Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Feelin' No Pain ...

Let’s go to Luckenbach, Texas…the successful life we’re livin’ got us fuedin’ like the Hatfields and Mccoys…Out in Luckenbach, Texas, ain’t nobody feeling no pain.” Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings

Oh, what a harsh audience you are!

Some have interpreted my latest Inanities as preludes to an obituary and impending demise. This is far from the truth, although that stark threshold is only two heartbeats away. You may be nearer than I am!

Consider these Absurdities in a metaphorical sense…you’ll be closer to the truth. Hint: “It’s the economy, stupid!” (Carville) There is a semblance of truth hidden within the epistle…can you find it?

I was in church Sunday, and The Voice inside my head shouted, “Quit discussing your age, your disgusts and your pains. You send negative signals to the brain.” Church Voices get my attention!

Yesterday, I was lying on Katie’s couch at PT Therapy getting electrotherapy to my aching back, reading about doomsday in the WSJ. Some Elitists have suggested there’s another Civil War going on, with Washington vs. Wall Street, and Main Street caught in the middle. Feel the pain yet?

Yeah, those two “institutions” we loathe but cannot escape. One maketh, the other taketh…both overreaching. Greed, avarice and the biggest lie of all, the promise of “transparency,” spurt from their lying lips and ooze over the landscape…even Bill Clinton “felt our pain.”

Lying there, contemplating my back pain (49 years of hard-core, unfettered athleticism), another voice echoed in my brain: “There’s a civil war going on inside your own body, you fool!” “Explain,” I responded. “OK. You’ve outlived your joints, and the mind is telling the body to do what it is no longer capable of…you’ve demanded more of the flesh than it can handle. Lighten up.” The voices speak truth!

I was curious about the electrotherapy, those four pulsating electrodes strapped to my lower spine. So I asked Katie and Sonja, “Explain this therapy to me.” They replied, as only youth can in that roll-of-the eyes, condescending tone, “We’ll try, but…” meaning, of course, “you dummy!” They tried. I think I got it.

It’s called the “Gate Control Theory.” Basically, there are two kinds of nerve fibers: One that transmits chronic, throbbing pain to the brain, and the other which does not. Electrotherapy is applied to the nerve fibers that do not transmit pain, and they disrupt the nerve fibers that do transmit pain signals. This supposedly breaks the cycle of pain impulses. Seems simple.

The best conclusion I could come up with was this electrotherapy “inhibits,” or anesthetizes, the pain impulses in much the same way as some other stimuli break the cycle of habits, good or bad. Sorta like a computer being hung up in the send/receive mode. Somehow the repetitive cycle must be broken. Got it?

What does that have to do with epic battle between the Wall Street, Main Street and Washington? Best I can tell it’s analogous to the age-old cycle of who’s in control. It may be muted, assuaged, but it will never end. This current “bailout battle” is just another Gettysburg with no winners, only corpses of the losers littering the landscape. A surfeit of monetary stimuli is being applied to the affected area in hopes of inhibiting some of the pain. One thing’s for sure: the aching body politic will not be the pain-free winner, nor the cycle broken for long!

I drifted off to sleep, knowing that my own body will never be 18 again. But at least for the moment, the pain was gone…and I’ll settle for that small relief.

Soon another voice seemed to awaken me. It was the bartender, shouting to the inebriated patrons, “Last Call.” I pinched myself…why, the pain was nearly gone. As I glanced around the room, all the smiling faces seemed to say their pain was almost gone, too. But only almost…nothing, you see, is ever permanent in this life!

Hey, barkeep, I’ll have another one for the road. And by the way, how far did you say it was to Luckenbach?”

Hope your “inhibitor” is working as well as mine!


Bud Hearn
March 26, 2009

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Mac and the Missing Pearl Earring

I had just settled in for my after-breakfast nap when the commotion began. Shrill voices broke the Saturday solitude, and I knew something bad was up. I know these things…I am a dog, and my name is Mac.

The house erupted in shouting and pandemonium. Sophie, my platonic live-in mate, sought safety under the bed. But as usual, curiosity overcame me. I bounded from the stairs where I nap with one eye closed, the other eyeballing the sidewalk for canine intruders. “What’s going on,” I barked, only to get that “somebody’s-to-blame” stare from my Mistress.

Did you get my beautiful pearl earring, Mac,” she said, hands on hips as she glared at me? Now, I’ve seen this look and heard this tone of voice before. Being an expert in human psychology, I knew just how to respond. With quizzical twists of my Westie-haired head, that, “Who, me?” approach instantly disarmed my attacker and deflected the accusation. The “innocent lamb look” is an excellent ploy! This highly-developed canine escape artifice is, with practice, guaranteed to melt human hearts. She stalked off in search of her missing earring.

Now, I have to admit that I don’t really know, nor much care for that matter, what is so special about a pearl earring. I am far more concerned with finding food crumbs or anything else that falls to the floor within my reach. I guess you might say I was sort of a “pack hound” when it came to things lying around or curios within the reach of my extra-long tongue. I am not discriminatory.

This is an innate dog trait. You might say that I subscribe to the notion that anything that lies within my reach is fair game. I think humans call that “finders keepers, losers weepers,” or something like that. I prefer the West Highland terrier’s version, “what’s mine is mine.” While this mindset may be somewhat akin to the human version of “covetousness,” the Ten Commandments don’t apply to dogs.

But I know right from wrong, though I hate to admit it. And I knew I was not totally innocent today. You see, I have no idea of exactly what things are. But I do know from previous chastisements (and believe me, there have been many in my five years of life) that some of my “bed treasures” have actually been contraband.

Let me explain. Sophie and I have separate beds located in the home-office quarters. Tile floors make this a great location. Sometimes we have “accidents,” you know, and the results are more easily cleaned up with fewer tongue lashings. Our beds are very large and comfy, measuring about two feet by three feet. They are covered in soft leopard cloth with high sides…perfect beds in which to lounge, to dream of African safaris and to hide my treasures. All of which I have done, and more, which I am loath to mention.

Because of my pack-rat traits, many previously “lost” items have been found hidden under the cushion of my bed. You see, it is of great comfort to sleep with my findings, just like some sleep with Paddington Bears or Barbie Dolls. Like a sleep machine with many sounds, these treasures take me to distant places, with interesting companions and on journeys of intrigue. You should be so lucky!

And my lucky stars were in alignment today! Everything I had smuggled into my bed had been confiscated a few days ago. While my sleep was somewhat impeded for lack of accoutrements, nonetheless I knew it would not be long before new treasures would again fill my bed. It just couldn’t be helped. But just to be sure, I slipped off undetected to do a bed-check. And what do you know…there it was, lying in the creases of the leopard cloth, the missing pearl earring. What to do now, I wondered?

In such situations, a hero’s commendation is preferred over a thief’s condemnation. Confession guards the conscience and guarantees the supper. Heck, forgiveness comes easier if one owns up to mistakes, even while pleading for mercy due to ignorance. Dogs do this regularly with great success.

So I bit the humble bullet, hopped into my bed and barked incessantly until my Mistress showed up. “What is your problem, Mac,” she hissed, still frustrated over the loss of her treasure. I barked louder. She finally bent over to pet me, and there, right in front of her eyes, lay her missing pearl earring.

Oh, Mac, what a smart dog. Thank you for finding my pearl earring. What would I do without you? Come here, let’s get a big treat.” See what I mean? Humility is still the best policy, even for dogs. But I must admit I never cared much for its taste!

Sophie soon came out of hiding, and we resumed our watch for intruders from the stairs. “All’s well that ends well,” I thought, returning to my delayed morning nap. Any morning that ends with a treat is a good day for dogs. I should know…I am a dog, and my name is Mac.

Bud Hearn
March 24, 2009

Thursday, March 19, 2009

The Leaves Let Go

In March The Great Silent Voice spoke, “Time’s Up…release without remorse.” As if on cue from The Conductor, the Let-Go Chorus responded.

Last year’s leaves from the island water oaks had run their course. Their grip on the Great Mother relaxed, and one by one, without complaint or coaxing, they began their short but final journey “home.” Mission accomplished. Their job complete, the transients collectively headed south for their permanent rest.

For a brief few days the oak Titans stood naked, their spindly skeletons exposed. Sunlight shone profusely below, and as if The Great Silent Voice again spoke,”Make haste,” the vegetation beneath sprang to life, knowing somehow its hour in the sun was short.

Nature is a restless, but highly organized process. It makes all appointments on time. Hard on the heels of the leaves’ departure small green nubbins, barely discernible to the eye, begin incipient life. Almost overnight the oaks emerge clothed, garbed in their new wardrobe.

But back to the fallen leaves, those that have now carpeted the sandy loam soils below. The Great Silent Voice softly spoke again to these fallen workers, “Sleep on, rest easy…you have served well, and it’s time for another. To cling beyond your appointed time would result in a dull, lusterless relic of the past ~~ a tragic antique of a bygone age. To remain would retard the growth and defile the clothed majesty of the forest Titan.”

Leaves never talk back. They consent that new life requires them to move on. They’re innately schooled in photosynthesis, knowing that when their green morphs to brown, their ability to synthesize food is terminally impaired. They’ve become useless. Sad, but true.

If oak leaves could think, would they have a self-esteem problem? They’d look around and see billions upon billions of other leaves, and perhaps say, “Of what value am I, one among so many, and a little one at that?” And if the Mother Tree could answer, “If not for each of you, I could not exist.” Is this answer sufficient to solve a self-esteem problem? I wonder. After all there is a time and a season for everything.

Sometimes I think I hear the whisper of the Great Silent Voice speaking a tender assurance to the leaf, “As you were not anxious in the day of your birth, be not anxious in the day of your death…well done, good and faithful leaf.” Optimistic to the end, I smile in contemplation of the leaf’s “Let-Go” ~~ its first and its last. How noble an act!

And you know what, I’ll bet it’s one helluva ride down…I can hardly wait for my own noble experience!


Bud Hearn
March 19, 2009

Thursday, March 12, 2009

Life Goes On....

"Oh, yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone…."
J. C. Mellencamp

The two cane-back chairs occupied prominent places at the breakfast table. In spite of five years of enduring the rigors of enhanced rumps, they still had a little life left in them. But the cane had been stretched beyond its capacity to support guests and had to be repaired.

A forty minute drive down US 17 takes you through the heart of Woodbine, GA. You know you’re near because the air suddenly becomes stiflingly still, barely stirring among the trees that line the highway. The drive prepares one for what lies ahead.

Welcoming visitors is the J. Edwin “Fat” Godby bridge spanning the Satilla River. Roads and bridges, like stadiums and racetracks are often named for someone. A Google search did not reveal the identity of “Fats,” but judging from the size of the few moving souls in Woodbine, the sobriquet was appropriate.

The first building over the bridge was a 1930’s white concrete block building housing “The Fireman’s Museum and Partner’s Antique Shop”. Inside sat Mr. “Windy” Briese, busily repairing cane-back chairs suffering the same malaise as ours. Apparently rumps are not particular where they sit, and it gave a possible clue of where the bridge’s name came from.

Outside the sign read in bold red and white letters:

DEAD
PEOPLE’S
THINGS
FOR SALE


Ah, the place where dead chairs are brought back to useful life. Stumbling in through the oppressive heat, I am surprised to find an 80-something Mr. Briese, “Windy” as his friends call him, he said. “Yes, I can repair your chairs, but don’t get in a hurry.” He fit right in with Woodbine, where a river moved with such languor it hardly seemed alive. Life was little better on the sidewalks where nothing moved but the mirages of heat monkeys rising from the black asphalt.

Inside his museum were artifacts and relics of eras long past, dating back into the mid-1800”s. “Don’t do anything but break even on this business,” he said, “but the wife and me shore do like to travel, and I get to deduct it from the IRS. Finally I get some small revenge,” he grinned.

Tell me,” I asked, “what’s with the sign, ‘Dead People’s Things’?” Well, with twinkling eyes, he said, “Gets me notoriety, son. Hell, this here sign’s been on Leno, CNN and Letterman, and lookee here at this book…folks from all over the world have stopped here.” Why, I wondered, were people so enamored with relics of another era? But I was, strangely enough.

“Windy” had made the place come alive, sort of a living bone yard and resurrection of antiques from generations long deceased, relevancy long surpassed. I could palatably sense the life that he had given to that dark, lifeless building in that sweltering crossroads called a town.

I thanked him for agreeing to repair my chairs, and hope I get them before the IRS catches up with his little scheme. It took longer to leave than to arrive, and he was certainly named correctly: “Windy.”

The only sign of other life was at the Tabernacle of Prayer for All People. The Cadillac outside was coal black, and behind the opaque windows strange glossalalia filled the graveyard air with eerie chants in indecipherable tongues. Like mushrooms, life grows out of death.

I hustled on up 17 for my own “repairs” at the Orthopaedics. Seems my hip had also lived beyond its normal life. Fortunately for young doctors, they have means of repairing these antiques and relics. And Yes, you guessed it, the doctor said he could also repair my hip, “but don’t get in a hurry.”

Life goes on, that’s for sure. Even ole “Fats” Godby lives on, memorialized on a bridge sign. And “Windy’s” antiques have taken on a life of their own, thanks to his fine displays and loving care. But the cold chill of a thought crossed my mind as I drove over the causeway.

The thought? Oh, that. Life does go on, but its usefulness is limited. Running in the back door of my house, I quickly opened a Bud, fired up the grill and slapped on a big rib eye. I’m not missing a minute more! Hope you do likewise.


Bud Hearn
March 12, 2009

Friday, March 6, 2009

Graceful Exits...The Artful Escapist

Ah, Spring, and Alfresco affairs…. Also, Death by Conversation with boring and socially inept persons.

These people are found everywhere…you may be one. Have you ever asked, “How do I escape this insipid person?” Here are some novel methods.

The Seated Dinner Party
A very touchy situation. Pre-planning is essential. Scope out in advance the place cards of your table guests. Stealthily switch them to reposition yourself, or to punish a friend.

If the place-card ploy fails, try the “cold shoulder approach.” On your right is a hypochondriac. On your left, a deaf-mute with hygiene issues. You have two options: First, announce your disappointment with the entrée. Boldly pull out your brightly-wrapped tin of King Oscar sardines. Often you don’t have to open it, for you will be shunned by both. If pressured, then pop the top. Great respect follows this act!

Perhaps you find one of the two guests mildly interesting. Then turn the “cold shoulder” to the other. The rejected one will persecute another guest…not your problem.

Special inventiveness is required to remove yourself from the table. Aside from the usual crudities, like, “It must be the wine…Excuse me.” Or, “I must have swallowed a bone—I’ll be back if I live.” In either case, it will solve the problem and your prolonged absence will add drama to the table. No? Then try this: Take your cell phone, study it, and loudly exclaim, “Oops, my parole officer is calling,” as you hurry from the table. This leaves the door open to return, or not.

The Cocktail Party
Maybe you’ve been cornered by one with respiration de saumon, or respiration de vin… Mr. Fish Breath and Ms. Wine Exhaler. These people invade your spatial comfort zone, mingling words with malodorous mists. Escape is urgent. Look into the crowd, raise your hand and wave wildly, exclaiming, “Oh, Hi, be right over.” Utter a terse “Catch you later,” as you slip the noose, disappearing into the throng. Says Martha, the island doyenne, “deceptive but effective.”

Often you’re in a crowd discussing golf or other stupid subjects. Glance at your drink, remark indignantly, “Is it just me that got the rot-gut liquor?” Or, with panache, simply grimace and gag, “I must have grabbed someone else’s drink.” Return when the conversation reverts to salacious gossip or the Sports Illustrated issue with tantalizing photographs of beach scenery.

Another favorite quick-escape is to interject in a conversation lull, “Interesting…hold that thought, I’ll be right back.” Another Unfortunate passerby will soon be entrapped.

Sometimes escape is easier if you’re with someone. Lauren, a disarmingly cute island ingénue, said that before going into a party, she and a friend would have “code words or signs” that translate, “Dump the jerk… quick, find the door!” Never fails, she boasts.

Then there’s the “High-five approach.” As you enter, scan the room, see who and where The Dullards are. You can dodge them, of course, but decorum demands you minimally attempt to acknowledge their presence. Hustle by, bump them with your elbow. Or give them the old “high-five” salute or perfunctory shoulder pat. They’ll never suspect your insincerity.


Receptions
Large congregations include many “undesirables”. Attire often attracts these reprobates, especially if wearing tortoise-shell glasses or dark Hollywood shades. Strangers will mistake you for an Ivy League scholar or celebrity, so pretend. They will assume you are “somebody” and will, like the leeches they are, attach themselves to you. Concoct some cockamamie life story… it’ll improve their dull lives.

When dissembling becomes boring, escape by dismissing these irrelevant, servile zeroes with, “Excuse me, I must check in with my Secret Service Agent.” Whisper that you are in a witness protection program… intrigue will raise your stature.

It’s difficult to “work the room” in large crowds, so try the The Wink, Nod and Finger Pointing Method. Very effective. Catch their eye at a distance as you strut Gatsbyesque through the crowd (they will be doing likewise, “seeing and being seen”. It is, after all, about them and you). Point the index finger directly at them, wink and nod…both of you will be acknowledged and affirmed! For verily, you both will have received your reward.

This method eliminates being cornered by some weirdo basking in the light of your reflective glory. It also rescues you from gossipmongers who spread malicious lies about having seen you conversing with such outcasts. If you feel particularly gregarious, simply station yourself by the bar, food, or exit. Everyone passes there sooner or later. At the exit there will be no linger-longer conversations.

Eventually, goodbyes must be said. The quickest way out is to break in line, kiss the hostess, pat the host’s arm and exit. They’ll be relieved at your departure.

One last reminder from The Artful Escapist: If you plan to smile during the party, avoid like the plague the spinach dip….

Bud Hearn
March 6, 2009

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Rebirth of a Salesman

Birthdays…these things happen, if you live long enough. I just had another one to celebrate my 24,455th day on this planet and this one happened in Atlanta.

Within these days I’ve spent somewhere close to 15,060 days buying and selling real estate, less, of course, the nights in sleazy bars over beers embellishing epic exploits of financial legerdemain with others of my ilk.

In “the old days,” as we like to refer to these days before we had responsibilities (you know, up to the age of about 12 before zits became problems), we looked excitedly towards these milestones. (They are now only mill stones!). Lots of presents, ice cream, cake…a special day for the “birthday kid.” They even sang in the school classroom, and we boasted all day long, “Hey, it’s my birthday.” People seemed to actually care in those days.

But times have changed, and times are hard. Presents mean less today, and people just utter, “Oh?”, when you say to total strangers on elevators, “Hey, it’s my birthday.” The look you get? “Get lost, you idiot!”

It’s particularly hard to have lived 24,455 days and realize that there are no more escapes from the reality of time…tick, tick, tick it goes in its endless cycle. No way to slow it down. As it’s said, “Life is like a roll of toilet tissue – the closer to the end, the faster it goes.”

But it’s not all bad to have birthdays. Yesterday James gave me an expensive bottle of Mac 18 scotch, my favorite, with a note, “The Final Solution.” Later in the evening I agreed!

My daughter gives great gifts of art for my birthdays. This time she gave me an interesting pastel representative more of reality than she knows. It’s a diaphanous drawing of a magnificent wild stag that had strayed from the safety of its forest home to eat the low-hanging fruit in someone’s garden. It was being attacked by wild dogs as its punishment.

Perhaps she’ll do a sequel for me depicting the stag’s escape from its error. I hope so.

But the tableau did strike a nerve. For years real estate careers have succeeded ~ we foraged in the finest of gardens with seeming impunity. But things have gone sideways, and it’s a dangerous world out there now.

What fruit remains is in short supply and competition for it is cut-throat. Wild dogs ~ bankruptcy lawyers, crazed bankers, heartless bill collectors hounding the unfortunates ~ have threatened anyone who strays from the safety of the forest. Whole companies of real estate brokers and developers now greet at Wal-Mart, or dine in soup lines. Overnight the “best minds of our generation” have become relics.

And birthdays continue to show up. Don’t get me wrong ~ there is opportunity among chaos. As the bumper sticker says, “Old age and treachery will always overcome youth and vigor!” Yes, times are hard for folks, and the new “world order” has not yet emerged ~ but it will.

While I wait for it, assured of its advent, I intend to relish my 24,455 days, and look forward for a few more. Meanwhile, I think I’ll just have another nap in the sunshine and sleep off the remnants of the Mac 18 anesthetization of last night!

Bud Hearn
March 5, 2009