A “potpourri” of musings

This post has been two days in the making and since nobody offered to handle the authoring for me, it shall be an eclectic mix of ramblings that will neither thrill the senses or rattle the nerves.  Forgive the hodgepodge of topics, but occasionally it doesn’t all go together as planned.  This place we live in is quite a two-wheeled culture indeed.  From bicycles to motor scooters, from motorcycles to mopeds, they can only be rivaled by those in the Far East who seem to use their two wheeled conveyances as anything from a family van to a moving truck.  That being said, I am a bit uncomfortable with the all too familiar “two up” configuration when it involves a pair of blokes (been watching a program about Australian lifeguards on the Teli).  Not sure on the spelling of either. Could be bloaks or Telly for all I know, but you get the point.  That’s UK television for you . . . suspect programming, but brilliant ad work.  To be honest, I watch it exclusively for the commercials, but I digress.  Back on point, if there is one . . . the juxtaposition of genitals to ass crack when two men are astride a Vespa is alarming enough, but where the second rider places his hands seems to be a matter of greater concern.  The fact is, in the motorcycle community back home, the second rider is often unflatteringly referred to as “riding bitch”.  This sexist terminology is a cast off from the outlaw biker days when a salty bearded fellow could be found terrorizing the interstate with his vile wench clinging to him off the back of his illegal tuned “chopper”.  Back then the two up seat was referred to the King and Queen seat and the bar holding the misses from falling off the back and skidding down the black top was the sissy bar.  None of these terms that have been forever burned into my mental imagery do any favors for the two MAN configuration I mentioned above.  To combat the obviously homosexual nature of this form of transportation, men seem to do everything they can to distance themselves from the man at the controls.  The difficulty seems to be how one keeps himself from falling off the damned thing without snuggling up and wrapping your manly arms around the driver’s midsection.  I have seen this done in a number of manners, some dangerous and some . . . well, some just down right uncomfortable.  Many scoots are equipped with tie down bars that one could use to tie a small parcel to the back of the scooter or in this case for holding yourself from pitching into certain death on a bend by holding onto them tightly behind your back.  It is a balancing act, but does provide the requisite space between genties and cheeks.  The most disturbing attempt at not hugging the man in front of you still has me scratching my head a bit.  The man on back seemed to believe it was preferable to simply smother his face between the shoulder blades of the driver there by keeping his ass well back into the second seat and in turn placing his hands on the back of the gas tank.  Now, if you are trying to maintain even the slightest masculinity about you when “riding bitch” as it were, I don’t think placing your hands in such proximity to another man’s genitals is going to do the trick.  One abrupt stop and you will be cupping the front man’s testicles in an unfortunate jail house scenario from which I don’t think any straight man can recover.  I think it far better to just swallow your pride and give the man a tight hug and hope to god the full face helmet you are wearing protects your identity.  I am not being homophobic in the slightest, just making random observations.

The second point for the day comes out of Brown Africa . . . I think.  While it would seem that much of what the French gather from our television programming make us (Americans) look like cross burning hillbillies, the truth is that they seem to be a fair bit more racist than they care to admit.  On more than one occasion I have heard the differentiation made between “Brown Africa” and “Black Africa”.  Essentially the North and the South for the uninitiated.  This, in and of itself, is of little interest to me as I am not racist in the slightest, but it bears witness to the strange things you learn along the way and leads to a more meaningful discussion on the importation of produce.  The real question is, where do your bananas come from?  You see, we are now far enough into our adventure here that any element of “culture shock” has worn away.  It is the little observations during the day that continue to fascinate and remind us that we are far from what we call “home”.  To be honest, bananas and their origin never really crossed my mind in my former life.  If asked, I would have told you that bananas come from the grocery store.  That is perhaps an over simplification as they are clearly not a native crop in the US, but knowing that they are imported from Central and South America was a long way out of my daily “need to know” list.  Bananas are different here than they are back home . . . shocker I know, but I find this very interesting.  Peeling one of these beauties is like wrestling an alligator and I would say around 90 percent of the time I half to throw 25 percent of the banana away as my 3 year old refuses to eat the part that I have mangled in an attempt to free the fruit from its peel.  At first I thought old age was catching up to me and felt certain I would wake one morning with James Coburn’s paws.  Fortunately, I am still the only member of the family capable of freeing the lid from a mason jar, so it must be something else, Right?  The peel seems as thick as boot leather and won’t go down without a fight.  I would gauge them to be roughly twice as thick as those I would encounter in the states and the difference warranted some further investigation.  Fortunately I didn’t have to look far.  The last batch purchased was adorned with a label that read “Ghana”.  Still not sure why I found the fact that the banana came from West Africa so fascinating.  Another “duh” moment for old Jack.  Clearly bananas aren’t indigenous to France either and the importation from Central America makes no sense at all when you can get perfectly acceptable bananas from right next door.  I preach to my children daily that this experience has done nothing but shrink the world for them and shape their perspective on where they fit in, but maybe it was I who needed the lesson.  I will clearly be the last to shed my “American” way of thinking.

From sexism to racism, I suppose I have covered the gambit so far.  Between gender bending scooter rides and “Mississippi Burning” bananas I seem to have lost my mind.  Let’s go out on a high note for you Seinfeld fans and bring things back down to earth.  As a parent, you have an intense desire to never see your children grow up.  We instinctively cling to their youth and in the deepest and darkest part of our hearts always see them as what they were around the age of two.  Time with them is so fleeting that it seems a bitter shame to let it pass without a fight.  This sentiment alone fuels an entire industry.  The home video camera makes its sales numbers exclusively from those of us that have the misguided belief that someday we will play back through them all to “remember when”.  It is also the reason I have terabytes of memory committed to the storage of digital stills never to be printed or catalogued.  For my part, it is just as well as I have never been that sentimental and failed to create a “baby book” for either of my children.  These antiquated home movies and unprinted pics are what we will have to look back upon many years from now . . . that is of course if I can find the technology to play them.  Anyone still have an 8 track they can successfully play in their car?  This is a very protracted way of saying that in reality, the best mode of storage for these moments is in our memories.  Sure you won’t remember the way you little one looked at the second pitch of the second inning of the second season of their baseball career, but you will remember the really important stuff.  There is a daily ritual in my life that will be one of those memories and to be honest neither video nor still camera either one would ever do it justice.  Mom drops off and I pick up.  That is the way we handle school transport these days.  One is certainly more stressful than the other and I certainly get the better of the two.  My youngest has taken to the idea of seeing life on foot.  To that end, as I turn into the long gravel drive a small voice from the back seat asks the same question every afternoon.  “When we get a little closer, can I get out?”  Of course his request is granted and at approximately the same place every day I stop the car and he gets out.  The race is on.  Can he manage a shortcut on foot before I can bring the 206 to a rest in the drive next to the house?  Try as I might, he always seems to win.  Go figure.  On occasion his elder brother has a go as well and it is a three man race.  I will never forget the view out of the side window of my French subcompact as my two little boys (I know one is 9, but he is still little to me) huck across the lawn as fast as their little legs will carry them.  I know at age 83 (if I make it that far) I will close my eyes and see it as vividly as I do today.  Now that is the “good stuff” . . . better than any 8x10 could ever be.

That about wraps up my thoughts for the day and despite wanting an early bedtime, this finds me a little further into the wee hours of the morning than I would like.  Speak to you all again soon.

Oh, and there is a prize for anyone who can tell my how many phrases I put in parentheses or quotation marks.  Don’t count them, just give a guess.  Kind of like counting gumballs in a dish for a raffle prize.  Have fun.  R.