A prototypical new age guru, a fraud, or a god. An inscrutable bombshell in gold. A near death experience in an AMC Gremlin. Another on bad drugs. Eventually, even an epitaph. The record business, book business, oil business and other bizarre jobs -- a square peg in the round hole of the maelstrom, the elusive toehold peace might be. Grand Theft Christmas pudding and an ex who takes everything -- even the kitchen sink. Zero, less than zero, in Vancouver, Calgary, Toronto, Cleveland and Buffalo. This is the story of an uneasy détente, the persistence of one man's awkward rapport with fate. It is about giving up on the idea of trying to resolve your problems. About laughing at them because they are going to be funny to someone, someday, anyway. About finding the thread that connects everything and pulling it, once and for all. About when savouring the truth, as unpleasant as it may be, is the only thing that gets you through the night. Maybe. Or, maybe not. This is the kind of fiction that is so strange it could be somebody's biography: it hurts, haunts, and laughs its ass off, and who knows, it just might even be true.