Recently, I have melted into a puddle that consists of equal parts Rocky Road ice cream, alcohol, and self-loathing. Mostly because I think little pieces of Kurt Cobain and Sylvia Plath and possibly even Amanda Bynes were re-incarnated into me when they died (okay, so Amanda Bynes isn’t dead, but her career is, and that’s basically the same thing when you’re a child star.) Instead of doing yoga and hanging out with my friends, I have been indulging in a new hobby/vice: Listening to the Moth on the radio until my heart explodes with the beauty of spoken word stories. And sure, it’s made me a bit of a recluse, but the stories that are shared by regular human beings are far more entertaining, dramatic, and heartfelt than any of the movies that won Academy Awards this year.
Started in 1997 by George Dawes Green, the Moth’s purpose was to preserve the feeling Green felt on summer evenings back in his hometown in Georgia, spinning tales on the back porch with his friends. It has since grown from a small community of “Moths” in New York City to a living, breathing event spanning cities across the country.