Full moon oddities

There was a full moon last week, and some full moon things happened.

On Wednesday night, I woke up at 2:30 in the morning from a dream in which somebody threw something at my head. I ducked and shouted in a strangled sort of way, and that woke me up. I was lying there wide awake trying to remember who threw the thing at my head and what the thing was, and then the phone rang.

“How odd,” I thought as I answered the phone.

It was somebody I dated for a month 18 years ago. He lives in Vancouver. He was calling to tell me that the Vancouver police, the Mexican police and the Russian police were all after him, and his former empl0yer, the BC Children’s Hospital, had bought his apartment building and filled it with people who would terrorize him.

“So what’s new at your end?” he asked.

“Oh, not much,” I replied. We chatted a bit more about police brutality and spy agencies, and then said goodbye.

“How odd,” I thought as I hung up the phone.

He called again at 3:30 am to apologize for how he treated me 18 years ago, to tell me he loved me, and to ask me to come out to Vancouver to help him.

“What kind of help do you think you need?” I asked.

“I need a criminologist,” he said beseechingly.

“I’m a webmaster,” I replied.

“You used to be a criminologist,” he said, “I need you to help me. Please come. I miss you. I’d love to show you the mountains. I’ll even pitch in on your airfare, although I shouldn’t have to because you’re a criminologist so you make a lot more than I do. I don’t think it’s fair of you to ask me to share the cost.”

“How odd,” I thought again.

He called back at 5:00 in the morning, but I didn’t answer. I haven’t heard from him since, and I notice the moon is waning now.

That was one of the full moon things.

The other one: I was walking to the Parkdale Market when a man with a white shirt perched on top of his head stopped me on the street.

“I need ling,” he said.

“Ling?” I asked.

“Ling. You know.”

“Ling? I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I said.

“Lady,” he said, “I need lady. You know. Pussy.”

“Oh,” I said, pleased with myself for finally understanding, “Pussy!”

“Yes, yes!” he said excitedly.

“I”m sorry,” I said, “I cannot help you. But good luck.”

I started to walk away.

“Wait, wait!” he called after me, “Money! I need money!”

The third thing – perhaps not quite full-moonish, but an odd little coincidence:

As you may recall, I saved a wasp’s life last monday. A day or two later, I heard a lot of excitement down on the sidewalk below my balcony. It was two of the neighbourhood ruffians and they’d taken it upon themselves to rid the neighbourhood of wasp nests. They found one in my tree and somehow managed to whack it with a stick and break it in half and run away without getting stung. Later they returned to inspect the nest and pose for photographs. Meet my buddies Dakota and Daniel: I like these guys a lot, even though they kill wasps.

I’ve since heard that *somebody* in the neighbourhood is going around with a can of hair spray and a lighter, and it has *something* to do with wasp-hunting. My source wouldn’t name names, but I have my suspicions.