Seeing for myself

We'd somehow talked ourselves onto a British Tour Bus making it's way from Krakow to the Auschwitz Concentration Camp in Poland.

The English were loud, boisterous and full of smiles as we rode past the grim countryside as though conquering victors celebrating the spoils of victory.

There are no words to describe the massive terror the abandoned Death Camp still strikes ... nothing but feeling erupt standing on the railroad tracks that brought millions to their slaughter ... only sadness as I find a pair of broken children scissors on the ground in front of the Crematoria.

The journey here began at Groves High School when Wayne Seay showed recently declassified military films of the liberation of the Nazi Concentration Camps.

Something was both broken and born in me then.

I became fascinated with the Nazi abuse of political power, the ruthlessness of Government that serves itself and, most of all, the cruel extent to which leaders will go to do away with their enemies ... both real and perceived.

It's why I'm so suspicious of any Government today, especially the way they use force to implement their will.

As death was manufactured in Auschwitz and the other Camps, the victims pleaded for the Messiah to come and save them.

"Do not look for the Messiah to come and save us," Eli Weisel replies. "The Messiah is already here with us."

It brought new meaning to the "God so loved the world that he sent his only begotten son ..." that I'd learned at the Port Wentworth First Baptist Church meaning.

The Messiah is already here ... with those who need him most.

If you want to be close to God ... then be close to them.

With all of the world's corruption and brokenness ... where "cruel leaders are replaced by leaders who become cruel (Che) ... and the most popular prayer is "Thank God it wasn't me" ... Eli Weisel also says that "God's greatest gift is the chance to start over."

Eli Weisel died yesterday and one of the things I'm learning about working with the dying is how quickly they're forgotten or replaced when they're gone.

I struggle with the sadness of that.

Books by great people and journeys to places like Auschwitz have molded me and today I am one who tries his best to not forget ... someone who sees the Messiah who is already here among us.

Ready to go

"Where are you going?" he asks for the third time as he stares a million miles beyond me seated across the kitchen table from me.

"Key West," I repeat.

"I've been there," he explains again. "In the Military. I was stationed there for two years."

Trying to not convey frustration at the repetitiveness, I smile and answer, "Yeah, you lived at the Truman Complex."

"I did?" he asks suddenly focusing on me.

"Yeah," I say patting his hand. "For two years."

"If you say so," he shrugs unknowingly.

My heart breaks.

Pictures of him as a younger man adorn the walls of the house that he's paid for ... one dressed in uniform standing under a Palm Tree at the Truman Complex in Key West.

Alzheimer's is a terrible thing to watch.

"Would you like to go back?" I prod.

"Where?" he asks suspiciously having spent part of the day visiting an Assisted Living facility he has no interest in though his family is desperate.

"Key West," I sigh.

"I've been there," he repeats ...

"You know what I really want Micheal," he says with a sudden clarity that shocks me out of frustration.

"No ... where?"

"I've already been everywhere," he says now holding my hand. "There's no place I want to go back but ..." the million mile stare returns ... "I'm ready to go."

Something in my throat jumps into my eyes and I quickly start rubbing them with the hand he's let go of.

"I know you are," I stammer. "God's getting things ready."

"I wish God would hurry up."

I laugh ... as much to bring life to the room as to keep my heart from breaking more.

He stares at me with focus again and asks, "Where are you going?"

Holly's Wishing Tree

Our friend Holly has a wishing tree.

I like it.

With a great fondness for quirkiness, I admire Holly's Wishing Tree which I do not know the story behind but I love the end result.

An Oak filled with Seashells, a smiling sun, blue bottles, flowers, a wreath, antlers and a hammock ... I can't help but wonder what Holly wishes?

I figure it's a world of no litter, nice people who are all in shape, fat chickens, fresh farm grown veggies, great carry out from Parkers, wonderful grandchildren, books, a husband who's often talked about but rarely seen and "Freebird" is the background music.

Last time Sarah and I saw Holly, Lew stayed in the car not wanting to be seen in public.

I figure he's like Dolly Pardon's husband ... everybody knows he exist but nobody's ever actually seen him.

Regardless I love Holly's Wishing Tree.

In our yard we have a Palm Tree with oyster eyes, a coconut bra and a grass skirt.


Obviously I have simpler wishes than Holly.

But we share wishing.

It's a key part of living.

"The trees, ghosts, dreams, faces, the waking up and eating and working of life, are trying to tell us something, to take us somewhere," says Frederick Buechner.

Living is about always being on the move, doing your best to finally get to where you want to be and if you're forever wishing for it, chances are you're not getting anywhere.

Strolling outside on the Beloved Back Deck, the Palm Tree winks an oyster eye to remind me we're moving the right direction.

It makes me wonder if Wishing Trees talk to each other as a support group of sorts ... because we're so thick when it comes to our wishes ... they've got their work cut out for them.

Dressing for Church

Now I'm not cool like Tom Cooler is cool.

Tom Cooler is a great musician and friend who plays throughout the region and occasionally at Bar Church where, inexpiably I'm the Cleric-in-Charge.

I am no longer a Professional Christian as there's no money in Bar Church ... just a lot of need.

Anyway, the very cool Tom Cooler shows up one Sunday to play and we set up the speakers, do a sound check, run through the order, have a prayer asking forgiveness for cussing the sound system, enjoy the crowd and brunch on the Pool Tables before Church starts.

Actually Bar Church never starts on time because we're composed primarily of musicians, Barflies, tourists and people who couldn't tell you if it's 10nish in the morning or 10nish at night if their life depended on it.

But before Bar Church starts this day, the very cool Tom Cooler CHANGES SHIRTS!

The ratty white tee shirt with holes in it we practiced in is swapped for a very cool blue plaid with rolled up sleeves from American Eagle or some place like that!

How cool is that?

I wish I was that cool ...

I show up for Bar Church typically wearing the same thing I wore on Saturday doing the things I'm asking forgiveness for on Sunday morning at 10nish.

A faded green tee shirt that reads "Willie Nelson First Aid" printed over marijuana leaves, black running shorts and ... I swear to God I meant to actually wear flip flops today.

Oh well ... Lona Crask always dresses nice ... John Iacovini dresses like he's just been transported in from a Hippie campout in the mountains somewhere ... Faye Allan dresses nice too ... Kris Nilson is forever in blue jeans ... Gordo wears a starched shirt ... I wonder if it's from American Eagle too? ... and Tom Freeland dresses like he's playing for tips in a Hawaiian shirt and boat shoes.

When Bob Fulton plays he's dressed for the Grand Ol' Opry.

No body really know what Clark Byron wears because when he starts singles the Angels in Heaven stop.

Ricky Stokes dresses like a guitar player meaning I don't have a clue what he's wearing either because he plays so damn good.

Monty Parks does it best though with his Bar Church tee shirt that he bought for a quarter from Goodwill and he somehow makes songs by The Monkees and Tennessee Ernie Ford really work in a worship service.

Honestly, the people who come to Bar Church dress way better than we do leading Bar Church.

Well ... except for the very cool Tom Cooler.

But Bar Church isn't about what you wear, if you're on time, can't tell night from day.

Technically I'm not even sure we're really a Church but I do know this ... something Holy and it's never planned or guessed.

But every single Sunday God does a drive by and if you happen to be wearing socks ... they're blown straight to Hell.

A Perfect 7

I'm getting my "Church Face" on sitting mostly naked on the Beloved Back Deck, streaming Carolina Beach Music, marveling at the quietness of the morning under a thin blanket of grey clouds and a lone bird singing a Hymn of Praise.

The Back Yard is an incredible array of greens dotted with purple Wisteria, Petunias and orange Hibiscus blooms.

Sarah and the girls peacefully sleep and I'm determined to let them keeping the dogs outside with me.

I'm counting my Blessings ... a Sunday morning ritual.

Sarah grows more beautiful every passing day of pregnancy and I don't deserve such a blessing but I got it!

The girls didn't ruin anything last night, though they did leave a sink load of dirty dishes, their rooms look like they were attacked by Terrorists and an unfinished Jigsaw Puzzle has sat on the coffee table for six weeks not which is never going to see completion.

Our grandson left but our hearts remain full of him and we talk a lot of Che who's on her way and does these little dances each night to prove her reality.

The Ocean breeze blows west and I feel salt air sticking to my skin.

A drummer and fiddle player will be in the Bar Church Band today and God may decide to add others but I haven't been cleared for that information yet.

Sarah has a work function at the "Beachview Bed & Breakfast" later and I hope I'm her date because I love dating my wife but try not to take it for granted.

There's a running joke in our house where once Sarah was dressed to kill one night for something and I was asked how she looks.

"You are a perfect 7," I say.

"Seven?" all the girls recoil. "She's a TEN!"

"Seven is the perfect number in the Bible," I explain. "It's the Holiest number."

They didn't care and still don't.

"Am I a 7 tonight?" one sarcastically asks when they're dressed to the nines.

Why do they dress to the nines when they want to look like a ten?

Oh well, on the 7th Day ... God rested ... and I'm with God on this one ... right after Bar Church is over.

Oh

Friday night is movie night at our house.

Now Sarah and the girls are not fans of "previews of coming attractions" which I love so when Netflix delivers I watch them all yelling out, "Let's watch that one" or "That one sucks" whereas the girls pop Popcorn, fix drinks or groan in general that I watch the Previews.

Add to this that Sarah has a wonderful knack for picking great "undiscovered" films and ... the girls normally flee for the sanity of their rooms and the completely controlled entertainment of hand held electronic devices.

Leaving Sarah and I to enjoy the movie alone.

Last night's fare is "The Farewell Party", an Israeli film with subtitles about a facility for the elderly where they come up with a machine to end their lives when they want ... and not listen to their doctors ... or families.

"Is this going to be too close to work stuff for you?" Sarah asks as we sit on the sofa.

"What's one more death?" I answer.

As Chaplain for Compassionate Care Hospice, I see a lot of deaths.

In the movie there are three, each magnificently orchestrated ... meaning I wish my patients had it that good.

Anyway, at some point Cassidy our nine year old meanders out to see what we're watching and joins us.

Maddie, the clueless 14 year old who knows everything ... like most 14 year olds ... wants nothing to do with her family as she lusts other families with bigger houses and more money.

The movie shows an old man answering the door of his apartment not wishing to be bothered ... because his naked gay lover is hiding in the wardrobe and the door creaks open ... and he's very much in the closet.

"Why is that man naked?" Cass asks.

"They're gay," Sarah explains nonchalantly.

"What?"

"They're in love," I add.

"Oh," Cass says. "Why's he hiding in the closet?"

"Beats me," I tell her.

"Because he's married and his wife doesn't know," Sarah says.

"Oh," Cass says and ... that's that.

The movie's great if you're looking for something to watch but ... my take away from last night ... is how proud I am of Cass for saying, "Oh" ... and moving on.

The purpose of life is to find love and when you do never let go.

True love's not defined by color, sex, orientation, money or how big your house is among other things.

Cass already seems to know that.

It makes me very proud.

I wish more people knew what Cass knows.

A Day Off

For the first time in a long, long time I'm off today and nobody's home with me except Goddess, Winston The Little Gay Dog and Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat.

I've been extremely productive this far having accomplished the following:

Kissing Sarah's pregnant belly and then taking it to a whole deeper level.

Cut the grass.

Fed my grandson ... burped him ... cleaned a little spittle ... marvel at his fragile tininess ... whisper in his ear secrets only he and I share ... and feel humbly blessed to have my wonderful family that you'd never get right on a flow chart.

Skinny dipped.

Mopped the floors so Sarah will be pleasantly surprised when she comes home.

Skinny dipped again but, this time, with a beer.

Started thinking about trimming the overgrown Sub-Tropical foliage in the back yard before quickly regaining my senses and saying to Goddess, "To Hell with that!"

Picked up the work phone, read one email ... unplugged the work phone, turning it off and dropping it in Gypsy's litter box.

Spent an undetermined amount of time staring at Che's ultrasound pictures already celebrating how much fun my grandson's going to have playing with his Aunt.

Got a text from Sarah telling me she loves me so I texted her back telling her the same thing.

Started wondering if Christian Scientists wear lab coats to Church.

Began planning the afternoon.

1. Lunch

2. Skinny dip

3. Nap

4. Skinny dip to wake up

5. Cook dinner for Sarah and the girls

6. See what happens tonight

Well that's it so far.

What do you expect?

It's my day off!

A Father's Boy

It's my son's first Father's Day as a Dad.

Part of me consciously knows and accepts the fact he's a grown man with a wonderful family but there's another part in complete denial because he's still my little boy.

You'd think I'd be more adult about it but I'm not and ... honestly ... I don't care that I'm not.

One of the greatest compliments I've ever received was standing on the balcony of the old courtyard at the Holiday Inn in Athens, Georgia on a glorious University of Georgia football weekend.

Jeremy had wandered inside to see what was happening on ESPN's Gameday and I stood with Bill Shearouse, Mark Berry, Mike Ryan and whoever else showed on that particular Saturday to enjoy the glories of College football in the South.

"I don't know how you do it Mike," Bill says facing me directly. "You and Jeremy do everything together. He's one of the boys. I could never do the stuff y'all do with my Dad."

I couldn't imagine not doing everything with Jeremy.

My son and I were inseperatable forever ... taking boys trips, hanging with the boys, doing things only boys do and ... Hoo Boy! ... we always had a good time.

Life's currents flow in different directions and these days, Jeremy's living in exile in the wilderness that is Alabama while my heart's held hostage by four-and-a-half girls on an island that will not let me go.

But he's coming home today and he's bringing his boy with him!

Ethan Elliott is now one of the boys!

Happy Father's Day son!

This one's for you!

Monkey Bar People

When did Monkey Bars become evil instruments of torture?

Where did Diving Boards go?

Who decided the giant aluminum Super Slides you rode down on a Croaker sack were dangerous?

Was it Government that decided to be safe on a bicycle you need a helmet, elbow pads, knee pads and ride on a particular side of the road?

What's wrong with building a fire on the beach to roast hot dogs?

Diving off the Pier was always a blast but now you can't get in 30 feet of it unless you're standing on it but you sure as Hell can't have a dog, hold a bottle or butcher the shark you just caught to keep it fresh!

Making love in the Sand Dunes is a rite of passage but now you can be fined for creating an ecological disturbance.

My son Jeremy and I once hurled water balloons at all the cars that drove to Tybee just to turn around in our drive way but we'd be arrested now!

And God knows if your dog barks on this clump of sand they haul your ass to Court where the Judge tries to look at you as you're fined hundreds of dollars.

We now live in an age where other people know what's best for us.

It's a time of protecting you from yourself.

When I was a kid, Monkey Bars were cool!  High Dives were better than Low ones! Aluminum Super Slides were the rush in the K-Mart parking lot! Bicycles were meant to go recklessly fast down the Port Wentworth Viaduct against the one coming traffic. Drift wood meant beach fires and hot dogs. The Sand Dunes were for love.

Today, a SWAT will take you down before you can jump from the Pier.

It can't get any crazier in this Para-military Police driven economy run by a Government that knows best world that makes us scared of ourselves because it make them feel ... I don't know ... like they've made a difference.

My entire generation of crazy Monkey Bar climbing, diving board jumping, Super Sliding, unprotected bike riding, drift wood burning Pier jumpers who lost our virginity in Sand Dunes  have ... SURVIVED.

We did it without protection!

All that to say ... look at this!

Now the Tybee Island Police Department is hosting a "Civilian Response to Active Shooter events" class!

It's designed to help you shoot them before they shoot you.

AND IT'S FREE!

Gomer Pile's "Citizen's Arrest" is now kill the Muthafucker because you ... might get hurt.

Doing away with Monkey Bars is one thing but giving the general public training and permission to shoot is something else entirely.

AND IT'S MY GENERATION CONCOCTING SUCH STUPID THINGS!

We've become so scared of everything because we've forgotten how to have fun.

Sure I understand Terrorist could blow up a boat in the Savannah River and if you had your gun you'd probably be able to take em out from Savannah River Sweets before it happened while licking your ice cream.

I also understand that on Tybee when Orange Crush happens armed white residents are scared of congregating black kids and could shoot anything that moves.

And our Government ... through our Paramilitary Police force ... is all for it!

We've forsaken having fun on the Monkey Bars so the Monkeys can be in charge.

Living to Die

Follow me here ...

As near as I can see there are 3 ways to die.

(1) FUCK! I DIDN'T SEE THAT COMING!! And they're shot, run over, fall off a mountain, have a heart attack or lay in their recliner watching the News waiting on the wife to bring the ice cream and ... that's that!

(2) "WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'M DYING! YOU STUPID MORON! I AIN'T DYING!" And they hook themselves up to machines, take amazing quantities of drugs to make themselves feel alive again, ask for copious amounts of prayer, makes deals with the Devil and fight like Hell sometimes even though they've already lost.

(3) "I AIN'T NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE. IT'S A LITTLE SCARY." And they lay there in acceptance, saying goodbye to everyone they need to, giving whatever advice they're compelled to give, taking the time to take one last look around ... at birds singing, music playing, waves rolling in and out, the faces of their children and ... it's like going to sleep for them ... except with a hiccup or jerk at the end given the definite impression they've moved on.

Still with me?

 

I'm beginning to believe people die like they live.

 

I mean how in the world are some people still here at all? They're goofy wanderers through life waiting on whatever's going to happen. They don't plan, read or think yet somehow ... inexpiably they keep their jobs, never moving too far up and rarely getting fired but never really doing much either ... just waiting life out ... until something happens.

 

Then there's the pissed off people who are mad at everything! Believing everything should always go their way when hardly anything ever does, they know with unwavering conviction they are entitled!  They're everywhere but unusually large numbers are politicians, preachers, philanders and people who work in the News Industry. They deserve everything ... and take advantage of anything ... even if it's at your expense because ... Goddammit! ... it's meant for them anyway.

 

And there are those who accept ... perhaps not always gratefully ... what they have, who they're with and where they're at. Wistfully, they sometimes wish they could still do things they used to ... or do some things they never have ... but every day's a good one even if there's no idea whatsoever of what it holds.

 

Me?

 

I've mellowed about life.

 

Crazy, unplanned things are going to happen and there's no getting around them, though I've found most are survivable. At least I've survived lots of things I had no business surviving.

 

It takes a lot to piss me off anymore. Anger takes too much energy and over time I've come to know it's never particularly rewarding to be pissed. Unless it's something big like bullying or racism or meanness ... anger rarely helps anything.

 

For reasons I do not understand or fully appreciate, I have a wife who loves me richly, children and grandchildren filling my life, work I enjoy, living in a beautiful place that suits me. Oh yeah, there are lots of times I wish I were somewhere else or could do something again but ... day by day ... this is pretty damn good!

 

Last night I had a lunch date with Cassidy our 9 year old. At Chick-Fill-A, as she gobbled down two, and I sipped wine I'd snuck in, she asks, "How much longer you think you got Micheal?"

 

Well who's prepared for such a question?

 

"I mean," she mumbles with a full mouth, "you gonna be here to see Baby Che's baby?"

 

"I hope so," I answer as she lovingly looks at me, loudly slurping her Coke.

 

"Can I go to work with you?" she asks changing subjects.

 

"Why?"

 

"I can make them feel better," she confidently shoots.

 

"You know Cass," I tell her taking the last bite of my spicy chicken sandwich, "I know you can too. You make me feel better."

 

Smiling she asks, "Can we go to Starbucks? I want some birthday cake pops."

 

I hate Starbucks. It's the McDonalds of coffee.

 

"Absolutely," I say and on the way home, she gives me something I never would have otherwise had in life ... a bite of birthday cake pop.

Like the Movies

Did you ever give a compliment and it was promptly given back?

It happened to me yesterday.

"Do you remember that Movie we saw where the guy kept looking at the girl?" I said holding my wife in my arms.

"Are you comparing me to a Movie?" she asks.

"No, I'm not comparing you to a Movie. I am saying I know how that guys feels."

"It's just a Movie."

"Will you shut up and listen! I'm telling you that every single day there is a moment when you just take my breath away."

"Like in the Movies."

"No like now! Well not right now because sometimes you drive me crazy."

"Well you drive me crazy."

"That's not what I'm talking about! I'm talking about how you take my breath away every single day."

"Well you drive me crazy," she says.

"Jesus Christ," I mumble in prayer. "This is crazy."

Sarah gracefully glides to the chair beside our bed to pick up her phone and check on the girls.

Now the girls are crazy and I think she'd completely agree with me on this but I'm sure as Hell not bringing it up right now ... I'm praying.

"Dear Jesus, how did I get in trouble for telling my wife how beautiful she is and takes my breath away every single day?"

Apparently Jesus doesn't know because he keeps quiet.

Cue the crickets chirping.

Sarah finishes with the phone and takes my breath away but I'm keeping my damn mouth shut about it.

She's crazy!

In the most beautiful ways I've ever seen.

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.