You've had this happen. I know you have. You wake up in the dark of night. Or morning. And your head is buzzing with this great idea for something. A story. A business idea. A song. No . . . it's more than that. This is the story. The business idea. This is the song, dammit. And there you are with the knowledge that . . . Well, I'll be damned. Here it is. By God, I've found it. Finally. But you're in that in-between state — not quite asleep, not quite awake. And in the hyper-clarity of that moment, you forget that you can forget. You have absolute trust in your own memory. And so you smile away the thought of getting up and writing this thing down. Because the bed is warm. And the air outside is cold. And you don't even want to get out of bed to pee, much less find pen and paper. There's no need . . . because you'll remember. And in the morning it will be glorious. Like walking around naked in cowboy boots. Yeah, that kind of glorious. And you'll get up and out of bed and have coffee and maybe some grits. And you'll find your notebook. And you'll use ink to jot it down. Because when it's all real and electric like that, you use ink. And all will be right in the world. And you'll listen to Renee Montagne and Steve Inskeep through the mono speaker in your kitchen. And the news will be good. And the dishes will clean themselves. And your work will be fun. And the only phone calls you will get will be from people who want to pay you to be funny. And you'll feel young and strong. And maybe your chest will puff a little. And your shit won't stink.

So you close your eyes. And you mull over the idea a little more, burning it firmly in the grooves of this think wax you're spinning, laying down the track of this fucking great thought, before fading back inside the envelope of your easy slumber.

But then you wake. Daylight. And the urge to pee is still there, only more pressing. And when you roll out of bed the cowboy boots don't seem to fit right. Renee and Steve insist on giving you all bad news. The dishes get dirty just by looking at them. And your work is not fun. And people only pay you to do excruciatingly boring chores. And, holy God, it's impossible to mistake it, your shit most definitely stinks. But worst of all, you realize that the thought is gone. And you feel kind of cheated. And like an idiot for being so stupid and letting it slip by. For succumbing to sleep. Again.

But sometimes it's not even the fault of sleep. Sometimes, you're driving North of Newark toward Essex County. And you're in the middle of saying something to the person next to you. And it occurs to you: this would be a great post. Maybe the greatest post. And you pause a moment and file it somewhere in that steel trap of yours. And then you go on talking about some shit that happened to you the day before. And the person you're talking to, well she felt it too, that thing that just slipped by. But she doesn't interrupt, even though she wants to. She just puts it away. Because it's Saturday morning and there's all the time in the world to go back and recall and discuss. And just like that, the day is gone. And you've looked at a million houses. And they blur together at the edges of your mind. And it's not until you're driving back to Baltimore that you remember that moment from this morning. And you're squinting your eyes and you're trying to remember what it was that you thought would make such a great post. You turn to her and you say, "You know I had this idea for a post earlier. Something that happened this morning." And she says, "Yeah, I remember it. I felt it too." And now you have corroboration that yes, there had been this moment. And it was a good one. And you say, "Please, for the love of God, can you help me remember? Because I think I might have to scratch my eyeballs out." And she says, "Me too, I will do it too. And I will also gnash my teeth and wave my fists and curse the gods." And this does make you feel better for a little while. And after you both have done that all the way to Delaware, you begin to throw volleys at one another, hoping something will jar the thing loose. You re-hash all the conversations you had, the houses you saw, the miles you covered.

And at the end of it all, what you have is a bunch of possibilities but no absolutes. It is gone. It has escaped. But I'm telling you people — it was there. You'll just have to believe us. Because this, friends, is not the greatest post in the world. This is a tribute.

Tenacious D would be proud.

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