minimatters

From the Archive

Thursday, September 19, 2002

Yaletown mosaic

My friend Sandy is great. The most outgoing woman you’ll ever meet who isn’t annoying, she’s the kind of person who was born with invisible pom-poms in one hand and an invisible Martini in the other: half Noel Coward and half Barbie.

I was in her store a few months back, and she was telling me how much she was looking forward to getting her old car finally paid off, ticking off the days on the calendar until FREE CAR DAY. Her eyes sparkled, even though they had glitter on the lids they sparkled from the eye part, the Sandy part, and although the glitter still sparkled it looked dull compared to the Sandy sparkle.

And it was last year’s colours anyway.

So a couple of months later I go back to the store. I generally don’t go so often, as I have little money with which to make purchases there, which is sort of why the store is there and why Sandy in particular is there, to facilitate the making of purchases therein, which she rarely succeeds in doing to me, but then no-one does, much of ever.

So back to the store I go, even though I still do not have any money. And there she is, Miss Yaletown, sparkling fit to beat the band, whatever the hell that means. As far as I know she would never beat a band, except maybe Coldplay, and only if they were really into that.

“What’s up Sandy?”

I just bought a new car!

“Oh?”

“Actually, I just bought two of them.”

“Oh?”

“Well, my brother wanted a car for grad [I got a pen for mine] and the bus was not on with me, not after the first couple of times.”

“The Hastings?”

“You got it. Even the Davie. I’d just had enough, so I talked to my Dad and we thought we would get, like, a bulk discount if we bought two of the same car, one for me and one for Paul. He doesn’t care what kind of car he gets, anything I’d drive is good enough for him ’cause he doesn’t know what people in the Big City drive and he knows I’ve got that covered. I went next door, to the Mini dealership, and bought two. They were like, Sandy, don’t you want to take one for a drive first?”

“Nope, I know what I want. I want a red one.”

Who could argue with that? The car has some powerful magical mojo; she was downtown today, doing makeup at a posh wedding, at a posh hotel, and as soon as she arrived she realized she’d forgotten her wallet. People in Vancouver don’t keep parking meter cash in their cars; well, dumb ones do, and they can never figure out how their windows get broken so often…anyway, she had not a sou. Couldn’t use the valet parking in case they paid by cheque and she couldn’t cash it in time. She was stuck.

But there was a spot right out front. She grabbed it, city-honed reflexes in control. She sprang from her Mini to the lobby, from the lobby to the elevator, from the elevator to the hallway, to the suite, to the bride herself, for whom she recited the tale (in doubletime) and from whom she begged a toonie. Out of the suite, into the hall, into the elevator, into the lobby, onto the sidewalk (doorman only just got the glass door in time) and thrust the toonie into the parking meter. It gave her an hour.

The job took two.

The bride tipped her $45, which she figured would pay for her parking ticket and enough for lunch. Back she went, out of the suite, into the hall, into the elevator, into the lobby, onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel, and there she saw it.

A flapping, pathetic little piece of paper, tucked carefully under her windshield wiper. Picking her heart out of her shoes, she sulked her way over to the offensive scrap and wrenched it from her precious car. It read:

I put some money in your meter because my wife has a Mini just like this.
A friend

FurtherMore Marketing Tips for Hookers

From the Archive, see also Part One:

Friday, September 20, 2002

5) Look for Synergies

It’s an entertainment business. Look for ways to leverage other entertainments and marketing efforts. Comme ca:

a) The MinuteLube had a sign: IN AND OUT IN FIFTEEN MINUTES, SATISFACTION GUARANTEED.

There was a hooker standing under it.

b) When the Canucks were in the playoffs, you could see every hooker in Mount Pleasant wearing Canucks tees, which is fine, but one large Native woman took it even farther, holding up a large sign that offered “free extrasif the Canucks won. I wonder what the extras were…

reasons not to invade Iraq: George Herbert Walker Bush

From the Memory Hole:

“Why We Didn’t Remove Saddam”

George Bush [Sr.] and Brent Scowcroft
Time (2 March 1998)

The end of effective Iraqi resistance came with a rapidity which surprised us all, and we were perhaps psychologically unprepared for the sudden transition from fighting to peacemaking. True to the guidelines we had established, when we had achieved our strategic objectives (ejecting Iraqi forces from Kuwait and eroding Saddam’s threat to the region) we stopped the fighting. But the necessary limitations placed on our objectives, the fog of war, and the lack of “battleship Missouri” surrender unfortunately left unresolved problems, and new ones arose.

We were disappointed that Saddam’s defeat did not break his hold on power, as many of our Arab allies had predicted and we had come to expect. President Bush repeatedly declared that the fate of Saddam Hussein was up to the Iraqi people. Occasionally, he indicated that removal of Saddam would be welcome, but for very practical reasons there was never a promise to aid an uprising. While we hoped that popular revolt or coup would topple Saddam, neither the U.S. nor the countries of the region wished to see the breakup of the Iraqi state. We were concerned about the long-term balance of power at the head of the Gulf. Trying to eliminate Saddam, extending the ground war into an occupation of Iraq, would have violated our guideline about not changing objectives in midstream, engaging in “mission creep,” and would have incurred incalculable human and political costs. Apprehending him was probably impossible. We had been unable to find Noriega in Panama, which we knew intimately. We would have been forced to occupy Baghdad and, in effect, rule Iraq. The coalition would instantly have collapsed, the Arabs deserting it in anger and other allies pulling out as well. Under those circumstances, furthermore, we had been self-consciously trying to set a pattern for handling aggression in the post-cold war world. Going in and occupying Iraq, thus unilaterally exceeding the U.N.’s mandate, would have destroyed the precedent of international response to aggression we hoped to establish. Had we gone the invasion route, the U.S. could conceivably still be an occupying power in a bitterly hostile land. It would have been a dramatically different–and perhaps barren–outcome.

We discussed at length forcing Saddam himself to accept the terms of Iraqi defeat at Safwan–just north of the Kuwait-Iraq border–and thus the responsibility and political consequences for the humiliation of such a devastating defeat. In the end, we asked ourselves what we would do if he refused. We concluded that we would be left with two options: continue the conflict until he backed down, or retreat from our demands. The latter would have sent a disastrous signal. The former would have split our Arab colleagues from the coalition and, de facto, forced us to change our objectives. Given those unpalatable choices, we allowed Saddam to avoid personal surrender and permitted him to send one of his generals. Perhaps we could have devised a system of selected punishment, such as air strikes on different military units, which would have proved a viable third option, but we had fulfilled our well-defined mission; Safwan was waiting.

As the conflict wound down, we felt a sense of urgency on the part of the coalition Arabs to get it over with and return to normal. This meant quickly withdrawing U.S. forces to an absolute minimum. Earlier there had been some concern in Arab ranks that once they allowed U.S. forces into the Middle East, we would be there to stay. Saddam’s propaganda machine fanned these worries. Our prompt withdrawal helped cement our position with our Arab allies, who now trusted us far more than they ever had. We had come to their assistance in their time of need, asked nothing for ourselves, and left again when the job was done. Despite some criticism of our conduct of the war, the Israelis too had their faith in us solidified. We had shown our ability–and willingness–to intervene in the Middle East in a decisive way when our interests were challenged. We had also crippled the military capability of one of their most bitter enemies in the region. Our new credibility (coupled with Yasser Arafat’s need to redeem his image after backing the wrong side in the war) had a quick and substantial payoff in the form of a Middle East peace conference in Madrid.

The Gulf War had far greater significance to the emerging post-cold war world than simply reversing Iraqi aggression and restoring Kuwait. Its magnitude and significance impelled us from the outset to extend our strategic vision beyond the crisis to the kind of precedent we should lay down for the future. From an American foreign-policymaking perspective, we sought to respond in a manner which would win broad domestic support and which could be applied universally to other crises. In international terms, we tried to establish a model for the use of force. First and foremost was the principle that aggression cannot pay. If we dealt properly with Iraq, that should go a long way toward dissuading future would-be aggressors. We also believed that the U.S. should not go it alone, that a multilateral approach was better. This was, in part, a practical matter. Mounting an effective military counter to Iraq’s invasion required the backing and bases of Saudi Arabia and other Arab states.

Hunting and Gathering: The Only

from the Archive:

Wednesday, September 04, 2002

Have I told you about shopping for food in my neighborhood? Of course I have, and here I go again, but this time we will have no naked people (haven’t had any in quite some time, but nevermind) we will have no Italians. We will have diner burgers. And where will we have them? At the Ovaltine Cafe and Vic’s Cafe and we will have a good Yuppie bouillabaisse at the Cook Studio Cafe. In fact, I think I will go have one right now to refresh my memory and also check out all the hot uniforms at lunchtime, subsequent to which I will update the blog.

Love that word, blog. Blog, blog, BLOG! cool…

Back from lunch. Alas, Cook Studio Cafe closes at 2, just before I got there; story of my life, born a month late and trying unsuccessfully to catch up ever since. Went to mosey down to the Ovaltine or Vic’s but felt guilty I was ducking my work, so decided to eat closer to where I had to work today. Somehow that made me feel less irresponsible.

Ended up at the Only, The Only Seafood Restaurant, the oldest restaurant in Vancouver. It’s in a hellish stretch of Hastings amid pawn shops, storefronts that have been boarded up for twenty years, and really last-chance social agencies. The Only has been there since the early part of the last century, 1912 to be exact, and is now run by a nice Chinese couple. They got a very nice writeup last week in Malcolm Parry’s social column.

If you are one of the sorryass losers who goes to a seafood restaurant and orders beef you are SOL here, bud. There is nothing, I mean nothing, NOTHING on the menu but seafood. Halibut and chips, cod and chips, oysters fried raw stewed two ways, clams, mussels and/or chips. And there is nobody here except almost-geezers with ballcaps on their heads and windbreakers on their backs who all look like they just came in from a round of golf or maybe a suburban barbeque. As soon as you sit down the woman shoves half a loaf of bread and a platter of butterpats at you, along with a half-quart of water in the kind of glass that can take a bullet and remain standing.

It was the most expensive lunch I’ve had on the Downtown EastSide, which is to say that it came to $10 with the tip and pop. But then, my oyster pepper stew (half order) was yummy, and so thick with oysters that it really should be called Bowl-O-Sters With Some Tomato Sauce. There were three fragments of vegimatter, God knows what it was, but there was about a half-pound of oysters, all cut up. You know, when you cut them up like that they look kind of like jelly rolls with tentacles on one side and it gets you to wondering what all the different colours are made up of. A friend of mine went to high school out here and they made her dissect clams, oysters and mussels and now she can’t eat shellfish anymore because she looks at it and knows what’s the liver, what’s the pulmonary apparatus…I’m glad I went to school in Ontario and I’m glad I don’t eat at restaurants that serve fetal pigs or frogs, though I’ve heard some very expensive ones do.

But about the stew: never mind what it looked like, it was nice and peppery, with the true dinery flavour of Campbell’s Tomato Soup hiding in there somewhere underneath the tsunami wave of pepper. Yummylicious. And this is definitely a place you can dunk, so it was Dunk City for my lunch and I got through most of the bread.

The place is filled with mirrors: one long one running the length of the left-hand wall, and one huge, got-to-be-expensive one that makes up the back wall, about 8’x15′ or so. I’d be very surprised if it weren’t one of those that you can see through from behind. The kitchen is along the right-hand wall, behind a half-wall, and the counter comes out from there and makes two loops to the left. There are no tables. Ceiling is way up there, maybe 20′, and covered with either Lincrusta or a real old pressed tin ceiling. Very Edwardian. Along the top of the left-hand wall above the mirror runs a very sixties mural of fishing, all in pastel marine greens and oranges, like the sort of thing Toni Onley might have done in Grade Nine.

Adding to the atmosphere are the snippets of conversation, screams, and shouts coming through the completely clouded-over front windows. It’s like flipping though channels if only cop shows, Alfred Hitchcock, and Permanent Midnight are on tv. Ever seen Da Vinci’s Inquest? This is the kind of conversation that preceeds the arrival of the coroner. And the nice thing is: it’s OUTSIDE!

some Mount Pleasantries

Mount Pleasant Community CentreFrom the Archive:  
  Saturday, September 28, 2002

Would you think there could be a place of such hubris as to call itself “Mount Pleasant” even if it is not a mountain at all but just a big enough hill to be really intimidating to cyclists and rollerbladers and maybe the odd wheezy geezer, though great fun to roll down, though it is devoutly to be wished that they repair the damn cracks in the road before I end up eating pavement? I think not. Where were we? Oh yes.

Mount Pleasant is another in this blog’s cast of characters; the neighborhoods have names, but the neighbors don’t. Actually, for a Vancouver neighborhood it’s really pretty neighborly and low-key. The Gucci quotient there is quite low, and the one and only time a Ferrari was parked outside the Starbucks it turned out to belong to Barry Neidermier, a skank who was making a living off smuggled cigarettes and smuggled 14-year-olds. One of the teenaged whores refused to testify until the cops went to her pad and rescued her teddy bear. No lie.

But most of the people around there are from the deeper end Dysfunction Junction shopsof the gene pool. Mount Pleasant runs south along Main from Dysfunction Junction at Broadway right up to the peak of the Mount itself, which up around King Ed, in Queen E Park. Broadway is actually Ninth avenue and King Ed is twenty-fifth, but nobody calls them that; it would be like calling John WayneMarion.” It’s a nice, working-class place with neat little old houses, maybe in need of a coat of paint or two, and big, rambling Victorians with truly elaborate gardens and lowrise apartment buildings full of Filipino immigrants and poor families who all gather on the patio at the cocktail hour for a little ballroom dancing. It’s quite a sight, I tell you; looks like a really, really casual wedding every single night. Jeans and sweats are good enough for most, and some of the youngest have been known to waltz in Speedos, at least when the sprinkler is going on the lawn. The middle-agers are the best dancers, but the expression on their faces makes them look like radio-controlled evil clones or something; lighten up people!

The centre of this little universe is not the Community Centre, though it’s lovely. It’s not the general store, there are too many. It’s not even the yoga studio. It’s the Starbucks.

But wait, you say, Starbucks is a synthesized, mass-produced global fast-food organization. Sure, you’re right, sometimes it is.

But sometimes it isn’t.

Sometimes it’s something else completely.

Mount Pleasant hippie benchThey say if you stand at the door of the Ritz-Carleton long enough you will see everyone on earth pass by. Well I say if you sit at an outside table at the Mount Pleasant Starbucks long enough you will see everyone in the neighborhood at least once, and probably at least one person you haven’t seen in twenty years, no matter where you’re from. It is the centre of the cosmos, at least on a very microcosmetic scale. There I learned all about how Pugs aren’t the snotty little wretches they seem to be; a woman tied her tiny FooFoo to one of the tables and the little critter was so game and friendly that it dragged the table thirty feet around the corner so it could say hi to everyone. Remember, this thing is the size of an ankle boot.

Once, I was there with my sister from back east; doesn’t matter where, it’s all “back east.” Could be Paris, could be Plum Hollow, it’s all just “back east.”

So there we were, so of course we went to the Starbucks. They hadn’t landed back east yet, so it was a new experience for her. We got in line behind a couple of cycle cops, also an unfamiliar sight to her eastern eyes.

No doughnuts? What’s up with that?” she asked, incredulous. I believe in Ontario you aren’t allowed to sell coffee unless you sell doughnuts as well. I think you get three years.

The cop ahead of us reached the head of the line. He was still wearing his helmet, along with the military-geek shirt and the spandex shorts they wear. He asked the barista, “Is that bran muffin low-fat?”

No, it was not.

“Okay, then I’ll have a multigrain bagel, dry, and a tall non-fat latte.”

My sister turned to me and asked, “What the hell kind of cop is that?

Victorian Houses in Mount Pleasant

I walked in one day, having the kind of day where everything seems to be going my way for no reason at all, which is one of my favorite kind of days. I think I was going to get some coffee, though come to think of it there may have been snacking somewhere on the agenda, but just in a really casual sort of way. I walked in. I listened. Oh, oh, it’s one of my favorite songs! I turned to the barista and asked, “Steve! Is this the Committments tape?”

Steve, a musician when not baristicating, gave me a look of unutterable scorn, the kind of look a pediatrician would shoot Goebbels, and he said:

It’s ARETHA!

I so white.