The sun had set and The Sunset Bar lit up, alive with neon, music and pulsating enthusiasm from the horde of summer beach lovers, a made-for-memories kind of night.
Max was there early with tall tales, his personal trademark. He sat at the bar arm-wrestling a local underage lifeguard who seemed to be winning. This was not good for Max, his reputation was at stake. He lost! The kid moved on, smiling.
Max, The King of Tall Tales, was humiliated in defeat. The warm beer and half-smoked cigar offered no comfort. He mumbled aloud, “It happened…I’ve become obsolete, irrelevant, useless.”
Max was a regular. A hulking man at 65, his massive physical presence dominated the bar. Only a fool would have challenged his right to that stool beneath the ancient teak bar. Max lived large, having done everything “to the max” in life. Now, he re-lived these gusto years in stories from the stage of his bar stool.
Tall tales sold beer to island regulars, their thirst insatiable for wild exploits of the past. The teak bar, carved with Max’s initials, itself had a story, having come from a pirated sailboat that he and Jake, the bar’s owner, used to escape from Cuba.
But for Max tonight, both the magic and the crowds were absent. “Hey Jake, where’s my usual crowd? I’ve got a couple of goodies to tell.”
Jake shrugged, palms up, “Don’t know. Guess they ate and left early. They’re old now, don’t forget. And say, you’re looking kinda down tonight, Max, the ladies ignoring you since you lost the match to that kid?”
“Don’t remind me, Jake. The crowd just seems to get younger, and I seem to get older. Heck, they’re now calling me ‘Sir.’ One even called me ‘cute.” Imagine that, Jake, me, Max, cute?” His face sagged, the sadness showed.
“You know, Jake, nobody wants to hear our stories anymore. Man, we’ve had some great experiences, right? Remember that night when we hopped the wrong train over in Waycross? Ended up in Atlanta, not Jacksonville?” Max became animated.
Jake laughed, “Yeah, and that time when we bought Mosquito Island from Clyde’s widow for nothing, flipped it to those fellows in New York, and then squandered the whole stash in some Cajun card game down on Bourbon Street?”
Max grinned big, “Jake, tell me again that story of what happened to your third wife, you know, the gypsy chick you hooked up with when the carnival passed through. How many houses did you finally give her?”
Jake grimaced, “Stuff it, McGillicuddy… that memory still hurts.” Jake knew Max hated his given name, so he frequently bludgeoned him with it, a childhood act of love.
“Shhhh, Jake, they know me by Max…you’ll ruin my image,” Max blurted.
Jake hooted, “Image? What image? Where’s your crowd, your fans, tonight? You lost, remember? Didn’t I hear you complain about being irrelevant? Well, pal, join our crowd. We’re relics, antiques. Check in with your mirror!”
Max retorted, “That hurts, man.” Jake pointed his finger and said, “Max, see those young guys over there? They’re what’s happening now, pal, it’s a new crowd, new stories.”
“Mere boys, Jake. Heck, they’re hardly old enough to shave. But, I will have to admit they’re doing pretty well attracting the ladies. Say, who are they anyway?” Max asked.
Jake answered, “The PGA crowd, Max. Well, those ‘boys,’ as you called them, just flew in on their Hawker. The one in the blue polo just pocketed three million from the US Open. Wonder what tall tales he’ll be telling after tonight, huh, Max?”
The comment returned Max to his melancholy. Jake withdrew, supplying intoxicants to the swilling throngs. After all, it was nearly midnight, and the later it got, the more they drank.
Later Jake returned. Max said, “Jake, why do you think men tell tall tales?”
Jake looked long into the teeming masses, and said, “Life, Max, life. We live in stories, telling them to affirm ourselves, to reconcile the events of this passing life. We use these stories as a wrench to grip the passing, to hold to the fleeting, and to remember how it was then. It’s our final act, our last stage, Max.”
The men’s eyes locked for an instant, each knowing that a tall tale well told is a reincarnation and a way to perpetuate life. “Hey, Jake, more cold beer,” the boy in blue shouted as Max returned to his warm one, his audience elsewhere.
Darlene walked by, winked, and Max said, “Hey Darlene, want to hear about my trip to Hawaii?” Her eyes rolled, she answered, “Save it, Max, that was then, this is now,” as she headed towards the boy in blue with new money and newer stories.
Jake worked on, and Max eased out. “Men’s tall tales…Why?” he said aloud to no one, Jake’s words reverberating in his head…“Life, Max, Life.” I’ve had my life, he thought, they’re having theirs. What’s left for me? He pondered the question.
The parking lot was dark except for the neon flashes that winked intermittently on the cars. She stood alone in the strobbed reflections, glancing impatiently at her watch, then at the muted cell phone. “Damn him,” she said, as Max strolled past.
She was tall, blonde, scorned and stood-up. Whomever she cursed in that lot had other plans and left her stranded. “You OK, hon?” Max asked, “need a ride?” She was startled, but composed. Forget she was a good twenty years his junior ~ they all were ~ Max knew age was no deterrent these days. Besides, her pride had been publicly damaged.
“This your Harley? Never ridden one,” she said with a sly smile, her eyes twinkling. “Yeah, mine and the bank’s,” Max said, “but it’s mine tonight. Hop on.” She slid easily onto the contoured leather cushion, close, next to him, touching.
With one kick on the silver crank the sleek Harley came to life in a throaty growl, reviving both itself and the muted primal roar of the man. Their spirits soared and they became one with the machine. Astride that beast with the power surging between their legs, they spun from the lose gravel onto the vast and open highway.
Rejuvenated, rebellious and hell-bent for more of life, they sped together somewhere undefined through the darkness lit only by the light of a waning moon….
Bud Hearn
June 30, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A Passing Life
“…… (But) That was Then, (and) This is Now.”
What a strange set of companions these two couples are. Strange in the sense that they are molded of the same “stuff,” yet connected by two contradictory verbs…past and future. Still, there is heredity between them, the one giving identity and purpose to the other, sort of like The Hatfields and McCoys.
You remember these families, right? Years upon years layered up, yet the ancient curse, the primordial dispute, is inescapable, simmering in their genetic composition. Who of the latest generation can recall the primal origin of their conflicts. Remember, Esau and Jacob are their progenitors.
The Dream
Night, when dark dreams arrive, embers smoldering, a sudden spark, a puff of smoke, gray as the fire’s ashes, old flames, now a dull heat…but that was then, and this is now.
Images move in slow motion, non-sequentially, leaping forward, then backward
Time glimpsed not held, the stage strange, exaggerated with hyperbolic props
Characters, ethereal and contorted, warping, bending, moving.
Ghost-like in their deformity, the dreams glimpsing some recognized semblance of a past life… but that was then and this is now.
Life, reconciling itself in these dreams.
Futilely, That-was-Then tried to hold on tightly with a weak grip. Ever pursued by This-is-Now ~ youthful, relevant ~ the tensions grew to the point of ultimate conflict, when This-is-Now became That-was-Then. An incessant struggle where there is no victor. Ever!
When does this point of conflict occur? Perhaps when The Elder This-is-Now can no longer contend with The Younger This-is-Now. Who could deny that it’s not the cunning artifice of a mad man, so insidious and Machiavellian that it would be laughable if not so serious. Stay with me here…there is a message!
But it has to be this way, you know. Otherwise, This-is-Now, fearful of change, would hold everything in a death-grip. ”Free me, I die,” it would scream, being choked by Status-Quo that refuses to allow inside its moldy villa the fresh breath of life. No, that’s what retirement homes are for… a place where This-is-Now must find its own rocking chair on the porch of Has-Been, enjoying the sunset of retirement.
All has not been blissful for This-is-Now. There was a time when This had multiple flings with youthful Gadgets, and Now was enamored by the flirty, but unpredictable French vixen, Avant-garde. These affections occupied This and Now for some time in their marriage, but like all things, they were replaced by other seductions. Soon, of course, This-is-Now could no longer keep up the pace, quietly yielding with a sigh into That-was-Then... a natural progression.
Life had treated That-was-Then more kindly. Yes, the transition from one “state” to the other was difficult, but painless. Today That-was-Then enjoys its twilight hours, renewing its college love of bridge, bingo and binge buffets. And yes, gossip. It has finally become harmless, both to itself and to its environment.
Some have suggested a divorce for This-is-Now. They say they’d be happier living separately, perhaps joining Face-Book, exploring cyber waves for excitement. They are, after all, now more or less sedentary, scant reminders of the former lives, with a lot of time on their hands. They would, of course, be required to submit pictures of themselves when That-was-Then, not This-is-Now. Bald, grey and wrinkled doesn’t score with the new generation of This-is-Now.
Some say that But and And should change positions in the lives of these couples. “But” was born with that “half-full glass” attitude, always looking on the negative side of things, while “And” was more can-do. Imagine: “And That-was-Then” would finally loose the grip on the past…”But This-is-Now” would always be a reminder that the future is not far from becoming the past.
Dreams end…that’s a good thing. Just as A Passing Life of this Inanity concludes, confusion still reigning!
Bud Hearn
June 25, 2009
What a strange set of companions these two couples are. Strange in the sense that they are molded of the same “stuff,” yet connected by two contradictory verbs…past and future. Still, there is heredity between them, the one giving identity and purpose to the other, sort of like The Hatfields and McCoys.
You remember these families, right? Years upon years layered up, yet the ancient curse, the primordial dispute, is inescapable, simmering in their genetic composition. Who of the latest generation can recall the primal origin of their conflicts. Remember, Esau and Jacob are their progenitors.
The Dream
Night, when dark dreams arrive, embers smoldering, a sudden spark, a puff of smoke, gray as the fire’s ashes, old flames, now a dull heat…but that was then, and this is now.
Images move in slow motion, non-sequentially, leaping forward, then backward
Time glimpsed not held, the stage strange, exaggerated with hyperbolic props
Characters, ethereal and contorted, warping, bending, moving.
Ghost-like in their deformity, the dreams glimpsing some recognized semblance of a past life… but that was then and this is now.
Life, reconciling itself in these dreams.
Futilely, That-was-Then tried to hold on tightly with a weak grip. Ever pursued by This-is-Now ~ youthful, relevant ~ the tensions grew to the point of ultimate conflict, when This-is-Now became That-was-Then. An incessant struggle where there is no victor. Ever!
When does this point of conflict occur? Perhaps when The Elder This-is-Now can no longer contend with The Younger This-is-Now. Who could deny that it’s not the cunning artifice of a mad man, so insidious and Machiavellian that it would be laughable if not so serious. Stay with me here…there is a message!
But it has to be this way, you know. Otherwise, This-is-Now, fearful of change, would hold everything in a death-grip. ”Free me, I die,” it would scream, being choked by Status-Quo that refuses to allow inside its moldy villa the fresh breath of life. No, that’s what retirement homes are for… a place where This-is-Now must find its own rocking chair on the porch of Has-Been, enjoying the sunset of retirement.
All has not been blissful for This-is-Now. There was a time when This had multiple flings with youthful Gadgets, and Now was enamored by the flirty, but unpredictable French vixen, Avant-garde. These affections occupied This and Now for some time in their marriage, but like all things, they were replaced by other seductions. Soon, of course, This-is-Now could no longer keep up the pace, quietly yielding with a sigh into That-was-Then... a natural progression.
Life had treated That-was-Then more kindly. Yes, the transition from one “state” to the other was difficult, but painless. Today That-was-Then enjoys its twilight hours, renewing its college love of bridge, bingo and binge buffets. And yes, gossip. It has finally become harmless, both to itself and to its environment.
Some have suggested a divorce for This-is-Now. They say they’d be happier living separately, perhaps joining Face-Book, exploring cyber waves for excitement. They are, after all, now more or less sedentary, scant reminders of the former lives, with a lot of time on their hands. They would, of course, be required to submit pictures of themselves when That-was-Then, not This-is-Now. Bald, grey and wrinkled doesn’t score with the new generation of This-is-Now.
Some say that But and And should change positions in the lives of these couples. “But” was born with that “half-full glass” attitude, always looking on the negative side of things, while “And” was more can-do. Imagine: “And That-was-Then” would finally loose the grip on the past…”But This-is-Now” would always be a reminder that the future is not far from becoming the past.
Dreams end…that’s a good thing. Just as A Passing Life of this Inanity concludes, confusion still reigning!
Bud Hearn
June 25, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Thrill is Gone
“The thrill is gone, the thrill is gone away for good…I know I’ll be over it all baby, Just like I know a man should.” Wilson Pickett
June 9, 1909. It was not a good year for the male population of the U.S. Darwin had been right about evolution. This date ranked up there with the year 1920, when things really went sideways.
The newspaper read:
“On this day in 1909 the first woman to drive across the U.S., Alice Ramsey, a New Jersey housewife, left with three friends to a fanfare of media attention. In 1909 very few women drove automobiles, and some doctors thought that it was dangerous for women to even ride in cars because they would get too ‘worked up’ at more than 20 miles an hour….”
Get that? “Too worked up” at speeds over 20 miles an hour! Evolution sped forward. President Wilson and a male Congress granted women’s suffrage in 1920. Clearly, there was no turning the clock back now, women were out of the kitchens and fields ~~ to God knows where. What could men have possibly been thinking?
It started in The Garden with Eve, The Rib of Adam. Somehow a snake had escaped from the Heavenly Zoo, making a home in the Paradise of Eden. The Trickster found The Rib daydreamingly wandering, obviously bored with the thrill-less garden life, desiring more.
“Hey Rib, wanna thrill? Sink your teeth into this fruit.” She did and things for Adam went downhill fast.
“Adam, I now see things for what they are. This isn’t paradise, Green Acres is out there!” She pointed to the vast horizon outside The Gate.
“Talkin’ to strangers again, Sweetie?” he asked.
“Look,” The Rib spoke, “you dumb hick. I met a most charming creature, a snake, who had panache and Hollywood connections. Let’s split from this garden where all you do is prune and weed-pluck. Boooooooring! What kind of career is this? You’re going no where!” She stomped off in search of the snake.
Day and night she kept up the harsh harangue, saying, “Listen, Adam, I have told you until I was blue in the face, ‘Get me out of this insipid place.’ Just look out there, you dirt bag, are you blind? Out there lies a brave new world, teeming with adventure, country clubs and shopping. I want to go there, now! If you have any guts at all, you’d pack us up and leave now.” He pleaded, “Now Honey, don’t get too worked up about things. They’ll work out. You’ll see.”
She had lain awake night after night, gazing at the stars, and wishing on them. “Helloooo up there, are you listening? Please (not a word she cared for, too demeaning, she thought), whoever you are up there, find a way to move us from this vapid existence where it’s just dullsville and daily grind. We want excitement, intrigue, entertainment, and money, yeah, lots of money, and there’s none of that here. Besides, I’m not too wild about my husband’s fig leaf…and I can tell you my wardrobe is the pits. Look, we didn’t exactly ask to be here, you know.” They heard, commenting, “The Rib’s really worked up. Things are getting interesting.”
Poor Adam. He wandered aimlessly alone in the garden, mumbling to himself, kicking stones and cursing the day he’d exchanged a rib for this “help mate.” What a joke… a bad trade. The Rib was constantly dissatisfied. Oh, he knew the problem. She had bludgeoned him with it constantly. “Look at the sky, fly me to the moon, won’tcha? I want to fly among the clouds while I’m young and cute. And look at the horizon…why, imagine if there were roads. Why, I could drive to my heart’s content, carpooling, Starbucks, fast food drive-thrus and vacations. Yes, remember vacations? We haven’t had one of those since we showed up in this place.”
He was at his wits end. But he was not alone. Her insufferable attitude had caused consternation with the Heavenly Trio. A hasty conference had been called, and there was plenty of finger-pointing to go around. One said, “Our plan has gone awry.” Another, “Well, I told You what would happen when you made a woman out of a rib.” The Last One said, “And who let the snake out?” Clearly something must be done. Everyone had gotten worked up and the thrill was gone.
The Chairman said, “I have an idea. Let’s grant her wish.” Brilliant, the Board agreed, and so it was done (but it was a hasty decision all would live to regret).
In no time Eve had her wish. Only thing she didn’t plan on was the Law of Unintended Consequences, children! Moreover, she now had to suffer the grapes of wrath from her husband, the itinerant farmer, whining about the cursed ground, thorns and thistles, and not enough money. “Look, Honey, I’m working my fingers to the bone, and for what? You should have left well enough alone. Where’re the fun and games you promised? You should have left that fruit alone.”
The Big Three had a good laugh and rested from their stratagems. But they had a gnawing suspicion that more would be needed. The Boss said, “Brainstorm, boys…listen. The Rib will soon be bored and want new thrills. Ribs are never satisfied and will invade into every nook and cranny, such as claiming equal rights, preaching, running government, exploring our heavens, driving Hummers and flying Lear’s. There’s no limit to the evolution of a dissatisfied and errant rib bone. So, send that Ford fellow, the Wright boys, the Steinem shrew, and that nut-case Hillary. They will keep ‘em busy for quite some time.” So it came to pass and it was good for more laughs.
Things have gone pretty much according to plan…men still work, suffer verbal abuse and all manner of humiliation. Then they die. Slick the Snake still slinks, and The Rib’s ancestors drive, fly, govern air and land and torture families of innocent rib donors. Do they still caucus with Slick? Nah, too scary to ponder.
The Ribs now have it all, and there’s little left for them to “get worked up about.” The Great Triune acknowledged the flawed plan, but enjoyed watching the evolution of the unfolding comedy. It was imply too hilarious to correct.
Now getting “worked up” can mean more than mere anxiety. While the thrill may be gone from 20 mph, men still hold out hope for the resurrected thrill of the other meaning!
And Heavenly laughter continues!
Bud Hearn
June 14, 2009
June 9, 1909. It was not a good year for the male population of the U.S. Darwin had been right about evolution. This date ranked up there with the year 1920, when things really went sideways.
The newspaper read:
“On this day in 1909 the first woman to drive across the U.S., Alice Ramsey, a New Jersey housewife, left with three friends to a fanfare of media attention. In 1909 very few women drove automobiles, and some doctors thought that it was dangerous for women to even ride in cars because they would get too ‘worked up’ at more than 20 miles an hour….”
Get that? “Too worked up” at speeds over 20 miles an hour! Evolution sped forward. President Wilson and a male Congress granted women’s suffrage in 1920. Clearly, there was no turning the clock back now, women were out of the kitchens and fields ~~ to God knows where. What could men have possibly been thinking?
It started in The Garden with Eve, The Rib of Adam. Somehow a snake had escaped from the Heavenly Zoo, making a home in the Paradise of Eden. The Trickster found The Rib daydreamingly wandering, obviously bored with the thrill-less garden life, desiring more.
“Hey Rib, wanna thrill? Sink your teeth into this fruit.” She did and things for Adam went downhill fast.
“Adam, I now see things for what they are. This isn’t paradise, Green Acres is out there!” She pointed to the vast horizon outside The Gate.
“Talkin’ to strangers again, Sweetie?” he asked.
“Look,” The Rib spoke, “you dumb hick. I met a most charming creature, a snake, who had panache and Hollywood connections. Let’s split from this garden where all you do is prune and weed-pluck. Boooooooring! What kind of career is this? You’re going no where!” She stomped off in search of the snake.
Day and night she kept up the harsh harangue, saying, “Listen, Adam, I have told you until I was blue in the face, ‘Get me out of this insipid place.’ Just look out there, you dirt bag, are you blind? Out there lies a brave new world, teeming with adventure, country clubs and shopping. I want to go there, now! If you have any guts at all, you’d pack us up and leave now.” He pleaded, “Now Honey, don’t get too worked up about things. They’ll work out. You’ll see.”
She had lain awake night after night, gazing at the stars, and wishing on them. “Helloooo up there, are you listening? Please (not a word she cared for, too demeaning, she thought), whoever you are up there, find a way to move us from this vapid existence where it’s just dullsville and daily grind. We want excitement, intrigue, entertainment, and money, yeah, lots of money, and there’s none of that here. Besides, I’m not too wild about my husband’s fig leaf…and I can tell you my wardrobe is the pits. Look, we didn’t exactly ask to be here, you know.” They heard, commenting, “The Rib’s really worked up. Things are getting interesting.”
Poor Adam. He wandered aimlessly alone in the garden, mumbling to himself, kicking stones and cursing the day he’d exchanged a rib for this “help mate.” What a joke… a bad trade. The Rib was constantly dissatisfied. Oh, he knew the problem. She had bludgeoned him with it constantly. “Look at the sky, fly me to the moon, won’tcha? I want to fly among the clouds while I’m young and cute. And look at the horizon…why, imagine if there were roads. Why, I could drive to my heart’s content, carpooling, Starbucks, fast food drive-thrus and vacations. Yes, remember vacations? We haven’t had one of those since we showed up in this place.”
He was at his wits end. But he was not alone. Her insufferable attitude had caused consternation with the Heavenly Trio. A hasty conference had been called, and there was plenty of finger-pointing to go around. One said, “Our plan has gone awry.” Another, “Well, I told You what would happen when you made a woman out of a rib.” The Last One said, “And who let the snake out?” Clearly something must be done. Everyone had gotten worked up and the thrill was gone.
The Chairman said, “I have an idea. Let’s grant her wish.” Brilliant, the Board agreed, and so it was done (but it was a hasty decision all would live to regret).
In no time Eve had her wish. Only thing she didn’t plan on was the Law of Unintended Consequences, children! Moreover, she now had to suffer the grapes of wrath from her husband, the itinerant farmer, whining about the cursed ground, thorns and thistles, and not enough money. “Look, Honey, I’m working my fingers to the bone, and for what? You should have left well enough alone. Where’re the fun and games you promised? You should have left that fruit alone.”
The Big Three had a good laugh and rested from their stratagems. But they had a gnawing suspicion that more would be needed. The Boss said, “Brainstorm, boys…listen. The Rib will soon be bored and want new thrills. Ribs are never satisfied and will invade into every nook and cranny, such as claiming equal rights, preaching, running government, exploring our heavens, driving Hummers and flying Lear’s. There’s no limit to the evolution of a dissatisfied and errant rib bone. So, send that Ford fellow, the Wright boys, the Steinem shrew, and that nut-case Hillary. They will keep ‘em busy for quite some time.” So it came to pass and it was good for more laughs.
Things have gone pretty much according to plan…men still work, suffer verbal abuse and all manner of humiliation. Then they die. Slick the Snake still slinks, and The Rib’s ancestors drive, fly, govern air and land and torture families of innocent rib donors. Do they still caucus with Slick? Nah, too scary to ponder.
The Ribs now have it all, and there’s little left for them to “get worked up about.” The Great Triune acknowledged the flawed plan, but enjoyed watching the evolution of the unfolding comedy. It was imply too hilarious to correct.
Now getting “worked up” can mean more than mere anxiety. While the thrill may be gone from 20 mph, men still hold out hope for the resurrected thrill of the other meaning!
And Heavenly laughter continues!
Bud Hearn
June 14, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Transparency and Other Useless Ephemera
Hopefully by now we have begun to heal from the bludgeoned beatings inflicted upon us by the tongues of politicians, the pixels of Wolf in The Situation Room and the ink of media pundits. What, you’re still in ICU? We’ll send flowers.
I’m loath to report that many of us have fallen for the charlatanry and have accepted this rubbish as scripture and prophesy. Some have even internalized the routine gimmickry fed to us by the purveyors of so-called news. Even worse, some have swallowed the scroll of their insidious gospel and become disciples of those promulgating such quackery. And you thought John the Baptist was rabid!
Day and night we’re being force-fed by newsprint and air waves the latest “new normal,” which somehow as has superseded the previously now-dead “old normal.” How is it possible now to distinguish between such “circumlocution” (Dickens had a way with words!)? Take for example the zenith of all snake oil elixir, the pontification of the promise of “Transparency.”
Maybe the wine of this hallucinatory remedy, imbibed in heavily by all politicians today in stupendous quantities, originated from the days of the Boss Tweed Gang up in Albany, NY, the seat of power and corruption for that region. Like Greeley’s statement, “Go west, young man,” the central seat of power and corruption today has been relocated some 800 miles to the west in the former Great Swamp, now Chicago. But then some things never change.
Now to understand politics it is necessary to have taken “Read Between-The-Lines 101” Class. You remember that one in college, right? Only thing most of you remembered from that class was how to determine if your date really meant Yes when they said No, or Maybe, or Later, or We’ll See. I failed that class as I recall. But dust off that old book and study up on the word “transparency” again.
It is impossible to be totally transparent in the true sense of openness. Besides, that would necessitate having to live without clothes at all, and, as Mr. Buffet once said, it’d be an ugly sight to behold. But politicians and charlatans are not concerned with naked bodies, only obfuscating their actions labeled as transparent. They don’t give one whit’s thought to what you look like, or even the thoughts of your fertile mind. No, power and money are selfish, concerned only with self propagation. That’s transparency!
So, you see, it’s all a trick, legerdemain, smoke and mirrors to get you to ignore the fingers, which they promise will never leave the hand. And it’s the fingers of the hand that hold the pen that signs these opaque, uh, excuse me, these “transparent laws,” sending capital distribution from Washington in a gigantic reparation to a citizenry now totally dependent upon government for everything.
The space between the lines of transparency literally says, “Hey, trust me to do what’s right.” That’s a novel concept. Look what we got…”WMD” and “the definition of is.” No, it’s all media show, scripted tele-prompters, press conference shills and pompous words. Want to read the Stimulus Bill? Then pick out the “transparent” section that provides free a cell phone and air time to all who meet certain qualifications of welfare…citizenship not necessary! Try that for transparency.
Frankly, do we really want to see one another as transparent? It would take the fun out of the guessing game. Moreover, what would some really look like if the disguises were removed? NO! It’s just too ugly to even think of. So, let’s just let it be, let everybody have their own “transparency.”
Soon we’ll discuss the “too big to fail” concept, the “bailout” scenario, and the “toxic assets” conundrum…a later time, maybe. No, the issue of transparency demands our full attention. For once I’d like to have some leader stand up, speak out, saying, “Hey, you want transparency? Get elected, then you will prefer the current system of graft, corruption, no term limits and the absence of campaign law or ethics reform.”
At least Wilbur Mills and Fanny Fox had class, cavorting in their transparent nakedness in the Mall’s tidal pool…Oh, for the good old days when alcohol in DC reigned supreme. Hey, Gary, still got the yacht? The Monkey Business, wasn’t it? Rahm has it booked, you say? Oh, well…
Friends, that’s “transparency”!
Bud Hearn
June 11, 2009
I’m loath to report that many of us have fallen for the charlatanry and have accepted this rubbish as scripture and prophesy. Some have even internalized the routine gimmickry fed to us by the purveyors of so-called news. Even worse, some have swallowed the scroll of their insidious gospel and become disciples of those promulgating such quackery. And you thought John the Baptist was rabid!
Day and night we’re being force-fed by newsprint and air waves the latest “new normal,” which somehow as has superseded the previously now-dead “old normal.” How is it possible now to distinguish between such “circumlocution” (Dickens had a way with words!)? Take for example the zenith of all snake oil elixir, the pontification of the promise of “Transparency.”
Maybe the wine of this hallucinatory remedy, imbibed in heavily by all politicians today in stupendous quantities, originated from the days of the Boss Tweed Gang up in Albany, NY, the seat of power and corruption for that region. Like Greeley’s statement, “Go west, young man,” the central seat of power and corruption today has been relocated some 800 miles to the west in the former Great Swamp, now Chicago. But then some things never change.
Now to understand politics it is necessary to have taken “Read Between-The-Lines 101” Class. You remember that one in college, right? Only thing most of you remembered from that class was how to determine if your date really meant Yes when they said No, or Maybe, or Later, or We’ll See. I failed that class as I recall. But dust off that old book and study up on the word “transparency” again.
It is impossible to be totally transparent in the true sense of openness. Besides, that would necessitate having to live without clothes at all, and, as Mr. Buffet once said, it’d be an ugly sight to behold. But politicians and charlatans are not concerned with naked bodies, only obfuscating their actions labeled as transparent. They don’t give one whit’s thought to what you look like, or even the thoughts of your fertile mind. No, power and money are selfish, concerned only with self propagation. That’s transparency!
So, you see, it’s all a trick, legerdemain, smoke and mirrors to get you to ignore the fingers, which they promise will never leave the hand. And it’s the fingers of the hand that hold the pen that signs these opaque, uh, excuse me, these “transparent laws,” sending capital distribution from Washington in a gigantic reparation to a citizenry now totally dependent upon government for everything.
The space between the lines of transparency literally says, “Hey, trust me to do what’s right.” That’s a novel concept. Look what we got…”WMD” and “the definition of is.” No, it’s all media show, scripted tele-prompters, press conference shills and pompous words. Want to read the Stimulus Bill? Then pick out the “transparent” section that provides free a cell phone and air time to all who meet certain qualifications of welfare…citizenship not necessary! Try that for transparency.
Frankly, do we really want to see one another as transparent? It would take the fun out of the guessing game. Moreover, what would some really look like if the disguises were removed? NO! It’s just too ugly to even think of. So, let’s just let it be, let everybody have their own “transparency.”
Soon we’ll discuss the “too big to fail” concept, the “bailout” scenario, and the “toxic assets” conundrum…a later time, maybe. No, the issue of transparency demands our full attention. For once I’d like to have some leader stand up, speak out, saying, “Hey, you want transparency? Get elected, then you will prefer the current system of graft, corruption, no term limits and the absence of campaign law or ethics reform.”
At least Wilbur Mills and Fanny Fox had class, cavorting in their transparent nakedness in the Mall’s tidal pool…Oh, for the good old days when alcohol in DC reigned supreme. Hey, Gary, still got the yacht? The Monkey Business, wasn’t it? Rahm has it booked, you say? Oh, well…
Friends, that’s “transparency”!
Bud Hearn
June 11, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
The Look of Luck
He was near exhaustion when the day turned an ugly black, the clouds thick and heavy. No weather for a biker, he thought. A bolt of lightening cracked, thunder echoed—1,001, 1002, 1003, he counted. You missed again, he said, laughing into the surrounding blackness. But it was humor noir, a pretense. He knew he was lucky, that’s all. He crouched low as rain fell in torrents, pedaling like a madman alluding capture. His past receded with each mile as he moved on.
The bike’s tires hummed rhythmically, slicing through the steam rising from the black asphalt. Nothing moved in his vision. The oppressive silence hung lifelessly over a foreboding landscape of palmettos, marshes and sedge grass.
He passed sun-bleached signs of smiling faces, now faded and weathered, ancient reminders of yesterday’s dreams of resort retirement. Nature had reclaimed its rightful title to the derelict developments rotting in the bug-infested swamp bogs. He pedaled on, faster.
Ahead a freshly painted green sign read, Beach 9 Miles. His bike was laden with everything he cared to own. Freedom was close at last…how lucky can a man get, he wondered? The Bike sped on.
The humid heat and a merciless sun had baked raw his exposed flesh, making the days long and grueling. Civilization was a distant memory, a world away. The rain was refreshing, cool to his burned body. He thanked the clouds for it. Lady Luck’s still with me, he thought, his spirits ascending, his thighs pumping. Soon, with any luck, his feet would find freedom from the shoes. Hope pedaled hard with him.
A week had passed since he’d signed the deed. He’d said goodbye to the house, leaving with it the crumpled divorce decree. He cleaned up the other details---sold the old car, cashed in his meager pension, closed the bank accounts and said farewell to the few friends who remained in the grimy industrial hell he’d called home for so long. Their children, laden with their own families and careers, were gone, having melted into the urban migration to the mega-cities of the South. He released his old life and moved on without it. There were no tears.
His wife, with her insufferable appetites, had deserted him for a slick shoe salesman who’d promised her utopia in Miami. He knew it was a cheap cocktail lie, but then it was her choice. Pure chimerical fantasies of freedom, he mused. Now he was free to move on, so he left, never looking back. Lucky stars for both of us, he thought, as he pedaled south.
He smelled the salt air before he saw the ocean. Traffic had increased as the evening sun set in an orange ball. It was July 3, and the island was preparing for the annual Fourth of July celebration. Posters proclaimed the “Freedom Celebration” as families streamed onto the island. Beach lots were packed, people preferring the broad way over the narrow one, he thought. No Vacancy signs flashed, their neon gases glowing in the dusk. America on vacation. He was now himself a transient and had no continuing home…anywhere. He had other plans.
His bike slowed, made a small turn and stopped. As luck would have it, the path ahead was still barely visible through the canopy of shrub oaks in the evening’s fading twilight. It reminded him of something he had read once about the eye of a needle. He dismounted, locking the bike to a tree. The beach lay ahead, exposed through the needle’s eye of the sandy path. Got it all to myself…how lucky can a man get, he thought. With his backpack he moved along the narrow enclosure toward the horizon’s great expanse.
Carolina jasmine scents filled the air, wafting upon the breeze’s gentle breath, stirring the oleanders. Children and lovers moved ghost-like in the night upon the shore as they strolled silently near the water’s edge. His torrid activity had ceased, his day was over. The surf sang softly as he lay peacefully in the lee of the dune. The moon slid imperceptibly silent across the vast night sky, a reminder to him that motion was innate in nature.
Morning exploded in a burst of blazing sunlight. Stuffing his new life into the backpack, he retreated through the needle’s eye. He found coffee and breakfast nearby as the island awoke and teemed with fresh life. What a place to celebrate freedom, he thought. Besides, there was no hurry…he had the rest of his life. He embraced the concept, although unconstrained leisure was still new to him. Unhurriedly time crept ever forward, even as he moved slowly among the crowd’s ever-changing flow.
He had time to think. He wondered about his life. He had been lucky, although he acknowledged that “lucky” was an esoteric concept. What was luck anyway, could he recognize it? He pondered this as the beach crowd, like the tides, ebbed and flowed in constant motion. Nothing rested for long, he observed, not even his own mind. He tried to picture what “luck” might look like but he could not capture the fleeting thoughts. Just accept it, he concluded.
As the day moved on, his peregrine instincts became restless. It was time to go. After a bike check, he mounted up and pointed the bike west. He and his luck began to petal. It felt good to be on the move again, his quads responding with the fresh life of resistance. Why not, he laughed…what’s luck anyway but a discipline, an indomitable faith in whatever decision the ironic forces of Fate may choose. Maybe today they needed help, he thought, so on he pedaled on.
The long climb to the top of the Bridge had robbed his lungs of wind. From there, three hundred feet below, the marshes spread out far and wide, as silent as the Serengeti Plain. Below him lay a steep downhill mile, and in the center of the road a setting sun. Behind him small fireworks signaled the celebration of freedom. From this point he could retreat, perhaps find a more permanent life in heaven’s waiting room. It was decision time.
His memory made the first move, reminding him that men shut doors to a setting sun. In his mind the poet spoke, “…a little rest upon the wind, and my longing will gather dust and foam for another body, and another woman will bear me...” He gave the bike its head. Plunging headlong into the face of Freedom they sped down the steep decline---10, 20, 30, 40 mph, speeding now westward into the sun and the luck that waited there.
Thoughts on the “look of luck” flashed through his mind. An ephemeral picture emerged through the lens of the needle’s eye, quickly fading. What did he see in that fleeting moment? He saw the luck of American freedom, forged daily by discipline, always moving forward, relentlessly in pursuit of the future.
He cast a final backward glance to the fading island lights. Thank you, and goodbye, he said. How lucky can a man get? He thought about it as he pedaled on into the possibilities of another day.
Bud Hearn
June 6, 2009
The bike’s tires hummed rhythmically, slicing through the steam rising from the black asphalt. Nothing moved in his vision. The oppressive silence hung lifelessly over a foreboding landscape of palmettos, marshes and sedge grass.
He passed sun-bleached signs of smiling faces, now faded and weathered, ancient reminders of yesterday’s dreams of resort retirement. Nature had reclaimed its rightful title to the derelict developments rotting in the bug-infested swamp bogs. He pedaled on, faster.
Ahead a freshly painted green sign read, Beach 9 Miles. His bike was laden with everything he cared to own. Freedom was close at last…how lucky can a man get, he wondered? The Bike sped on.
The humid heat and a merciless sun had baked raw his exposed flesh, making the days long and grueling. Civilization was a distant memory, a world away. The rain was refreshing, cool to his burned body. He thanked the clouds for it. Lady Luck’s still with me, he thought, his spirits ascending, his thighs pumping. Soon, with any luck, his feet would find freedom from the shoes. Hope pedaled hard with him.
A week had passed since he’d signed the deed. He’d said goodbye to the house, leaving with it the crumpled divorce decree. He cleaned up the other details---sold the old car, cashed in his meager pension, closed the bank accounts and said farewell to the few friends who remained in the grimy industrial hell he’d called home for so long. Their children, laden with their own families and careers, were gone, having melted into the urban migration to the mega-cities of the South. He released his old life and moved on without it. There were no tears.
His wife, with her insufferable appetites, had deserted him for a slick shoe salesman who’d promised her utopia in Miami. He knew it was a cheap cocktail lie, but then it was her choice. Pure chimerical fantasies of freedom, he mused. Now he was free to move on, so he left, never looking back. Lucky stars for both of us, he thought, as he pedaled south.
He smelled the salt air before he saw the ocean. Traffic had increased as the evening sun set in an orange ball. It was July 3, and the island was preparing for the annual Fourth of July celebration. Posters proclaimed the “Freedom Celebration” as families streamed onto the island. Beach lots were packed, people preferring the broad way over the narrow one, he thought. No Vacancy signs flashed, their neon gases glowing in the dusk. America on vacation. He was now himself a transient and had no continuing home…anywhere. He had other plans.
His bike slowed, made a small turn and stopped. As luck would have it, the path ahead was still barely visible through the canopy of shrub oaks in the evening’s fading twilight. It reminded him of something he had read once about the eye of a needle. He dismounted, locking the bike to a tree. The beach lay ahead, exposed through the needle’s eye of the sandy path. Got it all to myself…how lucky can a man get, he thought. With his backpack he moved along the narrow enclosure toward the horizon’s great expanse.
Carolina jasmine scents filled the air, wafting upon the breeze’s gentle breath, stirring the oleanders. Children and lovers moved ghost-like in the night upon the shore as they strolled silently near the water’s edge. His torrid activity had ceased, his day was over. The surf sang softly as he lay peacefully in the lee of the dune. The moon slid imperceptibly silent across the vast night sky, a reminder to him that motion was innate in nature.
Morning exploded in a burst of blazing sunlight. Stuffing his new life into the backpack, he retreated through the needle’s eye. He found coffee and breakfast nearby as the island awoke and teemed with fresh life. What a place to celebrate freedom, he thought. Besides, there was no hurry…he had the rest of his life. He embraced the concept, although unconstrained leisure was still new to him. Unhurriedly time crept ever forward, even as he moved slowly among the crowd’s ever-changing flow.
He had time to think. He wondered about his life. He had been lucky, although he acknowledged that “lucky” was an esoteric concept. What was luck anyway, could he recognize it? He pondered this as the beach crowd, like the tides, ebbed and flowed in constant motion. Nothing rested for long, he observed, not even his own mind. He tried to picture what “luck” might look like but he could not capture the fleeting thoughts. Just accept it, he concluded.
As the day moved on, his peregrine instincts became restless. It was time to go. After a bike check, he mounted up and pointed the bike west. He and his luck began to petal. It felt good to be on the move again, his quads responding with the fresh life of resistance. Why not, he laughed…what’s luck anyway but a discipline, an indomitable faith in whatever decision the ironic forces of Fate may choose. Maybe today they needed help, he thought, so on he pedaled on.
The long climb to the top of the Bridge had robbed his lungs of wind. From there, three hundred feet below, the marshes spread out far and wide, as silent as the Serengeti Plain. Below him lay a steep downhill mile, and in the center of the road a setting sun. Behind him small fireworks signaled the celebration of freedom. From this point he could retreat, perhaps find a more permanent life in heaven’s waiting room. It was decision time.
His memory made the first move, reminding him that men shut doors to a setting sun. In his mind the poet spoke, “…a little rest upon the wind, and my longing will gather dust and foam for another body, and another woman will bear me...” He gave the bike its head. Plunging headlong into the face of Freedom they sped down the steep decline---10, 20, 30, 40 mph, speeding now westward into the sun and the luck that waited there.
Thoughts on the “look of luck” flashed through his mind. An ephemeral picture emerged through the lens of the needle’s eye, quickly fading. What did he see in that fleeting moment? He saw the luck of American freedom, forged daily by discipline, always moving forward, relentlessly in pursuit of the future.
He cast a final backward glance to the fading island lights. Thank you, and goodbye, he said. How lucky can a man get? He thought about it as he pedaled on into the possibilities of another day.
Bud Hearn
June 6, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Officer Green Comes to Collect
“You’ve got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?” Clint Eastwood
It was Saturday night about midnight. The house was dark, tomb quiet, one small lamp casting eerie shadows upon the white wall. Others slept, I read. The door suddenly exploded violently, glass and wood splinters hurled wildly throughout the foyer. The man burst in…he had a very large gun in his hand!
The gun flashed with a dull glint as he swung it side to side. He was a hulking Neanderthal, a genetic freak, a giant. The room overflowed with his massive bulk, his eyes glittered wildly, lips in a frozen sneer. His movements were slow, deliberate, robotic, as if programmed from some remote laboratory. His clothes reeked of stale cigarette smoke and garlic, his hair hanging in greasy dreadlocks.
In a primordial knee-jerk reaction I leapt from the sofa, the lamp crashing to the floor. The lamp’s green glow, strange and frightening, accentuated the intruder’s size, enlarging his ominous heft. He seemed everywhere. The dogs howled with a plaintive lamentation at the malevolent apparition.
“What the .... Who are you, what are you doing here?” my quivering voice stammered. I was assaulted, out-sized and out-gunned. It’s my house, I had rights…I thought.
“You can run but can’t hide,” he growled. “Pay up.”
“Pay up what,” I demanded?
“Your fair share of Carbon Footprint Tax, that’s what.”
The confrontation had startled and confused me, but the adrenaline surged, my courage surfaced. “Man, are you mad, a lunatic, an escapee from a meth house or carnival sideshow?” I shouted, supposing this to be intimidating. I was wrong.
He stood within inches of my face ~~ his hot breath the rancid odor of rotten fish. “I’m the Carbon Footprint Collector…Treasury sent me to collect what you owe,” he hissed, each word emphasized by his fist pounding my chest. The gun swung side to side, up and down.
“You got proof to back up your stupid and ludicrous accusations, you moron? Maybe you’ve got the wrong house. And look what you’ve done to my door, you genetic abnormality. You’ll pay for this destruction, you degenerate swine.” This aboriginal slug was no competition for my circumlocution. But logic and humor were wasted on cave dwellers.
Maybe this was all a spoof, a TV role-playing exercise to entrap honest citizens by the local law. So what the heck, I’ll play along, have a little fun. “OK, Bruno, let’s suppose I do owe something. How did you find me?”
“Your number is plugged into a GPS device which tracks you, sucker. It’s flawless. You’ve been under surveillance while we assessed your ‘carbon footprint.’ The Internal Carbon Shakedown Ministry has computed the amount of CO2 greenhouse gases you have emitted. We tax your very breath, a tax called ‘Cap and Trade.’ You owe for the last two years of emissions and your existence on American soil. So pay up, or I’ll ….”
“What,” I laughed, “you’re taxing me for a ‘carbon footprint,’ you stupid parasite? If this is some kind of joke it’s not funny.”
Maybe it was my tone, or calling him stupid, but something set this troglodyte off. He shoved the .44 mag pistol between my eyes, reminding me that it is the most powerful hand gun known to man. With his free hand he ruthlessly seized my neck. Was my time up?
But just then……“Wake up, you’re snoring, jerking in your sleep… you’ve knocked over the lamp again. You’ll have to pay up now for sure.”
“What? Where’s Bruno, the gun, your door?” my sleep-induced stupor questioned. “Now, now, you’re dreaming again. Pick up the lamp, go back to sleep.” Ahhh a sweet voice, no gun. Sleep resumed.
Look, Carbon Footprint taxes are coming, get ready. My advice? Breathe sparingly, and lay off of pepperoni pizza before bedtime.
Bud Hearn
June 4, 2009
It was Saturday night about midnight. The house was dark, tomb quiet, one small lamp casting eerie shadows upon the white wall. Others slept, I read. The door suddenly exploded violently, glass and wood splinters hurled wildly throughout the foyer. The man burst in…he had a very large gun in his hand!
The gun flashed with a dull glint as he swung it side to side. He was a hulking Neanderthal, a genetic freak, a giant. The room overflowed with his massive bulk, his eyes glittered wildly, lips in a frozen sneer. His movements were slow, deliberate, robotic, as if programmed from some remote laboratory. His clothes reeked of stale cigarette smoke and garlic, his hair hanging in greasy dreadlocks.
In a primordial knee-jerk reaction I leapt from the sofa, the lamp crashing to the floor. The lamp’s green glow, strange and frightening, accentuated the intruder’s size, enlarging his ominous heft. He seemed everywhere. The dogs howled with a plaintive lamentation at the malevolent apparition.
“What the .... Who are you, what are you doing here?” my quivering voice stammered. I was assaulted, out-sized and out-gunned. It’s my house, I had rights…I thought.
“You can run but can’t hide,” he growled. “Pay up.”
“Pay up what,” I demanded?
“Your fair share of Carbon Footprint Tax, that’s what.”
The confrontation had startled and confused me, but the adrenaline surged, my courage surfaced. “Man, are you mad, a lunatic, an escapee from a meth house or carnival sideshow?” I shouted, supposing this to be intimidating. I was wrong.
He stood within inches of my face ~~ his hot breath the rancid odor of rotten fish. “I’m the Carbon Footprint Collector…Treasury sent me to collect what you owe,” he hissed, each word emphasized by his fist pounding my chest. The gun swung side to side, up and down.
“You got proof to back up your stupid and ludicrous accusations, you moron? Maybe you’ve got the wrong house. And look what you’ve done to my door, you genetic abnormality. You’ll pay for this destruction, you degenerate swine.” This aboriginal slug was no competition for my circumlocution. But logic and humor were wasted on cave dwellers.
Maybe this was all a spoof, a TV role-playing exercise to entrap honest citizens by the local law. So what the heck, I’ll play along, have a little fun. “OK, Bruno, let’s suppose I do owe something. How did you find me?”
“Your number is plugged into a GPS device which tracks you, sucker. It’s flawless. You’ve been under surveillance while we assessed your ‘carbon footprint.’ The Internal Carbon Shakedown Ministry has computed the amount of CO2 greenhouse gases you have emitted. We tax your very breath, a tax called ‘Cap and Trade.’ You owe for the last two years of emissions and your existence on American soil. So pay up, or I’ll ….”
“What,” I laughed, “you’re taxing me for a ‘carbon footprint,’ you stupid parasite? If this is some kind of joke it’s not funny.”
Maybe it was my tone, or calling him stupid, but something set this troglodyte off. He shoved the .44 mag pistol between my eyes, reminding me that it is the most powerful hand gun known to man. With his free hand he ruthlessly seized my neck. Was my time up?
But just then……“Wake up, you’re snoring, jerking in your sleep… you’ve knocked over the lamp again. You’ll have to pay up now for sure.”
“What? Where’s Bruno, the gun, your door?” my sleep-induced stupor questioned. “Now, now, you’re dreaming again. Pick up the lamp, go back to sleep.” Ahhh a sweet voice, no gun. Sleep resumed.
Look, Carbon Footprint taxes are coming, get ready. My advice? Breathe sparingly, and lay off of pepperoni pizza before bedtime.
Bud Hearn
June 4, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)