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A few notes about the Carolina Panthers.

uptown

 

A good friend of mine from Chapel Hill has a daughter who is dating a guy who lives in uptown Charlotte. When the Panthers play at home, you can hear the stadium crowd noise from his apartment balcony. The daughter also lives in Chapel Hill.

 

My friend told me weeks ago that if the Panthers made it to the Super Bowl, she and her daughter would be coming to Charlotte to watch the game at his place. Knowing that, I pulled hard for the Cats! But after they won, I learned that the boyfriend is going to Chapel Hill to watch the game instead.

That led me to say the following: “Well, hell! If I had known you weren’t coming to visit Charlotte, I would have pulled for the damned Cards!”

walmartI do a lot of work these days in Charlotte area Walmarts. One of my stores has, for a while now, been playing loudly over their PA system, the Panthers’ fight song. The song never ended on the Monday after the playoff victory.

I told them that if they didn’t turn that damned music down, I would pull for the Broncos!

At a few of the other Walmarts I visited the day after the Panthers won, they were breaking out boxes of Panther T-shirts and madly selling them from tables set up near the front doors of the stores. When I arrived at each of the stores I visited that day, I asked the same thing.

“So – where do you keep your Arizona shirts?”

Yeah, I am a wise ass. That comes from my fondness of the Jacksonville Jaguars, the team that competed with Charlotte during an NFL franchise expansion years ago.

But I am loving this Panther team right now.

I have never seen a team more engaging and real.

Cam…

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The coach…Panthers-Coach

 Sam Mills, Jr.

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Click the picture to know pounding.

And all the others.

So maybe I will pound my own stuff next year.

For now, I will shut the hell up.

And be only a Panther pounder for a while.

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FROM DECEMBER 21, 2009

christmasActually – I really don’t care too much for Christmas.  I guess I did as a kid. In fact, I’m sure I did. You know.  Running to the living room to see if Santa brought what I had asked for.  He always did.

I got older.  The magic kind of left and the dread invaded.  When I was a teenager, just as she does to this day, my Mom would ask, “So, what do you want for Christmas?”  Since the age of 16, I think, I have given her the very same reply. “A Carolina Blue Bonneville.”  I guess the branches of the tree were never quite long enough to hide a Bonneville. And now they don’t even make Pontiacs.  I guess my Mom can breath easy this Christmas.

My mom always knew I was kidding about the car.  She would, all those years, kind of fluctuate between, “Oh, ok… do you just want one car?” and “I really wish I could get you that car.”  If she could, I do believe she would.

But, see, here’s one thing I hate about Christmas.  My Mom has three kids.  Each year, she did her best to sort of even out the gifts for each of us.  I know other Moms and Dads who do the very same thing.  I guess it seems fair.  But the problem is, how does one determine a fair system of evening things out?  Is money spent the guiding measure?  Or is it number of gifts?  Value versus quantity.  Which is it?  If it’s value, and if my Mom had given me a Bonneville for Christmas, then my brother and sister would have each had dozens, maybe hundreds of gifts under the tree to make up for the cost of the car.  If it’s quantity, then, not only would I have had a new car, but my brother, sister and I would have each had the very same number of Fruit of the Looms or whatever my sister wore.  So they get underwear and a wallet.  I get underwear and a car.  We each get two gifts.  What normal parent can deal with this kind of Christmas math?

Even Mama couldn’t decide between the “value vs. quantity” options.  I cannot tell you the number of times on Christmas Eve my Mom would worry that one of us had more or better gifts than the others.  She would see the three stacks of gifts for her children and ultimately determine that Richard needed one more gift, or that Marilyn needed 3 more gifts, or that since she couldn’t find the “big gift” she wanted for me, that maybe I needed 5 more gifts.  It’s an awful, out of control spiral.

Now, my Mom is notorious for waiting until the last minute on Christmas prep.  I remember, one Christmas Eve, the day she began Christmas shopping that year.  She was freaking out with panic.  I don’t think she had ever started that late.  I was a teenager at the time.  She gave my Dad a list of things to buy, and she gave me a list and a credit card.  She didn’t even go shopping.  Speed shopping was vital that day.  My Mom is also notorious for what we call, “piddling.”  Most of us could decorate an entire tree by the time she can change a pair of shoes.  She knows this.  I love her, and she knows that, too, so I’m not being cruel here – just honest.

So my Dad is on one side of town with the credit card.  I’m at one of those catalogue showrooms on the other side of town.  Also with the credit card.  I complete my list at that one location and get in the checkout line at 4:45, just 15 minutes before closing on Christmas Eve.  Perfect.  I am relieved.  Had my Mom been with me, she would have been relieved as well.  It’s one or two minutes shy of 5 o’clock when I get to the check out. Beautiful. The clerk who must be dead tired and ready to get the hell out of there is very nice.  She rings up all my gifts and runs the credit card.  Back then, retailers had to call the credit card company for available credit verification.  There were no electronic credit card scanners back then.  She hangs up the phone and tells me that I am over the spending limit.  Apparently my Dad, using the same credit card, had completed his shopping on the other side of town.  The problem – he beat me to the check out line.

So while all those people in line are waiting to make their last minute purchases, I’m at the check out, removing gifts, one by one, and asking the clerk to see if I am yet under the limit.  I did a fast prioritization of gifts on the list, and each time I removed something from the counter, the poor clerk would have to call Master Card again.  After taking away about half of the merchandise in my cart, the credit charge cleared!  The gifts weren’t quite evenly distributed that year.

Now, I know I said that I don’t much care for Christmas.  The religious aspect of the holiday – you know, the reason we even call it a holiday – is important and beautiful.  And my Mom is a very religious woman.  But growing up, we never had time to even recognize, let alone celebrate, the real meaning and origin of Christmas.  It was always, at best, secondary to the holiday.  In this regard, I think my family is normal.  Not many families do have the time.  How the hell could they?

Want to know my all time favorite gift?  My 40th birthday came and went with no fanfare at all.  And that’s okay, really, because I never really enjoyed being the center of attention on that one day of every year.  Still, it was my 40th – a milestone.  Early evening on my birthday that year, while the wife was at work, I was fixing dinner.  My 9-year-old son found out it was my birthday.  The poor kid didn’t even know.  There were no cards or gifts or cake for me from his Mom or from him.  How would he have known?  When he found out, he bolted upstairs to his room.  I think he said, “I’ll be right back,” as he ran as fast as he could.  About 10 minutes later he came downstairs, holding something behind his back.  He sheepishly walked into the kitchen, smiling in a way that is hard to describe – kind of devilish, kind of mischievous, kind of hopeful, but very much full of love.  He slowly pulled from behind his back one of those miniature Lane Cedar chests.  My Dad sold furniture and had given that little cedar chest to me years ago.  He handed me the chest and said, “Happy Birthday, Dad.”  Inside the cedar chest was one of those rubber Coke bottles that uses batteries to wriggle around on a tabletop.  I’m sure you’ve seen them.  There was also a loose deck of playing cards and a letter opener with a Dalmatian on top.  That cedar chest and its contents.  That’s my favorite all time gift.  It came from my guy’s heart.  My 40th birthday is my favorite birthday as well. That gift still sits in plain view of my easy chair in my home.  It always will.

My son didn’t wait in long lines for that gift.  He didn’t have to juggle credit cards and finances to purchase it.  He didn’t have to keep a receipt in case it didn’t fit.  He didn’t have to look all over town for it.  No coupons, no circulars, no Black Friday bargain hunting.  He shopped in just one place – his heart.

Now I cherish all my childhood Christmas experiences – even the stressful one at the catalogue showroom.  But wouldn’t it be a wonderful Christmas if we could all just decide to shop where my son did that day.  It would mean so much more, I’m thinking.

And, maybe that would give us time to recognize and celebrate.

Merry Christmas y’all.

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From December 14, 2009

buy cytotecToday we are saying goodbye to Greg Shriver.  He was one of a group of us “professional” friends who have stuck together for a while, leaning on each other, helping each other, waiting and trying for better times.

I call us “professional friends” because we work together and we are friends.  A better word is family.  We are a family.  In every sense of the word.  There are a few of us.  Including Greg, maybe 5, maybe 6 of us.  Probably more.

From our perspective, we probably view ourselves as a sort of “Sad Sack” bunch. We are all very good at what we do.  But things happen.  Down on our luck?  Making poor choices over many years?  Suffering financially and emotionally?  Maybe.  Absolutely.  Of course.  Some of us blame ourselves.  Some of us blame others.  The fact is, is we are where we are.  The fact is we could not have made it as far as we have without each other.

We all lean on each other rather heavily.  Greg was always right there at the center of the “Lean-Fest.”  He leaned on all of us a great deal.  He was a heavy man.  And his needs were many.  We, the others and I, often broke under the weight.  But when it counted most, we held that man like a six-pound newborn.  And, when we needed him, we each weighed less than a duck feather.  Whatever was his, was ours.  Whatever was ours, was his.

Greg left town a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving to visit his parents in New York.  He was hospitalized very soon after arriving.  He died November 22. Today is his memorial service in Durham, NC.  He left two adult children that he loved dearly.

The man toured as audio engineer with Harry Bellefonte.  He engineered the recording of “Tubular Bells,” the theme song from the movie, “The Exorcist.”  The man knew everything there is to know about sound, about construction, about carpentry, about computers and file formats and file conversions and so much more.  He was even a “radical” organizer, running a popular radical underground newspaper at something like age 14.  Around the year 1968.

Any time anyone had a question about anything, they called Greg.  I surely did.  I once tried to convince him to get a “900” number from the phone company so he could charge per minute for all the calls he got from idiots like me.

One day Greg was feeling kind of sorry for himself.  It happens.  The man cheated death many times.  He was beaten one time by intruders.  He nearly lost his life in a moped accident.  One night, at the home of the dad of one of our group, something terrible happened.  Greg was living with that dad.  In a dense fog, a two-passenger airplane crashed into that house.  The plane entered the house in the area where Greg lived.  He should have been there.  Some strange circumstances kept him away that night.  Everyone but the passengers survived.  The house did not.

When I told Greg how lucky he actually is, he said, “You sound like “plaintiff number 2.”  He called his ex-wives, “plaintiff number one” and “plaintiff number two.”  But he was lucky, and he knew it.  I am lucky, and I know it.  The others in our group, our family, are lucky.  We all know it.  It’s sometimes hard for us to see.  But we know.

We have all done the best we can.  Or at least the best we were capable of doing at those given times when we’ve needed our best.  We have failed many times, for whatever reasons.  But there is one thing Greg and the others have excelled in for many, many years.  We’ve kept each other alive.

Greg never failed us. Until November 22, we never failed Greg.  It’s hurting us now that we failed to keep our friend alive.

The rest of us will make it.  The others will make sure of that.  We just probably won’t make at as far as we would if Greg were still here.

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BOBBIE FROMBERG

 

 

(January 26, 2016.  This was written about six years before my good Facebook friend from LA passed away.  I don’t know how we so easily met on Facebook, but she became a great and so humorous friend who supported every moment of my writing.  I miss Bobbie.  But I will forever feel her love and humor.)

 

 

 

FROM DECEMBER 12, 2010

This post is pretty much entirely meant for Bobbie Hill Fromberg, a Facebook friend of mine in Los Angeles.   She and her good friend, John are Laker fans.   They gather most every night there’s a game on TV for good food and Laker basketball.   For those of you not interested, please bear with me.   This is for Bobbie and John.

OLD WELLI grew up dreaming of being a basketball player for the University of North Carolina.   I hated High School.   I really did.   I had a couple of good friends.   I had a “sweetheart.”   And I had basketball.  Other than that, I hated it.

I wasn’t very loyal to my High School team, when it came to basketball.   The afternoons before games I would sing to myself Carolina fight songs.   Not Robert E. Lee High School songs.   Tar Heel songs.   Exclusively.   That’s all I wanted out of life.   Well, that and my high school sweetheart.

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I wasn’t bad at hoops.   I was the fifth starter.   I did okay, though.   I got form letters from Brown University and from Berry College in Rome, Georgia, asking me to try out for their teams if I happened to be accepted at their schools.   I thought about it.   For a minute.

 

I wanted to be a Carolina player.   Nothing more.   Nothing less.   So I followed my dream.   I enrolled at Carolina.   I tried out for the team.

MITCH 1I was a freshman at the same time as Mitch Kupchak, former NBA star player and now General Manager of the Lakers.   At that time, all freshmen, including scholarship guys, had to go through tryouts.   Even Kupchak.   Had I known that when I decided to go to Carolina, I might have opted for Florida Junior College in Jacksonville.   I would have at least answered the letters from Brown and Berry!

So – I go to tryouts.   The summer before, I endured a bout of mono.   An excuse?   Maybe. But still – the truth.   I was slow.   That’s my point.   I did make it through 2 whole days of tryouts.   This is what I tell people.   What I try to avoid telling people is that EVERYONE made it at least through those first two days.

My main memory from those two days?   Kupchak.   He was 6’11”.   I was 6’4” in my High School program.   He weighed over a couple hundred pounds.   My High School program didn’t even mention my weight.   It would have been embarrassing.   One time during a Lee High game, I was at the free throw line, hoping to score a couple of freebies.   My brother, my own BROTHER, yelled from the stands, “Hey! You have a couple of strings hanging from your shorts!   Oh.   Sorry.   Those are your legs!”   I was no match for Mitch.

Still – I ended up on the very same basketball floor as Mitch Kupchak in October, 1972.   I was in awe actually.   I tried my best.   There was another guy there.   A guy who weighed something like 300 pounds.   I beat him running sprints.   That is my highlight during the tryouts.   He was the only guy I beat.

But I do remember a time, when we played a scrimmage.   Kupchak’s team missed a shot.   Our team got the rebound.   I turned and ran down court on the fast break.   I was looking at my point card and the ball, and not at who was in front of me.   All of a sudden I hit a freakin’ steel barrier.   Or a rubber barrier.   I bounced into the first couple of rows of seats in Carmichael Auditorium like a fresh Jai alai ball.   I had run, square on, into Kupchak.   He didn’t budge.   I was like a flea on his freakin’ arm.   He just stood there and looked at me, watching me try to untangle my legs from those Carolina Blue pieces of wood and metal, as if to say, “Man. Get up. Play ball, dude.”

Kupchak2I didn’t make the team.   And that’s okay.   I was ready to move on anyway.   Mitch Kupchak helped me realize that.   I hope this means at least at bit to you, Bobbie and John. As long as Mitch is there, I will favor the Lakers – a bit, at least.

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FROM DECEMBER 8, 2009

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Bobby Bowden hates me. And I don’t know why. I’ve always liked him. As a young guy, I hated the Gators. So I had to like him. My Mom says he reminds her of my Dad. How could I not like the guy? But he must hate me.

Now the man did help me a couple of times.

My brother is a pretty obnoxious Gator Hater, a fan who doesn’t like the University of Florida. My brother-in-law is a huge Gator fan. We had a Moon family Thanksgiving tradition. For a few years anyway. On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, my son and I would gather ’round the TV with my brother and brother-in-law to watch Florida State play Florida in football. One particular year, Florida was killing the entire first half. My brother-in-law was at the top of his game. If you could have Wiki-ed “obnoxious Florida fan” during the first half of that game that day, you would have found a description of Rick. In the second half of that game, Florida State killed. They came from way back to tie the score at the end of the game. Wiki my brother in the second half – you get “obnoxious Seminole.” Watching both those guys. It was a priceless event for my young son and I. Thanks for the comeback, Bobby.

buy cytotec online canadaI am a die-hard Tar Heel – a fan of the University of North Carolina. Until the fall of 2001, the closest we had ever come to beating Bobbie Bowden was a 10-10 tie in Tallahassee. I was at that game. The Florida State fans were crushed. But the best thing I can say about that hot and steamy Saturday afternoon is that I discovered Tallahassee is home to the most beautiful women in the world. Seriously. The tie wasn’t bad either.

Other than those tie games and those outrageously beautiful women, my Tar Heel experiences with FSU have pretty much stunk. For years. For decades. The man has created nothing but misery for me.

Just like he did with so many college football teams, Bobbie Bowden owned the Heels. And there were no signs whatsoever that the Bowden domination over my team would ever end. So, I wasn’t too upset that one year when I was invited to a good friend’s 50th birthday party at Ocean Isle Beach, NC the day before FSU came to Chapel Hill. I could go to the beach party and still make it back to Chapel Hill to attend the game with my son the next day. And even if I didn’t make it back, so what? Bowden would still, as usual, beat the crap out of us. Still – my plan was to be back for the game.

I borrowed a friend’s car to drive to Ocean Isle. I knew the tags, registration, and insurance on the car were all out of date, but it was the only car I had to drive at the time. And what did I really have to fear? If I got stopped by law enforcement, the worst that would happen would be a citation, right?

buy cytotec online with no perscriptionI made it to the intersection of US Highway 17 and NC Highway 904. You turn left off 17 and onto 904. In 5 minutes you hit ocean. The law enforcement officers, who were in patrol cars several lanes away and facing an opposite direction spotted my illegal transportation anyway. I don’t know how the hell they spotted the tags. My friend had a few hundred, it seemed, rather radical bumper stickers all over the car. Maybe those cops were Republicans – I don’t know. I tried to explain that it wasn’t even my car. Maybe I should have told them that the driver of the car does not necessarily agree with opinions of the back bumper. This did happen on September 20, 2001 – 9 days after the terrorist attack on our nation. I tried my best. I guess a beat up red Hyundai with “Bush Stole The Election” written all over it maybe drew a bit of attention.

Even so, the officers were actually very kind when they impounded my borrowed terrorist buggy. They even drove me to the party. On the way to the party, my travel alarm clock in my luggage in the back of the Ocean Isle Police Department SUV went off for some reason. That alarm had an awful sound to it. It kind of sounded like a bomb getting ready to explode. Thankfully, the officers found the humor in all that. But I did make it to the party. Thanks officers.

So, the night of the party, I lobbied very hard for an early ride back to the Chapel Hill area so I could witness with my son another Florida State massacre of my team. The kick-off was at noon. No go. I was at a party. At the beach. On a Friday night. No one there expected to be physically able to drive even a legal car by 7am the next day. The best I could arrange was a ride back with a freakin’ Dook fan late on Saturday. Actually, when I realized the only ride home would be with a Dookie, I felt there was some higher power at work. Maybe not God. But still some higher force who had it in for me somehow. I missed the game. Carolina won. Something like 45 to 7. Thanks again, Bobbie. I missed my team’s only win against FSU. A Carolina massacre at that.

Now missing such a huge upset by my team of Bobbie Bowden’s FSU team was only one disappointment I’ve suffered at the hands of Bobbie. Every year, it seemed for such a long time, we just couldn’t beat the man. One year, Carolina had the game won until a hundred yard interception return for a touchdown by one of Bobbie’s boys late in the 4th quarter put another loss to FSU on UNC’s resume. I really hate to see him retire. (Did I mention that I actually like the guy?) Even so, after he announced his retirement, I couldn’t help but think that finally, he won’t ever be able to screw me and my team again. It’s over. I – we – can move on with our lives. I can finally like Bobbie Bowden without stressing over his hatred for me.

In a few weeks, Carolina will play in the Muffler Bowl in Charlotte. I guess that’s a good thing. A better thing, though, would have been watching my team play in my hometown over the holidays. The Gator Bowl in Jacksonville wanted Carolina. Carolina wanted the Gator Bowl. My family is there. We would have gone to the game. It would have been a real gift to me and my family to see our team in our hometown bowl. Many sports analysts believe UNC would have made it to the Gator. Except for one small thing. Bobbie Bowden retired.

Now Bobbie’s a respected man. I appreciate that. I do respect him, too. (Did I mention he reminds my Mom of my Dad?) Remember the scene in “We Are Marshall” where the head coach of West Virginia gives the new coach at Marshall game tapes or uniforms or something? Whatever it was, I did shed a tear over that scene. That West Virginia coach, in real life, was Bobby Bowden. What a guy. It was touching. Seriously. I cried, for God’s sake, over a portrayal of Bobby Bowden. Doesn’t Bobby owe me some consideration after that?

So Bowden retires. It’s not over for me. Bowden requests a Florida State match-up with his former team, West Virginia, in the Gator Bowl. I’m glad I like such a respected man. I hate that folks respect him enough to keep my team out of my hometown holiday bowl game. They did as Bobby asked. Bobbie screwed me again.

Look. Florida fans and Miami fans have every reason to hate Bobbie Bowden. They are in-state rivals. I’m just an old country boy in sort of rural North Carolina whose deceased Dad looks like the coach of Florida State. What did I ever do to Bobbie Bowden?

bowden 2Look, Bobbie. I love ya, man. I hope you enjoy your retirement. But for the love of God, man. Get off my back.

All the misery. All these years. The man just hates me. There’s no other explanation.

 

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From December 2, 2009

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And… They’re off!  The Christmas season has begun!  Black Friday was a huge success.  Or a huge failure.  Depending on whether or not you actually found what you wanted.

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A couple of years ago, I was with my son, Matt, and his first-born, Sy.  We were in Jacksonville, Florida for Thanksgiving, visiting my family.  We could only stay through Thanksgiving Day because Matt had to work Friday afternoon.  So we left for North Carolina early on Black Friday.

Now, keep in mind, my kid had to be back home on FRIDAY.  And it’s about a 450 mile trip.  Still, we had to make a stop at a WalMart on our way out of town.  We made it to the WalMart on the northside by 5am.  FIVE AM!  I stayed in the car with my grandson, Sy.  That child knew what to do and did what all of us know and didn’t do – he SLEPT at 5am on the Friday after Thanksgiving!  I easily volunteered to sit with the child while he slept.  I figured I could get in a few extra winks myself.

buying cytotec onlineBut have any of you ever hung out in a Jacksonville shopping center parking lot before dawn?  It’s freaky, man.  I was sitting in the New Yorker, feeling that I had to stay awake to protect that precious child from parking lot people.  And – just the day before all of this – I was thankful for living a SAFE life!  Of course, many possible ironic resolutions to these circumstances were with me the entire time.  One’s imagination sort of goes on steroids at 5 o’clock in the morning.  Nothing happened.  Matt found the bargains he was seeking.  And I got to hang out with a beautiful grandchild for a while. We were on the road again by 6.  Still.

My son is 24.  I really don’t know what’s hot this year.  If I had written this 20 years ago, I would have all kinds of material.  About Cabbage Patch dolls, Power Ranger action figures, you name it.  Now – I’m stumped.

buying cytotec online without prescriptionI remember one Christmas when my son was young.  He wanted a couple of “Wrestling Buddies,” stuffed dolls that looked like real WWF wrestlers.  He had seen them in a commercial.  The dolls were big enough that kids his age could throw them around, fall on them, etc.  You know – “rastle” with them.  But in the commercial there were a few props.  One such prop, to give the impression that a kid could actually feel like a wrestler if he had one of these dolls, was a wrestling ring around a kid’s bed.  It was a prop.  Pure and simple.  But my kid wanted, not only the “Wrestling Buddies.”  He wanted the freakin’ wrestling RING as well.

can i buy cytotec onlineI called TYCO, Mattel, K-Mart, Wal-Mart, JC Freakin’ Penney.  I even called Remco! Nothing!  Santa couldn’t even pull this one off.  There simply was no such thing as a “Wrestling Buddy ‘Rastling’ Ring.”  It did not exist.  Santa told me that he tried to create one, but with such short notice and lack of supplies, it was impossible.  And all his skilled elves were working on larger projects.

How the heck can a toy manufacturer use a prop like that without actually offering it for sale?  Or, maybe my child was just too odd and different to understand it was just a prop.  Nevertheless, I feel for all you folks who are scrambling around right now – those of you who had hoped to score big on Black Friday only to find that you really do not have the stamina for such nonsense.  I feel your pain.

But never fear y’all.  You will have your day in the sun.  You will get revenge.  Well, at least, I did.  My child now works in retail.  He has had to work the last five Black Fridays.  I love you son, but after all you have put me through these years, you deserve it.  Just don’t make me wait in a pre-dawn parking lot before taking you to work again, ok?

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FROM NOVEMBER 24, 2009

Many of us are embarrassed by our middle names.   Well, my “middle” name happens to be my first.   It’s what people call me.   But my given first name is Alvis.   All official documents show one’s first name.   Those documents have just never seemed to understand that I go by my middle name, David.

It was not easy growing up with a first name like Alvis.   Every year on the first day of school when the teacher would read off her seating chart, “Alvis,” all the snotty little kids in my class would laugh.

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Number 25. ELVIS Moon

One morning, the day after I was the lead scorer on my high school basketball team, the daily newspaper printed the following:  “Elvis Moon led all scorers with 16 points.”   Yeah, you can imagine what happened to me at school that day.   “YOU ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!”   “Shake those hips, ELVIS!”   Not to mention the ribbing from my older brother.   It was brutal for a young, shy, insecure teen.

 

This is Thanksgiving week.   Thanksgiving is such a wonderfully simple holiday.   It’s a day to just give thanks.   Of course, I’ve never actually prepared a full Thanksgiving meal.   Still, I am thankful for many things.   I guess we all are really.   Right now, I’m kind of thankful for my first name.   My Mom always told me that she thought about naming me David Alvis Moon instead of Alvis David.   That might have made my adolescence go a bit smoother if she had.   She didn’t want my initials to spell “DAM.”   But, you know, if I had Alvis as my middle name, I may have, over time, forgotten about that name altogether.   That just wouldn’t have worked for me.

I love that name.   I love it because Alvis is also the name of my grandfather.   He is the greatest man I have ever known.   Today, November 24, is his birthday.   He would have been 105.

The man never even used a cuss word – well sort of.   cheap cytotec no prescriptionHe did yell at his favorite “rastler” on TV one Saturday evening.   “Kick him in the nuts!”

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I asked him to loan me a hundred dollars one time when I was in college.   He said, “Okay.   Do you want cash or a check?”   I was just so happy that he was going to do it, that I said, “Granddaddy, it really doesn’t matter to me.”   He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You don’t want to fuck with a CHECK, do you?”   I don’t remember what I said after that.   I think I blacked out!   I didn’t even know that he KNEW that word.

Okay, so saying “nuts” is acceptable, and using that other word that one time is not a bad thing.   But it’s the closest thing to a bad thing the man ever did – in my eyes anyway.

cheap cytotec without a prescriptionHe was a thrifty guy.   He could go all week and use only one toothpick.   When he finished picking his teeth for the day, he would break off the end of the toothpick and store it in the cuff of his trousers to use again after his next meal. cheap online pharmacy for cytotec

 

 

 

He once figured out how much it cost to flush the toilet, and would allow my grandmother to flush only once a day.

 

 

 

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My son and two of his sons.

 

Look, I could go on and on about this man.   How strong he was.   What a tireless worker he was.   How he never spoke badly about anyone.   How he is the only true “Christian” I have ever known.   “We’re all God’s children,” he would say often.   And, he was a great pool player.

 

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Sisters – Jerry, Alice Blue, Barbara, Gladys and my mom, Marie.

He had 5 daughters and 16 grand children.   He never spanked his children.   And he lived during a time when spanking kids was never even questioned.   He once saw one of his daughters spank one of his grandchildren in his home, and he laid down the law.   There would be no spanking of children in his house.

When one of us youngins’ would cry at his house, for whatever reason, usually our moms or grandmother would deal with us.  That was, after all, “women’s work” back then.   All my granddad did at those times, all he could do really, was cover his ears, look toward the ground, and walk away, shaking his head the whole time.   He hated to see one of his youngins’ in pain.   And when there were no “women folk” around, he would somehow make each of his grandchildren feel so special.   He always did for me, anyway.

Last weekend, I was with my son and my grandchildren.   I was helping Matt and his family move, but my main job was to watch the kids while he dealt with moving issues.

Being around kids has, for the most part, always come naturally to me.   I don’t know what it is really, but it seems that I have a knack of sorts for knowing when a kid needs attention.   And, for the most part, I know how to turn a kid’s sour mood into a smiling face.   I also just seem to know when a child needs to brood, and needs to be left alone.   When a child is in pain, it’s almost like I am in pain, too.   When a child has something to brood about, it’s almost like I do as well.   Somehow I know how to deal with that pain and brooding.   There were a few times I had to deal with hurt and upset children while helping Matt.   It was a piece of cake really.

Driving back from my son’s last week, I was reflecting on how good it was to hang out with that family.   My thoughts wandered in and out of every moment, issue, engagement, wisecrack, laugh, kid’s tear, fear and hurt – everything that went on during those two days.   At some point I started to ask myself some questions.   Where the hell did I get this “knack?”   Why is it that I am so comfortable comforting a hurt child?   Where did this come from?

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Aunt Barbara, my son and “Sweet P”

As a child, I had plenty of adult role models. My mom and her sisters were all pretty good with kids.   I have one special aunt who was extraordinary with not only us nephews and nieces, but with kids in general.   Driving home, I at first thought I got my knack and comfort from Aunt Barbara.   My mom and her other sisters are wonderful, but come on – none of them are Aunt Barbara.  So where did Aunt Barbara get her extraordinary stuff?

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My grandmother was a loving and comforting lady to us grandchildren.   But there is something special about Aunt Barbara – something my grandmother didn’t have.   And there is something special about the way I feel about kids.   Where? How?

 

My thoughts last weekend then turned toward my granddad.   Unlike my grandfather, I can cuss with the best of them.   I am not a thrifty guy.   I’m not a strong man, and I have a major lazy streak.   I have spoken badly about many people through the years.   I’m a long way from being a “good Christian,” and I am a terrible pool player.   But on the ride home from my son’s place, I realized where I got my love of kids – that knack – from the same place as Aunt Barbara.   I got it from Granddaddy Mangum.   And that’s the same place I got my name.

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Grandsons Sy and Seth, and granddaughter, Rachel, with Aunt Barbara.

Matt, Zach, Sammie, Jessica, Brian Waters, David, Drew, T-Bone, Harrison, Sharod, James, G-Man, Carter, Justin, Dustin, Brian Whitfield, my little basketballers on the Aggies, Tigers, Blue Devils and others, and all the young ones who entered my life from time to time – well, they have been my life, y’all.   Now young Rachel, Sy and Seth, my grand youngins’ – they are my life.   Without all those little ones, I would be a terribly bitter and sad old man.   Without that knack I got from my granddad, I would never have known the real joy of being around youngins’.   My Aunt Barbara understands.

 

I am thankful this week and always.   Simply for my name.

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My brother with Grandaddy Mangum.

Happy birthday, Granddaddy.   And Happy Thanksgiving, y’all.

Alvis Moon.

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Matt, Joe and Alvis.

(Since I wrote this in 2009, I have come to feel with all my heart that one of the most wonderful kids I have ever known is also my grandson.   His name is Jovan.   I call him Joe.   He is my granddaughter’s cousin.

Also – my youngest grandchild was born after I wrote this.  His parents call him Princeton or “PJ.”   To me he is simply “Sweet-P!”)

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I am suggesting no pondering on your part.   But pondering and acting on ponders seem to create a lot of laughing and crying.   I have been laughing and crying a great deal lately.

While pondering exactly how to recover and re-post all of the lost Lunars from a few years ago, I have been given the wonderful opportunity to relive some beautiful and disturbing and clarifying moments from my past.

And yeah.   I laugh and I cry when reading again the otherwise nonsensical stuff from the old Lunar Report.

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The Lunar Report actually began as a business newsletter on Facebook, one originally intended to only promote my failing video production career.   Of course, in at least my eyes, it evolved into something much greater than just a self-serving newsletter.   But y’all know that.

You are the evolution.

 

Well, look.  I have mostly wiped away the laughing tears and the crying ones as well and re-posted all of the Lunars that only appeared on Facebook.   These are the original ones that,  in the Fall of 2009, began my passion for such nonsense.    For those of you interested in reliving with me those moments you helped create, check out the generic cytotec site.   You will have to scroll down and hit the “Older Posts” button to arrive at “Inaugural Issue.”   That’s the title of the very first Lunar Report.   You will need to scroll up to read the ones that followed “Inaugural.”  This is all a sort of reverse order deal!  But even that fact is making me cry and laugh!

All the other older Lunars will soon appear on the new site.   The next phase of re-posting will begin with the ones I posted on the online editions of The Florida Times Union, The Durham Herald, The Miami Herald, and a couple of other online newspapers before The Lunar Report site was created.

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The final phase of restoration will be the the ones that you brought to life. The ones you guys supported. The ones generated by your never ending concern and love.  The ones from the original Lunar Report website.

 

 

I do not know when the final phase will begin to occur and become finished.  It will take time.  But during that time, I will ponder new things.   Act on fresh stuff.   And allow without hesitation my heart to feel and cherish the laughs and cries and tears that my new passionate ponderings will surely generate.

And if you feel a need to mull over anything yourself, then ponder this.   Just as you have been doing the past six-and-a-half years for me, continue to provide the cherished laughs and tears and other beautiful moments you certainly know how to create.

But this time, do all of that just for you.

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lunacynotagI gotta be honest with you here.   “Lunacy” is the best word to describe exactly what is happening with me these days.

All I really want to do is to re-post all of the lost Lunars and Lunacys.   And to write new stuff.   And, at the same time, to bring in a few dollars of income to pay rent by doing the couple of part-time merchandising jobs I am doing these days.

But how in the hell can any other word but “lunacy” explain what is happening.   I had hours and hours of work to do late last week, and what happened?   Snow and ice!

uncI still have that work to do.   And when am I now doing it?   On the day when my favorite college basketball team, UNC, plays on TV!   On that same day, and at the very same time, my new favorite professional football team is playing in an NFL playoff game!   In the town where I now live!   Traffic will be hell on that day!

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And, even if I do finish all of my work in time tomorrow, what the hell do I watch?   The regular season college basketball game in which my lifelong and all time favorite team is playing or the NFL playoff game in which my new but irreverent home team is favored to make it to the Super Bowl?

Oh, to hell with it all!   After writing this, I am calling Time Warner to cancel my over priced cable.   Then I am emailing my bosses and telling them that the 60 inches of Charlotte snow still on the ground will prevent me from doing my work.   Then I will call my landlord, claim senility and swear to the man that I had already paid the rent!   Then, I will do what I really love.

Y’all know what that is.

I may suck at using words.   Even the best ones.

But this lunatic loves them all!