Why is it when you try to be nice ... about anything ... or nothing ... others don't like it?

I've never understood it.

You can raise the dead and it's going to piss somebody off.

Don't let it bother you too much.

That's all I have to say today.

God Bless you.

God Bless me too.

And while you're at it God, bless you too.

God knows there's enough un-blessing going on these days.

Double Secret Missionary Journies

"My friend Michael Ruffin has been hired by Smyth & Hewlys," I tell my son Jeremy on the phone.

Smyth & Hewlys is a religious publishing company.

Michael Ruffin and I went to Seminary together at the same time ... he and his "Good Wife" had the incredible misfortune of living below Bill Berry ... not the former drummer for REM but the other one.

I'd often go to Bill Berry's apartment when his wife Kathy wasn't home with a brown bag full of Bibles.

That's a lie ... it was a six pack of beer but as Michael Ruffin saw me walking in, I'd say something like, "We're on a Double Secret Missionary Journey that I'm not at liberty to discuss."

Because we're attending a Southern Baptist Seminary, Michael Ruffin nods his head indicating he completely understands.

Southern Baptists pioneered religious terrorism ... well ... I mean the Catholics set the bar with the Inquisition ... ISIS is now trying to raise the bar but Southern Baptist hold the record for lynching's.

Then Michael Ruffin would go to the class Bill Berry and I were skipping to drink a cold one.

The pizza arrives so Bill Berry and I would open beer number two, stuff a slice down our throats and say, "GOD IS GOOD."

I loved Seminary.

Except for that time we tried to sue each other ... but that's another story.

Regardless I'm telling Jeremy about Michael Ruffin's good fortune when I'm interrupted.

"Smyth & Helwys?" my son asks. "I have a good friend who works there. I told him that you'd published with them."

"Who's your Dad?" my son's friend asks.

So ... a long time ago ... Smyth & Helwys was a new publishing company that needed authors.

Scott Nash was their higher something there and he'd attended Seminary with Michael Ruffin, Bill Berry and me.

I'd already published some books and Scott really wanted to sign me ... which is what happened.

My first book with them was "Running with the Dolphins and other Tybee Tails" which had absolutely nothing to do with religion, Michael Ruffin, Southern Baptists or Bill Berry.

It's about the beach.

Jeremy's good friend who now works for Smyth & Helwys says, "That's YOUR Dad? He wrote the biggest seller we ever had."

So ... after that Scott Nash asked if I would write a religious book for the religious Publishing firm he oversaw and, of course, being a good Christian ... I agreed.

"Playing Hide & Seek: A Non-Church Goers Guide to God" was then published by Smyth & Helwys  and ... Scott Nash disappeared from the face of the earth and the Publisher stopped taking my calls.

All that to say ... Michael Ruffin if it's helpful ... use my name.

And congratulations Buddy!

You deserve this!

Have you heard anything from Bill Berry?

Mrs. Timmins

"It's a lot like religion and a little like sex," to steal Jimmy Buffett's words.

Or it's a lot like prayer and a major addiction.

It's about creating ... doing my best to give something back to those who've given me so much ... friends ... the earth ... the Universe ... God.

Sometimes I've been so arrogant about it I thought my writing could change the world but quickly learned people don't remember most of what they read.

My first book did quite well, received lots of terrific reviews, went through four printings, made the Publisher lots of money so naturally they encouraged me to write a follow-up ... which I did.

It was about my homeless friends and people with AIDS when everybody was scared shitless of the disease.

I learned many things from these wonderful people as they struggled through poverty, disease, discrimination and felt their heroic deeds should be shared to inspire the masses.

But with a title like "Community of the Abandoned" it's no surprise the book tanked, reviews called it "depressing," the Publisher dropped me and I was left to start over as a writer.

But then there's Mrs. Timmins  ... from somewhere in Texas ... who wrote me a letter.

I can still see her tiny feeble handwriting in blue ink, on a page ripped out of a "School Composition Notebook."

"My son is addicted to drugs and alcohol. I pray for him every day. I don't know what else to do so I pray. I saw your book and bought it because ... I don't know why. It reminds me of my son. He truly is Abandoned. Thank you for helping me understand that. God's blessings on you and please pray for me and my son."

That was a long time ago but I vividly recall the powerful emotions of reading it.

Decades later Mrs. Timmins very much remains alive though I'm certain she's long dead.

Every day when I sit down to write, sometimes full of purpose and intention, and sometimes lost in the Wilderness, she floats through my mind ... along with others who took the time to say they took something from what I'd written ... and it makes me keep at it ... even when I'd rather be doing other things.

"For we know that all of creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to now (Romans 8:22).

I take that to mean we're all in it together ... you, me and God ... delivering this baby of lives ... and these often insignificant things I write every day are my contribution. 

All Things Considered

In a letter to a friend Emily Dickinson wrote that "Consider the lilies of the field" was the only commandment she never broke.

She could have done a lot worse.

Consider the lilies.

So wrote Frederick Buechner, my absolute favorite author ... yep more than Hemingway, Graham Greene, Chaim Potok, Carl Hiaasen or ... even myself!

Back to the point ... I've broken far more commandments than stopping to consider the lilies of the field.

I've broken most of the "Top Ten."

Confessing that ... again ... it is true that I spend far too much time chasing things rather than ... considering ... lilies of the field ...

or ... the turning of the Marsh Grass ...

the ever changing Beach sculpted by the Tides ...

the rising of the Sun bubbling out of the Sea ...

the setting of the sun over the Back River ...

the smell of fresh cut grass ...

the dark blues of the sky ...

the colors of the rainbows ...

the shooting of the stars.

Through I try.

At night ... when I'm already  mostly asleep ... my leg flops on top of Sarah's ... and I'm very mindful of the Holiness of it ... for those few seconds before I slide into another Universe where God considers me ... rather than the other way around.

These are the things I'm considering today.

Later, I'm going to buy Lilies.

The Anti-Rev

"He's the Anti-Rev," Lona Crask says in an attempt to explain what I've just said.

Dobby Simmons is trying to lift his music stand so he can see it but is having difficulty ...

so the "Rev" in me comes out ...

and with outstretched arms I yell ... "IN THE NAME OF J-HE-SAS-AH, I COMMAND THEE TO RAISE."

Immediately the music stand rises and Dobby thinks a miracle just happened.

The musicians at Monty Parks weekly jam laugh or ... start praying for me.

I'm feeling pretty good about it all and blow on my fingers cause they are H.O.T. hot.

This is when Lona tries to explain a miracle.

You can't explain miracles.

I learned that in Seminary.

Just like ... other substances ... they happen.

I've been an ordained minister for most of my life ... 3 and a half decades ... though I was a pretty religious child before (if you don't count the beer and the girls).

I've never tried to be too serious about it.

There's a lot of pomp and circumstance that comes with religion I try to avoid ... except at weddings and funerals.

Take away the weddings and the funerals and the pomp and circumstance of religion resembles political rallies.

I don't believe God cares much politics.

I believe worship should be fun ... a celebration of things ... a happy opportunity to be with others and the oft chance God's stopping by.

So if being the Anti-Rev is like ... being Anti-Freeze ... I'm cool with it ... cause I hate the cold ... and like it hot.

I crack myself up.

And for you non-believers ... God's laughing here with me.

Having said that ... I also believe religion is mostly a personal matter between God and me.

We spend lots of time together ... mostly in silence ... though when we do talk, it's mostly me ... because God likes to listen ... which makes sense ... cause God can tackle my unanswerable questions and leave the other stuff for me work out on my own ... which I'm perfectly capable of anyway.

When two or three gather in God's name I believe it should be a party.

Who gets to hang out with God?

WE DO!

It's pretty cool!

But most people think going to Church is like going to a funeral ... you get all dressed up and serious ... you have to feel bad before you feel good ... and God's talked about like She's dead but ... IS COMING BACK! ... like a sequel or something.

I don't believe that.

God's right here.

Right now!

And we're enjoying the Hell out of my life.

Because that's how you get to Heaven.

Happy Ash Wednesday?

Exactly what in the Hell is a "Happy" Ash Wednesday?

Let me first confess that I am not an Ash wearer.

I don't go Mass and have the Priest smudge ashes on my forehead as a reminder I'm going to die ... like Jesus did.

I already know I'm going to die.

There is no need to be reminded.

I'm in no hurry.

I like my life.

Before Ash Wednesday there's Mardi Gras ... more specifically "Fat Tuesday" ... a Pagan celebration dedicated to the God of Fertility ... or what Jimmy Buffett explains ... "Let's get drunk and screw."

The next day you ... (a) wake up with someone you don't know ... (b) wake up with someone you do know and are horrified ... (c) are quite content with you wake up with ... or (d) don't wake up.

The Catholic Church didn't like the freedom Pagans do and want people to feel terrible about the way we actually live our lives so Ash Wednesday was created.

The purpose of Ash Wednesday is for Priests (who deny doing things on Fat Tuesday) to smudge ashes on our foreheads and say ... "BAD BOY!" ... "BAD GIRL!" ... "YOU'RE KILLING YOURSELF!"

Ash Wednesday is actually the beginning of "The Guilty Season" ... you're supposed to feel terrible about yourself and the things you've done ... though Priests are somehow exonerated.

On the Up-Side ... Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent ... or the drying out period ... where you swear off everything you did on Fat Tuesday ... the person you wake up beside ... well except for (c) ... and sales of "The Morning After" Pill skyrocket! ... Pharmaceutical Companies LOVE Ash Wednesday.

Ah religion ...it's a funny thing ... when it's administered by Hierarchies, Governments and Big Business!

I mean why did they kill off Fat Tuesday to have Ash Wednesday?

I'll tell you why ... money.

You'll pay anything to get out of (a) waking up with someone you don't know ... (b) waking up with someone you do know and are horrified ... or ... (d) not waking up.

Plus religion administered by Hierarchies, Government and Big Business negotiated a giant kick-back from the Pharmaceutical Companies.

Honestly that how big religion works.

All that to say "HAPPY ASH WEDNESDAY!"

Wherever you are.

Whoever you're with.

Assuming you woke up.

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.