Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, September 27, 2012

A Hard Nut to Crack


I hear him before I see him. His ponderous footsteps shamble up 23 stairs into my office. He pauses at the top, grips the door jamb, and totters. His breath wheezes. It’s Larry. His friends call him Pappy.


He comes by every Friday with vegetables from his garden. Whatever’s in season. On that day it was blueberries. And always eggs from true, free-range chickens. He’s retired from the Postal Service. Unlike certified mail, it’s good news…certified organic! He lives on a small farm outside of West Green, GA. It’s a town so small you miss it if you ride through. You can barely see it if you walk. Even the zip code’s retired.

He plays poker with his pals every Thursday night. I never ask how he does…facial expressions don’t lie. He plops down in the plush leather chair. He pulls a pistol from his hip pocket. It’s dull-black. Menacing. He twirls it carelessly. Says nothing. He has my full attention.

Another bad night?” I ask.

“About the same as usual,” he says.

What’s with the cannon? Murder or suicide?”

Maybe both.”

How much did you lose this time?” Something about pistols in a gambler’s hands is unsettling.

It ain’t the losing that bothers me. Chump change. I’m used to it. It’s just I don’t much like them laughing and slapping their legs when I leave. You know it hurts a man down deep.”

Which one you gonna pop?” I say it with a grin. Pappy’s wound tight. He needs relief.

None of them bastards. It’s my wife,” he spurts. I sit up, take note. This is serious.

I rub my chin whiskers. “Hmmmm.” It’s all I can summons at the moment.

Look at this text I got from her today.” He shoves his cell in my face.

The message reads: “Larry, you dirt bag, your favorite rooster shit on the steps. I stepped in it…again. I told you to do something about this rooster. But don’t worry. I took care of the problem for you. You’ll have roasted rooster for supper tonight.”

Damn, Pappy, does this warrant murder? You’re getting all worked up about nothin,” I hand the cell back.

He growls, “She’s never satisfied. Without that rooster my egg crop will dry up. That boy was a stud, kept me in business now for five years. I loved that rooster. We bonded. He rode with me in the pickup. He was like my son.” He spins the cylinder of the revolver and looks into the pistol chamber. Six silver-tipped .38 hollow points stare back. They’re the shade of his goatee.

“Man, it was just a rooster, for christ’s sake. Get another one. Enjoy your dinner tonight.” My tinny voice sounds like a TV evangelist.

You don’t get it. That rooster could talk. His name was Red. He told me secrets of his hen house exploits. He was a ladies’ man, if you know what I mean.” A faint smile cracks the corners of his goatee. “I learned things. I’ll never find another rooster like Red.” He lays the pistol on the table, fingers its curved pearl handle.

Sounds like he was more than a rooster, Pappy. Maybe he was your repressed alter-ego.” I had read Freud’s notes on repression.

Huh?”

You know, sometimes we have other things that represent something in our lives. You see that skeleton sitting at my conference table? His name’s Lazarus. I consult him on all decisions. All I’m saying is maybe you were living a vicarious life through the rooster.”

“Man, that’s sick. You’re a strange dude sometimes.”

Takes one to know one, buddy.”

"I need advice, now that Red’s gone."

“OK. What’s the problem?”

“She’s mad as a wet hen.”

“Who, your wife?”

You been listening? Of course. She’s fixin’ to be my victim.”

Why’s she mad? All women get mad at husbands. What did you do?”

Forgot her birthday, our anniversary, and I snore. Just to name a few. You got any advice before I fill her heart with lead?”


Let’s consult Lazarus.” We did. He told Pappy exactly what to do. I opened the cabinet and pulled out the Jack Daniels. We both took a slug. Several. The gun went back in his pocket and the smile returned.

I thanked him for the blueberries and offered my condolences on his loss of Red. He left.

Relationships are complicated. Men are like hickory nuts…hard to crack. Forgiveness and saying "I'm sorry" don’t come easy.

Lazarus and I avert another catastrophe, hopeful for a continuation of these free-range eggs. Thank God for alter-egos!

Bud Hearn
September 27, 2012

Thursday, September 20, 2012

I Used to Care…But Things Have Changed



Gonna change my way of thinking, make myself a different set of rules…gonna put my good foot forward and stop being influenced by fools.” Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan sang these words. I borrowed them. I seem to have no original thoughts anymore. I stay confused.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been sick lately. It doesn’t pay to be sick these days. You get no sympathy. “Hi ya doing?” they ask. “I’m dying,” I say. They shrug, roll their eyes, blow me off. Nobody cares. Only politicians do. So they say. Just the other day I lost my voice. What did my friends do? Applaud and jeer.

My symptoms surfaced while watching the recent political conventions. Both parties dished out the same rot, though some sounded more exotic than others. Whatever the menu, it was prepared by the same Wall Street and White House kitchens. I should not have swallowed it. Mexican burritos from dumpsters are safer.

The conventions were entertaining, if you like circuses and carnival sideshows. It’s hard to figure which one did the most damage to their cause. Ancient Republican extras from a 1950’s Western showed up. They sat stoic, wearing plastic cowboy hats. Huh? Fire the choreographer! It resembled a Texas wake…big hats, no cows, no breath. Were they manikins? Things have changed.

The Democrats were more entertaining. Comedians did most of the talking. They filled the stadium. How? Free fried chicken, Bubba, delivered in boxcars from KFC. It drew a big crowd, literally and figuratively, mostly from Alabama. Sweat poured from them in tidal surges. It gave a new dimension to Roll Tide. The Rainbow Coalition and Gay Pride activists had to suck up their pride and munch on Chick-fil-A handouts.

Do you know about the new war in America? News to me. A ‘war on women?’ Republicans started it. Democrats discovered it. Who’s the enemy? I asked my confused mind. I find out it’s The System, stupid. It’s rigged against women. Men stacked the deck. What’s new? Women have taken to the streets, demanding equal work for equal pay. Or, is it the other way around? I’m still confused. I always thought women were at war with men. Things have changed.

Of course, women are always demanding. Nothing new here. But since Sandra Fluke and Elizabeth Warren are off the leash, no man’s safe. Not now. The truth’s out…people can marry anybody, or anything, they love. Eric Holder will soon define love. Free contraceptives will make babies extinct. Women have been justified. It was bound to happen. No more Prada…jackboots are in.

The seminal, most poignant moment in the Democratic convention occurred when President 44 burst onstage and clutched President 42 in a tender, loving embrace. The crowd erupted in ecstasy. I broke up. My tears flowed freely watching two grown men passionately cuddle and nuzzle one another. The only thing missing was a French kiss. It was almost as touching as seeing Lyndon Johnson expose his abdominal surgical scar that resembled the DMZ in Viet Nam.

I’m confused about “QE3...Quantitative Easing 3.” It appeared alongside an article about McDonalds putting calorie and fiber counts on Big Macs. In that context it sort of made sense. A Big Mac has no fiber. It’s a chemical concoction of sodium and sugar. So naturally, I thought ExLax had introduced a new suppository for the low-fiber fast-food industry. Wrong again. It’s about flushing the system with money, a laxative of sorts, a kind of Quantitative Greasing of taxpayers, if you will.

As for speaking out of context, the real Mitt has emerged from the muck. We discover that Joe Biden’s genes are in his biological woodpile. Presidential candidates should never speak the truth. Only lies and distortions work. Ask Huey P. Long. So what if half of all American families get a government check and don’t pay taxes? Are you confused about this? Not me. Even a fool knows money from the government is tax-free. We’re entitled. Where have you been?


Today I took a look at my life’s Bell Curve, a mythical graph that traces life’s transition from diapers unto diapers. I’m at that point where it’s time to just throw up my hands and shout, “What the hell!” and forget about girth, gray hair, wrinkles and poverty, and go back to smoking Cubans and sipping aged scotch whiskey.

Yes, things have changed. You’d best get yourself a new way of thinking, because if you don’t like today, tomorrow will be your worst nightmare!

Bud Hearn
September 20, 2012

Thursday, September 13, 2012

France…Saga of a Tour de Farce (Part Three)


Endings come. After two weeks, we parted on good terms before the last threads of genteel civility unwound. Though banal, we could say, “and a good time was had by all.”

For breakfast we shared shards of a rock-hard baguette, slices of moldy sausage and dregs of our last bottle of wine. It was a special breakfast blend, Non Plus Ultra Grand Cru. Infused with Red Bull, it was France’s answer to Starbucks lattes, vending machine favorites. With one last toast, our communal living concluded.

A vote was taken on the picture best representing the essence of our trip. The one entitled, “The Morning After,” (shown here) was runner-up. The hands-down favorite was the one entitled, “Alternative Uses of a Fig Leaf.” Yes, there’s a story here. Though not Madame Bovary, a woman stands in the shadows. In this case, three French maids.

Not all French maids are created equal. Those in Burgundy are not of the variety fawned over in voguish magazines. They’re sturdy girls with large frames and enormous forearms. Some shave. They eat diets of onions and garlic. This discovery shattered yet another illusion of my youth. France is known for contriving romantic frauds.

Ours were ingĂ©nues with a fault…they trusted American men. Two of our still-immature boys cooked up a poolside ruse. Something about modeling fig leaves. However, the madcap scheme slid sideways at the unexpected advent of their wives. The maids fled into the vineyards and vanished. This reckless adventure ended in infamy. It’s best that the curtain fall on this disgusting scene.

Dr. Duck was our obsessive-compulsive germ inspector. He traveled with a magnifying glass, microscope and bag of petri dishes. He stalked tiny micro-organisms. Our kitchen was his lab.

His Freudian psychosis was the consequence of 25 years of teaching germ research at a university in Florida. With a halogen light strapped to his forehead he skulked at night. Talking to himself and laughing hysterically he scraped bacilli from pans and dishes. He ranted daily on impending salmonella attacks. Some dismissed him as a kook.

Vacations end with a final expense reconciliation. Ours was done by a Princeton MBA, aka ‘Spread Sheet Jack,’ the eminent creator of “The Princeton Hypothesis: The Algorithmic Equalization of Random Movements of Motion.” We wondered how such wisdom could come out of New Jersey. We asked his wife.

She said it was inspiration from Above. Said it happened on the 11th green. A bolt of lightning lit up his 8-iron in mid swing. She said that he now lives in the parallel universe of spread-sheets, concocting algorithms on all things moving. Said his latest postulation was an algebraic equation. It measures the optimum number of chews to maximize caloric intake from a rib eye steak. Whatever!

His tracking system of expenditures was genius. Communal expenses required a signed receipt. ‘Spread Sheet’ tallied them in an elaborate computer-model format. He equalized all expenses to parity. Freeloaders on the communal pacifier were exposed and severely excoriated. Two were flogged. Unfortunately, discussions turned violent on the final settlement value of the Euro. Money often provokes bitter conclusions.

French departures demand obligatory dual-cheek kisses. It didn’t suit our reigning Chateau Grande Dame, president of The Women’s Cotillion and chair of her local DAR. Nothing less than French kissing, the tongue-touching type teenagers try in the back seats of cars.

Her epiphany arrived recently while in a chocolatier on the Rue de Chocolate, a back street in Beaune. She craved French kisses, a la Hershey. Her French was poor. The proprietor mistook her request. He swept her into his arms and passionately demonstrated the technique. Her lotus flower blossomed that very moment. She has not been the same since.

So as we are departing she stands there with outstretched arms. Her thick lipstick shimmered like a red neon sign in a Hollywood speakeasy. Dr. Duck shouted warnings of oral germ infestations caused by wine fermentations. We fled. She sobbed inconsolably at the rejection.

The sun set on our two weeks in a burgundy chateau, a riotous excursion full of fun and memories.

So, Au revoir, with this thought…The road goes on forever and the party never ends. Let the good times roll!

Bud Hearn
September 13, 2012








Thursday, September 6, 2012

France…Saga of a Tour de Farce (Part two)


Choosing bedrooms is the first order of business in a two-week sleepover. Assignments were made based on the most obnoxious snoring habits. Wives signed sworn statements as proof. Nocturnal quiet enjoyment ensued.

Infirmity had a minor vote. Frailty entitlements wear thin. Like welfare, unfair but humanitarian. Strong drink eliminates bad hearts and creaky joints, but not innate laziness. Some suspected closet Democrats had crept in unawares.

The trip was about wine. We wasted no time in procuring ample supplies. We took no chances and purchased the entire stock of a local winery. It was delivered under lock and key by two large Wackenhut trucks with guards. The proprietor effused delight in selling his left-over vintages and laughed uncontrollably while booking reservations to Las Vegas.

We engaged a local chef. His credentials, other than being occasionally sober, were that he had appeared on Martha Stewart. Her post-prison picture was tattooed on his left forearm. He achieved fame with a recipe for beef bourguignon and escargot. Like his flask, he kept the secret close to his vest. The 18 empty bottles of merlot gave us a clue.

We closely monitored wine intake and were cautious not to appear conspicuously-consumptive Americans. Republicans are reviled in Socialist cultures. We devised a method of determining how many bottles were sufficient for ‘enough’ before crossing the threshold of ‘too many.’ The determination was based on conversational decibel levels, measured precisely 3 hours into dinner. The perfect balance was 48 bottles. The results will appear in the Wine Connoisseur magazine.

Dinners were noisy. A certain Francophile used them to pontificate on his superior grasp of French. He desecrated it with a flatulent mixture of Italian and wild gesticulations. Finally we could take it no more, and appealed to his wife for relief. She had a grasp of her own, and used it by grabbing him where it counts. We felt his pain and cringed as she dragged him off, ranting and raving, and bolted him in the broom closet. He returned to polite society after singing 50 refrains of 'O sole mio'. He pouted for days.

Chateau toilettes are dangerous!! Never stand close when you pull the trigger. I did. The mistake cost me my favorite shirt. Toilettes have a button on the top lid…small, large flush. Unintentionally I hit the large flush button. A tsunami of tidal proportions erupted and a giant sucking sound ensued. I swam shirtless back into the bathroom. The sleeve of my shirt hung limply from the bowl. If seated, one could easily have disappeared.

Our washing machine was smaller than a thimble. The dryer operated by candle power. Mold set in. Dirty laundry mounded into monstrous proportions. Men’s underwear fermented. Women pushed and shoved. Finally a man was posted to monitor the laundry queue. Hair pulling slowed significantly and the “B” word was seldom heard thereafter. Hedonists paraded naked in the sunlight for lack of towels. The outside clothes line worked well except for the ravens. The sheets were later incinerated.

Mike preferred the basement. He contrived an invention that enabled him to ingest wine at flow rates measured over a consecutive 48-hour period. The design was simple, patterned after Lance Armstrong’s doping paraphernalia. A five gallon jug of wine was suspended from the rafters. It pumped wine directly into Mike’s veins via an IV. The flow was one liter per hour. He slept with it in the steam room and accomplished a net-zero weight gain with max hallucinatory effects. He has since patented it, “Mike’s Mighty Max.”

Hunger for food and shopping drove us into the outlying villages. Driving was risky when blood-alcohol content was north of 5.0. Except for excellent produce vendors, gypsies and Bosnian refugees ran the markets. Clothing appeared to be used consignments from Russian military outposts. It had the distinct odor of cadavers. Jewelry and tawdry trinkets were made by prison labor on the Isle E$ba. We mourned for The Moulin Rouge cabarets.

More of our Animal House adventures will appear in the final sequel, arriving next week. In it our entire visit will be distilled and epitomized, including the disastrous ‘Fig Leaf Escapade.’ Until then…..


Bud Hearn
September 6, 2012