Deju Vu

It's Deja Vu, being part of a family with younger children.

Last night at dinner, one wanted nothing to do with what had been cooked, little to do with us but had very definite opinions about me.

She prepares her own meal while Sarah and I eat, joins us when we're done, and pans my approach to several things.

After a futile attempt at dialogue I give up and sit silently with the growing realization that "I've been here before."

It's a place I never dreamed I'd be again, though here I sit.

Each of my kids uncomfortably passed through adolescence, raging out of control hormones, unchecked emotions, discovering themselves at the expense of others, rebelling at any and all authority while squeezing pimples and mastering pubic hair.

Most parents survive their kids adolescence and swear to never do again ... opting to wait on grandchildren who they may enjoy when they're pleasant and leave when they're not.

Something inside of us helps us forget the pains of growing up and remember the good times.

Though last night, many of the unpleasant memories of raising my kids flooded back sitting at the table trying to enjoy the tension.

The good news is I'm experienced and a proven survivor of overseeing adolescence. Making it better, now I'm primarily an advisor and occasional participant in the actual oversight of teen angst.

The things I do out of love go largely unnoticed or are simply expected. Words I speak or advice I offer are easily dismissed or construed as criticism. Being in the same room is often little more than sharing space. Love seems to be a one way street.

I've been here before and this time don't take it as personal.

Yet there are moments ... she lays her head on my shoulder ... she HAS to talk to me and not any one else ... she tells me I give the best advice ... we share things that only the two of us share ... Super Nova moments of love making it all worthwhile somehow.

In the end I know she'll grow up great ... and I'll survive again ... and everything will be alright.

It's Deja Vu ... literally ... all over again.

The Island With No Winter

I keep breaking the same vow I've repeatedly made and here I am doing it again.

A chilled wind from the Northeast blows outside in a clear blue sky, under a bright while sun blazing off the lush Subtropical vegetation.

From the inside looking out it could be summer with a strong Ocean Breeze but from the outside looking in it is cold.

Sarah and the girls love it. Providing them the opportunity to wear more clothes, furry boots, hats and gloves, they delight in the fashions of colder weather. They wish for snow, ice staking, making S'mores over a fire washed down with steaming cups of hot coco.

While I'm amused at their passion, other than making them happy I want little to do with these things.

I passionately hate winter!

I already detest the weather now and it's only going to get worse until sometime in March. Thankfully the temperature will bounce up and down for the next several weeks so while it's cold today it'll be 80 by Thursday. I'll hold on to the warm days while cursing the cold ones.

Years ago I swore I'd never endure another winter and move somewhere in littler latitudes yet here I sit at 32 degrees ...again this year.

It's sobering.

But I've postponed my promise for nine more years until our youngest graduates from school and I'll take a home full of happiness and rely on it to get me through the goddamned cold days and dreary nights when darkness comes too soon. My heart is here with them though it means another winter.

In the meantime I focus on the hot times we've had in San Salvador and Mexico, stream live music from St. Martin while continuing to plan for the island with no winter that we'll eventually call home.

Never too late

My cell phone buzzes and it's "Bitch boy" so I answer, "What's up?"

"What are you doing?" Johnny O inquires.

"Watching football," I answer.

"I have a strange requests."

Johnny O and I have a rich friendship and a long tradition of doing out of the ordinary things together and in larger groups so I'm not especially suspicious.

"Can you do an illegal wedding?"

"What does that mean?"

"They don't have a license but have to get married," he explains.

Johnny works at "The Hotel Tybee" and I naturally assume, this being Tybee and all, some Dude met the love of his life last night at Benny's, are getting married today before they return to their respective homes tomorrow.

"Why not?" I tell him. "I'll even cut my fee in half because no paper work's involved."

"GREAT!" he says hanging up.

At 3:00 I arrive at the Hotel carrying my Black Robe to wear over my UGA tee shirt and black running shorts.

Then it gets magically strange and wonderful.

The Groom sits in a wheelchair with half open eyes, a mouth where only one side works and white fingers made of wax. He is dying and his bucket list included one last trip to Tybee and to marry the woman who's been with him for years.

The Bride is nervous and flutters about, handing her daughter the rings and straightening her dress.

"Dearly Beloved," I begin, stranding there in my robe, one hand of blessing in the air, and I ask them if they freely and totally commit themselves to each other as companions for whatever amount of life they have left.

A long pregnant pause follows.

"I will," he softly slurs.

She cries tenderly placing the ring on his finger made of wax.

"You may kiss ..." and I trail off because he's incapable of moving.

But she kisses him and they cry ... and he says, "I should have done this 17 years ago."

"Well you're doing it now," she tells him and Husband and Wife continue their consummation as I made my way out of the room.

Outside in the bright sunshine, robe slung over my shoulder, leaning against the car, I wipe the salt water from my eyes and take a deep breath.

Sometimes if you're lucky, you have the opportunity to participate in the Holiest of things and it never leaves you when you do. Seventeen years is a long time to put off what you always meant to do but, for whatever reason, didn't. Even at the last minute ... it's never too late.

Heading home, I find myself resolved to let Sarah and our kids know how much I love them now. I don't want to put it off.

More Great Questions

Inquiring minds want to know! ... Sleepless minds like to meander ... Idle minds remain in neutral ... Curious minds contemplate killing cats ... Great minds think alike ... BUT MY MIND ponders the Universe's greatest questions!

"Who put the bob in the bopshoobobshoobop?"

I don't know but I'd really like to thank the guy.

"Who wrote the Book of Love?"

Again I Have no idea. Could have dropped from Heaven for all I know.

"Should I stay or should I go?"

I have to ask Darlin'.

"How much is that little Doggie in the window?"

The truth is I could care less. We already have Goddess and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, and Gypsy, the formerly gender confused cat  and we don't need another dog!

"What's the frequency Kenneth?"

I need some Benzedrine before I can even start considering the answer.

"Do you believe in life after love?"

Well, I can feel something inside of me say there is but I really don't think you're strong enough.

"Who's that Lady?"

She's one beautiful Lady! A real fine Lady! I would dance upon a string with any gift she would bring. As a matter of fact, I'd love to take her home! Oh wait, I already did.

AND PERHAPS THE MOST PERPLEXING OF ALL ... "What's new Pussycat?"

Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa ... I can't even wrap my brain around that one.

Are there others I'm forgetting?

Liars on TV

It's a beautiful day here with the high in the low 80s, bright sunshine, not a cloud in the sky and the ocean breeze is lite.

This is the way winter should be!

But those damn people who call themselves "Meteorologists" are prophesizing the temperatures are going to drop tonight and it's going to get a "lot cooler."

Do you know that there's no legal definition of a meteorologist, so anybody can call him or herself one and get away with it?

That's right!

The number one reason people watch the News ... the Weather ... is forecast by someone who woke one day saying, "I WANT TO BE A METEOROLOGIST!"

What really happened is they woke up one morning needing a job.

Let's be honest, meteorologist are wrong 50% of the time.

I WISH I GOT PAID TO BE WRONG 50% OF THE TIME!

There are only two occupations that get paid to be wrong more ... the Clergy ... and all of Congress.

It's like that old adage ... fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me twice, shame on me.

Fool me 330,000 times you're a freaking Meteorologists!

To Hell with them!

I'm going outside and enjoying the day!

Probably tomorrow too!

Writers Block

"Write about me!" Winston, The Little Gay Dog, wearing a black sweater vest with fluffy pink letters, that say "As Jesus said about Gay people ... NOTHING!"

"No," I say.

He prances back into our bedroom and crawls under the bed.

"HERE KITTY! KITTY! KITTY!" the Car Lady screeches next door.

Standing I close the window.

Something crashes downstairs so I make my way to the carport to see my Bicycle laying on it's side for no apparent reason.

"GET UP!" I yell. "You're not drunk!" and I storm back upstairs.

"Hey," she snarls looking dirty and drinking a beer.

"Not today!" I say.

Blowing cigarette smoke in my face, she takes a draw from her Pabst Blue Ribbon followed with a shot of bourbon and my Guardian Angel stares at me with yellow meth like eyes.

"Don't you have an album to promote?" I sigh. "Why don't you torture Jimmy Cochran?"

"You don't want me?" she snaps puling her robe back over her pasty white shoulder.

"No."

"Fine!" and she disappears leaving two empties and ashes on the table.

Goddess lumbers in, sighs heavily and collapses on the floor under my bare feet which always makes me smile.

Laurel, the 10 year old sends me a text, "I love you" and I immediately respond in kind.

Sarah's working so I have to leave her alone.

"Well," I sigh, standing to get ready for the weekly gig at the Nursing Home. "I guess I'll do it later. I can't think of a damn thing to write about."

Jarring Paradise

Back on the Beloved Back Deck, undressed for work, it's nice to be upright again, I'm listening to the birds sing, watching squirrels dance in the lush green trees and watching Goddess work on her tan.

There's not a cloud in the sky so it is a deep blue and the sun is a blazing ball of white.

The choir of cicada is small and soft hidden in Fran's thousand shades of green.

It's idyllic ... save for the guy with the chain saw trimming Palm Trees two houses down, jarring my computer and making it hard for to think ... to feel.

Which reminds me it's election season!

So far, I've loved the Republican Debates, the funniest live television since Saturday Night Live with Donald Trump as Chevy Chase. God they make me laugh.

Then last night the Democrats got started and, though I didn't watch it, I'm sure they were funny.

I have thoroughly enjoyed this Savannah Mayoral election which is the 3 Stooges version of a debate! (I know there are four but Louis Wilson, Sr. seems dead.) I especially like Murray Silver's explosion into John Belushi, guessing how stoned Eddie DeLoach is and Edna Jackson saying, "Good Afternoon!" when the debate begins at 7 p.m.

On Tybee it's just every bit as good! There's one Political Action Committee who host the island's only debate. Everybody knows the purpose of a PAC is to select, fund, elect and support politicians who will pay them back with votes for what the PAC wants! It's Civics 101.

BUT Tybee's PAC makes it better and invites the candidates they don't support making for an entertaining evening of fireworks. Imagine the Christians being led into the Coliseum and fed to Tom Barton ... I mean the Moderator ... no I mean the Editorial guy whose job is to spend the facts towards the outcome he desires.

Beat that National Republicans and Democrats!

Only the Savannah Mayoral Election comes close to matching the entertainment value!

Except this year the non-PAC supported candidates peed on the Parade by not showing up!

Sure the people that love watching Christians being fed to Lions are pretty upset but I think it's funny to not always play by Bully rules.

Because "remember, where you have a concentration of power in a few hands, all too frequently men with the mentality of gangsters get control. History has proven that" (Lord Action).

Or as John Lennon put it, "You say you want to start a revolution?"

Sleep Talk

Tossing and turning in a sweat soaked bed, every position is uncomfortable and sleep comes in spurts.

When it does for twenty minutes or a couple of hours, the dreams are vivid and crazy, robbing much of the comfort sleep gives.

When I'm awake, either freezing or sweating, I feel the soaked sheets, the loneliness of night, the aching of my body, my mind races as crazily as the dreams.

Throughout my life I got sick only when I was exhausted.

Giving myself away to others on demand, trying to save people slowly killing themselves, tackling the Demons of politics and corporate greed, purposely meeting and trying to convert some of the meanest sons-of-bitches in the world to support the good who die too young while the bad go on to live long lives ... left me different.

Those tendencies remain my nature.

One of the things coming to me during these nights is what a lousy job I did, and do, taking care of myself which is easy to see when I consider failed marriages, alcohol induced poor decision making, obsessing over great things while utterly neglecting other equally great things.

Everybody loses their way in life from time to time, creating similar results, so from that perspective we're all in it together.

The reality is, in the end, it's only up to ourselves to keep repeating or exacerbating our past, or fully embrace the Now. The way to make the best of the present is to give it your best ... meaning the best "you" there is to give it ... not a watered down version leaning on crutches and anchored in what used to be real but isn't any more.

This is what I'm thinking and dreaming in my sweat soaked bed.

"Indeed God speaks once, or twice, yet no one notices it. In a dream, a vision of the night, when sound sleep falls on men, while they slumber in their beds, then He opens their ears and seals their instruction ..." (Job 33:15).

I cannot imagine an encounter with God being anything remotely like a Church service. I think one would rattle my bones, soak me with sweat, leave me dazed and confused but with absolute certainly that I'm being addressed.

Other's can't do the hearing for me.

I have to do that alone.

Then it's up to me to make it real ... now.

Too Many Nurses

I am a sick writer.

This will not be pretty today.

I just want to go back to bed.

After the Bar Church Service at Pirate Fest yesterday I faded fast, came home and slept for the next 12 hours with alternating bouts of shakes and fever ... freezing and sweating ... tossing and turning.

This morning ... after keeping Sarah up most the night ... I got up, washed away the sweat in the outdoor, dressed and stumbled into the Breakfast Club for coffee where ... I felt terrible but receive lots of love.

Returning home I go back to bed.

A bit later I drag myself out of bed and see Sarah's left a note for the girls to take care of me ... drink water ... a Gatorade ... NO WINE ... give him medicine.

"I can't find my phone!" a very agitated Cassidy exclaims storming into the kitchen.

"Let's call it," I tell her and four phone calls later she finds it.

Then she reads Sarah's note, brings me water and medicine and says, "We're taking care of you Mr."

"Did you just call me Mister?"

"Yes."

"I just took my Medicine," I explain. "Remind me in an hour."

"Okay I'm going to watch the Disney Channel."

Laurel stumbles up next staring at her phone watching a movie on Netflix ... reads her Mom's note and spends the next half-an-hour LOUDLY making a breakfast milkshake while never taking her eyes off her phone.

The moment she finishes Maddie storms up the stairs reads her Mom's note and asks in rapid fire procession ... "How do you feel? ... Did you drink water? ... have you had Gatoraid? ... JESUS I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE OUT OF SOUR CREAM!"

Laurel takes her breakfast shake and several candy bars downstairs.

Maddie concocts something to take the place of sour cream.

Cassidy storms over with medicine, "Now Mister!"

"Girls," I say. I love you. Thank you for taking care of me. I'm going back to bed. Leave me alone."

Maddie calls a team meeting in front of "Monster's Inc." blaring from the television.

Turning she sees me watching them.

"What?" she demands.

"Nothing," I answer.

"Why don't you go back to bed?"

I think that's a good idea.

Planning my Funeral

Did you ever see the movie "The Big Chill"?

It's a happy movie that begins with a death and a bunch of friends coming to funeral.

It's not much different from any other funeral ... save the organ solo is "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones.

That's pretty cool!

I am in no hurry whatsoever to get to my funeral but planning's everything ... so here goes.

I don't really want one ... give mine to somebody who needs it ... (I'll leave a list of candidates).

As a matter of fact if I pass in a Hospital I don't want anybody to come get my body ... just leave it there to drive them crazy ... after a while I'll start to purge, smell and become a nuisance to the medical profession!

As much they've screwed us in the United States it's my little way of paying them back.

I hope Sarah and all of our kids, dogs and cats go out for a nice dinner somewhere ... maybe a show afterwards.

By this time the Hospital will engaged attorneys to sue Sarah but ... she loves a good fight and will string it out so I'm purging and they have to close an entire floor because of the stink I'm raising.

Once Sarah wins ... and there is no doubt whatsoever she will ... I hope she listens to "Sarah Smile" on the way home.

All of that to say ... don't go out laying down.

You know what I mean?

I love you Honey ... you're the hardest part about funeral planning ... I want to be with you for a long time ... forever in fact ... so let's not rush anything!

Well, except that part about my funeral to someone else who needs it.

I'll leave the list.

Promotion by Parade

"It's Pirate Fest," he says. "Are we dressing as Pirates?"

"I'm dressing as a Beach Bum ... you can dress like a Pirate if you want to."

Sending texts, Bob Fulton and I are planning Bar Church where we're part of the Festival ... after three days of drunken debauchery ... Sam Adams had the bright idea to include a Worship Service to kick off the last day of ... debauchery."

Tybee Island almost as many Parades as it does Stop Signs ... searches of cars without warrants ... cigarette butts on the beach ... and plastic bags.

It's gotten to the point that if you throw a water balloon, the Island throws a Parade.

WAIT A MINUTE!

That's how this whole Parade Culture started!

A really shitty soft ball team ... with cheerleaders ... who liked to drink more than hit or catch ... left another loss on the field to march to a Bar when someone threw a water balloon at them.

The next time, the soft ball team threw back.

That's how it all started.

Then Tybee Island City Council learned about it and now we now have a frigging parade for everything.

If your cat actually hits the litter box, the Tybee Tourism Council is all over it ... and there's another parade!

Today the Island is overrun with Pseudo-Pirates, Wrenches and Booty grabbers ... filling the Hotels, Bars, Streets, beach, wandering into the sand dunes, beach swings and under the Pier ... where they make love, drink, grope, make love, make love,  make love and make love.

I wonder why the Tybee Tourism Council isn't promoting us as "THE" Love Making Island?

 The Department of Public Works cannot effectively retrieve the volume of condoms left in the sand dunes and on the beach every day ... though they do recycle ... and the Police Department knows where the rubber really hits the road.

I'm over the Parades!

I'm not dressing like a Pirate (though I certainly hope Sarah does the Wench thing) ... I'm not into the crowds ... and am increasingly convinced the reason Tybee has so many fireworks is so the Police Department can charge people with illegal discharge of firearms without a gun.

WAIT!

I may be confusing that with the discharges in the sane dunes.

Crossing the Bridge

There's only one road on to an island ... and only one road off.

Sometimes they collide as they did last night and there's no getting on or off an island without a boat or swimming.

Last night was such a night.

Picking up Maddie, our 14 year old, from a Homecoming Celebration at the Benedictine Academy complete with a bonfire fueled by teenage lust and hormones, she climbs in the car excitedly chatting about boys and asking "Can we go through a drive through? I'm starved."

I remember when I could eat like that!

The good old days!

Every fast food place is full as we zip pass because I refuse to wait in line until we get to the Wendy's on Wilmington Island and as I turn, I see the flashing blue lights and the officer placing orange cones in the road.

"This isn't good," I say to Mad.

Strolling inside she orders crap and we find a table.

Our dear friend Wen McNally and her daughter Ava join us and we speculate on what's happened.

Sarah's texting it's a wreck with a fatality.

Wendy decides it's the perfect time to close so we all make our way outside in the dark. Chu's Liquors and the Convenient Store agree and also close with several hundred people parked outside.

"The Flying Fish" ... a terrific seafood restaurant across the four lane is open ... so Mad and I make our way there.

It's a reunion of Tybee people stuck in the night ... ordering drinks and join the anticipation of the opening of the bridge ... such is life on an island.

Then the news hits ... Susan was killed.

Susan was something.

A billion stars packed inside a diminutive body with a blazing smile that lights dark places, she's riding her Moped home and ... a car doesn't see her ... and the world changes in an instant.

A piece of joy disappears on a bridge.

The night grows darker.

Our drinks become tasteless ... jokes evaporate ... a sadness blankets something islanders turn into a party.

Susan's one of us.

Life is a gift none of us asked for but each of us share. All gifts are to be celebrated while you have them because you never know how long they're going to last.

Our island lost the beautiful spirit of Susan Allen Bartoletti last night and if you were fortunate enough to experience her you understand joy because you saw it shine in her.

The bridge opens near 1:30 in the morning and Mad and I get home at 2:00.

A worried Sarah's waiting and, though exhausted, there is joy we are together again having survived the dark places.

I believe ... I'm not sure how ... but I'm pretty certain ... Susan's experiencing something very similar in a much more glorious way right now.

The Guardian Angel Sessions

"I don't need you anymore," she says after suddenly appearing without any warning.

"Great," I reply. "Does that mean you're going to leave me alone?"

"I wish," she snaps spitting a loogy over the Back Deck into the dark night. "Apparently you're a permanent assignment."

It makes me snort as she takes a long draw from her PBR, chased with a shot of bourbon and a drag from her cigarette.

My Guardian Angel looks like a meth addict ... pasty white ... so skinny her dirty robe keeps falling off her shoulder exposing a breast ... and a voice that sounds like Janice Joplin on a bad day.

"Well," I say leaning over to face her, "if you don't need me anymore but God's keeping you under contract ... what does that mean?"

Spitting another loogy, she points the cigarette at me ... "I have my own album."

Bursting into laughter, leaning over to hold my belly, it takes me a moment to find myself before saying, "I've heard you talk ... you can't sing."

She throws her empty beer can at me hitting me the arm.

"HEY!" I yell.

"I was aiming for your head," she snarls.

"You missed," I say rubbing my arm. "If you can't hit my head what makes you think you can hit a note?"

"It's not my album," she hisses. "Sean McNally and his band "IN FOR WHATEVER THEY CAN GET" did an album about me. I'm on the cover."

"His band is 'IN FOR A PENNY,'" I clarify.

"Yeah, what I said," she further clarifies.

"That's great!" I say pulling her robe back over her shoulder.

"You think so?" she asks in a little girl sort of voice.

"Oh yeah! Sean's great! I hope they make a lot of pennies."

"Me too," she cries and ... for the first time in our relationship ... she hugs me.

"You think Jimmy Cochran is going to write a song about me?" she asks wiping snot from her nose.

"I dunno," I say standing back to breath fresh air. "Perhaps if you washed your robe ... your hair ... body ... clean up your language ... Jimmy likes clean stuff."

"You think he'll like the album," she asks with bright red eyes.

"Oh yeah," I lie.

"Alright, I gotta go see him," she grins and disappears.

And I swear to God, I hear muffled laughter coming down from Heaven.

Confessions of a Semi-Professional Christian

I'm the Pastor at Bar Church.

I don't care for the title very much ... it means you're in charge of a Christian Church or congregation ... and I'm not in charge of shit!

In my past I was a "Professional Christian", paid good money to pretend I was in charge.

It took me a long time to realize I wasn't.

Oh back in the day ... I'd plan ... write sermons ... pick songs ... orchestrate who did what when ... script God to arrive at 11:47 so everyone could feel Holy ... while still beating the other Churches to the best restaurants.

And I got paid for such nonsense!

Two and a half decades pass and ... I'm a pastor who doesn't plan shit ... at a Church ... in a Bar.

(HEY BEN AFFLECK ... you're here on-island filming a movie ... I got your next one right here!)

I've learned a lot in my Holy Pilgrimage to this particular age of 59 ... I'm not in charge of shit.

At Bar Church, I try my best to get people who play better than me to play ... sing better than me to sing ... preach better than me to preach ... collect offerings better than me (I really suck at that part) ... make announcements (I REALLY SUCK MORE AT THAT PART) ... and somehow make it work so at God sticks Her head in at to say "Hey!":

I had an epiphany this past Sunday at Bar Church as I was singing and playing guitar ... a slow prayerful version of "We Will Build A Beautiful City" ... from the rock opera "GODSPELL" ... and it's supposed to be slow ... longing ... prayerful ... Hymn like.

But you know what?

Our drummer ... Davy Cahill ... actually runs Bar Church.

If he wants a Hymn ... he doesn't play ... he strolls over to the Potluck on the Pool Table and gets Banana Pudding which is always there like Manna from Heaven.

If he wants a "Spiritual" he beats the Hell out of the drums and the Bar ... and a really prayerful version off "Beautiful City" ... sounds like KISS is going to rock and roll all night and party every day!

Soaked with sweat, out of breath, and out of God when we finish ... I turn and stare at him.

"Hey," he says ... "C'mere."

So in the middle of disorganized religion (thank you Bob Fulton), I turn my back on Church to ask, "What?"

"Little KISS is playing this weekend but I ain't going. It's not worth the $5 to get in."

What does one say?

"Holy Jesus," are the words I recall coming out of my mouth.

Then ... I don't know how this happens ... but it does ... for a few minutes ... a Bar becomes the Promised Land ... and everybody present knows it's happening ... and for a second anyway ... the Kingdom Comes on Earth as it is in Heaven.

Afterwards, I turn and look at Davy again ... who is as stoic as Socrates ... and he hugs me saying, "We pulled another one off Rev" ... then he says ... "Oh I meant to throw these away before Church" ... and empty bottles of "Fireball" are tossed.

"That's the way God planned it," goes the old Hymn.

"That's the way God likes it."

I can't argue with that.

What I really really want is a Bass player

"Life is a journey of beginnings and endings. If we are lucky, there are people who stay with us through most of them," wrote my friend Mitch Wesley yesterday.

Mitch and I go way back ... all the way to College ... then Seminary ... and working together at Kienle's Delicatessen ... then we lost each other for a long time before finding each other again.

He's driving me nuts.

We need a bass player and Mitch plays bass and ... he wants to play bass in a band ... and he's damn good ... but he lives 4 hours away ... so it would be long commute for him ... which I don't have a problem with ... but his wife Linda evidently does.

I love Linda but ... we really need a bass player.

It's Pirate Fest weekend and it's big on-island.

Meaning the cops are going to pull a lot of people over ... the City's making a lot of money ... and wrist bands are now required to openly drink "down front" ... meaning the cops are going to ticket even more people and the City's making a lot more money.

I'm not certain when Government became business but ... it's all about the bottom line ... and kissing bottoms ... with a tongue ... and generating revenue ... regardless of how big a whore you are or who's your Pimp.

But's that's irrevelant to Mitch playing bass on the main stage at Pirate Fest this weekend.

I'm also trying to talk Sarah into singing but she's still miffed from last year when a full band miraculously shows up and we muddled through without her.

Though she's got the voice of an Angel and  regardless of where I am ... everybody wants to know where she is ... because it's never as good if she's not there.

Now ... I really want Mitch to play bass ... don't want anyone to get ticketed though it's apparently good for the island ... and desperately want Sarah to sing from the big stage ... and for our opening act "Little Kiss" to hang around and do a couple of spirituals during Bar Church ... on the main stage ... at Pirate Fest ... with wrist bands if you want to have Communion.

You know what I really want? ... what I really really want?

A pool.

We could drop the girls off for a swim and Sarah and I can make music of our own.

Mitch could play bass if he ever shows.

Sarah and I won't care.

Well ... until Sunday!

Then we'll really really care.

Now's Better

The funny thing about breaking out of a life you hate ... and succeeding ... is you find yourself in a whole NEW life!

It IS wonderful!

It's also quite hard.

People, things, resources you once relied on are no longer real and there's a sense of loss.

"WHAT?! ...You were always there for me ... that's what I did to get through ... what do you mean I can't do this anymore?"

On the other hand, everything's BRAND NEW!

Different people, resources and things take the place of past things and you grow into new and better ways.

The main reason is because you're different ... meaning I'm different ... hopefully learning from the past ... exiling the bad and building on the good of who you are ... meaning who I am.

The other main reason is because ... if you're lucky ... you've managed to surround yourself with better people than the ones you used to love ... which isn't to say you weren't with some great people but you were also with bad ones ... meaning ... I'm really just talking about myself but it's easier to say if I drag you into it.

But I believe life is supposed to get better as you go along ... I know mine has ... but it reminds me of the Grateful Dead's "What a long, strange trip it's been!"

No question it's been that!

But I find myself incredibly fascinated, enthralled, exhilarated and damn in love with where I am these days!

The intriguing thing is learning how to let go of "what was" to fully embrace "what is."

The funny thing is I'm uncertain if I ever really appreciated everything I had before because I always wanted more ... now I got more ... and sometimes miss what I had.

That's just stupid ... and I'm smart enough to know stupid by now!

You give up then to get now.

Which reminds of Jesus hanging on a cross ... to get to now ... because NOW's better.

I have to agree.

Morning Prayers

In the quietness of the predawn morning I light a candle in the kitchen.

Goddess, Winston The Little Gay dog and Gypsy flock to space under my feet wanting Communion in the form of treats, which I give them gladly.

Turning on soft music, Winston, TLGD, prances back to our bedroom, head butts the door and jumps back into bed with sleeping Sarah.

Gypsy gracefully leaps on the sill of the open window and keeps watch over the end of the Holy Night.

Goddess collapses under my dangling bare feet and sleeps.

Noticing a faint light I make my way to Cassidy's room to find her sleeping while still holding her phone watching Netflix. Smiling I turn her light off.

The sky turns grey and lush green leafs drip with rain which I can feel through the screen door leading out to the Beloved Back Deck.

A colorful wet beach towel hangs limply on the chair I normally write in and little metal desk decorated with seashells and an Tiki Bar oil lamp is filled with water.

Birds begin to sing.

Squirrels dart through Palm Trees carrying nuts in their mouths.

All is calm ... all is bright.

Next door the Cat Lady rolls the trash can over the rock gravel of her drive way though she is mercifully quiet this morning.

Sarah's made pumpkin bread so I pick some from the crusty ends which the girls don't like.

The computer starts to "ping" as my friends from college shoot verbal darts and I return the favor , stifling laughter so the girls can sleep.

Goddess licks my foot.

It's time to cook the Cinnamon rolls ... the Sunday tradition at our house.

Afterwards, I'll pack up and head to Bar Church but ... I doubt the worship can top how this day's already begun.

Great Questions

I've been pondering some of life's questions lately. It's been quite the exercise ... difficult yet rewarding ... heart wrenching but satisfying ... exhausting and exhilarating. As a service to humanity I want to share these questions and the answers with you so your life may be fuller.

I did not Google any of the answers and each question just came to me. I'm not sure from where but they are life's deepest questions.

Here you go!

"Are we human or are we dancer?"

On the surface this seems a stupid question ... unless you transform your humanity by dancing. Then it makes perfect sense.

"Why don't we do it in the road?"

A Great Question always begs another one! Why not?

"Have you ever seen the rain?"

I'm watching it now. It sucks.

"What's love got to do with it?"

It all depends on what "IT" is. In some cases love's got everything to do with it while in other cases it's got absolutely nothing to do with it.

"Where have all the Cowboys gone?"

Aside from the ones in Dallas I have no idea and honestly don't really care about the ones in Dallas either.

"Where is the love?"

I got it right here.

"Does anybody really know what time it is?"

Actually I do care because there are some games on today and I will be incredibly focused at 3:30.

"Is this real life? Is it just fantasy?"

Yes.

20 Minutes of Nothingness

There's finally a Pope I like ... a sinner friendly guy with a Liberation Theology background ... but he screws it up by meeting with a bigot ... Kim Davis.

You already know who the Pope is ... arrogant enough to take the name of St. Francis of Assisi ... the most Christ-like person to live ... since Christ!

And you know who Kim Davis is... a narrow minded believer ... stretching her 15 minutes of fame into 20 ... by refusing to acknowledge love happens in more ways than one.

The Vatican is "distancing itself" from her.

She's embracing him like no man she's ever had ... including her husband Joe ... her 4th husband ... and I'm not saying there's anything wrong with that ... God knows I'm not one to judge ... but it is funny.

All that to say ... THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH LOVE!

"It is what it is," as my Mom likes to say.

Gay .. Straight ... or otherwise.

GOD is LOVE.

One of the great things I paid damn good money to learn in Seminary is ... the "thorn in Paul's flesh" was his homosexuality.

"Take it away from me," he pleaded with God on three occasions.

"It's cool," God answers. "I love you the way you are."

And there would be no Church today without Paul.

So I know Kim Davis is a bigot.

And the Pope I liked so much is an idiot.

But the God I love ... is love.

And I hope Kim Davis ... and the Pope too ... enjoy their 20 minutes.

Killing Huggers

It pisses me off that "Hugs" are politically incorrect these days.

They'll get you sued for sexual harassment and wreck careers if you give one in the work place.

Doesn't matter if it's a same-sex hug or not ... Hugging gets you fired, sued and placed on the sexual predator list.

My friend Millar Fuller gave a hug to some volunteer in his office at "Habitat for Humanity" which he founded ... building houses around the world for those who had none ... developed the concept of "Sweat-Equity" meaning if you can't pay for your house with money, work with us and pay in sweat ... was a devoutly Christian man who started his path with the only Prophet Southern Baptists ever produced ... Clarence Jordan.

Everyone from former Presidents to Nobel Prize winners helped him build houses for people who didn't have one and ... was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

He housed more people than anybody ... ever!

But Millard gave a hug and it got him fired.

Devastated, he rallied and started the Fuller Center for Housing and continued building houses for people who don't have one.

"Our conclusion was that Millard was a hugger and was misinterpreted, and some people went out of their way to make something big out of something that wasn't really that big," said John Wieland ... who I also knew ... and was on the Habitat Board at the time.

Millard and I hugged on numerous occasions and I never felt sexually threatened ... though there was some peace that surpasses all understanding.

Millard died several years ago, never fully recovered from hugging.

The last time we were together was in Atlanta to receive awards and recognitions for housing people who didn't have a house.

He was sad ... his head was down ...as we sat at the head table with 8 others ... and when my name was mentioned ... he looked up and our eyes met.

He stood ... and I stood ... and we hugged in front of a thousand people.

"You alright?" he whispers in my ear.

"Yeah," I whisper back still holding him, "it's good to see you again."

"You too," he says letting me go.

"Yeah," I smile.

"Love you," he says placing both hands on my shoulders.

I cry ... and mumble, "Love you too."

And the world's not as nice as it was when Millard was alive ... and before we starting killing huggers.