LUNACY.THELUNARREPORT.COM

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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THANKFUL

2011-11-21T11:00:00Z

When I was a kid, I really did feel like life was unfair to me. So many more had so much more than did I. And I did feel trapped. I was the poor little country boy in a city of successful social climbers.

Today, I am thankful for growing up in the only rental house on Beverly Avenue in Jacksonville, Florida. I did my best back then to transform our sand spur farm into a landscaped lawn showplace worthy of the perfectly manicured lawn at the Mason family home up the block. I learned what I know of lawns and gardening there. I failed to transform that sand and weeds and spurs. But I learned.

I am thankful for the pathetic basketball goal made from a bent and rounded coat hanger jammed into the top of my brother’s bedroom door and the balled up socks we used as a basketball. I learned to shoot there, and I am damned good at shooting.

And. It was time that I spent with my brother.

I am thankful for Pic N Save Discount Drugstores. As a child, I didn’t do much with my dad. But Sundays were Pic N Save “browsing” days with him. We never bought much more than a box of Hav-A-Tampa cigars and toilet paper, but I browsed with my dad. And I learned to enjoy watching folks - Pic N Save shoppers - along the way.

I am thankful for Ozzie, Harriet, Ward and June. During an otherwise abnormal childhood, they often centered me.

I am thankful for yacht clubs and backyard tennis courts and all the ostentatious things the fortunate Jacksonville ones seemed to hold over my young head. They allowed me to hate the wealthy while a child. Without knowing hate as a child, it’s hard to know love as an adult.

I am thankful that, from the ‘60s, things changed. I grew up.

I am thankful for the Jacksonville blue bloods who in their dying years showed that change is okay and that status is something you really cannot purchase. It’s something your heart builds. The wealthy grew up, too.

I am thankful for my Standard Definition television.

And for friends.

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OLD SCHOOL

2011-11-14T11:00:00Z

Now don’t get me wrong here. I wouldn’t wish my past few months on anyone. But, man! I went back to school for a while. It wasn’t as intense or involved as the Luke Wilson, Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell version of “Old School.” Nevertheless.

The past few months, while being “between homes,” I got to live with three old college buddies. Like me, they are each fathers and are each living as single men again. But for a short time, we were all back at the University of North Carolina.

Now it wasn’t quite the same as the old days. These guys now all fold their laundry, empty ash trays and their beer can recycling habits are more environmentally sensitive than building aluminum pyramids in the corner of the room. For the most part when they need to pass gas, they do so silently without even thinking of lighting a match near the flatus. They no longer put clear Saran Wrap on toilet seats or throw instant grits on a showering roommate. And these days when they see a sunrise, it’s because they woke up early. They get their sleep nowadays.

Still, it was as close as I will ever come to being back in school. Frankly, though, I’m not sure I could be back in school with these guys again. Like each of them, I am a bit “set in my ways.” At the end of the day, I like to kick back, sip a cocktail, smoke a few cigarettes and watch cable television.

The first old bud I stayed with shared drinks with me, and smoking in his home was okay with him. And he had a television. But the TV was hooked up to nothing! No cable, no dish, not even an antenna!

The second old bud has the most beautiful LG High Definition television. Drinking and smoking at his place was almost a requirement. But the television had only an antenna. A wide screen without ESPN is a damned sin. And to pick up just regular TV there, I had to hold the third toe of my left foot on the far right corner of the metal antenna.

The third bud had it all. Almost. He had the cable. He had no problem with me having a cocktail while watching ESPN. But I had to smoke outside on the damned deck.

But the absolute worst part of my version of “Old School?” None of these guys had ice! None of them! For the love of God, who doesn’t have ice? You go to the dollar store, you pay 2-bucks for ice trays and you have ice. It’s just the American thing to do. Ever have a bourbon and seven without ice? Unbelievable.

Now, I know you guys are probably saying to yourselves, “What an ungrateful twerp. These guys took you in, and you’re complaining about their televisions and lack of ice?”

Look. If I didn’t complain about such things, it wouldn’t be “Old School.” This is how old college buds show their affection for each other. Besides. I complimented them on their laundry folding!

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EASY BIG FELLA

2011-08-21T23:54:45Z

It’s not easy being me. It’s really not. I’m not talking about the general laziness, the poor money management, the oft times non existent sense of time and space and consequences. No. I’m talking about my mind here. I don’t know how my poor child has lived with it all these years. One day years ago I took my son and several of his friends to school. A popular saying back then came from a popular song. “Raise the roof” was what they were saying back then. As the kids exited the ‘77 Monte Carlo that day, I said, “Hey, increase the height of the ceiling!“ Those kids obviously weren’t morning people that day.

But I fear for my grandchildren. I think sometimes there may be a bit of a blurred fiction-reality line in the thoughts and actions of their old granddad. Certainly the ratio is skewed.

I have three grandchildren. The two oldest have nicknames. What I call the oldest was very easy to come up with. It came naturally. “Beautiful” is her main nickname. I also call her “Sis-boom-bah.” That’s because my dad’s favorite nickname for my sister was simply “Sis-Boom.” I liked that. And - my granddaughter became a young cheerleader. So, “Sis-boom-bah” seemed natural, too.

I was present when the next oldest grand young-in was born. And I have cared for that child since his diapers were, to him, just pieces of glorified paper towels and plastic that gripped his waist and thighs. Many a time I heard noises coming from those Pampers. And just as many times, I’d run my crusty old fingers around the back waist band of those diapers. About 80% of the time I would find nothing. Except an exceptional odor. Like it or not, his nickname is “McGruder.” That’s short for “Pooter McGruder.”

The youngest of the grandbabies was difficult. I think I tried to force things a bit. I did come up with “Seth-Man.” The child’s name is Seth. A really pathetic effort on my part, don’t you think? “Seth-Man.” Unbelievable. I have still tried to sort of force that nickname on the poor child. It just doesn’t work. I even cringe when I call him that these days.

But the past few times I have been with the child, things have sort of started falling into place. You do understand, we are dealing with my mind here, right? So, I’m not sure if “falling into place” with that sweet child’s nickname is a good thing. Nevertheless.

Seth and his older brother Sy are almost the same age. Sy is four years old. Seth will soon be three. They love each other and look out for one another at almost every turn. They are as close as two Cadillacs in a one car garage. At the same time, they are both so very different. At this point in their lives, Sy is a bit timid, but once he warms up to things, he can charm the dead. But he is a bit on the more thoughtful and shy side. Seth is every bit as loving as Sy, but Seth is a bit bolder and more independent.

When they play together, occasionally things get out of hand a bit. Hey, they are kids, right? And even though Seth is younger than Sy, the kid will stand up for himself when older brother pushes the envelope. And he is a bigger kid than his older brother. So those times when Seth has had enough and stands up for himself against Sy, he seems to lose all sense of love and compassion towards his older brother and just dives into the fray with all his might and energy. It’s an admirable trait really, but when I am in charge of watching those two and settling such disagreements, I have come to use the phrase, “Easy Big Fella.” They both respond well to that, and they laugh and move on with their young lives. So, I am guessing that “Big Fella” will somehow stick. Like “Beautiful Sis Boom Bah” and “McGruder.”

But here’s the twisted part, the part where I worry about my skewed fiction-reality ratio. I really didn’t know where the “Easy Big Fella” thing came from. I had a sense that it wasn’t original. But that’s all I had. Just a sense. The other night I was watching a re-run of Seinfeld. George Costanza was explaining to his friends how he had, under the guise of a fraudulent occupation of Marine Biologist just to secure the love and attention of a beautiful woman, walked into the ocean to save a distressed whale. He began his explanation by saying, “The seas were rough, my friends.” He then told his friends that the “great fish” was angry or something, and that something was obstructing the whale’s “blow hole.” When he confronted the angry “fish. “ he boldly exclaimed, “Easy Big Fella!”

So. My youngest grandchild got his nickname from a George Costanza line. My apologies to my young friend, Seth. Constanza is not the most admirable of television characters. But hey. At least young Seth and his dad share something very important. They have both had to deal with the difficult and twisted mind of an old man who loves them all.

Beautiful Sis-Boom-Bah

Big Fella & McGruder

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BERT AND ERNIE

2011-08-14T21:57:02Z

I guess all of us go through these sort of cycles. Sometimes everything is clicking. Emotions are in check. There is order and clarity and purpose in life. Our only task is to move forward with joy. Then there's the down cycle. No clarity. No purpose. There is little more than total confusion and emotional warfare with oneself.

You know, I was just this close to leaving that bad cycle for a stint in the good zone. I was in CT - Cycle Transition. Strange sorts of things don't need to happen when in CT. The transition needs to be clean. All hell can break loose if there's no clean CT.

So, the other day I was talking to a customer at one of my part-time jobs. I was feeling good. The cusp of order and clarity was just on the horizon. That's when he uttered the words I didn't need to hear: "Yeh. So Bert and Ernie are getting married."

"For the love of God, not now!" I said to myself.

Look, Bert and Ernie's sexual preferences are no concern of mine. What Muppets do in the privacy of their own bedroom is none of my business. If they both enjoy kissing carpet, well more power to them. But why did it have to happen now, at this time? I was almost on the cusp!

If I had heard about this a couple of weeks ago, it would have been just another confusing item to process. If it had happened a couple of week's from now, I may have popped open a bottle of champagne for the occasion. But it happened now. During CT. Unbelievable.

So where does this leave me now? How the hell should I know? There is no clarity now. No purpose. I was in CT and now I am not, and I am not in the good zone. Thanks to Bert and Ernie, I'm in a double-dib down cycle.

Here's a very special plea to Mike Judge. Please, I beg of you, if Beavis and Butthead decide to go to seminary, hold off for a few weeks, will ya?

I need just a tad of clarity before dealing with that one.

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THANKS WASHINGTON

2011-08-08T13:13:33Z

I sure am glad that Washington is doing all it can to help all of us struggling folks. Without them, well, many of us would be tanking right now. And with all those guys up there, burning the midnight oil, and working hours and hours on end for all of us kind of makes life seem a little easier somehow. Just the other night, after I got home from working my second part-time job, and after working twelve hours straight for eight-dollars an hour, I turned on the television. It kind of warmed my heart to see that our government representatives were willing and prepared to take a vote of some sort around eleven o’clock that night. Of course, the vote never happened. But, by God, those guys were willing to work late, too. And after working all those late hours, man they looked refreshed and well groomed. I admire folks like that.

Frankly, they’ve inspired me. I am hanging in there with hope. And hoping the change I have in my pocket will get me to my next job interview. But because of those hard working Washington folks, I am staying positive. Very positive. Thanks to those guys, I can see the silver lining in things.

All the light bulbs in my house have burned out. But that’s okay. They cut my power off a week ago.

The price of gas is so high, I can’t afford to drive anywhere. But that’s okay. My old car lost its transmission just yesterday.

I can’t afford detergent to wash my work clothes. But that’s okay. I lost my job an hour ago. Both of ‘em.

The stock market is crashing. But that’s okay. Well. I guess you know why that doesn’t matter much to me.

My cholesterol level is extremely high. And that’s okay, too. Watered down ketchup and soda crackers don’t add that much LDL.

I used to worry when I didn’t hear back from the dozens of resumes I send out daily. I don’t worry so much anymore. My phone was disconnected 3 minutes ago.

And I will not seek out government help to see me through all of this. Because I know just how much those Washington guys are trying to get our country running on its own again. I know that before you know it those guys are going to get folks to start hiring and paying again.

So, you see, I am being very positive. I am hanging onto that promised hope. Those Washington guys have my best interests at heart. I know they do. They worked such long and hard hours these past few weeks, there can be no doubt that they want good things to happen for me and others. And, by God, to show them how much I appreciate their efforts, I am stating, here and now, that I am more than willing to take a few more bullets for those guys. We all have to sacrifice, right? I will happily endure a second, and even third, recession. If that’s what it takes. Y’all just let me know what y’all need from me. But don’t mail that information.

The sheriff is padlocking my home and mailbox even as I type. Maybe some skywriting over the homeless shelter would work.

Keep up the grand work, Washington. I promise I won’t totally tank until you tell me there is no hope left. Deal?

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BINGHAM TOWNSHIP DEEP DISH CHICKEN PIE

2011-07-25T13:50:55Z

I have to be upfront with you. This is an advertisement. But stick with me here. This could be the most important culinary message you will ever read. It will certainly be the beginning of a life-long relationship with some of the best chicken pie you, your family, your friends and neighbors will ever taste. Trust me on this.

I developed this recipe while living in small house in Bingham Township, a small country community a few miles west of Chapel Hill, North Carolina. I used the best parts of a few already published chicken pie recipes, then added a few Moon twists here and there. What came from all that was a deep dish chicken pie that will melt in your mouth.

The country flavor will explode with each bite. Tender and flavorful chunks of succulent chicken will fill each spoonful. And the vegetables held beneath the crisp and flakey crust will add the tasty balance to this chicken experience.

And this will be an experience. One that you can recreate time and time again and for many years to come. An experience you can share with your spouse, children and grandchildren. And when your grandchildren make it for their kids, long after you are gone, your grandchildren won’t call it the Bingham Township Deep Dish Chicken Pie. It will be “Grandma or Grandpa’s Chicken Pie!”

I have been making this for years. Friends and family ask for it regularly. So what is the value of this experience? Knowing what I know now and how my family and friends have enjoyed this for such a long time, I would gladly pay $50 or more for this recipe. I want you to have it for the low price of only $7.50.

Now, let’s make no mistake here. I am trying to raise money. But I promise you. You will get much more than seven-and-half dollars’ worth of joy from this. I wouldn’t make this offer if I didn’t believe that with all my heart.

To get your copy of the Bingham Township Deep Dish Chicken Pie recipe, just click the “donate” button on the right side of the page. Enter the appropriate information and $7.50 as the donation amount. Include your email address on the Pay Pal site. I will email the recipe to you within 24 hours.

And thanks. This really is incredible stuff. You will love it!

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HE CALLED MY NAME

2011-07-11T12:23:57Z

Today is the 4 year anniversary of my friend John’s sudden death. The man intimidated me. At first, anyway.

The first time I was in his home in Olney, Maryland, just outside DC, I showed up wearing blue jeans with no belt. That’s just what I wore. But that night, I was using his tickets to take his youngest daughter to a political humor stage show in Georgetown. His daughter and I got dressed and were preparing to walk out the front door of that Olney condo when the man brought me a belt. Actually, I think he gave the belt to his beautiful wife who in turn gave it to me. I kind of think, wimpy as I was and am, I must have intimidated him just a bit as well.

The man and I were at total political and intellectual odds with one another. He was a lifelong Democrat. I’m a lifelong Republican. He had a Doctorate degree in Science. I am some .00000089 grade points away from an undergraduate degree in Communications. He did his best to egg me on, politically. And he allowed me just enough wiggle room to take his bait or survive. I learned early on to just smile, nod and say something like, “Nice try, John. I’m not going there.” He just kind of always smiled with some degree of satisfaction at such responses . It could be argued that he was satisfied with defeating me in an attempted political discussion. I choose to believe that he was satisfied with the way I politically dodged the confrontation. Eventually, the man turned the discussion to something I truly understand - college basketball. He turned it that way for me. He knew who he was dealing with - an idiot boy with a passion for hoops.

Still, for a while I never really felt any degree of comfort around the man. I wasn’t as smart as he was. And we all know that Republicans are a lesser class of folks to Democrats. And I was the man who was charged with taming the youngest and wildest of his six daughters. There was no way I could live up to the man’s expectations of someone like me in the position in which I found myself.

But when the time came - when I was given the opportunity of helping to care for the man during a hip surgery recovery - well, I shined, I think. John had to be helped in and out of bed for a while. His wheel chair needed to be pushed and maneuvered for a while. And the man had his wife, his daughter, two grandchildren and other friends and sort of family members around to help. But when the time came to do such things, he almost always said the same thing.

“Where’s Moon? Let Moon do it!”

I will cherish those words always. We transcended talk of college basketball during that time. Intimidation fell by the wayside. During the man’s weakest moments, he called the name of the wimpy beltless guy.

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THE RECIPE

2011-07-04T15:05:08Z

Now keep in mind something here. Mama’s spaghetti sauce recipe seems to have evolved into whatever one really wants to believe it is. The following is my interpretation.

MAMA’S SPAGHETTI SAUCE

Ingredients:

2 green peppers
2 Vidalia onions
Vegetable oil
One-and-a-half pounds of ground beef
Salt
Pepper
1 medium-large bottle Hunts ketchup

Instructions:

Chop the green peppers and onions.
Sautee them in just enough vegetable oil to coat.
Stir and cook until tender but not limp.
Add the ground beef. (No need to brown and drain the beef first, unless you have a thing against really greasy sauce.)
Add the HUNTS ketchup.
Add salt and pepper to taste, but really load up on the pepper.
Stir.
Heat and simmer for two hours or more,
Stir frequently to avoid sticking and burning.

Boil the Mueller’s thin spaghetti noodles according to directions on box.

Grate Kraft American Cheese slices (the Kraft American that is NOT individually wrapped!)

Drain noodles. Spread on sauce. Sprinkle grated cheese. (I have become very lazy these days. Substituting the grated cheese slices with bags of already grated cheddar is perfectly okay by me.)

Enjoy y’all! This is really good with extraordinarily sweet iced tea and frozen Parker House rolls with real butter!

VARIATIONS:

In fairness to other family members, I feel compelled to suggest that using Heinz ketchup instead of Hunts is okay. It is also perfectly okay, but beyond my complete understanding, to add Heinz Chili sauce.

And thanks y’all. As long as there is debate over Mama’s spaghetti and the use of ketchup instead of sauces and other spices, well… my mama continues to live. Thanks for keeping her alive just a while longer. She would have loved the attention. And I surely love having her alive.

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WE RECEIVE NO INCOME FROM THE ONLINE PUBLICATIONS OR ADVERTISING, SO ANYTHING YOU CAN DO TO HELP WILL BE GREATLY APPRECIATED. PLEASE CONSIDER A DONATION TO THE LUNAR REPORT. JUST CLICK THE DONATE BUTTON ON THE RIGHT. THANKS FOR READING AND SHARING.

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