A Random Sort of Day

It's a random sort of day. My problem with focus is that there are simply too many things that I want to concentrate on ... to hell with focus! Besides, "Sweet Home Alabama" is playing and I hate that song! I much prefer Lynerd Skynryd's "That Smell" and I love the way the band came up with their name, after a gym coach they hated in High School. And of course there's always "Freebird." Then I finished the "Steve Jobs" biography yesterday. I can't decide if he was brilliant or he was shit (if you read the book you know what I'm talking about). I fell in love with "Steve Wozniak" who has talent, values, ethics and humor that that I admire the hell out of. Jobs was fascinating ... a driven, tortured soul with a work ethic forged in Hades who could charm your pants off or slit your throat ... depending on what he wanted. But he was a spiritual man too ... who changed the world ... so go figure. Besides that, this morning The Breakfast Club was more like Cheers with all of these people coming in at one time who normally don't come on a Wednesday or together. Whitley, who misses most everything, left right before this happened. First Newt Gringrich and her husband came in (if you work at The Breakfast Club you know who I'm talking about), followed by Neil who only comes in on Sundays and then Sam stumbling in from the night. In no time at all we laughing our asses off. Yesterday, we were in town to meet with Bill Shearouse who is also my attorney to talk about of stuff. It was good, productive and fun but at the end, as he stood from the conference table, he said, "Mike, as you build this new life don't forget about your old friends" which is one of those stop you dead in your tracks things that only the best of friends can get away with. We hugged as we left but his words still ring in my ears this morning. I've got these notes for contracts and proposals spread out on the kitchen table demanding my attention. Each has a deadline and the thing about deadlines and Beach Bums is they really struggle with each other. Manyana keeps popping in my head. There's always tomorrow ... which of course makes me think of the Bible verse "Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes" (James 4:14) ... which, of course, makes me think about George Harrison's "What is Life?" I got a lot on my mind. And now I find myself seduced by the sunrise. It's a beautiful summer mroning with an ocean breeze like God's air conditioner is blowing kisses. The choir of birds are hitting every note dead on and Fran's thousand shades of green are doing a Hula Dance which is hard to not watch ... which makes me miss Fran and her bicycle-built-for-two though she couldn't peddle it for the life of her because of her M.S. though that never stopped her ... and Sarah's still sleeping so I'm on guard duty that nothing distrurbs her cause she's more than earned it. I think what I need to do is get a time clock and put it in the corporate headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises on the Beloved Back deck and managed by a Palm Tree with an oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. I'm pretty sure once I clock in, I'll get to work. At least that's the way it used to be.

Night Moves on the Beach

One of the things that I don't do enough is go to the beach at dusk. It's wonderful this time of year and I enjoy seeing the families on vacation trying to squeeze every drop of sunshine out of the day before they return to the rented house or hotel room... where they either have cocktails and throw something on the grill or dress for dinner at one Tybee Island's many choices. Or, they sit in the swings and wait for a moon to rise from the ocean or sit with their feet in the sea. A few make their way into the sand dunes as darkness falls to make out or make loave. It's a wonderful time of day. It's a shame that I rarely make it the six blocks it takes me to get there. Most nights, we're taking Goddess to the Back River, only one block away, to the Sad little Holy dock with views of the lush marsh and High Tides, sunsets and choirs of mussels. Marsh Rabbits and Marsh Hens make special appearances and I just never know who I'm going to sun into. Not too long ago it was Michael Stipe of R.E.M. though I never did see Milly Cyrus. Last night turtles were hatching and Sarah wanted to go. The island is having a bumper crop of large Loggerhead Turtles making there way into the sand dunes to lay eggs (well ... except for one in front of the Ocean Plaza Hotel). On the way I told the story of one morning on Hilton Head ... back when it was an island and not a traffic jam with Outlet Malls ... my Dad jerked me out of bed and drug me in my pajamas (Yes, my parents tried to raise me as a traditional southern boy wearing pajamas but I rebelled). On the other side of a sand dune, a massive Loggerhead was laying eggs ... hundreds of them ... then using her flippers to bury them ... it was beautiful ... and amazing. The moon was throwing a trail of white light on the ocean. Salt hung in the air.The breeze stood still as witness to the miracle of birth. My Dad was so excited. "Who gets to see this?" he asked again and again with his arm around my shoulder. When we arrived, there was a crowd surrounding the nest in the foot of the dunes. A bragade of Fire Ants had dug deep and eaten the eggs. There would be no tiny turtles making a mad dash to the ocean. It was disappointing and sad ... but it was a wonderful crowd ... on a glorious night ... with the moon throwing white light on the ocean ... and my Dad raised himself from the dead to say "Hi" ... Sarah and I holding hands talking to friends ... while Laurel sat in the eddy to make sure sure we have sand to bring home. Making our way back, there are hugs and laughter and stories and ... home ... here ... on a beautiful night ... standing beside a beautiful woman holding my hand ... with a moon doing a dance ... and a choir of cicadias singing Hymns of Praise.

A Beach Bum's Monday

The thing about being a full time "Professional" Beach Bum is I really struggle with Mondays. For decades I was conditioned to hate them with everything in me. After a great weekend I'd go back to work when that was the last place I wanted to be. I loved what I did, I was quite passionate about it, but I was living a schrizophrenic life ... corporate homelessness during the week and Beach Bum on the weekends. I no longer have that problem. This isn't to say I don't work. I do. In fact I think I work too much. Creating something out of nothing is hard work. It took God six days. It's taking me a lot longer. Nevertheless, things have now been created that demand my attention. There's a new contract I have to develop today for a deal that was consumated last week ... another opportunity to expand must be finalized this week ... people from California are in town wanting me to leave the island for lunch ... another group is trying to nail me down to commit to attend a meeting in Salt Lake City ... a mountain of paper sits inside needing re-writes so they can eventually become a book or two. On the up side I deal with most of this from the corporate headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises on the Beloved Back Deck overlooking a Palm Tree wearing a grass skirt while Fran's thousand shades of green overlook me. The dress code is very lax and the Jimmy Buffett station is streaming on Pandora. Plus I instituted a policy that it's always 5 O'Clock at Micheal Elliott Enterprises to compensate THE employee for lack of actual profit. But it's Monday ... so I got up and stumbled to the office ... then I went to the outdoor shower to think because my head was foggy from the weekend ... afterwards I went to The Breakfast Club where all of these homeless people were there waiting on me claiming that services in Savannah had gone to shit and they needed advice. "HEY," I yelled, "I haven't had freaking coffee yet! How do you expect me to solve the world's problems without coffee first?" They all sat down without speaking. "Hey Rev," Nancee asked. "Can these guys pay?" Charlie pulls out a credit card slapping it on the counter. Rolling my eyes, I don't ask whose name is on the card. "So you'll have your people call our people and set something up," Charlie asked. "Yep," I laugh. Riding my bicycle back to the office, I scribble a note to meet with them soon. I mean I have too. They hitchhiked all the way to Tybee Island to see me ... at least I think they hitchhiked ... they could have stolen a car or purposely gotten themselves arrested by the Tybee Island Police Department so they could see me (Believe me, this is how it really happens! They as scupulous as elected officals and clergy!). The sun rises above the Palm Tree so I put on sun tan lotion. Another perk of working here is that you can tan all day long. Lost in thought, I find myself staring at the grill. "Steaks would be good tonight," I say to Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog. Micheal Elliott Enterprises is extremely pet friendly. Just as I hit the first key on Netbook, Cassidy the five year old, walks out adhering to the company dress code. "Hey Mike, will you make Cinnamon Rolls?" "Great!" I sigh. My days already been wrecked! So I make Cinnamon Rolls and she tells me that our dog is not gay. "What do you have against blended families," I ask her. "He's adorable," she says cuddling him on the floor. "Yep," I say. I hope I get something done today. If I don't though ... it's Monday ... who cares?

Sunday Gifts

This Sunday morning drips like molasses. Though the sun is bright it seems like a fog. All of my movements are in slow motion. Whew ... what a night! I wouldn't be up at all except that Winston, the little gay dog, needed to pee. He started growling in his high pitched gay voice and dancing around like a ballerina on meth. Not wanting to wake Sarah, I somehow pulled myself out of bed. It was still dark but the glow from his little pink toenails threw off enough illumination to make my way. I grabbed the little son-of-a-bitch and took him outside. Goddess followed looking on with amused interest. Since I was already standing naked in the back yard, I stumbled to the outdoor shower and turned the water on. I love the outdoor shower! It has washed away many a sin and baptized me in the hopes of a new day. I have it equiped with a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, saving cream and soap. It's got one of those shower heads that makes water fall down like rain. The sky turns a muted grey as I stand there letting the water fall on me. It is peaceful and calm and I feel myself being raised from the dead ... until ... "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY! is scretched from the deck of my next door neighbor. She makes me believe in the National Rifle Association. She also adopts ferile cats and has several hundred. From under the water pouring on my head, I can see her standing there in her fluffy pink bathrobe, calling her precious pussies with a halo of cat hair swirling above the towel that looks like a turban. "Jesus Christ," I pray, wishing I had a rifle. Stumbling back upstairs I lock Winston, the little gay dog, outside, hurling statements about his lineage at him. Checking on Sarah ... she looks dead ... so I leave her alone. Throwing on running shorts and a "St. Martin Drinking Team" tee-shirt, I drive to The Breakfast Club to pour coffee on my head. As I drive I see ... JUDY O stumbling down the street! This is amazing because The Carnival of Friends were just together a few hours ago. Rolling down my window I slur, "You're walking?" "What?" she answers. "You're walking?" "What?" I roll the window up and continue to The Breakfast Club. Then God decides to intervene. She's had enough of this! Jimmy Buffett, backed by the Oak Ridge Boys, comes on the radio. It's a song reminding me when I went as little boy when my Grandma and Grandpa Carver took me to Gospel sings in Pooler, Georiga. It was wonderful with families singing four part harmonies with real players behind them. The thing that sets this song apart are the lyrics ... My head hurts, my feet stink and I don't love Jesus (oh my Lordy its that) It's that kind of morning, really was that kind of night Trying to tell myself that my condition is improviing And if I don't die by Thursday, I'll be roaring Friday night. Thank you Jesus. You have given me another day to live. I slug the coffee down and rush home to see if you've given Sarah the same gift. "Please Lord," I pray. "Make it so." She's breathing. That's good. Now I sit here with the little gay son-of-bitch dog that I've grown to love licking my feet. Goddess yawns. That says it all.

Puritan with a tan

"I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, the sinners are much more fun ..." (Billy Joel). Me too! Which probably explains why my ministry has been so ... FUN! I did have an affair with a church and the romance lasted for almost eight years. During that time we seduced each other repeatedly. Sometimes it was sweet and sacred while other times it was rough and holy. In the end, it was nonmonogamous relationship and we agreed to part. We'd both committed adultry, betrayal and were not especially full of fildelity. She always wanted more than I could give. She seems to be doing fine as the Church has millions of other suitors and I've settled into a happy monogamous marriage. Her adoring suitors lavish her with songs, praise and literally throw money at her. On other hand, I'm happy to fix Sarah's coffee every morning, water the plants and talk to God while standing with my feet in the ocean listening to music on my I-Pod. She has her throngs of adoring people and I have ... a Carnival of Friends. But I remember my times with her times fondly. She was good for me and, I think, I was good for her. Sometimes, late at night, I'll be laying in bed and remember the good times. But that was then and this is now. Today I've traded in my black robe for a pair of black running shorts. I bought the robe for $10 from another minister who was going out of business (what a deal!). It's now ripped and torn and hangs in the back of the closet. I still pull it out when I need it (the next scheduled appearance is Dani Sadowski's wedding ... if she can find a bald groom cake topper) though it mostly stays in the dark recesses of the closest. The running shorts are used daily, see a lot of sunshine, swim in the ocean with me and easily slide off when I need to call on the name of God with Sarah. If additional clerical garb is necessary, I've got a lot of black tee-shirts. My flip-flops are black too. I'm Puritian with a tan. Last night the Carnival of Friends gathered to celebrate the birth of Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island. We got a cake and took it to the bar. Sam's the founder of Bar Church and when I want to remember my church affair, that's where I go. It was a very praticipatory service as we "knocked on heaven's door." Sarah loves it when that happens! In Seminary, I paid a lot of money to learn the concept of orgasmic worship. It's when the service is so good ... the congregation, music, sermon, offertory ... that you and God have an experience that is orgasmic. (Seriously, they teach this and clergy are encouraged to help others facilitate finding your spiritual G-spot.) When you leave Church you literally spent. (A lot of preachers go home after church for beer and a cigarette.) Later today, the Carnival of friends has scheduled a baptism service in the swimming pool that overlooks the marsh that God made. I'm pretty sure they'll be a lot of laughter. There are too many tears in the world and we take a stand against such evil. The water will be holy, the communion wine glasses filled and there may be fudge. No doubt, there will be a great deal of laughter. There's already a lot of love. Hallelujah!

The Dark Knight Rises

It makes you wonder. How can someone toss a smoke bomb in a packed movie theatre while he wears a gas mask, then open fire? Twenty are killed including a baby. Fifty are wounded. The Dark Knight who did it was passive when he was arrested afterwards. He'd made his point, I suppose and didn't have another one to make. My daughter Chelsea donned her Batman cape last night and she and Sam went to the premier in Atlanta. It could have happened there but it took place in Colorado ... again. I happened to be in Washington D.C. when the Columbine survivors ... all kids ... were there having a press conference on the steps of Congress. I don't recall any Congressmen being there. I listen to them make pledges and pleas that this will never happen again. It has. Why do bad things happen to good people? Hell, why do bad things happen at all? Philosophers claim "It is what it is", accept it because there's nothing you can do about it. They ask questions but don't really know answers. Theologians say, "God loves you anyway" or "God's pissed and is trying to teach us a lesson." They don't know but pretend like they do. Politicians take advantage of the opportunity. They get more free press time as they wail while smiling at the camera making promises they have no intention of keeping. The rest of us wonder ... why would somebody do that? We're living in a crazy time of terrorism, politics of hate (and I'm speaking of Republicans and Democrates at every level in the United States), dysfunctional religion, televisions broadcast murders being solved more than any other topic, while Bachelors and Bachelorettes disregard people as they claw for what they want and Gangsta Music sings about "bitches and Ho's" outsells everything else. It's easy to blame these things. The truth of the matter is when the Beatles were singing, "All you need is love," Charles Manson and his family were butchering people left and right. Andy Griffen himself couldn't have made a difference. Ever since Cain killed Abel, it's been this way. The next round of bad has happened. Everybody's first reaction is groaning the simplest of prayers, "Oh God." This is quickly followed by the second prayer, "Thank you Lord that it wasn't my child ... or me." The third prayer is for those who were killed or the now devastated families. It's a beautiful day today. The sun hangs in a brilliant blazing sky. Choirs of birds are singing. Ocean breezes dance with lush green trees. The sins of the night have been scrubbed clean. Most were refreshed with a good night's sleep. The day is filled with duties to be performed or escapes to be had. It's the weekend so everybody's looking forward to it. I know that I am. But it's not a perfect world. Dark Knights rise. Bad things happen. People die before they should. Corruption reigns in business and politics. People passionately take sides. Judgement is swift except in the courts. The media glorifies each of these things. So I offer my morning prayers ... "Hey God. We could use a little more help here. These kinds of things just shouldn't happen. Babies shouldn't be born flawed or imperfect. Hurricanes, tornatos, and floods shouldn't just show up killing people ... Why do people just shoot each other in a loving world?" "I know Lord that I'll stand before the throne you'll ask me lots of questions about why I did this or that ... I'll do my best to answer ... but then Lord, I'm going have a few questions for you ... they are also all questions that begin with why ... send me to hell if you want to but they deserve to be asked ... and they deserved to be answered." Amen.

How do you steal a sand dune (The Savannah Morning News)

Out of habit I suppose, I carry the daily edition of the Savannah Morning Blues into the Breakfast Club every morning. Typically page one is a colorful mix of national news with "feel good" stories about the city. There are lots of pictures. Page two are photographs of all of the people who shot each other yesterday. Page three is lots of Associated Press articles. Page four is the Obituaries which is strangely familiar to whatever happened on page two. Pages five and six are whatever Tom Barton thinks, accompanied by columns by whoever Tom Barton likes, with a Mark Streeter cartoon which is normally the best part of the first section of the paper (Streeter is cool). The Exchange Section is next and to this day I'm not sure what in it. The Sports section follows and occasionally I learn if the Atlanta Braves won last night's game or not. (Lately, Mike Trainer the publisher is letting everybody go home early because he's a nice guy. The only problem is nobody's there to tell the reading public if Braves won or lost. There's a great picture of a Brave doing something then we are instructed to go online to see if they won or not. This always pisses me off. It's a simple question ... who won? It's why I dug for quarters to but the paper in the first place!). That's pretty much the Savananh Morning Blues. It's mostly a Republican wet dream highlighted by "who shot who"? Oh there's other stuff too but none of it leaves any lasting impression ... well except for the Wednesday edition which contains colorful photographs of hot women doing yoga or exercising in Spandex. I am not a sexist though I wonder about the Savannah Morning Blues. There are never any multiple photographs of men doing yoga wearing Spandex. Where's "fair and balanced" reporting? Next time I see Tom Barton, I'm going to ask him. I would trade it in for USA TODAY except for Skutch, a reporter who looks like an actor playing a reporter from a B movie in the 1940's. Skutch, who sometimes goes by the name of Jan, is a good and decent reporter ... which is why they have him covering whatever happens in court that day. If anyone can put a positive spin on murder, corruption and whoever is elected to be a Judge ... it's Skutch! The man's amazing. BUT TODAY ... there was big news. Tom Barton thought it should be on the front page. Harry confessed to stealing a sand dune. This is the first time that I'm aware that a sand dune has ever been stolen. I mean who thinks of that? Harry does. The growing sand dunes obstruct the views from the first and second floors of his hotel. A decade ago he said as much. A decade later, a sand dune disappeared. Tybee's Coconut Telegraph suspected him immediately. It took the Savannah Morning Blues weeks to verfiy this information (Skutch was in bowels of the Chatham County Courthouse, which sucks, probably trying to hide from Judges who got elected to Divinity in a robe or the story would have broken sooner.). All of this begs a question ... how do you steal a sand dune? You park a truck beside it and throw sand in the back? Did Harry carry a little away every day in his pockets? Tom Barton should have somebody ask developers in Florida where they've been stealing sand dunes for decades. Anyway ... that's the news from Tybee Island, Georgia ... as filtered by the Savannah Morning Blues. More later ... Well ... maybe ... if the Judges ever let Skutch out of the Courthouse.

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.