Maybe I am even more twisted than the guys who wrote and performed the song. Or maybe I finally get the lyrics they intended for us all to finally get.

Or maybe I am just the fool.

But I rolled up, made a reservation and a month or so ago allowed a sort of “Magical Mystery Tour” of my own to take me away.

For a while anyway.

While on the tour, I met some new angels. I saw some old ones that have been with me for years. And then there were the two angels with whom I have shared decades of magical trips – they once again accepted the invitation to join me.

The new angels did not come as a surprise. I expected their smiles, their laughter, their encouragement and their joyful eyes when they finally saw me do what they expected me to do. But I never expected the genuine manners in which they led me down their dark and cold hallways to the incredible warmth that ultimately radiated from what they each taught me.

A few of the old angels, the ones who knew about the tour, gladly forgave things like missed work and late rent. One of the old angels graciously provided for the journey gifts and food and encouraging second-hand words from a few of the very youngest of my old angels.

And the two I have known for so long?

Well, distance between us was overcome by the spirit of one of them. That happens often with this angel. But never more so than it did on this journey.

And the other angel? Well, he did on this tour what he always does. He brought other angels with him.

This is my twisted and foolish way of telling you where I have been and why I disappeared for so long. For a while, I kept perfectly still and could only grin. And without my angles, I would have been totally alone. This is my way of finally completing this “mystery tour.”

I am looking for no compassion. I am asking for no prayers. My traveling angels took care of most of that. And you guys and God have taken care of the rest.

Look, I am okay. Once I post this, my latest “tour” will be over! But the reservation was made in mid-February. That’s when I thought it would only be a one-week mission to the worst flu village I had ever encountered. Instead, it led to an emergency room diagnosis of pneumonia that then led to a five-day hospital stay.

My new angels, the ones from the hospital, smiled and laughed with me every moment we encountered each other. The nurses, the doctors, the attendants – even other patients and their families. On my final day there, my nurse and the attendant who had been assigned to me on that day tested me. I had to do without manufactured oxygen for a while, then walk the halls on my own. I had to maintain, on my own, a “90-percent” on the oxygen measuring monitor while performing for the nurse and attendant.

I swear I saw tears in their eyes as I successfully completed my walk. I certainly encountered their support and cheers. My new angels succeeded. So did I. Because of them.

While I was doing what I was doing on my journey, my landlord and boss and others I have known for a while all did what they do – live angelic moments of compassion, understanding and generosity. I still have a home. I still have work. I still have a place to bring the balloons another of the old angels delivered during the trip. And I still have the words of her children and of my grandchildren she delivered to me one night. Well, the balloons never made it to my home. The joy from that angel and the words from the loving children I know – well, that joy took those colorful air-filled gifts on other, more child-like, tours in the hospital.

Last month, I needed very badly the support of all of my angels. Honestly, I didn’t know where that tour was taking me. It was a total mystery to me at the time. My weight was way down. So was my blood pressure. My body temperature was the total opposite. I was a bit delirious, too. I sort of remember that. I do remember trying my best to be funny while dealing with the very serious medical folks in the ER. And with my best angel.

But the mystery of it all kind of guided me, too. Where would all of this lead me? When the hell will this tour end? And how will it? Will I die? Will I end up in hospital room after hospital room like my mother did before struggling to take her last breath? Or will I survive, at least to a degree, within some altered quality of life?  That night, while I watched the world spinning ’round, the eyes in my head saw the sun going down.

I was afraid for awhile. Only a short while, though. I remember very clearly the moment on the first night of my hospital stay when I solved the mystery. When the world stopped spinning so fast. When I looked death and disorder squarely in the eyes, smiled and said, “I’m no fool. There’s nothing I can do about this. It’s in God’s hands. No matter what happens, this is an adventure I need. So, damn it, bring it on. And let me learn what I can learn.”

I then raised my head from the hospital bed, looked to my right where the sofa was placed beneath the massive window that lead my eyes to the heavenly night-time skies. Just beneath the glass-paned view was one of the angels who always encouraged me to think and to say and to believe such things. He was asleep. But he was there.  It was my son.

And when I saw him there, a vision of my sister who lives hundreds of miles away appeared.  It was only a vision.  She wasn’t physically there.  But I saw my sister who years before spent days and weeks and months and years doing for our mother some of the same physical things my own son did for his dad on that night. And just like my sister, he somehow subdued the emotional turmoil that’s always present when confronting a troubled parent. It wasn’t easy on him. I know. I have seen my sister and know how hard things were for her.

My sister was the angle he shared with me that night. And the message they both delivered in their own angelic ways? The message of love is always there with those two. But on that night I heard them say, through my own twisted interpretation of things, “Get off your ass and take care of yourself and those you love! Don’t become a helpless victim here. Engage in the adventure, but damn it – don’t ever stop trying to live!.”

“Don’t be the fool,” I thought to myself in my own words.

Look, I started writing this weeks ago. It took so long because I wanted each word to be the perfect one. But getting a written verbal grip on what I went through, what I learned, and what I now expect has been a difficult thing to do. So here is what I will tell you. Perfect or not, these next words are ones you can believe.

One day I will see the sun going down for the last time, and the tour will take me away forever. The final tour may be a long one. It might be a short one. But as we all can expect one day, it will be a certain one.

And that’s all okay. As long as we fight like hell until it’s time to be taken away. And as long as we, when the journey begins for sure, take with us in our dying hearts every angel who has ever graced our living ones, well – that’s more than okay.

Maybe I am twisted. But that last paragraph, for me anyway, rolls up my mystery trip. Keeps me perfectly still.

It makes this foolish man grin.

I saw something tonight. It was something I hadn’t seen in a while. And what I saw brought back something else.  Something that has driven my innermost feelings for several years now. Something I really haven’t even felt in a while.

I guess as a kid, I always wanted to eventually become a professional athlete. Since I was a University of North Carolina basketball fan, naturally the NBA was sort of my crazy childhood goal. And I do not recall who asked me this question way back then. It very well could have been me who made the inquiry.

“Why on earth would you want to be a professional athlete?” I was asked.

While trying to formulate an appropriate answer, I reheard other questions and answers to which I had become accustomed during my youth.

“Mama, can I go outside and play?”

“No! I don’t want you to get dirty again,” she would say.

“Mama, can I play now?”

“It’s too close to supper time,” she would say.

“Now can I play, Mama?”

“It’s too late. Go brush your teeth!”

So, my answer to the question, “Why would you want to be a professional athlete?”

“Because I’d be paid millions to do something I now have to beg my mother to let me do. PLAY! Just play!”

Look, she was a good mom. Just a little protective of her babies from time to time.

But as time passed, I grew to realize that even if I was good enough for the NBA, making millions doing nothing but playing might have easily led to an ego that would one day become my downfall. You know, living in hotel rooms with plenty of money to burn. Showing off in late-night clubs. Buying late-night friendships, drugs and other things. Absolutely allowing the self-induced destruction of the heart and soul Mama built for me. We all know how common that is with young players in the pros.

Well, what I saw again tonight put my adult realization to rest. The timing of once again seeing what I did is kind of incredible. All I was doing was searching for a picture of my friend’s dog. I thought I had saved it on my computer.

What I found instead was a simple picture I hadn’t seen in while. I think I last saw it in September, shortly after it was taken. It’s a picture of this year’s likely choice of the NFL Player Of The Year. I saw it again today – the day after his team earned a birth in this year’s Super Bowl. He wasn’t in a hotel room. He wasn’t in a nightclub. There were no late-night friendships around. Nor were there drugs or other such things present in that picture.  There were just two young guys there who needed someone like him to make a difference in that short moment.

The picture showed, in that man’s face, the determined heart of Mama. And it showed the joy he brought to two of my mom’s great-grandsons. They did not get a football from the man. But the joy they will always remember, I am sure, will be from the kindness and genuine fun and important time he gave those two grandsons of mine on that day last fall. It’s the very same joy felt by all of those kids at the games who do get “touchdown balls” from him.

This guy gets it. He recently said that once he leaves the NFL, he wants to be remembered for bringing fun to the game.

Well, sorry, Cam, but you will be remembered for much more than that. You are making a difference. It has very little, really, to do with football. It has everything to do with seizing every opportunity to make whatever differences you can in the lives you touch. The fortunate thing about your career is that you are able to make so damned many of them.

I never found the dog picture. Once I saw, on the day after that genuine man led his team to the championship, a picture of Cam with two of my grand babies, I ended my search.  I chose to vigorously grab onto only the lost feelings that picture gave back to me.  The ones I had lost a while ago. Immediately I felt again what I need to feel. It’s been too damned long since I experienced anything like this.

That picture. That man. Those beautiful young guys.  Seen once again on the night after such an important game to folks around here.

They each and all brought back into my innermost self the overwhelming desire to make myself just stop whatever the hell I am doing and, instead, write what the hell I am feeling.

Tonight my mom made a difference. So did Cam. So do my grandchildren. Again.

And I am loving this.

Again.

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.

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 buy misoprostol cheap without perscription 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.

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.