The nephew calls, it's been a month, 6 weeks even, he's got stories...

Like how he got a job at Wal-Mart in Cochrane for a few days, only the 15 year old 200lb 5' tall autistic kid didn't like how he was working so complained to the manager, this deaf-mute, who promptly began to tell the Nephew off, only the Nephew couldn't understand as he's a new immigrant who doesn't speak English that well, and the deaf-mute guy, well, you know, his English wasn't so good either, and in the end the Nephew quit, wasn't his sort of thing, he really wanted to meet cute girls but there wasn't any there, all just marginal people, disabilities, new immigrants, etc, and I think to myself "Welcome to Corporate Canada in the 21st Century".

And, hanging up, I realize how much I miss him, I mean, he's now the most normal person I know...

...and there's the stories, good, maybe, on the fly, but if you're committed to a couple of hours of them straight they can get to be a little much...like how Bob Hope got his name and what a good time was had by all at his hundredth birthday party...like how he took Mother Theresa gold panning on the Sacramento River and they gave all the gold they got to the orphans and then Elizabeth Taylor showed up and she was dressed as an Egyptian and won a bet and isn't that the funniest thing you ever heard? and how the 5 Electra's wanted the belt I gave him and were trying to peel it off his body and he managed to resist and how roasted peacock (wrapped in the same foil and on the same bread as the sandwiches on the Ferry) tastes just like chicken or turkey if you don't know you're eating it and how he's wearing Roger Vadim's leather coat and would you like to try it on? (of course, of course, and it smells a little, smells a lot like Roger Vadim died in it...) and about how his real name used to be "Prince of the MPire" before he changed it...

Talking to the boy, back in University, he tells me about a friend of his who got an "acting" job as "Prop Dick", helping his camming girlfriends out with particular requests, apparently it pays well. It's a different world...

I'm out with the death-doula, couple of glasses of wine on the East Shore, Crawford Bay. An empty pub, the bartender sets up the Karaoke and begins to sing for us...

We move outside.

We talk, a lot of similar beliefs, although we express them differently. Different life histories, different stories, and then the conversation turns. The New World Order, her experiences with UFO's, her experiences with ghosts, with her ex-husbands, international assassins, she doesn't drink - really, or do drugs, but clearly she doesn't need them, the staring blue eyes, lucid on the surface, presentable for sure, but she's completely fucking bat-shit crazy...