Fingernail moon

About 11 years ago my son pointed out that the moon was shaped like a cut fingernail.  Tonight it was the thinnest sliver of a crescent, a touchstone that always reminds me of that observation by a two year old.  This of course was the domino that began the cascade of thoughts for an evening that caps a week of strange goins' on in the noggin.

Just as the fingernail moon was out of view, "Story of My Life" by Social D was playing on Marky Ramone's show on the Sirius punk station.  Now there's a band that seems to maintain its core essence despite its constantly different makeup (with the exception of the frontman), and like all music it defines times in life that release the hounds of memories.  It's been a busy week of work, with lots of those frying pan into the fire deadline sequences that sometimes spill the intensity over into areas of life that don't need any more, thank you.  People wonder where your head is, wonder aloud sometimes.  I found myself, especially on the weekend, trying to rein it all in.  Even at the Sunday Nats game against the Pirates I was noticeably distant--K thought I was actually sick, but I was enjoying the afternoon with the fam, just bakin' in the sun while our Nats took the 3rd of 4 games from my other team.

So that's where the bike comes in handy, since it's my usual safety valve when I'm tense or otherwise preoccupied.  I'm definitely more mellow after a hard ride, and bring a no worries attitude to the rest of the day.  But as indicated before, the spring sports maelstrom sometimes forces me out of the routine, but I've been fortunate to get in rides when I need to.  Racing is just not happening now, even though I'm in better shape now than I have been in a few years.  Mentally it's not the right time, so I vicariously enjoy the ups and downs of the local scene through the blogosphere.  Time is better spent honing the skills of my ten year old pitcher (only girl on her baseball team) and striker (only girl on her soccer team).  And when Mr. Teenager puts his mind to it, he could probably be a good baseball player if he tried.  Note to Mr. T, who tends to read this blog:  take your cuts and groove your swing.

So without the adrenal excitement of racing I've been enjoying all types of riding, from single to dual to group, even when the latest group ride last Sunday featured a complete blockhead who singlehandedly nearly took down the front of the group on Clara Barton.  Mr. LiquiGas was spoken to by at least a half dozen irritated riders, some of whom expressed themselves less delicately than others.  Let's just say that the communications between those of us who are interested in keeping the rubber side down and this dangerous dude was akin to speaking to any inanimate object.  he did his thing; I stayed away, except for the 15 seconds or so that I told him why everyone was so pissed.  There seemed to be a complete lack of awareness by this guy about how his actions could have a seriously negative impact on someone's day.

That aspect of group riding is so visceral that it's hard to describe in words, or even film.  I say that because on Saturday night at a party at the home of my business partner, a film crew from the 48 hour Film Project crashed the event to film a couple of scenes for their competition (get script, genre, then write, shoot, edit, and produce 4-7 minute short in 48 hours).  It was my auspicious debut in the world of cinema.  We were a part of a party scene (go figure).  In a stunning change to my weekday routine, I went the AFI Silver tonight to watch my glorious bald spot in the crowd scene (my back was to the camera, though I'm sure some profile shots would have been ideal).  The film was one of eleven shorts shown tonight, and the party scene that represented minutes of effort on our part was included for nearly 1.5 seconds, sans Johnny Frites.  Such is the life of a struggling actor.

The cruel irony of the efforts of these filmmakers is that despite their 48 hour blitzkrieg to produce a short, they were 7 minutes beyond the deadline, which disqualified them from the competition, although they were still featured on the big screen.  Like training for the big event only to oversleep and miss the start.

Thus ends my cathartic outpour of a fraction of the thoughts that jumbled around the last few days.  I also figured out what's been buggin' me, but I'm not so stupid as to write about it here, since a diary this is not.  I may as well give out my vital info and credit card numbers online.  Lets just say that I've been worshipping the false idols of the past, the glory days, the what ifs.  Those days are gone.  I've got everything I need right here.  Many more days of enjoying fingernail moons are on the horizon.