Scooter

Commercial drive is a haven to so many walks of life but it's so hot and muggy I'm going to sketch this in one broad stroke, just to cool off: it's a haven for self-consciousness. Q and I were paradin' up Commercial the other day. Q was carrying a potted sunflower - a thank you gift for a neighbour who gave us her casio keyboard to use on a long-term loaner. I also picked up a stand of daisies for myself and some other treats. Excitable crowds in bright green hot pants were piled out on the sidewalks, peering into various bagel and pizza places, following the televised soccer game. Q noticed, weaving through all this community action, a woman on a scooter wearing a pin that read: Capitalism makes me barf.

You don't see the word barf too much. Usually you see puke. Such an antique word, barf, and, in the context of the marketplace, parading this message about self-loathing and over-consumption was heightened on the fat-toting machine.

A couple days later we were taking Cookie for a stroll along a residential street and I was conjecturing about the residents' source of income. I have no imagination about what kind of work people do that would allow them, or cause them, to purchase these stucco mini palaces set next door to morose weed swallowed spanish salt boxes. Amid all the conjecture and surmising we noticed a scooter driver approaching us on the sidewalk. She came to a halt and started asking us all about the dog. I scanned her hat and t-shirt for the barf button, believing her to be the same person we'd noticed on Commercial. Well, she had two dogs and loved dogs and knew that Cookie smelled her dogs and one was a German shepherd cross and the other was a Pekinese and...Suddenly! From the hedge sprang a band of youth fronted by a tall confident chap flanked by two smaller young women with artfully dressed hair. They wore gold vests like a militant Tony Orlando and Dawn and descended on us like we'd bought tickets to see them. "I just want to let you know what's going on here," said the leader. "As you can see, we have the police department vehicles parked out in front of this grow-op house and we're educating the public on how to spot a grow-op in your neighbourhood." He presented us with pamphlets and hosted us, Sister Wendy style, through the signs of a typical Vancouver grow-op. "You'll notice the toys on the balcony which are placed only to give the impression that children live here."
"Messing with your head, aren't they?" I said.
"Indeed," replied Orlando. "It's deeply disturbing to see duct-work throughout the living room and plastic toys strewn around." I imagined the crime scene in my mind which efficiently illuminated my previous state of question and conjecture many paces back.

Officer Golden proceeded to inform Q and me of the "grow-rippers" who come in the early hours of morning and forceably enter these grow-ops, armed with guns, and steal the goods. A character sketch by our Main Man: "These guys are too lazy to grow their own!"

Grow ripper. You have to wonder who came up with that one. Why the catchy name? Is it so you can converse with friends about such midnight shenanigans and sound street savvy? Like a cross between Jack Tripper from Three's Company and Grim Reaper from Meaning of Life. Is everything to do with pot dumb?

Seems to me the grow-ripper does a lot of clean up and the grow-op traps the grow-ripper. I don't know why we need trios on patrol to point all this out but they certainly appeared confident in saving us from our predictable chat about dogs with potential commie pinkos.