Hooker on Phonics: Chasing the Great White Whale on Moving Day

I went out on my hooker with a hooker and a hooker and came back without a hooker to spare.  The rather unfortunate consequence of relying on spell check is that occasionally it gets it wrong . . . or VERY right as the case may be.  Typing the title of this post rather quickly meant that the auto-complete spelling mechanism had mere nanoseconds to sort out what it is that I meant to say and this is what it came up with.  Perhaps it knows me too well.  Could it be that it intuitively chose hooker based upon my habitual use of profanity and poor judgment?  Before I became insulted that my laptop thought so little of my moral fiber, I thought I would do a little research.  As it turns out, “hooker” has a lovely array of meanings that seem to be overshadowed a bit by its more commonly used reference to the oldest profession.   A hooker can be:  A small Irish fishing vessel, the central forward in a Rugby scrum, and even a glass of undiluted whiskey.  And yes, it can even be a prostitute.  By now you are probably scratching your head and questioning why it is that you waste your time reading this crap, but you may also be curious what any of this has to do with my daily routine.  The truth is, it doesn’t.   I really feel as though I should have begun today’s comments with a pre-emptive apology.  If I am to be honest, I am not really loving life right now and am hoping these Dyslexic and potentially Schitzophrenic comments will put me back on my tea.

Having spent a fair portion of this week being affronted by a veritable menagerie of fairly rude and self-centered pedestrians on life’s main thoroughfare, I am ready to be back home where the sense of entitlement seems less apparent to me now.  Sort of a “distance makes the heart grow fonder” type thing, I think.  For in the bright light of day, nobody can deny that there are assholes where I come from too.  Still, these are my brand of assholes and I have spent a lifetime becoming depressingly used to their brand of ignorance and am seldom surprised by it anymore.  Move somewhere new, however, and this new brand of irritation can really get under your skin.  Perhaps it is that over the week that this post has been in the making I have gone from quite able bodied to essentially bedridden to the point I am beginning to become concerned that a surgery is in my near future, but we will get to all of that at a later date.  For now, let’s focus on something to get me re-energized about my life abroad.  How about some little known facts to start with?  For instance, did you know that Herman Melville’s Moby Dick contains 209,117 words whereby, in comparison, this blog just ticked over the 208,000 word count?  War and Peace, here we come!  Just so you know, we aren’t quite half way there.  War and Peace contains a whopping 544,406 words.  Anyhow, the realization that I am soon to eclipse the story of the Great White Whale, if only in word count, proved to be inspirational.  I am now several thousand words into my first work of pure fiction and find the process quite rewarding.  Unlike the contents of the blog, this work will likely never see the light of day, but the extra work keeps me out of trouble.  The best part is that now when I sit down now to write, particularly when working on this other project, I am reminded of Chevy Chase in Funny Farm.  The following piece of script is certainly on my horizon:

Andy: Okay. I’m ready. What’d you think?
Elizabeth: [hides her face in her hands, begins to sob.]
Andy: I guess that means you don’t like it.
Elizabeth: [Nodding, sobbing.]
Andy: You think it’s lousy?
Elizabeth: [More nodding, more sobbing.]
Andy: The whole thing?
Elizabeth: It’s all those flashbacks. You never know when anything’s taking place. In the first 20 pages alone, I counted three flashbacks, one flash-forward, and I think on page 8, you have a flash-sideways.
Andy: What about the story?
Elizabeth: The story?
Andy: Yeah, four poker buddies knocking over a casino? The perfect crime?
Elizabeth: [sobbing]
Andy: What are you saying I should do? Take out the flashbacks, rewrite the opening? I can do that.
Elizabeth: [Shaking head.]
Andy: Then what?
Elizabeth: Burn it.
Andy: You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You don’t know a damn thing about writing. You’re a goddamn school teacher, you’re not an editor.
Elizabeth: [still crying] It’s obvious. I read the whole thing. An editor would have stopped reading after the first paragraph.
Andy: Okay, you want me to burn it? That’s what you want, me to burn it? There. I hope you’re happy, Mrs. Critic. It’s burning now, okay? It’s burning! Shit!

Maybe I should just start writing about squirrels and save myself the hassle.  Either way, with this renewed focus on all things literary, I am reminded of two great milestones with the French language that I have somehow failed to report.  The first is that I am proud to report that I have read my first book written entirely in French.  It was a thinker for sure, a real “who done it”, or at least I think it was.  The book title was Franklin et ses amis:  Basile c’est trop timide.  If you get a chance to pick up this page turner at the bookstore, I would highly recommend doing so.  It was perhaps a bit above my reading level, even in English, but I managed and I think you will enjoy the twists and turns in the story line.  As if this weren’t accomplishment enough, I recently added a second trophy to my case.  During our recent ski trip we were invited to join in a game of French Scrabble with our flat mates.  My eldest son and I won the day against some pretty stiff competition, all of which spoke more French and one of which was actually a French citizen.  Not too shabby for a couple of good ole boys from Eastern Kansas.

Finally, and on a somewhat unrelated note, I discovered that perhaps such a good ole boy has much more in common with the French than one might presume.  Living a semi-remote lifestyle at the edge of what used to be the old west means that certain social norms stain the fabric of your being.  Where I am from, you can rely on those that are harvesting on similar soil . . . sort of a fraternity of settlers if you will.  When someone needs a hand you give of your time freely, knowing they would do the same if the shoe was on the other foot.  And this, for me, remains the cornerstone of friendship.  Any such person with such a like mind are closer to calling themselves my friend than someone I have known for years who will not reliably answer my call.  While the concept of friendship is a bit more complicated for the French and becoming a friend a much more gradual process, the social order of things means that when asked to assist, you are obliged to do so.  Think of it as an invitation to dinner.  Unless you have a damn good reason not to attend, it is an insult to turn down the invitation.  It is here, where our minds seem to meet.  Now, let’s be clear, helping someone move for me is a bit like running someone to the airport.  This sort of imposition is reserved for family and those who are your closest of friends.

That being said, I recently found myself a member of a moving crew in which I was clearly the “odd man out”.  By way of my wife’s acquaintance I was asked to help a woman move from her marital home to the apartment she will reside in once her divorce is finalized.  The cast was composed entirely of this woman’s co-workers and  . . . me.  While the goal was common, our reasons for being there were quite different.  They were asked for help by a co-worker and as such were obliged to help just as she would have helped them in the event the roles were reversed.  And this would certainly hold true for my wife by proxy since this woman has gone above and beyond the call of duty to help our family whenever we were in need.  Perhaps her work relationship with my wife meant she was obliged to do so, or perhaps it is something beyond that . . . the beginning of a friendship.  Either way, I had a familial debt to pay, but this really wasn’t the reason I agreed to attend while my wife stayed at home with the kids.  I agreed to help, not because we owe her so much or that my wife is obliged to do so because of their work relationship or even that we could now call each other friends.  No, I would be there without question because I know what it is to not have anyone there to help pick up the pieces when the puzzle has fallen apart.  To live life anew with little support other than the kindness of strangers.  We are plowing the same dirt she and I, and for this reason alone I was pleased to assist in any way I could.

The move progressed like all moves do with one notable exceptions that I think worth mentioning.  Though my French friends argue that this is not common, it is not the first time I have encountered this.  When one purchases a home here, it would appear that a kitchen isn’t always included as is often the case with lighting fixtures.  This is a relatively foreign concept to me, but when we were loading up, one of the tasks on the list was to remove all the kitchenware, right down to the cabinets.  That’s right, when we left this woman’s former residence, there were only bare walls and a few dust bunnies left behind.  The lighting fixtures were removed (by yours truly) as was the stove, fridge, oven and ALL of the kitchen cabinetry.  Perhaps I have mentioned this in prior posts, but a great deal of the construction process takes place at a brick and mortar store front.  You purchase your kitchen from a kitchen store and have it installed after the home is purchased.  The puzzling part for me is that when one moves, there isn’t a guarantee that your new kitchen will be organized in the same manner and yet you still take the cabinets with you.  This little piece of heaven makes moving day that much more difficult when in addition to the usual boxes, you have to allow for room on the truck for the ENTIRE Kitchen.  At this point, I am sort of surprised that the carpet and tile floors aren’t uprooted as well.  Oh well C’est la vie!  That is all that seems fit to report.  Until next time,  R.