Acoustic Sunrise

Fran's thousand shades of green are on brilliant display as sunbeams dart in and out of the branches. A choir of cicada loudly sing. The sky is a brilliant blue with only wisps of white. The ocean throws a hint of breeze. There is a holiness to this outdoor sanctuary and I'm certain that God is pleased. It is good. Goddess is watching me carefully now, I suppose anticipating the community that worship is supposed to bring. Winston, the little gay dog, lay under my feet keeping an eye on Goddess. I sit alone on the beloved back deck in appreciation of these things. I think of all of the ways I've celebrated Sundays. Growing up we'd go to the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, home for pot roast and then for a family drive to go see how other people lived. Ed Sullivan concluded the service in those days. When I could drive, Sundays always concluded at the Drive-Inn where I'd hook up with my friends. Ginny and I would place the speakers in the window before ignoring the movie and making out. College was the annual gathering of believers returning to Statesboro after weekends at home. Meeting at the Western Sizzler for the 99 cent Burger Delux we'd tell stories and step back into a world where are our minds were molded. Our virginity was sacrificed on alters of exploration and education. Seminary meant real church where I'd be up early cooking breakfast for the hundred or so homeless people who would crowd into the basement of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. It would be the only meal most would get that day. Then I'd drive the church van around to pick up anyone who wanted to attend the Sunday service. At eleven I'd preach. Later we'd read the New York Times, watch football, and dread the Sunday evening service that no one wanted to attend. Securing home on Tybee Island, Sundays became a day at the beach, afternoon naps, cookouts on decks, and an appreciation for surf, sand and sea. Worship happened outside of walls. These days, Sunday mornings begin with acoustic sunrises. I have time alone. Sarah sleeps in. The kids are grown or gone. Music from the other side of the world streams on the laptop laid out before me. Sometimes we go to Bar Church and sometimes we don't. It is a time of contentment that I enjoy prayerfully. The choir of cicada grow louder in worship. The Holy Spirit blows and Fran's thousand shades of green dance. The Kingdom comes on earth as it is in heaven as I listen to the still small voice.

It's Saturday on Tybee

Sarah ran a 5K this morning at Fort Pulaski. I had a Screwdriver and cheered her on. She is beautiful ... wearing a white sports bra, tight blue shorts ... she may have been wearing shoes on ... I don't know. I had running shorts on too ... red ones with my black University of Georgia football shirt and flip-flops. "You don't look like you're taking this seriously," Pat Monahan yelled as he stretched. Pat is the Assistant County Manager, a serious runner, and we go way back ... decades back! We partnered on many different projects through the years and I admire the hell out of him. His only draw back is that he is a University of Florida fan. I raised my glass and explained that I was there to support my wife. "Hey Sarah," Dave Paddison said as he strolled up. We chatted for a while as the two of them got ready to run. David and I go back too though his Dad and I are closer. Bob Paddison is a Savannah icon ... a banker during the Civil Rights movement he did all of the right things at the right time in the right place. We helped started the Homeless Authority together. He went on to become a teacher of photography for kids in trouble. Bob's one of my heroes and even if David was unlikeable ... which he's not ... he'd be hard not to love because of his Dad. A cannon fired and the race was off. Finally, I had a few minutes to myself. Turning around a reporter from WTOC was standing in front of me. "How's retirement?" she asked. "It's a lie," I said, "started by a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous." "Jerry Rainy?" she asked. "How did you know?" "I read your blog," she said walking away to cover the Run for Jane. Finishing my drink, I positioned myself to cheer Sarah on when she finished the race. Sure enough, she burst through the woods at a fast clip ... being chased by seven men in full military gear including backpacks. Apparently they were on maneuvers but when Sarah ran by they got new orders and were trying to run her down. Kissing my sweaty wife, she collapsed in the grass to collect herself. After a few moments of sweet release ... with seven sweaty members of the Military hovering nearby, probably trying to figure out if they could take me out so they could take her ... we held hands and strolled to the car. It was 9:30 and the day has already been a full one as we drove back to Tybee Island. And we haven't even gotten to the beloved DAWGS of the University of Georgia yet! Does it get any better than this?

Tomorrow's Taken

Ben looked older than the last time I saw him ... which was the last time we'd had lunch together at Johnny Harris Restaurant, an old Savannah tradition. We were back because he'd called chastising me for not calling him and inviting him to lunch. So I did and there we were yesterday doing it again. I love Ben dearly. Now in his mid-90s, his mind remains as sharp as a tact though his body is giving up the struggle to keep up. His white hair was clombed neatly back, his glasses magnified the intensity of his blue eyes as he fired questions at as though from a machine gun. "What are doing?" "Tell me about Sarah." "When was the last time you talked to Herb?" What about Philip?" "What's going on at Union Mission?" "Why in the hell did they give half of it away?" "You seen the last newsletter? It's terrible." Fortunately, Craig Harney and the folks from WTOC were at the next table. He and I caught eyes and spoke. He's been at the station since he was a baby and now is the behind the scenes (mostly) manager of everything there. A million years ago he did a feature on me and a new approach to ending homelessness in Savannah. When it aired I was critical of it and he put me in my place by saying, "I gave you every chance to make it special and you didn't do anything." I learned a most important lesson about the press and have been grateful to him ever since. The last time I saw Craig was in The Farmer's Daughter's Junkyard in Athens, Georgia. It was right after we'd been to the University of Georgia football game. He's a Dawg. I'm a Dawg. We dawged around. "Who's that?" Ben demanded. I told him. "OK back to what I was asking," he commanded. At which point Cliff McCurry stopped by the table. Cliff is a former Union Mission Board member, runs Seacrest Partners and about half of the other things in Savannah (mostly behind the scenes). "Why are you still here?" I ask. "I'm practicing my packing," he explained while shaking Ben's hand and paying homage. "I thought you'd be in Athens by now," I said. "Leaving now," he said shaking my hand with a grin and leaving. Cliff is also a Dawg and was jumping in his car to head to Athens for tomorrow's kickoff. "He's a good boy," Ben says afterwards. I laugh because Cliff's in his 60s. Age is relative I suppose. "OK," Ben resumed the questioning only to be interrupted again by members of the restaurant staff who wanted to know how we were doing. Over the years we've been there a lot. Sighing, Ben looked at me and said, "We're going to have to get back together soon. I want to know Sarah better. You haven't told me anything." I laughed and asked if he wanted to come to Tybee. "I'll take you to all the honkey-tonks." Grinning, he said, "Maybe so." It won't be tomorrow thought. Ben's also a DAWG. I am too. Tomorrow's taken. Driving Maddie to school this morning she said, "Hey that car is a DAWG." Sure enough the car beside had a UGA sticker on the back windshield. It made me proud because the next generation is coming along nicely. GO DAWGS!

Believing in the Dead

Skip Eloge has his mostly empty Miller Lite Beer bottle hoisted to his lips when I stopped at the corner of the bar he was sitting at placing my hand on his shoulders and fondly calling his name. His entire body tensed and I thought he might shit his pants. It's been a long time since he's seen me so he may have been shocked by my appearance. I look ... happy. He'd never seen me this way. Plus I have an ear ring, shoulder length hair, a black wedding band and was wearing a Sex Wax tee shirt. We were also in Spankey's Southside which is his haunt, not mine ... it's too far from the beach. I'd just finished a boisterous lunch with a group of old time Savannah leadership. I'm just supposed to be dead as far as Skip's concerned. Jerry Rainey told him so therefore it must be true. But there I was as alive, connected and kicking just like always. Then again Skip is afraid of anything outside of his own skin. "Hello Micheal," I heard her say. Turning, I saw that Frances Carter was his lunch time drinking partner. She looked sad and dark as she reached to shake my hand ... like she always does when she has to shake my hand. I can see her thinking, "Dammit! He's still around? He's supposed to be dead? The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous just changed the words ... so that instead of "Jesus loves me this I know" ... it's now "Micheal's dead this I know because I'm the leader and I told you so." Unfortunately, Frances believed him though in fairness to her I know a lot of people who believe in things they shouldn't. Anyway, I have mostly fond memories of them. After Judy the previous CEO of Union Mission sold her soul to selfishness and misappropriated $1.3 Million in money to help the homeless, I hired Skip to replace her. Things were a mess and I was having a difficult time. Betrayal is bitch and I was earning a Ph.D. without having enrolled in the course. But we were fixing things and it was getting better. Frances was the last person I hired at Union Mission. When the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (aforementioned Jerry Rainey called me while I was on vacation to say he and I were just never going to get along) the last thing I fought for was that they keep Frances. He did though she and I never developed any kind of relationship. I did try when I got back from St. Martin but its much easier to believe in the dead. There have been a few times when she's been forced to acknowledge my existence and its never been pretty. I don't pay much attention to her as life as moved on. "How are things going?" I asked her at the bar. "Great!" she said unconvincenly. "Keep it up," I said turning and leaving them there. Walking out into the bright sunshine, I made my way to Sarah who was shopping nearby. Sarah was the last person Frances surprised with hatred. Sarah and I are married now, have really good tans and enjoy creating a new life. It all worked out the way that it's supposed to I guess (for Board Chairs who choose to remain anonymous tell me so). We had to go anyway. We had a business meeting in the Corporate Headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises and our partners were waiting. On the agenda was a list of all of the people in Savannah that I need to meet with over the next several weeks and those have already begun taking place. They are just going to increase. I mean if you believe ... then the dead are not always neatly put away. Stones can be rolled away. People can come back from the dead. It's always shocking when it happens. See you all soon.

Cut Off

Sometimes things just go bump in the night. Last night was one of those nights. After getting home from school the girls were all in radically different moods so the Beef Brisket, Mac and Cheese and salad that I'd prepared for dinner was received in different ways. Madison covered her plate in ketchup and sour cream. Laurel fell asleep in her hers though Cassidy ate everything on the table. I needed an after dinner break so Goddess and I strolled along the Back River. Then Winston, the little dog of very suspicious lineage, needed a walk. Cassidy wanted to help so we made our way to the sad little holy dock and sat there talking. The tide was high, the marsh grass covered and we laughed and made plans. When it was time to leave, she grabbed Winston and sprinted for home. Goddess and I meandered. Back home I was reminded of how loud three girls can be so I went outside to trim the weeds that grow in a sub-tropical climate. As I did so, I promptly severed the Fiber Optic line that brings the phone and Internet High Speed connection to our house. It was hidden under weeds I tenderly care for every day. We are now disconnected from the world ... which really isn't all that bad when you are forced to stop and think about it. No emails, phone calls, Instant messages, Friend Requests or ability to go to ESPN, the Weather Channel or see what's happening at Landover Baptist Church in Freeport, Iowa. The sun's popped out this morning, the girls are school, and Sarah's wearing a really tight short cut dress. I am suddenly busy making plans. This may not be such a bad thing at all! "Business first," I tell myself and place the call to AT&T. It takes an hour and a half as I punch buttons for three different automated voices before talking to MS. WOODS (she was very loud), then Swaquenta (very nice) and finally Fransnetta (who was the most helpful of all and even left me her personal phone number should I need anything else). So you're probably asking yourself, "Mike, if you're cut off from the world, sitting on the beach, with Sarah wearing a tight short skirt ... how in the hell do I know this?" It's an excellent question. Ooops ... just lost the Internet service I was hacking.

Being Normal

"Are there any advantages to being normal?" Franklin asked as I sipped coffee at The Breakfast Club. "Why are you asking me?" "You used to be normal," he said. "That was a long time ago." "You probably remember what it was like though." "Well," I thoughtfully said, "it has some perks but it's got a lot of drawbacks." "Like what?" he asked, leaning over the counter full of anticipation at the answer. "You get your own seat in church," I explained. Franklin, who is brown, made a face before asking, "Is that a perk or a drawback?" "Yes," I told him. "Do you miss it?" he continued. "I wasn't ever really good at it," I replied. "How did you know?" "I was always being criticized. Normal people don't get criticized. They just go along with the flow." "A lot of people call me a mindless jerk," he said. "See?" I told him affirming what he already knew. "She's hot," he said changing subjects while pointing to a picture of a blond haired girl on a full page advertisement taken out by Crime Stoppers in the The Savannah Morning News. Crime Stoppers takes out these adds each week so people wanted by the police can be turned in for cash by their neighbors. "I think it helps your relationship to not know each other," I countered. Nodding his head up and down, he agreed. "Anything else you want to know about being normal?" "Not really," he firmly answered. "It scares me." "Me too," I concluded. "Hey!" he loudly exclaimed interrupting my thoughts, "did I tell you that I only date Cougars in pairs now? They have to be sisters and they husbands. It makes dating more challenging and the thrills of getting caught heighten your sensual pleasures." I nodded and resumed looking at the pictures of the girls on the Crime Stoppers page.

Unfinished Stories

I was in Johnson City, Tennessee staying at a Holiday Inn overlooking the city and the mountains. After driving down from Louisville, I sipped a beer while checking out the view. I was struck by the city's simplicity and charm. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was scheduled to be the guest preacher at the Baptist Church the next day. In my mid twenties, I'd gained a reputation as a good speaker, Home Missionary and radical inner city minister of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. Monthly I'd be somewhere in the Southern Baptist Convention bringing the word of a homeless Gospel to the sanitized believers who supported the work through their tithes. After speaking in Churches from New York City to Kansas City, I had the presentation down pat though a cynicism had crept into my beliefs. Wearing a gray corduroy blazer, shirt and tie, blue jeans and tennis shoes ... I looked different from most Southern Baptist Ministers. I also had long hair, a beard, and wore shaded glasses. In addition to drinking beer, I chewed tobacco and played the guitar. Earlier I'd driven by the Baptist Church so that I'd know what to expect. Then I found a store to buy beer and checked into the hotel. Deacons from the church had invited me for supper but I'd turned them down as was my custom. I preferred to alone ... away from the never ending demands of the poor, the dirtiness of an inner city, the unrealistic facades of the Seminary and a whitewashed theology scrubbed clean of unpleasant things. I found a Pup to have dinner and met the city's unchurched. To this day this remains my custom. Searching out local haunts and dives, I watch and listen. More often than not, I'm included in fellowships that are far more powerful than those hiding under steeples. The Minister-of-Music and his wife picked me up the next morning. "We didn't recognize you," he explained with a laugh. "You don't look like a minister." I laughed a fake laugh at the very old joke. He was pretty with short cropped hair, a crisp suit and shinny black shoes. She had light brown hair that curled up at her shoulders, an light orange dress with white flowers on it and held a Bible in her lap. He did most of the talking telling me how wonderful the church is and how much I was going to enjoy the fellowship. It was a big box with pews and a Baptismal Pool. The congregation all looked the same. I suspect they were mostly in the same income bracket, voted the same and had sex in the dark. I told stories about homeless men doing their best to kick habits and believing in Jesus in ways that leave me humble, hookers dancing in Louisville's large porno district who came to church on Sundays, and this crazy group of kids who really believed they could change things and make the Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven. The fellowship applauded when I finished. I sat in the preacher's chair looking forward to the beer I'd have when they let me go. The Minister-of-Music stood up to bring the service to an end when his wife stand up on the third row. She was crying which left him speechless. Almost 300 pairs of eyes watched. "It just is as he says," she sobbed clutching her Bible. "We just pretend to love but we really don't. We'll leave here and go to lunch while people go hungry ..." and her voice cracked and she cried from somewhere deep inside of her Bible. The church was full of embarrassment as the Minister-of-Music left the pulpit to hug his wife. Wiping tears from my eyes, I walked down and hugged the both of them. Then I left and made my way back to the Holiday Inn. Kicking off my tennis shoes and throwing the jacket on the bed, I opened a beer and stared out of the window. That was my only visit to Johnson City, Tennessee. The church never invited me back. All of these years later I wonder what happened to the Minister-of-Music and his wife. It's another unfinished story. I've collected thousands of them over the decades. It's funny. The only reason I'm thinking about them at all is because of Mitch Wesley and Mark Wood. We've been joking with each other on Face Book, claiming that God had given us songs to give to each other. My son Jeremy gave me a song which I gave to them and it references Johnson City, Tennessee. Angles arrived took me back to that day reminding me of what it was like back then. Reminding me of how hard it is to really believe in anything.

Words and Music

As a kid growing up in Port Wentworth, Georgia ... a mill town with a unique smell, a viaduct and an abandoned factory in the woods ... we mostly played outside. One day an-honest-to-God Encyclopedia Salesman showed up at our front door on Clifton Drive. Other than the Bible, there were no books in our house and my Dad must have felt bad about it so he bought the complete set of World Book and my life changed. Choosing to stay inside, I read the complete set repeatedly. Starting with "A" and going through "Z", I'd sit in the Den and read the short descriptions and explanations about ... everything. There were also a lot of pictures including some of partially clad women. I found it hard to not like the Encyclopedia! My Dad would walk in and see me sitting there engrossed in the "N" Book and ask me what I was reading. "Nudity," I'd tell him. Shaking his head he told me he'd be back later. And he left. To this day I'm not certain where he went but he went there a lot. There was also a television in the Den that picked up WTOC, WSAV and WJCL. There was another station but it was fuzzy so we never watched it unless we put tin foil on the rabbit ears which we never did because my Mom thought it tacky and we were better than that. When I wasn't reading World Book I was watching music on television. I loved it all ... from The Andy Williams Show, Lawrence Welk, Hee-Haw, Hootenany and Ed Sullivan. I'd grab a broom, pretend it was a guitar and sing along to everything. Dad would walk in, ask me what I was doing, shake his head and tell me he'd be back in a little while. Then he left while I kept doing wicked solos on the broom. Words and music remain foundations of my life. (I suppose nudity is too.) Books and records were everywhere. Now it's digital but it's still constant. Throughout my life the music has played while I've read or wrote. They are entwined in my DNA. Right now I'm sitting in The Mermaid Lounge listening to Organic X streaming live on the computer (thank you Son!) as I write, surf the World Wide Web (today's Encyclopedia) and read about whatever is popping in my head. "Youtube" is minimized on the screen in case I need to see Andy Williams belt out "Born Free" or those really cute girls on the Lawrence Welk show. "You always have noise," Sarah tells me when I complain about the girls having the television blasting through the house. "It's not noise," I reply. "It's music." Then I grab her and we dance in the kitchen as I sing her the words.

Ignoring it

There are 24 windows in our house that are now open. That's just upstairs. There are six more downstairs. There are also wide sliding glass doors, a set of French doors, a screened in porch connecting the upstairs with the downstairs. There are five ceiling fans up and two down plus another one on the porch. I love it! Especially when all of the windows are open. It's like outside moves inside. Sunshine and fresh air pour in. The cicada sing loud songs while squirrels dance in the trees. The wind chimes sweetly keep a beat as the ocean breeze is cooler than its been. Sitting in The Mermaid Lounge on the Beloved Back Deck I marvel at the brilliance of Fran's Thousand Shades of Green. The Hibiscus blooms are large and red. Goddess is happily laying at my feet and even Winston, the little gay dog, seems content. I know that I am, sitting here in running shorts and nothing else, with George Harrison singing on Pandora. It's a great Saturday morning! We have no plans ... no company ... no groceries ... no underwear ... nothing other than ourselves. I can't remember the last time this has happened. Goddess barks. I tell her to shut up. Winston, the little gay dog, starts dancing like a ballerina on meth. I want to beat his head against the Palm Tree with the smiling Oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. The doorbell rings. "Shit," I mutter as I ignore it.

Maggie's Day

Maggie Elliott is getting married today. She seems pretty happy about it though we really haven't discussed it. My brother David, her Dad, is pretty ecstatic based upon his Face Book posts and gives God all of the credit for introducing Mags and Eric. I've seen them together and they're going to make a terrific married couple. I think David and Susan, his wife, deserve a lot of credit for that. Eric's folks probably do too though I've never met them. It'll be fun. Most weddings are. My beautiful daughter Chelsea is here for the service and her feet already hurt from wearing High Heels. She is her Father's daughter and Flip-Flops are her shoes of choice ... if shoes are necessary at all! Maggie's has me mindful of weddings today. In October it will be Dani Sadowsky's wedding ... which I will be performing ... with ketchup. I'm uncertain if ketchup as ever been used as part of a wedding ceremony but it somehow seems appropriate for Dano's. I think the whole ceremony is going to the dog's anyway. Last month I officiated the wedding of Ryan Conner and Abby on San Juan Island in Washington State. That was fun too and the after party was really great. I don't remember there being any ketchup. My beautiful daughter Chelsea is getting married next summer but she and Sam have been together so long that it won't seem like a big deal. I have to go really far back to remember Chelsea and Sam not being together. I think she was in a crib. Now they have their own crib in Atlanta. Jeremy and Marie were far ahead of the curve on this wedding stuff and got married years ago. Though they'd also been together forever ... I think The Beastie Boys were still a group when they got married. My Dad was still alive and I remember he cried like a baby ... just like I did though I was the one asking them to "repeat after me." Today they are like John and Yoko ... I can't imagine one without the other. Of course, Sarah and I got married under a full moon on the ocean just six months ago. We're still on our honeymoon ... though we have three little girls in the house which makes consummation a challenge. I view it as an Olympic event ... how far can you go without getting caught? It reminds us of our High School days. But today is Maggie and Eric's day. I wish them happiness and peace. May joy fill their every moment. I want God's blessings to rain upon them. And I hope they never get caught.

Fish in the front yard

Purple clouds dance on the ocean today. They billow and seem to pile on top of each other though the sea remains calm. A couple sits in two chairs sipping coffee with their toes in the cool sand. While they missed the sun rise the clouds are putting on quite a show. There is no rain though moisture hangs heavy in the air. All is peaceful and quiet. The tourists traps are empty ... vacancy abounds. A Tropical Storm named Issac is churning in the Caribbean and leisurely making its way to St. Martin so I'm throwing up prayers for my friends there. Carlos, Verna and Chelsea, Nathalie, Karima, Mimi, Victor, Patu and others. Keep them safe. The island has seen its share of hurricanes. A couple of years ago one hit and everybody lost power in the midst of tremendous wind and rain. Verna hugged Chelsea in the darkness of their concrete block apartment and screamed out for Jesus to take care of them. When Jesus kept quiet about it all she yelled out "Holy Shit!" and that seemed to get his attention as the winds died a bit and the rain let up. She was shaking and crying as Carlos put his arms around her and opened the front door. "Verna," he said in his lilting French Creole accent, "do you see any fish in the yard?" Sniffling she shook her head from side to side. Carlos hugged her again. "OK then. Everything's OK. Leave Jesus alone." I laughed and laughed when he told me this story and when I saw Verna later for dinner, asked her if she was eating fish from the front yard. Watching Verna eat a fish is nothing short of miraculous. She eats everything including the eyeballs! She reminds me of Barney Rubble on The Flintstones picking up a whole fish, putting it in mouth and then pulling out nothing but the skeleton. I've watched her do it countless times sitting there mesmerized. Of course when she cooks me jerked chicken wings, I probably look the same to her. Sarah and I had supper with them a few months ago and it was special. They had big news and waited until the right moment to share it with us. Sometimes, meals turn into celebrations and this was such an occasion. But today I'm throwing prayers onto the ocean, bothering Jesus to ask him to keep them all safe. After Issac finishes with the Caribbean he'll decide whether to attend the Republican National Convention in Tampa or maybe take a side trip to Tybee Island. Now we all wait to see what happens. Isn't it funny how life is that way? So long as nobody has fish laying in the front yard it'll all be alright.

Rip Van Winkle and ME

When I find myself in times of trouble ... I go to sleep. I know ... a lot of you are saying "Hello Rip Van Winkle! Damn you sleep a lot!" But its true. If someone's giving me grief or the day's just gone to hell and I don't know what to do about it, I simply go bed so it all ends. When I get up, the slate is wiped clean and I can start over. I don't yell or cuss (much) or throw things so it keeps me from making things worse. Of course, if I nod off in the middle of someone getting on to me ... it doesn't help the situation. For the most part, it's been a very successful strategy to avoid trouble that I discovered sitting in class at Seminary. My fellow students would be fighting over what God is really like, and cussing me for whatever I'd said, so I started sleeping through class. It was much easier and I avoided a lot of conflict. But yesterday my Mother called to chastise me for writing about Zombies. Apparently, one of the things I'd written was that if you go to church you'd see a lot of them. I've been to a lot of church services and, believe me, there are a lot of Zombies in church ... NOT EVERYBODY but a lot. Mom doesn't read much of what I write so she heard about it from her friends. They called her up to report "Mike says everybody who goes to church is a Zombie." "Why did you say that?" Mom demanded on the phone. "You're calling your grandparents Zombies." My grandparents, who I love deeply, are both dead and I'm pretty positive having a rocking good time in heaven. They more than earned that. They were loving and gracious people and I think they'd make terrible Zombies. My Grandfather would visit other Zombies and lead them in the Sinner's Prayer before confirming that he would pick them up for Sunday service at the Rothwell Street Baptist Church. My grandmother would cook them all Sunday lunch at her house on Carver Street. Neither are good Zombie material and put them together and you'd witness Zombies being brought back from the dead. Ira and Edith were amazing people ... the epitome of love and definitely not Zombie material. Having said that, I've personally seen Zombies in the Rothwell Street Baptist Church. They care more about sucking the life out of others than giving light and love. When I saw them, I fell asleep. When I woke up, they were gone. Of course no one was in the church except me and I missed my Grandmother's excellent Sunday lunch on Carver Street that the Zombies had been invited to enjoy. When I woke up this time, Mom was still getting on to me so I told her I loved her and hung up. All of which goes to prove, if you believe in Zombies ... you will get in trouble. Your Mother will yell at you. The Braves will drop two straight to the Nationals. You may as well go to bed. What else do you do?

The Mermaid Lounge

Rain drips from the umbrella I'm sitting under and the slick wood of the Beloved Back Deck is wet. The trees are crying as birds rest in their branches without moving. Four sets of wind chimes hang limply keeping their songs to themselves. The air is still, sticky with salt, and though its High Tide, the waves lightly kiss the beach. In the predawn darkness I stood in the hot water of the outdoor shower searching for stars. Blue and purple clouds covered them all. My neighbor is away so no one is screaming "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty" and I offer a prayer of thanks. I linger in the shower with the door still open. No one is out. No one can see. On the door of the outdoor shower is a sign that Conner gave me years ago. It's a bright yellow carving of a sun wearing shades holding another sign that reads: "Showers -$1. To watch -$2. With me -$5." Strolling back into a sleeping house, Goddess waits on the landing of the staircase. She is always the first to wish me a good morning. I rub her belly and she follows me inside. Hanging my towel I watch Sarah sleep and offer a deeper prayer of thanksgiving. Winston, the little gay dog, prances around like he's on meth. I throw the dogs treats while I throw on clothes and peddle to The Breakfast Club which is already full of bright lights and energy. I'm hugged by several people and pitched by several others while I sip coffee. The Community of Non-believers and believers has formed a congregation. Starting every day with friends is special. Sometimes we have long thoughtful talks and sometimes we're quiet ... simply being there with one another. As the restaurant opens, I leave and whisper my third prayer of thanks of the morning. On a clear day, the sun just be rising. Returning home I bring the dogs outside with me. Most mornings I have a couple of hours to myself here. Just me and Fran's thousand shades of green, a Palm Tree with an oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt, and God. We don't talk much but all acknowledge each others presence. I love this time. And I love this place. There are signs that I've hung. "Umbrella Drinks Served Here" ... "Clothing Optional Beyond this point" ... "Spring Break" ... Whatever!" ... and "The Mermaid Lounge ... Cast away your troubles and have a Mari-i-time." And I do. The rest of the world still sleeps or is getting ready for work, at the Gym and extending the night into a new day. I sit quietly noticing everything surrounding me. People I love float in and out of my mind. Turning the computer on, the music begins ... "I'm skipping over the ocean like stone." It makes me smile. Everybody used to talk about me. They don't much anymore. I don't care. It's always peaceful and quiet in The Mermaid Lounge. Squirrels begin to violently dance in the Palm Trees. The rain continues to drip from the umbrella I sit under. My day has begun.

Celebrity Red Rover

I'm not into reality television shows but have a few ideas ... Celebrity Red Rover would be a great one! I'd love to watch a line that includes L.L. Cool, Rosanne Barr and Paula Dean yell out ... "Red Rover! Red Rover! Send Taylor Swift on over!" and then watch Taylor get clothes lined as she attempts to break through falling on her ass wearing a pure white dress into the mud with Cool J and Paula Dean butt jumping over her as Rosanne blows snot from her nose and gets ready for Katie Perry. I think it would be pretty popular. On Sunday mornings there could a Religious Red Rover so we could determine which church to follow. Would Benny Hinn miraculously be carried over the opposition line ... anchored by Charles Stanley and Kenneth Copeland (two of the dirtiest players on the team)? The winner could preach. The rest of us could change the channel to Political Marco Polo. Put a bunch of Congressmen in one side of a swimming pool and have Obama or that Mitch Romney Mormon Dude jump in the other end. If the President makes it to the other side without being tagged, one of his policies gets passed. The pool would likely look like a shark feeding frenzy which probably isn't a bad thing. All of the Senators and Congressmen would beat the shit out of each other in the water and many would drown. There could be body count at the conclusion of each show. Term Limits would take on an all new meaning. Congress would certainly improve. It can't get any worse. Media Dodge Ball is a game whose time has come. FOX News verses the Liberal Media. It would be fascinating to watch Brian Williams through a ball at Bill O'Riley trying to knock him trying to take out a tooth and then watch a pissed off O'Riley pick it up and throw it back as hard as he can. Of course Katie Couric would forever be defending her title aiming her throws straight at the gentiles of her opponents. I believe the major television networks would make up a lot of ground on cable and satellite with with such a strategy. Roller Derby for local news channels would also be big! I would love to see the WSAV team, anchored by Super-Weather-Woman Kris Allred, who is not afraid to use the "F" word, take on Jodi Chapman and the dominate players of WTOC. I think Kris would knock Sonny Dixon on his skinny ass. Pat Prokop would sit on the bench though he would be dressed out for the game ... wearing tights. Of course the team from WTGS, anchored by Jesse Blanco and a blond bimbo, would show up an hour early and miss the game forever being disqualified. Jesse's cool and wouldn't care. He'd beat the rest to a restaurant scooping then all to the dish (meaning the blond bimbo). There you go. These are my Monday morning suggestions to make your life better. I think I'm on to something here.

Church ... and then ME

After I left my job as a "Professional Christian", when I got paid to follow the Ten Commandments and love everybody, I really didn't want to be in charge of a Church anymore. My stint as Pastor (and I use the term loosely) had been tremendously fun and rewarding but I no longer needed or wanted to be the center of the universe for twenty minutes every Sunday morning. Besides, I was beginning to doubt that I should be doing all of this speaking on God's behalf anyway. She created the world for God's sake and is perfectly capable of uttering Holy words from on high whenever She feels like it. Plus the Baptists and I were having major conflicts. They would regularly fly me to Corporate Headquarters in Nashville or Atlanta so they could yell at me. It seems I had a pattern of doing things Baptists don't like ... like hiring a woman to be Associate Pastor or closing the church once each year to take everybody on a retreat (this didn't piss them off so much as did the fact that I'd hung a "Gone Fishing" sign in the front door which I thought was wickedly funny. Baptist Corporate Headquarters did not agree). So I'd sit there and get yelled at, prayed over, admonished and then sent back on mission trip to the inner city of Louisville, mostly nobody else wanted the job. If I was in Nashville I'd leave and head straight to Printer's Alley for good live music and strip clubs. If it was Atlanta, I'd go to a Braves game and drink beer. So it was quite miraculous when I got a phone call from Dr. Glenn Hinson telling me that the Oakhurst Baptist Church in Atlanta had lost their collective minds and was interest in calling me as their pastor. Oakhurst is by far Atlanta's best Baptist Church (though they have little competition) ... they're liberal, had lots of cool members I already knew and didn't have Sunday night services so you could stay home and watch 60 Minutes. And it was Dr. Hinson! Everyone who ever took his classes in Seminary loves Dr. Hinson. He personifies cool which is hard to do if you are a theologian. I would skip classes I was taking to go listen to Dr. Hinson lecture in classes I wasn't taking. He's that good! So when he called back to yell at me for not responding to the call from Oakhurst Baptist Church to be their minister, I felt bad. The Church would be better off without me but I hated disappointing Dr. Hinson. (He told me to call him Glenn but I just can't. He drips dignity.) Then after hanging up that call, I get one from Metro Baptist Church in New York City. It's right off 42nd Street and is the epicenter of cool. I'd been several times with Bill Berry ... not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me and introduced me to the world ...and loved it. A lot of Soap Oprah stars go there and there is a dorm to house students. They wanted to know if I was interested in being their pastor. It would be awesome to live in New York. If I started to fall asleep during one my sermons, I could sneak out and catch a Broadway show. The congregation would never notice because there's always something to do in the City. But I'd moved to Tybee Island. Let's see ... New York or Tybee? ... Tybee or New York? ... God told me to tell them no. Then I went to the beach. But I sit here thinking of the things that might have been. Life could be so different had I said yes to either Atlanta or New York. But I said "No" to Dr. Hinson, Oakhurst, Metro and God. I said "Yes" to the beach. These days when I go to Church its in a Bar. Sarah and I going this morning and playing guitar, probably praying out loud and she's singing. It's in the Bulletin so it must be true. We'll be surrounded by tanned sinners who will either sleep off last night on the beach or head to work bar-tending or waitressing for the after-church-Sunday-crowd. Breakfast will be served as this is the only meal half the congregation will get today (Alcohol is another matter). The Hymns are set to the rhythms of a Bar Band Beat. There is an acceptance here that I don't see in other churches ... "Hey. I'm fucked up. You are too. Thanks for allowing me to be me. You're welcome as I allow you to be you." I'll take this over what could have been.

Jehovah Called

Jehovah called. I hate it when that happens because you have to answer. I mean ... it's Jehovah. The caller ID flashes Hebrew consonants so you know it's God or somebody really good at professing to be God's spokesperson and you sigh ... "Shit! It's God. I have to take this call." It reminds me of when I was cramming four years of college into five at Georgia Southern. Sitting in my kitchen in Red Barn Trailer Park the phone rang. "Hello," I answered. "Mike, what are you going to do with the rest of your life?" It was Guy Sayles. Guy never starts with "Hello" or simple introductory stuff but cuts straight to the heart of the matter. He had graduated the year before and had enrolled in Seminary and was calling from Louisville, Kentucky. "I dunno," I answered. I was in a band, married and Jeremy had just been born. The Dean of the college had just called me in demanding that I declare a major. He explained that students traditionally choose their major at the conclusion of the second year of college. I was starting year five. "What do I have the most hours in?" I asked him. After studying at my twenty seven page transcript he said, "History ... but not by much. You have a tie for second between Literature and Religious studies." So I was soon to graduate with a Major in History, a double minor, and a son when Guy called. "Why don't you come to Seminary?" Guy asked on the phone. "OK," I told him. That's how I got called to go Seminary. Now, all of these years later, I'm still getting called. This time Jehovah wants Sarah and I to be in the Bar Church Band again. Sometimes Jehovah simply can't make up his mind. It was only a few months ago that Jehovah had called us out of the Bar Church Band. You're not supposed to question Jehovah ... so what do you do? In Seminary I paid a lot of good money to learn stupid shit ... like where did the word "Jehovah" come from. As with the rest of the Bible, it depends on who you ask. Dr. J.J. Owens, a great professor of Hebrew, who was forever getting on to me for introducing southern dialect to the class, taught that Jehovah is a mistranslation of the Hebrew word "Yahweh" which is the name that God gave Moses. Yahweh means "I am what I am" so he may as well have called himself "Popeye". God transcends human language anyway. Regardless, Jehovah has tracked Sarah and I down and we have to go to Bar Church Band Practice in a little while. I'm thinking about getting rid of caller ID. "Shit!" The phones ringing.

Killing Dreams on the Ogeechee

WSGA, the radio power of the Coastal Empire, hosted the River Raff contest on the Ogeechee River. In those days AM radio ruled, Jerry Rogers was king of the world, and Love's Seafood was a shack. If Jerry told us to do something on the radio between rock-and-roll songs we stopped what we were doing and did it. He instructed us to build the most creative raft to win the grand prize of ... whatever it was. My best friend in High School was a genius named Gene Prevatt. He told me what Jerry Rogers had told us to do so we naturally skipped school, went to the junk yard and found the rusted out body of a Volkswagen Beetle, which we promptly stole. Somehow we found large blocks of Styrofoam and laid the car on top tying it all together with rope. By this time, Robert Mixon wanted to join us so we told him to bring the beer. He did ... but also brought a lot of other people ... mostly girls wearing bikinis. We couldn't say "No." Throwing the car and the girls into the back of my Dad's pick up truck we made our way about 16 miles down Highway 17 to the Ogeechee River. Lots of kids were there before us with their rafts. Jerry Rogers stood there with his flowing long hair looking as cool as The Beatles and instructed us to line the floats up for the competition. We grabbed the Volkswagen on Styrofoam and put it in the water. Robert grabbed the beer and all of the girls in bikinis got in the back seat. I sat in the front passenger seat and, of course, Gene drove. We promptly sank. The girls in bikinis bailed. Robert saved the beer. Laughing, I jumped ship though Gene just sat their wearing sunglasses looking cool with water up to his shoulders in a sunken bug. I have fond memories of the Ogeechee River. When I wrote Running with the Dolphins & other Tybee Tales I learned all about the Yuchi Indians who inhabited this area way before General Oglethorpe discovered Savannah. They'd set up tents on the Savannah River and the Ogeechee living of the fish, the fowl and the game of the woods on banks of the rivers. The places were ... and are ... a beauty that heaven struggles to match. Now dead fish float in the Ogeechee ... poisoned by the King America Finishing Plant which regularly discharges waste water into the river. The result is floating fish. Georgia is a pro-business state so the Plant continues to dump chemical infested water into the River while politicians watch. The Savannah City Council passed a resolution condemning the practice which is like raising a flag when you can't get anything else up. The Governor seems most impotent as he's caught between keeping a Chicago based company in Georgia while protecting his citizens at the same time. In the meantime ... fish float. Childhood memories are prevented from giving way to the experiences of new generations. Dreams die on the Ogeechee River. And God cries at what we do to the gift of creation.

Our Home is a Religious icon

I went to the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport (an oxymoron) yesterday, not because I was going somewhere which is why I always go to the opposite side of Chatham County but due to the fact that we were picking up Sarah's parents. They live in New Jersey on the Hudson River and pastor a Church in New York City. It's their first visit to our house. Airports and Hospital lobbies are built to look like Malls these days and the Oxymoron Airport near Pooler is no different. Standing there waiting, I spied Danny Filson of the Savannah College of Art & Design wearing a suit and holding a sign. We did stuff together when I was at Union Mission so I strolled over while Sarah and the girls waited on aforementioned Yankee Clergy. Danny and I had a good visit, catching each other up of what we're doing. SCAD's doing great in Hong Kong and he's been there a lot lately. He asked me about being retired and I told him that it's a lie. He laughed and said he suspected as much. Shaking hands we agreed to keep in touch. Back in the day SCAD and Union Mission were growing like crazy at the same time so we became good friends because we were on the same side of the law. My favorite Vox Populi, the section in the newspaper where readers can call in whatever they're thinking and have it printed is ... "One day there will only be two things in Savannah: SCAD and Union Mission. That was funny. Turning from Danny, I spied Angela Barras Bracket, dressed in black, conducting a covert operation to pitch my ass. Angie works for the Oxymoron Airport and we grew up together a billion years ago in Port Wentworth. We hugged and then she and Sarah hugged and aforementioned Yankee Clerical Parents arrived. Now I love Angie so we promised to get together ... one day. Now as my dear friend the Rev. Dr. Guy Sayles will confess, clergy do not mix well at cocktail parties. It's just awkward. I think I'm speaking for God. He thinks he's speaking on God's behalf. It just gets difficult which is why you don't see too many clergy at Cocktail Parties, Strip Clubs or in Liquor Stores ... you know ... the kinds of places Jesus hung out to hang around sinners. So God told Sarah to drive her parents home in one car while I drove the girls home in another. Then we got home. Now our home is religious icon. There is Celtic cross Mary Ann Beil gave me hanging in back yard ... behind the Palm Tree with the oyster face, Coconut bra and grass skirt. Fran's thousand shades of green throws shadows on us in the heat. A sad little holy dock is a block away. There is a statue of UGA, the beloved mascot of God's chosen team, and there are ... Jesus Magnets on the Fridge. "Jesus is coming, hide your bong" ... "I found Jesus, he was behind the sofa" ... "Get real! Like Jesus would own a gun and vote Republican" ... "Please Jesus protect me from your followers" ... "Jesus loves you but everybody else thinks you're an asshole" ... There are a lot of them. So it was pretty quiet when we got home. I decided to have communion by myself. But it was a good first day. Nobody converted or killed anybody. It's a start. Today we're going to the beach. What did I do with my tan-through Speedos.

Zombies

I've known a lot of Zombies in my life. They're not much fun, stumbling through their existence without any real purpose other than sucking the life out of those who happen to be too close. The vast majority of politicians are Zombies as are the bulk of people who go to Church. Certainly most bankers are Zombies. They want far more than they're willing to give. At the same time, I am surrounded by people I love who are obsessed by the walking dead. My beautiful daughter Chelsea and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie spend a great deal of time preparing for the impending Zombie Apocalypse. Nancee, me favorite waitress at the Breakfast Club, has a book about defending yourself against Zombies. D-Luv and Sandi became Zombies in the movie Abraham Lincoln and Zombies which we watched last night. "Does Dee get her head cut off?" Cassidy asked. "No," Sarah and I mumbled because we were riveted by the incredible acting performances we had the privileged of watching in High Def. "Awwww," Cass sighed. Maddie and Laurel don't like the idea of Zombies or D-Luv being one so they stayed the hell away from it all. Well ... except for the couple of seconds it took Dedra to stumble across the bridge to Fort Pulaski in an attempt to eat President Lincoln. Dee and I have never really discussed politics but I assume she is anti-Republican because she wanted to eat a President. At the same time, I really don't care. "She looks good," Maddie exclaimed. "I think that makeup really works for her." Sarah, Cass and I all agreed. Regardless, I've met way far too many Zombies in my life and try to avoid them as much as possible yet they keep intruding into my life. Yesterday I got letters in the mail from both Mitch Romney and Michelle O'Bama ... both Zombies ... both wanting money for nothing in return. Michelle is by far the better looking Zombie though Mitch has better underwear. The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous is a Zombie. In my opinion Jerry Rainy wouldn't know life if it hit him in the face so he tries to take everybody elses. Every single person who works for a television news channel is a Zombie having sold their souls to be broadcast nightly. My current favorite television Zombie is Kris Allred Possman who got tired of being dead and used the "F" word to describe what it's like. She got put on Zombie suspension but she's back now ... though she's lost a little something. We live in a world mostly dominated by Zombies. It's a sad state of affairs. That's why I spend so much time on the Beloved Back Deck trying to stay away from it all. At the same time, Zombies are said to have originated on the coasts of Africa and in Haiti ... both beach communities ... which makes me wonder ... Do Zombies Surf? ... on Tybee Island mornings I see Zombies on Paddle Boards looking like a bunch of crippled Jesus walking on the water ... the entire Tybee Island Parking Services is staffed by Zombies ... Doc's Bar host a nightly gathering of Zombies for cocktails ... and Tybee Island City Council meetings are restricted to advanced Zombie meetings. Alright, it's a nice Hump Day. The sun is shining. The Sky is blue. The breeze is light. All of my kids are good. Sarah is snoozing away. Goddess seems happy and Winston, the little gay dog, seems especially gay today. But I've got this feeling that I can't shake ... Zombies are coming ... sometime today. I'm ready. I have a tan. They're whiter than most white people. Besides, Laurel learned how to do the dance from Michael Jackson's Thriller on the boat this week so she can keep them at bay with her incredible Zombie dance moves while I grab Sarah's hand and we get the hell out of here.

Zombies

I've known a lot of Zombies in my life. They're not much fun, stumbling through their existence without any real purpose other than sucking the life out of those who happen to be too close. The vast majority of politicians are Zombies as are the bulk of people who go to Church. Certainly most bankers are Zombies. They want far more than they're willing to give. At the same time, I am surrounded by people I love who are obsessed by the walking dead. My beautiful daughter Chelsea and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie spend a great deal of time preparing for the impending Zombie Apocalypse. Nancee, me favorite waitress at the Breakfast Club, has a book about defending yourself against Zombies. D-Luv and Sandi became Zombies in the movie Abraham Lincoln and Zombies which we watched last night. "Does Dee get her head cut off?" Cassidy asked. "No," Sarah and I mumbled because we were riveted by the incredible acting performances we had the privileged of watching in High Def. "Awwww," Cass sighed. Maddie and Laurel don't like the idea of Zombies or D-Luv being one so they stayed the hell away from it all. Well ... except for the couple of seconds it took Dedra to stumble across the bridge to Fort Pulaski in an attempt to eat President Lincoln. Dee and I have never really discussed politics but I assume she is anti-Republican because she wanted to eat a President. At the same time, I really don't care. "She looks good," Maddie exclaimed. "I think that makeup really works for her." Sarah, Cass and I all agreed. Regardless, I've met way far too many Zombies in my life and try to avoid them as much as possible yet they keep intruding into my life. Yesterday I got letters in the mail from both Mitch Romney and Michelle O'Bama ... both Zombies ... both wanting money for nothing in return. Michelle is by far the better looking Zombie though Mitch has better underwear. The Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous is a Zombie. In my opinion Jerry Rainy wouldn't know life if it hit him in the face so he tries to take everybody elses. Every single person who works for a television news channel is a Zombie having sold their souls to be broadcast nightly. My current favorite television Zombie is Kris Allred Possman who got tired of being dead and used the "F" word to describe what it's like. She got put on Zombie suspension but she's back now ... though she's lost a little something. We live in a world mostly dominated by Zombies. It's a sad state of affairs. That's why I spend so much time on the Beloved Back Deck trying to stay away from it all. At the same time, Zombies are said to have originated on the coasts of Africa and in Haiti ... both beach communities ... which makes me wonder ... Do Zombies Surf? ... on Tybee Island mornings I see Zombies on Paddle Boards looking like a bunch of crippled Jesus walking on the water ... the entire Tybee Island Parking Services is staffed by Zombies ... Doc's Bar host a nightly gathering of Zombies for cocktails ... and Tybee Island City Council meetings are restricted to advanced Zombie meetings. Alright, it's a nice Hump Day. The sun is shining. The Sky is blue. The breeze is light. All of my kids are good. Sarah is snoozing away. Goddess seems happy and Winston, the little gay dog, seems especially gay today. But I've got this feeling that I can't shake ... Zombies are coming ... sometime today. I'm ready. I have a tan. They're whiter than most white people. Besides, Laurel learned how to do the dance from Michael Jackson's Thriller on the boat this week so she can keep them at bay with her incredible Zombie dance moves while I grab Sarah's hand and we get the hell out of here.