Vancouver: A Photo Essay
This is the view from one of my hotel windows. I had a palatial corner room with a king size bed and a museum right outside.
In Vancouver, restaurants entice you inside with photos that are, ultimately, the equivalent of culinary pornography. Oh, and there's me adding human interest to an otherwise dead subject.
Jaime and I found a copy of a publication called Playboard in her hotel's lobby, and because of a weird graphic/masthead issue, we kept reading Playbeard, which we liked better. We doctored the magazine by fuzzing out part of the o and voila!: our Duchampesque commentary was complete. (This photo is blurry because we were pissing ourselves with laughter.)
Canada is unlike America because in Canada when you glaze a porcelain chicken, you make sure it has an anus.
Thanks to Elizabyth (with lighter) and Doug (breathing fire), several of us were peer pressured into trying flaming Sambuco shots at Wild Garlic, one of Vancouver's 1,000 fabulous restaurants. The first time I did it, the Sambuco went up into my nose. My sinuses are like a slash-and-burn rainforest.
This is us, at Wild Garlic, after much Sambuco and martini delights were had. You'll notice yes, I am colossally taller than anyone else in this photo—bloggers, be not surprsed. I am giant.
Even Canada wants to think it has a family of redneck Southerners who outsmart the law. Elizabyth adds human interest.
People at AWP are nametag lookers. I'm no different.
Jaime noticed how this Vancouver airport wayfinding map looked suspiciously like a big penis.
Would you buy anything on a mannequin like this? Canadians would. That's hot.