Meeting Life's Goals

I am still transitioning and trying to figure it out as I go. It’s hard work.

The first time was during my forth year of college when some Dean summoned me to his office and told me that I had to declare a major. I demanded to know why. He said that I’d already broken the rules by not having declared one already.

“Well, what do I have the most hours in?”

“History,” he replied, “but only by three hours.”

“Really? What’s second?”

“You have a tie for second,” he answered, “Religion and Literature.”

So the next year college threw me out with a major in history with a double minor. This was my first big professional transition.

Then I was a successful eight year career as a professional Christian in charge of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky. Not that we did much that was particularly Baptist. We did generate a lot of press, tremendous growth, amassed money for the place, and had a lot of fun which included creative usage of the baptismal pool. Then the Baptist threw me out and I was transitioning again.

After that it was 23 years at Union Mission where we broke all kinds of new ground. A little tiny homeless shelter was transformed into a multi-campus, multi-million, diverse management company with subsidiaries in housing development, health care, mental health care, and employment services. These things were all accomplished by not doing what we were supposed to do.

In fact I think that most things are accomplished by NOT doing what you are supposed to do. This is how things get created. Creation never happens by doing what you’re supposed to do. That is following. Creating is leading.

Anyway, we created a lot of things that no one else had created, got in the press a lot, won a bunch of awards, helped a lot of people, and tried to have a lot of fun along the way.

It was time for me to move on though so now I am contemplating the next transition. For the moment I am finally living the life that I’ve wanted since I was a child; being a full time beach bum! Well, I’m trying to be a full time beach bum but things keep getting in the way.

It seems that I have obligations with the Street Medicine Institute, the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, and Lucy Hall in Atlanta. All of these people keep emailing and calling asking if I’ll help them raise money, find a job, guide them on how to develop health care, housing, employment and other programs. My Type-A personality disorder means that I spend as much time answering them as I do on the beach or at Bored meetings.

I put on my favorite Jim Morris song (thank you Judi Ross!).

He’s got a life with no distractions
He’s living in his own world
Looking for buried treasure
Hitting on the tourist girls

Now we talking! The people in charge say that the first thing that we’re supposed to do is establish our goals then develop strategies to meet them.

Done!

Dad's Last Gift

I’ve been a runner for 25 years, three to five miles a day. Pretty much every day! It has become a holy time for me, I-pod streaming music into my ears as I’m either on the beach or running the streets of whatever city that I’m in. I see things that I would normally miss and thoughts come to me that never would have. There is a Spirituality to it.

These aren’t the reasons that I started though. My Dad had bad veins and horrible circulation problems. He wasn’t too keen on exercise unless it involved walking to the truck to drive to meet his friends at the pup. The older he got, the worse his circulation issues got.

Knowing this, I started running wanting to avoid these issues. And everything was fine until a few months ago as I was heading out for a run, Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one that I went to seminary with) said, “What’s that on the back of your leg?”

Having never examined the back of my leg I had no idea. I felt the area just above my knee and sure enough there were these purple blackish bumps.

I am my father’s son after all. Damn you Dad! You gave me many wonderful things but you could have kept these!

So I went to see my doctor and she sent me to see a specialist and sure enough, it was confirmed that I am my father’s son. I’ve got the same issues that he has. And there were these clots.

Luckily the consistent running means that I am in much better shape and my veins are good except for where one ruptured in a couple of places and blood was seeping out causing the bumps on the back of my leg. Who knew?

So this morning I had my leg zapped.

First I put on a hospital gown for the first time in years. They still suck! My butt was flashed all over the place as there just isn’t any way to tie those things. Whoever invented these things was one perverse SOB.

In the out-patient operating room, I was initially misled when two nurses prepped my leg from my ankle all the way to my groin area. This was quiet the pleasurable experience and I would pay good money to have it done to me again. Both legs next time! Plus the groin!

Then the doctor came in and put his mask on right off so I wouldn’t recognize him again. He then proceeded to describe everything that he was doing to me as he did it. “This is just a little bee sting,” he said in a sweet voice.

17 little bee stings later I wanted to hit him repeatedly with both fists.

He then cut me, rammed an I.V. tube in my vein, stuck a lazer gun in it and shot it off 43 times. He even counted out loud with each shot.

As he did this it dawned on me that I was paying him for it as I hadn’t met the deductible on my insurance yet so had to give them my credit card for the pleasure of a man wearing a mask shoot me in the leg 43 times. I don’t care what you say the American health care system is screwed up!

“You may get a strange taste in your mouth,” he softly cooed right before my mouth felt like someone had lit a bon fire in it.

Then he was done and left so the nurses, who suddenly were nowhere near as attractive as they had been just a little while ago, could clean me up. I looked at my bloody leg. They wiped it off and then the winches wrapped it from my foot to just below my groin as tightly as they could.

I was ordered to keep it on for 48 hours. Then they had the gall to order me to come back next week so that they can do whatever sadistic pleasures that they conceive of between now and then.

I handed them their now stained hospital gown, happy to moon them as I retrieved my clothes. If I could have found the masked guy, I would have done much more than that!

So, thanks Dad. I’m still glad to be your son but when we hook up again I hope that you’ve been running since we last saw each other. Cause I’m chasing you down for this.

Big Money

“There’s big money in homelessness,” I explained.

“What?” he asked with a look of disbelief in his eyes.

“As a matter of fact,” I continued, “poverty is a multi-Billion dollar industry.”

“Are you nuts?”

“No, think about it. How much money does government spend on helping organizations take care of homeless people? Or people with AIDS (and let me tell you something to quote my friend John, “AIDS advocates are the best advocates!)? Or eliminating hunger?

“Uh-huh,” he said nodding his head.

“And how much does business give to these same organizations through their foundations, charitable giving programs or volunteer efforts?”

“Right,” he thoughtfully said.

“And then there are all the contributions that people make on top of all that! Big donations and change in the poor box in Catholic Church’s throughout the world.”

He sat there nodding his head.

“Add it all together and its billions and billions of dollars that are available every year! I’m telling you, there’s big money in homelessness!”

We figured this out a long time ago.

The way to get to the big money is to become one of the big boys and girls. Become as professional as big business. Act like a CFO until you become a CFO. Keep track of performance. Write annual performance reports and share them with the folks who make “investments” in what you’re doing. Always look for the next opportunity and take advantage of it. Stay in the media. Keep growing.

It is what Lee Iacoca did. It is what Bill Gates did. And Steve Jobs. And all of the giants of industry!

At Union Mission all of those years ago, we began to emulate these principals and we began to grow. I remember when the budget passed the million dollar mark and Jim Piette, a successful businessman and Board member, said that this is a most significant milestone. The first million!

For homeless people.

It didn’t take as long to reach the $2 Million milestone. And in time we got all of the way to $13 Million each year. Big money in homelessness, indeed!

“Every business and every product has risks,” said Lee Iacoca. “You can’t get around it.” And we certainly had ours. But we never stopped in part because of the fierceness in which I believed in the causes.

“The poor will be with you always,” Jesus said. And most folks stop here and tell me that I was fighting a lost cause. But that is only the first half of the verse. The rest of it says SO THAT YOU MAY BE KIND TO THEM.”

It never dawned on me that I would become a CEO or that Union Mission would become a diversified management organization but these things happened.

And I am proud of those years and those accomplishments. Because in spite of the millions that were amassed and spent, in the end, we were just being kind to them.

And there is a great deal of holiness in that.

The Stillness of the Quiet

I’m heading too town this morning to meet with my friend Philip and another friend of his as I begin restructuring the few things about my life that have yet to be restructured. It has me in a contemplative mood as I sit on my beloved back deck listening to thunder roar out over the ocean.

The sunrise was a spectacular show of every color in the rainbow brilliantly painting the sky. Now though the sun has hidden behind a grey blanket of clouds. The air is still and no breeze blows through Fran’s thousands shades of green. Aside from the thunder, all is peacefully quiet.

Over the weekend I had a second reunion with my friends from college and as we talked it became apparent that we are all managing ourselves through major transitions in our lives. I’m orchestrating the Sabbatical that I needed a few years ago and make decisions about the future. One is contemplating retirement. Another is relocating to another town to care for an aging parent.

Transition abounds.

I’ve taken the attitude that I’m waiting on things to come to me. The future will present itself. This is hard work after a career of chasing things and making them happen. Naturally I would be instigating movement.

Now I wait. Today’s meeting is happening because Philip reached out to me. I’ve been invited to be in Charleston tonight because Dr. Jim Withers reached out to me. In another week I’ll head back to Atlanta to do some work because Lucy Hall reached out to me. There are meetings in L.A. and New Orleans that I will be attending because the invitations came to me.

It is an interesting way to organize myself. Some would call it prayer.

I am learning how to live in the moment. For most of my life I was always looking ahead, thinking about what to do next, ever ready to pounce on opportunities that presented themselves. Letting moments pass me by as I looked ahead.

Now I notice the richness of the marsh and the smell of salt in the air. I linger in these moments.

Shirley visits me and we talk under the stars as good friends do and there is enjoyment in the laughter.

Patti slams her cheek into my lips as I enter the Breakfast Club and I appreciate the tenderness of friends.

Lunch dates appear out of nowhere and an afternoon with no plans turn into rich and fulfilling hours.

The thunder rolls and somewhere life is violently exploding and people are trying to cope through it.

But not here. I am not a part of that.

I sit in the stillness of the quiet.

And I wait.

Shaking my Reputation

I am learning that becoming a full time beach bum is more difficult than I could have ever imagined. It seems that I have a reputation that I just can’t shake. So as I stroll down the beach, cleverly hidden behind sunglasses and a baseball cap, I see this woman running towards me.

“Micheal!” she screams even though she is only a couple of feet away from me. I pull the buds from my ears and Bob Marley disappears.

She is older and wearing a one piece leopard skin bathing suit that almost contains her breasts. She is a professional tanner because skin is the dark, dark brown that comes from spending time worshipping the sun on a daily basis. Her long hair is frosted some color that I could never have imagined.

“Micheal,” she begins, “I am so glad to run into you. I need your help.”

I am wondering how she could have possibly have recognized me? I wasn’t wearing my normal UGA baseball but to throw everyone off had on the official cap of the Bored that has “Official Tybiodit” written on it. On the back it reads “Tybee Island Bored meeting”. The lady has powerful discernment abilities.

I have no idea who she is.

“Micheal, my son is hooked on crack. Tell me what to do.”

The weariness that I am running away from crept up my spine and rested on my shoulders.

“Aw Baby I’m sorry,” I say giving her a hug.

I call women Babe or Baby a lot. I got it from my friend Herb McKenzie. I used to call everybody “Luv” like I was one of the Beatles or something but Herb got me using his phrases. It is not politically correct and can get you in a lot of trouble but I don’t care. I probably use these words because they can get me in trouble.

“Babe, I don’t run Union Mission any more. Frances Carter does. But this is what you should do if, and the “if” here is big, HE IS ready to do something about it. You can’t quit for him.”

Her eyes grew moist and I didn’t know what to do so I gave her another hug. I think that God created hugs for when words won’t work.

I tell her who to call and what to as; the things that I would do if I was still in charge of anything. But I am not.

I am a beach bum dammit! On a beautifully glorious beach bum kind of day! With a cooler full of ice cold beer right over there! And Bob Marley is patiently waiting on me to return so that he can explain that he shot the sheriff! And there are girls in bikinis everywhere!

But the tears roll down her cheeks and a lump rises in my throat. So I hug her again as the sunshine falls down all around us.

Up On the Roof

Back at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, when the five little old ladies who comprised the congregation lost their collective minds and “called” me to be the minister, I think that they knew things were going to be different. Nothing about my days as a professional Christian were normal.

Of course, neither was the calling. Buna Wynn, one of the five little old ladies, had a butcher knife in her apron, a Maxwell House coffee can in one hand and a large black Schofield Reference Bible in the other. At first I told them no. I wasn’t minister material.

Buna seemed to take this personal and loudly told me that I sure as hell was taking it. Then she gave me a death stare.

Now I am a 23 year old first year seminary student who was there primarily because I’d followed my friend Guy Sayles to Louisville (yes folks, it is all Guy’s fault). I stood there staring at Buna who was staring at me with her nostrils flaring. I processed the information.

If I declined the call to become their minister, I was likely going to be spit on (hence the Maxwell House coffee can), knocked over the head with a 27 pound Bible, or stabbed. I was beginning to understand how the Lord works.

So I said yes and that is how my professional career was born.

I tell you that story to tell you this one. We did crazy things at Jeff St. as it was called. The baptismal pool was a bathtub and party central (whoever invented baptismal pools is one of the greatest people ever. I mean they have so many functions! If you’ve never made out in one then you really haven’t lived!)

We also had radical worship services. Anything went! One Christmas we put Santa Claus on trail for selling out and making the birth of Jesus a commercial racket. At Easter we would cover all of the windows in the Sanctuary so that the place was pitch black. We were just as likely to have the organ play “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones or “He Arose!” Then the paper would be torn from the windows and “Celebrate Good Times” would play and we would dance in the aisles. We closed once a year to go on retreat. Homeless people lived in Sunday school rooms.

We had fun.

At least we had fun until the Baptist at corporate headquarters in Atlanta got wind of everything that we were doing. We attracted a lot of press and kept getting in the newspaper. My all time favorite headline was “Baptist Minister calls gay man the most Christian person he knows” or something like that. That was the fasted I’d ever been summoned to Baptist Headquarters in Atlanta.

But the most holy place in the three story inner city building was not the Sanctuary, or the baptismal pool, or the social hall where we really spent all of our time. Nor was it the Sunday school rooms that homeless men found sanctuary in.

It was the roof.

Down the hall from the two-bedroom apartment my family lived in was a ladder that led to a hatch that popped open. And at night we were get chairs from the social hall and hand them to one another and go up on the roof (and yes God had provided James Taylor’s version of the song at this time just because we were blessed people).

And the stars put on a show for free. And the Ohio River rolled by right over there. And on hot nights the stink of the Louisville Stock Yards hung blood in the air. Clarksdale, the housing project, was across the street and some nights it seemed like the whole damn city was crying.

But holiness was every where. And we would grow quiet and just take it all in. The Spirit of God blanketed us.

Maybe the reason that I spend so much time on my Beloved back deck or Shirley’s sad little holy dock or on the beach is that I’ve never forgotten being up on the roof. With God.

The Captain and Jesus

I ran up the Back River along side the channel that separates Tybee from Little Tybee and as I turn to the main beach, it made me stop dead in my tracks. It is a wonderfully gorgeous morning with a breeze that has the seas kicked up a couple of notches since yesterday. My run had been a good one and the tunes that my I-Pod was sending to my ears were all perfect.

Then I stopped.

The lone Shrimp boat was still there. Nets cast, dipping from side to side as it trolled with a Captain that I am even more certain is desperate for a catch.

I couldn’t believe it.

The only other thing on the ocean was a lone paddle boarder whose silhouette could easily be mistaken for Jesus with a cane walking on the water, alone with his thoughts.

It made me think about all of the desperation that I’ve seen in my life. Thousands of people have cried in my office as they told me their stories and begged me for something. I am tender hearted so more often than not they got whatever it was they were asking for, though not always in the way that they thought.

It made me think about my own desperate moments often in the middle of the night. At 5:43 this morning I was staring at the ceiling choking down a sense of angst that had woken me. The bedside clock projects the numbers on the ceiling in the dark and I noticed that if I looked between the numbers and not at the numbers themselves, between the 5 and the 4 was the image of the Celtic cross.

Mary Ann Beil and Mitch Wesley immediately popped into my head and the angst went away. Friends have a way of doing that even if they’re not necessarily present.

In Celtic Christianity, faith takes root in the dark places where roots grow or in sealed tombs where crucified Saviors rise up. The darkness is just as important as the light. Without the darkness there is no light.

I’ve had a lot of dark in my life lately even as I stood in the brilliant sunshine of a day at the beach. I could use a different kind of light. An inner shinning where my heart lies in pieces. And try as I might to put it back together by myself I need help. Like jigsaw puzzles are put together faster if friends are working on it, I understand that no one gets through the dark by themselves.

As these things flashed through my mind, I resumed my run keeping an eye on the Shrimp boat. At one point, the silhouette of Jesus with his cane on the water stood in front of the boat and it made me stop again.

“What in the hell?” I said out loud.

Salt water leapt from the ocean into my eyes. I laughed out loud at both the image and the meaning that I took from it.

God bless that Captain! Throughout yesterday, last night and now today he or she has kept at it. Persistence and faith may be paying off. Jesus himself has showed up! God is moving shrimp from the dark coolness of the bottom where they rest on hot days towards the lightness of the surface.

I blew a kiss to the Captain and towards Jesus and started running again with feet that were lighter than before.

Crossing the Line

A lone shrimp boat trolled its nets at the far end of the horizon of the sea today. The ocean was flat and the blazing sun shone on it creating a glistening yellow sidewalk on the water that ended at my feet standing in the surf. My gaze was on the shrimp boat which was dipping from side to side as it made its way.

There was nothing else out there. No cargo ships lined up to come to port. No pleasure boats making their way from the north end of the island to the south end. No jet skis rushing out and back for no apparent reason. No paddle boarders standing on the water as though they were Jesus with a stick to keep them steady.

There was just the lone shrimp boat.

Trolling by it’s self.

With a captain likely desperate for another catch so that he or she can keep paying the bills; praying to God that she will allow those nets to be filled again. Please God! Please! Let there be shrimp on a day so flat and so hot that I know that they are all in the coolness of the bottom. Please!

It brought tears to my eyes and caused a lump in my throat. And I thought it the most beautiful sighting of sad that I’ve witnessed in a long time.

And I have witnessed a lot of sad in thousands of other people’s lives because my career has been managing sadness. Lately there has been a great deal of sadness in my own life which I thought I was immune to but in the end, I’m just like every body else.

When I started writing these daily musings a few years ago, I intended for it to be work related instructions that I hoped would be helpful to others trying to do good things in their jobs.

Then I started writing about the lives of the people that I interacted with every day and the musings became more personal. I was telling other people’s stories; incredible stories or triumph and tragedy.

As long as the stories were about poor people it was ok. They brought in money to Union Mission because people were moved by them to write a check and send it in. Often times they included hand written notes saying how the story had touched them. More that one made their way to the Sunday-School room included as part of that week’s lesson.

But then I started writing about me too; of loneliness in the night; collapsing in the wet sand of a low tide because sadness filled who I was. I wrote about chasing serendipity with everything within me because she represented so much hope for a better tomorrow. There were hearts that washed ashore and the most wonderful deformed Tiny Dancer in St. Martin. I wrote about getting drunk with friends in Athens, Georgia and how that can sometimes bring healing to a life.

The people at work grew increasingly uncomfortable when I wrote about me. It was crossing a boundary line that was taboo in the work place. Personal matters are to be kept at home. When you clock in, your personal life doesn’t matter. It is just about production or profits or in my case making certain that there were enough donations and grants coming in.

Like the lone shrimp boat on the sea today, I thought about how everything that I’ve ever done has been way out there like that. No other boats are on the water but there is one believer out there and I love her for it.

If I’d ever cared too much about boundaries, Union Mission would never have become what it did. When the boundary lines that I was crossing were personal ones however…well that isn’t the way that it’s supposed to be done.

So now other people can do it the way that it is supposed to be done.

I’m with the Captain of that shrimp boat.

Atlanta

As much as I hate to admit this, Atlanta has always been a part of my life and always will be. It all started with my Dad. Because he worked for the railroad, we got free tickets on the Nancy Hanks train that went from Savannah to Atlanta and back again in a day. It had a bubble car where you could sit and there was this glass bubble and I’d sit in these tall seats and you could look all the way around from a speeding train. Pretty cool stuff for a twelve year old!

He was always bringing David and me to Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium to watch the Braves play. He would always take us to this little store before taking us to the game to buy a loaf of bread, bologna and a small jar of mayonnaise so that we could eat during the game. That is because once we ate like 20 hotdogs that must have cost a buck a piece at the time. Dad wasn’t going to do that again. Those were good trips but I don’t eat bologna anymore.

Baptist Corporate Headquarters was here for a long time and I was forever being summoned here because I was in trouble for either not following rules or for making up new ones. These were terrific times as the trips were paid for by Baptist Corporate Headquarters and after being yelled at, prayed over and written up, I’d head over to the Braves game and order a hotdog.

At Union Mission it seems I spent as much time in Atlanta as I did Savannah. All of those elected people from across the state (not Biblically elected but the paid off kind) collect here and there are all of those state agencies. So for 23 years I was here all of the time lobbying…er, I mean, educating the elected so that they wouldn’t screw the poor so much. (I must confess that I probably failed the most at this aspect of my Union Mission career because the elected…well, they already know everything).

Over those 23 year though, I seem to have collected a lot of friends who live here that refuse to leave for whatever reason and I love them all dearly. When I’m here I call them and we meet for coffee, lunch, drinks or dinner; sometimes for pool games, Braves games, or because Hooters is having a special on wings. When you love good friends you have a tendency to tolerate where they live.

I’ve won several awards that were presented to me in Atlanta so that counts for something. The first were back in the early 1990s in some high office tower and I remember my Mom and my sister Angi attended. When my name was called, Angi screamed and yelled and 200 elected people, government employees and pissed off losers turned to look at her. She put her hand over her mouth and looked at me on the stage and winked. Good times!

For years I’ve attended Lobby-fest, er…I mean the Chamber of Commerce’s Savannah Day in Atlanta seafood and liquor party. Oh the stories! My favorite is when Johnny O came and stood in the receiving line as one of the elected (he was not) greeting the thousand people who showed up as though he was. While the rest of the elected had cocktail sauce smeared on their lips, bourbon spilled on their shirts, or their arms around a lobbyist, Johnny O maintained his position to the end. The man is committed. Or should be!

I thought that when I left Union Mission that I wouldn’t be back here except for SEC Championship Games WHEN the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia return later this year. But now I’ll be back for the second time in a week when I return on Thursday.

I’ve said forever that you cannot accomplish anything in Georgia without spending time in Atlanta and now admit again that it remains true. I will keep coming back. They got everything here.

Except the beach!

Sunday Sojourn

Today I’m leaving the beauty of Athens and will first make my way to Madison where my son Jeremy and his brilliant wife Marie live. They’re having an open house today and Jeremy left some things in the room so I’m dropping them off. I don’t mind. It’s the other town that Sherman didn’t burn when he marched through Georgia. It is quaint and beautiful and I always enjoy that drive.

Then I’ll hit I-20 and sail into Atlanta.

I know. Atlanta? There are some things that I need to do there today so what do you do?

I’ll actually be in Atlanta twice this week, retuning on Thursday and Friday to do some work for the Mary Hall Freedom House.

I’ve been laying low through the summer, as least professionally speaking. That is not to say that I haven’t been doing a lot of things. I have. They were just things that were nurturing to me after a very intense and relentless time.

Three years ago I was sitting on my Beloved back deck with Dr. Kathryn Martin who was visiting. I was slumped in my chair looking sad. She told me that I looked exhausted.

“I’m ready to leave Union Mission,” I replied.

“What?” she seemed shocked.

“It’s time Kathryn. I feel it in me. What else is there to accomplish professionally? And the needs just never go away. It’s killing me and Julie. I want to do something else.”

She told me how too many people rely on me to leave and that just made the sad tired grow.

I didn’t leave then and the ensuing years were the hardest and most difficult things that I’ve ever had to get through, both professionally and personally. I should have listened to my gut, which is another way of saying that God was telling me what to do but I listened to other people instead. And it cost me a lot!

So the summer has been spent walking away from the public life, controversial decisions, and people who told me that they would do things but never did. Now it’s been a lot of time alone and long walks with Goddess.

In this time I have come to appreciate the beauty of a thousand shades of green, the majesty of the marsh, the lovely sound of a choir of mussels, the suns daily dance on the ocean and the nightly show that the Milky way puts on for free. I had forgotten how to receive these gifts.

I’ve also come to love and appreciate the people who have gone out of their way to take care of me when I had precious little to give them in return. Many rearranged the way that they live their lives to make certain that I was doing alright. So the Beloved community returned to my life.

Now I am waiting on the sound of my gut to speak. I didn’t listen to God last time. This time I am determined to respond to Her. And I know that I have to wait a bit longer but it will come. I just have to keep preparing myself. Then the fire in my belly will explode.

Beach Day

It is dark as I climb on my bicycle and peddle to the Breakfast Club. The air is still and salt seems suspended as a blanket over the island. Early morning walkers and runners make their way and in the darkness no one speaks. It is 79 degrees and the entire Milky Way is putting on a show for free.

Stumbling in the door marked “Exit Only” the place is alive with activity as Jodee oversees the prep work and prepares for another day of customers. I pour myself a cup of coffee and quietly sip it. A Beach Day has begun.

Leaving the Club I ride down Tybrisa Street with an eye on the rising sun bubbling out of the sea. Red and orange and yellow streaks shoot out in all directions. The sea is flat and calm as though still asleep.

Down front in the big parking lot, I ride to 19th Street and my bike takes me on the beach. The sand is packed near the water and I ride it back to 12th Street. It is hard not to smile as there are not many better ways to start a day. Perhaps sharing it with the one you love.

Perhaps.

Back home, I do the things that I need to do but by 11:00 I’m back on the beach with a cooler, beach chair and I-Pod blowing Jim Morris music in my ears. There is a breeze now though the humidity is low and the temperature is in the 80s. It is a St. Martin kind of day on Tybee. People are on the beach but everyone has plenty of space.

Around noon, my feet are in the surf as I make my way towards the pier where round one of the Bored meeting commenced an hour ago. It is just Johnny O and me today and we chat as we mostly look at the expansive view of the beach from one end almost all of the way to the other. We would likely talk more but the beauty of the day at the beach sucks the air out of the sky so we mostly stare at the beauty of it all.

He leaves and I make my way to Fannie’s for round two of the Bored meeting. Fried flounder for lunch with an ice cold beer seems the perfect lunch for a day like today. My friends show up and we make jokes and laugh. Dave has brought me fresh peppers that he has made and instructs me to place them in my cooler.

My feet return to the surf and I return to my beach chair. The Beach Boys harmonize in my ears. I watch girls in bikinis walk by.

A couple of hours later, I snap out of the trance that I’ve been in, regaining my focus after the blurry eyes that being lost in thought staring at the ocean can bring.

I make my way home.

Hoping on my bike, I return down front and stumble in Spankey’s with its ocean view scenery and order a cheese burger. Dave and Sandy stumble in behind me and we laugh and joke our way through dinner.

Afterwards I am summoned back to the beach on 12th Street and sit in the swing there. Darkness descends. My senses are alive and on fire as the moon glows brightly on the sea. In the distance are couples who are holding hands, kissing, or using such a romantic backdrop to consummate their love. Who can blame any of them for doing any of it?

Then I make my way back home in the dark and the Milky Way has returned with a show for free.

“Thank you God,” I whisper out loud, “for one hell of a day.”

Parenting (I did it my way)

My daughter Kristen, or Buffy as she is known on Tybee Island has recently taken to attending the Bored meeting, the daily gathering of a collection of friends to toast life here. My son Jeremy, or J-Luv as he is known on the island also attends when he is in town.

My youngest daughter Chelsea, also known as Chelsea on the island, does not attend although she was raised differently from her brother and sister. She is a beach baby who learned to craw in the sand. She was born on Tybee and learned early to recognize suspicious characters which is likely why she stays away from the Bored meeting. Besides she logs many hours in the sun and likes to pick up jelly fish in front of tourists and asks if they would like to play catch. Her formative years were body surfing with me.

Jeremy and Kristen spent their formative years living in a two-bedroom apartment at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in the inner city of Louisville, Kentucky. The other people who lived in the Church were homeless people and my older kids were greatly influenced by them.

Having learned to read at a very young age, Jeremy always had a book in his hands. I would often wander into the belly of the Chapel, the Social Hall, and Jeremy would be sitting in the lap of a homeless man teaching him how to read. He also liked to leave his clothes in the hallway and join homeless men taking baths in the baptismal pool.

Kristen was the sweetheart of the homeless guys who loved her dearly and did most anything she asked. Once they were babysitting her while their mother and I were out somewhere. When we returned, Kristen was sitting happily with four Happy Means from the McDonalds around the block in front of her. The homeless guys were all smiling.

“What in the hell?” I asked.

Chester, the oldest and most respected of the guys, answered on behalf of them. “She wanted a Happy Meal so we went out and panhandled until we got enough to get it for her.”

“Four?”

“She’s our girl and we gotta keep her happy,” he beamed.

So Jeremy and Kristen look at life with a different slant than most people. Both are extremely comfortable in any situation and with any kind of people. Conversation and introductions are easy for them. I’ve also watched them go without and never complain. Both are hard workers and they encourage people (social workers without the degree). They are story tellers and love to laugh.

All of us love hanging out together, which is different from a lot of parents with adult children. We laugh a lot when we’re together and Chelsea has to listen to the same stories over and over again of the Jeff Street days when Chester, a homeless street alcoholic for 40 years, was transformed into a grandfather of my children.

And Pouche, a handsome African-American homeless man with one front tooth missing from decay because of no insurance, would teach them classical music which he loved.

Or Bruce, a drunken country music roadie, would sing them Willie Nelson songs.

R. C. taught them how to use spray paint to write grafitti.

So my kids are a bit different because of these things.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way. And today I say a prayer of thanks for this wonderful collection of friends who helped raise them.

Baptisms

I am not one to spend too much time in the past and I don’t visit there very often. I never thought it did anyone much good and if you’re not too careful you can get stuck there. When you’re stuck in the past your life passes you by and opportunities that hit you in the face fall to the floor without ever being taken advantage of.

My past is mostly catalogued anyway in the books that I’ve written and more recently in the blogs that I post. Stories of marvelous and sometimes tragic things that I’ve witnessed or participated in are used to illustrate thoughts or feelings that I hope to convey.

Well Face Book has reconnected me with my past. Childhood friends, High School friends, college friends, Seminary friends, homeless friends, professional friends, and just friends all collide on the page everyday. It is a wonderful and miraculous thing to experience!

And it reminds me of stories long stored away. Yesterday my friend David from Seminary wrote about a blog that I’d written and reminded me that he was born by the sea too.

Then Seminary and water came together in my mind and I was reminded of the baptismal pool at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where I was once employed as a professional Christian. The large pool had a backdrop that was a painting of the River Jordan where Jesus was baptized. The water was painted as brown which is actually what the River Jordon looked like though the water in the pool was as blue and crystal clear as the Caribbean.

Anyway, there were all of these homeless people sleeping outside and I was in charge of this building called a sanctuary that had bars on the window to keep people out when a sanctuary is a place for people to go. I was in seminary at the time so I knew everything!

There were also all of these unused Sunday School rooms in the building because the only people who came to Church were five little old ladies who started attending before the bars had been installed on the windows.

So the ladies and I had a garage sale getting ride of all of the cute wooden tables and chairs and used the money to buy beds. Then we invited homeless people to live inside of the Sunday School rooms. Very Biblical stuff, huh?

After about two weeks you could tell homeless people were living in a church because the place stank. Most Churches do not have shower facilities.

BUT, we had a baptismal pool! I filled it up, passed out soap, and the dirty became clean!

It was by far the most popular part of the Church. I would wander to the baptismal pool and several homeless guys would be naked, lounging around, enjoying themselves. They took to buying candles to set a better ambiance than the brown water of the River Jordan. Many days my young son Jeremy, around four at the time, would be swimming around them having a good time.

So the Baptist at corporate headquarters in Atlanta would send me this form to fill out every month. How many people came to Sunday School? How many people came to Church? How many people got saved? How many people got baptized?

The Baptist in corporate headquarters believes that Jesus called us to count his sheep and not necessarily feed them.

As a professional Christian I was obligated to fill out the form and the answers were always the same. Five. Five. Zero. 487.

Later the Chapel was recognized for shattering the convention’s record of baptisms in one year!

Ah, good times.

Gone Fishing

Back when I was a professional Christian at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky I had the idea that we should close once a year and go on a retreat together. The idea came one day when I was looking at a bunch of homeless people who were tired from sleeping in the streets, begging for alms to buy alcohol, and standing in line to eat.

“You fellows need a vacation,” I said because if anybody needs a vacation it is the poor. The rest of us get them but poor people don’t.

Then I looked at the little old ladies who were the backbone of the place mostly living off Medicare. I would take them to the grocery store and watch them pinch pennies and buy chicken necks to make soup out of because it was the cheapest thing. I thought that they needed a break too.

And the poor students who attended the church because they were the radical fringe of the seminary spent more money on books than they did food. As a matter of fact God’s name was invoked in the Book Store more often than the seminary Chapel whenever we saw the prices of the book. After the short prayer of God’s name we would usually add the word “Dammit!”

I’ve always been good at raising money and finding resources where a lot of people wouldn’t think of looking, even at 25 years of age. So I found a $1000 or so somewhere, booked a band camp out in the countryside, bought a ton of food to cook and about 70 of us went on a retreat from our lives.

We would leave on a Friday and return on Sunday evening so the sanctuary was closed for services that weekend. Before we left I would make a sign that read “Gone Fishing” and put it on the front door.

I crack myself up! This was a great line invoking Jesus admonition that we should be fishers of men and women though it could also mean “To hell with it! We’re outta here for a while.”

So once a year for the eight years that I was there we repeated the practice. I got better at raising money and finding resources every year so the places and the food got better. Towards the end we had almost 200 people attending. “Gone Fishing Sunday” was more popular than the Christmas or Easter service combined!

We would all show up with guitars, Bibles and footballs. Homeless men would show up with bottles of vodka and normally by Saturday evening we were all having a rip roaring time.

And we had a rule. “What happens on retreat stays on retreat” because a lot of stuff normally happened on retreat.

The following Sunday was “Confession Sunday” and I remember that it was the longest service that we had every year.

Ila Massey, one of the radical fringe seminary students gave me a gift at one of the retreats. It was a painting of sand dunes covered with golden sea oats marking the fall of the year (the retreat was always in October). In front of it were lyrics from a Jimmy Buffet song:

Now in my line of work
I seem to see a lot more than most
Write ‘em down, pass ‘em around
It’s the Gospel from the Coast.
Reflections not just replays,
Taking time to escape the maze;
looking for better days.

It is one of my most prized possessions. And now for the first time since those days, I find myself on retreat from the life that I have lived. It is long pass due and for the life of me I cannot figure out why I stopped the wonderful practice of retreats except that the major prophet John Lennon is right: “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.”

Retreats are for getting your life back.

So I’ve gone fishing again for the first time in decades.

When the Coast is Clearl

Purple, red and white clouds that had been hugging the eastern shore finally blew out to sea this morning and a magnificent sun high in the sky. The waves were softly kissing the sand and a breeze blew sand from the north end of the island to the south end. Everything was so fresh and clear that I could easily see the details of Hilton Head just across the mouth of the Savannah River. Massive Cargo Ships were lined up for miles and will make their way up the river throughout the day to the Ports.

The beach is lightly sprinkled with people, most walking in the surf, holding hands, appreciating the beauty of just how beautiful it all is.

The coast is clear.

Once I sent postcards from St. Martin to a lot of people including many at work. Aside from the name and address I wrote, “I’ll be back when the coast is clear.”

I stole it from a Jimmy Buffet song that I love, “I come down to talk to me, when the coast is clear.”

Some people who received the cards thought that I was talking about the weather and that I must be stuck in bad storms which prevented me from returning until things cleared up.

Others thought that there was so much bad stuff going on that I had fled to St. Martin to get away from that I wasn’t going to return until things got better. You could take it either way.

At this point in my life I can take it both ways. The coast is definitely clear outside of my window and I think a big part of this day is going to include me in it. Feet in the surf, fingers dragging through the sand, cooler by my side.

Nor am I involved in that other stuff taking place on the mainland. Politicians are making decisions (mostly bad ones). Business men are making deals. Clergy are recovering from Sunday. Teachers are teaching or hiding from their students. The poor stand in line. That was my life for three decades but I am clear of it right now.

Last night I strolled over to Shirley’s sad little holy dock because she has taken pity on me. Sundays have always been special to me but over the past few years they lost their luster and have become difficult to endure. First Union Mission’s heavy agenda started showing up and kidnapping the day as I tried to manage so much diverse activity. I would sit and stare already consumed with what Monday would bring.

Then the person that I used to share Sundays with left and it became a reminder of lost. Love is something you fall into. Sometimes you have to make yourself get back up. Sundays became get-up day.

I shared this with Shirley several weeks ago and, dear friend that she is she’s made certain that I am preoccupied on Sunday evenings. Last night we just sat on the dock listening to the ticks and pops of mussels opening and closing. A sliver of a moon hung low in the sky. Stars were high and bright. We were talking about a lot of things as good friends do but we kept stopping to admire how beautiful everything is.

So I’ve finally come down to talk to me. I am spending most of my time doing that right now. There are others who dip in and out of the discussion but for the most part it is me facing me. It’s hard stuff to do.

But I’ll be back soon. I’ve got too much left to give so I’ll be back.

When the Coast is Clear.

Remember (Charles)

On September 11, 2001 I was in my office when someone told me about the plane crashing into the World Trade Center. I remember getting up and walking back to the dining room where a television hung on the wall for homeless men to watch after dinner.

Several were watching when I entered the room including Charles, my six-foot-two, African-American, former bank robber, mentally ill, “adopted” son. I stood and watched the smoldering hole in the building.

Then the second plane hit and when it did, Charles grabbed my arm and squeezed it tightly. He was shaking with fear. Of course I tensed in disbelief when the plane crashed into the building and when Charles grabbed me I almost came out of my skin.

Turning from the television I looked at him and he was bent over as though he was trying to hide behind me. He shook and his eyes were full of fear. His hand remained gripped on my shoulder.

Charles had been with us for a few years at this time and was as stable as he had ever been. He cleaned our building, ate Oreo cookies like a kid, and mostly talked to himself. He would write letters to the President which meant that I got regular visits from Bill at the F.B.I. Except for when he was talking to himself --- laughing or cussing loudly --- Charles never showed much emotion.

This was the first time that I had ever seen him frightened.

“Sir,” he said in his deep voice as I stared at him and put my arm around him, “do you think that they will come for us?”

I couldn’t believe how scared he was but who knows how his mentally ill mind was taking it in. I glanced back at the television in disbelief at what I was seeing. Not knowing who or why. I made myself think about him.

“No Charles. We’re just a homeless shelter. No one is coming after us,” I reassured him.

“Why not?” He shot back as his head was almost on his knees as he stood behind me still holding on to my arm and shaking, “You get us government money.”

My head shook in another kind of disbelief. How does one answer something like that? I had no words for him. So I hugged him tight and told them that I would take care of him.

Whenever September 11 comes around I cannot help but remember this. Our nation changed that day. Fundamentalism of any kind is a cruel and evil thing be it Muslim or Christian or any other brand. Lives were lost because people’s religious and political views are as perverted as Charles’ ability to think rationally.

When all is said and done, it is about how we treat one another at the individual level. What happened between Charles and me that day was as significant as anything else happening that day. People hugged one another and cried as we witnessed tragedy beyond comprehension.

So it is right to remember what our country lost that horrible day. But it is also right to remember that it reminded us how much we care for one another. And in the end we will be there for each other.

Regardless.

Smiling Out Loud

Most people just get along doing the things that they’re supposed to do and life remains pretty constant. There are others of us though who blow up our lives or sometimes have our lives blow up on us.

At 57 years of age my friend Trolley Joe decided to blow his up. He had a successful career, marriage and kids. Then he went through a divorce and lived alone for a couple of years before meeting the love of his life, Barbara. Though madly in love, something inside of him was calling him away. She said if you got to go then go, which is about as mighty expression of love as there is.

So he called a friend who lived on a house boat in Key West and asked if there was enough room for him to crash for a while. The invitation was made and Joe made his way to the island. He slept in a tiny compartment but it had a view of the Gulf of Mexico and all of the tension and frustrations of his life began to disappear.

In a short period of time, he got a job driving the Conch Train, the tourist tour of Key West. He proudly called Barbara to inform her of his good fortune. “Looks like I’m gonna be staying awhile,” he explained. “I have a job making $6.50 an hour!”

Of course Barbara did what most wives who love their husband would do and quit her job as a nurse to move to Key West. She also got a job working for the Conch Train. They found their own place and for two years became one with the island that succeeded from the Union during the 1970s!

It was an idyllic life but one day Barbara told Joe that she wanted to be nearer to their children and by then he had healed from the scars of the past. After a bit of discussion he found that he could “transfer” to Savannah and work for the Trolley tours there. They found a condo on Wilmington Island to be near the ocean and Joe drives the streets of Savannah Wednesday through Saturday.

Sundays through Tuesday he is one of the original members of the Bored, a collection of friends that congregate every midday to toast life on Tybee Island. Thanks to O Johnny, we have hats and tee shirts that have “Official Tybidiot” on it ($25 if anyone would like to order one; plus shipping and handling). I further understand that Joe, Barbara and their daughter have “Certificates of Authenticity” as official Bored members.

The point of all of this is that I’ve wanted to do it for years. I begged for a Sabbatical several years back but didn’t get it. So I fall into the category of life blowing up on me rather than me blowing up my life to get to where I want and need to be.

It hurts like hell to do it this way but I’ve never been know for taking on easy tasks always preferring the hardest way instead. I mean I made a career out of homelessness and AIDS.

In the stages of loss you reach a point called “Emptying” and I think that I’ve finally gotten there. This morning Goddess and I meandered along the Back River looking at the High Tides covering the marsh grass. There was no breeze and the orange sun danced on the water. My I-pod played in my ears.

It always seemed like a good idea
Buy a little house boat free and clear
Living on Shrimp and Navigator beer
Every day goes by without a cloud
And every time you see him
He’s smiling out loud.

Trolley Joe smiles a lot. And this morning I found myself smiling out loud too.

Public Displays of Affection (PDA's)

I was having lunch with Ben Barnes, 91 years of age with a mind that is as good as ever. And his mind was good, as President of First Bank of Atlanta then was associated with the Bank of London, then in his retirement he started the Wachovia Bank in Savannah. He served 12 years as a member of the Union Mission Board and we are very close.

Thin white hair, a long winkled face with glasses resting on top of a narrow nose he is dressed causal which is rare for him. He even has tennis shoes on. I’m in a tee shirt, blue jeans and flip flops. We’ve always been “Mutt and Jeff” as he refers to us.

I’ve had the incredible good fortune to have had an incredible string of Board Chairmen, virtually all who have become good friends. Jerry Robinson, Carol Beeson (Ben’s daughter), Archie Davis, Philip Solomons, Jr., Curtis Lewis III, Don Kole, Herb McKenzie and …Ben.

Ben is actually mentor to several of the names above. He is a legend in the banking world and walking the streets of Atlanta with him is a history lesson. He knows how every building came about and there is a story behind each and every one. His old office is in 2 Peachtree Street in Atlanta which is now a 40 story government complex. Ben built it.

We were at Johnny Harris which is a Savannah landmark of a restaurant known for its bar-b-que and seafood. In its day, it where Savannah decked out to dance under the inside stars. Today it is used for political meetings and “old Savannah” families. It remains a place to be seen.

We had not seen one another since May and he wanted to know everything that had taken place in my life. Ben’s a good listener and so he did for half-an-hour as I described professional and personal changes that have occurred. He would interrupt with an occasional thoughtful question that pushed my answers to deeper levels.

Then he sat back and stared into space for a second before exploding the words out of his mouth at me with his thoughts.

“You’re a leader,” he began, “so whatever it is that you do you be sure to be out in front cause that’s where you’re most comfortable.”

Ben doesn’t beat around the bushes.

“And people are followers because they follow. There are too few leaders in this world and dammit you are one. And stop taking your time about it! The world needs you. And the world is bigger than Chatham County and your beloved Tybee! And the longer you beat around the bush the sooner people forget who you are! And people forget quickly because they are followers!”

Then he pushes back, wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin, smiles and concludes, “Of course that’s just my opinion which nobody asked for.”

How does someone respond to all of that?

“Um-huh,” I answer.

He laughs and it is a good one. I reach my hand across the table and touch the top of his and he grabs mine as his eyes grow moist. And I know that he loves me as he knows I do him.

It is good to be loved.

“One last thing,” he says pulling his hand back from the brief display of public affection (or PDA as Keller Deal calls it). Ben is the epitome of proper and dignity. It is rare for him to display emotion like this whereas I wear my emotions on both shoulders.

“We’re not going to let this much time pass anymore without talking and getting together! You understand that?”

And I look at this 91 year old man whose days are numbered understanding that he is more concerned about me than whatever amount of time he has left. And I am humbled by it and thankful beyond words.

We walk outside and he sees my convertible with the top down and smiles.

“Go pick up some chicks,” I hear him say as he laughs and gets in his car.

Sunday Drives

When I was a kid, we would do what a lot of Southern families did during those days. Church came first (Pastor Johnson always went past 12:00), followed by a big lunch either at home or at Morrison’s Restaurant where we waited in line with all of the other Christians, and then we would often take a Sunday drive.

These drives could be to Tybee Island, to other neighborhoods to see how other people lived or to the Country to see cows or horses or pigs. It was Mom, Dad, David and me. I suppose Angi wasn’t born yet or my folks had put her in the trunk because she cried all of the time. Either way, I don’t remember her on Sunday drives.

The world has changed since then. A lot!

On Face Book I’ve made a lot of new friends whom I haven’t actually met yet. One is Will Simmons who lives in Atlanta and is a graduate of Georgia Tech. He is the grandfather of Sam who is my daughter Chelsea’s boyfriend (Yes they are a mixed relationship. He goes to Tech and Chelsea is at the University of Georgia).

Regardless, Will made a friend request which I gladly accepted and we have been communicating back and forth for a while now. Will reads my daily writings and he decided that he wanted to visit to see for himself the places that I describe every day.

So he goes to Bing’s Bird Eye View on his computer, types in my address, and there are satellite images of my house. He looks at it from the street then scrolls around the side. He sees the carport and the hanging plants and the outdoor shower where I am baptized most days. He goes into the back yard and sees my beloved back deck.

The he travels down the street to the marsh and traces the walk that I take daily with Goddess. He finds Shirley’s sad little holy dock.

He messages me to tell me these things and I am blown away!

Then I think about Deedra, Mitch, Mark and Gyni who I went to college with and how Face Book led to a reunion at my house. We have talked together every day for more than a month now. It is though thirty years of not seeing or talking to one another never happened.

Even Guy, the person to blame for me going to seminary and becoming a professional Christian, is now on and talking to us.

One of the blessings of being at Union Mission all of those years were the wonderful people from across the country that I got to know when I visited them or they visited us. We are now in a constant dialogue with one another.

Then there are the communications that I have with those I see with some regularity. Johnny O posts pictures for me to see though he is only a few blocks away. I let Conner know of all of the new and creative things that he can accomplish with a nail gun. Shirley lives around the corner but we Face Book more than we talk.

Even when Keller Deal is mad with me and not communicating she chooses to use Face Book to make her point and the silence can be deafening.

Then are daily private conversations that fly back and forth offering or receiving advice and counsel, love and encouragement, or to make plans.

And on Sunday’s, I have more time to take a drive on the World Wide Web to see what is going on in the lives of people I love and care for. It seems that many of them do too. And these Sunday drives are just as special today as they were when I was a kid.

When Bicycles Get Drunk

On Tybee Island we use bicycles a lot. The island isn’t all that big and the traffic this time of year is horrible. The parking lots are full so even with the Tybee sticker on our windshield that allows us to park for free we end up just riding around looking for some place to use it so most of us just use our bikes.

Most of us have regular bicycles that you peddle. Not Johnny O. He has one that has an engine and he doesn’t have to peddle. Johnny O is not a big believer in exercise.

Once, my friend Conner told me a story that relates. The company that he works for held a meeting that everyone had to attend. In an effort to improve the health care of the employees the folks in the corporate office wanted them to exercise. So they gave a speech about it and passed out odometers.

“We want everyone to walk and run. The odometers will allow you to keep up with your distance. Each week, everyone will report their distance and each month those who’ve done the most will be given cash awards.”

It was a great idea.

Typical Conner decided to do it his way. Every day after work, he grabbed his odometer and a rubber band and went to the bar. After ordering a Coors Light, he used the rubber band to attach the odometer to the beer. Every time he picked it up to take a drink it registered the distance. He did this throughout the night. Every night!

At the end of the month Conner was awarded a first prize cash award which he used, of course, to buy more Coors Light.

It’s hard not to love Conner.

But I digress (though Conner does fit in really well on Tybee).

Recently at the daily Bored Meeting, so called because we have been accused of being Boring, O Johnny showed up and his arms were all scratched, bruised and bloody. (Just so everyone knows, O Johnny is different from Johnny O. O Johnny actually works. For the federal government no less! And he peddles his own bicycle.)

“What happened to you?” several of us asked at the same time when he peddled up to join us.

‘This is what happens when bicycles get drunk,” he explained.

Everyone nodded their heads because no further explanation. It seems that everyone has a bicycle that drinks.

Tonight at the city council meeting a lot of locals are going to show up to express their support of the Tybee Island Police Department, all of whom were fired or placed on administrative leave recently for using Tassers on people.

I’m not going. I do not believe that Johnny O is either. Or O Johnny. Roma is going but she is old.

The reason we’re not is because of one of the numerous other controversial issues surrounding the Tybee Island Police Department. Last summer they began ticketing people for riding around on drunken bicycles. Talk about blaming the victim!

OK, I gotta go and hose down my bike with cold water. It’s almost time for the Bored meeting and it didn’t come home until like 2:00 last night.

It woke me up slamming into the screen door when it came in to park itself after I’d fallen asleep studying my Sunday School lesson.