Running for Cover

 

“A coward dies a thousand deaths, a hero only one."

* * *

Outside the thunder rolled. Mighty winds roared. Sheets of lightning, like brilliant strobes of light, intermittently blasted the gloom, exposing the horror of darkness gathered above. 

It was an ominous and savage scene. Caught unawares, we bolted and ran for cover to the fragile safety of a nearby tool shed. We were children then. 

This past week’s news was grim. Like lightning, Afghanistan unraveled faster than a Saturday night Las Vegas wedding. Fears both real and imagined struck terror and paranoia into multitudes. In panic and desperation, they ran for cover from the impending storm. Leadership failed and fled, vanishing like frightened children into the nearest tool shed for cover. 

Meanwhile, our Homeland burns, withers and floods. Leadership vanished, running for cover. One to China, the other holed up in the safety of his own retreat. Befuddled and clueless, he fiddles his violin to the tune, ‘Over the Rainbow’ while watching reruns from The Apprentice. 

He suddenly stops, listens, and is troubled by the commotion outside. He asks his valet, “What’s all that noise?” 

“It’s appears a vast multitude has gathered, a multitude of vacuous words, your words, all garnered from the past, Boss. They have returned for a visit.” 

It was bound to happen, he thought. His words were enemies, always in relentless pursuit, stalking him like rabid dogs, a vigilante posse, while ahead lay a barren wasteland littered with the blanched bones of other politicians ambushed by their empty words uttered while avoiding confrontation. 

“What’s all that hammering and shouting about?” 

“They’re building a giant scaffold, Boss. It resembles the gallows.” 

“Is it a movie set for me?” 

“Maybe. Looks like they’re planning a lynching. Come take a look.” He tiptoes over to the window, peeks out.  He’s shaken by the scene. 

“My heavens, so many angry words. I don’t recognize all of them, but some are familiar. Why are they here?” 

“Well, Boss, you know, we have to give account for all the hollow words we speak. It’s the law of life. Don’t the Catholics teach that?” 

“I vaguely recall. But Providence gives politicians special speaking privileges. We are allowed to speak out of both corners of our mouth.” 

“That might be the problem here, Boss.” 

“I need a mental health day. Maybe a nap. Cover me up with that blanket.” 

He sleeps amid the tumult outside. He dreams, sees the gallows, dark and foreboding. A noose hangs loosely, blowing in the wind. The words shout, “You can run but you can’t hide.” He’s trapped. The noose slips silently around his neck. “Will my own words finally string me up?” he cries. 

His life passes before him, remembering how he made lies his refuge, and now he cowers beneath the covers of falsehoods. He curls up in a fetal position mentally and physically, hoping the storm will soon pass. Its intensity grows. 

“Wake up Boss. It’s getting ugly out there. The words are demanding retributive justice. Lay low. buy some time, develop a plan. Throw them a bone or two, some feel-good bromides to distract them. You’re good at that. Blame Donald again.” 

“Good idea. Get Pelligrino and Smucker on the line. They’re smarmy pols, experts in the art of manipulating the masses with duplicitous claims to keep up appearances of probity. We need a narrative, a new conversation about something.  Covid, border crisis, China, crime, voter suppression, BLM, CRT. Plenty to choose from.”       

“No luck, Boss, they’re hiding, MIA. Looks like you’re on our own. Maybe Sherman was right: ‘Never give reasons for what you think or do until you must. Maybe after a while a better reason will pop into your head.’” 

“Yes, yes, delay, delay.” But his spirit squirms in turmoil. Fear assaults him.  Phantasmagorical images fill his mind. He sees a legacy littered with blood-thirsty journalistic jihadists with poison pens and pompous pundits making his life a tragicomedy while the world laughs at his failure.     

He peers from the window again. Torches are being lit; his safety is breached; his tool shed is surrounded. The words outside mean business. He regrets some comments, those stupid, thoughtless gaffes so casually uttered in arrogance. 

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he hears a line from the poet Coleridge, wondering if this is the last nail in his legacy: 

“Mid the tumult Kubla heard from far,

  ancestral voices prophesying war.” 

Outside the words are restless. A drum roll is heard. “Is that for me?” he asks. 

“Yes, sir, I think they’re coming for you. Like the ghost of Jacob Marley, Jim Crow is leading the pack. Good luck, Boss.” 

* * *

Outside the rain pours, the mighty wind roars and the thunder rolls unabated.

 

Bud Hearn

August 25, 2021

Shopping With Coupons…an American Addiction

 

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

 

* * *

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

* * *

 

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

 

 

Bud Hearn

August 20, 2021

The Finger of Blame

 

It’s Sunday. The sun shines. A beach day. I skip church but do the next best thing—read Scripture, looking for loopholes to justify backsliding and atone for secret sins.

 * * *

You know the drill.  Close your eyes, open the Bible, blindly point your index finger to a spot and then peek. Miraculously, Providence will find just the right scriptural horoscope.

My finger finds Isaiah, the prophet, haranguing stiff-necked hypocrites to repent and ‘put away the pointing of the finger,’ the constant backbiting and blaming something else instead of owning up to their own errant ways.           

Whoa. Full Stop. What’s this ‘pointing of the finger,’ this perverse proclivity we inherited for blaming anything or anyone but ourselves for everything that goes sideways? I close the Book, postpone the beach walk. It’ll be there later; the thought of the moment might vanish.

Thinking is dangerous. One might come to unwelcomed conclusions that demand attention, conclusions which can prick the conscience and drive one to drink. Like the sleeping dog, it’s better to let the conscience sleep. But now it’s awake, and blame is the subject. Deal with it, it says. 

I ask myself, “Self, when was the first time you blamed someone else for something you did?” I thought long and hard. It came like a flash. Let’s call it the ‘chocolate pudding incident.’ The year was 1952.

Our mother often made chocolate pudding for afternoon snacks.  You know, in the refrigerator, glazed over with a luminous sheen, as tantalizing as the forbidden fruit from the Garden of Eden. Who could resist it? Not me or my brother, the little nuisance.

I was ten, he was seven. I was bigger, faster, so I got it all. Maybe it took a minute to lick the bowls clean. But something jumped inside my chest.  Looking back, it was the day my conscience pointed its finger. I rode off on my bike, but I had to come home.

I knew the inquisition was coming.  You always know. “The lid always comes off the pot.”

She was waiting. My brother stood cowering in the far corner of the room. “Ok, who ate the chocolate pudding I made for dessert?”

"He dared me,” I blurted out, pointing my finger at my brother.

“Did not,” he piped up.

 She pointed her finger at me and said, “Did you eat it all?”

You can’t hide guilt, but you can sometimes disguise or deflect it. “He said he didn’t want any,” I said. 

“Did not,” he said.

On it goes, back and forth, I said, he said. But my mother knew, bless her soul. Mothers always know. She just dropped the subject, probably figuring somehow her boys would adjust things between themselves. Then she reconciled the incident with the classic line in all households: “Well, boys, I guess ‘not me’ lives here, huh?”

I was left to deal with my own conscience and a belly full of chocolate pudding, the taste now bitter-sweet. There’s no truth in young boys.

Moving from 1952 to 2021, I sit here wondering when Blame was born into my psyche. At birth, no doubt. It was a baby then, like me.  But also like myself, it grew and became a thing living along with me, always prepared to justify itself, exonerate its failings and put a Wizard of Oz face on its cowardice.

It developed hands, hands with fingers, fingers adept at pointing, fingers that silently ascribe fault, deflect guilt and dodge judgment. It grew eyes, eyes that look but only see subjectively. 

Blame had a mouth, a tongue, full of sound and fury, quick with alibies, capable of debating to the scruple of fault, tilting the scales of justice in its favor. It grew feet, feet that run fast, feet that run from retribution.

Blame lives in society as easily as in humans. It has many disguises, many alter egos. But its days are limited, its secrets discovered. Blame is now on the run.

Computers record to the nuance, cameras video everything. Computer chips store our lives. Vehicles record our movements. Body cameras to justify or condemn all actions and AI robots correct all human error. Nothing is secret now. Blame, your days are numbered.

But until that day, here we are, still pointing fingers at everyone, everything, every institution. Nothing is sacrosanct.  Chaos reigns.

But wait, there’s hope. If Blame came from a tree, let’s pick fruit from another one. 

 * * * 

Hey, Eve, if you’re still in The Garden, grab us some fruit from the Tree of Common Sense. We’ll all take a bite.      

      

 Bud Hearn

August 9, 2021

 

 

 

The Weird World of an Iconoclast

 

Iconoclast: A wrecker of idols, a mocker of tradition and a scorner of conventional wisdom. Are you one? 

* * * 

We’re living in strange and troubling times. Maybe it’s the brutal heat that has tempers aflame. Something has lit the match, for sure. The national mood has been turning ugly lately, maybe a reflection of entrenched power-mad hubris that struts its pompous self shamelessly on digital screens everywhere. 

Wildfires and floods, heat waves and Delta, finger pointing and pouting, inflation and infrastructure.  The incessant sound bites competing for who can scream the loudest. What are we to make of this, how do we get a grip? It’s time for a consult with The Iconoclast. 

Now from empirical observation The Iconoclast appears no different than anyone, just another pilgrim crying in the wilderness to no one listening. But looks are deceiving. If the brain were removed and dissected, it would vibrate in constant and mortal conflict with all accepted orthodoxy. 

I find him sitting in his office, ill-tempered and sulking on the re-masking and vaccine mandates being imposed by authorities of dubious distinction and credentials. 

He wastes no time setting the stage for contrary opinion. “Sit down, your brain needs the blood, not your feet. Can you believe this, a $100 bucks bribe to get vaccinated? What a joke.” 

“Not enough?” I ask. 

“You kidding? The country is full of holdouts, misfits and failures, just looking for something free, working the system. They’ll hold out for a big bribe. A grand at least. What can I do for you?” 

“Some perspective of the times. Pro bono.” 

“Sure. Worth what you pay for it.” 

“What’s the skeptic’s view of mandates?” 

“Simple.  Read between the lines.  Why all this obfuscation over vaccinations and your health? Managing 335 million people isn’t easy. Have you ever received a get-well card from government? It’s about money and control. Ignore the divisive narratives. Peel back the onion, get to the core.  It’s money. Your money, their control.”   

“Explain.” 

“Look, the government’s broke. Medicare is today’s Titanic. Trillions unfunded.  It’s pay as you go now. So, you gotta stay healthy, keep working, pay your taxes. Confiscation is coming.” 

“Mandates are unconstitutional, right?” 

“Just conversation, pal. Government can make everything constitutional to suit its needs. They’ll rename it, give it a harmless household word.  It’s a ruse, a diversion to let you think you still have freedom of choice. You have no choice. Mandates will happen, one way or another.” 

“How did you get to be known as The Iconoclast?” 

“Everybody’s known for something.  You have to look twice at things to see them. Problem with being an iconoclast is your opinions often clash with cherished ideas. You can get unpopular real quick. I have been called a heretic, but I have never denigrated religious symbols.  Everybody believes something, and to violate one’s religious beliefs is crossing the line.” 

“What sets iconoclasts apart from others?” 

“An iconoclast is an artist, a creator, someone who sees things differently and who calls into being that which was not as though it already were. Alchemy, my friend.” 

“Give me an example.” 

“Van Gogh, Jesus, Einstein, MLK. Even Kerouac. They were iconoclasts, saw things their way. Good company to be in. Only Vincent was mad, and Kerouac picked up on that: ‘The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk that burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles.”

“What defines an iconoclast?” 

“We have a healthy distrust of all public opinion, especially polls and conventional wisdom. To criticize anything, anybody, especially authority, is to invite pushback. But then you’ve hit the nerve you wanted.”

“Like being a free thinker, right?” 

“Well, you have to be careful with non-conforming free thinking. It’s quicksand. You can sink in a hurry and be perceived as downright dangerous. Fear is the shadow of free thinkers. They step on the toes of entrenched status quo because change follows them like new wine. Fresh ideas are dangerous. But look, free thinking is the source of the only real freedom we have left.”              

“What about street protesters, activists?”

“There are varieties of iconoclasts. The violent ones who throw stones for attention and the pontificators, the ones with wild, glittering eyes who preach crazy conspiracy theories of doom and gloom. Both are short-lived charlatans. True iconoclastic thinking is an art. It is the fuse that lights the dynamite.” 

“Should we always play by the rules?” 

“Ah, yes, that’s the rub, isn’t it? Whose rules?” 

* * * 

Iconoclast or not, that’s a good question to ponder in these strange and troubled times.

Bud Hearn 

August 2, 2021