I was fortunate while I was on the Rock to meet up with the brother of an old friend of mine. The old friend is the server guy who hosts my readings website. The brother made sure that I found some good food to eat while there, did a wee bit of sightseeing, and of course, got Screeched In.

I asked my friend’s brother what his blog name should be and he was happy to reveal that he already had a pseudonym for the Hash House Harriers. That’s a club for drinkers who have a running problem. I KNOW! Just what I thought!

Since it’s a worldwide organization, the name will often acknowledge the region you hail from. Thus, my friend’s brother is known as Take it up the Eh? (Eh? being a Canadian saying.)

Eh? had a red silk dress made for him especially for the famed Red Dress Run while hashing in Thailand, and I loved this image of him in his lovely dress with red bows in his beard.

As an added bonus, I give you the get-up for the Lingerie Run, which turns out is quite a hit with the Harriers. He appears to have quite a buzz on in the picture. I suspect that is true, since he looked at me with both eyes when he accompanied me. His baby beard is now a full-grown goatee, which he tells me intrigues his gay friends. Seems that mens always want to see if the drapes and rugs really do match.

Take it up the eh? (who, by the way, Knudsey, is not ghey) would have been delighted to transport me to the venue on the other side of the rock (nearly 1,000 km) but it turns out he had a run in D.C. the next day. He assured me, however, that he is very compliant, and not at all a Pee Warden.

He’s a very obliging sort. A little bit goofy. A whole lot smart. Just like most of my friends are. And aren’t you glad that I educate you about these sorts of things?

While working on The Rock, I had been sharing a room with Illa, a German-born psychic on the tour. She has many interesting stories about being bombed out of her house in war-time Germany to tell, and I have enjoyed hearing them. We cried a little, we laughed a little. I peed a little.

Mostly she makes me laugh.

There is something about German women in my experience that makes sharing sleeping quarters awkward. It isn’t the whole getting undressed thing. No, Europeans seem just fine with that. Naked, not naked, no big.

It’s the mighty wind.

The very same mighty wind that would apparently come from my uncultured arse. There’s good reason that Dances with Shrapnel dubbed me Methane Mom.

In my logical mind, I consider it a tradeoff. I don’t snore. She does. And? If I don’t let off pressure once in awhile, I fear my colon may implode.

You may recall that I have poop issues. Specifically, pooping in a public place. It becomes very uncomfortable. Because I am holding it and suffering in case some stranger that I will never see again should come into a public washroom and smell my poop. Or? God forbid, hear me making pooping noises.

When I am approaching the sanctity of the hotel room privy, the putt-putts commence in earnest. I suspect it is a Pavlovian response. No amount of “excuse mes” will serve to actually excuse me. German ladies are strict that way. Even with your strict “no farting” policy, you have managed to endear yourself to me.

By the way, Illa? That cough? The one I teased you about lighting two cigarettes at once to fully enjoy it?

Sharing a room with you gifted me with the same cough. I swear every time I make fun of someone, it bites me in the arse.

There is a lot of signage where I’m traveling right now.

The one that blew me away had images like the above, but thoughtfully added how many moose/vehicle collisions happened in that area last year. Six hundred and sixty.

We had moose whistles on the front of the car. They are supposed to act as a deterrent, something about the sound makes the moose want to leave the area. I was skeptical, but people, I did not see one single freaking moose. Perhaps all the eyes closed in prayer had something to do with the lack of sightings. Or maybe it was because the moose population was reduced by 660.

But the scenery on the west coast of the island? Breath-taking. I’ve seen images of the area, but the conditions were so special. The clouds seemed to be weeping down from the tops of the mountains. Backlight by sunshine. This is what Joe Pennant would call a money shot. I really wanted to ask for a wee stop to take some pictures, but was saving all of my stops for things like bodily functions. I dubbed Rye the Pee Warden after I was informed that Pee stops only happened when he needed to go. It’s a little strange traveling with other people. You really don’t want to piss them off. Pardon the pun.

First crack at internet access that hasn’t been entirely consumed by uploading sound files. So I have a true story for you.

My folks come from an island in the Bay of Fundy. Island folk are rather insular, sometimes even xenophobic, and they have their ways.

Some of them are quite the characters, colourful like you don’t see everyday for sure.

One of these was Poopy Small. My uncle told me how Poopy got his nickname. I’ll leave those schoolyard details to your imagination, but it stuck even after he was all grown up and a grandfather to boot.

One time when Poopy was not feeling entirely like his nickname if you get my drift, he was so uncomfortable that he visited the crusty old island doctor for relief.

The doc told Poopy to take some suppositories and come back in a week.

Doc: How’d those suppositories work for you, Poopy?

Poopy: (whiny old man voice)You know doc for all the good they did me, I might just as well have stuck them up me arse.

We were all crammed into a van, which boarded the ferry for a seventeen hour trip to Mooseland. There was Rye and Ginger, Illa, and Medicine Man.

Illa had generously offered half of her bed the night before, but neither of us was comfortable sleeping with someone, so it was an iffy nights sleep. And we had to be up at five am to catch the ferry.

There was entertainment on the ferry in many forms. I saw a little kid bouncing up and down in the video arcade around midnight.

Luckily, Tenderheart had rented a cabin, and various members of the psychic tour took turns crashing on one of the bunks in it. It was pure heaven to the sleep deprived.

Speaking of sleep-deprived, this morning Illa volunteered to go to Timmie’s and fetch us some breakkie. She asked if I wanted something, and I said I wasn’t hungry. I have no recollection of this.

But I digress.

On the ship was a husband and wife act in the lounge. I could tell by the way she cut her eyes at him that there was trouble in paradise that day.

He had a script of jokes, which he told well. He brought out this mandolin, which he informed us was his “girlfriend” adding that the wife was jealous of her.

Do I have a big mouth? Why, yes, yes I do.

I cracked “Does that bitch (the mandolin) make your supper for you?”

Immediately, the wife cracked up. Just lost it.

The husband? Not so much.

Will-Yummy and a few of his relatives hung out with me.

We always manage to have a good time.

I’m low man on the totem pole with these shared accommodations. Last one to get a shower, so left behind when the others run errands.

Will-Yummy and Tenderheart are showing the rellies around, and promised to stop by and take me with.

I have a plan. Let’s hope they remember the plan.