. . . . . . . It is high summer in Vancouver. The days are hot, and we need the fan to keep us cool. We wear shorts all the time. The babes are lookin’ fine. These are the days that those with expanding waistlines are legitimately punished. You can’t rock a chubby frame, sir. That will be a 20-franc fine for being fat. (In Margaritaville, all fines are in stylish old-style French currency. No euros tolerated. Oh, okay, we’ll accept large U.S. dough.)
. . . . . . . High summer in Vancouver deceives one, makes one think the rainy season can never come again. It all seems so dry from this vantage point. How can the “atmospheric rivers” make their way again. (Yet there would be floods in Abbotsford at the start of December in the months to come.)
. . . . . . . Now is August, and we are encased in time-defying amber, like dinosaur DNA in Jurassic Park. Which reminds one of Stanley Park, the large forest reserve to the west of downtown Vancouver. With its ferns and big trees, it looks like the setting for a marauding bunch of dinosaurs, carnivores to herbivores alike.
. . . . . . . Stanley Park fails to fulfill the purpose of New York’s Central Park. The park should be ringed by giant skyscrapers, yet it isn’t. Only smallish buildings grace the exquisite, hi-value real estate. And only on one side is there development. Central Park is optimized on all four sides. Stanley Park has one, and it’s a limp one as it is.
. . . . . . . (But think of the dead from the Abbotsford floods. Think of the dead.)
. . . . . . . Just a note: As I go through time, I revise older entries in my Cradle so that they have a foreknowledge of the future, and can interlace with different time periods. I like this future-sense a great deal. It makes me appear as smart as I am. For I am the smartest person I have ever known of, and that’s saying a lot. *dourly* Not that that’s been recognized alot.
. . . . . . . Vancouver is an intellectual’s city. There are the homeless, of course, and they’re idiots. There’s the women, and they are intellectually banal. But the men — many of them are thinkers. Coming out in fall will be the Transport 2050 plan for the year 2050. Invitations will be given for the public to chime in … and be ignored, as per usual.
. . . . . . . Why should the city planners listen to the amateurs, even talented amateurs? They get paid to huff and pontificate. They don’t need their huffing and pontificating interrupted by a bunch of harrumphers who seek out Ye Old English Soapbox to act bigshot to their friends and disrupt the orderly planning of the city bureaucrat.
. . . . . . . This city’s liberalism is going to kill it. At some point in the not-so-far future, an imperator is going to be needed. This is a man given enormous powers for a temporary duration in time, in the Ancient Roman style. But the stumbling, bumbling city bureaucrats will have that power instead. And they’ll bury the city in death by committee.
. . . . . . . Committees are damn near useless for accomplishing anything of value. And when time is of the essence, they’re doubly useless.
. . . . . . . Vancouver would be better off delegating its situation to Catxman. Think about it.
If Catxman ran the city, there would be a network of pods automatically traveling up and down the streets, carrying people on electrically powered, computer-controlled systems throughout.
If Catxman ran the city, Downtown Eastside would be either (a) bulldozed and demolished; (b) elevated to a higher level of disrepair and turned into a kind of urban theme park where free gunfire was tolerated and even welcomed.
If Catxman ran the city, babes would be encouraged to be more sexual. There would be rewards for girls to switch from masturbating (wasteful) to going out with guys who are at least a little interesting to them. An artificial pheromone would be invented to turn them on.
If Catxman ran the city, the imperial writ would never run out.
So many things to do, so much fun to have! So much power needed to have it all.