The Year-End Countdown…10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1

10-9…Whoa, slow down, relax. You’re getting ahead of yourself.  It’s not time. It’s coming, soon enough. Meanwhile, the dealer still shuffling the deck, more hands to deal. The 2022 year’s game is still in play.

We shouted it in, but it soon settled down,

And got down to business and stayed.

But now it’s time and cards are worn thin,

Only one last hand to play.    

It came with a quest and trailing behind

Its pomp and fire gone stale.

Where once the lust of days before

Are now but a vapid tale.  

So here we are, looking over the horizon. It looks empty. Some resemble an abyss, others blue sky. Some leap forward, headstrong and sure; others take strides with timid steps. But we all move forward. Behind doesn’t exist. It’s called History.   

 

We all take our spots at the table of life

While the Dealer shuffles the deck.

When done he says, “It’s time to deal,

Ante up and quit looking back.”

 

A spirit passes before our face,

The hair of our flesh stands up.

The clock of years long gone before,

Like cards that brought us luck.

8-7…Stop it. We’re playing the game now. Oh, we know the game. We don’t control the shuffle or the dealing. We must play the hand we’re dealt. There is no other way. To cheat is to set in motion the cosmic repercussions of the Fates. 

 

His fingers are nimble, his cards are alive,

They glow with a luminous light.

One up, four down, you have no choice,

You get what the deck dishes out.

 

Your hope is mocked by the upturned card,

The Dealer has a mischievous grin.

You curse the draw, but the card must be played,

The deuce, one helluva way to begin.

But begin we must. We bring with each new year remnants of the past, stuffed full like bags of discarded Christmas wrappings that were once disguised surprises. Instead, like a sponge, we infuse them. It’s hard to get rid of the past.

 

There once was love that lured life on,

A kiss that shook the earth.

Where is it now, a vanished dream,

The ghost of an ephemeral birth.

 

We played the cards the Dealer passed,

Some won and others lost.

The drama of the days gone by

The passion we miss the most.

6-5… Not yet. Relax. Ah, the sorrows and joys of life, the loss and the gain, the pain and the pleasure. A blend into the mosaic of ourselves. It’s who we are, for better or worse. But to labor on either is futile, for the Dealer continues to deal.

 

Regrets, Oh, yes, we’ve had those, too,

Sometimes too many to bear.

But like an echo in the caverns below,

They fade in the vaporous air.

 

Longfellow’s words, neither bagpipe nor dirge,

To frame it he takes no sides.

For Defeat may be victory in clever disguise,

And the ebb is the turn of the tides.

4-3 …Back off the counting. Too soon. Start over. Miles left to go. Patience, pilgrim, patience. It’s been a doozy of a year. Pandemics, political acrimony, threats abroad and violence at home. How do we play such a hand? Color me red, or color me blue, define my gender, my ‘fair share,’ too. All, works in progress.

 

The end is in sight, this game almost done,

There’s not much more we can do.

A little rest, micro-seconds at best,

And we’re ready to begin anew.

 

We played our hands the best we could,

We gave ‘em our very best shot.

No matter if we won or lost,

We always got part of the pot.

 

We cheered the year in, we’ll cheer it out,

We endured it to the end.

It’s age and breath at last worn out,

It leaves us to begin again.

2…Too close for comfort. Let’s deal the last hand, play it for all we’re worth, singing words from Robert Herrick:

“Gather ye rosebuds while you may,

Old time is still a flying.

The same flower that smiles today,

Tomorrow will be dying.”

And now we hear the distant band,

It’s tuning up to play,

For auld lang syne is close at hand

To celebrate the day.

The dealer is folding now and leaving the Number One for you…you’ll know just when to shout it

                                                                             * * * 

Here’s wishing for you a Happy New Year and a year full of aces in 2023. Ring it in. Time is short.  Live big.

Bud Hearn

December 30, 2022

 

 

Wisdom from the East

 

There is a pocket-sized booklet of quotes from such notable dispensers of wisdom as the Dalai Lama, Lao Tzu, Suzuki, Matzu and Jiddu Kaishnamati and others. Now these are not necessarily household names, but their quotes perpetuate the myth that wisdom only comes from the Eastern Zen masters.

It sorta makes some sense that anybody living a celibate life in a mountain cave without social media might have some clarity of thought.  Strangely, Trump was not quoted, only Biden, “Now here’s the deal.” Mud often gives the illusion of depth.

I flip through the pages which are little more that rip-offs to put in your shirt pocket for the day’s devotion, like wisdom from a fortune cookie. Now only the Chinese restaurants serve fortune cookies you know.  The last one I got read, “See Rock City.”

Let’s take a few of these tidbits of wisdom and see if they fit into our polarized, pressurized, and socialized life. Try this one: “Enjoy your problems.” You have yours, I have mine. My latest is trying to enjoy this new knee that Santa brought 45 days ago. What have I discovered? Compassion is short-lived.

Here’s a good one from Suzuki somebody-or-other: “In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities, but in the expert’s there are few.”  Have you noticed that everyone considers themselves an expert in something? I did once. Until I discovered that “Not creating delusions is enlightenment.” So much for picking stocks.

Now Ma-Tsu has a good one for everyday meditation if you’re into that sort of thing: “The tighter you squeeze the less you have.”  I picture my palms open to the heavens, my prayer ascending thereto, my petition for mammon, lots of it. I see a Ben Franklin float down into each palm, my fingers squeeze them tightly. Then the heavens speak, “Son, you have to let go to get more.” Oops. Such irony.

I don’t know what age one has to attain to understand that everything’s changing, and nothing remains the same. But whenever enlightenment reveals it, we’ll agree with this one: “One is never afraid of the unknown; one is afraid of the known coming to an end.” Amen?

How many times have we faced a dilemma that seemingly was a Gordian knot, a conundrum unsolvable by the human mind? And if Google can’t help, where do we go for a solution? We’re not alone. Back a few centuries ago a fellow named Wumen Hukai was advised to “Live by letting things happen.” He meditated on this for a few years and came up with: “Since it’s all too clear, it takes time to grasp it.”   Maybe it’ll clear up the confusion of your gender or personal pronoun.

Such wisdom. Can it all emanate from the East? It’s difficult to find much around here these days, on the airways, the newsprint, the constant blabber of Twitter. So let me pass on to you one of my favorites pontificated by a South Georgia friend: “If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.”  Avoid the herd.

Enough of this silliness. Now down to business. We’re in the Christmas season and encounter ‘wise men from the east’ following a star. Ask any woman if they believe there are ‘wise men.’ They’ll answer, “No such thing.”  They won’t be joking. 

Anyway, these star gazers were called ‘magoi, a Persian word meaning ‘star experts.’ They followed a star to Jerusalem seeking the Christ child. We know they were wise because they weren’t duped by King Herod. And they found the answer in a manger in Bethlehem. We should take serious note of the duplicity of authority these days.

Back in the summer a mockingbird sat on the office deck railing and sang its heart out. So many tunes. It was a joy to hear it. We’ll celebrate Christmas by singing our old familiar hymns: Angels We Have Heard on High, Away in a Manger, Silent Night, O Holy Night, Joy to the World and others. Perhaps we’ll even spot a special star, or satellite. 

* * *                                                                                                                                                                  

An ancient Chinese proverb is applicable: “A bird does not sing because it has an answer: It sings because it has a song.” And we will sing our songs because we, like the ‘wise men,’ have found The Answer.

May joy fill your world and health fill your stocking this Christmas. Merry Christmas from The Weakly Post.

 

Bud Hearn

December 21, 2022         

 

 

Shackled to a Screen

 

“Lay no foundation upon which you build yourself a cell.”  Father Abbot Zeno, Zen Buddhist

 * * *

‘Tis the season to be jolly, the carols sing. Christmas is near. And here I sit getting acquainted with my newest body part, a knee. Maybe the Christmas season is not the best time to replace failed body parts, but when is? But like a flat tire, you can’t go anywhere till it’s fixed.  

So my shopping limits itself to the little 3” x 5” iPhone cell in my hand. I order, they ship. What a deal. Amazon has the answer for everything. They even offer me multiple suggestions day and night. Thinking is unnecessary anymore with this little marvel of human creation.

But as I sit looking at it, another thought captures my mind. Maybe I’m yielding some personal freedom to the convenience it offers. And there are many conveniences contained in those little micro-chip apps embedded in the device. I’m not alone in this thought.

I was coming out of the post office the other day, well, let’s say I was hobbling out to be correct, and ran into a friend. He’s consumed with the cell screen as he walks in, checking this, checking that.

I tell him shove it in his pocket, get into the present moment. He tells me it is his present moment, every moment. He says he’s become a slave to the wretched device. He says he even dreams about it. I ask him to explain this addiction.

His eyes take on this wild and glittering glare. “It’s like this,” he says. “Every night I dream the same thing. I dream that ten thousand years in the future another alien culture is excavating the ancient ruins of our culture. There are no monuments of famous people, no soldiers upon bronze horses, no obelisks, no church steeples, religious symbols anywhere. They’ve all been removed.”

“Well, they’re doing a pretty good job of that now,” I say.

“But what’s strange is that they have all been replaced,” he says.

“Replaced with what?” I ask.

“Replaced everywhere, with sculptures of concrete hands, hands with fingers reaching to the sky, and holding high the bronzed replica of an iPhone 99. And inscribed on the base of those colossal sculptures is this: ‘Our Redeemer.’”

“That’s not only strange, but it’s also a weird vision of the future. Maybe you’re a prophet,” I add.

He laughs at that, and I tell him to take a big swig of eggnog before bedtime and dream of visions of lollipops dancing in his head.

Such encounters get me to thinking about cell phones in general. What is it about this tiny computer that has caused us to fall in love with it? It’s like a new body part, it’s become indispensable. We carry it in pockets, purses, vehicles. We sleep with it, it reminds us of things, it talks to us, it connects us. It has so captivated our curiosity that we’re slaves to it.

Slaves, you say? No way. We’re free, we can put it down anytime we want. Really?

Now look me in the eyes and say it’s not so, tell me you can live without it, tell me you’re not its prisoner of your own choosing. You’ll no sooner say it than it will mock you.

Try to put it down, not look at it. Time yourself. You jump when it beeps, you flinch when it vibrates. Without it you feel naked and fearful. It’s your alter ego.   You’re tethered to this cursed contraption. Run, but you can’t hide.

Maybe you’re not having nightmares or visions of the future, but one thing is certain: our culture, which includes you and me, has become enticed, allured, tempted and drawn away of our lust for all things convenient and ‘now.’ We’re seduced by its applications, its stealth creeps in like an invisible ghost and robs us of our time and joy of the present moments.

How did we get into such a fix? Little by little, like boiling the frog in cold water. Before we know it, we’re cooked, hooked and shackled with the invisible ball and chains of modern technology. 

Is there any way out of this prison of dependence? Like any addiction, abstinence is the answer. Break the chains, bubba.

 * * *

Ok, maybe I’m being too dramatic, but I’m hooked same as you. It’s all up to us…enjoy its benefits and avoid its pitfalls. Moderation pays dividends.

So long for now. Fed X is at my door.

 

Bud Hearn

December 12, 2022      

 

“Hey, children, hear that sound, everybody look what’s going down.” Buffalo Springfield 

* * *

Listen. The music has stopped. The sound you hear is the herd stampeding to the exits. What’s going down?

It disappeared faster than a lightning bolt. With just the click of a computer keyboard, billions of crypto currencies vanish without a trace, no trail, vaporized into a cryptic world thinner than air. And guess what? Your stash, your dreams of wealth, up in smoke.   

Was it a dream? Social media lights up the digital world, asking questions: “What happened to the money?” Rich yesterday, busted today. How can so much vanish in the blink of an eye?

Fingers point, accusations blame: Fraud, deceit, embezzlement. Answers are demanded. But none come. The crypto universe is mute. The Voice that called it into existence no longer speaks.

We remember how it began. He was a MIT genius, a financial wizard that comes along every so often. He spoke with the voice of authority, “Let there be money,” and if as by magic there was money, money created out of thin air. How?

Easy. The Voice thought, “I will parallel my world of crypto currency after the Federal Reserve’s world of ‘fiat’ and call it crypto.” And then The Voice speaks, and that which was not now is. And he looked upon it and said, “It is good. Something from nothing.”  So it seems. But wait, there’s more.

The Voice continues to speak, extolling the virtues of his creation, pandering to the unstable souls drooling with greed to become the next billionaire. The vaults overflowed, so much money, I’ll give some away, he says. I’ll buy politicians for power, lavish largess upon charities. My status will be elevated beyond measure.

The Mystic’s magic mushroomed like an enormous nuclear cloud. It sucked into its vortex all those unrooted in common sense, those who thought “nothin’ from nothin’ leaves nothin’” were just words from a song by Billy Preston in 1974. The toxic fallout was soon to reveal the error of their thoughts.

And so it did. Here we are today, asking to no one listening, “Where’s my money?” The Voice, our guru of financial legerdemain, our cult leader, where is he? He disappeared, like the money. But we’re asking for the wrong person. Consult your mirror, it will answer immediately.

The carnival has moved on, leaving its litter of dashed hopes and dreams strewn over the failed financial landscape. Someone else is left to clear the debris of this failed enterprise.

How did this happen, we ask? Now what? And just then it begins to sink in…fools gold. And we were fools to believe that nothin’ from nothin’ yields somethin’.

Lest we of like passions contemplate casting stones, let’s close the door on this gordian knot, this latest saga of hysteria run wild. We’ll do that by seeking wisdom from a Rubaiyat by the 11^th Century Philosopher-poet Omar Khayyam, one who well knew those passions:  

 

     “The Worldly Hope men set their

       Hearts upon Turns Ashes—or it

       Prospers; and anon, Like Snow upon

       the Desert’s dusty face Lighting a little

       Hour or two—is gone.” 

* * *

      No advice is offered except this: Better luck next time.

 

Bud Hearn

December 1, 2022

 

     

Recollections of Thanksgiving

  

“There’s nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labor…that it was from the hand of God.”    Ecclesiastes 2:24

Thanksgiving…the very concept conjures up evocative nostalgia. A silent bell tolls in our hearts, reviving the infused pilgrim spirit inherited from the Plymouth Plantation. Tradition is dusted off and Norman Rockwell is resurrected in anticipation of another year of family togetherness.

The vast diaspora will soon begin, that obligatory migration for millions of extended families making their pilgrimage. Expressways and airports will be clogged, folks in a hurry, tempers short, children exhausted, courtesies abandoned. With luck they will arrive, this swarm of family locusts, descending on the old home place with one thought in mind: The Thanksgiving Dinner!

The year’s final harvest is in. Not that most have any sweat equity in it. Why toil? Now it’s too easy to purchase the fruits of another’s labor. In fact, harvests today bear little resemblance to harvests of a bygone era. Few remain who recall the days when mules were tractors, the days of smokehouse hams and sausages, hog-killings, of syrup-making, of pumpkin gathering and sweet potato banks…days when the air was crisp, the grass frosty…days before irrigation, genetic seed engineering and perennially imported harvests.

Former harvests were unpredictable, subject to the vicissitudes of nature and insects, and rife with the sweat of hard labor. In those days serious supplications were made for Divine favor, unlike the easy platitudes now uttered. Today the term “harvest” has lost its strength. Our hands, soft without blisters, give us away. Cash is our reaping scythe.

At the Plymouth Plantation, 1621, the harvest was hard-earned from the hardscrabble earth. The community pooled their resources and labor to eke out a living. “Thanksgiving” meant gratitude then! Plus, it was not secular like the multitude of pagan harvest festivals. It was a genuine thanksgiving to the Creator for the land’s bounty. Imagine yourself at this first Puritan Thanksgiving.

“Honey, get up, light the fire, get out of the kitchen and do your hunting thing... and don’t come back here without a turkey or smelling like beer,” the woman would say. “And on your way out shake the kids…I need more fire wood. Now!” Women ruled the roost then, as now, on Thanksgiving. Men fled from the kitchens.

Candles flickered in the homes of the small plantation as the day dawned and preparation was made for the harvest celebration. The community was alive with jubilation, and scents of cooking food wafted in the cold November air. Laughter echoed as men passed around jugs of cider by the village fires. Football had yet to be invented.

Even the indigenous savages arrived, bearing an abundance of turnips, corn and fish. By noon the village was assembled, thanks given to the Almighty for the bounty of another year, and the feast began. It lasted for days. Somehow feasts are more enjoyable with a crowd.

Yet most are indifferent to the idea of a communal Thanksgiving. Churches and charities do their best to feed the hungry, but it represents only the essence of the collective spirit. We’re a nation of individuals, gathering with friends and family in smaller assemblages. We remain segregated from the egalitarian life of our communities. As a consequence, we fail to reap their intrinsic strengths.

Notwithstanding, it remains a warm celebration of congeniality and reunion, and a time of remembrance. Yes, to remember the ‘old days,’ to remember the ones who have passed on, those who have moved on and those who remain. And a remembrance of happy times, to laugh, and maybe even cry a little.

Thanksgiving would be incomplete without the often comedic dysfunctional aspects of family homecomings. After a few days of  ‘catching up,’ and with everyone sick of turkey and dressing, and often each other, the party breaks up and the crowd heads home.

With packed cars, abundant hugs and a few turkey sandwiches to go, the weary pilgrims depart and join the returning throngs, cursing the traffic and vowing never to do it again…until next year, that is.

Next year has now arrived, and the Tradition of Thanksgiving is revived in our hearts. We’ll celebrate another Thanksgiving Harvest in our Land of Freedom, a gift of Grace from the beneficent hand of God.

As you gather around your tables, remember to thank The Source of all blessings. And while you’re at it, remember to thank the turkey for giving its last, full measure of devotion!

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family.

Bud Hearn
November 22, 2022

Contemplations on the Passing of a Knee

 

Born March 4, 1942 --- Died November 4, 2022 

* * * 

It was just another average day when it passed. There were no farewells, the world remained in its orbit and not even a ho hum was heard. Such is the fate of an over-used knee.

It knew its time was up. It had run its course. It took the departure like a man, like the 80-year-old it was. We had many discussions on the timing. It pretty much came down to what the orthopedists always say: “When it’s time, you’ll know.” It was time.

The Doctor comes by the preop room where it lies quietly, sedated and ready for its transition.

“Doc, will it be a painful passing?” I ask.

“No pain, I promise. We have elixirs to insure against it. All euthanasia is efficient and painless.”

I ask the knee again. Are you ready?  Its response was a silent but peaceful acquiescence. I felt it quiver in its socket.

A little later I wake up, wondering if I had been dreaming. A haze of anesthesia lingers like a last-night hangover from being over smoked in an opium den. I vaguely remember why I’m here. It slowly dawns on me that I’m missing an integral body part, its space filled by some alien creature of titanium and plastic.  

The doctor comes by. “Was its passing painless?” I ask.

“Yes, it’s gone. Say hello to your new knee.” I’m left alone to ponder the loss.

What is the proper way to say goodbye to such a loyal friend as the knee? Is a lengthy obituary needed?  Or perhaps compose a requiem to mourn its demise? I lie there trying to capture the vagrant thoughts that keep circling in my mind like a pack of curious buzzards.

A requiem, yes, that’s the way. But on second thought, requiems are like dirges, filled with ponderously weighty minor notes, somber notes played on organs and bagpipes following a solemn, slow-moving cortege.

Oh, no, that’s not appropriate for this knee. It was no average knee; it was a bigger-than-life knee, one that despised ease and chewed on challenges. It was a knee hell-bent to push life to its extremities, a knee living on the edge, every day a new adventure.

Its music needs major notes, notes of C and G, notes of screaming guitar strings, pounding piano keys, drums and cymbals with a heartbeat to match a life lived to its limits. That’s the music of this knee.

It ran with Mick, Billy, Berry, Jerry, Willie and Waylon. Notes like itself, notes that ran with it across the years and miles of streets, ultra-marathons, mountain trails of America, Alaskan tundra and sandy beaches. It tested Death Valley, the White Sands, the Athens coliseum, The Great Wall of China. It thrived on a running tempo that matched its soul, its purpose and its life.

But now it’s gone, its purpose fulfilled. Just another joint heading to the bone pile to be unceremoniously incinerated for fertilizer. No honor, no cheering crowd, no laurel wreaths, no trophies. Such a vainglorious departure for such an over-achieving and faithful appendage. 

Like all the aged, it grew tired of the pills, the shots, the braces, the ice and the pain. It was weary of the temporary palliatives, the promised cures, the worthless panaceas. It is in a better place now.

The doctor comes by again. I ask, “Hey, doc, will I suffer a sort of post-partum, separation anxiety now?”

“Not likely, but you will miss it for some time. You’ll remember the good old days. You will likely have many painful days and nights ahead, and the process of separation will sometimes bring you to tears. But be of good cheer…the old knee is happy now. And you’ll get used to its replacement.”

This all sounds somewhat metaphoric, but I’m in no mood currently to think metaphorically. It’s hard enough to lose a good friend, but it’s a good time to celebrate the good years we had, the exhilarating moments and the achievements of fifty-plus years of running.

                                                 * * *

In times like this we might wonder, “Will the new be superior to the old?” Is it ever? In the end, this is a question you’ll have to ask your own Lazarus.

Were there final last words?  I think I heard it whisper on the way out, “Keep running."

 

Bud Hearn

November 16, 2022     

My Dog has a Secret

 

Secrets…we all have ‘em. They’re disguises we hide behind.

 

My dog Bogey has been acting strangely lately. He must have a secret he’s not sharing. I know this because his eyes give him away. Just when I think I have picked up on some clue, they dart away. Prying out secrets from dogs or humans is an art, not a science.

I’ve been trying for a long time to get him to come clean, to reveal those secret instincts that push his button, that expose his inner character. But all I’m getting are bits and pieces of his canine nature. They offer up only hints and glimpses into his true self.

Maybe he’s enjoying leading me on a hide and seek chase. He’s not saying. I can only speculate. If he could talk beyond what his eyes and body postures reveal, he might ask me why I have this perverse curiosity of attempting to intrude into his psyche. A good question for all of us.  

He might even speculate that exposing his secrets would subject him to being manipulated or controlled. All he offers up is some obscure quote, “The desert is mute, littered with bones of dogs that reveal secrets.”

But he is an expert in the art of manipulating compassionate humans. He was born with this talent.  Admittedly my motives may be suspect, and he might even distrust my methods for extracting his secrets. Bribery with chicken is less than subtle. Who knows what’s in a dog’s mind. Or a human, for that matter. 

Still, I keep trying. Some days I notice small progress, noting carefully what my observations reveal. Mostly his eyes show a lot of what he’s not saying. They’re a dead giveaway. 

But eyes give us all away. Just the other day I saw a friend in the parking lot. She was visibly effervescent and eager to talk. I wondered why? Did she have a secret to unload? I asked.

“You’re acting especially young and full of energy today. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion, just reliving the fires of last weekend.”

Ah, I think, she has a secret that’s bursting at the seams to get out.  And this is an open door. My curiosity and I walk right in.

“Fires? Did you light a match, burn something down?”

“No, went to Cumberland Island with friends for a few days.”

Her eyes seem to beg for more interrogation, so I oblige.

“Was wine involved? Who can go camping on an island without appropriate libations?”

Her face lights up. “Absolutely, and a full moon to boot.”

“Well, if there was fruit of the vine, then there must have been a beach, a blanket and a fire, right?” I stoke the embers of her still-burning fire by mentioning that inhibitions are volatile and highly flammable in the ambiance of these conditions.  

“Of course.” Her response is a measured caution.  I sense that I have stirred the ashes of some sweet secret she has stored from those fires.

“Want to share any details?” Perhaps this inquiry was too direct and had crossed a line. But hey, curiosity has no boundaries.

Suddenly there is silence between us as the question sinks in. The veil of secrecy is about to be rent.

(And in that brief space of time, I recall having told Bogey that there’s relief in revealing his hidden secrets. But just when I’m closing in, he finds a sniff or other diversion to distract his attention. So much for “closet” secrets. Instantly I’m back to square one, which is where I find myself now.)

She dodges my question by fiddling with her car keys and looking at her watch. Her eyes avoid mine. Her secret locks itself in tight and slams the door shut.

She blows me off with some French cliché, “Autres temps, autres moeurs, another time, another place,” laughing and walking off. My curiosity and I dangle like limp rags hanging on the door handle.  

So much for being a parking-lot voyeur intruding into the intimate secrets of a friend. Some details are best left proprietary. And maybe the same is true of dogs. Chicken bribing and tummy tickles work pretty well.

After all, I don’t really need to know Bogey’s secrets. It’s enough to just enjoy his company. Same with friends.

 

Bud Hearn

October 31, 2022

 

 

Slang it to Me

 

If it weren’t for cliches, could we communicate? 

* * *

Cliches…we’ve over-used these time-tested platitudes. They’re rusting out, about to bite the dust. Acronyms and euphemisms of verbal arcana are the new Esperanto. I’ve cobbled together a few of the oldies. They tell it like it is.

Our culture is bloated with idiomatic jargon. We belly up to the bar and listen to new claptrap chatter like lol, yolo, ESG, wtf, omg and omw, but all that will never get the same respect as letting you ain’t just whistling Dixie, boss roll off our tongues.

Today our Republic, and the world, seem to be hanging by a thread. Cordiality is as scarce as hen’s teeth and anger rules the roost. Only absolute is politics which is still business as usual. Congress keeps slamming the door in our faces and we’re fed up with having to go around the block with Joe.  

Consensus fell off the wagon. Common sense took a hit and the wolf is at the door demanding more handouts We’re robbing Peter to pay Paul to keep anarchy and looters off the streets.

There’s enough blame to go around. But misery loves company, and the fat’s in the fire when government borrows from itself to pay its bills. Our elected geniuses keep kicking the can and falling all over one another promising we’ll dodge the bullet of insolvency in spite of it being the eleventh hour. Do you feel like we’re being hung out to dry while others are being rewarded with the fruits of our labors?

The moment of truth has arrived. The Treasury is broke. It’s running from pillar to post, the IRS taxing everything that moves for money to pay the piper. The political fat cats are laughing all the way to the bank.

Loose screws are everywhere, figuratively of course. Our Supreme Leader is running around like a chicken with his head cut off, reading from teleprompters while we shake our heads and wonder if he’s playing with a full deck.

Then there’s Putin, a short dog in tall grass, striking matches and drawing lines in the sands of Ukraine. He’s shooting from the hip about nuclear Armageddon, having forgotten his mother’s warning, play with fire and you’ll get burned.

And where’s the former POTUS, the Man of La Maga? He’s running helter-skelter with bloodhounds on his trail. If it weren’t so serious it’d all be a joke.

Meanwhile, woke is up to its eyeballs rewriting history in schools while the borders are falling apart at the seams. Goodbye Robert E. Lee, been nice knowing you.   

What is the solution to the political turmoil permeating the halls of justice? Legalized duels, that’s what. They will end political gridlock. No more endless beating around the bush. Meet me out back, bring your knife or gun and put your money where your mouth is.

Solutions are quick and easy when things become a matter of life or death. Such contests focus the mind, and it’s a fair and square way of coming to grips with issues. It would be the final nail in the coffin of flawed concepts and idiotic ideology, Nancy and Bernie, and truly separate the men from the boys, Mitch and Chuck.

Citizens keep getting the short end of the stick. We’re leaning on a weak reed of one measly vote, riding on a merry-go-round of illusion and living in a fool’s paradise of broken promises. It’s high time we roll up our sleeves and stop equivocating.

The media’s grim handwriting is on the wall and throws fuel on the fire while we sit on our hands and hope the sorry mess will run its course. Yet, all we do is run off at the mouth while eating humble pie. Soon we’ll have to face the music and put up or shut up.

While we may be as clueless as the man in the moon as to what’s really going on, we’re still hard nuts to crack. We’re tending to our business, trying to make hay while the sun shines. There’s no grass growing under our feet. 

* * *

It’s a dysfunctional, dystopian new world. Get used to it. If you don’t like it today, tomorrow will be a real pain in the ass. So put your foot in the door, sign up for Twitter and throw your own hat into the ring.

Remember, the long and short of it all is still this: You only live once…YOLO. Never throw in the towel. May God bless your little hearts.  

 

Bud Hearn

October 3, 2022