Boiling a Frog

“O, hypocrites, you can discern the face of the sky; but can you not discern the signs of the times?” Matthew 16:3

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Reading is dangerous. It exhumes thoughts, disturbing thoughts, thoughts that poke us, voices that whisper, images of smiling frogs being boiled, signs that expose culture’s addictive character. Can we change our way of thinking?

Thinking’s hard work, changing directions is even harder. My daddy was laconic, prone to brevity but pretty good with homespun wisdom. He could read the signs of the times as good as any gypsy.

“Now son, whenever you get into hot water, get out quick,” he’d say, reminding me of Stanislaw J. Lec’s aphorism: “I prefer the sign that says ‘No Entry’ to the one that says ‘No Exit.’”

Now I’ve never boiled a frog before, but others have. You know the notion. Put a frog into a pot of tepid water, increase the heat slowly and the frog will be boiled without even knowing it. It seems heartless to subject hapless amphibians to such extreme experiments.

Still, many experiments and studies continue to validate or to dispute the verity of this thesis. They’re equally contradictory. The only absolute is that the game is rigged against the frog. Slow scalding has a zero-sum outcome.

The only consensus that surfaces is if the frog has a way out, he’ll take it. But if not, what’s the significance of these experiments? Since there’s no recorded incident of a frog being resurrected, the experiments have been synthesized philosophically into a universally adaptive metaphor.

It has entered the lexicon as the ‘boiled frog’ hypothesis. The metaphor joins other warning signs, like the camel’s nose in the tent, give an inch and they’ll take a mile and slippery slope. It’s a favorite of writers, politicians and preachers who are prone to pompous grandiloquence to avoid entrapment and get out of hot water.

As a warning sign it explains the concept of ‘creeping normality, ’a type of amnesia where unnoticeable increments of change happen slowly while culture lures us in, bit by bit. Death by a thousand cuts. We smile all the way to the end.

Let’s pretend that the pot is the world and culture is the warm water in it. Then play like the fire under it represents change. Finally, let’s pretend we’re all frogs.

We slide off into the water nice and easy. Yeah, it’s a bit cool at first, but we get used to it. Now let’s keep turning up the heat, little by little. We never notice we’re being boiled. Such is the addictive nature of culture.

I’m at Starbuck’s, part of the ‘convenience culture’ that loves of all things drive-thru. A machine with a human voice takes my order and I queue up, number three in line.

From the lead car a hand emerges holding a cell phone. Another hand from the window holding a scanning device meets it. An instantaneous debit/credit transaction is conceived somewhere in the ether. Amazing.

The next car hands off a debit card and, like the other, another transaction’s born. It’s my turn.

The young clerk at the window has a large silver nose ring and green-ink bird designs on her forearm. What are these signs saying?

“Do you take checks?” I ask, playing with her mind.

“You kidding? This is drive-thru.” she snaps. I drop it.

I hand her a $5 bill. She studies the face of Lincoln and looks at me as if to say, “What’s this?”

I ask her what was with the cell and scanner in the previous car. “Where you been, mister? I scanned an app. Quick, easy, no hassle. Instant money. It’s a sign of the times. Get with it, trash that Blackberry, quit using cash. It’s so yesterday; plus, money’s dirty.”

“Dirty?’ Listen, there’s a looming Star Wars in the sky between America, China and Russia. What good’s your app when GPS is vaporized by killer satellites and the electrical grid goes dark? No ATM, no gas, no food, no cell. You’ll kiss Abe and Ben on the lips then, dirty or not.” I tell her she’s a boiling frog but doesn’t know it.

“Whatever,” she says and shrugs.

“Keep the change, you might need it.” She understands this.


Signs are everywhere. The ‘screen generation,’ pain clinics, technology, environmental, marijuana farms, you name it. Where’s it all leading? Is it too late to pluck the frog from the boiling caldron? Your guess is as good as mine.

But one thing I’m sure of: Only a fool will test the temperature of culture’s water with both feet.


Bud Hearn
May 21, 2019

Angola Prison Rodeo…an Adventure

It was a late-summer Sunday when eight of us pulled up to the gates of Angola State Prison, Angola, Louisiana. The notice read: “You are entering a penal institution,” a wakeup call for nerves. We were here to witness the annual Angola Prison Rodeo.

For over fifty years the prison has staged this rodeo. It’s sanctioned by the state and the ‘cowboys’ are the prisoners. It’s called, “Guts and Glory.” It promised to satisfy our lust for a break from the late-summer island doldrums.

We leave Baton Rouge in a white van and roll across 51 miles of desolate Delta landscape littered with dilapidated mobile homes and hulks of rusted-out cars. Two hours later we enter the gates of Angola Prison, gates laced with razor-sharp concertina wire.

A black sign with the smiling face of Warden Burl Cain welcomes us with these words: “If you wish to leave the premises, surrender all guns, knives, alcohol and contraband now.” We take no chances and tender the remains of the bucket of KFC, bones and all.

The prison is surrounded by lush green pastures of the Delta. Livestock graze peacefully, framed by miles of white rail fences. Small lakes filled with white pond birds complete the tranquil symmetry of the fields. The serenity disguises the reality of the treacherous institution where death-row and hopelessness co-exist inside. So surreal, like being an intruder in a Salvatore Dali landscape.

Inside the scene is chaotic. We’re greeted by what could be described as a prison bazaar. Long tables are filled with fried pig delicacies: Chittlins, cracklins and pigtails. A hungry crowd pushes and shoves its way into a wild ecstasy of feeding frenzy. Beyond, throngs of souvenir shoppers mingle among the cramped booths of itinerant vendors and petty hustlers hawking cheap trinkets and prison memorabilia.

Inside the arena the excitement is electric. A thick air of tension permeates the tight enclosure of plowed dirt. A 9-foot fence separates the prisoners, bulls and spectators. About 10,000 spectators roar and cheer while groups of Harley has-beens huddle in tight circles engaging in unintelligible utterances. The crowd bears a remarkable resemblance to the inmates. A bit unnerving.

Today’s ‘cowboys’ are corralled in a wire cage beneath the hospitality suite where prominent invitees and VIP’s of Warden Cain enjoy the absurdity. One wonders what it takes to ‘encourage’ volunteerism for these events. But this is Louisiana, where Huey P. Long is still worshipped by devout Cajuns.

This is no milquetoast rodeo. It’s the real thing. Inmates clothed in jeans and black and white striped jackets ride bulls, bucking broncs and barrel race bareback on wild ponies. There are no ‘winners’ here, only survivors.

The signature event finds four ‘cowboys’ seated at a card table all painted red, playing poker. An 1,800-pound bull with red horns impatiently waits in a cage about twenty feet away. The gate opens, the bull charges the table. Two bodies go airborne, landing with loud thuds in the soft, moist dirt. Two others sit there, frozen by fear. The bull snorts, charges again, but hits only the table. The buzzer rings, time’s up. The two remaining ‘cowboys’ share the $200 purse.

In another event a red poker chip is pasted to the head of a bull. A dozen or so ‘cowboys’ enter the ring. The object is to retrieve the poker chip from the head of the bull. Winner gets $200, a paltry sum for such a dangerous undertaking. One would wonder if spending a few weeks in the infirmary would be a good reason for volunteering for this spectacle.

The weirdest event is when three untamed broncs are roped together and six ‘cowboys’ attempt to ride them. It is a scene of indescribable delirium as men and horses run wild in wide maddening circles with no chance of success.

Despite all the brutish display called a rodeo, the crowd shows a felicitous empathy for the safety and success of the ‘cowboys.’ The only break in the drama occurs when a fellow in a red Elvis outfit brings out three sheep dogs ridden by tiny monkeys wearing cowboy outfits and chasing wild goats. The laughter is too much to bear.

The rodeo finally ends. The ‘cowboys’ are transformed into prisoners again while we depart in the humid dusk of a declining Delta day. But for a few hours our lives and voices intertwined and fused into one as we all participated in this wild, unpredictable spectacle of life called a rodeo.


Bud Hearn
May 17, 2019

Where Have All the Heroes Gone?

Be careful of the pedestal you erect if you’re the hero of your own story. Anonymous

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Our screened porch overlooks the pool and two small gardens. It’s a pleasant place to watch the birds elbow for position on the feeder and listen to their chorale, especially early morning, when mental initiative sleeps in.

Suddenly it hits me, this tune, one of those kind of songs from the past that keep spinning around in your head like a scratched 78 rpm record used to do. You know what I mean.

I begin to hum it, then sing it, joining the birds with my own rendition of Pete Seeger’s hit written in 1955. It was popularized by The Kingston Trio and Peter, Paul and Mary. If you’re under 60, it might not resonate. Here are the words from the first verse:

“Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing.
Where have all the lowers gone, long time ago.
Where have all the flowers gone,
Young girls picked them everyone,
When will they ever learn,
When will they ever learn?”

As the tune makes recurring circuits in my brain, I begin to change the words around, substituting the word ‘heroes’ for ‘flowers’ and finding a place to include ‘mothers.’ Mothers always need a place in everything, not just on Mother’s Day. After all, who would be here without them?

Anyway, it alliterates suitably. And it gets me to thinking: Where have all our heroes gone? Short answer: The Avengers…Endgame.

Not really, of course, it’s just a movie, a movie that cost $350 million to produce, over $200 million to market and a movie more real than we’re willing to admit. Judging from the $2.2-plus billion box office receipts, Disney has succeeded in keeping hero worship alive and well.

They were all there, these heroes of Marvel Comics fame, these icons of our youth when comic books cost a dime and every issue was saved, swapped among friends and ultimately sold for big bucks on e-bay.

Heroes like Iron Man, Captain America, Hulk, Thor (himself a survivor of Greek mythology), Captain Marvel, Rocket, Black Widow and even Ant Man. All the while we were spell-bound spectators in the epic battle to save the planet and even the universe from the evil Thanos. Such is what’s expected of heroes.

While the term, ‘hero’ began in the masculine sense, who can tell who’s what anymore in our culture. So the word is technically correct to use interchangeably between genders, half-genders and who-knows-what-else genders. It embodies such qualities as courage, strength, abilities, achievements and noble sentiments.

The Greeks figured out a long time ago that the universe of mankind needed legendary figures of divine descent, favored by the gods with something more than feet of clay. Unfortunately, even they couldn’t achieve total perfection. Achilles had a bad foot problem. But not so Narcissus, who had his own neuroses, yet whose legacy lives on both as a flower and a preener in all places public.

So much for Greek mythology you say. That was then, this is now. Where are our heroes now? Graham’s gone, Elvis, too. Marilyn was a mess. Lee’s statues have tumbled like Lenin. Roy and Trigger rode off, Arnold got fat, and Trump’s Taj rolled snake eyes. Cash cashed in, but Clint still clings. Who’s left to worship?

Well, there’s still Oprah and Chopra. Who else but the Queen of afternoon TV can create mountains that reach to the heavens, scale them and transmogrify to become a mountain for others to climb? A miracle feat sponsored by the gods of TV, worshiped by the soulless and revered by off-center candidates looking to become President.

There’s no equal in the spiritual realm of iconic worship than Chopra, the Eastern creator of quantum spirituality. This esoteric offering of mind-body healing and the prospect of an ageless life has its origin in the electrical quarks of the universe wherein is stored all energy and knowledge. This ‘metaphysical imagination’ works well for the wealthy.

Aside from all this nonsense, who can stand the test of time as a hero? Mothers, that’s who. Who else can bring forth life, nourish it, endure it and never lose status as an eternal hero to us all? Only mothers. I take some poetic license to conclude with this:

“Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago?
Where have all the flowers gone,
Gone to Mothers every one.
Our heroes, kind but stern,
When will we ever learn?”

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Where have all the heroes gone? Nowhere. You’ll find one by being one. Opportunities abound, even if only memories of mothers remain.

Bud Hearn
May 10, 2019

Cataract Surgery...an Eye-opening Experience

“And the eyes of them both were opened, and they saw that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.” Cataract surgery can backfire on you.

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Cataracts have been a scourge on mankind since the dawn of time. Medical science has merged with technology and money to eradicate this menace. Amazing Grace is on the lips of everyone, “…was blind and now I see.”

The waiting rooms of Ophthalmologists are exquisitely opulent these days. They ooze money. Fine art hangs from the walls, polished marble floors glisten and lush sofas ease the anxiety of waiting, waiting for your number to be called and waiting for the cashier to run your credit card for the procedure. Smiling posters and testimonials testify to the success of cataract surgery. 20/20 is making a comeback.

Everything has a beginning. The origin of cataract surgery came about innocently enough a long time ago in a garden called Eden, which means ‘pleasure.’ It was a place somewhere in Mesopotamia, now Iraq, sometimes called Xanadu, where Kubla Khan, progenitor of the tribe of Trump, planned a pleasure dome. Unfortunately, there’s still much turmoil there because of the controversy surrounding this garden. Only a dust bowl remains.

The first known cataract surgery involved a certain fruit that grew in Eden. It seemed the aged gardeners, a man and a woman, ate it, and in so doing their eyes were opened. They immediately saw that they were naked, which, given their ages, might have been a stark and shocking sight. It suggests caution about men and women eating fruit together out in public.

But let your mind run with this and imagine the situation, seeing oneself naked for the first time. Must have been a real eye-opener, because they quickly found some large fig leaves to cover up the secret parts.

Fig leaves were apparently just a stop-gap measure, not one destined for much long-term success. You rarely see them worn in public anymore, unlike other clothes. After the discovery of tattoo ink, public nakedness sorta fell out of fashion.

So here we have two people who had been naked all their lives and never knew it. But when their eyes were opened, Wow! Such is the success of cataract surgery…you get to see things for what they are, for better or worse. One can then judge for oneself the implications of seeing 20/20 and who might need some really big fig leaves.

Removing cataracts has come a long way since the dark ages. It’s a simple procedure performed either by a robot or by a laser. It has been well documented that robots do a better job than humans, including driving cars. They just show up, do their work and get out. Takes about ten minutes, start to finish. 20/20 is not far away with a robot at the controls.

Robots don’t work for minimum wage, though. Which, of course, is where credit cards come in. Ophthalmology, in terms of prestige and prosperity, has itself come a long way. In the hierarchy of medical procedures, its stature is way past Orthodontics and head and shoulders above Optometry. It fits comfortably in the slot after Orthopedics which itself has seamlessly transitioned beyond selling walking shoes. Last in line if there’s any money left are clinics for dialysis, pathology and finally embalmers. The medical system is highly efficient in reaping what culture has sown.

The upsides of cataract surgery are many. No more wild weaving along the highway at night, dodging flashing stars that hurl at you like small meteorites. No more looking at people as though they were bathed in soft candlelight. No, we’ve become like the Almighty, nothing is hidden anymore from the eyesight. Every mote of dust is detected; every crooked picture frame is corrected; and every flaw is found.

Some have posited that cataract surgery is a leading cause of divorce among senior citizens. Perhaps. While waiting for my number I asked a grizzled old fellow sitting next to me what was the first thing his wife noticed after surgery.

These are his exact words: “Damn, you’re old and wrinkled. Have you always been this ugly?”

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There seems to be no end in sight for the proliferation of cataract surgery. What I’m wondering is if there will be enough fig leaves to spread around.


Bud Hearn
May 3, 2019