Tag: Ragtag Daily Prompt

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Too bad Too be true

You’ve heard the expressions ” so bad it’s good,” and the like? Well my first boss as a practicing anthropologist was so bad that he created a drive in me to be really good at my job.

It all began after I’d received the phone call that I’d gotten the job. I was to start the first working day after the New Year in 1981. But first Mr. Joseph’s ( not the real name) wouold like to see you tomorrow. Well tomorrow turned out to be Christmas Eve. It wasn’t so much an interview, a welcome to our organization talk, or a tour of where I’d be working. It was a grilling, abuse session and tirade that I was a lousy choice for the job. He was going to keep a close eye on me!

Ok, I didn’t expect a pageant thrown in my honor, or a rave session on how my many talents would excel at the job. But not a vicious bout of recriminations from a person I’d never met, nor done anything to. Later at dinner with my friend, we pored over the meeting for any hints that might reveal the source of his anger. We finally settled on the selection committee not having chosen his favored candidate. Later in the discussion, we turned over any hopes that I might save my chestnuts from burning in this particular fire. But I couldn’t find one.

Joltin’ Joe

So after the first of the year, I began. I stayed at that job for seven and a half years. For most of that time, I was threatened, abused, and hated by the person my staff and I called ” Joltin’ Joe.”

Joltin’ Joe didn’t mean to, and he probably would have had a fit if he knew, but he brought out the best efforts in me. My efforts on behalf of the local communities I served continue to be among my most prized achievements.

How did I round this bit out? Well, I received an offer from a prestigious organization. They wanted me to work for them as a consultant at a significant increase in salary. I had also heard via the grapevine that Joe was hatching another in his succession of plots to fire me. I waited until I knew he was out to lunch. Then I arrived at his office after he left. I went to his office and left my letter of resignation on his desk. Then I walked the mile or so to mine. When I arrived, the phone was already ringing. It was a colleague from the main office who told me that Joltin’ Joe was screaming, yelling, and throwing things in his office. What had I done?

Make good from bad if you can. You’ll be doing well while doing good. And you just might get some chuckles at the end!

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Prognosticator?

Daily writing prompt
Is your life today what you pictured a year ago?
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I would suggest that you avoid leaping to conclusions. Squinting into the tea leaves and ominously proclaiming that this was going to be a banner year is a dangerous activity.

I’m kind of ahead of the curve here, and not about to spoil the deal by building envy…yeah…there’s no Maserati in the garage, hell, there isn’t even a garage! But last night I sat on the chest by the woodstove looking into the fire. The dog was snoozing on the hearth, my sweetie was in the rocking chair, and the two cats were purring up a storm. It was a kind of mural of family contentment.

Sunday, the Tribe will gather to decorate the little tree, tell outrageous stories, watch Christmas oldies that they loved when they were little, and generally have a good time.

Expectations

I’ve had Christmases that were more spare. It was just me and my cat, the Grey Menace. It was a catnip mouse for him and a snifter of the cheapest brandy for me. We were in a little house by the railroad tracks, and thankful that the heat was working. It taught me not to get involved with building too elaborate expectations based on fantasy—no courtships based on cheap TV shows or movie scripts.

Is your life today what you pictured a year ago? That’s the wrong question. Playing games with the future is playing against the house in a casino. I had a friend who loved to forecast his wealth trends…” If this continues, I’ll have the Maserati and the garage in two years.” Well, he never did. But all that prognostication kept him from enjoying the very wonderful life he did have.

The reality just never matched up to the overblown expectations, plans, and fantasies.

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Local

eagle weathervane

Last summer, the planets aligned, and my wife had vacation time all in a clump rather than spread out. It was especially favorable that My work schedule decreased at the same time. That rare event occurred, and we had time off together.

Having other responsibilities and a non-abundant supply of cash, we decided on a host of day trips throughout our region. And that’s how we made a succession of wonderful day trips in Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Southern Maine to visit cities that we had mostly passed en route to other places.

One small city surprised me. We sat in a restaurant for lunch, and the bulb went off. I recognized the street scene from sometime in the sixties. There’d been a coffeehouse there, and a short interlude years ago. Pleasant memories flowed.

In Manchester, New Hampshire, we were captivated by Cat Alley and the Cat Alley coffee shop and gift shop. Visit if you can, if only to see the Cat Alley paintings in the alley.

Colorful mural welcoming visitors to Cat Alley, featuring a cartoon cat and playful text on a brick wall.
A colorful mural featuring playful text that says 'THE PURRfect TIMING IS... MEOW' with illustrations of cats and whimsical designs, painted on a brick wall.
Colorful mural featuring a cat in a black dress striking a pose, with abstract shapes and other whimsical characters in the background.
Colorful mural of cats on a brick wall featuring a playful green cat and a stylized blue and yellow cat design.
A colorful mural depicting a blue cat lying on its back surrounded by fish illustrations on a brick wall.
A colorful mural depicting various cats and whimsical scenes, including a cat with a crown and other artistic representations on a brick wall.
A colorful mural depicting cats around a campfire, playing musical instruments, set against a brick wall.

It’s common to plan a vacation around distant places. And build expectant images of what you will find when you arrive. In our case, we were time and money-limited, but had rewarding experiences within two hours of home. Of course, the most important thing was that we were together, which, with divergent schedules, is too rare an event.

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Retread

Daily writing prompt
Tell us about your first day at something — school, work, as a parent, etc.
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Last year, one of my winter-time prescriptions for the winter blahs was to pick up the guitar again and begin playing. It’s been a struggle to restart something that was once like breathing. There was a time when I practiced for a minimum of an hour each day. I am nowhere near that level at this point, but at least I no longer feel guilty about passing where my guitar, Charlie, is hung. Things have progressed, and I no longer think that I should practice in a closet because it’s so bad.

But there is something odd about this process. While I am out of practice, I am not returning as the same player. I’ve especially noticed this in the past few weeks. My right hand technique is different; the sort of picks and strums I use and combine are not the ones I used to use. Also, I’m selecting different pieces to play.

In a clutch, could I echo the old Wes Carson? I don’t think so. Not only is the old playing style gone, but the singing is different, too. In the old days, I made the best of an average set of vocal cords, and made delivery and style make up for a lack of vocal virtuosity. I make no claims for having been a great talent – just enthusiastic.

Part of the issue is that years of inhalers for intermittent asthma did not do wonderful things for my voice. I think with practice, I’ll improve again. But I now sound more like Dave Van Ronk than Wes Carson. The irony of that is that in the old days I struggled to imitate Van Ronk’s throaty growl, and now it’s easy. However, a clearer baritone is more evasive.

I’ve discussed all this with Charlie. Yes, I do discuss things musical with my guitar. We’ve been together since the very early sixties, hitched all over, played the nightmare circuit, and…well, you get the idea. So, yeah, while the conversations are one-way, they are frequently productive. Charlie is a guitar, and his whole gig is providing resonance. so it works out.

How do I feel about this developing difference? Happy. There’s a Muhammad Ali quote that runs: “A man who views the world the same at 50 as he did at 20 has wasted 30 years of his life.” I think that applies to old Folkies as well, who are rediscovering their music.

Wait a minute, I hear a thrum from Charlie. What’s that? ” When are we going to go looking for a gig?” Ahh, I haven’t thought that far. “Yeah, well, comebacks are hell, man!”

So that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. Onward!

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Who? Me?

The professor of my public speaking course said that I was a bit too laid back for my first speech in front of the class. It wasn’t a lounge lizard sort of vibe that was needed for the topic. After class, I explained that the only prior public speaking I had done was to introduce myself at gigs when I had been a folksinger. That and the patter you kept up while tuning the guitar, and between songs. From his pained expression, I’m not sure he got it.

The Exclusive Club

OK, I am a member of an exclusive club of nobodies. We were the little guys and gals of the folk scene in the 1960s. For me, it was primarily New York’s Greenwich Village. Still, I can say with certainty that I’ve performed at some of the most disepitomable bistros, coffee houses, and bars in at least fifteen states and jurisdictions. We were the folks who weren’t offered a recording deal, didn’t depart the scene to make it on the “Coast”, and never became legendary. But it was a hell of a good ride.

We performed for spare change and dollar bills at coffee houses, no one remembers to audiences from the middle-class burbs. If Greenwich Village were a movie, we would have been extras.

We were the energetic component that added spice to the street scene at places like the Village. The tourist buses chugged down the street, pointing out to the passengers the beats and the folkies ( us) hanging out. We’d wave back, make the L 7 sign for the insulated straight noobs who would never get hip, flip them a bird, and once in a while shoot a moon to give them a bit of jive. We were the gasoline that powered the engine.

What do I mean by “exclusive club”? Well, we were regulars. It was a life. And no, it wasn’t just a weekend excursion.

Not 9-5!

It wasn’t a nine-to-five gig. But it was a gig. Start on Bleecker, down to MacDougall, and all around the town. Dive in the Minetta Tavern, work your regulars, and finish off in Rienze’s music room to meet all the other old hands who’d made the circuit night after night. By four in the am, you were done.

There are probably thousands of us, but it’s an exclusive club. Entrance was only granted by living the life.

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The Sword

On the wall of our bedroom hangs a sword rack with several wooden Japanese practice swords and a very actual and quite sharp Japanese Tanto, a short sword. Below this is a certificate proclaiming me to be a San Dan (third-degree black belt) in Iaido. Iaido is a Japanese sword art. I earned that degree after about ten years of study, slowly progressing in degrees, and on March 15th, 2015, I earned it.

Arthritis is a thing to miss

Arthritis has made some of the Kata ( practice exercises) difficult or impossible for me. But those are mostly the antique postures that would have been effective in pre-modern Japan. Why are such Kata still included in the course of study? Partially because of tradition, but also because of the lessons they contain of strategy, tactics, and the lessons of fluid mobility under challenging circumstances. One is not always defending or attacking from an ideal position. Despite the handicap that arthritis has imposed, I still practice kata as a way of reinforcing training, but also to retain and extend mobility. With arthritis, you can’t just let the condition progress without opposition; too soon, you’ll be a statue.

The Way of Martial Arts

Many people misconstrue training in martial arts with aggressive acts. Having studied Judo in my youth, and Kenjutsu, and Iaido in maturity, I can attest that true martial artists are among the most polite and courteous people you can meet. The aggressive, habitual braggarts are the result of broken traditions and training regimes without an underlying philosophy.

To many westerners, the concept of philosophy in martial traditions seems a contradiction. But it’s not. Training in martial arts puts much power in the hands of the practitioner, and with power comes potential abuse. Philosophy and traditional practices contain and channel ability.

Now, as I’ve said, most martial artists of my acquaintance are the most polite individuals I have known. But here is a little story from my years of training in Judo as a youth.

A senior Sensei (high-ranking teacher) was visiting the dojo that I belonged to. After a practice session, we offered to take Sensei out to dinner. On the way, we were standing at a corner waiting for traffic to stop when a group of young men started harassing an older woman. Harassing turned to shoving, and Sensei turned to the youth and politely asked them to stop—they continued. Sensei then politely asked them ot stop again. They turned and decided that the short, elderly Japanese man was a good target and attacked him. About thirty seconds later, we all proceeded on our way, leaving the young thugs to sort themselves out and pick themselves up off the ground. Sensei had used only enough force and technique to disable them as a threat.

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Admiration?

Admiration of exercises of privilege? Not hardly. As a matter of fact, my attitude is one of ” Yeah? Show me what you really can do if we knock the props out from under you.” People who make easy sledding of hard things backed up by daddy or mommy’s money or privilege don’t attract my attention.

The terms bootstrapped, mustanger, and “the hard way up” come to mind. I am not in awe of the privileged who manage to fail despite their advantages, but I do admire anyone who lands in the mire and pulls their way out – that’s real determination. And I can be thunderstruck by the native talent and determination of that person.

I don’t just feel this way because I bootstrapped, well, Ok, that’s a part of it. But because many climbers are opposed by those who haven’t had to. Privilege doesn’t always welcome the self-made woman or man into the “Elect.” They oppose it.

I wrote a song about it called the High Society Rag. Here is a verse:
“ Well, I tried to join high society, but every way that I turned, somebody had staked out an angle which guaranteed that you could not join. Well, they said there isn’t any prejudice, it’s a free country, can’t you see, but if you’re not in the Social Register, buddy, don’t bother me!

( Louis Carreras, copyright)

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‘Tis the Season!

Our almost friend John dropped in for the annual Folkie Palace Christmas party. Our chef, the failed monastic, the Monk, had gleaned most of the feast from market stalls at the Haymarket. You could get great deals or even free ones if you showed up at closing time. There were multiple main courses, sides, and desserts.

Wwhile the Monk had been preparing the food. the other denizens of the Palace had cleaned up; a major achievement for that crew! The living room had been tidied, and the mattresses had been stored out of the way. Christmas lights had been hung, and we had even refurbished the old Fuck Communism sign that hung in the street-facing window. It looked festive with multicolored blinking lights. The apartment leaseholder, the Teahead of the August Moon, was pouring the Special Punch into Dixie cups, and I was serving ratatouille ( without the rat).

The annual party attracted former roommates, neighbors, and people like John, who had an on-and-off relationship with us. Somewhere during the evening, my pal Bill had asked John about what he had going on. Always interested in an attentive audience, John laid it all out in detail.

Charity from a Con Artist

John said he had a soft spot in his heart for the holidays. Christmas always paid, he said, for the winter vacation in Florida. But he maintained that the Spirit of Christmas required him to trim the fleeces, rather than totally shear them. You took. Of course! But you gave as well.

So he rarely got involved with Secret Santa schemes, gift exchange schemes, or the like. Everybody but the con artist lost. He preferred a win/win approach. The Christmas charity donations and the Christmas special card sales.

Charity Donations

At the holidays, even full-blown skeptics, mumbling ” bah, humbug!” relaxed their guard and flung some spare change into a bucket supporting Christmas toys for poor kids in Alabama. After the teenagers ringing the bells were paid off, John took eighty percent and sent a check to a legitimate charity in Alabama. Everybody won! The little cherubs ringing bells and holding buckets made some Christmas present money. The local cop got a gratuity. A legitimate charity got a handy donation, and John got the month of January in Miami. “See, everyone wins!”

He said you couldn’t pull that scam year after year. People got wise to it. This year was totally different. John had “little cherubs” going door to door selling cheap Christmas cards. How do you make money from that grated our roommate The Teahead of The August Moon.

The Christmas Card Grift

Everyone needs Christmas cards, and who could resist buying them from a bit of a ragamuffin going door to door raising money for Saint Eustace’s Foreign Missions in Egypt? The con started with procuring cheap cards from collaborating printers. The indifferent printing and paper quality were not discovered until the mark tried to write on the card, by which time said ragamuffin and cash had cleared the neighborhood.

The ragamuffins were carefully selected for their pathetic appeal, and were well compensated for their piteous cries of “Please, sir, or ma’am, help the poor?!” The most difficult part of the con was in training them to deliver their few lines in an appealing Tiny Tim-like whine.

Once again everyone won. The ragamuffins, the printers, John ( who went to the Gulf Coast that year) and even ( and there he laughed) the mark who could use the cards if he wrote on them very carefully!

What’s So Funny?

The Teahead of the August Moon had grown very agitated at this last statement and reached into his desk, grabbed out a few boxes of Christmas cards, and flung them at John. Overturning the punch, he tossed the empty bowl at the place where John’s head had been just seconds before. It was almost a dead heat at the apartment’s door as the two raced down three flights of stairs, down Grove Street, and towards Cambridge Street. The Teahead continued to shout stop thief, and other less flattering terms. John cried out, “We didn’t sell any on Beacon Hill! To which the Teahead shouted, “I bought them at work in Southie!!!

As the chase turned the corner heading towards Charles Street, we got the party underway again. There was too much good food and drink to waste because of a silly spat.

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Goodie, Goodie!

It’s simple. What could I do with less of? Goodies. Treats. in Navy talk – Geedunks. You know holiday candy, cakes, and generally caloric sweet stuff. Junk food, but ohhh its the holidays – indulge.

Around the house, it’s not too bad. I restrict my consumption of the fruitcake, sticking to non-salted nuts and fruits. But I confess, the odd cookie or two that just happens to sneak into the house.

I have no temptation for the hot toddy, wine, or other alcoholic concoctions that are on offer this time of year when we visit friends. So, I have no idea how that happens! Honestly! But in January, I’ll have six or so pounds of guilt to get off.

Getting it off coincides with the time of the year in which I have the most difficult time exercise-wise. I am very active in the garden, workshop, or walking in other seasons. But January and February? First of all, days are short, snow obstructs my walking, and I have an abhorrence of gyms.

Yup. I abhor the gym. Hop on this machine, go to that, get on the other implement of torture. Listen to the litany of the ministry of pumping iron. To me, it’s not purposeful. Now clearing brush. Chopping wood, going for long walks, gardening, and making maple syrup are useful.

January and February are the enemy that ultimately follows the holidays. The good followed by the bad and the ugly. So right beside the computer is a Post-it note. I scrawl on it every suggestion that seems workable to relieve the coming struggle. Some work, some don’t. But those pounds and the seasonal affect disorder won’t be defeated by wishing.

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Accidit

Oh boy, stirrcus accidit! Have I got the spelling correct? My Latin is derived second hand, and I sometimes slip up on the spelling, word order, and grammar…well, just like I do in English. It’s a sort of special moment when I write a paragraph that doesn’t send the grammar and spelling app crazy. If it were more than a program, it would value that with a sort of paternal joy that, as stubborn as he is, he is eventually learning some grammatical and spelling rules. Oops! Next sentence had two errors. Maybe the app’s musings were in error? Maybe he is incapable, or incorrigible.

My prediction is that they’ll delay putting a Siri-type app in my machine for spelling and grammar. Siri was my favorite target for cussing, cursing, and suggestions for impossible sexual positions. Then I just grew bored with Siri’s lackluster responses. So I axed Siri. Right now, the app is asking me if I asked Siri… No, idiot, I axed Siri, and don’t correct me!

See, if they put a real bright app in, one that could put a foot up in a stirrup, and ride the wild tossing disgrammatical, anti-correctional prodigy that is me, it would blow a fifty amp fuze (!!!).

I might have fun until I pulled all the stops out, and told it to ^%^&^%&%, and then ^*&T**(()IPYY!@!!!!!!

“I’m sorry, Dave. I’m afraid I can’t do that.” It’s Lou, you flaming##$%^&&*!!! it’s Lou! @#$#$$ #%$%^ %%$^ &^%&. And the damn WP Ai won’t create an image for this! It’s started!