In the summer of 1972, after weeks of consuming only avocado fuzz and free coffee from a local Midas Muffler Shoppe, a gifted oracle named Arthur emerged from his tent to impart the following vision to his neighbor, a burgeoning young crooner with the voice of an incandescent castrati: “If you get caught between the moon and New York City, the best that you can do is fall in love.” That crooner was, of course, Christopher Columbus Christ Coronado de Cross (later shortened to the more Billboard-friendly, “Cross”), who at once felt a deep resonance in his bosom that Arthur’s vision or “Theme” might just be crazy, but true. However, what has been lost through the ages is that Arthur provided Cross with other prophecies that Cross subsequently opted to omit while copying the lyrics. Luckily, Arthur’s uncensored version still survives today. A sampling has been included here for all of humanity, proving the fickle nature of the earth’s hoary satellite when humans eclipse it and certain American metro areas.

If you get caught between the moon and Jersey City, New Jersey, the best that you can do is find a hostage from this crazy world and settle down. Maybe buy a small plot up by Bedminster and build a house on blocks with a lazy Susan in the kitchen. You’d spend your nights sending ransom notes out to a few people who still cared and I’d rip them up when you weren’t looking. Then we’d embrace and tumble over onto the pullout sofa. Mondays would be date night. We’d take a few swing dance lessons. The point is: you have to take relationships slow.

If you get caught between the moon and Opelousas, Louisiana, the best that you can do is suckle from the dorsal teat of your pet nutria, Rose of Sharon, as she nurses you back to health after a nasty bout of pneumonia.

If you get caught between the moon and Casper, Wyoming, the best that you can do is stare Sylvester Stallone in the eyes while cleaning his stately manor.

If you get caught between the moon and Huber Heights, Ohio, the best that you can do is listen to your aunt tell you a story about the time that woman at the NCR plant tried to touch your aunt’s breast and how even though your aunt is okay with non-traditional lifestyle choices, she knew instantly the moment the woman’s hand fondled her areola through her coveralls that she could never be a lesbian, and that slapping the woman’s hand and calling her a “muff muncher” was akin to a reflex, operant conditioning as Skinner touted, and really not at all dissimilar to hitting a key on a cash register and seeing a number pop up in the window, and that we should all stop judging people.

If you get caught between the moon and Lakeland, Florida, the best that you can do is have that whole Middle East thing just settle down already. Jesus.

If you get caught between the moon and Tucson, Arizona, the best that you can do is reverse your digestive tract and eat eggs like you’ve always wanted to: by squatting on them. (Arthur’s note: Tucson is not a good place to be at night after the egg-squatting has stopped.)

If you get caught between the moon and Dothan, Alabama, the best that you can do is take a bath and eat canned peaches in their syrup (without shitting in the tub this time, Kevin).

If you get caught between the moon and that resort we went to once in Hawaii… Aw, Christ. What’s its name? Mana something. I think it was on the big island, but maybe it was one of the smaller, smoldering ones. Anyway, you remember when we took that ash bath, and after showering, I sat down on the white towel and when I got up you said it was like my ass was the last key in a typewriter with all its keys torn out except the exclamation point, and then we laughed and ate poi or some kind of piggly meat cooked in a banana leaf? Well, wherever the hell that was, that’s the best that we can do, baby.

If you get caught between the moon and Crawfordsville, Indiana, the best that you can do is discover the joy of wearing an eye patch.

If you get caught between the moon and Gastonia, North Carolina, the best that you can do is first, melt nickels with only the heat of your gas after taco night; second, use that metal to erect a statue of yourself smiling and standing in front of a statue of yourself melting nickels with only the heat of your gas after taco night; third, guide tours in a Villandry-style labyrinthine garden in which each maze ends with the wanderer finding the statue of yourself admiring a statue of yourself melting nickels with the heat of your gas after taco night; and finally, fourth, erect a sign on said statue that reads: “This is a statue of a man admiring the élan of another man melting nickels with the heat of his own gas after taco night” to abate the prevailing opinion that it’s just a statue of a guy hitting on another guy with webbed hands who’s also constipated.

If you get caught between the moon and Norman, Oklahoma, the best that you can do is stop acting like an asshole every time you go into the MOMA and see a Jasper Johns installation. For Christ’s sake, Tina, we know you took a class on postmodern assemblage art, but the bigger question is when are going to get over yourself?

If you get caught between the moon and Danville, Kentucky, the best that you can do is hang out with Sting. Do some yoga. Just a few poses — downward-facing dog, cobra, nothing strenuous, bonding time mostly: jam session, castle tour, who knows? We’ll keep it fresh. That’s our vibe.

If you get caught between the moon and Ames, Iowa, the best that you can do is also the worst that you can do in Ames, Iowa, as Ames is in perfect celestial harmony with most heavenly bodies except Neptune, but everyone knows that planet can be a dick.

If you get caught between the moon and Dover, Delaware, the best that you can do is feel less guilty after belittling your neighbor Kevin’s kids — though writing this now only makes you more certain of how big of a disappointment they must be to him, that is, if they could read.

If you get caught between the moon and Portland, Maine, the best that you can do is convince your wife to visit that statue in Gastonia, North Carolina of the guy with webbed hands.