Off the well worn roads

I seem to be getting further and further from life's well traveled roads.

Sometimes I'm a little shocked at the distance between my life and societal norms.

My career path did a U-turn, the days of being constantly available to everyone else ended, and I took time to indulge me. "I don't go to church and I don't cut my hair" and I rarely think about the way it used to be.

Were my financial advisor, minister, Guardian Angel or parole officer to conduct a SWOT analysis of me, they would likely scream in unison, "Just what in God's name are you doing?"

My answer would likely be, "Beats the hell out of me!"

Honestly though, the answer is two fold. First, everything I've lived through so far has been to get me to this point and, second, I'm not always sure where I'm going but there's certainly no going back.

The question makes me feel OK because what I'm doing these days is entirely in God's name.

My faith journey is the biggest, baddest, freaking scare-the-living-daylights out of you Roller Coaster ride EVER!

I feel I'm elite company!

Francis of Assisi and Claire, Che Guevara, Frederick Buechner, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Clarence Jordan, Jesus of Nazareth, John, Ringo, Paul and George!

These are my people!

Making it all the more exhilarating and wonderfully frightening is that I have a partner! Sarah dove head first into this faith journey and she's never looks back either!

We're hell on wheels driving recklessly towards the Promised Land.

That's what faith is right? 

If it's genuine, to blatantly steal from Guy Sayles (America's greatest minister) "it will move us and we will move with it. The movement is often into unknown places in the heart and mind."

I got that part down!

Sarah and I are definitely in unchartered waters but we're enjoying the hell out of the ride.

Then once we get the hell out, we're really going to settle down and enjoy wherever it is we end up.

Everybody else thinks we should have a better idea of where that is.

We don't.

But we've come this far and we're not going back.

We can see the Promised Land from here.

It's right over there.
____________

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A typical island weekend

Weekends on Tybee are always fun!

Well, it is if you can find parking, of which there is little on the island.

There is an Island Parking Committee which has no citizens on it. They implemented a strategy of controlling the influx of visitors by eliminating parking spaces. There are hundreds less parking spots than there were just a couple of years ago.

O Johnny is evidently hot and bothered by the City's less is more parking strategy.

He and his wife O Judy have taught their dog Coco how to surf and lots of dog loving people are flocking to the south end of the island to see this amazing animal for themselves.

Unfortunately there's absolutely no parking spaces on the south end of the island so they're all parking on his yard.

Angela Barras Brackett can testify to the parking situation having driven from Port Wentworth, Georgia to Tybee Island to spend a pleasant day driving around.

Nevertheless, all kind of strange and wonderful things happened on Tybee this weekend.

Somebody pooped in Jodee and Cheryl's pool. Unfortunately nobody told their son Ryan who went for a swim after a long hard day at The Breakfast Club.

Whitley Reynolds has not been seen since Friday morning when he was dressed for work. His bicycle is missing too.

Roy Swindelle hosts The Savannah Singer Songwriter series on Sunday evenings. This was one of the best yet! Held at the American Legion, where the drinks are cheap and pizza is a buck a slice, it's simply one of the best things that happens on the island. Great stories introduce great songs and the faithful are blown away by the honest, pure sounds of heartache and joy that are shared.

At the monthly Book Club held at our house, there was mass confusion because a slight majority of attendees actually read the book! Nobody knew what to do! It had never happened before. Typically, members Google the Cliff Notes version before attending but there is now a real possibility we could turn into a real Book Club!

A house blew up and nobody knows why.

Winston, the little gay dog, got a boner twice his size and photographer par excellence Wen McNally

got a picture of it which could very well be part of the promotional campaign for his book coming out later this year.

Our friend Sam Sahr is evidently starting an island chapter of the NGCA (Nude Grass Cutters Association) and it's long overdue.

Our friends Glenn Arnold and Vicki Matthews are in trouble with the law. The incident occurred as they were looking for parking. My understanding is they became completely unbuckled before getting it together again.

D-Luv remains in some strange alternative universe.

While all of this was happening, Sarah and I spend a quiet and romantic weekend washing clothes.

As you can see it was a typical weekend on the island and I am slap worn out. I've got so much to do this week I don't even know where to begin.

Hmmmm ... Sarah's still in bed.

I think I'll start there.

Southern Baptist Sissy

"If we get caught, just remember. You're deft and I don't speak English."

It was Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM, but the other one.

He was trying to reconstruct how we survived two weeks we spent in Prague, Czech Republic and wrote me out of the blue.

"Wasn't that the strategy?" he asked.

"There was a strategy?" I immediately wrote back.

He hasn't responded.

It'll likely be a couple of months before I hear from him again.

He often drops out of sight for long periods of time but we have that wonderful gift of being able to instantly pick right up where we left off without skipping a beat.

"Hey Remember the time ..." I'll begin.

"Oh yeah that was funny," he'll reply before I even get to what I'm talking about.

"How in the hell do you know what I'm talking about?" I fire.

"Well," he'll say calmly, "aren't you talking about the time we moved all of the furniture out of that woman's house in Havana, Cuba so we could learn to salsa with those students that night?"

"Well, yeah," I tell him.

I don't know how he does that but he does.

Then again, Bill is always calm.

He has a spiritual center that borders on holy.

Unless Markers Mark is involved.

Then he's loud!

I locked him out of the room one day in  Myrtle Beach so I could get some rest. He took offense and started yelling at me through the open doors of our hotel room on the second floor.

Cussing, I stumble to the balcony and look down to see him bouncing on the diving board of swimming pool with a bottle of Makers Mark. He's trying to speak in Hebrew which we'd both taken in Seminary but it's coming out all slurred.

"SHTOK!" I yell telling him to shut up.

He stopped bouncing and considered what I'd said before bouncing again and screaming "Ani yiv-at lecha ba beitsim!"

Shaking my head, both hands covered my crotch I close the sliding glass doors and went to sleep.

When I woke up, he's asleep in the bathtub.

I have no idea how he got inside the room.

Hoo-boy! The adventures we've had!

But he's always available in a heartbeat if I need him. We have long thoughtful talks when we're not pushing one another to do things neither would ever consider by ourselves. We've helped one another through our worse while having the most incredible of adventures. Honestly, I don't know what my life would be without him. It certainly wouldn't have been as much fun.

He's pretty mellow these days and he often drops out of sight for long periods of time.

Well, unless he's with me.

Then we make our own heaven in spite of whatever hell there may be.

Prayers

A little before five o'clock I crawl out of bed and stumble outside to the Beloved Back Deck. Goddess immediately jumps up and follows me. Winston, the little gay dog, takes this as his cue to take my place, jumps into the bed and snuggling with Sarah who is soundly asleep.

The black sky is ablaze with stars casting enough light that I see the leaves of Fran's thousand shades of green. The red, purple, pink and orange blooms on the plants glow in praise. The choir of cicada sing their endless hymn of praise.

I plop down in my chair and cross my feet on the railing.

"Hey God," I say out loud, "I need to tell you a few things."

In the distance waves break on the beach.

"So I got some friends who need a little looking after right now. They're going through some tough shit. One is sick and broke. She ain't got a dime and can't afford the debt of getting well."

The choir of cicada soften to a hum.

"Matter of fact God, I got several friends in the same boat. It's a boat full of leaks," and I laugh at the analogy.

It grows lighter and I can easily make out the outlines of our neighbor's homes.

"Anyway, Nancy and Amy just lost their Mommas and that really sucks. They are devastated. I understand how much they hurt. Thanks for my Dad and tell him I miss him. And I'm really glad my Mom still tells me what to do all of the time even though I don't listen to her."

A shooting star flames across the sky disappearing behind a purple cloud.

"And I got a bunch who are pretty disgusted at how quiet you been. They're really needing a little something from you right now. Can you please throw a little love their way?"

Goddess heavily sighs and I scratch her head in silence. She licks my hand and my hearts erupts with love for her.

"And Kristen's going throw some crazy stuff right now so look after her OK?"

Scratches on the glass door demand my attention and I see Winston, the little gay dog, wanting to join us. Reaching my arm backwards around my head I slide it open and he prances out.

"Anyway, I know you're busy and stuff but they're all really hurting right now. Bless 'em. OK? Nobody deserves shit like that."

The choir of cicada stop and the silence is deafening.

"Thanks God," I mumble feeling overwhelmed by the holiness of it all.

Standing, I take one final look around.

Goddess immediately jumps up waging her tail.

Winston, the little gay dog, watches me.

"Hey," I say before I turn, "thank you for Sarah. I don't know what I would do ..."

Goddess scratches the door and I stop talking.

Turning, I open it and the dogs rush inside so I follow and crawl back in bed with her.

"Oh yeah," I whisper after getting the pillows right.

"Amen."

And I sleep like a baby.
____________________

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Notes From God

"What in the hell?" I said standing in the Pastor's study of the church that  inexpiably employed me.

I was opening the mail and had just read, "Your last sermon really sucked. If you're going to speak for me, don't put words in my mouth."

It was from God.

It was postmarked New York City and I was in Louisville, Kentucky.

Who knew God lived in New York City?

The letter wasn't signed but it did have "Notes From God" embossed on the top so it must have been from God. God's pretty busy so there's not always time to personally sign everything.

I threw it away.

That sermon was great!

My text had been, "Then Samson went into Gaza, and saw there a harlot, and went in unto her," (Judges 16:1).

My message had been about staying on top of things when things get rough.

Imagine my shock the very next day when I opened another "Note From God" postmarked San Francisco which read, "You're terrible when you do hospital visitation. Stop putting words in my mouth. And stop nibbling on the food while pretending to pray with the patient. PLUS ... you suck."

It was true that I hated hospital visits. They are so depressing. This was back in the days before hospitals had coffee bars, boutiques, food courts and they made good movies about bad Candy Stripers. Now the Candy Stripers are good and they don't make movies about them anymore.

But! As a "Professional Christian" I still made the damn hospital visits in spite of such a difficult environment. The money was decent so I did it for God's sake.

I threw the letter away.

Postmarked Chicago, the next one read, "You are the worst dressed preacher ever. What are you? A hippy? A cowboy? A suave urban hipster? A devout Seminarian? You even got me shaking my head. It's why you suck."

God was starting to piss me off.

At the time I was wearing blue jeans in the pulpit with a corduroy jacket, colorful plaid shirt with a sock tie. Hiking boots complemented the ensemble. Tinted glasses, shoulder length hair and a beard made me look really fine.

Obviously God doesn't keep up with modern fashion.

The letters kept arriving for the next month.

Every single day God would personally criticize my ministry.

It was killing me.

The congregation unanimously and instantly granted me a mini-Sabbatical so I went to seek the council of my dear friend Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one who was the "Professional Christian" at the Graffiti Baptist Center in New York.

Seeing my agony, Bill immediately took to an Irish Pub on the Lower East Side so we could talk. Not one damn person spoke English. I couldn't understand anything they said.

Anyway Bill listened, put his arm around me, told me how much he loves me and this was all before we got drunk.

The next morning, I woke up on the sofa in Bill and Kathy's massive townhouse with majestic sweeping views of the buildings surrounding it.

They were still asleep so I went looking through their stuff like normal people do when they visit somebody else's place.

"Bastard," I said out loud after rummaging through their desk.

There was the "Notes from God" stationary.

"Forgive me Lord," I said out loud, "but I have been perpetrated by a fraud. I didn't mean all those things I said about you. You really are great! But God, while we're talking, let me ask you this. If REM ever does need a drummer, play a really mean joke on Bill."

And to this day, I love the Lord.

Book History

My first book came out right after I'd left the place it was about. Sitting on Daytona Beach, I saw "The Society of Salty Saints" for the first time and read about a rag tag, inner city congregation that somehow took off and, because I'd been the "Professional Christian" in charge, a publisher was interested and asked me to write a book.

It did well and I was asked to write a sequel.

So I did.

It pissed the publisher off because I decided to only use quotes from Clarence Jordan's "Cotton Patch Gospels". Clarence is the only prophet Southern Baptist ever produced and translated the New Testament into a modern day southern vernacular. The publisher thought I was compromising the continuing story of the gritty church in the city.

So they dropped me.

By this time I was in Savannah, Georgia and because "Salty Saints" had sold well, another publisher gave me a contract for "Partners In Grace". It was very much like the first book and it did really well so they wanted me to do another. "Why the Homeless Don't Have Homes" is the only thing I've written to win an award and it got me invited to lots of places.

A friend I'd gone to Seminary with was now working for another publisher. He called asking if they could publish my next book and I said, "Sure."

Horrified they read the manuscript of "Running with the Dolphins & other Tybee Tales."

"Um, Micheal," Scott said when he called, "we're a religious publisher. We only do Christian books."

"Lots of people use God's name on Tybee," I replied. "Especially late at night."

When the book came out, it did crazily good and remains my most popular writing.

So Scott was even more horrified when the next book was "Playing Hide & Seek: A non-Church-goers guide to God". Most books have a preface written by someone vouching for it. Nobody would vouch for this one and I actually got hate mail before it was published.

When it did come out, the publisher dropped me.

The next one was "Out from under the Rock", sort of a sequel and I gave all of the money it made to Union Mission. It made lots of money. I didn't get any.

So I decided to write a book that would make me a lot of money. Tour of Homes is a big, ambitious tome that didn't make me any money. It got good reviews though.

Then I got distracted did lots of writing but it wasn't book stuff.

Sarah walked outside one day and, "It's time for a new book. Why don't you write one about Winston, the little gay dog?"

As far as we know nobody's written a book about a gay dog ... so I did.

Then Sarah walked outside and said, "It's time for another book. People have been asking."

"Well I just finished the book on Winston, the little gay dog, yesterday," I replied.

This was received with incredible silence, crossed arms and an "Are you kidding me?" look.

So, Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts (http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/ ) is done and will be out soon.

Winston, the little gay dog, is pissed because he thought his book would be out first. He just stormed out wearing a little sweater with the words "Writers Suck More" while flipping me his middle pad on his paw with nails painted red.

What do you do?

No matter what, I seem to always get under somebody's skin.

Or in this case, fur.

This morning

"You need to write a children's book about weed," Nance tells me as I sip coffee.

"It would be great! Set it on a screwed up island where there is a land dispute. A marsh rabbit is growing pot in his yard but his neighbor the marsh hen wants to put up a fence. The City sharks have granted a permit for the fence. The rabbit is livid but in a cloud of smoke realizes what he must do."

Sometimes I don't have a clue how to respond.

This is one of those times.

"Well," I slowly begin but she is super excited about the emerging plot.

"So as the beavers start building the fence ..."

"There's beavers on this island?" I interrupt.

Stopping in mid-sentence, Nance ponders this.

"I'll keep in mind," I take the opportunity to respond, "but I've already books coming out."

"OH!" she exclaims. "That's great man!" slapping my hand with a high-five.

Standing to leave she strolls to the door and hugs me goodbye and says, "Listen. Keep the idea though. It'd be a great children's book. I don't think there are many about pot."

Shrugging my shoulders, I thank her for the inspiration. There's already a line outside The Breakfast Club and I navigate through them to hop on my bicycle.

I coast down Butler Avenue towards the combat zone. Tybrissa Street is littered with people sitting on benches lost in thought as they take long drags of a cigarette. Some take swigs from bottles wrapped in brown paper bags.  Pelicans fly in V-formation overhead as the sun bubbles out of a glassy ocean shooting lights of pink, purple, red and yellow into a brilliant blue sky.

At the crosswalk beside the Pier, I stop for my morning appreciation of being given another day.

A pretty blond woman is sitting on the rail of the cross walk looking tired and frazzled. She's having an intense conversation in her phone. Seeing me she jumps up crossing one arm across her chest and storms toward the beach now yelling at whoever listening to her.

The beach is full of runners, power walker, couples holding hands, families already setting up for the day and garbage trucks. A large yellow tractor dumps a mountain of yesterday's beer and soda cans into the truck shattering the calm of the morning with the metallic scrapping of aluminum.

Behind them the ocean is peppered with suffers, people on Paddleboards and children playing in the waves. Four Cargo ships are lined up in the channel waiting for the Tug boats to guide them through Savannah.

"Thanks," I say out loud as I push my bicycle off and coast towards the house.

It's time to get to work.

But first I need to check if there are any children's books about Weed.

Maybe there needs to be a new one.

Holy Night

The Cat Lady left the light on so her carport is ablaze and I see feral cats darting around her car. Her television is flickering blue from the window and I see heads talking. There is no movement and I assume she's asleep on her sofa. A Tahoe is parked in her yard so she's hopefully cuddled. Perhaps she's even making quiet love.

God has sprinkled a million stars across a black moonless sky.

There is no breeze.

The sweet pungent aroma of the marsh hangs in the air.

A lone choir of cicada sing a soft hymn of praise.

All is calm. All is bright in the darkness of the night.

It's 3:40 and I'm sitting on the beloved back deck. Restlessness robbed my sleep and not wanting to wake Sarah, I made my way out here. She's been restless too and was up the last several nights working away. It's her turn to sleep.

Goddess scratches the door so I let her out with her tail wagging. She licks my hand, then plops down beside me with a heavy sigh.

There is a soft beauty that I am keenly aware of witnessing.

It feels that Angels are hiding behind Palm Trees and the one with the oyster eyes is smiling at me.

The ocean sings in the distance, waves breaking rhythmically, keeping time with the cicada choir.

Rubbing my hand through my beard my fingertips explode with the sensation of the prickly stubble bowing to flesh.

All of the bad things in the world are somewhere else. For these moments, at least, there is peace on earth. There are no thoughts filling my head, no worries troubling me, because they've been pushed away on a night O so Holy and I sit quietly and still as though in church.

The slightest of breezes kisses my face as I sit in the night.

There is no rush.

So I sit contently in the darkness.

Need More Vacation?

After swearing it off  a hundred times, I still read The Savannah Morning News print version most every day.

The news is mostly bad and always exaggerated, the columnists are one sided, one dimensional exercises in pompous thinking (except for Bill Dawers who is eclectic and wonderfully diverse), and the sports section is woefully thin.

But ... I love Stacy Jennings who does the marketing for the paper and she cornered this market years ago so I still read the thing.

This is what I learned today.

Apparently Congress is going on a five week vacation and feels good about the things they've accomplished so far this year.

You may need to take a moment and read the last sentence again.

I know I did.

If you didn't already know, members of Congress get 239 vacation days each year.

This gives them plenty of time to raise money to run for office again.

Who gets 239 days of vacation?

No wonder they spend all of their time raising money to run for office again!

Sure they have to kiss the asses of people with money, and get photo ops with people who don't giving the impression they're working but ... Hell! 239 FREAKING DAYS OF VACATION????

Now my friend Jack Kingston will say it's not really vacation.

He just has to get out of Washington to get real again.

He's got to reconnect with the people.

Of course the way you get real and reconnect is to have political fund raiser.

When not busy raising money, members of Congress are overwhelmed spending the gifts Lobbyist gave them ... going to Braves games, Georgia football games, Kenny Chesney concerts and such.

Jack will be the first to tell you, it's a lot of work!

It's hard to be everywhere at once.

Well, everywhere except Washington.

Or to quote Mark Twain, "Suppose you're an idiot. Now suppose you're a member of Congress. But I repeat myself" or "It can probably be shown by facts and figures that there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress."

Republicans or Democrats?

They're all the same.

They just want to hold on to what they got.

Mark Twain got sick of it all and jumped on a steam ship and sailed away. After years of doing politics, I have too. They can have their vacations, raise their money and enjoy their perks while not doing a damn thing other than naming buildings and bridges after themselves, attending free conferences in exotic places and scrambling for television time.

I don't care.

I've taken a permanent vacation from them.

Oh, and have a good time Jack ... John ... Johnny ... the rest of you.

Breaking the Silence

You've become quite the recluse. You rarely grant interviews anymore. Why did you agree to this one?

I didn't have anything else to do. Sarah's still asleep. Winston, the little gay dog, is licking where his balls used to be. Goddess is sleeping too. I was bored. That's why I'm doing it. I can't think of what else to do.

When was your last interview and does anyone care?

I think the last one was at WTOC. It was in the lobby and took about half-an-hour. The only people who cared was the Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainey), who didn't want me to do it at Union Mission and Johnny O, who pointed out that I was old news because it was broadcast at 5:55 rather than right after six.

Well, we have lots to cover. There are lots of things other bored people want to know. Ready?

Whatev's.

Is Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, real?

That's a hard first question. He was real. At least I think he was real. He really threw me over the wall in a Monastery once. I'm pretty sure it was him who painted "Jesus Shaves" on the sanctuary wall. I remember he saluted the Polish boarder patrol in his underwear while I hid under the covers. He saved me from a bunch of Turkish whores one night in Prague. And a bus hit us once while we were on the way to Seminary together. I don't know. He sounds pretty real to me but I couldn't say for sure.

What about the Cat Lady? Is she real?

She's a real pain in the ass. That's pretty real!

Do you every talk to her?

Well, it's hard to get a word in edgewise because she's always screeching to her cats or moaning like them with the parade of buff boys marching in and out of her house. But yeah, we talk. It's hard though. Have you seen her? She looks like Marge Simpson on meth and it's hard to carry on a conversation when you have a little bit of throw up in your mouth.

Winston, the little gay dog, has amassed quite the following. Has it gone to his head?

Winston, the little gay dog, is real son-of-a-bitch! I mean that literally. To be honest though, I really don't spend a lot of time with him. He's forever shopping for slogan tee shirts online or answering fan mail. Sarah's his agent and I know they're in contract negotiations for him appear at Fantasy Fest in Key West this year. He seems to be doing alright.

How's Goddess doing?

Oh Goddess is great! Goddess is good! She's aging gracefully and really doesn't give a shit about much anything.  She likes it when Jodee and Cheryl come over. They're into bagism.

Last year, you and Sarah were in the Bar Church band. How's that going?

Well, God kicked us out. It was one of those Beatle things, you know, when they were asked if they were more popular than Jesus? We were just getting too popular.  It was getting in the way so God told Sam to tell us to get the hell out. It's all good though. God told Sam to tell Jimmy Cochran to join and D-Luv is up to one finger on the piano these days. They sound good buried under Stephen's overbearing guitar solos. Sarah and I wish them the best.

What about The Carnival of Friends? Everyone doing alright?

Oh yeah. We don't get together too much these days to reminisce. Primarily because none of us can remember anything. But everybody's good. I saw Judy O this morning and she was her normal self ... lost, aimlessly wandering around, looking naked without a glass of wine in her hand.

Speaking of naked, how's your testosterone levels?

Thanks for asking. They're the highest they've ever been. It's because of Sarah though. I can't take all of the credit. She makes certain they get plenty of sunlight every day.

Are you still the Chaplain at the Breakfast Club?

Yeah sure, but it's mostly a ceremonial title these days. I mean the place got so popular and has tons of Groupies. They line up before the suns up so the place went to hell years ago. There's not much a Chaplain can really do.

So what's next? Anything new on the horizon?

Yep. A book on Winston, the little gay dog, is being released soon. It deals with how he found himself and he collaborated with Goddess in writing it. It's pretty good. And I have a new book coming out too called "Sandy Bottoms and Duct Taped Hearts." It's a book about being Spiritual hence the title. I'm doing a lot of teaching these days too. It's all online so you don't have to actually go to class or anything.

How's Sarah?

I already told. She's asleep.

Yeah you did. Well, anything else to want to add?

About what?

I dunno.

Me either.

Alrighty then.

Yep.

Early Morning Sun Worshipper

"Later Kids!" I say standing from my stool at the counter in The Breakfast Club.

"BYE MIKEY!" is yelled by several of the cooks and waitresses as I stumble towards the door marked "Exit Only" which is how I came in.

"WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!" Chris yells. "I have to tell you something."

He stops cooking, finds an empty space on the counter and leans into me.

"I was reading Runner's World the other day," he whispers in my ear, "and there was an article that says if you expose your testacles to the sun your body produces 250 times more testosterone."

Standing up straight, I just stare at him.

"I know right?" he continues. "What is sad is as soon as I read it, I immediately thought of you."

I laughed as he returned to the grill, cracking eggs, flipping sausage, and creating masterpieces.

"Who knew?" I thought as I walked around the line formed on the sidewalk to get to my bicycle, "that I produce so much testosterone naturally?"

Climbing on my bicycle, I turn the corner and immediately run into Julia Pearce who is on her bicycle. We stop in the middle of the road and greet each other.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Pulling her ear buds away, she takes the cigar from her mouth. "Worshipping the sun," she says prayerfully.

I want to tell her how nice her tan is but she keeps talking.

"What is wrong with your mind? I look forward to reading your stuff every day but God the stuff that goes on in your head."

"I am pretty eclectic," I shrug.

"Give me a kiss," she demands leaning forward and I do before she puts the cigar back in her mouth.

She peddles down 15th Street towards the ocean and I head towards home before Winston, the little gay dog, can wake Sarah up.

Julia and I go way back. I was her first babysitter on the island. Standing in the old Desoto Shipwreck Lounge years ago, she was lusting after Mallory on the dance floor.

"Here hold this," she said handing me her baby as she rushed out to dance with him.

They went on to marry, the baby grew up to be a minister and I wonder if any of it would have taken place had I not been standing next to her that day.

We went on to work together for a while. Julia is a nurse and ran a program in one of the buildings I operated. One day I walked into a meeting she was holding with her staff and she kicked me out of my own building.

She was pretty witty about it.

"Get out!" is I remember her saying.

These days, she goes to Africa and Washington D.C. a lot. Kings come to visit her and she goes to Presidential Inaugurations. She frequents Marlin Monroe's  on Sundays and takes great care to fix Mallory's hair before he goes out in public.

She's hard to not love. 

As my friend Jane Fishman once said, "On an island everybody is either running to, or running from, something."

Julia was running from something when she got here.

But she's been running to something since she arrived.

Feminist Right Wing Political Wackos

There were no Pope Frances sugar cookies for dessert.

It was terrible and we are still traumatized. Sarah is shaken. The girls all need therapy. My faith in God is sorely tested.

A feminist right wing political terrorist group broke into our house while we were away on a mission trip for Jesus.

Imagine our horror when we finally made it home after spending five days doing God's will on a Cruise Ship.

We were saving large Cherub children from ice cream laced bacon ... stupid people who confuse a white letter "T" on ugly orange shirts with the state of Texas ... lost white people who wear baby blue tee shirts with yellow shorts, matching baby blue tube socks and sandals (can you say Georgia Tech?) ... mothers who raise their daughters to wear matching cover ups over matching bathing suits ... this was a mission trip to pure hell!

But we prevailed and came home filled with glorious praise for the Savior's command to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. We taught them to eat salad which they struggled with mightily. We held backyard Bible Clubs showing heathens God only follows the SEC and doesn't give a shit about Notre Dame. We sought out the oppressed giving the good news that clothing is optional. It got ugly sometimes when we had to slap some sense into parents for doing really stupid things with their children.

We were so happy to hurry home and begin a family study for this week's Sunday School lesson.

Instead, we were shocked to see what Satan's people did while we were gone.

We found Winston, the little gay dog, wearing a tee shirt that said "Republicans blow harder, Democrats always got your rear but we can agree on one thing. They suck!" The poor little thing was crying, paws duct taped  behind his ball-less butt with a tiny Cuban flag stuffed in his mouth. He was left in the closet like this.

Goddess was beside him, also traumatized, snoring and passed out smelling of reefer. She was actually smiling.

Anyway, the feminist right wing political group was obviously upset about our mission trip.

Leaving their devious calling card, an elephant dressed for Fantasy Fest made us all scream in horror, "HOLY J. EDGAR HOOVER!"

Releasing Winston, the little gay dog, he hiked his left rear leg ... he is a leftist ... and peed on the Fantasy Fest Elephant.

Goddess half way opened her eyes and blew smoke on it.

Sarah and I locked the girls in their rooms and had a laying on of hands ceremony.

God's name was called upon multiple times.

So was Jesus's.

So was Satan's.

I swear to God Monica Lewinski and Mitch McConnell were there. Harry Reed and Nancy Pelosi were too. They were all entangled in a holy, sweat soaked, steamy, copulation of sex. Bill Clinton, America's greatest President ... he balanced the budget, left a surplus, never killed anybody and made oral sex a part of the country's vernacular ... hovered above.  That was one great service! I still feel healed.

GLORY!

Anyway, when Sarah and I finished with the laying on of hands ceremony, Pope Frances himself had obviously intervened and performed a miracle.

Hearing a scream, we almost jumped up, but ... well, we were naked so we didn't.

Later ... much later ... a lots later ... a really long time later ... I went to the bathroom and saw Pope Frances' miraculous work ... the Fantasy Fest Elephant was screaming for his life as he was being flushed down the toilet.

Looking down on it ... experiencing yet another sigh of relief than the one I had with Sarah ... I watched it go round and round.

Winston, the little gay dog, having bathed, groomed and changed clothes ... now wearing a tee shirt that reads "The stuff trickling down on you isn't money" ... jumped up on the toilet seat and looked down.

The Fantasy Fest Elephant spun round and round.

Winston, the little gay dog, barked "Call me."

As the Elephant went down, we heard "I will."

Winston, the little gay dog, looked at me and winked.

"Another convert," he barked as he went to find Sarah.

Judge Not

Well, that was fun!

It’s a sad shame that we have to leave the ocean to go home at the beach.

There are some things you just have to do in life.

I’m sure we going to have to adjust Winston, the little gay dog’s, medication when we get home. When the Pope said who was he to judge God loving people regardless of sexual identity, Winston probably went ape shit crazy with joy.

        

Though not a Catholic he is certainly a Christian gay dog and is forever wearing tee-shirts with Biblical references saying things like “Jonah’s got nothing on me. Watch me blow this whale” or “I got your resurrection right here.”

I must admit though, I agree with Winston, the little gay dog, on this one. It’s nice to see Pope Frances say one shouldn’t be judged whether they’re straight or not. It’s not our job to judge. God does that.

Winston, the little gay dog, and I believe God gave each one of us this gift of life. None of us are created the same. We are conceived according to plan or because of mistakes. Some are black, white, brown or red. We are male or female. We are tall or short, fast or slow, and each of us is different from everyone else. And … we are either straight or gay.

Winston, the little gay dog’s, Uncle Johnny O put it best when he said, “I like this sinner friendly Pope! He’s my kind of guy.”

I have to agree with Johnny O too. Everybody screws up in life. Everyone sins sometime. For the most part, we all eventually commit the same ones.

It’s crazy how judgmental people get when they’ve done the same things as the people they’re judging. When you look at it, this is the world’s biggest problem. Everyone is too freaking judgmental.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Johnny O often says, “everybody just lighten up.”

After all of the false judgments the Catholic Church has delivered over the last few centuries, it’s nice to see them led by a guy like Frances. He’s open, honest, not as tightly strung as his predecessors and I bet he doesn’t wear anything under his robe. You can just tell he hangs loose.

Besides, I’m sure Goddess is ready for us to get home. She can only take so much of Winston, the little gay dog.

Goddess is not judgmental, loves everybody, and spends most of the day passed out on the floor. She likes medicinal marijuana while he prefers Speed. They sometimes clash and I have to referee. 

Winston, the little gay dog, is high strung when it comes to religion. Goddess rolls with the tides.

Plus, we’re tired of Cruise Ship food. I’m ready to fire up the grill tonight, open a bottle of wine, sit on the beloved back deck and offer a toast to the heavens when things go right in the world.

And it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Winston, the little gay dog, spends the afternoon making sugar cookies in the image of Pope Frances for our dessert.

It’s just something he would do.

Adrift

Sometimes it seems life is aimlessly adrift at sea even if you’ve been in the same place for years.

The same job … same family … same church … same old way of doing things … doing the same things for fun … same ol’ same old.

On the ocean I can tell the Ship is moving because we’re steaming against the current. I can fix my eye on a cloud in the distance and measure our movement by comparing where it is in relation to the railing on the boat.

It’s not so easy in life.

Too often we settle for stability rather than growth. Familiarity trumps discovery. Comfort with what we know prevents tasting new excitements. Hardened beliefs destroy the possibility of new friends. Fear of losing what we’ve got smothers the life we have.

After years of doing the same thing, I left.

Honestly, like a marriage that fails, I’d actually checked out long before I actually resigned. It was stable, familiar enough so that I could do it with my eyes closed and there was a set way of doing everything. There was nothing to it but it was killing me.

I didn’t leave because I feared losing the comfort of everything I had … and I had a lot! I made lots of money, lived where I wanted, traveled the world on their dime and had more perks than I knew what to do with. I was scared to leave. My life was aimlessly adrift though I was firmly anchored to these things.

Then God intervened and circumstances became such that I resigned. It was painful, emotional, heart wrenching, shocking to others and exhausting to me.

It was damn scary.

Like a ship that wrecks on the reef, I was able to salvage some things. I kept some money, my house, and a handful of friends stayed with me. Throwing caution to the wind, I continue to travel as a way of coping with everything I’d lost.

Like a sailor stranded on an island, I learned new ways of doing things … quieter ways. I learned to listen better, speak less and no longer have to own whatever room I’m in. There’s no longer the need to boost my ego. Though I sometimes fret about the future, I’m very content with the present. More than ever, I’m living in the moment.

A mermaid swam from nowhere and I married Sarah. Our family is bigger than anything I had before. The handful of friends has been growing steadily peppering each day with delight. Like the hot, sticky, humid hot air, love is all around. We take great joy when people we care about break away and discover what they’re running to.

I don’t have any regrets.

Looking backwards, there’s lot I’m proud of, but I’m gazing ahead. We’ve constructed a new boat and are moving against the currents of social expectations. We’re not doing it the way everybody believes we should. We’re having fun.

Watching the water roll pass, I’m very mindful of lots of people. Like Sarah and I, their lives are not what they were a little while ago. They’ve cast off the old ways and are setting sail for better days.

When we crawl up in the crow’s nest to have a look around, we smile at all of the other self-constructed new lives that are sailing these same waters. 

Just Like Any Other Kid

Then I remember why we came.

The blue green waters of the Bahamas are stunning. The powder white sand of the beach sucks my feet down to my ankles. The sun blazes on the sea and the breeze is light. It is a picture postcard day.

“That was just fantastic!” a dark skin man said smiling at me yesterday. His hands rested on the shoulders of his daughter, a girl with brown eyes the size of moons.

“It was fun,” I reply as we board the Tender to ferry us back to the Ship.

His eyes were filled with pure bliss and I knew this was the first time he has experienced a beach so pure. We were instant brothers.

It was a quiet evening after a full day in the sun.

While Sarah sleeps, I sip coffee watching as we dock in Nassau trying the count the times I’ve been here. It’s not my favorite Bahamian place but there’s a nice beach a short walk from here which is where we’ll likely end up today.

Last year, I was diving off a concrete Pier with a bunch of kids when a police officer made us stop, giving me a lecture on how a tourist was killed just last week because he didn’t dive correctly. As soon as he left, the kids and I resumed diving off the Pier.

Why am I still such a kid at 57? Every morning when I get up is the beginning of a new adventure. It is an immediate search for what’s fun! Whatever bar was set yesterday must now be surpassed. Yesterday is only a collection of stories that can be dredged up when the occasion calls for laughter. If I did anything wrong yesterday, I try very hard to not do it again today.

I’m much more of a kid now than I was in my 30s or 40s! Then I was trying to make it professionally, be a good example for my kids, fit in the right social circles and care about politics.

I don’t do that stuff anymore. My career was a jigsaw puzzle with no pieces missing though they were not assembled according to instructions. I’m friends with my kids and we have good times when we’re together. The only network I belong to is The Breakfast Club. I could care less about Republicans or Democrats.

What’s really important is playing with my friends!

At dinner last night I asked the girls “Tell me the three things that have meant the most to you in life?”

“When I was born,” said  one.

“Yeah well, it’s hard to top being born,” I replied.

“Riding horses,” shouts another.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I say to her.

There was a silence as small children struggled with a big question.

“When Mommy married you,” was said matter-of-factly to break calm.

Surprised, I asked, “Really? Why is that?”

“You do things with us,” they said in agreement. “You take us places.”

It was a humbling moment.

Then again, I’m at a place in life when I no longer have to be the parent. There is no need for me to be an authority figure or to have everyone like me. I’m a nice guy, like to make people happy, enjoy poking holes in societal expectations and having fun.

Just like any other kid.  

Cruise Ship Conversations

“This cruise ship has gone to hell,” he yells to the woman lounging beside him. “Last time I didn’t have to ask for more bread at dinner! Now you have to ask for another basket! That just ain’t right!”

Slowing my stroll across the Aft deck where the water slides are, I can’t help but notice his large belly is getting lots of sun but it casts a long shadow over his legs and feet.

Who knew the amount of bread consumed is the baseline for a positive cruise experience?

Resuming my climb up the long winding staircase to the top of the slide, I am proud to be a participating member of the Senior Class of kids shooting through the tube to make a big splash in the pool below.

“I’m gonna beat you old man,” says a kid on the slide beside mine.

“No way kid! I’m gonna kick your ass,” I calmly reply.

We’re off and because I weigh significantly more than his 12 year old body, I easily beat him to the bottom, make a bigger splash leaving him dripping as he begins contemplating physics for the very first time.  

Later standing in line for something to drink, a young man says to another, “I don’t like anybody from Texas.”

“I’m not from Texas,” replies the man waiting beside me.

“Yeah you are,” shoots back the young guy jabbing a finger at the letter “T” on the orange shirt the man’s wearing.

The man looks at me as I burst out laughing, standing there wearing my UGA tee shirt.

“Buddy I’m from Tennessee,” the man says.

Confused, the young man retreats to his original position, “Well, I still don’t like nobody form Texas.”

Shaking my head, I order a double.

“This is not relaxing,” says a mother stuffing endless amounts of food in the mouths of her two large Cherubs.

“Did you get me ice cream?” one asks finishing off a plate of bacon and a pancake.

“Not for breakfast,” the mother says.

Wiping syrup from his mouth, the large boy Cherub burst into tears.

“There is nothing relaxing about this,” the mother says as she heads towards the ice cream station.

Stumbling from our cabin to the Lido deck, I bypass the breakfast line and pour myself coffee.

“We sure did enjoy you dancing with your precious girls last night,” says a high pitched, squeaky southern accent.

Turning, I see a woman and her daughter pouring glasses of juice. They are both smiling, dressed in bathing suits with matching cover ups.

“Thank you,” I smile, remembering them seated at the bar while we danced after dinner.

“It was just precious,” she says as they wander away.

“THIS IS NOT RELAXING,” screams the mother of the two large Cherubs as she returns to her seat carrying large bowls of ice cream.

Helping her is a man wearing a baby blue shirt, yellow shorts, matching baby blue tube shocks and sandals.

I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

“SHUT UP KIDS,” the mother of the two large Cherubs yells. “WE FORGOT TO PRAY FIRST!”

“Dear Heavenly Father,” she says with one eye closed and the other on the two large Cherubs, “bless this food to our bodies …” as she slaps the hand of the large baby boy Cherub dipping his bacon in his ice cream.

Salt Water

The first time I ever saw one was at Ernest Hemingway’s house in Key West. Behind the open air mansion, under Palm Trees and Tropical foliage, is a massive swimming pool built by his wife Pauline.  Rumor has it when the great writer saw it he dug a penny out of his pocket and threw it at her saying, “There you’ve taken my last penny.”

The coin is plastered into the pool now and is part of the spills given to crowds of tourists.

It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.

It’s a great story!

And as I learned in Seminary, “Never, ever let the truth stand in the way of a good story.”

The thing about Hemingway’s pool though is it’s filled with salt water. Crystal clear, it looks just like the chemically clean pools that I grew up using.

On Tybee Island I assumed that salt ocean water was sometimes green but mostly brown. Not so in Key West or most of the rest of the world.

When my friend Carlos visited Tybee from his home in St. Martin, I took him to the beach and he exclaimed, “Mike! Who shit in your ocean?”

I explained the marshes and the influence of the mud. “It does color the water but it fills Tybee waters with nutrients that ensure our fish and shrimp are well fed. It’s why our seafood tastes so good.”

“That may be true,” he said in his French Caribbean lilt, “but it still looks like somebody shit there.”

                                                                                                             

“Well, I’ll take Tybee shrimp over St. Martin lobster any day!”

I love salt water. It swims through my veins. It sticks to my skin. It falls from my eyes when my heart fills or breaks. It soothes my feet when they are sore. It seasons most every pot I put on the stove. It brings me luck when I throw a pinch over my shoulder.

It was in sheer delight yesterday when I cannon balled the girls in the pool on the ship we are on. It’s a salt water pool.

The massive boat is a tiny dot in the vast salty ocean we are sailing through. I see no land, not a single island, only the majesty of the deep blue sea. I’m reminded that regardless of what I accomplished, or failed to, the world is bigger than I am. 

A Quick Look Back

It's a wide range of stuff.

It seems I've covered the entire spectrum of human emotions.

Wickedly funny events were replaced by long, empty loneliness. Heroes unexpectedly arrived from nowhere to save me from hurt and pain. Strange characters screech for cats, drunken bicycles are ridden and church is in a Bar. A gay dog finds a home. Old friends rose themselves from the dead. A Carnival was born just when everyone desperately needed one. Guardian Angels drink, smoke and cuss. Goddess was the singular constant companion through it all. Sarah came home bringing more love than I've ever experienced.

For four years now I've written it all and taking the time to look back as we collect the best for a book reminds me of several things.

Regardless of how good you got it, unexpected and terrible things happen, rocking your faith and changing your world in the blink of an eye.

When they do, you quickly learn who your friends really are ... and just as importantly who they aren't ... and it's shocking to see who is who.

Love is relentless when it comes to you. Those who love you refuse to take no for an answer, find creative ways to insert themselves into your pain and will not go away even when you tell them.

Laughter is more than medicine. It is divine intervention when you need it the most.

Devastating loss eventually leads to a deeper appreciation of who remains in your life and what you have.

Place really does matter and everyone has a Promised Land they're either desperate for or they been blessed to find.

Long periods of silent, reflective thought makes it easier to hear God talk.

Anger, as Frederick Buechner says, is the most delicious of the Seven Deadly Sins! A feast for Kings and Queens until you suddenly realize that what you're eating up is you.

The past has the longest of arms, the tightest of grips and a mean desire to keep you from enjoying the present or make your way toward the future. Only the most courageous of us leave it behind.

These are the things I see when I step back to look at the forest rather than the trees. It's a lush and beautiful place with dark, scary parts, the most beautiful and tranquil of glades, hidden dangers and unexpected friends on its paths.

After this quick respite to see where I've been, I can't wait to continue this journey. It's just been incredible.

Praying the Blues

"When you least feel like praying is when you really need to."

The Gospel according to Hooker Man.

Sarah and I met Hooker and his beautiful wife Levy last year in St. Martin, though I'd heard about them previously from our friend Hugh.

Hooker and Levy are musicians who reside in Coleman, Michigan. He wears glasses over a nose that floats above a long gray beard and you just know he played Woodstock. Wearing overalls and sandals, he stands lost in the sounds wailing from his guitar.

Levy's hair falls over her shoulders but her large captivating smile is what affects you. Her smile throws warmth your way. Her voice soothes. A gifted story teller, her eyes work the crowd then shares devilish delight with Hooker's as they make the music of angels.

On a hot Tropical night in St. Martin, Hooker and Levy performed an impromptu concert on the patio of their Garden Chalet. Our friend Marty joined in wailing on his harps. Perhaps thirty of us stood under the moonlit Palm Trees with the waves crashing on the reef serving as percussion.

"In spite of ourselves," Levy sang while Hooker played, "we'll end up a sittin' on a rainbow."

The lyrics to the John Prine song were our wedding vows when Sarah and I married under a full moon on the beach at Tybee. We smiled and danced as Hooker and Levy re-gifted our vows to us.

Michigan is a long way from Tybee Island but through the magic and wonder of Facebook, we all keep up with each other. Isn't it wonderful that once one time meetings that became distant memories are now ongoing friendships where we can immediately touch over distance and time?

At 3:00 in the morning Hooker posted that when you least feel like praying is when you need to. I don't know if he played last night, he could have just gotten home from work and was sitting there having the days last cigarette and washing it down with a beer. Levy might have been rubbing his shoulders. Or he could have been laying there, trying to sleep before saying "To hell with it!" and sitting before the computer thinking about prayer.

I don't know.

I do know that a friend of Hooker's was hurt really bad yesterday. Great musicians think with their hearts and Hooker's was troubled. Sometimes prayers are really the blues, our way of saying to God, "This just ain't right."

And that's alright. Sometimes life just isn't right and we have every right in the world to tell God and everybody else it ain't! Bad things happen. Incredible life's are cut short. Friends hurt themselves. Lover's disappear.  Loneliness is found. Hunger of all sorts happens.

I believe that God prefers listening to the blues. It's far purer than choirs of Angels singing Hymns. It's far more substantive than the Gospel songs of praise heard in church. It's much more honest than anything in the Hymnal.

At 3:00 in the morning, without his guitar, Hooker was praying the blues.

And I heard you man.

And I'm praying them with you.