Friends:
"It's always something!"
That's what Lewis, my dentist said as I lay reclined-- you know, that helpless position dentists put you in before you really get “drilled." With drill in hand, whirring away, anxious to meet my helpless tooth, he looked like an alien creature. His mouth is covered by a surgeon's mask (that should have been a clue), hiding I'm sure a smurk that probably said, "Pain is good attitude adjustment," perhaps his life's warped creed. He had on glasses, big black rims and thick lens, enhanced by a pair of night¬-vision looking goggles, the kind the military uses to search out the enemy. Hovering just above and between the mechanical eyeballs was a headlight, and it changed colors from white to yellow, winking at me at will. Believe me, it was a surreal sight.
I survived the first round of drilling, and as he neared completion (somebody heard my prayers!), he looked at the nurse, shook his head, and said, "It's always something ... ," at which time I lost consciousness. After recovering, and later that day, I found myself enduring an inquisition by my banker, that same once-nice shylock who once paid for lunches but who now “summons" me over to his dingy office to discuss the precarious state of my loans. You know the type. He asked, "Will you ever pay me off" I answered with something intentionally vague, as usual (bankers can't take the truth, you know!), to which he said "It's always something .... " With that comment, I figured things would only get worse, so I tried a new tactic by feigning pain, holding my chest and asking him to quickly call 911 - dodged the bullet again!
Of course there's more. But time and space won't allow me to tell all the details of the nuclear treadmill test - you know, the one where they inject you full of radioactive isotopes and peer into your arteries. Soon I'm at a red-line heart rate of extreme proportion and the nurse exclaims, "It's always something ...” as she examines the EKG machine and shakes her head. As I was being placed on the stretcher, I heard her say, "So sorry, it was just a misread."
Yes, it's true, "It's always something," and you don't even want to know the details about my locking my keys in the car! See what happens when you come to Atlanta? In summary, I guess I was lucky to survive the day, and in retrospect it seems to me that the common link to today's "it's" was the costs of survival of "it" all --- excessive is too mild of a word. And believe me, you can get “drilled" in more ways than one! In conclusion, while I don't know about you, I would surely like to have one day ... just one day ... , and soon, with no “it's" at all in it.
Bud
March 29, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
"Your Soul Secrets have been revealed..."
Friends:
"Your Soul Secrets have been revealed ... "
No, not to me personally, but to our Big Brother, if you can interpret the news lately. How so?
Well, in many ways. Take, for example, the new X-ray imaging being installed in airports. Why, it sees right through you ... yes, everything personal, which could be both a blessing and a curse, depending, if you know what I mean. Will we soon be profiled on the Internet? Possibly .... I hope so!
Now, take the little small cameras recording red-light runners--no questions asked--violation ticket in the mail. And GPS systems (satellites, folks) can track your car, cell phone, airplane, boat and your Web-surfing habits. Scary, huh? Already there are helmets of electrodes, chip implants in your head and other such invasions that allow your brain to interact with a computer. Where will it end? Not here, and no time soon ... much more to come.
Read on: A "Metaphysician", aka a Neuroscientist, by use of a MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) device, has discovered a way to interpret our "free will", assuming by now we have any left. This science can read your mind, your secret secrets, your intents, your very soul, if you will. And the computer is 71% accurate ... Imagine. Now you have no more secrets. And while I don't know how ladies feel about all this, but men, we have reached the final indignity of being totally naked to the world.
Well, some of this intrusion we may avoid, but there is still one little secret device, spoken of only in hushed whispers, that is unavoidable. I'm referring to the little red blinking light sensor found on toilet hardware in public facilities --- you've seen them. What are they really there for? Imagine the data they collect --- I shutter to think!
As for me, I always look on the positive side, fellas, so I think we shouldn't be too concerned about all this. It's been common knowledge since the days of The Garden that women, especially wives, have been able to discern the thoughts and intents of a man's brain. It's not all that difficult really, because at any given time there are only 4 or 5 things on a man's mind. And these can be narrowed statistically without science simply by observing such things as the time of day or night, the season, the sports season, the tides, NASCAR events and the level of sobriety, to mention a few. And I suspect the women will score better'n 71% accuracy. And we continue to wait for science to discover a machine to interpret women!
Bud
March 22, 2007
"Your Soul Secrets have been revealed ... "
No, not to me personally, but to our Big Brother, if you can interpret the news lately. How so?
Well, in many ways. Take, for example, the new X-ray imaging being installed in airports. Why, it sees right through you ... yes, everything personal, which could be both a blessing and a curse, depending, if you know what I mean. Will we soon be profiled on the Internet? Possibly .... I hope so!
Now, take the little small cameras recording red-light runners--no questions asked--violation ticket in the mail. And GPS systems (satellites, folks) can track your car, cell phone, airplane, boat and your Web-surfing habits. Scary, huh? Already there are helmets of electrodes, chip implants in your head and other such invasions that allow your brain to interact with a computer. Where will it end? Not here, and no time soon ... much more to come.
Read on: A "Metaphysician", aka a Neuroscientist, by use of a MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) device, has discovered a way to interpret our "free will", assuming by now we have any left. This science can read your mind, your secret secrets, your intents, your very soul, if you will. And the computer is 71% accurate ... Imagine. Now you have no more secrets. And while I don't know how ladies feel about all this, but men, we have reached the final indignity of being totally naked to the world.
Well, some of this intrusion we may avoid, but there is still one little secret device, spoken of only in hushed whispers, that is unavoidable. I'm referring to the little red blinking light sensor found on toilet hardware in public facilities --- you've seen them. What are they really there for? Imagine the data they collect --- I shutter to think!
As for me, I always look on the positive side, fellas, so I think we shouldn't be too concerned about all this. It's been common knowledge since the days of The Garden that women, especially wives, have been able to discern the thoughts and intents of a man's brain. It's not all that difficult really, because at any given time there are only 4 or 5 things on a man's mind. And these can be narrowed statistically without science simply by observing such things as the time of day or night, the season, the sports season, the tides, NASCAR events and the level of sobriety, to mention a few. And I suspect the women will score better'n 71% accuracy. And we continue to wait for science to discover a machine to interpret women!
Bud
March 22, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
"Talkin' To Trees"
Sometimes creative spirits are stifled, supplanted by the more serious issues of life. Things like dinner plans, fixing the pool heater, and communications with yardmen who speak foreign languages are a few of the essentials that dominate our time. When creative endeavors diminish, it’s time for a road trip.
Road trips don’t necessarily have to be long. Often a simple change of scenery is all that is required to rejuvenate our creative impulses and restore our sense of sanity.
One of my favorite places for a road trip is to the Raw Bar at Latitude 31, a restaurant joint that hangs over the edge of the Jekyll Island marina dock. There’s nothing like getting down and dirty with a dangerous Dan’s Dawg or BBQ washed down with a Bud to rekindle bound-up creative thoughts.
I made that trip last week, and was not disappointed. Maybe it’s the fetid smell of marsh, mud and oyster beds that sets one to thinking. After lunch I wandered off of the dock and strolled among the very large and ancient oak trees, thankful to know that there are things older and far more magnificent than we are.
It occurred to me that oak trees on the island do things backwards. For example, unlike their cousins in north Georgia, these oaks shed their leaves in the Spring, not in the Fall. Now this is interesting, and I wondered why. After drifting a little sideways I decided to talk with several of the oak trees to see if I could understand the rationale for springtime shedding.
The trees were silent at first, but after some pleading they soon opened up. Perhaps I talked too long to one particular oak tree, for it offered up a very large yawn and began to scream, “Enough, enough…here is our answer.
We knew years ago that these beautiful islands would be populated by a lot of people from elsewhere. We knew they would appreciate the fact that we maintain our greenery throughout the bleak, leafless winters further north.”
The tree continues, “We do this for the sake of humanity. Like humanity, we yearn for the need for new growth. As other deciduous trees begin to add their new growth, we begin to shed our old growth in order that something new will emerge. And so you see, the islands will not be bereft whatsoever by weeks or months of a leafless environment. Isn’t that nice?”
The tree seemed to smile and say, “Do you remember Charles Wesley?” I did, remembering his failed attempt to spread Christianity to the natives. The tree said, “My friend, we have had much better luck in converting Yankees to the southern lifestyle than Wesley had in spreading his doctrines among the indigenous heathen.” I knew there was no debating that!
The conclusion I drew is perhaps the same conclusion you have drawn: No matter what age we attain, there will be no new growth until something old drops off. We’re never perennially green without a significant cost.
What better way to renew our spirits than to walk among ancient oaks and gain a greater appreciation for the wonders of nature and a springtime that brings renewal to every thing.
Bud Hearn
March 15, 2007
Road trips don’t necessarily have to be long. Often a simple change of scenery is all that is required to rejuvenate our creative impulses and restore our sense of sanity.
One of my favorite places for a road trip is to the Raw Bar at Latitude 31, a restaurant joint that hangs over the edge of the Jekyll Island marina dock. There’s nothing like getting down and dirty with a dangerous Dan’s Dawg or BBQ washed down with a Bud to rekindle bound-up creative thoughts.
I made that trip last week, and was not disappointed. Maybe it’s the fetid smell of marsh, mud and oyster beds that sets one to thinking. After lunch I wandered off of the dock and strolled among the very large and ancient oak trees, thankful to know that there are things older and far more magnificent than we are.
It occurred to me that oak trees on the island do things backwards. For example, unlike their cousins in north Georgia, these oaks shed their leaves in the Spring, not in the Fall. Now this is interesting, and I wondered why. After drifting a little sideways I decided to talk with several of the oak trees to see if I could understand the rationale for springtime shedding.
The trees were silent at first, but after some pleading they soon opened up. Perhaps I talked too long to one particular oak tree, for it offered up a very large yawn and began to scream, “Enough, enough…here is our answer.
We knew years ago that these beautiful islands would be populated by a lot of people from elsewhere. We knew they would appreciate the fact that we maintain our greenery throughout the bleak, leafless winters further north.”
The tree continues, “We do this for the sake of humanity. Like humanity, we yearn for the need for new growth. As other deciduous trees begin to add their new growth, we begin to shed our old growth in order that something new will emerge. And so you see, the islands will not be bereft whatsoever by weeks or months of a leafless environment. Isn’t that nice?”
The tree seemed to smile and say, “Do you remember Charles Wesley?” I did, remembering his failed attempt to spread Christianity to the natives. The tree said, “My friend, we have had much better luck in converting Yankees to the southern lifestyle than Wesley had in spreading his doctrines among the indigenous heathen.” I knew there was no debating that!
The conclusion I drew is perhaps the same conclusion you have drawn: No matter what age we attain, there will be no new growth until something old drops off. We’re never perennially green without a significant cost.
What better way to renew our spirits than to walk among ancient oaks and gain a greater appreciation for the wonders of nature and a springtime that brings renewal to every thing.
Bud Hearn
March 15, 2007
Thursday, March 8, 2007
CAUTION: Identity Theft is Rampant...You may be its next victim right now....
Friends:
CAUTION: Identity Theft is Rampant ..... You may be its next victim right now .....
Yes, like it or not, some computer in India may have your number and you may lose your stash to some Nigerian nitwit scheme. This is not supposed to be happening to us privileged ones who live on this island paradise, God's Waiting Room, but it is. So, as model citizens, Renn and I have invited a couple of experts from the Computer Financial Investigations Division and IRS Criminal Investigations Division from FLETC to tell us how to protect ourselves from financial ruin --- Dennis Keith and Jim Wilson, respectively, will be our speakers Friday.
Of course, Identity Theft is not new, but inventive operatives have found novel technological means to separate us from names and money. This was more difficult in time past when identity depended on individual recognizance. You couldn't get away with much then. But we have ceased to be individuals, and have become numbers in cyberspace. Hence the problems.
In the good old days in Colquitt, one passed for who one was. As kids we'd play these silly games of riding horses of brooms, wearing pillow cases for Superman's flying cape, and things like that. We identified harmlessly with all sorts of characters. Even our mothers watched Queen For A Day on TV, hoping one day to have a clothes dryer. We all dreamed of being someone else, but just dreamed. There was a fellow, I think his name was Carl, who identified with a car motor. He was “not all there," ("touched" as they said in those days), and his 3 year old mind was imprisoned in the body of a 35 year old man. Everybody knew Carl and felt sorry for him, and he just roamed idly downtown and in the ally' where we played. Every day Carl came by, "Udduunn, uddumm, motor dead, honey ... udduunn, udduunn, motor dead, honey." This was to my knowledge his only vocabulary, and nobody wanted his identity.
Well, these days are gone for sure, and things have changed. We're mature adults now, right? Mature, yes, but we have found even ourselves wishing ofttimes we were someone else, a new identity, if only for a day. I like Woody Allen's remark, “My only regret in life is that I was not someone else." They say college grads these days will have 7-8 careers, each bringing new identities. Imagine. And as adults we have found inventive but subtle means of our own to change identities, and there are a 1001 Ways to do that: clothes, cars, jobs, friends, ideology, houses and so on. There are thousands of Elvis look-alikes, and countless celebrity wannabes and pretenders. I think a healthy response to our "mature" identity crises is to collectively take a good look in the mirror, have a hearty laugh, and get on with things.
But, you know, identity theft notwithstanding, life has always been full of angst and profound mysteries ... and things always get worked out. But sometimes I remember Carl, "Uudduunn, uudduunn motor dead, .. honey" ... and I wonder if he ever connected with his true identity and got his car started, "Vrooom, vrooom, motor alive, honey, motor alive." And, speaking' of mysteries, I sometimes wonder about my own motor ... you?
Bud
March 8 2007
CAUTION: Identity Theft is Rampant ..... You may be its next victim right now .....
Yes, like it or not, some computer in India may have your number and you may lose your stash to some Nigerian nitwit scheme. This is not supposed to be happening to us privileged ones who live on this island paradise, God's Waiting Room, but it is. So, as model citizens, Renn and I have invited a couple of experts from the Computer Financial Investigations Division and IRS Criminal Investigations Division from FLETC to tell us how to protect ourselves from financial ruin --- Dennis Keith and Jim Wilson, respectively, will be our speakers Friday.
Of course, Identity Theft is not new, but inventive operatives have found novel technological means to separate us from names and money. This was more difficult in time past when identity depended on individual recognizance. You couldn't get away with much then. But we have ceased to be individuals, and have become numbers in cyberspace. Hence the problems.
In the good old days in Colquitt, one passed for who one was. As kids we'd play these silly games of riding horses of brooms, wearing pillow cases for Superman's flying cape, and things like that. We identified harmlessly with all sorts of characters. Even our mothers watched Queen For A Day on TV, hoping one day to have a clothes dryer. We all dreamed of being someone else, but just dreamed. There was a fellow, I think his name was Carl, who identified with a car motor. He was “not all there," ("touched" as they said in those days), and his 3 year old mind was imprisoned in the body of a 35 year old man. Everybody knew Carl and felt sorry for him, and he just roamed idly downtown and in the ally' where we played. Every day Carl came by, "Udduunn, uddumm, motor dead, honey ... udduunn, udduunn, motor dead, honey." This was to my knowledge his only vocabulary, and nobody wanted his identity.
Well, these days are gone for sure, and things have changed. We're mature adults now, right? Mature, yes, but we have found even ourselves wishing ofttimes we were someone else, a new identity, if only for a day. I like Woody Allen's remark, “My only regret in life is that I was not someone else." They say college grads these days will have 7-8 careers, each bringing new identities. Imagine. And as adults we have found inventive but subtle means of our own to change identities, and there are a 1001 Ways to do that: clothes, cars, jobs, friends, ideology, houses and so on. There are thousands of Elvis look-alikes, and countless celebrity wannabes and pretenders. I think a healthy response to our "mature" identity crises is to collectively take a good look in the mirror, have a hearty laugh, and get on with things.
But, you know, identity theft notwithstanding, life has always been full of angst and profound mysteries ... and things always get worked out. But sometimes I remember Carl, "Uudduunn, uudduunn motor dead, .. honey" ... and I wonder if he ever connected with his true identity and got his car started, "Vrooom, vrooom, motor alive, honey, motor alive." And, speaking' of mysteries, I sometimes wonder about my own motor ... you?
Bud
March 8 2007
Thursday, March 1, 2007
"....as the worm turns....."
Friends:
" ... as the worm turns ... "
You already know how boring I-16 can get, and I have traveled this route too often in the last couple of weeks. However, I-16, like slow long-distance running, is conducive to dwelling on inane thoughts and getting a hold on elusive dreams. Yesterday, the "worm" thought kept circling around in my brain, apparently prompting me to recall some long-buried remnants of my youth. And I was transported back in thought to pre-teen years of a country boy, bored, curious, and penniless, but creative.
In those days there was little excitement in Colquitt, Georgia, so we had to be creative. The Spring Creek, a beautiful but small creek, meandered slowly through the westerly portion of town, and it was the first choice for spending days in carefree fun. In fact, it was encouraged by our parents. We'd mostly fish with cane poles, using worms we captured, not bought. Since money was in short supply, we had to find our own fish bait, so we resorted to a method of extracting 2 inch wiggly earth worms from their burrows, a process called “ grubbing. “
"Grubbing" was simple: take a sharpened 2 foot 2 X 4, drive it into the ground about a foot, and take an axe head and rub it across the top. This produced a "grunting" sound which resulted in a 10-foot circumferential vibration of the ground. The worms, either tickled or intrigued by this mini-earthquake, came worming to the surface, where we'd pick them up by the hundreds. It's easy to fool worms .. .little did they know their fate! The best “grubbing" was in a boggy area on "our place" (idiomatic for "our farm"), and we could always count on it for worms. We found some pine ridges which produced larger 10 inch worms we called "Piney Hill Rooters," but they were too big and we had to dice them up to fit in the fishes' mouths. I'm sure they appreciated this unanaesthetized primal surgery.
The results were always the same ... we caught plenty of fish for our "fish frys" (just FYI, the very first outing produced for Tubby and me 45 bream, all of which fit into a quart jar). Country boys can survive! Well, you know the rest of the story ... we grew up and left childish things behind, and began "grubbing" for grown-up things like money, a different sort of creative thrill ... but, 0, for the return just once more of the good-old-days!
You might wonder where the euphemistic saying, "the worm turns" came from, and where all this is heading ... well, it was first used by Shakespeare (who else!) in Henry VI, Part 3, and in that context meant that even the most humble of creatures will eventually turn to fight an oppressor. Well, I kept thinkin' how a worm might turn to accomplish this, and along I-16 somewhere near Blitchville it came to me in a flash of light. The moral is this: while we got the first laugh on the worms, nevertheless in the end the worms will feast on us even as we so callously did upon them. Thus, the circle is complete.
Bud
March 1, 2007
" ... as the worm turns ... "
You already know how boring I-16 can get, and I have traveled this route too often in the last couple of weeks. However, I-16, like slow long-distance running, is conducive to dwelling on inane thoughts and getting a hold on elusive dreams. Yesterday, the "worm" thought kept circling around in my brain, apparently prompting me to recall some long-buried remnants of my youth. And I was transported back in thought to pre-teen years of a country boy, bored, curious, and penniless, but creative.
In those days there was little excitement in Colquitt, Georgia, so we had to be creative. The Spring Creek, a beautiful but small creek, meandered slowly through the westerly portion of town, and it was the first choice for spending days in carefree fun. In fact, it was encouraged by our parents. We'd mostly fish with cane poles, using worms we captured, not bought. Since money was in short supply, we had to find our own fish bait, so we resorted to a method of extracting 2 inch wiggly earth worms from their burrows, a process called “ grubbing. “
"Grubbing" was simple: take a sharpened 2 foot 2 X 4, drive it into the ground about a foot, and take an axe head and rub it across the top. This produced a "grunting" sound which resulted in a 10-foot circumferential vibration of the ground. The worms, either tickled or intrigued by this mini-earthquake, came worming to the surface, where we'd pick them up by the hundreds. It's easy to fool worms .. .little did they know their fate! The best “grubbing" was in a boggy area on "our place" (idiomatic for "our farm"), and we could always count on it for worms. We found some pine ridges which produced larger 10 inch worms we called "Piney Hill Rooters," but they were too big and we had to dice them up to fit in the fishes' mouths. I'm sure they appreciated this unanaesthetized primal surgery.
The results were always the same ... we caught plenty of fish for our "fish frys" (just FYI, the very first outing produced for Tubby and me 45 bream, all of which fit into a quart jar). Country boys can survive! Well, you know the rest of the story ... we grew up and left childish things behind, and began "grubbing" for grown-up things like money, a different sort of creative thrill ... but, 0, for the return just once more of the good-old-days!
You might wonder where the euphemistic saying, "the worm turns" came from, and where all this is heading ... well, it was first used by Shakespeare (who else!) in Henry VI, Part 3, and in that context meant that even the most humble of creatures will eventually turn to fight an oppressor. Well, I kept thinkin' how a worm might turn to accomplish this, and along I-16 somewhere near Blitchville it came to me in a flash of light. The moral is this: while we got the first laugh on the worms, nevertheless in the end the worms will feast on us even as we so callously did upon them. Thus, the circle is complete.
Bud
March 1, 2007
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