Savannah ... Fare thee well!

"Why'd you write that?" Philip Solomon asks. "It was disgusting."

He was talking about my Savannah book ... "Tour of Homes" ... in a scene where a black maid spits in the food on the plate she'll serve her employer ... a wealthy "Old Savannah" family in their mansion on Taylor Street.

"It's fiction Philip," I reply. "I made it up."

"I know those people," he snaps.

Sitting back at my desk I study the intensity on his face and he's obviously angry.

"Sure," I say breaking the heavy silence, "characters in the book are based on real people but ... they're made up. They're not those people."

"It's all too close to home," he shoots back.

"Well good," I reply. "Then I got Savannah right."

"You got it terribly wrong," he says storming out, taking his anger with him and sucking all the air out of the room.

I sigh heavily.

You can't please everybody.

There have been times in my life when I can't please anybody.

I try real hard because it's my nature to please people ... make them feel better ... do my part to make the world a better place ... one person at a time ... only to discover making one person feel better often makes another feel worse.

Actually, that's what "Tour of Homes" is about ... for every good there is an evil.

No matter how much religion you wrap around it ... people do bad things to others ... just as others do wonderful things for people.

Last night Sarah and I went out for pizza and there's no one on the island this time of year so we were the only customers ... sitting alone for the first time in days because her girls were here and "Girls Rule" when they're home ... plus we've been busy making plans ... so it was nice to simply be alone ... and to just be "us".

Our conversation was intense though ... very lovingly we fought to understand each other.

Two hours later, holding hands we stroll to our car with stomachs and souls completely filled.

During the night, snuggled to my wife, an old memory comes in a dream and there's nothing "made up" about it.

I wrote a book that hit my city with a THUD ... thoroughly angering "Old Savannah" ... even those I love.

"I can't believe you wrote that," Rev. Benny Mitchell told me several days later. "You wrote what we all think and do ... but never say."

Benny was the African-American pastor of Conner's Temple Baptist Church in Savannah.

"What?" I ask grinning. "I didn't get it right."

"I wouldn't want to be you," he laughs. "You've made lots of people angry ... but you've made lots of us happy."

I don't have a response as he hugs me.

"You love everybody," Sarah sighs at dinner.

"Well I try," I answer ... but the truth is I don't and we talk about that too.

And certainly everybody doesn't love me ... and I can name names.

But I sure loved Sarah this morning as she manages her morning routine.

A love for Philip remains somewhere in a corner of my heart though we have no relationship these days.

And there's a spot for the woman who owns the house on Taylor Street "the character" was based upon.

They are not part of my life anymore ... though I remember them ... with more fondness than not ... but I'm wired that way ... Sarah tells me most aren't ... people come and they go.

What's real is the love I have for Sarah ... her girls ... my kids ... and the life we live.

It cost a lot people to get here.

They were worth it.

This is better.

Much better.

I'm not making that up.

Anything you want

I want to go Alice's Restaurant.

I want to take Sarah and the girls.

I want my kids to meet us there.

I want the Carnival of Friends to go too.

I wouldn't mind you coming either.

Because we all deserve everything we want.

We're just not getting it and Thanksgiving's coming on so it's time to start thinking about such things.

Rumor is we "can get anything we want at Alice's Restaurant" and ... DAMMIT! ... it's about time we get anything we want!

Because we're not.

I know ... I know ... "you can't always get what you want."

BULLSHIT!

I believe you can.

I think we do.

Of course it's never enough.

Every single time we get what we want ... we want more!

I do.

That's why I want to take Sarah ... her girls ... my kids ... their lovers ... the O'Neill's ... Sadowsky's ... members of the Bored ... Shirley and Sandy ... Monty Parks and the Tuesday Night Jam ... Roy and Martha Swindelle ... all my Facebook friends ... and everybody that goes to Bar Church.

My Mom of course!

And I think it will be fun if "Brown Boy" comes from "The Breakfast Club" so long as he brings his brother TJ because ... TJ's funny ... Brown Boy's just brown.

Then we can get anything we want.

Through ... honestly ... I can't believe everything I already have.

The most incredible wife ... her wonderful girls ... the best children ever ... a Carnival of Friends ... a Church that feels like home ...

I think I want it more for them than I do for me.

Because I owe them all so much.

Sitting here thinking about it ... I've already got everything I want.

I hope you do too.

But if you don't ... I'm ready for a road trip.

We'll go where you can get anything you want.

Because we all deserve that.

A Letter to my Wife

Dear Sarah,

I never knew how much joy can be stuffed into my chest until you.

Watching you sleep fills me with happiness because ... you love to sleep ... and I love you getting what you want.

Anticipating what you're going to wear every day is insanity that always leaves me completely satisfied ... and full of sinful lust.

You have the most delightful way of mocking me when you're blowing me off which always leaves me unaware you're blowing me off because of how much delight I get in the ways you mock me.

I never mind when you're angry ... unless it's at me ... because you hold nothing inside, which is a pretty healthy way of dealing with anger ... and I sit watching you harness dark clouds in your eyes and black feelings in your heart KNOWING the expressions of love that will soon follow.

You mystify me in the way you devour books ... reminding me of me and the way I used to devour books.

When I cry ... which is often ... it always makes you stop dead in your tracks ... and you either take great delight in poking fun at me ... or you throw your arms around me and share whatever it is I'm crying about.

Sometimes I catch fleeting glimpses of you watching me with your girls ... as I play with them, poke fun at them, laugh with them and remind them they're perfectly capable of picking up their own damn stuff ... and I know that you know that I love them.

I love the way you love my children ... always including them in everything.

Your writing is something you don't do enough and world deserves your writing.

Our travels will soon be legends because God we have fun when we go anywhere ... except for that one time at Disney World when you refused to leave ... because it was your first time and as sleepy as I was it made  me happy to see you so happy.

The struggle you have over my complete adoration of UGA football used to confuse me until you started wearing the red UGA panties on game day ... which remind me of how much I love the way you dress.

Mornings you are so focused on work and I'm regulated to pouring your juice, making your coffee and fixing your breakfast (yes I'm Southern ... and fix breakfast!) then we have short minutes to sit together before you head out and conquer another day.

Goddess, Winston The Little Gay Dog and I can't wait to go outside and wait on you every day to come back and make this house a home again.

The touch of my leg on yours when we go to sleep at night makes me know it really is a beautiful world.

I could go ... and am already crying ... but it's time for Bar Church ... and I'm preaching and need to think about what I can possibly say on God's behalf ... whatever it is will be rooted in love ... because I've never known love like you.

ME

Don't Test Me

Recently I took several tests for a job possibility.

Two psychological examinations, a logic test and a personality profile proved interesting as it's been several decades since I was required to take a test.

By the time I completed my academic career I'd mastered test taking.

At Seminary the Baptists requires all incoming students to take a battery of test to weed out women, gay people,  those with scientific tendencies and intellectuals of any kind.

Since I'm not any of these I was allowed in ... only to be thrown out later because of theology.

Afterwards I was forced to go take tests administered by "Christian" psychologists employed by the Home Mission Board of the Southern Baptist Convention.

Sitting in the waiting room with other potential "Professional Christians" I watched husbands comforting their crying wives.

"Everything okay?" I ask flipping through the "Rolling Stone" I'd brought with me to pass time waiting to be called ... (Get it? That's a great joke!)

"It was horrible," the wife explains. "He asked very intimate questions about our sex life."

"Really?" I ask completely intrigued dropping the magazine to the floor.

At that precise moment I'm called inside and the "Christian" psychologist asks me to describe myself.

"Aren't you going to ask me about my sex life?" I retort.

Leaning back with a frown he intertwines his fingers in front of face like Mr. Spock on "Star Trek" flipping open my very thick file.

"You have two children," he says staring at the large brown file. "I assume you've mastered sex."

"You shouldn't make assumptions," I remind him. "They can make an "Ass" out of "U" and "ME."

"Get out," he yells.

I have no idea what I made on that particular test but I passed and became a "Professional Christian" until I was thrown out several years later.

I hadn't remembered these things until I took the 4 tests the other day.

THEN ... on Face book I get countless invitations from friends wanting me to take  a test ... "Which Rock Star am I?" ... "Which President would I be?" ... "What book is the real you?" ... "Which Michael Jackson body parts would he grab that mostly represents you?"

I haven't taken any of them.

I already know who I am.

Sarah's husband ... the Father of my children ... One of the best friends her girls will ever have ... a believer in others ... a encourager ... a writer ... a man with many talents who really who really wants to be a Rock Star.

Oh ... and someone who apparently has mastered Sex.

According to the tests.

Holy Heart Attack Batman!

My religion has always been rooted in Love, Acceptance, Skepticism, Optimism, Music and Humor.

I take it serious but ... not too serious.

Like the time I oversaw Bruce Day's ordination to the ministry at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in the inner city of Louisville where I was inexpiably the Pastor.

It's a beautiful service where the highlight is the "laying on of hands" of the person kneeling in the floor accepting the mantle of Christ.

In front of the Alter Bruce kneels ... hands folded in prayer ... head bowed in Holy anticipation ... a host of ordained Clergy ready to lay hands on his head and pray with him.

As Pastor of the Congregation I go first.

Leaving the Pulpit I solemnly make my way to stand in front of Bruce with my back to the 200 witnesses in the congregation.

Slowly I place my hands on his bowed head.

Softly playing on the piano is Breathe On Me.

Bruce's wife Jaki's eyes are moist as she stands to the side.

Moving my lips close to his ear, I whisper ... "Your pants are unzipped."

He doesn't move.

Standing ... I give way to the next minister who lays her hands on Bruce and solemnly prays in his ear, confirming the Presence of the Lord for the rest of his life.

"I was afraid to open my eyes after that," he explains after the service before calling me an SOB and then we both laugh heartedly.

Thirty years later it still makes me laugh.

Today Bruce and Jaki have a rich life, tremendous ministry and numerous blessings.

He recently had stints placed in his heart because a lifetime of ministry is stressful stuff and he almost had a heart attack.

Bruce doesn't deserve that.

Especially after I gave him his first one. 

Alone in the Man Cave

"Does she know you write about her?" Sandi asks.

"I write about a fictitious character based on her," is my answer.

"Does she know?"

Shrugging my shoulders as a response, I honestly don't know.

"I almost yelled 'HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY' when I arrived but your windows were shut."

"Well, she is famous but I don't know if she knows she's famous," I explain swinging in the chair on the porch.

It's silent for a moment on a pleasant Saturday afternoon, sitting on the porch ... which is a "Man Cave" where I watch football, M*A*S*H, Historical documentaries and Marvel Movies.

Sarah and the girls are in New York City so I'm home alone ... without adult supervision ... sitting on the porch.

Often Laurel, Sarah's 10 year old, sits with me to talk about life ... "School is boring" ... She likes a boy but they haven't kissed yet ... "I got boobs!" she announces puffing her chest out. "What do you think?"

"They've got something for that," I answer watching football.

"What?" she asks hopefully.

"Clearasil," I answer turning up the game.

Sometimes Maddie, the 13 year old who knows everything without understanding anything, comes down to talk.

"Mike, if I tell you something will you promise to not tell my Mom?"

I turn the football game volume down because this is always good.

"No Maddie," I say, "I love you but I'm not getting in trouble with your Mom. Why don't you tell me what you don't want her to know and ... if you need to tell her ... I'll let you know."

And she tells me.

"Yeah," I say turning the volume of the game back up, "you need to tell your Mom. I'm not getting in trouble over this."

Every once in a while, Cassidy the 8 year old, gets lost appearing on the porch, is frightened and crawls in my lap.

"Do you want to play with me," she sweetly asks, curling in a ball in my lap.

"No," I reply in equal sweetness, "do you want to watch football with me?"

"No," she answers making her way back upstairs as I turn the volume back up.

I love the girls.

They're nutty as fruitcakes ... just like my kids were ...but everything's always interesting because of them.

Who wants a life that's not interesting?

"So she has no idea," Sandi asks on the pleasant Saturday afternoon.

"I have no idea," I say swinging in the chair.

And at that precise moment, Winston The Little Gay Dog pounces on Sandi's husband's crotch.

Dave, who was sleeping through the entire conversation, screams like a Pentecostal slain by the Holy Spirit.

Goddess rolls over and sighs.

"What are you doing today?" Dedra asks ... who's been remarkably silent throughout this conversation.

"Watching football," I tell them.

They immediately leave.

I turn up the volume.

And wish the girls were home.

Literally

I want to be back on my Honeymoon.

Honestly though ... it's like I never left.

Sure sometimes Sarah gets frustrated with me and throws around her New York moxie which I mostly ignore because I'm staring at her ... HER.

In a non-literal way our Honeymoon never ended.

But I'm literal today ... something I rarely do ... and something Sarah will love once she gets over the initial shock.

I want us to go back to Belize.

It's where we physically spent our Honeymoon ... at Robert's Grove ... if we weren't at the Barefoot Bar.

You can tell why I fell in love with the Barefoot Bar!

Flip-flops mean you're overdressed!

Definitely my kind of place!

We went everyday because the band was a bunch of Rastafarians who'd expatriated from Jamaica ... does that make any sense?

The answer is "No" but Sarah and I fell in love with them!

The food was good and the drinks were frozen.

This literal interpretation commenced yesterday when my daughter Chelsea texts "It's time for a dive trip. Where should we go?"

"Belize," I text back. "We gotta dive the Blue Hole."

THEN ... and this is why I believe in God ... SARAH TELLS ME ... "It's time for us to take a trip ... just us" ... and I can't agree more.

Because literally speaking this means we're going back to Belize TWICE in the not-too-distant-future!!!

I couldn't be happier!

I have no idea when these things are going to happen ...

or how we'll pay for them ...

but I believe they going to happen ...

LITERALLY!

My Daddy's War

"Tell me about war," I say to my Dad at the kitchen table one sunny afternoon.

He'd just gotten up ... Dad worked nights and woke up about the time we got home from school ... in fact many days David and I were the reason he didn't finish his sleep.

He looked at me long and hard sitting at one end of the table and me at the other.

"How bout them Dawgs?" he replies sipping coffee.

"Seriously Dad," I protests. "Tell me."

"I don't want to talk about that stuff," he answers with a snap.

I'd learned a long time ago when the snap in his voice appears to keep  my mouth shut so we sit in silence.

Standing, he pulls things from the refrigerator to make dinner. Mom's at work so Dad does the cooking ... and he loves it!

Mom gets home at 6:00 and David, Angi and I are expected to be at the kitchen table for family dinner ... and we eat, talk, laugh and are lectured about life ... at least I'm often lectured because I'm the one mostly in trouble.

"Here," Dad says handing me a $5 bill.

"Go to Crosby's and get one pound of hamburger meat. Ground Chuck ... not hamburger meat! Make sure he grounds it."

I ride my bike to the little store and Mr. Crosby grounds the chuck.

Returning to an aroma filled kitchen, Dad says "Sit down Son."

Laying the ground chuck on the counter, registering the snap in his voice, I sit at one end of the table and he at the other.

Sighing heavily, he wipes his eyes, clears his throat and says, "There is nothing good about War. It's best to forget them."
.
And my Daddy starts crying.

I sit frozen in fear.

Wiping his eyes he stands again, walks to me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Why don't you help me cook?"

Five decades later, I love to cook ... passionately hate War ... and have no hesitancy whatsoever to cry.

Happy Veterans Day Dad.

For what it's worth.

Forgiving Myself

John Cleese, the famous Monty Python comedian, recently said that in writing his autobiography, he was able to revisit the episodes of his past and forgive himself.

How do you forgive yourself?

"As you get older," he explains, "you look back and realize nothing matters anymore. You look back on those times when you sat there thinking 'Am I going to kill myself?' ... 'Why did she dump me?' ... or "I did a bad {thing}' ... and you realize none of it matters."

"You look back on it completely forgiving yourself and not taking all the pain and angst as yours."

Later he says, "I love my life because I just don't give a FU$K anymore ... I remember very clearly watching the American election results and Nixon was elected and I actually cried ... I cared that much at that point."

I found myself completely nodding in agreement as he says these things.

Maybe it's because I'm older too ... though I don't think of myself that way ... Hell, I play in a rock band again and combining it with Church! ... something I started attempting when I was in my teens!

Perhaps it's because I think John Cleese is both funny and insightful.

Certainly we agree politically.

"If someone asked me," he continues, "if you'd like to have dinner with David Cameron (The British Prime Minister), I would say 'No.' I'd like to stay home and play with my cats."

I completely get that!

I'd rather stay home with Sarah and the girls than have to endure politicians, famous people and most religious functions.

I'd prefer to talk to my kids on the phone.

Honestly, looking back, I did the best I could given where I was at then so I really don't think much about it.

I did the best I could.

I gave everything I had to give in those days.

Thank God they're over.

I am completely in love with the now!

And as crazy as a ride as it's been to get here, I'm completely in love with me too!

And I'm crazy as a loon about Sarah.

That's how you forgive yourself.

By loving yourself.

And then giving yourself away to someone who loves you back.

Heaven On Wheels

When Sarah's not home, Winston The Little Gay Dog, sleeps on the sofa.

When my wife is home, he sleeps cradled with her in the bed.

It's like he's ticked off that she's not here.

Goddess, our Golden Retriever with a  bit of Boarder Collie in her, remains the same ... sleeping in the bedroom doorway as though to protect us from whatever may come in the night.

The house is incredibly quiet.

Well except for the Beach Music I blast anyway but other than that ... I don't hear three little girls slamming doors, watching Netflix from bed or dropping plates while fixing breakfast.

Winston, TLGD, isn't head butting the bedroom door after being let outside to get back in bed with Sarah.

Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, doesn't shoot up and down the stairs to caress the girls then suddenly remember we're here too and rush back to show us love.

Even the happy sounds of the Beach Music sounds muted.

Plus it's raining.

Talk about a melancholy morning!

A few short years ago it was always like this.

It was just Goddess and me then and I blasted happy music to numb myself to the constant hurt, depression and loneness.

Then Sarah and I threw caution ... and most everything else ... to the wind, got married, doubled the number of children and it's HELL ON WHEELS ever since!

Actually HEAVEN ON WHEELS is a better description.

Heaven isn't perfect with it's slamming doors, constant Netflix, dropping plate and head butting dogs but ... I'm sure missing it today.

Happiness

The smell of mash fills the air as we drive pass
the Distillery.

Bourbon is aging and you can't mistake the aroma.

"My as well stop at this one too," Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, says jerking the car off Bardstown Road for "The Kentucky Bourbon Distillery."

We're on our way to a Spiritual Retreat at the Gethsemane Monastery where the famous Monk Thomas Merton had lived.

Gethsemane is a beautiful place but apparently Bill is no hurry to commune with the Holy Spirit opting for other Spirits.

Later in the Monastery Office we're giggling uncontrollably, falling all over one another and the Monk is delighted we are so happy to visit.

That's all I recall about that particular retreat.

"Ah good times," I tell Sarah. "Old stories."

I've got a lot of them.

She and I are creating new ones in Belize, Key West and on a boat when a naked, drunk Cowboy stole our towels and chairs.

My son Jeremy's in Kentucky visiting the same Distilleries Bill and I did all those years ago and that makes me happy.

Sarah and her girls are taking off for New York City today which is their old stomping grounds and they're excited and it makes me happy because it makes them happy.

I'm watching the home fort with Goddess, Winston The Little Gay Dog and Gypsy the formerly gender confused cat ... watching football today ... leading Bar Church tomorrow ... and working on work Monday ... and these things make me happy too!

I wish Sarah could have Scotty beam her back to bed with me every night while she's away.

And I do wish it was warmer.

Plus a winning Lottery ticket would make it all perfect.

But I suppose you can't everything.

I should just accept the happiness that I have now.

Long Time ... No Sea.

We live 5 blocks from the ocean ... 1 block from the Back River ... and 1/2 block from the Marsh.

It's pretty pathetic that its been weeks since my toes were in the sand ... several days since we watched the sun set over the Back River.

On a positive note, we see the Marsh most every day because if we fail to take a right or a left we're members of the choir of mussels living in the mud.

Island living isn't going to the Beach every day though for the life of me I don't understand why.

I capture moments of the beauty of this clump of sand ... topping the bridge over Lazaretto Creek with the views of docked Shrimp boats to my right and the open ocean pouring into the mouth of the Savannah river to the left always takes my breath away.

In defiance of the Tybee Cops I stay away from the Back Streets to ride down Butler Ave to catch glimpses of diamonds dancing on the water just around the big curve ... down Centre Street.

Leaving The Breakfast Club a full white moons hangs in a brilliant blue sky while the sun bubbles out of the Sea.

It's incredibly beautiful.

But ... we're incredibly busy ... so we miss the beauty a lot.

It's a funny thing about life.

You finally end up where you want to be ... only to miss a lot.

I've got to recalculate.

As much as I have to do ... and it's a lot ... my toes need some sand exfoliation.

I think Sarah should leave work "sick" so we can enjoy home.

We only have now ... we only have this ... we only have each other ... and it's a shame we don't stop dead in our tracks to enjoy what we've got.

One day it'll be gone.

Or we will.

Let's enjoy!

Shall we?

  

Can you call off Winter?

Every little things going fine until this blanket of clouds make their way from somewhere on the other side of the Sea.

Happily sitting on the Beloved Deck ... talking Spiritual things with the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, Coconut bra and grass skirt ... watching Fran's thousand shades of green dance in the sunshine ... Goddess laying under my bare feet ... surrounded by blooming things.

When suddenly the Ocean Breeze kicks up.

"Well Hell," I say out loud, standing to watch a thin blanket of grey cotton clouds make its way towards me like foggy evil smoke in an old Frankenstein movie.

"Oh Come on," I say to God, "the Elections are over so it's already cold enough in the world!"

God doesn't respond as the clouds grow thicker.

'WELL," I yell at the sky, "Besides Sarah and I watched the Country Music Awards last night and ... aside from that girl who looks just like every other Country girl singer who did a killer version of "Gentle on My Mind" ... every other song sounded just alike and IT WAS PURE HELL!

God still doesn't say anything though Seagulls and birds squawk taking cover in the trees.

"ARE YOU SIDING WITH METEROLOGISTS?" I scream at the Lord frustrated that a perfectly good morning is being ruined.

Squirrels start gathering nuts in the back yard.

"FINE!" I angrily spit, turning my back on Heaven.

My phone buzzes and it's a Tweet from Kris Allred ... a Meteorologist who's daughter is BFF with Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old ... letting me know "Warm today but turning cooler Friday and into the weekend. Just how cold will it be ..."

I hate Kris Allred ... though her kids are funny.

"NOT WINTER," I angrily yell at God who pulls back the blanket of clouds and sends me some sunshine.

"Alright," I say slumping back in my chair, "I forgive you. Can you call winter off though?"

The grey blanket of clouds cover the sun.

"Thanks," I mumble.

God doesn't say anything.

God's Laugh

I used to live and die "Elections" but could care less these days.

Instead of watching ... or really caring ... who won ... I was playing live music with friends and laughing a lot before going home to talk to little girls, cuddle with my wife and vaguely remember her guiding me from the sofa to our bed.

It's funny because I know how to do politics.

It's a game of stroking an elected officials ego while providing them a "Hero Opportunity" to make themselves look like a leader ... problem solver ... smart ... charismatic ... interesting ... re-electable ... and don't occasionally pee their pants like everybody else.

I've had the incredible fortune ... maybe it's misfortune ... to have met many.

Presidents Obama, Bush, Clinton and Carter ... Mitch McConnell, Harry Reid, Newt Gingrich, Andrew Cuomo and a gazillion others.

My favorite was Congressman Lindsay Thomas ... who like all sane people left politics to actually make a difference in the world ... though we drank beers on the beach together, telling jokes and helped one another out.

The rest are all the same.

There's really no difference.

What's exciting about politics is the game.

I won as much under Bush as I did Clinton!

They financed things differently but if you play the game right ... you end up getting what you want.

In my case I wanted money and policies to benefit the homeless, People with AIDS, the uninsured, the Elderly, addicts, whores and other normal people struggling to get by the ways they know how.

Today people I know won ... Mitch McConnell ... and people I know lost ... John Barrow.

There's little difference between them.

BUT ... the sky is an incredible deep blue today.

It's warm and nice on the Beloved Back Deck surrounded by purple and orange blooms, the sound of waves crashing in the distance and the pungent aroma of the Marsh.

I'm planning a nice romantic dinner for my wife.

Maybe a movie.

Maybe more!

It's a good day regardless of who's in charge.

Because I believe with everything in me that it's not whoever won or lost yesterday.

And I swear to God that it's God I hear laughing.

Backing Broken Promises

We should simply be honest and confess that, collectively ... as a Nation ... we have woefully screwed up every election since Abraham Lincoln.

Yeah, yeah, yeah ...

I know.

"WHAT ABOUT RONALD REGAN?" half of you yell.

"WHAT ABOUT BILL CLINTON?" the other half of you are yelling.

A lot of others scream out other names like Roosevelt ... Truman ... Bush ... and I'm sure there are few who still love Hubert Hoover.

Politics has become a spectator sport in the United States.

PULL FOR YOUR TEAM!

Nothing else matters.

That's okay on College Game Day but it's not especially good for anything else.

The sad fact of the matter is ... they're all the same.

They just want to be elected or re-elected.

They believe they're changing the world by taking perks and acting like royalty but it's on the back of managing the status quo ... which is the one talent they all share!

Yes ... I'm going to vote today.

I'm also cleaning the bathroom toilets.

I laugh at the irony.

Preaching Again

"He's not much of a preacher," were her words.

"I never claimed to be," is the honest response.

Yet here I am ... preaching ... again ... after I'd sworn it off ... yet again!

Decades ago, an inner city congregation of little old ladies lost their collective minds and "called" me to the ministry ... one had a butcher knife in her apron which makes it very hard to say "No."

I've had a love/hate relationship with preaching ever since.

On the one hand it's great!

For 20 minutes or so ... once a week ... I GET PAID to be the "Center of the Universe" and speak on God's behalf!

It makes me completely understand televangelists, politicians addicted to being elected and other Prostitutes.

On the other hand ... I'm standing there in front of people really wanting God ... and what they're getting is me.

Wounded ... wearing scars ... non-conforming ... multiply divorced ... often in trouble with organized religion ... a known sinner ... with long hair WAY BEYOND MY AGE GROUP ...

Let's be honest, my resume is not Preacher caliber material.

And I'm okay with that.

Then strange things happen ... and ... there I am "standing in the spotlight! Losing my religion," for anyone who wants to catch it ... or let it fly by.

I'm cool with it either way.

I do my best.

My Granddaddy Carver ... whom I passionately loved ... once said, "Mike, you are God's and he got mighty plans for you."

I wish Granddad were here right now because I'd really love to hear what he's got to say about my ministry, Bar Church and the things I'm doing now.

I've love for him to know Sarah.

"Before I formed you in the womb," I can hear my Granddaddy say to me ... quoting the Prophet Jeremiah ... who had his own issues with God ... once accusing the Lord of rape ... and who my son is named after ...

"Before I formed you in the womb," God says through my Granddaddy Carver who I passionately love to this day ... "I KNEW YOU."

"And before you were born I consecrated you appointing you a Prophet to the Nations," he says and kisses me on the head.

I can still feel his lips on my brow.

It's a terrible job!

Most Prophets didn't do too well in the end, getting killed or run out of town for the things they said on God's behalf.

Hell! In my case, I'm not even getting paid.

Yet here I am ... preaching again.

Given the choice I wouldn't do it at all.

There's not a lot of joy in it.

Except for the rumble in my stomach ... which is close to a womb for a boy ... when it's time to speak.

For my Granddaddy's lips on my forehead which I can feel to this day, wiping it repeatedly to be close to be him again.

And for this past Sunday when an old man cried with his hand on mine over things I'd said.

Zombie Church

It's Sunday so many will heading out to Church.

I've been hanging around Churches most of my life but never heard about Zombie Church until recently.

Zombies are very popular in America these days!

There are Zombie Survivalist Books, movies, the "Walking Dead" television show and the United States has elected countless Zombies to elected office.

The other day Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, asks if I am a Zombie.

"I don't think so," I reply helping her with her breakfast.

"How do you know?" she persists.

"I don't suppose I do," I answer handing her yet another Cinnamon Roll.

In the meantime I'm going over the song list for Bar Church today.

"Do Zombies go to Church?"

"Of course they do," I assure her. "I've been to lots of Churches full of Zombies. The congregation shows up dead from Saturday night ... sit in the same pew ... mumble the same prayers and sleep through the sermons."

"How do you know they're Zombies?"

"Doesn't that sound like Zombie behavior to you?"

Finishing her Cinnamon Roll, Cassidy grins and asks, "You go play in my room with me?"

"Aw thanks honey," I explain. " can't. I've got to get ready for Church."

My Island Girl

If you don't know ... my wife is from New York.

Sarah was actually born in Philadelphia but lived in Western ... not Upstate ... nor the City ... BUT ... New York for longer than she's lived anywhere.

Now she's an Island Girl.

She's got a great tan ... looks healthy and wholesome ... her long hair drapes her shoulders ... she's pierced ... tattooed in multiple places ... WAY MORE Pirate than I'll ever be ... and has a Beach Bum heart.

It's nice on Tybee Island this time of year ... for cold hearted people ... and our windows are open ... Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat, loves to sit in the window sill looking out ... Winston The Little Gay Dog sits on the sofa staring out the window ... and Goddess snores in the floor ignoring everything.

When you live on an Island though ... you are surrounded by crazy people.

Everyone who lives on an island ... is either running to ... or from ... something.

So last night ... through the open windows ... Sarah and I are talking when we hear ... "He calls himself a Preacher but he's not much of one."

Well, I don't call myself a Preacher but ... we both knew she was talking about me.

"I'll be right back," I tell my lovely wife ... who's in mid-sentence and could make yellow snow out of me at that moment.

"Come on Goddess," I say meandering down the stairs and our dog jumps up running like a Flintstone to go outside with me.

Our neighbor ... the one who gardens in her underwear ... is mad at me ... because Winston TLGD barks at her from his spot on the sofa when she gardens in her underwear.

"You talking about me?" I say in my best New York accent.

Before she can respond ... my wife stands in the middle of the road ... looking like Clint Eastwood ... and butchers our neighbor in front of our other neighbors ... embarrassing Tommy Solomon and his crew.

Goddess yawns.

This is where the story gets interesting.

Sarah and I are having dinner when we hear someone downstairs.

She strolls down the stairs, retrieves a bag full of bathing suit tops and a note from our neighbor proclaiming, "I do not garden in my underwear."

Well ... what do you do?

Sarah took the bathing suit tops to Johnny O and Judy O's house in case we need witnesses in Court ... because I'm not Minister enough!

When my lovely wife returned she wrote a note, stuffed it back in the plastic bag full of bathing suit tops and told me to walk across the street and hang it on her mailbox.

Of course I did ... I love my wife.

Anyway the bag's still hanging there now.

Haven't seen the neighbor.

Sarah's at work.

Goddess is yawning.

It's just another day living on an island.

You can't make stuff up.

Making Believe

Allegedly Tybee Island recycles.

I don't believe it for a second because just yesterday I've watched both the recycling and the garbage dumped into the same truck.

But ... like lots of places ...Tybee likes to play "make believe" ... so we pretend recycling is real because it makes everybody feel better ... though we don't really do it.

Now I'm pretty religious about putting the plastics and paper into the recycling can and the garbage in the garbage can ... and I have no idea why.

It all goes to the same place.

I suppose it's a question about my religion.

Why do I "make believe" there is recycling when there's not?

Why do I "make believe" whatever Government says is true?

Why do I keep putting the plastics and paper in the recycling can and the garbage in the garbage can making believe it makes a difference?

Why do I make believe Republicans are different from Democrats when they're self serving politicians trying to get elected?

These things depress me so I stand on the Beloved Back Deck to watch God paint the sky with the rising sun and ... I'm drawn to the yard art.

A long time ago ... as I went though a really bad time in my life ... nothing was going right ... wrong was winning at every turn ... my Mom redid the yard while I hid from everything in St. Martin.

When I finally came home I loved what she'd done.

Then years passed and things changed ... the kids grew up and left ... Sarah came home ... bringing her girls ... we got married on the beach under a full moon ... our family grew ... everything changed.

A few weeks ago the magic Mom made with the yard art had been bleached white in the sun and was as lifeless as I'd was then.

I suggested Sarah's girls repaint them ... breath new life into what was ... and eventually ... because everything takes longer than it should ... one afternoon they did it.

This morning ... there's new wine in old wineskins ... resurrection has occurred ... the dead walk again ... and the happiness of it all makes me laugh.

It's not make believe.

As my Mother is fond of saying ... "It is what it is."

Sighs

It is pitch black with a thousand twinkling diamonds dancing across the sky.

There are no clouds.

There is no wind.

It is a Silent Night ... a Holy one.

My bare feet are propped on the railing of the Beloved Back Deck as I stare at the Heavens.

It's four o'clock in the morning.

Sarah's sound asleep in bed with Winston The Little Gay Dog curled up beside her.

Next door our neighbor has two televisions on though I can't hear them through her open windows and I can't tell if she's asleep in her bedroom or passed out on the Living Room sofa ... either way she's fighting loneliness.

A scratch on the door jerks my head to the side and there's Goddess ... as she always is ... ready to share whatever it is I'm shouldering.

I let her out and she sighs heavily while collapsing by my side.

My hand naturally drops from the deck chair so I can rub the golden fur quickly turning white as she ages.

Silent Nights ... Holy Nights ... are mostly restless Nights.

I can't sleep ... don't want to wake Sarah ... am really glad Goddess is giving me company ... especially thankful God painted such a nice sky.

Everything running around in my head starts with ... "Why"?

Obviously satisfied with the nighttime sky ... God's got nothing to say.

I sigh heavily and say the purest of prayers ... "Oh!" ... and my heart breaks a little because there are things I desperately want but just can't make happen.

Goddess jumps up and slams her butt into my arm.

"STOP," I tell her ... but she doesn't ... wagging her tail ... repeatedly hitting me until I stand in frustration.

She scratches the door to lead me back inside.

Panting ... Goddess hurries to our bedroom and lay on the side of the bed where's Sarah and Winston TLGD are sleeping.

So I crawl in bed, hugging my wife who slurs, "Come back to bed" while rolling over and Goddess sighs heavily again.

And somewhere outside, though the open windows, I swear I hear God sigh
too.