What? Me Worry?

Good Morning, Limbophiles,

I feel like cranking Billy Joel’s ‘Pressure’ up on the stereo while I work, because I have a crap-load of things to take care of today. Good thing I don’t have any events on my calendar for today. I’ve already finalized a poster, revised a featured image for a website, updated said website, posted posters on the local ‘unofficial’ neighbourhood Facebook group, trimmed two art pieces for Dawn, looked disparagingly at the results of the mounting job I did for an older painting of mine that I’m looking to sell at the yard sale, and I still have to write this post, the summary report for the PBW2 site and the detailed report for the man in charge, and go staple up PBW2 flyers in our neighbourhood. That and I plan on doing at least a little painting myself today, if I can fit it in.
Stinson Community Picnic

The Meaning of Life: The Neo-Puritan Version

There are a couple of events in town tonight, (a poetry reading and an album release), but I haven’t committed to either yet. Somehow, I suspect I’ll just want to collapse once all of this is done. Now, if The Rest was playing tonight, that would be different. I’m already upset that I’m going to be missing their final gig next weekend (family plans, which better include us or I might just disown them ;D ).

I went to Tom’s public viewing last night at the funeral home. There were a LOT of unfamiliar faces there who didn’t recognize me either, so I decided to make my visit brief and save on social embarrassment. I signed the guest book; walked to Tom’s coffin, which had a photo of him from roughly around the time I first met him; quietly wished him a safe journey to wherever Christian comic sellers go to spend their afterlife; smiled when I saw the copy of Cerebus’ Church & State, still with the hand-written orange price tags that Tom has been using on OGN covers and mini series collections for about as long as I’ve known him; and carefully weaved my way back out. I was probably there for no more than two minutes. I meant no offence by leaving so abruptly; I just didn’t want to interfere with all of those nice peoples’ grieving process by introducing a veritable stranger into their midst.

The argument could be made that I shouldn’t have gone at all, but I really felt I needed to say goodbye to the man properly. So I walked back to King Street, walked all the way over to the comic shop itself, took a photo, and said goodbye to Tom properly; somehow, not having been able to see Tom himself in the casket (for whatever reason, which I’m sure were quite reasonable), I just needed to lay eyes on something that will always be the face of Tom to my eyes, long after they close the shop and it becomes something depressing, like a Baby Gap.
Tom Laing's Comics 1 Books

Well, I have lots of stuff that needs to get finished today, so thank you for reading. Stay cool, keep hydrated, and watch out for speeding bullets; it might just be me running my various errands.


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