Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, February 24, 2011

The Red Dot

I risked sanity recently by shopping at the Mall. Like most men shoppers, I have my mind made up long before entering the circus of strollers, slackers and model wannabes who wander the cavernous halls of consumerism America. I said ‘most’ men, because if only men shopped, Fruits of the Loom, beer and Brookstone’s vibrating chairs would be in short supply.

Of course, there is a genre of men who love to shop, especially with their wives. I am not of that group. I do, however, encourage women at every opportunity, especially the wives of friends out of some sense of comic revenge. Their husbands revile me for this.

And there is a certain group of men shoppers whom I can only classify as voyeuristic gawkers. They’re easy to spot. They stand at a distance, the timid ones, and gaze longingly at the sexually explicit windows of Victoria’s Secret and a myriad of other lingerie shops that line the walls of malls. They think they escape detection. When they think no one’s looking, they actually enter the stores, and dreamingly fiddle with the merchandise. Can you guess what they’re thinking?

But today I only need a funeral tie. Not that I actually have a funeral to attend, but I want to be prepared with the latest style just in case. You see, the day before, my wife also had a dream. Seems I was driving along the interstate, eating a burger with one hand, drinking a shake with the other, the cell phone cradled on my shoulder. Oh, did I overlook the small detail of driving with my knees? I’m always prepared! And I needed a tie.

So I stand here, gazing at a map depicting a color-coded layout of the mall’s stores. The code reads: “You are Here.” A red dot marks the very spot. You’ve seen these maps, right? Each store has a code number corresponding to a chart for the store locations. I study the colorful layout. Soon other men gather. They appear equally confused. We began to talk, mostly cursing the designer of such a maze. Finally we do what most men do, just wander off, muttering, “To hell with directions,” hoping to stumble into where we’re going.

I take out my compass. It indicates a right turn. It turns out to be prescient. And after wandering around that mindless mall, I sit down on a bench. Opposite me, in some kind of trance, sits a heavily-bearded man in a lotus position, palms in a prayer pose. He chants oms and has a red dot on his forehead. I have to admit that a yogic guru in that place is disconcerting, but interesting. I watch and listen. He is death-still. I marvel at his transcendence amidst such a cacophony of confusion.

He senses my presence, opens his eyes. They glitter, wild and steely-blue. I ask, “Man, what are you doing here, zoning out in some hypnotic trance?” He’s silent. I fidget, ask, “Are you homeless?” He remains mute. I say, “Are you ill, hungry, drunk? And what’s that red dot on your forehead?” In a small voice he says, “I’m confused.” Finally, an honest man!


He says he was at a rest stop on I-75, seeking his life’s direction. He says the road map on the wall had a red dot indicating, “You are Here.” He says he thought, Far out, dude, and began to follow red dots on every map he found. Says it led him everywhere, but he never seemed to find out where he was. Says it’s all a government trick.

But he says life was never the same for him after that. He says that the red dot haunts him in his dreams. He sees red dots everywhere, saying “You are Here.” Says to beware of red dots. Says cameras are everywhere. They put red dots on every footstep a man takes. He becomes manic. I leave him to himself.

I find my tie. Heading back I pass the mall sign. Another group of men stands there, confused. When they leave I take out a bottle of red nail polish and put red dots all over the map.

I contemplate sitting on a bench nearby with a red dot on my forehead, waiting to see what happens next! What would you do?


Bud Hearn
February 24, 2011

Thursday, February 17, 2011

The Missing Pajamas

Sometimes I think if it weren’t for mules, men might be the dumbest creatures on the planet. At least mules have not been known to lose their PJ’s. Let me explain.

Somehow my favorite pajama bottoms disappeared. I discovered they were MIA from their regular place in the closet. Where are they, I wondered. I looked everywhere, the dirty clothes hamper, washing machine, dog’s bed and rag closet. No luck. Panic attacked me.

I shouted to my wife, “Honey, have you seen my…?” I cut the sentence off. What am I thinking, about to ask my wife if she’s seen my pajamas? I had just returned from a business trip. I wanted no interrogation from her about where my pajamas might be. Men should always know the whereabouts of their pajama bottoms.

Losing things around the house is not uncommon. Washing machines eat socks, and my drawer is full of mismatched pairs. My stuff often goes missing, things like old running shoes, moth-eaten sweaters, ripped shirts and filthy fishing jackets. Always my most favorite possessions.

Forget these PJ’s were my favorites. Ralph Lauren specials, expensive. Even the paper carrier recognizes me by them. Our favorite things always get lost, or tossed. But today I had bigger worries.

An incident came to mind involving an old friend named Bob. He returned home from a business trip without his pajamas. He noticed they were missing. It was of mild concern to him since they were cheap. So he thought nothing about it. Until a week later.

When he arrived home from work his wife, Marie, met him at the door. She handed him a package. It had been opened. The return label read “Airport Holiday Inn.” He looked at it, then at her. She said, “Why don’t you open it?” His mild surprise quickly morphed into major horror as he opened the package. Inside were his pajamas, ironed and nicely folded, and a note that read, “Sweetie, you left these.” The interrogation began. You know how it went, don’t you?

I’ve always thought women make better interrogators than men. To start with they have psychic powers of observation, intuition and conjecture. They can actually "see” what’s in a man’s mind by simply looking at him. Words are unnecessary. I know this since all women in my family are skilled in these traits. They are apparently not in the mule gene pool.

Poor Bob got the third degree. His uhs, wells, ahs, head scratching and just plain dumb looks gave him away. She handed him his pajamas, took his house keys, and shoved him outside. No bags, no dinner, no goodbye. None of us have heard from Bob lately, but I understand he’s a poor and broken man.

So you see my concern? Where are my pajamas? What might my wife think? How will I explain them missing? Never mind that I an innocent of all impropriety, and I detest airport Holiday Inns…these things do not make a plausible explanation. And I hoped she had forgotten about Bob and Marie. So I avoided the issue. But in a few minutes the issue found me.

She brings me a drink, says, “Sit down.” I do. I ask about dinner. She says nothing. I suspect something horrible is about to happen as she stands there, hands on hips, and looks down at me. She reminds me of my 4th grade teacher who always stood over me. I remember the unpleasant outcome.

Are you missing something,” she says. I cringe, remembering Bob. I pretend to think, scratch my head. Mules have similar traits. I say, “Well, matter of fact I am.” She says, “You want to talk about it?” I squirm. “Well?” she says. I’m now hooked. So I just look dumb, throwing caution to the wind and say, “Yes. My pajamas are missing.” She looks at me, smiles, twirling the house keys on her finger. I pray.

She says, “You’ll be fine here alone, I’m leaving.” I’m terrified. “How ‘bout me?” I lament. She laughs, says, “Fend for yourself. I’m going to dinner with friends.” I jump up, ask, “But Honey, what about my pajamas?” She says, “I threw ‘em out…always hated them. You’ll get over it.” She turns, glances behind with a smile and disappears into the night.

Men, face it…women are smarter than we. It’s better to not have pajamas if you’re forgetful where you sleep!

Bud Hearn
February 17, 2011

Thursday, February 10, 2011

I've Been Thinking

My bed loves a submissive attitude. I begged it again last night.
It argues the cliché, Early to bed, early to rise. I don’t listen.
What does it know about exhaustion? I crawl beneath the comforter.
It’s usually correct. Four AM is an inhumane time to begin the day.
I lie there, half asleep, like you, thinking in the shrouded void of darkness.

What good is thinking at this early hour, I question?
The thoughts become a herd of feral cats. I attempt to corral them.
They scatter to the margins. I coax them back, one at a time, these vagrant thoughts.
They taunt me, screeching, scratching, hungry for attention.
I grab one by the neck, it evaporates. Then another. It’s a ghost in my fist.

I curse them. Avatars of advertising move in with color videos, promises of paradise.
Carnival Cruise teases, only $199.99 round trip.
Beaches, sunshine, cabanas, martinis and people, all smiling, smiling.
Did you know all Americans are happy people, always smiling? Look at magazines.
I think this because I saw a man with a titanium hip smiling in a magazine.

The copper roof reports the weather…rain. I listen intently, thinking about rain.
I think of my mother, after her stroke. She loved rain, said it was good for farmers.
But I would argue with her that it’s bad for picnics. We never reached consensus.
Have you ever thought about rain? The Chinese did, centuries ago, inventing umbrellas.
They don’t have to think anymore. It rains money there. Our money.

Oops, Bad mistake. Left the door cracked. The ‘money thought’ stumbled in.
Have you ever seen a money thought? I have. It’s ugly, unkempt, a gang member.
It wears an IRS tattoo on its chest.
All other thoughts become hostages, cringing in fetal positions, fearing discovery.
The Carnival Cruise palace sinks, the house explodes, sleep vaporizes.

The dogs bark. It’s now six. Thoughts disappear into the gloom. I abandon the bed.
I think about my thoughts. They become an unappreciated audience.
I leave their scornful stage. Their faces fade, then vanish.
I ask the dogs if they have thoughts. They do, showing me the food bin.
They eat, have no more thoughts to share.

I think I’ll get the papers. Grabbing the Chinese invention, I trek out.
The newspapers are soggy, again! I think, what kind of idiot thinks newsprint floats?
I think I know the answer... he hates his life.
I think I’ll call the newspaper, but I think he wants to get fired.
I glance at the headlines, “Fanny Packs, $1,995.” What are they thinking?

I think the dog’s needy, paws my leg, jumps into my lap.
I make a paper airplane from the front page of WSJ, sail it.
I think thoughts should be like that, harmless replicas of reality.
But these thoughts won’t pay the rent. Time to get serious.
I do, slowly stumbling to the black Mr. Coffee for caffeine.

Thick coffee grounds mix with the black brew.
I think I forgot the filter last night. I have a brilliant idea.
I dip some out, pretend to be a Gypsy, consult their morning’s message.
I think I hear Juan Valdez on his Columbian plantation thanking me.
I think thinking is dangerous. I quit.

Some people shouldn’t be allowed to think…ever. I think I’m one of them today!

Bud Hearn
February 10, 2010

Friday, February 4, 2011

Say It to My Face

There comes a time in the affairs of man when he must take the bull by the tail and face the situation.” W. C. Fields

I once had a friend named Sugar Boy. I say once, because nobody knows what happened to him. Last we heard some state boys showed up in his back yard, strapped a straight jacket on him and hauled him off for ‘examination.’ He’s been missing ever since.

It was bound to happen…Sugar Boy had too many friends. He was that kind of guy…made friends with everybody. At last count he had assembled over 10 million ‘friends,’ mostly women, which offer a clue to his cognomen. He broke all friendship records on Facebook. His mental wiring finally overloaded, frying the circuitry. It’s an ugly sight to see a man come unhinged and reduced to a deranged imbecile. I cringe at the memory!

We warned him of the dangers of obsessive behavior, telling him that ‘No’ is still a word. But he was badly dyslexic, always inverting ‘No’ to ‘On’. He was strange that way.

He finally went nuclear in his backyard. We were playing cards and having a few rounds in the garage. Sugar Boy went inside. In a few minutes he shambled out of the house, lugging his computer and its peripherals. Two black pistols, both 12-round, 9 mm Glocks, were tucked into his belt. We abandoned the cards and walked out to see what Sugar Boy was up to. Guns always draw a crowd.

He slammed the computer to the ground and began kicking it viciously. He cursed both it and Facebook. He screamed invectives while jerking the pistols from his belt. We knew he’d lost control when he shot the helpless hardware full of holes. It lay there, belching smoke and emitting an eerie screeching sound, the computer’s last breath. Nothing moved. We stood in stunned silence, staring at the surreal spectacle.

Life goes on. I forgot the event until I read a recent article by Joe Queenan. He lamented how cowardly our culture has become in ‘defriending’ acquaintances. He cited a pseudo-scientific study by some obscure Brit (oxymoron) that theorized a human’s neocortex had insufficient storage capacity to handle more than 150 friends at once. He concluded that for every one added, one had to be eliminated.

I kicked back, poured another scotch and contemplated this hypothesis. I shuddered, remembering I’ve accumulated over 3,000 friends on my Blackberry. Sugar Boy’s episode flashed in my mind. Why can’t we revert to the ‘old days’ when getting rid of folks was easier, I wondered. But I knew the answer…our culture has taken the concept of political correctness to extremes. Our lives have become sterile, wrapped in a thick coating of Saran. Hey, “Look at me, but don’t touch,” our body language cries.

In South Georgia where I grew up, if a fellow had a problem with a neighbor he didn’t call a lawyer, write a letter or circulate rumors. No, he made a house call, invited the neighbor outside to discuss the issue. Most controversy got resolved without bloodshed. But not today. We are a craven culture when it comes to concluding things. We write letters, e-mails, texts and use caller-ID to do the defriending.

I once had a business partner whose mantra was: “If it’s important enough to say, say it to my face.” He spent a lot of time in the back seat of police cars. But what’s the problem with a more direct, in-your-face method now? Nothing! Except we’re too lily-livered to do it. We are afraid of violating people’s space with frank discussions.

It’s not easy to defriend people. We are, after all, a genteel culture. While there are many options, we seem to prefer avoidance and attrition over confrontation. Emerson once said, “Do the thing and you will have the power.” I like that.

With the recent animus surrounding our Friday Forum lunches, I have given much consideration to more direct methods of resolution. While Sugar Boy’s adventure of defriending his contact base was extreme, it did make a point. There are options, after all.

So, if you’d like to defriend me, then forget my email, phone number and address… just say it to my face.

Bud Hearn
February 4, 2011