Showing posts with label West Broadway. Show all posts
Showing posts with label West Broadway. Show all posts
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This one was stopped dead in its tracks but who can tell sometimes?[/caption]
This one was stopped dead in its tracks but who can tell sometimes?[/caption]
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Honk-honk-honk...Two weeks ago, a car making way for rush hour.[/caption]
Tow trucks fascinate me; in the artificial construct of urban traffic they resemble an evolutionary adaptation. They're trucks that displayed a sudden mutation allowing them to profitably exploit a niche in the ecosystem, like barber fish or taxis.
Mostly it's because I use West Broadway Avenue to get back to the Fairview neighbourhood -- like clockwork -- at around 3 p.m. every weekday -- the Towing Hour.
Up until 3 p.m. cars may park on the north side of Broadway; as of 3 pm-sharp they can't. At that moment -- until 6 p.m. -- the parking lane becomes the High Occupancy Vehicle lane -- exclusively for buses, cars with more than one occupant, buses, me on my bike, articulated Number 99 B-line buses, and more buses.
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It was the blue car not my bike and trailer -- whew![/caption]
Tow trucks don't work alone on West Broadway. Each appears to be "on the leash" of a traffic enforcement officer and their black and white jelly bean Smart Fourtwo car. When an officer catches a car overstaying its welcome, details are recorded, photos are taken and a ticket is written. Then the officer unleashes the tow truck -- "sic ’em Buster!"
Honk-honk-honk...Two weeks ago, a car making way for rush hour.[/caption]Tow trucks fascinate me; in the artificial construct of urban traffic they resemble an evolutionary adaptation. They're trucks that displayed a sudden mutation allowing them to profitably exploit a niche in the ecosystem, like barber fish or taxis.
Mostly it's because I use West Broadway Avenue to get back to the Fairview neighbourhood -- like clockwork -- at around 3 p.m. every weekday -- the Towing Hour.
Up until 3 p.m. cars may park on the north side of Broadway; as of 3 pm-sharp they can't. At that moment -- until 6 p.m. -- the parking lane becomes the High Occupancy Vehicle lane -- exclusively for buses, cars with more than one occupant, buses, me on my bike, articulated Number 99 B-line buses, and more buses.
Catch and release
[caption id="attachment_8803" align="alignnone" width="497"]
It was the blue car not my bike and trailer -- whew![/caption]Tow trucks don't work alone on West Broadway. Each appears to be "on the leash" of a traffic enforcement officer and their black and white jelly bean Smart Fourtwo car. When an officer catches a car overstaying its welcome, details are recorded, photos are taken and a ticket is written. Then the officer unleashes the tow truck -- "sic ’em Buster!"
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He's trying to tug on your heart strings -- is it working?[/caption]
Above we have "Mr. Invisible." He's panhandling in his own fashion Tuesday morning in front of the McDonalds on West Broadway, near Granville Street. Last we saw him, he was about two kilometres east on Broadway in front of the Michaels Arts & Crafts store; he was cocooned in a sleeping bag with the word "invisible" written on a slip of paper pinned to the bag. He was panhandling then also.
His technique apparently works -- Tuesday morning I watched his inert form suddenly come to life and pop up like a slice of toast when a woman offered him a twenty-dollar bill. 'Tis the Season to be a panhandler!
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Brian is hard to take when he's awake -- I can only imaging how hard it is to be him.[/caption]
Here's Brian (or alternately Richard) sleeping at his "campsite" in the alcove of the former location of SportChek on the west side of the Crossroads complex on Broadway Avenue near Cambie Street. When he's not sleeping he's mostly ranting uncontrollably at the people passing by his spot.
Not only does he fit the stereotype of a homeless person, he could be a "poster child" for street disorder. I see him also as a challenge of our compassion and tolerance, not to mention forbearance. I personally don't like his habits one bit, but that shouldn't stop me from helping him -- should it?
Brian is -- forgive me for saying it -- barking mad. He is also filthy, in both his demeanor and habits -- and you don't want to know what's in those paper cups. He's as truly pathetic as the city's panhandlers all pretend to be. Aside from being elderly, mentally ill, and an alcoholic, he's badly crippled, having lost all his toes to frostbite some years ago.
He's the kind of homeless person who needs help the most, just as he's one of the most difficult to help. There's no way he can be kept inside -- he says he's claustrophobic -- except against his will. He what people used to call incorrigible -- not able to be changed or reformed -- so he's given disability money and left to his own devices.
If there's a better solution than just giving him whatever degree of help he'll accept and leaving him be -- gritting our teeth and turning a blind eye, and a deaf ear, then either no one's thought of it yet, or it's too expensive.
My friend Florida Pete, who sometimes camps and drinks with Brian, tells me he helped clean up the campsite some days ago, and it shows. Pete also told me he gave Brian a belt and made him promise to use it to hold up his pants. Thanks Pete! Click the images to enlarge them.
He's trying to tug on your heart strings -- is it working?[/caption]Above we have "Mr. Invisible." He's panhandling in his own fashion Tuesday morning in front of the McDonalds on West Broadway, near Granville Street. Last we saw him, he was about two kilometres east on Broadway in front of the Michaels Arts & Crafts store; he was cocooned in a sleeping bag with the word "invisible" written on a slip of paper pinned to the bag. He was panhandling then also.
His technique apparently works -- Tuesday morning I watched his inert form suddenly come to life and pop up like a slice of toast when a woman offered him a twenty-dollar bill. 'Tis the Season to be a panhandler!
A bit obscene but at least not heard
[caption id="attachment_8248" align="alignnone" width="497"]
Brian is hard to take when he's awake -- I can only imaging how hard it is to be him.[/caption]Here's Brian (or alternately Richard) sleeping at his "campsite" in the alcove of the former location of SportChek on the west side of the Crossroads complex on Broadway Avenue near Cambie Street. When he's not sleeping he's mostly ranting uncontrollably at the people passing by his spot.
Not only does he fit the stereotype of a homeless person, he could be a "poster child" for street disorder. I see him also as a challenge of our compassion and tolerance, not to mention forbearance. I personally don't like his habits one bit, but that shouldn't stop me from helping him -- should it?
Brian is -- forgive me for saying it -- barking mad. He is also filthy, in both his demeanor and habits -- and you don't want to know what's in those paper cups. He's as truly pathetic as the city's panhandlers all pretend to be. Aside from being elderly, mentally ill, and an alcoholic, he's badly crippled, having lost all his toes to frostbite some years ago.
He's the kind of homeless person who needs help the most, just as he's one of the most difficult to help. There's no way he can be kept inside -- he says he's claustrophobic -- except against his will. He what people used to call incorrigible -- not able to be changed or reformed -- so he's given disability money and left to his own devices.
If there's a better solution than just giving him whatever degree of help he'll accept and leaving him be -- gritting our teeth and turning a blind eye, and a deaf ear, then either no one's thought of it yet, or it's too expensive.
My friend Florida Pete, who sometimes camps and drinks with Brian, tells me he helped clean up the campsite some days ago, and it shows. Pete also told me he gave Brian a belt and made him promise to use it to hold up his pants. Thanks Pete! Click the images to enlarge them.
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Pete admires the green guy's soap art on McDonald's front window.[/caption]
Many homeless, and formerly homeless people call this part of the month "Mardi Gras" because it's when they receive their welfare or disability cheques, which were duly issued this last Wednesday. The party will have already run out of steam for many, but not for all. For some, Mardi Gras is more a state of mind than the state of their wallets.
This evening I came upon two of my homeless friends "frolicking" in the alley just around the corner from the McDonald's at Broadway and Granville. They had the entire brightly-lit loading area behind the Bombay store on Granville entirely to themselves. One of the mildest homeless fellows I know, the "green guy," was aggressively pacing, tracing the letter Z, "zed" -- he declared emphatically -- in the air -- for "Zorro." His most recent dumpster mp3 player was attached to the sort of cheap portable powered speaker we all see in the garbage. The combined low-fidelity ensemble was pumping out Missy Elliott's "Get Ur Freak On." He was wide-eyed, and talking a lot like someone on jib, a kind of street speed: "Don't blink. Don't you dare blink!" The other homeless guy was Florida Pete.
Pete admires the green guy's soap art on McDonald's front window.[/caption]Many homeless, and formerly homeless people call this part of the month "Mardi Gras" because it's when they receive their welfare or disability cheques, which were duly issued this last Wednesday. The party will have already run out of steam for many, but not for all. For some, Mardi Gras is more a state of mind than the state of their wallets.
This evening I came upon two of my homeless friends "frolicking" in the alley just around the corner from the McDonald's at Broadway and Granville. They had the entire brightly-lit loading area behind the Bombay store on Granville entirely to themselves. One of the mildest homeless fellows I know, the "green guy," was aggressively pacing, tracing the letter Z, "zed" -- he declared emphatically -- in the air -- for "Zorro." His most recent dumpster mp3 player was attached to the sort of cheap portable powered speaker we all see in the garbage. The combined low-fidelity ensemble was pumping out Missy Elliott's "Get Ur Freak On." He was wide-eyed, and talking a lot like someone on jib, a kind of street speed: "Don't blink. Don't you dare blink!" The other homeless guy was Florida Pete.
Updating my post about the disparity between the front, and back of the West Broadway location of Future Shop. It seemed as though they ran out of money when it came time to do signage for the loading bay, off the back alley, but -- good news -- all these many years later, they've sold enough personal, and home electronics, to finally be able to afford to add that missing letter "E." Click the image to enlarge it.
store,
The dark side of the sugar water business: Unbeknownst to passers-by, a Coke truck lurks in a lane off West Broadway. Just waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting Pepsi truck, Click the image to enlarge it.
The West Broadway Toys-R-Us store's unique composite sign -- known as the ToyMac sign, because it still includes the building's original "Bow-Mac" sign -- has been the subject of a previous post. But I'm back with more photos of the sign; this time from the back. The Toys-R-Us store has a rooftop parking lot. I've always treated it as private property, but the signage clearly says it's a public pay parking lot, so I rode up the curving on-ramp to a broad expanse of parking lot, devoid of cars, littered with shopping carts, offering a back view of the ToyMac sign I have never seen before -- personally, or in any postings on the Web. The dumpster Samsung camera is, I believe, afraid of the dark, but I had a go anyways. Click on the images to enlarge them.
The detail on the top of this 1980s-era office tower on the North side of W. Broadway, just East of Hemlock Street, looks like it was inspired by some species of gaudy brass lamp sold in a big box store called the Furniture Barn; the sort of thing a salesperson named Walt will assure you is "very classy!" Still, gaudy can have it's moments. Here it reflects the glory of the sun setting in the West. Click the images to enlarge them.
MEC's rooftop parking lot affords a great view North, over False Creek, of downtown Vancouver and the mountains beyond -- I slyly say "the" because I think they're the Rockies, but I'm not sure. Anyway, I went up there a few days ago to enjoy the view, and it was great, so naturally I took photographs -- of a street light -- who can say what goes on in my head? I did tear my attention away from the beautifully prosaic, to take one snap of the merely spectacular. Nice keepsake now that gray-skied Fall has fallen upon us. Click the images to enlarge them.
Poor MuchoBurrito, a fine looking restaurant both on, and off, West Broadway. Technically it's on 610 West Broadway Avenue, a very busy corner, at Willow Street, I think. Unfortunately, they are off Broadway, in the sense that they're set way back from the street, on a plaza, behind a big sculptural water feature (see). Through the work week, the lunch crowd from surrounding offices probably sustains them, but today is Saturday -- obviously not their big money day -- they've installed a small mariachi trio on the plaza, in full, stereotypical charro splendour -- If they'd included a hard-bitten, stubbly guy on a horse, with holstered guns, and a rifle slung across his lap, I'd have really eaten it up. In fact the only people I saw there, were doing just that: Eating it up the spectacle; milling, taking photos, but none of us went into the restaurant. Poor MuchoBurrito. Click on the images below to enlarge them.
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What's left of the BowMac sign. Click the image to see it uncropped.[/caption]We're looking South across West Broadway Avenue, at a Toys-R-Us store, at 1154-1176 West Broadway, between the cross-streets Spruce, and Alder. A big store with a big light-box sign; big deal! To Vancouverites though, particularly of a certain age, I suppose, that's the BowMac sign, with a Toys-R-Us logo superimposed in front of it on a white metal screen, which doesn't even fully cover the old sign. Back in 1997 the City of Vancouver designated the sign as a landmark worthy of preservation, and revitalization.
The 10-storey sign was originally erected in 1958, to mark the location of the Bowell McLean (BowMac) car dealership. In it's glory, it was clad in hundreds of incandescent light bulbs, and neon. It was the second largest structure in Vancouver, and recognized as North America's largest freestanding sign; it could apparently be seen for 18 miles. Now it only looms large in some people's imaginations.
The 1950s had left Vancouver a huge legacy of these big, bold neon, and bulb signs, mostly in the downtown entertainment district, and "Theatre Row" on North Granville. They began disappearing in the 1960s, as tastes changed, and this kind of signage was seen as garish, and old fashioned. The BowMac sign, the most garish of all, survived into the 1990s, when there was widespread regret over the wholesale destruction of the old neon signs from the 1950s. The city's planning and heritage departments stepped in to protect the sign from impending demolition after Toys-R-Us purchased the BowMac property in the 1990s., by passing legislation in 1997 to preserve it.
Last one standing wins
Many people continue to think the BowMac sign is a butt-ugly eyesore. I disagree about that, but even if it is, it's also a piece of real history, a pale reminder of a time when Vancouver was the North American neon capital. It earned it's designation as a landmark worthy of heritage conservation in May 1997, because of it's history, and because it's distinctive qualities, like font, design style, and shape, are so representative of it's era. Surely also, it stands to commemorate all the better neon and bulb signs which are long beyond saving.
I remember seeing this sign every day for ten years through the 1980s, craning my head to look at it's dizzying height, when I rode my bike, or took the bus to The Georgia Straight, or other clients way down West Broadway towards Alma. I still always look for it when I'm on West Broadway. For thousands of Vancouverites, myself included, the BowMac sign is a landmark in both our city, and our memory. Click the images to enlarge them.
Sadly, another commercial landmark wasn't as lucky. An impossibly-large billboard which was erected in 1997 atop the seven-storey brick Lee Building situated on the rise at the intersection of Broadway Avenue, and Main Street ran afoul of Vancouver's anti-billboard bylaw, and had to be dismantled after a 10-year battle, which went all the way to the Canadian Supreme Court. ►Superlatives from thevisiblecity site ►
The ToyMac sign from the back ►
Great Vancouver Courier post on Lee Building turning 100 in 2012 ►
"No one is talking but everyone is on the phone!"
This graffiti-clad old Grumman aluminium delivery van is "parked" in a lane on the South side of West Broadway, just West of Arbutus. It has been sitting in that same parking space for many years. This is virtually a neighbourhood landmark, and I think Gumman vans are cool. I'd like to find out the story behind this van. There is another long-time, tagged-and-parked Grumman in the Fairview area. Maybe Toad's already covered it; if not ... Click any image to see a larger version.
Last photos of the now missing truck ►
This is Art. Finally adding a little class to this down-market blog! Art is beloved for his friendly, good-natured humour, which is odd, considering he's a foul-mouthed S.O.B. most of the time. Here he shows us how he trains for his job propping up a store front on West Broadway.The image of the gilt picture frame was nabbed from here. Thank you.
Earlier I posted that the new space-themed Canadian $5 bills looked like Jetsons money. On second though, I think they look a lot more like scratch-and-win tickets.
I wrote this on a beautiful, sunny, Spring day, sitting in the Waves coffee house at West Broadway and Spruce while I enjoyed one of barista Kiran's artistic, and delicious dark mochas.
Back in 2006, I think, I didn't have a part-time job, and was binning full-time; collecting beverage containers and returning them to collect the deposit. There were (and are) a few kinds of containers with returnable value which weren't standard beer, pop, juice, or water. One was a white plastic milk jug, labelled as sold by Wild Birds Unlimited -- the green screw-cap had a sticker declaring it had a 25-cents return value. This was a nickel more than its volume would make it worth if it was, say, a juice container. I would occasionally see these jugs in recycling bins and boxes, and had returned a few -- there was only one Wild Birds Unlimited store that I knew of, and it was in my area.
One summer evening, I was binning in the area of that store, and went down the alley behind it. There were two large city-issued grey garbage toter bins beside the back door. I stopped. Opened the lid of one bin, then the other, just to see. They both seemed to be full of a lot of these Wild Birds Unlimited plastic jugs.
Uhhhh? I bundled them all up in two garbage bags, and secreted them across the street in some bushes.
The next day, I carried the two bags through the front door of the store, the owner looked in both bags and told me, because I had gone to so much trouble to collect them and bring them in, he would pay me the deposit, but normally he wouldn't take them with even the slightest dent. He explained that they needed to be flawless because they would get sterilized and be filled up again with bird seed and sold. He wouldn't pay for the flawed ones, just take and throw them away (in the grey bins out back).
I wasn't saying a word by this point, maybe not even breathing. But I'm sure I thanked him when he handed me the deposit money. And I never went back. They are now located on West Broadway.
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A brass monkey in the hand[/caption]
The day after Welfare Wednesday. Many binners still have something better to do. The Fairview alleys are as free of traffic as they will ever get. My big chance.
I bestir myself to find $20 worth of bottles, and a brass monkey. I go to my storage locker, change, and wash my hands. I go off to find a plug-in and trim my hair.
Back on South Granville, with coffee and WiFi, I note a character orbiting my locked-up bike and trailer. There. Gone. There. Gone. Then beside me in the restaurant. "Is that my trailer, and would I like to make $10?" His large rolling luggage blew a wheel and he needs to get to the MPA, a community centre and apartment complex for clients of the B.C. Mental Health system. Sure, $5. Outside the restaurant we load the small luggage, onto my bike trailer; he gives me $4 and change, and he'll meet me there. Takes me all of three minutes. He arrives, finds a mate, and takes delivery of the property. looks are exchanged, "have you asked him?"
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The beginnings of a bad haircut[/caption]
Seems they've a whole shopping cart full of bottles. They'll split it with me, if I cash it in. Why not? I wheel around to the parking garage, and a shopping cart appears, full of wine bottles and garnished with two bags of mixed glass, plastic and aluminium. I load it onto my trailer. and consider: It's 4:15 pm. I'm almost equidistant from two bottle depots. Ten minutes later I'm at the Westside Encorp bottle depot at Blenheim and West Broadway; not just Kitsilano, but Little Greece.
This particular depot is little also. It's naturally jammed full with four people. One of them, a shirtless aboriginal, is dominating the room and most of the sorting tables. "What do I want," he asks. "A table," I tell him. He obliges, as best he can. But there's a lot going on with him, I can tell.
I sort my bottles in this circus, with just one fellow who counting the customer's bottles and running the touch-screen computer which tabulates and spits out a detailed receipt. The counter guy's spitting out a steady stream of complaints. Out on the side walk, the aboriginal is playing in a heap he's collected along with the bottles. Thanks to the counter guy's complaints, he's covered the debris with a pale pink blanket. Inside, the counter person is complaining about the aboriginal, particularly his lack of a shirt.
Vinnie's bottles, for all their weight and volume amount to only $18.10; that's how it is with wine bottles, they look rich but they're poor where it counts. Ten minutes later I'm at the MPA reception negotiating to leave $9.05, and the detailed receipt, with them for Vinnie, which is what he told me to do. It feels good to help, and I found a monkey.
Ps. Notice how one complete stranger twice trusted another complete stranger where amounts of money were concerned.
A brass monkey in the hand[/caption]The day after Welfare Wednesday. Many binners still have something better to do. The Fairview alleys are as free of traffic as they will ever get. My big chance.
I bestir myself to find $20 worth of bottles, and a brass monkey. I go to my storage locker, change, and wash my hands. I go off to find a plug-in and trim my hair.
Back on South Granville, with coffee and WiFi, I note a character orbiting my locked-up bike and trailer. There. Gone. There. Gone. Then beside me in the restaurant. "Is that my trailer, and would I like to make $10?" His large rolling luggage blew a wheel and he needs to get to the MPA, a community centre and apartment complex for clients of the B.C. Mental Health system. Sure, $5. Outside the restaurant we load the small luggage, onto my bike trailer; he gives me $4 and change, and he'll meet me there. Takes me all of three minutes. He arrives, finds a mate, and takes delivery of the property. looks are exchanged, "have you asked him?"
[caption id="attachment_202" align="alignright" width="150"]
The beginnings of a bad haircut[/caption]Seems they've a whole shopping cart full of bottles. They'll split it with me, if I cash it in. Why not? I wheel around to the parking garage, and a shopping cart appears, full of wine bottles and garnished with two bags of mixed glass, plastic and aluminium. I load it onto my trailer. and consider: It's 4:15 pm. I'm almost equidistant from two bottle depots. Ten minutes later I'm at the Westside Encorp bottle depot at Blenheim and West Broadway; not just Kitsilano, but Little Greece.
This particular depot is little also. It's naturally jammed full with four people. One of them, a shirtless aboriginal, is dominating the room and most of the sorting tables. "What do I want," he asks. "A table," I tell him. He obliges, as best he can. But there's a lot going on with him, I can tell.
I sort my bottles in this circus, with just one fellow who counting the customer's bottles and running the touch-screen computer which tabulates and spits out a detailed receipt. The counter guy's spitting out a steady stream of complaints. Out on the side walk, the aboriginal is playing in a heap he's collected along with the bottles. Thanks to the counter guy's complaints, he's covered the debris with a pale pink blanket. Inside, the counter person is complaining about the aboriginal, particularly his lack of a shirt.
Vinnie's bottles, for all their weight and volume amount to only $18.10; that's how it is with wine bottles, they look rich but they're poor where it counts. Ten minutes later I'm at the MPA reception negotiating to leave $9.05, and the detailed receipt, with them for Vinnie, which is what he told me to do. It feels good to help, and I found a monkey.
Ps. Notice how one complete stranger twice trusted another complete stranger where amounts of money were concerned.
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