The Problem with Socks

"Can I ask you a question?" he asks.

With everything inside of me I held back my natural response of ... "You just did."

"Yes Sir," I reply. "Of course."

After all this is an interview.

Questions are expected.

There are nine of them ... each firing scripted questions in sequence ... taking notes at my responses ... as we sip coffee or bottled water inside an air conditioned Board room outside of Orlando.

Eight sets of eyes look at him before looking at me and then looking back at him again.

I know and they know that he knows ... he's going off script!

This interview is getting ready to get wild.

"I am here to answer any question you have," I smile.

Wearing a red, white and blue plaid blazer over a white collared shirt with kaki pants, black socks and brown shoes, he returns the smile.

"This is an interview," he smiles, "and I'm just wondering ..." he glances at his fellow board members and clears his throat ... "why aren't you wearing any socks?"

The others nod in affirmation of the non-scripted question and stare at me.

"Is it appropriate to answer a question with a question?" I inquire.

"Of course it is," he grins. "We're all friends here."

"It's a multi-layered response," I clarify.

"That's fine," he replies. "We've allowed ample time to really get to know the candidates."

"Well," I begin straightening up in my chair, "I haven't worn socks in three years and saw no reason to start now ... It's hot as Hell outside and I'm being grilled inside and I didn't want to sweat ... but the real reason is my wife dressed me today ... so why wouldn't I listen to my wife?"

They all take notes at a feverish pace.

"She picked out this black tee shirt ... the kaki pants with creases ... and bought me these really cool shoes made out of some cloth that breaths."

"I see," the President of the Board says, still writing on his little pad of paper.

"I need to be honest though," I continue, "even if she had laid out socks ... which she didn't ... I would have taken them off after I got in the car to drive here."

"WE LOVE YOUR HONESTY!" they exclaim and the interview ends on a high note with lots of promises made.

I never heard from them again.

The problem with socks is like the problem many have with sex ... you have to keep them up all the time ... when pleasurable interludes make everything better.

Besides socks cut off circulation and make your feet stink!

God made bare feet.

Man made socks.

That's where the whole disconnection began.

So if you want to get closer to God ... lose the socks.

Rockets in the Sky

I was the first in my family to attend ... and graduate ... from College.

That includes both lineages on either side so before me ... none had done it.

Truth be told I went kicking and screaming, tried to quit and was almost thrown out on multiple occasions but ... I was the first to graduate.

And I kept at it earning two post graduate degrees and would have earned more but opted to invest in writing books rather than continued academic opportunities.

It was the right choice because I ended up with the chance to give speeches, presentations and talks throughout the United States and in Europe, Cuba and the Caribbean.

The coolest were at The National Press Club in Washington D.C. where I won an award ... the Headwaters Lodge in the Grand Tetons Wyoming ... St. John Baptiste Church in Havana ... and Bar Church on Tybee Island.

Honestly now I'm a has-been but I did some cool stuff in cool places.

So it's rewarding watching our kids do cool things in cool places as they finish up their time in Academics.

Jeremy recently did a presentation in Seattle, Washington and yesterday had a paper he helped author presented in West Virginia ... now he Terenca and their girls are moving to Alabama where both will teach.

Kristen is graduating as a Nurse and spends her days in Operating Rooms.

Chelsea hosted a national conference in Florida where she's graduating with her Masters and returning to Atlanta for her career ... and her husband Sam has a Masters Degree from Georgia Tech.

I spend the morning with Maddie as her High School career begins and we spent half the time discussing her Academic future.

We'll leave Laurel and Cassidy alone for a while until they get to High School.

"They'll learn more than I'll ever know," Louie Armstrong magnificently sings in "What A Wonderful World" and I know exactly what he means.

As my life spirals towards a lovely conclusion ... theirs are exploding like rockets in the sky.

Sarah and I are already preparing for the day we work mixing margaritas on a Topical Beach and ... after work ... toast each other while reading the news from the kids and everything they're doing.

Then we'll go skinny dipping.

Instand Karma ... has got me

"Yeah, Yeah, Yeah" ... the former Beatle and great Prophet John Lennon says, "Instant Karma's gonna get you."

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah ... it got me.

That's why John Lennon's a Major Prophet and I'm not.

Of course he was killed for it and I'm not ... well yet anyway ... though I suspect a line is forming.

Breakfast at our house consists of me strolling in from coffee at The Breakfast Club, making certain Sarah's awake, making up the bed and getting her coffee, juice and pills laid out.

I do take a personal moment to see what she's putting on as she dresses for work.

It's a tantalizing way to start the day.

I give the dogs treats and wait on her before we sit down to share a few moments talking about ... whatever it is we discuss ... she often brings up her work ... while I try to bring my wealth of work experience to whatever it is she's saying.

Today though ... my cell phone won't stop buzzing as Sarah explains whatever it is she's explaining about her work.

I try to ignore the dancing phone with everything in me ... BUT I CAN'T!

DAMMIT! Back in the day I was known for immediately responding to everybody ... even before they finished writing their email.

"The thing about you Micheal," Gordon Matthews ... who used to be Ken Matthews ... tells me, "is the minutes you take during our meetings beat us home before we get there."

I take it as a compliment.

Snatching up the phone from the table ... it's a text from Maddie, the 13 year old, "who wants something."

"You can't leave it alone," Sarah says with a smirk drinking her coffee.

"It's Maddie," I glare.

My wife shrugs her shoulders.

That's when John Lennon comes back from the dead to warn again ... for the thousandth time that ... "Instant Karma's gonna get me."

Damn Major Prophets!

So I push the phone far, far away ... ignore it while Maddie incessantly buzzes ... give Sarah my full and undivided attention to whatever it is she's talking about.

But while she's talking ... I'm thinking ... she's right ... again ... and I don't want to admit it ... so I keep quiet.

"What are you thinking?" she asks noticing I'm not listening.

"About what?" I cleverly reply.

That's the thing about Karma.

I believe it's pretty instant.

And it's gonna get you.

The important thing is to know when it does.

It got me today.

BANG! BANG! In Savannah!

Using song titles as my status updates on Facebook everyday is often fun, sometimes challenging and occasionally offensive to readers.

I've done this for years now and the issue is trying to never repeat a song.

After a while it's harder than you think.

Some days songs pop right inside my head but on others I have to go searching ... occasionally I'll use the first song I hear on the radio or listen to whatever's playing at "The Breakfast Club."

It's fun and others seem to like it quoting lyrics in response which, in turn, brightens my day.

It's a happy way to start things off every day.

The other day I posted "Micheal Elliott heard BANG! BANG! ... I must be in Savannah."

The song could have been Sonny & Cher's or the recent version by Jesse J (who I've seen in concert because of the girls I live with!).

It seems there's a shooting a day in Savannah, a city I love though it no longer loves me back.

BANG! BANG! drew lots of responses but the last was from an African American friend who chided me ... "Really? ... Stereotype."

I think it's funny "political sarcasm" which is a dying art of discourse in the United States. Mark Twain, George Carlin and John Stewart best represent the fallacy of taking politics too seriously ... which of course everybody does these days.

Just ask Buddy Carter.

My African-American friend and I have a long history, meeting when I taught a class on "Community Organizing" at Savannah State University, a historically black school.

She was great! An older student determined to make her life better and I was so impressed that when she graduated I hired her.

We worked together until I left Union Mission, Inc. but we've kept in touch through the years.

I'm uncertain as to how she concludes I stereotyped.

A lot of shooting takes place in Savannah.

It's mostly because of an utter absence of leadership ... politically, religiously, civically, educationally, racially ... all propped up by the News ... or lack thereof.

Savannah is among the national leaders in promoting the "Us Against Them" lifestyle.

It's easy to see ... just count the number of "Gated" Communities ... the big pockets of poverty ... the size of the every growing jails ... a bloated judicial system ... and the number of cops (and the number of cops who are arrested and convicted).

It's what happens when there's no leadership.

Savannah is a beautiful place and still takes my breath away when I'm downtown.

Though when I am, I'm forever looking over my shoulder because ... BANG! BANG! ... you just never know.

Sand Dollar Millionaires

Sarah and I  spend the evening talking.

The girls are all elsewhere so for the first time in forever so ... it's just us.

Somewhere between exhaustion and relief, we sit with our feet propped in the chairs at the dining room table and catch up.

I mean we catch each other up all the time but that's just the facts without the feelings ... now is time to get behind the facts ... which is where the truth lives.

Working your way through facts is tough and it takes time which luckily we have ... for the moment.

"Why do we worry so much about things?" my wife asks. "I mean things can always be better but they're pretty great!"

"I think so," I reply intensely staring at her blue eyes for the first time in too long.

Going on to explain how we're going to handle this but put off handling that, Sarah concludes, "We just need to enjoy the now ... and we'll get to the later."

What I think she means is ... in 9 years Cassidy, our youngest, will likely move out ... clearing the way for us to move to an island more Tropical and open up a ... something or another.

It'll be a place that doesn't have winter.

I passionately hate winter and curse the cold with everything I have inside of me.

We'll find a beach shack with an air conditioned bedroom because Sarah likes it cold when she sleeps but rest of the place will be open windows and sea breezes.

It'll have two bedrooms so a kid or two can visit any time they can figure out to get there.

We love our children and are always happy when they visit.

We'll be able to afford it because we'll save a ton on clothes.

Given the fact we'll live on an isolated beach, I'll play music at night ... ending around 10 ... because they'll be no real musicians nearby ... so I can draw a crowd.

Sarah will make it all work out because she's brilliant that way.

Always an early riser, I'll kiss the top of her head while she sleeps in the air conditioned bedroom in the shack ... fix a cup of coffee ... get Goddess who I pray is still alive in 9 years ... and comb the beach.

We'll be looking for sand dollars.

They're the only kind we have these days.

She smiles and assures me, "We'll get there."

"Outstanding,"  I smile.

After all ... we are Sand Dollar Millionaires.

Saving Myself

Maddie was the first one to point it out at dinner several weeks ago.

We're eating and talking as families do when she says, "You're different on the weekends."

"I am not," I counter defensively.

"Yes," she muses with uncanny maturity for a 13 year old, "you're not as nice or laid back as during the week."

"It's true," Sarah agrees.

"What?" I ask.

"I think on Thursdays you get all pumped up to play at the Nursing Home and then immediately get preoccupied focusing on Bar Church and ... on Sunday afternoons you're pretty wiped."

"Yeah," Maddie concurs.

It is true that I get preoccupied sometimes and that, emotionally and physically, I give everything I've got to the inmates of the Nursing Home and at Bar Church.

Given that Ministers often minister at the expense of their families, I start
watching myself to make certain I'm not slighting Sarah or the girls.

I thought I was doing great until yesterday when Sarah sighs, "You're slighting me and girls."

"I am not," I fire ... and immediately hear my own voice ... it's louder and harsher than normal ... it's got an edge.

The rest of the night I focus very hard on being attentive and loving to each of them ... until Cassidy the 8 year old and I get into a "Mexican Stand Off" over something stupid.

Now I confess that Maddie and Sarah are right.

It's ironic because I left the pressure cooker world of corporations and politics for a Beach Bum writer life and now find old habits die hard.

I naturally grow intense and demand perfection when I "perform" acts of ministry ... which isn't ministry at all ... it's performance ... and it's at the expense of my family.

It's funny because I've been there before and I sure as Hell don't ever want to go there again.

I am far too much in love with life now to not work hard to enjoy it with everything inside of me.

On this Sunday I'll ask forgiveness from those I've slighted ... do my best to not perform at Bar Church ... and save something of myself for Sarah and the girls when I get home.

After all ... saving yourself really is what Church is all about anyway.

The Joy Left Behind

I watch him purchase "Alligator Food" ... a sandwich bag full of yesterday's leftovers ... and gleefully place it on the ends of hooks affixed to poles so he and his granddaughters can ... yep ... feed the Gators.

I'm not into this "tourist stuff" ... actually I'm pretty snobby about it.

Always dressing like a local ... black running shorts, old tee shirt and flip-flops if shoes are necessary ... I am not anti-Tourists ... I am just anti-looking-like-one.

Come to think of it ... I'm pretty anti-looking-local too.

I watch the sheer joy on his face ... a 60 year old man becomes 8 ... as his 8 and 10 year old granddaughters suddenly relate ... feeding Alligators at an overpriced "Tourists Trap" on Tybee Island.

I remember when it was a ... shack!

A wooden structure with beer on a porch sat beside the boat hoist.

If Paddy wasn't there ... you strolled inside to get your own beer ... and pay later.

Of course Paddy was mostly drunk so it was "The Honor System" back then.

Now it is a mecca for tourists because of incredible views and ambiance ... constant Jimmy Buffett music ... and Alligators.

The beer's cold and the food's "so-so."

Sarah and the others arrive and we sit under massive oaks decorated in white lights ... we have a killer waitress ... talk and eat as families do ... check out the tee shirt shop and the exotic birds after dinner ... before he and his granddaughters rush to feed the Gators again.

Meandering to the now closed boat hoist I stare at the marsh and the Lazaretto ... recollecting what it was ... comparing it to now.

Old friends ... now dead ... dance across the water ... from the days when it was "Criminal Creek" ... folks on an island with a fishing addiction who loved beer.

It's not that way anymore.

You must have a license or a permit for most anything and W.I.L.L. be arrested if you don't.

Turning ... I make my way to Sarah and her Dad ... and the girls ... and we feed the Alligators ... and delightfully laugh in wonderment ... at the joys they're leaving behind.

Buddy Calls

Apparently Buddy Carter is repeatedly calling everybody ... except me.

Buddy is a junior Congressman from South Georgia though already an accomplished career politician.

Actually Buddy and I grew up in the same neighborhood so we've known each other our entire lives ... which makes me curious that he's calling everybody else but not me.

I wonder if it's because I'm pretty liberal about ... oh ... most everything!

Buddy and evidently everyone he's calling are conservative.

It's easy to piss off conservatives because they're already angry about ... oh ... most everything!

I have to say though, it is hilarious watching them turn on one another.

Buddy makes a couple of calls ... he probably needs some advice ... perhaps to get a friend to bring him beer and cigarettes ... maybe a gun ... because God knows in Congress you can always use one!

The entire Republican base is outraged because Buddy is calling asking for something.

It's normally the other way around.

You're supposed to call the elected official and ask ... well ... unless it's election time then the rules of politics clearly state they can call you a thousand times a day asking for "money and vote" ... Chapter III: Article 7; Section 28-C of the "Politicians Handbook".

Regardless ... Republicans crack me up!

Honestly ... Democrats do too!

I have a fondness for "Libertarians" though ... "Libertarians" are Republicans who smoke Pot.

I think more Republicans should smoke Pot ... especially in Congress ... because God knows W.A.Y. too little happens there anyway ... so it'll be good to slow things down more.

I'm sure that's why Buddy's calling.

To Hell with HIPPA

Digging fingernails into my wrist, salt water fills her eyes as she looks directly at me, "Please don't get sick."

Three little old ladies sit in chairs ... not wheelchairs like most in the room ... but chairs.

They can still walk.

We're packing up to leave ... storing guitars, drums and tambourines ... hauling out the sound system ... when I do my last walk around the room hugging every woman and man there ... listening to whatever they have to say ... mostly trying to not cry as moister fills their eyes and they say, "Thank you," or "Please Come back next week."

Lona, John, Faye and Mary take care of business as I pry my wrist from her fingernails.

"I'll do my part," I smile, hugging her. "I don't like being sick."

"Don't die," she says.

"It's not on my 'To Do List' either," I reply rubbing my hands.

I kiss the top of her white head ... surely breaking shitloads of HIPPA requirements for Nursing Homes.

The two little old ladies sitting besideher  look at me expectantly so I laugh and kiss them too ... shattering the record of HIPPA violations in a Nursing Home.

It's funny.

We're not allowed to take their pictures but ... each and every one of them want a touch ... a hug ... a kiss ... and a promise to come back next week.

"Hey," I say grabbing her wrist, "I'll make a deal with you. I won't die if you don't die."

Breaking into a grin, she lays her white haired head in my hands and cries.

I hug her again and cry too.

To Hell with HIPPA.

Who says God doesn't talk our loud?

Some days I have to fight through emotions, distractions, lack of inspiration and preoccupation to find words.

Today's such a day.

Sarah's hosting a business meeting on island so I volunteer to help and get the coffee and breakfast delivered on time.

Thursday is also the Bar Church Nursing Home Gig so part of my brain is planning what happens and pumping myself up for the inmates who pay to be incarcerated so their families can have a life.

I'm also horrified to learn our friend Patti is having surgery for Cancer, had to find a Hospital to "take her" because she has no insurance and she's already lost her oldest son to the war in Afghanistan.

I'm thrilled to see the joy Jodee and Cheryl are experiencing with the birth of their first grandchild.

"Should I write about how much I enjoy watching Sarah own her element and how I used to do that?"

"The joy of the Nursing Home Gig always leaves me emotionally high and, when it's over, I'm always questioning who's ministering to who ... maybe I should write about that?"

"Why do bad things happen to really good people who have already been kicked in the stomach and what point is God possibly trying to make now?"

"I don't have any grandchildren yet ... that's not true because I have Jeremy and Terenca's girls ... to go with our girls ... who perfectly match our kids ... and like Jodee and Cheryl ... I'm thankful for the happiness of it all."

If that weren't enough to wade through, Sarah's folks are here and they're a needy couple ... always wanting to know where something is and bold enough to ask.

Plus it's raining and I'm in the "Outdoor Office" on the Beloved Back Deck so I'm a bit miffed.

Pondering these things while staring at a self imposed timeline ... "O Happy Day" streams directly from Heaven through Spotify into the speaker I perpetually have blasting.

I think God's giving me both a blessing and a challenge!

I've got this day!

It's full of good and it's got some bad but ... it's mine.

Who says God never has anything to say out loud?

I have to go to the Nursing Home Now and make the inmates happy.

And enjoy what I've got for as long as I have it.
_______________

P.S. The picture has absolutely nothing to do with the story. I just like it. And Sarah got me the teeshirt which is Willie Nelson who I love ... and I'm playing which I also love. ... but I wouldn't draw too much from it.

Who's Your Pimp?

I don't know about you but I hate the News.

It's mostly Politicians talking about one dimensional things because it's beyond their comprehension to know there's always more than one way to do anything.

If that weren't bad enough ... when it's not Politicians posturing ... it's bad News like earthquakes, Tsunamis and murder.

Except when the Newscaster offer the obligatory "Good News" segment about Dr. Jim Withers offering health care for free or cute dogs for free at "The Humane Society."

There's nothing free about the News.

There's nothing free about Politicians either.

Newscasters are in it to satisfy their egos and be second rate "Pop Stars."

Politicians start off singing John Lennon's "Imagine" or "Power to the People" but ... then they're elected and it becomes a job ... and God knows ... you do everything and anything to keep a job these days.

I've earned my right to be cynical.

Three decades of "pimping" the halls of Washington, Atlanta, Chatham County and Savannah's Gold Dome gives me the right.

"Everybody's a whore," my friend Dr. Larkin Rossiter once proclaimed, "the question is who's your Pimp?"

I don't have an issue with Prostitutes trying to make an honest living ... I'm met many and most are really nice people trying to get by the best they can ... doing it for their kids ... or to get through school ...or put food on the table.

I do take issue with Politicians claiming they know everything and judging everyone.

Politics has become a profession of judgment ... and God knows we have too many Judges already!

Judges are so Old Testament!

Politicians whore themselves out to be re-elected ... it's become their sole purpose ... though they began imagining a better world ... they settle for trying to stay on top ... when they're mostly on bottom.

I freely admit I'm a whore for certain things.

I also freely admit I clearly understand who my Pimp is and ... I'm okay with that ... because it's not me.

Elvis

I'm listening to Elvis.

On a beautiful summer's day with the sun shinning through the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt ... there's no ocean breeze so the salt hangs in the air and on my skin ... the grass and colorful blooms are wet from a quick shower that happened before I rose ... and the glare from the sun is so bright I have towels hanging over the sliding glass doors so I can see the computer screen.

Elvis has a wooden heart.

Mine's pretty full these days.

A few years ago Sarah and I went to Memphis, a place I would never have chosen ... primarily because it's not an island ... but I have to say ... Memphis is cool.

But of all the coolness of Memphis ... and there's a lot ... it's belongs to Elvis.

Graceland blew us away.

If you've never been to Graceland ... you have to go.

It's like going to the Holy Land ... of music.

Sarah has to drag me out of the "Jungle Room" kicking and screaming.

Beale Street is fantastic ... the Loraine Motel is as Holy a place as there is in America ... and "Ernestine's & Hazels" is as cool as it gets.

If you've never had a burger cooked in pickle juice ... you life isn't over yet.

Anyway ... I don't know why ... but it's an Elvis kind of morning.

He's having mail returned by sender ... and I'm loving the sweet stickiness of summer.

Then again ... Elvis is dead.

Somehow I'm still here.

I wonder why sometimes.

The world would likely prefer to have Elvis back but ... it gets me.

There must be a reason.

I've done ... and do ... some good things and ... sometimes they're of Elvis stature ... but he's still selling millions after he died ... and I've pretty much dropped out of sight.

It's curious though.

They'd be no resurrection without a death ... no reincarnation either ... or Second Coming or Third Coming or however many it is ... no touching of the Lotus feet ...

I'm pretty alive today.

Life is good.

And I find Elvis is sharing it with me.

Thank you.

Thank ya very much.

One Hell of a Sermon

It's one of those days to be quiet and let the words find me.

Today's tough because I smyth words on Sunday at Bar Church (www.tybeebarchurch.com) and am normally petered out on Monday.

It's sort of like being a rock star ... I mean who else besides ministers get paid good money to be "the Center of the Universe" for 20 minutes or so once a week?

AND ... if that's not enough ... ministers also presume to speak for G.O.D.

That's pretty ballsy.

I mean I wouldn't want to be in their shoes if they say the wrong things.

Anyway ... in addition to telling stories on Sunday mornings ... I don't preach ... there's W.A.Y. too much preaching in the world already ... I tell stories ... that's enough.

To the best of my knowledge ... Jesus only preached one sermon in his life.

He took a trip to the mountains which must have been a popular destination ... like Gatlinburg ... saw the crowds ... bought them lunch ... and preached a Hell of a Sermon! ... apparently on a Mount.

The rest of the times he merely told stories.

A "Hell of a Sermon" is one still talked about today.

Let's be honest ... how many sermons do you remember?

How many fall into the "Hell that's worth remembering!" category?

I remember Pastor Johnson at the Port Wentworth First Baptist Church quoting "Jesus Christ Superstar" once ... then he started crying and says, "Jesus is my only Superstar."

Sitting on the third pew, Mrs. Johnson looks pissed.

I remember that one.

Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, won the "Clyde T. Francisco" preaching award and it was something about a minister is like a conductor of an orchestra.

I have no idea what he means though he whips out a conductor's stick and waves it at everybody.

That's all I remember about it ... but I was very proud of Bill that day.

Of course I remember several of Guy Sayles', America's greatest minister, sermons.

The best was when we are in College and I go with Guy to some Country Church and he's great! I love listening to Guy. He really is the best ever.

I have no recollection of what he says though I do remember we have to hang around forever waiting to see if he's going to get paid.

He wasn't.

We left.

I bought lunch at Shoney's.

In today's technological world, I have to blog, promote, cleverly respond to other people's postings (see Matt Few's page on Facebook) ... email, plan, message, Instagram and remind myself to check LinkedIn.

Add preaching to the mix and I'm wiped out on Monday's.

Plus all the girls are here and they want to talk ... okay they aren't really talking ... they're reacting to me when I say, "Clean your room. Your Grandparents will be here soon"

Two of the three have thrown shit under their beds or in the closet.

The other obviously doesn't care about her Grandparents.

I'm too tired to write though it's my job and I can't think of anything to write about.

Maybe tomorrow.

The Importance of Taking Personal Inventory

It's time to kick back and take inventory.

I often find myself rushing from one thing to the next without a moment to take a breath.
 
My attention gets stuck going over what has happened and I worry about what might  happen meaning I completely miss out on what is happening in the ‘here-and-now’.

I need to think about what I'm doing ... where I'm going ... while appreciating what I've got.

So ... here's what I'm going to do.

1. Go to the Beach!  Inventory is best taken on the beach.

2. Pack a cooler! Inventory is best accomplished with cold libations.

3. Take off my clothes! Taking inventory begins by lessening inventory and freeing yourself from external obligations.

4. Put on sunscreen and get Sarah to help! Everybody needs help taking inventory. You just have to be careful about getting the right kind of help.

5. Leave the Plastic Bags and Bottles behind! Neither have anything to do with taking inventory but on the beach where we live they are major revenue generators for a bloated and gluttonous Government and could disrupt taking inventory because you're repeatedly ticketed.

6. Lay out an array of Sarah's bikinis! I may need time to pause from reflecting on life and substitute it with pure, unadulterated lust ... which will help me later ... if I ever get back to taking inventory.

7. "Toes in the water ... ass in the sand ... cold beer in my hand!" It is crucial to assume the proper position when taking inventory.

8 -10. Whatever.

Sarah just informed me we have a child's soccer game to attend this morning and a dance recital downtown tonight.

Loving my wife and all our kids I enthusiastically receive this news.

"That's great Babes," I smile, "Inventory will have to wait until tomorrow."

She goes inside to get ready.

Propping my feet on the beloved back deck ... I open the already packed cooler and toast my day.

The Inspiration behind the Creation

I'm trekking to the Seminary Library to check out the latest edition of "Christianity and Social Work" only because ... I have an article in it.

It's the first time I'm published.

My  7 year old son and constant companion Jeremy accompanies me because he has no choice.

In the hallowed halls of the Library, as a lover of books and ideas, I see my name in print for the very first time, proudly showing it to my son and am deeply moved I've accomplished something.

"There's something to leave behind after I'm gone," I think to myself. "Jeremy and his sister Kristen can always point to this as a testimony that I at least accomplished this."

A few years later chewing tobacco with Will D. Campbell in his cabin in Mt. Juliet, Tennessee I'm complaining my first book "The Society of Salty Saints" isn't at the top of the International Best List.

Spitting in the golden Spittoon he laughs and asks, "Do you know how many people who've never published a book at all?"

Will's book "Brother to a Dragonfly" was a finalist for the National Book Award and he's a famous minister, activist and author who with a single question puts me in my place.

Everyone wants to write a book but few do; I have so what am I complaining about?

"Let's go to 'Gasser's and get some lunch," Will suggests so we pile in his rusty pickup truck and bump down an old dirt road.

A decade later Savannah Business leader Rick Winger and I are hosting a potential supporter for lunch in "The Starfish Café", a culinary arts program for homeless people and functioning restaurant and he says, "Tell him how many books you've written."

"Eight," I reply.

"EIGHT!" Rick exclaims. "I had no idea!" ... meaning he hadn't read any.

Another decade passes and my wife tells me it's time to write books again which I've now done and have learned that it's about the writing ... the creation of images and ideas using words ... that satisfies me.

Sarah's typically mum about anything I write but I am arrogant and honest enough to admit it "rocks my socks" so many people read it every day ... and that over the years a lot bought books ... and even more ... they take time to write me and share themselves after I've shared myself.

When all's said and done it is really is all about the sharing.

Several days ago Sarah pulls out all the books, stacks them up and takes their picture and since then I've taken time to appreciate how each and every one came about from the perspective of distance ... focusing on "How was this one conceived?" ... because they're all old now.

I wanted to remind myself of the inspiration behind the creation.

It's been a good trip down memory lane but ... as I'm fond of saying ... "Thank God that's over!" ... I've got more inspiration to find ... other things to create.

Besides ... Winston The Little Gay Dog is driving me nuts with his anticipation of the next book.

Have I mentioned that Winston, TLGD, is a Son-of-a-bitch ... and I mean that literally.

Plus I want to go to the Beach.

The Next One

Sitting on the beloved back deck working on my all over tan my beautiful wife Sarah puts her arms around me and lustfully whispers in my ear ... "I want you to write a book about Winton."

"WHAT?" I yell standing up dangling in front of her.

Kissing me on the cheek, she smiles, turns around and sings as she opens the sliding glass doors, "Let me know when it's done."

Winston is our dog.

He is gay.

Everyone who meets him immediately says, "He is gay."

He is who he is ... which is who God created him to be ... and we love him though he's a Diva ... and I personally call him "The Little Son of a Bitch" which I mean literally ... and he adores Sarah with everything he is.

"How in the Hell am I supposed to write a book about a gay dog?"

Then I get to thinking ... I've never seen a book about a gay dog ... it'd be nice to be the first ... there's bound to be lots of Gay dog lovers and ... lots of dogs who love their Gay parents.

Once again Sarah is right!

It takes a while to find the story but once I do it comes out quickly.

It's a children's book.

Goddess, my mostly Golden Retriever, and I live alone ... then Sarah and three little girls move in and we become a family ... and Sarah brings Winston home one day in her Perce.

Winston is a puppy, just starting his formative years and while he and Goddess are boarded at the Kennel ... he learns who he really is when he falls in love with Butch ... the German Shepard.

I can't give away the rest of the story because the books not out yet.

It's a dog lover's book though because ... it's entirely from Goddess' perspective.

It's a God-loves-people book too because ... it's entirely about how God loves people as they are.

It's also a blended family book because ... it's more than half of us.

The book's been brilliantly illustrated by Eddie Woods and has gotten rave reviews from both our Gay, Straight and Blended Family Friends.

In today's publishing world we're looking for "backers" to bring it life so everyone can hold it in their hands.

In the meantime ... Winston, The Little Gay Dog grows impatient.

There is nothing worse than an impatient Diva.

Happiness

Nine years come and go.

A lot happens.

By 2006 I'm  writing a daily blog covering whatever's happening in my life. Beginning as a work blog about solving homelessness and other social problems in America the higher ups at work hate it.

I often delve into the personal costs of being "Savior" but many Board of Directors are increasingly corporate, anti-technological, private and uncomfortable with the open sharing of "blogging."

The personal costs of being a "Savior" has mounted into divorce, loneliness, anger, burnout and bitterness.

Then ... as briefly as Jesus dies on the cross ... that whole piece of my life is killed too.

And just as a little while later Jesus says "I'M BAACCKK," ... I am too but no longer with the burden of keeping anyone happy for a living.

I write with reckless abandon ... for me ... and am pleased to learn that others resonate with the daily blog.

My life settles into new routines that Sarah completely disrupts when I fall hopelessly in love with her, we marry and suddenly I am "the parental advisor" and loving friend to three little girls.

Without the work my life becomes full again.

"It's time for you to write a book," Sarah informs me as I blissfully sit naked on the beloved back deck working on my tan.

"Do I have to?" I sigh.

"It'll be good for you," she insists.

"I don't want to," I protest.

"Please," she whispers in a hug. "Do it for me."

That's how "Sandy Bottoms & Duct Tapped Hearts" is born.

It's really a love story of how a sad, broken man becomes full again.

Sarah and I do the book together as she's the Publisher and I'm the writer ... meaning she overrides my decisions and deletes several things I wrote but ... she's right and holding it in my hands ... I feel joy dripping from it's pages.

I'd never written a "Happy" book before.

It feels good to hold happiness in your hand.

Everyone deserves that.
 

The Best Things

Like most great ideas this one started stupidly.

Natalie Jayroe has money she can't figure out how to spend so she approaches me suggesting we start a culinary arts program in a homeless shelter.

It's not the kind of idea you hear every day ... so I'm in!

Some food company I can't recall has given her $10 Grand to teach the hungry to feed themselves and time's running out because whoever it was wants their money back if she doesn't deliver.

A couple of weeks later homeless people in a homeless shelter kitchen learn to become culinary experts under the supervision of Chef Mike ... a culinary instructor at Savannah Technical College AND ... a Catholic Priest ... you don't see that combination very often either.

Everybody graduates the class and ... totally shocking all involved ... every single one is immediately hired.

CNN shows up to do a story which repeatedly runs over a holiday weekend and suddenly we're all rock stars.

We continue repeating the class and homeless people continue to get jobs!

What does one do with such a successful beginning other than lose their minds and decide to open a restaurant?

Which is how "The Starfish Café" came to be born.

It's a wickedly wonderful showcase of teaching, helping the poor by eating a great meal, in a tremendous ambiance with rotating funky art.

The TODAY Show does live broadcasts.

What do we do after opening a successful restaurant other than lose our collective minds and decide to publish a cookbook?

Which is how "The Starfish Café Cookbook" was published.

It's my idea because I've learned cookbooks outsell every other genre except the Bible.

The students and Chefs come up with recipes, I write stories about the students, John Zeuli takes pictures and we pay a boatload of money we don't have to be published.

Immediately "The Tabasco Company" gives it an award for being the most innovative cookbook ever.

THEN ... nobody buys it.

I mean it really tanks and we're using it to stick one under the short leg of the kitchen table to keep it level or to throw at feral cats who come too close.

THEN ... the story gets even better!

I was the first owner of "The Starfish Café" ... my wife Sarah was the last ... well I think there was somebody else after her but they just shut it down.

The Starfish Café is a wonderful idea that has a great run but ... nothing last forever.

The building remains, looking remarkably as it did then but ... it's just a shell of things which no longer exists.

Sarah and Chef Paul are having lunch today ... Paul was the last great instructor of "The Starfish Café" and the two remain very close as everyone's moved on to other things.

Though Sarah and I do have a copy of this award winning cookbook that nobody bought to remind us that the best things ... like us ... often come out of the worse circumstances.

Charlie the Christmas Coral

Laying in the dark, going through a divorce, living in a borrowed house, my six year old daughter and I make up bed time stories.

I say a sentence.

She says a sentence.

We repeat until the story is complete and fall asleep loving one another deeply.

Living at and loving the Beach our stories tend to be nautical in nature.

"Charlie the coral wanted to be a Christmas Tree," the story begins.

"He'd seen one once on a boat passing over his head," it unfolds.

There's a back story to Charlie.

My Brother-in-law Michael Thompson and I are snorkeling off Cemetery Beach in Grand Cayman Island and I see a lump of coral on the bottom of the ocean that's shaped like a Christmas Tree.

More impressively small blue, green and purple fish are feeding off of it looking like brightly colored ornaments.

"Did you see that?" I ask Michael when we surface.

"See what?" he replies.

Sometimes in life you just have to believe in what you know you saw in spite of doubt.

Years later, Chelsea and I ... laying in the bleakness of dark times ... bring Charlie to life ... one sentence at a time.

It's a story about finding yourself ... believing in who you want to be ... not listening to the naysayers ... discovering who your friends are ... and making the leap of faith.

All that takes place in four pages.

That Christmas I had little money ... so I type out the stories Chelsea and I had made up. She drew some illustrations and I got some help on some others and made a book with a limited run of copies.

Chelsea loved it and it's a reminder of a little girl's love through really tough times.

So Charlie the Coral has a very special place in my heart.

And whenever I need the Spirit of Christmas I have a detailed description of the gloriousness of the underwater Tree Charlie is today.

The Most Hated One

"Tour of Homes"... takes readers on a fascinating, disturbing, and yet often hilarious journey across the political landscape of a town trying to deal with the economic reality of too many sick people, not enough services for them, and health care struggling for survival. Elliott exposes the administrative travails of health-care management."

That's pretty good!

After "Out from Under the Rock" I'm really into honest writing and "fiction" is the best way to honestly write so "Tour of Homes" is a novel.

It's a big novel ... meaning a large book ... 368 pages!

I'm really into Pat Conroy novels at the time ... and Conroy writes really big novels about himself ... so I decide I want to do that ... so I do.

It's my sex/drugs/rock-and-roll book and there's lots of all three.

It's a fictional look at my life up to that point with the names slightly changed so I can say whatever-the-Hell I want ... meaning the truth as I understand it.

A "professional reader" in Los Angeles is hired to read it first because ... I'm friends with the wife of the Publisher ... so he can't trust me ... and pays for an objective opinion.

The "reader" loves it so ... in spite of the Publisher's misgivings ... a book is born.

The people of Savannah, where it's set, hate it.

"Why did you write that?" everyone seems to ask at the same time ... but the Mayor really rakes me over the coals one day in his office.

"You didn't say much nice about Savannah," he lectures. "Too many people are killed unnecessarily in your book."

"Well," I answer, "too many people are killed
 unnecessarily in Savannah!"

"Well I hate it," he says standing up.

"Yeah me too," I reply talking about something else entirely.

It's hard to live an honest life which is why fiction exists.

The other day I met with some friends of some friends on Tybee Island who want me to perform their wedding ceremony.

Afterwards we're talking and the friends say, "So when we were thinking about moving here ... we read Tour of Homes and were introduced to the dark sides of Savannah and Tybee ... it really helped us understand what living here is really like ... and what to expect ... thanks."

I tell Sarah when I get home ... still stunned by the words.

The other thing I remember about "Tour of Homes" is how many people tell me they hate me for writing it.

Lots of people I believed were friends tell me where to go as they walk away from my life.

I learn a lot.

And it's a long time before another book comes along.