Watch out now ,Take care
Beware of thoughts that linger
Winding up inside your head
The hopelessness around you
in the dead of the night
Beware of sadness
So says the major prophet George Harrison. Sitting beside the window of the Gallery Espresso at 8:30 in the morning I stare out at the cold morning with a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. I'm here for a meeting but he is late so I have time ... to think and stare.
A few years before I left Union Mission, I knew it was time for me to do something else. Professionally I'd already accomplished everything there was to do there. So I'd bring it up to the Board of Directors and they would tell me lies.
"You can't go! You're too important. We need you."
As a people pleaser with degrees in both social work and Divinity, I kept them happy while continuing my march to the cross. Of course I had no idea I was walking into my own crucifixion. I was keeping people happy.
A bunch of stuff happened at the same time. People I relied on left. Co-workers I trusted betrayed. Things started going horribly wrong at work. My marriage fell apart. The Board of Directors changed their minds about me. I was mad at myself for not listening to myself and leaving when I wanted.
Those last months there, I could no longer bear to walk into the office. Like Jesus falling in the dirt because of the burden of the cross he was carrying, I collapsed.
Instead of going to the office I would take my laptop and cellphone to the Gallery Espresso, drink coffee and stare out of the window. I'd take phone calls and reply to e-mail but my heart broke and my spirit flew away. I was just going through the motions.
Today, as the coffee grew cold and bundled people walked their dogs through Chippewa Square, I touched all of these feelings again. I walked through the room called remember. I had my I-phone and no longer needed a lap top. It kept buzzing and I'd read and not know what to say so ... I said little.
Twenty minutes later it was obvious the person I was meeting was a no-show.
I cussed. This was business. We all need more business.
Walking through the cold back to where I'd parked, the I-phone buzzed and it was Sarah. We talked until I sat behind the wheel, out of the wind and began the drive back home. I couldn't wait to get there ... where it's warm. It's a sanctuary where love abounds, little girls make messes, dogs get in trouble with the law, friends are close by and my kids randomly wander in and out (most often over the world wide web).
I've lit another fire outside as I sit typing this. Goddess lays under my dangling bare feet in the kitchen. Winston, the little gay dog, has stolen her treat and barks any time she looks his way. Sarah will be home in an hour or so.
I stare at the fire.
Today is a warning single.
Watch out now, take care
Beware of thoughts that linger
Winding up inside your head ...
I'm happy to be home.
And I get back to work.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Election Day Blues
It's a rainy, cold morning on island which fits the mood of the country on this election day. Leaders have abdicated politics and we're left with mostly bad choices between those who would be King ... or Queen.
To make it worse, the girls don't have school today so we're all going to be cooped up inside. Each of the girls are very different individuals who will stake out their claim on the day. Meaning they'll make a lot of noise which will of course vie for attention with the noise I make ... which is music streaming from the lap top all day long.
I'll go vote to take a break from it all.
I also have so much work to do today. I feel so behind of where I want us to be right now so that makes me want to work harder. Ideas are flowing freely but time is kidnapping lots of them.
So you know what I did?
I lit a fire on the beloved back deck. The wet wind is blowing outside and leaves are flying off Fran's thousand shades of green. Brown leaves are scattered on the brown wood of the deck making it look like a mountain cabin somewhere. Rain is misting making it all look Hobbit like. But just on the other side of the sliding glass doors, in the middle of all that, is the fire with sticks of fresh pine burning and throwing off holy smoke.
It's in honor of Mitch Wesley.
He gave me the idea this morning on Facebook when he quoted a John Denver song. It got me thinking about him, the election day blues as I stared at the rotten forecast through the sliding glass doors. The spirit of the Lord moved and impulsively I lit a fire.
He makes me smile and feel better. It's a nice way to start a terrible looking day.
Mitch and I grew up together. After meeting in college we went to Seminary together and then took a thirty year vacation only to have our lives drift back together in a sea of confusion and doubt. We touch each other most every day now.
As soon as I lit the fire I sat back down at the computer as the girls all slept. Jp immediately sent me a message that made me laugh. Mark followed her quickly making me laugh again. Shirley sent me a note pledging allegiance to Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, and their impending legal problems. Joey, whom I haven't sent since High School, wrote as we made plans for communion in the Keys to celebrate the birth of Christ.
Now my heart glows just like the fire.
In life, friends come and go. Sometimes they come back. Old friends are on LinkedIn or Facebook but true ones crackle and pop like a fire on a cold wet day.
And in spite of all of the things that are wrong ... they make it right.
To make it worse, the girls don't have school today so we're all going to be cooped up inside. Each of the girls are very different individuals who will stake out their claim on the day. Meaning they'll make a lot of noise which will of course vie for attention with the noise I make ... which is music streaming from the lap top all day long.
I'll go vote to take a break from it all.
I also have so much work to do today. I feel so behind of where I want us to be right now so that makes me want to work harder. Ideas are flowing freely but time is kidnapping lots of them.
So you know what I did?
I lit a fire on the beloved back deck. The wet wind is blowing outside and leaves are flying off Fran's thousand shades of green. Brown leaves are scattered on the brown wood of the deck making it look like a mountain cabin somewhere. Rain is misting making it all look Hobbit like. But just on the other side of the sliding glass doors, in the middle of all that, is the fire with sticks of fresh pine burning and throwing off holy smoke.
It's in honor of Mitch Wesley.
He gave me the idea this morning on Facebook when he quoted a John Denver song. It got me thinking about him, the election day blues as I stared at the rotten forecast through the sliding glass doors. The spirit of the Lord moved and impulsively I lit a fire.
He makes me smile and feel better. It's a nice way to start a terrible looking day.
Mitch and I grew up together. After meeting in college we went to Seminary together and then took a thirty year vacation only to have our lives drift back together in a sea of confusion and doubt. We touch each other most every day now.
As soon as I lit the fire I sat back down at the computer as the girls all slept. Jp immediately sent me a message that made me laugh. Mark followed her quickly making me laugh again. Shirley sent me a note pledging allegiance to Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, and their impending legal problems. Joey, whom I haven't sent since High School, wrote as we made plans for communion in the Keys to celebrate the birth of Christ.
Now my heart glows just like the fire.
In life, friends come and go. Sometimes they come back. Old friends are on LinkedIn or Facebook but true ones crackle and pop like a fire on a cold wet day.
And in spite of all of the things that are wrong ... they make it right.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Election Eve (Deliver us from Evil)
Mitch McConnell was hosting a breakfast for us in the Congressional dining hall which is a delightful place. The food is better than hotel food and the plates are real china. The silverware was the real deal. Congress doesn't scrimp on itself. They use our tax dollars to make certain they are doing just fine.
It doesn't matter the party.
They're all the same once they become members of the elect.
I was with a group of clergy from Louisville and Mitch had been the Chair of the County Commission before moving on up to Congress so he knew us. In the days before 9/11 and elected officials baptized themselves in arrogant pompousness, they really really wined and dined their constituents ... hence the fancy breakfast.
I was the 24 year old pastor of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel and wore a blue blazer, sock tie and blue jeans to the affair. Russell Bennett and the rest of the clergy wore three piece suits and looked like ... Congressmen.
Mitch spoke and the ministers stopped eating to prostrate themselves before him.
I remember them stopping to worship. I kept eating my eggs.
Mitch was on 60 Minutes last night, along with his bed mate Harry Reid. They're both the same, trying to screw each other when they're not screwing everybody else.
That's what politics in America has become. It's been reduced to fundamentalism as bad as any on the earth. Mitch and Harry said as much last night while not really saying anything.
It made me remember the eggs on the fine china in the Congressional dining room and the clergy who prostrate themselves before idol Gods in buildings with gold leaf.
Shaking my head I walked outside and prayed a prayer.
"Deliver us from evil," I said out loud.
Disgusted I spit and walked back inside.
It doesn't matter the party.
They're all the same once they become members of the elect.
I was with a group of clergy from Louisville and Mitch had been the Chair of the County Commission before moving on up to Congress so he knew us. In the days before 9/11 and elected officials baptized themselves in arrogant pompousness, they really really wined and dined their constituents ... hence the fancy breakfast.
I was the 24 year old pastor of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel and wore a blue blazer, sock tie and blue jeans to the affair. Russell Bennett and the rest of the clergy wore three piece suits and looked like ... Congressmen.
Mitch spoke and the ministers stopped eating to prostrate themselves before him.
I remember them stopping to worship. I kept eating my eggs.
Mitch was on 60 Minutes last night, along with his bed mate Harry Reid. They're both the same, trying to screw each other when they're not screwing everybody else.
That's what politics in America has become. It's been reduced to fundamentalism as bad as any on the earth. Mitch and Harry said as much last night while not really saying anything.
It made me remember the eggs on the fine china in the Congressional dining room and the clergy who prostrate themselves before idol Gods in buildings with gold leaf.
Shaking my head I walked outside and prayed a prayer.
"Deliver us from evil," I said out loud.
Disgusted I spit and walked back inside.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
This day that the Lord made
It is simply a marvelous Sunday morning!
I know ... that it's not true in New York City and other places living in recovery. It's also snowing somewhere which always sucks. There are wars and rumors of wars across the world which a lot of people believe is coming to an end anyway ... like Tuesday when we vote.
At this moment, I don't care!
A brilliant, almost white sun, blazes in a light blue sky. Fran's thousand shades of green stretch skyward as though trying to touch it. There is one bloom on the three Hibiscus plants on the beloved back deck but there are fourteen buds getting ready to explode! Goddess is laying under one watching the Cat Lady who is ... chasing cats. At least she has clothes on.
Winston, the little gay dog, is sitting beside my dangling bare feet wearing a red sweater.
The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt is flashing smiles at me. She needs a new skirt as the ocean breezes have stolen much of her grass. Then again, grass is always disappearing on this island. (I make myself a not to ask Joanie where I can pick up replacement grass.)
Sarah is sleeping beautifully and I check on her from time to time.
"This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it" (Psalm 118:24)
HELL YEAH!
"Thanks God," I say out loud. "For November, you have just have freaking outdone yourself!"
The music streaming on the computer is out of Key West. Pirate radio does an acoustic Sunday morning show in honor of God. It's like going to church which I'm actually planning on doing in a little while. It's the third anniversary of Bar Church and we haven't been in a while. I told Sarah that I want to go.
"Wake me up," she told me last night.
As the sun beams warmth on me on this glorious day that the Lord as has made, I'm troubled by one thing.
Exactly how shall I wake her up?
I swear the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt just winked at me.
I wink back.
Later y'all.
I know ... that it's not true in New York City and other places living in recovery. It's also snowing somewhere which always sucks. There are wars and rumors of wars across the world which a lot of people believe is coming to an end anyway ... like Tuesday when we vote.
At this moment, I don't care!
A brilliant, almost white sun, blazes in a light blue sky. Fran's thousand shades of green stretch skyward as though trying to touch it. There is one bloom on the three Hibiscus plants on the beloved back deck but there are fourteen buds getting ready to explode! Goddess is laying under one watching the Cat Lady who is ... chasing cats. At least she has clothes on.
Winston, the little gay dog, is sitting beside my dangling bare feet wearing a red sweater.
The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt is flashing smiles at me. She needs a new skirt as the ocean breezes have stolen much of her grass. Then again, grass is always disappearing on this island. (I make myself a not to ask Joanie where I can pick up replacement grass.)
Sarah is sleeping beautifully and I check on her from time to time.
"This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it" (Psalm 118:24)
HELL YEAH!
"Thanks God," I say out loud. "For November, you have just have freaking outdone yourself!"
The music streaming on the computer is out of Key West. Pirate radio does an acoustic Sunday morning show in honor of God. It's like going to church which I'm actually planning on doing in a little while. It's the third anniversary of Bar Church and we haven't been in a while. I told Sarah that I want to go.
"Wake me up," she told me last night.
As the sun beams warmth on me on this glorious day that the Lord as has made, I'm troubled by one thing.
Exactly how shall I wake her up?
I swear the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt just winked at me.
I wink back.
Later y'all.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
WTF?
Goddess is entertaining three little girls in the back yard. They are taking turns throwing her a tennis ball and she is running after it and bringing it back to them.
In their pajamas, they are all screaming "GO GODDESS! GO GODDESS! GO GODDESS!"
Winston, the little gay dog, cannot stand not being the center of attention so he runs out and growls at Goddess, who is a dope smoking pacifist. She lays down, looking up at me sitting on the beloved back deck with her soft golden eyes.
Long ago, we learned to communicate without speaking.
She is saying to me, "WTF?"
Last night, eight six year old girls spent the night.
I drank heavily.
One of the girls just stepped in dog poop and is demanding to know why I don't clean it up.
Staring at her, I sip my screwdriver as she places the paper towel full of dog shit on the table I'm sitting at as I write.
It's a bit chilly so I'm curious as to why they're out here with me. Maddie, who is eleven, is drowning out the girls by blasting reruns of GLEE on the television. The three little girls who are with me are apparently not fans of GLEE.
All this little episode of domestic bliss needs is my next door neighbor, the Cat Lady, to stumble outside in her pink bath robe and the blue towel on her head looking like Marge Simpson on meth, screeching, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"
Wait.
I spoke too soon.
Now two of the girls are chasing Winston, the gay little dog, who is scared shitless.
Looking at me with his evil dark eyes I know what he's thinking ... "WTF?"
Sipping my screwdriver and praying more than I've ever prayed in my life ... along with Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, ... we're all asking God the same thing at the same time.
WTF?
In their pajamas, they are all screaming "GO GODDESS! GO GODDESS! GO GODDESS!"
Winston, the little gay dog, cannot stand not being the center of attention so he runs out and growls at Goddess, who is a dope smoking pacifist. She lays down, looking up at me sitting on the beloved back deck with her soft golden eyes.
Long ago, we learned to communicate without speaking.
She is saying to me, "WTF?"
Last night, eight six year old girls spent the night.
I drank heavily.
One of the girls just stepped in dog poop and is demanding to know why I don't clean it up.
Staring at her, I sip my screwdriver as she places the paper towel full of dog shit on the table I'm sitting at as I write.
It's a bit chilly so I'm curious as to why they're out here with me. Maddie, who is eleven, is drowning out the girls by blasting reruns of GLEE on the television. The three little girls who are with me are apparently not fans of GLEE.
All this little episode of domestic bliss needs is my next door neighbor, the Cat Lady, to stumble outside in her pink bath robe and the blue towel on her head looking like Marge Simpson on meth, screeching, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"
Wait.
I spoke too soon.
Now two of the girls are chasing Winston, the gay little dog, who is scared shitless.
Looking at me with his evil dark eyes I know what he's thinking ... "WTF?"
Sipping my screwdriver and praying more than I've ever prayed in my life ... along with Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, ... we're all asking God the same thing at the same time.
WTF?
Friday, November 2, 2012
IT'S BAAACCCKKK! (Homelessness in Savannah)
Homelessness is big business in Savannah again. The front page headline in the Savannah Morning News reads "Homeless concerns aired: Mayor, council hear complaints about public urination, demands for money, sleeping in Squares."
Just a decade ago, The Atlanta Constitution lauded Savannah's groundbreaking pioneering work reducing the number of homeless people. We were the first to have an anti-begging policy on River Street. We targeted the squares first redirecting people to where they could get treatment rather than treating themselves. We created the Chatham-Savannah Authority for the Homeless to oversee a seamless utilization of each agencies attack on homelessness. We went to war with the problem.
The results were staggering. From 1992 through 2002 the number of people annually experiencing homelessness dropped from almost 5,000 to less than 3,000.
Those that remained were sheltered, fed, treated for addiction and mental illness and enrolled in work therapy programs. The goal was to get them straight and get them jobs! Then they could buy their way out of homelessness which is the way the world works.
The world flocked to our city to study, emulate and duplicate our approaches. We won every award their is and received international coverage because of this approach.
We even tore down the barriers between homelessness and health care achieving an effective, compassionate and cost-effective treatment program. Homeless people stopped filling hospital emergency rooms, thereby driving up health care costs for the rest of us, by getting them well so we could get them to work.
It's not rocket science!
Since then, those working (and I use the term loosely) to react to homelessness use the increased number of homeless people to demand more public resources. "We need more to help more," is their mantra.
For the past few years I've sat by and sadly watched the deterioration of the world's best solution to homelessness. While always under appreciated, the city's war on homelessness was the most effective in the world.
"You never know what you've got till it's gone," sang Joni Mitchell.
That's true. The united war is gone.
Homelessness is back in a big way.
Just a decade ago, The Atlanta Constitution lauded Savannah's groundbreaking pioneering work reducing the number of homeless people. We were the first to have an anti-begging policy on River Street. We targeted the squares first redirecting people to where they could get treatment rather than treating themselves. We created the Chatham-Savannah Authority for the Homeless to oversee a seamless utilization of each agencies attack on homelessness. We went to war with the problem.
The results were staggering. From 1992 through 2002 the number of people annually experiencing homelessness dropped from almost 5,000 to less than 3,000.
Those that remained were sheltered, fed, treated for addiction and mental illness and enrolled in work therapy programs. The goal was to get them straight and get them jobs! Then they could buy their way out of homelessness which is the way the world works.
The world flocked to our city to study, emulate and duplicate our approaches. We won every award their is and received international coverage because of this approach.
We even tore down the barriers between homelessness and health care achieving an effective, compassionate and cost-effective treatment program. Homeless people stopped filling hospital emergency rooms, thereby driving up health care costs for the rest of us, by getting them well so we could get them to work.
It's not rocket science!
Since then, those working (and I use the term loosely) to react to homelessness use the increased number of homeless people to demand more public resources. "We need more to help more," is their mantra.
For the past few years I've sat by and sadly watched the deterioration of the world's best solution to homelessness. While always under appreciated, the city's war on homelessness was the most effective in the world.
"You never know what you've got till it's gone," sang Joni Mitchell.
That's true. The united war is gone.
Homelessness is back in a big way.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Friends
They all come. Precious few stay throughout the duration. Most leave before you think they should. Some come back. Most don't as they fade into memories ... intense point-in-time encounters
I'm talking about friends.
Way back in Seminary, I had a new friend Claude Drouet who taught me lots of new music. Mistakenly born in the cotton fields of Louisiana he knew everything about Broadway. I visited his childhood home when his Dad died and completely understood why Clause preferred New York. But Ike, his Dad, loved me because I cussed and drank wine with him on the massive front porch of a plantation house. So I toasted Ike with his boy, thrown together by chance or brought together by God, to get each other through that particular time.
Claude taught me Stephen Sondheim, Broadways greatest writer as far as I'm concerned (followed by Stephen Schwartz who wrote Godspell, Pippin and Wicked). Sondheim's work ... from West Side Story through Assassins explore relationships.
"Most friends fade or they don't make the grade, new ones are quickly made and in a pinch they'll do. But us old friend? What's to discuss old friend? Here's to us! Who's like us? Damn few."
Sometimes I think I've lost way more than I have.
Then again, it's easier now. Every morning I sign onto Twitter, Facebook and LinkedIn and, lo and behold, there they all are ... Virtually every friend I ever had is virtually there!
Some write, some like, a few follow, but most seem to connect and move on ... collecting affirmation in numbers ... or memories.
It's always surprising to see who is who.
It's funny to see them all collected on the screen of my laptop. They're all busy with their own lives, trying to survive or drowning while life jackets are thrown their way. I can watch it all and choose whether or not I want to join in.
Then again, new communities are being born all of the time. New friends have reached across cyberspace and old friends have raised themselves from the dead by typing on their keyboards. In both instances, the word has become flesh.
As I'm writing this, my son Jeremy and I are sending text back and forth. I'm lucky enough to have children who grew up to be friends. He was my friend even before Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) but only by a little bit. I met Bill right after Jeremy was born.
Sarah waltzes into the kitchen to feed Winston, the little gay dog, and we embrace and have a quick conversation about the differences between friends and acquaintances. She tells me I confuse the two. I do err on that side. Perhaps its one of my faults. If it is, I've long accepted who I am and while I'm still capable of learning new tricks every day I'm also quiet comfortable in the way that I go about living.
Looking back, someone has always been there at just the right time and I choose to celebrate that and hold people holy. Sure there are a few I would send straight to hell but, knowing me, I would never be able to pull that trigger if it actually came down to it. I'd rather celebrate good times.
So ... here's to us!
Who's like us?
Damn few!
I'm talking about friends.
Way back in Seminary, I had a new friend Claude Drouet who taught me lots of new music. Mistakenly born in the cotton fields of Louisiana he knew everything about Broadway. I visited his childhood home when his Dad died and completely understood why Clause preferred New York. But Ike, his Dad, loved me because I cussed and drank wine with him on the massive front porch of a plantation house. So I toasted Ike with his boy, thrown together by chance or brought together by God, to get each other through that particular time.
Claude taught me Stephen Sondheim, Broadways greatest writer as far as I'm concerned (followed by Stephen Schwartz who wrote Godspell, Pippin and Wicked). Sondheim's work ... from West Side Story through Assassins explore relationships.
"Most friends fade or they don't make the grade, new ones are quickly made and in a pinch they'll do. But us old friend? What's to discuss old friend? Here's to us! Who's like us? Damn few."
Sometimes I think I've lost way more than I have.
Then again, it's easier now. Every morning I sign onto Twitter, Facebook and LinkedIn and, lo and behold, there they all are ... Virtually every friend I ever had is virtually there!
Some write, some like, a few follow, but most seem to connect and move on ... collecting affirmation in numbers ... or memories.
It's always surprising to see who is who.
It's funny to see them all collected on the screen of my laptop. They're all busy with their own lives, trying to survive or drowning while life jackets are thrown their way. I can watch it all and choose whether or not I want to join in.
Then again, new communities are being born all of the time. New friends have reached across cyberspace and old friends have raised themselves from the dead by typing on their keyboards. In both instances, the word has become flesh.
As I'm writing this, my son Jeremy and I are sending text back and forth. I'm lucky enough to have children who grew up to be friends. He was my friend even before Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) but only by a little bit. I met Bill right after Jeremy was born.
Sarah waltzes into the kitchen to feed Winston, the little gay dog, and we embrace and have a quick conversation about the differences between friends and acquaintances. She tells me I confuse the two. I do err on that side. Perhaps its one of my faults. If it is, I've long accepted who I am and while I'm still capable of learning new tricks every day I'm also quiet comfortable in the way that I go about living.
Looking back, someone has always been there at just the right time and I choose to celebrate that and hold people holy. Sure there are a few I would send straight to hell but, knowing me, I would never be able to pull that trigger if it actually came down to it. I'd rather celebrate good times.
So ... here's to us!
Who's like us?
Damn few!
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Re-starting my Political career
Want to hear something scary? I may become a Congressman.
It wasn't my idea but my son's Jeremy. He lives in Athens, attends the University of Georgia working on his Ph. D and decided to vote yesterday.
I was home looking after a sick child and trying to work when I receive a text from him.
"In the unlikely event you win the 10th Congressional seat from the State of Georgia, it's my fault for writing you in instead of voting for Paul Broun."
Paying no attention to the sick child I text him back to ask what was going on. Jeremy explained that it seemed everyone on the ballot was running unopposed and he just couldn't bring himself to vote when there really wasn't a choice so I am now a write-in candidate.
This is not an uncommon practice and is part of American democracy.
Johnny O has listed Roma as a write-in candidate in every election for the past two decades. "If I don't like em," he told me, "I vote for Roma."
I have personally witnessed Roma's political prowess. Appearing before Tybee City council on behalf of allowing handicap persons to drive golf carts on the island, she demonstrated what would happen if the motion failed. She turned around and mooned them. There was thunderous applause and Roma walked out of the meeting.
The motion passed.
So I can understand why Johnny O would consistently list her as a write-in candidate.
As you know, it's Halloween and election time. Talk about scary!
But I'm excited about Halloween! I have lots of experience getting dressed up pretending to be something I'm not while looking for handouts. It's like running for Congress!
I'm going to seriously think about campaigning as soon as trick-or-treat is over.
It wasn't my idea but my son's Jeremy. He lives in Athens, attends the University of Georgia working on his Ph. D and decided to vote yesterday.
I was home looking after a sick child and trying to work when I receive a text from him.
"In the unlikely event you win the 10th Congressional seat from the State of Georgia, it's my fault for writing you in instead of voting for Paul Broun."
Paying no attention to the sick child I text him back to ask what was going on. Jeremy explained that it seemed everyone on the ballot was running unopposed and he just couldn't bring himself to vote when there really wasn't a choice so I am now a write-in candidate.
This is not an uncommon practice and is part of American democracy.
Johnny O has listed Roma as a write-in candidate in every election for the past two decades. "If I don't like em," he told me, "I vote for Roma."
I have personally witnessed Roma's political prowess. Appearing before Tybee City council on behalf of allowing handicap persons to drive golf carts on the island, she demonstrated what would happen if the motion failed. She turned around and mooned them. There was thunderous applause and Roma walked out of the meeting.
The motion passed.
So I can understand why Johnny O would consistently list her as a write-in candidate.
As you know, it's Halloween and election time. Talk about scary!
But I'm excited about Halloween! I have lots of experience getting dressed up pretending to be something I'm not while looking for handouts. It's like running for Congress!
I'm going to seriously think about campaigning as soon as trick-or-treat is over.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Will it matter in 100 years?
I am home playing Mr. Mom this morning. Laurel, Sarah's middle child, is sick and is in recovery mode ... happily watching the Disney Channel while running a low grade fever.
"Sit beside me Mike," she asks with tired eyes and puffy cheeks.
"Hell no," I reply. "I got stuff to do."
So I'm trying to work in the kitchen while she laughs at whatever Disney is passing for televised entertainment. I have earphones in to block out the noise listening to Rhapsody while I write. As a survivor of raising three kids already (I'm talking about you Kristen!), I know how to handle children's sick days.
Of course when Kristen was sick I'd fill her up with Tylenol just before I dropped her off at school. That bought me several hours of work.
I'm more mellow now. In a hundred years I wonder about how much the work will matter anyway?
So ... I've given her a Popsicle, taken her temperature five times because she keeps asking if she's better now, watched her walk outside to get Winston, the little gay dog, and told her "Hell no" a dozen times over something or another.
It makes me reminisce.
Chelsea learned art with homeless people because I often took her to work when she was sick. We were big into art as an expression of inward struggles. My youngest watched all of this and has a degree from the University of Georgia in art now. Last night I was reading her proposal for acceptance into New York University. It makes me wonder about the glory of sick days.
Kristen was a master at faking sick to get days off. By eleven each morning Jesus himself would have touched her and she was miraculously healed and ready to play her friends.
Jeremy was pretty cool about it all. He just played basketball.
Yesterday Laurel was frustrated because she wanted to talk to me alone. There just wasn't the opportunity. She could have faked all of this just to talk. Kristen often did stuff like this.
Anyway, it won't matter in a hundred years.
It only matters now.
"Sit beside me Mike," she asks with tired eyes and puffy cheeks.
"Hell no," I reply. "I got stuff to do."
So I'm trying to work in the kitchen while she laughs at whatever Disney is passing for televised entertainment. I have earphones in to block out the noise listening to Rhapsody while I write. As a survivor of raising three kids already (I'm talking about you Kristen!), I know how to handle children's sick days.
Of course when Kristen was sick I'd fill her up with Tylenol just before I dropped her off at school. That bought me several hours of work.
I'm more mellow now. In a hundred years I wonder about how much the work will matter anyway?
So ... I've given her a Popsicle, taken her temperature five times because she keeps asking if she's better now, watched her walk outside to get Winston, the little gay dog, and told her "Hell no" a dozen times over something or another.
It makes me reminisce.
Chelsea learned art with homeless people because I often took her to work when she was sick. We were big into art as an expression of inward struggles. My youngest watched all of this and has a degree from the University of Georgia in art now. Last night I was reading her proposal for acceptance into New York University. It makes me wonder about the glory of sick days.
Kristen was a master at faking sick to get days off. By eleven each morning Jesus himself would have touched her and she was miraculously healed and ready to play her friends.
Jeremy was pretty cool about it all. He just played basketball.
Yesterday Laurel was frustrated because she wanted to talk to me alone. There just wasn't the opportunity. She could have faked all of this just to talk. Kristen often did stuff like this.
Anyway, it won't matter in a hundred years.
It only matters now.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Monday Morning Coming Down (Again)
On a dark, chilly, blustery Monday, I crawl from underneath the warm covers and lovely wife. Standing there for a moment, an immediate decision is made to opt out of the outdoor shower. The tail end of Hurricane Sandy is slapping Tybee Island with a cold wind.
"There ain't no way in hell I'm stumbling down there naked so the wind can blow the hot water in the wrong direction."
So standing under the steaming hot water of an indoor shower I think about all of the things needing to be accomplished but find these thoughts are interrupted by others.
Yesterday there was a piece in the Savannah Morning News I'd written, plus the daily blog, several tweets and a bunch of emails. Last night while Sarah and I were cuddled on the couch watching a movie the I-phone kept buzzing as people responded to these things. I kept looking at it which would normally get me in trouble but Sarah was texting or talking to the girls anyway. Plus I kept showing her what I was reading.
(I don't remember the name of the movie. It was good though. Something about an army guy who finds a picture of a girl then tracks her down at a dog kennel. I never tried to pick up girls at dog kennels but I did work at a Veterinary Clinic in college. I don't recall picking up any girls while cleaning out the kennel but it apparently works if you've been in the Military.)
This isn't what I'm thinking about in the indoor shower. I'm thinking about the messages I received last night from people who were dreading going to work today. They hate it. They feel stuck. They have bosses that chew their ass and as the song goes ... they're working for the weekend.
Plus, in spite of what the Government says, the economy still sucks and a lot of people are living week to week and day to day. They're waking up this morning hoping and praying that they can find something to do. They need money bad now.
It's a somber beginning to the day.
Then again most Monday's are somber.
I dress and brave the wind to drive to The Breakfast Club for coffee. Johnny O and Whitley are already there. There is a common disdain for for Monday being expressed. Lot's of adjectives are used. The vast majority are colorful and start with the letter "F".
The restaurant is half full before it even opens. The staff sighs and starts cooking though there are many other things remaining to be done to prepare for the week. Johnny O leaves for work. Whitley does too though he cusses as he stands.
I linger for a bit. The flags above the Ocean Plaza are whipping in the wind. Every time the door opens it blows a burst of cold inside. People mumble greetings. No one seems happy. The obnoxious ones try to talk to whoever will listen. Eventually it even dawns on them, today's Monday.
On top of that ... there's a Hurricane.
It sucks.
Monday morning coming down ... again.
"There ain't no way in hell I'm stumbling down there naked so the wind can blow the hot water in the wrong direction."
So standing under the steaming hot water of an indoor shower I think about all of the things needing to be accomplished but find these thoughts are interrupted by others.
Yesterday there was a piece in the Savannah Morning News I'd written, plus the daily blog, several tweets and a bunch of emails. Last night while Sarah and I were cuddled on the couch watching a movie the I-phone kept buzzing as people responded to these things. I kept looking at it which would normally get me in trouble but Sarah was texting or talking to the girls anyway. Plus I kept showing her what I was reading.
(I don't remember the name of the movie. It was good though. Something about an army guy who finds a picture of a girl then tracks her down at a dog kennel. I never tried to pick up girls at dog kennels but I did work at a Veterinary Clinic in college. I don't recall picking up any girls while cleaning out the kennel but it apparently works if you've been in the Military.)
This isn't what I'm thinking about in the indoor shower. I'm thinking about the messages I received last night from people who were dreading going to work today. They hate it. They feel stuck. They have bosses that chew their ass and as the song goes ... they're working for the weekend.
Plus, in spite of what the Government says, the economy still sucks and a lot of people are living week to week and day to day. They're waking up this morning hoping and praying that they can find something to do. They need money bad now.
It's a somber beginning to the day.
Then again most Monday's are somber.
I dress and brave the wind to drive to The Breakfast Club for coffee. Johnny O and Whitley are already there. There is a common disdain for for Monday being expressed. Lot's of adjectives are used. The vast majority are colorful and start with the letter "F".
The restaurant is half full before it even opens. The staff sighs and starts cooking though there are many other things remaining to be done to prepare for the week. Johnny O leaves for work. Whitley does too though he cusses as he stands.
I linger for a bit. The flags above the Ocean Plaza are whipping in the wind. Every time the door opens it blows a burst of cold inside. People mumble greetings. No one seems happy. The obnoxious ones try to talk to whoever will listen. Eventually it even dawns on them, today's Monday.
On top of that ... there's a Hurricane.
It sucks.
Monday morning coming down ... again.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
I'm A Has-been
I'm in the newspaper today.
It's been a while.
I used to be in it all of the time. Television and radio too. A master of soundbites and a popular person to be interviewed, I was always being asked what I thought. We created a lot of news too and I worked with people who knew how to make it.
Of course I also had a lot of help.
Avis Coleman used to interview me all of the time whenever it was a slow news day and she needed a story for WTOC where she worked as a reporter. If nothing was happening in Savannah that day, she'd call me and ask me what was going on. I'd make something up and if it sounded plausible it would be on the evening news.
There wasn't as much happening back then in "Slow-vanna" so I was on television a lot.
Rick Hunter was a DJ who did his own Sunday morning interview series and he often asked me to be on the show. We always had a blast. Rick cracks me up and we laughed a lot. A 30 minute show took a couple of hours to tape because we were having such a good time with one another.
We became good friends and still stay in touch though he's in Macon now.
Orlando Montoya worked for National Public Radio and also interviewed me a lot. It's hard to not like Orlando. Quiet, unassuming, meticulous, and steady he was the opposite of Rick. His interviews were always serious.
Over time we became friendly with each other and shared things from our personal lives. I don't know what Orlando is doing these days but I'm certain he's doing it great. I wish him the very best.
Then there's Skutch. Jan Skutch looks like an actor in a B movie playing a reporter but the fact is HE IS A REPORTER for the Savannah Morning News! He is the absolute best I've ever worked. The man cares about his craft and understands the power of the pen. He always called me to read my quotes back to me to make certain they were right.
Of course when he called he often began by asking, "Mike can you just tell me what in the hell is going on?"
This was often followed by, "Are you out of your mind?"
We also became very good friends and though we don't talk as often as we used to, we both understand either can pick up the phone at any time and the other will answer.
I'm no longer in the press though. Stacy Jennings called and asked me to write something and there's no chance in hell of saying no to her so I dropped everything I was doing and wrote.
It's funny to look at today. There's a picture that Sarah doesn't like because it doesn't look like me these days. It's buried at the end of a long special section meaning I'm a "has been." They even changed my by-line to describe what I used to do and didn't mention what I'm up to now (launching www.letustellit.).
Oh well.
That's the way it goes.
I've had way more than my fifteen minutes of fame so I shouldn't be bothered by any of this.
I'll tell you something though.
I've got another fifteen coming.
It's been a while.
I used to be in it all of the time. Television and radio too. A master of soundbites and a popular person to be interviewed, I was always being asked what I thought. We created a lot of news too and I worked with people who knew how to make it.
Of course I also had a lot of help.
Avis Coleman used to interview me all of the time whenever it was a slow news day and she needed a story for WTOC where she worked as a reporter. If nothing was happening in Savannah that day, she'd call me and ask me what was going on. I'd make something up and if it sounded plausible it would be on the evening news.
There wasn't as much happening back then in "Slow-vanna" so I was on television a lot.
Rick Hunter was a DJ who did his own Sunday morning interview series and he often asked me to be on the show. We always had a blast. Rick cracks me up and we laughed a lot. A 30 minute show took a couple of hours to tape because we were having such a good time with one another.
We became good friends and still stay in touch though he's in Macon now.
Orlando Montoya worked for National Public Radio and also interviewed me a lot. It's hard to not like Orlando. Quiet, unassuming, meticulous, and steady he was the opposite of Rick. His interviews were always serious.
Over time we became friendly with each other and shared things from our personal lives. I don't know what Orlando is doing these days but I'm certain he's doing it great. I wish him the very best.
Then there's Skutch. Jan Skutch looks like an actor in a B movie playing a reporter but the fact is HE IS A REPORTER for the Savannah Morning News! He is the absolute best I've ever worked. The man cares about his craft and understands the power of the pen. He always called me to read my quotes back to me to make certain they were right.
Of course when he called he often began by asking, "Mike can you just tell me what in the hell is going on?"
This was often followed by, "Are you out of your mind?"
We also became very good friends and though we don't talk as often as we used to, we both understand either can pick up the phone at any time and the other will answer.
I'm no longer in the press though. Stacy Jennings called and asked me to write something and there's no chance in hell of saying no to her so I dropped everything I was doing and wrote.
It's funny to look at today. There's a picture that Sarah doesn't like because it doesn't look like me these days. It's buried at the end of a long special section meaning I'm a "has been." They even changed my by-line to describe what I used to do and didn't mention what I'm up to now (launching www.letustellit.).
Oh well.
That's the way it goes.
I've had way more than my fifteen minutes of fame so I shouldn't be bothered by any of this.
I'll tell you something though.
I've got another fifteen coming.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
The Holiness of it all
It began with an incredible yellow sky. I told Sarah to come outside and see it ... be bathed in the crazy stillness that comes before Hurricanes pass. She is getting ready and rushes out to share the moment then heads back inside to finish as we're already late. Winston, the little gay dog, prances behind her. He follows her everywhere.
I linger.
A banana wind is blowing so leaves are knocked off trees and staring at the beloved back deck it suddenly seems extremely "fall-like" and could be mistaken for a porch on a cabin in the mountains. The Hibiscus plants add tropical flavors and yellow butterflies hide in their blooms.
Fran's thousand shades of green dance madly and the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt tries to cover herself. The plastic green strips of her skirt are blown across the yard.
The art hanging on the fence knocks against the wood and would surely fall had I not fastened it with wire to hold it in place.
Goddess stands beside me. She loves the wind and her golden coat is rustled as she stares in the direction from which it blows. Goddess is forever pondering life's deeper meanings and is my contemplative companion.
We're meeting friends for drinks, dinner and dancing at Huck-A-Poos. It's a funny thing as we all met virtually on Facebook before actually seeing each other. Sean and Wen warned us they were coming to Tybee and then one day there they were. Sitting in front of Fannies-On-the-beach at the daily gathering of The Bored they asked if we were us and we asked if they were them and a deep friendship became flesh.
We're doing the same with Glenn and Vicky as we've know each other virtually but are now making it real at The Poo.
Who knows who else will be there? It's one of the mysteries of this island. Epiphanies occur. People inexplicably appear.
Sarah was ready so we made the short trek to the nightly celebration of life. We toasted friendship, broke bread together and washed it down with holy water. Laughter and stories broke out with the music. The fellowship of believers celebrated life as we have it. We danced.
Now I am whispering prayers of Thanksgiving as Hurricane winds blow leaves across the deck. Fran is still dancing wildly as art bangs rhythms against the fence.The umbrella is down and secure so this is being observed from the kitchen table through opened sliding glass doors.
Goddess remains outside, her beautiful coat blowing in the wind, and she continues to stare out over the ocean from where all things were born.
I am humbled by the holiness of it all.
I linger.
A banana wind is blowing so leaves are knocked off trees and staring at the beloved back deck it suddenly seems extremely "fall-like" and could be mistaken for a porch on a cabin in the mountains. The Hibiscus plants add tropical flavors and yellow butterflies hide in their blooms.
Fran's thousand shades of green dance madly and the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt tries to cover herself. The plastic green strips of her skirt are blown across the yard.
The art hanging on the fence knocks against the wood and would surely fall had I not fastened it with wire to hold it in place.
Goddess stands beside me. She loves the wind and her golden coat is rustled as she stares in the direction from which it blows. Goddess is forever pondering life's deeper meanings and is my contemplative companion.
We're meeting friends for drinks, dinner and dancing at Huck-A-Poos. It's a funny thing as we all met virtually on Facebook before actually seeing each other. Sean and Wen warned us they were coming to Tybee and then one day there they were. Sitting in front of Fannies-On-the-beach at the daily gathering of The Bored they asked if we were us and we asked if they were them and a deep friendship became flesh.
We're doing the same with Glenn and Vicky as we've know each other virtually but are now making it real at The Poo.
Who knows who else will be there? It's one of the mysteries of this island. Epiphanies occur. People inexplicably appear.
Sarah was ready so we made the short trek to the nightly celebration of life. We toasted friendship, broke bread together and washed it down with holy water. Laughter and stories broke out with the music. The fellowship of believers celebrated life as we have it. We danced.
Now I am whispering prayers of Thanksgiving as Hurricane winds blow leaves across the deck. Fran is still dancing wildly as art bangs rhythms against the fence.The umbrella is down and secure so this is being observed from the kitchen table through opened sliding glass doors.
Goddess remains outside, her beautiful coat blowing in the wind, and she continues to stare out over the ocean from where all things were born.
I am humbled by the holiness of it all.
Friday, October 26, 2012
What Winston, the little gay dog, reminds me of ... love.
I am the extremely proud parent of a gay son!
Winston, the little gay dog, was born himself.
God made him this way and who can turn their back on the good things God has made?
I know, I know ... a lot of people.
Religion gets in the way of acceptance, church abhors change and dogma tries to figure out ways to damn everything that it doesn't believe fits.
Blah, blah, blah.
This life is really about acceptance.
Fundamentalism of any kind ... be it Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Democrat, Republican ... is a terrible and evil thing. In any belief system it basically proclaims, "There's only one way! And it's our way! And if you don't like it stick it up your ass sideways!"
On the other hand, God is love.
And to quote Rod Stewart, "Ain't love a bitch."
It's hard enough enough to find, much less hold onto love in life. There are so many things against love in the world ... with religion, politics and social morays topping the list.
I believe if you find love you do your damn best to hold on to it. Because if God really is love then that's what we're holding on to.
Which brings me back to Winston, the little gay dog.
He is most definitely gay. Sarah and I don't have any problems with it. He is who he is (which is also very Biblical as when Moses asked God who he was, God answered, "I am who I am."
Winston too.
The girls have problems with it. Raised in the church, they were taught that homosexuality is a sin.
What isn't a sin these days?
You sin. I sin. We all sin. That's one of the ties that bind us all together.
Let's accentuate the positive shall we? We're all doing the best we can. We screw something up most every day. If we're healthy then we're honest about it. If we're unhealthy then we deny it.
The other positive thing here is that we all have seen, touched, tasted, want or have ... love.
When you do, who cares if you're gay or straight, rich or poor, white or black, Republican or Democrat, Churched or unchurched, thin or fat or much anything else.
Loving people support love.
Unloving people don't.
Winston, the little gay dog, reminds me of these things.
Winston, the little gay dog, was born himself.
God made him this way and who can turn their back on the good things God has made?
I know, I know ... a lot of people.
Religion gets in the way of acceptance, church abhors change and dogma tries to figure out ways to damn everything that it doesn't believe fits.
Blah, blah, blah.
This life is really about acceptance.
Fundamentalism of any kind ... be it Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Democrat, Republican ... is a terrible and evil thing. In any belief system it basically proclaims, "There's only one way! And it's our way! And if you don't like it stick it up your ass sideways!"
On the other hand, God is love.
And to quote Rod Stewart, "Ain't love a bitch."
It's hard enough enough to find, much less hold onto love in life. There are so many things against love in the world ... with religion, politics and social morays topping the list.
I believe if you find love you do your damn best to hold on to it. Because if God really is love then that's what we're holding on to.
Which brings me back to Winston, the little gay dog.
He is most definitely gay. Sarah and I don't have any problems with it. He is who he is (which is also very Biblical as when Moses asked God who he was, God answered, "I am who I am."
Winston too.
The girls have problems with it. Raised in the church, they were taught that homosexuality is a sin.
What isn't a sin these days?
You sin. I sin. We all sin. That's one of the ties that bind us all together.
Let's accentuate the positive shall we? We're all doing the best we can. We screw something up most every day. If we're healthy then we're honest about it. If we're unhealthy then we deny it.
The other positive thing here is that we all have seen, touched, tasted, want or have ... love.
When you do, who cares if you're gay or straight, rich or poor, white or black, Republican or Democrat, Churched or unchurched, thin or fat or much anything else.
Loving people support love.
Unloving people don't.
Winston, the little gay dog, reminds me of these things.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
One foot competition
Yesterday was a crazy work day with curve balls coming at me left and right!
I was sending emails to people I haven't seen in years telling them what I'm up to these days. These are all folks I care about, were important as my career developed or I flat out like. They are also survivors ... meaning I purged my contact list last week and none of them were deleted.
Well ... to be honest a few were deleted but when we launched the new business (www.letustellit.com) several of them wrote me nice words so they were un-deleted which is like being raised from the dead.
Just as I was hitting my groove, Sarah burst into my office on the back deck where I prefer to work. Her office is at the other end of the house in the red room.
Our offices have a couple of distinct differences.
She prefers quiet when she works, has a proper desk and everything she needs is spread on it before her. I sit outside at a table under an umbrella with music blasting from on Rhapsody from my laptop, loving the sunshine, dancing leaves in the ocean breeze and yellow butterflies sucking the pollen out of the red Hibiscus blooms.
We have a quick "coffee break" without actually drinking any coffee.
She goes back to her office and I get back to work. But people have actually started answering my emails. That can screw up a day's agenda! Now I have to answer their email! Christ! How am I supposed to get any work done!
Then Stacy Jennings calls me from the Savannah Morning News asking if I would stop everything I'm doing and write something for the paper. Double Christ! I can't tell Stacy "No!"
Stacy is a lot like Joshua in the Old Testament. She can make the sun stop, the moon stop, avenge herself on her enemies and completely screw up someone's daily agenda. (See Joshua 10:13. That's really about Stacy.)
So I wrote it and send it only to be confronted by these evil people called editors. Evidently my words needed work. So I do what I always do when confronted by editors ... I ignored them. I'm a big believer that if you ignore a problem long enough it will go away.
On the other hand, Stacy had already stopped the sun and the moon from moving so ... I was edited which is like getting the paper you were proud of writing in college handed back to you marked up in red by some idiot professor who doesn't recognize great writing!
When I got back to work, MORE PEOPLE HAD REPLIED TO MY EMAILS!
Now there's even more to do!
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the sun had moved. Of course it had! Stacy had gotten what she wanted.
My computer kept beeping with new emails as the sun painted the deep blue sky in pinks and purples. Inexplicably "Scarborough Fair" streamed through my computer.
Seriously? "Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme?
I got mellow, walked inside and poured myself a glass of wine. Sarah was still working away in her quiet solitude. No one else else was working but then again no one else was here.
Returning to my office on the back deck I stuck my bare feet on the rail and toasted Stacy Jennings. She's freaking amazing. And apparently does all of this on one foot.
How do you compete with that?
I turned off the computer, drank wine and watched the sun set.
I was sending emails to people I haven't seen in years telling them what I'm up to these days. These are all folks I care about, were important as my career developed or I flat out like. They are also survivors ... meaning I purged my contact list last week and none of them were deleted.
Well ... to be honest a few were deleted but when we launched the new business (www.letustellit.com) several of them wrote me nice words so they were un-deleted which is like being raised from the dead.
Just as I was hitting my groove, Sarah burst into my office on the back deck where I prefer to work. Her office is at the other end of the house in the red room.
Our offices have a couple of distinct differences.
She prefers quiet when she works, has a proper desk and everything she needs is spread on it before her. I sit outside at a table under an umbrella with music blasting from on Rhapsody from my laptop, loving the sunshine, dancing leaves in the ocean breeze and yellow butterflies sucking the pollen out of the red Hibiscus blooms.
We have a quick "coffee break" without actually drinking any coffee.
She goes back to her office and I get back to work. But people have actually started answering my emails. That can screw up a day's agenda! Now I have to answer their email! Christ! How am I supposed to get any work done!
Then Stacy Jennings calls me from the Savannah Morning News asking if I would stop everything I'm doing and write something for the paper. Double Christ! I can't tell Stacy "No!"
Stacy is a lot like Joshua in the Old Testament. She can make the sun stop, the moon stop, avenge herself on her enemies and completely screw up someone's daily agenda. (See Joshua 10:13. That's really about Stacy.)
So I wrote it and send it only to be confronted by these evil people called editors. Evidently my words needed work. So I do what I always do when confronted by editors ... I ignored them. I'm a big believer that if you ignore a problem long enough it will go away.
On the other hand, Stacy had already stopped the sun and the moon from moving so ... I was edited which is like getting the paper you were proud of writing in college handed back to you marked up in red by some idiot professor who doesn't recognize great writing!
When I got back to work, MORE PEOPLE HAD REPLIED TO MY EMAILS!
Now there's even more to do!
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the sun had moved. Of course it had! Stacy had gotten what she wanted.
My computer kept beeping with new emails as the sun painted the deep blue sky in pinks and purples. Inexplicably "Scarborough Fair" streamed through my computer.
Seriously? "Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme?
I got mellow, walked inside and poured myself a glass of wine. Sarah was still working away in her quiet solitude. No one else else was working but then again no one else was here.
Returning to my office on the back deck I stuck my bare feet on the rail and toasted Stacy Jennings. She's freaking amazing. And apparently does all of this on one foot.
How do you compete with that?
I turned off the computer, drank wine and watched the sun set.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Avalon
Islands are magical places though I'm the first to admit that some are more special than others. Key West is better than Hilton Head, St. Martin eclipses Jamaica and Tybee Island surely bests the British Isles.
Avalon was the magical island where King Arthur got his start when the Lady of the River forged his sword, Excalibur. It was where he went to recover or die from his wounds after the Battle of Camlann and its where he eventually returned the sword when he was said and done with it all.
It's also a song by Roxy Music with the lines ... and the background is fading out of focus, yes the pictures are changing every moment and your destination? you don't know it ... Avalon.
We all believe in mystical places like Avalon, Heaven, Atlantis, the bright lights of a big city or the quiet majesty of the mountains, the plains of the Parries or the serenity of the sea.
So we work towards these places. We travel, pray, believe when there's no real evidence of what we want ever coming true. We become absorbed in the crowd or relish the solitude, touching them from time to time but they never last. Those moments are holy and special. We want them back.
Last night I was tossing and turning in bed, falling in and out of sleep, hugging Sarah or staring at the numbers on the ceiling letting me know what time it was. Thoughts came in rushes, flooding my brain with different images or dreams. I was restless.
As is my custom I climbed out of bed and walked outside in the middle of the night to the beloved back deck. Brilliant stars danced in a black sky. Goddess followed me and lay beside me as I just stood there in prayerful thought.
Several years ago I went through a lot at once, like Arthur's Battle of Camlann. I was left fatally wounded, hurt and betrayed. Avalon was Tybee. Saints came to my rescue and Sarah emerged from a watery past that was suddenly out of focus. Like Arthur leaving Avalon with Excalibur after he was healed because he had more to do ...
I feel that way.
It's why I'm restless.
There is more to do.
All of the things I've done are buried and in the past. What I'm doing now is far more interesting. But the things I will do in the coming years with Sarah are far more intriguing. There were times I felt I'd died and there is no question that lots of people were wishing I'd just go away.
But I didn't.
I've been healed.
And I'm restless ... not for what's next ... but for now.
Avalon was the magical island where King Arthur got his start when the Lady of the River forged his sword, Excalibur. It was where he went to recover or die from his wounds after the Battle of Camlann and its where he eventually returned the sword when he was said and done with it all.
It's also a song by Roxy Music with the lines ... and the background is fading out of focus, yes the pictures are changing every moment and your destination? you don't know it ... Avalon.
We all believe in mystical places like Avalon, Heaven, Atlantis, the bright lights of a big city or the quiet majesty of the mountains, the plains of the Parries or the serenity of the sea.
So we work towards these places. We travel, pray, believe when there's no real evidence of what we want ever coming true. We become absorbed in the crowd or relish the solitude, touching them from time to time but they never last. Those moments are holy and special. We want them back.
Last night I was tossing and turning in bed, falling in and out of sleep, hugging Sarah or staring at the numbers on the ceiling letting me know what time it was. Thoughts came in rushes, flooding my brain with different images or dreams. I was restless.
As is my custom I climbed out of bed and walked outside in the middle of the night to the beloved back deck. Brilliant stars danced in a black sky. Goddess followed me and lay beside me as I just stood there in prayerful thought.
Several years ago I went through a lot at once, like Arthur's Battle of Camlann. I was left fatally wounded, hurt and betrayed. Avalon was Tybee. Saints came to my rescue and Sarah emerged from a watery past that was suddenly out of focus. Like Arthur leaving Avalon with Excalibur after he was healed because he had more to do ...
I feel that way.
It's why I'm restless.
There is more to do.
All of the things I've done are buried and in the past. What I'm doing now is far more interesting. But the things I will do in the coming years with Sarah are far more intriguing. There were times I felt I'd died and there is no question that lots of people were wishing I'd just go away.
But I didn't.
I've been healed.
And I'm restless ... not for what's next ... but for now.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Mitt Romney and Tybee Foreign Policy
When I wasn't watching Monday night football or the conclusion of the incredible comeback of the Giants against the Cardinals or stealing glances of Sarah in her nighties, I'd watch the final Presidential debate. Immediately I was stuck by a couple of things.
I think President Obama and Mitt Romney use the same mortician. They both looked dead. At the same time, the economy remains a mess so they probably went in together to split the cost of hiring somebody to make them look good. They both looked awful.
The focus of the debate was foreign policy. They talked about Libya, Israel, Egypt, the military, and how many jobs they would both create (which has nothing to do with the topic but they didn't seem to care).
The most interesting thing was when Mitt Romney said we get the American economy going again by opening up trade relationships with Central America. He claims its as big a market as China and jobs will get created if we open up those markets.
Now I know America has a lot of shit people in Central America want. Blue jeans, cars, I-pads, Bose speaker systems for the cars, X Boxes, videos of Glee and boxes of Animal Crackers. Who doesn't want that stuff?
But what does Central America have to trade in order to get these things?
Mitt Romney knows ... Opium!
It's their biggest crop and I heard Mitt saying last night that Poppy is apparently good for the American economy.
I didn't like him before and I've actually met him once but I started warming up to him during the debate.
Let's be honest we haven't had a great President since Bill Clinton. Bill knew how to have a good time in the White House! The man can multitask! Balance the budget, create a surplus, smoke a cigar and make oral sex popular ALL AT THE SAME TIME! We haven't had enough Presidents who know how to have a good time. I think we have a new possibility.
Mitt Romney may be on to something after all with this Central American thing. Let's keep being honest. We have terrible relationships with the Middle East. It's like going to supper with a family of people who hate each other.
The Euro continues to kick the dollar's butt, we really don't really care about Africa and China spends all of its time counting the interest of how much we owe them.
With the opium market opened in America, we wouldn't care. AND TO MAKE IT EVEN BETTER, Romney wouldn't tax like Obama would!
Does it get any better?
I'd sworn off politics but am suddenly interested again. Regardless of the elections outcome, I'm going to call Mayor Buelterman on Tybee Island where I live and ask him what our foreign policies are? We're surrounded by the ocean thereby exposed to possible attack by other countries. We must have a foreign policy. Most of the people who work in hotels here are from other countries!
But I'm especially interested in what is Tybee Island's relationship with Central American countries. It could be good for the island.
Really good!
It would be a great high for every American regardless of political persuasion.
I think President Obama and Mitt Romney use the same mortician. They both looked dead. At the same time, the economy remains a mess so they probably went in together to split the cost of hiring somebody to make them look good. They both looked awful.
The focus of the debate was foreign policy. They talked about Libya, Israel, Egypt, the military, and how many jobs they would both create (which has nothing to do with the topic but they didn't seem to care).
The most interesting thing was when Mitt Romney said we get the American economy going again by opening up trade relationships with Central America. He claims its as big a market as China and jobs will get created if we open up those markets.
Now I know America has a lot of shit people in Central America want. Blue jeans, cars, I-pads, Bose speaker systems for the cars, X Boxes, videos of Glee and boxes of Animal Crackers. Who doesn't want that stuff?
But what does Central America have to trade in order to get these things?
Mitt Romney knows ... Opium!
It's their biggest crop and I heard Mitt saying last night that Poppy is apparently good for the American economy.
I didn't like him before and I've actually met him once but I started warming up to him during the debate.
Let's be honest we haven't had a great President since Bill Clinton. Bill knew how to have a good time in the White House! The man can multitask! Balance the budget, create a surplus, smoke a cigar and make oral sex popular ALL AT THE SAME TIME! We haven't had enough Presidents who know how to have a good time. I think we have a new possibility.
Mitt Romney may be on to something after all with this Central American thing. Let's keep being honest. We have terrible relationships with the Middle East. It's like going to supper with a family of people who hate each other.
The Euro continues to kick the dollar's butt, we really don't really care about Africa and China spends all of its time counting the interest of how much we owe them.
With the opium market opened in America, we wouldn't care. AND TO MAKE IT EVEN BETTER, Romney wouldn't tax like Obama would!
Does it get any better?
I'd sworn off politics but am suddenly interested again. Regardless of the elections outcome, I'm going to call Mayor Buelterman on Tybee Island where I live and ask him what our foreign policies are? We're surrounded by the ocean thereby exposed to possible attack by other countries. We must have a foreign policy. Most of the people who work in hotels here are from other countries!
But I'm especially interested in what is Tybee Island's relationship with Central American countries. It could be good for the island.
Really good!
It would be a great high for every American regardless of political persuasion.
Monday, October 22, 2012
My Story
"I still tell your stories," Ann Christiano told me as we chatted before she delivers a keynote address at a recent gathering in Memphis.
Ann is the Communications Professor at the University of Florida's College of Journalism and Communications.
I have no idea which stories she was referring to we haven't seen one another in years. Back in the day we would be in Washington D.C. working Capitol Hill with the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation.
Several days later on LinkedIn Phillippa Moss sent me a private message. It's been years since I've seen her too. Back then she was with the Georgia Department of Community Affairs and we did a lot of work together. It was a great relationship. She gave me money and I spent it! Does it get any better?
Anyway, she wrote that she speaks of me often in her work in Hall County government. She tells my stories.
Stories last when people don't.
More than anything else, people remember stories.
I recall the first time I tried to write a story. It was in college and I was doing a paper for history class and tried to describe a battle so I used a lot of adjectives. I got an "A".
In Seminary I learned to preach and good preaching is storytelling. (There's a lot of bad preaching out there because too many Preachers have forgotten how to tell stories!).
Then I started writing the stories down and they became books.
I hit the road and told stories in churches, Rotary Clubs, on radio and television shows, at Congress and Chambers of Commerce.
These days I write my stories and post them on Facebook, Blogspot, Twitter and LinkedIn. They go all over the world and people from around the globe write me privately or post publicly.
The world has changed. It's at your fingertips now. Communication happens whenever you want and with whoever you want. You don't have to travel or try to make appointments. We text rather than call, stream video instead of paint pictures and post photographs instead of using words.
Still ... it's the stories that people remember.
These days I work with a great group of friends to use all of the above to help tell their stories. Check it out at www.letustellit.com
It is fun and gratifying work to see others gain customers, increase sales or simply get their point across.
It's funny to me that Goddess has her own fan base and when we're out people will ask, "Is that Goddess? Oh My God, it's Goddess. Take a picture!"
Winston, the little gay dog, is extremely popular every time I write about him.
My next door neighbor ... The Cat Lady ... screeching "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!" in her bathrobe and blue towel on her head is somehow beloved and people wait on me to tell what she's doing now.
Sarah and I take the girls out for pizza and people walk up to say, "So this is the family!" They know all about them.
Jeremy and Marie, Kristen, Chelsea and Sam all have to live with the question, "That's your Dad?"
If I don't have the stories posted on Facebook or Blogspot by 9ish, my computer and phone start buzzing while people ask, "What in the hell are you doing this morning? Dammit I'm having coffee and want my story! What's happened now? Has Goddess bitten the Cat Lady? Did Winston, the little gay dog, pee on the bed again? How does Sarah put up with you?"
So it's all about the story.
The other thing is it's good for me to tell all of these stories. They are meant to be shared and confession really is good for the soul. What begins as me processing and reflecting over the things that happen somehow end up being enjoyed or helping others. As you give so shall you receive.
So ... that's my story ... and I'm sticking to it.
Ann is the Communications Professor at the University of Florida's College of Journalism and Communications.
I have no idea which stories she was referring to we haven't seen one another in years. Back in the day we would be in Washington D.C. working Capitol Hill with the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation.
Several days later on LinkedIn Phillippa Moss sent me a private message. It's been years since I've seen her too. Back then she was with the Georgia Department of Community Affairs and we did a lot of work together. It was a great relationship. She gave me money and I spent it! Does it get any better?
Anyway, she wrote that she speaks of me often in her work in Hall County government. She tells my stories.
Stories last when people don't.
More than anything else, people remember stories.
I recall the first time I tried to write a story. It was in college and I was doing a paper for history class and tried to describe a battle so I used a lot of adjectives. I got an "A".
In Seminary I learned to preach and good preaching is storytelling. (There's a lot of bad preaching out there because too many Preachers have forgotten how to tell stories!).
Then I started writing the stories down and they became books.
I hit the road and told stories in churches, Rotary Clubs, on radio and television shows, at Congress and Chambers of Commerce.
These days I write my stories and post them on Facebook, Blogspot, Twitter and LinkedIn. They go all over the world and people from around the globe write me privately or post publicly.
The world has changed. It's at your fingertips now. Communication happens whenever you want and with whoever you want. You don't have to travel or try to make appointments. We text rather than call, stream video instead of paint pictures and post photographs instead of using words.
Still ... it's the stories that people remember.
These days I work with a great group of friends to use all of the above to help tell their stories. Check it out at www.letustellit.com
It is fun and gratifying work to see others gain customers, increase sales or simply get their point across.
It's funny to me that Goddess has her own fan base and when we're out people will ask, "Is that Goddess? Oh My God, it's Goddess. Take a picture!"
Winston, the little gay dog, is extremely popular every time I write about him.
My next door neighbor ... The Cat Lady ... screeching "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!" in her bathrobe and blue towel on her head is somehow beloved and people wait on me to tell what she's doing now.
Sarah and I take the girls out for pizza and people walk up to say, "So this is the family!" They know all about them.
Jeremy and Marie, Kristen, Chelsea and Sam all have to live with the question, "That's your Dad?"
If I don't have the stories posted on Facebook or Blogspot by 9ish, my computer and phone start buzzing while people ask, "What in the hell are you doing this morning? Dammit I'm having coffee and want my story! What's happened now? Has Goddess bitten the Cat Lady? Did Winston, the little gay dog, pee on the bed again? How does Sarah put up with you?"
So it's all about the story.
The other thing is it's good for me to tell all of these stories. They are meant to be shared and confession really is good for the soul. What begins as me processing and reflecting over the things that happen somehow end up being enjoyed or helping others. As you give so shall you receive.
So ... that's my story ... and I'm sticking to it.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Hung Over on Sunday
It's best to be honest about it.
I'm hungover.
"It's not my fault", to quote Madison Lingenfelter.
I think it's Dani Sadowski's ... I mean Wesoloski. I married them last night. Afterwards, alcohol was a factor but it wasn't the only one.
Sarah and I danced a lot and that's always intoxicating.
The Beloved Dawgs of Georgia won but barely (though looking at the score this morning ... we kicked their asses!).
The other dogs ... Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, were busted again yesterday.
The police showed up and gave us a summons to go court ... again.
Apparently they have big parties whenever Sarah and I take a walk around the block or go off island. They don't bark while we're here but evidently raise holy hell when we're gone. So the Tybee Island Police Department launched a major investigation dedicating four different officers to the case. All I can say is that it's very difficult harboring criminals who are so sly they only bark when we're gone.
Goddess doesn't seem to give a shit. Winston, the little gay dog, is already planning what he's going to wear to court.
I saw the Tybee Coyote this morning. He was strolling down 13th Street as I was driving home from The Breakfast Club. It's confusing to me because I didn't think he existed but he evidently does. I suppose the Tybee Island Police Department has officers dedicated to the case.
On the upside, Jenny O approached Sarah and I about going to Key West for Christmas. It was funny because Sarah and I were talking about that earlier in the day. Such things make you believe in God.
I gotta go.
The towel on my head is cold and I need to put hot water on it.
The sun has come up and my sun glasses don't seem to be working as good as they did in the dark.
I'm afraid Sarah's dead in bed and need to go check on her.
I just have one question ... which leg do I move first ... and how?
I'm hungover.
"It's not my fault", to quote Madison Lingenfelter.
I think it's Dani Sadowski's ... I mean Wesoloski. I married them last night. Afterwards, alcohol was a factor but it wasn't the only one.
Sarah and I danced a lot and that's always intoxicating.
The Beloved Dawgs of Georgia won but barely (though looking at the score this morning ... we kicked their asses!).
The other dogs ... Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, were busted again yesterday.
The police showed up and gave us a summons to go court ... again.
Apparently they have big parties whenever Sarah and I take a walk around the block or go off island. They don't bark while we're here but evidently raise holy hell when we're gone. So the Tybee Island Police Department launched a major investigation dedicating four different officers to the case. All I can say is that it's very difficult harboring criminals who are so sly they only bark when we're gone.
Goddess doesn't seem to give a shit. Winston, the little gay dog, is already planning what he's going to wear to court.
I saw the Tybee Coyote this morning. He was strolling down 13th Street as I was driving home from The Breakfast Club. It's confusing to me because I didn't think he existed but he evidently does. I suppose the Tybee Island Police Department has officers dedicated to the case.
On the upside, Jenny O approached Sarah and I about going to Key West for Christmas. It was funny because Sarah and I were talking about that earlier in the day. Such things make you believe in God.
I gotta go.
The towel on my head is cold and I need to put hot water on it.
The sun has come up and my sun glasses don't seem to be working as good as they did in the dark.
I'm afraid Sarah's dead in bed and need to go check on her.
I just have one question ... which leg do I move first ... and how?
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Elmo Weeks ... a hero of mine.
"It's Micheal Elliott," she said not bothering to cover the receiver as she announced my call to her husband.
"Oh!," I heard Elmo exclaim. "Yes, I want to talk to him," and I heard the shoving of a chair across a floor as the 92 year old man made his way to the phone.
"Micheal," his vibrant voice exploded into my ear.
"Hey Elmo," I said smiling.
He is a special man, the second representative of a third generation family funeral business.
Back in the days when AIDS was exploding and I was working to house people everyone else was shunning, I learned to love Elmo. Fathers would shun their sons and leave them to die alone because they were ashamed of boys growing up to be themselves and then literally dying because of it! At the time, funeral homes wouldn't take their bodies because they were afraid they would catch AIDS.
I was sitting with the body of such a boy one day and didn't know what to do. His family didn't want him. So I called Elmo.
"Of course," he said. "I'll have someone right over."
And he did.
For the next several years ... when there was no one else to call, I'd call Elmo. He always had the same response ... "Of course."
"How are you Micheal?" he asked as I stood barefoot on the beloved back deck. "I told your Mother that I need to talk to you. I just want to see how you're doing."
It's been three years since I've seen him. My eyes grew moist as memories flooded through my heart.
I don't know how many people Elmo buried for me but it was a lot. He never charged anything. He only said, "Of course."
I told him I was good. I told him about Sarah. He asked about the kids. He told me about a his recent hospital stay. He told me he was good for someone so old.
His voice was that of a young man. Love and warmth poured into my ear as he spoke. We didn't speak of the funerals but there is a sense ... a shared bond that no one else will ever understand ... of the things that we did together.
Today is a special day of joy. Dani Sadowski is getting married and I'm performing the ceremony. Dani has been part of my life since she was a baby. I can't imagine what my life would have been like without her and her brother Ryan and my kids. We all grew up together.
Later today, she and Peter will be toasted and I really look forward to that.
But I'll take a moment to raise my glass to Elmo Weeks ... an unassuming hero who was always there when nobody else wanted to be ... when fathers abandoned their sons ... and death was a way of life.
I am sure I will cry.
Then I will grab Sarah's hand and we will dance.
"Oh!," I heard Elmo exclaim. "Yes, I want to talk to him," and I heard the shoving of a chair across a floor as the 92 year old man made his way to the phone.
"Micheal," his vibrant voice exploded into my ear.
"Hey Elmo," I said smiling.
He is a special man, the second representative of a third generation family funeral business.
Back in the days when AIDS was exploding and I was working to house people everyone else was shunning, I learned to love Elmo. Fathers would shun their sons and leave them to die alone because they were ashamed of boys growing up to be themselves and then literally dying because of it! At the time, funeral homes wouldn't take their bodies because they were afraid they would catch AIDS.
I was sitting with the body of such a boy one day and didn't know what to do. His family didn't want him. So I called Elmo.
"Of course," he said. "I'll have someone right over."
And he did.
For the next several years ... when there was no one else to call, I'd call Elmo. He always had the same response ... "Of course."
"How are you Micheal?" he asked as I stood barefoot on the beloved back deck. "I told your Mother that I need to talk to you. I just want to see how you're doing."
It's been three years since I've seen him. My eyes grew moist as memories flooded through my heart.
I don't know how many people Elmo buried for me but it was a lot. He never charged anything. He only said, "Of course."
I told him I was good. I told him about Sarah. He asked about the kids. He told me about a his recent hospital stay. He told me he was good for someone so old.
His voice was that of a young man. Love and warmth poured into my ear as he spoke. We didn't speak of the funerals but there is a sense ... a shared bond that no one else will ever understand ... of the things that we did together.
Today is a special day of joy. Dani Sadowski is getting married and I'm performing the ceremony. Dani has been part of my life since she was a baby. I can't imagine what my life would have been like without her and her brother Ryan and my kids. We all grew up together.
Later today, she and Peter will be toasted and I really look forward to that.
But I'll take a moment to raise my glass to Elmo Weeks ... an unassuming hero who was always there when nobody else wanted to be ... when fathers abandoned their sons ... and death was a way of life.
I am sure I will cry.
Then I will grab Sarah's hand and we will dance.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Church Lust
It's finally Friday. There's a lot to do today but this evening I have the possibility of a date with my wife. The kids are scattered to and fro on the face of the earth and the girls are gone for the weekend. It's hard to not get excited.
You work to date.
At least that's my philosophy.
Regardless of marital status, dating is a key component to life. I prefer to date my wife because we almost always have a wonderful time.
Before we were married I dated some other people and, while they were all nice, it just doesn't come close to going out with Sarah.
Yesterday we went to the funeral of a dear friend. It was a Catholic Mass and one of the things I noticed was the use of the words "Dear Friend" in the Liturgy. That's probably where I picked up my use of the words. I call a lot of people my "dear friend" and it likely got ingrained in my head when I did the Scripture readings at the St. Martin of Tours Catholic Church in Louisville, Kentucky.
My dear friend Vernon Robertson was the Priest. I was a Southern Baptist minister. He was old. I was young. We were an unlikely pair. I did the readings during noonday Mass and he would come preach during the Wednesday night service.
Consequently I learned the Liturgy and when I miss organized religion I really like a good Catholic Mass. While it happens, it takes talent for a Priest to screw up the Liturgy.
The celebration of dear friends is part of good worship. I try to live my worship.
After the funeral my car wouldn't start. I'm not good at that stuff so I just kept trying to crank it while hitting the gas peddle. Sarah said, "Let me do it and take your foot of the peddle."
It immediately cranked.
That's life right? We all stall from time to time while we're trying to do more significant things. The holy is always in tandem with the humerous.
During the funeral Sarah and I were holding hands on the back pew in the choir loft. She was wearing a short black dress and I was looking at her leg. Church lust is the best lust!
Yesterday and last night were full of stalls, disruptions, alien interference and Satanic movements. Thank God that's over!
It's Friday and work is almost done.
Then I plan on asking my wife to go out on a date.
And if everything goes right, Church lust will come true.
That's the dearest of the dear.
You work to date.
At least that's my philosophy.
Regardless of marital status, dating is a key component to life. I prefer to date my wife because we almost always have a wonderful time.
Before we were married I dated some other people and, while they were all nice, it just doesn't come close to going out with Sarah.
Yesterday we went to the funeral of a dear friend. It was a Catholic Mass and one of the things I noticed was the use of the words "Dear Friend" in the Liturgy. That's probably where I picked up my use of the words. I call a lot of people my "dear friend" and it likely got ingrained in my head when I did the Scripture readings at the St. Martin of Tours Catholic Church in Louisville, Kentucky.
My dear friend Vernon Robertson was the Priest. I was a Southern Baptist minister. He was old. I was young. We were an unlikely pair. I did the readings during noonday Mass and he would come preach during the Wednesday night service.
Consequently I learned the Liturgy and when I miss organized religion I really like a good Catholic Mass. While it happens, it takes talent for a Priest to screw up the Liturgy.
The celebration of dear friends is part of good worship. I try to live my worship.
After the funeral my car wouldn't start. I'm not good at that stuff so I just kept trying to crank it while hitting the gas peddle. Sarah said, "Let me do it and take your foot of the peddle."
It immediately cranked.
That's life right? We all stall from time to time while we're trying to do more significant things. The holy is always in tandem with the humerous.
During the funeral Sarah and I were holding hands on the back pew in the choir loft. She was wearing a short black dress and I was looking at her leg. Church lust is the best lust!
Yesterday and last night were full of stalls, disruptions, alien interference and Satanic movements. Thank God that's over!
It's Friday and work is almost done.
Then I plan on asking my wife to go out on a date.
And if everything goes right, Church lust will come true.
That's the dearest of the dear.
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