Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Stealing Bases

There comes a time in every man’s life, and I’ve had plenty of them.” Casey Stengel

Baseball…what a game! It’s the closest thing to life as man can ever devise.

They’re many reasons why… not the least of which is being able to steal something with impunity and get into baseball’s equivalent of the Books of Life. With skill, stealing bases can result in a bronze statue on the front lawn of some stadium.

I like baseball because it’s slow. Like life, it’s mostly preparation and periodic execution. Here’s the picture:

The pitcher stands on the mound, massaging the ball. The catcher signals him with a finger. He nods, looks at first base. A runner taunts him, leads off a few feet, then a few more. Decision time. He stretches, cocks his arm and zings a 98 mph fast ball 60 feet to a brown, 12-inch leather target. The runner commits, sprints 90 feet towards 2nd base. The crowd leaps to its feet and screams. In less than the time it takes to say, “Holy Mother,” the catcher fires a rocket ball to the 2nd baseman. A cloud of dust erupts ~ the runner slides in, the throw is one second too late. Safe! Another stolen base, another statistic. The crowd sits down to its beer and p’nuts, waiting for the on-deck hitter. Life begins again.

Stolen bases began in 1871. They’re the infrequent thrill that enlivens an otherwise lethargic game of skill, teamwork and strategy. The record for the most stolen bases in one season is 138, held by Hugh Nicol in 1887. The record for the cumulative most stolen bases is 1,406, owned by Rickey Henderson.

Like life, baseball has its peculiarities and its proclivities, both good and bad. It teaches young men odious habits that aren’t socially acceptable, like publically hustling private parts while being broadcast to millions on TV. What kind of mentor is this? But at the same time it adds camaraderie and discipline, valuable lessons of life.

To make matters worse, the game allows tobacco chewing and spitting on the field. What kind of signal does this send to onlookers? Speaking of spectators, will somebody please ban attendance without shirts? What’s that about … modeling for Wal-Mart?

Back to stealing bases. Imagine ~~ something for nothing! That’s what stolen bases are. Journalists like to think in metaphors. What a wide array of images come to mind when exponentiating the concept of stealing bases. It’s a crack in time when serendipity slips through, seizing a fleeting opportunity, or exploiting a situation or outrunning the hovering winged chariot of time. It’s a high-five moment.

Who will ever forget stealing a kiss on an elevator? Or stealing someone’s thunder? Or stealing the show? Or stealing a furtive glance and sly wink? These are the stolen bases of life.

Life, like baseball, has a beginning and an ending. Baseball can’t be defaulted out or quit in mid-game voluntarily. It must continue, win or lose, until the bitter end. In 2007, the Texas Rangers whipped up on the Baltimore Orioles, 30 to 0, the standing record of embarrassment for any major league team. Life has other options and other rules, some kind, some not.

As spring practices are about to begin, let’s remember the wisdom of the baseball old timers:

Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.” Satchel Paige

Never let the fear of striking out get in your way.” Babe Ruth

And finally, “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.” Yogi Berra

Batter up!

Bud Hearn
February 23, 2012

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Bit by Bit


This morning I’m in the kitchen and remember to get something from the bedroom. It takes maybe 10 seconds to get there. Then, I find myself turning in circles, trying to remember why I’m there.

Frustrated, I retreat to the kitchen, trying to get a thought re-run. Nothing. I retrace my steps, the book I’m reading, the cell phone, eggs I’m cooking. Yes, the same eggs which now are…never mind. You know what burned eggs look and smell like. I flip through the pages, scroll through the caller ID. The thought, irretrievable, gone forever.

Today I wake up thinking of a friend who says he looks like Sylvester Stallone. He’s deluded. He looks like Richard Kiel, Jaws in a James Bond movie. Anyway, I can’t remember Stallone’s given name. Tony? Anthony? Rocky? Not that I dream about movie stars. At least not the male ones. I draw a total blank. The name, that is…I remember most female actresses. Aren’t all females actresses? Skip that.

Do you do this? Listen, the mind’s not a solid cortex. It’s a sieve. Lately its highest and best use is filtering out the small details of life. Like, I open the refrig, stand with a blank stare into its cluttered space and wonder: What am I looking for? This is how I find the eggs that I forget were cooking. Bit by bit the brain loses its grip. Please tell me I’m not alone!

Listen, this affliction affects not only the aged. Everyone’s vulnerable. The mind needs discipline, but how’s it possible to discipline a sieve? Soak it in a bucket of Clorox? For example, I forgot Tuesday was St. Valentine’s Day. It’s not a good thing to forget some dates, especially if one wants to remain happily married. I shove the date, February 14th, into my sieve with superglue.

Maybe it’s better to eliminate life’s minutiae and stay out of confusion. Better to concentrate on the monumental issues that matter, like are my pants zipped, or are my socks the same color or keeping track of my keys. This is the real stuff of life. The clutter of detail derails cognitive regimen.

I’m not always this way. If you are, then just keep your dilemmas to yourself. We don’t want to know. We have enough of our own to worry about. Strange things, for example, like today. I leave home wearing my loafers. I get into the car. What’s in my other hand? Why, a pair of running shoes with a banana hanging out. Go figure.

That’s not quite as bad as walking out of the house, eating an apple and talking on the cell. Somehow, in a switcheroo, I find the apple is stuck to my ear and I’m biting into the cell. Beware of getting older, or simultaneously eating apples and talking on the cell. You may be on Somebody’s You-tube video and later have to explain things.

Today I have lunch with bankers. They invited me. Imagine…and in these times. Something’s up. I’m CIA, know how to avoid subpoenas. I make a hasty toilet retreat as the check approaches. If you’re shocked at the skill of dodging a bill, you’re a hypocrite!

Think how it would appear being photographed pulling out cash to pay the bill? Bankers are paranoid now. They wear costumes, wigs, wired with bugs, hidden cameras. They employ slick lawyers. They wear thick sunglasses with red blinking frontal lobes. They lament about loss of market share. They lure me into their lurid dens, bit by bit, enticing me with more loans.

An anonymous poet once wrote: “We leave in pieces.” Interesting. It reminds me what a friend at the nursing home said. “You know how we decide if patients need to be here?” I shrug. He says, “We fill a bathtub, give them a spoon, a coffee cup, a bucket and tell them to empty the tub the fastest way. If they pull the plug, they pass the test, and we send ‘em home.” He tells me to invest in nursing homes…a sure bet.

Nature is a relentless pursuer. Did the extra 20 pounds jump on you, or creep up overnight? Forget wasting money on rapid remedies. Like most things, it leaves as it comes…bit by bit.

Enjoy your sieve and beware of filled bathtubs. Remember: We’re not confused…our actions simply transcend human understanding.

Bud Hearn
February 16, 2012


Thursday, February 9, 2012

Talkin’ to Myself


“…for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.” Matthew 12:34

If nature abhors vacuums, it should feel right at home with Americans. No, this isn’t about the chorus of chatter from the current parade of presidential candidates, as vacuous as it might be. It’s about my own disconsolate dilemma. You see, I’ve discovered just how much I talk to myself.

I hear you laughing. I know why. Your secret has been revealed. You talk to yourself, too. Silence is scary, makes us uncomfortable. The airwaves modulate with chit-chat. It’s everywhere, in elevators, malls, streets, and TV. It assaults us.

I have a friend, Bernard, who had hoped to escape the clamor of incessant chatter. He moved to Wyoming, bought a ranch, a horse and hunts most of the time. I once asked him if he missed the din of conversation. He said, “Look, I just returned from a month in the hills, just my horse and me. I couldn’t stand the silence. I talked to the horse.” I heard later that he had himself committed.

We can’t escape our own voices, or ears. We talk to the air and to all things inanimate. For example, take the collard greens I cooked yesterday. The dogs and I were at home enduring the silence. I told the greens I had to give ‘em a scrubbing and asked if they minded taking a long, cold bath. They put up no fight. I apologized as I dumped them into the boiling water. They shriveled and wilted. I begged forgiveness.

Situations usually provoke most of my audible self-speak. Like idiots in traffic, “What the *%#@ are they doing?” I often utter. And you don’t do likewise? C’mon, fess up. I even have dialogues with trash bags that leak on the kitchen floor. Everything is fair game for tongue-lashing.

We’re always running late for church. I pick through my ties, asking which one of the several hundred wants to hear the preacher’s sermon. I choose one that looks lifeless and say, “Hey, pal, it’s your lucky day. You’re gonna get resurrected.” Then I get a shirt with tiny collar buttons. Glad they can’t talk back. Good thing I’m going to church.

My wife is always talking to herself. She’s a bridge addict. She reads bridge magazines and plays bridge on-line with automatons. They talk back to her in a nasal New Jersey accent. Sometimes I think I hear her saying to them, “That’s a stupid bid,” or, “Why did you play that card?” I wonder if we’re both losing it. That thought occurred to me as I snarled when the cell phone battery died. Nothing is safe from verbal self-speak!

My daughter is an artist, a gentle soul. She takes pity on small creatures, like ants, spiders and butterflies. She has a habit of talking to them about their importance in the general scheme of things, roaches excluded. See? The fruit never falls far from the tree.

Most of the time, however, I find myself talking to myself about myself. Usually interrogations. Like, “Why do you…thus and such,” or, “Why are you always…this and that?” I find my other self responding, justifying the actions, or thoughts. One might think there’s a civil war going on inside. Of course, there’s a place for people like this… a padded room!

One day I decided to take a walk, hoping to escape the jawbone jabbering from the unheard abundance of my heart. I’m here to tell you that it’s impossible to escape yourself. Even in the dead-air silence, the nervous system buzzes in the ears. Nature abhors a vacuum.

It’s up to debate as to what positive results occur from talking to yourself. Nothing really changes, irrespective of the audible babel. Ex nihilo nihil fit…nothing from nothing is nothing. About the only absolute affirmation is that many avoid hearing our opinions. And this is an unparalleled relief !

As for the collards, well, they exacted their own revenge and talked back to me today. I’m now rummaging through all the cabinets shouting, “Zantac, Zantac, where are you?”

My advice? Get a dog. Talking to dogs is proof-positive you’re not a nutcase.

Bud Hearn
February 9, 2012

Thursday, February 2, 2012

0 to 60 in 5


It’s 10:30 on a Friday night. The football game is over, the crowds disperse. Some boast, some lament. Another contest is beginning, this time on a dark and deserted road that pierces through miles of cotton fields. The fields reflect a soft glow in the moonlit night.

They sit in the cab of Robert’s ’58 GMC pickup on the shoulder of the road. The truck is a souped-up, modified version with a 265 cubic inch V-8 engine. A six pack of beer sits between the two boys. Two are open. The red glow of Robert’s cigarette is the only visible light. They wait for the crowd show up.

Soon headlights appear. Four cars arrive, 12 boys get out, mill around. They are there to witness Robert’s attempt to beat the local record of 0 to 60 in 6 held by a boy from Blakely, who with two friends stands apart. They jeer, hurl taunts. Fists tighten, but nobody moves. Boasting rights are essential in South Georgia.

Robert fires up the engine, moves onto the road and straddles the yellow ribbon that bifurcates the black asphalt. The truck idles, shakes itself with an occasional vroom, vroom from the twin exhaust pipes. Tension fills the air. The stakes are high. Two specks of light appear in the distance. They puncture the humid air and provide perspective. A slight fog is forming.

Robert finishes his beer, flicks the cigarette out the window. “Ready?” he asks. “Let’s do it,” his friend with the stopwatch says. He shifts the manual transmission into first gear, revs the engine to 2,000 rpm’s and pops the clutch. The clock starts. The truck lurches forward, its rear tires spin, grasp the damp asphalt. The smell of burning rubber permeates the air. Cheers erupt. The race is on!

The truck roars through the night. Robert speed-shifts into second at 30. The tires lay six feet of new rubber. Faster, faster they go, 40, 50. He downshifts into third as the speedometer passes 60. The watch stops. So does the truck. They return, get out grinning.

We’re a culture of junkies, intoxicated with speed. It burns our brains. Ethane fuel surges through every fiber of our body, screaming “faster, faster.” We’re helpless against its heady rush of highs. We live for it. We’re addicted to it.

Speed is not a new phenomenon. Ever since Fred Flintstone invented wheels for his golf cart, we’ve tried to beat the speed of light with piston-driven vehicles. We’ve come close. In 2008, Tom Burkland broke the record, achieving 415.896 mph, far exceeding Jeantaud Duc’s record of 39.24 mph in 1898. Everything begins somewhere!

But we move on in our endless pursuit of speed. We try jet propulsion technology and strap wheels of spinning turbines to the sides of cars. In 1997, Andy Green recorded the first supersonic speed record of 760.343 mph with a Thrust SSC Turbofan vehicle. We’re still not satisfied. Projects now aim for 1,050 mph. Imagine. Our lust for speed lacks limits.

Speed creeps up on us in small increments. Babies have strollers with wheels, move onto tricycles, then bicycles, roller skates and the progression is endless. The speed record for bicycles is 138, downhill on snow. Eric Barone’s nerves and quads achieved 83 mph on a flat surface. Who needs treadmills?

Airplanes had their beginning with Wilbur Wright, flying 6.82 mph. Today, a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird holds the record for a manned aircraft at 2,193.2 mph.

Our obsession with speed consumes us. We have taken the competition off of roads and put it on silicon chips. They defy gravity. Our fingers fiddle with speed every day. We curse the sluggish chips. The military supercomputer that monitors everything and everybody is made from video games. It calculates at a mind-boggling 1.026 quadrillion bytes per second. That’s 1000 to the power of 5 (1015) How many vacuum tubes is that?

What’s the limit of our search for speed and living in the fast lane? Who knows? But we know the results of Robert’s run in the GMC that moonlit night. The stopwatch registered 5 seconds exactly. It was contested. It always is!

0 to 60 in 5…a milestone? For one boy in South Georgia it was. I know. I held the stop watch and bought the beer.

Bud Hearn
February 2, 2012