For me the internet is a strange thing I am still not quite sure I like. Because I have cultivated a cyber beachhead reaching into the world wide web, people all over the world know that I am, yet again, in France playing the role of Professeur Boylan, drinking great wine, eating great food, enjoying great company and – somewhat as an afterthought at least and an excuse at most – corrupting young minds with worries of the looming New Cold War and the long term implications of the Franco-Russian agreement whereby a Russian company will assume the responsibility of disposing of French nuclear waste (or “nuclear bonus material” as so many of my friends in the nuclear energy industry prefer to call it).

The fact that thousands of people – both good, bad and indifferent (actually, if there are three categories, I am not sure “both” applies) – know these specific details about me and my life trouble me in ways and for reasons I cannot articulate, primarily because I am drunk, and I find it is often difficult to articulate fine, if not dicey, concepts when sufficienly drunk


[ brackets]

But I digress.  The point of all of this is that I don’t really want to be here. I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate, but I am homesick and want to go home. At the very moment I am finally comfortable typing on this damed European/French keyboard, I can think of nothing but home.

John Mcleod is credited with first saying “home is where the heart is.”  I don’t like McLeod because his last name sounds Scottish and, as evey decent, God fearing white person knows, the Scotts – as a race – are cheap. And the men  wear these dresses they call “kilts” but, hey, a dress by any other name would be just as gay, if you get my drift. And they talk funny. I don’t mean funny in a “ha ha” sense; I mean funny in a “hmmmm…” sense – if you get my drift.

But I digress.  If home is where the heart is, then my home is with my wife and son. I miss them and I want to go home.

I have three more classes to teach. Then I drive to Paris; visit the Louvre, spend the night in my favorite hotel (the identify of which I keep secret for security reasons) and then fly home.

After I’ve recovered from jet lag (don’t laugh: it is really a horrible ordeal for me) I’ll post some pics from my trip and a couple of essays.  I especially want to write about how the French are “managing” their Muslim minority and the global supremacy of (skinny) French women.  They really have “pulled a fast one” (as we quaint Americans are want to say) on the world.


10 Responses to “COMING HOME”

  1. That Marion Cotillard is quite a dish.


  2. I’ll tell her you said so.


  3. Look forward to you post trip posts, as I do to all of your posts. You know if you pick on the Scots you’re gonna get kilt.


  4. As a Scot/German/Irish/English/French Aussie I would be offended, but the Aussie in me is far too lazy to bother and the Scot in me is concerned it may cost me something. The Irish in me is too drunk to care and the French and German are so busy arguing they missed what you said.

    Being homesick, especially for the family, when pissed is a good sign in my book.

    Like Barnes, I eagerly await your post trip posts.


  5. HEY, my ancestry is Scottish Highlands and I take A FENCE to your lightly veiled insinuations of KILTS being a homosexual national identity.

    It’s a nice fence too.


  6. No its not Moko, the third post is crooked.

    I’m permanently homesick on account of living in the deep south of NZ which is full of sleet and Scottish Presbyterian migrants. There’s a bloody good reason Moko GTFO of the place.


  7. I’m with you Moko – Scots Highland ancestry, even got ‘Mc’ in my name. Got married in a kilt too. To a woman, so it isn’t pooftersexual even. Hint for single blokes – women LOVE kilts. Crikey, I’ve had women try to chat me up even whilst my missus is standing beside me (which is a tad unusual…). Maybe its the lack of underwear?

    But I agree with the Scots being ‘careful’ with a dollar.


  8. It was all the haggis farts that GMTF outta there.

    “ENOUGH”, I screamed with gusto. “OCH EY THA NOO, ENOUGH OF THE HAGGIS FARTS YA BUNCH ‘O’ CHEAP ARSE LADDIES AND LASSIES”. Yes, there’s an unnatural thing going on for long haired collie dogs. I blame the television and the love that boy had for his dog. It was beautiful.

    I don’t a have a ‘Mc’ in meh name. I’ve got a ‘son of’…


  9. 😀 What a great way to start the day.


  10. pnb, how do I make this confounded machine not do that? I HATE those things.
    When I type : – D I do not want one of those insipid yellow thingies!!!
    It’s all your fault you can do something about it, you control the settings, make it all better …

    : – )


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