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

Alien Love Children

Just for the record, it has now been confirmed- wacky, sensationalist headlines sell papers.  Or blog postings, or whatever.  This theory was verified a couple of weeks ago, when my post entitled "Skinning a Cat" drew roughly three times the normal readers as I normally would get.  The posting had nothing to do with animal cruelty and, in fact, contained something of a socially redeeming message, so I hope folks actually continued to read it beyond the point at which they discovered my wicked ploy.  On the other hand, the recent posting entitled "Today's Sermon", which was one of my better efforts, I thought, and had nothing to do with church, got a grand total of two readers.  I obviously have something to learn about yellow journalism.  Oddly enough, one of the "categories" (read up on SEO) that first posting (the one that wasn't really about de-furring felines) fell into was "Spiritual Growth", which is now causing me great consternation regarding the future direction of my postings.

One of the sly tricks I have noted in reference to the aforementioned, is the abundant use of pictures.  When was the last time you saw a copy of the National Enquirer that didn't have a colorful (albeit thoroughly photoshopped) photograph emblazoned thereon?  And generations of male "readers" have claimed that they perused Playboy magazine for the intelligent discourse to be found therein.  Really? I can't come up with a comparable indictment of female readers unless it would be to point out that Better Homes and Gardens probably wouldn't last long on the sole strength of written articles.

So, you can expect more in the way of lurid headlines and livid pictures from this posting venue.  I can see clearly now from whence my bread gets buttered.  

Somewhat related (as if it mattered), my buddy Clay sent me the following yesterday- maybe you've already seen them- maybe not:

and if you don't get this one, you're too darn young........

 

 

Today's sermon

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow...etc."  (No, I do not pretend to be the meanest sumbitch in the valley....)  But I will deign today to wax sermonic. (That word, I was surprised to discover, actually exists- thank you, thesaurus.com).  Don't worry, I'll try to keep it light and relatively brief.

As yesterday was a slow Saturday, and since I had no musical gig or other plans, I plopped my ever-expanding posterior down in front of the tube for an evening of enlightenment.  I had recently watched the film Good Night and Good Luck (which I'll recommend highly), wherein the theme of responsible television programming was thoughtfully explored.  So I decided to forego the latest installment of Swamp Loggers (just kidding- I've never laid eyes on it- but you get my point, I hope), and decided instead to peruse the National Geographic Channel.  I might as well have been watching a disaster flick.  The two programs I perused, both of which proved quite sobering (and I haven't had a drink in eleven years), consisted of the stories of the March earthquake that devastated parts of Japan, and of the spate of tornados that recently ripped through the South and midwest United States.  I had just witnessed firsthand some of the destruction wrought by the latter, having driven through part of Alabama on my recent sojourn there.  I saw acres of flattened forests adjacent to seemingly untouched areas, as well as neatly stacked roadside piles of debris that had clearly recently been homes, warehouses, churches and/or the like.  You couldn't really tell.

The two shows seemed to have one common theme, besides the obvious hedonistic fascination with destruction that we have, until it happens to us.  The first feature pointedly demonstrated that in the past year there have been three major seismic events around the Pacific "Ring of Fire"- way more than usual. Heck, I think they said that one a decade is more the usual frequency.  All I can say is that I'm thankful I don't live in Seattle.  And apparently the outbreak of storms in the South (which so far seem to have eschewed their regular diet of trailer parks- and in Alabama, yet) is something, so they said, that might happen once every twenty years.

Now, I don't subscribe to alarmist, end-of-days predictions.  But the whole 2012 phenomenon and forecasts of global-warming-spawned weather events have got me thinking.  On a personal level, none of us has any guarantee of continuation beyond the next five minutes, let alone the winter solstice of next year.  I'm not saying that I always act like it, but I do believe that all I have is today.  If I waste time dwelling on past unfortunate events or worrying about the wreckage of my future, I am missing the whole point.  I think we were put here (by a universe or a higher power with an insidious sense of humor) to experience joy in and of ourselves and each other.  I had a tornado jump over my home a couple of years ago, but it didn't make me recognize this truth the way a television show did.  Edward R. Murrow was right when he said, "The obscure we see eventually. The completely obvious, it seems, takes longer. "

Good night and good luck.

Alabama- Rednecks and Natural Beauty

All true- except for the rednecks part.  Mobile home jokes notwithstanding, I am in all truth enjoying my Alabama getaway.  Yesterday afternoon when I arrived it was witheringly hot and humid (I am, after all, staying right on a lake), but I woke this morning to a cloudy haze obscuring the sun, and cool breezes off the water.  I sat on the screened-in porch and enjoyed my morning coffee and fruit like I have not done in quite some time.  I am sorely tempted to put off departing this place until the last possible minute, which would be two days hence; Wednesday evening I have obligations back in the city.  As I compose now in air-conditioned comfort, I look out over a short expanse of nicely landscaped shoreline to the inlet where is situated the extent of the property owned by my cousin’s in-laws.  The location is verdant and lush, and I hear nought in the evening but  tree-frogs and crickets.  The room I sleep in is actually dark after sundown, with no ambient reflected city lights making it possible to read my paperback at night without benefit of artificial illumination. And despite venturing out for  groceries and in search of a consistent wireless signal, I have yet to encounter the first red neck.  

That descriptive moniker, I am told, has a number of possible sources.  The one that I always assumed accurate, was that the sunburned necks of cotton-pickers was the reason for the label hung on those earthy folk.  The other, less-known (at least by me) source may be the red Alabama clay one sees everywhere, perhaps evidenced on the dirty necks of the poor little white kids that used to be associated with the Yellow Hammer State.  

I have yet to figure out where that colorful state nickname came from-  I see lots of yellowroot twigs for sale in the convenience stores and produce markets, and wonder if there is any connection to be made there.  The yellowroot, by the way, is purported to have been the fore-runner to the toothbrush, and thus the state of Alabama lays claim to having invented that device.  Of course, had it been anywhere else, we’d likely be calling it the “teethbrush”.  (You knew it was coming, didn’t you?  Sorry, Linda and Chuck-  I couldn’t resist.  I hope this in no way diminishes the gracious welcome y’all have afforded me.)  

I am busy photographing, measuring, and otherwise documenting the existing structure that the Rubios bought some thirty years ago, in hopes of devising a suitably functional, creative, and economical  solution to my charge.  They are wanting to add a wing containing a master bedroom, bath, closet and laundry room.  Most of my work here will be documentation, although I have already begun drawing up the existing footprint and some rough elevations, which will enable me to accurately communicate the design ideas that I will develop once back in Atlanta.  But as I hinted at earlier, don’t look for me there until you see me coming.

Note: This post was actually written yesterday, but due to the aforementioned issues with wireless connection (the lack thereof, to be specific) I was unable to post it until today.

 

Go Fishing Day

Pardon me for being a little bit tardy in posting about Go Fishing Day-  the "official" date was actually yesterday's.  But it would have been a celebratory event my Dad would have reveled in, and today being Fathers' Day.... well, it just seemed appropriate to address it here and now.   Hey, the man's middle name was, literally, Fisher. This was a fact undisputed.  I have, however, uncovered evidence that his first name, Fred- the one everyone called him by, has some minor mystery associated.  I have found in various documents that there were several various iterations, to wit: "Fredrick" and "Frederick" were the most popular, but his discharge papers from the merchant marines designate him as "Fred Fisher Ellison".  This apparently never bothered him- he knew that his middle name was the important one, and associated with his true nature, though he never went by that moniker.  He did, however, think enough of that label to hang it on me, as my own first name, thus creating everlasting issues, since I go by my middle handle, Steve (Stephen, which can also be spelled a couple of ways-  the apple don't fall far from the tree, eh?).

All my sibs seem to have, to one degree or another, inherited the fishing gene from our Father.  But despite repeated attempts on Pop's part, I failed to get it.  I recall going out with him and hauling in dozens of shiny golden lake bream, while he smiled in pride, despite catching none himself.  I suspect that maybe he never even baited his hook, so determined was he to instill the fishing fever in my young heart.   Many years later, on our last fishing expedition together, we drove out to the Outer Banks of North Carolina to hook up with a bunch of his oldest fishing pals.  They had for years made this gathering an annual affair, arriving at the point where time and passing was thinning their numbers.  Thus was I fortunate enough to fill one of the spots that year.

The angling was atrocious.  Of the eight or ten of us, I don't recall anyone landing anything.  But this was quite a few years back now, and I do seem to recall stuffing my gullet with fried seafood and hush-puppies to the point of foolishness, so someone of our group likely did have some success from their efforts- I just don't remember it.  I do however recall that it was a moment in time where the stated purpose of the event was certainly secondary to the camaraderie enjoyed by all.  I think at that point I began to recognize the importance to my father of that simple and ancient pastime.  

Fred Ellison, to my knowledge, never landed anything bigger than the catch he made in June of 1965, on the Santee-Cooper lakes in the low country of South Carolina.  He and his fishing buddy, Doctor Howard Snyder, had brought their families there on a vacation, and were both caught that afternoon in the gales of a summer thunderstorm far from shore.  The kinfolk back at the cottage were all sorely afraid for the well-being of the two, but on their return, Dad was smiling like a mule eating briars, dragging behind his rigged-up innertube a mammoth large-mouth bass.  He subsequently had the creature stuffed and professionally mounted, to thereafter be displayed proudly in his office at the hospital where he functioned as the administrator.  It wasn't long before a trickster inserted a full set of dentures in the critter's mouth, expecting Fred to be irritated, I'm sure, at the very least.  Dad never took himself that seriously, and thought the prank hilarious.  So, to this day, that fish still wears that prosthesis, and none of my siblings, nor I, can bear the thought of letting that gaudy trophy go.  It wasn't until several years after his death, that I noticed the date on the engraved plaque- June 11, 1965........ forty-three years, to the day, prior to his death.

Happy Fathers' Day, Pop.  I love you.

 

A Break from Routine

In the process of pursuing my daily adventures in the quest of productivity and/or creativity (considered, in my humble opinion, to frequently be one and the same), I often resort to routine, having established rote habits that I count on to, for example, get me out of bed and through breakfast without hurting myself or anyone else.  (As if there were another human around who might be affected by any such untoward morning behavior.  My cats don't count- they know well enough to stay hidden, generally until after the first dose of java.)  Lack of relationship issues aside, this all works pretty well for me.  And rather than detail any of these routines, I'll just categorize them by function:

1) Getting up and going

2) Establishing my daily missions/goals

3) Paying work (when it's there) or trying to find it

4) House-keeping

5) Feeding the furnace (mealtimes)

6) Nap time/exercise (I know this seems contradictory, but if I group them together, I don't feel quite so guilty if I miss one or the other.  I'll let you guess which one I'm usually delinquent in.  Besides, I'm told they are both good for me, and necessary, in my swiftly approaching "golden years".

7) Spiritual sustenance

8) Entertainment (music, etc.)

9) Bedtime routine (You'd think it might be as simple as "lie down, go to sleep", but no...., I could complicate Koolade.

Whew, it wears me out just compiling the list.  However, it does seem to be working for me.  I do have to recognize, though, that too much routine can backfire on me.  I need a break occasionally.  And this self-suggestion falls squarely under the heading of "Do as I say, not as I do."  I am the worst about taking breaks from my routine.  And a three-hour nap or butt-polishing session in front of the tube hardly helps.

I try to do a bit of "nuts and flakes" reading every day- you know, the kind of California-self-help-spiritual stuff that many folks scoff at.  Scoff away, ye heathens- it works for me!  I was reading a brief meditation that said "Early Christian monks went out to live in the desert in order to find emptiness." It then went on to describe our normal daily lives, crammed with information, activities, routine, jobs, relationships, automobiles, gadgets, and all the other rigamarole that constitute "normality" for most of us. The conclusion of said mild admonition was this: "Monks are experts at doing nothing and tending the culture of that emptiness."

Well, I'm no monk, nor do I play one on television.  But I do recognize that I should perhaps keep my beady little eyes peeled for opportunities to take a break from all my "stuff".  As it happens, I may have spied just such a recourse.  My cousin Clint's sister-in-law, Linda, and her husband Chuck have asked for my help in planning an addition to their weekend getaway cottage, which is located (despite its lack of wheels) in our fair neighbor state of Alabama.  They are going to meet me there on Sunday afternoon to compare notes and give me their ideas, then will leave me to my own devices, to measure, design and ideate on a plan, which I will thence document and present to them.  Now this is a work assignment that I relish-  I always enjoy doing architectural renovations, additions, and fix-ups.  But it also presents an opportunity for some spiritual refreshment; a re-charging of the batteries, so to speak.  The place is apparently somewhat isolated on a quite scenic lake, and they have invited me to stay as long as I like.  

Perhaps you are not like me.  Maybe you don't need to be urged to take advantage of such opportunities.  But if you are in need of such counsel, I promise to report here my experiences, at such a point as I am able to do so.  I expect that down there in the Yellowhammer State (what!?!) the internet is something you hang over your front door when the screen door falls off.

(Apologies to my Alabamian friends, and thanks/credit due to Thomas Moore's Meditations.)

All Creative stuff

Since I keep claiming that creativity and productivity are the stuff of which this blog is all about, I thought I'd devote today's posting completely to creative efforts of a few different varieties.

And speaking of such, I loved this design for dishes and flatware- a direct metaphor for the ultimate creative process.  I'm not sure what they call it, maybe Spermova-Ware.  

  

Now, from the graphic design discipline, several images from the Getting Upper Poster Project, an undertaking wherein twenty-six California-based artists and designers each came up with an interpretation of one of the letters of the alphabet (why they limited it to the Golden State, I have no idea, unless perhaps they believe out there that they have a lock on creative calligraphy, or spelling, perhaps):

D and M

    E

  F

   K

  L

  V

   X

How about this Steampunk Smartphone....

And finally, an architectural treatment for a summer theater venue :

Thanks to Design Milk and Dezeen.....

Skinning a Cat

I never intended to be one of those writers who use dramatic titles to draw readers in, but today I must confess to guilt of that very ilk.  However, if it works, I may just join the ranks of those journalists at National Enquirer and the like, who seem to specialize in histrionic headlines, e.g., "Saddam and Osama Adopt Shaved Ape Baby", or "Al Gore is a Sex Poodle and Treat Ho" (actual headlines, folks).  

At any rate, today's title has nothing to do with actually de-furring a feline, but rather relates to the old saying "There's more than one way to skin a cat".  (For those of you who are now disappointed at being titillated and let down, I will refer you to August 23, 1992 edition of the previously mentioned periodical.  Personally, I think you need serious help.)  As a true cat person (and I like dogs, too), I find the mere notion repulsive, but as we all know, disgusting suggestions are often the ones that intrigue us the most.

Now that I have your attention (unless you are presently perusing the National Enquirer archives), allow me to digress, please.  I just picked up my copy of Thomas Moore's Meditations, the foreword of which gives a brief account of his biography.  At age thirteen, he left home, in his words, "to enter a seminary designed to prepare young men for the Roman Catholic priesthood.  I was filled with idealism and had a driving desire to aim as high as possible.......".   Long story short, he lasted twelve years, but dropped out just prior to becoming ordained (oops), returning to the secular world to pursue a career as a musicologist, in which he achieved degrees, leading to further studies and degrees in religion and theology. After publishing a couple of books having to do with those subjects, he was soon invited to speak at a Catholic church by a priest who insisted that his delivery be made from the pulpit.  Thus, he found himself realizing that he was, more-or-less, in a position he had imagined when he first set out, but having arrived there by a circuitous and entirely unexpected path.

I like this story because it allows me to forgive myself when my contrivances don't go exactly as planned.  In all honesty, I am amenable to just about any form of rationalization, but this particular one leaves open the possibility that I might eventually achieve precisely the goals I set out for, provided I remain open-minded and active in my pursuit of the next right thing.  Plus, it reminds me that unlike the hopeful monk-to-be, I had to abandon neither sex, money, nor the exercise of free will to get there.

And now, to placate my fellow cat people who I may have upset with my disturbing headline, please accept the following offerings regarding cat-centric architecture:

and finally, what may just be the cutest kitty-vid ever: 

(with killer sound track, from Steeler's Wheel).

Fallen Angels & Big Band Metaphors

Because of my involvement with certain somewhat prestigious musical happenings and personalities, people sometimes conclude that I am often out and about, frequenting all the musical venues in search of new and interesting talent.  (Or at least I assume that they assume this- is that sort of like a double whammy, or a reverse double-negative?) At any rate, silly diatribes about syntax aside, it ain't necessarily so (cue the jazz intro). I could rattle off a dozen different reasons why this is the case, but they would be neither important nor germane to this posting.  The point is, I did in fact venture out last night to help my buddy Ike celebrate his birthday, by attending his celebratory bash at a local blues venue.  Ike and a bunch of buddies entertained the crowd thoroughly- admittedly, not an extremely difficult assignment, as the patrons of this particular establishment are generally in the mood (can you tell I'm on a big-band theme, here?) for revelry. 

I got there a little before ten, yet again foolishly expecting the music to start as the schedule advertised.  I should know better, but again, I don't get around much anymore.  (Hey, am I on a tear, or what?)  The music began around a quarter till eleven, and by the time three of my good buddies arrived, was well under way.  The entourage included two of my oldest friends, Sonny and Clay, who both know me as well as anyone outside my own skin can.  Also arriving at about the same time were two female acquaintances of mine, who seemed more than surprised to see me there.  You see, I gave up the drinking portion of my debauchery some years ago, for reasons best left untouched here- again, irrelevant to this discussion...... These two attractive young women were both formerly on the same wagon as me, but had at some point disembarked to do some more experimenting.  

I was standing around with my pals when one of these fallen angels came up to our group and kind of slid up under my arm. (That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.)  I could almost see my buddies roll their eyes in non-complicit understanding.  They both probably figured from past history that this was exactly the sort of situation I'd go for.  You see, I have a record of exercising a "faulty picker", when it comes to romance, so I feel sure that they were both thinking "Here we go again, makin' whoopee!"   

Au contraire, mon freres! (Feel free to substitute another "m__ f__" in place of my pidgen french.)  I am in the process of attempting to, despite my advancing years, learn from past mistakes.  While I love these ladies dearly (like sisters I've been through hell with), I can, as they say elsewhere, "play the tape forward" and foresee the detrimental effects of choosing to proceed in that direction.  So after my buddies left me and my erstwhile friend,  I had a nice little non-judgmental talk with her, wished her well, sent off a simple prayer for her, and went about my business, which by that time of the evening was brief.  I had to get home for my beauty rest, hoping to be well prepared for the time when a better choice becomes available.  (I could throw in a line somewhere about the lady being a tramp, but that would be mean.)

For you big band fans, see if you can spot all six references to song titles.  As if you have nothing better to do.....

You Don't Always Get What You Pay For, etc.

(Nope, this posting has nothing to do with the similarly-titled song by the Rolling Stones, although it does kinda work with the tune.)

I want to take a few minutes here to tell you about my sweetheart Ceci.  She's just barely there- a little twig of a woman, seventy-four years of age (or so, she tells me), not much bigger than my cat Moosh, and every bit as feisty.  I was friends with her life partner Paul, who took a shine to me when he found out I was something of a musician.  Paul was a professional jazz guitarist, and in his day he performed with some of the great big bands. (Buddy Rich was the only name he ever dropped, but I saw photos of him with lots of others.)  A few years ago, Paul went on to that great gig in the sky, and not long thereafter, Ceci had a series of strokes and had to give up her condo and her car.  She's a pretty spry little bird, and regularly walks around the neighborhood where she now lives in an assisted-living tower, picking up her groceries and visiting her doctors.  But there are still lots of errands and social commitments she needs help getting to, and I have become one of her regular rides.  Thus, we came to be pals. I always look forward to seeing her, and I definitely get more out of our visits than she knows.  

Ceci told me a few days ago that she needed to go out and buy an electric toothbrush.  She informed me then of where she needed to go and that she was going to spend around eighty dollars on her purchase.  I happen to know that she's on a fixed income, and I knew, too, that she could get by with a less expensive appliance.  Just to make sure, I asked if there was any special type that her medical advisors had recommended, but she replied that no, just any old electric toothbrush would do. ("One that goes real fast", is how she described it.)  I suggested that she let me investigate, and that I thought she could get by spending no more than ten bucks or so.  My suspicion is that the doc may be getting some kind of perks by recommending a specific type, and Ceci just missed that part.  All she heard was the bit about the price.

What's my point, other than to ramble on incessantly?  Well, I can relate to the dilemma of the uninformed shopper.  In my quest to prove myself a degree sharper than your average computer user, I frequently venture out unaided by Brad, my technology guru, to make hardware and/or software upgrades.  Inevitably, when Brad finds out what I have done, he looks at me like a parent finding his toddler has discovered the paint stash and brushes, and proceeded to decorate his room.  Maybe this is not the best metaphor.  It is not so much the mess I have concocted as it is that I spent way too much in doing so.  But I'm getting better about swallowing my pride and asking his advice before proceeding.  And in these days of the "adjusted economy" every bit helps. 

That's really the gist of my recommendation for today-  do yourself a favor and spend some time and energy becoming informed about how you spend your hard-earned bucks.  I have an on-line subscription to Consumer Reports, am a big fan of Clark Howard, and use all manner of online resources for comparison shopping.  

The Master:

Benefits of Meditation- a visual aid

I have long been a proponent of regular meditation.  Heck, I've actually been practicing it, off and on, since I was in college, about a jillion years ago.  Okay, okay- it has previously been pointed out to me that anything supposedly done on a "regular basis" is not done off and on, as I have just described my personal regimen.   This is going to sound like rationalization (if not out-and-out stupid), but when I say I do it regularly, I mean that I do it daily, for as long as I do it- I mean for such a period of time as I continue it-  I mean.... oh, what the heck-  I get into it now and then.  The point is, when I do it, I benefit from it.  

It occurred to me when I came across the short video accessed via this link, that it might be helpful to actually watch these two cats diligently practicing their own far-eastern method of meditation.  Observe their serene countenance and their obvious powers of concentration, despite the distractions of an occasional yawn. (Which, by the way, has been explained to me as an integral part of the process.  This makes me feel a lot better, since I do a lot of yawning as I meditate.)

Right along with meditation is the practice, for those who believe in it, of prayer to a higher power.  Again, I have photographic evidence of such practice, along with a suggestion of what to say:

"Oh most merciful Supreme Kitty, I thank thee for the bounteous backyards thou has placed before mine eyes. Bless I, your humble servant, as I embark on my daily quest for sustenance and glory. Make swift mine legs and sharp mine claws, that I may chase down many mousies and little birds, and may your high priests The Hoomins smile upon mine offerings when I drop them on the carpet before them."

(Thanks to Cute Overload and Not That Mike The Other Mike)

And please accept my apologies, any of you religious nuts who take yourselves waaaay too seriously.  I think Jesus would laugh.