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

A no-brainer for National Punch Day

Today's date is, in fact, National Punch Day.  I looked it up.  But I couldn't find the least information on what we're supposed to celebrate today.  Are we commemorating the invention of a refreshing if not debilitating (to some, anyway) party beverage?  Or is today that occasion when we are to dole out revenge with our fists?  Or was a useful leather-working tool patented on this day?  Dunno, don't really care.

I saw (what I consider to be) a real no-brainer on MSN today.  Someone has discovered that physical exercise is beneficial to those individuals who suffer from clinical depression.  Duh!  Remember all that talk years ago about endorphines (you know- those things that get into your bloodstream whenever you get strenuously physical) being a natural opiate?  ........and that one can easily become as addicted to the gym as to anything else?  (BTW- the aforementioned "one"....?  He's a lot younger than I am.)

The reason I mention it, of course, is because this blog is supposed to be about productivity and creativity, and folks who battle that perticular (sic- don't try and correct my spelling) demon are more productive when not depressed.  On the other hand, lots of depressed folks have turned out to prove adequately creative (e.g. van Gogh, Hunter S. Thompson, etc.), so there's another happy side to it- assuming one can muddle through the darkness in time to turn it into something productive.

Here are some interesting silk purses- I don't know how practical they are, but they look cool......

 

Life for Dummies

I am a huge fan of the series of yellow-colored, paperback "how-to" books that include "....... for Dummies" annexed to the title.   You'd think that a series of books that announces itself as being for stupid people would have a tough time selling itself in bookstores, where everyone can plainly see by your purchase what a dunce you are.  I never buy mine in bookstores.   Thanks to the anonymity of internet purchasing, I can buy that kind of stuff and have it delivered to my door with no one else the wiser. Sounds kind of dirty, if you ask me, but I wouldn't really know- I never buy dirty stuff on-line.     (pause)    I just buy lots of "Dummies" books, even reading perhaps as much as a quarter of them.   But they're there, if I need to look anything up.

Most of my Dummies books are about computer stuff, writing, or music (that breaks down into a lot of sub-catergories....take my word), but I've never seen a "Life for Dummies" edition. (There is a blue adaptation that goes by a different name, but I digress.....).  So I thought to write an abbreviated version of my own.  As follows:

 

Don't take yourself so damn seriously.

Don't sweat the small stuff (and it's all small stuff).

Don't worry about what others are thinking about you.  They don't do it that often.

Turn it over, but don't forget to let go of it, else it's just upside down.

Tell yourself the truth.

(Available at amazon.com soon)

 

And in the "Just Looking for the Silver Lining, Here......" department-

(Thanks to Cute Overload):

Look, I’m cool with the whole cone thing. Medically necessary, keeps me disciplined, yadda yadda — I get it. I’m just saying, as long as I have to wear this, why not pour a little kibble in here? That too much to ask?

 

National Radio Day, Productivity Tips

I contemplate radio as I compose, surrounded by multiple options for tuning in to the ostensible "airwaves".  That terminology is, of course, all but obsolete in these times of digitally delivered media. I have a little battery-powered device  stashed in the event of Armageddon (my "emergency radio" -believe me, if the occasion ever presents itself wherein I am required to use it in order to figure out how to survive, I'm not at all sure I will want to do so- survive, that is........).  Besides that, I have a Sirius/XM radio subscription, and its incumbent seventy-leven channels, for my man-cave and for my petrol ingurgitator, Pandora on my PC, and fifty or sixty music channels incorporated into my satellite TV channel selections.  Sigh.  Oh, and that's in addition to the wall of cd's (shut my mouth and call me Cretaceous) and the digital music available on my trusty iPhone.  I guess the latter doesn't count as modern-day "radio", but who's picking nits, right?

I recall my very first radio. I was still a thumb-sucker, at the ripe old age of six, and I think my dad (bless his hackneyed little heart), in a fit of homophobia, feared that behavior might be a portent of my future proclivities.  (Don't dwell on it too long.)  In order to dissuade me from my taste for my opposable digit, he promised me my own personal radio, if I'd only give up the habit.  (This did not prove to be the last time I'd have to give up something that comforted me, only to prove not good for me, but they didn't have a twelve-step program for it back then.  Who knows, they may now- they've got 'em for everything else.)

I still recall vividly the day I got to show off my new gadget.  Pop was the administrator of the county hospital, and he had requisitioned one of the patient room radios for my use.  It was an odd-looking device, a molded bakelite shell in medicinal green, with the necessary big round dial on the face, and a clamp device which secured it to the headboard of my bed.  It had no traditional speaker, but rather featured a small round palm-sized thingy attached to it by a cord long enough to reach under my pillow, where the tinniness of its emerging reverberations was mellowed somewhat before it reached my ears.  I had to explain what it was to my much older (eight years of age) neighborhood friend, who was visiting one evening with his folks, then suffered the ensuing embarrassment of explaining to them, at my dad's urging, why it was that I had been so rewarded.  I did manage to get over that mortifying episode, despite unmerciful and cruel ribbing from the rest of the neighborhood kids for what seemed an eternity.  I didn't get it.  Had my father somehow completely skipped over being that age?

Anyhow, I guess it was worth it.  This was all before the advent of a hi-fidelity (or any other type) record-player in our household, save the little lunchbox-sized gadget that played "Davy Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier" ad nauseum, day in and day out.  So commenced my exposure to "popular music", as I tuned in nightly to such as WBZ (Boston?) and WLS (Chicago), cousin Brucie (WABC, New York), and Murray the K.  I cut my musical teeth on the likes of Little Stevie Wonder, the Crystals, and Jan and Dean, and when the British invasion hit, I was hooked.  It wasn't long before we got a decent hi-fi and I began throwing my money at S.K. Yarid, the purveyor of the local record sore and porn shop. (He kept the magazines behind the counter and away from us impressionable youngsters, but that's a story for another day.)  Suffice to say, I truly do believe that music does make the world a better place.  Talk radio, on the other hand, I can do without.

I must apologize for the dearth of posts lately.  All of a sudden, I have three different clients clamoring for results by next week.  This after sitting on my hands for a month. Actually, I wasn't sitting on my hands.  I was taking care of stuff that wouldn't have to be addressed when the work finally arrived, and using the "down time" to educate myself on new and current software skills.  This in addition to daily beating the bushes to see what new prospects I could flush out.  So excuse me, please, whilst I try to make a living.  I feel sure you will all maintain while I tend to business.  I do promise to keep it going.

Ode to Felines (Replete with Reproach)

Yes, I have confessed previously to my cat-centric persuasions.  But please understand, this preference is not to the exclusion of the canine race...... it's just that I was born a Leo (sort of), and I think this accident of nature left me deeply connected to all things feline.  I've had a few wonderful doggies in my day, too, but caring for them invariably became like raising kids- which I also have nothing against, long as they belong to someone else.

Anyway, it has crossed my mind lately, in a which-came-first-the-wife-or-the-insanity-type query, whether certain aspects of my behavior are the result of my association with kitties, or do I prefer them because of those same character traits?  We always like to find excuses for our shortcomings, taking credit ourselves only for those aspects of our personalities deemed positive in so-called polite society.  Bottom line- I have to accept it both ways, sharing the credit and the blame equally with my feline buddies.  

I got a lot of praise for my recent Illustrated History of Personal Rides, so I thought to attempt here something similar, with an illustrated summary of cat-like traits that can be ascribed to my close relationship with those furry-faced friends. To wit:

We like to nap, and can do so at the drop of a hat:

We are creatures of leisure, and love to lounge about:

No matter how you try to humiliate us, we will always be cooler than you:

What’s the difference between a cat and a Brit? One is finicky, overly concerned with grooming, emotionally reserved, impeccably mannered and enjoys a quick nip. The other is a cat:

We like to get into places where we don't belong:

We can get away with anything, as long as we are cute doing it:

   

We are determined, and won't stop until we get our way:

We can find pleasure in simple things:

We can be aloof and unapproachable, choosing to be above it all:

We like to be served:

We can appreciate the intelligence and dignity of our canine pals, and accept them as equals:

Danger! Random thoughts engaged......

If today's post seems a bit random, it may be a sign that my focus has been off this week.  For example, I went in to see my regular doctor this week.  (As opposed to a specialist- those guys usually are expensive, and my insurance carrier apparently considers "life" a pre-existing condition, so I try to avoid the consequential deductible payments.)  Anyway, here's part of the conversation with my doc:

I say: "Doc, I keep forgetting stuff."    He says: "Fugeddaboudit."    I say: "Seriously, doc."    He says: "Try making lists of the things you need to remember."   I say: "I already do that."    He says:  "Where's your list?"      I say:  "I forgot it."       He says: "My work here is done."    I say:  " What about problems I've had staying focused?"  He says:  "Is that a flashlight in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?"     I say:   "I'm having problems making decisions, too.  I don't know whether to scratch my a** or wind my watch."   He says: "Got a coin?"   And so it went.  

I have to mention here an issue that's been on my mind for a while.  It's been like one of those tiny little objects that gets in your shoe.  And the longer you neglect it, the more it aggravates, until you walk like you have a club foot and feel the need to amputate the offending limb at the knee.  The thing is, I always get my knickers in a twist when it happens.  And here it is.  Whatever happened to "You're welcome"?   At the risk of waxing archaic, I seem to recall that the standard response among polite society to the phrase "Thank you" used to be, "You're welcome".   This reply has apparently been replaced, particularly among Generation Z (aka the Net Gen), by the reply "No problem".  This never fails to tweak my ire, as if the implication is that I have done something requiring that I be magnanimously excused for.   I realize fully that this phenomenon is merely the result of the evolving syntax of my native tongue.  Wikipedia has even revealed to me the innocence of the expression, explaining that what it really means is, "No thanks (or apology) necessary."  And so I resign myself to being grateful for any response whatsoever, as opposed to the absence of any acknowledgement at all.  Pardon me whilst I morph before your very eyes into a curmudgeonly old coot, as ancient as dirt and drier than a popcorn fart.

As a counterpoint to all this cynicism, I now propose to post some quotes from a "motivational" site I found and like very much.  They border on obtuse misanthropy themselves, but I found them amusing (dare I say funny?), and anything that makes me smile is, to me, worth repeating, even at the risk of failure to equally amuse your own self.......

- No one will be as pretty as their profile picture, or as ugly as their driver's license photo.

- The more tabs you have open, the greater the chances that you won't be able to figure out which one is producing that awful sound track.

- There are two rules for success: 1) Never tell everything that you know

- There are 10 kinds of people- those who understand binary notation and those who don't.

- Failure happens for two reasons: 1) Doing things without thinking about them, and 2) Thinking about things without doing them.

- No matter how low your phone battery is, it always has enough juice left to remind you every two minutes.

- Don't worry about what people think about you, they don't do it very often.

- If you don't step forward, you will always be in the same spot.

- If you turn something over (to a higher power), but don't let it go, it's just upside down.

- Never hate people who are jealous of you, but respect their jealousy.  They're just people who think you're better than them.

- Vegetarian: Ancient tribal slang for the village idiot who can't fish, hunt, or ride.

- F u type like ths & u rn't on twitter, im going 2 assume u r retarded & stupid.

Angry Soprano Demolishes Venue with Wicked High "C" Note

I found myself at wit's end (admittedly not a very long trip) when I started trying to come up with something to write about today.  So I decided to take my own advice for a change, and went to my dependable Google search bar and typed in "productivity", then clicked on one of the links that materialized: "productivity quotes".  One of the first to appear was this line from Mary Garden, a Scottish operatic soprano who did her thing during the first third of the twentieth century.  Says Mary: "A wonderful emotion to get things moving when one is stuck is anger. It was anger more than anything else that had set me off, roused me into productivity and creativity. " Hmm. Sounds like a pretty feisty lady to me.  And she's talking the meat and potatoes of my blog, there- creativity and productivity.  So I'm running with it.

I've always had a healthy fear of my own anger, and never, never would previously have considered it as a tool for productivity.  (Creativity is another thing entirely.  I'm thinking now of a strange mix of Jackson Pollack, Charles Bukowski and Curt Cobain.....)  Whenever I've had the choice, I have preferred to keep my anger a solitary affair, throwing private tantrums in the solitary safety of my own company, never to be witnessed by casual friends and not-so-close relatives and/or loved ones.  (Of course, as we all know, we typically reserve our worst behavior for the ones we care the most about, and I'm no different from anyone in that respect.)  I've always felt those little occurrences of self-indulgence were a pretty low-risk way to let off steam, provided I didn't let them get out of hand.  

One particularly extreme example I can recall happened the day that I'd finally had it with a stubborn ink-jet printer, which had repeatedly refused to do right...... one time too many.  I calmly and purposefully unplugged the varmint from my computer system, took it out onto my rooftop deck, and pitched it into the parking area below.  Actually, I enthusiastically hurled it into the air as high as I could, all the better for it to be thoroughly smashed when it impacted the pavement below.   It felt great!  I don't think anyone saw me commit this minor murder, but I still fantasize that a roving band of Jehovah's Witnesses did just that- witnessed (that is) me and my faulty contraption and subsequently made themselves absent from the neighborhood as fast as their little legs could skeedaddle.  But then we always like to assign a measure of heroicism to our most insane acts, or am I speaking only for myself?

Anyway, back to the quote and the point.  I suppose I can see Ms. Garden's side of the issue.  I can certainly imagine all manner of historic occasions wherein anger must surely have spurred on the most honorable and significant manifestations of productive behavior.  And mayhem notwithstanding, I guess the ends usually justify the means.  I think the trick may be to recognize that anger, as with all human emotions, can quite easily pick me up and carry me away.  Surely the consequences of tossing an IRS agent off my roof may be further-reaching than my previous fits of fury have proven. So maybe with some insight, I can continue to use my anger as a safety valve, taking care to examine whether it might have any chance of motivating me productively, rather than just landing me in the pokey.  Be well and, above all, stay cool.

Convertible Comes to Life, Steals Owner's ID, Absconds to Las Vegas

I have never by any stretch considered myself a "car" person.  My relationships with the vehicles I have utilized to haul myself and my accompanying stuff from place to place have always been of the love-hate variety, and mostly somewhere in between, but tending toward the latter.   I must admit to having drifted into and out of phases where I fancied my identity somehow connected to my ride, and even have occasionally entertained briefly the notion that I had the mechanical expertise, dexterity, and patience required to maintenance my own motorcar.  This usually has ended badly, resulting in an eruption of exhaustive and heartfelt profanity, bloody knuckles, and badly bent tools and auto parts.  

I was recently engaged in yet another adventure in automotive upkeep, having had an encounter with an unseen object located in the path of my high-priced Michelin steel-belted radial tires and the equally expensive alloy wheels on which they reside.  This obstacle managed to blow out the side of the tire (rendering it unrepairable) and took a chunk out of the rim as well (making it worthless, too).  As I am on an already thinly stretched budget, I first undertook to find a used wheel at one of those find-it-yourself junkyards, instead of ordering a new one.  Great idea in concept...... but I wasn't feeling so smart after a couple of hours of wandering the endless acreage of seemingly randomly scattered hulks of deceased clunkers, in 90-plus degree heat, getting no help from the proprietors, whose native language was not my own, and vice-versa.  And every vehicle even remotely similar to mine, as it turned out, had already been relieved of all four wheels.  

Anyway, the story has a happy ending, and I hope to live happily ever after with my new wheel and the almost-new tire that came already installed on it- thanks to the high-tech junkyard where I ended up, never even setting foot amongst the wrecked carcasses.  But it got me thinking about the lineage of vehicles I have been connected to, and the associated emotional attachments (or, in some cases, the lack thereof).  And so I submit the following illustrated history of my own personal modes of transport, and I'll try to be brief:

1965 (or so) Buick Skylark Sport Wagon  

A former family vehicle ultimately enlisted as wheels during my second year of college, notable for the spacious cargo area, which accommodated several kegs easily, and "slept" two comfortably, offering impressive vistas of the night-time sky. 

1966 (or so) Ford Galaxy

Another erstwhile family car, which was passed around amongst several of my siblings before I finally put it out of its misery.  Excellent reverse gear and ability to back out of ditches early in the morning.

1963 (or so) Ford Falcon Convertible

The first vehicle ever with my name on the title.  Took me to Jacksonville Florida the summer that I turned twenty-one, so was truly my coming-of-age-vehicle.  Ultimately abandoned on I-95 when a buddy ran it out of oil.  It truly deserved better.

 

1963 Jaguar XKE

Purchased between stints in college, and responsible for my fling with Miss South Carolina 1973 (runner-up), this vehicle proved entirely inappropriate for a broke college student, requiring constant and expensive upkeep (see above reference to blue language and bloody knuckles).

1964 (or so) Opel Kadet Wagon

An eminently forgetable ride, especially after the jag..........

1978 Mazda GLC Wagon

Anticipated as being my "family car", purchased during a three-year affair with my art history professor, who also ultimately deserved better.......

1984 Ford Thunderbird

My second shot at claiming identity via wheels, fairly unsuccessfully-  I dented the fender the first month and drove it that way for three years.

1989 Ford Bronco II

My Dad had one of these- I drove mine until it died.

1994 Chevrolet S-10 Pickup

No question about it, this little truck was the best vehicular investment I ever made.  It served me well, seeing me through the renovation/construction of my current residence. It succumbed when I unwisely loaned it to a recovering alcoholic who promptly relapsed and abused it to the point that it never recovered.  Never give anything to an AA buddy that you might actually want back.

1993 Mercedes

Marks the point at which I became a two-car family.  I spent more keeping it running than I paid for it.

1996 Ford Explorer

Inherited from my Dad when he went into the nursing home, it became a handy utility vehicle and band-equipment hauler until one late night returning from a gig, when a cell-phone-using teenager turned in front of it.  Then his girlfriend had the temerity to accuse me of being too old to drive!  The car was totaled, but insurance paid for another. (No, not the Z3!)

1998 BMW Z3

I have finally arrived as a "car guy"!  No, wait..... had to sell it when work evaporated- no longer a multi-vehicle household.......

1998 Jeep Grand Cherokee

A humble, but utilitarian ride.  If I can just get a few more miles and years out of it, I'll be ready for a bicycle by the time it's done.  And I'll go there happily.

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).