You know what's missing from my little writings?
Good household hints.
Do you want to know why there are few household hint?
Because I don't have any household hints

But I remember once reading that the twisty ties on loaves of bread are color coded for a particular reason so I have decided to research this hot topic and call this the first of a long series entitled Household Hints. I've put a little handwritten "PRESS" card in my fedora and I've hit the streets* to get some answers to this perplexing mystery. I mean to write** the best damn household hints article I can and with my favorite fedora hat*** I can't miss.


*When I say "hit the streets" I mean google.
**When I say write I mean cut and paste whatever I find
*** When I say Fedorea I mean I'm going to put on my tattered, old lady robe and dirty slippers.


10 minutes later

Ok, I have researched the topic and I am ready to discuss. Before I explain the Household Hint of the week I should let you know that this will be the last household tip of the week because it was an incredibly stupid idea. It was poorly thought out and the execution was laughable.

How do you know that you are getting the freshest bread in the store? As you may or may not have noticed the twisty tie are different colors on the loaves of bread- the reason for this is to let the delivery person know which day the bread was made and delivered. One company (perhaps its Bimbo Bread) uses the following code.

Monday - Blue
Tuesday - Green
Thursday - Red
Friday - White
Saturday - Yellow

When the delivery guy is making his deliveries he will remove all the old bread using the color code- for example on Saturday he will deliver bread with a yellow tag and, presumably remove the bread with the red tag (baked and delivered two days before) I use the masculine because all drivers for bakery goods must, by law, be male- there is something about the chemistry of women which can cause bread to become unlevened- this is absolutely true (ok, it really isn't). The problem with this system is that there is no universal color code system- every company uses their own color code so while it may aid the delivery person it does us, the loyal consumer, absolutely no good whatsoever. That, my friends, is why I'm moving to France because the bread is baked fresh daily. I am also moving to France because I heard somewhere that there is a place in France where the ladies wear no pants. And that my friends would make a much more interesting post than this.

Thank You Very Much For Your Time.

I think we all start blogging for very similar reason. We have something we need to express and our work-a-day roles do not allow for that expression. I began blogging specifically to practise writing- 5 days a week I need to post something. It can be good or bad, and I think you can attest there have been some badly thought out posts, but post I must. I figure its good exercise and something might spark my imagination for a story. The Bones writing did that as did the current video store posts. The video store posts were not at all well received but I liked them, in fact, I giggled like a school girl as I they were written.


There is a danger in blogging and it is possible to lose sight of the pure objectives. Once I added site meter I began viewing how many people were reading my blog. That then became more important then practicing my writing. Always tracking the numbers- that , of course leads to blog roll comparison. I'm shocked at how quickly I can become a resentful, petty person. I'll add someone to my blog roll- that's the list of the blogs I read as shown on the right hand side of the page but if they don't reciprocate I think, "What's up with that shit? Where's the blog love?" Again, the pure objectives get lost and need to be re-found. I think that when the reason for writing gets muddles the writing itself gets muddles and lost.

I am too easily distracted. The number of hits on my site does not matter, adding someone to your blog roll specially to have them add you to yours is just plain creepy and that's not the kind of person I want to be. The blogs I list, I list because I enjoy them, that's all.

Now go out there and tell your friends to visit my little site so I can get those numbers up.

Like most others, I want to put down roots- find the home, raise the family, be connected to the community. These are the things that I associate with being rooted. I've been pondering this idea of being rooted since it was brought up on Sunday Scribbles.

I was raised in a family that was rooted to each other. We were rooted to the home, the community, the church, our Irish heritages. When I think of being rooted I think of safety and connection. Who would argue that these are bad things? Can being too rooted too deeply be a hindrance?Perhaps being these roots can also be an anchor that keeps us from change.

I wrote about my parents selling the house that I grew up in and the understandable sadness for me that followed that sale. My parents had the right idea, they are in their late 70's and those roots had become burdensome. Two people getting along in years don't need a large, 105 year old house that is in constant need of repair. They moved to a small manageable apartment downtown- a guy changes their light bulbs when they burn out. They are still rooted but they have another place to grow. I am so connected to my roots that I would not have sold the house- those deep roots would have kept me firmly in place and not allowed me to do the next right thing. These roots, which are meant to be good, would have instead become an anchor for me.

Anyone who has followed this blog is aware of the never ending story of K- and I selling everything and moving to Paris. The main obstacle in this scary/ exciting adventure is the thought of tearing up the small roots we have nurtured and following an uncertain dream. How many people forgo the dream to keep the roots from being disturbed? Which is more important the roots or the dream? I truly don't know the answer to these questions but I suspect I will find out in August when those roots are pulled.

What I hope to find is that the roots are within- that I will always be rooted to my family, my community and my heritage. What I would like to discover is that, in a spiritual sense, it is impossible to be uprooted.

Man...what a day so far. My tire blew out on the highway so I changed the tire in the rain while trucks screamed by me splashing me with nasty highway water. I need to work on my speed in tire changing, but I've only had ot change 3 tires before. I was pissed at myself becasue I got a little panicky while changing it- but afterwards I thought that being panicky while changing a tire on the highway in the rain is probably pretty normal- (I'm always on the look out for the panick attacks which have left me).

I went to get a hamburger for lunch and the waitress accidently dropped a fry in my coke. "Ooops" she said and reached into my drink pulled the fry out and said , "There ya go" And left without replacing the drink. Again I feel blessed to have witnessed it and I have been smiling the rest of the day. Somedays all it takes it one little serendipitous moment to make everything ok.- the coke tasted that much better.

When I was a boy my dad and I went camping in Indiana- I ordered pancakes at a greasy diner (that's how my family camps) I asked for some butter and she returned carrying the unwrapped butter in her hands- no plate, no nothing- just her bare hands wrapped around a stick of butter. Can life get any better than that???? No..the answer is no.

A woman from Argentina, Arboleda posted a comment on my blog a few posts back. she only has one post up so far but I think its going to be an interesting blog if she keeps with it. Isn't it great to peek into peoples lives from a distance. Especially when the distance is so far.

I had to delete that video because it was causing trouble with my blog. It was funny, but it wasn't that funny.

We had our first couple check out the house today. As I mentioned, we are not going through a Realtor. We did when we sold the rental property but our home is in such a great location that we should get a fair amount of traffic- a year in Paris without working is expensive and we need all the money we can get. If we had a Realtor we'd be paying close to $16,000 for someone to open the door.

A Realtor called and asked if she could show it to her client, in cases like that they get 3%, I don't want to pay them that either but what are you going to do. She came busting in- very aggressive those Realtors, with a contract for me to sign asking for 3 1/2% of the sale of the house.

Misplaced: Yea, we aren't comfortable with 3 1/2%.... 3% is pretty standard.
Realtor: Well- standard for me is 7% so I split the difference.
Misplaced: We'd actually like to only give you 1% so 3% is a pretty nice compromise.
Realtor: Ok, 3% is is.

But she wasn't happy. Then she looked at me in a disgusted manner and said in an incredibly condescending tone "Have you ever tried to sell real estate?"

What the fuck is that about?- granted I did have to look up "real estate" in the dictionary, but that's only because I have a mental block on the word and I'm "special" as we discussed. I'm certainly not disrespecting any ones profession but yea I think I can open the door to the house for $16,000. I'll even throw in a "why, here's the kitchen....ooooh nice flow" and not only that but I wont insult the seller. How's that for earning my commission? She makes it sound like she's a coal miner worried that I might get black lung- so she bugged me the rest of the day.

Anyway, I did like the couple that walked through. Although the first thing the guy said to me was "I recognize you from your picture on the Internet" It didn't really register immediately with me because I was checking out his wife -they were a Billy Joel/ Christie Brinkley couple- you would have looked too. So my time to respond was lost but now I can ask, What pictures of me on on the Internet???? I suddenly had this mental picture of me being passed out and naked while being shaved by fraternity guys. If I was part of some "hazing incident" I'm going to be pissed.

First my little brother and now Penny: "What will you do there if you don't work?"

I had this same question early on and still do upon occasion, I think I may have even written about it. One of the things that made me nervous was the question, "what would I do with my days if I didn't work?" The question bothered me but I could never understand why until it hit me. If I don't have to be someplace would I not know what to do? I think the answer to that is yes, which is sad. I think the majority of people would be at a loss as to what they should do if they no longer had to work. Sure the first few weeks would be fun but what about after that? I'm not 100% certain about the numbers of this, but don't the vast majority of men die soon after their retirement? Granted they are old and old people do that well, but I think they also no longer have direction or purpose after they stop working- maybe their wives kill them, who knows.

I hope to fill my days with things that are more worthwhile than a job that never sparked my imagination to begin with. I'd like to study French, European history, travel to other countries(cheaply), read all day, wander aimlessly, ride a bicycle to the library. Surely we could all find something more worthwhile to do for 8 hours each day then work a crap job.

As for how we are financially doing it, it will be tight. We've saved for it, had the original rental house which we sold recently, and the sale of our residence. It is definitely a reckless, irresponsible financial move- but this was never a money making venture, it's a quality of life issue. I will also have a paypal donation option which I expect Penny to contribute her college fund to (just kidding).

There is a lot to do for this move. For those just joining us I have been beating to death the idea of moving to Paris. K- was accepted into a graduate program there and has a line on a good internship, we’ve both given notice to our jobs, we sold the rental property and just put our house on the very soft market.

I’ve been trying to get insurance for France, which is a requirement for a long stay visa- just applying for the visa feels like a full time job: birth certificates, wedding license, insurance, notarized letter saying I wont work, proof that we have enough money (but they do not tell you how much is enough), fingerprints and criminal record check through the FBI and several things that I’m sure I’m forgetting. All of these documents must be translated into French which is an expensive proposition. We need to travel to Chicago to apply in person and then wait 2-3 months for an 'ok'. I’m taking French lessons, trying to sell the house, organizing a street sale and checking out storage facilities all while trying to stay on a budget- it’s a never ending process.

This weekend my younger brother said, “So really, if you aren’t working, what will you be doing in Paris while you are there?” umm….. It’s a good question. I’ve been so busy trying to get there that I haven’t really focused on what I’ll do while I’m there – other than writing for the year. Hmmm… I may need to get some hobbies. I could train our tri-colored bitch of a cat, Ponette, to dance like Josephine Baker- I may need to start making the banana skirt now…yes, yes my days will be full

Today I was given two Thinker Awards, one from Sharala and the other from Self Taught Artist. Thanks!

Those awards are given to ‘blogs which make us think’. I would have posted this earlier but I was attempting to post the Thinker Award Logo on my site but have been unsuccessful and it took me an hour to link to their sites so it is very clear that, while my blog may help others to think, it has done nothing for my thinking abilities.

Writing is a solitary pursuit and it is nice to get feedback especially if its positive (I'm not one of those that appreciates the negative feedback). Thanks to both of you for the mention- I suspect it wasn’t for my recent limerick or Bimbo Bread.

I mentioned Sister Joseph Ellen in my last post and I thought I ought to write about her. I have been told by my parents that I was a quiet, well behaved child. This may or may not be true- I know that I wasn’t rambunctious and remember being somewhat full of fear about all manner of things, but this may not be any different than it is for all children.

Sister Joseph Ellen would strike terror in even the toughest kid. I was at more of a disadvantage than the other kids. I’m the second youngest of six. So four juvenile delinquents with the same last name as me cut a swath of destruction before me. By the time I got to a grade I was already doomed, labeled a trouble-maker, smart aleck coupled with my inability to learn I was, in short, screwed. My best defense was laying low- hide behind the kid in front of me and pray not to be called on. I found this is also a good defense once you get married.

The only real freedom a young boy has in a school run my nuns is the boys restroom, even the nuns didn’t cross that line. My personal favorite way to let off steam was to wet toilet paper in the sink and throw it on the ceiling, it would stick there with a satisfying “Splat!”. Sister Joseph Ellen must have gotten wise to my antics because as I left the bathroom one day after letting off a little steam and she blindsided me with a sucker punch to the arm. She had pretty impressive shoulders and forearms like Popeye so it was a pretty good hit- having mostly brothers I knew a good Charlie horse when it came down the pike. All I could do was exaggerate a slam into the lockers and feign real injury. Of course feigning injury is lost on a person if they don’t care if you are injured or not. What’s funny about the whole mess is that she didn’t even know I was throwing toilet paper on the ceiling- she hit me because she “knew I was up to something and didn’t appreciate Tom Foolery in the bathroom.”

I saw her 15 years later at a grade school re-union and she was just as nice as can be. I told my dad about how pleasant she was and he said “She’s just old and trying to get into heaven”

This is the kind of thing you don't hear much about in the white bread media. Loaves of bread being pimped out, wholesale, by cute fuzzy pimp bears. It makes me sick and saddened to think of the circumstances that leads a good loaf of bread down the rocky road of debauchery. Well, I can only hope that they use condoments.

Have I mentioned that I always suspected that I have a learning disability? If I was in high school today I’m certain that I would diagnosed with some form of learning disability and be given some drug that would make me ‘get it’. I wonder if my life would be different. I have grown past the ‘less than feelings’ that can be associated with not doing well in school. But, as a kid, its easy to define yourself by those short comings. I always feel bad for fat kids because its hard enough without having ot put up with that crap. Whenever I see a fat parent buying their fat kids a hot dog and a 20 ounce big Gulp from the 7-11 I want to shake the parent and say "This is child abuse!" but I'm afraid the fat parent and her fat kid would beat me up and where would my self-esteem be then?

When I was young, I must not have picked up reading quickly. In fact it must have been so painfully slow that my parents sent me to a private tutor at Mount Saint Joseph College. It was a nun who taught me and I just barely remember the lessons at all. I do remember that the nun was very kind and patient. It’s in vogue to trash the men and women of the cloth in the Catholic religion, and while I’m no longer a religious person I will say they, for the most part, treated me well- except Sister Joseph Ellen who sucker punched me as I came out of the bathroom, but she still makes me laugh with her antics so I can’t be too resentful toward her.

Anyway- As I have mentioned before there were 6 kids in my family. We were by no means poor but I’m sure there wasn’t extra money lieing around to pay for private reading lessons. Every Saturday my mom would drive to the College but before we got there we would stop at a donut shop where I could get any pastry I wanted. This was a big deal, in my family as we weren’t permitted sweets like this. My mom and I would sit on the lawn and eat our breakfast snack and talk- with all those kids my parents were pretty good about spending individual time with each of us. I only remember one conversation we had. I asked my mom if she would vote for Richard Nixon if she were his mother- she said no.

One day after many months of tutoring, the nun told me that there was no reason for me to come back- I was a fine reader she told my mother. She must have been right because I became a reading fool spending great amounts of time in the library. A bagful of library books felt like Christmas to me. I wish I could remember the nun that taught me to read, but I think, more importantly, the time I spent with my mom taught me to enjoy the experience of reading.

Sunday Scribble prompt is Secret Identity. It scares me that I actually have 3 things to say on this topic. I’ll draw a blank on the elections, internet civility and avian flu but secret identities I have a few thoughts.

1. I thought a secret identity would be important when I started a blog so I picked “Misplaced in the Midwest” because “Lost in the Midwest” was taken and I was too tired to come up with a new name. Truth be told, I’m neither Misplaced nor Lost but I am in the Midwest so I’m only half a liar. I’m not certain why I thought I needed a fake name, I didn’t think I’d be fired for blogging, I’m in an industry where there are generally two types of people, those going into drug rehab and those just getting out of drug rehab. I haven’t done either in a very long time so I am a shining star in my profession. I think that I created a secret identity for this blog because I truly believed that thousands upon thousands would clamor to read my words and that was the best way to shield myself from the throng of fans. Of course, there aren’t thousands of fans there aren’t even tens of fans and what little secret identity I have is ruined by my posting my picture or hearing my wife saying to an 80 year old Aunt “…its spelled M-I-S-P-L-A-C-E-D” at a family gathering. Auntie will be delighted when she reads I urinated on myself one drunken evening years ago (long before a became a shining star in my profession).

2. All my friends have cool spy aliases. The only name I could come up with was Cricket McGraith. I was informed by my cool friends (but really how cool can you be if you have a fake spy name?) that Cricket McGraith doesn’t steal state secrets and he doesn’t bed Eastern European woman. Cricket McGraith does pick out drapes and re-arranges your furniture in a tasteful manner- Cricket McGraith does track lighting. My friend down the street suggested that I just change my spy name to Mittens McNeill and get it over with. I’d have sent him an angry letter but my spy decoder ring is all gummed up.

3. I have always felt that everyone needs a secret identity including fake passport, license, credit cards, etc. I would also like to have few thousand dollars squirreled away just in case ‘the shit’ goes down. I don’t know what ‘the shit’ might be but if I ever decide to commit a serious crime I’d like to have all the paperwork in order to elude justice. I’m far too handsome to do time and besides that’s how Cricket McGraith rolls.

It was a busy evening. I had my last french class (at least this level) and after that I went to visit my folks in their downtown apartment. My sister and her daughter are visiting from Seattle. She keeps threatening to read my blog but she can never remember the name of it. Her daughter, Gracie, wanted to say a blessing before each course of the meal. She also laid out her stuffed animals in a huge bed on the floor and did a ballet dance around them for our entertainment. At some point she noticed everyone looking at the stuffed animals and chastised us, "Focus on me, not the props" Would this story be as cute if she was 20 years old? Probably not, but she's 5 or 6 so its cute. It might have been cute if I had done it, but I'm a good dancer- not everyone can pull off ballet.

A good friend of the family was there and she had a connection in Paris with an advertising agency- this could be interesting.

If you haven't noticed this is a bit of a throw away post. I'm waiting for Sunday Scribbles to publish their prompt but I hate not having something written for the morning.

Kurt Vonnegut is dead. How about that? Actually I wasn't aware that he was still alive.

I began reading him in high school- we probably had to- Cat's Cradle I think it was- and I was hooked. I read them all in high school and college. What self-respecting college student didn't have worn paperback copies of his book in their measly little libraries.

I brought a Kurt Vonnegut book with me on my last trip to Paris- but I brought it for a different reason. The book was old and the pages worn- I brought it because I wondered if they were as good as I remember and also because I could leave it on the plane after I was through with it.

An unceremonious disposal of a book by an author that once meant something to me but, now, no longer did. So it goes.

K- woke up one morning last week and she was angry at me. It was unclear why. It finally came out after an hour or so of short, sharp answers to very legitimate questions I posed. She was mad at me because in her dream I had an affair. I was at a loss for words- which is rare. So I said what I've learned to say in these circumstances I said "I'm sorry" I also commented that I probably didn't enjoy the affair as much as it might have appeared in the dream.

I was once asked if I'd rather be right or happy. K-'s father said it best when he responded to the same question, "just every once in awhile, doesn't have to be always, I'd like to be both happy and right" That's how I feel.

My French teacher recounted tales of pets dieing on airlines from the U.S. to Europe-I was filled with overwhelming sadness at the potential death of my cat. (yes the same one that puked on me while I slept). She sensed my sadness and was extra nice to me.

Sometimes, right before I fall asleep, I have a flash rememberence of something I said or did that was embarrassing. It doesn't matter that it may have been 20 years ago it still makes me let out a small groan. I wonder if K- knows about this, she must hear it.- I also wonder if that ever goes away. (I mean before death.)

I heard a great argument between two Construction Managers working for the same company. The argument got more and more heated and before it came to a full blown fight one said he was a blackbelt in martial arts and that the other fellow ought to step back. The other responded that he wasn't worried, he was a redneck and would hit him in the back of the head with a 2x4 when he wasn't looking. I felt blessed to witness this fight.

I went to the gym today and an old lady got on the treadmill next to me. Suddenly an incredible smell of stale cigarette smoke waifed over the entire gym. It moved like napalm over our small YMCA village. I got to thinking about how much I used to smoke and how badly I must have smelled. How badly must my car have smelled, my house, my clothes? You wonder how smokers can stand it but the truth is they don't even know they smell bad. Like the old stank ass next to me, they are oblivious.

This is a message I want to send to all the smokers out there. I'm not going to lecture- there is no need to get defensive. In fact, deep down inside I am a smoker and always will be one. I started smoking at 13 and quit at 40, 2 years ago. I like smoking, I like smokers. I still think smoking is cool. I'm not kidding- I am the last American that still believes smoking is cool. If I was in high school I would start smoking all over again. When my non-existent kids start smoking, and they will, I'll ground them and lecture them but deep inside I'll say "yea, smoke up you will look so cool with a cigarette dangling from you lips". So this is not an anti-smoking bitch session but just some knowledge I've picked up over my 2 years of being a non-smoking smoker.

It stinks!

It really does. I know that when the mamby-pamby non-smokers wrinkle their noses at you as they walk by the billowing cloud of goodness that bellows from your lips you think "grow up you big babies- it's just a little smoke" I know you think those holier-than-thou, non-smoking, Polly-Purebreds are exaggerating but they aren't. It really smells bad. And when you chew gum to mask the smell you smell like spearmint and shit. It's true and it isn't the nice smell you associate with the taste of cigarettes. It smells a little like a bum's ass- not that I've smelled a bum's ass but it's what I would imagine a bum's ass to smell like. You can't cover it, you can't mask it, Febreeze does nothing, its there- always, it oozes out of your pours.

You think to yourself, 'I'm not getting laid because I'm past my prime, I'm older and less attractive than I used to be'- No! You're hot as hell! You aren't getting laid because you smell like shit. The only thing worse than having to walk passed your Pigpen stink-ass is actually having to kiss you. People want to have sex with you- but you smell bad.

I, for one, am all for smoking- I hope to smoke again- I am a non-smoking smoker. Keep smoking, light one up for me, but know that you do smell really, really bad.


* except for Jay- he doesn' smell like cigarettes at all- neither does Kate.

It was 15 years ago but I remember it like it was yesterday, a guy at a party in Chicago told me he hated The Beatles.

I was flabbergasted, really I was. I had never heard of such a thing. I knew that people didn’t believe in Santa Claus but to HATE Santa Clause? I remember just staring at him and saying, "I can’t talk to you anymore" and walked away. I have grown older and I realize that The Beatles aren’t for everyone but they were such a huge part of my growing up that I'm confused when someone else doesn't share this passion.

One of the 'coming of age' moments in my family was the age in which you were considered old enough to work the record player. When that day came for me I would listen to the Beatles non stop- particularly the Sgt Pepper Album. I loved it! Every song was great! A Little Help From My Friends To me that was a song about Dave and Tommy, my buddies at school. Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds- I pictured a beautiful lady flying around with massive diamonds on her fingers, toes and around her neck. I learned later the the friends they were talking about were pills and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds was about LSD but I didn’t care. At the age of ten the image was in my head and would stay there for ever.

My favorite Beatle changed as I grew older. At first it was George Harrison because he looked the coolest on the Sgt Pepper album. He had the kind of hair I aspired to, he wore the red band uniform which was my favorite color. Paul McCartney looked like a nerd I didn’t like at school and John Lennon had shorter hair and a nasty ass lime green uniform on- I did not care for that at all. I didn’t, at this point, know any of their names I just knew what they looked like. By my teens John Lennon was my hero, although I still thought George looked cooler. John remained my favorite Beatle until my 30’s (even though it is decidedly sick to have a favorite Beatle at this age) I began to appreciate Paul Mcartney and realized that John and George would be my favorites, Paul was a better song writer than both (it kills me to say it, but its true) Ringo never quite made the grade for me- he couldn’t sing, he didn’t write songs and most importantly at the time he didn’t look good on the Sgt Pepper Album.

A little over a year ago K- and I decided to get rid of cable TV. It was a difficult decision to make, neither one of us realized how addictive television can be.

The first week I would come home from work and stare at our blank set- not knowing what do with myself. TV, of course, isn’t good or bad its just a thing but my viewing habits had become disturbing. E Entertainment and Access Hollywood run non-stop information on the likes of Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, Brad Pitt etc. and, this is where it gets disturbing, I would watch. I’d put off going to bed so I could view how the rich and famous were living their lives. Celebrity news is like crack, just a little bit more and I’ll be satiated, but more is always needed. Standing in line at the check out counter, People and Us magazine turned upside downs and mixed with the other groceries in hopes of disguising my reading habits. I bought Entertainment magazines with the same shame that I bought condoms as a teenager. Britney, Paris, Lindsey, Brad and Angelina, my news didn’t need to mention their last names, I knew them by their first names only, just as I knew my friends.

I have a theory that this type of news drains the soul. It is designed to have us live vicariously through other people- it slowly teaches us that they are interesting and we are not, they are rich and we are not, they are beautiful and we are not, They are everything and we are nothing. There is a withdrawal period when you stop watching entertainment news but slowly you begin to see through the haze. You pick up a book or you take a walk with a loved one. You begin to realize that you were continuously feeding on candy with no nutritional value and that instead of rotting your teeth it was rotting your mind.

Other than movies we rent, the TV generally stays off. Paris, Britney, Lindsey, Brad and Angelina will need to live their lives without my participation. I’m sure we will all be fine (except Britney, I’m worried sick about her).


After I posted this on Sunday Scribbles it seemed vaguely familiar. I worried that I read a similiar post from another blogger and accidently rehashed it on my own blog. After researching it I found that I had written a similiar post 4 months ago- I am a walking example of why people shouldn't drink to excess.

There once was a man from the Midwest.
With a blog on which he tried to write his best.
His thoughts, one day, went flaccid
in fact, they moved as slow as molasses
putting the loyalty of his readers to the test.

I wonder if other bloggers have this problem.
I have absolutely nothing to say.
I'm racking my brain and finding nothing there.
hmmmm....yep nothing.

I think I need my thoughts to ferment a bit-
bubbly, yeasty creature that I am.

I have a Number 8 to The Useless Things I've Learned list. It came from my younger, wiser brother, Brendan.

A few useless things I've learned

1.Woman who are 100% heterosexual will look at Angela Jolie and say, "I'd do her" (but they are usually lieing)

2.In the gym locker room: The fatter the ass the more likely that fat, bare ass will sit on the bench without a towel.

3. to be added

4. If you want your restaurant meal to arrive, light a cigarette, if you want your boss to walk into your cubical, download porn.

5. Don't admit that global warming seems like a nice idea. Just keep it to yourself, you'll be happier.

6. No self respecting Wiccan would have a "Witches Do It In Circles" bumper sticker on their car (or broom).

7.This is really neither here nor there, but Barney Fife is the funniest character on TV. He once referred to Gomer as being "...as sharp as a bag full of wet mice" which still makes me laugh.

8. If you are the father and are watching the children while your wife goes out, never refer to it as "babysitting" call it "parenting". My younger brother gave me this advice and I suspect he learned the hard way.

I'm sure that everyone who has ever sold a house has the same regrets.

K- and I started getting the house ready to sell. I looked at the house with new eyes- one closet I had never completed needs to be patched and painted- the storm door on the front door needs to be removed and the front door painted. Basically all the little things that have been put off need to be completed and once they are I will ask myself, why didn't I do this a few years ago so I could enjoy it.

Kelly did a major spring cleaning on the house. In fact the cleaning was so intense and thorough that when she got out of bed this morning she stepped in Ponette vomit. Our little spawn of Satan doesn't like it when the house is cleaned and the cleaner is punished to the full extent of 'kitty law'.

The sign is up, and the house is officially "For Sale".

What a lovely weekend it has been so far. My friend down the street had an art opening. We beat out three other people to buy a piece K- has had her eye on. You can check out his paintings on his new site Atelier/ Romanos. Another favorite is the Space Bee series one of which is shown on his site- we have one of these as well- I'll post the painting later this week. The opening was great- just a lot of fun people, wonderful paintings in a nice spot- very good energy.

One conversation I overheard-
Woman: Wow I think I slept with most of the guys over in that corner.
Her Boyfriend: We should call my friend Will, you haven't slept with him...yet.
*This is the painting we bought.

Saturday Day: We spent the day getting the house ready to sell. Much cleaning, photos, and trying to get a nice brochure together to give the illusion that the house is worth every penny we are asking.

Saturday night, walking down the main drag I run into Busker playing harmonica with several musicians.
Busker: Hey, I've been reading your blog.
Misplaced: Yea? What do you think?
Busker: It's very...bloggy.
1 hour later
Misplaced to self:" What the fuck does that mean?

I just told my boss I'm quitting in August to move to Paris.
Zoiks! It has begun.

I need to get back into the swing of things and I think I've left a few questions unanswered. I wrote the following post a few days ago and afterwards read from a blog which I enjoy immensly, Self Taught Artist. She talks about the real fears involved with leaving security and pursuing a dream. It's strange but that, in part, is what this post is about but I want to think more about the real fears involved- the fears I've purposely not explored because I thought it might keep me from chasing the dream. I'm pondering that this weekend. I like when someones writing challenges me to do a little soul searching

Paris. It was a great trip and we did what we wanted. Our plan in going there was to walk the neighborhoods and decide if this was a place we wanted to live. Seems like a no brainer, doesn’t it? Paris versus the Midwest….hmmmm. Maybe the choice is obvious but there is a romance factor with Paris that you have to get past. When I think of living in a foreign city I immediately roll into a romantic notion of what it would be and my romantic version of life is nowhere close to reality.

An Italian friend of ours lived in Paris for several years working in restaurants before opening his own place here. He made an interesting and simple point when he said “living in Paris is considerably different then visiting Paris.” So we went to Paris to walk the neighborhoods. We didn’t go to any museums, we didn’t clutch The DaVinci Code in our sweaty little hands as we searched for the sacred feminine and we did not tell one Frenchman that “we saved his ass in the big one” although it was tempting –we, essentially, took a 12 day stroll around town.

I have to be honest -part of it scared me. I haven’t had to live without the security of money for a long time. I’ve always had enough squirreled away that it would take a major financial crunch to unnerve me. I’ve grown used to living in a house with different rooms for different activities and a yard to work on and a car in the garage. It will be different, but of course, that’s the point.

I don’t know that Paris will inspire me as a writer. Truth be told I could just as easily, perhaps more so, write in the Midwest and work a job and keep my house and be near family and friends but for reasons unknown I want to put it all on the line. I want to sink or swim as a writer within the year. I want to be able to look back on it and say ‘I gave this writing thing a fair shake.’

This sink or swim attiude is fine when you are on your own but that is no longer the case for me. K- will sink or swim with me. She is being a good sport in putting our lives on hold for this dream of mine. She has, in fact, made this her dream. She will get her masters She was just accepted to teh AUP (American Univeristy in Paris), study French, and, perhaps, learn to tie a scarf.

What a day. Mediation seems to be a common occurrence in my line of work. 2 or more parties feel they’ve been screwed over and want to sue each other. The contract states you have to mediate before you are permitted to sue.

We completed a project 8 years ago, and this year the owner decides they are entitled to compensation for something they feel was faulty. They don’t acknowledge that with 8 years they might have mistreated this item all they know is they want money to the tune of $90,000. Why they are entitled to this money is unclear. We tell them to take a hike, they sue us, we sue them and there little dog too. Six hours later nothing is resolved- mediation, in this instance didn't work.

Sorry about the dull post, but it was that kind of day.


Wait! It wasn't a completely wasted day- I managed to squeeze in a little personal business. I went to the justice center and got my fingerprints taken. If you move to a foreign country you have to have a complete criminal check by the FBI. I suspect the FBI likes to have fingerprints on file as well. Since we will soon loose all our civil rights I figure I might as well give my fingerprints up now and have a locator chip installed behind my ear (not really). I think I wrote in the past my discomfort with the government having my finger prints on file so I wont bore you with that again...maybe I'll try to find the link but I don't recall the post being that good.

It's always an adventure going to the justice center. The last time I was there I was bailing Aaron out for robbing that convenient store(Christ another link is needed). Sex offenders are there registering their new addresses and everyone wants to borrow your phone because "my bitch ain't come to pick me up and she knewed I was gettin' out" When the lady who did the prints asked me why I needed them I said, "because I'm moving to Paris" and she said "Wow, that's refreshing"

I went to an AA meeting while I was in Paris- actually a couple of them. AA is the same everywhere. It doesn’t matter where in the world you are the same characters are always represented. I could be in a meeting in the middle of the Serengeti listening to someone click and knock about their life in sobriety and I’ll think, “hell, he’s just like Junkyard John from back home.”

I have a lot of issues with AA- but I try not to bitch too much about it because it did save my life. But the one thing I will say about it is that there is a fine fellowship involved. We went to a meeting in the south of France a few years ago and immediately were taken under the wing of several very nice people. To not know anyone in Nice and after one hour to be enjoying the sun and a cup of coffee in an outdoor café with 6 people talking about things you couldn’t share with someone who hasn’t gone through the dark years, laughing about stuff that you’ve been through that others might find horrifying but your new friends not only understand but did.

There can be a creepy cult factor to AA- but only if you want to join a creepy cult. I use it as a stepping stone to what I think can be a higher plane. It’s a step- not the final destination.

All and all I think working in the video store was an incredible experience. While I don't think I was homophobic before I worked there (I wouldn't have taken the job) but now I could put a friendly face to the 'love that dare not speak its name'.

I don't really consider myself tolerant because that suggests I tolerate homosexuals and that would misrepresent my feelings. I can honestly say that I trully do not care who is sexually attracted to whom. It means nothing to me at all- it isn't enlightenment or tolerance, its apathy.

There is one final story that I can remember from the store.

As I mentioned, I was relatively young and naive about the ways of the world when I moved to Chicago. The first time I saw a string of hookers lining the street on Broadway I couldn't believe it- I felt that, finally, I was seeing life.

A fellow came into the store and wanted to ask me for particular gay porn advice. Instead of explaining that I never watched it and would therefore have no opinion I tried my best at costumer service.

Customer: Yes, I'm looking for gay movie (read: porn) that involves water sports.
Misplaced: Hmmmm. Well all our gay porn is in that corner... water sports you say?
I have no idea what this means but I want to be helpful.
Misplaced: There is a video with a guy sitting in a swimming pool, that may be what your looking for.
Cusomer looks confused and goes to the porn corner
Reid: after I explained the exchange So you think water sports might be about playing Marco Polo or Volleyball in a pool?
Misplaced: "Perhaps- it might be a frolick of some sort in a pool"
Reid: Yea, no it means one person urinating on another"
Misplaced: Oh my

Now you may say:Midwest, quit living in the past, what does this little story have to do with today? Well, I'll tell you.

A few nights ago I was looking up stuff for our move and I came across a site that that was for people who have moved to Paris. From what I could gather it sounds as though these English speakers get togther a few times a month for dinner or picnics- basically its a chance to meet other expats. Since I am not a big fan of making friends I thought that I better extend myself and build a support network for those days that K- isn't talking to me. I signed up on-line, sent a picture and a brief introduction. After I became the newest member I began to realize that this group might actually be a singles club. This, in itself, is not bad but I thought my wife might take issue with it- she's funny that way. K- got a kick out of it and checked out the site. She informed me that it wasn't only a single place it looked as though it might be a a gay single site. That's what I get for trying to extend myself. But the point of this long, drawn out, sordid story is that if one of my new buddies emails me asking if I'd like ot join in their water sport activities in Paris I can say, with confidence, that... "No sir, I do not"

The post from last week got me thinking about the gay, pornagraphic video store where I workled- It's funny how stories that you've long since forgotten come flooding back all of a sudden.

I normally worked alone in the video store- it was small and there wasn’t unreasonable amounts of traffic. As with any job were you work costumer service there are always customers who are assholes. That’s just the nature of the beast. I see them now as I stand in line at the grocery stores or a gas station. Little people bitching at the cashier because of some minor inconvenience, usually something out of the cashiers control, like the fact that their coupons are expires, or the price of gas is going up. It used to piss me off, but now I see it for what it is- pathetic. These are people with absolutely no power- they are taking swings at someone who they know can’t swing back.

At Specialty Video and Audio I was once entrusted with doing the front window display- which, if you think about it, is a pretty major accomplishment. Its no Rosa Parks refusing to give up her seat on the bus-but when gay guys let the straight guy do the window display well, the times they are a changin'. I can say that I, too, have been to the mountain top and it's very tastefully done.

It was an important window display because two events collided in the gay community in a way not seen since Wham got together. First: The new Jeff Stryker porn video, Powertool, was due in any day. Second: Barbra Steisand’s, Color Me Barbra CD was coming out. So, as you can imagine, we were all a-tizzy. There was excitement in the air.

I hung the Barbra CD’s and movie’s on fishline so they appeared to be magically floating (if you were legally blind, otherwise they looked like they were hanging from fishing line.) and I used those peal off letter to spell her name at the front of the display. I wont say I was proud of this work- I actually would have forgotten the whole afternoon if there wasn’t an incident. There is always and incident. An hour after I had completed, a man came busting through the door. His face was red and he was livid. I quickly assessed the situation to see if I need to fake some Kung fu moves- but I recognized him as a regular who was always kind of rude to me.

“I can’t believe it!” he screamed at me. "She is a big enough star that one would think that even you could spell her name correctly."

I tried to remember my customer service manual chapter entitled "How To Handle An Irate Client" #1 Establish what the problem is.

"What the fuck are you going on about?" I queried

“You spelled Barbra’s name B-A-R-B-A-R-A”

I answered with a furrowed, confused brow

“It’s B-A-R-B-R-A.!!” He stammered- unable to control his rage.

He was steamed but you have to admire the loyalty he had to her, well…maybe you don’t.

You have heard the line “Absolute power corrupts absolutely” I know this to be true.

As the new Assistant Manager I wont say that I had absolute power at the gay video store, but when a limited number of Jeff Strikers "Powertool" hit the shop and the throng of gay man pleaded for a copy its safe to say I misused what little power I had. I kept all the copies behind the counter and would only rent it to the people I liked. He who controls the porn- controls BoysTown. When the irate Barbra Streisand spelling-bee champ asked for a copy I looked behind the counter pretending to search.

“…hmmm P, P, P, Powertool, P,...P as in People Who Need People? hmmm... Powertool, Powertool No, I don’t see it back here. Could you spell it for me”

Coming between a gay man and the new Jeff Stryker video is a dangerous game but I was young, reckless, had really nice hair and that's how close to the edge I rolled back in the day.

Most of the people I worked with were great guys. My musical tastes were effected enormously, Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone- all the great women jazz singers where played in the shop- music I still listen to today.

I even got confortable enough with one of my workmates, Reid, to ask the question I've always wanted to ask.

"So Reid, really, how can you kiss a man? I mean.. the lips and face are all hard n' shit" I was 20 and literate like a mother- fucker.

Reid responded, "that's what makes it so great. I'll tell you, once in high school, I touched a girls breasts and it was like falling into something."

So there you have it, the main difference between gay and straight men.

Here's a picture I took with sexual chocolate- I probably should have shaved before visiting Paris.

Cool metro sign. I stared at it for a second before I could place it. Anyone want to venture a guess?
Hint: 28IF (warning the hint my be trickier than the puzzle)

I came from what some might consider a large family... but in my Irish Catholic world, having 6 kids was pretty average. Everything had to be larger in a big family, meals were an assembly line. Only a VW bus would do, and school lunches lined the table like paper bag soldiers. The bill for groceries must have been outrageous. There has to be more of everything when a family is large.

As a child, I watched as my father and older brothers wrestled with our new kitchen table. They had bought it in an auction- a large, wood, second-hand library table. Dad brought it home strapped dangerously to the top of the family VW. Somehow they managed to get this oversized table into the kitchen, but once in they were unable to turn and position the table where my mother wanted- it was simple too large. In exasperation, my father fired up the circular saw and cut 4 feet off one side. “This side will be the one against the wall,” my father proclaimed.

A family needs a big kitchen table to conduct its business. Meals are only one of the tables duties. Report cards were scrutinized here, molten candy was poured on slabs of marble and cut on this table, dough was kneaded here. I hurt my shoulder as I walked by the corner of the table when I was a boy, and I hurt my hip on the same corner as an adult. We toasted the life of my grand mother here. I overheard my parents discussing my runaway brother at this table. The kitchen may be the heart of a house, but the kitchen table is the soul.

We grew older and each of us moved into our own homes with our own kitchen tables. My parents no longer needed the large table and gave it to a workman. As much as they would have liked to have kept the table it was time for it to go to another family.

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Inland North   You may think you speak "Standard English straight out of the dictionary" but when you step away from the Great Lakes you get asked annoying questions like "Are you from Wisconsin?" or "Are you from Chicago?" Chances are you call carbonated drinks "pop."
The Midland
The South
Philadelphia
The Northeast
North Central
The West
Boston
What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

I lived in Chicago for 10 years, but I always thought I had a slight southern accent being so close to Kentucky, maybe not....oh wait, is taking a silly quize like this considered stealing from work?

I completely forgot to mention two important Paris experiences.
1. I stepped in dog shit
2. Someone Pfffted* me.

I teared up a little when they happened.
Aaahhhhhh, Paris in Spring.


*Anyone from Paris please feel free to correct this: "pffft" is a sound parisians make when they are annoyed (I think). It's a short burst of air through the teeth. I don't remember what I did to deserve this honor, but K- was giddy after it happened.

I have got to rethink a few things.

I have this plan to write a book. The plan does not involve getting the book published, only writing it. I used ot laugh at myself for this goal, if your going to plan why not plan big, plan the publication, the movie rights, the classic status? I can get lost in the dream sometimes- I could easily have an Oscar speech completed before I've ever taken an acting class, so I'm trying to keep it simple. I need to work in baby steps and not lose sight of what is important. What is important is that I'd like to write a complete story that I believe in. I'm beginning to think that an entire book it too much to chew. I will focus on a smaller goal- write a chapter, write a page, write one decent paragraph.

The weather in the Midwest has been beautiful. It was 70 degrees yesterday and I even heard the faint rumblings of a spring thunderstorm. There is nothing I like more than thunder that rattles the windows- it makes me feel safe and secure in my house to hear all hell breaking loose outside.

Ponette, the tricolored bitch cat from hell, vomited on me last night while I slept. Actually she threw up on the downcomforter that covered me. When I was naive I would have explained this away as just an unfortunate accident. I even would have picked her up and said, "ohh does my little kiddy widdy have an upset tummy wummy?"- now I know- cats are the vengeful agents of Satan. This is what I remember of the events in question: As I made my way to the bathroom, in the middle of the night, I accidently kicked Ponnette, who was sitting on the floor. She threw up on me after that...coincidence? I think not. Cats are very resentful which is why there are no cats in heaven- that is absolutely true. They go to cat hell where, for all eternity, they try to play with kitty toys that are just out of reach under the couch.

(This is my second post regarding cat vomit -yea team!)

After college I moved to Chicago to begin my adult life in the working world. I did not actually have a job. My major was in sociology and my grades were pretty bad but that didn’t get my spirits down, I knew that with my can do attitude and cursory knowledge of sociology I could land a fine job with many perks.

I began working at the gay video store about 3 weeks after moving to Chicago. The perks included free video rentals and since I didn’t have a VCR they also let me lug home the rental VCR which came in a huge plastic suitcase and weighed about 20 pounds.

Specialty Video and Audio wasn’t actually a gay video store- it was a video store that happen to also carry gay porn in a part of town called Boy’s Town, across from a bar called “The Closet” and a block over from another place called “The Manhole”…ok maybe it was a gay video store. Have I mentioned I’m not gay? I’m relatively thin, neat and I like (dare I say, adore?) musicals so every once in awhile I like to interject that I am, in fact, not gay.

I easily moved up the corporate ladder to become assistant manager…and no, you little perverts I did not sleep my way to the top, I didn’t have to- they could spot my can do attitude, problem solving skills and desperation for 25 cents more an hour.

Everyone else that worked at the video store was gay (we have established that I’m not gay, right?) and they gave me the endearing nickname of “Breeder”. It was a bit of a misnomer as I don’t recall doing much ‘breeding’ at all back then. I had not yet met a woman with a can do attitude that would allow me to prove my heterosexuality on a consistent basis.

The women that did come into the store were lesbian. A nice enough group when sober but a treacherous mob when coming out of The Closet on a friday night. It seemed that every friday night I had to listen to the same slurring lesbian and her lover angrily explain the problem with the “painfully obvious MAN produced girl on girl porn” that we rented. “It’th a beautiful thing.. two woman” one would belch at me as her girlfriend held her steady. They would rent “On Golden Blonde” and stagger out arm and arm.

As the Assistant Manager I probably should have defended our gay films (I was at this point calling them films and not movies) but the real life lesbians scared me. The ones that frequented The Closet were a rough and tumble bunch that were quick to fight when liquered up. I can only assume that kicking the ass of heterosexual male would make for a good story around the old lesbian campfire and my self esteem had been battered enough.

I had forgotten how important it is to step back from my world every once in awhile- to look at my life with fresh eyes. What seemed important no longer matters, what is truly important I've been taking for granted. I hope I wont always need to be reminded of this, but I suspect I will.

My goal is to look at my life with fresh eyes.

Well, the blogging in Paris did not go as expected. There were three reasons for this, I began to loose interest in writing at the end of each day, it was a bitch to get Internet connection, and at some point you are given the opportunity to write about it or do it and I opted for the 'doing it'. These, of course, are lame excuses but I'm sticking to them.

One of the WiFi hotspots that I could connect to the Internet was at a bench in front of a sexy lingerie shop and since I did my posting late at night I must have looked like quite a little pervert- banging away on Sexual Chocolate and giggling- it probably made for a disturbing picture (which I could have taken because my new computer does that)

I'm not certain where the French get the reputation of being rude. We met some of the kindest people on this visit and others. There are, of course assholes, but that's to be expected in a big city. It was certainly better than New York. It could be that I'm the asshole- some guy was trying to sell some braided African thread to K- at the base of Sacre Cour- when he didn't listen to her saying 'No!' several times- I told him to "fuck off" which he repeated to me and then he fucked off. We also had one waitress try to get us to give her an additional tip even thought the tip was included which annoyed me, but in retrospect it was pretty minor. I was trying to figure out why I was so pissed about that and I think it was because I realize that when we move there we will be vulnerable to scams, such as incorrect change, tipping, etc. There was some rudeness in waiters as most people have heard about- this bothered K- but I didn't care if waiters are rude or not, as long as the food shows up their opinion of me means little

Wednesday
11:00 Am

K- is interviewing with the American University this morning and I have part of the day to myself. This is a good thing. It used to bother K- about how much 'alone time' I need- I hink we've compromised well. I'm sitting in a park on Ille de St. Louis listening to David Gray on my iPod and enjoying a moment in my head. I'm on my way to Jim Morrison's death apartment in the Marais and I'm already disappointed. I'm making this little visit because I told myself I would. He mattered to me in high school but, as a grown man, I'm less intrigued. Pills and alcoholism are less romantic when you've awoken in your own piss and vomit because of them. Maybe this little pilgrimage is a reminder of how my life got better. I am in a mental place that I could never have imagined. Good lord, that brought a little tear to my eye, time to move on ands see where that fat motherfucker died...there now I'm better.

Wednesday

K- and I strolled through the Luxembourg Gardens this morning. It was already close to 60 degrees. We walked several miles and bought lunch items for a picnic and walked back toward the Seine for a snack. We were side -tracked when we passed rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It was at 74 Cardinal Lemoine that Hemingway his wife and their child lived, and where his memoirs, A Moveable Feast, took place. We walked around the area and photographed the apartment exterior as well as the studio where he wrote. Unfortunately, I forgot the cord to connect the camera to the computer so I can’t actually prove we saw any of these places- you’ll just to have to take my word for it.

In his book, A Moveable Feast, Hemingway writes about the time between 1922-1923 when he, his wife and their son were staying at this apartment. It was so cold, he wrote, that he would spend the day out at a cafe drinking and writing. He doesn’t mention what his wife and child were doing during these cold snaps; presumably they managed to stay warm. Not to belabor the point, but he also writes of being broke and hungry and going to the American Express office to get some much anticipated money. Prior to going home with the paycheck, starving he stops at the Café Lipp for a meal- again, no mention of what his wife and kid were doing at the time. She did survive, at least long enough to divorce him.

Hemingway loved Paris. In 1944, after the liberation, he famously said that he and his troops were off to liberate the brandy from the Ritz, of course today we would call that looting but back then it was considered “folksy”.

Here's the funny thing about Hemingway- everyone praises his writing but you know he was probably an asshole. Who wouldn’t want to sit down with the man for a drink? But it seems to me that after he's thrown back a few pernods or whatever the kids were drinking back then- he's going to start pestering you to arm wrestle. "What ya think ya can take me!" he'd scream as he slammed his elbow on the table (trying not to cringe at hitting it too hard.) I would imagine that of all the writers in Paris, he'd be the first one to call you a pansy. I suspect that Gertrude Stein could have taken him ...but my visit with him would have been as short and to the point as his sentences.

I’m sorry about the lack of posts I’ve had a terrible time getting on-line and getting blogger to do what I want it to.



Thursday March 9, 2007
5:50 PM


It’s neither here nor there but K- has given away all the girl scout cookies I bought. I had stock piled enough to last me until the next sales drive. We’ve been married a little over a year; I guess the honeymoon s over.

I intend to write about every mundane thing that happens on this trip- and where better to discuss mundane items than the airport. We ran into P. J. at the airport, she was working one of the counters. After speaking to her for a while she reached into her Delta drawer, I thought she might be pulling out an upgrade to business, instead she handed us a stack of complimentary drink tickets. Why she thought we might want 18 free beers is unclear but we thanked her. Since neither K- nor I drink you may think this is a wasted gesture… but free drink tickets on an 8-hour flight is cold hard currency. Our fellow travelers will be our prison bitches by the end of this flight-sweet.



Friday 2:15 AM
Somewhere over the Eastern US


Miscellaneous flight information: Flight attendant would NOT give the guy in the cowboy hat an empty cup because “I know what you’ll do with it” I was intrigued but it just turned out she knew he would use it for spittin’ tobacco. Smokeless tobacco has been banned from flights for 5 years, did you know that? Of course you didn’t because you aren’t a red neck. She left, he turned to his friend and said, “like I aint gong to be chewing”

Hs friend commented that they had a 9 hour lay over in aris, some across the aisle said it would be a chance to check out the city, he responded “I fuckinging hate Paris”- so there you have it. These are just two of the people representing America. Yea Team!

Hints for the airplane: Buy the adapter to convert your iPod headphones into the movie headphones.

Kelly and I slept 5 hours thanks to Dr. Swing’s natural sleep aid. I believe this is the first time I’ve gotten solid sleep on a plain.


Guys that wear baseball caps on the plane look silly
Girls that wear sweat pants with writing on the ass look as silly even if they do ‘Love Pink”

Friday 12:15 PM

It can’t get any easier than this. We landed early, we breezed through customs, our luggage was waiting for us was we entered the baggage area. The RER at 8 Euros apiece brought us to Gare du Nord where we switched to the metro line- took the #4 (purple line) got off at St. Germain des-Pres. It was all quick and painless- a rarity.

We met Stephanie Palmer at the apartment in St. Germain des-Pres. Her mother purchased the place when she was 18 for a song. It’s perfect. She has a place that she thinks will come available next year in the 7eme. We are having a problem connecting to the Internet but she assures us that she will have it figured out.

Friday 11:45 PM: We just got back from very long walk. The streets are jammed with people around St Michael- in the dark people are still photographing Notre Dame. We had a late dinner at la crepe rit du clown, just a few doors down from out apartment. Crepe entre and chocolate crepe for desert is a bit much- a strong café helped us through the first sleepy day here. The weather is chilly- a sudden rain and then it clears again. We are having trouble with the wireless network, which we are hoping will be resolved by Saturday. We’d rather these posts be somewhat more timely but that hasn’t happened just yet.


We are both tired and our legs our sore, but we did well our first day here.


Saturday


We slept in until 10:00- and moved very slowly. I went out for a stroll with Sexual Chocolate looking to tap into someone’s WiFi- I was finally able to on a bench about a half a mile from the Deux Magots- thank you to the Thomas family, whoever you are.

We had heard the 10th might be a nice place to live so we went there first. Most people, myself included , know this area from the movie, Amelie- this is where she skipped stones in the St Martin Canal- I liked the area very much, a little more quiet and I would assume a bit more affordable. We took the metro to the Marais and had a Café Crème near the monument to the Bastille- The storming of the Bastille involved several thousand Frenchman attacking 9 people and eventually winning.- I’m sure there’s more to the story but I’m too tired to look it up.

We walked from the Marias to the Tuileries Garden amid a sea of people. The weather is beautiful, 60 degrees and sunny. Everywhere you look are people, people who smoke, people who smoke and look great. Damn these French bastards- its been awhile since I’ve truely wanted to smoke but they make it look good.

K and I leave tonight for Paris. We are all packed up, we have someone staying at our house and she has been approved by Ponette the tri-colored cat from Hell, which, as most cat owners know, is quite an accomplishment. Ponette did vomit by my airplane snacks- so she isn't 100% comfortable with the trip but it wasn't on the snacks so she isn't totally against it. My new black macbook, Sexual Chocolate, has been charged up and is awaiting furious and inspired typing with a cafe creme. A very sharp man bag has been procured from my artist buddy down the street.

There are two reasons for the trip, the first is to go to Paris again, no explanation really required with this reason. The other is to see if we really want to live there for a year, leave our family and friends, give up our jobs (more importantly our paychecks) and pursue our own desires for one year. I want to write and K- wants to get her masters degree. To that end K- will be sitting in on classes at the American University in Paris Monday and Tuesday and I will pretend to write but more likely wonder around aimlessly. No matter what we decide it will be a great trip.

I will, of course, blog but if this is the last entry it probably means I was unable to get an Internet connection, although I think it will be fine.

Strangely, I am fairly productive at work today even with the imminent trip to Paris. But I was stopped in my tracks with a sudden thought. I am researching some items we will need to provide for an MSD project that is being bid. A few of these items are:

Parshall Flume
Biotrickler Scrubber
Open Channel Flowmeter, Bubbler Type

So, this is the sudden thought I had: What are these things? Why am I researching them? What happened to my plans to become a sociology professor? Wasn't I supposed to be published by now?

That’s all- time to resume my research of Hose Reels- Reelcraft Model 83050.

* By the way, the photo is a picture of the Macho Monster Model 40002-0024-DL. It grinds sewage waste, that's right- shit, it's a shit grinder- I will know more about this than one man should- kill me now.

I have my very fancy BlackMac (Sexual Chocolate), I’m sitting in a coffee shop and wireless connection has magically appeared. This is the first time I'm blogging while out and about. I’m sitting, sitting, sitting. A latte has been ordered, I’m sitting, sitting sitting …nothing, I’ve got nothing. This fancy Mac isn’t working at all. It’s like the Kabala of writing implements- it's just not working. No clever observations, no sweet childhood reminiscences, hell I can’t even muster up a story about alcohol, drugs and death.

I will say that I’m pretty useless at work…way too much time spent dreaming about Paris and since my internet use is unsupervised you can imagine there is very little project management occurring, which is fine. Sometimes its best to let the work progress as God intended, at least that’s what I tell myself.

Time for French, this has been a lame entry but it's my first, be kind.

What a lovely weekend we had- at the start it seemed overwhelming. We had dinner plans every night beginning last Wednesday. Other than going out with our friends down the street I'm not a big 'going outer'- Sometimes? yes Every night? no. But we went out with K-s father one night and her high school friends another night and there were threats that we would have to go out with her Grandmother last night but I could handle all of that because there was also a plan of us going out and buying me a Mac notebook. The laptop is all part of the moving to Paris and writing plan. Moving to Paris involves many plans and sub plans and plans of making more plans. I am of the mistaken notion that if I have the very latest and expensive technology it will make me a better writer- I know this is foolish, but it is a belief I can't shake.

Saturday I tried to play it cool with K- "No hurry in going to the Apple store," I say as though I had forgotten the plan, - "I'll work out first -well see if we can squeeze it in today" Inside my head I'm saying "gimme, gimme, gimme, now, now ,now". The plan (or was it a sub plan?) was to buy a Mac Pro. Those are the Silver laptops that Mac makes. They are a lot more expensive but that must mean they are better, right? The woman, Barbara, who was helping us, and with whom I might be having coffee with tonight*. said "No! You do not need the Silver one- you need the Black one which is much less expensive"- I don't deal in gigabytes, googleplex of ram mean nothing to me- I deal better in colors. Silver is very good, Black is not as good but it is cheaper and will suit my needs and White is a little less than black but still better than we can imagine. So I decided on the Black one. With money saved and joy in my heart I caressed my new Black Mac- I've nicknamed it Sexual Chocolate- I understand and accept that there is a creep factor involved with that and I'm ok with that. We were budgeted for a certain dollar amount and we were spending considerable less than than that until... we bought The White Mac for K-, because that's how we roll. (This gives you a good idea of how fiscally irresponsible we are)

Sunday we both spent most of the day loading stuff on our little books. I would gently wipe away imagined fingerprints and specs of dust off my beloved Sexual Chocolate and gently stroke its cover as it slept. Poor Ponette the cat realized she has been replaced -at least momentarily.


*It turns out that Barbara lives near the coffee shop I go to before my Monday French class- and seemed to suggest that she would be there. It should also be noted that she continuously stared at K-'s breasts the 2 hours we were there and then gave us (K-) a student discount. I'm not certain if we inadvertantly whored K- out for that discount, but we will find out tonight. It was a pretty good discount so ...y'know... K- may have to take one for the team.

SOLD!

I was going to write a little about this house and what it meant to me. As I began I realized what I was writng was very familiar....ahh becasue I already wrote about it in October. A quick, cut and paste of the relevent items and here is the homage to the house on Hays.

This was the first house I owned. I lived in it as a tenant, drank too much in it, didn't pay rent, detoxed in 2nd floor front room and slowly got my life together.

I bought the house for cheap -which is exactly what I could afford. After the sale I walked through it, looking at it with fresh eyes. I would stand in a room and think to myself 'I own this'. Even the scraggly, Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the backyard didn't escape my figurative spraying of ownership, "yup, that diseased looking stick in the ground is mine." I was proud to own this house. The bank, of course, could argue who actually owned the property but screw them, the house was mine- I had earned it.

This morning a left the realator's office with a nice little check in my pocket and a spring in my step.

Last night we saw a 3 hour rendition of Hamlet. Three hours of anything is too much but even worse if you can't hear what's going on.

If a company wants to put on a Shakespeare play, more power to them, but if their actors can't enunciate or project their voices there is no point in it. Truth be told, I couldn't wait for them all to die at the end- even as Hamlet lay dieing and utters his last soliloquy, I'm thinking, "stab the motherfucker again."

I don’t think I’ve ever really written about my job. Most articles I’ve read about blogging suggest that you should not mix the two. I avoid writing about it, not because I’m afraid I would get dooced*, but because it isn’t that interesting- it’s a job, it’s a paycheck. I don’t get much personal gratification from a job well done- because I’m paid to do the job well. I am the project manager for multi million dollar building projects.

The first thing that you would notice about this job is the level of confrontation involved. It is an angry, testosterone-filled industry with head-on violent confrontation. It's peculiar that I'm in this industry because I do not like confrontation at all- I never have. As soon as people start yelling I want to be gone. I used to think that aversion to confrontation was a good, peace loving, spiritual character trait, but I know it was just cowardice. I don’t like confrontation because I don’t like to be yelled at and I’d rather not have to standup to the person yelling.

That has changed in the 8 years that I’ve been here. I have been in a room full of idiot male behavior, every one of them screaming at me, brow beating and trying to bully me and I stand my ground. If someone slams the table I slam the table harder- if someone cusses me out (which has happened many times) I sling it right back. If someone threatens to kick my ass (which has happened many times) I say “really?” and call the police right then and there. – I’m not going to actually get in a fistfight over anything, and it’s worth the look on their face to know that I’d have them arrested.

It has been a good experience to learn to say “No” and not be bullied into a “Yes”, but…I’m getting tired of the confrontation. I’m tired of the lawsuits and the yelling and the sticking out of the chest. I’m tired of the playground male bravado. Learning to defend my position is good, learning that not everyone has to like you is good but I’ve learned that lesson and I’m ready to move on.

*Dooced is an actual term, which means to get fired for blogging about work or during work hours. I, of course, would never do either of these things, and if you suggest I would I’ll have you arrested.