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

Railing at the evil giant

For the uninitiated, the title of this weblog kinda explains the general theme.  Many of us out here in worker-bee land possess a broad spectrum of talents and abilities.  Most of us, however, are fitted with a set of blinders quite early on in our so-called "careers", being forced to focus on an extremely narrow path during our journey toward being part of a productive citizenry.  We forget that the things we may do for pleasure, leisure, or just for the helluvit, may actually be worthy of compensation, barter, or other forms of remuneration.  By way of this venue, it is my intent to spark ideas and suggest alternative ways of making an honest living and/or getting by when things get tight, and in case you've not noticed, they are.  In all honesty, I have to admit that I do not do this solely for the love of writing; the reality is that I'm eagerly anticipating the day when someone will offer to pay me for my compositions.  So far, I'm still waiting.

Part of this process (making our way through troubled economic times) includes researching ways to make our resources go farther when we find ourselves needing to stretch our hard-earned dollars.  And that's what I want to talk about today.

I don't often wax negative about people or institutions on this venue.  I usually avoid stepping on toes, and I like to stay positive.  And I am quite positive when I refer to my opinions regarding this particular corporate giant, whose name I will not mention, but their initials are A, T,  and T, henceforward to be referred to as CG (for Corporate Giant, if you didn't figure that out already)- again, in order not to name names.

I have been forking out to CG upwards of $200 a month for my telecom "bundle"- a word I usually associate with babies and kittens, rather than to CG's bloodless schemes to squeeze me penniless.  Over the past year, I have twice called to complain about my bill, which covers my land line, cell phone, and internet.  (It's also somehow DirecTly connected to my satellite TV service provider, another CG who shall remain nameless).  Every time I have complained, they politely reveal to me a plan that was available all along, and in doing so, the implication is clearly, "you silly consumer, why didn't you just ask earlier?"  They then knock thirty or forty bucks off my monthly bill.  For a month or two.  Then suddenly my monthly nut is back where it was before, and I have to play another round.  Well, I'm done with 'em.

With the help of my IT/AV guru Brad, I am becoming a more savvy consumer of technology.  I'm kicking CG to the curb, selling my iPhone, and going with a plan for cell phone, internet, and TV that'll cost me about half what I'm currently paying CG. To replace my land line (I know, I know- who the heck uses a land line anymore? Call me old school.  Or just old....), Brad swears that MagicJack is the way to go.  I always had the impression that MagicJack was right up there along with the Popeil Bass-O-Matic in terms of credibility, but for all-you-can eat service at twenty bucks a year, I was willing to fork out the eighty bucks for the device, which you apparently just plug into a wall socket and go.  I even get to keep my same phone number, to which I am sentimentally attached to a frightening degree.  Now, having said all that, I haven't got it all in place just yet, and will keep you all posted on how it all goes.  For now, though, I feel a little like David taking on the giant Goliath, hoping to put a metaphoric stone right between his allegorical eyes.

Thanks to my friend Spirit Curves Gregor for the posting about this guy, Henrique Oliveira, and his amazing work in a unique medium- delaminated plywood.  It reminds me of a saying about a pig's ear........

All in Good Time

For the author of a weblog supposedly about productivity and/or creativity, I have rarely been either of late, as regards this venue.  I trust all have muddled through without that critical influx of wit, wisdom and purportedly sage advice.  So now I feel compelled to report on my progress, or lack thereof.  

Well, despite my most earnest efforts to the contrary, I am doing quite well, thanks very much.  I am happy to report that, for the most part, my plans to continue being productive and creative enough to make a living (and be reasonably happy in the process) are fulfilling themselves nicely.  ....to the point, in fact, that I have been neglecting this particular opportunity for creative expression.  Sorry. I will return when I've more time and am suitably inspired. 

Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly......

In the meantime, if you haven't yet discovered DEZEEN, here's one of their latest postings, of a retail display made of cardboard tubes, for a department store in London.

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).

 

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).

Urban Muralists vs. Punks (warning- implied expletives....)

Secreted away as I am, very near to the heart of downtown Atlanta, I see more than my share of urban wall graphics, some of which I'd label art, but much of it mere garbage, in my humble opinion.  The latter has become for me a trigger to the immediate detriment of my serenity.  I have an almost visceral reaction when I see the midnight scrawls of whatever street punks put them there, wherein I fantasize fruitlessly about catching the little illegitimates in the act.  I often wondered why my own building seemed immune to this defacing, while all those around me were subject to frequent re-painting.  The answer became evident when a couple of my neighbors, Stan and Dave, managed to actually track down some of the perpetrators, by way of some clever detective work.  Well, maybe it wasn't all that brilliant- the idiots had emblazened said property with "art" that was prominently featured in a nearby "alternative" gallery show, whereby names were named, and one thing led to another.  Stan, who is an ex-marine-looking guy, a body builder and wrestler (the Greco-Roman type, as opposed to the psuedo-teevee variety), tells me he approached the author of the violation at the gallery opening, and asked what the guy would charge to put that on his wall.  He then casually enquired what would be the cost to remove it.  (Oh, to have been a fly on the wall, and witness to much stammering and sweating, I feel sure.)

Talking later with Stan, I discovered a possible reason for my personal apparent reprieve from this urban blight.  My previous tenant was a dedicated skateboarder, and it seems that these citified sportsmen are frequently at the  forefront of the shenanigans.  And as the saying goes, one doesn't s*** where one eats.  I normally hesitate to resort to any variety of profiling, but I must say I look at those burghal boarders in a new and less-than-favorable light.  Perhaps the majority of them are innocent, but running with the pack is often just as dangerous for the straggler as for the alpha male.

The definition of art is subjective, at best, and I would not want to be the one to draw the line between the sacred and the profane.  Living where I do, I can claim to have seen it all.  There are elegant examples of urban mural art to be viewed, and then there is the other, e.g. the scrawl I witnessed recently only a block from my residence, in day-glo green: "F*** your wife, defacing s*** is fun!"  I mean, really.  Fortunately the property owner oversprayed this eloquent message within a few hours, fortunately depriving the gentle diners across the street of such literary wit.

I must admit that back in my younger days, when clambering up a ladder or scaffold was not the torturous affair it sometimes can currently be, I was guilty of accepting money to do some of my own urban mural work.  Since that work came to be published in various newspapers and in Sandlapper magazine (a magazine devoted to life and culture in the state of South Carolina), I must assume that my work, done in partnership with my ole pal Sonny, was deemed socially acceptable.  Here are a couple of examples, both painted exclusively on flat and featureless walls, at close to full size.

Sonny is currently tracking a couple of new (potential) civic mural projects, so I've got to decide whether I can reclaim my old skills and strengths.  In keeping with this blog's theme of creativity and productivity, I hope to be able to do so.

I also would like to display another local example, which comprises both extremes of this type of graphic expression.  These photos show adjacent exterior walls belonging to the music studio of my friend Ken, and they are separately adorned with examples of the two opposites.  Not to claim to be the arbiter of anyone's taste but my own, I do admire the composition and chiaroscuro (for those not schooled in the lingo of artistic expression, that's shades of black and white) of the left-hand effort.  

And of the right-hand scribbles, I am reminded of the quote from my junior-high-school days, regarding fools' names and their faces.  Ken's building was at one point graced by a really impressive statement in the finest urban-muralist style, which was commissioned by one of his offspring (I think as a birthday surprise).  (It ultimately succumbed to the spray cans of the less culturally enlightened, and had to be painted over.)  It proclaimed while it lasted, in magnificent style, "MY DAD ROCKS".  And so do, in my sight, such legitimate purveyors of civic artistic expression.   Of the others, well, Stan and Dave have filed suit against the ones they know of, who are proving to be a wealth of info about their little s***-head buddies.  Plea-bargaining can be a wonderful thing.

For more info about public murals, I can heartily recommend the book Toward a People's Art, which I got shortly after it was published in 1977.

One last example, a couple of blocks from my place, showing both ends of the spectrum.  At least in this case, the vandals had the decency not to paint over the wonderful oriental koi mural....... there is always some hope to be found, if you look for it.

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.

 

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.

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. 

The Worst that Could Happen

I have a foible that I am resigned to live with, and need to confess.  I know without checking that I am not the only one afflicted with this defect.  I regularly attend gatherings of a kind of loosely but effectively organized support group/asylum/spiritual retreat, where many of the attendees share this shortcoming.  In fact, the general idea behind the group is to help each other learn to live with such character flaws, and to rise above them.  Everyone has heard the adage about pulling oneself up by one's bootstraps, and the metaphor kinda applies, in more of a group sense. (Except that this goal is attainable, unlike the physical act the saying refers to, which is, if you stop and think about it, physically impossible.)

Enough prologue, already. (If you haven't figured it out already, I like my syntax slightly tortured, and drawn out.  Why say in three words what you can inflate to forty-two?  I mean, it's not like I'm being paid to be brief.  Come to think of it, I'm not being paid at all, so I'll write what I jolly well like.  How's that for stretching a point?)  No, gross verbosity is not the problem to which I refer.  It is, rather, my tendency to find, without any effort at all, the worst possible outcome to whatever life situation I find myself in.  I don't tend to dwell on these invented outcomes, but their shadows constantly haunt my outlook. Despite the fact that I act like a confidently positive person, I keep in my secret heart the expectation that I will be out of money, friendless, living under a bridge and waiting for an unlabeled terminal illness to claim me. Plus I'm running through molasses and can't find where I parked my car.

When I find myself in the grip of this monster, about the only thing I have to resort to is this little bit of logic:  What's the worst thing that could happen to me?  Death?  If and when that happens, I'll have nothing further to worry about, right?  I'll either be facing sublime nothingness (which I sought with a vengeance during past years of hedonistic abandon), or I'll transmogrify to that "better place" that no one yet has a clue about.  In the meantime, I practice acting "as if". See earlier posts for additional details on this mystical procedure, which boils down to this: if I act "as if" I am a happy person, and continue this odd behavior on a regular basis, sooner or later I will actually be a happy person.  Hence, if I act as if I am fearless and have faith that all will be okay......, well, I'd imagine you can take it from here.  Anyway, take my word for it, this is like magic.  And, like prestidigitation, the results are quite unbelievable.

I love wood, and am an enthusiast of things made from it.  I found this little compendium of wooden things on the blog/website dezeen.  (Do look further into the burnt-log stools . . . . very clever.)

(if you too are a wood freak, and find this interesting, you should check out my sister and bro-in-law's website)