I have dreamed a dream, but that dream is gone for me now

I am awake, and all too aware of that fact as it turns out.  My absence from this project is a mixture of neglect and self-indulgence.  As our life has done so many times before, we have turned outside to in and inside to out, we have reinvented what we call reality and I can hardly place my finger on how.  In the end, the "how" matters not.  The "when" is of even less significance.  It is those details found in the "what" that I find truly fascinating.  "What" have we become, "what" will come next, and "what" (in the hell) were we thinking? The highlights come so fast and furious these days that they seem to flicker like a strobe light flashing to a techno-pop beat.  Like some drug fueled hallucination, the colors are so vivid that my dilated pupils are having trouble adjusting to the light.  Through squinted eyes, I can see some vague outlines.  Some familiar themes.  Characters that look familiar even if only in silhouette.  It is time to come down, time to sober up.  The light show has ended, the crowds have gone home and the house lights have come up once more.  The fog machine has belched out its last cloud of ambiance and the empty beer bottles have found their way to the trash.  What is left behind is a reality that only Johnny Cash could capture in words more eloquent than my own.  Its time to settle down, settle in, and somehow find the middle.  Normal, for normalcy's sake . . . if there even is such a thing.  And so, as we now make this transition toward the mundane, I find myself reminded of where we have been by way of the odd flashback or two.  We have indulged, over-extended, glutted and gobbled our way back into American life.  Piles of debris give way to stacks of lumber and stacks of lumber give way to a home.  With this rebirth, I find myself in need of an outlet.  A place to jot it all down.  So, I will make the time.  I will pick up my paper and pen, unpack my easel and paints and get back to the work I left in pieces when we left those far and distant shores.  A year to recap and what a strange year indeed.  If you are willing, follow along.  If not, then go to hell . . . I am writing this shit down anyway.  Until next time.  Jack

A Hooker’s Vagina: Promises of the past haunt the realities of the present

It has been more than a month of Sundays since last we spoke and like all things in our lives at present, the blog is in a state of flux. Giving you my best Forest Gump, it must be said that MY momma always said, “Life is like a Hookers Vagina . . . you never know what you gonna get”. These days, it seems like I am living my life in halves. I am sitting on a collection of half-written blog posts about half-witted ideas, written in such a half-hearted manner that I am embarrassed to call them my own. As I sit here staring at a half-eaten sandwich, I wonder where it all went wrong. About half the time, I am half as good as I once was. It could be age, it could be stress, it could be I just don’t give a fuck any more. I have grown weary of the recurrent theme littering the landscape of the last several posts. I make well intentioned vows to continue my work on this project only to let weeks go by without a single written word. Well, no more my friends. No more half-measures driven by half-truths. It’s time to go all in. It is time to really let you in on the World According to Jack. I will no longer be witty, I will no longer be kind. I intend to continue this on my own terms and it ain’t gonna be pretty. I am taking the phone off the hook and firing the editorial staff. It is time to get real. This may end up being more Richard Pryor than Captain Kangaroo, but who gives a shit anyway. It isn’t like anyone actually reads this crap. Except of course my wife who knows me well enough by now that it was really only a matter of time before I went completely off the deep end.

This is going to continue as sort of continuous rant about my day to day travels through life with no script or necessary theme. It will consist of whatever comes to mind and will be written at odd hours. There may be posts of single phrases or thoughts, or lengthy dissertations about nothing at all. I guess it could be said that I am simply “Twitterizing” this bitch, so get ready for a bunch of non-sense wrapped up in sentence fragments. What can I say, it’s the new me baby! So, without further adieu, let’s get started. At present, the wife is working, the kids are learning, and I . . . well, I am sitting . . . yeah, mostly sitting. Sedentary is my state and to be honest it isn’t all that bad. Oh, I guess I get the house work done and the kids picked up and an occasional job application out the door, but really what I am doing most is sitting. Boredom has set in. Life, though horribly busy, feels stagnant. Could it REALLY be just a long shuffle to the grave from here? That thought made me cringe, so I decided to do something stupid, which as you know is often my way. Since the kids won’t miss my cooking and the wife . . . well the wife can fold her own damned socks, I am setting myself to the task of running a marathon. Not just any marathon, but an “Ultra-Marathon”. Why “Ultra-Marathon” you ask? Cause it just fucking sounds better, OK? Geez. I plan on running a local Marathon in October, then continuing to train for the “Ultra”. Don’t know what an “Ultra” marathon is? Technically speaking, it is any distance over the standard Marathon distance of 26 miles and 385 yards. The most common are 50K (round about 31 miles), 50 miles, and 100. I am crazy, but not clinically so, so the 100 is out. Since 31 miles is hardly worth the additional effort, I have settled on the 50 miler.

Why the hell would anyone want to do that you ask? Cause they don’t have better shit to do with their lives, that’s why. Since nobody seems to want to hire a middle aged stay at home dad who has been out of the workforce for two years, I may as well spend the extra time running. It is that or masturbate, and frankly I’m too bored to masturbate. Yes, it is a stupid thing to say one is bored when they are in the process of re-patriating, building a new house, shuttling youngsters to a growing laundry list of sporting activities all while trying to find a new career and keeping the rental estate somewhere on this side of squalorous. And no, I don’t think “squalorous” is a real word, so put your fucking dictionary down. I think you get the point. The bottom line is, the one true affliction I picked up while in France is a pathological need for adventure. Truth be told, I have always had it, it has just gotten more defined. So, there it is . . . The Ultra Marathon. Check.

Personal accomplishment and goals out of the way, let me catch you up a bit on family life. The boys are growing at a steady rate. The eldest is reveling in his pre-pubescent glory with all that entails. There seems a steady stream of girls texting him at inappropriate hours which demands more of his attention than it deserves. Why they have such interest in this dude is beyond me. His temperament has turned a bit to the sullen and moody and to be honest, he is generally a slob. How disgusting must the other boys at school be that my eldest is garnering so much attention from the opposite sex? I shudder to think. Piss poor attitude and general malaise aside, I guess he is a pretty thing. Arm candy for the status seeking female. Takes after the old man (wink wink). I would have argued that the interest comes from that element of mystery that the “new” kid always carries which is only intensified given the fact that he is not REALLY the new kid and he comes to them by way of France. Oooh la la! No, the newness has worn off and it seems to be something else. Something his time in France helped concrete, but ultimately something his parents have demanded of him . . . Self-respect. Paired with a dump truck load of self-confidence and you can see the attraction. It was actually pointed out that he is the only boy in his class that takes care of his appearance. He cares about what he wears and styles his infamous locks to perfection EVERY time he leaves the house. So, in the end, it would seem that he will be a real ladies man or completely gay. Either way, I think he will carry it off with a class and refinement that only he can muster.

The “Butler Swagger” has not been lost on the youngest. Perhaps three fold more confident than his already uncomfortably cocky older brother, my youngest can absolutely steal a room. Moxy . . . that’s what this kid has . . . Moxy. Keeping in mind that this kid is only 5 years old, it was only yesterday that the door bell rang, and when I answered, before me stood a gaggle . . . yes, a gaggle of girls of an age proximate to my eldest. I turned to call for him at which point these young ladies announced that they were seeking my youngest. Now, I don’t know what this kid has been doing while I wasn’t looking, but I have never seen any of these girls before and haven’t the slightest clue how they know my young son. Be that as it may, I summoned him and out he went. Not wanting to be a real “cock block” and cramp his style, I simply watched the events unfold from the kitchen window. They played in the street and sort of lavished him with attention. Soon enough, he pulled a page from the “Players Handbook” and came back to the house looking for a wingman. Before long, both of my boys were outside trying to out charm each. Apparently the youngest won the battle if not the war, because in parting, the eldest of these girls made a “second date” with the youngest. If I had hair, it will be grey by now.

Speaking of hair, as most of you know, I have given up on the idea that the troops might return to the field of battle. The front line has broken and the soldiers are in full retreat, so I did what any self-respecting man should when face with this defeat . . . I began shaving my head in earnest . . . like, with a razor. The comb over is an abomination, and clinging to the halo that rides just above the ears is more decoration than hair. That being said, one would think that making such a switch would be freeing. Nothing could be further from the truth. True, I no longer need a brush or any exotic hair treatments, but now I spend more time shaving that I do sleeping. Holy shit this is a lot of work. Unfortunately, I am not sure the wife is completely on board with being married to Mr. Clean. From the outside, it doesn’t appear there has been a big change. I “clippered” my hair so short to start with that it looked bald all along. At this point however is really a bit of a texture issue. You know how some people don’t like sushi? Not because of the taste, but because of the slimy texture in their mouth? Seems the same applies to my scalp. Since the wife is the only person in my life that would have occasion to cling to the back of my head (giggle, giggle), her assessment of its “creapy” texture has been duly noted. Be that as it may, the look is here to stay and I had really better wrap this post up soon, because it is about time to shave . . . AGAIN.

As for the wife and I, life is busy with the realities of house building. Every day we are faced with a burning in the pit of our bellies that can only come from trying to wrangle a budget for this money pit that wouldn’t make Donald Trump gag. In addition to the mounting cost of every bell and whistle that we simply can’t live without, there is the small matter of the sheer volume of decisions that must be deliberated and ultimately made in a fairly timely manner. This process is not for the obsessive-compulsive. Killing yourself over the color of a fucking door hinge will lead to a padded cell or at the very least a build that will take YEARS to complete. Nope, you have to love it and leave it at some point. Pull the trigger and move along. And even though the wife and I are as decisive a pair as you will ever meet, the minutia is starting to wear us out. The color and style one can choose from for something as simple as the knob on your toilet is dizzying and every such box must be reviewed and checked off in a never ending buffet of decision making. Someday I will be emotionally ready to go into further detail, but right now, I think we can call it quits since we are at a nice place to segue into a pre-written post that is want for publishing. That and I really need to get back to my daily ritual of sitting around with my thumb up my ass while the dishwasher and washing machine gurgle and pop in a two part rhythm of domestic plenitude. If I set them for a second rinse cycle, maybe . . . just maybe, I will have time to shave . . . AGAIN. See you next time. R.

Creativity in a Cardboard Box

If I were the sort to point fingers, I rather suppose that I could create an impressive list of reasons why I have neglected or maybe even lost interest in this project. I could blame the change in latitude and longitude for the snow days that have kept our children under my keep instead of inside the halls of academia. I could blame the nearly 600 boxes of shit that have amassed themselves in the garage of our rental home in what could possibly be argued as the worst move in the history of moving. I could even blame the demands placed upon me in trying to sort through the impressively daunting task of building a new home. The bottom line is, these would all be half-truths or perhaps worse . . . whole lies. True, we are indeed busy in the aftermath of our transfer back to the Continental United States, but between portaging the children, sending out resumes, housekeeping, tending to the plethora of details necessary for building our home, and on occasion sweating off some American blubber on a treadmill, there is a moment of silence here or there that one could pen a word or two if they were so inclined.

Absent a diagnosis of encephalitis lethargica, there doesn’t seem to be a justifiable reason why I have been so content with this lack of creative activity. As we busied ourselves sorting through boxes of ruined tchotchkes from our life “before France”, it hit me . . . I need to write again. With my canvases and paints packed away in a box that time seems to have forgotten and all other creative outlets barred by an otherwise very hectic existence, writing may well be the Levadopa needed to awaken me from this slumber that is starting to frankly bring me down. I fear that it may take some time to get my “mojo” back. As I sit here clacking away at my keyboard, I wonder if this writing will be as good as it once was. The content is there, I just worry that I somehow packed my creativity away in one of the boxes from France that has yet to be unpacked. We have been removed from our adoptive home for 3 months now and I personally am starting to feel some of the aftershock. Aside from the fact that I can’t get a decent baguette, an agreeable cheese or a bottle of wine that doesn’t curl my nose, it is the smallest of things that make me miss our time in France. It gets under your skin. It leave a mark. A void that, even though filled by the bounty that is our life in the US, is somehow lacking all the same. To be honest, I don’t miss the place as much as I miss the people. I miss my friends. I miss the bustle of life in the air. I miss the passion and the mystery. Was this France or simply a symptom of following the road less traveled by? Hard to say. Maybe a bit of both if I am to be honest.

Be that as it may, there is much to be appreciated here at “home”. Before we left France we had been told that we would be amazed at how quickly life seems to return to its “pre-expat” status. How quickly things return to “normal”. At the time, I didn’t take this as it was surely meant. It was a warning. One not to be dismissed by those who choose the life we have chosen. In time I have no doubt that my longings for the exotic will ebb, I only fear that it will somehow be buried or soon forgotten. I guess in the end, it is the adventure that I miss. The unknown . . . the magic , if you will. Perhaps the biggest lesson to learn here is that there is “magic” in life no matter where you reside, you simply have to look for it. It might be more difficult to find in your own back yard, but it is there. I hope that when I go digging, I will find it, or more importantly it will find me. It is with that hope that I will continue with this project and maybe . . . just maybe . . . you might want to come along for the ride. Until next time . . . Jack.

Honey Boo Boo and The Amish Mafia: An American Love Story

Yes indeed sir, you are back in ‘Mereeka. That’s how we hillbillies say “America” don’t you know. We have yet to truly settle and most days I have a want to check with the airlines to see when we should check in for our flight back across the pond. Having shuttled our way through the holidays, we are residing (reluctantly) at an extended stay hotel. Life out of a suitcase is not unfamiliar to our crew, nevertheless, the pressure it creates within the family dynamic is enough to steam a turkey. Sharing limited space and seemingly limitless resources means that keeping this place tidy is a full time profession. This is something that I seemingly had much more time for while I was in France. Forcing myself to the brink of re-employment means that job applications and self-indulgent cover letters replace a load or two of laundry that is now piling up faster than rats abandoning a sinking ship. Pair that with my moonlight gig as my children’s chauffeur, and it seems I have little time for anything else. I have racked up enough miles to qualify for my CDL, so perhaps Truckmasters should receive my next resume submission.

Activities are on the rise and there is little time for boredom. Birthday parties and sleepovers have resumed as has our thrice weekly endeavor back into the martial arts. Other sports are soon to begin, so the wife and I have already committed ourselves to the divide and conquer approach to child rearing. Along with the intense confusion , frustration and toil involved in re-building a house, there is scarcely enough time to pour myself into bed for an hour or two of slumber. This is not to say that of an evening I don’t let the gentle glow of the moving picture box wash over me in cascading high definition. This return to apparent “normalcy” is somewhat bittersweet as my return to the land of my birth should surely alleviate the pressure felt when living with a sizable language barrier, RIGHT? My return finds my favorite television channels awash with “reality” based programming that has taken a turn toward the bizarre. I am now forced to watch television with a frenzy of subtitles as I am only able to make out every other word on any given program. I wish this was said with tongue in cheek, but it is the God’s honest truth. Spoken English in this country has become so poor that subtitles are now needed so that those of us who still have a full set of working teeth can follow along. The days of the Hollywood starlet are seemingly at an end. Their curvaceous figures have been replaced by the Gurning masses of rotundity we have apparently become known for. With crossed eyes and banjo in hand, we are making James Dickey proud . . . one television program at a time. 23 programs about logging in every known region and climate, 74 programs about panning for gold from the Kondike to the Bering Sea, 32 shows depicting the graceful art of “noodling”, 15 or so crazy bastards “rastlin” gators, and one or two delights that still have me scratching my head. We have “Auction Kings” and “Pawn Stars” by the drove. Buying, selling and trading the absurdity that has become our American culture.

Truth be told, the display is so disgusting that it is enough to make a grown man cry and a weak man vomit. Complete degradation . . . and I CAN’T LOOK AWAY! That’s right, I am contributing to the decay of the American cultural landscape and I simply can’t help myself. Whether it be Moonshinin or Amish warfare, I am tuned in. My mind is numb and a steady stream of drool is forming at the corner of my lips. Shameful really, but why deny it? Abrupt depictions of illegal activity with no consequence, all for the sake of bringing it to our living rooms . . . live and in dazzling color. Titles and catch phrases of pure American poetry. Everything is labeled with either “War”, “Hardcore” or “Extreme”. There are “Bad Girls”, “Real Housewives”, “Swamp People”, “Gator Boys” and something called a “Honey Boo Boo”. We have “Propery Wars”, “Auction Wars” and even a little “Hardcore Pawn”. One is truly forced into a life of DVR madness in order to keep up with it all. I mean, heaven forbid I miss the next episode of “Hillbilliy Handfishin” while I try to consume the bounty that is “Doomsday Preppers”. That’s right, programs about outdoor survival come in the thousands. From one man’s pseudo “real” fight against the elements to a barefooted hippy and his sidekick blundering their way through one of our national parks. And yes,the eventual slide down this digital scree slope amounts to a bunch of half-wits preparing for the end of the world.

If all of this “reality” is too much for you to take, you can always turn to one of the countless channels providing the insatiable public a liberal dose of brain eating Zombie dramas. Being morbidly fat is fashionable and the mullet is back in style. Having come this far in the short two years I have been absent, where will we possibly be two years from now? A show about Swinging or BDSM on the Oprah Winfrey Channel? Too Late. So, what is a guy to do? READ? How about “Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter”? Or maybe I could join the 65 million or so degenerates who found “50 Shades of Grey” to be a literary masterpiece. Can there honestly be that many people out there that like spanking the shit out of each other? Weird. I know what you are thinking. This is all making me seem quite prudish and uptight. Those that know me, know that this couldn’t be further from the truth. I mean, if you derive sexual pleasure from sticking a lamp shade up your ass . . . by all means, carry on my good man. Just because it’s not for me, doesn’t mean I judge. In fact, I am all about exposing the dark underbelly. Sometimes the best stuff resides in the “ahem” cracks. What I don’t like, however, is hypocrisy and drawing lines in the sand. Who chooses what is now glorified and what is to remain frowned upon and hidden. Let your freak flag fly I say, or maybe we should just keep it to ourselves for the sake of social decorum.

It all stinks of our society’s complete lack of creativity. Sensationalism for the sake of sensationalism. It wouldn’t bother me one bit if they sold bondage supplies at Wal-Mart so long as I could turn on the television and see something actually thought out or pick up a book that was actually well written. What I am trying to say is this . . . I miss France. Not for the magnificent baguette or the delightfully complex Bordeaux red, but for their sense of dignity. They don’t pretend to be prudish or offended by the realities and grotesqueries of the world. In fact, they seem to accept them without a single misstep. If Whiskey, Weed (for prescribed medicinal purposes in a jurisdiction where such things are legal of course), and Women are your thing . . . go for it. I quite prefer life WITHOUT taboos. Taboos, not illegalities. Some things are illegal for a reason and should stay that way. These two concepts are quite different indeed. Other than that, everything goes. The issue is, there is a time and place for everything and the French, nay, Europe as a whole has that figured out. No need to glorify it. Just let it be. So let’s strike a balance here America. Life isn’t all or nothing you know. There is in fact a middle ground. How about a nice trip to the movie theater with your significant other (male or female, genitals pierced or un-pierced) to watch Lincoln as something other than a Vampire slayer followed up by an equally nice evening of consensually degenerate sex acts in the privacy of your own bedroom with whips and chains you purchased at Bed Bath and Beyond . . . WAY BEYOND (they really do have EVERYTHING). Nobody has to know . . . REALLY! Again, just keep it legal. Not since Mister Ed has a horse been able to tell you if he was up for a night on the town. Besides, I heard Mister Ed couldn’t actually talk and only moved his lips to try and get at the peanut butter they smeared on his nose, but I digress. See, now that is life in balance. So, let’s get it all out in the open and out of our system so we can all move on with life . . . whose with me? No? Oh well . . . I tried. Until next time, I gotta run . . . Honey Boo Boo is about to start . . . hope I didn’t forget to set the timer to record the Amish Mafia! If you can’t beat em . . . join em. R

Flight of the Mouseling and a Cure for Literary Constipation

As pressure mounts from the outside to continue with this project I find myself terribly blocked and despite a diet heavy on literary bran muffins, I still can’t squeeze out a single word worth publishing. Indeed it has been some time and we are long overdue, but words don’t really do it justice. The depth and breadth of the change we have undergone over the past month or so has, in fact, left me speechless. Oh, I gave it the old college try a time or two, but to be honest it was a bunch of crap. Tedious paragraphs about packing and unpacking, shuffling about in a mindless fog of logistics. It was all just about as dry and lifeless as a popcorn fart. The longer I sat staring at a blank screen the more perplexed I became as to what, if any, direction this project should take. With an absolute gold mine of experience in the palm of my hand, why waste a single breath on the mundane reality of yet another international move. To be completely honest, it was fairly uneventful. Certainly, there will be memories that last the test of time, but are unlikely to translate in my broken prose. Still, I felt uncertain where to start and then it hit me . . . MOUSELINGS!

Anyone have the slightest clue what you call a baby mouse? Perhaps this is nothing more than my final break from reality under the burdensome strain of a life in flux, or maybe it is simply my way of getting back to where we started . . . back to the usual unstable meanderings of my mind. As I spent yet another mindless hour on the road, portaging my children to and fro, it struck me as odd that in all my years on this planet I had failed to learn what a baby mouse was called. A cat . . . kitten of course. Dog . . . a pup. I even am acutely aware that a baby Alpaca is called a Cria. Hatchlings for Aligators and calf for most of the larger hooved varieties of mammals wandering the hills and valleys. A deer has a fawn, a horse has a foal and some fish have fingerlings . . . but what in the hell does a mouse have? As it turns out they have pups, kittens and something called a pinkie. WTF? Stumbling across the answer to my query on the interwebs, I became hopelessly quagmired in some intensive research that eventually led me to an even more interesting topic. As if the English language isn’t fascinating enough in its oft times counterintuitive nomenclature for our offspring, the conventions for naming groups of things is more interesting still.

A group of mice, for example, are known as a “mischief”. And though I have never seen more than one owl at a time other than in a zoo, a group of these nocturnal predators is known as a “parliament”. Everyone knows a “troop” of monkeys and a “pride” of lions, but have you ever seen a “business” of ferrets or a “coalition” of cheetahs? Bears come by the “sleuth”, badgers by the “cete” and peafowl by the “ostentation”. That last one actually makes a great deal of sense in my humble opinion. Between the “rookery” of penquins and the “crash” of rhinoceri, I found my head swimming like a “squad” of squid. Human beings are worse yet. We come by the boatload or the busload; in a crowd or a gang. We come as a mob or even a tribe. We are known by the mass or a huddle and some have even come as a horde. There are multitudes and legions, families and flocks. Hell, we even come in something called a “dispora” . . . whatever that means. We congregate as troops and create a rabble or scrum. It seems there is no limit for how we combine, by the throng or the wave, we come just the same. The noise of it all would silence a “murder” of crows.

So, for better or worse, these are my thoughts for the day. Maybe tomorrow I will have something meaningful to say. The best I can hope for now is that this contrivance will have the desired laxative effect and I won’t again be absent for so long. See you next time. R