Most of us hibernate, coming out for food and sex only, trying to make sense of these recurring dreams we have filled with monsters and large houses we keep getting lost in. More people here look for winter solace in a bottle of something brown and strong than anywhere else I can think of. We turn to records as a way of defining our lives with a soundtrack that fits like new underwear. We spend hours pasting together scrapbooks, trying to remember if that movie ticket stub was some sort of significant evening with the girl that broke your heart, or just another night out with your roommate when you were bored. Sometimes you can't tell the difference between day and night with all the cloud cover.
Every night here is a Dead Moon night.
I am the last Portland resident to see Dead Moon play live. But in the long run I'm the last one who cares, who's wanted to see them the last five or so times they've played, and who has had every opportunity to try and see them thwarted by the powers that be. At first it was sort of amusing. If I had to work late or early the next day, the best way to get a rise out of me would be to say that Dead Moon was playing that night. After a while, I started to feel like I was cursed.