Zanta’s In The House.

A bit of surreal Toronto Twilight Zone-esque at the gig yesterday:


I’m launching into the intro of The Ragged Ones, which is the first tune of the set. Zanta appears by the barriers right in front of the stage. He’s got his Santa hat on, which looks like it hasn’t been washed since his early days of subway shenanigans. He’s got two handwritten signs proclaiming his legendary status and twitter handle. I call him out and ask if he’s going to bust out some push ups to accompany the song. He obliges. For those of you who know the story, you know that he’s not in the same shape he was. At the end of the song, he’s grunting and groaning. Sounds painful. His back is bowed. His form has waned. I thank him for providing back up vocals for the tune. We launch into the second number, he doesn’t leave. Starts waving his signs to and fro once again. I think I’m going to have to perform an onstage intervention, as it seems clear that he’s decided to rep himself by piggybacking on my gig. My aunt Meredith​ beats me to it. She asks him to kindly move aside. He does so. At this time he realizes that he’s not getting any love and that folks were actually interested in the act on stage and not his vain attempt to reclaim his former glory and six pack. He found here no captive audience. He moves on, disappearing into the teeming throng from whence he came…

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