FOR L.D., WHO LIKES THESE
AESTHETISIZED RUINS OF THE NEAR PAST

TOOLBELT — MAC MAKEUP OUTLET, OAKRIDGE

My daughter Mary's scrapbook of dogs.

My dad was a traveling salesman. He sold contraceptive merchandise to pharmacies for a subsidiary of Johnson & Johnson, and was one of the first to work with family planning organizations throughout Western Canada. He was also a loyal member of the Kodak "You press the button, we do the rest," generation of the '50s, and seemed to live with his Kodak Pony hanging from his neck. On his many trips to the BC interior and Alberta, with his samples of birth control pills and IUD's piled in the trunk of his Pontiac, he would often stop and take a shot of whatever primitive highway he happened to be on.
He liked to keep his car in the frame.

STUDENTS

BY BRITTA BACCHUS

See Britta's blog here

SCREEN SHOT FROM THE A&E REALITY SERIES "HOARDERS."

THE ART OF HOARDING.

Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector’s passion borders on the chaos of memories.

— Walter Benjamin, Unpacking My Library.

Teetering atop my towering pile of guilty pleasures is a reality TV show

on A&E called Hoarders.

Each episode is a less-than-subtle variation on the same theme: a compulsive hoarder is threatened with eviction, divorce, suicide, state

apprehension of children, estrangement from extended family, or any one or permutation of the above. These threats arose because their homes have metastasized into grotesque and perilous repositories of clutter — dense jungles of clothing, dirty dishes, uneaten and moldy food, human and animal feces, tacky memorabilia and just about every other artifact of modern culture you could imagine. And some you can’t imagine.

These homes are not merely messy. The have metamorphosed into kitsch rococo cocoons, claustrophobic crypts in which makeshift tunnels and paths bolstered by strata of junk have displaced hallways, open floors and air itself.

If you haven't seen the show before, the first shots from inside these

"homes" can elicit gasps. Surprisingly the hoarders, while occasionally eccentric, come across as relatively "normal." Some seem as embarrassed and baffled by their mega-clutter as we do, while others simply look past it in an anxious state of denial. Of course the producers, in an attempt to muffle cries of Oprah-style media exploitation, trot out licensed psychologists or "professional organizers" with the film crews to assist the hoarder in getting clean— not unlike the same state of"clean" sought by recovering addicts.

In many respects Hoarders is like a cross between an archeological dig

and a "makeover" show, except here history has been replaced by personal memories and the self has been replaced by the home. You can almost hear a collective sigh of relief at the conclusion, when the camera alternates back and

forth between the home's former thicket of detritus and the fresh, clean

re-claimed living space (a process not without it's product placement,

i.e. legions of trucks from 1-800-Junk and commercial breaks for Hefty Bags or sanitizing cleansers).

In an attempt to rationalize my own addiction to this show (and another competing hoarding show on The Learning Channel called Buried Alive), I have fashioned a theory: the hoarders are artists. Artists who don't know they're artists.

Read my whole piece here...

STEVE KULASH R.I.P.
See http://www.cbc.ca/canada/british-columbia/story/2010/03/18/bc-vancouver-house-fire-basement-clutter.html
PHOTO BY LEE BACCHUS

GRANVILLE STREET
1952 BY BOB BACCHUS (1923-81)
2004 BY LEE BACCHUS

BY BERNIE LYON

OFF TO WATCH SPRING TRAINING IN THE DESERT
BACK NEXT WEEK

BY BERNIE LYON

PATRIOTIC (OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT)
BEFORE MY TIME

BY BERNIE LYON

TICKET BOOTH

BY BERNIE LYON

PAINTED DOOR

BLUE PUB (LONDON)
BY BRITTA BACCHUS
(Britta's blog can be seen here)

WOODWARD'S SQUAT — 2002
(forgive the primitive stitching)

BY BERNIE LYON

KNUCKLE UNDER
(click to enlarge)

BY BERNIE LYON

$IGN OF THE TIMES
(FOR J. ZASLOVE)

KINGSWAY TAXIDERMY SHOP

BY BERNIE LYON

LLOYD DYKK IN THE CASE OF THE MISSING AUDIENCE
Where were they?
Saturday night I went to the Vancouver Symphony at the Orpheum. Houses recently have been pretty good for the symphony but Saturday was dramatically different. I had to keep looking behind me because I couldn't believe how small the attendance was. The sides of the theatre were all but empty as were the acres of seats behind me, and I was in row 16 on the aisle. What must it have been like in the balcony?
Not once all night did I have to get to my feet to make way for someone else. In my row there was only one other person, down at the end.
It didn't take long to suppose that the usurious new parking rates must be behind it -- also the parking meters' now being in effect until 10 p.m. Stretching my legs, I gave thanks for the consideration and courtesy of Gregor Robertson and City Hall.
(Lloyd's blog can be seen here)

EAST HASTINGS