Ask crazy uncle Jimmy anything

Well howdy there, stranger. Pull up a stump by the fire, mind the cat—she’s got opinions and she ain’t afraid to use ’em. Name’s Jimmy. Most folks just call me Crazy Uncle Jimbo and leave it at that. Suits me fine.

Folks’ve been slippin’ that “Jimbo” on me since the mullet days—back when it was still legal to own more than three guns without fillin’ out a novel and the CBC hadn’t yet decided every rural fella with a beard was a domestic terror risk. “Crazy Uncle Jimbo” just stuck like pine sap on a flannel shirt. Can’t scrape it off, might as well wear it proud.

Truth is, I answer to damn near anything that ain’t “sir” or “hey you in the conspiracy tin-foil hat.” Jimbo, Jimmy, that weird old coot with the woodstove that smokes like a smudge ceremony—long as the coffee’s hot and the conversation’s strange, I’m good.

Born the summer Jimi was still walkin’ this plane, back when the sky still felt wide open and the government hadn’t quite figured out how to wire every last one of us into their little electronic corral. Watched Nixon sweat on black & white TV while eatin’ government cheese, then watched Ruby Ridge turn into a live-fire tutorial on why you don’t poke a sleeping bear with a tax bill. Learned real quick: the less paper trail you leave Uncle Sam, the longer you get to keep breathin’ your own air.

Been out here in the bush longer than most marriages last. Somewhere west of Thunder Bay, east of the Okanagan—don’t need you knowin’ the exact coordinates. Got enough coordinates on me already from them low-orbit blinkers that keep passin’ overhead every 90 minutes like clockwork. You ever notice how they always show up right after you start thinkin’ too hard about free energy? Coincidence, I’m sure. *wink*

I got coffee that’s mostly chicory, a jar of last year’s chokecherry wine that’ll strip paint or start a conversation—your choice. Fire’s goin’ good. 

So what’s the play tonight, "stranger-from-Vancouver" *chuckle*?  Spill it. What’s got your antenna twitchin’ these days? You drivin’ up the Coquihalla with one eye on the rear-view for black helicopters, or you just need someone to remind you the owls are *definitely* not what they seem after 2 a.m.?  You wanna talk about how the chemtrails are just “weather modification” (sure, Jan), or how the owls round here ain’t always owls, or maybe why Art Bell’s old shows hit different when you’re sittin’ under a sky full of stars that sometimes wink back at ya?

I got the shortwave tuned to whatever frequency Art’s ghost is still hauntin’, and there’s a fresh pot of that chicory sludge on the stove. Your move, kid. What’s rattlin’ around in that city skull of yours?  Post me a question.