The Bloody Super Harvest Moon: One Moon, Three Adjectives

Eclipse or giant blackhead in the sky?

I spent most of yesterday with a serious blood moon eclipse hangover. An evening spent staring up at the sky surrounded by strangers on the street left me with a crick in my neck and a feeling of warm euphoria for my fellow man. Yes, we all witnessed something magical together. No, you can’t pet my dog.

Sunday night’s blood moon lunar eclipse was thirty years in the making. To be clear, it was not simply a blood moon lunar eclipse, it was an astronomic occurrence (I mean it literally this time) that saw the convergence of three major lunar events:

1.     A Harvest Moon – the full moon of the fall equinox

2.     A Super Moon – the closest full moon to Earth

3.     A Blood Moon – tinted red due to the shadow of the lunar eclipse

Sounds like a bloody super harvest moon to me.

The last time all of these things occurred at the same time was 1982. Oh 1982, you were a good year, at least for my mom’s hair. The next time a bloody super harvest moon will grace us with its presence will be 2033. For people of a certain age—i.e., me—these are ominous dates. In 1982, I was a wee lass, just beginning my own celestial journey, the sky was the limit (pun fully intended) as I plopped around spreading my own brand of carefree, cherubic joy. Fast forward to 2015, adulthood is not just upon me, it’s taken over my life, having had me firmly in its clutches for more years than I care to admit. And what of 2033? Will it be the idyllic future that Buck Rodgers and I always dreamed of? Where will I be? Who will I be with? Will the planet be intact? What will have happened in the Middle East? Will I have gone off the deep end? Will I regret my haircut? Will I still be obsessed with avocados? Will I be in a Burmese ashram? Will my goddamn eye cream have paid off? Will I have finally succumbed to my ridiculousness?

As my Magic 8 Ball says, “It is decidedly so.”

But before I get you all riled up about time and space, and your own lack thereof, let’s take a moment to shine some light (the puns just keep coming) on the human side of the eclipse. The one that had you side-by-side with people you’ve never seen in your life, mouths collectively open, gaping up in togetherness at the lunar majesty before you. Hey neighbor, nice hat.

Sometime around 9:15 p.m., I headed outside, fully panicked that I was already missing “it.” Looking up, the moon was indeed already on its way to visual obscurity (aren’t we all), and the slow, but steady progress was incredible to see in person. I made my way across the street for better viewing and within the next twenty minutes, people were coming out in droves. The more prepared of us—which I was decidedly not—had folding chairs and binoculars, others sat on the sidewalk or leaned up against one another. Some stood alone in silence, others seemed banded together in conversation. People had drinks in hand; others held phones, tracking the progress of the eclipse and trying in vein to capture the perfect shot. I saw wacky hats and multiple “Sisters of the Moon” themed t-shirts; if there was ever a night for it. Dogs took part, children ran around like crazy people—no doubt, the result of the moon’s frenzied energy and a bedtime overlooked. All of us united in our desire to see something spectacular. It was like the premiere of Magic Mike 2 all over again.

As it crept closer to 10 p.m., more and more people appeared. Word was spreading. Unfortunately, so was the cloud cover. For the next half hour, the clouds did their best to block downtown New York City from its much anticipated view of this bloody super harvest moon, but we stood strong, heads held back, eyes fixed on the spot where the moon had just appeared. Every few minutes a break in the clouds allowed for an updated glimpse of the eclipse, resulting in collective cheers and shout outs to the moon. “Yeah, moon!” I may have been heard remarking. I am nothing if not enthusiastic. By 10:30 p.m., the eclipse was in full force and, as promised, the moon glowed a witchy auburn over the streets of NYC.

And that was all she wrote. While the eclipse lasted for roughly seventy-two minutes, by 10:30, it was buried under clouds, allowing only for brief periods of visibility for the rest of the night. But we didn’t care. Those of us who had sat outside in anticipation were thrilled to have even the tiniest look at the insane spectacle in the sky. Though most of us had barely spoken, we gave each other a knowing nod as we headed back inside. A few stragglers, late to the party, stumbled into the street muttering their disappointment as they strained to see something.

But not us. We were sisters of the moon, brothers in arms, children of the corn. We had seen “it.”

Though I’ve been waxing planetary recently, the bloody super harvest moon was one of the most amazing things I have seen in a long time. As I stared up at what was happening in the sky, I was reminded that even though a lot has transpired since 1982—for me personally the hits would be: potty training, driving and refining my ridiculousness—not that much has really changed. We are all still moving forward, one day at a time, waiting for the universe's prompts reminding us to look up once in a while. Knowing that if we do, we just might see something ridiculously awesome.

I hope I’ll still be looking up in 2033 and I hope I’ll still be ridiculous.

"Yeah, I love dogs."

Yo, what up, dogg?

I hate dogs. I hate dog people and dog parks. I hate dog poop and dog paraphernalia. I hate dog hair on my clothes. I hate dog breath in my face and I hate the unmistakable smell of wet dog. I hate seeing a dog pee on the sidewalk and watching it run down the concrete to the curb, bathing the available walking space in a delightful urine smell that is even more intoxicating on a lovely hot summer day. And I hate being forced to see a presumably otherwise intelligent human being bend over and pick up a steaming pile of poop while saying something like, “Good job, bud. Who knows how to potty?!”

Perhaps my most fervent hatred is that of the “urban dog lifestyle” itself. A universe so ridiculous that it fuels, among other things, a comical, luxury dog products industry while at the same time permeating the streets and minds of New York City, an otherwise idyllic utopia of awesomeness.

I hate dog germs. I have no idea why a sane person who values any level of hygiene would want to share a New York City apartment with something that walks around with its nose on the street and can’t use a flushing toilet. But is happy to drink from one in a heartwarming twist. I hate dog owners who seemingly don’t realize that you just almost tripped over their dog, a move that would have rendered you orthopedically challenged and their beloved pooch strangled—or worse, maimed. The only maiming I like is that of the Auntie Mame variety, which is to say none at all.

I hate watching people fawn over their dogs and slip into baby talk. “Who’s the sweetest? Who’s the best? You are, my love, you are.” It’s not a baby, it’s a dog. Repeat: it’s a d-o-g. Got it, dogg? I hate walking by a dog park, a valuable piece of scarce NYC open space done over in sand and gravel to accommodate hoards of local dogs, all barking and jerking and spreading their aforementioned dog germs (that’s not all that’s being spread… hey!). I hate businesses that leave out water bowls and dog treats—not that I begrudge a dog proper hydration (Dear ASPCA, please don’t send Sarah McLaughlin to my door)—so as to encourage dog owners to come in, bring their pooches and mix with the rest of us.

Reminds me of a sixth grade “mixer” where there were also plenty of dogs, those of the two legged variety, decked out in their finest wanna-be Marithe + Francois Girbaud jeans, undulating erratically to Tony Toni Toné, a whiff of Cool Water sailing above the crowd, my bangs shellacked with hairspray.

God, I love Tony Toni Toné.

Perhaps the only thing remotely related to dog ownership that I do like is dog walkers. Give it up for the dog walkers of NYC who have found gainful employment in the most essential of tasks. Way to make those ends in a cash-heavy, high-demand business that will literally never evaporate thanks to the busy schedules and general ridiculousness of your fellow New Yorkers.

With all this distaste for dogs and, more significantly, dog owners in my brain, I must have been on something when, last month, I too became a dog owner. Feel free to choke on your vegan sprouted wrap right about now.

Yes, you read that right. I, naysayer extraordinaire of all things NYC dog and all things NYC dog culture, have become the responsible party for a puppy. And in exactly one month, I have become a complete asshole. Actually, it only took about a week.

This dog is different, I told myself. He’s special. He’s a dog for a non-dog person. Hell, he’s practically a human. He’s sweet, intelligent, obscenely attractive; a boss, a champ, likeable to even the most negative Ned (i.e., me). He’ll be nothing like those irritating dogs I see, and I will be nothing like those yutzo humans I see. Nothing.

“Way to potty, buds. Way to potty,” I heard myself saying as if in a dream, my tone achingly enthusiastic. It was 11:30 p.m. I was a shell of my former self. I may have been wearing pajamas, I may have been naked; everything was blurry. The sights and sounds of NYC occurred around me, but nothing was clear anymore. I no longer knew which one of us was the dog and which one of us was the human. I had walked the block so many times that I now knew there were fifty-seven squares of sidewalk under foot. My singular focus was thus: potty.

And when that potty finally happened, I could feel myself tearing up. He had done it. He was a genius, a testament to the very fundamentals of potty training. I was elated as I scooped up that fresh pile of crap. It could only have been better if Barack Obama was with me. Just me, Barry, my new number one guy and a bag of warm poop. That’s bliss, America.

In the days and weeks since that first break through, I have become an authority on the fabrication of poop bags and poop bag holders—a necessity sold to me by my luxury dog product purveyor of choice. I now know the finer points of dog treats that clean teeth and provide essential nutrients to your growing pup. I am a bitter apple spray addict. I carry a water bottle for him to drink out of, which he does so well I’m hoping Fiji will sponsor him. I am well versed in the dogs of the neighborhood and which ones are and are not “appropriate” for mixing with my guy. “Butter,” the weiner dog down the block = appropriate. The Pomeranian up the street who tried to mount my dog = not appropriate. His owner who rides around with the dog on a motorized scooter and told me that, like my dog, she too was an Aquarius = not appropriate.

My plans are now made around his schedule. His pooping schedule that is. He also eats, plays and sleeps, but everything takes a back seat to “production,” as it were. And what a production it is. Congratulations to me. I am now closely monitoring the bowel movements of two living things. I’d like to thank the Academy.

Germs? I would stack his cleanliness up against that of most people. Dog breath? Please, he’s fresh as a daisy. Is that a dog bowl outside the coffee shop? Thank god, my guy needs some water. Dog parks? Well, he does need to socialize. Pick up his poop while lavishing enthusiastic praise? But of course. How else will he learn the keys to success? Watch his puddle of urine pollute the sidewalk? Oh how he loves his favorite spot.

So yeah, I’m now that yutzo.

But before I go off the deep end entirely, I will look down at the dog hair that is covering my pants and do my best to remember that he is my dog, not my child. And I am the human, not the dog. Although, I too know how to potty and goddamn it if I couldn’t use some praise once in a while.

Way to potty, Ridiculous. Way to potty.

Winners don’t hock loogies.

People of the world, I see you. I see you walking down the street, looking like a mild-mannered citizen, quietly, capably making your way through the day. You appear to be living life in your own workable way, getting things done on your terms, participating in the choreographed dance of give and take that is society; while all the while rocking in the free world, crossing things off the list, and generally, looking damn good doing it.

And then I see you. I see you hock a huge loogie on the street and keep on moving like it was nothing.

And I mean a huge loogie.

You are old, you are young. You are male, you are female. You are short, a bit fat, “athletic” you tell people. You are tall, but not Lurch tall, you are skinny, yet you want to be curvy, have some hips, understand what Sir Mix A Lot was really talking about. You have brown hair, but you were once a blonde, “It’s from the sun,” you say, lying. You’re getting grays, a sign of intelligence you once read—a statement you now cling to. You have no hair, haven’t for fourteen years, but you’re over it now and your wife tells you she likes you better this way. You go Bruce Willis.

Today you are wearing a well-tailored pinstripe suit with sneakers for a more comfortable commute. Yesterday you had on socks and sandals with your khaki shorts and spirited jean jacket as you cruised around the city hitting the farmer’s markets and stopping by Bed, Bath and Beyond for “supplies.” Last week you were decked out in a jazzy tracksuit on your way to work out. Unmotivated, you walked a few blocks and had a glazed donut. Wednesday saw you don a metrosexual date night look complete with a slightly unbuttoned dress shirt and requisite blazer. The feedback was so positive you’ll keep that one in the rotation.

You are carrying bags from the shitty bodega around the corner you swore you’d never patronize again after the expired milk fiasco. You push a grocery cart full of plants past a handbag store whose window reads, “Store Closing – 90% Off Everything,” a sign that’s been there for two years. You are dragging two huge brass lamps up the block, which is so proactive of you; we all need things to be illuminated. You appear to be bringing home your work stuff, rolling that handy little backpack-cum-suitcase you so intelligently switched to after a mild lumbar problem last year. Go ahead, pat yourself on the back, man. It’s not in anyone’s way.

You are boarding the train with a look of mild annoyance, but no detectable sign of thoughts or preoccupation. You ride past me on a bike, barely stopping to see what color the light is or which way the street goes. No matter, ride on, lady. You are holding the hand of what I assume is your child. The kid looks like you, but doesn’t seem to be listening to whatever it is you’re saying. How odd. You walk hand in hand with a loved one, the two of you matching each other’s stride in that innate syncopation that couples automatically produce. You are standing at the bus stop, staring blankly down the street awaiting your ride, a line forming behind you. You are feverishly hailing a cab, hoping for a Taxi of Tomorrow (how you love those sunroofs), but ready to take whatever you can get, as usual. You are sitting silently on a bench, watching the world go by as you zone out to the playlist you so carefully crafted for just such a mood, labeling it “Sitting Silently On a Bench.”

And then, you, wherever you are, whatever you are wearing, whatever you are doing, you haul off and spit. You spit right there, right there where you are, just in time for me to see you. My timing once again absolutely perfect to catch this precious act of humanity, my mind registering semi-horror as I shrink back, fearful of a wind gust, wondering just how it is that I’ve been witness to the loogie hock yet again.

From the looks of it, you really needed that. You really needed to get that out, eject that wad, dispose of that nasal baggage with enough force to propel it far away from you and onto the waiting, embracing streets of New York City.

I know, we all gotta do what we all gotta do and, sometimes, it aint pretty. But, come on people, winners don’t hock loogies.