The Ragin' Cajun

Because I'm Pretty Sure "Flajun'" Is Made-Up

I've always said it takes a big man to sport a name that has as many vowels as it does consonants. The other thing I've always said is that it takes a big man to sport the nickname "Booger."

So when I made the acquaintance of Mr. Boudreau "Booger" Freret in the wilds of the Internet jungle a while back, I knew I was on to, well...something.

And so, because I couldn't think of anything else to write about this week I know you'll find his particular take on "the world" as "intriguing" as I do, I've invited Boudreau here to the LJKGW megaplex in Escondido for a visit.

[Locks purse in bottom desk drawer.]

AL: So, how exactly do you pronounce your name? I'm counting out 15 syllables – is that right?

BF: Not in English, it isn't. Fifteen syllables might be right in Klingon, or maybe Elvish, but you have kids, right? So I’m guessing you’re probably not a virgin, and in that case, the chances of you speaking either Klingon or Elvish are pretty much zero. Why are you looking at me like that – hey, are you going to eat that?

AL: And that name is – what – Hawaiian?

BF: No, American. And by American I mean Acadian. You know, Cajun. The descendants of Acadian exiles, French-speaking settlers from Acadia and Nova Scotia, who live in Louisiana. (And yes, I do think “Acadian Exiles” would be a great reality show.)

AL: You have one of the most popular recipe-sharing blogs out there. To what do you attribute your success?

BF: Anna, I don’t, uh, have a recipe-sharing blog (though I am proud of a bourbon-based hollandaise I am marketing locally under the name “Boozandaise”) but I do write about my Adventures.

Because if I've learned anything on this planet*, I've learned these three things: people love reading about what I’m thinking and doing (as I wrote in my first-ever post, “... no thought or observation [is] too trivial to escape shameless public regurgitation for an audience of billions to ignore”), and English speaking Americans suck at math.

* I've been advised not to discuss (in public) any other planets I may or may not have learned anything on. Give me a call if you want to know more. Just make sure you’re wearing the hat I made you. (It isn’t just a hat. Wink wink.)

AL: Really? Huh. Then where did I get that recipe for toaster mutton truffles? Whatever. So you're what? Oh, right – a writer. How does that possibly overlap with having a blog?

BF: Sorry, no idea about either question. But speaking of blogs, I should thank you for turning me onto your friend’s blog, Ann’s Pants – I had no idea that corduroy was back in style. Until I read it at Ann's Pants. (Thanks, Ann!) Come to think of it, I hope that article wasn't too old...

AL: So tell us about the writing you do. Or, to put it another way, can you talk a little bit about your writing?

BF: I write in English, mainly using a computer to turn the words in my head into a format that (some) other people can read. Sometimes I don’t use a computer. Then I write the words longhand. Nothing fancy, just pen and paper. I would do the same with the voices in my head, but unfortunately I don't speak whatever language they're always jabbering away in... and, yes, I can talk about my writing. But just a little bit.

AL: You mentioned that you will be speaking at an event in March – a conference on "Social Imagery." What's up with that? [Note: I totally know what "social imagery" means, BTW. I know the crap out of it. I just want him to say it. It's an interview technique. Duh.]

BF: Yes, this year’s Society for the Interdisciplinary Study of Social Imagery conference in Colorado. It is real. Google it if you don’t believe me. (Go ahead, I’ll wait.)

AL: Will there be an open mic?

BF: I don't know, but it is difficult to imagine anything more open mic-ish than a venue that gives me an opportunity to speak. I mean, if this conference has standards, you couldn’t tell it from my participation. I'm reasonably certain that the panel following the one I’m on is composed entirely of used shoes. (And I don't mean nice shoes like Khenris, either, but icky smelly old worn out gym sneakers. Mismatched, even!) I'd bet someone else's money that since I'm being allowed to present, any bipedal hominid who asked would be allowed to speak, and even if that isn’t the case, I suppose someone who wanted to be heard could pull a Kanye to get their message across. I mean, I’ve never exactly been to a Society for the Interdisciplinary Study of Social Imagery conference before, but I’m pretty sure that there won’t be many people there willing (or able) stop even a halfhearted attempt to rush the stage, if you catch my drift. (Unlike the NFL conference I crashed last year, but I am SO not talking about that until after the trial. And the staples are removed.) Why do you want to know?

AL: No reason. Just curious.

BF: Really, you are? I mean, I've heard stories about southern California, but I always figured they were just stories. You think maybe it is something in the water? Were you curious before you moved there? Have you ever acted on your curiosity? My interest is strictly academic. If you have, are there pictures? Just curious.

AL: I understand you are also a musician. Can you share your thoughts on music's role in your life and how this form of self-expression dovetails with your literary pursuits? More importantly, is trashing a hotel room as fun as it sounds?

BF: To me, music and writing are inseparably intertwined, like two different currents in the same river of life. Like inhaling and exhaling are two parts of the unified act of breathing. (Which is a bad idea, by the way. Inhaling in a river.)

And math, too. Dang, I got distracted thinking about the river, and forgot to mention math. I can't really talk about my passion for writing and music without also talking about math.

Okay then. To me, music and writing and math are all inseparably intertwined, like three different currents in the same river of life. Because music is really just an audible expression of the immutable truth provided by numbers and the mathematical principles that represent everything. An audible expression of formulas capable of speaking directly to the heart. Similarly, writing is the symbolic expression of formulas directly to the heart. Only using words to form stories that can be widely understood, without all the “X” this and “Y” that and the numbers and crap that you get with just straight up hard core math.

(Just an aside, that photo on the right is a lovely, nubile model from Des Moines wearing an actual Boudreau Freret t-shirt. Just because she wanted to.)

Anyway, so really, music, writing, and math are all like three different parts of one unified thingy with three parts. Like inhaling and exhaling and, uh, hiccups or something, if you had hiccups all the time, and the breathing in and out and hiccuping were all working together in harmony, speaking directly to the heart and sending some message beyond merely “Man, all this hiccuping is really annoying.”

And I hate to disappoint you, but the thing about trashing a hotel room is that you don’t remember trashing the hotel room. At least I never did. Sorry. I know that it never looked like fun when I finally came to, but I’m certain that it always sounded like a good idea at the time. I mean, why else would I have done it, right? Unless it was self defense.

AL: What would you do if you knew you could not fail? [Interview Tip: it's good to scatter lots of inspirational needlepoint pillows around in case you run out of questions.]

BF: Honestly, not to be disrespectful to anybody's religion or anything, but if I could choose to do anything, knowing that I would not fail? I would totally choose to be the mortal mother of the son of God. Because, you know, in at least one of the world's religions that I can think of at the moment that involve an Earthly son of God, the Guy's mom was pretty much set for life - and then some.

Just for being the Dude's mom.

Most moms are grateful if they get a call on Mother's Day, the occasional greeting card, a school photo of the grand kids on odd numbered years. But being mortal mother of the son of God would totally rock. Just picture my Kia minivan with a yellow sign in the window: “Son of God On Board.” Suck that, smarmy iced latte sipping Volvo drivers. Or how about this for a bumper sticker: “My Kid is the Son of God.” Tell me that wouldn’t totally own all those cheesy “My Kid Didn’t Eat Paste For a Whole Week at Belcher County High School” stickers you see all the time. Losers.

So, yeah, maybe there is a selfish aspect to choosing to be the mortal mother of God’s Kid, if you want to look at it all “half-empty” like that, but you know what? If I knew that I would not fail? Then I totally couldn’t screw up the Kid by being a crummy mom! Humanity would be guaranteed that He’d turn out a-ok! So it’s got that going for it, too. Right?

AL: Um...wow.

BF: Is that it? Are you done? I mean, I just want to make sure that you got what you needed. From me. Right now. Because I can totally stick with you until you finish, if you need me to. Really. Just tell me what you want me to… [zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz]

AL: [clears throat, snaps pencil in half] Well, there you have it, folks. The philosophical stylings of Mr. Boudreau Freret.

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And, on a totally unrelated note, we're looking for several additional interns to help staff our Complaints/Refunds desk.

Thanks for stopping by and have a snappy week!