Different now and Dead

"Let's hit the road," I said as we made our way through the marsh on the Tybee Road. "What?" she asked looking incredulous. "We just got home." "Your point?" I quickly asked. "I want to stay home. I've missed our home." "Hmmm," I said staring at the brilliant green hues of sea grass dancing on top of a high tide. "Where?" she prodded. "South," I gleefully answered. "St. Martin would be nice." "Isn't Orient Beach closed?" she knowingly said. "So," was my witty and snappy comeback. "Key West?" I inquired. She rolled her eyes and commented on the large tanker ship entering the mouth of the river beside the Cockspur Lighthouse. We drove on home, unloaded the groceries and put them away. Strolling out to the Beloved Back Deck, I sip a glass of wine and place my feet on the rail, toasting Fran's thousand shades of green and the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. Every direction I look is lush tropical vegetation and it has the feel of a back yard in Key West. Wearing only a pair of running shorts, the ocean blows a line from a song though my mind ... "She wears a Red Sox cap to hide her baby dreads, the girl she was in New England is different now and dead ..." Yep. That's me. I'm different now. Who I was is dead ... actually dying I suppose though dying nonetheless. I'm becoming somebody new. Being reborn is how Christians would say it. My toes dig deeper in the sand. I'm teaching a new generation of girls to dig their toes in too. Cheslea was here this past weekend and we sat on the beach together. She's literally my beach girl. As a baby, she went with me and crawled in the sand while I sat in a chair beside her. It was just her and me. She now has sand in her soul though living in Atlanta dreaming of getting back to the sea. I used to be corporate and connected. Now I'm adrift and amour. I'm never going back. I gave them everything I had ... and they took it. I "talk to my family every now and then, through emails and postcards" ... phone calls and brief visits ... as they struggle to understand. Sometimes people call wanting me to be what I was and I try to be nice but really I'm not interested. For years I've wanted to expatriate, leave the United States and live on an island. The truth of the matter is, I do. And, I have. Who I was is different now and dead.

Shirley Sessions ... an amazing woman

My friend Shirley Sessions has been been firing an inordinate amount of communications lately. Normally, she makes occasional epiphanies on the sad little holy dock or has me over for left-overs at her house. On the other hand, we have her over to our house and I cook real meals. When Shirley is here, Goddess loves her and Winston, the little gay dog, prances around her feet like fairy on meth. Whenever I'm at her house, she makes me hold a cat. We don't see each other all that much anymore though we live just a few steps away. It's not my fault. She's busy covertly running the United Way, the city of Tybee Island (amazing because she's no longer in public office but covertly runs things there too), and most of Chatham County (I think the County Chairman has the hots for Shirley). She did stop by on my birthday and left me a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse. It's hard not to love Shirley ... Besides I sometimes have this vision of her as the old commercial where her eyes grow dark, she snaps her fingers and it lightnings, and she darkly says, "It's not nice to fool Mother Nature." I wouldn't want to try to fool Shirley. Bad shit could happen. Anyway, she inserted herself into my perfectly tranquil life the other day and is now setting lunch dates with me that are to include other people. Shirley is the only person in the world, well ... besides Ben Barnes ... who can get away with such a gross manipulation of time and energy. First, she wants to have me have lunch with Mary Ann Beil. Now I love Mary Ann and we go way back. I know Mary Ann more than Shirley knows Mary Ann (but would never tell Shirley lest she snap her fingers). Then she wants me to have to have lunch with Skutch. Skutch is the guy who looks like a B Actor playing a reporter in a 1940's movie. He covered most of my career and I love him. He works for the Savannah Morning Blues and he covered my former career for more than a decade. If that wasn't enough, she wants us to go see her sister Sandy McCloud perform with the Girlfriends ... again! (Now I love Sandy and actually have known her longer than I've known Shirley and the Girlfriends are great ... everybody should go see them ... but I'll be in the Bahamas. Don't tell Shirley ... you can tell Sandy.). Last night I looked at an actual calendar for the first time in a couple of years. It grossed me out. That used to be my life ... ruled by a calendar. I'm not that anymore. Mind you ... I don't have much of a clue what I am but, I'm never doing that again. I'm not telling Shirley though. It could piss her off and she'd snap her fingers and stuff. I don't want to go there. You don't want me to either. Trust me ... the woman's amazing.

Manic Monday

There are seven bright red blooms on the Hibiscus plants in the Corporate Headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises. As the boss, I'm the first one in the office this morning. Well, the Palm Tree with the Oyster face, Coconut bra and grass skirt always seems to be here but she really doesn't seem to do anything. It's a pet friendly office so Winston, the little gay dog, is running around trying to eat the bright yellow blooms on the plants underneath the Hibiscus. I curse at him clarifying things about his lineage and what he did to his mother. A list of things to do sits beside my computer on powder blue paper. Reviewing it, I sigh. "I don't want to do that," I tell myself. "I did that last week and I don't want to do it again." It's a good thing I no longer have any employees or I'd have to set an example for them. I used to have lots of employees, at one time almost 300, and I was forever setting the example. They were mostly bad ones ... nevertheless, they were instructive. Towards the end of my career as an actual employer, I stopped wearing socks to work. It was just just too much of a pain in the ass. I also stopped wearing a coat and tie. I'd done that for thirty years. Instead I wore cargo pants with lots of pockets and black Polo tee shirts. I would stick all kinds of things in the pockets of the Cargo pants ... chewing gum, glasses, duct tape, extra cash in case I needed to get away fast, Snickers bars and those little bottles of Vodka. Those last years, I mostly spent my life in meetings with Lawyers and Bankers, the very people who invented ... BORING. I don't wear pockets to work anymore. As a matter of fact, I don't wear anything to work. It's one of the perks of the job to compensate for the lack of actual profit. As a new small business owner, last year I thought I really rocked-and rolled, traveling the nation providing services and product, wining and dining and depositing checks left and right into the corporate account. At the end of the year, I met with aforementioned Lawyers and Bankers and wrote lots of checks ... to the Government, Accountants, Lawyers and Bankers. When all was said and done ... I had enough left over for chewing gum, glasses, duct tape, one dollar bills, a Snickers Bar and those little bottles of Vodka. Today, it's just another Manic Monday. Did you know that Prince, or the Artist-formally-known-as -Prince, or whatever his name is, wrote that song. It's about a girl who doesn't want to go to work on Monday because she wishes it was still Sunday. What the hell was he thinking when he wrote this song? What was he wearing? And why? It's time to start crossing things off my list. Blowing air into my cupped hands, I pump myself up. "Lets do this," I say out loud. The sliding glass door opens and Cassidy, the five year old, stumbles out wearing a red blanket and a Princess Crown. Grabbing Winston, the little gay dog, she sits on the floor. "What are you doing Mike," she asks with sleepy eyes, blond hair askew, wiping snot on her sleeve. "Just working," I tell her. "It's just another Manic Monday." She nods sympathetically. "You too?" I ask.

Sex On Sundays

"God looked at everything (s)he had made and found it very good." (Genesis 1:31). I couldn't agree with God more. It's all good. Especially sex. And Sex on Sundays is an especially important expression of worship. This is not to be confused with many clergy who will simply try to screw with you today. Nor should it have anything to do with most Policiticans who believe in justified rape ... taking it from everybody else so they can feel better about themselves. (At this point, I can hear Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea all moaning while saying, "Ah Jeez Dad. Don't give us any visuals ... you've already messed us up.) To which I say ... Well ... God said it's all good and then She took the next day off. One of the many things that God had invented was sex (and I must saw I applaud this as much as most everything else that came along with creation). Sarah and I started celebrating on Friday. Sometimes worship simply cannot be confined to one day a week. I encourage everyone to celebrate God's creations today ... bright sunshine and ocean breezes ... Organix X on the radio ... the world and everything in it, including a really great bed ... Astogluide ... and the person you love. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Lord. I couldn't agre with you more.

Showing me the way

I am now the same age my Father was when I returned to live on Tybee Island and spend the next quarter-of-a-century working to make Savannah a better place. He was newly retired and had remade himself from a full time working railroad man to a retired golfer who lived for lunch with his friends and trips around the world. I was just starting a meterodic rise to the top of my profession. Dad died a couple of years ago and not soon after that my career came to an end. We both passed on to new things. I'm uncertain why I'm thinking about this. Perhaps it's because my birthday was last week and somewhere in my brain or in my heart the connection was made about the fact that I'm now the age he was when I came home. It's food for thought. Like Dad had then, I've mostly settled into a routine that's been good for me. I rise early, go to the Breakfast Club, come home and write from the Beloved Back before doing whatever work I do or traveling to wherever I was going. For a couple of years, that pretty much defined my days. There are radical changes though. I kiss Sarah before getting out of bed, make sure her coffee and juice are ready before I leave, and rush the dogs out of the house so they won't wake her. Goddess, my constant companion on the journey of one, know has a baby brother, Winston (who is gay) and she plays with him and looks after him when something goes wrong. Now as I soon as I sit on the Beloved Back Deck to write, one of the girls wakes up and joins me. Maddie will ask me "What's for breakfast?" Laurel will sit on the deck with Winston and talk without ceasing. Cassidy will wrap herself in a blanket, sit beside me and star into space while asking me the most random questions. While all of this is going on, I do my best to let Sarah sleep (often failing because its five-against-one ... three little girls who love their Mommy and two dogs who do too). Our house is only vaguely similar to when I lived here before. It's better now, less cluttered (well ... not the girls rooms ... but everything else), more elegant, much more comfortable and ... I am now co-owner of Disco Ball which hangs above the spiral staircase and has a light that shines on it transfering the entire living room into a set from Saturday Night Fever. It's a perfect combination of quiet and noise, naked Barbie dolls and beautiful drawings for me to hang on the refridgerator, a dish washer that is perpetually full and hugs for no apparent reason. Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie, Kristen and Chelsea and her soon to be husband Sam are here in photographs and gifts they've left over the years. The back yard is now a wonderful work of art. Then it makes me remember ... Dad was just hitting his stride when he was 56. It was a life that no longer revolved around work but family and friends. He really enjoyed the next chapter, more than I think he enjoyed any other part of his life. He mellowed a little at the end but not really all that much. I find myself in curiously similiar circumstances. Life is no longer defined by work but by family and friends. It's as fun as it's ever been, as promising as I've ever experienced and hopefull as hell. There is an excitment because I no longer know what's going to happen next but ... I know with everything in me that it's going to be fun. So to quote the major prophet Bruce Cockburn ... "Sun's up, uh-huh, it's OK, the world survives into another day and I'm thinking about eternity ... some kind of ectasy got a hold on me" Uh-huh! Thanks Dad for going first and showing me the way.

In Trouble Again

I have learned that simply by being an innocent by-stander, I can get in trouble. Living with my wife who I love, three little girls, Goddess (who can be a bitch) and Winston, the little gay dog ... I find myself in trouble with somebody for doing ... nothing. I have a long history of being in trouble but rarely was because I didn't do anything. Most of the time it was BECAUSE I'd done something. Like when Gene Prevatt, Rober Mixon and I stole all of the fire extinguishers from the Port Wentworth Elementary School. We took them to the old mill in the woods and played WAR. We all had a fabulous time ... until the police showed up at my house ... during dinner. That didn't go well. In college, I also stole a bunch of fire extinguishers and led an attack on the Dorm next to ours. Being the commander of the battle, I wanted to take their leadership out first so went straight to the Resident Managers apartment and knocked on the door. When Guy Sayles opened it, I sprayed him down. That's how we met. After that I swore off fire extinguishers. In Seminary, I broke into the "Billy Graham" Museum in the library where the Baptists had a life size mannequin of Billy wearing a three-piece brown suit, smiling and looking like he getting ready to shake somebody's hand. So I undid the belt, dropped Billy's pants to discover that he wasn't wearing any underwear. I have profound respect and admiration for Billy Graham and have tried to model my life after his example. I never did pull his pants back up so the next day when the Libarians arrived they were shocked. My name was mentioned and I made the first of many trips to Dean Ann Davis's office. She was not pleased. And I learned that Baptist believe in hidden cameras to protect their buildings and such. Baptist love buildings way more than they love people. I could go on but you see the point. I am accustomed to getting into trouble for actually doing something. Somehow I have broken through the barrier of getting into trouble for not doing anything. What do you do? The philosophy that I gave to my children and am now trying to teach the girls is ... deny everything. "It wasn't me," as Shaggy taught us. So what do I do? I'm in trouble again but this time for NOT doing anything! It just goes to show ... no matter where you go ... there you are.

Wet Dreams

The Starfish Cafe was the thing I liked the best at the end of my time at Union Mission. It's a restaurant we opened when I sold an old lawyers office across the street from what is now Paula Deans restaurant. (In retrospect, it was a stupid thing to do but we made a bundle and bought our own restaurant.) The Starfish Cafe is also a culniary arts training program for homeless people. Hundreds have graduated and now work for, or operate, their own restaurants across the country. Orginially it was named The Bread & Butter Cafe (thank you Leigh Calhoun Martin for the name) and right off the bat it became crazily successful. Nobody had ever done a restaurant/culinary arts training program for homeless people before. There was a lot of press. CNN showed up and ran a story for four consecutive days over a holiday weekend. I was in an airport somewhere when I saw it. Al Roker and the TODAY Show arrived and did a live broadcast. (They actually did two, coming back the next year to gauge our progress.) SOUTHERN LIVING Magazine followed then National Public Radio kept me on the phone doing interviews for the longest time. After that we hit the bump in the road. The Food Bank decided to it wanted to be sole owner though Union Mission owned the place. So I get a phone call one day and am told by an attorney to "cease and deist" using the name Bread & Butter Cafe because the Food Bank had trademarked it. I'm a good guy and didn't want to cause any trouble so I changed the name to "I Can't Believe it's not the Bread & Butter (thank you Micah Berry for coming up with that and Kurt Schmit for hanging the sign). The Press went nuts and we got a whole new round of press and many more customers. My friends at The Savannah College of Art & Design hosted a contest to come come up with a new name. Hundreds of entries tried for the grand prize of free lunch for a week. The Starfish Cafe was the winner because of the story of the little girl trying to save starfish washed ashore by throwing them back into the sea. She's told there are too many dying starfish to save and she can't make a difference. She smiles while throwing another back into the water and answers, "I made a difference to that one." After twenty-three years at Union Mission, I was burned out, my marriage was falling apart and I couldn't manage all of the need anymore. I had too many of my own. Asking the Board for a Sabbatical, they said no, even though there was a clear policy they'd approved saying I should have it). So it all got worse. The marriage fell apart. I continued to burn out (thank you Jerry Rainy, Herb McCkenzie and Philip Solomon). At the end, we were opening up lots of new stuff but the only thing that still stired by soul was The Starfish Cafe. Yesterday, Sarah and I returned to the Cafe. It's always interesting to tip-toe through the past. The Cafe itself looks as good as it when it opened (thank you Chef Paul for caring) though the rest of the place looks neglected. The old press clippings that I'd hung remain on the walls. The garden across the street (bought when I'd won an award and donated all the cash to Union Mission so we could buy three parccels of property) looks the same as it did two years ago when I left. We had our meeting. People came to give Sarah and I hugs. We had lots of emotions. It's ashamed when you can't quite shake all of the past. Then we left ... and went swimming (me in my underwear). D-Luv was hosting. The girls were having a blast. Ryan showed up with Ginger, his dog. It was a typical Tybee moment. We forgot about the Cafe and enjoyed ourselves. Later the phone rang and the past was calling and left a message. "How do you get certified for culinary arts instruction?" Not answering, we left and went to Huck-A-Poos for Sean's birthday party. It's hard when the past calls. It's like a wet dream ... no longer the real thing.

Summer Lovin'

It's Mayberry on Acid ... a Redneck Reviera ... an island Paradise ... a small community with more Stop Signs per square inch than any place on earth ... full Platoons of Parking Nazis ... Beach music most every night ... a Bar Church ...ten thousandTourons on Summer weekends (Tourist + moron = Touron) ... the smell of the marsh ... sunsets over the the Back River ... sunrises out of the ocean ... miles and miles of clear blue skies ... Ocean breeze, rum on ice, lazy days and party nights ... In spite of what the elected officals keep doing to the place, Tybee Island is still pretty spectacular. I love summer! I love the beach! I love islands! I love Tybee! For years I lived on the corner of Tenth and Butler, which is the ocean side of the Main Drag. My son Jeremy and I became convinced that hundreds of people from Effingham and Bryan Counties planned their weekends around driving to Tybee so they could turn around in our Drive-way. So we got a bunch of balloons, filled them with water, took the screens out of the upstairs windows and waited. Sure enough in no time at all, people from somewhere else started using our Drive-Way as a stock car turn-around. As soon as they did, we hurled water balloons at them, laughing our asses off. My daughter Kristen saw what was going on and she has a better arm than Jeremy and I combined. So she started throwing with precision ... breaking several windshields and knocking a couple of redneck heads down the street. It runs in the family though. My Dad once heard two drunk guys cursing in the middle of the Tenth Street Crosswalk in front of a bunch of girls. He told them to stop. They cussed at him. So he decked them, knocking one unconcious. My Uncle Curtis and Jeremy drug Dad away before the Tybee Island Police showed up. The girls thanked my Dad as he was being taken. Fast forward to now. I live in a quiet part of the island, surrounded by a thousand shades of green, the smell of the marsh, sound of the sea, salt in the air. I nod at my neighbors as we walk the dogs (well ... Winston, the little gay dog, prances with his mouth open while Goddess looks like royalty) and we sometimes stop and have wine with Art (who loves Auburn). We go to Shirley's sad little holy dock to listen to the concert of the choir of mussels. We have dinner on the Beloved Back Deck. Then there are those summer nights ... "Summer lovin' had me a blast ..." You know what I'm saying. Alright then ... I wonder if Sarah's up. It's a beach day! Time to get the beach balls out. Y'all all have fun! (And I the good Lord and I forgive you for your dirty minds!)

Bill and me

Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M.) but the other one who went to Seminary with me and I were in Prague in the Chec Republic. He wanted me to spend an hour with some clery there who might benefit from my experiences leading the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel and Union Mission. So we planned a two week trip around the one hour meeting. If you've never been to Prague, it is the most beautiful city I've ever seen. Cathedrals, a Palace, walking bridges across the Vltava River, cobblestone streets, great beer and an excellent Subway system. In fact, at most Subway shops you can buy porn. Tables are set up selling the stuff everywhere and many satisfied customers read it while they ride home or to work. I'd never seen that before. Prague also has a Sex Tour. We didn't take it but I got a brouchure and brought it home to my son Jeremy. As far as I know, he hasn't taken it either though he and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie have spent a lot of time in Amsterdam which has the largest "Brothel" section in the world. They brought me a magent of a Brothel with topless women hanging out of it which hangs on the refrigerator. There is also a picture of Bill and I hanging on it too standing in Prague's Old Town, with our arms around each other under the statue of Good King Wenceslas. I recall that we'd spent a great deal of time consuming Pilsner Urquell Beer. This was because we'd spent the morning in the Old Jewish Cemetery with thousands of tombstones leaning on top of each other and being consumed by trees. Virtually all of the Jews were killed by the Nazis during the war. There is also a Synagoge with the names of every Jewish person killed during the Holocaust painted on the wall. That's all that's inside. Overwhelmed by all of this, we got drunk that day and ended up bounching around the city long after the Subways had stopped running. Making our way through one of the Plaza, I was accousted by a bunch of Turkish Whores reaching for me. Bill was laughing his ass off until I yelled, "He's the one with the money" and they rushed after him. He took off in full stride and disappeared in the darkness. An hour later we hooked back up. He was out of breath from running so much but he'd lost them. We made our way back to the small hotel we were staying in. We'd already been to Auschwitz, the concentration camp in Poland, the jail in Berlin where Detrich Bonhoeffer had been jailed for trying to kill Hitler because it was his duty as a Christian, to a Gypsy camp in Krakow and the blacked stoned St. Peter and Paul Church there. It had been a sobering ... and life changing trip for us. We reached a point where we could no longer talk but completely understood what the other was feeling. We've had many adventures together but this was the pennacle. Bill tried to call me on my birthday but we missed each other. I tried to call him back but to no avail. His son Micah and his wife Mary Catherine, whose wedding I performed, will be here in a few weeks and though it will be brief, I really looking forward to that. I think about all of the things that we've done. Chec Republic, Poland, Germany, Cuba, New York, D.C., New Orleans, Southern Baptists and Gethsemane Monastary in Bardstown, Kentucky ... we've done it all. We can go a year without seeing each other but when we do, it's like we've haven't missed a beat. The thing I love about Bill is he's always always looking for what's next. Though he's now in the used body parts business and lives on a farm miles away from anybody else, he always thinking about we might do next. "Figi," he told me now to long ago. "We need to go to Figi," he explained and there was other need for additional words. It's good to have friends who, in spite of anything and everything, will always be your friend.

Really Liking who I am now

As a dreamer of dreams and a traveling man I've chalked up many a mile Read dozens of books about heros and crooks and learned much from both of their styles Yep. Thank you Jimmy Buffett! Christians talk about being re-born and it's true! I'm on my forth or fifth incarnation of me! I used to be somebody else ... a small town Southern Boy in Port Wentworth, Georgia spending my days riding bicycles with my friends, making out with girls behind the elementary school, and stealing all of the American Flags out of the building. Then I became a college student, helped conceive my beloved son Jeremy who became my best pal, learned how to learn, and was booed by the graduating class when I got dilpoma and walked straight out of the door rather than return to my assigned seat. Inexplicably, God told Guy Sayles to tell me to go to Seminary ... so I did and mostly got in trouble, eventually earning two degrees while vandalizing the statue of Billy Graham, throwing a text book on Greek out of the window in protest, and walking out of class if the professor was repetitive or boring. At the same time, God told Guy Sayles to tell me to become a Pastor. I don't think that Guy's ever forgiven God for actually doing it or that God's ever forgiven Guy for actually telling me ... but that's how it happened. And I became a Professional Christian for the next eight years. I got in trouble for a lot of things ... turning Sunday School rooms into apartments for homeless guys, turning the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub, concieving my daughter Kristen and breaking into Russell Bennett's office one night with Claude Drouet and Larry Desolier and putting pages of pornography in each of his thousands of files in his filing cabinet. I did become The Rev. Then I became an Unprofessional Christian, moving to Tybee Island and becoming a President & CEO in Savannah, writing books, helping to concieve Chelsea, running with the Olympic Torch, appearing on the TODAY Show, CNN and speaking at the National Press Club in Washington D.C. I won a bunch of stuff, traveled the world, met famous people ... including the President and ... all it cost was two wives, my mental health and a lot of people who loved me once but don't anymore. That was then. Today I'm a Beach Bum, happily married to Sarah, learning how to talk to little girls again, watering plants, talking to trees, strolling to a sad little holy dock, raising a gay dog, remembering to turn my ear ring everyday, being Chaplain of the Breakfast Club, and wondering how in the hell to sustain this lifestyle for the rest of my life. I don't know. I got more to do. I just don't know what it is yet. Sarah told me the other day that Steve Jobs said "Great Artist have to go away and reinvent themselves." He certainly did. I suppose that's what I'm doing. It does feel familiar. I've been so many people already ... but ... I really like who I am now.

Birthday Wishes

You're supposed to make a birthday wish on your birthday. Sometimes its hard narrowing it down to just one. After stumbling into the door marked "Exit Only" at The Breakfast Club, Nancee stuck a candle in my face and told me to make a wish. It was the number 1 with a flame on top. After taking my first sip of coffee, I blew it out with a smile. There were greetings of good tidings and joy and several hugs by everyone else. The place exploded with customers when it opened so I left and went to the beach. With my feet in the water, the sun baptized me in a yellow light sent down by God Herself. Lost in thought, I remembered something I'd read ... "As I reinvent myself I'm constantly curious about everything, I can't wait to see what's around the corner in newfound art, entertainment and exploration" (Pam Grier). Then it was time for Sunday morning prayers so I went home, kissed the top of Sarah's head sticking out from the covers, went to the Beloved Back Deck and livestreamed Organic X. There are four blooms on the Hibiscus plants. Goddess shoves Winston, the little gay dog, out of the way to wish me "Happy Birthday". She does it in her laid back way, rubbing her head against my leg. When she's done, Winston, the little gay dog, tries to make up for it in volume, prancing underneath my feet without ceasing. An ocean breeze rustles Fran's Thousand shades of green and I can't help but believe that God is going a little overboard with the Birthday wishes. On Face Book, there are lots of birthday wishes and they overwhelm me. A seagull lands in the backyard under the Palm Tree with the oyster smile, coconut bra and grass skirt. He is mostly white, with a touch of grey ... like me ... and pecks the grass. Snapping to attention, Goddess flies down the stairs and chases it away. Goddess is determined to keep me young though Winston, the little gay dog, follows her and pees on the spot where the seagull was letting his feelings be known. The choir of birds burst into song. Thoughtfully I pay attention to all of these things. These are my presents as I continue to re-invent myself. It's the birth of the new ME. Micheal Elliott is no longer who he was. I'm becoming somebody else. I wouldn't change anything I've done, but am much more curious about what is happening next. So ... what do I want for my birthday? Everything.

Sharing Words

"Well Hemingway was an old drunk who shot himself," Sarah said, "and I don't want that to happen to you. "He moved from Key West to Cuba to Ketchem Idaho," I replied. "I'd shoot myself too." "Well ..." she mused, uncertain of the argument now. "Plus he stopped writing," I continued. "He should have never have stopped writing. She hugged me and that concluded the conversation. It had begun discussing which books we've re-read the most. Hers is Sid Silverstein's THE GIVING TREE which she's read to the girls a hundred times. Mine is Hemingway's THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA, followed by THE LORD OF THE RINGS trailed by Buechner's WISHFUL THINKING and PECULIAR TREASURES with the BIBLE coming in fifth. I don't think I've ever re-read any of my books. Right now I'm mostly done re-reading Graham Greene's mangificant THE HEART OF THE MATTER but I already know the ending. So I pick up great phases but struggle to re-do something I've already done. It's like when I re-read the Bible. I already know the Devil did it and the good guy wins. Plus I live on Tybee Island, write every morning listening to Pandora radio counting the number of Hibiscus blooms there are on the Beloved Back Deck (3 today). Goddess snores laying beside me while Winston, the little gay dog, licks my toes and prances around. I take my time. Sometimes it pours out of me quickly and my fingers can't type fast enough while other mornings I sit and stare at the Palm Trees waiting on words to come. For years, I gave it all away, writing for the places I worked, using my words to advance the efforts and make the places better than they were when I found them. In that regard, I was incredibly successful. Now, it's for me. It's like morning prayers. I share it because I believe in sharing. I think we'd all be better off, if we shared more.

Why is the Universe slightly off kilter this morning?

Stumbling from the shower into the kitchen, I pick up the two pills laying on the counter and pop them in my mouth, washing them down with a glass of water. Then I look at the counter and see that I took Goddess' pills instead of mine. Of course this is right after I've given Goddess my pills so she is waiting for the treat I normally give her after this routine. Winston, the little gay dog, is prancing and dancing around my feet. "Shit," I mutter, grabbing the bottles so that I can take the Cholesterol and Blood Pressure medicine and Goddess can have pills for her joints. Then it's off to The Breakfast Club for coffee. Stumbling in the door marked "Exit Only," I pour myself a cup and sit on my normal stool. The entire staff are sleep walking through the prepping that occurs for hours before the place opens. They've been slammed all week and look worn and tired. That's when Dedra, or D-Luv as she is know on the island, burst through the doors like Ehtel Merman, singing at the top of her lungs. "Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, listen to the music." "What in the hell is that?" Bree asks from the back. The entire cook staff turns in unison and if looks could kill Dedra would have been dropped on the spot. Ryan actually opened his eyes. Nancy left claiming she was no longer able to work. Dedra notices none of this and sits next to me now singing "Rock and Roll Hootchie Coo". I give her coffee to shut her up. Leaving the Club, I make my way back home to discover that Winston, the little gay dog, has stolen a stuffed animal from Cassidy's room and white cotton stuffing is laying all over the floor. Goddess is standing there looking like she had nothing to do with it and feeling sorry for her little brother. Sitting down to collect my thoughts, Cassidy wanders out drapped in a red blanket. She stares at me as I sit to write and then starts talking. The quiet of the morning is shattered as bad as Dedra's gross misinterpretation of Ethel Merman. What does one do? The universe is slightly off kilter. It's a beautiful morning and I've been looking forward to the day since yesterday. Something's just not-quite-right. Cass is hungry so I make her pancakes which she immediately pronounces as burnt. "Not if you cover them in syrup," I explain. She decides its more important to color at this moment. I leave her to the crayons and return to the Beloved Back Deck. My neighbor comes out and screeches "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY." The neighbor on the other sides cranks his lawn mower. Winston, the little gay dog, pees on the kitchen floor. Goddess shakes her head and walks away. I don't know why the universe is slightly off kilter this morning but it is. It could be because its an election year, the Southern Baptist elected a black man as their President, or the woman on the Bachlorette decided not to send somebody home last week because she likes them all. Sarah wakes up but refuses to get out of bed. I don't blame her in the least. It's going to be an interesting day. So if you're also experiencing things in a slightly-off-kilter-kind-of-way I wonder why you think it is? Oh wait ... Cass is eating the pancakes. Never mind.

Instant Karma

Let me start by professing that I am mostly a Christian. I paid a lot of good money at Seminary to get ordained so I guess I'd better be. My creedo starts with Jesus and the Saints and all the prophets but then it takes some interesting turns. I like Zen and waiting on things to enlighten me. Che Guevera and Liberation theology is a stready stream. I have lots of pantheism inside of me. Salt water pumps my heart. To cap it all off, I'm a hopeless romantic who really beleives love conquers all, forgiveness is integral to living and hope is the proper beginning for everything. And I like Karma a lot. It's the concept of action and deeds which forever start and forever end the cycle of cause and effect. What goes around comes around. If you do good things then good things eventually come back to you. If you do bad things, eventually it becomes apparent that you're screwing yourself. Mix it all up in a pot and that's the religion of Micheal. So on the 4th of July, I was particularly religious. It started with me rolling over it bed, hugging Sarah and thanking God for her. Then I thanked God forThe Breakfast Club and coffee with friends. Afterwards I rode my bicycle back home prayed that Jesus it a nice beach day. I invoked the name of God in entirely different ways when the three Mermaids got up wanting breakfast while Sarah slept and I was enjoying the morning on the Beloved Back Deck. So we had communican over Cinnamon roles, wishing each other a very nice day. We made our way to the beach and in the middle of it, Sean and Wen needed our help. God had blessed them with a washer and dryer that they had to immediately get (I think they got it on the Black Market) and we needed to watch their kids. So we had lots of kids at the beach. I took them all out into the ocean way over their heads. We laughed and body surfed until it was time to go back to the house. Five girls instantly turned our newly redone home into a third world country. It's amazing to me how quickly this can happen. It makes you beleive in God even if you don't because you're asking ... "Whose going to save me from this?" Of course I tried to sleep through it but five girls have the accumulative capacity of detonating a nuclear bomb. I got up, poured a glass of Holy Water and sat with Sarah on the Beloved Back Deck. Sean and Wen returned and, under protest, liberated two of the girls. I fired the grill and threw the chicken on. Sarah baked a cake. Dedra arrived. We ate. It was stil early and we wondered what to do. We are blessed to live on Tybee Island so there is always something. Arriving at The Rock House we settled in as the sun set to listen to The Samuel Adams Band who play damn good live music most nights. They were glad to see us. The girls and I danced. I did shots with the band. Sarah ordered desert. It was a charismatic worship experience. Then we retreated to the sanctuary of our bedroom and called on God in other ways. The girls decided this was the perfect time to burst through the closed door to wish us a good night. But it's all good. Instand Karma making its way back around. Today it all starts over again, thank God! If we want to, we all shine on ... like the moon and the stars and the sun. Religion doesn't get much better.

A Family of Mermaids

Last year, Conner, Hugh and I joined 97 other Patriotic Americans and marched naked down Orient Beach wrapped in red, white and blue ... body paint. It was Conner's idea that we celebrate his birthday this way. Hania and Patty wanted nothing to do it with so we went without them. I grew up on the Stand Up for America Day in Port Wentworth, Georgia but celebrating Independence Day in St. Martin was a lot more interesting. Carlos, my friend and manager of Papagayo's, put on a French version of an American meal. Hot dogs with creamy cheese glaze, french fries (because they're already French), Chocolate Mousse and bottles of Pouly Fousse wine. I love Carlos because he tries so hard. It was as American as the French can do. I don't remember who drove me home that night. Home is a fifteen feet walk from the restaurant on a sandy road covered with Palm Trees. Conner has no idea who drove him home either. The last thing I remember was Hugh dancing with his hands over his head ... which is never a good sign. It was also the last time I was in St. Martin alone. This year, I'm back doing it all the American way. After grilling hamburgers and hot dogs last night, Sarah and the kids walked with me to the beach for the fireworks. In spite of the City of Tybee's front page announcement that anyone visiting the island would be ticketed, a decent crowd showed up. Entrepeneurs were selling Glow Sticks while people sat on their coolers. In typical Tybee fashion, the fireworks were late. It didn't matter. The rising full moon erupting from the ocean put on a better show anyway. Afterwards, we all walked home holding hands talking on a paved street lined with Palm Trees. Neighbors threw their arms around us saying how good it is we're back. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, welcomed us into our new home. Over the past few weeks, we've redone mostly everything about it. It is now a simply elegant Beach House that you can wash down with a hose if it gets too dirty. Later, I texted Conner and Hugh trying to make plans for another adventure. The Carnival of Friends have suddenly become strangely conservative and Prudish. Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie are laying low. Kristen is too. Chelsea and Sam are working away in Atlanta which is a horrible way to spend the 4th of July. As the night moved towards day, I sat on the Beloved Back deck with my feet propped on rail and Goddess laying at my feet. Cassidy walked out in a pink bath robe with Winston, the little day dog. "Mike," she sweetly asked, "Can I sit with you? Because I always sit with you." She crawled in my lap and propped her feet on my feet which were still on the rail. She asked me if I wanted some of her bubble gum. I asked her if she wanted a sip of wine. Laughing, we both declined. Today, it's back to the beach with this family of Mermaids that now surround me. Friends are making plans to visit. The grill is begging to be used again. Fran's thousand shades of green are dancing in delight. A Palm Tree with oyster eyes, a coconut bra and a grass skirt is smiling with the sun in its hair. I had a blast last year being an expadriate on the 4th of July and will likely do it again before I die. But this year is better. Happy 4th everyone! Oh ... and Conner ... Happy Birthday.

Independence Day (Cuba)

He was blacker than most black people but with the whitest broad smile I've ever seen. I'd just checked into the Hostal Del Tejadillo and it was his first day on the job. He was taking his time trying to get the entire process right. I'd made the reservations on-line and Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me) had picked me up at the Jose Marti airport and brought me here. I have to give Cuban Airlines credit for a couple of things. Though the airplane was 1940's vintage with ropes for seatbelts, they had a cigar cart and a rum cart which is a perfect way to fly from Nassau, Bahamas to Havana, Cuba. I was smoked up and wasted when we arrived and had to pee really bad. Of course I was detained by Immigration as they questioned why I was in Cuba. "I am on a missionary mission," I explained hopping from one foot to another. He carefully eyed my passport for a full five minutes before stamping it. I already had a foot out of the door as I sprinted to the rest room where an old man blocked my entrance. I needed to throw change into a jar before I could enter. Capitalism is alive and well in Cuba. Michael ... pronounced Michelle by him ... carried my backpack to my room. He showed me how to turn on the facets in the bathroom, gave me a key to the safe and asked Bill and I if he can make any arrangements for us. "What kind of arrangements?" I asked. He winked. "Ahh Sir," he answered, "for the Cabaret?" "No thanks," we told him. "We going to Salsa tonight." And we did. A bunch of students at the University of Havana met us and walked us five miles to a tiny apartment where we were told that we must move all of the furniture before we could dance. So we did ... into the front yard ... except for the chair that the little old lady in ... she was the mother of one of the students and was in charge of the Boom Box. On a hot Cuban night, we danced with Communists who love Americans. Perhaps twenty of us were crowded in the tiny two bedroom unit. They taught me Salsa. I showed them Shag." Laughter errupted and neighbors showed up to join in. Salsa is religion in Cuba. At 3:00 in the morning, they carried us back to a street corner so that I could fall into a cab. In Cuba, Rum and Salsa go together. The Taxi dropped me off in front of the Hostal Del Tejadillo, which was closed. A giant metal door had been pulled down over the front door. Cursing, I banged on it. "Micheal?" Michael asked. "Stop it! "You're going to wake everybody up." "Let me in," I slurred. He did with the white teeth smile and told me that he would take me to my room. He was much bigger than me, so he basically carried me up two flights of stairs and put me to bed. The next morning, I stumbled downstairs in the same clothes he'd put me to bed in. Michael handed me a tiny cup of strong Cuban coffee. "You look like ..." he struggled with the words, "how do you say in English?" "Shit," I said rubbing my head and drinking the coffee. "That's it," he exclaimed. We talked throughout the afternoon. I'd slept through the morning. He gave me a book about Che Guevara who is a Jesus figure in third world countries and one of my heros. I asked him what he wanted from the States and he told me a Bible. When I got back I sent him one, along with a copy of Running With the Dolphins so he could learn a bit about the island I live on. I don't know if he ever got it. I tried to track him down to see but never could. It is a Communist country still and everybody in the world except Americans visit Cuba. Our Government hates their Government which hates our Government ... which is the way Government works (Mine's bigger than yours ...) This morning, on the Eve of American Independence Day, I find myself thinking of Michael ... I hope he got the books. Actually, I pray that he did.

Cuban Birthdays

His name was George and when he saw me wearing the grey tee shirt with the red letters spelling out "Georgia" he broke into a huge grin as he stood on the Camelback and stormed over to me. I was sitting between a woman breast feeding her baby and an old woman with a chicken in her lap. "I am George," the big man bellowed, smothering me in a hug and laughing. "We are friends now. I take care of you on this bus." Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me) smiled and shook his head as George shoved the old woman with the chicken in her lap down the seat. Bill was the reason we were riding a Camelback in the first place. Public transportation is Cuba is interesting and the buses are three times the size of those in the United States. That's because the Cubans literally take three buses and thrown them on top of each other ... hence the hump in the camel ... and cram as many people as possible on it for only 35 cents. "Since we're here," Bill explained to me, "we should travel like the locals do." So we rode the bus from downtown Havanna into the country where Ernest Hemingway's house, Finca La Vigia or "The Lookout House" which was ten miles away in San Francisco de Paula, a sleepy little village. "You get off here," George commanded with a smile and smothering me in another sweaty hug. Bill and I got off the bus with several other people who immediately disappeared somewhere in the thick, lush Tropical landscape. We stood there on a gravel road wandering in the general direction of Hemingway's past. When we got there, it's closed on Monday's. "Well, that's great," I bitched to Bill. "What are we going to do now?" Aside from Fica La Virgia, there is absolutely nothing in San Francisco de Paula. "We'll travel like the locals do," Bill cheerily replied without hesitation. "We'll thumb back to the city." So two Americans with back backs stood there with our thumbs sticking out. An old 1950's pick up truck held together by rust and wire coasted to a stop at our feet. It was filled with Cubans. The cab had five men in it and the bed looked like a can of sardines. Everybody was smiling at us. The driver, an old toothless man with flaming blue eyes, jumped out yelling in Spanish at his seat mates. Shaking their heads understanding, they vacated the cab and somehow crammed themselves in the back. The driver then made a great bow inviting Bill and I to sit in the cab with him. "No, no, no," we both protested but he and the 47 people crammed in the back would have nothing to do with it. They all clapped when Bill climbed in the middle and I took the seat with the window that wouldn't roll up. The truck spit gravel as it carried us back to Havannah where I was already dreaming of a majito at La Floridita, Hemingway's favorite bar. Bill can butcher Spanish with the best of them and was in some conversation with the driver with the smile and the flaming eyes. I just tried to absorb it all in. I mean who gets to do this? And I wanted to experience Cuba before it evenually becomes a Disney Land for the rich and famous. I've been to a lot of places but the nicest people I've ever met live in Cuba ... and some of the most beautiful too. We were dropped off at the University of Havannah where we were to meet up with a bunch of students that Bill knew who were going to teach us Salsa that night. When the driver got out, we emptied my back back on the seat. Snickers bars, bandaids, rubbing alcohol, medicine, cue tips, and such things. Bill and I bowed very ceremoniously and the driver returned the bow. Those in the back all smiled and waved. We turned to go. He climbed back into the cab and we heard him squeal in glee. We quickly made our way off into the bustle of one of the most cities I've every seen. In spite of a stupid Embargo, these are the nicest people I've met anywhere. They don't care for government, hell most of the time I don't either, but they love Americans. It makes me think, if we can keep Government ... and religion ... out of human relationships, we'd all get along a whole lot better. And I want to go back. I want to take Sarah. "What do you want for your birthday?" she asked me yesterday. I just smiled.

Another Day in Paradise

We got home from Jodee and Cheryl's last night and sat on the Beloved Back Deck talking into the night. We're finally glad to be home. It seems that we've hardly been here at all this summer. We've traveled to and fro on the face of the earth. It's been fun ... how can it not? A crusie, Daytona Beach, Belieze, St. Martin, and San Juan Island were all incredibly enjoyable! But that many places in three months is a lot of travel. When we were home , we're remaking the house. So there's been painting, throwing out old stuff, replacing it with other things, moving the girls into their rooms, fixing things that were broken and seeing how much we can cram into the storage room to deal with later. Plus it seems as though we've had a lot of company too. Folks wandered in and out of the house and we did our best to accomodate. So we grilled out, took them to Doc's Bar or to listen to Samuel Adams who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island. Or we were meeting up at North Beach Grill to listen to new bands or hooking up withThe Carnival of Friends which has been quite challenging so far this season. Chelsea's in town today, but is heading back to Atlanta so a visit with my baby daughter will be brief. We keep trying to hook up with Jeremy and my brilliant-daughter-in-law Marie but it hasn't worked out yet. Kristen did blow through yesterday because she was out of coffee and needed some of ours. Maddie, Laurel and Cassidy have been in New York for the last three wees and are due home next week and Sarah is beside herself with anticipation of their homecoming. I find myself missing all of them at once. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, seem awful happy that we're here. Goddess didn't even mind me giving her a bath in the outdoor shower. Winston, the little gay dog, loves his girlfriend Sarah more than anything and prances around her like a ballerina. The choir of birds that live outside of our bedroom window sing us new Hymns every morning and the woodpecker that resides in the tree in the neighbor's back yard taps a backbeat to it all. The grass is cut and I'm almost finished decorating the back yard. The plants are all watered and blooming. There is a hammock to hang and the critical decision of where it goes must be made. There is Mermaid Bar sign that I want to buy and the bicycles need air in the tires. It's July 4th weekend and the bicycles are the only sane way to travel on the island. So in the midst of all of this craziness, last night we just sat by ourselves and talked. The air was still though the ocean was loud. An almost full moon cast a wonderful glow on Sarah's face which left me distracted over the things she was saying. Salt stuck to our skin and we could hear the traffic on Butler Avenue five blocks away. We talked about how blessed we are, in spite of a lot of things, and how wonderful it is to be in love. We shared our fears of something interrupting it and pledged to never allow that to happen. Sometime close to midnight, we made our way to bed and slept without dreams in each others arms. It's just another day in Paradise. And God looked down from heaven and said, "It is good." Today, we have date to go to the beach. I'm not sure if it gets any better than this. Tonight ... we'll see.

Aren't you someone?

"Aren't you someone?" she asked me. She was an attractive African-American lady sitting beside me on the airplane. Toni works for International Paper, lives in Charlotte and has a home on Hilton Head. We were flying to Savannah in First Class ... I got bumped but Sarah didn't (and I tried to give the seat to my wife but she decided to pick up guys in the back of the plane instead). "Yes I am," I repsonded ordering a glass of wine. "Oh shit," she said. "If he's having wine then I guess I'll have wine too." "Good for you," I told her. The wine came and we toasted cups. "So who are you?" she asked. "Oh, I'm nobody," I answered. "I used to be somebody but now I'm a beach num." "No, No," she quickly shot back, glancing at me suspiciously, "You are somebody. I recognize you." "You go to the beach?" "Hilton Head." "That islands going to sink one day because of the traffic and the outlet malls," I said. 'No on Tybee." "I spend a lot of time on Dufaski and can see Tybee Island from there but have never actually been there." "Then I don't know how you'd recognize me," I explained as we sipped the wine. The plane was taking off so we couldn't talk because of the roar. Eventually it ended and we were in the air. "Weren't you on television?" "I was." "I knew it," she said slapping her leg. Then she asked, "Why?" "OK," I replied, "this is who I used to be. I ran Union Mission for a long time and was in the news a lot." "You were on the TODAY Show," she interruped. "I was." "What do you do now?" "I'm a beach bum. My wife's in the back being picked up by guys. I wish she was in your seat." "Well," she sighed. We were silent for a while. The stewardness came and refilled our glasses. "You did good stuff," she said. "AIDS and stuff right?" "Yep," I stared out of the window remembering what was. "It's good you're a beach bum now," she concluded. "That's a long time for stuff like that." Looking at her large brown eyes between thick glasses, I smiled. "It is." The flight from Atanta to Savannah is only half-an-hour so we landed. Toni rushed to get away after handing me her card. Sarah strolled down the runway with a tall, handsome guy named Rick from New Zealand. Rushing up, I grabbed her hand and drug her away from him. He smiled at her. I smiled at her. God it's good to be home.

Living in the Present

The sun was setting on the west side of the house over the marsh as we sat on the east side of the house on the Bleoved Back Deck under Fran's thousand shades of green. The Palm tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt was smiling at all of the new yard art I've placed everywhere. Two wooden fish now adorn the wooden fence along with a giant iton cross, a sun, moon, stars, hanging baskets of blooming flowers, an "It's 5 o'clock somewhere" sign, two "Fisk Naked" signs and three things that look like church windows with the ocean on the other side. There's also these funcky things that Rocky left that glow in the dark. The Back deck is full of flowers, the grill, a frog with a crystal ball on its head that my Mom gave me, a "Clothing Optional Beyond this point" sign that Conner and Hania gave me for my birthday, various wind chimes that the girls brought when they moved in, a "Beach Break" sign with a broken clock that my sister gave me, and a rock that says "Imagine" that Cheryl left for me in the middle of the bad days. I like the way the yard is becoming an artistic expression of who I am ... whatever that is. Sitting outside we were feasting on spaghetti, salad and bread. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, ran around the eight feet hanging from the tall chairs under the table which is under the colorful umbrella. It was balmy with a slight ocean breeze. Dedra was being eaten alive by "no-see-ums" but the rest of us were fine. Sarah and I are finally home in what seems like forever with no plans on the horizon. We had a visiting dignitary, Shirely Sessions, so everything was clean and perfect! We really haven't seen Shirley in a while so the conversation turned to her catching us up on things we really haven't been thinking about ... Savannah. Specially, we wanted to know about certain people: Kim, Greg, Peter, Michael and ... a son-of-a-bitch named Mark. We talked politics and about her guests at the Blue Bird, her bed-and-breakfast, and a little bit about Tybee Island which is home. A little after nine, Shirley was ready to take a walk. Dedra went with her. Wonderful husband that I am, the house was already clean and the dishwasher was humming. Sarah and I collapsed on the large brown U-shaped sofe that sucks you in and never wants to let you go. The television was on but we were't paying attention. Truth be told ... we were petting. The windows were open and the ocean breeze was drawn in by the ceiling fans. Half-a-moon threw off enough light that we really didn't need lights. Winston, the little gay dog, lay near Sarah. Goddess was carefully watching us from the floor. It had been interesting re-visiting a place and its people with Shirley. It's like running into someone whose been to the same places that you have. You share what you have in common ... "Oh I went there. It was great!" ... or, "Yes, I met him. I didn't think he was all that." After a quarter-of-a-century of intensity, where that was my life, it's now surreal ... like talking about a dream. It is what was. This morning Sarah is still asleep ... our petting lasted a long time. Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, are laying under my feet on the Beloved Back Deck. Fran's thousand shades of green are dancing in the ocean breeze. The sun is smiling down from the east, resting in the hair of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, cocnut bra and grass skirt. Birds are singing Hymns to the glory of the day. This is what is. I like living in the present. It's so much better than the past.