I've been surrounded by conspiracy theories my whole life.

I don't mean that I believe in them.

Most of them are ridiculous.

Some of them are dangerous.

I only ever got into that stuff because of my uncle.

When you grew up visiting a man who owns more black and white photocopies

of underground base schematics than he does shirts, it starts to rub off on you. I never cared

much about Bigfoot, but mole people and pigeon robots, it was interesting to listen to.

My uncle Warren was that relative, the one everyone keeps at arm's length during the holidays,

the one people warn their kids about before they visit.

He didn't do anything wrong, not ever.

There was always something about him that made others uncomfortable.

He had a disorder. It had warped his jaw since birth. His teeth jotted out at an angle,

like a row of warped fence posts. He had to wear these weird rubber mouth cards at night

just to stop them from cutting into his cheeks.

He also had diabetes and that was a constant battle for him.

He kept sugar tabs in his shirt pocket and always smelled of insulin and peanut butter crackers.

He wore shirts that had been washed until the graphics faded into pale ghosts, jeans with cracked belt loops, and a windbreaker that had probably been navy blue 20 years ago.

His glasses were too large for his face.

His hair had receded before I was even born.

Most people didn't give him a second chance.

The ones who did usually looked away. But to me, he was great. He wasn't just a family

...