A Normal Encounter with the Past

Gliding through the produce section of Publix with a bouquet of flowers in the cart, he smiled and called my name a half second before I smiled and called his. Lugging a case of water to where I stood we warmly shook hands and immediately fell into conversation catching each other up.

It's been three years since I was at the Georgia State Capitol for a meeting he was hosting on my behalf. Several Department Heads sat scattered around the heavy oak table. Though they were busy running their various departments none were in a position to decline an invitation from the State's Chief Operations Officer. That's what Jim Lintz did three years ago.

I was still at Union Mission, had taken our key staff to the meeting. It was a debriefing over the failure of a behavioral health collaborative that tried to privatize services for the mentally ill. It ended up being too much change at once for a state bureaucracy and too overwhelming for us to manage.

We were meeting to pick up the pieces while planning for another try.

Jim had been instrumental  in it all and there are several things I remember about the meeting. Minutes before I entered the room I got notice that a divorce I didn't ask for was finalized. Talk about taking the steam out of your sails.

But I threw myself into the moment, worked the room like a man on a mission and we walked away with pledges of new commitments and some patched up alliances.

Then I went and got drunk.

It was soon afterwards that my time with Union Mission ended. While I licked my wounds there was no reason for me to log countless hours at the Capitol, visit Jim or spend more nights in Atlanta.

I retreated to the Beach and a tight group of friends and family.

But it was good to see Jim yesterday. He laughed at my ear ring, long hair, Marlin Monroe's tee shirt and black running shorts. I told him he looked as stately as he ever did with a perfect white hair, starched shirt and creased pants.

We talked for fifteen minutes or so, smiled a lot, and congratulated one another on the good things we'd done. Then we slid back into the present ... he as a semi-retired Life Coach and me as a Beach Bum writer with big plans.

"See you on the beach," he said as I rolled my cart towards the check out lane.

"It's better than your office at the Capitol," I replied.

"It is," he said flashing his million dollar smile.

I Lost Monday

I do not care for this weather.

The temperature has dropped twenty degrees since yesterday. It is so chilly that I have to wear a Full Moon Party tee shirt and black running shorts as I sit on the Beloved Back Deck. This just sucks!

On the other hand, yesterday was stunningly beautiful! Sarah and I strolled down the beach to Marlin Monroe's to hook up with friends and listen to Michael Moody play good music. Julia-just-Julia was there along with Essie, O Johnny (not to be confused with Johnny O) and of course Roma.

There was even a guest appearance by Sugar Britches who once lost her belly button. But Johnny O found it on his porch so everything turned out alright.

Afterwards, we strolled back down the beach to our house. It was gorgeous! The setting sun sprinkled diamonds on the ocean, families played in the surf and lovers made their way to the sand dunes. At home we had dinner with the doors and windows open and throughout the evening I'd wander out into the night to gaze at the stars and give thanks to the moon. Clothing was optional.

This morning when I stumbled down the stares carrying Winston, the little gay dog, to the outdoor shower, a chilly breeze blew off the ocean. Standing under the hot water raining down upon me, I realized that the Cat Lady has all of her windows shut. No wonder I haven't heard her in a while. She is my next-door-neighbor and collects feral cats for a living. Throughout the day and night she steps onto her deck to screech, "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY."

She makes you believe in owning a bazooka.

As I stood there waking up, I realized the change in temperature. My first words of the day were "Holy Shit!"

So I figure this is a lost Monday. It's just not worth it when you have to fight off the cold like this.

I know, I know ... a lot of you crazy people like cooler weather. You like to wear clothes and stuff like that. Sweaters are some of your favorite things.

Many of my crazier friends actually choose to live in places where jackets and boots are the norm right now. These are Monday People! They make absolutely no sense and are the main reason the country has gone to hell.

Well, they can have it!

I'm losing this Monday!

Hmmmmm ... Sarah's still in bed.

I love it when a plan comes together.

Reservations for Sunday

"So I'm lying here staring at the ceiling tiles and I'm thinking about what to think about. Just listening and relistening to Smiley Smile and I wonder if this is some kind of creative drought."

Its one of my favorite lines from a song by the Barenaked Ladies. The famous Beach Boy Brian Wilson is lying in bed, when he's not playing in the sand box that he had built in his living room. He' just experienced a nervous breakdown after trying to compete with The Beatles as they released Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Brian was writing Smile as the follow up to their album Pet Sounds which is considered one of the greatest of all time but he hit a wall and never finished it.

His mental health deteriorated, he withdrew from the public and it took him years to get over it.

I understand.

I've done lots of cool things, been to fantastic places, met incredible people, achieved virtually all of my goals and won many awards.

The cool things are memories now. So are the places. Most of the people are busy with their own lives and we can look one another up on the Internet if we miss the friendship we used to share. The accomplishments are not as important as they once were and the awards are in boxes at my Mother's house.

Well, Cassidy does have this silver plate with my name engraved on it to serve her Barbie dolls food. I got it a few weeks ago in Memphis for stuff I used to do and she asked me if she could have it. She's having more fun with it than I ever will.

I have been to the mountain top ... and it's not all that.

It's mostly occupied by people who believe they're better than anyone else. The live in gated communities and private clubs. I once longed to be one of them and then I was and now I don't care anymore.

As I age certain things are becoming more precious. This wonderful island I live on remains The Promised Land.  The Carnival of Friends may as well be The Beloved Community.  Sarah is love personified. The kids are the joy of life and the girls are unexpected blessings. The things I believe are not as many as they used to be.

Sometimes I stare at Goddess, the dog who has shared the pleasure and the pain with me, as she sleeps at my feet. I thank God she's still has time with me and I'm already fearful of the day she dies.

Winston, the little gay dog, prances around bringing his own joy of life into our house.

But I know nothing last forever. Goddess will indeed die and my heart will break again and I will sob uncontrollably. I've done that before and as sad as it is, I'll do it again.

In the meantime I'm hugging my dog and friend on this wonderful warm and Sunday morning. Then I'm going to wake Sarah with kisses. And I want to talk to the kids today. Mom's coming home and I want to talk to her too. And the girls are all up to something. And Winston the little gay dog, will make me verbalize his family lineage.

Sunday is reserved for these things.

Dancing through debauchery

Sarah and I danced on the stage oblivious to most everyone else. Stars twinkled above the ocean, an almost full moon slowly rolled across the black night and children played with glow sticks of every color on the beach. The band was rocking, playing Beach Music and friends darted in and out of our personal space. We enjoyed them but we mostly enjoyed each other, copping occasional feels and sharing sensual smiles.

Our bicycles were somewhere on Tybrisa Street, probably getting drunk listening to the Samuel Adams Band, who play really damn good live music on Tybee Island. Later we'll go collect them and get them home.

I hoped and prayed that they hadn't hooked up with Whitley Reynolds' bike because that is one drunk ass bicycle and it often leads others astray!

We were surrounded by Pirates, drinking Grog and most everything else imaginable. Buxom wenches busting out of their clothes, obviously proud of enhancement surgery wandered around with attorneys and account executives dressed as swashbucklers.

 Everyone was enjoying debauchery  ....  except for Erica Backus who was working her ass off. Then again, she is incredible.

No one cared though.

We were really into debauchery!

Tybee does debauchery very well.

I think per capita, we have more on this island than anywhere else in the world. I'll have to ask Joanie Woodcock if this is true.

The fact of the matter is that it was a perfect night on the island. Waves gently kissed the shore. People smiled. Music ascending to heaven. God rained beauty in the stars. Laughter erupted and dolphins smiled.

And Sarah and I just danced.

LinkedIn and ME

"Attorney seeking litigation employment" her description reads.

Is that social media's version of attorney chasing ambulances?

I was on LinkedIn searching my connections which is the modern version of flipping through old High School Annuals to see who is still your friend. Instead of passing a note in class ... "Do you like me? Check one: Yes, no, or maybe" ... in today's world you just click connect and the invitation is sent on your behalf.

Then you move on to the next page of possibilities.

As you do this a couple of things jump out at you. Half of the people are "Bubble Heads" meaning there's no picture beside your name and what you do so ... there's no YOU!

You look like an air head because you're just a cartoon!

The possible connections of people who have photographs beside their name and occupation at least gives the impression that they know what the hell they're doing ... even if they are the most incompetent employed person in the universe (Congress comes to mind).

The Bubble Heads ... not so much.

LinkedIn is the gated community of social media. It is reserved for the professionals and only professional stuff needs to take place on it. Like the above referenced attorney who seeks litigation employment!

It's the Yuppie version of Facebook.

You're not supposed to cuss or YELL on it.

What's great about though is it allows you to collect your friends without actually having to be with them. You merely click "connect" and they hit "accept" ... or they don't.

When they don't you give them the benefit of the doubt. She's an idiot who has a LinkedIn account but never checks it. No wonder she's a Bubble Head.

Then the dread of rejection creeps in. "What if she is checking it? She sees its me? She doesn't want to connect even doesn't she has to see or talk to me! OMG!"

To which I say, "Fuck em!"

Move on. If someone who had time for you before doesn't have time for you now, even if it is only a nano-second and no real interaction is involved, they should just go enjoy Hell now!

I don't need them anyway.

I've got this wonderful collection of friends and business associates that I never have to communicate with.

Could it get any better?

Life Without A Net

A shrimp boat lay on its side with the hull hugging the marsh grass as the stern obviously takes on water. The door to the cabin is open and salt water pours inside. All of the colors are brilliant! The green of the marsh, the sun kissed sea, a clear blue sky and a white boat. It would make a lovely painting and a beautiful picture.

It's a shame its a tragedy!

Someone's livelihood is sinking and dreams are drowning. Nets that used to drag the bottom now rest there permanently. Fish once caught will now have a new home while a Captain has no catch.

Back on the mainland, creditors howl, customers quickly find a new supplier and nobody eating shrimp tonight really gives a damn where it comes from.

The Captain has to tell his family, if he has one anymore, there is no more income. There's only left over debts. If he's lucky, his family left him a long time ago as he gave his life to the sea. Maybe there's another boat he can crew until he gets enough money to buy a new boat and start over ... again.

One of the things about living on Tybee Island is the beauty of the shrimp boats. They still take my breath away. Over the decades though I've witnessed and learned the horror of when they sink.

It's a hard life on a shrimp boat but the job has its perks. Most every sunrise is a painting. You're one with the sea. Blood mixes with salt. You live a dream.

Unlike shrimp boats, life doesn't come with a net. I certainly never knew mine would have its fair share of wreckage. Marriages, jobs I'd devoted myself to, friendships I believed would last forever and dreams that went away rest at the bottom of the sea. There were certainly times when I thought that's where I was headed.

But I'm still here keeping my head above water. Sailing towards the sun, catching new friends, finding out new things about myself and looking forward to tomorrow. My faith has been restored though I now know everything there is to about crucifixion. I believe in angels. The dead do come back. As bad as things were, God is good.

When I look back over my shoulder I see a calm blue ocean under a clear blue sky. But I know what lays underneath ... the wreckage that got me this far. There's no going back to any of it. Who would want to?

Diamonds are sprinkled on the sea. Dolphins smile as they glide beside me. Seagulls sing. My lungs are full of salt air. The only thing that matters is what my life hauls in today.

My Fantasy

Some days you just want to sail away.

Grab the wife and kids, stock up with beer and groceries on the House Boat I always meant to buy and head south. Leave the choppy waters and dark clouds of here for the tranquil aqua blues of the French West Indies where it never gets cold, clothing is optional and there's good wine with every meal.

I love the story behind Jimmy Buffet's song "Twelve Volt Man" ... "now I know this Joe down in Mexico, he went there to work on his tan; for years he's been plugged into blenders and songs, they call him the Twelve Volt Man."

Michael Nesmith of The Monkees was in a boat race in Baja when his boat broke in a remote area. While waiting on a rescue team, he ran into an American who had small hut on the beach. The guy fished all day and at night listened to Buffet songs on a tape player rigged up to a generator with a Sears Die Hard battery. He also hooked up to a blender and had boxes of prepackaged Margarita mix from the States. At night, he'd fire everything up and drink, sing and grill fish ... until the battery died. Then it was time to go to bed.

That's what I'm wanting today. The worries of the world have gotten under my skin. Life is too short to spend every moment fretting over where my next pay check is coming from. Health care in America is crazy anyway. Congress is the country's only known native criminal class.  There's a Presidential election meaning lesser evils have risen above. Religion is at war with itself. Unemployment is America's highest employment category.

To hell with it!

Let's sail away today.

I know its a fantasy.

Generators run out of gas. Hurricanes prefer the Caribbean as much as I do. Fish don't always bite and beer goes stale. A lot of people choosing the clothing optional option should have stayed inside. Boats are holes in the ocean you throw money down.

But I love this fantasy and I've touched it once or twice and I'm ready for Sarah and the girls to spend quality time with the kids skipping over the ocean like a stone.

Sometimes fantasy just kicks reality's ass.

Today's one of those days.

Ketchup ... the spice of life!

I was reviewing my Linkendin contacts while making cinnamon, sugar toast for the first time in a couple of decades. The last time I made it was for Chelsea when she was little and always demanded that I "cut the rine off the bread". I did and she loved it.

Now I'm doing it for Cassidy who is six.

The thing about making Cinnamon, sugar toast while using your computer is that butter and spices get on your keyboard which definitley make communication slower yet somehow sweeter.

While this is taking place Laurel, the eight year old, is chomping down on the cheeseburger she got from the Breakfast Club. She is oblivious to everything going on around her. This is rare as Laurel cannot brush her teeth without talking.

On Tuesdays she goes to the Breakfast Club with me to spend her allowence which she gets on Monday evening. She talks there too and has already become a regular.

Chelsea was a daily regular when she was little and was the first artist who had her work displayed beside the cash register. She colored a picture of the two dogs eating spagetti until they kissed and wrote "Bruce" above one dog and "Kyle" above the other. Bruce, or Bubba, helped found the place, loved Chelsea who loved him though Bruce loved most everybody.

Kyle was Bruce's room mate and a cook at the Club. He never wore underwear. In those days, all cooks wore "whites" ... the Chef uniform with a white coat, white pants, hat if you needed it. (This was before the days of County Health inspections of restaurants where all good Nazis have gone to work while still hiding out.) Whenever Kyle bent over to crack an egg on the grill, his ass would show through the whites as he mooned every customer at the counter.

Ah ... the good old days!

Anyway, Cassidy is loving my Cinnamon, Sugar Toast with no rine, not really cooked but slightly warmed in the oven and then covered in Ketchup. She has three peices and demands more but ... we're out of Ketchup.

I'd forgotten that children cannot eat anything without Ketchup.

We go through a couple of gallons a day at our house.

It is fascinating to watch what they put Ketchup on every night at dinner. Pizza, steak, chicken, vegetables, chocholate chip cookies, popcorn, onion soup and ... lettuce.

It's fascinating.

Of course, I don't eat.

Most of these stories I write have a point.

This one doesn't.

It just is what it is.

Wishing Thanks

We were a terrible class. The teacher often burst into tears when we collectively stormed into the room. She was petite with a pageboy hair cut and black hair. I don't remember her name.

 Honestly, I don't remember much anything about her. I do remember her husband. In the eighth grade at Mercer Middle School I owned the universe. I looked cool with long hair that hung over my eyes, a buttoned shirt with the sleeves cut off and blue jeans. Sitting at my desk with feet propped on it, I'd draw in my notebook instead of listen or take notes. I didn't care. We mostly had fun playing paper football, shooting spitballs or trying to make each other laugh. We were loud, disruptive and completely disrespectful. We put a "Whoopie Cushion" in her chair, peanut butter in her drawer, set the trash can on fire and once locked her out of her own room. That's when she cried and we laughed at her through the slit of glass in the door. She literally sat in the hallway floor and sobbed wearing black hose and a yellow dress. It's funny I remember that. The next day there was a man sitting beside her desk. He looked both cool and pissed. He appeared to be a surfer with long sandy blond hair, a Creedance Clearwater Revival tee shirt, blue jeans and sandles on tanned feet. He didn't say anything but just sat there staring at us. He looked pissed. I love a challenge so that was all it took. We elevated terrible to a higher level. He just watched, never saying a word. She would pause and stare at him and he continued to stare mostly ... at me. Ten minutes left before the bell rang and freed us from our boredom, he stood and marched directly to my desk as though military orders had been given. The entire class errupted into silence. Grabbing my arm. his blue eyes stared into mine. "You're a prick," he coldly said. I was horrified and full of embarrassment that he was doing this in front of my friends. "But I want to tell you something," he continued never taking his eyes off of mine or letting my arm go. "You have the ability to lead this class. You need to lead it in the damn right direction. And stop being a prick to my wife." And he left, throwing my arm to the side and walking to our teacher he kissed her, glaring back at me and storming out of the door slamming it behind him. The entire world had stopped spinning. He'd taken all of the air out of the room. She stood there staring at us. We sat there staring at her. Something changed inside of me that day ... at least on the inside. After he left I was the first to throw a spitball but it lacked the bravado it once had. She caught my eyes and I looked away. I'd been humbled. More than four decades later, I can still feel his arm on mine. The intensity of his blue eyes staring remain in front of me. I remember his every word, the aftershave he wore and his warm breath in my ear. I wish I remembered his name ... her name. Everything about who I was changed that day. I'd really like to thank them.

Where have all the good cops gone?

Goddess is in trouble with the law again. Winston, the little gay dog, is an accomplice though he may be a perpetrator too. Over the past week the Tybee Island Police Department have visited the house several times. The first time an officer left a card in the door with a note on the back that read, "Please keep dogs inside or citations will be issued." What's funny is that Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, were inside the whole time and only let outside with adult supervision. He noted that the card was left at 1950 hours. I wonder why he wrote that rather 7:30 which is the time it was when he left the card. Did he have miltary backup? Another hand written note was left by an officer on a ripped out page from a notepad that has somebody else's address on it ... not ours, so I'm wondering who's it for? Am I supposed to deliver it to the address on the note? Tybee doesn't give cops official things to write on? It warns whoever the note is actually intended for that they "are being warned to take care of their nusiance dog." After that, I get a knock on the door and its Jerry who controls animals on the island. He tells me that I need to shut my windows so my dogs do not bother the neighbors. They are both asleep as he tells me this. None of my neighbors have mentioned anything to us and I explain that. He replies that he's received anonymous calls. I wonder if its Jerry Rainey. The next day he returns with a Tybee Island police officer who appears to be twelve. "I stopped by last night and your dog was barking." "Where were you," I asked. "In your yard," he said. 'Ah, that's probably why the dog was barking. Did he stop when you left?" "Yes," he replied not liking the line of questioning. "That explains that," I conclude. "We're going to ticket you anyway," he said. So they wrote me a citation to take Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, to court next month. In reading the citation I have grown from 5 feet ten inches tall to 6:1. Apparently I've also moved ten blocks away because the address is wrong. I wonder who anonymous is as none of my neighbors have mentioned anything to me about the fellons in our house. Sarah looks up the noise ordinance for dogs and there's no way. So Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, are getting their first attorney. We have a preponderance of evidence, numerous character references, and first hand knowledge that Goddess smokes dope and sleeps most of the time while Winston, the little gay dog, does Meth and chases himself around the house. It's a crazy world! It makes me wonder where have all the good cops gone? Where's Steve Talent? Major Jim Woods? Or the great Tybee Police officer EVER Jimmy Todd? What is the age limit for Tybee cops these days? Where have good neighbors gone? Those who come over and say, "Hey man your dogs bothering me. Can you do something about it?" I gotta go. Winston, the little gay dog, is already picking out what he wants to wear to court. Goddess is snoring beside an ashtray full of buds. And I googled "Dog Lawyer" and found someone to represent. I was sold when a dog wearing a suit said, "Maybe it's because I'm a dog too but this case looks black and white to me."

Taking it easy

I've decided to take it easy today. It's been busy like crazy for the past several weeks. Besides Sarah has a new piano and I like lstening to her play, sitting on the Beloved Back deck, having a glass of wine in The Mermaid Lounge while watching Fran's thousand shades of green dance. The weather is perfect too ... cool enough to have all of the windows open, which I love, but still hot enough to not really worry about clothes. A bunch of butterfies have escaped from somewhere and are conducting a not-so-hostile take over of Tybee Island. Suddenly, they are everywhere! We have almost as many butterflies as stopsigns on the island. There are five ... yellow, brown and gold, purple ... sitting in the Hibiscus plants right now. They add floating color to the sub-tropical foilage that sprinkles green everywhere on this clump of sand. A bluebird is sitting in the midst of geraniums that grow in the flower pots that decorate the deck. He seems content though a bit a bit concerned about Winston, the little gay dog, who has stolen a boot from one of Cassidy's several hundred Barbie dolls, and is chewing it while staring at the bird. I just got off the phone with my son Jeremy who was expecting me to show up in Athens at any minute. Georgia has a home game today and for his entire life that is what we do on Saterdays. But Marie, my brilliant daught-in-law is with him and they had a marvelous night though they're now both in recovery. Chelsea has to work so she's not going to make it either. I haven't heard from Kristen so she may or may not be there. Laying in bed last night, Sarah rolled over and her hand rested on my chest. It's hard to fall back asleep when that happens. So I didn't. There are things to do today. Kid things. Laurel has her first soccer game and she's the only girl on an all boy's team. I feel that I need to show my support against gender descrimination. Besides I can do this while holding Sarah's hand. And if everything goes right she'll be wearing the dress she wore last week to the Georgia game. I'm trying to tie it all together. Goddess is snoring at my feet. Winston, the little gay dog, jumps on her face trying to entice her to play. Goddess grows. The Bluebird flies away. Butterflies float. Waves crash in the distance on the shore. Choirs of birds have replaced the Cicada. I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving. "Dear God, thank you for High Definition television and that Sarah brought a 52 inch screen into our home so that I can watch the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia today." God doesn't respond. I take this as a good sign. Then I go crawl back in bed with Sarah.

Sunny skies

"Do you mind holding my calls," says the Nun holding the cigarette in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other, "during my slow descent into hell?" Her face is beatific, dressed in a white robe for a High Holy Day but she obviously has other things on her mind. Everybody has days like these. Bad Karma erupts. Nasty thoughts occupy the brain. Dark clouds roll. Every bad thing that ever happened suddenly resumes center stage. "I think I'll just enjoy my depression," is what she's saying, "so leave me alone ... and by the way it's all your fault too." Of course this makes me think of James Taylor singing "Sunny Skies" on Sesame Street. Surrounded by a bunch of kids who are belting it out while JT does his thing. He knows how to ease down slowly Everything is fine in the end I've had my fair share of descents into hell. I can't say they're all that great. In complete honesty I can tell you that I never want to go there again. So I don't. I focus on Sunny Skies, good Karma, the belief that everything gets better, God is good, love is all around, music is happy ... "I got a brand new pair of roller skates, you got a brand new key" ... Sunny Skies is my friend, even on the darkest of days. When the bad Karma comes and the dark clouds roll, I have a tendency to try and sit still and let it happen. There's not much for me say so I try to be quiet, though God knows that's tough because I can be hot tempered with a mouth! So I try and just Let it be. Eventually it'll pass ... All Things Must ... Perhaps its because I'm older yet somehow retain a School Boy's Heart. Maybe its because I really do believe that "God is good" in a world that often seems to be going to hell. It could be because I've already survived so many of the worse things that could ever happen to you. I've been betrayed, abandoned, lied to, scored and thrown away. At the same time, I've was supported, found, landed in truth and found acceptance. Sure ... I still have scars and some of them run deep. But I believe they fade in the sunshine. I think the past is best left there. Bad Karma begets bad Karma and good things come from Good Karma. My friend Sunny Skies is dancing in the hair of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt. Fran's thousand shades of green delightfully dance with it. Choirs of cicada sing hymns of thanksgiving. There are no clouds in the sky. There are none in my heart either. Sunny Skies has chased them all away.

Intellectual Capital

I have lots of intellectual capital which is good because I don't have a ton of physical (real estate) or financial (money) forms of wealth. Mine is mostly the intangible resources that flow from where fantasy sometimes meets reality. This is why I choose to live on Tybee Island! There is more fantasy per capita on this clump of sand than anywhere outside of Congress! If we don't like the way things are ... we make shit up! Ideas flow freely here. Of course there is a great deal of lubrication for ideas available. As my friend Jonathan Few, who goes by an alias on the island, once claimed, a great marketing brand for Tybee would be, "Hold my beer and watch this!" That's how a lot of business gets done here. I'm a proud member of a group called "The Bored", a term coined by Judy O because we gather to drink most days at Fannies-on-the-Beach and either bore tourists or bore ourselves out of our minds ... BUT we have great ideas. Before you go criticizing the genius that is Judy O, let me remind you that the intellectual giants C. S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Charles Williams and Owen Barfield, all Oxford professors encouraged fantasy as a literary style. Maybe you've seen "The Lord of the Rings" or "The Chronicles of Narnia". Anyway, those guys gathered every Thursday to drink beer at a pup called "The Eagle and Child" and read to each other whatever they were writing as they got wasted. Judy O was merely reminding us that we stand in this grand tradition as members of "The Bored" on Tybee Island. Collectively, our intellectual capital is amazing! Here are some of our best ideas. The Lighthouse should be handicap accessible. A ramp should be built, beginning on Hilton Head Island so the incline meets federal guidelines, ending on the observation deck so everyone can enjoy the view, the fresh air and the seagull poo. A "Clothing Optional" Beach should be established between 10th and 13th street on the island. In a country as great as the United States of America there is absolutely no reason for tan lines! Federal legislation should be predicated upon the pool game of "Marco Polo" where you have to swim from one side of a swimming pool to the other without being knocked on the head. Put every member of Congress in the pool and if the President can get to the other side one of his policies gets passed. Once each year everyone who lives on the island should bring their leaf blower to the beach and we'll collectively plug them into the power source at the Ocean Plaza and Resort, and move the sand dunes to where we really want them. Pass legislation that allows for retaliation against Tybee Island Parking Services. I could go on but you likely already appreciate the brilliance of this intellectual capital. I worry about it though. O John, not to be confused with Johnny O, led The Bored to get into merchandizing. We sell official Bored tee shirts, caps, coffee mugs, "Alcohol was not a factor" cups, and such. It's hard to come up with good ideas when you're selling stuff all of the time. It's alright. I worry about this country but I don't worry too much about this island. We're always coming up with ideas to improve it. Now if we can just take the "Youmans/Solomons" Gym which was built for no apparent reason and turn it around so it faces the right direction ... it would be alright.

Phone Call from Mexico

Pete's been calling for the past several days. The voice mail would say, "Mike, this is Pete. I want to talk," the beep would give day and time of the call. Each message was the same. There was no call back number as he was using a calling card from the mountains of central Mexico so I'd just have to wait until he tried again and I happened to answer. I've known Pete and his wife Tricia for a quarter of a century now. He's done everything from shark fishing, being a dish washer at The Breakfast Club, a garbage collector, worked for the Tybee Island Department of Public Works, the U.S. Foreign Embassy and the maintenance department of Union Mission. He manages to pull off looking like a serial killer while having a kind heart. He has a wicked sense of humor where there are absolutely no boundary lines and he doesn't care who's around when he says something ... regardless of how he says it. He is a very loyal friend, a Vietnam Vet, and can do most anything. His wife is an artist, is demure, kind, and had a very successful career in higher education until she quit. I met her around this time as I listened to two guys wearing three piece suits offer her a job at a major Art School in New York City. She declined by explaining, "That would mean I would have to wear panty hose again and I'm not doing that." It's hard not to love Tricia. They were the first people I've met who decided what they would do for a living based on where they wanted to live. Normally its the other way around as most people follow the money. Pete and Tricia have lived where they've wanted ... New York, Tybee Island, Afghanistan (where Pete was hired to tear down computers so the enemy couldn't read classified information so he threw them all out of the third floor window figuring that would do it), Russia and now in a remote Mid-evil village in central Mexico. Tricia paints. Pete takes long walks in the mountains and gardens. We keep in touch through Face Book though its several years since we've seen one another. The phone flashed "Unknown Caller" last night and I knew it was him so I answered. "Hey Mike," he said in a surprisingly understated manner. "Hey Pete." "You have three little girls," he asked? "I do." "What's that like?" "It's great," I explained. "I love them when I don't want to kill them. They're funny and they teach me a lot. Sarah and I have changed everything since you were last at the house. We've connected the upstairs and the downstairs. Two of the girls live down and one upstairs with us." "Do all of the girls have their own bathroom," he quickly interjected. "Yes," I replied, "well, the two downstairs share one." "That's good that the girls have their own bathroom," he told me. "The secret to raising girls is for them to have their own bathroom." I've never been able to argue with Pete. His logic is on a plain that is different from mine. Who could possibly argue with what he was saying? He went on to explain his life now, the cobblestone village they call home, his Witch Doctor and his daily walks in the mountains. He asked Tricia if she wanted to talk but she was painting so that was out of the question. Pete then lobbied for Sarah and I to come visit. We can bring the girls as they have plenty of room. He asked about Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea. Then he told me they were welcome too and we could all come anytime we want. And that was that! I hold Pete and Tricia deep in my heart. When I was going through a divorce they were the first to invite me to dinner, grilling salmon steaks on their dock and toasting the occasion. They taught my kids how to shark fish, appreciate art and challenge the boundary lines of humor. They define expatriate.They helped me move, more than once. We've shared lots of laughter, life's anguish on occasion, and long, deep conversations that friends sometimes have. "We'll never be back," Pete said at one point. "That just means we have to come see you," I answered. So ... there's one more thing on the list of things to do. I wonder if there is shark fishing in the mountains of Central Mexico?

Going Back

Standing in the midst of a tailgate full of frivolity and alcohol, on a beautiful football Saturday in Athens, Georgia, a friend who works for the City of Savannah throws his arms over my shoulder and said, "I need to tell you something." "Alright," I shrug thinking it's another joke or story about football related activities (which are very broad and eclectic and may surround a game but not necessarily involve one). "Your name comes up all the time," he says with a grin. "For what?" I have no idea what he's talking about. "Homelessness," he clarifies. "I didn't do it," I quickly reply. "It wasn't my fault. I wasn't even there." Joseph burst out laughing. "That's not what I'm talking about." "OK," I answer. "It's all gotten worse since you left," he tells me with a sudden seriousness. "Homeless people are everywhere and nobody's doing anything. In meetings people say it wasn't like this when you were here. They ask where you are because selling bottles of water isn't the answer." Because I remain a devotee of The Savannah Morning Blues I know what he's talking about. One of the only things that Mark Baggett actually did before being fired from the Chatham Savannah Authority for the Homeless was to come up with selling homeless water as a way to raise money. It was a great idea a decade ago but the competition among bottled water sales is pretty fierce so its hard to break into that market. "That's nice," I tell Joseph, glancing over at Sarah and Jeremy who are watching with serious concern as a solemn conversation occurs in the silliness of a tailgate. They look after me, even when I don't always look after myself, and don't want any repeats of the traumas of when I left working in Savannah. "People want you to come back," he said. The world stopped spinning. Thousands of people surrounding me were suddenly quiet. Darkness descended on a sunny day. The curtains hiding the Holy of Holies was ripped asunder. There is no such thing as going back. "Who says you can't go back?" Bon Jovi sings, "I've been all around the world and as a matter of fact ... who says?" The fact is I did come back. I did good and I did it for a long time. We mostly solved the problem, burst through most every glass ceiling and made an entire city a better place. Thousands of people's lives improved. "But I've already done that," Bob Dylan once said, "why would I want to do it again. I'll do something else." I'll do something better. It's funny. People who used to be homeless but aren't anymore, call, text, email, Face Book and actually stop by the house from time to time. We talk about old times. We remain connected. People I used to intensely work with ... in government, at Hospitals, the prison industry, the Board of Education, behind the closed gates of The Landings ... have mostly evaporated from my life. I'm either a fond memory or a gladly forgotten relic of what used to be. Sarah is sitting with Cassidy in her lap. Jeremy and my dear friend Bill Shearouse are laughing and drinking beers. Chelsea is standing with Maddie and Laurel. Kristen and Sterling are stealing drinks from the cooler. The noise of the crowd returns. The sun throws warmth and light on all of us. The curtains in the temple hide the darkness. Throwing my arm around Joseph, I smile. "That was a good time. We did a lot of good things and it was fun." "So?" he says with a hopeful expression on his face. "So I think Georgia's gonna win," I proclaim, walking over to Sarah, grabbing her hand and my family surrounds me as walk away into the future.

Another Holy Party

Most of the civilized world spend Sunday evenings at Church ... at home watching 60 Minutes or football ... eating leftovers ... getting ready to start a new week at work. Not on Tybee Island! We have parties. I'm uncertain if we're celebrating the end of a week or the beginning of another but the focus is definitely on merriment. The island's population really turns out for a party. So while the Baptists were having Sunday night service, the rest of us went to Huc-a-Poos, a mostly outdoor pizza place with a really good bar, flat screen televisions, a Hippie ambiance complete with swirling smoke, and yep ... where everybody knows your name ... unless they're trying to remember it at the moment. The place is a perpetual party ... a moveable feast that never moves ... where someone wakes up every morning wondering why they're still there. A couple of weeks ago, Frank Shuman died while he was on the water which is where he liked to be anyway. Deaths are not really all that great and Frank's left his wife Jamie and son here on the island while he swam down to Atlantis. Frank was a fixture on the island so Tybee did what it does best ... threw a hell of a party for Jamie! Tybee is a place where everyone is running to ... or from ... something. Half the island can afford to live here while the other half struggles, somehow managing in ways that make you believe in God, even if you don't. Most of the parties on the island have fund raising associated with them. Lots of folks don't have insurance, retirement or a savings account. Along with the sand and the salt air is a concern for others that continuously manifests itself. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you is how somebody said it. At The Poo we concocted our own version of Tybee Idol. Lots of alcohol and swirling smoke was involved. Pizza was also consumed. Tons of people were present dressed, or not, in every manner of clothing ... including saran wrap. Contestants stood and sang while the audience stood or stumbled to throw dollars at them. Jamie was the recipient of all of the dollars. The competitors were all fabulous! Most dressed for the song ... or not. The magnificent Joanie Woodcock won and apparently received a midget kitten as her prize. I'm not sure what she sang but it was great! Our friend Sean got it all on film so Joanie will be more viral than she already is soon. Sarah and I were sitting in the back with Wen, watching Jodee and Cheryl who were ... really enjoying themselves! Al ... who had combed his hair for the first time in a couple of years was also sitting with us. Roma and Essie were commandeering the microphone from time to time. At one point, all of the children were asked to leave the audience. Somewhere in all of this, I took a moment. Staring at what was happening around me, on a Sunday night when the holy ones were in church, I wondered who the sanctified really are? Is it those praying in behind their stained glass or those doing unto others? It was a wonderful instant and a line from a Billy Joel song popped into my head. I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints. The sinners are much more fun. So while we had a holy party, the Baptist continued doing what they do best ... praying for everybody who weren't with them.

Family Fun and Football

Having slept in a million hotel rooms, I'm used to the idiosyncrasies of the major chains. If you're on the road a lot you develop preferences for where you want to stay. I'm partial to Courtyard by Marriott and most of the higher end places. I prefer places with restaurants, bars and lots of common places. I like the newspaper delivered at the door and a coffee shop to read it in. I want windows with a view and interesting places to walk nearby. I've stayed in some hotells so often ... in Atlanta, Pittsburgh, and Washington D.C. ... where the staff knows me on site. For the most part, I've traveled to these places alone. This time I am with three little girls whose hotel activities are much different. Immdiately upon entering the room, they start jumping on the beds until I tell them to stop. They steal all of the shampoo, conditioner and body lotion in the bathroom. The television is LOUDLY set on the Disney Channel where inexpecibly "The Nanny" is on. (I thought they stonned that woman in a New York City park a few years ago!) They stand on their head, do cartwheels across the floor and get in fights over who has which pillow. All of this occurs within four minutes of opening the door. We go out for dinner because I'm afriad if we stayed the room would be utterly destroyed and I would be held personally liable. Today I rise early to make my way to the coffee shop and to read the news. It is still dark and everyone is asleep. As soon as I open the bathroom door, Laurel is standing in front of me holding her blanket. "Can I go with you?" I have to stand in the dark while she takes fifteen minutes to get ready. Apparently she is having a difficult time making up her mind on what to wear because she turns the light on and off repeatedly. Of course this wakes her sister who screams, "STOP IT! I'm trying to sleep!" which in turn wakes her other sister. Sarah appears to sleep through it all. We leave the room and make our way downstairs. I get coffee. She gets hot chocolate. I turn on the computer and find the sports page to read about today's game. "I'm bored," she says. "What are we going to do?" "I'm going to drink coffee. You're going to drink Hot Chocolate." "I want to get on the treadmill," she exclaims. And she does ... with her Hot Chocolate. As a previous survivor of parenthood, I ignore her and sip my coffee. In no time at all she's bored again and tells me she wants to go back to the room. I tell her no. She tells me yes. This repeats itself for a couple of hundred times until I open the door to the dark room and unleash her on her sleeping sisters and Mom. I decide this is a good time to take a walk. It's a beautiful morning in Athens, Georgia. In just a bit we'll make our way towards the Stadium and tailgate at my son's place. It is one of those rare occassions when all of my children and I will be together. Chelsea arrived last night and is already at Jeremy's. Kristen arrives later today. Other friends are already here or will be arriving shortly. It's a night game so its a day full of fun, food, drink and football. "Does Jeremy have Sponge Bob?" I was asked. "Hell no," I lovingly reply. It's going to be a great day. Everybody's up and excited. In another ten hours, there will be a football game. I tell myself to go check on Sarah. She's probably up by now.

The Total Pagan Entertainment Package

Sitting mostly naked at my desk in the corporate conference room on the top floor of Micheal Elliott Enterprises, the phone rings. This is not something that I'm accustomed to anymore.I wonder where the phone is? I have no idea. Last night Pete Kuntz called from Mexico but I never made it to the phone in time so I just heard his voice mail. I am intensely involved in research at the moment and don't need the distractions. Laurel is having Greek celebration day at school and is wearing a Laurel on her head which cracks me up. She also is wearing a toga! In her head wish I'd worn more togas when I was in school. Laurel with the laurel on her head asked me to cook her a Greek breakfast this morning and I don't have a clue what the ancient Greeks ate for breakfast so I've Googled it. It turns out they had barley bread dipped in wine with a garnish of fig. I've always liked the ancient Greeks, much more than the Romans. The Romans wanted to conquer everything and invented military uniforms, structured Government and pax Romana, which is formation of the legal profession. It's easy to not like the Romans. The Greeks invented the Olympics and in the original games all of the competitions occurred in the nude. Now that was a sight to see! I think the Olympics have gone to hell since the Greeks ran them and Nike took over. The phone keeps ringing so I get out of my chair and stare at it. It's Sarah so I answer. "You didn't answer your cell phone so I called you on this one," she explains. "I don't know where my cell phone is," I tell her. "It's on the desk," she says. "Oh," I reply. That was pretty much the conversation. Returning my mostly nude self to my chair at the conference room table in the penthouse of corporate headquarters of Micheal Elliott Enterprises, I resume my research. "The original Olympics," says the article, "was the total pagan entertainment package." "There where sacrifices and rituals would take up as much time as the sports. And there were all these peripheral things that came with the festival: the artistic happenings, new writers, new painters, new sculptors. There were fire-eaters, palm readers, and prostitutes" (see http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2004/08/0809_040809_nakedolympics.html). Getting up again, I go find the phone again and call Direct TV". After pressing seven buttons I'm finally connected to Rashtonia who seems very nice. "Yes," I explain. "I would to upgrade my subscription to include the total pagan entertainment package." Laurel with the laurel and I can watch it tonight.

Stalled off shore

Wet clouds hang low as a storm is stalled off shore. It was churning over the sea, throwing rain and wind haphazardly until it hit the beach and, like a lot of us, decided to stop. The misty haze is swirling and the sun playfully darts in and out of them. It is a good day for melancholy. All of the windows are now open so the inside feels like the outside which is a pretty good description of melancholy. Transparency happens. A detached objectivity is achieved so that you see things as though you're floating above, like those stories of people who die and hover over their bodies. It's not that I'm unhappy or don't have a full life. I do. It's quite enjoyable and I'm loving the many gifts I have. Last night, after dinner, I'm sitting in the Life Guard stand with sandy bare feet dangling. Cassidy plays in the sand laughing. Maddie's lusting after a surfer. The ocean is glass though there's enough waves for the dude to stand upright on his board which delighted Maddie so she jerks out her cell phone to tell her friends. "Oh my God," she squeals. "He is so cute." The sun just sits on billows of clouds shooting brilliant red lights into the sky. Sitting there, I raise my glass and toasts God. "You do really good work most of the time," I said out loud as both girls ignore me as they were in their own worlds. "There are some things I wonder about but tonight ... it just doesn't get any better than this." God didn't say anything back but the brilliant display of lights made me think about ... Joey Finch. Joey and I grew up together and he lives in Key West. He's forever taking pictures of the rock in the Gulf Stream where he lives and posting them on line. I love Key West and had I found it earlier in my life, I would still be living there. Sarah and I are desperately planning a trip to visit Joey and the island. I'm dying to go and show the girls islands really are the best way to live. The sun decides to wake up and throws the clouds off. The brightness is blinding. I snap pictures of the happiness around me and the gifts that God drips down. The moon is brilliant sliver standing off to the side admiring God's red glow. This morning I still have one foot stuck in last night. Sometimes you just can't appreciate all that you've got enough.

Linkendin and me

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck with the small roar of the waves in the distance, the sun has covered itself with a blanket of purple clouds. The Indigo Girls strum guitars and harmonize in the background. For the first time in months, I wear a tee-shirt because Fran’s thousand shades of green are playfully throwing the ocean breeze on me. Winston, the little gay dog, plays at my bare feet dangling from the High Top chair as Goddess snores underneath the Hibiscus plants. I am intensely working on my Linkedin account. Actually I have two and I’m trying to figure out how to eliminate one. Years ago I started one when I was still at Union Mission. I’d always in front of the curve ball of the digital age having bought the www.unionmission.org domain way before we had any idea what web pages would become. When Linkendin came, I immediately jumped on board. Then I left Union Mission and the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous … Jerry Rainey …had all my passwords changed and I no longer have access to my accounts. So there is Linkendin profile showing me as President & CEO of Union Mission which I haven’t been for almost three years now and I can’t do anything about it. Of course, I created a current one which is true testimony to what I’m doing these days. “Why in the hell should anybody care about Linkendin anyway?” I asked Liz Wu at a meeting in Memphis last week. Liz was with her boss Mac Prichard and Prichard Communicaiton Portland, Oregon managing social media for companies in several states. Pretty with long black hair and of Asian descent, Liz looked at me as if I were an idiot. This is understandable as I was wearing flip flops, faded blue jeans and the same tee shirt I’m wearing now (Blue Moon Party at Marlin Monroe’s made by our friends from Latitude 32. Sarah and I celebrate our anniversary once a month at Marlin’s under a full moon because that’s when we got married.). Nevertheless, she and Mac had to take me serious because I was introducing them. “Well,” she said as she admired my tee shirt, “Linkendin is important because the business community wants its own social media platform to be professionally segregated from the mass media drive engines of Face Book, Twitter, Google Community and other such venues because business communication is different from personal communication.” I make a mental note to send Liz a Marlin Monroe tee shirt. Mac too! He went to Harvard and isn’t the snappiest dresser in the world so he probably needs a couple. After being educated … and chastised … by Liz and Mac, I’m now paying serious attention to Lindenin collecting a couple of hundred contacts. It’s always interesting to see who accepts you and who isn’t in a hurry or doesn’t at all. It reminds me when I was in elementary school and slipped Beth Morgan, who played Dell Evans to my Roy Rogers, a note. “Do you like me? Check one: Yes? No? Maybe?” (She did but I digress.) “Hey,” Mike Hosti yelling out as I entered Tybee Market to get some things for dinner, “I got your Lindendin request but I don’t know what the hell to do with it. I’m still trying to figure all of that stuff out. It just strikes me as funny. We live two blocks from each other and we’re going to talk on Lindendin?” “Yeah,” I replied shrugging my shoulders while throwing green beans, fried French onions and Campbell’s Cream of Mushoom soup on the belt. “It sucks,” he says. “Why can’t we just get together?” “Its business,” I reply, swiping the credit card across the digital transaction. “I know,” he says while shrugging his own shoulders. “Alright, let’s go to work,” he concludes walking away. “Yep,” I say. These days you need every edge you can get. The economy is in the tank and apparently not going anywhere soon. So I’m back into Linkendin and Mike and I are going to communicate … even though we’re only two blocks away from one another.