Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Friday, December 28, 2018

A Second Wind


There are times when it seems life has run out of steam. The space between Christmas and New Year’s Eve is one of them.

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It’s the week after Christmas, or ‘holiday’ if you’re part of the crowd of alchemists that mix Christmas with Visa and come up with a concoction called Santa. However the season is called, the last week in the year seems to be a peaceful one.

The frenzy is over, the extended family has vanished, the busted budgets take a breather and the returns are yet to hit UPS. The perfect evergreen is casting forth its shriveled needles and is ready for the chipper. You sort of feel the same way; plus, the kitchen is closed.

Fading wreaths and malfunctioning tree lights say it clearly…another Christmas has come and gone; another year has run its course. Yes, the turmoil of cleanup lies ahead. Still, we shrug it off and enjoy the peace that Christmas promises.

The ‘tween week offers opportunity for reflection, even if there is a mild but lingering anxiety about the unfinished details cluttering our desks. The very thought can spoil the intervening reverie. But for the moment, we erase all negative thoughts and wish for everyone tidings of peace and joy. Even for Democrats.

This short lull in life is sort of like half-time in a football game. The scoreboard reveals what has happened, but it yields no clue of what’s to come. Such is the future. So we settle into an easy chair and savor the break from the storm. The next one can wait.

Business is mostly on the back burner. It’s busy trying to figure out its own scoreboard. I sit back in my chair in no rush and pass the time with hot tea while reading Christmas cards. They’re loaded with family biographies and smiling photographs of people I can’t recognize. Then I flip through a book of poetry by T. S. Eliot.

Most people nowadays don’t appreciate poetry. It’s a wonderful career choice if obscurity and poverty are the goals. But it can’t compete with politics and preaching for pure stage effect. Poets for the most part are morose, over-educated and unwashed folks with bad hair and a strange way of speaking. But at least Eliot’s fresh breath goes against convention.

Lines from “The Hollow Men” catch my attention. In a mystical way they give meaning to this week’s intervening space of time. His words stretch to grasp the space between dreams and reality, between now and later.:

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow.

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow.”

Strange lines to describe a paralysis of action. But when considered in the context of this waning week of the year, maybe it’s the poet’s way of simply saying, “Take a break and breathe.”

At midnight a few days hence History will add the year 2018 to its scoreboard of what has been. It will offer no clue of what is to be. In the interspace of a millisecond the Shadow will fall, but only temporarily. The old will pass, the new will begin, and everyone will get another chance for a second wind.

A line from one of Wendell Berry’s poems says it plainly:

“I greet you at the beginning; for we are either beginning or we are dead.”

What 2019 holds for us is a mystery. But to the poet in us all, life is a strange, mystical romance if only we’re willing to embrace it.


Happy New Year. Live big.

Bud Hearn
December 28, 2018

Friday, December 21, 2018

Waiting in Line


It’s Tuesday, a week before Christmas. I’m standing in line at the post office, waiting. I’m not alone. Others stand silently in a long queue that snakes its way outside. They wait, too.

It’s an understatement to say Americans enjoy waiting in line anywhere. Or, for that matter, waiting for anything. We’re used to instantaneous fulfillment that technology has blessed us with.

Thank you, microchip, Amazon, Google. We praise you. You’ve rescued us from hours of tedium and wasted time waiting in lines like this. But like any other saving grace, your salvation has come with a cost—in this case the loss of human interaction.

Not that anyone would choose to participate voluntarily in a slow-moving line of impatient people. And at this hour, who’s interested in striking up conversation with strangers? We have things to do, places to go. Our calendars are crammed with do, do, do. We have no time.

Here in the dimly-lit corridor the ‘line-waiters’ lean against walls and windows; some sport white cords that dangle from their ears. Some faces bear looks of boredom and mild impatience. Some even appear to have been lobotomized. Their Christmas expressions are elsewhere. Waiting in lines can do this.

The line-standers divert attention and eye contact by fiddling with iPhones, picking at their nails or examining their shoes or the tiles on the floor. Anything to appear disinterested. It’s like being part of a crowd trapped in an elevator. Nobody talks. Except me.

A lady stands nearby. Not too close, mind you. Americans covet space, their personal space. Proximity promotes a negative energy field that prompts, “Back off, buster, you’re too close.

I cheerfully offer up this week’s ice-breaker, “Merry Christmas.” I exclaim it with gusto as if I were Santa himself. I omit the ‘ho, ho, ho’ part since it has other connotations these days. Heads turn. The silence is broken. Movement occurs. People shuffle, change positions. One might think I’d woken up a corpse.

She returns the greeting. I ask why she’s focused so intently on the cell. I expect a reply like, “None of your business, creep.” But no, she shows me photos of her grandbaby being held in her arms. A big smile follows. Who can resist smiling at the sight of a tiny, new-born baby that’s wrapped in red ribbon?

Then a strange thing happens. Others waiting in line want to take a peek. A spirit begins to arouse the lethargic line. Exclamations of “How beautiful, a wonderful Christmas gift, so sweet, how blessed” and so on. You’d think this is the first time people had ever seen a baby.

Slowly the line creeps forward, packages are retrieved, some are sent. Christmas stamps are purchased and faces smile again as they leave. Soon I’m burdened with boxes of my own, courtesy of an Amazon Fulfillment Center. A gentleman steps out of line and opens the door for me. Ah, the spirit of Christmas is alive indeed.

Lines are here to stay. So is waiting. Car pool lines, TSA lines, check-out lines, check-in lines, doctor’s lines, lines to greet the preacher, lines at the grocery store and traffic lines. We’re trapped in lines.

Yet, some lines can have positive effects, sort of like adult time-out. No rush, no auto, no danger. Nerves relax. Blood pressure drops. Noise abates, and we regain the serenity of our own souls.

You might find it odd, but some of my most favorite ‘lines’ are found in poetry, music and scripture. Some are long, move slowly. Others are short, move quickly. But my mind never objects to pausing and waiting, and letting the movement of words and notes take me where they will.

This Christmas I am waiting in the music line of “This Christmastide,” a beautifully, haunting tune with lines like this:

From a simple ox’s stall came the greatest gift of all.
Truth and love and hope abide this Christmastide, this Christmastide.”

I’d be pleased to have you join me for a few moments waiting in these lines authored by the prophet Isaiah:

For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given, and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”

Some lines are well worth waiting in. Thank you for waiting in mine. Merry Christmas.


Bud Hearn
December 21, 2018


Friday, December 14, 2018

Getting in the Mood


Out of the many moods of Christmas, which one will jump-start us into the spirit of the season? I might have found mine.

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It’s difficult trying to gin up any enthusiasm remotely acceptable for a Christmas mood. It has to happen on its own. The frenetic crush of mosh-pits crowds on Black Friday and Cyber Monday don’t do it. It’s like drumming up excitement for a root canal. It has to happen, just not today.

What’s a ‘mood’ but a subjective state of mind, a predominant emotion that can grab us anywhere, anytime. You feel it when one’s coming on. It’s best when it shows up serendipitously, like the unannounced advent of an old friend, no preface or stimulus, something that just happens. Moods planned in advance are duds.

Ok, so we had a mood yesterday. What good is it for today? It’s nothing now but a memory, whether pleasant or unpleasant. We can take it out, dust it off, laugh or cry, but it’s as cold as a man’s hand when the romance has ended. It’s today’s miracle that sets the mood. We have to wait for it.

When does it start, this ‘getting in the mood’ for Christmas? What sets it in motion? For root canals, the impetus is pain. For Christmas, which can be analogous in some ways, it’s usually ‘The Tree’ that fires it up.

This year a tinge of excitement begins the day after Thanksgiving in our house when someone says, “The trees are here, big ones, Frazier furs; snow still clings to the branches.” The Christmas mood yawns.

Meanwhile, the outside thermometer hovers near 75 degrees. Does this do anything for your Christmas mood? No matter—it was bound to happen, not if but when. Go get the tree.

There’re few things less anticipatory than getting a Christmas tree a month beforehand. But it’s the beginning of ‘getting in the mood.’ Actually, it’s the beginning of getting in a lot of moods, moods that run a vast array of moods, moods that have spawned many bankruptcies and not a few divorces.

The tree should get more credit for mood creation than it’s been given. Sticker-shock can send a shudder down anyone’s spine that even a moribund wallet can feel. We cringe, realizing this is only the beginning of shakedowns. The vault of a meager Christmas budget is about to be pillaged and expose how shallow our ‘mood of generosity’ is and how it strangely mirrors the ‘mood of Scrooge.’

Many good moods are associated with a Christmas tree. But they come later, not earlier. First it’s essential to survive the ordeal of buying and erecting the sacrificial sapling and enduring what might be euphemistically labeled the ‘familial debate mood.’

But this too passes, and soon the tree stands tall and regal, the house scented like potpourri from a fresh forest. Ok, so it happens to be a bit crooked that produces a temporary mood-swing of ‘mild disgust?’ It soon vanishes after a few mugs of highly-spiked egg nog. While exclamations of “Best tree ever” don’t mitigate the flaw, but they do evoke a peaceful mood best known as ‘relief.’

The next order of business is to clothe the naked sacrifice with lights. This toil provokes not a ‘mood of love’ but one akin to forced labor. Soon tiny white lights drip from every branch and radiate like miniature stars. Decorative ornaments complete the process to a ‘mood of smiles and nods.’

When our angel takes her place atop the tree the job concludes. I climb the ladder in a ‘mood of trepidation,’ imagining what can happen to old men climbing ladders. The angel soon sits high in her resplendent glory overlooking our handiwork below.

As I retreat to the safety of a horizontal surface a tune strangely enters my mind. It’s a familiar tune:

“Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plain; and the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains.” Something stirs in my soul. Is this the beginning of getting in the Christmas mood?

There’s something magical about the moods of Christmas that can soften the stingiest soul and set smiles on the sourest faces. Maybe this is the miracle of Christmas after all.


Bud Hearn
December 14, 2018








Friday, November 30, 2018

Making a Fool of Yourself


This is a touchy subject. I’m approaching it with much circumspection as if it were a coiled rattlesnake lying in the path. Head-on encounters are not encouraged.

We’ve all played the fool. Admit it. We all have the tattoo of having once been a fool. It’s indelible. The wound still stings, even if it’s now only a memory lingering in the deep silent recesses of our silly self-denials.

Those with delicate sensibilities find it hard to forget and forgive being so-labeled. Ego is easily wounded. The stigma of being called a fool, even if only once, can revive dark ancestral proclivities better left buried. Even shadows of idiocy can spoil our carefully-crafted pristine past.

That said, pause for a few seconds, and re-read the title. Then confess out loud: “I have made a fool of myself.” Feel relieved? Now laugh at yourself.

This is important. It brings light to suppressed incidents you’ve been hiding and disguising. Once out of the closet they have no power. Then you’ll enjoy joining the rest of us in continuing to make a fool of yourself. It’ll happen.

Making a fool of yourself is easy to achieve. It requires no training. All you have to do is to wake up and give the tongue its head. It’ll do the rest for you without effort. Later in the day after you add some fermented grape juice it will do an even better job.

The tongue might be the easiest way to make a fool of yourself. It thrives in shredding your esteem to the ‘fool’ status because of the unfiltered nonsense it utters without restraint. Some even substitute the digital tongue, Twitter, to label themselves a fool.

But the tongue is by no means the only culprit. We can play the fool in actions just as easily. Take your recent investment in Bitcoin, for example. Your spouse begged you not to take that plunge but no, it was the future, you said. At least you had the correct verb, ‘was.’ And now you have to contend with the ‘I told you so’ comment. The tongue is your best friend. It can override the brain’s best wisdom. It has no conscience.

A friend told me recently his wife never forgets anything. What woman does? I asked him to explain. He said it was a simple slip of the tongue, a brief lapse into a brainless response. He has relearned the consequences of witless actions. He swears to never again use the honest adjectives of ‘dumpy’ and ‘bulging’ when describing his wife in a new dress. Brutal honesty can backfire on anyone.

Photographs of years past reveal how we acted the fool in our clothes. Just last week I found a photo of myself in the ‘70’s. I was wearing a bloused-sleeve, pirate-like shirt at a dinner party. It seemed ‘cool’ then, sitting among a group of dinner companions in jackets and ties. Sometimes I still cringe in silence when the past comes calling.

One of the problems with making a fool of ourselves is that we can’t see ourselves. We don’t recognize when it is happening. It has to be pointed out to us. Now this should be a warning. There’s always somebody looking, listening, just lying in wait to snare us in a ‘gotcha’ moment that will follow us forever like a bad odor.

We make fools of ourselves in public as well as in private. There’s the ‘Grandstander’ working the crowd: glad-handing, back-slapping, high-fiving. Purpose? To be seen. Or elected. Then there are the Intellectual Pontificators, puffed up with pomposity (uh, that’s us writers). And the latter-day Circuit Riders, the know-it-all, tell-it-all gossipers bearing salacious news to itching ears.

And oh, so many more. Making a fool of ourselves is a badge of having lived. Be proud of it. One day the obituaries of all those who loved to taunt us with our follies will have been posted. Then we can begin again.

Until then, the only perfectly acceptable way I know of to make a fool of yourself is to fall in love. Even the snake will give you a pass on this one.


Bud Hearn
November 30, 2018

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

The Soul of Thanksgiving


For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul? “ Mark 8:36-37


The year was 1863. Abraham Lincoln was President. Strife ruled. The nation was at war with itself. The landscape by most visionaries was bleak and dreary. The nation seemed to have lost its bearings and its very soul. Being thankful under these conditions was seemingly impossible. The nation urgently needed to mend its fraying fabric.

Under these dire conditions Lincoln issued a proclamation establishing the last Thursday in November as a national holiday. His intent was to coalesce a nation of diverse cultures and individuals into a cohesive whole by remembering the origin of its birth. This year Americans will celebrate the 155th anniversary of Thanksgiving.

In 1620 pilgrims departed from Defts-Haven, searching for a new land with the ephemeral idea of freedom. They had no idea what they would face in the quest. As if the hardships of the voyage were not enough to deter them, what they saw at landfall must have made them question their sanity altogether.

There, looming before them in the stark winter stood a harsh land with a weather-beaten face. It appeared to them a country full of woods and thickets, a place full of untamed beasts and wild men. It had an ominous and savage hue. Such is the nature of the unknown…wild, fearful but full of promise.

It was up to these pilgrims to carve out their dreams and visions. They neither expected nor received the benefits of ease in the process. For having left their homes, having said goodbye to their families and friends, they said goodbye to the old life and searched for a better home.

We who read this today are benefitting from the sacrifices of these visionaries. We can ask ourselves these questions: Under what tyranny would we now be living if not for the perseverance of these intrepid travelers? How would our destiny have unfolded?

Fortunately, we have the answers. Living in America is a blessing of untold and incalculable dimensions. Read the news if you don’t believe this!

Some years ago on this date our family and friends sat in a Methodist Church in the small town of my youth. We gathered there to say a final goodbye to our mother. My nephew recalled the influence she had upon his life.

He synthesized it based on his annual visits for Thanksgiving. He recalled pulling into the driveway of his grandmother’s home. The first thing he saw was her face in the kitchen window, welcoming him with a smile.

The soul of an American Thanksgiving also has a face. It’s seen in the Rockwell-blended faces of families, merged together into a national tapestry. Each face represents a precious memory, of a home and a secure place where families can thrive.

The blessings of national unity are too broad to enumerate. But the collective voice of Thanksgiving blends them together at every table where food is served, where laughter is heard and where love is shared. The soul of being American is once again revived on this memorable day.

Today, the world is a dangerous place. It’s fractious, filled with secular pursuits, religious divisions and seethes with national rivalries. Our country itself is not immune from its own fractured diversity. The horror of continuous news reveals this daily.

Yet in spite of this, America continues to stand, strong in the collective unity under which it was founded…established by a beneficent God for the purpose of freedom. A continuous remembrance of this fact is what Thanksgiving is all about.

Today began sunny on the coast, but clouds are gathering for another storm. In the front yard a squirrel sits on its hind quarters, gnawing on acorns. It seems to smile as it feasts on the prodigious crop furnished by the oaks.

America has endured many storms. It will weather more. But, like the squirrel, we can take comfort in the fact that a gracious, Almighty God desires to furnish us with untold blessings. Our collective soul will continue to flourish as long as we remember the Source of these blessings.

**********

Thank you, Abraham Lincoln, for your foresight. And thank you, God, for blessing the soul of America another year. Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family. Truly, our cup runneth over.


Bud Hearn
November 20, 2018


Tuesday, November 13, 2018

It's a Sore Subject


Stored in the recesses of a woman’s brain are some sore spots put there mostly by men. These raw, unresolved irritants, small and large, can become volcanoes. You know an eruption is near when you hear, “That’s a sore subject with me.”

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Men are at a distinct disadvantage in relationships with women. They stumble and stutter their way stupidly through life, ignorantly attempting to please women. They grope for the wall for direction like blind men on the streets of Calcutta. They live lives of dread, fearing they’ll inadvertently touch a nerve that sets off ‘a sore subject.’

‘Sore subjects’ are ‘Bouncing Betty’ land mines, explosive devices buried just beneath the surface of memory. They lie harmlessly underground, waiting to be tripped. Very bad things happen when they pop up.

Most men live in toxic fields strewn with land mines of previous ‘sore subjects.’ They wander around clueless in the fields of relationships, rarely realizing what dangers lie hidden underground. Past detonations that didn’t maim or kill a poor sucker are soon forgotten.

These mines can lie undisturbed for years. The explosive power is not diminished but often increased in the waiting process. If discovered, they must be removed with caution. Carnage is the result of carelessness. Walking on egg shells is sound advice, men.

Sometimes an audible ‘click’ is heard when you step on a land mine. Maybe there’s a delay in the explosion, but the ‘click’ is ominous, like hearing the very voice of God saying, “Hello, Welcome!” You freeze in your tracks, afraid to move, damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Whichever, you know nothing good is going to happen now. You’ve ‘stepped in it,’ so to speak.

Often the ‘click’ triggering the mine is a silent one. But you intuitively feel you have set something horrible in motion. Like the silence that permeates your home just before the storm of ‘a sore subject’ shows up. You know it’s about to happen. The air is thick. You check your cell’s weather app. It advises to seek shelter in the basement.

Words can also trigger the monstrous device, words like, “I’ve been thinking…”, or, maybe it’s something like, “What were you talking to HER about?” Harmless conversation, you answer. It’s the perception, stupid. Besides, no man recalls anything he says. Women forget nothing. The past is unrecorded history to men. They are doomed to repeat it.

What causes these ‘sore subjects?’ Well, the list is long, fellows. Try taking a stroll in some of the Fields of Sore Subjects and reflect on your culpability.

Start in the Field of Selfishness. You, selfish? No way. Hold on…she’s tired of cooking, wants to dine out, but you say, “But baby, it’s Monday night football.” You just planted another mine.

Then there’s the Field of Stupid Comments. It’s a mine field sown with words of thoughtless blabber. Such drivel gushes forth without filter from the lips of men and litters the landscape with multiple sore-subject warheads.

Wander around the Field of Domestic Neglect. Say what? Domestic neglect? Homes are the domains of women, you say. You don’t do dishwasher duty, and bed-making is beneath your status. Wax the floor? You can’t be serious. Call Handy Dan. Gotta go. What’s for dinner? Sound familiar?

Now enter the Field of Never Convenient. Convenient to your schedule, that is. After all, who’s more important? Oh, you don’t say that, not out loud, you instinctively think it. You just planted five more explosives.

Over there is the Field of Wilted Flowers, also known as the Plot of Broken Promises. It once flourished with beautiful wildflowers. But now it’s a dry and dusty hardscrabble land just waiting for a match to incinerate the stubble of your empty rhetoric.

Next door is the Field of Screwball Excuses. It’s mostly a worthless rock pile of idiotic deflections, denials and artful dodges from doing mundane chores around the house. You never know under which rock a sore subject hides.

The Field of Insensitivity is a weed-choked gully of red, impermeable clay, much like the gray matter cortex in your brain. It’s the mother of all sore subjects, because nothing seeps in. It’s a replica of your alter ego.

As long as there are women, sore subjects are here to stay. Deal with it.

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The best sage advice I have is this: Figure out your own navigation system and avoid all sore subjects. Otherwise, change your address. Good luck.


Bud Hearn
November 13, 2018

Friday, November 2, 2018

Cooking Sausage


To anticipate or to possess, that’s the question. Which satisfies most?

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It’s Sunday morning, cool, high 60’s. Brilliant sunshine, slight breeze, quiet house. The Bulldog Nation is at rest, their anticipation become reality…Dawgs whip Gators. Bogey, our dog, sleeps while the sausage sizzles. Can life get better?

Yes, and No. Depends on one’s expectations. There’s a constant polarity that vacillates between these two extremes: Now and Future. Can we have it both ways? It presents a dilemma.

For this morning, at least in this very minute, it’s difficult to decide which is best…the anticipated taste of the frying pig or the momentary aroma of it cooking. It’s a tossup, but a swoon either way.

Back in high school we used to debate insolvable dilemmas, like: “Is there more pleasure in anticipation than in possession?” Such profundity is wasted on young boys who can’t even spell anticipation.

They have enough problems trying to figure out the mystery of girls. Besides, if I recall, all we possessed were the clothes on our backs. Anticipation and dreams were all we had to hold on to.

This morning Alexi plays Carly Simon’s 1971 tune, Anticipation:
Anticipation, anticipation
Is making me late,
Is keeping me waiting…

And stay right here ‘cause these are the good old days.

It stirs a quote by Dr. Frank Crane, the eminent but long-deceased theologian, on the subject: “The best part of anyone’s life is the future. It’s that which determines the quality of the present and gives significance to the past.”

I look at the steaming cup of coffee in my favorite mug and debate the generality of this comment. Maybe Dr. Crane didn’t like coffee.

So, I ask myself, “Self, which is more important at this very moment, tomorrow, or now?”

My Self, which is probably like your Self, tends to be a hedonistic spirit. It answers with this simple comment: “Use your brain, nitwit. Drink up. Tomorrow’s coffee is no good for today.” No debate here.

It seems that anticipation, as opposed to the reality of the present, is more illusionary. Perhaps even delusionary and is subject to the vicissitudes of cosmic variables impossible to compute.

Face it…we have two options to choose from when we anticipate the future: the best, or the worst. Experience tends to support the notion that neither work out as good or as bad as we imagine. The present moment, whether good or bad, is precisely what it is…no more, no less, no debate.

Suppose you just won the lottery. What to do? Money’s no problem. Live it up. Maybe travel, see the world. Anticipation of adventure soars as you book fine hotels, restaurants, first class seats.

Then the phone rings. The doctor calls. Mentions chemo. Anticipation can turn on a dime. Suddenly a hot cup of morning coffee takes on new meaning.

Everybody anticipates something. At the Lincoln Center in Manhattan this week an audience will wait in eager anticipation. They’ll join Vladimir and Estragon in eager anticipation for Godot to show. For three acts they will wait, debate and expect, but in the end, of course, Godot never shows. Life delights in dashed hopes.

Out on Main Street there’s a loud roar. Nobody’s satisfied. Anxious voices clamor for change. Vitriol overflows in the streets, fueled by the raging torrent of media assassinations. People are impatient. ‘Now’ is the operative battle cry. But not everywhere.

Somewhere a balance is brewing. Somewhere high school students continue to explore the mysteries of life, contemplate the future and anticipate a life of enormous wonder.

Somewhere “Sons and daughters will prophecy, young men will see visions and old men will dream dreams.” The future will continue to mushroom from the compost of the present.

In giving Dr. Crane some benefit of the doubt on his thesis, perhaps this is what he meant: The future lies before us, undiscovered, anxious for anticipation to flesh it out.

**********

But this Sunday morning, it’s a mute debate. Bogey and I enjoy the simultaneous fulfillment of ‘anticipation-become-possession,’ at least for the moment and until I take the last bite of the sausage.

Truly, these are the good old days, such as they are.


Bud Hearn
November 2, 2018


Thursday, October 18, 2018

Sands of Time


Time is short. Opportunity is limited. Such is the wisdom of the hourglass.

**********

An hourglass sits on the table next to my morning coffee. It has no real function except to jump-start my mental focus until the coffee takes hold of the morning. In a speechless way, it’s superior to listening to politicians spewing vitriolic voodoo on marginalized Americans.

Today I recall words from MacDonald Carey, “Like sands through the hourglass, so are the Days of our Life.” They’re the prologue of the TV episodes, Days of our Lives, which ran from 1966 to 1994. Miraculously, there’s still sand left in its hourglass. If you remember it, then your hourglass is running low on sand, too.

My mother never missed an episode of this soap opera on her 12-inch black and white TV. She’d sit with her cup of coffee or tea and allow herself to be subsumed into the lives of the actors. If you lived in a small South Georgia nowhere town, you’d find your own escape hatch from the insipid boredom of the place. Soaps are better addictions than alcohol, except at night.

Someone gave me this useless glass filled with sand. They said it provided a better meditative process than the yogic Oom’s. Plus, they said, it wouldn’t disturb the household while sitting on the floor in lotus position, clothed in a white Indian loincloth and making a fool of myself.

For portending the future, the hourglass is inferior to tarot cards, horoscopes or even fortune cookies. I once cracked open a fortune cookie in the Grand China Wall restaurant after consuming a MSG-marinated General Tso’s chicken. Bad days need clear direction. The tiny fortune inside simply read, “See Rock City.” Direction can come serendipitously from strange sources.

Today, the hourglass seems like a bad omen. I sit and watch as sands of time slip silently into the bowels of the hourglass. The sand leaves no trail but slides seamlessly through the narrow neck, settling itself into nothingness. Like time itself, it leaves no trail in its passing.

Unlike Sullivan’s theorem, ‘form follows function,’ it’s hard to say just what function an hourglass performs. It’s useless as a sand clock, unless one subscribes to the notion that it’s one of Plato’s Perfect Patterns. Never heard of his postulation?

The peripatetic philosopher’s hypothesis suggests that in the heavenly spheres there’s a perfect pattern of all things, of which on earth everything’s an imperfect replica. It’s hard to get a grip on esoterica. Plato obviously never observed Ole Miss cheer leaders, or he would have seen the flaws in his speculation. Perfection is clearly in the eye of the beholder.

There are some trivial uses of the hourglass. I once had a small but decorative one, a ten-minute timer. The glass was encased in brass. It substituted for a stopwatch for timing long-winded, charge-by-the-word lawyers and boring preachers lecturing on the wages of sin.

Some say the hourglass is helpful for redeeming the time, an unproven and half-baked concept. Whistling Dixie does a better job. And if you think resurrection is possible in this body, remember, Cryonics is still a work in progress. I doubt we’ll see Stalin or Mao rise from their glass encasements any time soon.

I feel some remorse for the hourglass. It’s become mostly irrelevant in this technological age. It’s still good for timing 3-minute eggs. It was formerly good for describing the bodily shapes of peoples. But alas, even this use has run its course. American physiques are now mostly best described by the shape of fruit, particularly pears.

Perhaps the best use for the hourglass is in setting the mood for some figurative or poetic metaphor. Unfortunately, the sand has run out on writing this moronic post. Dream up your own.

**********

In the cosmic scheme of things, Time, if it exists at all, is measured by eons and not by grains of sand. As for us, well, it’s still dust unto dust…and it’s always later than we think.


Bud Hearn
October 18, 2018

Thursday, October 11, 2018

On the Habits of Men


It’s an idea whose time has come. But who has nerve to write it? Clearly, only someone with a reputation of questionable repute. Some men will sink low to rise high.

**********

It begins a few weeks ago as a tongue-in-cheek dialogue with my newspaper editor. Journalism requires balance. I learned this from the online Taught by Trump method. She puts both her job and the fortunes of her fish-wrapper newspaper on the line by accepting this scalding topic. Here’s how the conversation goes.

I suggest the title. She laughs hysterically at such absurdity. I tell her it could be her breakthrough, a career maker for her. She laughs even harder. She knows hacks when she hears one.

Who could possibly be offended?” I ask.

She stops laughing. I seize the opportunity to slide in the obvious, “Certainly not women. They’ve endured men’s foul habits for ages. Besides, men don’t read. They prefer photographs.”

She asks about credible research material and copious annotations. I sidestep the questions. No writer reveals their sources. I want to tell her I studied the characteristics of mules for similarities, but she’s in no mood for levity, despite the significant parallels.

She pushes the issue. I demur. She’s relentless. I capitulate. “Friends in low places,” I tell her. “But I’m not naming names.” Autobiographical data needs disguising. She wants more information.

“I need examples of this cockamamie thesis,” she murmurs. “In my experience men’s traits fit into four distinct categories: Ignorance, Stupidity, Annoying and Disgusting. Which category is your basis?” Her assessment is harsh, true as it may be.

I admit men do have their idiosyncrasies. Eyesight for one. I tell her of this guy who never saw his birthday present--a grand piano--sitting in his living room. His wife had to point it out. “Typical, but boring,” she says.

I dig deeper into the data bag, pull out the one where men are like little boys who often pout in attempt to justify their infantile actions. Her ears perk up. “Specifics,” she demands.

Simple. Men always have important meetings. Making up beds is not one.” She wants me to define ‘important.’ “Does coffee at Starbucks count?” She’s not amused.

“Here’re a couple for you,” I say. “What man doesn’t have the primal ‘fear of dishwasher-unloading’? Or, shading the truth of their whereabouts? Significant hyperbole hides in these rituals”

“Go on, I’m listening,” she says with resignation.

I sling her a zinger about a fellow who has the bed-time habits of a barbarian. I hit a nerve. Cave men content sells publications. “Explain,” she says.

I set the scene. “His wife’s asleep, right? He comes in, fluffs the feathers of three pillows and bounces onto the bed. The mattress becomes a catapult. His sleeping spouse goes airborne.”

Finally she smiles. “I want to meet this savage,” she says. “Anyone as stupid as this is a cover story. But I need more.”

“Easy,” I say. “I’ll bet even your father never read an expiration date on foods, and ate Ben and Jerry’s out of the container. He probably even drank orange juice right from the bottle, correct?” I explain it’s a covert male nocturnal proclivity. I leave out the part where they never bother to wipe off the lid.

Gross,” she says, “a disgusting trait.”

You want more?” I ask. “I’m just getting wound up.”

She pushes back in her chair. “OK, I’m intrigued, but what’s the article’s hidden theme?” I’m trapped. With editors, intuition is a finely-tuned antenna.

I come clean. “OK, it’s a ruse. The surreptitious theme is that women have concocted a vast, feminist conspiracy to discredit men. They’ve set men up for failure.”

Ludicrous,” she says.

I say, “They ask questions, like, do you like my new haircut? Or, do I look frumpy in this new dress? There are no right answers to these questions. Do you agree?”

No comment,” she says, grinning.

Otherwise, then what do you think about the article?” I ask.

She pauses. After a long moment of silence she resurrects an Abe Lincoln quote, “Your thesis is about as thin as the homeopathic soup that was made by boiling the shadow of a pigeon that had starved to death.”

**********

Alas, gentlemen, it’s sad but true…women still rule in the affairs of men. A future Weakly Post might include a subjugated man’s recipe for shadow-of-pigeon soup.


Bud Hearn
October 11, 2018

Friday, October 5, 2018

Getting Your Own Switch


The loneliest walk of your life—to get your own switch.” Richard Pryor

**********

I suppose relating to such a quote would depend on where and when one spent their youth. Perhaps it would apply mostly to little boys running around in their short pants, creating mischief with less brain power than a gnat. Now they’re wearing long pants with little change in the cognitive cortex.

We’re living in an era of where trauma of the past is being recalled and exposed publicly. I’m joining the #MeToo movement and exposing a lingering ordeal of my own. I need relief, too.

So here it is, my mea culpa: I admit to having been sent to retrieve my own switch for high crimes and tantrums committed in my youth. There, now…out and public. Free at last. Funny how relief follows confession, huh?

In my home, punishments were meted out according to the severity of the infraction. The House Ways and Means Committee was the ruling tribunal. It consisted of two members, my mother and father. In that order. Judge, jury and executioner

The administering of the remuneration for the transgression was decided by the severity of the delinquency…and the means was either a switch or a belt. I remember both. So do my legs. Flesh has vivid memories of some things.

Not to cast dispersion on anyone’s recollections, every detail of trauma is impossible to recall. Evidence fades faster than a morning fog, and verbal credibility, even with tears, is suspect. Simply ‘believing’ won’t get it.

But I can remember the first time I had to go choose my switch. It was a long walk in the back yard looking for a weapon of mass annihilation adequate for my penalty.

Seen today, the violation was minor. I just shoved my brother down for no good reason except out of pure meanness. Meanness is inbred in boys. Switches are preparatory means of driving the demon far from them.

In my case, Sunday School failed in the finer points of drilling the concept of ‘brotherly love’ into my head at the age of seven. The ‘he said, he said’ cross-examinations provided no credible or empirical evidence for a balanced view. The decision for the crime was based solely on size, and I was the biggest. Guilty as charged.

So, mama grabs me by the arm while I dance wildly, a futile attempt to avoid the sting of the switch. My little brother smirks, gloats and sticks his tongue out. My eyes lacerate him. “You’ll get yours,” they say. Afterwards I pout and slink off to assuage the humiliation. Mama’s lemonade later reconciles the disgrace. Ordeal over, life moves on.

Now the House Ways and Means Committee’s methods of reparations followed the legal theory that punishment is meted out to fit the crime. The Means escalates with age as boy’s brains mature to that of a fly.

At a certain age boys no longer learn from switches and belts. It takes something more substantial to get their attention. Like large, 2” x 4” wooden paddles with holes bored into them for effect. High school principals didn’t ask for evidence, or care who was at fault…everybody bent over the desk and received adequate recompense of reward for their transgressions.

In time parents soon run out of options, left with only the denial of perks for reparations, horrible things like denying use of the car for nocturnal visits with girls to the drive-in theater. Which borders on a virtual death sentence to teenage boys. I still see my father now, standing in the door, dangling the car keys and grinning. Such torture qualities for cruel and unusual punishment.

Meanwhile, Life keeps writing new rules, collecting its tolls, handing out its citations and exacting its fines for infractions small and large. All equations are reconciled, sooner or later. Optics, perceptions, facts and all equivocations fall into proper place, and social equilibrium is achieved whether we like its resolution or not. Keep your cash, buying Indulgences won’t provide absolution.

When it’s all said and done, Life is gonna make the ultimate decision on the outcome of everything. There’ll be no rebuttals about evidence for the final judgment. Because the Great Tribunal has the last say.

**********

Getting our own switch was once traumatic. It will seem like child’s play when the final verdict is rendered. After all, a switch in time saves nine.


Friday, September 28, 2018

Just Plain Luck


“Hey if it wasn’t for bad luck y’all, Oh, I wouldn’t have no luck at all.” Ray Charles

**********

I’ve been thinking about luck while sitting around nursing a gimpy leg from too much weed pulling. I’m having a conference with myself…the kind that leads nowhere but to muddled confusion.

In my misery of immobility I’m left with only philosophic analytics to arrive at some standard of comparison that distinguishes good luck from bad luck. I purposely avoid interjecting the Providential aspect into the discussion. But I’m leery. The sign on that door says, “Knock gently.

So far, I’ve concluded that luck can go either way, a cosmic tossup between the two extremes. Here’s my logic:

For example, my condition could be seen as a byproduct of luck, not work, either good and bad. Good in that I won’t need amputation of the leg to alleviate the pain, but bad because I will miss a beach walk. So, who can say which adjective best describes this situation? The conundrum baffles the mind.

There are all sorts of luck. Some swirls in the air we breathe, others in the things we do. Luck’s everywhere. What would it look like if we could see it? We wouldn’t recognize it, I’m sure. It comes dressed in disguise. It slips in silently, does its work and leaves. Most of us would mistake it for something it’s not. Like opportunity, which often comes dressed in overalls.

We use other adjectives to describe what’s indescribable. Like ‘dumb’ luck. What does this mean? Is luck so random we call it stupid? Or is it simply silent and mute? You have to look closely to find luck.

And what’s ‘blind’ luck all about? If Ray Charles were still around we could ask his opinion. He wrote and sang:

Tell ya a slow horse and a fast woman
Hey, hey, hey lord they sure did let me fall
That’s why I say, ah…
Hey if it wasn’t for bad luck y’all
Oh! I wouldn’t have no luck at all.

But now y’all, to lose your sight at age 7, what would that look like: good luck or bad? But what happened? He learned piano by the braille system, one hand at a time, got famous and left a legacy. One might conclude that luck and hard work are inseparable. Luck always needs the long view, not the short one.

I had a wonderful mother, lucky me. But was the obverse true? She shoved me out of the door for piano lessons as a kid. No kid at 10 wants to spend afternoons running scales on a piano when they could be bike riding or shooting marbles. What was bad luck for me then has been good luck for 65 years. I wish I could tell her that now.

Now I don’t admit to being a musical prodigy like Ray, a fact that was obvious when I picked up the violin at age 72. My audience was the dog who howled every time the bow stroked the strings; and the outside flowers wilted in bitter protest. Luck didn’t follow me here.

We use the term, ‘lady luck’ as if women were the personification of fortune. Which, in staying with my thesis, could be classified as either good or bad luck. A lot of life is a matter of perspective. But most men have had both sides of luck where women are concerned. Such experiences are private matters, unless you are nominated for the Supreme Court.

Is it possible to recognize luck? Perhaps. But typically not at the moment. It usually smiles or frowns on us down the road when we look back. How lucky are we to have married well, or to have chosen the perfect business, amiable friends and good health?

Is there such a thing as ‘average’ luck? Probably yes, simply because it’s taken for granted. I think breathing might be one of these under-valued benefits, not to mention children and certainly cinnamon toast in the morning. The list is long.

We’re all going to get lucky today. But the sign on the road out of Eden reminds us that luck can go both ways. Which will it be today? We’ll find out soon enough.

**********

Just plain luck? You decide. But maybe a better description for being lucky is being blessed.


Bud Hearn
September 28, 2018

Friday, September 21, 2018

Good People


He’s good people.”

Maybe it’s not the best English, but you’ve heard it said this way if you grew up in almost any small town in the South. And you know what it means.

**********

Terry Toole is owner and publisher of my weekly hometown newspaper, The Miller County Liberal. He graciously publishes my Weakly Post along with all the other news of the good and not so good people of Colquitt and Miller County, Georgia.

Now don’t let the word ‘Liberal’ fool you. The paper leans about as far to the right as a pine sapling after an encounter with a tornado. It’s the kind of paper that will step on your toes, look you in the eye and say it to your face: “Pull for Colquitt or pull out.” Straight talk.

Terry also writes a weekly column, Up the Creek without a Paddle, and we share opposite pages of the paper. He’s on 6, I’m on 7. We’re sandwiched in after the obituaries and the fishing report. Our respective positions are sort of like sitting across the aisle from one another in the Colquitt United Methodist Church. Separate but equally committed to newsworthy journalism.

Metaphorical aisles of separation are everywhere in small towns. Opinions differ in matters of religion as well as ideology of any sort. In small towns, politics will separate friends and families as surely as Jesus separates sheep from goats, and county lines will guarantee there’s no consensus on which high school has the best football team.

A couple of weeks ago Terry wrote an article about his frantic weekend schedule of balancing his time between attending birthdays of the aged and the funerals of others. He went to all of them. Why? Because he’s ‘good people’ and lives among the ‘good people’ crowd.

Think about it…just two words describe the essence of folks. Make no mistake, South Georgia folks are born talkers, never at a loss of words. In spite of the brevity of the description, it’s quite adequate. Like hearing, “He’s a character.” Now, just what is a ‘character?’ Clearly it’s a catch-all word used when someone defies description…it says everything and nothing at the same time.

The ‘good people,’ who are they? They’re like my aunt. She was ‘good people,’ born that way. Not a mean bone in her body. Helped everybody. Unlike some others in our family, and maybe yours, who might have started with ‘good people’ genes, just maybe not all over, but surely in spots if you look close enough.

Except one of my distant cousins who tainted the family name. He wasn’t ‘bad people,’ just bad to cuss, especially when the subject of his third ex-wife’s name came up. And he was prone to prevaricate with flair and hyperbole when reciting fishing exploits with his best friend, Jim Beam. He was ‘good people,’ just slid a little sideways.

In small towns you won’t hear much about ‘bad people,’ just degrees of ‘good people.’ And if you do, it will be whispered. But if you were a fly on the pound cake in somebody’s house after Sunday night’s prayer meeting, you might hear of who was really bad. But come Monday, they will have miraculously become ‘good people’ once again, bless their hearts.

At a certain age funerals tend to replace baby showers. You go, pay your respects to the deceased’s family and cast a last look at the departed. You find yourself saying, like others, “They did a good job, looks just like him.” And you keep the cliché going, “He was good people.”

Personally, I’m glad to have grown up in a small town where the middle line between good and bad is not even gray, but razor thin. Nobody gets away with much very long. Small towns are the sole arbiters of their own truths, values and traditions. You walk a straight line and often on egg shells.

But in the end it really won’t matter which side of the aisle we sat on, or which pew we occupied. For when the eulogies are said, the last tears fallen, and the first clod of red clay hits the lid, what could be a more appropriate closure of the procession than hearing folks say, “He was good people.”

**********

While not elaborate, it pretty much sums it all up without saying too much, or too little, but just enough.


Bud Hearn
September 21, 2018

Thursday, September 13, 2018

The September Spirit of Christmas


It’s an afternoon in August when my editor’s note arrives. It’s terse: “Article deadline, September 10th. Theme, Spirit of Christmas. Don’t make me hound you for it.”

I read it again. Christmas already? Is the North Pole melting and has Santa contracted with Amazon for delivery this year? I shake my head in disbelief. Jumping the gun is an understatement

As for being ‘hounded,’ it’s certainly an apt description for the late-summer howling of Dog Days. So, I do what comes natural…procrastinate till the last minute, hoping some epiphany will miraculously emerge to conjure up an idea of the Spirit of Christmas in September.

Right now my spirit is resting comfortably on the back porch with a deadline looming, the fan whirring and sweat pouring. My mind is an empty vessel.

Christmas thoughts today offer less excitement than Florence, this year’s hurricane. Plus, the pumpkin patch still needs picking and the ghosts of Halloween are yet to howl. Not to mention the Georgia-Florida football classic. There’ll be a lot of spirits and howling on East Beach for sure.

I add ice to my iced tea and give serious thought of how to summons the Spirit of Christmas from its slumber. First thing is to wake up Burl Ives and Bing Crosby for their Holly Jolly and White Christmas carols. Nothing sells until these guys start singing.

Unfortunately, I find that these heralds of shopping-mall Christmases have been sent for a cosmetic touchup before being rolled out. So much for that idea. The Spirit sleeps on. What now?

Meanwhile, the deadline ticks. I fidget while the Spirit snoozes. Force of will cannot wake up a napping spirit any more than it can hurry or delay a deadline.

Christmas comes like the ticking of a grandfather clock. The suspense builds in the seconds, arrives at the chime. Then amid the mess of gift wrappings the seconds still tick on and the Spirit eases out.

Who can forget Christmases past? Each one had its own special essence, all of which seem to blend into a consensus of joy, remembered even in September. So I sort through a few photograph albums (yes, there was a time when Kodak actually printed photos) in hopes of reviving the Spirit from all the memories. It works.

Just what is it that produces the Spirit of Christmas anyway? Sufficiently spiked eggnog helps, but why is this date, this deadline and the buildup to it filled with so much energy? It clearly has its own purpose of remaining dormant until its appointed time. Like the old wine advertisement, “We sell no wine before its time.” Advents arrive on their own time, just like hurricanes.

The ice melts in my tea and I lose all sense of time while browsing through the photographs. Something is stirring in them. Could the Spirit actually be waking up?

Ah, here’s a picture of Sophie, our first Westie puppy, delivered at Christmas. She rips through the discarded gift wrappings like a tiny white tornado. The spirit of laughter overwhelms us. Even though she’s now buried in our front yard, her spirit remains.

Oh, look at this one. It’s me, lying under a collapsed, 14-foot Blue Spruce tree. Seems we underestimated the tree stand. It was ultimately lashed to the door handle. Happy spirits are found in laughter.

I’m soon captured by the spirits of these past Christmases and ignore heat, deadlines, Florence, Halloween and football. The Spirit of Christmas has simply been hiding all along, sleeping silently amid the pages of this photo album, and I didn’t know it.

Even today the Christmas deadline is slowly ticking away. It’ll arrive soon enough, right on time and the waiting will be over. It will bring its own spirit of the season and with it screams of joy and surprise will come from new voices as they blend with the old.

The buildup of the season of joy will bring Burl, Bing and Elvis along with it. While the deadline will come and go, the memories will always remain, endued with their own special meanings.

The Spirit of Christmas is just not that hard to find. Even in September.


Bud Hearn
All Rights Reserved
September 13, 2018

Friday, August 31, 2018

Potpourri of Inconsequential Hokum


Life and ideas are like an urn of potpourri filled with dried petals of flowers past. Things bloom, then die, leaving their brief trails of essence. My notebooks are urns filled with short-lived ideas that bloomed but had shallow root. The least I can do is give them honorable mention that they once lived.

We’re Nothing Much.

Of course I don’t mean that literally, just relatively. Consider how many hominids have occupied this planet before we showed up. I wondered, so I did a little research.

The tribal numbering system stopped when Moses passed on. So we can only speculate. The age of Earth is reckoned to be about 4.5 billion years old. According to Carl Sagan, it’s just a “mote of dust, suspended in a sunbeam,” hanging out in a Universe that’s estimated to be 13.7 billion years old. That’s perspective.

A lot of weirdness happens here. The Hun is gone, Trump will be, too. But humans keep showing up. Archeology digs suggest that hominids have existed here somewhere between 6-7 million years. After this generation, Vegas will offer no odds on another 6 million years.

Put into perspective, the Earth’s total population is estimated to have been about 107 billion people, past and present. So, let’s close this loop. Go look in the mirror and say to yourself, “Self, who am I?” Then go have a drink and celebrate breath.

The Crab Nebula.

The Crab Nebula is way out there in the universe, so far, in fact, that even light years do a poor job of defining the distance. Some people are like The Crab, virtually obsolete by being detached light years from reality. Some are Republicans, many are Democrats.

Mr. Crab is a supernova of the constellation of Taurus. It’s in the Milky Way, a galaxy that contains our Solar System. I used to think the Milky Way was named for my favorite candy bar by the same name, the finest product of another solar company, Mars Candy. But alas, truth spoiled my felicitous relationship with Milky Way.

Anyway, the Crab is in the constant process of exploding, sending out pulses of radiation of ionized but neutral gas, none of which has any effect on earth. Politicians continue to explode neutral gas that has no effect on anything, either on earth or in the solar system. Can you name one?

Taking Things as They Come.

This is pretty good philosophy. I ran across it one day when browsing around the Habitat for Humanity book store where treasures of wisdom lie buried on the dusty shelves of seldom-read words.

Getting lost occasionally is healthy. Many have been lost for years without recognizing it. I’ve never been lost but often confused. Anyway, for $.25 cents you can find books full of words that have never had eyes laid on them. I feel sorry for such words. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to get them from their brain to a page. And here they lie, languishing silently in hopes of discovery.

I flip open a crinkled, yellowed-page tome that was so mellow it oozed Zen and lulled me into a swoon. It was a Taoist book of philosophy. Intrigued, I read all about The Dao, in Buddhism known as ‘The Way,’ the essence of which I learned to be the importance of ‘effortless action.’

Now this is a concept I can wholeheartedly support, and have done so for years. I bear no grudge against anyone with a contrary life ethic, but just simply ‘acting naturally’ is real freedom, a blessing to some, a curse to others.

It Could Be Worse.

You bet it could, everything can. Anytime. But keeping the right perspective is essential.

Now we’re all having dinner one night and the subject of ‘naked’ comes up. Such subjects have side effects, depending on the number of empty wine bottles scattered around. Tonight the table laughs.

After a few recollections, someone hooks the word ‘mirror’ to ‘naked’ and says, “First thoughts.” Silence is loud sometimes. Then someone pops off, “Hey, it could be worse.

Now friends, this is an attitude that can look life in the eye and laugh. After all, if life weren’t so serious, it’d be a joke.

**********

My notebook’s full of potpourri yet to air. Maybe these petals will resurrect as candles on the next go-around.


Bud Hearn
August 31, 2018



Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Fitting In



We have a new dog. I’m teaching him the finer points of fitting into polite society. It might be easier to teach him to walk on water. I’m over my head either way.

His name is Bogey. He’s a hound, thinks he’s human. He rebelled at some other names. Humphrey didn’t suit him, and he howled at Bildad. Claims that a fellow can’t get on in this world without a catchy name. Smart dog.

He’s not an average dog, but who is? I’m not, are you? He’s a ‘rescue dog’ from the Humane Society. What we salvaged him from he won’t say, just that he’s a liberated dog, a rebel with one cause: chaos.

He came with no papers, no pedigree and apparently no pretense. He just showed up one day, like all of us. Advents are like lotteries…there are winners and losers. You never know which until you scratch the surface.

Being liberated is a pretty good philosophy. Gives a fellow license to roam and dig in whatever dirt he wants. Free-thinkers cut a wide swath. It might be easier to grease a camel through the eye of a needle than to shove a free-spirit dog, or person, into a box.

His first lesson involved the harness. It’s supposed to control him better on walks. I tell him everyone wears some sort of harness. It keeps us in line. He doesn’t buy it. On first try he taught my arm the real meaning clawing and gnashing. How’s your harness working out?

I explain to him that conformity is essential in order to maintain cordial relationships. He debates the issue, but let’s me bribe him with red meat treats. I might have had a better go of conformity in my youth if the diet had been more than parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.

After a few weeks he wants to have a consult. Says trying to be human isn’t working and that he’s hearing voices inside. Says they argue. I ask him what they’re saying.

One voice says, Keep trying, fit in, imitate, under the radar.” He says the other one disputes, “Be yourself, be original, live big.”

He doesn’t know which to believe. Says he feels like a yoyo in the middle of a civil war where nobody ever wins. I tell him this is decidedly a human trait. And that he’s right: nobody ever gets total victory. He rolls over and snores.

He wants to know about burying bones. I tell him nobody likes dogs that dig up someone else’s dirty bones. I tell him to remember, “What’s buried stay’s buried.” Most bones have enough dirt on them to ruin any appetite.

He needs to know that in our neighborhood it’s best if we ‘know our place.’ That’s not a dog concept he tells me. I explain to him the theory of someone being ‘too big for their breeches.’ He’s young but will soon learn labels are easy to get, hard to get rid of.

Looks matter, I say, and dogs are often recognized by their hair coloring as they are their collars. I ask him his preference. He says he’s good with the groomer’s bandanas, although they’re a small consolation for the suffering inflicted by nail trimming.

I tell him that some highbrow dogs, like people, are more discerning about their collars and prefer the latest fashions designed by Gucci or Barkbox. But I remind him that collars don’t define a dog any more than clothes define people. Some folks haven’t learned that yet. He ‘amen’s’ this and lets go an aloof howl.

Bogey has a short attention span, so he has a bag of toys. Costs a fortune to keep him focused. He’s not too hung up on size, type or cost. A wad of newspapers works just fine. Otherwise monotony will feed on itself and my arm along with it.

Toys are good, I tell him. Humans have lots of them. They tend to keep boredom at bay. He slings me a zinger, asking what’s in my bag of toys. I ask, “What’s in yours?” Cost is a relative term.

And on it goes. I guess it’s a little too much to expect a dog’s total compliance in this ‘look-alike, fit-in’ world. Humans have the same problem. We should remember, ‘Oh, the prison of perfection, the freedom of just good enough.’

**********

Bogey is a dog and he’s gonna fit in. Says to tell you, “Here’s looking at you kid.”


Bud Hearn
August 22, 2018

Friday, August 10, 2018

The End Slices



It’s another Dog Days Saturday in Dixie. Anybody living in the humidity-soaked South knows what this means. Sweat.

I’ve been validating this thesis on the back porch, assigned to an ‘attitude evaluation project.’ Women validate their own thesis: men need remedial adjustments early and often. Today is mine.

The project is assembling new porch furniture. It’s shows up disguised in a Gordian array of disassembled parts, each numbered for reference and arriving in boxes large enough to bury a Sumo wrestler. I consider hiding in one to see if anyone notices.

I never ask, “Why not buy this already assembled?” Her answer is obvious: “It’s cheaper and besides, they deliver it to your door.”

There’s a downside to home delivery of disassembled products. You must take valuable time away from pleasurable pursuits. Today I’m testing the validity of the “it’s cheaper” concept, aided by Allen wrenches and screws large enough to rivet together Boeing 727 fuselages.

I writhe on the floor beneath a chair making quarter-inch twists with the sharp, diabolical little wrenches. Not only does my attitude suffer, but so do my knuckles. Neither finds joy in this process.

After long, sweaty hours of ‘evaluation adjustments,’ my ego has made noticeable progress, humbled by the minutia of assembly. I notice the chairs are manufactured in Viet Nam. Revenge comes in many forms.

The labor has aroused a powerful hunger, an urge that needs no adjustment. A mild sense of joy pats my back as I admire the handiwork. Happiness is short-lived, for ‘projects’ never end. Which accounts for the proliferation of golf. Hiding out on the greens has benefits.

My hunger and I have been fantasizing about the thinly-sliced, rare roast beef waiting in the refrigerator. We take out the last of the Durkee’s, the mayo, the mustard, the end slices of kosher dills, lettuce, tomato and cheese. We’re ready. Now the bread.

We open the bread basket. Arnold’s whole wheat loaf waits. I open it. Instantly I know my attitude is going to need more ‘evaluation’ after this. Waiting inside were two solitary slices of bread…the end slices. You know what my first response was. Verbal, out loud. Same as yours. Not necessarily one describing a condiment suitable to savor fine roast beef.

Who would do such a stupid thing?” I say out loud to no one listening.

Sanity quickly returns. A blameless saint I am not, and only reluctantly repentant of my own habits of hypocrisy. Every man finds ways to justify his own particular follies.

Hunger and I assess the situation. We slather up the rejects, toast them and make-do. My mind pictures the head of the perpetrator sandwiched between these cast-off scrap slices, marinating with the mayo, the roast beef and kosher dills. I soon dismiss the thought, knowing it would be a profligate waste of good beef and cucumbers.

I consider the plight of these pitiful, reviled end slices. It’s kind of like life. Nobody, not even dough, wants to be an end slice of anything, despised and heartlessly discarded as revolting. Life in the middle of the loaf is soft and dainty, sliced especially for the banquet table. Not so the end slices. If they were human, they’d be wearing overalls; the rest would be clothed in fine linen and tuxedos.

But alas, we’re not all going to be part of that good life. Fate has its own bag of tricks, and somebody always has to take the heat for the team. The furnace fires of affliction are no respecter of persons or bread.

If these end scraps could speak, would they thank us for giving them the last measure of respect before the green mold gobbles their crusty remnants?

I doubt if vengeance is in their mixture, but maybe they would appreciate some small measure of recompense to the heartless culprits who cast them to the compost pile.

Fairness in life and in loaves often requires requiting tit for tat, measure for measure, a slice for a slice, so to speak. So I take the end-slice’s protest and shove an empty bread wrapper back in the basket. Its message will soon be heard.

In preparation for it I dust off the proper response when someone shrieks, “Who is stupid enough to…”

The end slices and I will gloat with pleasure when answering, “Does ‘Not Me’ still live here?” Things will get sliced up soon.

Good luck with your slices, whichever they are.


Bud Hearn
August 10, 2018

Tuesday, July 24, 2018

Live Dangerously, Ask a Local


Well, we’re finally here, our very first visit. Is it a dream come true? We’re going to do our best to make it come alive.

We sorted through travel guides until one snagged us. It promised: ‘Just what you’re looking for.’ We fell for it. We’ll soon find out.

Forget that we’re bone tired and travel weary. We bought the ticket, took the ride and showed up. Now what? Adventure, that’s what. We won’t be denied.

It’s been a while since we took off, heading out, exploring somewhere new. We need fresh memories; the old ones are worn and withered. We’re planning to one-up relatives and friends with our own photographic show-and-tell and exotic spin on the ‘we’ve-been-there’ stories.

No time to waste, the nap will have to wait. Excitement is out there, not inside, a story of intrigue around every corner just waiting for us. Let’s do it.

Where do we start? Everything’s new, and with our tight budget and time constraint, we have to make the most of it. No down time for us. We’ve read and memorized the travel guides, researched the internet, dog-eared Rick Steve’s ‘been-everywhere’ guide, so what’s left to do?

Ask locals, that’s what. We know from experience that only the locals know where the best-kept secrets are hidden. Every place has them. Our job is to find the right local to ask.

We venture out, need a little time to think, to plan our route. Coffee, a snack, that’s where we start. We disguise the travel guides, hiding them inside a local newspaper. Nobody in their right mind wants to look like a clueless tourist wandering aimlessly around studying street maps and reading an AARP magazine for ideas. We’ve made that mistake too often.

We study the landscape, look for a local to engage. They know the intimate secrets of their environs. It’s OK to read Travel and Leisure, to get an idea of last year’s ‘big picture;’ everyone does this. But not us, we’re looking for the tiny, hidden tidbits of travel, the out-of-the way gems that make trips memorable.

Now you have to be circumspect about local advice. It’s not necessarily of the same quality; some is better quality than others, and you’ll never know until later. Some things are learned the hard way. Like that Sunday in Carlsbad, New Mexico when the truck broke down.

The auto parts clerk seemed friendly enough when referring us to his uncle, a shade-tree mechanic who suggested replacing the entire engine. It seemed somewhat suspect. The whole thing seemed fishy from the start. The next day the Chevy dealer fixed the problem with a fan belt.

Then there was this time in New Orleans when we asked a local-looking fellow on Bourbon Street for directions. We ended up in a voodoo emporium at the end of a dead-end bayou that smelled like last year’s low country boil. It pays to be circumspect when choosing a local to ask.

Proper idiomatic use of adjectives is advisable when asking for advice. Some words don’t quite resonate with locals. Take the time in Istanbul when we asked the concierge for a ‘quaint’ French restaurant. Quaint and French are not in the Turkish vocabulary. The only thing French was the waiter with a blue beret.

Traveling makes everyone hungry, and we are always looking for that special, out-of-the-way place. The kind of place where the owners join you at the table, bring lavish portions and share their aged wine. Things like that. But after the experience in Charleston, be suspicious when any local sends you to a place called ‘Mama’s Home Cooking.’ You’ll be the only turkey that gets cooked.

And never ask a substitute hotel concierge anything, especially their idea of fine dining. That was in Las Vegas where we ended up in a dive with red flocked wallpaper and velvet pictures of Elvis and Sinatra hanging on the walls. Imagine, in all of Las Vegas, we get the classic brother-in-law referral.

Still in all, without local advice we’d never have experienced the Moroccan rug merchant’s shakedown, the curio shop showcasing bone fragments from John the Baptist, a museum with medieval torture devices or the chance encounter with Mick Jagger.

It boils down to the luck of the draw when asking for local advice. But travel is not the same without it. So, if you’re looking for adventure, ask a local and don’t look back.


Bud Hearn
July 24, 2018

Monday, July 23, 2018

Chewing the Fat


Some idioms never die for good reason. This is one of those.

**********

We sit here, four of us, jawboning about nothing much; no wives, no wireless and no worries. We’re just waiting until it’s time for the real thing.

We have abandoned the tyranny of urgent, the Trumpian tweets and the daily dose of our own get-in-the-way details. We’re just passing the time, shooting the breeze of idle chatter, drifting this way and that like a rudderless old dingy going nowhere. It will be time soon enough.

Such laid-back convocations don’t happen often enough. Culture has tainted the concept, defining it as ‘wasting time.’ It was such stupidity that did away with front-porch rockers. Inane TV programming is its replacement.

No group is comfortable with silence. It makes the air heavy. So our tongues soon begin to wag, beating the air with something, anything. Usually a joke. You know the kind, the ones where the laugh meter is flat-lined and the only comments are an assault on the jokester’s character.

Such is the way with men—find one chink in the armor of defense and mount a vigorous assault. All in fun, of course. It has a way of breaking up the logjam of banal banter so what’s really important will float to the surface. And today, everyone’s licking their lips in anticipation.

Men with time on their hands find a lot to discuss. Dogs are good subjects. A man can remember more details about the life of his dog than he can about anything else, except maybe his embellished and highly-polished collegiate exploits. Some memories, like idioms, never die; they’re embalmed with hyperbole and entombed in caricature.

The list of open-forum ideas is endless, ranging from motorcycles to mud wrestling, cars to football, aches and pains flesh is heir to, which body parts work, which don’t. Then there’s golf. I dismiss the golf subject summarily, because first of all, it’s my office we’re in, and more importantly, golf is horribly boring. Plus, it’s the source all the world’s boredom.

I suggest a discussion on ‘nomophobia,’ the fear of not being connected to the world by cell phone. It gets nowhere. I then offer up something creative, like ‘first thoughts.’ Someone asks, “Is it time to go yet?

Then someone else mentions ‘politics.’ Opinions fly, vitriol spurts, no holds barred, character is assassinated and consensus is out of the question. Turmoil ensues.

Another one pipes up, “Ok, ‘first kiss.” That hits a nerve. A thoughtful peace permeates the place. We’re all thinking: with whom, when, where?

I knew right off, like it was yesterday. I break the silence. “My grandmother,” I blurt out. “Her kiss had the distinct taste of Tums.”

Instantly my armor is pierced; I’m attacked from all sides. “Explains why you went sideways,” says one. “Still are,” chimes in another. The last one shoves the dagger in deeper, “Probably the best you could do.”

I’m tempted to mention my second experience but after the beating I just took, I think the better of it. Still, it’s pleasant to recall it. It happened on a Saturday afternoon during a Roy Rogers matinee. It was the first time my tongue touched someone else’s. But not the last. But I let it slide.

Everyone it seems has similar first experiences with the ‘kissing’ subject and nobody was talking much about any subsequent ones. Everyone knows that kisses are doors to boudoirs, and tongues have uses other than talking. It’s a personal but sacrosanct subject.

A lively debate centers on who first recorded “Blue Suede Shoes.” One says Chuck Berry, a totally unintelligent response. Another swears it was Elvis. Close, but no cigar. Even one suggests it was Jerry Lee. But since I have a pair of them, I knew: Carl Perkins.

Tongue-wagging has time limits. The end of ‘shootin’ the bull’ is at hand when bathroom breaks break up the continuity. Besides, we were all glued to our wrist watches now. The time to go had almost arrived.

Finally, someone yells, “Time to go, boys.” Nobody needs prodding. A resounding “Yes” rings the final bell. We’d run off at the mouth enough. Besides, we all had something more important on our mind the whole time.

**********

So off we go, drawn to what’s called in the South a ‘sho-nuff’ opportunity to chew the fat off of some smoked BBQ pork ribs.



Bud Hearn
July 23, 2018





Friday, July 13, 2018

Take Another Bite of the Apple


It’s Friday the 13th, strange things can happen.

Clouds swirl, thick and dark. Lightning flashes, thunder rumbles, rocks split. Stars fall, the moon melts, the sun sets. The Voice roars, “Enough is enough.” Holy Wrath fills the universe.

**********

Moses is jolted from sleep, traumatized by recurring dreams of frog plagues. The Voice shouts, “Moses, get over here…you’re going back!”

He wants to argue, “Hey, I’m old now. I did my time down there. Besides…” His words freeze in celestial mid-air. Mt. Sinai comes to mind. He trembles. Nobody argues with The Voice.

He hustles over to the Big House with his Starbucks Grande iced latte without a straw, straws now being banned as lethal devices.

What’s up, Boss?” he asks.

“It’s Babel redux. They’re never satisfied. They cracked the digital code and discovered the GPS mystery. Demons are pouring out of hell’s gates. The ‘smart phone’ is usurping my authority. Prayer requests have stopped; tithes are down; fewer recruits for the Zion choir. Computers are making a mockery of my authority.” The Divine Utterance breathes fire.

“Chief, who am I? Just an old man. I’ll be ridiculed. Send those reprobate twins, Manny and Levi. They need a genuine dose of repentance,” Moses pleads.

The Voice replies, “Those uncircumcised infidels? The ones who substituted bacon for kosher franks on Passover? Those backsliders will skin snakes until contrition sets in. No, you’re the man. Take your brother, Stanley. He likes to talk. Find out what’s going on.”

(A few days later)

Stanley, hey, the Meat Packing District sure has changed. No more bootleg bacon from Jersey, just condos, restaurants and robots walking around gazing at gadgets held in their hands.”

Stanley replies, “Weird, brother. Not like the old days. Say, look at this store. Sign says ‘Apple.’ The bite is still missing. I thought that issue was settled a long time ago.”

Careful,” says Moses. “The Trickster is listening. Remember what happened with Adam? He got foreclosed, lost his garden paradise. Let’s go in and check it out.”

A clerk with gold chains, ink and an ear phone grabs Moses, shakes him. “Want to buy a smart phone, pal? On sale, half off.” He pulls out a slick new model.

“What’s a smart phone?” Stanley asks.

Moses hovers behind him, whispers in Yiddish, “Watch out, Stanley, he may be a Samaritan.”

“Say, you dudes are not from around here, huh? I can tell by your clothes. They went out of style about the 13th Century BC, right? Y’all with the carnival?” the clerk asks.

Sack cloth,” Stanley reminds him. “Best made. Mohair. Hand sewn. Got it before the Garment District went upscale. We’re here on a secret mission for the Most High.”

Well, you’re in the right store, gents. Best smart phones in town. Apples. All the latest apps.”

“Apples? Apps?” Moses cringes.

Our ancestors had a bad experience with apples,” Stanley says. “It’s a curse.”

“Well, these have a money-back warranty, fellows. No risk, no curse. Everything at your fingertips. You want it, you get it now. No waiting.” The clerk is empowered; fist-pumps gyrate the air.

See this? It’s Amazon. You can buy anything, easy, quick, all with a credit card. Send it to you overnight, get it tomorrow. No wait.” The clerk becomes animated.

“You mean we don’t have to pray and wait for an answer?” Stanley asks.

“Pray? Are you kidding? Why pray? Get everything now. Praying? That’s so yesterday. This is the new age, guys. Are you on Facebook?”

Moses and Stanley look at one another, puzzled.

Facebook connects you to everybody in the universe,” the clerk says, grinning.

Here’s Google, men. Tells you anything you want to know, instantly. Just ask it. Where are you from?” the clerk asks.

“Heaven,” Stanley replies.

Whatever. Check this out.” Google Earth pops up. A photo of Heaven appears. Moses gasps.

Cool, huh?” Stanley is speechless.

“Everything’s possible with Apples. Book a hotel, order a meal, Instagram pictures, count calories, get the news, check your stocks. You itch, it scratches.”

Stanley and Moses huddle, discuss things.

They look at the smart phone. Stanley says, “New age? Smart phone? Is Baal back? Imagine the chaos if The Boss scrambles the digital grid. Let’s keep this gizmo for a souvenir, just in case.”

**********

They go outside, sit on a bench in the park and play with the new purchase. “Stanley, let’s postpone our return.”

Absolutely,” Stanley says. “You check out Match.com while I see if Domino’s really delivers. Pepperoni okay?” Moses nods yes.

They both take another byte of the apple. Thunder explodes…..


Bud Hearn
July 13, 2018



Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Fireworks & Freedom


“And it shall come to pass afterward, I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh; and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions…” Joel 2:28

**********

What we have here is a minor 9th Century BC prophet projecting his prognostication of great blessings which God promises to pour out on His people in the future. While he probably did not have America in mind, per se, who can ignore the fulfillment of this prophesy in the founding and maintaining of our great land? And tomorrow we’ll again celebrate this blessing.

Soon the skies of our Homeland will explode in celebration of the birthday of Independence Day, a dream come true. It marks the 242nd anniversary of our Republic. But what exactly will we be celebrating?

Freedom, that’s what, fruit that has matured from the Tree of Vision nurtured by courageous men and women, young and old. These patriots pledged their lives and fortunes to fulfill the deepest dream of mankind…Liberty. The Declaration of Independence is the Word, the seed of that powerful dream, a dream that beats in the heart of every citizen.

What is Freedom? A chimerical wish-list envisioned by idle daydreamers? Some romantic notion devised by Utopian idealists? Hardly. The poet, Gibran, writes, “(Vague) and nebulous is the beginning of all things, but not their end…that which seems most feeble and bewildered in you is the strongest and most determined...and if you could hear the whispering of the dream, you would hear no other sound.” Thankfully, our ancestors heard that whisper. Do we?

From what compost is Freedom conceived? Often from the exploited detritus of oppression, enslavement, tyranny and brutality. It seethes in obscurity. It endures beneath the turf of tyrants, despots and dictators. When it can no longer be suppressed, its collective voice shouts, “No more!” It then rises from darkness into a tsunami of unrestrained power.

All births are bloody. Travail precedes each. Ben Franklin and a friend once watched a hot air balloon exhibit in a field of France. The balloon rose slowly from the ground, floated over trees, and landed in a nearby field. Peasant farmers with pitchforks, ignorant and fearful, attacked it.

The friend remarked, “What good was that experiment?

Franklin replied, “What good is any new-born baby?

Freedom begins as a baby. But it grows, changes, dreams of its own destiny. America’s experiment with Freedom is older now, but no less vibrant. The baby is maturing, and it’s changing.

How does Freedom consist, hold together? Is it by milquetoast methods of submission to the winds of fortune? Or is it by, as Churchill said in England’s dark hours of WW II, “…blood, toil, tears and sweat…?” All revolutions and preservations of Freedom are achieved not by slick rhetoric, but by the shedding of blood. America’s experiment with Freedom is no different.

Is our dream of Freedom in jeopardy? Has it become a faded billboard for rent, cheap? A fast-food court of entitlements, tawdry trinkets and handouts to appease the masses? A nation of freeloaders and pilferers of the public treasury? Free everything…healthcare, food stamps, welfare checks, mortgages, you-name-it? Are we like drunks, sucking the dregs of the Dream at the bottom of a bottle of debt, celebrity politics and self-gratification? Scary thoughts.

Again, this year the fireworks extravaganzas will bring to remembrance Francis Scott Key’s words, “…and the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.” And that’s what we need…a constant reminder that the horror of darkness has not extinguished our flag, the symbol of enduring Freedom.

On Wednesday the Spirit of Liberty will blow softly in the breezes. Firecrackers, both real and symbolic, will beat back the night for a little while longer. After the parades, picnics, BBQ, hot dogs, beer, watermelons and heartburn, we’ll sleep soundly, nurtured in the comfort of Freedom. But not all of us.

Somewhere on a dusty desolate plain a soldier with a weapon will keep a night watch. Somewhere a baby will be born. Their lives will merge with old men who still dream dreams, and with young men who still see visions.

Every generation has the power to retain or forfeit this Dream and Vision of Freedom. Which will we choose?

But for today, The Dream and the Vision live on. Now, begin the parades. God bless America.



Bud Hearn
July 3, 2018

Friday, June 29, 2018

Around the Corner


“Some things look better, baby, just passing through.” Elton John

**********

I never thought much about what’s around the corner, although my mother used that phrase often. I think it was on my first visit to France years ago that it began to make sense.

If you’ve been to France you know. In every small village there’s a photo op around most corners. Maybe it’s a garden gate, or an ancient rock wall with white or red bougainvillea in bloom. Or a window box full of scented herbs. Often it’s an old couple, sitting silently together on a bench in a small garden park. Life lives around every corner.

Even in Paris, there are treats of every sort around the corner. Love blooms in sidewalk cafes. Moon-eyed couples sit at tables smaller than a nickel, having wine or espresso, speaking in whispers. Love drips from their lips.

Around every corner were found my favorite surprises…the early morning patisseries. You’re powerless to pass them by. Their succulent scent of warm, buttered croissants and sweet rolls hovers at the door and seduces you.

In Italy around some corners there is music, or perhaps mimes in a park, maybe even someone handing out red roses to your lady friend. Surprises simply unfold as we wander the sidewalks of life and turn the corners.

There’s always Something around every corner. What is it? Adventure, that’s what, waiting for you as you turn the corner. It’s not going to let you in on its secret. It just waits there, expecting you to show up one day.

Our days and years here are spent in the labyrinth of life. There are twists and turns, dead ends, disappointments, exhilarations, fun and even sadness. We have few choices about what’s around our corners.

Life is not a straight line like we imagine time to be. It’s a series of ever-winding circles. We have no choice but to experience what’s there. Forget about your carefully laid plans and prophesy of the ancients. Neither will prepare us for what’s next.

Serendipity is always around the corner. Maybe it is just a silent breeze that cools hot days, or warm sunrays that break the chill of early morning. But it is there, serendipity hidden in the creases of every maze, waiting for us to find it.

Our minds have learned the habit of fear, unfortunately. Premonitions and superstitions can lurk in the shadows around the corner. But they’re not real, simply phantoms of our imaginations, hollow-eyed skeletons at the banquet of our happiness, uninvited interlopers we have allowed the doorman of the soul to let enter.

There are big things around the corners of life, like long, happy marriages, healthy children, success, fine wine and good friends. These big things happen slowly, and if we could anticipate them, we might not appreciate them.

But it’s the small, seemingly insignificant things of life we encounter around the corner that make our hearts bright and our days glad. A surprise note from an old friend, a new puppy; a delicious blueberry pancake breakfast, a quiet beach walk or a good book, a warm fire to pass a rainy night and smiles while looking at old photographs. So many things so small we take them for granted. But they’re around every corner. Slow down and look.

Sometimes in reverie we may mourn our plight as prisoners of the earth. No one asks to be here, and yet here we are. What are we to do in this labyrinth of life? Nothing? Sit down, quit? No. We’re part of history, ever moving. I have always thought two of the finest words in English are ‘Moving on.’

You’re wondering where this is leading, right? Well, you know already. One day we will turn the corner and look square in the eye of what Emerson calls “The Dread Omniscience.” But not to worry. I think Dr. Crane sums it up nicely:

And around that Last Corner where we turn to travel the unknown, I do not believe there hides some grisly thing of evil, but a smiling-faced One, with welcome in His hand and the Morning Star for me.”

**********

Keep moving and enjoy the trip.


Bud Hearn
June 29, 2018





Wednesday, June 20, 2018

The Fixer....a Brief Encounter


His name is Ace. He’s wealthy, secretive and dangerous. He lives in the shadows and makes people’s problems disappear. He’s known as ‘The Fixer.’

***********

Ace is not his given name. But it fits him. It’s short, memorable and has an air of mystery. His business card is a black domino marked with two white spots. That’s all; no phone, no fax, no address.

I met him about ten years ago. It was Christmas. He had delivered a gift to my door at night. Inside was a note and a small slab of concrete streaked with splashes of colored graffiti. Taped to it was a crisp Ace of hearts playing card. The note simply read: Berlin Wall, 1989. I lit the fuse. We became friends after that.

He was younger, considering retirement. He’d had a long career as a CIA operative, and an explosives expert. Men of such ilk tend to withdraw from overt social interactions, possibly out of concern for reprisal from the dark side of their past. But he’s older now, dapper in a white suit with his signatory hickory cane.

I ran into him recently at a party. He stood alone at the end of a long bar, nursing a glass of scotch.

Whatcha say, Ace, drinking alone?” His smile telegraphs nothing.

Safer this way,” he says.

Being followed?”

Always.” He adds nothing. Laconic as ever.

You working these days?”

“You might say that.”

Doing what, some sordid, top-secret assignment? Or should I ask?”

Well, you might say I’m an amalgam, a cross between a surgeon, a janitor and a repairman. I fix things.” Only ice cubes remain in his glass. He orders another one.

Quite a combination. What things?”

People things. Stalin’s formula. Where there are people, there are problems. I help patch things up, restore equilibrium, so to speak.” He glances over my shoulder into the crowd. His left eye winks, his head twists slightly indicating a ‘No’ response.

“Interesting. Can you elaborate? I’m curious what ‘fixers’ do since I read about the President’s lawyer.”

He laughs. “Yeah, some lawyers are clowns, bumbling fools, flashes in the pan. They give our profession a bad name. First-class fixes require delicacy and finesse.

I’m a surgeon in a world of butchers, thugs, criminals and the general refuse of humanity. Fixing things takes all types. Think of me as a master general contractor. I filter through the appropriate functionaries to perform necessary but unsavory tasks. It’s a savage world.”

What kind of things do you ‘fix?’”

You name it. Just sort through the possibilities that a debauched, gutter culture produces: Greed, power, sex, money, ego and such, they all play out in various ways. Things can easily go sideways.”

“What are the tools of this disgusting trade, Ace?” He orders another scotch.

“Everything has its price. Most respond, shall I say, ‘favorably’ with money. With others, its fear. Enlivening the imagination lets loose legions of demons.

It’s easy to do. Mere subtle hints, or ‘suggestions,’ can be more effective than actual threats. A few late-night phone calls, maybe a photo of someone where they should not be with someone they should not be with, some anonymous letters, maybe being tailed in a black van will do it.

Then there’s the sleazy media. They’re prostitutes for salacious innuendo. Advertising money rolls in. The digital world seethes with false news, Twitter feeds, Facebook postings and such stuff as this. And don’t discount the on-line lawyers. These crude shysters come cheap and are ferocious as pit bulls on speed.

I operate on the psychological principle of ‘rewards.’ Intimidations are for rubes. It appeals to the greed in all of us. My ‘people’ cover all bases.”

I’ve heard you use codes to communicate. True? Tell me a few.

He laughs. “You read too many LeCarre spy novels. But yes, we have our codes. Take Dr. Lech. His career is about to explode. He’s been messing around, as they say. We call him a ‘Peanut,’ an active ingredient in dynamite.

Then there’s Senator Slapback. He’s an ‘Ostrich.’ Why? Because an ostrich’s eye is bigger than his brain. Don’t forget Judge Slipshod. He will be a ‘Dragonfly’ when we finish with him. They only live 24 hours. We have others.”

A man approaches. It’s Col. Tecumseh. “Excuse me. We’ll talk later. Seems the colonel’s ‘ostrich’ needs some help.

**********

The Fixer...what an occupation. Where there are people, there are problems. Imagine the opportunities.