Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - M’Chigeeng - Le Morte D’Arthur

Episode Date: September 25, 2026

This week we’re spending the entire episode on beautiful Manitoulin Island. We have Stuart’s opening essay from our wonderful visit back in 2010, plus a story exchange and a very special Vinyl Café story.  Ad-free listening is here! Listen to the pod ad-free and early, PLUS a whole bunch of other goodies – like virtual parties, Q&As, listener shout-outs & more. Subscribe here: apostrophe.supercast.com Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

From the apostrophe podcast network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton, and this is backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. We're going to do something a little different today. Instead of pulling pieces from different shows, we're going to spend almost the entire episode in one place. One night, one room, one venue, one location. We're going to start right at the beginning with the opening script from a vinyl cafe concert recorded in Chiging on Manitoulin Island back in 2010. It's a script Stuart was proud of.

It's of its time. There's no getting around that. Some of the references belong very clearly to the moment that it was written in. But what's kind of amazing is how much of it still lands, almost 16. years later. So we're going to start there. And then in the second half of the show, we'll play you the Dave and Morley story that Stuart told that night. But we're going to start or else at the beginning. This is Stuart McLean with Chiging. From Manitoulin Secondary School in Chiging on beautiful Manitoulin Island in northern Ontario.

It's the vinyl cafe with your host, Canada's best storyteller. Stuart McLean. Thank you very much. Thank you. So, I've been here a week. Well, last than a week, really, four days. So I don't know anything at all about this place. You shouldn't listen to a word I have to say. But I do have some things to say, and I'm going to say them all the same.

I've been here for a week, and it has been one of the richest weeks I've had while I've been on the road with a vinyl cafe. I could go on about this island forever. But before I do, I should start with some background for the people listening at home. Manitoulin is an island in Lake Huron, the biggest freshwater island in the world. That's right, in the world. Home to about 13,000 people year-round and about four times that many in the summer. So, a summer place, the kind of summer place where people come to fish and hunt. the lakes and the rolling hills and the green fields and the split rail fences and the silver water of the North Channel

make it one of the prettiest places in the country. Not dramatically pretty, mind you. Not rocky mountain pretty. Though you could convince yourself as you drive around that you are somewhere on the West Coast, on one of the Gulf Islands maybe. more a pastoral beauty, English countryside, but shaggier. There are two ways to get here, two hours on the ferry from Tobor Mora in the south, or two minutes over the one-lane swing bridge from the north. Once you get here, well, there's so many things I could tell you about this place.

I could tell you about the beauty of bridal-vail falls where we picnic one day, or about our hike along the cliffs on the cup and saucer trail, or about the creamy island ice cream from Farker's Dairy. I can tell you how different it is here from the city where I live, sort of place where a school bus driver like Sharon Montgomery doesn't only get dressed up for Halloween. She decorates her bus, too.

And on the last day of school, into the S-O and buys everyone on the bus some of that ice cream, even though all of it's against regulations. Who cares? It's a sort of laid-back place if you have a plumbing problem and you call a plumber and he says he's coming Tuesday. You'd never think to ask what time Tuesday, though you might ask which Tuesday. All about the time zone here. Somewhere between eastern and central time. There's a time zone all its own, Manitoulin time. And whenever you look at the clock, the closest it ever gets is to tell you what year it is, about 1952. If you see anyone in a hurry on Manitoulan Island, you know one thing for sure. They're from away. There isn't a traffic

light on the island, not one. Okay, there's one. On the island. the way off at the one-lane swing bridge. But it's not all peaches and cream here. There are hard things about living on this island. The trickiest is probably finding where you left your house keys if you ever felt like you had to lock the front door, which nearly everyone does if they go away for more than a week or so. Though no one ever has to look for their car keys here on this island. That's because everyone on the island has a sure fire spot to find them in the ignition. You can probably tell I've been enjoying myself here this past week, and I have, I've had a wonderful time. But I want to tell you something serious now. I want to tell you

something from my heart, because when I go home, I'm going to be talking about you, behind your backs. And I think I should say this to your face first. Because when I get home, and I tell my friends about Manitouil, and I'm not only going to tell them about the beauty of the landscape, or your casual relationship with clocks, or how friendly you all strike me, I'm also going to tell them about the relationship that I've seen here between the people of the First Nations and the non-natives who share this island. But before I do that, let me say this first. I happen to believe that one of the most important things

that we have done in this country these past few years was the day Prime Minister Harper stood up in the House of Commons and on behalf of the people of Canada on behalf of you and me apologized and asked for the forgiveness of the Aboriginal people of this country for failing them. profoundly. The Prime Minister's apology and the truth and reconciliation commission that is convening across the country are only the first steps, it seems to me. I'm sorry is a potent phrase, but it always needs to be heard more than once and it must be spoken in actions as well as words.

And conversation is something we haven't done much of over the years. Oh, I know our political leaders have talked. God, they've talked. But the rest of us have, well, we have lived in our two solitudes, if I can borrow that phrase. And that brings us back here to Manitoulin Island. Nearly half the population of this island is Aboriginal. There are six reserves on Manitoulin. And when you come to this island and drive around as I have, you drive in and ask, you drive in and out of those six reserves all the time. You are ahead of the curve here, because unlike the city where I live, you have come together already, or if you've been forced together, it doesn't matter.

What matters is that you collide, and you collide in ways that we don't in the city. And while most of you think that is for the better, I'm not a fool, and I know that are some here who think it's for worse. There was racism here 30 years ago, and I'm not going to say that it's all gone. But I will tell you this. I have not found one single person who's told me things haven't changed these last 30 years for the better, that the collisions are not richer and more meaningful. Conversations start slowly. But the conversation this country needs has begun here. It happens in the hockey arenas every time Gore Bay plays Chiging. Happens every Wednesday and Friday and Sunday nights at the reserve-run

bingo halls. Happens in the schools, in this school where we are today, which is both native and non-native. You collide with each other. And without knowing it, those collisions rub off. I'm a white guy, and I've talked to a lot of white folks this week. One of the questions I kept asking is, what's so special about this place? And one after another, the people I talk to have given me the exact same answer. They talk about the spirituality of the island. They talk about how they feel connected to the land. It's the smell of the water. It's the smell of the water. It's the in the springtime said the woman I met in the church basement. She looked like one of the women in my mother's bridge club.

She sounded like a first nation elder. Everyone on this island sounds like a first nation elder when they start talking about the land. I had the most wonderful thing happen to me the other day. I was driving through the town of Chagin, and I passed the playing field of the Lakeview School. an elementary school, and I saw all the kids out on the field standing in a circle, many of them in traditional dress. It was the school's annual powwow.

And how great is that? They're using the schools to reclaim what was taken away by schools, teaching the Jibua language, using education to fix what was broken by education. I parked, and I wandered onto the field, and I sought out the principal. Do you mind if I watch, I asked. Please stay, he said, grab a seat. And then when the drum began and all the students were invited to dance, he came up to me again and said, you can dance too. He must have seen the horror in my eyes.

Must have been obvious that that was never going to happen. I don't know how to do what I said, pathetically. And the principal smiled at me the way I'm sure he smiles at the kids in grade one. And he said, just feel the drums. And then he laughed me and joined the circle himself. This is where and how it starts. It starts with the invitation. When the invitation comes, you have to take the flying leap.

You have to connect the drum to your heart and your feet to the ground. Because when you do that, the magic can begin. Well, the invitation has been tabled. We will, all of us, from one side of the country to the other, need a lot of practice and many outstretched hands before we can dance together, before we can connect to the magic. But I would like to put forward that the dancing has begun. And it is very, very, very important that we keep it going. I didn't get up and dance.

But when I leave here tomorrow, I will be leaving new friends behind, some of whom are First Nations people. And that, for me, is a step closer to the dance floor. So thank you for welcoming me into your community. And hopefully I will come back one day and I'll have a chance to dance again and we'll dance together. That was Stuart McLean

at the Manitoulin Secondary School in Chigang, Ontario that was recorded back in 2010. What a special trip that was. You could probably tell from that script. Just how much Stuart loved Manitoulin. It was his kind of place. I mean, let's start with the time thing.

You don't arrive there quickly. It's hard to get to. all the best places are. Even when you're in a hurry, the island isn't, which worked out perfectly for Stewart because he was never in a hurry and he was rarely on time. So there's that.

And there's also water everywhere, sky everywhere, roads that ask you to look up instead of a head. It's a place that feels of nature, not in it. It's a painting, not a postcard, textured and windswept, not pastoral and perfect. It feels held by the lake, by the land, by the history of people who were there long before you were. And that makes you want to hold it too.

When we went there with the vinyl cafe, it didn't feel like a stop on a tour. It felt like a visit. It was one of Stewart's favorite places. And I wish we had the chance to return, but we ran out of time. And that's why it makes me so happy that we get to return on this podcast. We'll be returning to Manitoulin again after the break, so stick around. Welcome back. Time for our second story now.

This is a story that was recorded on that very same night on Manitoulin Island back in 2010. It's a story exchange written by Don DeCoursey of Fredericton, New Brunswick. Our family has always enjoyed camping. My husband and I tanted on our honeymoon 26 years ago, and we upgraded to a hard top camper when we had kids. Finally, after 15 years of camping, we opted for total luxury. We purchased a 24-foot travel trailer with a pull-out couch for us at the front and bunk beds in the back for our two children.

We were on our maiden voyage with our new rig at one of our favorite campgrounds. It was Canada Day weekend, and we were lucky to get a campsite. We were located right across from the tents and the trailers occupied by the young campground staff. Summer holidays had finally arrived. One night, I was awakened in the wee hours of the morning by my husband's voice saying, This isn't your trailer. There was a young man standing next to our bed. An inebriated young man.

A naked inebriated. young man. My husband was trying to direct him to the door telling him that it wasn't his trailer. Our guest kept calmly replying, yes, it is my trailer. After a few minutes of discussion, our intruder left, and we quickly locked the door. Our eight-year-old son had slept through the whole event, but not our five-year-old daughter. A little voice from behind the curtain near the bunk beds called out, is he gone? In my most reassuring mother voice, I told her he's gone, you don't have to be afraid.

And she said, I'm not afraid. I just didn't want to miss anything. Then she asked, what happened? Well, since she had been shielded by the curtain, I tried to explain as best I could. I told her that the man made a mistake and had come into our trailer because he was, because he was, well, a sleepwalking. After a moment's thought, she asked, did he have his arms in front of him? No, I replied, not his arms. In the morning, a very sober and embarrassed young man came over to apologize.

He explained that he had celebrated his arms. his birthday a bit too much that night and had become disoriented when he had wandered out of his trailer. I told him I'd known it was his birthday by what he was wearing. As we parted, he said that he had hoped that someday I'd be able to laugh about the incident. Well, that day did come very quickly, and this story continues to be our camping favorite. The story came to us from Dawn to Coursie of Fredericton, New Brunswick. That was a vinyl cafe story exchange written by Don DeCoursey of Fredericton, New Brunswick. All right, we're going to stick on Manitoulin Island.

And if you have been there yourself, then you'll understand why I don't want to leave. Don't make me leave. Please don't make me leave. This is the Dave Marley story that we recorded that night back in 2010 in the school gym at the Manitoulin Secondary School. This is Stuart McLean with La Morte d'Arthur. It was a summer evening.

Heat of the day was done, but night was nowhere in sight. It was that lovely time between time. It was dusk. Everything was faded. It was as if the world had been stone-washed. Dave was driving through the countryside around the long corners over the low hills. Corn's up nice, he said.

No one said anything. No one had said anything for half an hour. No one was Stephanie sitting in the front seat beside Dave, but staring out the side window away from him. And Sam sitting in the back. Dave shrugged and fumbled with the button on his armrest. and his window slid down, and he stuck his left arm out the window

and let it ride on the air current. A convertible passed them going in the opposite direction. Dave said, the problem with convertibles is there's only 15 minutes a year when you'd want to have the roof down. The rest of the time, it's either too hot or too cold. Still, not a word. I think this, said Dave, not giving up.

This moment right now is this year's 15 minutes. Still, silence. Right now, said Dave. Finally, Sam said, when I get a car, it's going to be a convertible, and I'm always going to have the roof down. Dave said, yeah, what kind of convertible are you going to get? Sam said, I don't know.

And it got quiet again. five minutes quiet ten Dave started to sing quietly Twilight time then Stephanie said I can't stop thinking about Arthur me too said Dave me too

Dave's dog Arthur was sick they weren't sure how sick is he going to die said Sam we don't know said Dave we just don't know. If we don't know, said Stephanie, why did you come and get me? Good question, thought Dave. I just thought you should see him, he said. So he is going to die, said Stephanie. We don't know that, said Dave. But he was going to die. If not now, soon, they all knew that.

that's why all the quiet he was old and now he was old and sick they rolled along quietly until a little later when Dave said something under his breath what said Sam Dave said oh I was just thinking about my old dog Sam said how did he die Dave said I wasn't there I was away a mutt. Black and white coat, strong legs, built for running, probably had some border collie in them,

the loyalty and the focus, but not the brains. Definitely not the brains. Scout was one dumb dog. He was one dumb dog, said Dave. This was back when, back when Dave was a boy and living in big narrows,

Back when people built their own homes, you'd start with a basement and live in the basement until you could afford to go higher. Scout, born in some basement, always stayed close to the ground. Scout hated water, which drove Dave's dad, Charlie, a duck hunter to distraction. Dog should know how to swim, he'd say every year as duck season approached. One spring he decided to do something about that. They drove to town and Charlie threw scout off the government pier. He sank like a stone. He didn't even try. He went straight down.

Until he reached a point of stasis about three feet below the surface and he hovered there looking up at them. Sorrefully. Oh no, said Charlie, down on his knees, peering into the water, calling the dog. Scouts' mouth appeared to be opening and closing. Looked like he was barking underwater. Oh, no, said Charlie again.

Dave and his sister Annie were both there standing right beside their dad, pointing and crying, and there was nothing for Charlie to do, but stand up, yank off his jacket, and jump in. This was Mother's Day weekend. Broaddor Lake in May, not even the teenagers were thinking of swimming. When Charlie hit the water, he gasped.

He almost sank himself. When he told the story later, that's the part he'd start with. It was close, I'll tell you. And that's just when he hit the water. He knew it was going to be colder below the surface. But he couldn't let the dog drown,

not with the kids standing there, bawling their eyes out. Not with witnesses. So Charlie sucked in a lung full of air ducked under, grabbed Scout by the tail and swum him over to the beach. So he saved him, said Sam. The sun was pretty much gone now. Night was settling on the car. The darkness that was obscuring the world was working them together. This was the way David hoped it would be. The three of them driving along, talking as they went. Scout was a small town dog. There was

plenty for him to do there. He had a full life. Mostly he hung around with the other dogs and barked. Mostly they did that back at Carrigan's grocery store. On a good day, the butcher would slip someone a bone and then there'd be a good fight to see who got it. Sometimes one of them would slip into the store and grab meat right off the counter, not scout. But there were dogs in town who would do that. There were dogs who believed in invisibility. They figured if they were fast enough, even if they were seen, no one would recognize them. Did I ever tell you about the day he went to church, said Dave? Stephanie rolled her eyes.

Dave wasn't fussed by that. He knew he had told her before. He knew what he was doing. You have to tell stories over and over. It's the creation of myth. The only road to immortality. Tell it, said Sam. of all the things he did said Dave

this was probably the best by the best he meant the worst it was summer said Dave we were driving our mother crazy Sam said who Dave said me and Annie your aunt Annie said Dave and then he said so my mother

decided that on Sundays everyone was going to go to church except her so she could stay home and have time alone So Sunday mornings that all set off. Charlie took his truck, but Dave and Annie walked. They followed the railway tracks into town where they'd pool their money and buy a pop or a box of chips, then head out a town over the bridge and up the hill to the church. We'd head out around nine for the 11 o'clock service, said Dave. The Sunday he was telling them about, the famous Sunday. They got to town and there was Scout in front of the Maple Leaf Cafe. He had his nose in a French fry box. Scout covered in ketchup.

The moment he spotted Dave and Annie, Scout decided he was going to go with them wherever it was they were going. Probably because Church was in the same general direction as the trout pond. And you never knew there could be fish heads involved. Dave and Annie knew letting Scout follow the trout. them to church was not a good idea. So we stood there, said Dave, and told Scout to go home. And did he go, said Sam? Of course not, said Dave. He followed them, said Stephanie. But not on the road, said Dave, in the woods, paralleling the road. He'd been hanging around bad company. He figured we couldn't

see him. When we got to the bridge, said Dave, we stopped and called him. Come here, boy, come on. come on scout and then what said sam then we threw stuff at him said dave sand and stones they made it up the church hill just in time the church bell ringing and no scout in sight though i did have a bad feeling said dave charlie was already there they slipped into the pew beside him now charlie went to church for the same reason they did, because Margaret told him to. And he made no bones about it. He had cut articles out of the Reader's Digest and slipped them into the hymnal and read for most of the service. He'd look up occasionally and mutter unhelpful things like Father O'Neill is climbing new heights on Mount Monotony today. Anyway, said Dave, the three of us were sitting right near the front.

when they heard this murmur from the back of the church and Annie, who was on the aisle, turned around and said, don't look now. It was Scout, said Sam. That's right, said Dave. But I couldn't see him. Scout, who had finally arrived at church, had decided he would sneak up to the front to join Dave and Annie,

so he had slid under the back pew and was now worming his way forward row by row. invisibly or so he believed sadly on his way through the woods Scout had managed to pick up a stick the stick was attached to his

undercarriage and dragging along behind him along with some other stuff some coral colored muck stuff he had rolled in and was matted in his fur and something horrible and foul smelling It was hot in church that July afternoon. A heavy sense of torpor had settled on the congregation.

And Father O'Neill, who was about to begin his homily, could sense he was losing everyone. He'd been watching Valentine Cavanaugh. Valentine had been fighting off sleep for a good ten minutes. His head drifting towards his chest and then snapping back as if he'd been shot. But now he'd given in. Valentine's head was hanging lifelessly from his neck, and he was snoring softly. Father O'Neill was just coming to the part where the Israelites were punished for speaking out against God and Moses, and in a desperate attempt to wake Valentine from his siasta and get the attention to everyone else,

Father O'Neill slammed his hand down on the pulpit and bellowed. The Lord sent fiery serpents among the people, they bit the people and many died. And that is when Scout popped up under Valentine's view. And he nozzled old Valentine's hand with his ketchup covered snow. And Valentine, who had been dreaming

about biting serpents, blinked one eye open. And there was Scout grinning up at him. He had no doubt that Scout was a serpent. When Scout licked his hand, Valentine lurched out of his seat and screamed, Jesus saved me! And Scout dove under the next pew and came up

like an apparition between Lillian McAllister's outstretched legs. She saw him and promptly fainted. It was the widow McCoy who stood up and called out, There are serpents among us! And Father O'Neill leaned forward to see the serpents for himself, and he knocked the pulpit over. As it went down, he got a glimpse of scout and said, Dear God, serpents.

And that was more or less the end of the service. The scout came right up to us, said Dave. His tail was wagging, and he looked at us as if to say, isn't church great? But how did he die, said Sam? Oh, said Dave. And now it was his turn to be silent. I was away, he said, finally.

He was hit by a car. and he was killed, said Sam. No, said Dave, he made it home. He died a couple of days later. I've always felt bad that I didn't go home and, you know, see him. Why didn't you, said Stephanie? Well, I was working and, you know, I figured if he made it home, he was going to be all right. And then he said, no one said I should.

Go home, I mean. 15 minutes later he pulled into a general store in the middle of nowhere they parked beside a foam booth under the yellow glow of a street lamp they went in and got popsicles and a bag of chips when they got back on the highway they were quiet again but it was a different kind of quiet together sort of quiet not in a part one

Sam said Tell the one about Arthur and the potatoes He used to sit on potatoes said Dave Like he was trying to hatch them said Sam If we wanted to cook potatoes We had to pull them out from under him said Dave Stephanie said that is so gross And sleeping on the vent said Sam

In our bedroom said Dave Mom and I froze one whole wind because he was sucking up all the heat. And you couldn't figure it out, said Sam. We bought the furnace guy in, said Dave. Twice, said Sam. Cost over $100. And it was me who figured it out.

That's right, said Dave. And the ice cream, said Sam. He was crazy for ice cream, said Dave. Is, said Stephanie. He is crazy for ice cream. It was after 10 when they got to town. They drove by the vets, but the vet was closed. So they went home, and when they got there, Morley was in the kitchen.

When she saw Stephanie, she smiled, but only for a second. She smiled, and Stephanie smiled, and then one of them started to cry, and pretty soon they were all crying. The vet called, said Morley. He didn't make it. He went to sleep and didn't wake up. up. And they stood there, the four of them in the kitchen, Arthur's empty basket by the back door. We do this thing. We open our hearts to the world around us. And the more we do that, the more we

allow ourselves to love, the more we're bound to find ourselves one day like Dave and Morley and Stephanie and Sam standing in the kitchen of our life surrounded by the ones we love and feeling empty empty and alone and sad and lost for words because one of our loved ones who should be there is missing a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a wife, a husband, or a dog or a cat.

It doesn't really matter. After a while, each death feels like all the deaths. And you sand there like everyone else has stood there before you, while the big wind of sadness blows around and through you. He was a great dog, said Dave. Yes, said Morley. He was a great dog. When he was a puppy, Arthur was allowed to sleep on Dave and Morley's bed.

When he got bigger, they tried to move. move them onto the floor and found they had a battle on their hands. No dog in the world was more determined or skilled at insinuating himself on a bed than Arthur. They bought him a basket and put it in the hall just outside the bedroom door. And Arthur would make a big deal of climbing into his basket every night, circling it neurotically, sighing and grunting as he tried to get his blanket into a pleasing hump. But as soon as Dave and more, he would be able to, were breathing rhythmically, Arthur's head would rise like a periscope, and he would slide over the edge of his basket and work his way into the bedroom, keeping low to the ground, as if he were

hunting. He'd stop a foot short of the bed and cock and ear. If he didn't like the way one of them was breathing, he would bring his face close to theirs and listen. Sometimes for five or ten minutes, staring at them like a priest taking confession. His wet nose only inches away from their faces. One night Dave woke up when Arthur was in the middle of a reconnaissance. And when he opened his eyes, all he could see were two huge eyeballs glaring back at him. Dave had no idea these were Arthur's eyeballs he was looking into. Then Arthur exhaled.

And Dave was enveloped by the... the sour smell of his dog's breath. It was like the breath of death, and he jerked upright. He woke Morley with his gasp. Arthur bounded back to his basket. When Morley opened her eyes, Dave was pointing at the bedroom door. A serpent, he said. Arthur was in his basket snoring, pretending to snore.

If, however, when he was, he crept into their bedroom, Arthur was satisfied that Dave and Morley were sound asleep. He would lift one paw slowly onto the bed, and he'd place it there without moving another muscle. If neither of them stirred, the other paw would go off just as slow. And then, rising like a mummy, rising from a swamp, Arthur would pull his body onto the bed and settle near their feet with a sigh, taking at first, as little space as possible, but slowly unfolding, expanding as the night wore on, as if he were being inflated. He liked to work his body between theirs on his way towards the pillow.

He stole my heart, said Dave, over and over again. I'm going to miss them, the walks, just having them around, you know. Me too, said Morley, I'm so glad we had him with us. Have, said Sam, have him with us. And Sam got up from the kitchen table, and he walked over to the cupboard, and he got a potato. And without a word, he walked over and dropped it into Arthur's basket. He's still here, he said. He always will be. That was Le Morte d'Arthur. It's a heartbreaker, isn't it? So take a minute and go hug your dog if you have one.

I love that story. And if you listen carefully, you can hear some jingling in the background. Scroll back and see if you can hear it. It's not a jingle dress. It's the color of my old dog, my late dog, spring. She was with us at that show and she got poison ivy and she kept scratching herself backstage. And the mics kept picking up her collar tags, jingling. It drove me crazy at the time because I couldn't clean it up.

I couldn't clean it up in post. I couldn't get it out of the audio. But I'm so grateful now for that because I have a little audio reminder of her. And it couldn't have come in a better story. Arthur, Spring, Stuart. They're all gone now. But we have so much to remember them by. Their stories live on through us.

All right, that's it for today. But we'll be back here next week with another Dave and Morley story. You set yourself loose in the sort of places that Dave frequents. And see if you don't come home with the odd lava lamp. abused pair of cowboy boots, or, as Dave did on a snowy Monday last November, a sensory deprivation tank. A few days after it arrived, he was over at Kenny Wong's cafe sitting on his regular stool at the end of the counter, poking at a bowl of Kenny's rice pudding. He hadn't told anyone about the tank yet, but he's about to tell Kenny because he needs Kenny's help.

He finishes his dessert and he looks over at Kenny says, where do you get your salt anyway? Kenny waves at the cupboard behind the counter and Dave says, no, no, no, I mean, where do you buy your salt? Who supplies you? Kenny says, you're looking for a deal? How much salt do you want? Kenny thought they were kidding around. Dave says, oh, about 800 pounds. Okay, now, if you are feeling unsure about something,

something, something that you have done, as Dave was, if you were feeling shy or uncertain about how others might accept it. Chances are when you share your secret, your story is going to drift from the realm of information exchange into the world of hyperbole and justification and rationalization. Kenny said, you need 800 pounds of salt? Dave said it's for my float tank. Kenny said you're kidding, right? And Dave took flight. Floating, he said. Well, floating is like a return to the womb. You get into a float tank and close the soundproof lid. You're going to float away on water denser than the dead sea. He leaned forward and he looked at Kenny dramatically. For the first time in your life, your brain will be free as stimpleased. simulation and stress.

Kenny didn't say anything. Dave said, one hour in a tank is as good as four hours asleep. He's just making things up now. That's next week on the podcast. I hope you'll join us. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the apostrophe podcast network.

The recording engineer is Hawberry Greg DeClude. Theme music is by Danny Michelle. And the show is produced by, Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloot, and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.