I knew the phone call would come, it always does, with regularity and not always with predictability. Its importunity is predictably ill-timed, just as it was this morning.
The phone rang and the voice said, with urgency, “Is it convenient to talk now?” How could I say “No” to such distress, but unfortunately I had received a simultaneous call from nature which was also urgent. It always happens this way!
Nature is never predictable, but somehow the wires of human nature and nature itself are connected, sorta like the old “party lines.” It is a mystery not yet understood. Nature notwithstanding, some calls are always inconvenient… thank you, somebody, for caller-id!
This morning’s call required a quick decision …which call to answer? Fortunately, decisions of such nature are easily made, the laconic words of my father still echoing in the distance, “Son, always answer the call of nature.” His advice was as repetitive as a Hindu Om mantra.
Before kids had cell phones it was not difficult to practice an essential doctrine. Every tree, creek, field or back yard was fair game for all boys and perhaps for not a few girls. Good habits of hygiene developed early in life. This advice was always downloaded upon our own children and any others who might benefit.
Now this was not the only wisdom my father passed on. He had an aversion for stairs, and repeatedly advised, “Now son, never walk down the stairs with your hands in your pockets.” I never did, which probably saved my life many times late at night in strange places.
I forgot his advice only once on the school playground. I didn’t see the rock and tripped, hands in pockets, my face biting the dust. Riotous laughter rose from the recess crowd, and it has affected my personality to this day. Further, the scars remain a stark witness to violating my father’s advice, and I hear him now, “I told you so!” However, it may be a plausible excuse for what nature has done to my face in general.
Concerning escalators, my father tortured us, especially my mother. “Careful,” he’d say as we approached an escalator, “those things can catch your pants, or heel, and literally eat you, squeezing you into a pancake and spitting you out in the basement.” We believed this craftily concocted cockamamie fable for years, and I’m sure it’s what caused my mother’s paranoia in department stores. She literally jumped on and off escalators for the rest of her natural life.
Elevators were also suspect. In fact, I don’t think he ever rode one. As I recall, maybe he never left the ground floor, which may be a clue to his own delusions. Memory is somewhat vague, but I do recall his cautioning, “Son, elevators can malfunction, stop between floors, and you cannot escape. And what if nature happens to call? No, you should avoid elevators like I do.” His harangue droned on.
Other advice about the dangers of daily living were drummed into my head, some I remember, some I’ve rejected as pure bunk. But his viewpoints on ‘the call of nature’ were actually prescient in his primeval era. And I’m still mystified by this abstruse enigma of ‘the call of nature.”
For example, the “call’ never seems to come conveniently. Take church. It is a total embarrassment to sit on the front row, being badgered about sin and urged to repent when another ‘urge’ comes upon you. The choice again…confess or despoil the premises. It is, of course, the work of the devil, and he laughs as you walk back up the aisle, still a sinner, head low, almost in a run, highly humiliated in your rapid exit. “Look at him,” people think, laughing, knowing. Likewise the movies.
Then there’s the airplane, and you’re window-seated. Suddenly, without warning, ‘nature calls.’ You hesitate, hoping it’s a false alarm, but it calls again, and again, in extremis. You bolt from the seat, stumble over two sleeping passengers, rush down the aisle, and guess what? You’re number 10 in line for the one toilet. Never fails! Which may be the reason the congressman, his name escapes me, relieved himself in the galley, claiming, upon arrest, “extreme hardship.”
Time and space prohibit recollections of such places like China, sports stadiums, cars, space ships and any place with running water. But there’s no need to elaborate further. Besides, I think I’m being called just now.
Bud Hearn
July 30, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Lamentations for the Moon
…..”(T)he moon’s an arrant thief, and her pale fire snatches from the sun.” Shakespeare
They came, they walked, they left. It wept. It was July 20, 1969.
On that date the veil of the moon’s mystique was rent. A billion earthlings shook their heads in amazement as its skirt of pretense was lifted by the landing of Apollo 11. To certify that the event was not some cheap Hollywood back-lot trick, Astronauts Armstrong and Aldrin ambled across the stark Elysian landscape and forever demystified this alien asteroid.
No longer could this hunk of volcanic rock dissemble and conceal its true self. No, a size 9 ½ boot and an American flag drop-kicked the Man in the Moon fantasy and proved that no cow could jump over this floating space junk. Further, as if to hurl insult at injury, it was not a big cheese pizza pie Deano sang about. Italians have an exaggerated sense of romantic notions since Gina hit the screen.
In fact, to further debunk the myths associated with the moon, it is only a “very desolate place, plain boring,” said Aldrin. After all, in the big scope of things, it’s only a mote of dust suspended on a sunbeam in its recurring circuit, reflecting the light of something far greater than itself.
No good deed goes unpunished, and neither did this gigantic event. Small children cried when the fairy-tale book burnings occurred, small-town drive in theaters were shuttered and moonlit beach walks no longer had the same appeal. Science is good at throwing cold water on some things.
But not unlike the discovery of other enigmatic phenomena, the excitement comes from the imagination, not the scientific actualities of the aura. We can simply know too much. And since we now know the moon is nothing but a pile of space dust, what’s left for the imagination?
Twelve brave men have now walked on that ethereal object at a cost of some $150 billion. Twelve, mind you. Where’s the economy of scale in that? Consider “moonshine,” if you will. Believe me, when you’ve sucked down a healthy slug of that elixir, you don’t care what happened to the man in the moon…no, sir, you’re the one walking on it! Millions still do, and it’s a cheap stroll with incredible results.
Like humans, the moon has a dark side, too. Nobody we know has yet been there, except the fellow who dreamed up the Moon Pie. I had some pals once who would have volunteered for that exploration. They had perfected the art of “mooning” from moving automobiles and were quite good at it. This ilk explores fire and chemicals in labs out of an exaggerated curiosity to see what happens. They’re all physicists and scientists now, except for one who is still in prison. He mooned the wrong car.
My one mooning experience ended with disastrous results. I lived in a very small town and failed to take into consideration that everybody knew me. The preacher’s wife didn’t take kindly to the exposure, and my parents avoided church for months. It was a very black mark on my family’s standing in the town. My crowd thought it was funny, which goes to show you that boys without underwear are not to be trusted in cars!
Some economic things did come from this space exploration. The Treasury’s coffers were partially replenished when Michael Jackson perfected the “moon walk” and mined about $150 billion from TV. And he never left the earth. Some might challenge that statement, seeing what an alien he became. He has now returned to Pluto, avoiding Elvis and waiting for Amy Winehouse!
I ask you, “What was wrong with the moon just as it was, before July 20, 1969?” Why would we want to destroy all illusion and imagination and mock poets, writers, song composers, artists, vampires and most small children? Besides, it now takes the fun out of living on farms, driving green Ford 150 pickups and working nightly on mysteries without any clues. And where would Paris be if not for the moonlit waters of the Seine? I rest my case.
But some good has come from space exploration. Science has discovered a nudist colony of men living on Mars, and a commune of women trying to migrate from Venus. Maybe there’s hope yet for the perpetuation of the race, although there’s still a communication barrier to overcome. Science is working on that problem now.
Sometimes I think things might have been better just to have left space excursions alone and explored how to get along with whom (and what) we share a common destiny on this planet. And as for me, my illusion and imagination are restored…no matter how you cut it, the moon is still made for lovers, mystics and for fairytales. Vive claire de lune!!
And as for mystics among you, since God supposedly created this firmament, perhaps He enjoys being seen at a distance, and marveled at…maybe!
Bud Hearn
July 23, 2009
They came, they walked, they left. It wept. It was July 20, 1969.
On that date the veil of the moon’s mystique was rent. A billion earthlings shook their heads in amazement as its skirt of pretense was lifted by the landing of Apollo 11. To certify that the event was not some cheap Hollywood back-lot trick, Astronauts Armstrong and Aldrin ambled across the stark Elysian landscape and forever demystified this alien asteroid.
No longer could this hunk of volcanic rock dissemble and conceal its true self. No, a size 9 ½ boot and an American flag drop-kicked the Man in the Moon fantasy and proved that no cow could jump over this floating space junk. Further, as if to hurl insult at injury, it was not a big cheese pizza pie Deano sang about. Italians have an exaggerated sense of romantic notions since Gina hit the screen.
In fact, to further debunk the myths associated with the moon, it is only a “very desolate place, plain boring,” said Aldrin. After all, in the big scope of things, it’s only a mote of dust suspended on a sunbeam in its recurring circuit, reflecting the light of something far greater than itself.
No good deed goes unpunished, and neither did this gigantic event. Small children cried when the fairy-tale book burnings occurred, small-town drive in theaters were shuttered and moonlit beach walks no longer had the same appeal. Science is good at throwing cold water on some things.
But not unlike the discovery of other enigmatic phenomena, the excitement comes from the imagination, not the scientific actualities of the aura. We can simply know too much. And since we now know the moon is nothing but a pile of space dust, what’s left for the imagination?
Twelve brave men have now walked on that ethereal object at a cost of some $150 billion. Twelve, mind you. Where’s the economy of scale in that? Consider “moonshine,” if you will. Believe me, when you’ve sucked down a healthy slug of that elixir, you don’t care what happened to the man in the moon…no, sir, you’re the one walking on it! Millions still do, and it’s a cheap stroll with incredible results.
Like humans, the moon has a dark side, too. Nobody we know has yet been there, except the fellow who dreamed up the Moon Pie. I had some pals once who would have volunteered for that exploration. They had perfected the art of “mooning” from moving automobiles and were quite good at it. This ilk explores fire and chemicals in labs out of an exaggerated curiosity to see what happens. They’re all physicists and scientists now, except for one who is still in prison. He mooned the wrong car.
My one mooning experience ended with disastrous results. I lived in a very small town and failed to take into consideration that everybody knew me. The preacher’s wife didn’t take kindly to the exposure, and my parents avoided church for months. It was a very black mark on my family’s standing in the town. My crowd thought it was funny, which goes to show you that boys without underwear are not to be trusted in cars!
Some economic things did come from this space exploration. The Treasury’s coffers were partially replenished when Michael Jackson perfected the “moon walk” and mined about $150 billion from TV. And he never left the earth. Some might challenge that statement, seeing what an alien he became. He has now returned to Pluto, avoiding Elvis and waiting for Amy Winehouse!
I ask you, “What was wrong with the moon just as it was, before July 20, 1969?” Why would we want to destroy all illusion and imagination and mock poets, writers, song composers, artists, vampires and most small children? Besides, it now takes the fun out of living on farms, driving green Ford 150 pickups and working nightly on mysteries without any clues. And where would Paris be if not for the moonlit waters of the Seine? I rest my case.
But some good has come from space exploration. Science has discovered a nudist colony of men living on Mars, and a commune of women trying to migrate from Venus. Maybe there’s hope yet for the perpetuation of the race, although there’s still a communication barrier to overcome. Science is working on that problem now.
Sometimes I think things might have been better just to have left space excursions alone and explored how to get along with whom (and what) we share a common destiny on this planet. And as for me, my illusion and imagination are restored…no matter how you cut it, the moon is still made for lovers, mystics and for fairytales. Vive claire de lune!!
And as for mystics among you, since God supposedly created this firmament, perhaps He enjoys being seen at a distance, and marveled at…maybe!
Bud Hearn
July 23, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The Talisman
I was standing by the river but the waters would not flow, it boiled with every poison you can think of… Leonard Cohen
Warning…do not come to Atlanta without your talisman!
Ours just lay there alone on the credenza, its silver reflecting a dull glint in the sunlight. At night it lay darkly, separated from the purpose of its existence. We felt remorse for it, so our office decided to give it a new purpose…our Talisman. We ascribed to it magical powers and good luck since it was found in such a fortuitous (some might even say Providential) way.
It had lain upon the wet grass of the polo field where a horse threw it in the heat of an intense polo match. And we are collectively in one hell of an intense match out there in the business world. Unable to find its former owner, we assumed—naturally, of course—that “finder’s keepers” applied here. After all, it was only a horseshoe.
In case you’ve not read the paper lately, the blood of real estate—money!—has suffered stasis, and the patient is comatose. It walks around in a drugged stupor, like a staggering corpse seeking a final resting place. Many have already found it in the graveyard of foreclosure and Chapter 11 reconciliation. On them was found no charm or talisman.
It has been reported that the city churches have resorted to multiple services, so numerous are the penitents seeking venues of last resort for urgent confession and repentance. Decrepit and aged ministers of all denominations of faith have been called from retirement to administer hope, holy water or last rites to the contrite—who, themselves, resorted to all means available for a transfusion of blood…all denominations accepted, especially $ 10’s, $20”s and $100’s. Ben Franklin was always popular!
The media reports that the soup lines have become blocks long as people in rags, and women holding small children, queued in the mid-summer’s stifling heat for a few morsels of stale bread. In the city parks carnival hucksters huddled under small kiosks, hawking all sorts of cheap talisman substitutes for Almighty blessings (in case He was not listening on that particular day). Fiat of faux gold coins, imprinted with the smiling face of the President, and inscribed with the words, “Change We Can Believe In,” circulated within the ragged assembly of the luckless and desperate wanderers.
But we were not enticed by such charlatan trickery and remained ensconced within our office fort, armed, of course, in case things got out of hand and talismans ran in short supply. No, we continued to pay obeisance to our own talisman, and decided in a moment of reflection not to take any chances. So we combined with it a crucifix, just in case. Why take chances, we concluded. Hey, you know about walking under ladders or stepping on sidewalk cracks, right? Some things should not be tested!
We once had a faith meltdown. So we met and gave personal testimonies of the value of a talisman. I recalled that we once kept in our house a glass talisman sneaked out from Turkey before the Taliban put a taboo on them. It hung on the lintel of the door, and it resembled an eyeball…it was supposed to ward off all people or pests who had an “evil eye,” or malicious intents.
Did our evil-eye talisman actually work? Of course. In all the years it hung there no evil-eyed Taliban entered the house. So confident were we with it we passed it along to the new owners, a nice Muslim couple.
Which brings me to a conclusion. No matter what artifact one may have, if one believes it’s good for luck, it will be. But one thing is for sure about a talisman: you gotta get up and keep moving for it to work!
So for now we’ll stick with our crud-encrusted horseshoe until something better comes along, or the river starts flowing again!
Bud Hearn
July 16, 2009
Warning…do not come to Atlanta without your talisman!
Ours just lay there alone on the credenza, its silver reflecting a dull glint in the sunlight. At night it lay darkly, separated from the purpose of its existence. We felt remorse for it, so our office decided to give it a new purpose…our Talisman. We ascribed to it magical powers and good luck since it was found in such a fortuitous (some might even say Providential) way.
It had lain upon the wet grass of the polo field where a horse threw it in the heat of an intense polo match. And we are collectively in one hell of an intense match out there in the business world. Unable to find its former owner, we assumed—naturally, of course—that “finder’s keepers” applied here. After all, it was only a horseshoe.
In case you’ve not read the paper lately, the blood of real estate—money!—has suffered stasis, and the patient is comatose. It walks around in a drugged stupor, like a staggering corpse seeking a final resting place. Many have already found it in the graveyard of foreclosure and Chapter 11 reconciliation. On them was found no charm or talisman.
It has been reported that the city churches have resorted to multiple services, so numerous are the penitents seeking venues of last resort for urgent confession and repentance. Decrepit and aged ministers of all denominations of faith have been called from retirement to administer hope, holy water or last rites to the contrite—who, themselves, resorted to all means available for a transfusion of blood…all denominations accepted, especially $ 10’s, $20”s and $100’s. Ben Franklin was always popular!
The media reports that the soup lines have become blocks long as people in rags, and women holding small children, queued in the mid-summer’s stifling heat for a few morsels of stale bread. In the city parks carnival hucksters huddled under small kiosks, hawking all sorts of cheap talisman substitutes for Almighty blessings (in case He was not listening on that particular day). Fiat of faux gold coins, imprinted with the smiling face of the President, and inscribed with the words, “Change We Can Believe In,” circulated within the ragged assembly of the luckless and desperate wanderers.
But we were not enticed by such charlatan trickery and remained ensconced within our office fort, armed, of course, in case things got out of hand and talismans ran in short supply. No, we continued to pay obeisance to our own talisman, and decided in a moment of reflection not to take any chances. So we combined with it a crucifix, just in case. Why take chances, we concluded. Hey, you know about walking under ladders or stepping on sidewalk cracks, right? Some things should not be tested!
We once had a faith meltdown. So we met and gave personal testimonies of the value of a talisman. I recalled that we once kept in our house a glass talisman sneaked out from Turkey before the Taliban put a taboo on them. It hung on the lintel of the door, and it resembled an eyeball…it was supposed to ward off all people or pests who had an “evil eye,” or malicious intents.
Did our evil-eye talisman actually work? Of course. In all the years it hung there no evil-eyed Taliban entered the house. So confident were we with it we passed it along to the new owners, a nice Muslim couple.
Which brings me to a conclusion. No matter what artifact one may have, if one believes it’s good for luck, it will be. But one thing is for sure about a talisman: you gotta get up and keep moving for it to work!
So for now we’ll stick with our crud-encrusted horseshoe until something better comes along, or the river starts flowing again!
Bud Hearn
July 16, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
An Absence of Sequential Thought
“Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow, don’t stop, it’ll soon be here, It’ll be here, better than before, yesterday’s gone, yesterday’s gone...” Fleetwood Mac
Imprisoned by programmed habits, most Americans above the age of 12 suffer a serious lack of imagination and instinctive capacities…Lost, bargained away day by day by an insidious creeping of governmental and societal objectivity, political correctness and dependence upon “predictable” systems—almost robotic we’ve become.
You know it’s true…look at yourself, see the habits you indulge in, the dependence on predictability. Have our senses, once so alive, become empty husks of intuitive and imaginative possibilities? Or at least crippled them to where Square One cannot be found? Are we so ruled with fear that faith finds no room in the inn?
The man sat reading the paper, specifically Tuesday’s foreclosure section. “Hey,” he said aloud to no one really, “So and so told me just last week he was flush…now look, he occupies 3 pages of Notice of Sale Under Power ads.”
“Let’s go to the beach and build a fort,” the boy said. “Not now,” the man said, “I’m reading about someone’s pain and reawakening into unpredictability. Read your book.”
“But we can have fun building a sand fort, and my GI Joes can defend it. “ The boy, pleading now.
“In a little while,” the man said, “I’m still reading about things that go wrong in the ‘real world.’” (Familiar?)
“Oh, get up, go build the fort with the boy,” the woman said, “the real world has lost its bearings, maybe you can find some of those you have lost.” He hated that she was always right.
Reluctantly he did, and with a shovel in hand, the pair, an 11 year old boy and a man near his twilight, departed and prepared to fortify the beach with a sand fort.
“What will it look like?” the boy asked, his eyes wild with excitement. “Oh, I don’t know, you’re the architect, son. Make it look like you want it to. Just draw it out on the sand, and build it like you see it. But remember, tomorrow the tide will wash it away,“ the man intoned.
“I know, but we’ll have a great time building it, won’t we?” the boy said, “and we can build another one tomorrow, can’t we?” The man agreed, “Yes, we can.”
The silver spade glinted in the sunlight as the boy dug manically with the energy and enthusiasm of a child at play. The fort rose from the sand with each scoop according to the very pattern created out of pure ether by the child.
But forts need armaments and weapons for defensive means. And since their imaginations, governed by the total absence of sequential thought, had now infected the man as well as the boy, the two became scavengers. They combed the beach for castaway materiel, battlements and other supplies to adequately defend the position. Of course, without “real-world” constraints, and entering the world where “all things are possible,” imaginations discovered the necessary material for the sand fort.
It soon became a citadel for all unfortunate castaways, and a stronghold of fortification against all enemies, foreign and domestic. In the exercise of his active imagination the “little man” had become a mighty engineer and general, protector against all intruders. Once again, the ethereal dreams of a boy supplanted the realities of life.
It had been a good day for the boy and the man. They left their mighty edifice and headed home for well-deserved snacks. The man decided to forego the pain and suffering in the newsprint, and the Monopoly game was renewed from the evening last.
On an early morning walk the following day the man the boy passed the sand fort, now reduced by the tides to its original state…sand. Only the wall’s remnants remained. It brought to mind Shelley’s ancient verse, quoted aloud by the man to the boy and the empty ocean:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.”
“Let’s rebuild it,” the boy said. “We will, yes, we will,” the man responded, thinking, it’s just not that hard to be born again!
Nothing remains the same. But with an absence of sequential thought, laced with a healthy dose of imagination, a new world can be created. And, the man thought, it will…tomorrow!
Bud Hearn
July 9, 2009
Imprisoned by programmed habits, most Americans above the age of 12 suffer a serious lack of imagination and instinctive capacities…Lost, bargained away day by day by an insidious creeping of governmental and societal objectivity, political correctness and dependence upon “predictable” systems—almost robotic we’ve become.
You know it’s true…look at yourself, see the habits you indulge in, the dependence on predictability. Have our senses, once so alive, become empty husks of intuitive and imaginative possibilities? Or at least crippled them to where Square One cannot be found? Are we so ruled with fear that faith finds no room in the inn?
The man sat reading the paper, specifically Tuesday’s foreclosure section. “Hey,” he said aloud to no one really, “So and so told me just last week he was flush…now look, he occupies 3 pages of Notice of Sale Under Power ads.”
“Let’s go to the beach and build a fort,” the boy said. “Not now,” the man said, “I’m reading about someone’s pain and reawakening into unpredictability. Read your book.”
“But we can have fun building a sand fort, and my GI Joes can defend it. “ The boy, pleading now.
“In a little while,” the man said, “I’m still reading about things that go wrong in the ‘real world.’” (Familiar?)
“Oh, get up, go build the fort with the boy,” the woman said, “the real world has lost its bearings, maybe you can find some of those you have lost.” He hated that she was always right.
Reluctantly he did, and with a shovel in hand, the pair, an 11 year old boy and a man near his twilight, departed and prepared to fortify the beach with a sand fort.
“What will it look like?” the boy asked, his eyes wild with excitement. “Oh, I don’t know, you’re the architect, son. Make it look like you want it to. Just draw it out on the sand, and build it like you see it. But remember, tomorrow the tide will wash it away,“ the man intoned.
“I know, but we’ll have a great time building it, won’t we?” the boy said, “and we can build another one tomorrow, can’t we?” The man agreed, “Yes, we can.”
The silver spade glinted in the sunlight as the boy dug manically with the energy and enthusiasm of a child at play. The fort rose from the sand with each scoop according to the very pattern created out of pure ether by the child.
But forts need armaments and weapons for defensive means. And since their imaginations, governed by the total absence of sequential thought, had now infected the man as well as the boy, the two became scavengers. They combed the beach for castaway materiel, battlements and other supplies to adequately defend the position. Of course, without “real-world” constraints, and entering the world where “all things are possible,” imaginations discovered the necessary material for the sand fort.
It soon became a citadel for all unfortunate castaways, and a stronghold of fortification against all enemies, foreign and domestic. In the exercise of his active imagination the “little man” had become a mighty engineer and general, protector against all intruders. Once again, the ethereal dreams of a boy supplanted the realities of life.
It had been a good day for the boy and the man. They left their mighty edifice and headed home for well-deserved snacks. The man decided to forego the pain and suffering in the newsprint, and the Monopoly game was renewed from the evening last.
On an early morning walk the following day the man the boy passed the sand fort, now reduced by the tides to its original state…sand. Only the wall’s remnants remained. It brought to mind Shelley’s ancient verse, quoted aloud by the man to the boy and the empty ocean:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.”
“Let’s rebuild it,” the boy said. “We will, yes, we will,” the man responded, thinking, it’s just not that hard to be born again!
Nothing remains the same. But with an absence of sequential thought, laced with a healthy dose of imagination, a new world can be created. And, the man thought, it will…tomorrow!
Bud Hearn
July 9, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Sure, I'm Lucky
“…today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth…” Lou Gehrig, Yankee Stadium, July 4, 1939
The date, July 4th, has a special significance in the United States, as every school child knows. It is, among other things, the day best known as “Independence Day,” the day ascribed in our history when the Second Continental Congress adopted the United States Declaration of Independence, a formal document declaring the Republic free from the stolid English.
Much otherwise has occurred on this date. Some notable births on July 4th include Calvin Coolidge (30th President), Meyer Lansky (Russian born American gangster—can we ever shake the Russians?), Leona Helmsley (The Helmsley Hussy), Geraldo Rivera, Michael Milken, junk bond inventor (some of you may still owe your demise to this man!) and Koko (the sign-language gorilla…I just threw that in). And very significantly, my own father, without whom many would be bereft of these erudite vignettes…which may be a blessing to some, a curse to others.
Following birth is the obverse of Life’s Coin ~~ Death. Many have chosen to depart on this day, including: John Adams, 2nd President, Hannibal Hamlin, V-President (who can forget him, or remember him for that matter!), Eva Gabor (now, that WAS a loss!) and, according to national statistics, many millions more.
Notable events have also occurred on this date: The US Military Academy at West Point opened; New Orleans showed up in The Louisiana Purchase, and Bourbon Street was born; Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was published; the US was given the Statue of Liberty by France (not to mention the french-kiss and the exquisite Bridgette Bardot); Radio Free Europe’s first broadcast and NASA’s Pathfinder space probe landed on Mars (an event still disbelieved by many enlightened citizens as a cheap Hollywood trick, giving rise to Martian Invasion Theories).
On this date in 1939 Lou Gehrig, the “Pride of the Yankees” baseball great, retired. He was 37, played in 2,130 consecutive games from 1925-1939 and had a .340 batting average. Before 60,000 fans he stood and gave a 277-word speech, beginning with the words:
“Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about a bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
The speech is punctuated with the words, “Sure I’m lucky,” as he summarized his life.
While his speech may not rival the profundity of Lincoln’s words at Gettysburg, nonetheless it’s immortalized in the history of the US. After all, is not baseball the great American pastime? Lincoln only played billiards.
Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) is a terrible disease. Lou Gehrig died from it. It is now commonly known as “Lou Gehrig’s Disease,” a somewhat unusual way to be remembered—having a malady named in your honor. While it does give a face, a body, to a disease, it also reminds us of the indomitable stature of an American…courage in the face of tragedy.
On this July 4th our nation is experiencing a collective disease of lack of confidence, a waning of faith in our primacy, a distrust of our systems and our “place” in the world in this time of history. In many ways this malaise is more destructive than the rare disease of ALS, since it paralyzes the body politic and creates a negative and defeated spirit.
Lou Gehrig, though living with the knowledge that his disease was terminal, never succumbed to the depth of depression, but on the contrary, he ascended to the heights of confidence…”Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
My hometown newspaper has a heading, “Pull for Colquitt or Pull Out.” This simple statement might be appropriated today: Pull for America or Pull Out!
My friends, on Saturday, July 4, 2009, may we shout again with a singular voice in the National Chorus, proclaiming to the world, “Yes, I’m lucky!”
Lou Gehrig closed his speech with this line:
“So I close in saying that I might have had a tough break— but I have an awful lot to live for!” We might consider doing likewise!
Bud Hearn
July 2, 2009
The date, July 4th, has a special significance in the United States, as every school child knows. It is, among other things, the day best known as “Independence Day,” the day ascribed in our history when the Second Continental Congress adopted the United States Declaration of Independence, a formal document declaring the Republic free from the stolid English.
Much otherwise has occurred on this date. Some notable births on July 4th include Calvin Coolidge (30th President), Meyer Lansky (Russian born American gangster—can we ever shake the Russians?), Leona Helmsley (The Helmsley Hussy), Geraldo Rivera, Michael Milken, junk bond inventor (some of you may still owe your demise to this man!) and Koko (the sign-language gorilla…I just threw that in). And very significantly, my own father, without whom many would be bereft of these erudite vignettes…which may be a blessing to some, a curse to others.
Following birth is the obverse of Life’s Coin ~~ Death. Many have chosen to depart on this day, including: John Adams, 2nd President, Hannibal Hamlin, V-President (who can forget him, or remember him for that matter!), Eva Gabor (now, that WAS a loss!) and, according to national statistics, many millions more.
Notable events have also occurred on this date: The US Military Academy at West Point opened; New Orleans showed up in The Louisiana Purchase, and Bourbon Street was born; Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland was published; the US was given the Statue of Liberty by France (not to mention the french-kiss and the exquisite Bridgette Bardot); Radio Free Europe’s first broadcast and NASA’s Pathfinder space probe landed on Mars (an event still disbelieved by many enlightened citizens as a cheap Hollywood trick, giving rise to Martian Invasion Theories).
On this date in 1939 Lou Gehrig, the “Pride of the Yankees” baseball great, retired. He was 37, played in 2,130 consecutive games from 1925-1939 and had a .340 batting average. Before 60,000 fans he stood and gave a 277-word speech, beginning with the words:
“Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about a bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
The speech is punctuated with the words, “Sure I’m lucky,” as he summarized his life.
While his speech may not rival the profundity of Lincoln’s words at Gettysburg, nonetheless it’s immortalized in the history of the US. After all, is not baseball the great American pastime? Lincoln only played billiards.
Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) is a terrible disease. Lou Gehrig died from it. It is now commonly known as “Lou Gehrig’s Disease,” a somewhat unusual way to be remembered—having a malady named in your honor. While it does give a face, a body, to a disease, it also reminds us of the indomitable stature of an American…courage in the face of tragedy.
On this July 4th our nation is experiencing a collective disease of lack of confidence, a waning of faith in our primacy, a distrust of our systems and our “place” in the world in this time of history. In many ways this malaise is more destructive than the rare disease of ALS, since it paralyzes the body politic and creates a negative and defeated spirit.
Lou Gehrig, though living with the knowledge that his disease was terminal, never succumbed to the depth of depression, but on the contrary, he ascended to the heights of confidence…”Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”
My hometown newspaper has a heading, “Pull for Colquitt or Pull Out.” This simple statement might be appropriated today: Pull for America or Pull Out!
My friends, on Saturday, July 4, 2009, may we shout again with a singular voice in the National Chorus, proclaiming to the world, “Yes, I’m lucky!”
Lou Gehrig closed his speech with this line:
“So I close in saying that I might have had a tough break— but I have an awful lot to live for!” We might consider doing likewise!
Bud Hearn
July 2, 2009
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