Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, August 30, 2013

A New Set of Friends


Last Friday’s headlines read: “Glitch Freezes NASDAQ Trading.” Some suspect a credit card overload. My wife is in New York shopping. A coincidence?

**********

August heat in South Georgia is insufferable. Many flee for refuge to the mountains, others to Europe. My wife and friends head to New York City. Why? Do you have to ask? Shopping and dining, of course.

I don’t blame her. The Fall Collection at the Nearly New Shop is hardly haute couture. After all, women are creatures of style, not function. Plus, Outback takeout won’t even qualify for dumpster dining in New York.

I once asked, “Why New York, what’s wrong with Target?”

Because I’m a woman, remember?” (Her answer solves a lot of unanswered questions) She gives me the ‘look’ that all men recognize when they open their mouths without thinking, which is much of the time. It’s the look that suggests even troglodytes are not dumb enough to ask that question.

I’m going to ‘visit’ a new set of friends.” ‘Visit’ is code for shopping. At the airport her parting words are, “Don’t be surprised.” The emphasis on ‘surprised’ is the trigger. I immediately alert my banker.

Her friend has a co-op in the lower Westside Village. It’s where $30 million condos rub elbows with flats smaller than closets. It’s a long way from the shopping minefields of 5th Avenue. I think I’m safe. Men just shouldn’t think about some things.

Boutiques flourish there along with the Spotted Pig, an upscale bistro popular with the cognoscenti who nibble on escargot and sip champagne. Down South, a place with such a name would be a smoky BBQ joint, where the special du jour is always predictable: cold Bud and fried pig skins.

Boutiques will bite your wallet…small shop, expensive merchandise. I prefer street vendors. Their kiosks line the streets like carnival sideshows. They sell everything from $25 Prada knock-offs to $5 pretzels with yellow mustard.

A vendor once sold me a $50 ‘gold’ Rolex. I surprised my brother with it. He’s still scrubbing the ‘gold’ from his wrist. He hasn’t spoken to me in three years. He never could take a joke.

My wife calls daily. She says she’s ‘pacing’ herself. I ask how she defines ‘pacing.’ “Which, shopping or food?” she asks. She deflects my question with a question, a well-honed tactic. Women are hard to pin down.

Men pace themselves in different ways. They have keen internal restraint systems. It’s a primordial genetic arrangement that paces their proclivities. It functions flawlessly except in situations involving women, football, golf or guns. Nobody’s perfect.

On Friday she calls, all excited. She says she met new friends at Harry Winston. “Who’s that?” I ask. She says Harry has exquisite taste, a delightful shop and he is well connected. ‘Delightful’ is code for extravagant. Anybody in New York who’s connected and wants you to call them by their first name is suspect. I envision an arm around my shoulder and a hand in my back pocket.

What does Harry sell?” I ask. She answers, “I’ll give you a hint. It’s a girl’s best friend.” Right away I know Harry’s not a used car salesman.

I’m wary of men whose first and last names are interchangeable. I knew somebody like that in high school, Harry Harvey. He had weird ways, like catching house flies in mid-flight with his tongue. He wasn’t Valedictorian.

She calls again on Saturday. “You won’t believe what I found at Ralph’s shop.” I ask if I know Ralph. She says nobody knows him, he changed his name. I ask why. “What would you do if your last name were Lifshitz?” What a slickster…he would be a terrific New York politician.

That night she calls again, thrilled with all her new first-name friends…Giorgio, Donna, Coco, Calvin and many Italians whose names end with vowels: Salvatore, Veneta and Morelli. The list is long.

When are you coming home? I’m starving for a home-cooked meal,” I plead. “Tomorrow about 2:00,” she says. “Pick me up in the truck. I have a surprise for you.” I remember hearing that word before. Hmmmm. I’m sleepless in fearful anticipation.

************

I pull up in the pickup. She stands on the curb with her luggage. “Didn’t you leave with one bag? What’s with the ten?”

I paced myself,” she says grinning. “I told you not to be surprised. We now have a whole new set of friends. You’ll just love them.”

I can hardly contain my enthusiasm.

Bud Hearn
August 30, 2013


Illustration courtesy of Leslie Hearn

Friday, August 23, 2013

Coming Clean


Messing with a fellow’s secretly-hidden stash of midnight snacks may not be high crime and treason, but it demands retribution. Confession is a start.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Secrets hide in strange spaces…I recently spotted evidence of one hiding at the bottom of the kitchen trash can. It lay in a crumpled mass, barely distinguishable, beneath some chicken bones and covered with a black shroud of soggy coffee grounds. Secrets can hide anywhere.

I was livid to say the least. I had salivated all day thinking about a late-night snack, only to find that a heartless intruder had beaten me to it. Justice must prevail…someone must pay.

Listen, secrets are volcanoes. There’re volatile. Eruptions happen, even though they may smoke and smolder for a long time. Remember the Clinton ‘Bimbo eruption’? Gennifer Flowers showed up in 1992. Truth prevails.

The exposure of secrets is random. Many think a computer App, ‘Master Mind,’ is responsible. With a court jester icon, it stirs up the disgusting details of our lives and previews them in an ethereal Youtube. Somebody up there is laughing! We think we’re safe, then, vroom, an eruption occurs.

Take my friend Bob, for example. He sorely lacks common sense. He mentioned to his wife he’d lost his new Polo pajamas. One day a UPS package arrived. His wife opened it. It was the heart-shaped note that caught her attention. It simply read, “Honey, you left these. Hurry back.” It was signed “K.” An eruption occurred. Bob currently lives in a mobile home in Nahunta.

I pleaded with my household for the responsible party to come clean. My wife said, “Get a life;” my daughter avoided eye contact. We have two dogs. They can’t be ruled out. I interrogated them, too.

One dog, Mac, eats everything remotely similar to food. Just this morning he ate a cup cake wrapper. I asked him about it, but he was silent on the matter. A couple of hours later he came clean, so to speak. His answer lay steaming on the back porch. Eruptions happen.

Children, especially teens, perfect early on how to dodge ‘fessing up without full disclosure. They arrive home late at night with hang-dog looks, their breath reeking of heavy doses of Listerine and their clothes soaked with Lysol. Masking truth has its moments.

Later in life their guilt-ridden conscience prevails upon them to lay bare their youthful indiscretions so they can sleep better. They transfer these grievous burdens onto their parents who can’t sleep and who lie awake lamenting the perils of parenting. Some truths need no resurrection!

Fishermen are among the worst about coming clean with secret proclivities. My mother kept in the back hall a wooden plaque as a reminder to my father. It pretty much sums up many of his excursions. It read:

“Behold, the fisherman.
He riseth early in the morning and upsetteth the whole household.
Mighty are his preparations.
He goeth forth with great hope in his heart—and when the day is far spent
he returneth, smelling of strong drink, and the truth is not in him.”


Some truths are self-evident.

Yesterday the mystery of the trash-can caper came to light. I set a trap, put new bait in the freezer and hid in the closet. I waited. About 12:30 AM a dark ghost resembling a woman shambles silently into the kitchen, opens the freezer and removes something. The skulking phantom stumbles to the drawer for a spoon. The dark figure wrestles momentarily with the object.

Soon deep sighs of immense pleasure break the kitchen silence. The figure becomes animated in a fitful lust for the container’s contents. I switch on the light. The brilliance startles her. She stands there like a common criminal, caught in the very act.

She holds a half-eaten pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherries Garcia in one hand and a large spoon in the other. A tiny trail of white ice cream trickles down her chin. It’s my daughter.

If a man were caught like this, he would spew out a quick but stupid response. “Am I sleep walking? Where am I?” But not my daughter. She just stands there like an angel and grins. We both laugh. My heart melts along with the ice cream. She shares what’s left.

***************

I thought about confessing my own obsessions, but the words wouldn’t come. Anyway, sharing a secret pint of midnight ice cream will reconcile anyone.

Besides, love overcomes a multitude of sins!

Bud Hearn
August 23, 2013

Friday, August 16, 2013

Wayne's World


Life is a matter of perspective. It’s enlightening to glance at the other side. Here’s a snapshot of Wayne’s World.

*****

I have a friend. His name is Wayne. He’s a country boy. He spends eight hours underneath a train locomotive. It’s his job.

It’s not his chosen profession, or his talent… photography is. He does what he has to in order to pursue the passion. He works in a CSX railroad repair yard in Waycross, GA. It’s a nasty, hot job.

Being ‘low man on the totem pole,’ his job is to climb up inside enormous locomotive engines and repair them. Such work of grease and grime is foreign to most. It’s hard to relate.

For most, making a living comes easier. We use our tongues, phones, keyboards, and pens. But look around…everything you own arrived either by air, highway, water or rail. Things break, somebody has to repair them. That’s what Wayne does.

Recently we had lunch. I asked him about his new job. The following is what I remember from his comments. They reveal another side of life.

He said every morning he climbs down in the ‘locomotive pit.’ That means he’s underneath a gigantic mass of steel, which often weighs in excess of 200 tons. The repairs are made in the belly of the beast. It’s not the same as a business meeting over coffee and a donut.

He showed me a picture of a motor that had exploded. It had eight small, round doors on each side. Looking in, the twisted crankshaft stares back. It’s as big and long as a large man’s leg. This particular repair job required a piston assembly. Pistons are removed from the top of the engine. He said often these pistons, which are as large as a wash tub, under pressure can explode and be blown 30 yards.

He described the maze of power cables inside this monster. Each cable is the size of a broom handle. They must be disconnected before the motor can be dropped down for repairs. This, he said, is the worst part of the job.

He said in order to reach the power cables, he has to crawl through a miniscule black hole into a dark cavern. His hands grope, working just inches from his face. It’s tedious work in a cramped space, no wiggle room. He paused, laughed and said it would send a person with claustrophobia over the edge.

He continued. To access the repair area, I have to extend both arms straight above my head, like superman. Then I climb a ladder into the innards of the leviathan and get on top of the motor. Imagine such!

I wear paper overalls. When I reemerge, assuming I do, the suit is ripped to shreds and I’m soot-black. And folks obsess over their fingernails?

He digresses, confusing me with the specs of engine repair and other minutiae, like train wheels that weigh 2,200 pounds. Little wonder the Lincoln nickels we put on the tracks in our youth were flattened.

Wayne may be country, but he’s bright. He doesn’t speak in metaphors, nor does he consult a Thesaurus. He lives in the world of absolutes, a matter–of-fact world where Yes is yes, and No is no. Explanations are unnecessary.

He speaks with a simple power, a ‘straight-from-the-shoulder’ punch, no backdoor ‘ya-know-what-I-mean’ equivocation. When cash gets tight, in his world people buck up and do whatever they have to, which gives the disgustingly vernacular ‘whatever’ an entirely different meaning. It’s a world where high school football reigns supreme and tithing is not an option.

Wayne’s a fellow who’ll help you change a flat tire in the rain. He believes a neighbor is special and is convinced that his small town can self-govern without outside interference. He affirms his family is paramount, and that church and faith have never failed him.

*****

We eat the last piece of cornbread and leave the table. I ask him if he’s satisfied with life. He thought about it. These are his words:

I have a job, a pay check, a few acres, a dog, a house, grandkids and good health. My taxes are paid, my mortgage is current and my old pickup’s paid off. I have a new camera, a nice garden and I’m not on the government dole. I’m not complaining. Things are pretty good, I’d say.”

There’s something American and uniquely refreshing about that, don’t you think?

Bud Hearn
August 16, 2013

Friday, August 9, 2013

On the Other Side


Music and photographs…doors that open to the other side, to graveyards and scrapbooks full of memories, awaiting resurrection. My violin opened the music door this week. Here’s what staggered out.

******

Brothers and sisters, it’s Jubilee time in the South. Campground Revival meetings are hotter than dog days in Dixie. Bible sightings are everywhere. The air is thick with humidity and confession.

Our church just concluded one. It was an indoor event, no food on the lawn, a low-budget affair. Methodists avoid outside in August. Methodists ‘swelter’ inside on cushioned pews and in cool sanctuaries. We’re a civilized people. We only sweat when the preacher warns of the harsh conditions on ‘the other side.’

Our youthful minister is long on wind, short on color coordination. He sheds his black robe and dresses down…open collar and jacket. He takes a walk on the wild side in blue patent leather loafers and a lavender jacket with glittering sequins. The congregation forgives his fashion statement. However, it probably does little to advance his reputation with the conference bishops. His wife is conspicuously absent.

For repentance I work on perfecting the music of the spheres…with a violin. It’s not yet music, really, just a few notes resembling screams from the lower regions. My dogs flee to the other side of the house and doors slam. Even heaven cringes.

This week I’m wrestling with an oldie, “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder.” Sing along with me:

When the trumpet of the Lord shall sound, and time shall be no more,
And the morning breaks, eternal bright and fair;
When the saved of earth shall gather over on the other shore,
When the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.”

I bombed out on Rock of Ages and The Old Rugged Cross. These were written by psychiatrists. They’re designed to convict the heart and open the wallet. They guarantee contrition and an overflowing collection plate. My tears of sorrow soak the horsehair bow as I glance up to the other side for affirmation. Meanwhile, black storm clouds gather on the other shore.


Country campground meetings are miracles to behold. Like Mecca, multitudes migrate. It consists of a wooden open-air ‘tabernacle’, the preaching place. Tiny ‘cabins’ with dirt and straw floors encircle it. Twice a day for a week guest evangelists with names like Brother LeRoy summon the Holy Spirit from the other side. They come with a religious fervor to collect alms and to exegete ‘The Word.’ The faithful come to sing a little, eat a lot and occasionally repent.

This is old-time religion in the South. ‘Getting saved’ is paramount, especially for wayward teens who think heaven is found on this side, especially at night. Scare tactics are prominent themes—the other side is a hellish scene. Snakes are sometimes seen to amplify the experience.

Gospel singing mingles with glossolalia. The most favored tunes tend to be Love Lifted Me, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot and Amazing Grace. It’s rumored that Newton wrote Amazing Grace not as a precept, but in remembrance of his exceptional girlfriend….if you know what I mean.

Late at night the preaching grinds down. Men slip outside and gather in small groups in the shadows. They speak in low tones and pass among themselves a small paper bag. The bag does little to disguise the contents, only the brand.

Inside the bag is another spirit. It has the peculiar power to make temporary reparation between men of all denominations. If you’ve never experienced this spirit of reconciliation, then you don’t know Jack….Black, that is.

With a surfeit of this spirit, reprobate husbands lose control of their tongues and their guilt-ridden conscious takes over. They ‘come down’ and spill the beans, exhuming things better left between themselves and the Ruler of the other side. The congregation gapes in shocked amazement and sordid amusement.

Such public revelations support legions of divorce lawyers. They lurk on the other side, busily writing legal writs to reconcile all things financial and ultimately who gets the house. Some even blame them for writing the preacher’s text. Most blame them for everything.

At week’s end the people have had all the religion they can take. They return to this side of the world with memories of the experience. I do likewise.

Before putting away my violin, I sing again When the Roll is Called Up Yonder. A light explodes in my brain. Wait, there’s no mention of violin music on the other side…only trumpets.

You already know what I’m going to do!

Bud Hearn
August 9, 2013

Friday, August 2, 2013

Shopping With Coupons…an American Addiction


Newspapers are on life support. They’d die without coupon-saving inserts. Who wants to read the news anyway? No, we’re Americans. We shop. Here’s my experience with coupons.

~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday morning. It’s raining. Rain begets boredom. Boredom begets the urge to shop. My wife’s reading the coupon inserts…savings galore. I know what she’s thinking. I’ve seen the look before. My wallet has felt it! She needs a savings ‘fix.’

She flips a few my way. Look at these savings, she says. I check them out. Not much a man would want. Men only shop coupons for tools, trucks, guns and all things camo. I spot a bargain on a box of tools, but buying more tools necessitates cleaning out a place in the garage. Plus, I might be forced to actually use them. I quickly move on.

Mostly there’s stuff a normal person wouldn’t put in their house, on their body or in their mouth. Which accounts for why there are coupon discounts. But who can argue the point: when it comes to shopping for discounts, women are not normal creatures.

Women perfected the notion of ‘spend more, save more.’ They’re experts, especially when it comes to jewelry and clothing mark-downs from Neiman Marcus catalogues. Maybe it explains why more women are being elected to Congress, especially from California.

What man has not heard, “Honey, look how much money I saved you today. It was on sale, marked down from $1,999.99 to $99.99.” Such words drive men to golf for refuge.

A man can’t comprehend such a windfall in savings. His body goes limp, his eyes roll back and he speaks incoherently. I’m sure he thinks, “Goodbye season football tickets,” or something along these lines.

So many coupons. The one for Rogaine is smaller than a dime. Rogaine’s market share diminishes by the minute to Nair, whose motto is ‘No hair left behind.’ Head hair is out, which is evident by the Mr. Clean coupon juxtapositioned next to Rogaine’s. Mr. Clean is cool…he’s bald. He now sports an earring in his left ear. What’s next, a tattoo on Miss Clairol?

Ah, a coupon for a $ .97 cent cell phone. It’s the Weiner ‘Carlos Danger’ model, the one that comes with total anonymity. It self-destructs when the metadata sleuths trace its trail. It’s complete with instructions on sexting and instagrams. The screen-saver is a photo of pink Fruit of the Loom underwear. The ring tone is “The Great Pretender.”

I read the small print…Ten year contract, $2,000 for early termination. It’s the same kind of small-print ‘gotcha’ contained in ObamaCare. Cheap sells…buy now, pay later, credit same as cash.

The most incredible savings coupon I find advertises all mattresses for $89 dollars, lifetime financing, no money down. Wow, a real bargain! I call, ask why they’re so cheap. The clerk refuses to disclose this info over the phone, only in person. So I ride over.

The clerk explains it’s like buying a car. If you buy a new one, you trade in the old one. They clean it up, sell it cheap. Same with mattresses. I ask if this is legal or sanitary. His answer is unintelligible. But the latex gloves he’s wearing give me a pretty good clue.

I inspect the Heffner brand, called ‘The Fantasy Model.’ It comes with a stereo system inside. Music CDs range from Elvis, “Love Me Tender,” to Jerry Lee Lewis, “Whole Lotta Shaking Going On.” Sinatra’s CD, “I Had It My Way,” is a favorite. Who buys these, I ask? Mostly divorced men, he says. They seem to prefer “Can’t Buy Me Love” by the Beatles.

The Camel Model mattress is interesting, so-called because of the large hump in the middle. What’s this, I ask? He says the hump is a marital DMZ. He describes it as a vast, desolate wasteland, a ravaged war zone where the slightest intrusion sets off alarms and the conflict escalates. It’s a place where war has been waged for years without a clear and decisive victory. No man has gone there and lived to tell about it, he says.

He says it’s a favorite of seniors and also comes with a choice of music CD’s. Most popular are the tunes “Precious Memories,” and “I Walk the Line” by Johnny Cash.

Too many ‘savings’ for one Saturday. I go home, clean the garage, and fantasize about the tool box. I hope it’s still on sale tomorrow. My wife? Who knows…I’m afraid to ask!

Bud Hearn
August 2, 2013