You knew this would happen, s'bound to.

After a hot weekend, red thighs, discos, and all, grays have settled in on us. A change fitting for a coming week after another weekend. The summer has settled on us, me, too; “anytime is train time”, a sticker of my childhood once displayed. Anytime is party time. Moderation of all things, including moderation. When the special events held on certain weekends being to happen every single weekend, then during the week, do they not lose their charm?

“The smell of repetition really is on you.” – Over and Over, Hot Chip

One particular special event was almost forgotten about by HotClique. Our attendance was down; our presence hadn’t been felt there in more then weeks. As a change from vampirism and stomping the usual ground, we went with our dancing shoes on. Freshly bestowed with the saccharine sweet candour of anise-liqueur, the march to the spot was invigorating even though we passed masses of living dead.

Frail beauties of the street, long past innocent but still as close to a carefree state as a body can be with out decomposing. Always a sobering thought to me while sporting a mix of fresh, new-market t-shirts and overly worn summer cut-offs; another product of young minds at work combining high and low.

“We don’t give a fuck,” but we do/did, at least on Saturday night we did. The aspiring Chinese-language singer performing at the Chinatown night market; stuck on Keefer St. with hope of rising to great heights among some circle, some crowd. One block north, these DJs have the very same ambition. Who among us thought a karaoke lounge in a racial den of interesting shops would provide the launch pad for frothy and luxurious and ephemeral careers? Well, they probably had a fair idea that a crowd would gather, and that flocks would make their way from all corners of the GVRD to shake and flail wildly to the new glamorous pop phenomenon. Push-button glam is here to stay, for a while.