As I stare out the skylight of my rooftop loft, a full, impossibly bright moon glares back at me like a searchlight. Stop already, I'll tell you everything, just don't turn the thumbscrews .
The moon reveals elements of the soul, controls the tides and it's made of cheese. Sometimes it wears a big smiley face and other times it girns like an old lady with a sharp pointy chin. Full moon nights in a bar are def con four nights. Just like Travis Bickle says in Taxi Driver, a full moon night is when all the crazies come out to wander the streets and cause mayhem.
I work in a bar. I know. Everything has a sharper edge on a full moon night. Doormen look up at that perfectly shaped shining orb and exchange knowing looks, gird their loins or whatever they do and feel the shudder of anticipation, the cold chill of impending madness. They're on alert, nervous tics are in overdrive, some thing's going to break.
A sideways glance, an ill conceived remark, a bump, a spill and all hell breaks loose.
I didn't go out tonight. It's my night off. I sat at home, worked my garden, did a bit of shopping. Then I bought a bottle of wine, cooked a meal, watched a movie and couldn't settle. So now I'm writing this blog about nothing but the moon.
