I never win anything, but I won a big screen TV. Being a student still has a few perks, I guess. While it’ll certainly be something to watch the Leafs get their asses handed to them in spectacular hi def this season, I’m totally loving the fact that Sweet Lorraine (my laptop) can talk to this thing and tell it to play my music in such a way that the notes shatter my bones.
These and other thoughts raced through my mind as I prepared the ugly head for the sacrificial effigy I do every Halloween. A seemingly daunting shitload of schoolwork to do that afternoon, but the brief artistic diversion gave me my groove back.
My grandfather was one of those angry Baptists. You probably know the type. The kind whose dogmas were concocted long ago in a cauldron of accumulated rage, secreted by a people bitterly resentful over the fact that they lost the war and can no longer legally own Black people as slaves. A brain seemingly composed of Chick Tract papier-mâché. With the characteristic (and obligatory) personal shitlist longer than the King James Bible, and a Jesus of unsullied Germanic European descent who spoke with rural Tennessee drawl and carried a Glock in one hand and a Chick-fil-A sandwich in the other.
Over the Thanksgiving weekend, I learned that his former home and property on Vancouver Island had recently been purchased by some Catholic religious order, to be repurposed as a monastery. Catholics were not número uno on Grandpa’s shitlist (it doesn’t take much imagination to correctly guess who was), but they were definitely in the top ten somewhere. I found something instantly gratifying about the fact that a demographic he denounced as the Spawn of Satan are soon going to living at his old house and praying there. Serves him right for his lifetime of shameless over-the-top bigotry. The only thing that would top that was if the building was going to be converted to a Turkish bathhouse, or if the Catholic order that purchased it was this one…