FEELS

Um, Yeah. About That Mob of He-Karens Who Terrorized Ottawa

Consumer tastes have changed. The once-lucrative (and unfortunately tax-free) business of peddling anti-gay hysteria from the pulpit suddenly doesn’t fill those collection plates the way it used to. So it’s been replaced with anti-vaccine hysteria. Same rancid milk, different witch’s tit. There are probably other issues at play here* which I shan’t elaborate on, but that’s the crux of it.

P.S. This is your pastor underneath that Brooks Brothers suit.

* Remember those preppy guys you used to know from high school who “ruled” the school? You know, the ones who had this whole attitude that they didn’t have to work hard or put any kind of effort into life because they figured they could just coast by on their looks, charm and connections? Um, yeah.

SOUNDS

Frank Zappa Gave Great Quote

A picture I took a while back with an old-timey digital camera, of a street tribute to one of the great philosophers of the late twentieth century. Who just happened to play a mean guitar and would compose some of the most mind-blowingly complex music ever committed to vinyl.


Incidentally, this is the only known object in Toronto’s Leslieville neighbourhood that doesn’t smack of white bread culture.

The man’s been dead for almost three full decades, yet these words still resonate today. Perhaps even more so than they did when he first said them. I see their toxic fruits strewn everywhere (like piles of antivaxxer horseshit and that ridiculous QAnonsense), and realize everything Zappa ever said about the so-called Religious Right (or as I like to call them, Vanilla ISIS) has been spot on. Their sermons and rallies just look like this to me…

Before it became common knowledge that televangelists are evil clowns who obtain their nourishment by drinking childhood fears, Zappa instinctively knew it to be true.

SIGHTS

Just What I’ve Always Wanted

I celebrated a birthday a month ago today. For most of it, I was only dimly aware that it was my birthday. Felt much like any other day. Guess I’ve just gotten to that age. Either that or I was just high. It was one or the other. Probably both.

To commemorate this apparent eureka moment on the ultimate subjectivity of time (but more so to take advantage of some of those non-essential services now in case another lockdown happens later), I treated myself to a slightly expensive ornament to beautify my physical being. One I’m sure I’ll never accidentally misplace. Because it’s a tattoo.


This is the initial stencil impression they do before they break out the needles.
I did the Instagrammy bathroom selfie thing during the mid-session whiz break.
The time-honoured six-syllable mantra of the bodhisattva Avalokiteshvara (Chenrezig), in the Tibetan script. In case you were wondering.

The tattoo artist did a masterful job, as you can see. I almost felt bad for not tipping her an extra hundred on the way out. Midway through the session, she asked me if I was feeling any pain. I told her I’ve been through worse.

It was also through this (highly worthwhile) experience that I learned of specially formulated ointments available on the market for recently tattooed areas of the skin. A lot of them come in visually stunning bottles. Like this…

Keeps your tats iron. Like a lion. In Zion.