Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, October 29, 2009

No Watch, No Wallet, No Wireless...

“When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose, you’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal…how does it feel…" Like a Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan

The day dawned nasty, sunless in a drenching rain. His mood mirrored the low barometric pressure. Having coffee, he noticed The Great Triumvirate ~ his watch, wallet and cell phone ~ lying on the counter in mocking judgment. Something about the combination of these godless idols caught his attention and gave him an idea. “An experiment,” he said aloud, a perfect diversion on a dreary day.

He removed his wallet’s contents: credit cards, $83 of cash, driver’s license, insurance card, gym card, business cards and an assortment of useless scraps of paper with mysterious names and numbers. Scattered upon the table, they seemed to synthesize the consistency of his life…crutches of enablement. Many live without them, could he? He pondered the question.

Today I’ll leave my watch, wallet and wireless and see how it goes, he concluded…a noble experiment of living without them for a day. So he left, strolling into the unknowns of the hour.

Hungry, his first stop was Publix and free coffee. Searching the aisles, he discovered fresh fruit, cheeses, bread, chips and dips and other delicacies. Later he moved on to Kroger, where there was much of the same. He ate modestly. In the cheese shop he found he could ask for tastes of a variety of cheeses, telling the clerk he’d be back soon. And so it went.

After brunch he became anxious, needing communication. Ah, the library, he remembered. There he found available a variety of newspapers, books, magazines, free…and nice comfortable chairs and clean bathrooms. Outside the rain poured in torrents. No one questioned his right to be there. No one cared that he was.

Night approached. After an appetizer-run through Whole Foods and their enticements, he strolled across the street. City lights reflected in a rainbow of colors from the wet, black streets. What a day to experiment with becoming utterly naked, he thought, as the doorman welcomed him with a smile into the elegant St. Regis Hotel. Did he suspect my subterfuge? He shrugged, walking across the plush carpet towards the bar.

He thought best on his feet and stood leaning on the mahogany bar as if he belonged. His back was against the wall, an appropriate metaphor for the experiment, he concluded. Pretense prefers such locations, where the scene can be overlooked for opportunities with impunity and anonymity. He was not a dissembling novice in bars…yet tonight was different, having no watch, no wallet and no wireless. He felt naked, vulnerable.

The crowd’s comportment was decorous and genteel. “May I help you, sir?” the cordial bartender asked. ”A water, tall glass, with two lemons, please, I’m waiting on someone,” he said. The water arrived, delivered without a smile. “Say, wonder if I could have a plate of those nuts and pretzels,” he asked. Obligatorily, the barkeep complied.

He sipped the water like an expensive glass of wine. The bar stretched almost the length of the room, with stools occupied by amiable patrons. Small tables were scattered throughout the room, accented by cushy leather chairs and shared by a dichotomous mixture of working types…older men mostly, younger women, each plying their trade over tall glasses filled with olives, or wine. From the dark paneling hung floor-length draperies, muting the room and giving it a cozy city feel.

A few of the men he knew, some from experience, others by reputation. He recognized none of the women, most of who were of a younger generation. Those who were not occupied by men concentrated intently on their Blackberries, as if to deflect the notion of insignificance. He understood the context of such interactions.

Cautiously he moved from the bar, shaking hands along the way with those he recognized. Nobody seemed to notice his glass of water, nobody asked. Nobody cared. Plastic credit cards flashed and cash lay damply upon the bar. He ordered another glass of water without incident or concern. He thought, you know, I’m having fun here and have not spent a dime.

The bar thinned out and he did likewise. He walked from the lobby through the door opened by the cordial doorman. The rain had subsided to a fine mist, fresh upon his face. He felt a rush of empowerment, sensing freedom from the tyranny of The Triune idols. What other superfluity could he shed? He contemplated this as he walked. Maybe another experiment tomorrow perhaps? Maybe.

But for today, no watch, no wallet, no wireless…no worry. This is America!

Bud Hearn
October 29, 2009

Thursday, October 22, 2009

The Lies We Tell

“…the tongue is a little member and boasteth great things.” James 3:5

Admit it…by the time you’ve read this you’ve layered your life with more lies, those uttered, and those received from others. Mostly the little ones that grease the gears of good public relations. Lies are a fact of life.

My father, a master inventor of such fiction, taught me this…he was a fisherman! The blame lies at the feet of women gardeners, but creative lying has been raised by fisherman from science to an art form.

The WSJ reported this week on spousal lying. It hinted that men lied in their responses, while women were truthful…mostly. But that’s not news…men occupy the world of sports, perfect incubators for fabrications. (Read political news if you’re unconvinced!) The article reminded me of some childhood experiences with fishermen.

Behold the Fisherman…
he riseth early in the morning and disturbeth the whole household…Mighty are his preparations…He goeth forth full of hope and when the day is spent, he returneth smelling of strong drink and the truth is not in him…”


The large wooden plaque, the “fisherman’s creed,” varnished into a gleaming sheen, was hung in the back-door entry of my childhood home. Youthful memory gets foggy with years, but one thing is clear: before each fishing expedition, my father kneeled and swore allegiance to the Fisherman’s Creed as he departed into the darkness of early morning, hopeful and sober.

I was forced-marched on many of these rituals of maturation, but the thought of rolling out of bed at 3 AM in pursuit of the evasive Pisces was as repugnant as it was barbaric. I wanted no part of it. The thought of sitting in a boat, sweating under the blistering sun or enduring the freezing cold, was highly unappealing. Once I heard my father say to a companion, “James, that boy just ain’t right.” I’ve continued this sideways drift!

Sometimes I relented, going along to learn this art of embellishment. After all, it seemed to be a manly thing, riding endless miles in the back seat of a car, jostled like jelly along dusty dirt roads. Once I asked, “Dad, why can’t we sleep later and go to the pond closer to home?” Oh, the look. “Now son, don’t ask stupid questions…fish bite early, before dawn. We’ll be there in another hour or so.” I remained sullen all day.

My dad had an inhumane way of waking me for these Ramboesque adventures. He’d grab my big toe, jerk my leg from under the covers and swing it like a pendulum, often wrenching it from the hip joint. I would scream in agony at the torture, as if 3 AM wasn’t torture enough. A big knot remains a vestige of parental abuse.

I vividly recall one trip. I gorged myself that day with an excess of potted meat, spam and Vienna sausages, chased with four cokes and Hostess Twinkies. That trip ended abruptly, as I recall, when my stomach rebelled and the retching destroyed all hopes of catching fish from that creek. My father never forgave me for it.

Once I adamantly refused the insane 3 AM “invitation.” Awaking to the smell of bacon at 8 AM, I knew I’d made the better choice. After breakfast, with my rod and one lure, I walked about a quarter mile to the pond. In an hour I had caught more fish than I could tote. Jesus showed me where to cast! I was home by 10 AM and headed to the beach where girls were…I was able to work on some lies of my own.

Later that night my father and his buddies staggered in, apparently having ignored the Fisherman’s Creed that morning, full of tall tales, strong drink and an empty cooler. “Hey, Pop, look at what I caught at the pond.” Revenge is sweet! He didn’t speak to me for a week after that, but it ended the 3 AM disturbances. He died unrepentant in his convictions.

The WSJ article lacked consensus. Mom had it figured out, saying, “Boys, It’s not a lie if you can believe it.” It vindicated us all. In time she presented us a plaque given by Ladies Bible Auxiliary, called “The Angler’s Prayer:” “Lord, give me the Grace to catch a fish so big that when talking of it I may never need to lie.” To my knowledge my father and his pals never received this Grace. And with girls neither did I!

Why do we manipulate the truth in so many ways? Maybe it’s a matter of survival. What lie aided your survival today?

Bud Hearn
October 22, 2009

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Inordinate Obsessions

Stanley Galway made the news last week, not by choice but by chance. It wasn’t front page, but the local TV did air a short video clip. Stanley wouldn’t have approved. But then he wasn’t consulted.

Retired at 62, children grown, a nice pension, Stanley fell in love…again! His wife never approved, of course…women rarely tolerate husbands with wandering eyes and their penchants for ever-revolving trysts. But she relented, rationalizing he’d been a diligent husband for 39 years, a responsible provider for their children. After all, he’d worked hard for their comfortable lifestyle and perhaps deserved some freedom. Even she herself had fallen in love with the bridge center.

Stanley lived an up-front life, never duplicitous. Even in his latter-day obsessive romance, he first consulted Margie before making the commitment. He counted the cost of things before he acquired a taste for them. He told her he’d be spending time away from home, traveling with his new love. He promised never to publicly flaunt the affair, but let it evolve slowly. That way he hoped the community wouldn’t think him some old fool or has-been playboy with a late-life inordinate inclination. Besides, he was a deacon at the First Baptist Church.

Stanley realized there’d be costs to carry on such an adventurous and adulterous affair. He needed a new wardrobe to fit in with new friends. While the new clothing seemed strange at first, he soon preferred the look to the staid blazer and khaki outfits he’d worn for years.

There were also other costs to consider. Motels, restaurants, periodic maintenance and other travel expenses would be involved, so Stanley did a careful budget, promising himself and Margie he’d stay within it…he was a straight-up kind of guy. He even obtained a small credit line and a couple of new Visa cards for backup.

Then there were the children to consider. What would they think of their father’s moonlit rendezvous at his age? “Dad, is this a wise thing you’re doing, or just some mid-life infatuation?” they asked. “And what about your heart? After all, you know you’re not that young…how much excitement can you stand?” they reasoned. They cautioned him, tried to persuade him to rethink such a preposterous proclivity.

But he’d have none of it, and prevailed by promising to refrain from wild parties and to never over-indulge in alcoholic beverages. He acknowledged that alcohol does lower inhibitions, making one both invisible and bullet proof. He pledged to be careful not to lose control. “Look, I’m a deacon,” he argued, “and I do have a reputation.”

Finally, with everyone’s reluctant consent, Stanley said goodbye to them last week. With the high spirits that accompany new romantic interests, he strolled smiling from his house, promising to stay in touch, but not agreeing to divulge too many steamy details of his first fling. It wouldn’t be proper, he concluded. Roaring out of the driveway and pumping the air with his fist, he felt free at last.

Unfortunately, however, Stanley was unschooled in the ways of Fate. She’s a fickle woman, never giving, only lending. And Stanley’s loan was too short…it came due on demand that afternoon.

Stanley’s brief moment of newsprint came in a short blurb in the Coastal Times. It read:
Stanley Galway, a 62 year old man wearing a red Superman cape, died Wednesday when he lost control of his Harley Davidson motorcycle on a curve on Hwy. 17 and slid under a pickup occupied by George and Maude Hayseed near Cannon Creek. Witnesses reported that in spite of his mangled body, he died with a smile on his face. After further investigation, police stated he was in fact wearing a helmet.”

This week a sign appeared on the lawn of the First Baptist Church: “Repent, all ye who pass this way!” There, next to that sign, stood a crumpled mass of steel. Unrecognizable now as a motorcycle, this grotesque display bore a stark and silent testimony to the perils of misplaced passion. Inscribed on a bronze plate at the base of Stanley’s colossal wreckage were the words:

He sowed the wind,
And reaped the whirlwind


Is there a moral to this sad and tragic tale? You decide. I think that Stanley would agree that helmets are inadequate armor for inordinate infatuations with Harleys.


Bud Hearn
October 15, 2009

Friday, October 9, 2009

Chomping on Red Lobster

Oh, the games dogs play.

We have two Westies, they love to play games. Especially when I join them on knees to become the big dog on the floor. I get no respect for that condescension, or preferential treatment…we’re all just dogs now, playing games.

Mac is a male, Sophie a female. Mostly they cohabitate peacefully, often sleeping together. But with certain games, their innate temperament as civilized animals vanishes, especially if the games involve certain toys. Dogs have a covetous gene as well. One might say that one is Blue, the other Red. The roles often change, depending on the game. But the stakes are always high…win at all costs!

This morning we’re playing the “Get Red Lobster” game where the Pack Leader, that’s me, gets to incite violence by playing “keep away.” The game goes like this: I run wildly around the house with red lobster, occasionally flinging it into another other room. A mad rush ensues to capture the creature. Suddenly, upon capture by one or the other, it becomes “mine.” Teeth off, you interloper! It’s sorta like screaming “Fire” in a crowded auditorium…pandemonium results.

The red lobster is elusive, it changes mouths, one stealing it from the other, or by brute force or cunning one manages to elude the relentless pursuer with the Grail. Which is the whole point of the game anyway. This entertainment continues until one or the other loses interest, or Pack Leader tires of the charade. Covetousness abates, but it often gets nasty and mean before it’s over. Bored, they retreat to chair to cohabitate. All at rest…till tomorrow.

It’s not wise to intercede with one’s hand into the tug-of-war fray in the battle over “it’s mine.” They will mock that ill-conceived intrusion. Bloody fingers or worse, all in good nature, of course, will be the aftermath of gate-crashing that private affair. God once interrogated that poor fellow, Job, saying, “Pal (God never actually calls anyone pal…I made that up), wanna have something to remember? Lay your hand on Leviathan, remember the battle, you won’t do that again, because your last state will be more grievous than the first.”

Now “Get Red Lobster” is not the only game we play. It gets boring after a while. Something new is required. We have a game called “Shirt.” Blue Man (Mac) hides beneath a tattered shirt. This is the signal for Red Girl, Sophie, to attack, assaulting him from all angles. After a brief but brutal engagement, he emerges, having had enough, fleeing finally under the bed for safety.

Red Girl especially likes the “Little Man” game, where my fingers walk across the floor, attacking with the battle cry, “Little Man’s gonna get you.” I can only speculate what she thinks two fingers can actually do, but it invokes harsh growls and she cuts and runs out for cover. Of course, it’s just a devious trick. Even the Devil (notice I gave him respect by the capitalization) is expert at this game, pretending with great swelling words what will happen if one’s actually “caught.” It reminded me of the childhood “boogy man under the bed” delusion…we fled when no man pursueth!

We have many other toys, each with the same underlying theme…harmless games for fun and entertainment. There’s Monkey, Mr. Gator, Bear, Shoe, Rope, Squirrel, and Lamb. We emphasize their importance of “winner take all” by ascribing to them capital letters. After all, what’s the use of competition or struggle, fun or otherwise, if there’s no prize to gain?

The nation is playing high-stakes games now in Washington, on Wall Street, in Iran and Afghanistan. These games have devolved into a winner-take-all, no-holds-barred contest of do or die consequences. Civility has been cast to the dogs. Like a rancid bone, bloody tooth and nail, the nation is being ravaged to shreds with no end in sight. Old friends are now foes, while in the wake greed follows like a bad odor. The Pack Leader, with Windy City words, vacillates and incites, hiding safely behind words, shirts and skirts, while unrestrained his minions mine gold from the clueless caverns of Congress.

Dog games entertain, but there is a conclusion to them. Time limits are good things with games…it leaves the loser opportunity to try again tomorrow. And tomorrow will come! What game will we play then?

Oh, the games we play with others, and with ourselves. Now there’s a bone to sink your teeth into…..

Bud Hearn
October 9, 2009

Thursday, October 1, 2009

The Masquerade Party

How delightful to dress in disguise and go to another masquerade party, so thought the Mountebank family. “Honey, better get a move on,” she shouted to him. “We don’t want the party to start without us.”

Just getting the children out of the door for the carpool and sleepover. You did a great job in picking out these school outfits. I never did like the uniforms of the last school anyway,” he responded. “They looked stunning today. They are sure to make a great first impression,” he boasted proudly.

An aura of excitement filled the house as they sifted through the variety of disguises they had. “Honey, let’s go all-out this time, make it our best day yet, dazzle everyone we meet. We also only get but one chance to make that first impression, you know,” she announced as she sorted through the various accoutrements in her jewelry drawer. She had already spent way too much time in her closet, and the attic, picking out just the right outfit for the party. She was certain she’d be a big hit today.

As she dressed she remembered some of the other parties they had attended. She had not yet wanted to go to extremes in creating any special look, just enough to fool the casual observers. After all, she was younger then and masquerade parties were still somewhat new to her. But not entirely new. She remembered them from high school and at the university where they had a bit more intrigue. No, she had sufficient experience in disguising herself without being detected.

Such parties are a little like the youthful game of “hide and seek.” While it was fun to pick novel and unusual spots to hide, it was also fun to be found, and to make a mad scramble to home base before being “tagged.” She was glad she could continue to play this childish game even as an adult…she got the same thrill as she did as a child. Except now she did not want to be discovered at all. She thought these things as she put on her makeup.

Meanwhile he was having a bit of a difficulty. “Damn, I’ve worn these outfits too many times. People may think I’m poor, or that I’m just sloppy in my choices,” he lamented. “Besides, there’ll be new people at the party, and I surely wouldn’t want to look like some hick just off the Trailways bus,” he muttered somewhat to himself. He continued to sort through the variety of his disguises, remembering how impressive some had been and how they had utterly fooled everyone at previous parties. After all, he did have a reputation of sorts, and he intended to improve upon it. He finally decided.

The Mountebank couple really made a perfect pair…and they most often received the prizes for having the most elaborate, creative and disarming disguises. But in truth, they had learned this artifice from their families. His extended family was the Fibber’s from the masquerade capital of the world, New Orleans. They were of French descent, while her family, the Sleight’s, reputedly arrived in the late 1600’s from England. Their outfits tended to the most extreme, his to the gaudy, and hers to the exquisite. Together they were able to deceive even the most observant of those they met.

As these parties became more frequent, the Mountebank’s had a more difficult time in perfecting the perfect disguises. After all, it was their unspoken intent to trick as many people as was possible. Because of this, they had often forgotten which outfits they had worn and who had seen them. And face it; they did have a certain reputation for disguise to protect. What would people really think of them if they were recognized? It gave them much stress as they aged, and they discontinued some of the old parties in preference for the new ones.

Sweetie, I’m about ready, how about you?” she said, the mirror smiling back its approval. “Almost ready, Hon” he replied, “just let me dab on a little bit of this new male musk I bought. I bet they will think I am a real stud with this stuff…at least that’s what the advertisement said would happen.”

In a kitchen rendezvous they looked over each other’s disguise in approval. “Reputation looking good,” they thought as they joined hands and walked out of the back door. After all, they had done this for years, each off for just another average day at work!

“In each walk of life each man puts on a personality and outward appearance so as to look what he wants to be thought; in fact you might say that society is entirely made up of assumed personalities.” La Rochefoucauld c.1662

Enjoy your own masquerade party today!


Bud Hearn
October 1, 2009