Making a Fool of Yourself

This is a touchy subject. I’m approaching it with much circumspection as if it were a coiled rattlesnake lying in the path. Head-on encounters are not encouraged.

We’ve all played the fool. Admit it. We all have the tattoo of having once been a fool. It’s indelible. The wound still stings, even if it’s now only a memory lingering in the deep silent recesses of our silly self-denials.

Those with delicate sensibilities find it hard to forget and forgive being so-labeled. Ego is easily wounded. The stigma of being called a fool, even if only once, can revive dark ancestral proclivities better left buried. Even shadows of idiocy can spoil our carefully-crafted pristine past.

That said, pause for a few seconds, and re-read the title. Then confess out loud: “I have made a fool of myself.” Feel relieved? Now laugh at yourself.

This is important. It brings light to suppressed incidents you’ve been hiding and disguising. Once out of the closet they have no power. Then you’ll enjoy joining the rest of us in continuing to make a fool of yourself. It’ll happen.

Making a fool of yourself is easy to achieve. It requires no training. All you have to do is to wake up and give the tongue its head. It’ll do the rest for you without effort. Later in the day after you add some fermented grape juice it will do an even better job.

The tongue might be the easiest way to make a fool of yourself. It thrives in shredding your esteem to the ‘fool’ status because of the unfiltered nonsense it utters without restraint. Some even substitute the digital tongue, Twitter, to label themselves a fool.

But the tongue is by no means the only culprit. We can play the fool in actions just as easily. Take your recent investment in Bitcoin, for example. Your spouse begged you not to take that plunge but no, it was the future, you said. At least you had the correct verb, ‘was.’ And now you have to contend with the ‘I told you so’ comment. The tongue is your best friend. It can override the brain’s best wisdom. It has no conscience.

A friend told me recently his wife never forgets anything. What woman does? I asked him to explain. He said it was a simple slip of the tongue, a brief lapse into a brainless response. He has relearned the consequences of witless actions. He swears to never again use the honest adjectives of ‘dumpy’ and ‘bulging’ when describing his wife in a new dress. Brutal honesty can backfire on anyone.

Photographs of years past reveal how we acted the fool in our clothes. Just last week I found a photo of myself in the ‘70’s. I was wearing a bloused-sleeve, pirate-like shirt at a dinner party. It seemed ‘cool’ then, sitting among a group of dinner companions in jackets and ties. Sometimes I still cringe in silence when the past comes calling.

One of the problems with making a fool of ourselves is that we can’t see ourselves. We don’t recognize when it is happening. It has to be pointed out to us. Now this should be a warning. There’s always somebody looking, listening, just lying in wait to snare us in a ‘gotcha’ moment that will follow us forever like a bad odor.

We make fools of ourselves in public as well as in private. There’s the ‘Grandstander’ working the crowd: glad-handing, back-slapping, high-fiving. Purpose? To be seen. Or elected. Then there are the Intellectual Pontificators, puffed up with pomposity (uh, that’s us writers). And the latter-day Circuit Riders, the know-it-all, tell-it-all gossipers bearing salacious news to itching ears.

And oh, so many more. Making a fool of ourselves is a badge of having lived. Be proud of it. One day the obituaries of all those who loved to taunt us with our follies will have been posted. Then we can begin again.

Until then, the only perfectly acceptable way I know of to make a fool of yourself is to fall in love. Even the snake will give you a pass on this one.


Bud Hearn
November 30, 2018

The Soul of Thanksgiving

“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul? “ Mark 8:36-37


The year was 1863. Abraham Lincoln was President. Strife ruled. The nation was at war with itself. The landscape by most visionaries was bleak and dreary. The nation seemed to have lost its bearings and its very soul. Being thankful under these conditions was seemingly impossible. The nation urgently needed to mend its fraying fabric.

Under these dire conditions Lincoln issued a proclamation establishing the last Thursday in November as a national holiday. His intent was to coalesce a nation of diverse cultures and individuals into a cohesive whole by remembering the origin of its birth. This year Americans will celebrate the 155th anniversary of Thanksgiving.

In 1620 pilgrims departed from Defts-Haven, searching for a new land with the ephemeral idea of freedom. They had no idea what they would face in the quest. As if the hardships of the voyage were not enough to deter them, what they saw at landfall must have made them question their sanity altogether.

There, looming before them in the stark winter stood a harsh land with a weather-beaten face. It appeared to them a country full of woods and thickets, a place full of untamed beasts and wild men. It had an ominous and savage hue. Such is the nature of the unknown…wild, fearful but full of promise.

It was up to these pilgrims to carve out their dreams and visions. They neither expected nor received the benefits of ease in the process. For having left their homes, having said goodbye to their families and friends, they said goodbye to the old life and searched for a better home.

We who read this today are benefitting from the sacrifices of these visionaries. We can ask ourselves these questions: Under what tyranny would we now be living if not for the perseverance of these intrepid travelers? How would our destiny have unfolded?

Fortunately, we have the answers. Living in America is a blessing of untold and incalculable dimensions. Read the news if you don’t believe this!

Some years ago on this date our family and friends sat in a Methodist Church in the small town of my youth. We gathered there to say a final goodbye to our mother. My nephew recalled the influence she had upon his life.

He synthesized it based on his annual visits for Thanksgiving. He recalled pulling into the driveway of his grandmother’s home. The first thing he saw was her face in the kitchen window, welcoming him with a smile.

The soul of an American Thanksgiving also has a face. It’s seen in the Rockwell-blended faces of families, merged together into a national tapestry. Each face represents a precious memory, of a home and a secure place where families can thrive.

The blessings of national unity are too broad to enumerate. But the collective voice of Thanksgiving blends them together at every table where food is served, where laughter is heard and where love is shared. The soul of being American is once again revived on this memorable day.

Today, the world is a dangerous place. It’s fractious, filled with secular pursuits, religious divisions and seethes with national rivalries. Our country itself is not immune from its own fractured diversity. The horror of continuous news reveals this daily.

Yet in spite of this, America continues to stand, strong in the collective unity under which it was founded…established by a beneficent God for the purpose of freedom. A continuous remembrance of this fact is what Thanksgiving is all about.

Today began sunny on the coast, but clouds are gathering for another storm. In the front yard a squirrel sits on its hind quarters, gnawing on acorns. It seems to smile as it feasts on the prodigious crop furnished by the oaks.

America has endured many storms. It will weather more. But, like the squirrel, we can take comfort in the fact that a gracious, Almighty God desires to furnish us with untold blessings. Our collective soul will continue to flourish as long as we remember the Source of these blessings.

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Thank you, Abraham Lincoln, for your foresight. And thank you, God, for blessing the soul of America another year. Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family. Truly, our cup runneth over.


Bud Hearn
November 20, 2018

It's a Sore Subject

Stored in the recesses of a woman’s brain are some sore spots put there mostly by men. These raw, unresolved irritants, small and large, can become volcanoes. You know an eruption is near when you hear, “That’s a sore subject with me.”

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Men are at a distinct disadvantage in relationships with women. They stumble and stutter their way stupidly through life, ignorantly attempting to please women. They grope for the wall for direction like blind men on the streets of Calcutta. They live lives of dread, fearing they’ll inadvertently touch a nerve that sets off ‘a sore subject.’

‘Sore subjects’ are ‘Bouncing Betty’ land mines, explosive devices buried just beneath the surface of memory. They lie harmlessly underground, waiting to be tripped. Very bad things happen when they pop up.

Most men live in toxic fields strewn with land mines of previous ‘sore subjects.’ They wander around clueless in the fields of relationships, rarely realizing what dangers lie hidden underground. Past detonations that didn’t maim or kill a poor sucker are soon forgotten.

These mines can lie undisturbed for years. The explosive power is not diminished but often increased in the waiting process. If discovered, they must be removed with caution. Carnage is the result of carelessness. Walking on egg shells is sound advice, men.

Sometimes an audible ‘click’ is heard when you step on a land mine. Maybe there’s a delay in the explosion, but the ‘click’ is ominous, like hearing the very voice of God saying, “Hello, Welcome!” You freeze in your tracks, afraid to move, damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Whichever, you know nothing good is going to happen now. You’ve ‘stepped in it,’ so to speak.

Often the ‘click’ triggering the mine is a silent one. But you intuitively feel you have set something horrible in motion. Like the silence that permeates your home just before the storm of ‘a sore subject’ shows up. You know it’s about to happen. The air is thick. You check your cell’s weather app. It advises to seek shelter in the basement.

Words can also trigger the monstrous device, words like, “I’ve been thinking…”, or, maybe it’s something like, “What were you talking to HER about?” Harmless conversation, you answer. It’s the perception, stupid. Besides, no man recalls anything he says. Women forget nothing. The past is unrecorded history to men. They are doomed to repeat it.

What causes these ‘sore subjects?’ Well, the list is long, fellows. Try taking a stroll in some of the Fields of Sore Subjects and reflect on your culpability.

Start in the Field of Selfishness. You, selfish? No way. Hold on…she’s tired of cooking, wants to dine out, but you say, “But baby, it’s Monday night football.” You just planted another mine.

Then there’s the Field of Stupid Comments. It’s a mine field sown with words of thoughtless blabber. Such drivel gushes forth without filter from the lips of men and litters the landscape with multiple sore-subject warheads.

Wander around the Field of Domestic Neglect. Say what? Domestic neglect? Homes are the domains of women, you say. You don’t do dishwasher duty, and bed-making is beneath your status. Wax the floor? You can’t be serious. Call Handy Dan. Gotta go. What’s for dinner? Sound familiar?

Now enter the Field of Never Convenient. Convenient to your schedule, that is. After all, who’s more important? Oh, you don’t say that, not out loud, you instinctively think it. You just planted five more explosives.

Over there is the Field of Wilted Flowers, also known as the Plot of Broken Promises. It once flourished with beautiful wildflowers. But now it’s a dry and dusty hardscrabble land just waiting for a match to incinerate the stubble of your empty rhetoric.

Next door is the Field of Screwball Excuses. It’s mostly a worthless rock pile of idiotic deflections, denials and artful dodges from doing mundane chores around the house. You never know under which rock a sore subject hides.

The Field of Insensitivity is a weed-choked gully of red, impermeable clay, much like the gray matter cortex in your brain. It’s the mother of all sore subjects, because nothing seeps in. It’s a replica of your alter ego.

As long as there are women, sore subjects are here to stay. Deal with it.

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The best sage advice I have is this: Figure out your own navigation system and avoid all sore subjects. Otherwise, change your address. Good luck.


Bud Hearn
November 13, 2018

Cooking Sausage

To anticipate or to possess, that’s the question. Which satisfies most?

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It’s Sunday morning, cool, high 60’s. Brilliant sunshine, slight breeze, quiet house. The Bulldog Nation is at rest, their anticipation become reality…Dawgs whip Gators. Bogey, our dog, sleeps while the sausage sizzles. Can life get better?

Yes, and No. Depends on one’s expectations. There’s a constant polarity that vacillates between these two extremes: Now and Future. Can we have it both ways? It presents a dilemma.

For this morning, at least in this very minute, it’s difficult to decide which is best…the anticipated taste of the frying pig or the momentary aroma of it cooking. It’s a tossup, but a swoon either way.

Back in high school we used to debate insolvable dilemmas, like: “Is there more pleasure in anticipation than in possession?” Such profundity is wasted on young boys who can’t even spell anticipation.

They have enough problems trying to figure out the mystery of girls. Besides, if I recall, all we possessed were the clothes on our backs. Anticipation and dreams were all we had to hold on to.

This morning Alexi plays Carly Simon’s 1971 tune, Anticipation:
Anticipation, anticipation
Is making me late,
Is keeping me waiting…

And stay right here ‘cause these are the good old days.

It stirs a quote by Dr. Frank Crane, the eminent but long-deceased theologian, on the subject: “The best part of anyone’s life is the future. It’s that which determines the quality of the present and gives significance to the past.”

I look at the steaming cup of coffee in my favorite mug and debate the generality of this comment. Maybe Dr. Crane didn’t like coffee.

So, I ask myself, “Self, which is more important at this very moment, tomorrow, or now?”

My Self, which is probably like your Self, tends to be a hedonistic spirit. It answers with this simple comment: “Use your brain, nitwit. Drink up. Tomorrow’s coffee is no good for today.” No debate here.

It seems that anticipation, as opposed to the reality of the present, is more illusionary. Perhaps even delusionary and is subject to the vicissitudes of cosmic variables impossible to compute.

Face it…we have two options to choose from when we anticipate the future: the best, or the worst. Experience tends to support the notion that neither work out as good or as bad as we imagine. The present moment, whether good or bad, is precisely what it is…no more, no less, no debate.

Suppose you just won the lottery. What to do? Money’s no problem. Live it up. Maybe travel, see the world. Anticipation of adventure soars as you book fine hotels, restaurants, first class seats.

Then the phone rings. The doctor calls. Mentions chemo. Anticipation can turn on a dime. Suddenly a hot cup of morning coffee takes on new meaning.

Everybody anticipates something. At the Lincoln Center in Manhattan this week an audience will wait in eager anticipation. They’ll join Vladimir and Estragon in eager anticipation for Godot to show. For three acts they will wait, debate and expect, but in the end, of course, Godot never shows. Life delights in dashed hopes.

Out on Main Street there’s a loud roar. Nobody’s satisfied. Anxious voices clamor for change. Vitriol overflows in the streets, fueled by the raging torrent of media assassinations. People are impatient. ‘Now’ is the operative battle cry. But not everywhere.

Somewhere a balance is brewing. Somewhere high school students continue to explore the mysteries of life, contemplate the future and anticipate a life of enormous wonder.

Somewhere “Sons and daughters will prophecy, young men will see visions and old men will dream dreams.” The future will continue to mushroom from the compost of the present.

In giving Dr. Crane some benefit of the doubt on his thesis, perhaps this is what he meant: The future lies before us, undiscovered, anxious for anticipation to flesh it out.

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But this Sunday morning, it’s a mute debate. Bogey and I enjoy the simultaneous fulfillment of ‘anticipation-become-possession,’ at least for the moment and until I take the last bite of the sausage.

Truly, these are the good old days, such as they are.


Bud Hearn
November 2, 2018