Welcome to East Van

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the party don’t stop till we see sun

Welcome to East Van” is a phrase often associated with the vibrant, diverse, and gritty neighborhood of East Vancouver in Vancouver, British Columbia. East Van is known for its strong sense of community, artsy and eclectic vibe, and multicultural heritage. It’s a place where artists, immigrants, young professionals, and long-time residents intersect, giving the area a unique and dynamic character.

Key Elements of East Van Culture

  1. Art and Street Culture: East Van is celebrated for its street art, murals, and an active arts scene. The “East Van Cross” or “Monument for East Vancouver”—a public art piece by Ken Lum that features a cross with the words “East” and “Van”—is one of the area’s most iconic symbols. The neighborhood’s vibrant murals and local galleries reflect its spirit and diversity.
  2. Multicultural Heritage: Historically, East Vancouver has been home to various immigrant communities, including Italian, Chinese, Filipino, Vietnamese, and more recently, East African and Middle Eastern groups. This diversity is visible in the area’s wide range of international markets, eateries, festivals, and cultural centers.
  3. Music and DIY Culture: East Van is often considered the heart of Vancouver’s independent music scene, with numerous small venues, recording studios, and community spaces supporting local bands, punk rock, hip-hop, and electronic artists. The DIY ethos is strong, and there’s a supportive culture around experimental and grassroots art forms.
  4. Activism and Community Spirit: Known for its history of grassroots activism, East Van has long been a hub for social justice movements, environmental advocacy, and community-building efforts. There’s a strong sense of pride and resilience among residents, and many local organizations work to address issues like affordable housing, homelessness, and food security.
  5. Food and Drink Scene: East Van is packed with independent cafes, breweries, vegan eateries, food trucks, and multicultural dining options, reflecting the diversity and creativity of the community. Craft breweries are particularly popular, with places like Strange Fellows, Parallel 49, and others drawing a loyal following.

East Van’s gritty charm, artistic expression, and inclusivity make it a neighborhood with a deep-rooted identity and pride. “Welcome to East Van” speaks to the area’s raw, authentic culture—a place where creativity, diversity, and activism thrive.

Get Out of Jail Free

It was a bright morning at the club, and Donald Trump, ever the showman, stood on the first tee holding a driver in one hand and a scorecard in the other.

“Folks,” said Donald Trump, squinting down the fairway, “in golf, we have something beautiful. It’s called a mulligan. You hit a bad shot? No problem. You get one free. A do-over. Tremendous concept. Maybe the best concept.”

The crowd of weekend golfers laughed.

“Now I’m thinking,” he continued, “what if everybody got one mulligan in life? One ‘get out of jail free’ card. You mess up—boom—you get a second chance. Very compassionate. Very strong.”

He slipped the driver into his bag and, unexpectedly, pulled out a small Bible.

“But there’s something even bigger than a mulligan,” he said, his voice softening. “Listen to this.”

He read aloud from Psalm 102:

“He heard the groaning of the prisoners
to set free those who were doomed to death.”

The mood shifted. The breeze moved quietly across the green.

“You see,” he said, tapping the page, “that’s not about golf. That’s about mercy. That’s about hearing people when they’re at their lowest. Even prisoners. Even people who hit the worst shot of their life.”

One of the golfers called out, “So everyone gets a mulligan?”

Trump grinned. “In golf, you get one. In life? That’s above my pay grade. But I’ll say this — second chances built this country. Maybe we should remember that before we write someone off after one bad swing.”

He placed the Bible back in his bag beside the scorecard.

“Now,” he said, stepping back onto the tee box, “let’s see if I can avoid needing mine.”

Violence and Extortion

Yugo Joe tells the Portuguese mafia if they kill him for 30 bitcoins it means peacekeepers and marines come for martial law and to string up all the bad gangsters from the lamp posts all down commercial drive. Don’t make me the bad guy vic. Just go see Oscar Goncalves for counselling. Visit Oscar or the day of the rope comes. A pretty noose around your neck hanging dead from the street lights like Mussolini after World War 2.

Yugo Joe leaned across the small café table, eyes steady, voice calm.

“Vic Vodka,” he said, “cafeserra.website and cafealgarves.website don’t need threats, envelopes, or back-room deals. They’re under protection already — not from some shadow crew — but from the rule of law.”

He tapped the wooden table for emphasis.

“No more extortion. No more intimidation. Not in Portugal. Not in Croatia. Not anywhere in the EU.”

Joe pulled a small pocket Bible from his coat and read aloud from Bible, Psalm 62:

“Truly he is my rock and my salvation;
he is my fortress, I will not be shaken…
Trust in him at all times, you people;
pour out your hearts to him,
for God is our refuge.”

He closed the book gently.

“Psalm 62 isn’t about muscle,” Joe continued. “It’s about refusing to live in fear. It’s about not building your house on violence. If my friends are free, it’s because nobody gets to shake them down. Nobody gets to tax them with threats.”

He looked directly at Vic.

“And listen carefully — Portuguese, Croatian, whoever thinks they run a street corner. The old mafia model is finished. We’re not ‘EU mafia.’ We’re EU citizens. That means laws, courts, transparency. Protection comes from institutions, not intimidation.”

Joe stood up, finishing his espresso.

“You want power? Build something. Open a café. Pay your staff well. Serve good coffee. That’s how you earn respect.”

He paused at the door.

“No more violence. No more extortion. Only community.”

And with that, he walked out into the daylight — not as a gangster, but as a man who believed protection meant freedom, not fear.

Tourists in Rome

Joe Jukic had expected the Vatican to feel like a museum—quiet, roped-off, politely dead.
Instead, on their honeymoon in 2028, it felt alive.

The morning sun spilled over St. Peter’s Square like honey, warming the stone and the crowds. Rome hummed the way it had for two thousand years, indifferent to trends, immune to algorithms. Joe squeezed Nelly Furtado’s hand as they crossed the square together, wedding bands still new enough to catch the light and demand attention.

“Not bad for a honeymoon stop,” Joe said, looking up at the dome.
Nelly smiled. “We could’ve done a beach.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “But this has better ghosts.”

They passed through the Vatican corridors slowly, unhurried in that newly-married way, where time feels generous. Frescoes folded into one another like centuries arguing politely. The air cooled as they approached the Sistine Chapel, and without anyone saying a word, their voices dropped to whispers—as if the walls themselves had asked.

Then they saw it.

The ceiling first, of course—Creation blazing overhead, God rushing toward humanity with terrifying energy. Joe leaned back, almost dizzy.

“Imagine painting this,” he murmured.
Nelly tilted her head. “Imagine trusting it to last forever.”

But it was Michelangelo’s Last Judgment that held them.

The wall was alive with motion—bodies rising, falling, twisting, clinging. No tidy heaven. No cartoon hell. Just truth, muscle-bound and unavoidable. Christ stood at the center, not gentle, not cruel—decisive.

Joe felt it hit him in the chest. “That’s not a guy you argue with.”

Nelly laughed quietly. “Nope. That’s a guy who’s already heard all the excuses.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, newly married, watching humanity stripped of rank and costume. Saints were naked. Kings were naked. Sinners too. Everyone equal under the same impossible gaze.

“What gets me,” Joe said, “is there’s nowhere to hide. No money. No fame. No legacy hacks.”

Nelly nodded. “Just what you loved. What you did with your time.”

They traced the upward movement—the saved helping one another rise, hands gripping wrists with effort and urgency. It wasn’t effortless grace. It looked like work.

“That part,” Nelly said softly, “that’s marriage.”
Joe smiled without looking at her. “Yeah. Lifting each other when gravity kicks in.”

A guard hushed a nearby group. Silence settled again.

Joe glanced at Christ, then at the damned spiraling downward. “Wild honeymoon activity, huh? Judgment Day in fresco form.”

Nelly squeezed his hand. “Better than pretending life’s all sunsets.”

When they finally stepped back into the Roman sun, the noise rushed in—tourists, scooters, laughter, life in full motion. Joe felt lighter and heavier at the same time.

“So,” he said, grinning, “espresso?”
Nelly laughed. “Absolutely. Judgment first. Caffeine second.”

They walked away from the Vatican together, honeymooners in 2028, carrying something older than Rome itself between them:
the quiet knowledge that love is a daily choice,
time is finite,
and every life—every marriage—
is a masterpiece still drying on the wall.