Work Friends

Joe Bridges and I would sit on the stoop of the health center being built and talk about the future. He'd take long draws from his cigarette and I'd sit beside him unconcerned about second hand smoke. Late afternoons, towards the end of the work day, I'd be exhausted from raising the money and overseeing everything and he'd be beat from preventing everything from falling apart.

"Lookie here," he asked blowing halos into the sky. "No matter what anybody says. We're the ones who did this."

"Hmm," I huffed shrugging my shoulders.

"Joseph ... I always called him that in honor and remind him that he's up there with the man who raised Jesus ... "in a hundred years nobody is going to remember any of this."

His baby blue eyes cut like a knife right through me. "God will remember," he spit.

Who can argue with that?

We sat in silence for a while.

I love Joe. An alcoholic who found sobriety and talked me into hiring him as the maintenance man when there was no money for such things. He could panhandle with the best of them. He grew a maintenance department and more than paid for himself and it. The man cared deeply about ... everything.

"Well then," I finally said as I stood, "if God's going to be the only one to remember, let's leave everybody else a hint."

"Hmmm?," he asked without actually using a word.

Concrete had been poured that day for an unplanned addition. I led him there and we wrote our names in it.

"Nobody's ever going to find this," he giggled as only a deep throat, chain smoking, recovered alcoholic can do.

"One day," I said, happy that he was happy, "or it'll just be you, me and God who knows."

That was a long time ago.

Joe died last year. His body just gave out though his heart never did. Mine broke when his daughter Kelly told me.

"Crossroads seem to come and go ..." says Greg Allman, and it's certainly true.

Today someone else I used to work with sent a round about communication through Facebook that she's keeping up with me.

I don't care.

I loved her deeply once and we did many good things together. Then she stopped caring ... or cared about other things more ... and in the end a lot of good people were badly hurt.

She's either doing penitence, good Christian that she is, or seeking forgiveness without actually asking for it.

But she killed a piece of my heart and it'll never glow again.

Joseph Bridges, on the other hand, shines bright and makes me proud still. He makes me giggle at the secret place where our names are written ... now only God and I know where.

It's sad, isn't it, what work can do to us? Work will take everything you give it and if you give it everything it will take everything (thanks to people like the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy and others).

But Joseph knew.

And I know.

And God knows too.

The Pagan with the Pen

Guy Sayles, Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) and I spent a night in a cabin outside of Dublin, Georgia once. Three good friends who had been instrumental in each others lives were taking a break from it all to be together.

We'd all ended up working in Georgia at the same time. Guy was the Pastor of the Baptist Church in Lagrange, Bill was working for the Home Mission Board in Atlanta and I'd left the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville for Union Mission in Savannah.

I remember that I was the one who suggested we gather having not all been together since we were in Seminary. Bill was the one who secured the cabin as it was owned by his good friend Bill Black's family. Guy agreed to do the cooking, which we insisted on, because he's a great cook!

We all rendezvoused at the Wendy's in Metter then found our way to the cabin. It was rustic, tin roofed and light shone through the wall in spots. Bill loved it. Guy was appalled. I was along for the ride.

Sitting around a large bonfire throughout most of the night, we smoked cigars, drank beer, argued theology and talked about what we wanted out of our lives. Our true personalities came out as we freely and openly shared in the safe zone that only the deepest of friendships can trust.

"We're averaging a beer every twenty minutes," Guy said.

"Do you have a point?" I replied as I opened another one.

Throwing another log on the fire, Bill asked, "Are you saying we need more beer?"

Shaking his head I could tell that while Guy is no more religious than we are, he approaches it with a seriousness that Bill and I lack. I do recall that  he got in the car with us as we drove to the Beer store and return to the firs pit. I think he even drove though I'm fuzzy on that.

We stayed up most of the night "just having a chance to hang around and lie there by the fire ... and talk of Poems, prayers and promises and things that we believe in ..."

It was a defining retreat for each of us. Guy was determined that his life was to be lived out within the church which is exactly what he's done. He remains the best I've ever heard so Google him or become his Facebook friend so can see for yourself. Plus he probably still believes he can beat me in racquetball, which he can't, though I haven't played in years.

Bill has been around the world several times over looking for God and love which he found ... and he lost ... more than once. He works now, behind the scenes, giving life to those who would otherwise be dead. Now skiddish to put himself completely out there, he's tough to track down these days. He remains himself though, believing in ways that Guy and I could never match.

And I'm the Pagan with the pen. I remember these things because I love them so much and I wouldn't be me without them. Occasionally I go to Bar Church these days but spend more time worshiping on the Beloved Back Deck or on the beach ... or calling God's name when I'm with Sarah.

Last night I sat by a fire and remembered that weekend. I sipped wine instead of beer. I no longer care for cigars. Waves crashed in the distance as I read Guy's latest post and said prayers of thanks that Bill and I were together a couple of weeks ago.

"And what about tomorrow? And what about our dreams? And all the memories that we share?"

Then I toasted my glass towards heaven and called you both by name as the waves crashed, the fire crackled and the stars danced.

Working the World

Barefoot on the beloved back deck wearing black running shorts and a UGA tee shirt, the I-phone is glued to my ear as I was talk to a colleague in New Jersey. He's also working from home though he has an office in New York City. I don't know what he was wearing ... we weren't Skyping ... but he had a phone to his ear too. Both of us had laptops open in front of us.

As we talked, I could hear him hitting his keyboard so he could Google confirmation of whatever I happened to be saying. I was doing the same thing when he talked. After a short period we just gave the specific websites to navigate as we talked.

It's a pleasant and invigorating conversation. He is smart and aggressive ... and he plays the violin in an Indie Band. I told him Sarah and I are in the Bar Church band on Tybee Island and I could hear him looking it up. Later I sent him the links.

We make a commitment to talk again on Friday. In the meantime I'm certain both of us will surf the World Wide Web and by the he'll probably know if I have a birthmark or not. Information is instantly available.

I check Facebook after we talk and Shirley Sessions has messaged me. "I wish you lived next door," she wrote. "I could keep an eye on Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, whenever you and Sarah are away."

I wrote her back and said that I wish we did too. We'd return the favor and watch her cat Mr. Peepers when she's gone.

Shirley lives one block away.

We converse via Facebook.

The I-phone buzzes and it's Sarah messaging me so I'll know where to meet her to pick up the girls. I'm bringing two home while she takes the third to basketball practice.

After dinner I help them with their homework. They ask me the answer to each question, which I immediately Google. They think I'm a genius because I know the answer to everything.

At the evening's end, Sarah and I are snuggled on the couch and we're up later than normal. It had been such a long day! We turn everything off or plug it in to recharge for the next day. Television, computer, phones, I-Pad, I-Pod and the water dripping from the kitchen sink are cut off.

While she gets ready for bed, I take Winston, the little gay dog, down the stairs into the back yard. I sit on the bottom step while he takes his time. He will not be rushed. He looks at me, licks himself, looks at me again to see if I was watching, and then wanders off into the dark.

A white moon illuminates the Palm Trees. Waves crash into the shore. Stars dance in a black sky. Channel markers blink on and off on the ocean. The lighthouse shines this way and that, going round and round and round. Choirs of mussels tick and pop in the marsh of dead low tide.

Winston, the little gay dog, returns and is ready to go upstairs. He has to kiss Sarah goodnight before sleeping under the bed on her side. He follows me upstairs. Goddess is waiting for me to pet her. Nightly rituals take place and we collapse into bed.

Falling asleep it occurs to me that I've been around the world today just so I could get back to this place. And tomorrow, I'll do it again.

Scary Dreams

Holding hands we strolled the beach on a beautiful December day. Children played in the surf while their Moms tanned in the sand. A freshly painted Shrimp Boat rolled on the ocean dragging its nets behind. We were making our way to Marlin Monroe's for the annual "Pay off the Tybee Island Police Department Oyster Roast".

We were not too worried about the dogs causing a disturbance while we were away because Goddess was stoned out of her mind and had fallen asleep under the Chiminea.

Winston, the little gay dog, was tied up with a sock stuffed in his mouth and locked in Sarah's closet. It's one of his favorite games! We pretend to be the neighbor who gardens in her underwear which scares the shit out of the dogs and they moan loudly in agony. Apparently this disturbs the neighbors to our right who pretty much stay locked up in their house.

The neighbor on our left never seems to notice because she's standing on her back deck wearing a bath robe with cat fur flying all around her with a blue towel wrapped around her hair. She looks like Marge Simpson on meth as she screeches, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!"

She's a nice neighbor and once stopped me when I was walking Goddess to say, "Mike are you aware that our neighbor gardens in her underwear and is bombarding my kittens with Cherry tomatoes?" 

"Well," I replied while Goddess turned her head to take a quick toke, "she did leave a note on our door explaining that our moaning dogs were giving her a headache whenever she gardened in her underwear."

"What did you?" the Kitty Lady asked.

"I left a note on her door asking that she please put clothes on when she gardens or at least buy underwear that match and don't have holes in them."

"Hmmm," the Cat Lady said while cat fur circled around her blue towel head like a halo. 'Maybe that's why we never see anybody else who lives on this street."

She has a point.

It's a nice street though. The marsh is at one end with a terrific view of the lighthouse. It goes for six blocks in the other direction and dumps you in the Back River. They're lots of trees, tons of birds, lush foliage and we're close enough to the ocean where we can just carry our stuff.

It's like any street in most any town. It's Mayberry ... ON ACID!

Strolling into Marlin's Michael Moody and Anne Allman (yes those Allman's) are playing some great blues. We're greeted by neighbors and meet new friends. Jenny O invites us to her Christmas party and we invite her to ours (which has a saran wrap theme). The Tybee Island Police Department seem to be enjoying themselves slurping oysters and slugging beers. There's no breeze and the freshly painted Shrimp Boat continues to roll in the distance.

After a while we make our way home and run into Glenn and Vicky who literally moved to the island today. We arrived just in time to miss helping them unload anything. Sean and Wen arrived just before we did and didn't have to unload anything either! When you live on an island, timing is everything!

In the distance I could faintly hear, "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!"

"Shit!" I exclaim. "We forgot about Winston, the little gay dog!"

Running home we were relieved to find him unbound, giggling and snuggled with Goddess under the Chiminea.

"How do you suppose ..." Sarah started to ask.

"Ssshhhuuu," I said. "Sometimes its best to not know. Besides, they seem happy."

Before bed, Sarah prayed the nightly prayers with them. "Dear Jesus, please let Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, know how loved they are and not have any scary dreams ... about bitchy neighbors gardening with holey underwear."

Where Christmas Trees grow wild

The lemons are tremendously large and fill the trees. They are a pale yellow and look like Christmas ornaments hanging on the green leafs. Palm trees surround them and squirrels are dancing in those while choirs of birds sing loud Hymns of praise. The sun is bright and God has finger painted a blue sky with wisps of white. Waves crash on the shore in the distance. Goddess wanders in and out as the sliding glass doors are open while Winston, the little gay dog, lay under my feet.

I wonder if Goddess has the munchies and it makes me laugh.

Sarah is sleeping and all is calm ... all is bright.

Our Christmas tree is up and we can lay in bed and see it in the other room. Behind it are Palm Trees we can see through the fourteen windows in the Red Room. I like laying there, snuggled in love, looking at the lights of the Christmas Tree and the Moon lit Palm silhouettes through the windows.

Goddess has taken to sleeping on the floor on my side of the bed. Winston, the little gay dog, sleeps under the bed on Sarah's side.

Today I'm struck that there's not much difference being inside or out. Either has decorated trees surrounded by Palms.

"Sun's up, uh-huh, looks OK! The world survives into another day," sings Bruce Cockburn and its an especially beautiful one.

Leaves rain down on the beloved back deck giving the feeling that I'm sitting on the porch of a cabin in the mountains somewhere.

I'm mostly lost in thought, taking all of this in, listening to four sets of wind chimes ting or clack. I believe this is a time of prayer. It's just God and me sitting here. There's not much to say. There is a great deal to experience.

A lemon falls from a tree and it's as if God has decided to say something.

"Enjoy it all while you have it," are the unspoken words.

I sit back and try to see everything at once. I hug Goddess and pet Winston, the little gay dog. Sarah surprises me by being awake so we celebrate our marriage. The dogs dance as we do so.

And in the distance, the ocean meets the shore with loud sloppy kisses. Squirrels dance while choirs of birds sing. Lemons ripen and the sun throws warmth on Christmas Trees growing wild.

So much to do (AIDS)

"Is it the first?" eleven year old Maddie asked as I drove her to school.

"Nope," I reply. 'SEC Championship Day is tomorrow. World AIDS Day is tomorrow too."

"What's that?" she asked. "AIDS?"

"You don't know what AIDS is?" I replied in disbelief.

"You mean like what Laurel wants to be when she grows up? A helper?" Maddie continued.

My mind rushed back to the mid-1980s and I was sitting in my office at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel with long hair and a beard, blue jeans and tennis shoes. As the 25 year old minister I'd turned the place into a sanctuary for homeless people and a refuge for radical Seminary students who couldn't stomach what Baptists were doing to Church.

Throughout the week the Chapel was a social service center and people came seeking help for all sorts of things. The latest one sat across from me and reached out to shake my hand. He wore black which was a stark contrast to his ashen complexion. His skin was flaking and was layered on his black clothes. His eyes sat far back in the sockets and he was so thin he looked like flesh on bones. There were no muscles.

"I'm Jesse," he said and my hand shook as I took his hand.

I was scared.

"My landlord threw me out," he explained in a soft, almost tender voice. "I suppose he thought he would catch it or something. Any way ... I've got no place to go."

"Family?" I asked.

He shook his head and I thought he would cry.

And I was hooked or converted or maybe even saved. I don't know. I was resolved that he wasn't going to die alone and cast aside like garbage.

We stuck him here and there until we could find a place for people with AIDS to live. A few months later Glade House opened and Jesse was the first person to live there.  He was also the first person to die there.

In the late eighties I returned to Savannah and there was nothing so we opened Phoenix Place for people with AIDS. It is now a two block complex that does a bustling business. The good news is that AIDS is no longer the immediate death sentence it once was.

So I explained to Maddie what HIV is and told her about Jesse.

She didn't say anything when I dropped her off and to be honest I'm not sure if she cared or not. Back then people cared because they were scared.

Congress is currently slashing the budget and the other day a group of folks showed up and took their clothes off in the middle of our pompous, arrogant, do-nothing leaders. On their bodies they'd painted the word "AIDS." Our nation has made tremendous progress in treating AIDS but the work isn't done and it must continue. I'm proud of these brave people who illustrated the Emperor's clothes to the members of The Elect.

It is World AIDS Day. I've read the names of the dead and cried because I knew so many. Today I'll light a candle and remember. I'll also make a pledge, Maddie will know about AIDS and the horrible discrimination that our country inflicted on people and the scourge it is throughout the world now.

And in spite of what those assholes in Congress believe, the work of healing isn't done yet.

We all still have much to do.

When Christmas Really Comes

Back when I was a Professional Christian, getting paid to do what I asked others to do for free, we tried to make a big deal out of Christmas.

Not so much because it's the birth of Jesus, the "most wonderful time of the year" and stuff like that but because the Congregation was comprised mostly of homeless people and Seminary students with no money. It's the most depressing time of the year for the poor. No matter where they go or what they see on television they're reminded of everything they don't have. They know they're not going to get it either.

Making it worse, wherever they do go ... say Church, City sponsored "Lighting of the Tree" ceremonies ... it's all fun until its over. Then they go home if they have one ... or out if they don't ... or to the room in the Nursing Home or the tiny Dorm room.

They drink more. Use more drugs. The incidences of suicide increase. 

Christmas really sucks for millions of people though billions of dollars are spent ... beginning at Halloween ... to convince us that it doesn't.

Like the rest of the world, Tybee Island, where I live, is a community of haves and have-not's. Lots of people can afford it and enjoy living here like crazy while the rest work their asses off to survive another day in the place they love.

At Christmas though, the place really comes together. Aside from the churches, which remain the Island's most segregated and gated communities, the Bars and restaurants really act like ... CHURCH! They throw parties, stay open (whereas Churches close for the night) and accept most everybody.

Way back when I got paid to care about such things, we'd do all sorts of crazy stuff at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel to make it merry and bright all of the time. We were a 24/7 expression of religion. People took baths in the Baptismal Pool, slept on and under the pool table and the social hall kitchen never stopped smoking.


Every year we had a special service and everyone stopped whatever they were doing. We served Dolly Madison cakes, apple cider and gathered around the television to watch "A Charlie Brown Christmas". 

It was a great worship experience.

Afterwards we had a dance. Everybody had to chose their favorite dance from the scenes in the show and do it! Were you Lucy, Linus, Pigpen or those two twins who do that really cool Zombie move?

I was remembering these things the other night during the annual broadcast of A Charlie Brown Christmas. Cassidy, Sarah's youngest watched it with me and reminded me of Jeremy and Kristen at her age sitting in the laps of homeless men watching the show. My eyes grew moist at the memories and I kept wiping them as Lucy explained that Christmas is really run by a large Eastern Syndicate.

What's great is that when Charlie Brown does home, everybody follows him. When the tree falls, they all pick it up. Then they all sing! They do it all outside ... in the grand Cathedral that God built.

It's the opposite of how most folks do Christmas ... or Church, Synagogue, religion ... where you start at home or in a building and bring it all to you. Where it's orchestrated, planned and everyone strives for the perfection we're taught to achieve during the Advent.

Then somebody gets sick of it all and goes outside.

Others witness this and go outside too ... under the stars ... in the fresh air ... and they prop each other up, often with Egg Nogg, beer or pot. Perhaps nothing at all.

And that is the moment that the Kingdom comes on earth as it is in heaven.

The Funny Church

They begged me to stay.

Then they asked me to leave.

It left me hurt of course because it was unexpected, delivered by people I trusted ...  some of whom I loved ... and occurred in the context of I'd already been abandoned and was suddenly single.

Luckily, I was in St. Martin when it all happened and surrounded by people who didn't know me professionally. They just knew me as me. They were a funny church ... Carlos and Verna who live in St. Martin cooked for me and had me babysit their daughter Chelsea to keep me preoccupied. Hania and Conner stood constant vigil over everything I did. The Kosters from Canada kept throwing parties as a distraction.

Aside from Verna, I don't know if any of them actually believe in God.

Yet they were church in the truest sense of the word. Acting as my support, community and caregivers they just loved me.

When Conner and Hania went back to Florida the Kosters stayed on until they had to return to Canada. My kids wanted to know when I was coming home. Carlos and Verna were begging to me stay. I could start all over there.

After a month in the Caribbean something ... was it God? ... moved me to return home. It was difficult to do but Jeremy picked me up at the airport, Goddess greeted me with love and the Carnival of Friends were born.

Then Sarah came home.

Though still as funny, they were a different kind of church. Still giving love, support, community, and holding vigil over me.

Then Dedra, Mark and Mitch were raised from the dead and came to my house. They brought laughter, music and memories back home. Dedra liked it so much, she stayed and refused to leave.

Then Sarah brought a different kind of love home. The Carnival of friends blessed this with baptism and wine (lots of wine). Hania and Conner inserted themselves again (though they never really left). The two churches co-mingled. Sarah went with me to St. Martin and Verna and Carlos served us supper in their little concrete apartment and announced their impending marriage.

And God looked down upon it and said, "It is good."

It is chilly in Savannah as I stroll into a breakfast meeting wearing flip flops and jeans my wife bought me. My hair is in a pony tail, my skin tanned and laughter dances around me eyes.

"Seriously Mike?" Peter asked, "Flip flops? Seriously?"

"You sound like Shirley Sessions," I told him pouring myself coffee.

"It's cold," he exclaimed.

"I dress like Steve Jobs did," I say. "And Conner."

He is silent as he looks me over and smiles.

And the funny church grew by one.

Growing old disgracefully

By now it's apparent that I'm not doing things the way they're supposed to be done. By my age, I probably should wear clothes on a more consistent basis, not have shoulder length hair, be married to a hot young babe, have a gay dog, still aspire to be a musician and beach bum, combine cussing with being a minister, and hang around a bunch of people exhibiting similar traits.

I continue to disappoint my Mother (this time I'm missing the family Christmas dinner to go to Key West), receive regular notes from people praying for me  (though many are praying that I do go to hell), have drawn the wrath of the entire Tybee Island Judicial System and whenever I talk to Shirley Sessions she just asks, "Really Mike? Really?"

It appears I am growing old disgracefully.

That's alright. I lived middle age disgracefully too ... young adulthood ... most of my adolescence ... and I seem to remember peeing on my brother David when we shared a crib.

I feel like Keith Richards.

It's had its perks though.

I've been to the places in the world I've wanted, been part of really cool movements, won a lot of awards, ran with the Olympic Torch, have books, been on television and wore suits. There's been standing ovations, adoration, invitations to do most everything and groupies.

Beginning as minister at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, the first Director of the Louisville Coalition for the Homeless, President & CEO of Union Mission, Board member of everything from the International Street Medicine Institute to a Robert Wood Johnson Foundation national program, it's been fun!

"What I like about you," she suddenly said in the middle of steak salads at Longhorns, "and what I want buy from you is you keep reforming yourself. You're not content with who you were. You're always moving on to who you want to be."

I ordered wine so we could toast.

She laughed and said she couldn't. She had meetings.

"Well," I replied, "then you're going to have a hard time reforming yourself."

After a thoughtful moment she raised her glass.

I'm only 56 and there is lots that I'm thankful for, mostly the people who love me, my family, where I live, where I go and where I'm going.

The where I'm going part is a bit fuzzy right now.

This is what I do know. My son watches Jimmy Valvano's speech at the ESPY awards when he was dying with cancer. He gives good advice in it. There are three things to do every day ... laugh ... think ... allow your emotions to move you to tears.

I try to do that every day and succeed more often than not.

I'm happy with where its gotten me so far.

I can't wait to see where I'm going.


(Image from www.starpulse.com)

A Far Better Way to Live

"You believe that there's good in everybody," she told me. "I don't."

Sipping from my wine I answered, "I don't know how else I could have survived a thirty year career doing the things I've done."

Now I've met my fair share of sons-of-bitches and there are certainly people I don't like but I do believe everyone was at least born with good in them. I still do.

"For God is good and Her love endures forever; and Her truth endures to all generations."

Having said that if I could find some good in Hitler would it matter? He killed millions! So what if he helped a little old lady across the street or gave candy to kids?

I suppose even if there is some good in every person, there's a lot more evil in many that completely negates it.

There are others too who are self-absorbed with themselves and what they want that it's always at the expense of those around them. The end of my time at Union Mission was filled with them and while individually they're a pain-in-the-ass, collectively they can smother anything that's good.

What do you do?

Keep your guard up? Never completely trust anyone? Forgive but never forget? Take an eye for an eye? Shut people completely out of your life and pretend they don't exist so you can build a fantasy world?

For me, it comes down to believing. If I'm going to believe in God then I'm going to believe in good; that it can conquer evil but doesn't always. I think love is better than hate. Forgiveness is healthier than forgetting and that its healthy for me and not necessarily the person I'm forgiving.

Honestly, there are several people I really struggle with forgiving, loving or even liking. These are the people who make me believe in hell. These are the demons in my life. We're taught that the first step in casting out demons is to name them and I'm certainly tempted to call them all out right now (this includes you Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous ... Jerry Rainy) but I'll refrain and be ... mostly good.

I've seen a lot of bad in my life. I've encouraged wives to leave abusive husbands and helped them do so. I worked to separate kids from bad parents. I'm still overwhelmed by selfish politicians and preachers and they fill me with cynicism. I've touched far too many of the dead having fought with them to keep their life ... while they're families no longer gave a damn. I've been left, abandoned, betrayed and somehow survived my own crucifixion.

But ...

I still believe in good. I still believe in love. I still believe in God.

I try to live these things.

I think its a far better way to live.

With a song in my heart

Driving back from Athens yesterday morning I was flipping through the radio stations of middle Georgia and discovered two things.

First, almost all of the stations were either country music or church service broadcasts. I therefore assume that people who listen to country music do not attend church. They must be home listening to country music (or in their trucks, at Wallmart or perhaps in a dear stand). Radio stations spend lots of money to determine their markets so it has to be true with so many country music stations playing country music during church.

Second, listening to several of the church services I can completely understand why people would prefer to stay home and listen to country music. I mean these were services with bad music, worse preaching and a generally bad feeling about the shape of things. I could envision two things happening listening to these "Worship Experiences" ... people in the pews were silting their wrists and Jesus was rolling the stone back in front of the tomb.

Thank God there was several alternatives to these two choices! Every other radio station in middle Georgia was playing Christmas music.

Not the good Christmas music but repetitive versions of a six year old Michael Jackson belting "I Saw Mommie kissing Santa Claus", Brenda Lee's "Rockin' around the Christmas Tree" and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir .... come to think of it, middle Georgia Christmas radio stations seem to prefer voices that haven't changed with puberty.

Hmmm .... what does that say about the state of modern radio?

So it got me to thinking about my favorite Christmas songs so here they are.

10.  Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmas Time" is just a happy thing and I really like the video back when there were videos.

9.  Detroit December by Jon Hart is a sad melancholy thing about being broke and alone.

8.  Hard Candy Christmas by Dolly Parton makes being broke and alone sound better if you're in the mountains.

7. Have yourself a merry little Christmas by THE MUPPETS and John Denver though Rowlf steals the show.

6. George Winston's Variation on the Kanon by Pachelbel is a religious experience.

5. James Taylor's Home by Another Way which has some of the greatest lines ever ... "Those magic men the magi, some people call them wise, or Oriental even kings, well anyway those guys." Great stuff!

4. Jimmy Buffett's version of Up on the House Top is a rocking beach song about surfing. It's "TUBULAR DUDE!"

3. Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem's version of Little St. Nick. It's just the best!

2. Darlene Love and the E Street Band's Nobody Ought to be alone on Christmas from Home Alone II. It really is Christmas.

1. Of course, John Lennon's Happy Christmas (War is Over) which is why we're supposed to have Christmas in the first place.

So those are mine. Now I'm on to work with visions of sugar plumbs ... or something like that.

Thanking God for what I've got

It's become a precious and increasingly rare gift when my kids and I are in the same place. I've had family time come in waves over the past several days.

Kristen came blowing into the house like a hurricane which is how my daughter does most everything. She was there to watch the girls so that Sarah and I could fight for Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, at Tybee Court. We didn't get to spent much time with Kristen because she blew right out when we got home. It was something about a date.

On Thanksgiving I saw my Mom for the first time in a few months. I was the lone representative among her children and it was Sarah and the girls introduction to my large extended family. There were almost one hundred of us gathered at my Aunt June's house where we feasted and played as we do every Thanksgiving.

The weekend has been spent in Athens. Jeremy and Marie were at dinner on Friday and we celebrated in grand style. Chelsea and Sam arrived yesterday and a good time was had as the beloved DAWGS of Georgia won a a glorious football Saturday. (Well ... everybody had a good time except Sam but he sure looked nice.)

After dinner last night Sarah and I had time alone just relaxing in our room. It was a great way to wind down. She is my family and we celebrated that.

It's a cold, bright Sunday and we'll drive back home to continue the liberation of Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, from the house they've been cooped up inside. Kristen has blown in and out to feed them but they'll be happy when we're home.

My bag is packed and Sarah's is getting there as it rests beside mine. I can't help but feel good. Everyone is healthy and seems happy. We have a wonderful home to return to and there are terrific friends waiting.

There is no better way to celebrate a Sunday than to thank God for the things you have. Tomorrow we can worry about what we may need.

Discrimination on Tybee Island

It ended up being a homecoming of sorts. Sitting inside of East/West, one of our favorite Athens restaurants, the lawyer sitting at the table grew increasingly frustrated at the conversation. We were telling the story of the sad state of affairs in the Tybee Judicial system, how the Police Department engages in doggie profiling and discrimination against gay dogs is rabid on the island.

"Just pay the fine," he advised.

"Where is the justice in that?" I fired back. "There's been enough discrimination again gays in this country. I'm proud of Winston for being who he is."

"YEAH!" screamed Sarah and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie. I think my son Jeremy was getting ready to pull a knife out of his pocket and attack our friend the attorney.

To defuse the tense moment, I poured a glass of wine in Sarah's lap.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and watched as I licked the wine off of her. (To be honest, I love pouring wine on Sarah and then engaging in holy communion!)

Eventually the conversation resumed when the attorney said, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

And that's the problem with America!

When it comes to little gay dogs like Winston ... or Goddess who is seven and uses marijuana for medical purposes ... nobody wants to have intelligent conversations about why discrimination exists.

Sure, Bill O' Reilly rants and raves against gay dogs and pot smoking but that is not an intellectual discourse. (It is someone who seems fascinated by killing Presidents. His last two books are about the assassinations of Abraham Lincoln and John Kennedy. It seems the man has problems.) 

The dinner ended so Jeremy, Marie my brilliant-daughter-in-law, Sarah and I needed to clear our heads ... so we did mega shots of tequila as we bitched about the legal system, discrimination against gay friends, biases against medical marijuana and books about killing perfectly good Presidents.

So you know what?

We're resolved to not pay the fine.

To hell with the Tybee Judicial system!

Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, have been charged with being ... DOGS!

And what is wrong with that?

Landing on our feet

When he was a little boy this Daddy picked him up by the leg and held him out over a ledge. Hanging upside down, three stories high, the little boy was terrified. His Daddy laughed and though the little boy was crying and begging he could hear the coins jingling in the man's pockets.

"Oh don't be scared," the Daddy admonished. "I'm not going to drop you ... but I could. I don't want you to grow up to be a scaredy cat."

The boy grew up to be petrified of heights.

He also grew up with an unyielding desire to prove to his father that he was a good boy.

"You know the thing about you Mike," he told me years later, as we sat together ... him drinking coffee and me having a beer ... "had it been you hanging there by a leg, you would've believed it all would have been alright. You're going to land on your feet. You always believe you're going to land on your feet."

"Well," I said slowly sipping the beer, "if you believe you're going to land on your feet then the odds of actually doing is bound to go up."

A few years later I met his Daddy, a small jovial man in a white shirt and dark trousers. He had one hand in his pockets, jingling change.

He didn't know what to make of me. I was the opposite of his son with my long hair, football jersey and faded jeans. Standing in the church which his son was Pastor, the man laughed at things I said but he never took his eyes off of mine.

It was a funny church. Southern Baptist normally don't have a sanctuary built in an Orthodox style with a small balcony that could perhaps seat four twenty feet above the pulpit.

"Oh," I remember saying, "I didn't know you did High Church."

The son laughed loudly.

His Daddy jingled the coins in his pocket.

The son has been Pastors of churches across the nation. He is a great Minister, a most eloquent speaker, a wonderful writer, the epitome of belief. He is beloved by everyone he encounters.

His Daddy's dead and never got the chance to see the boy landed on his feet.

Decades later I remember these things and I raise my glass to the boy, though he is far away. Tipping it to night sky with my bare feet warmed by the fire on the beloved back deck, I say out loud in prayer ... "To you my friend! May we all land on our feet ... even when we don't believe."

You can get anything you want ... on Thanksgiving

I had every intention of sitting down this morning and writing down all of the things I'm thankful for but Arlo Guthrie "Alice's Restaurant" keeps running through my mind.

"You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant. It's a song about Alice ... and her restaurant. It's not the name of the restaurant. It's the name of the song," which is why it's called "Alice's Restaurant."

It's a Hymn about Thanksgiving and the fact that in the 1960's if you were convicted of  a crime such as littering, you wouldn't be eligible for the draft. The Vietnam War was waging at the time and nobody wanted to go. They wanted to stay home for Thanksgiving like everyone else.

It's a hilarious romp about micromanagement of public policy, law enforcement and the military.

Fast forward fifty years and things are pretty much the same.

Politicians are taking a day off from enacting stupid rules. Law enforcement are giving tickets. And the military are off fighting wars for the politicians.  The politicians give thanks while the rest of us pay tickets with money we don't have, mourn our sons and daughters who are missing the day or just sit counting what's left.

Just like the garbage in the bottom of the church where Alice lived, religious leaders keep quiet about all of the above, rendering unto Caesar and all of that. (Sure there are a few exceptions among the clergy, but only a few.)

In the end, it's a happy song. "You can get anything you want ..."

Well, you can and you can't.

Everything you have has cost you a lot.

Everything you've lost has too.

Yet here we are on this Thanksgiving Day. Most of us have family to see ... there are good smells in the house ... it's a day of rest (except for all of the work of putting on the perfect gathering), and there's thanking God, Clergy, politicians, law enforcement and such.

What would we be without them?

Sarah walks by to check the bread she's baking and kisses me on the check. Goddess nudges the door open with her nose and rubs herself against my leg. The sun is shinning. The heat is on. The house is a wreck. Disney is celebrating the day on television (LOUDLY). My kids are all good and happy. Sarah and I are off to Key West soon to hook up with Joey Finch (whose been raised from the dead). Then there's Christmas.

It's all pretty good when ... you can get anythings you want.

The Tybee Judicial Process

Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, got a continuance in Tybee Court last night. They have to reappear on December 4 having been charged with barking which brought the Tybee Island Police Department to our house on numerous occasions.

Seriously five different officers visited on three different occasions and wrote three different citations in a one week period! Someone had complained.

Dog barking is apparently one of Tybee's most major crimes ranking in the same category as DUI, swimming beyond fifty feet of the Pier, using your yard to make money by selling parking on the forth of July or walking into a party of underage drinkers as the only one of legal age.

The Tybee Coyote was not mentioned last night but the fifteen police officers present all kept a hand on their guns just in case.

Goddess seemed cool about it all. I think she smoked a few doobies before heading to court.

Winston, the little gay dog, was upset because he was wearing his "Alcohol Was A Factor" sweater that he got from the Bored Meeting. He bought it from O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) when the Bored got into merchandizing.

This is how Tybee Court works.

First you stand in line so an officer can use his magic wand on you. He takes longer with some people than he does with others. He took a long time with Sarah and not so much with me.

Once inside you have to find a seat. Of course there are none as they're all taken up by the fifteen members of the Tybee Island Police Department.

That's not completely true. Several stand guard over the women's rest room at all times. Evidently bad things have happened in the women's restroom at Tybee Court. I could just waltz into the Men's restroom without being re-wanded.

The Judge comes out. Judges are people who used to be normal human beings until they put on a black robe. Then they become something completely different.

Court begins.

The guilty go first, meaning they plead guilty and are assessed fines, community service, school, counseling,  listen to a lecture from the black robed Judge, talk to the Public Defender and informed that checks are not taken ... credit cards and money orders only.

Afterwards the attorneys go with their clients.

The Judge knows them all so they all joke and laugh a lot. "May I approach?" the attorneys ask and the Judges winks and says "You may, " and they joke, giggle and such with their backs to everyone. A Plea Bargain is announced and the attorneys get to leave while the rest of us have to wait.

The Not-Guilty pleas follow. The Judge warns every single one that they need an attorney. There are none to be found which dispels a myth that they are ambulance chasers.  It does create another one though that Judges are in collusion with attorneys.

As all of this is happening, the Court credit card machine is racking up major bucks. Everyone is fined something or given community service on Tybee (which is free labor). The Tybee Island Police Department all appear happy. The Judge is obviously ready to be done. Tybee is rolling in the dough.

That was three hours of my life last night for the barking of a seven year old pot smoking dog and a little gay thing, Winston, who cried all night because he felt he'd dressed wrong.

But it got a continuance.

We get to do it all again in two weeks.

Coming in the air

Though the wind continues to blow, the sun shines brightly making things more cheery than the cloudy bluster of the past several days. It was warm enough last night for me to sit outside with my bare feet resting near the fire in the Chiminea my kids gave me, though blue jeans and a long sleeve was necessary.

It's a time of transition.

I can feel it in the air.

I can see it in a number of friends.

I can sense it in me.

This time a year ago, Sarah and I were planning our first Thanksgiving together. Two years ago Goddess struggled dealing with little girls who were suddenly around. Three years ago, I lived a completely different life. I was a completely different person.

For the past several months, I've been working to start a new business which is now coming together. We've accomplished a lot though as with anything new there are so many things to be done. It's a communications company that weaves visual story-telling through both social and traditional media streams. And we do it so the customers can do what they do best ... their business! We also bring the one thing that most media managers can't do for clients ... we do it every day! (www.letustellit.com)

A lot of people are surprised because it's a regular American for-profit corporation. My career was born in the church where I learned radial behavior because Scriptures teach radical things. It progressed to decades of non-profit work where I gave myself completely away to things I believed and I learned an important lesson ... if you give yourself away ... people will take it.

I was luckier than most. Somehow I'd amassed enough capital to finance myself through an adventure of self-renewal. In reality I think it was self-discovery (when you're so busy giving yourself away you forget who you really are which is really where the whole concept of being reborn comes from).

A long time ago I wrote a book, "PARTNERS IN GRACE." My friend Frank Stanton coined the title. It's about how grace just happens ... unexpected gifts from God if you believe in God ... serendipity or karma if you don't ... but each of us are lucky enough to have good things happen. Sprinkles magically appear on ice cream, music comes from nowhere, in the midst of loss you find things ... you learn you can't have resurrections without crucifixions which is a bitch of a lesson.

For me, a carnival of friends burst into my life to take control when I wasn't in charge of much anymore. Other friends were raised from the dead and rolled away the stone preventing the light from entering. Bar Church was born. Sarah came home.

Now the capital needed to allow time for grace to occur is dwindling so it was to be replenished which is the bitchy thing about money ... you always have to replace it! The more you need, the more it takes. The more you spend, the more you need.

I was thinking these things at 2:43 this morning. Something was different though. Sarah lay beside me so all was calm, all was bright. One of the friends who raised himself from the dead wrote me demanding that it's time for us to make our own music again. The Carnival of Friends had a party and the evidence is online today. The gift my kids give me continues to throw warmth.

"I can feel it coming in the air coming in the air tonight," Phil Collins sings and everybody groans because we've heard it so many times.

But it's the next line that has me captured this morning.

"Oh Lord, I've been waiting for this moment all my life."

The Slap of Reality

It is definitely Monday.

I wish I were somewhere else.

Actually I wish that Sarah and I were in St. Martin where I wouldn't have need of the shirt that I'm wearing or anything else either. The aqua-blue water of Orient Bay, the powdery white sand, the glorious view of waves breaking on the reef and the sun dripping warmth would do us good right now.

Alas, the beloved back deck is carpeted with brown leaves, the sun refuses to come out from under the blanket of clouds, and a chilly breeze blows from the ocean. The list of things to do is long and its only a two day week to accomplish them all.

It was a glorious weekend, as they normally are, and good times were had by all. Friday began with a date, Saturday was an explosion of activity and Sunday was born in worship and ended with the Carnival of Friends. Sunday ended late last night.

Monday arrived WAY TOO EARLY!

I've had a lot on my mind lately, mostly work related stuff. Creating something out of nothing is always a challenge. Businesses, books and brokering take a lot of effort. They also play Mind Games with me, waking me up at 4:30 in the morning and leaving me restless to tackle them. I feel the need to deliver as it's been a long time since I've been so conscious of such things.

Monday begins with a stutter, as though it is an Albatross around my neck ... an anchor pulling me back into Sunday where I'd much rather be. But there is work to be done and it's harder working this way sometimes. There are so many distractions, so many delights, always tempting me to forget that if I'm going to keep living, there are things to be done.

I am full of wishful thinking today. It's the planning for pleasant things instead of the harsh realities that things simply must be done. I'd rather stay in the fantasy cycle but I'm smart enough to know that make-believe can never be reconciled with reality. So I drag my ass out of bed to get started.

Mondays are always a slap of reality to your face when I'd much rather be somewhere else.

And When I Die

We were having our wills done when Bill Shearouse asked, "And when you die?"

"Cremate me," I quickly said.

"Seriously" Sarah asked?

"Yeah, why?"

"I think I'm going to be buried," she explained.

"That's alright," I told her, "You can throw my ashes on your casket."

Bill didn't seem to know what to write down.

The fact of the matter is, I've always planned to be cremated. My Dad was cremated and hasn't missed a University of Georgia game since. Angi, my sister, pulls him out and sets him in his chair, opens a beer beside him and Dad cheers for the DAWGS with the rest of us.

I've instructed Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea ... my kids ... that when I die, cremate me and put my ashes in little baggies that I will leave for them. Each baggie will have a name on it. The names are of people I don't like ... the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) and other assholes like him.

Then one of my beloved children will tap one on the shoulder having dumped my ashes from the baggie into their hand.

"Dad says Hi," the will explain as they blow my ashes into their face.

I think its a wonderful way to go out.

What are your funeral plans?

As you can see, I've got mine all figured out.

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.