“Let me just say,” I say. “Beat poetry? Fuck that.”
“I know,” he says, somewhat sheepishly.
“Sorry, have you gotten that, like, every day for the past thirty years?”
“More or less,” he says.
Later, we see a bright light on the opposite shore of the lake that descends, hovers, then lifts back up. He pulls out a digital camera and films it.
“Dude, was that a UFO?” I ask, laughing.
“Of course,” he says. Of course!