Mitch Welsey got in touch with me yesterday because he wants us to start our own morning radio show. We'd play really good music, Mitch would fill listeners in on everything that nobody knows about the song or the band. I'd make fun of politicians, current events and religious hypocrisy.
There is no doubt in our minds that the morning show would be incredibly popular while being very politically in-correct yet still drawing the wrath of most anyone of significance in music, politics, current events and religion.
The fact that no radio station, owner, or programmer has given us any thought whatsoever is totally insignificant. Mitch and I attended both college and then Seminary together so God is overriding the decision makers while calling Mitch and I to do this.
At the same time, Mitch retired recently and has a lot of time on his hands.
He also lives in Milledgeville, Georgia and unless you're enthralled by one of the largest strip malls in America, there's not a lot to hold your attention there.
There is a college and a closed mental health facility but the people of Milledgeville kept confusing the two. Instead of diplomas, graduates got prescriptions for Zanax while patients received graduate degrees in Political Science (which explains the leadership of the Southern Baptist Convention, half the population of Atlanta, Jerry Rainy and Congress).
Nevertheless, I love Mitch and if he wants to give this a shot then I'm in.
I've already started writing the political commentary. Mayor Edna Jackson of Savannah would be portrayed as Weezy on the Jeffersons. County Commission Chairman Pete Liakakis is Jack Lalanne with a side job selling diet pills and "Hair Care for Men" products. Governor Nathan Deal is the Unknown Comic and Newt Gringrich is the Pillsbury Doe Boy. Mitt Romney was named after catcher's glove that kept dropping the ball. President Obama would be the reincarnation of Calvin Coolege as a black man.
Certainly you are beginning to glimpse how zany and funny we're going to be.
This isn't all though.
Mitch knows everything about music so he will enlighten listeners with useless information ... like the Ronettes classic Da do run run is really about a drug bust.
Somewhere Over the Rainbow was written after the Lion, the Tin Man and Dorothy smoked the Scarecrow having found that he wasn't stuffed with hay after all.
And the old gospel hymn Victory in Jesus was initially conceived while Eugene Monroe Bartlett watched two girls wrestle in a pool filled with Jello (he was for the girl in the blue bikini who obviously won).
We'll have special guests on the show. Mark Wood has nothing to do so he is going to come on every day and inform listeners how to transform their porches and decks into international corporate headquarters and other decorating tips.
Dedra Shuman will ... I'm not certain what she will do. I'm never certain what she will do. Hell, I'm never certain what she does. But she'll do something.
Micheal Guido died several years ago and we are after the incredibly famous Sr. Guy Salyes to take his place with little 30 second devotionals that will leave people crying, scratching their heads, or planting gardens (see above reference to the Scarecrow being smoked).
Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with Mitch and me) will ... probably never show up.
Johnny O will deliver the news every half hour.
Judy O will deliver the news every fifteen minutes correcting everything that Johnny O got wrong on the half hour.
The Samuel Adams Band who play damn good live music on Tybee Island will be the house band and Bar Church will be broadcast live every Sunday morning during cocktails and on Wednesday nights at eleven.
The Breakfast Club caters all Micheal & Mitch events (billing is separate).
I have to go.
Wen is taking photographs of Sarah in a bikini for promotional purposes only. Seriously! They are for promotional purposes only!
Seriously!
I gotta go.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Friday, February 3, 2012
The Tybee Bomb
"I love this island," she exclaimed as we stood around the pool table in Bennie's for the afternoon gathering of "The Bored."
"Tybee is just one great island," she gushed on. "The ocean, the breeze, the Palm Trees ... the laid back way of it ... and everyone is just so friendly and accepting."
"Uh, huh," several of us muttered as we either (a) sipped our libation (b) ordered another round (c) watched whoever was taking the next shot at the pool table (d) took the next shot at the pool table or ... was doing what I was doing which was watching girls walk down the sidewalk in bikinis.
"The only thing that I don't understand," she went on in an exasperated and exaggerated way "is why y'all can't decide on a speed limit."
Everyone in the place stopped what they were doing at the same time and looked at her.
Well ... everyone except me.
I was incredibly focused.
"What?" Johnny O asked.
She placed her hands on her hips. Wearing shorts and and an air-brushed tee shirt with a colorful painting of a pirate driving a stock car into a sunset over the ocean. Her fingernails were painted blue with designer streaks in them and her toenails were matching. The earrings were silver dolphins dangling. The sandals were Birkenstocks ... with black socks. She was pretty enough in a non-matching sort of way.
"What I mean is," she said looking at Johnny O as though he were a fifth grader, "is why in the hell does your speed limit keep changing? I mean one second it's 30 miles an hour and the next second it's 29. Then it changes again for God's sake! Then it's 32 and then it's 30 again."
The entire crowd gathered at Bennie's burst into explosive laughter as though the Tybee Bomb had finally gone off. Turning my head from the girls in bikinis, I saw Johnny O's mischievous grin and the woman's confused look as to why everyone in the whole damn bar was laughing their heads off.
Johnny O leaned his pool stick against the table and put his arm around her. He looked like a missionary who had found a lost person in the woods of Africa. She looked up at him like a lost person in a bar on Tybee Island.
"Honey," he said with words soaked in honest sarcasm, "have you ever seen a speed detector?"
Appearing confused yet confident she replied, "No sir but I seen signs all up and down the expressway that speeds in Georgia are detected by detection devices."
The Tybee Bomb went off a second time. Bennie's exploded in laughter. Girls in bikinis wandered inside to see what was going on. Because I was standing by the door, I grabbed a stool and pretended to be the bouncer and asked for their ID's to get inside, which they obviously had to search for.
It was a good day.
Johnny O was still giving the missionary smile.
"Honey," he said, "its a machine that lets you know how fast you're driving so you know if you're going over the speed limit or going under it. It's a public service."
"Oh," she said in that embarrassed sort of way.
"Don't worry about it," Johnny O said putting his arm around her. "It's not for you."
"What?" she asked with tears welling up in her eyes.
"Hell no," Johnny O said still hugging her.
"What's it for?" she asked wiping snot off of nose with her arm.
"The Tybee Island Police Department," he explained.
"Thank you," she said wiping more snot off her nose with the other arm.
"Sure thing Hon," Johnny O continued. "Next we'll teach you about Parking Services."
The Tybee Bomb went off yet again.
"Tybee is just one great island," she gushed on. "The ocean, the breeze, the Palm Trees ... the laid back way of it ... and everyone is just so friendly and accepting."
"Uh, huh," several of us muttered as we either (a) sipped our libation (b) ordered another round (c) watched whoever was taking the next shot at the pool table (d) took the next shot at the pool table or ... was doing what I was doing which was watching girls walk down the sidewalk in bikinis.
"The only thing that I don't understand," she went on in an exasperated and exaggerated way "is why y'all can't decide on a speed limit."
Everyone in the place stopped what they were doing at the same time and looked at her.
Well ... everyone except me.
I was incredibly focused.
"What?" Johnny O asked.
She placed her hands on her hips. Wearing shorts and and an air-brushed tee shirt with a colorful painting of a pirate driving a stock car into a sunset over the ocean. Her fingernails were painted blue with designer streaks in them and her toenails were matching. The earrings were silver dolphins dangling. The sandals were Birkenstocks ... with black socks. She was pretty enough in a non-matching sort of way.
"What I mean is," she said looking at Johnny O as though he were a fifth grader, "is why in the hell does your speed limit keep changing? I mean one second it's 30 miles an hour and the next second it's 29. Then it changes again for God's sake! Then it's 32 and then it's 30 again."
The entire crowd gathered at Bennie's burst into explosive laughter as though the Tybee Bomb had finally gone off. Turning my head from the girls in bikinis, I saw Johnny O's mischievous grin and the woman's confused look as to why everyone in the whole damn bar was laughing their heads off.
Johnny O leaned his pool stick against the table and put his arm around her. He looked like a missionary who had found a lost person in the woods of Africa. She looked up at him like a lost person in a bar on Tybee Island.
"Honey," he said with words soaked in honest sarcasm, "have you ever seen a speed detector?"
Appearing confused yet confident she replied, "No sir but I seen signs all up and down the expressway that speeds in Georgia are detected by detection devices."
The Tybee Bomb went off a second time. Bennie's exploded in laughter. Girls in bikinis wandered inside to see what was going on. Because I was standing by the door, I grabbed a stool and pretended to be the bouncer and asked for their ID's to get inside, which they obviously had to search for.
It was a good day.
Johnny O was still giving the missionary smile.
"Honey," he said, "its a machine that lets you know how fast you're driving so you know if you're going over the speed limit or going under it. It's a public service."
"Oh," she said in that embarrassed sort of way.
"Don't worry about it," Johnny O said putting his arm around her. "It's not for you."
"What?" she asked with tears welling up in her eyes.
"Hell no," Johnny O said still hugging her.
"What's it for?" she asked wiping snot off of nose with her arm.
"The Tybee Island Police Department," he explained.
"Thank you," she said wiping more snot off her nose with the other arm.
"Sure thing Hon," Johnny O continued. "Next we'll teach you about Parking Services."
The Tybee Bomb went off yet again.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
The Lives I've lived
I've lived a bunch of different lives so far and the next one is being born now.
Growing up in Port Wentworth was a wonderful thing. Riding cardboard boxes down the bank of the viaduct, being part of a fleet of bicycles to Mr. Cowart's Drug Store, stealing all of the flags from the Elementary School, playing army in the woods, and having my first kiss in an empty baptismal pool in the First Baptist Church listening to Tommy James and the Shondells (because the church was always unlocked and had a really good sound system).
In High School I became someone else ... A long haired football player who really wanted to play guitar. It seemed that I started to get in trouble a lot while getting affirmed for the things that I was getting in trouble about at the same time. It lead to a conclusion that trouble leads to affirmation.
Where do I begin?
I danced with a black girl at a segregated dance and was beaten up by the white guys the next day (thank you Gene Prevatt for trying to help that day). Afterwards, I was an honorary member of the black community, no small feat in Garden City Georgia in those days.
At college I fell into this group of crazy people who were all Baptist (we all still gather today for reunion tours and I'm sure the Public Broadcasting System will do a show on us soon for one of their fundraisers before we all die. Mitch Wesley will be the surprised guest.). I still had long hair, played football for the Baptist Student Union, occasionally went to class because I also played guitar, and learned about birth control. Jeremy was born and changed everything about everything.
When college threw me out, God "called me" to go to Seminary ... meaning Guy Sayles called me one night and asked me to come. So I did. Then everything really started going crazy!
I became Pastor of an inner city church, found fame and groupies, learned that I still didn't know anything about birth control and Kristen was born and stole my heart. I learned to love the underworld of homelessness, hookers, addicts, and the people thrown away by everybody else. I became part of this crazy radical community sprinkled throughout the US ... Jim Lowder, A.B. Short, Will D. Campbell, Ken Sehested, Bill Bowling, Cindy Weber and ... most of all Father Vernon Robertson.
So when the Baptist threw me out, Jimmy Buffett called me home.
We moved to Tybee Island which remains home. While I've imagined leaving, I've never really been able too. On island, I've become a Beach Bum who's also juggled a nutty career that has taken me around the world. Chelsea was born here reminding me that I still don't know anything about birth control but ... her heart is filled with sand just like mine and we've logged more hours in the sun together than anybody.
Then the kids all moved into their lives and left me here with this one. We all remain incredibly tight in a non-controlled sort of way but then again ... they were raised to not believe in control.
Afterwards, everything about the way I lived changed and I became a full time Beach Bum. I'm not sure that I ever want to leave it, though I am doing interesting stuff here and there while not really understanding what I'm doing at all. Yet after spending a couple of years with a dog in an empty house ... life is changing again.
Sarah came home and brought home back with her. She also brought three little girls. According to Jeremy, we're becoming the Brady Bunch. That alright ... my life would make a pretty interesting television show anyway. Sure, there are some things that I would do differently if I had the chance, but I wouldn't change anything.
So the sun's up and Chelsea's waiting for me at the Breakfast Club. Sam's studying for something. Chels and I are not certain about Kristen who has never seen the sun actually rise. Jeremy's traveling to Valdosta for Marie's birthday. Three little girls are re-arranging the house.
But you know what?
The sun is blazing, the air is warm and I'm barefoot.
Those other lives were great.
Ah ... but this one!
It's time to dive in.
Close your eyes and hear the splash.
Growing up in Port Wentworth was a wonderful thing. Riding cardboard boxes down the bank of the viaduct, being part of a fleet of bicycles to Mr. Cowart's Drug Store, stealing all of the flags from the Elementary School, playing army in the woods, and having my first kiss in an empty baptismal pool in the First Baptist Church listening to Tommy James and the Shondells (because the church was always unlocked and had a really good sound system).
In High School I became someone else ... A long haired football player who really wanted to play guitar. It seemed that I started to get in trouble a lot while getting affirmed for the things that I was getting in trouble about at the same time. It lead to a conclusion that trouble leads to affirmation.
Where do I begin?
I danced with a black girl at a segregated dance and was beaten up by the white guys the next day (thank you Gene Prevatt for trying to help that day). Afterwards, I was an honorary member of the black community, no small feat in Garden City Georgia in those days.
At college I fell into this group of crazy people who were all Baptist (we all still gather today for reunion tours and I'm sure the Public Broadcasting System will do a show on us soon for one of their fundraisers before we all die. Mitch Wesley will be the surprised guest.). I still had long hair, played football for the Baptist Student Union, occasionally went to class because I also played guitar, and learned about birth control. Jeremy was born and changed everything about everything.
When college threw me out, God "called me" to go to Seminary ... meaning Guy Sayles called me one night and asked me to come. So I did. Then everything really started going crazy!
I became Pastor of an inner city church, found fame and groupies, learned that I still didn't know anything about birth control and Kristen was born and stole my heart. I learned to love the underworld of homelessness, hookers, addicts, and the people thrown away by everybody else. I became part of this crazy radical community sprinkled throughout the US ... Jim Lowder, A.B. Short, Will D. Campbell, Ken Sehested, Bill Bowling, Cindy Weber and ... most of all Father Vernon Robertson.
So when the Baptist threw me out, Jimmy Buffett called me home.
We moved to Tybee Island which remains home. While I've imagined leaving, I've never really been able too. On island, I've become a Beach Bum who's also juggled a nutty career that has taken me around the world. Chelsea was born here reminding me that I still don't know anything about birth control but ... her heart is filled with sand just like mine and we've logged more hours in the sun together than anybody.
Then the kids all moved into their lives and left me here with this one. We all remain incredibly tight in a non-controlled sort of way but then again ... they were raised to not believe in control.
Afterwards, everything about the way I lived changed and I became a full time Beach Bum. I'm not sure that I ever want to leave it, though I am doing interesting stuff here and there while not really understanding what I'm doing at all. Yet after spending a couple of years with a dog in an empty house ... life is changing again.
Sarah came home and brought home back with her. She also brought three little girls. According to Jeremy, we're becoming the Brady Bunch. That alright ... my life would make a pretty interesting television show anyway. Sure, there are some things that I would do differently if I had the chance, but I wouldn't change anything.
So the sun's up and Chelsea's waiting for me at the Breakfast Club. Sam's studying for something. Chels and I are not certain about Kristen who has never seen the sun actually rise. Jeremy's traveling to Valdosta for Marie's birthday. Three little girls are re-arranging the house.
But you know what?
The sun is blazing, the air is warm and I'm barefoot.
Those other lives were great.
Ah ... but this one!
It's time to dive in.
Close your eyes and hear the splash.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Being who you're supposed to be
I logged on to Delta.com seeing for the first time in a decade that I didn't have a plane ticket for anywhere.
It gave me pause ... I had nowhere to go ... no place to be other than here ... no one was expecting anything of me.
I'd just been divorced and had left a career but old habits die hard and I'm not sure why on that day but I whipped out the I-phone and hit the Flight Status app and ... I didn't have one.
It was a very cathartic moment.
Wandering outside to the Beloved Back deck, I sat and pondered. Work no longer defined who I am. The relationship I'd given myself to had cashed in the chips and took them with her. For decades I was a very public figure, always in the news, giving speeches, writing books and fielding request to do something or the other.
Now the phone didn't ring, there were no invitations in the mail and many, many people who used to want something from me had moved on to wanting it from somebody else.
I was feeling pretty rotten about it all.
On a warm winter day I poured myself a glass of wine, meandered out to the back deck and propped my bare brown feet on the rail.
Holding my I-phone to my lips, I felt it rise from deep inside of me somewhere. Then it all happened quickly.
I hit Delta.com and booked for St. Martin ... twice! It was time to move.
Then I booked a flight to Pittsburgh on the suspicion that something might be there. There was an old invitation to go to Dallas so I bought that ticket too. Then an email came asking if I could be in St. Paul? Impulsively I bought that ticket too.
I was burning through the bank account but it felt right somehow.
Godly almost. "Hey Abram, you old man," God yelled, "get off thine ass as go! ... It'll be great!"
And the old man was foolish enough to listen.
It worked out for him so I figured it may work for me ... and it did.
I spent a month on an island that I love and was loved dearly by it and friends who had vague notions of what I'd done for a living or who I'd been with. Pittsburgh led to a contract that took me from Alaska to San Juan, Santa Barbara to Cleveland ... and others I don't remember anymore. It ended up being a terrific spring, summer and fall.
So yesterday I did it again. There were no outstanding obligations to go anywhere. I did have stuff to do but was itching for adventures.
Firing up the computer we went to Delta.com. and am returning to St. Martin soon. Then it's off to Washington state for a wedding I'd promised to do for Conner (and I'd do anything for Conner), now it may be Mexico (sounds so sweet that I just got to go). Oh yeah ... a presentation in Philadelphia is in there.
So I'm burning through what's left in the bank account but ... it's time to go.
It'll all work out. It always does. May as well have fun while its making its way to working out.
Besides, it's Biblical.
Get off thine ass and go ... be who you're supposed to be.
It gave me pause ... I had nowhere to go ... no place to be other than here ... no one was expecting anything of me.
I'd just been divorced and had left a career but old habits die hard and I'm not sure why on that day but I whipped out the I-phone and hit the Flight Status app and ... I didn't have one.
It was a very cathartic moment.
Wandering outside to the Beloved Back deck, I sat and pondered. Work no longer defined who I am. The relationship I'd given myself to had cashed in the chips and took them with her. For decades I was a very public figure, always in the news, giving speeches, writing books and fielding request to do something or the other.
Now the phone didn't ring, there were no invitations in the mail and many, many people who used to want something from me had moved on to wanting it from somebody else.
I was feeling pretty rotten about it all.
On a warm winter day I poured myself a glass of wine, meandered out to the back deck and propped my bare brown feet on the rail.
Holding my I-phone to my lips, I felt it rise from deep inside of me somewhere. Then it all happened quickly.
I hit Delta.com and booked for St. Martin ... twice! It was time to move.
Then I booked a flight to Pittsburgh on the suspicion that something might be there. There was an old invitation to go to Dallas so I bought that ticket too. Then an email came asking if I could be in St. Paul? Impulsively I bought that ticket too.
I was burning through the bank account but it felt right somehow.
Godly almost. "Hey Abram, you old man," God yelled, "get off thine ass as go! ... It'll be great!"
And the old man was foolish enough to listen.
It worked out for him so I figured it may work for me ... and it did.
I spent a month on an island that I love and was loved dearly by it and friends who had vague notions of what I'd done for a living or who I'd been with. Pittsburgh led to a contract that took me from Alaska to San Juan, Santa Barbara to Cleveland ... and others I don't remember anymore. It ended up being a terrific spring, summer and fall.
So yesterday I did it again. There were no outstanding obligations to go anywhere. I did have stuff to do but was itching for adventures.
Firing up the computer we went to Delta.com. and am returning to St. Martin soon. Then it's off to Washington state for a wedding I'd promised to do for Conner (and I'd do anything for Conner), now it may be Mexico (sounds so sweet that I just got to go). Oh yeah ... a presentation in Philadelphia is in there.
So I'm burning through what's left in the bank account but ... it's time to go.
It'll all work out. It always does. May as well have fun while its making its way to working out.
Besides, it's Biblical.
Get off thine ass and go ... be who you're supposed to be.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Why Not?
The sun is moving from the left side of the sliding glass doors to the right ... meaning that it's glaring directly in my eyes. Normally in the winter it rises behind Fran's thousand shades of green and muted sunshine makes the kitchen glow with a coolness that's cozy. In the summer, it rises behind the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt giving it's hairdo fawns a golden crown. Today it rises between the two and is blazing directly in my eyes.
I could turn in the other direction but it would make my computer screen go white and I wouldn't be able to see anything that I'm doing. I could go in another room but I like looking outside to see what the day's throwing my way. Besides, in just a little bit, it'll rise above the umbrella on the Beloved Back Deck and I'll see things fine.
I've never minded the sunshine. Lying on the beach for so many years, I love the way the blazing sun sprinkles diamonds on the ocean. I love the warmth that makes me feel loved. I love the light that drives the darkness from my heart. I love the slow red glow that begins behind the ocean and slowly rises until the sea bubbles then a new day is born that's just as holy as Jesus rising from the dead.
Every single day, the sun reminds me that I have the chance to begin again. Regardless of how sleepless the night was with worry, fitfulness or hopelessness, the rising sun greets me with a chipper, "Good Morning. Thank God that's over! Let's start again."
And we either do or we don't.
Yesterday was a long day for me. It began with great expectations, good work, lots of things accomplished with a crescendo around mid-after noon. With everything going on, I knew that somebody had my back!
Then as the sun set, the curve balls came everywhere. The rules I'd been playing by were suddenly changed. Much of the work that I'd completed now had to be re-worked. Emails were flying at me from across the country ripping the dusk into the day and welcoming the demons of the night.
I sighed leaning against the kitchen sink as the sliding glass doors were now painted in black.
I responded to the emails and they responded back. My stomach started growling. I poured a glass of wine.
"I always appreciate your optimism," an email informed me ... and it gave me pause.
Indeed, I am an optimist. Regardless of the moment, and how bad it is or how much it hurts or sucks, I am somehow in an optimum state. It'll be alright.
The major prophet Bob Marley runs through my head. "Everything's gonna be alright. Everything's gonna be alright. Everything's gonna be alright! Everything's gonna be alright. No woman, No Cry."
What is amazing to me is how so many people need my optimism shot into their lives. So many seem to just assume the worst and almost welcome it. I think they're nuts.
Looking back over my career, the commodity that I sold sold the most of was hope. "What do you mean we can't do this?" was the first question I asked. "Why not?"
I think "Why not?" is the most important question anyone can ask ... EVER!
Last night, while a lot of people were worrying and depressed about the way the day had ended, I lay in bed full of anticipation of the coming day. Sure I was awake in the middle of the night, in a bed full of hope and love, pondering ...the things that I am hoping for.
"There is always a way," is one of my mantras, so I lay there breathing in the scents of love ... figuring out the way.
"Now faith is the evidence of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" ... but they are sure as hell felt! They are dreamed! They are known somehow even though they are far from real at the moment. Who cares? Believe in them anyway.
So last night I held my hopes tightly to my chest as though a pillow I hugged. The darkness had a light to it as I pondered the roadblocks, realities and realistic circumstances that I find myself in. But I wasn't focused on them as much as I lay there contemplating how to overcome them ... because I will.
Why not?
Just as sure as I was that the sun was going to rise ... and I'm watching it do an amazing job of it this morning.
"Oh Lord," I pray out loud, "Let me be like the sun today. I'm gonna rise above all of this darkness."
Amen.
I could turn in the other direction but it would make my computer screen go white and I wouldn't be able to see anything that I'm doing. I could go in another room but I like looking outside to see what the day's throwing my way. Besides, in just a little bit, it'll rise above the umbrella on the Beloved Back Deck and I'll see things fine.
I've never minded the sunshine. Lying on the beach for so many years, I love the way the blazing sun sprinkles diamonds on the ocean. I love the warmth that makes me feel loved. I love the light that drives the darkness from my heart. I love the slow red glow that begins behind the ocean and slowly rises until the sea bubbles then a new day is born that's just as holy as Jesus rising from the dead.
Every single day, the sun reminds me that I have the chance to begin again. Regardless of how sleepless the night was with worry, fitfulness or hopelessness, the rising sun greets me with a chipper, "Good Morning. Thank God that's over! Let's start again."
And we either do or we don't.
Yesterday was a long day for me. It began with great expectations, good work, lots of things accomplished with a crescendo around mid-after noon. With everything going on, I knew that somebody had my back!
Then as the sun set, the curve balls came everywhere. The rules I'd been playing by were suddenly changed. Much of the work that I'd completed now had to be re-worked. Emails were flying at me from across the country ripping the dusk into the day and welcoming the demons of the night.
I sighed leaning against the kitchen sink as the sliding glass doors were now painted in black.
I responded to the emails and they responded back. My stomach started growling. I poured a glass of wine.
"I always appreciate your optimism," an email informed me ... and it gave me pause.
Indeed, I am an optimist. Regardless of the moment, and how bad it is or how much it hurts or sucks, I am somehow in an optimum state. It'll be alright.
The major prophet Bob Marley runs through my head. "Everything's gonna be alright. Everything's gonna be alright. Everything's gonna be alright! Everything's gonna be alright. No woman, No Cry."
What is amazing to me is how so many people need my optimism shot into their lives. So many seem to just assume the worst and almost welcome it. I think they're nuts.
Looking back over my career, the commodity that I sold sold the most of was hope. "What do you mean we can't do this?" was the first question I asked. "Why not?"
I think "Why not?" is the most important question anyone can ask ... EVER!
Last night, while a lot of people were worrying and depressed about the way the day had ended, I lay in bed full of anticipation of the coming day. Sure I was awake in the middle of the night, in a bed full of hope and love, pondering ...the things that I am hoping for.
"There is always a way," is one of my mantras, so I lay there breathing in the scents of love ... figuring out the way.
"Now faith is the evidence of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen" ... but they are sure as hell felt! They are dreamed! They are known somehow even though they are far from real at the moment. Who cares? Believe in them anyway.
So last night I held my hopes tightly to my chest as though a pillow I hugged. The darkness had a light to it as I pondered the roadblocks, realities and realistic circumstances that I find myself in. But I wasn't focused on them as much as I lay there contemplating how to overcome them ... because I will.
Why not?
Just as sure as I was that the sun was going to rise ... and I'm watching it do an amazing job of it this morning.
"Oh Lord," I pray out loud, "Let me be like the sun today. I'm gonna rise above all of this darkness."
Amen.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Self Titled
Rene asked me the other day night why all of my status updates are songs. Actually they're all song titles though lately I've been throwing in some of the lyrics too. Every single update I've posted as had a song title in it.
When I found myself Suddenly Single I was posting things like "Micheal wants to know how do you mend a broken heart? As I continue to be mystified by the things most every elected official does it would be "Micheal asks And they call this democracy?" As I came out of a funk, "Micheal was sitting on the dock and Here comes the sun! As Sarah came around it was "Micheal says Love me Do!"
You get the idea.
It's fun and challenging as I try to never repeat the same song title. I also try to make it fit in with whatever I'm feeling, doing or thinking that day. Sometimes I choose obscure things just to see if there is a song that Mitch Wesley doesn't know (he's freaking amazing).
It all goes back to the days when I was a "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky. A "Professional Christian" is one who get paid for what everybody else is asked to do for free. So as Pastor of the Chapel (and I use the term lightly) I had to write and deliver a sermon every Sunday. I was pretty good at the writing and delivering part. I really sucked at the naming part.
If I'd had my way I'd just name them Sermon I, Sermon II, Sermon III ... or just date them or something.
That didn't go over very well with the little old ladies, homeless people and radical Seminary students who made up the congregation. They demanded to know what the sermon was about before they fell asleep asleep, did drugs or walked out.
So I took to naming sermons after song titles. My examination of Noah and the Flood was called Riders on the Storm.
The lessons of John the Baptist was One Tin Soilder. Looking at promises of life after death was Don't fear the Reaper. Scripture from Revelation was It's the end of the world as we know it. And of course on Easter Sunday was Always look on the bright side of life.
The little old ladies didn't always get it but everybody else thought it was pretty funny.
So I kept at it.
Then God invented Mark Zuckerberg to invent Face Book, I resumed the practice with status updates.
I still struggle with titles ... I've only named half of the eight books that I've written. The first four the publisher thought my title sucked. They over rode me and picked something they liked better. The Society of Salty Saints, Community of the Abandoned, Partners in Grace, and Why the Homeless Don't Have Homes were all titles I had nothing to do with.
I got better at it. Running with the Dolphins, Playing Hide and Seek with God, Out From Under the Rock and Tour of Homes were all things I actually thought of and they weren't rejected.
But I like the whole using song title thing. I mean all of these great artists, writers and singers have already come up with the greatest titles in the world. Why not recycle them if they work for you?
So my Mom's been after me to get a haircut lately so yesterday it was Mama told me not to come ... but I did anyway. I had a great Sunday at Bar Church, with Sarah and unexpected and lucrative business opportunities dropped in my lap making me feel like everything is getting ready to happen at once I've got a feeling ... a feeling deep inside.
So that's the story behind the status.
I don't know if anybody cares or not but it's fun for me.
And sometimes you just got to do stuff just for you.
OK, I got to get to work. Back on the Chain Gang.
When I found myself Suddenly Single I was posting things like "Micheal wants to know how do you mend a broken heart? As I continue to be mystified by the things most every elected official does it would be "Micheal asks And they call this democracy?" As I came out of a funk, "Micheal was sitting on the dock and Here comes the sun! As Sarah came around it was "Micheal says Love me Do!"
You get the idea.
It's fun and challenging as I try to never repeat the same song title. I also try to make it fit in with whatever I'm feeling, doing or thinking that day. Sometimes I choose obscure things just to see if there is a song that Mitch Wesley doesn't know (he's freaking amazing).
It all goes back to the days when I was a "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky. A "Professional Christian" is one who get paid for what everybody else is asked to do for free. So as Pastor of the Chapel (and I use the term lightly) I had to write and deliver a sermon every Sunday. I was pretty good at the writing and delivering part. I really sucked at the naming part.
If I'd had my way I'd just name them Sermon I, Sermon II, Sermon III ... or just date them or something.
That didn't go over very well with the little old ladies, homeless people and radical Seminary students who made up the congregation. They demanded to know what the sermon was about before they fell asleep asleep, did drugs or walked out.
So I took to naming sermons after song titles. My examination of Noah and the Flood was called Riders on the Storm.
The lessons of John the Baptist was One Tin Soilder. Looking at promises of life after death was Don't fear the Reaper. Scripture from Revelation was It's the end of the world as we know it. And of course on Easter Sunday was Always look on the bright side of life.
The little old ladies didn't always get it but everybody else thought it was pretty funny.
So I kept at it.
Then God invented Mark Zuckerberg to invent Face Book, I resumed the practice with status updates.
I still struggle with titles ... I've only named half of the eight books that I've written. The first four the publisher thought my title sucked. They over rode me and picked something they liked better. The Society of Salty Saints, Community of the Abandoned, Partners in Grace, and Why the Homeless Don't Have Homes were all titles I had nothing to do with.
I got better at it. Running with the Dolphins, Playing Hide and Seek with God, Out From Under the Rock and Tour of Homes were all things I actually thought of and they weren't rejected.
But I like the whole using song title thing. I mean all of these great artists, writers and singers have already come up with the greatest titles in the world. Why not recycle them if they work for you?
So my Mom's been after me to get a haircut lately so yesterday it was Mama told me not to come ... but I did anyway. I had a great Sunday at Bar Church, with Sarah and unexpected and lucrative business opportunities dropped in my lap making me feel like everything is getting ready to happen at once I've got a feeling ... a feeling deep inside.
So that's the story behind the status.
I don't know if anybody cares or not but it's fun for me.
And sometimes you just got to do stuff just for you.
OK, I got to get to work. Back on the Chain Gang.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
A Shitty Wedding
My friend Wen told me this one after I'd told the story of Henrietta throwing the bread into Johnny O's brand new truck in the parking lot at Fannie's-On-The-Beach. Seagulls came from everywhere and soon the truck was covered in their shit and scratched up with the claws of their feet. Inside we'd watched all of this and laughed ourselves silly.
We were all at Wen's birthday party, drinking beers and telling stories while children ran like crazy around the deck at Huck-A-Poo's or The Poo, as it is known by the regulars.
Wen and her husband Sean and their family recently moved to Tybee and were immediately adopted into the Carnival of Friends or maybe they adopted us ... who knows? ... but now we are all one.
Wen is an incredible photographer, Sean does film and their kids give great hugs while being hilarious at the same time. Sean is now in the Bar Church Band ... though God told Sam to tell us to inexplicably take the day off today. You can never figure out God and Sam.
Anyway, Wen was shooting a wedding on the beach.
It was a gorgeous beach day ... the bride was beautiful ... the groom was beautiful ... their families were beautiful ... the rings were beautiful ... the trash produced by the gathering was beautiful ... the cigarette butts thrown into the powdery white sand were beautiful ... the ugliest person there had just passed the bar for beauty so everybody was beautiful ... THIS WAS ONE BEAUTIFUL WEDDING!
The beautiful bride and the beautiful groom decided to have Butterflies released as they became a beautiful wife and a beautiful husband because it would be ... BEAUTIFUL!
So the beautiful gathering held boxes with a butterfly inside.
No one could hear a damn thing because the trapped Butterflies were trying to break out of their captivity so it was a hundred boxes held by beautiful hands shaking, thumping and making a lot of noise.
Then the beautiful new wife kissed the beautiful new husband and the beautiful people opened the boxes.
The Butterflies flew towards heaven.
Everyone clapped.
It was gloriously beautiful.
Especially for the Seagulls.
They took flight and devoured every single Butterfly over the heads of the beautiful gathering.
Of course they also did what Seagulls do ... they shit!
... all over the beautiful wife, the beautiful husband, their beautiful families and the beautiful gathering ...
It was one shitty wedding!
But Wen's got pictures!
So, given a choice between Butterflies and Seagulls at your next wedding, I suggest opting for the Seagulls if you're at the beach.
We were all at Wen's birthday party, drinking beers and telling stories while children ran like crazy around the deck at Huck-A-Poo's or The Poo, as it is known by the regulars.
Wen and her husband Sean and their family recently moved to Tybee and were immediately adopted into the Carnival of Friends or maybe they adopted us ... who knows? ... but now we are all one.
Wen is an incredible photographer, Sean does film and their kids give great hugs while being hilarious at the same time. Sean is now in the Bar Church Band ... though God told Sam to tell us to inexplicably take the day off today. You can never figure out God and Sam.
Anyway, Wen was shooting a wedding on the beach.
It was a gorgeous beach day ... the bride was beautiful ... the groom was beautiful ... their families were beautiful ... the rings were beautiful ... the trash produced by the gathering was beautiful ... the cigarette butts thrown into the powdery white sand were beautiful ... the ugliest person there had just passed the bar for beauty so everybody was beautiful ... THIS WAS ONE BEAUTIFUL WEDDING!
The beautiful bride and the beautiful groom decided to have Butterflies released as they became a beautiful wife and a beautiful husband because it would be ... BEAUTIFUL!
So the beautiful gathering held boxes with a butterfly inside.
No one could hear a damn thing because the trapped Butterflies were trying to break out of their captivity so it was a hundred boxes held by beautiful hands shaking, thumping and making a lot of noise.
Then the beautiful new wife kissed the beautiful new husband and the beautiful people opened the boxes.
The Butterflies flew towards heaven.
Everyone clapped.
It was gloriously beautiful.
Especially for the Seagulls.
They took flight and devoured every single Butterfly over the heads of the beautiful gathering.
Of course they also did what Seagulls do ... they shit!
... all over the beautiful wife, the beautiful husband, their beautiful families and the beautiful gathering ...
It was one shitty wedding!
But Wen's got pictures!
So, given a choice between Butterflies and Seagulls at your next wedding, I suggest opting for the Seagulls if you're at the beach.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Coming Together
I didn't wear underwear or socks.
I didn't wear a coat and tie either.
I did have a beautiful woman with me.
And I was surrounded by friends that I haven't seen in a year.
There were lots of hugs and kisses. A lot of people told me how good I look ... how happy I seem. Plans were made. Invitations were extended. Promises sealed.
There were lots of congratulations to Sarah that were both personal (You're with him?) and professional (Thank God you got out of that clown ass place!).
She also had lots of funny questions ... "How are things at the Starfish Cafe? ..."What do you do?" and "Have you lost your mind?"
There were lots of questions of me ... "Tell me more about Bar Church?" ... "What the heck is Street Medicine? ... "How do I get in touch with you?"
Making it funnier is that we were at a political function in Atlanta, at the Old Rainroad Depot, with a thousand people mostly from Savannah. The politicians were lightly sprinkled last night so it was the Savannah crowd enjoying one another. It was easy to talk to everyone at once. There were oysters, shrimp and bar-b-que. Alcohol flowed freely.
People that we used to work with came up and gave us hugs. Others that we used to work with saw us ... and ran.
But it was a magical night.
Love, affirmation and expextations of the future rained upon us.
Afterwards, we walked the streets of Atlanta holding hands and laughing.
At the Hard Rock Cafe we reviewed the surprises of the evening and made plans for a Full Moon Party.
I'm glad we came but I'm ready to get back home.
But I feel things I haven't felt in a long time. Things are getting ready to explode. People are anticipating it. Many asks for it. After a couple of years of unraveling, everything is now coming together.
That was clear last night.
This morning, it is hard not to smile and just know ... how special this is all going to be.
I didn't wear a coat and tie either.
I did have a beautiful woman with me.
And I was surrounded by friends that I haven't seen in a year.
There were lots of hugs and kisses. A lot of people told me how good I look ... how happy I seem. Plans were made. Invitations were extended. Promises sealed.
There were lots of congratulations to Sarah that were both personal (You're with him?) and professional (Thank God you got out of that clown ass place!).
She also had lots of funny questions ... "How are things at the Starfish Cafe? ..."What do you do?" and "Have you lost your mind?"
There were lots of questions of me ... "Tell me more about Bar Church?" ... "What the heck is Street Medicine? ... "How do I get in touch with you?"
Making it funnier is that we were at a political function in Atlanta, at the Old Rainroad Depot, with a thousand people mostly from Savannah. The politicians were lightly sprinkled last night so it was the Savannah crowd enjoying one another. It was easy to talk to everyone at once. There were oysters, shrimp and bar-b-que. Alcohol flowed freely.
People that we used to work with came up and gave us hugs. Others that we used to work with saw us ... and ran.
But it was a magical night.
Love, affirmation and expextations of the future rained upon us.
Afterwards, we walked the streets of Atlanta holding hands and laughing.
At the Hard Rock Cafe we reviewed the surprises of the evening and made plans for a Full Moon Party.
I'm glad we came but I'm ready to get back home.
But I feel things I haven't felt in a long time. Things are getting ready to explode. People are anticipating it. Many asks for it. After a couple of years of unraveling, everything is now coming together.
That was clear last night.
This morning, it is hard not to smile and just know ... how special this is all going to be.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
My Life As An Influence Peddler
If Mitt Romney were here, he would call me an "influence peddler" just like he did Newt Gingrich. I wouldn't like it ... not because it's true but I don't want to be associated with Newt ... or with Mitt.
I prefer to hang around people with regular names like John, Judy, Joe, Cheryl, Mark or Mitch.
The truth of the matter is I also hang around people with political names like Dedra and Whitley.
And it is also true that throughout my career I've been an influence peddler.
"Let me make this perfectly clear, I've never been a lobbyist," said Newt, and as much as I dislike him, I have to agree.
I never actually registered as a lobbyist but I sure spent hundreds of hours in Savannah, Atlanta, and Washington D.C. pushing for things I believe in. The end result was Union Mission got millions of dollars to help the poor, several policy changes were implemented either because I asked for them or because the member of the elect were so horrified at what I was asking for that they passed laws to do the opposite.
It's crazy work.
If I were writing Wickipedia, I would define lobbyist as "ass kisser with chapped lips with a skin tone that leans towards brown."
Of course, I would define politician as "someone who likes to have their ass perpetually kissed and is willing to endure most anything to have this pleasurable experience continue including selling their soul, lying, stepping on most anyone and defining it as public service."
Sure there are some exceptions.
They weren't re-elected.
So I tell you that to tell you this.
I'm getting ready to drive to Atlanta (which thinks its the Center of the Universe) to go to Lobby-Fest otherwise known as Savannah Day in Atlanta, a giant cocktail (oh, the things I could do with that word in this context) party with seafood and bar-b-que and ass kissing of major proportions.
Over the past twenty-five years, I think I've missed one. It was all work related until last year when I no longer represented Union Mission or anything else except me.
"What are you doing here?" Sonny Dixon asked me. "You don't have to be here anymore."
"Because I want to be," I replied. "I can ask the question that everyone wants to ask but can't ... Governor Deal, just how in the hell did you get elected?"
I never got to ask it though.
My friend Terry Ball showed up and we sat and caught. Terry and I did a lot of good things together and it was more important to spend good time with him. I remember a lot of people coming up and giving me hugs and asking me what I was doing now, why I left Union Mission and if I could help with this or that.
I told them that I was working on my tan, Union Mission had left me and I was no longer an influence peddler.
Then the Union Mission people showed up, saw me and left so I got another ... cocktail.
But the truth of the matter is ... I am and influence peddler.
I'm going back today for a lot of reasons.
First, my beautify daughter Chelsea has an apartment on the Georgia Tech campus and she just graduated from the University of Georgia and this cracks me up. Oh the irony of what love can do to you!
Second, I hope to see Terry Ball again. I miss him.
Third, over those decades I made a lot of friends whom I haven't seen in year. What's a $100 ticket, the cost of gas to Atlanta and an overpriced hotel room to (a) see a lot of people I really like (b) ignore people I really don't like (c) have steamed oysters and bar-b-que and (d) see an ass kissing festival (rivaled only by the Southern Baptist Convention)?
Fourth, Sarah and I are making it a road trip!
Anyway ... I have to go find my brown shoes.
I haven't worn them in a year.
Next time you're with any member of The Elect (meaning they got themselves elected) look at their shoes.
If they're brown ... well you know why.
If they're black ... they've been in office WAY TOO LONG.
Come to think of it ... I'm wearing Flip-Flops tonight.
I think they will have more influence.
I prefer to hang around people with regular names like John, Judy, Joe, Cheryl, Mark or Mitch.
The truth of the matter is I also hang around people with political names like Dedra and Whitley.
And it is also true that throughout my career I've been an influence peddler.
"Let me make this perfectly clear, I've never been a lobbyist," said Newt, and as much as I dislike him, I have to agree.
I never actually registered as a lobbyist but I sure spent hundreds of hours in Savannah, Atlanta, and Washington D.C. pushing for things I believe in. The end result was Union Mission got millions of dollars to help the poor, several policy changes were implemented either because I asked for them or because the member of the elect were so horrified at what I was asking for that they passed laws to do the opposite.
It's crazy work.
If I were writing Wickipedia, I would define lobbyist as "ass kisser with chapped lips with a skin tone that leans towards brown."
Of course, I would define politician as "someone who likes to have their ass perpetually kissed and is willing to endure most anything to have this pleasurable experience continue including selling their soul, lying, stepping on most anyone and defining it as public service."
Sure there are some exceptions.
They weren't re-elected.
So I tell you that to tell you this.
I'm getting ready to drive to Atlanta (which thinks its the Center of the Universe) to go to Lobby-Fest otherwise known as Savannah Day in Atlanta, a giant cocktail (oh, the things I could do with that word in this context) party with seafood and bar-b-que and ass kissing of major proportions.
Over the past twenty-five years, I think I've missed one. It was all work related until last year when I no longer represented Union Mission or anything else except me.
"What are you doing here?" Sonny Dixon asked me. "You don't have to be here anymore."
"Because I want to be," I replied. "I can ask the question that everyone wants to ask but can't ... Governor Deal, just how in the hell did you get elected?"
I never got to ask it though.
My friend Terry Ball showed up and we sat and caught. Terry and I did a lot of good things together and it was more important to spend good time with him. I remember a lot of people coming up and giving me hugs and asking me what I was doing now, why I left Union Mission and if I could help with this or that.
I told them that I was working on my tan, Union Mission had left me and I was no longer an influence peddler.
Then the Union Mission people showed up, saw me and left so I got another ... cocktail.
But the truth of the matter is ... I am and influence peddler.
I'm going back today for a lot of reasons.
First, my beautify daughter Chelsea has an apartment on the Georgia Tech campus and she just graduated from the University of Georgia and this cracks me up. Oh the irony of what love can do to you!
Second, I hope to see Terry Ball again. I miss him.
Third, over those decades I made a lot of friends whom I haven't seen in year. What's a $100 ticket, the cost of gas to Atlanta and an overpriced hotel room to (a) see a lot of people I really like (b) ignore people I really don't like (c) have steamed oysters and bar-b-que and (d) see an ass kissing festival (rivaled only by the Southern Baptist Convention)?
Fourth, Sarah and I are making it a road trip!
Anyway ... I have to go find my brown shoes.
I haven't worn them in a year.
Next time you're with any member of The Elect (meaning they got themselves elected) look at their shoes.
If they're brown ... well you know why.
If they're black ... they've been in office WAY TOO LONG.
Come to think of it ... I'm wearing Flip-Flops tonight.
I think they will have more influence.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The Real Life Version of Jeapordy
Mark and I are sipping coffee at the Breakfast Club, talking to Franklin (who is brown), waiting on Dedra (who is late), and solving all of the problems in the lives of our friends. We figure out Dee's future; what Mitch should do; why Franklin should actually date younger women instead of cougars , and what happens if you put Republicans and Democrats together --- YOU GET CONGRESS! --- Let's separate those bastards!
Perhaps Mark and I will get around to sharing this information. For the moment are opting to keep it to ourselves.
In our real life version of Jeopardy, we've got the answers.
Eventually someone will have the questions.
Isn't it funny?
That's the way life is.
Things are often out of order.
Answers present themselves before any questions are asked.
Mark and I went to college together a thousand years ago. His wife Gyni was there with us. Dedra is older than the rest of us so she overlapped for a while. Mitch was Mark's roommate. Franklin (who is brown) wasn't born yet ... come to think of it, neither was the Breakfast Club.
We graduated and went our own ways and twenty more years slipped away.
Then God decreed from on high that Mark Zuckerberg be born and, either invent or steal the creation of Facebook so that Dedra, Mark, Mitch and I could all find one another again. We had been scattered to and fro on the face of ... Georgia. Summer before last we had a reunion at my house and realized that we are still as youthful, clever, funny and downright beautiful as we were in college.
And God looked over what She'd made and said, "It is good."
Since then, it's like we're all in college again without the unpleasant burden of actually attending class (thank you Judy O'Neill) ... come to think of it, Dedra, Mark and Mitch actually attended class in college while I made occasional appearances.
We all communicate daily and are heavily invested in each others lives. Last night, having dinner at A J's and Sarah and I were talking dates, Mark's ripped out his phone to put it on his calendar while Dedra rolled her eyes. Then Dedra fell asleep in her food. Just like when we were in college. Mitch wasn't with us so naturally he was talked about most.
"Then God looked down and decreed, Tybee Island needs a bass player, get thine ass down there more often."
The four of us looked towards the heavens listening to this ... Dedra had mayonnaise on her face ... then realized that God was talking to Mitch and not us. We promised to tell him. Once he gets around to asking the question. He's busy right now and his wife Linda is preparing taxes for other people from morning until night and you know how Caesar is about taxes.
But we've been struck by the things that have happened since summer before last. All four of our lives have been radically altered. Dedra now lives on Tybee and is unemployed (like half the island). Mitch left the Pharaohs of the Southern Baptist Convention and is wandering around the wilderness of Milledgeville, GA. Mark is going on interviews. Linda's doing other people's taxes. Gyni refuses to be associated with the rest of us and only sends private messages. And my whole world blew up!
Answers presented themselves way before we asked any questions.
But I think that the way that life really is.
The answers come first.
If we're smart, we get around to asking the question.
Then it all makes sense.
Perhaps Mark and I will get around to sharing this information. For the moment are opting to keep it to ourselves.
In our real life version of Jeopardy, we've got the answers.
Eventually someone will have the questions.
Isn't it funny?
That's the way life is.
Things are often out of order.
Answers present themselves before any questions are asked.
Mark and I went to college together a thousand years ago. His wife Gyni was there with us. Dedra is older than the rest of us so she overlapped for a while. Mitch was Mark's roommate. Franklin (who is brown) wasn't born yet ... come to think of it, neither was the Breakfast Club.
We graduated and went our own ways and twenty more years slipped away.
Then God decreed from on high that Mark Zuckerberg be born and, either invent or steal the creation of Facebook so that Dedra, Mark, Mitch and I could all find one another again. We had been scattered to and fro on the face of ... Georgia. Summer before last we had a reunion at my house and realized that we are still as youthful, clever, funny and downright beautiful as we were in college.
And God looked over what She'd made and said, "It is good."
Since then, it's like we're all in college again without the unpleasant burden of actually attending class (thank you Judy O'Neill) ... come to think of it, Dedra, Mark and Mitch actually attended class in college while I made occasional appearances.
We all communicate daily and are heavily invested in each others lives. Last night, having dinner at A J's and Sarah and I were talking dates, Mark's ripped out his phone to put it on his calendar while Dedra rolled her eyes. Then Dedra fell asleep in her food. Just like when we were in college. Mitch wasn't with us so naturally he was talked about most.
"Then God looked down and decreed, Tybee Island needs a bass player, get thine ass down there more often."
The four of us looked towards the heavens listening to this ... Dedra had mayonnaise on her face ... then realized that God was talking to Mitch and not us. We promised to tell him. Once he gets around to asking the question. He's busy right now and his wife Linda is preparing taxes for other people from morning until night and you know how Caesar is about taxes.
But we've been struck by the things that have happened since summer before last. All four of our lives have been radically altered. Dedra now lives on Tybee and is unemployed (like half the island). Mitch left the Pharaohs of the Southern Baptist Convention and is wandering around the wilderness of Milledgeville, GA. Mark is going on interviews. Linda's doing other people's taxes. Gyni refuses to be associated with the rest of us and only sends private messages. And my whole world blew up!
Answers presented themselves way before we asked any questions.
But I think that the way that life really is.
The answers come first.
If we're smart, we get around to asking the question.
Then it all makes sense.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
My New World
When your world blows up it's never really put back together again though that is obviously the first thing you wish for and try to make happen. Why can't it be like it used to be? But it never really is. It's funny how much time we spend trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again. But damn we try!
The planet Krypton blew up and Superman spent the rest of his days on the run. He was forever running to a new world that he could call home.
Or ... Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath where the Joads set out for California because there's nothing left in Oklahoma except dust and they believe there's got to be something better than dust to live for.
Or ... Moses wandering around in the Wilderness for forty years looking for a Promised Land because the alternative was hopeless slavery.
Or ... ME!
A couple of years ago, my whole world blew up. Shockingly, I found myself suddenly single (thank you Bill Shearouse), remaining on the island of St. Martin by myself taking long beach walks, losing weight while eating fish with Oliver, getting darker than I've ever been (please appreciate the double entrendre), and pouring it all out in writing on the World Wide Web. I didn't want to go back to a world that used to be so I stayed on the run.
I was on the run because it's hard to say who you are these days, but you run on anyway don't you baby? You keep running for another place to find that saving grace (Tom Petty). Most of what had defined who I was wasn't there anymore. At least that's what I believed. Of course you remain in a state of shock for a while when worlds blow up.
When I finally came home, some things remain. It was akin to Tornado or Hurricane victims returning to their blown apart and water soaked home to see what they can salvage. Back on Tybee, I found the house was intact but the home was gone. The sun still rose but the reasons to get up in the morning were nowhere to be found. Empty nails that hung pictures survived but their reason for being there were missing. Empty closets came from nowhere.
There were incredible discoveries during the salvage operation. My children were still with me. So were a small handful of people who love me for who I am and not for what I can do for them. Tybee, which means salt in Euchee Indian, served as a preservative and soothed a broken soul. Dead friends came back to life. Goddess remained steadfast.
Most importantly, though it took a long time, I found me again.
One of the things that has come to me over the past couple of years is the conviction that we are left to build ourselves a new world. God creates. God created people who create ... or they don't. If they don't ... they sin. If they do ... they're working alongside God which is as holy as it gets.
So I've been creating ... which is damn hard work! The bathroom doesn't look anything like it did before. The bed in the bedroom is new. The kitchen is much better than it used to be. The backyard looks great! The things I work on everyday are more satisfying than the things I worked on before (though the pay isn't as good). The joys of performing on the Back Row are tremendous and extend from Bar Church to Street Medicine to places around the world.
And just has Superman never made it back to Krypton, the Joads somehow found their way, and Moses never thought for a second about going back to Egypt ... Savannah means little to me anymore. Creating takes most of your energy leaving precious little for what used to be. And Humpty Dumpty is just a bunch of broken eggs.
But ...
This is a beautiful place. Surrounded by people who love me, doing things that are meaningful to me, ignoring all of the advice from those who want me to be who I used to be ... I find myself incredibly happy. Though the scars of a blown up world have left me more cautious than I've ever been. One blown up world a lifetime is enough for anybody! The truth is that I've lived through five ... which is a bitch.
But here I am. Passionately in love. Figuring out financing. Apparently unable to determine which is the most important stack of stuff to work on first. I want to take Sarah to places we will discover together. And there is a new family to be hatched ... which is what you make out of broken eggs.
But ... I can SEE the Promised Land.
I figure I'll be there by March.
The planet Krypton blew up and Superman spent the rest of his days on the run. He was forever running to a new world that he could call home.
Or ... Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath where the Joads set out for California because there's nothing left in Oklahoma except dust and they believe there's got to be something better than dust to live for.
Or ... Moses wandering around in the Wilderness for forty years looking for a Promised Land because the alternative was hopeless slavery.
Or ... ME!
A couple of years ago, my whole world blew up. Shockingly, I found myself suddenly single (thank you Bill Shearouse), remaining on the island of St. Martin by myself taking long beach walks, losing weight while eating fish with Oliver, getting darker than I've ever been (please appreciate the double entrendre), and pouring it all out in writing on the World Wide Web. I didn't want to go back to a world that used to be so I stayed on the run.
I was on the run because it's hard to say who you are these days, but you run on anyway don't you baby? You keep running for another place to find that saving grace (Tom Petty). Most of what had defined who I was wasn't there anymore. At least that's what I believed. Of course you remain in a state of shock for a while when worlds blow up.
When I finally came home, some things remain. It was akin to Tornado or Hurricane victims returning to their blown apart and water soaked home to see what they can salvage. Back on Tybee, I found the house was intact but the home was gone. The sun still rose but the reasons to get up in the morning were nowhere to be found. Empty nails that hung pictures survived but their reason for being there were missing. Empty closets came from nowhere.
There were incredible discoveries during the salvage operation. My children were still with me. So were a small handful of people who love me for who I am and not for what I can do for them. Tybee, which means salt in Euchee Indian, served as a preservative and soothed a broken soul. Dead friends came back to life. Goddess remained steadfast.
Most importantly, though it took a long time, I found me again.
One of the things that has come to me over the past couple of years is the conviction that we are left to build ourselves a new world. God creates. God created people who create ... or they don't. If they don't ... they sin. If they do ... they're working alongside God which is as holy as it gets.
So I've been creating ... which is damn hard work! The bathroom doesn't look anything like it did before. The bed in the bedroom is new. The kitchen is much better than it used to be. The backyard looks great! The things I work on everyday are more satisfying than the things I worked on before (though the pay isn't as good). The joys of performing on the Back Row are tremendous and extend from Bar Church to Street Medicine to places around the world.
And just has Superman never made it back to Krypton, the Joads somehow found their way, and Moses never thought for a second about going back to Egypt ... Savannah means little to me anymore. Creating takes most of your energy leaving precious little for what used to be. And Humpty Dumpty is just a bunch of broken eggs.
But ...
This is a beautiful place. Surrounded by people who love me, doing things that are meaningful to me, ignoring all of the advice from those who want me to be who I used to be ... I find myself incredibly happy. Though the scars of a blown up world have left me more cautious than I've ever been. One blown up world a lifetime is enough for anybody! The truth is that I've lived through five ... which is a bitch.
But here I am. Passionately in love. Figuring out financing. Apparently unable to determine which is the most important stack of stuff to work on first. I want to take Sarah to places we will discover together. And there is a new family to be hatched ... which is what you make out of broken eggs.
But ... I can SEE the Promised Land.
I figure I'll be there by March.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Living Prayer
"Justin never knew the rules, Hung down with the freaks and ghouls. No apologies ever need to be made ... I know you better than you fake it ..."
Fog hangs low just off the Beloved Back deck making love to Fran's thousand shades of green. Staring at it through the muted light coming in the sliding glass doors of the kitchen, my mind keeps slipping off somewhere. My chin planted firmly in my hand, I'll come back from whatever universe I was in to realize that I'm still sitting here, part of the fog.
Mellon Colly and the Infinite Silence is streaming through my computer. My son Jeremy sent me this years ago. He and I have exchanged music forever. His beautiful sister Chelsea is part of the cultural exchange too and we all keep introducing one another to new things. Music flows through our bloodstreams.
It's the perfect batch of songs for a morning like this.
I'm listening to ... 1979 ... when my mind returns from wherever its been and I realize that was three songs ago. How did I miss it? Where did Scotty beam me? I guess I do believe in out-of-body experiences.
A power transformer blows somewhere on the island. The fog's lovemaking is wrecking havoc as people prepare for work and school. Sirens from Fire Engines are in the distance.
"And we don't know where our bones will rest, to dust I guess, forgotten and absorbed into the earth below ..."
Melancholy ... sad, gloomy or depressed.
I'm not though.
It's more wishful thinking ... beliefs and making decisions according to what might be pleasing to imagine instead of appealing to evidence, rationality or reality.
"Do you pray?" I was asked last night. "I never see you pray before a meal," the little girl asked me. "Do you know that God is over 400 feet tall?"
"That's a lot," I replied looking at her. "I kind of live a prayer," told her. "I don't think God cares if I say grace or not. Sometimes I do when its important to other people. How do you know how tall God is?"
It's in some book titled God's Promises for your every need.
I'm much more into Wishful Thinking ... "Now faith is the evidence of things hoped for, not seen."
This morning, I believe this is why Scotty keeps beaming me up and I continue to miss the melancholy music and lose the fog. I'm leaving the place where are words are necessary or rules are needed ... to go to the place where freaks and ghouls are one with everyone because ... we are all freaks and ghouls.
When my grandfather Ira Vernon Carver was dying, he lay in the bed in his own bedroom, unable to get out of it. It's the same bed that I heard him kneel down beside every single night and pray our loud. They were long prayers with his hands clasped and his elbows resting on the blankets and he'd call name after name. He sweated prayer. Then he'd get under the blankets and sleep. The next morning, he would live prayers.
During his last days, I'd go see him and sit beside his bed and he'd tell me everything he'd done that day. Without ever leaving his bed ... he'd go to Charleston because he needed to talk to somebody he'd prayed about. He described heaven to me once and I asked him how he knew.
"I just got back," he explained in all seriousness.
"I'm with you Granddad," I remember saying, holding his frail dying hand.
This morning I really am.
Beam me up Scotty.
We've got stuff to do. Things to make real. Fog to cast out. Dances to have.
Amen.
Hey Scotty! Hurry up! Get me out-a-here!
Fog hangs low just off the Beloved Back deck making love to Fran's thousand shades of green. Staring at it through the muted light coming in the sliding glass doors of the kitchen, my mind keeps slipping off somewhere. My chin planted firmly in my hand, I'll come back from whatever universe I was in to realize that I'm still sitting here, part of the fog.
Mellon Colly and the Infinite Silence is streaming through my computer. My son Jeremy sent me this years ago. He and I have exchanged music forever. His beautiful sister Chelsea is part of the cultural exchange too and we all keep introducing one another to new things. Music flows through our bloodstreams.
It's the perfect batch of songs for a morning like this.
I'm listening to ... 1979 ... when my mind returns from wherever its been and I realize that was three songs ago. How did I miss it? Where did Scotty beam me? I guess I do believe in out-of-body experiences.
A power transformer blows somewhere on the island. The fog's lovemaking is wrecking havoc as people prepare for work and school. Sirens from Fire Engines are in the distance.
"And we don't know where our bones will rest, to dust I guess, forgotten and absorbed into the earth below ..."
Melancholy ... sad, gloomy or depressed.
I'm not though.
It's more wishful thinking ... beliefs and making decisions according to what might be pleasing to imagine instead of appealing to evidence, rationality or reality.
"Do you pray?" I was asked last night. "I never see you pray before a meal," the little girl asked me. "Do you know that God is over 400 feet tall?"
"That's a lot," I replied looking at her. "I kind of live a prayer," told her. "I don't think God cares if I say grace or not. Sometimes I do when its important to other people. How do you know how tall God is?"
It's in some book titled God's Promises for your every need.
I'm much more into Wishful Thinking ... "Now faith is the evidence of things hoped for, not seen."
This morning, I believe this is why Scotty keeps beaming me up and I continue to miss the melancholy music and lose the fog. I'm leaving the place where are words are necessary or rules are needed ... to go to the place where freaks and ghouls are one with everyone because ... we are all freaks and ghouls.
When my grandfather Ira Vernon Carver was dying, he lay in the bed in his own bedroom, unable to get out of it. It's the same bed that I heard him kneel down beside every single night and pray our loud. They were long prayers with his hands clasped and his elbows resting on the blankets and he'd call name after name. He sweated prayer. Then he'd get under the blankets and sleep. The next morning, he would live prayers.
During his last days, I'd go see him and sit beside his bed and he'd tell me everything he'd done that day. Without ever leaving his bed ... he'd go to Charleston because he needed to talk to somebody he'd prayed about. He described heaven to me once and I asked him how he knew.
"I just got back," he explained in all seriousness.
"I'm with you Granddad," I remember saying, holding his frail dying hand.
This morning I really am.
Beam me up Scotty.
We've got stuff to do. Things to make real. Fog to cast out. Dances to have.
Amen.
Hey Scotty! Hurry up! Get me out-a-here!
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Date Night
It's Greg Allman's fault.
After a lovely dinner at Avia watching the happenings in Ellis Square, we made our way to the Civic Center for his concert.
It was date night and we were making the most of it! Sarah dripped beauty on the sidewalk,s leaving those we passed with wide eyes and gaping mouths. I was happy and we were both enjoying the overwhelming charms of downtown Savannah.
The city has not been a destination of choice over the past couple of years. It consumed my life for more than two decades and I think the place is better off because of it. Then it became a road that I drove through to get to the airport.
The times that I did make my way into the city it was a chore. There were endless hours of negotiations with attorneys at Hunter, McClean, Exley & Dunn, homeless friends who love me still wanting to meet for coffee and advice, and there is this Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous who just won't go away and remains an evil pain in the ass.
There were exceptions of course. Long lunch conversations at Soho with Stacy Jennings. Popping into the office of Shirley Sessions and Kim Fitz just to say hello and catch up. Mary Ann Beil continues to educate me on the merits of Celtic Christianity (meaning she shoves it down my throat over lunch). Returning to Johnny Harris' for lunch with Ben Barnes and Herb McKenzie.
For the most part though, I've avoided the city. I gave it everything I had and the city took it.
I'm an international Beach Bum these days.
I write every morning and help people throughout the world try to do things better the rest of the day. Well ... when I'm not walking Goddess, sitting on a sad little holy dock, naked tanning on a beloved back deck, attending Bored meetings, gathering with the Carnival of Friends, doing something for Bar Church or sticking my toes in the sand.
But it was time for a date.
It's impossible to have a date on Tybee as every time that we go out we find ourselves suddenly surrounded by people we love. Even if we don't go out, they break into the house (right Dedra? Twice so far today and it's not even 9 a..m.).
So we made our way alone into Savannah. God blessed this date because we found parking ... good parking! For free! We had the most romantic of dinners at Avia. We strolled the city squares. We picked up our tickets. Making our way inside the Johnny Mercer Theater, we stopped for cocktails. (OK one of the great things about Savannah is that you can have a cocktail party anywhere and at anytime. You can carry your cocktail with you anywhere you want to go and it is not against the law. New Orleans is the only other city in the United States that is so enlightened. Otherwise you have to go to the rest of the world for moveable cocktail feasts!).
Anyway we stood in line because the economy is so bad that the Savannah Civic Center only employs two bartenders for 17,000 people. I didn't mind. Sarah was dripping beauty. I'm happier than I've ever been. We're getting ready to see freaking Greg Allman!
Then it happened.
Tybee had followed us. O Johnny and O Judy (not to be confused with Johnny O and Judy O) tapped us on the shoulder and took our picture. It was good, they are our friends ... though I fail to understand the whole Davidson thing.
Then we saw a great show.
Afterwards, O Johnny and O Judy broke into our car to ride home with us.
A little after midnight, they invited us in for cocktails.
Tybee is significantly more liberal than Savannah.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, Newt Gingrich apparently did something. I don't know what ... divorced somebody else while staying married at the same time or winning a primary. I'm not certain but I do know that Jack Kingston supports whatever it is.
Then Date Night came to an end.
Well ...
It did and it didn't.
I can't wait for our next date!
After a lovely dinner at Avia watching the happenings in Ellis Square, we made our way to the Civic Center for his concert.
It was date night and we were making the most of it! Sarah dripped beauty on the sidewalk,s leaving those we passed with wide eyes and gaping mouths. I was happy and we were both enjoying the overwhelming charms of downtown Savannah.
The city has not been a destination of choice over the past couple of years. It consumed my life for more than two decades and I think the place is better off because of it. Then it became a road that I drove through to get to the airport.
The times that I did make my way into the city it was a chore. There were endless hours of negotiations with attorneys at Hunter, McClean, Exley & Dunn, homeless friends who love me still wanting to meet for coffee and advice, and there is this Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous who just won't go away and remains an evil pain in the ass.
There were exceptions of course. Long lunch conversations at Soho with Stacy Jennings. Popping into the office of Shirley Sessions and Kim Fitz just to say hello and catch up. Mary Ann Beil continues to educate me on the merits of Celtic Christianity (meaning she shoves it down my throat over lunch). Returning to Johnny Harris' for lunch with Ben Barnes and Herb McKenzie.
For the most part though, I've avoided the city. I gave it everything I had and the city took it.
I'm an international Beach Bum these days.
I write every morning and help people throughout the world try to do things better the rest of the day. Well ... when I'm not walking Goddess, sitting on a sad little holy dock, naked tanning on a beloved back deck, attending Bored meetings, gathering with the Carnival of Friends, doing something for Bar Church or sticking my toes in the sand.
But it was time for a date.
It's impossible to have a date on Tybee as every time that we go out we find ourselves suddenly surrounded by people we love. Even if we don't go out, they break into the house (right Dedra? Twice so far today and it's not even 9 a..m.).
So we made our way alone into Savannah. God blessed this date because we found parking ... good parking! For free! We had the most romantic of dinners at Avia. We strolled the city squares. We picked up our tickets. Making our way inside the Johnny Mercer Theater, we stopped for cocktails. (OK one of the great things about Savannah is that you can have a cocktail party anywhere and at anytime. You can carry your cocktail with you anywhere you want to go and it is not against the law. New Orleans is the only other city in the United States that is so enlightened. Otherwise you have to go to the rest of the world for moveable cocktail feasts!).
Anyway we stood in line because the economy is so bad that the Savannah Civic Center only employs two bartenders for 17,000 people. I didn't mind. Sarah was dripping beauty. I'm happier than I've ever been. We're getting ready to see freaking Greg Allman!
Then it happened.
Tybee had followed us. O Johnny and O Judy (not to be confused with Johnny O and Judy O) tapped us on the shoulder and took our picture. It was good, they are our friends ... though I fail to understand the whole Davidson thing.
Then we saw a great show.
Afterwards, O Johnny and O Judy broke into our car to ride home with us.
A little after midnight, they invited us in for cocktails.
Tybee is significantly more liberal than Savannah.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, Newt Gingrich apparently did something. I don't know what ... divorced somebody else while staying married at the same time or winning a primary. I'm not certain but I do know that Jack Kingston supports whatever it is.
Then Date Night came to an end.
Well ...
It did and it didn't.
I can't wait for our next date!
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Fractured Days
It's been forever since its been like this. The house is full of warmth and love though it is quiet and early in the morning. I'm watching the sun blaze through Fran's thousand shades of green. The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiles at me. Goddess sits on the Beloved Back Deck with her myriad of stuffed animals eating the treats that I've given her.
Jack Johnson sings softly in the background (sorry Stephanie Lotti but sometimes it's just right!).
This late January day is going to be 74 degrees full of warmth. The ocean breezes are light and tickle my face with salt. My bare feet dangle from the high top chair. Underwear lay unused in drawers. Life is good today.
I was talking to my friend Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island with Gordon Hill and Davy, yesterday. Sam's in the midst of his 100,000 Miles Check up. After years of working hard, making people happy, raising children, finding love and losing love ... the pipes burst in his body. So he's being treated by the body mechanics who call themselves doctors and is getting a major overhaul.
Sometime today, those of us who love him are going to gather so he can tell us what God has told him we're doing at Bar Church tomorrow. We have no idea. Only Sam knows what God wants. He tells us occasionally.
Anyway, Sam and I were talking yesterday and I suggested having him lowered in from the ceiling during the middle of the service. It's very Biblical.
"And they came, bringing to Him a paralytic, carried by four men. And being unable to get to Him because of the crowd, they removed the roof above Him; and when they had dug an opening, they let down the pallet on which the paralytic was lying. And Jesus seeing their faith said to the paralytic, "My son, your sins are forgiven." (Read Mark 2:3-5.)
Now on Tybee, I seriously doubt you could assemble four men at the same time who could carry anything ... except beer.
Removing a roof is likely out of the question ... unless enough beer is involved.
It is true that Sam is laying in bed a lot these days though I don't think he's ready to move to a pallet. And he's not paralytic though he can't lift much anything right now, including his guitar.
When I suggested this Samuel burst out laughing and asked if he could borrow one of my loin clothes. Sarah immediately suggested Fig Leafs. Dedra immediately went on a search for rope.
"We're guaranteed no day but today," God told Samuel to say.
The lyrics from RENT immediately rang through my head. "There's only now, there's only here, give in to love or live in fear ... no other path ... no other way ... no day but today."
Today is our day to do with what we will. It is a gift directly from God. None of us asked for it but we all share it. What we do with it is up to us.
Then Rocky and Bullwinkle came to me. Well not them, but the Fractured Fairy Tells from that show. Traditional fairy tales were taken, fractured and re-told ... hilariously so. (You can You Tube them!)
Today is God's gift to us. Some of us have it pretty easy today. Others not so much. Either way, it's our day to fracture or to celebrate.
I've had a lot of fractured days.
Unless something unexpected drops on me from out of the sky, today's not going to be one of them.
No Day but today.
Jack Johnson sings softly in the background (sorry Stephanie Lotti but sometimes it's just right!).
This late January day is going to be 74 degrees full of warmth. The ocean breezes are light and tickle my face with salt. My bare feet dangle from the high top chair. Underwear lay unused in drawers. Life is good today.
I was talking to my friend Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island with Gordon Hill and Davy, yesterday. Sam's in the midst of his 100,000 Miles Check up. After years of working hard, making people happy, raising children, finding love and losing love ... the pipes burst in his body. So he's being treated by the body mechanics who call themselves doctors and is getting a major overhaul.
Sometime today, those of us who love him are going to gather so he can tell us what God has told him we're doing at Bar Church tomorrow. We have no idea. Only Sam knows what God wants. He tells us occasionally.
Anyway, Sam and I were talking yesterday and I suggested having him lowered in from the ceiling during the middle of the service. It's very Biblical.
"And they came, bringing to Him a paralytic, carried by four men. And being unable to get to Him because of the crowd, they removed the roof above Him; and when they had dug an opening, they let down the pallet on which the paralytic was lying. And Jesus seeing their faith said to the paralytic, "My son, your sins are forgiven." (Read Mark 2:3-5.)
Now on Tybee, I seriously doubt you could assemble four men at the same time who could carry anything ... except beer.
Removing a roof is likely out of the question ... unless enough beer is involved.
It is true that Sam is laying in bed a lot these days though I don't think he's ready to move to a pallet. And he's not paralytic though he can't lift much anything right now, including his guitar.
When I suggested this Samuel burst out laughing and asked if he could borrow one of my loin clothes. Sarah immediately suggested Fig Leafs. Dedra immediately went on a search for rope.
"We're guaranteed no day but today," God told Samuel to say.
The lyrics from RENT immediately rang through my head. "There's only now, there's only here, give in to love or live in fear ... no other path ... no other way ... no day but today."
Today is our day to do with what we will. It is a gift directly from God. None of us asked for it but we all share it. What we do with it is up to us.
Then Rocky and Bullwinkle came to me. Well not them, but the Fractured Fairy Tells from that show. Traditional fairy tales were taken, fractured and re-told ... hilariously so. (You can You Tube them!)
Today is God's gift to us. Some of us have it pretty easy today. Others not so much. Either way, it's our day to fracture or to celebrate.
I've had a lot of fractured days.
Unless something unexpected drops on me from out of the sky, today's not going to be one of them.
No Day but today.
Friday, January 20, 2012
The Bitch In the Story
I'm don't know how she knows but she knows.
I cheated on Goddess.
I went out with another dog. He's a hyper, likely on serious drugs, thief with crazy psychedelic eyes and a Weimaraner. He can chew through a twenty-seven pound bone in three minutes. When the dog jumps on you ... which is often ... he can knock you down. With his paws on your shoulders and his wild drug crazed Charles Manson eyes, you realize that he is taller than you ... by several feet. Then he runs around like a Ninja Banzai until it's time to jump on me again. Then he repeats all of this. I'm pretty sure he has a Meth-lab in his dog house.
As he drug me down the street, a SUV pulled up, rolled down the window and a lady asked me, "Is that Oscar?"
Pulling back with two hands on the lease to stop the wild crazy maniac from either selling Meth on the Street or buying more Meth on the Street, I answered and told her that it was.
"He broke into my house once," she said staring at me sympathetically through the window. "I had tenderized Pork Chops on the kitchen counter as the grill got ready. Oscar broke in and ate them."
From all of my years working with addicts, I know that they often resort to stealing to satisfy their habit. It dawned on me that Oscar likely has a record and may be wanted by ... the Dog-Catcher, Savannah Metro Police Force, C.I.A., and Homeland Security.
Turning, I let the dog drag me back to Sarah's.
When I got home, Goddess somehow knew all of this. She had busted out in the middle of the night. Now I need to say a couple of things about the Goddess. First, she is one laid back dog ... beautifully so. If she does drugs, she smokes Pot. She is mellow and loving and always has the munchies.
Second, she can open doors. When I leave the house, I have to secure the sliding door lock on her doggie door, make absolutely certain that the sliding glass doors are locked, and then drag the trash can in front of both ... because ... Goddess knows how to shove the trash can out of the way with her nose ... slide the sliding doggie door lock open ... unlock a sliding glass door by jumping on her hind legs and using her paw to unlatch the latch and then slide the door open.
That's quite the accomplishment for a dog smoking marijuana.
When I got home, my room mate Rocky asked me if I'd seen Titus, her cat. Apparently Goddess had scared Titus off, which is funny because Titus can kick Goddess' ass.
Anyway I told her that I had not. Then she told me that Goddess had broken out last night ... again! Goddess' high had worn off and she was barking like she was in Cold Turkey.
So Rocky broke into my side of the house to let Goddess back in and re-secured the doors, locks, chains, trash can.
Goddess seemed alright with it, waited on Rocky to leave, burned another one and slept through the night.
When I got home though ... she was pissed and was a real bitch about it all. She glared at me with those beautiful golden eyes as though asking, "Where the hell have you been? Why do you smell like that? You've cheated on me! WITH A BOY!"
I had nothing to say, sliding by her with my head hung low.
I spied several empty wine bottles lying next to Goddess' mat on the floor. Crushed out doobies were everywhere. Empty Doritos bags littered about.
Then Dedra walked in.
"Did you lock the lock on the sliding doggie door?" I asked.
"No why?" she said not really giving a damn about anything other than combining cheese eggs with chicken soup.
She reminded me of Oscar.
Then it hit me.
There is as bitch in this story and I know who it is.
I cheated on Goddess.
I went out with another dog. He's a hyper, likely on serious drugs, thief with crazy psychedelic eyes and a Weimaraner. He can chew through a twenty-seven pound bone in three minutes. When the dog jumps on you ... which is often ... he can knock you down. With his paws on your shoulders and his wild drug crazed Charles Manson eyes, you realize that he is taller than you ... by several feet. Then he runs around like a Ninja Banzai until it's time to jump on me again. Then he repeats all of this. I'm pretty sure he has a Meth-lab in his dog house.
As he drug me down the street, a SUV pulled up, rolled down the window and a lady asked me, "Is that Oscar?"
Pulling back with two hands on the lease to stop the wild crazy maniac from either selling Meth on the Street or buying more Meth on the Street, I answered and told her that it was.
"He broke into my house once," she said staring at me sympathetically through the window. "I had tenderized Pork Chops on the kitchen counter as the grill got ready. Oscar broke in and ate them."
From all of my years working with addicts, I know that they often resort to stealing to satisfy their habit. It dawned on me that Oscar likely has a record and may be wanted by ... the Dog-Catcher, Savannah Metro Police Force, C.I.A., and Homeland Security.
Turning, I let the dog drag me back to Sarah's.
When I got home, Goddess somehow knew all of this. She had busted out in the middle of the night. Now I need to say a couple of things about the Goddess. First, she is one laid back dog ... beautifully so. If she does drugs, she smokes Pot. She is mellow and loving and always has the munchies.
Second, she can open doors. When I leave the house, I have to secure the sliding door lock on her doggie door, make absolutely certain that the sliding glass doors are locked, and then drag the trash can in front of both ... because ... Goddess knows how to shove the trash can out of the way with her nose ... slide the sliding doggie door lock open ... unlock a sliding glass door by jumping on her hind legs and using her paw to unlatch the latch and then slide the door open.
That's quite the accomplishment for a dog smoking marijuana.
When I got home, my room mate Rocky asked me if I'd seen Titus, her cat. Apparently Goddess had scared Titus off, which is funny because Titus can kick Goddess' ass.
Anyway I told her that I had not. Then she told me that Goddess had broken out last night ... again! Goddess' high had worn off and she was barking like she was in Cold Turkey.
So Rocky broke into my side of the house to let Goddess back in and re-secured the doors, locks, chains, trash can.
Goddess seemed alright with it, waited on Rocky to leave, burned another one and slept through the night.
When I got home though ... she was pissed and was a real bitch about it all. She glared at me with those beautiful golden eyes as though asking, "Where the hell have you been? Why do you smell like that? You've cheated on me! WITH A BOY!"
I had nothing to say, sliding by her with my head hung low.
I spied several empty wine bottles lying next to Goddess' mat on the floor. Crushed out doobies were everywhere. Empty Doritos bags littered about.
Then Dedra walked in.
"Did you lock the lock on the sliding doggie door?" I asked.
"No why?" she said not really giving a damn about anything other than combining cheese eggs with chicken soup.
She reminded me of Oscar.
Then it hit me.
There is as bitch in this story and I know who it is.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
I Love Me Too
"Well, I love you," she said trying to console me.
"I know," I replied, "I love me too."
And we busted out laughing.
But the truth of the matter is that ... I do.
I mean there are some things I don't especially like about myself I guess ... I should drop a few pounds, get back into running every single day, spend more time taking Goddess on long meandering walks ... stuff like that. But I love me far more than I like me.
This is not a narcissistic confession.
I love other people completely too and give of myself graciously to them.
"Do you call everybody Baby?" Laurel asked me not too long ago.
We were in a restaurant and I'd called the waitress Baby. Her sisters stopped whatever they were doing and stared at me waiting for my response.
"I think so," I said. "Well not everybody ... but a lot of people."
They looked at Sarah exclaiming all at once, "He calls everybody Babe"!
It was completely foreign to them. Their formative years were in western New York. Mine was the coast of South Georgia, where the River meets the Sea. Savannah is far more cosmopolitan than most southern cities and I'm convinced it is because ships from around the world have always been coming and going since the place was born. We've always had everything thrown at us and we've always been pretty accepting about it all. While other cities bombed themselves during the Civil Rights Movement, in Savannah we mostly had cocktail parties and drank our way through it (Sure there were a few days when we strayed away from this approach but, for the most part it's true!). There was no real violence here and when black people occupied the beach one day, the whites mostly watched, shrugging their shoulders saying, "That's cool. Let's get a beer."
The point is, I'm pretty free with my affections. I don't suppress much and I certainly don't bottle things up. I have two sleeves and use them both to wear it well. If I love someone, I let them know. I take strangers at face value, accepting them and the starting point is usually me calling them Babe, Baby, Dear, or Luv.
I grew up in a family of huggers. Well ... not Dad so much, but the rest of us. Mom was forever grabbing us in the middle of whatever David, Angi and I were doing and giving us hugs. She'd tell us how great we are. We hugged so much it's amazing we got anything else done. Dad got screwed up in the war when it came to showing affection (a wounded Prisoner of War rarely makes complete recoveries) so whenever he let his emotions show ... he cried.
I inherited both traits.
I'm quick to hug.
I'm quick to cry.
It's the way I was raised.
I don't take much for granted anymore. I'm more laid back than I've ever been and that's saying something given that I've always had the ability to perfectly balance laid back with incredible intensity. I can still muster intensity when I need to, but I like laid back more.
And I like saying Babe.
Sure it can get you sued these days ... make you lose your job ... make lawyers happy and wealthy ... make Sarah mad at me ... and stop three little precious girls in the middle of a meal bringing them to a dead halt when I do it.
But you know what?
I believe in love.
Love is all you need.
Might as well say it.
"I know," I replied, "I love me too."
And we busted out laughing.
But the truth of the matter is that ... I do.
I mean there are some things I don't especially like about myself I guess ... I should drop a few pounds, get back into running every single day, spend more time taking Goddess on long meandering walks ... stuff like that. But I love me far more than I like me.
This is not a narcissistic confession.
I love other people completely too and give of myself graciously to them.
"Do you call everybody Baby?" Laurel asked me not too long ago.
We were in a restaurant and I'd called the waitress Baby. Her sisters stopped whatever they were doing and stared at me waiting for my response.
"I think so," I said. "Well not everybody ... but a lot of people."
They looked at Sarah exclaiming all at once, "He calls everybody Babe"!
It was completely foreign to them. Their formative years were in western New York. Mine was the coast of South Georgia, where the River meets the Sea. Savannah is far more cosmopolitan than most southern cities and I'm convinced it is because ships from around the world have always been coming and going since the place was born. We've always had everything thrown at us and we've always been pretty accepting about it all. While other cities bombed themselves during the Civil Rights Movement, in Savannah we mostly had cocktail parties and drank our way through it (Sure there were a few days when we strayed away from this approach but, for the most part it's true!). There was no real violence here and when black people occupied the beach one day, the whites mostly watched, shrugging their shoulders saying, "That's cool. Let's get a beer."
The point is, I'm pretty free with my affections. I don't suppress much and I certainly don't bottle things up. I have two sleeves and use them both to wear it well. If I love someone, I let them know. I take strangers at face value, accepting them and the starting point is usually me calling them Babe, Baby, Dear, or Luv.
I grew up in a family of huggers. Well ... not Dad so much, but the rest of us. Mom was forever grabbing us in the middle of whatever David, Angi and I were doing and giving us hugs. She'd tell us how great we are. We hugged so much it's amazing we got anything else done. Dad got screwed up in the war when it came to showing affection (a wounded Prisoner of War rarely makes complete recoveries) so whenever he let his emotions show ... he cried.
I inherited both traits.
I'm quick to hug.
I'm quick to cry.
It's the way I was raised.
I don't take much for granted anymore. I'm more laid back than I've ever been and that's saying something given that I've always had the ability to perfectly balance laid back with incredible intensity. I can still muster intensity when I need to, but I like laid back more.
And I like saying Babe.
Sure it can get you sued these days ... make you lose your job ... make lawyers happy and wealthy ... make Sarah mad at me ... and stop three little precious girls in the middle of a meal bringing them to a dead halt when I do it.
But you know what?
I believe in love.
Love is all you need.
Might as well say it.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Damned Horoscopes!
I am not a follower of Horoscopes but every morning at the Breakfast Club, Chris grabs the newspaper from me to read his. He is a Cancer as am I. Most of the time he reads it quietly to himself, makes a face and walks away without saying a word.
Sometimes he says to me, "We're in for a day," and walks away cussing.
Then he'll just turn the newspaper upside down as he's on one side of the counter and I'm on the other, and stuff it in front of my face pointing a finger on the few sentences that determine what my day is going to be.
Yesterday was one of those days ... meaning one of THOSE days ... I had tons to accomplish and literally got nothing done.
AND THE HOROSCOPE NAILED IT!
It said something like, "Today is a day to focus on the ones you love. Do not let work and the agendas of a day redirect your attention from the things that are most important. This will lead to romance and love."
So that's what happened yesterday!
I didn't get a damned thing done ... yet I got everything done.
It started on the beloved back deck where it abruptly ceased only to resume again in the kitchen and then late into the night on the sofa in the living room. I never read an e-mail. I didn't talk to anyone on the phone. There were a couple of Face Book messages that I saw late in the evening ... one from Micah, Son of Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one) who is coming this weekend with his lovely bride Mary Catherine. The other from my friend Jessica, a writer who wants to do a story on Bar Church. Dedra also sent something that I saw before I went to bed.
The rest of the day was literally spent ... focused on one thing that was more important than all of these other things ... though those other things are important too.
Chris was off this morning.
I skipped the Horoscope section when reading the paper.
I got a lot to do today.
Giving more attention to the most important thing while also catching up on those other important things that were totally neglected yesterday.
Damn Chris and his Horoscopes!
Sometimes he says to me, "We're in for a day," and walks away cussing.
Then he'll just turn the newspaper upside down as he's on one side of the counter and I'm on the other, and stuff it in front of my face pointing a finger on the few sentences that determine what my day is going to be.
Yesterday was one of those days ... meaning one of THOSE days ... I had tons to accomplish and literally got nothing done.
AND THE HOROSCOPE NAILED IT!
It said something like, "Today is a day to focus on the ones you love. Do not let work and the agendas of a day redirect your attention from the things that are most important. This will lead to romance and love."
So that's what happened yesterday!
I didn't get a damned thing done ... yet I got everything done.
It started on the beloved back deck where it abruptly ceased only to resume again in the kitchen and then late into the night on the sofa in the living room. I never read an e-mail. I didn't talk to anyone on the phone. There were a couple of Face Book messages that I saw late in the evening ... one from Micah, Son of Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one) who is coming this weekend with his lovely bride Mary Catherine. The other from my friend Jessica, a writer who wants to do a story on Bar Church. Dedra also sent something that I saw before I went to bed.
The rest of the day was literally spent ... focused on one thing that was more important than all of these other things ... though those other things are important too.
Chris was off this morning.
I skipped the Horoscope section when reading the paper.
I got a lot to do today.
Giving more attention to the most important thing while also catching up on those other important things that were totally neglected yesterday.
Damn Chris and his Horoscopes!
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
The Truth
"And what is truth?" Pilate asked.
Everyone leaned forward waiting for his answer but silence filled the room. Jesus had nothing to say.
Theologians argue that there was no need for an answer. The truth was standing before Pilate. The response was obvious.
But I wonder what was going through Jesus' mind as Pilate looked at him waiting and as everyone in the room anticipated something from the Jews latest controversial figure. It was apparent that he done enough to upset a lot of people or he wouldn't be standing there in judgement. Whatever rules he had broken had been Jewish ones and Pilate only administered the laws of Rome and Jesus had broken none of those.
Then again, sometimes there is simply nothing to be said.
Last night I lay in bed counting my sins. It's the opposite of counting sheep which makes you fall asleep. Counting sins keeps you awake. There were some big ones of course ... breaking promises, failing to hold up my part of the deal, or purposely ignoring someone who obviously needed me. These were easy to count.
The smaller ones ... not telling the truth, being selfish, wanting what I don't have rather than celebrating all of the wonderful things in my life.
The funny thing is that is I were to weigh them, each would weigh the same. And sometimes you get called on it and ... there is nothing to say. There's nothing worth saying. You can either scream that it wasn't your fault, do your best to defend yourself or not give a damn and walk away.
Or you can let the truth of it speak for itself.
In Jesus' case, it made things much worse before anything got better. He was flogged, beaten, ridiculed and then killed which is about as bad as things can get.
But then it got better. Somehow he overcame all of these things to renew his significant relationships, bringing them out of their own despair, fears and doubts. They learned to love on an even grander scale, deeper and more holy than anything they had experienced before.
There are things in my past that I wish I'd have done differently. There are mistakes I make in my present that prevent me from being everything that I really want to be. Every day I wake up committed to growing deeper in my love for the significant one, my friends ... to do better work that makes a difference, to encourage and to be honest. Sometimes you are reminded that as far as you may have come, there is still a ways to go.
And there is nothing to say.
You beat yourself up, hear the ridicule of others and crucify yourself over the things that went wrong.
Then you reach a point where you either are swallowed by it and you die a little to all of the things that really could be. Or you just keep trying and do your best to not repeat the sins of the past. Things may get worse but you pray they get better. I've a lot of "worse" in my life. It still taints the ME that I'm struggling to become but I keep trying ... because I still believe with everything within me of all of the love that is ...
And that's the truth.
Everyone leaned forward waiting for his answer but silence filled the room. Jesus had nothing to say.
Theologians argue that there was no need for an answer. The truth was standing before Pilate. The response was obvious.
But I wonder what was going through Jesus' mind as Pilate looked at him waiting and as everyone in the room anticipated something from the Jews latest controversial figure. It was apparent that he done enough to upset a lot of people or he wouldn't be standing there in judgement. Whatever rules he had broken had been Jewish ones and Pilate only administered the laws of Rome and Jesus had broken none of those.
Then again, sometimes there is simply nothing to be said.
Last night I lay in bed counting my sins. It's the opposite of counting sheep which makes you fall asleep. Counting sins keeps you awake. There were some big ones of course ... breaking promises, failing to hold up my part of the deal, or purposely ignoring someone who obviously needed me. These were easy to count.
The smaller ones ... not telling the truth, being selfish, wanting what I don't have rather than celebrating all of the wonderful things in my life.
The funny thing is that is I were to weigh them, each would weigh the same. And sometimes you get called on it and ... there is nothing to say. There's nothing worth saying. You can either scream that it wasn't your fault, do your best to defend yourself or not give a damn and walk away.
Or you can let the truth of it speak for itself.
In Jesus' case, it made things much worse before anything got better. He was flogged, beaten, ridiculed and then killed which is about as bad as things can get.
But then it got better. Somehow he overcame all of these things to renew his significant relationships, bringing them out of their own despair, fears and doubts. They learned to love on an even grander scale, deeper and more holy than anything they had experienced before.
There are things in my past that I wish I'd have done differently. There are mistakes I make in my present that prevent me from being everything that I really want to be. Every day I wake up committed to growing deeper in my love for the significant one, my friends ... to do better work that makes a difference, to encourage and to be honest. Sometimes you are reminded that as far as you may have come, there is still a ways to go.
And there is nothing to say.
You beat yourself up, hear the ridicule of others and crucify yourself over the things that went wrong.
Then you reach a point where you either are swallowed by it and you die a little to all of the things that really could be. Or you just keep trying and do your best to not repeat the sins of the past. Things may get worse but you pray they get better. I've a lot of "worse" in my life. It still taints the ME that I'm struggling to become but I keep trying ... because I still believe with everything within me of all of the love that is ...
And that's the truth.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Martin and me
It was in the sweet Auburn district of Atlanta and I was sitting at a heavy scared oak conference room table. The chairs were heavy oak too but the red leather cushions were cracked and ripped with the white stuffing poking through. Sitting in one, I wore blue jeans, sneakers, white shirt, tie and blue blazer. My hair was long and I was a baby minister representing the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel.
The room reeked of the past. A faded framed photograph of Martin Luther King, Jr. hung on the wall above table. A cross hung at the other end. On the side walls were hundreds of framed newspaper clippings of stories about the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Dr. Joseph Lowery sat at the head of the table and was talking about something but I wasn't hearing him. I was taking it all in.
Suddenly it hit me!
"Holy Shit!" I thought to myself.
It's the same as it was when Martin Luther King sat here planning what to do next.
I may as well have been visiting the Israel and sitting in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre ... or Golgotha ... where Jesus was crucified and buried ... then raised from the dead.
I no longer remember what Joseph Lowery was saying to us. Honestly, I don't really remember who else was there. It seems like Ken Sehested was representing Oakhurst Baptist Church. Guy Sayles may have been there too but I really don't remember. There were only a couple of us who were white though.
I do recall being touched by it ... incredibly touched.
It was probably Will Campbell who got me invited. I was a recent inductee of the Committee of Southern Churchmen, a group of white clergy who had been active during the Civil Rights Movement. Will was a good friend of Clarence Jordan (the only prophet Southern Baptist have ever produced) who was a good friend of Martin's. Martin often hid out at Clarence's commune Koininea in Americus, Georgia. Will was the representative of the National Council of Churches to the Civil Rights Movement.
My friend Father Vernon Robertson, a Catholic Priest, was an original member of the Committee of Southern Churchmen and when they were all old, and I was in my 20s, he put me up for membership. I was instructed to place a collect phone call to Will Campbell's house. If he accepted the charges I was in.
I called. He accepted then immediately hung up without saying a word.
I called Vernon and told him.
"That's great!" he said. "You're in!"
Will and I went on to become good friends and he wrote the Preface to my first book which probably was the reason it sold more copies than anything I wrote.
Later that day we went to Ebenezer Baptist Church which was Martin's Church when he was assassinated. Coretta came in and we chatted for a while. I remember we had coffee in a little side room and thinking to myself that I shouldn't have worn jeans. Everyone else was so formal.
That was all a long time ago.
For the life of me, I couldn't tell you why I was there ... or if Guy and Ken were actually with me ... I do remember a lot of young black men hovering around as through they were protecting somebody from something.
But I do remember the holiness of it all. Sitting in a chair that Martin likely sat in. Meeting Coretta for the first time. Touching the stuff on his desk. Touching things that had been Martin's.
Has anybody here seen my old friend Martin? Can you tell me where he's gone?
I know the answer.
Some people never really die. They have have been killed but they hang around somehow, still working ... still making things better than they were ... so I know where's he's at.
He's right here.
The room reeked of the past. A faded framed photograph of Martin Luther King, Jr. hung on the wall above table. A cross hung at the other end. On the side walls were hundreds of framed newspaper clippings of stories about the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Dr. Joseph Lowery sat at the head of the table and was talking about something but I wasn't hearing him. I was taking it all in.
Suddenly it hit me!
"Holy Shit!" I thought to myself.
It's the same as it was when Martin Luther King sat here planning what to do next.
I may as well have been visiting the Israel and sitting in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre ... or Golgotha ... where Jesus was crucified and buried ... then raised from the dead.
I no longer remember what Joseph Lowery was saying to us. Honestly, I don't really remember who else was there. It seems like Ken Sehested was representing Oakhurst Baptist Church. Guy Sayles may have been there too but I really don't remember. There were only a couple of us who were white though.
I do recall being touched by it ... incredibly touched.
It was probably Will Campbell who got me invited. I was a recent inductee of the Committee of Southern Churchmen, a group of white clergy who had been active during the Civil Rights Movement. Will was a good friend of Clarence Jordan (the only prophet Southern Baptist have ever produced) who was a good friend of Martin's. Martin often hid out at Clarence's commune Koininea in Americus, Georgia. Will was the representative of the National Council of Churches to the Civil Rights Movement.
My friend Father Vernon Robertson, a Catholic Priest, was an original member of the Committee of Southern Churchmen and when they were all old, and I was in my 20s, he put me up for membership. I was instructed to place a collect phone call to Will Campbell's house. If he accepted the charges I was in.
I called. He accepted then immediately hung up without saying a word.
I called Vernon and told him.
"That's great!" he said. "You're in!"
Will and I went on to become good friends and he wrote the Preface to my first book which probably was the reason it sold more copies than anything I wrote.
Later that day we went to Ebenezer Baptist Church which was Martin's Church when he was assassinated. Coretta came in and we chatted for a while. I remember we had coffee in a little side room and thinking to myself that I shouldn't have worn jeans. Everyone else was so formal.
That was all a long time ago.
For the life of me, I couldn't tell you why I was there ... or if Guy and Ken were actually with me ... I do remember a lot of young black men hovering around as through they were protecting somebody from something.
But I do remember the holiness of it all. Sitting in a chair that Martin likely sat in. Meeting Coretta for the first time. Touching the stuff on his desk. Touching things that had been Martin's.
Has anybody here seen my old friend Martin? Can you tell me where he's gone?
I know the answer.
Some people never really die. They have have been killed but they hang around somehow, still working ... still making things better than they were ... so I know where's he's at.
He's right here.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Re-Gifting to God
Today at Bar Church there will be several key elements of worship.
First, the band's doing Joan Osborn's "What if God were one of us. Just a slob like one of us ..." This is a great song for any church service and God finally told Samuel Adams to tell the rest of us so we are. Pretty Cool!
Second, there will be a special prayer service for Tim Tebow who was crucified last night. There is no doubt that he'll be raised from the dead but there is serious speculation on if he will still be able to walk on water, heal lepers or turn wine into Gator-Aid.
"Prayer Requests" follow where people call out the names of people they love and are concerned about. I will call the name of "Stacy Jennings" ... whom I pray did not do herself serious bodily damage at the end of the Saints game yesterday ... or kill Skip ... or anybody else who may have been nearby.
The band's doing a lot of lame Happy Jack Praise Songs but I'll be on the back row playing guitar, standing beside Sean on Bass and Davy on drums. What is significant about this is Sarah will be on the front row singing wearing tight jeans as she sings. GLORY!
Then it will be time for another BAR CHURCH FIRST!
We will be ordaining Joe.
This is funny because Joe used to be a minister. The guy can yell HEAL! better than anybody I know. He has also mastered saying the name Jesus in four syllables ... JA-HEE-SAS-AH! He also looks like Fabio with shoulder length blond hair, bulging biceps, and plaid shorts with a black tee shirt.
The reason Bar Church is ordaining Joe, who used to be a minister but is not now, is because the Church of God kicked him out.
He had the audacity to get a divorce.
Scandalous stuff in the Church of God which believes in speaking in tongues, picking up live snakes to prove how much faith you really have and that marriage is life without parole.
At Bar Church, we believe that everybody screws up but God says, "Hey. It's okay. You did your best. Try to do it better next time."
We also believe that people who screw up should hang around one another. So we gather and that's important. It's not what you wear, where you sit or if you smoke. Flip-flops are welcome ... so are nose rings, various colored hair, cleavage, pirates, Bar-Flies, Politicians, bankers and other known evil doers (OK, we've never had a banker attend. Shirley Sessions has attended when she was in office but they threw her out after she came to Bar Church.)
We also serve breakfast, not making the assumption that anyone has eaten, will eat, or rush out to a restaurant to beat the frozen chosen from other churches.
Anyway, we're going to ordain Joe.
It's kind of like re-gifting him to God.
Then we'll play this really lame Happy Jack Praise Music with a really good back beat.
I don't mind though. I'll be on the back row. Sarah's wearing jeans.
GLORY!
First, the band's doing Joan Osborn's "What if God were one of us. Just a slob like one of us ..." This is a great song for any church service and God finally told Samuel Adams to tell the rest of us so we are. Pretty Cool!
Second, there will be a special prayer service for Tim Tebow who was crucified last night. There is no doubt that he'll be raised from the dead but there is serious speculation on if he will still be able to walk on water, heal lepers or turn wine into Gator-Aid.
"Prayer Requests" follow where people call out the names of people they love and are concerned about. I will call the name of "Stacy Jennings" ... whom I pray did not do herself serious bodily damage at the end of the Saints game yesterday ... or kill Skip ... or anybody else who may have been nearby.
The band's doing a lot of lame Happy Jack Praise Songs but I'll be on the back row playing guitar, standing beside Sean on Bass and Davy on drums. What is significant about this is Sarah will be on the front row singing wearing tight jeans as she sings. GLORY!
Then it will be time for another BAR CHURCH FIRST!
We will be ordaining Joe.
This is funny because Joe used to be a minister. The guy can yell HEAL! better than anybody I know. He has also mastered saying the name Jesus in four syllables ... JA-HEE-SAS-AH! He also looks like Fabio with shoulder length blond hair, bulging biceps, and plaid shorts with a black tee shirt.
The reason Bar Church is ordaining Joe, who used to be a minister but is not now, is because the Church of God kicked him out.
He had the audacity to get a divorce.
Scandalous stuff in the Church of God which believes in speaking in tongues, picking up live snakes to prove how much faith you really have and that marriage is life without parole.
At Bar Church, we believe that everybody screws up but God says, "Hey. It's okay. You did your best. Try to do it better next time."
We also believe that people who screw up should hang around one another. So we gather and that's important. It's not what you wear, where you sit or if you smoke. Flip-flops are welcome ... so are nose rings, various colored hair, cleavage, pirates, Bar-Flies, Politicians, bankers and other known evil doers (OK, we've never had a banker attend. Shirley Sessions has attended when she was in office but they threw her out after she came to Bar Church.)
We also serve breakfast, not making the assumption that anyone has eaten, will eat, or rush out to a restaurant to beat the frozen chosen from other churches.
Anyway, we're going to ordain Joe.
It's kind of like re-gifting him to God.
Then we'll play this really lame Happy Jack Praise Music with a really good back beat.
I don't mind though. I'll be on the back row. Sarah's wearing jeans.
GLORY!
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