Blue Eagle Cafe
130 East Hastings Street. Origin 1944. A walk down the crooked road'the anything goes street is a river of those sweet and sour odours of the bitters and the blues. A gathering of forlorn and deflected actors, pepper and glass eyes, flinted faces. Jackals of empty teeth there. This is the tragic street. The broken open one. Social sluicebox. We are near the crossroads of an arrangement called Hell. The corner of twist and spin. Main and Hastings; the last stage. Here you will see Jack Straw burning, Jim Crow with broken wings and Joe Blow taking a nose-dive. The sounds of dry cackles and swollen tongues. Drug Zocalo. Tangle in the jitter-bug jibberish of the score, there's no unscathed passing. Do the day-ghost shuffle. Hail to old loggers'the chokerman, the whistle-punk, the chase, the rig and slinger, the hooker-tender, the high rigger. Shackles and swivels. They're all here. Timber tramps and timber wolves. Hail too to old cowboys when the horses have all run. Hail to the miners at the shaft's mouth, riding the swaying cage that takes you down. Sailors and fishermen; their broken back ships and storm that turn them inside-out. Hail to the ones that didn't make it out again. Hail to the Indians who got lost and found on 'Indian Street.' The Blue Eagle is the roost in the big spar tree of Hastings Street. Inside the Eagle-eye view. Rendezvous.