Success by Numbers
Pyramid schemed programs target certain individuals at three in the afternoon and three in the morning. I’m worried that I’m one of those people, my father certainly is. Not because we’re not doing anything at three AM or PM, but because we believe in a paint-by-number, systematic recipe for success—namely financial success. We’re the ones that were busy daydreaming in class rather than paying attention for the exam that is coming up on Friday. We see these opportunities on TV and in magazines and say to ourselves, “They’re rich. They clearly did something right.” We’re not idiots. I don’t sit there and think, “Man, if I could just grow about five more inches, gain 100 lbs and reduce my 40 yard dash time by a full second by doing this workout routine, I could be playing as an inside linebacker for the Kansas City Chiefs!” No, it’s the slightly more realistic ventures that capture my attention for far longer than they should (four seconds) with a convincing commercial that shows actors, who are casted for their apparent normalcy and who are paid to say that they’re not actors. When people like me view the commercials, we see a man, an average man with extraordinary success. I see a man who took a chance, he painted by the numbers, and now he’s living in a beautiful new house with a lawn of 10 dollar bills—and all from two hours of work a day from his home office! Can you believe he was able to quit his boring cubicle existence?!? Why not take a chance? Do you hate money?
Why can’t I be that guy? I know he did the pyramid scheme, but if the scheme didn’t have any success, would be continuously be able to dupe people into trying it? I mean, they’re showing it at prime time... who isn’t looking for a once in a lifetime opportunity shown at 3:00 AM in the morning? I’ve never actually done or come close to doing pyramid schemes, I’ve just watched the commercials for too long when they’ve aired. I live mostly in my mind, where less prudent decisions and risks are capable of having real world effects.
I am a dreamer with limitless ambition and an extremely limited resolve. That is the textbook definition of a perpetual daydreamer. I received a couple of compliments about my Memoirs of the Poopsmith account of my bout with salmonella poisoning and I started planning my acceptance speech for the Pulitzer. I didn’t even know how to spell Pulitzer just then, it was spell checked and corrected by Mic. Word. I Googled: “Writing competitions”, and now I’ve been looking at www.writersdigest.com now for an hour. They have a section called: “101 Best Websites for Writers”. This might as well have been a pyramid scheme-type thing because I could see the paint by numbers bricks laid out neatly before me paving the way to my acceptance speech, which by the way, would go something like this:

I know that you’re expecting some fantastic story of inspiration that has led me here today, but I can give you no
greater inspiration than the belief and encouragement that was fostered by my beautiful wife. Without her
continual nudging, I’d still be writing an occasional blog about when I had a terrible bout with a stomach affliction
acquired from my worldly travels. I am here today because I took a chance, because I took the first step to
jumping off the ledge, and because some unlikely publisher, Are You Kidding Me? Publishing Co., thought I could
entertain people with my thoughts on life. I didn’t set out to win this award, it simply happened. Words fell on a
pages, critics liked the words, and now I have a lawn full of $10 bills. Thank you so much to my wonderful family.
And, I dedicate this achievement to my grandfather, who saw no limits to my limitless ambition. You will forever be
my gray and wise wizard.

That’s right, I spare no detail in my daydreams and rather like it that way. When I zoom out from my fantasy island—I really do have a fantasy island in my mind, where I’m marooned and required to go Tom Hanks-ish for my survival—I find that I’m sitting on the couch or am in some boring meeting at work. I readily admit to my boss or whoever asked the question, pulling me rudely from my daydream, that I was in my happy place (I really don’t think that they think it’s a real place I go in my mind). It’s usually a good laugh when I say this, but the feeling isn’t always grand as I return to reality. That’s only at work though. I’m always glad to return to my reality at home, here with the wife and my two beautiful children (my two dogs) Bruce and Kelby. We live in the German countryside. I like to mention that I live in the German countryside because I live in a place that resembles the beautiful landscapes of the Shire from the The Lord of the Rings series (actually set in New Zealand). Get over it. I like it and you aren’t the author. Feel free to discontinue reading at your heart’s leisure.

So the story goes that I always get about an hour, maybe a whole evening or two’s worth of excitement and fervor for my next great ambition and then it fizzles our in lieu of reality. I get tired, bored, accept my limitations, or perhaps get salmonella poisoning and my mad desire to become the next greatest ______ ,you fill in the blank, fizzles as hard and fast as it was conjured in the initial air of excitement. Today, I flirted with the idea of becoming a writer, you know, just start a weekly column like the main character in Marley and Me, but the reality is that I will lose sight of this great ambition in light of the most serious dream-crunching question: “Would I still enjoy writing if I turned writing into a job, rather than a hobby?”

I won’t stop dreaming, I can’t. My head won’t float off into the clouds because it’s attached to a string that Charlotte is holding tightly. She keeps me grounded and yet, at the same time, gives me exciting encouragement to not accept not trying. She won’t encourage me to be an astronaut, but she’s not afraid of supporting my desire to, perhaps, pursue my own sort of outer space, where my words define my ship.

Good Day.

 

Charlotte mentioned that her sister planned to keep a journal for every day of her next trip to Europe because when people asked where she went and what she saw, she recalled far less than she would have liked.  I don’t want to fall victim to my terrible memory, so I shall account for the activities of Mr. and Mrs. McKnight’s honeymoon. 

We arrived Sunday morning, 26 April 09, to the St. Louis Airport after waking up at 1:00 AM.  The trip was grueling after a week of nonstop entertainment of family and wedding preparation on Charlotte’s part and a week of trying to adjust from central European time to American for me.  Her difficulties were significantly more challenging than mine were, but they all culminated in what turned out to be a beautifully planned and well-executed wedding.  After the wedding music faded, we began to think of more relaxing ventures.  After arriving at the airport, we sucked up our fatigue and replaced it with excitement and anticipation in paradise, The Aventura Spa Palace, an all-inclusive spa resort on the beach of Riviera Maya.  The travels went well enough, aside from the plane ride where we sat in front of the late John Candy’s character from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.  Once he, in all of his annoying terror, fell asleep, even that ride wasn’t that bad.  Upon our entrance to the resort, they greeted us by taking our luggage and handing us a cool, moist towel with a pair of tongs.  I wasn’t sure what to do with it so I freshened up by wiping my hands and forearms, assuming that was the custom of the social elite normally arriving in my stead.

As we walked in toward the front desk to check in, they brought us a glass of champagne to set the mood, and we got a tour of what the next week of our life was going to be like.  The only thing they didn’t mention was the plague, the grippe, the bug, the flu, or more specifically, the Swine Flu.  Apparently, it had been stalking Mexico City for a while, but it didn’t turn into a media hype until we arrived.  Our attention was drawn to the matter via an answering machine message from Charlotte’s dad, a Dr., on Monday evening.  He urged us to inform ourselves by watching CNN, and it’s only been getting worse since we first started watching Monday night.  Monday day, prior to realizing that we were in the midst of a flu pandemic, was filled with fun in the sun, scheduling of numerous excursions to ancient Mayen cities, scuba-diving, and trips to Cancun and Playa del Carmen. 

Monday and Tuesday were similar in fashion.  Both were spent exploring the resort, drinking cool beers in the sun at the pool/beach cove thing, and trying four star dining that we felt like we didn’t pay for.  I like to tell myself that I’m not paying for any of the meals, despite my having paid for them in advance, and instead think that they are really just very accommodating to us newlyweds (you know, perks of marriage type deal).  Life continued in this fashion through the entire week.  The only time that we weren’t treated with a friendly “Hola, buenas dias,” was when we left the resort.  Nobody was paid to care whether we were recently married or not.  Everyone else on the resorts studied our pictures and biographies to readily identify and pamper us upon sight, or perhaps they knew we were honeymooners because of the pink wristbands that we were wearing, which left a nice white tan line on my wrist.

We were definitely affected by the effects of the swine flu.  Not the symptoms of the disease, but the CNN/media hype created panic.  All of our excursions were canceled, which really sucks because we weren’t able to go and see the Mayan ruins of Chichen Itza or Tulum (also ruins).  The only excursion that we were able to go on was one that we paid for to go scuba diving, which was a blast.  I love, love, love scuba diving and have been trying to decide whether we would get our money’s worth to get open water certified.  The pros are that we could skip all of the training required and avoid the beginner limitations imposed on those un-certified.  We’d probably also find undiscovered shipwrecks all of the time.   I’m thinking that we can get certified locally, in Germany, and then try our skills out when we go to Sicily or Greece—money pending (the only con).  That’s always a drawback, that money thing, as it can open limitless doors but is very limited itself.  Anyway, we forked out some cash to enjoy our vacation, and I don’t regret it.  We went para sailing, a first for both of us, and we were glad we did it.  We’ve always wanted to but because of the exorbitant costs, our parents never seemed to want to afford us that luxury.  It was very relaxing and aesthetically pleasing as we sailed through the Caribbean breeze and looked down across the reefs and numerous shades of aquatic blues.  But, it’s not something I think that we’ll do again, considering that it is a bit of a rip-off. 

Two bottles of sunscreen later, we had made it to Saturday.  Trips to Cancun’s Moon Palace Resort, Playa Del Carmen, and the numerous pools there and between had worn us out and damaged our skin accordingly.  Saturday was about relaxation.  We shelled out some love and they shelled out 80 minutes worth of a couple’s massage, which just means that we’re in the same room together as we get massaged.  I guess it was nice to get done at the same time, but considering that we didn’t talk to each other while we were both enjoying our massage, I don’t see the reason to shell the extra money out to do it.  Next time, it’ll be more of a see you in an hour type deal, as we both part our ways for the “professional massage,” which personally, I think I could do better than the people that get paid to do it.  If there’s one thing I feel confident about, it’s the ability to put Charlotte to sleep with a thorough rubdown.  These fancy-pants masseuses/masseurs go to a school to learn to push on your pressure points and put weight on odd points of your body rather than actually massaging you.  The only thing that I thought was actually worth the money was the little bit of the scalp massage that I got, that was relaxing.  Charlotte said that she was in pain for most of the time, or left there wondering how it was that they were trying to make her feel good.  I do have to admit, the music was nice.  

We were feeling reasonably relaxed, so we degreased ourselves from the massage and prepared for our special honeymooner’s dinner, which, like all the rest of the food, was copious and delicious.  We have videos of the Mexican Mariachi Band, which had an amazing tenor and another man that sounded like a human flute when he whistled.  I asked him to show me his whistle and she just made the noise with his lips again.  I wasn’t going to frisk him, so I sat down, accepted that he was a human flute, and was excited.  They finished their gentile serenade and I made them take a picture with Charlotte.  I tipped them for their services; although, I don’t feel like they needed one to pose and sing to my beautiful wife, when the opportunity to do so was tip enough.  I’m a nice guy, someone tip me for once.

Char had a good point about the massage, if we were ever to open up a massage parlor (we don’t intend to), we’d set aside 10 minutes at the end of an hour massage for people to tell us what they liked and what they wanted to finish the massage with.  I think that’s better than giving everyone a factory massage and telling us to like it. We also came up with some good family resort ideas.  If you sit next to us for too long, you’ll realize that we could probably open any sort of establishment and run it better than those already established.  We’re gifted dreamers; we’re just missing a pot of gold to substantiate our claims.  We don’t have any amazing restaurant ideas, yet.

So now we’re sitting here, having reentered the working class once again, waiting for our plane in the swine flu captial of the world, Cancun Airport.  We’ll catch a bird to Miami from here, where we can wait for an additional six or seven hours for another bird to St. Louis.  We’ll be getting in late (or will have by the time you read this) to St. Louis to stay the night before flying to Germany the next day.  We were both disappointed to find that someone had already infected Germany and Missouri because we thought we were going to be famous “swine flu survivors.”  I daydreamed an interview with CNN, which I’m sure they wouldn’t air on account of my typical sarcasm and distaste for the media-hype fueling the 24 hour networks.  It went something like this:

CNN reporter:  We’re here with Ryan and Charlotte McKnight, who recently have returned from the black death ridden region of Mexico, infected with the swine flu, where everyone is dying.

How do you feel, Ryan?  What was it like being in the middle of a pandemic?  Was there mass hysteria, screaming, looting, crying?  Did do you feel like you’re lucky to be alive?

Ryan:  I feel fine, thank you.

CNN reporter:  And what about the pandemic, the hysteria, and do you feel lucky?

Ryan:  No. (said with no facial expression and typical monotone voice)

CNN reporter:  You don’t feel fortunate that you’re alive and well, here in the US?

Ryan:  No.

CNN reporter:  Well, as you can see, the Mexican and American governments are taking drastic measures to ensure that panic doesn’t ensue, that people are being screened, well informed, and—

Ryan:  No they’re not.

CNN reporter:  Excuse me? 

Ryan:  They’re not.  It’s not a big deal.  It’s this thing called the flu.  Most people get over it without any issues, but it’s easier for you guys to turn it into a big, fire-breathing dragon than to call it the flu.  Normal strands of the flu kill more people a year than your current doomsday virus.    I mean, I’m not telling you go and lick door knobs in Mexico City or anything, I’m just saying...

CNN reporter:  Sir, the World Health Organization has just—

Ryan:  No, stop it.  They do this sort of crap every year.

CNN reporter:  But, sir.  The—

Ryan:  We’re done here.  Everyone, turn off your television and wash your hands like normal, sanitary people.  Oh, and for those of you guys that I see everyday not washing their hands as they leave the restroom, please start.  Freaks.

 

I doubt that an interview like that would air, just like the show, “Street Smarts”, doesn’t ever air intelligent people who know the elementary answers to their questions like, what is the mountain range in the western United States called?  They answer something along the lines of “Portugal”, and they’re guaranteed to make the show.  If they answer, “The Rocky Mountains”, they won’t make it.

Anyway, I’m not looking forward to going back to work, but that’s how I come upon more money and am able to afford little excursions to Mexico and everywhere else.  So back to work I go, and into the life of marriage we delve.

 

Good day.

 

I think it's true that her eyes follow you around the room.  I walked from side to side to get a better view of her, over, under and around the gawking crowds--each time I caught her gazing back at me.  I looked around the rest of the room at the numerous other masterpieces going unnoticed in the wake of Mona Lisa's subtle smile.  I never thought that I would see the masterpieces of the Louvre, let alone the world.  The Eiffel Tower was no less impressive in person than it has been when portrayed in movies and Paris no less quaint than when described in poems.  And, I'm not quite sure that the Indian food in Paris isn't better than the Indian food in India; though, I've never been.

Paris France, home to over two million in the city itself and probably nearing five million in the local area, was one of the cleanest cities that I've ever been in.  The people were particularly polite.  The only rude people I encountered were tourists pushing their way toward her smile.  Charlotte and I have been in five different countries in the two months that she has been here, and we both agree that Paris is our favorite city.  We will certainly have to go back, as there is more to see and do there than we had time to experience.  When we do go back, neither of us will want to drive in that bustling bee hive of a city, but we also won't be taking the bus again.  I think my butt is still numb from sitting on the slab of rock for the six hour trip.  When we drive, it won't take more than four and a half hours to drive to the outskirts of Paris and take the train the rest of the way in;  plus, we won't have to stop every two hours so that the bus driver can have a cigarette. 

Back to the Louvre.  It is utterly amazing to me the detail that the greats were able to sculpt into slabs of marble.  They were able to chisel muscles and clothing so accurately that I wasn't sure that they weren't going to step off their podium to go have lunch.  I can honestly say that Frescos are by far my favorite types of paintings.  The expressions of the people in the different scenes were as different as their ornate clothing.  Each person in the painting was an amazing portrait alone, so it's easy to be moved when you step back and realize that many of the paintings include 50-100 unique individuals.  Three or four hours there isn't nearly enough time to see thousands of years worth of art and history.

By the time five PM rolled around, we were ready to go home; we had been up since one that morning.  Our last hoo-rah involved Charlotte grabbing a last minute crepe (pronounced cr-Ape), similar to a very thin pancake, covered in chocolate.  We finally rolled back into town at midnight.  I never thought the comfort of sleeping comfortably in my own bed after a long day of travel would be felt from a little house in the German hillside, but it's home and I love it.

Good day.

PS  No, we didn't go up in the Eiffel Tower, it would have taken up our whole day with the lines.

 

I don’t know at what age I became 45 years old.  I know that it wasn’t at 45 because I’m only 24.  I think somewhere along the line, I strayed from the typical fixations that define people of my own age.  I think that I have considerable persuasion from my elders, chiefly my grandparents, and I feel that I’ve greatly benefited from their wisdom, spoken or lived.  I’ve been reasonably far sighted for as long as I can remember.  I remember my father telling me to savor my youth because it lasts only so long.  I was 13, and I can still remember standing in my parent’s old bedroom looking at myself.  I painted a picture that I could revisit when I was older.  It wasn’t any particularly special picture, just that of a thirteen year old boy trying to grow into his old body, who happened to be standing in the spotlight cast by the skylight window of my parent’s bathroom  at our house on 3203 S. Nettleton Road.  I took it all in.  I remember the bubble soaps sitting on the edge of the tub.  They were from my mother’s Christmas gift from Bed Bath and Beyond, the typical gift basket she could count on from her son for the next three to four years.  I remember the particles floating in the air, passing into the beams of light before returning to their normal state of non-detection.  I remember the messy closets with their lights extinguished, visible behind me in the reflection I was taking in.  It was like a scene of an independent film, where time freezes and the music plays on in an attempt to capture an artistic moment predefined by the director for dramatic emphasis.

How is this savoring youth?  You ask.  I don’t know, but it was the greatest plan I had at the time.  So now, when I think about the times past from the awkward teenage years that defined my existence for a decade, I can remember growing into my body and memorizing the form that I and the rest of the room took when I looked into different mirrors examining myself and anything else captured in the reflection.  Time failed to slow down time, and I failed to counter the human tendency to take the in-the-moment breaths for granted.  But this thought has been the result of a typical Ryan tangent, so let us get back to the original topic sentence (My English teacher, from any year of school, would be crying after reading this past sentence, and I’d catch hell for starting it with a conjunction word.  But then again, they might be pleased to consider the fact that I still find time to write). 

I don’t know at what age I became 45 years old.  I know it wasn’t at 45 because I’m only 24.  The thought crossed my mind and turned the corners of my mouth upwards, and I became aware that I was smiling when I caught the man mirroring my actions exactly in the window in front of me.  He was listening to classical music that he had sought out by Googling “Listen to classical music online” as he prepared dinner.  All four burners were sizzling dutifully, some working to boil the bowtie pasta and some working to sauté  the shrimp and broccoli, while the other two glowed red in waiting for a task of their own.  He eyed a bottle of red wine as if it was a pot of gold but refused to give into temptation because he was waiting to share it with his fiancée upon her arrival.  He gazed at his spices sniffing out the the right stuff to give him the spice he was looking for.  Although cooking is a relatively unexplored territory, the pinches and dashes flew courageously into the experiment.

The plate was made.  The steam was rising.  The anticipation was ripe.  The bowtie pasta with sautéed shrimp, broccoli, festooned with roasted red pepper asiago cheese sauce might as well been something off Iron Chef with the way he eyed his creation.  The first bite overtaxed the fork with too few prongs as it made its dripping debut.  There again, he felt the corners of his mouth rising with satisfaction. 

I’m fully aware that it wouldn’t win any awards at a food show, but for a guy who makes himself fish and rice nearly every night for dinner, it’s an award winner.  I made enough to bring for lunch tomorrow.  The whole scene was comical to me and seems to be one very similar to one that I would imagine an older man reproducing on a regular basis.  I would not mind doing that, but I’d like to have a lot more noise in my life when I’m that age.  Maybe a couple of squabbling kids would add a nice touch.  Throw in a barking dog and a phone call from Charlotte telling me that she’ll be home in time for dinner, and I’ll buy a ticket to the whole show right now—at least I’ll start saving up for it. 

 

Good day.

 

It is a curious thing to grow up.  It is difficult to maintain one's youth as you find yourself whisked away in adult responsibilities, and so we find ourselves resigned to being young at heart.  Charlotte is going through what I went through and continue to go through.  She is feeling the last tinges of her "care free" youth fading away with the passing milestone of college graduation.  I know and think that I can identify with the same feelings looming on the horizon in her mind.  Adult responsibilities carry such a negative weight on the minds of youthful, happy people.  It is because we think it ends, our care free youth.  We all conjure ways of maintaining our youth by balancing the expectations of us from everyone else with what it is that makes us happy.

When I was in elementary, I looked forward to getting older and moving on to middle school, but I was less than enthused about the additional work load and expectations associated with the change; it was the same for high school.  Football, for the first time, became more about competition than about having fun.  With every phase of life, leading up to adulthood, fun is replaced with responsibility.  I couldn't wait to get out of high school because I thought that I would relish the collegiate life and associated freedom more, which I did.   Then, I grew tired of that life and wanted to leave it for work, where I was paid for the work that I did.  I wanted to dive into my career, make money, and start the rest of my life.  Now, I have money, but I have less time.  I find myself longing for the weekends, where I can do what I want.  I think, in the end, that's all that anyone wants.  People just want to do what they want.  In this life, humans must work, but I think those happiest are those that work for things that are essential and let the rest go by the wayside. 

When you're young, you play, play, and play.  You're restricted by nothing more than your parent's schedule; otherwise, your day revolves around entertaining yourself.  It's a truly egocentric time of your life.  As you get older, impressing other people by appearing more responsible becomes a focus.  You must show that you are preparing yourself to contribute to society, where you will do more work and will play less.  Then, you get there.  As an adult, you look to balance the societal expectation, that you will contribute and conform, with your desire to play.

I have been thinking a great deal about what career I could pursue, where I could wake up every morning and love going to work.  Money seems to play a significant role in this decision.  I could remain an officer in the military, where I feel I would find continued success, but I would be sacrificing everything (time with my family).  As I continue to find success as a young officer, I become more trustworthy in the eyes of my superiors and thus incur more responsibilities--less time to play.  Unfortunately, I cannot suffer notion that I would lose a great deal of time with my family as I continue to rise in rank and responsibility.  I am truly thankful for the members that endure a career in a very undermanned military in one of the more difficult times of our history.  But, I still want to serve.  I think that's the common denominator in all of my thoughts of ideal careers:  police work, counseling, education.  These are all careers where I would still be able to serve people, yet, I would still be able to come home at night to be with my family.  Not all military careers require you to give up so much time with the ones you love, and it largely depends on your specialty.  My current specialty requires 12 hour days and often weekends.  I feel bad when I put in an occasional, meager 10 hour day.  I am beginning to understand the notion of sacrifice, yet my concerns are feeble for those enduring much, much more (or obviously those that have truly sacrificed everything with giving their life).  I am fully aware of how selfish I am in wanting to serve myself, to play.

I think that is the difference between childhood and adulthood.  You serve yourself as a child.  You serve everyone else as an adult.  You value those that serve others as an adult and find yourself chastising those who soley serve themselves.  I hope to strike a balance between serving myself, and serving society.  I want to look back, when I'm sixty and say, "I have lived, I have loved, I have had fun, and I have served."  I have no further ambition. 

I think that I would like to become a psychologist/a counselor.  I hope that I have matured enough to find the balance between hard work and making time for play.  I hope to emulate and feed off of the success that comes so naturally to the woman that I love.  I hope to emulate and feed of the success that my grandparents have molded for themselves, where they have never, in my eyes, lost sight of what is important.  I am fortunate to be marrying someone who will never care about money, and who will always care about the simplicity of an afternoon walk, the importance of tickling a kid, and letting me chase her around the house.  She will be the source of my fun.

If you were wondering whether going ice skating is much different in Germany than the US, I'm here to tell you that it isn't.  I've never felt so old in the midst of the thirteen year olds whizzing by me with much more finesse than I could muster.  I feel like the only thing that has changed since I last went ice skating, which was actually roller skating for me in the 7th grade, is that I've grown about five inches and sprouted chest hair.  Apparently, I don't look that much older in the face either because the Frau working the cash register didn't bother asking me whether I was an adult or not, but this isn't news to me nor does it bother me because I got the cheaper Entrittskarten price. 

I was intimidated by the atmosphere.  All around me, there were huddles of gossiping girls making me feel just as self-conscious just as I did 11 years ago.  I could see drama unfolding by the shoe lockers as some young German Madchen yelled at an equally young Junge (soft J and G sound=Junga) for what I assumed was the delivery of an ultimatum:  "It's me, or it's her.  You can't have both."  I didn't even need to understand Deutsche, that's just one of those conversations that you can pick out from erratic hand gestures after having been that age at one time.  I wasn't ever involved in that sort of drama back then, I was entirely too reserved and, for lack of a better word, weird.  I didn't find that I grew into my awkward sense of humor until college, when people were actually cool enough to understand it.  Dry sarcasm is entirely lost on the prepubescent; thus, I was labeled "weird". 

I couldn't help but to appreciate that I was the tallest guy there, aside from the Polizei that were guarding the entrance and watching for fights.  I had a great vantage point from where I could admire that the 80s have not died, they were just exported to Europe.  I don't mind actually, considering that I had just been born and was entirely too young to appreciate what was going on at the time.  However, the Musik was all modern hip hop, of which not one of the songs I heard were Deutsche.  It was reminiscent of Back to the Future, where Michael J. Fox shows up in his 80s garb and catches a lot of strange looks, except with a twist because my friends and I were the only ones dressed like we were in the year 2008 and we caught some weird looks.

It is nice to say that I have friends.  I've only been in Germany for about two months now, and since then I've been doing a whole lot of hanging out with myself as I waited to meet people.  Spencer, one of the guys I work with, was good enough to call me out to join the festivities.  And, while I was tired of skating after 11 minutes (it takes a toll on an old man's ankles), it was good to meet some work acquaintances.  Charlotte was there with me, via conversation piece.  She usually ends up becoming my topic of choice because I often find that I'm wanting to brag on her, and I can't help that I'm proud to be engaged to such a catch--this is the point where she would roll her eyes if she was reading this.  It's true though, you come with me wherever I go, babe. 

Anyway, work maintains the pace at the standard 12 hour day.  I'm feeling better about it though, as I'm starting to get my feet underneath me a little bit with some more knowledge about what it is that I'm supposed to be doing.  This is also good because it's making my days go a lot faster, which means the weekends come sooner, which means that the months pass faster, which means that I'm that much closer to seeing my girl in February.  If I could just make the time go more slowly when she was around, then I would be content.

 

Good Day.

If you keep up with me at all, then you're fully aware that I work a lot and then return home to rejuvenate and repeat the routine the next day.  I'm growing ever tired of this monotony known as adulthood, but I do see one perk in it.  It allows me to live in this strange place where you can find full grown men with fashion mullets, 10 year olds riding the subway alone, and cars meant for smaller human beings.  Europe.  So much can be said for this place for all of its beauty and taxes.  They pay 50 percent of their taxes to things like socialized healthcare, education, and wind energy--how do they survive?  From what I've seen, they are doing just fine.  Their streets are buzzing with new cars, fancy clothes, and bumless street corners.  I can't speak for all of Europe, just the small part that I've managed to go to thus far.  Oh, and they have a longer life expectancy than Americans, despite what quams you may have with the thought of the government running your healthcare.  I am still undecided in whether or not I deem this to be a good thing.  Maybe if we could hire another government to run our healthcare, instead of letting ours do it, then it might be successful.

I rambled off on a tangent.  My purpose of writing this entry is not to get your brain in a huff in regard to your political viewpoints.  Let's get back on the track of the fashion mullet.  I wouldn't have known what the term meant if I had not come here.  Let me describe it.  Imagine a squirrel on top of a skinny man's head.  Now imagine that squirrel as if his fur had grown out and then was trimmed by a drunk, blind, and emotinally distraught hair dresser with ADD.  Add some gell to make one-sided procupine spikes stick out the side of the head in odd angles while leaving the tail dangling behind and there you have it, a fashion mullet.  Now let's complete the rest of the European male, age 14-29.  Add pants that your younger sister wore last year and a sports coat.  Done.  The European women don't seem to dress much differently than American women, I guess it's because women keep more up to date on fashion and are less likely to be left in the dark when separated by an ocean.  Speaking of women's fashion, I took pictures of all sorts of things when I was here--get your mind out of the gutter--and I took photos of stores to keep Charlotte away from when she arrives.  I saw lots of things that I think she would like, and I made a mental note of what street they were on so that we wouldn't walk by them.  A day's worth of clothes shopping on the European economy would by you a decent car.

The views of Luxembourg City were typical; they were beautiful.  High arching bridges skipped over the deep tree-lined valleys effortlessly as they connected the two halves of the city.  I got pleanty of pictures of this.  The fall leaves added a natural decoration to the already impressive view.  Going down the walkplatz, walkways in the city meant for walking, not driving, was nice.  That's where the shops are at.  The semi-narrow alleys of the space-concious European design connected street to street.  There was a good mix of both modern and old facades lining the streets; however, most of them were actually old buildings with modern frills and renovations.  Not to get too much into history (if I do, Charlotte will quit reading), but the city has a flare of both German and French influence, as the region tended to swap hands over the centuries before modern boarders were formed.  They speak French in Luxembourg, but I'm told that many of them also speak German, which is typical for European's multilingual nature.  I only spent a few hours gawking at the sights and wandering aimlessly down the streets before making the 50 minute trek back to my house in Germany.  That's one thing that will continue to boggle my mind, the short distance away that I am from so many European cities and countries that have, until now, only existed in my mind because fourth grade geography told me they did.

Here are some pic's... because after writing that entry, I didn't have time to spell out pictures.

 A monument to those fallen in WWI

I was under the assumption that this Cenataur, holding a compass and wearing a cool space age helmet, was in front of the Church of Scientology.

 A store window to keep Charlotte away from

  A European drinking fountain

 

 

Ich arbeite an der Flugplatz (I work at an air base)

It has been a while since I’ve written on here, but I decided to add an entry to update everyone on my German adventure.   I returned to Germany on the 11^th of September and have been working since.  For two weeks now, I’ve been working nights, so I’m actually a lot closer to the time schedule that all of you are on.  My days usually are about ten hours long, but since this past weekend, when we were directed to work, I’ve been working 12 hour shifts.  A 12 hour shift, alone, is undesirable, but when you have to work 12 hour shifts on your two days off, it is as depressing as having a big, mean gorilla sit on your birthday cake as a six year old.

I haven’t done any traveling since I’ve returned, but thanks to the birthday money received, I was able to take a nice hunk of money off of the GPS that I bought for my car.  Now that I have that, I’m ready to hit the roads.  I’ve been told numerous times that a GPS will save your marriage in Europe.  It’s stressful enough getting lost in the US, but when you get lost in Europe, and you don’t know what half of the road signs mean, it’s even more difficult.  I’ve been doing pretty well as far as not being too lonely.  Typically, on the days when I’m not working 12 hours, I keep myself occupied by keeping up the house, getting lost in books, and learning German from Rosetta Stone.  I also cook regularly.  I have frozen Tilapia filets and boneless chicken that I rotate for dinner, usually complimented with some sort of beans, rice, salad, and cottage cheese.  I even make my lunch every day before I head into work.  I’ve been saving a lot of money cooking for myself and making lunches.  I even eat off plastic plates and out of plastic bowls that I bought back in April, when I first got to Germany and before I left this past summer for training.  I wash and reuse the plastic dishware until it becomes unserviceable due to cracks, and even then, I look to see how bad and where the cracks are before I throw them into the recycling bin.  Life, getting started out, is very expensive, especially when you live in Europe. 

I manage to get to talk to the fiancée daily, using ooVoo, the webcam program that you can download for free from the internet, and it makes me not feel so far from home.  Now that I’m on 12’s for the rest of the week, I pretty much go to bed after talking to her around 5 AM my time.  Working nights makes it hard to go to the grocery store too, considering that it closes around 6 PM, and the German countryside doesn’t have the convenience of a 24 hour Wal-Mart.  The drive to and from work is always a decent trip.  It consists of twists and turns through the rolling green hills, forests, and little German villages.  After you spend fifteen minutes winding through the countryside, you hit the Autobahn, which is the German word for highway (and I capitalized the A in Autobahn because they capitalize all nouns auf Deutsch).  The entire commute to work takes anywhere from 18 to 25 minutes, depending on how fast I drive on the highway.  If I’m running late, I find that it usually only takes me about 20 minutes (thank you no speed limit German highway).  I typically only drive about 120-130 Kilometers per hour (KPH), which is about 75-80, but when I’m running late, it’s okay to drive 110 MPH.  I try not to do that, considering I like being alive and that gas goes fast when you drive that fast.  There aren’t very many cars on the impeccable highways around here.  The Germans keep their roads up very well and fence off the side of them, so that animals don’t wander across them.  They’ve also got conservation land bridges that are covered with grass to let animals migrate across the highways without risking their lives or the driver’s.  That’s my favorite thing about Germany, thus far, is their refusal to give the environment the middle finger for the sake of human convenience. 

I am hoping to travel a little bit more now that I’m getting established.  I have to build up more paychecks and cover debts before I can do too much though.  As I’ve said before, it’s expensive getting started in Europe, but it’s also expensive getting started in life, period.  I plan on going on small, inexpensive trips to German cities on the weekend, castles, etc.  I can also take Ryan Air, which will get me anywhere in Europe for about 50-70 bucks a ticket.  I want to go to Ireland one of these weekends.  I don’t want to plan the trip, I just want to show up and say, “Hey, I bet I’ve got ancestors from here.”  And, then I want to go to some pub an decipher some old man’s accent, which I assume will amount to some joke about the English.  I imagine that we will laugh heartily.  He will laugh because he thinks his joke is funny, and I will laugh because I’m in admiration of my circumstances.

 

More to come, when life brings it.  Now, I have to get ready for yet another 12 hour shift.

 

Good day

This past weekend marked my last rental car trip of the summer, as I will be heading back to Germany this coming Wednesday.  Friday was the first day of our simulator training, which we use to prepare ourselves for real life maintenance when we return to our bases.  All was well with the very long day.  We managed to have a working lunch so that we could get out at a reasonable time to start our three day weekend, but our foreign counterparts decided that they were going to go home early because they "had stuff to do", thus,  we were left working on aircraft forms until six that night.  What was better, was that the class instructor made me sign a form to acknowledge that I was restricted to driving 250 miles that evening, which only got me half way to Springfield.  I was initially pretty perturbed at their seemingly excessive attention to safety, citing the fact that I had not had a break (quite literally) since seven that morning and that would pose an unnecessary risk for me to try and drive through the night in one trip.  Don't they know that I'm 23 and invincible?  By the time the half way mark came along at midnight, I was ready to hit the sack anyway, so I began looking for a cheap place to bed down until the morning.

I passed Holiday Inn, deciding that I wasn't going to pay $90 dollars to sleep in a bed for six hours.  What am I, made of money?  So, I drove on to the next viable option, seeing the key word "Motel".  I pulled into the Super Motel Eight only to find that the only rooms left for the night were double smoking rooms, and there was no way that I was going to do that.  I pressed on further into Tulsa to see what it had to offer.  I saw numerous hotels and motels along the way, but they were all on the wrong side of the highway without easy access.  Then, finally, there lay my pot of gold.  The Royal Motel, nevermind the burnt out letter  "E".  I left the highway and found myself at it's front desk.  On the outside sign, they had advertised rooms for only $35 a night, a price that I was willing to pay.  Many places offer military discounts, so I was digging for my military ID when the attendant, armed with a shotgun and a cigarette, made their way to the bullet proofed window, the first bad sign.  "Is there a military discount?"  I asked, to which he simply shook hiz head.  I then inquired as to whether or not the motel had any nonsmoking rooms--the Cockroach desk attendant took a drag from his cigarette, stared at me for a moment, and said, "You don't have to smoke in your room, if that's what you're getting at."  I took the answer and the skeleton room key as to be expected and made my way closer to sleep. 

After parking my car six spaces down from my room door, so as to throw off would be burglars to the door in front of my brand new rental, I creaked into my unsightly chamber.  There, laying on the bed, was another cockroach that was smoking.  I'm assuming that he was related to his brother at the front desk and politely asked him to leave.  I looked to see what time it was, only to find that there was no clock.  Of course there wasn't a clock, what was I thinking?  There was, however, an ashtray, but I knew I didn't have to smoke.  I made my way toward the phone to call Charlotte to let her know that I had arrived safely and to tell her that I loved her in case I was killed in my sleep.  I would have used my cell phone when I found out that I couldn't make a long distance phone call from the room, but I don't have a cell at the moment and won't be getting a new one anytime soon considering that I'm going back to Germany.  Despite my fatigue, I spent the next fifteen minutes driving around, looking for a gas station that had a payphone.  A dollar and an ear disease later, I had let my drowsy fiancee know that I was heading to bed.

When I got back into my room, I debated whether or not my teeth would be any cleaner using brown water to brush my them.  I opted for bad breath.  I then questioned how sanitary the bed would be, or could be with four identifiable cigarette burns in the comforter.  I decided to turn off the air conditioner and to sleep in my clothes, on top of the covers--I've seen what pops up on those Dateline neon light sanitation expose of hotels/motels.  And finally, after gently feeling across the covers for drug needles, I laid down to sleep.  The wake up call that I had placed after accepting the room came entirely too early that morning.  I decided against the shower and hit the road as soon as I could.  I realized that the wake up call I received was actually the wake up call for my neighbors and that the paper thin walls had deceived/deprived me of much needed sleep.  I decided that I'd had enough of the Royal life, and I made my way toward Springfield at four-thirty and was arriving by 0730 that morning. 

Charlotte and I had a great weekend.  We started our Saturday off with some breakfast before heading out to Nathaniel Greene Park to take engagement pictures and finished the day with watching the Mizzou game at a sports bar.  The rest of the weekend was packed with seeing family for the last time before I have to head back to Germany.  I'll be catching the rest of the fam this next weekend, but, as you might imagine, most of my attention will be directed towards the woman.

Here are some engagement photos:

Good day.

Last night, Charlotte and I were out on an evening stroll enjoying the breeze and a conversation when we got on the subject of writing.  She was complementing my Xanga entries, which is nice because she may be one of the few unfortunate people to happen upon them on a regular basis.  I had admitted that I had always longed for an artistic talent--you know, something along the lines of being able to paint an abstract of Van Gogh's missing ear or the ability to make Pavarotti cry.  She insisted that my artistic charm, my creative talent, lay in writing.  She's told me numerous times that she anticipates that I will eventually write a book and each time that she does, I begin to wonder what type of book I would write.  I hope that doesn’t mean I have to pick up drinking.  I've delved into writing short stories and things of that nature, but they're only average at best.  Originality is my greatest hindrance.  I feel like anytime I try and throw my creativity into fictional pursuits, it's all be done before, a thousand times better.  I feel much more comfortable writing about the daily happenings of my life; unfortunately, that means that my writing seems to be short compilations of sarcastic thoughts amounting to a stream of nothingness.  Then again, David Sedaris, author of Naked and numerous other sarcastic narratives of his life gives me hope.  Seinfeld, a “show about nothing”, turned out to be pretty successful as well.

I am, without a doubt, my own worst critic, but Charlotte is good at breaking down my insecurities.  I tried telling her that I don't write well without inspiration.  "My wit doesn't flow naturally without some sort of convenient prompt,” I said.  She insisted that I don't give myself enough credit and gave me an example of what she thinks my abilities are capable of.  She gave me a fictional scenario about being caught in an airplane bathroom and assumed that I could come up with something that would make people laugh.  I doubted her.  I agreed that I certainly enjoy shorter, situational writings more than I do writing and developing some plot that, as I've said before, you've already heard a thousand times over.  I wish that I had taken a creative writing class in college—I’m sure I would have loved it, save the naïve comments from people that have no idea what they’re talking about.

--I thought I’d take up her challenge and make a hybrid of her fictional idea, mixed with my preferred self-narrative style--

I don't know what it is that I ate, but I'm quickly gathering that my painful stomach activity is about to amount to an accident in my seat if I don't hurdle over my snoring neighbor's protruding belly in a hurry.  I quickly leap into action as I begin the unbuckling process.  I struggle with the seat belt and feel stupid for mocking the flight attendant’s "insulting" explanation of the obvious workings of the seat belt, a mere five hours earlier.  Any other time, I would be able to pull, click, and toss the belt away like I'd done it a thousand times before.  But, noooo, now that I'm on the verge of biological warfare, I find I've engaged the only Rubix Cube seat belt buckle in the known world.  I finally wrestled the boa constrictor off of my waist and began the awkward half-stand-half-put your butt in the person's face next to you who, prior to you having sat on their shoulder, thought that it was nice to have a window seat—they got a great view alright.  Of course, I whisper 'sorry' to the person and their shoulder, while trying to respect the other man sleeping between me and the isle of freedom.  I'm really getting desperate at this point in my state of panic as I try to contort my body in an effort to slither past.  I, not being shaped like the letter S, fail as there clearly isn't enough space between my rear, the seat in front of us, and the snore master's stomach. 

"This is ridiculous," I think to myself, as I resolve to nudge him.  "Excuse me," I say in my politest, most urgent voice.  One of this heavy eyes leered at me.  It looked like something out of a fantasy movie as people are sneaking past a sleeping dragon.  His dreary eye assessed the situation and sent a signal to his brain to move his legs and stomach out of my way.  I give him my cordial thanks, dismissing his perturbed looks.  Normally, when you get to the isle after being on a plane that long, you find yourself stretching and enjoying the relative freedom that the airlines absolutely do not afford you in your seats, provided you're not riding in first class.  I wonder how many McDonalds these people own, or what it is that they invented in order to afford these seats that recline and transform into little bedrooms.

I quickly continued my mission down the isle to stand in line for one of the four bathrooms at the rear of the plane and really begin to regret buying that $4.00 mint that they were selling.  I couldn't afford the meals or drinks that they used to offer for free before the gas prices rose.  If the industry plans on having me pull them out of their economic downturn, they better just keep raising the cost of the tickets.  Oh wait, they are, damnit.  The guy standing across from me looks as annoyed as I do.  I think that I'm probably looking more desperate than annoyed, but I don't detect an ounce of philanthropic tendency from him, so I'm pretty sure that he's willing to risk me pooping on the little kid to my right, who won't stop staring at me, before he lets me go ahead of him.  Like a kid waiting on Christmas Eve, I hear what equates to be Santa rustling down the chimney and my hopes perk attentively.  I'm taking all the necessary precautions to prevent impending calamity in my pants--slow breathing, a bent posture, and pleasant thoughts, but I'm seriously starting to contemplate whether I’m going to be able to prevent taking away some of the staring kid’s innocence.

The man goes into the next open bathroom as I imagine myself punching him in the back of his head.  Finally, the room to my right, which has been occupied for a solid 10 minutes now, reveals promise of an exit.  A chubby little boy exits, no older than 10 or 11, holding a bag of plastic army men.  I'm wondering if little round-face Patton here was doing anything more than staging some elaborate battle to relieve himself from the dull plane that everyone else was enduring.  He looked back one last time to make sure that there were no men left behind, indicating to me that he would probably make a great Army Ranger provided he ever exercises between now and the age of 20. 

At last, I burst into the restroom.  My strength barely gave me time to prepare the toilette seat with the necessary layer of toilet paper to protect my skin from whatever it is that may be crawling on the seat—I’m sure I got those germs from the door handle anyway.  I proceeded to take Mother Nature’s call while I put the rest of the world on hold.  Fifteen minutes pass with numerous courtesy flushes, giving me guilt every time knowing that everyone outside’s getting false hopes. 

“That toilette has got to be a modern marvel,” I think to myself.  Never mind the machine transporting me and the other 199 passengers across the Atlantic Ocean to another continent, I’m fascinated  more by this harnessing of  black hole suction technology that they’ve come up with to pull anything and everything not securely bolted down into the blue water depths below.  I’m already starting to feel embarrassed by the amount of time that has elapsed, I doubt the conscious people watching me leave my seat and enter the restroom have any question as to what is going on by now.  Then again, if I don’t leave soon, they might start to suspect that the bathrooms have something more interesting to offer than their typical business only atmosphere.  Maybe there’s a pull out bed that they’re missing out on.  I doubt that people are as creative as I in their impatience or, perhaps, period.  This is probably the reason why, when I finally finished everything and began to exit, that there was a line of three people waiting and quietly passing their judgment/and or questioning eyes on me as I pass by them. 

I take my victory lap down the aisle feeling relieved for only a moment before I realize that there was plenty of time for belly-Bob to fall back asleep.  I make it back to my sleep to find him once again keeping cadence with his breathing.  And, given the experience with leaving my seat, I quickly deduced that I was not going to manage to get back to my seat without waking him.  I pardoned him from his sleep, tipped myself for his lap dance, and made sure to sit on the window passenger’s shoulder once again.  Now securely in my seat, feeling like John Candy in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, I grinned and leaned my seat back, crushing the person’s knees behind me.  I plugged my headphones in and began to watch a movie.  And, after a couple of relaxing breaths, I realized that I had to pee.