Brilliant blasts of sunshine bursts through Fran's thousand shades of green illuminating the Beloved Back Deck and giving the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt a halo. Goddess contently sits at my feet chewing on a raw hide. The yard is full of weeds and needs work. The Red-Tips need are overgrown and several plants need to be replaced. I'm sitting here taking inventory of what to keep, what to trim and what to get of ... and it reminds me of my life.
Sitting outside of a hospital emergency room in Richmond, Virgina my old friend Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one who went to Seminary with me) was trying to stay awake. He'd been up for 25 straight hours waiting on a patient to die so that he could oversee the donation of body parts that would keep others alive. He filled some of the time by writing me.
"I hear rumor that you are engaged, I could tell back in November that Sarah is the woman for you." He went on to describe a Hodge-podge of the future and the past. His aging parents need constant supervision and their days are numbered. Business is booming so he works more than he ever has. He and Kathy are returning to the scene of one of our greatest crimes ... when he threw over the wall of the Trappist Monastery where Thomas Merton used to live and I landed on two monks who had taken vows of silence only to cuss.
"I don't know if I can get Kathy to do it," he says of throwing her over the wall, "I may spend all of my time at the Makers Mark Distillery. Tell Sarah 'Hi.'"
On this brilliant last morning of February that occurs every four years, I read his message again and am lost in thought. Whenever Bill and I are together, things happen. We've been around the world more than once ... chased by Turkish whores in Prague, walked together on the railroad track out of Auschwitz in Poland because there was no other way to leave, and he got me busted in Cuba. I love the man.
I imagine him sitting outside of the Emergency Room, leaning in a chair, the back of his head against the wall, fighting off sleep so that he can comfort the dead and save the living at the same time.
As the day unfolds, it becomes this crazy series of exchanges ... both though cyber space and live ... good news and bad news ... love and something other than love. Old friends want me to return to acting like the way I used to act and chiding me not doing so. Newer friends finding themselves in a position where they have to choose ... continue being my friend could risk offending somebody. There are conversations with attorneys, birthday wishes to Lenora, thanks to Jenny Gentry for inspiration, invitations from Stacy and expectations from Roma. My son Jeremy and I have a long talk about nothing and everything. Sarah sits beside me wrestling with similar things.
It's all a Hodge-podge of past and my future.
Suddenly, it's night time and Sarah and I make our way to Fannie's-on-the-Beach for Essie's surprise birthday. We're joined by Cheryl and Wyn (an old friend and a new one). Essie is surprised and everyone has a good time. At one point, I'm half-way listening to Sarah and Wyn who are in deep conversation when Jenny O is kicking my foot.
I stand up and she hugs me.
"You ready for this?," she asks in dead seriousness.
And I swear it was four of the sweetest words ever uttered. Behind each word was love and concern for me, where I'm at and where I'm going.
Salt water leaked out of my eyes as I nodded yes.
"Good," she said. "We'll get some pink table clothes, the bands good, and a bunch of people who don't know you will join those who do and toast you and Sarah. It'll be great!"
We hugged again and she made her way off to run Fannies.
Staring at the brilliant sunshine dancing with Fran's thousand shades of green, I think about Thomas Merton, the Trappist Monk whose ghost Bill and I chased all those years ago. Merton was something! He wrote great books and pushed Catholicism to be more than it was. He did these things having taken a vow of silence and lived alone in a Hermitage. He died trying to unite Buddhist monks with Catholic ones. A lot of Catholics were happy about it.
When Bill threw me over the wall that day, we were determined to find his Hermitage. It didn't go as planned.
Nothing ever does.
But you know what? I have lots of love again. The friends I have now are good ones. The uncertainty about the future are deep but the celebrations of the present keep doubts at bay. Somehow I've managed to achieve knowing exactly what I'm doing without having a clue at the same time!
Yesterday was cloudy, windy and cold.
Today is sunshine, blue skies, a calm ocean for sailing away and a warm exclamation point to "a long, cold, lonely winter."
I have things to do this morning. People in Atlanta, New York and Savannah want stuff from me. Two different publishers want chapters and there is a third I need to call back. I think I'll give them the morning ... then work on my tan.
Oh yeah ... I'm doing a wedding at Fannie's this afternoon.
So much to do ... so little time.
I'm going to enjoy it while I got it.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Petty
I've always tried to stay on the High Road as I've lived my life.
The Low Road is so crowded.
On a cruise ship last week we noticed that the deck chairs around the swimming pool were packed tightly together and each was occupied. There was hardly room to walk between them. Even where there weren't any chairs, people sat at tables or at the bar ... watching the pool which was of course full. But everybody was facing the same way, looking at the same thing, determined to keep their space. Someone would stand to pee or something and people hovered over their chair, wanting it ... lusting after it.
I couldn't handle it.
It was madness.
Making our way up top, it was less crowded. There were the same deck chairs but with more space between them. We turned them in whatever direction we wished. There was the option of looking down on the crowded pool and the crazy collection down there.
But ... we had an ocean breeze. We had the ocean! Standing with my back to the crowds, I stared out at the sea. Majestic and blue, it was endless ... with possibilities and promise. There were fewer of us taking notice of it. I stood there peering into the future though very mindful of where I've come from ... and who and what brought me to this place in my life.
After decades of it, I'm not obligated to anybody or any institution right now. I can say or do what I want. I can name names. I can open my heart and let you walk inside. I can be ... honest ... which is a very High Road thing to aspire to. I can share it with a conviction that it helps others and that's also a trait of the High Road.
People criticize me for it. I no longer care. No matter what I do, I'm criticized for it. They can be self-righteousness and call me petty.
It doesn't matter.
What does matter is that I'm being true to myself. Others ... lots of others ... seem to find comfort or challenge in my sharing. It seems as though a community is being born ... a global one. Instant messages and long private ones fly across cyber space in real time. My mornings are taken away to converse with people who connect with whatever I am sharing. There's something holy about it that I'm still trying to figure out.
There's the other side too. Last night an old friend told me Shame on you for saying things you shouldn't say and naming names you shouldn't name.
I have nothing to be ashamed of ... I've given all of my best and I still try to do so.
My friend Phil Schaengold once said that "old CEO's should just go away." He was referring to my dear friend Bob Colvin, an old CEO who wasn't going away. A short time later, Phil was an old CEO going away.
I remember when he said this in the hallway of Memorial Health University Medical Center and being a little shocked by it. Bob had done many great things that made this city better. Why should he have to go anywhere?
Then again, I am a man of faith. Jesus was killed and buried. He wasn't supposed to be heard from again ... but he was.
I will be too.
The Low Road is so crowded.
On a cruise ship last week we noticed that the deck chairs around the swimming pool were packed tightly together and each was occupied. There was hardly room to walk between them. Even where there weren't any chairs, people sat at tables or at the bar ... watching the pool which was of course full. But everybody was facing the same way, looking at the same thing, determined to keep their space. Someone would stand to pee or something and people hovered over their chair, wanting it ... lusting after it.
I couldn't handle it.
It was madness.
Making our way up top, it was less crowded. There were the same deck chairs but with more space between them. We turned them in whatever direction we wished. There was the option of looking down on the crowded pool and the crazy collection down there.
But ... we had an ocean breeze. We had the ocean! Standing with my back to the crowds, I stared out at the sea. Majestic and blue, it was endless ... with possibilities and promise. There were fewer of us taking notice of it. I stood there peering into the future though very mindful of where I've come from ... and who and what brought me to this place in my life.
After decades of it, I'm not obligated to anybody or any institution right now. I can say or do what I want. I can name names. I can open my heart and let you walk inside. I can be ... honest ... which is a very High Road thing to aspire to. I can share it with a conviction that it helps others and that's also a trait of the High Road.
People criticize me for it. I no longer care. No matter what I do, I'm criticized for it. They can be self-righteousness and call me petty.
It doesn't matter.
What does matter is that I'm being true to myself. Others ... lots of others ... seem to find comfort or challenge in my sharing. It seems as though a community is being born ... a global one. Instant messages and long private ones fly across cyber space in real time. My mornings are taken away to converse with people who connect with whatever I am sharing. There's something holy about it that I'm still trying to figure out.
There's the other side too. Last night an old friend told me Shame on you for saying things you shouldn't say and naming names you shouldn't name.
I have nothing to be ashamed of ... I've given all of my best and I still try to do so.
My friend Phil Schaengold once said that "old CEO's should just go away." He was referring to my dear friend Bob Colvin, an old CEO who wasn't going away. A short time later, Phil was an old CEO going away.
I remember when he said this in the hallway of Memorial Health University Medical Center and being a little shocked by it. Bob had done many great things that made this city better. Why should he have to go anywhere?
Then again, I am a man of faith. Jesus was killed and buried. He wasn't supposed to be heard from again ... but he was.
I will be too.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Every Little Thing
I bought new flip flops yesterday in the Bahamas. Bob Marley's. Who knew Bob was into flip flops? I mean I know that he wore them when he has to wear shoes but to have his own brand 40 years after his death ... the man remains incredibly cool.
My old pair was worn out. There was no cushion to them at all. They were Reefs that had logged many a mile. They were a gift from Julie a long time ago. Having grown up in Port Wentworth, Georgia, flip flops were not a part of the southern culture. Sneakers were although we called them tennis shoes for some reason. I mostly went barefoot which remains my shoe of choice.
When I first started wearing the flops it was awkward squeezing my toes together to keep then from falling off. Eventually I got the hang of it and if shoes were required then flops became my first option if I couldn't go barefoot.
So I left Julie's gift in a Bahamian trash can and slid into my Bob Marley's. The temperature was in the 80's, I sipped a Tropical drink, listening to a really fine Reggae band play an outdoor show on the Straw Market. Sarah was shopping for the girls and the plan was to work on our tans as we prepare for bigger things in a few days.
Sliding her arm into mine, we made our way back to the boat. My feet felt great though my arm felt better. We ran into Johnny O and Judy O getting off the boat as we were getting back on. Twenty minutes later we were all at the poolside bar with the Carnival of Friends.
A Reggae Band played Bob Marley. "Three Little Birds" ... With the refrain "Every little thing is gonna be alright.".
It was a rotten time when Bob wrote the song. Jamaica was in Civil War and he was am international Superstar. The warring factions tried to recruit him but he cared little for politics. The masses wanted to know what he thought. So he invited the leaders of the warring factions on stage with him and grabbed their hands pulling then over his head. Six tightly glassed hands.
"One Love," he said.
And that was it.
They were pissed and the violence got worse. In despair, Bob smoked a spliff and heard three little birds sing. "Every little thing's gonna be alright." and he wrote a song about sitting there listen to God speak through three little birds.
Sarah and I locked eyes for the briefest of seconds. There is a lot going on and all of it is not good, family and friends have forsaken us, work is being created and defined by the seat of our pants, there are families to blend and I've never dine corporate taxes before ... but you know what?
Every little thing's gonna be alright.
And when I forget, I'll slide into my Bob Marley's ... while Sarah's arm slides into mine.
My old pair was worn out. There was no cushion to them at all. They were Reefs that had logged many a mile. They were a gift from Julie a long time ago. Having grown up in Port Wentworth, Georgia, flip flops were not a part of the southern culture. Sneakers were although we called them tennis shoes for some reason. I mostly went barefoot which remains my shoe of choice.
When I first started wearing the flops it was awkward squeezing my toes together to keep then from falling off. Eventually I got the hang of it and if shoes were required then flops became my first option if I couldn't go barefoot.
So I left Julie's gift in a Bahamian trash can and slid into my Bob Marley's. The temperature was in the 80's, I sipped a Tropical drink, listening to a really fine Reggae band play an outdoor show on the Straw Market. Sarah was shopping for the girls and the plan was to work on our tans as we prepare for bigger things in a few days.
Sliding her arm into mine, we made our way back to the boat. My feet felt great though my arm felt better. We ran into Johnny O and Judy O getting off the boat as we were getting back on. Twenty minutes later we were all at the poolside bar with the Carnival of Friends.
A Reggae Band played Bob Marley. "Three Little Birds" ... With the refrain "Every little thing is gonna be alright.".
It was a rotten time when Bob wrote the song. Jamaica was in Civil War and he was am international Superstar. The warring factions tried to recruit him but he cared little for politics. The masses wanted to know what he thought. So he invited the leaders of the warring factions on stage with him and grabbed their hands pulling then over his head. Six tightly glassed hands.
"One Love," he said.
And that was it.
They were pissed and the violence got worse. In despair, Bob smoked a spliff and heard three little birds sing. "Every little thing's gonna be alright." and he wrote a song about sitting there listen to God speak through three little birds.
Sarah and I locked eyes for the briefest of seconds. There is a lot going on and all of it is not good, family and friends have forsaken us, work is being created and defined by the seat of our pants, there are families to blend and I've never dine corporate taxes before ... but you know what?
Every little thing's gonna be alright.
And when I forget, I'll slide into my Bob Marley's ... while Sarah's arm slides into mine.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Restless in the Bahamas
Sitting moored in Freeport on Grand Bahamas Island, the weather is cloudy and given the last several days feels as cold as a Michigan winter … though it is in the 70s.
My son Jeremy tells me that I’ve been to Freeport though I don’t remember.
That’s funny because I’m an island guy and know intimate details about every island that I’ve ever visited which are many … Tybee Island is home of course and in the United States it is Key West, Islamorada, Cedar Key …
Further south it is … the Pineapple Festival in Eleuthra, the Rain Forest in St. Lucia, Brock Island up North, Hedonism in Jamacia, Rockefeller Beach in St. Barts, and St. Martin of course.
Nassau is ok and I had a really good time there a couple of days ago.
If I’ve been to Freeport then it is unmemorable and I have no real regrets not remembering it.
Having said that, the island does a fabulous job welcoming people from the ships, it’s friendly though quaint and … I admit it, I’m a snob … I’ve been to islands that have stolen my heart and though I visit others, I long for the ones which hold me.
It is all good though. I’m with the one I love most ... with the Carnival of Friends who have remained with me throughout the changes … both requested or unwantedly dumped upon me … in February working on my tan and back in my Temperate Zone … no shoes, no worries … no problem Mon.
I’ve had my share of problems lately.
Little sons-of bitches who want to feel tall … though they are much more like the little man in the sycamore tree … (Hello Jerry Rainy, John Tatum, Don Waters, etc.)
Loyal co-workers who know nothing about co (which stands for community … as in the Beloved Community … which Martin Luther King, Jr. lived and gave his life and they pay homage to every day … though they only give a shit about their blackness winning at all costs … fuck everything else!) … Hey Aretha, Lavanda, Terry, Letitia, Ayana, Joanie and Lauren.
Self-righteous Religious pricks who think they are the center of the Universe … speaking for God for thirty minutes every Sunday morning in their robes and self-pompous clothing … I need to tell you something … I never left you. You left me.
Friends who loved me right up until … they didn’t (like Pilates washing their hands … not giving a shit about crucifixions and such … there were golf courses to be conquered and good causes to be raped). There are too many to mention …
Elected officials who demanded everything from me but when I could no longer help them (name one … it doesn’t matter which one … or which party … they are all the same … caring about reelection more than anything else and selling their souls for it on a daily basis … the biggest whore house in the world … and if you have issues with this, just read Abraham Lincoln’s journals of when he was elected to Congress … things have just gotten worse since Abe was killed) moved on to who could help next.
I was restless in the Bahamas last night.
Tossing and turning … I pondered my future.
I’ve spent too much time sleeping with whores ... tiny Board chairmen, Pilates who run the world, those who know best because it’s all they know, religious leaders who know everything and those going to the hottest parts of hell … who run everything.
Last night I was again being raped by them and then being so angry that I wanted to rape back.
I won’t do that though.
God is a loving God.
And I love God.
Not that Son-of-A-Bitch God that the leaders love.
But the one who accepted everyone … in spite of what they had done … who they had been … or where they were going.
The God of the Poor.
Define your Poor … it can mean a lot!
Than talk to God ...
Once that’s settled …
Let’s move to the Sons-of-Bitches.
My son Jeremy tells me that I’ve been to Freeport though I don’t remember.
That’s funny because I’m an island guy and know intimate details about every island that I’ve ever visited which are many … Tybee Island is home of course and in the United States it is Key West, Islamorada, Cedar Key …
Further south it is … the Pineapple Festival in Eleuthra, the Rain Forest in St. Lucia, Brock Island up North, Hedonism in Jamacia, Rockefeller Beach in St. Barts, and St. Martin of course.
Nassau is ok and I had a really good time there a couple of days ago.
If I’ve been to Freeport then it is unmemorable and I have no real regrets not remembering it.
Having said that, the island does a fabulous job welcoming people from the ships, it’s friendly though quaint and … I admit it, I’m a snob … I’ve been to islands that have stolen my heart and though I visit others, I long for the ones which hold me.
It is all good though. I’m with the one I love most ... with the Carnival of Friends who have remained with me throughout the changes … both requested or unwantedly dumped upon me … in February working on my tan and back in my Temperate Zone … no shoes, no worries … no problem Mon.
I’ve had my share of problems lately.
Little sons-of bitches who want to feel tall … though they are much more like the little man in the sycamore tree … (Hello Jerry Rainy, John Tatum, Don Waters, etc.)
Loyal co-workers who know nothing about co (which stands for community … as in the Beloved Community … which Martin Luther King, Jr. lived and gave his life and they pay homage to every day … though they only give a shit about their blackness winning at all costs … fuck everything else!) … Hey Aretha, Lavanda, Terry, Letitia, Ayana, Joanie and Lauren.
Self-righteous Religious pricks who think they are the center of the Universe … speaking for God for thirty minutes every Sunday morning in their robes and self-pompous clothing … I need to tell you something … I never left you. You left me.
Friends who loved me right up until … they didn’t (like Pilates washing their hands … not giving a shit about crucifixions and such … there were golf courses to be conquered and good causes to be raped). There are too many to mention …
Elected officials who demanded everything from me but when I could no longer help them (name one … it doesn’t matter which one … or which party … they are all the same … caring about reelection more than anything else and selling their souls for it on a daily basis … the biggest whore house in the world … and if you have issues with this, just read Abraham Lincoln’s journals of when he was elected to Congress … things have just gotten worse since Abe was killed) moved on to who could help next.
I was restless in the Bahamas last night.
Tossing and turning … I pondered my future.
I’ve spent too much time sleeping with whores ... tiny Board chairmen, Pilates who run the world, those who know best because it’s all they know, religious leaders who know everything and those going to the hottest parts of hell … who run everything.
Last night I was again being raped by them and then being so angry that I wanted to rape back.
I won’t do that though.
God is a loving God.
And I love God.
Not that Son-of-A-Bitch God that the leaders love.
But the one who accepted everyone … in spite of what they had done … who they had been … or where they were going.
The God of the Poor.
Define your Poor … it can mean a lot!
Than talk to God ...
Once that’s settled …
Let’s move to the Sons-of-Bitches.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Paradise Island
The old rickety green and rust van blew through Nassau’s back streets, church parking lots, the “Sesame Street Daycare Center”. A police siren wailed in front of us and a pickup truck full of convicts wearing brown shirts that read “PRISONER” on the back held on for dear life as it raced through the traffic that we were stuck in.
“HEY MON!” yellowed our Bahamian cabbie yelled at them, “Take us too!”
Turning to look at Sarah and me sitting in the back seat, he said, “Don’t worry Mon, I smoke week with them guys.”
“Jah,” I replied.
A bright white grin launched across his dark black face.
“Rasitifari,” he said holding up a clinched fist.
“Rastifari,” I replied repeating the gesture.
Rastifarism is a religion that grew out of Jamica’s belief that the Kind of Zion was alive and well in Africa. There was no reason to wait on the Messiah, he was already here, alive and well. Soon he would come collect his twelve tribes and bring them home. He the meantime he blessed his waiting disciples with the gift of … marijuana. Smoke it until I come get you pretty much sums up his promise of deliverance from slavery, oppression and the evils of the world.
Only a handful of followers knew of this until Bob Marley became famous. The major evangelist of reggae music took the message worldwide.
Sarah was wearing her bathing suit, a black cover dress, large sunglasses and a smirk on her face. I think she was rolling her eyes. I hate on my old ripped University of Georgia baseball cap, a Shady in St. Martin tee shirt and running shorts. My bare feet were propped on the back of the cabbie’s seat.
“You American Rasitfari eat chicken,” he said with the smile fading from his face. “Real Rastifari don’t eat no chicken Mon. We laugh at such foolishness.”
I shrug my shoulders.
Inching along in the major traffic cluster of this day, with five cruise ships all in port on a Friday afternoon, he is frustrated. Trying to cram as many people into his van as possible to take to Paradise Island he’s been rushing back and forth making lots of money. Our drive over took five minutes. We were already at twenty on the return ride.
It was easy to find him leaving Paradise Island. We’d stayed for about ten minutes. I’ve been to the Mall before.
He rolls the rusty green van to a beautiful black woman decked in red and asks where she’s going. She tells him the airport for a 2:00 flight somewhere. It’s 1:35.
“Promise to take off your clothes for me sometime and I will take you. Get in.”
She does eying Sarah and me with suspicion.
“Don’t worry about dem. They be real tourists.”
Looking at me again, “You want some weed Mon?”
Laughing and shaking my head from side to side, I tell him no.
“I got to make money Mon,” he says.
I figure he’s more Republican than Rastifari.
Pulling up to another taxi, he barters passing off the woman in red so that he can hurry and make the return ride to Paradise Island.
We just laugh as he does a U-turn in front of a bunch of tourists waiting to be carried away to Paradise with air-conditioning.
“How much,” I ask. It had cost us $8 for the trip over.
“You look like a rich man,” he says in response, “Fifteen!”
Sarah burst out laughing.
We strode the streets of Nassau to Juckaroo Beach and had beer, coke and conch fritters. We swam in the aqua turquoise water of the Bahamas. Local children were diving off of a jetty into the sea and we watched smiling. Some kids from the cruise ships joined them which made it nicer.
As the sun began to set, we made our way back to the ship to hook up with our friends.
It had been a perfect day in paradise on an island in paradise.
Which is not to be confused with Paradise Island.
“HEY MON!” yellowed our Bahamian cabbie yelled at them, “Take us too!”
Turning to look at Sarah and me sitting in the back seat, he said, “Don’t worry Mon, I smoke week with them guys.”
“Jah,” I replied.
A bright white grin launched across his dark black face.
“Rasitifari,” he said holding up a clinched fist.
“Rastifari,” I replied repeating the gesture.
Rastifarism is a religion that grew out of Jamica’s belief that the Kind of Zion was alive and well in Africa. There was no reason to wait on the Messiah, he was already here, alive and well. Soon he would come collect his twelve tribes and bring them home. He the meantime he blessed his waiting disciples with the gift of … marijuana. Smoke it until I come get you pretty much sums up his promise of deliverance from slavery, oppression and the evils of the world.
Only a handful of followers knew of this until Bob Marley became famous. The major evangelist of reggae music took the message worldwide.
Sarah was wearing her bathing suit, a black cover dress, large sunglasses and a smirk on her face. I think she was rolling her eyes. I hate on my old ripped University of Georgia baseball cap, a Shady in St. Martin tee shirt and running shorts. My bare feet were propped on the back of the cabbie’s seat.
“You American Rasitfari eat chicken,” he said with the smile fading from his face. “Real Rastifari don’t eat no chicken Mon. We laugh at such foolishness.”
I shrug my shoulders.
Inching along in the major traffic cluster of this day, with five cruise ships all in port on a Friday afternoon, he is frustrated. Trying to cram as many people into his van as possible to take to Paradise Island he’s been rushing back and forth making lots of money. Our drive over took five minutes. We were already at twenty on the return ride.
It was easy to find him leaving Paradise Island. We’d stayed for about ten minutes. I’ve been to the Mall before.
He rolls the rusty green van to a beautiful black woman decked in red and asks where she’s going. She tells him the airport for a 2:00 flight somewhere. It’s 1:35.
“Promise to take off your clothes for me sometime and I will take you. Get in.”
She does eying Sarah and me with suspicion.
“Don’t worry about dem. They be real tourists.”
Looking at me again, “You want some weed Mon?”
Laughing and shaking my head from side to side, I tell him no.
“I got to make money Mon,” he says.
I figure he’s more Republican than Rastifari.
Pulling up to another taxi, he barters passing off the woman in red so that he can hurry and make the return ride to Paradise Island.
We just laugh as he does a U-turn in front of a bunch of tourists waiting to be carried away to Paradise with air-conditioning.
“How much,” I ask. It had cost us $8 for the trip over.
“You look like a rich man,” he says in response, “Fifteen!”
Sarah burst out laughing.
We strode the streets of Nassau to Juckaroo Beach and had beer, coke and conch fritters. We swam in the aqua turquoise water of the Bahamas. Local children were diving off of a jetty into the sea and we watched smiling. Some kids from the cruise ships joined them which made it nicer.
As the sun began to set, we made our way back to the ship to hook up with our friends.
It had been a perfect day in paradise on an island in paradise.
Which is not to be confused with Paradise Island.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Cruise Sponosred by Wall Mart
Sitting at the buffet on the ocean, I’m watching one cruise ship head in one direction as the one I’m sitting on heads in the other. The sea is majestic, the sky is blue, the salty breeze is refreshing as the coffee hits the spot.
Johnny O and Judy O are eating breakfast which boggles my mind given the twenty-eight course meal that we had last night. Dedra is talking without breathing. Cheryl and Jodee are nowhere to be found. I am afraid that Sarah is dead.
But we had a good time … we think.
I’ll get back to you on that.
I confess that I am not a cruiser. The last one I was on was 12 years ago. It’s kind of like Camp at Sea but we’d promised the kids so we did. I swore that I would never do that again.
I’m an island hopper. I like going to one and sliding into the culture. St. Martin is my island away from my island. I love the ocean though and I will say that this is a nice way to start the day, sitting with friends breathing in salt air on the deep blue sea.
It only cost us a few hundred dollars to be here and we decided it was time for a spring break for adults. So here we are.
We did not understand that the reason this cruise is so cheap is that it is sponsored by Wall Mart! Everybody else on this cruise apparently won their ticket because they appear on the People of Wall Mart web page (if you’ve never visited it … do it!).
How many fat people can you fir into a hot tub?
They jump into a hot tub full of water, causing a tsunami and when they get out the hot tub is empty.
How many people in baseball caps missing a front tooth does it take to start a stampede?
The answer is one.
If one makes his or her way to the buffet the entire damn ship stops what they’re doing and wobbles like hell to get in line.
Dedra just shut everybody up when she said, “You know I look at people and say … I used to dress like that.”
“You dressed in brown shorts and plaid turquoise pants with an extra wide butt?”
She confesses that she did.
This is the first day of Adult Spring break. The cruise ship director (a real pain-in-the-ass) has us scheduled to conduct a hostile takeover of Nassau, Bahamas at 12:00 noon. The city will capitulate in record time.
Well, now all of the children have woken up and are screaming that they don’t want that for breakfast. “I WANT McDONALD’S!)
The cruise director (a real-pain-in-the-ass) has informed us that we must be back on the boat to disembark Nassau by 8:00 or we may be left behind.
If Sarah ever gets up, I’m going to try to talk her into staying.
Johnny O and Judy O are eating breakfast which boggles my mind given the twenty-eight course meal that we had last night. Dedra is talking without breathing. Cheryl and Jodee are nowhere to be found. I am afraid that Sarah is dead.
But we had a good time … we think.
I’ll get back to you on that.
I confess that I am not a cruiser. The last one I was on was 12 years ago. It’s kind of like Camp at Sea but we’d promised the kids so we did. I swore that I would never do that again.
I’m an island hopper. I like going to one and sliding into the culture. St. Martin is my island away from my island. I love the ocean though and I will say that this is a nice way to start the day, sitting with friends breathing in salt air on the deep blue sea.
It only cost us a few hundred dollars to be here and we decided it was time for a spring break for adults. So here we are.
We did not understand that the reason this cruise is so cheap is that it is sponsored by Wall Mart! Everybody else on this cruise apparently won their ticket because they appear on the People of Wall Mart web page (if you’ve never visited it … do it!).
How many fat people can you fir into a hot tub?
They jump into a hot tub full of water, causing a tsunami and when they get out the hot tub is empty.
How many people in baseball caps missing a front tooth does it take to start a stampede?
The answer is one.
If one makes his or her way to the buffet the entire damn ship stops what they’re doing and wobbles like hell to get in line.
Dedra just shut everybody up when she said, “You know I look at people and say … I used to dress like that.”
“You dressed in brown shorts and plaid turquoise pants with an extra wide butt?”
She confesses that she did.
This is the first day of Adult Spring break. The cruise ship director (a real pain-in-the-ass) has us scheduled to conduct a hostile takeover of Nassau, Bahamas at 12:00 noon. The city will capitulate in record time.
Well, now all of the children have woken up and are screaming that they don’t want that for breakfast. “I WANT McDONALD’S!)
The cruise director (a real-pain-in-the-ass) has informed us that we must be back on the boat to disembark Nassau by 8:00 or we may be left behind.
If Sarah ever gets up, I’m going to try to talk her into staying.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Adults on Spring Break
It began with a party in a south Florida hotel room where an arrest was barely averted.
"You know," I said to Jodee at one point, "this is like we were twenty years ago."
"Except we drink better wine now," he shot back.
It's true. The wine is better but the actions are incredibly similar to what we did when we were younger.
The other thing that happens now is that I go to bed earlier. I start early but I always did. Now I go to bed earlier.
But doing the chicken dance naked beside the hotel swimming pool ... then having security chase you away ... well, how many people can claim to have done in life?
In fact, the world would likely be a much better place if once a year everybody had to do the chicken dance naked in front of people they don't like. It doesn't necessarily have to be by a swimming pool but I think it helps.
And alcohol doesn't have to be a factor (but I think it helps).
So this morning I'm doing what any mid-50 year old man on Spring Break does ... taking a bath in coffee, eating Mydol because I can't find the asprin and wondering what happened to my suitcase.
I am in the same hotel room that I checked into when we arrived so ... that's a good sign.
Now reconstruction begins.
Not the putting back together of the United States after the Civil War ... but the attempt to collectively remember everything that happened last night. It will take all seven of us to collect all of the details and get them in order.
Today we've been asked to vacate South Florida so we're getting on a cruise ship for the Bahamas.
While others don't forgive me for the way that I practice my faith, I have. I think God enjoys it all watching us enjoy ourselves. I believe She made us to be happy. Besides, I go to Bar Church where our creedo is that Jesus really did turn water into wine and ... dammit if we're going to be followers of Jesus then we're going to keep practing until we get it right!
I just finished my morning exercises ... meaning I fell and tumbled through the living room area to the bedroom area ... and did a perfect triple sumorsalt landing on both feet on top of my lost suitcase.
Now I'm ready.
Cracking up the Beach Boys on the lap top, I find Sarah and we dance.
Adult Spring Break is off to a rocking start!
"You know," I said to Jodee at one point, "this is like we were twenty years ago."
"Except we drink better wine now," he shot back.
It's true. The wine is better but the actions are incredibly similar to what we did when we were younger.
The other thing that happens now is that I go to bed earlier. I start early but I always did. Now I go to bed earlier.
But doing the chicken dance naked beside the hotel swimming pool ... then having security chase you away ... well, how many people can claim to have done in life?
In fact, the world would likely be a much better place if once a year everybody had to do the chicken dance naked in front of people they don't like. It doesn't necessarily have to be by a swimming pool but I think it helps.
And alcohol doesn't have to be a factor (but I think it helps).
So this morning I'm doing what any mid-50 year old man on Spring Break does ... taking a bath in coffee, eating Mydol because I can't find the asprin and wondering what happened to my suitcase.
I am in the same hotel room that I checked into when we arrived so ... that's a good sign.
Now reconstruction begins.
Not the putting back together of the United States after the Civil War ... but the attempt to collectively remember everything that happened last night. It will take all seven of us to collect all of the details and get them in order.
Today we've been asked to vacate South Florida so we're getting on a cruise ship for the Bahamas.
While others don't forgive me for the way that I practice my faith, I have. I think God enjoys it all watching us enjoy ourselves. I believe She made us to be happy. Besides, I go to Bar Church where our creedo is that Jesus really did turn water into wine and ... dammit if we're going to be followers of Jesus then we're going to keep practing until we get it right!
I just finished my morning exercises ... meaning I fell and tumbled through the living room area to the bedroom area ... and did a perfect triple sumorsalt landing on both feet on top of my lost suitcase.
Now I'm ready.
Cracking up the Beach Boys on the lap top, I find Sarah and we dance.
Adult Spring Break is off to a rocking start!
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Sail On
I've thrown away the blues
I'm tired of being used
I want everyone to know
I'm looking for a good time
I was never a fan of The Commodores but I love this song. Sail On is about failed relationships. Lionel Richie says, "It seemed everyone around me were getting divorced and I was having lots of conversations so I put myself in their place." Where he put himself was taking stock of the reality that you can give and give only to get nothing in return. So it all breaks down and you're left with a choice ... will yourself to a better place or wallow in it.
Yesterday, in the middle of work I was told that I'm giving too much of myself away again ... for free. AND people are taking advantage of me ... AGAIN. Having already given a lot to a group I've been working with, yesterday they asked for more. I shared it with my friends who went off on me.
"You're too nice," I was told ... AGAIN.
Strolling out to the Beloved Back Deck, which is Corporate Headquarters, I acknowledged that old patterns repeating themselves. My friend Bill Bowling (Georgia Trends Magazine's 2012 "Georgian of the Year") told me a couple of years ago, "Mike, if you give them your all ... make no mistake ... they will take it."
I thought it was one of the most profound things I'd ever heard.
I wish I'd have listened to him.
I didn't.
At the time, everybody had taken it all. I had nothing left. Union Mission had warned me out. In a profession where the average tenure is 2.7 years, I'd lasted 23. At the end, I was begging for a break but was told no. They just kept taking ... my time, energy, wife, passion. The bitch of it all is that I gave it to them. Because I loved the work, the people and the things we'd accomplished.
For a year-and-a-half now, I've worked hard to get back to myself. I've moved along.
Just like it cost me a lot to get here, it's sure as hell cost me a lot to get back to me. Everything costs ... emotionally and monetarily.
So today, I'm sailing on ... literally.
The Carnival of Friends will caravan to CoCo Beach to get on a Carnival Cruise and sail to the Bahamas. I'm taking a break from Bar Church, Street Medicine, responding to the people asking me to do things, and Goddess. The people who've loved me most over the last year-and-a-half and I are going to celebrate.
A lot remains to figure out in my life. My new family is being born. Creativity abounds again. I'm very aware of the things that I don't want again and I've got a pretty good idea of the things I want to keep.
Last night, lying in bed, it was hard to sleep because of the excitement of travel. I've been ready to go for days. Yeah I know, I'm leaving one island to go to others ... it's one of the things I love most about me.
Besides I've seen enough cities and the biggest and tallest mountains are all under the ocean. And you can have my life's allocation of snow.
In the car this morning, an old song came on the radio. As it reminded me of all of the things I've been though ... all that I've given and everything that's been taken ... it ends with a bit of reggae and island sound with a promise ...
Sail on honey, good times never looked so good.
I'm tired of being used
I want everyone to know
I'm looking for a good time
I was never a fan of The Commodores but I love this song. Sail On is about failed relationships. Lionel Richie says, "It seemed everyone around me were getting divorced and I was having lots of conversations so I put myself in their place." Where he put himself was taking stock of the reality that you can give and give only to get nothing in return. So it all breaks down and you're left with a choice ... will yourself to a better place or wallow in it.
Yesterday, in the middle of work I was told that I'm giving too much of myself away again ... for free. AND people are taking advantage of me ... AGAIN. Having already given a lot to a group I've been working with, yesterday they asked for more. I shared it with my friends who went off on me.
"You're too nice," I was told ... AGAIN.
Strolling out to the Beloved Back Deck, which is Corporate Headquarters, I acknowledged that old patterns repeating themselves. My friend Bill Bowling (Georgia Trends Magazine's 2012 "Georgian of the Year") told me a couple of years ago, "Mike, if you give them your all ... make no mistake ... they will take it."
I thought it was one of the most profound things I'd ever heard.
I wish I'd have listened to him.
I didn't.
At the time, everybody had taken it all. I had nothing left. Union Mission had warned me out. In a profession where the average tenure is 2.7 years, I'd lasted 23. At the end, I was begging for a break but was told no. They just kept taking ... my time, energy, wife, passion. The bitch of it all is that I gave it to them. Because I loved the work, the people and the things we'd accomplished.
For a year-and-a-half now, I've worked hard to get back to myself. I've moved along.
Just like it cost me a lot to get here, it's sure as hell cost me a lot to get back to me. Everything costs ... emotionally and monetarily.
So today, I'm sailing on ... literally.
The Carnival of Friends will caravan to CoCo Beach to get on a Carnival Cruise and sail to the Bahamas. I'm taking a break from Bar Church, Street Medicine, responding to the people asking me to do things, and Goddess. The people who've loved me most over the last year-and-a-half and I are going to celebrate.
A lot remains to figure out in my life. My new family is being born. Creativity abounds again. I'm very aware of the things that I don't want again and I've got a pretty good idea of the things I want to keep.
Last night, lying in bed, it was hard to sleep because of the excitement of travel. I've been ready to go for days. Yeah I know, I'm leaving one island to go to others ... it's one of the things I love most about me.
Besides I've seen enough cities and the biggest and tallest mountains are all under the ocean. And you can have my life's allocation of snow.
In the car this morning, an old song came on the radio. As it reminded me of all of the things I've been though ... all that I've given and everything that's been taken ... it ends with a bit of reggae and island sound with a promise ...
Sail on honey, good times never looked so good.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Anywhere and Anytime (To President Reagan)
"Is this what you do in the mornings," she whispered as I poured coffee into the cup?
Holding her blankey with blond hair all askew and sleep still in her eyes, it was as though she'd just stumbled into one of the great mysteries of the universe ... experiencing an Ah-Ha moment ... so this is what you do?
In the car she continued to whisper though there was no need, "Why do you get up so early?"
"Well," I said backing out of the driveway, "it started so I could get to the television set before my brother David did."
"Why," she whispered in the blackness of the car?
"So I could pick which cartoon I wanted to watch. Back before the Cartoon Network we were oppressed people and could only watch them early in the morning and for about an hour after school."
"Really?" she asked in disbelief rubbing large blue eyes.
"Yeah, it was all government related somehow. The F.D.A. or something like that tried to keep cartoons off the air so kids like me couldn't watch them. Then Ronald Reagan became President and everything changed."
"How," she asked as she turned the heat up in the car?
"Do you know who Ronald Reagan was," I asked as she shook her head from side to side?
"He was President of the United States. He really liked cartoons. So he did the funniest thing. It was amazing actually! He deregulated everything and make government bigger while promising to make it smaller at the same time. He was incredible! And he had great hair."
Lying her sleepy head on my shoulder, she yawned really big and asked, "So that's why you get up so early. The President did it"?
It gave me pause as we sped through the darkness of a predawn morning on the Tybee Road.
"Yes," I explained, "Ronald Regan is responsible. And you should thank him because there would be no 24/7 Cartoon Network without him. My generation never had that opportunity but President Regan was a visionary looking out for you guys."
"What's a generation," she asked sticking her head in her blankey?
"I don't know," I replied rolling to a stop in front of the Breakfast Club, "mine was lost."
Excited she peered into the window and saw the Closed sign and said, "Ah, it's closed. We can't get in. Where's Cheryl?"
"Come on baby," I said, "President Reagan deregulated this too. The guy was amazing. A real visionary."
So we stumbled into the Breakfast Club taking full advantage of deregulation. FOX News was on which was also invented by President Reagan. As was maxing out credit cards. He was incredible and so far ahead of his time!
"Hey," she asked finishing her egg. "Can we go watch cartoons?"
"Absolutely," I said giving her a squeeze. "We'll start with FOX and then move to the mainline networks before going to CNN, MSNBC and WTOC."
"Oh," she said with tears welling in her eyes.
"Then we'll find Spongebob Sqarepants, but I have to warn you," I explained as I tenderly buckled her in, "the problem with Spongebob is he looks like every member of Congress, state legislatures, most evangelical pastors, WAY too many Mayors ..."
"Hey Mike," she interrupted with the big blue seven year old eyes with the sun rising in them, "so we can watch cartoons?"
I hugged her tight.
"Anytime baby."
"Anywhere."
Thanks to President Reagan.
Holding her blankey with blond hair all askew and sleep still in her eyes, it was as though she'd just stumbled into one of the great mysteries of the universe ... experiencing an Ah-Ha moment ... so this is what you do?
In the car she continued to whisper though there was no need, "Why do you get up so early?"
"Well," I said backing out of the driveway, "it started so I could get to the television set before my brother David did."
"Why," she whispered in the blackness of the car?
"So I could pick which cartoon I wanted to watch. Back before the Cartoon Network we were oppressed people and could only watch them early in the morning and for about an hour after school."
"Really?" she asked in disbelief rubbing large blue eyes.
"Yeah, it was all government related somehow. The F.D.A. or something like that tried to keep cartoons off the air so kids like me couldn't watch them. Then Ronald Reagan became President and everything changed."
"How," she asked as she turned the heat up in the car?
"Do you know who Ronald Reagan was," I asked as she shook her head from side to side?
"He was President of the United States. He really liked cartoons. So he did the funniest thing. It was amazing actually! He deregulated everything and make government bigger while promising to make it smaller at the same time. He was incredible! And he had great hair."
Lying her sleepy head on my shoulder, she yawned really big and asked, "So that's why you get up so early. The President did it"?
It gave me pause as we sped through the darkness of a predawn morning on the Tybee Road.
"Yes," I explained, "Ronald Regan is responsible. And you should thank him because there would be no 24/7 Cartoon Network without him. My generation never had that opportunity but President Regan was a visionary looking out for you guys."
"What's a generation," she asked sticking her head in her blankey?
"I don't know," I replied rolling to a stop in front of the Breakfast Club, "mine was lost."
Excited she peered into the window and saw the Closed sign and said, "Ah, it's closed. We can't get in. Where's Cheryl?"
"Come on baby," I said, "President Reagan deregulated this too. The guy was amazing. A real visionary."
So we stumbled into the Breakfast Club taking full advantage of deregulation. FOX News was on which was also invented by President Reagan. As was maxing out credit cards. He was incredible and so far ahead of his time!
"Hey," she asked finishing her egg. "Can we go watch cartoons?"
"Absolutely," I said giving her a squeeze. "We'll start with FOX and then move to the mainline networks before going to CNN, MSNBC and WTOC."
"Oh," she said with tears welling in her eyes.
"Then we'll find Spongebob Sqarepants, but I have to warn you," I explained as I tenderly buckled her in, "the problem with Spongebob is he looks like every member of Congress, state legislatures, most evangelical pastors, WAY too many Mayors ..."
"Hey Mike," she interrupted with the big blue seven year old eyes with the sun rising in them, "so we can watch cartoons?"
I hugged her tight.
"Anytime baby."
"Anywhere."
Thanks to President Reagan.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Marriage & Divorce, Inc.
I did something yesterday I've never done before.
I walked out of a wedding.
What made it particularly bad is that I was the minister.
Leaving the bride in her white dress and holding a single rose, her groom wearing a white shirt and a blue 1970's knot in his tie and one very angry Mother-of-the-Bride ... I stood there with my black preachers robe slung over my shoulder to cover the Grand Tetons tee-shirt, bluejeans and flip-flops I was wearing, holding the Preacher's Manual my Grandfather had given me and ... I angrily walked.
I rarely get angry.
It takes too much energy that I'd rather invest in other things.
But I was pissed and stormed out of the room with the black preacher's robe and my dear Grandfather's gift.
Cheryl handed me a glass of wine as I made my way outside. Jenny O came flying over to check on things as the after wedding party was to occur in her restaurant. Dedra looked like would burst into tears at any moment. Essie ordered another round. Swanee mumbled, "This isn't looking good." Even Roma stopped what she was doing to watch.
I stormed out by the pool and gulped the wine.
"I'm so sorry," the sister of the Mother-of-the-Bride said, "she's had a bad week. Her divorce was final on Tuesday."
Incredulously, I stared at her and gulped the wine again.
Her husband, also a fan of 1970's ties, asked, "Can I see those papers?"
I handed him the folder and he inspected the pages inside. I watched him. His wife watched him. Everybody in the whole damn bar watched him.
"Is he a lawyer," I asked?
"No," she said.
I gulped the wine again.
Clearing his throat he said, "Nope baby, these ain't like the wedding we had a couple of weeks ago."
Spitting out wine, Cheryl came flying out with another glass for me then darted back in to join the audience and the wedding party standing side by side. They were easy to distinguish as half were a bunch of beach bums and the others looked like the entire cast of "The Seventies Show."
I've seen a lot in my life but this was my first counterfeit marriage license.
"This isn't the right license," I explained before the Mother-of-the-Bride exploded.
"It is in Wheeler County," she informed me.
"It's not in Georgia," I said.
The Bride said, "Oh can't we just do this, you sign it and we'll be out of your hair."
Then things got worse.
Holding up my hands, I said, "Hey, I need a moment. Let me talk to the Boss about this so I'm say a prayer while I calm down from you people."
It all started when I was doing a favor for a friend of a friend ... so it's my fault. Never do a favor for a friend of a friend! It never works out right.
As unconventional as I may be, I really do try to do things right. Tell the truth. Do what you say you are going to do. Clean up after yourself. Be nice because it's easier and more rewarding than being mean. If you see somebody being mean, say something about it. Share. Sing. Dance.
But A COUNTERFEIT MARRIAGE LICENSE???!!!
In a few weeks, I'm getting married and want it to be perfect. After that Dani is getting married and I want that to be perfect. A little bit later my beautiful daughter Chelsea is getting married to Sam and I want to dance in joy. One day my beautiful daughter Kristen might even get married (you never know).
At this time, the groom with the white shirt and big knotted tie stuck his head outside.
"Hey, don't worry about it. We found somebody else to do it. Thanks for your time."
And he walked down the aisle along with the entire cast of the 70's Show.
All of my Beach Bum friends went back to dancing and drinking.
I went home.
The funny thing about life is that it always surprises you. When you think you've seen it all, something else happens. And you never know where inspiration will hit.
So I've been thinking. There are several vacancies on Tybrisa Street (which used to be 16th Street and is between 15th and 17th Street but has a name for no apparent reason) so I'm going to rent one and open a One-Stop-Shop.
Marriage & Divorce, Inc.
Get them at the same place.
Hell! Get them on the same night!
Special Prices if you get them in the same hour!
I'm telling you .... there's a big market for this.
I walked out of a wedding.
What made it particularly bad is that I was the minister.
Leaving the bride in her white dress and holding a single rose, her groom wearing a white shirt and a blue 1970's knot in his tie and one very angry Mother-of-the-Bride ... I stood there with my black preachers robe slung over my shoulder to cover the Grand Tetons tee-shirt, bluejeans and flip-flops I was wearing, holding the Preacher's Manual my Grandfather had given me and ... I angrily walked.
I rarely get angry.
It takes too much energy that I'd rather invest in other things.
But I was pissed and stormed out of the room with the black preacher's robe and my dear Grandfather's gift.
Cheryl handed me a glass of wine as I made my way outside. Jenny O came flying over to check on things as the after wedding party was to occur in her restaurant. Dedra looked like would burst into tears at any moment. Essie ordered another round. Swanee mumbled, "This isn't looking good." Even Roma stopped what she was doing to watch.
I stormed out by the pool and gulped the wine.
"I'm so sorry," the sister of the Mother-of-the-Bride said, "she's had a bad week. Her divorce was final on Tuesday."
Incredulously, I stared at her and gulped the wine again.
Her husband, also a fan of 1970's ties, asked, "Can I see those papers?"
I handed him the folder and he inspected the pages inside. I watched him. His wife watched him. Everybody in the whole damn bar watched him.
"Is he a lawyer," I asked?
"No," she said.
I gulped the wine again.
Clearing his throat he said, "Nope baby, these ain't like the wedding we had a couple of weeks ago."
Spitting out wine, Cheryl came flying out with another glass for me then darted back in to join the audience and the wedding party standing side by side. They were easy to distinguish as half were a bunch of beach bums and the others looked like the entire cast of "The Seventies Show."
I've seen a lot in my life but this was my first counterfeit marriage license.
"This isn't the right license," I explained before the Mother-of-the-Bride exploded.
"It is in Wheeler County," she informed me.
"It's not in Georgia," I said.
The Bride said, "Oh can't we just do this, you sign it and we'll be out of your hair."
Then things got worse.
Holding up my hands, I said, "Hey, I need a moment. Let me talk to the Boss about this so I'm say a prayer while I calm down from you people."
It all started when I was doing a favor for a friend of a friend ... so it's my fault. Never do a favor for a friend of a friend! It never works out right.
As unconventional as I may be, I really do try to do things right. Tell the truth. Do what you say you are going to do. Clean up after yourself. Be nice because it's easier and more rewarding than being mean. If you see somebody being mean, say something about it. Share. Sing. Dance.
But A COUNTERFEIT MARRIAGE LICENSE???!!!
In a few weeks, I'm getting married and want it to be perfect. After that Dani is getting married and I want that to be perfect. A little bit later my beautiful daughter Chelsea is getting married to Sam and I want to dance in joy. One day my beautiful daughter Kristen might even get married (you never know).
At this time, the groom with the white shirt and big knotted tie stuck his head outside.
"Hey, don't worry about it. We found somebody else to do it. Thanks for your time."
And he walked down the aisle along with the entire cast of the 70's Show.
All of my Beach Bum friends went back to dancing and drinking.
I went home.
The funny thing about life is that it always surprises you. When you think you've seen it all, something else happens. And you never know where inspiration will hit.
So I've been thinking. There are several vacancies on Tybrisa Street (which used to be 16th Street and is between 15th and 17th Street but has a name for no apparent reason) so I'm going to rent one and open a One-Stop-Shop.
Marriage & Divorce, Inc.
Get them at the same place.
Hell! Get them on the same night!
Special Prices if you get them in the same hour!
I'm telling you .... there's a big market for this.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Going to Church (or NOT)
"Can we see the ocean?" she asks ... in the dark of a predawn morning.
And it's raining.
I love the logic of a seven year old.
"Aside from the dark and the rain," I say as we drive, "I don't see why not?"
So we drove down front, which is the big parking lot on Tybee Island that separates the sea from Fannie-on-the-Beach and Spankeys. She unbuckles her seat belt so that she can sit on her knees and peer into the vastness of a new day being created by God.
I roll the window down and it thunders.
Laurel's eyes grow huge and she wraps herself in her "blanky".
We meander back to Butler Avenue and see that Sam and the boys are already setting up the equipment for Bar Church. We'll join then in a couple of hours and I think a thought that I haven't thought in years. Decades! It was a stupid thought but I thought it anyway.
I hope it stops raining so people will come to church.
"Christ Jesus," I say out loud.
"What," she asked?
"Oh it's really nothing," I answered.
Here we are, watching God again declare, "Let the waters under the heavens be gathered into one place and let there be" ... ISLANDS! God was showing off a bit with the thunder on a warm February morning and the rain made it more dramatic. The holy acts of creation are exploding around us. People are making ready for worship, giving of themselves in the unselfish acts of making ready for others.
I laugh again at myself.
I hope it stops raining so people will come to church.
How lame is that?
The last time I prayed that lame prayer was when I was a "Professional Christian" in Louisville, Kentucky. I'd think such stupid thoughts. Now Laurel and I are watching God give us all another day to do what we will and ... I cared about numbers.
Damn Southern Baptists!
"Hey," Laurel asks turning up the radio, "can we see more of the high tides?"
"Absolutely," I say as we drive to the Back River.
Whoever shows up for Church today is supposed to be there. And God will say that It is good.
And whoever doesn't show up ... well God will probably say that It is good too.
She's a lot less demanding than the rest of us.
And it's raining.
I love the logic of a seven year old.
"Aside from the dark and the rain," I say as we drive, "I don't see why not?"
So we drove down front, which is the big parking lot on Tybee Island that separates the sea from Fannie-on-the-Beach and Spankeys. She unbuckles her seat belt so that she can sit on her knees and peer into the vastness of a new day being created by God.
I roll the window down and it thunders.
Laurel's eyes grow huge and she wraps herself in her "blanky".
We meander back to Butler Avenue and see that Sam and the boys are already setting up the equipment for Bar Church. We'll join then in a couple of hours and I think a thought that I haven't thought in years. Decades! It was a stupid thought but I thought it anyway.
I hope it stops raining so people will come to church.
"Christ Jesus," I say out loud.
"What," she asked?
"Oh it's really nothing," I answered.
Here we are, watching God again declare, "Let the waters under the heavens be gathered into one place and let there be" ... ISLANDS! God was showing off a bit with the thunder on a warm February morning and the rain made it more dramatic. The holy acts of creation are exploding around us. People are making ready for worship, giving of themselves in the unselfish acts of making ready for others.
I laugh again at myself.
I hope it stops raining so people will come to church.
How lame is that?
The last time I prayed that lame prayer was when I was a "Professional Christian" in Louisville, Kentucky. I'd think such stupid thoughts. Now Laurel and I are watching God give us all another day to do what we will and ... I cared about numbers.
Damn Southern Baptists!
"Hey," Laurel asks turning up the radio, "can we see more of the high tides?"
"Absolutely," I say as we drive to the Back River.
Whoever shows up for Church today is supposed to be there. And God will say that It is good.
And whoever doesn't show up ... well God will probably say that It is good too.
She's a lot less demanding than the rest of us.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Manly Pedeicures
I went straight from the conference call in the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant to the Pedicure.
I love Pedicures and converted my dearly departed friend Trolly Joe to them. He called me a "homo" forever because I got Pedicures. I like to take a large glass of wine, make them turn the television to ESPN and have women play with my feet in the water.
Trolly Joe hated hearing this ... until he did it.
Then he realized that you can be manly and still enjoy Pedicures. There is a picture of him on Face Book and his feet are in the water and he has a Rum and Coke in his hand and is smiling and enjoying the Asian woman playing with his feet.
When he first showed it to me, I called him a "homo".
The conference call had been brutal. It was with a bunch of doctors who were all prescribing different things. They had no idea. I order my drugs from Canada (meaning they actually come from Germany for some reason) but they cost 75% less than what the American health care system charges. I like bargain basement drugs!
As soon as I hung up, I ate a Taco. Then Sarah, my beautiful daughter Kristen and Dedra and I showed up for Pedicures.
"Oh no," said the owner as we walked in. "Not you."
I immediately walked to the television to change the channel from the LIFETIME network to ESPN 2.
Ripping the remote my hand, the owner told me that we were going to watch NET FLIX. Staring at her, I took a sip of wine and said, "Alright then."
I sat down and was ignored for about an hour. The water my feet were soaking in got cold. The owner was giving Sarah a Pedicure who was sitting beside me.
Grabbing my I-Phone I called the owner whose phone number was on her smock.
"Hell-Row," she said into her phone.
"Hey, how long do I have to sit here," I asked?
She hung up on me.
On the other side of the room Dedra was bitching about something so I called her to see what was wrong. Dedra never took phone in college so she is challenged. Instead of answering, she yells across the room, "What do you want?"
She is an unsophisticated country girl. I was embarrassed for her.
"That's my Dad," Kristen announced as the rest of the customers left.
Sarah reached out and tenderly held my hand ... so that I couldn't use my phone anymore.
Finally I got my Pedicure.
After they threw us out, I wanted to work on our collective tans. We walked into the Tan Shop and this really tanned woman with really white teeth tried to sell me package deal.
Since when do tans come in packages?
I needed time to think about it so we left.
Most of the time, I try to make point when I write these things.
Not today. I'm merely telling you what actually happened yesterday.
Oh ... and can somebody tell me how I got home last night?
I love Pedicures and converted my dearly departed friend Trolly Joe to them. He called me a "homo" forever because I got Pedicures. I like to take a large glass of wine, make them turn the television to ESPN and have women play with my feet in the water.
Trolly Joe hated hearing this ... until he did it.
Then he realized that you can be manly and still enjoy Pedicures. There is a picture of him on Face Book and his feet are in the water and he has a Rum and Coke in his hand and is smiling and enjoying the Asian woman playing with his feet.
When he first showed it to me, I called him a "homo".
The conference call had been brutal. It was with a bunch of doctors who were all prescribing different things. They had no idea. I order my drugs from Canada (meaning they actually come from Germany for some reason) but they cost 75% less than what the American health care system charges. I like bargain basement drugs!
As soon as I hung up, I ate a Taco. Then Sarah, my beautiful daughter Kristen and Dedra and I showed up for Pedicures.
"Oh no," said the owner as we walked in. "Not you."
I immediately walked to the television to change the channel from the LIFETIME network to ESPN 2.
Ripping the remote my hand, the owner told me that we were going to watch NET FLIX. Staring at her, I took a sip of wine and said, "Alright then."
I sat down and was ignored for about an hour. The water my feet were soaking in got cold. The owner was giving Sarah a Pedicure who was sitting beside me.
Grabbing my I-Phone I called the owner whose phone number was on her smock.
"Hell-Row," she said into her phone.
"Hey, how long do I have to sit here," I asked?
She hung up on me.
On the other side of the room Dedra was bitching about something so I called her to see what was wrong. Dedra never took phone in college so she is challenged. Instead of answering, she yells across the room, "What do you want?"
She is an unsophisticated country girl. I was embarrassed for her.
"That's my Dad," Kristen announced as the rest of the customers left.
Sarah reached out and tenderly held my hand ... so that I couldn't use my phone anymore.
Finally I got my Pedicure.
After they threw us out, I wanted to work on our collective tans. We walked into the Tan Shop and this really tanned woman with really white teeth tried to sell me package deal.
Since when do tans come in packages?
I needed time to think about it so we left.
Most of the time, I try to make point when I write these things.
Not today. I'm merely telling you what actually happened yesterday.
Oh ... and can somebody tell me how I got home last night?
Friday, February 17, 2012
Last Rights and First Rights
I'm sitting here watching the cars go by, sipping hot coffee, smelling yellow Jasmine underneath some overgrown Palm trees. Barefoot wearing jeans and my Samuel Adams Band tee shirt, I am glad that it is Friday. I want to dance at Doc's tonight.
Doc's is the oldest bar on Tybee Island, Georgia where I live. When I first went, "Doc" actually owned the place and I was with my Dad. We split a pitcher of Past Blue Ribbon and talked about things. There were two guys sitting down the bar from us and they were on their third or forth pitcher of PBR. They were loud and their conversation was fascinating so Dad and I grew silent and listened.
"I know how we can make a living," the first said. "We go into the burial at sea business."
"We got get to a boat," replied his partner.
"Yeah, I know, but think about it. Everybody wants to get buried at sea. We'll make a killing."
"That's funny!" the partner laughted as he poured them another one.
"We'll take the family and the coffin out a little bit, not too far, then we'll drop the coffin in the ocean, bring family back and serve Mimosa's."
They tapped their mugs together before the partner protested, "Wait a minute. Coffins float."
"Shit!" said the master mind.
The two stared off into space, lost in thought.
"I got it!" the master mind announced. "Led coffins. We'll have to use led coffins so they'll sink."
They toasted again.
"You know what?" the partner asked. "If we keep going to the same spot using led coffins we'll eventually build an artifical reef. Fish will be everywhere."
Mastermind slapped his hands on DOc's Bar. "Last rights and first rights!"
"What?"
"Last rights and first rights. We bury the dead and give the family a license for fishing rights at our reef. They'll be a lot of repeat business. Who gets repeat business doing funerals?"
"You're brilliant!"
Dad and I tapped our mugs at their thought processes. It was indeed brilliant.
Doc's is the oldest bar on Tybee Island, Georgia where I live. When I first went, "Doc" actually owned the place and I was with my Dad. We split a pitcher of Past Blue Ribbon and talked about things. There were two guys sitting down the bar from us and they were on their third or forth pitcher of PBR. They were loud and their conversation was fascinating so Dad and I grew silent and listened.
"I know how we can make a living," the first said. "We go into the burial at sea business."
"We got get to a boat," replied his partner.
"Yeah, I know, but think about it. Everybody wants to get buried at sea. We'll make a killing."
"That's funny!" the partner laughted as he poured them another one.
"We'll take the family and the coffin out a little bit, not too far, then we'll drop the coffin in the ocean, bring family back and serve Mimosa's."
They tapped their mugs together before the partner protested, "Wait a minute. Coffins float."
"Shit!" said the master mind.
The two stared off into space, lost in thought.
"I got it!" the master mind announced. "Led coffins. We'll have to use led coffins so they'll sink."
They toasted again.
"You know what?" the partner asked. "If we keep going to the same spot using led coffins we'll eventually build an artifical reef. Fish will be everywhere."
Mastermind slapped his hands on DOc's Bar. "Last rights and first rights!"
"What?"
"Last rights and first rights. We bury the dead and give the family a license for fishing rights at our reef. They'll be a lot of repeat business. Who gets repeat business doing funerals?"
"You're brilliant!"
Dad and I tapped our mugs at their thought processes. It was indeed brilliant.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Hoo-Hah!
Crowded around the kitchen table, four of us are busy making plans. Sunshine floods through the sliding glass doors and the window above the sink. Jesus smiles upon us from the magnets on the refrigerator. Pope Benedict XVI nods in approval after I slap the top of his head. Chocolate covered strawberries consummate wishes being turning into plans.
Sitting back for a moment, I appreciate the reality of what's happening.
In a general sense, each of us have expatriated, having left what was ... now living in a foreign culture because it's not the one we brought up to follow.
We're creating our own.
We've left marriages or had them leave us ... live on a clump of sand on top of the ocean by choice ... four laptops are open in front of us as we put the pieces together ... bound by the common conviction that there is no going back.
"No matter where you go," explained Buckaroo Banzai, "there you are."
Here we are.
Expatriates.
Just like Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein and the other members of The Lost Generation living in Paris in the 1920's or the songs that Jimmy Buffett sings The Weather is here, I wish you were beautiful ...
"There's no place like home when you're this far away. I don't care what they say."
And we don't.
Our parents care. Ex-wives and Ex-husbands care. People who want us to do what we used to do care. Our children care because we're not acting like adults anymore. Politicians are suspicious. Clergy are hurling prayers our way because it scares the hell out of them. Our bankers definitely care! Our creditors are considering their options.
Ever since I read Hemingway those years ago, I've wanted to expatriate and leave the United States for ... an island. Jimmy Buffett had much to do with the location choice ... as did Bob Marley.
Visiting home once when I was living in Louisville, we rode out to Tybee and I knew with as much conviction as did St. Paul when God knocked him off that ass and told him what to do ... that this was home. I didn't live here but I knew I would one day. And I do.
So does Dedra ... and Sean and Wyn and their kids ... Sarah's already got one foot here ... then there's the Carnival of Friends ... Johnny O and Judy O expatriated here years ago ... Roma did too ... O John and O Judy have ... Cheryl and Jodee ran out of gas just as they rolled onto the island ... Samuel Adams stumbled in and brought music ... I found Rocky on my doorstep one night.
Everybody thinks we're nuts and are quick to say so. They're very judgmental about it too.
So we throw Judgement Parties at Fannies-On-the-Beach and Marlin Monro's. We dance at Doc's, brunch at Bar Church, burn some out back at Bennie's and skinny dip off the dock and in the pool at the top secret locations. The only rule in attending is there is no judgement.
So, none of us are quite certain of where we're going but ... here we are.
Hoo-Hah!
In some ways it's as scary as it possibly gets. How do you keep paying for this? How come we haven't been caught? We acknowledge that we've broken the Ten Commandments but God hasn't hurled bolts of lightening at us yet.
So we're going to stay the course.
Between navigational beacons that we can't see.
And that's an excuse for a party!
Hoo-Hah!
Sitting back for a moment, I appreciate the reality of what's happening.
In a general sense, each of us have expatriated, having left what was ... now living in a foreign culture because it's not the one we brought up to follow.
We're creating our own.
We've left marriages or had them leave us ... live on a clump of sand on top of the ocean by choice ... four laptops are open in front of us as we put the pieces together ... bound by the common conviction that there is no going back.
"No matter where you go," explained Buckaroo Banzai, "there you are."
Here we are.
Expatriates.
Just like Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein and the other members of The Lost Generation living in Paris in the 1920's or the songs that Jimmy Buffett sings The Weather is here, I wish you were beautiful ...
"There's no place like home when you're this far away. I don't care what they say."
And we don't.
Our parents care. Ex-wives and Ex-husbands care. People who want us to do what we used to do care. Our children care because we're not acting like adults anymore. Politicians are suspicious. Clergy are hurling prayers our way because it scares the hell out of them. Our bankers definitely care! Our creditors are considering their options.
Ever since I read Hemingway those years ago, I've wanted to expatriate and leave the United States for ... an island. Jimmy Buffett had much to do with the location choice ... as did Bob Marley.
Visiting home once when I was living in Louisville, we rode out to Tybee and I knew with as much conviction as did St. Paul when God knocked him off that ass and told him what to do ... that this was home. I didn't live here but I knew I would one day. And I do.
So does Dedra ... and Sean and Wyn and their kids ... Sarah's already got one foot here ... then there's the Carnival of Friends ... Johnny O and Judy O expatriated here years ago ... Roma did too ... O John and O Judy have ... Cheryl and Jodee ran out of gas just as they rolled onto the island ... Samuel Adams stumbled in and brought music ... I found Rocky on my doorstep one night.
Everybody thinks we're nuts and are quick to say so. They're very judgmental about it too.
So we throw Judgement Parties at Fannies-On-the-Beach and Marlin Monro's. We dance at Doc's, brunch at Bar Church, burn some out back at Bennie's and skinny dip off the dock and in the pool at the top secret locations. The only rule in attending is there is no judgement.
So, none of us are quite certain of where we're going but ... here we are.
Hoo-Hah!
In some ways it's as scary as it possibly gets. How do you keep paying for this? How come we haven't been caught? We acknowledge that we've broken the Ten Commandments but God hasn't hurled bolts of lightening at us yet.
So we're going to stay the course.
Between navigational beacons that we can't see.
And that's an excuse for a party!
Hoo-Hah!
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
The Best Life I Ever Had
My friend Joe got in touch asking what I'm up to these days.
I told him that I'm very much in love, writing a lot, doing work for a diverse collection of organizations helping them raise money and getting ready to hit the road again traveling.
He came right back saying how wonderful that is. Then he said, "You did so much for the Recovery Community. Now enjoy yourself."
And that was it.
It left me remembering Potter's Place, a long term transitional house for addicts. In a grand old Victorian house on 34th Street in downtown Savannah, twelve men lived in community with one another. Each doing his best to recover, stay clean and do good work. I always loved visiting which I did often.
It was a broken down old house when I was hired by Union Mission but in couple of years we'd raised what we needed to renovate it. The guys really got into renovations as they represented lives being changed. It was always a happy, profane bunch of smokers who drank coffee by the gallon. The budget for coffee was the single largest budget line item!
Later we took over The Hacienda, a seven bed program for women. It was just as much a dump when we got it with a big hole in the living room floor. The ladies were all rail thin from their addictions. They flaunted their sexuality, all spoke with gravely voices and drank coffee like the men at Potter's.
Together they would throw these cook-outs and invite every addict in Savannah to come ... and they all came. You couldn't see any of them for the clouds of smoke but I could hear them slurping coffee, speak in gravel voices and explode into coughing fits whenever they laughed.
They always invited me to say a few words at the beginning then ... they wanted me to leave. As much as they liked me and as much I loved them, I wasn't a member.
"When you go home at night," Andi Grant once asked me at The Hacienda as she flipped burgers on the grill, winking at me with one eye with a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth, "do you just get freaking wasted?"
"Sometimes," I honestly answered.
"Man," she continued taking a long drag from the cigarette, "I would stay wasted forever if I did what you do."
I shrugged my shoulders.
I loved Andi. She worked as a waitress at the old Checker Club where the Savannah Visitors Center is now located. I'd eat lunch their several times each week because the food was good and Andi always made me laugh ... and think.
Eventually, she found a better job and moved into a trailer off Highway 17.
We lost touch.
Then she called me one day out of the blue. "Hey Rev," she said in gravely voice. I could picture her with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I asked her how she's doing.
"You know Mike," she said as I heard her exhaling the smoke, "the happiest days of my life were at The Hacienda and those cookouts. We all loved each so much. And we were all messed up Mother Fu&%ers."
I've never forgotten that. The happiest life had for her was a homeless shelter? There's something wrong with that. But what she missed was the community of strugglers all sharing the same addiction. Somehow they loved each other through. It was as holy as it gets. I'm proud to have been a part of it.
A few years, Andi died of complications from AIDS. We sold Potter's Place for almost half-a-million dollars and used the money to help start the J.C.Lewis Health Center. The Hacienda also closed though we started the Ben & Bettye Barnes Center to take its place. Both of those are still going strong.
These days it cost a lot of money to recover from addiction. Most programs are court ordered and pay for themselves by charging addicts crazy expensive fees.The logic is to punish the addict by taking their money away and giving it FOR-Profit companies who do quite nicely. It supposed to not be a burden to tax payers ... except it is. When they can't pay the courts have them arrested and they go to jail which is paid for ... by the tax payers.
It begs a question doesn't it? Where do addicts get money when they have none? Right? It makes little sense.
While I'm busy creating this new life for myself, I appreciate the Joe's and Andi's I've had the honor of knowing and loving. It's nice that they remember the things we did then.
Maybe we'll do them again one day.
The world sure needs them.
I told him that I'm very much in love, writing a lot, doing work for a diverse collection of organizations helping them raise money and getting ready to hit the road again traveling.
He came right back saying how wonderful that is. Then he said, "You did so much for the Recovery Community. Now enjoy yourself."
And that was it.
It left me remembering Potter's Place, a long term transitional house for addicts. In a grand old Victorian house on 34th Street in downtown Savannah, twelve men lived in community with one another. Each doing his best to recover, stay clean and do good work. I always loved visiting which I did often.
It was a broken down old house when I was hired by Union Mission but in couple of years we'd raised what we needed to renovate it. The guys really got into renovations as they represented lives being changed. It was always a happy, profane bunch of smokers who drank coffee by the gallon. The budget for coffee was the single largest budget line item!
Later we took over The Hacienda, a seven bed program for women. It was just as much a dump when we got it with a big hole in the living room floor. The ladies were all rail thin from their addictions. They flaunted their sexuality, all spoke with gravely voices and drank coffee like the men at Potter's.
Together they would throw these cook-outs and invite every addict in Savannah to come ... and they all came. You couldn't see any of them for the clouds of smoke but I could hear them slurping coffee, speak in gravel voices and explode into coughing fits whenever they laughed.
They always invited me to say a few words at the beginning then ... they wanted me to leave. As much as they liked me and as much I loved them, I wasn't a member.
"When you go home at night," Andi Grant once asked me at The Hacienda as she flipped burgers on the grill, winking at me with one eye with a lit cigarette dangling from her mouth, "do you just get freaking wasted?"
"Sometimes," I honestly answered.
"Man," she continued taking a long drag from the cigarette, "I would stay wasted forever if I did what you do."
I shrugged my shoulders.
I loved Andi. She worked as a waitress at the old Checker Club where the Savannah Visitors Center is now located. I'd eat lunch their several times each week because the food was good and Andi always made me laugh ... and think.
Eventually, she found a better job and moved into a trailer off Highway 17.
We lost touch.
Then she called me one day out of the blue. "Hey Rev," she said in gravely voice. I could picture her with a cup of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I asked her how she's doing.
"You know Mike," she said as I heard her exhaling the smoke, "the happiest days of my life were at The Hacienda and those cookouts. We all loved each so much. And we were all messed up Mother Fu&%ers."
I've never forgotten that. The happiest life had for her was a homeless shelter? There's something wrong with that. But what she missed was the community of strugglers all sharing the same addiction. Somehow they loved each other through. It was as holy as it gets. I'm proud to have been a part of it.
A few years, Andi died of complications from AIDS. We sold Potter's Place for almost half-a-million dollars and used the money to help start the J.C.Lewis Health Center. The Hacienda also closed though we started the Ben & Bettye Barnes Center to take its place. Both of those are still going strong.
These days it cost a lot of money to recover from addiction. Most programs are court ordered and pay for themselves by charging addicts crazy expensive fees.The logic is to punish the addict by taking their money away and giving it FOR-Profit companies who do quite nicely. It supposed to not be a burden to tax payers ... except it is. When they can't pay the courts have them arrested and they go to jail which is paid for ... by the tax payers.
It begs a question doesn't it? Where do addicts get money when they have none? Right? It makes little sense.
While I'm busy creating this new life for myself, I appreciate the Joe's and Andi's I've had the honor of knowing and loving. It's nice that they remember the things we did then.
Maybe we'll do them again one day.
The world sure needs them.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Heart & Soul
The last time it happened, Chelsea did it.
She always made me things; drawings with notes or lyrics ... scrapbooks of photographs of the two of us illustrated with her creativity and remembrances ... Compact Discs full of music she wanted to share.
Before that Kristen did too.
And that was Valentine's Day.
I'd buy them candy in boxes shaped like hearts.
As they got older, I'd take them out to dinner ... unless somebody else was which was normally the case.
This time last year I was in Myrtle Beach with my son Jeremy and Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me). It was a bachelor's celebration of love ... meaning Jeremy called my brilliant-daughter-in-law Marie and talked about how much he loved her and Bill called Kathy and talked about how much he loved her and I ... drank wine and looked at the ocean.
We all got wasted later and Jeremy threw a temper tantrum over wanting me to be happy ... Now! ... Dammit!!
I think Bill lapsed into prayer or something ... no ... I remember ... he ordered another round.
Jeremy and I made up driving the four hours back to Tybee. We're very close anyway and I think he was bummed that I was spending Valentine's Day "Valentine-less". It was OK. Like every time he and I do something together, it fun and memorable ... now it's another story to tell.
But then last night ... I stumbled in Sarah's door and had a pink piece of paper thrust in my face with silver words describing in detail everything that Laurel likes about me. The page was full of interesting things. Who knew my long curly hair is endearing to her? It drives my Mom nuts. Or ... that my occasional utilization of cuss words has made the impression that I'm standing up for myself?
She had to sit at the table and read it to me which was ... I don't know the word ... Heart Smiles. Sometimes you need two words.
Then Maddie had a keyboard and wanted to play me the song that I was teaching her last week. So we sat on the couch and played Heart and Soul together.
Cassidy was dressed like a rabbit for no apparent reason as she handed me a bag with tissue paper coming out of the top. Inside was a jug of the wine that I drink (Yes Cheryl Sadowski ... Really!) and a travel coffee mug.
They wanted what I'd brought them but I told them they'd have to wait. It wasn't Valentine's Day yet.
Then we watched "The Bachelor".
Let's be honest. I could less about him. He seems to be doing alright. He and a bunch of beautiful but bitchy women were in Belize. Sarah and I are going there soon so it was more kind of like the Travel Channel ... except for that really bitchy girl with the black hair on top of the Mayan Ruins who put the Tarantula on her arm. I like her ... though Maddie, Laurel and Cass all think she's a bitch and are in disbelief that she got a rose.
But Ben the Bachelor seems pretty happy about it all. How can he not be? When he's not giving out roses ... he's making out.
(Which brings me to Robin Wheeler. I delivered the message. Let me know what happens.)
This morning, in the darkness, I lay velvet heart shaped boxes in front of three bedroom doors. I blew kisses of love to Kristen and Chelsea. I wished Jeremy all of the love that he deserves and I thanked God for giving him Marie. Then I remembered Sam Harris who loves Chelsea and a bunny and thanked him too.
Then Goddess and I drove home in predawn of the day.
And the sun rose ... looking like a velvet heart in the sky.
She always made me things; drawings with notes or lyrics ... scrapbooks of photographs of the two of us illustrated with her creativity and remembrances ... Compact Discs full of music she wanted to share.
Before that Kristen did too.
And that was Valentine's Day.
I'd buy them candy in boxes shaped like hearts.
As they got older, I'd take them out to dinner ... unless somebody else was which was normally the case.
This time last year I was in Myrtle Beach with my son Jeremy and Bill Berry (not the former drummer for R.E.M. but the other one who went to Seminary with me). It was a bachelor's celebration of love ... meaning Jeremy called my brilliant-daughter-in-law Marie and talked about how much he loved her and Bill called Kathy and talked about how much he loved her and I ... drank wine and looked at the ocean.
We all got wasted later and Jeremy threw a temper tantrum over wanting me to be happy ... Now! ... Dammit!!
I think Bill lapsed into prayer or something ... no ... I remember ... he ordered another round.
Jeremy and I made up driving the four hours back to Tybee. We're very close anyway and I think he was bummed that I was spending Valentine's Day "Valentine-less". It was OK. Like every time he and I do something together, it fun and memorable ... now it's another story to tell.
But then last night ... I stumbled in Sarah's door and had a pink piece of paper thrust in my face with silver words describing in detail everything that Laurel likes about me. The page was full of interesting things. Who knew my long curly hair is endearing to her? It drives my Mom nuts. Or ... that my occasional utilization of cuss words has made the impression that I'm standing up for myself?
She had to sit at the table and read it to me which was ... I don't know the word ... Heart Smiles. Sometimes you need two words.
Then Maddie had a keyboard and wanted to play me the song that I was teaching her last week. So we sat on the couch and played Heart and Soul together.
Cassidy was dressed like a rabbit for no apparent reason as she handed me a bag with tissue paper coming out of the top. Inside was a jug of the wine that I drink (Yes Cheryl Sadowski ... Really!) and a travel coffee mug.
They wanted what I'd brought them but I told them they'd have to wait. It wasn't Valentine's Day yet.
Then we watched "The Bachelor".
Let's be honest. I could less about him. He seems to be doing alright. He and a bunch of beautiful but bitchy women were in Belize. Sarah and I are going there soon so it was more kind of like the Travel Channel ... except for that really bitchy girl with the black hair on top of the Mayan Ruins who put the Tarantula on her arm. I like her ... though Maddie, Laurel and Cass all think she's a bitch and are in disbelief that she got a rose.
But Ben the Bachelor seems pretty happy about it all. How can he not be? When he's not giving out roses ... he's making out.
(Which brings me to Robin Wheeler. I delivered the message. Let me know what happens.)
This morning, in the darkness, I lay velvet heart shaped boxes in front of three bedroom doors. I blew kisses of love to Kristen and Chelsea. I wished Jeremy all of the love that he deserves and I thanked God for giving him Marie. Then I remembered Sam Harris who loves Chelsea and a bunny and thanked him too.
Then Goddess and I drove home in predawn of the day.
And the sun rose ... looking like a velvet heart in the sky.
Monday, February 13, 2012
"Well I just hope that you're not making a mockery of church," my Mother said in a scolding way.
"It's Church Mom," I explained. "It just happens to be in a bar. And our music is really good."
"It sounds like a mockery," she said again.
"It's like Jeff Street was," I quickly countered.
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
Then everything got quiet.
I could hear her breathing into the phone as she contemplated this. She could hear me breathing into the receiver. But I knew that she knew what I'd just said.
Jeff Street was ... and remains ... something very special. Holy.
A broken down little inner city church in a big building owned by the Southern Baptist (who love buildings far more than they love people) was kidnapped by God. The most specific example I remember is Chester Fallbush and Micki Davis. He was a homeless alcoholic. She was a broke Seminary student. He was old beyond his years. She was young and beautiful.
At the end, when he was dying, he lived with me. I was figuring out government at the time and Chester ended up with a large social security payout when he died (I held his hand when he did). He'd worked for many years before falling into his addiction.
Then Jeff Street, a church that followed no rules ... made up of people who loved God and the idea of loving others as we love God ... did crazy stuff. The Baptismal Pool was the bathtub. Sunday School rooms became apartments. Music was an integral part and the dance from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was a cornerstone of Sunday Services (we all acted out our favorite parts). We closed once a year to go on retreats ... because we needed a break from it all.
It was this jumbled mix of homeless men, hookers, little old ladies, kids from the projects, Seminary students who believed in God way more than they believed in Seminary, prisoners who were escorted to worship by a guard with a gun ... it was crazy.
I was the pastor.
When Chester died a few months after receiving the money, he left it all to Micki ... who had nothing.
I remember sitting in my office, giving it to her.
And how she cried.
Which of course, made me cry.
But Chester died sober and beloved. Mickie had the money to get through. It was about as holy as it gets.
Fast forwarding 30 years, my Mom is struggling to comprehend Bar Church. There were 131 one of us there yesterday according to the Counters of Sheep (though they Bible says we're supposed to Feed them and not count them). We've almost outgrown our second Bar. Success is coming fast.
I lived it at Jeff Street.
At Union Mission too.
Now I see it at Bar Church.
Sitting here, I think about Jeff Street. It's still there doing the things that it did to make it special (though the leadership of the Southern Baptist Convention kicked them out because of the leadership of Dr. Russell Bennett and other Pharisees).
Union Mission is split asunder but it's still there too ... doing a mixture of good and bad (because of a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, meaning Jerry Rainy and assholes who think they're leaders). And now Bar Church is doing it all again.
When you hit stride with God though ... it's a roller coaster of a ride! At some point you shake your head asking, "What the hell was that?"
Later ... maybe seconds later, hours, days, years, decades ... it all the same in God's time ... you realize that holiness is exploding around you. Hopefully you're not too preoccupied with the details to notice.
Three times in my life I been a part of it and never really comprehended it as it was happening.
The Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky.
Union Mission in Savannah, Georgia.
And now ... Bar Church on Tybee Island ... where everybody is either running to ... or from ... something.
But I can see it. Taste it. Know it.
God is here.
Things are exploding.
Praise be to God.
It's been a while ... but it's time to ride a bullet.
One more time.
"It's Church Mom," I explained. "It just happens to be in a bar. And our music is really good."
"It sounds like a mockery," she said again.
"It's like Jeff Street was," I quickly countered.
"Oh!" she exclaimed.
Then everything got quiet.
I could hear her breathing into the phone as she contemplated this. She could hear me breathing into the receiver. But I knew that she knew what I'd just said.
Jeff Street was ... and remains ... something very special. Holy.
A broken down little inner city church in a big building owned by the Southern Baptist (who love buildings far more than they love people) was kidnapped by God. The most specific example I remember is Chester Fallbush and Micki Davis. He was a homeless alcoholic. She was a broke Seminary student. He was old beyond his years. She was young and beautiful.
At the end, when he was dying, he lived with me. I was figuring out government at the time and Chester ended up with a large social security payout when he died (I held his hand when he did). He'd worked for many years before falling into his addiction.
Then Jeff Street, a church that followed no rules ... made up of people who loved God and the idea of loving others as we love God ... did crazy stuff. The Baptismal Pool was the bathtub. Sunday School rooms became apartments. Music was an integral part and the dance from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was a cornerstone of Sunday Services (we all acted out our favorite parts). We closed once a year to go on retreats ... because we needed a break from it all.
It was this jumbled mix of homeless men, hookers, little old ladies, kids from the projects, Seminary students who believed in God way more than they believed in Seminary, prisoners who were escorted to worship by a guard with a gun ... it was crazy.
I was the pastor.
When Chester died a few months after receiving the money, he left it all to Micki ... who had nothing.
I remember sitting in my office, giving it to her.
And how she cried.
Which of course, made me cry.
But Chester died sober and beloved. Mickie had the money to get through. It was about as holy as it gets.
Fast forwarding 30 years, my Mom is struggling to comprehend Bar Church. There were 131 one of us there yesterday according to the Counters of Sheep (though they Bible says we're supposed to Feed them and not count them). We've almost outgrown our second Bar. Success is coming fast.
I lived it at Jeff Street.
At Union Mission too.
Now I see it at Bar Church.
Sitting here, I think about Jeff Street. It's still there doing the things that it did to make it special (though the leadership of the Southern Baptist Convention kicked them out because of the leadership of Dr. Russell Bennett and other Pharisees).
Union Mission is split asunder but it's still there too ... doing a mixture of good and bad (because of a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, meaning Jerry Rainy and assholes who think they're leaders). And now Bar Church is doing it all again.
When you hit stride with God though ... it's a roller coaster of a ride! At some point you shake your head asking, "What the hell was that?"
Later ... maybe seconds later, hours, days, years, decades ... it all the same in God's time ... you realize that holiness is exploding around you. Hopefully you're not too preoccupied with the details to notice.
Three times in my life I been a part of it and never really comprehended it as it was happening.
The Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky.
Union Mission in Savannah, Georgia.
And now ... Bar Church on Tybee Island ... where everybody is either running to ... or from ... something.
But I can see it. Taste it. Know it.
God is here.
Things are exploding.
Praise be to God.
It's been a while ... but it's time to ride a bullet.
One more time.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Questions for God (again)
Hey God? You still up?
Of course you are ... you're God. You're always up.
Can I ask you something?
Why do you keep waking me up?
This is getting old.
Anyway ... since we're both up, can we chat for a few?
It's dark, the house is quiet ... well I got Dave F.M. streaming "Acoustic Sunrise" but other than that it's quiet ... and Johnny Cash is singing "Sunday Morning Coming Down" and it makes me think of you.
First, as much as it irritates me you woke me up when I was snuggled and warm in bed, you did it in a really cool way. So I appreciate that. The way you sprinkled stars in a pitch black sky so they shone especially bright was excellent! Then the way you had them throw stardust straight into my eyes forcing them open was pleasant to look at ... until I couldn't shut my eyes anymore.
So I lay there figuring why you were waking me up yet again. Rather than toss and turn for an hour or so, I just got up. Thanks a lot! (and I mean that sarcastically!).
I got dressed, saw that it 4:32 and, as you know, said "Thank God."
There would be coffee at the Breakfast Club.
The next words I said were, "Good God! Jesus Christ! It is frigging cold!"
Stumbling inside the door marked "Exit Only" four chefs all simultaneously stopped what they were doing and staring.
"Where you off to?" Chris asked.
He did this because normally when I'm traveling I storm through the Club at an ungodly hour. (Hmmm ... God did you invent ungodly hours? That's an interesting question. I'd like an answer to that one.) I grab a coffee for the airport and they ask me where I'm going.
"Nowhere," I answered him today. "I just missed y'all."
"Bullshit!" all four said at the same time.
I poured myself coffee and sat down.
Back home now, I'm pondering why you woke me up so early. This is becoming a habit and I must confess ... and confession is good for the soul ... I really don't care for it. I get up early anyway. This is getting ridiculous. What do you need me up so early for?
I see ... no answer.
Thanks.
I'll talk. I hope you're listening. I believe you are.
I find myself a bit antsy these days ... like I'm full of anticipation that things are getting ready really take off. It's the calm before the storm syndrome ... nothings happening yet but I sure feel it coming. I'm finding this makes me more reflective and ... that makes my friends ask questions like "What the hell is up with you?"
Shirley sent me hugs and concerns. Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, hugged me and told me that you told him to tell me what to do. Conner and Hania called from heaven knows where demanding to know ... when and where. My brilliant daughter-in-law Marie is ordering me to make plans. Johnny O keeps telling me how warm it's going to be. Sarah just keeps looking at me and smiling.
So God ... I figure you're up to something. It's like you're planning a surprise birthday party. Is that it?
I see.
You're still keeping quiet about it all.
Fine then.
I don't have a clue what you're doing to my life but ... I don't know ... people seem excited about.
Thanks.
I'm going back to bed.
Of course you are ... you're God. You're always up.
Can I ask you something?
Why do you keep waking me up?
This is getting old.
Anyway ... since we're both up, can we chat for a few?
It's dark, the house is quiet ... well I got Dave F.M. streaming "Acoustic Sunrise" but other than that it's quiet ... and Johnny Cash is singing "Sunday Morning Coming Down" and it makes me think of you.
First, as much as it irritates me you woke me up when I was snuggled and warm in bed, you did it in a really cool way. So I appreciate that. The way you sprinkled stars in a pitch black sky so they shone especially bright was excellent! Then the way you had them throw stardust straight into my eyes forcing them open was pleasant to look at ... until I couldn't shut my eyes anymore.
So I lay there figuring why you were waking me up yet again. Rather than toss and turn for an hour or so, I just got up. Thanks a lot! (and I mean that sarcastically!).
I got dressed, saw that it 4:32 and, as you know, said "Thank God."
There would be coffee at the Breakfast Club.
The next words I said were, "Good God! Jesus Christ! It is frigging cold!"
Stumbling inside the door marked "Exit Only" four chefs all simultaneously stopped what they were doing and staring.
"Where you off to?" Chris asked.
He did this because normally when I'm traveling I storm through the Club at an ungodly hour. (Hmmm ... God did you invent ungodly hours? That's an interesting question. I'd like an answer to that one.) I grab a coffee for the airport and they ask me where I'm going.
"Nowhere," I answered him today. "I just missed y'all."
"Bullshit!" all four said at the same time.
I poured myself coffee and sat down.
Back home now, I'm pondering why you woke me up so early. This is becoming a habit and I must confess ... and confession is good for the soul ... I really don't care for it. I get up early anyway. This is getting ridiculous. What do you need me up so early for?
I see ... no answer.
Thanks.
I'll talk. I hope you're listening. I believe you are.
I find myself a bit antsy these days ... like I'm full of anticipation that things are getting ready really take off. It's the calm before the storm syndrome ... nothings happening yet but I sure feel it coming. I'm finding this makes me more reflective and ... that makes my friends ask questions like "What the hell is up with you?"
Shirley sent me hugs and concerns. Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, hugged me and told me that you told him to tell me what to do. Conner and Hania called from heaven knows where demanding to know ... when and where. My brilliant daughter-in-law Marie is ordering me to make plans. Johnny O keeps telling me how warm it's going to be. Sarah just keeps looking at me and smiling.
So God ... I figure you're up to something. It's like you're planning a surprise birthday party. Is that it?
I see.
You're still keeping quiet about it all.
Fine then.
I don't have a clue what you're doing to my life but ... I don't know ... people seem excited about.
Thanks.
I'm going back to bed.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Wretched Refuse
Throughout my life I've spent a lot of time with underdogs. The tired. The poor. Huddled masses yearning to be free. The wretched refuse of teeming shores ... the homeless and tempest tossed ... All of the people that America used to welcome with a lifted lamp beside its golden door but ... doesn't anymore.
Yesterday I spent a few minutes marching in the Savannah Founder's Day Parade with a bunch of first graders. They were dressed as Pilgrims, Indians or in school uniforms. It was impromptu as I held the hand of a little girl who was holding the hand of a little boy, I started dancing and singing.
There she comes just a' walking down the street singing
Do-Wah-Diddy-Diddy-Do-Ditty Dum
Snappin' her fingers and shuffling her feet
The kids started laughing. Their teacher gave me the evil eye.
"Come On!" I yelled snapping my fingers and shuffling my feet," EVERYBODY!"
The teacher with the evil eye rushed the tiny Pilgrims, Indians and Preppy kids away from me. They continued to laugh though and I felt good showing them that you don't always have to be so regimental about things.
I love the movie Stripes with Bill Murray and Harold Ramis and the whole Do-Wah-Diddy thing was blatantly stolen from it. It was fun to introduce it to first graders.
Then in the middle of the night I lay thinking about the little Indians holding the hands of little Pilgrims who were holding the hands of the little Preppies who refused to be costumed. They were black and white ... rich and poor ... yet too young and innocent to care There's always hope the next generation will get it right cause ours sure as hell hasn't.
Somewhere in the darkness, Bill Murray popped into my head. "We are the wretched refuse, the stupid ... we're mutts. We're Americans with a capital A which means that our forefathers got kicked out of every decent country in the world."
And we rose to be the greatest nation ever ... with nothing but ourselves to rely on. Wretched refuse was enough.
I live on the vacation paradise of Tybee Island. It's home to a mix of people who normally wouldn't be caught dead together. Old Savannah families who kept the island as their private retreat for generations. New comers who relocated to the warmer sub-tropical climate with retirement funds ... and the others.
I've been spending much more time with the others lately ... bartenders and Bar-flies ... waitresses and hotel clerks ... maids and yard keepers ... those who hit nails straight and those who bend them for a living ... musicians and artists ... folks on fixed incomes and folks looking for fixes. The wretched refuse.
I marvel at them.
The only thing they have going for themselves is ... themselves and each other. Every month they struggle to pay to rent yet somehow they do. They're quick to give money and to forgive when its not paid back. Food is shifted from refrigerator to refrigerator. Passenger side seats are filled with those who don't own a car ... They are Statue of Liberty kind of people.
They are more Biblical than most and on Sundays they gather in a Bar for Church. Breakfast is served because no one believes that everyone there will have the a full meal even on a Sunday. Hugs are freely distributed, forgiveness of the previous nights sins quickly acknowledged and dispensed, hymns are sung while Davy beats the hell out of the drum. Dancing often breaks out. Smokers, flip-flops are welcome and communion can break out at anytime by anyone.
While we don't really mean it anymore, the Statue of Liberty still hold the lifted lamp beside the golden door for the wretched refuse ... my kind of people.
Yesterday I spent a few minutes marching in the Savannah Founder's Day Parade with a bunch of first graders. They were dressed as Pilgrims, Indians or in school uniforms. It was impromptu as I held the hand of a little girl who was holding the hand of a little boy, I started dancing and singing.
There she comes just a' walking down the street singing
Do-Wah-Diddy-Diddy-Do-Ditty Dum
Snappin' her fingers and shuffling her feet
The kids started laughing. Their teacher gave me the evil eye.
"Come On!" I yelled snapping my fingers and shuffling my feet," EVERYBODY!"
The teacher with the evil eye rushed the tiny Pilgrims, Indians and Preppy kids away from me. They continued to laugh though and I felt good showing them that you don't always have to be so regimental about things.
I love the movie Stripes with Bill Murray and Harold Ramis and the whole Do-Wah-Diddy thing was blatantly stolen from it. It was fun to introduce it to first graders.
Then in the middle of the night I lay thinking about the little Indians holding the hands of little Pilgrims who were holding the hands of the little Preppies who refused to be costumed. They were black and white ... rich and poor ... yet too young and innocent to care There's always hope the next generation will get it right cause ours sure as hell hasn't.
Somewhere in the darkness, Bill Murray popped into my head. "We are the wretched refuse, the stupid ... we're mutts. We're Americans with a capital A which means that our forefathers got kicked out of every decent country in the world."
And we rose to be the greatest nation ever ... with nothing but ourselves to rely on. Wretched refuse was enough.
I live on the vacation paradise of Tybee Island. It's home to a mix of people who normally wouldn't be caught dead together. Old Savannah families who kept the island as their private retreat for generations. New comers who relocated to the warmer sub-tropical climate with retirement funds ... and the others.
I've been spending much more time with the others lately ... bartenders and Bar-flies ... waitresses and hotel clerks ... maids and yard keepers ... those who hit nails straight and those who bend them for a living ... musicians and artists ... folks on fixed incomes and folks looking for fixes. The wretched refuse.
I marvel at them.
The only thing they have going for themselves is ... themselves and each other. Every month they struggle to pay to rent yet somehow they do. They're quick to give money and to forgive when its not paid back. Food is shifted from refrigerator to refrigerator. Passenger side seats are filled with those who don't own a car ... They are Statue of Liberty kind of people.
They are more Biblical than most and on Sundays they gather in a Bar for Church. Breakfast is served because no one believes that everyone there will have the a full meal even on a Sunday. Hugs are freely distributed, forgiveness of the previous nights sins quickly acknowledged and dispensed, hymns are sung while Davy beats the hell out of the drum. Dancing often breaks out. Smokers, flip-flops are welcome and communion can break out at anytime by anyone.
While we don't really mean it anymore, the Statue of Liberty still hold the lifted lamp beside the golden door for the wretched refuse ... my kind of people.
Friday, February 10, 2012
My Questions for God
Hey God! You up?
Of course you're up. You're always up.
First question I'd like to ask is, "Why'd you wake me up? I was sleeping perfectly fine until 2:59 when you decided that the world would be closer to salvation by having me awake. So I lay there staring at the clock in the dark for an hour. Then I used a VERB followed by a PRONOUN, which I'm sure you heard 'cause you're God and all, so please forgive for that if its a sin which I'm not sure it is. Let me know."
As you know, I stood there in the shower for a long time questioning why in the hell you have me up at this hour thinking deep thoughts. I'd much prefer to be dreaming sweet dreams with erotic content. I don't think there's anything wrong with that so I'm not asking for forgiveness. Besides according to the Bible you're the author of dreams anyway and let me say you are a master of creating erotic dreams.
I do want to thank you for the coffee. Hallelujah for coffee! As you know since you were already up, I stumbled naked down the long hallway to hit the "On" button of the coffee pot before standing in the shower. That way it brewed while I thought the deep thoughts in the shower that you obviously woke me up to think about.
Driving back to Tybee Island in the pre-Dawn darkness, I admired your work. The moon is really something and the way you sprinkled stars across the sky ... I just have to say it's some of your best work. I sipped coffee looking at it on the Tybee road in the middle of the marsh. It was worshipful.
I do have a question though.
Why are the cops out hiding in the darkness under Palm Trees? There were tons of them! It makes no sense at this time of night. They should either be home with their lovers, cleaning their guns, surprising criminals in the act or ... I don't know. It makes no sense to me. You obviously led them to do this so I'm just interested in why.
Don't rush on that one. It can wait. I'm just curious.
I want to thank you for Goddess, who as you know, is named after you. She was wagging her tail when I opened the door and flopped around on her back so that I could rub her belly. It was pure love so I lay in the floor scratching her tummy for a while.
Do you like to have your belly rubbed God? I mean I do. Surely you do too ... in an anthropomorphic sort of way. I want to thank you for the gift of belly rubs. Goddess does too.
Now ... as you already know ... I'm sitting on the Beloved Back waiting on you to approve the coming up of the sun. I wish you'd hurry up.
Killing time now ... I pray a little bit, mostly asking you to bless and take care of people who I love. Not questioning your judgement or anything but you do allow crazy shit to happen. I'm sure you've got a master plan but ... it really is some crazy stuff! Heart attacks and floods, unjust firings and unholy Sons-of Bitches who end up in charge, Congress ... I could go on. It's a pretty long list. But I'm just going to trust that you know what you're doing because it makes absolutely no sense to me.
Oh yeah, before I forget. Thank you for inventing communion. I find it really helpful on a daily basis. But you already knew that.
Now back to the questions.
Why is it that my life was rocking and rolling merrily along and you decided to reshuffle the deck? I was pretty content with it all and I really liked the way that you were handling things. Then you apparently got distracted. It could have been Israel which seems to keep you permanently distracted according to Fundamentalists of any kind and most Republicans.
Anyway it's a different life now since you threw the cards of my life against the wall leaving me to pick up the ones I chose. So, let me go ahead and say that while I question your methods, thank you for Sarah, the girls, my children, the Carnival of friends, the college reunion, and not having the faintest notion of what I'm doing. Or how I'm going to pay for it.
Again, and I hate repeating myself, but I'm really counting on this master plan of yours ...
OK, I'm back.
Why did you wake up so many people to get on Face Book at this time of the day? It's crazy! And you're leading them to post really stupid stuff. Seriously? This is in the master plan?
As you already know, it's time for me to go the Breakfast Club. I could use some more coffee. And I want to see what Whitley did last night.
Thanks ... I guess ... for dragging me out of bed at 4 in the morning. I have no idea how this helps anything but you're God and know much more than I do.
We'll talk again soon.
Ummm ... but next time, let me call you.
Of course you're up. You're always up.
First question I'd like to ask is, "Why'd you wake me up? I was sleeping perfectly fine until 2:59 when you decided that the world would be closer to salvation by having me awake. So I lay there staring at the clock in the dark for an hour. Then I used a VERB followed by a PRONOUN, which I'm sure you heard 'cause you're God and all, so please forgive for that if its a sin which I'm not sure it is. Let me know."
As you know, I stood there in the shower for a long time questioning why in the hell you have me up at this hour thinking deep thoughts. I'd much prefer to be dreaming sweet dreams with erotic content. I don't think there's anything wrong with that so I'm not asking for forgiveness. Besides according to the Bible you're the author of dreams anyway and let me say you are a master of creating erotic dreams.
I do want to thank you for the coffee. Hallelujah for coffee! As you know since you were already up, I stumbled naked down the long hallway to hit the "On" button of the coffee pot before standing in the shower. That way it brewed while I thought the deep thoughts in the shower that you obviously woke me up to think about.
Driving back to Tybee Island in the pre-Dawn darkness, I admired your work. The moon is really something and the way you sprinkled stars across the sky ... I just have to say it's some of your best work. I sipped coffee looking at it on the Tybee road in the middle of the marsh. It was worshipful.
I do have a question though.
Why are the cops out hiding in the darkness under Palm Trees? There were tons of them! It makes no sense at this time of night. They should either be home with their lovers, cleaning their guns, surprising criminals in the act or ... I don't know. It makes no sense to me. You obviously led them to do this so I'm just interested in why.
Don't rush on that one. It can wait. I'm just curious.
I want to thank you for Goddess, who as you know, is named after you. She was wagging her tail when I opened the door and flopped around on her back so that I could rub her belly. It was pure love so I lay in the floor scratching her tummy for a while.
Do you like to have your belly rubbed God? I mean I do. Surely you do too ... in an anthropomorphic sort of way. I want to thank you for the gift of belly rubs. Goddess does too.
Now ... as you already know ... I'm sitting on the Beloved Back waiting on you to approve the coming up of the sun. I wish you'd hurry up.
Killing time now ... I pray a little bit, mostly asking you to bless and take care of people who I love. Not questioning your judgement or anything but you do allow crazy shit to happen. I'm sure you've got a master plan but ... it really is some crazy stuff! Heart attacks and floods, unjust firings and unholy Sons-of Bitches who end up in charge, Congress ... I could go on. It's a pretty long list. But I'm just going to trust that you know what you're doing because it makes absolutely no sense to me.
Oh yeah, before I forget. Thank you for inventing communion. I find it really helpful on a daily basis. But you already knew that.
Now back to the questions.
Why is it that my life was rocking and rolling merrily along and you decided to reshuffle the deck? I was pretty content with it all and I really liked the way that you were handling things. Then you apparently got distracted. It could have been Israel which seems to keep you permanently distracted according to Fundamentalists of any kind and most Republicans.
Anyway it's a different life now since you threw the cards of my life against the wall leaving me to pick up the ones I chose. So, let me go ahead and say that while I question your methods, thank you for Sarah, the girls, my children, the Carnival of friends, the college reunion, and not having the faintest notion of what I'm doing. Or how I'm going to pay for it.
Again, and I hate repeating myself, but I'm really counting on this master plan of yours ...
OK, I'm back.
Why did you wake up so many people to get on Face Book at this time of the day? It's crazy! And you're leading them to post really stupid stuff. Seriously? This is in the master plan?
As you already know, it's time for me to go the Breakfast Club. I could use some more coffee. And I want to see what Whitley did last night.
Thanks ... I guess ... for dragging me out of bed at 4 in the morning. I have no idea how this helps anything but you're God and know much more than I do.
We'll talk again soon.
Ummm ... but next time, let me call you.
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