Jack's Guide (the Renaissance Person's Guide to Survival in a Shaky Economy)

Festival Fun

Once a year, on or about the last weekend in April, the residents of the Inman Park neighborhood in Atlanta get together and throw a block party for the rest of the city to enjoy.  I called it a "block party", because that is essentially what it is-  the streets get closed, a dozen or so of the nicest homes in the city are opened to the public for tour, two or three hundred artists line the streets to display and sell their wares, and music permeates the atmosphere from three separate venues.  But we've taken the genre to a new level, what with something like a quarter-million visitors a year, at last unofficial count.  Oh, yeah, Saturday at 2pm folks line the streets to witness what may be the wackiest parade anywhere.  Did I mention that it's all free?  If you need a dose of creativity, come on down this Saturday or Sunday and check out the homes, artwork, and music.  Creative Loafing (among others) has proclaimed the Inman Park Spring Festival the "best festival in Atlanta", and we're darned proud of it.  If you'd like to come early and beat the crowds (and there are crowds), you can also attend the Tour of Homes on Friday afternoon, but don't look for the artists and music to be ready before Saturday.  If I sound a bit proprietary about it all, it is because of my intimate involvement as the one who coordinates all the music for the event.  So beg pardon whilst I toot my own horn.

Be forewarned!  Parking is all but non-existent, so here's a chance to show off your "green" sensibilities.  Just take MARTA to the Inman Park/Reynoldstown station, and you're there.  Details for just about all aspects of the event are on the website.

Smell the Flowers Day

Actually, I just made that one up, although I have no doubt that if you Google "Smell the Flowers Day", you will find it already exists.  I wouldn't be at all surprised to find that Hallmark presently has cards for it. 

Not to lapse into cliche, I am being quite literal here, though time has proven the titular phrase to work very well as a metaphor.  But having just returned from exercising (okay, it was no more really than a brisk, long walk), I felt compelled to comment on one of the reasons I love living in the South.

For the hour or so I spent alternately strolling and legging it, I was continually assaulted by an aromatic barrage.  A few of the flowering trees, shrubs, and/or vines that  I recognized were magnolia, honeysuckle, and wisteria.  What an olfactory riot!  Usually, though, by the time we can smell those things the pollen has become so thick that it appears someone busted open a three-kajillion-pound sack of mustard flour.  Maybe it's my imagination, but this year seems not so bad. 

Anyway, whether you do it literally or figuratively, I hope you will find time today to go out and celebrate our ad hoc holiday.

Resurrect yourself (sung to the tune of "Respect Yourself")

Perhaps I am projecting, using the third person objective in my title for today's blog.  I can only speak for myself when I say that I feel a springtime-appropriate urge to resurrect myself from winter's worrisome doldrums, to which I find myself frequently susceptible.  I suppose there's something to be said for satisfaction with the status quo- it certainly makes life easier.  And the procrastinator in me is happy to dream up ways by which to better myself, only to end up putting off their execution until tomorrow, then tomorrow again, etc. (you get the picture).  But one of my favorite quotes has always been this line from Robert Browning's Andrea del Sarto: "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?"  It doesn't hurt that he leaves the definition of "heaven" up to the reader.

 Of all the major holidays (Christmas, Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, Frog Jumping Day-coming up May 13), Easter is the one I have always associated most closely with church and religious commemoration, and thus, with a spiritual significance.  And while my enthusiasm for organized, traditional religious practices has diminished, my pursuit of a spiritual connection with a higher power of my understanding is alive and well.  So, to like-minded individuals and to those who disagree as well, I say this: may you find assurance and serenity in celebrating a re-birth of spirit, mind and body on this special day.

Think this guy's ready to be resurrected?

May your own personal re-birth bring you unbridled joy!

Slaves to Technology

Surely by now we have heard it all before; modern gadgets and gizmos have turned us into a race of helpless innocents, blissfully unaware how susceptible we are to the vagaries of electronica, until it (you can add the "sh" prefix to that "it") happens to us.  Just observe what happens when the power goes out.   We find ourselves running around throwing light switches and trying in vain to turn things on out of habit, as if our meager minds can't wrap themselves around the concept that things won't work if there's no electricity to feed them.  At such times, we suckle ourselves on our battery-powered devices until the crisis has passed, and we find ourselves back in bosom of modern convenience.   I am easily as guilty as anyone of this insanity, prone to temper tantrums and fits of pique when computers, printers, and/or internet technology don't behave as expected.  The dented top of my computer case bears ample evidence of my disfavor, and would seem to put the lie to any claims I may make toward achieving serenity.

This is precisely why I admire this low-tech adjunct to an  existing high-tech item.  If you have ever despaired over the lame sound from your iPhone (or other smart phones), check this out.  When I first saw it, I thought it was one of those ear-bells (I know there's another word for it, but it escapes me for the moment) that oldsters hold up to their ear; like unto an old timey version of a hearing aid, but less subtle by far.  With this thing, though, the idea is that you insert your newfangled com device into the small end, and it acts like an amplifier for listening to music, conference calls, and so forth.  I like, too, the elegant form of it.  Even if it sounds like an old-time gramophone, it looks so cool!

Blah, Blah, Blah Day- More music

What an appropriate holiday for a blogger to celebrate!  I have to confess, though, that my first impression when I saw that today is Blah, Blah, Blah Day, was all wrong.  My immediate assumption was that today is the day when it is appropriate to babble on and on ad infinitum about, well, whatever comes to mind.  This I can do.  This seems to me to be, in most cases, the essence of blogging.  However, on further investigation, the true purpose was revealed to me to be somewhat different in nature.  Today, we are supposed to tackle all those little jobs and/or loose ends that anyone (whether someone else or my own self) has been constantly nagging us about, for any extended length of time.  An unabashed procrastinator, I find this a difficult concept to get my so-called mind around.  Putting the lie to yesterday's post (about achieving productive work flow by managing little piles), I am pretty good at rationalizing why tomorrow would be the better day for doing stuff.  But I'm sitting here writing while a gorgeous day beckons seductively, so there are definite signs of progress.  Anyway, happy Blah (etc.) Day!

My cousin Clint and I share an enthusiasm for being musical catalysts.  That is to say, neither of us will win awards for our music-making abilities, but as facilitators, we shine like the elbows of a comfortable old jacket. (How's that for an appropriate metaphor, cuz?)  I coordinate all the music for the annual Inman Park Festival in Atlanta and occasionally help organize various other musical events.  Clint puts on regular shows up in Morganton, NC (mere blocks away from where we both came into this world), at the venue he has named the Americana Stage.  For those unfamiliar with the term "Americana", it encompasses any and all genres of music that are uniquely American in their lineage, including folk, country, bluegrass, gospel, blues, cajun/zydeco and jazz.  I an unsure of the status of Americana Stage's web presence (get on it, cuz!), but the above link will take you to Reverb Nation, where they have a page.  If it is not current, or you fail at all other attempts to make contact and desperately desire to do so, let me know.  I have the inside scoop.

Clint recently engaged Jim Hurst and Rob Ickes for a duet-type show.  Rob, as well as being a producing artist in his own right, is a regular performer with Earl Scruggs, the grandaddy of modern banjo-playing. (I know, to the uninformed, that may seem like an oxymoron, but you probably never heard Bela Fleck, Alison Brown, or any of the many other great banjo-pickers on the Americana scene, who venture into jazz, reggae, and other unexpected musical realms.)  Jim is a guitarist and songwriter of copious talent, who I once had the pleasure of preparing a pre-show dinner for a few years back when he gigged in an Atlanta venue.  I was unable to attend the recent show, but someone has posted several YouTube videos, to which I herewith generously post the links: Swamp Reed is a song inspired by one of Jim's favorites, Jerry Reed.  In the Garden is a beautiful gospel-sounding instrumental.  Enjoy!

And on the topic of my original assessment of today's holiday (see above), I was watching a Braves game yesterday, and, as commentators will do, in their sometime desperate-seeming attempts to fill the airwaves (actually, the digital stream), one of them uttered the following: "Whenever you use the phrase 'back in my day....', it signals that you are older than you really think you are."  To me, this makes about as much sense as "whenever my fish falls off his bicycle, (fill in the blank)".  If anyone has insight into this mysterious quote, please fill me in.

Little Piles

No, I am not referring to a vascular anal canal problem.  (I never realized, until I looked it up, that we all have hemorrhoids- they don't become a problem until they turn into piles.  I'll bet that qualifies as "too much information", so I'm dropping the topic right now.)  The piles of which I speak are something altogether different- much to your relief, I am confident.

Part of my "creative/productive" process involves filtering and setting priorities.  I suspect that I am revealing nothing newly earth-shattering to most readers.  The manner of effecting said methods will obviously vary from person to person, but I am only prepared to address how I manage it.  I usually start by sorting into little piles.  This is not necessarily a conscious effort on my part, but if you walk into my office on a busy day (which has been far too infrequent as of late- however, it's getting better), you will bear witness to my scheme, accidental or otherwise.  Distributed about my work space are small stacks of papers, generally relating somehow, within each individual collection, to each other.  Not very sophisticated, I must admit, but it's by far better than one big pile, right?  Anyway, whether you agree or not, it's my way, and I suppose I'll stick to it.  With all that stuff segregated by topic and thus separated, I can then establish what is most important and urgent to address (see my post of 8.30.2010 for a quick and easy visual aid to that specific process), thence commencing to disappear those little piles one by one.  

I've heard from various interior designers and space planners a general rule, to wit: the more flat spaces you make available (in, say, a design studio- or a kitchen, maybe), the more one tends, in the process of doing our daily activities, to fill them up.  This conjures in my so-called mind a vision of vast layout boards and countertops stacked high with paperwork and such- intimidating if not overwhelming.  This is, I know, an extreme example, but it justifies to me the practice of not providing too much "clutter space".  The older I get, the more I seem to adhere to this, and I want to believe it is wisdom that comes with age, and not my anal-retentive tendencies coming to the fore. (How did we get back to that anatomical vicinity? Insidious, ain't it?)

Trust me, I have had ample opportunity recently to practice what I preach, as my new residence/work space is about half what it used to be.  Despite this fact, I seem to be better organized and better able to prioritize.  You don't have to downsize to try it, but in my case, it was a fortuitous necessity, and I'll heartily recommend it.

For those of you who just look at the pictures, here are a couple I enjoyed:

These dumpsters are desk-sized miniatures:

Continuing Education, Blame Someone Else Day

Chances are, there are lots of folks taking today off in our nation's capitol.  I'm thinking that out of respect for those honoring Blame Someone Else Day, most of our esteemed politicians (as well as the un-esteemed ones) will be keeping themselves out of the line of fire; laying low (appropriately enough descriptive of our elected officials) and generally being scarce.  I know I would if I were in their shoes.  But if they all skedaddle it raises the question: if blame is flung and there's no one there for it to stick to, does it still deserve rebuke?

Not taking sides here, my conservative friends... this is just too funny and too apropos to today's post (no, it isn't Moe):

Part of what occupies my time (on a good, productive day) when work gets slow, is learning new stuff.  My friend Joe, who is in the same line of non-work as I have been for the last year or so, went back to school (at fifty-something) to make himself once more marketable.  I think he was learning how to write programming, which sometimes seems like the only thing that people get paid well to do any more.  Yay, Joe! You go, boy!  I have for long maintained that once we stop learning, we might as well throw in the towel, get out the walker, and go buy a bundle of adult protective underwear.

It occurs to me that one area of continuing education to be mined productively these days, and perhaps the one offering the most bang for one's buck, is linguistics.  No, it's not a way to make skinny pasta. (Nor is it actually the proper term- it just gave me the opportunity to make a bad almost-pun.)  I guess the term foreign language studies would be, in this case, more correct.  Learn a new language, and your employment opportunities seem to double.  Everywhere I go for job/opportunity searches, it seems that foreign language skills are a bonus, and the training certainly seems less expensive than any other tech-school-type courses.  Rosetta Stone courses start around $180, and top out at under $500 for the deluxe works.  Of course, it is a self-administered program, so if one is not especially well self-motivated, one may not do so well here.  But I think you get the point.  My work seems to be picking up without having yet acquired any multi-lingual abilities (unless being able to speak "musician" counts), but I have for long felt an urge to become a more worldly-wise individual, by pursuing an appropriate course of language study.  Hey- small town, nuthin' to do........

 

Creativity with Music

I am quite content to wear, among various others, the label of musician.  (For those unaware, the name of this blog, Jack's Guide, .....etc., refers to the namesake "Jack of all trades, master of none".  You will also find the epithet Renaissance Man , or something like it, in there, somewhere.)  The nature of the blog itself is loosely configured around finding ways for people like me to be productive, by way of whatever creative gifts we have been given, and to be happy doing so.   And I do find myself happy with my involvement with things musical. 

Today is Barbershop Quartet Day, and my dad Fred was an avid fan, mostly of the participatory type.   I have near-photographic recall of him and his buddies grouped around the upright piano in our living room, picking out their individual parts and singing them in four-part harmony.  This picture often flashes before my eyes when rehearsing with my own band-mates, and makes me grin.  Dad and Mom both sang in the church choir, as well, for as far back as I can remember, but somehow those memories aren't charged with the same level of emotion.  Probably because usually when I was listening to the latter, I'd just got my butt kicked by Newt Kellett and Mack McCallum, two bad-asses with whom I somehow ended up in Sunday School.  True evil lurks in the strangest places.  

As much lip-serivce as I give to the belief that music really does make the world a better place, one might expect more in the way of musical commentary from this blog.  Experience  has taught me that there are few people I can expect to accurately predict what musical selections will appeal to me.  I have to assume that everyone else has similarly discriminating taste (even though I probably disagree with most of them), so I do not feel particularly compelled to make recommendations.  I have been accused of having pretty good taste in music, though, and since music doubtless meets the criteria for creativity and productivity (the bywords of this blog), I guess it's about time I went out on a limb with a recommendation.  

I have to admit that my buddy Clay is quite often right on the money in this respect, despite the fact that he is fond of dealing in superlatives.  (I'm sure you have a friend of this ilk; who is so absolutely and genuinely enthused about every new thing he encounters that it is espoused as the "best I've ever seen in my whole life!"  I think I'm sometimes just jealous of the ecstatic abandon with which he enjoys stuff.)  Anyway, Clay recommended to me some time back that I give a listen to Bill Wyman's Rhythm Kings.  If the name doesn't ring a bell, Bill Wyman was the original, long-time bass player for the Rolling Stones.  He and the Rhythm Kings have put out a number of recordings; collections of mostly cover versions of all kinds of stuff.  So far, I have heard little that didn't make me smile and want to get up and move.  Here's a YouTube clip of them doing JJ Cale's Any Way the Wind Blows.  

Sisters and Brothers

In honor of National Siblings Day, I'd like to offer my theory about having sisters and brothers.  I think that growing up with 'em gives one a chance to practice social skills that otherwise would not come into play until much later in life.  It is not so much that this always results in beneficial people skills and/or political acumen- one doesn't have to look too far for dysfunctional family relations.  And perhaps I was just lucky.  We don't have a great deal of choice in the matter of who our family members are, or whether or not our sib may have turned out to be an only child.  I am the eldest of four, with two sisters sandwiched between my younger brother and me.  I must have been a handful, as Mom and Dad decided to wait about four years before knocking out three more in fairly rapid succession.  As a kid, I reveled in being the nominal "boss" over my sisters and brother- way back when being older generally meant one was bigger, smarter, faster, and wiser.  Now the tables have tragically turned.  As one approaches one's seniority, those of us more advanced in our years find ourselves shriveled, slower, and sooner to forget stuff, than our younger counterparts.  Luckily, I was nice enough during our formative years, to my younger family members, to be able to expect that they might pick me up if I fall (either literally or metaphorically), in my doddering golden years.

I consider it, too, a stroke of good fortune that I have been blessed with sistras and bro whom I love and admire.  Heck, I even like their choices in life partners.  Go figure. Equally fortuitous and baffling is the apparent fact that they all like me, too.  I just got off the telephone with my brother Gordon (and with, vicariously, his wife Janice; usually like a teleprompter in the background, coaching with answers to my queries for Gordie to repeat into the phone).   They, like me and our sisters and everyone else on god's green earth not born sucking on a silver spoon, are struggling to adjust to tough times, and we stay in touch in an effort to provide support for each other.  I do not take this for granted, and I try to take the same attitude about other family members and those I call friends and loved ones.  If you are reading this, you can likely count yourself among those, and you are appreciated.  That's just in the case that I haven't made that clear recently.  

...that was then-

from the top, for those who don't know- Gordon, Diane (younger sister), Mary Frances (other sister-duh), Clint (cousin and virtual brother), Katie (keeps Clint in line), me, Danny (consort to Mary Frances) missing: Brian (the other bro-in-law, Diane's unholy preacher man- he may have been taking the picture) and Janice (doggie-mom to Gordie's puppie-pop); taken on the occasion of my sixtieth (thru a miracle of temporal science, taken ten years in the future- my story and I'm stickin' to it)

So- go call, or send a message to your sister and/or brother, if you're lucky enough to have 'em.

Take my advice......

To complete the title of today's post: "Take my advice- I'm certainly not using it."  That would be my advice about having a semblance of a routine, and sticking to it.  And today, having let myself sleep in, I missed attending my regular Saturday morning assemblage of like-minded guys.  That's faux-pas number one.  Number two is the fact that I have not posted here for several days, a shortcoming which I vowed to myself to not succumb to.  We do what we can.  I trust everyone (including myself) will get over it.  My reason for this delinquency: I have work!  And I'm talking paying work!  It appears I will be occupied for most, if not all, of the summer working on an airport wayfinding project, and, as often happens, the primary architects on the job have neglected this aspect of the project until the last minute.  This usually results in a mad flurry of activity on the part of me and my client, and brings to mind another aphorism:  "Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part."  Unfortunately, this rarely proves true. 

So forgive my absence, whilst I take the easy way out and fill up this space with a couple of creative design links, as is not an unusual (and expedient) thing for me to do.

For those aficionados of urban living, you may enjoy this Broadway (as in NYC) penthouse, by architect Joel Sanders:

I like design with a sense of humor.  Like this coat check chair.

Yes, those are coat hangers.