Tybee's Passed the tipping point

There are no parking meters in Key West.

At least none that I saw.

Tybee Island must have bought them all.

You can't pee on Tybee without being forced to stop.

Or the police pulling you over.

In Key West, where there's an "open container law" ... you can wander around with an open container and the police won't bother you unless you're a nuisance ... then they'll pull you aside and tell you to go home ... and unless you're really crazy they'll let you ... and only as a last resort will they arrest you.

On Tybee there's no "open container law" but ... the police ticket first ... handcuff second ... Taser when given the opportunity ... and pretty much function as a Militia overthrowing a small country of beer drinking tourists and locals with dogs.

Customer service is a foreign concept on Tybee.

In Key West, cops politely answered questions, smilingly and laugh as part of the crowd.

On Tybee ... it seems cops only smile when they meet quotas ... or laugh when they make arrests.

In this economy, the only people making money are already rich ... or work for the Government.

The Government is the fastest growing industry in the United States and somebody's got to fund it and ... that's mostly us.

Government ... like business, institutions and churches ... exist to perpetuate itself.

Government accomplishes this with ... fees, parking tickets, citations of every kind imaginable, stop signs and a Paramilitary Police force with the endorsement of a Banana Republic administration and as much money as it wants.

For 30 years, Tybee's been a cool place to live and during this time people said it's how Key West used to be.

Having just got back from Key West, I can tell you Tybee Island's nothing like it.

It's more like Israel attacking the Gaza Strip on a nice sunny day.

Crazy Summer Days

Summer drips like molasses here.

Everyone is dancing in glue.

Everything takes longer than it should.

Green grass requires gallons of water on a consistent basis.

So do the Hibiscus blooms, the petunias and all manner of green on the beloved back deck.

Air conditioners sing their very expensive songs without ceasing.

Sweat comes easy.

Business slows to the minimalist efforts.

Ice cream melts before it can be eaten.

The sun is blistering.

I LOVE IT!

Sitting on the beloved back deck in black running shorts, I laugh watching the neighbor water her grass because she keeps squirting herself trying to position the sprinkler to the exact right position.

Finally giving up she holds it above her head baptizing herself in coolness, completely unaware I'm watching the grey tank top she's wearing turn translucent becoming one with her pasty white skin.

They're desperately trying to sell the house and return permanently to Philadelphia because it's too damn hot here.

Their dream retirement home turned into Hell on earth.

Everything's fine until Credence Clearwater Revival's traveling band takes a 737 out of the sky causing  my neighbor to jerk her head in the direction of the music and sees me here with Winston, The Little Gay Dog, working on our tans.

She doesn't wave or wish me a good morning as she covers herself to run inside though I do hear her pronounce her opinion of my lineage.

I wave.

A slight ocean breeze kicks up and the squirrels decide it's time to play in the Palm Trees.

"May as well water the flowers," I say out loud and Winston, TLGD, looks at me and shrugs.

"HERE KITT
Y, KITTY, KITTY," my other neighbor screeches and feral cats across Tybee Island awaken.

"Let's go inside and see what Sarah's doing," I say opening the sliding glass door. "It's starting to get crazy out here."

 

Alone on the beach

It's fair to say I've spent as much time sitting on this beach alone as I have with anyone else.

It's the wilderness where my soul constantly wanders.

I sit staring at the majesty of the Sea ... lost in contemplative non-thoughts ... mostly feeling ... turning golden then brown with a reddish flair thanks to my Dad's side of the family.

Beside the wilderness of the Ocean I mostly listen and watch.

It's like a prayer closet ... without the closet.

It's worship without a Church.

It's God's most majestic Cathedral.

Rasta reggae rhythms flow through my ears as I anticipate.

Boys and men wear jams stretching from just below their belly buttons to underneath their knees.

Wanting to get as close to the Garden of Eden as I can get I'm wearing next to nothing and it's tan through.

I don't know what these other people are thinking.

I don't pay them much attention because I'm preoccupied watching dolphins glide, pelicans dive and schools of menhaden make their own waves.

Way back when I willed myself to be here and came surrounded by cries of protest.

That was 3 decades ago.

It's my sanctuary, my refuge, my calm in the storm even when the lighting and thunder put on a Hell of a show!

This beach has been good to me. It's seen me through a lot and I sit here now appreciating this clump of sand.

Dolphins break the water and motion for me to follow. Pelicans fly in V-formation towards Little Tybee before disappearing in the distance.  Schools of menhaden clap underwater making a splashing celebration. A flock of seagulls sing squawking Hymns of Praise.

I sit here alone in this grand Cathedral, intently watching these things, anticipating what's being said and wondering what's next.

Island Morning

Making my way to "The Breakfast Club" in the predawn morning, I spy them sleepily stumbling down the sidewalk or sitting contemplatively on a bench or window sill, staring at cigarette smoke lost in thought.

It's hard to tell if their days are beginning or their nights have just given away to the day.

Darting between and around them are runners lost in their own universe pumped through ear buds singing songs of encouragement.

City workers blow trash from the sidewalks onto Butler Avenue where a giant truck brushes all manner of pollution inside.

A line of police cars are parked in front of "Sunrise."

Discarded bicycles lay everywhere.

Couples sleep in cars or huddle together on the beach.

Early morning fishermen race photographers to the ocean's edge as the water begins to bubble the birth of today's sun.

Bras, panties, boxer shorts and other articles of clothing vie with cigarette butts littering the high water mark.

A haphazard line's already formed outside "The Breakfast Club" with people intently smashing their faces against the large windows in disbelief that it's not open yet.

As the sun rises, ocean waves break into song, choirs of birds join in, the photographers capture the glory on film while others desperately search for sunglasses.

Returning to our quiet home, I check on Sarah whose had to get up to let the dogs out but is now trying to conquer sleep again.

Giving her a kiss, I shut the bedroom door and lead the dogs outside to the Beloved Back Deck, drink Perrier, pee off the side and plop down for morning prayers.

The rising sun rest in the branches of the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt so I rise to search for my sunglasses when Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, sleepily greets me, air askew, holding her pink blanket wanting me to pick her up.

The dogs go crazy with excitement, tails wagging and moans of delight and I tell them to "Shut Up" but their love will not be confined.

Throwing Cass on the sofa, I cover her with a blanket and hand her Sarah's I-Pad which will be another half hour of quiet time so I return to morning prayers.

Another Island morning has begun.

The first thing Gail does after opening the south end convenient store is feed the cats.

They jump on the back of her red pick up truck or on the bench in front to eat and Gail sits with them, tenderly wishing the feral cats a good morning while scratching their backs.

Most mornings she opens early because she knows customers will be desperate for coffee, cigarettes or beer so they can face another day.

They stumble inside pouring themselves a cup or ordering at the counter before stumbling out to the bench or the plastic table and chairs set up on the sidewalk where she joins them to chat or sit in silence staring at cigarette smoke.

Most look as though they slept outside or haven't made it home yet though Michael Bart sits in the middle looking dapper and cheerful greeting all who join this fractured community.

Rick, the surfer dude, glides in on his skate board with his dog for orange juice as the sun bubbles out of the sea.

Tourists load up on Twinkies and powdered doughnuts to cart back to their hotel rooms.

Rosco rides his bike up the street for the morning newspaper before rushing to the ocean to snap a morning photograph to post on Facebook, his morning greeting from the Beach.

"Hey Rev," Gail mutters as I wander inside.

"Val and Ryno," I say in reply and she reaches up for two Salem Lights and a box of Parliaments.

"They busy yet," she asks.

"The Breakfast Club's always busy," I shrug.

"You been sick," she says.

"I was," I smile at her concern "but I'm better now."

"It can kill you," she says handing me the cigarettes and taping an index finger on my hand, "you sure you okay?"

"I'm good," I affirm and she nods without smiling.

"Morning Micheal," Michael Bart cheerfully wishes.

"Hey Mike," I smile as I make my way outside to make deliveries to the Breakfast Club hearing the others hack and spit as they sip coffee or beer.

It's very Church like, I think to myself. A rag tag collection of people trying to survive into another day and holding on to one another for dear life to get started.

And Gail's the High Priestess ... the Christ figure caring for cats and feral people ... and at least for a moment giving each of them a place to find their footing ...  as the sun climbs into the sky ... and the world will do what it will to us all.

My favorite time of year

It's great to be back  in my temperate zone.

Someone's said that you forever lo

ve the weather of the month you were born.

Sarah was born in May and in many ways reflects Spring; the dying of winter, the coming of new blooms, fresh air sweeping out the old and an emerging warming of things once cold.

I was born in July and everything about me shows it.

I love open windows, ceiling fans, lit grills, everything in full bloom at once, and the sun casting thousands of diamonds on the morning sea.

I love beach walks with Sarah, setting up camp in the sand for all the kids, body surfing, searching for shark's teeth and taking one last look from the crosswalk as we make our way home from a day on the beach.

I love music from the Pier at night, sitting on the back deck talking or listening, Palm Trees dancing in the breeze, seagulls squawking and the splash Pelicans make when they hit the water.

I love boat drinks, beer and wine, a constant stream of beach music, live bands, crowds with good vibes and I love to dance with Sarah.

I love watching kids play in the surf, families fish in the waves, boys look at girls and girls look at boys as they troll the beach,

I love Sarah's girls drawing with chalk on the drive way, water fights in the yard, the fact they always miss a spot with the sunscreen and using every single towel in the house when we get home from the beach.

I love shooting stars, the roar of the waves at High Tide, hot dogs with mustard and onion, grilled shrimp and potato chips.

I love Sarah in her bikini.

And I love that tomorrow's a holiday and we get to do it all again because it's summer.

Summer time's here.

My favorite time of year.

Today's Plan

It's great to be back in the outdoor office after international travel.

The only knock I have on the magic of Ireland is it's cold.

I understand why the Irish spend so much time in Pubs drinking Guinness and Jameson singing songs and dancing. They're trying to stay warm.

I hate cold with everything in me.

Clad in black running shorts, sitting on the beloved back deck watching Fran's thousand shades of green dance in the ocean breeze, I'm baptizing myself in the sunshine.

Diagnosed with cold weather infirmities I'm drugged up, drinking loads of "Sparkling Water" and listening to Beach music convinced that healing begins with the mind.

Believe it and it will come true.

If being a beach bum isn't enough being sick gives me the another excuse to not do anything I don't want.

There's not much I want to do today.

People in Ireland are whiter than most and I found myself acclimating so now I'm working on my tan to get real brown again.

Short aside ... Sarah and I found a sauna in Ireland and went in with the locals.

Bikini clad Sarah's the only woman sitting in steam, dripping in sweat, a guy stares at her finally asks, "Where ye from?"

Everybody in Ireland asks this and after we tell him he nods, points at our skin and says, "I can see."

It was a great moment.

This is a better one.

It's a day to heal from the inflictions of the past, to enjoy the gifts I have now and to dream for tomorrow.

That's the plan.

Enjoy whatever you're doing!

My Gay Life

I don't remember in High School.

Integration was happening and, on the football team anyway, blacks and white got along well.

Besides one of my best friends was Paul Walker, a very tall black kid, and we'd crash parties at the Desoto Hilton exchanging dates so we entered the ballroom as interracial couples. The moment we strolled inside everything stopped and you could hear a pin drop.

No one knew what to say in those uncomfortable days so nobody said anything.

Paul and I and our dates ate and drank for free before laughing all the way to the Garden City Methodist Church where we parked ... making out until the girls had to be home.

At Georgia Southern I had friends who were gay, one on our Intramural Football Team "The Smokey Jays" and never really thought much about it.

I was busy working, going to school and my son had been born so there wasn't a lot of free time to wonder about differences.

But in Seminary my world changed!

In the early 80s there was AIDS.

Inexplicably I was the "Professional Christian" in charge of an inner city church where I was intensely focused on Ronald Regan's exploding homeless population.

AIDS scared everyone more and landlords were evicting gay tenants left and right who were sick and had nowhere to go.

Some heard about a hippy preacher who helped people find a place to stay so they came to me.

Young, naïve, with a good heart and high hopes, I believed in Jesus and everything he did so I did my best to help.

And I entered another universe.

People in love ... or desperate for it ... faced discrimination like I had never seen and God forbid if you were both black and gay because churches of all colors were so lovingly hypocritical.

"GOD DID NOT CREATE ADAM AND STEVE," an African-American preacher bellows as I integrated his congregation. GOD MADE ADAM AND EVE AND THAT'S THE WAY IT'S ORDAINED TO BE!"

"What a shit head," I remember thinking.

So in Louisville, Kentucky in the 80s and Savannah, Georgia in the 90s and 00's a big part of my life ... a big part of my heart ...was spent helping the gay community become one with the rest of us.

We opened Glade House in Louisville and Phoenix Place in Savannah so people with AIDS had a home when their own families kicked them out.

As important we helped "out" gay people through the St. Jude's Guild in Louisville and First City Network in Savannah.

I'm very proud to have played a small part in these things.

So this weekend, Sarah and I are celebrating "The Rainbow Festival" on Tybee Island where we live.

We are full of Gay pride!

"Red and yellow, black and white," keeps running through my head, "Lesbian or gay, transgender or any ol' way ... all are precious in his sight ... Heaven's come to us today!"

Amen!

And thank God!

ATybee Beginning

In the middle of a warm night a lone bird sings solo outside of our bedroom's open windows.

Other than the ceiling fan's swirling hum the universe is still.

The bed has fresh sheets smelling clean and new.

Sarah shifts as I fold my hands behind my head to listen to the bird singing in the darkness.

A choir of frogs unexpectedly burp out their own Hymns quieting the bird and I wonder if anyone else in the world is listening.

Somehow knowing I'm awake, Goddess meanders in from the landing where she's been sleeping and pants beside my side of the bed until I reach over and rub her backside.

The frogs complete their celebration of praise and the night resumes silence.

"You should pray," my long dead Grandmother tells me and I can see her silhouette in the darkness smiling at me.

Though I haven't seen her in years I fiercely love Grandma Carver so I do as I'm told.

"Hey God," I say out loud in my mind, "thank you for Sarah. I don't know what my life would be without her. My kids and her girls too ..." and I clearly see each of their faces.

Sarah rolls over towards Winston who sleeps on her other side.

A parade of people I love march through my prayer as I commend them to God's love and care.

Judy and John, Cheryl and Jodee, Conner and Hania, Terry, Sandy, Bill Berry ...

An hour later I wake because a choir of birds are greeting the rising sun.

Prayer puts me to sleep ... I think to myself ... and can't help but wonder if that's what Grandma Carver wanted to accomplish all along.

I kiss Sarah's cheek, crawl out of bed and Goddess and Gypsy the cat follow me down the dark staircase to the outdoor shower.

Mars brightly shines through Palm trees as hot water rains down on me.

Choruses of birds praise the new day in every direction accompanied by frogs and the sounds of waves crashing on the shore.  

Back fades to grey as I make my way upstairs again, still followed by Goddess and Gypsy, and get dressed.

Kissing my sleeping wife a second time, I give the pets treats and wander downstairs again towards my bicycle for the ride to the "Breakfast Club" for coffee and community.

It's one of the things I love about the island.

There's no better way to start the gift of another day of life.

Things I don't understand on Tybee Island

I have two master's degrees obtained from fine southern academic institutions.

I am a graduate of the doctor's program with black and blue honors from Hard Knocks University.

I've survived near death experiences, divorces and being raised Southern Baptist.

HELL! I even survived working with Jerry Rainey!!

I know things and how to get things done.

Yet, there are things I simply do not understand.

On the island of Tybee ... two men drive a garbage truck with an automated lift to grab the can, hoist it over the truck for empting and set it back on the ground. Neither man has to get out of the truck.

What's the second guy for and how much does he make?

Also on the isle of Tybee ... two miles of road are lined with orange cones reducing traffic from two lanes leaving the island to one ... so one truck can water one plant at a time. The lane remains blocked during the Master Water Man's lunch break and long after he's done!

Why is that?

During Orange Crush ... an annual gathering of college kids from mostly African-American colleges (and my personal favorite island holiday!) the Tybee Island Methodist Church blocked itself off with yellow crime scene tape apparently because of the threat of black people attending!

How pissed off do you think God still is?

I could go on because there are so many unanswerable questions.

• When Animal Control makes a home visit why do they bring police backup?

• How many police officers can eat lunch at the very excellent Sundae Café at the same time every day?

• Who is the incredibly clever graphic artist who takes black duct tape and adds appendices on the black stick man on the yellow crossing signs at every crosswalk?

• How many stop signs are there on this island and how many other small towns don't have any because Tybee has them all?

• Why does one get in serious trouble with the authorities ... be it government, religious, public service ... because they ask questions publically?

I wish I knew these things.

Alas, I don't.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

The Palm tree with the oyster shell eyes and coconut bra is wearing a grass skirt again.

Winter winds blew the old one away and she's been standing there bottomless until this morning.

Sarah brought a bunch of them so the next time her skirt's blown off we're prepared!

Last night my dear friend Terry Ball was over for dinner and afterwards we took a stroll around the island to catch up.

Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on the island whenever he gets around to it, was hosting "Open Mike" night at Bernie's.

"That Sam," I point to Terry as we walk.

"Where's Bar Church?"

"There in the Bar," I answer Terry and lead side where the place is happening because Sam's owning it and everyone's having a blast!

"Where's Sarah? Where's your guitar? Y'all doing Bar Church Sunday?" he rapidly fires questions while hugging me on stage and several people in the audience join us.

Bar Church isn't confined to Sundays.

Leaving the madness Terry and I wander down to "Doc's Bar" for Monty Parks and the acoustic jam which is where I spend most Tuesday evenings as part of a family of dysfunctional musicians.

We share our talents or lack thereof, tell stories, sing songs and make a different kind of church together ... a pure one where people simply share what they have without asking for much in return.

Not hanging around, I introduce Terry and we slide back into the darkness making our way to the beach reminding ourselves of 30 years of friendship.

Strolling by "Stingrays", Jason Courtenay has a large crowd in the palms of his guitar playing hands wailing out country blues.

"Is this a normal Tuesday night" Terry asks.

"It's Spring Break somewhere," I answer, "and a lot of them come here."

By now we're making our way passed "Tybee Island Social Club" where an acoustic player is singing while the band sets up.

"You should go there," I say. "It's good. The Bluegrass Brunch on Sunday's is better than church."

When God decided to announce to the world he was having a son ... he sent musicians.

"Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and singing 'Glory to God in the Highest ..." (Luke 2:13).

I believe God has a "preferential option" for musicians.

That's why She send a Heavenly Band to deliver the tidings of comfort and joy to the world.

Alas, preachers have tried to talk this down ever since but if you read the first couple of chapters of the Gospel of Luke ... everybody's singing.

Mary gets knocked up and breaks out in a song with some of the best lyrics ever written.

John the Baptist's Dad did the same thing.

When Jesus was born it was a whole damn band bringing the news.

"Wow!" Terry said as we make our way in the darkness.

"Exactly," I smile throwing my arm over his shoulder.

Almost Mayor Blind Mike

Blind Mike didn't have a job so he decided to run for Mayor.

"Why are you running for Mayor?" we ask at the counter of The Breakfast Club over coffee.

"I need a job," he daftly replies staring at us like we're idiots through his Coca-Cola bottle cap lenses covered by long greasy hair and rubbing his long salt-and-pepper beard.

Blind Mike's last job was The Oar House peeling shrimp for free beer.

The Oar House was a seafood place on Tybee but everyone called it "The Whore House" because there was a lot of that too in those days.

But it closed and Blind Mike hadn't worked since.

"You got a platform?" Georgia Griesbach snarls after delivering all the newspapers on the island sitting between Mrs. Tommy and me.

Blind Mike strokes his greasy beard lost in thought for several minutes while Lori pours us more coffee.

"Yeah, I'll need a platform," he muses.

"What's your stance on crime?" Jake, who is deaf as a doornail, yells.

"It's here," Blind Mike replies still lost in thought.

Jake looks at Georgia, Mrs. Tommy and me and confesses, "You can't argue with that."

"I know," Blind Mike finally says.

Everybody ... Georgia, Mrs. Tommy, Johnny O, Jesse the racist, Art who's recently diagnosed with cancer and suddenly finds God, Kenny Wade and me ... stop everything we're doing to stare at our candidate.

"The island is not kind to people with disabilities," he says sounding every bit as Presidential as Richard Nixon ever did. "I'm going to change that."

"Really?" Kenny Wade asks. "You still owe me for yesterday's coffee. Give me my damn dollar."

Blind Mike's rubbing his beard again, obviously thinking hard and looking like a very successful politician because he already has other people paying for his coffee.

"I know," Blind Mike says.

"Oh Christ!" Kenny Wade exclaims, "I'm never gonna get my dollar back" but the rest of us stop to stare at the politician we already love most.

Georgia slaps the shit out of Blind Mike because he's taking a long time and screams, "What in the hell is it?"

"HEY, HEY, HEY," Johnny O says taking control. "Everybody just calm down a little bit."

Blind Mike rubs his shoulder and explains, "I'm gonna make the Lighthouse handicap accessible."

If laughter is good for the soul ... we're suddenly very soulful people ... because we're laughing our asses off.

Forgetting about his dollar because Kenny Wade knows everything yells, "Oh for Christ's sake Blind Mike, the ramp would have to start in Hilton Head to meet DNR requirements."

"That's discriminatory," Blind Mike fires back. "As soon as I'm Mayor I'm taking those bastards down!"

"I think it's brilliant," Georgia surprises us by siding with him.

"Oh Jesus, Joseph and Mary," Mrs. Tommy says.

"I'll be your campaign manager," I offer.

"I know how to lose an election," Johnny O exclaims. "I'll tell you what not to do."

"I'm never gonna get my damn dollar," Kenny Wade slurs as he storms outside.

So Blind Mike ran for Mayor which is the closest he ever came to actually having a job.

By far the best candidate, his honesty was too much for the electorate to handle.

"I just need a job," he explains at debates.

He lost by only a few votes.

Blind Mike died a long time ago but he leaves a legacy like few others.

He was honest.

"Elect me because I can't do anything else."

And today that's why we elect everybody.

Blind Mike

A long line patiently waited outside of  The Breakfast Club when the old blue Impala coasted to a stop almost inside of the lone parking place in front of the restaurant.

A loud creaking sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard, quieted the line as the door opened and an orange and white walking stick unfolded and began tapping the pavement.

One long leg followed another as a very tall bearded man heaved himself our of the car.

Wearing thick glasses with Coca-Cola lenses he used the cane to tap himself to the door marked "Exit Only" and took his normal stool at the counter beside us.

Of course we're laughing our asses off as the waiting crowd whispers, "They let blind people drive on this Island?"

They used to but they don't anymore.

Tybee Island was different then.

Obama stimulus funding flooded the city with workers, cops, parking service employees and dog catchers.

The funding's gone away so everyone has to generate revenue to maintain their positions so the Island's one big cash cow ... "You come, you pay, we take. ENJOY PARADISE!"

That's the tag.

Or should be.

Back in the day blind eyes were turned to most everything and things were looser, laid back, spontaneous, simpler and pure.

Of course that's most every memory of most every place and time.

The last thing Blind Mike did before he died was get our friend Chela Gutierrez to replicate his baby picture.

From seventy years earlier he had his baby picture.

In black and white he laid on his stomach with his head facing the camera wearing a Gerber Baby smile and a bare ass.

She shows up, Mike drops his pants and lays on his stomach striking the baby pose.

Chela throws up a little but swallows it back down and gets the job done.

Blind Mike brings them to The Breakfast Club to show us and proclaims, "See! You can go back again."

I don't know and while there are lots of funny stories, I really don't want to go back ... in spite of too much Government, terrorist cops, parking services run with Nazi efficiency and dog catchers who bring police backup.

But Blind Mike's ashes are scattered on this clump of sand (we got around to throwing them in the ocean breeze six months after he was cremated ... until then he rode around in the back of Susie's car but he always liked being out).

Unless you're blind to it, things change.

Some things are better while others are worse.

I wouldn't want to go back though because in spite of Government mandated hiccups life is far better.

Though tomorrow I think Johnny O, Whitley and those of us still here from those days should all park in front of the line at The Breakfast Club not quite hitting the parking space, open the door and throw out an orange and white collapsible cane, heave ourselves out of our cars wearing thick glasses and stumble inside the door marked "Exit Only."

A lot of drunken heavenly Angels would rain laughter down upon us and, for a moment anyway, the island would be like it used to be.

Orange Lent

Capping off the Lenten Season on Tybee Island this year is Orange Crush!

Orange Crush consist of several thousand college students descending on the tiny barrier island at the same time in a mostly unorganized fashion.

Meaning it's no different from any other Spring Break/Summer/early fall weekend.

Well, except most of the students are black!

African-American college students are special so ... the streets will be blocked, numerous check points will be established, extra cops have already been secured and a clever plans already been devised to "herd" cars pouring onto the island to the south end and turn them around to head back off the island ... unless they can find parking.

Which they won't be able to because there's not enough parking on the island ANY weekend during this time of year!

And like every weekend during the season, those traveling to the beach will be frustrated and even grow angry because there's no place to park and the cops are friggen everywhere directing you to leave just after you've arrived.

You would think the good Christian people on the island ... Chapel-by-the-Sea Baptists, Trinity Methodist, the All Saints Episcopal Team and the Catholics of St. Michael's ... would open their parking lots to welcome our guests.

No chance in Hell of that happening!

Islanders are already complaining about how the kids trash the beach, pee in people's yards and park illegally ... just like every other weekend!

In fact, 3 times as much beach trash is produced over the 4th of July than Orange Crush.

Let me go on record right now that Orange Crush is my favorite Tybee holiday!

I watch college kids being kids again ... doing outrageous things, throwing caution to the wind, discovering themselves intellectually, socially, sexually and in every other way.

It makes me feel young again!

the great thing is this Orange Crush is the day before Easter so I figure Jesus will be here.

I love Jesus!

And I think he's going to have a really good time!

Then on Sunday morning, Samuel Adams ... who plays damn good live music on the island whenever he gets around to it ... will host the Easter sunrise service on the Pier.

Though I think Jesus may have already left with his black friends by then.

The Community of Lost Musicians

Pulling the guitar out of the car I rush because the wind whipping off the ocean is brutal, the sun has set, it's pitch black though good Karma and the secret of acceptance led me to a lone parking place directly in front of Doc's Bar.

Rushing pass the bar and folks playing bumper pool, I give hugs to the players already playing in a church like sort of greeting with the community of lost musicians.

At some point in each of our lives music came first.

Some aggressively pursued it while others just wished or sang in the car with the radio blaring ... perhaps alone in the shower.

At this point in our lives though, we're all players again.

Every Tuesday night in the back room of Doc's Bar the congregation gathers. Some sit on a pew while the rest take bar stools.

And the sharing begins.

Everyone takes a turn taking the lead.

We go round and round, sharing songs and stories, mistakes and marvelous moments of wonder.

Those in the bar or playing bumper pool likely hear our choir of drunken angels.

It's very church like in that the community of believers are never the same and their is no High Priest.

Actually we resemble a meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous with guitars, harmonicas, conga drums, an occasional upright bass and an autoharp last night!

There's lots of encouragement though everyone screws up forgetting lyrics or mishitting chords.

It doesn't matter because we're all doing the best we can to share ourselves.

A couple have higher aspirations to get paid to play but its just the joy of the music that keeps us coming.

I wish church was more like this.

Politics too!

Two hours quickly pass so I load up my ax, stumble outside and see Tybrisa Street is completely engulfed in Tybee cops.

They got bad ass faces and guns.

I got a guitar.

I like my chances.

How Different are you?

At the beach, life is different.

Most can only take "different" in small doses, going to the beach for a weekend or a week or two.

They have to manage being "different" while the rest of us embrace it as a complete and total lifestyle.

The beach is a world of extremes.

There's too much contemplation and too many opportunities to have fun.

Living here means you swing both of those ways because you can overdose on too much of either.

As my friend Jane Fishman told me, "On an island everybody is either running to, or from, something."

Plus there's lots of water ... and lots of alcohol.

Both are used for baptisms.

Life moves slower, probably because we're constantly confused about which way we're heading ... contemplation or fun ... to someone or from ... seeking forgiveness or just diving back in for more sins ... sunrise or sunset?

I've got friends on both sides.

The contemplative ones are all involved with the Government, passing laws, making policies and forever sprucing up Paradise.

The fun ones only notice when one of the Government's numerous employees ... policemen and policy enforcers ... pull them over to arrest us, give our dogs a ticket or issue a "Stop Work" order.

I try to slide under both radars, strolling with the dogs and a little Blessing or two, by the Back River, inhaling the smell of the Marsh, listening to the Mussels tick and pop in the mud which naturally makes you think about sex.

It's a different way to live.

My Mom will be the first to tell you I've always been different.

I've been much happier once I accepted it.

I feel really bad for those who haven't and are still trying to fit in.

Which are you?

I want to know who to say prayers for tonight.
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How will you enjoy today?

Sometimes you simply sit and stare.

Inside but somehow outside of yourself.


Staring through the open sliding glass doors at a glorious sun illuminating the water dripping from the trees, I'm just thinking.

There are no words ... just thoughts and emotions.

I'm focused on people I love.

Sarah tells me I love everybody, meaning it critically and as a warning. You're not supposed to love everybody because they screw you in the end and that's true of lots of people.

And I've certainly been screwed ... and it hurt ... and they left not giving a damn ... blaming me somehow ... and those I thought cared didn't ... and I was shocked at who did!

But the truth of the matter is I'm a Daydream believer.

I imagine and don't think I'm the only one.

I'm a fool, for Christ's sake, but there's wisdom in there somewhere if we really are Daydream believers, meaning we're honored and dishonored in life.

I've certainly been both.

But that's life! It's what you do with it that matters most.

God made life, gave it to us and now it's ours to do with what we want.

Or to not do anything with it.

Sarah's away visiting her parents in New York so everything is a bit out of sorts. The dogs understand somehow because they follow me closely whenever I move. The house is too quiet. It's just a house when she's not here. I'll be glad when she gets home though I'm glad she and the girls are having a good time.

Johnny O interrupts these thoughts with a barrage of text messages. He's asking about my son Jeremy though it quickly dissolves into really bad humor that has me roaring in laughter.

Ah, it's a good day to do good things, as my friend Dicky Trotter says.

I'm going to enjoy it.

I hope you enjoy yours too.
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Our Neighbor, The Bride of Frankenstein

"Can I have your pumpkins when you're finished with them if they are still viable," read the note taped to the front door, "I will even bring you a treat back."

We'd been away for several days so we had no idea how old the note was.

A week earlier we'd carved pumpkins, placing them in the front yard with six different facial expressions cut, some menacing and others goofy. One was smoking a giant "Doobie".

The note was from our neighbor, the crazy woman who gardens in her underwear.

Before you jump to any conclusions, this is not a pretty sight!

Nevertheless she strolls outside, wavy white hair blowing in the wind, wearing a dirty white bra and granny panties, happily singing to prune her garden. She's a fatter version of the Bride of Frankenstein.

Birds flee, dogs moan, doors are locked and even the Cat Lady's feral cats hide. Winston, the Little Gay Dog, darts to his pad under our bed and Goddess lays in the floor covering her head with her paws. Sarah frantically tries to cover the girls eyes as they try to look. I throw up a little in my mouth.

Throwing the note on the table we unpack and get on with our day.

Later it looks like rain and the dogs haven't had a walk so I hurry and take them. Just as mist turns to light rain, we return home and I look at the pumpkins.

One's completely caved in one itself. A few are black and a couple are moldy so I grab the trash can and throw them inside and hurry to make my way inside.

"Why did you do that?" I hear just as I open the door.

Turning, the fat Bride of Frankenstein stares at me from under an umbrella, wearing the dirty white bra and granny panties, white hair askew as though she's just been hit by a bolt of lightening.

"They were melted from the sun," I explain trying not to look.

"THERE IS NO SUN," she yells.

Shrugging my shoulders, I turn to walk away.

"WHAT ABOUT MY PIES?" she demands.

"What's going on?" Sarah asks, suddenly appearing from nowhere.

Stopping dead in my tracks, the hair on my neck stands straight up. The air is suddenly sucked out of the entire block. There isn't a sound. Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, rush down and stand on either side of me.

We know ... this was going to be bad ... and they don't want to miss any of it!

"YOUR HUSBAND JUST LIED TO ME AND TOLD ME THOSE PUMPKINS MELTED IN THE SUN ..." the fat Bride of Frankenstein starts.

I've never heard a nuclear explosion so I don't really know. But I imagine it sounds something like what happened next.

The fat Bride of Frankenstein stops talking because she sees it coming. Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, turn their heads just in the nick of time. Sarah's girls rush outside to watch.

KLA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Sarah explodes and there's this flash of white light.

When I open my eyes the fat Bride of Frankenstein is gone.

The sky's blue, the sun shinning, birds sing and I swear to God Angels are singing with them.

Sarah stands before me as beautiful as ever with Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, standing beside her. Sarah's girls are cheering.

"Don't worry Honey," she sweetly says, "I took care of it."

Rushing inside, I pour a glass of wine, gulp it down and pour another. Frantically, I search for the "To-Do" list that my wife had given me several days earlier, find it and start knocking things off of it with frightening speed.

"HOLY SHIT!" I keep saying.

"I didn't know she could do that!"

So who are you in this story?
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Another Tybee Update

I suppose it began when the sad, little holy dock became a private gated community but that was merely the beginning of strange things happening on Tybee Island.

Against a backdrop of wailing police sirens, a now extremely common occurrence on the island, I ponder the single biggest question being asked.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO HODAD??

Hodad, affectionately known as HO to his friends, unexpectedly resigned from the Police Department. By far the island's nicest officer everyone is aghast and asking, "What happened?"

The answer is evidently personal terrorism initiated by one of the numerous cells on the island, this one operating on the corner of 13th and Butler Avenue.

If this isn't enough, our neighbor Art has suddenly turned into a Bible scholar which is very scary shit!

"What's Lot's wife name?"

He quizzes me as Sarah and I walk the dogs.

"Beats me," I reply.

"You are correct," he says.

"Now let me ask you a more difficult question," he presses.  "When God sent Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden and they had Cain, then Cain got married ... where did his wife come from?"

"Beats me," I answer.

"Me too," he says.

Sarah pulls me away before Art can ask another question.

This is weird!

Vandalism is a regular method of paying it forward on the island and I understand Johnny O and Judy O's porch chairs were recently accosted by a giant fly swatter. Every afternoon they have "Whine and Cheese" on the porch though I hear Judy O now refuses to sit in her chair and whines about having to stand to sip her wine.

People are being ticketed for driving on Lewis Avenue which has a speed bump every ten feet. I can't figure out how you can break the 25 MPH speed limit in 10 feet but it's apparently happening and the Hodad-less Police Department is all over it!

Plus it's election season and there's nothing stranger than politicians.

SpongeBob Squarepants is back on the island filming a movie, transforming the parking lot down front into a garden and planting Palm Trees on the Pier.

There's a full moon but no Full Moon Party at Marlin Monroe's which is how Sarah and I celebrate our anniversary every month so we're confused on what exactly we're supposed to do.

I already miss tourists season.

As long as tourists are here we feast on them.

But they're gone and the only thing we have to feast on is each other.
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The no longer sad little holy dock

It good be a good economic sign or a bad one.

I don't know yet.

But the sad little holy dock is now a gated community for no one.

Goddess was taking me on a stroll down our street to the marsh where we take a left. Half-a-block later we turn to the left again and there is the dock jutting out into the marsh.

It is not a fine dock by any stretch of the imagination with its warped boards that have pulled the nails out of the beams. The "T" at the end is shaky and sits low in the marsh. The planks are weatherworn and old. There is nothing ornate about it other than seagull droppings. You feel the whole thing will topple over at any moment.

There was a while when it suited me perfectly! Goddess and I would meander aimlessly around the island and end up sitting on the sad little holy dock for hours on end. We were lost in the marsh.

But things changed.

Sarah and I began taking walks and held hands on the sad little holy dock. Sitting with our feet dangling above the green grass and black mud, we shared dreams, kisses and more.

Now when Sarah's girls and I walk the dogs they love to sit on the dock and tell me about school, boyfriends, problems or what's for dinner.

The truth is I no longer visit the dock like I used to because I'm in a hurry to get back home.

Yet it's with interest that I see the gate with a chain blocking entrance to the sad little holy dock.

Personally, I hope Shirley is turning it into a tourist attraction!

God knows I've written enough about it! People want to see it when they visit us.

"Is that the sad little holy dock," they ask?

"Well it was," I answer, "but its not anymore."

It's just an old relic of a past that's no more.
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