The Tybee Island Majority

The island of Tybee is easily divided into three categories of people. (1) Those of us who refuse to grow up. Channel your Bob Dylan ... "I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now." (2) Grown Ups who spend their time volunteering on the Planning Commission, passing rules and trying to get those of us who refuse to grow up to grow up. Channel some Beatles ... "Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?" The answer's no. (3) Grown ups in other places who need a vacation from being a grown up so they get a place on Tybee for several days and really blow it out. Channel your Rolling Stones ... "You can't always get what you want but if you try sometimes you get what you need." Therefore, two-thirds of the people on this clump of sand at any one time are those of us wanting to enjoy the sun, sand, sea, music, food, marshes and have a real good time without rules, religion or regulations. Channel your Country Joe and the Fish ... "Give me an F! Gimmie a U! Gimmie a C! ..." Many people have summer homes here who live in Savannah or thereabouts. They are grown ups at home who try to bring their homes here. For the most part these people keep to themselves and their own kind. They are isolationists and two-thirds of the people on the island of Tybee have no use for such people. Channel your Popeye ... "I Yam what I Yam ... and if you don't like it to hell with you! But the island is a democracy! Majority rules! There is amble evidence to prove it! For example there are twenty-three places that serve alcohol as opposed to four churches where they don't ... well, the Catholics do but they don't serve everybody ... which is a discrimation most on the island do not appreciate so most do not attend. Channel your Billy Joel ... "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, the sinners are much more fun." Tybee has a long history of mistrust of political officals. This is because they want the rest of us to buy their drinks whenever they are out in the bars looking for votes. Obviously this pisses us us off. The most popular thing on the ballot on the island is the "Write In" box that doesn't have a candidate. It is the overwhelming winner in every election. And people on Tybee vote! We have a higher percentage than the rest of the state. We just just leave our drinks on our bicycles while we vote. Channel your Rolling Stones again ... "Sympathy for the Devil." Besides, it is a celebratory weekend. We kicked the elected offical's asses in the T-SPLOST vote! We all toasted one another in the parking lot of the Gym right after we voted. Then we got on our bicycles and cruised the island looking for a good time. Channel your Jimmy Buffett. "There's this one particular harbor."

Loving God Now ... to hell with "then"!

"I get up and meditate, pray, offer thanks for this day and try to help others," the Dalai Lama explained. "Will it do you any good?" the searcher asked. The Dalai Lama shrugged his shoulders. "We won't know until I die." That's a pretty good answer. I think it's half-right. There's a lot we won't know for sure about God, our religion, beliefs and whether eating a Chick-Fill-A yesterday did anything other reinforce capitalism until we die. Say what you want ... profess what you believe ... but the fact of matter is your won't really know until you die. The great religions of the world teach that you express love for God by loving others. "Beloved, if God so loved us we should love one another" (Christian) ... "You cannot love God until you completely love another person" (Buddhist) ... "The world shall be saved one neighbor at a time" (Judaism) ... and so on. There's no question that loving someone now makes a difference ... NOW! A cup of cold water for the thirsty, shelter for the homeless, sitting with the dying are all basic expressions of love. So is coaching a kids baseball team trying to teach the self-worth and the rules of the game of life. As is making just yourself available because someone asks when you'd really rather be doing something else. Each of these things makes a difference in someone's life NOW ... and you know it does ... way before you die. I suppose the trick is how many people can you love at one time? There are other ways too, I think. The last several nights we've taken the girls to watch turtles hatching on the Beach. A crowd gathers around a small group of volunteers so awed by nature and the beauty of life they do everything possible to help the turtles make it to the ocean ... where they still have just a small chance of survival. This loving attention certainly means a lot to those turtles who do and will return to Tybee Island several years of now to lay their own eggs. Each of these are expression of one's love of God. Each make a difference now! The validity of others won't be known until we die and God rewards us ... or not. I cast my lot with the difference makers now. I've never really been sure about then. As a matter of fact, to hell with "then".

A Life being restored

I am full of introspection today. That's a funny thing to say given all of the days and nights that I've sat on this Beloved Back Deck ... alone ... pondering ... reflecting on things I'd done right and those things that had gone horribly wrong. I had long talks with God but She was mostly silent in response. Day in and day out, I would contemplate, pray, cry and wonder. The truth is I've spent several years immersed in introspection. This was tough because mine had been such an active, demanding life with never ceasing demands on my time. It seems as though all of these things stropped suddenly throwing me into this new world of exploring my consciousness, thoughts and feelings. Occasionally, people would come by and join me but it was mostly Goddess and me. Somewhere deep inside of me, I knew this was the time to invest in myself. So I did. I had equity in the house, savings in the bank and a decent portfolio for the future. To the chagrin of advisers, I bought myself time and a place. In today's world, people aren't suppose to such things ... time is money and you're expected to go where the demands are. I did the opposite. Accounts were diminished but "He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His names sake," to quote one of the sixteen versions of the King James Bible. The Hebrew is much more to the point ... God causes my life to return. That's not to say I'm done. I am not. I'm living a pretty full life right now, surrounded by people who love me, sun rises and sunsets, ocean breezes and a calmness that is hard to get used to. I'm still fighting demons from the past ... unresolved conflicts and hurts and the damaging ways in which I got through them ... and the things I must to do continue this path are becoming clearer. This morning I had to drive into Savannah. The High Tide and Marsh grass were adorned with diamonds sprinkled by the sun. I had the top down and sucked in the salt air. I hit the traffic when I hit the city. Red lights managed stop and go, hocking horns tried to change the flow, cars fought for parking places, lines were formed and people either seemed incredibly bored or very angry. I passed through these things as a shadow ... no longer a part of that world. Besides, I've got lots to do ... A few more demons to exorcise ... a couple of more unresolved things to bury ... a love to celebrate ... a future to continue building ... smiles to have ... life to live. Mine's being restored.

Post Doctorate Skipping

I have a long, rich history of skipping ... not like down the road but ... like school. Gene Prevatt and I were sick of the stuff the Board of Education was passing off as food at Groves High School so we skipped out and went Joe's Drive Inn. If you've ever seen American Grafitti or Happy Days then you've seen Joe's Drive Inn except it was called something else. Anyway ... Gene and I pull up and happily order cheeseburgers and fries through the advanced speaker system ... when my Mom pulls in across from us. We hit the floor, figuring we'd wait her out. After about ten minutes being curled up in the floor board, Gene finally said, "I'll handle this." He got out of the car and strolled to my Mom's car. "Shouldn't you be at work Mrs. Elliott?" "Shouldn't you be at school Mr. Prevatt?" Always snappy with a quick comeback, Gene replied, "Mike made me do it." I got put on restriction for a week or so but it did nothing to prevent me from moving onto "Advanced Skipping." Guy Sayles and I were sitting beside each other in Greek class in Seminary. It was a warm day and the windows were open on the second floor classroom. Dr. Omanson was reading from the Greek textbook when I raised my hand and asked some brilliant question. "It's in the book," was Dr. Omanson's scholarly reply. Barely missing Guy's nose, I threw my text book out of the window. The entire class looked at me while Dr. Omanson continued reading from the text book failing to have noticed anything. I took this as my cue to leave. From that moment on, if I was sitting in a lecture that was particuarly boring, I'd just get up and walk out. It was purely capitalistic thinking ... which is not necessarily theological in nature. I was putting myself through Seminary and saw it as a return-on-investment calculation. I wasn't going to pay to be bored. I also skipped work a lot in my career. The great thing about having graduated from Seminary ... or being thrown out ... is that I have the "REV." in front of my name. This often comes in handy so when I didn't show up at something I was supposed to be at ... or lead ... I simply explained, "God called me to do something else." It always worked ... except when Sarah called me one day demanding to know where in the hell I was. In fact, God had called me to chew tobacco and drink a beer in the parking lot of a Food Lion while listening to Alice Cooper. Apparently I was supposed to be leading a staff meeting and the Governor was touring Union Mission ... or something. For the last couple of years, I've skipped out on most everything, staying at home being a full time Beach Bum. I am now beyond advanced. I'm blazing Post Doctorate skipping. There are others who have gone this far but ... not many. So in planning today, I've decided to skip my doctors appointment, not water the plants, vote against everything, and take the girls into the complex with the "NO TRESSPASSING" sign on the door. I'm going to continue to not get a hair cut, wear underwear, or shoes. I'm not going to go to Church, sing in a choir or listen to a sermon (though I do read Guy Sayles stuff out of guilt for almost hitting him with the Greek text book). I refuse to watch the news, answer the door if somebody's running for office though ... I will open the door if it's Jehovah Witnesses because they're so fun to screw with. I just hope my Mom doesn't pull up ... though Sarah's probably going to get on to me.

No longer at a crossroads

Thunder rolls in the distance ... to the west ... and the sun refuses to pull the blanket of clouds away, obviously still recovering from yesterday which is his day anyway ... but the sky is blue in the east and it's going to be a beach day here ... whether or not it rains. Listening to the casualties booming in Savannah and the rest of the world, I sit here understanding that is no longer my world. "I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?" Yeah ... way to much of it. I used to dance in depravity ... sing in sadness ... comfort the uncomfortable ... polarize the political ... rebell at the righteous ... manipulate the masses ... and lead the blind. The sun throws off the blanket of clouds, baptizing me in golden light. The thunder continues to roll in the distance, in worlds that I am no longer a part of ... striking me of the contrast of where I now reside ... half way from then and almost to now ... no longer at a crossroads because I've definetely left "then" ... throwing myself wholeheartedly into the now. A bird sings a lovely solo ... the ocean breeze blows the smell of salt marsh (which is pungent aromoa of sex in the Tropics) ... the wind chimes dance ... the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt suddenly believes she is a Hula dancer and that makes me laugh. While the thunder continues to roll ... I see skies of blue, clouds of white ... bright blessed days ... dark sacred nights ... and I think to myself ... I no longer live under dark clouds, thunder and lightning, or warning of the end times. Those times have already ended ... Jesus has already returned ...there's just enough oil in the candles ... ramadan is over. For some reason that I cannot explain, each morning as I stumble into the door marked "Exit Only" into The Breakfast Club, I grab a copy of the Savannah Morning News, spread it out in front of me and review ... what used to be. I'm quite detached and it's like reading an old book that you used to love but can't quite figure out why you did. The sun pulls the blankets back over its head ... then kicks them off again. The gift of this day has begun. It's nice to be out of what used to be.

Tybee Market

IGA ... pronounced as a single word as it sounds ...used to be the Tybee Market and is the islands only grocery store. After the original Tybee Market burned down, it became an IGA ... a member of the Independent Grocery Alliance ... now we just call it IGA ... pronounced "iga". It's got most everything a normal IGA ... has except parking. It does have fresh shrimp though ... and the steaks are really good and fresh ... and the frozen French Fries are usually frozen ... and if you're looking for things that your Mom used to make but Publix or Kroger doesn't sell the ingrediants anymore, then Tybee Market likely has them ... you just have to look. Most days they also have bags of ice. Mike Hosti, the owner, is an island character, very benevolent and serves as the island's "Food Bank." I think he should be granted "Non-Profit" and "Tax-Exempt" Status for these efforts but he will be the first to ask, "What profit?" I'm a regular customer either riding my bike or driving the car six blocks to IGA. Sarah and I did that last night ... at 6:00 P.M. ... which is stupid ... because Saturday is check in/check out day on the island ... and I mean that in so many different ways. Everybody renting a place for a week checks out Saturday morning and everyone checking in arrives around 4:00. After dropping off their shit in the rental unit, they go to Tybee Market ... which happened to be at the same time Sarah and I strolled inside. Have you ever seen the footage of the crash of the Hindenburgh? Shopping at Tybee Market is like standing under it as it comes down in flames. "Oh the humanity!" To his credit, Mike has tried to fix the parking and the number of spaces actually doubled but ... there is no longer a clearly marked "IN" and a clearly marked "EXIT" ... like at THE BREAKFAST CLUB ... so it's mostly a traffic jam. For locals ... there's a back gate which you're never supposed to exit but we do all of the time ... Don't tell Mike. So we fought through the immpossible crowds of tourisst checking in, buying groceries and then we stood in the check out line. Now aside from Nancy ... each and every cashier at IGA lives in an alternative universe. They have no sense of time ... or change. An hour later, Sarah and I arrived home with our purchases ... a can of Cambell's soup and a chicken pot pie. They were out of everything else. But we feasted on our meal, holding hands and washing them down with drinks without ice. I love island life! Shit! I'm out of Orange Juice!

The Problem with the Olympics

I'm still bummed that THE SPICE GIRLS were left out of the Olympic Opening Ceremony. Its a gross injustice to one of Britain's national treasures. Everybody else was there ... The Beatles, Stones and the Who ... James Bond and the Queen ... some chick who lost her phone and some dude who found it ... an Army of Mary Poppins ... unemployed Nurses ... kids that kept getting out of bed ... a bunch of Harry Potter impersonators ... the R.A.F. But no SPICE GIRLS! It sucked. Like the rest of the world we watched the opening ceremony but the sound was sound was turned off. We were actually in a bar ... listening to a really good band "The Accomplices" ... they rocked at Socials where we'd ridden our bikes on a steamy summer beach night when I was dreaming of Gennie. We could see the opening ceremony but couldn't hear it so everyone at the bar made up what was happening. But when I said, "WHAT? NO SPICE GIRLS?" ... everyone in the packed place immediately understood the horror of it all. The room grew quiet. The Accomplices stopped playing in mid-cord. A lot of people cried. I hugged Sarah as we both tried to get through the moment. It was tough. I like the Olympics. It's hard for me not too because there is an Olympic Torch hanging on the wall inside of our house. It's there because I carried it during the 1996 Olympics down Broughton Street in Savannah, in front of city and a gallery of thousands. It was pretty cool. Then The Accomplishes regained their composure and Colleen started this fiddle Irish jig which morphed into "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" and then turned into this killer version of John Lennon's "Dear Prudence." We all cummed a little. I was standing on my chair clapping. The place was going wild. We were all living in the moment. Who needs the Olympics when we have ... this? If only the SPICE GIRLS would have been there ...

Godly Mornings

It's another Tequila sunrise. Well ... not really but the song fits the morning. The sunrise was nice and he's resting now in the branches of the Palm Trees. An ocean breeze keeps it cool reminding me of the Trade Winds in St. Martin. Go off-island and its hotter than hell! On island ... it's a different story. This clump of sand is packed with people. All of the hotels are full and the The Breakfast Club looked like a bombed out Beirut the moment it opened ... so I left. Early morning runners are running, walkers are walking and I coast by them on my bicycle making my way to the quietness of the Beloved Back Deck. It's my new routine. For decades, I got up and rushed. After gulping down coffee, I ran five miles, showered without ever really cooling down and drove the 17 miles to work, where it never stopped. When I got there people were lined up to see me. Many days, as soon as I opened the car door, people were asking me for stuff. Many evenings when I left, they escorted me to the car and talked until I slammed the door. I learned how to live intensely. I'd come home and be so exhausted, I'd make my way outside and just sit on the Back Deck, staring into space ... completely spent. "Why does he do that?" Chelsea blurted out what everyone else was thinking one night. Everybody else shrugged their shoulders. The sad fact was that I nothing more to give. I'd given it all away that day. Over three decades of daily being such a good Christian, I crashed and burned. It wasn't pretty. At the end, I was sitting at the head table of a Chamber of Commerce political event and my friend Robin Wheeler sat at a table right in front. On Face Book, she'd made me laugh that morning and we'd exchanged a miscommunication which made it funnier. So it must have been shocking to see how bad I looked and I remember her looking at me with concern in her eyes. It meant a lot and I've never thanked her. I need to do that. That was two years ago. Now my Puritan tan climbs on a bicycle that doesn't get drunk like it used to and we make our way to a happy home. All of the girls are asleep most mornings so Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, and I make our way to the Beloved Back Deck, now bathed in sunshine that has driven the darkness away. And I have a couple of hours just for me. This time of year, the Jimmy Buffett station streams on Pandora as I think, pray, write, text, or very occasionally talk. I'm pretty phobic about checking on Sarah to make certain she's alright so I jump and down a lot. Sometimes one of the girls wanders out ... sleepy eyed with skewed pillow hair ... wanting something. Most of the time though ... it's the song of an ocean breeze, choirs of birds, blooming Hibiscus, smiling Palm Trees, Fran's thousand shades of green ... and I swear most mornings ... it's as though God Herself sits in one of the deck chairs next to me ... propping her feet on the rail ... having a shot of something while She appreciates everything that She created ... and we talk. She actually doesn't say much so I do most of the talking. But She's a good listener. Unless I'm traveling, that's every morning now. I feel blessed though I've lived through hell. It's a good way to start a day. And I have no plans to leave it. As I told God this morning.

Dark Things on a Sunny Day

Sitting in bright sunshine I'm dealing with dark things. Wearing my black clerical running shorts, sitting under a Palm Tree, feeling salt stick to my skin ... a Neil Young song is running through my brain ... and the siren wails while the system fails in the steaming heat people walk on the street people can't run and hide if you want to feel good you gotta be inside ... Hot weather is as bad for people as cold weather will ever be. Sure, people freeze to death sleeping outside but more die from heat strokes. At one point yesterday I was frustrated and fired off an email to a group working to do something about it. They are all wonderful , caring people doing amazing things but my Caribbean soul still has a corporate heart so I gave my critique of our progress. It was ... of course ... unsolicited. And ... of course ... I haven't heard back from anybody. The ocean and age have taught me patience. I can wait. The tide will evenutally come in. And there's my friend Kat. She and I go way back. She's one of the sweetest people I've ever met and when I was going through hell, she parked herself in the lobby of Union Mission, refusing to not be seen until she could see me. I was tired and sad and heartbroken when she was ushered in. She smiled, told me she loved me, and gave me gifts. In other words, she stuck her hand straight inside my heart and massaged it while it ached. Then she quoted the Major Prophet Bob Marley ... Everything's gonna be alright." I remember crying then and it brings tears to my eyes as I write this. Kat works trying to organize efforts to help homeless people throughout Georgia. Every year she fights for money because bureaucrates can't find the application which is burried under stacks of paper of a recently retired Government employee. To keep things going, she used her credit card and borrowed money off her house to pay the folks helping her. The Government promises that it's going to be taken care of but nothings happened. In the meantime, her house of 27 years is in foreclosure and she's seriously contemplating working at Wall Mart. It all pisses me off and leaves me in a dark mood on a sunny day. So I'm talking to God. "This is bullshit you know," I pray. She says nothing in response which further darkens my mood. In the silence I wonder if I'm talking to the wrong person. It's those shitheads we've elected and the people they've hired I should be talking to. It's the people who run health care in America. I should talk to them too ... again ... dammit. I buy my drugs from Canada because they're so much cheaper ... seriously an 80% savings and they deliver it to my door without me having to drive to CVS ... it saves gas. Homeless people stalk me out at The Breakfast Club because their appointment at the J.C. Lewis Health Center is three months away for ... an emergency! They still believe I can do something about it. The sun tops the Palm Tree beathing me in light. I think God broke back into the conversation. "Alright," I sigh. "I know, I got shit to do." So I go to work.

A Random Sort of Day

It's a random sort of day. My problem with focus is that there are simply too many things that I want to concentrate on ... to hell with focus! Besides, "Sweet Home Alabama" is playing and I hate that song! I much prefer Lynerd Skynryd's "That Smell" and I love the way the band came up with their name, after a gym coach they hated in High School. And of course there's always "Freebird." Then I finished the "Steve Jobs" biography yesterday. I can't decide if he was brilliant or he was shit (if you read the book you know what I'm talking about). I fell in love with "Steve Wozniak" who has talent, values, ethics and humor that that I admire the hell out of. Jobs was fascinating ... a driven, tortured soul with a work ethic forged in Hades who could charm your pants off or slit your throat ... depending on what he wanted. But he was a spiritual man too ... who changed the world ... so go figure. Besides that, this morning The Breakfast Club was more like Cheers with all of these people coming in at one time who normally don't come on a Wednesday or together. Whitley, who misses most everything, left right before this happened. First Newt Gringrich and her husband came in (if you work at The Breakfast Club you know who I'm talking about), followed by Neil who only comes in on Sundays and then Sam stumbling in from the night. In no time at all we laughing our asses off. Yesterday, we were in town to meet with Bill Shearouse who is also my attorney to talk about of stuff. It was good, productive and fun but at the end, as he stood from the conference table, he said, "Mike, as you build this new life don't forget about your old friends" which is one of those stop you dead in your tracks things that only the best of friends can get away with. We hugged as we left but his words still ring in my ears this morning. I've got these notes for contracts and proposals spread out on the kitchen table demanding my attention. Each has a deadline and the thing about deadlines and Beach Bums is they really struggle with each other. Manyana keeps popping in my head. There's always tomorrow ... which of course makes me think of the Bible verse "Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes" (James 4:14) ... which, of course, makes me think about George Harrison's "What is Life?" I got a lot on my mind. And now I find myself seduced by the sunrise. It's a beautiful summer mroning with an ocean breeze like God's air conditioner is blowing kisses. The choir of birds are hitting every note dead on and Fran's thousand shades of green are doing a Hula Dance which is hard to not watch ... which makes me miss Fran and her bicycle-built-for-two though she couldn't peddle it for the life of her because of her M.S. though that never stopped her ... and Sarah's still sleeping so I'm on guard duty that nothing distrurbs her cause she's more than earned it. I think what I need to do is get a time clock and put it in the corporate headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises on the Beloved Back deck and managed by a Palm Tree with an oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. I'm pretty sure once I clock in, I'll get to work. At least that's the way it used to be.

Night Moves on the Beach

One of the things that I don't do enough is go to the beach at dusk. It's wonderful this time of year and I enjoy seeing the families on vacation trying to squeeze every drop of sunshine out of the day before they return to the rented house or hotel room... where they either have cocktails and throw something on the grill or dress for dinner at one Tybee Island's many choices. Or, they sit in the swings and wait for a moon to rise from the ocean or sit with their feet in the sea. A few make their way into the sand dunes as darkness falls to make out or make loave. It's a wonderful time of day. It's a shame that I rarely make it the six blocks it takes me to get there. Most nights, we're taking Goddess to the Back River, only one block away, to the Sad little Holy dock with views of the lush marsh and High Tides, sunsets and choirs of mussels. Marsh Rabbits and Marsh Hens make special appearances and I just never know who I'm going to sun into. Not too long ago it was Michael Stipe of R.E.M. though I never did see Milly Cyrus. Last night turtles were hatching and Sarah wanted to go. The island is having a bumper crop of large Loggerhead Turtles making there way into the sand dunes to lay eggs (well ... except for one in front of the Ocean Plaza Hotel). On the way I told the story of one morning on Hilton Head ... back when it was an island and not a traffic jam with Outlet Malls ... my Dad jerked me out of bed and drug me in my pajamas (Yes, my parents tried to raise me as a traditional southern boy wearing pajamas but I rebelled). On the other side of a sand dune, a massive Loggerhead was laying eggs ... hundreds of them ... then using her flippers to bury them ... it was beautiful ... and amazing. The moon was throwing a trail of white light on the ocean. Salt hung in the air.The breeze stood still as witness to the miracle of birth. My Dad was so excited. "Who gets to see this?" he asked again and again with his arm around my shoulder. When we arrived, there was a crowd surrounding the nest in the foot of the dunes. A bragade of Fire Ants had dug deep and eaten the eggs. There would be no tiny turtles making a mad dash to the ocean. It was disappointing and sad ... but it was a wonderful crowd ... on a glorious night ... with the moon throwing white light on the ocean ... and my Dad raised himself from the dead to say "Hi" ... Sarah and I holding hands talking to friends ... while Laurel sat in the eddy to make sure sure we have sand to bring home. Making our way back, there are hugs and laughter and stories and ... home ... here ... on a beautiful night ... standing beside a beautiful woman holding my hand ... with a moon doing a dance ... and a choir of cicadias singing Hymns of Praise.

A Beach Bum's Monday

The thing about being a full time "Professional" Beach Bum is I really struggle with Mondays. For decades I was conditioned to hate them with everything in me. After a great weekend I'd go back to work when that was the last place I wanted to be. I loved what I did, I was quite passionate about it, but I was living a schrizophrenic life ... corporate homelessness during the week and Beach Bum on the weekends. I no longer have that problem. This isn't to say I don't work. I do. In fact I think I work too much. Creating something out of nothing is hard work. It took God six days. It's taking me a lot longer. Nevertheless, things have now been created that demand my attention. There's a new contract I have to develop today for a deal that was consumated last week ... another opportunity to expand must be finalized this week ... people from California are in town wanting me to leave the island for lunch ... another group is trying to nail me down to commit to attend a meeting in Salt Lake City ... a mountain of paper sits inside needing re-writes so they can eventually become a book or two. On the up side I deal with most of this from the corporate headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises on the Beloved Back Deck overlooking a Palm Tree wearing a grass skirt while Fran's thousand shades of green overlook me. The dress code is very lax and the Jimmy Buffett station is streaming on Pandora. Plus I instituted a policy that it's always 5 O'Clock at Micheal Elliott Enterprises to compensate THE employee for lack of actual profit. But it's Monday ... so I got up and stumbled to the office ... then I went to the outdoor shower to think because my head was foggy from the weekend ... afterwards I went to The Breakfast Club where all of these homeless people were there waiting on me claiming that services in Savannah had gone to shit and they needed advice. "HEY," I yelled, "I haven't had freaking coffee yet! How do you expect me to solve the world's problems without coffee first?" They all sat down without speaking. "Hey Rev," Nancee asked. "Can these guys pay?" Charlie pulls out a credit card slapping it on the counter. Rolling my eyes, I don't ask whose name is on the card. "So you'll have your people call our people and set something up," Charlie asked. "Yep," I laugh. Riding my bicycle back to the office, I scribble a note to meet with them soon. I mean I have too. They hitchhiked all the way to Tybee Island to see me ... at least I think they hitchhiked ... they could have stolen a car or purposely gotten themselves arrested by the Tybee Island Police Department so they could see me (Believe me, this is how it really happens! They as scupulous as elected officals and clergy!). The sun rises above the Palm Tree so I put on sun tan lotion. Another perk of working here is that you can tan all day long. Lost in thought, I find myself staring at the grill. "Steaks would be good tonight," I say to Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog. Micheal Elliott Enterprises is extremely pet friendly. Just as I hit the first key on Netbook, Cassidy the five year old, walks out adhering to the company dress code. "Hey Mike, will you make Cinnamon Rolls?" "Great!" I sigh. My days already been wrecked! So I make Cinnamon Rolls and she tells me that our dog is not gay. "What do you have against blended families," I ask her. "He's adorable," she says cuddling him on the floor. "Yep," I say. I hope I get something done today. If I don't though ... it's Monday ... who cares?

Sunday Gifts

This Sunday morning drips like molasses. Though the sun is bright it seems like a fog. All of my movements are in slow motion. Whew ... what a night! I wouldn't be up at all except that Winston, the little gay dog, needed to pee. He started growling in his high pitched gay voice and dancing around like a ballerina on meth. Not wanting to wake Sarah, I somehow pulled myself out of bed. It was still dark but the glow from his little pink toenails threw off enough illumination to make my way. I grabbed the little son-of-a-bitch and took him outside. Goddess followed looking on with amused interest. Since I was already standing naked in the back yard, I stumbled to the outdoor shower and turned the water on. I love the outdoor shower! It has washed away many a sin and baptized me in the hopes of a new day. I have it equiped with a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, saving cream and soap. It's got one of those shower heads that makes water fall down like rain. The sky turns a muted grey as I stand there letting the water fall on me. It is peaceful and calm and I feel myself being raised from the dead ... until ... "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY! is scretched from the deck of my next door neighbor. She makes me believe in the National Rifle Association. She also adopts ferile cats and has several hundred. From under the water pouring on my head, I can see her standing there in her fluffy pink bathrobe, calling her precious pussies with a halo of cat hair swirling above the towel that looks like a turban. "Jesus Christ," I pray, wishing I had a rifle. Stumbling back upstairs I lock Winston, the little gay dog, outside, hurling statements about his lineage at him. Checking on Sarah ... she looks dead ... so I leave her alone. Throwing on running shorts and a "St. Martin Drinking Team" tee-shirt, I drive to The Breakfast Club to pour coffee on my head. As I drive I see ... JUDY O stumbling down the street! This is amazing because The Carnival of Friends were just together a few hours ago. Rolling down my window I slur, "You're walking?" "What?" she answers. "You're walking?" "What?" I roll the window up and continue to The Breakfast Club. Then God decides to intervene. She's had enough of this! Jimmy Buffett, backed by the Oak Ridge Boys, comes on the radio. It's a song reminding me when I went as little boy when my Grandma and Grandpa Carver took me to Gospel sings in Pooler, Georiga. It was wonderful with families singing four part harmonies with real players behind them. The thing that sets this song apart are the lyrics ... My head hurts, my feet stink and I don't love Jesus (oh my Lordy its that) It's that kind of morning, really was that kind of night Trying to tell myself that my condition is improviing And if I don't die by Thursday, I'll be roaring Friday night. Thank you Jesus. You have given me another day to live. I slug the coffee down and rush home to see if you've given Sarah the same gift. "Please Lord," I pray. "Make it so." She's breathing. That's good. Now I sit here with the little gay son-of-bitch dog that I've grown to love licking my feet. Goddess yawns. That says it all.

Puritan with a tan

"I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints, the sinners are much more fun ..." (Billy Joel). Me too! Which probably explains why my ministry has been so ... FUN! I did have an affair with a church and the romance lasted for almost eight years. During that time we seduced each other repeatedly. Sometimes it was sweet and sacred while other times it was rough and holy. In the end, it was nonmonogamous relationship and we agreed to part. We'd both committed adultry, betrayal and were not especially full of fildelity. She always wanted more than I could give. She seems to be doing fine as the Church has millions of other suitors and I've settled into a happy monogamous marriage. Her adoring suitors lavish her with songs, praise and literally throw money at her. On other hand, I'm happy to fix Sarah's coffee every morning, water the plants and talk to God while standing with my feet in the ocean listening to music on my I-Pod. She has her throngs of adoring people and I have ... a Carnival of Friends. But I remember my times with her times fondly. She was good for me and, I think, I was good for her. Sometimes, late at night, I'll be laying in bed and remember the good times. But that was then and this is now. Today I've traded in my black robe for a pair of black running shorts. I bought the robe for $10 from another minister who was going out of business (what a deal!). It's now ripped and torn and hangs in the back of the closet. I still pull it out when I need it (the next scheduled appearance is Dani Sadowski's wedding ... if she can find a bald groom cake topper) though it mostly stays in the dark recesses of the closest. The running shorts are used daily, see a lot of sunshine, swim in the ocean with me and easily slide off when I need to call on the name of God with Sarah. If additional clerical garb is necessary, I've got a lot of black tee-shirts. My flip-flops are black too. I'm Puritian with a tan. Last night the Carnival of Friends gathered to celebrate the birth of Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island. We got a cake and took it to the bar. Sam's the founder of Bar Church and when I want to remember my church affair, that's where I go. It was a very praticipatory service as we "knocked on heaven's door." Sarah loves it when that happens! In Seminary, I paid a lot of money to learn the concept of orgasmic worship. It's when the service is so good ... the congregation, music, sermon, offertory ... that you and God have an experience that is orgasmic. (Seriously, they teach this and clergy are encouraged to help others facilitate finding your spiritual G-spot.) When you leave Church you literally spent. (A lot of preachers go home after church for beer and a cigarette.) Later today, the Carnival of friends has scheduled a baptism service in the swimming pool that overlooks the marsh that God made. I'm pretty sure they'll be a lot of laughter. There are too many tears in the world and we take a stand against such evil. The water will be holy, the communion wine glasses filled and there may be fudge. No doubt, there will be a great deal of laughter. There's already a lot of love. Hallelujah!

The Dark Knight Rises

It makes you wonder. How can someone toss a smoke bomb in a packed movie theatre while he wears a gas mask, then open fire? Twenty are killed including a baby. Fifty are wounded. The Dark Knight who did it was passive when he was arrested afterwards. He'd made his point, I suppose and didn't have another one to make. My daughter Chelsea donned her Batman cape last night and she and Sam went to the premier in Atlanta. It could have happened there but it took place in Colorado ... again. I happened to be in Washington D.C. when the Columbine survivors ... all kids ... were there having a press conference on the steps of Congress. I don't recall any Congressmen being there. I listen to them make pledges and pleas that this will never happen again. It has. Why do bad things happen to good people? Hell, why do bad things happen at all? Philosophers claim "It is what it is", accept it because there's nothing you can do about it. They ask questions but don't really know answers. Theologians say, "God loves you anyway" or "God's pissed and is trying to teach us a lesson." They don't know but pretend like they do. Politicians take advantage of the opportunity. They get more free press time as they wail while smiling at the camera making promises they have no intention of keeping. The rest of us wonder ... why would somebody do that? We're living in a crazy time of terrorism, politics of hate (and I'm speaking of Republicans and Democrates at every level in the United States), dysfunctional religion, televisions broadcast murders being solved more than any other topic, while Bachelors and Bachelorettes disregard people as they claw for what they want and Gangsta Music sings about "bitches and Ho's" outsells everything else. It's easy to blame these things. The truth of the matter is when the Beatles were singing, "All you need is love," Charles Manson and his family were butchering people left and right. Andy Griffen himself couldn't have made a difference. Ever since Cain killed Abel, it's been this way. The next round of bad has happened. Everybody's first reaction is groaning the simplest of prayers, "Oh God." This is quickly followed by the second prayer, "Thank you Lord that it wasn't my child ... or me." The third prayer is for those who were killed or the now devastated families. It's a beautiful day today. The sun hangs in a brilliant blazing sky. Choirs of birds are singing. Ocean breezes dance with lush green trees. The sins of the night have been scrubbed clean. Most were refreshed with a good night's sleep. The day is filled with duties to be performed or escapes to be had. It's the weekend so everybody's looking forward to it. I know that I am. But it's not a perfect world. Dark Knights rise. Bad things happen. People die before they should. Corruption reigns in business and politics. People passionately take sides. Judgement is swift except in the courts. The media glorifies each of these things. So I offer my morning prayers ... "Hey God. We could use a little more help here. These kinds of things just shouldn't happen. Babies shouldn't be born flawed or imperfect. Hurricanes, tornatos, and floods shouldn't just show up killing people ... Why do people just shoot each other in a loving world?" "I know Lord that I'll stand before the throne you'll ask me lots of questions about why I did this or that ... I'll do my best to answer ... but then Lord, I'm going have a few questions for you ... they are also all questions that begin with why ... send me to hell if you want to but they deserve to be asked ... and they deserved to be answered." Amen.

How do you steal a sand dune (The Savannah Morning News)

Out of habit I suppose, I carry the daily edition of the Savannah Morning Blues into the Breakfast Club every morning. Typically page one is a colorful mix of national news with "feel good" stories about the city. There are lots of pictures. Page two are photographs of all of the people who shot each other yesterday. Page three is lots of Associated Press articles. Page four is the Obituaries which is strangely familiar to whatever happened on page two. Pages five and six are whatever Tom Barton thinks, accompanied by columns by whoever Tom Barton likes, with a Mark Streeter cartoon which is normally the best part of the first section of the paper (Streeter is cool). The Exchange Section is next and to this day I'm not sure what in it. The Sports section follows and occasionally I learn if the Atlanta Braves won last night's game or not. (Lately, Mike Trainer the publisher is letting everybody go home early because he's a nice guy. The only problem is nobody's there to tell the reading public if Braves won or lost. There's a great picture of a Brave doing something then we are instructed to go online to see if they won or not. This always pisses me off. It's a simple question ... who won? It's why I dug for quarters to but the paper in the first place!). That's pretty much the Savananh Morning Blues. It's mostly a Republican wet dream highlighted by "who shot who"? Oh there's other stuff too but none of it leaves any lasting impression ... well except for the Wednesday edition which contains colorful photographs of hot women doing yoga or exercising in Spandex. I am not a sexist though I wonder about the Savannah Morning Blues. There are never any multiple photographs of men doing yoga wearing Spandex. Where's "fair and balanced" reporting? Next time I see Tom Barton, I'm going to ask him. I would trade it in for USA TODAY except for Skutch, a reporter who looks like an actor playing a reporter from a B movie in the 1940's. Skutch, who sometimes goes by the name of Jan, is a good and decent reporter ... which is why they have him covering whatever happens in court that day. If anyone can put a positive spin on murder, corruption and whoever is elected to be a Judge ... it's Skutch! The man's amazing. BUT TODAY ... there was big news. Tom Barton thought it should be on the front page. Harry confessed to stealing a sand dune. This is the first time that I'm aware that a sand dune has ever been stolen. I mean who thinks of that? Harry does. The growing sand dunes obstruct the views from the first and second floors of his hotel. A decade ago he said as much. A decade later, a sand dune disappeared. Tybee's Coconut Telegraph suspected him immediately. It took the Savannah Morning Blues weeks to verfiy this information (Skutch was in bowels of the Chatham County Courthouse, which sucks, probably trying to hide from Judges who got elected to Divinity in a robe or the story would have broken sooner.). All of this begs a question ... how do you steal a sand dune? You park a truck beside it and throw sand in the back? Did Harry carry a little away every day in his pockets? Tom Barton should have somebody ask developers in Florida where they've been stealing sand dunes for decades. Anyway ... that's the news from Tybee Island, Georgia ... as filtered by the Savannah Morning Blues. More later ... Well ... maybe ... if the Judges ever let Skutch out of the Courthouse.

Different now and Dead

"Let's hit the road," I said as we made our way through the marsh on the Tybee Road. "What?" she asked looking incredulous. "We just got home." "Your point?" I quickly asked. "I want to stay home. I've missed our home." "Hmmm," I said staring at the brilliant green hues of sea grass dancing on top of a high tide. "Where?" she prodded. "South," I gleefully answered. "St. Martin would be nice." "Isn't Orient Beach closed?" she knowingly said. "So," was my witty and snappy comeback. "Key West?" I inquired. She rolled her eyes and commented on the large tanker ship entering the mouth of the river beside the Cockspur Lighthouse. We drove on home, unloaded the groceries and put them away. Strolling out to the Beloved Back Deck, I sip a glass of wine and place my feet on the rail, toasting Fran's thousand shades of green and the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. Every direction I look is lush tropical vegetation and it has the feel of a back yard in Key West. Wearing only a pair of running shorts, the ocean blows a line from a song though my mind ... "She wears a Red Sox cap to hide her baby dreads, the girl she was in New England is different now and dead ..." Yep. That's me. I'm different now. Who I was is dead ... actually dying I suppose though dying nonetheless. I'm becoming somebody new. Being reborn is how Christians would say it. My toes dig deeper in the sand. I'm teaching a new generation of girls to dig their toes in too. Cheslea was here this past weekend and we sat on the beach together. She's literally my beach girl. As a baby, she went with me and crawled in the sand while I sat in a chair beside her. It was just her and me. She now has sand in her soul though living in Atlanta dreaming of getting back to the sea. I used to be corporate and connected. Now I'm adrift and amour. I'm never going back. I gave them everything I had ... and they took it. I "talk to my family every now and then, through emails and postcards" ... phone calls and brief visits ... as they struggle to understand. Sometimes people call wanting me to be what I was and I try to be nice but really I'm not interested. For years I've wanted to expatriate, leave the United States and live on an island. The truth of the matter is, I do. And, I have. Who I was is different now and dead.

Shirley Sessions ... an amazing woman

My friend Shirley Sessions has been been firing an inordinate amount of communications lately. Normally, she makes occasional epiphanies on the sad little holy dock or has me over for left-overs at her house. On the other hand, we have her over to our house and I cook real meals. When Shirley is here, Goddess loves her and Winston, the little gay dog, prances around her feet like fairy on meth. Whenever I'm at her house, she makes me hold a cat. We don't see each other all that much anymore though we live just a few steps away. It's not my fault. She's busy covertly running the United Way, the city of Tybee Island (amazing because she's no longer in public office but covertly runs things there too), and most of Chatham County (I think the County Chairman has the hots for Shirley). She did stop by on my birthday and left me a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse. It's hard not to love Shirley ... Besides I sometimes have this vision of her as the old commercial where her eyes grow dark, she snaps her fingers and it lightnings, and she darkly says, "It's not nice to fool Mother Nature." I wouldn't want to try to fool Shirley. Bad shit could happen. Anyway, she inserted herself into my perfectly tranquil life the other day and is now setting lunch dates with me that are to include other people. Shirley is the only person in the world, well ... besides Ben Barnes ... who can get away with such a gross manipulation of time and energy. First, she wants to have me have lunch with Mary Ann Beil. Now I love Mary Ann and we go way back. I know Mary Ann more than Shirley knows Mary Ann (but would never tell Shirley lest she snap her fingers). Then she wants me to have to have lunch with Skutch. Skutch is the guy who looks like a B Actor playing a reporter in a 1940's movie. He covered most of my career and I love him. He works for the Savannah Morning Blues and he covered my former career for more than a decade. If that wasn't enough, she wants us to go see her sister Sandy McCloud perform with the Girlfriends ... again! (Now I love Sandy and actually have known her longer than I've known Shirley and the Girlfriends are great ... everybody should go see them ... but I'll be in the Bahamas. Don't tell Shirley ... you can tell Sandy.). Last night I looked at an actual calendar for the first time in a couple of years. It grossed me out. That used to be my life ... ruled by a calendar. I'm not that anymore. Mind you ... I don't have much of a clue what I am but, I'm never doing that again. I'm not telling Shirley though. It could piss her off and she'd snap her fingers and stuff. I don't want to go there. You don't want me to either. Trust me ... the woman's amazing.

Manic Monday

There are seven bright red blooms on the Hibiscus plants in the Corporate Headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises. As the boss, I'm the first one in the office this morning. Well, the Palm Tree with the Oyster face, Coconut bra and grass skirt always seems to be here but she really doesn't seem to do anything. It's a pet friendly office so Winston, the little gay dog, is running around trying to eat the bright yellow blooms on the plants underneath the Hibiscus. I curse at him clarifying things about his lineage and what he did to his mother. A list of things to do sits beside my computer on powder blue paper. Reviewing it, I sigh. "I don't want to do that," I tell myself. "I did that last week and I don't want to do it again." It's a good thing I no longer have any employees or I'd have to set an example for them. I used to have lots of employees, at one time almost 300, and I was forever setting the example. They were mostly bad ones ... nevertheless, they were instructive. Towards the end of my career as an actual employer, I stopped wearing socks to work. It was just just too much of a pain in the ass. I also stopped wearing a coat and tie. I'd done that for thirty years. Instead I wore cargo pants with lots of pockets and black Polo tee shirts. I would stick all kinds of things in the pockets of the Cargo pants ... chewing gum, glasses, duct tape, extra cash in case I needed to get away fast, Snickers bars and those little bottles of Vodka. Those last years, I mostly spent my life in meetings with Lawyers and Bankers, the very people who invented ... BORING. I don't wear pockets to work anymore. As a matter of fact, I don't wear anything to work. It's one of the perks of the job to compensate for the lack of actual profit. As a new small business owner, last year I thought I really rocked-and rolled, traveling the nation providing services and product, wining and dining and depositing checks left and right into the corporate account. At the end of the year, I met with aforementioned Lawyers and Bankers and wrote lots of checks ... to the Government, Accountants, Lawyers and Bankers. When all was said and done ... I had enough left over for chewing gum, glasses, duct tape, one dollar bills, a Snickers Bar and those little bottles of Vodka. Today, it's just another Manic Monday. Did you know that Prince, or the Artist-formally-known-as -Prince, or whatever his name is, wrote that song. It's about a girl who doesn't want to go to work on Monday because she wishes it was still Sunday. What the hell was he thinking when he wrote this song? What was he wearing? And why? It's time to start crossing things off my list. Blowing air into my cupped hands, I pump myself up. "Lets do this," I say out loud. The sliding glass door opens and Cassidy, the five year old, stumbles out wearing a red blanket and a Princess Crown. Grabbing Winston, the little gay dog, she sits on the floor. "What are you doing Mike," she asks with sleepy eyes, blond hair askew, wiping snot on her sleeve. "Just working," I tell her. "It's just another Manic Monday." She nods sympathetically. "You too?" I ask.

Sex On Sundays

"God looked at everything (s)he had made and found it very good." (Genesis 1:31). I couldn't agree with God more. It's all good. Especially sex. And Sex on Sundays is an especially important expression of worship. This is not to be confused with many clergy who will simply try to screw with you today. Nor should it have anything to do with most Policiticans who believe in justified rape ... taking it from everybody else so they can feel better about themselves. (At this point, I can hear Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea all moaning while saying, "Ah Jeez Dad. Don't give us any visuals ... you've already messed us up.) To which I say ... Well ... God said it's all good and then She took the next day off. One of the many things that God had invented was sex (and I must saw I applaud this as much as most everything else that came along with creation). Sarah and I started celebrating on Friday. Sometimes worship simply cannot be confined to one day a week. I encourage everyone to celebrate God's creations today ... bright sunshine and ocean breezes ... Organix X on the radio ... the world and everything in it, including a really great bed ... Astogluide ... and the person you love. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Lord. I couldn't agre with you more.