We believe it was F. Scott Fitzgerald who once said, “There are no second acts in North American porn theatres.” But he was dead wrong… and an alcoholic… and kind of a douchebag to his wife.
Last Friday we had the privilege of getting a media invite to the opening of the newly revamped Fox Cabaret on Main Street. We were going to call it a “soft” opening but thought it might not be the most appropriate word for a former adult movie theatre turned hip hangout.
For a while the free champagne flowed and we patted ourselves on our bedazzled back for actually leaving our home dojo for an evening, convincing ourselves it had nothing to do with the promise of complimentary bubbly. And you know what? We actually enjoyed ourselves. Plus it’s a real looker of a venue.
However, the biggest impression we left with that night — besides the realization that champagne and buck-a-slice pizza does not make for the most restful of sleeps — was how nice the cavernous room smelled. Regardless of whether or not you’ve ever stepped foot in the Fox’s former self, we trust you can imagine the scented delights of human potpourri that met visitors desperate enough to sit down in the theatre’s ratty chairs for a flick or two.
In all honestly, last year was the first and only time we visited the Fox Theatre. We were collecting stats on Mount Pleasant for our newspaper’s Vancouver Special neighourhood series and wanted to know how much it cost to see a movie ($9.50 for a double feature, in case you’re wondering). We literally had taken two steps inside the theatre before we were hit with a waft of what could only be described as mildew and shame. And a touch of chlorine. It was not good. And after we asked an old lady carrying a mop and a bucket the cost of admission, we immediately hightailed it home, took a hot shower for half an hour while sitting down in the tub, and quietly sobbed.
But last Friday, the Fox smelled different. Its scent was clean and fresh, mixed with citrus and sandalwood. Like a Phoenix rising from the ashes to sip on a birdfeeder of Drakkar Noir.
And even though we proceeded to fill our body with booze, greasy carbs and regret, that smell of fresh paint and rebirth stayed with us, like a baby fox nursing on our mother’s furry teat, nourishing us, lifting us up where we belong.
So thank you, new owners of the Fox. Not just for the free champagne but the new olfactory memories you’ve imbedded on our synapses.
