Hypocrisy

As a young child, my mother was a smoker. So was my grandmother, and a few of my aunts and uncles. The smell never really bothered me, but I remembered the smoke would hurt my eyes if I tried to get close to her shortly after she had lit up. 

One day I asked her to stop. 

At first it was just because it sometimes hurt my eyes. As I grew older, I was taught of smoking’s more drastic, life-threatening effects, and I would ask my mom to quit on a more regular basis.

I worried about her health a lot. 

It took years. She never tried to do it cold turkey, but she quit. 

When I reached middle school, I smoked some, with friends whose parents still smoked. They could bum entire packs at a time. I hated the taste at first (as does everybody), but smoking in the woods with my friends soon became a small way of rebelling. I was not thinking about the future effects on my health. I was not remembering how hard my mother worked to quit smoking, either. 

I was being a hypocrite. 

Luckily, I was eventually sent to private school, which meant I did not spend as much time with my rough customer public school friends. Consequently, I kicked my bad habit fairly quick....

Racism or Bitterness?

Is Troy Maxson racist? I don’t think so. I think, in Troy’s time (the 1950s, at the dawn of the Civil Rights movement) and culture, there is a difference between being racist and being bitter. I think Troy is the latter, considering he was too old to play major league baseball by the time African-Americans were allowed in. As I read Fences, I noticed how Troy’s bad-mouthing of the “white man” usually arose when he talked about sports, baseball and football in particular. He was rejected by the mainstream, and now is just plain pessimistic about his own son’s athletic aspirations because he has been there. 

He was told by White America that he was not any good and he bought it. Hence, the career as a lowly  garbage collector. It is not that he does not believe in Cory’s ability as much as he does not want to see his dreams crushed, and so this is why he urges his son to learn a trade and get out of the white man’s way. Just keep your head low. Just work, and accept that you will never be one of them, seems to be Troy’s philosophy. Times have changed, though, and so have the attitudes of African-Americans thanks to the Civil Rights Movement and the end of racial segregation in America. 

Casting DofaS

In my film version of Arthur Miller’s classic play, Death of a Salesman, I would first cast William H. Macy as Willy Loman. For Willy’s wife, Linda, I would have to offer the role to Cheryl Hines, of Curb Your Enthusiasm fame. Finally, for the two Loman boys, I would want to cast Adrien Brody as Happy and John C. Reilly as Biff. 

So, yes, Willy. I see Willy as being a moody middle-aged man with a lot of internal conflict, which just so happens to William H. Macy’s niche (Edmond is a great example of this). There’s must be something about that long face and those mournful eyes... 

I picked Cheryl Hines to play Linda because although she can be nosy at times, she is ultimately just trying to be a good wife and really is well-natured. 

Happy is supposed to be successful and confident, but somehow I also picture him as being somewhat held-back and considerate; from Dummy to Cadillac Records, I think Adrien Brody would be able to embody all of those qualities. 

I see a lot of Happy in Biff too, just not as accomplished or focused. Biff is a big thinker, as well as someone who needs constant approval. I kind of get that vibe from John C. Reilly, especially from his work in Step Brothers and Chicago. Like his mother, Biff is ultimately good-natured, but also extremely observant. 

The American Dream: Defined

The American Dream is the idea, value, belief, whatever, that a better life is possible; if not for ourselves, for those who come after us.  Vague thought, perhaps, but this is essentially what comes to mind when I think about why America was founded, and what we stand for today, such as freedom of speech, religious tolerance and fair government; balance, and the right of every man and woman to make their own decisions. Consequently, The American Dream is one that promotes diversity, and not just culturally; Simply put, we can learn a lot about ourselves from others, even if they do not share our belief systems and political leanings etc. Even though we have our differences, Americans generally know how to work together, whether it be by cleaning up a public park, fighting wars, or passing laws... maybe that is another part of The American Dream. 

Food & Happiness

Through my middle and high school years, my parents would take my little brother and I to Montreal in the summers, to visit family. With alternating drivers, the drive up typically took a solid 24 hours. We rarely stopped to spend the night, and fast-food was the accepted means of nutrition on the (quite literally) day-long car ride. These conditions made us all grateful for a lovingly-prepared, homemade meal once we crossed the Canadian border and arrived at Grandma’s house. Savory soups, appetizing salads (vert and couscous), meat pies, regular pies (pumpkin, blueberry) casseroles... 

On the weekends, a parade of my uncles, aunts, cousins, and assorted significant others would march in and partake with us. Red wine would be consumed. Rivers of it, the bottles stacking high to construct a makeshift dam. 

At least in my family, there is a deep correlation between food and happiness. Even before the first cork had been pulled, while buttering bread, I remember smiles on the faces of my goofy relatives.

During the week when my relatives worked and went to school, my father would take my brother and I on elaborate, usually improvised bike rides throughout downtown Montreal, often crossing the Jacques-Cartier bridge`. One regular stop was at a cramped steakhouse on Saint-Laurent called Schwartz’s. Rain or shine, there was a line outside the historical deli. Inside on the walls were pictures of Celine Dion, The Rolling Stones and Jerry Lewis enjoying of the restaurant’s world famous smoked meat sandwiches. 

The sandwich itself was intimating. Layer upon layer of ropy red meat, clamped loosely between two thin pieces of rye bread. Though it often slowed us down on the way back to Grandma’s house, we had the taste of adventure in our bellies...

Breaking Down Steak 'N Shake

During a recent visit to my neighborhood Steak 'N Shake, I ordered a Coke and one of the chain’s famous double steakburgers. 

“With cheese?” the waitress asked.

“Yes please,” I said. The waitress had pink hair. 

“Lettuce, tomato...?” 

“Yes, please, everything is fine,” I responded, with a go big or go home mentality.

Now, a list of each raw ingredient I could distinguish from my deliciously messy steakburger: 

• pickle (hmm, where’s a good place for a cucumber garden?) 
• lettuce (a giant farm in the midwest) 
• tomato slices (a giant farm in the midwest) 
• onion (a giant farm in the midwest) 
• steak patties (a giant farm in the midwest... Astoria, IL?)
• bread bun (California, I imagine)
• cheese (Vermont?) 
• mustard (a hot sweaty factory)
• mayo (a hot sweaty factory)
• french fries (Arkansas, probably, for the potatoes, which are shipped to a hot sweaty factory to slice & freeze them)

Though the origins of these ingredients may seem humble and healthy, it’s important to keep in mind how many people eat at Steak ‘N Shake per day. Since their popularity doesn’t seem to be waning,  I wouldn’t be surprised if Steak ‘N Shake sides with Quantity over Quality. 

canadian geese flying over my house as i try to come up with a neat-o title

Waking up, bleary-eyed, my desk full of useless shit. Most of it doesn't even help my writing: a six pack of PayDays; an iPod shuffle; bath salts; chapstick. Little things that get in the way.
My name is Caleb Bouchard, and I'm in my second semester of college, now. I should just preface this new blogging presence by saying a few of my posts here will be intertwined (aka "writing prompts") with my English 1102 class. We've starting by talking about food, and the first response asks us to pick a meal we ate recently, list each raw ingredient and I forget the rest.
Last semester, I maintained a blog on Tumblr for 1101, which was more in the professor allowed to be more of a "free-writing" thing. Every week you just had to post 300 words.
I worked at a club in Marietta, GA from August to December last year, so a lot of my entries stemmed from my experiences there. The club booked a lot of underground music, particularly in the death metal vein. The owner, Lee, is the frontman for a performance art punk rock band called Treephort, and I occasionally filled in as "prank monkey" during their shows. They still play shows, and they've been around for some time. "Nerdcore 'Til The End," is their motto, and you can check out some of their music and live shows here.
I am a writer. It's what I do best in life, and it's what I love doing most. Though some people who have read my stuff says it's funny, I take what I do seriously. One day I want to be able to do it full time. "Influence" is a vague term, but a few of my most enduring ones include Henry Rollins, Lydia Davis, David Sedaris and Richard Brautigan. Steve Roggenbuck has been a strong motivator in recent months to be proactive about my writing. He has also taught to not be afraid to take risks in my writing, to be myself in my writing, and to think creatively about how to share my writing.
In the following weeks and months (I don't say years, because I'm something of a social networking nomad), in addition to the writing prompts about all the disgusting shit I put in my mouth, and elaborate bouts of verbal diarrhea, I will post links of where you can find my writing, for free, online (as well as in print). In the meantime, you can follow me on Twitter for more of me writing about me, or check out my mad Morrissey reblogging skillz here.
I adore Morrissey.
I'm so happy to be alive at the same time he is.