Behind where Mark Brand was sitting at a booth in Save On Meats, at 43 West Hastings Street in Vancouver, the words “Talk is Cheap” appeared on the far wall in the same cheery colours as the signs above the diner’s counter area that read, “Damn Fine Reubens” and “It’s Time For A Sundae.” New but old-looking, the signage matched the soaring pig on the vintage neon-lit sign outside.
If it’s true the Internet has gutted the music industry, small market, independent record labels should no longer exist. In theory and out of self-interest, artists and creators should have abandoned these little middlemen en masse to harness the potential of online marketing, hosting, distribution and (don’t laugh) revenue generation.
I read that Larry Takahashi, “the balaclava rapist,” was temporarily released on parole into a Victoria halfway house, until Christmas Eve. He was responsible for dozens of rapes in Edmonton between 1976 and 1983. The newspapers say he led a double life; the other was that of a “model citizen.” He donned his mask and attacked women. Many women.
The Cercle Sportif Chabab Riadhi Belouizdad, or the CRB, as it is known, is a sports club that doubles as a coffee shop on rue Mohamed Belouizdad, one of the major Algiers thoroughfares connecting downtown to the eastern edge of city centre. Inside the CRB, faded portraits of former and current soccer heroes keep watch over haphazard combinations of chairs and tables.
A woman crouches on a beach in Ballyconneely, Connemara, collecting seaweed left by the tide. Occasionally, she looks up and stares out to sea. It is the 1940s, and on the west coast of Ireland my grandmother is a young widow harvesting dillisk to feed her six children up on the hill. With the haul of winkles she has picked off the rocks, she soon has the makings of a meal. When she returns home, she lays some seaweed over the carrots and potatoes planted in a hollow nearby.
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