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

Kill your TV Day

All right, I just made that up.  So far as I know, there has been designated no such holiday as Kill Your TV Day.  And by advancing such a proposal, I am admittedly practicing that well-worn philosophy, "take my advice, I'm not using it" (AKA, "do as I say, not as I do...").  At the heart of the matter is one of my periodic episodes of disgust with television programming and self-loathing for indulging it.  

For whatever the reason, I find myself lately parked too often on my fuzzy posterior in front of the glass teat (not my term, but that of writer Harlan Ellison, of no significant relation), suckling mindlessly.  When Bruce Springsteen wrote the song 57 Channels and Nothing On, he had no idea how drastically he was understating the situation to come.  At current count, I believe DirecTV is boasting no less than two hundred and ten (plus) channels.  Maybe it's my own fault for not subscribing to them all (at a fee that would rival the budget of some small dictatorships), and thus missing out on the really good ones.  Somehow I doubt that.

A few years ago, I went without a television contract for a span approaching three years.  I am currently trying to recall how I managed to do that, as I now seemed indentured, by my own devices, for the remainder of my natural life, to that so-called "service provider".  Perhaps "natural" is not the correct adjective to use, as I doubt nature ever intended us to bathe in that blue light for extended epochs.  Long story short (relatively speaking, as compared to, say, War and Peace, for example), I think I'm trapped.  

What precipitated the above-referenced drastic measure was one specific event.  I had boasted for a long time that I only watched "worthwhile television"- e.g., Public Broadcasting, nature channels, the History Channel, science shows, and so forth.  And I still frequent those shows, my only regret being that many of them seem stuck on repeating the same episodes ad infinitum.  On one memorable occasion, however, I tuned in my beloved Discovery Channel to find a show featuring a bounty hunter named Dawg (or some such), with cigarette pack rolled up in his tee-shirt sleeve, sporting a mullet hairdo and chasing down such dastardly deed-doers as folks who had neglected to keep up their car payments.  The non-sequitur of such a show on such a channel drove me over the edge, and in a fit of repugnance, I cancelled my subscription and did not watch television for the duration aforementioned.   I can truthfully say that the only broadcasts I came to miss were sports events.  In a moment of vulnerability, I ultimately re-enlisted, and now frequently regret it.

I can, however, choose what films I select to watch on my big-ass (57-inch, high-def, BlueRay-enabled, with six channels of sound-surround and a thundering sub-woofer that I sometimes use to return fire at those urban mobile boom-boxes that ever and again drive by my place ) TV.  Despite this measure of control, I find myself frequently waking from a dull torpor, wondering what the hell I am watching, and why can't I turn it off?  Self-restraint is a courageous and evasive quality, and one to which I still aspire, at least in this specific realm.

I am of an entire generation that grew up coached by laugh tracks, as to what should be deemed humorous.  (In truth, when I accidentally tune in to Six and a Half Men- only by way of contiguous channel-surfing, I assure you- I realize that not much has really changed.)   There are a few shows that I find genuinely funny (The Office comes to mind, though I haven't seen an episode newer than three years old), but for the most part, the infantile potty-and-similarly-scatalogical so-called "humor" leaves me shaking my head, with not so much as a faint snicker.  I have come to believe that a lot of the same "writers" are merely moonlighting from their jobs doing commercials for the same networks.  Maybe I'm just becoming a grumpy old man.  (No comments called for.)

And so, dear readers, I hope you will forgive my fretting and frothing over something I should be able to let go of.  Like the book says, Don't Sweat the Small Stuff (and It's All Small Stuff).  And if you have figured out a way to finagle out of your fiduciary obligation to the TV-subscription vampires, please do enlighten me.  Or if you find one that only feeds on college athletics...........

Architectural Tree Houses

I think it must be a primal childhood urge.  I refer here to the need to literally rise above it all and to elevate oneself to a place of spatial superiority.  In the feline world, it serves to buttress the cat's feeling of dominance over dogs, nay, over all lesser beings- that ability to effortlessly ascend to the upper reaches of whatever tree happens to be handy, and to perch regally and survey the scurrying of the inferior world below.   I see this happen to my cat Moosh- normally a skittish, nervous type, on acquiring her favorite tree perch in my magnificent scarlet willow, she transforms into a tiny lioness, fearing naught, oblivious to earth-bound perils, and superior in every way.

As kids, I think we naturally gravitate (or would that be "de-gravitate"?) to this tendency.  We start out as drooling floor-bound crawlers, cut our teeth as we toddle about with our tummies off the ground, and eventually get the urge to mount anything climb-able.  Since age one, I have had a scorpion-shaped scar below my lower lip, as evidence of this infant urge.  Left unattended for a brief moment, I managed to stand up in my stroller, which tipped over backwards as I attempted to climb the push-bar, launching me face-first into a nearby coal bucket, thus marking me for life.  

So I think it is only natural for children of all ages to have a fascination for tree-houses.  I distinctly recall two such structures from my own formative years.  One was inherited with the house my folks bought when we moved to Rock Hill, South Carolina, at which point I had already reached the ripe old age of sixteen, and was thus far too advanced to indulge in such puerile pursuits, and so left the tree house to my younger siblings.  You will have to ask them about that particular structure, but I recollect that it was quite elaborate compared to our previous one, having a roof and side rails to keep the climber safe.  The one I remember best was one our dad built in an adjacent lot when we lived in Seneca, SC.  It was a mere elevated platform, constructed about six feet off the ground, with no kind of restraint or safety devices.  My dad, while a thorough and loving provider, was not a coddler.  I don't recall any broken bones resulting from rapid and unrestrained descent, but correct me if I am wrong, my sibs.

It was not until after I had developed an interest in architecture and gone on to study it and become degreed in that field, that I had occasion to see the fruits of childhood tree-dwelling grown up.  Those serious designers who sally forth on such projects generally do so with fun mainly in mind, and I love coming across the results.  To wit: this posting about tree houses from Dezeen.  If you follow the links therein, each tree house is thoroughly (enough) documented and described.  And here is another link to some weird and wonderful tree-top abodes.

Maybe I'll just go out and construct a nice tree house in that scarlet willow.... I wonder if Moosh will forgive me.

 

And you thought texting was a distraction......

Okay, because of my current work load, I am taking a shortcut today.  I don't normally shirk my duties by forwarding wholesale, especially if it is something you may have already seen, but this was just too good to pass up.  My thanks to my friend Jon (always on the move), who e-mailed it to me (via Star News Online, byline: Celia Rivenbark):

By now I’m sure that most of you have heard about the Florida woman who caused a two-vehicle wreck because she was shaving her bikini area while driving.

I guess that makes the time you drove with your elbows while eating a Whopper seem downright virtuous, doesn’t it?

Florida Highway Patrol troopers said the car Megan Barnes was driving crashed into the back of a pickup truck at about 45 mph. Her reaction time was slowed down because she was too busy grooming her hoohah to pay attention to the road. Oh, like that’s never happened to you?

Ms. Barnes told the investigating officer that she was on her way to a date and “wanted to be ready for the visit.”

Yes, she wanted to look her best. All over. Except, well, we’ve seen Ms. Barnes’ mug shot and she appears to have a face that would stop a clock and raise hell with small watches, bless her heart. To be blunt, I don’t think a perfectly groomed love rug could possibly make that much difference.

It could’ve been worse, I suppose. Ms. Barnes could’ve been waxing her bikini area as she drove along in her T-bird (Yes, fun, fun, fun til the po-lice took her T-bird awaaaaaayy) on those scenic bridges. Imagine the horror if she’d tossed the used wax strips out the window. The manatees might have tried to adopt them.

Hons, I’ve driven on this particular stretch of highway between Miami and Key West and it’s flat-out beautiful with crystal blue water, gorgeous mangroves and cloudless skies.

Not once have I been so bored that I decided I’d rather drag a sharp blade over my nether regions just to have something to do.

There are so many “You might be a redneck if” elements to the story of Megan Barnes, but my favorite is that, while performing this extremely personal grooming ritual, she asked her EX HUSBAND to steer the car so she could concentrate (“Help me out, Buford, I’m gonna make it look like a LIGHTNING BOLT!”)

What a guy! Not only did he hold the steering wheel so she could concentrate on primping for her big date with ANOTHER MAN, but when the cops arrived, he tried to switch places and claim he’d been driving.

Trouble was, he had burns on his chest from the airbag that had deployed on THE PASSENGER SIDE ONLY. Oops.

To no one’s particular surprise, the Highway Patrol quickly discovered that Ms. Barnes didn’t have a valid driver’s license. Oh, and, the day before, she’d been convicted of DUI and driving with a suspended license. Oh, and her car had been seized and had no insurance or registration. Oh, and she was on probation. Oh, and SHE’S A FLIPPIN’ LUNATIC!

Albeit an impeccably groomed one.

Celia Rivenbark’s newest book, “You Can’t Drink All Day If You Don’t Start in the Morning,” is available at bookstores nationwide. Visit www.celiarivenbark.com for details.

Still here? Miss the Rapture?

If you are reading this, then you are obviously one of the earth-bound worms deemed unworthy of early arrival at the gates of heaven, remaining corporeal to face the worldly tribulations to come.  Or maybe Harold Camping was just wrong.  At any rate, don't feel too badly-  I'm right here with you.  Which is fine;  I wasn't quite ready to go yet.  

Don't get me wrong.... I would not stoop to disrespect another's beliefs (not me, nah!).  In truth, I know quite a few avowed Christians who never gave a second thought to yesterday's scheduled preternatural events.  And I realize that there are many who would equate mere belief in God (Allah, Yaweh, Gaia, etc.) as acceptance of a make-believe playmate for grown-ups, and on par with faith in the rapture.  That's fine for them, as long as they have something to believe in, even if it is only self-sufficiency.  

As for myself, I do not claim insider knowledge of such things.  An acknowledged agnostic, I claim that no measurable proof exists of a Higher Power.  I am speaking here of hard, cold scientific proof, for I do actually believe in a loving and forgiving something-or-other.... I just don't claim to understand it.  Nor do I trust the ones who want to bludgeon me with their beliefs, pronouncing that they do, in fact, know and understand God. Pilfilarkey, I say!  But if your God gets you by, good on ya!  Just don't sic him on me.  I can't afford to keep more than I already have.  (BTW, thanks, HP, for everything you've done for me lately, not to mention calling off the Rapture!)

and the next thing we have to worry about........

Creativity and/vs. Productivity, lazy cats

I spend a lot of time, energy and verbosity (is that really a word?) blathering on and on about creativity and productivity, usually placing them in a context that might suggest that the two are mutually exclusive.  As a matter of fact, I don't believe that this is the case at all.  (And if this is the only situation wherein I have mislead anyone, I will consider myself extremely fortunate.  I try to stay well aware of my own human frailties, and a self-image of inflated importance and over-estimated brilliance is certainly among them.) When I set out on this mission (i.e., this weblog), endeavoring to enlighten the masses, I established a certain theme: to create a monologue regarding the effective use of creative and productive techniques in order to make one's way in the "new economy".  An implied second theme has since manifested itself: productive and creative use of what might be normally considered secondary talents and interests.

What I am struggling to get around to is this idea: Creativity is productive, and productivity is creative. (insert thoughtful pause here while the masses ponder the notion)  Actually, it ain't exactly advanced rocket engineering, once you think about it. The two are, in reality, sort of conjoined- I can't create something without being productive, and the act of producing generally generally results in the creation of..... well, whatever it is that I have produced. 

When I began posting to this blog, about nine months ago, paying work was non-existent (for me as well as for lots of others), and writing about the situation seemed better than not doing so.  Besides, I enjoy doing it.  These days I find myself less concerned about where the mortgage payment is coming from; less absorbed in self-pity; and more thankful for what I have, rather than bitter over what I lack.  Paying contract work has materialized and continues to do so.   And while I have come to believe that creativity and productivity usually prove handy when it comes to paying for the groceries, they serve as well to satisfy another need.  I do believe that the human animal possesses a compulsion to create and to be productive.  

I have a couple of cats (I like dogs, too, just can't live with 'em, for various reasons).  I am continually asking them if they've got a job yet.  This is purely a rhetorical question- I know the answer.  Their sole purpose in life (other than occasionally pestering me for attention, which I usually dispense without qualm) seems to be to lounge around, preferably in a sunny spot- one where I am wanting or needing to sit. This occupies around ninety-eight per cent of their time.  The rest is spent either consuming food, which I generously provide, or disposing of it, either in their litter box, or regurgitated at random in places where I walk, sit, or put my feet.  Now I cherish my nap time, and sometimes I envy their sloth, but as much as I love 'em, I know well that, were I of a feline species, and possessed of the ability to remember what it was like being human, I'd miss the opportunity to write, design, garden, cook, create music, and generally celebrate life.  Maybe not.  I guess it would depend on who my human was.

More food

In keeping with my pledge (if only to myself) to be more regular with my posts to this venue, and right in line with the creative/productive theme of the blog, I am herewith including the enclosed.  I mean, what could be more creative and/or productive than coming up with new recipes for food? (.....as opposed to recipes for disaster, heartbreak, financial ruin, etc.- food is much better.)  I was sitting around the other  night and was smitten with a sudden urge for coleslaw.  Having none sitting around waiting to be consumed, I began surveying the fridge and my pantry for suitable ingredients.  (Any of you who have actually seen my kitchen storage will know that there's not a whole lot that I can't quickly lay hands on without running off to the closest Kroger.) Some of the required components will not surprise anyone, perhaps some will, but here goes:

Good Enuff (for company) Coleslaw:

½ cup mayo (I insist on Duke's, but if you must use another, you are forgiven)

1/3 cup greek-style plain yogurt (I used low-fat)

2 tbsp. cider vinegar

2 tbsp. lime juice

1/3 cup sugar

½ tsp. celery salt

White pepper to taste

½ tsp. mustard flour

5-6 cups chopped cabbage (you can mix white and red for a more colorful slaw- I guess you could always use that broccoli slaw mix, too)

2  grated carrots (if you don't use the above-referenced slaw mix, which has carrots in it, I think)

½ cup finely chopped sweet onion

¼ cup sweet pickle relish

Mix together the first 8 ingredients. Set aside.  Mix everything else in a big bowl and pour the liquid mixture in.  Toss thoroughly and chill for a couple hours to let flavors blend.  (I didn't do this last waiting part.  I was hungry and dived right in, but when I ate some the next day, it seemed distinctly better blended- a fine point, though.)

With Memorial Day coming up, you have a perfect excuse to trot this one out.  Go for it! (It was really good with barbecue chicken sandwiches.)

What's New, Happy Chocolate Chip Day, etc.

What can I say about National Chocolate Chip Day?  Either you're a chocolate lover, and will use the day as an excuse for an outrageous binge, or not.  I personally am a recovering chocoholic, with less than twenty-four hours under my belt.  (Hey, it's one day at a time, right?)  To be completely honest about it (for those of you not hip to the premise of rigorous honesty in twelve-step work), the chips don't really do it for me.   I suppose a low-bottom chocolate addict would feel differently about it, but I am more discriminating in my jonesing for the luscious brown stuff.  For me, the darker the better, and I like it conjoined in recipes with other delectable ingredients.... give me fudge brownies, triple chocolate ice cream, Reese's cups, and chocolate cheese cake (my mouth waters at the merest notion).  I can't drive from Atlanta to visit my sister in Durham, NC, without a stop in Anderson, SC, where the Russell Stover outlet store beckons from its site overlooking the interstate, in plain view, and with advertising signs galore, luring the susceptible into a den of regrettable relapse.   My most recent chocolate adventure involves a recipe for home-made Peppermint Patties (see below), and is threatening to make me miss more than a few Chocoholics Anonymous meetings, for shame of having to pick up yet another white (chocolate?) chip.  If I don't change the subject quickly, I will soon clog up the keyboard with the melted residue of messy over-indulgence.

So.  I hope those of you who have not completely given up on me will forgive my absence of the past couple of weeks.  Having completed my duties in regards to the Inman Park Festival, two weeks ago, I have begin to climb out of a backlog of neglected duties, only to find myself faced with a veritable plethora of new obligations.  The woes of the past year's dearth of work are beginning to seem but a fading recollection, and my latest concern now appears to be "How am I going to keep up if I actually get all the work that threatens to fall in my lap?"  Nice problem to have these days, eh?  

I attribute at least a portion of this good fortune to a practice in which I have recently managed to re-engage myself.  I have posted previously about the benefits of regular meditation. (See October 1st and 3rd, 2010)  I use the word "regular" here, despite the fact that given my reference to re-engaging in it, I obviously have had something of a lapse in my practice thereof.  I am finding (as before, but I am notorious for forgetting what's good for me) that when I am conscientious and regular about daily meditation, I am better able to manage what's in front of me.  I just don't seem to get sidetracked as easily, and am better at focusing on my daily necessary affairs.  The practice of this easy process (easy, at least, for me- some do find it more arduous) seems to magnify my productivity by leaps and bounds.

At the risk now of belying the above claim to having improved focus, I am now shifting gears back to chocolate, and the previously promised recipe.

Peppermint Patties:

2 cups powdered sugar (yes, a whole package of the stuff)

1.5 tbsp. softened butter                                                                                    

1/8 oz. peppermint oil (take the trouble to find the oil- the extract just doesn't do it)

1/4 tsp. vanilla extract                                                                                                      

2 tbsp. heavy cream (I use more to keep the mix from being too crumbly)                    

8 oz. bittersweet chocolate chips                                        

In a blender, slowly cream the sugar, butter, oil, extract, and cream.  Increase speed to medium-high and beat until the mixture holds together well and is just creamy, instead of crumbly.  Don't get too creamy with it, or you will have problems later on.  (No, your 401K will not vanish, nor will your daughter run off with a musician- nothing that drastic.)  Roll into teaspoon-sized balls (or slightly larger, if you prefer the store-bought sized confections, otherwise they will be smaller) and flatten on wax paper to say, 1/4 inch thick. Chill in the freezer for 20 minutes or so. This can be a little awkward if you have a side-by side refrigerator, like me.  They want to lie flat until chilled, else they curl up and make the dipping a bit difficult.  You are smart, though- you'll figure it out. In the meantime, melt the chips. (There are so many different schools on how best to accomplish this, and the results, as far as I can tell, are always unpredictable, depending on the time, temperature, humidity, strength of your microwave, and the way you are holding your mouth.  The last time I did it, I went through three batches of chips before getting something other than what looked and felt like chocolate-covered sand.)  Once you have successfully melted the chocolate, use a dipping fork (okay, a salad fork will do just fine) and, one-by one, coat the flattened sugar balls in chocolate, taking care to scrape the excess off as you remove them from the bowl of melted chocolate.  Lay them on wax paper (you can recycle what you used before- just because you're a glutton doesn't mean you can't be green) and let them cool,  then chill them in the refrigerator  (same problem as before- apply your space-planning skills to the contents of your fridge).  Once chilled, gobble and enjoy.