Religious Rules

"Dear Lord, I plan each day with what I will not do or say ..."

It's how a lot of people approach their religion, thinking its a bunch of rules that you follow. Sure there are Ten Commandments of which I've broken eight. Most everybody has broken some of them and its best to be honest about it and say so.

I've done a much better job with the Greatest Commandments, "Love God with everything you got and Love the people in your life like you love yourself" (Micheal Elliott Revised not-so-standard version). God and I have a pretty good relationship. We have wine together most every night on the Beloved Back deck. I say all sorts of things though God keeps pretty quiet. I'm convinced I'm heard though and every once in a while God actually speaks.

Most of my neighbors like me and I like most of them. Oh sure, the Kat Lady drives me nutty sometimes with her "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty" screeching and across the street a fat lady gardens in her underwear which is not a pretty site. But we speak and get along all right.

I don't pay any attention to all of those church rules. Attendance for example. If's hard to even remember what the rules are if you never go. Consequently, I'm not too bothered about what I'm not doing.

Even at Bar Church, I've taken to stopping by sometimes before it starts to talk to Psalmist Stephen. He'll tell me what's happening and I'll leave before it starts. That's pretty much enough for me these days.  If I need more organized religion I visit Psalmist Stephen at the Sugar Shack to get sprinkles of wisdom.

I've noticed lots of people discussing how there are too many religious rules these days and how lots of them are made up things that somehow got inserted into God's rule book. God knows nothing about it.

America's Greatest Minister Guy Salyes wrote a great piece on "Being and being Loved, Before doing and duty" which is a crazy title. Then again he's always been a wild and crazy Guy. He goes on to dismiss the majority of rules Churches have as they get in the way of a real relationship with God. He doesn't come right out and say "To hell with these rules" like I do but it's pretty close.

Plus I've been working on the Micheal Elliott Revised Not-So-Standard Version of the Bible which will soon be available in paperback for $666. It's a much more accurate translation accentuating the sex, murder and debauchery of the Bible which is glossed over by most churches. When's the last time you heard a really steamy sermon from Song of Solomon?

If that wasn't enough I'm reading Georgia's Greatest Christian runner up Michael Ruffin's "Prayer 365" which is a bunch of prayers. I really distain bad prayers and have heard way too many when both God and I fell asleep. Mike has really good prayers that get to the point where its like he's sitting here on the Beloved Back Deck with God and me having wine. I like that.

All of that to say, I do not get up every day promising God what I won't do in order to be religious.

I do get up every day and say, "Hey God. What we doing today?"

Another not-so-great idea?

I've had a lot of brilliant ideas that turned out to be not-so-great.

Driving to Union Mission one morning I heard the Red Cross begging people to donate blood. There was a critical shortage.

I'm a helper at heart and this got me to thinking. At Union Mission I was in charge of housing several hundred mostly homeless people. What if they all donated blood at the same time? Certainly that would get the Red Cross through the crisis! Homeless people would contribute to society. Everybody would feel good.

I called some friends and a couple of days later a bus was in the parking lot with nurses, chairs designed for blood donors, orange juice and fruit. A few hundred were excited to roll up their sleeves and give (which is no small feat for homeless people who often sell their blood to make ends meet when they have no ends).

Then I was told by the Chief Nurse that it was against their policy to accept blood donated by homeless people. It could be compromised.


I had a fit but it didn't matter. After a few hours the bus pulled out of the parking lot and the opportunity was lost.

Another great idea gone bad.

In a similar vein I thought it would be a good idea if homeless people voted. Everyone else seems to have a political block so why not them? I didn't care if they were Republicans or Democrats.

It is far easier to get homeless people registered to vote than it is to donate blood. A few hundred were registered and the local press covered it liberally.

Several days later I was with then Mayoral candidate Otis Johnson who was in a close race. At a political forum hosted by the Chamber-of-Commerce, there were lots of business folks present. Otis asked for our support so I told him I could deliver the homeless vote.

He received this information with a mixture of gratitude and bewilderment.

A few weeks later he won the race by a few hundred votes. Every time he saw me afterwards, the Mayor thanked me for the homeless vote. For those who understand how politics actually works, this came in quite handy several times.

Another great idea gone not-so-bad!

The point is I keep trying.

So should you because you never know if its really a good idea until you try.

Kids

My world is full of kids right now.

All of mine will be in the same place at the same time and I'll be there too which is nothing short of a modern day miracle. Friends of Chelsea are throwing her an oyster roast tonight and who doesn't like an oyster roast? The weather is perfect! Jeremy's here for it and the ever illusive Kristen is even attending.

As I age, I'm ever grateful for my kids and the fact that we really do enjoy each other.

There's the girls of course. I went from living alone to having a wife and her three daughters move in with me. Talk about culture shock! Plus Goddess is female, a real bitch! And then Winston, the little gay dog, moved in with us too. It's often overwhelming though I am learning a lot.  I never knew how much toilet paper is actually used in the course of a day. It makes me feel sorry for trees.

It doesn't end there.

There are these other kids.

Ryan and Dani Sadowski have been part of my life their entire lives. I don't know what I would do without them. I don't know what they would do without me. Yesterday I took Ryan a bag of socks. Somehow he's grown up without understanding people need socks. I admire this about him but there are times when socks are necessary.

Last night Mandy Sayles and I were going back and forth on Facebook. I've known Mandy her entire life. She lives and performs in New York City and cracks me up. She's one of the funniest people I know. Her Mother and Father kidnapped me once and forced me to attend Seminary. Years later they realized this was a tragic mistake and have spent the rest of their lives doing penitence.

Mandy has brother named Eliot. Coincidence? I think not though Guy denies I had anything to do with it.

On the other hand, Mandy has claimed that she must be my daughter because we're so much alike to which I say, "I never had relations with that woman."

Hold on, I'm lighting a cigar.

Then there's Micah Berry, son of Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one). I love Micah deeply. He is a famous musician and we share that soul though he got all of the talent. He's also funny as hell though when we have long talks he reminds me a lot of his father and Bill and I are so close that it's not funny.

His sister Amber actually moved to Savannah for a while and though we only saw each other occasionally, it was wonderful to have her near. She's on my mind a lot these days as she's embarked on an unexpected journey and her father has turned into a Hobbit and there's a picture Micah took to prove it.

I love them all.

They enrich my life, make me laugh and keep me young. I gain tremendous joy watching them become them.

Then Micah marries Mary Catherine and Dani marries Peter and the number of kids in my life grows.

Now Chelsea is finally getting around to marrying Sam and ...

it just doesn't get any better.

I love my kids.

Memories ... rot the corners of my mind

My brother David has gone nuts! He spends all of his time scanning pictures that he stole from my mother's house and is plastering them on Facebook.

I have not signed a letter of consent and am contemplating a lawsuit.

To my knowledge, Angi hasn't signed one either and I know for a fact she sure as hell is gonna explode when she sees the picture of her pageboy haircut, looking like a goof as she sits in a wagon between David and me.

My Mom got so irritated at (a) David's photographic kleptomania (b) the pictures he keeps posting we all hate (c) she's still mad he never made up his bed a single day of his life, and (d) the time he wrecked Dad's truck, didn't know what to do so he went home and went to sleep in his unmade bed. When they woke him up asking, "Where's the truck?" he claimed to have been in bed the whole time (in his case this is a very plausible defense) ... she called him.

"Stop putting bad pictures of me on Facebook," she scolded.

"They're precious memories," he replied.

I think Mom answered with mostly verbs followed by pronouns.

Honestly, I don't care if David posts them but stop tagging me. (I don't care if you tag Angi and he's got a lot of making up with Mom to do.) In fact, I actually like the one when Gene Prevatt and I got a group together at "Root Beer Drive In" for the only meeting of the Groves High School Greasers Appreciation Society." I look good in that one.

But ... I'm not big on the past. It was mostly great but it had terrible times too. My typical response is "Thank God that's over! What you wanna do now?"

The funny thing is we're always making memories. Some are great. Others are awful. Most are completely forgotten. I prefer to think about the next great memory and to make a mountain of them one at a time.

David likes to remember the past which is great too! It's why The Cracker Barrel exists.

But I find myself thinking about Costa Rica. We haven't been there yet. It'll make a great memory!

I'll send David pictures.

He can post them.

Experiencing God

"Write your heart," she told me after I asked what I should write about.

I normally do.

One of the nicest gifts I received over the holidays was a Facebook message from my friend Jan who lives in Austin, Texas. It's one of those things that I keep and read every so often because it hasn't lost its luster and still surprises me when I read it.

"Micheal, I don't know how it is but I'm sure many people feel as I do ... that knowing you a little bit means knowing your quite well. You are so good at opening your heart and your soul --- whether it be by your mischievous smile, your wicked laughter or your heartfelt writings that could move a mountain --- that knowing you a little means knowing you well."

She goes on expressing the happiness that Sarah brings to me and then "I take hope there are more in the world who can make the rest of us sing at a whim, even though off key most of the time."

Finally, she explains that should I ever a New Year's that isn't quite happy again, she and her husband will be there for me just like they know, I'll be there for them."

I was, and remain, blown away.

I'm really good at giving affirmation, encouragement and love. I love recognizing others and celebrating their accomplishments. I really like to give someone an award.

On the other hand, I'm not so great accepting these things. I get choked up easy when affection's thrown my way. I try to deflect recognition to others. I thank everyone who should have received the award other than me.

So when Jan sent me her Christmas message directly aimed at me, I immediately understood how special such things are. I stumbled inside and read it to Sarah. It takes a lot for anyone to speak directly to another and say, "I love you." It's even more radical when they explain why.

When it happens though, the veil in the Temple hiding the Holy of Holies is ripped asunder. The skies in your heart grow dark and thunder explodes and lightening flashes, singling the Presence of God. Then the heart is warmed. The sun explodes out of the sea. A still small voice explains, "It is good."

Another Day at work

It is a beautiful January day! Sitting in shorts and a tee shirt with bare feet dangling from the high chair at the table under the umbrella on the beloved back deck, I am trying to work.

It is hard!

Waves crash into the shore continuing an opera they began yesterday. It is mesmerizing music accompanied by a choir of birds sitting in Fran's thousand shades of green.

A couple of red Hibiscus blooms are hanging on but the green leaves have turned yellow. Two marsh hens are wandering around the front yard. The sun is burning a hole through light fog throwing enough glare that I'm wearing sunglasses.

Who in the hell can work under these conditions?

I search for "Beach Music" on Rhapsody and the Beach Boys inform me that "I can hear music! Sweet, sweet music."

Staring at the screen I read an email from someone in China named Lin JianFa informing me that his company wishes to use the domain that I own. I dash off a quick two word reply utilizing only a verb and a pronoun.

The Palm Tree with the oyster shell face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiles as I do so. Behind her are signs I've hung on the wooden fence. One says "Fish Naked."

Beside it is another. "It's 5 o'clock somewhere."

I google what time it is in China and it's 10:30 at night.

"Damn," I say to Goddess. "I've missed 5:00!" as I turn off the computer and close down the office for the day.

The Continuing Saga of Criminal Dogs on Tybee

The dogs got off again.

The dog catcher called in sick.

I'm certain it's a paid "called in sick.

So Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, got yet another continuance. Goddess doesn't seem to give a damn. She's asleep after eating a bunch of brownies all afternoon.

Winston, the little gay dog, is scared shitless though.

Aside from being traumatized by the Tybee Island Police Department, it's Judicial System, a political system that only loves feral cats and hates coyotes, the poor little thing had his balls whacked off last week.

 I have them in a baggie.

They are "Exhibit A" for Judge Harry S (wasn't he a porn star in the 1980s?) who made it perfectly clear last time we were in court that he sides with tattoo covered officers and will not tolerate barking gay dogs.

(I don't remember a Harry S in the 1980's porn movies doing gay stuff but there is a lot of the 80's I don't remember.)

So I have Winston's, the little gay dog, balls in a baggie to demonstrate we've done everything possible to keep him quiet.

If that doesn't get Judge Harry S off, I don't know what will.

Anyway, I walked inside the Tybee Courtroom which is inside a large garage, to be greeted by a small tattooed, skin head officer demanding I empty my pockets so he could wave his wand at me. Throwing my keys, phone, money, Winston's, the little gay dog, balls in a  baggie in the dish, he had his way with me and then I was allowed inside the court ... which was packed.

Then Goddess and Winston's, the little gay dog's, attorney informed me that I'd have to come back in two weeks.

It's Tybee. It's an island. What do you do?


The Tybee Judicial system is slow. For the third time because Harry S demands it, a uniformed, wand waving tattooed Skin head with a badge gets to do me again.

Winston, the little gay dog, remains traumatized for another two weeks because of the anti-gay profiling that takes place on this island.

I'm not sure how Goddess feels about it all. She's passed out and snoring though there is one brownie left.

I'm thinking about calling a puppy psychiatrist because I don't think Winston, the little gay dog, can continue to cope under this pressure. He shakes, refuses to go outside alone, sleeps under the bed, has lost weight and the frequency of licking himself has significantly increased.

Besides I'm worried that the girls might mistake Winston's, the little gay dog, balls in a baggie for Fireballs. Sarah would go nuts if she walked in and the girls had a jaw poking out on one side and found an empty baggie on the floor.

I guess we'll find out how this ends in another two weeks.

Telling My Story

"MIKE! Did you do it?"

"No' mam," I replied.

That's probably how my story telling career actually began though I don't recall the specific incident. It could have been a lot of things.

"Did you steal all of the American flags out of the school?

"Did you steal all of the fire extinguishers out of the Mill over the Viaduct?"

"Did you and Gene Prevatt hitchhike to Tybee and go to Doc's Bar?"

"Were you caught in the Baptismal Pool at Church with a girl?"

"Did you and Gene Prevatt start a riot at Groves yesterday?"

"You want to tell me why the Police picked you up at Softball practice and brought you home?"

The answer was always, "No'mam."

Later when I went to Seminary, I learned to use adverbs and lots of adjectives which have proven to be significant additions to my story telling capabilities.

"Mike did you just hurl your Greek book outside of the second story window and almost hit Guy Sayles as you did it?"

"Hell no, Professor Olmanson. I know not of which you speak. I was studying my Sunday School lesson."

After I graduated I spent a great deal of time at the state Capitol in Atlanta and in Congress where the art of story telling has been perfected. These places taught me that you never need the whole truth when you speak. Half-a-truth will do. AND! ... if you wear a suit when you tell your story more people will believe what you're telling them.

PLUS! ... I live on Tybee Island where Police lie, bicycles get drunk but not their riders, and the Baptist Church proclaims that they "really do love everybody! Honest! We do love those filthy, rotten sinners who go to Fannie-on-the-beach and Doc's Bar!"

Each of these have taught me one of life's most valuable lessons. Never let the truth stand in the way of a good story.

It should come as no surprise then that I now work for a company called "Let Us Tell It." Our tag line is "You have a story. Let Us Tell it!"

Pretty good huh?

We have a code of ethics though. If you get caught in bed with several people other than your spouse then no matter how many stories we tell, it's not going to help. We're not going to take you on as a client. Pretty much anything else goes though.

Anyway, I appreciate you taking the time to review my experience and credentials for our company.

Have a great day!

Even you Baptists who frequent Fannies-on-the-beach and Doc's Bar!

Creating New Things

Three years ago today was my last major accomplishment at Union Mission. Dutch Town Villas, a forty something unit apartment complex was Savannah's initial Housing First program taking people directly from the streets and moving them into their own homes.

I posted a Tweet that I was "off to the opening of the Dutch Town development, a home for the homeless. Not a shelter. Shelters are not the answer!" A home is.


The brand new construction sits on five acres on the city's south side and is beautiful. Hundreds of people showed up for the opening. The Mayor, County Commission Chair, state legislators, were present. Pastor Ricky Temple of Overcoming Faith Church delivered the invocation. The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) was the Master of Ceremonies.

I sat on the second row, off to the right beside a wife who had already made up her mind to leave me for something better. The next time I would see her she'd inform me of our impending divorce.

Also unbeknownst to me was that my trusted Chief Financial Officer was misappropriating hundreds of thousands of dollars. It would be another few weeks before I found that out.

Nor did I know that members of the staff were formulating complaints against me primarily because I was making significant changes to the way the company was running.

A behavioral health collaborative I'd been instrumental in starting had begun to unravel because people were resistant to change, entrenched in politics and greedy to keep things the same. It would soon blow up and be front page news leaving me the bearer of the blame.

I didn't know any of these things sitting there proud of the million dollar development. It was the latest, and last, in a series of grand developments we'd orchestrated. A million dollar hospital for homeless and poor people, a behavioral health center costing the same and now Dutch Town.

I was riding high.

So when all of these things happened in pretty quick succession, my fall was far and fast.

When the air cleared, I walked away from it all. Truth be told, lots of people wanted me to, praying for it and doing anything they could to make it so. At the end, the door slammed shut behind me.

If you've never spent time wandering in the wilderness, it's quite the experience. I bounced between Tybee Island and St. Martin, maintained relationships with a very small group of friends, did some work throughout the country with the International Street Medicine Institute but mostly spent time hurt and wounded on the beloved back deck of my house.

The world I'd happily lived in was no more and I was overwhelmed by the loss.

Today I can still feel some of the feelings. The sudden loss of love, the brutal act of betrayal and the abandonment of people you believed in are things you never completely get over. All of the scars are on the inside.

I got through it though. Actually a lot of little things that got me through it. A tiny collection of friends formed themselves into my personal church, believing in me when I no longer believed in  myself. They strung together little acts of kindness and my healing began to happen. I am forever indebted to them.

Looking at it today in the rear view mirror, I'm proud of it all. Great things are never accomplished without controversy. Some grow to hate if you're more successful than them. Though there is only the slightest tinge of regret, I can't think of much I would have done differently. I gave it all my best.

Today my eyes are ahead, no longer looking back. "It's time to create new things," I used to tell people I worked with, "so go! Create!"

If anyone cares, that's what I've been doing. New love has been born. My family is bigger than it was.The routines are all different. It's a slower life though no less intense. I've held on to places and things I love but they're all different now too. I'm not the same. I've been reborn.

"No one puts new wine in old wine skins ... new wine calls for new" ... things. I'm focused on creating new things, a new me, a better one because "old things are passed away, behold, all things become new."

I like new.

Bouncy, bouncy will not always come bouncing back to you

This blog contains graphic material and is of sexual orientation. Children under 17 require accompanying parent or guardian. Ministers, Republicans and member of the NRA should grab hold of themselves if they choose to read.

Winston, the little gay dog , got whacked yesterday.

There's no easy way to say it.

It hurts.

His load is not as heavy, he's lighter on his feet, his eyes are bigger than they were, he's walking a little slower though his ass is a bit higher than it was this morning.

His tail is between his legs.

He looks scared.

Goddess seems concerned but keeps going outside and returning smelling like medical marijuana. She loves her little gay brother and hurts for him.

We all do.

He has brought so much happiness to our blended family by blending us even more. He loves the girls and he adores Sarah. He sleeps under her side of the bed every night. She dresses him every day in his cute little dogie sweaters with cute little sayings like  ... "I can't even think straight" ... and he loves to sit in her lap.

Through, the gay little son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally) runs from me and for the life me I don't know why. I give him treats along with Goddess. I take Goddess for walks and then come home to take him for his prance. He licks me when I get out of the shower in the morning.

Anyway, the Health Department and other manners of Government are happy now because Winston has been nurtured.

Like a rolling stone, they are gone.

The great balls of fire have been extinguished.

His AC DC has experienced a ball breaker.

The ball and chain have been severed.

Rubber ball is not coming bouncing back to you (bouncy, bouncy, bouncy).

But it had to be done. He's been traumatized by the Tybee Island Police Department for weeks. They've accused him of every crime on the island, blamed him for bring his hoodlum Coyote friends and now say that two Great White Sharks hang around the beach waiting on him.

So I'm pleaded with you to say a little prayer for Winston, the little gay dog, today. The poor guy is hurting and I feel really bad for him.

Click like so he can see that you care.

I'm going to pet him now so I have to stop typing with one hand as I'm protecting myself with the other.

Poor little guy.

The Massacre of the Innocents

"A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel is crying for her children and there is no one to comfort her because they are no more."

Sadly, it's part of the Christmas story.

As Jesus was born the Government ordered the massacre of children so as not to disrupt things.  Babies were slaughtered just because one had been born. A rumor spread by three Orientals who came looking for the new King who was just born started it all.

The guys got wise and left before all hell broke loose.

Joseph had a dream to get the hell out of there too. So he packed his family up again and hawed ass.

Then babies were killed. Government enabled it to happen.

This Christmas it's all happened again. Sadly this time there is nothing apocryphal about babies being slaughtered. There are no wise men to prevent it from happening. No dreams from God warned parents to flee.

Government policy allows for anyone to own an automatic weapon and funding for people with mental disorders has been slashed to hell. (NOTE: This is applicable to killers who happen to be white. Obviously white killers have a mental disorder. Black killers are just killers.)

Just like then, the search for Jesus yields no results. There is only weeping and great morning. Mothers and Fathers are crying for their children and there is no one to comfort them.

Perhaps this year's Christmas story will end like the first one did. New children were born and Jesus came home. Life went on. The years passed quickly and the next thing you know Jesus is twelve. Then in the blink of an eye, he's thirty. Three short years later, he's slaughtered too.

This Christmas has the eerie beginning of the first Christmas. A great deal happened after the innocents were slaughtered. Some of it was holy ... a great deal wasn't.

Today I pray that we've learned a lot in 2000 years but right now I'm not so sure.

Scary Dreams

Holding hands we strolled the beach on a beautiful December day. Children played in the surf while their Moms tanned in the sand. A freshly painted Shrimp Boat rolled on the ocean dragging its nets behind. We were making our way to Marlin Monroe's for the annual "Pay off the Tybee Island Police Department Oyster Roast".

We were not too worried about the dogs causing a disturbance while we were away because Goddess was stoned out of her mind and had fallen asleep under the Chiminea.

Winston, the little gay dog, was tied up with a sock stuffed in his mouth and locked in Sarah's closet. It's one of his favorite games! We pretend to be the neighbor who gardens in her underwear which scares the shit out of the dogs and they moan loudly in agony. Apparently this disturbs the neighbors to our right who pretty much stay locked up in their house.

The neighbor on our left never seems to notice because she's standing on her back deck wearing a bath robe with cat fur flying all around her with a blue towel wrapped around her hair. She looks like Marge Simpson on meth as she screeches, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"

She's a nice neighbor and once stopped me when I was walking Goddess to say, "Mike are you aware that our neighbor gardens in her underwear and is bombarding my kittens with Cherry tomatoes?" 

"Well," I replied while Goddess turned her head to take a quick toke, "she did leave a note on our door explaining that our moaning dogs were giving her a headache whenever she gardened in her underwear."

"What did you?" the Kitty Lady asked.

"I left a note on her door asking that she please put clothes on when she gardens or at least buy underwear that match and don't have holes in them."

"Hmmm," the Cat Lady said while cat fur circled around her blue towel head like a halo. 'Maybe that's why we never see anybody else who lives on this street."

She has a point.

It's a nice street though. The marsh is at one end with a terrific view of the lighthouse. It goes for six blocks in the other direction and dumps you in the Back River. They're lots of trees, tons of birds, lush foliage and we're close enough to the ocean where we can just carry our stuff.

It's like any street in most any town. It's Mayberry ... ON ACID!

Strolling into Marlin's Michael Moody and Anne Allman (yes those Allman's) are playing some great blues. We're greeted by neighbors and meet new friends. Jenny O invites us to her Christmas party and we invite her to ours (which has a saran wrap theme). The Tybee Island Police Department seem to be enjoying themselves slurping oysters and slugging beers. There's no breeze and the freshly painted Shrimp Boat continues to roll in the distance.

After a while we make our way home and run into Glenn and Vicky who literally moved to the island today. We arrived just in time to miss helping them unload anything. Sean and Wen arrived just before we did and didn't have to unload anything either! When you live on an island, timing is everything!

In the distance I could faintly hear, "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!"

"Shit!" I exclaim. "We forgot about Winston, the little gay dog!"

Running home we were relieved to find him unbound, giggling and snuggled with Goddess under the Chiminea.

"How do you suppose ..." Sarah started to ask.

"Ssshhhuuu," I said. "Sometimes its best to not know. Besides, they seem happy."

Before bed, Sarah prayed the nightly prayers with them. "Dear Jesus, please let Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, know how loved they are and not have any scary dreams ... about bitchy neighbors gardening with holey underwear."

When Christmas Really Comes

Back when I was a Professional Christian, getting paid to do what I asked others to do for free, we tried to make a big deal out of Christmas.

Not so much because it's the birth of Jesus, the "most wonderful time of the year" and stuff like that but because the Congregation was comprised mostly of homeless people and Seminary students with no money. It's the most depressing time of the year for the poor. No matter where they go or what they see on television they're reminded of everything they don't have. They know they're not going to get it either.

Making it worse, wherever they do go ... say Church, City sponsored "Lighting of the Tree" ceremonies ... it's all fun until its over. Then they go home if they have one ... or out if they don't ... or to the room in the Nursing Home or the tiny Dorm room.

They drink more. Use more drugs. The incidences of suicide increase. 

Christmas really sucks for millions of people though billions of dollars are spent ... beginning at Halloween ... to convince us that it doesn't.

Like the rest of the world, Tybee Island, where I live, is a community of haves and have-not's. Lots of people can afford it and enjoy living here like crazy while the rest work their asses off to survive another day in the place they love.

At Christmas though, the place really comes together. Aside from the churches, which remain the Island's most segregated and gated communities, the Bars and restaurants really act like ... CHURCH! They throw parties, stay open (whereas Churches close for the night) and accept most everybody.

Way back when I got paid to care about such things, we'd do all sorts of crazy stuff at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel to make it merry and bright all of the time. We were a 24/7 expression of religion. People took baths in the Baptismal Pool, slept on and under the pool table and the social hall kitchen never stopped smoking.


Every year we had a special service and everyone stopped whatever they were doing. We served Dolly Madison cakes, apple cider and gathered around the television to watch "A Charlie Brown Christmas". 

It was a great worship experience.

Afterwards we had a dance. Everybody had to chose their favorite dance from the scenes in the show and do it! Were you Lucy, Linus, Pigpen or those two twins who do that really cool Zombie move?

I was remembering these things the other night during the annual broadcast of A Charlie Brown Christmas. Cassidy, Sarah's youngest watched it with me and reminded me of Jeremy and Kristen at her age sitting in the laps of homeless men watching the show. My eyes grew moist at the memories and I kept wiping them as Lucy explained that Christmas is really run by a large Eastern Syndicate.

What's great is that when Charlie Brown does home, everybody follows him. When the tree falls, they all pick it up. Then they all sing! They do it all outside ... in the grand Cathedral that God built.

It's the opposite of how most folks do Christmas ... or Church, Synagogue, religion ... where you start at home or in a building and bring it all to you. Where it's orchestrated, planned and everyone strives for the perfection we're taught to achieve during the Advent.

Then somebody gets sick of it all and goes outside.

Others witness this and go outside too ... under the stars ... in the fresh air ... and they prop each other up, often with Egg Nogg, beer or pot. Perhaps nothing at all.

And that is the moment that the Kingdom comes on earth as it is in heaven.

The Funny Church

They begged me to stay.

Then they asked me to leave.

It left me hurt of course because it was unexpected, delivered by people I trusted ...  some of whom I loved ... and occurred in the context of I'd already been abandoned and was suddenly single.

Luckily, I was in St. Martin when it all happened and surrounded by people who didn't know me professionally. They just knew me as me. They were a funny church ... Carlos and Verna who live in St. Martin cooked for me and had me babysit their daughter Chelsea to keep me preoccupied. Hania and Conner stood constant vigil over everything I did. The Kosters from Canada kept throwing parties as a distraction.

Aside from Verna, I don't know if any of them actually believe in God.

Yet they were church in the truest sense of the word. Acting as my support, community and caregivers they just loved me.

When Conner and Hania went back to Florida the Kosters stayed on until they had to return to Canada. My kids wanted to know when I was coming home. Carlos and Verna were begging to me stay. I could start all over there.

After a month in the Caribbean something ... was it God? ... moved me to return home. It was difficult to do but Jeremy picked me up at the airport, Goddess greeted me with love and the Carnival of Friends were born.

Then Sarah came home.

Though still as funny, they were a different kind of church. Still giving love, support, community, and holding vigil over me.

Then Dedra, Mark and Mitch were raised from the dead and came to my house. They brought laughter, music and memories back home. Dedra liked it so much, she stayed and refused to leave.

Then Sarah brought a different kind of love home. The Carnival of friends blessed this with baptism and wine (lots of wine). Hania and Conner inserted themselves again (though they never really left). The two churches co-mingled. Sarah went with me to St. Martin and Verna and Carlos served us supper in their little concrete apartment and announced their impending marriage.

And God looked down upon it and said, "It is good."

It is chilly in Savannah as I stroll into a breakfast meeting wearing flip flops and jeans my wife bought me. My hair is in a pony tail, my skin tanned and laughter dances around me eyes.

"Seriously Mike?" Peter asked, "Flip flops? Seriously?"

"You sound like Shirley Sessions," I told him pouring myself coffee.

"It's cold," he exclaimed.

"I dress like Steve Jobs did," I say. "And Conner."

He is silent as he looks me over and smiles.

And the funny church grew by one.

Hopping Time

"Am I in your book," sweetly asks each of the girls most every day.

"I dunno," I say shrugging my shoulders. "If you pick up your toys. I might put you in."

We engage in mutual manipulation.

The fact is they are in a lot of the stories. They're part of my life which is what I write about so how can they not be? I just don't want to tell them yet. I need to always keep an Ace or two in pocket.

Besides, they need to talk to my kids who have were in my other books. They'll be the first to say that it's not all that.

There are other references too. People I included in books who got really pissed off that they were in one. I thought I was showing them love and respect and they thought otherwise. What do you do? Move on. Gain friends while losing others, trade in old dreams for new ones, and learn to trust ... your love, yourself, God, the things you believe.

I downloaded a new App the other day. Timehop shows what I wrote as a status report on Facebook last year, the year before and the year before that. It's fascinating!

Three years ago my status was, "thinks there's too many windows in this heart hotel." I just discovered I was suddenly single along with the rest of the world.

The next year I "going home by another way." I was in St. Martin when I wrote that seriously considering moving there permanently.

Last year I knew "that the pain comes today, is here then goes away, and we are homeward bound and I ... I want this more than life." I was actually home when I wrote this waiting on Sarah.

You can tell I've come a long way. Today's status is "everybody knows there's nobody meaner than the little old lady from Pasadena." I was singing to the Beach Boys driving home after taking Maddie to school.

Part of today will be spent working on the book that the girls want to be in and they are there ... somewhere in the stacks. Along with my kids, friends lost and gained, old dreams and new ones, Sarah, me, God and the things I believe in.

I'm hopping time. Remembering the past but very much living in the present.

And hoping like hell for tomorrow.

Election Eve (Deliver us from Evil)

Mitch McConnell was hosting a breakfast for us in the Congressional dining hall which is a delightful place. The food is better than hotel food and the plates are real china. The silverware was the real deal. Congress doesn't scrimp on itself. They use our tax dollars to make certain they are doing just fine.

It doesn't matter the party.

They're all the same once they become members of the elect.

I was with a group of clergy from Louisville and Mitch had been the Chair of the County Commission before moving on up to Congress so he knew us. In the days before  9/11 and elected officials baptized themselves in arrogant pompousness, they really really wined and dined their constituents ... hence the fancy breakfast.

I was the 24 year old pastor of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel and wore a blue blazer, sock tie and blue jeans to the affair. Russell Bennett and the rest of the clergy wore three piece suits and looked like ... Congressmen.

Mitch spoke and the ministers stopped eating to prostrate themselves before him.

I remember them stopping to worship. I kept eating my eggs.

Mitch was on 60 Minutes last night, along with his bed mate Harry Reid. They're both the same, trying to screw each other when they're not screwing everybody else.

That's what politics in America has become. It's been reduced to fundamentalism as bad as any on the earth.  Mitch and Harry said as much last night while not really saying anything.

It made me remember the eggs on the fine china in the Congressional dining room and the clergy who prostrate themselves before idol Gods in buildings with gold leaf.

Shaking my head I walked outside and prayed a prayer.

"Deliver us from evil," I said out loud.

Disgusted I spit and walked back inside.

Monday Morning Coming Down (Again)

On a dark, chilly, blustery Monday, I crawl from underneath the warm covers and lovely wife. Standing there for a moment, an immediate decision is made to opt out of the outdoor shower. The tail end of Hurricane Sandy is slapping Tybee Island with a cold wind.

"There ain't no way in hell I'm stumbling down there naked so the wind can blow the hot water in the wrong direction."

So standing under the steaming hot water of an indoor shower I think about all of the things needing to be accomplished but find these thoughts are interrupted by others.

Yesterday there was a piece in the Savannah Morning News I'd written, plus the daily blog, several tweets and a bunch of emails. Last night while Sarah and I were cuddled on the couch watching a movie the I-phone kept buzzing as people responded to these things. I kept looking at it which would normally get me in trouble but Sarah was texting or talking to the girls anyway. Plus I kept showing her what I was reading.

(I don't remember the name of the movie. It was good though. Something about an army guy who finds a picture of a girl then tracks her down at a dog kennel. I never tried to pick up girls at dog kennels but I did work at a Veterinary Clinic in college. I don't recall picking up any girls while cleaning out the kennel but it apparently works if you've been in the Military.)

This isn't what I'm thinking about in the indoor shower. I'm thinking about the messages I received last night from people who were dreading going to work today. They hate it. They feel stuck. They have bosses that chew their ass and as the song goes ... they're working for the weekend.

Plus, in spite of what the Government says, the economy still sucks and a lot of people are living week to week and day to day. They're waking up this morning hoping and praying that they can find something to do. They need money bad now.

It's a somber beginning to the day.

Then again most Monday's are somber.

I dress and brave the wind to drive to The Breakfast Club for coffee. Johnny O and Whitley are already there. There is a common disdain for for Monday being expressed. Lot's of adjectives are used. The vast majority are colorful and start with the letter "F".

The restaurant is half full before it even opens. The staff sighs and starts cooking though there are many other things remaining to be done to prepare for the week. Johnny O leaves for work. Whitley does too though he cusses as he stands.

I linger for a bit. The flags above the Ocean Plaza are whipping in the wind. Every time the door opens it blows a burst of cold inside. People mumble greetings. No one seems happy. The obnoxious ones try to talk to whoever will listen. Eventually it even dawns on them, today's Monday.

On top of that ... there's a Hurricane.

It sucks.

Monday morning coming down ... again.

The Holiness of it all

It began with an incredible yellow sky. I told Sarah to come outside and see it ... be bathed in the crazy stillness that comes before Hurricanes pass. She is getting ready and rushes out to share the moment then heads back inside to finish as we're already late. Winston, the little gay dog, prances behind her. He follows her everywhere.

I linger.

A banana wind is blowing so leaves are knocked off trees and staring at the beloved back deck it suddenly seems extremely "fall-like" and could be mistaken for a porch on a cabin in the mountains. The Hibiscus plants add tropical flavors and yellow butterflies hide in their blooms.

Fran's thousand shades of green dance madly and the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt tries to cover herself. The plastic green strips of her skirt are blown across the yard.

The art hanging on the fence knocks against the wood and would surely fall had I not fastened it with wire to hold it in place.

Goddess stands beside me. She loves the wind and her golden coat is rustled as she stares in the direction from which it blows. Goddess is forever pondering life's deeper meanings and is my contemplative companion.

We're meeting friends for drinks, dinner and dancing at Huck-A-Poos. It's a funny thing as we all met virtually on Facebook before actually seeing each other. Sean and Wen warned us they were coming to Tybee and then one day there they were. Sitting in front of Fannies-On-the-beach at the daily gathering of The Bored they asked if we were us and we asked if they were them and a deep friendship became flesh.

We're doing the same with Glenn and Vicky as we've know each other virtually but are now making it real at The Poo.

Who knows who else will be there? It's one of the mysteries of this island. Epiphanies occur. People inexplicably appear.

Sarah was ready so we made the short trek to the nightly celebration of life. We toasted friendship, broke bread together and washed it down with holy water. Laughter and stories broke out with the music.  The fellowship of believers celebrated life as we have it. We danced.

Now I am whispering prayers of Thanksgiving as Hurricane winds blow leaves across the deck. Fran is still dancing wildly as art bangs rhythms against the fence.The umbrella is down and secure so this is being observed from the kitchen table through opened sliding glass doors.

Goddess remains outside, her beautiful coat blowing in the wind, and she continues to stare out over the ocean from where all things were born.

I am humbled by the holiness of it all.

Avalon

Islands are magical places though I'm the first to admit that some are more special than others. Key West is better than Hilton Head, St. Martin eclipses Jamaica and Tybee Island surely bests the British Isles.

Avalon was the magical island where King Arthur got his start when the Lady of the River forged his sword, Excalibur. It was where he went to recover or die from his wounds after the Battle of Camlann and its where he eventually returned the sword when he was said and done with it all.

It's also a song by Roxy Music with the lines ... and the background is fading out of focus, yes the pictures are changing every moment and your destination? you don't know it ... Avalon.

We all believe in mystical places like Avalon, Heaven, Atlantis, the bright lights of a big city or the quiet majesty of the mountains, the plains of the Parries or the serenity of the sea.

So we work towards these places. We travel, pray, believe when there's no real evidence of what we want ever coming true. We become absorbed in the crowd or relish the solitude, touching them from time to time but they never last. Those moments are holy and special. We want them back.

Last night I was tossing and turning in bed, falling in and out of sleep, hugging Sarah or staring at the numbers on the ceiling letting me know what time it was. Thoughts came in rushes, flooding my brain with different images or dreams. I was restless.

As is my custom I climbed out of bed and walked outside in the middle of the night to the beloved back deck. Brilliant stars danced in a black sky. Goddess followed me and lay beside me as I just stood there in prayerful thought.

Several years ago I went through a lot at once, like Arthur's Battle of Camlann. I was left fatally wounded, hurt and betrayed. Avalon was Tybee. Saints came to my rescue and Sarah emerged from a watery past that was suddenly out of focus. Like Arthur leaving Avalon with Excalibur after he was healed because he had more to do ...

I feel that way.

It's why I'm restless.

There is more to do.

All of the things I've done are buried and in the past. What I'm doing now is far more interesting. But the things I will do in the coming years with Sarah are far more intriguing. There were times I felt I'd died and there is no question that lots of people were wishing I'd just go away.

But I didn't.

I've been healed.

And I'm restless ... not for what's next ... but for now.

Qutting and Politics

For decades I knocked around Savannah City Hall, the County Courthouse, the Georgia State Capitol, Congress and every single Department of the U.S. Government (H.U.D. is by far the worst damn place to visit in America while the Library of Congress is pretty sweet!).

I love Savannah, tolerate Atlanta and really like hanging around the Mall in Washington D.C.

If you do politics you're always hurrying up to wait. So my ass has occupied chairs waiting on Mayors, Councilpersons, Legislators, Congressmen and Senators. I've been with three Presidents and Congressman Jack Kingston once chewed me out in front of Mitt Romney who may or may not be President.

It was in Atlanta and Jack was endorsing Mitt for something or another as I was making my to occupy another chair waiting on one of the chosen members of the Elect.

"Elliott," Kingston bellowed, "I need to talk to you."

"Shit," I muttered because I knew what it was about. Nevertheless I made my way to Jack and the man who may or may not be President.

"Elliott, it is proper protocol that if Congress is going to give you money you should at least ASK THE CONGRESSMAN!"."

"I knew you busy," I replied. "I didn't want to bother you."

"My office orchestrated giving you quarter-of-a-million dollars and I read about it in the bill that HAS ALREADY BEEN AUTHORIZED!"

"You have a great staff," I said. "They handled it so you could concentrate on more important things."

Romney watched this exchange.

"I gotta go Jack," I told him. "I'm late for somebody whose going to make me wait," and I took off losing myself in the crowd.

The $250,000 was money for mentally ill people in Savannah.

In politics you win or lose battles in a war that never ends.

I agree with Bob Dylan who was agreeing with Samuel Johnson ... "Politics is the last refuge to which a scoundrel clings."

I know that's cynical. I have lots of friends who are into politics and have been elected to something.

Shirley Sessions is one of my dearest friends!

The last time I saw Jack I was tailgating at a University of Georgia football game and he walked up.

"Hey Mike," he said obviously wanting to take a break from the crowd he was working.

"Hey Jack," I said shaking his hand. "You want a beer?"

He shook his head. "I'm working."

"Bummer," I answered putting the beer back in the cooler.

He went back to shaking hands and kissing ass as I took another swig of Michelob.

My son and friend Jeremy was sitting beside me. At the time I was pretty fragile having left the work, dealing with a marriage that had left me engulfed in a weariness that I didn't how to handle.

"You miss it Dad?" I remember him asking.

Holding the Michelob to my lips I watched Jack working the crowd at a football game because he believes he's making a difference. Sometimes he does. Most times he doesn't. He refuses to quit though.

I looked at my son and, "Sometimes."