FRUIT AND CAKE. HAVE YOURS AND EAT IT TOO.

prospect point is at the north peak of stanley park, vancouver, bc. bicycling there from chinatown takes you through the motorway under the vancouver convention center, a wide functionalist catacomb that seems like it shouldn't be permissible to traffic, especially bicycles, and riding it in the dead of night makes you wish you'd had the foresight to be on something so that the red lights swerving in front of you would trail to complete the effect. past that the route goes along the seawall by the high rises in the west end, which then make for spectacular viewing once you've gotten into the park and can see them back across vancouver harbor. the point is up a hill, a straight climb in the dark to a ridge above the south end of the lions gate bridge, and the point is also that there was a party there.

a party, poorly planned maybe, because with the djs and their equipment there's not much space to dance on the concrete viewing platform down the colonnaded staircases from the top of the point. but that's where the party was, and even just watching and being pushed to the point of nearly falling off the wobbly bench at the back edge of the platform are, well, you'll just be falling into people, frenzied, dancing and drunk, and pretty just by dint of being there. plus it's dark, except for the moon and the lights above the dj tables -- that might only be there to aid the photographers. with the bikes, and the setting, and the stupidly exhilarating view of the bridge and of the plush digs across the water in north vancouver, and the bhangra and dancehall driven bacchanalia (and the photographers) it's like goddamn fucking hipster ibiza. fun, even if no one's there to take your picture. trouble won't start pushing its way into the crowd until past three, and you know to leave when you see them.

that's my excuse for excusing myself from productivity today. that and waking up and being told with a smile that i looked puffy. water, then, instead of a caesar, which is what, apparently, canadians call a bloody mary. we did finally get a couch moved out of the house and another one in. at around 4:00. jared asked me if his ripping his snaps open to tear off his shirt was going to find its fifteen minutes on the internet.

"you ripped your shirt off?", paul asked.

"yeah, paul. you were eating cookies."

"they're fig newtons."

you'd think we'd know our ad campaigns better, but looking good in pants means never having to say you're sorry.