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.

FEELS

Channeling My Inner Crusty Old Grandpa

In the summer of 1993, I had to get vaccinated against tuberculosis. The institution of higher learning I was planning to attend that fall required it as one of their conditions for being allowed to move into on-campus student housing. So I rolled up my sleeves and got my shot. Not merely because that doctor’s note was my golden ticket to the dorm, but also because I’m just a tad bit partial to not catching tuberculosis. Funny how there was nothing offensive or political about mandatory vaccination in 1993. Not that I’m implying anything. Just sayin’. 😉


The Journey of SILVER BROWN

Christmas In July

First dose.

Second dose.

Having been through this process as evidenced by the photographic display seen above, I deduce that the phrase Fauci ouchie is a misnomer. Not just because I’m Canadian, and hence slightly out of the good doctor’s jurisdiction (we have our own resident infectious disease expert who is likewise despised by certain alt-right whingebags for no good reason). Verily, there wasn’t much ouchie to speak of. That flu shot I got last November was actually way more painful than both COVID shots combined. Barely felt the needle go in either time. A slight tingly feeling in my arm for a day or so after each dose (not unlike something one would experience after getting a flu shot) was about the only physical assurance that I’d actually been injected with something.

Not one anti-vaxxer will give a speck of credence to the preceding paragraph. I’d bet the farm on that. But if Karen from Facebook is reading this, I got a question. Now that I’ve received the mark of the Beast, how do I go about activating my new satanic powers? I’m trying to harness the power of Mephistopheles to turn anything I want into crispy bacon using only my mind, but I can’t even get my eyes to do that thing where they glow red like the woodland Christmas critters off that old South Park episode…