Beaver Blood Moons, Travis, and Brain Amoebas

A potent portent

Why was I freezing my ass off at 5:00 AM this morning? Because this morning, we experienced the last lunar eclipse of the year. If you thought I would miss the Beaver Blood Moon, you don’t know me. I mean, look at it. La bella Luna! She’s up there every night playing peek-a-boo with us every 28 days, and maybe you will take her for granted, but I refuse.

The moon is never not gorgeous, with the naked eye or aided. The sun you can’t even look at it, and it will kill you. Let’s overlook the whole warmth and photosynthesis thing and remember that with the sun’s gift of life comes heat stroke and skin cancer. The moon? She might cause the tides to drown you if you’re out clam-digging in the surf and get stuck in the mud, but we had to invent werewolves to make her on par with what the sun does. And who sacrifices anyone to the Moon? It’s always the sun.

Come back, sun! Winter sucks, brah! Hey, want a beating human heart? I know you’ll come back in Spring because it’s happened literally every year of my life, but it’s cold and we’re bored and no one likes this person in our village anyway, they’re kind of a real nudzh, so have maybe a little nosh. We’ll roast them right up for ya in our Wicker Man.

The Moon? She’s always there, except for one day, and no one gets their heart cut out over it. What an awesome broad, am I right?¹

I don’t know how the full moons are named, and I’m not looking it up. I am cranky because after a huge tumbler of hot coffee and a bowl of oatmeal, I am still cold. And I have a cold, something I haven’t had in years, thanks to that pesky viral pandemic.

Yesterday, it was 80 degrees, and this morning, it’s stuff your hands in your crotch weather. That could mean anytime, really. I’m not here to judge what you do with your collective crotch.

Last night I was in Philly for a show at Union Transfer, and I wore a mask when I wasn’t drinking a beer. Sarah wanted to see Travis, a ‘90s Scottish band, and they put on a decent show. “Sing” is one of their hits, but I like this one better.

We masked up to be safe and because we both had what we thought were allergies, since Covid tests were negative, but now seem to be full-on sinus infections with glorious slime molds of yellow snot pouring out of our nasal mucosa. We’re using the NetiPot to flush our systems and gobbling down vitamin C and being miserable. Have you used a NetiPot? It’s a little teapot you use to pour warm salt water in one nostril and pray that it comes out the other. It’s like being waterboarded by Mrs. Potts from Beauty and the Beast. “I’m a little teapot, short and stout! Water up your nostrils, pray it comes out.”

Oh, and don’t use tap water. Always use distilled water, or you can get brain amoebas.

I am working on a bunch of videos and photos from The Devil’s Hairbrush in the Pine Barrens, and a bougie mountain resort in the Catskills. You’ll get one this Sunday. And on Thursday, I have an essay scheduled about that time I got beat up by the wrestling team. Fun stuff! And Saturday, I am touring the memorial museum at the site of the Hindenberg disaster, in Lakehurst, New Jersey. It’s now on a military base, so you need to schedule tours a month in advance. So you got that coming soon. I still haven’t written the short story about a tree that I am supposed to write, but paid subscribers will either get that or “Deadbeat,” about steelworkers on a high-rise, which was chosen as a Distinguished Mystery Story of 2019 by The Best American Mystery Stories, edited by Louise Penny.

Until then, watch out for beaver blood moons and brain amoebas.

1. Yes. Yes I am.