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
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.