God's will for me

I need to go ahead and win the Lottery.

It'll make planning easier and cause less stress.

I understand I have a better chance of being struck by lightening in the North Pole, which is far away from where I sit, than of actually winning the Lottery but that's not stopping me.

I have tremendous faith and know God will make certain I win at the right time with the right amount ... not too much but not too little ... and everything is going to work out fine.

As a matter of fact, I have much faith in God making it happen I don't even have my own special numbers like our anniversary or the kids birthdays.

I figure God will make it happen regardless of such things so I just get the "Quick Pick."

It's God's will.

In the meantime, I'm just living as though I've already won the Lottery, pretty much doing what I want ... when I want ... and with who I want.

Sure my check book consists mostly zeros on the wrong side of an actual number and my accountant burst into tears whenever he sees me, but I'm of the opinion that if you believe it ... it'll come true.

Besides God's got my back.

It's not I'm going to spend the money frivolously or anything.

I'm not going to buy clothes or silly things like that because who really needs them? The car I drive is fine though I may get cloth falling from the roof tacked back up. And the windows that don't open in the house will probably get replaced though they work fine in the winter.

Though if it's God's will that I win "Mega-Millions" I'll likely buy Delta Airlines so I can fire everybody or pay off Congress so they'll just stay home and not bother us anymore.

But I'm not planning on "Mega-Millions" because God and I both know I don't need that much.

I just need enough to keep doing what I'm doing now.

Well ... and buy a House Boat with an icemaker, large screen plasma television, large kitchen and a great bedroom.

Oh ... and I'll need another smaller one for Sarah's girls which will be tethered 30 feet behind ours so we can hear them they call.

Oh ... and one more for my kids when they come to visit!

Other than that, I'll just keep being my usual humble, satisfied self and the only difference is this wonderful lifestyle will finally be adequately financed!

Oh ... and I'd hire Dicky Trotter to take all of my calls so he can decide if it's Gods will if I make investments, personal or otherwise, in all of my new best friends.

Anyway that's the plan.

Sometime today, I need to ride my old rusty bicycle up to Chu's so God can do the "Quick pick" for me again this week.

It's just a matter of God's timing now.

The Circle of Life

Goddess is scratching the sliding glass doors to be let out so I drag myself out of bed, stumble across the living room and through the kitchen and sleepily slide the door open.

My dog shoots out but instead of darting down the stairs, she wags her tail at the figure sitting on the Beloved Back deck.

A halo of cigarette smoke floats above the long greasy black hair in the chair reserved for me.

Glancing back to make certain sleeping Sarah isn't bothered, I step out into the warm moonlit night.

Coughing, she hacks and spits over the railing, clears her throat and says, "Aren't you going to put some clothes on?"

"You're the one interrupting my night," I sigh, plopping down in the chair beside her.

Wiping her eyes, she sucks snot up her nose.

"What's wrong?" I ask suddenly fully awake.

I've never seen my Guardian Angel cry but here she sits, mindlessly smoking, drinking a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon, looking almost saintly in the moonlight. Her shear white robe is translucent. The dirty broken wing almost aligns with the other. Her pasty face is beautifully sad.

"Have you been keeping up with what's been going on?" she snaps.

"Well," I say continuing to stare while rubbing my fingers through my hair, "uh, it started out great with you helping Jimmy Cochran  get baptized in the ocean and discover a deeper level of holiness ..."

"I told Sam to wear a shirt," she laughs.

"Yeah well, Samuel Adams has his own direct hotline to your boss."

"I know," she says. "It still pisses me off."

Uncertain of what to say, I keep quiet.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she says rolling her right hand over and over while taking a slug of beer with the other.

Staring at her, I'm not quite sure where she's going.

"Ronnie died yesterday," and as soon as I say the words she sobs.

Instinctively I put my arm around her and smell the cigarette smoke in her hair.

The sky turns an ever so shade of grey as the sun begins its climb out of the sea. A lone bird sings a solo and is soon joined by a choir.

"It's the circle life right?" I finally say.

Nodding, she wipes her eyes, throws her empty can in our backyard and another magically appears in her hand and she immediately takes a slug.

"Yeah," I continue, "Jimmy finds he has a deeper calling from God that he's going to follow and Ronnie's moved on to what's next. Both of them have left us behind."

"I know," she says. "It just doesn't get any easier.

"I know," I agree ... carefully extracting my arm from around her wondering how I'm going to get rid of the smoke smell before crawling back in bed with Sarah.

"Wait," I suddenly say, "isn't Ronnie going an Angel or something?"

She nods.

"Well what in the Hell are you crying for?" I ask.

"These are tears of happiness stupid," she snaps.

"Oh yeah," I agree as the sun begins to rise.

The Answer

My friend Dr. Jim Withers recently posted, "Now we're down to hours between mass shootings - not days. Pray for our people. Pray for change."

Since then a man stormed a Georgia courthouse ready to do more carnage but was killed after only wounding one.

In Atlanta a woman kills her husband in a Kroger before killing herself.

Down to hours indeed!

We watch it on the news with a detached objectivity, a sad acceptance of disbelief such things happen and a prayer of thanks it's no one we know.

The religious among us pray for our people and pray for change but things stay pretty much the same.

Politicians make promises, increasing funding for police departments, build more prisons to lock the problem away but nothing makes a difference.

Most just go about there business, getting on with our lives with some conviction there's not much we can do anyway because crazy people are going to do crazy things.

What do you do?

Honestly, we're not there yet as a people to address things like mass shootings, needless deaths, homelessness, corrupt health care systems, greedy leaders and selfish religions.

Our hearts aren't broken.

"When all the broken hearted people living in the world agree there will be an answer ... then they will be an answer.

But not until then.

As bad as things are ... our hearts aren't broken yet.

Nothing much is going to happen until then.

Lyrical Thinking

My friend Kyle Shiver has pointed out the obvious noting that I think and speak in song lyrics.

It's true.

Once in Seminary I wrote a paper on how Bruce Springsteen songs are a natural continuation of the "Psalms" in the Bible.

I was sent to the Dean's office ... again ... for failing or comply with Southern Baptist Theological instruction.

But it was with great glee a few days later, when Professor Donoso Escobar ... who had previously sent me to the Dean's office for calling him a "whitewashed Christian" because he didn't allow me to quote "Liberation" theologians in his class ... told us to write a paper on anything Biblical.

My topic was "Biblical Harems."

"Mr. Elliott," Dr. Escobar said when I announced my topic, "nobody's written about that yet. How do you plan to approach your topic?"

"With gusto," I truthfully answered.

There's actually a lot of Harems in the Bible and I studied them all ... from Esther getting whatever she wants from the King (Esther 2:13) to Solomon's 700 wives and Princesses and 300 concubines (I Kings11:3).

I wrote a great scholarly paper but needed a conclusion and couldn't think of one.

Then God spoke ... through Maria Muldauar ... on the radio.

"But you don't need no Harem honey
When I'm by your side
And you won't need no camel, no no
To take you for a ride."

Meaning of course God didn't use Harems much in the New Testament because people had gotten so much better at lovemaking.

Consequently I was sent to the Dean's office again ... though I was singing "Jailhouse Rock" the whole way there.

Island Morning

Making my way to "The Breakfast Club" in the predawn morning, I spy them sleepily stumbling down the sidewalk or sitting contemplatively on a bench or window sill, staring at cigarette smoke lost in thought.

It's hard to tell if their days are beginning or their nights have just given away to the day.

Darting between and around them are runners lost in their own universe pumped through ear buds singing songs of encouragement.

City workers blow trash from the sidewalks onto Butler Avenue where a giant truck brushes all manner of pollution inside.

A line of police cars are parked in front of "Sunrise."

Discarded bicycles lay everywhere.

Couples sleep in cars or huddle together on the beach.

Early morning fishermen race photographers to the ocean's edge as the water begins to bubble the birth of today's sun.

Bras, panties, boxer shorts and other articles of clothing vie with cigarette butts littering the high water mark.

A haphazard line's already formed outside "The Breakfast Club" with people intently smashing their faces against the large windows in disbelief that it's not open yet.

As the sun rises, ocean waves break into song, choirs of birds join in, the photographers capture the glory on film while others desperately search for sunglasses.

Returning to our quiet home, I check on Sarah whose had to get up to let the dogs out but is now trying to conquer sleep again.

Giving her a kiss, I shut the bedroom door and lead the dogs outside to the Beloved Back Deck, drink Perrier, pee off the side and plop down for morning prayers.

The rising sun rest in the branches of the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt so I rise to search for my sunglasses when Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, sleepily greets me, air askew, holding her pink blanket wanting me to pick her up.

The dogs go crazy with excitement, tails wagging and moans of delight and I tell them to "Shut Up" but their love will not be confined.

Throwing Cass on the sofa, I cover her with a blanket and hand her Sarah's I-Pad which will be another half hour of quiet time so I return to morning prayers.

Another Island morning has begun.

Here's to Hopes and Dreams

While I was born a rock-n-roller my Dad was all country!

The very first song I ever learned, and he delighted in my singing, was "Please help me I'm falling" by Hank Cochran. (Here's a link to painful video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DndK5hZBgu0&feature=kp ).

I'd sing it to the top of my lungs in the backseat of the old white "Comet" for Dad and Uncle Bobby and they'd just laugh.

Then I discovered "The Beatles", 50's rock-n-roll and Elvis and never looked back.

Growing up was a never ending battle for radio supremacy with me hitting the button for WSGA while Dad instantly flipping to WEAS.

It was his car so he always won and I got lectures on how Willie Nelson's "Red Headed Stranger" is better than anything John Lennon and Paul McCartney ever thought about doing.

I remember it as an intense hated of the other's music.

Looking back on it today though we found common ground.

Dad became a huge Anne Murray fan when she sang Kenny Loggings songs barefoot on the stage.

And I fell in love with "The Statler Brothers", an old white Gospel Quartet who crossed over into the country mainstream.

This opened the door for me to listen and love Waylon Jennings, Tom T. Hall and the coolest, hippest, country artist ever Johnny Cash.

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck last night on a warm summer night with the ocean casting salt over the island, I hit Spotify and "The Statler Brothers" reminded me the Class of 57 had its dreams.

It's a haunting, poignant, beautiful recollection of how life turns out better for some than others in spite of the belief that "we'd change the world with our great words and deeds."

It takes me back to fond memories of Dad hitting the radio button for WEAS and Hank Cochran just after I'd hit the one for WSGA for Derek and the Dominos.

Dad's gone but I still have my dreams though "living life every day is never as it seems."

But here's to Dad and each of the Statler Brothers; here's to hopes and dreams that don't die; here's to still being here long after the class I graduated with is gone ...

Here's to us all.

Cleaning Up Christ

In Bantry Bay, Ireland I got up early and joined a group to attend Mass.

I like Catholic Mass.

Back when I was a "Professional Christian" employed as a Southern Baptist minister, I often attended Mass at St. Martin de Tours Catholic Church in Louisville, Kentucky where my friend Father Vernon Robertson was the Priest.

I did the readings and got to know the Liturgy and to this day I have a fondness for Mass.

When I miss organized religion I'll often find my way into a Catholic Church and celebrate the Eucharist.

I've been to Bar Church on Tybee Island several times over the past year but here I am in Ireland with a bunch of Irish Catholics so I had to go to Mass.

Sarah stayed in bed.

We make our way to St. Fin Barre's Cathedral. 

The Priest was a young red head Irishman who was very serious about things. He never smiled and didn't have any Good News for the several hundred of us in attendance.

He did have a lot of Bad News.

Apparently the Irish are thinking about legalizing abortion which has the Catholic Church in a tizzy because the Bishop wrote a letter for the redheaded Priest to read.

It was a great letter!

The Bishop wrote if abortion is allowed then women can't have boys and then the pool to select Priests from will diminish  and there's already of shortage of Priests so ... everybody go out and make more Priests!

"What'd you think Micheal?" Tony Ryan asks as we make our way back to retrieve the sinners who'd slept through Mass.

"My favorite part is always when the Priest cleans the Chalice after the Eucharist and that red headed boy did a Hell of a job! He cleaned and scrubbed as though, if Jesus really was in there, he was going to get every drop out. It's like cleaning up Christ!"

This was met with stony silence until my friend Bill Shearouse turns, looks me in the eye and says, "What do you mean 'IF'?"

"I was trying to be respectful," Tony chimes in, "so I didn't want to say anything."

"Oh come on," I shoot back. "There's more than one way to look at Transubstantiation (the belief that the wine and the wafer actually become the blood and body of Christ)."

"No there's not," Bill and Tony reply at the same time.

As everyone knows, when it comes to religion, it's often best to keep your mouth shut.

I love Bill Shearouse and like Tony a lot so I nodded in agreement with them.

But I enjoyed Mass immensely, like St. Fin Barr a lot and his Church, laughed at the wicked intensity of the red headed Priest with no Good News and the several hundred good Irish Catholics who stared intently when I passed the collection plate without putting anything in it ... twice!

That'll probably do me for a while in terms of organized religion though eventually I'll start to miss it a little and will hit Bar Church and then likely a Mass somewhere.

Maybe next time Sarah will go with me and I won't offend anybody.

Or maybe I'll just stay in bed with her.

Today's Political Leadership

I want to be the first to thank elected official Tom Bordeaux who recently leaned over to fellow elected official Mary Osborn during a meeting of the Savannah City Council, head butted her while calling her an "asshole."

Here's the link. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FW_YUIzE7zM

I don't know what the issue was.

Honestly I really don't care.

Issues handled by politicians are all the same because they're all rooted in two basic agenda:

(a) How will this vote benefit me and my political career? and,

(b) What is the least political damage I can do to myself when I am forced to make a decision?

That's what the modern political system has mostly boiled down to in the United States.

It doesn't matter the office ... City Council or Congress ... Judicial or official ... Executive or decorative ... they're all the same.

And God Bless Tom Bordeaux!

He finally said out loud and on television what the rest of us think and say every damn time one of them talk and ...

Make another false promise ...

Spend thousands of donated dollars to broadcast another commercial to get themselves elected ...

Spend hundreds of donated dollars on signs to pollute buildings, yards and even banners in the sky ...

Name buildings and roads after one another because nobody else will ...

Show up to get their picture in the paper for damn near anything ...

Vote themselves raises because they can ...

Get free parking at the airport ...

Hell they get free parking everywhere!

Anyway when these things happen and they're shoved down our throats on the nightly news... we just want to head butt the shit out of every elected official and call them an "Asshole!"

Thank you Tom Bordeaux for leading the way.

It does take one to know one but it takes guts to say on camera.

That's as much leadership as we have in this country these days.

You're Never Too Old

"Sir, your Dad is missing from the Nursing Home," the caller explains.

"Oh?' Neil asks with a sigh.

"Yes Sir, it appears he left in his Golf Cart."

"Yeah," Neil explains, "he can't drive anymore so we got rid of his car. It almost killed him so I got him the Golf Cart."

"It seems he may be on a date in it."

"He's 89 years old," Neil exclaims.

"Another resident missed curfew. Mrs. Bodie is 67 resident in the main building."

"He's out with a younger woman?" Neil is smiling.

"Sir, this is serious. You need to find your father and Mrs. Bodie if she's with him. She has a medical condition that merits continued supervision."

"Okay," Neil sighs fishing for his truck keys and rushing outside on a chilly Wilmington Island night.

Two miles later he finds the Golf Cart abandoned in the parking lot of "Gilligan's Party Beverage Center" with no sign of his father or Mrs. Bodie.

"They can't be far," Neil says out loud and heads across the street towards the nearest bars.

They're not in Basils or Cancun's so Neil parks, heaves himself out of the pickup and meanders into "Molly McGuire's" where he discovers his father and Mrs. Bodie having drinks along with a good time.

It's almost midnight.

"Ummm Dad, we have to go."

"What's wrong with us kids having a good time every once in a while," the 89 year old snaps taking a puff from his cigar.

"Yeah," Mrs. Bodie slurs sipping her Cosmopolitan.

"Look," Neil explains with his hands in his pockets trying to not laugh, "they can get you for kidnapping. Mrs. Bodie's confined to campus."

"Bastards," he old man puffs.

"Here's what we're going to do," Neil presses. "You and your date finish your drinks, then I'm going to drive you to your Golf Cart and I'm going to tie it to the truck and pull you back to the Nursing Home. It's cold so Mrs. Bodie will sit in the cab with me. You'll have to sit in the Golf Cart to hit the breaks when I stop."

The old man blows smoke in his son's face.

But that's what happens.

When Neil told me this story, I laughed my ass off.

His Dad claims to have no recollection whatsoever of that night.

And Mrs. Bodie can't corroborate because she died peacefully two months later.

The point of the story is ... you're never too old to do what you're supposed to do ... no matter what they say.

The Principal's Office

I tired to stay focused on his nose.

It was a beak nose sitting in the middle of a long narrow face, with black hair greased back in the style of the older folks in those days ... lots of Brylcreem. His blue and black checkered suit was rumbled and hung on his six foot skinny frame.

Gene Prevatt and I were sitting on the other side of his desk in the Principal's office of Groves High School were we had made the grievous error of duct taping Mrs. Johnson's English class in her room.

The door opened to the inside so it was pretty funny when the tenth grade class rushed out as the bell rung while Mrs. Johnson screamed the homework assignments.

The fastest students ran right into the door of duct tape and bounced back into the second wave of slower students.

Principal Andrews was asking what we knew about the incident.

Gene locked guilty because he looked at the floor.

I remained zoned on Mr. Andrews beaked nose.

It would have been an immediate death sentence to look him in the eyes ... because one forever strayed to the right and the other to the left.

There was no way to look the man straight in the eyes.

Gene continued to stare at the floor and I was focusing so hard on his beaked nose I was starting to sweat which, of course, Mr. Andrews took as a sign of me cracking under pressure.

"Mr. Elliott," he said clearing his throat, "did either you or Mr. Prevatt bring duct tape to school with you today?"

It's hard to shake your head from side to side and remain focused on a nose when wild eyes are bouncing in every direction.

"He did," Gene announces now staring at his fingernails.

"What?" I exclaim.

"Mr. Prevatt," the Principal says. "Please proceed."

"We both had to bring duct tape for Shop Class," Gene explains. "But it was stolen from my locker."

Mr. Andrews shakes his head which is like trying to watch marbles bounce at the same time.

"It was," I offer remaining intensely focused on the beak nose. "I gave mine to Gene for safe keeping and it was stolen from his locker."

"And how do you know it was stolen?" Mr. Andrews presses looking somewhere pass Gene and it was at this point that he faltered.

Every so quickly Gene stole a glance at the Principal seeing the eyes looking at both his ears but not meeting his own eyes.

Gene busted out laughing.

Which of course made me bust out laughing.

Mr. Andrews found nothing funny in the room.

"Mr. Elliott," the Principal finally snaps, "do you have anything to add?"

"Yes sir," I say wiping tears from my eyes. "It wasn't me."

"Well it wasn't me," Gene quickly added.

"I see," Mr. Andrews concludes while staring off into another Universe.

We spent the rest of the day sitting there with Mr. Andrews until the 3:00 bell rang and he had to let us go.

Mrs. Johnson waited outside the office when we exited.

"You did it," she bellows, blond hair askew from frustration and the school's limited air conditioning system.

"Did what?" Gene says.

"It wasn't me," I add.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Faith Based Politics

T.D. Jakes ... Pat Roberson ... James Roberson ... W. A. Criswell ... Ernest Angley ... Kenneth Copeland ... Charles Stanley ... Joel Osteen ...

I've been in the same room with each of these ... "Professional Christians" who make ungodly amounts of money promoting God.

They all looked nice with perfect hair, really white teeth and their socks never ... EVER ... slipped below their calves when they sat in the pulpit.

Aside from W. A. Criswell, who I was forced to listen butcher the Bible at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, a once great institution which now regularly butchers the Bible, I saw or met the rest at President George W. Bush's "Faith Based Summit" which I was inexpiably invited.

Held in the Library of Congress, the food was really good though no alcohol was served, all of the famous preachers shook one another's hands exclaiming, "I think we finally have our boy in the White House," and Phil Driscoll played both "Amazing Grace" and "God Bless America" on the trumpet.

I had a hard time fitting in.

I wore blue jeans, a white shirt with a blue tie and a grey corduroy coat ... "The Kroger Bag Boy" look ... and had really long hair.

Congressman Jack Kingston invited me to "represent" his district and Natalie Jayroe was so pissed off she wasn't invited she launched a campaign with Jack's office which finally relented and got her a pass too.

She was as appalled as I was at the blatant ass kissing in which the Republicans and the Preachers were engaging.

"You're a volunteer," I told her. "Not a victim."

She rolls her eyes with no defense.

When it was finally over, I wandered out into the parking lot where James Robertson and T.D. Jakes stood between their Limos talking passionately about the President and how God's time is finally unveiling itself and how happy they are to be part of the Kingdom coming on earth as it is in Heaven.

Making my way to the Washington Hotel, I rode the elevator to the outdoor bar on top with it's incredible views of the Capitol and ordered a glass of wine.

"Religions in the hands of crazy ass people," I sang along with Jimmy Buffett in my head. "Television preachers with bad hair and dimples,  the God's honest truth is it's not that simple ..."

Yep.

I'm glad I got to go though.

It was fascinating and I wouldn't wish the pompousness on anybody.

When I went I'd already quit being a "Professional Christian", now a volunteer for love and the only thing I get in return is ... occasionally love's given back.

But that's all Jesus promised in the first place.

The Secret of Raising Girls

"Hey Mike," he says leaning over the counter at "The Breakfast Club." "Who was that girl with you the other day?"

Incredulously I stare at the young stud.

"She's really hot," he continues.

Franklin, who is brown, laughs behind the young stud watching how I am going to respond.

"Ummmm," I finally say grabbing his arm a little too tightly, "She's twelve. Stay away from her."

His eyes grow wide as he stammers apologies.

"No f-ing way," he starts poorly. "I mean I didn't know. Oh Jesus, I'm sorry."

Franklin is howling as the young stud runs to the back to distance himself as far from me as possible.

Whitley Reynolds, a fellow member of "Counter Intelligence", shakes his head and with a sad smile says, "You get to do all of this again don't you?"

Sighing, it strikes me for the first time that I do.

Sarah has three girls and it appears each will follow in her genetic footprints and be drop dead gorgeous ... meaning they will be hit on sooner rather than later and I'm going to have a front row seat ... which will force me to take occasional action.

I am a survivor of raising two beautiful girls already ... and it never occurred to me until young stud inquired about 12 year old Maddie that I'll be put in the middle of would be suitors and wanna-be suit-ees ... until now.

I'm frond of telling people I'm a "Kristen survivor" and my support group of one meets often.

My oldest daughter had lots of suitors.

Once she brought one over and started to introduce me.

"Ummm," I hold up my hand before she can tell me his name. "It's nice to meet you. I'm sure you're nice. But you won't be here next week so let's save me the trouble of acting like I'm going to remember your name."

"DAD!" Kristen shrieks.

"Am I wrong?" I say ignoring the boy and looking at my beautiful daughter who suddenly doesn't have a come back.

"Okay then, let's just enjoy dinner shall we?"

I never saw the boy again because Kristen replaced him for not making a positive impression on her father.

All that to say, I've been around the block raising beautiful girls.

Alas, I get to do it again when their mother's not around.

When Sarah's around I can kick back and enjoy the emerging raging hormones, the awkward behavior of emerging sexual awareness and the mixture of being desired while desiring but too dumb to know how to handle it.

That will be fun because Sarah will be in charge and I can simply enjoy all of the awkwardness.

But when she's not around, I'll be forced into damn-if-you-and damned-if-you-don't action.

If I don't do anything, leaving Maddie to her own devices, which will be fun as Hell to watch, I'll get in lots of trouble with Sarah for not protecting her from boys ... and herself.

While it would be a lot of fun immediately, in the end it would be unpleasant for me to not intervene.

Meaning Sarah will kick my ass.

So I'll intervene and cut it off before it can grow.

Maddie will introduce me to someone and I'll say, "It really doesn't matter who you are ... you'll be somebody else next week ... let's just enjoy dinner ... shall we?"

And that's the secret to raising beautiful girls.

An Angel's Got to do what an Angel's got to do

"Damn your legs are white," I say with my feet propped on the back rail.

Her robe is hiked all the way to her crotch and her legs are pasty.

"I'm working on it," she slurs after taking a long drawl from her Tall Boy Pabst Blue Ribbon with a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth and a shot glass in her other hand.

"I figured Angels would be tan," I offer. "I mean you're closer to the sun and all. Plus it's a pretty sheer robe you wear ... don't you just tan through it?"

"Turn up the Buffett," she shoots so I hit the keyboard and Jimmy sings "Creola."

"Yes," she continues out of nowhere, "we can tan through our robes but not like your tan through Speedos."

"You mean you have limited wardrobe options in Heaven?"

"Why do you think Catholic girls wear uniforms?" she snaps. "It's an outdated dress code but the friggin' Apostles are a bunch of old white men and they like their tradition."

"So male Angels wear white shirts and ties?"

"Think Jehovah Witness," she replies , "or Ernest Angley."

"No Shit," I blurt.

"Shit," she says.

Buffett moves on to "Floridays" and she says, "I'm glad you're back ... it's good to be home. Did Sarah have a good time?"

"We did," I reply taking a sip of my own beer. "Ireland's a wonderful place. We had fun."

"Good," she says taking another drawl from her Tall Boy.

"You would have fit right in," I continue. "White people are whiter there than other places."

"Shut up," she snaps.

"Fine," I say reapplying suntan lotion.

Another cigarette magically appears in her mouth.

"Don't you have someone to save today?" I ask. "Sarah and I plan on taking her folks and the girls to the beach and it would be awkward to have my Guardian Angel with us."

"Nope," she says stretching her skinny pasty white legs.

"Jimmy Cochran?" I press.

"Do not bring him up," she fires. "Or his mother."

"Alright," I say standing up to go check on Sarah. "Well you can't go to the beach with us."

"I'll watch the dogs," she says taking another shot of bourbon.

"That'd be great," I smile.

"Goddess and I get along just fine," she says with a smile.

"Are you telling me that Angels do pot?"

"God lets us only fly so high," she sighs. "Sometimes an Angel's gotta do what an Angel's got to do."

"Hmmm," I humph with no idea how to respond.

The first thing Gail does after opening the south end convenient store is feed the cats.

They jump on the back of her red pick up truck or on the bench in front to eat and Gail sits with them, tenderly wishing the feral cats a good morning while scratching their backs.

Most mornings she opens early because she knows customers will be desperate for coffee, cigarettes or beer so they can face another day.

They stumble inside pouring themselves a cup or ordering at the counter before stumbling out to the bench or the plastic table and chairs set up on the sidewalk where she joins them to chat or sit in silence staring at cigarette smoke.

Most look as though they slept outside or haven't made it home yet though Michael Bart sits in the middle looking dapper and cheerful greeting all who join this fractured community.

Rick, the surfer dude, glides in on his skate board with his dog for orange juice as the sun bubbles out of the sea.

Tourists load up on Twinkies and powdered doughnuts to cart back to their hotel rooms.

Rosco rides his bike up the street for the morning newspaper before rushing to the ocean to snap a morning photograph to post on Facebook, his morning greeting from the Beach.

"Hey Rev," Gail mutters as I wander inside.

"Val and Ryno," I say in reply and she reaches up for two Salem Lights and a box of Parliaments.

"They busy yet," she asks.

"The Breakfast Club's always busy," I shrug.

"You been sick," she says.

"I was," I smile at her concern "but I'm better now."

"It can kill you," she says handing me the cigarettes and taping an index finger on my hand, "you sure you okay?"

"I'm good," I affirm and she nods without smiling.

"Morning Micheal," Michael Bart cheerfully wishes.

"Hey Mike," I smile as I make my way outside to make deliveries to the Breakfast Club hearing the others hack and spit as they sip coffee or beer.

It's very Church like, I think to myself. A rag tag collection of people trying to survive into another day and holding on to one another for dear life to get started.

And Gail's the High Priestess ... the Christ figure caring for cats and feral people ... and at least for a moment giving each of them a place to find their footing ...  as the sun climbs into the sky ... and the world will do what it will to us all.

Celebrating Patriots

I remain a lover of old bookstores.

To hell with electronic books that have no smell of fresh print, no crackling of the binding or the lavish ceremony of writing your name after you've made the purchase for your library.

These remain part of the experience of reading and to open a book without them is akin to losing your virginity with a mannequin.

Sarah and I are strolling down the quaint streets of Killarney, Ireland when we discover it's Bookshop and immediately lose ourselves in its sweet pleasures.

It's an ancient bookstore with rolling ladders to reach the top shelves, a bowtie clad clerk and the smell of wisdom, folly, secrets and hidden delights.

The aroma is a written incense that's intoxicating and erotic.

My wife loses herself in one section and I another.

There are only a handful of American titles ... no Grisham or David Baldacci or other glorifiers of death and bad government ... though Hemingway's here and England's great Graham Greene ... and Irish authors of whom I've never heard.

My interest naturally draws me to a section of Irish writers and the Holy Spirit leads me to pick up "Confessions of an Irish Rebel" by Brendan Behan and standing there in the aisle I read the forward.

A member of the Irish Republican Army when the British ruthlessly ruled the Emerald Island,
charging them rent to live on their own land, Brendan wrote plays, books, shot at the English Police and became famous before dying at the tender age of 41.

Immediately I like him and have to know more.

Instinctively I knew he is of my elk. Che Guevara, Leonardo Boff, Harvey Cox, Gandhi, Frederick Buechner and such are my favorites and Brendan Behan can obviously hang with such Rebels.

Now I'm sitting on the beloved back deck, basking in the sunshine, learning the life of a fascinating Rebel who dearly loved his country and fought the oppression of British Tyranny with the most marvelous sense of humor.

Opening the book I can smell Ireland, holding it close to my nose to inhale deeply the soul of a patriot who died before victory was his.

On this American Memorial Day, I raise a glass to the Patriots ... not just the American soldiers ... but everyone who believed and gave their all for freedom in whatever time and whatever country.

Some things transcend nationalism, something the United States struggles to understand, and freedom ... be of speech, worship, want or fear ... or above all the Free Will that God gave us all ... is the thing that should primarily be remembered today.      

My favorite time of year

It's great to be back  in my temperate zone.

Someone's said that you forever lo

ve the weather of the month you were born.

Sarah was born in May and in many ways reflects Spring; the dying of winter, the coming of new blooms, fresh air sweeping out the old and an emerging warming of things once cold.

I was born in July and everything about me shows it.

I love open windows, ceiling fans, lit grills, everything in full bloom at once, and the sun casting thousands of diamonds on the morning sea.

I love beach walks with Sarah, setting up camp in the sand for all the kids, body surfing, searching for shark's teeth and taking one last look from the crosswalk as we make our way home from a day on the beach.

I love music from the Pier at night, sitting on the back deck talking or listening, Palm Trees dancing in the breeze, seagulls squawking and the splash Pelicans make when they hit the water.

I love boat drinks, beer and wine, a constant stream of beach music, live bands, crowds with good vibes and I love to dance with Sarah.

I love watching kids play in the surf, families fish in the waves, boys look at girls and girls look at boys as they troll the beach,

I love Sarah's girls drawing with chalk on the drive way, water fights in the yard, the fact they always miss a spot with the sunscreen and using every single towel in the house when we get home from the beach.

I love shooting stars, the roar of the waves at High Tide, hot dogs with mustard and onion, grilled shrimp and potato chips.

I love Sarah in her bikini.

And I love that tomorrow's a holiday and we get to do it all again because it's summer.

Summer time's here.

My favorite time of year.

Winston's Politics

Winston, the Little Gay Dog, is wearing a black wife beater tee shirt with pink letters reading, "Homo-Land Security: Keeping America safe from Politicians, Preachers, and other Poachers."

He and I are sunning on the back porch.

Goddess is passed out inside somewhere with Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat.

Sarah's off running a race and the girls are lounging around inside so Winston, TLGD, and I are just enjoying the quiet morning sunshine.

All three of them went Ape shit crazy when we returned from Ireland but everything's settled into our normal routine.

Winston, TLGD, is pretty vain and likes working on his tan with me in the mornings which is cool.

He's taken an intense interest in politics lately and likes to discuss the various humorous escapades and acts of idiocy by our elected officials.

He's started a scrap book of his favorite politicians running for office time around and Winston, TLGD, is showing it to me.

"Lawless for Judge" is the first and I smirk.

"Young Boozer for Treasurer," is the next.

"Are these real names" I ask?

"Young Boozer's from Alabama," Winston, TLGD, explains.

"Of course," I nod.

Flipping the page, the next campaign sigh reads, "Krystal Ball for Congress."

"You think she already knows if she's won?" I ask.

Winston, TLGD, shrugs.

"Schumuck for Police Chief," is the next one.

"Aren't they all?"

Winston, TLGD, nods.

"That's depressing," I say getting up to fix another glass of sparkling water with lemon juice.

Slamming the scrap book shut, Winston, TLGD, rolls over to tan his belly.

Shaking my head, I take my seat again and sigh.

"Let's just enjoy this holiday weekend shall we?"

Winston, TLGD, gives me a high paw.

A Day to Enjoy

Getting sick forces you to face your mortality.

I happen to have lots of friends experiencing this at the same time, each diagnosed with some form of cancer and each fighting to live knowing there is a finality to this life as we know it.

Amber's been in treatment for over a year now. Wanda just had a mastectomy. Gyni got a crew cut in front of his students. Guy turns his treatment into thoughtful sermons to lift the rest of us while he's down.

My morning ritual is to focus on each of them, conjuring up their faces and sending them prayers, good Karma and whispers of love.

I wish there was more I could do but for now that seems all.

Now I have pneumonia and while that's not cancer it does give me pause.

I take a shit load of medicine, drink gallons of water, hate the breathing treatments because they make me cough to spit up the infection and that hurts like Hell.

Of course my prognosis is good and I feel alright most of the time so, while I know the Grim Reaper can show up anywhere and anytime, I'm not too worried.

Such times force you to evaluate your life and ask if you've done everything you've wanted or needed.

Never one to wait, I've experienced lots of things, seen wishes come true, lived dreams, and while I've had my fair share of heartbreak and tragedy, I still want more.

I don't wait until the time is right to do things because there's only NOW as far as I'm concerned.

Sitting here healing, I'm thankful each of my friends are still here, pretty happy I am too, enjoying a brilliant blue sky, choirs of birds singing Hymns of Praise, bathed in warm sunshine, watching flowers bloom, on an island full of friends, at a house full of love.

Memorial Day weekend is time to remember the things we've lost but also a celebration of the life we have and I'm doing both this weekend!

To the losses I say thanks. As difficult and as painful as you were, in spite of the scars I carry because of you, I'm still here, stronger and wiser because of your inflictions.

To the life I have now I celebrate as I never have before, incredibly thankful just to be here, surrounded with people who've more than demonstrated love for me, in a place I love, with Sarah and with plans to enjoy more of this life before the time to face whatever it is that comes next.

Happy Day Everyone!

It's yours to enjoy!

Blogging in sick

I have a note from Sarah that I'm too sick to blog today.

It's not like the notes I gave to my teachers at Groves High School from my mother but, honest to God Sarah wrote it.

We're in the town of Westport where great things have happened but I'll have to tell you about them tomorrow.

I just got up from a 13 hour sleep ... something I'd never previously achieved.

It wasn't great sleep because I had hacking, coughing and spitting the whole time.

Sarah tried to kill me twice.

That's it.

Finishing my coffee and going back to bed.

I'm supposed to play with the boys in the band again tonight and got to get ready.

Times of Trouble

"I've passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks," but I'm back to normal today as we leave Westport to make our way to Dublin.

We on a bus with two dozen friends, old and new, and most everyone has been sick at one time or another over the ten days we've bounced around the entire southern coast.

We made two stops at Irish medical clinics where there is no waiting, the doctor is friendly, payment is 45 Euro for the visit and health care access here beats the Hell out of the crazy system we have in the states.

The Irish have a pride in their country that America lacks too. 

In the Pubs, bands sing the old songs and everyone joins in.

Outsiders are welcome and the first question is "Where ye from?"

"Georgia," I reply.

"I know but two things about it," the leader of the band smiles. "A man got very famous because of peanuts and there's a nice Golf tournament there."

"How do ye get famous from peanuts?" someone yells.

"He became their President," is the answer.

"Did he play Golf?"

"No."

"That's why he was a terrible President then."

Then they launch into a 15 minute song with lots of interaction with the extremely crowded Pub.

Ireland is more playful than Americans are in spite of its wretched history, British occupation and the constant chance of rain.

The people here are extremely proud that they have reached peace between Catholics and Protestants and, though deeply committed to their respective faiths. they acknowledge the value of the other.

St. Patrick was not a Catholic, I am told. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland but there was no Church. He was not Protestant either. He was for all.

No one here is as rushed either.

People sleep late. Shops don't open until noon. Meals take more than an hour. There are no "To-Go" cups here. Everyone takes time with everyone else.

And Ireland sits in the middle of the Gulf Stream and its green countryside if covered with Tropical colors.

Everyone drinks Guinness.

I'm struck this morning that America could learn a lot from the Irish.

We've helped them in times of trouble.

Maybe someday we'll be open to them returning the favor.