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The Legend of Wooley Swamp

But I couldn't believe it.
I just had to find out for myself.
And I couldn't conceive it
'Cause I never would have listened to nobody else.

____________________________________________________________________________

I heard that old Charlie Daniels song last Sunday. It enjoyed a few weeks of popularity in 1980 and then was clean forgotten. While I was listening to it, the above passage clicked recognition of a personality fault-benefit I have.

I'm notorious for not believing other people's advice until I prove it for myself.

This was borne out time and again at my work. A girl I worked with, who I'll disguise as LISA, hated that aspect in me. There would be something she needed to tell me, be it information from the morning, a new patient or just a head's up and I would seemingly ignore her and go find out myself. Somehow, she took it personally.

Yeah, I can understand that. But I would tell her, “Lisa, it's not just you who I ignore, I ignore EVERYONE.

That didn't work, she was peeved with me still.

In fourth grade, Miss Enos dubbed me the class “Doubting Thomas.” I was that in spades. I also must have ticked off innumerable adults being so stubborn as well. I couldn't help it. I should've been a scientist, casting doubt on all commonly accepted fundamentals.

Also, I swear my disbelief is tied to my curiosity as well. As a kid, if you told me something that was unbelievable to me, or something that might be dangerous, I just had to find out because confirming something by relying on myself was a endorphin hit for me. Lordy, was I an independent kid. As for being warned of something dangerous, that was all the more fun because adults gravely warned me from even thinking about doing it. They were hiding enjoyment from me!

Here's a stupid thing I and Jimmy once did out of curiosity.

An older kid in our neighborhood once said you could get worms out of the ground by electrocuting them. He told us that if you wrapped a screwdriver shaft with the bare copper of an extension cord, shoved the shaft into the ground, and flipped the switch, worms in a three food radius would come wriggling out of the ground to escape.

When he told us that I called “BULLSHIT” on him. Too late, now I had to find out if this worked. Also, it being a lazy summer day with little to do, why not play with electricity?

Jimmy's Mom worked all day so that left his house all to our own. We found an extension cord from his electric mover, a huge screwdriver, and we went to work. Mind you, we weren't that stupid about electricity, we would set the whole thing up and stand far away from it when we hit the wall switch that controlled the outside outlet.

So, I goad Jimmy to hit the switch while we were both looking out the window. All we heard was this loud, almost vibrating HUM that lasted for about 3 seconds before it went silent. We both waited for hundreds of worms to come out but not a one fled the electric field.

“Ah, he was full of it! Still, that was pretty cool huh? Did you hear that wicked BUZZ?” I said to Jimmy.

We moved back into the room when a few minutes later Jimmy noticed the wall clock was dead, ceiling fan had stopped and when he tried to turn on some lights, nothing happened.

“Jesus! What happened? What did we do!?” he shouted.

We ran downstairs to the circuit breaker box and looked. But we had no idea what went wrong. The obvious solution was to run away and stay away and Jimmy could come home after his Mom pulled into the driveway.

She did finally come home and Jimmy, who had a great poker face, walked into his house as if nothing happened. His Mom asked why wasn't the electricity was working and Jimmy lied through his teeth with a “I don' know.”

His Mom got a neighbor who was an electrician to help her when he said the main bus fuse was shot. He then started questioning her how many appliances she may have had running at once to kill such a powerful fuse. She couldn't answer him. Jimmy was looking on, with a usual 12 year old dumb-as-a-brick face on him.

We got away with it.

And I'm still very curious and still won't believe claims till I find out for myself!

Jumping the Shark

It helps to write your thoughts down. In several days you can return to them with a clearer eye and sort out the more accurate ones, the more satisfying ones. The blogs I write here are generally first drafts with all the attendant mistakes in grammar and the lousy, awkward sentence structuring. This time, I'm working to tighten things up and in doing so, tighten up the analysis of my past occupation. It'll show me just where I've been, where I am and where I'll probably go. Interesting method, no? Perhaps the work needed to tighten, compress and fashion a page of words...to say what I mean, will also give me some perspective on my own life.

I chose a culinary career in response to my social service one. I needed to answer the disgust I felt after having to battle “Big Frogs of Tiny Ponds.” My first job in social services acquainted me with people who fight to the death over crumbs. Oscar Wilde had a little quip about small fiefdoms college professors build during their careers (this can be applied at any other job as well). Wilde joked: “Why do academics compete so hard? Because there is so little to win.”

At first, I enjoyed the social work world but due to being exposed to inexperienced and favor driven management, and a real, intense lesson in nepotism, I found myself on the outside looking in. But I remedied that situation with a few lawyers. (An earlier blog piece details my successful attempts at reinstatement, but that was not w/o it's price, as I stated there) The whole experience left me with a bad taste in my mouth about social work and I said...”Screw this field!”

That was over fifteen years ago. I then went to Johnson & Wales for a quick two year A.A. degree and had hopped around a few high end restaurants till I landed, without quite aiming at it, to institutional food service. For some reason I liked it enough that I lasted a couple of years at my first job. The friends I had made there were varied and fun to work with. But soon enough they were drifting away to other jobs and finally I was on my own, until I received a call to work at a facility in Warwick RI.

That was thirteen years ago.

It's very odd that a group of people in the nursing home field should remain together for thirteen years or longer. Ours did. What happened, I believe, is that we grew roots into one another and forsaking the job meant forsaking one another. So, we didn't till we were forced too. You spend eight hours or longer a day working closely with people and they become brothers and sisters. I guess it can be compared to the Armed Forces in a much milder sense. Those guys in battle form tight bonds to one another and are loyal to each another and nothing else, not even the war too. I have not taken into account the acceptance of ruts, familiarity or the safety and comfort one finds with a job one's been with for a long time. That too plays a part in longevity. But for me, the “work family” I became a part of was a large factor for my staying so long.

It's cliche to say that a life is made up of thousands of little decisions, but it's true. Every day, I chose this or that, always with the thought that the decision would improve my life or move me closer to that elusive “happiness” that can never be truly caught, tagged and bagged. My day to day decisions melded me closer to the people I was working with. I wanted that choice. I acted precisely on that to make it a reality.

So, what else did I decide in favor of these past years. Simply? A paycheck. Career advancement and growth? For me, that problem was somewhat solved when my entire family died one by one. The need to fight for ever increasing status was nullified by not having to worry about mortgages. In one sense, a house fell on me, alleviating that need for debt. I've known some people to resent that ugly luck I had but it came at cost of watching and caring for those in my family who were taken out by a slow, always progressing disease. My luck was that I was the last one standing. Those events also showed me that blowing one's life on a career, forever fighting to climb the ladder, seemed a wasted effort to me.

Add to that the fact I was not interested in advancement as I don't base my self worth on someone who needed others to point and say, “That guy sure went far!” If you has asked me about advancement when I was twenty-five, I'd answer differently. Now at my age today, I could not care less. At forty-eight I know what I am compared to that identity fogginess so many young men find themselves in.

Finally, I have found that my need or want for a sense of accomplishment rarely came from any career. It always came from my relationships with others. A Buddhist monk, who I can't remember now, said the “relationship” in the Western world, is the meditation. Which I find funny really. I am a failed misanthrope who likes people (well, certain ones).

Also it was a decision from a cost-benefit analysis. I couldn't see my knocking myself out for something I'd eventually regret having. For me, the benefit had better be FAR greater than the sometimes wild battles you have to fight to attain them. It has been borne out to me that my desire for a particular goal can at times be squashed if I have to fight silly obstacle after obstacle for it. “Keep your eyes on the prize” some say. Well, sure, if you valued that prize as very worthy and if it keeps it's worth. To me, a goal had better hold out such advantages that I would never give up trying to attain them. I have attained a few of those goals. The key word here is few.

This is me, others will have a totally different goal and life.

The final sense for me was that I decided to satisfy a need for social contact and the income. I enjoyed the people I worked with, and not necessarily always the work. There are only so many hours in a day and as an adult you cannot make more time for a bevy of friends like you could if you were in school. So, like many others, you make your newer friends from work.

I can point to several times in my life when you create or join a circle of people who become your friends and as the group grows, you do as well. These fellowships have a lifespan of their own as well. They are born, mature and then die off. You really would not want it any other way. I don't advocate cutting your ties entirely. You will keep in touch with those who you can keep in touch with, perhaps for decades, as I have done with some.

Hollywood has a great phrase that is apt I think. It is called “Jumping the shark.” Jumping the shark is an idiom that is used to describe the moment in the evolution of a television show when it begins a decline in quality that is beyond recovery. The phrase is also used to refer to a particular scene, episode or aspect of a show in which the writers use some type of "gimmick" in a desperate attempt to keep the show alive and reatain the viewer's interest.

This phrase has an older history than Hollywood I should confess. Remember the old waterskiing events where the girls in bikinis would end the show by “jumping a shark” ?  That's where it comes from.  After that jump, what possibly more can these girls do to wow an audience. The show is over, thank you for coming.

Affiliations of friends, like tv shows or water skiing pretty girls, evolve and have a final great moment. After that, trying to recreate it or cling to it, is a doing youself a disservice to your own growth.

I'll have to find or create another association and play that evolving game again.

A Real Spite Fence!

We used to have a “spite fence.” Yes...true! Well, my Mom and I did for many years at least.

In 1973, our “neighbors” behind us and our family shared an old 50's Leave it to Beaver, white open picket fence. It, by then, was about 14 years old and falling apart. My Dad, being the nice guy that he was, called up our neighbor to suggest that we both split the costs of a new, stockade style fence and that my my Dad would take care of all the details. Our neighbors would have to do none of the legwork but just provide a check once the job was complete.

Dad, taking this man at his word, hired a few carpenters and they installed the latest fashionable fence for the time. When my Dad called up our neighbor to ask for the money (and I was in the kitchen at the time during this) I heard my Dad time and time again try to remind our wonderful neighbor of his obligation. Our neighbor reneged on the deal claiming the fence was either “too high” or the “wrong” color. My Dad, realizing he was defeated, hung up.

You'd think a man of finance would've gotten a written agreement. Ah well. I can't blame Dad as you were supposed to “take the word” of your neighbors if they promised something. My Dad paid the bill by himself and never said another word.

Now, the story begins again in 1986. My Dad had been dead since 1977 and it was my Mom and just I living on that house. 1986 also had Hurricane Gloria come through and though it wasn't really a bad storm, it was windy enough to cause some damage. To our property, a fence panel had blown over.

I was out there the next day resetting it and realized the entire fence was weakened by years of that dry mold rot. The one section I was repairing was easily set back in place with a few planks and screws. As I was doing this, our wonderful neighbor comes out and was watching me fix it.

“You know, this fence is weak now, you can see where the wood's been eaten away by the rot” he tells me.

“Yeah, I know...whatcha gonna do about it” I say.

“Well” he goes on, “We could put up a new one.”

That's when I stood up and pointed at this bastard's face and said.

“No...YOU...are going to put up a new one...and PAY for it yourself!”

I left to go inside the house when my Mom had asked just what my yelling was all about. I tell her and then make her promise me NEVER to spend any money on the back fence, even if it fell down completely. She seemed to enjoy the idea.

To this day the fence still stands..or is tryng to.  To be honest, the antagonists are long since dead.  Perhaps we kids of said belligerents should bury the hatchet.

For a sometimes really left leaning, liberal commie pinko, I can have some sense of  venom!

Alias

Did you have a nickname as a kid? We all did here. We never got to choose our nicknames. That was always left to someone else who was busting our balls and the moniker stuck.

Me? I was, and still am known by some, as Barroter. I was told that as a small boy I would walk the neighborhood and go unannounced into people's homes. That was then no one locked their doors really. So, why not be a neighborly four year old and say “Hi!” to you neighbors.

One neighbor, said I was a “marauder” for just walking into his home. I then tried to say that word and it came out, I guess, I'm told...as “barroter.” And for decades that has stuck.

Here are some others.

Pork Chop and Runty. Also known as Mark and Mike. They were fraternal twins and Mike was born 5 minutes later and was about one inch shorter than Mark and the runt of that litter. Mike, oddly enough, is no runt. He could bend an iron bar across his chest to this day. Mark, apparently had an affinity for pork chops and that stuck with him forever. Of course, he hated it.

Stinky Midget was the father of one of my brothers friends. Unfortunately for him, he grew to the total height of about five foot one. I never known him to stink but I guess my brother’s friends thought that “midget” was not just good enough for a label. Though Stinky Midget was forever dressed in those old green Dickey workshirt and pants, even on the weekends. He may have been buried in them.

CLAUDIA! This was her real name, but you had to say it with a real whiny, sort of loud and grating voice. We were trying to ape Claudia's Mom who had this ear piercing, ice pick in January and shrill voice. The poor girl was very shy and when she drove by in her old Nova all of boys would then shriek as she passed by...”CLAUDIA!” The poor girl has yet to live that one down, and probably never will.

Ricardo MentalBomb (Ricardo Montaban) was a friend of mine way back then. I didn't really see it then but apparently he was not wrapped that tight and the older boys spotted that and aptly named him. I don't remember the circumstances, but I remember the older kids smacking Ricardo square in the face with half a Boston Cream pie, all the while chanting...”MentalBomb, MentalBomb, MentalBomb.” I thought it hilarious.

Chrystal Methadone (Last Name Omitted To Protect Her Innocence due to Her Idiot Father) was a newborn girl back when I knew her Dad. After the young infant came home from the hospital, the Dad brought her out for all of us to see and kept referring to her as “Chrystal Meth.” Apparently he kept calling her that till she was five years old.

Father “Quick Draw McGraw” was a parish priest who officiated at St Joseph's Church on Walcott street back then. What was great about Quick Draw was that he could zip through a Mass in under 40 minutes. He was NOT the type to lecture, educate nor in any way heighten our spiritual growth. He apparently had better things to do with his Sunday and many of the parishioners quietly agreed.

Simply arrive at church at 8 AM, say a few Hail Marys, chomp down on the Host and before you realize it, you're back on the street with Quick Draw before nine.

Heidi unt Leonard. They were an older couple who lived on our street who had some sort of misunderstood connection to Germany. On holidays, you'd see a beat up Volkswagen Minivan show up and out came many Hansels and Gretels who would jibber and jabber in German to Heidi unt Leonard.

Of course, we made up a story about the couple being escaped Nazi criminals. What made matters worse, is that Heidi did sort of look like a Gretel, Ursula or an Urmgaard. I know, it was totally unfair to besmirch them as so, but the adults of the neighborhood thought it amusing as well.

My own mother had a nickname to the kids in the neighborhood. It was, “Goddammit Maureen!” I guess they had overheard my Dad bitching about something. I never did figure out just how this started. When you said “Goddammit Maureen,” you had to say it like Archie Bunker from All in the Family. I never, EVER said this to my own mother's face.

A Happy Miser

"The coyote is a living, breathing allegory of Want. He is always hungry. He is always poor, out of luck and friendless. The meanest creatures despise him and even the flea would desert him for a velocipede." -Mark Twain

I have no idea where I learned thriftiness but I have applied it since I was in kindergarten and maybe earlier. I swear it's in my genes. Or, perhaps, it's a learned lesson about loss I learned so young. I can't determine just how I came across this trait. Decades have passed and I still have this habit.

I came across the above quote from Mark Twain while reading his “Roughing It.” I smirked and at the same time fully appreciated the image of Want Twain was painting. Want, is a plague to be avoided at all costs, if you are able to.

I've been called cheap, tightfisted, stingy, miserly and a host of other names that deprecates we New England Yankee skinflints. I really can't dispute these labels, they do describe my views on money management. But, it arises from knowing Want.

Want sucks.

I am sure we've all been, or are, in situations where you needed something that only money would fix...and you didn't have it. To me, being cornered like that, being shackled, is tyranny. Hence, it has given me great motivation to keep Want at bay via the decisions I make. This means I don't blow money like a drunken sailor.

 

I have heard people tell stories of what they've bought, and I swear they can almost see my mouth drop open. Well, it feels to me like my jaw just dropped.

“You did what?” (eyes wide, look of awe)

I've asked these people for a rational explanation, but never receive one that satisfies me. I have learned to shut up and let people be, but I can't keep from screaming to myself very quietly...”What the fuck are you doing!!” It's an agreed opinion that you don't bring up religion or politics around company, add to that any damnation of other people's purchases.

Yet still, I feel the need to preach about the evils of wanton spending to these lost souls. Shut up, Ron...just.shut.up.

The trick to life is balance...right? How devout should one get about a belief, hoping the more fervent one is, the quicker salvation will come? And in doing so, what else falls from your life as you expend a good amount of your focus and energies in such a narrow sense?

Ain't that the trick, huh?

In truth, this has become a personality trait of mine, never to be shrugged off entirely. Ah well, at least I do spend the $ on things I love. Albeit they are few and far between. And thank God I don't have to drink whiskey every night or maintain a cocaine habit, that would suck.

Lifestyles You Never Know About

...an interesting article I found explaining life in high finance...

OWS and Why Anyone Not at Their Desks by 7:30 is a Nobody.

I have worked closely with Institutional Equity Sales desks for the majority of my career and have been tempted to accept offers to work there. There are two reasons why I haven’t. One, the politics surrounding the dispersal of client accounts is Machiavellian enough to make the backroom dealings of the medieval Vatican seem like a rural PTA meeting. The other reason is that, given my later start in the industry, I was too old. Unless you are firmly established on the Desk by your early 30s it is unlikely that your energy level will hold up long enough to realize the considerable compensation potential.

Those fuckers work hard. The basic hours, at your desk at 7:00, meetings at 7:30, 12:05 and 4:10 with the intermittent time spent either generating or shepherding your clients’ trades, are not prohibitive. The bigger problem is that Wednesday through Thursday, it is more or less required that you entertain your clients according to their proclivities – dinners, strippers, shows...whores – until late at night before arising again at 5:30 to head back in to the office. Not occasionally – this is every week. Recent layoffs have only made this worse, to the point I would like to see an intrepid, well-connected reporter dig in to the insane growth of the cocaine usage which is reaching 80s levels again as aggregate job security wanes.

I am again just using Institutional Sales as an example. The workdays for traders and bankers, particularly during a big deal, can be even more onerous. As a whole, the level of effort expected leads to the generally-accepted belief within Capital Markets that anyone not at their desks by 7:30 is a LOSER. The most common response to the experience of getting a coffee at 9:15 and seeing people rushing to the office in their coats,(and this is a topic of discussion on the floor), is a bemused “what exactly do you people do that you can get away with starting at 9:00?”. By definition, it can’t be that important.

The anti-finance movement can, if they carefully ignore some of the more economically vital aspects of the industry, frame their argument in terms of “all you guys really do is shuffle paper around”. What they under-estimate, however, is how hard industry participants work at “shuffling papers around”. It is extremely difficult for anyone, including me, to take someone seriously when they work less than 50 hours per week. Unless they’re semi-retired, no one we know who works 35 hours a week is even relevant, never mind qualified to re-regulate the industry.

The work ethic is clearly a function of simple economics. The monetary upside in finance is arguably higher than any other so the candidates to replace the more complacent employees are at least in the 100s, probably 1000s and everybody knows this. The means by which the less committed get jettisoned can get pretty nefarious – I’ve seen three or four women ousted during their maternity, albeit with big checks – but everyone understands, and largely accepts, the logic behind it. Not only that, we take a sort of black humor pride in it.

The psychological outgrowths of this type of environment are pervasive and powerful. When OWS is trying to comprehend the viciousness of pushback, they need to keep in mind that the level of personal investment for industry professionals, years upon years of 60 hours weeks and four hours of sleep a night, is not something you ever, ever want to see threatened by a Tobin Tax. And this is particularly true if the complainants’ primary motivations, and theological certainty, arise solely from one charismatic professor teaching Rawls during an “exhausting” 20 hour per week class load. You may have a point, nobody knows better than we do, but we’re not going to consider you credible unless you work for it