Happy Mother's Day ... Joseph

On this Mother's Day ... I find myself thinking about Joseph ... the Father of Christ. History and St. Augustine screwed him good with the whole Virgin Birth conspiracy. It's all right in the end. Mary went on to become a Mother. Joseph ... never ranked Dad status. Though he's the one who taught Jesus to pee outside. He showed his son ... excuse me ... I mean "Son" ... to use a hammer and a nail. Joe's the one who gave Jesus advice on Camel racing, kissing girls and preventing pregnancy ... a lesson which Joe himself failed measurably. I'm pretty sure that he and Son talked this through completely because when Jesus hung around hookers like Mary Magdalene ... he never got her pregnant. On the other hand, Mother Mary was always showing up trying to tell her Son what to do. Jesus got drunk one time when she did this, walking outside and basically asking "Who's my Mother?" It pissed her off and she left. She was there at the end though, when he was being crucified, because Mother's always worry. And her worry was worthwhile because the nails were real and he was dying. There's no mention of Joseph at the end of the story. That pisses me off. Joe did as much as Mother Mary did. Maybe more.

Casualties at Dawn

My bicycle rolls under the street light that flickers off as I make my way. In the distance a man is throwing a Frisbee to his dog in the middle of the street. There is no traffic aside from several other people on bicycles making their way one way or the other across the island. Early morning walkers and runners dart this way and that. Occasionally I hear the sounds of a radio or television but for the most part it is quiet. I can hear the sound of myself breathing. The hotels are full and women wearing their nightgowns sip coffee on balconies staring at the ocean. Shirtless men with unbuttoned shorts sit beside them. A few have sleepy eyed children in their laps. Below in the offices, shift changes are taking place. The Breakfast Club is already full of activity as everyone continues making ready for the day. I stroll through the door marked Exit Only, around the counter to the coffee pot, pour myself a cup and then spread the newspaper in front of me. "Read my Horoscope," Chris demands. We are both Cancers and he's under the illusion that I care what our astrological forecast has in store. But I flip to the section and read it to him. Apparently we're in for a pretty good day. Ryan, who is almost my red headed step child, is suddenly standing in front of me. "Hey Chaplain of the Breakfast Club," he asks, "do you still love me?" "Hell no," I quickly say. "You're lying," he counters. "I am not. What do you want?" "Will you go to the store for me," he asks, knowing that I will. The place opens with a sigh and I leave. At Chu's there is a line of men in unbuttoned shorts with unbuttoned shirts and no shoes getting coffee to take back to their hotel rooms. My friend who works there asks who I'm buying for so I tell her and the cigarettes are hurled at me. Back on my bicycle I coast down Tybrissa Street and see the other casualties of dawn, sitting on benches smoking while staring into other universes. Some have just gotten up while others are contemplating sleep. The beach is busy with tents being set up for a Volley Ball Tournament. There is also something called White Crush taking place on the Pier so it's being blow dried and a stage is being set up. People have cameras set up on tripods taking pictures of the rising sun. Back at the Breakfast Club, it is crowded and everyone is busy. I wait for Ryan to finish serving a table and give him the cigarettes. He hugs me. I meander back home and am shocked to see that Sarah is up. She doesn't do dawn. On the other hand, I have introduced Cassidy, the five year old, to the cartoons I grew up on as a child. Bugs Bunny, Deputy Dawg and Woody Woodpecker. She became an instant fan and woke Sarah up to enjoy them with her. More casualties of dawn. Sarah makes a face as I give her a kiss. Cassidy is oblivious to it as she stares at the television. I make a pot of coffee and fix Sarah a cup. We've got a big day planned. The Carnival of Friends are involved ... there's a Volley Ball tournament and White Crush to enjoy. I am certain there will be more casualties. Hopefully, I'll see tomorrow's dawn. Whatever ... apparently I', in for a pretty good day.

Savannah Fare Thee Well

I spent the better part of yesterday and last evening in Savannah. It really is a beautiful city ... well not the south side. That part of town is just a giant strip mall. Parts of Mid-town are pretty ugly too because Savannah knows how to do slums with the best of them! BUT ... the rest of the city and the surrounding islands are gorgeous. Downtown is a crazy collection of southern moss, European style and ornate architecture. Everybody moves slow because there's just so much to look at. "You people sure know how to do trees," my friend Cathy Dunham once quipped as I drove her through the city. She lives in Boston where trees are naked most of the time. Here, trees wear robes.They are regal. The day began with a trip to the Post Office for corporate mail and then a quick stop at Hunter, McClean,Exley & Dunn ... the city's largest law firm where I've spent WAY too much time having them manage nasty things. "You're still living the life!" the Receptionist exclaimed when I walked in wishing her "Good Morning". Wearing faded jeans, a blue tee shirt and my Bob Marley flip-flops ... complementing my now shoulder length hair, I look like an aging surfer Dude. Her comment makes me laugh ... yet it is my life and it is true ... I'm still living it. Afterwards I leave the convertible parked in their garage because parking is a bitch in Savannah! When General Oglethorpe invented the city and its Squares he failed to factor in cars. Strolling over to the Soho Cafe, I say hello to my Mom who is having lunch there and then head to my own meal around the corner at Sixpence. Making my way down Liberty Street, I pass a man in a suit and he comes to a dead stop. Flipping his head I can see him staring at me though I keep walking. He recognizes me but can't place me. Eventually he turns and crosses the street for the DeSoto Hotel. I laugh because he's wearing a suit on a hot Southern Day. "You know Mike," Mills B. Lane IV said as we sat in his courtyard sipping Champagne for lunch one hot afternoon, "you and I know how to dress. It's hot here. Clothes need air. We get that. It's amazing the number of people who don't." Last night, I was back for the Chamber of Commerce's Taste of Savannah party in Johnson Square. Food and drink flowed freely as we wandered the thick crowd. I was hugged a lot by people surprised that I'm still alive. "I'm not dead yet," I explained stealing the Monty Python line and saying it with a British accent. Of course you just work the crowd at those things, drink and never really get around to eating. I did get to see my friends Jenny Gentry, Jason Crosby, Joe Driggers and ... thank Carlton Hodges for saving my ass with the Internal Revenue Service. That part was good. As darkness fell we made our way to Outback for salad, Tuna and steak ... and processing of the night. It had been an interesting Tip-towing through the past. I've done Savannah ... and Savannah's done me. Like old lovers who meet at party it's ... familiarly awkward. Thinking these things, my bicycle rolls down Tybrissa Street towards the ocean. A blazing sun sprinkles diamonds on the water. Salt hangs in the air.A new day is being born. I roll to a stop atop a cross walk so I can say the morning prayer. "I'm not dead yet. But Thank God, I'm no longer what I was."

The Other Side of the World

Winston is dancing in front of Goddess barking. Goddess lays there with her head on her paws sleeping watching the little Chiwawa mixed with something else. Winston weighs three pounds. Goddess weighs sixty. Winston barks. Goddess growls and Winston backs away frightened. Then he does it all again and everything repeats itself. I watch them. Goddess gets up and strolls outside to the Beloved Back Deck. Winston immediately prances after her. Goddess could care less. On a normal day, Winston would be laying on Sarah. Or if the girls were here, they'd be fighting over who gets to hold him. But it is not a normal day. It is Sarah's birthday though she is on the other side of the world. Her grandfather died and she is in New York for teh funeral. No matter how you slice it ... that sucks. On the up side, she gets to wish her parents Happy Anniversary in person ... on their anniversary ... right after the funeral. That sucks too. Nevertheless, Winston and Goddess are celebrating Sarah's birthday. They're rubbing noses together in the kitchen floor, both tails wagging. They're full of life and love and happiness. They're also dogs. They don't have a clue where their next meal is coming from. But they know things that people don't know ... to love unconditionally ... to always greet with happiness and joy ... to protect us through the night. Laughing at them, I say "Happy Birthday Lover" out loud and say a prayer of Thanksgiving ... for unconditional love ... happiness and joy ... protection through the nights ... even when you're on the other side of the world. Happy Birthday. I love you.

Unorganized Religion

Our refrigerator is a work of art ... literally. It is covered in photographs, drawings the kids made, clippings from The Tybee Breeze all held in place by a plethora of Jesus Magnets. There are all kinds. "Jesus is coming ... look busy!" or Jesus is coming, hide your bong!" Then there's "Jesus loves you. Everybody else thinks you're an ass!" There's one of a man pleading with the Savior, Please Jesus! Protect me from your followers!" A favorite is a conservative looking family singing together from the Hymnbook, "Satan loves me this I know, for the right wing Bible nuts told me so." I could go on and on. There are a lot of Jesus magnets! I have others too. Lenny Bruce says, "Every day people are straying from Church and going back to God". It's a picture of a woman clutching a cross at sea amidst crashing waves. There's a photograph of Mark Twain with the quote, "Go to heaven for the climate, hell for the company." Che Guevara says, "Cruel leaders are replaced only to have new leaders turn cruel." The Pope in full papal regalia asks, "Does this make me look gay?" Throw in Magnets of The Beatles, the Lord of the Rings, Marilyn Monroe, the Georgia Bulldogs, and George Bush asking, "Is our children learning?" and you get a visual of the Fridge. It's my visual Grotto to unorganized religion. There's not a lot of dogma, tradition, literal interpretations or judgement in this house. There is the creativity of children's art, books laying everywhere, really good art, and God's own creations in the flower pots which are scattered everywhere. There is a drive way but ... no white rock paved parking lot. A lot of community building takes place here and we pour the sacramental wine much more freely than at a Catholic Mass. There's the sun, the moon and the stars. Choirs of birds sing Hymns throughout the day. The ocean sprinkles holy water to each who requesting deliverance. The Word becomes flesh in the sand dunes every night. Whenever people visit, eventually I find them standing in front of the Fridge staring at the Magnets ... laughing. And I think that laughter is one of God's greatest gifts that too few take advantage of ... especially in church.

The Wet Period

Sitting in a circle there are twenty of us going through M. Scott Peck's Community Building exercise. According to Peck there are stages: Pseudo-community which is pretending we all get along but it's just pretending and being nice. It's what most people do at Church, Government, work or when we run into one another in restaurants. Once you understand its Pseudo or false ... things quickly deteriorate into chaos. We blame one another for being fake and get angry about it. Taking it out on one another we call people names. We condemn them to hell, become self-righteous and dehumanize others. FOX News has perfected the art of chaos. After this you're simply spent and got no more to give. Too tired to be angry anymore, we lapse into not giving a shit. Peck calls this stage Emptiness. You let it all out ... and then you're just sitting there as you. And you're sitting beside others who are spent too from calling each other Sons-of-Bitches ... that you begin to see others as they really are. This occurs at the same time they are finally seeing you as you really are. Then ... Community is achieved. We were in south Georgia at a retreat center near Valdosta and very clearly in the Chaos stage. A Rabbi was screaming at a woman calling her a Son-of-a-Bitch. Looking at my friend Terry on the other side of the room, we both acknowledged the Gender-Bending that would need to occur to make that possible. The woman, not to be outdone by Rabbi in front of an audience, called him a Prick. It all got worse from there. I was called a Prick for writing books before other people got around to writing theirs. Terry was called all manner of evil for working for the Government. Spouses not in love with their Spouses watched one another storm out of the room ... then one would chase the other to reclaim ... Pseudo-Community. I seem to recall a Baptist minister peed his pants. Needing a different kind of release, Terry and I found the Gym and beat the hell out of one another in the most physical and abusive basketball game ever played. We were pretty empty after that ... so we drank ... the alcohol we'd sneaked into retreat center. The next day, the Rabbi got up and apologized to the woman who said she was sorry too. They embraced and cried. She sat down and the Rabbi stood in the center of the circle ... crying. Unlike the day before, he was humble and frail. "I have entered the wet period of my life ... it's the time of tears. They come easily. I used to think that I could change the world but now I know," ... and his voice cracks as he cries ... "the world has changed me." Community is accepting change. Community is the acceptance of one another as we really are. It is fundamental to religion. It is where God lives. Some call it Heaven on earth. Fast forward 25 years ... I changed the world. Then the world changed me. Terry too. And the poor Rabbi struggles for meaning as he nears the end of it all. I don't know happened to the woman though the man who called me a Prick never got around to writing his book. The Spouses who chased one another divorced in bitterness. Terry and I were together last week, in community with Sarah and girls ... and my kids too though none of them were actually here. He and I ended up on the Beloved Back Deck talking into the night. "We've become the Rabbi" he later said. "We've entered the wet period ... tears come easy." It is true. Though ... it is in community that I share my tears. There is this Carnival of Friends and we've all cried together. Sarah and I kiss tears from each other. The kids and I have all hugged one another through the wetness. Fran was raised from the dead to cry with me. And God visits the Beloved Back Deck often. Thank you Terry. For reminding me. For friendship. For community.

Ugly Churches

There is a lot of beauty on Tybee Island. The place drips gorgeous. Palm Trees, lush tropical vegetation, the ocean, sea breezes ... miles and miles of clear blue skies ... sand dunes with sea oats ... a beautiful beach ... delightful cottages ... the Lighthouse ... Officer's Row ... the view from the Pier ... the South End. God invented beauty here. Not to say that it's perfect. It's not. The island has its share of ugly. The Baptist Church and the Catholic Church vie for the ugliest parking lot. I swear both congregations are addicted to rock ... white rock ... as in cocaine. Both churches paved Paradise and put up a parking lot. They're uglier than an old bowling shoe ... wonderful testimonies to the glory of God. The Methodist Church doesn't have a parking lot. It has parking meters. You have to pay for God's love there. The Episcopal Church is nicely nestled off the road behind a clump of Pine Trees. It is unassuming and ecologically sound. Though I never attend, I think it's the nicest of them all. In reality I have no idea. It just looks nice. Bar Church is of course, in a Bar. Bennie's. It smells of stale beer and urine. There is no parking lot although lots of people who attend receive parking tickets. The City of Tybee is run by Capitalistic Nazis who used to be Prostitutes. They'll do anything to turn a trick and make a dime ... I mean a quarter ... for fifteen minutes. I actually do attend Bar Church and we are considering a class action suit against the city for religious discrimination though by the time church is over ... we're wasted and just want to go to the beach. The Catholics did abandon a school and just leave it laying there so I suppose they take the cake on the ugly prize. I don't know ... the Baptists have the ugliest minister. Personally, I like the grand Cathedral that God built. It's on the south end with an incredible view of Little Tybee, where the ocean meets the Back River and Sand Dunes are prayer chapels. The Sun is always risen there ... and love comes on many a night as the word becomes flesh. I wonder what Sarah's doing? We need to go to Church.

Cinco De Mayo

At least nobody threw up. Let me rephrase that. At least I don't remember anybody throwing up. De-Luv may have. She sounds terrible this morning as her voice has dropped nine octaves. She's alive, which is a good sign, but she has a terrible case of "Black Cord Fever" that strange disease that hits intoxicated people and they decide it makes sense to call people on the phone and leave a message or ten. It's never pretty the next day. It was quite the celebration though. How can it not have been? It started with a panty raid. I haven't done a panty raid since I was college. Wait ... that's not true ... I did one in Seminary ... but not since ... until last night. It was colorful. Then we jumped in a Limo that was built for Disco and went to a Den of Iniquity called The Pink House. I'm pretty sure that Larry Flint owns The Pink House. I mean it is pink, the food is excellent and there are Tourons everywhere (Tourist + Idiot = Touron). That ended up being really good. It was Cheryl Sadowsky's (Y? Because we love her!) birthday. Larry Flint's people at The Prnk House wrote Happy Birthday on her plate in chocolate which is about as sinful as it gets. Then we took the Disco Limo to The Piano Bar on River Street in downtown Savannah where we had a really good time. I remember parts of it. Apparently, the Devil went down to Georgia and we were there. Unfortunately, there are photographs which are now making their way across the World Wide Web. Oh Well ... the Devil and us had a really good time. Evidently we all made it home OK. When I woke up, Sarah was sleeping beside me underneath our ceiling fan. It only took me twenty minutes to confirm this but it's true. Therefore it's alright. De-Luv's alive because she's leaving evil messages after taking the Devil back to her place. Judy O is out on probation and Johnny O has confirmed this on his cell phone. I haven't heard from anybody else. The last time I saw Jodee, he had a bra on his head. Johnny O was ordering everybody to get out of the Disco Limo. Cheryl was flashing her personality. Gregory, the Disco Limo driver, was talking on the phone. I have to go now. Sarah and I are having morning coffee in our birthday suits as we continue to celebrate our dear friend Cheryl's birthday. We are studying our Sunday School lesson for Bar Church tomorrow which we have every intention of skipping. The reason is ... it's Cinco De Mayo and we have a Pool Christening to attend tonight ... with the same people we were with last night. I love the weekends.

Happy Birthday Cheryl

My dear friend Cheryl Sadowski, Cruise Director for the Carnival of Friends, is having her birthday today. There will be celebrations, well-wishes, love thrown her way, presents given, and gatherings of those who love her. She is a talented, beautiful, gracious, hard-working, devote and generous individual. She also has an evil side. She broke into our house while we was away on our Honeymoon and rearranged all the furniture, sprinkled sugar and rose petals on the bed, took all of the labels off of every can good we have, switched the salt and sugar and ... left a bottle of crappy wine. Her bitch friends Rocky and Dedra helped. She also gave the girls a Karaoke Machine for Christmas ... one with really big speakers! They love it! Play with it all of the damn time! Hitting really high, screeching notes that break window panes. Dance in front of the television as I try to tune them out and watch the Braves game. They love Cheryl. I have mixed feelings. We're having a party for her later today which we are all looking forward to. "Hey Ryno," I said to her son as I left the Breakfast Club this morning. "See you tonight." "Why?" he sleepily asked, wearing a red bandana, eye makeup, an Atlanta Hawks Jersey, no socks or shoes, tight fitting blue jeans from Victoria's Secret and a thong. He's also pained his fingernails and toenails black. "Your Mother's birthday," I cheerfully respond. "Nobody tells me anything," he says, sulking away to wait on a customer. Walking outside ... it is a beautiful day at the beach. The sun is shinning, the ocean is flat, there is not a cloud in the sky, choirs of birds are singing and the entire Tybee Island Police Department are having breakfast in the Breakfast Club so the criminals are all happily breaking into whatever they want. It's a perfect day for Cheryl's birthday. Now, it gives me great pleasure, to go home and wrap her presents. She's done so much for Sarah and me. I just can't wait to do some back. Happy Birthday Cheryl! (He-he-he-he)

The Angel's Sigh

My bicycle coasts down Tybrisa Street to the ocean in the early morning time of delivery trucks, sunrise watchers, and people sitting on benches smoking cigarettes as they vacantly stare ... somewhere else. Old men sit in doorways reading newspapers, drinking coffee or staring at the birth of a new day. The restaurants are beginning to fill with breakfast lovers, the bars are closed and City workers are blowing yesterday's leftovers away. The sun's brilliance is throwing golden rays down the streets, not yet high enough to drive all of the nights demons away. Darting in and out of luminosity and shadows, I breeze by these things, riding high. All is quiet ... aside from the seagulls, the occasional slamming of a delivery truck door and the sometimes murmuring of "Good Morning" by someone who may or may not mean it. It feels like prayer. I'm thinking about yesterday on this new day. Sarah lost her last grandparent and I still remember when I lost mine. I was in St. Martin when my grandmother died. Mom called with a broken voice to tell me. Immediately, I did all of the rearranging of plans to get home as soon as I could. In some ways her funeral was built around me.I ended up speaking at it, representing her grandchildren and it was a sad day when ... the Angels sighed. We booked Sarah's flights and she talked to her folks as the news of what was happening when became clearer. She'd preoccupied herself throughout most of the day by painting rooms as an old house is made new. There wasn't much for to do except be respectful, help when I could while staying out of the way, and sigh with the Angels. It breaks your heart when someone leaves and ... you don't know why. I believe in Angels. I don't know why but I do. When they're not helping God with Her camouflage, I think they sigh a lot. I know they did yesterday. But ... I believe in second chances too ... which is the commodity of angels. Second chances come often in life and mostly the playing cards of believers. People who don't believe give one shot and you're out. Of course if you believe, then just because life runs out doesn't mean you don't get a second chance there too. Turning my bicycle around, I coast to the top of the cross walk into the bright sunshine of this new day. He is risen! Sprinkling diamonds on the ocean, the air smells of salt and dolphins dance. I take a moment and complete my prayer. Then I make my way home again.

The Next Great Thing

"I really thought you'd be either a Bartender or a cook somewhere by now," Terry said as we enjoyed the warm night ocean breeze. "And where's you next book?" he continued. "It's been a long time. Running with the Dolphins has run out of gas. "Tour of Homes needs a new tour." "Aren't you funny?" I replied with a shrug. "So this is Fran?" he asks, standing and pointing to the wall of trees. The outside flood lights shown on her thousand shades of green and she looked delicate and beautiful ... just like she always did. Giving me a smirk as he pointed to the middle of the yard, "And that's the Palm Tree." "Pretty clever, huh," I said, as he studied the oyster shell eyes, nose and mouth, coconut bra and grass skirt. I still haven't thought of a name for her yet but inspiration will come. We've been friends for twenty-five years having worked together for most of them; he in Atlanta with State government and me with Union Mission in Savannah. We were together often and met for dinner, Braves games, pool tounaments and all means of competition between us. We also accomplished a lot of good things for a lot of people. "So what are you going to do?" he asked sitting back down. "Well," I sighed, "the guts of manuscripts for three books are laying on the desk in there. But it's had to do re-writes when I'm writing every day." Nodding, he retorted, "You got to figure that out." "I know," I concurred. "We're consolodating houses and that takes time. I am spending a lot of time working with friends putting together a new way to do multi-social media marketing." "What that?" he asked. I tell him and he says, "We could use that. Let me know when you're up and going." "Thanks," I gratefully tell him. "You know Mike, you got one great thing left in you. I made a career change when I was your age and it really saved me. Of course I didn't have to go through all of the crazy betrayals and stuff you did. But you've got more stuff to do." He's right of course. I've been pretty Zen about it all over the past couple of years ... significantly downsizing my life, the circle of friends surrounding me, filling the empty spaces inside with new things and finding love again. At the same time, a restlessness is growing inside of me. It comes in the middle of the night as I work to dream the next great thing. It manifests itself in the increasing number of phone calls I'm suddenly participating in and an intensity has crept back into my voice. I'm not quite there yet but ... I'm almost there. My Carnival of Friends have declared May to be a new month ... one that will focus on celebration because of survival. A lot of crappy things occured in April. But we have birthdays, pool christenings, and Cico de mayo to plan parties around. I'll also celebrate the passing of the old and the continuing birth of the new. Next great things are already happening. And I'm right on the verge of at least one more. "Don't rush it," Terry concluded. "It'll happen." "Yep," I affirmed. And we celebrated as good friends do.

Car Pooling ... Seriously ... Freaking Car Pooling

I was so happy when Jeremy was born. For a lot of reasons. I have a son! He's beautiful (looking a lot like his old man)! Smart and dapper! He is simply excellent! AND ... it would only be fifteen years before he could drive!!!!! I salivated ... in just a decade and a half ... I wouldn't have to drive anymore. I would let him! I would kick back on the passenger side, grooving on tunes, drinking beers and telling him which turn to take. Does it get any better? When the magic day finally arrived, Jeremy tried to thwart these plans when he was fifteen by claiming that he couldn't drive a stick shift. I didn't care. After waiting fifteen years, he was driving from Savannah to Athens for the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia football game. Honestly, I think he got away with it for a week or so, but after fifteen years of investment on my part, his little ass was driving. And it did. He'd lied about the whole stick shift thing. This wonderful period in my life began. Jeremy drove me everywhere only to be replaced by Kristen. Krissy did wreck multiple vehicles as I taught her how to drive at a Bumper Car extravaganza one weekend in Daytona Beach. She was followed by Chelsea who is the safest driver in the family ... having mostly learned from her fiancee Sam who drives slower than the slowest person who has ever driven. Then my children did the most horrible thing! They grew up and left! Suddenly, I was forced to drive again. It sucked. Slowly ... over time ... with therapy ... I got used to it. I'd listen to tunes and pretend that I was telling one my children which way to turn or cursing an imaginary child when they missed the left. Eventually, I got pretty good at it and actually enjoyed driving the Tybee Road through the marsh, with the expansive views of the ocean and where the Savannah River meets the sea. Shrimp boats, egrets, seagulls and dolphins are exclamation points that still take my breath away. Then Sarah and I got married. Three little girls need to go to school every day. I'm a morning person. I should have seen this coming but I did not. It's just like when Jeremy tried to lie his way through it by claiming that he couldn't drive a stick when he could. Sure, the oldest little girl is only ten but ... I could care less. I'm driving the morning carpool! Forced to listen to crappy music, forever tardy in leaving for school, gummy bears and feminine hygiene products left scattered throughout my car. I'm carpooling because I love Sarah ... yes! ... freaking carpooling ... without good music ... or beer! "God," I pray. "What did I do? I tried to be good. I really love you and promise that I'll eventually make it back to church. Please get me through this period of trials and tribulations. Thank you for cuss words. Amen." BUT ... in only five more years Maddie get's her learner's permit ... then the good times are going to roll again. My feet propped on the dashboard ... radio playing my tunes ... top down ... beer in hand ... on the way to somewhere good ... telling her where to turn and to slow the damn thing down! I love my kids!

Poetic License

"Never, ever, let the truth stand in the way of a good story." I don't remember which Seminary Professor it was who said that, it could have Bill Tuck in Preaching class ... or maybe Clyde T. Francisco who could really tell stories in his Old Testament class... it could have been somebody else. I just remember hearing it. It's when something happens and with each telling and re-telling, the story gets better. Elements are exaggerated or diminished, perhaps our ability to say it just gets better, but stories take on a life of their own. It's like that game where people sit in a corner and someone whispers in the ear of the person next to her. That person repeats the it to the person beside him. When the statement makes its way around the circle, it's usually something completely different. "The liberty taken by an artist or writer in deviating from conventional form or fact to achieve a desired effect," is the definition of Poetic License. Hmmmm ..... Deviate from conventional form or fact? Hell Yeah! That's how I live my life! I take lots of poetic license. Sure sometimes I lie to myself but ... most of the time I deviate from what's expected of me ... conventional forms and facts ... rules and regulations ... preconceived notions and the preponderance of evidence ... so that I may achieve the desired effect. It's all about our desired effects, isn't it? In addition to painting another bedroom in our house, I'm also painting over the canvas of my life. Previous landscapes of who I've been were glorious paintings ... long haired, high school jock with a guitar ... starting a family in college while excelling in extra-curricular activities (lots of them) ... Seminary student in trouble ... Radical Minister in Blue Jeans ... Home Missionary ... Public Speaker ... author ... CEO ... there have been lots of things in those old paintings of who I was. Now I am writing again, often deviating from conventional form or fact ... and often not. Living at the beach which remains constant yet changes little every day, like our old house becoming a new one, defying form or fact. Children who moved on into their lives remain present though they're not actually here... yet there are new children too. Talking on the phone yesterday with Tom Kohler, for a second I stepped back onto one of those old canvases of who I used to be. It was good and felt I was slipping into an old comfortable shoe. The thing is ... I don't wear shoes anymore. Maybe when I run. Or give a speech. But the desired result is that I don't wear them anymore and keep my toes in the sand and my arm around Sarah as we figure out how to continue financing this Beach Bum life. Truth often gets in the way. There are bills to pay. People to see. Things that must be done. Demands made. The truths of life. Well ... I refuse to let truth stand in the way of a good story ... the story of my life. I've got this desired effect I'm enjoying every day and very much looking forward ... to enjoying it more ... as I take poetic license ... with myself.

It is Good

A year ago today, I was living alone, healing from a lot of bad things though doing better than I'd been, had just picked up my first big contract as a self-employed individual, had a tight Carnival of Friends who sustained me. I'd just gotten back from St. Martin where I'd spend several weeks and was in serious self-debate of expatriating. I had already booked my next trip. I don't remember what I was on this particular day but the television was obviously on because there was talk of tornadoes in the Athens and Atlanta, Georgia area. I remember thinking about my son Jeremy and daughter-in-law Marie because they have this great house in Madison ... half way between where the tornadoes was traveling. Madison is picture postcard kind of town. Norman Rockwell obviously made it and General Sherman liked it so much he didn't burn it. I'm a beach bum through and through but ... I love Madison. I love Jeremy and Marie's house. I'd just gotten back from visiting them, sitting on their back deck, sipping wine, watching the sun throw rays on the trees in their backyard, marveling at the silence and proud that they'd pulled off living in such a place. Somewhere in these memories is the phone call. Jeremy's voice was shaky as he explained that they were fine. The house? Not so much. The tornado blew threw their front yard, picking up the massive oak tree dominating the front yard, slamming into the their roof, destroying the house. They'd fled to the basement moments earlier which they'd recently converted into an apartment to rent. It ended up saving them. Jeremy explained the oak tree had taken up residence in the living room and the house was literally broken in two. "On the up side Dad," Jeremy explained, "the kitchen looks good." I asked to talk my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, whose as strong of a woman as God makes, and it started off fine enough, but the emotion of it all got to her and she cried. It me cry of course so we cried together far away from one another. But ... thank God ... my kids were OK. Even the most beautiful of houses ... in the most beautiful of places ... mean precious little when it comes to those you love with everything you are. Today ... Marie is Professor at Valdosta State College doing what she loves and is moving into a new house. Jeremy has this great apartment in Athens where he finishing his Ph.D. They're as happy as they've ever been which, of course, makes me happy. The house in Madison is repaired and on the market, though nobodies buying. I'm sitting on the Beloved Back Deck looking at the glory of the morning. My beautiful wife Sarah is sleeping still. Goddess is watching over Winston, the new puppy, who is ignorant about stairs and fell through them yesterday. We're consolidating houses so we're fixing things in one while painting the other. Little girls are excited about living at the beach. While I have lots of concerns, I feel incredibly blessed. What a difference a year can make. The choirs of birds and mussels sing their Hymns, the sun dances on the leaves, flowers bloom and the Lord is looking down pronouncing ... "It is good." My eyes grow moist as I remember these things ... and celebrate them too ... at the same time. As bad as it was ... It is good.

Peeing on Parades

My good friend Bob Colvin had just finished turning the lobby of Memorial Health University Medical Center into a shopping mall complete with a coffee shop, boutique, grand piano and lots of light to shine on plastic plants. The information booth was slick, the foyer expansive it all made you feel better that it was a hospital that you were walking into. Fabulous art adorned the walls of the room. It was impressive but Bob always did things with style. At the dedication ceremony, all of Savannah's leadership stood admiring it all. Words were spoken and the audience worked to listen rather than admire the beauty of a transformed hospital. That's when the homeless guy in the trench coat walked into the middle of the room taking a stance on top of the hospital logo. Spreading his legs in a cowboy, gunslinger stance, he opened the coat and peed on it. Everyone was quite ... drowned out by the splashing noise. "You don't see that everyday," I remember saying. "Talk about peeing on a parade." The ceremony quickly dissolved into ... chaos. Bob led everyone to the reception but ... no one was hungry. Well, the elected officials all hit the buffet table but everyone else refrained. It was a shame that the punch bowl was filled with Lemonade because, with the ice and the floating lemons, it just looked like really pretty pee. I felt bad for Bob. Then again, I've had my fair share of parades that have been showered. I remember this story whenever it happens to me or when I watch people I love. We get so close to getting what we want ... we can taste it ... and there's this moment when we all take it for granted ... then it doesn't. It's like God ... or the Devil ... or elected officials kick the bucket of your life throwing everything off kilter. We get what we wanted though suddenly ... it's not all that. These times make me appreciate those times when I get something and it really is all of that all the more. To be honest those are the rarest of times. Most of the time, somebody pees on the parade ... even if its just a little. Homecomings are mostly bittersweet. Days have moments of glory eclipsed by routine, drudgery and not quite accomplishing everything you want. Families spring leaks and we use the Bible, blind love or Duct tape to stop the water. Worst of all ... just when everything's the way we like it ... something changes ... and we can never quite get it back again ... though God knows we try. The Promised Land remains ... over there ... somewhere over the rainbow ... too damn high. It's a Friday. The sun is shinning. Birds are singing and the ocean breeze is light. I find myself among the wildflowers. Soft music plays in the distance. Goddess is underneath my bare feet giving me love. Excited the weekend is finally here, I imagine everything I want it to be. I feel good about things. BANG!!!!!! The noise jolts me from the chair. Goddess jumps up barking. I hear someone yelling. Walking to the front of the house, I see that the City of Tybee is delivering new recycling dumpsters to each house. A truck with a couple of hundred of them has two guys throwing them off in stacks of ten at a time. It's loud, obtrusive and the dumpsters are downright ugly. I wonder how senior citizens will possibly roll them from the back yard to the front. A woman with a clip board is walking behind the bastards throwing the damn things in the middle of the street. She made her list and is checking it twice. When they get to the next block, Goddess and I walk outside. It takes both of but we roll our dumpster to the other side of the street. There are two apartments there and they only have one dumpster. They can have ours. I don't want it. Besides, it's a glorious Friday ... and they're not peeing on my parade. I make myself a mental note to take a Punch Bowl of Lemonade to City Hall.

Vodka and Rootbeer

We were sitting in the bedroom floor talking about money. Really, it was me talking about money. She just listened. It was both depressing and uplifting at the same time ... which is hard to pull off. To be honest I have more than I deserve and still want ... more. That's a confession. I believe I just accomplished four of the seven deadly sins in one fell swoop ... lust, gluttony, greed and sloth. That's pretty good. I mean if you're going to break them ... get them out of the way. I've also broken most of the Ten Commandments. The last time I counted, I'd broken six. Throw in speeding tickets, parking violations and wishing that several people would just hurry up and go to hell ... my prospects for the after life are likely in jeopardy. Nevertheless, I'm a happy man. I live where I want to live and it drips with beauty, often taking my breath away. I go to the places I want to travel, drink wine, have friends and sleep beside the most beautiful woman. I have a dog who loves me and another who is trying to win me over. I go to the Breakfast Club every single day and most of the time I ride my bicycle. My plants are blooming and ... Neil Young's coming out with a new album, Aerosmith's going on tour and two of the Beatles are still alive. At the same time, like everyone else, I've lost 40% of whatever I'd set aside, work comes and goes, the tire on my car has a slow leak, the weed-wacker's broke and the grass is high. I have no idea what kind of fungus is growing in the corners of my shower ... though its fascinating and changes every single day. I'm out of orange juice. I'm also out of dental floss. I do have Vodka. I wonder if Root Beer goes with Vodka? Well, that's life right? There's the good and the bad. The Ying and the Yang. The checking account with some and the Savings account with none. Angels and Assholes. Serendipitous days and sleepless nights. Good days and bad days and going half mad days. It's alright. It's all gonna be alright, according to Jesus and the major prophet Bob Marley. I whisper a prayer of thanks. Vodka does go with Root Beer.

Sailing Home

Sitting in the Soho Cafe on Liberty Street in downtown Savannah, Georgia I'm listening to a business proposition. It appears I have another opportunity. At the same time, part of my brain is tip-toeing through the past. I've had many a lunch and several dinners at Soho, a funky art/deco place with really good food. Back when we started the Starfish Cafe, a culinary arts training program for homeless people, I kept trying to pattern the ambiance after Soho. When Sarah came home, it's hte first place I took her and instructed ... "Do this." A parade of friends march through my mind that I ate there with ... Keller Deal, Mary Ann Beil, the leadership staff of Union Mission, Herb McKenzie and his wife Joan, countless visitors from other cities, and ... more than anyone else, my dear friend Stacy Jennings. Savannah is warm and pleasant. Tybee Island, where I live, is sunny but has a cold wind coming from the west. Wearing my Bar Church tee shirt ("Where wenches sing Hymns"), faded blue jeans and Bob Marley flip-flops ... I am the epitome of business. My hair is back in a pony tail and it's all longer now than when I was in High School. I have a tan while the rest of the white people there seem ... well ... really white. My lunch companion is smartly dressed. A red business dress with creases, perfect hair, glasses ... she also has notes that she's speaking to me off of ... and hand outs. Like I did when I was at Groves High School, I pretend to study them. Back on island, I'll spend serious time pouring over them. There are several people in Soho who I recognize and they recognize me ... but are too busy with their own lunch conversations to pay me any attention. In days gone by, they flocked to my table ... "Hey Mike! Can you do this for me?" ... "My son's in need of serious treatment from cocaine." ... "My daughter is depressed and Georgia Regional won't do anything. Can you help?" ... "My wife tried to kill herself. Can you ..." It was a world without ceasing ... until it ceased. Nibbling at my Cuban Panini with chips, I take a sip of Chardonnay and suddenly feel like the place is haunted. The ghosts of things that used to be seem everywhere. I'm no longer who I used to be. Truth be told, I hung around far too long for who I used to be. I was stuck and scared to make the change I wanted ... so the change made itself ... leaving me behind. Stretching my arms behind my head, I pull the holder out and shake my long hair while staring at my finely dressed lunch companion with the next great idea. Reaching a bare foot under the table, I try to locate my flip-flops. I make a mental note to call Stacy for lunch. Folding up the hand outs, I stick them in the back pocket of my jeans remembering when I used to put such things in a brief case or a coat pocket. I re-do my pony tail. People who used to ask me for things leave without speaking. Standing up, we shake hands and I promise I'll be in touch. Back in the Savannah sunshine, a homeless man passes me with a flicker of hope in his eyes. Perhaps I'll share some change. Then his eyes grow wide and he stops dead in his tracks. "Mike," he says out loud. I stop, turn and hug him. As he starts to talk, I press my index finger to his lips. "Sshhhuuu," I exhale. "Don't tell anybody." He grins as though we're sharing the deepest of secrets and hugs me back. At the car, I put the top down, crank up the Beach Boys, grab a pen and write the letter "S" on the back of my hand for Stacy ... then I sail home.

What Goes Around ... comes around

I've always been a big believer in "what goes around comes around" meaning that the things you do ... either good or bad, eventually have the same consequence for you. Good rewards good. Bad hits you in the stomach just when you thought you gotten away with it. It's Karma ... things eventually return to their original status, completing the cycle. I've done a lot of good in my life. As a result, I've had ... and have ... a lot of good things. Celebrating them daily, I thank God and do my best to keep on contributing to the good stuff. Selfishly, I want more of it. Perhaps it's not so selfish ... I want it for most everyone else too. Then again, I've done my share of bad and have certainly had my fair share of bad too. Things that I wouldn't wish on anybody. It was hard as hell for me to get through them ... then accept the fact they'd happen to me ... and finally understand that I'd contributed in some way or another. Things I'd started eventually came right back at me. There are times, normally when I'm quite and contemplative, when I check the ledger. After reviewing my inventory of sins, I remember both the random and the deliberate acts of kindness. This always leaves me frustrated. I've done far more good than bad so why in the hell did the bad that came back and hurt me so damn much? I've been betrayed, lied to, left, hurt and forgotten. I finally conclude it's because ... I've betrayed, lied, left, hurt and forgotten people and things that I shouldn't ... but I did. That's the frustrating part. Then ... randomly something happens. I pick up the newspaper, spreading it out on the counter with the first cup of coffee, and there on the front page ... above the fold ... is a story about someone who had done bad things to me. Bad things are now happening to him and they are strangely similar to the things that happened to me ... that he'd been part of orchestrating. Staring off into space, lost in the universe and oblivious to the activity happening around me, I understand I'm part of something much bigger ... God's Divine Plan ... Karma ... the simple understanding that what goes around eventually comes around. The first thought after the feeling is a Bible verse. "Let justice roll down like waters, righteousness like a mighty stream" ... or "Kick his ass! He deserves it! He can rot in hell!" Then I pause again ... thinking of Karma. Walking outside, I plop in the chair, propping my feet on the railing of the Beloved Back Deck and stare at Fran's Thousand Shades of Green. Fran died while we were in college of a disease she didn't ask for and there was no justice in whatsoever. She taught me the color green though and there is this wall of it in the backyard so she has risen from the dead in it and we talk almost daily. The Palm Tree with the oyster shell face, coconut bra and grass smirk looks at me making a face ... like "I told you didn't I? He had it coming?" I think about things I learned in Seminary. Hinduism teaches "God does not make one suffer for no reason nor does She make one happy for no reason. God is very fair and gives you exactly what you deserve ... Karma is not punishment or retribution but simply an extended expression or consequence of natural acts." It leaves me torn. There are some assholes out there who deserve the bad coming back at them and I have to admit ... I'd like to see it. At the same time, I've had my fair share bad and I don't want anymore. I want surely goodness and mercy to follow me for the rest of whatever days I have left. I'll love what I have and concentrate on what I've got and not curse the past nor wish bad things ... except for those few who ... really do deserve them.

A Future To Build

Brooks Stillwell strolls inside the Breakfast Club looking like an Eskimo. Baseball cap, fleece jacket, blue jeans ... I didn't look at his feet but I imagine he had shoes on. Sitting on the stool next to me, he saw that I wore running shorts and a long sleeve tee-shirt ... no shoes. "Hey Micheal," he warmly says with a grin. Brooks has one of the most infectious grins I've ever seen. It's this cross between Impish and Deep. He's also got these dark eyes resting under dark eyebrows so when he grins and looks at me I feel he's really a wizard impersonating an attorney. Everybody working at the Breakfast Club stops cussing as he does so. The radio is quickly changed from the Comedy Channel with lots of cussing to a Blues Station. All of the wait staff go on break. Brooks is the first customer of the day. Well ... Whitley and I are there having coffee but we don't count. Brooks has done everything. He was managing partner at Savannah's largest and most prestigious Law Firm, a City Councilman who could have been Mayor if he'd wanted but he's too smart for that, attended the University of Georgia and likes Aimee Mann. He's pretty cool. "What are you doing these days?" he asks throwing the morning edition of the Savannah Morning Blues on the counter, rubbing the chill from his hands and giving me that grin. It is very hard not to like Brooks. "Well," I stumble to answer, "I'm consulting but I don't like it much." "Oh?" he asks with wide dark eyes. "Yeah, we develop these contracts which we sign and then we spend the rest of our time arguing about what the contract says." He laughs gleefully. "That's my business. You need an attorney." Everybody working at the Breakfast Club stops what they're doing and stares at him ... including the wait staff. Whitley gets up and leaves without saying a word. "So I'm writing a lot ... and working with friends to launch this new multimedia, social media web dimension where everything is posted in real time." "I posted some pictures on Face Book recently," he says with that grin. "Oldies but goodies." "I saw them," I say. We chat about Orange Crush, the annual informal gathering of several thousand African-American college students on the beach, the trash they left behind, the dinner he had last night and the things that people who like one another but rarely see one another talk about. He orders. I slap him on the back, tell him how good it is to see him and leave. Then there is this moment. It happens every morning when I leave the Club. After yelling "Bye Kids!" to everyone and them yelling all manner of embarrassing things back, I stroll into the middle of 15th Street, look to my right, and see the sun rise over the ocean. It gives me pause. A new day is born. I have the chance to start over. The past is wiped clean. Whatever restlessness that happened in the night remains there. My mind's focused on the things I want to accomplish. I am determined. Suddenly, I turn around in the middle of 15th Street and stare back inside. A chilly wind blows as a brilliant sun shines on me. Brooks is reading the paper sipping coffee. The wait staff has no one else to wait on. The Chefs prepare a breakfast for one. The Dishwasher washes dishes. Brooks gets his two eggs over easy, bacon, wheat toast and side of grits. The Chefs prep. The wait staff waits. I am thankful. Sarah is home waiting on me. Wen and Sean are waiting on me to do things. A publisher wants a meeting. Friends are waiting for me in the other island. Dedra will be back soon. The controversy that used to be my life is on the other side of the River where Brooks works ... in Savannah where Authorities on Homeless are blowing up, the place I used to work continues a magnificent downhill slide, Board chairmen who choose to remain anonymous reign because they're too scared to say who they are, and Senator Buddy Carter has hired some company to see how many Face Book friends he can amass. It's been a long, hard road to get to where I'm at right now ... standing in the middle of 15th Street with the chills of the past blowing on me and the sunshine of the future drawing me there at the same time ... I turn around and head home. There's work to be done. A future to build.

A Baptized Sunday Morning

Organic X is playing soft, acoustic tunes as I sit at the kitchen table staring out the open doors at a rain dripped day. The doors and windows are open so I can feel the wetness. A choir of birds are singing Hymns of praise and that's a close as I'm going to get to Church today. Fran's thousand shades of green dance in an ocean breeze. Brilliant colors bloom outside of every window. There are no lights on ... other than that of the computer screen and the low hanging clouds mean that its darker than most days. One candle is lit so there is a coziness about it. There are several things about this. My son Jeremy turned me on to Organic X on Sunday mornings years ago. We'd be driving home from Athens where we'd celebrated victory or cursed defeat of Beloved Dawgs of Georgia and the radio would give us a soundtrack for mellow reflectiveness. It has become a tradition for us and a family bond filled with good memories. The candle reminds me of my long dead friend Father Vernon Robertson. We were an odd pair, he in his 60s and I in my 20s ... a Catholic Priest and a Baptist Minister ... his family wealthy and mine lived with homeless people. We did cool things together though, like starting the Roman Catholic/Southern Baptist Coalition which was basically us having lunch on Wednesdays. We also started the St. Jude's Guild as a response to the outbreak of AIDS. He also got me in as a member of The Committee of Southern Churchmen where I met, and became friends with Will D. Campbell. Will wrote the preface of my first book. Vernon always had a candle lit in the rectory where he lived. Walking in, he would forever be listening to National Public Radio so I strolled to the receiver turning the knob to loud heavy metal rock-and-roll station on. It drove him nuts ... but with a smile. On mornings like this, Vernon's ghost leads me to light the candle and I find myself staring at it thinking of him when I'm not staring outside at a baptized Sunday morning. I love Sundays. I've always loved them. Back in Port Wentworth, we'd all go to Church in the morning and then stuff the truck to go to the Highway 80 Drive-In at night ... Sunday night sins are the best sins! In college we'd all be coming back from home and meet for dinner at the Western Sizzler and the 99 cent Hamburger Delux Special. In Seminary we'd skip Sunday night Church. As a Professional Christian I finally convinced the little old ladies to do away with the Sunday night gatherings so we could watch 60 Minutes. Now, here on island, I like grilling on the Beloved Back deck or strolls with Goddess to the sad little holy dock. "Church" is a relative term. When defined as a formalized period of communal worship, I opt for Bar Church which is pretty informal and we are forever screwing something up. But I don't even want that today. "The perfect church service would be one we were almost unaware of," wrote C. S. Lewis, {because} our attention would be on God" ... and not on what's next in the Bulletin or who's doing what. Good church is like a good shoe ... you don't even notice you're wearing it. So this morning, while Sarah sleeps, I find myself having church. A candle is lit in glory. Acoustic Hymns of praise stream from the computer that are steeped in tradition (a Catholic thing). I send prayers of love for the friends who are dead and who are living. I find myself very aware of the holiness of the moment. I am blessed. Truly .... Verily ... Amen.