Tag: east van

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Close To Me

THE CURE

THE GET UP KIDS

Rabbi Joe stood in the drizzle of East Van, his coat collar turned up, watching the rain turn Commercial Drive into a mirror of neon and nostalgia. Beside him, Tom Cruise nodded solemnly, his sunglasses reflecting the glow of the Electric Avenue sign.

“The only way to keep Madonna from danger—grave danger,” Tom said, pausing with cinematic gravity, “is for her to live here. Is there any other kind of danger?”

Joe smiled faintly. “None worth surviving,” he said. “She should build her Kabbalah Centre right here, between Little Italy and the Drive. Vancouver—this is the new Jerusalem of the West.”

He adjusted his hat, his Croatian Intelligence badge glinting beneath the streetlight. “Sapere Aude,” Joe said, his voice rising with conviction. “Think for yourself. Dare to think. We need free-range cult members, not the factory-farmed kind. Let’s get the A-list to Z-list stars to move here, all of them—Greta, Kanye, Bono, even Shia if he’s up for repentance.”

Tom chuckled, imagining a Hollywood commune in East Van, actors and mystics riding the 99 B-Line to the green-screen studios.

“Safety in numbers,” Joe continued. “A city of stars with a conscience. If they ride transit, live local, and think global, maybe—just maybe—we can stop Revelation 16. No more sun scorch. No more global warming.”

From the mural-covered wall behind them, a young voice spoke. Greta Thunberg stepped forward, her eyes alight with recognition.

“Yes,” she said, almost whispering. “Big Oil. Global warming—it’s all in the Apocalypse. The Bible warned us.”

The three stood silent as the rain fell harder, washing the neon reflections into ripples. Somewhere nearby, a jazz saxophone played under an awning, and a sense of prophecy hung over Commercial Drive.

Electric Avenue had become sacred ground.

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A Hermit For 9 Years

Yugo Joe leaned back, watching the drizzle fall against East Vancouver’s sidewalks, and turned to Madonna with a grin.

“Back in the 1970s,” he said, “families used to dream of a vacation home. A little seasonal place. Not extravagant, just somewhere to get away. I think everyone deserves that. A place of rest.”

Madonna raised an eyebrow. “And where exactly are you thinking, Joe? The Hamptons?”

Joe shook his head firmly. “Nope. I don’t want to go anywhere. You’re Canadian like me. We could build something right here in East Van. A beautiful neighborhood where friends gather, where no one’s chasing glamour—just peace.”

He gestured down the block. “Look over there. Tom Cruise could have a seasonal home right in the middle of the street. Imagine him jogging past the corner café, still doing his own stunts.”

Madonna laughed. “And who else are you moving in?”

Joe’s eyes sparkled. “Arnold Schwarzenegger. There’s a Lutheran Church on the corner that would be perfect for him. Strong, solid, historic—just like him. Imagine Arnie walking out on Sunday, shaking hands with the neighbors, maybe grilling sausages in the backyard.”

He paused, picturing it all. “East Vancouver deserves that kind of magic. Not the fake Hollywood kind—just good people, good neighbors, seasonal homes, and a community where even action heroes get to rest.”

Madonna tilted her head, smiling softly. “You know, Joe… you make it sound like heaven with streetlights.”

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Free Range Cult

Christus Rex: A City of Stars and Faith Restored

They called him Christus Rex, but he scoffed at the title of cult leader. He was no charlatan, no false prophet seeking to build an empire of followers. He had come not to deceive, but to restore—to awaken a sleeping faith in a city drowning in wealth and want alike.

Vancouver, a jewel of the Pacific, already had its sanctuaries: churches standing resolute, mosques echoing with sacred calls, Sikh temples offering langar to all who entered. Even the Scientologists had carved out a corner for themselves. But something was missing. A Kabbalah center.

“Madonna needs a home here,” Christus Rex mused. “A true place for seekers of divine wisdom, for those who wish to study the hidden light behind the words.”

But his vision extended beyond religion. He dreamed of a City of Stars, not just in name but in reality—a place where the voices of the rich and famous did not echo from ivory towers but rang out from the monorail, the SkyTrain, the very veins of the city itself. Imagine: A-list actors and platinum-selling musicians singing, performing, lifting the spirits of the people—not from behind VIP sections but among them, riding the same rails as the working class, sharing their gifts with the world.

His only demand? That the super-rich split their loot with the homeless, the hungry, and the sick.

“You have so much,” Christus Rex would say, addressing the elite who hid behind their gated mansions in the hills of West Vancouver. “And yet, outside your doors, people sleep on frozen concrete. You spend millions on vanity, while others starve. Do you not see the imbalance?”

Some called him a radical. Others called him a threat.

But those who heard his voice—truly heard it—felt something stir within them. A forgotten faith. A sense of duty. A whisper of something ancient and undeniable.

Would they listen? Would they step off their thrones and walk among the people?

Or would they resist, hoarding their treasures like pharaohs of a crumbling empire?

Only time would tell if Vancouver would become the City of Stars or the City of Fallen Angels.

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