Tag Archives: rumpus room

Vancouver Lives On as the No Fun City

Ever wonder why Vancouver, BC, home of the 2010 Olympics, wild outback of early lumber and gold rush thrills got the moniker of the “No Fun City”? Well, I have because I live here. Did it get this label because of a lack of venues for the arts, whether paintings, dance, acting or music or was it that everything closed down early?

Well, it’s some of both, plus more. Restaurants usually have to stop serving alcohol at 11:30 and close by midnight. Other clubs have to close by 2 am, unless you’re on the downtown strip, which stays open till 3 am but then you have to deal with other issues such as drunk 20-somethings fighting. Taxis are expensive, parking more so. Transit doesn’t run often enough, with the SkyTrain stopping around 12:30. If they ran the SkyTrain on the half hour through the night people wouldn’t be stranded or having to fish out big sums of cash. I live ten minutes from downtown and it can cost $20 for taxi. Some forethought on the city’s part would make transit better and lessen the chance of people driving after drinking because it’s the cheapest way home.

So let’s see: not enough live venues, early closing, expensive or inadequate transportation, concentrating everyone in one area which exacerbates the testosterone levels. That’s almost enough but it turns out there is such a rat’s nest of red tape for restaurant and pub owners that it makes having fun more difficult. There are places that aren’t allowed to have any dance floors, such as the E. Van extablishments. Some of them manage live bands but they’d be slapped silly should they entertain a dance floor. So people get up and dance in front of their tables or at the tiny spot in front of the stage.

Even though the mayor declared we’d beat our “no fun” status during the Olympics, again that was very localized downtown without allowing other thriving communities to participate or even extend their hours. Montreal has a soft closing of 4 am and when I was there a few years ago we never went to bed before 4. Sometimes it was a little pub where we just sat and talked. No crazy violence erupted. Once it was a pizza restaurant.

It turns out that the red tap that wraps up the fun runs to naming your pub or restaurant. A new restaurant on Main St., one of the Boho

Scout Magazine

trendy, artsy areas wanted to name their place the Fast Food Disco. Since it seems it’s the BC Liquor Control Board (BCLCB) that actually approves names of establishments that serve booze the owners already knew that “disco” wouldn’t be approved because it would indicate a nightclub. They actually had to do the signs and finish the restaurant first before applying for the license. They even had a webpage. But good ole BCLCB said you can’t serve alcohol with fast food. The owners cited that they were using irony because their menu is not fast food. It includes that homey cooking of the 50s & 60s, meatloaf, deep fried Mars Bars (I shudder to think of the jello creatures they might serve). The restaurant changed their name to the Rumpus Room because the BCLCB wouldn’t buckle.

Of course the BCLCB doesn’t include White Spot restaurants as fast food but that doesn’t matter. The restaurant was told it would mislead the public who would expect alcohol with the greasy  fries. I’m a little disconcerted by the concept of the food but be that as it may, the name wouldn’t have told me I got booze with fast food, especially if I looked it up online or looked at the menu before entering. Here’s how I imagine the BCLCB decides which names pass the muster.

Hubert: Here’s another one. Hooters. Whaddya think?

Bertha: Nope, nope won’t do. It implies you can get alcohol and will start hooting.

Hubert: Hmm, I don’t think so. Owls hoot, right? Well, we always associate owls with being wise. Oh, and parliaments.

Bertha: So?

Hubert: Well the wise person wouldn’t drink and therefore it won’t encourage that disgusting behavior.

Bertha: Sounds reasonable. A wise place to eat. Politicians might go there. We’ll pass that name. I’m sure it will be a dignified establishment.

Cheers, from the no fun city.

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Memories: Firebugs

Everyone makes mistakes in their lives or does things innocently without considering the consequences. We learn sometimes in a trial by fire. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, or smarter or at least thinking, I sure won’t do that again.

My first true experience with fire was when I was about eight and my brother six.  We weren’t in the habit of burning candles around the house. Still, there were matches to be found because my father smoked. My little brother and I would come home from school at lunch hours and light paper straws and smoke them, or pretended to. I guess no one was home at the time because we surely wouldn’t have got away with this if my mother was around.

This was all well in our enactment of adult activities, but then we proceeded to candles (there were a few around the house). On Saturday mornings when all the older folk were asleep my brother and I would get up to play in our unfinished (cement floor and that fake wood paneling on the walls) “rumpus room.” Since we couldn’t make too loud a rumpus at that time, we’d play with my dolls or his cars. There was an old bed in there, an ideal place to play. At one point I dropped a piece of doll’s clothing under the bed, so my brother went to look for it, where it was dark, with a candle.

Yep, before we knew it the bed was starting to smolder. We ran back and forth from the bathroom downstairs filling glasses of water and tossing it on the bed. But the fire was underneath and happily consuming the dry interior. After some minutes of our futile attempts and the house slowly filling with smoke, we made the hard decision and trucked upstairs to my mother’s bedroom to wake her. And of course we said, “We were just playing and all of a sudden this fire started.”

My mother got my older brother up who took the mattress out to the yard to hose it down. No real harm done, thankfully. Surprisingly, we didn’t get the living daylights beat out of us but instead were chastised soundly, me especially, because I was older and should have known better. The chastisement worked. I was so ashamed that I didn’t tell my firebug tale until I was in my late twenties.

My second run-in was at a comedy dinner show. I believe it was a Fawlty Towers theme which worked well through the dinner. After we ate, half the table had to turn to see the stage. The tables had tealights all over and I had hair nearly to my waist at the time. I heard this shout behind me and someone batted at my head. Apparently my hair was flaming from the tealight and I hadn’t heard anything…yet. Someone else was about to pour a pitcher of water on my hair but they got it out before I knew what was happening. The whole restaurant smelled of burned hair, which the actors used to say their next show would be “Hair.”

And my hair? The burned part was mostly indiscernible. It had only burned a surface layer. There was that one purely stupid move one time, where I lit a pillar candle on my mantle. But then I wanted to see if it was scented and what scent it was so I picked up the candle and looked underneath, with the flame burning. And I burned my bangs.  Duh, that was a smart one.

What have I learned from all this? Don’t play with fire. Be cautious and know your surroundings when fire is present. Don’t do stupid things near fire. Pretty simple really. There is one last fire tale, which is long but I’ll try to shorten it.

At one point I was in Pennsylvania camping with a very large group of  people (very very large group) enough that we wandered from campsite to campsite partying. On the last night, it was raining hard enough that we were pretty wet, but it was a warm rain. There was mud everywhere so we left our shoes in the campground because they were getting destroyed, and we wandered, with alcohol.

I was actually not drunk yet when I decided to bellydance around one fire. I was ankle deep in mud and I ended up slipping on the slimy surface and going down on my right knee and both hands into the fire. Luckily two guys pulled me out immediately. My hands weren’t burned and I decided it was a sign from the gods to quit.

As we wandered away in the dark, I pulled up my still wet (from the rain) pant leg, touched my leg below the knee and said, yeah, I burned myself. Then I proceeded to drink the night away and ignored the burn for another 12 hours. When I eventually, the next day, looked at my leg, it was black and crusty. The medics on site tried to clean, which put me into shock.

When I flew home I had to go to the hospital for burn treatment, which put me in shock again. I also needed antibiotics for a bacteria that can set in after 24 hours and be very serious. And I needed burn treatment (cleaning, burn cream and rewrapping every day) for two weeks. Luckily the burn was below the knee as opposed to be on the joint, and I was in Calgary where their walk-in clinics were equipped for such things.

I figured out what had happened that night was that my cotton clothing was wet from the rain. My hands didn’t burn because I wasn’t in the fire long enough. My pants weren’t burned because they were wet, but there had been a bar (for roasting meat) in the fire and I had been steam burned that night, receiving a third degree burn and a permanent scar. The only good thing about a third degree burn is that it doesn’t hurt much because the nerves have been killed.

To this day, I have no feeling in that one spot on my leg. The scar is relatively small and I have a stupidity award. I don’t drink tequila anymore. Even if I wasn’t drunk when I slipped up, I figure why tempt fate with more. What did I learn that last time? Don’t play with fire, don’t dance in the mud, don’t fall into fires. I really do hope that’s my last life’s lesson with fire.

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