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And more!

Women wearing short skirts in this
weather are better, stronger than Iam

> Observations from an intimidated bisexual

Rebecca Peterson
Humour Editor

 

Gs the recent shock of Vancouver
actually experiencing something
close to winter, many have taken
the opportunity to get full use out
of long-forgotten winter gear. For
example, | bought proper mukluk-
style snow boots in 2014, and | have
definitely worn them more in the
past week than I have throughout the
past three years of ownership. The
point is, we're all fucking freezing.
Except for a select few. A
select, super-powered few.
I first noticed the phenomenon
at my local bus stop. There I was, an
odd mismatched cross between the
Abominable Snowman and some other
funny metaphor, bundled up in scarves
and coats and gloves. A few feet away
from me, however, was another woman.
A woman wearing a short skirt.
She didn’t look the slightest bit
cold; if anything, it was as if she was
living in a completely different season.
A warmer season. One where a skirt
and flats were really all you needed to
stay warm. I was a bit jealous of her

obvious superhuman abilities to regulate
body temperature more effectively
than me... and a little intimidated.

Like goddamn. She looked
good, and not at all hypothermic.
How do you even do that?

I’ve been noticing, however, that this
is not an isolated phenomenon. Women
in short skirts and fancy shoes are all
over the place, striding over the four-inch
ice in three-inch heels with steely-eyed
determination. They are not beholden
to the whims of the weather. They are
made of stronger stuff than most.

lll expand this to include nonbinary
folks, and men who appreciate skirts
as well: To everyone who is braving the
winter in short skirts, ] applaud you. I
don’t know how you came to be—part
of me thinks you might have antifreeze
in your bloodstream, which sounds kind
of awful but I mean it in the very best of
ways. I don’t understand how you can look
at the snow and ice outside, then at your
wardrobe, and decide to bare your legs
to winter’s wrath. We clearly live much
different lives, with very different levels
of tolerance for discomfort and cold.

I have no doubt, however, that when
the shouty orange man in charge of the

The great salt wars

> How a grainy mineral destroyed Vancouver

Chandler Walter
Assistant Editor

 

tall started with the great cold of 2016.

The lands of the Lower Mainland were
caught in the icy grasp of winter, and so
deep in its frosty clutches was the city
of Vancouver held, that madness slowly
seeped into the minds of its citizens.

The first fateful day brought with it
a snowy landscape so white and so deep
that all those who stepped foot outside fell
victim to soggy toes. It was in those first
days that the fate of Vancouver would be
sealed by the inaction of its own residents.

Many saw the first falling of snow
as a welcome change to the winds of
autumn, though too soon were those same
Vancouverites brought low by the hidden
evils of the cold. We were our own worst
enemies, at the beginning of it all, though
the war that would befall us was one that
none could have possibly foretold.

We erred. We made mistakes. We
acted as humans do in a geographical
location with mild weather: We failed to
shovel our sidewalks.

Though some were swift to liberate
the snow from their portion of the
walkways in those first days (and thank
the Gods for them, or many more would

have perished long ago), far too many of
us remained hopeful that the rain would
once again return to wash it all away, as it
has done for so many years.

We were wrong. The rain did not

come.
The snow lingered, and turned to
unyielding ice. The once-sturdy sidewalks
became a tableau of chaos, with no refuge
in sight for those who braved the walkways

 

United States slams his tiny hand down
on that big red button and we are plunged
into a nuclear winter for decades to

come, you are the ones who will survive.
Task only that you pass our stories down
through the coming generations, and
remember those of us who were too weak
to survive any temperature dropping

 
 

Photo Illustration by Mike LeMieux

of doom. Those were dark days, cold days,
and many buttocks fell victim to the hard
justice of Vancouver's ice. Many gave up
hope, remaining in their houses, awaiting
a sunny day to thaw the ice that cursed
them so. But that day did not come, and in
their darkest hour the people of Vancouver
turned to an unlikely champion: salt.

I don’t know how we could have
been so foolish. I don’t know when our

Illustration by Ed Appleby

below -5 degrees. You are undoubtedly the
strongest of us all, and our future depends
on you and your inability to feel cold.

In the meantime, however, I'll
finish with this: Y’all look great, and I
would ask you to teach me your ways
if I didn’t think it was one of those
things that just can’t be taught.

humanity abandoned us and we were left
as nothing more than animals, tearing
each other limb from limb for the precious
mixture of salt and sand. When the
firehalls were named and the salt was
spilled, we came in the hundreds armed
with white buckets and metal shovels.

I have never before lay witness to the
horrors that filled my eyes that day.

With their shovels they charged
towards the hill of salt, with no
compassion, no remorse for those who
fell victim to the chaos before them.

Any sense of kinship or camaraderie was
abandoned that day in the name of salt,
and after all was said and done, there

was nothing left of that hill but faint
remnants, scattered grains upon the dirty
pavement.

Nota bucketful could be found by
day’s end, but the utter humanity of those
who took part in the rampage, well. That
was left behind in the fading dusk.

And for what? An easier walk to the
bus stop? A quicker trip to the grocery
store? At what cost was this war waged,
and what is to stop Vancouver from
plunging back into Dante's icy ninth circle
of hell at the next dusting of snow?

Or perhaps we have learned from,
and atoned for, our sins. One can only
hope.