Staying in Summer

Sarah and I sitting with her girls and Jeremy at the Milltop Tavern in St. Augustine to bring in the New Year ...

Floating down a Jamaican river on inner-tubes under a canopy of Tropical rain forest holding hands with my wife ...

Later that same day, strolling the sidewalk of Ocho Rios when a Rastafarian jumps from a bush asking, "Ganja Mon?" ... I say "No Thanks," ... he smiles and immediately asks, "Viagra?" ...

On a cliff above a raging ocean hundreds of feet below, fighting bitter winds, Sarah and I struggle to stand at the Lighthouse on Mizen Head in Ireland ...

Being asked to play a few with the Band in West Port, singing "God Don't Own a Car" and "Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road" to the laughing, rousing, crazy patrons of an Irish Pub ...

Shopping at the Grocery in San Salvador, Bahamas after the Food Boat arrives three weeks late before driving the old dusty car back to our private beach made in Heaven ...

Laurel, Sarah's daughter, and I sneaking into the massive salt water swimming pool at night because ... it was there and it was our only chance ...

Enjoying "Irish Kevin's" in Key West as a patron jumps on the stage, mooning the audience forcing Kevin himself to exclaim, "Good God Man! Don't do that in Key West! You'll be on your hands and knees for days!" ...

Beach days with Sarah on Tybee ... a gathering of the "Carnival of Friends" ... the kids meandering in and out ... Sarah's girls constant planning and scheming ... Jasmine growing over the railing of the Beloved Back Deck ...

Now it's Back-To-School time as everyone gets serious again.

The girls are back in school ... the kids are too ...  everyone's growing intense about work ... those who have jobs are bitching and those who don't are wishing ... and to make it all worse Congress is preparing to go back in session.

I'd rather stay in summer where everything's better.

I don't know why vacations have to end ... school starts in early August ... work intensifies ... paces quicken ... anxiety grows ... money runs out ... and Congress goes back in session.

It's been a good year so far.

There's lot of things to be anxious about but I'm not letting them overwhelm me.

As the prophet Jeremiah said, "Harvest has passed, Summer has ended and we are not saved" (8:20).

That just sounds gloomy and bad.

So I'm not going there.

I'm going to stay in summer.

Fear and Faith

"It's a combination of fear and faith," I say sitting at the counter of The Breakfast Club.

The question was, "How do you live?"

John's contemplating retiring but doesn't have the money ... or at least not enough ... so he keeps working until some magic moment arrives when he knows it's time to enjoy life ... or he die before getting around to it.

"Faith," he muses over ham, eggs, hash browns and orange juice.

"Well," I interrupt his thoughts, "fear too."

"Faith," he says again, not listening.

That's as it should be.

Fear and faith are a constant dance but faith should always win.

But we're not especially a faithful people.

Meaning ... what faith we do have we place in the wrong things ... Republicans or Democrats ... Catholics or Baptists ... Banks or Business ... Group Counseling or Self-help.

What we don't have faith in is ... ourselves.

And whenever we do something just for yourself ... it scares the Hell out of us!

So we rarely do much motivated by faith.

More often it's fear motivating us to do exactly what we're already doing ... forever maintaining a status quo that leaves us unfulfilled ... doing the same old thing ... waiting for a magic moment that never comes.

Faith is too explosive a thing for most to handle ... so we don't.

Yet the times we remember most in life are those when we acted in faith and it worked out just like we believed.

We quit the job, left the spouse, stopped believing in politics, cashed everything in and spent it all, discovered God mostly doesn't go to Church or said "I love you" out loud to the right person in the wrong place at the wrong time!

Those are the defining moments we cherish and never forget.

It makes me think of Moses who got to see the Promised Land but never actually set foot on it ... but he had one Hell of a good time ... getting that far!

My Box

My Mom gave me my box.

At her house for the first time in a long while, we packed boxes of things that were mine to bring home so Sarah and I have to figure out what to do with.

In the midst of the packing, Mom slid in my box.

She started the collection when I was born and remained diligent for almost six decades.

My baby pictures, every report card, each date at every prom stands beside me still, letters and lots of press clippings ranging from High School until now.

When I left Union Mission, she kept the notebook of press clippings so it was interesting to see what the media thought was significant about me.

Sarah laughed at all the pictures.

She holds one up as her girls wander into the room asking, "Who's this?"

"Jeremy," they quickly respond and ... aside from my son parting his hair on the wrong side we look remarkably alike ... when I was his age.

They pour over the prom and dance pictures asking "Who was that girl?"

There are many pictures and clippings from my days as a "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky ... including photographs of our "infamous" church retreats ... when we'd close Church, hang a "Gone Fishing" sign on the front door, and our rag tag congregation of homeless men, public housing residents, radical Seminarians took the weekend off.

There are notes from her friends proclaiming how proud Mom must be of me.

A big part of my life is in the box.

It strikes me that Mom's moving on to other things and no longer feels compelled to keep up with me as much.

She's been there for me all these years and certainly deserves ignoring me and celebrating the rest of her life however she chooses.

I think she trusts Sarah to see me on through to whatever's next.

There's a lot of old stuff in the box but ... it's not quite full and I realize whatever else goes inside ... either Sarah or I will place it there.

I wonder what it will be?

And it makes me appreciate of my Mom more than I already do, which is a lot.

And it reminds me that life is a gift parents give and, while they certainly kept up with it, it's mine ... and not theirs ... and everything already in the box ... and everything Sarah I will place inside from now on ... is ours.

Heritage and Hope

The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary was putting out it's annual "Greatest Hits" report.

It was "Heritage and Hope" though at the time W.A. Criswell, James Patterson, James Robinson and other fundamentalist terrorists were conducting a hostile takeover of a perfectly excellent academic institution.

In retaliation, Duke McCall, Clyde Francisco, Dale Moody and J.T. Owens fought back by "loving their enemies."

The enemies kicked their ass.

The Seminary went from being where a mind is terrible thing to waste ... to ... a mind is terrible thing!

At the time, I was getting the Hell out anyway ... completely immersed in living the Gospel in the inner City of Louisville, Kentucky.

Going through an old box yesterday, I found "Heritage and Hope" and took a bittersweet trip into the past.

There's Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the real one) on his knees ... praying ... or reading ... or ... honestly I have no idea what he's doing though he looks Holy enough.

I think it's a poised picture.

And there's me in an action shot!

The Hippy Preacher talking to Fred, the mentally-ill convert to Christ in the basement of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel ... where I was inexplicably employed as a "Professional Christian" ... paid to love while asking others to do it for free.

Looking at these photographs for the first time in decades, the first thoughts are memories of fellow Seminarians asking me to autograph my picture because ... "you're one of the stars of the future."

Over beers a few days later, I ask Bill, "Hey did you get asked ..."

"Sshhhuu," he says sipping the dark brew, "it's not important."

Bill Berry and I have the gift of speaking to one another without actually completing sentences.

I stayed at Jeff Street for a while before moving on to Union Mission and a life of trying to help others help themselves.

Bill Berry never joined a band and dove in at the Graffiti Baptist Center in New York City before moving on to a life time of making life better for others.

A remnant community ... Michael Ruffin, Cindy Webber, Guy Sayles (America's greatest preacher), Molly Marshall and others ... went on to do the same.

The Seminary went to Hell.

Several years later, they called asking if I would come give a speech at a convention on the topic, "A Baptist Response to AIDS."

"Why you calling me," I ask suspiciously.

"Well," the Lord led the fundamentalist to say. "You're Baptist and ... you've got one."

After a nanosecond of prayerful consideration I reply, "I'll pass."

"We really don't have anybody else," he explains.

"I really don't the time," I say, "I'm too busy taking people with AIDS."

All these years later, I've kept the hope but lost the heritage so long ago.

My Tropical Depression

Thunder roars from the ocean and from the mainland.

Tybee Island is stuck between two different storms smashing against each other creating spectacular lighting shows, thunderous thunder and pouring a sea of rain on this already drenched clump of sand.

The island is as lush and green as I've ever seen it.

Normally Tybee's brown by now ... proving it embraces every color.

Normally in August no one has to mow grass unless you pay to water every day ... it's hot as Hell and so humid your clothes stick to your skin if you dance ... if you kiss your partner your mouth slides right off her lips ... and making love is akin to water aerobics.

But the Rapture must be approaching because the grass is green, the humidity's low, the clothes hang loose, kisses hit their mark and ... er ... um ... no water's involved in our aerobics.

Anyway, the two storms have called a truce for the moment and I'm sitting on the Beloved Back Deck under skies of purple majesty, listening to thunder roar and not liking it one damn bit.

August should be hot and dry and if you want to get wet ... take your baby to the ocean ... or into the sand dunes!

"At least it's not cold," I keep telling myself.

I HATE COLD!!!

I hate it with everything in me.

I cuss it, condemn it, regulate it to hottest parts of Hell and Georgia Power can go right along with it!

You can have the cool crisp days of Autumn, the colors of the leaves, bonfires and SNOW ... you can have all of the freaking snow allotted to me in life!

It is true I love baseball playoffs and college football (GO DAWGS!) immensely but it's hot when they start and I'm all for it staying that way.

Alas ... it's a miserable, cool, wet, stormy day on island and I sit here wishing we were back in the Bahamas.

What do you do?

Since it's not raining for the moment, I think if Sarah's up for a walk ... to the sand dunes ... she could pull me out of my Tropical Depression.

Now

Salt hangs in the air and there is no breeze.

Gnats and no-see-um's hover around me as Van Morrison sings Hymns on the Beloved Back Deck.

Fran's thousand shades of green drip with wetness though she's as lovely as ever, tactfully quiet and, as always, incredibly supportive.

Goddess wanders in and out of our home full of sleeping girls trying to prioritize who needs her most ... me or them?

Sarah and her daughters win as Goddess has positioned herself halfway between our bedroom where my wife slumbers and the girl's rooms, ready for whatever happens first.

The night was bothersome with me tossing and turning, worried I'd wake my wife, endless thunder booming in the distance and a militia of frogs croak about starting a Revolution.

At 3:02 in the morning I kiss Sarah's head and wander out to the deck.

Light rain falls on a warm summer night with no humidity.

There's no moon but stars play peek-a-boo behind the clouds.

The choir of cicada sing.

Half-an-hour later, I'm tossing and turning again, listening to the  thunder, watching the lightning and trying not to wake Sarah.

Light bubbles from the ocean so I kiss Sarah again, stumble downstairs to the outdoor shower where rain mixes with hot water as I lather, shave, wash and dry on the porch.

Then I'm off to the Breakfast Club for coffee and communion before returning home to the quietness of a home full of sleeping girls, a dog who loves us and Fran's watchful eye.

The island is more lush and green than I've ever seen it.

So is the future.

So is now.

Talking with the Dead

Get back to where you once belonged?

Who says you can't go back?

Personally I've done both and it's just not that satisfying.

Going back to old places or meeting old friends rarely recaptures old magic.

That's why we tell stories ... to honor what was ...but then the story comes to an end and we're left with ... NOW.

"Tomorrow's going to be a brighter day," Jim Croce sings from nowhere as I write this.

"Well where did that come from?" I say out loud, sitting on the Beloved Back Deck with Winston, The Little Gay Dog, with the house full of girls sleeping.

Let's see ... as I'm sitting here today ... asking myself questions about then ... when Jim Croce, whose been dead forever, decides to participate in the conversation.

This is why I believe in God.

These things don't just randomly happen.

Sure ... other things randomly happen ... the American political system ... Church ... most relationships ... sex ... Miley Cyrus!

But how else do you explain Jim Croce rising from the dead to say the right thing at precisely the right time to the right person in the right place?

It's God ... and Sirius XM.

If this isn't enough, Jim brings Jesus up and I'm sitting here thinking of something he said, "Don't worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of it's own" (Matthew 6:34).

How is it that I'm having a conversation with dead people in real time?

I know ... I know ... my conservative friends ... and the Republican Party ... will tell me Jesus was raised from the dead.

Tell me about it!!!

He's talking to me right now!

With Jim Croce playing in the background!

I don't want to go back to where I once belonged.

Who says I have to?

Tomorrow's going to be a brighter day.

And to paraphrase Jesus about today ... "Don't worry. Be Happy."

Throw Back

I'm not into "Throw back Thursday" on Facebook.

I mean it is funny to see what people post ... old pictures of poofy hair and funny clothes ... but I've never gotten into it.

Besides Sarah posts enough goofy pictures of me.

Plus, I write a lot of stories about the past ... Gene Prevatt, Bill Berry (not the former drummer from REM but the other one), Guy Sales, my days as a "Professional Christian" (when I was paid to love God and others), the time at Union Mission and all of the times I've been in trouble (with my Mom, a large number of clergy and numerous elected officials).

The stories are either funny or poignant ... sometimes both.

Today I have neither.

But I did find this picture from my High School Annual.

It's a full page photograph of the one and only meeting of the Groves High School sanctioned "Greaser Club" which took place at the Root Beet Drive in Garden City, Georgia.

Gene Prevatt (that's him at the very bottom proudly wearing his football jacket) and I were inexplicably called to the Principal's office and told we were not participating in enough extra-curricular activities.

We were on the football team, and I recall Gene chasing a girl in the Chess Club, but other than that we mostly had a good time.

The Principal was threatening us to do something to further enhance the possibility of actually getting a job when we graduated.

I was really into 1950's Rock-n-Roll at the time so rather than actually join an existing club, we started our own to honor the Principal's request and enhance our chances of actual employment.

There's a lot of famous people in this picture and looking at it now ... it reminds me of the album cover for "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band" ... except it's a throwback to the 1950s.

That's Mark Stewart standing on top.

That's me sitting on top of the car with my arm around Debbie saluting the school.

I remember my Mom being pretty mad about the whole thing.

Thank God that's over.

Anyway ... for whatever it's worth ... Happy throw back Thursday!

Just keep telling yourself, "Tomorrow is Friday! Tomorrow is Friday!"

To Hell with ... Hell!

If Hell is as hot as it is right now I won't have any problem acclimating.

Besides I've already been to Hell and it's not all that.

I know ... I know ... my conservative friends are saying, "Oh you just wait till you die and really go to Hell! Then you'll know what it's really all about?"

Whatev's ...

It's funny when I write about religion because while lots of people read it, no one's really got much to say ... except ... that I'm going to Hell.

Nobody ever holds up a finger and yells, "GO TO HEAVEN!"

They stick up a particular finger yelling "GO TO HELL!"

When did Hell become so popular?

"Go to Heaven for the climate," Mark Twain quips. "Hell for the company."

"I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the Saints," Bill Joel adds.

I resonate with both sentiments.

Besides I don't have to go to Hell.

It comes to me.

"Hell is portable," Guy Sayles once told me. "You don't have to go to it. It comes to you."

I think most people, even the conservative ones, can agree on that.

If others aren't putting us through Hell ... we're perfectly capable of doing it ourselves.

And the sad fact is ... WE DO!

Satan's got to have the easiest job in the world!

Well, I'm not having anything to do with it and as far as I'm concerned, Satan can go straight to Hell ... though I'm not sure that makes any sense.

The point is we're all pretty hard on ourselves ... and that makes no sense either!

Why in the Hell do we beat ourselves up when we'll really just doing the best we can?

So ... to Hell with Hell!

I'm going to enjoy the Hell out of today!

I'm not going to give myself Hell and, to the best of my ability, I'm not going to give anybody else Hell either.

I am just going to enjoy myself ... who I'm with ... where I'm at ... what I'm doing ... the temperature ... the absence of shoes ... or clothes ... the conviction God loves me ... flowers are blooming ... my friends are doing okay ... and I feel pretty good.

You know ... without Hell ... it's pretty heavenly.

Jesus: The Rolling Stone Interview

Recently we caught up with Jesus Christ on his way to save a troubled soul that he asked we not divulge though he did agree to answer several questions. This is the first published interview with Jesus since Thomas the Apostle (aka, Doubting Thomas) conducted one and I'm honored to be the first in over 2000 years to do it again.

He wanted to meet on the Pier before he walked on water to his appointment dressed in a white robe with a red sash. Blond hair was neatly coiffed, as was his beard, and his steely blue eyes carefully considered every question before answering.

Jesus, thank you for making time for this. Everyone knows how busy you are so let's right to the questions. Beatles or Stones?

"I love 'Sympathy for the Devil' by the Stones. That song always kills me! And 'The Girl with Far Away Eyes' makes me laugh out loud. But ... it's The Beatles! They bring a Hymn like quality to most everything. So ... yeah it's Beatles all the way."

So were the Beatles really more popular that you?

"Oh sure! For a while anyway."

Speaking of Hymns, what's your fav?

"Wow! That's a good question. Well ... I know it's not 'The Old Rugged Cross' ... cause that thing hurt like Hell! ... 'Jesus loves me' is really a manipulative request to get me to always look the other way ... but I'd have to say 'To God be the Glory' because it really is all about God ... oh! ... and 'Let it Be'."

Thanks for opening that door. We all know that God is the Father but who the heck is the Holy Ghost? Your brother? Some long lost uncle?

{Jesus laughs}. "We do have an unorthodox family tree. The answer to your questions are ... 'Yes.'"

Fair enough. Okay, next question ... How do you feel when people thank you at the Grammys?

"I don't really like much of the new stuff these days. It's mostly just MUZAC! The last time I really cared was when Helen Reddy won for 'I am Woman, hear me roar.' That was some good stuff! I suppose it's nice that people thank me but honestly, I think it's mostly crap."

Praise music is very popular in today's church services. Do you like it?

"It's kind of like Mick Jagger isn't it? Holding up hands and dancing around ... it's a lot like church ... if it makes people feel better I'm all for it ... but it's nothing I especially care about."

We've run out of time and I know you have to go but ... one more question?

"Sure but make it quick."

Thank you.

"Who wins the next Survivor?"

Shoe Shopping

I blew out my flip flop.

Literally!

Strolling across a parking lot, I step with my right foot and drag asphalt and the damn thing simply blows up.

So ... today we're going shoe shopping.

I happen to be married to the world's greatest expert on shoes and bargains ... well, at least she tells me they're great deals and she should be "Professional Shopper" ... but I'm not really listening to her staring at the pile of shoes she bought for her 7 year old for school ... specifically I'm wondering how in the Hell Cassidy can possibly fit another pair of shoes in her closet which already looks like Calcutta!

Not that it really matters because ... I'm not a big fan of shoes.

Certainly I have some ... four pair Sarah got me which I occasionally wear in the winter when my feet are cold ... a pair of black ones that match the Tuxedo I no longer wear ... and my flip-flops ... because if one must wear shoes they should be flip flops.

But now mine are blown which obviously call for ... Margaritas!

Besides, Sarah's already told me the plan.

We'll ride our bicycles up to "Funky Fish" which has an excellent selection of Flip Flops and I'll purchase a pair.

Then we're done.

Sarah will want to stay looking for bargains or telling me how good I'll look in this or that but I won't pay her any attention.

We have other things to do today.

As soon as I get her shoes off.

Chester's Gift

"Hey Rev," the old man weakly says from his hospital bed, "I got a present for you."

He'd been moved from the wards at old University Hospital in Louisville, Kentucky where I was the "Professional Christian" in charge of an inner city church.

Pulling the sheet away, exposing skinny white legs and feet, he beams "Lookie."

The long, gnarly, yellow toenails I'd last seen on his feet were gone.

I was mad as Hell at him when I'd seen them, ripping disgusting clothes and shoes off his body to throw him in a bathtub.

He'd been sick for a while, living in a Sunday School room converted into an apartment, and though he hadn't drank alcohol in a few years,  Chester was suddenly acting like it.

"You got to get out of bed," I yelled grabbing him, "and move around. The Doctor said so."

But he threw up so I tore clothes off his body, threw him in the Baptismal Pool that serves as the community bath tub and am appalled to see his toenails hadn't cut in years.

"I can't reach that far," he shrugs falling in the water.

I was mean to Chester those days, grabbing him first thing every morning though he screeched in pain, and made him walk the hallways of the church ... because the Doctor had said so.

It was when I learned you can't always trust Doctors.

When I'd taken Chester to the Hospital his Physician gave him a tired, obligatory once over and asked me if he was a drunk.

"He used to be," I reply, "but now he's my babysitter. He also keeps the coffee peculating 24 hours a day for homeless people. He flies around the country giving speeches with me."

I loved Chester.

He was a beloved figure at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, on the streets of Louisville, and at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where we lived.

Once we gave a speech in Mississippi and Chester had the audience of several hundred eating out of his hands.

"Where'd you learn to speak like that?" I ask as we're carried to the airport.

With his crooked grin he replies, "Awe, preaching ... panhandling ... it's all the same."

He was my partner in crime for years ... until the decades on the streets caught up with him ... and a bastard of a doctor told me to make him exercise every day ... a diagnoses without an examination.

Chester howled in pain as I listened to the Doctor.

A week later he went to the Hospital for the last time.

He was so proud of his toenails, laying there smiling and asking me what I thought.

"Who sawed them off?" I ask pulling the sheet back over his pasty white skinny legs.

"It took two of them," he replies.

I nod and grab his hand ... which is cold.

"I'm tired Rev," he mummers.

"I know," I say ... not knowing what else to say.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you too," I say.

A few hours later, I'm still holding his hand when he burps and a vile black mud dribbles down his chin ... his tired blue eyes stare at me ...smiling the crooked little grin.

"Awe Chester," I cry.

A nurse appears from nowhere and wipes his face ... and the image of Mary Magdalene washing the blood away from Jesus flashes in my head.

Then the nurse, a large black woman with a child's face, takes my hand out of Chester's and holds onto it ... then she kisses my hand and tells me, "Everything's alright."

And it was.

An old, homeless, street drunk dies a beloved man.

And the last thing he ever did in life was give me a present.

To this day, I can't forget it.

  

Religious Abuse Survivor

"I come at religion from the dark sides," I say to Joey Finch on a hot, sunny Key West afternoon.

Bill had wandered to the finish line waiting on Sarah to finish the 5K race so Joey and I had time to talk alone as good friends do.

"I know you do," he answers very quickly.

As a survivor of religious abuse he can say any damn thing he wants on the matter ... but he's sincere wondering how I believe after living through so many ... dark things.

Faith takes hold in the dark places is how Celtic Christianity puts it ... roots grow in the wet dirt and blooms above ground ... but you can't have a resurrection without a death.

I've seen lots of deaths.

The first I personally touched was Florence Bryson, an old mean ass, not-quite-homeless woman who wore several coats even in the summer and had a son named Elvis, who looked nothing like the King.

Elvis made money taking cigarette packages and elaborately folding them into picture frames he sold on the street.

Florence smoked all the cigarettes.

They lived together in a one room walk-up around the corner of the church I was inexplicably the 24 year old "Professional Christian" in charge of.

I didn't know anything, except we're all supposed to love each other ... and that's hard as Hell with so many unlovely people in the world ... like Florence and Elvis.

Florence would see me on the street, start cussing, throw cans at me, kick and punch ... all because I was the nice Christian guy ... like the ones who'd lied to her before.

Homeless guys seeing her attack me, rushed to my defense, pulling her away as she viciously bit them, always leaving her mark, before snarling, cussing and walking away.

Then one day she grabs me on the street, sobbing, pulling me towards their walk-up room where Elvis lay crumped on the floor.

Tears flood down Florence's leather face as I face a dead person for the first time.

Homeless men watch it unfold and fly into the room asking, "Rev! What is it?"

Florence buries her head in my chest, sobbing like I've never heard before.

After that, she was different as any Mother would be having lost her son.

"Hey Mr. Mike," she said in a little girl voice and we hugged.

She never allowed anyone to touch her before but now ... Florence taught me the power of hugs.

A few months later, on an early Sunday morning as I cooked breakfast for homeless people, I was summoned to the one room walk-up because something was wrong.

Storming the stairs three at a time, I found Florence laying on the bed, dressed in three overcoats and a skull cap on a hot summer day ... her feet still on the floor and both arms reaching towards Heaven.

Bursting into tears, I laid her head in my lap and asking God "Why?"

There's nothing just, right or Holy about a mentally ill, poverty stricken woman who'd lost her only begotten son ... dying alone in a rat infested one room walk-up on a hot summer day.

I remember God didn't have anything to say in response.

All these years later, I still haven't stopped asking.

And Florence was the first of many who taught me that love can happen anywhere ... in any circumstance ... and with the unlikeliest of people.

And if God is love ... well maybe that's the answer.

Santa in Key West

{He}, for most I think, is an odd mix of big tender heart, & giant ego striving for humility.

I love that line!

So I'm blatantly stealing it from Santa himself.

Santa John Driggers is in Key West right now and if you don't know him you should. 

Let me confess that I've never actually seen Santa but ... I believe in him.

I know others who claim to have actually seen him and I believe them too.

I write Santa letters ... well ... instant messages really ... and he responds to every one.

Santa and his wife Jenny are into Kayaking during the summer and she's pretty tan in a bikini but he's white as snow.

Santa's also more religious than I thought, shoots guns, vigorously defends Veterans, and can do flips off of Pontoon Boats.

He's hard to not like.

Of course everyone likes Santa anyway.

He wanders into a Waffle House and everybody stops eating because ... it's freaking Santa!  

Santa believes that Jesus rides shot gun with him in his pickup truck and who am I to argue?

I sip wine with my Guardian Angel on the Beloved Back Deck.

Maybe one day Santa will let me sit between him and Jesus in the cab ... that'll be fun.

Anyway ... I really love this present of a line.

A big ol' tender heart and giant ego striving for humility.

That's me too Santa!

And I'm really glad I fall down on your side ... though I don't shoot guns, go to the Waffle House, or do flips off Pontoon Boats.

Plus both of us have HOT wives!

Well I don't mean to bother you when you're on vacation but I want to say how much I appreciate you all year long and not just in December.

Let me be honest again!

I hate freaking winter!

But I do love Christmas.

And I love you too Santa.

I hope you and Mrs. Jenny have as much fun there as Sarah and I did last weekend.

Ho Ho Ho!

... it probably means something else in Key West.

Tybee's Passed the tipping point

There are no parking meters in Key West.

At least none that I saw.

Tybee Island must have bought them all.

You can't pee on Tybee without being forced to stop.

Or the police pulling you over.

In Key West, where there's an "open container law" ... you can wander around with an open container and the police won't bother you unless you're a nuisance ... then they'll pull you aside and tell you to go home ... and unless you're really crazy they'll let you ... and only as a last resort will they arrest you.

On Tybee there's no "open container law" but ... the police ticket first ... handcuff second ... Taser when given the opportunity ... and pretty much function as a Militia overthrowing a small country of beer drinking tourists and locals with dogs.

Customer service is a foreign concept on Tybee.

In Key West, cops politely answered questions, smilingly and laugh as part of the crowd.

On Tybee ... it seems cops only smile when they meet quotas ... or laugh when they make arrests.

In this economy, the only people making money are already rich ... or work for the Government.

The Government is the fastest growing industry in the United States and somebody's got to fund it and ... that's mostly us.

Government ... like business, institutions and churches ... exist to perpetuate itself.

Government accomplishes this with ... fees, parking tickets, citations of every kind imaginable, stop signs and a Paramilitary Police force with the endorsement of a Banana Republic administration and as much money as it wants.

For 30 years, Tybee's been a cool place to live and during this time people said it's how Key West used to be.

Having just got back from Key West, I can tell you Tybee Island's nothing like it.

It's more like Israel attacking the Gaza Strip on a nice sunny day.

Aruging with an Angel

"HEY! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? I NEED YOU NOW!"

The Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt smiles but says nothing. A billion stars twinkle overhead and a symphony of waves crash in the distance. Salt sticks to my skin in the hot summer night. It's a silent night ... holy night.

"HEY!" I yell again. "NOW WOULD BE GOOD!"

"I'm busy," an Angelic voice sings out of nowhere.

"I DON"T CARE!" I snap.  "I NEED A MOMENT."

"What?" my Guardian Angel asks, appearing out of nowhere looking like a Prostitute on a good night.

"Oh good you're here," I sigh sitting down at the table on the Beloved Back Deck. "We need to talk."

"I'm busy," she says thrusting a lit cigarette tip toward my face.

"I don't give a shit," I snap. "You're my Guardian Angel and I frigging need you."

"Hold on," she sighs and disappears.

Drumming my fingers on the table, a habit I have when I'm anxious, I wait.

"What?" she asks, appearing in front of me with a tall boy Pabst Blue Ribbon and shot of bourbon in a glass. One wing is broken, her white robe is dirty and her black hair hangs limply around her pasty white shoulders.

 "What took you so long," I snarl impatiently.

"I was busy," she sarcastically sings then takes the shot.

"Well don't be so bitchy," I shoot. "I need to know something."

"What?" she asks rolling her eyes, taking a drawl from the beer and then from the cigarette.

Moisture fills my eyes as I stare at the heavens and my voice cracks as I speak. "So listen ... I think I'm praying more than I ever have ... I mean really praying ... not in public ... but in bed ... all frigging night ... laying there tossing and turning ... and nothing happens ... it's just quiet."

"DUH," she says adjusting her robe so it doesn't fall over her shoulder too far.

"I could really use a little help here."

She stares at me for a long time through a halo of cigarette smoke before coughing, hacking up a logy and spitting it over the side.

"Yes?" she hisses.

"I mean I got lots of stuff," I rush explaining. "How we gonna keep going? I got a wife with kids and I have to take care of them."

After a long moment of silence she lights another cigarette and asks, "Yes?"

"What do you mean 'Yes'?" I snap.

"Do you love them?" she asks as though she's helping me fill out a Driver's License application.

"Well yeah," I answer.

"Do they love you?" she asks as though she's bored out of her mind.

"Yes," I snap.

"What the Hell do you want from me?" she says standing.

"I need some assurance that every little thing's gonna be alright?" I snap getting in her face.

"Did you just quote Bob Marley?" she laughs.

Embarrassed, I admit I did.

"It is," she says placing a dirty hand on my shoulder.

"Well," I say needing to justify a 911 call to my Guardian Angel, "What about Guy Sayles? That's just not right!"

"Yeah," she says crushing the beer can on the table, "I really do need to get back to him."

"So ..." I begin.

"I told you I'm busy," she smiles flashing yellow teeth. "Go back to bed and feel the love."

A billion stars blaze on a hot summer night with a symphony of waves crashing against the shore. Salt layers my skin and the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt is smiling.

"Well then," I say facing her.

And I swear to God, the Palm Tree winks.

No Beer Today

Jim Morris wrote a song about sailing to the island of Antigua with a buddy and, upon arrival, want to celebrate with beer.

Unfortunately it's "Election Day" and all the bars are closed so everyone can vote more soberly.

A wonderful day in the islands suddenly becomes a sad affair.

Most Election days are.

Like today's "runoff" election in Georgia.

None of the candidates could muster enough votes to win on the real Election Day so "We The People" are forced to pay for another opportunity to support people who've already proven they can't win.

It's hard to get excited about the lesser of two evils.

Besides everybody knows regardless of who's elected they're going to run off with something ... or someone ... which is why it's called a "Runoff Election."

It's not to say I'm not patriotic, don't vote or have a lifetime of political experiences ... because I am, I do and I have!

Later today I'll ride my bike to the Old School so I can say hello to my neighbor Art who will ensure that I'm a citizen of the United States with a valid Government issued Identification card and verify I actually live here.

I'll stroll over to the voting machine, insert the yellow card, hit the screen and stare at the names of people I don't believe in anymore.

Maybe I'll follow Johnny O's example and vote for Roma as a write in candidate.

She couldn't do any worse than the candidates lurking behind Door #1 and Door #2 and she'd sure as Hell be more entertaining!

Then I'll coast back home and, having fulfilled my civic responsibility, grab a beer, plop down on the Beloved Back Deck and listen to Jim Morris songs.

On Antigua that day, a bartender took pity on Jim's plight, snuck them in the back door of the bar and sold them a case of beer for "only $55 bucks."

Regardless of who gets elected today, they're going to cost us a lot more.

My Stained Life

"He wears that on a plane?" she asks in a thick New York accent.

Sitting in the lobby of the vacation rental in Key West, I'm staring out of the window not paying attention and assume she's talking to Sarah.

"He dresses like that all of the time," I hear my wife explain.

Looking down,  I'm wearing a stained, white, "Full Moon Party" tee shirt from "Latitude 32", black running shorts and flip flops.

"And they let him on the plane?"

She has dyed flaming red hair, an orange and black Safari outfit and lots of jewelry that rattles when she talks.

Sarah nods, admitting her disbelief and says, "They do."

Shaking her head, the woman shifts her focus to the clerk explaining they'll need assistance unpacking all of the things packed for her dog.

Having my sense of fashion accosted doesn't phase me.

Men wearing bathing suits that fall past their knees are obviously projecting they've overcome other ... deficiencies.

Women wearing outlandish designs or tons of gaudy jewelry are too.

I'm okay projecting stains.

It's not like my life hasn't had them so I may as well wear them well.

Divorce ... getting mad in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person ... occasional lies that always make things worse ... failing to do what I'd said I would ...

Yeah, I got stains.

But ... my "Full Moon Party Latitude 32 tee shirt" remains mostly white.

Like me.

I do far more good than bad ... have pretty good timing saying the right things ... am almost always honest ... and carry through on whatever I say I'm going to do.

I've got to live with it all so I may as well wear my life with as much dignity and pride as possible.

It's better than pretending everything's perfect, great or awesome when the next person has as many stains as I do.

"Even the righteous of God," wrote the crusty old Saint, they got stains too, "for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."

We may as well be honest about it with each other.

Then we get another shot at the glory of God. 

A Key West Night

Stumbling into our room, thunder booms in the distance and just as we collapse on the bed we hear a loud POP and everything is dark and silent.

Meaning the air conditioner stops and it's 91 degrees at midnight.

An emergency light blinks so I crawl out of bed and wander outside to the tiny deck we share with three older ladies on a "Girl's Weekend."

Key West is covered in blackness as the rain began to fall though I can make out the silhouettes of the Palm and Banyan Trees.

The weekend girls are still on their Pub Crawl.

The world is silent as I return to Sarah in the bed.

"Imagine the crowd at Irish Kevin's," I laugh, "hundreds of people plunged into darkness."

"Or trying to get down the steps from 'The Garden of Eden,'" she giggles.

Duval is crazy tonight, proving to be much too crowded for us ... besides we'd already enjoyed it earlier in the day, took naps, met up with friends and celebrated life.

The air conditioner roars to life and Sarah's asleep in a nanosecond.

Crawling out of bed, I wander outside again and Key West is covered in a blanket of starry lights and I hear "crazy crowds boogie to the sounds and the lights."

"Thank you," I say out loud before returning inside for the second time, slipping beside my wife.

Now Sarah sleeps late, still recovering from the race she ran cheered on by Bill, Joey and me, while I chat over coffee with the ladies on their "Girl's Weekend."

We return home tonight where decisions loom, work waits, school starts and fears are faced.

But we have today and one last visit with Joey and Bill, a walk around together holding hands ... perhaps a swim in the Gulf ... a last toast at Irish Kevin's.

Then it's to the hard stuff!

Well ... except for the secret plan we have with Johnny and Judy O for tomorrow night.

That comes first.

Then it's on to the hard stuff!

Key West Futures

"Irish Kevin's Bar" is one of our favorite Key West experiences.

When Sarah and I can't decide what to do we wander inside, grab a high top table and become part of the show.

Musicians have lots of interaction with the crowd and laughter floods the bar between really good songs.

After checking into our quaint little room, we make a quick run to Fausto's for groceries then head straight to Irish Kevin's where we spend two hours laughing.

Climbing the stairs to "The Garden of Eden" we have a cocktail and people watch before heading back to the room to cool off before our friends Joey Finch and Bill Bray pick us up for dinner.

There's a tiny back deck we share with three ladies here for a Girl's weekend. It's completely enclosed, has a table and chairs under an umbrella, Palm Trees, a massive girl and a hot tub.

I have no idea why we have a hot tub in Key West where the air's hotter than the water but it's one of the quirks of the island.

Of all the places Sarah and I've been we find ourselves happier here.

We laugh more, love more, communicate at deeper levels and enjoy everything in richer ways.

Later sitting on the curb waiting we laugh as Joey and Bill slowly drive down Petronia Street for the drive to Stock Island and Hogfish's Restaurant where we have ... Hogfish!

Between feeding leftover fish to a cat, we share deeply as friends do on warm nights in a marina restaurant with live music and lit by the Milky Way and stars on the water.

Joey drives us to their place and Bill shows me Shiva and his guitars and we continue to talk into the night as good friends do.

Now I sit on this tiny patio with a hot tub and three older ladies in nightgowns on a "Girl's Weekend" as Sarah lay in bed sending text to Martha who's also here.

We've been in Key West less than 24 hours and it already feels like a lifetime of wonderful things though we've learned a lot about ourselves ...

from the palm reader on Duval ...

where I learned I'm going to be fertile until my late 70s, will never drown or come to an unnatural death ...

and Sarah learned that she is stubborn, stubborn, stubborn (seriously he told her three times as soon as she turned over her palms).

"That guy's full of shit," Bill told us later. "It's a sham. I can do a better job."

"I don't know,' Sarah and I both say in wonderment, "he seemed to be spot on."

Sure enough today Sarah's been stubborn and won't get out of bed and I'm feeling particularly fertile.

I guess we'll have to compromise.

Then we'll do it all again.