Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, July 25, 2014

Take Another Bite


Clouds swirl, thick and dark. Lightning flashes, thunder rumbles, rocks split. Stars fall, the moon melts, the sun sets. The Voice roars, “Enough is enough.” Holy Wrath fills the universe.

**********

Moses is jolted from sleep, traumatized by recurring dreams of frog plagues. The Voice shouts, “Moses, get over here…you’re going back!”

He wants to argue, “Hey, I’m old now. I did my time down there. Besides…” His words freeze in mid-air. Mt. Sinai comes to mind. He trembles. Nobody argues with The Voice.

He shambles over to the Big House with his Giant Gulp coffee cup, a relic from the Bloomberg era, now legal again by writ of the celestial jury.

What’s up, Boss?” he asks.

It’s Babel redux. They’re never satisfied. They cracked the digital code and discovered the GPS mystery. Demons are pouring out of hell’s gates. The ‘smart phone’ is usurping my authority. Prayer requests have stopped; tithes are down; fewer recruits for the Zion choir. Computers are making a mockery of my authority.” The Divine Utterance breathes fire.

Chief, who am I? Just an old man. I’ll be ridiculed. Send those reprobate twins, Manny and Levi. They need a genuine dose of repentance,” Moses pleads.

The Voice replies, “Those uncircumcised infidels? The ones who substituted bacon for kosher franks on Passover? Those backsliders will skin snakes until contrition sets in. No, you’re the man. Take your brother, Stanley. He likes to talk. Find out what’s going on.”

(A few days later)

Stanley, hey, the Meat Packing District has changed! No more bootleg bacon from Jersey, just condos, restaurants and people walking around looking at gadgets held in their palms.”

Stanley replies, “Weird, man. Not like the old days. Say, look at this store. Sign says ‘Apples.’ I thought that issue was settled a long time ago. The bite is still missing.”

Careful,” says Moses. “The Trickster is listening. Remember what happened with Adam? He got foreclosed, lost his garden paradise. Let’s go in and check it out.”

A clerk with gold chains and an ear phone grabs Moses, shakes him. “Want to buy a smart phone, pal? On sale, half off.” He pulls out a slick new model.

What’s a smart phone?” Stanley asks.

Moses hovers behind him, whispers in Yiddish, “Watch out, Stanley, he may be a Samaritan.”

“Say, you dudes are not from around here, huh? I can tell by your clothes. They went out of style about the 13th Century BC, right? Y’all with the carnival?” the clerk asks.

Sack cloth,” Stanley reminds him. “Best made. Hand sown. Got it before the Garment District went upscale. We’re here on a secret mission for the Most High.”

Well, you’re in the right store, gents. Best smart phones in town. Apples. All the latest apps.”

Apples? Apps?” Moses cringes.

Our ancestors had a bad experience with apples,” Stanley says. “It’s a curse.”

Well, these have a money-back warranty, fellows. No risk, no curse. Everything at your fingertips. You want it, you get it now. No waiting.” The clerk is empowered; fist-pumps the air.

See this? It’s Amazon. You can buy anything, easy, quick, all with a credit card. Send it to you overnight, get it tomorrow. No wait.” The clerk becomes animated.

You mean we don’t have to pray and wait for an answer?” Stanley asks.

Pray? Are you kidding? Why pray? Get everything now. Praying? That’s so yesterday. This is the new age, guys. Are you on Facebook?”

Moses and Stanley look at one another, puzzled.

Facebook connects you to everybody in the universe,” the clerk says, grinning.

Here’s Google, men. Tells you anything you want to know, instantly. Just ask it. Where are you from?” the clerk asks.

Heaven,” Stanley replies.

Whatever. Check this out.” Google Earth pops up. Heaven appears. Moses gasps. “Cool, huh?” Stanley’s speechless.

Everything’s possible with Apples. Book a hotel, order a meal, Instagram pictures, count calories, get the news, check your stocks. You itch, it scratches.”

Stanley and Moses huddle, discuss things.

They look at the smart phone. Stanley says, “New age? Smart phone? Is Baal back? Imagine the chaos if the Boss scrambles the digital grid. Let’s keep this gizmo for a souvenir, just in case.”

**********

They sit outside, play with the new purchase. “Stanley, let’s postpone our return.”

“Absolutely,” Stanley says. “You check out Match.com while I see if Domino’s really delivers. Pepperoni okay?" Moses nods yes.

They both take another byte of the apple. Thunder explodes…..


Bud Hearn
July 25, 2014



Friday, July 11, 2014

Life in the Middle


Middle Ground…a sterile no-mans-land littered with skeletons of past inadvisable skirmishes, a seething DMZ that exists between genders, both sides bulging with WMD’s. Eyeballs of suspicion peer cautiously across the uncompromised wasteland, that silent safe haven between outright war and tentative peace. Nothing moves.

**********

Spouses occupy opposite sides of this vast divide. These reluctant combatants, co-joined forever by the immutable pledge of nuptials, occupy the opposing precepts. They cannot escape the golden chain that’s linked by the impetuous vows of ‘I Do!’ They gaze across this immense chasm of disconnect, waiting for the other to blink. Neither does. Nothing happens. They wait.

Observers ask, “What hath provoked this hostile cleavage, this bad-blood animus?” Why, the unresolved Concept of Cleanliness, an abstraction that ignites smoldering fires of critique rather than edifying entrenched opinions. This insufferable gulf of discord is a battleground of personal preferences. Agreement is impossible.

The opposing warriors stationed here have come as close to the middle as they dare…a Cold War of nerves hangs on a hair over their heads like the sword of Damocles. Anything can happen. Sooner or later it will.

‘Cleanliness’ is a relative term, proportionate to the mind’s perception or in the eye of the beholder. It’s subjectivity on steroids, an aberrant gene, passed down through the ages. The genesis of it remains undocumented.

The first recorded words of the last troglodyte were, “Get out, you dirt bag, take your left-over bones with you.” Perhaps this forms the basis for the standoff. This utterance still reverberates through the heavens. Aliens avoid colonizing the earth for this reason. Cleanliness rules with an iron fist. Who can exist under its domination?

The concept of cleanliness has gone global. Germs lurk everywhere. Bottles of hand sanitizers are ubiquitous: elevators, gyms, grocery stores, offices, automobiles, even in holy places, like Methodist churches. (Yes, despite denominational differences, cleanliness is still akin to Godliness.) Before offering the sacraments of bread and wine, ushers first sanitize their hands. The story of the Last Supper does not reflect this nuance.

Barbeque is a national tradition. It’s a man’s opportunity to show his skill in something other than washing a pickup truck. Grills are as sacrosanct as a woman’s lingerie hanging on a clothesline in the sun. These middle grounds are hands-off for everyone.

A man’s grill is a nasty appliance. If inspected by the Health Department, the entire household would be quarantined. They should be avoided by anyone with a squeamish stomach. Even a casual glance has been known to cause PTSD, traumatize viewers and cause severe mental impairment in tiny children. It’s the principal cause of insanity among women.

Discussions about the cleanliness of a man’s grill are irrelevant, if not downright irreverent. Discerning chefs know the necessity of layered grease buildup. It deserves the Good Housekeeping seal of approval.

A backsplash oozing with recycled oil drippings from last week’s rib roast does wonders for taste. A clean grill would destroy the balance of nature in most backyard cookouts.

My wife asked me to cook some BBQ chicken for July 4th, said friends were coming. A man appreciates respect and being useful to his wife, seeing he has little utility otherwise. I fired up the cooker.

Men are enamored with fire. It’s a man’s idea of cleanliness. Even God uses fire to refine men, one way or another. Flaming grates soon produce white ash, clearly a symbol of the charred carcasses of all germs past. Cremation destroys all evidence.

Soon smoke billowed from the cooker. Tensions loosened, a cease fire was called. Doors opened, windows, too. Fresh air came in, a table with blooming flowers was set in the midst of the DMZ, enemies became friends, enmity ceased, wine made merry. John Philip Sousa played, a party ensued.

Firecracker explosions lit up the night. They reminded us that reunion is possible even in the midst of war. Even the most ardent adherents of any respective orthodoxy can achieve peace, even if only for a moment.

Everyone soon drifted off and we cleaned up the mess. The encyclopedia of good cleanliness was retrieved. I followed the directions with minute detail. Spotless. I received praise, which gave promise that perhaps more fireworks might explode later. Delusions die a hard death.

**********

Then she asked, “Did you clean your grill?” Instantly the middle ground reverted to a scorched and barren strip of earth. Windows closed, doors slammed shut, shades were drawn. The primal conflict continued unabated.

Oh, the reconciling power of BBQ chicken….

Bud Hearn
July 11, 2014


Illustration courtesy of Leslie Hearn

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Spirit of Rebellion


The War of Independence was an unfair matchup. England, population 6.4 million, versus The Colonies, about 2.5 million farmers and colonists. No Las Vegas bookie would have taken that bet. But God did.

There’s a rebellious streak in youth. It’s a natural tendency. They’re born to despise authority, to abhor rules, to kick back at every provocation that seeks to restrict their sense of freedom. If you don’t believe this, adopt a teenager.

The young are revolutionists, seditionists. Innovation is their magic carpet. They detest normalcy. Their minds have not yet crossed the threshold of Concession or Impossibility. Things are black or white, no gray. It’s blood and guts, not cookies and tea.

Youth has something to prove, and they’re restless until they do. They’re impervious to danger, eat it like nail soup. They spit in the face of death and dare it to complain. Change is a quick snack they have for breakfast.

Old men don’t dig trenches. They don’t wage wars in the dust, the heat, the cold, the mud and the blood. It’s viewed at safe distances with smarmy handlers, catered meals and corporate sponsors. Their empty platitudes are masks of insincerity at the gravesites of patriotism.

Strategy and political maneuvering are their amusements. Their spirit of conflict is overcome by their pacifistic urge to compromise with status quo. They conduct closed-door conferences and schemes of international intrigue. The globe is their chess board. Youth are their pawns. Don’t rock their boats.

Is America becoming soft by compromise, anesthetized by wealth, obese by inaction? Is it content with the noose of unearned entitlements? Or acquiesce of personal independence squeezed out by a greedy central government? Is it happy with the constraints imposed by a bloated bureaucracy? Where’s the spirit of rebellion today? Where are the protesters?

America was conceived as a nation of rebels. Like youth itself, it was a wild, unexplored country, full of promise, privation and possibility. Its future was unknown, untapped and untried.

The bones of its skeleton are nationalistic, its flesh the principal of charity, its breath the soul of freedom. God spoke the words once again unto its chaos, “Son of man, can these bones live?” They did, and in 1776 America was born. It has remained a mighty nation for 238 years.

America thrives on a cult of perpetual youth. The quest for the Fountain of Youth ended in 1513 in what’s now St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest city in America. Ponce de Leon had a vision, but it was 263 years early. Today the spirit of that vision is alive and well.

America’s is not planted in concrete. It’s sleepless, ever inventive, always transformative. It runs, not walks. Enough is never enough. Perfection is just another milestone to something better. The culture of constant rebirth boils in the national spirit. Caste finds no home here.

How is this possible? America’s freedom was not born of a religious fanaticism. Nor by slick, sugar-coated words of doctrine that rolled off the tongues of politicians. Freedom comes at the expense of blood, not vowels. The blood of Colonial Patriots still cries from the earth, “Remember, remember, remember!” This is what we celebrate on Independence Day.

America was a dream. Dreams are ephemeral. They vanish easily at daylight. Dreams need nurture. The visions are gifts that need to be stirred up regularly. Like the grit of discontent, it impels us to action.

Tomorrow we will again celebrate Independence Day with parades and egalitarian events nationwide. We will for a day reignite the Spirit of Freedom that thrives in our nation. We will eat 150 million hot dogs and the words ‘lily-livered’ and ‘yellow belly’ will not be uttered.

Overhead fireworks will burst everywhere. Like the bursts of muskets and cannons, may each one remind us of the sacrifices that were made by the Patriots.

America’s future of freedom will continue to be earned by the sacrifice of patriots who possess faith in the heart, freedom in the soul and fire in the belly. May our Spirit of Rebellion always remain alive, ready, willing and able.

Bud Hearn
July 3, 2014