Finding Musical Common Ground

Lately I've been reading ... when I read rather than write ... biographies of the rock stars who were so significant to influencing who I've become.

George Harrison, John Lennon, Neil Young, Linda Ronstadt, Johnny Cash, Eric Clapton, Carly Simon, Graham Nash, Bob Marley ... it's a big list.

Driving home after retrieving Maddie, the 14 year old who knows everything, we listen to "her" music ... mostly "Spoken Word" recorded over a monotonous computer generated drum beat and an occasional other instrument.

She dances and gyrates in her seat just like I did all those years ago, singing along, knowing every, mostly profane word.

"Is every song about fu#king?" I ask her.

"Yeah," she replies rolling her eyes.

"Hmmm," I shrug because, God knows, I've got nothing against sex, drugs and Rock-n-Roll.

"WHY IS IT SO LOUD?" Maddie screams.

I cannot understand the child as I pick her up from school blasting Derick & the Dominos "Why does love got to be so sad?" from the Bose speakers through the open sun roof and rolled down windows.

My music's loud.

Hers is repetitious, rhyming raps about ramming and relieving one's self in a raspberry tart.

I struggle to remain open minded.

I like sex as much as anybody!

It's especially good with music.

I wish Maddie's had some.

But her generation finds value in it in ways I can't appreciate though I try reminding me of my Dad trying really hard to find common ground with me as I blasted "Why Don't We Do It In the Road" on the radio in the 69 Impala as he drove me to School.

Praying to ourselves

Sitting in the back of the bus surrounded by Southern Baptist Ministers making our way back to Louisville from Washington D.C. which we had failed to save.

Everyone wore three piece suits with their vest unbuttoned to relax except me.

I wore blue jeans, Hushpuppies, a plaid button down, sock tie and corduroy jacket with my feet propped on the seat in front of me trying not to burp.

I sucked down a couple of beers before getting on the bus and didn't want to burp on the fact with my ... peers.

"Let's pray for our country," sighs the Pastor of the Lyndon Baptist Church.

"Why?" I ask covering my mouth.

"So that the Lord will intervene and again use our country to glorify the Lord," he booms.

I burp.

My peers eye me with grave suspicion before bellowing, "WE NEED THE LORD TO INTERVENE!"

"I don't know guys," I say sitting up, "I think he already has."

"We need God to do it again!" they spit demandingly.

"It's hard to do anything twice just as good as the first time," I explain.

Buttoning their vests to go to work on one of their own, the Pastor of the Highland Baptist Church asks, "Just what do you think prayer is?"

"I dunno ... I think it's pretty much us talking to ourselves and hoping God's listening. I think it's pretentious to always be asking for something when God's already given us everything."

A long moment of silence follows before the Pastor of the Beulah Land Bible Baptist Church exclaims "You're not one of us! The Bible proclaims God will deliver unto us everything we need."

"Yeah, yeah," I wave him off, "but not everything we want."

The Pastor of the Colgate Baptist Church ... home of the brightest smiles under Heaven ... starts to pronounce me a pagan and a Heathen but the other stop him as they all move to front seats on the bus.

"What's prayer?" asks Frederick Buechner.  "It's shooting shafts into the dark. What mark they strike, if any, who's to say?"

It's reaching for a hand you cannot touch.

The silence is so fathomless that prayers like plummets vanish in the sea."

You beg.

You whimper.

You load God down with empty praise.

You tell him sins that he already knows full well.

You seek to change his changeless will ...

Yet ... Prayer is the wind that fills {the} sail. Else waves would dash {us} on the rocks, or {we} would drift with witless tides.

And sometimes, by God's grace, a prayer is heard.

Almost Time

According to a reliable source ... Facebook ... Al Sharpton will leave the United States if Donald Trump's elected President.

Of course Russ Limbaugh apparently said the same thing if Obama were elected but he's still here.

Lots of people say such things but they don't mean it.

On the other hand, I'm ready.

Belize ... San Salvador ... Costa Rica ... the littler Caribbean Islands ...

It's sunny and bright here but there's a chill in the air which I'd just assume never experience again.

Government's out of control in America ... from the insanity of Washington D.C. to the retirement community/police state of Tybee Island ... and it's getting worse with no end in sight.

So called "Leaders" are anything but pretentious pretenders.

I've done my stint trying to make the world a better place and though we did lots of good, everything comes with a cost and thirty years of saintly work has left me cynical and weary of intolerance.

I'm ready to step back to a simpler, more trusting time where winter comes, the Ocean is aqua-blue and clothing's only occasionally necessary.

We can't do it right now because of responsibilities we're committed to fulfill mostly centering around divorce decrees and little girls.

But there's an excitement bubbling inside of Sarah and me about what's coming!

It can't get here soon enough but dreams take time to become reality.

We're completely finishing our current dream real before shipping off for the next one ... which we can see ... almost taste ... just over the Ocean's horizon.

Facebook Praying

As a semi-Professional Christian (I only do it on Sundays) I've noticed people increasingly straying away from Church and taking their prayers to Facebook.

I've been reading lately because ... it's important to stay on top of the latest Christian ways to follow Christ.

Like ... "Jesus I'm on my knees asking where I'm needed and wanted."

Now that's funny.

Or ... "This dog was badly burned and disfigured trying to save his family in a house fire! 1 like = 1 prayer ... 1 share = 10 prayers."

Holy Jesus!

"Dear Lord put your arm around my shoulder and your hand across my mouth."

Well ... Amen to that one.

"Please God... Thank You! for .... Sorry about .... Are You sure I should... Ok, You got me there ..."

Only God knows what the Hell this is one's about.

"Oh Lord please don't let me fu*k this up."

That's an honest prayer.

I could go on but apparently if I don't share this with fifty other friends I'm going to Hell today.

It's not all that.

I've already been.

But Holy Mary Mother of God ... or Holy Baby Momma ... there are some funny prayers on Facebook.

Because if you take it to Facebook you're like Jimmy Swaggart who once said, "If I don't preach today, millions are going to Hell."

Which leads me to say my prayer for today ... "Jesus Christ."

 

Better Days

In a recent study it is noted that "Getting out of bed sharply increases risk of things getting even worse."

Hoo-boy!

Some days it is certainly true!

I know many who believe it's best to simply remain in bed until somebody drags them out or ... they have to pee so badly they get up ... though honestly some are so adverse to things getting worse they simply pee their beds.

I'm okay with mornings and believe every one is a chance to start over, regardless of how bad the last day was.

Some days are continuations of the previous one and if things are great ... well ... it's wonderful.

If things are bad however ... it makes you want to go back to bed and wait to start over on another day.

We all have them.

When they happen, I think it best that in spite of what's happening, it's not going to last ... remind myself to try to learn what got me here so I can do my best to not repeat it and remember God's still gifted me this day to live.

Lot's of others aren't so lucky.

So I try to repair my wrongs, enjoy what I've been given, appreciate what got me here, put myself in a position to celebrate better days.

It's either that or slowly die in a pee stained bed.

The Burning of the Tree

I finally burned the Christmas Tree last night.

Yep ... the one from December.

First Sarah allows me to keep it up and decorated in our house until after the Super Bowl ... the official end of the Holiday Season.

In spite of the brown needles, the aroma of Christmas wafts through the rottenness of January into the first full week of February ... then winter's almost over ... and who really gives a rat's ass about winter.

Well ... except for Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) who lost his mind a long time ago at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary ... along with lots of other up-and-coming "Professional Christians" ... who loves snow.

And the girls who love ice skating ... outside ... on actual ice ... which is C.O.L.D. ... but I retain high hopes they will grow out of it.

Anyway ... after taking the Christmas Tree down and throwing it on the Beloved Back Deck, I wait until it's warm enough to actually sit outside and burn it.

Yesterday was such a day.

The windows are open ... the sliding glass doors are too ... so I cut up the Christmas Tree and burn it in the fire pit.

Just like Jesus and the Little Drummer Boy commanded us to do in the Bible.

Christmas Trees burn with a SNAP ... CRACKLE ... and POP ... unlike ordinary trees.

I hate giving up the Tree but am very excited about Spring and warm weather so it makes everything better.

So happy burning of the tree!

Merry Spring to all!

Summers almost here!

An Honest Church Belletin

I wonder if God gives a damn the Bulletins aren't done in time for Bar Church.

It's my fault.

I'm supposed to email whatever's inside to Mary by Thursday but life's awful busy these days and I didn't get it to her in time.

Honestly I've always been a bit suspicious of Bulletins anyway.

Worship officially starts at 11:00 on Sunday morning ... white people over there ... black people on the other side ... God forbid they mix ... and while you can act religious prior to worship beginning it's not real worship until 11:00 ... thus the Bulletin tells me so.

I always thought it would be funny to do a Bulletin like this.

11:00 Worship Begins

11:01 Sing a Hymn

11:05 Have a Prayer

11:12 Join the Pastor in saying "Amen" ... allow for 10 more minutes of praying if the Church is African-American, Pentecostal or Southern Baptist.

11:13 - 11:25 Announcements ... meaning ... you're going to be hit up to do things for free that the "Professional Christians are paid to do."

11:26 - 11:30 Another Hymn

11:31 - 11:35 Special Music ... meaning ... the good stuff's happening ... at least as good as the Church has to offer ... it's sort of "God Idol" instead of "American Idol" ... some Churches got really good stuff ... others should go home before even trying.


11:35-11:40 While really sappy piano and organ music is played ... the offering plates are passed because nothing is free ... you have to pay for the sermon before you hear it ... unlike tipping ... you gotta buy something you haven't heard yet ... and it's often God awful!

(Now ... in my Bulletin ... this would happen.)

11:41 GOD ARRIVES

(The reality in Church Bulletins.)

11:41 The Sermon

11:42 People get fidgety, check out the legs of the girls wearing dresses ... the asses of boys ... I-phone ... read the rest of the Bulletin ... stare out the stained glass wishing it will all be over soon.

12:00 - God knows when ... it's over.

12:01 - God knows when ... Postlude.

Now that's an honest Church Bulletin!

Everything's pretty much true except what happens at 11:41.

Why Not? It's Free!

"Why are you here?"

"I'm the Chaplain."

"You don't look like a Chaplain."

"Thanks."

"I don't care about that stuff," she snarls. "I ain't religious. Church is a mean place that ain't never done good for me. I don't want it. I don't want you."

"That cool," I shrug.

It's important to know what you don't want in life so you can back into what you do want ... everyone's got their own way doing things.

She's old and dying ... bitter and angry about it ... full of regrets ... pissed at God and everybody else ... loving daily cocktails of morphine and Vodka.

"Well," I say standing to leave, "you sure you don't want me to pray with you? It's free?"

"Ain't nothing free," she snaps.

"This is. The Government's paying for it."

"What?" she asks sitting up in her chair and lighting another cigarette.

"Medicaid," I answer. "It's part of the package. But if you don't want it ..."

"No," she snaps. "I want everything I can get."

"You sure?"

"You damn right I do."

So we pray.

Give me your song

"I have to choose the songs for my funeral," she says.

"Beatles or Stones?" I ask.

Making a face, the 105 year old lady gives me a look of confusion, followed by an intense death stare by one who is dying.

"Elvis?"

Sitting up in bed and grabbing my hand she snarls, "I hate Elvis."

"Sinatra?" I whimper ... giving up.

"Why don't you get a truck and draw a crowd?" she sighs.

"Seriously?" I laugh ... it's an old saying ... if you want to draw attention to yourself ... get a truck ... stand in the back ... preach ... and draw a crowd.

If you're good.

"Why don't you pick a song?" I suggest holding her hand in the Hospital bed in her living room.

Struggling ... making faces under askew white hair ... she confesses, "I can't remember any."

"I'll fly away," I offer.

Her face lights like a blazing star and a hundred years evaporates leaving a glimpse of who she was.

"You like that one?"

Nodding, she says, "I don't want no sad, dumpy songs."

"It's your funeral," I reply squeezing her hand.

"My family don't like to talk about it," she whispers.

"They don't have to come."

She giggles.

"Listen," I say standing up but leaning over speaking softly in her ear, "I can't pick all the songs. It's your funeral ... not mine. Next time I see you ... give me your song."

"I'll try," she replies sipping water from a large straw.

"Alright," I say kissing her forehead. "Don't die before you give me your song."

"I won't," she laughs.

"Holding you to it."

Shaking her head, she smiles ... struggling to remember a song.

Today is Sarah's Day

She takes my breath away.

Strolling from the kitchen to the Living Room where she sits reading a book, legs curled up underneath her, wearing ripped jeans and a blue "Hoodie" and glasses ...

Venus de Milo comes in a distant second to Sarah.

Every single day she does something to give me pause ... even when she's doing nothing at all ... or driving me crazy by talking things out and it takes six times saying the same thing ... or reading a book curled on the sofa.

She drips beauty.

At dinner last night with friends and a table full of kids, she kept catching my eye, giving me pause, making my loins stir in a public place ... giving me happiness by listening to others talk ... or occasionally letting me catch her eye ... and sharing secrets only we share.

Later I share the sofa with her as slowly slumber until it's time to help one another to bed.

In my life, there've been broken bones, a ripped heart, a lost mind ... on more than one occasion.

Today ... Valentines of all days ... I'm happily healed, with a cup that runneth over and extremely focused on the present.

It's because of my wife.

Who gives me pause as she takes my breath away.

Name Calling

I've been called lots of names in my life.

It doesn't bother me.

Once I was in the City Manger's office of a small island community arguing over being charged double for our water bill for three years.

The issue was the City believed the girls rooms downstairs doubled as an apartment Sarah and I rented out for extra income.

If you have girls ... especially three of them ... there is no such thing as extra income ... girls suck it out of the air before you ever make it out of work.

Regardless, aforementioned City Manager pressed my credibility as a sayer of truth by shaking her head and signing, "And you're a Baptist Minister."

"I been called worse," I fired back.

The City Councilman sitting to my left, spun his head towards me and busted out laughing.

The Mayor, sitting to his left, shook his head and suppressed his grin.

Water bills are a big ass deal on this small island community with a Government near the size of Atlanta.

The matter was resolved out of court and we're co-existing happily ever after.

So being called names doesn't bother me.

Sticks and stones and such.

But this morning Cassidy, the 9 year old, stumbles into the kitchen, blond hair askew from her pillow, dragging her blankie, and says, "Daddy ... I mean Micheal."

It gives me pause.

I'm not or ever will be the girls "Daddy" but there are days I'm pretty damn close.

In spite of the names the girls call me ... and they call me many ... they mostly call me "Micheal" ... though sometimes it is so filled with love and appreciation ... it leaves me without words.

Only feelings.

Give me a break

In Jimmy Buffett's wonderful Christmas song "HO HO HO and a bottle of Rum," Santa's done with Christmas, run off to the Caribbean, drinks rum while working on his tan with his toes in the surf.

As the song fades we hear, "Don't worry kiddies. Santa needs a break. We all need a break. He'll be back in time for Christmas."

I couldn't agree more.

We all need a break.

My breaks of choice are in the Caribbean or Bahamas though Sarah has the ability to talk me into a break most anywhere!

For the first time in more than half a decade I'm taking from writing every day.

Oh I still write or think about things to write but life's busy in other areas these days.

Writing requires time alone and giving your heart and mind the freedom to go wherever they will and having the guts to share it.

I've got everything except the time right now.

Besides I'm a bit over obligated ... Parental advisor in love with the girls, keeping up with the kids, Bar Church, writer for "The Beachcomber", content creator for customers on Social Media, player at the Monty Parks Tuesday Night Jam, caretaker of two dogs, a cat and a Guardian Angel and loving husband of Sarah seems to have zapped all my time.

Oh yeah, and I'm working full time again.

Sarah and I need a break.

It's started with the writing and is building itself in to a plan to get the Hell out of here for a while.

You know why?

Because we all need a break.

Everybody does. 

A Typical Friday Night

"Can I lay with you?" she asks.

Patting my legs, nine year old Cassidy heavily plops 70 pounds of skin, bones and flowing blond hair on my aging knees covering us with her blanket.

Her frustrated mother is on Cass's phone undoing whatever it is the child has done to it.

Needing assurance that every little thing's gonna be alright, she lays on top of me to watch our Friday night movie.

Laurel, the 11 year old, has already knocked over my full glass of red wine, on the rug in front of the television, throwing some rags on it I could use to clean up the mess.

It's my fault, of course, for having wine with the movie.

Because it was an accident ... her code word for "I assume no responsibility for whatever it is I've done" ... Laurel immediately pretends to fall asleep on the sofa so she doesn't have to help me clean up the wine spill.

Maddie, the clueless 14 year old who knows everything,  is in her room downstairs.

One day soon, Sarah and I plan to send an excavation team to look for her ... once we can afford it.

"What I love about you," a broker buying my lunch in a Longhorn's Steakhouse said once upon a time, "is how you keep re-inventing yourself."

Boy have I!

Sarah meanders back to her spot on the sofa beside Winston, the Little Gay dog, assuring Cass everything is fixed and ordering her to never do it again.

I'm no longer necessary so the 9 year old snuggles with her Mom.

Taking pity on me Goddess, the mostly golden retriever, wanders out to take Cass's place.

"I have to get more wine tomorrow," I tell myself.

"You haven't rubbed my feet since Monday," Sarah says.

I love rubbing my wife's feet with lotion at night as we mindlessly watch whatever we watch so I throw Goddess off to grab the lotion and pour love between her toes.

"Do mine," Cass demands.

"Hell No!" I reply.

It's time for your Mom.

It's a typical Friday night at our house.

I love what I've become ... and am becoming ... looking forward to the girls going to College ... but already missing like Hell when they're gone.

An Unreturned Call

Once upon a time .. when I was a "Professional Christian" ... paid good money to do what I asked others to do for free ... I got all pissed off about something and decided to call Baptist Corporate Headquarters in Nashville.

"Hello," a secretary righteously answers.

"May I speak to Dr. Criswell please?"

"Silly," she replies, "he's the past President of the Convention. Dr. Baily Smith is the current President."

"Doesn't Dr. Criswell still run things?"

"Of course," she coos, "just as God ordained."

I giggle remembering being in Chapel service at THE Southern Baptist Theological Seminary ... singing, "My hope is built on nothing less than Scofield notes and Broadman Press ... I was part of the radical fringe."

Ah ... good times!

"Who's the highest person there I can speak to?" I prod.

"Um, Dr. Rogers is on the 5th floor."

The thing about Southern Baptist is they are "literalists."

"No honey, I don't mean how high up they are ... who has the most power I can speak to?"

"I'd have to ask Dr. Criswell," she quickly answers.

"Can I have his number?"

She laughs. "Do you know Dr. Criswell?"

"We've met," I answer. "It was in the bathroom of the Southern Baptist Convention in Dallas. He was at the urinal next to me. We spoke but he didn't want to shake hands."

"I see," she says, suddenly serious. "I can take a message."

"Fine. Have him call me."

She takes my number and gives me hers.

He never did return the call.

To this day it bothers me.

And I wonder why.

The February Strategy

No football on today.

But it's not as cold as it has been and the high supposed to be 70 and the sun is bright ... the skies are blue.

It's almost time to take down the Christmas Tree.

Cold January days are better with football and Christmas Tree lights.

Who cares if the Tree's turning brown?

They make January bearable.

It is my next to last favorite month.

February is the worst.

Football's over, the Christmas Tree comes down, the weather typically sucks and I'm ready to expatriate to littler Latitudes.

Sure there's Valentine's Day but Cupid would shoot himself rather than brave the cold.

What do you do except learn to cope?

Especially since I'm not in the position to expatriate yet?

This morning I just crawled back in bed with Sarah which seemed to work pretty good.

I think this may be the February strategy.

See you in March!

Can you Dig it?

"Who's the black private dick whose a sex machine to all the chicks?"

"Shaft?"

"You're damn right!'

I love "Love Songs" and this one is a "Bad Mother!"

I've wanted to use that line to start a blog forever!!

It's one of the few songs where I can play drums.

It's all two hands on a cymbal and a foot on a pedal.

It took me forever to learn but I did and played it at the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, Georgia once where ... things didn't go too well.

Pastor "Fireball" Johnson simply could not "dig it" and kicked us out of the Sanctuary.

But Pastor Johnson was "a complicated man and no one understands him but his woman."

But I could dig it.

The First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, Georgia certainly was NOT into "black private dicks" ... or black people in general at the time.

A few weeks later Pastor "Fireball" Johnson felt bad and invited us back to play again in the Sanctuary and this time I played guitar and sang ... with John Brewton on drums ... Jimmy Buffet's "Pencil Thin Moustache."

Pastor "Fireball" Johnson was not amused.

I remember him ripping out the sound system while quoting lots of Scripture.

God "called" him to another Church soon afterwards.

Making it funnier is ... I left soon afterwards and ended up in Seminary.

Yep ... I was willing to "risk my neck for brother man."

A lot's happened since then but ... when the drum solo to "Shaft" starts ... anywhere ... anytime ... my feet start to move and you can "Shut yo' mouth."

Perhaps it's because I'm a complicated man too.

You know ... the cat who won't cop out.

Can you dig it?

Finding the Time

The thing about writing is you have to give it time.

I seem to find myself without much of that precious commodity right now.

In the biggest sense it's running out, running short or slowing down and in the shortest sense I find myself in a hurry to leave, to clean, to cook and to rest.

You can't do it all of course but we sure lie to ourselves and say we can.

For six years now I've poured my truths out virtually ever day and people took it or left it ... I learned to notice but not care too much.

Before that I told stories and said things in books which no one reads anymore but they exist to prove I was alive for anyone caring enough to know.

My greatest stories have yet to be written.

Luke Danger ... Che ... are real lives waiting to be created.

They already exists to me ... to Sarah ... they just haven't been born yet.

I've got to write them out, as our son Jeremy puts it.

Stories come in their time ... not in mine.

I've learned that through all this writing I've done.

In the meantime you find the time to wait until it's their time.

My Interview with the Grim Reeper

I'm here with Death, also known as the Grim Reaper, The Destroyer, The Hooded One, The Angel of Death, & The "God" of Death.

Knowing he's been around, I fSHE's agreed to answer a few questions.
inally tracked him down personally and after much persuasion

The first thing to know about the Grim Reaper is she's a woman.

Honestly I'm a bit surprised and I don't know why I presumed Death is exclusively man work so I want to begin by apologizing.

"Oh that's all right. If I think people are too sexist I just take them ... you know what I'm saying?"

"You're still here so I'm alright with you."

"Besides I don't know why everybody's so shocked to find out I'm female. Like all women I'm into fashion and set the trend to dress in black ages ago! That's why so many women dress in black today and I'm happy to see it crossing over sexual lines and men dressing in black too ... especially in large urban areas and across Europe."

Thanks again. I've got several questions everybody's always wanted to ask you so do you mind if we get right to it?

"Not at all."

Good! Okay first question ... Beatles or Stones?

"Well ... obviously The Rolling Stones."

Because of "Sympathy for the Devil"?

"No! Because I'm so sick of the opening riff of 'Satisfaction' it inspires my work. That's why I haven't taken Keith Richards ... I think it hurts him more to listen to that damn opening riff every single day he's alive."

I see.

Next question ... you seem to work in 3's ... meaning people seem to die in 3's ... one ... two ... three ... why is that?

"Honestly it's because I like Sudoku. I can't get enough of it. So three at a time is all I can manage before I take a break and play some more."

Sudoku? Really?

"It's better than wasting time on Facebook."

Right. So ... why are you so white? I'm wearing sunglasses just to conduct this interview. Don't you ever get out in the sun? Have a little Beach time?

"Well I do own a time share in Myrtle Beach which I'm always using to comp customers ..."

Wait! Comp Customers? Who's your customer?

"Funeral Homes, elected officials and televangelists."

Of course ... um ... what can we expect from you in the future?

"More of the same. It's a pretty boring job but ... it's a living."

No Stopping

"You're writing about dying a lot," my friend Clark says in Doc's Bar during Monty Parks "Tybee Night Acoustic Tuesday Jam."

"It's only because so many people keep dying," I answer.

Looking at me with a suspicious eye he asks, "Are you okay?"

"Well," I reply, sipping wine from my Styrofoam cup because it's not cold to touch, "dying's part of living ... it just happens when you least expect it."

"I've been worried about you," he says taking a drawl from his long neck beer.

"I'm good," I answer.

"Okay," he says standing. "It's my turn to play. I gotta go."

It makes me smile.

Playing is the most important part of living.

Clark used to be famous, playing his music on national television, at Dr. Robert Schuler's Crystal Cathedral and God knows where else.

Now he ... and I ... and a crazy cast of others ... play in Bars.

It's Monty Parks fault!

Monty is a musician who thinks he's a politician or ... a politician with a musician's soul ... meaning he's confused as Hell ... just like everybody else elected to Public office ... which is why the Country's so screwed up ... and Tybee has too many Stop Signs, arrogant Police officers and Ministers.

"Hey Clark," I yell as he strolls towards the music, "I ain't going anywhere."

He gives me a thumbs up rushing towards his guitar.

"You good," Monty Parks himself asks? "You going anywhere?"

"Yeah," I answer draining my wine. "I couldn't if I wanted to ... there's too many Stop Signs preventing me from doing so."

"It's for your own good," he says with authority.

"Well thanks then," I reply putting my guitar in its case to get home to Sarah and the girls.

"Do you want ...?" he asks as I rush.

Too late.

I'm already gone.

Running Stop Signs to get home.

When it's Over

I've written two things recently that have blown up. 

Susan Bartoletti was "a billion stars packed inside a diminutive body with a blazing smile that lights dark places, she's riding her Moped home and ... a car doesn't see her ... and the world changes in an instant."

Elmo Weeks was "an unassuming hero who was always there when nobody else wanted to be ... when fathers abandoned their sons ... and death was a way of life."

Both were special people who touched thousands and when I wrote about them ... thousands read, reacted, responded and realized loss is real.

Guardian Angels, Little Gay Dogs, Cat Ladies and Carnivals of Friends don't match the interest in the loss of loved ones.

Neither do living with little girls, Beloved Back Decks, the pungent smell of the Marsh or the sloppy kisses of the Ocean to the Shore.

Or the way I dress, stories from way back when, "Clothing Optional" movements and, definitely, anything political.

Loss of life, be it tragic or anticipated, is a different matter.

It makes me wonder.

When we go to sleep at night, my favorite author Frederick Buechner says, we surrender control of everything believing we'll wake again.

Even when dreams, either good or bad, interrupt, sleep wins until it too, surrenders control.

Sleeping then is sort of practicing for death.

Most believe we'll wake again though the world may be entirely different when we do.

Some sad folks "know" that when you go to sleep ... it's over.

I'm not certain anything's over.

Ever!