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    I arrived back to NY last night.  It has been a month from hell so I thought I would give February one last kick here on the blog before it finally ends. Since it is the month that we lost Hunter, of course I have a natural hatred for it. But there are many rooms in the mansion, as he liked to say, and there are many reasons why, a few weeks ago, I was forced to officially declared war on the month of February. 

           Starting at the beginning of the month, a nasty virus infected my throat & chest and confined me to my apartment where my friend Sue had to bring me soup and medicine all week long. Trying to get to Colorado to have the bonfire for Hunter, my flights were delayed first b/c of my own fever, then b/c of snowstorms and incompetent airlines leaving me stuck in filthy crowded airports and stinky planes with nothing but my back pack, a crumpled box of kleenex and a dead cell phone.

            I did Finally make it home to have the bonfire, which was indeed beautiful, and good to be with friends. But it was short and I had to turn around and fly back, to avoid missing the entire week of classes.  I barely caught up on my missed school work on the million connecting flights back to New York. The blog would have remained completely neglected had it not been for Peter, who at least took care of the photos. (He will be posting the photos every few days, along with the message board). Because of my pitiful, empty bank account, I was forced to delay the 5th issue of the Woody Creeker  for a few weeks, which will bring a slew of emails from angry subscribers.

          When I finally managed to get back to my apartment there was a gaping hole the size of a bathtup in my bathroom floor, exposing the scary black steel support frames of my pre-war apartment building. It was caused by a boken ceiling pipe in the apartement below me that the management had been trying to fix by tearing up my vintage blue tile floor.

             But within 24 hours of being back in NY, a family crisis involving my beautiful 16 year-old niece struck and I was back on more dilapidated public planes headed back to Colorado. By the time I got there, my throat was so raw and bloody that I sounded more like a Canadian Goose than a loving Aunt. I sat in waiting rooms with my laptop, talking to family members on one hand, and finishing up late mid term essays on the other. At one point, I thought about Pope Gregory XIII (who designed and implemented the Gregorian Calendar, which we use today) and thanked his spirit for at least making February the shortest month of them all.  Too bad he didn’t eliminate it completely.  No, we are stuck with February for 28 or 29 days a year. Those people with February birthdays must have an innate ability to handle the dark forces of the month – like Lords of the Underworld.  You’re lucky.

             Anyway, I’m back in my apartment, where I was woken up at 8am sharp by jackhammers under my 8th floor window tearing up the street below. The 100-year-old underground pipes just couldn’t take another February, and decided to seize up right in front of my building. Looking down now, I see about 7 workmen in the cold dank hole they’ve been digging all day, and, well, I just don’t feel like describing the gory details of the NYC plumbing system.  It is Ominous indeed.

            So, here I am, still coughing up bits of my lung and trying to make sense of the last 27 days: February is cruel to many people. It beat me down to a bloody, phlegmy mess, just to show that I am no exception and neither is my niece, and perhaps you’ve also been struck down by this god-awful month. If so, I have good news and bad news for you.  The bad news is that in 337 days, we will be faced with another February. The good news is that March is only ONE day away. 


Today’s HST wisdom comes from one of my favorite pieces, the introduction to Generation of Swine.  


It is always bad business to try to explain yourself on paper – at least not all at once – but when you work as a journalist and sign your name in black ink on white paper above everything you write, that is the business you’re in, good or bad.  Buy the ticket, take the ride.  I have said that before and I have found, to my horror, that it’s true.  It is one of those half-bright axioms that can haunt you for the rest of your life – like the famous line Joe Louis uttered on the eve of his fight with Billy Conn:  He can run, but he can’t hide.”

That is a thing you want to remember if you work in either journalism or politics – or both,­ like I do – and there is no way to duck it. You will be flogged for being right and flogged for being wrong, and it hurts both ways – but it doesn’t hurt as much when you’re right.

— Hunter S. Thompson, Generation of Swine.


Until next time, your friend, at war,

Anita Thompson

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