The Moon

When I worked at Dairy Queen, I used to drive home across the backroads between the town I worked in and the town I lived in. When there was a full moon, I could turn off my lights and drive with the road a silvery ribbon draped through the corn fields.

We used to go on hay rides at least once a year as well, and we’d all pile onto the hay rack and snuggle in close together and someone’s dad would pull us through the empty fields. The clouds would be racing across the cold October sky and the moon would glow fiercely and then the whole landscape would go dark when the clouds briefly covered it.

They keep saying that there’s no evidence that the full moon has any effect on people, keep saying it even as nurses and emergency room doctors and police and suicide prevention hotline attendants say otherwise.

It’s hard not to feel there’s something, as you stand out in the dark, waiting for the dog to decide if she’s just going to sniff or if she’ll shit, and you see the moon high over the old ash tree. You want to take everything off and set it aside and put one foot in front of the other. One hand outstretched and then the other. A twist of hip and flip of shoulder. My rhythm in tune with the moon’s.

I spend too much time inside, sitting around at my house or standing around at other people’s. I want to get out and be in the dark and the moon.

Unhappy Compromise

I’m outraged by the comment spam, but don’t want to turn anonymous comments off, so the compromise is that you have to type in the word you see on the comments.

Let me know if you think this is stupid or if you have any trouble with it, but shit, people I just had to delete six spam comments from the last post and it pisses me off.


Yes, America, my head hit the pillow at 8:45 last night and I didn’t wake up until 6:15.

It was marvelous.

I love sleeping.

Mrs. Wigglebottom, however, did not sleep very well because she’s very unhappy about the bicycle in the kitchen. She spent much of last evening growling and eyeing it suspiciously and this morning she barked at it until I moved it a sufficient distance away from her food.

I talked to the Butcher about maybe putting it up in his room, but he claims he’s going to ride it around this evening.

It’s times like this when I think of my Australian readers, of which there are, I think, two. So, I think of the two of you and wonder: does this shit seem bizarre to you? And I hope you aren’t taking the anecdotes of our stupid behavior as some kind of metaphor for how U.S. foreign policy works. Although, now that I think about it, maybe you should.