The Phantom

"I wouldn't want to be in your shoes," Robin says as I make my way to The Breakfast Club.

White teeth flash in the predawn darkness as she stops in front of me. Shaking her head, she explains, "Georgia's going to kill you."

"Whatever," I shrug opening the door marked "Exit Only."

Taking my seat at the counter, I sip coffee peacefully until a rolled up newspaper slams on the counter. I jump and spill coffee everywhere.

"I'm going to kill you," Georgia says leaning into me.

"Pffssss," I hiss grabbing napkins. "No you won't. I made you famous."


"You busted me out," she snaps, again slapping the rolled up newspaper on the counter.

"Sit down. Let's split breakfast," and we order hash browns stuffed with broccoli, mushrooms and jack cheese.

"I don't care about that other shit," she says leaning into me again, "but you told everybody I'm the Phantom. It's a secret dammit."

Putting my arm around the large woman with leather skin, short cropped grey hair and clothes stained the colors of  the rainbow, I say, "Georgia everybody already knows you're the Phantom. I just put it in a book."

"They do not," she shoots back.

Rolling my eyes, I pick up Running with the Dolphins and sign it for her.

A book about Tybee Island, where I live and love, is impossible to write without including Georgia. Singlehandedly, she coached every kid on the island in sports, grew a Girl Scout Troup out of nothing and delivered the newspaper to every home with a Ninja precision from a car speeding down side lanes at 35 miles an hour.

The cops were scared of her.

And she was the Phantom. If anyone was sick, in need, hurting or had died, Georgia would "mysteriously" leave cards, toys, food, even medicine on the door stoop. The morning of a funeral she'd have The Breakfast Club prepare a full breakfast for the family and "secretly" take it to them.

She pretended she was tough and pissed off but hers was a heart of pure gold. Mother Teresa on steroids. An Angel with an attitude.

Sadly she died this week.

It's with joy there's a new story about her. Writing about the island a decade later, she's still too much part of the place, I had to include Georgia in Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts.

The last time I saw her, Robin again cornered me at The Breakfast Club asking I visit her mother. I drive to St. Joseph's Hospital, find her room, open the door and Georgia screams"WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE?"

"I understand you're dying," I answer strolling to her bed.

"BULLSHIT!" she screams.

It's just very hard to not love her.

That's the beginning of the story and it pleases me Georgia has another testimony to her incredible legacy.

A celebration of her life will take place on the ball field where she taught so many kids so many things. Though I'm certain I'll cry like a baby, I'm proud to officiate.

I love you Georgia.

Now you're really the Phantom that you always wanted to be.

Kick some Holy ass like I know you will.
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Changing Corners of the World

Strolling inside "The Mansion on Forsyth Park" the Maitre d spies suspiciously, her head moving in slow motion from the top of my long shoulder length hair all the way down to the Bob Marley flip flops Sarah bought me.

"Well hello," I announce confidently in my preacher's voice, an octave below my normal level. Smiling I confidently walk through the elegance to her.

"Lunch for two please. We'd like to sit outside on the private porch. And I have to pee. Where's the restroom?"

Startled, she gives me directions down the hall, grabs menus and crosses out a drawing of the table on the private portico.

Returning to the lobby my lunch mate blows in wearing a red Economist tee-shirt, dark blue shorts and flip flops. We embrace and are immediately led outside to the private dining balcony overlooking Savannah's largest square. After ordering drinks Chris instructs the waitress to give us half-an-hour before we order. She shuts the door and conversation erupts.

It's been four years since we've seen one another.

We were different people then, committed to changing a city, making it a shining light upon a hill. He made The Creative Coast while I cleaned the streets of social problems. We were both successful.

We'd see each other at crowded cocktail parties, formal banquets and Chamber of Commerce events. I hosted him for lunch once at The Starfish Café, a working restaurant and culinary arts training program for homeless people. We enjoyed each other but rarely had opportunities to grow a friendship. Admiration was from a distance.

Then, pretty simultaneously, we both left.

He moved across the world to Estonia, between Sweden and Finland, and I sailed across the Bull River Bridge to Tybee Island where everyday I travel the world while sitting on a Beloved Back Deck.

We kept up with each other and Chris still spends part of the year in Savannah. He's pretty persistent when he wants something and kept after me until I crossed the bridge again to catch up in person.

We spend three hours talking like the friends we always could have been.

We discuss the city we both love and gave so much to make better. Savannah took everything we had until so little was left, we moved on. It reverted to what it's always been, a city that loves its history and will keep you stuck in the past.

We mostly talked about now, changing other corners of the world, and new possibilities. He's ready to get back to Europe and I'm Jonesing for my island in the sea. We vow to remain connected.

"Hey," he says as we conclude, "one of my partners will be in town and I want to take him to Doc's Bar on Tybee. You want to join us for beers?"

"Yeah," I quickly answer ... because parts of the world really don't need changing.

Driving through the marsh with the top down, the sun blazing in a cloudless blue sky, radio blasting Bon Jovi screaming "Who says you can't go back?" make me smile.

"Who wants to?" I say out loud.

And I drive straight to the future.
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Enjoy ... or not.

We were one stressed out lot of students and we must have looked it. Dr. Davis had taken her position at the lectern launching into her lesson when she suddenly stops and stares. Of course we stare back uncertain of what's happening ... or we're collectively sleepwalking through her class ... it could have been either.

"You all look tired," she says. "It has been a grueling semester."

It was the beginning of spring and after a long, cold, dreary winter, the sun's shinning outside. It's still freezing but the sun's reminding us that the tired cold will eventually go away.

"I tell you what," the short, plumb, brilliant professor says, slamming her hand on the podium flashing an evil grin, "to hell with it today."

She immediately got our attention because it isn't something you often hear in Seminary.

"I want you to leave here now and go find something that makes you happy. Do whatever it is the rest of the day. You can tell me about it tomorrow."

And she throws her notes in her briefcase, shoots the "Professor" stare, and walks out of the room.

"Holy Shit!" we collectively say in a prayerful, Christian sort of way.

And we leave.

The following afternoon, Dr. Davis again takes her position behind the lectern. Smiling, she begins, "I truly hope everyone had a fantastic day yesterday. I prayed for you too. Now today, I want to hear all about it. Everyone is going to share what you did."

Looking at the first student in the first row to her right (Baptists don't do left), she says, "Jimmy you start."

Startled, Jimmy sits bolt upright in his seat. Tall, thin, with a helmet haircut, he looks lost in his flannel shirt. In a deep southern drawl (he helped put the "southern" in Southern Baptists), he reports, "Well mam ... the truth of the matter is ... ummm ... I drank hot apple cider, ate peanut butter crackers and ... ummm... watched "Rocky and Bullwinkle."

I've never seen a distinguished Professor lose it so quickly and laugh so hard.

The room is a spontaneously combustion of laughter.

"Love it!" Dr. Davis said. "I watched Andy and Barney."

The room howls.

One by one we confess. Some went to work, the Library or launched into catching up. Others took walks, naps or the chance to be with their baby. A few prayed in the Chapel. A couple of students had no idea what to do with unstructured time so they did nothing.

I drank beer listening to the new Jimmy Buffett album.

"Of course you did," Dr. Davis sighs.

It was one the most impressionable things that occurred during my Seminary career.

Ann Davis dispensed grace which is always unexpected and shocking.

"It's OK," is how it comes across. "You can go ... you're free ... liberated ... forgiven ...released ... in fact, go do anything you want ... and try to not screw it up."

All these years later, I end conversations by saying, "Enjoy!"

Because we just have this one life and we either will or we won't.

Today ... I hope you enjoy!

That's what I'm going to do.
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You're Rich too!

"I'm so broke," he says with a smile taking the seat across from me.

"I've got to pay the rent," he continues waving a white envelope in the air. "I'm only $100 shy."

His landlord strolls to the outside table where we're sitting. She's elderly with wild white hair and hugs me and then him.

Handing her the envelope he explains, "I still owe you $100 from last month and I'm a $100 shy for this month too but I'll make it up when I get well."

Flashing a Cheshire smile she nods, "It's OK. How're you feeling?"

He smiles and holds up his cane. "Better everyday."

She nods and looks at me. "How's your mother?"

A thousand years ago they'd worked together.

"She's great," I reply. "I was with her over the weekend."

"Good, you tell her I said hello," as she turns back to him, "and you take care of yourself."

She leaves us alone sitting at the plastic table under an umbrella with a book and my papers spread over it. A basket of shrimp arrives and I offer him some but he declines saying he has to leave.

Standing, he smiles as we embrace and he hobbles away.

I sigh as I sit back down.

"Blessed are the poor for everything God has will be yours," Jesus said and it makes me wonder.

No longer hungry, I push the basket away and take a sip of wine. The sun rains warmth down on me as I stick my bare feet in a chair looking at the deep blue sky. An ocean breeze blows cool from the north as I take my sunglasses off and rub my eyes trying not to think with my head but with my heart.

A couple enters the patio ordering Bloody Mary's and steamed oysters. Sad country music plays from speakers suspended overhead. The bartender sticks his head out and gives me a thumbs up and I nod to let him know I'm fine.

"Blessed are the poor ... MY ASS!" erupts from my heart. "Poor sucks!"

A flock of seagulls squawk circling overhead admiring the shrimp basket. The couple slurp oysters. All is calm. All is bright.

Then my head kicks in responding to my heart. "Blessed are the kind ... because they find kindness" and it makes me wonder about Karma.

A beer commercial comes on the television suspended overhead. The sound is turned off but I watch the "most interesting man in the world" do fabulous things before topping it off with a Dos Equis beer. I stare at it.

I know what it's like to be broke. I've been poor and been surrounded by others poorer than me. I've witnessed incredible acts of kindness and horrible indifference ... often by the most righteous of people. I've been abandoned and been found again too so I pause, tap my chest and blow a kiss to Sarah whose spending the day off island. I ponder these things and take another sip of wine.

A seagull flies down and steals a shrimp.

Grabbing my I-phone I update my status. "Sometimes God kidnaps your day. Like today. You know that Beer commercial with the most interesting man in the world. That's bullshit! It's me."

The bartender changes the radio station and "The Beatles" preach "Baby you're a rich man too."

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Summer's gone

The Government has shut down because the idiots we've elected are self serving ideologues.

It says as much about us as it does them.

Having said that ... the skies an incredible deep blue. A brilliant yellow sun blazes on a glassy ocean reflecting white light in every direction. My toes dig in the cool sand and a crisp breeze blows from the north which I don't care for yet it's a pleasant morning. Seagulls squawk Hymns of praise, sand crabs dart into holes and a pod of Dolphins smile as they glide by me. I smile back.

Summer's gone ...

I've read somewhere that your favorite season is when you were born.

It's true for me.

My birthday is July and I love summer with everything in me!

September is a mixed bag full of college football and airplanes crashing into buildings. October is a cozy fire in the Chiminea and ghosts wandering the streets. Thanksgiving bleeds into Christmas, Chanukah or Ramadan throwing us into the New Year which is cold and dark. In the dead of winter we go searching for our hearts again.

My dear friend Mitch Wesley is a Celtic at heart and believes things take root in the cold hard ground. Growth begins in the dark times. Light burst out of emptiness, stones are rolled away and new lives are embraced. It starts when we embrace the darkness and you go from there.

I like the idea but hate the experience.

Give me miles and miles of clear blue skies, rum on ice, lazy days in a Paradise of white sand, aqua water and laundry neatly folded and put away. Days linger into warm nights with blazing stars and a moon dancing across the sky. Fireflies, Dragonflies and Butterflies are Angels spreading happiness and hope.

The Government has initiated the beginning of the dark period ... again. The Church will follow suit. Those who haven't taken sides yet will. Wars and the rumor of wars will increase. Hell will come on earth as it is in ... Hell. Heaven's just a wish for a warm heart on Valentine's Day when the world is cold and bitter.

 But ... today the sun shines down on me, the house is full of love as I work on things I love in bare feet. Dark things are happening but I refuse to be part of them. I love the Sun dancing on green leaves and casting white diamonds on the Sea. I love Home, the cicada songs, squirrels playing in Palm Trees and Pelicans diving into the ocean.

These are the things I will dwell on today.

The Government, the Church and the Powers that be can dwell on other things because I'm not going to be part of that world.

I'm staying where it's always summer.

Monday Morning Staff Meeting

The managing partner has a meeting at the other end of Corporate Headquarters and isn't at the staff meeting I've just called to order.

Sitting at the conference table under the umbrella on the Beloved Back deck, I'm taking a moment to collect my thoughts.

To my left is Winston, the little gay dog, in a pink sweater vest that reads, "Closet? What closet?" Wearing sunglasses, he's hyper and wants me to get started because he's got other things to do.

Beside him Goddess is passed out and snores in the chair with empty bags of Doritos littered on the floor. She was here when I arrived, finishing her hourly medical treatment of medicinal marijuana for the glaucoma she swears she has.

At the opposite end of the table is My Guardian Angel who looks terrible, taking long drags off her cigarette followed by sips from a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon. She seems distracted and lost in thought. Her white robe is dirty, the blue stole wrinkled, her long black hair hasn't been washed in weeks and hangs limp in her face as she blows halos in the air.

The Cat Lady wears her dingy yellow bath robe with a blue towel wrapped around her head. She looks like Marge Simpson on meth and cat hair falls every time she moves. Smelling like kitty litter, she's looking into her yard smiling at the thirty or so feral cats wandering everywhere. Her buff boyfriend of the week is shaving his chest and legs and keeps winking at her.

On my immediate right is Gypsy, the gender confused cat, obviously wondering why he's here at all. Gypsy normally shies away from most everything because of his paranoid personality disorder. He and Winston, the little gay dog, don't get along and both constantly vie for the managing partner's attention.

"All right," I say, "let's get started."

"Screw you!" my Guardian Angel snaps.

Gypsy darts from the table and runs downstairs causing the Cat Lady to jump up and run after him leaving a blanket of cat hair raining down on us.

Winston, the little gay dog, takes this as a good sign and flashes his evil genius smile while fumbling for nail polish in his man purse.

Startled, Goddess wakes up, yawns and says, "People! Please! Why can't we all just get along?"

"Is there a problem?" I ask.

My Guardian Angel angrily flips me the finger.

"Is everything alright out there?" the managing partner yells from the other end of Corporate Headquarters.

"Yes Dear," I lovingly answer.

The Cat Lady is chasing Gypsy screeching, "HERE KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!"

Goddess rolls another Dobie and Winston, the little gay dog, paints his nails orange ... because the little Son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally) knows I hate that color. My Guardian Angel throws another empty beer can in the back yard and another magically appears from nowhere.

I sigh heavily.

It's a Monday," I mutter under my breath.

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Surviving hammers and nails

This is a random progression of thought.

Crosby, Stills & Nash singing "4 + 20" which make me wonder what I was doing 24 years ago.

Not especially good at math, I hit the calculator App on the I-phone and subtract 24 from 57 and it's 33.

That's Jesus age was when he was crucified.


OUCH!

Since that first one, his ass has been nailed to a cross virtually every day somewhere but especially in church and Congress.

On the other hand, I've only been crucified a few times. None were pleasant and I wouldn't recommend it to anybody though it is great when you survive.

The scars don't matter.

The life does.

Sitting here at 57, wishing like hell I could be 33 again because my beautiful wife Sarah would be three years older than me and I would like that.

It would buy us more time.

But it is what it is.

It took her one crucifixion and me two to get us to where we are.

I wouldn't trade it.

I'm pretty sure she wouldn't either though crucifixions make you not take much anything for granted when you survive.

It's been a tough week full of good days and bad days and going half mad days. Lots of people with hammers and nails have been walking around ... mostly corporate leaders, politicians, FOX News and clergy ...  but so far we've skirted them.

We're still alive and kicking!

Hell! We're flat out enjoying!

You are too if you're on the right side of the dirt!

So take the moment and enjoy the hell out of yourself!

You've survived your share of crucifixions just like I have.

It's best to focus on what's next because what was ... hurt like hell.

It's a time of celebration!

I'm starting by proving to Sarah that resurrection has many meanings ... many times ... many ways ... and is repetitive.

Life is good!

Go do good things!

Especially for yourself!
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Looking Back Gets You Nowhere

"Tried to go back as if I could," sings the Major Prophet James Taylor, "all spec house and plywood ... tore up ... tore up good."

And that's the truth about the past.

It's not what it was.

We haven't learned the lesson of Lot's wife in (Genesis 19), who looking back lost everything she has and everything that could have been. God was giving her a chance to start again and she didn't take it ... because she looked backwards instead of where she was going."

Too many lives are lost because too many spend too much time looking over their shoulder.

They miss old homes, the dead, good times and things that might have been. It's like a never ending old movie that replays endlessly in our head.

The trick is to keep growing to become more the person God created us to be. So we change. God likes creation and is always tinkering trying to make things better, meaning you and me.

If we aren't embracing different things, growing into them, being reborn and reincarnated, then we're missing the present, spending our time looking backwards which never gets you anywhere.

The fact is we hold on to the past because we're too damn scared of the present. We're either where we want to be or we're not. If we're not it's just agony!

If we are, then life is sweet!

The bitch about enjoying now is forgetting then. They're nothing but good or bad stories to tell. You may laugh or cry when you tell them but they're just old stories.

They were then.

They aren't now.

Too many people still think I'm a homeless guru, a social problem genius and the Go-to guy when life's curve ball hits someone smack in the face. They still think I have something to do with Union Mission, hospitals or politics. Hardly a day goes by that someone doesn't communicate with me as if I were still that person.

I'm not anymore. My life has moved on.

It's true that I have talents in those other areas, but today I'm a writer, a teacher and a coach. Sarah and I partners in this work. It's all we think about. It consumes us and there's no time left for Union Mission or hospitals or politics. And we love it!

Because I'm damn certain the life I have left is taking me to new heights, better things and excellent adventures.  I'm not looking backwards and risk my life settling to be little more than a pillar of salt blowing away.
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Great Sluts!

The conversation at our house currently centers on great sluts of history.

"What?" you ask, spewing whatever it is you've just taken a sip.

It began over the choice of a Halloween costume.

Have you seen them recently?

When I was a kid, I draped a bath towel around my neck and told everybody I was Superman. This resulted in many compliments and tons of candy.

Once I found an old wig and a trench coat and transformed myself into "Tiny Tim" ... no one complimented me and I didn't get much candy.

It's not that way anymore!

The right Halloween costume is serious stuff and planning begins weeks in advance.

Last year, Sarah was Cat Woman in a tight fitting silky skin suit and a mask. Let you tell you ... the moaning that took place later that night downed out everything the Cat Lady and her feral collection next door has to offer.

Sarah also got shitloads of candy, twenty-two business cards, phone numbers written on paper napkins all thrown into bag made soggy by salivating fathers ... and mothers ... tossing things her way.

Her girls dressed accordingly.

Planning has begun for this year and one of the initial comments made was, "That costume will make you look like a slut. Let your grandmother make you one ... out of wool."

Of course this made me laugh like crazy and wanting to be a good influence, I've offered sound advice.

"Look," I said to the crushed child, "history is full of great sluts. There wouldn't be a Bible if it weren't for the sluts in them. Just tell them you're going to be a Biblical slut. Bathsheba for example. Or Rachel ... if you want to step out of the Bible into other religions you can start with Aphrodite ... if you want great historical sluts you can be Catherine the Great, Coco Channel, Madonna or Bill Clinton."

She stopped crying beginning to understand for the first time the preponderance of great sluts who've made contributions to history.

The great theologian Larkin Rossitter, at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel when I was employed as the "Professional Christian" explained ... "Look everyone is a whore. The question is whose you're pimp?"

We thought this a brilliant analogy ... which could be part of the reason I became an "Unprofessional Christian."

Regardless, I think it's harder to be a kid these days than when I was young. Today they control the universe through the Internet by the age of five. By 11 or 12, they're navigating the sexual landscape. By the time they're 14, they have defined their identities for life.

I'd rather work through these challenges with them than define the rules. The truth of the matter is we make our own rules anyway. They're made by dictatorial rule or in partnership. I prefer the latter.

When she got out of the car this morning, after spying her friends and immediately screaming, "HEY! Stop the car now! Those are my friends. Please, Please, Please, Please, Please ..."

So I did and she's immediately surrounded by love at that age ... boys and girls displaying affection for one another, obviously looking forward to the day ... the weekend ... Halloween.

"HEY!" I yell and she turns to look with an Angelic beautiful face, "Have slutty weekend."

And she laughs and dives into her friends which is what matters most to any kid.

Driving home, I reflect on last night when she, Sarah and I sat in the living room, flipping channels and talking. Making plans as partners do.
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An eccentric life dotted with eclectic characters pop from the pages of award winning author Micheal Elliott’s newest book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. His musings immerse you in a world of headshaking wonder, gut wrenching laughter, heart touched tenderness and empathetic tears.

Order your copy now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

Good Karma beats the bad stuff

I believe in Karma.

What goes around comes around. We reap what we sow. Violence begets violence but doing good things make things good.

In my life, I've done lot's of good and sure enough lot's of good came my way.

I've also did some bad things and have had my fair share of bad happen that I never want to experience again.

For a while, things got completely out of whack! Apparently, I'd used up all the good I've done because they ran out. Bad things took over.  Lots of bad things!

Every morning I'd get up and try my best to be helpful to the world ... even if it just meant petting Goddess my dog. Yet ... bad things kept right on happening, piling up on me and days got worse.

I couldn't figure it out and asked God, "Hey! What did I do? This isn't right!"

God never said anything back.

Then ... I don't know if God finally took pity on me or if good Karma finally decides to come back ... things started getting better. A small group of good friends replaced thousands of shitty ones. I began to feel better. Sarah came home. A rich life that crashed and burned leaving me empty was suddenly full again!

It's a whole new world!

It's like being reincarnated or born-again or coming back the dead.

Everything's not perfect but ... it's mostly perfect and I now ask myself, "How in the hell did I do that other stuff for so long? That was crazy! This is fuckin' A!"

Imagine my surprise yesterday as I left lunch with good friends at "Spanky's South Side" only to run smack into two of the really bad Karma people in my life. One had just been through an orchestrated dismissal ... meaning she was fired ... while the other continues to slither his way through other people's misfortunes.

"I left something for Sarah," she said which immediately pissed me off."

"Congratulations on your transition," I reply filling with anger.

The snake tries to make lite of it. They're down and I'm up. It's time for revenge and it's starting to taste sweet when a loving arm comes from nowhere and elopes my neck just as I'm catching fire.

"C'mon Pal," my friend Ryan says in his Savannah Irish brogue, "you ain't got time for bullshit!" and he pulls me away from bad Karma.

Outside, its stopped raining and the sun's peaking through clouds though Ryan still has his arm around my neck. Then he burst out laughing which makes me giggle. Slapping me on the back he strolls away and I look back inside at the bad Karma just sitting there.

What goes around has indeed come around.

It almost sucked me in again but ... there are just too many good things in my life right now.

If you're unfortunate enough to be on the down hill ride of the Karma roller coaster, I want you to get ready.

Keep being kind to yourself as best you can. Hold on to the good friends and let the shallow ones go.  Embrace reincarnation and be born again. Fuck the past!

Enjoy the ride back to the top.

Wave when you see me there.
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Hope

"I'm sorry sir," she says as we enter the Club House at "The Landings", "but I can't let you in."

The elderly man and I stop in front of the maître d, smartly dressed in black slacks, vest, starched white shirt with a beatific smile.

"You're wearing a tee shirt," she explains.

Of course I'm wearing a tee shirt. When shirts are necessary, tee shirts are my first option. Today's choice is a formal black cotton with gold embroidery proclaiming to the world that Sarah and I along with Jan and Dick had dined at "Palm Coast" in St. Martin.

My 94 year old companion leans on his cane and waits. We're close friends. He's a mentor and in his twilight years, when most of his friends have died or no longer bother with him, I make the hour long drive every month or so to spend time with him. I owe the man a lot.

"Well then," I say in exaggerated fashion, "what can we do about this travesty?"

Smiling, the maître d tells me she has a collared shirt that I can wear above my kaki shorts with tons of pockets and flip flops. The Club House at "The Landings" is serious about dress codes!

She hands me a God-awful orange, gold-fish colored collared shirt which I slip on in front of everyone already seated in their collared shirts. All stare at me, forks suspended in air, tea glass in hands and the more refined taking quick gulps of white wine.

"Hey!" I say to the maître d, "I look damn good in this God-awful shirt! Will you take our picture?"

Thrusting my I-phone into her hand, she giggles as she snaps our photo. Then we're allowed in the Club.

Earlier in life Ben would have been embarrassed but he no longer cares. Every Club member watches as we're led to a window side table. After we're seated, he laughs.

"You've always love to make an entrance," he says tucking his cloth napkin into his collared shirt.

"I think it's a great tee shirt," I explain. "It matches my shorts and flip flops."

As he giggles, we can't help but notice that every single employee of the place, loves us! We're given the best service by multiple waitresses. They share laughter with us. As soon as we take a sip, our glasses are refilled while the collared people wait for more wine.

We talk as people stare, two old friends who have done a lot together, spend a while looking back. Ben repeats himself several times and I'm not used to it. I don't like thinking about when he's gone.

"What are you doing now?" he suddenly asks and I explain that we sell hope in desperate times.

Greying eyes suddenly burst into the crystal clear baby blues I've always known him to have. Half-an-hour rushes by as we have an intellectual conversation about hope. Lots of people are selling it. Everybody desperately needs it. Most of what's sold isn't meeting people's needs. He questions, challenges, debates and ... is inexplicably young and full of venom and vigor.

At 1:45 I hold up my hand and say "Betty told me to have you back before 1:30. You have a doctors appointment at 2. I think we're in trouble again."

"Screw her!" he yells ... obviously ready for more debate and the entire room is as silent as a church as I burst into laughter.

The next moment takes a thousand years.

Greyness returns to his eyes. He asks if he's paid the bill. His back hunches forward. He searches for his cane. He struggles to stand. He doesn't want to leave.

I drive him home and when we arrive Betty is obviously not pleased.

"You're late," she says with her hands on her hips.

"We were picking up girls," I explain.

Without missing a beat she counters, "I'm the only girl for him. Ben, get in the car."

He does as he's told but as I turn, he winks at me with blazing blue eyes.

And I cry all the way home.
_________________________________________

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Winston, the little gay dog, and SpongeBob Squarepants

Winston, the little gay dog, is upset the "SpongeBob SquarePants" movie is being filmed on Tybee Island.

He prances to the Beloved Back Deck wearing a rainbow sweater that reads, "Don't be a square! Round fit holes better", looks at me in disgust, snarls at Goddess whose passed out at my feet and growls at Gypsy, the gender confused cat.

"HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY!" the Cat Lady unfortunately screeches further infuriating Winston, the little gay dog, and he barks in his high pitch voice and I swear it sounds like "BITCH!"

The Cat Lady, wearing her dirty bathrobe and blue towel wrapped around her head, looks like Marge Simpson on Meth, stops sending a flurry of kitty hair falling into her yard like rain.

"Mike," she screeches, "did your dog just call me a bitch."

Suddenly interested, Goddess raises her head to see how I answer.

I shrug my shoulders.

Sometimes there's nothing to say.

Winston, the little gay dog, hikes his leg and pees in her direction.

The Cat Lady returns the gesture in kind.

Goddess, Gypsy and I all gag at the same time.

The problem is Winston, the little gay dog, feels SpongeBob SquarePants is selling out; fame has gone to the cartoon character's head and he's forsaking his natural, God-made self of being gay for continued movie success.

Last night Sarah came outside crying asking if I'd talk to Winston, the little gay dog. I never tell her no (she's from the North you know?) so I meander into our bedroom where he has a lava lamp, orange shag carpet, big screen television and mini-fridge full of frozen Daiquiris under our bed and ask him what's up.

He offers me a Daiquiri and I put down my glass of wine to take it.

"What's up buttercup?" I ask.

Sighing while blinking back tears, Winston, the little gay dog, explains, "SpongeBob SquarePants is gay."

"What?" I exclaim not caring at all.

"His best friend is a Patrick, a pink starfish, and his neighbor Squidward takes bubble baths, listens to classical music, and talks like Paul Lynde! SpongeBob and Patrick hold hands when The Adventures of Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy is on television."

"I LOVE PAUL LYNDE!" I shout.

Winston, the little gay dog, nods understandingly.

"Who didn't love Paul Lynde?" he agrees.

So Winston, the little gay dog, is staging a protest against the whole SpongeBob SquarePants movie being filmed on island.

"It's taken us too long to gain acceptance," the little gay dog explains changing into his nightgown and turning off the lava lamp.

Ours is a blended family.

But I didn't have the heart ... or the guts ... to tell Winston, the little gay dog, that his sisters ... all three of Sarah's girls ... are extras in the movie.

Sometimes there's nothing to say.

Free from Fear

"Even the worst among us are precious. Even the most precious among us bear crosses."

Says Frederick Buechner and I certainly believe it true.

Everyone carries crosses, bears burdens, deals in doubt, struggles with security and you are weighted down by worries.

And everyone keeps them secret.

Living in fear rather than admit our realities, we make things worse, keeping them quiet, holding them dear, sharing them only with God in dark nights of the soul.

Making it worse, God keeps quiet.

The most religious and holy among us hide these things behind their faith.

Corporate leaders hide in towers of steel, wood and glass making themselves impossible to see behind the façades of power. We conclude they are different somehow, smarter, luckier, braver or just blessed.

Politicians promise they're different, having nothing to hide though everyone knows they're lying but we choose to believe the lies.

The rest of us keep our nose to the grindstone, our mouths shut, hearts closed and eyes focused on things we believe will bring relief ... the one true love, the promotion, the big sale, the affirmation of someone else or the winning lottery ticket.

We believe in Heaven because we've already touched Hell and it never goes away.

Not wanting anyone else to know, we keep it to ourselves.

What's funny is most of us have lots of good going on too. Living where we want or at least in comfort, watching healthy children grow, there's groceries in the Fridge and gas in the car. We have friends even though some are bad ones. Another day has been given to us.

These things aren't enough though.

What we really want is to be free from fear.

But fear seems to trump most days.

It's been said the more you love yourself, the less effect fear has on you.

I believe this too.

Today when the cross digs keep into your back, the burdens make you stumble, insecurity washes over you like a flood and worries throw wet blankets over your head and heart ... stop for a second and hug yourself.

If you're lucky enough, hug someone else too.

"There is no fear in love," says the Apostle John, "because love drives out fear because fear has to do with punishment. Those who fear aren't living in love."

That's my plan for today.

What's yours?

___________________________________

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The Excuse

A father and son stand in a green field tossing a football back and forth as they talk.

It's one of those things you see in back yards throughout the country, in parks and empty lots or on a college campus on game day.

Close enough to talk, there's enough distance between them for the ball to zip crisply through the air. Laughter erupts should one drop a pass. They are playing an old game with each other.


There is an easiness between them as they've played together for years and have long mastered the other's deceptions. Their conversation is about everything and nothing. Obviously they're simply having a good time hanging out.

The father is 57.

His son is 35.

Had the girls been with them, a 33 and a 25 year old would be throwing the ball with the same crisp zip and with banter just as easy and laid back.

Friends arrive so the boy and his Dad put the ball down, greeting them warmly and offering morning cocktails. The empty table they'd set up under the tent quickly fills with food and overflows. Handshakes lead to laughter and stories both true and false.

Both the father and the son call their wives to report the success of the morning gathering and implore them to join in next time.

All too soon, the friends say their goodbyes and help the boy and his Dad pack everything away. The air fills with mist and they can smell the coming rain. The two don't care as they make their way to the excuse for being together again.

Time marches on and things change. Sons and daughters start families of their own and move to distant places. Job and obligations get in the way of family traditions which slowly slip away. New things will take their place.

But not quite yet.

For a little while at least I'm a proud young Father again playing ball with the little boy I love so deeply.
______________________

An eccentric life dotted with eclectic characters pop from the pages of award winning author Micheal Elliott’s newest book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. His musings immerse you in a world of headshaking wonder, gut wrenching laughter, heart touched tenderness and empathetic tears.
______________________
Never letting the truth stand in the way of a good story, Elliott’s ninth book takes you on a wild journey of “Wow! Really! I can’t believe that!” every day moments. Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts exemplifies his gift of capturing common thoughts and painting them perfectly into words.

______________________
Order yours now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

The Drive

It's been a while since I drove to Athens alone but it's a pleasant sunny day and the Braves game's on the radio as I sail up Interstate 16 to Highway 441. It's a four hour drive from Tybee Island to College Station Road where my son Jeremy lives so there's lot of time to think.

I miss Skip Carey. The former Braves announcer was caustic and funny. My all time favorite line of his happened as the team was getting pounded and losing badly. "This is as much fun as writing the last alimony check," he explained.

My phone starts buzzing and people inform me of changes occurring where I used to work. In this age of instant communication, I read a newspaper link on my phone. I had an incredible 23 year run and we were able to accomplish things no one else in the nation had before or since. But even the good things come to an end and it was time to do other things.

Radio searches remain as maddening as ever as I try to keep the game on. I'd forgotten how many preachers have their own radio shows spewing condemnation and hell! And I have no appreciation of the number of people who obviously like country music. Luckily, the Braves broadcast blankets the state.

Sarah and I chat on and off during the drive. I remember when talking to my love wouldn't have been possible and the drive would have been simply boring. Hell, I remember when cell phone coverage worked mostly in Savannah and in parts of Athens but nowhere in between. Sarah and I have no problems talking to one another during the drive.

The Dublin bypass is one piece of highway that the Georgia Department of Transportation got right! Unfortunately it is completely offset by the cluster f#$k that is Milledgeville, a large strip mall with a small college. It is traffic at its worse.

The little country towns along the way appear the same as when my Dad drove us to Athens. A lot has changed during the years ... Dad's gone, lots of friends have gone on with him, places we used to go are no more ... but the zipping through the little country towns remain charming ... so long as I don't have to live in any of them.

The Braves rally for 5 runs in the 9th inning just as I reach Athens. Another case of perfect timing!

Athens is a beautiful place and Jeremy is living here for the second time completing his Ph.D. which is great! Making it better is his place is now Sarah and my crash pad! He lives on campus so we get the feel we're back in school again where "all you want to do is learn how to score!"

It was a pleasant enough drive. I wish Sarah was with me but I'm doing the return trip today and we'll reunite on the scoring front tonight.

In the meantime Jeremy and I are having a good time, there's a game to see, and the Braves will be on the radio just as I'm starting the drive home.

The time that's left

"Joanne!' exclaims Johnny O after I flip the page to the Obituaries.

The black and white photo is of a young, blond pretty woman. She loved animals, was divorced, had no children and was adorned by many. Remembrances should go to the Humane Society. A funeral mass will be followed by a private graveside service.

Johnny stairs off in space.

I turn the page.

Half an hour later, Sarah and I stand on the Beloved Back Deck as the sun rises. The sliding glass doors to the kitchen are open and Laurel and Cassidy accuse the other of touching their cinnamon toast. The cicadae are loud, birds sing solos and Sarah is ravenously beautiful with long hair draping her shoulders, tight cut off blue jeans and a tank top.

I fight to concentrate on hearing what she's saying.

"I don't know how much time we have left," she says with hands stuffed in her pockets. "I hope it's forty years. I just know I want to make the most of whatever it is."

The other day she posted something Steve Jobs said. “No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life’s change agent ..."

While I know that death certainly has a way of sneaking up on you, it's not something I think about.

Suddenly though, it confronts me.

It's taken two lifetimes for she and I to get together and there's a time limit!

She's lots younger than me and in Vegas the odds are I'm going out first.

You never know because anything and everything in life is unpredictable but the betting people are laying money down on me dying first with her coming in a distant second.

It's sobering start to an absolutely beautiful day standing in front of a stunningly beautiful woman who loves me and wants to make the most out of whatever time we have left.

The older one grows, the more time is measured in immediate increments ... months instead of years ... days rather than hours ... now and not next!

I confess that I'm an utter failure in growing up!

"I believe if I refuse to grow old, I can stay young till I die," sings Granny in the marvelous musical advice she gives to her grandson Pippin."

I'm with Granny on this.

But, I'm smart enough to hedge my bets.

When Sarah takes the girls to school I jump on the phone and rearrange the weekend plans so that we can most make the most out of our time.

Then I do something I was supposed to have done yesterday but didn't, something Sarah started telling me I should do a week ago but life kept getting in the way.

I call a friend in his mid 90s who is winding down. Spending his days sleeping more, it takes several times before we actually talk. Thrilled to hear me, we make plans for lunch. No longer able to drive, I will pick him up 45 minutes away which is a pain-in-the-ass but I owe him a lot so I make the time.

Now I'm waiting on Sarah to get back home. She's at a meeting because the girls want to be in the "Squarepants Spongebob" movie being filmed here. Only on Tybee Island can a cartoon be filmed with real scenery. Go figure.

Sitting here, I count the seconds like an old man until the time that I have left is filled again.

Whatever time is left, I want it to be full!
___________________________________________________

October 2013 ♦ Embracing peace in your life! “You are one of the most tormented people I know,” she said. I was at the height of success, living at the beach, working in a beautiful city, having everything I thought I wanted…but she was right. I was miserable and didn’t know why. Then I decided to take a journey inside of myself. Life is too short and I deserved to happily celebrate my life. As much as I wanted to lay the blame at the feet of others, it was my own fault and I needed to know why I prevented myself from enjoying my life. I needed to find peace. And I did. You can find yours.
Sign-up today to participate in the October class by clicking www.meellc.com/onlineclasses

My life as a Writer

Sitting in silence.

I do it a lot.

Of course I do it in my own unique way.

There is always music.

Every day, after kisses, coffee, driving Maddie and her friend Noah to school, returning home to watch Sarah prepare Laurel and Cassidy for their own trip there ... Goddess, Winston, the little gay dog, and I make our way to the Beloved Back Deck where I fire up the computer at the table under the umbrella.

The first thing I do is find the right music.

"I haven't got a song to fit me mood," John Lennon thoughtfully said before launching into "GOD," one of his masterpieces.

Once I find it, right now it's "Deep Cuts" from albums recorded in the 1960s, I take my shirt off and get to work.

The normal routine is to update my Facebook status with a song title, Tweet, check LinkedIn, read the headlines from "The Onion" which make me laugh then "The Atlanta Journal Constitution" which makes me sad and then ... Sarah's rushing Laurel and Cass to the car so I get up to kiss her again, remind her to be "Be safe," tell the girls bye though they don't care because they're in too big a hurry to get this day started.

Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, wait on my return. They don't bother getting up to say bye to the girls.

Sitting back down, I start "losing laundry" ... meaning more clothes come off.

Resuming my seat ... I sit ... and wait... in silence ... with Jethro Tull's excellent song "Up to Me" blaring away from the computer which I intend to write on ... while I watch the sun rise ... listen to the Cicada sing ... feel the ocean breeze ... watch the leaves dance ... hear the world come to life with the rest of us.

Then something happens.

Inspiration hits. God says something. My fingers take on lives of their own. Whacking away at the keyboard, I lose everything happening around me ... there's no music ... no Cicada ... no ocean breeze ... no dancing leaves ...

I am one with the words.

I whisper them as they come to life ... making them prayer ... transcending everything around me.

An hour or lifetime later, Sarah returns home and I jump up to get another kiss to two ... or more.

Most of the time she's ready to get to work at the quiet end of the house.

She doesn't like my music playing while she works.

Unless she has something to say. Then she says it until she's satisfied I've heard it regardless of whether or not I heard it the first time.

When this happens, I've learned it's best to keep quiet.

Even if I say something like, "Oh, I know Babes," ... that just convinces her I haven't heard a damn thing she's said so she says it all over again ... and again.

When she finishes, she gets to work in silence and I may not see or hear from her again for hours.

I return to the Back Deck where Goddess and Winston, the little gay dog, are waiting and grooving to Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young confess they "Almost Cut my hair. It happened just the other day."

But now the words are waiting ... drawing me back into another world ... where it is silent ... and Godly things spark from my fingertips as I lapse into prayer.

That is my day.

Every day.

Jonah's Whale

The Book of Jonah
Chapter 1
Micheal Elliott Revised Standard Version

1. God said, "Hey Jonah!"

2. "Go to the city. It's a wicked place with bars, strip clubs, football, American Legions, prayer meetings, live music and political parties. Preach against that stuff."

3. Liking virtually everything on the list except the Democrats, Jonah made a run for it. No way in Hell he was going to say bad things about them, so he booked a Carnival Cruise heading for Tarshish, an exotic island filled with bars, strip clubs, football, an American Legion, live music, one Democratic party, two Republican parties, a big Tea Party and a lot of people who could care less about any of them.

4. Then the Lord saith, "Oh Hell No You Don't! Watch this!" And a great wind suddenly blew a violent storm against the Carnival Cruise Ship so that it lost power and there was no air conditioning, flushing toilets, big screen televisions, or working slot machines.

5. All the sailors said, "Oh God" as they puked into the sea ... to lighten the load but ... Jonah was passed out in his cheap cabin with no windows on the bottom deck.

6. The Norwegian Captain was pissed after the crew did the deck drill preparing everybody for the Lifeboats and only one person was missing ... JONAH. He marches down to the bottom deck, shakes the passed out Prophet demanding to know, "How can you sleep through this? Get up! Say something! Anything! God! Whatever! We don't want to die!"

7. Meanwhile the Sailors had figured out you could play roulette, Blackjack and Poker without electricity so they were having at it. But they really wanted to play the slots! "Who in the hell's responsible?" they demanded over warm beer and someone said, "Jonah."

8. And they saith, "Is he Republican, Democrat, Tea Party or a Damn Liberal? He is black or white, gay or straight, man or woman, have work or no? Where's he live? Does he work for the Government? Is he a real American ... white and all? How do you spell his last name?"

9. Now awake, Jonah answers the Captain and the Sailors, "I'm Jewish. I don't have a foreskin. Wanna see?"

10. This scared the living hell out of everybody on the broken down Carnival Cruise Ship and when he whipped it out, they screamed in glee, "What have you done?"

11. The surf was really up now and the Carnival Cruise Ship was rolling from side to side like Jonah's exposed anatomy. "STOP IT!" they yelled, "That thing is whipping the seas up even higher."

12. "Aw, it's my fault," Jonah said pulling up his pants. "Throw me overboard."

13. Instead, the men ... it was a gay Cruise ... wanted to keep Jonah and his foreskin-less self so they tried to row back to shore but they weren't looking at where they were rowing because they were looking at Jonah instead and the ship  got further and further from the land.

14. "Oh God!" they screamed. "We don't want to die and we certainly don't want to throw this fine looking specimen overboard. But you're God and we don't want to be held responsible. What do we do?"

15. God didn't say anything so they grabbed Jonah and threw him overboard.Immediately the sea was calm. "Oh God," they exclaimed on the gay Carnival Cruise ship without electricity, "that's one fine flat ocean."

16. And the men sacrificed all of their clothing and called upon the name of the Lord often.

17. But Jonah was swallowed whole ... and it took three days.

If you don't believe it, read it.

In one of the 16 versions of the King James Version of the Bible.
__________________________________________________________

An eccentric life dotted with eclectic characters pop from the pages of award winning author Micheal Elliott’s newest book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. His musings immerse you in a world of headshaking wonder, gut wrenching laughter, heart touched tenderness and empathetic tears.

Never letting the truth stand in the way of a good story, Elliott’s ninth book takes you on a wild journey of “Wow! Really! I can’t believe that!” every day moments. Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts exemplifies his gift of capturing common thoughts and painting them perfectly into words.

Order yours now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

The End of the Rainbow

What happens when you get to the end of the rainbow?

I seem to find myself here.

A few short years ago, life was lived at a crazy, fast pace, struggle to get everything done on an ever growing list. Every answer begat two questions. Each accomplishment exposed new needs. Satisfaction was measured in seconds. Pressure weighed heavy on my shoulders. Sadness grew in my heart. Somehow, as I was changing the world it was passing me by ... I was just busy to notice.

Now, a cool breeze blows from the north on a warm island day. A canopy of purple clouds hang low over the ocean though directly over my head is deep blue sky with white puffy clouds dancing across it. Sitting here, contemplating the day, I wait on it to unveil itself to me rather than forcing my will on what should come.

A rainbow suddenly appears though there is no hint of rain.

It hangs above Fran's "Thousand Shades of Green" as I stare at it asking unanswerable questions.

"How in the hell is that happening?"

"Is this a sign?"

"God? You talking to me?"

A squirrel darts across the lines in the trees and the sun rises above the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. The rainbow disappears just as suddenly as it appeared.

Not knowing what to make of it, and since I'm sitting in front of my open laptop, I Google "Rainbow Facts" and read the following ...

"The idea that a pot of gold can be found at the rainbow's end originated somewhere in old Europe. In Silesia, an obscure area of eastern Europe it was said that the Angels put the gold there and that only a nude man could obtain the prize."

Quickly jumping up, I drop the black running shorts I'm wearing and wait in anticipation.

 Nothing happens.

"Shit," I mutter and sit back down.

The sun disappears behind a white puffy cloud as the breeze picks up. A branch falls from the Palm Tree. The squirrel disappears as the choir of cicada burst into Hymns. Swiveling the chair, I prop my feet on the railing of the Beloved Back Deck wondering what all of this means.

The computer burbs beeps of messages, notifications and reminders in stark contrast to life at the rainbow's end.

Then the door opens and Sarah walks in.
______________________________________________

October 2013 ♦ Embracing peace in your life! “You are one of the most tormented people I know,” she said. I was at the height of success, living at the beach, working in a beautiful city, having everything I thought I wanted…but she was right. I was miserable and didn’t know why. Then I decided to take a journey inside of myself. Life is too short and I deserved to happily celebrate my life. As much as I wanted to lay the blame at the feet of others, it was my own fault and I needed to know why I prevented myself from enjoying my life. I needed to find peace. And I did. You can find yours.

Sign-up today to participate in the October class by clicking http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/indepthclasses/

Another Tybee Night

Parties happen spontaneously on this island.

You just never k

now when another good one is going to break out.

Some are planned though they never adhere to one while others explode out of nowhere.

I believe it's a combination of hot weather, salt air, abundance of natural and unnatural lubricants, good live music, ocean breezes, Subtropical vegetation and the fact that less clothing is necessary on Tybee Island.

Throw in the half of the people here are running to something, while the other half run away from something and ... well you just never know whose bumping into who.

Plus nobody's really in charge.

The Clergy and the elected officials pretend they are and the rest of us allow them to believe such foolishness. They condemn half of us to hell or pass yet another ordinance which just makes the rest of us elect another bunch to overturn them whenever the next election rolls around.

The current members of "The Elected" think they're smart because they now stagger their terms so we only throw one-half at a time.

The member of the Populace have come up with our counter move and boy will they be surprised when we pull the trigger! (I really can't say anything at this point other than a dump truck full of white rock, "Clothing Optional" bumper stickers, alcohol, and Jesus are all involved.)

The current configuration of Clergy on the island believe they have it all under control. The rest of us aren't saying anything because it's nice to see them believe in something.

Last night at Julia-Just-Julia's, not to be confused with Julia Pearce who cannot sing nor does she have any rhythm, there was a party.

On a gorgeous summer night next to the marsh with stars dancing overhead we sang, danced, talked, and ... played with a snake. Julia-Just-Julia really knows how to throw a party!

It was for her "Mum" who came from England and her daughter who came from somewhere else.

No one knew about the snake.

Sarah and I had a blast.

I'm worried about her though.

She's still in bed ... and I have no idea where the snake is.

________________________________________________

An eccentric life dotted with eclectic characters pop from the pages of award winning author Micheal Elliott’s newest book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. His musings immerse you in a world of headshaking wonder, gut wrenching laughter, heart touched tenderness and empathetic tears.

Never letting the truth stand in the way of a good story, Elliott’s ninth book takes you on a wild journey of “Wow! Really! I can’t believe that!” every day moments. Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts exemplifies his gift of capturing common thoughts and painting them perfectly into words.

Order your copies now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/