Lydia Purple

So yesterday, there I was surfing around the Net and posting fun stuff to Facebook (and why wasn’t I posting to my blog more than an amusing, if mindlessly felonious, internet quiz? you ask, for lo you are very perceptive. Because a blog post takes between 1.5 and 7 hours on this computer, depending on how it’s behaving, and clicking Share On Facebook takes about ninety to 180 seconds instead, and BTW the PressIt bookmarklet won’t work with this Windows 98 setup so I can’t post it to WordPress instead, that’s why thanks for asking) when I ran across this.

Lydia Purple.

From the comments on the YouTube it appears that the Collectors later lost their lead singer and morphed into Chilliwack, or maybe their singer left and he fronted Chilliwack or something; all I know is, going from Kits Beach to Chilliwack is what’s generally thought of as a comedown, at least to those who’ve been in both locations. I mean, Chilliwack is very nice for a small town with condo metastises on the fringes, but one of these things smells like cow shit and one of them smells like ckOne if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

In any event (the pole vault? beaver eating? three day?) there I was…well, HERE I was, right here behind the keyboard, and I was wearing my purple sweatshirt. The one Lydia gave me. The one with Lydia on it, only Lydia‘s not purple (neither in person nor on the sweatshirt except in the spots where the transfer didn’t cover) Lydia is generally rather pale pinkish except on the sweatshirt, where she is white and green (which she never is, even after a heavy-duty Bacchanal not that I’d know anything about that) and, yes, a bit of purple.

So (t)here I was wearing my purple Lydia sweatshirt, watching Lydia Purple. I wasn’t actually sweating, but it would have been nice for narrative symmetry purposes I suppose.

And here it is, a Wet Coast version of Eleanor Rigby:

Spot the Vancouver locations: Kits Beach, the West End, the Pacific Centre atrium (who knew it was that old?), Planetarium, English Bay, and is that not Spanish Banks?

Lyrics and additional details below the jump: Continue reading

The Grand Plan

It’s hard for me to type; in fact, I had to shut the doors and windows, because the constant drone of the sirens is becoming too much even for my hardened nerves.

But I’ve come up with a plan.

You see, every Welfare Wednesday (aka Mardi Gras) the sirens go; actually, they start the night before, as that’s when some people receive their cash. And they go all day and all night. And then, they do it again the Friday after that, when the ones who have jobs decide to party. And if the latest shipment of heroin that’s come in is particularly bad, the sirens don’t let anyone have any breathing space; they overlap one another for a solid 24-36 hours.

So the plan is this: The next time it’s Mardi Gras or Friday After, I’m going to get on Twitter and tweet when the sirens stop. And when they start. And when they stop. And how many of them I can hear at one time when they ARE going.

It’ll be dry as hell, but historic.

Sirens started again…

LA ICE: shovelling the snowbacks back

This is remarkable video of one of LA’s most secretive police units, ICE: Illegal Canadian Enforcement. They sweep the streets clean of Canuckistani invaders, tipped off by nothing more than a glimpse of an NHL jersey, a whiff of maple syrup, or just a whistled bar of “Snowbird.”

Fear them.

Stolen from EvilBeet

raincoaster revealed!

It was a Shebeen Club night and you’re lucky I can type at all at this point, but tonight you’re particularly fortunate in that I type to direct you over to Miss604‘s blog, where she has revealed many secrets about raincoaster. And now I sign off, before I pass out.

UPDATE: Wow, I totally tag spam when I’ve had too much to drink!

Fair Warning: Bear Warning

And we’re NOT talking “watch your back on Denman street!”

Bear Warning!

from the Fort Steele Campground