Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, January 29, 2009

The Purge of '09...Socrates Calls The Roll

And I saw the dead, small and great, stand before God, and the books were opened….” Rev. 20:12

Yes, I’m loath to say, things do come to an end, and in the reconciling process, “The Roll” often gets called! Fortunately, or unfortunately, as the case may be, we will all have to answer it.

When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more…when the roll is called up yonder I’ll be there.” Old Spiritual, James Black, 1893

Remember your school years? The Roll was always called. If we were present, we’d answer, “Here,” or “Yo,” or “Ugh,” or “Dead,” and a variety of other childish responses to get attention. If present, we got a check mark beside our name; if absent, an “X.” Adulthood changed the rolls from names to numbers, like social security, but the result was always the same: Absent or Present.

Except for the government, we come and go, whether by name or number. Only death gets the “X” from the government, and we finally get off its roll. We then enter Somewhere else where there’s also a roll. There we get our names back. Absence is not a choice there!

Next to death, perhaps the worst place to have to answer a roll call is in Congress or State Houses of government where laws are passed. When “The Roll Call” is made, one finally has to decide and to vote. No escape. There is no more wiggle room for the politician!

Today, please say “Hello” to Socrates, my friend, mentor and confidant, my talisman and advisor in matters difficult to decide. He occupies a prominent place in my office library where we often have lengthy discussions.

Perhaps you saw the Tom Hanks movie, “Castaway,” where Hanks’ only friend on the desolate, deserted island was a flat, airless soccer ball named Wilson. Socrates is my Wilson. Socrates has an unforgettable facial expression…you’d have a similar one if you’d been cut by a blow torch from a 55 gallon steel drum. His expression is frozen in time, and it’s from the deep silence that his wisdom emanates.

I once had a “live” friend named Charles who thought he was Socrates. He dwelled in that deep, silent realm. Everyone thought he was a genius until one day he spoke… stupidity will always have out! Socrates knows these things, and that is why he is a great silent listener.

This week Socrates and I discussed the lengthy email list I’ve accumulated. I asked, “Socrates, our list is getting pretty big…should we purge it?” After a lengthy silence, he seemed to reply, “Hey, Einstein, the word ‘purge’, like eradication, is pretty harsh. Look at it this way. The non-readers of your inane absurdities have already “purged” you by using that big red “X” on their computers. You are the Rejectee, not them. They’ve already sent you to the recycle bin, Pal. So, quit cluttering up their lives and give them the courtesy of asking to be removed from your list.”

Socrates is always right! So, I am not only looking through the data base of the dead and dying of you out there, but also for the names of those whose faces I can no longer remember. In fact, with time rolling by so fast, most of you have changed so radically that you may not be recognized even by S. Peter. So, goodbye, you unrecognizable clutters of my data base. And I am hopeful you will do likewise with my name, although I must advise you I am more handsome, if not less relevant, than ever before.

It’s always a healthy task to clean out the clutter. Clutter, like excess body weight, “happens.” When did these last twenty pounds adhere to my formerly youthful body? Well, it wasn’t overnight, but over a period of time. So is the crap in my garage. I hope I don’t die before it’s purged…think of the embarrassment to my wife?

But it’s easier to get rid of computer clutter than body fat…with a simple click of the “X” keystroke our names will disappear into the oblivion of cyber space. We will, of course, be sad to lose one another, but Hey, this is America…nothing lasts forever!

Say goodbye to Socrates for now. He has agreed to remain in my library, although he did say it was a bit demeaning to one of his august stature. I asked him what I could do to make his stay more pleasant, to which he replied: “After you flush the library toilet, please remember to put the lid down…women use the library too!”

Socrates is available for private consultation at a modest cost. But I must warn you—sometimes his silence is a bit disheartening. And besides that, he charges by the hour!

Bud Hearn
January 29, 2009

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Inauguration 44 ~~ Millions on the Mall

Washington, DC. January 20, 2009.

You saw it, right? Millions did. More. The whole world watched in utter amazement, as the seismic event unfolded. The country had elected a black man President. Incredible beyond belief.

“I feel the earth move under my feet,
I feel the sky come tumbling down, tumbling down
…” Carole King

Millions descended on the Mall in the brutal pre-dawn wind chill. For hours the masses waited for Their Man to appear, to hear him again speak great swelling words of hope and change. Flags waved, tears flowed and smiles lighted the colorful tableau. He finally showed up, this cool hipster and techno-wizard that galvanized a youthful and enthusiastic Generation O. Status quo seemed shaken.

Barack H. Obama…who is this man? Even my spell check doesn’t yet recognize him. A man of words, for sure. Is he a god, a celebrity, a magician, a myth, a charlatan, an idealist? For now he defies definition, but we’ll soon know, just not today.

It’s interesting to watch large spectacles play out. They also defy definition, but engender questions. What’s going on? What do all these people expect? Why congregate in hostile elements to witness such an event?

Interviewers found no articulate answers, only the common theme of wanting to be a living part of this history, feeling good about being an American again.

Symbols emerged. President Obama’s blood-red tie was a ceremonial bone tossed to the “red state” losers, costing nothing. Biden wore a blue one…a politician’s between-the-lines-wink to the “blue states,” signifying where the next $1 trillion stimulus will go. Besides, some even say it’s Barney Frank’s favorite color.

In the Political Pomp Parade the Carters, outsiders still, totally ignored Bill and Hillary. I doubt either cared. Politics remains a nasty business.

Dick Cheney’s debut in the wheelchair was a nice touch. His “roll-out” was a grand metaphor for how the Bush Administration left things…weak, crippled and pitiful. Imagine if Tricky had exited on a gurney…now, that’d have been poetic!

I, the pragmatist, have some questions, like, “What happens when all these folks get home? Do they expect a check in the mail? What happens when the euphoria ends, reality returns, and nothing has really changed. The same old daily grind. Where is change and hope The Man had promised us?”

Bad news rules by day. A real change is needed. Who’s not looking at their own balance sheet and wondering, “How do I repair this damage?”

After the pomp and parades and processions, I joined the exodus, back to my own daily grind, expecting not much change, at least not soon. As I passed the hall mirror, it seemed to speak, “I see you’re looking at yourself…what do you see? What do you expect?” Frozen in the moment, I answered it, “I see just a man, a mere man with feet of clay.”

And then it dawned on me. The Man is not going to ‘fix” my problems, but I can…we all can. We can go back to work, quit bellyaching and move on to a better day again. And if that was what 44’s Inauguration was all about, I agree with it.

Who is The Man? Soon we’ll find out. But for now, like us, he’s only a mere man, with feet of clay, using words to unite and to find a better day. God Bless America, again.


Bud Hearn
January 22, 2009

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Wrestling with Re-Baptism

And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled with him a man until the breaking of the day.” Gen. 32:24

Some questions are tough to answer. The idea of a “re-baptism” is one of them. Was it sorta like recapping an old tire? Blasphemy! Yet, I wondered….

The Reverend’s email literally dripped with sweat and oozed with exhaustion. Apparently he had been wrestling all night with the question: “To be or not to be re-baptized ~ was it necessary?” The Plunge on January 1st into the freezing sea by a mob of revelers was the genesis of this conflict.

I felt the pain of his agony and wanted to help. What could I do? A spiritual struggle is not a tag-team match—we have to come to grips with it on our own. But it did bring to mind some foggy details of my own baptism years ago.

I was “sprinkled” with Holy water in the South Georgia Methodist tradition, which is a pretty cheap and less messy way to initiate infidels into the church. This quick and easy method doesn’t always “take,” and often a “re-baptism” is necessary. The Baptist, of course, preferred “immersion” ~ some speculated they were in need of a bath anyway.

Best I could figure is there are several reasons for using the “asperges” method. First, it didn’t involve putting 500 gallons of water into a baptismal font, an indoor swimming pool. The water would have surely been confiscated from some farmer’s stock watering hole, leaving the herd thirsty. The Men’s Prayer Group would have wrestled with the question of the tradeoff of some prime T-bone steaks for a rebellious soul.

Secondly, it was a waste of good drinking or bathing water. Long discussions on the merits of such a waste would have been held by the church Pharisees. A committee voted “The Most Holy” would have been empanelled to write the criteria for changing the water, the purification and the heating. Besides that, the minister would have received letters, anonymous, of course, grilling him on “Why was this water not sold and the proceeds used to help the poor?” Another tough question to wrestle with!

Thirdly, there was the matter of cleaning the font with Clorox, or at least changing the water weekly. Most Initiates were dirty farm kids. Their “dunking” would have discolored the water, making it unfit for emergency baptisms and running the risk of contaminating the sanctification process. John the Baptist would surely not have approved. Besides, the poor janitor would have been in the choir loft sleeping or cleaning up the mess made in the Sunday School classrooms where the Ladies’ Auxiliary attempted to drive nonsense out of newly-created souls.

Fourthly, imagine parading a newly-sanctified Rebel through the congregation, dripping wet. Why, it might have soiled both the new carpet and the preacher’s suit (his only one), distracting the congregation from the sermon, as if the theme of “sin” wasn’t distraction enough. Sin was always “The Big Thing” to wrestle with every Sunday. There was always a collective and audible sigh of relief when the sermon was over. Whew! ~ “resaved” again. Now it was safe to head on home for fried chicken or ham (swine was not a “prohibited meat” in my world then).

But lastly, I recalled that Jesus was baptized only once, by “immersion”. I think The Doctrine Committee concluded that His baptism “took,” as folks used to say. Therefore, He needed no future “re-baptizing.” This was confirmed by the heavenly dove which descended and lit on His shoulder. Proof positive that the process had “stuck.”

Unfortunately, and my memory is vague on this point, my “sprinkling” was confirmed by the flock of pigeons who, upon hearing my recitation of the appropriate confession, fled the church belfry for safer quarters. Apparently they were fearful of the possibility of heavenly lightening, as they hurriedly left behind their droppings and a few feathers.

All of which leads me back to “The Plunge”. I have sometimes wrestled with the question of “re-baptism.” Did my drive-through quickie actually “take”? Apparently on January 1st others were of the same mindset. So, a penitent dunking in the cold Atlantic Ocean, in the presence of sea gulls and a congregation of curious spectators, seemed to have been sufficient to “re-baptize” all us backsliders…just in case! Also, surely we got some credit in The Lamb’s Book for the collective public display of our acts of repentance and contrition. While I’m sure my act of penitence would have fooled none of my old friends, at least I did feel more “holier than they”, if only for the day.

See? It’s tough to find an answer to the Reverend’s dilemma. But, I believe it’s safe to say: “Halfway doesn’t count…Splurge on the water and spare a soul.”

Since The Plunge a question still puzzles me. If birds accompanied baptisms, then why do buzzards keep circling my office every day? Where is the dove I was promised, or at least another pigeon?

Let me toss you a suggestion. If you intend to wrestle with the question of “re-baptism,” you might already have the answer. Take The Plunge!


Bud Hearn
January 15, 2009

Monday, January 12, 2009

Mac and the NASCAR Racing Circuit

All things are possible for dogs that dream. I should know. I am a dog, and my name is Mac.

I know, low probability that a dog could become a sanctioned stock car racing contender. But stranger things have happened in the life of an intrepid West Highland Terrier, that’s me, bred from the finest Scottish heritage. If we can dig rodents, chase foxes and an occasional raccoon or cat, driving a race car should be a no-brainer. Our brains are hardwired to think this way.

The idea came to me one day as I surveyed my domain from atop the highest table in the living room. Do you suppose I could actually drive a race car, I wondered? I quickly consulted my live-in mate, Sophie, and about all I got was a summary shrug and stupid look, which I immediately took as a “Yes.” Girls, ugh!

Where do I start, I wondered? Why, a race track, that’s where. But how do I wrangle an invitation to the track with my “boss-man,” (I allow him to think this, seeing as it is gastronomically rewarding)? No problem. I’ve learned he’s a sucker for me. He thinks it’s because I’m his best friend, but actually I’m a master manipulator.

Envisioning the goal is the first step in realizing it. So I dreamed racing, night and day. Soon, with the approach of the Daytona 500, racing fever ran high at the local Speedway. As it would happen my “boss-man” and I hopped into the pickup and headed out there on a Friday night to catch the action.

We entered what’s called the “pit” area, where the cars and drivers congregate. “Grease monkeys,” that’s what they call mechanics, work endlessly, tweaking the souped-up chariots while the drivers swap stories filled with hyperbole and exaggeration about narrow escapes from death. And Wow, look at the girls!

The very first car I saw had emblazoned on the rear bumper, “Kiss This,” and I knew this was my kind of place. I got a lot of offers to sit in the race cars, all of which I accepted. I must have been a magnet for the girls. They just couldn’t keep their hands off of me, which seemed to give them great pleasure. I wanted to ignore them, taking my cue from the drivers who just brushed off their silly flirting. But deep down….Oh well, that’s another story. Back to racing.

Finally Frankie, a wiry specimen of race car driver (perhaps a terrier in another life) said, “Hey, Mac, you wanna ride with me in the first heat?” Casting discretion to the dusty wind, I barked enthusiastically, so he put me into the right seat and off we roared round and round that half-mile oval dirt track. Digging rodents will never have the same thrill!

I didn’t know it at the time, not that it would have made any difference, but I later learned that Frankie has only one “good” eye. A one-eyed race car driver…imagine the irony. Some say he’s hell-on-wheels and has defied death so many times that fear itself is afraid of him. These stories are not myths, but legend…I can affirm it! And more—he has no rear view mirror in his machine. Now that says a lot about the lifestyle of these speed demons. They put everything on the line, every time, all night long. Nobody’s looking back! It made bush-wetting and dog-sniffing downright mundane and boring.

Frankie winked at me with the “working eye” and said, “Say Mac, you want to sit over here in my lap and drive this rocket in the main event?” I couldn’t believe my ears. Soon we were suitably strapped into the seat, nestled in between steel roll bars. Frankie even had the pit boys duct tape a T-bone steak bone to the hood of the car to keep my attention focused forward. I hate to admit it, but food is also a weakness of mine, among other distracting proclivities, and in our car we now had three “good” eyes. How could we lose this race? We didn’t.

As we wheeled into the pit area, having taken the checkered flag and the night’s $200 purse, the crowd cheered wildly and mobbed our car. They hoisted me up on their shoulders and paraded me among the adoring fans. Never before had a Westie succeeded as a race car driver, so they said. This was one for the Guinness book!

Very few humans, and no dogs, get the opportunity to “drive” a 500 horsepower, 112 octane-powered scream machine, zooming down the back stretch at 125 mph. The crowd loved it. They cheered our every pass down the home stretch. Dog-gone heaven on earth, I thought.

I knew the “boss” would lecture me on the way home about the dangers of such folly, but I’m an expert in dealing with him. Besides, I needed a nap. I curled up on my side of the truck, coddling the remnants of the T-bone Frankie gave me as my trophy and share of the night’s loot.

It’s always late when adventurous males arrive home. Sophie greeted me at the door with her indignant expression, sniffing the lingering scent of strange perfume from female hands. I knew what she was thinking, but I kept my mouth shut, a trick all males learn sooner or later. As I headed for my own bed, I knew I’d dream of Frankie, his one eye and my time behind the wheel of a demon-spirited racing machine. And I did.

Dreams flooded my mind, dreams of bigger quests on the NASCAR racing circuit ~ Daytona 500, Charlotte, Talladega, Atlanta, maybe Indy, who knows? Stranger things have happened. But for now, it had been a good night, and my T-bone made a great bed-mate!

In the morning I was back on my perch, eyeballing the lizards lying on the window sill. But all the time I was thinking, “Is it possible I could race Daytona?” Like I said, if you can dream it and believe it, you can achieve it.

All things are possible for dogs that dream. I should know. I am a dog, and my name is Mac.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

The Plunge... Life on the Edge of Madness

“Madness need not be all breakdown. It may also be break-through.” R. D. Laing

The Beach, January 1, 2009, 9:00 AM.

The Asylum doors opened, and the escaping Madness materialized as this day dawned in sunlit splendor.

The crowd, approaching 100 nut cases, was assembled in a tightly-huddled mass of nearly-nude bodies, hovering on the edge of the swirling and angry waters of the Atlantic Ocean. The scene comprised the collective commitments of the previous Eve, a time when hasty but prodigal Resolutions were made, bolstered by sufficient quantities of liquid spirits, machismo or plain dumb bravado.

We, The Intrepid, were here to plunge perfectly healthy and unwilling bodies into the icy gray waters of the churning sea. This assault upon the sea was sheer madness, all for the ludicrous rewards of beach towels or cocktail boasting rights. Imagine such folly!

The inmates, stripped down to the bare essentials, shivered uncontrollably in the howling frigid air with wind chills into the 30’s. In spite of the lunacy of the scene, nothing but laughs, smiles and exuberant chatter could be heard throughout the crowd, giddy with excitement, bearing testimony to the fact that lunatics can be found anywhere, even on beaches.

At precisely 9:00 AM, and in one accord, the herd in a unified frenzy committed itself to the mercy of the crashing waves. Wild shouts of joy, or pain, or hallucinatory visions erupted from The Intrepid. The spectators, clothed and still in their right minds, watched incredulously from a safe distance the chaos of The Plunge.

It all ended as quickly as it began. The white bodies, reddened by the glacial, icy sea hastily retreated to the security of a towel, or cup of hot chocolate or, for some, to the comfort of Southern Comfort, which got them there in the very first place.

Sanity, in witness to this extreme absurdity, could only be heard uttering the shortest, unanswerable sentence in the language, “Why?” Freud, in his most lucid moment, marveled at this cosmic conundrum. The closest answer to this question is perhaps found in the last words of Timothy Leary, when he flung to the heavens his inexpressible frustration (just as his ashes were later hurled into space), “Why not? Why not” Why not? Yeah!”

The contemporary Age of Enlightenment has come to embrace a life on the edge of madness…the coexistence of lunacy with lucidness, madness with morality, and a wide gray sea of relative values. The year 2008 has aptly demonstrated the ugly failure of systems and philosophies, not to mention moral values. We have been bludgeoned senseless by the madness of the media mob as it feasted on one dying corpse after another. To say “we’ve had enough” is an understatement, and apparently just more wasted words cast silently into the ethereal nether-world where echoes reverberate endlessly without response.

Who can deny that culture as we know it today stands on the very edge of a watery chaos, teeming with ambivalence and fearful of the “what-ifs” cast ashore by the turbulent waves. Who, but stark, raving fools, would take The Plunge into that swirling abyss? The words of the prophet, Dr. Thompson, come to mind: “It was the Law of the Sea, they said. Civilization ends at the waterline. Beyond that, we all enter the food chain, and not always right at the top.”

As the maddening crowd huddled on the beach on this day, Possibility overcame Fear, salt water healed the scars of financial lashings, and most of all, Triumph trumped Timidity. As we entered, so did we emerge, united in the baptism of another year, fresh from the depths of despair and chanting in unison into a new-born day the words of Friedrich Nietzsche: “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”

At least that’s what I heard, what I felt, what I observed, as our crowd, mad with longing for exuberant life, took The Plunge and welcomed 2009 into the world. And in the prescient words of Mark Twain, “When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.”

Life on the Edge of Madness…”Why not? Why not? Why not? Yeah!” See you there!

Bud Hearn
January 8, 2009