Cinnamon rolls are baking casting an aroma throughout the kitchen.
It mixes with the smell of brewing coffee.
Staring out the sliding glass doors I see that the wind has not let up as it blows through Fran's thousand shades of green. The grass skirt on the Palm Tree with the oyster face and coconut bra blows giving the appearance that she's dancing as the sun rises.
Girls are asleep everywhere. Two beds and two couches are currently occupied. Goddess is confused as she meanders from room to room attempting to keep watch over everyone at once.
I'm wondering when was the last time that I cooked Cinnamon rolls. It had to have been for Chelsea and that would have been decades ago.
I remember enough to save the icing because someone is going to lick the container clean.
"Damn," I think to myself. "I'm domesticated."
Firing up Pandora, I listen to Amie Mann and crack it up as a way of waking everyone up.
The kitchen counter looks as though a food delivery truck crashed into it. A&W Root beer, Powdered donuts, popcorn, peperoni and cheese crackers are everywhere.
The living room appears to have been hit by a National Linen Service truck. Blankets, sheets and stuffed animals are littered throughout. Random sneakers and slippers lay on the floor. Book bags and plastic sacks are piled up on the table.
They begin to stir.
Normally when I leave for the Breakfast Club, Goddess is snoring beside the bed. Now she looks traumatized.
Suddenly there is a mad dash for the Cinnamon Rolls. Apparently one has more icing than the others.
"This is weird," I say out loud.
A Cinnamon roll drops to the floor and a scream follows.
Goddess makes a mad dash for it but the three-second rule applies. Dejected, my dog goes outside.
I fix a screwdriver.
"I have the experience for this," I say to myself. "I survived raising Kristen for God's sake!"
Then Sarah wanders in, hair askew, wearing one of my shirts, eyes full of sleep ... and she kisses me.
"And on the seventh day ... God said it was good."
This is going to be alright.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Where the River Meets the Sea
God dips Her hands in buckets of brilliant reds, pinks and yellows throwing them across the sky as though finger painting first thing in the morning. Colors all mushed together above a full high tide with only the tips of marsh grass seen. God is getting up earlier these days because the sun is already rising when just last week it was still dark at this time of morning.
Goddess nudges her head beside mine laying her paw on my hand which is on the gear shift. There are no other cars on the Tybee road as we make our way home. Sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, we sail pass Fort Pulaski. The Cockspur Lighthouse with no light in it, welcomes us to the island.
Many years ago my dear friend Bruce and I climbed on top of it to yell at cars making their way over the Lazaratto Bridge "I'm DOING THIS AND YOU"RE NOT!"
We'd been on a two case boat ride. We were in the boat just long enough to drink twenty four beers. Kyle was with us. Every time I see Cockspur the memory of that day washes over me. I miss him.
On top of the bridge, I spy Hilton Head Island with its golf courses, plantations and enough traffic to sink the island. Turtle Island is there too along with Dafuski. The lights of Savannah are behind us. What captures my attention every single time I cross the bridge is where the mouth of the Savannah River meets the Sea. Fresh water mixes with salt water and holiness is born.
Goddess gives me a kiss, licking my cheek before jumping in the passenger seat. I roll the window down and she sticks her head out, smelling the salt, sand and sea. She knows that home is around the corner and is excited. Her tail wags without ceasing ... hitting me in the face as I drive down Butler Avenue.
I don't mind.
I'm lost in thought and full of emotions.
My life is where the river meets the sea ... where fresh water mixes with salt water ... sand is a lifestyle commitment and suntan lotion is perfume ... sub-tropical temperatures are exotic displays of green ... and it's always 5 O'Clock on Tybee.
Everything that has happened so far in my life has passed away.
Now there is just ... next.
"If this many people are against us," I told Sarah, "then we must really be on to something."
In four days we will be married underneath a full moon with people who love us and lots more who could care less. We'll be surrounded by little girls in dresses and bare feet in the sand. Two-thirds of my children will be there. Parents have mixed opinions about it. There will be religion, music, dances and drinks all in a gumbo of joy.
There will also be the re-opened scars from those who sit in judgement, missing members of the congregation, and organized religion will be brought in Samuel Adams guitar case ... frozen soup that has freezer burn. Things that still torch our souls.
The car rolls to a stop in the Drive way. Goddess excitedly jumps over me to get out. Draining the last of the coffee, I unlock the door and let her inside. Diving back behind the wheel, I drive the short distance to The Breakfast Club for more coffee with friends I love.
Staring out of the window at the flags whipping above the Ocean Plaza, the wind is blowing out to sea ... where the water is full of salt and there is no more fresh ... where the possibilities are endless ... and as much is unknown as known ... the future is out there somewhere and the chains of the past are behind me ...
I've only got so much life left.
It's been great so far but I believe in better.
Forever, I've lived where the River meets the Sea.
Now ... I'm sailing into my future.
Goddess nudges her head beside mine laying her paw on my hand which is on the gear shift. There are no other cars on the Tybee road as we make our way home. Sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup, we sail pass Fort Pulaski. The Cockspur Lighthouse with no light in it, welcomes us to the island.
Many years ago my dear friend Bruce and I climbed on top of it to yell at cars making their way over the Lazaratto Bridge "I'm DOING THIS AND YOU"RE NOT!"
We'd been on a two case boat ride. We were in the boat just long enough to drink twenty four beers. Kyle was with us. Every time I see Cockspur the memory of that day washes over me. I miss him.
On top of the bridge, I spy Hilton Head Island with its golf courses, plantations and enough traffic to sink the island. Turtle Island is there too along with Dafuski. The lights of Savannah are behind us. What captures my attention every single time I cross the bridge is where the mouth of the Savannah River meets the Sea. Fresh water mixes with salt water and holiness is born.
Goddess gives me a kiss, licking my cheek before jumping in the passenger seat. I roll the window down and she sticks her head out, smelling the salt, sand and sea. She knows that home is around the corner and is excited. Her tail wags without ceasing ... hitting me in the face as I drive down Butler Avenue.
I don't mind.
I'm lost in thought and full of emotions.
My life is where the river meets the sea ... where fresh water mixes with salt water ... sand is a lifestyle commitment and suntan lotion is perfume ... sub-tropical temperatures are exotic displays of green ... and it's always 5 O'Clock on Tybee.
Everything that has happened so far in my life has passed away.
Now there is just ... next.
"If this many people are against us," I told Sarah, "then we must really be on to something."
In four days we will be married underneath a full moon with people who love us and lots more who could care less. We'll be surrounded by little girls in dresses and bare feet in the sand. Two-thirds of my children will be there. Parents have mixed opinions about it. There will be religion, music, dances and drinks all in a gumbo of joy.
There will also be the re-opened scars from those who sit in judgement, missing members of the congregation, and organized religion will be brought in Samuel Adams guitar case ... frozen soup that has freezer burn. Things that still torch our souls.
The car rolls to a stop in the Drive way. Goddess excitedly jumps over me to get out. Draining the last of the coffee, I unlock the door and let her inside. Diving back behind the wheel, I drive the short distance to The Breakfast Club for more coffee with friends I love.
Staring out of the window at the flags whipping above the Ocean Plaza, the wind is blowing out to sea ... where the water is full of salt and there is no more fresh ... where the possibilities are endless ... and as much is unknown as known ... the future is out there somewhere and the chains of the past are behind me ...
I've only got so much life left.
It's been great so far but I believe in better.
Forever, I've lived where the River meets the Sea.
Now ... I'm sailing into my future.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Freedom (from a boat)
"Just look like you have Dementia," I explained. "It'll be easy for you.
Dedra looked like she would cry.
"Listen," I pressed, "if you act like you know what you're doing everyone will think you know what you're doing."
"Huh," she signed.
"Follow us," Sarah said.
"This isn't going to work," Dedra protested.
Sarah grabbed one arm and I grabbed the other and pulled her along.
"I'm not supposed to leave the boat until 9:45," she said.
It was ten-minutes-to-eight. Sarah and I had carried our luggage on. It was a four day cruise and the weather was eighty degrees. How many clothes do you need?
If you're Dedra ... or Johnny O ... you pack enough to dress all of southern Africa.
Johnny O had four costume changes every day (and everything was pressed ...even his underwear! Who presses their underwear?)
Dedra was afraid to open her suitcase because it looked as though it would explode at any moment anyway ... so she mostly watched Horton Hears a Who on her stateroom television set.
(Though we did teach her how to drink, gamble, pick up married Irish guys and get a tattoo!)
Now it was time to disembark and Sarah and I were in the very first wave to be set free from Adult-Camp-at-Sea. I'm not certain why. Our cabin was in bottom of the boat. We could look out of our porthole and see fish.
Cheryl and Jodee were on top and were released next. Then came Johnny O and Judy O. Dedra was the last to be go.
"To hell with that," I told her.
So Dedra came down looking like Eeyore from Winnie the Poo saying, "This will never work. I'm not supposed to leave until 9:45."
"Right," Sarah and I said at the same time as we pulled her along.
At checkpoint number one, Sarah went first explaining, "She's with us. She has Dementia."
"Just give me her card," the bored woman said as she checked people off the boat.
On the gangplank, Dedra was ecstatic.
At customs, Sarah and I breezed right through but Dedra was detained. Her big ass suitcase was on another side of the room sitting on two tables by itself. The legs on both tables were buckling.
"You can't come this way," the customs agent said, holding Dedra back. "Go back out the door you came in and go in the one beside it and get your back."
Dedra looked like she had Dementia.
She always overacts.
So Sarah and I cleared customs and Dedra went backwards. Outside, we waited.
And waited ...
and waited ...
Then Dedra came out dragging her big ass bag.
She started crying. "You waited!" she exclaimed.
"Stop acting," I ordered. "You're off the boat."
Tear streamed down her face.
"I don't think she's acting," Sarah said.
It took all three of us to get her suitcase in the back of the van. Then it took another ten minutes to get the front wheels back down on the pavement.
Dedra cried the whole time.
Sarah and I looked at each other with concern.
"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty! I'm free at last!"
Dedra had suddenly discovered the Civil Rights movement.
The ride home was uneventful.
"You do know," I said at one point.
"That you told me so?"
"Yep."
"Yep," she sighed.
Dedra looked like she would cry.
"Listen," I pressed, "if you act like you know what you're doing everyone will think you know what you're doing."
"Huh," she signed.
"Follow us," Sarah said.
"This isn't going to work," Dedra protested.
Sarah grabbed one arm and I grabbed the other and pulled her along.
"I'm not supposed to leave the boat until 9:45," she said.
It was ten-minutes-to-eight. Sarah and I had carried our luggage on. It was a four day cruise and the weather was eighty degrees. How many clothes do you need?
If you're Dedra ... or Johnny O ... you pack enough to dress all of southern Africa.
Johnny O had four costume changes every day (and everything was pressed ...even his underwear! Who presses their underwear?)
Dedra was afraid to open her suitcase because it looked as though it would explode at any moment anyway ... so she mostly watched Horton Hears a Who on her stateroom television set.
(Though we did teach her how to drink, gamble, pick up married Irish guys and get a tattoo!)
Now it was time to disembark and Sarah and I were in the very first wave to be set free from Adult-Camp-at-Sea. I'm not certain why. Our cabin was in bottom of the boat. We could look out of our porthole and see fish.
Cheryl and Jodee were on top and were released next. Then came Johnny O and Judy O. Dedra was the last to be go.
"To hell with that," I told her.
So Dedra came down looking like Eeyore from Winnie the Poo saying, "This will never work. I'm not supposed to leave until 9:45."
"Right," Sarah and I said at the same time as we pulled her along.
At checkpoint number one, Sarah went first explaining, "She's with us. She has Dementia."
"Just give me her card," the bored woman said as she checked people off the boat.
On the gangplank, Dedra was ecstatic.
At customs, Sarah and I breezed right through but Dedra was detained. Her big ass suitcase was on another side of the room sitting on two tables by itself. The legs on both tables were buckling.
"You can't come this way," the customs agent said, holding Dedra back. "Go back out the door you came in and go in the one beside it and get your back."
Dedra looked like she had Dementia.
She always overacts.
So Sarah and I cleared customs and Dedra went backwards. Outside, we waited.
And waited ...
and waited ...
Then Dedra came out dragging her big ass bag.
She started crying. "You waited!" she exclaimed.
"Stop acting," I ordered. "You're off the boat."
Tear streamed down her face.
"I don't think she's acting," Sarah said.
It took all three of us to get her suitcase in the back of the van. Then it took another ten minutes to get the front wheels back down on the pavement.
Dedra cried the whole time.
Sarah and I looked at each other with concern.
"Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty! I'm free at last!"
Dedra had suddenly discovered the Civil Rights movement.
The ride home was uneventful.
"You do know," I said at one point.
"That you told me so?"
"Yep."
"Yep," she sighed.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell
For more years that I've been alive than not ... I've read about myself.
For the better part of thirty years I was in newspapers, articles, books and on television. (I think that my favorite is this book called Spiritual Literacy in which stories of mine are quoted. A exasperated Rabbi called to protest that was nothing especially literate about my spirituality!)
At first it was a real ego trip. I remember going to the Seminary Library to look at "The Journal of Social Work and Christianity" to see my name in print for the first time. It was an article I'd written that I now no longer remember the title. It was cool seeing myself there and my ego tripped.
Anyway, there was a lot of it in the decades which followed. The vast majority was good. Some of it was bad. Over time I became immune to it ... just part of another day ... give a quote or a sound bite ... write another book or newsletter story.
Now newspapers and books as we've known them are dying. Replaced by cyberspace, instant gratification and discarding things with the click of a button.
Earlier this week, Sarah and I took boxes of books to the Library. Things I'd read forever ago where taking up space. It was interesting. The Library was full ... of people on the computers.
The book shelves were half empty with no one wandering up and down the aisle's.
Every day I sit with the lap top open and the entire world is at my disposal on a ten by fourteen screen. I read news from other countries, listen to old music and the newest stuff, converse with friends strewn to and fro on the face of the earth. I've got friends whom I've never actually met though we talk often. Requests come from everywhere.
I get instant messages, private ones, wall posts and ... the occasional request for an interview by a reporter. I tell them everything I have to say can be found on the web. "Just take whatever quotes you want from there," I explain.
They protest wanting to do things the old fashion way. I sat that I'll call them back though I never do ... though that time is quickly coming again.
Of course there are those messages that make me out to be this horrendous creature from hell. Just the other day I was described as "a predator of women, the architect of failed marriages, a man who cusses, drinks and is a generally bad influence on children."
I take issue with none of these things ... though the women I've been married to might ... my children certainly would as they my mightiest protectors ... lots of children love me, especially three little girls and if the author came to Bar Church they may be cut during the service for saying such things about me.
There's one person who flew over my house in a helicopter once and confessed, "If I had a bomb I would drop on him. I hate him" (Hi Francis!).
If she attended Bar Church I'm afraid that more than being cut with a knife would be involved.
The point being that I've done far more good than bad in my life ... though I certainly have scars and am as wounded as anyone else from the bad.
I'm not perfect, just forgiven as the old saying goes and I started by forgiving myself. God forgave me long before I forgave myself. I've done the best I know how to do. And there are a lot of people who appreciate that.
In the Library I ran into Dicky who used to be homeless but isn't anymore and we chatted as he ran his business from the public computer. At practice for Bar Church yesterday I was hugged and thanked for loving people though they don't feel especially lovely these days. A friend asked me about getting affordable dental care in Savannah and, say what you will, I'm the one who created it (though it's no longer mine). There are all of these messages that take more and more of my day, "Can I ...?" and I believe in customer service so I respond to each and every one.
And these reporters keep calling and messaging. I really don't want to do that right now but ... they are relentless and I've got great stories to tell!
I've had my share of ego tripping. It'll take you straight to hell. I left mine there.
I wake up every day and try to do a little better than I did yesterday. I try to be nice. If people ask me for stuff I try to help and get frustrated when I can't. I've given the best of me away only to have it handed back to me on a silver platter. I lived large and I've downsized significantly.
Last night we sat at Wyn and Sean's, eating spaghetti, watching the moon rise over the ocean, telling stories and being friends. We shared from the brokenness which really is the best place to start ... and not from pompousness ... which is where hell begins.
For the better part of thirty years I was in newspapers, articles, books and on television. (I think that my favorite is this book called Spiritual Literacy in which stories of mine are quoted. A exasperated Rabbi called to protest that was nothing especially literate about my spirituality!)
At first it was a real ego trip. I remember going to the Seminary Library to look at "The Journal of Social Work and Christianity" to see my name in print for the first time. It was an article I'd written that I now no longer remember the title. It was cool seeing myself there and my ego tripped.
Anyway, there was a lot of it in the decades which followed. The vast majority was good. Some of it was bad. Over time I became immune to it ... just part of another day ... give a quote or a sound bite ... write another book or newsletter story.
Now newspapers and books as we've known them are dying. Replaced by cyberspace, instant gratification and discarding things with the click of a button.
Earlier this week, Sarah and I took boxes of books to the Library. Things I'd read forever ago where taking up space. It was interesting. The Library was full ... of people on the computers.
The book shelves were half empty with no one wandering up and down the aisle's.
Every day I sit with the lap top open and the entire world is at my disposal on a ten by fourteen screen. I read news from other countries, listen to old music and the newest stuff, converse with friends strewn to and fro on the face of the earth. I've got friends whom I've never actually met though we talk often. Requests come from everywhere.
I get instant messages, private ones, wall posts and ... the occasional request for an interview by a reporter. I tell them everything I have to say can be found on the web. "Just take whatever quotes you want from there," I explain.
They protest wanting to do things the old fashion way. I sat that I'll call them back though I never do ... though that time is quickly coming again.
Of course there are those messages that make me out to be this horrendous creature from hell. Just the other day I was described as "a predator of women, the architect of failed marriages, a man who cusses, drinks and is a generally bad influence on children."
I take issue with none of these things ... though the women I've been married to might ... my children certainly would as they my mightiest protectors ... lots of children love me, especially three little girls and if the author came to Bar Church they may be cut during the service for saying such things about me.
There's one person who flew over my house in a helicopter once and confessed, "If I had a bomb I would drop on him. I hate him" (Hi Francis!).
If she attended Bar Church I'm afraid that more than being cut with a knife would be involved.
The point being that I've done far more good than bad in my life ... though I certainly have scars and am as wounded as anyone else from the bad.
I'm not perfect, just forgiven as the old saying goes and I started by forgiving myself. God forgave me long before I forgave myself. I've done the best I know how to do. And there are a lot of people who appreciate that.
In the Library I ran into Dicky who used to be homeless but isn't anymore and we chatted as he ran his business from the public computer. At practice for Bar Church yesterday I was hugged and thanked for loving people though they don't feel especially lovely these days. A friend asked me about getting affordable dental care in Savannah and, say what you will, I'm the one who created it (though it's no longer mine). There are all of these messages that take more and more of my day, "Can I ...?" and I believe in customer service so I respond to each and every one.
And these reporters keep calling and messaging. I really don't want to do that right now but ... they are relentless and I've got great stories to tell!
I've had my share of ego tripping. It'll take you straight to hell. I left mine there.
I wake up every day and try to do a little better than I did yesterday. I try to be nice. If people ask me for stuff I try to help and get frustrated when I can't. I've given the best of me away only to have it handed back to me on a silver platter. I lived large and I've downsized significantly.
Last night we sat at Wyn and Sean's, eating spaghetti, watching the moon rise over the ocean, telling stories and being friends. We shared from the brokenness which really is the best place to start ... and not from pompousness ... which is where hell begins.
Friday, March 2, 2012
I Love Fridays
Fridays are always best.
The week is over ... or almost over ... and everyone is looking ahead to whatever it is they look forward to ... let the good times begin.
The drudgery of Thursday is done.
Yesterday was quite the chore ... attorneys who admit what they represent is morally wrong but legally right ... elected officials who have columns in the newspaper, on Face Book, and Twitter posts that they never wright but pay others to so that it looks like them (Hey Eric and Buddy!) ... clergy who pour through books of sermons to come up with this Sundays ... Board members who care about their legacy more than the work ... I could go on and on.-
The world is a screwed up place.
(It took a lot of self-restrained to use the word "screwed").
Sometimes I sit and wonder why.
Lawyers are gunslingers of the past ... any gun for hire ... not giving a shit cause so long as they are paid. Elected officials are old fashion whores prostituting themselves for re-election ... clergy (Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island and I are two) get paid to do what they ask everybody else to do for free ... I could go on.
The point is ... last night Sarah and I sat out here with a fire on the Beloved Back Deck ... with Bar-B-Q ribs and chicken grilling ... corn in butter ... green beans for Dedra ... three little girls running around and i am struck by the fact that I've only mastered two little girls and not three ... I may not survive ... though Kristen and Chelsea have already introduced me to most everything that little girls have to throw at you.
So that is the world right?
Evil balancing itself with good. Most of us (though certainly not all) believe that evil is slightly more than fifty percent of our reality. The rest of us don't really believe attorneys, elected officials, clergy ... though the Samuel Adams Band and Bar Church are rocking ... evil may be more than 50% ... who knows? ... it is what it is.
I don't care.
It's Friday.
The weather is here ...
sitting naked on the back deck writing ...
I think that dancing is in my immediate future ...
I love Fridays!
The week is over ... or almost over ... and everyone is looking ahead to whatever it is they look forward to ... let the good times begin.
The drudgery of Thursday is done.
Yesterday was quite the chore ... attorneys who admit what they represent is morally wrong but legally right ... elected officials who have columns in the newspaper, on Face Book, and Twitter posts that they never wright but pay others to so that it looks like them (Hey Eric and Buddy!) ... clergy who pour through books of sermons to come up with this Sundays ... Board members who care about their legacy more than the work ... I could go on and on.-
The world is a screwed up place.
(It took a lot of self-restrained to use the word "screwed").
Sometimes I sit and wonder why.
Lawyers are gunslingers of the past ... any gun for hire ... not giving a shit cause so long as they are paid. Elected officials are old fashion whores prostituting themselves for re-election ... clergy (Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island and I are two) get paid to do what they ask everybody else to do for free ... I could go on.
The point is ... last night Sarah and I sat out here with a fire on the Beloved Back Deck ... with Bar-B-Q ribs and chicken grilling ... corn in butter ... green beans for Dedra ... three little girls running around and i am struck by the fact that I've only mastered two little girls and not three ... I may not survive ... though Kristen and Chelsea have already introduced me to most everything that little girls have to throw at you.
So that is the world right?
Evil balancing itself with good. Most of us (though certainly not all) believe that evil is slightly more than fifty percent of our reality. The rest of us don't really believe attorneys, elected officials, clergy ... though the Samuel Adams Band and Bar Church are rocking ... evil may be more than 50% ... who knows? ... it is what it is.
I don't care.
It's Friday.
The weather is here ...
sitting naked on the back deck writing ...
I think that dancing is in my immediate future ...
I love Fridays!
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Life's Most Amazing Journey
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.
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
So much to do ... so little time
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.
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.
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!
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