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

Research uncovers: Today is NOT a Gift

You may have heard it said many times: "Today is a gift- that's why they call it the present."  I, for one, have never considered that particular claim a very clever play on words, and after a while, came to wince every time I heard it.  George Carlin claims there is no "present", stating, "There's only the immediate future and the recent past." And I think I saw that quantum physics has recently been shown to back him up.  So if NOW doesn't even exist, how can it be considered a philanthropic donation- a souvenir of the universe's benevolence?  

Now, you may be wondering why I am debating the number of angels dancing on the head of this particular pin-  I know I am.  I like to claim, "I just have today," because from my own limited perspective, that's the way it looks.  And regardless of the accuracy of my view, I know damn well that I can't fix my past or adjust the wreckage of my future.  ...........Okay, in all truth, I may have some measure of control over the latter, but only if I effectively address what's immediately in front of me at the point in time that embodies itself as......, well-  "now".  So that's what I endeavor to do, with varying levels of success.  For example, I rarely go through a day without thinking, "I should sit down right now and compose a clever posting to my blog."  And at that moment, nothing seems more urgent.  But a fraction of a second later, my A.D.D. kicks in and I'm off in another direction, entirely unrelated to this venue, and perhaps equally as inconsequential.  So, as it turns out, I have an ongoing chain of the most urgent issues to address, and thus, no shortage of things I can do to be productive.  (That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

But the important thing is that I sit here "now", my cat Moosh reposing on the sofa back behind my head, gently snoring in my ear as I compose a bit of trivia for the ether.  I guess I should say that the stream of so-called consciousness that led to this posting began earlier this morning.  I subscribe to one of those touchy-feely sites that sends out a "daily reflection" intended to assist poor souls like myself in avoiding two things: suicide and homicide.  Since I consider both those options less than desirable, I put up with a lot of what many might consider "frothy emotional claptrap"- all well-intended and so acceptable- to me, at least.  Anyway, today's thought had to do with taking and giving, thereby leading my awareness to the concept of gifts, and thus, presents.  You follow? (Look again at the title of today's post if you're having trouble keeping up.)  So, it goes like this- quote:

"There is a vast difference between taking and receiving. There is a way of receiving that is also giving. When I can receive, I act as a willing container for another person's gift. I validate the giver's act of giving and acknowledge his or her generosity. This benefits both the giver and the receiver in equal measure, both are enriched and neither overly depleted.

When I take, I do not acknowledge the gift - rather, I put in the purse of my being that which I want, then snap it shut and go off to take again, hoping that no one notices. This leaves both parties wanting - the giver feels she has been manipulated into giving whether wanting to or not; and the taker - because without receiving a person never really fills up - just continues to feel empty.

I can acknowledge a gift; I can receive."

And so, friends and neighbors, I am fully prepared to receive.  Manifest your spiritual beings and send those checks and money orders care of this blog..........

"I shall now focus my deductive skills entirely on solving the 'cap' issue."  (Thanks to Cute Overload.)

False alarm declared in cardiac emergency......Happy Birthday to me!

All I can say about it at this point is "gosh-a-rooty, what an adventure!"   And I must declare my abject apologies to all who became alarmed at the recent reports of my allegedly threatening condition.  If you have no idea what I'm talking about, please indulge me whilst I digress.

A few weeks ago, I posted about a beach get-away I undertook with family for the primary purpose of marrying off a pretty young second cousin, right there on the beach at Cape San Blas, on the panhandle of the Sunshine State.  I was commissioned by the mother of the bride to design and build a sand castle as a backdrop for the ceremony, which I undertook to accomplish in collusion with several others.  (See my last post, dated 7/17, for the explicit details and a nice audio-visual link documenting the project.)  To be as brief about it as possible, I had some kind of "event" at completion of the construction of said castle, which event had all the trappings of a myocardial infarction, often referred to as a "heart attack".  Well, when they talk about something being "as serious as ........ one of those", they obviously aren't referring to this particular fool, since I refused to disrupt the wedding by way of a trip to the ER, promising to get my ticker looked at ASAP, and claiming as the culprit heat stroke (also nothing to sneeze at, as I came to learn later.)

Fast forward three weeks or so, to this past Friday.  I'd received, without returning, several calls from cousin Clint, who was complicit in the castling, and was concerned about whether I'd had that little episode checked out.  I knew I couldn't put him off too much longer- he's sometimes as tenacious as a bulldog- so I got an appointment for Friday morning early, at my regular doc's clinic.  I couldn't see my familiar physician, as he is currently on medical leave recovering from, of all things, by-pass surgery.  (I'd actually been delaying the visit in hopes that he'd soon return to work, and we could talk shop, so to speak, comparing notes and chatting amiably about various deadly crises.)  

So I got in to see the sub-doc. (No disrespect intended- he turned out to be an extremely personable and experienced pro... and he wore a bow-tie- something about that I found very reassuring.)  He ordered an EKG right off the bat. (I.e.,an electrocardiogram, which involves applying a sub-arctic frozen gel to a dozen or so seemingly random points about the body and attaching electrical wires to them, then turning the thing on and leaving the room- the attending physicians' assistant left, that is, I wasn't going anywhere, having been thoroughly wired to the contraption.)  When the doc came back in, he had already reviewed the print-out of my heart's meanderings.  He had that look on his face that said, "This is really not very happy news, but I'm hoping that by my grinning like a pig in shit, that I will comfort you to the point that you won't suffer another attack and expire on my examining table when I lay it on you."  He then asked if I had packed a bag.  Which I took as a somewhat favorable sign.  An overnight bag is hardly necessary if one is laid out in the morgue.   When I'd arrived earlier at the clinic, I'd been whole-heartedly expecting to be subjected to a stress test, and at this point in the proceedings, I inquired about that procedure.  "Oh, no," the doctor sagely continued, "when we see an EKG like this one, we bypass the stress test and go straight to the cath lab."  Having some knowledge of this procedure, I knew that they were about to undertake to stick a tube in my femoral artery and guide a tiny little scope up it and into the most private regions of my very own most vital muscle, where they'd look around to see what was up.  

At this point I had an out-of-body experience.  At least, that's what I think it must have been. For instead of freaking out, I felt quite calm and philosophical about it.  All I can say is that eleven years of working a certain self-improvement program, which happens to involve a dozen guiding "steps", has left me with an ability to (1)- accept what is, (2) be grateful for what I have, and (3) not wet my pants over the drama.  Speaking later with my sister about this absence of terror, I got the impression she was a little peeved.  Everyone else was coming unglued over this, how dare I not?  But she understands, I think.  Both my sisters, god bless 'em, have a sometimes tendency to get their boxers in a bunch over a little wedgie.

Anyway, the procedure proceeded, and I was quite entertained by the cardiologist, who was equally captivating as he seemed competent.  His assistants, too, were possessed of an alarmingly assuring bedside manner.  I could go on at length about our music-related discussion, which they managed to maintain throughout the procedure, aided no doubt by my chattiness, brought on by the "sedative" dose they customarily deliver during the procedure.   I felt wide-awake and extremely mellow as he reviewed a real-time video of my ticker and announced, "Nope, don't see anything here to get bent over.  My job here is done."  As my tongue wagged on and I asked if they thought I should pick up a white chip over this. 

A little while later, as I was getting over my giddiness, he explained that, apparently, a tiny fraction of the population displays an unusual-looking EKG that is a result of a harmless condition which makes one's print-out read like the prelude to an obituary.   Lucky me.  Now all I have to pray for is that my insurance covers the bill for what surely will equal the mortgage on a small house.  Hey, these days, it might suffice for a few of 'em.   For now, all I have to show for it is a bruise in my groinal area the size of Idaho, in which I can distinctly see the face of Jesus.   In truth, my exhortations to the universe will, for the foreseeable future, include expressions of my gratitude for the fortuitous outcome, as well as for the outpouring of concern and emotion from friends and family, both for my un-infarcted condition as well as in congratulations for my sixty-second birthday, which, happily, was celebrated the following day, yesterday, with a good friend instead of in the confines of what I'm sure is a perfectly pleasant recovery room.  Still, I'm just saying......

CDC says thousands daily succumb to new virus- Contagious Creativity

 While I am by no means a prolific or efficient social networker, I do on occasion dabble in the genre.  And I have to confess to having never in my life Tweeted, Flickr'd or Beboed-  I am somewhat intimidated by the seeming complexities inherent in navigating such netscapes.  Am I succumbing to a generational gap that renders me a numbskull when it comes to the latest technology?  Am I just stupidly stubborn?  I really prefer not to think so.  My dear parents, both of whom were pretty clever and competent individuals, never even attempted to venture into the world of personal computers,  nor did they fret about not being web-savvy.   But Mom possessed the letter-writing gene, and I always began to worry if I didn't get my weekly communique, complete with print media clippings and obituary news regarding friends or relatives of whom I had little to no recollection.  And they were always a sweet reminder that she loved me.

I can today equate  those messages from Mom to the phenomena of Facebook and the like- akin to letters from home on steroids.  So what if it takes the patience of Job to sort through the multitude of messages, wall posts, tweaks, twits, and pokes to get to the stuff one really cares about.  I do appreciate the concept of being connected to folks as never before, despite the potential for superficiality.  I saw a car advertisment last night in which a young lady was sitting at her laptop bemoaning her parents' lack of social activity, as the camera shifted to her folks, out off-roading with their pals in their new fuel-efficient hybrid 4WD.  "They only have, like, nineteen friends online........", while the girl herself proclaimed proudly six-hundred and fourty-three.  "Now this is living!" she typed, from the solitude of her bedroom.  So there are surely two sides to the story- both the shining example as well as the dire warning. 

 One of the positive effects of all this connectivity is the prolific exchange of creative concepts.  (You see, despite the sensational nature of today's post title, I always intended to get around to the meat of the matter.  But I'll bet it caught your eye.  Hmmm.  No-brainer, that- or you wouldn't be reading this.)  Whenever I am clueless about topics for my blog, design ideas, or architectural inspiration, there are abundant online venues I can visit to get unstuck.  Sometimes, out of the ether pops a serendipitous message that just happens to address a void in my so-called mind.  (This happens at an alarmingly increasing rate, as I get older and the voids begin to outnumber the occupied spaces.) 

I have yet to post much about the sandcastle I was commissioned to execute for my second cousin Jennifer's wedding a few weeks ago.  (To clarify- she's the niece of my first cousin Clint.  I think that makes her a second cousin, although cousinly niece, or niece-per-cousin would seem to me a more fitting and descriptive appelation, but they never asked me....)  Jennifer and Adam (who is now my nephew-per-cousin-in-law, I guess) were to be married right on the beach at Cape San Blas, Florida, and my charge was to provide a fitting backdrop for the affair.  Anyway, on accepting the secret commission from Jennifer's mom Beverly, I immediately enlisted the aid of cousin Clint (my virtual second brother) and his nephew Harrison, a strapping college man who we figured we could entice with beer and promises of virile male wisdom, into digging up a vast pile of required sand.  As it turned out, cousin-in-law Paul, the father of the bride, had already quite generousl provided that no one would go without whatever cold alcoholic refreshment could possibly be imagined, and Harrison, as it turned out, proved quite capable on his own of exercising his manly options.  Still, he responded quite willingly to our requests for youthful muscle, and even contributed very creatively to the carving. 

We were also extremely pleased to enlist the aid of our musical entertainer for the weekend, Muriel Anderson.  My aunt Helen had fallen in love with Muriel's music when she saw her at Clint's venue, The Americana Stage, in Morganton NC, nearby to the old family home in Connelly Springs, where Helen still lives.  When Beverly began to think about music for the wedding, Helen enthusiastically recommended Muriel, and so it came to be.  Muriel, as it turned out, had some experience with sand-castle carving out on Montauk, Long Island, and so contributed her fair share.  I knew, too, that she had written a song about sand castles, but was surprised and quite pleased when a couple of weeks later she sent around this video ( Download Sandcastle ) about our little endeavor, set to the music of her song "Castles in the Sand". From the song: "To live is to build a beautiful thing." Certainly something to strive for. (PS- I have never tried to embed a video in my blog, and this one seems to take a few minutes to download, so be patient-  I am probably providing yet more evidence of my IT ineptitude).

 

Shark Regurgitates Bus Load of Charlie Sheen Impersonators

So would I.

Polish Dogma Chases Parked Karma, Suffers Flat Face.......

Yes, it's from an ancient punch line (i.e., the title for today's post), but I've attempted to give it a new twist.  You see, I have finally decided to go with sensationalist headlines for my posts whenever possible and/or practical.  My offering entitled "Alien Love Children" better than quadrupled my readership for that day's posting, and I know a good thing when I see it.  But if you think it's easy coming up with such screamers, well, I heartily encourage you to send your suggestions- I can use all the help I can get.  And it's usually a fine line to walk, composing riveting banners that have that edge, that certain je ne sais quois, without being politically incorrect (heaven forbid), if not outright insulting to someone.  But I'm gonna give it my best shot.

I have become convinced of the necessity for most humans to have some kind of spiritual connection.  Before you run off rolling your eyes and shaking your head in incredulity at my belittling of your nihilism, allow me, please, to toss out some caveats and disclaimers.  I am not a religious guy.  I know lots of folks who qualify as exactly that, and the percentage of good guys to bad among their number is, in my humble opinion, about the same as that of the general populace.  And I'll let my readers fill in those particular blanks to their own satisfaction.   Suffice to say, I don't believe that the possession of specific religious beliefs, or the absence thereof, amounts to much more than a hill o' beans in determining an individual's "goodness" or "badness".  I will not pretend to offer a quantifiable method of actually making that determination, but will say this: people who seem to have that nearly indefinable spiritual connection seem to be the ones I'd prefer to be abandoned on a desert island with.

I can envision a scenario, maybe thirty-five thousand years gone, where the tribe elder Oomoosh looked into the heavens and began to wonder why he was there, and why he had this urge to sneak up behind the ample behind of his mate and, .....well, you know.  Most likely Oomoosh just  got his jollies and didn't spend a lot of time pondering it, but eventually one of his descendants did, leading to a multitude of arguments about which tribe was right. As it happens, these disagreements have continued to this day, to the point of near self-destruction of the whole flippin' human tribe.  But there seems to have evolved a lineage willing to let all the others be right, and go on about their business.  They are not, unfortunately, in the majority, but we're gaining in numbers.  I maintain that the comfort of accepting that there is something greater than me is invaluable.  I don't now and never will know how to define it, but I give thanks to it for the good stuff in my life, and ask it to let me figure out how to avoid the bad.  I can also countenance the bad stuff that gets through, as being lessons in what not to do, or how not to behave.  What ever.

One of the benefits of this perhaps pollyanna-like philosophy, is that I (and most of my like-minded friends) have quit being victims.  There seems to be a whole school of thought devoted to "why bad s**t happens to me", attendant with all the self-pity and recrimination therein involved.  I hear tales of woe and excuses galore- arguments and gripes about why this group is evil and are intent on dumping on that group.  It seems to me to be akin to trying to douse a conflagration with gasoline- complete with the singed eyebrows and blistered beak.  I'm just saying.  Whenever I start feeling like a martyr or start playing the patsy, I'm setting myself up for a really wretched time.  As I've said before, as long as I continue to act like a winner (as opposed to behaving like a whiney bitch) I'm surely en route to being one.   Whether or not I believe in Jesus, Allah, Gaia, Darwin, or Santa Claus really has little to do with it, as long as I remember that there's a pretty big universe out there, and that I'm surely not the center of it.

The Most Irritating Man in the World

I quite often find myself talking with acquaintances about television content- not so much the actual programming as rather the commercials.  I have an abiding fear of wearing out the mute button on my TV remote, from silencing the commercial breaks, but I am fascinated whenever I spy a new and clever advertisement.   Of course, the appeal evaporates after the umpteenth showing, but still, some are clever.  I'm just saying.

On the other hand, there are a few popular endorsements that evoke an almost visceral response.  I am tempted to hurl a heavy object at the screen, or am throttled with an obsessive urge to find the actor, writer, or producer and commit violent assault.  The Most Interesting Man in the World was one of these violations of decent commercial programming- yeah, that might qualify as an oxymoron, but I still watch, lapsing as I do into existence as another type of moron altogether.  Notice, however, my use of the past tense in referring to that offensive offspring of Madison Avenue.  No, it has not been removed from the airways- rather, I have managed to revise my attitude about it recently.  I consider it a self-improvement kind of thing.   I am attempting (and achieving wildly varying levels of success) to approach anything that causes elevated levels of stress, with an idea of turning said issue into a manageable phenomenon.  This is what I have done with the above-referenced commercial message.  I was therefore delighted to find a website devoted, purportedly, to the outrageous claims/quotes used in that ad.  They claim, on the website, to number over a thousand, but most I do not recognize, and most are so egregiously brazen as to be humorous.  In all truth, I must admit that this was the whole idea behind the message- that and to sell beer, but something in the actor's smug demeanor made me want to strangle the guy.  But I am now a better man, and able to see beyond my own peculiar hangups to the whimsey and witticism of it all. 

    

And so, I'd now like to share here some of the less familiar quotes from that site:

-Alien abductors have asked him to probe them.

-The pheromones he secretes effect people miles away… in a slight, but measurable way.

- His hands feel like fine Corinthian leather.

- He never say’s anything taste like chicken… Not even chicken.

- His charm is so contagious, vaccines were created for it.

- Years ago, he created a city out of blocks. Today over 600,000 people live and work there.

- He once travelled to and explored the Virgin Islands, and when he left they were just "The Islands."

- He has found Waldo several times, but has released him because he enjoys the hunt.

- He can speak braille.

- The Loch Ness Monster thinks he is a myth.

I guess the message, if one exists, coincides with the fabled Rule Sixty-Nine: "Don't take yourself so damned seriously."

C'mon people, now, smile on your brother.......

......everybody get together, try and love one another, right now- ("Get Together", by Jesse Colin Young)

I consider myself really, really lucky, in so many ways.  Not so much in stuff like gambling (never got a thrill out of flushing my hard-earned money down the john, either), or in romance (unless one considers it a blessing, being unattached and with no entanglements).  No, I am speaking here specifically of the gift of having a loving and understanding family- for the most part, that is.  I cast a dubious eye on any individual who says they have absolutely no family issues.  But I can say with a straight face that I get along with the vast majority of my relations, although there are many with whom I don't spend enough time.  Or maybe I do.  Spend just enough time with them, that is, to not make each other sick.  Sometimes I believe that the secret to any solid relationship is quality time apart.  My ex used to insist that I should buy the house next door and move in.  Scary thought, that- that she may have been on to something and that we might still be together had I taken her advice.  'Scuse me while I shudder violently.

I am abiding in the warm bosom of family for a few days on Cape San Blas, Florida, on the Gulf coast, not far from Port Saint Joe.  My first cousin Beverly's daughter Jennifer is getting married tomorrow on the beach here, and I came down with Bev's brother Clint (my virtual third brother) and his wife Katie.  We are in a lovely little condo located a mile or so from the frantic preparatory activities ensuing at the scene of the actual event, which is to take place tomorrow evening, hopefully after the heat of the day has relented and the wedding party can benefit from some ocean breezes.  As it stands now, the temperature has surpassed all records for the area and has threatened to ignite passions normally benign and to expose heretofore unseen tempers.  We're keeping our fingers crossed.

As will happen at most any family gathering, various political and social attitudes are like as not to be forced to confront each other.  It's kind of like an AA meeting, where the attendees say they associate with those they normally would not, were it not for a common malady- in this case, being related to one another.  Clint and I generally see eye-to-eye on most stuff, and don't have these issues, but listen with delight to others (just as convinced as we are that our point of view is correct) as they fervently debate finer points of their respective philosophies.  I say we can all get along if we don't possess minds like a steel trap- i.e., with a tendency to slam shut at the slightest provocation.  In the long run, if there is to be one, all our differences come down to a few bunches of flowers and worm food, so why not revel in our differences and be grateful we're not all cast from the same mold.  I think I'd find that pretty boring.