The Dance

It's funny writing every day and tossing it out there for the world to see.

"You know," my wife says, "No one is ever going to hire you again because you put it all out there for the world to see."

Sarah's mostly always right.

It's not like people are knocking my door down to get to me.

But what's wrong with putting yourself out there ... consistently and as honestly as you know how?

I honestly believe it helps others though it may not always be as beneficial to me.

It's true I share stories about Winston, our Little Gay Dog (LGD) ... my drunk ass Guardian Angel ... the Cat Lady next door ... the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes ... and Fran's 1000 Shades of Green ... which many claim are pure fiction!

But they're real to me.

There's also Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) ... my childhood friend Gene Prevatt ... Dedra, Mark and Mitch from College ... Jim Withers ... the Port Wentworth First Baptist Church ... and my grandparents Ira and Edith Carver ... all very real.

They're dreamlike ghosts from a different time and place but ... they're still real to me too.

Sarah's my reality, showering me in love and doing her best to keep me grounded though I seem to enjoy dreamful fantasy mixed in it.

"Wanna do lunch?" she texts.

"Hells Yeah!" I reply.

"I could go for soup," she says.

Where in the Hell do you get soup on an island?

Sometimes I think she's the one living in the fantasy world.

But we meet on another island and ... lo and behold ... there's soup!

She has cheese broccoli ... and I have seafood Gumbo.

All of that to say, I believe it quite healthy to engage in the dance between fantasy and reality.

Because when the two dance ... dreams come true.

Even if people think you're crazy for putting it out there.

No one comes calling.

And they'd be nuts to hire you.

Well ... unless they want to make their dreams come true.

Caupcake

At the Celebration of Cupcake's Life, I walked around Bar Church at the faces of Tybee Island. I saw the love in their eyes, heard them talk of things she's done, stories of how she loved them. I saw our siblings mingle with those I've grown to love over the 15 years. She called Tybee home. I hear laughing ... Yes, laughing. One wonders how can people laugh when we hurt so much. We laugh because we share a common love.  We laugh because relationships are healing. We laugh because they see her in me. We laugh because God is praised!

MY TYBEE FAMILY smile when you remember a place we dance together, eat together, dolphins jump. And please, by all means please, don't freak when you see me walking your beautiful streets or sitting on the walk-over, Cupcake is NOT haunting you!

Sunshine and Smiles, Anne.

Around the Corner

"How does this make you feel?" Sarah asks as we're snuggled on the sofa, glowing in the light of the Christmas Tree, watching Jim Withers at the CNN Heroes Award's.

"Glad for him," I honestly answer.

He deserves everything he gets after spending the 23 years being a Doctor to the Homeless, developing the Street Medicine concept, making it a world wide endeavor and ... in his office he can't sit behind his desk because that's where he's stuck all the awards he's won.

"I don't have any other place to put them," he explains.

What's one more award for someone who's already received hundreds?

The more you receive, the less they mean ... except such ceremonies and broadcasts allow you the chance to continue advancing your message.

It's a new audience to spread the word to and an opportunity for more converts, contributors and believers.

In some ways it's like being a Prostitute ... the more corners you own ... the more you make ... but it's okay because ... there's a few more buying into what you're selling.

When others take your idea ... your heart ... and make it their own ... well ... either good or bad things happen ... depending on the idea.

Jim's idea ... and heart ... are pure.

"Do I know him?" Laurel, the 11 year old, asks snuggling with us under the lights of the Christmas Tree.

"He's stayed with us several times," Sarah replies. "You know him."

"How old was I?" she fires.

"It was a couple of years ago," I answer.

"Oh," she absentmindedly mumbles returning to whatever she's watching on her phone.

But ... here's to you Jimbo! ... you picked up another couple of blocks last night ... the rest of the world is just around the corner.

Tiny Glimpses of Heaven

I have a Love/Hate relationship with Church.

I know ... that's a horrible thing for an ordained minister to say.

Nevertheless, I find it to be the most reprehensible of institutions ... when it's not the most glorious.

It's as schizophrenic as it comes ... beating out even Government!

I suppose it's understandable because you like about half the people in Church and no use whatsoever for the others.

Just like half the people in Church like you and the rest could care less.

In spite of verbiage to the contrary I think it really is a bit premature to seriously consider everybody really loving each other.

Though it is nice to still aspire to such loftiness.

I'm attending Church today with people I feel have seriously wronged my wife and I!

And I have little doubt they believe the same thing about us ... primarily because they've said so ... and we have too but in quieter circles.

Skeptics will claim we're doomed from the start because we're supposed to be perfect as God is perfect ... which is about a bogus a statement as ever uttered (Matthew 5:48) ... though it's really not an admonition to be "perfect" ... but to greet everyone equally ... speak to everyone the same way.

We fall pitifully short of something as simple as being nice to everyone we see.

It makes me hate it all!

Yet ... there are moments ... tiny glimpses of Heaven ... when forgiveness actually happens ... egos left at the door ... people losing themselves in each other ... God actually attends.

I do love these moments.

As fleeting as they are.

The Sadness of It All

Walking to the Nursing Home with my guitar, I have to wait for security to let me in which really means not letting the inmates out.

Yes ... residents of Nursing Homes consider themselves to be "Inmates" ... they can't leave whenever they wish ... plus the place is decorated in "Early American Prison"  and Jane Coslick herself couldn't do anything with this dump of a place!

"HEY KIDS!" I yell strolling into the Dining Hall.

Normally the inmates laugh at being called "Kids" at their age but today there the room is filled with gloom.

"They didn't pay the cable bill," Paul explains from his wheelchair. "We can't watch the 'Price is Right'."

Lona Crask shrugs her shoulders, John sets up his drums and I look at the blank television screen.

Bob Barker has been our opening act for the better part of two years.

"Dammit!" I think, "We're going to have open cold today."

It's hard to replace Bob Barker.

The Nursing Home Nurses rush in to calm the crowd with coffee, oatmeal cakes and pickles which the inmates savagely grab and immediately eat.

It's sad.

There's not enough chairs for everyone to sit in the room as the floors were recently cleaned and ... well ... floors are more important than people!

Lona, John and I break into music and the inmates come from everywhere ... meaning the Nurses have to find chairs and bring them into the room.

The room is packed in no time ... in spite of no Bob Barker.

"HEY!" I yell between songs. "HOW MANY OF Y'ALL DID IT IN THE BACK SEAT OF YOUR DADDY'S CAR?"

Nurses frown.

Old men and women in wheelchairs grin and raise their hands as dead memories spring to life.

"Yeah, me too," I laugh.

And they laugh ... for a moment anyway.

At the end, they rush up to hug, help with the equipment and howl that the television doesn't work.

It's time for "Wheel of Fortune."

Walking out, the people in Administration count money ...literally ... from the selling of Oatmeal Cakes and pickles.

A Nurse punches in the code to let me out and keep them in.

Throwing my guitar inside the car, I sit behind the wheel full exhausted wanting a strong drink.

I'm doing a funeral later.

I hope I'm up for it.

Then I bust out laughing at the sadness of it all.

Funeral Wear

There's something about an island in the winter.

Cold is relative term! Folks visiting from Canada or the Midwest find Tybee absolutely balmy whereas I know it's freezing outside!

Of course I'm barefoot, wearing black running shorts and ... a long sleeve tee shirt.

"DO NOT TURN ON THE HEAT," Sarah tells me. "PUT ON PANTS."

I lovingly adore my wife but I swear sometimes ... she says crazy stuff!

I am firm believer the weather should always suit the clothes ... NOT the other way around.

Sarah and the girls love clothes! The more the better as far as they're concerned! They say I have issues which I don't deny.

It  is telling though that virtually every plastic clothes hanger in my closet holds a tee shirt.

But I got dressed up last night ... an honest to God sweater, long Kaki pants, red underwear and flip flops.

Right before sunset, we gathered on the South Beach Gazebo to say goodbye to Cupcake ... a true island character with the biggest of hearts ... and ... had she been physically present ... I think she would have laughed her ass off at the way I was dressed!

To make it better, I wore my black preacher's robe over the clothes ... Sarah calls it "layering" ... because I'm partially responsible for the funeral.

A crazy collection of islanders ... Tybidiots ... are dressed in every conceivable manner ... causal business attire or camouflage fatigues under cut off blue jeans, tie-dye shirt and crocks under a yellow "Bass Pro Shop" cap.

When Davy Cahill sees ... dressed in yellow jams, dirty black tee shirt and flops ... he points at me and burst out laughing.

I flip him the finger.

Then Cupcake's service begins.

God finger paints a glorious sunset after calming the waters of the Ocean and blowing the winds somewhere else.

We celebrate the gift of Debbie Cochran's life to each of us.

Laughter mixes with tears.

Baby breath floats away on the Sea.

Julia Pearce is the first to recognize the Holiness of it all ... puts out her cigar ... lights her incense ... and carries on a private conversation with God while the rest of us check out to see who's wearing what.

I don't think Cupcake could have planned a better funeral if she tried.

As if she was ready to.

I'm sorry she missed it though.

Her funeral is as good as Tybee Island gets.

See you later

"I just saw her ... said 'see you later' ... and now she's gone ... I'll never see her later."

Standing in the middle of the Tybee Market ... a.k.a. IGA ... parking lot, his voice lacks the emotion of his words and his hand gestures ... a wild flaying of arms and desperate fingers combing his hair leave the impression he's pantomiming.

"I think she was ready?" I reply, peering at him through sunglasses.

"How can anybody be ready?" he exclaims betraying fear at the thought.

"I dunno," I reply, shuffling toes in my flip flops. "When you're ready to see God everything else pretty much pales in comparison."

He doesn't have a reply and rushes inside the grocery.

Climbing into the old convertible I drive the six blocks to our house.

"Did you get sweet tea?" Maddie the 14 year old bellows and I hold up the jug.

"And on the 8th day," I say, "God made sweet tea."

"What?" she asks pouring herself a glass and filling it to the brim so she loudly slurps as she carries it to her room downstairs.

Putting the groceries away, a line from another song springs to mind ... "Where do you go when you get to the end of your dream?"

Opening a beer, I stroll outside on the back deck to ponder the question but have to give it up because it's not mine to answer yet!

I've got dreams coming true now and others I'm still working on that involve little latitudes, a house boat and Sarah and I sipping margaritas beside an open fire on a Caribbean beach.

Though I'm a big believer in people knowing when it's time to move on ... to a different location, another life or from this existence to the next.

Maddie lumbers back up for more sweet tea and says, "I really enjoyed prayers in Cathedral today."

"That's good," I shrug with a smirk. "What did you pray for?"

"Everything," she laughs with the utter confidence only a 14 year old has.

"Well," I laugh tipping the bottle towards her, "it's good you know what you want."

"Yeah," she beautifully smiles. "Okay ... see you later."

"Later," I laugh.

Turning, I hold my beer towards the setting sun and toast my friend.

"I'll see you later too."

Tybee Quirkiness is still here

Sometimes you can stand in the middle of Butler Avenue and have a decent conversation.

Last night was such a night.

Dave Cahill stood and me are catching up, telling one another things we need to share and embraced a couple of times.

He's one of the best drummers ever, surfs, is a Marshpuppy and reeks of "coolness" even he doesn't bathe.

It's already a nice night as Monty Parks and I stood outside of Doc's Bar talking while noticing the fog on a warm December night made the exterior of "Bernie's Tavern" look like a British Christmas Card.

Three skateboard punk rockers roll by and stop to talk smack.

"Hey," one of the Punks sneers, "You Skake? What did you do when you were our age?"

"Make love with girls in the back seat of our parent's car," I answer.

"You want to beat 'em up?" Monty asks.

Shaking my head I return to the sidewalk as Conga Dave strolls out to join us immediately chasing away the juvenile delinquent wannabes.

Back inside the warmth of the Bar, Clark Byron and I have one of the most heartfelt conversations I've had in years. There was so much behind the words that ... it was hard to capture the words.

Those are damn good conversations when they happen!

But that was earlier and now Davy and I stand in the middle of Tybee Island's main drag talking when a mini-van screeches to a halt in front of Benny's.

"DID I HANG UP ON YOU?" the driver screams.

It's Ann ... Cupcake's sister ... pulling in from her home in South Carolina to oversee the funeral.

"We were done," I answer. "You were answering other calls."

"Okay then," she says heading inside Benny's, "See you tomorrow."

"Alright Rev," Davy says climbing inside his sticker covered jeep.

Later," I reply jumping back inside the convertible with me guitar idling in the middle of Butler Avenue.

The Ocean gives loud kisses to the Beach in the distance through the warm fog.

"God," I smile driving home to Sarah, "I still love this island sometimes."

Speechless and Grateful

"Well do you want to know?" my son asks.

We'd already talked so I'm surprised by his call and immediately go to that bad place where I expect the worst.

Unexpected calls always mean bad news right?

Our earlier conversation had been normal ... family talk ... Georgia football ... holiday plans and such ... so his afternoon call brought on anxiety.

Besides it's been a day of death.

My friend ... and a rock upon which Bar Church was built ... died in the morning ... leaving an unfillable void.

If that weren't enough ... our neighbor Scott who's been fighting Cancer for a year ... surrounded by an Banana Trees and an American Flag ... died too.

I've spent the day running around consoling those left behind ... maybe that's why I'm expecting bad news when Jeremy calls.

"It's a boy!" he says and I can feel his happy grin through the phone.

We've got lots of girls in our family.

He and I are the only boys.

"Tell Sarah," he says as she magically opens the door.

"You tell her," I say ... and he does.

"It's a good thing I took all the girl clothes I bought back when your Dad told me Terenca's having a girl."

There are times when it's smart to keep your mouth shut ... this is one.

They laugh and basking in their glow I think ... "And when I die. And when I'm gone. There'll be one child born in this world to carry on ... to carry on."

While I don't understand it, I figure God's got a plan and is sticking to it.

Two deaths and an impending birth ... of our Grandson.

It simply leaves you speechless and grateful ... for those who have gone ... and for what's coming.

That's Why I'm Here

Most Mondays begin full of dread because you don't want to go back to work again.

You want to be off ... be yourself ... do what you want ... live!

Other Mondays are depressing because there's nothing to do ... no job requiring your presence ... family demands ... or lover's coos to share preciousness.

Some Mondays commence with hope as you can't wait to get at it again ... work brings you joy ... co-workers were missed ... you've figured out the problem ... or it's just better than home.

Occasional Mondays are allow for musing, contemplation, thinking and prayer ... when there's the time and focus to wonder ... about everything.

Regardless, Monday's have a way of throwing more curve balls at you than any other day.

It's the most hated day of the week.

50% of everyone is late for work on Mondays.

Less is accomplished on Mondays than any other day of the week ... including Fridays.

More people die on Monday than any other day of the week.

All that to say, I woke up pretty chipper this morning though Sarah and the girls struggled to get off to school and work and as they rushed out everyone managed to say "I love you's" and "Have a great day!"

It's a glorious day with a limp flag hanging over the marsh, a flat Ocean, warm temperatures, lush green vegetation and blue skies.

Just as I turn on the music, fire up the computer and get ready to create ... the phone buzzes and I learn a friend I talked to last night has died.

The bell on the computer rings at the same time and I learn another friend has died too.

I text Sarah who's busy working.

No one's home so I rely on my "Fall-Back-consistent-Go-To" strategy ... and take Goddess for a walk.

"Damn," I say to our dog, "I wasn't ready for this."

Turning the corner from the Marsh to the Back River, I wonder why it was their time and not mine?

Rounding the curve from Back River to 13th, I know it's time to go to work and see what I can do ... for those left behind ... because there's absolutely nothing I can do for those who've gone.

"Maybe that's why I'm still here," I tell Goddess as I let her in the house and grab the car keys.

Between Heaven and Earth

You know how sometimes it feels as though Scotty's beamed you up and while you're still here going through the motions, doing the things you do every day, you're not really here?

That's me today.

I'm here but I'm not.

Perhaps it's because the girls aren't home and for the first time in a hundred Sunday's there are no Cinnamon Rolls to make.

I was really missing the kids on the last UGA game of the season mindful this is the first time in their collective lives either all of us, or some collection,  didn't share the experience together.

While it's sunny and warm outside now, winter's coming and that always depresses me though Sarah and the girls are beyond excited and maybe it'll rub off on me, especially when we visit her parents in New York City in a few weeks.

Sitting on the sofa as I watched games Sarah navigated the Internet searching for warm places to go in a few months and I wish we could just pick up and go now to return in late Spring ... if we return at all.

It could be because Sarah's traveling the next two weeks so there will be days without her which I do not relish ... though Maddie will be here and I'm not certain who's taking care of who.

A portion of today is spent doing things I'd prefer not to but duty calls and I've done my best to prepare and we'll see what happens.

Sometimes when I'm playing at the Nursing Home I'd rather not be there and I go through the motions, leaving it to Lona to carry the  crowd with energy and enthusiasm ... then ... something kicks in ... and I see the face of a woman in a wheelchair I'm fond of and I suddenly give it everything I've got ... and Lona smiles, John Iacovini hits the Congas with wild abandon and the inmates go wild ... then Scotty beams me up again ... and I'm there but not completely.

I've been told that when this happens you're between heaven and earth ... one foot in both places ... given the chance to see life without you ... and trying to decide if it's time to go.

I'm not ready yet ... there's too much to live for here ... and I still feel needed ... and necessary ... anchored down in love.

But it's a gift I think when these moments occur ... Scotty beams us up ... and we see and feel our life differently than normal.

It makes me appreciate NOW.

And reminds me that it won't always be here.

Heroes and Saints

I'm predisposed to sadness.

It's primarily because I spent over three decades "dancing in depravity" as my friend Michael Harris once opined.

Spending time emerged in miserable situations with depressed people doesn't leave you quickly ... if it leaves you at all.

Many Veterans confess how they were traumatized by the war ... injustice, insane politics, incompetent military leadership and killing people for a living ... changed them because they lost something of themselves in the process.

There's nothing different about being immersed in the war on poverty.

Soldiers make peace by conquering often ... as Malcom X put it ... by any means necessary ... and when they're finished ... they're Heroes.

If you're successful in the war on poverty ... like a Martin Luther King, Jr., Mother Teresa, or Gandhi ... you win a battle or two though nothing much changes ... but you're suddenly a Saint.

War's war the way I see it and there's not a damn thing good about it!

Of course I've known ... and know ... lot's of Heroes who ended their military service living in poverty which is one of the worst things about America, a culture that believes we love you so long as you're useful.

So I'm not into all this Hero Worship we give to Veterans because we're too damn cheap to give them things they really want like free health care, counseling, job training and decent housing.

Just like I'm not into paying homage to the Saints who set examples but really didn't accomplish much more.

"The poor will be with you always," Jesus said, "SO THAT YOU CAN HELP THEM ANY TIME YOU WANT" (Mark 14:7).

It's F-ing sad when Heroes become homeless ... sadder still when the few who give a shit become Saints ... and most don't give a damn.

You can take your Heroes and Saints and throw them away because ... in spite of everything they've done ... nothing much has changed.

 

The Post Thanksgiving Recollections

"Well I believe in God you know?" she loudly says, tossing another chip on the table.

We're teaching the girls to play Poker on Thanksgiving night.

Sometimes the best times come from the result of poor planning.

The first part of the day was planned perfectly in that Sarah wanted to run a race in town with daughter Maddie and our friend Michelle and I'm content to "babysit" Laurel and Cassidy ... meaning not to make too much noise while they sleep.

Late morning they arrive home and eventually take off for the Family Celebration, a dinner-on-the-grounds feast for a hundred or so Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, nephews, nieces, friends and several others I don't know.

Perfectly timed, we arrive as Grace is being said to pick and choose from several hundred home cooked dishes, amidst hugs and catching up, jokes and memories and remembering everyone who's not present.

Followed by pictures in the massive front yard, we load up for the drive home.

Back on island, we opt to skip the celebration at Fannies-On-The-Beach and stay home with the girls who are staring at their cell phones in their rooms.

Sarah and I crash in an uncomfortable sort of way as she realizes we have nothing planned for the evening ... no intimate family meal with leftover turkey and dressing ... and not one thing in our home speaks of the Holiday.

So we break out the chips, gather the girls at the table and play poker ... which of course turns into a hotly contested and LOUD game full of accusations of cheating, calling each other names and a couple of yelling matches!

But we're together which is really what Thanksgiving is all about.

"Next year we have to plan better," Sarah concludes.

"I want to run my own Casino," Maddie informs us. "Do I need a business degree for that?

So from our family to yours ... we hope you had a fantastic Thanksgiving celebration!

Just wait till next year's!

Quiet Thanks

The ocean roars in the distance on a bright sunny, almost warm, morning.

Sea breezes blow from the Northeast but are muted by the Palms and lush Tropical vegetation.

Goddess lay at my dangling bare feet and my toes rub her golden fleece.

Soft acoustic guitars steam online as I ponder Thanksgiving.

My friend Sean's on a plane accompanying his father who passed away yesterday and is heading home for the last time.

None of our older kids are home for the Holiday so the fictional Norman Rockwell gathering is dead before it starts.

Sarah's off with Maddie and our friend Michelle for the "Turkey Trot" run in town and I'm babysitting our other girls who are sound asleep.

Later we "going to the country" to have dinner-on-the-grounds with our large extended family though my grandparents, Dad, several uncles, aunts and cousins won't be there because they too have passed on to whatever's next.

Afterwards Sarah and I plan on stopping in at the celebration at Fannies-on-the-Beach to wish our friends merriment.

Tonight the girls and I will either watch a movie, play poker or everyone scatters to their own private space ... meaning staring at their phones.

I'm happy to be here doing this.

Hell! At this stage of life I'm happy to be anywhere but ... especially with girls who love me ... with my feet on a dog who helps me write ... in a tiny house on a tiny island ... with the Ocean roaring in the distance ... and the Sun dancing in sky.

Free Travel

If money weren't an object, we'd be gone.

Without money the realities of girls in school, debt consolidation, a terrible economy in spite of what the politicians claim, exhausting resources for the things we believe in only to be left in disbelief ... we're pretty much planted here.

For now.

But when the money comes ...

Sarah doesn't want a home base somewhere which I would prefer ... a quaint village on a small Caribbean Island ... but she knows we'd rarely be there. She wants to see the world, especially the places I've never seen ... except the really good places ... and to see them as us!

I support that and have no problem spending Christmas in a Lodge in the Swiss Alps so long New Year's through Easter's on the coast of Central America.

The girls want a luxury Jet that'll take them anywhere they ... notice it's not "We" ... want to go though I don't believe they care much about destinations, just impress their friends they have a plane. The biggest headache is answering who get's to spend the night?

I still prefer a Houseboat.

If we don't like the neighbors it's easy to move.

If the weather turns bad, it's easy to move.

If politicians or Jehovah Witnesses come calling, it's easy to move further away from shore until they leave.

We can travel and stay at home at the same time.

Honestly I like air travel too for various destinations so I'm pretty open.

That's our travel plans.

Now if we can just work out that money thing.

Skipping's Fine with me

The girls want to get out of school early and are begging me to be the one to spring them.

I'm overly sympathetic and don't mind being an accomplice as I have a long history of skipping.

I've skipped out of numerous classes in school ... Chapel Services in Seminary ... every class reunion held ... a few public appearances ... many Conference Workshops I'd registered to attend ... a couple of marriages ... and once I skipped a speech I was giving.

In front of about a hundred people I was following a really bad speaker ... the entire audience of a College Baptist Student Union was falling asleep, slitting their wrists and praying for the Second Coming to immediately take place.

I mean this guy really sucked.

After he mercifully sat down, I was introduced, took the Podium and asked, "Who wants to follow that? I don't."

And I sat down.

This endeared me to the kids who gave me a standing ovation though the Baptists in charge didn't seem to appreciate my gift of unallocated time.

Furthermore, I already have plans to skip growing old (I'm gonna stay young till I die), any funeral planned (who wants to attend their own funeral?) and my burial (I'm all for this "Dust in the Wind" theory so just blow my ashes in the faces of people I don't like!).

So when the girls ask if they can be sprung ... I'm predisposed.

Of course I support Sarah's decision and say ... "Sure Honey! You are absolutely right! I support anything you say! Whatever you want!"

At the same time I'm telling the girls, "I'll see what I can do."

I'm pretty pansy when it comes to the girls.

Part of it is I helped our older kids skip the boring and unpleasant stuff so it's a family tradition!

So it's completely unfair when I'm put in this position!

I'm all for getting them out today!

Though ... I'm only 49% of the ultimate decision!

I attended enough school to know reality when it hits me in the face!

I love you girls but I'm not that stupid.

She's Already Gone

At the Oceanside Nursing Home on Thursday, I'm working the room before we start playing live music for the inmates.

If you don't believe people in Nursing Homes consider themselves "Inmates" akin to being in Prison then you've not spent enough time in one or are kidding yourself that the money you spend is giving your loved one everything Mom or Pop ... or Son or Daughter ... need to enjoy life.

As nice as Nurses and workers may be ... the Inmates remain locked inside and under close supervision when they're out.

Anyway, I'm working the room ... saying hello to both the conscious and the unconscious ... the drooling and the dry.

"Hey Mike!" half exclaim loving the hug or handshake, full of joy we actually returned for another show.

The other half remain silent in their wheelchair or laying their head on the table like a sleeping child in school and when I hug them or touch them ... they do nothing ... already more dead than alive.

A white haired woman who I'm fond of sits alone staring at her hands and as I hug her, she jumps in surprise and with guarded eyes, says, "WELL ... I'M MARTHA! WHO ARE YOU?"

The world stops spinning for a moment ... I'm transported to another Universe ... away from the cold routines of Oceanside ... into the place of "Shock."

She knew me last week ... called me by name ... told me how thrilled she is that I'm back ... and asked for her favorite song.

Now she's crossed some line ... drawing closer to forgetting this life ... preparing, I suppose, for the next one.

My wife is the Director of the Alzheimer's Association and has taught me a great deal about things I'd preferred to not know.

Growing at an alarming rate, people with Alzheimer's Disease already eclipses most everything else combined.

Later as I sing her favorite, "We're going up, up, up but I'm going to climb a little higher ..." Martha sits there oblivious ... staring at her hands ... and my voice breaks a little over the words ... because I see ... she's already go

Post It Note Reminders and other Perverted Love Songs

At Monty Parks "Tuesday Night Acoustic Jam" at "Doc's Bar" ... never to be confused with the "Coffee. Deli. Jam" which sounds like something sold at "Starbucks" in a plain red cup ... we're thinking about doing an Album, Deluxe Box Set CD with lots of pictures and liner notes, YouTube videos all wrapped in Conga Dave's boxer shorts.

No, it's not a Rolling Stones' "Sticky Fingers' redux ... it's a concept based on "Post It Notes."

The concept grew out of our beloved member Gregory L. Bell's use of "Post It Notes" stuck to his guitar to remind himself of what he plans to play.

Oh ... to set the context ... a group of renegade bridge hating musicians gather every Tuesday night at Doc's on Tybee to play music ... and otherwise.

We drink ... play music ... tell jokes ... make fun of each other ... and don't allow coffee.

Greg used to be a bomber or something in the Military. He taped Post It Notes on the bombs to remind him of where to drop his load.

Apparently we either won ... or tied ... that particular war ... and Greg received an "Honorable Discharge" ... which is pretty funny for someone who drops bombs ... and the man equates "Post It Notes" with successful droppings.

When he drops a song at the Jam, it's scripted from the Post It Note on his guitar.

Once, while Greg was getting a beer, I stole the Post It Note from his guitar and when he found out you would have thought the Taliban had invaded.

Greg did a loving melodic version of "Eve of Destruction" with out his Post It Note.

I recall Bob Fulton followed by "Stroking to the left .... Stroking to the right."

Anyway we've decided to kick it to the next level with out soon to be released ... musical delux extravaganza!

As soon as Conga Dave gives up the underwear.

Then we're going on tour to promote "Post It Note Reminders and other Perverted Love Songs".

First stop ... Coffee. Deli. Jam.

Then ... who knows where the Post It Note tells us to stop?

No Such Thing

It's Friday and ... let's be honest ... everyone's excited about the weekend and nobody reads whatever it is I'm compelled to write.

I don't blame you.

Hell ... half the time I don't read what I write!

So here's what I'm thinking ...

It's like the guy who got fired from his job at the Orange Juice Factory ... he couldn't concentrate.

Or spotting a blind guy on a Nude Beach ... it's not hard.

Or making love in an elevator ... it's wrong on so many levels.

But I can think about things I want to think about without worrying anybody reads this stuff Fridays ...

Like, when Sarah's naked in the bathroom it's not just the shower that's turned on.

Why do they cotton swab a guy's arm before giving him a lethal injection?

Why isn't there mouse flavored Cat Food?

Why is the third hand on a watch called a second hand?

Why is it that Doctor's call what they do "practice"?

At our House these are the burning questions ...

Why does an alarm clock go off when it turns on ... or in my wife's case ... why doesn't an alarm clock go off when it's on?

If the Tybee Island Police Department is on their way to save someone ... and runs over somebody else going Bat shit speed down Butler Avenue ... do they stop to help them?

Or ... when an island cop asks, "Mind if I search your vehicle?" and you say, "Of course!" ... and the cop replies, "Of course I can or of course you mind?" ... and regardless of the answer you will be ticketed.

Or ... as our daughter asks, "Is there a spell to become a Mermaid that actually works?"

Or ... if I eat myself will I twice as big or completely disappear?

Which makes me wonder what's for dinner tonight?

Well, I hope this is helpful for whoever happens to read it on a Friday.

And remember kids ... there's no such thing as a stupid question.

Just ask anybody.

Except a Tybee Cop.

Walking Away

"Well," he says sarcastically, holding the financial documents in his hands, "why don't you just go get it now."

Across the conference room table the white hair old man who had come out of retirement to handle the books is shaking.

"I said go get them now!" the jet black hair Bank President bellows.

Fumbling to his feet, the book keeper knocks over his coffee, grabs napkins and does his best to soak the stains from the papers spread out before him.

"I SAID NOW!" the banker snaps and the old man scurries away looking frightened and beaten.

Alone in the room, the Banker giggles to himself and focuses his narrow eyes on me.

Sitting at the end of the table, he's to my left and Chip's, the old man, spilled coffee and drenched papers are on my right.

"What did you do that for?" I ask. "You scared him."

Leaning back in the posh leather chair, "I have a gift of making people afraid."

"Not much of a gift," I mutter.

"Listen," he snarls, "he should be prepared! That's why we're in trouble! People aren't doing what they're supposed to be doing. My job's to make them."

I've never personally met Satan but am pretty certain the Banker has.

"There are better ways to get people to do things," I shrug.

"I am very successful the way I handle things," he says.

"No doubt," I say rising to clean up the spill.

"Sit down," he orders. "You didn't do that."

Wiping the table and dabbing the papers, I toss things in the trash and move Chip's stuff to a dry place on the table before resuming my seat.

The Conference Room is full of anger.

Chip returns with more papers and our meeting resumes though I'm not longer paying attention.

I'm remembering something Frederick Buechner,  my favorite author, wrote:

“Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back--in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you.”

Standing, I grab my coffee cup as the Banker is in mid-sentence and make my way out of the room.

"Where do you think you're going?" he snaps.

"I need a break," I say continuing towards the door. "It's too emotional in here to think straight."

"Sit back down," he orders. "We're doing this now dammit!"

I keep walking.

There are certain things in life that are simply not worth walking back to and, for the most part, I've never stopped since.