Lola was a smart, funny, sexy, tiny art rag from toronto, whose reviews did not run past 150 words, and ran things like the history of urine or art, or a paris art tour from an aging queen using the ballad of lucy jordan as inspiration. The words were alive, and even though it came from Toronto, people listened.

The Burning Lights was the only underground theater in Vancouver to run a full schedule, and it ran everything from bring you own film nights, to Debords unwatchable collage illustration of Society of the Spectacle to a series of short films concerning Santa that included anarchist mauders from the society of cacophony and a passive agressive spit filled fruit cake.

They both were making money, but died because of burn out, the founders were not making enough money to pay everyone, even with Canada’s grant system which is genorus to a fault.

I bought Lola every month, and would see a film at burning lights at least twice a year.