The Last Kiss

I'm cussing like a sailor just before Church is scheduled to start.

The POS sound system isn't working.

If you don't know what POS stands for it's PIECE OF SH!T!

POS's aren't supposed to be in Church ... though as everyone knows but doesn't publically say ... they are.

Of course this is Bar Church ... yep Church in a Bar that reeks of cigarette smoke, stale beer and people who wouldn't be caught dead in a real Church because ... a real Church wouldn't have us unless we changed.

"Oh well," I sigh, giving up.

"If God doesn't want us to have a sound system today then by God we are not having one."

I start strumming and singing "Losing my religion" when Gordo arrives to play the harps.

"No sound system," I tell him.

"Rut Row," he exclaims sounding like Scooby Doo. "I'll be right back then" ... and he goes elsewhere to fix a drink.

Monty Parks shows up and does his very best to raise the POS sound system from the dead ... but fails miserably ... pagan that he is ... before asking, "What song we doing first?"

The crowd ... er, I mean Congregation, stumbles in bringing food and spreading it on the Pool Tables, pour themselves thick cups of coffee or drink whatever they bring inside.

Tom Freeland arrives to play drums.

Faye Allan brings the percussion.

And a miracle occurs.

It's a killer service!

We cry, clap, celebrate, eat, enjoy, sing and a woman in a MooMoo keeps raising her hand to give the Lord all the glory.

Towards the end we're jamming to "Knocking on Heaven's Door" as a note on a cocktail napkin is slid in front of me.

"Can you play 'Last Kiss' for Mike Clouse. He passed away in 2011 @ 42 years old. He loved Tybee. His son was 10 yrs old when he died."

I show it to Monty who fumbles for the chords.

I have no idea if this ever happens in other Churches but it's par for the course where Jesus plays golf on the Beach.

The Holy Spirit descends and with Monty taking the lead we do a righteous version of "Last Kiss."

"Oh where O where can my baby be? The Lord took her away from me."

And as we sing and play it's harder than Hell to keep from crying ... like the man who wrote the note is sitting at the table in front of us ... weeping like Jesus wept.

The Weekend Blur

"How was your weekend?" I was asked at work.

"I dunno," was the honest reply. "They're all a blur."

They're not fuzzy because of good time parties, dancing the nights away, romantic dinners, nighttime strolls on the Beach or making love in the Sand Dunes.

Weekends at our house is like riding a non-stop roller coaster going in four different directions at the same time ... with incredible highs fast falling into crashing lows ... with plenty of breaks for sugar infused energy from cakes, cookies, ice cream, sweet tea and candy.

Weekends at our house is like being at a bizarre Disney World that never closes!

The cars on the roller coaster are named Sarah ... Maddie ... Laurel ... and Cassidy.

Any of them will fly off the track at any given moment.

Goddess, Winston The-Little-Gay-Dog, Gypsy the formerly gender confused cat and I mostly spend our time watching and trying to figure out when it's best to jump out of the way.

Yesterday though was sedate by our normal standards.

The girls are binging on "The Fosters", a never ending teen drama about getting your period, getting laid, getting over the guilt and getting on with your life as a gay.

I tried to watch it with them but it's like being on a ceaseless trip on "It's a Small World After All" and you can't get that F&CKING song out of your head regardless of what you do.

Leaving them alone, I went to the Beach, listened to good music and drink Costa Rican beer Sarah got me while listening to Jerry Jeff Walker take me back to Belize.

At lunch time I went home and the girls are still binging, had already eaten so I boil some shrimp and make Margaritas.

Afterwards, Sarah decides to break away from the binge and go to the beach with me.

"It's Che's first time," she tells me and it strikes me our roller coaster's getting larger.

We have a good time on the Beach. I help people who don't know how to put a tent up put a tent up. We stroll hand in hand. My wife's sexy as Hell. The Margaritas taste good.

This is why you live.

Back home, the roller coaster's flying so I retreat to the Beloved Back Deck where ... Sarah surprisingly joins me.

On a perfect island afternoon we sit and talk about places we want to go ... taking different sides of course because Sarah wants every place to be somewhere new and there are some old places I dearly love.

But it's a wonderful time together sitting under a purple sky with Ocean kissing the shore in the distance.

Then the sliding glass doors open as the roller coaster's crashing again with the sounds of girl's screaming and metal scrapping.  

Fixing American Health Care Now

Here's what I think about Health Care in the United States.

Everybody should stop paying for Health Insurance.

Everybody!

Insurance companies get what they want ... profit.

Insured people receive partial health care at a high cost because there are deductibles to be met meaning we have to pay first before the Insurance Company does ... does that seem right?

Now, on the other hand, people who don't pay for Health Insurance go to the Hospital when they get sick, shot, overdose, crash the car or suffocate during sex and receive the exact same health care the people who are buying Health Insurance receive.

At least initially.

People without Health Insurance don't get any follow up care ... meaning they have to create another Emergency to be seen again ... which they do ... because it's free.

Hospitals raise their prices, passes them on to the Health Insurance Companies, who raise their fees and people who pay for Health Care PAY MORE to cover the cost of those who don't pay.

Doctors completely understand this and most only provide care once it is completely clear they will be paid.

An addendum was added to "The Hippocratic Oath" ... really an asterisk followed by really tiny print ... that reads, "Once payment is received in full."

It's a stupid, unjust system!

Let's blow it up!

If everyone stops buying Health Insurance, there's a substantial cash flow created for things like vacations, eating out more or fixing the leaky old bathtub in your house.

If you get sick, just go to the Emergency Room, receive the same treatment you have anyway, and go home and take a long bath in your new luxury tub so you're well rested for your trip to Belize.

Hospitals will go nuts, of course, because they will no longer be able to pay for the mini-shopping malls with gourmet coffee areas or ridiculously high Executive salaries they have now.

Doctors will scream bloody murder but it'll be immediately clear why they chose to practice medicine.

And Health Insurance companies will go out of business.

And who really gives a Fu*K about Pharmaceutical Companies?

It's a Win/Win if there ever was one!

What got me thinking about this was this week's closing of the Oceanside Nursing Home on Tybee Island where I'd spend a few years trying to bring cheer to the patients with weekly concerts.

It closed this week because it wasn't profitable and gave everybody "A DAY'S" notice to move.

That's Health Care in America.

Make a profit or else.

Do some nice stuff on the side to show people it's not really all about the money.

But the truth is ... it's all about the money.

It's time to change all that.

Just ask the people today who have no place to go.

My friend O Johnny ... Branigin challenged me to "List 12 albums that made a lasting impression on you, but only one per band/artist. Don't take long and don't think too hard. Tag 12 friends to do the same, including me, so I can see what you listed. No compilations or greatest hits!"

Okay, I will.

Well I won't tag 12 friends but I'll do the rest.

Abby Road (The Beatles)
Havana Daydreaming (Jimmy Buffett)
Babylon Bus (Bob Marley)
Greatest Stories Live (Harry Chapin)
Son of Schmilssion (Harry Nilsson)
Concert for Bangladesh (George Harrison)
Traveling Wilburys Vol 1 (Traveling Wilburys)
Mirrorball (Sarah McLachlan)
Born to Run (Bruce Springsteen)
Liberty (Gene Cotton)
What's Going On (Marvin Gaye)
Miles of Aisles (Joni Mitchell)

All that without thinking too much about it.

If I think about it, this would take days!

These days, thanks to my growing collection of musical friends who play live music, I'm really into reinterpreting many of the songs and making them into something new.

The originals are all spectacular.

But I love the live stuff!

Island Love

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes ... this island blows off what we're doing to it and regains it's magic.

It happened last night at the Jam.

Following the line of cars searching for the Beach, I turn down Tybrissa ... Tybee's main drag, formally known as "The Combat Zone" ... praying there's a parking spot close to Doc's Bar.

There is no parking on Tybee.

There used to be more but the Government took it away.

If you don't believe it just stroll down 12th Street and count the number of yellow curbs that exist for no apparent reason ... you will be astonished.

Directly in front of Bernie's ... directly across from Doc's ... I slam on breaks because a large family ... and I do mean they were all large ... are piling baby strollers, rafts and coolers into the back of a giant pick up truck.

Immediately the ten cars behind me slam on their breaks too.

With my blinker on ... I wait.

I'm astonished how long it takes the family to load everything up and crawl inside, start the engine, put the truck in reverse, and ... stop everything.

A door opens and a large lady runs as fast as she can to me.

Rolling my window down she hands me a ticket, saying in her deep Southern drawl ... "Hey Honey! It's still got 45 minutes on it! They rape ya to park her but it sure is gorgeous to be at the Beach."

Before I can say, "No, No No!, I have a sticker," her tiny feet carry her giant heart back to the truck and they're off.

I park.

Fifteen cars pass me ... each giving me the finger.

Inside Doc's we play damn good music, laugh a lot, drink and everyone encourages everyone else so that it borders on what Church should be these days but isn't.

Thomas Oliver tunes Charlalee's guitar for her ... newcomer Holly asks for help with chords ... Slo's Bass slings one liners ... Kris drags magic across her fiddle ... Faye sings a high soprano which I never knew she has ... Monty Parks is the epitome of gracefulness as he shares everything.

Tom Cooler shows up from the "other side of the Bridge" so we give up our seats and move outside.

Conga Dave, Monty and I share stories on a hot, muggy night, with salt hanging in the air ... God's little lanterns twinkling in the sky ... the Ocean roaring love to the Beach a few steps away ... while sweet music floats out the open door ... music made by people I've come to love.

When it's time to go home to kiss Sarah and feel my unborn baby in her belly, I stop and twirl around for a moment ... guitar case in hand to take it all in.

And for the millionth time in my life ... I fall in love with this island.

The Jam

When I was a kid growing up in Port Wentworth, Georgia ... I wanted to be a rock star.

My friends wanted to be Policemen, Firemen, Major League Baseball players and Teachers.

For the most part they did though some became drug addicts, Prostitutes, Attorneys and ... a surprisingly large number of Car Salesmen.

I never wavered though ... I was gonna be a rock star.

Focusing on the art of being a rock star rather than the music ... I excelled.

I was often in trouble for my outrageous antics ... like locking the announcers out of the booth at Groves High Stadium so Gene Prevatt and I could broadcast the game and, as our beloved teacher Gretchen Johnson was a celebrity cheerleader on the field ... we warned everyone in attendance that if they'd had any personal contact with her ... there's a "Free Clinic" in Savannah that can help.

It was hilarious ... right up until the busted the door open and hauled Gene Prevatt and I out for punishment.

In College though I got more serious about the music and hung around Rick Hudson who can really play and made me look more like the rock star I really am.

Rick and I were "Big Time" regularly playing at "Lum's Hot Dogs" in the Oglethorpe Mall, at the White Bluff United Methodist Church and our famous "Free Concerts" in Sweetheart Circle at Georgia Southern College.

Then Rick regained his senses and the band broke up.

Rick's now famous as a member of "Fried Okra" in Delaware or South Dakota or someplace like that.

We did stage a famous reunion when he showed up at Bar Church and we sang together on stage but then his wife came in and drug him out killing all hope of putting the band back together again.

These days I hang around aging rock stars ... just like me ... having weathered the storms of making others suffer for our music.

We meet on Tuesday Nights at Doc's Bar because Monty Parks needs a place to play on Tuesday Nights.

It's a free concert because ... on Tuesday Nights ... you can't give it away.

But we have lots of fun.

And according to a recent interview in the not-so-mainstream media, fellow rock star Thomas Oliver says, "It changed my life."

Thomas was a newspaper reporter before becoming a rock star so the bar was pretty low.

Anyway, the Monty Park's Tybee Island Tuesday Night Acoustic Jam is becoming legend for what we do to songs.

You don't need to play records backwards to understand us!

Yeah and we got "Groupies" ... well ... John Iacovini's got them ... but the rest of us are pretty close to them which is almost the same as having them.

I'm appreciative of being part of this amazing group of aging rockers.

I'm typing with one hand because I've lit a Bic Lighter paying homage to my rock-and-roll journey.

Because, as our peer Neil Young says, "We'd rather rust out than burn away" ... or something like that.

Tropically Depressed

"I just don't understand you," my stunningly beautiful and knocked up wife sighs.

Sarah is President of a extremely large group of people who share the impossible task of seeking to understand me.

"Wha?" I cleverly reply.

Carelessly casting her lush, gorgeous hair over a cut shoulder, taking her unique baby blues and focusing them on mine, she starts.

"You only wear black running shorts and ratty Tee Shirts YET ... expensive French deodorant! Explain that!"

"I'm cosmopolitan," I shrug.

She rolls her eyes.

"Everybody believes you're some crazy, always-throwing-caution-to-the-wind person when IN FACT ... you're a homebody, worry about the girls more than me and only try new things when I push you to."

"Well," I slowly consider topping off my Styrofoam cup of wine over ice, "I like it here ... you have little idea of the trouble the girls are going to cause us and ... I've already don lots of stuff ... been to lots of places."

"Not with me!" she shoots and it's a direct hit.

"True," I confess. "Where do you want to go?"

I'm always ready to go.

I've been to all the cities and they hold nothing for me. A city is a city is a city. Some are better than others but they're all the same.

My favorite cities are ... Portland, Oregon ... Paris ... Munich ... Prague and Havana!

"I haven't been to any of those," Sarah sighs rubbing our baby.

"Let's go!" I excitedly say.

I love traveling with Sarah! She's the best traveling partner ever! Even beating out Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one).

Somehow her love of planning mixes well with my "Whatever" attitude and we make excellent adventures.

"Will you be serious," she scolds. "We can't go anywhere right now."

"Damn girls," I mutter ... though the girls and I have excellent adventures too when we travel because I throw caution to the wind picking up a hitchhiker in San Salvador much to Laurel's protest and we have the best time.

"It's not the girls!"

"Of course it isn't," I say taking a sip. "It's the fact we're not going anywhere."

"You are impossible," she concludes and I {insert gross sexual reality} a little on the spot lusting her.

It leaves me Tropically Depressed today.

This is why.

Everywhere expect America ... where we only speak American ... they start teaching children to speak multiple languages the moment they're born!

Sarah tells me our baby can already hear from the womb so I figure "Why wait?"

It's time for all of us to go somewhere else and Che can start learning Spanish now.

It's past time to be Tropically Undepressed.

Seventeen Minutes

Death smells like mildewed moth balls dipped in sweet honey.

The aroma will not escape me.

Sitting with a couple lying together in the bed waiting to see who goes first ... standing in the kitchen beside a lady in her nightgown stirring the Butterbeans to make sure they don't burn ... to the old man smoking his cigarette smirking as he explains, "The problem is I'm not dying fast enough for the system but ... I'm not in a hurry" ... the rotting, sticky smell refuses to dissipate.

"This just sucks," I say to God climbing in my car, slumping behind the wheel and struggling to find energy to keep moving.

God doesn't reply.

The memory of my Dad dying at Hospice comes to life.

I'd spent the night with him and when my family arrived early in the morning, I took a shower, dressed, joined everyone at the bedside and Dad decides it's the perfect time to go.

So he does.

I'm trying to remember the smell.

My friend Monty says, "You look Death square in the eye and don't back away. It's not right."

Having never claimed to be right ... that's the landscape of Politicians and Preachers ... I do believe death's just part of life.

Too many are premature exits ... most are not-so-grand finales ... and there's a handful we can't stop talking about.

"You can do everything right to take care of yourself," I'm fond of saying. "Eat properly, work out, don't drink too much, stay away from the stupid stuff ... and it adds on average 17 minutes to your life."

"Well I want those 17 minutes," my wife fires back with a direct hit.

We have an $8 lunch date at Kentucky Fried Chicken, splitting a box, relishing in each other alone for the first time in what seems like forever though it's only about 17 minutes.

She is stunningly beautiful.

I am grateful to simply be here.

But that damn smell just hangs in the air, hovering directly over God's silence.

Baby Che

"I know you are here to kill me," Che says with guns staring him in the face. "Shoot coward! You're only going to kill a man."

And they did.

Pulling their triggers, they shot a captured man dead.

Then they took their pictures with him.

They took one of his dead face to prove the great revolutionary ... the lover of the poor ... hater of what makes poverty in the first place ... dead.

Like the United States wanted.

Che had beaten the US at it's own game and Democracy ruled by Capitalism couldn't stand for that so, pretending the CIA were helping, America shot him dead.

America had won again!

USA! ... USA! ... USA!

Only it didn't.

Throughout the world, especially among the poor, he lives ... just as Jesus does for millions more.

Che's photograph is "the most famous in the world."

The USA won a battle.

Che lives.

Who won the war?

My baby girl is almost five months formed in Sarah's womb.

I kiss you every single day hoping the love makes it all the way to your cheek on the other side of your Mom's belly.

You will be called lots of things in your life.

I certainly have been and they're not always nice.

And there are those who will do their best to kill you too, at least in spirit, and killing's killing.

Clare Hope Elliott is your name.

Clare from a county in Ireland.

Hope because you are and it matches the names on your Mom's back.

Elliott because it's passed down to you from me.

But Che!

Well, Che is who you are.

Just the Truth

"All I've got is a photograph ..." Ringo sings.

Jumping on the computer things I've done in the past ... or friends did ... or people I worked with ... pop up in my feed.

Glancing at them, especially if they include me, I smirk and think, "Good times!"

Until some that give me pause.

This is one.

It was an exciting day.

The TODAY Show's in town and we're the reason.

The day before a film crew is interviewing and filming me doing things.

Today it's broadcast as Al Roker does four live remotes from a Culinary Arts Program for Homeless people I'd helped start ... in a restaurant they ran.

Word's leaked out it's happening so every elected official in a hundred mile radius is trying to get on National Television.

I remember Val Johnson being only the one succeeding.

Politicians live for the camera.

Al Roker's great on camera ... not so much when the lights are off.

He's nice enough ... posing for pictures for countless people we continue to parade before him for their limelight moment with a celebrity.

It's a good day ... national exposure for what we do ... well wishes from the nice people and hate from those believing it should be them and not me getting the glory.

Al Roker puts his arm around my shoulder to ask if he can return in a year for a follow up story.

After it's over, calls flood in wanting to help or learn how we did it.

It was a long time ago.

Al's gotten older though he's still vivacious when the camera's turned on ... probably depressed when it's off.

It was a different time in a different place.

This picture pops up in my feed out nowhere to give me pause.

Aside from Al, we all worked together, and I loved them dearly ... believing in them as they believed in me ... as we changed the world ... making it a better place.

Today, I struggle to forgive three of the people in this picture.

My initial reaction on seeing them is "Hell is not hot enough."

The other one warms my heart with fondness and I'd like to see him again.

I don't want hate in my life.

"God forgive them for they know not what they do," I think.

And they didn't.

I delete the picture and get on with the time on watch which says simply, "Now."

"You should just write the truth," Sarah often chides. "You don't need to embellish or do fiction."

So there Babes.

Today's is just the truth.

McDonald's Wine

"DAD!!!!!" I hear in the wind blowing through the open window of Sarah's car darting across Highway 80 to the Liquor Store.

From the corner of my eye I see my daughter Kristen racing pass in the opposite direction with her window down.

Rolling to a stop in front of the Liquor Store I hurriedly jump out ... and then jump out of the way as Kristen screeches to a halt beside me.

Father and Daughter embrace in the parking lot.

She is beautiful, on the way home, looking stunning in her Nurses uniform with her blond hair flying in wisps after a long day delivering babies and enduring Doctors.

"What are you doing here?" she asks and ... she's still my baby in some strange way and always will be though she's one tough woman.

"Getting the wine for dinner," I reply.

"Oooh," she exclaims already calculating a change of plans, "what's for dinner?"

"I've dropped Sarah and the girls at McDonalds. You want to join us?"

"McDonalds!" she snarls in disgust.

"I know," I shrug, "you have to bring your own wine."

"You eat that Sh!T?"

"Only with wine," I explain. "Care to join us?"

"Yeah," she grins, "let me get a bottle."

Making the mad dash across Highway 80 we artfully dodge Walmart people and join the girls.

Kristen kisses them as they delight their older sister is here.

Our family delightfully blends.

We talk about the newest member Ethan, his Mom Terenca and Jeremy ... Chelsea's making her way from Atlanta to Huntsville on a daily basis ... Sarah's folks arrive this week for a visit ... Johnny and Judy O ... my Mom ... and our endless number of cousins.

It would be near impossible to graph our family on a flow chart.

Branches fall off broken family trees only to take root and spout new trees, richer and more diverse, mixing new traditions and experiences into an exquisite gumbo of flavors of life.

It's like wine and McDonald's.

Things you never thought would go together can match perfectly in life so long as you're open and accepting of new things.

Maybe Manana

There's too many things rumbling around my mind that it's hard to focus on just one.

An overabundance of material is in desperate need of management.

I'm living with four girls ... three post-puberty, a Little-Gay-Dog, a gender confused cat, and Goddess who is often stoned ...

Our first grandson, Ethan, is still at the Hospital, waiting to see when Mom can go home ...

A mini-tornado danced through this week, rolling off singles, knocking down the privacy fence and branches from the tree in our front yard ...

The Cat Lady next door has several new cats and one looks remarkably like our own gender confused Gypsy ...

An "Out of Compliance" warning hangs on my door from Atlantic Waste because aforementioned fallen tree branches exceed 5 feet in length which I had nothing to do with ...

There is an overabundance of boys interested in aforementioned post-puberty girls ...

I've actually chosen a Hymn to do at Bar Church tomorrow and that never happens ...

Tybee Island now has it's own recording studio and the master minds behind Crab Creek Studios asked me to come and do some tunes there ...

The number of police cars outnumbered the number of floats in the Beach Bum parade somehow  establishing such a laid back atmosphere it seemed everyone participating had smoked large amounts of weed before starting ...

Sarah's bump is sexy as Hell ...

It's a marvelous, tropical beach day with the slightest of Ocean breezes, Palm Trees standing tall, choirs of seagulls and dancing Dolphins slicing the water ...

Our house is extremely quiet like a calm before the storm leaving me fidgety and anxious ...

I don't know where to start!

Oh well, it's an island.

Maybe Manana.

Ethan's Great Grand Dad

"Hey Dad."

"Hey Bub."

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck listening to Ziggy Marley "Forward to Love," pondering the birth of our Grandson, my Dad appears out of Heaven where he hosts a weekly Golf tournament and nightly cocktails at "Angel's Bar."

Dad died six years ago but, as they say, it's hard to keep a good man down.

"How you been Dad?" I ask staring at the sun blazing through the Palm Tree with the Oyster Eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt.

"Good!" he snaps. "I won the pool and decided to pop in and celebrate the reason for my winnings."

"What do you bet with in Heaven?" I ask. "There's money?"

"I wish," Dad sighs. "No ... the winner gets to sit beside St. Peter at the Bar. He's heard it all Mike! When he gets going after a few drinks and tells stories of the reasons people make up to get inside ... it's a riot."

"I bet," I laugh opening the sliding screen door to let Winston, The Little Gay Dog, out.

"A baby huh?" Dad laughs. "At your age."

"You're gonna love her," I answer. "You love all the girls ... starting with Angi  ... when Clare Hope gets her, she's gonna steal your heart."

"Che," Dad smirks. "That's clever."

"All Sarah," I smile.

"Well I'm here for Ethan Wilkerson's arrival," he firmly says.

"Pretty exciting ain't it? Your great-grandson?"

"Actually it's kind of anti-climatic," Dad laughs, "I get to see it all from the production end in Heaven. Ethan looks good! ... a handsome fella! ... just like the other Elliott boys."

I nod in agreement.

"I'm here to see Jeremy and Terenca but wanted to stop by and say 'Hey'," he says starting to dissipate.

"Good to see to see you Dad," I yell standing up. "Love ya!"

"Love you too," he says in the distance before I faintly hear him say, "Hey Jeremy."

Soloing

Sitting here, I'm pretty empty at the moment.

Nothing witty, poignant, funny or serious is bubbling inside.

The girls are sleeping, the dogs lay at Sarah's bedside, the cat is curled up with Maddie and the Hermit Crab is relocating to another painted shell.

Birds loudly sing outside with an Ocean breeze dancing in the Palms.

I'm trying to get inspired but it ain't happening.

In a while I'll head off to Bar Church where, unless God's made other plans and forgot to tell me, I'm soloing today.

I've soloed at Bar Church once before and it was fun but I don't really want to do it again.

It's more fun to play with others than to play with yourself.

If God wasn't involved, I'd skip today but ... I don't think it's a good idea to piss God off ... so I'm going.

I loaded the unreliable sound system in the car last night, my guitar's packed, there's a couple of tunes in my head and I have a vague notion of what I want to say.

There's not a lot of scripted stuff at Bar Church.

The attitude is leave the planning to God because, Heaven knows, none of the plans we made have ever worked out that way.

What I'd rather do today is find a quiet little Beachside Café with a sand floor and read the New York Times with Sarah, drinking Bloody Mary's and watching the sun sprinkle diamonds on Aqua-Green Ocean.

But I got to go to Church.

It sucks.

I know ... you're not supposed to say things like that!

Honestly I don't think God cares but a Hell of a lot of people get riled up over such things.

Alright, I'm putting my Jesus face on and heading out because I'm a huge fan.

Right after I make Cinnamon Rolls for my girls. 

Making Perfect Better

A baby cries in a restaurant and we turn to see quickly and ... smile.

Babies crying in restaurants ... or on planes, busses or in Church ... is typically frowned upon, though Sarah and I delight in it as the Mother eats a fried Scallop with one hand while bouncing the 7 week old in her other.

It won't be long before this is "us".

We're having a rare "Date Night" and, thankfully, Sarah's cravings are for Hushpuppies dipped in real honey butter from one of my favorite restaurants ... Bubba Gumbos.

It's hard to be off the beaten path on Tybee Island anymore with it's preponderance of Stop Signs, a cop behind every one, Tourism on Steroids hated by locals who fantasize about a gated community and no place to park for less than a quarter for 15 minutes (because the Island really like to screw Tourists up the A$$).

But Bubba Gumbos is off the beaten path.

It's also stepping back into what to Tybee used to be ... a real Island ... and not a revenue generating, plastic promotions, Kid unfriendly, parade addicted and Government laden destination.

Bubba's is a marina with a restaurant unlike say AJ's which is a restaurant that used to be a marina.

There's a big difference.

The working crowd pours in Bubba's as soon as they hit the Island to suck down a few beers, smell the marsh, watch the Dolphins and see firsthand the catch of the day ... Nets full of Shrimp, Blue Crabs and Oysters.

It's the aroma of diesel fuel mixed with salt water.

In the distance, tiny cars ebb and flow on the Causeway.

Sarah's Hushpuppies dipped in real Honey butter are Angel droppings.

The fried Flounder is what Jesus should have ordered at the Last Supper.

Daddy takes the Baby to wander into the gravel parking lot under the boat slips so Momma can attack the Blue Crabs dipped in melted butter.

Blue haired Baily McNally dances over to rub Sarah's belly and say "Hey" to Che.

Matt Few gives us long hugs as only good friends can.

"You ready?" Sarah asks looking stunningly beautiful behind sunglasses.

"Yeah," I reply wiping my eyes.

"It's funny how we destroy perfection by trying to make it better but ... there are still perfect things. And sometimes, you can make perfect better."

And Sarah and I toast a Baby who hasn't cried yet but we can't wait until she does.

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!)