Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Monday, June 30, 2008

Dog Days in Dixie....A Dog Speaks Out

Dog Days in Dixie...
A Dog Speaks Out



I am a dog….my name is Mac.

It should have been “Hoover,” since I’m prone to vacuum up food crumbs and other strange edibles. But more about me later. This is about surviving Dog Days in Dixie, folks, and finding relief from the hot, languid days of August. I’d like to suggest some beat-the-heat tips ~~ sorta like a page out of the Dog Diary, as it were.

First, however, let’s get one thing straight: Dogs are “chosen creatures.” How so, you ask? Dog spelled backwards is God…do the math…and Dog Theology has it that the Original Creation Almighty Providence foresaw the mess humans would become and sent dogs as examples, so to speak, of “how to live.” Dogs are highly adaptive in manipulating human behavior, which supports the argument that dogs train humans, not the reverse. Are we clear on this?

Ok, then, a little about myself. I am a 5-year old, 25 pound Westie, a natural born killer of rodents and innately schooled in the fine art of digging. Born in Savannah, and living near the beach, I’m Aristocracy, a Blueblood Dog of the South. I’m the final authority on Dog Days, y’all. Pay attention!

I have a live-in mate, Sophie, a female 14 dog-years my senior. Our relationship is purely platonic due to a certain “process” of emasculation performed on us without our permission in early doghood. But things have worked out pretty well so far ~ we recommend it to others, especially humans…the platonic part, that is. It solves a lot of problems later on.

We play incessantly with toys our “parents” buy us. When bored with them, we chew the stuffing out, and voila, like magic, more toys appear. I’m not jiving you. We even let our parents join the “keep-away” games, and they soon become one of us, crawling around on their knees, talking like dogs, or babies…who knows, but having fun. The lesson here? Pretend you’re a dog….who’s looking!

Food is our hot button. We hang out near the table, stove or refrig and are prescient in knowing when accidental food droppings will occur. Position is paramount in order to capture it in mid-flight…timing is everything. I sometimes put on my “hangdog” look to get a furtive morsel. While I despise begging, I am not above it. We seem to eat a lot during Dog Days. Make a note: eating’s a good thing!

Speaking of “accidents,” yes, these things happen. Looking remorseful keeps chastisement to a minimum. The lesson here? Remorse evokes sympathy, and we get to eat watermelon and “make up.” So when accidents occur, take responsibility and show remorse…making up is fun! Got it?

Our parents are “mommy” and “Pack Leader.” They seem to respond favorably to this felicitous show of respect, and it often buys us a walk on the beach. Dog Days are a great time to show respect and get to the beach. Freed of leashes, we chase whatever moves, helter-skelter, swimming, digging in the sand, rolling in it, carefree…Advice? Abandon constraints, the beach is waiting for your feet!

Alas, however, what we roll in, or dig up, has to be washed off, and we do this by a quick swim in the pool or a wash job in the outdoor shower. It’s an acceptable penalty for having had so much fun. We endure the bathing indignity because we always get a “treat” for good behavior. It might even work the same way for you.

Sometimes we meet our neighborhood dog friends on afternoon strolls. It’s a thrill to sniff and spend a little playful time with them, and you should try that too ~ the playful time, that is…Stroll and sniff the flowers!

Speaking of friends, I have a pal, Butch, a large black Lab with academic credentials. He boasts that his “Pack leader,” an attorney of dubious renown, has trained him to take dictation and type (but I think he exaggerates somewhat!)…as far as I know he’s the only dog on the island who works during Dog Days. Us? We shun work, and avoid like the plague all contact with lawyers…you should do likewise!

I have one bone to pick, however. Often the Pack Leader maniacally hustles us outside, shouting “do hurry up, do your hurry-up…hurry up.” Look, who can make these things happen “on command” anyway? Like fine wine, some things should never be rushed, and “hurry-up” is one of them. Suggestion? Get yourself a bottle of good vintage and forget hurry up…relax, you have the rest of your life!

Wait, Listen….hear it? It’s the rustle of Harris Teeter sacks. Ah, the unmistakable aroma of food! Gotta go, folks… maybe I’ll get lucky today!

Dog Days in Dixie…Imagine the Possibilities. You may also hear a familiar rustle of things and get lucky, too!

But what do I know? I’m just a dog… my name is Mac.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

The Birth of a Republic...A Remembrance

The Birth of a Republic....
A Remembrance


The “Birth Certificate” for the United States was written by Thomas Jefferson, and July 4, 1776 became the official date of the birth of our Republic. Without the shedding of blood there is no birth ~~ it was no different for this Republic. The bloody war with England culminated in the birth of a Child of Liberty.

Fourscore and seven years ago our Fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure.” Lincoln, Gettysburg Address

Pulsating in the hearts and minds of all people is the concept of freedom ~~ ideals of a personal liberty. Jefferson eloquently penned this addendum, The Declaration of Independence, to the birth certificate. It remains as this nation’s most cherished symbol of liberty.

It might be said in a crude analogy that America was “immaculately conceived” by the ethereal concept of liberty as its “Father,” and England as its “mother.” Like all children, maturity comes in ways both similar and different than parents. Yet there remains always a familial resemblance to the parents. This child, America, embodied similitudes of both “mother” and “Father” in its struggle to mature. As we wonder of our own children, what will they be, their legacy, so we collectively wonder of our own Republic.

Once Dr. Alexander Graham Bell and a friend observed a hot air balloon break the gravitational pull of the earth and rise from a field in France. Drifting over some trees, the balloon descended into a field where it was attacked by workmen with pitchforks. “Now what good was all that?”, the friend asked Dr. Bell, who replied: “What good is any newborn baby?”

“I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, and danced with the sky on laughter and silver wings….” J G Magee

The newborn baby, America, has now soared to full maturity.

But what is this Republic all about today? Descriptions vary. Some may depict it as a nation of junkies, drunk on oil from the vines of Sodom in the fields of Gomorrah. Others characterize its culture of consumerism, the aphrodisiac of entitlement. Some even suggest that our pervading pursuit of wealth turns us into a herd of demon-possessed swine, rushing en masse over the abyss of debt. Others see the evaporation of jobs, NAFTA ~~ the New Age version of English Colonialism ~~ as a creation of a perpetual welfare underclass. And yes, Oh, so much more…

Following the lead of mother and Father, many see this Republic in a more “creative” way, attempting to replicate its ideals of freedom to enslaved peoples of this world… birthing, as it were, yet more children of liberty.

Lincoln at Gettysburg saw this larger picture which I hope we can also grasp, and again galvanize our disparate liberties into a more cohesive and nationalized whole:

“… that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom ~~ and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
To date no nation on this planet has successfully existed into perpetuity. It may be just a dream, but it is my dream that we can leave this legacy of freedom to our generations:

“… that men may rise on stepping stones
of their dead selves to higher things
.” Tennyson In Memoriam


Happy Birthday America
July 4, 2008



Bud
June 26, 2008

Thursday, June 19, 2008

The McCain Manifesto...The GOP SOS (Same Ole S...)

The McCain Manifesto… The GOP SOS (Same ole s…)

At 72 he should know better than to compete in words with a Harvard Liberal young enough to be his son…oops, didn’t we hear he’d fathered such? Blog news.

But here he is, a Willie Loman having difficulty with the teleprompter (age does better with golf than technology), and apparently with sticking to his original message. But it’s all about fool-the-public anyway, and flip-flops in politics are de rigueur. Only problem is the message itself—bashing the left and their failed ideas of the ‘60’s. Does he have a new idea that does not have Rovian fingerprints on it?

As if his gravitas weren’t enough, guess where the he launched his National Campaign—New Orleans, that swamp of failed GOP policy decisions by the current nest of inept idiots that sticks in the throat like a crawfish claw. Why of all places would he launch from there? As Scripture has it, “As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool returns to his folly.”

But for Full Metal Mac, a Taibbi description of our hero, the dumbed-down SOS words of the GOP fall with a thud into the dust of empty town hall meetings and appeal to the public’s worst instincts.

Viewed through the smoke and mirrors of his words, it seems that the campaign is based on the two perennial concepts ever popular in the US since Nixon: Fear of Change and Hatred of Race. Mac The Martyr, survivor of a Hanoi torture regime, flails us with this injustice while he stumbles to the podium bearing the torch of the anti-Obama mob…Fear and hate do torch nerves!

Yet Mac is not without his own “inspirational” Jeremiah Wright. Get this: Mac’s hero is none other than the sleazy Joel Osteen, that plastic smiling Slick with the greasy coiffeur curls, gushingly pontificating the voguish “Name it and Claim it” Prosperity Gospel. O, how slimy politics has become in America!

So get ready, folks…the drumbeat of fear-mongering will get louder and drown out all sense with nonsense. It’s “us” and “them”—are you a “them” or an “us?” Divide and conquer as Nixon and Buchanan did to the South. It’s SOS in the GOP. We have now been put in the “cage” with Mac, re-living as it were a “collective suffering,” one might say. Hopefully through this ugly experiment he might finally rid himself of this stigma and the rest of the recently failed GOP initiatives and get to a happy ending.

Let me lighten it up for you. Get online www.Intrade.com, a website where you can bet (with real dollars!) on the outcome of events—weather, stocks, and Yes, politics...a virtual Las Vegas. Bets are stacking up 63.9% to 33.1%, Obama over McCain as President. Cast yours. Yet I like long shots, and in spite of the SOS GOP, I have faith, as the bumper sticker said:

“Old age and treachery will always overcome youth and vigor.”

Obama’s words, although hollow and ephemeral, emotionally aspire: “Too good to be true.” Mac’s words, “hate and fear,” evoke ancient emotions of evisceration. Soon you will get the opportunity to choose which words you prefer…as for me, I’m betting on the bumper sticker!


Bud
June 19, 2008

Thursday, June 12, 2008

The Obama Oracles...A Bridge to Nowhere

Friends of the Friday Forum:

The Obama Oracles…
A Bridge to Nowhere


“…(they) speak great swelling words of vanity that allure through the lusts of the flesh…” (2 Peter 2:18)

The Parties have chosen their candidates, finally. They stand in stark juxtaposition to each other. One, a charismatic articulator of an esoteric message of “hope and change;” and the other, a venerable soldier well beyond his prime who can barely cobble together a complete sentence.

We now have almost 6 months to decide our choice while attempting to digest the disgust the last year has dished out. Hopefully the news will finally focus on more important matters like: gas prices, credit constriction, food costs, home equity evaporation, low CD rates, baseball games and the Fall football rankings.

But this is about Obama. Mark Twain wrote in The Innocents Abroad these words about the River Arno in Florence: “… (it) is a great creek with four feet in the channel and some scows floating in it. They call it a river…they even help out the delusion by building bridges over it.”

Words is Obama’s strong suit. They drip like honey from his lips, these words of Hope and Change. They are universal in their subjective appeal to listeners, since we all have hope, and want things to change (for the better, I might add!). Sen. Obama has found a way with words to flesh out this concept, making himself “one” with the listener, and himself being the embodiment of the hope and change people want. It’s almost like the “word become flesh,” so to speak. It is frighteningly similar to the reign of Napoleon, when the French declared: “Napoleon is France, and France is Napoleon.” The outcome of this was disaster, as history records.

Words without substance are often dangerous. Remember the fiery harangues of Hitler, Huey P. Long, George C. Wallace, for example. Or more benevolent orators like Kennedy, M. L. King. Obama’s exceptional rhetoric flames the fires of emotional fervor, but his exposition of the words is hollow and sends a chill into the intellect.

From this pundit’s perspective, Obama’s oracular River of Rhetoric is shallow and toxic, burning uncontrollably like the Cuyahoga River in Cleveland….and by golly, Washington is not that far off! The words of Stanislaw J. Lech seem to apply: “Sometimes mud gives the illusion of depth.” Remember "Where's the beef," the words of Dave in the Wendy's slogan? Res ipsa loguitor.

From deep within the shadows Twain’s bridges over the Arno emerge. Led by the Prophet Obama, uttering great swelling words, throngs of smiling and starry-eyed people cross … to the other side of delusion.

Friends, The Great Divide will soon be ours to cross. Which bridge will you prefer?

Bud
June 12, 2008

Thursday, June 5, 2008

A Bowl of Red Beans & Rice...Por Favor

A Bowl of Red Beans & Rice… Por favor!

Atlanta, Jason’s Deli. Things have gone sideways on me in Atlanta. They’re not the same as I left them in ’04 ~ too much change to suit me.

Hola, Amigo – que pasa,” someone shouts from across the room. “De nada,” I holler back to nobody in particular ~ it just felt good to holler inside a restaurant!. “Que tu quiera?” What do I want? I want English, Dude, I thought, but I belted out in my best Spanish (they all seem to holler in that joint!), “ me guesteria Frejoles roja y arroz y vino tinto, hombre,” smugly contemptible with my reply.

But why was I upset? The new majority in Atlanta was very nice, if somewhat lacking in cleanliness ~ but hey, cleanliness is a relative term, right? Even my wife and I can’t agree on it! Besides, it’s not my city anymore; and I was taught to “get along.” Heck, I’ve been to worse joints, and cities for that matter!

It made me think of how much has changed up here, so it’s best that one not try to remember the past, the “old days” as we like to say, because it just makes you cry to see what it’s becoming ~ yes, a city of transients ~ the “them” versus “us,” and “us” is fast getting in the minority.

In the “old days,” when we were “The We”, we ran things our way. Ok, so we had do our own yards, but a little raking and mowing never hurt anybody and builds a lot of character. Now crews of strangers show up mowing and blowing, like a noisy storm of locusts, while we try to escape the noise of the screaming little engines. Just one example, of course.

But it’s changed on the island, too ~ just ask a stranger where they’re from, or listen carefully to their pronunciation of “you all,” and “would not” or “was.” See what I mean?

Oh yes, I’m a transient, too, as are most of you ~ how soon we forget. I guess there are still a few of the island “locals” who look at us and shake their heads and say, “I preferred the old days before this crowd showed up.” What goes around comes around, you know!

But here we are, run out of one place and making our new place like we want ~ Starbucks, for example, and even The Roundabout, built for convenience but enjoyed for comedy. Yeah, change is coming, so embrace it!

“Hey, Pedro, mas frijoles y arroz por me, y una botella grande de vino …pronto,” I scream out, even as I smile to myself and do a mental high-five. I’m already beginning to like being in the Minority! So take it from me, folks ~ Live it up, time is short…ain’t America great!

Bud
June 5, 2008

Monday, June 2, 2008

The Gypsy's Curse...A Tale of the Tarot Cards

The Gypsy’s Curse...
A Tale of the Tarot Cards


Death. Failure. Ruin…a bad sign for the first three cards of a Tarot reading…the flinch was noticeable! But the story is getting ahead of itself.

Diane Arbus, the fringe-of-society photographer, once said, “My favorite thing is to go where I’ve never been before.…” It seemed to me to be a reasonable philosophy to buy into. So one day I found myself knocking on a Gypsy’s door out of curiosity, and perhaps a desire to conjure up some insights as to my past and future. I was not disappointed!

The garishly-painted, neon-lit sign, “Sister Amy,” Tarot Cards, Palms Read, Crystal Ball Prophecy, rose from among the weeds along a derelict strip of road near town. The car, with its own mind, swerved into the driveway. The door of the house opened, revealing a charismatic Gypsy, clad in a long black robe, sparkling chains and jewelry…just what an active imagination would have envisioned.

Come in,” she said seductively, “and let the Tarot Cards reveal your past, present and future.” Entering the small, dark room was a big mistake!

We sat at a low table covered with a black velvet cloth. Candles on the table flickered in the gloom, casting an eerie light in the room. Shadows and ghosts seemed to embrace and dance mesmerizingly on the dark walls… a surreal scene.

A luminous crystal ball sat in the middle of the table as mystic voices within it seemed to come and go… a frightening scene. Like the sound of a Siren, The Gypsy invoked the aid of spirits by an incoherent mantra of karmic glossolalia, chanting “Om, Ahm, oola malla walla dalla tra ma tra lala”. Spooky stuff!

Satisfied she had been heard, she continued to deal the Tarot cards. Her visage changed and she became animated, infused by ancient spirits…fire seemed to fly from her fingertips as 12 more cards fell ominously from psychic palms into a perfect rectangle: Wealth, Love, Power…a better draw. More: Luxury, Fortune, Worry…manageable. Then: Lust, Prudence, The Sun…getting complicated now. The last 3: Disappointment, Oppression, Success. The dealing was now done and the prophecy began.

With fire her fingers seemed to flash
Like lightening in the night,
The cards they glowed as embers
And cast a fearful light.

The Future passed before my eyes
The Past it did the same,
There was no way to slow them down
And end her Cursed Game.


From her scarlet lips gushed a flood of gibberish mixed with weirdly prophetic predictions…it seemed I was in a trance. Outside the sky turned black as coal. Through diffused windows lightening flashed on the walls of the dark room, creating instant and disappearing faces which reflected in the crystal ball. The hot and breathless corridors seemed to ring with a strange chorus of voices that blended with The Gypsy’s own. Thunder shook the house violently. It was a scene out of Macbeth.

What did the Tarot Cards reveal? Recall is difficult, but two prophecies remain etched in memory: “First,” The Gypsy said, “your financial ship will soon arrive and you’ll be rich; secondly, women always find you attractive.” Wow…it’s one thing to suspect this, but another to have it confirmed. I felt instantly that the $85 had been well spent.

The Tale of the Tarots
I can’t fully impart
But the Curse of the Gypsy
Is seared in my heart.


Lightening flashed like a strobe; thunder and a torrent of rain beat upon that house. The table rocked violently, levitating uncontrollably. The Gypsy’s eyes glistened and grew savagely wild…her demeanor grew hauntingly bizarre. With arms flailing into the gloom of the room she began to laugh hideously while the crystal ball flashed incessantly, casting its glow on the occult paraphernalia. In its swirling haze I seemed to see images of men, thousands of them, standing at an ocean’s edge, gazing at the horizon. A speck on the sea appeared, perhaps a ship…yes, a ship, with letters on its side: FINANCIAL…but wait, it’s sinking, its letters disappearing.

I saw more: women, beautiful women, thousands of them, in parade upon the beach like models on a Milan runway, steely stares and cold sneers, vacuous eyes, oblivious to the men. “What could it mean,” I wondered? Have these men been to The Gypsy, too? Did the prophecy become a curse?

It was time to go, for sure. In a maddening exodus I fled the room, flinging the money upon the table. Running from the house, I disappeared into the blackness outside with The Gypsy’s prophecy of a financial ship and fatal attraction still ringing in my ears.

It was a long time ago now, this voyage into the occult. Memory fades with age, but not curiosity. The Gypsy’s words, like a bad dream, recur each time I near a beach.

One day you may see a strange man, standing at ocean’s edge and gazing wistfully on the horizon mumbling to himself. If so, approach him cautiously and toss a few coins at his feet….and tell him he’s cute. It just might be me, re-living The Gypsy’s Curse on this elegant island….and I’ve long-since given up on women.

Bud
June 2, 2008