Monday Monday

"Monday Monday, can't trust that day,

Monday Monday, sometimes it just turns out that way

Oh Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what was to be

Oh Monday Monday, how you could leave and not take me."

-John Phillips

Sitting in silence watching the traffic slide by, on a balmy 22 degree Manhattan morning.

I arrived here early Sunday evening, studied, talked to P for a few minutes, then after reading my book about the October Surprise, Den of Spies by Craig Unger, nodded off to sleep by nine.

The book isn't great--Unger found himself basically black-balled as a journalist after cobbling together evidence that the Republicans committed treason in 1980 by intentionally delaying the release of the hostages in exchange for selling Iran arms, via Israel, to thwart Jimmy Carter's reelection campaign. Unger spends as much time defending himself and his reputation as as does on those underlying facts. The case is pretty persuasive, all the same.

I guess this conspiracy theory mindset I'm in makes it all too easy to believe what's come to light in the latest Epstein document dump--that Epstein Island was actually a huge honeytrap created with the assistance and encouragement of Putin (and Israel--so much for their reputation as the world's golden haired David), who appears to have met with Epstein on more than one occasion to plan the operation.

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-15516349/Epsteins-sex-empire-KGB-honeytrap-Paedophile-financier-Putin-Russian-girls.html

There was a time that I'd roll my eyes at such accusations, even where as here there seems to be a paper trail. Now it's just more evidence of how deep the rot goes. The fact that none of the major papers are touching it makes sense once you've read Unger's book, and to my mind makes it that much more likely that the Daily Mail is onto something.

Skipping supper last night was what probably led to my early evening dreams about popcorn shrimp--you remember those little fried doughballs wrapped around bait shrimp popularized by Red Lobster and then Sizzler in the 1970s. Whatever else was going on in that dream, all I remember was eating shrimplet after shrimplet out of a greasy cardboard french fry container.

Then I woke up again to the seismic thump of a neighbor's music. My one (okay, primary) fear about temporarily relocating to this neighborhood had come to pass. The ads for apartments on the Lower East Side promised cool shops and coffee places by day, and a nightlife that stretched loudly into the predawn thereafter. We'd carefully selected this apartment because, in part, it was five floors up, and not above any sort of night club or bar. The first couple weeks seemed to validate our decision, as we slept like rocks in the silence of the back bedroom, farthest from Houston Street.

But now here I was, at 1:33 a.m. The music was, as near as I could tell, hipster indie fare I might've enjoyed in another context. But not while I was trying to sleep.

After sulking and picturing myself like some avenging Buford Pusser busting up their stereo speakers with an axe handle, I figured the only way to salvage a few hours of shuteye was to try moving out of the back bedroom. The music seemed to be echoing in the alley behind the headboard. How could the streetside bedroom be any worse?

When we first moved in, P, in light of her experience living up at 96th and York a quarter century ago, adamantly insisted that we not sleep in the generous (by NY standards) front bedroom facing the street. I was assured the sirens and car horns would keep us up all night. Maybe so, but how could it have been any worse than this?

So I moved, and found, to my amazement, that it actually was better. The white noise of the heater humming completely blanked out the bass lines of the concert below. Traffic at that hour of a Sunday night is actually pretty light, even on Houston, and added just enough background noise to completely cancel whatever had awakened me a few minutes before. I fell back drooling asleep until nearly seven.

So at least I have a plan if the serenade begins again tonight. That means more sheets to wash if we ever have guests here, but what else besides laundry do I have to occupy my evenings here this week?

Actually plenty, between work and school.

Speaking of which . . .