i had a hell of a time getting to sleep last night. maybe this is because i slept till quarter of two on sunday, but i blame it on the moths. i usually sleep with the window in my bedroom open, as it gets pretty warm at night in these parts, and i've never had a problem with insects. those of you who live or have lived in southern california will understand: there just aren't that many bugs around. i also like to read in bed for a few minutes before shutting off the light on my bedstand.
i'm lying in bed. it's about 1am. *whathupthupthup*. i turn around. nothing. look harder. oh, a moth in my lampshade. i try to scare him, or shoo him back to the window. it's not happening. i give him a second.....oh well: *thwaaaapt* dead. sorry, little dude. it's amazing how most insects turn to goo when swatted but moths turn to dust.
back to my book. a few minutes pass. *whathupthupthup*. two? coincidence. oh well: *thwaaaapt* dead.
this is too much. this is not mere coincidence, nor the draw of a solitary light in a dark night. no, these ravenous fucks have it in for me. i was up against a conspiritorial band of dirty grey clothes-locusts, who had heard the word on the street about my sweaters and the two suitcoats i rarely wear hanging in the closet. i shut the window, thinking it better to take the heat of the night than to suffer a full-scale invasion of those hungry little bastards. I had killed four, and more were banging their sad alien antennaed heads against the window, rap rap rapping, in my head forevermore.
and i tried to sleep, but the scene played out on the inside of my eyelids: i'd wake up all too bright and too early on this monday morning. stumbling back from the shower, I'd open my closet, and from each hanger only three or four errant threads would remain, pointing down towards the floor, where a dozen or more moths, now a foot long or longer, would roll drunkenly around in a pile of their own shit, which used to be my shit, and included the shit that i was planning to wear to work today.
it is tough, my friends, to drift into dreams when that sort of nightmare haunts you.
the time was not entirely wasted. between the bouts of fear and cursing, i drew up preliminary plans to start a shitty little magazine, the realist, "the journal of realistic records," mainly as an excuse. I'm not sure for what, but i promise you it will be a good excuse for something.
eventually i fell into a fitfull unconscious state, and woke up this morning, tired but feeling free. in the light of day i was no longer pursued by hungry behemoth parasites who would eat me out of everything i had.
yes folks, the days are getting darker. this is a naked power grab, in plain view. we, the people, own the airwaves, yet our custodian, the FCC, pays little heed to the fact that (according to NPR) 99.9% of the public comments submitted with respect to the proposed rule changes opposed what Powell did today. rich republicans giving money and power to rich republicans.
on my way to work i decided that there was only one thing i could do in response: go to New Hampshire.
yes, folks, this is an awesomely important election we're coming up on. it will be bloodthirsty and evil come next november, certainly uglier than any in recent memory, if that's possible. but january 27th, during the first primary, in manchester, NH, it should still be wild and bloodthirsty and fun. and i'm going to be there. i'll be covering it for someone. maybe for "the realist." there's a great excuse already. maybe one of you readers works for someone that could use a wet-eared hack on the ground for the primary. maybe just for this web page.
but i will be there, in the brutal cold, to make sure we make it 'till spring.