LUNACY.THELUNARREPORT.COM

A NUT

2012-05-14T03:18:15Z

Tonight I was called a nut. It's not the first time. I hope it's not the last. When I hear someone call me that, it takes me back. To my grandmother's house on Maple Avenue near downtown Burlington, North Carolina. My grandmother and her daughters frequently, it seems to me now, would talk about some crazy stuff that folks they knew did from time to time. “Oh, he's a nut,” Nanny would say. “Oh, he's a nut,” my Aunt Gladys would say. Aunts Geraldine, Alice Blue and Barbara all used that same phrase at one time or another. So did Mama. Funny thing is, it always seemed to be “HE'S a nut!” Never, “SHE!” It's a sexist declaration to be sure. But that discussion is better left to another time.

I also remember hearing those words from Nanny and Granddaddy's RCA color television. That's the television I watched with them often. And often on that round RCA, we watched many black and white episodes of “The Andy Griffith Show,” or “Barney,” as they called it. Barney even said it one or two times. “Oh, he's a nut,” Barney said about Gomer or Goober or somebody. Maybe Ernest T. Bass. And, of course, Nanny said the same thing about Barney.

Well, I'm not Ernest T. I'm not Gomer. I may be a goober, but I'm not that one. And though I enjoy doing the cocky “Barney sniff” and belt pull from time to time, I'm not Barney either. Still, I've been called a nut. It happened again tonight by a co-worker. And I love it. I quite often behave like a nut. Being called such a thing brings me recognition. This is a good thing.

Now my grand young-ins are a bit too young to know the real meaning of the word, “nut.” Right now, to them, it's a snack food. They are all North Carolina natives. It's just that none of them has lived in this state quite long enough to understand. And that's okay. They will get there. But until that time, they will have to use their own known vocabulary to describe a lunatic.

Just last week, I was with those youngins. I don't remember what we were doing, but I was engaged with the oldest boy, four-year-old Sy. He was laughing and having fun. And so was I. And I did something. Again, I don't know what it was that I did, but I remember his reaction.

The young guy called me a nut. He just didn't quite know the right words to use. But in his way, he called me one.

“You're a funny old man,” he said to me.

I love it.

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FRESCA

2012-04-30T02:17:53Z

For the most part, stuff that is written on LUNACY is intended to be funny or bizarre even. And while the LUNAR REPORT deals in honesty and more serious things, there is much that is not exactly true here on LUNACY.

For example, today I heard on the radio a short piece of standup comedy from Joan Rivers. She was performing for a group in Beverly Hills. She went on and on about the prevalence of recreational drugs in that community. She said something like, “When I want a thrill, I pour a little Fresca on my feminine pad.”

Yesterday, I heard Rodney Dangerfield talk about a New York hold up guy who robbed him one time. The hold up guy told Rodney that sometimes he calls the apartments of potential victims. If no one answers the phone, he assumes they are not home, and he breaks into their apartments and steals things. The hold up guy told him he was caught one time.

“How'd ya get caught?” Rodney asked.

“My mutha came ova fa dinna,” the hold up guy said. “She recognized huh china!”

“You robbed your own mutha?”

“Hey. I called huh on huh birthday. I got no ansa.”

Now I doubt that what Joan Rivers said is true. And I doubt that there ever was a hold up guy who met Rodney Dangerfield. And I doubt the other stories I heard on the radio the past couple of days from Steve Martin, Chris Rock or Ray Romano and others are true.

But here's what I know to be true since discovering a new radio genre two days ago. Comedy Radio. It's true and it's real. And it is so refreshing. I wish I had come up with this idea myself. They play short clips of standup comics, doing their routines. They do this all day and night, every day of the week. In the Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina market, it's on 570 AM radio. I'm not sure if this is just a local thing here or if it is national. But here is the link to the Raleigh station.

http://curtismedia.com/wfnl/

Enjoy! And, for the love of God, laugh a little!

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AWESOME SCANDAL

2012-04-24T01:16:58Z

When Barack Obama received the necessary delegates to become the Democratic Party nominee in 2008, his wife, Michelle said, “For this first time, I am proud of my country.”

Well, I've been proud of my country and things it has done many times. But never as proud as I am now of those Secret Service agents in Colombia. What they did was awesome. I mean, this brings a whole new meaning to “make love not war.”

Now, for a long, long time, being gay in the military was not allowed. And for a couple of decades, it was okay to be gay as long as the gay person didn't mention it to anyone. And I realize that the Secret Service and the military are totally different entities, but come on. They are related, right? Well, here you have a few Secret Service men behaving in the most ultimate non-gay ways imaginable, and they get the boot? Come on. Really? Our government security forces need to make up their minds, don't you think?

Besides, have you seen the picture of Dania, one of the women involved in this so called scandal? My God, even Pope Benedict would fork over $30 and disrobe for that babe. What man wouldn't?

And frankly, I am proud of the agent who offered Dania only $30 for an $800 job. Finally, someone in the Federal Government is trying to save a few dollars.

Now, it's probably too late in life for me to become a Secret Service guy. But I have submitted about a dozen resumes for other jobs in Colombia. I am proud of my own country. But I can be much more proud of myself if I can work in a place where there's a chance of saving $770 on an escort as hot as Dania.

Hey. I'm an old man here. Cut me slack, okay.

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GAY MARRIAGE

2012-04-17T02:32:43Z

There's a vote in North Carolina this May on a Constitutional Amendment that will ban the licensing of gay marriage in our state by defining marriage as the union of a man and a woman in wedded bliss.

I gotta tell you, I have mixed feelings about this one. Look, I don't much care what folks do here. If a man wants to marry a lamp post, or if a woman wants to marry a brick, what the hell is it to me? On the other hand, as a formerly married person myself, banning marriage ain't that bad a thing. I kind of wish heterosexual marriage had been banned in the summer of 1982. I became a married man in the fall of that year.

But the gay community? I don't understand you guys at all. Are you guys out of your minds? It's like Vietnam War era women who insisted on equal military rights. You know, there were a hell of a lot of guys actually trying to AVOID going to battle and being shot at back then. Well, now you have a group of folks, the amendment people, who are trying their best to save you from a crucial life mistake – marriage. They are only trying to help. Believe me on this one, y'all.

Relationships without marriage – now that's blissful. The sex is the best. It never ends. There's no sort of “marriage comfort zone” where your partner no longer feels the need to keep you sexually satisfied. You know, once you are married, you can't leave. Even when the sex ends. It's just too much trouble. Your partner knows this.

And when there is sex in the unmarried relationship, the monetary costs are much lower. There's no real need to wine and dine. No buying expensive outfits for your spouse. Your partner will gladly join in without compensation of any kind simply because he or she knows that you can leave. At any time. The unmarried sexual relationship. It's a bonanza!

But there's more to this than just sex. When you are in a premarital relationship, you do things like, oh I don't know – go to the grocery store together. Stuff like that. You go there, you feel good and happy, you clown around with the shelf stockers and the check out clerks. You laugh a lot. It's like a festival of food and stuff and togetherness. Eh – once you're married, it's more like an angry call to your cell phone.

“You forgot the goddamned pastrami! What the hell am I supposed to eat tomorrow? You idiot!”

And before marriage, the loud and obtrusive snoring each night seems cute. Don't you think?

“Ah, listen to her snoring. Sweet thing is so tired...”

A few hours after the “I dos,” and one of you is banished to the living room sofa while the other marriage partner is barricaded in a sound proof and comfortable bedroom. Snore on, mate!

And the toilet seat situation, well, I have to tell you.... oh wait. That wouldn't matter in a gay marriage, now would it? Damn! I'm liking that!

And come to think of it, there are other bonuses to the gay marriage.

Spouse: “Pick up your damned socks!”

You: “How the hell do you know they are mine?”

Still – it's marriage. If a gay spouse is anything at all like a heterosexual one, then he or she will KNOW they are your socks. And they will certainly make you feel foolish by even asking that incredibly reasonable question. That's marriage, folks.

So, I am voting for the amendment. I just care too damned much for my gay brothers and sisters.

See, with the passing of the amendment, you have an out. When your partner comes up with that lame and dangerous line, “I need more of a commitment. Let's get married,” all you have to say is, “Sorry, babe. It's illegal.” That option is, well, simply priceless.

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AUGUSTA

2012-04-09T01:40:16Z

Here we go again. What, is this a cyclical thing? The Masters can be played for years with no mention at all of the qualifications required for acceptance at Augusta National Golf Club, then, from out of the blue, comes again the controversy. “Should women be accepted as members there?”

Look, I'm not a woman. I'm a man, and I enjoy playing golf. I just did a computer search for an application to join Augusta National. I found none. I did find some information, however. Membership consideration is limited only to those INVITED to join. With all due respect to women and their struggle, I'm a GUY. I can't even join the damned place.

There are only 300 members at Augusta National. I guess at least one of those three hundred would have to at least know who the hell I am, let alone recommend me for membership. The odds of that happening are about the same as the odds of me waking up one morning with breasts and a desire to crochet.

I remember back in the early '70's. I grew up in Jacksonville, Florida, a large and growing city that thrived on high-society events. The debutante ball each year was a huge local deal. But in the early '70's, another big deal was equality of the sexes.

The debutant ball was an annual event where female teens “presented themselves to society.” The ball was their “coming out” party. One of the rituals of the “coming out” was to dance at the ball with one's dad. I remember wanting to become a debutante myself in 1972. You know, just to shake up the cotillion crowd a bit. And I remember my vision of my own coming out party. My desire was to wear farmer's overalls and dance with my dad at mid-court during half-time of a Jacksonville University home basketball game at the Veteran's Memorial Coliseum.

Well, I didn't pursue that too vigorously. Even though my dad agreed to do it with me. When I asked him, he moved his cigar to the right side of his lips, loosened his right wrist just enough, and said, “Oh yeth, big guy. I'd love to danth with you.”

My dad understood just how silly was my question. I did too. And if high-society Jacksonville ever allows a young male to become a debutante, I will never again read the Life section of The Florida Times Union.

If Augusta National ever accepts a woman as a member, especially if they haven't yet even considered ME, I will never watch the Masters on television again!

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TOO OLD

2012-04-02T02:33:25Z

I'm too old for this. This is a young man's adventure.

I don't know what I was thinking. I was out and about after a hard week of work. It was an innocent night out really. You know, have a few drinks and a bit to eat and go home. I guess I was really tired that night. I know I had had little to eat that day. The couple of drinks I had must have taken it's toll on me. As it turns out, I actually remember very little of that night.

But it happened nonetheless. Who the hell am I? Hugh Hefner? Strom Thurmond? For the love of God, a fifty-eight-year-old like me should be visiting The Villages near Orlando and not the Babies R Us in Durham. I do remember the young woman was attractive. I remember that from our lunch date last week. That's when she gave me the news.

Look, “Lunacy” is supposed to be for less serious stuff than this. I should be posting this on The Lunar Report, but I'm just not quite ready to share all this with all the Lunar readers. There are far less Lunacy readers. I need to kind of ease into this realization. Sharing it gradually is the thing for me to do right now. I hope you understand.

In around eight months from now, my grandchildren will have an aunt or uncle who is younger than they are. How absurd is that? My aunts and uncles use to say things to me like, “Stop smacking your lips when you eat.”

“Turn off that light when you leave the room.”

“Respect your elders!”

So what will my grandchildren's new aunt or uncle say to them?

“Don't put your teeth on the coffee table!”

“Turn out those lights. Your wrinkles are disgusting!”

“Respect your youngers?!?!?”

And what about my only child now? His new brother or sister will be 27 years younger than he is! I used to play basketball and football with my brother. Maybe my new child can play shuffle board with his or her brother. Bocci ball for sure.

And I hope my son understands. I haven't even told him about this yet. I just couldn't bring myself to tell him over the phone. But life will be different to be sure. My greatest desire is to do a better job of raising this child. I will teach this one to spit only outdoors. I will teach this one that there is more to life than Carolina Basketball. And if there is a God in Heaven, I will teach this new one wear his pants OVER his buttocks.

I know I am kind of making light of a serious situation. That's kind of my M.O. This should be a joyous time, and yet it's not quite – you know, given my age and all. So having some fun with it kind of makes it seem okay. You know?

I just counted up the weeks. It's looking like my child will be born around November 13. That's good news. I wouldn't want my new baby to be born on April Fool's day - when I wrote this.

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THE EX-WIFE

2012-03-26T02:20:20Z

I owe the ex-wife an apology. I've tried to keep her out of these Lunars and Lunacies. What went on between us and our son is kind of just family business. But I have said some things to others about her.

The things I have said to others don't make her look too good. But I've only said such things to folks who don't know her at all. And the things I have said contain little if any truth. The fact is, I love saying those things. I really enjoy having an ex-wife. And this has nothing to do with my being able to keep the toilet seat up every day for all of time.

One time, years ago, I went to Domino's to pick up a pizza. It was early evening, but all the doors to the business were locked. Finally an employee scrambled around and found a way to unlock one of the front doors. When he let me in, I looked at him and said, “Man! I haven't been locked out like that since before the ex-wife left!”

A few months later, I was playing basketball at the local YMCA. I was guarding some young hot shot. He faked to his left, then back to his right, then drove around me to his left and scored. As we were running back down court after his basket, I said to him, “I haven't been used and abused like that since the ex-wife left!”

Often I will buy just a few items at a convenience store. The clerk will ring up the purchase and then say, “Would you like a bag?”

“If I needed a bag, I'd still be married,” I say.

Just the other day, I bought a six-pack of Natural Light at a convenience store. The clerk put the beer into a plastic bag. The bag handles split away from the bag as I removed it from the counter. The six pack hit the floor, and the cans separated from the plastic that holds the cans together. I envisioned opening my first beer of the evening. Surely it would spray all over me. So I said to the clerk: “Has my ex-wife been here? It would be just like her to sabotage my beer like this.”

I guess I have HYC. That's right. Henny Youngman Complex. But I don't care. I love the joke opportunities. And I absolutely love the laughs!

For the record, the ex-wife never locked me out of anything. She used and abused me some, but most everyone does, including the Y-guy. And she is not a “bag” and would never sabotage my beer purchase.

Still – sorry, Karen. It's all in fun. I hope you've enjoyed the ex-thing as well. Maybe after being served a three-minute egg at your favorite restaurant, you've said something like, “Well, that was fast! It was much slower than making love with the ex-husband. But it was fast nonetheless!”

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FUNKS THREE AND FOUR

2012-02-27T03:05:18Z

Okay. So if you've been reading The Lunar Report the past couple of weeks, and if you are up on current events, you should know where this is going. No joke, this is my third funk in a little over a week.

You know, you wait almost all winter long for that one big event that, not only brings you a thrill and entertains you a bit, but sort of brings the inauguration of spring. Well this year, the Daytona 500 was two weeks late. TWO WEEKS!

Last week, I upset some folks by writing about the 500 on The Lunar Report. I upset myself by doing some really lousy writing, too. But I was dealing with it. And late last week, I kind of got over all the upset and was looking forward once again to the unofficial start of spring and the dropping of the green flag from Daytona Beach.

I rested all day Saturday. I got up early Sunday morning, did some chores and stocked the cupboard with good racin' chow. I was a little relieved to hear on the radio while out choring that rain had delayed the race a bit. After all, I was a bit behind on things. So when I got home, I had time to fix a late breakfast and, without missing any of the race, to take the nap that usually hits around lap 90. The later in the day it got, and the longer the rain delay continued, the more excited I became. “Thank God, I don't have to watch the Oscars tonight!” I said to myself.

At some point late in the day, I read on the TV screen, “Daytona 500 postponed and will be run Monday at noon.” Now, last year around this time, that wouldn't have bothered me. I had no work then. Surely, last year, I would have thought to myself, “Thank God I don't have to watch Jerry Springer and Dr. Phil tomorrow!” But this year is different.

Yeh. I have work. All week. And my work hours, all week, are flexible and can be manipulated to fit any rescheduled NASCAR event. That is, except for Monday. So, yeh. I am in a real funk – again! Number three. When I told a good friend about all this, he said, “Hey. DVR it.”

I don't have a damned DVR. Funk number four? Oh yeh.

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STUPID PIZZA PEOPLE

2012-02-20T03:16:02Z

I don't like to complain. But I gotta tell you, I am really tiring of stupid people I pay to do things for me and who let me down. I don't ask much of folks. I really don't. But when I do, and when I pay them to do those things, and when they are too stupid to follow simple – I mean SIMPLE – orders, well, it gets to me.

Take last night, for example. I ordered pizza delivery online. Simple stuff, right? Well, it's simple if you're not stupid. I won't mention the pizza company because I don't want to embarrass them. But come on!

I went to the pizzeria’s website last night and clicked the appropriate button to create my own pie. As I always do, I told the website to put pepperoni and green peppers over the entire thing. An old friend of mine was staying with me last night, and he likes black olives. Frankly, they make me vomit, so I told the computer to put the olives on only half the pizza. Then the computer asked me which half, right or left. So I clicked “left side.” That's simple enough, isn't it?

Well, then we waited. And when the pizza arrived, I looked in the box. Do you know what those stupid pizza people had done? Those idiots put the black olives on the RIGHT side!

Damn them.

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DELIVERY ROOM

2012-02-13T04:32:29Z

(My fourth grandchild was born February 9, 2012 at 1:30am. That was too late to prepare a proper account of things before this week's Lunar Report publication deadline. But there will be more on this topic. Oh yeh. Count on that.)

Here are the most important facts and occurrences of the night of Wednesday, February 8, 2012. My son's wife had been in painful labor for nearly nine hours when the main event of the evening began. If you don't know my family, then it's not what you think. If you do know my family, it's exactly what you think.

At nine o'clock that night, the only ones in that Mooresville, North Carolina hospital room were my son, of course his wife, and his wife's wonderful mom. It really was a long, painful and stressful day for my daughter-in-law. And for the other two there. The anticipation, the discomfort, the anxiety and apprehension must have been brutal for those three. But the process was about to begin. And it did. At precisely 9:05 PM Eastern Time.

That's when all hell broke loose. There was pain. There was jubilation There was a certain degree of ease and relaxation. Then more pain. More jubilation More angst. More joy. It was a two-hour ride on the Myrtle Beach Swamp Fox. An unrelenting roller coaster.

Energetic panic, screaming, yelling and God's name taken in vain. It all came from that room during those two hours that night. It was so bad that the hospital staff became a bit panicky themselves and quickly, yet professionally, entered that room to see what was troubling the mother-to-be.

My account of things here is second hand, so I am taking some fictional liberty. The night nurse, upon hearing the screaming and yelling, burst into the room.

“My God, is everything okay here?”

“He was all over his freakin' back!” my son explained.

“Who?” the nurse asked. “Has the doctor been here? Is your new son here? Coach Sandusky's not a family member, is he?”

“We're getting screwed,” my son replied.

“Look, there's no need to file a malpractice claim, sir,” the nurse seemed to beg. “We're doing our best here.”

“Oh man, he traveled!” said my son.

Nurse: “Well, yes sir. The doctor does live in Gastonia.”

Son: “He was hacked!”

Nurse: “Well, we did have to call him away from a cocktail party in Statesville. ”

Son: “What are you doing, Roy?”

Nurse: “Actually, the doctor's name is Ervin.”

Son: “What the hell are you talking about?”

Nurse: “Look. Your doctor's name is Ervin. He was at a cocktail party in Statesville, but he is traveling here as we speak, and he is not hacked. He is a professional. He would never show up for a delivery hacked.”

Son: “What?”

“Everything will be just fine,” the nurse said. “Just relax and breath. ALL of you.”

“How in the hell could you miss that shot?” my son asked.

“Sir, we keep immaculate records here,” the nurse responded. “I assure you, no shots have been missed.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No sir.”

“That last second crap just pisses me off!”

“Look, we are prepared here,” the nurse said. “We leave nothing to the last second.”

“Damn,” my son replied.

“There is no need to curse, sir.”

“What? Uh... what? Oh, never mind. So what's up with my wife and our baby?”

“Well, sir, I've been trying to explain, and....”

“Explain what? When?”

“Sir,” the nurse said, “For the past two hours I have been trying to explain what's going on and I just don't...”

“Look, lady, I've been beside myself for the past two hours. Do you have any idea how stressful things have been for me and the wife?”

“Well, sir, yes I do. That's why I have been in and out of this room all night, trying to explain to you that everything is under control, and that you have nothing to worry about. We are doing all that...”

My son interrupted. “See, here's where you screwed up, lady. You never, EVER, try to explain ANYTHING to me while the wife, mother-in-law and I are watching a Carolina-Dook game on television! UNDERSTAND?”

“Uh, yes sir. I do now.”

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MORE TO LOVE

2012-02-07T00:39:16Z

You know what? This February, during the month for love, there will be no gifts, no cards – nothing. Not to a woman from me.

To hell with this “love” thing. There is more to love than women, you know. Like High-Def televisions. Maybe next week I will buy an 80” plasma and send a thank you note to the former loves in my life. I love High Def. Till death do we part.

Maybe I will take a trip alone to Vegas. Yeh. Vegas. The women in Vegas love me. They have to. I pay them to. And I love them. I have to. I pay them. For the night anyway.

Maybe I will do the town on Valentine's Day. Make a reservation for one at the most romantic eatery. Then sit there, alone and pitiful-like, and make uncomfortable all the babes who are suckering their chump boyfriends and husbands into an expensive pig-out.

Maybe I will go shopping for a diamond at the local jeweler. Tie up the guy's entire evening, telling him that I want only the finest for the special girl I plan to marry and that money is no object. Then, while at the cash register, admit that I left my wallet on the night stand of a woman I met last night.

When the ex-wife left, I turned up all the toilet seats. This Valentine's Day, I believe I will unbolt the damn things and use them as picture frames.

The possibilities are endless for a single man intent on giving to himself all the gifts and fun and joy and pleasure that could have been shared with a lost love.

You're missing me now, aren't you, babes?

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THE MEAT OF PRESIDENTIAL POLITICS

2012-01-30T15:13:52Z

I'm an issue oriented voter. I really do not care if our president elect is an effective leader or a Democrat or a Republican. All I want is someone who believes in the few things that will make a difference in my life. The issues are what matter to me.

It's because of my devotion to the issues and the ultimate importance of such and even more so the ultimate importance to me personally, that I need to attend a presidential debate or town hall meeting. Like all neglected voters and constituents, I need to be heard. And I have some meaty things to discuss with the wealthy and privileged caviar consuming party nominees.

Now, I won't whine and complain because I am unemployed or without health insurance or need a new kitchen. The folks who bring up such gut-wrenching stories as those are pathetic humans filled with self pity and need to get a grip on life and government and politics. No, I won't go there.

My question will be simple and straight forward.

“Sirs, will you sign a pledge, both of you, right here and now, to invest in our infrastructure by building new and improved Biff Burger restaurants in every state across our fine land? Or at least allow Krystal to operate in North Carolina?”*

*Biff Burger, one of my favorite fast food chains, went out of business more than 30 years ago. Krystal, my other favorite, is still in business in Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Mississippi, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Texas. There are none in North Carolina. They are similar to White Castle restaurants.

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THOUGHT INVASION

2012-01-16T03:01:10Z

God knows I have enough on my mind. Most of us do. And how do we spend our days? Checking off tasks on a thought list. Get the kids to school. Go to work. Get the kids to band practice. Go back to work. Pick up food. Pick up kids from band practice. Go home. Mentally practice being calm for the wife and kids. Return phone calls and emails. Tell the wife she is appreciated. Tell the kids they are not. It takes a pretty awesome thought process to keep all that straight.

The stuff that rambles around in a normal human's brain each and every moment of each and every day is enough to confuse a stone. Hell, I spend most of my daily thought reciting over and over again all of my account screen names and passwords. One day, I will have them all memorized. That will surely happen the day before someone hacks into half of those accounts.

But thought lists certainly are not limited to the nuts and bolts of everyday life. Those necessary thoughts bouncing around in the brain like neutrons are nothing compared to other things like depression, love, life cycles, jealousy, self-worth, and all the stuff that really drives us crazy. Eventually, in any given day, our brain runs out of space for further thought.

We are saturated. Beyond saturated, really. There is just no room for anything more in our brains. At those times, all we should be required to do is to find a warm and comfortable setting on a sofa somewhere and watch a re-run of a 1970's Suzanne Somers' made-for-TV movie.

The other day I was at a local grocery store. I noticed an older couple pushing their cart full of groceries to their car. There was no conversation. Just two old grocery shoppers alone with thought lists of their own. Then I heard the woman say to the man the words my brain and I just cannot handle. Judging by the man's reaction, he was mentally reciting account names and passwords, too. He had no response at all. After hearing the woman's word's, I did focus on the man's jaw. Yeh. He said nothing audible. But his jaw was as clinched as a hungry gator's on a side of beef. And he was grinding those molars, too. He knows what I am talking about.

At the very moment one's thought list has reached capacity, a spouse or someone will invariably say what the old woman said to her husband that day: “Remind me to call Barbara. I need to get her squash recipe.”

So what was she actually saying?

“My own thought list has reached capacity, and surely YOU have nothing going on in there, so think for me, okay Sweetie?!”

The nerve of the old woman! She has reached thought capacity, so, instead of, oh I don't know, maybe WRITING THE REMINDER DOWN, she chooses to load up on the husband's brain. Why is her spare brain space more valuable than his? Is she not at all aware that the old man has account numbers and passwords and such to memorize and process? How dare she dump one more thing – HER thing - on the already over saturated brain of someone else?

Thought invasion should be criminalized. Hell, I would even vote for Ron Paul if he would promise to issue an Executive Order criminalizing “remind me's.” But until such time as a government leader can do such a thing, may I suggest that you do what I do when confronted with these inconsiderate impositions. Begin the reminding process no more than five seconds after the request, and repeat the reminder every ten seconds until the spouse or whoever does what you were asked to remind them to do.

Or until the spouse tells you to go to hell.

Whichever comes first.

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SPIT

2012-01-09T01:37:11Z

Look, my child has faults. His 27th birthday was last week, and while I'd like to continue the praise and celebration of the young man, I wouldn't be honest if I didn't acknowledge his flaws.

He's a good man, and I love him dearly. But he “married up.” Now that's to his credit. Not a flaw at all. She just happens to be better than him. He knows it. I know it. He tells her that.

But his flaws? He eats way too fast and complains of acid reflux. It never occurred to me when he was a child that I should teach the imp to chew.

He watches way too much ESPN. I wouldn't swear to this, but I think his first word was “butta,” the word made famous by Stuart Scott.

And when the kid Tweets, he uses abbreviations that old folks like me just can't understand. That's not right.

But his biggest fault? Well, his mom would say that he spits too much. Frankly, I think that's a problem for her only because I taught him to do it. The kid can spit gallons a day, to be sure.

But I did what I had to do. When he was just a youngster, he and a little girl friend of his, T-bone I call her, wanted to play baseball. We went out on the driveway, and I pitched to them while they each hit. I refused to pitch the ball until they spit.

“You wanna be a baseball player?” I asked them.

“Yes, Dad.”

“Yes, Dave.”

“Then you're gonna have to learn to spit at the plate. That's all there is to it,” I told them.

T-Bone's parents hate me for what I taught their child almost as much as the ex-wife does for what I taught hers. Their little girl spitting. But come on, she wanted to play ball, too! I really never played baseball. But I surely knew that ballplayers spit. And I taught that very well.

I just hope my son learns one day to do it only outdoors.

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NEW YEAR'S SAVINGS TIME

2012-01-02T11:00:00Z

I gotta tell you guys, I'm confused here. I am writing this on Friday night, December 30. I like to write on Friday nights. But frankly, I don't even know what I am writing about. That's just how confused I am.

As much as my life would seem to indicate otherwise, I do treasure routine. Many times I feel like my routine is to have no routine at all. Maybe that has never been truer than this New Year's weekend.

I really have no New Year's Eve routine. About 80% of my New Year's Eves have involved Guy Lombardo, Johnny Carson and Dick Clark. I do make a conscious effort to have an adult beverage at midnight, but that's usually the same adult beverage I had at 7pm. Other than that, I got nothin.'

But now here's the routine. I wake up on New Year's day. Headaches and nausea are okay on those mornings. Actually, it's preferred. Brain fog kind of gets me into the real meaning of the day – you know?

Okay. So I get up, drink coffee, eat some toast maybe, then put the blackeyes into a soak. After the pea soaking, I build a nest of sorts on the sofa - my perch to watch college football bowl games. Somewhere between the end of the Cotton Bowl and the beginning of the Rose Bowl, I start thinking collards. Usually, by the time the Orange and Sugar Bowls kick off, the pork chops are fried, the gravy is prepared and the blackeyes and collards are deep into an aromatic simmer. My good luck and fortune meal is devoured during the typically two best bowl games of the long and wonderful day.

As is my routine, I usually go blackeye and collard shopping at the Food Lion on December 30 or 31. A few times over the years, I was too late to find my New Year's staples. One year I even had to settle for dried pinto beans. I think I had little luck the year following. But who can tell, right?

This year, for the first year ever, I bought my New Year's meal fixin's on December 28. Do you have any idea how out of the norm that was for me? December 28?!?! I don't know. This year I just wanted to be prepared. Then – I learned the damnable truth. This year, New Year's day is on some sort of Daylight Savings Time or something. The real New Year's Day doesn't hit until January second! Even I can recover from a New Year's Eve hangover by the second! Who wants to nestle into a warm and old sofa, watch Bowl games and smell peas and collards simmer when they are wide awake and feeling great? Not me. If you can't be tired, nauseous and nap during the Citrus Bowl, what the hell's the point of the day?

So, I have collards and pork in the refrigerator. I have dried blackeyes in the cupboard. Now what? To make matters worse, I agreed to go with a good friend to a University of North Carolina basketball game at 3-o'clock New Year's day. But then again, why the hell shouldn't I go? Spending the first day of the year watching the NFL Carolina Panthers get creamed by the NFL New Orleans Saints is kind of meaningless to the holiday. At the same time, the basketball game is at 3! I won't get home until 6 at the earliest. When the hell do I soak and simmer stuff? Should I reschedule the entire day and cook tomorrow? If I do, when do I eat it? Will I have less luck and fortune if I prepare the meal a day early? What if I eat it a day early? You see my dilemma here?

I just cannot take another chaotic year. But I guess I have no choice but to begin another one that way. Maybe that's the answer. Maybe my routine is not no routine at all. Maybe my routine is, always has been and always will be, simply, chaos. Oh well. If the Tar Hells win Sunday, and if the collards aren't soggy, how the hell can I complain? Right?

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NEW YEAR'S EVE

2011-12-28T17:31:03Z

I don't know y'all. New Year's Eve has always puzzled me. You get drunk, put on silly hats, and wait until some magical moment to kiss the woman you are with. At the same time, I understand the logic behind it all. After all, wouldn't a woman have to be drunk to kiss a man wearing a “Welcome 2012” hat?

As I recall, one time when I was a young college student, I traveled to Atlanta for New Years. I was there with some friends to attend an afternoon outdoor cocktail party disguised as the Peach Bowl game on New Years’ Eve. After the game, we went to the home of a good college friend’s High School teacher. There was a party there as well. At this party were more young and available women I can remember ever seeing at a New Years’ Eve party. If ever a midnight kiss were to be had by me, it was at the house of my friend’s teacher that night. After all, my attitude had been adjusting all day at Fulton County Stadium.

I kind of hate to brag, but I was quite the man-stud that night. I could have had any woman at the teacher's party. But I pondered the situation very carefully. Just any woman wouldn't do for me that night. She had to be special. After all, I was quite the man-stud.

So, I strutted around for a while, scoping out the territory and the babes. Kind of getting a feel for the landscape, so to speak. Oh yeh. This was my night. Hundreds of miles from my college campus and in the big and steamy city of Hot-Lanta, Georgia! And the babes could sense my rather animal attraction that night. Oh yeh. They could.

And I played those babes. They knew it. They loved it, actually. I was playing one such babe from Savannah, I think. I had her right where I wanted her. She knew it. She had me right where she wanted me. I knew it. I wanted to give that girl my best at midnight. So around 11:45, I excused myself to go sort of freshen up a bit before the big and monumental make-out moment that would surely lead to some form of incredible New Year's bliss for us both.

The night ended up being much more than I could have ever dreamed possible. After I excused myself, I met someone else. A local girl. Her porcelain skin was so smooth and cool. Her mouth was wide open and accepting. Each time my lips approached hers, her mouth opened even wider and by doing so welcomed my entire being into her world. All inhibitions were flushed away during that incredible New Year's Eve encounter. Yeh. It was blissful. For hours.

When I woke up next to her, a couple of hours after the stroke of midnight, I remember hearing through the walls one of my friends say, “Moon! That's enough!” My other friends pounded on the door, saying, “Come on, Moon. We have to go.” Oh yeh. Jealousy ran rampant that night in Atlanta.

Finally my friends busted through the door and into the room. “MOON! WE HAVE TO GO NOW!” In a totally jealous rage, two of them pulled me off her. One friend wiped massive amounts of moisture from my forehead and lips. Another friend grabbed my face, looked me squarely in the eyes and said, “Moon, it's time to go.”

At about the same time, another young babe entered the room. I don't remember who she was or what she looked like, but she must have been rather hot. I can remember hearing the passion in her voice. It was an awkward situation to be sure. Maybe it was the Savannah babe. Here I had spent hours in the dark with someone else, and Savannah wanted me as well. But this New Year's Eve was not a time for inhibitions. So, I said to her, “Hey, Babe. There's enough Moon for everyone!”

She was impressed. She looked into my eyes and said with the sweetest and sexiest voice I had ever heard, “Hey, dumb ass, put the toilet seat DOWN after vomiting! Okay?”

Yeh, well. Happy New Years, y'all!

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CHRISTMAS PRESSURE

2011-12-19T23:23:12Z

I'm really not a scrooge. Now some folks who know me well might be saying, “What?” But I'm really not. The pressure is just getting to me, y'all.

The pressure of Christmas. You know, the pressure you feel when little Johnny wants a $300 Play Station at the same time the power company wants a $400 bill paid – from AUGUST.

The pressure you feel to be home on time for the pre-Christmas neighborhood dinner while being stuck in interstate traffic at the mall exit. It's the same pressure you feel when the wife insists you somehow magically keep the overloaded Christmas tree from hitting the floor again, but she refuses to allow the use of fishing line to accomplish the feat.

Ah. The pressure. It will kill you. And, look, Christmas is no time to be dead. But, for the love of God, it comes from everywhere this time of year. Exactly who can deck the halls? Have you priced holly lately? Maybe Bing Crosby could, but even he created pressure that most of us, including him, couldn't possibly live up to. He dreamed of a white Christmas. He lived in HOLLYWOOD!

I grew up in Florida. Folks who have fireplaces there brick them up and turn into knickknack stations or tiny book cases. Even if I knew what they were and liked them, how the hell could I roast a chestnut?

And all those commercials and news stories of the homeless and hungry. Why are they more homeless and hungry now than in July, before I had to buy a Play Station AND pay the August power bill? And don't you think we feel enough pressure after floating a bad check at the Food Lion to pay for Christmas dinner, WITHOUT hearing those damn little bells at the front entrance when we leave the store?

And the incredible pressure to be “home for the holidays...?” Well, I finally caved on that one. I was going to spend a happy and eventful Christmas with my son and his 37 children at their place. I decided instead to stay home, alone and be miserable. Happy now, Bing?

I will NOT ask for a Lunar Report donation this week. You just don't need THAT pressure!

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CHRISTMAS STREAMLINED

2011-12-13T00:20:13Z

As if the poor woman needed an annual event to drive her even deeper into emotional crisis and anxiety, along came Christmas for Mama. Every year around December 15 or even later, without fail, she'd put aside her psychotic distress caused by eleven and a half months of normal life, and focus on that thing that really stressed her out – Christmas!

“I've got to do my cards,” she'd say well into January of the new year.

“I don't have enough gifts for Richard!”

“I don't have enough gifts for Marilyn!”

“I don't have enough gifts for David!”

(Funny she never worried about too few gifts for Daddy.)

“I have to bake a ham!”

“I've got to do my cards!”

The woman was a basket case at Christmas, and she never really got that involved in decorating! We had a tree and stockings and a few table top things, but that never really stressed her. It was the shopping and the ham and, oh hell – it was mainly the cards.

We all know a lot of folks who do much the same thing. I've seen folks who actually buy two or three Christmas trees! Now, it really doesn't matter how big a house these guys have, more than one tree is just asking for trouble. For the love of God, do a tree, get it the hell out of the way and move on to the ham and the cards,.

Christmas should not represent stress. It did in my marriage, though. As I remember it, we always got our tree in July. When the damned thing dried up and the needles fell off before the fourth game of a new NFL season, it was always my fault. But that's what being a husband is all about, right? Taking the fall for a dead, four-month-old Christmas tree and other reasonable failures of unreasonable actions. I accepted that.

But when the ex-wife left, I did two things. I put both toilet seats up. And I streamlined Christmas. The toilet seat thing was easy and bold and a satisfying statement on my part. The Christmas thing I kind of had to ease into. My kid was only 10 years old at the time. He expected trees and decorations and hams and stress. I couldn't let the little guy down, you know.

But over time, the decorations diminished. So did the gift giving. I never send cards, so...

The stress diminished, too. Now I go to my son's house, kick back and watch the young stress develop and play out. I think they have about 37 kids now, so the stress there is plentiful.

But I give gifts. I don't stress about the fairness of it all, though. My Christmas shopping costs me $39. Total. $37 for what I think are the 37 young-ins they have, and two-dollars for my son and his wife. That's right. A dollar a gift.

Sure it's cheap and despicable – on the face of things. But if one of those lottery tickets hits, it will be the best gift someone in my family ever gets.

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SEXY SCARFACE

2011-12-05T01:16:12Z

My best friend my junior and senior years in High School called me “Scarface.” So did one of my best friends in college. But I used to make fun of the college guy’s nose, too. The man had a Roman nose. It roamed all over his face! (I think I got that from Shecky Green, but I’m not sure. It sounds like a typical Rickels’ or Rivers’ retort.)

Honestly, I was so young when I got the scar, it never really bothered me. I grew up with the damned thing. By the time such things really mattered to me, during my pubescent years, I was too preoccupied with black heads and pimples to even notice it. Clearasil and Phisohex can only do so much, right?

At some point during my college years in North Carolina, I began to notice the scar more. But it was only after an exchange I had with my mom’s oldest sister. I don’t even know how the subject came up. I think that maybe my aunt just looked at me one time and said something like, “You know, I barely even notice that scar any more.“ Maybe my aunt was around one time when “The Schnoz” called me “Scarface,” and she reacted. Whatever and whenever and under which ever circumstances she said what she did, matter not to me. What she said matters a great deal.

My Aunt Geraldine looked me squarely in the eyes during that exchange and said the words that changed my life. Well - at least the words changed my attitude. And to this day, when I feel self-esteem drifting away just a bit, I think of my wise Aunt Jerry and her words that day 40 years ago.

“I think your scar is sexy!”

Oh, how I love you, Aunt Jerry!

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LEAF MAN

2011-11-29T00:11:34Z

My sister is out of her mind. That’s okay, really. She always has been. It’s like a family thing. It’s hereditary. Thank God it’s apparently restricted to the female Moons.

But like my mother and my nieces and a couple of crazy aunts, so too is my sister kind of out there and obsessed with things. My sister’s obsession is holiday decorating. I swear, this woman would make billions for Hallmark if they would only name her Creative Director for In-Store Display. She’s very good. Still it’s a crazy Moon obsession with her.

I am saying nothing here that she doesn’t already know. She knows she is crazy about decorating for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Halloween, Easter, Ground Hog’s Day, Consolidation Day, Tuesdays, whatever. She’s comfortable with her psychosis.

Well, I kind of enjoy stirring the pot a bit. I’m talking about making trouble. Now, I’m not obsessed with it. I just enjoy it. I’m a male Moon after all.

So, I kind of take it upon myself to re-decorate a bit when I go home during the holidays or on Consolidation Day, Tuesdays or whatever. I don’t know why this is so, but it is. And so I re-decorate. Not much, you understand. But enough. Laziness is a male Moon obsession.

My sister seems to think that at holidays like Thanksgiving everything needs to be perfect. I guess we all have a bit of Walton’s Mountain and Rockwell in us. So I get it. But it’s that obsession to make things perfect that drives me. Okay, so the place looks grand, the table is exquisite, the presentation is fabulous. Times like that are the perfect times to place between the main entrance and the dining table a fake pile of dog poop on the floor. Don’t you think? Oh yeh. I’ve done that.

My sister usually screams in an apparent serious display of disgust. But then she laughs. Talk about mixed signals! Another male Moon obsession - as long as they laugh even just a bit, our actions are approved. And we continue.

So last week, I was at my sister’s place for Thanksgiving. The living quarters were a Martha Stewart Fall fantasy. Beautiful. And the front door decorations really excited my sister. There was fall foliage there. And within the foliage was a little stuffed and orange man she calls, “Leaf Man.” His arms were spread wide open as if to welcome folks onto the porch and into the holiday. Several times as we walked into the house, my sister would spread her arms, too, and say, “Welcome, Leaf Man!” I did mention her obsessions, right?

Well, one of my other obsessions is the burning tobacco leaf. My place to enjoy those incredible burning leaves during my stay there was on the front porch with Leaf Man. He and I got to know one another quite well on this trip home. But I kind of felt sorry for the puny orange guy. All alone in the decorative leaves on a cold front door, smiling as if nothing was wrong with his life. And his arms wide open, welcoming no one, but rather begging for help. “Help me, help me!” he said to me.

So I did. I bent his left hand toward his mouth and inserted a cigarette into his two-fingered hand. I positioned his right hand in a familiar yet slightly disturbing Pee-Wee Herman pose. “Happy Thanksgiving, Leaf Man!” I said.

Leaf Man seemed to smile and thank me. My sister was appalled, but her endless laughter seemed to disguise quite well her disgust at her younger brother.

When I left her place to return home after Thanksgiving, my sister waved good-bye to me from the front porch. Pee-Wee Leaf Man was there, too, hands still in the male-Moon-obsession inspired pose. Cigarette and all.

Here’s my Leaf Man:

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