Live Dangerously, Ask a Local

Well, we’re finally here, our very first visit. Is it a dream come true? We’re going to do our best to make it come alive.

We sorted through travel guides until one snagged us. It promised: ‘Just what you’re looking for.’ We fell for it. We’ll soon find out.

Forget that we’re bone tired and travel weary. We bought the ticket, took the ride and showed up. Now what? Adventure, that’s what. We won’t be denied.

It’s been a while since we took off, heading out, exploring somewhere new. We need fresh memories; the old ones are worn and withered. We’re planning to one-up relatives and friends with our own photographic show-and-tell and exotic spin on the ‘we’ve-been-there’ stories.

No time to waste, the nap will have to wait. Excitement is out there, not inside, a story of intrigue around every corner just waiting for us. Let’s do it.

Where do we start? Everything’s new, and with our tight budget and time constraint, we have to make the most of it. No down time for us. We’ve read and memorized the travel guides, researched the internet, dog-eared Rick Steve’s ‘been-everywhere’ guide, so what’s left to do?

Ask locals, that’s what. We know from experience that only the locals know where the best-kept secrets are hidden. Every place has them. Our job is to find the right local to ask.

We venture out, need a little time to think, to plan our route. Coffee, a snack, that’s where we start. We disguise the travel guides, hiding them inside a local newspaper. Nobody in their right mind wants to look like a clueless tourist wandering aimlessly around studying street maps and reading an AARP magazine for ideas. We’ve made that mistake too often.

We study the landscape, look for a local to engage. They know the intimate secrets of their environs. It’s OK to read Travel and Leisure, to get an idea of last year’s ‘big picture;’ everyone does this. But not us, we’re looking for the tiny, hidden tidbits of travel, the out-of-the way gems that make trips memorable.

Now you have to be circumspect about local advice. It’s not necessarily of the same quality; some is better quality than others, and you’ll never know until later. Some things are learned the hard way. Like that Sunday in Carlsbad, New Mexico when the truck broke down.

The auto parts clerk seemed friendly enough when referring us to his uncle, a shade-tree mechanic who suggested replacing the entire engine. It seemed somewhat suspect. The whole thing seemed fishy from the start. The next day the Chevy dealer fixed the problem with a fan belt.

Then there was this time in New Orleans when we asked a local-looking fellow on Bourbon Street for directions. We ended up in a voodoo emporium at the end of a dead-end bayou that smelled like last year’s low country boil. It pays to be circumspect when choosing a local to ask.

Proper idiomatic use of adjectives is advisable when asking for advice. Some words don’t quite resonate with locals. Take the time in Istanbul when we asked the concierge for a ‘quaint’ French restaurant. Quaint and French are not in the Turkish vocabulary. The only thing French was the waiter with a blue beret.

Traveling makes everyone hungry, and we are always looking for that special, out-of-the-way place. The kind of place where the owners join you at the table, bring lavish portions and share their aged wine. Things like that. But after the experience in Charleston, be suspicious when any local sends you to a place called ‘Mama’s Home Cooking.’ You’ll be the only turkey that gets cooked.

And never ask a substitute hotel concierge anything, especially their idea of fine dining. That was in Las Vegas where we ended up in a dive with red flocked wallpaper and velvet pictures of Elvis and Sinatra hanging on the walls. Imagine, in all of Las Vegas, we get the classic brother-in-law referral.

Still in all, without local advice we’d never have experienced the Moroccan rug merchant’s shakedown, the curio shop showcasing bone fragments from John the Baptist, a museum with medieval torture devices or the chance encounter with Mick Jagger.

It boils down to the luck of the draw when asking for local advice. But travel is not the same without it. So, if you’re looking for adventure, ask a local and don’t look back.


Bud Hearn
July 24, 2018

Chewing the Fat

Some idioms never die for good reason. This is one of those.

**********

We sit here, four of us, jawboning about nothing much; no wives, no wireless and no worries. We’re just waiting until it’s time for the real thing.

We have abandoned the tyranny of urgent, the Trumpian tweets and the daily dose of our own get-in-the-way details. We’re just passing the time, shooting the breeze of idle chatter, drifting this way and that like a rudderless old dingy going nowhere. It will be time soon enough.

Such laid-back convocations don’t happen often enough. Culture has tainted the concept, defining it as ‘wasting time.’ It was such stupidity that did away with front-porch rockers. Inane TV programming is its replacement.

No group is comfortable with silence. It makes the air heavy. So our tongues soon begin to wag, beating the air with something, anything. Usually a joke. You know the kind, the ones where the laugh meter is flat-lined and the only comments are an assault on the jokester’s character.

Such is the way with men—find one chink in the armor of defense and mount a vigorous assault. All in fun, of course. It has a way of breaking up the logjam of banal banter so what’s really important will float to the surface. And today, everyone’s licking their lips in anticipation.

Men with time on their hands find a lot to discuss. Dogs are good subjects. A man can remember more details about the life of his dog than he can about anything else, except maybe his embellished and highly-polished collegiate exploits. Some memories, like idioms, never die; they’re embalmed with hyperbole and entombed in caricature.

The list of open-forum ideas is endless, ranging from motorcycles to mud wrestling, cars to football, aches and pains flesh is heir to, which body parts work, which don’t. Then there’s golf. I dismiss the golf subject summarily, because first of all, it’s my office we’re in, and more importantly, golf is horribly boring. Plus, it’s the source all the world’s boredom.

I suggest a discussion on ‘nomophobia,’ the fear of not being connected to the world by cell phone. It gets nowhere. I then offer up something creative, like ‘first thoughts.’ Someone asks, “Is it time to go yet?”

Then someone else mentions ‘politics.’ Opinions fly, vitriol spurts, no holds barred, character is assassinated and consensus is out of the question. Turmoil ensues.

Another one pipes up, “Ok, ‘first kiss.” That hits a nerve. A thoughtful peace permeates the place. We’re all thinking: with whom, when, where?

I knew right off, like it was yesterday. I break the silence. “My grandmother,” I blurt out. “Her kiss had the distinct taste of Tums.”

Instantly my armor is pierced; I’m attacked from all sides. “Explains why you went sideways,” says one. “Still are,” chimes in another. The last one shoves the dagger in deeper, “Probably the best you could do.”

I’m tempted to mention my second experience but after the beating I just took, I think the better of it. Still, it’s pleasant to recall it. It happened on a Saturday afternoon during a Roy Rogers matinee. It was the first time my tongue touched someone else’s. But not the last. But I let it slide.

Everyone it seems has similar first experiences with the ‘kissing’ subject and nobody was talking much about any subsequent ones. Everyone knows that kisses are doors to boudoirs, and tongues have uses other than talking. It’s a personal but sacrosanct subject.

A lively debate centers on who first recorded “Blue Suede Shoes.” One says Chuck Berry, a totally unintelligent response. Another swears it was Elvis. Close, but no cigar. Even one suggests it was Jerry Lee. But since I have a pair of them, I knew: Carl Perkins.

Tongue-wagging has time limits. The end of ‘shootin’ the bull’ is at hand when bathroom breaks break up the continuity. Besides, we were all glued to our wrist watches now. The time to go had almost arrived.

Finally, someone yells, “Time to go, boys.” Nobody needs prodding. A resounding “Yes” rings the final bell. We’d run off at the mouth enough. Besides, we all had something more important on our mind the whole time.

**********

So off we go, drawn to what’s called in the South a ‘sho-nuff’ opportunity to chew the fat off of some smoked BBQ pork ribs.



Bud Hearn
July 23, 2018

Take Another Bite of the Apple

It’s Friday the 13th, strange things can happen.

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 celestial mid-air. Mt. Sinai comes to mind. He trembles. Nobody argues with The Voice.

He hustles over to the Big House with his Starbucks Grande iced latte without a straw, straws now being banned as lethal devices.

“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 sure has changed. No more bootleg bacon from Jersey, just condos, restaurants and robots walking around gazing at gadgets held in their hands.”

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

“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, ink 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. Mohair. Hand sewn. 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 gyrate 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. A photo of Heaven appears. Moses gasps.

“Cool, huh?” Stanley is 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 go outside, sit on a bench in the park and 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 13, 2018

Fireworks & Freedom

“And it shall come to pass afterward, I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions…” Joel 2:28

**********

What we have here is a minor 9th Century BC prophet projecting his prognostication of great blessings which God promises to pour out on His people in the future. While he probably did not have America in mind, per se, who can ignore the fulfillment of this prophesy in the founding and maintaining of our great land? And tomorrow we’ll again celebrate this blessing.

Soon the skies of our Homeland will explode in celebration of the birthday of Independence Day, a dream come true. It marks the 242nd anniversary of our Republic. But what exactly will we be celebrating?

Freedom, that’s what, fruit that has matured from the Tree of Vision nurtured by courageous men and women, young and old. These patriots pledged their lives and fortunes to fulfill the deepest dream of mankind…Liberty. The Declaration of Independence is the Word, the seed of that powerful dream, a dream that beats in the heart of every citizen.

What is Freedom? A chimerical wish-list envisioned by idle daydreamers? Some romantic notion devised by Utopian idealists? Hardly. The poet, Gibran, writes, “(Vague) and nebulous is the beginning of all things, but not their end…that which seems most feeble and bewildered in you is the strongest and most determined...and if you could hear the whispering of the dream, you would hear no other sound.” Thankfully, our ancestors heard that whisper. Do we?

From what compost is Freedom conceived? Often from the exploited detritus of oppression, enslavement, tyranny and brutality. It seethes in obscurity. It endures beneath the turf of tyrants, despots and dictators. When it can no longer be suppressed, its collective voice shouts, “No more!” It then rises from darkness into a tsunami of unrestrained power.

All births are bloody. Travail precedes each. Ben Franklin and a friend once watched a hot air balloon exhibit in a field of France. The balloon rose slowly from the ground, floated over trees, and landed in a nearby field. Peasant farmers with pitchforks, ignorant and fearful, attacked it.

The friend remarked, “What good was that experiment?”

Franklin replied, “What good is any new-born baby?”

Freedom begins as a baby. But it grows, changes, dreams of its own destiny. America’s experiment with Freedom is older now, but no less vibrant. The baby is maturing, and it’s changing.

How does Freedom consist, hold together? Is it by milquetoast methods of submission to the winds of fortune? Or is it by, as Churchill said in England’s dark hours of WW II, “…blood, toil, tears and sweat…?” All revolutions and preservations of Freedom are achieved not by slick rhetoric, but by the shedding of blood. America’s experiment with Freedom is no different.

Is our dream of Freedom in jeopardy? Has it become a faded billboard for rent, cheap? A fast-food court of entitlements, tawdry trinkets and handouts to appease the masses? A nation of freeloaders and pilferers of the public treasury? Free everything…healthcare, food stamps, welfare checks, mortgages, you-name-it? Are we like drunks, sucking the dregs of the Dream at the bottom of a bottle of debt, celebrity politics and self-gratification? Scary thoughts.

Again, this year the fireworks extravaganzas will bring to remembrance Francis Scott Key’s words, “…and the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.” And that’s what we need…a constant reminder that the horror of darkness has not extinguished our flag, the symbol of enduring Freedom.

On Wednesday the Spirit of Liberty will blow softly in the breezes. Firecrackers, both real and symbolic, will beat back the night for a little while longer. After the parades, picnics, BBQ, hot dogs, beer, watermelons and heartburn, we’ll sleep soundly, nurtured in the comfort of Freedom. But not all of us.

Somewhere on a dusty desolate plain a soldier with a weapon will keep a night watch. Somewhere a baby will be born. Their lives will merge with old men who still dream dreams, and with young men who still see visions.

Every generation has the power to retain or forfeit this Dream and Vision of Freedom. Which will we choose?

But for today, The Dream and the Vision live on. Now, begin the parades. God bless America.



Bud Hearn
July 3, 2018