A Southern Politician

“I was born into politics, a wedded man with a storm for a bride.” Huey P. Long

**********

Political campaigns are never over. Politicians are like fleas, impossible to eradicate. The Blue team has ventured into the deep South where the cannon smoke of Ft. Sumter and the spirit of rebellion still hangs heavy in the humid air of Charleston’s harbor. They fared no better than Ft. Sumter.

Yesterday the carnival of comedians and its handlers gnawed and gnashed upon itself in a mad frenzy hoping to persuade somebody, anybody to hand over to them the reigns of power and purse. They stopped short of blood, which would have made the debacle worth watching.

Without politics, life is dull. The thrill is gone, until a sanctimonious candidate hits the stage. Then things get interesting. Let me tell you of my experience with such a candidate. His name is Junior, a real Southern politician.

My cell rings. It’s Charlie, my attorney. “Get down here now. You need to meet my good friend, Junior. He can walk on water. He’s running for reelection in Nassau County, Florida.”

Charlie is Junior’s campaign manager. He was once a boxing promoter. His legal and promotional literature has similar qualities.

“Hey, I can’t vote in Florida,” I say. He ignores the comment.

“Look, you vote with your checkbook, or some loose Ben Franklins.”

“Can Junior really walk on water?”

“Well, let’s say he can move mountains with the right incentive, if you know what I mean.”

I arrive and join the curious crowd milling around in Charlie’s back yard making small talk. Mostly men, a few women. Smoke billows from the charcoal cooker. BBQ is the staple food for political rallies. I contemplate the similarities between pigs and politicians. I feel pity for the pigs.

“Charlie, where’s Junior?”

“Junior smells money. He’ll show up. Have another beer.”

“Does Junior understand quid pro quo?”

Charlie grins. “Of course, he’s a politician.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Not sure. Doesn’t matter. You’ll see.”

A black SUV pulls up. Junior emerges. He’s huge. His aura is awesome. Some people have power in their organizations, but Junior has power in himself. The crowd goes silent.

He swaggers out. He’s an actor. Timing is critical. Self-confidence oozes. He loosens his tie. His suspenders groan over the bulge beneath his blazer. He sweats.

He has the eyes of an assassin…sharp, cold, steely. They survey the crowd. He wears a grin like a Baptist preacher holding four aces at the Friday night poker game. I feel his smile. It counts the cash in my pocket.

He grips my hand with a plow-share paw. My toes recoil in pain. He hugs me and says, “Whatcha say, hoss?” I feel small.

He hugs women. They swoon. He glad-hands the men, high fives a few, slaps some backs. He points at some, nods at others, winks at everyone. We’re all affirmed. The carnival begins.

“Every man’s a king, folks. That’s my slogan. All the others before me are robbers and thieves. Now give me another chance.” The crowd nods.

“Listen, everything I did I had to do with one hand, because I had to fight with the other. Amen?” The crowd applauds.

“I’m gonna fight for you. They give the little man a biscuit to eat, and load him down with a ton of taxes. You had enough?” The crowd cheers.

“Republicans or Democrats, they’re all the same. They’re just waiters who serve you the same grub, prepared by the same Wall Street Kitchen. That’s gonna change.” The crowd roars. Amens resound.

“Look, I have enemies. They don’t like my politics. But friends, I’ve got alligator hide and Jesus inside. I fight fire with fire. You’re with me or against me. No middle ground. Reward or retribution. Amen?” Wallets come out.

“Listen, my opponent has robbed you and covered up the shallow grave. The corpse still stinks. I’m gonna expose the crime of this illegitimate scoundrel is covering up. Now, I don’t use profanity, I’m just referring to the circumstances of his birth.” Wild shouts of approval erupt.

“The media says I’ve got skeletons.” A few women snicker. They know the gender of Junior’s skeletons. After all, he is a politician.

“Folks, I’m a deacon down at First, washed in the blood. Yessiree, lily white.” A tear trickles down Junior’s cheek. Hallelujahs are heard.

Suddenly his speech becomes manic. His fervor is intense. His fists beat the air. He pounds his chest, grips his lapels, jerks his tie loose and flings his jacket to the ground. His body contorts. His passion tears him. The crowd shouts wildly in a frenzy of evangelical ecstasy.

Then, as soon as it began, it’s over. His shirt is wet, his jacket lies crumpled on the grass. He regains composure. He concludes with a benediction: “Every man’s a king.”

He’s mobbed by the crowd. Cash and checks fill his pockets. Then the carnival leaves.

I look at Charlie. “What did he say?”

“Who cares. We got a winner here. Buy the ticket, take the ride.”

I do, leaving poorer but wiser, and feeling good about government again.

**********

“Alligator hide and Jesus inside.” What a combination.



Bud Hearn
February 28, 2020

Posthumous credits for ideas from Huey P. Long and Hunter S. Thompson.

Hammering the Skull

Look around, somebody’s always trying to prove a point. Maybe you’re one of them.

**********

Sometimes it difficult to know if someone’s boasting or just disgusted. On the surface it might be taken either way. Recently I received this weather report from friends in St. Paul, Minnesota. Here it is. You decide which.

Now if were a boast, perhaps it would be best characterized by what might be called ‘the appeal of ordeal.’ Which is a viable concept within our culture. We’re drawn to the ‘ordeals’ of life, most of us, whether large or small. Like running with a rock in your shoe. You know you’re alive. But the captioned text cleared the fact that it was a complaint: “I’m freezing my ass off.”

Somewhere along the way I recall a writing from William Butler Yates, the Irish poet. He wrote of some Icelandic peasants who had discovered a skull thought to be the skull of the revered Viking poet, warrior and farmer named Egill Skallagrimsson (910-990).

So convinced were they of this incredible discovery that they took hammers and beat upon the skull to see if it cracked. It didn’t, so the logical conclusion due to its toughness was that it must truly be the skull of their hero.

But we’re more subtle now in the dues that must be paid for some high achievement. DNA has replaced skull-bashing, as crude as it might have been, as a means of discovering genetics. But there’s some validity to measuring resilience by how it stands up to abuse. This photo is a simple example.

The perennial question of ‘Why’ someone endures hardship begs an answer. I asked my friends, Lisa and Keith to explain their rationale for living in such frozen misery. Lisa did her best Nietzsche answer: “What does not kill you makes you stupid.” I think she meant ‘stronger,’ but frozen minds can be confused. Keith proffered this existential theory: “Extremes provide definition, scale and context.” Figure that out.

Think of the myriad ways people are tested. Anybody wishing to make a significant point will be tested, mentally and physically. Accolades, prizes, merit badges all come with a cost. Doctors, lawyers and Navy Seals can attest to their trial by fire.

We test Fates by scaling mountains, sledding across the Artic wasteland, trekking across desert plains in a wagon or parachuting from an airplane. Survival is not guaranteed.

Take marathon running and other examples of ‘extreme’ sports…snowboarding off mountain tops, swimming across 1,500 miles of the Atlantic, spending 11 months in a space capsule. To compete in marathons, or even complete the course, takes building a running base of 8 or 10 miles every day. Much more if 50 or 100 miles are to be covered on foot. I know these things. I ran several.

What is to be achieved from these feats of daring, this hammering the skull into submission in order to discover our range of tolerance or resilience? You tell me. Memories, a few photos and embellished stories are what’s left. The song had it right: “The older I get, the better I was.” Past achievement bragging rights don’t carry the same weight as fresh exploits.

Other genre of the more humane strivers committed to the rigors of the struggle are serial golfers and bridge players. Carrying around old score cards, seeing their names posted in locker rooms or bridge magazines is proof positive they have competed. Verily they have their reward.

In time past a sure-fire way of determining the guilt or innocence of witches and demonic possession was by poisoning. If one survived, they were innocent. Even today on Sand Mountain, Alabama, evangelists still thrust congregant’s hands into a box of rattlesnakes to prove genuine faith, oblivious of the outcome. It would be a good test of veracity and genuineness for serial politicians.

Today we’re witnessing the hammering of character in the political world. Candidates badger and berate one another, air dirty linen and muckrake character flaws of all sorts. Nothing’s off limits. Tests of stamina flood the airwaves daily. It’s a terrible price to pay for success.

All this opens a wider aperture for insight into today’s culture. The holy grail has never been found and OCD is alive and well. About all that can be gleaned from these quixotic quests is that life, however defined, is constantly seeking life.

**********

Maybe hammering the skull of the body politic is a good way to see what cracks or not. Heroes are still hard to find.


Bud Hearn
February 17, 2020

High Priority

New days. How do they begin? With a list.

**********

Who doesn’t keep a list? To-dos never end. We all have them, whether written, mental or compelled by others. It’s a way of life. Otherwise, how do we measure progress?

The thoughts behind this missive begin when I find myself behind a large panel truck creeping along for miles in slow traffic. It’s amazing what one can see advertised on the rear of panel trucks. This one was painted in bold blue letters. Part of it read, ‘High Priority….’

So here I am, heading into where the action happens, my office. I drive with a long list of the day’s issues to focus on. It’s wadded up in my shirt pocket. Where lists are concerned, I tend to think about the day’s objectives in a positive way, not in a forced labor way. I like to think of them as ‘opportunities,’ gifts to unwrap from the serendipity gods, gifts brimming with fortune and some fame if not directions for pure survival.

I keep looking at this truck, contemplating the writing that stares back at me with a pair of huge eyeballs that look more like socket wrenches that ocular eyepieces. Normally I wouldn’t be paying a bit of attention to such visual distractions, but this truck is sending me a message. God’s messages come in many ways.

Lists begin to dominate my mind. I wonder when the need for them began. Maybe it started with grocery lists a long time ago. Now grocery lists are musts. How many times have I walked into the grocery store without a list, hungry as a ravenous wild dog? It’s too late to try to summon up why I’m there. I’m just there, there to purchase something. What? Memory loss is common in grocery stores.

I wander down aisles, filling the buggy with this and that, trying to remember why I’m here. Stuff overflows from my cart. I hope to have succeeded in buying at least something I actually need. The cashier looks at me, shakes her head, knowing I’m a shopper without a list.

But those were the old days. Now I make a list. The cost of living has chiseled a big hole in the once-thought impregnable vault of my budget. Its contents are being siphoned faster than I can type. Women are brighter. They make lists. But not men. Woman prioritize things, high priority or low priority. Men wing it, their bellies their leader.

Women know the store’s layout, where things are. Their lists begin when they walk through the door. No wasted motion, no impulse acquisitions. No superfluous junk, just what’s on the list, sprinkled with conversation among the aisles. It takes women hours to shop.

Now listen to me. It’s not the smartest thing to do, living without a list. You will give the Fates the upper hand. They delight in throwing socket wrenches into your carefully crafted but unwritten plans.

That said, still there’s a sense of romance, a sort of freedom, in living life with the Fates, especially if fantasy is in your nature. It’s a ‘just show up and see what happens’ existence. Exciting, yes, if you enjoy sometimes getting lucky or being blindsided by things you thought only happened to your neighbors. You never know which.

Before the digital age I compiled long, legal-sized sheets full of notes. Ink on paper. There’s a feeling of empowerment when you cross ‘em off. At the top of my lists were the words, “Break up your fallow ground and sow not among thorns,” a quote from the Prophet Jeremiah, a fellow who knew Somebody who also kept lists, very long lists. It’s meant for folks who need daily goading. Innate laziness seeps unseen into mankind’s best intentions.

Of course, such lists overreach the ability to accomplish. Nothing was ever prioritized, just random chaotic thoughts of things to do. Sometimes we mistake panic for inspiration. As one once said, “So much spaghetti on the wall.”

But there’s no question that lists can help the feeble minded remember what to do. And lately I have taken a cue from women shoppers by assigning priority to the tasks on the lists. Life is too precious for extraneous efforts and needless trips.

Finally, I turn into my office driveway, still thinking about why the message from the panel truck grabbed my attention. What could it mean? Just then my cell phone rings. It’s my house calling. “Did you forget to call them? It’s still not working.”

I look at my list. Somewhere down near the bottom of it was the reminder. But the call jolted my memory. God, who is always in first place, was shoved aside, being replaced by the urgent priority at hand.

**********

Listen, messages are everywhere, even on panel trucks. It read: High Priority Plumbing Services.

What’s at the top of your list today?


Bud Hearn
February 10, 2020