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 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 placed 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 knows 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

http://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F36559983&auto_play=true&show_artwork=false&color=ff7700

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 12^th 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 black 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 and 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 mad 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 nutricious 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’”

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.