Dangerously Healthy: Ode to John Wayne and the Return of Typhoid Mary

Though we are quite pleased to have Mrs. Butler back home, this does come at a certain price. For those that have a member of their household who engages in a fair amount of travel for work or pleasure, you will be able to attest to that which I am about to describe. In addition to the mountain of laundry that magically appears in every corner of the house, there is an invisible accumulation that seems a more poignant reminder of their return from distant lands. With them they bring dirty socks, trinkets for the kids, and a veritable party platter of communicable disease. I am usually the lucky recipient of the latter and traditionally the first to receive my gift. It is given the moment the wife arrives and we partake in that inevitable “welcome home” kiss. For the next two weeks I get to enjoy waves of fever induced disorientation, sheet soaking cold sweats, throat constricting glandular inflammation and (if I am really lucky) profuse and gleefully projectile vomiting.

Unfortunately, it would appear that this visit has bestowed upon me my least favorite of these invisible treasures . . . an explosive bout of fecal incontinence that has left my colon down for the proverbial eight count. I find there is nothing so glorious in life as the pride swallowing sprint one makes, with their pants around their ankles, toward the nearest bathroom when this variety of nature comes to call. It is actually quite emotionally cleansing. No matter what your other troubles in life, at that moment there is only one profound thought racing through your brain . . . “Please God, let me make it to the bathroom on time”. The alternative is a horrible trip and fall from your ankle constricting trousers that, upon impact, will cause you to shit yourself senseless and leave you in a messy heap in the hallway. Your home will then become a biohazard and men in white suits will be called to deal with your toxic spill. Walls, floors and ceilings will inevitably need to be cleaned, disinfected and ultimately repainted if not torn down entirely. All of this, of course, will cause an irreversible mental break down that will have you rocking in the fetal position in the corner of a padded cell swimming in a sea of your own tears with a snot bubble forming in your nose while you utter repeatedly fragmented phrases like: “Trip . . . fall . . . boom . . . brown” or “broken dam . . need help”.

This is something I am desperately trying to avoid, so I never stray too far from the toilet. Despite the urgency of this situation, the urgency of continuing with my training that will allow me to walk across Northern Spain in a couple of months has me venturing out against my better judgment. Channeling a little Full Metal Jacket, the conversation with my colon went something like this:

Colon: Well I got a joke for you. I'm gonna tear you a new asshole.
Me: [doing John Wayne impression] Well, pilgrim, only after you eat the peanuts out of my shit!
Colon: You talk the talk. Do you walk the walk?

And just like that, I was off to walk the walk (20 kilometers worth, to be exact). I discovered two amazing truths while out on this hike. First, it is absolutely amazing how quickly one can hike over uneven terrain when they REALLY have to shit. The urgency with which one moves along is nothing short of astounding. Something about puckering really drives the legs forward and before you know it you are shuffling along at break neck speed despite the formidable amount of weight you may be carrying on your back. The second discovery is that endorphins are NOT your friends. Top-shelf athletes like marathoners, triathletes, and really any extremely fit long distance athlete often recite the endorphin rush as the reason they become so hopelessly addicted to these activities. They tout it as this wonderfully healthy natural high. Let me be perfectly clear here, they are deluding themselves. You see, endorphins are your body’s way of protecting your feeble mind. The moment that they kick in, nearly all is already lost. Suddenly you are awash with a heightened sense of wellbeing, and whatever nagging pain that was there begging you to stop your current activity suddenly disappears. Oh, it’s still there, your brain just won’t let you observe it. I like to think of it as the “fresh underpants” theory on impending death. It is sort of like your mother’s wish that, should you become the victim in a violent car accident, when they cut you out of your clothes they will find a sparkling fresh pair of underpants underneath. Your body wants you to die with certain amount dignity. If you were to know just how close you were to death, you would go out in a blaze of soiled under garments and wild flailing movements that nobody wants to see before the finish line. This feeling of euphoria is brought on by the EXACT same force that makes you suddenly feel all warm and toasty when you are about to die from exposure and hypothermia. The moment you start feeling this way . . . YOU ARE ABOUT TO DIE!

The more I hike ridiculous distances, the closer I come to this dreamlike state. The unrelenting pain in my feet begins to ease and on this particular day even my bowels had forgotten their prior engagement. Fortunately, as a barometer for impending doom, the need to relieve yourself is just as adept as a canary in a mine shaft. As I began to slow my pace, pondering my almost certain demise, the cramping returned and fueled the remainder of my hike with a quickened step and affirmation that this day would not be my last here on earth. When I broke the threshold of our comely home, I began shedding myself of my hiking paraphilia like you see lustful ladies do on late night television. Behind me lay a wake of hiking poles, a backpack which burst open spilling its contents, hiking shoes cast aside without the slightest care, all the way down to my last shred of clothing. I was able to take a reflective seat just in time for my Colon to win the war if not this particular battle.

That is all I really see fit to report at this time. If you haven’t been thoroughly disgusted by this point, perhaps you will return again tomorrow for another harrowing adventure in the life of ole Jack Butler. I wish you many happy trails and will see you all again soon, provided of course Typhoid Mary doesn’t see fit to grace us once more with a trip to the far reaches of the globe.

P.S.: Profuse and heartfelt apologies to the wife for I know how she dislikes posts about grotesque bodily functions. What can I say though . . . get your own blog. R.

Lice . . . er . . . Slice of the 19th Century

I bought a 200 year old hat today, though I would wager that upon hearing this news my French acquaintances would congratulate me on the purchase of a “NEW” hat. What remains utterly astonishing to me is how common place this sort of thing is. Even more astonishing is that I have come to expect it. For nothing more than the change that I can shake from beneath my sofa cushions I can purchase many an artifact that predates my country of origin. It sort of staggers the mind doesn’t it? And this, perhaps more than anything we have come to know and love about France, is what I am going to miss the most. She is an old gal, France . . . with the age and wisdom to know the value of history. Every line on her wrinkled brow tells a story. A story that dates as far back as pre-history, and for this she is proud. The past is to be revered, appreciated, cherished and preserved. Items don’t go out of fashion here like a pair of skinny jeans or a tattered flannel shirt. History is timeless. It has always been and will always be. I sit and I stare at this “NEW” hat of mine and I wonder where it’s been and the lives that have been carried out beneath the shade of its brim, the thoughts that have filled the head that it sheltered, or the way that it looked in the shop keeper’s window. For this reason and this reason alone, it is perhaps one of the greatest things I have ever purchased.

It is not because it has great historical significance or that it will garner a fetching price at an antiquities auction. On the contrary, it is really the most commonplace of items, yet somehow its ability to conger dreams of the past makes it priceless to someone like me. So, really, all that’s left is to try it on. Upon doing so, I realized that it must have belonged to a leprechaun. Feeling certain that I am as cranially challenged (pinheaded) as any adult male can be, I began looking for suitable hosts. Amazingly, it fit both of my children like a glove. Huh? Could a “haute de forme” (tophat) really have been the rage with the toddler set of the 1800s? I remember a lot of black and white photos from my University level world history courses, however I don’t recall seeing mobs of tophated children running wild in the streets. Of course, I didn’t purchase this item as a jaunty addition to my daily wardrobe and some of you may feel a bit queasy at the idea of me placing this item on my head to begin with. We Americans are a squeamish bunch when it comes to history. It seems to be something we were all taught on that first grade school field trip to the art museum. “Look . . . DON’T Touch”. To this day I keep my hands firmly in my pockets whenever I encounter anything that might be of even remote historical significance and whisper terse warnings to my children to do the same if they know what is good for them. So, as you can imagine, I was quite taken aback as we began discovering the historical beauty of France only to find the native patrons quite willing to place their grimy hands all over damned near ANYTHING.

The French touch their history and it touches them. I have seen folks run their hands all over the surface of paintings at the Louvre, pick up a variety of antiquated items found in historical museums just to give them a ponder, and I am fairly certain I witnessed a child give a stalagmite a passing lick in a pre-historic cave a month or so back (I admit, it did kind of look like a bomb-pop). So why are we so sensitive and the French so free to explore? It certainly can’t have anything to do with the relative age of these artifacts. Or maybe that is exactly the point. From the French perspective, my hat IS new. That which we find ancient and therefore sacred beyond touch in America is so common, so mundane and so very plentiful here in France, why not touch it? The very walls that surround me as we speak date back as far as the 1600’s. The Castle next door, the grounds of which I live upon, goes back as far as the 1400’s. You don’t need all of your fingers and toes to come to terms with the fact that this predates my hat by 4 centuries.

So, how has it all survived? That is really the important question here isn’t it? How with so many people man handling this stuff has it not all fallen into ruin to be lost in a grainy history book photo or preserved behind a plate glass window in some museum. How have all these examples of glorious history been so preserved over the years that a sap like me can buy a 200 year old . . . er . . . new hat at a local yard sale? The American equivalent of this item would certainly find its way into a museum curator’s hand for safe keeping rather than in my kitchen for me to molest with my dirty little digits. From a purely architectural standpoint, that is exactly it . . . preservation. The French care for their buildings, lovingly coaxing them through the years, the decades, the centuries and the millennia to come. Americans are an “out with the old and in with the new” brand of folks. If a structure starts showing some age, why not bulldoze that fucker to the ground and throw up something new with a shelf life of about 10 years. When those 10 years have passed we will bulldoze again and so on. This is our choice though, isn’t it. We prefer the new to the old and prefer to look toward the future than gaze upon the past. That is simply a difference in philosophies. The more interesting examination is that which relates to the items like my hat.

There was a time when Americans were craftsmen and artisans. I would argue that at our peak, no one has ever done it better. Yet, somehow, this method of manufacturing fell out of favor. Our impatient need to advance is careless. Employing the use of machines where practiced hands once stood means that we are not continuing to make items that will last for centuries. For this reason, our historical artifacts are finite and housed safely and securely out of our wandering touch. The French on the other “hand” have been “manufacturing” their history since the dawn of time and continue to do so to this day. This very day, if I so chose, I could make my way into town to find a hat maker that could produce the very same hat as the oldish-newish hat I just purchased and it would last just as long as the one already in my possession. In the US, we are obsessed with disposables. We LIKE to throw shit away, so we don’t mind that a machine threw it together and that on occasion things get out of alignment and seams aren’t quite as strong as they should be. If the sleeve of a shirt begins to separate we will simply throw it into one of our vast and varying landfills and be on our merry way to the Mall to purchase a replacement. This sort of quality is inevitable where machines are concerned. Factory bots are not intuitive, they don’t improvise. They do the same thing over and over with surgical precision which means if there is even a single variable out of whack, the product is trash. A machine doesn’t feel fabric between its aging fingers, examine it with knowing eyes or regard an imperfection as something that can be fixed or overcome through improvisation. The craftsman’s seam will never split or fray. He has taken the time to ensure his stitch is perfect and not in the cold mechanical way a machine would do so, but in a way that ensures the item won’t land in a trash heap at the end of the day. 

The French don’t have room in their trash heaps nor room in their hearts for the un-artful musings of a cold dead machine. They quite prefer their people to their machines and their past to their future. And though this all may sound like a hearty endorsement of the “French Way”, nothing could be further from the truth. I am simply advocating, as an American, that there is something to gain in preserving our past and many of its ways while moving toward our future. The truth of the matter is that both the French and the Americans can’t see the forest for the leaves on the trees. The American’s are wrapped up in the future and pay no regard for the past, while the French remain so tied to their past that they lack a certain vision for their future. I truly believe we could each learn a great deal from each other if we were just willing to wear the other’s hat. Until that day comes, I am going to sit back, relax, and prop my ill-fitting hat upon my weary head and feel fairly content in the knowledge that in another 200 years when this hat re-appears in someone else’s hands and they dream as I have, they will never have guessed it was worn by a guy like me. R.

My raison d'être ate my joie de vivre and the dog ate my homework . . . STUPID DOG

Though I have proposed more romantic alternatives in the past, my true raison d'être in the very literal sense of the phrase is somewhat less poetic if not downright unpleasant at times. My “reason for being” would seem to be a trifecta of responsibility that is unlikely to lead a sane man anywhere close to that ever elusive “joie de vivre”. These responsibilities include, in no particular order of course, maintaining the home in a less than squalid condition so as not to raise the eyebrow of my adoring wife who might then wonder what exactly it is that I do all day; tending to our hatchlings in a manner that ensures they neither get too skinny nor too fat; and of course all the while preserving just a modicum of my girlish figure in order not to embarrass my wife with my doughy appearance should my presence be required at some swanky corporate shindig. Each day, as I check these items off of my “to do” list, I wonder where it is I am to find this keen enjoyment of living I have heard so much about. 

Take for example my housekeeping duties. I dare say I have become accustomed to the scintillating freshness of a clean toilet and yet I can’t seem to keep from plunging most of my wife’s toiletries into the water just to see if they float. Perhaps I am becoming oafishly clumsy or maybe I am acting out because of her absence the way an ordinarily well-trained dog will start shitting all over the carpet when their owner returns from a prolonged vacation. Either way, yet again this morning I managed to topple one of her beauty products into the abyss. Fortunately, I had just scoured the bowl to a pristine shine, so I think no harm done. Still, fishing items from the toilet with such frequency is bound to give me dishpan hands. Nope, no joy here.

Then surely my joie de vivre must be found in the kitchen. For those who have been keeping up with this, it is by now a fairly well stated fact that I am not going to give Emeril Lagasse a run for his money any time soon. In the culinary arts, I like to think of myself as a master of what I like to call “Bachelor Cuisine”. If it can be baked on a cooking sheet for a qualified period of time or simply boiled in a pot of water, I am your man. Beyond that, things seem to get a little dicey. This evening for example, I opted for a little “Asian Fusion”. In my case, that is a fusion between stirfry and the inedible. Chinese food has actually become one of my specialties. With a little help from my good friends Ben and Suzy, I can usually come up with something that is nearly palatable. The kids have come to know Ben so well over the course of the past two years that they refer to him as “Uncle”. We haven’t known Ms. Wan for quite as long, but between her sauce recipes and Uncle B’s long grain, we seem to scrape by. Prison rations is probably closer to the truth, but what doesn’t kill them will make them stronger . . . RIGHT? Still not sure that Chicken was done enough. Oh well, time heals all wounds, including food poisoning it seems. Huh, how about that . . . no joy here.

Ah, then my joie de vivre MUST be in the Gym. For some this is truly the case and perhaps it once was for me as well. Now, in order to maintain anything short of a gelatinous midsection I must constantly scrutinize that which I ingest and spend precious time, that I don’t have, enduring a joint rattling run to the sound of my thighs squeaking together in a two part harmony while my moobs (man boobs for the uninitiated) bounce wildly against my chin like Bo Derek in “10”. At the end of the day, all I have to show for all the effort are sweaty armpits (against which I don’t have a reasonable product to combat), a notable rash from really chaffed thighs, and a sore jaw from all the abuse my chin has taken before my aching joints finally gave out. Hmmmm . . . still no joy.

It would seem to me then that my raison d'être is actually consuming my joie de vivre, and at a fairly prodigious rate I might add. So what is the answer? The alternative would seem to be a fetid home that I would ultimately have to be cut out of as my obesity ballooned to the point of being the bedridden father of two malnourished children. Is THAT Joy? I sure hope not. In the end, maybe a keen enjoyment of living is the ability sit on a clean toilet without the assistance of others while your children bang on the bathroom door asking “what’s for lunch?” On that note, it’s time to run . . . literally. See you all again soon.

Oh wait, I know what you are thinking . . . what about the STUPID DOG? The truth is, he never did eat anyone’s homework. I mean, how could he? He is far too busy devouring cat turd canapés that he feels compelled to pluck from the litter box, thereby leaving a trail of cat litter across the floor like a trail of bread crumbs for me to clean up. STUPID DOG. I have discovered, however, that this particular cloud has a silver lining. Now, whenever the children stare despondently at their dinner plate and in near unison announce, “Dad, this tastes like shit”, I simply offer a portion to the dog. If he immediately partakes with an indulgent zeal, I know they must be right and offer them a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead. Thanks for watching. R.

Excuse me Mr. Mouse . . . Have you seen my hairbrush lately?

I must begin today with a bit of a confession. Just this morning, in a whole Jerry Lewis telethon worth of sight gags, trick falls and a variety of other fairly exaggerated flailing maneuvers, I managed to clear nearly all of the products lining our bathroom shelves from their original resting place. The most notable of which happened to be my wife’s favorite “at home” hairbrush which found its way into the gape mouthed clutch of our toilet. A toilet, mind you, that was in fresh repose from my usual morning assault on the three S’s. Fortunately, we are talking post flush, but enlivened nonetheless. In the event you are the type that needs things spelled out for you, the last two S’s stand for Shower and Shave. Now, I have to say that this turn of events put a harsh on my usually convivial bathroom experience. So that some of you don’t have to look it up, “convivial” (according to my word of the day toilet paper that hit the water just moments before my wife’s hairbrush) means “merry or festive” in this context. Really kind of glad I could work it in here. Anyhow, given the fact that I am a bit follicly challenged I am somewhat worried that I am underestimating the importance of this morning’s events. She has had this particular hairbrush for as long as I can remember and at first blush I figured I was doing her a favor by providing her a good reason to purchase a replacement. But then, why does one hang onto a hairbrush for so long? I have always found it strange that she leaves it at home when she travels, and then it dawned on me that one only acts in such a frugal manner when a more suitable replacement simply CANNOT be obtained. If a better, and newer, brush that worked as well could be purchases it surely would have been by now, and the possible abandonment during business travel would not be something to guard against. Therefore, I deduce with my Holmsian logic that I may have screwed up in a major way here.

So, here is what I am going to do. I am thowing out an APB to those of you in the U.S. I am calling all cars here baby! I need to locate and purchase a, what appears to be a fairly non-descript, black ventbrush that has a wideish head and a tapered rubber handle. I would like this item to be at least relatively clear of fecal chloroform or, really, what is the point in replacing it? I suppose my other option would have been to try and cover up this whole incident, but I can’t live a life where every time my spouse goes to brush her hair I have to leave the room in shame. This whole incident has really colored my attitude on the day a rather ugly shade of . . . *ahem* . . . brown. My spirits have only been slightly bolstered by the recent traffic to this little project. Having thoroughly pimped myself out to the public at large, my little site is starting to get hit on more than a high school prom queen. I suppose that this is a good thing and that I should be celebrating the additional attention, but all I seem to feel is a fair amount of pressure to be something more than my usual mediocre. All this pressure is starting to fragment the thoughts in my head and I am now having trouble weaving the thread that usually makes this whole thing worth reading. If I have a literary talent, it is my ability to tie two unrelated life events into some coherent story line. Right now, I am staring at a blank page and to be honest, I got nothin.

Rright now, it would seem the entirety of my brain is focused not on this project but on the little fella next door who is at present 3 episodes deep into a Mickey Mouse Clubhouse marathon. All I can here is occasional giggling and a stray “well whata ya know”, but it seems just enough to drive me to distraction. Don’t get me wrong, I feel that there is at least a little educational value here, especially where mathematics are concerned since my youngest knows his numbers and the like much better in French than in English. That being said, after plodding through an episode or two, I am beginning to wonder about the sanity of it all. Now, Mickey Mouse and his pals have been comic fodder for years and I certainly don’t want to portray myself as just some hack that stole somebody else’s material, but I do have a few fresh observations to make, so I hope you will forgive me for treading into well-trodden territory. First off, who are we talking about here? Two mice, two ducks and what I believe are two dogs, though the jury is still out as to what brand of creature “Goofy” might actually be. If in fact he is a dog like “Pluto”, then what is with the bipedalism and hillbilly accent? Moreover, why is it that Mickey, Minnie and Goofy all wear white gloves? It makes me feel like they are up to something they shouldn’t be. Donald and Daisy don’t wear white gloves, but then again they don’t wear pants either. Mickey has a lovely pair of red trousers but runs around bare chested even in the harshest weather. Something just doesn’t add up. Goofy, the simpleton of the group, for all his eccentricities seems to be the only one that can properly dress himself in the morning. Everyone seems to wear shoes except for Donald, but footwear is really the least of his problems given his notable speech impediment. Why the hell does he sound like that anyway? Daisy doesn’t sound like that. Maybe it is a result of not wearing any shoes and dressing like one of the Village People.

Perhaps the most confusing bit is that Mickey owns Pluto. Doesn’t that fly in the face of the traditional food chain? I mean really, what kind of lack of self-respect can Pluto have to subjugate himself to a freaking mouse? I don’t care how freakishly large the mouse might be, Pluto clearly has the upper hand. I guess it’s not all that different from the throngs of hapless retards out there that think it is a good idea to own a pitbull, then wonder why their kids got mauled. Mikey’s time is coming, believe me. One of these days he is going to push Pluto too far and then WHAM . . . Lights out Mick. It is simply the law of probability, every dog has one bite. More disturbing still are the plot twists that this merry band of misfits find themselves in nearly every episode. They have a bag full of tools which they use along the way to solve problems in route to their ultimate goal (whatever that happens to be). The tools are never right for the job in my opinion. For instance, on the episode I watched, Goofy’s surfboard broke and the Mouse-ka-Tool they used to remedy the issue was a REALLY big roll of tape. Never mind the improbability of a dog with Goofy’s lanky frame being able to actually “Hang 10”, though I have seen videos of dogs surfing, skiing and skateboarding. Seems maybe dogs are suited to board sports. Anyway, presuming that Goofy has mad surfing skills, there is absolutely no way that the tape is going to hold together under his weight. So, now I have to worry about my youngest going through life taping shit back together in hopes that what worked for Goofy will work for him. I am starting to understand why Goofy talks and acts like a simpleton. He fell off of taped conveyances one too many times and shook a screw loose or something. I don’t want the same fate for my youngest, so I have hidden our tape. What’s worse is that I might have even bought the whole thing if they had used duct tape, but it looked to me like a big ole roll of Scotch. “No way that’s holding together” I thought to myself and said a soft prayer for Goofy’s quick recovery from the intensive care unit.

I know what you’re thinking . . . kid’s don’t notice stuff like that, right? They don’t notice that these characters wear the same clothes everyday and never bathe. They don’t notice that at least two of the characters never wear pants in public. They don’t even notice that Scotch tape is used to fix everything. Then explain this to me . . . why is it in the past week I have witness a smelly man waiting at the same bus stop in the same clothes three days running (not homeless), a woman who was walking down the sidewalk with her toddler who was wearing nothing but a t-shirt (naked as the day they were born from the waist down) and a car whose rear bumper was being held on with nothing more than a liberal application of tape? Oh they notice alright, and then they grow up and burden the rest of us with this insanity day in and day out. Well it ends today my friends. Who’s with me? Anyone . . . ANYONE? No? Fine, I’ll go it alone, but you all will rue the day . . . you’ll rue it I tell you! R.

Death by Caterpillar and the Extravagantly Wealthy Toothpaste Artist

Now, I must admit that my appreciation and therefore understanding of the furry variety of caterpillar begins and ends with a childhood recollection that these little guys have the reputation in the insect world as fairly adept meteorologists. Their Nostradamian predictions of future weather patterns are that of folklore and I have always been skeptical of this claim. “Wooly Worms”, as I have always known them, are said to indicate the severity of an oncoming Winter with their fashion come Fall. If they are as hairy as my Uncle Jeb, then the winter will be particularly harsh. If on the other hand, they have but a five o’clock shadow, Winter will be a conga line of pool parties and back yard barbeques. Perhaps this is an exaggeration since I don’t actually have an Uncle Jeb, but I think you get the point. I seriously doubt the veracity of their claims each year and have always presumed them to be in some duplicitous conspiracy with Punxsutawney Phil, the other great liar of the animal kingdom. So, imagine my dismay when I ran across one of these little barometers making his way in a rather leisurely fashion across my driveway. If their appearance in the Fall serves to predict the weather for the coming Winter, what does their appearance in the Spring indicate? More importantly, what am I to look for as an indicator of their prediction? Sunglasses? A Brazilian bikini wax? I was sorely tempted to pick him (or her . . . how do you determine the sex a caterpillar anyway) up for closer examination, but instead I let him meander upon his merry way.

It wasn’t but a day or so later that an enlightening conversation with my two children required me to do a little research. When I had mentioned the sighting, my eldest laughed and indicated that his French classmates are terrified of them and insist that they could kill you. I immediately required a wet-nap (in looking for the appropriate spelling of this moist towelette, I won’t even tell you what I found . . . a few fairly disturbing definitions in the online Urban Dictionary that are worth a blushing giggle, but are not for the faint of heart) to swab the snot off the front of my shirt from an uncontrollable snorting fit of laughter. “Chenilles” is what they are called here in France and you apparently pronounce that “Sha-neez”. I easily verified in my handy dandy French to English dictionary that “Chenilles” does in fact translate to “Caterpillar”. In a country in which male bravado is measured by the size of your “Murse” (Man Purse), why am I not surprise that they shriek and run in fear from a little Caterpillar. I dismissed the deadly claims and sent the children out to play. Still, something about our conversation stuck with me and warranted a little looksee on the internet. What I found had me throwing open the back door and demanding the children to huddle up for a little discussion about the hazards found in their own back yard. Here is the thing, in a land essentially devoid of venomous snakes and other creepy crawlies that we all know too well, I guess you have to have something to fear in the great outdoors, so why not man eating caterpillars?

So, what is all the hubbub about? They are called Processionary Caterpillars(Chenilles Processionnaires), and as it turns out, these little bastards pack an anaphylactic wallop. Prevalent in the coniferous forests of Southern France and Northern Spain, they coat everything in their swarming path with tiny little quills with a toxin that can cause anything from an inconvenient skin irritation to a full on cessation of the respiratory process when inhaled. And somehow I just knew there was a hidden danger lurking on the Camino de Santiago, I just didn’t imagine that it would arrive in the form of a Killer Wooly Worm. Still, I feel much more confident now that I am armed with the necessary field experience to see me through. I only hope that when I encounter one of these devils in the woods that I am fleet enough to outrun it on foot. Wish me luck.

On an unrelated but equally fascinating front, another astute observation by my eldest son has left me scratching my head a bit. Standing before the mirror in our bathroom, laying a perfectly placed dollop of Aquafresh on this toothbrush he turns to me and asks, “Dad, how much money do toothpaste artists make?”. Not entirely prepared for such and inquiry, I asked “What is a toothpaste artist?”. He said, “You know, the guy that makes the toothpaste look so perfect in the commercials.” Before I had a chance to answer, he followed with “Seems like it would be an easy job, see look . . . “. And at once he turned, wielding his toothbrush like a sword to present his masterfully laid bead of toothpaste with the point curling ever so slightly northward. “Impressive” I responded. What else was I to say, I was indeed truly impressed. Though, upon reflection, he seemed less impressed than I when he heard my response. I told him that while I wasn’t positive, I was fairly certain that this vocation that he sought did not in fact exist even though he was without doubt the most qualified person ever for such a post. I admitted that I suspected that this was likely just one in a long list of duties which fell on the shoulders of the advertising equivalent of a set designer, someone with artistic skills without doubt, but someone whose entire paycheck was NOT subsidized by the toothpaste industry.

It is important to note that I am not in the habit of playing the role of “dream killer” with my children, so I left the door open just a crack by saying that I have been wrong before and there is a chance that there is someone out there who truly makes their living by applying perfectly formed toothpaste sculptures to freshly unpackaged toothbrushes. I went on to add that if such an artist did exist, he would certainly be this mediums Picasso and leave this world a truly wealthy man. With that, I gave him a kiss on his forehead and sent him to bed, his head filled with dreams of becoming the next Bruce Wayne of the toothpaste industry. Defeating foes and saving teeth, one Gotham citizen at a time. I love my children. R.

My Postman NEVER Rings Twice

Don’t worry, nothing even remotely metaphorical is intended in the title of this post. Mr. Cain’s novel of a similar name is of interest only in the sense that there is some speculation that the reference to the postman may have something to do with awaiting the return of a submitted manuscript and the accompanying anxiety born of the recipient’s anticipation. No, I rather mean this literally and I too feel a certain anxiety when it comes to the mail. Receiving the “Poste” as it is referred to here in France is something of a multi-phased process with a lot of phone calls and third party intervention. Again, perhaps I am being a bit hasty in referring to La Poste in this manner. Truthfully, those items forwarded to us from the U.S. via the US Postal service and in turn La Poste here in France seem to find their mark with remarkable accuracy and a fair bit of haste. And my “postman” doesn’t ring at all if he has a special delivery. He simply pulls into my drive way and begins to apply liberal force to his car horn. With cigarette in hand, he never leaves the confines of his little yellow van, so our exchanges are always courteous and brief.

The real challenge lies with those items that require express delivery. Here in France, it would seem that those items lovingly tracked by the good folks at UPS, FedEx and DHL are subcontracted once they land here in France. It would seem that any Joe with a large white van and a little extra time on his hands is eligible for the contract, so once the item is on the ground it nearly instantaneously goes MIA. The process must work, for I have never lost a piece of mail, but I can’t shake the picture I have in my head of a bunch of fellas sitting around the air freight hanger while packages are thrown this way and that in a confusing bidding war with all the frenetic energy of the trading floor at the New York Stock Exchange. I picture lines of white vans and men in varying state of intoxication, throwing potentially breakable items into their vehicles with a cigarette glued to their lower lip. I suppose it must be more organized than this, but who knows. Some questions are better left unanswered.

At this point though, it is important to note that my address here in France is purely fictional. There aren’t any numbers at all except for the equivalent of a zip code which would explain why almost without fail, the delivery driver finds himself in the neighboring town without a clue what to do next. I think my address reads something like “The Big House located at New Castle”. I can’t be for sure since translations aren’t often literal, but I think I am probably close. And as if that isn’t clear enough, the “New Castle” that I presume the address is referring to is actually in a different postal code. Oh, I could spit on the building from my kitchen, but somehow it (and quite logically so) is within the postal district of a town closer than the one we are affiliated with. And so it goes, with every quasi-important piece of mail sent in my general direction.

The natural consequence of all of this, of course, is that at some point I receive a frantic call from the delivery driver wondering where in the hell he is and how to get to my house. Then ensues a rather unfortunate exchange about my linguistic ineptitude and the inevitable enlistment of third parties to help us along. The best case scenario is that the driver’s English is at least on par with my French and we can grunt and stutter our way to a meeting point. This is usually the most identifiable landmark adjacent to the driver’s current location. When I arrive, it is never hard to sort out who the delivery guy is, even in the busiest parking lot. They are usually sitting in the cab of their giant white van with a cigarette in one hand and my tattered and mildly sweaty letter in the other. Ordinarily this makes for nothing more than a comical inconvenience, however, when you are awaiting delivery of a check in an amount equivalent to the majority of your net worth or I suppose to a lesser extent a manuscript of the next great American novel, it has a way of ruffling your feathers a bit.

All is well that ends well I suppose, and since the delivery record is still beyond reproach I guess I will stifle my complaints and move on with life. For now, if you need to send me a mailing, just address it to: Jack Butler at some house in France next to some other house. Include the zip code and my phone number and we should be golden. Take care and happy mailing. R.

For My Wife

Sean Hayes-When We Fall In

Magically Delicious: It’s the thought that counts!

I would like to begin today with an inquiry. Does ANYBODY know what you do with the hair of the dog that didn’t bite you? I feel like shit. I don’t think I am sick or even coming down with something. None of the traditional signs are there. It feels a whole lot like a hangover without the joy of the night before. My head is pounding and remaining upright seems more trouble than it is worth. I don’t know what it is, but I hope it passes soon. Since I am in this miserable and semi-vegitative state, I thought I would keep myself warm under the weight of my failing laptop. Don’t worry though, to prevent the usual singeing of my pubis, I am wearing two pairs of pants.

From a purely administrative standpoint life seems to be on course. We have nearly wrapped up all the paperwork necessary to finish the insurance claim over our equally singed house and I have even managed to catch up on the laundry to the point that the only things left to be laundered are currently on our backs. For anyone who has a traveling spouse, you know how very important this is. When they do eventually return, the cumulative effects of a massive laundry dump can set you back weeks, maybe even months if your equipment is of the French variety.

Things over at WordPress are coming along as well. Jumping ship must not be uncommon in the blogging world, so they have a very nice feature that has allowed me to import the entirety of my Blogger account over to the WordPress portal. There are a few formatting gremlins that I have yet to address, but it is out there and appears to be functioning. I encourage you to take a look and let me know what you think. If someone would be so kind as to post a comment, it would help me tremendously during this “feeling out” period. I don’t necessarily care for the idea of dual posting, so the quicker I can come to a decision, the better off I will be. I will continue to “kick the tires”over at WordPress, so we will continue to refer to it as Jack Version 3.1 Beta for the time being and changes will likely occur with some frequency until I have tweaked it to something I can appreciate. I know I should take you all into account more, but I’m selfish and not open to criticism. For the time being, the Blogger account will remain the more reliable source for my frequent rants, so stick with it until advised otherwise. Now . . . on with the show . . .

“It’s the thought that counts”. This is typically a phrase uttered by those that didn’t give it much thought. It’s a copout, a plea bargain, a way to save face, and we have all said it at some point or another. These days, the wife and I seem to be like ships in the night where holidays are concerned. As we pass, there is a vague awareness that the other is there, but absent a collision, we simply sail right on by. Unfortunately, this will likely be the way of things for a while. With a fairly robust travel schedule ahead, we will find ourselves apart more than together in coming months and I must admit I am not relishing that thought. She is my partner, my homegirl, my best friend, my lover, my confidant and of course my reality check. Without her around it is damned hard to keep wind in my sails and steering this mother fucker is a real bitch without a co-pilot. It is important to note that we are rapidly approaching our 12th Anniversary and perhaps there is hope that we will get this one right.

Mother’s Day and Father’s Day were a wash. Both of us were out of the country on each other’s day, so our recognition of each other on these days was somewhat lacking. Well, lacking from her end and non-existent on mine. I wasn’t even thoughtful enough to give her a card. She showed me up a bit . . . SORT OF. The boys are a bit young yet for independent recognition of these two holidays since they aren’t on the school calendar, so they usually need a liberal dose of help from Mom and Dad as well as their teachers to get it right. We received the usual craft made objects that make you go AAAAWWE, but we like to throw in a little extra when we can. A small gift and a card usually do the trick. Though I completely failed in my duties, except for a bag of peanut butter M&Ms that I brought her from my travels (which I promptly ate), she did manage to get me a couple of cards and put the children in charged of dispensing them in her absence. They of course needed a reminder that they had them, so the presentation lacked a certain fanfare.

I say that she “SORT OF” showed me up, because upon receipt, it was apparent that what I had gotten were not Father’s Day wishes but a blank postcard with some dogs on the front wishing me a “Hello from the Gang” (This was from the wife), and a belated birthday card from the lads. Now, either my command of the French language is far superior to those who share a roof with me or someone was REALLY pressed for time. I imagine if I were to locate the receipt, there would be more important items on the list and these cards were an “OH SHIT” realization at the last moment. I say this all with a great deal of tongue in cheek of course. Who am I to complain, the wife didn’t even get a card, just and empty M&M package and some well wishing. Yeah, that’s right, I am a real Casanova. No wonder she paused for so long when I asked her to marry me. She did say “Yes” didn’t she? Maybe she was just being polite. At anyrate, I am going to do everything I can to make it up to her on our Anniversary. I might even SHARE the M&Ms this time! Like I said . . . Casanova.

While talking about sweets and as a parting thought, I began pouring through another book I purchased while in the States. I have consumed nearly all of them in short order, but have saved this particular one for last as it can be read in segments without losing the story line. Hopefully I will be able to string it out till I can get my hands on some other volumes in English sometime around Christmas. It is essentially a series of essays written by Bill Bryson entitled I’m a Stranger Here Myself. I may have mentioned it before since I got a sneak peak at a sample on the wife’s Kindle. Essays might not be the appropriate word. They are actually a series of newspaper articles he wrote for and English (UK) periodical after he had returned home to the United States after nearly 20 years abroad. He is married to an English gal and spent essentially all of his adult life in the UK, so his brilliantly funny take on what it is to “Repatriate” oneself is nothing short of genius and very near and dear to my heart given our current circumstance. Between moments of nearly urinating on my bed in fits of laughter, I realized a certain similarity in our writing. Of course, I don’t hold a candle to him in literary ability, but I keep running into experiences lived in reverse. Most notably, on the heels of my recent “Sausalito” post, I read a segment of his book that, honest to God, described the Cereal isle in and American grocery store. Keep in mind that I had NOT read this prior to penning my post. I am including an excerpt from his work below. I hope you read it with as much enjoyment as I did.

In closing, I want to point out that what they say is true . . . absence DOES make the heart grow fonder, and after two weeks without my spouse, I feel nearly starved for her presence. Perhaps that is why I feel so shitty. That being said, I wanted to tell her how much I love her and that I look forward to having her back where she belongs. While writing and painting are my true passions, music is perhaps my “raison d’etre” (spelled that all by myself, though my keyboard won’t put the house over the first “e” . . . still proud). As a side note, I can even conjugate the verb “etre” (Yeah, now I am showing off). Anyway, for me, a day without music is a day without sunshine. It was simply too much effort to continue my prior “what I am listening to” portion of the blog, but I believe it is time to put it back in circulation from time to time. With that in mind, I am submitting a second post with a musical dedication to my wife. Simply follow the link. This is from an artist by the name of Sean Hayes who is on permanent repeat on my iPod at the moment. Everything I feel, he seems to be able to put it to music. Like Bryson, he is BRILLIANT. Enjoy.

Excerpt from I’m a Stranger Here Myslef by Bill Bryson:

“So I accompanied her to the supermarket and while she was off squeezing melons and pricing shitake mushrooms, I made for the junk-food section ---which was essentially all the rest of the store. Well, it was heaven.

The breakfast cereals alone could have occupied me for most of the afternoon. There must have been two hundred types. Every possible substance that could be dried, puffed, and coated with sugar was there. The most immediately arresting was a cereal called Cookie Crisp, which tried to pretend it was a nutritious breakfast but was really just chocolate chip cookies that you put in a bowl and ate with milk. Brilliant.

Also of note were cereals called Peanut Butter Crunch, Cinnamon Mini Buns, Count Chocula (‘with Monster Marshmallows’), and a particularly hardcore offering called Cookie Blast Oat Meal, which contained four kinds of cookies. I grabbed one of each of the cereals and two of the oatmeal --- how often I’ve said that you shouldn’t start a day without a big, steaming bowl of cookies ---- and sprinted with them back to the shopping cart.

‘What’s that?’ my wife asked in the special tone of voice with which she often addresses me in retail establishments.

I didn’t have time to explain. ‘Breakfast for the next six months,’ I panted as I sprinted past, ‘and don’t even think about putting any of it back and getting granola’”


Like I said . . . Brilliant.  Until next time.  R.

Snakes Ain’t Shit: Becoming a Blog Whore and Other Random Acts of Dissonance

I am sorry to say that the following is a little bit of This and a little bit of That. Sometimes some of the very best stuff gets left out because it doesn’t fit within a certain theme. On occasion, I like to circle back to pick up these orphans in what I like to think of as a “deleted scenes episode”. I am such a fan of this sort of thing that I will absolutely rave over a mediocre film if it contains a bloopers and outtakes reel after the closing credits. Truth be told, I don’t own a blu-ray where this feature hasn’t seen more action than the movie itself. So, from my perspective, the greatest moment in all of cinema history can be found in the “bloopers” at the end of Toy Story 2. Hopefully this insight eases your pain as we cobble this mess together into something almost as attractive as Frankenstein’s Bride.

As I have noted on prior occasions, I am not a huge fan of the social network, but I do maintain a Facebook account for the purpose of posting pictures of my kids for family and friends to view from afar. Despite my general distaste, on occasion something of interest is posted and one in particular caught my eye this very morning. A friend posted the following quote on another user’s wall: “If you were bitten by a venomous snake, I would suck the poison out faster than a horny vampire. And then we would skip away. Cuz skippin’ is cool and snakes ain’t shit.” Perhaps it is my rather unusual take on the world, but I find this prose to be . . . well . . . touching. In fact, if I ever renew my vows with my wife, this is definitely going to be included. I think it says so much more than “in sickness and in health”, don’t you? This mention of renewal serves as the only segue I can possibly concoct to move us on to our next topic.

As a way to keep things fresh and new I am going to mirror this project for a while at a new site: www.whereisjackbutler.wordpress.com. My intent is to reach a broader audience in hopes of turning this project into a legitimate published work. Over the past several evenings, I have spent a fair amount of the wee hours sifting through the varying internet resources relating to blog production, circulation, publishing and writing in general and have come out sleep deprived and completely confused. The one thing I seem to have a fairly firm grip on is the fact that I am too lazy and too frugal to make much of an impact in the blogosphere. Tips ranging from hosting your own blog so as to not have to depend on the free services of Blogger and WordPress to shamelessly plugging yourself in shop windows have left me scratching my head. It would seem that one of the keys to getting a REAL book published is to show that you already have an established audience. I know this to be true because many of the most well known and wildly popular book series out there right now initially faced massive rejection from agents and publishers alike. Until they obtained a following through various means, they remained shut out of the publishing world entirely. This inner sanctum seems harder to crack into than a bank vault and for the first time author, it is a little like the proverbial blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat that isn’t there.

Success seems to hinge on one’s ability to shamelessly self-promote themselves. I am a master at self-proclamation, but self-promotion is a horse of a different color. A horse that won’t just stand there with a dumb expression on its face when I tell it to do so. And so, I have done what I must. I have smeared on a thick layer of fire engine red lipstick, pulled on a patent leather miniskirt over tattered fishnet stockings, and traded my converse for a pair of pink stiletto heels so that I may parade myself around the blogging community looking for a sailor or two that might be literate enough to give my little blog here a cursory review. I guess the theory is that if you turn enough literary tricks, you might get picked up by a pimp (literary agent) and eventually your clientele will go from the average John surfing the web for a light read to the silk stocking set at an upscale publishing house. For now, I guess I will be shaking my little ass on the street corner, hoping someone comes along in a long white Cadillac looking for a good . . . read. Wish me luck, Sugar. R

I PROCLAIM therefore I AM

I am going to let you all in on a dirty little secret your high school guidance counselor didn’t tell you about. You can be anything you want to be in this world through the unparalleled power of self-proclamation. In fact, there is a whole subset of career choices out there based purely on just that . . . choice. For the longest time I have struggled with the idea of calling myself an artist or a writer. Sure I paint and I write, but to what end? I just now realized I have been caught up in an argument of semantics that is of little importance. You are what you say you are. If I say I am a writer and an artist, who is to argue with that fact? In a “Yes Man” epiphany of epic proportions I coined a slogan that I believe could lead to a wonderfully lucrative career in motivational speaking. “If you proclaim it, you just became it.” Brilliant, right? I encourage you all to give this a try, but in the mean time, here is a short list of those things that I proclaim myself to be and a brief description as a primer to get you all started:

Artist: I paint. Easy right? No, I don’t have exhibitions or sell any of my work to paying customers or anything like that, but monetary gain isn’t a requirement in the sweet science of proclamation.

Writer: I write this blog, and I have even gone so far as to pen a couple of chapters of a fictional novel that will probably never see the light of day. Put pen to paper and write a greeting card . . . good enough . . . you’re a writer!

Philanthropist: Now, I don’t have a lot of disposable income to give away to charitable organizations, but if I did . . . I would. Intent is 9/10ths the law of proclamation. Remember that.

Attorney: Ok, that one is a given. Actually have the degree and license to prove it, but I don’t actually practice law, so in a way, I am proclaiming my status as an Attorney in the same way I have proclaimed myself an Artist. Tip number 3: Just because you have a degree or license doesn’t necessarily give you the title . . . you gotta own that shit.

Poet and Hip Hop Pioneer: Nothing to it, just gotta throw down a phat rhyme and there you have it.

Triathlete: I have ridden a bicycle, swam a lap or two in an Olympic pool and even run on occasion. Do these in relative proximity to each other and mark your personal best. Mine is three days, but I think there is room for improvement there. If this doesn’t work for you, you can always fudge it a little and tell people that you are a “Tryathlete” . . . tell them you tried being an athlete, but it just wasn’t your thing.

Rock Guitarist: I own a guitar and have actually held it in my hands. How do you think Jimi Hendrix started? Plus, I am a real badass at Guitar Hero on the Playstation.

Weatherman: Everyday I wake up and throw the window open to assess the ambient temperature and then walk to my children’s room to announce my findings and tell them to dress appropriately. No, I don’t yet own a Doppler Radar, but I have one on backorder at Brookstone.

Sous-chef: This one is a cinch. Pretty much any kitchen I might wander into would cement my claim. You just have to be able to cook SOMETHING and not be bothered by being second best. Works for me.

Exterminator: I have a fly swatter and I know how to use it.

Horse Whisperer: One time I walked right up to a horse and told it to just stand there with a stupid look on its face and what do you know, it did just that.

Body builder: This one should be on everyone’s list. The real question is, what are you building it into?

And this is just the beginning! Imagine what I could proclaim myself to be if I just had a bit more time on my hands! I know, you already think I have too much time on my hands, but if I am not out here thinking this shit up, who is going to? Just added Inventor to the list. See, it’s just that easy! Keep an eye out for my video series and audio cassettes at a Dollar General near you. I will also be available for private speaking engagements later in the year should you feel you need additional one-on-one tutorials. Later. R.

Holy Toledo . . . Sausalito!

To be honest, this was not the content that was meant to be posted today. I half-finished two other pieces before their content became so overbearingly depressing that I had to set them aside. It was a beautiful day outside with a sun so yellow that posting grey content seemed a sacrilege. It should be noted that I just finished eating a nectarine. Actually, “eating” is probably not the appropriate word. To be honest, I made sweet sweet love to this nectarine, savoring every last juicy indulgence until the pit was so clean you could have seen your reflection in it. It was one of the most gratifying eating experiences of my life. At least that is the way it seemed at the time. The truth is, it falls a distant second to a recent find at my local supermarket. I was sort of hopelessly roaming down the isles in search of anything that the boys might find palatable. The same bland menu of the basic things that I can create from the still somewhat foreign ingredients found at the market will by no means have my two son’s shopping in the “Husky” section anytime soon. I aimlessly wandered from one isle to the next, turning over packaging in an effort to decipher the ingredients in hopes that something might click. Nothing did. 

And so I proceeded, shelf by shelf, sifting through jars, cans and bottles. Picking them up to judge their weight and even holding them up to my nose in hopes that perhaps an improperly sealed container might give me an olfactory hint as to what was held inside. I strolled past the eggs to marvel at the fact that the package of a dozen eggs I thought I had been buying for the past two years really only contained 10 eggs. “How about that”, I thought to myself as I placed a 10er in my cart and made my way to the cereal isle. Well, that is what we call it back home anyway. A whole ISLE stuffed with a variety of breakfast wonders so full of sugar and artificial flavors that the very thought makes me salivate as the hairs on the tops of my arms stand at attention. Here, however, the cereal shares space with a number of other items. Actually it shares not only an isle, but actual shelf space as well. There isn’t a huge variety to choose from. They have Cheerios, Frosties (as I have mentioned before “Frosted Flakes”), Something called “Tresor” which tastes a little like rotund puffs of cardboard and a couple of boxes of Special K being sold in disguise as something called “Fitness” though I would argue that it is only “fit” for sanding down rough surfaces during a kitchen remodel. There are probably two other boxes of mysterious shit that is being marketed to children with cartoon characters I have never heard of.  Neither of my kids being familiar with these characters either means that we have never dared to give them a go.

After loading a box of the multi-grain Cheerios (I say multi-grain like they sell some other variety . . . THEY DON’T) into my cart, I turned my attention to the next isle that contained the equally dismal selection of potato chips. What can be said of the cereal is equally true of the chip isle except that the chips are packaged in little snack sized bags. You know the kind you get out of vending machine? Yeah, that’s the standard sized bag of chips here in France. You want what we in America call a standard sized bag of chips, you have to opt for the Format Familial and they only have that in basic potato flavorins. I grabbed a bag of fromage flavored chips about the size of my thumbnail and tossed them in to the cart as well. With a deep sigh, I set on about my merry way. Now, there are two areas that the French supermarket rivals its American counterpart . . . the liquor isle . . . er isles (roughly half the store if truth be told) and the chocolate isle (literarlly every variety of plain chocolate bar known to mankind can be found here). Ok, maybe it is more like three areas, because we must not forget the cheese. If I were to try and throw this into a pie chart for you, the store is composed of 50% alcohol, 20% chocolate, 20% cheese, and 5% everything else (including deodorant that doesn’t work and a specialty shelf or two of shit that nobody buys). On that particular shelf I once found a Duncan Hines brownie mix, but when I got to the checkout they wouldn’t sell it to me as it seemed to be a novelty item. It didn’t have a price tag so they just flat wouldn’t sell it to me, even though it was on their shelves. They were kind enough to go check for a price, which took half an hour or so while other shoppers waited patiently in line. Never once did someone complain that the line was taking too long or get pissed that I was holding things up. They simply waited patiently as if the world revolved around this price check on isle 3. That’s the French for you, but I digress.

Back to the story at hand . . . as I entered the isle that serves as the gateway to "liquor land" (like Disneyland but with FEWER drunks) something caught my eye. It was wedged up in the corner of the top shelf, and I can’t imagine how I picked it out in the crowd of other products more centrally located. I took a moment to rub my eyes, to be sure this wasn’t some sort of mirage like you see in the movies when a guy who is dying of thirst sees a pool of water in the distance and dives for it only to come up with a face full of sand. No, I wasn’t dreaming . . . it was REAL. I reached up and plucked the little paper package from its perch and brought it up to my lips to blow the dust off the packaging. Wiping the remaining debris away with my thumb, the words began to appear . . . “Pepperidge Farm”. Could it be? As I continued to excavate the way a paleontologist does when cleaning the skeletal remains of a fossilized dinosaur, I could clearly read the word “Sausalito”. Examining my treasure even closer, I discovered there was only one language written on the packaging . . . ENGLISH! I quickly stashed the item in my cart next to the snack pack of flavored chips, all the while looking around as if at any moment some Allen Funt wannabe would pop out and scream “Surprise, you’re on candid camera”. Did I just date myself?

At any rate, what was to follow I am not proud of in the way that I am sure that Paul Reubens is not proud of living up to the PeeWee name with that unfortunate masturbatory affair in the adult theater several years ago. When I got back to the car, I carefully loaded my bags into the hatch of my little 206 save the package of Sausalito’s which I kept clutched firmly in my hand as I sank down into the driver’s seat. Like a child opening a Christmas present I tore open the package and devoured the first layer of cookies stopping after each one to make sure I hadn’t taken the end of a finger off or anything. As I sat there with crumbs all over my chest and chocolate stains on my cheeks I felt a moment of shame. Not enough for me not to begin an honest assault on the next layer of cookies mind you, but shame nonetheless. I took my time with the second layer. Orgyastically (probably not a word, but definitely a feeling) I let my senses take in the wonder of wheat flower, milk chocolate, butter oil, soy lecithin, vanilla extract, monopotassium tartrate and desiccated ground nuts. As the pleasure washed over me in waves, I read down the packaging as if it was the best novel ever written:

“Our Sausalito cookie is a popular destination. Come for the chocolate, stay for the macadamia nuts. The mounds of creamy milk chocolate chunks and roasted macadamia nuts are well worth the trip!”

And just below that it reads:

“The American Collection cookies, Baked in U.S.A.”

“Fuckin-A Bubba!” I said to myself as only us Midwesterners can and started the car to head for home. Truth is, I kept the packaging from the cookies and it sits on my nightstand as a reminder of this torrid affair. Every night I open the package and take in the perfume, only to quickly close it again to make sure not too much escapes. I then give it a gentle kiss and wish it a good night as I now must wish you all as it has grown very late indeed. We will chat again soon, you and I, until then . . . R.

When an Unstoppable Force meets an Immovable Object

This is perhaps my favorite turn of phrase for the evocative way in which it drowns you with mental imagery. It is the mother of all collisions, a fender bender for the ages. It describes a stalemate, a draw, a tie, a deadlock. It is the embodiment of equality. Most of all, for me anyway, it is a description of my marriage. And from my rather primitive understanding of the concept, it is exactly what a marriage SHOULD be. So, can you guess which of us is The Unstoppable Force and which is The Immovable Object. If you have been following along, it shouldn’t be too hard to cypher. My wife is absolutely, hands down, the MOST unstoppable of all unstoppable forces. Anyone who knows her, knows this to be the truth. I, on the other hand, am the unshakable and ever steadfast immovable object. I flinch not in the face of fear and can withstand any of the harshest beatings that life might devise to knock me down. Both relentless in our own way, we now face a life locked together. Many argue that the secret to success in the face of such opposing interests is a good dose of compromise, each side giving in (just a little) to the other side in order to find some middle ground. This is a lie, a deception, and a guarantee for marital discontentment if not ultimately divorce. Do you know what happens when both parties in a marriage take a step back? A gap is formed between them. Naturally, the consequence of all this compromise is that the gap between them widens and gets filled with resentment and regret. Neither party REALLY wanted to relent, they simply thought that in order to co-exist, concessions must be made at both ends. Bullshit.

No, the wife and I are pressed firmly together, neither giving an inch . . . she forever pushing forward and I refusing to take a single step back. The key to this bliss is in the equilibrium. She is not so strong as to push me over and I am not so overshadowing as to make her give up pushing. And it is in this way that we now dance through life. Pressed so firmly together as to be inseparable, both looking to increase our claim, yet knowing that we never will. Without each other we would lack purpose and meaning. What happens to the unstoppable force if it never runs into an immovable object? It pitches ever forward into the cosmos, never taking a moment to take stock of its surroundings and ultimately leaving everything in its wake. From time to time the unstoppable force may cross paths with other forces in motion, but their coincidental encounter can last only a moment before each move along their own path, forever alone in their travels. And what of the immovable object? Without the unstoppable force it simply stands alone, waiting for something to happen and knowing that it never will. It would then seem to me that the Unstoppable Force and the Immovable Object need each other, neither being complete in their purpose without the other acting in its own self-interest. So, to my lovely wife out there on the road eating crickets and washing her ass with an electronic commode . . . Baby, you keep pushin and I will keep standing. It has worked so far now hasn’t it? Be safe and we will see you soon. Forever yours, R.

You May Take Candy From My Baby, Just Don’t Call Me a “Fredneck”

“The true genius shudders at incompleteness - and usually prefers silence to saying something which is not everything it should be.”  Edgar Allen Poe said that, but then he would know, wouldn’t he. The things we say and simultaneously don’t say fascinate me.  Mark Twain expressed a similar sentiment when he said “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightening and the lightening bug”.  And still I write, though clearly there is a part of me that is hesitant in my craft.  In looking for the proper quotations from Poe and Twain I ran across two others that I hadn’t read before, but both seem to confirm my hesitation.  Ira Gassen once said, “Be careful of your thoughts; they may become words at any moment.”, while Publilius Syrus is quoted as saying “Speech is the mirror of the soul; as a man speaks, so he is.”  If either these be true, I should simply learn to keep my fat mouth shut.  Still, it is words that consume my world.  The way they are used, misused, tortured and twisted.  The way so few can say so much and so many can say so little.  Often it is the most common of phrases that give me the greatest pause.  Perhaps it is my “off center” view of the world that leads me to these conclusions, but just the other day, one such phrase stuck with me and I have been pondering it ever since.

They say (whomever “they” happen to be), that some things are as “easy as taking candy from a baby”.  This phrase has probably been uttered in my presence a hundred or more times of the course of my existence on this earth, yet it wasn’t till recently that I took time to examine what it really means.  Of course it’s easy to take candy from a baby, in fact, I would wager that there isn’t anything in the world that is as easy.  Yet we still use this phrase, though the realities of it seem impossible.  Surely all tasks one might face would fail this test.  Could there be anything as easy?  That is the point of it though, isn’t it?  To convey ease?  Yet being such an unreasonable standard, why use it at all?  Wouldn’t the appropriate thing to say in all instances be that it will be “harder than taking candy from a baby”?  But then, we would be forced to examine just how much harder the task would be . . . a never ending measure that I for one couldn’t possibly quantify.  Where did this phrase originate?  And why did the baby have the candy to begin with?  Poor parenting?  Hard candy would seem a choking hazard and the sugars are certainly not good for developing teeth.  Maybe we are missing the point.  Maybe the presumption is that babies would like candy and thus hold onto it as something precious.  We all know the attention span of an infant is something akin to a squirrel on methamphetamines and simply obscuring an object from view will be quite sufficient to deny its existence in the infants world and soon enough the item will be completely forgotten.  So the candy must be clenched in the baby’s hand right?  And maybe, just maybe, we are talking about something that is actually quite difficult.  Any parent will tell you that trying to free anything from the robo-grip of tiny little fingers is like a feat in the World’s Strongest Man Contest.   They possess nearly super human strength and have absolutely no tactile discretion.  It is all or nothing.  I have been pinched on the cheek by both of my children when they were “babies” and it drew blood. 

So if we are now talking about an activity that is actually fairly difficult, perhaps when asked about one’s recovery from surgery or the exhaustion felt after an IRS tax audit, we should simply respond that “it was like taking candy from a baby . . . a real pain in the ass”.  At least in this way, you have some reasonable standard to measure by.  I may never know the answer, but I am going to continue to ask the question till I get an adequate explanation.  All this mental effort being given to the origins of a commonly used phrase got me thinking, how hard is it really to “coin” a word or phrase.  I have tried to drive things into the mainstream in the past with only limited success.  One year a friend and I tried to familiarize a euphemism for getting drunk at the holidays, something we called “hanging an ornament”.  It would go something like this:  “Boy, did you see Bob at the Christmas party last night?  He really hung an ornament in front of the whole company.  He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get fired.”  For some reason it never really took off.  Maybe it is like George Carlin said “I got a lot of ideas.  Problem is, most of them suck”.  Well, despite my prior failings, I would like to offer another one up for consideration:   “That guy is a real Fredneck”.  Now, I must admit that this one is fairly limited in usage, but I think it could really catch on.  As Americans we like to act as though we have a lock on the redneck population, but I am here to tell you that we are wrong.  The French have them too.  So what is the difference between an American redneck and a French one you ask?  Let me run it down for you:

The “Fredneck” is really not all that different from it’s North American cousin.  They enjoy an occasional Monster Truck rally (yes they have them here), they ridiculously bedazzle the most innocuous vehicle with “racing” stripes (recently saw a very square looking van that the owner must have mistaken for a Camaro), and they even love a good Carny (maybe a little TOO much in fact).  Sounds familiar enough, right?  So what is the difference?  It seems a simple matter of refinement and decorum.  The average “Fredneck” won’t drink themselves into a Nascar driven rage when a race finishes under caution, they are unlikely to put a spoiler where it doesn’t belong, and they don’t procreate just for the simple sake of doing so.  They are responsible and contributing members of society whose freak flag only flies when it doesn’t  interfere with the  normal functioning of society and more importantly, only when it is unlikely to offend anyone else.  Perhaps a better way to capture the essence of this is to throw a little Foxworthy at it.  “You might be a Fredneck if . . .”  If you prefer to drink a single bottle of beer rather than a single glass of wine with your meal . . . You might be a Fredneck.  If you have the faintest clue what an "achy breaky heart" is from watching lost episodes of Hannah Montana instead of the 7 hour news marathon playing on every other channel . . . You might be a Fredneck.  If you refer to McDonald's food with anything other than contempt and disgust while in mixed company . . . You might be a Fredneck.  If you wear a baseball cap and jogging shoes . . . EVER . . . you might be a Fredneck.  So, you see, we aren't really that different after all.  Vive La France and God Bless America, now let's have some BBQ!

So there you have it, my latest literary masterpiece and contribution to modern society. Maybe my beloved Robert Frost was right when he said “Half the world is composed of people who have something to say and can’t, and the other half who have nothing to say and keep on saying it.” Perhaps I fall within the latter. Until next time. R.

Motherless Child: Fighting HuMAN Nature

Once again I am in the middle of a two week long absence from my spouse.  You would think that by now I would be fairly accustomed to it, yet it still hits me every once in a while how tremendously difficult it really is.  By now, it is no longer the chore of cooking every meal or even mediating the seemingly constant brotherly discord that makes the task so taxing.  In shedding away the layers, I have finally found out why it remains so difficult for me to adjust.  No matter how hard I try or how in touch with my feminine side I become, I am still not a mother.  It’s not my fault you know.  I have millennia of conditioned DNA fighting against me.  The truth is, I am a guy through and through.   Yes, I fancy myself as more considerate than most and even a fair bit more domestic than many, but there are still things that I simply cannot do.  I can’t mend a broken heart with a caring embrace, I can’t kiss the pain away from a scraped knee, and I definitely can’t cure an upset stomach with a spoon for of love.  I just don’t have it in me.  A broken heart gets a lecture about taking one on the chin and having a stiff upper lip, a scrapped knee gets a compress of dirt and a gruff comment about not being a “pussy”, and worst of all, the upset stomach gets the unsettling “you know, if  you just went ahead and puked you would feel better”.  Don’t get me wrong, my boys need to see the shallowness of my emotional depth.  One day, they too will have children and who depend upon their fatherly strength, so they can’t blubber when they sever a finger, fall apart when things get insulting, and puking simply puts hair on your chest.  They do, however, need their Mom.  I need their Mom.

Despite my fairly gruff response to most whimpers and whines, I feel for the boys when she is not around.  They aren’t men yet and they need not be so hardened.  They are just little boys, despite the way I treat them.  Sometimes they need to be cuddled and made to feel OK in a more supportive way.  And truth be told, they handle their suffering far better than I do as a seemingly helpless bystander.  I would love them to feel better from my hug or stop their sobbing out of something more than fear.  The whole thing makes me feel pretty miserable.  Oh, they are cared for well enough while my wife is away I suppose, kind of like the way a prisoner is taken care of in the slam.  Three hots and a cot.  What more could they ask for really?  They are safe and protected, fed and at least moderately groomed.  Their basic needs are met because I am a guy, and guys are basic.  For now I will just leave it at that.  I have a trilogy of posts that are soon to be minted that delve deeper into this sea of gender roles and attributes and I would hate to spoil the ending at this point in our journey.  I have touched on this topic in the past, but I think it worth fleshing out further as it has an impact on nearly everyone in the world in one way or another.  So, for now I will wish you all a good evening in hopes that I can finish up a couple of more posts before heading to bed myself.  Until next time.  R.

My Phoenix is NOT in Arizona: Champaign Problems and a Teachable Moment

It has taken the better part of a week now to even remotely digest the change our life has taken nearly overnight.  I know not the depth and breadth of this change, but a change it will be.  I spent the better part of Saturday night lying sleepless in my bed as the clan next door toasted their nuptials until somewhere around 5 a.m.  It was the wedding of a cousin, I believe, and the guest list was at least 400 based upon the decibel count.  With festivities in full swing I assumed the cheering and window shaking bass beat to be the French equivalent of “The roof, the roof, the roof is on FIRE!”  Little did I know that, at that very moment, it was actually MY roof that was on fire.  Just as the party died down to the breaking of the dawn, our phone rang and we received the heart sinking news that our home in the U.S.  had been destroyed.  When faced with such news from afar, the only reaction is one of shock.  It seemed only remotely believable at the time.  Even the photos received of the structure engulfed in flames only brought forth a dull sense of recognition.  Thankfully, the family that was renting our house was not at home at the time and no one was injured.

So, now I endeavor to make sense of it all, weighing through mountains of bureaucratic procedure with banks and insurance companies in an effort to put all back right again.  In doing so, I find myself with a tremendous parental opportunity . . . a teachable moment.  How we react to this as parents will help define how both our children will face, accept and adapt to loss and hardship.  Perhaps hardship isn’t exactly the word.  I must be careful here not to minimize the significance of this moment or make too much light of an ordinarily traumatic experience.  The truth of the matter is, however, that my wife and I have busted our asses so that we could stand here today and feel the burden of having “Champaign Problems”.  I tried to explain this to my eldest in particular and I pray at least something from the lesson sank into his thick skull.  Ok, perhaps that isn't quite fair.  His skull isn’t really all that thick at all, this is just a hard thing to make a child understand when they lack the necessary life experience and perspective to make sense of it all.  It is true though, what would be a life altering and potentially cataclysmic event in many peoples’ lives is nothing more than a small speed bump for the wife and I.  What we lost was a structure.  Timber and shingles . . . nothing more.  And that my friends, is infinitely replaceable.  We still have a roof over our heads here in France and in fact have a second house we can easily move into when we return to the U.S.  Now this privilege has come at a price and this was the lesson I endeavored to teach my son.

We have sacrificed and we have struggled.  Not in the epic sense of the word, but we have done without in our lives while others were spending their pay checks on lavish dinners and fancy clothing.  We stayed poor and made measured, but in many ways wild jumps when certain opportunities arose and we can now show our children the reward for that effort.  When life tried to burn us down, we simply rose from the ashes as if nothing had happened.  You see, the Phoenix lives it’s life understanding the inevitability of the fire, but rests easy with the knowledge that rebirth is just moments away.  These are the things I told my son.  Becoming a Phoenix is neither easy nor convenient.  It takes dedication that most wouldn’t dream of and courage beyond measure, yet none of that seems apparent when we spread our wings and rise gloriously from the flames.  Flying . . . oh flying is the easy part, it is the years spent preparing yourself to be burned to the ground where the battle is fought and won.  While others were doing everything they could to avoid being burned, we were embracing the heat knowing that our better days were yet to come.  So, here is the final score . . . here is what we have truly endured:  A moment of sadness, and a lifetime of opportunity to grow, build, adapt and overcome.  And so, one day in the not so distant future, we will put hammer to nail and our house shall also rise from these ashes.  Rather than wish me well and mourn my loss, perhaps you should congratulate me instead, for I am a man living a life full of Champaign Problems.  Until next time.  R.

Fathering the “Little Moments”

This is the first time I have really mapped out what I was going to say with any sort of editorial frame of mind.  I say “mapped out” only in the vaguest sense, meaning that I have the next five posts in rough draft form in my head and have already set their titles in print.  This will likely mean that the next few posts won’t be worth a damn, so if you have been following along and need a break, now is the time to take it.  Life seems to have picked up its pace again and my head is spinning with all the dizzying force of the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair.  So much so, in fact, that a little organization seemed necessary.  As luck would have it, one of the only redeeming features on my iPhone is a memo function that I can use to jot down notes whenever they come to me.  This hasn’t created a spongy wasteland in my brain like was hoping, but thinning the heard in any fashion is bound to help for clarity’s sake.

One of these random thoughts floating around the electrical impulses in my brain seems to focus on the meaningful moments we all cherish as parents.  I have a good friend who really focuses on having adventures  with his twin children.  It appears that great time and effort is put into making special moments with them whenever his busy work schedule allows it.  Being somewhat the opposite side of this coin does not afford me the luxury of grand statements.  I think this can be said for most parents who are what most would consider the primary care giver.  Those that have received the title “STAY AT HOME PARENT”.  Those of us that spend so much time with our children that being a Parent is more like a job than a privilege are forced to seek those magical parenting moments in the very SMALL things that happen over the course of a number of days or even weeks.  I don’t have big outings with the kids all that often outside of those where the entire family can be present.  The wife and I together plan these bigger memories, and I think like my friend, my wife does a fair job of organizing certain things for her to share with the boys individually.  I, on the other hand, find little time to specifically share special moments with them for my presence is a constant in their life.  Always there . . . ALWAYS around. 

As such, I think the children and I sort of take each other for granted.  I think we all want to have these epic adventures, but the realities of school and daily life prevent that to a certain degree.  So, it is really the little things that sometimes bring me to my knees.  The other day for example, in the simple act of walking the narrow city streets together after I picked them up from school, I was able to capture a picture of them that conveys (better than my words ever could) those little moments that stick with you for a lifetime.  They won’t differentiate this walk from the seemingly millions of others we have taken in the same fashion.  The “how was your day” and “what did you learn today” grazing past them as they do on every other day.  As we walked, I snapped a picture of them walking ahead of me with backpacks clamped to their shoulders and I was reminded that being their Father happens in these little moments.  I could take them to amusement parks and on grand vacations, but neither would have the impact that these short walks to the car have had.  Idle conversation and meaningless banter give way to something bigger.  The simple understanding that we are in this together . . . whatever “this” happens to be.  We are passengers on the same train, hikers on the same trail.  We are all heading to the same destination and that seems to bond us in a way I can’t possibly describe.  One day the tracks will diverge.  They will no longer be “MY” children.  Instead I will be “THEIR” father, and the time for grander statements will be upon us.

As I pondered this fact, I realized that this change is palpable in the relationship with my own father.  He was the working parent of my youth and many of our memories together came from the “big events” that he crafted to satisfy the need that all parents have to bond with their children.  In later years we transitioned to smaller moments when we spent nearly every moment together.  We still shared epic moments based loosely on outdoor travel, but some of the long hours of just playing catch with a baseball seem now to have meant much more to the both of us.  Eventually though, once again we diverged as I became an adult with my own path leading me far from home.  Now as an adult, time and distance is against us and our relationship has changed further still.  It seems we are back to the big adventures.  He no longer inviting me on his adventures, but rather I now inviting him.  So perhaps the same will be true of me and my sons.  Maybe not in the same chronology as I with my father, but someday and in some meaningful way I will cease to be their “fixture” and the little moments will be gone.  For now, I will grasp to them jealously and savor them when my shortsightedness allows and praying that someday they will look back on the little moments we shared during this period in their life and appreciate them as much as I do now.  I still have that well-worn baseball mitt to remind me of those times in my own life and perhaps one day, this series of entries will serve that same purpose for my two sons.

Truth be told, I am a terrible parent and I get it wrong way more often than I get it right.  I can only hope that this collection of little moments with me will see them through.  If I am lucky, perhaps one day they will invite me along on their own travels as an affirmation that somewhere along the way they learned to appreciate this time we shared.  For now I will simply let this sentimentality simmer and go back to life as a fixture, needed but not consciously wanted . . . the director rather than the leading man in the movie of our life.  After all, THEY are the real stars.  Hope this made even a scrap of sense.  I warned you that the next few posts were going to suck.  Until next time.  R.