My Daughter's Mixed Marriage

Chelsea called yesterday to tell me that my soon to be Son-in-law is not only graduating from Georgia Tech next month but has accepted a paid internship with the Georgia Department of Transportation.

She was driving to her Alma Mata, the University of Georgia, for today's game when she gave me Sam's big news.

It is true that they're going to be a mixed marriage.

We all know that love is strange but Georgia marrying Georgia Tech? God did not ordain the universe this way. But I love my daughter and have grown to love Sam and cannot imagine them not being together.

Well, today they're not together.

She's at the Georgia game with her brother Jeremy and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie and Sam is going to attend whatever is going to occur on Grant Field at Bobby Dodd Stadium.

As brilliant as my future son-in-law is, Sam sometimes makes really stupid decisions. He could be with Chelsea who is beautiful, at a better game, with a prettier stadium, more attractive uniforms, stunning cheerleaders, and cheer for the team that God pulls for.

Alas, he opted out.

I think its going to work out fine at the Georgia Department of Transportation. The place is a mess and has been for years. Georgia has lots of roads that lead to nowhere so Sam has the opportunity to fix that.

Of course he will only be one person among numerous Georgia Tech graduates working at the Georgia Department of Transportation. There's only so much he will be able to do. I mean have to you seen how they screwed up Atlanta? The civil engineering in Georgia's capital is perfect ... if you like to sit in your car.

I've become convinced the reason Smart phones were invented is so people sitting in cars in Atlanta traffic trying to get to the office can get some work done while they wait. They'll get to the office just in time to leave for the commute home.

I have a lot of confidence in Sam though.

He'll fix all of this soon.

I'll make sure of this next weekend when I see him again. When the rambling wreck of Georgia Tech (concrete evidence they don't teach poetry there) visits the promised land in Athens. Where traffic flows freely, the skies are always blue, and the beer at the Globe is the best.

Me and Barry White

Having just lit the grill, I throw more Palm fronds on the fire. It's dark and I have Barry White streaming on the computer so sex is dripping from the stars and people are in ecstasy somewhere. The Lord's name is not being taken in vain but in other, more glorious ways.

It makes me wonder if Barry started as a Gospel singer. Can you imagine what he'd do to a Hymn in Church?

I can just see the laying on of hands ... the speaking in tongues ... the utterances of God's name in new and creative ways ... the slaying of the spirit ... THE BAPTISM IN THE HOLY WATER!

Hallelujah!! Glory!!

My friend Gloria Coleman once told me that more babies were made to Barry White music than any other musician and I believe it. The man sings sex. Prince just pretends in the same world as Barry. He's not.

It's hard not to like Barry White but I can see why he was never invited to sing in church.

So I'm doing this little dance to "Can't get enough of your love baby", standing by the fire on a cold, damp night. I'm dancing between the fire and the grill to turn the steaks.

The storm we just experienced is not without its benefits. Palm fronds are littered around the yard. I pick them up and throw them on the fire. Even when they're wet they burn great. So while it's cold everywhere else on the island, the beloved back is HOT because of Barry White and fire!

And it's almost the weekend.

I'm ready for the weekend! Sarah and I have date tonight.  Tomorrow is a 1950's theme party at Ohio Bob's house. The beloved DAWGS of Georgia play. It's Johnny O's birthday and his anniversary with Judy O! (The man is smart. He may forget one but he never forgets the other.) God told Samuel Adams to tell Sarah and me that we're back in the Bar Church band. It's a lot!

Barry White has now moved on to "It's Ecstasy when you lay down next to me" and I wonder where Sarah is.

Can I get an AMEN?

Hopping Time

"Am I in your book," sweetly asks each of the girls most every day.

"I dunno," I say shrugging my shoulders. "If you pick up your toys. I might put you in."

We engage in mutual manipulation.

The fact is they are in a lot of the stories. They're part of my life which is what I write about so how can they not be? I just don't want to tell them yet. I need to always keep an Ace or two in pocket.

Besides, they need to talk to my kids who have were in my other books. They'll be the first to say that it's not all that.

There are other references too. People I included in books who got really pissed off that they were in one. I thought I was showing them love and respect and they thought otherwise. What do you do? Move on. Gain friends while losing others, trade in old dreams for new ones, and learn to trust ... your love, yourself, God, the things you believe.

I downloaded a new App the other day. Timehop shows what I wrote as a status report on Facebook last year, the year before and the year before that. It's fascinating!

Three years ago my status was, "thinks there's too many windows in this heart hotel." I just discovered I was suddenly single along with the rest of the world.

The next year I "going home by another way." I was in St. Martin when I wrote that seriously considering moving there permanently.

Last year I knew "that the pain comes today, is here then goes away, and we are homeward bound and I ... I want this more than life." I was actually home when I wrote this waiting on Sarah.

You can tell I've come a long way. Today's status is "everybody knows there's nobody meaner than the little old lady from Pasadena." I was singing to the Beach Boys driving home after taking Maddie to school.

Part of today will be spent working on the book that the girls want to be in and they are there ... somewhere in the stacks. Along with my kids, friends lost and gained, old dreams and new ones, Sarah, me, God and the things I believe in.

I'm hopping time. Remembering the past but very much living in the present.

And hoping like hell for tomorrow.

Everything is a lot

The kitchen table looks like it was hit by a Mail truck! Almost 600 pieces of paper are in stacks of various sizes associated into topics ... being suddenly single and surviving a divorce, Non-Profit leadership, life on Tybee Island, Spirituality and finding love again while starting over.

I sigh.

There's another 600 pages of this stuff that hasn't been printed yet for me to wade through.

Last week I spoke with a Publisher and she expressed interest in books on four of the topics. Can you give me the first three chapters of each?" she asked. "Next week?"

Every single day for the past three years I've written what was going on in my life and put it out there. My life is not-so-neatly stacked in four piles.

Picking up something I wrote two years ago, I look at how long it is. I read it and the words drip in darkness. Behind the words I can see me fighting through sadness. I put it back in its stack.

It's tough work to examine your life like this.

It's even harder to share it.

Grabbing another stack I read, "I am contemplating having a party and setting my Christmas Tree on fire ... there's nothing like little pieces of sadness hanging from the branches of a broken family tree."

I walk outside.

Goddess raises her head from sleeping and watches me. Out of old habits, she seems concerned.

A cold ocean wind whips through the trees. Brown leaves are strewn across the deck. There is no sunshine today.

Things I wrote three years ago are long, brooding paragraphs. What I wrote yesterday was lighthearted fun. A lot happened in-between.

I don't know how I would have gotten through without "writing it out," as my son Jeremy puts it. It was my way of letting all of the sadness and hurt out. It's easier to blog than it is to publish a book and I was fighting for survival and didn't have the time anyway.

And the daily writing became more akin to praying.

Then I was shocked to learn that people actually read it every day. A lot took the time to let me know. More than I thought told me they were experiencing similar things but just didn't know how to express it. These were the ones who encouraged me to keep doing it ... for them.

I'm busy remaking my life these days. Aside from my kids and where I live, everything has changed! Everything is a lot.

Staring at the stacks describing who I was, I whisper a prayer for who I am.

Who Knew?

The eight year old woke believing she is an Opera Singer and is screeching to the top of her lungs. The six year old has me spraying sparkles in her hair so it's difficult to type ... much less complete a  thought.

On the way to my nine o'clock meeting in Savannah I'm going to slow down to 35 miles per hour and drop them off at school.

Then I'll have some quiet time.

It's a crazy way to begin a day with a heavy agenda. I'm used to crazy. Thirty years of working with homeless people, I've seen and heard everything! I know how to deal with the real life crisis of people's lives.

So I lock the girls in their room and tell them to get ready for school.

It's a beautiful day as I sit on the beloved back deck.

Waves are giving loud sloppy kisses to the shore. Choirs of birds are singing hymns. The sun is throwing diamonds on the ocean. I believe in God again.

The Opera screeching resumes and the birds all fly away.

The six year old complains that I only sprayed one side of her hair and is now making demands that I stop what I'm doing and fix it.

The sun hides behind a cloud.

But I've learned new things today already.

Who knew Opera could be sung at that high of a pitch?

Who knew glitter is to be evenly sprayed in hair?

I have a feeling that I'll be learning lots more today.

This side of Monday

Monday began with the sound of waves crashing. Laying in the dark, the steady roll of the ocean carried the soft crash into the sand through our open bedroom windows. There is no better sound to regain consciousness to and while Sarah continued to sleep, I lay there appreciating it.

At The Breakfast Club I wished everyone a good morning, poured myself a cup of coffee and walked back outside. The waves are louder here because I'm just steps from the ocean. I imagine Mermaids frolicking in the surf.

Back home, I fire the computer and take my seat in the high top table on the Beloved back deck. The waves continue to sing. Opening Facebook, there's my friend and business partner Wen McNally's post. "It's getting late but I have enjoyed the peaceful sounds of the crashing waves ..."

Pausing, I listen to them as the sun rises. It's further to the south now so it misses the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt, choosing to rest between it and Fran's thousand shades of green.

Looking back to Facebook, my friend Leigh writes, "Good morning Outer Banks! Your sunrise was beautiful this morning. I love the sound of waves. So peaceful."

Sitting back, rubbing my fingers through my hair, the waves continue to sing drowning out the choirs of birds.

"There is something special about this Monday," I think to myself.

There is a holiness to it that's uncommon for the first day back to work. A playful peacefulness permeates.

I am five blocks from the ocean but it sounds as though the waves are kissing the shore in my back yard. A beauty drips on my bare feet and Goddess watches me carefully. Sarah is still in bed but its only seven o'clock. It strikes me that the sound of waves is the language of prayer, much purer than Church and created by God Herself.

The phone rings and I run like a banzai to get it before Sarah can hear it. It's her oldest daughter who is at school but has forgotten something. Apparently if she doesn't get, the world will come to an end.

The other side of Monday raises its ugly head. Sarah is awake. Information is exchanged. Shit suddenly starts to happen. Work has begun.

Strolling back to the deck, the waves continue to sing. Mermaids are still dancing. The sun is wearing a smile. Fran's thousand shades of green are dancing.

I'm going to stay on this side of Monday today.

Something very special is in the air.

Ready to be Home

It's been like three years in a row. I've written every single day and got it on-line ... somehow. I've been all over the country and in several Caribbean Islands and Central America and still wrote every day. On our honeymoon, Sarah slept late and I wrote on the balcony in Belize. Between looking at Sarah sleeping and the Sea, it took me a long time to get anything done, but I did.

After an extremely successful celebratory night ... after the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia assumed the throne of the SEC East ... Bill Berry (not the drummer for REM but the other one) and I ended up in a hot top full of black people. We toasted and laughed.

The next thing I knew I woke up ... in the hotel room bed ... I have no idea how I got there.

I was instantly awake and ready to go.

Stumbling to the other bed room in the condo, Bill was snoring. I assume he had no idea how he got to bed either.

The sun was rising.

The living room looked like a National Linen Truck had crashed into it. Clothes were everywhere.

It took me a while to fund my phone under one of the piles.

I needed coffee bad. So I threw the clothes in my UGA bag, grabbed the phone and jumped in the car. First I wrote Bill a text ... "Later", it said.

An hour and a half later my phone starts buzzing. It was Bill wanting to know where in the hell I was.

I couldn't take the call because I was holding my head with one hand and driving with the other.

The phone kept buzzing. Staring at it through the two pair of sunglasses I was wearing, it was friends wanting to know where in the hell my blog was.

"Shit," I thought to myself. "I forgot to blog too."

Then Bill was calling me nasty names so I put the phone back under the clothes which were then in the back seat.

The sun came up so I put a third pair of sunglasses on and hit the cruise control.

The radio was blasting the Acoustic Storm. Cops blew by me. I put the top down and my hair blew in the wind. The throw up feeling went away.

"Ah," I thought to myself, "I'm ready to be home."

A Sports Bar Night

Bill's truck pulled into the parking lot and he broke into a large grin. Sitting on the trunk of my car having an adult beverage, I returned the smile. We embraced and the weekend reunion of two great friends began.

"I may as well tell you now," I said after he stood back. "I got bad news."

His face filled with grave concern. "What," he asked.

"We got to find a sports bar tomorrow night," I explained.

"Are you telling me ..." he spit.

"Yep, the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia are playing for the championship and we have to watch it."

"The other week I sent you a picture of me in pink bunny suit and you didn't even respond," he told me. "An hour later I send you a picture of naked people painted blue and red at Fantasy Fest ... no reaction. Then I send you a congratulations on Georgia betting Florida and you immediately come back with 'GO DAWGS!' I see how it is."

"Do you have a point," I asked.

Bill has the incredible misfortune of being poorly raised by really terrific parents. They did everything right except teach him to love college football, especially in the South. He lives in Virginia which used to be in the south but I believe its moved north. That could be the reason.

"I tell you what," I continue as I slap him on the back. "It'll be a really nice sports bar."

Later in the day, we take a break from reminiscing, storytelling and lies so I call Sarah and tell her how Bill's attempts to message me and the lone response I had.

"Welcome to my world," she signed.

"Do you have a point," I lovingly asked her?

For some reason Bill want to know go get Breakfast. I want to go scope out Sports Bars for the game which could put the "Chosen DAWGS of Georgia" back on the throne of the SEC East. It's only 12 hours to kickoff.

He wants breakfast.

Jesus!

Picking up where we left off

I'm zipping up I-95 until I turn off on to Highway 17 for a ride through the marshes until I bypass Charleston and then drive through more marshes until I arrive in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I am doing this, not because it the birthplace of Shag but to meet up with Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one).

We met in Seminary and for the past quarter of a century have gotten together at least annually. We've been everywhere together. Our first "boys trip" was to Bardstown, Kentucky about an hour from the Seminary. We would drive there for the bourbon and to visit Gethsemane, the Trappist Monastery made famous by Thomas Merton. We were thrown out of it once for jumping the wall into the cloistered area and literally landing on top of two Monks who had taken vows of silence. When I landed on them they quickly broke their vows.

We've been to New York City where there is this Irish Pup on the lower east side. That's all I remember about that trip.

Paris, France was next and I fell in love with the place. The french fries really are better than anything in the United States and we couldn't bear to leave so we didn't for a while.

Then we went to Munich, Germany and found the beer halls. We locked arms with a hundred Germans, singing songs we didn't know and planned revolution over a bonfire that night. Somehow we made it out of the country.

Cuba was next which was great. American foreign policy towards Cuba is crazy. Those are some of the nicest people I've ever met. When I flew home I was busted by American Immigration. I didn't have a letter from the Treasury Department. They threw me in a room and yelled at me.

When I got out I called Bill and asked him about aforementioned letter.

"Damn," he said. "I knew I forgot to give you something.

Krakow Poland was after that and the Nazi concentration camp of Auschwitz. My life changed that day. Standing in front of a Crematorium that burned Jews and Gypsies, I found a broken pair of children scissors laying on the ground. They broke my heart and rest in a place of honor in our home for the little girl or boy who dropped them before being murdered.

I could go on.

Bill and I met as young adults, on fire for God and were blessed with the chance to grow up together. We're still growing up. We're still helping each other do it.

Lifelong friends are hard to come by. Count your blessings when you have some. Bill and I somehow can go months without talking and then pick right back up where we left off. So for the next 48 hours that's what we're going to do. Pick up where we left off. 

When the sky falls down

The wind was whipping off the ocean slapping our faces with cold while Chelsea and I made our way back to the warmth of The Breakfast Club, a block away. The New Year's Day fireworks were painting the sky in brilliant colors but the damned Northeastern wind kept blowing the colors away from the sea where they were supposed to explode in delight to the parking lot of the Strand.

Then pieces of the sky started to fall as the paper balls that hold the explosives were blown backwards. They hit the beach, the parking lot and the water front homes. And one hit my little daughter directly on top of her head. She burst into tears and I grabbed her.

The celebration of one year's death and another's birth would go on without us.

I dreamed about that last night. Something I haven't thought about in years was just as real as when it happened. I could see the smoke cover the bright colors in the sky, hear the sound of the plastic and cardboard hitting the ground, taste my little girl's tears and curse the cold.

Life's like that sometimes.

Brilliant colors explode giving you delight. Love erupts, promises are made, everything fits together nicely and everything feels like a blessing. Prayers of thanksgiving are made followed by pleas that God never changes anything. Life is perfect!

Then it's not.

The sky falls.

Anger flashes. Love is reigned in as though trying to hold sand in your fingers but you don't want to be hurt. Blessings suddenly feel like burdens. Prayers become deals ... "God if you do this for me then I'll do whatever you want." Loneliness drips like cold rain. Nights become long.

We all experience falling skies and damaged lives.

My friend Shirley Sessions takes a very Buddhist approach to such things. She wrote me the other day, "If we don't have sadness in our lives from time to time, we may not appreciate joy when it pops up and fills us with giggles,  laughter and smiles."

Or as the prophet Arlo Guthrie once said, "You can't have a light without a dark to stick it in."

After a long restless night, I woke to a rising sun in clear skies. A little girl was my companion as we made our way to The Breakfast Club. The ocean breeze was light and I whispered prayers of thanksgiving that the darkness was breaking up. Nothing was falling on the ground. There were no tears.

God had wiped it all away.

The blessing is the new day given to us.

It's up to us to whatever we do with it.

Beware of Sadness

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.