Sorry, there's a bit of Gore-Tex stuck in your teeth
Just before the Amtrak train got to New London, the moon came over the horizon and I knew it was going to be one of those nights.
New London is usually where I hang out the right hand side window of the train, looking at the massive General Dynamics submarine pens. These are places where we build the sleek, swift and terribly beautiful machines that, if I were by accident of fate assigned to, would have their interiors completely licked clean of paint as claustrophobia took hold.
Thankfully, I'm too old and just not nautically inclined. Not only won't, but by the hand of Providence, can't go there any more.
The moon, on the other hand, was a different issue.
I knew I had been out of sorts all day, but I ascribed this to getting on a train north to go to see Mom. Not that seeing Mom was a bad thing in itself, it was just the ancillary issues of being treated like a twelve year old and constantly being asked if I was truly relaxed (it'll take two more bourbons, but yes) and why wasn't I hungry (get to that in a minute) that set a number of anatomical functions to overload in the station waiting for the hour-late regional. Now the moon set me straight and I realized that farting quietly during a jackhammer interlude only to have my good wife ask a radius of humans within twelve feet of the source of her voice if they too smelled methane had nothing to do with being stressed about going home.
It was the moon. The full moon that was going to rise and did rise above the frozen Connecticut shoreline that had had me on edge and itchier than I usually am in the dead of winter. Ok, so I exfolliate abnormally between December and March, an event that by end of January has me drawing my back across rough-edged walls in a manner that would put a rutting elk to shame. I thought it was just the humidity, or lack thereof, and then I thought that rutting elk, with onions and a little red wine, would taste just dandy about now. Barring that, I could tear the heart and liver out of the conductor.
Yep. Full moon. Freezing night. My "favorite" allignment of the planets, it was time to go hunting again.
I hate full moons in winter. They constantly remind me of the poor career choices of my youth. Rather than die once and join the undead I opted for the carnal pleasures of temporal existence and made my Faustian bargain to go hunting for fresh hot flesh once a month.
Boy, did I fuck up.
Rather than the creature of the night who has to be invited in, the one who Anne Rice romanticizes in a collection of best-selling novels and films, I'm the monster who bashes through your door uninvited and wholly without formal announcement.
Ladies and Gentlemen; Claude Raines.
Nope. Crash! Growl! Snarl! Screech! Munch munch munch.
I didn't really have a choice. I camped a lot as a kid so I guess this was inevitable. My parents were pretty strict, I didn't get the car a lot so driving down to the French market at midnight was pretty much off the books. I opted for the canopy of the stars in a sleeping bag and don't worry, they're more scared of us than we are of them.
Another useful life lesson on the ash heap. Thanks, Dad.
So here I am, on train 175 to Providence, sorry but I got to get off in Kingston. A bit of motion sickness, you understand. But in reality, while my old buddy Duncan is no doubt burning candles and brushing over the toussled hair of his newest URI RA (Duncan's over two hundred and sixty five years old, he really should stop robbing the cradle and date in his age group), eternally twenty four, I'm tromping through the woods, hoping the Merrill's hold out moisture and looking for some Pat's fan who's had one too many 'gansetts.
This sucks. I hate this. And I hate this time of year. Instead of building a blazing fire, mulling wine and slitting the wrists of the willing, I have to tear through layering to get to the juicy, fleshy parts. And don't I pay? Not only in Persian throw rugs ground down with muck and forest compost, but industrial-Prilosec stomach churning through whatever L.L. Bean has concocted to tame the elements this year.
No no no. No gentle seduction by candlelight for me. No soft sighs, punctuated by sharp inhalations as the carotid is punctured. Rather I've got the unholy screaming, flailing and yelling, dragging them into the woods behind a tree where I can tear their throat out without attracting the undue attention of the Alpha Nu Omega pledge homebound in his screaming-yellow Chevy Cobalt.
No novels devoted to my lost cause. One good song, but I don't want to move overseas, especially now with the Pound to Dollar exchange being as shitty as it is. Guess I'll have to slaughter, call Mom to tell her I'm an hour late and catch a cab to the train station I was supposed to meet her at at seven.
Right, and like I have eighty five bucks to spare. College kids are loaded. With what I pulled out of his wallet, I couldn't get an Awful Awful at the Creamery.
Rawhoo!
Bunny on.
New London is usually where I hang out the right hand side window of the train, looking at the massive General Dynamics submarine pens. These are places where we build the sleek, swift and terribly beautiful machines that, if I were by accident of fate assigned to, would have their interiors completely licked clean of paint as claustrophobia took hold.
Thankfully, I'm too old and just not nautically inclined. Not only won't, but by the hand of Providence, can't go there any more.
The moon, on the other hand, was a different issue.
I knew I had been out of sorts all day, but I ascribed this to getting on a train north to go to see Mom. Not that seeing Mom was a bad thing in itself, it was just the ancillary issues of being treated like a twelve year old and constantly being asked if I was truly relaxed (it'll take two more bourbons, but yes) and why wasn't I hungry (get to that in a minute) that set a number of anatomical functions to overload in the station waiting for the hour-late regional. Now the moon set me straight and I realized that farting quietly during a jackhammer interlude only to have my good wife ask a radius of humans within twelve feet of the source of her voice if they too smelled methane had nothing to do with being stressed about going home.
It was the moon. The full moon that was going to rise and did rise above the frozen Connecticut shoreline that had had me on edge and itchier than I usually am in the dead of winter. Ok, so I exfolliate abnormally between December and March, an event that by end of January has me drawing my back across rough-edged walls in a manner that would put a rutting elk to shame. I thought it was just the humidity, or lack thereof, and then I thought that rutting elk, with onions and a little red wine, would taste just dandy about now. Barring that, I could tear the heart and liver out of the conductor.
Yep. Full moon. Freezing night. My "favorite" allignment of the planets, it was time to go hunting again.
I hate full moons in winter. They constantly remind me of the poor career choices of my youth. Rather than die once and join the undead I opted for the carnal pleasures of temporal existence and made my Faustian bargain to go hunting for fresh hot flesh once a month.
Boy, did I fuck up.
Rather than the creature of the night who has to be invited in, the one who Anne Rice romanticizes in a collection of best-selling novels and films, I'm the monster who bashes through your door uninvited and wholly without formal announcement.
Ladies and Gentlemen; Claude Raines.
Nope. Crash! Growl! Snarl! Screech! Munch munch munch.
I didn't really have a choice. I camped a lot as a kid so I guess this was inevitable. My parents were pretty strict, I didn't get the car a lot so driving down to the French market at midnight was pretty much off the books. I opted for the canopy of the stars in a sleeping bag and don't worry, they're more scared of us than we are of them.
Another useful life lesson on the ash heap. Thanks, Dad.
So here I am, on train 175 to Providence, sorry but I got to get off in Kingston. A bit of motion sickness, you understand. But in reality, while my old buddy Duncan is no doubt burning candles and brushing over the toussled hair of his newest URI RA (Duncan's over two hundred and sixty five years old, he really should stop robbing the cradle and date in his age group), eternally twenty four, I'm tromping through the woods, hoping the Merrill's hold out moisture and looking for some Pat's fan who's had one too many 'gansetts.
This sucks. I hate this. And I hate this time of year. Instead of building a blazing fire, mulling wine and slitting the wrists of the willing, I have to tear through layering to get to the juicy, fleshy parts. And don't I pay? Not only in Persian throw rugs ground down with muck and forest compost, but industrial-Prilosec stomach churning through whatever L.L. Bean has concocted to tame the elements this year.
No no no. No gentle seduction by candlelight for me. No soft sighs, punctuated by sharp inhalations as the carotid is punctured. Rather I've got the unholy screaming, flailing and yelling, dragging them into the woods behind a tree where I can tear their throat out without attracting the undue attention of the Alpha Nu Omega pledge homebound in his screaming-yellow Chevy Cobalt.
No novels devoted to my lost cause. One good song, but I don't want to move overseas, especially now with the Pound to Dollar exchange being as shitty as it is. Guess I'll have to slaughter, call Mom to tell her I'm an hour late and catch a cab to the train station I was supposed to meet her at at seven.
Right, and like I have eighty five bucks to spare. College kids are loaded. With what I pulled out of his wallet, I couldn't get an Awful Awful at the Creamery.
Rawhoo!
Bunny on.
posted by The Caustic Bunny at Monday, February 01, 2010
2 Comments:
Maybe I'm a little slow, but I had to read that twice to grasp it all.
Now I want to go home and watch "Silver Bullet".
Yo, bunny. Check yer gmail. Just sent you a note. Check the spam inbox too, just in case. Write back. I'm waiting...
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