I. HATE. SOCKS.

"You have a bank of stories don't 'cha?" he asks sipping his beer.

"What do you mean?" I reply with my bare feet leaning in the window of "Fannies on the Beach" staring at the beach.

Eying me suspiciously he continues, "You write new stuff every day?"

"I do," I answer moving my feet from the window to my favored dangling position on a high stool.

"So on the days you don't feel like writing," he pushes, "you have extras laying around and use one of them."

"Nope," I answer ordering another Chard-on-ice-in-a-Styrofoam.

"It takes me forever to write," he sighs.

"Yeah," I agree sticking my bare feet back in the sunshine pouring through the large plate window with the view of the ocean, "some morning's it takes me forever too."

"MORNINGS!" he erupts. "It takes me weeks to finish a song."

"Some days I get up knowing exactly what it's going to be," I continue, "but a lot of times I have to sit and wait."

Like now.

It's a crappy, non-inspiring day.

After a wonderful weekend with Sarah and the girls in the warmth of Florida, it's cold and those damn Weather Forecaster people are saying it's going to get worse.

Sarah's at work ... the girls are off at school ... the kids are scattered ... and I'm in a funk about it all.

"I bet you're wearing socks and hating every minute," is the post on Facebook by Sarah's soul sister Aaron, "and hating every minute of it."

It makes me smirk ... sitting with bare feet dangling over Goddess's fur ... she doesn't know me yet ... but we're already friends.

"AH," I say to myself, "INSPIRATION! ... I. HATE.SOCKS!"

I respond which leads to a lovely back-and-forth exchange ... complimented by our friend Matt Few ... who knows what a Handle is ... which a question for me ... "Who in the Hell would want to know what a Handle is?"

There is no backlog of these offerings.

This one happened just as it's spelled out with no "creative license" (my wife is going to be so proud of me)!

Thank you Aaron for the inspiration.

Thank you Matt for knowing things I never want to know.

And to conclude ... I haven't worn a sock in a year or so ... and in the last job interview I was in they pointed out that I wasn't wearing socks.

"And your point is?" I ask.

They didn't have one.

I didn't get the job.

But even in this crappy weather, Sarah keeps my heart hot ... which keeps my feet warm.

So there you go ... that's how I write ... where the inspiration comes from ... in real time with no bank or backlog.

I wish it was inspirational.

The point is ... I suppose ... if there is a point ... is ... it's easier to be inspired and write if you're barefoot.

My Dreams

 

Over the past few years I've begun to have vivid dreams.

Throughout my life I either slept hard and dark or lay awake focused on work.

Leading a slower life, no longer trying to save the world, dreams emerged as regular occurrences.

At first I found this startling and unwanted but, over time I've come enjoy them in spite of the occasional bad one.

Most are quite fascinating and I apparently really get involved.

Like the Bar Church Band is playing in Benny's like always but the stage is giant and new. Thousands of people are clapping but not singing along so I 'm giving it my best "Freddy Mercury" marching and prancing, holding the microphone over the crowd, led them to sing LOUDLY.

"You were singing in your sleep," Sarah says the next morning.

It took me a second but I remembered the ginormous stage and the crowd of thousands.

"How was I?"

"You were pretty funny," she laughs and does an impersonation complete with wild waving arms.

I don't read too much into them but do look forward to their arrival now.

God speaks, "In a dream, in a vision of the night, when sleep falls on people while they slumber in their beds" it says in the Bible.

I'm wondering what the message I should be getting in my dreams ... especially the erotic ones.

I had good dreams last night and am already looking forward to tonight's.

But I'm more curious about the messages in them.

Washing Away What Might Have Been

Standing in the crowd listening to Jesse J ... whoever she is ... because the girls had never been to a live concert ... so here I am.

It's actually a 1/2 live concert with the background singers all on tape and two guest rappers were ... nowhere to be seen

But the girls think it's Bad Ass rock-and-roll we're having a good time!

Standing on the lawn holding Cassidy the 8 year old so she can see ... my black running shorts explode in relentless buzzing.

Handing Cass to Sarah, I stick my hands down my shorts to retrieve my phone.

It's my sister Angie.

Mom was at a party, started to slur a bit, fainted and is now at the hospital.

"She going to be mad when she wakes up," I think. "She hates Hospitals and Doctors except on social occasions."

Sarah casts looks of worried contemplation so I hand her the phone as she hands me Cass.

Jesse J is engaging audience members to sing and I'm surprised they know all the words to songs I've never knew existed.

The 17 year old kid standing beside me is screaming, "PICK ME! PICK ME! PLEASE JESSE I LOVE YOU MOST!"

The phone starts buzzing again so I hand Sarah Cass as she hands me the phone.

It's my cousin Jason who's at the Hospital with Mom.

"She wants to talk to you," he texts.

That's when the lump in my throat grows significantly and my heart drops like a roller coaster. 

Jesse J runs out of songs and we rush to the car to sit in traffic, find a single and I call.

"They're running a battery of test," Jason explains, "and are keeping her tonight ... because she hasn't been to the doctor in so long, they're checking everything."

Mom gets on the phone and sounds ... perfectly fine like she always does.

"I didn't want you to worry," she says.

"Angie already did that," I laugh.

It gives me pause ... and I'm washing away what might have been.

I thank God, whatever lucky stars are mine and freely spending any Good Karma I've amassed.

I exhale a sigh of relief ... which really is one of the honest prayers.

A few minutes later Jason sends another text and Laurel, the 10 year old, reads it aloud in the Angelic voice of a little girl ... "All the test results are fine and positive" and the car breaks into a celebration of love and joy.

I know they'll be a day when I can't wash away what might have been but I'm pretty happy it still hasn't arrived.

Valentine's Day ... with girls

We're in Florida, very near places I've almost been hired over the past year and where we've almost moved.

For whatever reason neither opportunity worked out.

The first was extremely disappointing because it was something I really coveted.

The second was most frustrating because at the very end they opted for a member of their own Board of Directors ... the one chairing the Search Committee who'd really wanted to hire me.

Driving the same roads I've driven over the past year with excitement, expectations, hopes and dreams ending in ... missed opportunities.

The difference now is the car is ... FULL ... OF ... GIRLS!

In the back seat the girls are loudly singing today's really crappy pop hits.

The beauty on my right is yelling at them to be quiet so she can tell where I'm going.

"Who's been best on this trip Mommy?" one asks.

"Well it was me," the oldest immediately replies.

"It was not," the other counters.

And they get in a fight which, of course, makes Mommy yell louder for them to shut up so she can tell me where to go.

In the nanosecond of ensuing quiet, Mommy reaches over, rubs my shoulder and asks, "You okay? You seem a little tense and you're driving like a fool."

"I'm great honey," I smile. "I just really want to get there."

What I mean, of course, is to get the Hell out of the car after six hours!

We arrive at the really nice place Mommy booked and, of course, the girls get in a fight over who's sleeping where.

Accessing the Internet, I go to Spotify, find "The Boat Drunks," turn it up and pour myself a very large glass of wine while Mommy negotiates "World Peace."

But you know what?

We have the best time at dinner.

"There is a 15 minutes wait," the waitress informs us.

"That's cool," I reply, "we'll wait in the Bar. You serve minors don't you?"

We were seated pretty immediately.

Our table is full of laughing, telling stories, holding hands, conversations running over each other ... it was a truly remarkable evening ... and the kick off to one Hell of a Valentine's Weekend.

Enjoy yours!

Love yourself if you're not getting enough from others.

In the quiet of this moment I am celebrating the gifts of my life ... because I know all Hell is going to keep breaking loose ... as Hell always should.

Happy Day everyone!

Random Unanswerable Questions

Why is McDonalds classified as a "fast food" when it takes 10 minutes to get a cup of coffee during breakfast?

What's fast about that?

Is it because I didn't order food so therefore they don't have to be fast?

It's food for thought isn't it?

Which makes me wonder how many Stop Signs are required on a 3 mile long island that's two miles wide at it's broadest?

I "Googled" it because I don't know and Google doesn't know either so ... who knows?

How do they put air inside a tennis ball?

There's no hole on the ball so how do they get the air inside?

It's a mystery isn't it?

Why do people care if it's Republicans or Democrats controlling Congress when they're both the same?

Why is there never anything worth watching on television when there are hundreds of channels?

Where is Dedra Dukes Shuman and why?

Why do people listen to today's Country Music?

Why do Sarah's girls listen to today's Pop music?

It's all strange isn't it?

Why do buildings named Sanctuaries stay locked most of the time?

Which of course begs the question ... why does anyone believe in celibacy ... which has never really existed?

I could keep going but why bother?

Perhaps there will be a "Part II" list of unanswerable questions?

You can't blame me for stopping now though can you?

We're off to Florida for a few days and who doesn't like that?

Or do you think it could be the people in Florida?

Do you think we care?

Don't you know it's warm there?

And I think you all know how much I love warm ... don't you?

Raising the Dead

BE WARNED ... THIS IS A CRAPPY STORY!

We're having the best conversation and don't want to interrupt for the distraction of cooking so we keep talking.

It's an intimate, good talk and we're sharing things we never have.

Far after normal we decide it's time to eat, settle on where and rush out for a bite and continued conversation.

It's nice.

Returning home we watch a delightful move ... "Life's a Breeze" ... filmed in Ireland ... where we visited last year.

Then we're tired and it's bed time so ... stay up a little while longer.

THEN ...

Somewhere around 3 in the morning ... Sarah snuggles beside me ... but something's not quite right.

First off I'm sweating and I'd already done that when we went to bed and stayed up longer ... now I'm sweating in my sleep!

Second of all I'm not having any dreams of events, activities or things that would make me sweat.

I find this bothersome.

THEN ...

My belly starts talking ... and it's not the good kind ... it's the gurgling, rumbling, discomforting sort of dialogue you avoid at all cost.

Leaping out of bed ... I take little tiny steps to the bathroom.

THEN ...

It hits the fan.

Repeatedly.

My first thoughts are "I wonder who did this to me?" ...  "Could it have been that greasy burger, baked potato and slimy salad I had for supper?" ... "Maybe it was the Onion Rings, Fried Shrimp, Cheese and Bread and Brunswick Stew I had for lunch?"

It couldn't have been breakfast.

I don't eat breakfast.

THEN ...

The funniest thing happens.

"I can't be sick," I think, "I have to play at the Nursing Home today."

They would just die if I didn't show and ... as everybody knows ... especially the people who live in one ... there's WAY TOO MUCH dying in Nursing Homes.

THEN ...

And ... to quote my dear friend Guy Sayles ... America's greatest pastor ... well until he recently quit ... "I don't know ... but I believe."

It's just hard to NOT LOVE GUY SAYLES!

THEN ...

I'm fine.

It's like God reaches down, touches me and says, "Those people are important and you have to go ... so BE HEALED!"

And I was.

Climbing back in bed I surround myself with Sarah and peacefully sleep.

And you can bet everything you got to bet ... today's show at the Nursing Home is going to raise the dead.

Or at least keep them from dying for one more day.

It's a funny story ... a very true one ... one people don't normally share ... but ... there's something about raising the dead that raises you too.

Names

"Do you have animals?" he asks.

"I do," I reply into the phone.

I know I shouldn't have answered but I did because Sarah gave me lots of instructions before she left and the caller from Wilmington, NC may have had something to do with them.

I'm not sure.

"William?" he asks and I know I'm done for.

I don't know why in this country ... first names get preference ... but they do.

It's Government of course which can't cope with more than one name ... or thing ... at a time.

My Dad was William Franklin Elliott ... called Billy.

When I was born Mom wanted to name me that ... but in a moment of clarity my Dad said, "I don't want no damn Junior! Name him something else."

They settled on Michael ... which somehow came Micheal ... with the E before the A ... now my Mother denies this ... but she was knocked out with pain killers at the time ... and you can't always trust your Mother (as Lou Reed famously said).

My brother got it worse ... he was born 11 months later ... as my Dad was determine to prove an "Old Wives Tale" wrong.

"Let's name him David," my Dad says.

"Okay," Mom replies ... obviously high laying in bed ... snuggling the jar of morphine.

"What's his middle name?" Mom asks ... dreamingly staring into Heaven.

Dad panics ... grabs the phone book ... opens it up ... sticks his finger on the first name he sees ... and says "Eugene."

Ah ... it cracks me up to this day!

David Eugene Elliott!

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Anyway, the guy on the phone is an insurance agent that my wife Sarah apparently has a clandestine relationship with.

"William?" he asks again.

"No," I reply. "I'm Micheal."

All of that to say ... Thanks Dad.

It sure comes in handy sometimes.

As much of a pain-in-the-ass it can be.

Damn Government.

And to this day ... I'm not quite sure what our sister Angi was named for ... Angel or Ass?

Friends and Beer

Looking like a Lumberjack on a bicycle, Monty Parks strolls to a stop in front of Fannie's On The Beach and breaks into a grin.

His smile is infectious transforming the imposing Lumberjack into a friendly Elf.

"How does he do that?" I say out loud sipping my wine.

I'm dressed in a white UGA tee shirt, black running shorts and flip-flops resting on the floor as my feet lay in the window.

He is a multi-talented man ... politician, warehouse manager, elected official but, most importantly, a really fine guitar player and singer.

Monty hosts his own Jam on Tuesday nights in the Bar formally known as "Doc's".

I don't know why it's formally known as "Doc's" but on the plate glass window where it used to say "Doc's" ... well everything that used to be there is there ... expect for "Doc."

I knew Doc and he'd probably turn over in his grave over the whole name thing were he still alive ... which he's not.

I think the names in litigation or something.

But everything's in litigation on Tybee these days.

Most people don't like Lawyers these days ... and there's lots of jokes about them ... like ...

"What do you call a smiling courteous person at a Bar Association Convention ... The caterer."

Or ... "Why did God invent Lawyers? ... so that Real Estate Agents would have someone to look down on."

I checked that last one out with Shirley Sessions.

She says it's true.

Okay ... one more ... "What do you call 25 Skydiving Lawyers? ... Skeet."

Shirley didn't say anything about that one.

Anyway, Monty and I are meeting for beers and friendship ... a pretty good combination.

I have no recollection of anything we discussed and will deny everything when ... not if ... called upon in Tybee Court.

Everybody eventually is summoned to Tybee Court.

I'm denying everything though about Monty and me.

Because that's what friends do for friends.

Which reminds me ... "How many Judges does it take to screw in a light bulb? ... One ... She's convinced the world revolves around her anyway."

Teachers R Us

One of the secrets of a happy life is to forever be re-inventing yourself.

Honestly, half the time you're not in charge of reinvention ... circumstances are ... a love one dies ... maybe your spouse ... your child ... you lose the job ... or the Uncle named Sam makes impossible demands you can't possibly meet ... takes things from you which shouldn't possibly be given.

So your life is reinvented ...

Immediately!

And there's no going back to the life that was.

No matter how much you may want to go back, the only option is moving forward.

Well ... not moving at all is another option but ... that's just choosing to slowly kill yourself ... which isn't much of a choice at all ... but God knows a lot of people live this way.

I'm tallying things up and ... I've been incredibly successful twice in my life ... but ... as Soren Kierkegaard one said ... have had MAGNIFICANT failures!

I've been divorced twice ... but am so very happily married ... successfully raised 3 kids who are successful in their own rites... am now raising 3 more girls ... tried to be in love until I've learned what love really is ... done stupid things and really spectacular ones too ... am "growing older but not up"  ... embrace how easily I cry while struggling to understand how repulsive or silly others find it ... wondering where everyone who used to love me went?

Into their own lives I suppose.

Leaving me incredibly thankful for who loves me now!

Today I took the girls to school ... an incredibly morose and screwed up affair ... not the girls ... the school!

Pulling up to the curb, the girls lavish me with me love ... hugs and kisses ...till I stop, lean over to pull the latch for them to get out ..."

"NO," Laurel yells. "Pull up! A teacher has to open the door. We can't do it."

"What in the Hell are you talking about?" I ask and they move from loving children to very disciplined ones in a nanosecond.

"Good Morning," some teacher says opening the door for the girls to get out.

"Seriously?" I ask.

"You have a good day," she says sounding like a teacher.

"HEY," I yell ... and use a verb followed by a pronoun.

Obviously impressed with my syntax she gives me a wonderful display of single digit dexterity.

All of that to say ... I love my life ... love my wife deeply (and I mean that in every sense of the word) ... intensely proud of my children and loving raising girls who intensely love me ... don't think much about the old lives I've lived because I like this one so much.

Then it strikes me ... Teachers ... they're the problem.

Always have been.

Always will be.

Confessions

In light of NBC News Anchor Brian Williams confession that he really wasn't "under fire" as he'd reported when flying over Iran in 2003 ...

and the ensuing storm of really funny revelations of things Brian Williams didn't do either ...

Like sitting behind Abraham Lincoln in the Ford Theater ...

Holding the ring for Frodo as they cross a bridge ...

Encouraging Pope Francis to "just do it dammit" ...

Helping Bruce Jenner with his "life choices" ...

Grabbing Michelle Obama while saying to the President, "Let me show you how it's done" ...

Writing Sarah Palin's speech in Iowa last week ...

In light of these and other revelations, I have decided to come clean too, clear my conscious and confess a couple of things that I've kept hidden.

It was Mitch Wesley and Mark Wood who fired the gun in the Haunted House that night in college while Dedra Dukes sat in the getaway car ... I had nothing to do with it.

It was Johnny O and Henry Levy who put the "Clothing Optional" stickers on every cross walk leading to the Beach on Tybee Island ... I had nothing to do with it.

It was Jodee who spray painted the white billboard with black letters spelling "Why would Jesus care?" ... I had nothing to do with it.

It was Roma Harper who put the lit dear stolen from the City's Christmas display on Johnny O's care one night ... I had nothing to do with it.

It was Jenny Orr who gave David Ring shots of Crown Royal at the "Best Buns on the Beach" competition that lead to Diane Ring helping her husband while he dances on a picnic table wearing a leopard thong with a wardrobe malfunction ... I had nothing to do with it.

It was my son Jeremy who made the "Yard of the Month Sign" placing it in Bobby Phillips yard with the words "NOT" written on the back ... I had nothing to do with it.

There I feel better.

I'm sure Brian does too.

Crazy Love

Our neighbor who gardens in her underwear died.

A cantankerous woman with wild white hair ... she'd stroll outside in her bra and panties to care for Cherry Tomatoes she was forever growing.

She sang to herself in a sweet low voice.

She was quick to anger and loathed our dogs.

I don't think she was fond of the girls either scowling at them rushing inside or out in the loud flurry only little girls can create.

She called the Police a lot ... for most anything ... and somehow managed to put clothes on before they arrived.

She'd keep the poor officer captive on her stoop of a front porch to the point I'd feel sorry for the guy who never got a word in edgewise.

She made her living as a midwife and would often be gone a month at a time ... lulling us into a false sense of peacefulness ... then returning full of furry ... softly singing while gardening in her underwear.

The last time we spoke she was yelling at me for something ... standing in the middle of the street ... and it made Sarah so mad she came out to yell back.

A few days later the girls and I left pumpkins on the tiny stoop of a porch as gifts of peace.

They are still there.

She died before ever acknowledging them.

Johnny O tells me she was a beauty in her day though I can't see it.

He also tells me she was crazy in her day too and I can see that.

She drove her lover to work naked he tells me ... from Tybee Island to Port Wentworth which is a far drive ... before being pulled over by the Police ... and I'm sure she talked his ears off before he let her go.

As crazy as she was ... and she was crazy ... there's a sense of loss rumbling around inside of me.

It's been a year of death ... Matt Wilkerson inexpiably killed driving home to be with his wife and kids ... my cousin Sherry ... my Mom's dear friend Betty who always made me laugh ... our other neighbor Karen who loved to sit in her yard weeding for hours on end ... my Cousin Sherry's Step-Dad who was the nicest person I've ever met.

"Ob-la-di ... Ob-la-da ... life goes on ..." and it does ... just not in the same way.

I'll miss her craziness ... though God knows there's enough craziness in the world already.

Cars occupy her yard and I suppose her children, family or friends are dividing her possessions and dealing with the headaches and heartbreaks of dying.

I'm glad she was here though and raise a glass to her craziness ... though I won't miss her anger.

But it's good she was here ... birthing babies and loving them to life.

It's a  shame she was so selective about it because ... God knows ... this crazy world could use more love in life.

Hugging Mr. Handsome

I hugged Mr. Handsome.

I couldn't help myself.

It started innocently enough.

Sarah and I are on a date ... as couples should do ... she's hot and I'm proud ...we have a nice dinner where she sits and I stand ... before walking arm in arm to the Civic Center ... for the Harry Connick, Jr. concert.

Once inside, I'm standing in line for wine when ... there's Mr. Handsome.

Robin Wheeler's there too but ... it's Mr. Handsome for God's sake ... and I'm a little overwhelmed.

Leaving the line I rush over and hug Mr. Handsome.

It was great!

I don't know if words were exchanged or not but I'm not washing ever again.

It seems I may have hugged Robin Wheeler ... whom I love ... but I can't recall.

It was over WAY TOO FAST.

I was back in line getting wine.

Sarah is rushing me to get to our seats.

Dedra's sitting in the second row hugging some guy who is definitely not as handsome as Mr. Handsome.

The point being ... it sure is nice when you see people you really like have nice things happen in their lives ... because there's enough shit in life ... so it's a wondrous moment that slips into infinity ... when Sarah and I  ... who are so happy ... see Robin Wheeler and Mr. Handsome ... who look pretty damn themselves ... and for a moment ... we share happiness.

It was a damn good night.

The best part is we all woke up and have the chance to do it again.

Mr. Handsome ... ummmm ... private message me if you want to get together again.

Family

"Thank you for putting it out there," she writes.

"Well," I say out loud to Goddess who is snoring under my bare feet, "you're damned if you do and damned if you don't."

Sighing heavily in agreement our dog immediately returns to slumber.

Sitting alone on a rainy morning, I ponder things.

In an hour I'm playing guitar at the Nursing Home and have no idea whatsoever what songs we're doing.

At the same time my black brother Carlos in St. Martin and I are leaving messages about his daughter Chelsea ... same name as my daughter ... and his daughter and I had many excellent adventures when she was a little girl ... which she is not anymore ... all you have to do is look at the picture.

Once I was babysitting Chelsea and teaching her to snorkel when I pluck a giant conch from the sand, hold it above my head and she snatches it ... runs to the restaurant where Verna, her Mother works and ... lunch is born.

Simultaneously I text Mark, my illegitimate brother ... meaning he grew up in our house but had different biological parents.

His son Nolan ... our nephew ... perhaps not biologically but in every sense of the word ... lay in a hospital bed in Atlanta ... and I need to know the latest.

I have "America" blasting in the background when my brother David ... we are actual biological brothers ... text me informing me he'll do something immediately ... which I know is a lie ... David never does anything immediately.

I still can't believe he has children.

I remember I forgot to tell Maddie, Sarah's 13 year old, something this morning ... when the boys at The Breakfast Club sang, "Girl you're a woman now" and dedicate it to her ... so I text her.

Carlito writes claiming he doesn't worry about Chelsea because she's a strong girl who knows what she wants.

So does our Maddie.

It scares the Hell out of me.

Mark sends me a text he's coming back to Savannah on Monday.

My brother David forgets we're communicating and has dropped out of sight.

"I should do some America songs at the Nursing Home," I say out loud waking Goddess up so she sighs again.

Carlito and I are now instant messaging.

It's been too long since we've talked ... so we make the time NOW ... because that's all you really got.

Sarah and I have a date tonight and I have to think about what to wear.

Carlito messages me so I ask him.

"You're wearing something?" he asks knowing me like my other brothers.

It's been a lovely morning but I have to go to the Nursing Home now but I'm thankful for my family.

Mine is wonderful!

The Garden of Eden ... and then there's Tybee Island

"Here is a place that can never be dark ... I remember that place."

Death seems to be everywhere these days.

On island there've been way too much lately.

I'm sure we're exceeded our quota.

Damn over achieving Tybee Island!

We used to be an island of underachievers ... primarily because nobody cared about anything other than having a good time.

Good times are now seriously regulated on the Tybee Island.

You have to have a permit to have a good time now.

In most cases, City Council has to approve a planned "Good Time."

If you get hammered you will be nailed.

The Ocean used to drive this island but now it's money.

It costs a quarter to park for 15 minutes here.

That's insane.

People are going to burn in Hell for making such a stupid policy.

When financing Government becomes more important than people having a good time ... Hell has seriously broken loose.

We also have more "Stop Signs" per square inch than any place in the world.

You can't pee without having to stop on Tybee Island or you will be fined.

If you want to get married on the Beach, City Hall requires a $50 permit ... which begs a question ... since when did City Hall own and regulate the beach God made for everyone?

Don't get me wrong, it's still a most beautiful ... though terribly over regulated place!

It's killing people ... literally.

Lot's of people on island have died recently and that just doesn't sit well with me.

Far away from the new City Hall chambers ... but never far away from the island revenue generating police department and Judicial system ... pieces of old Tybee remain ... pockets of joy and celebration ... sunsets ... moon rises ... naked tanning and skinny dipping ... toasting everything while doing nothing.

On Tybee such things are treated as terrorist activity ... and will soon be killed ... for the sake of City revenue ... the very over achieving Nazi like Police Department ... a bigger jail ... a nicer venue for Judges to judge.

It just doesn't seem right does it?

But ... I remember that place ... when it wasn't always dark ... or over regulated ... and we'd swim naked in the Ocean ... the way God always intended the Garden of Eden to be.

The Best of Both Worlds

What goes around comes around.

It's the Southern way of explaining "Karma."

I've been thinking about it a lot lately.

Mine's been a crazy life ... full of incredible highs and devastating lows ... all of which I've ... inexplicably survived.

Honestly there's no way I should still be living at all ... car wrecks ... a misfired gun ... divorces ... betrayal ... abandonment.

"I don't know how you've survived," Herb McKenzie said standing in my office after the latest round of betrayals.

On the up side ... I've been everywhere ... done most everything ... didn't worry about money ... became a celebrity ... busted through glass ceilings ... published lots of books ... and met the famous.

It all seems to even out.

What goes around comes around.

These days, I'm quietly content.

Every morning Sarah ... the love of my life ... dresses, kisses me and leaves to conquer the world ... meaning I'm alone with the dogs, the cat and God.

It's a horrific moment but one I find myself looking forward to.

God and I have lots to discuss.

"You've had ... and have," God's tells me this morning, "the best of both worlds."

"Shut Up," I reply pondering house and flood insurance and my agents apparent complete lack of reasoning, credit card bills and private school costs.

"I'm not going to shut up," God thunders as I stare out of the windows.

Everything goes quiet for a while.

"Remember Thomas Merton?" God asks ... and my mind rushes back to when Bill Berry ... not the former drummer for REM but the other one ... and I struck off to break religious rules and find the famous Monk's Hermitage.

"Yeah," I sigh.

"It's like that," God says.

"Hmmm," I muse.

Merton was a crazy dichotomy ... a Trappist Monk ... taking a Vow of silence ... writing immensely popular books ... becoming a rock star in a robe ... his Hermitage visited by Joan Baez and other rock starts ... who died trying to connect with Buddhist Monks ... which just made him more popular than before.

In a moment of clarity, I know exactly what God is saying.

I've given everything to everybody and now it's time for me ... well ... and God.

We have long quiet talks when Sarah leaves for work.

Our house becomes a Hermitage until she comes home after work and the girls are here on the long weekends.

Bill and I never made it to Merton's famous digs.

But God's telling me that I have now.

The Captain's Miracle

"Cross the home of the Seminoles, the alligator and the Gar," I sing in the Nursing Home and I don't know what processes me but something does and I stop in the middle of the song.

"Who knows what a Gar is?" I ask as Lona keeps playing guitar and John still beats the drums.

Our band sounds like a car wreck with a smile.

Then a miracle happens.

We've been playing the Nursing Home for a few months now ... Thursday's at 10 ... Island Standard Time ... half the crowd sing along, beat tambourines, dance, or intensely watch.

The other half sit there ... mostly in wheel chairs ... head down ... drooling ... silent ... half a foot in Heave or Hell and the other stuck there listening to us.

"Who knows what a Gar is?"

And one of the half dead crowd ... sitting in the same spot every Thursday ... in his wheelchair ... wearing a Captains Hat ... with his chin resting on his chest ... yells ... "I DO!"

Everyone stops and stares at him.

I'd certainly never heard him speak before.

Hell I'd never seen him MOVE before.

"IT'S A FISH!" he screams. "LOT'S OF TEETH! YOU DON'T SPEND TIME ON THE WATER LIKE I DID WITHOUT KNOWING GAR!"

The Captain's hat on his head suddenly makes sense.

I burst into tears.

Lona looks from him to me then back at him again.

John sits behind his drums like a Monk with his hands folded, head down as in prayer, appreciating the Holiness of it all.

We've never witnessed a resurrection before.

"Holy Shit," I mutter.

Then the Captain grins ... obviously proud of his knowledge and experience ... his eyes dancing with life ... head upright ... ready for the music.

Another half dead wheelchair imprisoned inmate hits a tambourine breaking the moment of awakening.

We sing again but everything is different.

They beat the Hell out of the tambourines, clapping and yelling and smiling.

Those who can't form words anymore scream in unspoken tongues.

The Captain smiles with his head held high, eyes full of life, shaking his one good hand to the rhythms of the music.

I've always believed in miracles.

But I believe in them more now.

No Hurry At All

A Butterfly is resting on the screen of the window on the first day of February.

While I wish it were 20 degrees warmer, I can't complain.

I'm barefoot, wearing a tee shirt listening to "The Boat Drunks", getting ready for Bar Church ... watching a Butterfly.

The house is full of sleeping girls which makes me happy.

Goddess is laying under the table, snoring with my feet resting on her back.

The sun bubbles out of the ocean and rests in the hair of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra and grass skirt. Golden rays burst out of the fawns blazing through the sliding glass doors into the kitchen where we sit.

The Butterfly remains content.

I am too.

Earlier this week Bill Berry ... not the former drummer for REM but the other one ... commented, "You've changed. You're not as intense ... not in a hurry ... and you've always been in a hurry ... you always had to be doing something."

"I guess," I cleverly reply.

He's right though.

Sarah tells me I don't have the fire I did years ago and she's right too.

Angry flames are now a slow, smoldering love affair.

Meandering to the window, I tap the glass and the Butterfly holds my stare.

"Let me take your picture," I say out loud, returning to the kitchen, retrieve my phone and laugh as I snap the photo.

"You're in no hurry today," I laugh, returning to my chair.

And I swear to God, I heard the Butterfly say, "It's nice isn't it?" 

Living without Lying

It was at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, of all places, that I fell in with the Gay Crowd.

It should surprise no on that Gay people attend Seminary ... become Priests ... Firemen ... or Policemen ... get elected to office ... or much anything else for that matter.

"We're everywhere! We're everywhere!" Jack Kersy, a good friend of mine once explained.

In Seminary though, in a study group late one nigh, drinking multiple cups of coffee, wrestling while translating Greek into English, Mary takes a moment to tell us she is a Lesbian.

Everyone seems to take it in stride ... until the next day when Mary's viciously talked about behind her back.

Complicating matters is Mary attends the Church where I'm, inexplicably, the Pastor.

"Hey Mary, you know they're talking about you," I recall saying.

"I can't live a lie," she fires back.

And at that precise moment, one I'll never forget, something moves in my heart, and I know I'm on her side ... no matter what.

So at the Church we let it be known Gay People are welcome and ... believing in God as much as the rest do or don't ... they come.

Then AIDS comes and I find myself in the forefront of a tiny group ... half gay and half straight ... trying to figure out what to do.

People hate us.

We're called lots of names, rotten things are written in the Newspaper, so we meet in secret ... in the back rooms of Gay Bars or the rectory of the Catholic Church.

When the time's right we go public ... in a big way ... announcing housing and services for people with AIDS ... which leads to more people calling us names, new rotten articles in the Newspaper but ... we're out of the closet and not going back inside.

Baptist Corporate Headquarters calls me in for an Inquisition.

"YOU ARE CONDONING HOMOSEXUALITY!" they scream in love.

"I'm part of a group helping people who have AIDS," I remember saying. "You ever die with AIDS? It's horrible."

"YOU ARE CONDOING HOMOSEXUALITY!" they reply in more love.

"I guess," I answer.

My relationship with the Baptists ends shortly afterwards.

The wonderful friendships I have with many Gay and Lesbian friends have grown through the years.

Weekly we have movie night in our house and last night Sarah, the girls and I cuddle together on the sofa and watch "PRIDE" ... about Gay and Lesbians helping striking miners in England in 1984 ... resulting in, among other things, understanding that people are people.

There's lots of discussion during the movie  but most questions were, "Why are they being so mean?"
"Yeah right?" is my explanation, because I still don't understand such things when the Bible's pretty clear that "God is Love."

Why are people so mean to people who are merely trying to live without lying?

I don't know.

But we are.

Maybe admitting it is the first step to overcoming it.

I don't know.

But that's how we're going to live in our house.

Church without a Church

At Bar Church ... yes the Church in a Bar ... the one I'm the Semi-Professional Christian ... inexplicably in charge ... I inherited some funny traditions.

The premise of Church in a bar is you can worship God anywhere ... even in a Bar ... then go to the Beach and worship some more.

So we do.

We're much more comfortable in Benny's than in a multimillion dollar building with stained glass, padded pews, big ass steeples and large parking lots.

Apparently most people are.

Somewhere around 42% of Americans actually attend Church.

Lots of people question if 42% reflects reality as it includes those who only attend on Easter or Christmas ... which really shouldn't count ... because they went out of guilt ... and the actual number of people who faithfully attend Church in America is around 30% ... maybe.

Yet, 97% of Americans believe in God, a Higher Power, One Consciousness or the Power of Community!

They just don't attend regular Churches to fuel their faith.

Jesus never had a Church ... though he command St. Peter to build one ... on his back ... which was broken ... when he was crucified upside down ... which he asked for ... because he didn't feel worthy enough to be nailed to a cross like Jesus ... but this is according to Church people ... with the multimillion dollar buildings, stained glass, padded pews and large parking lots.

At Bar Church we don't get caught up in such things.

Hell half the time we can't even make the sound system work right ... only Davy Cahill can do that ... and he plays drums too.

But I digress.

Bar Church ends when Norm is called to the stage to conclude the service.

Laying his cigarette aside he takes his sweet time walking to the stage ... to address a crowd of really happy people ... because Church in a bar is freaking awesome.

Anyway Norm strolls up, sits on a Bar Stool and says, "Hello Tybee Church!"

"MORNING NORM," the rag tag groups yells.

"We need to pray for," he begins ... then he lists the most horrible things that happened in the world over the past seven days ... beheadings ... Mike Huckabee running for President ... deaths ... and such ... then he leads us in "The Lord's Prayer" ... which we all say out loud.

It's depressing as Hell.

Then the Bar Band ... do not confuse us with a Praise Band ... immediately launches into "Knocking on Heaven's Door" because a perfectly upbeat crowd has been brought immediately down ... or, my personal favorite ... "People pray just a little bit longer, stay just a little bit more."

We crack each other up at Bar Church.

The point being ... we know there's a lot of bad in the world ... and during a celebration of loving God and each other in a Bar ... we're reminded of them ... then we do the "Our Father" ... then we celebrate.

It's a funny Church and I'd swore I'd never do Church again but here I am ...doing Church ... kinda ... without an actual Church ... but a Bar ... and I'm finding it absolutely ... Heavenly.

Dog Enabling

I am an enabler.

I admit it.

I spoil the shit out of Goddess.

Every morning I get up, kiss Sarah, shower, dress and throw Goddess a treat as I leave for coffee at The Breakfast Club.

Returning a short time later for Sarah's breakfast, she readies for work,

Goddess ... and her two brothers ... Winston, The Little Gay Dog  and Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat ... all go nuts for treats.

Walking into the bathroom first, I kiss my wife as the dogs and the cat do this crazy dance and make lots of noise.

"Alright, alright," I laugh, "Let's go!

The animals follow me into the kitchen, I grab handfuls of dog treats ... open the sliding glass doors ... throw them out ... the dogs run out the Road Runner ... slide the door shut ... feel Gypsy curling around my bare feet ... so I give him treats.

This buys a moments retrieve.

I go to the bathroom.

Exiting ... the dogs are pawing the sliding glass doors.

Sliding the door open, they rush back in wanting more treats.

"Eat your breakfast Winston you beloved little faggot," I say ... and he eats.

I give Goddess another treat.

Gypsy, TFGCC, disappears.

Sarah comes into the kitchen looking like a million bucks for breakfast and I sit with her.

Goddess, Winston TLGD and Gypsy TFGCC all lay in the floor to watch Sarah eat ... waiting for her to throw them something ... which she always does ... but she's an enabler too.

Then Goddess looks at me and ... I give her more treats.

God I love this dog.

I was out of town yesterday and Sarah told me something we already knew ... Goddess knew I was coming home ... she was lethargic when I was away but woke up yesterday full vigor ... somehow knowing I'm on my way.

Goddess and I have lived through lots together ... rescue ... abandonment ... dark days ... a love story unfolding ... to a house full of love, kids, pets and happiness.

She loves the Now.

I love the Now.

I'm going to spoil her rotten until the day I die because she's been through everything with me and has earned it.

As we became us, Sarah sat with Goddess one day ... just the two of them ... and they have a talk ... Sarah asking if it's okay that we become one family ... and Goddess gives her the lick of love and permission and ... HERE WE ARE!

Happiness abounds.

I love Winston TLGD and Gypsy TFGCC too ... but I don't trust them ... they're always trying to get on Sarah's good side ... brown nosing and all.

I trust Goddess.

I cannot for the life of me imagine life without her.

I know it's going to happen ... dog years and all ... which just isn't right ... why is it a dog doesn't get to live too long but still has to die old?

But Goddess ... you can have any Goddamn thing you want whenever the Hell you want it!

I would have never survived with you ... and Sarah and I wouldn't be us without you ... and how do you say thank you for that?

I gotta go.

Love our dog.

Give her whatever the Hell she wants.