Eyes for one

"You know I love you ..."

Anytime somebody begins with that you know it's gonna be bad.

"Can we talk?" is another one. "We've always been able to talk."

"You've been on my mind a lot and there's something I need to tell you."

The best one is, "The Lord's laid it on my heart and I need to share this with you."

The Shit is getting ready to hit the fan!

Meaning it's coming directly at you, launched like a missile and no matter how fast you duck ... it's going to be a direct hit.

Sometimes it's good because you need it.

Most times it's not because it's the last thing you want to hear.

Sitting here watching the ceiling fans swirl, the dogs sleeping at my feet, Elvis crooning quietly in the distance, choirs of birds singing in the distance and full Inbox of people wanting something from me ... I decide they're right!

It's time for a good "talking to."

Except to Hell with what they have to say.

It's time for me to talk to me.

"Writing is really talking to yourself," I heard the other night and that's true.

So is songwriting!

Singers who only do "covers" never get very far because they've got nothing to say ... relying on somebody else to say it for them.

So is preaching for that matter ... though God knows ... as only God can know ... most sermons are not talking to yourself but ... well remember the part about the Shit getting ready to hit the fan?

"You only have eyes for one," I tell myself.

In extreme delight, I agree with myself.

Kissing Sarah's legs in the middle of a Movie last night, she yawns and asks, "What are you doing?" in her little girl voice.

"Nothing," I answer continuing to kiss her legs. "Why?"

"You can't change the channel," she says, "I have to know if he gets his daughter back."

"It'd be a terrible movie if he didn't," I say smacking my lips.

She rolls her eyes.

He gets his daughter back.

Life's good and nothing much needs to be said when both eyes are for one.

The Gift Of Morning

The morning sun blazes through the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt making me squint to see the computer screen.

 

Alicia Bridges is “Loving the Night Life” on Sirius XM but I love mornings.

 

I always have.

 

I suppose Saterday morning cartoons started it all but I love morning sunrises, birds singing in the predawn, sunlight dancing in green leafs, bacon aroma in the air and the chance to start over every single day.

 

Sarah likes to sleep late and that's wonderful but ... lovingly laying in bed beside her ... a single bird starts singing in the predawn turning of black into grey and I listen through the open windows.

 

Soon, a chorus of birds join in.

 

Bullfrogs add bass.

 

Cicada bring violins.

 

The Ocean starts to bubble.

 

The sky turns purple ... then a dark blue ... and God finger paints the sky with pinks and reds.

 

The sun rises.

 

Everything is reborn as Squirrels dance, red headed woodpeckers peck and finches feed.

 

It's the best Church service I've ever attended.

 

And I do my very best to never miss.

 

 

Me Mum

"Don't write about me," Mom chides every time I write about her.

"Why did you write that?" she asks with frequency.

"Stop using cuss words when you write!" she scolds, "you're better than that!"

The thing about my Mother is she's never stopped trying to raise me.

A little perspective ... I'm turning 60 soon.

Mom doesn't care.

She's way too old to be raising me and like most Mothers, she should have given up by now.

There are two problems with my thinking.

First and foremost, my Mother seems to get younger with every passing year ... not older!

She does more than ever, has more friends, goes to more things, and has to work really hard to squeeze me into her social calendar because I'm blocked out by the multitudes who love her, making up reasons to drop by if she's home and excited when she opts to go out ... which is often.

I'm starting to worry about her.

Recently, she's started taking "selfies" and posting them on Facebook.

Maddie, our 14 year old who knows everything except the difference between a sink and a dishwasher, constantly takes selfies of herself.

It makes me worry about what my Mother is becoming.

Second, and I should know this by now, my Mother never ... EVER ... gives up!

She's reinvented herself more times than Michael Jackson, escaped more tragedy than Houdini, broken more glass ceilings for women than Gloria Steinem and outperformed every single man she ever worked for ... meaning she was paid more than them so they quit in anger but ... my Mom kept at it moving higher and higher up the professional landscape.

Mostly she loved my Dad, a seemingly impossible task, because my Father was something ... a giant of a heart with a teenager's soul, a great streak of bad luck surrounded with the best of friends and a sense of humor that could laugh at Hitler ... "Hey Der Furher! I know why you hate Golf ... you always finish in the Bunker."

Mom put up ... even encouraged ... him.

Not me.

I still get in trouble.

It's alright.

I love her to Hell and back.

She's going to get on to me for saying it that way.

It's alright.

I love you Mom.

Thank you for everything.

Happy Day!

Things I Know I Shouldn't Write About

A writer finds inspiration everywhere.

Most of the time it's good inspiration ... the sun bubbling out of the Ocean ... the sound of Cicada singing ... the ticks and pops of mussels in the Marsh at Low Tide ... lovers in the dunes ... the beauty of your love sleeping ... the joy of children ... the fortune of friends.

Sometimes the mind gets carried away and creates new inspiration .... drunken Guardian Angels ... gay dogs ... a Cat Lady ... revised versions of the Bible ... and drunken bicycles.

Life's absurdities make it easy too ...anything most politician says ... or preacher ... television weather ... taxes ... drug laws ... lowest bidder contracts for Highway construction ... and deals too good to be true.

Good Inspiration is everywhere!

And ... so is bad!

For example, my friend Sherri posted an article by "The Huffington Post" ... "The Top 10 Reasons to Visit Tybee Island, Georgia."

It's a good article and mostly true but immediately my mind went to the other side of the story because there are certainly "The Top 10 reasons to NOT VISIT Tybee Island, Georgia."

Nobodies writing about that!

I'm certainly not because it'll get me in more trouble and there's already one City Council Woman who thinks I'm one of Tybee's biggest problems.

But if I were going to write about reasons to NOT VISIT Tybee Island, I'd start with the three Cop Cars it takes to pull over one student dressed in uniform driving to Benedictine Military School at 7:30 in the morning so they can conduct a complete and safe search before giving the kid a ticket.

I've tried to count the number of Stop Signs on the Island but it's like counting the stars in the sky or sand on the beach ... you can't count that high.

Tybee has improved safety for locals and tourists alike by installing new crosswalks and flashing yellow lights warning drivers to stop when someone's crossing the street which works fine at night when you can see the lights flashing but ... in the day time no one notices or cares ... and blow through the crosswalks anyway.

It costs a Quarter for 15 Minutes of Parking at the limited number of meters on the Island which is outrageous for working families ... but God knows feeding bloated Government is more important ... but its more absurd if you go down 12th Street and count the number of yellow curbs where parking meters should be but aren't because ... owners have friends in bloated Government.

Traffic is a nightmare on Tybee Island often taking hours to get on and hours to get off which is especially complicated when three Cop cars pull over High School kids in Military uniforms.

That's just five reasons that immediately popped into my head!

"Don't do it!" I tell myself. "People will get mad."

Especially aforementioned City Council Woman.

So I'm not doing it.

I'm not going to write about the Methodist Church using "Crime Scene" tape to block off their parking lot on the weekend black College kids come ... Parking Services (an oxymoron) ... a Beach Bum Parade that's gotten way out of hand ... a Parade for every occasion mentality ... Tybee Court ... or the blatant prejudice against kids on Tybee.

I'm going to write about better things ... the kids who make love in the Sand Dunes at night ... the good music on this island ... the taste of the best shrimp in the world ... the views of Shrimp Boats catching them ... the roar of the Ocean sloppily kissing the beach at High Tide.

What Stickers?

"Boys," Henry Levy says sitting at the Counter of the Breakfast Club joining the collection of early morning coffee drinkers, "it's time to do something."

"Why?" Johnny O asks.

"Because we haven't done anything in a long time," Henry answers.

"Like what?" Kenny Wade inquires.

"I don't know yet," Hank admits.

"What about a new bumper sticker?" Johnny suggests. "The last one went over really good."

The last one was "Leave only your footprints but take Penn with you."

Penn Myrick was a condo developer on Tybee and, having achieved some success, was driving people crazy who wanted to keep the island just as it's always been.

The problem wasn't the island ... it was Penn.

So Henry hatched the bumper sticker and we plastered it everywhere until Hank got the bright idea to put it in front of the condo Penn lived in ... while Penn and his wide sat on the deck video taping the whole thing.

Henry had to go to Tybee Court, the revenue generating farce of justice administered on island, where he admitted guilt because it was "right thing to do" and nobody disagreed.

No one had given thought to going anything else until Henry, now 80, decides it's time.

"I know," Johnny O finally says, "Elliott just got back from the Nude Beach in St. Martin and it's time Tybee has a 'Clothing Optional' section."

"That's a great idea!" I immediately chime in. "I think it should be between 9th and 14th Streets on the beach. We can rope it off. People in textiles can have the ends of the island."

"Perfect!" Henry says standing up.

So that's what we did.

Henry had a thousand "Clothing Optional" bumper stickers printed and we split into teams ... Henry and Kenny ... me and Johnny ... and we plastered them everywhere!

On every crosswalk leading to the beach ... The Breakfast Club, of course ... all the Churches ... the American Legion ... every single Bar ... it was all going great!

Until Johnny O and I decided it's a good idea to put one on the door of City Hall.

It was not.

We were charged but denied everything.

And to this day, I have no recollection of any "Clothing Optional" stickers ever being on this island.
_________________

"(To Henry Levy ... bringing one to you soon my old friend ... it that Hell hole of a Nursing Home you're in!)

Che

Clare Hope Elliott.

"Che" for short.

That's her name and she is already so many things to me.

A mixture of Sarah and Micheal concocted by none other than God reminds me of my favorite prophet Jeremiah ... who my son Jeremy is named after ... was told by God, "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you."

Isn't it just like God to always know?

Having a baby was the furthest thing from my mind. I've done my time having raised three and am now a full time consultant on three more.

Besides Jeremy's produced the first grandson so I already got a new baby!

Why do I need another?

You're too old! Why would you do that again? Don't you want to live life without those worries? Grandbabies are great because you can love them and leave them whenever you're ready.

God, the number of times I hear these things every damn day.

I don't care.

Sarah grows more beautiful with every passing day of pregnancy so every single day my breath is taken away again.

Of course she's grows more nutty every day so I try to nod and stay quite, backtrack on anything I happen to mistakenly say (which is pretty much everything), try to divert crisis by giving her anything she may want in advance and rub her feet.

It's all pretty jacked.

Then I see Che in an ultrasound ... dancing in real time ... waving ... brushing back her hair ... saying, "Hey Daddy."

I can't seem to locate words at an ultrasound sitting their staring at a miracle.

"Che" ... Clare Hope Elliott ... is Sarah's idea primarily because she needed something to go with the tattoo on her back ... "Joy" ... "Grace" ... "Love" ... the girls middle names.

Clare is a county in Ireland we fell in love when we were there and, having serious cases of "wanderlust", we hope our daughter makes it there one day because we passed it on just as "Elliott" was passed on to me.

Put the first letter of each together and you get "Che" ... one of my Heroes in life ... and I've been to Cuba tracking down his ghost.

"Is her nickname "Che" because she's been "revolutionary" in your life?" a friend of Sarah's asks.

I don't know Joshua but he's got a flair for understatement.

So my darling daughter, I whisper as I kiss your Momma's belly to kiss you this morning, let's get started shall we?

It's a quote from your namesake that, I like to think applies to me.

I know it's going to apply to you.

"Many will call me an adventurer, and that I am, only one of a different sort; one of those who risks his skin to prove his platitudes."

Being Hated

I've seen pure, unadulterated HATE directed exclusively to me only a couple of times in my life.

In a court room seated beside my Lawyer, I turn to see the man bringing charges against me to look him straight in the eyes and what I see is cold, calculating, snarling, evil ... hate.

Previously over lunch in the Starfish Café, a culinary arts training program and functional restaurant for homeless people I helped start, I listen as he berates me to the Chairman of my Board of Directors and keep quite.

Before a meeting of the Chatham County Commission, he berates me too ... calling me a liar and a thief among other things.

I end up wasting a tremendous amount of time trying to understand him, make peace and reconcile leaving me frustrated, bitter and tiptoeing into hating him back.

I never do though, instead framing him as filled with the demons of envy, anger and mental illness.

Later when he's fired because he refusing to resign and it's front page news,  I shrug and say, "What goes around comes around."

A year later, Kathryn, a mutual friend calls to say he has Cancer and his wife decides that's a good time to demand a divorce leaving him to manage it alone.

"Karma," I tell Sarah.

Yesterday I receive word he's died.

Kathryn honors whatever good things he may have done on Facebook.

Staring at his picture ... all I see is his hate.

Over wine after supper, I tell my wife who's very protective of me so she defiantly says, "Well."

"I don't care," I tell her.

And the truth is I don't.

I tried to repeatedly but he wouldn't have any of it and it took me a long time to get over because he was rejecting me and I took it personally.

In retrospect I did the best I could, which is all any of us can do, but he wanted nothing of it.

He did want the things I had ... a job at the top of the pinnacle, a place at the Beach, lots of support publically and privately, awards ... and a reputation as a "Golden Child" sought after by many.

Now, I'm still here and he's not.

I don't know why but it bothers to not give a damn.

Then and Now

After an hour of listening to college students make announcements of ways to serve Jesus by selling Chicken dinners and a retired minister deliver the message validating his retirement, I'm introduced.

It's Deja Vu all over again in the same building I ignored pleas to serve Jesus by selling chicken dinners ... primarily because I'm interested in helping girls call his name out loud and playing music on my guitar.

It strikes me as I'm dressed pretty much the same now as I was then.

Aside from a pull over shirt with a collar instead of a football jersey, it's jeans, no socks and shoes (only because Baptists require them).

Then it was called the Baptist Student Union but now it's Baptist Campus Ministries in a building that looks exactly the same except the bricks are painted red so it resembles the other edifices of Georgia Southern Universities higher education.

"You really serious about helping others find Jesus?" I ask as they much Church made pork bar-b-que, baked beans, green beans, Cole slaw, store bought rolls and the other things Jesus and the Apostles had the Last Supper.

"If you volunteer with us, I guarantee you'll be with them while they're knocking on the door."

I'm pretty pleased with the imagery.

You've seen the picture of Jesus knocking on the door of a heart waiting to be let in.

The kids loudly slurp sweet tea.

"I crawled in bed with this Lady the other day," I continue and the room grows deathly silent ... "and kiss her old wrinkled forehead and ask her what she wants?"

The old retired minister's head falls out of his hand but he jerks himself back in the same position believing that if he does it fast enough no one could noticed it ever happened.

"I'm ready," she whispers with a smile.

"Good, I told her, I'm glad."

"Her mouth breaks into a laugh as her eyes see things somewhere other than the dingy Hospital bed stuck in a corner of the Living Room that is her life."

Several students wipe their eyes with bar-b-que stained white napkins.

"If you want to help Jesus help them," I conclude, "I'll be hanging around after. Let me know."

The old retired minister gives a benediction and the students rush to class as I give thanks to the powers-that-be.

"It hasn't changed at all," I say out loud walking to my car to go visit patients.

Imagine my surprise the following day when I receive an email from Scott, a pre-med student who loves Jesus with everything in him, that reads, "I want to help Jesus help them."

Spilling Secrets

"All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them," said Karen Blixen.

"But what if a person can't tell a story about his sorrows? What if his story tells him?" replied Stephen Grosz.

The first is a great truth and the second is a great question.

Most can't tell their stories because they're scared of embarrassment or looking foolish to others so they turn them into secrets carefully hidden and only shared when there isn't an alternative.

The pain of admitting an affair to a spouse ... the agony of answering the Lawyer's question in the witness box with a whisper ... the look of your own face in the mirror seeing the scars of what you've lived ... the stories always leak out ... the problem with secrets is they can never be kept.

Believe me ... I've tried.

It's human nature though ... going back to Adam and Eve who blamed everyone around when they were busted for forbidden fruit ... but secrets spill out anyway and nothings ever the same after.

Sarah can't keep a secret if her life depended on it, even if it's a wonderful secret like a birthday present or a sweet gift for no reason other than she loves you ... she confesses what it is before you have a chance to find out for yourself.

I'm good with secrets because I've had lots experience keeping them though I try not to anymore.

I turn them into stories ... some painfully true so they're exorcisms of Evil things ... others are masterfully clothed in fiction of Guardian Angels, Cat Ladies and Gay dogs ... and a few are the history of exactly what happened as it happened.

Sarah prefers the later ... I like 'em all.

One way of spilling secrets is no better than another ... we merely have our preferences.

These days I've mostly expelled the secrets of my life though there always seems to be lingering residue ... scars is a better descriptions because ... secrets always leave scars.

Sure, they are things I'd rather you not know but ... in the end ... you're gonna find out anyway ... have a seat ... you want something to drink? ... alright sit back and listen.

"Once upon a time ..."

Giving Up Two Hours

"Well I can cross this off my 'Bucket List'," the 81 year old says taking the last bite of his burger and washing it down with Pilsner.

"What?" I ask sipping wine.

"Having my birthday dinner with you," he grins reaching for the bill.

I'm so humbled I can't speak a word if I could think of one.

This is our first meeting.

We've known each virtually for six years after he wrote me on Facebook, opening his life to me in response to things I share in blogs.

Quickly, I find myself looking forward to our exchanges as we confess who we are and why we think we're here.

He's also on the mess that is my family flow chart .... being the grandfather of my son-in-law Sam.

"You know what I like," he mumbles during his birthday dinner before telling me the answer, "you don't call me 'Mr. Simmons' and we're just talk like two people talking."

It strikes me most talking is condescending on somebody's part.

Will's primary job these days is to care for his wife who made him promise many years ago that, should she quit the Nursing Program to marry him, he'd always take care of her.

He did.

With her dementia ... it's a full time job.

He can safely leave her for maybe two hours at a time.

Those are precious hours and he's given them to me ... on HIS birthday.

"Let's do this again," he says pulling himself up from the chair in the crowded restaurant.

"Anytime," I assure him.

"Next year ... on my birthday," he replies.

"Hell yeah," I say.

So it's a date.

In the meantime ... and this is just for you Buddy ... "Selah".

My Favorite Apostle

I like Judas Iscariot.

He's my favorite Apostle.

I know ... it's not a popular thing to say ... but the Dude had a good heart.

Of the Twelve Disciples, he's the Social Worker of the bunch, lobbying money spent on perfume is better used feeding the hungry and I agree with him.

I like a Pedicure as much as anyone and if Mary Magdalene were rubbing my feet with expensive oil, I'd be pretty happy.

Same with the hair.

If Mary Magdalene wanted to wash my hair and put "product" in it ... I'm a happy guy.

Jesus obviously enjoyed it like I would.

Judas cares for the poor though ... "Why didn't we sell this for a lot of dough and helped the poor?"

That takes balls.

Jesus, being Jesus and all, is tired and needs a break and Mary's making him feel good for the first time in forever ... spends all she's made on the man ... and Judas calls her out on Jesus's on beliefs about the poor.

If you would be perfect then go and sell what you have and give it to the poor ... then you'll have treasure in Heaven so ... come on and follow me."

Busted!

Judas' reminding Jesus of things he'd taught the Disciples.

How can you not love that?

I think Judas was still trying to help the poor when he betrayed Jesus.

He did it to raise the money Mary had spent ... perhaps wasted ... on Jesus' feet and hair and I think he was going to live up to the words of his friend and help the poor.

But it didn't work out that way.

The best of intentions rarely do.

A chain of events is kicked off with a kiss ... two men die within minutes of each other ... one by the Government and the other by himself ...and ... the world's never been the same.

I believe Judas has gotten a bum rap through these centuries.

If there was a Disciple that Jesus loved the most ... I think it was Judas.

He was the first who wanted to give it all away ... to the poor ... and actually do the things Jesus talked about.

And in the end, he was the first to give his life for it too.

Missing My Dad

I was really missing my Dad yesterday.

Sarah, the girls and I are taking it easy, playing cards and laughing together after lunch before I retreat to the sofa for a nap.

Later, I turned on the Spring Day football game ... really a practice ... for the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia ... sent text to my son and daughter ... and ...

call my Mom.

She isn't watching the game because she doesn't have the elaborate and more expensive TV package allowing all things College football.

Sarah, indeed, loves me a lot.

"I wish Dad were here," I say to Mom. "He'd love this."

My sister Angi starts posting her feelings about the game online and I imagine she's thinking of Dad too, as she has his ashes and pulls them out for all UGA games, opening a beer beside what's left of him to enjoy.

Jeremy and Chelsea send text.

Sarah rolls her eyes.

"He always loved it when you called to talk about whatever was happening," Mom says and I can see him sitting in his chair in the elegant "Man Cave" she made him, staring at the television and dissecting whatever it is we've seen.

I would have really liked to do that again yesterday.

One of the funny things about working with the dying is how much it reinforces the love of living while you got.

"Let's go for a bike ride and check out Orange Crush," Laurel our 12 year old says.

"The game's not over," I say pointing to the television.

"Aw come on," she coos.

So we pump air into the bicycle tires and glide into the thong of College students, police officers, elected officials monitoring  the situation, frightened white home owners and the unafraid ones too, sitting in their yards instructing kids where to park.

"Dad would love this too," I say out loud.

"What?" Laurel asks.

I smile at the beauty of a 12 year old becoming a woman.

"I said my Dad would've loved you."

She smiles and my eyes grow moist.

Anyway, I missed my Dad yesterday.

Somehow I know that he knows.

A Jaded Day

"Yeah I think you're too jaded to be objective in your posts when you speak on behalf of others but it does generate conversation."

My wife text me that yesterday.

Jaded is such an interesting word ... "tired, bored or lacking enthusiasm, typically after having too much of something."

It's true, I suppose, in that I've had way too much racism, sexism, bigotry, stupid politicians and bad music in my life.

It pisses me off when I'm confronted with such things.

There's nothing unenthusiastic about me being pissed off.

It takes a lot to make me angry these days.

I used to be full of righteous indignation and fought the good fights ... winning more than I lost but losing a lot in the process.

These days I celebrate everything I've got while helping others leave everything behind to whatever comes next.

I'm not angry today.

I'm sad.

On this Paradise of an Island, we're surrounded by hate, bigotry, racism, stupid politicians and visitors who'll bring what I believe to be really bad music, though somehow it's meaningful to them.

Everything I hate collides today on Tybee Island.

Self righteousness is the guiding principal for everyone calling this clump of sand home.

The kids coming today will do little more than what we all did as kids ... get away with as much as you can ... because you only live once ... and you're only young this once.

Everyone's hate is broadcast in politically correct language.

Everybody says they love everybody else.

Everybody just wants to keep everybody safe.

What a load of Bullshit!

Hearing A Smile

The most memorable funeral I ever did was Trolley Joe's.

For years Joe drove a Conch Train in Key West before moving to Savannah to drive a Trolley pointing out the city's marvelous history, architecture and happenings.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, if you look to the right ... that's 'The Rev' walking down the sidewalk ... he's as famous as Spanish Moss around these parts."

Not knowing what else to do, I wave to a crowded Trolley of tourists.

Trolley Joe, Johnny O, Judy O, Jenny O, O Johnny, O Judy, Chicago Bob, Roma, Essie, Dave, Jodee & Cheryl, Handleman and ... in the later days Sarah herself ...  along with an ever changing cast of characters ... were "The Bored."

Meeting every day at 2ish, Island Standard Time ... which is as early as 11 or as late as 4 ... met to have fun.

Alcohol was a factor.

We solved all of the world's problems and never told anybody.

We mostly had a lot of fun.

Then "The Bored" started dying off ... Chicago Bob first ... Trolley Joe ... Roma ... Dave ... and it became too boring to be bored ... so we stopped ... though other incarnations remain ... and occasionally it comes close to being what it was.

When Trolley Joe died, Johnny O calls to say I'm conducting the funeral.

So I grab my robe, ride my bike to the Pier, say a few words ... "Of all the people who hate this is happening, I think Joe hates it the most" ... then Johnny and I break the law by carrying the ashes into the Ocean.

The Funeral Home people say they can't participate but ... the woman kicks off her shoes, rolls her black pants and wade into the water with us explaining, "If the Law comes, I'll say this is an official part of the ceremony."

You can't be too careful about the Law on Tybee Island.

We drop Joe into the Ocean and ... a dolphin breaks the water leaping high into the air before diving back into the same hole.

We gasp and people on the beach start clapping.

That is a cool funeral.

Stumbling though the door marked "Exit Only" this morning, Johnny O is sitting beside Todd, Trolley Joe's son.

We hug ... talk a little about the past ... a lot about babies being born ... and life at our age.

"I woke up at 3:30," Todd explains, "and today's Daddy's birthday so I took a shower, made a pot of coffee and drove here ... to be with y'all."

My eyes grow moist.

"You need help at Bar Church?" Todd asks.

"Always," I answer.

"See you there."

Before coming home to a house full of sleeping girls, I stroll on the Pier where the Bored used to meet, and look at the spot in the water where the dolphin jumped.

"Happy Birthday Joe."

And I swear to God ... I heard a smile.

Truth

Sometimes you find yourself working beside an asshole.

While it's not politically correct to say such a thing ... it is often the honest truth.

The Bible teaches the truth shall set you free.

No one ever ... well other than elected officials ... has proclaimed political correctness will.

You have to stand up for the truth though and I'm doing it right now ... even though my Mom is really going to give me Hell for using the word "Asshole" for public consumption.

"You're better than that," she will tell me for the thousandth time.

"Mom," I'll answer, "you also taught me 'It is what it is"."

"True," she will say.

Now that Mom's out of the way ... and elected officials could care less about the truth ... let's move on to the "Assholes."

On the surface they like you and are your best friend, lavishing you with praise, wanting to hang out after work, share personal secrets, swear allegiance and promise you to always be there for you.

An overwhelming number of assholes are very religious people.

As are a majority of elected officials.

The thing is they don't deliver on much, leaving you hanging because you believe in them ... take them at their word ... and give them more than they give themselves.

It's sad so many "enable" assholes to be assholes because they're afraid of telling the truth, are politically correct,  believe God wants you to show them love by accepting their "assholeness" or are simply too unsure of themselves to risk losing a "friend."

You know, John the Baptist calls such people 'brood of vipers" or ... in today's vernacular ... "lower than a snake's ass."

Anyway, whenever you find yourself working with, sleeping beside, sharing a home or a Church pew ... it's best to tell it like it is.

The truth will set you free.

Because life is too short to endure mean spirits hiding behind dashing smiles.

So choose truth and say it out loud.

It'll make you feel better.

Leave the asshole to Jesus.

A Preview of Coming Atttractions

A million years ago when Dinosaurs roamed the earth, I was in a Baptist Seminary and wrote a paper my Professor, Diana Garland, quipped "should be published."

I submitted it to "The Journal of Christianity and Social Work" and ... Lo and Behold ... it's published.

On a cold snowy day my 4 year old son Jeremy and I trudge to the Library so I can show him my name in print, now immortalized forever.

"Can we go play football Dad?" he asks after seeing my name on the page.

A couple of years later, instead of preaching a sermon in the church where I'm employed as the "Professional Christian" I read a letter to Jeremy who was celebrating his 7th birthday.

"I'm afraid I won't leave you much of value in terms of material things," I wrote, "a lot of books, hopefully some nice memories and a permanent place in your heart ..."

Since then I've written ten books, fifty or so published articles and almost five hundred blogs.

All the books I promised Jeremy I've given away.

All of the words though ... my words ... are floating in cyber space ... waiting for anyone who may wish to learn a little about me, discover funny stories and sad ones too, learn how Humpty Dumpty can be put back together again.

Pondering my words today, I'm thinking about a baby who's not even here though, word is, it won't be long.

Ancient words come to mind ... "For unto us a child is born ..."

Today you can see the previews of coming attractions that'll hit daylight three or four months after I turn sixty and five months after Jeremy and Terenca give us our first grandchild.

It's all pretty preposterous.

"How long will I have?" I ask myself.

Sarah's forever after me to take better care of myself so I'll be around for the long haul but you can do most everything and it adds an average of 17 minutes to your life.

The worst case scenario is I die way too soon and leave them lots of words to discover the old man.

It makes me thankful I've given away all those words.

The best case is they get to hear them from me.

Either way, I'm pretty damn excited it won't be long before ... as my lights dim, the curtains open on something far more than I'll ever be.

At night, I place my hand on Sarah's sleeping belly with trembling fingers and feel as alive as I've ever been.

The Nutty Season on Tybee Island

The Nutty Season has begun on Tybee Island.

You may be asking, "Micheal, how can you tell? It's always nutty on Tybee."

Excellent Question!

Let me start with the obvious ... our elected officials.

A little background first.

Every year for years, black kids choose a weekend to come to Tybee and shake their booty among other things. From the very beginning, islanders have hated "Orange Crush".

Here's how one part time islander recently put it ... "OC is its own kind of bad, and can't be compared to other events...the level of violence, debauchery, drugs, and general disregard for law and decency is not even fractionally experienced at other events ...why must this particular group be given special consideration when the event is not even permitted and sanctioned legally, with proper sponsorship?"

I'm not sure about you but when I was a teenager/college student ... planning was not my forte.

If the timing was right, it felt good and nobody was looking a good time was had by all!

A slogan of the times was "I love it when a plan comes together!"

So what nobody sponsors a teenage/college event fueled by the Internet (which I didn't have the opportunity to exploit then but God knows that would have been fun!)?

But not wishing to appear "racist" our elected officials are considering banning public consumption of alcohol for the entire month of April ... "so we can get a handle on Spring Break."

Isn't that just like a politician?

They're not targeting black people but the white ones too who come on the other weekends that aren't Orange Crush.

But ... as our friend Marie recently asked, "Does this include the Tybee Wine Festival?"

Every April, the rich white people who live on island throw a very nice event to raise money for an excellent cause that is based on the public consumption of alcohol.

Hmmmm ...

So if banning alcohol throughout the month of April for black college kids is in the best interest of the island  then ... there should be no alcohol for the rich white full time residents and their friends either!

Right?

I'm certain an exception will be made in this case as they always are when fortunate sons and daughters do ... or try not to do ... anything.

Many are going to say, "But Micheal! Orange Crush is different! There have been two shootings in the 20+ year history of the event!"

That's true.

But the last several murder cases investigated on island focused on white people.

And at the Beach Bum Parade a couple of years ago cars ran over kids.

I'm going to stop now and prepare myself for the response I'm going to get.

For what it's worth though, Sarah, the girls and I are looking forward to Orange Crush again this year.

There’s always exceptions in every crowd but it really is a swell group of kids.

Laughing till I die

Let me begin by being honest.

I am freaking funny!

I crack myself up!

It's such a shame other people don't know ... or can't appreciate it as much as I do.

Mitch Wesley comes pretty close.

Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, used to share it with me and be just as funny but ... I don't know what happened ... he grew up or something .... has grandkids.

Now my son Jeremy still gets it. Put us together and we're funny as Hell mostly cracking each other up! It's a great and magical gift when father and son can constantly make each other laugh.

The girls don't get it at all.

After saying something wickedly and brilliantly humorous in a deadpanned delivery, Maddie ... the genius yet utterly clueless 14 year old who knows absolutely everything ... looks up from her cell phone and says ... "Wha???"

Sarah mostly shakes her head and, if I'm lucky, walks away ... if not, I get a lengthy explanation of why "That's just wrong!"

My Mother scolds me ... "Why did you write that?" Don't do that again! And stop cussing! You're better than that!"

Let me tell you something.

It's hard to be funny these days.

It's no longer appreciated, honored or revered in America!

Well unless you're elected to Public office ... then you're funny as Hell but have no idea how funny you are ... because you're taking it too f$CK!NG serious ... and the thing is everybody's laughing at you and not with you.

These days you can be sued for pulling off a really good practical joke!

It's just wrong and I'm not going down without making a joke about.

I work for Compassionate Care Hospice!

Doesn't that just kill you?

It kills me.

Anyway ... I gotta go.

Behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes.

That's me right now.

Nobody's Easter

 All my preacher friends ... Professional Christians all ... are giddy as Hell today.

It's Easter!

Attendance is the biggest of the year, collections are huge and orgasmic preaching is going to happen.

I learned about "Orgasmic Preaching" at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Preaching Class under the wise tutorage of Dr. William Tuck.

"When you're in that moment when the word of God is flowing through your veins, into your heart, filling your lungs and pouring out of your mouth into the thirsty souls of your congregation ... it is orgasmic."

"Excuse me Sir," I interrupt after his great delivery, "am I to understand our goal is to engage in sex in the pulpit and it's a threesome between God, the congregation and the Pastor?"

I don't recall Dr. Tuck's answer but I can still vividly see his face ... as I can those of my fellow soon-to-be Professional Christians ... who obviously thought I'd just shattered several Commandments, several Cardinal Sins and a couple of dozen venial ones.

Good Christians aren't supposed to talk about such things.

I've never professed to be a good Christian.

I'm getting ready for Bar Church and honestly I'm not expecting a whole lot.

I'm the not-so-good-Semi-Professional Christian in charge of a service where someone stole all but one microphone, the sound system sucks and our drummer's in West Palm Beach.

On the up side, people who wouldn't be caught dead in Church bring covered dishes to lay on the Pool tables, there's freshly brewed coffee and a disco ball flashes colors throughout the Bar which smells like Lysol and stale beer.

The Baptists, Catholics, Methodists, Presbyterians, Spiritualists, Democrats and Republicans didn't invite us to participate in the Sunrise Service on the Pier ... again.

All the best Christians fly onto the island before sunrise getting parking places close to The Breakfast Club before rushing to the Ocean sipping coffee in insulated tumblers to listen to old Hymns, smell the salt air, see who's wearing what and who is who before rushing back to get a seat edging out the other believers.

At Bar Church we stumble in late desperate for coffee, juice and Sam Sahr's food to fill empty grease and alcohol laden stomachs wearing wrinkled tee shirts and yesterday's jeans or shorts, our hair is askew from pillows or whoever we woke up beside.

We're not much anything.

We're not anybody.

But we are together ... sleepily forming a congregation of sorts ... some believers and some hoping just to make it through another day ... shocked as Hell we survived the last one.

They'll be no majestic Hymns, collections are a drop in the bucket and the sermon's anything but orgasmic as I tell a few stories hoping for a laugh or any sign on life on this Easter Sunday.

The funniest thing is ... well I don't know if God makes it to the sunrise service on the Pier or not ... we're not invited ... but I'll be damned if She doesn't show up here every year ... raising the dead for at least another day.

Tiny Boxes of Rage

There are those in my life ... in yours too ... who've hurt me badly, scaring my heart as they positioned themselves at my expense ... and I believed in them long after they ceased caring about me.

They're just like most people ... self absorbed takers .... desperately trying to survive their own lives riddled with self doubt, conspiracy theories about everyone they know and the shallowest of self confidence.

With names like Jerry, Lavanda, Aretha and Loren ... they pass for most everyone ... because they're most everybody.

They devastated me because they built themselves up by tearing me down while I passionately believed in them.

It leaves you changed.

Moving on through life, meeting new people, my heart still believes though my head flashes off warning singles that they're just like everyone else.

The reality is that I've taken those hurts, betrayals and hate ... because in the end that's who such people are ... unable to love themselves without hating you ... and packed them in tight emotional boxes to never be released again.

I've done my best to bind them tightly by talking to friends, therapists and Holy Shaman who tell me I'm better than that and should rise above it all.

Life's moved on but I'm more suspicious than I used to be ... less trusting.

Good things happen as life moves on and little boxes of rage I carry are overshadowed by a beautiful partner, little girls, a Church in a Bar and a job that I love.

Then ... someone falls into your life who ... is them.

Repeating old patters, I do my best, give him a lot ... too much really ... and believe with everything inside they'll return in kind.

They don't.

And the lids of little boxes of rage open as everything bad that's ever happened fills my soul.

The difference between then and now ... is I have learned when to stop giving to those who give nothing back.

Remaining on the high road ... and in the most Christian way I know ... I say, "Fuck them."

I'm not doing that again.

Jesus was only crucified once.

He was way too smart to do it again.

I'm following Jesus on this one.