Feb. 14th

We walk past the Russky dome as they label it, closed for private whatever nots.
Saskatchewan pavillion, why not? Through puddles they must've foreseen and right past the pavillion, 2 hour lineups are for later. Each tarp tent echoes of free bands, whatever genre you'd call that, of Molson Canadian's obnoxiousness and of forays of people. I record it all.
We leave. Lineups for Olympic beer tents are lame, back to Main street, past two girls with pompoms on their toques the size of their heads, past the Russky dome again, past the renovated gore that is McDonalds (if your food beliefs resemble mine at all) and up the scattered charm of Main.
A black cat runs across the street at 7th. I can't help but to think this is a vital Vancouver crossroads. The black cat doesn't die, omen or not.