs on Canadian aluminium and steel; aluminium cans are like automobiles, there is tons of cross-border to and fro.

A cheap nylon and highly noninflammable Canadian flag dangles proudly from one wall of the Crooked 9’s garage. Beer case swag, folded into a discounted long weekend two-four. Landfill fodder from a factory in a country where no patriotic Canadian beer drinker would care to live, let alone work. Junk less sustainable and more disposable than fast fashion. Still, as a soft nationalist winner in a cosmic lottery, I felt a black bin fate to be a conscious act of disrespect. Anyway, Canada’s flag is a triumph of minimalist design, essentially a one-colour stylized symbol highlighted on a white field.

There is beer case swag etiquette too. Refuse the petroleum product “coozies” at the cash. Fingernail ping the durability of branded glassware because it sure isn’t crystal. Hats, trucker or bucket, are verboten unless you’re missing more teeth than the rotten ones left between your jaws. Ask yourself, “Are my parents blood relatives?” Beer swag t-shirts are trickier, Miss Manners and Agony Aunt material of a polyester nature.

Last week life was fraught. DEFCON 11 at the Crooked 9. No beer in the kitchen fridge and no warehoused stash in the garage. After the Tuesday Night Beer Club wrapped its evening up at one of the pubs in our standard rotation, Stats Guy graciously drove me to a particularly sleazy liquor store downtown on Jasper Avenue, the kind of place that caters to the desperate. No need for specials or loss leaders. He idled the engine and locked the car doors while I ventured inside to experience life’s rich down-and-out pageant. An imposing ziggurat of Moosehead lager caught my eye. Hooked me. The price was shockingly competitive and my choice of a free medium or large t-shirt besides. Bonus: the shirts were packaged in plastic prophylactics, impossible to pick over like the flayed wares in Costco.

Beer swag t-shirts are problematic because they’re tasteless and their lives are short. Their ultimate destiny is Molotov cocktail wicks, laundry room rag bag shreds or landfill. And yet they serve a perspirational purpose: vacuuming, painting, yardwork; decent shirts absorb the effluvium secreted by a hard-working man who’s earned a cold beer for waking up in the morning. My mother told me to always wear clean underwear in case I was in an accident and had to be rushed to the hospital. A variation of that rule applies to beer swag t-shirts: NEVER WEAR ONE BEYOND THE CONFINES OF YOUR PROPERTY, NOT EVEN UNDER A SWEATSHIRT OR AS THE FIRST OF MANY LAYERS ON A COLD WINTER’S DAY. Dignity goes to the emergency ward to die – no need to embarrass yourself further.

Beer cans have come a long way since I was underage. Light, efficient containers and like mouse traps in their way as there’s not a lot of room for improvement. They’re now made from two sheets of stamped aluminium (the world's most valuable metal back in the day - it caps the Washington Monument). Three if you count the riveted index fingertip “stay-on-tab” (SOT – tee-hee) opening system or pop top. The top or lid of a can is an “end” in industry lingo, a horizontal noun for a vertical container. Pardon the jargon.

I bought a 15-pack of Moosehead lager. NOW AVAILABLE EXCLUSIVELY IN CANS! Marketing initiatives payoff. I grabbed a gratis t-shirt because if the spring rain in Edmonton ever lets up, I will mow the lawn because I desire perfect turf when the opportunity arises to release the Umbro Size 5 2026 FIFA World Cup commemorative football to our grandchildren; Yoko Ono off-pitch shrieks.

Moosehead bottles were green. Its cans were always green, but this new design features a red band at the rim which matches the red lid. The pull-tab is still silver. The standard fingernail-shaped punch-out is instead a maple leaf. A precise miniature stencil overlayed on a red field. Subtle, vibrant branding. Clever. On message.

There’s nothing new under the sun. A “King of Beers” pop top sports a crown stencil. Rigid manufacturing standards will always crush a designer’s ultimate vision; factory machinery will never be retooled for a design studio’s affectation. But somebody at Moosehead (and Budweiser or whichever international conglomerate owns the brand, for that matter) or its ad agency, fully aware of the packaging’s constrictive parameters and what big league competition has already done, still sat back and pondered: “What if…?”

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com to purchase either one of my two latest novels from your preferred retailer. Collect the set. While you're there, listen to music from The Muster Point Project and link to TMPP's YouTube channel.

A FAN’S NOTES

Opening Day

The charm of minor league baseball is its scale. The ballparks, whatever their state of upkeep, are more intimate. Tickets and concessions are affordable (although beer remains as stubbornly expensive as gasoline on the Friday of a summer long weekend). It’s in places like these that baseball exists in its idealized form, as fiction and longform sportswriting and those few instances when filmmakers didn’t drop a flyball, bobble a grounder.

The West Coast League Riverhawks (who should’ve been nicknamed Magpies – those lovely, noisy, strutting, curious popinjays are everywhere) now trot on to the diamond in place of Tigers, Trappers, CrackerCats, Capitals and Prospects. Baseball in Edmonton is akin to W.O. Mitchell’s roses: difficult here. The WCL is short-season and usually savvy enough to elude the darling storms of May. Opening Day was a night game even though the sun stays up awfully late as the summer solstice approaches.

Canada’s Old Age Security allowance secured three senior-discounted tickets. Ann, Stats Guy and I sat close to an aisle (my bladder bleats like a faulty alarm in the middle of a row) along the first base line. Our preferred spot these days. It doesn’t seem that long ago when Stats Guy and I were in our thirties and would-be rakes about town when the ballpark was named for a person rather than a corporate sponsor, made of wood and bordering on decrepit. Back then he and I preferred watching the Pacific Coast League (AAA) Trappers from the third base line bleachers.

Bill Veeck was baseball’s ultimate hustler. Believe it or not, he was Barnum, Bailey and Ripley combined. The Riverhawks marketing people have memorized his methods. Every home game comes with an opponent and a theme. “Paws in the Park” welcomes dogs and feral children. Star Wars night lures incels from the clammy privacy of their mothers’ basements. Opening Day ceremonies at any level are elongated exercises; some will go to any length for the sake of a good intention.

The Riverhawks inaugural 2026 festivities were in the spirit of Truth and Reconciliation. We were gearing up to watch baseball on private property that had been First Nations territory for thousands of years before the establishment of a fur trading post in the latter half of the eighteenth century. An iron horse followed. History cannot be undone. And the gauge of the line separating abashed acknowledgment and pandering tokenism runs awfully narrow. Overwrought earnestness can be cringeworthy. I was however more inclined to applaud the drumming, singing, smudging and speechifying than groan. I’m nothing if not an insensitive and very soft leftist. I supposed it was a minor irony that the staged rituals were to be followed by “O Canada.”

The rendition of a national anthem before an everyday sporting event is an irksome formality. Tonight, there would be two because the visitors were the Wenatchee (WA) Applesox. Anthems pair nicely with affairs of state and it’s not as if Canada is at war with itself or a foreign power. Maybe we are; the nature of that dirty business has changed dramatically in recent years. What has not been weaponized, undeclared or otherwise?

The rain began before I was able to stand and respectfully remove my throwback St. Louis Cardinals road cap. Not the “little drops of rain” from Led Zeppelin’s “Thank You” nor the “silver rain” of “London Town” and “Silver Train.” These were great mercury globules, the short, foreboding prelude to a downpour. Within moments my Levi’s jean jacket was washed for just the fourth time since I bought it in the late 70s. Some of the green grime around the inside of its collar was rinsed away down my back. Ann and Stats Guy were in the same sudden miserable state. Water sloshed down the stairs between sections like some sort of elaborate fountain feature. Our running shoes, socks and feet were sodden. We were soaked through. Seeking shelter became an acute matter of interior warmth.

The capacity of our ballpark is about 9000. Its interior concourse is designed for flow, not corralling near capacity. The ramps leading to cover were awash with people but the only movement was water over concrete. This is the nature of the modern digital mob. Stop and check your phone in the most inappropriate place possible oblivious to your obstructing the people behind you. It no longer matters that the exit doors of every major public venue open outward. The hunchback herd will stop in the frame. That little bandsaw lag symbol is real; common sense downloading: This may take a while.

It was raining inside too. An elegantly choreographed cascade of silver through the ceiling indicative of structural flaws. The crush made me anxious; that woollen wet smell of a Catholic grade school cloakroom in winter. No personal space for shivering. The lines for the toilets and concessions demanded elbows up endurance. The three of us consulted. If the game was delayed there’d be at least another hour’s worth of the chafing, saturated hell of other people – and the anthems had yet to be sung. If the game was called, we’d have rain checks. Pull the goalie for a pinch runner.

Aw, but you know, it was nice to be back in the yard if only for an hour to smell those metaphorical roses. And admire the manicured diamond, red dirt and striped shades of green, poorly designed signage on the outfield wall. I always enjoy the view no matter how long it lasts.                    

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! My latest novel Sunset Oasis Confidential is available in multiple formats. Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com for links to your preferred retailer. Of Course You Did is still in print. Collect the set! 

SAINTS PRESERVE US

W(h)ither Alberta?

Oh, for Christ’s sake. What now?

Alberta premier Danielle Smith last week announced a provincial referendum about holding another referendum. Their subjects are secession. Should Alberta exit the Canadian federation, cede its place in a wealthy G7 country imperfect as every other member of the club?

Smith’s United Conservative Party is a big top operation. The circus analogy is not unwarranted. The blue and white pavilion with its rodeo dirt floor harbours fiscal and social conservatives, special interest groups, “lake of fire” evangelicals and a lunatic fringe who fret about gun laws, chemtrails and replacement theory. Alberta separatists constitute a fifth column within the UCP. They have infiltrated the party, riding associations, Smith’s caucus and ministerial staff. This is all well and good except that separation (or its chicken game threat) was not a UCP platform plank during the last provincial election. Voters may have wished to have been informed. Elections are not raffles, hastily scribbled policy slips drawn from a cowboy hat.

Compare Alberta’s UPC to Quebec’s separatist Parti Quebecois. The PQ does not obfuscate its agenda. The electorate is aware of what is always on the table should it grant the party the privilege of governing. The PQ’s argument is a complaint of distinction, a different nation trapped within a larger one. Very Balkan. The UCP’s fifth column whinge is, in this sense, meritless. Both groups, eastern and western, revel in victimhood and they share words like “oppression” and “humiliation.” Their common enemy is Ottawa. Perception is everything.

Confident and competent governments should just tick along like a home furnace in the dead of winter. It does its job, no fuss, nothing to notice or worry about. Sound policies address the issues of the day. Really good governments may even look beyond the fortunes of the party and the election cycle. Incompetent governments distract from the pressing unaddressed issues of the day by conjuring political phantoms and foo fighters only to botch their needless solutions. Smith leads a party and a government devoid of a single core competency.

Smith is a proponent of “direct democracy.” Referenda circumvent the democratic system. The pro argument is that the people are heard at a pitch beyond the tenor of their legislative assembly member. As Brexit has shown, the people know. Here in Alberta’s capital city, casual morning bus stop conversation always touches on the linguistic nuances of the British North America Act and Statute of Westminster. And federal transfer payments and the fucking hockey team. Madam Premier covers it all on her weekly radio call-in show, unconstitutional plastic straws, encroaching bicycle lanes and everything.

Smith is one of those politicians who transform engaged citizens into cynics. She is a party-jumper and a floor-crosser. Her Quebec counterpart is former PQ premier Lucien Bouchard, once a trusted consigliere of former Tory PM Brian Mulroney’s. Shiny objects, brass rings, are so alluring to political magpies. The penultimate prize, heading a province but not the country, demands backroom politicking: patronizing, pandering and promising.

One suspects Smith is more DENSA than MENSA. She would play Russian roulette with five bullets in the chamber of a six-shooter. The bold timidity of staging a referendum about a referendum to appease the backrows within the circumference of the UCP circus tent suggests some midnight parsing of an AI-generated overview of Machiavellian machinations although dithering and symbolic dog-whistle bones may preclude updating her C.V.

UCP president Rob Smith, no relation to the Banshee of Invermectin, has been quoted in the press as saying the Party has to official stance on a potential Albertastan. The UCP does not stand for anything apparently, ill-conceived and uninformed direct democracy excepted. He was confident that a majority of its members will vote for separation.

The immediate goal of Alberta’s separatists is a Czechoslovakian-style “Velvet Divorce” delivered at Amazon Prime speed. That will never happen. And should this disparate menagerie of malcontents present however unlikely as a unified bloc, the ultimate goal is full admission in to the corrupt and decaying empire south of the Medicine Line (it is easier to move bitumen north-south sans the irksome formalities of international borders). Perhaps they would settle for becoming a US territory, Guam North.

The future is unwritten and often surprising. But the likely outcome of this divisive and nonsensical ploy is the disintegration of the UCP as a viable political entity. And that will be on Smith’s watch. And that will be a good thing for forward-thinking, progressive Albertans.

            

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! My latest novel Sunset Oasis Confidential is available in multiple formats. Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com for links to your preferred retailer. Of Course You Did is still in print. Collect the set!